Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus felt a not-so-curious tightness in his chest, made all the worse by a clockwork that shocked him. The electricity was blunted by his armor, but he still said, “Ow!” and struck it down. “Look, Baynvyn, I don't know what Aisling told you about me but—”

  “How is he even alive?” Vara asked, in the midst of shredding her way through a dozen clockworks. It was either Cyrus's imagination or she'd picked up a more furious pace of destroying the clockworks since Baynvyn had dropped his little revelation. He did not think it was his imagination. “Dark elves live a thousand years. He's half-human, which means he's well beyond his limits. He barely looks middle-aged. He should be dead.”

  Cyrus nodded at the dagger in Baynvyn's hand. “Not with that Epalette at his disposal. I bet his mother is looking a bit haggard these days.”

  Baynvyn stiffened. “You should not speak of things of which you know nothing.”

  “Oh, he knows your mother entirely too well,” Vara said savagely, rip-shredding another clockwork. “He knew her over and over again in his stupider days, every orifice, I expect. If only he'd stuck to the ones that would not have resulted in you, we'd perhaps be in a bit better shape at this point rather than fending off these metal monstrosities and then also having to deal with a feral dark elf with a case of daddy denial—”

  “That is not helping,” Cyrus said, holding up a hand to try and stay her. Then he smacked a clockwork into the ground. “Baynvyn, I am Cyrus Davidon. I am–”

  “You are not—” Baynvyn said, and drew a pistol, firing.

  Cyrus barely got his hand up in time; the bullet spanged off his breastplate. “My armor is quartal, son. And all black.”

  “That only means you've made a pilgrimage to Amti,” Baynvyn said, clicking his pistol. It seemed to be instantly reloaded and lethal, for he did not pull it off target. “With abundant gold. Congratulations. You've done the thing right in your impostering, both in research and in equipping. But that earns you no favor from me, only ire for your premeditated attempt to defile my father's memory—”

  “Honestly, he defiled it plenty himself with your bloody mother,” Vara sniped.

  “Could we please argue my deficiencies in judgment another time?” Cyrus asked as Baynvyn fired again. The bullet struck the side of gorget and stung madly. “And you – knock it off with the patricide attempts! We all just need to take a moment and calm down—”

  “Do you feel the fear now?” Baynvyn advanced on him, firing again. “You know, don't you? That all your attempts to make yourself into a perfect Cyrus Davidon are but pale imitations. You're a shadow of him, at best.” He fired again and again. The bullets glanced off Cyrus's helm and gauntlet, which he held in front of his face. “How did it start? Did you look in the mirror as a young man and think, 'I could be like him'? Because of your height? And then sink your family's fortune into—” He was still advancing, looking to stick his gun barrel around Cyrus's hand and get that lethal shot in—

  Cyrus sprinted the distance between them, exploding into a run with all the power of Rodanthar. He closed the gap and smashed into the dark elf, driving the pistol from his hand carefully and smacking Epalette free with the other. The dark elf gasped, caught utterly by surprise. Cyrus knocked him to the ground and pinned him there like a school boy, looking down into wide blue eyes that were shockingly like his own.

  “I am not – an imposter,” Cyrus said, giving Baynvyn a thump to the chest and keeping Rodanthar in hand. “I am Cyrus, son of Rusyl and Quinneria, Lord of Perdamun–”

  “Maker of terrible, terrible, sexual decisions,” Vara said from somewhere behind him.

  “You're one of those, so shut up,” Cyrus snapped, not taking his eyes off Baynvyn. “I am not your enemy, and I am not an imposter. A thousand years ago I discovered a truth about the place I called home, Sanctuary, and—”

  Baynvyn hit him, erupting off the ground and sending Cyrus to his face in the dirt. The big dark elf had bucked him off, used all the strength in his body to send Cyrus off balance. He tasted the dirt, felt a rock hit him above the brow.

  “I was so sure you were an imposter,” Baynvyn said from somewhere behind him as Cyrus flipped, righting himself.

  “I'm not,” Cyrus said, slipping a hand up toward his face. “Believe that.”

  Baynvyn was right there, atop him with dagger in one hand, pistol in the other, drawing that bead on Cyrus. “I'm not sure I do.” He shrugged. “But either way, I'm being paid to kill you, so...” His finger twitched at the trigger, the barrel pointed right at Cyrus's face...

  Chapter 30

  Vaste

  Qualleron fell upon Vaste like a tidal wave coming down from on high. Vaste barely had time to “Eep!” and definitely no time to craft anything witty to say and the giant troll was upon him, well inside the range of Letum to smack him upon the face, head and neck.

  The larger trolled seized Vaste and tossed him, full force, into Birissa, who caught him but was pushed back by the impact. There was a very earthy aroma about her, sweat dripping down her arms as she caught him against her clothing. A few very dire wet spots signaled that she was feeling every bit of the exertion she was putting out there.

  “As enjoyable as it's been to clash with you both–” Qualleron started.

  “You've only been fighting me and you bloody well know it,” Birissa spat back.

  “–My side appears to be ceding the field to you,” Qualleron said, smashing through a wall and into the street. “We will meet again. Go in honor!” He punched the wall behind him and it collapsed in a shower of block and stone.

  Then, the ceiling above them began to fall.

  “Uh, we should probably go,” Vaste said, about to give Birissa a shove. “In honor or otherwise.”

  She just rolled her eyes and seized him by the collar, dragging him free of the building and back into the square as the ceiling above them collapsed with a thunderous crash.

  Chapter 31

  Curatio

  Choking–

  No breath–

  Curatio's mind was on pure animal instinct, hunting for nothing more than a breath. He could not get it, though. Blood pooled in his mouth, in his throat, choked him, his reason strangled to the point where no thoughts could truly form.

  The sky above him was darkening, and it had nothing to do with the smoke that hung over this city like a perpetual shroud.

  Over twenty thousand years of life and it had come to this. If he'd had full command of his faculties, Curatio would have cursed. Loudly.

  As it was, he gagged, choked, made the most pathetic noises he could imagine. Sucking sounds he'd heard others make over the course of his long life as he'd deprived them of theirs. Many in the Arena of the Protanians. Many...elsewhere. In war. In conflict and battle.

  It felt as though someone had placed a knee upon his throat. It was a steady pressure, and colors streaked the sides of his vision as he started to relax. Blackness seeped in at the edges of life...

  Then...something happened.

  The pressure came off.

  Curatio gasped, his airway somehow clear. He spat blood and sucked in air, his lungs expanding for the first time in what felt like – even in his long life – decades.

  “Curatio?” Pamyra's soft voice reached his ears, and he realized she was, in fact, kneeling next to him.

  He spat blood, stared at the grey sky, then at the face and pointed ears that hung above him. “What – what happened?”

  “You were near to death,” she said coolly. “A bullet in the throat, I think.”

  Curatio felt the smooth, sticky skin where blood had so recently squirted out in rivulets. “Indeed. I had not meant to try to catch it there, but here it landed nonetheless.” He felt for a lump, something to indicate the metal was still within him, but no hint of it remained. He sat up, looking around.

  The guns had fallen silent across the square. Few people were in sight, and what few there were seemed to be standing over corpses. In the distance he could se
e a few men kicking at something. The livery of a city guard fluttered discarded nearby, giving him a suspicion.

  “Did we win, then?” he asked, searching for answers. Something was still going on in the square near the fallen gallows, but he'd have been damned if he could figure out what. His vision was still a bit hazy.

  “We did,” Pamyra said, leaning heavily on her knee and surveying the square with a long look. “Shirri and I managed to deal with the riflemen over there. Vaste and Birissa dealt with the big troll. Hiressam and that squat fellow stormed the rooftops. You and Alaric each took a cannon. As for Cyrus and Vara, well...” Her gaze hardened a little, and she nodded toward the commotion in the center of the square. “That appears to be drawing to a close.”

  “Indeed?” Curatio peered into the shade of the trees in the square's green middle. Now he could see the movement of black armor and a silvery shine that denoted Vara. “I suppose we should send someone over to check on them.” He tried to stand but felt lightheaded, either from the magical exertion at the Citadel or being shot just now – or some combination of both. “But not me,” he said, feeling very faint. “I think I just need to...perhaps sleep for a bit...yes...”

  And he put his head back and collapsed into darkness.

  Chapter 32

  Cyrus

  Baynvyn's gun barrel looked long to Cyrus, longer than a sword blade, and the interior was dark as a moonless night as he stared down it. The dark elf's finger tightened on the trigger and Cyrus knew he was inches from a bullet ripping through his brain, something no healing spell could fix—

  The sound of hard armor smashing into flesh was one that Cyrus was endlessly familiar with. Baynvyn tumbled off him, pistol flying through the air. It hit the ground a short distance away and fired into the trees, harmlessly.

  “Hello,” Vara said, rising up. She'd stumbled while clobbering him, but stood tall now, blade in hand and standing between Baynvyn and Cyrus. “I'm Vara Davidon, and I'll be playing the part of your too-strict, wicked stepmother who will thwart all your wonderful but ill-considered plans. I think it's time you learned some respect for your father, and to that end, I'm giving you a time-out.”

  “Actors to the end,” Baynvyn spat, a glob of dark blood sliding down his chin. He was disarmed of his pistol, but Epalette was still in hand.

  “Yes,” Vara said, “I'm such an impressive actor that even pretending, I'm capable of using my theatrical paladin skills to give you a very real kicking of your assassin arse. Oh, and by the by,” her eyebrows became a very angry V, “if you see that whore you call a mother, tell her that I revoke my forgiveness because of this secret she's sprung upon us.”

  Baynvyn's face tightened in anger. “You know nothing of my mother.”

  “Ask her about the time in the Waking Woods when she decided to follow him as he was following me,” Vara said tightly. “If you need proof. Oh, and—” And she raised her blade, lighting it aflame. “I realize you're not undead, but let me assure you – this fire will burn you just as easily at it did those ghouls.”

  Baynvyn's hand reached the dagger and he was on his feet in an instant. “I am not your messenger, impersonator. If you have something to say to my mother, you may do so yourself.”

  “You might not want me to do that given my present feelings toward her,” Vara said, coldness bleeding out. “I spared her my vengeance before for her wicked, traitorous deeds done in service of the Sovereign. I don't know that I will feel quite so charitable this time, given the large lie of omission she's foisted upon us by hiding you.”

  “Vara.” Cyrus, too, had recovered his weapon and was back on his own feet. “Don't say that. Aisling kept her peace for a reason, I'm sure–”

  “Yes, it's called guilt,” Vara said, and by her tone Cyrus knew that all restraint in her was gone. “She feels guilty, you see, that this bastard in front of us is the product of a union that the God of Darkness encouraged, one that she never wanted–”

  “Vara,” Cyrus warned.

  “–and now look what's happened.” Vara was all cold fury and no reason, and he suspected she was a second from charging Baynvyn to smite him down out of pure rage. “Her sins have come back to visit us in the form of this vicious morsel. Are you the worst instincts of your father, boy?” She took a step closer, Ferocis pointed at him. “All the treachery of your mother? Will you keep hunting us after this day, convinced of our deceit? Because I don't have time for you. I didn't have time for your mother's vileness or the betrayal she perpetrated on us at Leaugarden, and I have less for some whelp who knows nothing of which he speaks–”

  “Vara, stop,” Cyrus said, trying to insert himself between them. “He doesn't know, he doesn't believe us. We've been gone a thousand years–”

  “Yet here we are, returned,” Vara said, so coldly, “and not only doesn't he trust the evidence of his eyes, he is possessed of sheer ignorance that allows him to distrust the evidence of his ears.”

  “You have told me nothing that anyone else might not know,” Baynvyn said, but it was reserved; there was a lie there.

  And he was bad at it. Cyrus blinked, unsure whether to rejoice that there was doubt in Baynvyn's mind or worry that still he resisted the truth of what he'd heard. “I know you've met countless imposters over the years–” Cyrus started.

  “I have killed or scared more of them than you can know,” Baynvyn said coldly. “More than I can count.”

  “–But I'm not an imposter,” Cyrus said. He raised his blade. “This is Rodanthar, the Sabre of the Righteous.” He pointed at Vara's sword. “She holds Ferocis, the Warblade of Bellarum, my blade–”

  “Looks like mine now,” Vara said.

  “Curatio over there holds Praelior,” Cyrus said, gesturing toward the gun wagon in the distance, where the healer stood, leaning heavily against the side. “My first godly weapon. I can see you, even though you wield Epalette. Gods, man – do you think I just followed so well in the footsteps of the real Cyrus Davidon that I discovered all his weapons? That I figured out all his memories?” He shook his head. “You must be a thousand years old now. You should be...old, by the limits of your race, but you're young.” He pointed at Epalette. “That. That gives you long life.” Cyrus lifted Rodanthar. “As this – well, Praelior and Ferocis, at least – could give me long life. See reason, son. I am Cyrus Davidon.” He stood up as straight as he could. “I wear his armor, I carry his sword, I walk with his comrades, including Vaste the...uhm...” Cyrus paused. “Did Vaste have a title from the elves?”

  “Sir Vaste the Flatulent,” Vara deadpanned.

  “Not helpful,” Cyrus said, turning back to Baynvyn. “Your mother was Lady Aisling the Crafty. I was there the day King Danay dubbed her so after the battle of Termina.” He took a hard breath. “She saved my life on that bridge. And countless times more after that – in Luukessia, in the very throne room of Danay after a battle in the south that cost him his heir. She—”

  “YOU LIE!” Baynvyn shouted. He leapt for his rifle, which was some twenty-odd feet away, where he'd dropped it after their initial exchange.

  “Vara, no!” Cyrus shouted, grabbing her before she could leap for him. She had sword in hand, and her face was red with rage. He yanked her around and off her feet as Baynvyn reached his weapon and fired twice. The bullets struck around them and Cyrus tucked his head down, forcing Vara's down as well.

  When he dared to look up again, gauntlet in front of his face to protect against the rifle—

  Baynvyn was gone.

  “Tell your whore of a mother to fuck off and die,” Vara called into the empty square. Her words echoed, and then she shoved Cyrus off of her. He rolled twice, then stopped. She made a noise of purest disgust, snatched up her sword, and stormed off.

  Cyrus just lay there for a few moments, reflecting on all that had just happened.

  He had a son.

  A son.

  Who wanted to kill him.

  And about this, his wife was plainly not pleased.
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br />   Chapter 33

  Alaric

  “So...we won?” Alaric asked, hobbling with Mazirin at his side. The captain of the Yuutshee was scanning the square as if expecting an army of city guards to come marching down the entry roads at any second. Alaric listened, but heard nothing.

  Then again, perhaps he wouldn't hear anything. The thunderous noise of gunfire had produced a strange, distant ringing in his ears, one that he was not pleased about.

  “It would appear we did,” Curatio answered. The healer was propped against the side of his own disabled gun wagon, blood staining his white robes from knee to neck. The elf looked as pale as Alaric had ever seen him, as though he were ready to fold in upon himself and disappear into the ether right there.

  “I don't feel as though I won anything,” Vaste said, hobbling up himself. His knees were scuffed, dirt showing up against the black of his robes. “Other than a good heaving, I mean. I won that.”

  “The vomitous kind?” Alaric asked, as Shirri quietly slipped into view out of the corner of his eye. “Or–”

  “No, I was thrown by a giant troll,” Vaste said, mimicking the movement as though he was tossing a barrel over his head. “Honestly, if I'd known how very intimidating it was to have your very person lifted from the safety of the ground and hurled, I might have been doing it myself all this time. It was very brisk. Quite frightening.” He brushed at his legs. “Also, absolute hell on the knees when I landed. Ouch.”

  “Is everyone all right?” Hiressam came jogging up, a rifle in his hand. Alaric cringed at the very sight of it, seeing the honorable swordsman turned into these – these – modern shooter people.