Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  The thoroughly dishonorable Guy came huffing up a little behind him, a rifle in his own hands, no breath left in his body. He reached them and sagged, bent nearly double, his pudgy belly bowing his tunic out. He said nothing, though, just huffed there.

  “I think so,” Alaric said, turning to look for the last of their number. Vara was steaming toward them now under her own power, face as red as Curatio's stained robes, crimson all the way to the roots of her golden hair.

  She came to them and stopped abruptly, as though crashing into something invisible, and Alaric dared not say anything. He had seen her this way before, and did not envy whoever spoke first.

  “What is her problem?” Birissa asked, stepping right into it. “Did you lose your black-armored warrior?”

  “No,” Vara said, snapping. “We just fought a dark elven mercenary who possessed Epalette, the weapon of that traitorous whore, Aisling Nightwind.” She blushed deeper. “As it turns out, my esteemed husband, who is actually neither of those things in this moment, has a bastard child that he did not know about. Who just tried to kill us in exchange for payment from Malpravus.”

  Dead silence. Alaric did not say anything, waiting for someone else to break the quiet. He looked at Curatio, Curatio looked at him. None of the newer people seemed willing to say anything. Finally, Alaric looked to Vaste—

  Vaste just stood there, stone-faced, mouth closed, massaging his knees. His eyes moved around wildly, indicating that he had thoughts on this subject, yet, curiously, he did not give voice to them.

  Alaric watched the others shift their gaze to Vaste, until finally, he could not ignore that the attention of every single person in the circle was upon him.

  Vaste sighed. “Not that I don't appreciate some attention – well, ever – but why are you all looking at me? Vara's the one whose stupid husband fathered a bastard with a spy some thousand years ago. And also, before they got together.”

  “I was hoping you would take the brunt of whatever furious response Vara had,” Alaric said.

  “That makes two of us,” Curatio said.

  “Three,” Hiressam chimed in.

  “Four, actually,” Pamyra said, and when Alaric and the other two looked at her in surprise. “What? It's instantly obvious that he's the jester, the plodding fool who breaks the uncomfortable silences.”

  Birissa nodded. “The dynamic is clear.”

  Alaric looked around, eventually landing on Guy, who had almost pulled himself upright. “Is that so?”

  Guy's eyes widened. “Don't ask me. I just got here. And I don't care if the big guy had his way with some tart back in the olden days. Assuming I even believed he was Cyrus Davidon, or that this bloke who claims he's the son actually is a son of Davidon. Because everyone knows Davidon ain't got no sons, nor daughters—”

  “Yes, I knew that as well,” Vara said, “until one just attempted to kill us.”

  “Well, really, what else could you expect from the son of Cyrus and the traitorous dark elven assassin queen?” Vaste asked. “Killing is in his blood.”

  Vara turned a shade deeper red at that, but said nothing. Vaste, for his part, buttoned his lips in a rather obvious way that suggested he was done talking for a while.

  “Do we need to send someone to check on Cyrus?” Alaric asked, turning to look over his shoulder. The warrior in black was on one knee, leaning against his blade.

  “Why?” Vara snapped. “He's still alive. For now.”

  “Vara,” Curatio said softly, “he's just found out that he's a father, and that his son wishes to kill him. While I am certain that this...revelation does not sit easily upon your shoulders, I don't imagine it rests easier on his, given he is responsible for this.

  “Yes, he is responsible for this,” Vara snapped. “And I'm eager to see how he handle his responsibility.” Her eyes practically glimmered brightest blue, ice radiating out of them. “We should leave this place.” She nodded in the direction of the fallen gallows. “Our task here is done in any case. The prisoners are saved, the mob we call townsfolk have fled, proper cowards that they are. We need stay no longer.” And she swept her blade around and made for the road which they had taken to get here.

  “I know it probably doesn't seem like it,” Vaste said, once she'd put a hundred or so feet of distance between herself and the standing circle of them, “but in this moment, I actually feel quite sorry for Cyrus. And not at all envious. Which is new for me.”

  “What is there to envy that fool about?” Vara called to him, not looking back.

  Alaric waited until she was still farther away before casting a look at the warrior in black. He was still not back on his feet, and Alaric did not feel able to walk to him, not under his own power at present. “Very little, at present,” the Ghost conceded. “Very little indeed.”

  Chapter 34

  Cyrus

  The pain was considerable, but not insurmountable. Little of it was physical, in any case; the real action was the roiling in his stomach, the uncertainty that came from the twin prongs of the blade of surprise that had stabbed him–

  First, that he had a son, who had just tried to kill him.

  Second, that Vara was perhaps angrier than he could ever recall seeing her.

  “Damn,” Cyrus whispered, watching her disappear from the square, stalking away in pure, cold fury. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the others start to move. Guy made his way toward one of the horseless carriages with the guns on the back, hectored on by Hiressam and, perhaps, Curatio, who had climbed up into it. Vaste followed, and Birissa as well, climbing into the wagon. The rumble of that thing's engine rolled over the square, and he watched as Shirri and Pamyra climbed up into the back as well, as did Captain Mazirin. Now filled, with Guy at the wheel, the horseless carriage rattled off along the cobblestone street, following Vara, albeit slowly.

  “Do you need help?” The Ghost's voice nearly shocked Cyrus out of his senses. He turned and Alaric was there, leaning against the tree. He must have turned ethereal while Cyrus had been watching the others.

  “I...” Cyrus looked around. Baynvyn's pistol lay on the ground. He took a few cautious steps over and retrieved it. It was curiously boxy compared to the pistols he'd fired thus far. It was strange, even, in comparison to the ones he'd become accustomed to, with their rounded, protruding barrels and woodwork. This one was sleeker, made almost entirely of metal save for wood flourishes on the sides of the grip. He tucked it into his belt, reluctant to let go for some reason, as though afraid it might fall out if left unattended. “I...am uninjured,” he answered Alaric at last, unsure if that even satisfied the question.

  “Not quite a response to what I asked,” Alaric said, staring at him very seriously. The Ghost's helm was gone, and his hair, grey and long, flowed freely down his back. “I asked—”

  “Oh, I heard you,” Cyrus said, still looking around as if Baynvyn might jump out at him any second now. “I don't know what you could do for me right now, Alaric.” He ceased his head's pointless swivel. The boy – who was hardly a boy at all, at this point, given he'd lived more years than his father – was gone. “It would seem some more of my fabled consequences have come home to roost.”

  Alaric nodded slowly. “Do you feel yourself succumbing to despair as you did before?”

  “No,” Cyrus said slowly, “but neither do I find myself thrilled with any of this.” He pulled his own helm off his head and tucked it under his arm. “I mean...damn, Alaric. I had no idea she even had a baby.”

  Alaric seemed frozen for a moment. “You were...not around her when she was pregnant?”

  “Ah, no,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “She stabbed me at Leaugarden and after the battle of Saekaj, I didn't see her for well over a year.”

  “Well,” Alaric said, nodding as he stared at the ground. “You have me beat, then.” When Cyrus looked up at him curiously, the Ghost smiled. “When I was held 'captive' in Saekaj, recall, my lover was pregnant the entire time and came to term while living
with me. And I did not realize until she gave birth during the battle of—”

  “Oh, right,” Cyrus said, nodding along. “I read that in your diary. Forgot about that. She gave birth during the battle of...well, Reikonos.”

  “Sennshann at the time,” Alaric corrected gently. “So...as I said, you have me beat in terms of awareness.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I'm not sure this is a competition I want to win a trophy in, Alaric.”

  “Yet here we find ourselves,” the Ghost said. His armor creaked as he moved to push off the tree.

  Cyrus watched him, quiet, considering. “What do I do?”

  “Well, recall I gave mine up for adoption to the Lepos family,” Alaric said. “I think we can see how well that worked out.”

  Cyrus pondered for a moment. “I guess it worked out all right for Terian. I think things were a little rough for that house before that, though. Though, mine is an adult...I'm not sure that would work in this case.”

  “Yes, I imagine it is quite difficult to give an adult child up for adoption.”

  Cyrus felt a smile force its way onto his face. “Be serious, Alaric.”

  Alaric smiled. “I could, if you prefer, but I'm not sure it would help. This is, obviously, quite serious. Deathly so, even. Yet...” He shrugged, a very strange gesture from the Ghost of Sanctuary. “Dour and sour will do nothing to cure the situation, Cyrus, for what change can you make in dwelling in the darkness of past mistakes?”

  That didn't take long to answer. “None,” Cyrus said.

  “Then do not dwell on what might have been done had you known earlier,” Alaric said. “Consider instead what you might do now that you know. Ponder perhaps your responsibility, and move forward from there.”

  Cyrus nodded slowly. “I think Vara's going to be mad at me for some time.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. She can hardly hold a grudge forever for things you did a thousand years ago, when the two of you were not even together.” Alaric paused, then stirred. “Have you ever considered the possibility that some of her reaction to Aisling might be down to her being upset by her own conduct toward you in those days?”

  Cyrus just stared at him. “If I did, I would never say it out loud.”

  Alaric laughed. “Fair enough. Still...I would consider it a distinct possibility, even if I were not likely to bring it up to Vara's face.”

  “That'd be wise. Especially given you're not looking so hale and hearty.” Cyrus nodded at him. “What happened to your helm?”

  Alaric's smile vanished. “Let us say that you are not the only one who met a new foe that took him aback.” Alaric started to fade. “We should regroup at Sanctuary. Do you require assistance getting there?”

  Cyrus peered into the distance, concentrating, as the Ghost began to fade. Another puff of mist appeared before him, coalescing into a familiar, four-legged white steed. “No,” Cyrus said, smiling as Windrider appeared while Alaric vanished. “I think I can make it on my own.”

  “Then hurry,” Alaric's disembodied voice said, “let us regroup, for there is much work ahead of us.”

  Chapter 35

  Baynvyn

  “This way.” The voice echoed in the quiet as Baynvyn descended the long spiral stair. He'd been surprised to find the open staircase in the entry to the Citadel. That had never been there the other times he'd visited. And he'd have noticed. Baynvyn was not the sort to trust his survival to missed details. It was the little details that could get you killed, after all.

  The darkened passage was filled with aged air, leading down, down below the streets of Reikonos. It was cool, had the feeling of walking into the dark of underground, something Baynvyn knew a thing or two about given his upbringing. The walls glowed a gentle blue, plenty bright enough for him to see. He'd been blessed with dark elven eyes, in spite of the shading of his irises. Otherwise he might not have survived to adulthood, let alone beyond.

  He followed the guard in the gold livery into a space so large it could stand the marshaling of an army. Which, Baynvyn knew, it had, before. It was a chamber as grand as the Citadel itself, and in its center stood a peculiar object.

  “Do you know what this is?” came a crackling voice. A small figure stood just before the portal, his back to it, covered in dark robes. It looked like he might have just walked out of it before Baynvyn reached the room. Two more guards flanked either side of the structure.

  “It's a portal,” Baynvyn said casually. No need to hide this bit of arcane knowledge, was there? “Like in Reikonos Square.”

  “Very good,” came the scratchy voice. The thin, robed figure remained anchored where he stood, before the portal's soft glow. “You're classically educated, then. Do you know what they do?”

  “I know what they used to do,” Baynvyn said, glancing around. More guards lurked in the shadows. Protection for this one, then. “But magic is long gone.” He smiled at the lie. He knew it was a lie. Malpravus, perhaps, would not, though.

  “Indeed,” Malpravus said, stepping forward. He kept his cowl down, which Baynvyn thought curious. “How fared you in the mission, lad?”

  “They were not a simple pair of impersonators as promised,” Baynvyn said, stiffening but keeping his tone even. There was danger in threatening the “Lord Protector” of Reikonos. Wrath he didn't care to incur, especially not with a job still in front of him. “These two were...well, they could fight, for one thing.”

  A slow, steady breath oozed out of the robed figure. “Yes. I thought you would know by my hiring you that this was no easy feat.”

  “Impersonators are usually weak,” Baynvyn said. “Feckless, occasionally fanatical.”

  “Is that why you so enjoy menacing them in your free time?” Malpravus's voice crackled. He doubted the necromancer realized that Baynvyn, in fact, knew his true identity. The so-called Lord Protector had been more open about who he was as the years had passed and their acquaintance had grown. That was fine with Baynvyn; Malpravus sent him interesting work and paid well. But he was well aware of who he was dealing with.

  Malpravus, though...he had no concept of who Baynvyn truly was, a state of affairs Baynvyn intended to keep.

  “I do enjoy menacing,” Baynvyn said, forcing a smile. “But to these imposters...” He shook his head. “There is more to them than it would have seemed.”

  “Are you unable to do this thing I have asked of you, then?” Malpravus's voice was high, almost amused.

  “How did your other bounty hunters fare?” Baynvyn countered.

  “As poorly as you, I fear.” Malrpavus turned to reveal his skeletal features, more drawn than Baynvyn might have imagined. This was new; he'd not shown his face before. Dark elven skin stretched over bones that were too big; something had happened to make him move openly–

  Cyrus and Vara.

  “We were all caught off guard at their strength,” Baynvyn said, shuffling his feet as he adjusted his rifle sling. “Did any others survive?”

  “Some returned bearing trophies, in fact,” Malpravus said, lifting a helm out of his robes and staring at it ponderously for a moment. “But none returned entirely successful. Not you, not Qualleron, not my own Coordinator Stiehle. Indeed not even little Piña.”

  “Perhaps there's a reason for that,” Baynvyn said, wondering if he should hint or say it flat out.

  “You mean the differences you cited,” Malpravus said. “Between these and the ordinary sort of imposters?”

  “Yes,” Baynvyn said. “Exactly.” And he waited to see if Malpravus would say more.

  “If I sent you after them again,” Malpravus said, “do you expect you would do any better the next time?”

  “You paid us generously for killing worthless fools,” Baynvyn said, pretending to really think it over. “The payment is considerably less generous now that we know they are much more than that. They are dangerous, gravely so. They have friends. Strong ones. I didn't count the number of bodies you lost on those rooftops and wagons, but I would guess they numbered in t
he hundreds. I did count how many of them there were – eleven. Eleven who killed or hampered a hundred and more, including some true greats. Coordinator Stiehle is an impressive fighter. Qualleron is known as one of the best. Piña is no slouch, either.”

  “Nor are you, Baynvyn,” Malpravus said quietly. “Your point is well taken. Their nuisance is more than I anticipated. Your price is increased a hundredfold – if you are able to deliver death. But I want all eleven in exchange, as well as...one other little detail taken care of first...do we have a deal?” Malpravus smiled.

  Baynvyn kept his cool. The money was...considerable. But only a fool leapt into a deal before knowing all the terms. “What is this...other detail?”

  Malpravus told him.

  “It can easily be done,” Baynvyn assured him. “For that price.”

  “Then see it done,” Malpravus said, sweeping his cloak behind him and turning into the bright currents of the portal behind him, now lively and lit with some magic. “Oh, and Baynvyn? We both know very well magic is hardly gone. Do be a good lad and don't try to lie to me again?” A flash of a smile was all Baynvyn saw before the skeletal necromancer disappeared into the swirling light of the portal.

  Chapter 36

  Cyrus

  Windrider's hooves left the hard cobblestones of the alleyway and stepped over the threshold of the Sanctuary gate, left open wide, the wagon with the gatling cannon parked just inside. Cyrus noticed the subtle change. The smoky smell of the air permeated this district more than even the others, all the mills here running with their smokestacks belching twenty-four hours a day.

  He noticed something else, too. Vaste sat against a tree just inside the gate, and once Cyrus was inside the troll lifted himself up and closed the thing behind him, sliding down the immense bar that locked it closed.

  “Waited up for me?” Cyrus asked, dismounting. He was slow, in mood and manner, though thankfully not from injury – this time.