Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “Well, the gate needed closing, and I figured with your head in the clouds you might not be thinking of these things,” Vaste said. “Security above all, especially now, you know.”

  “That's wise,” Cyrus said, running a gauntlet smoothly over Windrider's mane. The horse whinnied once, then faded into the ether as easily as Alaric ever had.

  Vaste stared at the horse, frowning. “How did you ride that creature for years and not realize it was never an actual horse?”

  Cyrus paused, glancing back at where Windrider had been moments before. “I...we live in a world of magic, Vaste. How am I supposed to guess at the bounds of what actually is magic and what is merely strange, such as a brilliant horse that saves me and follows my commands like a clever dog?”

  Vaste shrugged. “I suppose it puts the truth to that old saying about looking a gift horse in the mouth.” He shook his head. “Still, feels like you could have been just a little more aware that your magical horse was indeed magical.”

  “Did you wait up just to bar the door and insult me about my failure to notice my horse was not a horse?” Cyrus asked, feeling the low itch of irritation in his mind.

  “No.” Vaste stood very still for a moment. “How are you doing?”

  Cyrus let a long sigh. “I don't know. As far as things I didn't notice go, missing a magical horse's provenance seems rather pedestrian next to not noticing one of my lovers found time to have my baby.”

  “She kept it a secret, Cyrus,” Vaste said. “And if there was ever anyone who was particularly good at keeping a secret, it was Aisling.”

  “Too true,” Cyrus said. “A lesson I have now learned quite painfully. Twice now, in fact.” A crash sounded within the open doors of Sanctuary, and a torrent of elven cursing followed after, high and loud and oh-so-familiar to Cyrus's ears.

  “Maybe we should spend some time exploring the drinking establishments of this neighborhood,” Vaste said, looking over his shoulder edgily.

  “That would only delay the inevitable,” Cyrus said, taking a deep breath and drawing up to his full height. “I have a duty.”

  “And a son with a woman your wife hates more than anyone else, including that dark knight that stabbed her through the chest and left her for dead,” Vaste said.

  “I don't think she hates Aisling more than Archenous Derregnault.”

  “I think if you put Aisling in front of her right now, the thing she did to Archenous where she blasted his head from his shoulders like a gnomish firework? That would be classed a gentle death compared to what she'd do to Aisling.”

  “What the hell is she going to do to me, then?” Cyrus muttered, staring into the darkness of Sanctuary's open door.

  “That's a great question, one that we should not be eager to find the answer to,” Vaste said. “Which is why I propose we find a bar instead. Somewhere with terrible ales, but heavy doors that we could bolt closed and wait for this storm to pass.”

  “An attractive proposition,” Cyrus said. “But...no, I think,” he shook his head. “This needs to be faced. I am through running away from the consequences of my ill-founded actions. Or even the well-founded ones.”

  “So brave,” Vaste said. “I'll write that down and make sure it ends up on your tombstone.”

  “Thanks,” Cyrus said, dryly, and began the ascent up the few steps to the darkened door. Another crash came from within, and he cringed, but did not turn back from this new – and very different – sort of battle.

  Chapter 37

  “Cyrus,” Alaric said as the warrior entered the foyer. Another clatter of metal and cursing came from the Great Hall, echoing in Cyrus's ears as he came to a stop at the assemblage around the great seal of Sanctuary. Everyone was here save for Vaste, who followed in Cyrus's wake, just a little slower, and Vara who was...

  ...Well, it was not difficult to gauge where Vara was. Another crash, more elven swearing.

  “I'm glad to see you all made it through the fight more or less intact,” Cyrus said, taking note of the great red stains along Curatio's robes. The healer looked as though he might keel over right there, wan in the light of the dancing flames of the hearth.

  “We saved the prisoners,” Hiressam said, nodding once. “None were lost. The day is carried.”

  “I was lost,” Curatio said, rubbing fingers over his neck, which similarly bore the stain of crimson. “If not for Pamyra, my long life would be quite at an end right now.” He shot an annoyed look around. “I find this to be an unpleasant possibility, one I would prefer to guard against in the future.”

  “Wouldn't we all,” Vaste said. Birissa slipped up next to him, putting her arm around his waist. Cyrus eyed them; the two of them standing together formed a nearly impenetrable wall. “Personally, I didn't much care for being lifted like a barrel by a troll five times my size—”

  “He was perhaps twice your size,” Birissa said.

  “Whatever the case, I did not like it,” Vaste said. “I found it very disorienting, and suddenly wished I had done to more of it to you little people over the years when you vexed me.”

  “Yes, my near death certainly compares favorably to your disorientation,” Curatio said dryly. “We should very much worry about that.”

  “We should worry about everything,” Alaric said. “It is clear to me now that we are at war, whether we were prepared or not. This morning we thought we were leading a revolution against the corruption of the Machine and their actions in the streets.” He shook his head. “Now we know the truth – the yolk of tyranny lies heavy upon this city, and it is incumbent upon us to throw off that yolk, all the more so now that we know on whose head rests the crown. Now that we know who the Lord Protector truly is.” The Ghost's voice burned at the last, hate flowing out of him.

  “Who is he?” Mazirin asked. Cyrus blinked; she was standing in the shadows next to Vaste and he hadn't even noticed her.

  “A necromancer we battled with several times in the past,” Hiressam said.

  “One of our oldest allies,” Curatio said, “one who was betraying us nearly all the time we were 'allied' with him.”

  “Hey,” Vaste said, “I just realized that you can't spell 'allies' without 'lies'.”

  “All lies,” Alaric agreed. “That is what Malpravus fed us. Power was his only concern, ever. Now he sits atop the throne of this place—”

  “Technically, Reikonos doesn't have a throne,” Guy tossed in.

  “Yes it does. We saw it,” Vaste said. “It was a great seat and his bony arse was parked in it. Reikonos has a throne. And a damned lich sits upon it, sucking this place dry with both government and the Machine, working entwined to take all they can from the people.” He shuddered. “No wonder this place is such a hell hole.”

  “You won't find much disagreement from me,” Mazirin said, “nor any others who don't come from this corner of the world. Reikonos is a mess, and a corrupt one. But I do business here. Quite a bit of it. And I can't be seen to be involved in...” She shook her head. “...Whatever it is you are planning.”

  Alaric's face grew grey, and Cyrus wondered if he would be wearing his helm now if he had it. The expression he wore was most peculiar, and not one Cyrus could recall seeing from him before. When he spoke, he was hoarser than before, as well. “I cannot blame you for that, Captain. This is not your city and not your fight. You have been more than generous with your assistance, and I grow tired of getting further into your debt, as you said. I believe you should leave, and swiftly, before things take a turn for getting any worse.”

  Mazirin met his gaze intently, then nodded once. “I should.” With a last look around at each of them. “Thank you all for returning my man Dugras to me. I can't say I wish you luck in whatever you intend to do here, but...I hope it does not see you die unfruitfully.”

  “I'm going to start saying that to people as a farewell,” Vaste said. “'I'm not wishing you luck, but I hope you don't die without fruit'...by which I mean pie.”

  “That is almost li
ke wishing them luck, coming from you,” Curatio said.

  “I'm just a big softie at heart when you get down to it,” Vaste said.

  Mazirin just shook her head at all this, and with a last nod at Alaric, departed through the open doors, shutting them behind herself.

  Alaric watched her go, and Cyrus observed, again, the most curiously wistful expression on his face as he did.

  Chapter 38

  Curatio

  He was quite about to keel over, and he knew it. Lightness filled his head, blackness clouded the edges of his vision, and he barked, without being able to keep it under control, “Someone help me up to my room now or I'm going to collapse and possibly heave on all of you.”

  That drew every head back to him. They'd all been watching Mazirin go. Well, all except Cyrus, who was watching Alaric moon over her. He wondered, dimly, if the warrior realized what he was seeing. His vacant, peering expression suggested not. Well, he did have other things on his mind just now.

  But that was none of Curatio's concern. Passing out, however, was.

  “I will help you,” Hiressam said, moving to take up the healer's weight.

  “Ah, an honorable man,” Curatio said as Hiressam helped him toward the stairwell. “Thank you. I was beginning to wonder if there was any decency left in the youth these days.”

  “Rest, old man,” Alaric called after him. “We will need your strength when you wake up.”

  “Don't count on that happening for a few days,” Curatio called back. Because as utterly drained as he was, it likely wouldn't.

  Chapter 39

  Cyrus

  “Is he quite serious about the 'sleeping for days' thing?” Pamyra asked, looking at the stairwell after the vanished healer. He and Hiressam had disappeared up it a few moments before, but still silence had reigned after his pronouncement.

  “Yes,” Alaric said. “In order to do what he did at the Citadel, he drew upon his own life's magical energy. In days of yore–”

  “Oh, lo, those thousand years ago when times were simpler but the women less impressive,” Vaste said, smiling at Birissa.

  “–he could regain that strength easier, through the natural regeneration of magic,” Alaric said.

  Pamyra nodded. “But now, with magic constrained–”

  “He'll be down for a while,” Cyrus said. “I remember after he lit the entire Realm of Darkness he had to consign himself to a bed for days. I wonder how long he'll be enfeebled from this.”

  “Mother had to heal his wound,” Shirri said, mousing her way into the conversation.

  “He might have been having trouble concentrating, though,” Pamyra said. “A wound at the neck starves the mind, after all. He was panicked and thrashing when I found him.”

  “We should let him rest,” Alaric said. “And count him out for the next few days as we plan.”

  “What is our plan, anyway?” Vaste asked. “I mean, I think we all know that I'm firmly on the side of any plan that involves supplanting Malpravus's bony arse, but...” He looked around the circle. “How do we do that here? The enemies arrayed against us seem...incredible.”

  “He's right,” Pamyra said. “You have your 'lich' at the top of them all, but also the Machine—”

  “Plus those bounty hunters in the square,” Vaste said.

  “The Reikonos city guard,” Shirri said.

  “It's an army,” Cyrus said. “Not a great one, admittedly, based on the way they were ambushed and fled in the square, but...an army, nonetheless. Rally them in numbers, they'll be a problem. A bigger one than what we dealt with today, assuming there are more of them.”

  “Many more, I would think,” Pamyra said.

  “We were never going to fight this battle alone,” Alaric said, slamming his mailed fist into his palm with a clatter of metal. “We always needed the people for this. That is why we rallied this morning, remember? This is not only our fight. We need not rely just on ourselves. This is a fight for all the people of Reikonos, and we must enlist them. Our own strength may be the deciding factor, but a victory fought only by us will not stick. Here, we must rely upon the strength of all men—”

  “'The strength of men'?” A high, sarcastic voice crackled over them from the entry to the Great Hall. Vara stood there, hair gleaming in the torch light, eyes darkened by the shadows. “Let me tell you something about the strength of men–”

  She strode out among them, silvery breastplate catching the dim light streaming in from the overhead stained-glass window. “Men are cowards and fools. You saw it with your own eyes today. They came to see an execution and fled when their own lives came into peril. Cowards and fools, happy to watch the deaths of others, but running from danger when it came to risking their necks.” She laughed. “Where, then, is the strength of men? What few remained did little as we fought. I see no strength here, no will to fight Malpravus save for us, we few, in this room, and I am hard pressed to care about their freedom when they seem to worry less for it than I do. And what would they do with freedom in any case?” She laughed again. “Squander it, that is what. For that is what men do. They cower and they make idiotic choices.”

  “I think that was about you,” Birissa whispered, loudly, toward Cyrus.

  “Well caught, dear,” Vaste said.

  “Thank you,” Birissa said, still whispering loud enough for all to hear. “It seemed rather obvious, you know. One layer beneath the surface, perhaps, just out of sight.”

  “Vara,” Cyrus said quietly. “There's no need to torch all men when your gripe is plainly with me.”

  She stared right at him. “I included you in the 'fool' portion of it, but my gripe with Reikonos is also the cowards, for they are aplenty in this city, plainly.”

  That hung in the air unpleasantly. Vaste finally spoke up: “You going to fight back, or are you aiming to prove the 'coward' part of her assertion by not doing so?”

  “I have enough battles before me without warring with my wife,” Cyrus said, looking right at her. She did not return his gaze.

  “I see no benefit to fighting that battle,” Alaric said. “For it is a pointless fight, and the casualties will all be those we hold dear–”

  “Not me,” Guy said under his breath. “You can fight it out for all I care.”

  “–and besides,” Alaric said, undeterred, “there is a greater fight before us. Regardless of how you feel about the people of this city at present, a dark soul lords over them. Surely you cannot discount–”

  “I see a Lord Protector that has pulled the willing wool over their eyes,” Vara said. “'Willing', Alaric. They want to believe in him.”

  “Even though he gives them no hope?” Alaric asked. “True, he is a symbol. But of a bygone age. Malpravus wears the face of one of our own friends, treads on Samwen Longwell's reputation, uses it to quell this city, to keep it in line–”

  “They wish to be in a line,” Vara said. “Let them march in it, even as it leads over a cliff.”

  “You are wounded,” Alaric said. “You don't mean that.”

  “I mean it,” Vara said, sliding her gaze to Cyrus. “I mean it well enough.”

  “Do you want to have this discussion in front of everyone?” Cyrus asked. “Or would you rather–”

  “I would rather my husband had not a whore in his past,” Vara said, laughing acidly. “But laying that aside – the way you laid her aside – I would prefer that she not continue to trespass back into our lives even a thousand years hence. That would indeed be preferable.” She threw her arms wide, laughing mirthlessly. “But even this simple preference seems out of reach for the great and commanding Cyrus Davidon, whose vigor results in children who last for millennia–”

  “I didn't know,” Cyrus said. “What more do you want me to say?” He took a step toward her. “'I'm sorry'? I am. Eternally, in fact, at this point.”

  “Don't say things you don't mean,” Vara said.

  “You think I don't regret it?” Cyrus took another step toward her. “You
think I wish I'd stayed with the woman who stabbed me in the back before helping create the biggest defeat of my life?”

  Vara steadied her gaze on him. “Wasn't my 'death' the greatest defeat of your life?”

  “Are you jesting?” Cyrus asked. “You're not dead. The people we lost at Leaugarden are. Eternally. Much like my regret.”

  “That's so poetic,” Birissa whispered.

  Vara's eyes glimmered in the dark. “I am forever wounded by the memory of you lying with her.”

  An anger rose up in Cyrus that he could not find it in himself to quell. “That's called guilt,” he said, roughly. “Because you damned well know you pushed me away and she followed where you didn't.”

  “Oh!” Vaste said, as though someone had stabbed. “No! No, bad Cyrus! That was not the thing to say here!”

  All the air went out of Vara. Her cheeks, so red a moment before, went pale in the fire light. “Eternally, you are a fool, it would seem.”

  “And eternally you are going to whip at my back for things I did in error a thousand years ago,” Cyrus said, all patience gone like wisps of smoke in the wind. “Fine, I'm a fool. But I won't be a coward and just let you rage at me unanswered.” His face felt hot, his armor far too warm. “You want to lambast me for a buffoon? Fine. Do so. But spare me the guilt you feel for your part. I have enough to answer for – and enough fighting ahead of me – without taking up your part.” He leaned forward, eyes aglare. “Decide now if you have the stomach for this fight or not, and which fight you truly want. Because I won't fight Malpravus for Reikonos while battling you at the same time.”

  “As you wish,” Vara said, silkily, and out the door she went, nearly colliding with Cyrus as she walked.

  “Cyrus—” Vaste said.

  “Let her go,” Cyrus said. And went she did, with not a word of protest from any of the others.