Chapter 49
Guy
“So, how did you get tangled up in all 'dis?” Guy asked, fidgeting, his back against the tall stone wall of Granary 18. There were an awful lot of twitchy City Watchmen standing around in here, spears and swords and rifles, all gung ho with no one to point them at. Guy was catching a lot of looks, as though they could sense where he'd come from, even though he'd shed his Machine coat before he'd gone into hiding. He didn't care for the thought they might turn those weapons in his direction.
That little girl Shirri was with him, though, and her they seemed kindly disposed toward. She looked up from where she'd been staring at the dusty ground, blinked a couple times at him, then shook off her reverie. “The Machine was after me,” she said simply. “Alaric and the others helped me escape them.”
Guy felt a chortle build deep in his throat. “For now, maybe. Let me tell you something, dove – no one escapes the Machine for good. Least not if they stay in Reikonos.”
“And yet I did,” Shirri said, smiling tightly at him. “My mother was their prisoner. We managed to escape, then to return to their headquarters and burn it with the help of the others.”
Guy settled back on his haunches, wishing for even a wooden chair at this point. Why couldn't he go back to that posh place with all the food? “Let me give you my compliments on that, and also say – that's not as important as you might think.” He shrugged. “I've been with the Machine for years. Didn't even know where our headquarters was. When you've got a building on every block and your tentacles in every single business in the town, it's hardly the end of the world if someone burns down a few of your places, you know?”
“Indeed I do,” Shirri said quietly. “And yet...I am free of the Machine. So are you—”
“For now.”
“So you've said,” Shirri smiled. “But what if you could be free of them...forever?”
“I'll believe it when I see it,” Guy said, listening as a stir went up from the gate. He turned his head to look, but seated as he was, he could see nothing.
“The City Watch is turning against the Lord Protector,” Shirri said. “Believe it, because you're about to see the Machine fall.”
Guy chuckled. “I recognize these are extraordinary times. I can even salute the work your friends have done in putting it to the Machine.” He shook his head. “But there's a far distance between punching someone in the nose and making 'em yield for good and forever.” He pushed up against the wall, trying to see over the heads of the guards. He didn't hold out much hope, but–
Ah. That was it.
“It's time,” the Cyrus Davidon impersonator called. That set the Watchmen off properly. Cheers, catcalls. You'd think he'd just offered them all a sack of gold and another of grain, plus a woman for good measure.
“You're about to see it,” Shirri said, smiling at his side.
“Oh, I've seen this one,” Guy said, nodding at the black-armored figure who stood a head above any other man here. “Seen plenty of him. Had my fill, in fact.” He put his back against the wall. “But whatever you lot are up to tonight, I do wish you good. Or at least not ill.”
“Guy!” The impersonator's voice cracked over the crowd. The soldiers were already filing out the gate, led by...well, someone. They were talking to the impersonator as they passed him, and he was shaking hands and clapping some of them on the back. Still found time to yell at Guy, though. Didn't that figure.
“Whatchoo want?” Guy called back, not moving from where he was propped against the wall.
“You're coming with us,” came the answer.
Shirri giggled. Actually giggled. Might have been cute if Guy wasn't so bloody cross. “Why do I have to come with you?” Guy shouted. “There's not even anything worth stealing here! It's already all been nicked.”
By that time the impersonator had made his way through the waning crowd enough to reach him. He looked down at Guy with those scary, piercing blue eyes, and it was like he was staring right into Guy's soul. “Because I think you might be of help.”
“What are we even doing with this lot?” Guy asked, watching the guards continue to file out.
“Something dramatic,” the impersonator said, anchoring a mailed fist on his shoulder. Shirri giggled again as Guy's face turned hot, and he was steered toward the gate with the rest of the bloody cannon fodder.
Chapter 50
Baynvyn
“This is the saddest duty I've ever pulled,” Baynvyn said, watching the Machine thugs flood up the gangway of an airship dock. There was shouting up top, then more shouting. Hell, it was shouting from one side of the docks to the other.
A series of fierce squeaks in another language forced Baynvyn to roll his eyes. “You know I don't speak that gibberish, Piña.” He looked down at the gnome sitting in the rear compartment of her boxy truck, the doors thrown wide while the hubbub was in full swing. Why? Baynvyn hadn't figured that out. Piña was usually quite content to let everything play out from a distance, watching her clockworks through that peculiar eye glass she wore.
Another dribbling of Piña's native language – one of a dozen spoken in Azwill, a mighty land across the sea to the East – burst out of the little gnome. She shook a tiny fist at Baynvyn, then switched to a broken version of the common tongue spoken here. “You – not like it? Leave!”
“You know I like gold,” Baynvyn said, leaning, relaxed, against the back of her truck. It had smooth curves and lines, clearly an Azwill import. Like herself. “And you know I like pasting Cyrus Davidon impersonators.” He watched a Machine thug throw a box of something overboard from the nearby ship. It hit the ground about fifty feet from them and shattered. Sounded like glasswares. “I suppose I'm willing to take some bad with my good if I get to indulge in at least some of my most favorite things.” He hesitated. This was no impersonator, of course. Still. The principle held, in his view.
Piña's muted grunt was either acknowledgment or annoyance, and he couldn't tell which. Didn't much care, either. The crunching of hard footfalls against the cobbles signaled the arrival of Qualleron, too, and when the troll leaned against Piña's truck he caught an earful from the diminutive Azwillian.
“All right, all right,” Qualleron said, pushing himself off the truck. It squeaked and rattled just like she did – and she did, again, just then, in her own language once more. Qualleron stared down at Baynvyn. “You think they'll show?”
“That's what the Lord Protector said,” Baynvyn shrugged as he answered.
“But do you think that they will?” Qualleron's trapezius muscles formed a steep triangle on either side of his neck. He looked strained, Baynvyn decided. Tense, either anticipating the attack to come, or because he was less enthused about watching this spectacle of looting play out. Hard to say which of those it was.
Probably the latter. How often had Baynvyn heard him whine about honor? Not much of that to be had watching basest criminals ransack a port.
“See,” Baynvyn drawled, “here's the thing about people who impersonate Cyrus Davidon.” He spoke from long experience, since he'd met – and dealt with, in some fashion – more of them than he could count. “They're cowards.” That familiar tingle popped up in the back of his head again. This being – probably – not an impersonator changed the calculus, though, didn't it? He didn't change his answer, at least not out loud, though.
Qualleron evinced a little surprise at that, his immense brow rising, folding in three heavy lines across that yellowed forehead. “How do you mean?”
Baynvyn chuckled darkly. “Do you even know who Cyrus Davidon is?”
Qualleron's shrug was expansive and nearly caused Piña's truck to take an elbow. Which might have rolled it onto its side, actually. “Some local deity, seems like.”
“He was a man,” Baynvyn said, feeling a little chill as he spoke of his father. “Lived a thousand years ago. General of a great army. Fought a war against the gods of Arkaria – and won. Freed the people from under them. So when people imp
ersonate him, that's what they're trying to capture. The courage and fighting spirit of a man who fought gods.”
Qualleron chuckled, and it made Baynvyn blanch, like rocks warring in the troll's mouth. “Your people still believe in tribal gods? I knew it was backwards here.”
Baynvyn shook his head. “They weren't actual gods, though I'm not sure many out there know this. They were remnants of an ancient civilization that had learned magic. Too well, in fact. They ruled from the shadows for ten thousand years until Cyrus Davidon killed them.”
Qualleron shook his head, still chuckling. “All right.”
“Anyway,” Baynvyn said, trying to get back on his track of thought, “my point is, if someone's trying to impersonate Cyrus Davidon, they've got a hero complex. They want his courage. Or his fame, I suppose. They're papering over their own flaws, hoping to attach themselves to his legend somehow because of how meager they feel about themselves.” Baynvyn checked his Maushault rifle again, just to be sure. Bullet in the chamber. Epalette at his belt. “They're never heroes in their own right, see. Never people who have done anything themselves. They're...” Baynvyn paused, seeking the word. “...Losers, I suppose. And you usually can't scrape up an ounce of courage between twenty of them. Every once in a while you get one with some guts, so...”
Qualleron nodded along. “This one...his followers had guts. And skill, too.”
“Yes, this is one that's different,” Baynvyn agreed, letting his rifle's bolt slide back into place. He was ready. Still. “So, you want to know if they show up?” He shrugged. “Probably. This one's a true believer. Has just enough skill to back up his mouth. Good enough equipment to make him troublesome. Powerful armor. Even has a sword like...well, like the real deal.” No need to tell Qualleron that it seemed like this was the real deal. It mattered little to the troll, after all.
Qualleron's brow dropped again. “So...you're sure it's not this actual deity of yours?”
Baynvyn let an impatient breath. “I don't worship Cyrus Davidon, let's get that straight.” He fiddled with the rifle's bolt. Wanted to fire it, really. “But, no, this isn't him.” He shook his head. “Can't be. That man...doesn't exist anymore.” His lies were casual, practiced. Learned at the feet of his mother.
A small shriek of a laugh came from below, and Baynvyn turned to look at Piña, still sitting in her truck. She looked up at him with pinprick little eyes, grinning from ear to ear. “You going to be very surprised if it turns out to be him, aren't you?”
That one caught Baynvyn off guard. It was a moment before he could muster a simple, “But it's not him.” He held his expression constant, even.
Piña just laughed while Qualleron kept quiet. Baynvyn burned, but stood there as the sack of the docks raged around him, trying to keep from fidgeting and checking his weapons again.
Chapter 51
Cyrus
“How are we looking?” Cyrus asked as he trod down the worn cobblestones of a back alley. The wall that surrounded the city was ahead, a formidable shadow in the night, stretching up half a hundred feet in the air. Beyond it, he could hear...nothing. None of the street noise, subdued as it was in this city under siege, that echoed behind him.
Ahead was death. He could almost smell it from here.
McCoie walked next to him, struggling mightily to keep up with Cyrus's long strides. “My lord?” His voice broke with confusion. “How do we...look? Do you mean our uniforms?”
Cyrus suppressed a sigh. The language had changed some while he was gone. New words like 'fartwat' had seeped in. Old manners of expression had apparently dropped out as well. “What is our present status?” Cyrus asked, making it clear and formal as he could.
“As well as can be expected, my lord,” McCoie said. A staircase ascended the wall just at the end of the street. Two City Watchmen stood guard at the base of the steps, eyes fixed on Cyrus and his approaching troop. If there was to be a conflict here, it would come soon.
But the guards stood aside with nothing more than a nod to McCoie as they approached. They both watched Cyrus as though he were the only one coming, as though there were not city guards behind him following for several blocks. His formation threaded along like a snake. Cyrus had snuck frequent looks back as they'd marched from the granary, just to be sure they were still with him. Other than those he'd split off – along with Shirri and Guy – they were still with him. He counted his fortunes on that.
Climbing the wall's steps was only a small ordeal. He bounded ahead of McCoie easily here, reaching the top while the smaller man was only half of the way up. Further down the wall he could see more guards, watching him carefully but taking no action. While he waited, he strode right up to the crenellations and looked out–
And saw the horror he expected.
A wide moat separated the wall from the ground on the other side. Night had fallen during their march, faint twilight already seeping into the sky above the thick clouds that hung over the city. Still, he could see the bare, dead ground on the other side in the light of moon rise, which was hanging like a smaller, dimmer sun just above the horizon.
The spectacle was horrifying.
Scourge seethed on the opposite shore. There was no other word for it, their motion, their chattering, growling, their attempts to climb one another to try and get to the edge of the moat without falling in. One plopped in as he watched, disappearing into the inky depths some two hundred feet across the waters from him.
“They do that all the time,” McCoie said, breathing heavily but now returned to Cyrus's side.
“I'm surprised after a thousand years they haven't piled up enough carcasses to shrink the moat so they can cross it,” Cyrus said.
“They have,” McCoie said, and Cyrus turned to look at him. “When I first joined, it was some twenty feet wider at this point.” He stuck a finger out to indicate.
Cyrus peered into the darkness. Indeed, the far shore seemed to be made up gleaming bone and rotting flesh. He stuck a gauntlet up to his nose and the strong scent of roast beef juice from his fingertips mingled with the scent of rot. It was not a pleasant mixture. “How large was it when the moat was first dug?”
“In school they taught us it was five hundred feet wide,” McCoie said, “and some hundred feet deep.” He stood there next to Cyrus. “The Lord Protector – the real one, I assume – meant for it to last.”
“It doesn't look like it will last another thousand years at this rate,” Cyrus said, a little chill running through him. “We're going to have to deal with these things.” He balled a fist. But first – Malpravus.
“I imagine not,” McCoie said. “But it will outlast me, I think.” Cyrus could feel the man's eyes boring into him. “Not you, though, I suppose my l–”
“Just call me General,” Cyrus said, and turned away. Down the wall he could see the next patrol, still fixed in place, watching. Cyrus's forces were filling in behind him now, reassembling the two-wide columns. Ahead, in the shadow of twilight, he could see the bulge where the first cannon tower lay. “Looks like a five-minute march to our first objective. Any loyalists we need to worry about between here and there?”
“Those ahead are good men, my l – uh, General,” McCoie said. “Though a bit uncertain. If you take my meaning.”
“They're not sure that Cyrus Davidon has returned,” Cyrus said with a smile. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. General.”
“Let's go meet them, then,” Cyrus said, starting along the curving wall. It didn't look that much different than it had in his day; perhaps a bit more worn. “It'll take the others a few more minutes to get into position anyway.”
Chapter 52
Alaric
“Once you're at the top, please keep moving,” Vaste called over the assemblage in something between a whisper and a bellow. Hopefully it would not reach over the top of the wall that surrounded the dockyards, though there seemed to be no one in sight, and no guard was posted here. At the gates, certainly, but not here, in
this little pocket of wall some several hundred feet from the nearest gate into the yards. “You are all very heavy people, and in spite of my extreme magical powers, I don't want to have to lift you any longer than necessary, because you all look very well fed.”
“You should talk, darling,” Birissa muttered.
Alaric cringed at the noise of all of this. He placed a finger to his lips and went, “Shhhhh,” looking especially pointedly at the two trolls. The general city noise around them had faded in the growing twilight. Reikonos was settled in for the eve, at least in this quarter. It was all warehouses, and with the docks closed, no one seemed to be about but the odd straggler, who took one look at the City Watch livery adorning most of their members and hightailed in the opposite direction.
And they certainly had City Watch livery aplenty. Cyrus had split his force from Granary 18, giving over half of them and a little more to Alaric. Now they stood here, receiving last-minute instruction, as Alaric watched the streets around them, sure something would come out of an alley any moment to thwart them.
“Are you quite all right here?” Curatio asked. He looked insufferable, but he'd certainly earned the right, given what he'd volunteered to do. His smaller force was waiting a short distance away. His eyes gleamed in the twilight, cowl up and hiding his ears. But not his intolerability, damn him.
“Go to your task, friend,” Alaric said tautly. He eyed the wall around the docks once more. Forty feet high, it was nearly the height of the curtain wall around Reikonos, but still plenty enough to thwart an army intent on laying siege to the docks.
Well, most armies.
“I will see you on the other side,” Curatio said, nodding beneath his cowl.
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