Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “You know,” Vaste said, edging up to Shirri as he watched his next man climb at roughly three times the speed of the last, easily outpacing the ones climbing in front of Shirri and Pamyra, “if this were a race, I think I might just win after all.” His man reached the parapet and looked back, gasping like a boned fish. Vaste gave him a little wave. “Next!”

  Chapter 58

  Cyrus

  “Don't push me,” Cyrus grunted, a City Watchman yelling at him as he tried to thrust a spear into Cyrus's face. It was his bad luck Cyrus caught it in his gauntlet. It was his even worse luck that he'd tried such a foolish maneuver while standing at the edge of the damned tower, with nothing but a hundred foot drop beneath him.

  Cyrus held the spear tip in his hand, looking coldly at the man for a second before giving it a hearty shove. He overpowered the man's thrust easily with the strength of Rodanthar, and the haft slammed into the guard's unprotected belly. All the wind went out of him and he started to fall back, back–

  “Aiiiiieee!” He started to tumble, eyes exploding wide in sheer panic. He saw the drop, he saw the certain death coming below, and–

  Cyrus grabbed the spear tip and yanked him back, ripping the weapon out of his grasp. He brought it around in a rough spin and took the man's legs from beneath him, dropping him to his back at the edge of the tower. With another half spin he brought the tip around and placed the point at the bulge of the man's throat. “I am Cyrus Davidon,” he said. “Yield or die.”

  The guard didn't take long to contemplate his options. “I yield, I yield.”

  “Stay right there, then,” Cyrus said, then turned. He lifted the spear and threw it across the tower, planting it into the center of the chest of a guard about to stab one of his men who'd fallen to one knee. The enemy guard caught the spear squarely, and he bellowed a shout that drew the attention of everyone on the tower as he plummeted over the edge into the night. “I am Cyrus Davidon,” Cyrus called into the brief silence that followed. “If you want to live, lay down your arms. If you want to die – keep fighting!”

  That prompted a long, quiet moment of thought. Followed by a clatter.

  Someone had dropped their spear.

  Another followed a moment later, then another. Someone got stabbed on the other side of the melee, and several blades answered it as the perpetrator fell.

  “All right, then,” Cyrus said, picking up a spear from the nearest man who'd surrendered one. “You and you – march them back to the stairs where we entered and turn them loose.” Cyrus gave every one of them a hard look. “I give you your lives tonight. You are free to rejoin your families or to join my army. But if we catch you taking up arms against us in the name of the usurping Lord Protector, who means to starve this city and its people – my mercy will become fury, and you will be truly sorry.” He nodded to three of the Watchmen who stood at the edge of the tower, then pointed his newly purloined spear. “Line up in front of them, and go home.”

  As they started to move, Cyrus looked at the haggard, now battle-hardened crew of Watchmen that was still with him. They'd lost few, it seemed. McCoie was covered in blood from his shoulders to mid-chest, though it didn't appear to be his own. Cyrus gave him a wry smile, and clanked an elbow on his shoulder. “You men are veterans now.”

  McCoie smiled weakly. “It's the first time we've actually fought armed resistance.”

  “Feels better than attacking the unarmed people, doesn't it?” Cyrus asked. Every man there could hear him.

  “Aye, sir,” said a man a couple rows back, instantly and with great feeling. Some of the surrendering guards were casting baleful looks back at the entire exchange.

  “You men, hold this tower,” Cyrus pointed at three of them. “Sound an alarm if anyone comes at you from back that way.”

  All three looked perplexed, glancing around. One of them asked the rather obvious question: “What alarm, sir?”

  Cyrus clanged Rodanthar against one of the large-bodied cannons as he passed, on the way to his next conquest. “This one.” He smiled, and saw McCoie doing the same next to him. “I'm pretty sure we'll hear it, and we'll come a-running. Now, men–” He raised his sword high, “Onward!” And they charged down the wall to the next tower.

  Chapter 59

  Alaric

  The charge felt good after what had seemed like years of Alaric being only in small fights. There was a righteousness to it, plunging down the row of ships at a flat run, trying not to outpace his army – though he easily could with Aterum in hand. They were all shouting, all pretense of surprise now gone as easily as the sun slipping over the horizon at dusk. Night had closed in all around them and by torchlight they charged.

  Alaric had a stray thought: Was this why Cyrus had so loved being general?

  There was appeal to it, going into battle at a run with good men at his side, a feeling harkening him back to the days when he'd led the men of Requiem. The City Watch had their spears at the ready, their livery flapping behind them like knights of old, but lacking any armor. It struck Alaric that the City Watch livery was the most foolish of retained traditions that had outlived its usefulness. Livery on a knight in the field was meant to designate him to his fellows and enemies, to inform them of his loyalties.

  Who needed to be made aware of the City Watch's loyalties? As far as methods of identification went, surely there had to be less flamboyant ones, especially now that they'd done away with armor in this modern world.

  A bullet skipped off Alaric's helm and he found himself smiling. Some armor at least still had its place in this world, though it seemed to him that unless quartal was ubiquitous in these days, steel was hardly an efficient means of keeping the threats of modern war at bay.

  “Birissa!” Alaric shouted, pointing his sword at a cluster of Machine thugs, the leader of which had a rifle and was frantically reloading it after hitting Alaric.

  The troll warrioress did not respond save with a growl, but she leapt into the midst of the Machine thugs and there came many screams and cries of terror and pain.

  Alaric and his comrades of the watch ran past, onward to their target. There was no other resistance seeping out of the pathways between the ships. It seemed the Machine was quite focused on their task of pillaging, and had spared very few men for guard duties.

  That suited Alaric just fine.

  Torches illuminated a circle some hundred or so feet in front of the ship where the Machine was currently directing their efforts. Was it the Yuutshee? He could not be sure, not at this distance, not in this dark. The flare of orange fires burning in the night illuminated a host of Machine thugs milling about like ants at the base of the ship. Some carried boxes of purloined goods, hurrying to stow them in the nearby horseless wagons, then scrambling to get their weapons out as Alaric's little army approached.

  He imagined these Machine men – no, they weren't even worthy of the sobriquet of 'men', not these thugs, these callous whoremongers – he imagined them stabbing and slapping and taking what they wanted from the ships trapped at anchor in this yard. Damn whoever got in their way, that would be their attitude. It was always the attitude of someone who was assured that they had right or might on their side.

  “Give them no mercy!” Alaric shouted, leaping ahead with a maneuver right out of Vara's book. He swept overhead, soared some twenty feet and smashed into the front line of Machine men as their eyes widened in shock. He crashed into them like a runaway wagon, armored joints finding malleable flesh and unprotected bone. Blood sprayed from one man's mouth; another caught Alaric's knee in the midsection and all his wind left him as he sank to his knees. Aterum found targets, too, and the night sparkled with the spilling of fresh blood.

  He was faster than them, even at his advanced age. The long-remembered movements of sword and steel taught to him by Mathurin came out still, a lifetime after he'd first learned them. Screams ripped through the night, and Alaric's vision of men possessed by the surety of their rightness or the certainty of the might be
hind them felt like a double-edged blade. For he was certain that he was right, true, and he had no small amount of might–

  There was no challenge being in among them, no great honor to be found fighting these nameless pests. They were an infestation to be dealt with just as brutally. Poison them, sit back and watch them choke? Aye, there would be nothing wrong with that for this Machine. This Machine who preyed solely on the unarmed, the weak, the outnumbered.

  “How do you like it now?” Alaric asked, raking his blade across the unarmored torso of a Machine thug, shredding his signature black coat. The man's eyes went plate-like, stretched, pupils tiny dots in an ocean of white as he looked up at Alaric in pure, pained shock. Then he keeled over, wordlessly.

  Well, Alaric liked it fine, in spite of the lack of honor. This was service, to take sword and war to the kind of scum that performed these dark deeds. He could do this all night, in spite of the lack of honor. In spite of–

  A sharp thunder of a shock rattled through Alaric's armor, and he paused, drawing his blade out of some fool's guts. The battle was truly joined, now, the City Watch well and truly engaged with the Machine thugs. It was a melee, and Alaric was on the leading edge, shredding his way through these men with no challenge at all–

  But that sound. The sharp edge of his helm's bottom clinked against his pauldrons as another shock ran through him. It started at the bottoms of his feet and rattled up his armor, clinking any two pieces of nearby metal together. A curious sensation, he wondered–

  And then he did not need to wonder any more.

  A troll the height of a Vaste and a half, at least, the width of twice the Sanctuary healer roared out from behind the nearby airship. He had a blade easily taller than Alaric, maybe even twice his height, and he was armored top to bottom. The roar was a fearsome noise, too; it made Alaric cringe.

  He looked across the field of useless swine, of the rats of the Machine, and up, up into the face of the battle troll, whose sword was held high. “Who seeks the honor of battle and death among you, small warriors?” the troll bellowed, clearly, with just a hint of an accent to his words.

  Alaric stared up at him, and across the distance, their eyes met.

  With a smile, Alaric held up a hand, and the words he'd learned many lifetimes ago blossomed a burst of power out of his hand, knocking aside the Machine thugs in his path. He strode through them, ending two without even looking as he made his way to the far edge of the fight where the troll waited, patiently, watching him.

  “You seek the honor of battle?” Alaric asked.

  The troll nodded, a little smile perched across his mighty lips.

  Alaric met him with a smile of his own. “Short is the time I have been here, in this place, but great has been my longing for honorable battle. Free of the cheap implements of this day – the guns, the cannons, the knives to the back. If it's honor in battle you seek, the crossing of blades between worthy foes, well...I am smaller than you, obviously.” Alaric brought Aterum across his chest in a high guard, the tip extending out to just above his head. “But I think you will find my soul more than equal to the task.”

  The troll grinned, nodded his head. “I am Qualleron, of Prenasia.”

  “I am Alaric Garaunt, of Sanctuary.”

  Qualleron raised his blade and dipped his head in respect. “Then let us begin, Alaric Garaunt of Sanctuary. And show these honorless dogs what true battle is.”

  Chapter 60

  Curatio

  “Good thing you're here!” There was a gathering of Machine thugs in the center of the long street that ran the length of the dock yards. Lined on either side by row after row of ships, it was a strange cross-hatching arrangement that reminded Curatio of a baker's pan with buns all laid out upon it. The Machine thug sauntered toward where Curatio had parked the truck. There had to be twenty, thirty of them, just standing around like idiots.

  “Oh?” Curatio kept that thick accent as he took a hand up from one of the City Watch, lifting up into the back of the wagon. “'Ow's that?”

  “Lots of fighting going on, idn't there?” the Machine thug answered.

  “Who is it?” Curatio asked, reaching the mounted platform in the middle of the truck bed. He received a subtle nod from the man next to it, who'd been tasked with making ready the...well...it.

  “No idea,” the Machine thug said, pausing in front of the vehicle. “Why are you stopping here? The fights are going on there and there.” He pointed into the distance, almost straight back from where they stood, and also far into the distance, toward the wall.

  “What are you doing 'ere, then?” Curatio asked, trying to suppress a smile as he took up the handles. “Shouldn't you be 'elpin'?” He was enjoying this particular bit of theater, in spite of sounding like the execrable Guy.

  The Machine thug just stared at him out of the soft glow of the carriage's head lamps. “That's what you're here for. We're guarding the gate.” He planted his hands on each hip.

  “Ohhh,” Curatio said, nodding along. “Question for you, then – how'd we get through the gate?”

  The man stared at him blankly, then questioningly, then turned as if to seek the answer from the men layered behind him–

  Curatio did not wait for him to turn back around. One of the City Watch yanked the canvas cover off the gatling cannon and Curatio lined it up as he'd been shown–

  Being next to the thing as it was going off was even more incredibly loud than being shot at by it. “Let us unleash our displeasure,” he shouted, sure that no one was hearing him and equally sure that given the sheer volume of death he was blasting out, he needed no aid from the riflemen here in his truck. They seemed to be holding their fire in any case.

  The Machine thug up front did not even know what hit him. The cannon shredded him as Curatio walked the fire into the suddenly scattering mass of black coats. But there was nowhere to hide in the wide, main avenue, and he tilted the gun from left to right, raking it over them and dropping them like harvested wheat.

  “This is quite invigorating,” Curatio said, running it over them once more, ears ringing like temple bells had started going behind him. “I see much to like in this new age.” He stopped cranking and the noise subsided – slightly. The ringing continued, madly, in his ears, as though he had water in them.

  One of the men was waving to get his attention. He mouthed something, and Curatio nodded. “Yes, reload.” He stepped over the side of the truck and circled around to the cabin, opening the door and getting in next to Guy, who was opening and closing his mouth wordlessly – and quite comically.

  Curatio clapped him on the shoulder. “NEXT – TIME – YOU – DRIVE – !”

  Guy blinked at him. “I – DRIVE?” He tapped himself on the ear.

  Curatio just nodded, starting the truck again. “Damned right,” he said under his breath. Because he really didn't want to stop shooting if he didn't have to. For all the thunderous ruckus it made, it was quite a bit more fun than he'd thought it would be.

  Chapter 61

  Cyrus

  “Surrender,” Cyrus called over the men of the second tower. They were milling between the cannons, some of which pointed out, beyond the wall, others of which pointed in, toward the dock yard. “There is no need for us to fight.”

  But of course, there was, and he knew as he saw the figure cutting through the shadows, running along the wall toward the tower, there would be little he could do to stop another of these fights, however much he might want to.

  The soldiers before him stood confused for a solid second. It gave Cyrus a breath of hope. Then, from the shadowy figure coming along the wall like a bolt of lightning streaking toward a tree:

  “Attack!”

  It was Baynvyn, of course, and Cyrus let a noise of frustration loose from his throat as he kicked out at the first man to charge him. The loyalist guard took a hard hit in the center of the chest, bones crackling as he flew back and knocked over two others. Cyrus backhanded the next that came at him, then sh
ot a scalding look right at Baynvyn.

  “You know, son,” Cyrus said, “I could do with a little less of your sass.”

  Baynvyn slipped around the knot of battlers now surging around Cyrus, coming right for him. Cyrus watched him come warily, but the dark elf seemed content to take his time. “I could do with less of your obstreperousness.”

  “I always liked that word,” Cyrus said, kicking a loyalist Watchman back when he raised his spear.

  “I'm impressed you turned the City Watch to your side,” Baynvyn said. “Never seen that before.”

  “When you set a plan to starve the people of a city into motion, don't be surprised when those people don't take it well,” Cyrus said, grabbing a spear that came at him and tugging it so it came past him, tripping the wielder. Cyrus broke the haft, tossing the point over the wall. “Stop it,” he told the man, bowling him over as he moved toward Baynvyn. It seemed a kinder move than just killing anyone who came at him. “And why does it surprise you that I should recruit an army? If you know anything about me at all, it should be that I've always built armies and only faced terrible odds myself when I absolutely had to.”

  “You built one army,” Baynvyn said, still circling. He was looking for the weak point, surely. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and he was coldly assessing Cyrus from behind the veil of shadow that Epalette drenched him in.

  Cyrus kept his eyes on his son the whole time, though. That was his one advantage over anyone else Baynvyn had ever killed. Rodanthar let him see the dark elf peering at him. “I only needed one, really. But in case your mother forgot to tell you the story, I also had quite a formidable group of other armies join my command in the Realm of War when we came to kill Bellarum.”