Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “So have I,” whispered Malpravus – entirely too quickly for not holding a godly weapon in hand–

  Something speared Curatio in the center of his chest. A quick, punctuated burst of pain, arresting his momentum before he could strike true–

  Then his feet were taken from beneath him, the Falcon's Essence spell gone, and Curatio was falling, falling–

  He landed roughly, and all his wind fled. Blackness came and passed in a moment, the sparkling colors filled his eyes–

  Then darkness descended, the sorcerer's cloak drifting down toward him, toward him–

  “I have been waiting for this since our encounter in the Citadel tower some thousand years ago,” Malpravus's voice permeated Curatio's consciousness. “Do you recall?” His voice was raspy, high, almost in Curatio's ear. “You awakened me that day, Curatio. I should thank you, really...

  “But instead...I think I'll drain that long life of yours I've been coveting all these years.”

  Then, with a flash of light, red as a blood moon, the pain truly began, and Curatio began to scream.

  Chapter 105

  Guy

  He'd watched Curatio get swept out of the sky on a tendril of black plunged straight through the elf's heart, and Guy hadn't made a sound. He'd wanted to, truly, but his voice just left him as surely as if it had been sucked out by magic.

  Consequently, he didn't quite hear what came next, words exchanged between the elf and the...whatever the hell was clad in that black, floating cloak...

  But he did see the magic, red, frighteningly red, like blood over a lamp shade, as he floated over Curatio until–

  “Ahhhh,” the sorcerer in black sighed, the magic disappearing almost as quickly as it had been conjured. “I think that's enough to be getting along with.” He floated above Curatio's prostrate form, the elf making no motion, nor a sound. “This was just...an aperitif.” The figure moved, turning, floating away, back toward the hall where all the food had been when last he'd been here – and it was the same building, Guy would swear it, by, indeed, magic.

  The specter disappeared into the darkness, and Guy's body came back to him, too, fear flooding him and overridden by that burst of curiosity that still held. He wanted to run, to turn and damned well run, never stop until he hit a road. He'd run all the way around Reikonos if he had his druthers, but that'd be a circle, wouldn't it?

  Instead he stood there, staring into the now-darkness, drawing a ragged breath because he was afraid if he didn't he'd suffocate and pass out right there.

  Curatio lay there, still, unmoving. Guy stared at his fallen figure, then at the darkness past him. Noise, a sound farther back, in the darkness–

  Guy was torn; he wanted to flee. He'd certainly seen enough: seen the fall, the strike, and didn't understand exactly how it happened but by magic.

  Yet...

  Curatio let out a soft moan, and Guy eased in through the door. Looking about, as though that thing, that ghostly thing-man-whatever would come fluttering back out at him, he took each step trying to make the minimally littlest noise he could. His shoes barely scuffed on the stone floors, though each step felt like eternity and sounded, to his ears, like a motor starting in the quiet of night.

  “Curatio,” Guy whispered when he was close. Eyes still trying to penetrate the dark, he felt the spike of fear in his veins grow harder, force his heart to pump swifter still. He took a knee, eyes still fixed ahead. There was noise in that distance, though he could not tell how far into the building it was. “Curatio, it's me–”

  “Guy...?” Curatio's voice sounded paper thin, and when Guy finally looked down at him–

  He almost jumped back and away.

  The elf's face was lined like shriveled parchment, shot through with canyons in the flesh, his eyes withdrawn and heavily lidded. His wrinkled hand shook when he raised it to Guy. “Is it...is it you?”

  “Yeah,” Guy whispered, barely keeping himself from sprinting off, out the door, the hell away from here. “It's me. I saw you vaulting the streets and followed.” He cast a furtive look into the dark. “Really regretting I did that, now, but I'm having a hard time leaving.” He eyed the shriveled man, then looked into the dark. “Come on, let's get you out of here–”

  “No,” Curatio said, and landed a hand upon his arm so lined it would have put any raisin to shame. “Guy...I will be dead in moments, whether you take me or not.” The elf looked into his eyes, and while everything else about him seemed faded and worn, his eyes were clear.

  Guy shot another look into the darkness, searching for that – that thing. “Well...what can I do, then?” Where the hell did that come from? He should have been running, if there was nothing to be done. “Is...is there anything?”

  Curatio's left hand sought, and found something. A small clatter, and he brought it toward Guy–

  A sword, glowing lightly blue in the dark.

  “This is...Praelior,” Curatio said, wheezing. “Return it to my friends. One of them shall...surely need it.” His eyes flitted. “Malpravus will not be long. He will find what he seeks...shortly. You need to be gone before he finishes.”

  “What...what's he doing?” Guy asked.

  “He is...” Curatio began to answer, but a terrifying rumble echoed in the hall, and the ground itself shifted beneath Guy's feet, almost throwing him over. He caught himself and kept from impaling on the sword, but only just.

  “The thing he has wanted to do for as long as he has known the secret of this place.” Curatio stared at the ceiling, and a slow horror dawned across his drawn face. “He is absorbing the magical energy of Sanctuary.”

  Chapter 106

  Vaste

  Boy, the troubles were really coming now. The barricades were crashing down, men were vaulting over them, and there was no volley of fire to slow them down.

  Oh, and Qualleron was there, bellowing and shouting, clearing men out of his path by plowing through them as though they weren't there, shattering the barricades as he came.

  “This is it, then,” Birissa said, and her mighty sword was up. She kissed the side of the blade above the guard, gave Vaste a wink, and then with a bellow of her own she went right at him.

  Qualleron paused, a smile of unmistakable pleasure rolling across his face. “My brave lady. I look forward to our glorious battle once more!”

  Birissa just surged toward him swinging her sword. “Shut up and fight!”

  And they did.

  Vaste watched, sparing the occasional swing of Letum to stop some overeager Machine thug or loyalist City Watch fool who tried to slip past, but mostly his eyes were on the fight, a strange feeling of growing unease filling him, the fight upon the wall more or less suspended as everyone watched two trolls fight with all their strength – and nothing holding them back.

  Chapter 107

  Alaric

  “The gate holds! Barely,” McCoie said, over the thundering echo of gunfire and shouting that filled the air.

  “Indeed,” Alaric said, chancing a look through the crenellations of the wall.

  It was a seething spectacle on the street. Cannons were firing here and there, men working frantically to reload them. Stone chipped and exploded where the metal rounds hit, but there were fortunately few.

  Then, there, below, Alaric saw the enemy commander.

  “Stiehle,” he muttered, bring his head back down just as a shot impacted next to him. Once more, his helm was peppered with stone chips. The Coordinator had been quite in the middle of something.

  “Their cannon fire intervals are going longer,” McCoie shouted. “They may be running out of shot, or powder.”

  “So we may hope,” Alaric said, chancing another look. It seemed, to his unpracticed eye, that less men were wielding rifles or muskets in this crowd. They were hardly ubiquitous; he saw a large assortment of swords, axes, polearms, and spears. “This is, by far, the most pathetic fortress assault I have ever seen. Sloppy, undisciplined rabble wandering up to the gate like an angry mob. W
ith even a fraction of the old Sanctuary army we could rout them easily.” Another shot hit the wall next to him, and he was reminded, of course, that here in these walls was the Sanctuary army of now, and the best they had, at that.

  A foreign noise sounded in the distance like a mechanical goose's angry honk. A mighty cheer followed from the assailants below.

  Alaric looked over again, quickly. A large truck was stopped a ways back, and the Machine thugs and City Watch loyalists were clearing a path, moving swiftly out of the way—

  “They're going to run it into the gate, my lord.” McCoie said.

  “Yes, I assumed as much,” Alaric said, but there was no need for assumption for long. The engine roared, the path clear. The truck surged forth, a triangular, pointed metal grating attached to its front in the shape of a spiked cone. It sped up, pointed at the gates–

  A mighty crash thundered, then sounds of splitting wood and bending metal followed. The truck backed up, slowly, rattling. It returned to its starting point, then roared again, matched by the men who stood watching it, waiting–

  It thundered up and another crash, louder than the last, with more sickening groans of metal stressing, giving, and wood shattering followed. Someone screamed below, and Alaric knew–

  The gates were sundered.

  A hurried rush as his men moved to the edges of the wall and looked over, down–

  Machine thugs and City Watch loyalists already poured into the dockyards, slamming into the small number of defenders positioned down there–

  The invasion had begun.

  Chapter 108

  Cyrus

  A belch of flame, broad and sudden, issued forth from Cyrus's blade. It was thin, minimal, the product of a sublingual cast in a world where magic had been choked to what seemed like nothingness.

  But it blasted out like a screen, covering Cyrus and Baynvyn for a critical second as Cyrus lurched into motion, dragging Baynvyn with him in an all-out sprint.

  “If we survive this it will be a miracle!” Baynvyn shouted. Cyrus's arm was around his waist, and the assassin's feet did not touch the ground.

  “Well, your father is sort of a god in these times, so producing a proper miracle seems like it should be within my abilities,” Cyrus quipped, running with everything he had. The blast of fire was a brighter, flashier version of using smoke to hide, and would fool the clockworks roughly as long in his estimation.

  It didn't take a genius to figure out where he'd erred, judgment-wise. Cyrus had planned to be invisible the entire time he engaged in this rescue mission, at least past the initial, formal trading of witticisms. Which had been vital in revealing that Malpravus was not here, a fact that gave Cyrus considerable unease, almost a tickle at the base of his spine.

  Of course, the moment he had grabbed Baynvyn, that gave the clockworks a very clear target to shoot at, since Epalette's shroud of protection only extended to those who held it at any given time.

  “Give me my dagger!” Baynvyn shouted as Cyrus hauled him physically some fifty feet in five seconds. “Your armor will protect against their shots!”

  “My armor will protect you, too,” Cyrus said as one of the clockworks got lucky and a bullet spanged off his back. He was very carefully keeping Baynvyn in shadow behind his body, not allowing the damned creations a clear shot. “Just try and hold your breath.” When Baynvyn shot him an incredulous look. “It'll make you thinner, and thus less likely to catch a bullet.”

  “I don't like any part of this plan!”

  “Do you like it better than being Malpravus's prisoner?”

  “If it ends with me being dead, no!”

  The clockworks were screaming behind him, shouting in some high-pitched foreign tongue that Cyrus had thought was gears grinding at first.

  “Damn you, Piña,” Baynvyn muttered as they rushed into an alley. The eaves above provided shadow, and the sound of bullets crashing into the walls was loud and echoing in the space.

  “Friend of yours?” Cyrus asked, legs pumping madly.

  “An ally, at least,” Baynvyn said quietly. “Once.” He spared a glare for Cyrus. “How do we get out of here now?” The sound of clockworks crashing into the building while trying to squeeze into the alley behind them was obvious – and loud.

  “Horseback is one option,” Cyrus said, but then his eyes fell on a different solution, parked just across the street. “Or...” He lifted a finger to point.

  Baynvyn stared at the truck, then back down the alley. The clockworks were crashing through the houses, but their progress was slowed. “Better hurry. It won't take them long to chew through to us.”

  “You drive,” Cyrus said, shoving Baynvyn ahead of him, and when the assassin gave him a puzzled look, added, “I don't know how yet.”

  Chapter 109

  Guy

  The earth moved, rattling madly, stone bowing to whatever deeper power was being exercised against it, and not for the first time today, Guy was terrified.

  “Guy,” Curatio's soft voice probed into his consciousness as the nearby hearth exploded into flames, then died just as quickly. “You need to leave...before he finishes.” The elf's bright eyes found his in the darkness. He fumbled at his belt for a moment, then came up with the whole thing, pressing the scabbard looped onto it into Guy's hands. “For the sword. Praelior. It will give you haste. To get back to the others.”

  Guy's eyes widened. “Back? Are you out of your bloody mind?” We waved a hand into the darkness. “Look what you people are facing! You want me to go back and fight and help with that?” Guy sat back on his haunches, balance suddenly lost. “How can I...why would I...you people are...mad,” he finished quietly. “You're bloody mad. This fight...you can't win this.” He looked down at Curatio. “I mean...you lost, mate. You lost bad.”

  Curatio's eyes were clear as they stared up at him. “Listen to me, Guy, for I have a last truth to impart to you. I have lived a very long time. Longer than the age of men. I have watched many of your kind die. Many of you die every day, in fact. You have doubtless seen this.”

  Guy frowned. “Yeah. And?”

  “Someday, Guy,” Curatio said, and he reached up, taking Guy's hand weakly in his, “you, too, will die.” Guy started to pull it away but the elf latched on, hard, yanking it back. “Run all you want. Run today, run tomorrow. Avoid every fight, from here to the end – death will still get you.”

  Guy sat there, a veiled sort of horror running down him from the top of his head, like cold water running down his skin.

  “But if you fight,” Curatio said, eyes alight once more, “for what you believe in...on the day that it catches you, you will die with courage. With a feeling here,” and he pressed their hands together into Guy's chest, to his heart, “that it was worth something. Rather than crawling on your belly all your days and reaching that end knowing that it never meant a damned thing.” His hand shook, and fell, but Guy held on.

  “I...I...” Guy said.

  “Tell the others,” Curatio said, voice raspy, wispy, weak. “Tell Cyrus...” His eyelids began to flutter, “...sometimes...legends do die...” He fell back against the stone floor, all his life spent. “Tell them...but it's not about...being...legendary, Guy. Not about being...remembered.” His eyelids fluttered again, and his hand came up, weak, and brushed against Guy's heart a final time before falling to the floor. “It's about...knowing who you are...and fighting...to the last breath...for what you...b'lieve...”

  Silence fell.

  Guy stared down at the body. The chest no longer moved. The blood had stilled in Curatio's veins.

  A cackle in the distance, and the rumbling began again. Lightning coursed through the ceiling, spiderwebs of bright blue sparking through the columns and support beams–

  Guy ran. Out the door, fast as he could – which was faster than he ever had, with that sword, Praelior, in his hand–

  And behind him, the building where Curatio had died began to shudder, and scream, and smoke.

  Chapt
er 110

  Alaric

  “To arms!” Alaric shouted, leaping the last few stairs and down into the fray of the dockyards. “Throw back these cowards and thieves!”

  It was a mighty fray, too, men pouring in through the crushed gates. The truck with its battering ram had backed up, leaving plenty of space for the ad hoc army of City Watch loyalists and Machine thugs to come rushing in. They were shouting, too, and Alaric had doubts about how well anyone could hear him. The fight was spreading, quickly, beyond the edges of this underhung section of the gate.

  In days of old there would have been a portcullis, a wrought metal gate as a secondary defense against breaching. There was none of that here, no, only a wide space for the enemy to pour through unchallenged.

  Well, until they reached Alaric and his men. Here, they were encountering challenge.

  But perhaps not enough of it. Some were breaking through, going along the sides. Under the sound of an airship's engines roaring up behind him, Alaric fought with sword and, occasionally, spell. His force blasts did little, but an infrequently used fire spell in the face of an adversary provided a wonderful distraction to land Aterum in a belly.

  Where was Qualleron, he wondered? Where was–

  “There you are,” Coordinator Stiehle's thickly accented voice sounded over the fading sound of that airship's engines as another ship made its escape. “And you have another helm. How surprising. And delightful.” There was malice dripping from his words. “I am a fan of trophies.”

  “Then you're going to simply love what I do with your head,” Alaric fired back.