Even the tallest buildings were not more than two stories, and Cyrus began to wonder if there was some reason they did not build taller buildings. It was an idle curiosity, though, and one he did not intend to indulge when he met Governor Coulton. This certainly doesn’t look like a regional capital …
The streets were busy, horses clomping along the muddy streets, their smell heavy in Cyrus’s nose, the stink of laborers, animals, and piss in the streets. One animal left droppings in front of him and Cyrus steered his party around it without comment, walking them past a boarding house that had black clouds billowing from its chimney.
The keep was straight ahead on the wide road, the avenue wider than the average streets in a town of this size. Cyrus looked back and saw the portal behind him and beyond it, the outskirts of town only a few blocks past. In the opposite direction, toward the keep, he could see nothing past the wooden fortress. At the next cross street, he looked both ways and noted that it was not particularly far to either end of town to the east or west.
“How many people do you figure live here?” Cyrus asked, mostly talking to himself.
“Perhaps ten thousand,” J’anda said, having apparently taken the same note Cyrus did. “Do you suppose there were more before the sack?”
“Almost certainly,” Cyrus said, whisper quiet, walking along with his illusory druid robes swishing around him. “I think Idiarna got caught by surprise. They might have lost over half the town.”
“Another tragic chapter in this entire history,” J’anda said with a sad shake of the head.
“It’s true,” Vaste said, surprisingly solemn. “Remember when we sacked Gren? And by sacked I mean, ‘Only killed the people who attacked us’? And when we ‘sacked’ Saekaj, leaving it standing entirely and only missing its god? And Enterra—”
“I take your rather obvious point,” Cyrus said, smiling in spite of himself. “And … thank you.”
Vaste leered down at him from behind the broad face of a human. “For what?”
“For reminding me that even when we’re doing our worst, others do much, much worse,” Cyrus said.
“I was really just reminding you how amazing I am as an officer,” Vaste said smarmily. “I mean, the guild I lead is really quite tremendous, and I’m clearly a moral compass—”
“There was the time we conspired to have the titans wiped out,” J’anda said with a smile of his own.
“Well, of course they deserved it,” Vaste said.
The keep bridge was down, the gate open. There were no guards at the end of the bridge, but Cyrus could see them ahead, on either side of the crude gate. He proceeded with his parchment invitation in hand, ready to present it.
The sounds of the keep were quiet ones, the waters lapping at the base of the bridge below them. This bridge was a sturdier, shorter one than he’d crossed in Isselhelm, as seemed to befit the moat. This moat was slightly less dirty, though still very brown with some various floating objects in it, including a log. The guards were wearing boiled leather of the cheapest variety, and their expressions were surly.
“We’re here to meet with the governor,” Cyrus said softly to the first guard, who was scrutinizing him with a disinterested air, perhaps because Cyrus’s illusion gave him an aura of respectability.
“In you go, then,” the guard said after a quick look at his parchment, handing it back to Cyrus with care. He gestured with his spear and Cyrus went on, through the gate and into the bailey of the keep.
The bailey was no more impressive than any other part of the keep or, indeed, of the town of Idiarna in general. It was a new building, hastily constructed, and the ground was a mud-filled mess, no hint of greenery in its midst. At the center of the bailey was an old stone tower that looked a little like a nub rising out of the earth. Only three stories, it towered over the rest of the town, but at its top was a flat roof of wood that did not look strong enough to hold even a single defender.
The bailey itself had two guard towers on this side of the stone tower but circled around with the wall behind it. Cyrus suspected there would be two others hidden in the shadow of the tower, at the back of the circular wall that ringed the keep. The guard towers were all lashed-together wood, crudely made, plainly built on a very small budget. I wonder if Governor Coulton has two pieces of gold to rub together at this point?
Cyrus made his way toward the stone tower’s doors just ahead of him, sweeping the bailey courtyard with a impassive gaze as he moved. If there was to be trouble, he fully expected it within the tower itself, where his freedom of action would be constrained, as Frost had done. Hopefully Coulton won’t get any stupid ideas about asserting himself, because I am in no mood to—
He heard the quick steps before he saw their origin, but when he turned to look, his mind barely registered what he was seeing. A blur came from his left, a glowing blue blade held high and an ululating battle cry preceding it. Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat and he stared, dumbstruck, as the blur ceased less than ten feet away from him, crisp lines resolving into a scarred mouth turned upward in a nasty grin—
Rhane Ermoc.
Marching boots behind him forced him to glance back. The dark elven woman who had been with Goliath at the ambush in Reikonos was coming around the left side of the tower with a complement of troops, all armored to the full, mystical steel covering them from boots to helm, and their weapons looking twice as dangerous as the sword that hung so awkwardly from his belt.
“Well, hell,” J’anda said softly as the female dark knight held up her hand and stopped the march of her small army only a few feet from Cyrus to the left. “Sareea Scyros,” the enchanter said.
“None other,” the woman said in a voice that suggested to Cyrus that she was quite pleased with herself. The sound of marching boots came from behind Rhane Ermoc as well, and Cyrus turned his head to find a phalanx of armored warriors falling in behind Ermoc in neatly layered lines.
A thunk! at his feet drew Cyrus’s attention to an arrow fired in the earth. When he followed its slant upwards, he saw Orion grinning at him from the tower behind him to his left. Spinning around, Carrack waved from the one behind him to the right, as the gates were already closed by the guards who had just let him in, the two of them chortling at what they’d done.
“We’re—” Cyrus began.
“I believe the word you’re searching for,” Rhane Ermoc cut him off with a wild grin, brandishing Praelior and speaking so fast he was barely understandable, “is … trapped.”
57.
“You find yourself in a nasty situation, Davidon,” Rhane Ermoc went on, words flying out of his mouth like spittle, “but then, I always knew you’d come to an ugly end.”
“I’m not ended just yet, Rhane,” Cyrus said, looking around, searching for any weakness. The illusion disguising Cyrus faded in an instant. Cyrus shifted slightly, and the mud that surrounded his boots made a soft, wet slurping sound.
“If you think you’re still alive by anything other than the grace of the fact I’m going to taunt you for a while before I start depriving you of life,” Ermoc said, still grinning, “you’re dumber than you look.”
“Says the man with the scar across his lip that probably came from poor table manners,” Cyrus fired back, keeping his hand clear of his scabbard. It wouldn’t do any good to reach for it in any case, because the advantage granted by his current sword was less than nothing against Praelior.
“Is that so?” Ermoc shot forward, and Cyrus felt a burning pain in his own lip before he could move. He grimaced, knowing in his heart what Ermoc had done before he even reached a hand up to touch it. The bastard split my lip right good, probably half an inch toward my cheek.
“Hah!” Orion crowed from behind him. “That’s right, give him some souvenirs before we kill him. Make him so ugly even his wife won’t recognize him when Malpravus walks his corpse up to the gates of Sanctuary.”
Cyrus compelled the muscles at his mouth to rest and then, quietly, his hand behind
his back, murmured a healing spell and felt the pain cease immediately. What the …? He blinked as Ermoc grinned. They can’t possibly have been so stupid as to fail to cast a cessation spell, can they? He tried not to let his eyes widen as he turned his head slightly, looking for something, anything, from the rest of his party. He got a subtle arching of the eyebrows from J’anda, and the trace of a knowing smile from the enchanter, whose fingers were glowing purple as he cast a spell.
Need to stall, Cyrus thought. Need to give J’anda time to work. Otherwise …
We’re dead. And Malpravus really will be walking my mangled corpse up to the Sanctuary gates … His heart plunged in him. That’d sink the guild right there, break the last bit of morale, and send Vara into a spiral of anger or sadness …
“Take good stock of your situation,” Ermoc said as Cyrus turned slightly to see Vaste frozen in place, looking quite alarmed, his spear-staff pointed to their left at the dark elven woman J’anda had called Sareea. Longwell, for his part, had his lance pointed to Ermoc’s forces at the right. “I can tell you’re feeling the pinch, but let me rub it in for you, salt in the old wound. Carrack is just sitting up there,” Ermoc pointed to the tower behind Cyrus. “Ready to rain the fire on you. Of course,” Ermoc grinned, “I’d rather make your death personal. Very up close.”
“I don’t know why you hate me so, Ermoc,” Cyrus said, staring at him with angry eyes. Hope he doesn’t notice my lip has stopped bleeding. Probably can’t see it’s healed under all the blood. “The first time I met you, you accused me of something I didn’t do. The next time, you killed a prisoner I brought you—”
“And insulted me.” Ermoc’s eyes flashed darkly.
“I get the feeling lots of people have insulted you in your time, Ermoc,” Cyrus said. “Mostly your intelligence, but—”
Ermoc lashed out again and this time caught Cyrus just beneath the cheek, but more lightly. It was a searing pain, but one that he grimaced away from as he felt the warmth of the blood running down his stubbly face. He brought his left hand behind him again and counted to five before casting the healing spell, giving the blood plenty of time to well and run before he did.
“You always had everything handed to you, didn’t you?” Ermoc asked, grin fading, replaced with anger. “Big strong warrior with a big strong name. War hero’s boy. I bet you said your daddy’s name everywhere you went. Him just giving you that and your armor probably opened every door. He gave you everything, you’re nothing without that armor, this sword,” he slapped the blade, “and your name. I wish I’d known about your stinking heretic mother before, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time thinking you were hot shit.”
Cyrus blinked. “You … you were jealous? Of me?”
Ermoc’s dark skin flushed even darker. “I’m not jealous of you, you—you—scum!”
“Says the man who betrayed his homeland and joined a guild that was cast out of Reikonos for doing the very thing you looked down on me for supposedly doing,” Cyrus said.
“I—I—” Ermoc stuttered.
“Rhane, there’s no point in arguing with him,” Orion called down from behind Cyrus, atop the guard tower. “He’ll just sit there and spin you around all day. It’s what he does.” There was unmistakable hatred in the way the ranger spoke.
“I ran into your wife the other day,” Cyrus said, glancing back at Orion.
The bow wavered in the ranger’s hand. “You’re lying.”
“She’s not doing so well,” Cyrus went on, as if Orion had never spoken. “Seems she abandoned you when you were crawling through the Bandit Lands?” If they’re going to kill me, I might as well strike them with the only weapon I have left—their pitiful insecurities. “I guess she couldn’t take the sight of your face any more—”
An arrow spanged off the chainmail at Cyrus’s elbow, and he turned his face away, chuckling. “Hey, Orion, I finally got better chainmail than you—”
“Ermoc, just gut him!” Orion screamed, voice echoing with odd resonance under his helm.
“With pleasure,” Ermoc said, his face stiff as a smile cracked through. He started forward—
And a blast of fire hit the troops behind him as he stepped away, flames streaming out of the middle of them as screams echoed through the wooden bailey. Cyrus saw faces of the Goliath warriors charring and blackening in their armor, and immediately he knew what had happened—J’anda had charmed Carrack and set him against his own.
In the formation behind the dark knight named Sareea, the men yelled and started to charge—right into their own numbers. Swords were plunged into their fellows, and the front lines broke as they tried to kill both the men behind them as well as Sareea, some four soldiers breaking off to attack her from behind. She managed to avoid their first attacks through a careful ballet of agility, surprising Cyrus with her speed.
Cyrus grabbed hold of the hilt of his sword as he heard a cry behind him, and he turned his head involuntarily. The world began to slow around him, as though everyone had decided to move at their most leisurely pace. He made it around in time to see J’anda standing there, painful grimace on his face, as though he’d been pinched particularly hard. Three arrows jutted from his chest, navy stains seeping through his robes.
“Damn,” the enchanter said mildly, talking at normal speed.
Vaste was hit next, an arrow plunging through his neck, dark green blood fountaining down his black robes and soaking into the dark material. He looked at Cyrus with those onyx eyes, dark blood staining his chin. He tried to speak, but no words came out, only blood, and the troll sagged to his knees as he went limp in death, falling face first into the mud.
“Take Ermoc!” Longwell shouted, words slow, already surging into action, charging at half-speed at Sareea Scyros, leaving J’anda and Vaste behind. Cyrus watched him begin his charge and suddenly realized—
We’re going to—
He spun just in time to see Rhane Ermoc come at him and slammed his weapon against Praelior in a hard clash of the blades. His defensive move could not win out against the strength of Praelior, and he took a step back. An arrow clanged off his back plate, and Orion shouted in rage above him.
“You’ll not get away this time,” Ermoc hissed and came at him again, so much more slowly than he should have, like he wanted to savor the kill. Cyrus blocked him, then blocked him again, Ermoc’s face twisting in fury—
And then Cyrus heard the last cry, the one he’d been dreading.
He could see from where he stood when it happened. Sareea Scyros was no longer fighting her own men; J’anda’s death had released the magic that bound the troops behind her, and now she stood with her fellows, surrounding Longwell, blades plunging in and out of him at the cracks of his armor, warm, red blood squirting—
Gods, Cyrus thought. This is it. I’m—
Ermoc screamed and came at him again, Praelior held high, slashing down, and Cyrus clanged his blade against that of his enemy, turning him aside again. The sun flashed on his blade as he knocked Praelior away, and something at last clicked in Cyrus’s head, something he had not realized until now.
The sword Cyrus held in his hand was not the sword he’d been carrying for the last several months.
This one … was different.
It bowed out along the blade into a curving edge along one side, like a scimitar, but was flat on the back of the blade. The hilt was wrapped with the finest leather, and clung to his hand like it was bonded with it. Even in the sunlight, it seemed to carry a faint glow of white. When he brought it around again, he realized that Ermoc wasn’t moving slowly—
Cyrus was moving faster.
“How?” Ermoc screamed impotently, raising Praelior above his head again, his nose running in his fury, disgusting yellow dribbles on his stubbled, scarred upper lip.
“You said it yourself, Rhane,” Cyrus said, smirking in spite of himself, in spite of his situation. “My father gave me everything—name, armor.” He brandished the blade high, and suddenly he rememb
ered a moment he had forgotten, standing in their old house, his father’s voice coming back to him, resonating between the clash of his new blade against the old. “And now I’ve taken up his sword. Rhane Ermoc, meet Rodanthar—” Cyrus whipped the sword in front of him, feeling a warm satisfaction that reminded him of the moment he’d first taken up Praelior, and watched his new blade shine in the light, “—The Saber of the Righteous.”
58.
There was no time for gloating, for before Cyrus even finished his taunt, another arrow winged him from behind, bouncing off his armor and reminding him of the precarious position he found himself in, even with his new weapon. He lashed out at Ermoc, driving him back with a violent slash. Ermoc staggered away, fear in his eyes, the blue blade of Praelior clutched tightly in his hands.
Cyrus heard the stampede of footsteps in the mud, metal slapping against wet dirt. He spun and caught the first soldier attacking him with a plunging point to the face. It splashed blood at him, but he ignored it as he ripped the sword out. An arrow skipped Cyrus’s cheek and tore it open, and he felt a burning rage enter him.
“Well, that’s about enough of that shit,” he muttered as the blood streamed down his face.
He kept Rodanthar in front of him, fending off the attacks of the soldiers coming at him, and turned his left hand loose at the tower, not even looking. A fire spell surged out in a second, a billowing ball of flame that slammed into the tower where Orion had been practicing his craft. Cyrus saw motion out of the corner of his eye as the ranger leapt from the twenty-foot height and slammed into the mud below. The sound of bones breaking and a cry of pain was like sweet music played right into his ear as he made the same motion and destroyed the other guard tower, just in case Carrack was still atop it, waiting.
Cyrus plunged his blade into two more soldiers coming at him, in rapid succession, both in the neck, both without mercy, cutting both the heads cleanly off. His aim was such that he neatly avoided their gorgets, striking to kill in such a way that even if a healer were present, there would be no reviving them. He slashed through them as though they were straw men, no more substance than he might have found practicing against air, and when he drew the bloody, gleaming blade of Rodanthar back, he saw the others waiting fearfully, cowering behind Sareea Scyros, who watched him warily.
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 34