Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

  “I know you jest,” she said, but there was seriousness laced all through her stiff bearing, “but I see you caught between being the Warden of the Southern Plains, with a desire to protect all under your tent, and the man who would strive to fix every problem in the world the way he solved those of the goblins, the trolls and the dark elves.”

  “Well, I’m up against a problem now that’s bound to keep me from exercising those imperial ambitions anytime soon,” Cyrus said, not really sure what to say but to quip.

  Vara nodded in clear discomfort at his answer. “You don’t fear what you would become?”

  “Not with you here beside me,” Cyrus said, and he leaned in to kiss her. She hesitated just a moment, then reciprocated, and she filled his arms as they got lost in each other—

  And then a giant pillar of water doused them both, rushing down Cyrus’s collar as it fell with more volume than any rain he had ever seen, a steady gush as though the pond had leapt forth over the bridge railing and attacked them. Cyrus sputtered as the water splashed through his armor, soaking his underclothes. Vara let out a scream of protest at the sensation, and once it had drained away, they stood there staring at each other as quiet footsteps broke the silence behind Cyrus.

  He spun to find Curatio standing there, wearing something approaching a smirk on his tired face. “Good evening, you two. Did I interrupt something?”

  “What the hell sort of spell was that?” Vara asked, her outrage bleeding out through the chattering of her teeth.

  “As with most I know, a heretical one,” Curatio said with a smile. “Would you like to see it again?”

  “No,” Cyrus said, the steady drip off his armor louder than the steps Curatio had taken approaching them.

  “Did you come here just to dump cold water on us?” Vara asked, spreading her arms wide and slinging excess dampness off her vambraces. Liquid spilled out from where her gauntlets were missing, heavy at first and then slowing to a drip.

  “Not at all,” Curatio said, the smile disappearing. He looked straight at Cyrus. “Ehrgraz is here. He approached quietly in the night and asked a sentry at the wall to speak with you. Scared the poor bastard out of his mind; thought he was alone, and then suddenly, a dragon’s face was in his, making a polite inquiry.” The healer shook his head. “He says …” The elf’s eyes narrowed as he delivered the message, as though suspicion hid behind them, “… he says it is most urgent.”

  54.

  Ehrgraz was waiting in the night, lurking just outside the curtain wall, eyes catching the light of the watch fires as they glowed like hot coals. He tracked Cyrus’s approach with fervent intensity but said nothing until Cyrus was nearly upon him.

  “Cyrus Davidon,” Ehrgraz said, locking eyes with him. “So kind of you to grace me with your presence at last.”

  “You should have sent a messenger,” Cyrus said, folding his arms in front of him as Vara settled in next to him, Curatio a few paces behind. “I would have scheduled you an appointment.”

  Ehrgraz’s nose flared red in the night as fire appeared to rise out of it. “I do hope you’re joking.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Cyrus managed a tight smile at the dragon as the wind whipped in out of the east. “What can I do for you?” Beads of water ran down his skin from where Curatio had drenched him, and the wind gave him a bit of a chill.

  “I have come to propose something to you,” Ehrgraz said, speaking more slowly than he usually did.

  “Propose away,” Cyrus said, suddenly conscious that Vara was very close to him.

  “I want to bring the dragons into your little war,” Ehrgraz said.

  “So do it,” Cyrus said, cutting him off.

  “If only it were that easy,” Ehrgraz said, his patience strained slightly judging by the tone of his voice. “But there is a way.”

  “Not an easy one, I assume?” Cyrus asked, now warier than before.

  “No,” Ehrgraz said softly. “Not easy at all. For either of us.”

  “Make yourself plain, Ehrgraz,” Cyrus said. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to attack Yonn’revenn—the Dragonshrine.”

  Curatio gasped and Cyrus turned to look at the healer, who recovered quickly. “Are you quite out of your mind, Ehrgraz?” Curatio asked. “You want us to attack your most sacred place?”

  “I don’t want you to attack it,” Ehrgraz said slowly, with a hint of regret. “I need you to.”

  “How does us attacking your shrine help get your dragons into the war against the titans?” Vara asked. “It seems to me that doing such a thing, if you view it that strongly, would invariably lead to you declaring war against us, not the titans.”

  “And there is the difficulty,” Ehrgraz said. “You must not be seen to do it. It must appear as though the titans are responsible.” His wings moved in the dark, shadow against the plains ground. “I am not talking about some mean attack upon the outside, or some ineffectual slap at one of its defenders, either. It must be an attack, true, damaging and utterly abhorrent.” He lifted up, placing a clawed hand upon the edge of the curtain wall, bringing his enormous abdomen up as he did so. With his other claws he brought a small pouch, roughly the size of a gnome’s head. “You’ll need this if you’re to succeed.”

  “What is it?” Cyrus asked, plucking the leather bag from Ehrgraz’s grasp. It was sealed, like a coinpurse.

  “It is an alchemical compound of ancient derivation,” Ehrgraz said, narrowing his eyes. “And I do mean ancient, from the days when the demons of old still walked the world.”

  “The … what of what?” Cyrus asked.

  Ehrgraz made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “You short-lived races!” he grumbled. “Not you, Curatio, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Curatio said, nodding. “In the days before the War of the Gods, there were fiercer things roaming Arkaria. The ancients, at the height of their empire, brought these dangers to heel in what they—and we—called ‘the taming of the land.’”

  “They wiped out the demons of old,” Ehrgraz said. “As best they could, at least.” He chuckled. “They did a poor job of it, though, or rather limited, at least.”

  “Ehrgraz,” Curatio said, “you have asked us to attack your greatest temple, and—if that powder is what I assume it is—to desecrate utterly the greatest icon of dragonkin.”

  “Yes,” Ehrgraz said quietly. “I have, haven’t I?”

  “Why?” Vara asked. “That is … I assume it’s a rather provocative step.”

  “Probably almost as devastating to my people as killing the last born elf would be to yours,” Ehrgraz said, and while it might have come off as a threat to other ears, to Cyrus he merely sounded sad. “Because none of them see. So rooted in the past are we that we take no heed of the future, which the titans are shaping even now to their liking. They are moved by forces more dangerous than my people can imagine. Their will to conquer all should not be underestimated.”

  “This thing you ask of us …” Cyrus said. “I’m not sure we can do this.”

  “You are fully capable of it, I assure you,” Ehrgraz said. “It is left to you to decide whether what you fear from the titans will drive you as far as it has driven me.” He raised his wings and flapped them once, leaving the ground. His wings caught the light of the watch fires, the braziers illuminating the undersides, the bony extrusions that held together the flapping, light skin that helped propel him aloft looking like canvas with a torch in front of it. “I, for one, hope you come to the same conclusions about these dangers as I have, for the alternative does not bear thinking about, a titan empire that will sit astride your north.” He flapped his wings again and rose higher, out of sight in the darkness within seconds, leaving Cyrus, Vara and Curatio alone on the parapets, pondering what a dragon feared.

  55.

  “This is the worst idea of any idea that has been presented in or around our halls at any point in time,” Curatio pronounced into the still night after Ehrgraz’s
departure.

  “Vaste should dance naked every day during dinner,” Vara said, drawing shocked looks from both Cyrus and Curatio. “Mine is worse, no?”

  “It’s a near thing in my estimation,” Cyrus said.

  “It is not a near thing,” Curatio said, hotter than the watch fire burning only a few feet away from them. The healer’s voice crackled in the night. “He intends for you to lead an offensive against the dragons under deceptive terms. To have you fool them into thinking that the titans have destroyed their greatest shrine.” He cocked his head. “Do you know what happened to the last person that meddled in that place?”

  “How would I?” Cyrus asked.

  “Because you rode him into the ground,” Curatio said, voice brimming with fury, “after Ashan’agar was exiled from their company. Dragons do not kill one another; it is their highest law. Even Ashan’agar did not commit murder on his own when he marshaled and defiled their temple. But now, Ehrgraz would have you do it and you would jump heedlessly into it without thought.”

  “I haven’t said yes yet,” Cyrus said.

  “You didn’t say no immediately,” Curatio said, “which is almost as bad.”

  “Why are you pushing so hard on this?” Cyrus asked, his own ire rising. “Without a thought, you dismiss it? Curatio, we are desperately in the swamp on this fight with the titans.”

  “And you will sink us further into the mire should you undertake this course of action.”

  “When you’re already in the mire over your head,” Cyrus said, “I don’t notice much difference whether I drown by an inch or by a mile.” He stepped closer to the healer. “They are coming, Curatio. They’re coming, and we likely will not be able to stop them, not by the numbers.”

  “Think about what you’re saying.” Curatio pointed a finger at him. “This is not just desperation, it is madness. It is treachery. Deceit.”

  “It is necessary,” Cyrus said, not backing off.

  “Is that what a paladin would say?” Curatio asked, looking over Cyrus’s shoulder. He turned his head to look, but Vara remained silent, looking somewhat stricken in the glow of the fire.

  “I’m not a paladin,” Cyrus said, drawing the healer’s gaze back to him. “And this is not a noble war. It began with a cowardly attack by superior forces against a town of civilians under our protection simply to spite us.”

  “And you answered it in kind,” Curatio said, and Cyrus felt as though he’d been struck. “Yes, that surprises you, I’m sure, but Kortran is not all titan warriors and arenas. They are not some monolithic evil. There is argument among them, surely, even now, but Talikartin and the death of their Emperor is a knife in their side which worshippers of Bellarum will feel obligated to avenge.” He lowered his voice. “How you win this war is as important as winning it, because what you do here, now, will affect who you are for all the rest of your days.”

  “The only thing that matters in this war,” Cyrus said, feeling the rage trickle through him, “is winning it.”

  Curatio’s head rocked back slightly. “A familiar sentiment, and an old one. But not yours originally, I think.”

  “This enemy is not going to stop at the sea, Curatio,” Cyrus said. “They don’t have a weakness like the scourge.” He pointed at the central tower of Sanctuary. “I had to listen to Longwell today bleed his feelings out because of the loss of more of his people. He’s frightened at the position of Emerald Fields, so close to the titans.” Cyrus shifted his finger to point south. “How about the elves of Amti, living on borrowed time in their trees, forced to hide from the world because of their fear? And the elves? Your own people? You think they’ll survive the titans coming north?”

  “You see a reflection of all your failures here,” Curatio said, glancing past him at Vara, “and so do I. But where you are wrong is the means you are considering. When I stood with the Guildmaster of Requiem at the twilight of the ancients, helping him defend the humans of Arkaria against that night of fire and destruction, I warned him against despair. I see in you the same seeds of fear and darkness, that desperate desire hold back a tide that you fear will consume everything you hold dear. But it will do you no good to win this fight and lose your soul, Cyrus.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Being willing to do whatever it takes to win, even assassination and duplicity are perfectly acceptable considerations for an adherent of Bellarum.” He pulled back, looked Cyrus straight in the eye, and did not waver as he spoke, “But not for the Guildmaster of Sanctuary.”

  “What if there is no other way, Curatio?” Cyrus asked. “Do you see another way?”

  “Can you see the River Perda in the darkness over yonder?” Curatio waved his hand to the south. “No? Just because you cannot see it, does not mean it is not there.”

  “What good does it do,” Cyrus asked, “what virtue is there … in being a defender of the people who fails to defend the people?”

  “I do not know,” Curatio said, voice down to a whisper. He turned, slowly, tentatively. “But I know you have not failed yet.” With silent steps, he retreated into the night.

  Cyrus watched him go, waiting, and when Curatio was gone, disappeared into a tower to climb down from the wall, he turned to look at Vara. “What do you say?”

  She hesitated, but her true reply burst forth when she spoke. “You know, Alaric would never have—”

  The rage and frustration that had bubbled in Cyrus throughout his talk with Curatio burst free like a volcano. “I’m not Alaric!” His voice echoed in the night, bouncing off the wall, making his proclamation over the plains. When it faded, he spoke again, this time whispering. “Do you wish I were?”

  “No,” she answered immediately and stepped closer, placing a hand upon his shoulder in reassurance. “But I wish that he were here.”

  Cyrus swallowed the brief surge of bitterness that welled up in him and let the regret take over before he spoke. “So do I,” he said, as he looked out on the dark, moonless plains. “So do I.”

  56.

  “When I said I’d entertain almost any plan,” Ryin Ayend spoke into the torchlit Council Chambers early the next morn, “and included that whole bit about women and children being slaughtered … I was being rhetorical. It was a bit of hyperbole, really, to highlight how desperate this situation has become.” The druid placed his palms flat on the table, the room so quiet that Cyrus heard the flesh press against the wood. “And yet you found something almost as morally dubious, and here we go merrily down that path.”

  Cyrus looked to Curatio at his left, but the healer said nothing. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and lay slumped with his cheek against it, dangerously close to falling over should anything disturb the balance upon which he leaned.

  “I, for one,” Vaste began, causing Cyrus to cringe inside, “find that old sod about desperate measures absolutely applicable here.”

  “What old sod is that?” Erith asked with a frown.

  “‘Desperate measures are the most fun,’” Vaste said, “‘for when someone is desperate, you get to find out who they truly are.’”

  “Must be a troll saying,” Erith said, “because I’ve never heard that.”

  “Can’t be a troll saying,” Andren said, “it’s far too wise for that.”

  “You know, before everything went to shit up in Gren,” Vaste said a little hotly, “we were occasionally capable of good, even great, things.”

  “Far be it from me to suggest otherwise,” Odellan said, “having been to war with against your people and having seen what desperation did to them twenty years ago and more recently, last year.” He looked around. “But to the point—an attack on dragons. Are we really discussing this?”

  “We’ve fought dragons before,” Andren said, waving a hand. “With less numbers, even, than we’ve got now.”

  “Kalam was no picnic,” Vara said, “and we caught him napping. Meanwhile, Ashan’agar nearly killed more than a few of us when he broke loose of his imprisonment, and would have
done much more damage had Cyrus not goaded him into riding up into the sky while he worked out a careful plan to deprive the bastard of his life.”

  “Yes, it was a careful plan,” Cyrus said, nodding sagely, “in fact I even started working on it a year earlier when—”

  “This stinks of revising history to fit your ego,” Vaste said.

  “Agreed,” Vara said tightly.

  Cyrus smiled. “Can’t blame me for trying. But that dragon had a powerful ability to charm people just by looking in their eyes—”

  “Yes, you Alaric’d him, it was brilliant,” Vaste said, covering a fake yawn with one hand. “Now, back to this plan of yours—”

  “Ehrgraz’s,” Cyrus said.

  “Fine, back to this dragon plan,” Vaste said. “How do we know it’s not a trick? We show up, we kill dragons, we deface their shrine, Ehrgraz comes in bellowing and kills us all in a blast of fire hot enough to render my succulent bones and meat completely inedible, which would be a great tragedy for all, but mostly for me.”

  “That is a valid point,” Cyrus conceded. “But I don’t think he’s betraying us.”

  “No one ever thinks they’re being betrayed until it happens,” Nyad said. “Case in point, there was that time you got stabbed in the back last year—”

  “Hey,” Cyrus said, “nobody saw that coming.”

  “I saw it coming,” Vara said.

  Cyrus gave her a sour look. “Fine. Do you think Ehrgraz is betraying us?”

  Vara thought it over. “I don’t think so, no. But he need not betray us for this plan of his to go horribly wrong. There is much he has not yet deigned to inform us about how it would be carried out.”

  “That’s true,” Thad said with a nod. “It doesn’t take much to go wrong with a dragon fight for people to die in large numbers.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” Cyrus said, mildly aggravated. “I’ve stood in front of them before during fights. All I want to know is if anyone has a better plan. Because now is the time—”