Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Divide and conquer,” Terian said. “But that was nation-states and guilds. We’re talking gods and goddesses, that’s a whole different matter—”

  “They’re small, petty, vicious, hateful entities,” Quinneria said. “They have passions and egos and pride to spare. They’re not that different from anyone else, save for—”

  “The smack of their hand can kill you in but a single blow,” Vaste said.

  “At least it would be over quickly,” J’anda said.

  “And then they can resurrect you and pull you apart one piece at a time,” Vaste said, “you know, like Cyrus doubtless wants to do to the God of War.”

  Cyrus looked back and up at them from where he sat. “I would do worse, were it up to me.”

  “It will be up to you,” Quinneria said, softly urging him on. “But you can do none of it if Bellarum gets hold of you before you’re ready.” She put a hand on his shoulder, jangling the pauldron. “You can’t do this alone, and you can’t succeed at it by charging in blindly. This will require planning. Thought. Great care.”

  “And also, not dying,” Vaste said, though not nearly as sarcastically as usual. To Cyrus’s ears, he sounded almost mournful.

  Cyrus stared once more at the darkness of the chasm before him, as if taking his last look. It was so shrouded in darkness that it was almost impossible to perceive its depths. His eyes studied the unmoving shadows, the outcroppings that cast the thinnest veil of hope in their darkness. She’s not here, he thought.

  She’s gone.

  And he made that happen.

  “All right,” he said, pushing against the ground and getting to his feet. He’d need to stand, and stand tall, if he were going to do as his mother said. He felt light and insubstantial, as if the only thing holding him down was armor and the purpose that was giving him barely enough strength to get to his feet. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Are you sure?” Vaste asked, causing the others to frown at him. Cyrus caught the meaning in the troll’s eyes, though. He wonders if I need another moment …

  … to say goodbye.

  “I’m sure,” Cyrus said, turning his back on the crater, the night closing in around him like a heavy cloak. “There’s nothing left for me here now.”

  4.

  Alaric

  “Well, this is unexpected,” Olivier Anselm said, squinting at me as I informed him of my sudden trip north. I would be lying if I did not say I was furious, pacing my luxurious quarters in the tower of Enrant Monge like a caged predator cat I had once seen. My muscles tense, I was ready to spring in the direction of whoever caught my ire. I had been training with my glittering steel sword for a few years by that point, but almost entirely with courtiers and servants who never provided much challenge. Looking back, I can see plainly that they were afraid to challenge the man who would be king. It also left me with an inflated sense of my own skill, but that was a lesson I wouldn’t learn until later.

  “It’s intolerable,” I said, whirling again, the tapestries and paintings that adorned the dull stone walls blurring around me. The air smelled of the smoke given off by the fatty tallow candles that lit the room. There were only two windows, both thin slits. Enrant Monge’s main tower had been built hundreds of years earlier, entirely for defense. There was an outer keep with a bailey and an inner keep, in case the first fell. I had been forced to learn the history of the castle, naturally, another boring set of lessons that I rejected as soon as I was old enough to assert my will. “He means to get me out of the way so that I won’t read my chosen words aloud at the ceremony of majority.”

  Olivier, my closest confidant, was a pudgy fellow, a well-fed young man I wouldn’t have found outside of a castle keep. He was always squinting, but it wasn’t until later that I associated him with a rat wrinkling its nose. “But … surely he realizes that you will return? That you will read the words at that time?”

  I ran a hand through my long, thick, brown hair and blinked both my eyes at him. “I assume so. My father is far too much of a weakling and a coward to have me assassinated at the end of the kingdom. He probably thinks I’m going to change my mind given time to soften like he has, like bread soaked in wine.” I slapped my chest hard against my silken doublet. “He doesn’t realize that unlike him, I am strong, and will not bow in the wind like some flimsy branch. This kingdom needs a powerful hand to steer it, and I mean to make these people remember—the Grand Dukes of Galbadien, Actaluere and Syloreas, especially—there is someone in charge in this land, who will stop them from stepping out of line.”

  “You are that man,” Olivier agreed, nodding eagerly. He never missed an opportunity to flatter me.

  “You have to come with me,” I said.

  Olivier’s pudgy face grew alarmed, his thin eyebrows shooting skyward. “With you?” His voice broke slightly. “To the northern mountains of Syloreas? That’s a cold land—”

  “It’ll be summer by the time we reach the village we’re being sent to investigate,” I said, bringing my furious pacing to a stop. “Enrant Monge will be unbearably hot and the place we’re going surely lovely and beautiful, full of glorious, tall, shady trees and peaks of mountains hanging upon every horizon.” I took a couple steps toward Olivier, my leather boots making a scuffing sound against the stone floor of my tower room. “I am to travel with the army, at their head. I will need an aide, especially if I am to turn this army loyal to me over my father by the time of our return.”

  “I’m not much of an attaché,” Olivier said. That much was true; he’d been raised in the castle, the son of some minor functionary in our library, but he’d proven himself a very good toady up to this point. “I think it would be better if I were to wait here, to try and make inroads in some of the—”

  “I need you with me, Olivier,” I said. I put extra iron in my voice and Olivier’s mouth fell slightly open, hanging there until he composed himself enough to nod assent. “Good,” I said, “then that’s settled.”

  “But this march …” Olivier began. I sensed his last gasp of resistance coming out and prepared to behead it. “It’s … it’s a long march. Are we sure it’s … safe? I wouldn’t want to put your life in danger, after all.” He twitched a little, clearly not wanting to put his own life in danger, either.

  I took a breath of the stale tower air and contemplated my course again. I’d considered raging against this assignment, of course, but the truth was that I needed to take up my post at the head of the army sooner or later. “A march north to the frontier has not resulted in any danger to our armies … well, since we subdued the savages of Syloreas and dragged them into the kingdom. To my mind, this is the safest way I could familiarize myself with my army, gain their trust … and start building my own strength.” I pulled myself up to my full height. “And we’ll need strength, Olivier. We’ll need it either before I take the crown or shortly thereafter. Best to gather it now, on a mission like this, where the danger is nonexistent.” He nodded his final submission, and I smiled, my mind already moving on to other things. Why should I worry, after all? Northern Syloreas was of the kingdom, and an army was to be at my back. I was the heir to this land, and all of the army would be sworn to protect me, even at the cost of their own lives. I would be as safe as if I were to stay in my tower room at Enrant Monge.

  Oh, how wrong I turned out to be.

  5.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus stared at the wooden walls of the Grand Palace of Saekaj. He’d been here before, many times, but had never been able to shake the uneasy feeling that sprang from the complete lack of natural light, which cast the place in gloom every hour of the day and night. There were torches lit, hanging from sconces, and the smell of burning oil wafted through the air.

  They were sitting around a long table in a room off the winding warren of corridors carved into the caves of Saekaj. Cyrus sat at the far end, feeling a curious reversal of his previous position. Terian sat across from him at the long end of the table, the Sovereign’s back to a wo
oden carving of his great seal, painted with bright colors that all looked orange under the torchlight.

  Aisling and J’anda had taken up seats to Terian’s right and left, respectively. Cyrus’s stare lingered a moment longer on the enchanter than he intended it to. Has he already transferred his loyalty? Hours after Sanctuary was destroyed and he’s already seeking a new place to fit in?

  Cyrus took a sharp breath of the cool, stale cave air; no matter how they tried to make this place look like an aboveground palace, it still did not smell like one. It gave Cyrus the feel of being in a cellar, except somehow danker. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, a maddening, infinite tapping.

  Vaste had taken a seat at Cyrus’s immediate left and Quinneria at his right. Cyrus could feel his mother’s eyes watching him surreptitiously, but he did not oblige her by meeting her gaze.

  “Who’s still alive?” Vaste asked.

  “Almost everyone,” J’anda said. “Our guard at the wall broke immediately when the gods started their attack.”

  Cowards, Cyrus thought, then caught himself. No. For any of them to take on a god would have been the height of foolishness. None of our guard had a weapon that could do nearly enough damage to Enflaga or Ashea to make it worth even trying.

  “I sent Bowe to retrieve the officers from Emerald Fields when I received J’anda’s message that you were alive,” Terian said, his helm on the table before him. Cyrus looked up at the dark elf, whose expression was both pained and conciliatory. He pities me, Cyrus thought. “They should be here shortly. One of our carriages will bring them down from the courtyard portal.”

  “What should we do in the meantime?” Aisling asked, looking a little listless. “Anyone favor a game of cards?”

  “I’m not in the mood, strangely enough,” Cyrus said, staring down at the dark, heavily polished wood grain of the table. A craftsman had worked on this, putting in considerable labor to make it much, much smoother than the one in the Sanctuary Council Chambers had been. Cyrus hovered his hand over the surface, almost afraid to touch it. As though the other table might be jealous, he thought with a bitter smile.

  “I don’t think it is a moment for games,” J’anda said, tapping his staff, Rasnareke, against the floor with a hint of scolding. The purple orb glowed with a dim light.

  “It is a moment for solemnity,” Terian agreed, his voice graver than Cyrus could recall it ever being before. “For mourning.”

  Cyrus looked to Vaste, expecting some jest to lighten the mood, but all he found with the troll’s head slumped forward, his chin nearly on his chest. “Solemnity,” Vaste said. “Aye.”

  They settled into a silence that lasted less than a minute before a knock sounded at the door. “Come!” Terian called, and the door opened to disgorge a small army.

  “Cyrus!” Cattrine Tiernan was the first to enter, the relief evident in her voice. Her brown hair was more disheveled than usual, lying loose over the colorful blouse she wore. She paused just inside the door, hand upon her breast. “When we heard you survived, I could scarcely believe it true.”

  Cyrus tilted his head to look at her. “It’s true,” he said and then looked past her without further comment.

  “Good,” Cattrine said, and the corners of her mouth darted upward for a mere second before she stepped further into the room, heading for a chair next to Vaste.

  “Guildmaster,” Calene Raverle said, entering next, Scuddar In’shara a step behind her. They both looked ragged, Calene’s green cloak burned all the way to her mid-back. She wore it still, Cyrus assumed, because she had either not realized or not cared how damaged it was. He stared at her as she came right up to his chair. “My apologies, Lord Davidon, for my failure.” She knelt and bowed her head, her hair dark and matted.

  Cyrus frowned at the top of her head. Her hair showing signs that it had been singed as well, and bits of ash covered the top of her head. “Failure …?” He stared at her blankly.

  “I let the bastards right in,” she gasped. “I let ’em in—”

  “They came under false pretense,” Cyrus said, frowning at her. She blamed herself? That was foolish. “It was the God of War, Calene. You couldn’t have stopped him even if he’d announced himself with ten thousand trumpets.” He put a hand on her shoulder over the burned cloak. “This was not your fault.” He looked away, back to the table in front of him. “It was mine.”

  “Here we go,” Vaste said. “Right on schedule.”

  Cyrus frowned at him, brow wrinkling. “On schedule for what?”

  “Every time we suffer a setback, large or small,” Vaste said, not pulling his chin off his chest, “along comes Cyrus the Mopey. This is in contrast to the man the army used to call ‘Cyrus the Unbroken,’ which I assume they called you because you kept your mopeyness out of sight back then. To those of us who have known you closely, Cyrus the Mopey is a regular fixture in our meetings.”

  Cyrus felt a mild burning in his gullet. “I’m sorry my grief at times of loss is insufficiently fleeting for you. I wish I could just put aside the death of my wife as easy as you eat a pie—”

  “Oh, gods,” Calene said from where she was still kneeling. Her hand came up to clamp over her mouth, a single muted word forcing its way out. “Vara—”

  “Is dead, yes,” Cyrus said, staring down Vaste. “I hope you’ll be able to find the emotional resilience to weather my ‘mopeyness’ in the light of this loss, considering it wasn’t merely my wife but also my guildhall, my home, and the place I was charged with keeping safe—”

  “Cyrus,” Terian said quietly, jarring the warrior’s focus away from the troll. “He was just being Vaste.”

  Cyrus tore his gaze away from Vaste with great effort and looked back to the ranger kneeling at his side. “Take your seat, Calene.” He looked up to Scuddar standing behind her. “You too, In’shara.”

  “Would you like our final report on the wall?” Scuddar asked, the desert man’s eyes grimmer than Cyrus could ever recall seeing them.

  “It fell,” Cyrus said simply, “to gods. I saw.”

  Scuddar merely nodded. With a steady hand he steered Calene down the table, and they both took a seat past Cattrine.

  “Cyrus,” came a soft voice to Cyrus’s left, and he turned to see Samwen Longwell standing there, his spear held high next to him, a look of mournful quiet settled on his face. His dark blue armor looked almost ebony in the dim light. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Samwen,” Cyrus said. “I am sorry for all of our losses.” He looked around the table. “At the risk of descending into further darkness, I want to tell you all … I am sorry for this. All of it.”

  Samwen nodded sharply once, and then made his way past Quinneria to take a seat. A scraping at his chair’s armrest caused Cyrus to look over and see green, scaly skin with claws, rubbing against the wood as Mendicant came into view. The goblin looked tired, and his robes were filthy with dust.

  “Lord Davidon,” Mendicant said, bowing his head as usual. “You have my deepest regrets for your loss.”

  “I’m glad you made it out all right, Mendicant,” Cyrus said.

  “I got out as many as I could,” Mendicant said, looking down at his dust-covered shoulders. “I cast my spell in the instant before the ceiling caved in at the northeast tower.” He ran the back of his clawed fingers lightly over his robes, creating dark streaks where he disturbed the dirt. “A most regrettable situation.” And he moved down the table next to Longwell and pulled out a chair with some effort, the wood squeaking against stone as he maneuvered to scoot it in.

  “Lord Davidon,” came the voice of Dahveed Thalless, nodding politely. His hair was dyed a dark purple. “Our condolences for your losses,” the healer said before making his way down the table to sit next to J’anda. Bowe Sturrt followed, nodding once at Cyrus but saying nothing, then moving to sit next to Aisling.

  “Lord Davidon,” came the rough voice of Grinnd Urnocht, taller even than Cyrus and clad in armor a touch lighter
than his own. The massive dark elf was a hulking beast, looking down at Cyrus from on high, but his squat face strangely expressive. “You have my deepest regrets for your loss. As our philosopher Murnecht said, some seven hundred years ago, ‘Grief is the common bond that knits us all together.’ In this, we all are one.” He eased down the table soundlessly and sat next to Dahveed.

  “Do you know if Fortin or Zarnn survived?” Vaste asked, still subdued.

  “Yes, the Brotherhood of the Savanna Cat is on guard in Emerald Fields at the moment,” Cattrine said quietly. “Mendicant recovered them after the … well, after.” She folded her hands in front of her on the table as if unsure what to do with them.

  “I think that’s everyone,” Terian said, sounding slightly uncomfortable.

  “Except for me,” came a last, quiet female voice behind Cyrus. He stirred for a second, thinking irrationally that it might be Vara, but he recognized the faint scratchiness of it and settled after only a moment astir. Kahlee Lepos passed his chair and her hand rested on his pauldron for a moment. Cyrus looked up at her, her hair a sea green, and could see the deepest sorrow in Terian’s wife’s eyes. “I am so sorry, Cyrus,” she said, and then made her way down the table, where J’anda left his seat to move past Dahveed and Grinnd to take one that was vacant.

  “That’s everyone, then,” Terian said, nodding once, conciliatory again, this time to his wife. “The remains of the Army of Sanctuary are mostly in Emerald Fields, then?”

  “Yes,” Cattrine said, nodding. “We took a thorough accounting and find some four hundred and thirty have made their way there.”

  “Ryin,” Cyrus said, blinking. “Did we lose Ryin?”

  Cattrine flushed. “I … can’t recall seeing him.”

  Cyrus took a long breath. “Add another chit against Bellarum’s account.”

  “So, it’s to be revenge, then?” Kahlee asked from her place next to Terian. “Vengeance for the death of Vara Davidon and all the others?”