Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “You speak their language?” Stepan asked. I looked over to see him on his feet, back pressed against the steel bars. One of the soldiers next to him had a hand over Stepan’s chest, as though my father’s vizier had been trying to intervene in my beating and gotten thrown back.

  “You learn enough not to provoke their ire,” Varren said. “He just used the stick. They can do a lot worse than that.”

  I looked at the soldier—my soldier—who’d just beaten me nearly to death. I could feel the hot liquid trailing down my cheeks, and I felt shame mingling with my rage at being so mishandled by someone who should have been loyal to me. “Worse … how?”

  “You see how your face isn’t completely flat anymore?” Varren asked, gesturing at me as the blue man locked the cage door with a THUNK! “They can heal what ails you, see … and when you make them angry, they’ll do just that. Then they’ll hurt you again, in ways you never thought you’d be able to survive.” Now it was Varren’s turn to shake slightly. “They’ll heal you back from pain so terrible you’ll wish you hadn’t survived it, and they’ll do it just so they can inflict some more.” Varren brought his lips back together over his rotting teeth. “Welcome to slavery, gents.”

  “Slavery … hasn’t been allowed in Luukessia for … hundreds of years,” Olivier said, finally leaving his catatonic silence behind. He was still pale and sickly, and I felt the urge to ease away from him in case he lost control of his stomach. Or bladder.

  Varren didn’t grin. Not this time. Instead, he put on a semi-satisfied smile as the wagon stopped, and we all listened to voices speaking in that strange language. “Something else you need to know, something you’re about to figure out, actually …” Suddenly the world around us started to twist as light flashed like a midday sun moving behind an impossibly fast cloud, over and over, “… is that you’re not in Luukessia anymore.”

  With a last flash, the world around me came sharply into focus. The fields that had surrounded us a moment earlier were gone, as were the orange sunset and the sky. In their stead were enormous walls unlike I’d ever seen, smooth like a stone pulled from a riverbed, the sort you could run a hand over without feeling even a little roughness. They rose up and over us, blocking out any sight of the sky. The walls glowed, and behind us I could see an ovoid sort of arch that stuck out of the ground, glowing with faint intensity at its center, rippling with something that looked like glowing yellow water. “Wh … where are we?” I asked, managing to get out my question first, amid the stunned silence of the wagon full of soldiers.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” Varren said, the only one not staring out through the bars in wonderment, acting so jaded it was impossible not to think he might have seen something this amazing before—or more amazing still, “we’re in Sennshann, the capital of the Protanian Empire. And soak up the sight, lads, because if even half of what I’ve heard about this place is true … I doubt we’re going to live long enough to see anyplace else in this bloody land.”

  11.

  Cyrus

  “Cyrus!” Vaste called out as Cyrus stalked away from the stone circle. He hadn’t intended to make such a dramatic retreat, but something about the discussion, about Terrgenden and Vidara’s slow, deliberate, almost spiteful intransigence in the face of an obvious threat to them burned through patience he didn’t have left like a torch through thin parchment.

  Cyrus halted halfway up the span of the bridge, the moonlight shining down on him almost as powerfully as it had when he was in Vidara’s circle of stones. His gauntleted hand scraped against the stone railing.

  “You actually stopped,” Vaste said, slowing as he reached the beginning of the crossing. The sound of frogs croaking somewhere across the water was louder than the troll’s words. “I wasn’t expecting that after you stormed out of our meeting.”

  “You weren’t expecting mopey Cyrus?” Cyrus deadpanned.

  “Well, of course I was expecting you to continue to mope,” Vaste said, stopping a few feet away, as though he foresaw a violent attack if he got any closer. “But now that I’ve caught you …” He sagged, leaning an elbow against the railing. “What the hell do we do?”

  “I’m going to kill gods,” Cyrus said. “Beyond that … I don’t know.”

  “I realize you don’t care about your own life,” Vaste put his face in his hands, “but there are people following you here that I assume you still give a damn about. Try to remember that before you lead them off a cliff.”

  “He took … everything from me, Vaste,” Cyrus said.

  “And if you kill him, it will bring precisely nothing back.” The troll folded his arms in front of him. “Didn’t you learn your lesson about vengeance after the trolls? And the goblins. And—”

  “Foreswearing vengeance is for reasonable folk who want to live a reasonable, peaceful life,” Cyrus said. “I remember Fortin, of all people, telling me that if he hadn’t turned his back on the fact that I killed his brother, it would have cost him the opportunity to join Sanctuary. He would have missed what he considered to be his path—or the next path, at least.”

  “Wise words,” Vaste said. “Even a creature with a head full of rock can see the truth.”

  Cyrus stared right back at Vaste. You don’t see it, do you, old friend? You come so close, but you miss it by skirting the edge, never pressing the thought all the way home. Just as well. “I can’t let it pass,” Cyrus said, instead.

  “Well, it’s not sounding like you can win, either.”

  “It never does, when we start,” Cyrus said. “Sanctuary versus the Dragonlord when I first joined—who would win?”

  “Well, we did beat him—”

  “A year later,” Cyrus said. “With almost a thousand more people that I recruited into our ranks, and a little aid from Goliath and the Daring. How about Enterra? Killing the emperor and empress?” He was drawn up short by a sudden scratchy feeling in his throat. “Trials of Purgatory. The bridge in Termina—”

  “I know your damned victories, General,” Vaste said, a little snippily. “I remember the gods we’ve killed, and I remember the people we’ve lost. This isn’t one god, and you don’t even have at your disposal the army you had when you killed the Dragonlord—”

  “I didn’t use an army when I killed the Dragonlord,” Cyrus said, “I just climbed on his back, blinded his ass, and rode him into the ground.”

  “I doubt Bellarum is so eager to kill himself as to take flight with you on his back, even assuming he didn’t learn from Ashan’agar’s example of how not to face Cyrus Davidon.”

  “We were never ready for any of the threats we faced when I first joined Sanctuary,” Cyrus said. “That’s all I mean. Bellarum took everything, but he didn’t take me—”

  “No thanks to your own efforts.”

  “I’m still here,” Cyrus eased closer to Vaste. “You and I started this journey together—really started it—with the Avatar of the God of Death. Doesn’t it seem appropriate to end it with the gods themselves?”

  “I’m not ready to end yet,” Vaste said. “And neither will you be, given time. And what’s the purpose of this, other than dodging death and killing Bellarum? I mean, you’re hinting at recruiting an army. To what purpose?”

  “Death and glory,” Cyrus said. “Adventurers go seeking that every day. You should remember; that’s how I joined Sanctuary—”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be much glory in dying at the hands of Bellarum and the rest of the combined pantheon, but you’re welcome to try and drum some up, I suppose. You’ve done harder feats, to hear your legend told, anyway.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my legend,” Cyrus said, “I just care about tearing down his.”

  Vaste closed his eyes and took a step closer, wavering under the moonlight. “Maybe if you’d take a few days to mourn, you’d see—”

  “All I see is red,” Cyrus said. “Blood red, and I want to draw enough from Bellarum that the God of War himself will blanch at its letting.�
�� Cyrus held up his clenched fist, hidden in his mail. “He meant to leave me with nothing, and instead he left me with my life. I intend to deprive him of everything, plus that.”

  “You intend to deprive him of your life?” Vaste asked. “I think you’re going about it the right way.”

  “You know damned well what I meant, you grotesque.”

  Vaste’s expression sagged. “She called me that, not you.” He looked down at his feet. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Like you said, she was your friend, too.”

  “She’d be furious with you for doing this,” Vaste said quietly. “For throwing your life away on revenge.”

  “It wasn’t but a little while ago she thrust her sword into her lifelong enemy’s chest and blew him to bloody chunks with a force blast,” Cyrus said, turning to look over the still waters beneath the bridge. “I think she might understand, given the circumstances.” He hesitated. “You remember the time … in the Realm of Death … when we talked about what happens after we die?”

  “I remember seeing the shades of those dead,” Vaste said, draping his elbows over the railing next to Cyrus. “That was …” He stopped. “Well … as you know, I see the dead quite a bit more clearly now. People know that, and they come to me after … well, after moments like you’ve just had. You know, it’s natural to wonder what death is like after—”

  “I’ve seen the dead more clearly since then, too. The scourge,” he added in response to Vaste’s questioning expression. “In Luukessia, remember.”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t wonder what death is like,” Cyrus said. “I saw it up close for months and months as we fought it with relentless effort. I thought it was bad when the sky rained spirits down after we killed Mortus, but those things, reborn into skin, their feral savagery … if that’s what death is like, why even bother with—”

  “It’s not,” Vaste said. “It’s not what death is like,” he said when Cyrus looked over at him. “I assume it was at one point, since Mortus apparently gathered more souls to him than we could properly imagine, imprisoning them in his realm, but … that’s not what it’s like. Not the part I’ve seen, not from the souls I’ve talked to.”

  Cyrus felt a very real prickling in his chest, and a stinging in his eyes. “Did you … have you talked to—”

  “No.” Vaste shook his head quite emphatically. “We were—I mean, we escaped Sanctuary before she would have had a chance to … leave her body, really, and when we went back …” His voice was hushed and a little hesitant. “There was nothing at the crater. Not even the dead want to hang around a gaping, empty hole in the earth, I guess. The dead tend to be drawn to the living, you see, if they’re going to remain on this side of … well, whatever. I don’t pretend to know how it all works, just the bit I can see behind the curtain of those who haven’t yet departed the stage.”

  “She wasn’t supposed to leave the stage before me, Vaste.” Cyrus lowered his head.

  “I know you won’t listen,” Vaste said, “and I don’t blame you, but … you should mourn before you decide your next course. You know, on the off chance that given time to reflect, you decide that leading your friends into certain death to little purpose is … well, pointless. It’s not like you can’t pursue vengeance next week if you decide you still want to—”

  “I’m not waiting until next week,” Cyrus said. “You should know by now that wars don’t wait.”

  “Except that every war we’ve been in, there’s been waiting. I know, because I’m impatient, and it’s always marching here or waiting for our enemy to make their move there—”

  “A war with the gods isn’t going to wait, Vaste,” Cyrus corrected, surprisingly calm. “Bellarum told me that anyone who doesn’t serve will die. Apparently I’ve been insufficiently faithful, and I don’t think he’s going to decide to leave off killing me just because you want me to shed a few tears before I go after him. He wants war? I’ll give him enough of it that he’ll choke on it, that he’ll beg to change his title to the God of Peace.” His gauntlet squealed as he clenched his fist.

  “And how many of our survivors will die while you make your war?” Vaste asked sadly. “How many more are you comfortable losing? Calene? Innocent Calene—”

  “She’s not a child, Vaste—”

  “And you’re not a general anymore,” Vaste said, looking at him with flinty eyes. “Master of nothing, remember? You’ve lost everything, all right. Everything but that bloodthirsty desire to go into battle. The one thing I thought you were growing beyond, and now … it’s back, full force. I …” The troll bowed his head. “I can’t do this, Cyrus.”

  “Stand on a bridge and air your opinions?” Cyrus clanked his gauntlets against the rail, looking out over the shining pond. The silvery disc of the moon slipped over the rippling surface as Cyrus straightened up. “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “I can’t follow you in this.” Vaste’s quiet voice pierced the still night like a dagger. It hit Cyrus right in a tender place in his chest, causing him pain that he hadn’t thought himself capable of feeling anymore. “This isn’t Sanctuary anymore.”

  “No shit,” Cyrus spat. “Sanctuary’s gone because of—”

  “Yes, it’s gone, and she’s gone, and you’ll be gone, too, if you go after him.” Vaste drew himself up to his full height. “Or maybe you’ll kill him, and if it comes down to the choice of which of you survives, know that I’m cheering—very sedately—for you. Because I am in mourning. We—not just you—have lost a tremendous amount, and I don’t wish to actively participate in losing more.”

  “Then I guess this is farewell,” Cyrus said, his throat constricting.

  You too, Vaste?

  Now, of all times?

  “I suppose it is,” Vaste said, his voice almost inaudible. “Good luck, Cyrus.”

  “Thanks,” Cyrus said. “But I don’t need luck. I need help.”

  “Then I hope you find it,” Vaste said. The green glow of a wizard teleportation spell sprung up around him, the light blinding and turning the Realm of Life shades of green from the spell energy, but as it faded Cyrus could see the hints of red and brown at either end of the bridge, as if autumn had come to Vidara’s lands, surely in mourning for the one whose death was wearing on Cyrus’s own heart.

  12.

  Alaric

  The wagon rattled along for what felt like hours. After a time of traveling down long roads buried under sealed corridors of the flawless, glowing stone, we emerged from a tunnel under a dark sky. I could see light behind me, a city laid out in the distance, and I squinted. “Did we … travel under that?”

  “Looks that way,” Stepan said, doing some squinting of his own. “They built tunnels under their city. Did you see the exits scattered throughout, leading up to the surface? I watched a wagon go up one, but I couldn’t see the streets above.”

  I had seen them, but they looked like darkened portals to a sky above, ramps slanted like a smoothed-out staircase leading out of the tunnels. There wasn’t much in the way of noise on the way out, just a faint hum as we’d emerged from the tunnel, the sounds of nature around us.

  “Look at that,” Varren said, nodding in front of us. The front of the wagon was sealed, butting directly against the raised seat where the overseers were perched, but looking out the sides near the front, I could what he was talking about. Ahead, the road bent slightly, and I could see a structure almost as massive as the curtain wall around Enrant Monge. This was circular, though, and stretched up taller than even our central tower. It looked like an amphitheater of the sort we had in the castle, but on a much grander scale. The wagon made its turn, and the structure disappeared into the blind spot in front of us.

  “What is it?” Stepan asked, trying to strain himself to see it again. I couldn’t blame him; other than perhaps whatever was beneath that scaffolding before we’d come to this city, it was the most impressive thing I’d ever seen.

  “Coliseum, I think I hear
d it called, by a couple of the guards,” Varren said casually. “It’s an arena. For fighting.”

  “For who to fight?” I asked, a steely chill going down my back. I was still sitting on the floor of the wagon. The soldiers had closed ranks on the bench, glaring at me sullenly every few minutes, and I hadn’t wanted to risk pressing another into a fight I felt certain I couldn’t win.

  “Us, I think,” Varren said. “Only two uses for us humans; fighting or serving. My guess is we’re about to find out which we’ll each be assigned to.”

  That did not diminish the chill in my spine. A frank self-appraisal told me that while I’d thought I was an impressive fighter, I’d just been plowed to the ground by a real one. My arrogance was perhaps not in tatters, but it was certainly sporting a few holes. My sword was gone, and as I looked down at myself, I realized that compared to the soldiers I’d been traveling with these last months, and in spite of the weight we’d lost due to illness, Olivier and I were still a little fat. My belly stuck out just a bit from the slightly richer portions that the cook had stocked for me, and I had little muscle to make up for it.

  If it came down to fighting or laboring, I was going to be doomed at both.

  “But I’m a prince,” I said under my breath, causing Stepan to jerk his head to look at me.

  Varren just laughed. “Maybe in Luukessia, but we’re not in Luukessia anymore, are we?”

  Silence fell, the men around us hushed by, I now realized, the greatest and most demoralizing defeat our armies had ever seen. Just from what I had observed personally, I doubted a single one of our blue-skinned enemies had been killed. I could have been wrong, but from the quiet despair of broken men huddled around me, so heavy in the air I could almost smell it over the baser stink of urine and feces, I doubted it. These men had lost their spirit, if not in the battle itself then in watching their own man get knocked senseless by one of the blue bastards with little more than a tap of his baton.