Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “You look like you were dragged through a Sylorean pig pen,” came a voice from beside the door. I glanced over and saw Varren standing leaning casually against the wall, arms folded and looking bored. “I say Sylorean pig pen, because our pigs are bigger and better than any you’d find in Galbadien or Actaluere.” He puffed a little with pride, and I saw one of my soldiers, a man from Galbadien, behind him shoot daggers at him.

  “Naturally,” I said, not really wanting to debate the girth and superiority of Sylorean pigs. I started toward my bunk but Varren came off the wall, losing his casual look in the process.

  “Wait,” Varren said, now suddenly urgent, and I stopped, surprised that someone other than Stepan was talking to me. “These lessons you’ve been getting—they’re making you better.”

  “That’s fortunate,” I said, still feeling the pain, “because otherwise, all this hurting I’m doing right now would be to little purpose.”

  I looked past him and saw others watching from their bunks, peeking over the tops, looking at me from behind the frames, listening in on our conversation. “I heard you almost lasted to the end in the Coliseum last time,” he said, a little eagerly for him.

  “But I didn’t quite make it,” I said, wondering what this was about. I had a foreboding feeling, like I was about to get another back-of-the-wagon beating, and I straightened my back and cast a look behind me, anticipating an attack. No one was lurking back there in a particularly hostile way, but everyone was listening and paying attention.

  “Except the time before you were one of the first to die,” Varren said, gradually circling around to his point. “You got better. He taught you some things.”

  “He did,” I said cautiously, waiting to see what came of it.

  Varren twitched. “Things that even your trained soldiers don’t know.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. My “trained soldiers” were mostly teenagers conscripted from the farms of our kingdom. They’d had some basic training with a sword, but it wasn’t as though they had a fraction of the skill of someone like Rin, who seemed to have been born to weaponry and fighting. “He's taught me some of their methods, yes.”

  Varren swallowed and dropped any pretense of disinterest. “Could you teach me? What he taught you?” His hand sprang up to his chest, right below his heart, and I had the impression that he’d been stabbed there in our most recent battle. “I don’t—I could use some help.”

  I felt again like I’d been kicked by a horse—but a bit more lightly this time. “Certainly,” I said, nodding. “I’d be glad to.”

  “Could you teach me?” The earnest face of one of my soldiers, a man covered in so much grime I couldn’t tell the color of his hair, looked down at me from the nearest bunk.

  “And me?” asked another, staring at me from two rows away.

  There was a chorus of questions now, coming from all directions, an attack of a very different kind than I’d expected, and it caused my skin to tingle. I had left my home months ago with the desire to turn my father’s army into my own, and as I stood there in that barracks, listening to the shouts, the pleas, of men frightened to die and certain I held some power to spare them from it, I knew that now I finally had them … though it had come in a way I would never have expected when I’d left home.

  19.

  Cyrus

  The portal in Termina was a site of slaughter, the bloodied, mutilated remains of elven soldiers strewn about in front of the ovoid rock structure. Cyrus could smell the blood in the wind—blood and death, and all that came with it.

  “I guess they came this way,” Terian deadpanned as they stood there in the bright sunshine. His battered armor reflected the light perfectly as the Sovereign of Saekaj and Sovar stood staring at the scene of gore before them.

  These elves had not died well, Cyrus reckoned. They were all of them dead, too, which was another disconcerting thing. As the portal guard, they would have been on watch for anyone coming through, and yet still they were laid out here like suckling pigs at a feast. “The goddesses took a little more time here than was necessary,” Cyrus said, looking the scene over with a jaundiced eye. “They wanted to make sure everyone died, that there were no wounded to survive.”

  “But why?” Aisling asked. She seemed stiff and uncomfortable, which he had never seen from her in places of death before. She was usually the first to wade in among the dead and lift their coin, but here she held back, suddenly seeming worried, perhaps even horrified.

  “Maybe they’re angry,” Longwell said, hefting his spear. “But whatever the case, they’re moving forward now.” He pointed into the distance, where Pharesia waited on the horizon, its massive walls barely visible. “Should we—”

  “We should,” Cyrus said. He waved a hand in the air, spreading the Falcon’s Essence spell among his entire army. “There are three of them and eleven of us—”

  “Until Mendicant comes back from his errand,” Calene said.

  “If Mendicant comes back from his errand in time,” Cyrus said, not bothering to honey-coat it. “In any case, only five of us have godly weapons, and that hardly makes us the equals of deities.”

  “So you’re saying we should divide up into smaller war parties and engage them one-on-one where possible?” Terian asked with some sarcasm.

  “Just the opposite, as I think you know,” Cyrus said. “We need to divide them from each other and pile on quickly. The longer a fight goes with one of these bastards, the more it favors them killing at least some of us.” He felt a sudden, scraping tightness in his throat. “We lose no else to these curs. No one.” His skin rippled in a long wave of gooseflesh, and a heavy feeling settled on his heart. “Come on.”

  He sprang into a run, charging up into the air, his steps carrying him above the knots of trees that gave cover and shade to this part of the elven countryside. In the distance he could see the massive, towering boughs of the Iliarad’ouran woods, their tops hundreds of feet in the air. Once he rose high enough, he could see the palace of Pharesia to the south, its four massive trees standing like guardposts at each corner.

  “I’ve never seen Pharesia from this angle before,” J’anda said, keeping up easily with the others. The staff in his hand gave his aging body excess strength and speed, and he used it to good effect here. “It’s quite … well …” He gestured into the distance, and for the first time Cyrus noticed what had changed since last he’d been here.

  Pharesia was ringed by walls hundreds of feet high, walls that must have taken centuries to construct. Just to the side of the gate, Cyrus could see an immense hole in the wall, as though something—or someone, rather—had plowed through it, bringing down a hundred-foot-wide segment into wreckage and ruin.

  “Are there spells to prevent passage into the city from overhead?” Cyrus asked, throwing that back over his shoulder. “Like Sanctuary has?”

  “No,” Quinneria replied, her voice fighting hard against the wind rushing in their faces. “We’ll be able to cross without difficulty.”

  Cyrus kept them at a run, but took care not to outpace his small army. The only army I’ve got left.

  They’re all I’ve got left.

  The closer he drew to the city walls, the clearer the picture became. It wasn’t just a segment of wall that lay in ruin; three distinct trails fanned out from the broken wall, reminding Cyrus of the slime paths left by slugs as they oozed over rock. “That’s convenient,” he muttered.

  “Very convenient,” Terian said. “It’ll lead us right to our deaths.”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the dour one,” Cyrus said, keeping his gaze fixed on what lay ahead as he veered off toward the left-most trail, which followed the wall. Houses lay in rubble along the path, and he watched a white stone building collapse in upon itself ahead. Screams carried on the wind, and Cyrus could smell the fear in the air.

  What the hell are they doing here?

  “I imagine you’re about to be preoccupied for the next bit, so I thought I’d
take up your mantle. You know, while you’re busy,” Terian said. “After all, we are presently charging into the capital of one of my country’s staunchest enemies, about to try and save them from … whatever the hell is happening here.”

  “Madness,” J’anda said. “I feel confident calling it madness.”

  “Can’t imagine this is going to make Vidara any happier with the other deities,” Calene said. “Isn’t this nominally her … kingdom or whatever government they have now?”

  Cyrus kept his eyes on the collapsing building. Pieces of the stone went sloughing off into the streets, cascading like water. He could see the small figures of elves below, dodging around and trying to run. A mighty hand snaked out and splattered a small group of people fleeing, bowling them over like wooden figurines beneath the fingers of a snatching child. A low, guttural laugh rose up in the chaos and Cyrus got his first good look at what they were to be facing.

  “Aw, shit,” Aisling said.

  “Good gods,” Terian said, almost breathless. “Or … not so good, rather.”

  “Do you believe in deities now?” Quinneria tossed at Longwell, who shook his head and clutched his spear tight in front of him like he was ready to give it a solid thrust into something. “Good,” she said. “Because that? That’s magic, distorting their forms.”

  “Like Malpravus used,” Cyrus said, narrowing his gaze as he stared down at … whatever the hell it was supposed to be.

  Cyrus was fairly certain he was looking at what used to be Lexirea, the Goddess of Justice. It was hard to be certain, given the bizarre change in form, but he could see a ringed tiara with a point atop it that looked like every statue he’d ever seen of her. That, however, was where the comparison ended. What lay beneath the tiara was entirely different.

  If she’d ever been as beautiful as her statues, Cyrus could not see it now. The head upon which the tiara was perched lacked any hair, and instead of smooth, fair skin, she was covered with grey, toad-like flesh that looked as hard as stone. Her head looked like a pile of slime, squat and near-liquid. She stood on stubby legs, with fat hands and feet and a low center of gravity. As he watched, she plowed through the wall of a workshop, causing the building to collapse behind her. Unimpeded by the crashing mortar and wood, she burst out the other side and lashed a massive fist back to knock what was left of the building down. A triumphant bellow like laughter rang through the air, and she waddled across the street toward the next building.

  “She’s just smashing her way through buildings barehanded,” Aisling said. “What are the odds sword and steel are going to hurt her?”

  “I bet mystical steel will punch through where stone fails,” Longwell said, voice shaking with quiet rage.

  “I bet spellcraft will flay and burn its way through,” J’anda said with a resolve of his own.

  “I bet quartal will put a pike in her ass and piss her off before she turns around to rip us all into pieces,” Terian said, and when everyone looked at him, he shrugged. “Vaste’s not here, someone had to say it.”

  “I know this is going to sound strange,” Cyrus said, “but we need to keep this quiet as possible. I don’t want Nessalima or Levembre to know we’re coming for them.”

  “So it’s assassination, then,” Aisling said, and she pulled her dagger, disappearing under a veil of shadow as its effect took hold of her. “I think we’re all familiar with that now.”

  “It’s in defense of a city,” Cyrus said, and he clutched Rodanthar and Praelior high above his head. “They came here to kill the innocent, and thus anything goes in stopping them.”

  “Yeah, let’s go be heroes again,” Calene said, but Cyrus was already charging down, spiraling hard through the skies toward the place where Lexirea was set to burst out of the next building. He heard the others fall in behind him, and once more slowed his pace to what felt like a crawl so as not to charge into battle utterly alone.

  I thought you wanted to be alone. I thought you wanted to—

  Not now.

  Not yet. His jaw tightened.

  There’s work to be done first.

  The rooftop of the building Lexirea was crashing through rippled as she damaged the beams holding it up. The front facade started to fall first, dust and plaster clouding the street as it broke free. Cyrus could hear the screams below, and he hardened his heart to the pity he felt for those folk. There was work to be done—the work Sanctuary was meant to do.

  He saw Lexirea burst free of the building’s far side with another laugh, her glee tinged with maddened fury. She swiped down at some poor soul trying to run and Cyrus watched them roll across the street by force, dissolving in blood and bone from the force of the blow and the friction against the cobblestones.

  A rage of his own ran through his veins, and it had little to do with Vara. Lexirea guffawed at her handiwork, chortling to herself at the death of another innocent—a death she’d caused. Even absent his grudge, Cyrus knew he would have felt the same bitterness and fury at the sight of power turned loose on the powerless. He couldn’t contain himself anymore, couldn’t keep it in. He let out a roar of anger as he came racing down at Lexirea’s squat grey head—

  She swung up at the last and threw a hand in his path. Cyrus slammed into it with all speed, briefly remembering the time when Mortus had tossed a hand at him and he’d met it with sword—

  Cyrus’s armor rattled from the force of his collision against Lexirea’s hard skin. Rodanthar and Praelior carved their way through grey flesh, cracked against bone, and cut free as Cyrus lost his balance. He came flying out of her hand in a spin, rolling through the air, clacking and rattling against imaginary ground as the Falcon’s Essence spell caught him. He jerked and spun, coming back to his feet some ten feet above her head as she let out a cry to the heavens that sounded like the howl of a wounded animal.

  Because that’s what she is, Cyrus realized. Nothing more than a wounded animal.

  And wounded animals … are incredibly dangerous.

  Cyrus stood there, frozen, the sound of distant thunder echoing through the city as the other two goddesses took up Lexirea’s cry … He listened, and knew they were coming.

  “Well, hell,” Terian said, “what was that plan again?”

  20.

  Alaric

  I swept my sword through the next enemy in front of me, drawing forth nary a scream as I disemboweled him. The sword I held in my hand was “not the finest,” according to Rin, yet it was the finest weapon I’d ever been presented with, I’d come to realize after four times in the Coliseum. It drew blood easily, no dull edge to it. I had realized that they collected the weapons from the slaves and fallen after each battle and simply redistributed them, because the leather grip of my sword was stained a deep crimson, and I had a feeling it was not the original color.

  “We’ve got them on the run!” Varren shouted, driving his blade through one of the frightened men on the other side. The man let out a pitiful cry that I ignored as I slashed at my next foe. Varren was right, I could see from my place in the midst of all the chaos. I was at the leading fore, and we were matched against another army with some level of skill and success in the Coliseum contests. I could tell they knew what they were doing, that they fought as something of a unit, albeit sloppily. I doubted they were undefeated, but then, our little army couldn’t have handled the best of the best.

  At least, not yet.

  I’d been instructing these men in what I’d learned for only a week. Only two days after I’d agreed to train them, we’d gone into our third Coliseum battle and lost, though only just. I’d been the last survivor in that fight, and had died at the hands of the final three of the other team as they overwhelmed me. It had been bittersweet, that death. Painful, naturally, but bittersweet, because I knew—I knew—that with a little more effort, a little more time, we’d see a moment like this.

  And here we were, only a few days later, the crowd roaring its approval over us, and we stood almost evenly matched, perhaps with a sli
ght advantage in numbers, over our foes. We were fighting as a unit, Varren at my one side, Stepan at the other, grudging but there, and we were driving our way through the center of the line of our foes.

  Someone made a terrible gurk-ing noise and I glanced down the line to see poor Olivier, hiding behind one of our soldiers who died as our right flank began to collapse under pressure. Olivier had been the saddest story in this entire endeavor. He still hadn’t come out of his shell, was hesitant to speak, and I watched him fold under the blades of two men, catching one to the neck and another to the gut, his mouth opening to let out the flow of blood down his red, sunburned chin. He fell and curled up like a baby, jerking a few times as he died.

  “The flank!” I called, with no time or inclination to worry about Olivier. He truly was as a baby in this, and he’d done well to hide behind the line until the line could no longer hold. Stepan and Varren stepped closer together as I peeled off from my foe and ran behind our line toward the place where Olivier had fallen and where our soldiers were beginning to fold under the withering assault of two men working in tandem to tear us apart. The problem with a good flanking attack was that it overmatched whomever was on the end, pitting two of theirs against our one. And once our one had fallen, it became like a snowball rolling down the hill, freeing up more and more of their men as our line contracted, until two-on-one became three-on-one, then four-on-one, then allowing others to concentrate overwhelming force in other spots on the line until we fell apart, too many blades to block and not enough skill to halt them.

  I hit the end of the line just as our man there died, three of the enemy on him, piercing him with a bevy of blades, stabbing him a half dozen times as he took it all helplessly, his own weapon locked up against the third man while the other two gutted him and slit his throat. He took a blade straight to the face as a coup de grace in the moment before I arrived to render assistance, and then pitched over onto his back, hopefully already dead and out of his misery.