Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  I let out a cry of fury that caused all three of my foes to jerk in surprise. That was another thing Rin had taught me; I didn’t exactly have the element of surprise, because I was crossing right in front of their line of sight, so filling the air with a shout so loud and filled with anger was just another way for me to startle them. Against a hardened, jaded foe like Rin, it probably wouldn’t work.

  Against these three, it caused them to hesitate, which was all I needed.

  I slammed my blade into the throat of the nearest man and then jerked it free in time to block the second as he recovered from his surprise and threw a hasty riposte at me. Our swords clanged against each other messily, the shock of the blow rattling down my arm. I could smell blood and sweat, the hot sun overhead beating down on us. My opponent was momentarily stunned, cringing in pain from the force of the blow, his grasp weakened. I jabbed at him and caught him in the throat; a fatal blow.

  I spun right to the next man, slashing at him and forcing him to defend. He did so sloppily, and I pulled out another of Rin’s sneakier techniques and brought my boot down on the man’s foot with great force. I didn’t break anything but he cringed in pain and let out a little cry. I used his distraction to plunge my blade into his neck, catching him through the throat and tearing it out swiftly.

  I kicked him down and out of the way, far enough from me so he could not to stab me with some parting blow, and I looked down the line.

  We were winning. My men had the fight under their control, and now that our flank was holding, they were butchering our foes one on one, the enemy folding.

  Blood ran into the sands, clumping it together. For the first time in the midst of a battle, I raised my eyes to the stands. Above us stood crowds on their feet, tumultuous, screaming their approval for the slaughter they were witnessing. I didn’t know if it was the hard fought contest, or the sight of my troops so improved, but something we had done seemed to galvanize them more than ever they’d been in the past.

  The stands were almost universally filled with the blue men. Well, and women. I’d heard their name a few times by that point—Protanians, they called themselves—but I would forever think of them as the blue men.

  Stepan killed the last of our foes, and a great cheer rose up in the crowd. I stood there in the middle of the arena on that warm day, sweat and blood coursing down my doublet, which had reached the end of its useful days, and listened to the fierce approval of the crowd.

  “GONGH-ETE! GONGH-ETE! GONGH-ETE!” they cried, chanting as one.

  My gaze swept the Coliseum stands, and found a box separated from the bench seating farther above; this was on the lowest tier, and at least half the people in it were plainly guards of some stripe. A blue man in bright clothing man sat in the center of it all, hands crossed in front of his face. I couldn’t be sure at this distance, but I felt quite confident he was watching me. Something told me that he was the man in charge of all this.

  I looked around at my men; fewer than ten had survived, but enough that we had won this fight. One of the soldiers thrust his hands in the air, sword over his head in an obvious celebration of victory. My gaze fell on Stepan, who looked at the fallen with a sort of disgust, perhaps contemplating his own recent defeats. I looked on, and then saw Varren, who looked pale and anxious.

  I worked my way down the loose line toward Varren, my attention entirely upon him. He wasn’t bleeding, as near as I could tell, but he seemed to be listening to whatever the crowd was saying … and he was clearly terrified.

  “What is it?” I asked as I drew near. It snapped him out of his trance, and he looked right at me. He looked no less fearful now that I was standing before him, and it took him a minute to formulate his answer.

  “It’s …” He licked his lips nervously. “I’ve heard the word before, this … ‘gongh-ete.’ It’s what they called the guard when he killed a goat one night for dinner instead of using magic to conjure something.” Varren looked like he wanted to faint. “Near as I can tell, it means ‘butcher.’”

  A piece of a puzzle slid together for me. “The elf,” I said, almost to myself, causing Varren to look at me quizzically. “They call him ‘The Butcher.’” And I looked up again at the screaming crowd, caught up in their bloodlust, and knew the next challenge we were going to face was almost certainly going to be our hardest … and if Rin was right, one we might not survive.

  21.

  Cyrus

  “You …” Lexirea said, staring up at him with hateful anger in her eyes. Her grimace was wide, brick-like teeth standing out of a long slit in the grey, sludgy head. She gazed at him with full fury, and then the mouth broke into a smile. “You’re here.”

  “You don’t get to destroy Pharesia while I sit idly by, no,” Cyrus said, looking down at the Goddess of Justice—what a mockery of a title, he thought, for there is no justice in this—standing in the middle of a shattered street. “Lexirea … it’s time to die.”

  “I agree,” she said, her voice a laughing hiss, and Cyrus realized dimly that there was a sound of thunder in the distance, something faint but growing louder over the screams. “For there is a cost to every action, and justice is balance, is it not? Tit for tat, every action carrying its own reaction …”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Cyrus said, “and this atrocity …” He swept a hand around Pharesia. “You’re going to get a hell of a reaction for this.”

  “Justice is for mortals,” she said, looking at him with cold amusement. “We are beyond it. We are better than—”

  “No,” Cyrus cut her off, “you’re so much worse.”

  The building behind him exploded, the thunder now near as Nessalima, her form turned from beautiful woman to a golem of stone, shattered through a pub and came to a stop next to Lexirea. Cyrus cringed; not for her arrival, but because of the gaping trail of wreckage she had left in her path. How many people just died so that she could get here?

  Too many.

  “Uh, Cyrus,” Calene said with rising alarm, just behind him now with the others, “we seem to have lost that element of surprise we were aiming for.”

  “You don’t surprise us,” Lexirea said, leering up at him. A building down the street exploded and Levembre, Goddess of Love, now white-skinned and smooth-formed, alien and bizarre, came striding out at a jog to join her sister goddesses, her entire body like something carved out of marble, a human body bereft of any normal curvature. She appeared to be all long straight lines, and her head was a perfect, hairless ovoid with a thin mouth and eyes shaped like upside-down teardrops. “You can’t surprise us, Cyrus Davidon,” Lexirea went on. “We called you here with this.” She swept her slimy hands around, indicating the destruction. “And you answered—as we knew you would.”

  How many people died just so they could draw me here? Cyrus wondered, his blood cold, his stomach churning with disgust. His gaze flitted down the street to where Levembre had just burst through. She was now churning down the avenue, pausing to casually stomp a retreating elf. It made a splattering noise when she did it, and Cyrus blanched at the casual disregard for life; even in his grieving state, he felt disgust and mournful loss at an even deeper level, something he would not have thought possible.

  “Here I am,” he said. “But I’m not alone.”

  A high-pitched giggle went up from the Goddess of Love. She reminded Cyrus of the Citadel in Reikonos, like a towering, vaguely human figure build of seamless bricks. “You will be alone by the end, Cyrus Davidon. You will die alone, after watching all you care about ripped away from you.”

  “She’s such a fine example of Love,” Terian remarked from behind Cyrus. “I’m really feeling it here.”

  “You can’t take anything else from me,” Cyrus said, staring down at them.

  “You think you have lost everything, Cyrus Davidon,” Nessalima spoke at last, her voice rumbling out of her blocky form like rocks ground out in a mill, “but there is a little yet to take.”

  “I don’t mean I’ve lost e
verything,” Cyrus said, staring down at the three of them, like sharks swimming below him, ready to spring up and attack, “I mean … I won’t let you have any more.” He shot his mother a meaningful look, sweeping around to encompass Pharesia as he did so, hoping she would take it. She nodded once, subtly, and as he turned his attention back to the goddesses below, he realized that there were banners of black hung on every street in the city, draped and hanging from all the buildings like funeral shrouds, and he felt as though he’d been punched hard in an already queasy stomach.

  So … they already know about Vara …

  “You think you can dictate to us?” Nessalima waved a hand over herself and she sprang into the air, her stony feet like great quarried blocks, rising from the ground. “We tell you what to do, mortals, and your defiance is what has cost you all of this.” She, too, swept a hand to indicate Pharesia. “Your insolence will mean your destruction. All who do not serve will die.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Cyrus said, clutching his swords tight as he watched Lexirea rise up off the ground with a spell of her own and Levembre join her a moment later. This isn’t the fight that I wanted …

  But it’s the one I’ve got.

  “Of course, the last time I heard it, it was coming from the jackass who apparently owns all three of you,” Cyrus said. “Tell me, are you Bellarum’s personal whores, or—”

  The three of them sprang at him, clearly enraged. Cyrus barely saw it coming in time, but he knew their move and broke into a dead run. He missed Lexirea’s grasping hand by mere inches, and sprinted upward, running away.

  “COWARD!” Lexirea screamed as he pelted upward and toward the wall. Cyrus shot a look at the rest of his people, who had all scattered, running in different directions like birds scared out of a bush. But all of them were headed over the wall, away from Pharesia. “You run from us, warrior? You disgrace yourself!”

  They’re well trained, Cyrus thought, ignoring the jibe that might once have sent him over the edge as he crossed several hundred feet over the walls of Pharesia. At this height, a fall would not only kill him but most likely splatter him all over the green countryside. He was higher up now than the top of the Citadel, and for now he meant to keep it that way. Below, he started to pass the thick canopy of the Iliarad’ouran woods, with its giant trees. He wasn’t running full out, just fast enough to give the others time enough to follow.

  Levembre burst through the walls of Pharesia at half height, lagging behind the other two goddesses but catching up fast. She was the quickest of the three; Lexirea and Nessalima had chosen forms that seemed to be slower than even Dahveed was running, and he was the least hasty of them all.

  “Great, we’re running from pissed-off goddesses!” Terian shouted. “What now, Davidon?”

  “Just a little farther,” Cyrus said, and he stopped in midair. By his estimation, Levembre would catch up to them at roughly the same moment as the other two, and so he knew he had to time this perfectly.

  “This is going to be tight,” Quinneria said, running past him. “Are you sure you want to—”

  “This is the spot.” He threw out an arm, waving Terian away. “Keep running, you idiots!”

  “And leave a warrior to do all the fighting?” Terian asked, standing entirely too close to him.

  “Leave the warrior to do all the falling,” Cyrus said, looking back dangerously at Terian. The Sovereign got it at once and sprinted away as Dahveed passed Cyrus by, running flat out with the nearest goddess just behind him.

  This is not my best idea ever, Cyrus thought as he braced himself. Levembre and Lexirea were neck and neck now, charging right at him with looks of lustful, angry hunger. They reminded him of elephants in their mindless rush to crush him underfoot. He was just standing there, swords out in a battle stance, braced for their attack—

  The goddesses were only ten feet away when Quinneria’s cessation spell hit them all. Cyrus felt it in the lurch as the feeling of solid ground beneath him was stripped away. Suddenly he was falling, and only his knowledge that it was coming and the knowledge of what he needed to do next kept him calm as he began to plummet toward the trees below.

  “AIEEEE!” Lexirea screamed as they dropped. Cyrus saw her in her slime form plummeting with him only five feet away, her arm whipping through the air, her hand still cloven in half from where he’d carved into her with his sword. Levembre was right there with her, panicking slightly less. Just behind and a little above the two of them, Cyrus could see Nessalima in her quarried stone body, arms pinwheeling as she fell toward the earth.

  “None of you are nearly as pretty as the last woman who fell for me,” Cyrus said, plunging Rodanthar into its scabbard and keeping Praelior in hand. Lexirea’s hand—this time the unwounded one—came whipping by in panic again and he slashed deep into her palm and cut loose her smallest finger. He hacked at it again but she jerked away, her mouth open and her block-like teeth bared.

  Cyrus looked down; the forest was coming up quickly, the individual branches starting to take shape the closer he got. All three of the goddesses were whipping and twisting around in alarm. Cyrus, for his part, kept his feet pointed down as best he could and kept his left hand free. No matter whether I pull this off or not, it’s going to hurt.

  The only question left is whether it’ll kill me or not …

  As he fell, Praelior slowed the passage of time for him, letting the seconds stretch as they always did when he was under the weapon’s influence. He fell like he was drifting down through water, the trees of the Iliarad’ouran woods snapping into focus. He could see where he was headed, straight into the canopy, where there were a plethora of branches for him to choose from …

  Cyrus reached out with his Praelior-enhanced reflexes and snatched hold of one as he plunged through the top of the canopy. The branch snapped at the force of his fall, wood breaking like he’d pushed a troll through a twig. He grasped for another and it broke, and another, and another.

  Starting to look like death.

  He slammed into a bough the size of his chest and his armor rang out, pounding through his ears and echoing through his whole body like he’d been kicked by a titan. “Oof!” he said as all the air rushed out of his body, but he came to a stop. Wood cracked, but held, and Cyrus found himself dangling hundreds of feet in the air, opening his eyes just in time to see Lexirea, Levembre and Nessalima smash into the earth below, a flurry of leaves and broken branches trailing down behind them in the fall.

  Cyrus coughed and spit out a little blood. He could feel the pain where he’d bit his lip, and with another spit he tried to clear the coppery flavor. “Okay. Maybe not my worst idea ever.”

  “Your plan was to drop the goddesses and yourself out of the sky in hopes you could break your fall on a tree?” Terian asked, drifting down in a spiraling run, clearly out of the range of the cessation spell. “I’ve got to say … no, I think this might be the dumbest one yet, beating out riding the Dragonlord into the earth at high speed and several other worthy contenders.”

  “My dumb plans do seem to work, though,” Cyrus said, casting Falcon’s Essence again and feeling the sensation of ground beneath his feet. “I mean, look at them.” He extracted himself from the branch and waved down at the ground below, where the three goddesses were stirring feebly.

  “The cessation spell is confined to about twenty feet above the earth and encircles them by about the same radius,” Quinneria called as she, too, descended from above. “I suggest we get down there quickly and—”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said, cutting her off, “let’s finish the job.” He broke into a run and circled around the tree that had caught him, riding the path down the earth and coming in toward the fallen goddesses in a sweeping run. He hit the edge of the cessation spell when he was about a foot off the ground, making his next step a little rough, but he caught himself and kept running.

  These three have killed dozens, maybe hundreds. Maybe more.

  No mercy.

  C
yrus leapt into the air with a war cry, bringing out Rodanthar as he swept toward the back of Nessalima’s neck. Putting a blade in her spine ought to put an end to her, he thought as he arced down. She was on all fours, grunting, turning her head to look at him.

  Nessalima twisted at the last second and Cyrus plunged his blades into her shoulder instead, missing the spine by several feet. He landed hard, feet smashing into her ribs, but the Goddess of Light bucked in pain as he came down, upsetting his balance. She threw back an arm and grazed him, rattling his armor furiously, as though someone had hammered it.

  Cyrus shredded through meat and rocky skin, rough as quarried stone, then used Nessalima as a springboard to jump away. He knew staying longer would mean almost certain death, and he had no interest in that … yet. He landed in a roll, coming off his back and to his feet in a surprisingly fluid motion that was only possible through the time-slowing effects of Praelior and Rodanthar working in concert.

  He looked sideways and saw that he’d landed next to Lexirea’s face. Red eyes peered at him through grey, slimy lids. “You’re hideous,” he said, not bothering to slow down his speech, and he watched her squint become even angrier. He lashed out with his left hand, raking her across the face with Rodanthar, splitting her nostril and cleaving a several-inch slice through the top of her right eyelid.

  Lexirea roared, a bellow loud enough to have knocked Cyrus off his feet if he hadn’t already been moving. He sprinted away from her, having already decided his game plan was to include much running, as much of it as his legs could possibly handle. Slow down and die, he thought. That’s what this is.

  So … keep moving. That’s the key to this game.

  He leapt over Lexirea’s hand as she moved to strike out at him, tucking his legs up toward his chest, armor creaking and chain mail rattling. He landed and resumed his run, never missing a step. He streaked toward Levembre, who was on one knee, and leapt into the air, dragging his swords along in his wake. He aimed to sail past her and did, causing her to jerk her head around in surprise as she saw him go by. His blades slashed her a moment later, ripping two solid, triangular troughs through her smooth, cloud-white skin. Black ichor oozed forth, marring her perfect flesh, and her nearly expressionless face flinched in pain, drawing away from him without even an attempt to strike back.