Legend

by Robert J. Crane

“Yes?” I asked, as we broke from our handshake.

  “You should call me by my formal name,” he said. He looked serious, but had lost the bristly outer layer of careful, cunning watchfulness. Now he appeared earnest, committed, and resolute. “It’s—”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, nodding. “I’ve heard others call you by it. It’s Mathurin, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed, Alaric,” he said, “it is indeed.”

  And that was how I became sworn brothers with the man who would become the God of War.

  43.

  Cyrus

  The air hung heavy in the catacombs below Reikonos. The glow of the walls cast the god and three goddesses who ringed Cyrus’s party in a dim light, giving them an ominous appearance. Cyrus stood there, at the head of his group, mind racing, his anger set, and four perfect targets standing before him. He’d just vowed to kill them, and he meant to do it, but it would not happen easily, he was certain—

  “Scatter!” Cyrus shouted, sensing the building flame behind Enflaga’s burning eyes. He lifted his legs, jumping as the Falcon’s Essence spell he still carried with him from the Realm of Storms caught him three feet higher than where he’d been standing a moment earlier. He jumped again, five times, leaping upward a few feet each time, in quick succession, Praelior in hand, and found himself at face level with the gods and goddesses—Rotan of earth, in his rocky form, Ashea of water, serpentine and glistening like she was wet, Enflaga of fire, dancing with flames all around her, and finally, Virixia of air with her wings at rest even as she levitated off the ground.

  A blast of pure magic, glowing blue like a small sapphire held up to the sun, raced beneath him, firing toward the deities. If he had to guess, he would have given his mother credit, though he conceded it was entirely possible Mendicant had loosed it.

  The blue blast lanced toward Ashea who let out a screech that Cyrus would have sworn made his ears bleed. The Goddess of Water threw up both hands and conjured a blue magic of her own like a shield before her. Quinneria’s spell hit it and the two swirled like battling serpents before Ashea lifted her hands and both spells were flung off, into the air above and behind her. They hit the stone ceiling and the magic diffused through the solid wall.

  Everything hung in silence for a long moment, and then the block exploded where the spell had hit. A cloud of dust blossomed out, and Cyrus turned his head as little pieces of debris clanged against his helmet like the rains in the Realm of Storms. When he turned back, the dust had already begun to clear, and a starry night hung above them where a gaping hole had been blasted to the surface.

  “Go out! Go out!” screamed Virixia, her wide, white wings sweeping her through the hole in the space of a moment. Enflaga followed, leaving glowing trails of orange as she flung herself toward the surface. Ashea threw out both hands and a gush of water blew forth like a dam had burst behind her. The spray hit Cyrus and knocked him over, and he righted himself just in time to see Ashea’s thin, pasty legs pumping their way out of the hole at a run, aided by a Falcon’s Essence spell. Rotan was already ahead of her, his rocky back visible just beyond, framed against the night.

  “They’re going into Reikonos!” Quinneria shouted. Cyrus watched his mother’s robes race beneath him, Philos clutched in her hands as she hurried to catch the escaping deities.

  “What, they just show up, taunt a little, then run?” Terian asked, running after Quinneria. The others were moving now, and Cyrus raced after them, determined not to be left behind.

  “No,” Cyrus said, Praelior tight in his grip, his jaw ratcheting into a hard, angry grimace, “they’re taking the fight into the city itself. They’re going to use the people of Reikonos as a shield against us.”

  “Damn, that’s sinister,” Calene said, sprinting along on air at Cyrus’s side as he crested the hole. He found himself squarely in the middle of a destroyed dwelling, a stone house that had lost its roof and two walls as though they’d never even been built. The wreckage of a table lay on the ground in what remained of the home, but there was no sign of any occupants or beds or even a chimney and hearth. I guess they’re the first to die, he thought, rage jerking around in his belly. But not the last, unless we hurry.

  “They’re splitting up!” Quinneria called, standing fifty feet above Cyrus, a lookout in an invisible tower. She pointed in each of the compass directions. “Trying to draw us off individually, make it easier to kill us.”

  “Of course they are,” Cyrus said, mind churning. “We—we need to take them one at a time—”

  “Cyrus, no,” Terian said, shaking his head. His eyes were alight with desperation, and a lip of flame blazed in the night from the west, where Enflaga had apparently gone. “I know what you’re saying, and it’s entirely reasonable, but to let these bastards tear through the city unchecked—” He shook his head, his lips pulled back in a mournful, horrified look that Cyrus could not recall seeing on the dark knight turned paladin before. “We need to stop them, then we can worry about killing them.”

  Cyrus froze, and he watched Isabelle dart past him at a dead run, heading east. “Where are you going?” he cried after her.

  “To get help!” she shouted, disappearing over the top of a four-story building, running off into the night.

  If we let them run rampant they will cause untold damage, Cyrus thought, his mind speeding along with Praelior’s aid. But if I split my minimal forces against them in order to harry them and slow their attacks …

  I will lose people. And by the time the fight with Bellarum rolls around, we might not have anything left.

  And so comes the choice at last … do I play the general, the warrior, and make the wise strategic move?

  Or do I become what Alaric—what Vara—would have had me be … the defender of Arkaria?

  “Terian,” he said, his choice made in an instant, “take Dahveed, Bowe and Scuddar and go after—”

  “Enflaga,” Terian said, and his hand came self-consciously up to his neck. “I still haven’t forgiven the Siren of Fire for decapitating me that time.” He gave a shout, and Cyrus watched him run off toward the west, his small team trailing after him.

  “Quinneria,” Cyrus said, shouting up at his mother, “take Longwell, J’anda and Aisling with you and go after Virixia.” His face hardened. “Clip her wings.”

  “Aye,” Quinneria shouted, and she charged off in an instant, the three members of her team lagging behind her as she surged ahead, waiting for none of them.

  “Zarnn!” Cyrus shouted, and the troll rushed up next to him, riding his savanna cat through the air as though it were some winged unicorn, scowl on his face. “Take Calene, Mendicant and Cora and go after—”

  “I want rock,” Zarnn said, grunting. “In Brother Fortin’s name, I destroy imposter!” And he charged off toward Rotan’s swath of destruction without waiting for Cyrus’s approval, Calene hurrying beside him with her claws glowing, the goblin and the elf trailing behind.

  “Uh, Cyrus,” Martaina said, coming up alongside him, the only one left, a few stray brown hairs blowing in the wind, “that … leaves the two of us a bit short of teammates, you know.”

  “You and I are so good that we don’t need anyone else,” Cyrus said with a bit of false bravado that he knew she didn’t buy for an instant.

  “Mercies,” Martaina said, swallowing visibly. “And we get the Goddess of Water.”

  “All to ourselves,” Cyrus agreed, racing off to the south, not waiting for Martaina to follow. “All to myself, if need be,” he said under his breath as he left her behind.

  “I heard that!” she shouted in his wake. “Don’t be a fool!”

  “You should know that we’re years too late for that,” Cyrus said, following the trail of destruction toward the slums. He raced along, his legs pumping as he soared over the rooftops of his hometown. The damage done by the god and goddesses was staggering considering they’d been out of the catacombs for less than two minutes. Buildings were already crumbling like they had in Phare
sia, the deities smashing their way through. As Cyrus ran over Ashea’s wake, he noticed that she was trailing water, leaving it behind in the streets as though a flood had come through. It gave him an idea and he cast the spell of protection from the deep upon himself, not wishing to leave it to chance in case she tried to drown him.

  A bellowing screech came from out of the west, and Cyrus saw another blaze of light send up a glow on the eastern horizon. Terian and his group have engaged Enflaga, I guess.

  Ahead, Cyrus could see Ashea descending into the slums, her thin frame swelling with water all around her like a tidal pool carried in a tight circle around her body. That’s where the water trail has been coming from. He watched as she directed a wave forward and it destroyed a ramshackle house, broken lumber and thatched roofing swept up to the top of the rising swell before it dropped and let the wreckage to fall to the muddy street. Ashea sent out another wave to the side and blasted a stone building that Cyrus knew as a butcher’s shop. The thatched roof disintegrated under the assault of the hard-thrown wave, and when the water receded many of the stones were gone and a corpulent body was floating, facedown, in the remains of the structure, which was leaking water out of its sides like a boat with many holes.

  Cyrus was incensed, his face flushed hard. I knew that shop, I bought from that butcher, when I had a few coins to spare. He was a sonofabitch, but dammit, he didn’t deserve to die like that!

  He drew a wave of cold over his thoughts, disciplining himself in the way he’d been taught since discovering magic. Hot vengeance will do no good now. Cold thoughts are key, the careful practice of many days. He summoned forth the words to the spell he had in mind, and as he drew near to the Goddess of Water, he mouthed them under his breath and pointed the tip of Praelior right at her.

  A mighty bolt of lightning came arcing out of his blade, streaking through the air between them, drawn to Ashea as if she were the tallest tree in a thunderstorm-wracked forest. She turned her head in time to catch the blast on one of her pale cheeks, and Cyrus heard her scream to the heavens as her skin blackened and charred under his assault, her eyeball exploding. The water gathered around her then rushed out as though she had lost control over it.

  Cyrus followed his attack, rushing in on Ashea with his sword held before him, casting another lightning spell that struck the same spot. The bolt diffused over her body, causing her to jerk frantically until she shrugged it off and looked back at him with a blazing eye. She opened her mouth to cast some curse at him, and he did not slow as he charged right into her with his sword extended.

  She panicked at the last minute, trying to jerk away from him, but all she ended up doing was lifting her jaw up so he collided with it squarely. Her mouth fell open slightly and that was all he needed; the collision was set, but there was time enough to adjust the grip of Praelior so it landed perfectly—

  Cyrus slammed into her and his armor echoed with the impact. He felt it rattle through him, down to his bones, as if he’d dropped out of the sky and landed smack dab upon the earth. Ashea’s jaw broke, and she started to scream out in pain but was swiftly cut off, the scream becoming a squeal—

  Cyrus bounced off and rolled on the air. When he came to a stop he felt assorted aches and pains flashing through his arms and down his legs. He lifted his head and looked up to see that in spite of whatever minor damage he’d inflicted on himself, his plan had worked.

  Ashea’s jaw was hanging limp, and her mouth was open wide, black blood rushing out like water down her chin. Her tongue had been half-cut loose by his jab with Praelior, only a bare few inches of skin keeping it from falling out of her mouth entirely. “Try and cast a spell like that,” Cyrus said, pushing back to his feet, gripping Praelior tight for his next assault. She met his eyes, alarm writhing in hers, and he grinned maliciously. “Go ahead. Say my name.”

  He came at her again in a dead run, watching her eyes widening even further as she raised a hand against him. Cyrus threw himself low, fearing she might still be able to cast sublingually, but no spells came at him as he threw himself up, thrusting Praelior into her belly with a burst of speed. He plunged the blade up to the crossguard and then ripped it out, black ichor oozing down like a viscous slime.

  Ashea lashed out, backhanding him and sending him through the stone wall of a house, faster than Cyrus could react. I thought she’d be slowed a little after what I just did to her, he had time to think before he crashed through another wall of stone, his helm crushed down hard against his spine, his shoulders bending and twisting with the force of a godly blow.

  Cyrus came to rest in an alley, bouncing off a wall without sufficient momentum to break through the brick, and went facedown in a puddle of water several inches deep. He lifted his head out and coughed, sputtering as the murky, dirty liquid washed down his nose and gagged him. It did not slide into the back of his throat, fortunately, held at bay by the spell that he’d cast upon himself before entering the battle. He spat the liquid out easily, though some lingered in the back of his sinuses, threatening to gag him if the impermeable barrier at the back of his throat vanished.

  Cyrus could feel still more pains now, and muttered the words to a healing spell. The light washed over him and he rolled to his back, ready to sit up. The eaves of two thatched roofs hung over him, the straw dripping rain lightly into his face as he started to get up.

  Both eaves were swept away in a moment by a furious hand, and Ashea’s face appeared overhead, her jaw mended and her tongue returned to its normal state; he could see it in her mouth as she looked down with him, lips parted in a sneer.

  She slammed a palm down into the center of his chest, ramming him into the muddy ground as water flooded over his face. Cyrus blinked, trying to see through the darkness, and she struck him again in the chest. She was saying something, and he thrashed, getting his head above the mud for a second and managing to get an eye open before grains of dirt wormed their way in, scratching him painfully.

  “—Will—kill—of you!” Ashea was shouting as Cyrus’s ears were repeatedly submerged in the muddy water lingering in the streets and alleys around them. Cyrus lashed out with Praelior and struck something then was smashed firmly into the watery ground again in turn. He stabbed repeatedly with his weapon in the direction he was sure her hand and wrist had to be, and was rewarded with a loosening of the force pressing him to the ground.

  Cyrus burst out of the muddy water and tried to roll to the side. He clanged against the wall of the alley, his face just above the mud. He tried to wipe his vision clear with his free hand, but Ashea slammed him into the ground again, snapping his head forward hard enough to jar him. Flashes of light lit the darkness and Cyrus’s face was mashed into the mud. It crept up his sinuses again, and he instinctively blew air out of his nose to keep it out, even though he knew he was not in danger of drowning. No, his worry was the force being applied to the back of his neck, threatening to break it when he couldn’t so much as whisper a healing spell. His jaw cracked against the strength being applied to it, and Cyrus’s mouth filled with blood as he dimly wished he had a fuller helm, something to protect his chin …

  There was a flash of light so bright that he could see it even with his face in the muddy water, and the pressure on his back relinquished in an instant. Cyrus exploded out of the water and mouthed the healing spell before he’d even flushed out the residual mud that coated the roof of his mouth. The dirty, viscous liquid dribbled out, and he dug at his eyes to clear them of mud as he lunged forward, trying to escape Ashea’s grasping hand.

  He shot out the end of the alley opposite her, sweeping around to come at her in an attack. He couldn’t see all that well, but when he came around the destroyed roof of the house he’d just been flung through, he could see Ashea, and dimly, through mud that had made its way into his ears, he could hear her screaming.

  Screaming because her face was aflame.

  He blinked, his vision dark, the grains of sand in his eyes painful, and he wiped at them hard. Th
ey still stung, but he could see a little more clearly as heavy, streaming tears washed out his eyes and cut channels through the mud on his cheeks. He watched the Goddess of Water as another tongue of flame lit her and she shied away, screaming in muffled tones. As the water drained out of his ears to provide a moment of clarity, he heard the screams at full volume, earth-shattering in their intensity.

  Cyrus traced the licking fires back to their origin, and saw a man standing only a few dozen paces from him, just down the street where Ashea had been when she’d cornered him, looking down the alley. He wore a look of solemn anger, and his robes were billowing out as he ran, casting his spell all the while. He saw Cyrus and took him in with a glance, a small smile making its way across his familiar face.

  “Ryin,” Cyrus said, staring at the druid as he poured on the fire, driving back the Goddess of Water.

  Ryin Ayend only glanced at him for a moment, his smile turning sly. “I bet you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?”

  44.

  Alaric

  When next I encountered Curatio the Butcher, it was in the company of Chavoron, in his room at the top of the Citadel of Light and Hope. I had been afforded a smaller bunk at the end of the room and had grown somewhat accustomed to the sound of Chavoron snoring. What I had not become accustomed to was the sudden appearance of people at the balconies at all hours. In an empire of millions, it was a comparative few who would stop by unannounced and attempt to bend Chavoron’s ear—or else simply yell in it. It was considered impolite, to say the least, but there seemed to be at least a few rude Protanians in Sennshann.

  And one exceptionally rude elf.

  “None of the elven states accept your damnable portals within our walls,” Curatio said with the crackling anger I’d become accustomed to from him. His nostrils flared with his displeasure, his platinum hair ruffled as though he’d not bothered to make it presentable before casting his spell and walking through the balcony door without announcement or invitation.