Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Can everyone please get their food orders in so we can have a meeting?” Cyrus asked, a little crossly. He paused, then added, “Ahem … I’d like a meat pie.”

  “You would,” Cora said from her chosen place down the table. She had a thin layer of dust coating her face, and when she went to brush her hair off her forehead, she left a streak where she’d inadvertently cleaned herself.

  Cyrus took a bite of the warm, crusty meat pie while he waited for Quinneria to serve the others. She did so without complaint, her fingers dancing, magic sprouting from the tips. He watched her move, watched her green eyes dance as she worked her spellcraft, and had a vague memory of seeing her do something similar in front of the fire in their home, the smell of warm crust and sweet fruit filling the air.

  “This is lovely,” came the voice of Terrgenden as he stepped out of the shadows near where the door to the archives would have been in Sanctuary’s Council Chambers. “Can I make a request?”

  “As though you can’t conjure whatever you want,” Quinneria said.

  “You should know better than anyone that we are all experts at different sorts of magic,” Terrgenden said. He stepped out from the wall and Cyrus realized Vidara had been standing right behind him, her green crown of vine looking like it was drooping, the flowers in it wilted. Her brown hair looked duller than it had at any time since they’d rescued her from Yartraak. “Conjuring baked goods was never really my thing.”

  “What would you like?” Quinneria asked a bit stiffly.

  “I was always enamored of the pumpkins of fall,” Terrgenden said. “Mashing up their insides and mixing them with brown sugar …”

  Quinneria spun her fingers and another pie appeared down the table. Terrgenden made a little sound of satisfaction and walked right up to it, dipping his finger into its center. “Delicious,” he pronounced after his first bite.

  “I assume you didn’t just come for the refreshments,” Terian said, half his pie already gone.

  “You speak blasphemy,” Vaste said, mouth full as he worked on his second, “these pies are worth leaving the realms for. Why, if Bellarum had the last one, I would kill him myself for it. In fact, I did hear a rumor he’s hoarding some of these, which is my secret reason for returning—”

  “You’re trying too hard, dear,” Quinneria said.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Vaste said and busied himself with eating once again.

  “You’ve done well,” Terrgenden said as Vidara seated herself across from him, her movements much slower than his, as if she, too, had lost hope. “You’ve nearly cleared the road before us, which … is an impressive feat.”

  “No thanks to you,” Isabelle said sourly as she entered, a dwarf at her side whom Cyrus recognized as Larning, the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings. Isabelle had a look on her face that reminded him of Vara at her most acidic, and what came next from her tongue only confirmed his assessment. “You let Pharesia and Reikonos be attacked without giving a word of warning—”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Terrgenden said with great humor. “You must be Isabelle. My name is—”

  “I know your bloody name,” Isabelle said, more hacked off than Cyrus had ever seen her.

  “I doubt it, but that’s irrelevant,” Terrgenden said, interlacing his fingers, all traces of the pie’s custard-like filling gone from his hands. “Why didn’t I warn you, you mortals, that Bellarum and the rest meant to take this war against you and turn it to encompass everyone else?” His face fell. “Because we didn’t know he was going to do it.”

  “You’re a real wealth of information, aren’t you?” Ryin asked, his mouth and lips covered with grape pie filling.

  “I am, actually,” Terrgenden said. “But I’m hardly in the middle of Bellarum’s council, as I told your friends earlier. He didn’t share his plans with us,” he pointed to Vidara and then to himself. “Probably didn’t think he could trust us.”

  “Turned out to have the measure of you, didn’t he?” Calene muttered. When Terrgenden looked right at her with an upturned eyebrow, she backpedaled. “Err … Sir Trickster, Sir.”

  “You don’t have to act like a hooker and pretend to respect him,” Aisling said dryly. “I think he likes you better when you just dispense with the pretense.”

  Calene flushed. “Well, I’m not a bloody hooker, first of all, and second …” She looked right at Terrgenden. “Fine, then. I don’t like you. I don’t like what your people have brought us these last years, like a poison harvest.”

  “I can’t blame you for that,” Terrgenden said wearily, “though I wish you wouldn’t lump me in with them since I’m plainly tossing in my lot with you.”

  “Does the All-Mother have anything to add to that?” Cora asked, looking right at Vidara, awe in her eyes.

  “She gets all the respect,” Terrgenden groused.

  “Terrgenden is right,” Vidara said quietly. “We’ve chosen to throw in with you, mortals, knowing that the other path is a Bellarum who will rule all with a fearsome hand. And I assure you,” she said, looking at Isabelle, “I did not know of the planned attack on Pharesia, or I would have given warning. I have no desire to see my chosen people destroyed, nor any other lives lost if I can avoid it.” She bowed her head. “These are dark times, indeed.”

  “So who’s left to rally against us?” Cyrus asked, looking right at Terrgenden and Vidara. “Bellarum, obviously. Virixia and Rotan got away—”

  “Rotan has a few new scars,” Isabelle said with a hint of pride. When Cyrus looked at her questioningly, she elaborated. “One of our dark knights hit him with a curse that prevents the healing of wounds, and then Larning here took a chunk out of his face.” She nodded at the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings, a dwarf with a braided beard down to his knees, who carried a warhammer with a pointed tip jutting out slung behind him.

  “Aye,” Larning said, “he’s not so pretty anymore. Not that he ever was.”

  “Yes,” Mendicant said, nodding, “he looks a little like a dwarf, doesn’t he?” Larning flushed a darker shade, but Cyrus felt sure the goblin had made the comparison without guile.

  “You ask who’s left,” Terrgenden said. “Yes, Virixia, yes, Rotan, though he might be injured—I couldn’t say. There are no more members of the lesser pantheon remaining.” He held utterly still for a moment. “They have either fled, been killed by you, or consumed by Bellarum.”

  Cyrus let that one hang for a moment. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard him correctly,” Vidara said. “He’s slaughtered the last few remaining gods and absorbed their power.”

  “Like … like Malpravus did with his army?” Ryin asked, his mouth slightly open.

  “Exactly,” Terrgenden said.

  “Why didn’t he do the same to you?” Terian asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d love to,” Terrgenden said. “But after our meeting with you, we’ve both closed the portals to our realms. The only way in and out now is with us and a return spell.” He smiled tightly. “After this meeting, we’ll both be heading home and you won’t be seeing us again for a little while.”

  “So you’re not going to be with us in this?” Cyrus asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Vidara answered for them. “When the hour comes for you to face Bellarum, be assured we will be there, for if we are not … he will eventually find his own way into our places and that will be our end.”

  “But you’ll need time to prepare,” Terrgenden said, taking up for her, “and so shall we. This requires … a storing up of magical energy on our parts so that we can be at our best. Even still …” He looked across the table at Vidara. “We are not what Virixia and Rotan are. They are stronger because their places are more heavily fortified with natural magics. And Bellarum himself …” He shook his head. “It will take an effort of us all to have even a chance to stop him.”

  “When I left,” Vaste said, looking to Cyrus, “you were talking about building an army. How’s that going?”

  “Surprisingly we
ll, considering you only left a day or so ago,” Cyrus said, letting a little aggravation seep out in his answer. “The elves are with us, and the Reikonos Guards, and—presumably—Burnt Offerings and Endeavor,” he saw Isabelle nod, though Larning did not. “Is Burnt Offerings with us?” Cyrus asked.

  Larning stirred. “Aye. How could we pass up on a chance to face down the gods? Especially given all that’s on offer here.”

  J’anda spoke. “What … is on offer other than the chance to die in an epic battle?”

  “The chance to not die when they come back to destroy the city without you lot to defend it,” Larning said darkly. “I see this as an all-or-nothing venture. We all fight now and possibly die together, or we wait and let these angry gods run us to the ends of Arkaria and kill us for certain.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Simple enough decision.”

  “Especially since you apparently blacked the eye of the God of Earth,” Vaste said cheerily. “I wonder if he carries a grudge.” The troll grinned. “Just kidding. I don’t actually wonder—I know.”

  “Who else could we get?” Terian asked. “Other than my people—which you forgot, by the way—since we have no desire to see our lands ripped apart by Bellarum the All-Powerful.” He shuddered.

  “Sorry,” Cyrus said, “sometimes I forget you’ve gone from the fool of Sanctuary to the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar. It’s such a startling jump in responsibility, after all.”

  “I have made inroads in Enterra of late,” Mendicant said quietly, pre-empting a sour Terian’s reply. “I … began a school there, teaching a few up and coming goblins what I’ve been learning.”

  “That sounds promising,” Vaste said. “Angry goblins with heretical powers. Couldn’t possibly go wrong. Excellent idea.”

  “Is that better or worse than making a heretic out of a troll who craves pie to the exclusion of all else?” Quinneria jabbed him lightly.

  “It’s not all else,” Vaste said. “I would, of course, place you, the master pie-maker, in importance above the pies themselves—”

  “I don’t like my odds of ending up anywhere near the top of that hierarchy,” Terian said.

  “Yes,” Vaste said. “You’re somewhere below pie but above chipmunks and hedgehogs.”

  “You’re all somewhere below chipmunks in mine,” Aisling said. When all eyes turned to her, she said, “I haven’t had Vaste’s experiences with them. To me they just look cute.”

  “Wait,” Calene said, holding up a hand. “If you say it’s down to Bellarum, Virixia and Rotan … where are the Gods of Good and Evil in all this?” Cyrus watched Vidara cringe slightly, and Terrgenden’s normally jovial expression turn pained. “Wait, are they already dead?”

  “They’re …” Terrgenden cleared his throat, clearly trying to come up with some sort of explanation. “Not dead, no …”

  “But they’re part of the pantheon, aren’t they?” Calene asked. Cyrus looked around the table to find everyone regarding Terrgenden with great intensity, save for two faces—Quinneria looked aloof, telling Cyrus that she knew something that the others did not. The other was Scuddar, who seemed utterly relaxed, although his eyes were darting about as though he, too, knew something the others were not aware of.

  “They aren’t part of the pantheon, no,” Terrgenden said.

  “Do they not exist?” Longwell asked. “Have we … have we finally found one of your myths that doesn’t actually have teeth hiding behind it? Because this is getting pretty damned wearisome, having to perpetually cast my eyes heavenward and wonder how wrong my theology was.”

  “I thought the God of Evil had some presence in the Trials of Purgatory?” Aisling asked, watching reactions like Cyrus was. “The Final Guardian? And that … other … thing, beyond one of the portals …”

  “They exist,” Vidara said.

  “Yes,” said Terrgenden, “the God of Evil did leave the Final Guardian … and there is a portal that leads to … a domain of his … a place where we’ve … communed with him, I suppose you could say. But he and the God of Good …” here he looked even more pained, “… they are … beyond us. Not involved in our … our war.”

  “How are they beyond you?” Calene asked, looking utterly perplexed. “You’re … you’re all deities together, aren’t you? Did they just … do what Bellarum is doing and evolve beyond you?”

  “It’s a … long story,” Vidara said. “But to cut it short, they’re not like us. They don’t come from where we did.”

  “And where do you come from, then?” Longwell asked, like a predator sensing weakness.

  Vidara and Terrgenden both fell into a silence, looking uncomfortably across the table at each other.

  “They were the ancients,” Cyrus said, staring them both down. Vidara looked up, startled, but Terrgenden kept his head down, smiling vaguely. “Or what’s left of them. The old empire that built this place.” He waved his hand to indicate the Citadel around them. “That built the portals, the ruins—like Zanbellish.” He watched Vidara flinch slightly at his words. “You deified yourselves.”

  “Did your mother tell you that?” Terrgenden asked, still not looking up.

  “I—no,” Quinneria said, looking at Cyrus in bewilderment. “I didn’t.”

  “It’s another ‘The Warrior is Thinking’ miracle!” Terian shouted in mock surprise. “Praise be to the—well, whoever’s left, I guess.”

  “You want to offer praise to Bellarum?” Calene asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  “It was all out there,” Cyrus said, staring straight ahead, past Terian’s shoulder. “The culmination of everything we’ve learned these last few years. Strings waiting to be tied together, really.”

  “And naturally, being the master of sewing that you are, now that you’re master of nothing else,” Vaste said, “you took it upon yourself to tie them together.”

  “Care to lay it out for us, Cyrus?” Terian asked, leaning heavily with his palm against his cheek. “Because …” he looked from Terrgenden to Vidara, “their reaction has convinced me you’re right, but it’s at odds with everything we know about the War of the Gods and what followed.”

  Cyrus took a deep breath. “We don’t know anything about the War of the Gods that we didn’t hear from history or from Alaric and Curatio. The latter two were there, and the former …” He looked at Terrgenden, who smiled wanly, “… well, much like the magic taught by the Leagues, it all comes directly from the gods themselves, in one form or another.” He stood, his chair screeching as he pushed it back.

  “That’s still a big leap to make,” Isabelle said.

  “They wanted us to believe they were immortal,” Cyrus said. “That they were beyond us, and so they hid every single story about the other gods that were killed—Drettanden, Marei—whoever else—”

  “It is a long list,” Vidara said.

  “—except for one, which they tied carefully to Bellarum, thus suggesting that only the influence of one of them could result in the death of one of them. Mortals can’t kill gods, only gods can. And until I cut Mortus with Praelior,” Cyrus said, patting the hilt of his weapon, “that deception held. The godly weapons were utterly out of the game, held by those that were most trusted by the deities themselves.”

  “Is anyone else wishing right now that Ashan’agar hadn’t buried the damned things under the Mountains of Nartanis?” Vaste asked, looking around the table. “Because while I notice some of you have picked up some new toys, I’m really starting to grow disenchanted with this old thing.” He rapped his white staff against the table and the spear tip rattled around the crystal. “Also, I’m beginning to think I should have had a professional carpenter do this instead of trying to turn it into a spear myself.”

  “Not now, Vaste,” Cyrus said. “Alaric told us after we killed Mortus that the gods were hiding things. Hiding the dead. And then, last year, we watched Malpravus use information he’d gleaned from being in Yartraak’s service and from following the footsteps of the ancients to start his own
ascension.” He stared right at Terrgenden, whose smile was looking somewhat forced. “He was just becoming what they already had—immortal, but not in the sense of the gods beyond—meaning the ones of Good and Evil—”

  “You don’t know that,” Vidara said, almost mumbling. “We don’t even know that much about the gods beyond or how their power comes to them. They might have done what we did, only earlier.”

  “I wonder why you don’t know that?” Mendicant asked, his curiosity causing him to hold his mouth slightly open, his pointed teeth all showing. “I mean, if I were you, having achieved this level of … of power … why would you stop when there might be more beyond it?”

  Vidara sighed. “We didn’t stop. There was … something of an expert who had pursued these questions, but …” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. The point is … it was pursued. Some answers were even found, but other things got in the way.”

  “What other things—” Isabelle started to ask.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Vidara said sharply. “There is no help for us in that direction.”

  “No ark?” Cyrus asked lightly, looking to Scuddar, who met his gaze placidly.

  “I thought that was a legend?” Calene asked, frowning.

  “It exists,” Vidara said. “Or it did.”

  “Where?” Terrgenden asked, his eyes widening.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Vidara snapped. “It is lost.” She turned her eyes back to Cyrus, and he could see dull crimson burning through the green irises. “You are very clever, of course. You always were. It’s why he chose you; brawn alone would not suffice for his champion.” She looked away. “And it’s one of the reasons she loved you as well. You’ve put it all together, but none of it matters now.” She looked back up, eyes burning. “Nothing matters but stopping him.” She fell into a silence, overcome by the emotions that had been tearing at her.