Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “What will you do now?” Terrgenden asked after a moment’s pause.

  “Gather our allies,” Cyrus said. “Prepare for the final battle. If we can, I’d like to end Virixia and Rotan before we go to the Realm of War.”

  Terrgenden shook his head. “They’ll be there now. They won’t risk stepping away.”

  “Because Bellarum won’t want us to kill them?” J’anda asked.

  “Because Bellarum won’t want them to die in a place where he can’t absorb their souls,” Vidara said stiffly. “And they’ll fear being left alone in their Realms, even with the portals sealed.” She looked right at Cyrus. “You’ve done the impossible these last few days, beaten our own when you shouldn’t have had a chance, struck down some of our best in their own realms, in the seats of their power. They’re terrified of you.”

  “They damned well ought to be,” Longwell muttered.

  “So then the path is clear,” Cyrus said, nodding, his thoughts swirling around him. “We need to gather our forces—everything we can muster—and then storm the Realm of War.” He saw a shadow cross over Vidara’s face, and she looked away. “Soon,” he said. “Within the week, I think, unless that’s too long to wait?”

  “We don’t know what he’s planning,” Terrgenden said uneasily, “but … it seems to involve you in some way. That said … entry into the Realm of War—it cannot be accomplished from the portal beneath us.”

  Cyrus leaned forward. “Then how do we get in?”

  “I can bring you inside,” Vidara said quietly, looking stricken. “It requires … a spell all its own. I can teach your spellcasters, and we can … we can all go together.”

  “Please teach Quinneria now, before you leave,” Cyrus said, and watched the goddess’s face fall. “It’s not that I want you to die, but you admitted that Bellarum could find his way into your realm. I don’t want our lives and our plan to fail because he kills you before we’re ready to face him.”

  “If he does, Cyrus Davidon,” Vidara said, “you will have graver problems to face in that realm without us there to help.”

  “Then you know what else we’ll face when we get there?” Cyrus asked. “Minions and whatnot? Other than Virixia and Rotan?”

  Vidara shook her head. “I have not been in that realm in ten thousand years. I have no idea what he has done to it since. It will likely be completely different than when last I was there.”

  “There is undoubtedly something else there,” Terrgenden said. “The God of War is not without his loyal followers and minions, yes. I’ve met a few of them and found them to be singularly vile creatures.”

  “That’s been my experience with his servants as well,” Cyrus said blackly. “All right. I have a few things I need to work on. Surprises … for Bellarum.” He tightened his jaw. “Let’s reconvene in three days’ time and we can finalize our plans.” He rose again and a few others stood with him. “When next we meet, we will plan the death of the God of War.”

  “Or our own, quite by accident,” Vaste said brightly. “Gosh, I hope it’s his.”

  “Not helpful, Vaste,” Cyrus said.

  “But quintessentially me,” the troll said.

  “Quinneria,” Vidara said, “if you’d care to learn the spell for transit to the Realm of War …?”

  “Certainly,” Quinneria said, giving Cyrus a significant look. “Perhaps you’d care to step out to—”

  “We can go upstairs,” Terrgenden said. “I think I wouldn’t mind seeing my old quarters again. Like a walk through an old memory.”

  “I’ll go as well,” Isabelle said with obvious suspicion, though it seemed to be directed toward Terrgenden rather than Vidara, Cyrus noted. In his mind, the two were conjoined, and he was having trouble trusting either of them entirely. Not that they need to know that …

  “This way,” Vidara said, “any who would care to learn.” She moved slowly, and Quinneria followed after her, giving Cyrus another look that he was not entirely sure he understood. Mendicant went along, claws clicking on the floor, as did Ryin, Cora, Dahveed, Bowe and Isabelle. J’anda followed behind as well, but more slowly, leaning on his staff with more weight than he had seemed to the day before.

  “I’ll be needing to get back to my guild now,” Larning said, standing up, his braided beard falling off his belly as he stood. “Summon me when I’m needed.”

  “Longwell,” Cyrus said as the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings made his way out of the room, “Go to Emerald Fields and let anyone of our army that want to join us know that the day is going to come soon, so they’d better make ready.” The dragoon nodded and headed for the door. “Scuddar, would you kindly go speak to the Reikonos Guard and Zarnn? Let them know to settle in, as we’ll be making our camp here.” The desert man gave a nod of his own and silently made his way out, catching Cyrus’s eye once more as he left. He’ll be wanting to talk about hope again … and the other thing …

  “I wonder why you didn’t just invite the troll up to the meeting?” Vaste said.

  “Because Zarnn is not the greatest communicator,” Cyrus said, frowning. “And why aren’t you off learning the spell for the Realm of War?”

  “Your mother can teach me later,” Vaste said, and then he turned serious. “Besides, I need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t need your apology,” Cyrus said.

  “That’s good, because I don’t have one for you.”

  “I’m going back to Saekaj to sleep in my own bed, and possibly marshal my army,” Terian said, his old armor rattling as he stood. “Maybe I’ll tell my wife what’s happened, too,” he said. “Then again, maybe not. She liked Grinnd at least as much as she liked me.”

  “It was hard not to,” Aisling said as she rose, “he always had a pleasant disposition.”

  “And you’re saying I don’t?” Terian adjusted his helm, and then smiled wolfishly, so unlike the armor’s last wearer. “Thank you, I think.”

  “Wait just a moment, please,” Vaste said, and the two of them stopped. “I … I need to tell you about something, before you go.” The troll took a breath. “About where I’ve been the last two days.”

  “I just assumed troll brothel,” Terian said.

  “He’s not you,” Aisling said.

  “Hey!” Terian said, “I have never visited a troll brothel, not even in my younger, more heedless and stupid days.” He paused, as he always did, before dropping the punchline. “Because they were my stupid days, not my suicidal days.”

  “What is it, Vaste?” Cyrus asked, looking over the last of them in the room; other than Terian and Aisling, Calene was the only one who remained, and she seemed to be doing her best to fade into the chair where she was sitting, her efforts at going unnoticed betrayed somewhat by the lightning-charged claws flaring silently upon her hand.

  “I’ve had something made,” Vaste said, his voice now solemn and serious. “I think you should see. But … we should wait for the others, so … perhaps on the morrow we could all go … or meet there … together.”

  “Where is it?” Cyrus asked, feeling the faint tingle running down his spine, the sense that he knew before the troll even said.

  “At the crater.” Vaste’s eyes looked tired, and there was a hint of a tear lingering in one of the corners. “Before we go forward with these plans, with this … final war … we should go back. One last time.”

  54.

  Alaric

  It shouldn’t have stunned me how quickly Chavoron whisked us away from his sanctuary. How swiftly we left behind the pleasurable companionship of the peaceful night, with the burning hearths and succulent foods, the warmth and atmosphere of that place traded for the coldness of Sennshann. For Chavoron was, above all else, the First Citizen of the Protanian Empire, and his sense of responsibility was what defined him. By the time the four of us reappeared in the top of the Citadel, he seemed to have forgotten his sanctuary as if it had never existed and was focused exclusively on the business at hand.

  “We will need to
respond to this quickly,” Chavoron said as the spell-light died around us. The balcony doors were still anchored tight against the rain spattering their windows. It appeared that the Tempestus was not done visiting his storm upon the city just yet. “Leaving it to linger and fester would be like leaving a sickness untreated.”

  “But how can you respond?” Caraleen asked. “Are you simply going to order in more guardsmen?”

  “That will do no good,” Mathurin said, shaking his head. “The Eruditia has prepared these slaves, apparently in much the same way that the Marei and I have prepared Alaric.” He shot me a worried look. “They have genuine weapons, Chavoron. Swords, not batons.”

  “Graciousness,” Chavoron whispered, “she did do the thing right, didn’t she?”

  Caraleen looked utterly scandalized. “This is … unfathomable.”

  “Nothing is truly unfathomable,” Chavoron said, lost in thought. “Take the seas, for instance. The Mler, the people that the Ashea makes congress with off the far coast of the elven lands below our outpost on the waves. They make homes fathoms below, and though we might not care to press our chances by seeking them in those depths, they are there and they know their own places beneath the oceans.” He looked right at her. “This is not unfathomable. The Eruditia seeks to make her mind known. Not in a way we would have chosen, but still … it not beyond understanding.”

  “She has armed slaves,” Caraleen said, patience straining, speaking to her father as though he were a dullard rather than someone trying to see all the sides of the puzzle, “she has set them against our own people. Have—” She looked at Mathurin. “Have any of the Zanbellish guardsmen died?”

  “No,” Mathurin said, “thankfully. When they realized what they were up against, they pulled back to wait for instructions. No one wanted to be responsible for a death, not on our side nor for killing the Eruditia. She seems to be putting herself out in front of this, trying to shield the slaves against our soldiers.”

  “A clever maneuver,” Chavoron said, “and one that would work against our people, paralyzed at the thought of killing one of their own.” He pursed his dark lips. “But these slaves—what sort are they?”

  “All sorts,” Mathurin said briskly. “Humans, goblins, dwarves, gnomes, perhaps a troll or two.”

  “Then they will gladly kill ours if given a chance,” Caraleen said, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. The tower stones gave off their dim glow, turning her dark skin a fainter color in the light. “The cabinet will go mad when they hear.”

  “I expect they are hearing even now,” Chavoron said. “It would be best to have a plan in motion before they manage to assemble, for anything we attempt afterward will be subject to their argument.”

  “Let me go,” Mathurin said, stepping forward, his angled armor dull in the faded light. “I will make my way into Zanbellish to face the slaves and stop the Eruditia.”

  “How will you stop her?” Chavoron asked with what sounded like thin amusement.

  “However you wish me to,” Mathurin said, and I caught the air of danger. “There are only a few dozen of their number, and poorly trained, compared to myself.”

  “You are still one man,” Chavoron said. “One Protanian man, facing slaves in a revolt in which it seems they wish to take Protanian lives.” He drummed his fingers against his chin, thinking. “I think the Eruditia wishes to shock us, all the citizens of the empire, and make a statement that cannot be ignored.”

  “She’s succeeding,” Caraleen said. “How do you stop her?”

  “By not sending in Protanian lives for her to end,” Chavoron said. And before the others could quite tumble to what he was suggesting, he turned to me, and I felt very much like I had when that first Protanian soldier was about to knock me out in the woods of Syloreas. “What do you say, Alaric?”

  “What … do you want me to do?” I asked, having only a vague idea of what I, alone, might do against an entire revolt of slaves who had been taught swordsmanship and—quite possibly—magic. Die was the most likely answer, and I cared little for that.

  “I want you to gather your legion,” Chavoron said, “the men you led in the Coliseum … and I want you to put an end to this revolt.”

  “You want me to … kill these people?” I asked, trying to make sense of the situation.

  “I would prefer you didn’t,” Chavoron said, and here he showed true regret, “at least not permanently, and neither do I wish you to take chances with your life. Keep the casualties to a minimum, please. Take utmost care, and stress this to your men.”

  “Chavoron,” Mathurin said stiffly, “please … allow me to go with him.”

  “Very well,” Chavoron said, with a nod. “You will lead from the rear. I will not have you become a martyr for Eruditia’s reckless theatrics.” Mathurin gave a nod of his own, but I could see his reluctance.

  Chavoron smiled briefly and looked into my eyes. I could see the warmth even as I felt my own worries rising within at the thought of stepping into combat once more. “I realize now that while I have inducted you into my house, I don’t believe I’ve ever told you what Garaunt means, in your language.”

  “I didn’t know the house name had meaning,” I said.

  “Everything we do has meaning,” Caraleen said softly. She looked near ready to weep, though whether it was from the thought of one of her own people in danger or that I was about to charge into it myself, I didn’t know.

  “Yes, Garaunt has a meaning of its own,” Chavoron said. “An ancient one, that hints at our origins. You see, once upon a time, our oldest ancestor, the first one who took a house name—she was a musician and a composer, and she made the music of the dead. The dirges we use in our ceremonies of farewell.”

  “That’s fascinating,” I said, not really sure why he was telling me this now, of all times.

  “I know it seems perhaps pointless to you,” Chavoron said, and he came beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. “But it means something to me that you are in my house, and that you are about to do this thing for me. I wish you to take care, for I am responsible for your safety.” I could see the concern in his red irises, the worry hinting out as he gave me a squeeze, so unlike any moments my father and I had shared. “I wish you to be careful, Alaric.” He looked behind him. “And you as well, Mathurin, while you do this thing in my service. For the name that you work under here is older than us all, and has meaning beyond our own lives. So take care—of yourselves, and of this task.”

  He straightened to his tallest, and the solemnity with which he spoke told me that this thing was of the gravest importance, both to him—and to us. “For you carry with you, in this, the honor of the House of Garaunt.

  “The House of Requiem.”

  55.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus could think of any number of places he would have preferred to be rather than the place where he stood, on the rim of the crater where Sanctuary had stood, the small core of his inner circle—what had been the Sanctuary Council—behind him, along with a handful of others.

  His mood was black, at odds with the bright sky above, a few clouds in the distance white against a turquoise backdrop. The wind picked up and stirred the verdant grass behind him. Cyrus ignored it, focusing his attention on the gaping wound in the earth at his feet, before turning it to the small stone monument that Vaste had commissioned a dwarven artisan to make. Slightly larger than a tombstone, it sat flat against the earth, a small memorial to those who had died, a few words scrawled across its surface.

  The air felt thick around him, stifling in spite of the breeze that brought with it a cool breath of air to a day that wasn’t all that hot to begin with. It’s the mood, Cyrus realized. They’ve all lost people here, too. Not as close, perhaps, as I have, but … He glanced over his shoulder and saw Zarnn, head and shoulders above the others, head bowed, as well Terian and Kahlee, leaning in close to each other, and it struck a hard nerve within him.

  I cannot be Cyrus the grim rig
ht now.

  “This,” Cyrus said, keeping his voice low, “may be the worst thing I can think of that’s ever happened.” He waited, giving it a moment to sink in, the better to catch them off guard. “With the exception of that time Vaste broke wind in Council, and we all had to wait out on the balcony for it to clear.”

  A moment of silence followed as his words sunk in, and a peal of laughter exploded from Calene first, then Ryin, who seemed to be guffawing against his own will. The others were laughing, too, down to Scuddar, who seemed to be chuckling beneath his balaclava.

  “I told you that wasn’t my fault,” Vaste said, delivering his riposte with his usual good humor, bottom teeth sticking out in his underbite. He was barely holding back a smile; his relief that Cyrus had made a joke—here, of all places—was obvious. “It was your mother who made beans for dinner three days in a row.”

  Quinneria stood behind Cyrus, her robes black for the memorial, the grey that streaked her hair now giving her a stately look. Her lips were pulled back in a slightly forced smile, as though she did not dare fail to embrace her son’s attempt to lighten the moment. “They were in season.”

  “I think it was a plot,” Vaste said, the laughter still rippling through the few of them that were here, “just another act of aggression and vengeance against the trolls.”

  “Truly,” J’anda said, utterly deadpan, “that landed more heavily upon those of us in the room than it did upon any troll.”

  It took a few minutes, but a sober silence fell over them, the laughter dying down until the peals were as distant in memory as the walls that had once stood here on the plains. Cyrus stared at the crater, and then looked at the memorial stone, and bowed his head. “Thank you, Vaste,” he said.

  “For not breaking wind? It seems the least I could do, given the circumstances.” The troll paused, then said, more softly. “It’s not much, but I felt … there needed to be something to mark their passage.” To mark her passage, he didn’t say, but Cyrus caught it nonetheless as he looked in the troll’s eyes.