Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “It is already done,” Chavoron said heavily, looking at me. He dropped Rodanthar with a clatter, and it echoed in the tower. He smiled sadly. “Do as I have asked you to do, and all will be—”

  The red glow that had stretched from the Drettanden’s blade went bright blue, then darkest black, and surged into Chavoron’s chest, making a hole in his middle. Chavoron jerked, his face showing the pain as it ripped into him, his eyes locked on mine. His mouth moved, he tried to say something, but failed.

  Chavoron’s face went slack, and then his body lost balance, and he fell, the magical weapon ripping him asunder as he plummeted to the stone floor. I watched, helpless, feeling the hammer suspended over my head, and knowing that it would descend soon.

  77.

  Cyrus

  “We’re going to fight,” Cyrus said to the assembled council. It was not like the old Council of Sanctuary, but for the familiar faces: Quinneria, Ryin, Scuddar, J’anda, Mendicant, a Terian who was so stonefaced that it almost looked like Bellarum had taken him after all, Aisling, Longwell, Calene, Vaste, who wore his concern plain on his face, Bowe, Dahveed, and Zarnn, who looked desperately uncomfortable and out of place among the others.

  They had guests, as well—Gareth from the southern elves, a mournful expression on the ranger’s face. Larning from Burnt Offerings sat next to Isabelle, who was still radiant even in the darkness, her white robes immaculate. Cattrine was another quiet presence, lingering down the table from Cyrus, her eyes ever anchored upon him.

  “About time,” Vaste said. “We haven’t done anything terribly foolish in months, and frankly, that’s the kind of sane, sensible action I simply cannot countenance from this group.”

  “So is this to be a hopeless fight?” Terian asked numbly. He looked up, meeting Cyrus’s gaze. “Because … while I, too, am in favor of doing anything but sitting here and waiting to die, it seems to me our circumstances haven’t changed, save for losing Terrgenden and Cora.”

  “No,” Cyrus said, drawing a deep breath of cavern air. “No, it’s not a hopeless fight. It’s a desperate one, but as Cora said to me …” He looked around the table. “We either fight now and lose grandly or lose by inches over the coming months.”

  “Or you could do as the God of War asked,” Calene said, warbling slightly. “Not saying you should,” she explained when she caught glances from the others, “merely stating that it was an option … on the table … to save lives.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t consider it,” Cyrus said, feeling a strength in his step as he started around the table. “For a long time, actually. It was agonizing, considering what would have to go into this choice. With but a simple acknowledgment, I could take my place ruling over all of you, lording it over you lesser beings—”

  “Oh, I see,” Vaste said, “he’s giving us a very compelling reason why this would be the worst decision ever.”

  “Yeah, I don’t really want to be a citizen of Cyrus, God of Arrogance’s realm,” Terian said sourly.

  “Point made, excellently,” Ryin agreed.

  “We either take a chance and die on our feet,” Cyrus said, letting all that pass, “against incredible odds, but free. Or we live on our knees, and watch Arkaria bow before Bellarum.” He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t have the right to make that decision, since I’m not your god emperor—”

  “But you would be if you chose to take Bellarum up,” Vaste said, “so really, you’re making the decision to either get us all killed or have us all live under your tender mercies as … I don’t know, Overlord of Arkaria? Something of that sort?”

  “We didn’t discuss titles,” Cyrus deadpanned. “Probably for the best, because if he’d offered ‘Arch-King of the Troll Conquerors,’ it would have swayed me in his direction.”

  “Hell, I’ll call you that,” Vaste said, “so long as you don’t boss me around.”

  “Well, I’d be your Arch King, so I think I’d have to boss you around at least a little.”

  “I’m not calling you that, then,” Vaste said. “I thought you were promising troll conquest.”

  “I promised troll conquest once,” Quinneria said dryly. “Or was it conquest of the trolls? Pedantic, I suppose, but now I’m curious …”

  “I don’t want to live as a slave,” Cyrus said, drawing them all back. “I’ve been a poor man, I’ve been a prisoner of the Society of Arms, I’ve lived my life under a few boots, but since the day I left the clutches of that place to strike out on my own and eventually joined Sanctuary … I’ve been my own person, set my own path.” Cyrus straightened. “I won’t enslave all Arkaria in the name of saving them. Perhaps they’d choose differently, but I’m a warrior, not an emperor.” His face hardened. “And not a god.”

  “We’re all well aware of that,” Isabelle said.

  “Some of us more than others,” Aisling said, then flushed slightly bluer when she said it.

  “Amen to that,” Cattrine muttered at the far end of the table.

  “I’d rather die defending this land,” Cyrus said, frowning at the two of them, “than live lording over it. So … we fight. Or at least, I do. I hope some of you are with me.”

  Terian stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Of course we’re with you, numbskull. We’ve been waiting for you to make this decision all along.” He threw up his arms in exasperation.

  “It’s mopeyness,” Vaste said sagely. “Gets in the way of the decision-making clarity.”

  Ryin chuckled dryly. “Yes, well … I am all for fighting, but … I suppose I’ll be the one to ask it. Do you have a plan?”

  “I have many plans,” Cyrus said, any trace of mirth evaporating.

  “Oh, heavens, we’re screwed,” Vaste said.

  “They’ll be scraping us off the stones in the Realm of War,” Calene said.

  “In the future,” J’anda said, “when asked if you have a plan, you should know that saying, ‘I have many,’ sounds a bit like false bravado—or flat-out lies, really, because—”

  “I actually have many plans, you assholes!” Cyrus said, thumping a hand down on the table.

  “We are so very dead,” Vaste said. “We should pre-plan our funerals, hire bakers to make cakes and such—”

  “I was kind of hoping to make it through this,” Calene said sadly, “I’d figured maybe, you know, we’d come wandering off the field. Maybe a few of you would die, true, but I could have stumbled out in the end with my fancy new claws … maybe a limp? I could have lived with a limp. Maybe a broken arm …?”

  “I suppose we just throw all our spells out at him at once, then,” Mendicant said, seeming to be musing aloud. “No point in holding back, after all …”

  “If you’re going to die, go out big, I suppose,” Longwell said, nodding. “I don’t want to live a slave, either.”

  “You know,” Cyrus said irritably, “I am so very, very tempted to become your damned Overlord now, you faithless shits. Suddenly it’s clear to me why Bellarum is so determined to rise to power alone.”

  “Sorry,” Aisling said with a polite cough. “It’s just that … usually you deploy your plans with considerable more confidence and drama. Like, for example,” she leaned into the table and adopted a somewhat leering facial expression, her voice deepening as she spoke. “I have a plan,” she said in mock imitation of Cyrus, and then broadened into a grin. “And it’s a marvelous one.” She held like that for a second, and then looked back up at him. “Like that. With … feeling. And a dramatic pause at the end, for silence. Not …” she slumped in her seat, “I have many plans, each as likely to fail as the last.”

  “I didn’t even say that last part!” Cyrus said, face creased with annoyance.

  “I thought it was implied,” Ryin said.

  “Zarnn heard,” Zarnn said. “In subtext.”

  “‘Subtext’? My goodness, who gave this troll language lessons?” Vaste asked. “Oh, right. Probably me. Advancing my peoples’ cause and all that.”

  “Learned from Calene,�
� Zarnn grunted. “Ranger very smart.”

  Calene blushed. “I also taught him a few human curse words, he was so bad at it.”

  Cyrus felt his eyes rolling, and found himself looking at his mother, who was watching with amusement. “And you, Mother?”

  “I’m waiting to hear your plans,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Someone’s soft in the heart for her baby,” Vaste said.

  “If you shut up now, I’ll give you a pie,” Quinneria said.

  “Done!” Vaste said. “I stand with you in suicide, Cyrus!” And he feigned locking his lips and throwing away the key. A pie slid before him.

  “A ringing endorsement from the troll,” Cyrus said sourly.

  “Elicited by shameless bribery,” Isabelle said with a smile.

  “You are all ruining my meeting,” Cyrus said. “I was going to come in here with my plans, and my fierce determination, and inspire you all in the fight to come, and now I’m just …” He threw up his hands.

  “So we’re not fighting?” Terian asked, sounding jaded.

  “I didn’t say that,” Cyrus said, giving him a sidelong glare.

  “Be a shame to waste those good plans,” Vaste said through a mouthful of pie.

  Cyrus gave a long sigh. “All right, well, we’ll get together some other time and talk about plans, I guess.”

  “Oh, don’t get all maudlin and filled with self-pity on us now,” Aisling said.

  “Yes, some of us are waiting with bated breath to see how we figure into this,” Cattrine said.

  “Really want to keep all my limbs,” Calene said. “Broken, sure. But gone? No, I don’t care for that thought at all. I need both these hands—”

  Cyrus covered his eyes, kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I should have just let him strike me down with Cora.”

  “I, for one,” came a strong voice at the back of the room, “want to hear Lord Davidon’s plans.” Every head in the room turned, and Cyrus caught a flash of aqua hair as Kahlee Lepos slid into the room, her gown trailing behind her. “He’s the victor of more battles than I can recall, has killed more gods than most can name, so …” She came to a gliding stop next to her husband, running a hand across his helm, laid flat on the table. “As Lady of Saekaj Sovar, I want to hear them, and the rest of you should shut up and listen.” She smiled at him.

  Cyrus’s lips twisted in amusement. “Thank you, Lady Lepos.” She nodded back to him in gratitude.

  Cyrus stared at the quiet assemblage, and took one moment to compose his thoughts. “Here are the problems we’re up against—one, we don’t know the geography of the Realm of War. Two, we don’t know what enemies lurk in the Realm of War, other than—most likely—Bellarum, Virixia, and Rotan. Armies of some sort of minions are most probably waiting as well, but it will be impossible to say for sure until we set foot on the field of battle. Three, our allies thus far are mostly ill-equipped armies of nation-states, with few spellcasters. Burnt Offerings and Endeavor being the obvious exceptions. Five—”

  “Wait, I thought there were plans,” J’anda said. “This is just a list of problems.”

  “You didn’t think there were plans,” Cyrus said crossly, “and I’m listing the problems to be overcome so none of you jesters gets complacent about how much thought I’ve put into this while you all assumed I’ve done nothing but moping and groaning this last several months.” He straightened. “I can do both. At the same time.”

  “Like walking and chewing pie,” Vaste said with a mouthful of blueberry, the dark filling sliding out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Like crushing enemy skull and picking teeth,” Zarnn said thoughtfully. “No. Wait. No do both at once, enemy skull paste will fly into open mouth.”

  “I’ve never had that problem,” Mendicant said, looking up at the troll across the table.

  “Once we’re past the armies,” Cyrus said, deciding to ignore them all, “we could face traps that we’ve likely never seen before. That’s five. Six and seven, once we’re past all that … we come to Bellarum himself.”

  “So you assigned him two numbers out of the sheer scope of the threat?” Isabelle asked, sounding once more too much like Vara for Cyrus’s taste.

  “If I’d assigned him more numbers to correspond with how much of a threat he is,” Cyrus said, “he’d be numbers six through ten million. No, I gave him six and seven because we have two major problems with Bellarum himself—his magic and his physical ability to strike us dead with a single blow. Eight, if you wish, can be his damned armor, because I’m guessing that’s a significant hurdle as well.”

  He paused to see if anyone else would say anything then went on. “Now, some of you have been urging me to simply rally for this final battle, just charge him down in one glorious—I don’t know, line of horses or something, like the wars of old. But this isn’t the wars of old. This isn’t even the gods of old, whom we have killed in great numbers. This is a deity who moves so fast we can’t see him, casts spells of a sort we’ve never seen before, who wears seemingly impenetrable armor, and who lives in a realm none of us have seen with support we can’t even guess at.” He folded his arms in front of him. “And we’re going to fight him.”

  “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to lose an arm,” Calene said. “Or a leg. I draw the line at both, though. I could hop—”

  “A few more minutes of this depressing plan and you’ll have talked yourself out of needing to keep your head,” Terian said.

  “I feel as though all my effort is going into keeping mine at present,” Aisling muttered. “Is it time to panic yet? Because this sounds panic-worthy.”

  “These are our problems,” Cyrus said, “and I have plans to deal with … well, most of them.” He hesitated. “Some of them require help we don’t yet have, and might not get.” He took another breath. “In any case, I’ll need your assistance. All of your assistance.” He scanned the table. “But even if every one of my plans to level this battlefield works, we will still be facing a god beyond any we’ve faced, his unfathomable army, and two others deities, on unfamiliar ground.” Cyrus took a deep breath, and it felt as though all the air had left the room. “Now … who wants to hear how we take the fight right to this bastard?”

  78.

  Alaric

  “Chavoron,” I whispered, feeling the power of the Drettanden’s magic coursing inches away from my skull. It seemed certain he would bring it down soon, but my mind was on the man who had just been killed in front of me, taken before my very eyes.

  “You poor, pitiful little human,” the Drettanden whispered, just over my shoulder. “You never really had a chance, you know.”

  “Why?” I asked, feeling the cool indifference of knowing I was dead and not caring if my answer gave great offense. I tried to steady my mind, keeping my sword at my side and non-threatening.

  The Drettanden hesitated, as though he thought the answer was obvious. “Because you’re human, of co—”

  I brought up my hand and blasted him with a concentrated force. It shot out of my palm and hit him in the face. I brought my head and sword around in time to see him go limp as he flew out the balcony door, his eyes already closed, unconscious. He sailed over the railing, and I came after him, looking down to see him tumble all the way to the bottom. A blossoming cloud of dark liquid splashed outward on the stone below. I knew there was not a healer in Sennshann talented enough to undo what I’d just done to the Drettanden by surprise and luck.

  “What in the human piss has happened in here?” Curatio’s voice called from inside the tower. I came back in to find him kneeling over Chavoron’s body, his fingers glowing to no avail. Jena stepped in off the balcony to my right, her face lit with concern as she looked at Chavoron.

  “The Drettanden came to kill him with two of his finest soldiers,” I explained wearily.

  Curatio blinked at me. “And what happened to them?”

  “Chavoron killed the soldiers,” I said, “but the Drettanden st
ruck him down. He had me, but … he made the same mistake you did and lowered his guard when he was calling me an inferior human.”

  Curatio’s eyes narrowed. “And is he …?”

  “His blood and all else dots the stones below,” I said, gesturing in the direction from whence I’d just come. Curatio, curious, got up and went past me, out on the balcony and looked over. Apparently satisfied, he returned a moment later and gave me a curt nod. “Chavoron,” I said, turning my attention to the lifeless body on the tower floor. I cradled him, looking into his eyes, but they were empty.

  “Alaric,” Jena said her hand resting gently on my shoulder. “What has happened here? Why did the Drettanden come to kill Chavoron?”

  “He called us a stain on the empire,” I said, looking anxiously down at Chavoron as I tried a resurrection spell. The light glowed but failed to take hold on Chavoron. It was only then that I fully appreciated, looking into those dull red eyes, that he was truly gone. His face was at rest, showing none of the barely hidden amusement he had so often exhibited in life. I half-expected him to smile at me, to say something to suggest he was plotting even now, dealing with the problem that we now faced.

  But his lips did not move, and there was nothing but silence from the First Citizen of the Protanian Empire.

  I looked up. “They’re rounding up the slaves, taking them somewhere. Killing the holders. The Drettanden said something about … building a new empire free of the sins of the old.”

  “That has an ominous tone,” Curatio said. “Half the empire had at least one slave. A reprehensible practice to be sure, but I’m not sure how you cleanse an entire land of such a … mark.”

  “Scourging it,” Jena said quietly. “With fire.”

  “That’s extreme,” I said, “even for them. No, most likely they’re going to attack the slaveholders who resist, kill them all, and call this new freedom peace. Start over again with all the slaves freed. I can sympathize with that cause, but in excising the fever I become concerned they may kill the body as well.” I stopped and scooped up Rodanthar from where it lay. The hilt of the blade felt good in my hand.