Ryin stared at the weapon and then shuffled back, his lips parted in awe. He held it, staring at it, cradling it, but saying nothing.
“Longwell,” Cyrus said, and the dragoon stepped forth hesitantly. “I know you favor that mystical lance of yours, but …” He picked up the next weapon, long and ungainly to his eyes, but practically weightless in his hand, its heft perfect. He flipped it gracefully around and offered the end to Longwell, leaving the sharp point aimed at himself. It had a broad head that came to a delicate point, lacking the wide tri-point that Longwell’s present weapon had. “Amnis … the Spear of Water.”
Longwell took up its end and held it, then his words came out too speedily to comprehend. He paused for less than a second, then said, more slowly, “This is … a godly weapon?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said. “All of these are.”
“Huh,” Longwell said, and then looked up. “I have to go test this out.” And he beat a path to the flap of the tent and was gone as if a breeze had carried him away.
“Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and the goblin stepped out from behind Vaste’s legs. Cyrus had watched him, hiding, for the last few minutes. “You know what’s coming, don’t you?”
“I don’t dare to believe,” Mendicant said quietly. “These … these last days … when you gave me no task … I … I feared you had no confidence in me to do … to do … anything.”
“I have great confidence in you,” Cyrus said, picking up the next weapon. It had a broad head, suitable for smashing skulls, if need be. Picking it up left only one more on the table, but Cyrus ignored that one for now. “And I do have a task for you.” He lifted the weapon in his hand and then extended it so that the goblin could take it up. The metal on the weapon glistened a dark color, with an occasional sparkle like mineral veins illuminated in a dark cave. “I give you Terrenus … the Hammer of Earth.” He knelt down to bring it closer to Mendicant, and the goblin hovered, seemingly scared to take up the weapon. “And with this, I give you a task. You are to go to your people and show them that you’ve reclaimed their birthright … and …” Cyrus hesitated, for this was the part he dreaded, “… and you are to convince as many as you can … to join us in this battle.” He paused. “I know it will be difficult, given that Rotan is your—”
“It will not be difficult,” Mendicant said, raising his eyes to Cyrus. “Rotan has done nothing for us. The Imperium rose in his name and oppressed my people for countless years. All that while he was silent, not a word of protest. You felled the Imperium, and now you have returned …” He wrapped his clawed fingers around the hammer, “… you have returned to us what we thought lost.” His voice cracked. “I will rally my people to you, Cyrus Davidon. I will tell them what comes, and they will join us in this battle.” The goblin sniffled, and started to cast a spell. “You have my word.” He disappeared in a blaze of light.
“Well, now the theater is done,” Ryin said, “I want to go test out my new toy as well.” And he turned and walked out, holding the staff reverently.
“I as well, I suppose,” said Scuddar, though he was much more measured and graceful in his departure.
“Don’t you want to go test out your new weapon?” Cyrus asked, watching Vaste, who had seemed to settle one eye on Letum and one on Cyrus.
“Oh, definitely,” Vaste said, “but first I just wanted to say … I see you over there, looking at that last weapon, without anyone to claim it. I see you, and I know what you’re thinking.”
Cyrus glanced at the last weapon. “Do you? Figured it out, have you?”
“It’s not exactly alchemy,” the troll replied. “Ferocis, right? You always wanted it, and now it’s yours for the taking.”
“Then I guess,” Cyrus said, dropping a hand on the blade remaining and lifting it up before him, “I better take it.” He swung it wide, careful to miss the poles holding the tent up. It had a broad blade, much broader than Praelior’s. He imagined it cutting through limb and neck, severing heads from his enemies. Just one last enemy, really …
“Now you have two swords again,” Vaste said. “Planning to give one of them away?”
“No,” Cyrus said, settling his new blade in his hand. It fit perfectly, like it had been molded just for him, just for his use, even though he knew it had not.
“Come on,” Vaste said. “Just say it.” Cyrus stared at him, unknowing. “I heard you, giving the full names of the weapons, you and your dramatics. I know you want to say it, so … say it.” He leaned in. “It’s just the two of us, after all.”
Cyrus smiled thinly. The triumph felt hollow save for the chance it might give them in the battle ahead. “Fine. I claim this weapon as my own in hopes that it will guide my hand in severing the head of its previous owner—Ferocis, the Warblade of Bellarum.”
84.
Alaric
We ransacked the depot’s armory in a rush, my urgency filtering through to my new army—or old army, I suppose. They hurriedly put on the armor of Protanian guards, admiring themselves when covered from neck to boots in the protection of those we had thought gods when first we encountered them. They’d been unstoppable, and had destroyed our army, rendering us captives with greatest ease. Now we wore their accouterments.
“How do I look in this?” Varren asked as I put on the breastplate. I had already secured the links of mail that covered the small cracks in the armor, and put on the greaves and boots. The breastplate fit tightly around my chest, snug but not terrible. It felt safe, as though it would protect me from the damage I suspected was soon to come my way.
I turned to look at Varren, chainmail draped over him, overflowing past his wrists. “I think you might have taken mail intended for a much larger man,” I said, putting it as diplomatically as I could.
“I thought so, but I wasn’t entirely sure.” He pulled it over his head and let it slough off to the ground with a rattle that blended in with the sounds of men clanking their armor, butting it together to test its sturdiness, and even laughing about wearing it at all.
I grunted and turned back to my task, fitting my armor back on. “You going to go home after this?” Varren asked out of the blue.
I turned and saw him staring at me, waiting for the answer. “I expect I will,” I said, ignoring the gnawing feeling of worry about what was to come before we could even consider that moment. “Even if we succeed here, I don’t think there’s much of a long-term future for humans in a land where we were so recently slaves.”
“I like the land here,” Varren said, shrugging. “The guards here were nicer than at the camp, and they’d talk to us sometimes. Told me about a place south of here, a little to the west, flat lands as far as the eye can see.”
“Sounds like the steppes north of Enrant Monge,” I said, looking at the helms. They didn’t much appeal to me, so I passed and started to fit one of the belts to my waist, sliding Aterum’s scabbard on first.
“I guess they’re flatter than that,” Varren said. “Greener, too.” He stared off into the distance. “I’d like to see that. Maybe I’ll stick around after it’s all over with, make my way down there.” He chortled. “It’s not like Luukessia has great need of Varren Perdamun’s services at the moment.” He stopped, and a trace of regret shadowed across his features. “Or ever.”
“Well, I could use your service right now,” I said, strapping the belt tight. I paused, looking over what I had left—an extra sword that I had no scabbard for. I didn’t know how to fight with two anyway. “Uhh, would you like this weapon?” I asked him, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth. I held out Rodanthar to him, the reservations about giving away Chavoron’s blade raising themselves as soon as I’d extended the offer. This had been the blade of my mentor, the man who’d taught me more about life and leadership than any other I’d known.
“It looks a fair sight better than the ones on the rack over there,” Varren said with an easy grin, taking it gingerly from my hands. The moment it was gone, so too was the regret. Chavoron had given
me many things, and a sword I couldn’t even use was the least of the ones I would remember him for.
“Good fortune with that,” I said as he swung it, the blade whistling through the air. “It’s a powerful weapon—”
“Tmabtit!” he said, his words speeding as I looked to see him moving at a speed beyond belief. He slowed down, carefully threading the blade through his belt. He looked at me, breathless. “That sword is incredible! It was like you were moving in water and I was watching you from without as you tried to power through.” He put his hand on the blade again. “Amzg!”
“You might have to talk slower to make yourself understood with that in hand,” I said, pulling away from him. I took up the helm that looked least appalling and readied it. It looked a little like a bucket with a rounded end. “No wonder the guards never wear these,” I muttered to myself, and with a sigh, placed it over my head. I could see through the single slit with my one eye perfectly well, and there was a square-sized place for me to speak. It left my chin unguarded, but that made it less stifling than a helm that would have covered my mouth entirely.
“You look … knightly,” Curatio said, sizing me up as I came over to him, clad in the armor that was to become my signature for all the years stretching forth from that moment. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” I said, and saw that the men were quiet, waiting, only a few laggards still struggling into their armor. “Let’s go.”
85.
Cyrus
“I’m not exactly sure why you’re wanting me along on this excursion,” Calene Raverle said, looking much like a mouse hanging from a cat’s mouth. Cyrus was leading her along through the streets of Reikonos, not looking back to see the fearful expression she wore whenever she was uncertain of something. “I don’t think I add much of anything, and our army’s busy gathering outside the walls—
“The army will be fine without us for a few minutes,” Cyrus said patiently, ignoring her objections. He tried diligently not to look at the other person he’d brought on this errand, but it was difficult, even though she was studiously avoiding his attention as well. “It’s a short stop. You won’t miss anything.”
“It’s not that I’m worried about missing anything—” Calene started again.
“Then quit your squawking,” Aisling said sharply from her place next to Cyrus, her patience running out faster than his.
“How far away are we?” Cyrus asked. They were moving through a side street not far from the docks, with horses, donkeys and countless wagons and carts clogging the roads. The reconstruction of Reikonos was in full swing—again.
“I can’t recall having been to this particular apothecary before,” Aisling said dryly, “so I don’t know exactly. If you’d told me you needed poison before we left Sovar, I could have procured whatever you wanted from my usual suppliers.”
“You use enough poison to need a regular supplier?” Calene asked.
“Yes,” Aisling said simply. “I assassinate people, see. And even when I fight in a regular battle, I often coat my blades in poison in order to make the fight easier.”
“I didn’t know that,” Calene said softly.
“I did,” Cyrus said, drawing a slit-eyed look from Aisling that caused an old scar in his back to tingle with imaginary pain. “Through hard experience.”
“So you think you’re going to poison Bellarum?” Calene asked, voice still a little shaky with nerves.
Well, this isn’t going to help … Cyrus thought. “No,” he said, “you are.”
Calene missed a step and gasped as she stumbled on the cobblestone road. Cyrus paused and turned, Aisling mirroring his motion with a fluid grace even as annoyance flashed across her face. “Me?” Calene asked, recovering her footing and pointing at herself. “You want me to …” She looked around them as if seeking out eavesdroppers, then lowered her voice, “… poison the God of War?”
Cyrus made motion to look around him, then leaned in closer to her, mimicking her move. “Yes,” he whispered loudly.
“With my claws?” she asked, pulling up Fulmenar questioningly.
“With an arrow, actually,” Cyrus said, resuming his path. Aisling, as always, led him in his motion.
“I don’t know who you think I am,” Calene said, and she hurried to catch up to the two of them, “but you’ve got the wrong ranger. I’m not Martaina. Bellarum … he’s only got those two measly eye-holes where he glares with those glowing coal-eyes. I can’t plant an arrow in there!”
“Sure you can,” Cyrus said. “I believe in you.”
“You’re not even looking at me as you say that!” Calene called at him as they came around a corner onto an alleyway with dark eaves hanging over it, casting the street in shadow. “I’m not feeling the confidence!”
“You’ll get there,” Aisling tossed over her shoulder without looking back. She lowered her voice and checked Calene’s position relative to them. Apparently satisfied with the ranger’s distance, she whispered, “Is your mind on the battle? Or elsewhere?”
“Those eye holes are an inch by an inch or I’m the cousin of an elephant,” Calene said. “And he’s encased in metal all around the rest of him, not a sign of godly flesh peeking out for a poke …”
“There are flaws in every suit of armor,” Cyrus called back encouragingly. “All you need do is find them.” Directing his attention to Aisling, he asked, “Where else would my mind be?”
“On Vara’s resurrected body being used for any whim of the God of War,” Aisling said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
Cyrus did not miss a step, but only barely. He felt a full rising of his stomach, revulsion clawing up from within, and he could not control his facial reaction, which blossomed into disgust. “I wasn’t thinking about that until you said it.”
“Well, brace yourself,” Aisling said, “because if we happen to start winning, Bellarum will say or do anything to throw you back a step.”
“I didn’t miss a single one just now,” Cyrus said tautly, the sheer rage roiling his belly at the thought she’d just planted yet to subside.
“I just threw the nastiest insinuation I could think of at you,” Aisling said. “I expect the God of War can do worse.”
“He can do worse with an arrow in his eye and a sword up his arse,” Cyrus said as Aisling danced in front of him to open a door beneath a ragged wooden sign that swung gently above them. She held it open for him and he stared at her for a moment before stepping through, turning his back to her as he did so.
“So you trust me now,” she said, apparently catching the significance of his action.
“Have for a while,” Cyrus said, not deigning to turn back as he said it, and instead sauntering up to the apothecary’s counter.
Aisling slunk up next to him, and a moment later the door rattled to herald the entry of Calene. “I need to inquire about some of your more … alchemical compositions,” Aisling said slyly. Cyrus watched, frowning.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the apothecary said, with an unfailing smile.
“I thought we were here about poisons?” Calene asked, arriving at the counter with all the subtlety of a southern rhinoceros that had found its way through the Heia Pass into an elven town.
The apothecary looked right at Cyrus, lips pulled tight into a pinprick of an O. “Yes,” Cyrus said, knowing the man recognized him. “That’s what we’re here about. For the battle coming up.”
“I see,” the apothecary said. He touched his chin with nervous fingers. “Ahh … I worry that perhaps my sale to you of these items might provoke a—”
“The gods tried to destroy Reikonos a few months ago,” Cyrus said flatly. “If they didn’t destroy your shop, it wasn’t because they weren’t trying to, it was because we stopped them. Do you fancy the idea of letting them have another go at it? Because should we fall, they will.”
The apothecary blinked at them, then a nervous smile spread across his face. “Whatever you require, my friends. My hum
ble stores are at your command.”
“I’ll need some hemlock, some nightshade,” Aisling said. “And do you have any arsenic?”
Calene listened, her face tightly puckered with anxiety. “You … you really do know these things.”
“I have all of those on hand, yes,” the apothecary said primly. “Is there anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Aisling asked.
“Perhaps one more thing,” Cyrus said, and slid a piece of parchment across the counter. The apothecary picked it up and held it nearly to his nose, trying to read the small, scratched print.
“Ah,” he said at last, and looked at Cyrus. “Yes, I have some—”
“Good,” Cyrus said simply, cutting him off before he spoke it aloud. “Gather them all up.” He reached into the coinpurse at his side and pulled out a hand full of gold coins, letting them fall upon the counter carefully. The apothecary’s eyes grew large. “For your trouble.”
The apothecary nodded once, and then vanished into a small doorway behind the counter. Cyrus watched him go in silence, and heard him bustling in the back room, the rattle of glass containers being clinked together.
“What was on the paper?” Calene asked. Aisling, wordlessly, held out her hand, and the ranger reached out. Aisling dropped something small into it, and Cyrus watched as Calene brought up the small scrap of parchment. “How did you—?” She shook her head and unfolded the parchment, reading Cyrus’s note to the apothecary. “What the f—?”
“Shhhh,” Cyrus said, and pointed upward. Ears all around, but eyes everywhere? That’s the question.
“Clever,” Aisling said.
“I can be clever sometimes,” Cyrus said, taking up the note from Calene and scorching it with a fire spell into cinder and ash. “We should have all the poisons we need.”
“Yeah, but you still need me to do something that’s well nigh impossible for someone who’s not lived a thousand years with their bow in hand,” Calene said, and her hands shook.
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