Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  88.

  Alaric

  I lost count of how many humans we freed. There were so many and they were so huddled and desperate. I led them through the streets, stopping and peeling off with some of my army whenever we caught sight of another. We would free the humans and then rejoin the mighty, ever-expanding horde that we were creating, until finally we had grown so large in numbers, and the hour was so late, that I had to shepherd them to the Citadel in order to start our preparations for defense.

  The battles we’d fought against overwhelmed guards had gone swiftly and easily. We had attacked without warning, and they had fallen or fled with scarcely a fight. One of my men had taken a blade to the neck, it finding the space between breastplate and gorget with a lucky hit, but he had been healed before death, and that was the worst we had dealt with. We left numerous guards dead in our wake, though, and while I saw the hard look on Jena’s face at our actions, I saw the acknowledgment, too, that this was a necessary thing we were doing.

  “In here,” I said, when at last we reached the Citadel and I opened the doors. The massive foyer was empty, nighttime quiet having settled in the building. I did not know whether there were soldiers hiding within, but I hoped not. “Undertake a search of the floors,” I ordered five of my men as they entered, and received nods and Yes, sirs! in reply.

  The human masses flooded into the building, surging up the stairs until I had to cast the spell of flight upon myself, hovering above their heads as they continued to come, this endless deluge of people who had been freed to apparent death.

  I wondered at the direction of the threat approaching us. Was it truly as the Mortus had said? Could he have been lying? It was a question that tickled at the back of my mind, the worry of a slave who had been fed lies along with his servitude, who had been pushed into acts that I had never imagined before I left home and became caught in the net of the Protanian Empire. If the Mortus was right, it seemed to me that someone would have had to spearhead this effort, someone would be leading from the fore.

  I needed to find that someone and stop them … but I had a feeling if we were able to make the Citadel the safe harbor we hoped to, they would eventually find me.

  I looked around the filling room, the bodies bustling against each other as more and more forced their way in. I could see my soldiers, floating, like myself, their armor standing out against the tunics of the slaves. I caught sight of Jena at the far end of the room, hands moving up and down as she hovered against the wall, looking like she was casting a spell on it.

  I made my way over to her as I watched the shuffling of countless bodies up the steps around the edge of the foyer. “What are you doing?” I asked, curious.

  “There’s a pathway below, out of this room,” Jena said. “It leads down to the portal that feeds into the understreets.” She looked up, the glow of her hand fading and leaving her midnight blue skin somewhat faded. “Fearing a sneak attack, I have sealed it against entry.”

  “Well thought,” Curatio said, joining us. He was sweating visibly, drops running down his forehead. “There are more slaves out there, you know.”

  “The attack could come at any moment,” Jena said.

  “If it comes at all,” I said.

  “Do you doubt it will?” Curatio asked, frowning.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I know nothing about what is happening here, about what is to come … I feel like a blind man blundering in the dark.” I adjusted my helm, my lone eye peeking out. “Perhaps it is coming, perhaps it is not. This is all madness, and not of a sort I understand.” I adjusted my armor. “I will go and look for more, though, while you ready—”

  “No,” Curatio said, eyes staring straight ahead, lost in thought. “I will go and seek more of the slaves.” He raised his mace and deployed the spikes. “I have visited enough suffering upon your people that a debt is owed from me to them. Stay, and make ready. I will return with as many as I can save.” He started away, cloak whirling behind him as he flew out the double doors over the heads of the slaves that were still coming in.

  “He’s becoming a different sort of fellow than the one that nearly killed me,” I said, watching him go.

  “You’re becoming a different sort of fellow than the one he nearly killed,” Jena said, “and than the one I met in that slave camp.” She smiled faintly. “I need to go to the top of the tower to cast this spell. It will be more effective there.”

  “Very well,” I said, ushering her toward the stairs. It was doomed to be a long climb. “Up we go.”

  89.

  Cyrus

  The Realm of War lived up to its name from the moment they entered on the flight of the spell. His boots had barely touched ground before Cyrus saw the armies marching across flat fields toward him, away from the walls of the citadel they defended at the center of the realm.

  “Good gracious,” Vaste said, loud enough to be heard at some distance. Cyrus cast the Falcon’s Essence spell and took to the sky, hovering over the ground, and before him, he saw nothing … but battle waiting, waiting to begin.

  The armies of Bellarum, Virixia and Rotan stretched from just beyond the point where they were appearing all the way up to the walls of a fortress behind them. Cyrus squinted; there was a tower in the distance, surrounded by dark, hanging clouds, and several other smaller towers at the points of a fortress. His curiosity piqued, and the armies set to oppose him unmoving, their charge ready but not yet falling, Cyrus ran into the sky, ignoring any danger so that he could get a closer look.

  “Is that …?” Vaste asked, following him up.

  Cyrus stared at the towers, at the building below them, and felt his breath leave him. “It … it looks like …”

  How could this be? Cyrus’s eyes were fixed on the building in the distance. It was so perfectly formed, exactly like …

  “It looks like—like he stole Sanctuary from us,” Terian said, rage rising in the paladin’s voice as he joined Cyrus in the air.

  “How in the name of all my ancestors would he do that?” Longwell asked, sounding hollow, astounded, like the rest of them.

  Cyrus stared and cast the Eagle Eye spell without speaking. He could see it more clearly now, the keep ahead, the tower sticking out, and now he could see the differences. “That’s not Sanctuary,” he said, strange relief mingled with a rising anger. “The stone is the wrong color, the arches are bent at harder angles, the buttresses are all wrong.” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “This isn’t Sanctuary. It’s a pale shadow, another lifeless imitation that he’s created just to piss me off.” He descended at once, watching the flashes of his army still arriving behind them, their formation growing rapidly but still small compared to what lay between them and the gates of Bellarum’s fortress.

  Cyrus came down to just above the height of a troll’s head, and surveyed his lines. Burnt Offerings and Endeavor were poised at the front, the trolls to Endeavor’s side at the flank and the Luukessian Cavalry with the last remnants of Sanctuary holding the left flank. Backing them in the lines behind were the Reikonos Guard, the Sovereignty’s army, the Confederation’s, the dwarves, the elves, the goblins and finally the gnomes, hidden behind the trolls. Cyrus took it all in with a glance, fixating on the archers led by the Amti rangers hidden just behind the trolls but in front of the gnomes. He made his signal to them, and then looked ahead to see what they were facing.

  It was a staggering force arrayed against him. In the center of Bellarum’s lines he could see knights in full armor, gleaming like silver atop horses armored for war. They looked fearsome, their helms sharp and jagged, reminding him of Terian’s armor when he was a dark knight. Toward the front of the army were what looked like enormous boars, the size of boulders, armored on the sides and with tusks longer than a dwarf. They carried four spear-toting riders on each side, and he could see clear ground before them, as though they would lead the charge. Cyrus stared at them; they reminded him slightly of the dead version of Drettanden he had faced in
Luukessia.

  Foot soldiers in plate lingered behind the knights and boars. Cyrus could see that some of them had four arms, some of them had four legs, some looked like centaurs, but all were covered, every inch in armor, with little sign of gaps to Cyrus’s appraising eyes. It was as though a spell had been cast on an armory and the plate metal had sprung to life of its own.

  “That’s going to be a tough nut to crack,” Terian said in his ear. “Bellarum’s army looks like it’s equipped better than any I’ve ever faced.”

  “You should take a look at what Rotan’s brought to the field,” J’anda mused, pointing to the left.

  Cyrus’s eyes took in the God of Earth’s forces, and they were a dismaying thing to be sure. There were golems of all sizes, from the height of men stretching all the way up to the size of titans, all composed of living boulder, an unstoppable wall of rock soldiers that would have made even Fortin take a step back before considering a charge.

  “I think the worst is going to come from above,” Quinneria said, pointing at the right flank of the enemy army.

  Cyrus looked and did not disagree. Virixia’s legions of the wind were in full attendance here; pegasi, winged horses with their riders clad in full plate like Bellarum’s army awaited, ready to charge. Other beings hovered already with their own sprite-like wings; he saw fae and other creatures of the wind carrying spears and swords, small—but swift, he was sure—ready to swoop down and take advantage wherever they could.

  “This is … terrifying,” Calene said, breathing heavily once again behind him. “They … they have greater numbers than us, don’t they?”

  “And they’re better armored,” Aisling said quietly. “Better armed than most of our motley flotsam, too.”

  Cyrus stared straight ahead, looking over the forces arrayed against them. The smell of Reikonos lingered in his nose, even though they’d left it behind. In the distance he could see the head of Bellarum’s army, a small figure on horseback, who was not even wearing armor of her own. She waited at the back of the lines, petite, commanding, and he almost see how the others waited on her, deferred to her. He was too far away to see her expression with the Eagle Eye spell, but somehow Cyrus knew even at this distance that Agora Friedlander was smiling.

  And somewhere, beyond all this … Vara waits.

  Or at least … something that looks like Vara waits.

  “The God of War himself does not deign to appear,” Scuddar said.

  “Why would he?” Vaste said sourly. “He probably assumes he’s got this battle all sewn up, what with superior numbers, two gods on his side …”

  “Arrogance is the downfall of many a man,” Cyrus said.

  “Are you speaking from experience again?” Aisling jabbed lightly at him.

  “Of course.” Cyrus narrowed his eyes as the archers loosed their first volley. Dark shapes flew through the air, falling in thin columns among Virixia’s army. The immaculate coats of pegasi were suddenly dotted with red, and the sound of screaming horses filled the air. Cyrus watched with an impartial eye as the first bands of chaos broke loose upon the field of battle, but Bellarum’s lines held.

  “They’re not charging,” Vaste said.

  “Why would they?” Cyrus asked idly as the clouds over the fortress rumbled in the distance. “They have the superior position. They want us to come to them so they can smite us.”

  “I don’t see Virixia or Rotan, eith—oh, there she is,” Calene said, pointing at the right flank. “She’s in with her army.”

  “Rotan’s in with his as well,” Mendicant whispered in something short of awe. “Hard to tell him from some of the golems, but … I assure you he is there. I have seen him.”

  Cyrus gauged his formation against what they were facing, and found it satisfactory. The goblins are far from Rotan, and the archers are well placed to deal with the damned flyers. He blinked, the adrenaline pumping, his heart hammering in his ears. “We’re only outnumbered at present,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. “What else are you hiding, Bellarum?”

  “Many secrets,” came a voice behind him, and Cyrus turned to see Vidara walking across the air toward them. She did not look like herself, at least not as he had known her. Her skin was blue, now, darker than any dark elf he had ever seen by several shades. She was not as tall as she sometimes presented herself, either, and her eyes were dark, but with an intensity he had never seen among Terian’s people. “Bellarum has many to hide.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Cyrus said, nodding once to the Goddess of Life. “I wasn’t sure you knew we were doing this.”

  “It almost escaped my notice,” Vidara said quietly, “but was brought to my attention at the last.” She made her way forward, some hesitation obvious. “I could not miss it.” She halted between Quinneria and Zarnn, who was completely focused on the battle ahead. She looked at him, her eyes falling to Rodanthar in his hand, and she said, softly, “That was my father’s sword, you know.”

  Zarnn looked up in surprise, but did not answer, so Cyrus did instead. “I didn’t know that, no,” he said.

  “It is one of many ties between your family and mine, Cyrus Davidon,” she said, smiling. “Like that medallion you now wear. It, too, once belonged to my father.”

  Cyrus’s hand went to his breastplate, but he did not withdraw the medallion hidden safely away beneath his armor, chainmail and his undershirt. “The one Alaric gave me?”

  “Indeed,” she said coolly. There were hints of regret in the way she spoke. “I think … it might have been his fondest possession.”

  Cyrus’s hand lingered above the breastplate, feeling strangely torn. “I … ah …” He turned his attention back to the impending battle, and saw another volley of arrows landing among the armies of Virixia to little damage. “Damn. That’s not going to do it.”

  “I said it was his fondest possession, Cyrus Davidon,” Vidara said, something in her tone of voice causing him to turn around. She stood a little taller now, sandwiched between the massive Zarnn and Quinneria, who was eyeing the goddess warily, her greying hair sweeping down from her shoulders in a way that Vidara’s black, lustrous hair did not. The Goddess of Life’s mane was flat and straight, limp even, lacking any of the life and vitality Cyrus had seen in it before she changed the shade of her skin.

  “I’d be happy to discuss that further at a later time.” Cyrus focused his attention on her, unwilling to take his eyes off of her until her disposition softened. His hands slowly crept toward the hilts of Ferocis and Praelior, covering the inches between in the least threatening manner as he could manage given his rising alarm. “I’m a little occupied at the moment.”

  “You will lose this battle,” Vidara said softly, “because you have no idea who you face … what he is,” she said, her face twisting into something mournful, horrified. “But he knows you … and he knows me.” Her expression went flat, blank for just a second—

  And then she swept down on Quinneria and slammed a fist into Cyrus’s mother’s ribcage, and blood erupted—

  A blast of pure spell energy burst forth from Quinneria’s hand, searing Vidara’s face as it flashed out. It faded in a second, and when it was gone, the Goddess of Life’s expression was gone as well, along with her head. The corpse fell, magic stripped, and landed with a thump amidst the front line of the dwarven army, who jumped out of the way as best they could.

  “Mother,” Cyrus whispered, as Quinneria dropped to a knee. He rushed forward to her, as dark blood poured from her side. Her hand glowed bright white for only a moment before her spell ceased and she cringed, trying to staunch the flow without success.

  “I think,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “this might be the end for me.” She looked up at him as she dropped to the other knee, kneeling now.

  “No,” Cyrus whispered. “No, no, you can’t—”

  “I can,” she said, looking up at him with those emerald green eyes. They sparkled just as they had when he was a child. Her hand found his face, smearing it
with her blood, its metallic scent assailing his nostrils. “I am … so proud … of you …” She forced the words out. “You … grew up … without me …”

  “I—you can’t leave me now,” Cyrus said, the words escaping in desperation. “Not now.” He looked out over the enemy before them, the lines that stretched so far in the distance. “How … how am I supposed to beat them without you?”

  “Not … without me,” she said, eyes fluttering, the green fading. She took the hand from his cheek and extended it out, into the distance, toward the waiting of Bellarum’s army. “My last … gift for you … my son …”

  The bolt that blew from her palm was almost unlike anything Cyrus had ever seen. It was akin to the fury of every storm he’d ever witnessed rolled into one, to the shaking of the earth, to the crashing of the waves on the deck of Tempestus’s ship as it rolled. It was as though lightning flashed in Cyrus’s eyes, and a miasma of colors issued out of his mother’s hand, an outflow of power the likes of which Arkaria had never seen.

  It hit Bellarum’s army solidly in the middle of their lines, and ripped through with a fury. Body parts were flung into the air as the crackle of the magic deafened Cyrus and he was forced to look away from its landing. It stopped after a few seconds, and when he turned back, the earth was scorched and black where it hand landed, and there was a hole a hundred feet wide all the way through the enemy army’s lines, clear back to the wall of the fortress, which had been knocked cleanly down in a swath where the spell had landed.