Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Damnation, he was carrying a grudge of his own, wasn’t he?” Vaste asked.

  “I can sympathize with that,” Terian said, joining them. “A lot of us have some unresolved problems with our former deities. We worshipped them, they didn’t do jack for us, you know.”

  “Oh, I know,” Cyrus said, taking stock of the fight around him. The field was still a melee on the right flank behind them, the army of the elves and goblins having joined the battle. Cyrus could see the orderly lines that they’d begun with turned asunder into a maddening clash. Far overhead he could see Virixia trying desperately to escape the claws and teeth of Ehrgraz, but another dragon was billowing ice at her, frosting her wings, and she could not fly. He watched with detached interest as the Goddess of Wind was torn to pieces in the skies above the battle, then shrugged and started forward again.

  A lone figure was riding toward him now, so small as to be almost childlike, her red cloak billowing behind her. Cyrus ignored the piles of corpses between them and killed another six infantrymen that came for him as she continued her charge. He could see the determined look on her face as she advanced, and she was barely in earshot when he heard her high voice echo over the fight.

  “You and I were fated to meet like this, Cyrus Davidon!” Agora Friedlander shouted, her horse galloping hard toward him. “You and I served the same god with all our lives, all our hearts! Our histories were on a parallel course, kept apart until almost this moment. Now they are impossibly intertwined!” She laughed, a spear in her small hand raised to skewer him as she rode him down. She had the delight of a warrior at battle, and he could see the look in her eyes as she drew close, ready to attack. “My whole life has led up to this! Our destinies are converging on this moment and I must—”

  He batted her spear aside almost without thought, and leapt up a step, swinging Ferocis hard as she passed. He took her head off clean at the neck, noting the surprised look in her eyes as her disembodied head flew through the air and hit the ground. Her body slumped and fell from the horse to the ground and did not move.

  “Like I fucking care what your story is,” Cyrus said, walking on without a single look back. The gates were ahead, and he knew, somewhere, beyond them, possibly waiting up in the tower, was the God of War.

  92.

  Alaric

  “It’s here!” Jena cried, and a stormlike fury crackled outside the windows. I looked and saw red glowing from beyond the cracks of the shutters. She sat in the middle of the room, the green tendrils of magic losing their lazy loop-de-loops and crackling like colored lightning toward the walls as she took up the strain of the spell. Something pressed against her from the outside; I could feel it in the air like no magic I’d ever experienced.

  Red mingled with green light flashed outside like the burgeoning storm had finally broken loose, and Jena’s face grew strained. I could feel it, feel it coming, and I stood frozen in the middle of the room, watching her.

  “Can you repel it?” I asked, the question out of my mouth before I considered the wisdom of asking. If she couldn’t hold out, after all, it was going to be obvious fairly quickly.

  “Yes,” she whispered, voice cracking, and the green light surged out of her fingertips, strengthening her bonds with the wall.

  I went to the shutters and pulled one up, still protected from the outside by the glass and her spell between us, I hoped. I stared out across the Sennshann skyline at night, and I could see it all even through the glare of magics clashing just outside the window.

  The red light of the spell the Mortus had warned us about was entirely focused on the Citadel, like lightning to the tallest tree. I could see its glow, the spell swirling about out of the clouds, seeking purchase against the barrier Jena had erected between us and the attack.

  “I need to go check below,” I said and caught a nod from her. I raced down the tower steps and around the spiral down, hurrying to get to the foyer at the bottom. I needed to know for certain that they’d sealed the doors, though I suspected the answer was obvious; we weren’t dead, after all.

  I met Curatio in the massive room a few floors below. He came out of the stairwell over the tops of countless slaves that who sheltered in its cavernous space, all of them looking at the walls around as though they were about to collapse in on us.

  “The doors are secure,” Curatio said, answering my question before I could even ask it. He held his mace in his hand, blue blood dripping from it in thick droplets. He followed my gaze and pulled it back, shying away from my attention. “I take it by your presence that the Marei can hold the spell?”

  “She says she can.” I stood stiffly, wondering myself. I didn’t entirely trust her answer; who knew how long this assault might last, after all?

  “We should rejoin her,” Curatio said. “I’ve set a guard in the foyer, they’ll dispatch a runner to us should someone try and breach the doors.”

  I nodded and we raced up the flights of stairs between us and the top of the tower. The sound of fury battering at the stone outside followed us the whole way, the force of the spell trying to crush its way into our temporary fortress.

  We found Jena in the same state, the green tendrils of magic still flowing directly to the walls and disappearing outside to form the barrier. She was quivering slightly, I assumed from the attack, and her eyes were still tightly shut.

  Curatio made his way around behind her and placed his hands carefully upon her shoulders. “I can transfer some of my magical energy to her, though it is a slow process, rather akin to trying to refill a draining glass with droplets of sweat.”

  “How … unappealing,” Jena said as a pulse of white light ran from Curatio’s hands into her shoulders. The atmosphere in the tower was warm and sticky, quite the opposite of how it had felt in the skies earlier. “Never mind, this is quite … nice,” she said, now that she’d tasted some of what he had to offer.

  With a sudden sound, the crescendo of fury outside died away, and the red light casting its way through the cracks of the shutters was replaced once more by a pure green glow.

  “I think we have passed the first test,” Curatio said as I peered out through the window. I scoured the cityscape, and after a few minutes I realized I agreed with his assessment. There was no sign of the spell nor its origin, but I could see faces at the windows in other buildings, looking out into the night.

  “What is this we business?” Jena gasped, droplets streaking down her cheeks from her forehead.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought I was helping,” Curatio said mildly.

  “Help … more …” she said, breaths coming hard.

  “I don’t suppose we can—” I started, but stopped as a hard rattling came at the balcony door opposite me.

  We all turned, even Jena, though she kept her spell firmly in hand, her eyes squeezed shut. “We have visitors,” I said, pushing off from the door I’d just been leaning against to look out as I drew Aterum. I crossed the room in a bound, jumping far higher and stronger than I’d ever done before.

  “Careful with that,” Curatio said, still holding to Jena’s shoulder with one hand, but extending his other to cover the rattling door, ready to cast a spell. “You’re stronger than you realize now.”

  I halted before the door, and it stopped for a moment. I heard a click somewhere within it, and watched the bolt that sealed it shut rattle its way open. My eyes widened; with the bolt open, anyone could—

  The door flew open and someone burst into the room, knocking me aside as they entered, their armored shoulder smashing into mine and pushing me off balance. I spun and regained my footing considerably faster than I normally would have, rising in time to see the armored figure slam the door shut again and slap the bolt closed.

  “Who in the—” Curatio started.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise?” asked the armored figure as he put his back against the door. He wore a sword but kept his hand far away from where its hilt rested on his belt. My mind took a moment to put it all togethe
r—the face, the voice, the armor—

  “Rin,” I said, letting the tip of Aterum dip slightly at the realization. “You’re back.”

  “Indeed I am,” Rin said, breathless, his back to the door, sweat pouring down his face and weariness etched in every line, “and just in time, too, it seems.”

  93.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus made it through the gates, his wary eye watching everything around him carefully. It all seemed familiar, yet different, as though Sanctuary had been ripped from the ground and brought here, then distorted. The grain and color of the stone more grey, like the clouds hanging above the fortress. The walls around were slightly smaller and more uneven. They did not look as ready for a siege as the walls of Sanctuary had. And the main structure itself was on a smaller scale, it seemed to Cyrus, with the circular stained glass a red shade instead of purple. The front doors, which were wide open, were paneled with some kind of carved mural across them. Cyrus did not waste his time trying to see what they depicted before running up the steps into the foyer, where he paused.

  “This … is eerily familiar,” Vaste said, a half dozen steps behind Cyrus. “Like staring into a clouded mirror.” The others were back with him, too, and Cyrus looked, taking a quick assessment—Terian, Scuddar, Ryin, J’anda, Mendicant, Longwell, Calene, Zarnn and Aisling. Back through the gates, he caught a glimpse of the battle still raging on the ground, and dragons swooping through the air, delivering flame to the back of the enemy lines.

  Cyrus tore his attention away from the fight and strode into the empty foyer. His footsteps echoed with each step, Falcon’s Essence dispelled. There was a set of stairs leading up to the sweeping balcony to his left. There was even an open lounge to his left, and a cask was waiting to be opened, chairs arranged for comfort. To his right, a long hearth burned, flames crackling, filling the room with a rich, smoky aroma. Straight ahead large doors lay open to a great hall, smaller than the one at Sanctuary. Drawn to it, Cyrus found one long table within piled high with food. Succulent cuts of meat and salads dressed with sauces were all part of the spread; there was a ham with a carving knife sticking out right there in the middle of the table waiting for them.

  “Looks like someone was ready for a victory feast,” Longwell said, voice echoing slightly in the empty foyer.

  “I expect it’s going to be poorly attended,” Vaste said.

  “Come on,” Cyrus said, looking for the stairs and finding them exactly where they would have been in Sanctuary. Here they were different, the spiral somehow more tightly packed, a central pillar radiating the stairs outward instead of each step pushing inward toward a hollow shaft.

  Cyrus ran, taking the stairs three at a time. It was a hollow feeling, knowing he’d passed the first test, and his nerves burned as he contemplated the next one. Their ascension was achingly slow; each floor seeming to wink by when it arrived, but the long run between it and the next took only a moment short of forever. Cyrus looked up and up, unable to see past the next spiral of stairs above, waiting for the inevitable end.

  He reached the top almost without realizing it, no council chambers or officer quarters to slow him before he burst out into a wide-open space larger than the central tower by orders of magnitude. Cyrus stood there, slightly baffled, his eyes flitting around.

  It looked like a pavilion, bright sun seeping in from the edges, topiaries carved out of bushes and fountains tinkling in the clean blue pool that lay before them. There was no hint in the skies beyond of the dark clouds that had seemed to cling to the tower from below. Cyrus looked and saw beautifully carved statues, strange figures that to his mind looked as out of place in the Realm of War as he would have looked in a Reikonos dance class.

  “Now this is an interesting stylistic choice,” Vaste said. “It really screams, ‘I’m a gardener and sculptor at heart.’”

  “It wasn’t my realm, originally,” came the booming voice from across the pool. Cyrus caught a glimpse of dark metal armor as it receded behind a topiary shaped like a leaping dog.

  “You stole it, then?” Longwell asked, sounding a little savage. Cyrus glanced back at him to see him clutching his spear tightly, holding it out in front of him.

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Bellarum answered through the space between them. His heavy footsteps echoed under the ceiling of the pavilion. “And before you ask—no, I had nothing to do with the death of the original owner.” He stepped out from behind a statue of a man who looked to be addressing an unseen audience, his hand extended in a gesture of magnanimity. The red eyes glowed as the God of War stepped out. He was only a little taller than Zarnn now, Cyrus reckoned, and he stood there, a good thirty feet away, just waiting, cutting an imposing figure here in the middle of this unnatural place in the middle of the unnatural tower.

  And now I have to kill him.

  “Well?” Bellarum asked, voice booming. “You’ve come all this way, and beaten back my army, so … do you have an answer for me, Cyrus?”

  94.

  Alaric

  “How did you find us?” I asked, astounded at Rin’s sudden return. He was pressed with his back against the door, his armor showing signs of magical scouring all across its surface. He wore a look of exhaustion, as though he’d been through the ringer and back a few times, but he managed to muster an answer to my question.

  “I was outside the northwest outpost when they came for it,” he said, pushing himself off the door slowly, looking as though he might fall over at any moment. “Red light danced in the sky like the brightest lightning storm you’ve ever seen, except it stayed lit for far too long. I flew up and took a look, saw it tearing its way through the outpost until it flickered out and was gone. I made it back to find them all dead, guards, citizens, children …” He shuddered. “I heard from a trader that teleported in that they’d seen the light in other places, too—that settlement on our side of the river, the one springing up to cater to elves, some of the other outlying posts—”

  “Zanbellish, too,” I said. “According to the Mortus. Did you hear who’s—”

  “The Drettanden and his anointed saviors are responsible for this,” Rin said, a jaded look springing to life in his eyes. “I can only assume Timmas finally got so full of his self-righteousness that it burst out into madness.”

  “He killed Chavoron,” I said simply, glancing over to where the body lay. “But we don’t know which of them it—”

  “No,” Rin said, all emotion vanishing in an instant, the lines of his face shifting to disbelief. He took halting steps toward the body, as though afraid of reaching his destination. “No. No, he—he can’t have—” When he reached the corpse, he stood over it, and his armor began to rattle as he began to kneel. “No …” He reached out a shaking hand as he reached his knees, and took hold of Chavoron’s shoulder and shook it, then shook it again. The body did not move, and Rin flinched away, rising to his feet and staggering back a step. “This …” He looked choked, and turned to me. “This is … I shouldn’t have left. This happened because I left.”

  “It happened because Chavoron chose to die to try and save the empire,” I said. “But he miscalculated. He couldn’t have predicted the level of enmity that the anti-slavers seem to have for what your people built. They leapt right past destroying the institution into tearing apart the entirety of civilization for their own gain. They’ve gone beyond their original goals, Rin.” He looked sick, ashen, his face turned a pale blue. “They’re trying to rip this nation apart brick by brick, and they don’t care who they kill—even the slaves they supposedly wanted to free.”

  “Makes you wonder if they ever truly cared about the cause at all,” Rin said hoarsely, “or if they just cared about how they looked while working toward its end.” He swallowed and took a moment to compose himself. “I have cast a very rudimentary protection around the Coliseum, but I would not expect it to hold against a sustained assault of the sort that the Citadel just received.” He looked at Jena, who was still weaving her spell i
n the middle of the room. “Are we sure it’s them?”

  “I am unsure of anything at this point,” I said, and Curatio shot me a fleeting look that suggested he agreed. “Perhaps it’s only one of them, but the way the Drettanden spoke when he came here and I fought him—”

  “What happened to him?” Rin asked, stalking up to me, seizing the edges of my armor where the breastplate ended under my armpits. He shook me once. “What happened to Timmas? Is he still out there?”

  “No,” I said, not enjoying the sensation of being shaken roughly. “I killed him.”

  Rin stared at me, and his eyes widened slightly. “You … killed him?”

  “I did,” I said. “Caught him by surprise and sent him flying out the window. He made a mess upon the ground below.”

  “Excellent,” Rin said, and there was a faint, feral delight in his words, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his eyes. “Good. Well earned, on his part, for this treachery.” He let me go and stood thinking. “Your spell is saving this city, pulling it away from landing upon the rest of Sennshann.” His eyes sprung up again, full of life. “We must defend this place, for if there is more than one of them, they will surely come here and try to stop—”

  There was a sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs, an ill omen. The door flew open below us and I heard someone puffing their way up. It was one of my soldiers, in full armor, gasping, clutching at his chest as he reached us.

  “They’re crashing in the gates below!” he said, struggling to get his message out as he collapsed to the stone floor. My mind was filled with the image of a foyer full of people, shivering as the doors shuddered against assault, the bang of a battering ram on wood filling their ears, sinking into them with the fear it brought.