Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  Rin just stared, and his hand went to his sword’s hilt. “They’re coming.”

  “Then we should go and meet them,” I said, and the two of us hurried for the stairs, ready to descend and face the fight waiting for us below.

  95.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus just stared. He felt his hand quiver, just a trace, crying out to strike. He stayed the urge, and stared at his adversary. For his part, the God of War just stared at him with those fierce, glowing eyes, and Cyrus resisted the quiver that ran through his body as he spoke. “I just invaded your realm with the largest army ever assembled, and slaughtered your last two gods—no, three—and that miniature schnauzer that you made general of your army—”

  “Good help is hard to come by,” Bellarum said, and he nodded to Ryin. “You understand. Like Vidara. She was supposed to do much more than just kill your mother before she died with naught but a whimper.”

  Cyrus glanced at Ryin, whose face had gone from a scowl to befuddled. “Wait,” Ryin said, “are you saying I would understand because I struggle to find good help, or Cyrus would understand because—”

  “Because you’re an idiot who tries his patience, yes, good job catching up—idiot,” Bellarum said breezily, and shifted his attention back to Cyrus.

  “How did you turn Vidara against us?” Cyrus asked, feeling the twist of distraction tugging him away from what he’d meant to say.

  Bellarum waved a hand at him as if to indicate it was nothing. “She had her own game backing you, but she finally saw it was unwinnable. I expect she had grand designs of surviving her betrayal of you, but … I planned otherwise.” The sound of a grin was audible in his voice. “Anyhow—you were saying? Grand speech and whatnot, I don’t wish to interrupt.”

  “I’m not incompetent!” Ryin said.

  “I meant I didn’t wish to interrupt his speech,” Bellarum said, pointing to Cyrus. “You, I relish interrupting. Now shut up, contentious druid whose name I can’t even be bothered to recall.”

  “You would have sold that argument better if you came up with a snappier comeback,” Vaste said to Ryin.

  “I just killed your followers,” Cyrus said, getting back on track, “orchestrated their defeat. I have brought war to your home—to you. I think you have my answer, but in case you’re incompetent, unlike Ryin—”

  “I like how he brought that around, see, it shows real wit,” Vaste said.

  “And loyalty,” Terian added. “That’s important when you’re about to face impossible odds.”

  “—I’m here to kill you,” Cyrus said, ignoring the crosstalk. The God of War’s red eyes were focused on him, glowing bright red, arms folded in front of his broad breastplate. Vara’s sword still hung on his belt, there at his side, and Cyrus did not dare look at it, did not dare contemplate whether she might be behind him, somewhere close at hand, for fear that he might shake himself apart in the thinking of it.

  The dark contemplation weighed at him, but he kept his hands strong on the grips of his blades. He looked across the space between him and his foe, and saw the red eyes spark.

  “I thought you might be fool enough to run blindly into this,” Bellarum said, and the eyes burned bright, “but I am sorry to see it, nonetheless. Farewell, Cyrus.” Cyrus realized at the last that the god’s eyes were not burning as usual but burning instead as some magic twisted through them, crackling and different from a spell, seated deeper in the new power that Bellarum had acquired from the God of Evil. The energy lanced out from him, streaking toward Cyrus, and there was nothing he could do but raise his swords and hope the blast would not be fatal.

  96.

  Alaric

  The smell of dirty, sweaty bodies permeated the stairwell all the way down to the first floor as Rin and I flew over the heads of the freed slaves, packed in tight and huddled together in fear at the green hue shining in from the windows around the tower stairs. I caught glimpses of their frightened faces as I passed the interior rooms of the tower, lit by the soft glow of the Citadel’s stones.

  “They mean to settle everything this night,” Rin called back to me, his face a worried mask. “To wipe out Sennshann? To sacrifice the empire on the altar of immortality? This is madness, Alaric. Utter madness.”

  “It is hard for me to conceive of such power,” I said, following him down at a run. “I’ve been here for—a year now? I don’t even know—and magic has become such a part of my daily life as to go uncommented, but … power enough to wipe out an entire city?” I listened to the squeak of my armor and kept my eye straight ahead as I navigated the slow spiral down to the bottom of the Citadel. “Utter madness covers it, I think.”

  I could taste stomach acid that had churned its way up my throat to rest on the back of my tongue, and the smell of the packed-in humanity was revolting enough to churn up a little more. My eye was burning, even protected as it was within the slit of my helm, from the wind of the hard run. My lungs burned, too. I was feeling it now, the effect of the hard run down the stairs. My muscles ached as well, even with Aterum in hand to give me strength and speed. I noticed that Rin ran with his sword in hand as well, that wide-bladed weapon, and he kept up excellently well, the blade clearly given some enhancement of its own.

  I didn’t know how many floors we’d run, but I knew when we were close by the clamor, the sound of weapons ringing out, of shouts in the night echoing up the staircase. It was a hideous sound, the screams of fear carrying up as freed slaves tried to clear the staircase, pushing up beneath us in a crushing wave of bodies. I didn’t envy them, and considered casting the flight spell upon them but stopped myself; traversing above their heads was the only way that I could easily transit from the top of the Citadel to the bottom, and vice versa. I needed this passage clear, lest I find a sudden, urgent requirement for my presence up where Jena and Curatio were holding only to find myself trapped in a crush like the one just below my feet. So I ignored the cries and the hands that grasped at my boot and ran like mad to the foyer below.

  I burst out of the stairs upon a battle already joined. Guardsmen in armor like those of my men were piling in through the open door, which was hanging off its hinges. I couldn’t count numbers, because it had already become something of a melee, swords being thrust and counterthrust even in the limited space with which my men had to fight. I could see the opposing force had swords as well, a marked contrast to the usual batons I’d seen among guards. They all seemed to be moving at a worm’s crawl, the power of Aterum’s spellcraft slowing the battle around me so that every blow, every gush of blood, every death was easily seen in excruciating detail.

  “This is out of control,” Rin whispered, halted looking out over the battle. “What … what have we unleashed, Alaric?”

  “War,” I said, my throat constricting as I tried to rally myself in the face of the fear that gripped me. “We’ve unleashed war.”

  “You fools!” Rin shouted, contrition and worry all pooling together in his tone, “they’re going to kill you all!” I saw a few blue faces look in his direction. “They’re murdering our people, and they don’t care if they wipe us all out!” His eyes were wide, wild. “They mean to destroy this empire, and you with it!”

  There was no answer from the struggling guards fighting their way through the men at the front. I saw blood and swords rising and falling, and threw a healing spell that way, hoping to hit some of my allies. I watched Rin’s hand glow as he did the same, and then he leapt into the midst of the fray, dispelling his flight and landing squarely in the middle of a knot of blue guardsmen. His sword rose and fell eight times, and suddenly there was a space around him. His eyes were wild, his face twisting into something between fury and grief, and he surveyed the space around him where dead bodies had fallen from his blows.

  I knew I could hold off no longer, and dispelled my flight, landing hard upon the back of a blue man. I thrust my sword down, intending a kill upon my landing, but my strike missed, skidding loudly down the side of his armor as my w
eight fell upon his back. I lost my footing and fell with him, hitting the ground hard, my right arm and elbow striking so heavily that a numbness shot down to my fingertips.

  I grimaced in pain, but maintained my grip on Aterum. The man I landed upon was on all fours, his helm missing and his black hair fallen around his face. He cast a glance back at me of pure spite. I scrambled sideways, trying to rise, but someone kicked me in the head from behind and it was like a bell was ringing around my ears. When I reoriented myself, I saw the man whom I’d brought down scrambling for his sword in the panic of the fray, his eyes split between me and his weapon.

  I struck at him, burying my sword a few inches into his cheek. He cried out, but the sound was lost in the noise of the battle. His mouth opened in pain, his hands flew to his wound, and he forgot his sword. I watched in genuine horror as, with shaking hands, his fingers danced over his wound. I watched his shaky self-assessment, and knew what I had to do. Leave him there a moment longer and he might heal his own wound, and then go on to strike down five or ten of my men. The lessons of the Coliseum were many, and they hit me like a sword blow right there.

  I lanced out between his arms and hit him squarely in the neck with the point of Aterum, ripping open his artery. His pain turned to surprise as he realized what had been done, and his unsteady hands fell from the wound below his eye to his neck as he panicked, grasping at the injury as if he could somehow close it by hand. I struck at him again, this time at his face, and he caught the tip of the blade through his left eye. I drove it in with all my strength and ended him, his hands going limp. He slumped back and lay there, with the other bodies that were slowly falling all around me.

  Putting aside the revulsion I felt, I rose on shaky legs of my own, as a blue-faced soldier came at me. I batted his weapon aside as though he were standing still, then drove the tip of Aterum through his neck and out the back. His eyes alighted on mine as he died, and I held him up a moment longer than necessary, using him as a shield to fend off a charging guardsman. I pushed his corpse at his fellow, who was struck in the chest by the flailing helm, and turned to strike down the next threat coming at me.

  All I could feel was horror at what I was doing, at being in the middle of this, at having to murder as casually as if I were picking up items from a buffet back at Enrant Monge. Death came for me in the form of another guardsman, and I struck his head from his shoulders with the strength of Aterum, for I knew I did not have strength enough to manage such a feat on my own. I quailed on the inside as I killed him, and another after, bouncing from fight to fight within the larger melee.

  I saw my own men die at the hands of Protanian guards, saw Protanians fall under the swords of my men. I cast healing spells where I could, a resurrection spell once to bring back a man barely dead, and I killed …

  I killed so many.

  “Stop this, you fools!” Rin screamed somewhere over my shoulder. I came around as he struck three men dead in minutes, his face streaked with dark blood washed by trails of tears. He was shivering, moving so swiftly he must have been a blur to his foes, but still they came at him, following their orders. He shredded his way through two more soldiers, then paused, looking at me, and I caught a glimpse of the rough horror within me breaking loose out of him, through the hard shell he’d always projected. I saw another “Stop!” die on his lips as the acceptance settled in on him and he calmly slashed down a soldier charging him from behind. He did not even turn, just brought his sword around and ended the man. A single tear ran down his cheek as he did, and then his face hardened and he threw himself back into the battle.

  I did the same, without the tears, but only because I didn’t think I had any more to give, and my horror kept me focused on keeping my stomach from upending its contents. My entire body tingled, adrenaline driving me forward, the urge to stay alive giving me a feeling of heightened reflex beyond what Aterum had added unto me.

  I saw many fall before the calm came, the giant doors out onto the street finally empty of all comers. Rin stood, chest heaving through his mighty armor, his face stone-like once more, watching the door, waiting for more that did not arrive. Only the night stretched beyond, lit by the green hue of Jena’s protective spell, casting its light over the countless bodies that had fallen in the battle.

  97.

  Cyrus

  The deep red spell magic came surging at Cyrus, smelling of fire, of deeper power, rooted in blood, somehow brighter than any other spell he’d ever had cast at him, and he flinched back, swords raised, as it came crackling in—

  And dissipated harmlessly, before it even touched his blades.

  Bellarum’s eyes glowed, magic still flowing from them only to disappear only inches from Cyrus, who stared out at the God of War through partially closed eyes. Bellarum blinked, the spell disappearing, then concentrated again, and loosed another burst that burned through the air between them, the smell of something hot, like a steamy afternoon rain evaporating, filling Cyrus’s nose. The spell energy once more crackled toward him furiously—

  And coruscated as if hitting a shield in front of him, sloughing off the invisible barrier and disappearing into the ether.

  Bellarum stopped his spell once more, blinking, and then spoke, sounding pensive. “Peculiar. I used that on a minion just this morning and it worked marvelously. He was nothing but ash when it was done.” He made a clicking noise beneath the metal helm as he pondered. “Very peculiar.”

  Terian snickered just behind Cyrus. “You need a minute to get ready? Is it because we’re all looking at you?” The God of War looked straight at the Sovereign of Saekaj, and Cyrus could see the mirthlessness in his eyes. “Should we turn away? Give you a minute to … get it working?” The suggestion rolled off his tongue as a chorus of chortling laughter broke loose from Cyrus’s party and filled the chamber.

  “Careful, whoremonger,” Bellarum said, plainly unamused. He raised a finger and pointed it at Terian, then turned it to his side where a white marble pillar stretched from floor to ceiling. Bellarum turned loose a blast that reduced the pillar to rubble, leaving nothing but a circular mark at either end to show that it had ever been there. “Actually,” Bellarum said, now sounding quite a bit happier, “let’s test this on you, Sovereign, and see if you share your old rival’s protection from my wrath.” He lifted his finger and cut loose a blast at Terian—

  “NO!” Cyrus shouted and leapt in front of the paladin. The spell disappeared harmlessly in front of him once more, as though it had never even existed.

  “Get out of the way, damn you,” Bellarum said crossly.

  “I will always stand between you and the people you seek to harm,” Cyrus said, his weapons crossed in front of him.

  “Hm,” Bellarum said, bringing his hand up to his face, stroking the chin of his helm. He finally snapped his fingers together between the gauntlets, producing a crackling noise akin to an explosion that caused Cyrus to flinch at the intensity. “Ah! I see the problem now.”

  “You mean your limp and dangling problem?” Vaste asked, causing another chorus of snorts from behind Cyrus. “It’s called impot—”

  Bellarum shot blasts in either direction, wiping out another series of pillars, filling the air with a cloud of dust. “I’ll thank you to shut your flapping mouth, troll.”

  “This is clearly a god utterly in command of himself, secure in his power,” Cyrus said mockingly, pushing Terian back, trying to form a wedge of his allies behind him. If I can keep them contained here, I should be able to leap out and protect anyone from his attacks until—

  “Mock all you want,” Bellarum said. “You don’t possess a quarter of my pow—”

  Cyrus cast a lightning spell that lanced out and struck the God of War. Another surged from behind him, his allies taking up the attack, and then another, and still another, crackling against the surface of Bellarum’s armor, running over him madly as though the lightning was multiplying, strands of power snaking over his metal armor. Cyrus ceased his spell and saw
the others quit theirs as well, but still the lightning lanced over Bellarum for a few more seconds until it dispelled.

  “That was … brisk,” Bellarum said, his voice only slightly tauter than it had been before.

  “Well, there’s more briskness to come,” Cyrus said, and he looked back, eyes scanning those standing in his shadow, seeking …

  Mendicant, Ryin, J’anda and Vaste each had a hand raised; the troll was crouching down just behind Terian, the better to shelter behind Cyrus, his robes creating a kind of tent around him. Zarnn was kneeling just behind Vaste, eyes burning with hatred as he looked at the God of War. Cyrus could see Longwell and Scuddar standing in the troll’s shadow, with Calene the last in sight, bow raised, Fulmenar crackling lightning where it hung on her hand, arrow nocked, taking careful aim with her enhanced strength and dexterity—

  Cyrus smiled as he saw what he had expected, and then turned to face Bellarum, who was looking right at him, surveying him carefully. “So my new magic doesn’t work on you,” the God of War said, still entirely amused by the proceedings. “I should have predicted that. I would wager the old does, though—” And he started to raise a hand.

  The sound of a bowstring rustling whistled through the air behind Cyrus as Calene loosed her shot. He saw the arrow pass within inches of his head, slipping its way toward its target. It reminded him of the old siege weapons that Sanctuary’s army had employed at its height, bombarding their enemies with projectiles. The arrow slid unerringly toward its target, reaching out for Bellarum like a thin finger of death—

  The God of War turned his head, just slightly, at the last second, and the arrow snapped against his helm, unable to penetrate the thick metal. The red eyes found Cyrus again, and another shot failed as Bellarum twitched away at the last second, a faint chuckle echoing through the chamber.