Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Perhaps they simply don’t care, did you ever consider that?” Stepan asked.

  Cyrus took a deep breath and let it out. “Is it still a requirement that you be an interminable arse to everyone attempting the trials, or is this just who you are?” The water bore a powerful stench, like rotten seaweed.

  “It was never a requirement, but it did help cut the boredom somewhat,” Stepan said pensively. “Honestly, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you become somewhat jaded about human nature. You’re all so predictable, after a fashion.”

  “Yes, those gods of yours certainly saw me coming,” Cyrus deadpanned and then broke into a run as he headed out over the lake.

  “You are aware, of course,” Stepan said snidely, running over the waves after him, “that the eel can jump?”

  “I do recall being told that, yes,” Cyrus said, rising a little higher.

  “And so your strategy is to become his dinner? Well, this should be filling for Murthray, at least.”

  Cyrus paused in his run. “You named the eel?”

  Stepan’s gaze flickered, and he seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “I have … an abundance of time,” he said, sounding a little defensive about it. “If you have some plan, you might wish to execute it now, for Murthray is comi—”

  The eel exploded out of the water in a leap. It was incredible, Cyrus reflected, like a snake standing on its tail, uncoiling as it burst free from its watery environs. He was prepared, after a fashion, watching the white foam of the disturbance erupting slowly from the surface of the water as he brought his swords to bear again. Channeling his spell through them, he loosed a bolt of lightning wider than his own body. It arced through the air and hit the eel in its open mouth.

  The lightning crackled in the pure blackness of the eel’s open gullet, bursting through like spokes of a wheel from the center. It passed through the creature in but a second, its work done, and the eel’s jump halted as it went limp, crashing back down into the water and floating there, belly up, for a few seconds before it sunk beneath the surface.

  “You’re going to give yourself grey hairs if you keep burning through magic like that,” Stepan said, apparently unconcerned. “Though I suppose you don’t much care about that, being not long for this world anyway.” Cyrus did not reply, and after a moment the Gatekeeper spoke again. “Is that why you leapt so quickly at the opportunity I offered? Because dying here or dying at the crater of your beloved Sanctuary are essentially equal propositions in your mind?”

  “No, they’re not equal,” Cyrus said, breathing hard from the exertion and hard use of magic. He could feel the fatigue that battle had pushed away, held at bay, settling in once more, the adrenaline of the fights conquering his exhaustion from the long day’s ride, but only temporarily. It was like paint over old boards, unable to hide the splitting and warping of the wood for long. “But I don’t intend to die here.”

  “So you’ve reached the other state of fearlessness,” Stepan said, nodding sagely. “Not the one of conviction, but the one where you’re simply left with nothing else to care about, not even your own life.”

  “Or perhaps I’m just filled with such inflated self-importance that I don’t think I can be killed by enemies as pitiful as those you’re throwing at me,” Cyrus sniped.

  “Make no mistake, I am not throwing these at you,” Stepan said, and at this he cocked an eyebrow. “And you must assuredly can die, which you should damned well recall given that ahead comes—”

  “Shit,” Cyrus said, grimacing. “The Last Guardian. It can still—”

  “Kill you with the blink of its eye? Twice? Yes,” Stepan said, though he lacked the smugness now. “You might want to put that clever tactician’s mind of yours to work trying to figure out a solution to that particularly insurmountable problem while you breeze your way through the Siren of Fire, who—lest we forget—can reduce you to less than ash.”

  “Yeah, well,” Cyrus said, “if I let it get me down every time I faced a foe who could do that, I wouldn’t have done half the things I’ve done.” And he walked over the land bridge into the flaming battleground where he knew the Siren of Fire waited, cloaked in what appeared to be a blaze at the bottom of a crater. “Come out, come out,” he muttered, readying himself.

  The bonfire at the bottom of the small pit surged, reminding Cyrus of the one he’d seen on his night in Emerald Fields. The cloak of flames dispelled, and she rose, standing up like a nude from a painting. The Siren of Fire regarded him for but a moment before she started to raise her hand, but Cyrus was ready for her, casting yet another spell, this one a heretical one taught to him by his mother—

  Water blasted out of the tip of his swords, dousing the Siren as Cyrus charged her, boots pounding across the rough ground. Steam sizzled and crackled, hissing in the air as it rose, the drenching water dispelled by the sheer heat coming from the foe. Cyrus did not let it stop his charge, going headlong into the mist, and when he saw the shadow of the Siren he swung his blades before she could react, not stopping.

  He came out the other side of the cloud of steam and heard a gentle thud a few feet away. The Siren’s head hit the ground and rolled away. Cyrus looked back and saw the body topple over into the base of the crater, and he continued his walk across the silent battlefield, the next gate ahead already creaking open.

  “Another one down,” Stepan remarked, falling into line next to him, “and once more, you do it easily. But what will you do when you face the thing that can kill you with but a look?”

  “Not let him get a look at me,” Cyrus said, and he cast Falcon’s Essence once more, taking again to the sky, running upward in a spiral as he cast the invisibility spell upon himself.

  He ran up for about two hundred feet and stopped, looking over the island ahead. He could see the Last Guardian, looming in the middle of the isle, some twenty feet tall and already waiting, like a statue, its gaze pointed straight ahead. “Oh, good,” Cyrus said, peering down at it, “it’s not in a puddle.”

  “It can see through your invisibility, you know,” Stepan said, hovering next to him. Cyrus had not noticed him following.

  “I’m sure,” Cyrus said, “but it’s probably like how I see Aisling with her weapon in hand—more shadowy, less defined. And at this height …” He shrugged and started forth at a run, watching the guardian carefully for any sign of movement.

  He ran over the isle, watching warily all the while. There was no hint of movement from the creature, which stood there as he approached. He reached it quickly and stood directly over its head, staring down at its odd, oblong shape. He peered at it, trying to decide the best approach for only a moment before the Gatekeeper asked, “Now what are you going to d—”

  Cyrus dispelled the Falcon’s Essence before the question was even finished being asked, and down he dropped, letting his swords lead him, tilting so that he would land blade-first. The wind whipped around him from his descent, rushing up at him, slowing his fall just slightly as gravity dragged him back to the isle below and his waiting foe.

  The Last Guardian started to stir when Cyrus was only ten feet above it, the sound apparently catching its notice. Cyrus did not care, for it looked forward first, moved out of its stupor too late.

  He struck it in the back of the head, planting both blades just below the crown. Momentum carried him down, Ferocis and Praelior firmly planted, and he dragged them with him through the guardian, ripping down its neck, its back, and finally reaching its legs. Its hard skin peeled like steely fat, and when his swords burst free out of the creation’s groin, Cyrus cast Falcon’s Essence and stopped his fall only two feet before colliding with the ground.

  The Last Guardian stood there, wobbling, for but a moment before it fell. It had been divided neatly in three, with a small strip down the middle between the blades, splitting as either arm and leg fell in their respective directions and the center strip dropped straight down. It ended up looking a little like the points of a triangle, the legs and shoulders
and head all aimed in different directions when they came to rest.

  Stepan appeared next to Cyrus once again, his eyebrows high, unspeaking. “That’s how,” Cyrus said simply, and started forward again.

  “Indeed,” Stepan said, quickly falling in next to him. “Well, you’ve surpassed that trial. I’d offer you a boon of your choosing, but I expect you don’t really need anything I could provide you …”

  “Unless you can raise the dead,” Cyrus said tautly.

  “I’m afraid Bellarum has ensured that can no longer be done,” Stepan said with a tautness of his own, “as I’m sure you know. There were always limitations of time on that in any case, which is why Alaric’s bride remains safely dead.”

  “You’re talking about Raifa?” Cyrus asked. Ahead he could see portals standing around the far edge of the isle, their centers churning with energy of different colors, a rainbow of shades.

  “Indeed,” Stepan said. “I did once provide him with a lock of her hair … I could try and summon the same for you—”

  “I don’t need a lock of Vara’s—” Cyrus caught himself before saying it, and came to a halt, dust churning up at his sudden stop. “Actually … yes. Yes, I’d … I’d like that.”

  “As you will,” Stepan said and closed his eyes. He furrowed his brow in concentration, and then squinted harder before opening them again. “This is … I’m afraid I can’t grant this request.”

  Cyrus looked at him with little interest. “Why not?”

  “Perhaps my loss of connection to the gods has reduced my ability to grasp that which hangs beyond life,” he said, though he sounded unsure to Cyrus. “In any case … it is beyond my reach, I am sorry.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said, turning his head and walking away. “I haven’t really needed anything from you since the Edge of Repose in any case.”

  “Yes, I recall,” Stepan said, “still, you asked for things—rings and trifles and whatnot.”

  “Where did you get the Edge of Repose?” Cyrus asked. The portals drew nearer, their swirling centers brighter as he grew closer.

  “It was given to me by Pretnam Urides,” Stepan said. “When he broke Praelior apart at the command of the gods. They could not destroy it; no godly weapon can be unmade, the spells protecting them make such a thing nearly impossible. So they disassembled it and entrusted its pieces to their various warring factions, believing that no one could possibly undertake such a quest as to put it together again. I mean, really—parts held by dragons, Mortus, goblins—even the material to smith it all together was rarer than any other but a few short years ago, until those elves in the south started to dig below the jungle.” He sighed. “I don’t mean to insult you—this time—but without the God of War backing you, I think it’s safe to say that sword would have remained safely out of anyone’s grasp, and the other weapons could perhaps have stayed out of trouble as well, and this whole … upheaval might never have happened.”

  “Take my word for it,” Cyrus said, as he reached the portals, glowing with silent intensity, “the past does not return to us.” He caught a thinly disguised irritation from Stepan as he turned to address the Gatekeeper. “Whatever shape you might have wished for it to take, your masters are dead. Start carving out your own future again and stop bellyaching about it.”

  “Or else end it, as you intend to?” Stepan asked. “What bounteous choices—either get past this unplanned change swiftly, or kill yourself. I should have expected nothing less from such a simple mind as yours.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Cyrus said. “Now, which will take me to Alaric?”

  Stepan’s eyes narrowed for a beat, and he pointed at one in the center with a scarlet glow that reminded Cyrus of Bellarum’s eyes. “That one. I should warn you, he is guarded by a fearsome beast named Boreagann who is—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cyrus said, stalking off toward the portal, “I’m sure he’s a real fright.” And he disappeared into the crackling energies, ready to face the next challenge.

  124.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus saw the creature with the blunt face and shaggy fur helm charge at him the moment he stepped through into the torture chamber, but he had his blades in hand and so the slaughter was done with great ease. Ferocis took the beast in the neck, Praelior caught it in the chest, and hot, stinking breath mingled with the smell of blood was Cyrus’s reward for killing the creature known as Boreagann. He kicked the carcass off his blades, ripping and tearing it as it fell loose, shredded by his attack.

  “That was … swifter than I thought it would be,” Stepan said, frowning, once more at Cyrus’s side.

  “How many gods do I have to kill before you stop underestimating me?” Cyrus asked, giving him a rude look. “Approximately? Because I’m running out.”

  “At least five more,” came a feeble voice, and Cyrus turned his head to see a naked, bleeding body on a steel table. “Stepan isn’t the sort … to be easily impressed.”

  “Alaric,” Cyrus breathed, sheathing Ferocis and hurrying forward. He cast a healing spell as he went, light dancing from his fingers, covering the naked, torn flesh of the former Guildmaster. Grey hair hung in ragged hanks down the scarred face, and the eyepatch that Cyrus had come to consider part and parcel of the man was missing, a gaping black socket staring at him along with the steely eye that watched his progress.

  “I did not … expect to see you here,” Alaric said, his voice rough and raw. Blood still caked him, crusted on his skin even now that the healing spell had taken effect. “And with spellcraft at hand, no less. You’ve learned well.”

  “He’s been here all this time?” Cyrus asked, wheeling on the Gatekeeper, who nodded. “Been tortured all this time?”

  “At the command of the gods, yes,” Stepan said, though he did not sound pleased about it.

  “And I’m sure that you were absolutely fearful for me the entire while,” Alaric said raggedly. Cyrus reached for the Ghost’s bonds but found them dark metal, shining with a faint light that suggested magic had been cast in the bindings. Alaric looked up at Cyrus. “Are you … you are truly here, then?”

  “Truly,” Cyrus said, putting a hand on Alaric’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long … I … I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I would not have wanted you to come for me,” Alaric said, his dull eye upon Cyrus. “You must leave. Bellarum will—”

  “Bellarum is dead, Alaric,” Cyrus said quietly. The words echoed in the quiet chamber. “He has been for months.”

  Alaric stared at him, uncomprehending, but the moment he got it, it was obvious upon his face. “You … killed him?”

  “I did,” Cyrus said, swallowing hard. “Alaric he … he killed …”

  Alaric faded, just for a moment, slipping ethereally from the bonds that bound him to the table. He rolled through the table, fell to his knees, and Cyrus stooped to take his arm, but his fingers slipped through the old paladin’s skin like it was smoke. Alaric faded for a moment, then returned to solid color. Cyrus reached down once more, and this time he could hold the old Guildmaster’s arm. His flesh was cold. “I presume …” Alaric began, voice weak, “… the cost to defeat him … was terrible?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, hoarsely. “To say the least.”

  Alaric looked up at him, and slow recognition dawned over him. “Vara.”

  Cyrus only nodded, and said, “And Sanctuary. He—”

  Alaric shook his head, grey hair shaking along with him, twirling around his neck like the train of a dress. “No. No, it can’t—”

  “It’s gone, Alaric,” Cyrus said. “There’s nothing left but a crater.”

  Alaric stared off into space, and then he went translucent again. “No, that’s simply not so.” He looked up at Cyrus. “You need to … you need to summon it. You have … the medallion?”

  Wordlessly Cyrus reached beneath his armor, his mail, and pulled out the medallion, with its lazy spiral of writing across the surface. He let it hang before his br
eastplate, and it jangled at the touch of the metal on metal.

  “Yes,” Alaric said with relief and longing, and with Cyrus’s help he pulled to his feet unsteadily, leaning upon the warrior. “You need to summon it.” He looked at Cyrus and his eye was fixed, almost mad, looking upon him. The empty socket stared at him as well, accusing, and Cyrus looked away.

  “Summon—Alaric, it’s destroyed,” Cyrus said. “Bellarum destroyed—”

  “It is not,” Alaric said, and he seized hold of Cyrus by the breastplate, yanking him with surprising strength. “Go back. Go back to where it happened. Call it forth—”

  “Call what—how?” Cyrus asked, marred by disbelief. He’s lost it in his torture, in his captivity. He’s gone mad.

  “Ask for help,” Alaric said, and he started to fade, turning smoky once more before solidifying. “You need to mean it. There must be real peril, salvation to …” He faded, his voice still coming, “… call it forth. With the medallion. There is a book, a simple tome, found in any library in Arkaria, though none would know its provenance but they who look for it. It is called The Traveler’s Hope. Look within its pages for the Plea of the Dying.” He took a long breath. “Find the book. Invoke the plea. I will meet you there.”

  Cyrus blinked, and Alaric took an unsteady step toward the Gatekeeper. “And you …” Alaric said. “Why, Stepan …?”

  “Why now, you mean?” Stepan asked, with a steely reserve. “I did have a bit of a war within myself asking that question for a time, before I came to my conclusion.”

  “And what was your conclusion?” Alaric asked.

  “That though it took you ten thousand years,” Stepan said, stirred, a hint of feeling bleeding through his facade, “you upheld my word and returned at Luukessia’s darkest hour.”

  “Yes, and made a prophet of you in the process,” Alaric said. “What will you do now, Stepan?”

  The Gatekeeper seemed to consider this for a moment. “Whatever I damned well please,” he said at last.