Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus flashed a grin at the next snake. Let’s see if your timing is any better. It lunged at him, and he caught it a little further down, severing the head along with a foot of neck; it thrashed ineffectually against the water, unable to gain any sort of momentum from its movement. It fell in a wash of red blood back into the seaweed bed.

  Six down. Cyrus let himself smile, feeling the confidence return. Two to go. And now I know how to deal with them.

  He turned to go after the remaining two snakes but found them already coming at him. Their bodies were lengthening, withdrawing from the seabed, and he realized with a start that they were either growing much larger or they had never truly been tethered to the ground. As one of the tails swished free of the green, dancing seaweed, he realized that it was the latter.

  Shit.

  Cursing the damned things for their fakery, he threw himself into an immediate sideways roll through the water as one of them came at him head-on. He dealt it a glancing blow as it shot past, enough to cloud the waters a little more.

  The second struck him from underneath seconds after he’d finished his roll. The disorientation worked against him, vision impaired by bubbles, and the snake buried a two-inch set of teeth in his ribs, anchoring itself to his side..

  Cyrus brought Praelior down and lopped the head neatly off the creature. The body fell back into the seaweed, but the fangs remained tightly clenched on his side, a searing agony rolling through him even as the water there turned dark with his blood.

  Son of a bitch. He grimaced, trying to focus on the last of them. He turned in the water and caught a flash of motion. It was around him, a coil spiraling out a couple feet away from his face. He started to raise Praelior to deal with it, but it was too late.

  The snake closed the coil tight in an instant, wrapping around him and trapping his sword down at his side. Cyrus tensed, feeling his bones and ligaments resist as the snake began to squeeze. Together, they fell back toward the seaweed below.

  Cyrus felt the world turn upside down as they took a slow, drifting path to the bottom of the temple’s chamber. The squeeze tightened, and he flexed his muscles to resist the force of the snake’s enclosure. It darted at him and buried its teeth in his scalp after Cyrus dodged his head to the side at the last moment. Better the scalp than the neck, he reasoned. He could feel the teeth, halted by bone, slide across his skull with a grinding pain, ripping the skin and hair from his head.

  He worked at his sword, trying to move it up into position, but it was trapped, the snake coiled around his upper body to pin his forearm in place, leaving just enough space between coils for it to jut out impotently. How the hell did I get into this situation? Damnable water, slowing me down. I’m used to being faster than my foes.

  He felt the popping of his joints as the snake squeezed tighter, and there was an unbearable pain at his ear as the snake ripped into it. Recrimination later, killing first.

  But as an aside, leaving your army to chase a fleeing Mler? Dumb. Really dumb, Cyrus.

  He reacted to the popping sound of his shoulder leaving the joint by twisting his hand as far up as it could go and poking the tip of Praelior as sharply up as he could. There was a faint cracking sound as one of the teeth of the snake found purchase in his skull and his world went red. He stabbed harder and felt the grip of the mouth on his head tighten.

  Dumb. Worthy of every insult Vara ever leveled your way.

  Reaching the limits of his ability to push, he forced the blade a little further up with his fingertips, pushing it to the maximum distance his digits allowed. Something gave, and he felt the snake loosen just a hair, even as his skull cracked in his ears and his vision clouded with blood. Well, of course, it couldn’t just get better; it had to get worse as well …

  He pushed up on the coil securing his arm and wriggled free of it. He pulled his blade out, and the water grew even redder. He pulled his sword and shoved it up, aiming blindly over his head. He felt the impact of his thrust, felt the snake’s mouth slacken its grip on him, and he pushed it free. Feeling woozy, he pulled a fang out from behind his ear where it had broken the skin and the bone.

  I may pass out. Need to find the Sanctuary army before that happens. But first …

  He dropped the corpse of the snake. It did not even flail as it fell down into the seabed, brown skin disappearing under green grasses. He swam down, down to the base of the massive stone statue of Ashea, and sent her a single-fingered gesture of insult. Here’s what I think of your water-dwelling worshippers, and if I could make Bellarum’s own brand of war on them, I damned well would.

  His skull seared with agony, alternating between sharp, knife-like pains and a low, throbbing one. He pushed aside the pain like he pushed aside the seaweed as he descended, looking for something, hoping it was here …

  Ah! His eyes caught sight of it in the shadow of Ashea’s garish figurine. It was a chest, the wood dark and shadowed to his eyes. In truth, he would not have seen it without the spell Ryin Ayend had cast upon him that allowed his vision in this dark place. It is only that and the breathing spell that allow me to tread these waters at all. And in the future, I would be wiser to remember that and remain only in places that require no magic, especially when it comes to fighting battles.

  He reached the treasure chest and laid a hand upon it. The wood was slimy, as if it had been under the water for decades—which he knew it had. He fumbled with the lock and found it unwilling to give. Sighing an unbreathed sigh, he jammed the tip of Praelior into the chest and pried it open. The locking mechanism broke with an unheard sound, and he forced the wet wood lid up and stared down into the darkness of the chest.

  The key.

  Cyrus clutched the ornate metal object in his hand, his eyes following the twists and curves of it. It looked like someone had taken a string and knotted it in a bizarre attempt to imitate a key. This will gain us access to the treasure of the Mler, to things lost to the memory of men.

  He turned his eyes up toward Ashea and the entrance to the chamber. Now all we need do is to pacify the Mler.

  But first … I need my army.

  He kicked off the sandy bottom of the seaweed bed, ignoring the still-aching pain in his head. A healer’s spell would be a welcome remedy. He felt the seaweed kiss him goodbye, tendrils drifting across his arms and chest as he swam upward past Ashea’s lean and haunting face toward the square hole at the top of the temple.

  Hard to believe this place was built in such a way. Why construct a temple on the surface and then sink it to the bottom of the sea? Truly, the Ancients had wonders at their command.

  He entered the passage above and felt the constraint of the four walls around him, the tightening fear of the confined space creeping in on him. He swam along to an intersection and wondered which direction to go. He looked for signs of passage, trying to remember which way he had come. He had last seen the Mler he was chasing in an intersection like this, but they all looked damnably similar.

  He swam right on a whim, clutching Praelior in anticipation of trouble. When he rounded the next corner, he found the corridor ahead as bare as the one he’d just left. It stretched off into the dark distance past the limits of his vision. This place is monstrous, a labyrinth.

  He looked back and realized that he could no longer see the intersection from whence he had just come. A stir of unease grew within him. This could be … difficult.

  Salt water seeped into his nose, a cold shock that caused him to gasp in surprise, drawing more water into his sinuses. The spell … it’s fading! He lurched forward, toward the darkness, and blew the water out of his nose as best he could. He felt sudden, deep pressure on his ears, like someone was jamming their fingers deep within them. His head wound flared with agony as he swam on, and his lungs felt tight and painful, like the snake had his chest in its grip once more. His eyesight flickered red, then faded, and he was left utterly in the dark.

  I guess my time ran out, he thought, rather more wistfully than he would have expe
cted. There was nothing in his vision but faint spots, like the colors a bevy of torches would leave on a dark night when he closed his eyes. He tried to thrash forward but hit a wall. He opened his mouth in shock and the salt water flooded in, the strong taste washing over his tongue as he forced down the temptation to yell.

  His chest was so tight it was as though the temple had collapsed on it, the desire to draw a breath so strong he knew he would take one in seconds, whether he wanted to or not. He reached out with his hand and touched the smooth stone wall as his instinct took over and he breathed in the seawater, the rush of it down his throat and into his lungs filling him with a flailing panic unlike anything he’d ever known.

  Cyrus thrashed mindlessly, his limbs no longer in his control, sightless, blind to any world around him. The cold water surrounded him, held him in its embrace, and he knew with its kiss that he was done. I’ve seen no one from Sanctuary in the better part of an hour … how likely is it they’ll find me before my hour is up, and my soul is lost to death for good?

  He felt his body settle, the movement strangely gone from his arms and legs, his weight carrying him peacefully down to the stone floor of the tunnel after long moments of painful thrashing. He pictured in his mind a blond-haired girl on a background of white, just for a beat, and wondered why he was thinking of her at a moment such as this.

  His eyes burned from the salt water, and as he looked at the stone wall, he felt himself fade, the darkness closing in on him utterly. One last thought ran through his mind before consciousness fled him.

  Is this how Alaric felt when he …?

  Chapter 2

  “—feels like he weighs a literal ton,” the surly voice said as Cyrus awoke, sputtering and choking on water.

  “Catch him, hold him!”

  Cyrus’s eyes were pressed tight as he heaved, flopping against a hard surface. His hand brushed against uneven planks of wet wood. Beyond the spots in his vision, all the world was light. His head was aching, but the searing agony was gone. His eyes sprang open and he gurgled, unable to get his breath. Warm liquid dribbled down his cheeks and his chin, too much to be spittle.

  “His lungs are full of water!”

  Every attempt at breath was sheerest agony, struggling for air. He slapped his hand down on the wood planking he lay upon.

  “I apologize for this in advance,” came a voice, soothing, quiet, and terribly familiar. He had a sense that this had happened before, this voice soothing him just before a horrendous pain was visited upon him. A piercing stab caught him in the right side. Cyrus gasped and gurgled as hot liquid dribbled through his back in fiery agony as he was lifted up. Another sharp, searing stab caught him in the other side, on the left, and he writhed in strong arms as they held him steady.

  He could not scream, much as he wanted to. All that came out was a gurgling, and more warm, soupy, blood-smelling liquid. He felt the pressure in his chest lighten, but the pain did not recede. The sound of dripping came even amidst the other noises that reached his ears—gulls calling, waves lapping, the roar of sea foam and crashing water. The sun shone down on him and warmed his skin even as the pain wracked him. He squinted and opened his eyes just a little, and the bright sun nearly blinded him. The salt was still heavy on his tongue, which felt like it had dried out like a slug in the sun.

  “You might want to heal him before he dies,” came a voice of concern at his right. Cyrus jerked his head to look and found himself staring at a man in dark steel armor, almost blued. His helm was a most peculiar contraption, and he had a worn look about the eyes. Samwen Longwell, Cyrus’s mind told him.

  “Can’t do it too soon,” came another voice, forcing Cyrus to look over and see another familiar face, this one attached to a man with bronzed skin and long blond hair. He was naked to the waist and slick with water, but Cyrus knew him. Odellan. “We need to let as much of the water drain out of him as possible.”

  “And all his blood too, I suppose?” The next voice was choked with emotion, near hysterical and high pitched. He rolled his head to look to his side and saw a man with a long, dripping dark beard and sopping hair that was slicked back behind him. His white robes were drenched and clinging to him, revealing just the hint of a belly sticking out. Andren.

  Cyrus coughed and tried to roll, but Longwell and Odellan each had a shoulder and did not yield it. He pulled at his legs again, futilely, feeling the blood bubbling up in his mouth with the salt water, the strange metallic taste combining with the salt as it flooded out of him and ran down his chin.

  “Don’t kick me,” came a voice from near his feet. Cyrus arced his head to look. A mountainous figure of a man stood down there, similarly soaked, but his robes were black and his skin was flushed green in the sunlight, like the grass of the plains. “If you hit anything important, I’m going to be forced to rip your leg off and beat you with it as a warning to everyone else in Sanctuary that I’m not to be trifled with.”

  “Even by a drowning man as his lungs are pierced to let the water out?” Cyrus’s head rolled to the last figure, a man in red armor with half of it stripped off, his breastplate hanging loose and his hair wet. Thad Proelius.

  “Especially by such a character,” Vaste replied. “Otherwise all the drowning men with pierced lungs will take it as a sign to kick me.”

  “Figure you’ll run into that problem a lot, do you?” Thad asked.

  “I didn’t think I’d have to deal with it ever,” Vaste said, “but with Cyrus Davidon in charge of your expedition, one should be prepared for anything.”

  “I’m healing you now,” Curatio said, the healer in white, wet robes just beyond Vaste and Thad. “You’ll try and take a grand breath when I’m finished, and that will be a mistake. Go slowly, Cyrus.” He waved a hand, and a glimmer of light brighter than the sun burst from his palm.

  Cyrus felt the pain in his chest subside, and he let out a long, racking cough that dredged up blood and horror to run down his hairy chest.

  Vaste dropped his leg unceremoniously, and Cyrus felt it hit the wood below him. “That’s gratitude for you. I let you kick me, and now you’ve spit blood and ocean water in my face.”

  “Didn’t … mean …” Cyrus gargled the foul stuff in his mouth, the blood and salt water, and nausea swept over him. He expelled the contents of his stomach all over the wooden surface below him, and it took a moment to realize it was the deck of a ship. He turned and heaved again, twisting now that Vaste was not counter-balancing his feet, and his sick hit Thad squarely in the breastplate.

  “Ugh,” Thad said, gagging, “you might have warned me that was coming!” He retched.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Vaste said dryly, from a few steps behind Thad. “You’ve been around resurrection spells long enough by now to know what effects they bring. You had to know it would be even worse when the victim was spitting up salt water from drowning.”

  Thad shot the troll an injured look. “You knew he would do that?”

  Vaste shrugged. “Of course. I’ve been around resurrected people before.”

  “You could have warned me!”

  “Sorry,” Vaste said, keeping his expression even, “I was too incensed from being kicked.”

  Cyrus felt his lips still bubbling and let out a wet, hacking cough that dredged up watery phlegm. Tears stung his eyes. A second coughing fit came hard on the heels of the first.

  “Well, meathead,” came a sour voice from behind him, “I hope you’re happy.”

  Odellan and Longwell lowered his upper body slowly to the deck, and Cyrus sat there in a puddle of his own sick, nearly naked but for the cloth breeches he habitually wore under his armor. He cast a look upward and saw Erith Frostmoor lingering over the shoulders of Longwell and Odellan, peering down at him with ire on her navy blue face. “Of … course,” Cyrus said before coughing again. He took a sniff and caught a potent dose of his stomach’s returns as they puddled about him. “I’m covered in vomit, I just came back from death … I feel like I’m coughing
up the entirety of the Torrid Sea … while a disapproving dark elven princess glares at me like I … just stole her tiara. What’s not … to be happy about?”

  “It would appear his faculties remain undamaged,” Curatio said with a little humor from near Cyrus’s feet.

  “That would be more impressive if he had faculties to begin with,” Erith said a rough snort of annoyance. The sun caught her white hair and made it gleam at Cyrus, reminding him of something he’d seen whilst drowning. It tickled at the back of his mind, something he’d thought in the moments before he’d died.

  “Well, at least he found the key,” another voice rang out, more melodic this time. Cyrus looked to his side, past Andren, to see another dark elven face. Terian? his mind called out, just for a brief moment. No. J’anda. The enchanter’s dark blue robes were soaked, and he wore his own face, the deeply entrenched wrinkles still a shock. His long, greyed hair was back in a slick ponytail. Looks old.

  “No illusion, J’anda?” Cyrus asked, feeling a slight smile coming on. “You must have been worried.”

  “You have figured me out,” the enchanter said, his own smile wan. “But, now that the moment of crisis has passed and you appear to be alive and well, I can resume my more stylish and less … shall we say, ‘drenched’ mode of appearance.” He waved a hand and was suddenly a tanned human, muscular chest displayed for all to see.

  “Are you all right?” This faint voice came from his other side, and he turned his head to see another dark elf. Aisling. She stood above him, oddly at a distance, like she was almost afraid to touch him.

  “I think I will be,” Cyrus said and coughed again, a long, racking series of coughs. “No, really.”

  “I think your adventures for today have come to an end,” Curatio said, and the firmness in the healer’s tone was unmistakable.

  “I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” Cyrus said, and then was racked with spasms once more. “Well … maybe more than a few.”

  “Your lungs may swell with sickness in a few hours,” Curatio said. “If that comes, it will not be a pleasant recovery. In fact, you may not recover at all.” The healer’s quiet voice cast a pall over the sunny deck of the ship. “As I said, your adventures are done, at the very least for today, and most likely for the better part of the week.”