Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “I’m going out for a bit,” she said, shouldering her way past Vaste.

  “The gates are closed for the night,” Cyrus said.

  “They will open for me,” Vara replied without looking back. She walked across the crest, through the partition and down the middle of the guard force as she made for the front doors.

  “Will they open for her?” Vaste asked.

  “Probably,” Cyrus said, watching her go. “I hear tales of her wrath and wroth among the newer members. I doubt any of them are true, but they spread like fireboils among troll whores in any case—”

  “Hey,” Vaste said, “I’ll have you know that fireboils don’t just spread among troll whores. They’re perfectly happy to foist themselves upon normal folk, too.”

  “You would know,” J’anda said.

  “I don’t want to be Guildmaster,” Cyrus said, spinning to look at the two of them, now standing between him and the stairwell.

  “No one who actually wants to run for the office should by any means ever be elected to it,” Vaste said. “We want you because you don’t want to run.”

  “Is this that famed troll logic I’ve heard about?” Cyrus asked. “Because it is not exactly winning me over.”

  “Bear with me,” Vaste said. “Whether you want to admit it or not, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary is a powerful role. They would hold immense sway over the single largest guild in Arkaria, and one of the most powerful armies in the land. Whoever sits at the chair at the head of our table has the power to help decide the outcome of wars, assist lands in grip of famine, and help make wealthy the members of this guild. It is an awesome responsibility.”

  “I keep waiting for you to stop sounding serious,” Cyrus said.

  “You’ll be waiting a while,” Vaste said. “This is the single most important event in our guild’s recent history, because whoever sits in that chair will help steer our course. Anyone who desires the power inherent in that role is immediately suspect in my mind. The officers we have now are largely the same ones we have had since before the days when we had that much power. They remain—for the most part—uncorrupted by the influence at hand.

  “Anyone who steps forward to claim that role will have a motive,” Vaste said. “And the motive stated by them to go after the Guildmaster’s seat may not be the one that sits within their heart. That scares me. I dwell on it and have for months now, since the day I realized we would have to elect a new Guildmaster. Much as I might want to postpone it, we cannot wait any longer. So now we need a leader uncorrupted by the power at hand, someone who will make the right decisions, someone for whom the job is an unwelcome task rather than an opportunity to expand their reach.”

  “We need someone like you,” J’anda said. “Someone who would do it for the right reasons—even if they didn’t want to be in the chair.”

  Cyrus let out a slow breath, felt it drain out of him. “I don’t want to. Truly, I don’t.”

  “Then ask yourself,” Vaste said. “Who do you trust with the most powerful independent army in the land?”

  “I already said—”

  “Nyad could deploy Sanctuary’s armies to aid her father in unpleasant and dangerous battles,” Vaste said. “Ryin is a contrarian who would intervene in nothing, even when sorely needed. Erith is a self-indulgent and somewhat spoiled woman whose personal vanity occasionally eclipses her better judgment. Longwell is a man in the clutches of a depression over the loss of his land, which is still fresh in his heart—and which he might do anything to reclaim. J’anda is—”

  “J’anda is … unavailable,” the enchanter said. “For reasons of health—and other duties.”

  Cyrus stared flatly at him. “How much longer do you have left?”

  J’anda smiled at him. “I am not entirely sure. A few years, I think. Less if I push myself too much. Which is why I pass on this opportunity to put more strain on my body.”

  Cyrus looked to Vaste. “And you?”

  Vaste stared back at him, but Cyrus could see the troll’s eyes cloud. “Even if I were to win—which is not certain, because I am a troll among you people who rightly fear my kind,” he held up a hand as though he could ward away Cyrus’s protests to the contrary, “I cannot trust myself with this power, either.” His face darkened. “My first instinct after what we’ve seen and heard today would be to deploy our army into the heart of Gren, to sack and burn the town and slaughter every slaver we came across. And as satisfying as that would be, the cost would be … great.” He seemed to come back to himself, his face going slack in the torchlight, shadows covering his eyes. “I am something of a self-hating troll, I think. It would be best if I were to not be in command of an army, especially if my own people continue to do … what I think they’re doing. The day we deal with them, it will require a more judicious approach than I am capable of.”

  Cyrus nodded, watching Vaste’s face, and then he turned to stare at the doors of the foyer. “There’s one name left.”

  “Ah, yes,” Vaste said. “Vara is not able to lead at present. The burden on her heart is far too great for her to manage it and still handle the duties a Guildmaster role would require.” He paused. “Plus, let’s face it—she’s horrible with people. Half the guild would leave within a fortnight.”

  “Be serious,” Cyrus said, staring at the doors. The dark wood had shadows of the guards playing across it, lit by the light of the hearth.

  “A moment ago you told me you were waiting for me not to be,” Vaste said. “Make up your mind.”

  “She’s stronger than you think,” Cyrus said, looking back at Vaste. “She mourns Alaric, but she’s strong enough to handle more. To handle whatever may come her way. Duty is first to her, it always has been. If she had the responsibility, she could take it. Better than me.” He sighed. “It might even help her get over his death—unburden her heart, as it were.”

  “It might,” Vaste said, and he looked to J’anda, “if in fact Alaric were the burden on her heart that I was referring to.” He paused. “But Alaric is not.”

  Cyrus watched the troll carefully, then J’anda. “You meant me.” He glanced back at the foyer door. “You meant me—I’m on her heart.”

  “Somewhere,” Vaste said. “For a while longer, anyway.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cyrus said, and turned away from them. He found himself walking faster as he cut through the center of the foyer, his guardsmen on either side saluting as he made for the grand doors.

  “You do that,” Vaste shouted at him. “Try not to be a burden, will you?”

  Cyrus shot the troll a grin as he pushed his way through the heavy wooden door and burst out into the night on his way to the stables—and hopefully, to her.

  Chapter 24

  Cyrus ran toward the stables, his boots crunching the grass underfoot. He could see faint lights between the wooden seams of the building’s planks. It was a massive, squared building with room to house more horses than any other stables he had ever seen. As he ran toward it, he stared. Everything around the grounds was so familiar that he barely even looked any more. Were the stables really that big when I arrived at Sanctuary? He knew full well they had to be; they’d never been reconstructed or added onto.

  He could hear the sound of guards atop the walls. The watch fires burned on the towers that linked the segments of the stone wall together. They appeared to him in the distance as little spots of light atop the black emptiness where he knew the curtain wall stretched around Sanctuary’s grounds.

  There was noise from in front of him, and the stable door creaked open. Cyrus slowed as he approached, the smell of hay and horses something he was used to and barely noted now. Someone was opening the wide door to the barn, and another figure atop a horse was coming out.

  “Lord Davidon!” called the figure opening the door. Cyrus squinted and recognized the outline of the lad; his name was Dieron Buchau.

  “Dieron,” Cyrus said. “I need—”

  “Windrider is already saddled and
coming to you, m’lord,” Dieron Buchau said, bowing to Cyrus. “He made a frightful fuss to be let out, and I’ve learned by now that his moods tell me when you’re coming for him.”

  “Clever lad,” Cyrus said with a smile.

  “Clever horse,” Dieron replied, dipping low again. His red hair was highlighted in the lamplight. The sight of Dieron still made Cyrus feel a great discomfort; the lad had once been the stableboy at Enrant Monge, the keep in the center of Luukessia.

  “Both of them cleverer than the rider,” Vara said from atop her horse, which cantered out of the stables. “I suppose you’re here to follow me or some such foolishness?” He could barely see her expression in the darkness, her face shadowed with the barn alight behind her, but it did not look amused.

  “I’m going with you, yes,” Cyrus said. “We need to talk.”

  “And here I thought we’d had such a marvelous conversation in the Realm of Life that it’d be a year or more before we’d need to speak again.” She let out a long sigh as she brought her horse to a stop in front of him. “Yes, well, I am on my way out, obviously—”

  Windrider trotted out of the open door behind Vara, making his way directly to Cyrus and stopping only a foot from him before letting out a loud—and rather theatrical, in Cyrus’s opinion—whinny. “I’ll come with you,” he said, stroking Windrider’s mane.

  “Fine,” Vara said, a little tightly. “But if you slow me in any way—”

  “I would think you’d know my horse well enough by this point to know that if one of us slowed the other, it’d be—”

  “I was not referring to your horse,” Vara said. “I was speaking about you, dawdler.” She pulled the reins and steered her horse around toward the gates. Cyrus mounted Windrider in a rush and followed her. With a signal from him, the portcullis was raised and the gates opened. He followed Vara through and watched as she steered a course northwest. Cyrus looked up at the bright starry sky as the horses broke into a gallop, following the road toward the Waking Woods.

  “Anything in particular you’re out to do tonight?” Cyrus asked, bringing Windrider alongside her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Cyrus waited for a moment, and when she did not speak further, he broke the silence again. “Care to share your plans with me?”

  She looked at him as they gained speed, now at a full gallop across the plains, a dust trail kicked up behind them and her cloak in full flight, flapping as it trailed her. “You’ll just have to wait and see, interloper.”

  “Interloper?” Cyrus asked. “I haven’t been called that by anyone since that time the God of Death nearly smacked me into pieces.”

  “I am pondering doing much the same,” Vara said tightly, “if you do not shut up and allow me the time to think which I came on this ride for in the first place.”

  Their horses thundered across the plains, hooves beating against the firm dirt as they ran. Cyrus kept quiet, staring up at the stars gleaming above him absent the lights of Sanctuary’s watchfires and torches. There was enough light to see a dark aspect rising above the flat plains ahead. The top of it was wavy, uneven with the varying heights of the trees, and he knew it on sight.

  The Waking Woods.

  They reached the entry, and Cyrus watched the stars disappear into the darkness above him, faint outlines of branches visible only barely through the occasional break in the solid canopy of boughs. The trees were massive, in Cyrus’s estimation eclipsed in size only by the enormous Iliarad’ouran woods. He followed Vara as her horse slowed to a trot and the path began to wend through the forest.

  “I can’t see very well,” Cyrus said.

  “Then you should have remained behind.”

  “And let you ride into the darkness unescorted? What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

  “You are not, in fact, a gentleman of any sort,” Vara replied. He could barely see her silhouette ahead of him. “Thus whether you escort me on this endeavor or not is rather a moot point.”

  “I am not a gentleman,” Cyrus repeated, hearing the words come out evenly. “What would you say I am, then?”

  “A pain in my arse,” she said without a moment’s pause.

  “Other than that.”

  “When you’re experiencing pain in your arse, there’s really nothing other than that, unless there’s a greater pain you are feeling elsewhere,” Vara said.

  “You don’t make this easy, you know?” Cyrus said.

  “I did not ask for your assistance in this,” Vara said with a sharp exhalation.

  “I came because I wanted to talk to you.”

  “I made clear that I was in no mood for talking, but you came anyhow,” Vara said. “If you want to talk so damned much, then understand that part of talking is conversation—which includes listening to the other party. Unless you wanted to give me some form of lecture, in which case I would have told you I am in no mood for anything informative, nor do I have the disposition to listen to a diatribe at this moment without disemboweling someone.”

  Cyrus sensed her motion halt and felt Windrider match her horse’s movement, unasked. His hand fell to the grip of Praelior by sheer instinct.

  “You hear it, don’t you?” Her voice cut through the quiet of the night. It was followed by a howl in the near distance and a horrible rattling.

  “I can feel them, too,” Cyrus said and realized his skin was prickling. There was a noise behind them. Cyrus turned to look but realized he could not see in the darkness. He drew Praelior and let the soft azure glow of the blade shed its light. He saw little, but more than he had been able to a moment earlier.

  “Allow me to assist you,” Vara said, and Cyrus heard her draw her blade. Her voice lowered to an indecipherable mutter, and a moment later the woods were lit by fire light as Vara’s sword burst into flames from the quillons to the tip. It blazed with an orange, crackling fire that forced the shadows around them to retreat behind the nearby trees and revealed faces in the dark.

  Cyrus could see them now. Ghouls. Undead.

  He rolled out of the saddle and heard Vara do the same ahead of him. He found his back against hers, and realized that they had moved toward each other instinctively.

  “Have you ever fought them before?” she asked.

  “Once,” Cyrus said, “with Terian.” He lowered his voice. “A long time ago.”

  “Ah,” she said. He could hear her feet crackling against fallen twigs.

  Cyrus could see they were surrounded now, bones and half-rotted faces staring back at them in the dark. There was a glow in their undead eyes. And there were so very many eyes.

  “It was here that I learned how to truly cast the spell that has my blade aflame,” Vara said, and from her voice he could hear the recollection. “Have you seen it before?”

  “Once,” Cyrus said. “I saw Alaric do it as he faced an undead beast when we took a trip into a crypt.” Cyrus glanced back at her, the flames rippling over her blade. The ghouls had yet to attack them, and Cyrus suspected that was the reason. “It’s sort of the paladin equivalent of the resurrection spell, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Vara said. “Only a true paladin, one with a noble heart and a holy fury can manage it.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got the ‘fury’ part down.”

  She ignored him. “Alaric taught me how to do it shortly after I first came to Sanctuary. I am not supposed to know it; a League would require two further years of instruction to allow me to do this. He showed me how in mere hours.” She stared out at the ghouls, lingering uncertainly at the edge of her fire’s light, bones clacking together in the night.

  Cyrus felt his lips purse as he tried to decide what to say. “He was—”

  There was a howl of fury from behind him and he heard Vara leap. The sound of bones shattering and an unearthly scream followed a moment later. Cyrus fell into shadow as the light followed with Vara in her attack, and he forced himself back as the ghouls came forward. He struck and struck again as they attacked, Pra
elior shattering bones into dust when he hit them.

  “You could have let me know you were moving,” Cyrus said as he caught back up to her, placing his back against hers again.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. He heard her breathing hard with exertion as the sound of her blade cutting through the air and striking bone rang out. “Afraid of the dark?”

  “I can fight anything you put in front of me,” Cyrus said with a grunt of displeasure as he slashed another ghoul to pieces. “But I have to be able to see it.”

  “That is your great weakness,” she said, and he heard her leap again and again the light faded.

  “Sonofa—” The shadows grew long around Cyrus, and he used the faint glow of Praelior to strike down the red eyes in front of him one by one. He heard a rattle behind him and struck in a backward arc that cut a ghoul in half at its spine.

  About twenty feet away he could see Vara, blazing sword cutting through ghouls and lighting them aflame for a brief moment before they died. He could hear screams that ceased as her blade passed through each of them, the sound of undead souls fleeing bodies torn asunder by her magic.

  Cyrus started to scramble to catch up but turned to deal with another ghoul behind him. His blade cut through the last, tearing rotted flesh with a sound like ripping cloth, and he sprinted toward Vara and fell in behind her once more. “It’s not that I can’t fight in the dark,” he said. “It’s that I see better with a little light.”

  “Learn to fight in the dark or you’ll forever be at the disadvantage of the dark elves in a battle,” she said.

  “There’s magic to overcome it in a battle,” Cyrus said.

  “Yes,” she replied, sounding a little snooty, “but you can’t use magic. So what do you do when you’re facing a dark elf in the deep of night with no spell at your disposal? Lay down and die?”

  “I can still fight,” Cyrus said and smashed a ghoul’s head in with the side of his blade. The cracking of bone didn’t sound as sickening without the wet rending of flesh.

  “But could you win?” she asked. “That’s the question.”