Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Some will believe that,” J’anda said. “Not the Sovereign, though. He is …” J’anda made a face of deepest disgust, “… attached to me. He will find some use for me outside of sensitive areas until I can prove myself to him once more.”

  Cyrus paused, letting the noise of the Great Hall take up the silence between them. “What will you have to do to prove yourself to him?”

  J’anda sighed. “Things I do not care to do.”

  “Kill people?” Cyrus asked. “Kill humans?”

  “Doubtless,” J’anda said. “Humans that would die anyway, but yes.”

  “Worse than that?” Cyrus asked.

  “There is nothing worse than killing,” J’anda said, “but I will have to prove myself reformed in other ways, yes.”

  “Such as?”

  “None you need worry about, my friend,” J’anda said with a reluctant smile. “The Sovereign is getting troops from somewhere. We need to know where from. He has an alliance with the trolls to some benefit—we need answers on that as well. I can get us this information—at some cost to myself, yes,” J’anda said, “but I see no other way to it but through this.”

  “J’anda, we’d be sending you into the heart of the enemy capital with no assurance you’d come back alive,” Cyrus said, his pie entirely forgotten. “It’s not worth it.”

  “I have great regrets from my youth,” J’anda said, using a hand to push the hair out of his eyes and looking up at Cyrus with a straightened form. “I helped crush a rebellion within the depths of Sovar that might have driven the Sovereign out of Saekaj once and for all. I aided the Sovereign’s war against the elves and the humans, helped kill countless people. I hid who I was behind an illusion designed to protect me from the scorn and reprisal of my own government. Because of my actions in Luukessia, I am now an old man.” He leaned toward Cyrus, and his voice became hushed. “I do not know how much time I have left, but I do not wish to die filled with all these regrets. Give me your blessing to go to Saekaj. Let me learn his secrets so that we can break him—together.”

  Cyrus leaned back in his chair, let his fingers caress the stubble on his cheeks and upper lip. “Let’s say I believe you could do all these things—gain the Sovereign’s confidence, find out his secrets, avoid getting killed, and erase some of these regrets. You’re talking about mastering your fear of someone who’s held a chain around your thoughts since before you left his service.” He waited a moment as J’anda nodded. “How am I supposed to believe you can do all this—confront all this, play this role—when you can’t even say his name?”

  J’anda smiled faintly. “You are clever indeed, my friend. You twist my own words around and point them back at me to get me to tell you what you have longed to know.” He leaned back, and his eyes drifted up contemplatively. “You are right, of course. Fear keeps his name hidden from the outside world; I have not dared to speak to any other the identity of the Sovereign, even a century removed from his rule.” He blinked and focused once more on Cyrus. “Very well, then. If I tell you the name of the Sovereign, will you give me your blessing to carry out this mission?”

  Cyrus stared at J’anda, pondering it for just a second. “You have my word.”

  J’anda nodded slowly, looking down. “Then you shall have your name.” He seemed to steel himself, like he was summoning it up from deep within. “And that name is …

  “Yartraak. The God of Darkness is the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar.”

  Chapter 28

  “So you let him go?”

  It was Vaste who had asked the question as they all sat arrayed around the Council Chambers, occupying their usual chairs. Cyrus sat with his hands folded over his mouth, surveying the remainder of them. The chambers seem to grow in size, but in reality, it is we who shrink in number. “It was not my place to hold him here against his will,” Cyrus answered.

  A quiet hung in the Council, every one of them watching him, lost in their own thoughts after his revelations.

  “I have to admit, I’m more than a little surprised that the Sovereign is Yartraak,” Ryin said after a pause. “How is that not a widely known fact?”

  “Yartraak is an intimidating beast,” Curatio said quietly. “The fact that he directly runs Saekaj is what I would consider a closely-hidden open secret. It is known by many yet spoken by few outside the caves of Saekaj. Or within it,” he added.

  “Why do they fear his reprisal?” Ryin asked. “Have they some cause to fear?”

  “Fear the hand of the Sovereign?” Curatio said, looking over his hands at the druid. “Why, yes, in fact. Aloakna was the last affront to him, I believe.”

  “Aloakna?” Nyad said, more than a little disturbed. “What do you mean?”

  “He had his troops sack and burn the city recently, if you will recall,” Curatio said. “A largely neutral place, but one filled with a dark elven populace that had rejected his darkness and traded with everyone in equal measure. His troops destroyed it while we were in Luukessia, salting the earth, pulling down every edifice stone by stone, and annihilating the populace. It was a place where his name was spoken as a jest, as a curse and in defiance of his edicts.” The healer wore a grim look, still seated next to the high backed chair of the Guildmaster that remained empty. “So, yes, there is cause to fear the Sovereign. He is vengeful, and that is perhaps one of the lighter of his heavy-handed strikes over the last ten thousand years that he has ruled Saekaj.”

  “He is frightful,” Erith said, and Cyrus watched her bow her head to hide her face as she spoke. “He was gone before I was born and did not return until after I had left, but the sense of what he’d done to the people of Saekaj Sovar was so pervasive, so dispiriting that even the children who had never known his rule feared to speak his name aloud in any context that connected him to command of the city.”

  “But why?” Ryin asked, and he slumped back in his chair. “There are gods, and they walk among some of us. Why fear to speak of that? Why would not Saekaj embrace that and trumpet it from their rooftops, that they are guided by the fingers of their divine?”

  “There has long been an understanding,” Curatio said, “since the days of the War of the Gods, that there is only so much interference in the affairs of mortals that they will brook from one another.”

  “Now this is interesting,” Vaste said, suddenly sitting more upright in his seat. “Exactly how much is too much?”

  Curatio sighed. “I am not prepared to speak on this at length because there is much about the events of that war that is simply … not wise to indulge in thinking about. However, for an example, every ruler of the major powers has some method of contact for each of their matron and patron gods, and can receive some assistance from them as needed.”

  Something clicked in Cyrus’s head. “A few years ago, Isabelle told me that in the wake of the Big Three’s destruction of Retrion’s Honor, Pretnam Urides and the Council of Twelve threatened to remove them from the city. She seemed to genuinely fear whatever they had threatened her with.”

  “It was gods,” Vara said quietly, meeting Cyrus’s gaze only briefly. “She mentioned to me last year that thanks to recent events, they were less beholden to the Council of Twelve’s edicts. She was likely speaking of the death of Mortus.”

  “It would not surprise me if Urides pulled something of that sort,” Curatio said. “He was never reluctant to exercise his power over others when need be, and having a god or multiple gods confront the heads of the most powerful guilds in the land is precisely the sort of power play that would put an overweening guild in its place.”

  “We’re back on gods again,” Longwell said with a deep sigh from across the table. “We just can’t seem to get away from them for whatever reason.”

  “Their marks are stitched into this world,” Curatio said quietly, “their fingerprints indelibly upon all that they touch, including mortal lives and affairs. Their currents of magic eddy about us still, and all they have done is still intertwined with the powers of our d
ays.”

  “That’s great,” Vaste said, “but much like Longwell, I just wish they’d all bugger off and let us be.”

  “I hate to bring this back to business since we’re having such a lovely anti-theistic conversation,” Cyrus said, “but we are being paid to look for one of these deities, and we’ve made little in the way of progress thus far. I hate to send Arydni a missive telling her we’re going to have to duck out on the job she’s paying us to do, but I don’t see any paths forward, only dead ends.”

  “Do not dare send any such message,” Curatio said, looking grim. “I am doing a rather exhaustive amount of research at present, trying to find notations about any similar phenomenon to what we saw in the Realm of Life that I might have observed during the War of the Gods when deities were killed.”

  “I take it by your response that you’ve had no luck thus far?” Cyrus asked.

  “Little to none, yes,” Curatio said, frustration apparent in his scowl. “I have a rather exhaustive list of journal entries from those days, but the problem is that none of the ones I keenly remember seem to match what is happening in the Realm of Life at the moment.”

  Vaste spoke. “Did I miss something, or did you just admit to penning a firsthand account of what happened when some of the gods died?”

  Curatio stared at the troll, unblinking. “Mortus was not the first god I witnessed die, if that’s what you are asking.”

  The silence persisted at the table until Vaste spoke again. “How many of them did you watch die?”

  Curatio’s answer felt like it was an age in coming. “More than I care to count.”

  Cyrus started to ask a follow-up question to that, but a knock sounded at the door. “Go away,” Vaste said loudly, “we’re in the middle of a rather important line of inquiry here!”

  The door cracked and Thad Proelius’s head peeked in. “I apologize for the disturbance, but you have an urgent emissary from the … uh … the Human Confederation.”

  “Tell them we’ll be with them in a bit,” Vaste said, waving his hand in dismissal at the Castellan of Sanctuary. “We’re busy at the moment.”

  “I’m afraid this can’t wait,” Thad said, and Cyrus turned around in his seat to look at the warrior. His face was red as a cabbage leaf from the reaches of Greeuwton, and his breaths came in gasps, as though he’d just run up the stairs. “The envoy is—”

  “Some prim, prissy little officer of the human army, I’m sure,” Vaste said, waving a hand again at Thad. “Look, we’re in the midst of an important discussion which—”

  “Which can wait, I presume?” The high voice came from behind Thad as the door to the Council Chambers squeaked open, revealing a figure behind the red-armored warrior.

  Thad moved aside as though the man had poured scalding water upon him, leaving the new arrival framed in the door. He was portly, though much of his bulk was hidden under brown robes. The staff he had used to push open the door was resting in his grasp now, crowned by a crystal at the top that indicated it was not just a walking staff. He carries power with him, Cyrus thought, recognizing the figure for who he was.

  “Pretnam Urides,” Curatio said, rising to his feet and bowing his head. “Welcome to Sanctuary.”

  Chapter 29

  “May I enter?” Pretnam Urides asked with a little flourish, a wave of his staff.

  “By all means,” Curatio said with but a moment of hesitation.

  The head of the Human Confederation’s ruling council entered the chambers, trailing behind him a smell that reminded Cyrus of gold. It overtook the sweet smell of the hearth as he walked behind Cyrus, staff hitting the ground with each step. His cloak rustled, and when he reached the head of the table, he stood next to Alaric’s old chair. He stared at it, though he seemed to hesitate in its presence and made no move to sit.

  Vara, in the seat next to where he stood, fidgeted slightly, easing herself subtly away from the head of the Council of Twelve. She noticed Cyrus looking and blanched, as though she had been caught doing something embarrassing.

  “What brings you down to the Plains of Perdamun?” Curatio asked without preamble. The healer was still standing, facing Urides with only Alaric’s old seat between them. “I trust this is not a social visit.”

  “Hardly,” Urides said with a stern look around the table. His eyes lingered on Cyrus for a moment longer than any of the others before traversing onward. “I have a purpose in hand, and it is the hiring of Sanctuary’s army for immediate deployment.”

  There was a quiet silence. Vaste spoke first. “You think you can just walk in here and throw gold at us to get us to do your will?” He paused. “It’s like you know us or something.”

  “What task did you have in mind?” Cyrus asked as Urides stared at Vaste with a half-scowl, as though not sure what to make of the troll. With greatest reluctance, he turned back to Cyrus.

  “The keep of Livlosdald in the Northlands,” Urides said. He waited to see if any of them would react. “Have any of you heard of it?”

  “I’ve passed it,” Cyrus said. “A few years ago, in a trek through the North.”

  “It guards the town of Etriehndell,” Urides said and adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles. “The dark elves are moving upon it now, and we have little in the way of defense in the area. We would have your army interdict the dark elven force moving up to take the keep. Without aid, it will fall by the morrow.”

  “How much would you be offering us to guard this keep for you?” Longwell asked.

  Urides stared at the dragoon. “I’m not offering you a single piece of gold for merely guarding the town. You could form a little line around it, weather a charge or perhaps two, declare yourselves outmatched and withdraw with my money. No, I’m not offering you anything to merely guard the town. I will pay you fifteen million gold pieces should you hold the dark elven armies off the keep until we can get our reinforcements in place.”

  “First of all,” Cyrus said, “thirty million. Second of all, you’ll need to set a time and day when your reinforcements will be relieving us, or else I’m not committing to the battle.”

  Urides watched him shrewdly. “And why is that, may I ask?”

  Cyrus sat back in his chair. “Because you could delay reinforcements until we broke and were killed and declare our obligation unfulfilled, then sweep in afterward with your reinforcements and win the battle hands down after we had weakened your opposition.”

  Urides nearly smiled. “Quite right. Twenty two million gold pieces, and you shall hold until noon on the day after tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” Vaste said. “How many dark elves would we be facing?”

  “Some fifty thousand,” Urides said as though it were naught but a pesky detail. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said.

  “That was a quick vote of the Council,” Vaste said sourly. “Why, I’ve never seen us come to an accord so swiftly.”

  “All opposed?” Cyrus asked, not taking his eyes off Urides. He waited for a count of five. “The ayes have it.”

  “Excellent,” Urides said, with a quick bow of his head. “As I think we understand each other, I will have half the gold transferred to you immediately, with the other half held back in case you should fail.” He leaned forward. “And if you should fail, I don’t think I need to warn you that we’ll be wanting—”

  “Your gold back, yes,” Cyrus said. “It was implied.”

  “I mean not to leave any room for misunderstanding,” Urides said, narrowing his eyes. “I will have it sent as a sign of good faith. Do not disappoint me.” He straightened and gave the chair to his left one last perfunctory look. It stood taller than he by several heads. “Garish.” He looked around the table once more. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” He tapped his staff once against the ground, and it began to glow with the light of a return spell. With a flash he disappeared.

  There was a long pause, and then several voices began to speak at once.

  “I think we should have tal
ked that over before agreeing—” Vaste said.

  “Fifty thousand against our fifteen?” Ryin asked.

  “Long odds,” Nyad said, a hint of nervous flutter in her voice.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Erith said, sotto voce.

  “My men are ready for a fight,” Longwell said with a hard edge to his voice. “More than ready if it means helping our people in the Emerald Fields with the proceeds from this.”

  “What is your plan, General?” Curatio asked, his voice coming last and overpowering them all.

  “I’m going by memory,” Cyrus said, ignoring all that had been said save for Curatio’s question, “but if I recall correctly, Livlosdald is at the mouth of a forested valley, with the town of Etriehndell about a mile or two north down the valley. We won’t need to worry about getting flanked because the valley will make army movements around us impossible—unless they were to have sent an advance force to the next nearest portal north. That’s unlikely because it’s several days ride from Livlosdald, but I’ll send a scout anyway—Nyad, if you could, please. Check on that for us.”

  “Now?” The wizard stood, looking a little dazed.

  “No time like the present,” Cyrus said. “You should be able to teleport to … I think it’s called Verklomrade.”

  “It is,” Curatio said, staring at him.

  “Check with the guard contingent around the portal to make sure they’re still there, no dark elves passed through recently, then come back,” Cyrus said. He waited a beat, and when Nyad did not move—“Haste is rather important.”

  “Oh.” She held up a hand, and it shook as she cast a spell that teleported her away with a flash of green magic.

  “We’ll move the army directly to the Etriehndell portal,” Cyrus said, tapping a finger on the table as he thought out loud. “Everything we have, save for a contingent of five hundred to keep the Emerald Fields under guard and another five hundred for the wall here. Before we leave, we seal the foyer portal and close the gates.”