Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus felt a long sigh coming on. “It pleases me we won.” He paused, trying to decide how to phrase what he had to say next. “I’ve decided to run for Guildmaster, Vara.”

  She halted, entire body straightening stiffly. He paused a step before she did, allowing her the courtesy of hiding her face from him if she so chose. She did not turn at first. “Was this decided before or after your wild, flailing, awkward round of rutting with the dark elven thief last night?”

  “You heard that?” Cyrus asked.

  “I doubt there is anyone on this side of Arkaria who failed to hear it,” Vara said, turning just slightly to look at him. “What prompted this decision?”

  “You knew I was considering it,” he said.

  “I knew you were undecided,” she said. “What decided it for you? The whisper of a cinnamon-breathed little night skulker—”

  “That’s not fair,” Cyrus said, his muscles become tenser with each word. “You know very well that the people of Sanctuary look to me for at least some leadership—”

  “Leadership?” she scoffed. “Oh, yes, you lead us—for example you just led us into battle in your own homeland.”

  He felt his own countenance darken. “I didn’t hear you complain when I led us into battle in yours.”

  She favored him with a cold glare. “You are quite the servant of Bellarum, aren’t you? Spreading war everywhere you go.”

  “I didn’t start this war,” Cyrus said, and every word tasted like ash to him, as bitter as anything he could imagine. I don’t want to be having this conversation with her. Not this way. Not like this. “Nor do I truly care to profit from it. We have obligations, and I have to take a pragmatic approach to meeting those obligations—”

  “Oh, is that what a leader is?” she almost spat at him. “A compromiser? Someone who believes in high-minded principles until the difficult times arrive, and then they forsake them as easily as if they left behind a—” She flushed red. “Never mind.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, sensing the hint of what she had perhaps meant but not said. “Do you mean to say—”

  “If I had something to say, I would say it,” she cut him off. “But I have nothing more to say in this matter; you and I appear to be quite resigned to charging at each other on the field of this election, and we will be forced to see whose vision of Sanctuary will reign supreme when it is all done and counted.” She straightened, returning to the stiff, nearly full-at-attention soldierly bearing. “The General of the Confederation forces awaits you at your leisure. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  She kept that straight-backed bearing as she almost marched away from him. He thought about watching her go, but instead he stared at the rough, beaten ground in front of him and saw streaks of blood puddled in ruts—the sign of a battle still fresh in his mind.

  Chapter 37

  The Council Chamber was lit by the crackling torches and fires, flickering in the silence and filling the air with the sweet, smoky smell that once more reminded Cyrus of home. It was different now, though, than it had been before. The last taste of dinner remained upon his tongue, along with the hints of the brew he had had in its aftermath. It had been a peaceful afternoon once they’d returned to Sanctuary, peaceful up until he’d received the summons to Council. It had been anticipated, yet still—I could have used another day before we did this.

  “Cyrus and Vara,” Curatio said calmly, letting his eyes wander over the Council members. Cyrus did not look at Vara; he could see out of the corner of his eye that she did much the same. “Does anyone else wish to put forth their name for Guildmaster?”

  “At the risk of inserting myself into what is obviously a most personal quarrel,” Ryin said, with a slight smile, “I’d like to put my name forward.”

  Vaste made a loud sigh. “Why do you hate yourself?”

  “I don’t hate myself,” Ryin said, now serious. “I love this guild. I love what it stands for. And I think it could use a breath of fresh leadership.”

  “Yes, well I think—” Vaste began.

  “You’re treading ever closer to the line,” Curatio said, giving Vaste a stern look. “Respect, Vaste.”

  “I’ll try and muster some,” Vaste said without an ounce of audible contrition.

  “This will take a couple weeks to arrange,” Curatio said, scratching Ryin’s name onto the parchment in front of him. “We should consider running some officer candidates at the same time to make our lives easier.”

  “Diluting our power,” Ryin warned.

  “Allowing our guildmates to exercise their right to help control the destiny of the guild,” Vaste said.

  “I think we should allow the guild to settle this question for us,” Curatio said, still looking at the parchment. “More officers—at least a few—would not be unwelcome. If by chance they don’t vote them in, which is always an option, then we can look at approaching things from a more military standpoint. Appointing subordinates or something.” He looked up. “For now, though, we should take some nominations later this week and put them to a vote with the Guildmaster election.” He waited, and it took Cyrus a moment to realize he was looking for dissent. When he found none, he merely nodded once and looked back down to the thick, yellowed parchment in front of him.

  A knock sounded at the door, ending the seconds of silence that followed. “Come,” Curatio called and waited for the door to swing open.

  A hooded figure entered and swept his cowl back to reveal his white hair. “J’anda,” Cyrus said, looking over the enchanter’s lined face and feeling a rush of affection for the dark elf.

  “Hello, my friends,” J’anda said. He looked even more tired to Cyrus’s eyes than he had when he left, a deep-seated weariness hanging upon him that went beyond the aging he’d suffered in Luukessia. “I am afraid I missed the summons for this meeting, so I hope you will forgive me for my tardiness.”

  “What are you doing here?” Cyrus asked, sitting up in his chair. “I thought you were trying to re-enter the Sovereign’s service.”

  “I have re-entered the Sovereign’s service,” J’anda said, and the lines of his face grew deeper. “I am here to spy for him in my capacity as his double-agent.”

  “Why, how dare you betray us in such a way,” Vaste said mildly. “And to have the gumption to tell us to our faces that you’re going to do it! Cheeky. Very cheeky.”

  J’anda bowed his head slightly. “I am nothing if not possessed of a sense of wit, I think you’ll all agree. The irony of spying on the Sovereign while he thinks I’m spying for him is not lost on me.”

  “How do you know that he believes you when your loyalties are so clearly flexible?” Vara asked, breaking the silence that had hung over her since she had announced her candidacy with only a syllable.

  “Because I have betrayed Sanctuary to him,” J’anda said with a raised hand. He waited, just a moment, and Cyrus felt a flicker of uncertainty. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. I haven’t told him anything but personal details and minor accounts of things going on within the walls. I had to give a rather exhaustive retelling of our adventures over the last few years.” J’anda turned to Cyrus. “He has some interest in you, in particular, that I have no explanation for.”

  Cyrus blinked in surprise. “Me?”

  “Him?” Erith echoed. “Why would the Sovereign give two vek’tag silks about Cyrus Davidon?”

  “Hey,” Cyrus said, feeling a hint of umbrage. “I’m an interesting person, you know. The story of my rise is a fascinating tale that should be studied in military academies all across Arkaria—”

  “And humble, too,” Curatio said with a faint smirk. “Still, the fact that our esteemed General is an object of curiosity to the Sovereign should not come as any surprise. He has been responsible for several extremely painful defeats to Yartraak’s army now, probably more than any other person still walking Arkaria.”

  “Does he mean to kill me?” Cyrus asked. He noticed Vara move awkwardly in her seat out of the corner
of his eye.

  “I don’t think so,” J’anda said. “I believe he would have you killed if he were presented with an opportunity, but he has not targeted you as yet—which is something that is well within his power to do. I remain uncertain as to why.”

  “Because Cyrus is the favored of Bellarum,” Curatio said quietly. His eyes were heavily lidded, almost slits, and they hid much of his emotion. “To do so—to target him—would cause some discord between the God of War and the God of Darkness, I believe. With his forces fully embroiled in fighting this war, I doubt Yartraak desires that particular boil be opened.”

  There was a silence in the Council Chambers for a few seconds following that. Cyrus saw Vara glance at him, saw the flash of resentment in her eyes, but she said nothing.

  “Must be nice to have the God of War as your patron,” Vaste said. “I suppose it makes sense, though, since he did give you that lovely sword.”

  “I …” Cyrus’s discomfort swelled within him. “It’s not like that.”

  “It matters little at the moment,” J’anda said, steepling his hands. “I have news.”

  “What news?” Ryin asked. Cyrus saw the druid lean in. He’s trying to take the lead—to act like a leader.

  J’anda raised an eyebrow at Ryin then turned to look at Curatio. “Something is going on in Gren.”

  “Slavery,” Vaste said. “Mostly slavery, I would say. And perhaps just a little buggery with goats.”

  “Almost all the troll men have left the city—” J’anda said.

  “Perhaps the famine has caused them to run low on goats,” Vaste said.

  J’anda paused, looking around the Council table. His dark blue features were lit in the flickering illumination. “I did not come by this information from the Sovereign, so you may freely use it without fear that it will get me into trouble, but Vaste is correct.” He hesitated. “About the slavery, in any case. I have heard nothing about the goats and would be forever grateful if none of you were to mention it should you find out the other is true as well.”

  There was a moment’s silence before Curatio spoke. “So … the trolls are returning to their slaving ways.”

  “Slavery is happening in Gren,” J’anda said. “The Daring are likely there. Slaving parties—aided by dark elven wizards—have been dispatched into the Human Confederation, the Dwarven Alliance, the Elven Kingdom, even the Gnomish Dominions. They are trying to make up for the loss of labor caused by the troll men being away at war for the Sovereign.”

  “Hardly a surprise that the trolls are fully involved in the Sovereign’s war,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “We’ve seen so damned many of them in dark elven company lately.”

  “They are all in now,” J’anda said. “Completely committed. Which is why there is a rise in slave raids. To run the troll economy with the men gone to war requires workers. One overseer to watch over ten or twenty slaves frees up their men to strap on armor and help the Sovereign reshape Arkaria in a way that will be more pleasing to the people of Gren.”

  “One in which they aren’t confined in a swamp and kept from conquering and pillaging their way across the land, surely,” Vaste said. “It figures my people would do this. But I find it hard to believe that the men could all leave. There are no portals and the river Perda is blocked at every crossing by the elves—”

  “Ahhh,” J’anda said, and he smiled the tight smile of a man about to deliver uncomfortable news. “Gren does have a portal now. It has been provided by the Sovereign.”

  Vaste did not blink, and Cyrus watched him for a reaction. There wasn’t much of one. “That’s impossible.”

  “No more impossible than Sanctuary having a portal,” Curatio said. “With a certain amount of strength at your disposal, they are movable.”

  “Trolls are strong,” Cyrus said. With a portal in Gren … Gods, what a disaster! They’re not held back by the river Perda. “They could land an entire dark elven army up in the Dismal Swamp and march down into the Elven Kingdom without anything to stop them.”

  “And they most assuredly will,” J’anda said with a nod. “Once they have concluded the war with the Confederation, the elves are surely next on the Sovereign’s—Yartraak’s—list of revenge targets.”

  “That son of a bastard whore,” Vara said, shocking the table into silence.

  “Does the God of Darkness have a mother?” Vaste asked.

  “This is grim news indeed,” Curatio said, “both in the short and in the long term.”

  Cyrus moved his tongue within his mouth, ran it over his sharpest teeth. “We have business with the trolls anyway, I suppose.”

  Curatio looked at him with a subtle, narrow-eyed look. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

  “They have no magic to speak of,” Vaste said. “And if their men are away, they’ll be an easy conquest.” He paused. “Or … relatively. I mean, the women are still trolls, after all, and possessed of the disposition of an enraged elven paladin at the best of times.”

  “They’re slaving,” Erith said, and Cyrus looked over to find her watching him as well. “They’re in violation of the treaty they signed after the last war.” Her face hardened. “And they may have the Daring even now. Any one of those reasons would be good enough for me. Add them all together, and my scales tip over.”

  Longwell spoke up for the first time since the Council had begun. “I suspect it won’t be much trouble convincing the Luukessians to march into the swamp if there are personal scores to settle. They’ve already developed a mad-on for the Sovereign and his armies; convincing them that doing this will bloody his nose makes it an easy sell.”

  Curatio looked across the table to the Princess of Pharesia. “Nyad, need I even ask?”

  The wizard was pale. I’d be pale too, if I’d just found out my ancient enemy had a means of invading my homeland. “We’ll need cursory permission from my father to enter the Kingdom at Nalikh’akur—the closest portal to the swamps.” She looked quite faint. “He’ll need to obtain—again, cursory—permission from the Lord of the town—”

  “It’s Lady,” Vara said, more than a little pale herself, “not Lord. And the permission is granted, obviously.” I forgot that Vara was Lady of Nalikh’akur.

  Nyad stumbled over her words for a moment before continuing. “Once I tell him what J’anda just told us, I cannot imagine he would find any reason to deny it. Every one of his troops is tied up in Termina and watching the Perda. If trolls and dark elves came south out of Dismal Swamp right now—” She halted, and the last vestige of color drained out of her face. “Please.” She nodded her head so quickly Cyrus feared it would fall off. “Please, let us do this, I will do anything—”

  “I suppose I’ll be the voice of dissent in this,” Ryin said, drawing a look of fierce anger from Nyad and Vara. “Not a strong voice of dissent, as I understand where every last one of you are coming from, but I should point out that we’re once more interfering in matters outside our concern and tying ourselves more deeply to this war.”

  “We are tying ourselves to one side of this war,” Vara said, watching the table coldly. “The side which does not believe in slavery and conquest. While I am the last to believe we should sell ourselves for monetary gain, this is a pure good. Slavery is evil. The Sovereign is evil. Taking a hammer to his left hand while his right is busy wreaking havoc is a cause I can get behind with greatest gusto.” She shifted her gaze to Curatio. “I think you know how I vote.”

  “Oh, good,” J’anda said, nodding. “And I was worried this would be difficult to convince you of, especially after you just got back from another fight.”

  “You should have known better,” Ryin said sourly, “after all, didn’t you hear? The General of our Armies is the favored of Bellarum.”

  “This war will go on whether Cyrus wants it to or not,” J’anda said, cocking his head to look at Ryin. “He did not start it, and at every turn he has done what he could to protect people—innocent people—from its course.” The da
rk elf turned to look at Cyrus, and he had an almost plaintive look in his eyes. “There are more things I know. Things I cannot tell you for fear of word escaping and getting back to the Sovereign. He has … dreadful secrets.” The last part echoed in hollow words in the Council Chamber. “Things he is doing—things he has done—that are dark beyond description.” The enchanter straightened in his chair and waved a hand in front of his face. For a moment, his youthful appearance returned and then fell away again as though he had lost the concentration to keep it there. “The only thing I can tell you is that this war will roll on for years—or forever—until he wins. Unless you stop him.” J’anda pointed at Cyrus and then turned to point at each of the Sanctuary officers in turn. “It will be a long road, but it begins here. If you want to end this war, go to Gren. Destroy the portal, put the fear in them once more and get their men to return home.” J’anda slumped back in his seat. “For believe me … as long as the Sovereign has them as allies by his side … there is no hope that this fight will ever end.”

  Chapter 38

  Cyrus could see the cloudy skies hanging low above the trees as the light of teleportation faded. He was looking up as he appeared, just as he’d been staring at the ceiling of the Sanctuary foyer before the spell had been cast. He was anticipating the skies, almost looking forward to seeing them, and when they appeared and were not blue, he felt a whisper of disappointment.

  A breeze blew through, rattling the branches around the clearing that surrounded the portal outside Nalikh’akur. A circle of elven soldiers stood in a formation that ringed them, and Cyrus stood, waiting for one of them to say something. Anything, really.

  “Army of Sanctuary, I greet you in the name of King Danay, the first of his name.” This came from a soldier with a helm that had vague hints of shaping like a tree trunk. He bowed his head to Cyrus, singling him out. The man carried a spear—all of them did—the better to strike down teleporting foes quickly and at a distance should an army try to invade through their portal. He also made a deep bow to Vara, who stood at Cyrus’s right.