Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “That and more,” Cyrus rasped around the fingers wrapped around his neck. He could feel the toes of his boots touching the ground, just brushing it. Just a little more …

  Yartraak smiled hideously. He turned his gaze back on Vara, still standing fearlessly before him, her fiery blade in one hand. “And what do you say, Lady Vara? Is he worth dying for?”

  The fury barely flickered, like a breeze blowing across a candle’s flame, but for any who knew her as Cyrus did, it was as obvious as if the fire had gone out. “Perhaps,” she said simply.

  “Perhaps?” Yartraak let out a rumbling laugh. “Perhaps?” He looked at Cyrus and laughed in his face, that oily smell. “Is this love? She answers, ‘perhaps’!”

  “Perhaps …” Vara said, drawing Yartraak’s attention back to her and halting as though there were more to add, “… but it’s not going to come to that.”

  Cyrus saw the flash in the god’s eye just before the spell flared from Vara’s palm. He had a split second to realize she’d cast it without words—could she do that before?—and he was swept out of the God of Darkness’s grasp. His back hit the ground hard, and he scrambled to his feet as a dark elven soldier came at him with a blade in hand.

  Cyrus dodged, grabbing the blade with his gauntlet. Even bereft of Praelior, he was faster than most, instincts tuned in years of combat, forged in the fires of more wars than he could count. He gripped the blade tight and drove it back, snapping it up so that the hilt smashed the wielder in the face. It came free of the soldier’s grip, and Cyrus reversed his hold on it, bring it around into the neck of the threat he saw coming out of the corner of his eye. Another soldier of the dark elves, one of a hundred around them, and he caught it across the throat with all the grace one could expect of a razor that opened one’s neck.

  Cyrus swirled in motion, feeling the lack of Praelior keenly, the speed it gave. He fought in a mad swirl, his blows less effective as the soldiers closed in on him. He saw Vara fending off Yartraak behind him, her hands moving so fast that they were a blur, and it reminded him of the time he’d stood with her beneath a dragon and watched her carve the scales apart, her sword strokes as delicate as a painter’s brushstrokes.

  There was only some of that here, her sword a frenzy of motion. She dodged the spells cast her way by Yartraak as he drove her toward the gate. Cyrus hurried backward, fending off the attacks of the guards, the warriors as he worked to press himself toward Yartraak. He saw bows pointed at him, fearful to shoot out of concern for hitting their Sovereign, and he exploited it, never daring to move more than a few inches to either side. He could see the hilt of Praelior when he glanced, still hanging out of Yartraak’s back as though it were buried in a stone.

  I need it.

  Cyrus watched Vara’s movements slow, watched the God of Darkness hound her relentlessly. She could not help but give ground; he was stronger, there was no doubt. Faster, too, though only by a slight edge. She met his strikes with glancing blows, bleeding him a drop at a time. His thin arms were black with ichor of the sort Cyrus had seen drip from Mortus, a hundred tiny cuts causing him to drip.

  He was shorter than Cyrus now, this much was apparent. The guard had ceased to advance on him with furious sword thrusts; he was less than two feet from Yartraak’s back and hurrying backward, alternating his gaze fore and backward, trying not to unexpectedly run into the Sovereign should he halt.

  The black cave walls hung above them like a sickly night sky, craggy and cleft, glowing faintly translucent as though some living light grew upon them. The walls of the Grand Palace were just there, twenty feet behind Vara, and Cyrus felt a clenching of his gut at what was likely to be waiting beyond; guards, guards beyond counting, sure to ambush her if they were within feet of the gate. The thought of her falling, struck down by spears and swords, flashed heavy in his head. He had a hundred at his back, and suddenly he did not care.

  Cyrus lunged at Yartraak’s retreating back, both hands outreached, and felt his fingers tighten around the hilt of Praelior. The world slowed at his caress, and he tightened his fingers around the pommel. He forced his hand up the hilt without giving up his grip and yanked, ripping the sword free of the God of Darkness’s back—

  A howl echoed through the cavern, bouncing off the walls like a wolf had let out a scream to its pack. Cyrus fell as Praelior gave way, lost his footing from his wild jump and toppled, his back hitting the hard ground of cavern. He saw Yartraak’s back arch as he bent in that unnatural way, shouting from the pain. He whirled upon Cyrus and stared down with furious eyes, moving with a speed that was frighteningly fast, angry with the pain, drunk on it, spiteful and ready to rain down his vengeance upon Cyrus for the last time. I can't stop him, Cyrus realized. Not from here. I can buy myself perhaps a few seconds and that is all-

  You are not alone.

  Cyrus looked upon the face of Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar in all its inarticulate fury, and he tossed Praelior, the weapon that might have given him a few seconds of life, between the grey, skinny legs of the God of Darkness.

  He watched the weapon fly as Yartraak registered surprise with those red eyes; of all the things he might have anticipated, Cyrus knew that this was not one. Praelior sailed with Cyrus’s throw, aided by the strength it had given him while it was in his hand, sailed in a low arc—

  And fell into the open right hand of a very enraged elven paladin.

  She stood with a blade in each hand, and Cyrus watched as flames rippled from the crossguard to the tip of his sword, the furious heart of its user poured out onto the weapon itself.

  “Your hope—” Yartraak said.

  Vara did not even wait until he finished. She came low with her own sword, striking his right wrist before he could get it high enough to issue a spell to stop her. It hacked loose the three-fingered, clawed hand, the strength given her by Praelior enhancing her already righteous anger, and she followed a second later with the blade once wielded by the God of Courage and smote Yartraak’s head clean from his shoulders. “Do not speak to me of hope,” she said when his body wavered before her, quivering on dead legs as it started to fall, “for you have none left.”

  Cyrus lay there as the army that had chased him stood in absolute silence. Yartraak’s corpse fell to a knee, and something thumped, landing beside him. He turned stunned eyes upon it, and saw the face of the God of Darkness, come to rest on its side.

  “He will … betray you, you know …” Yartraak said, red eyes already glazing over, the light fading from them. Cyrus stared, mesmerized, unable to take his gaze from the dying face. “You have … his favor … now … but … the moment your interests diverge … he will … kill you.” That came out a whisper, the eyes growing duller. “It’s what he … does …”

  The lips ceased their movement, and Cyrus jarred himself out of his trance to get to his feet. He looked at the crowd of soldiers standing awestruck before him, paralyzed, the civilians behind them even more deadened by the spectacle that greeted their eyes at the gates of their Grand Palace.

  Cyrus looked back and saw her, then, the fury that had saved him. Vara stood, both blades extended at her side, avenging angel with holy wrath wrought down the metal in the form of scourging fire. She was a spectacle unto herself, death, swift and blazing, the firelight gleaming on her armor, shining in her hair, and her eyes a burning blue like the sky itself was channeled through her with all its glory and grandeur.

  “Get the hell out of here,” she said to the guards before her, voice low and full of terrible menace. “I am your destroyer, the end of your wretched lives, the fiery death of your god and the burning fear which should consume your every nightmare. Flee from me, give me my due with your screams … or I will take it from you in the form of your lives.”

  Cyrus felt as though he should take a step back but instead held his ground, though he swallowed hard. He eyed the dark elven soldiers and civilians standing in the road outside the Sovereign’s palace. The first clatter of a spear hitting the ground surpri
sed him, but the next twenty happened so quickly that he did not have time to place them in their proper context. By the time the screams started, he was certain he was near-dead and witnessing something quite otherworldly.

  They fled, every witness and watcher, throwing weapons aside, cravenly shoving their way past women and children, disappearing into the wide avenue beyond as though death itself were nipping behind them. The cries echoed off the walls, and Cyrus turned back to see guards fleeing out of the gate behind them, running wide around Vara, hewing close to the walls that circled them, closing off access to the houses on either side. They screamed, these men in full armor, they cried like children, and they, too, ran down the road as though pursued.

  He looked back at her, caught the fury in the eyes once more, and shook his head. “That was …” He blew a breath through his lips. “Damn. That was something.”

  She looked at him coolly. “You may be able to scare a horde of angry trolls with the aid of a wizard and a listing of your deeds, but I can well guarantee that these bastard dark elves will be talking about the night the elven woman with the flaming swords made them surrender their courage and run screaming for years to come.”

  He nodded his head in concession. “I doubt I’ll be forgetting it any time soon, either.” He extended a hand. “Can I … have my sword back now?” She looked at him, inscrutable, and then the blade of his weapon extinguished before she turned it around to offer him the hilt. “Thanks,” he said, taking up Praelior once more, staring into the destroyed facade of the Grand Palace. “I suppose we should get back to the army, help them clean up what’s left of the mess.”

  “But of course,” she said, matter-of-factly. “There is also the small matter of freeing Vidara.” She started toward the gate, pausing just outside it to glance around the corner; seeing nothing there, she entered the palace courtyard on her way to the bridge that crossed the moat.

  “She’s in the throne room,” Cyrus said, hurrying to keep up with her. He walked alongside her, still feeling some aches running through his body. “And … by the way … thank you.”

  She glanced at him sideways for only a moment. “Worry not, Lord Davidon, epic hero … I shan’t soon let you forget the night you were forced to surrender your sword to me so that I could save your life.”

  He felt a rueful smile creep across his lips as they made their way back to the palace. A river ran beneath them, the sound of running waters a soothing, calming thing after the crash of battle with a god. “Lady Vara … I cannot imagine anyone I would rather be saved by than you.” He saw her cheek redden, but she hurried her pace before he could so much as inquire about it and he was forced to increase his speed to keep up.

  Chapter 79

  “I feel like I’ve been batted about like a cat’s toy,” Cyrus said, tilting his neck left and right as they stepped through the wrecked front doors of the Grand Palace. Wood and stone were broken here, beams split, splinters jutting out. Cyrus could smell destruction all about, the dust in the air from it. He spat blood upon the ground, realizing a moment later it was a gleaming wood floor, shining from a heavy varnish.

  “Charming,” Vara pronounced, more neutrally that he would have expected. “You did get thrown through quite a few walls and doors. I was impressed with your aerodynamic capabilities; perhaps you should consider offering yourself as a projectile to Forrestant should the need arise in the future.”

  Cyrus heard the crack of something not quite right in his neck as he moved. “Perhaps after I’m healed, and once we’ve won the battle—”

  He was cut off by the wooden wall erupting as something slammed through it, shattering it into fine splinters. A dark shape, considerably taller than Cyrus, skidded to a stop in front of him and let out a deep, bellowing roar, animal fury in search of challenge.

  “Whoa, rock giant!” Cyrus said, pointing his sword at Fortin as if he were a horse that needed to be calmed. “Whoa!”

  Fortin breathed down upon him with dank breath that nearly caused Cyrus to tear up. He’s been eating his kills, I would wager. “Warlord. You have settled your business with the God of Darkness?”

  Cyrus stood there for a moment then exchanged a look with Vara; her lips twisted slightly higher in one corner. “She did.” He gestured at her with an elbow.

  “The blue fleshlings have fled before us,” Fortin said. “They are broken. And they taste like gnomes.” This he delivered with a certain smiling satisfaction.

  “Very good,” Cyrus said, not entirely meaning it. “Where is the rest of the army?”

  “Cyrus!” Vaste stepped gently out of the wreckage of the wall that Fortin had cleared. “Where have you been?” His eyes fell to Vara. “And you, too.” He grinned. “Snuck off in the middle of the battle to test out one of the Sovereign’s beds?”

  “We killed the God of Darkness, you daft prick,” Vara spat at him. “Where were you?”

  “I like how you said, ‘we,’” Cyrus said.

  Vara sent Cyrus a look of exasperation. “I could not have done it without you distracting him by being flung through half the walls in the mansion. Oh, and lest we forget, your sword was also helpful in striking his head from his body.”

  “I’m just glad I could do my part,” Cyrus said seriously, but the smile snuck out nonetheless.

  “Cyrus.” Terian emerged from the rubble behind Fortin, drawing the rock giant’s gaze as though he were prey. “Did you do it?”

  “It’s done,” Cyrus said, once more getting an acidic look from Vara. “Well, she did it. But it’s still done.”

  The dark knight’s armor was stained with blood that nearly matched its shade. “Good. You should go.”

  “Go?” Cyrus stared at him blankly. “Go where?”

  “Home,” Terian said, stepping under Fortin’s shadow as he moved toward the shattered doors behind Cyrus.

  “How do you intend to get the dark elven army out of Reikonos?” Cyrus asked, suspicion descending upon him like a cloud.

  “I can’t yet,” Terian said, taking a step back as Cyrus unfolded his hands. Terian held his own up in surrender. “You killed the Sovereign, but he has servants that do his work for him. I can’t control the army until I’ve dealt with them.”

  “We can deal with them together, then,” Vara said, watching the dark knight through smoky eyes.

  Terian flashed her a pained smile. “You could. You could run through Saekaj, destroying every great house in turn, killing every soldier, inspiring fear and making them flee before you.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Fortin said.

  “But …” Terian said, looking at each of them, “… afterward there will be little or nothing left, and no one to command the army to return from Reikonos.”

  “I had better hear a plan take flight out of your lips swiftly,” Cyrus said, muted fury beginning to bubble up now. “I came here and did your damned bidding—”

  “And you did it beautifully,” Terian said. “But the rest of this? It’s not your fight.” His eyes were gentle, conceding. “This battle is mine, now.”

  “I want your word, Terian,” Cyrus said, trying to soothe the rising anger. “That you will fix this. That you will deliver what you promised.”

  “I will do it or die trying,” Terian said swiftly. And true, Cyrus thought by the look in his eyes.

  “You will need help, I think.” A figure slipped out of the shadows, wearing a familiar face. Cyrus blinked; it was the J’anda of old, before he had become frail and worn, life burned out of him by time and effort.

  “Aye,” Terian said, nodding. “We will.”

  Cyrus looked at Terian with reluctance. “Do I even need to say it?”

  “If I don’t get those troops out of Reikonos,” Terian said a little warily, “you won’t need to come looking for me. Believe me on that.”

  “Because there will be nothing left of you?” Vara asked, and Cyrus knew she’d caught the hint of truth in the dark knight’s words.

  “There are still po
werful people invested in keeping Saekaj and Sovar under control,” J’anda said. “They will already be moving to exert that control now that he is dead. Fortunately,” he said with a smile, “I have set a few wheels in motion myself.” He looked to Terian. “Which we should now attend to.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said, feeling his anger coil back down into his belly like a snake going to sleep. “We will leave it in your hands.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Terian said, but he wore a grimace, “Brother.”

  Cyrus stared at him, unblinking. “Brother,” he finally said, and it was an acknowledgment of its own.

  Terian began to turn, J’anda at his side, but he paused just for a moment and looked back at Cyrus. “If you’re … spoiling for a fight …”

  Cyrus looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yes?”

  Terian stared at him, the wreckage of the palace foyer providing a dark background behind him. The dark knight smiled. “There is … one thing you could do on your way out that would be of immeasurable help …”

  Chapter 80

  “Cyrus.” Curatio’s crisp voice drew Cyrus back to the throne room. He climbed the rubble that remained of the broken doors, admiring the place where the God of Darkness had tossed him through the wood. The healer’s hand glowed as Cyrus entered, Vara shoving her way through the rubble behind him. “Are you all right?”

  Cyrus felt the healing spell run over him, felt the remaining wounds and pains decrease in their forcefulness. His eyes fell from the healer to the ragged figure at his feet, the goddess who had been near-drained. “I’m fine. Is she all right?”

  “She is alive,” Curatio said cautiously.

  “Which begs the question,” Vara said, looking to Cyrus, “how are you?”

  Cyrus frowned. “He just asked me that. I’m fine.”

  “No,” Vara said, shaking her head.

  “No, I’m not fine?” Cyrus stared at her. “Pretty sure I’m okay. The pains are gone, except for those little phantom ones that stick around after a heal—”