“He’s not here,” Cyrus said with great conviction. “This is below him. This is the petty scheming of a tyrant, not a god-in-waiting.” He shook his head. “Whoever rules here … they want to keep Reikonos their personal fiefdom, and milk it for all its power. To keep the people under a boot, not to rip the lives from them cleanly in the course of their own apotheosis.” He clenched Rodanthar tight in hand. “I want to find the person behind this Machine. I want to carve their heart out of them, to drain their blood the way they’ve done to this city.” His eyes narrowed. “I want to turn the very people they prey on against them, and make them fear us the way they’ve made everyone else fear them.”
“Hear, hear,” Shirri said, sounding a little choked, but her voice became stronger. “I am fully on board with that plan.”
Alaric smiled. “As am I. But first … I agree with Vaste.” He favored the wreckage of the Goliath hall with a disgusted eye. “Let us search this den of snakes for secrets and prisoners … and that done, let us burn it so that no evil may rise here again.” He stood, imposing, in the middle of them all, though he was fully several feet shorter than Vaste and at least a head shorter than Cyrus. “Let us burn it down, here—and then we will stake the other heads of this hydra, until we reach the very last.”
60.
Cyrus
The searching of the Goliath guildhall was surprisingly quick; the setting of fires all throughout, a slightly slower one. They’d run from room to room setting bedsheets aflame, putting correspondence to the torch, not lingering to watch it spread. By the time Cyrus had reached the main hall again, he found the others waiting for him, lingering, and when the last of them—Dugras and Hiressam—came out of one of the lower hallways, smoke was already curling around the ceiling of the mighty entry foyer.
Cyrus led the way out into the street, the others just behind him, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the street, he was hardly surprised to find a waiting crowd. They let out gasps as he emerged, a black-armored figure striding out of the guildhall, the black smoke rising in columns from behind him.
“Oh, look, it’s your admirers,” Vaste deadpanned as they reached the center of the street. Smoke was pouring out of side windows of the guildhall’s upper levels further down the street. “Seems they’ve found you again.”
“I think these are new ones,” Cyrus muttered, looking over the crowd for familiar faces. He didn’t see any, but neither did he see Machine thugs in their familiar leather coats or with their white armbands and strange symbology.
“Whatever, your believers are endless in number,” Vaste said, drifting away from him toward Birissa, who surveyed the scene with definite skepticism. “You should probably encourage them or something. You’re good at that.”
“I would,” Cyrus said, “but I’d be too afraid you’d mock me under your breath.”
“You’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring my jibes during your speeches,” Vaste said. “But I think I have better things to do right now than pillory you with words while you try and inspire people to whatever hairbrained cause you intend to have them take up.” His eyes flashed. “Have at it … General.” And he moved to stand next to Birissa, who watched Vaste coming with …
Delight? It was faint … but Cyrus saw it.
“Vaste is right,” Vara said, slipping up next to him.
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Cyrus murmured.
“You should say a few words,” Vara said. “And don’t worry—we’ll keep the secret of Vaste being right between us.” She smiled and faded back, joining Curatio a few steps behind Cyrus. “That’s a very nice sword for a healer,” she said to him.
“Do you like it?” Curatio asked, raising Praelior up. “I got it secondhand.”
Cyrus tried to tune them out, focusing on the crowd ahead. They were spread out over the street, eyes flicking from the fire burning behind him in the guildhall to him, standing there before it, at the head of his new—and burgeoning—army.
He turned, looking them over. Vaste and Birissa stood a few feet away, Vaste awkwardly looking at her. Finally Birissa rolled her eyes and put an arm around his shoulder, dragging him close to her as Vaste’s eyes widened, and he broke into a smile under her touch. Cyrus almost laughed, but instead turned; Shirri and her mother were talking quietly, Shirri nodding at something Pamyra was saying. When Pamyra caught him looking, a cloud fell over her expression, and she met his gaze evenly. Cyrus moved his gaze onward.
Hiressam stood behind him, watching him. When he found Cyrus looking, he nodded once and saluted. Cyrus gave him a nod in return, and then caught Alaric doing the same; staring at him, waiting for him to speak. The Ghost inclined his head in Cyrus’s direction, and Cyrus knew his mind. Curatio and Vara were speaking to each other in quiet tones, a smile on his wife’s face. She looked at him and turned that smile his way, giving him a nod of encouragement.
They were all behind him. They were all doing the things that normal people did when the tension of battle dissolved. It was a small army—much smaller than the last he’d led, into the Realm of War … but …
They’d just done something no one else had done.
“People of Reikonos,” Cyrus said, raising his voice as in the days of old, when he’d addressed armies. This was no different, in spite of the changed world. These were people—scared people, looking for a leader to do that which they could not do alone:
Crush the damned Machine.
“My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said, booming voice ringing out over the crowd. “And I have been gone for too long. But I am returned to you now—when you need the help most.” He threw his thumb back. “This building was the headquarters of the Machine, the seat of its wicked power. For too long these thugs have reigned over you, harried you, robbed from you, exhausted you and stolen all your hope.
“That day is over.”
A ripple ran through the crowd. He knew skepticism when he saw it, and this was more than a little of it. But beneath it all …
These people wanted to believe. He could taste their desire for hope.
“The long night of the Machine’s reign is over,” Cyrus said. “Dawn is coming.”
“It’s metaphor,” Vaste said, and Birissa chortled. “But also literal, see?” And in the distance, Cyrus could see the faint hints of light on the far horizon to the east.
“I caught that, yes,” Birissa said. “Very serendipitous.”
“Five syllables,” Vaste breathed. “Glorious.”
“Tomorrow, seek me in Reikonos Square,” Cyrus said. “At midmorning. Tell your friends. Tell your families. Tell all who will listen: I have returned,” he said, trying to put Rodanthar into his scabbard and finding the blade far too wide to fit. “Tell—dammit.” He sighed and gave up on that. “Tell everyone. And I will see you on the morrow.”
The crowd stirred, silent, for just a second. Then a ring of cheers, applause, cries, some mixture of relief, of worry that had broken came ringing out at him, loud in the quiet city night. Cyrus waved, once, and then turned to Vara. “How did I do?”
“It was beautiful,” Vaste said. “I think that thing with the sword might have undermined your serious moment. And I didn’t even have to be involved!”
“You’re such a jackass,” Cyrus said. “Curatio—” And he looked and found the healer had already stripped Rodanthar’s scabbard from Gaull’s belt and was holding it out to him. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t want people to see you robbing a corpse after that speech; it would do more to undermine your credibility than anything Vaste could,” the healer said, a trace of amusement curling his lips.
“What do we do now?” Hiressam asked, looking at the crowd, which was now roaring, chanting Cyrus’s name.
“I don’t know about you guys,” Vaste said, “but I might need some sort of stomach remedy to stop the churning now that I’m hearing them chant his name. I mean, really,” and he sent an amused look at Cyrus. “Who do they think you are? Some sort
of god?”
“He did just do something that no one else has ever done,” Shirri said, easing up to them, looking a little less meek than when they’d first encountered her. She cast her eyes toward Cyrus, and he saw some small measure of difference in the way she looked at him now. “I think they believe … that he’s Cyrus Davidon, returned.”
“And what do you believe?” Alaric asked.
Shirri glanced away for a second, then looked back up, eyes shining. “I believe he’s Cyrus Davidon, returned.” And she looked at him, almost apologetically. “But … not quite as impressive as the legends.”
“Oof, that’s gotta hit the old ego,” Vaste said.
“I was never as impressive as my legend,” Cyrus said, looking right at Shirri. “Your mother could tell you that. If I ever had any secret to my successes …” And here he looked at Pamyra, trying to put as much warmth and compassion into his voice as he could, “… it’s that I always had great people standing with me in whatever endeavor I took on … and it’s to my eternal regret that not all of them made it out of those battles alive.”
Pamyra’s gaze did not soften at first, but after a few seconds, she seemed to relent, at least a fraction, though she said nothing.
“Come along, my friends,” Alaric said, waving them forward. “This night approaches its end, and morning will be here before you know it, along with a new day for Reikonos. We have much to do before then.”
“Such as …?” Vaste asked, sounding mildly perturbed. “We just fought an epic battle against a man with a godly weapon, people who could shoot seemingly endless amounts of metal killing balls at us, and—” He looked at Shirri. “I don’t know who you faced, but I’m sure they were very difficult.”
Shirri stirred, looking over at Dugras, who nodded once. “Yes,” she said, “it was one of the key leaders of the Machine, and he had the ability to completely nullify magic in his presence—with this.” And she brandished a metallic orb from her pocket.
“Interesting,” Curatio said, and held out his hand. “Do you mind if I take a look at that …?”
She shrugged and handed it to him, and the healer pocketed it.
“See, everyone faced down their troubles with great courage,” Vaste said. “Hope was restored. The Machine was beaten, their headquarters lost. Cyrus managed to avenge the honor of the last of the trolls. And I was able to conquer this trifling issue I had with a lack of romance.” He nodded at Birissa, who cleared her throat, looking a little nonplussed. “Birissa was able to conquer this trifling issue I had with lack of romance,” Vaste amended. “So tell me, Alaric—what could we possibly have left to do before Cyrus’s speechifying on the morrow?” He looked at the lightening sky to the east. “Or in several hours, at least.”
Alaric cleared his throat, and smiled, faintly. “I rather assumed we would return to the guildhall, feast, sleep … do … whatever—or whoever—tickled our fancy, in some of our cases. With doors closed, this time, I do hope.” He cleared his throat. “A just reward for a job well done, you know.”
“Oh well, if it’s feasting and—well, you know—I’m all for it,” Vaste said, and raised his hand. “Let us depart—and do much of what Alaric calls work but is actually much fun stuff!” And off he went, Birissa’s arm around him.
“You’re feasting again?” Dugras scratched his beard, and inclined his head. “The captain can wait until tomorrow, I suppose. Though if you keep feeding me like that last meal, I may just have to stick around.”
“I am surprised,” Hiressam said, nodding as he fell in beside Dugras, “we had a cook that handled all this before. I had assumed with her departure that perhaps the quality of the meals would fall, but they’ve been stellar thus far …” And off he went, beside the dwarf.
“I could use a night of sleep,” Shirri said, her mother beside her, “and our apartment is … wrecked.”
“We have an abundance of beds at Sanctuary,” Alaric said. “I’m certain we can find you accommodations, temporary … or otherwise,” he said slyly.
“Perhaps we’ll go with ‘or otherwise’ for now,” Pamyra said warmly to Alaric, but when she looked back at Cyrus, that same coldness persisted, if a degree or two less cold than it had been.
“You know what has to happen here, right?” Alaric asked, sidling up to Cyrus once Shirri and her mother had moved on, down the street, with the others.
Cyrus looked over his shoulder. The crowd was easing toward him. Calling his name. Asking him for things. Imploring him for aid for their various maladies. Soon they would be upon him; fear, perhaps, kept them at a distance, but it was dissolving, emboldening them the longer he was here. “I can’t just walk down the street back to Sanctuary,” he answered.
“No,” Alaric said, with a shake of his head. “It’s not befitting a legend such as yourself … and they would follow.”
“And the Machine might not be fully defeated yet,” Cyrus said as Vara slid up to him. Curatio had gone on, with the others, leaving only the three of them to stand before the crowd, which was growing restless, getting closer to him. The first of them were only feet away—shouting and begging him for aid, some of which he could not have given even had he wanted to. “It would be unwise to lead them back to our gates.”
“Aye,” Alaric said, and slipped in close behind Vara and Cyrus, who now stood side by side. “Say your farewells—and make it dramatic.”
“As though you even need to tell him that,” Vara muttered.
“Come to Reikonos Square on the morrow!” Cyrus shouted, voice booming so loudly that half of those that had nearly reached him took a step back at the sound. “I will be there. I will speak to you. And we will make tomorrow a better day.”
“That will do it,” Alaric said and touched Cyrus on the shoulder. Light infused the air around him, brightening, as he slipped into the ether and the gasps of the crowd faded into the night.
61.
Vaste
“So … you were right,” Vaste said, light of day streaming in through his window, which seemed wider somehow than it had been before he’d left. He frowned at it; really, he should have a balcony, like Cyrus and Vara, he thought. But for now, maybe he’d settle for a wider window. “I’m sure you like the sound of that, don’t you?”
Birissa sat on the edge of the bed, which was unbowed despite the weight of both of them on it. She studied him with a furrowed brow. “I don’t particularly care—though I find I am often right, often enough that it is no particular occasion to be amazed when I am. What about, in this case, may I ask?”
“You may, and that was a very polite way to say it,” Vaste said. “I mean, I’m used to trolls who don’t so much have manners—it’s more, ‘Answer or I clubs you. Urgh urgh.’ That sort of thing.”
Her frown grew more pronounced, her lower fangs jutting higher out of her lips. “That … is appalling.”
“I agree, which is why I left my people,” Vaste said. “But that’s a bit off topic. What I was trying to say was that you were right—about me.” He bowed his head slightly. “I do think too much and act too little. I’ve long been content to be a follower, to move with the herd, to make my funny jokes rather than stick my neck out and command action. And … that has extended to every area of my life. Obviously.” And here he gestured at the bed, as though that would make everything clear.
“It’s hardly a sin to think,” Birissa said, more quiet than usual. “It’s only a problem when it keeps you paralyzed. Holds you back from doing what you know is right … or going after what you truly want.”
“I know.” Vaste tapped his fingers against Letum’s ebony surface. “But my desire to sit back, to suggest action rather than take it, to bury myself in Council and not drive things forward—well, it is a kind of paralysis, at least the way I do it. It has to change. I’m going to lead more as we head into this—I don’t know—revolution, maybe? I’m going to be better. Not just make funny jokes. I mean, I’ll still do that, too, because—hell, it’s me. How c
ould I not?” He clenched his staff hard in his grip. “But I will become a man of action, worthy of remembrance in my own right—and worthy of the legacy of the trolls now lost.” He felt a strange gravitas creep through him. “I think all my life … I’ve wanted to meet a certain kind of alpha troll … someone who possessed the definitive qualities that I thought our race should have. And I never have. Because I had magic, was too bookish, too pensive. I have a godly weapon now, though, and little magic, and no excuse not to act.” He gave a sharp nod. “It’s a new world. Time to be a new me.”
Birissa just looked at him, a little mischief playing in her eyes. “And this new you … is he going to truly take more action? Become stronger?” She flexed her arm.
“I suppose I’ll have to,” Vaste said, pulling his chin up. “Why?”
Her eyes danced. “It’s nothing, really … just noticed your arse could use … a little tightening.”
Vaste sagged. “Truly?”
“Just a little.” She held her thumb and forefinger a small length apart.
“Well …” he said, letting out a little sigh, “at least I don’t have to try and figure out how to shorten it.” He patted his backside. “It’s okay, my perfect plum. There’s room for improvement everywhere, I suppose. Besides,” and he brightened just a little, “you don’t have to have a perfect arse in order to be remembered for a thousand years … clearly.”
62.
Shirri
When Shirri woke to the sound of someone at the door, it was from the deepest, most satisfying sleep she’d had in months. The bed was heavy down; she’d sunk into it when it was still dark outside her windows and now the light was streaming in. She opened her eyes and lifted her head from the comfortable pillow, mumbling, “What?”
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