“I was a man,” Cyrus said, turning to the crenellations and looking out over the wasteland that was Arkaria in these days. Had he ever been atop the Reikonos wall before? Perhaps in the days of training in the Society, but not since. Still, he could recall walking out the gates and seeing houses, shacks, shanties – but green beyond that, great and spreading under a cerulean sky.
No more, though. Now it was grey, writhing skin, brown, trod and torn earth, not a spring or blade of green in sight. More scourge than he could count, mud beneath their clawed feet, black, foul water peppered with discarded corpses separating them from the walls – and nothing else. Scourge and mud, as far as the eye could see, as though nothing had ever lived here but this hateful non-life.
“My lord?” McCoie asked.
“A mortal man,” Cyrus said, looking over at him. “Filled with the same worries, desires, and fears as you. The only difference is that I lived a thousand years ago and did enough bizarre things to build a legend that outlived me.”
“But...you're not mortal anymore,” McCoie said. So much certainty, it hurt Cyrus's heart.
Cyrus held up a hand, felt the touch of the ether as it faded for but a moment. “I'm mortal enough. Longer-lived, perhaps, but I can still feet the bite of steel against my skin.” He revealed his side, where Baynvyn had planted Epalette between the links of his mail. “I can still bleed, though it is a bit easier for me to fix the problem thanks to my long-forgotten magic.” He held up a hand and cast Nessalima's Light, an orb glowing from his fingertips. He reached back and threw it over the moat, and it came down in a slow fall as the scourge fell over each other trying to get to it.
Save for one, Cyrus realized, peering at the shore. The others had all chased the shining light, but one of them – smaller, but grey as the rest – stayed at the edge of the moat. It was so still that if it were not standing upright, he might have thought it dead. Or as dead as one of these things could be made without a sword through it.
It stood there, though, neither snarling nor moving at all, and stared, black eyes agleam in the morning sun.
At him.
“Do you see that sc–” Cyrus started to ask. But he was interrupted.
“Cyrus...Davidon...”
McCoie's eyes grew wide as shields. “What evil is this?”
Cyrus knew, though. He brought his gaze down, down from the lone, watching scourge, into the moat beneath.
There bobbed half a hundred corpses. Machine thugs and loyalist Watch thrown over to prevent rot and disease within the city. They floated in their black coats and bright livery against the ebon waters, pale faces staring skyward where they were upright.
One of them was speaking to him.
“Malpravus,” Cyrus muttered. “We should have burned the bodies.”
“Dear boy,” Malpravus's voice wafted up to him, “I would have words.”
“Have them quickly,” Cyrus said, leaning against the crenellation nearest to look down and address the necromancer's vessel. “For I'm soon to find some barrels of oil so I can light the whole moat aflame.”
The corpse chuckled in that dry, raspy way of Malpravus's. “I hardly think you could spare the oil at this point, but I'd welcome the warmth and light it produced. A symbolic pyre to herald the end of...certain things. Certain...peoples.”
Cyrus stared down, now sure that Malpravus was getting at something. He was always communicating in these oblique ways, he so loved his secrets. “Speak plainly. I haven't all day.”
“Plainly, it is, then,” Malpravus rasped with pleasure. “I have something that belongs to you, dear boy. Someone, I should say.”
Cyrus froze, his blood chilled. Vara–
“Your lad,” Malpravus said, the corpse grinning up at him. “Your own son. Imagine my surprise when I found out about that.”
“You've had him all along, it would seem to me,” Cyrus said, staring down at the corpse, still strangely chilled. “How does this change the situation?”
“Because now I am aware of the value of that which I possess,” Malpravus said, seeping self-satisfaction. “And if you do not present yourself to me at Reikonos Square in surrender by the setting of today's sun...well...
“You won't have a son of your own any longer.”
Chapter 83
Alaric
“This is certain to be a trap,” Curatio said.
They were gathered in a far corner of the yard, hidden against the walls. The nearest docks had already emptied, and the closest ship was some considerable distance away. It was the convocation that Alaric had become used to, this ad hoc council. None were missing save for Vara, and the fact they'd come together so quickly suggested to him that the seriousness was not being taken lightly.
“Of course it's a trap,” Cyrus said, as calm almost as Alaric had ever seen him. “This is Malpravus, and he's asked me to surrender myself to him. It's right there in the offer.”
“Well, he seems unlikely to spare your so-called son simply because you show up as requested,” Vaste said.
“In fact it seems probable he will use this occasion to unleash a counterattack on the rest of us,” Curatio said.
Alaric nodded. “That is true. Malpravus is nothing if not opportunistic.”
“And sleazy, crass, disgusting, morally bankrupt–” Vaste started.
“Yes, we know all this,” Curatio said.
“–terrible, wretched–”
“Are you going to list all the bad adjectives?” Cyrus asked, “or are you going to make a point?”
“My point is,” Vaste said, taking Birissa's hand in his, “I think you'd stand a better chance of survival if you were to throw yourself over the wall and into the moat of the dead, then swim to the other side and into battle with the endless scourge.”
“That could be fun,” Birissa said, shaking Vaste's hand out of hers.
Cyrus blinked. “That doesn't sound like fun to me. No part of it, even. Not the surrendering to Malpravus, nor your proposed alternative suicide method.”
“I'm confused,” Shirri said, “why are we even talking about this?” She shifted her attention to Cyrus. “This son of yours has been trying to kill you, hasn't he?”
“He has,” Cyrus said. He sounded nearly dead, or perhaps just drained.
“You should definitely walk into the big, gaping open trap with the vile necromancer waiting for you inside, then,” Vaste said. “It's a logical plan, bound to result in nothing but greatness.”
“Stop agreeing with me,” Curatio said, “I might find myself changing position simply to be on the other side of argument from you.”
“I came to report this to this...council, I suppose,” Cyrus said.
“But you're not seriously considering doing it?” Vaste asked. After a pause, his eyes grew wide. “Right?”
Cyrus looked from the troll to his boots. “I don't know.”
“This doesn't seem difficult,” Vaste said. “Let's lay out the case – if you go to Malpravus, you will die. And your son – so-called, I add again, because he's trying to kill you, which seems very un-son-like to me, in my admittedly innocent lack of parental experience–”
“Very naive, yes,” Curatio said. “If you have an offspring who's not trying to kill you at some juncture, I'm not sure you could really count them as yours.”
“–but to me, that smacks of abrogating the parental agreement,” Vaste said, ignoring the elf. “In any case, he probably dies too, if you go. Contrast that with you staying here, helping us win the fight–”
“And Malpravus kills Baynvyn,” Cyrus said simply – still flatly, with no feeling at all.
“Yes, but not you,” Vaste said. “Which is important, because you are our general, and we need your help to win this trifling fight for the city that you supposedly love and want to save.”
“I do want to save Reikonos,” Cyrus said.
“But?” Pamyra gazed at him keenly, absent that anger that had burned in her eyes for Cyrus before.
“I don't know,” Cyrus said in a near-whisper. “I am conflicted.”
“This was not a child you raised,” Vaste said, his own voice rising, “not one you asked for, nor were informed about, nor was he even borne of some actual love between you and, oh, I don't know, your wife. He was a child from a union compelled by your enemies, who enslaved a girl to force her into your bed–”
“I am aware of the sequence of events leading to Baynvyn being who he is,” Cyrus said.
“You owe him nothing,” Vaste said, stepping closer. “Your responsibilities to him are zero. Your responsibilities to us, on the other hand, are considerable. And I'm not just talking about that thing Curatio will probably kill me for mentioning–”
“I have other reasons to kill you now,” Curatio said. “This conversation being at the top of the list.”
“I think we all know,” Alaric said, speaking up to put an end to the debate, “that an attack is coming regardless.” He drew a solemn breath. “I need to consult with our general in preparation for our next move.” His eye flitted to Cyrus, and he saw the warrior staring again at the ground.
“Our next move is to defend these grounds, isn't it?” Hiressam asked. “To see the people fed?”
“Perhaps,” Alaric said. “Perhaps it might make sense to attack before Malpravus makes his move. Perhaps not. I want to discuss it with him, though.” He looked around at the solemn circle that surrounded them. “But I need to do so alone.”
“Well, I have no particular desire to witness this discussion,” Pamyra said, putting a hand on the small of her daughter's back to steer her away. She flashed a sharp, insincere smile at Cyrus. “Please try not to abandon us to our fates, would you?”
“I'll consider it,” Cyrus said, as emotionless as anything else he'd said in the discussion.
“I trust you'll make the right decision, General,” Hiressam said, bowing his head before Cyrus. “As you always do.”
The caused Cyrus to quirk an eyebrow. When he did not respond, Vaste did: “That's an incredibly rosy recollection.”
Hiressam responded with a tight smile, another bow of the head, and excused himself.
Birissa, an iron hand upon Vaste's shoulder, began to drag him away. “Hey,” Vaste said, “he didn't mean without me, clearly. I am an important stakeholder in this decision, and–”
“I want to sleep,” Birissa said. “If there's a counterattack coming, I need some rest. So do you.”
“But – but – but–”
“We didn't sleep at all last night. No arguments, my slime-green darling.”
Curatio cocked his head as they walked away. “Was that slime bit meant to be a compliment, do you think?”
“Trolls are odd that way, and yes,” Alaric said gruffly. “Curatio...would you be so kind...?”
The healer inclined his head. “I will leave you to it, after I have a moment.” He fixed Cyrus with an intense gaze. “I know you think you are some invincible legend–”
Cyrus let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “'Legends never die'.”
Curatio raised an eyebrow in plain amusement. “Do not test that assumption too far, my friend. Malpravus, would, I think, love to sip from even the limited font of magic that dwells in your veins. And attacking us with you indisposed would certainly make the conquest easier. Consider that before you act.” And with a last nod, he departed, leaving Alaric alone with Cyrus at last.
Chapter 84
Cyrus
“Who's watching Guy?” Cyrus asked, favoring Alaric with a dry, uncaring look. The question had occurred when he realized that Guy was, in fact, the only person who'd “joined” Sanctuary before they'd taken the docks, and yet had been absent from this conclave. He kicked at the stony road beneath his feet that ran the perimeter, and a small cloud of dust came up from it as if blown by a good wind.
“Guy can watch his own damned self,” Alaric said, “for neither you nor I nor anyone else in this yard has time for babysitting.” He looked rather pointedly at Cyrus. “That extends to you as well, my friend. I will not always be present should you make a decision to do something foolish that puts you in peril.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Then things are different now from the way they've been the last however many years before we entered the ether exactly how?”
Alaric bowed his head. “True enough. My point, though–”
“I'm a warrior and an adult, Alaric,” Cyrus said, still strangely cold. “I know when I'm on my own, and I'm quite fine with it, should it come to that.”
“What do you plan to do, then?” Alaric asked, finding himself studying the dark stones of the wall surrounding the dockyards.
“I truly don't know,” Cyrus said with a desperate breath. “I am more torn, more tired, more unsure than ever I recall being. Part of me – perhaps the largest part – wishes I could hop on a departing airship and ride to Termina. Yet duty compels me to stay. Still, though, another voice calls – Baynvyn, Malpravus. What responsibility have I to a son I didn't even know about, Alaric?” He turned his head to look at the Ghost. “One who wishes me dead, who might be laying a trap for me even now, hoping I will stumble along into it, foolishly? And how much the fool am I for even contemplating such a course?”
“You're not a fool,” Alaric said, “for feeling drawn by responsibility and compassion. Malpravus has baited this snare well. He knows that you feel, even as he feels nothing. He also knows that without you, our defenses stand less ready to protect this place, upon which all our hopes hinge. Neither is he a fool, and he makes his plans cleverly.”
“I feel a fool,” Cyrus said quietly. “I feel a fool for actions of a thousand years ago that Vara told me were foolish at the time. I feel as though my errors in earnest will follow for me all eternity. That perhaps the best thing I could do is sit quietly in a corner somewhere and let the world pass me by while I make no more decisions, intervene in nothing more, and hope that this will at last perhaps settle in some peace.”
“I don't think it works that way,” Alaric said. “Speaking from a certain amount of experience and culpability. There are always some evil souls intent on asserting their ill will upon the land. Standing aside and letting them do so has not, in my experience, made the world a better place. Indeed, it only makes it the worse when you are forced to tackle the problem.”
“How much responsibility did you feel for Terian when you came out of the ether a thousand years ago the first time?” Cyrus asked, studying Alaric's downcast gaze. His eye was fixed squarely on his foot; this conversation held less the tenor of a lecture than he might have thought it would.
“An uncomfortable amount,” Alaric said. “If you spoke to Curatio, I feel certain you would find that he, too, maintained an occasional watch on his progeny. There is a tie of blood and loyalty that you cannot simply overlook or dismiss, even with this Baynvyn.” The knight remained still for a moment. “I must confess, I do not know what your responsibility to him is. Nor do I know what I would do if my great love had flown from me as Vara has, in anger. I would not want to be in your situation, my friend.”
“Isn't that funny?” Cyrus maintained a ghostly smile. “Everyone here views me as some sort of god, some mighty man greater than themselves that they'd aspire to be. But if you showed them where I sit now and asked them if they'd like to switch places, no fool would take that arrangement.” He clenched and unclenched a fist, feeling the satisfying clink of the gauntlet. “And it is ever thus; no one would have wanted to be me in Luukessia, or upon the field of Leaugarden. Nor in the battles with dragons, the years of my heresy, or fighting against gods, unless they knew they would come through it safely. I never knew I would be safe in any of those fights, but this one...” He shook his head. “I feel certain if I walk into Malpravus's trap, I will most assuredly die. He would not leave it to chance. Not again.”
“You have frustrated him much,” Alaric said.
Cyrus looked Alaric in the eye. “You can't tell me what to do, then?”<
br />
Alaric's smile now turned ghostly. “No. Would that I could, but you're not a child, and I'm not your father. You have made your own choices for a long while and they have been–”
“Terrible.”
“–The best any man could make given the circumstances,” Alaric said. “You bear a weight of responsibility few could. That is why these people have poured their hopes into you, made you a god. You have reached heights of heroism that no other would want, because you have taken the burden no one would want to carry. No, you have not always won the day, no, not everything has turned out all right. But Cyrus, I tell you now – you are a constant source of pride to me.”
Cyrus cocked his head. “How? Why?”
“No man is so wise as to read the future,” Alaric said. “None of us know how these things will turn out. Not even Curatio, with his endless experience, could predict the events that flow from today. The choices we make, we do with an eye cast toward tomorrow and the days after, but in truth, we are nearly blind.” He gestured, vaguely, toward his eye patch. “What, then, can a man do?
“Make the right choice for today,” Alaric said, firm. “Make the courageous choice for today. Try to save the most people possible. Be brave and face your consequences, if they come. That's what you've always done. Not made a perfect choice with flawless foresight, for there is no such thing, not that we can see. You have never been a god, in spite of what they might think of you. But you have answered the call of the hero, endlessly, and done all you could – and that is why your legend lives on.” He put a hand on Cyrus's shoulder, gauntlet clinking against the pauldron. “I know not what decision you will make, but I know this: guided by duty, by bravery, the man standing before me will make the best choice possible.”
“I wish you could just tell me what to do,” Cyrus said quietly. “But I suppose then I wouldn't be worthy of the faith you show in me.”
Call of the Hero Page 33
