by Joseph Lallo
During the descent, Ashan'agar did not cease screaming. The mountains below them were spinning. Cyrus could see masses of people, an army, moving in the hills. It was like he was watching ants. They kept getting bigger and bigger – the Dragonlord flapped his wings – and then they hit the ground –
Chapter 37
The Dragonlord roared somewhere in his mind. Curses rained from Ashan'agar's mouth as Cyrus drew back to consciousness. The warrior blinked, sick to his stomach. He rolled over and surrendered to the nausea, throwing up violently.
“How charming to see you again,” came Vara's voice from above him.
Cyrus buried his face in the volcanic ash. “I don't feel well.” He rolled to his back. “Resurrection aftereffects, I presume?”
“I assumed you were greeting me in the traditional manner of your people,” came Vara's voice once more, laced with equal parts sarcasm and relief, unmistakable even in Cyrus's diminished condition.
“You do make me rather sick sometimes.” Cyrus pulled himself to a sitting position. “Alaric,” he said in surprise.
“What about him?” Vara replied with irritation.
“He is here,” came the deep voice of the Ghost of Sanctuary. The crunching of his feet upon the rocks behind them had been drowned out by the thrashing and cursing of Ashan'agar.
On the ridge above them a ragged cheer could be heard; the Army of Sanctuary began flowing down the hillside en masse. Cyrus picked Elisabeth, Erith, Cass and Tolada out of the crowd of them; the allies had arrived. Curatio was a few steps behind Alaric, as were the rest of the officers of Sanctuary and Andren.
Alaric extended his hand to Cyrus, who took it. The paladin pulled the warrior to his feet with power that the Ghost's wiry frame did not indicate. “I am pleased to see you have survived, my brother.”
Cyrus blinked, a bit unsteady. “Not half as pleased as I am.” The warrior stared into the army massing behind him. “How did we do?”
Alaric smiled. “We did very well. The forces of the Dragonlord were no match for the reforged Army of Sanctuary and its allies.”
Malpravus glided to them from behind Vara. “Most impressive,” the necromancer whispered, eyes fixated on the writhing dragon. “Bringing down the Dragonlord by yourself – I did tell you I expected great things from you.”
Alaric cleared his throat but Cyrus met the necromancer's gaze. “Two of your guildmates were aiding the Dragonlord in his endeavors. Selene and Orion assisted him in stealing the weapons of the gods and Selene cast the spells that allowed him to break his barrier.”
“That is... disconcerting,” Malpravus said, so low that Cyrus had to concentrate to hear him. “I will look into these allegations immediately.”
“While you're doing that,” Cyrus said, “you might look into who stole Letum during our attack on the Realm of Death.”
“All in good time. We have a more pressing problem to deal with,” Malpravus whispered again. “The Dragonlord yet lives.”
“Ah, yes,” Alaric breathed. The Ghost strode to the downed dragon, rasping. “Any more venom to spew, Ashan'agar, before the end of your days?”
The dragon stiffened. “Whose voice is that? I know you...”
“I doubt that,” Alaric said with a tight smile. “Have you any last words, Dragonlord?”
The mountains were silent for a long moment, and only the rasping of Ashan'agar could be heard. Cyrus stood a few paces behind Alaric, and watched the Dragonlord's side; ribs shattered. In every breath the scaly flesh heaved up and down only with monumental effort.
“Yes,” came the rasp of Ashan'agar's voice. The dragon's head turned and Cyrus found himself looking into the pits where the dragon's eyes had been. “I offered you all; you would have been my Sovereign and ruled all the lesser races of Arkaria.” A tinge of sadness entered the dragon's voice as he gasped for breath. “I would have given you purpose.”
The weakness in Cyrus's knees faded. His jaw set and his spine straightened. “I have a purpose,” the warrior intoned.
Without warning, Alaric leapt forward, sword drawn so quickly it was almost imperceptible, and thrust it through the scales of the Dragonlord's head. Cyrus blinked in surprise; the strike had been perfect, sliding between the scales and strong enough to break through the dragon's thick skull. One final scream tore through the Mountains of Nartanis, and then Ashan'agar, the Lord of the Dragons, was finally silent.
Chapter 38
The day after the final battle had dawned especially bright at Sanctuary. Cyrus saw it through the window in the Halls of Healing, where Curatio had urged him to stay overnight. At sunrise, having had his fill of rest, he had argued with the healer until the elf had finally given in and let him leave.
He entered the Great Hall before the usual breakfast time to find a cluster of members sitting around a table in the corner, new faces by far outnumbering the old. Andren waved him over. Amidst handshakes and congratulatory slaps to his back, the warrior made his way over to his oldest friend. “Did we just save the world yesterday?” Andren asked him with a smile.
“I believe we did,” Cyrus said with one of his own. “I think we're still wanted in Reikonos, though.”
“Bah.” Andren waved him off. “We're heroes now; they'll drop the charges.”
Cyrus's smile turned sardonic. “I'm sure that's been said a time or two.”
Andren's expression turned downward. “I heard Ashan'agar's den got buried – treasure trove and all.” The corners of the healer's mouth drew tight, giving him a pained expression. “I guess you lost your sword hilt.”
Cyrus sat back and adopted a pensive expression. “The Serpent's Bane?” He frowned. “I didn't even think about it until now, I was so focused on stopping the Dragonlord.” A roiling torrent of emotion poured through him; hot regret tempered by a cool realization. “I'll be all right,” he said and meant it.
“Did you hear?” Andren looked at him with an expression of wonder. “We captured one of Ashan'agar's rock giants! It talks and everything. They're keeping it in the dungeons below until you Council lot,” he waved in Cyrus's direction, “work out what to do with it.”
The warrior's eyebrow raised. “A rock giant? Why don't we just kill it and be done?”
Andren shrugged. “Alaric said no. Not sure why.”
Cyrus shook his head. “Damn, I am hungry.”
“Killing a dragon works up an appetite, eh?”
The two of them laughed their way through breakfast, their first together in months.
“I almost forgot,” Cy said as their meal drew to a close. “Orion told me that someone betrayed us to the goblins in order to get the Earth Hammer. I guess the goblins wanted something from our expedition.” His jaw tightened. “The same person stole the Staff of Death when we were in Mortus's Realm. They're in the Alliance.”
Andren blinked several times. “Do you know who it is?”
“No,” Cy exhaled, expression grave. “But I will find out. We owe them – for Narstron.”
“For Narstron,” Andren said. “And for us.”
With a nod, Andren strode out the doors of the Great Hall. Cyrus was congratulated over and over again by mostly familiar faces; people he'd recruited in the last six months who had proven themselves in the crucible of the battle the day before. Their excitement was palpable, their hope for the future buoyed by the realization that they had played a part in saving the world.
Seeking solitude, Cyrus exited through the front door, wandering the still quiet grounds in the light of early morning. He found himself near the gardens and saw a familiar figure on the bridge. Today, her shining armor was once again missing, as was the ponytail. Vara stared at the waterfall across the pond. She was clad in something remarkably close to her attire on the night they had dined together in the elven realms. Her hair shone in the sunrise and a slight smile graced her face – which evaporated to neutrality upon notice of his approach.
“I am pleased to s
ee you are up and moving again,” she said with a nod. “I was concerned,” she coughed, “that you might not have survived your encounter with the Dragonlord.”
His eyes met hers, and she looked away first. “I was more concerned with you. I'd have gotten back to Ashan'agar sooner if I hadn't gotten bushwhacked by Orion.” He scowled at the memory.
Vara's brow knit with concern. “I didn't get a chance to ask you, but you and Selene fell quite a distance when the Dragonlord threw you off his back. How did you manage to beat both Orion and Selene? I assume you were,” she coughed again, “badly injured,” she finished with downcast eyes. “And I know you lost your sword.”
“I was injured.” Cyrus nodded. “And unarmed. I bought some time by telling Orion that Selene was either injured or dying and telling him that I knew where she was. It bought me enough time for Vaste to find me, right about the time Selene came wandering up. Vaste healed me and I jumped Orion.” The warrior paused in thought. “I beat Orion pretty badly. I think I killed him – I'm not sure.”
“You held Selene's whereabouts hostage,” Vara said, voice neutral.
“You don't approve.”
“No, it's not that. My code would prevent me from doing such a thing – deceptive means and all that – but it was quite brilliant. I give you credit for thinking on your feet, injured and unarmed as you were.” She frowned. “One thing I don't understand: how did Orion and Vaste find you, in the midst of the mountains?” She thought about it for a moment. “And again, after you fell from Ashan'agar, Vaste found your body.”
Cyrus shrugged. “Orion must have seen me fall; he was lurking in the area for some reason.” The warrior blinked. “Odd that he would see me fall and not see Selene.” Cyrus shrugged again. “Don't reckon I'll get a chance to ask him anytime soon.”
Vara still frowned. “But what about Vaste? He was in the middle of the battle with the rest of the army. How did he know where to find you?”
“I don't know.” Cy smiled. “I appreciate how hard you must be trying to discuss my actions over the last few days and not come up with something critical and insulting to say.”
“I don't mind not insulting you,” she said with a deep breath. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. “It seems to be the sort of habit that grows on you after a while.”
“The wager ended yesterday.”
“You're aggravatingly daft. I can't believe the best stratagem you could come up with to defeat the Dragonlord involved running him into the ground at terminal velocity.” She exhaled, fury spent.
He cocked his eyebrow in deep amusement. “Actually, I lied: the bet ends tomorrow. I win.”
“You bastard,” she hissed. She glared at him for a moment before a laugh escaped her lips. Her expression softened. “Don't change the subject. You took a very great risk in bringing the Dragonlord crashing to the ground with you on his back.”
“First of all,” Cyrus said, “he told me he was going to take me up to where there was no air to breathe and kill me – so I really didn't have much of a choice. Second,” he said with a tremendous and self-satisfied grin, “I didn't know you cared. You are so up and down – first you seem like you hate me, then you tell me you don't, and that I'm 'a man Sanctuary can rely on' and then you go cold again. Could you find some stability in your reaction to me?”
“I will... try,” she said with a thin smile.
“That will do for now.” He returned her smile and felt a flush color his cheeks. “I'm still feeling a bit weak...”
“I'm not surprised,” she returned, blue eyes locked on his. “You did plummet to your death yesterday. Perhaps you should rest for a while.”
He did not break her gaze. It was pleasant, looking into her eyes. “Before I go,” he said, and reached into his belt, drawing her sword with a flourish. “I couldn't have done it without this.” He turned the sword so that he gripped the blade, pointing the hilt toward her.
She flushed. “Thank you for returning it to me. Could you leave it outside my quarters? I think I'll be out here for a bit longer and I don't want to carry it up when I go.”
“Sure.” He nodded, waving it in the air to the side of them. “Heavy, but perfectly balanced.” He peered at the elaborate carvings on the blade. “It looks old.”
She smiled. “It is. You really should rest.”
“I think perhaps you're right. I'm going to go sleep for a bit longer.” With a sweeping bow that made her giggle behind her hand, he walked away. He looked back once to find her still watching him. Her cheeks blushed and she looked away, back toward the waterfall.
When he reached his chambers, he opened the door to find the lamps already lit. He shut the door and unstrapped his armor, fitting it piece by piece onto the shelves and bust set aside for it. “Where's my helm?” he wondered, then saw it on the bed next to a small parcel. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he picked it up and unwrapped the small silk ribbon that encircled the box. He pulled the top off of it to find –
– the Serpent's Bane. His eyes widened, and he turned it over and over in his hands, scarcely believing it to be the real thing. He looked into the box once more to find a small note in unfamiliar handwriting that was neat but nondescript.
Just because you give your all
doesn't mean you have to lose it all.
One hand stroked his chin as he stared down at the unsigned note. A smile crept across his face; deep, sincere and spreading from the corners of his mouth as he contemplated the possibilities in front of him.
NOW
Epilogue
Sanctuary stood before him, massive and foreboding. A fog had crept over the plains, blown by the wind. He looked at the ancient gates as he walked through them, feeling like a man stepping into his past, something he’d left far behind. Crumbling stones greeted him on the path to the entrance and the tall wooden doors had been torn from their hinges in the last attack.
The hallowed halls were silent when he walked through them. The foyer was abandoned, dark and filled with shadow. Each footstep was measured, every sensation was catalogued. Remembering the happier times, he cast his eyes to the lounge; scorch marks were all that was to be found there. He strode past the grand doors to the Great Hall. Massive tables overturned, the stained glass windows broken. He felt a pain deep inside and knew it was not physical.
Walking to the staircase, he climbed to nearly the top. Stepping out in front of the Council chamber, the ghost of a smile flitted across his features as he shouldered his way into the room.
It was more damaged than he could have imagined. The table, the rectangular one that had replaced the round one of old, was splinters. Chairs were completely upended or destroyed entirely. Tapestries had been torn from the walls, and the few remaining were not without damage. The windows were completely destroyed, flooding the room with fog and a brilliant view of the shrouded Plains of Perdamun.
Quelling his emotions, the warrior picked his way through the wreckage to far side of the room. He opened the door to the Council Archives, and beheld the smell of old parchment. This was the most intact room he had seen thus far. “Maybe the gods are with me,” he said, mocking voice echoing in the empty room.
He rifled through the books until he found one that interested him. Dragging one of the surviving comfortable chairs from the Council Chamber into the Archive, he sat down, opening the book to the first page.
The Journal of Vara – An Account of My Days With Sanctuary
Cyrus browsed the book, skipping through large parts of it, eventually finding what he was looking for.
Today I attended a dragon expedition gone horribly wrong. I was approached while in the markets of Reikonos by one of the most annoying disgraces to the title of paladin that I have ever observed. This bejeweled buffoon observed me in close attendance to Niamh and Orion, as well as Selene and asked if we would assist in mounting a strike upon a dragon in the Mountains of Nartanis.
“I don't think so,” I sniff
ed. I confess, this highborn piece of flotsam irked me, as all do who measure themselves by class. One of the benefits of being born and raised in Termina is a healthy disrespect for the accoutrements of the elven caste system beloved by the rest of our dying kingdom.
There was a flicker in her eyes as she recognized me. “Vara?” she said. “You're Vara!”
“I'll thank you to keep your voice down,” I ordered. Funny image: me, a Terminan ordering a highborn elf to shut her mouth. She did. I looked around, a bit embarrassed at being recognized. I could tell by Orion's reaction that Selene had told him about me; he was utterly unsurprised.
“Where are you planning to attack?” Niamh intervened.
The elf's chin jutted out. “We're planning an assault on the den of Ashan'agar, the former dragon king. There will be much in the way of treasure...” She prattled on and on for several more minutes, but when Orion offered her counsel on defeating the Dragonlord, her ears were suddenly deaf to even my entreaties.
I eyed her army as she walked away after we had told her we were uninterested. There were a large number of them, many fresh faced and innocent looking. As an emotion, I find pity most annoying; you cannot feel pity for someone who is at the same level as you. It requires you to look down on someone and consider yourself their superior in some way. I felt a great swell of pity for that army of hers. The odds were against them in their experience, in their leader – they seemed destined to die.
I caught a glimpse of a warrior, clad in black armor, across the mass of people. I hate human warriors. I find their arrogance to be nearly unmatched – in fact, only by my own. This human, however... there was something so familiar about him. He reminded me so of... you know who. I tried to look closer, but I couldn't. Not without stalking up to him in the middle of Reikonos Square and grabbing his face so I could examine it.
