Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

  Fortin dropped immediately, wriggling out of his imprisonment and punching squarely into his enemy’s knee. This caused the titan to topple faster, and as soon as his head dipped low enough, Fortin grabbed hold of it, bringing his hands together and pulling hard. With no chinstrap to keep it in place, the helm came off with ease. Fortin let it fall and planted his massive hands, so small next to the titan’s giant skull, on the beast’s temples. He squeezed them together, and the titan’s screams ceased in seconds, before Cyrus could do much more than start to open an artery.

  The titan died, and Fortin moved swiftly to kill the other, hefting the helm that he’d tossed aside and bringing it down on his prone enemy over and over, using a hard corner as a cudgel and finishing the titan in seconds. Cyrus snaked out from behind one of the fallen and called to the rock giant. “Fortin!”

  When the rock giant turned, there was no mistaking the killing instinct present in his hard features. His face, usually inscrutable, was jagged lines of pure rage, covered with scarlet blood along every crag and crevice of his skin. He breathed into the hot night and Cyrus could nearly imagine the steam pouring out of his nostrils. His fury did not soften even as the trace of recognition flickered across his stony face. “Lord Davidon,” he said, rough and gravelly.

  “How many are there, Fortin?” Cyrus asked, approaching the rock giant slowly. While he did not doubt Fortin’s ability to tell friend from foe, he had been in the rage of battle like this before. Anger overwhelms him; best not get in his way.

  “Too many,” Fortin said, and his voice cracked. “Half a hundred, I think. Spell casters in with them. They have them now—”

  “We know,” Cyrus said. He could feel the heat of the flames. “Did anyone make it out of town?”

  “Administrator Tiernan led the retreat toward the woods,” Fortin gestured toward a copse of trees in the distance. “But … not enough.” His head swung around as a shout echoed in the night from behind him. “We have to stop them, have to kill them—”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, “we’ll—” But he was cut off by a new entrant on the far side of the square.

  The loud footsteps should have given the approach away, but at that very moment one of the burning buildings collapsed just off the square, and a cloud of dust whipped over Cyrus. When it cleared, he looked up toward the shadow he’d seen coming a moment earlier. J’anda’s pet? he wondered. No, it was over—

  Cyrus saw Fortin again as the dust cleared, his frightening features still clouded by the haze of ash and smoke. But he only saw them for a moment before a massive hand descended and drove the rock giant into the earth. The sound of rock cracking was as loud as any building collapse. Fortin did not even have a chance to cry out before his body bent unnaturally, and Cyrus knew that he was dead.

  The attacker swept out of the cloud of dust, black sleeves catching white ash in their fine thread. He was a titan, and wore shining silver armor that gleamed with crimson, dozens of spots of blood smeared across it like a butcher’s apron. His helm matched the look of his breastplate but carried rather more dust, and hid a face even rougher than the other titans; more scarred, somehow, and with a furious twinkle in his eyes he stared down at Cyrus.

  “Lord Cyrus Davidon,” Talikartin the Guardian said in a deep voice as rough as his complexion. “At last, we meet again.”

  7.

  Cyrus was well past the point where fear could hold him in sway, even at the sight of so frightening a visage as Talikartin the Guardian’s. “At last indeed,” Cyrus said, low and rough, his voice almost unrecognizable to his ears. “How long has it been?”

  “Some five years gone now,” Talikartin said, tilting his massive head to regard Cyrus, the light of the fires flickering across his rough cheeks. “I have waited for you to return as you promised, but I grew tired after a time and have come north to find you.”

  “I’m surprised you know my name,” Cyrus said, holding Praelior tight in hand. “It was so very long ago, after all.”

  “Your legend reaches even our ears in the southern lands.” Talikartin brandished a mailed fist, and his gauntlet, so different than the bare hands of his confederates, glinted with blood. It ran in down the furrows in his armor, dripping onto the dusty street in great splashes. “Do you know how many people have invaded my city under my watch, become known to us, and survived in the way you and your guild did?” He took a step closer, and the ground shook beneath Cyrus’s feet. “You came to claim bounties upon the heads of my fellows issued by those accursed, scheming, cowardly, hidden elves of Amti.” His eyes glinted. “Do you know how many bounties have been paid in the days since your attack?” He smiled, and his teeth showed hints of blood in the saliva that covered them in a liquid shine. “Not one. I have killed … so many of you northerners since that day, simply hoping that one day I would see your taunting, black-armored form creep into my city once more, so that I could show you my gratitude at our reunion.”

  “Here I am,” Cyrus said, arms spread wide. Talikartin was almost forty feet away from him, not an easy distance to close when his foe’s reach was such an advantage. Cyrus kept an eye fixed on the creature, waiting for him to make a move other than to threaten. “You came all this way; I presume you won’t leave without paying your regards.”

  “I will give you the full regard of the titans of Kortran, yes,” Talikartin said, stepping closer to him. Thirty paces. “Though I have heard it was not you who stole Ferocis from us.”

  “Don’t need it,” Cyrus said, brandishing Praelior. “Got my own sword. I could give you the name of the guy who did take it, if you’d like—though I doubt very much you’re going to survive the next few minutes to do anything with that information—”

  Talikartin swept forward with alarming speed and Cyrus was forced to dodge to the side, throwing himself to the dirt as the titan struck at him. Cyrus rolled and came back to his feet in a crouch, clutching his weapon. Without Praelior, I would have taken that hit squarely.

  I bet that would have hurt.

  The titan moved sideways, not closing the gap between them at all and thwarting Cyrus as he started to head in Talikartin’s direction. Cyrus spun to follow the evasion and ducked just in time to avoid a hard smash of the sort that he’d just watched kill Fortin.

  “Too slow!” Cyrus taunted, dodging in closer to Talikartin’s feet. But the titan was certainly fast enough, and his limbs were long enough that he could sweep them in a grand arc that made it difficult for Cyrus to dodge him. Cyrus drove closer, forcing Talikartin to stoop as Cyrus moved in to strike a blow of his own. The titan took a step back and swept another attack at Cyrus, this one forcing him to make a small retreat.

  “What’s the matter?” Cyrus called up at his much taller foe. The silver helm caught the light of a building burning just behind him. “Afraid to face me?”

  “Stand toe to toe with me,” Talikartin said, “then we will talk of courage, mite.”

  “I’m trying to get to your toe just now,” Cyrus said, dodging a thrown hand, “you’re not making it easy, chickenshit.”

  “Hah!” Talikartin’s laugh was a harsh bark. “I know of your sword, your speed, your armor—the Death of Gods, they call you and yours. If you think I am fool enough to merely wait for you to come at me, you know nothing of battle or war.”

  “I know a lot about both,” Cyrus said, coming in low and charging at Talikartin’s steel boot. He made a leap of the sort he’d seen Vara employ on dozens of occasions, landing ten feet from his target, just as the titan stepped backward again. “And I’m about to teach you everything I—”

  The backhand hit Cyrus unexpectedly, a hard snap that knocked him over on his back. His armor rang like a temple bell. His backplate hit the dirt and a cloud of it puffed up around him. He caught a lungful and choked, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. He started to get up, pushing to his feet, and then a hard pressure closed on his leg as his feet were yanked from beneath him.

  Cyrus found himself dangling upsi
de-down, like a plucked thread hanging from massive fingers. His blood rushed to the dome of his skull as he stared into mighty eyes and a cruel smile. “Not so much as you should know,” Talikartin said. “Not enough to keep to the ranks of your little army.” He spun Cyrus, hanging by his knee, and a cracking in the joint told the warrior everything he needed to about the strength of the beast that held him. As he came around he caught sight of the Army of Sanctuary facing a half dozen titans, Vara in the midst of them, looking across the square at him, the fire behind her casting her distinctive form in silhouette and reminding him for a brief flash of the first time they’d met.

  “A man of true strength becomes a warlord,” Talikartin said, staring at him with those massive eyes. “What are you called? Warden? What is that, but a glorified shield for the kingdoms of men and elves and other insects? Instead of taking what you want, you protect what others hold dear.” The titan scoffed, a deep noise in his throat. “How pathetic.”

  “Aren’t you called Talikartin the Guardian?” Cyrus asked, dangling by his leg, preparing his next move, a swipe at the fingers that held him.

  “Do you know what I protect?” Talikartin asked and pulled him slightly closer to the eye. Or maybe I just poke him good, see what that gets me—“The plunder of a warlord so great that serving him is nothing but glory of itself. He is not a man, not a mite, and to do his bidding nets me everything I desire.” The titan grunted. “What has your service as shield given you, fool?”

  Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat as he started to respond, but he knew the delay was too great even before the first word left his mouth. “It’s given me—” Before he could even finish, Cyrus felt himself lifted high with shocking speed, as though the very force which held him to the earth had been reversed, and just as he reached a height and could see the whole of the Emerald Fields, of the battle—Sanctuary looked to be winning—Talikartin ripped him down, and Cyrus felt a great tearing in his groin as he was brought to the dirt again with a great and terrible smashing, like the time he’d ridden the Dragonlord into the earth—

  8.

  Cyrus awoke to blood spouting out of his mouth, pain in his every limb, and a feeling like someone had ground up his innards under a stone press. It reminded him of drowning, but this time the pungent stink of his own blood was upon his tongue, in his eyes, red everywhere—

  “Hold on,” came Vara’s voice, as tight as a cursed belt, the life squeezed from it. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t feel her touch, couldn’t see any light but the orange of blazing flames tinted as sharply red as if someone had painted his eyes.

  “I don’t know if I can do this!” Andren’s voice came, strained. “I mean—he’s—he’s just—”

  “Just keep him alive for a moment, you great bloody idiot!”

  Cyrus tried to move and felt bones grind against one another, fresh pain surging through him. He could barely draw thoughts one to the other; it was all agony and paralysis, helplessness coupled with a feeling as though he couldn’t even move significant swaths of his body—

  “What the holy horned hell have you done?” Vaste cried, his voice so loud, so filled with fear that it was almost unrecognizeable.

  “Heal him!” Vara shouted, and something ran across Cyrus’s flesh, a tickle that did little to assuage his pain. “Just do—”

  “Are you jesting?” Vaste asked, and the panic was obvious in his tone. “I mean, me having to ask you this should—for the sake of the gods—do you have any idea what you’re doing—”

  “I am trying to save his life,” Vara said, low and harsh, most of it escaping like a hiss. “Why don’t you aid me, since you’re such a damned expert—”

  “He’s—”

  “Oh my—”

  “We need Curatio for this,” Vaste said, firm, serious. He waited a breath, and then shouted, “CURATIO!”

  “For—I mean—holy—what the—”

  Other voices were joining in now, frightening, frightened, and awestruck. The thump of feet against the street was a constant sound, but there was none of the thudding of titans running about, not now. A strange peace settled over Cyrus as the pain started to fade …

  “Aw, shits, he’s dying—”

  The light drifted out of his view like a candle snuffed in a light wind, a puff and gone—

  —then consciousness returned with the pain, harsh and unrelenting, and all the way up his arm this time, present now in a way it hadn’t been before. Before it had simply been numb, or gone, but now it screamed at him.

  “Yes,” Curatio’s soft voice said, straining. “And then—” He muttered something under his breath, and the pain receded from his arm’s joints, feeling instead like it was originating on the surface. “Then—yes, like that—” The healer murmured again, and this time his left leg screamed in pain for a brief second before it started to fade. “Almost—”

  A moment passed in which Cyrus felt as though he’d fallen into a sleep, then snapped back to a wakeful state with the sky dark orange above him. He could feel his own breath coming now, and when he raised a hand, it responded. His whole body was now at his command, and all of it hurt with that strange, phantom pain of wounds now healed. Cyrus grunted, the noise deep and full of discomfort.

  “Oh, thank Vidara,” Vara said, drifting into his vision, her cheeks red.

  “What the—hell …” Cyrus moaned, sitting up, his head woozy with the aftereffects of a resurrection spell.

  “Talikartin the Guardian smashed you into the ground about twelve good times before J’anda’s titan combined with one of Mendicant’s spells drove him off,” Andren said, blurring into focus. “We had a merry time trying to put you back together again.”

  Cyrus sat there, taking stock of the world around him. The air was still thick with the smell of smoke, and he could feel blood or sweat or both dripping down his skin inside his armor. It was hot, miserably so, and the sky was still dark with night, fires blazing all around him. Cyrus could not tell if it was the harsh heat of summer baking the Emerald Fields long after the sun had fled for the day, or simply all the fires still burning around him that was doing it, but it was as uncomfortable as sitting too close to a hearth.

  The taste of blood still tainted his saliva, dripping off his tongue when he went to speak. “Did …” He blinked and looked around the square. Fortin sat on his knees a short distance away, a strange noise coming from the rock giant, something that almost sounded akin to … sobbing?

  “Where … did they go?” Cyrus asked, the weight of all that had happened settling down on him. “Talikartin, I mean?”

  “Cast the return spell and disappeared,” Vara said. “Some of the other survivors went as well, flashing into the night …”

  Cyrus pushed himself up on unsteady legs. Vara tried to grasp him under the arm, but he waved her off and she relented, though he saw the tension in the way she held herself. He got to his feet and Andren stood up next to him. “Shouldn’t you be off … healing people?”

  “I …” Andren’s mouth flapped open and shut, and he swiveled his head to look down the street. Without another word, he broke into a run off toward one of the main thoroughfares that led west, robes flapping behind him. Cyrus could see other Sanctuary members in that direction, shouting as they ducked into and out of buildings, carrying bundles—bodies—both large and small.

  “Gods,” Vara whispered, and she sidled up to him, her armor clinking lightly against his. This time he did not brush her away, he let her lean against him as he did the same against her.

  Fires raged, crackling all around them, punctuated by the rough, heaving sobs of the weeping rock giant as they stood there under the fiery night sky and watched the town of Emerald Fields burn.

  9.

  “How many did we lose?” Cyrus asked as dawn broke over the eastern horizon. The ruined streets were teeming with life, with the refugees of Emerald Fields, with the Army of Sanctuary still pulling the living and the dead out of the wreckage, with a steady flow of
arrivals from the homesteads further out coming to render aid or simply see the smoky remnants of their city. He stood in a rough circle of the Sanctuary officers, all downcast eyes and long faces. Joining them was Administrator Cattrine Tiernan, who had reappeared shortly after the end of the battle in the company of several hundred children and women whom she had helped hide in the woods.

  “Two dozen warriors and rangers,” Odellan said, his winged helmet under his arm, his long, blond hair matted down with sweat and the night’s efforts. His golden skin was darkened with soot, and his normally pristine breastplate carried hints of black ash in the ornate art fashioned into the metal. “Crushed beyond any hope of resurrection or simply missing until the hour of resurrection passed.”

  His words hung in the silence, and Cyrus turned his gaze to Administrator Tiernan, her brown hair in only a slightly better state than Odellan’s. She was wearing naught but a nightgown, a very simple cloth dressing that was stained with dirt from her flight out of the town. “Do you have … any idea?” Cyrus asked.

  “About our losses?” She blinked, her eyes surprisingly clear, her face absent any emotion at all. He suspected she was beyond exhaustion; they all were, really, but no one had poured more of their efforts into Emerald Fields over this last year and more than she. “I know it would have been considerably more if you hadn’t driven them off when you did, but … no. No idea. No counting as yet, not even of the corpses.”

  Cyrus swallowed, words feeling like they lodged in his throat. It would have been much less if I hadn’t pissed off the titans about five years ago, apparently …

  “You had a population in excess of one hundred thousand, yes?” This came from Curatio, whose complexion looked even more washed out in the pale dawn light. The sky held a purple tinge, and it reflected on his white skin, making him look like some sort of dark elven hybrid. “How many lived here in the town?”