Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

  “Fredaula,” Cora said, gently, trying to steer the conversation back to more civil waters. “Arisson,” she said, and the man with the child shuffled silently back to the room and shut the door. She looked back to Cyrus. “You have us at your mercy. The elves will not help us. Neither will the humans, the dark elves, the gnomes, the goblins—” She looked down at Mendicant, who seemed pensive. “We are on our own, save but for your help, should you be willing to give it.” She sighed and looked at the door that Arisson had just walked through. “We will pay any price to survive here, in our home, for your aid, should we be able to give it. If that means … telling the Kingdom whatever you want to tell them, we will pay it.” Cyrus watched Fredaula’s face harden, but when Cora continued to speak, the older woman kept her peace. “We are at your mercy,” Cora said, and she took a breath that suggested she labored with her unease like it was some foe that she had to fight, “for it is either yours or the titans that we will be cast upon,” the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a smile that did not remotely come close to reaching her eyes, “and I would rather count on that of the guild of Sanctuary, regardless of who reigns as Guildmaster.”

  17.

  Cyrus stood in the Council Chambers of Sanctuary, staring out the balcony door onto sunlit fields at midday. He took a breath of the fresh air, so different from the stale interior of the trees of Amti with their scent of sap and wood shavings, and—in the case of Tierreed, the tree where they grew their food—the smell of dung and other compost.

  “They need help or they’ll die,” Cyrus said to his companion, his helm left on the table of the council, his hand resting on the doorframe as he leaned against it and stuck his head out into the warm summer day. “Of that much I’m convinced.”

  “And you ask me for counsel on this?” Administrator Cattrine Tiernan looked at him with undisguised curiosity. “I’m honored. I think.”

  “You’re right in the thick of this, Cattrine,” Cyrus said, only giving her a glance before he went back to looking over the Plains of Perdamun. “You have more reason to be angry at these titans than anyone else, and more reason to want to avoid a war with them, as well. When the Council meets in a few minutes, I want you there to render your opinion, whatever it might be.”

  “I will give you my thoughts,” Cattrine said, a little reserved, “though I find them a bit muddled after these weeks of reconstruction.” She let a breathy sigh. “Nothing is ever simple anymore, is it?”

  “I didn’t find it particularly simple before a horde of undead ravaged your homeland,” Cyrus said, noting the slight blanch from her as he spoke, “but you are correct in that it does not seem to be growing less tangled as the years spin by.”

  “We lost thousands, of course,” she said, drawing another look from him. “I didn’t know if you ever heard the full count. Not that we’ve got one, just the vague suspicions that come from trying to drag bodies out of rubble and wreckage while simultaneously building enough housing and facilities to feed and accommodate those who lost hearth and home in the attack.”

  “How many?” Cyrus asked. “Roughly.”

  “Five thousand,” Cattrine said, and at this she looked out over the plains herself, the midday sun hidden overhead by the top of the tower’s eaves. She still squinted against its brightness.

  “What would you advise?” Cyrus asked, folding his arms against his breastplate, leaning his thick pauldron against the frame of the door. “Vengeance? Justice? Preservation? Risk?”

  “You speak oddly, but I think I discern your meaning,” she said. “The idea of risking more by engaging these horrible, monstrous things in some great war … putting more of your people as well as mine into a fight … well, it certainly holds little appeal for me. But the thought of trying to protect ourselves from a foe who means to strike out slyly, secretly, until we are dead? That is a concern, at least, as we go about the business of rebuilding.”

  “It was pointed out to me in Amti,” Cyrus said, “that if the titans mean to deliver destruction unto us, there is little defense now that they have magical means at their disposal. We cannot cover all the portals within walking distance of Emerald Fields or Sanctuary—assuming we could even cover the ones closest to us, which is questionable at best.”

  “An implacable, unstoppable foe,” Cattrine mused aloud, before turning to face him. “Do you ever get tired of facing those?”

  “I am tired in general,” Cyrus said. “But part of me … part of me thinks that Talikartin was blustering in what he said to me on the night of the attack. The titans have dragons at their lower gates, and they struck north because it was an easy direction to strike. If they want a full war, they won’t be able to gird themselves against the dragonkin and do it, I don’t think.” Cyrus sniffed, taking in a breath of hot air through his nose. “Or at least, that would be my strategy if it comes down to it—to make them pay such a cost in the north that they have no defense in the south.”

  “I can see you have given this some considerable thought,” Cattrine said.

  “I always do,” Cyrus said with a bitter smile.

  “Then let me add my own thoughts to your pile,” she said, and any trace of a smile vanished beneath two weeks' worth of fatigue. “The peacemaker, the administrator in me would counsel you to avoid war. We have lost much, and as you said, you don’t know how stiff a foe you would be engaging. The war could be long and costly, and we would bear a burden that neither you nor I would care to count the consequences of in blood and our own dear when it was done.”

  “Close up the gates, then,” Cyrus said, staring out across the sun-kissed greenery. Cottony clouds rolled across the skies in front of him.

  “I didn’t say that,” Cattrine said, and now her voice was lower, almost a whisper. “For I have not always been a conciliator, nor an administrator.” Cyrus glanced at her and saw darker things in the depths of her lush green eyes. “I know by hard experience that there are some creatures that walk this earth that are so despicable, so monstrous—that they need no provocation, that they simply aim to dominate and destroy all that would not bow to them. They cannot be appeased, and showing any sign of accession to their wishes only prompts them to batter you even harder upon their next opportunity. For some, the rage is soul-deep,” she swallowed visibly, “and it will not exhaust itself no matter how many times they inflict their fury upon you.”

  Cyrus kept his head down as she spoke, pressing his teeth tightly together. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how happy I am you stabbed your husband in the back and then slit his throat.”

  “I only wish I’d been able to get away with it years earlier,” Cattrine said simply. “I have only seen a little of these titans, but in them I sense another foe who will not bow, will not bend, will not be anything other than broken in their quest to break you.”

  “Huh,” Cyrus said, twisting his lips. “Do you think they’ll succeed? They are large, and there are apparently rather a lot of them.”

  “I don’t favor their chances,” she said coolly, and she smiled, ever so slightly.

  “I—” Cyrus started to speak, but then the sound of a trumpet rang out from far below. “What the—?”

  “What is that?” Cattrine asked, staring fixed at something out ahead of them.

  Cyrus’s eyes scanned the horizon, searching the green and sprawling plains for what she saw. He looked, then looked again, for movement, for shadow, for anything. “I don’t see—”

  “Not there,” she said, and laid a hand upon his chin, lifting his head up. “There.”

  And he saw it.

  “My gods,” Cyrus said, and the breath went out of him.

  It was a shadow in the sky, long and terrible, like a bird given a harsher form, wingspan the size of a small village. It swept out of a bank of clouds as black as if it were a piece of night breaking out of the clear, bright day. Cyrus swallowed hard and his hand fell to Praelior as the shouts of “ALARUM!” began to ring out behind him in earnest. He hea
rd the Council Chamber doors open behind him and wheeled to find Vara standing there with Ryin, Vaste and Curatio. Mendicant scampered in a moment later.

  “What the hell is this?” Vara asked, eyes squinted, brow furrowed.

  “We were just talking,” Cattrine said, looking more than a bit pale, “in advance of the—”

  “Not that,” Vara said, waving her off impatiently. “What’s the alar—” she pointed past them and her hand froze in mid-air. “My gods.”

  “That’s what he said,” Cattrine said, turning about to look at the shadow as it glided easily across the sky, directly toward them. “And while I acknowledge that is certainly a frightening thing to see coming toward you, I can’t say I know exactly what we’re looking at—”

  “There’s a reason for that,” Cyrus said, striding out onto the balcony, boots ringing out as the officers came out behind him. He clutched the railing and leaned, squinting against the bright day to make out what he saw just a hint clearer. He could see the hints of scales, of claws, and of a face marked with teeth, even though it was still some considerable distance off. “After all,” he said, motioning to Ryin and receiving a nod, the Falcon’s Essence spell taking hold only a second later, “it’s not as though they had dragons in Luukessia.” And he ran off the balcony and into the open air with his officers trailing behind him. The last sight of Cattrine before he vanished below the stone railing was of her face falling more swiftly than Cyrus himself as he raced to the defense of Sanctuary.

  18.

  The dragon made a sweeping and majestic turn, baring its full side as it halted its approach and drifted in a slow circle a few miles out. Cyrus watched it as he descended toward the curtain wall below. “Don’t run out too far,” he shouted behind him to the officers that were in his wake.

  “Because of the dragon?” Mendicant shouted back in his raspy voice.

  “No,” Cyrus said, “because the spell protecting Sanctuary from mystical attacks will strip your Falcon’s Essence enchantment and you’ll find yourself flailing arms as you come to a rather messy end.”

  “Good reason,” Mendicant agreed after a pause. “This dragon … this is not a normal thing, correct?”

  Cyrus looked back and caught a glance from Curatio, then Vara. “There hasn’t been a dragon in northern Arkaria since Ashan’agar broke free, I don’t think.”

  “That you know of,” Vaste corrected.

  “They’re pretty big creatures,” Cyrus said. “Seems like someone would have seen one flying around—like that.” He waved at the shadows circling back around and heading toward Sanctuary once more.

  The wind hit Cyrus in the face as he sprinted down toward the wall. Below him, the keep was emptying and tiny figures were sprinting across the green grounds toward the curtain wall and their assigned siege stations. “Thank goodness we got the last of the refugees out of here,” he muttered to himself.

  “They wouldn’t have been much use against a dragon,” Curatio agreed, reminding Cyrus once more that elves heard every damned thing, whether you wanted them to or not. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Always,” Cyrus said, the wall edging ever closer as he turned his dive even steeper so as not to go drifting out past the spellcraft that protected the bulwarks. The curtain wall was only a few hundred feet away now, and he could clearly see the movement atop it, archers with bows nocked and raised. That’ll do little good, he thought.

  “And that plan is?” Curatio asked, not so patiently.

  “Ryin, get the druids to cast Falcon’s Essence on the entire army,” Cyrus said.

  Ryin paled. “That’s a … sizable task. It could take a while.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long,” Vaste said as they came down on the stone blocks of the wall, “wouldn’t want to see everyone get burned crispy, after all. We should save that fate for the pot roasts of—”

  “Always with the food,” Vara muttered, settling a solid foot above the wall. “Can you think of nothing else?”

  “The food is the only thing I feel comfortable talking about,” Vaste said, “but I suppose I could work up to discussing my other, more ribald appetites—”

  “Please don’t,” Curatio said, drawing his robes about him. “There are some mysteries which I should care to keep, even after as long as I have lived.”

  J’anda appeared next to them, staff in hand, a blur of motion. Cyrus balked slightly at the sight of him. Do I look like that when I’m running with Praelior? “A dragon, eh?” the enchanter said, stalking up to the edge of the wall tentatively. “I don’t know how much help I will be in this; dragon skin is notoriously resistant to magic.”

  “Then the problem is not just going to be for you, but our entire corps of spellcasters,” Cyrus said, watching the enormous shadow sweep over the plains, once more drawing a direct line to Sanctuary. “Good thing we’ve got a fair helping of mystical steel.”

  “You realize that thing can cook you in less than a second if it’s a fire breather?” Vara asked, landing a hand on his shoulder.

  “This feels like a conversation we’ve had before,” Cyrus said with a strained smile. “I can’t even make a pretense of throwing a Goliath warrior in front of this one, though. It’s all on us.”

  “Gods,” Vara said, rolling her eyes. “How are you planning to handle it? A blind charge across the empty space in front of us?”

  “No,” Cyrus said, “because of the spell, remember? We’d all plummet off the wall. We’re going to have to fight him within this side of the parapets, which is going to rather limit our action—”

  “Or …” Curatio said, eyes afield, locked on the dragon, “you could wait.”

  “Now see here, you,” Vaste said, all false umbrage, “do you realize who you’re talking to? This is Cyrus Davidon, the warrior in black, and he waits for no man, nor gnome, nor dragon, nor anyone but a paladin with excessively shiny armor and hair, dammit. How dare you attempt to disrupt the natural order of things with your suggestions? I think it should be made treason to—”

  “That’s about enough of that,” Vara said, planting a shining gauntlet over Vaste’s mouth, the metal dinging against his extended lower teeth. “Why would we wait, Curatio?”

  Curatio took a moment to answer, peering out as he did across the fields as the dragon took a moment and swooped in a small circle once more before resuming his advance. He beat his wings, and Cyrus could almost feel the power from even a mile away, holding the creature aloft until he entered a glide, slowly, toward the ground. “Because he has announced himself in his approach rather than simply sweeping in and burning us to cinders, as a dragon on the attack would do. His path is one of leisure, of calm—designed to allow us to see his approach rather than to stealthily charge in and destroy us unexpected.”

  “You wish to pin hopes on that thing—” Vara pointed at the dragon as it extended its wings and tilted, like a bird coming in for a landing, aiming for the plains a few hundred feet out from the wall, “—and its peaceful intentions? From a dragon? Truly?”

  The dragon landed with a thunderous sound of claws digging into the earth, halted its forward momentum and spread its wings, looking as fearsome as any rendition Cyrus had ever seen on countless livery and seals. The dragon posed that way for a long moment before it brought its wings in and straightened up, standing on all fours like some majestic beast. It surveyed the wall with dark eyes, and Cyrus found himself unable to gauge its intent. It held in place for what felt like long seconds dragging toward a minute, and then began to advance on the wall, slowly, still surveying all before it with an inscrutable calm.

  “Truly,” Curatio said as the dragon drew closer. It was only a hundred feet away now, and Cyrus could see black pupils inset in yellow irises that took up the whole of the eye. The earth shook when it walked, but its steps as it strolled its way up to them were graceful and measured. It singled Cyrus out and moved straight toward him, eyes locked on, giving him an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu, back to the time when the
Dragonlord Ashan’agar had attempted to steal his will by the same mechanism.

  Cyrus’s hand fell to Praelior and was just as quickly knocked away by Curatio, who gave him a warning look and shook his head, as serious as Cyrus had ever seen the healer. That done, Curatio stepped forward to the crenellations, the teeth of the wall, and stepped up. “It has been a long time,” he announced, loud enough to be heard back in the courtyard.

  “Indeed,” the dragon said, low and ponderous, his speech as slow and measured as his movement. “More thousands of years than I can count, Curatio.”

  “I have forgotten the number as well,” Curatio said, inclining his head to the side. “I assume you have come to our august company seeking a certain someone.”

  “Indeed I have,” the dragon said and looked right back to Cyrus. “I would have words with your Guildmaster, Curatio.”

  “I suspect he might find a few for you as well,” Curatio said, lips pursed as he finished speaking. “May I present to you Cyrus Davidon of Sanctuary, Lord of Perdamun and Warden of the Southern Plains.”

  “I feel like if he got that printed on his stationary, there wouldn’t be room for a very long letter after all that,” Vaste said. “Which could be to his advantage, since I’m not so sure our humble warrior is very good at spelling—”

  “Silence yourself,” Vara said, once more placing her gauntlet over his mouth.

  Vaste’s teeth clinked against the metal as he placed his lips around her hand and smacked them together. “Tastes like—” She jerked her hand further into his jaws and drew a grunt of pain. “—I was going to say paladin, but now I think I’ll go with ‘gnome.’”

  “At last we meet,” the dragon said, coming ever closer to the wall with his head atop a perilously long neck. His skin was dark red, beyond the darkest crimson Cyrus had ever seen, almost black. He reminded Cyrus more than a little of Ashan’agar, whose eyes had been a similarly dangerous shade. “Cyrus Davidon.”

  “At last,” Cyrus said, staring back at the dragon, not daring to look away from his eyes, just the same as he would with any foe. “And … who are you?”