“Are you going forth and spreading your experience again?” Vara asked as he slipped into position at the head of the army next to her.
“That and my sunny disposition,” Cyrus quipped. Nyad stood next to Vara on the other side, and Curatio beyond that. They marched quickly, though not at a terrible pace for Cyrus with his long legs.
They walked in silence through the long grass for hours, the whisper of it brushing Cyrus’s armor and being trod under the boots of the small army group that followed him. The gentle night wind rolled through, causing the stalks to wave above Cyrus’s head. He fell into the quiet that permeated the night, losing his own thoughts as he marched in time, each footstep in a cadence he lost measure of after a time, until he felt like all he had ever done was march, and it was all that was in his future as well.
Who are you? he wondered. Guildmaster? General? Warrior? He flicked his eyes sideways and was rewarded with a glimpse of Vara, cheeks red with the exertion of the march, hair shining where it flowed from underneath her helm. She already had the nose guard down, obscuring her face, but he could have traced every line by memory if he had a charcoal pencil with which to work and a little parchment. Lover? Friend?
Are these the things that define me? He looked down and saw his armor, dark in the night, like a shadow out of place in the eve. Or is it this? This is how they know me in Reikonos, in Pharesia. The warrior in black, known by the armor my father left behind? He let out a low breath that felt almost like a joyless laugh. To be remembered for what my father gave me rather than anything I did …
The soft crunch of the ground underfoot persisted with each countless step. Cyrus let the compass Vara held be his guide, watching the metal spin in the curious device as they stalked through the night. It was the work of hours, and soon enough he heard a boisterous laugh from somewhere in the distance. When it came through, he held up a hand to stop his small force, waiting and listening.
“What is it?” Cyrus murmured quietly, looking sideways at Vara, who was stiff, her ears hidden under her helm. “What are they saying?”
“They’re making a very crude joke, I believe,” she said, eyes moving as she considered what she was hearing. “Typical soldiers.”
“But they don’t know we’re approaching?” Cyrus asked, a little more urgently.
She listened intently again then shook her head. “I don’t believe so. All I hear is casual conversation. No alarm, no watchfulness—just talk and the crackle of a fire below the tower.”
Cyrus smiled. “Well, that’s good. Whoever’s down there won’t be able to see squat in the darkness, not with that big light spoiling their night vision.”
“Take care,” she said, with a hand upon his shoulder in caution, “we don’t know how acute titan eyes are.”
“No,” he agreed, “but I know how cute yours are. Your ears, too—”
She rolled her eyes and made a pfft! noise with her lips, but he could see that she was pleased with the compliment. He motioned the army forward, and they continued their advance, this time toward the faint spot of light ahead of them through the grass. It grew brighter and more visible as they made progress, and soon enough Cyrus could see the tower above. Here was where the nerves kicked in, and he watched to make sure that the army spread the way he’d ordered, passing between blades of grass without touching them wherever possible, giving them only the lightest suggestion of contact, as though nothing but the wind were moving through the savanna.
It took the better part of an hour to make the final approach, so obsessed was Cyrus with not tipping their hand. It took a sort of maddening patience that he didn’t normally possess, and as soon as he was able, he locked his eyes onto the top of the watch platform and did not remove them from the titan atop it, keeping careful watch on the beast several hundred feet above him. It was an enormous platform, one designed to give the already-tall titans an extra boost to thrice their normal height. Cyrus estimated the tower was some forty feet in the air, a construction of mammoth logs and strong rope.
There was only one titan atop it. With a careful motion to his army to halt once more, Cyrus began a long creeping approach along the side. For the last hour he’d noticed that the titan on watch had not looked in any direction but straight ahead. He’ll pay for that, Cyrus thought.
Cyrus circled quietly around the camp, coming out at the rear and getting a quick look at the titans now sleeping around the fire. Only one was awake on the ground, and three were dozing, one of them very fitfully only feet away from the grass where he surveilled them.
“Easy pickings,” came a voice from beside him, and Cyrus nearly jumped as he turned to see Martaina there, edging close to him. “Terrible watch protocol, with the fire and low numbers of guards.”
“I agree,” Cyrus murmured, almost afraid to speak. He watched the lone titan on the ground lean against one of the support posts for the tower. “Well … that could be useful …”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” Martaina said softly. “Even if we could somehow kill him in one good stroke, which is hardly a foregone conclusion, it wouldn’t do much but unsteady the watch tower and tip the one above that they’re under attack, giving him a perfect chance to shout his alarm all over the savanna. Maybe someone hears him and maybe they don’t, but …”
“Right,” Cyrus said, nodding slowly. “Not a good chance.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Go back around and bring the army here. No point in coming at their front.”
She gave him a raised eyebrow as if she wanted to argue. “You just going to sit here by yourself until we get back?”
“Well, I’m damned sure not going to charge out into the middle of them to try and silently kill them myself,” Cyrus said, “though I appreciate your assessment of either my skill or my insanity.”
“Be right back,” she promised almost noiselessly, and she whispered off through the brush. He did hear the chainmail coif rattle just slightly as she did so, confirming in his mind his earlier guess. But hopefully not loud enough for a titan to hear it over this gusting wind.
He sat there on the edge of the titan camp, waiting, watching. The lone waking titan on the ground began to pace every few minutes, walking back and forth under the tower, letting out a mighty yawn at one point. His footsteps did not quite shake the ground, but Cyrus felt them where he waited, the blades of grass twitching just slightly at the force of the steps.
Cyrus felt an internal pressure, like something squeezing him, compelling him forward. I could kill those things, couldn’t I? They can’t all be as strong as Talikartin. I’ve killed them before. Go at their knees, drop them down, open their throats … not a quiet business, though, unfortunately. That’s a mark in the favor of waiting.
It was almost like an itch under his scalp, the desire to charge forth and unleash havoc. He drew slow breaths, calm in and chaos out, until the desire passed. Soon enough, he heard motion, not nearly so quiet as Martaina, and out of the grass came Vara at the head of the army. Cyrus moved his gaze back to the titans, but they continued their rounds seemingly unaware of the small force just behind them.
“I need Falcon’s Essence,” Cyrus said, low, and let the word be passed rather than shouting it out like he normally would, “Vara too, and all of group A.” He looked at the even smaller sliver of his army that comprised group A, and after a moment, they all began to float, though he felt his feet leave the ground before the others. “We go at the count of five, so ready yourselves.” He turned to face the camp, and held a hand aloft, all his fingers extended. One by one, he lowered them as he counted off. 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1—
And he led the quiet charge into the camp of the titans, almost soundlessly as they raced in to kill their foes in the still night.
31.
After all the long waiting, Cyrus found the rush of true wind against his face invigorating. He did not spare the speed of Praelior, not this time, and circled the encampment in a rush, slitting the throats of two of the titans swiftly before the res
t of his army caught up with him. The noise he unleashed in doing so was not quiet, a choking, gasping, gurking noise that caused the sentry under the platform to spin to see what was happening.
Cyrus was already on the move upward, though, trying to ignore the titan below as best he could. The others will handle it, he thought, ignoring the instinct to rush back down. Instead he circled in a hard spiral up the tower, running on imaginary stairs. He paced his climb perfectly, ensuring that he came even with titan’s platform around the creature’s back.
A small cry of surprise split the night, causing Cyrus’s target to jump in reaction. It did not cause Cyrus so much as a moment’s hesitation, however, and he plunged Praelior into the titan’s knotted flesh under the back plate the creature wore to protect its vital organs. It looked rather like a finger-sized dagger plunging into a creature that size, but the titan grunted in pain as Cyrus ripped the blade back out of the leathery skin and continued upward just a little further.
The titan jerked in pain at his attack, as though he’d been stung by an insect instead of a full-sized sword. This is the problem with titans and dragons, it just takes so many hits to kill the bastards when they’re not lying there waiting for their throats to get cut.
Cyrus watched the titan spin his head toward him, jerking as he saw the black-armored warrior right in front of his nose. Before he could cry out in shock, Cyrus buried Praelior directly in the joint of his jaw, drawing a muffled grunt of pain and a reactionary swipe at Cyrus, who dodged the blow easily by stepping backward.
The titan’s eyes alighted on Cyrus, fury gleaming within them. “Rogh rawr!” the titan said, clutching his jaw with one hand as he leaned forward to attack Cyrus again. Cyrus merely took another step back and let gravity take its course.
The titan swiped too hard, reached just a little too far, clutching into the night with extended fingers and nothing else. He hit the small wood beam that circled the platform as a guard rail and kept going, the strength of his momentum carrying him over the edge. He tried to scream out in fear as he fell over, but it came out muffled once more as he struggled to open his mouth.
The titan fell to the earth with a significant thump, landing on his shoulders and head and then sagging, moaning in the night, arms flung wide and his eyes shut.
“Ahh!” another titan below shouted, though not too loudly. Cyrus ran down swiftly, passing Vara as she halted her own upward momentum and turned to join him, the rest of group A in tow.
“I’d tell you to slow bloody down,” she said as he darted past, “but it would seem you’re doing all the work, and I don’t mind that at all.”
“Just like—”
“Do not say—” she warned, the rest of her reply lost to the wind as he left her behind.
Cyrus rushed back to ground level to find one of the titans that had been sleeping was now quite awake, though bleeding heavily from a botched attempt to cut his throat. He studied the creature, watched the bluish blood pumping out from beneath its left hand, and he shook his head. “Wrong side of the throat to start on, people,” he said at a normal volume. He cast eyes behind him and saw a few of his finest warriors pulling the titan that had been on guard to the ground. It had only a hand up in the air, and a faltering one at that, coming under the attack of half a hundred blades.
That situation in hand, Cyrus threw himself toward the titan bleeding from the neck, darting in a zigzag pattern toward the creature. It followed him with dull eyes under a heavy brow, peering at him with a hint of fear. You know death when you see it, don’t you?
The titan made to swing a fist at him, but its motions were slow and clumsy, and the first swipe missed wide of Cyrus, and indeed wide of where he had been during his entire run. The titan’s bleary eyes failed to track him, and so he moved in and cut the artery with a quick motion, moving around a thumb to do so. When he finished, he jabbed Praelior into the voice box and gave it a swift slice before throwing himself backward to avoid reprisal.
None came, and the titan made only one further attempt to speak, a gagging sound, ululating deep in the throat, before it slid slowly sideways to the earth and relaxed into death’s grip.
Cyrus surveyed the raw chaos of the watch post with reluctant pride. “Any deaths?” he asked, back to speaking normally.
“Not on our side,” Vara said from a few feet off. She looked to have been doing some surveying of her own, and her breastplate’s silver was still immaculate, bearing none of the glistening red that glinted on his in the firelight. She inclined her head toward the titan that had fallen off the platform. “I think that one’s still alive, though they’re working on it now.”
“Indeed,” Cyrus said, watching the group that had carved up the other sentry falling upon his. They had him surrounded. A few climbed atop him like tiniest children on an adult, and were stabbing furiously at any square of flesh they could find. Cyrus cringed at the image, trying to shake the thought of it out of his mind.
Vara’s gaze mirrored his own, and she puckered her lips. “It is a bit odd to see, isn’t it? Like a rebellion of infants slaughtering the grown-ups?”
“I was thinking the same and finding it highly disturbing,” Cyrus said, focusing on her. “We need to pull down the watch post and add it to the fire.”
“Don’t you think the other posts will notice that?” she asked, nodding at the large wooden structure. “It’s rather large.”
“Probably,” Cyrus said, taking a few climbing strides up as he looked out over the savanna. To the east and west, he could see more watch fires. The ones closest to them, in the north, were already glowing brighter. “But it’s what I told the others to do. The purpose of this isn’t just to piss off the titans, it’s to destroy the mechanism by which they’re enforcing their dominance here. Let them haul tons of lumber out to rebuild all we take; we’ll just come and do it again if they don’t guard carefully.”
“But your very plan hinges on them becoming so upset as to increase their guard,” Vara said. “Wasn’t that the purpose of all this? To draw them out the front door?”
“If the dragons can fulfill their end of the bargain, yes,” Cyrus said, staring out over the ocean of darkness across the savanna, the grass gently swaying below him.
She stepped up to his side. The sounds of dying titans far below had faded into the night, and now he could hear his army working at disassembling the tower—quietly chopping at the ropes that held it all together. “What if the dragons don’t intervene?” Her voice was quiet, hushed. “What if Ehrgraz can’t get them to do what you hope he will?”
“Then this strategy is even more important,” Cyrus said quietly, meeting her eyes in the dark, barely able to see the glistening blue save for by the power of a spell, “because if we don’t get the help we need, we’re going to have divide and conquer them.” He looked south, where he knew, somewhere far ahead, was Fortress Returron, and beyond that, somewhere in the dark, Kortran. “And with these titans … it’s a hell of a lot to divide and conquer.”
32.
After they were done with the tower, the army moved on once again, swiftly and silently through the tall grass. They walked for a further three hours, maintaining a fast pace, with stops every twenty minutes for a short break and to allow Vara and Martaina to listen carefully to the wind. Each time they were rewarded with a quiet that indicated no guard patrols were moving, which was as Cyrus expected.
“The titans haven’t gotten used to having the Eagle Eye spell at their disposal,” Cyrus said after they had reached a point just below a hill that he’d noted on his map after his flight and confirmed with Cora through a few messages carried by her druid. “Either that or they don’t have enough spellcasters to spread it around.”
“If I were planning a war, I don’t think I’d care to hinge it upon that belief,” Vara said. When Cyrus looked at her blankly, she went on. “On them having few spellcasters, I mean. I’d assume ignorance first, and that they can adapt at any time.”
�
�That’s always how I plan,” Cyrus said. They sat between tall blades of grass, the small army spread out around them, huddled in silence as they ate conjured bread and jerky brought in their small packs. “I assume the worst.”
Vara made a face. “That explains the first several years of our acquaintance.”
“It was certainly a hostile series of encounters,” Cyrus said with a smile.
Vara started to make a reply and then stopped, and he could sense her ears twitching. “Small footsteps—one of the army groups, but they’re coming out of the west.”
Cyrus directed his eyes toward the grass to the west and stood, putting his hand on Praelior. Soon enough, he heard it, too, and waited, until a familiar, bucket-shaped helm peeked through the grass. Terian grinned, his mouth and chin exposed to the world. “We should really have set up a sign and countersign; who knows what loathsome characters could have come strolling into your camp—Malpravus? Goliath?”
“You,” Vara said, but it lacked much sharpness.
“Terian,” Cyrus said with a slight smile pulling at one side of his mouth. Terian strolled into their makeshift camp, an army of dark elves trailing in his wake, a slightly larger group than the one Cyrus had with him. Though they were armored poorly compared to Sanctuary’s group, they seemed heavy on spellcasters. Cyrus took it all in, and when Terian got close, he nodded at a thick cluster of enchanters that moved together, their robes looking particularly fresh. “I didn’t think nations were allowed to have this many spellcasters at their disposal under League law.”
Terian’s lips puckered and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Well, Saekaj’s Leagues are in a slightly different place than the rest of Arkaria’s, in that they answer to the Sovereign.”
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