Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus stood on the path and watched the pool of the volcano come alive with motion, a cauldron stirred, sloshing, like a tornado had been unleashed in its depths. It came to a crescendo, bursts of hot lava exploding into the air, and then it died just as suddenly, the red surface turning black, the heat fading dramatically, like someone had poured cold water all around them, or unleashed a blizzard—

  Like Nyad.

  The rock hissed as it cooled and came to rest, the volcano dying before their eyes. There was no steam, no release, just a sudden change from liquid to stone, solid enough that Cyrus knew if he jumped, he would be smashed upon it—

  Like Belkan.

  He turned from the edge of the path and started his run back to where he’d left his army. The others fell in behind him; he could hear their boots. Vaste’s were creaking, the leather moving. Vara’s were quietest of all, the small plate barely clanging with each step against the stone. Longwell’s were punctuated with the haft of his lance hitting on each step, and Cyrus wondered if it was merely habit or a deep-seated weariness that made the dragoon do it.

  They came back to the wide circle around the shrine’s upper floor to the sound of a thousand drakes and wyverns howling in the distance, ever so much closer than when they’d left. Cyrus paused, less than three hundred of his army remaining before them, the last of their number before the retreat was to be sounded. J’anda was gone, of course, with his titans, but the rest of them were there, even Ryin and Mendicant—

  Howls of rage came from their right, and Cyrus turned his head with the rest of the army. The last dragon’s quarters were just a few hundred meters down the way. Vervahz of the sky was awakened, it seemed, his ire raised as surely as any of the lesser dragonkin that howled in the distance as they approached even now.

  “Launch the teleport spells,” Cyrus said to Mendicant, and several hundred orbs glittered into existence before them. Cyrus made but a motion and the flashes began, the last members of the army making good their retreat back to Sanctuary.

  Cyrus waited and listened, hearing the sounds of battle, of combat, skin against scale. There were grunts and moans, the rush of air as Vervahz turned loose his breath on the titans attacking him in the chamber.

  Now it was down to the officers and a few more. Calene Raverle and Scuddar waited next to Mendicant, Larana stared at Cyrus with worried eyes, and Menlos Irontooth stood silently in the middle of them all, his wolves surrounding him.

  “Get out,” Cyrus warned them without much force. He saw Calene reluctantly take the orb first, then Menlos, his wolves clutched tight under his arms. Larana lingered a moment longer and then left with Scuddar.

  Curatio vanished next, the light of the spell not making his face any whiter than it already was, so worn and ragged from his expenditure of magics against Merceragg. Erith took her orb with reluctance, and she too was engulfed in pale light whiter than her robes.

  The sounds of titans battling a dragon spilled out of the door ahead and someone slammed into the wood, breaking it free of its hinges. Cyrus saw shapes crashing through, a titan clinging to the back of Vervahz, another with his arms wrapped around the dragon’s neck. Two more flanked him, punching at his sides and ripping at his tail as the dragon broke out of his quarters and into the hallway.

  “Go,” Cyrus said quietly. Vervahz’s attention was still on the fight at hand, his head never once veering toward the cluster of Sanctuary officers still standing down the circular hallway. Ryin took his orb and vanished, his druid robes seeming to implode with the magic of the spell swallowing him whole. Mendicant took his next, a small flash following him.

  Vara and Vaste stood with Cyrus, as did Samwen Longwell, watching the combat before them. Vervahz lifted the titan hanging on his back and slammed him into the nearest pillar. The titan crashed through stone like he was pushed through a column of dirt, dust billowing out, and fell from the third tier, screaming all the way to the bottom, where they heard a thud.

  “Longwell, you’re next,” Cyrus said as he watched J’anda come creeping out of the shattered door, hurrying along toward them with the alacrity granted by his godly weapon.

  “I told you after Termina I wouldn’t leave before you again,” Longwell said, holding firm as the enchanter scampered toward them.

  One of the titans grasped Vervahz in a tight grip around his throat, pressing his fingers into scale and ripping them free. The blue dragon bled pink, the titan’s fingers covered in the slick substance. The titan ripped at the wound it had created in a frenzy, tearing at the flesh hidden below the scale.

  Vervahz came around with a snap of jaws and tore the titan’s throat out, ripping it free with a flash of blood and flesh. The titan’s hands pulled from the dragon in an instant, clamping down on his own neck desperately, trying to staunch the flow. The wounded titan hit his knees, already forgotten by the dragon as he moved on to his next prey.

  “Why are we all standing around?” J’anda asked as he reached them, tossing a look back to watch the battle.

  “Making sure the job is done,” Vaste answered for all of them. “Making sure that …”

  “That it wasn’t in vain,” Vara said.

  “If we get caught here, it will be worse than in vain,” J’anda said, and he whirled his staff in front of him before the light of his return spell carried him away.

  “It would be death,” Longwell finished for him. Reluctantly, he reached out for the orb of teleportation, pausing a second away from it. “We should go, all of us.”

  “Just a minute more,” Cyrus said, unable to tear his eyes away even as the hooting, furious sounds of the drakes and wyverns built in the air, coming closer and closer.

  Longwell inclined his head slightly and took hold of the teleportation orb, flashing away as one of the titans seized hold of Vervahz’s wing and ripped hard upon it. The sound of bones breaking was loud even as far away as they were, but the dragon did not scream in pain. He flailed instead, kicking out with a razored foot, catching the titan in the gut and opening him wide. Cyrus saw blood and intestines, and the smell hit a moment later.

  “Gah,” Vaste said, the smell overwhelming. He seized his orb without a word, disappearing away with a flash.

  “We should go,” Vara said, her fingers finding his, their orbs glowing brightly in front of them. “This is not safe.” The howls of furious dragonkin put urgency and truth to her words.

  “Just … wait,” Cyrus said quietly as he watched the last two titans struggling against their foe. One punched Vervahz in the side of the head, smashing him into a column. Vervahz kicked against his attacker, laying open the titan’s leg. The titan gritted its teeth and grabbed the sky dragon around the neck, yanking it down, closer to the edge of the shrine.

  Cyrus began walking forward, the orb following him along with Vara. Vervahz was fighting a losing battle, of that Cyrus was certain, and the melee spilled right to the edge of the shrine, the flash of the blue dragon’s lone working wing trying to extend, to carry him forth—

  And then the last two titans, still clutching and tearing at the dragon even as he tore at them, went cascading over the edge of the walkway, smashing through another column on their way out.

  Cyrus ran to the edge and made it in time to see them all land, flailing wildly until they struck the ashy ground. The two titans landed atop the blue dragon and bounced, rolling away from the carcass. And it was a carcass; Cyrus could see the light gone from Vervahz’s eyes, the dragon limp across the grey dust. He stared down at them, at his triumph …

  And felt nothing.

  “Now?” Vara asked into the pitched shrieks growing closer behind them, the dragonkin coming for blood, for vengeance.

  “Now,” Cyrus said, and they took their orbs as one, leaving behind the ashen battlefield and whatever remained of the fallen.

  69.

  Silence hung heavy over the Council Chamber like ash over the raiding party only a few hours earlier. Cyrus sat in his place at the head of the table, wi
shing he were anywhere else but there. He looked slowly around the table, starting at his left, noting the two empty chairs of Nyad and Thad immediately past Vara, who sat with her head down, staring at the table’s edge, ash still stuck in her blond locks.

  Vaste and Longwell sat just past the empty seats, the troll still as Cyrus had ever seen him and Longwell looking around, observing all that was going on within the chamber. Odellan’s seat sat empty just to the dragoon’s left, and Erith sat lonely and pale, between it and Andren’s chair, also empty and slightly askew. Mendicant, Ryin and J’anda sat to the left of that empty seat, each in their own sullen silence, none of them looking about save for the druid. Just past them, to Cyrus’s immediate right, Curatio’s chair also sat empty.

  “Where’s Curatio?” Cyrus asked, barely above a whisper, as if afraid anything louder would be as unto a breath of fire descending into the chamber from on high.

  “He looked exhausted when I saw him, said something about needing to sleep,” Vaste said, his voice barely louder than Cyrus’s. “He used one of those powerful heretic spells on—I can’t even remember which dragon. One of the ’errs. The one that breathed fire.” His voice turned even more sour. “The one that killed more of our officers than anything else, ever.”

  “It was actually Merceragg,” Erith said quietly.

  “Well, take me for a country whore and throw me into a city brothel,” Vaste said hotly. “As though I give a single damn what the name of that dead creature is.”

  “We’ll need to arrange funerals,” Ryin said, looking around, face grey. “And the families will need to be informed.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Cyrus said, looking down.

  “You won’t be alone,” Vara said, and he did not even think to argue.

  “What now?” Erith asked, and her voice broke.

  “Could we declare war on the dragons?” Vaste asked. “Because I’d like to declare war on the dragons.”

  “This was our fault,” Cyrus said, drawing the attention of everyone. “My fault. My plan, along with Ehrgraz, anyway.” He looked around the table, and it seemed … so empty.

  “Then what do we do next?” Longwell asked.

  “We mourn,” Cyrus said, “and we wait. For Ehrgraz to do his part.” He lowered his head. “Gods know we’ve got plenty to do with just the mourning.”

  “Hard to believe this all started with a hostile visit to Kortran years ago,” Mendicant said, his low voice almost melodic as the goblin lapsed into contemplation.

  “I just want to know how it’s going to end,” Vaste asked, looking very pointedly across the table at Cyrus.

  Cyrus did not meet his gaze, some vague hint of fear keeping his eyes from meeting the troll’s. “I want to know the answer to that question myself,” he said quietly. “But I have a feeling it’s going to be a while longer before the answer is clear.”

  70.

  The wait at King Danay’s court was interminable, hours of pacing in a grand room designed for the purpose of impressing and intimidating visitors to the Elven Kingdom. There were pillars of greenery and skylights and a wide-open hall so large Cyrus could scarcely see from one side to the other. The tinkling of water echoed from some of the fountains and waterfalls built into the cavernous room. A sweet scent lingered in his nostrils, sharper than rose petals, though by now he felt well sick of it. This is the price of admission when you don’t make your appointment ahead of time, Cyrus thought.

  This is the price I will pay to come to tell a father that his daughter is dead.

  He walked in a steady circle around one of the pillars, a garden unto itself built in tiers, blooming just fine in the face of winter beginning to settle in on Arkaria. On the walk through Pharesia, Cyrus had scarcely noticed the light chill in the air. It did not seem like autumn here, not even the earliest version of it.

  Here in the waiting chamber before the throne room, however, it was not as cool as out of doors, the skylights keeping the room in the steady warmth of the sun, giving the plants life and courtiers and visitors a pleasant enough place to while away the hours before an audience with Danay. For Cyrus’s part, though, he could not imagine this room without linking it inextricably with Nyad, and it caused a pain in his chest and lower, a roiling in his guts he could not escape.

  “This palace has stood for thousands of years,” Vara said, voice echoing slightly through the chamber, “and I would imagine it has looked much the same for all that time—until now, when you wear holes in this marbled floor from your interminable pacing.” She looked equally cross and amused, and he marveled at her ability to carry off that expression.

  “I find myself filled with a nervous energy that you apparently do not share,” Cyrus said, eyeing Vara, who sat next to a fidgeting Mendicant. The goblin looked more than a little discomfited sitting in the court of Pharesia, though to someone not well versed in goblin behavior, he probably looked quite normal—which was to say, strange. Cyrus could read the nervousness in the hunch of the wizard’s shoulders, however, in the grimacing way he bared his teeth and kept his head down. “Well, it looks as though Mendicant might.”

  “Hm?” Mendicant looked up, head turning rapidly, snapping from Vara to Cyrus in an instant as though he had missed something truly important. “I am sorry, my Lord and Lady Davidon, but I—” He stopped, twitched, and his mouth froze in a line of sharp teeth. “I apologize again.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” Vara said with a faint smile. “Probably by Lord Davidon, in fact.”

  Cyrus looked at her, pensive, for a moment, then back to their wizard companion with a hint of sheepishness. “How are you doing, Mendicant?”

  “This is frightening duty for me,” Mendicant said, looking very earnest as he raised his head and lowered his voice. “Are you not … worried that the king is going to be particularly vengeful when he finds out that his dau—”

  Vara clasped a hand over Mendicant’s mouth before the last bit could come out. Even so, Cyrus could see elves some distance away raise their heads, snapping their gazes away quickly as they realized that they had been caught eavesdropping.

  “That is for the king’s ears,” Cyrus said as Vara relinquished her hold on Mendicant’s face, but kept it close by in case she had to grab him again. “And since there are so very many ears in this place that seem keen to listen in on every conversation being had in these chambers …”

  “There’s quite a bit of profit in doing so,” Vara said, matter-of-factly. “In politics, information is power, and having the ability to tell a monarch news of any sort—bad or good—before the person here to deliver it does so … well, that’s a power all its own.” She looked around. “Though it would be quite bad for us.”

  “There’s every possibility he already knows,” Cyrus said, trying to keep his nerves from showing as he glanced around. “I was left with the distinct impression that there is not much that goes on in Sanctuary that the rest of Arkaria does not hear about.”

  “It was a small army that came with us,” Vara said, her lips a thin line when they came to rest, one that hinted at her own worry. “Perhaps that will insulate us some from word leaking so fast.”

  “Doubtful,” Mendicant said, “everyone in Sanctuary knows. About—” he glanced around, “… her, about Andren, Odellan, Thad … and about those poor rangers that were ground up by Groz’anarr.”

  “Word travels fast around our small halls,” Cyrus said, pursing his own lips. “Which is why I brought you and the Lady of Nalikh’akur,” Cyrus said, looking straight at Vara. “If the king is displeased, hopefully he won’t resort to striking out at the shelas’akur.”

  “That would be a terrible thing,” Vara said.

  Mendicant frowned. “I’m not well versed in elven culture as I’d like, but as I understand it, the King taking such an action would likely turn the people against him, yes?” He caught a slight nod from Vara, filled with hesitation. “Yes, I suppose that would make it a terrible thing.”

  Vara’
s face reddened all the way to her ears. “Mendicant, I was speaking from the perspective of having to strike down palace guards in my own defense being rather an unfortunate occurrence, not from any larger political concerns.”

  “Oh,” Mendicant said, eyes darting as he thought. “Then … it was somewhat of an understatement, then? For purposes of humor?”

  “You didn’t catch that?” Cyrus asked, watching the goblin with some dark amusement that he would not have believed he could find in this hour.

  “Goblin humor is quite a bit different than your variety,” Mendicant said quietly. “It is very much based on the concept of—”

  “Lord Cyrus Davidon,” a voice boomed behind him, drawing the attention of all three of them to a man in a steward’s uniform. Cyrus searched the face, but it was unfamiliar; he was simply a worker of the palace doing his job and not the king himself in disguise, as he had been known to be on previous occasions. “You will follow me.”

  Cyrus waited for Vara and Mendicant to rise to their feet, and then followed the steward, who was already in motion toward the grand entrance to the throne room. Cyrus did not hurry to keep up, forcing the steward to slow to allow them to catch him, Mendicant’s small legs and ungainly walk upon two feet hampering their progress considerably.

  When they reached the throne room itself, Cyrus was once more impressed with its sprawling size and the considerable rainbow coloring of the monarch himself, visible at some distance. Once more, the steward began to pull away from them, visibly increasing his pace, and at this, Cyrus realized, they had been had.

  “Shit,” he muttered, “Mendicant—”

  “Do not,” King Danay said, loudly enough to be heard over the rustle of movement high above them in the balcony reaches of the room. Bows were drawn and nocked by the hundreds, perhaps even as many as a thousand, crowding around balconies above, arrows pointed down at him in number enough to kill Mendicant at least a hundred times over; Vara might be more lucky and only suffer serious wounds that would lead to her bleeding to death. Surely she would rate a resurrection spell, but probably not until Cyrus was dead and his body well disposed of.