Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

The applause faded away, and the crowd began to disperse, some twenty thousand plus mourners and guests, filing silently across the green and rustling plains, back toward the keep of Sanctuary on the northern horizon.

  73.

  “That was well said.” Vara walked alongside him at the rear of the formation, the slow, disorganized march back to Sanctuary holding none of the urgency or discipline of the army at war.

  “It was very spontaneous, so I’m surprised it came out at all,” Cyrus said, his armor feeling as though it were weighing him down. He nodded sharply ahead as he caught sight of a familiar helm in the procession. “I need to talk to Terian—”

  “Well, go, then,” Vara said, “I’ll catch up.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I need to talk to Cora, too.”

  Now it was her turn to frown. “Why? You think she’ll have some news of the titan movements?”

  He stopped straight away. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?” He grimaced. “Can you catch her?”

  “Perhaps if you were to tell me for what purpose,” she said, looking mildly annoyed.

  “I’m sorry, I will,” Cyrus said, nodding at Cora’s receding back in the distance. “Maybe we should stop her first, since I suspect Terian will take an audience with me anytime …” He started forward again, using his aggressively long stride to try and catch the elf, who was already fading into the crowd. “Cora!”

  She heard him and turned in a casual manner that reminded him that nothing was amiss in her mind; it wasn’t as if she could have known that he had “found her out.” It wasn’t as though living next to me in the past was a crime. Though she might have mentioned it.

  Cora held position politely and waited for him to catch up. She must have caught some signal of his mood, however, for she inclined her head with a wary eyebrow cocked as he approached. “Hello, Cyrus,” she said.

  “Hello, neighbor,” Cyrus said dryly, and watched her eyebrow rise a little further. “I didn’t realize until recently how far back our acquaintance stretched.”

  “And why should you?” Cora asked calmly as Vara caught up to them. “You were, after all, but a child when Belkan came to take you from my house to deliver you to the Society of Arms.”

  “What. The. Ruddy. Hell,” Vara said, more than a little taken aback. She leveled her gaze on Cyrus. “This you forgot to mention to me?”

  “We had a whole conversation right after I found out, on the bridge, that ended with Curatio dumping water on us, and Ehrgraz showing up to start us into this whole shrine attack,” Cyrus said, waving her off. “We’ve been so busy, I guess I just forgot—”

  “Yes, well,” Vara said, slightly above a simmer, “when next we’re intimate—some fifty years from now, I hasten to add—I might ‘forget’ to take my ventra’maq, and then you, you spoony warrior, will be left with an offspring at roughly the same time you will have an utterly valid excuse to be forgetting important things.”

  “By ‘spoony,’ do you mean ‘delicious’?” Cyrus asked. “Because I can agree with—”

  “As amusing as it is to watch you ‘all grown up’ without acting the part,” Cora said politely, “perhaps you might save the spat for later.” Her eyes honed in on Cyrus, but he could feel Vara’s wrath bubbling next to him. It’s not as though she weren’t already provided ample cause to be irritable, what with the events in the elven throne room and—uh, who rescued us. That had not been a particularly enjoyable revelation afterward, when Cyrus had told her who had been beneath the cowl, though it had perhaps improved his pronunciation of elvish curses, hearing them all strung together and repeated so loudly. “You act as though my knowing you as a child has any bearing on my knowing you now,” Cora said. “You were obviously not the Guildmaster of Sanctuary when last we made our acquaintance. Despite your childish protestations of fierce warriordom at the time—you would have been of little use in the situation we now find ourselves in.”

  “It has some bearing,” Cyrus said sharply. “You knew my parents.”

  “Many did,” Cora said without expression. “Shall we track them all down and you can have a good row in front of them as well?” She eyed Vara. “I expect this one could stay angry long enough to pull it off.”

  “Cora, you old sow,” Vara said. “This is the sort of thing you might have mentioned.”

  “I might have,” Cora said, almost indifferently, “but I felt to do so might be to try to invoke old loyalties that young Cyrus here does not even have memory of.” She smiled faintly. “You did not even recall me, after all.”

  “I was six,” Cyrus said. “And probably somewhat traumatized given all that I’d been through with losing my father and mother so close together—”

  “Your mother and father did not die that close together,” Cora said with a shrug. “Your mother was around for some time after Rusyl’s death. Surely you remember her stories, her tales … she was quite the teller of them,” she said with a faint smile. “She had a way with words, a talent I see might have bred true in you.”

  “I remember stories,” Cyrus said, looking a little furiously at her, “but mostly of the trolls and how horrible they were.”

  “She was a bit irate with them,” Cora said with a stunning amount of subtlety. “You might see some cause for why.”

  “I damned well know why she hated the trolls,” Cyrus said, voice booming loud enough that some in the ranks of the funeral procession turned back to look, dark figures on near-colorless plains. Vaste, in particular, frowned at Cyrus, his head well above the crowd. “You say you didn’t want to mention this old acquaintance because you were asking for a favor, fine. Why not mention it after you knew we were going to help you?”

  “We haven’t had that many conversations since then,” Cora said, “and it’s not the sort of thing one merely brings up—‘Oh, by the by, did you know that you used to come and play at my house when you were a child?’ You were a lot shorter then, and somewhat homely. I was worried for you, but fortunately it seems you’ve done all right in spite of it,” she said, nodding at Vara.

  “Hey!” Cyrus said.

  “There is nothing to say,” Cora said, spreading her arms wide. “Do you wish to reminisce about things you cannot even recall? By all means, come to Amti some time when this is over and I will regale you with all the tales I have.” Her face grew still and somehow long. “But for now … the titans swirl about the Gradsden Savanna in great number, edging into the Jungle of Vidara and chopping more of it down every single day to feed their war machine.” She paused and chewed her bottom lip. “Forgive me for not being interested in discussing the days of old when the days of now so consume my thoughts with worry.”

  Cyrus took a breath and shared a look with Vara, whose rage had plainly mellowed. “Fine,” Cyrus said, still viewing her with some suspicion. “I’m going to take you up on that.”

  Cora kept her face almost impassive—almost, but not quite. The faintest of smiles played on her lips even though it was obvious in its fakery. “I look forward to it,” she said, but that subtle flicker in her expression put the lie to it before she bowed to Cyrus and then walked away.

  74.

  “Terian,” Cyrus said, greeting the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar at the gate where the dark elf waited, his own entourage—the healer, Dahveed, the druid, Bowe and that enormous warrior, Grinnd—standing off from him about twenty paces. The warrior and healer smiled politely at passersby, but the druid sat with legs crossed, hands up, meditating, a cushion of three feet of air between his backside and the ground.

  “Cyrus,” Terian said grimly. “Vara.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Cyrus said. “Your presence in this hour is … much appreciated.” He looked around, but other than Terian’s three servants, all the others from the funeral had already passed through the Sanctuary gates.

  “Well, I did know all the officers that died,” Terian said. “So I appreciate you allowing me to come and pay my respects.”

  “I think I speak for both of us
,” Vara said, “albeit rather surprisedly … but you are welcome at any time.”

  “Perhaps not in the middle of the night,” Cyrus corrected, “unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Davidon, you aren’t getting me out of my comfortable bed in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency,” Terian said. “Besides, I have messengers for the minor stuff now, like, ‘Vaste needs a swat upside the head, it’s been too long.’”

  “A persistent problem,” Cyrus agreed.

  “Have you heard from Ehrgraz yet?” Terian asked, a little tentatively given his position as leader of a nation.

  “No,” Cyrus said, frowning. “I assumed that was a good thing, though, given …” He let his voice drift off. “Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Not really,” Terian said, but there was hesitation in his voice. “I introduced Bowe over there to my sources in the Ashen Wastelands.” He nodded at the druid, hovering placidly. “He’s been trying to check in daily, but … nothing.”

  “That could be good, right?” Cyrus asked, looking from Vara to Terian. “The dragons are cloistered up, debating the course of revenge?”

  “Maybe,” Terian said, more than a little skeptically. “I would have thought Ehrgraz would have come to you by now, though, or at least sent some word. He has his spies and sources, after all …” Terian lowered his head. “Silence … not generally good from one dragon. When you’re getting it from all of them, and all their lesser kin …” He blew air out of pale blue lips. “It’s worrying, let’s put it that way.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be the first ally to abandon us of late,” Cyrus said a little acidly.

  Terian looked pained. “I heard about Danay. I didn’t think he’d do that, honestly, but …”

  “But it was a possibility in your mind?” Vara asked.

  “Everything is a possibility in my mind, lately,” Terian said. “But every conversation I had with Nyad or others about the King suggested that with the exception of my own, he was possibly the least warm and loving father of all.”

  “True,” Cyrus said. “This feels like something else other than fatherly regard. Pride, perhaps. Whatever it might be, it loses us an ally when we should all be steadfast in our opposition to the titans.” He looked up at Terian. “Still, the fact that you stand with us … and sent … uh … your ambassador to help us …” He raised an eyebrow, trying to stay away from condemnation. “Well, I appreciate it, even if I didn’t exactly expect the form that help took.”

  Terian turned quite serious. “She helped me with the Sovereignty in invaluable ways. And when she did what she did to you, she was in a difficult spot—”

  “She was a traitorous whore,” Vara pronounced with sheerest loathing, “and the only positions she was in were on her back, and astride—”

  “Let’s not,” Cyrus said, grimacing, “get into exhaustive detail.” He paused. “My regards to her nonetheless.” He tried to ignore the scandalized look in Vara’s eyes. “She saved our lives.”

  “She owed you considerably more than that for the gift of the scar that graces your lower back and that still seems to ache in moments of exertion—”

  “There’s an argument and I’m not part of it,” Terian mused idly, “I feel like I’ve done something wrong.”

  “I have another question for you,” Cyrus said, changing the subject. “Uhm … about your armor, err … Alaric. Has he ever …” Cyrus took a deep breath, “… appeared to you, in, say … the Tower of the Guildmaster?”

  Terian’s eye bucked upward, then settled as he went from surprise to amused resignation in the space of a few heartbeats. “He appeared to you, too, huh?” He nodded, now resolute. “That makes sense. It’d be the two of us, I guess.”

  “Oh, you’re both so very special,” Vara said acidly.

  “Well, I think we just need more help than you,” Terian said.

  “You’re about to need help of the sort only a healer can render—”

  “What did he say to you?” Cyrus asked.

  Terian blushed a deeper navy. “He … encouraged me … taught me to be a paladin, actually, in those moments.” He reached back, slowly, and pulled the black axe from behind him, then muttered something under his breath as it flamed to life, drawing a gasp from Vara. “He taught me this.”

  “That bastard,” Vara said, “pretty soon he’ll be teaching that to everyone.”

  “You’re still special,” Terian said with a grin.

  “Healer, you’re going to be needed over here.”

  “Peace,” Terian said, extinguishing the flame. He paused then nodded to Cyrus. “What did he tell you?”

  “He reminded me I wasn’t alone in the fight with Yartraak,” Cyrus said simply, giving Vara a look that immediately caused her own to soften. “And more recently, someone else summoned me to the Tower while invoking his name—Terrgenden, the—”

  “God of Justice,” Terian breathed, nodding. “He’s quite the fellow, isn’t he?”

  “And now you sup with gods?” Vara asked, under her breath. “This land has gone truly mad.”

  “I met him and Vidara both, actually,” Terian said, drawing an even more ireful look from Vara. “She seemed nice, your goddess. They named you after her?”

  Vara’s eye twitched. “Yes.”

  “She seemed … calmer,” Terian said. Vara’s reply was lost under her breath.

  “You think he’s still alive, then?” Cyrus asked.

  Terian seemed taken aback at that. “Actually, I thought I was having a delusion, but now that you’re telling me you saw him in the exact same setting—and I assume he sort of … pulled you out of the middle of a battle going unfavorably?” Cyrus nodded. “Then yes, I think …” The white knight nodded, “… it stands to reason he’s still alive, somewhere, somehow, though how he’s doing this is a bit mystifying.”

  “Any idea what we should do about it?” Cyrus asked, the wind whipping around him.

  “Have you thought about searching your quarters thoroughly?” Terian asked with a grin. “Maybe look under the bed?”

  “I assure you, no one could have survived under there the last few months,” Cyrus said, earning him a gauntleted slap to the upper arm from Vara that rang out under the grey afternoon sky.

  “If he’s appeared to us but is not showing up,” Terian said with a shrug, “then I daresay he doesn’t want to be found. And while trying to hunt a ghost through the countryside of Arkaria sounds like so much fun—stopping at every house, ‘Hey, have you seen a man who can fade into insubstantial mist?’ slamming of doors in your face, repeat endlessly—” He shrugged once more. “He’s the Ghost. What he does is at least as mysterious as how he does it, and if he doesn’t want to be found …”

  “Then we’re on our own, I suppose,” Cyrus said.

  “I think that might be how he wanted it,” Terian said slowly, and when both Cyrus and Vara were looking at him, he went a little further. “Think about it … he was the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. While he was here, I might have always had somewhere to run back to, and while you were the General, you had essentially topped out on how far you could go in this guild.” He gestured to the central tower somewhere hidden behind the wall at his back. “But now … well, look at us. You’re the Lord of Perdamun, I’m the Sovereign, she’s the Guildmaster’s woman—” His grin broke loose and he received a slap of his own from Vara, hard across his vambraces, the metal clanking as he broke into laughter. “Kidding! Only kidding!” His smile disappeared. “We were in his shadow. But now …”

  Cyrus stared at the dark elf, taking his meaning. He exchanged an uneasy look with Vara, all thought of reprisal for Terian’s comment clearly struck from her mind by one that was causing worry lines to crease her brow. “So we really are on our own,” Cyrus said, and this time no one answered, for none of them had one that gave them even the slightest feeling of reassurance.

  75.

  The knock at Cyrus’s door sounded as he was almost ready to extin
guish the torches for the night and call it an evening. The white silken sheers that stood in front of the four balconies in the Tower of the Guildmaster were wafting lightly in the wind. Vara was still absent, gone down to the foyer some hours earlier to “put in an appearance,” as she had said it, kissing him before she had left. It had been necessary, he figured, for one of them to go, but he did not feel like putting on the brave face, not this evening, though at the sound of the knock he marshaled his reserves for that very purpose.

  “Come in,” he called, his armor still on, rising from the chair in the corner of the room as the door squeaked open down the thin slit of the stairway passage.

  He waited where he stood, knowing full well that Vara would not have knocked unless she brought someone with her, and when he saw the green cloak and cowl, he relaxed a little. “Martaina,” he said.

  “Guildmaster,” she said, oddly formal, looking around. Her eyes fixed on a white sheer as the wind caught it, and Cyrus struggled to remember if she had been here before.

  “What can I do for you?” Cyrus asked, easing toward her, his armor making soft noises, metal boots scraping against the stone floor.

  Her passage toward him was slower, with yet more reserve, hands threaded behind her back, but her eyes were clear as they took in the details of the tower around them. Her bow was absent and so were the blades she kept on her belt. It was a curious thing, seeing her like this, and he realized at last her bun of hair was freshly done, though poorly. “There’s nothing you can do for me,” she said, finally looking directly at him. “I’ve come to tell you … I’m leaving.”

  Cyrus felt as though a physical blow had struck him, as though he might teeter back and fall into the seat he’d just left. “Leaving? Now?”

  “It seemed the time,” Martaina said, voice a little hoarse.

  “There are others that might be more opportune,” Cyrus said, “such as when we have not just had funeral rites for—”

  “I know full well how many we just said our farewells to,” Martaina said with more than a little edge. “I trained those rangers myself, two of them from farmers with no skill, one from a simple shop clerk in a small town, and the other three from little experience.” She did not blink. “And of course I knew all the others, though two better than most.” She bowed her head. “And one of them I had known almost all his life.”