Warlord

by Robert J. Crane

  “Well,” Vaste said bracingly, a little too relaxed and a little too loud for Cyrus to properly believe him, “we should probably have an absolutely standard and rudimentary Council meeting in which we will discuss nothing but the very ordinary events of this particular action.”

  “That will have to wait,” Scuddar In’shara said, sweeping in from the open doors of the foyer. Blue skies shone outside, the sun already up in the sky. A soft breeze wafted into the room. “You have a visitor at the wall.”

  “Ehrgraz?” Cyrus asked and received a nod in return. He started for the door, but Vaste landed a hand on his arm.

  “We are going to have that very ordinary Council meeting afterward though, yes?” Vaste asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll hound me until we do,” Cyrus said, and the troll’s grip relinquished him.

  “Ehrgraz has picked an odd time to break his silence,” Vara said, stepping into line beside him as they walked toward the wall.

  “I expect we’ll get an explanation for that,” Cyrus said tightly, his boots mashing into the soft lawn with every step. The day around him seemed like it was excessively bright, and then he realized there were no clouds in the sky. “Though whether it’s to our satisfaction is anyone’s guess.”

  “About the other thing—” she said quickly.

  “Later,” Cyrus said, and paused as she stopped. He looked her in the eyes and saw the same worry and fear there that he felt sure were in his own. “Truly. After the Council meeting, we can—” He smiled faintly. “Why don’t we go to Reikonos and have a walk?”

  Her eyes flickered. “Like you used to do with … Andren?”

  “Exactly,” Cyrus said, barely a whisper.

  “Very well,” she said, nodding once, in discomfort, before they made their way up the nearest tower to the top of the wall, the clank of their boots against the stone pathways resounding in Cyrus’s ears.

  “If you’re here to give condolences, you’re months late,” Cyrus said as he strode out onto the wall where Ehrgraz’s head waited, glaring at him with one eye cocked.

  “I will only say this once,” Ehrgraz said dangerously, “so listen carefully—I am sorry for your losses.” He sounded slightly contrite when he said it, though his tone still indicated deep contempt or irritation; which, Cyrus could not rightly say.

  “Your regrets are appreciated,” Cyrus said, watching him with both eyes. “I saw your handiwork in the savanna this morning.”

  “I heard you were watching,” Ehrgraz said, looking at him in a way that Cyrus found suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Did you?” Cyrus asked. “What else did you hear?”

  “Everything,” Ehrgraz said, leaving Cyrus in little doubt that he spoke the truth. “Your days are soon to become more difficult.”

  “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about an army of titans coming out of the south,” Cyrus said, a little sourly, “though now it’s something of an open question if I ever really did, once the pass was shut.”

  “Do you think Bellarum would have been content to let you sit idly here in the north without challenge? That he would not have given the titans the keys to every kingdom here in the north eventually?” Ehrgraz asked, yellow eyes on him in near disbelief once more. “Your failure to follow his path is what spurred him to foolish action with the titans. He hoped to move you cleanly back to his side.” The dragon puffed black smoke. “Apparently he underestimated the other ties that bind you.” Ehrgraz looked pointedly at Vara.

  “Me?” she asked, hand falling to her chest.

  “You know an awful lot about the affairs of gods,” Cyrus said, watching the dragon with suspicion.

  “Hmpf!” Ehrgraz scoffed. “I bid you farewell now, Cyrus Davidon, for our paths are now diverging.” He flapped his wings once. “Pray to whatever gods you still hold dear that they do not cross again in an unfavorable way, for I think you have seen what end that holds for those who challenge us.”

  “Same to you, Ehrgraz,” Cyrus said, drawing another sharp look from the dragon, which he returned in kind. “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that I’ve killed more dragons than I have gods—and I don’t really care which is on the end of my blade, if they cross me.”

  Ehrgraz stared back at him, unrelenting. “I think we understand each other perfectly.” And he flapped his wings and shot off into the sky impossibly fast, disappearing out of sight into the distance in mere moments. The mood that his threat left Cyrus in, however, was not nearly so quick to depart.

  90.

  “The way I see it,” Vaste said in the Council Chamber, the warmth of the hearth keeping some of the day’s chill at bay, “we’re as blind as the Dragonlord just before Cyrus rode him right into the ground. And furthermore,” the troll said, looking pointedly at Cyrus at the head of the table, “probably just as stuck with our esteemed Guildmaster riding us into oblivion.”

  “I’m not trying to … ride you,” Cyrus said, faltering partway through.

  “Except her,” Erith said with a nod at Vara.

  “Actually, I prefer to do the riding,” Vara said a little stiffly.

  “Oh, how I hate you two,” Vaste said, lowering his head and cradling it in his hands. “I miss the fighting. Where is the fighting?”

  “Does anyone else have that … that sinking feeling of stepping off a high stair when your Falcon’s Essence has just worn off?” J’anda asked, his voice filling the chamber.

  “That more or less sums up how I feel as well,” Ryin said, mouth buried behind his hand. He glanced around. “I mean … we’ll all be heretics together if this stands, won’t we?”

  “I think technically if you’re merely aiding or supporting a heretic you’re called a—” Mendicant started.

  “The effect is the same, yes?” Ryin asked the goblin, looking down at him.

  “A veritable death sentence, yes,” Vaste said.

  “Can we just discuss how Cyrus used a fire spell?” Longwell asked, looking at Cyrus. “I mean … does that mean any of us could?”

  “Try it,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “The words are—”

  “NOOO!” Ryin shouted, face red.

  “Arnngraav, urnkaaav,” Cyrus said, looking sideways at the druid, who slumped with his hands on his forehead in much the same way Vaste just had.

  Longwell pointed his hand at a blank stretch of wall. “Arnngraav, urnkaaav!” They waited quietly for a second, then two, and the dragoon shrugged. “I guess I’m just not magical enough.” He pursed his lips. “Damn.”

  “He didn’t cast it just now either, when he said it to you,” Vaste noted, looking at Cyrus with suspicion.

  Cyrus shrugged languidly. “Wasn’t trying to, but …” He stood and unlocked the balcony door, then stuck his hand out. “Arnngraav, urnkaaav!”

  Flame bellowed out over the balcony and Cyrus felt a curious tugging sensation within him, like breath being sucked from lungs he didn’t know he had. The fire was small compared to the spells of the wizards he had known, or even the druids, and faded quickly.

  “Oh, will you just stop committing heresy?” Ryin asked, now hiding his eyes.

  “Wow,” Erith said and pointed her hand at the hearth before whispering something under her breath. A gout of flame leapt out of her hand, larger than the one that Cyrus had just loosed, burning into the hearth and upward, setting fire to the painting hanging above the frame. “Oh, damn.”

  “Yes,” Ryin said, watching in consternation as the picture and frame were consumed by yellow fire, smoking into the air above the stone hearth’s mantle. “Burning our art is certainly cause for concern at a moment when we’re all sitting around committing and aiding heresy!”

  “Well, now I have to try,” Vaste said and led the way out to the balcony. Vara and J’anda followed behind her, each of them belting out a flame spell in turn, Vaste’s mild and long, like a tongue, Vara’s short of duration and fury, her hesitation causing her to pull back some of the power Cyrus suspected she could have applied.


  J’anda’s, on the other hand, blew out like the breath of a dragon, making Cyrus and the others flinch away from the heat and intensity. When Cyrus opened his hand again, he found the enchanter clutching his staff tightly, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Hmmm,” the dark elf said, clearly contemplating possibilities.

  “I guess this explains why that heretic we ran into in the Bandit Lands was so hunted by the Leagues,” Vaste mused aloud as they came in from the balcony, the smell of fire and smoke following behind them.

  “Yes, it’s amazing how heretics get hunted for being heretics,” Ryin said, his face on the table.

  “Do you realize what this means?” Vaste asked.

  “For some of us,” Longwell said, a bit sourly, “not a damned thing.”

  “It means the Leagues have been controlling magic,” Mendicant said, looking more than a little hungry. “That like Lord Soulmender said—”

  “Who?” J’anda asked with a frown.

  “Wasn’t that Curatio’s surname?” Vaste asked. “I think I heard him say it once.”

  “—there are practices forbidden and controlled,” Mendicant went on, ignoring the interruptions. “That they’ve been—”

  “Holding out on us,” Vara said quietly.

  “The Leagues are not ‘holding out on us,’” Ryin said with more than a little outrage. “They put guidelines in place for our own safety, and to keep dangerous magics out of the hands of nutters like—like—like the bloody Sorceress Quinneria!” He looked at Vaste.

  Vaste blinked in surprise. “Uh … yes. I suppose that’s true. You don’t want dangerous magics falling into the hands of people who want to wipe out all the trolls, after all.” He rubbed at his chin. “But, uhm …” He scratched at his chin, “… I’m not sure that saving my not-so-noble people was the purpose behind the League control.” He flicked his gaze to Cyrus. “Because … as we learned just a few short years ago, the Leagues are probably under the same guidance as the major powers, which means their patrons–”

  “Are the gods,” Cyrus finished for him.

  Vaste nodded once. “Exactly. And I’m guessing … now that we’ve killed two of their number plus one of their avatars—”

  “The Leagues are going to come after us,” Vara said quietly.

  “Entire nations are going to come after us,” Ryin said miserably.

  “And we’ll stand against them all,” Cyrus said, that uncertain feeling that had wracked him for months dissolving in one moment of absolute belief. He looked his officers in the eyes one by one, and saw a mixture of disbelief waiting there. “Just like we always have, against all challengers.

  “Whatever comes our way … we will fight,” he said. “Because that’s what we do. It’s who we are.” Cyrus straightened, and he felt the others stand a little taller with him. “We’ve fought for others, for what was right, for the defenseless, and for Arkaria. All noble causes.” His breath caught in his throat, but he felt sure that this was it, the words that needed to be said, the cause that needed to be embraced.

  They’re coming.

  “Now,” Cyrus said, “we’re just going to have to fight for ourselves.”

  91.

  Cyrus and Vara strolled hand in hand along the darkening streets of Reikonos, Cyrus trying to take in every line, every trace of the city for fear he would not see it again soon, if ever. Even the stink of so many people and their waste in this close proximity seemed less foul, now that he feared his days of being able to visit freely were drawing to a close.

  “This whole sequence of events and what is to come,” Vara said, musing quietly, “brings to mind what happened four years ago, when Goliath blamed us for the goblin attacks on the plains convoys and got us barred by all the major powers.”

  “Except we have no one to blame this time but ourselves,” Cyrus said. “Or at least myself.”

  “I don’t think anyone can blame you for something done in such extremes,” she said, her boots finding the soft, dust-covered streets of this part of town. They had strolled toward the remnants of Cyrus’s old house and talked the whole way—of the battle near Amti and its consequences, and all that had come after, though in hushed tones, for fear of being overheard.

  “When things get bad,” Cyrus said, feeling a little like a man with his head on the block, axe poised above it ready to fall, “they’ll find a way to blame me.”

  “You are still the Guildmaster,” she said, stopping him. They stood in the street, and she raised his hands in hers to clutch them against her breastplate. “You are still the foremost warrior in Arkaria.” She smiled faintly. “And you will be my husband, do not forget.”

  “We should set a date,” Cyrus said with a faint smile of his own. “Before we get all caught up in what’s coming.”

  “Yes, a couple months will do it, I should say,” she agreed, going back to strolling along with him, her hand in his. “We’ll need to do it on the Sanctuary grounds, of course, by then—”

  “Do you think everyone already knows?” Cyrus asked, looking around in the deepening evening, the buildings on either side of them looking shadowy, as though they could hide any number of assailants in their windows and alleys.

  “I think the governments know and the gods know,” Vara said. “But as for what follows that—the people … no, I don’t think so. Not yet. The rumors have yet to spread.”

  “But when they do,” Cyrus said, “they’re going to be wildfire.”

  They slowed as they came up to the empty lot, Vara following Cyrus’s lead as he halted outside the remains of the stone fence separating the disused lot from the street.

  “Was this it?” Vara asked, looking at it curiously.

  “Apparently so,” Cyrus said, letting out a sigh. The foundation still stood just as he’d last seen it, stones buried in the dirt and covered over by the dust of the city and the wind, weeds threading through the cracks.

  “Why is it still empty?” Vara asked, nose wrinkling as though she smelled something unpleasant.

  “Maybe I own it now,” Cyrus mused, then hastily added, “though I won’t be going to the Citadel to try and claim it anytime soon, I suppose.”

  “Oh, it’s you again,” came a voice from the next house over, and Cyrus turned his gaze to find the older woman he’d spoken with last time, her pipe glowing in hand in the early evening light. She turned to a woman standing next to her, one he could not quite see in the shadow, and pointed at him with the stem. “That’s him, Joenne—you remember? I told you about him.”

  Cyrus let go of Vara’s hand and paced along the edge of the stone fence, gauntleted fingers dragging along the half-dismantled wall as he peered into the shadows created by the overhang at the woman’s house. “My name is—”

  “Gods, you look like him,” Joenne said with a gasp, stepping out of the shadows to reveal a look of disgust on her aged face. “Just like Rusyl, with that armor. Knew it was you when I heard tell of Cyrus Davidon the damned mighty.” She spat at his feet as he approached, her spittle missing him as she circled to keep the distance between them. “Heretic,” she hissed in a voice that sounded like a snake in the Reikonos eve.

  “You were saying about wildfire?” Vara eased up next to him.

  “Spreads fast, doesn’t it?” Cyrus asked, shaking his head. He looked at Joenne’s companion, the woman he’d spoken to when last he’d been here. “I guess we’re not welcome here.”

  Joenne spoke loudly, again. “And why would you be, child of the heretic?”

  Cyrus blinked as though he’d been slapped but kept his mouth shut until he’d processed what she said. “‘Child of the heretic’? You’re talking about my father? He was a damned hero—”

  “I’m not talking about your bloody father,” Joenne said, spitting at him once again. She pointed at the house. “Your father died a hero, yeah, we all know that.” She took a breath of pure anger, hot as the ash flaking out of her companion’s pipe “I’m talking about the woman that raised you,
the one that used to live there,” she pointed at the empty lot, the shattered foundations, as Cyrus felt just about as broken as the remainder of the house, leveled to the ground, “I’m talking about the bloody Sorceress Quinneria, I am.

  “Your mother.”

  92.

  Alaric

  The God of War burst into the room in the midst of a torture session so brutal that Alaric Garaunt had nearly lost his voice from screaming. But Alaric was not too far gone to realize that the sound of the door slamming so hard was a clue as to how this conversation would unfold. The torturer—a singularly humorless fellow named Boreagann—straightened at the sound as the footsteps came racing over to him, fury clapping against the floor with each booted step. Alaric steeled himself for what was surely about to follow.

  “Hello, Mathurin,” Alaric said, fighting to put on a smile, his voice so strained and hoarse that it came out lower than a whisper. He watched the name sail home like a lance straight to the heart, though, the God of War’s eyes burning brighter scarlet as it hit. He hated being called Mathurin, after all, preferring Bellarum.

  Mathurin did not slow as he approached, throwing a punch that slammed into Alaric’s jaw, crushing the back of his skull into the hard steel table that he was pinned against. The flash of light was as sudden as if someone had cast a spell in his eyes, but Alaric blinked them away after only a minute, as the God of War cast a healing spell upon him that stitched up all the wounds that had been inflicted on him.

  Alaric took a short look at Mathurin’s face, planning to get another stab in before the God of War spoke. “I heard you had a bit of a rough time in the jungle recently,” Alaric said, taking a soothing breath as Mathurin’s face tightened even further; it seemed possible the man’s cheeks might just explode in his helm. “Perhaps you should avoid travel for a while.”

  “You heard?” Mathurin asked, clearly trying to restrain his rage and losing.