Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  “Lord Davidon!” The hammering at the door came again, and now Cyrus reached for the scabbards by his bed. He’d taken off his armor before bathing himself with a bowl of warm water and a cloth, but now he found himself wishing he’d slept in his armor, weapons at the ready. The cave air was cold. Though winter was long past, Cyrus could not shake its chill. It was in the night air, lingering when he’d been in the Realm of Life, and he wondered if summer would ever grace his skin with its warmth again.

  Have they found me here? he wondered, mind snapping to alertness. Have they come for me?

  Does it matter if they have? he thought with dark amusement a moment later.

  “What is it?” he called, hoping his voice, scratchy as it was, would carry through the door.

  “It’s Longwell, sir,” came Samwen’s voice through the door. “I—I have news. It’s urgent.”

  Cyrus rubbed at his eyes, debating on his course. He shook his head at the thought process. He’d trusted Samwen Longwell with his life on more occasions than he could count, and now he was hesitant to open the door to the man. This is Erith’s fault. Erith’s and Menlos’s. Perhaps Vaste’s as well, though he only left …

  Cyrus heaved himself off the stiff mattress and padded across the floor to the door. “I’m not dressed, Samwen. Just speak your news through the door.”

  “Aye … sir,” Longwell said, and by his hesitance Cyrus knew the dragoon had sifted out at least part of the reason for his failure to open the door. “It’s Pharesia, sir.”

  Cyrus blinked. “The elven capital?”

  “Yes—” Longwell said breathlessly. “It’s under attack. If the rumors are to be believed, by Lexirea, Goddess of Justice, Nessalima, Goddess of Light, and Levembre, Goddess of Love—”

  “I know who they are, Samwen,” Cyrus said crossly, and he stopped himself from saying something harsher still. “Is … is anyone …?”

  “The Elven army is trying to defend the city, yes, sir, but …” Longwell stopped. “I think we all know they don’t stand a bloody chance.”

  Cyrus stood in the darkness, in the silence, and stared at the lamp, the wick burning low into the oil within its depths. This could easily be a trap laid by Bellarum. But if it is, he’s baited it poorly. Only an idiot would rush into a fight with three goddesses, even if they’re attacking …

  … her homeland.

  The chill fled, and Cyrus felt his face burning. Perhaps this trap is not so poorly baited after all. “Longwell!” he called, wondering if the dragoon was still standing outside, waiting for him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need you to find my mother and tell her I’ll need someone to take me to Pharesia’s portal,” Cyrus said, snatching up his chain mail and slid into it, anchoring the pants into place once he’d fastened the shirt properly.

  “Aye, sir,” he said, and Cyrus heard his booted footfalls receded down the hallway with some urgency.

  Cyrus scrambled to get his armor on as quickly as possible, fastening the plate straps more swiftly than he could ever recall doing it in the past. Once he was done, he snugged the belt tight around his waist, adjusting the twin scabbards for Rodanthar and Praelior to be sure they were both with him, ready for what was to come. Three goddesses, he thought, taking his helm and putting it tightly upon his head. To go into this on my own will be … well, suicidal. Exactly what I promised Terian I wasn’t going to do.

  He flung his door open and stared out at the stone corridor, trying to remember which direction it was to the main chambers of the Grand Palace. He hurried over to a pair of guards in the hall, and they pointed him in the proper direction.

  Cyrus emerged out of the stone hallways a few minutes later to find a small circle of people waiting for him in the richly appointed foyer. He saw Terian and Quinneria first, his mother whispering something to the Sovereign of Saekaj as the paladin nodded. Next to them, J’anda, Scuddar, and Calene were engaged in a conversation of their own. Aisling stood slightly off to the side, the first to see him. Terian’s triad of Grinnd, Bowe, and Dahveed all waited with Mendicant, the goblin seeming to be the central focus of the conversation, and Longwell came jogging up a moment later to stand next to them.

  Aisling cleared her throat to get the attention of the others, but her gaze never wavered off him. She stood nonchalantly, her leather armor looking particularly weathered against her deep blue skin, which was shaded by the torches hanging in sconces on the wood-paneled walls. The whole room of smelled of varnish. One by one, the eyes of the waiting assembled fell to Cyrus as they came to silence.

  “I’m going to do my level best to protect the elves and gut these … ladies,” he said, keeping an even tone the whole time. “If anyone wants to join me, you’re more than welcome, but—”

  “I’m in,” Aisling said casually.

  “Definitely coming,” J’anda said.

  “Fight with the goddesses? Wouldn’t miss it,” Calene said.

  “I have new spells I’d like to try,” Mendicant said, tapping the tips of his claws together.

  “You know I stand with you,” Quinneria said.

  “I think Justice, Light, and Love need an axe in the back,” Terian said, brandishing Noctus.

  “I’ve had about enough of your deities and their bothersome natures,” Longwell said, spear over his shoulder.

  “We are with you—and the Sovereign—in this,” Dahveed Thalless said.

  Scuddar gave a nod then said, “It seems the gods have decided to widen their war beyond you and Sanctuary.”

  “Well, let’s narrow it back down, then,” Cyrus said. The glow of the spell-light was already rising around them, Quinneria’s fingers radiant, poised to take them off to war once more.

  18.

  Alaric

  “At some point you will learn to keep your guard up and your eyes focused on the nearest threat,” Rin said, bringing his baton hard in at me once more. I met his attack and there was a ringing of our weapons against one another, the shock rolling down the bones in my arms, causing a numbness at the tips of my fingers.

  The sky was raining sporadically above us. There were puddles in the dirt yard, rippling with the falling precipitation. It smelled like rain, too, rain and blood, but the latter was entirely mine. Rin had hit me in the nose early in our practice and had healed me only enough for me to stay functional. As a result, the sting, a pain behind the eyes that was gradually dragging more and more of my attention away from my fight with him. I had learned by now that Rin was fully capable of healing whatever wound he caused me, so this failure to complete the job seemed likely intentional. Whether it was his plan or just a matter of convenience, I couldn’t say, but he had certainly said enough about pain being a fire to purge weakness to leave me with little doubt that my pain bothered him not at all.

  Rin tried to come sideways at me, dragging his baton against my own in an attempt to rap my knuckles. He’d done this to me six times before I got wise to it, thinking that blocking him was good enough. Well, a blow to the knuckles with one of these sticks the way the blue men did it was enough to lay me out on my back, mouth open to catch the rain. It had only happened once this practice session, fortunately, because my shredded, bloodstained-doublet needed more mud to decorate it like I needed another sword through my chest.

  “Hm!” he grunted in some rough concession to my improvement. He came low and I stepped sideways, and he missed me by inches. He was out of position for further attack, so I winged him across the back, causing his armor to clang loudly through the entire yard and forcing his eyebrows to rise.

  “Stop,” he said, stepping past me and drawing back to a ready stance. I matched him, not quite dropping my guard yet. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he saw me failing to drop my guard, though all he said was a gruff, “We will take a moment’s break and then return to practice.”

  “Very well,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. In the last several practice sessions he’d allowed at least some concess
ion to my inability to catch my breath after exerting myself. He’d warned me to start running in circles around the exercise yard in the morning, and I’d done so with the amused leave of the barracks guards, fearing the threat of the baton-ing that would follow if I didn’t heed his advice. In the two weeks since I’d begun my routine, I’d noticed a dramatic improvement in my ability to keep from falling exhausted mid-practice. I was still exhausted, but it was not as terrible as it had been before.

  “It is good that you have taken my advice to heart,” he said, watching me cannily all the while. “Perhaps it will help save you from another humiliating death in battle.”

  His jab at me caused a twinge of pain across my neck. I had stepped into the Coliseum for a second round of combat only the day before, and it had not gone well. I had done considerably better, becoming almost the last person in my army to fall to death. But fall to death I had, overwhelmed by the implacable number of foes coming at me toward the end of the battle. It seemed to me that when facing an army, a single man was inevitably going to be outmatched. And yet in my barracks, “my” army had proven themselves to be anything other than mine. Other than Stepan, no one had spoken to me. Olivier was steadfastly refusing to speak at all, perpetually quaking with fear.

  “I don’t see how I can stave off death in the Coliseum until I learn how to best an entire army on my own,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed on Rin. He’d disabused me of the notion of collapsing to my knees because he always ended the break with an unannounced attack. It hadn’t taken long to break me of resting anywhere other than on my feet, weapon in hand and eyes anchored on him save for when I closed one at a time to mop the sweat off my brow and eyelids. I kept one eye on him at all times.

  “I can teach you to best an entire army of humans,” he scoffed, and then his voice fell. “But what will come after them … that, I fear, is beyond my capacity to prepare you for.”

  That caught my attention. Rin was almost always loud, aggressive, and authoritarian. When he got quiet, he was by turns malicious, gleeful, and threatening. But now he seemed almost downhearted. “What comes after them?”

  He looked up at me, as though surprised I’d asked. “What comes after the endless armies of humans?” He smiled, but his expression faltered. “The Butcher. That’s what comes next after the barnyard animals fight each other.”

  The idea of Rin, merciless Rin, failing to relish the thought of something horrible caused me a pang of worry. “Who is this … Butcher?”

  “Win enough—or too little—and you’ll find out,” Rin said, looking out over the fences. “You will eventually encounter him, one way or another. When that day comes, I’m afraid your hope will have to be that he is either in a merciful mood or that he’s just slaughtered a whole army of humans. If not, you’ll be suffering the kind of death that even our magic can’t bring you back from.”

  “There are deaths you can’t bring us back from?” This was the first limit I’d heard on the magics of the blue men, and it caused me to speak out of turn. I realized it as soon as I said it, and I waited for Rin to charge without warning, snag my legs from beneath me and send me to the ground in pain.

  He did none of those things, to my surprise, instead cocking a dark eyebrow and regarding me with something between amusement and … regret? “You are a dog and no more, and so you see what we do as miraculous. But something you would learn if you lived long enough is that even though our magic is beyond your understanding, little dog, it has limits. And one of those limits is what the Butcher will do to you if he comes to the Coliseum with his belly full of anger, as he often does.” Rin made a faint hissing sound. “Take you as an example, Alaric,” he said. “You learn well enough for an animal. You listen, fear the pain, take instruction with some intelligence and alacrity. You would be a good mining slave. A suitable beast of burden.” He smiled at the impotent fury in my eyes. “I don’t hate your kind. You make our empire possible. But the Butcher …” He shook his head.

  “He doesn’t like humans?” I asked, finding myself drawn to Rin in this rare moment of apparent amenability.

  Rin’s eyebrow tilted further toward the grey heavens. “He doesn’t just dislike humans. He hates them worse than any guard or slaver does, certainly. It’s probably down to his breeding, you know. His kind isn’t much better than yours. They can use magic, but …” He shook his head in disdain. “Like you, they dig in the dirt for their food or chase it through the fields and woods, like savages. I expect it’s a strain of self-loathing that makes him so angry with your kind.”

  “He’s not … one of you?” I asked. I remembered as soon as I asked that this was the sort of question that tended to set Rin off.

  Rin just laughed, lifting his face to the sky and letting out a hearty laugh. “No, he’s not Protanian.” He said the name of his people with pride. “They call themselves elves, these things. Eternal, timeless … they should be wise and knowing, and yet they are a deeply stupid, backward people.”

  It was the first time I’d heard of an elf. “This Butcher … what can I expect from him?”

  Rin looked at me pityingly. “Death, of course. To try and fight against that … it’s almost like going against our own army.”

  My mouth went dry. “Surely there must be some way to beat him.”

  “Not for you,” Rin said, and he straightened, preparing himself to attack. It was a measure of how much I’d improved that I noticed the minute changes in his stance and took heed.

  “Wait,” I said, holding out a hand, and, apparently surprised that I noticed he was about to attack, he stopped. “Your people—they have us fight in the Coliseum for their entertainment, yes? For show?”

  Rin looked at me blankly. “Yes.”

  “How entertaining is it to watch my people rolled over by this Butcher?” I asked.

  “Middling, I would say,” Rin answered frankly. “It’s losing its appeal, even to the masses. Bloodthirsty though they are, there’s little entertainment in slaughter.”

  “I suspect it would be more interesting if someone beat him once, wouldn’t it?”

  Rin cackled as though I’d said the absolute funniest thing he’d ever heard. It lasted almost a minute, his laughter, then died down to chuckles. “If it could be done, certainly. The upheaval alone would be considerable. But you stand no chance.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  I watched a jaded look fall over Rin’s face, and he raised a hand to me from ten feet away. He didn’t move anything other than the hand, didn’t smile, didn’t telegraph what was coming.

  A second later, I was hit in the chest by what felt like a horse hoof kicking me. The impact was so hard that I flew back and landed on the nape of my neck, rolling with a crack of bones to end up face down in the mud.

  I hurt all across my body, but I knew the damage was in the back of my neck and my shoulders, where I’d taken the brunt of the impact. My nose and mouth were buried in mud, and it started to seep into my sinuses and down my throat. I was powerless to stop it because suddenly I couldn’t move my arms other than to flail.

  Someone grabbed me by the back of the neck and lifted me up like I’d seen done to an old cat that haunted the stables in Enrant Monge. Rin picked me up out of the mud and lifted me up to look in his red eyes. “That’s why,” he said as his fingers twinkled white and the pain in my neck faded. I suddenly realized I hadn’t been able to move my feet, though I hadn’t realized it under all the pain. Rin set me down and I staggered as I regained my balance, bloody mud oozing out of my nostrils and mouth as I tried to get it all out. “You can’t beat that,” Rin finished.

  “But you could,” I said after a minute of recovery in which he stood there, apparently pitying me too much to beat me senseless.

  “Of course I could,” Rin said, as though it were obvious. “I am not an animal. I use magic. I have plate mail.” He waved at his armor. “And I fight better than you.” He leaned in, explaining his thoughts to an idiot. “One man alone, in torn
cloth, with a sword that we would give our children to play with … you stand no chance against an elf with magic at his fingertips and skill of his own with a weapon that could shatter yours—if he doesn’t simply bowl you over as I just did and smash your head into a fine-ground paste. Which he has done many times before.” Rin looked me over again. “We are done for today,” he announced, and then walked off without another word. That was how he ended his lessons, always.

  I watched him go back toward the gate of the camp. The guards saluted him as he passed, and I stood there in the rain, soaked and dirtier than ever, caked in more mud. If what he’d said was true about this Butcher, this elf, then what was the point of even teaching me? Just a hope that I’d somehow survive by this beast’s good graces?

  Then I remembered: Rin hadn’t come to teach me to fight of his own volition. It had been the blue girl, Jena, who had commanded him to do it. Perhaps she didn’t realize what would be coming as Rin did. Perhaps she was naïve enough to think that this small mercy was enough to make a difference.

  Either way, it did not seem like it was going to be nearly enough.

  I made my way with awkward, lurching steps back toward the open entrance to the barrack. I ached in my nose, in my body, but it was a ghostly sort of pain, clinging to me after Rin’s healing spell as a phantom of the damage I’d suffered. He had healed me this time, and fortunately, because now that he was gone it would be unlikely that any of the guards would bother were I to complain about injury.

  The guard at the barracks door nodded to me and grunted, shutting it behind me after I made it inside. They always did that, too, presumably to let some other set of poor bastards out now that I was finished with the yard. I heard the door lock, loudly. Some of the soldiers had attempted to force it the first few nights, but they hadn’t so much as budged it.