I dodged back, but not quite in time. One of the spikes skipped lightly over my cheek and he lunged forward, planting it into my eye socket. He kicked me backward to the ground, and pain screamed in my face.
I looked down at my hands, the left one covered in my own blood, still dribbling out of my eye. I could not see anything, could barely think, but I caught his movement and looked up. He was striding toward me with furious self-assurance. “You are animals,” he said, neck caked with his own blood—blood I’d shed. “Nothing more. I can see I was wrong about you. You have no spirit at all,” he reached down and seized me by the neck, lifting me up and raising the mace back, ready to strike the final blow. “You have nothing.”
“I have one thing,” I said, and closed my remaining eye for just a second. In spite of the pain, in spite of the fear, my mind went clear for just a second, and I breathed three little words.
My eye sprung open in time to see his flared wide as the spell burst forth from my hand. He flew backward as though launched from a catapult, sailing twenty feet into the air and landing in the dirt with a crunch, rolling as he came to a rest.
I fell to my knees, the pain overwhelming me. The crowd was silent once more, or else I simply couldn’t hear them. The smell of blood was thick in my nose, threatening to drown me, sliding down my nasal passages, drenching my cheek. I stared at my foe with my good eye, his own closed, and I knew that this fight was over. I slumped, fell to my back, my blood running down my face in warm streaks, and stared up at the grey sky until it faded into darkness.
27.
Cyrus
“What now?”
The words yanked Cyrus out of a quiet place in his own mind and back into a scene of thriving chaos. The army of the elves was filling the forest around him, milling about the corpses of the three goddesses, the officers seemingly unsure what they should do now, but watching the troll on the savanna cat prowling around the bodies with predatory grace in wary alarm.
Cyrus turned to look at the speaker, and was briefly stunned when he realized it was Martaina Proelius staring back at him. She was like something out of a long-ago vision, as though she’d just stepped across the last year and more to stand before him, utterly unchanged. Her hair was windblown, her face as tanned as ever, and her bow was back over her shoulder.
“I thought you came to save your homeland.” Cyrus threw a glance in the direction of Pharesia. The city walls were barely visible in the distance through the tightly woven trees, but he could see the great hole rent by the goddesses. “Why are you asking me what’s next?”
“Because you’re the general here,” she said, giving a bare wave of the hand to indicate the leaderless elves in armor still coming into the forest around them like seeping liquid. “Look at these men. They’ve never fought gods, and their commanders aren’t even at the fore.”
Cyrus gave them a once over. Not an officer in sight. Martaina was staring at him, fixed. “What now?” she asked again.
“Give me just a second,” Cyrus said, turning back to the place where the goddesses had fallen. He didn’t care a whit for them, of course, but there, not far from where Levembre had died, he could see the last broken remains of Fortin.
Martaina followed his line of sight. “Damn,” she whispered softly.
“He … found something I lost along the way,” Cyrus said, looking at the rock giant’s remains. “A purpose. He told Levembre that he was a shield for the world of men.” He laughed bitterly. “Fortin said that, can you believe it?” Cyrus raised his mailed hand to his mouth, the grief like ash. “He came to us not giving a damn about anyone but himself, and he just died to save the elves from gods run amok.”
“He died fighting under your command,” Martaina said.
“Aye, he did,” Cyrus said. The quiet whispers of the elves speaking low around him tickled his ears. They spoke so quietly, their hearing so keen, that he couldn’t distinguish a word. “You should go home.” And he turned his back on the chaotic scene.
“Go home to what?” Martaina said, her cloak billowing as she whirled to follow him. “Am I mistaken, or did three goddesses just come to Pharesia with intent to blacken the earth beneath it?”
Cyrus paused. “I don’t know for certain. It’s possible they just meant to draw me out and kill me.” There was a muttering among the soldiers now; he saw long faces, much vexed, a kind of sadness as they stared at him openly. They probably heard that.
“Why do I doubt that?”
“Because in the last year you’ve forgotten how much I irritate people?”
“It would take longer than that for me to forget,” Martaina said. “There’s something larger going on here.” She stepped up to his shoulder, the place she’d stood in the days when they were in Luukessia, his perpetual right hand. “Are the rumors about Sanctuary true?”
“Sanctuary’s gone, if that’s what you’ve heard,” Cyrus said, as neutrally as he could make himself sound. “Dead, I guess you could say …” He frowned, something prickling across his forehead and making his brow wrinkle. What was it Fortin said when she grabbed him?
Legends never die.
“I can hear you think,” Martaina said.
“I apologize for the noise.”
“What’s on your mind?”
He didn’t answer. The thoughts kept clicking along—purpose, legends—things that seemed naturally to string together, but thoughts he’d never had before, not in his grandest ambitions. Except … maybe right after Mortus died, before Alaric landed on me with all the weight of his wisdom and made me promise … steered me back toward the path …
“Bellarum,” Cyrus said. “He just made this easier on me.” He looked sideways at the city, its walls gleaming, barely visible, between the trunks of the forest trees.
“Beg pardon?” Martaina asked, beginning to sound irritated.
“I could have wallowed in my self-pity for a good long while,” Cyrus said, turning his head to look at her.
“I’m familiar with what that looks like, and I’d take it as a courtesy if you wouldn’t.”
“I won’t,” Cyrus said, “because I’ve got something to do, now.” He pointed toward Pharesia. “If the gods are willing to attack Pharesia … if Bellarum is moving them from just coming at me to spreading his terror around …”
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Then what?”
“Then when I go after him and his … it’s not just about vengeance anymore,” Cyrus said. “Because … I don’t know if I could have kept it going, this rage in me. It would have sputtered out somewhere along the way, and I would have gone running into a sword headfirst just to … be done with it. But he’s making a war against this place, at least. Against mortals, maybe. He’s coming at the innocent, not just the guilty like me—”
“Not all of us are guilty,” Terian tossed at him as he walked past, his axe slung back over his shoulder.
“But you damned sure are,” Cyrus threw right back before turning his attention to Martaina. “I want Bellarum dead. And now he’s made a move on the rest of Arkaria, something … dangerous and dramatic, a first step—”
“You think this is the beginning, then?”
Cyrus closed his eyes. “‘Those who do not serve will die.’” He opened his eyes again, felt the warmth through the broken canopy above, as the blue gap where three goddesses had plummeted to the earth through the branches allowed sunlight to shine down in a circle of bright light. “Yes … I think he’s just begun.”
“You are quite correct, of course,” came Terrgenden’s voice as he meandered up, armored elves heaving themselves out of his way as though he would burn them if they got too close. He watched them with amusement, shrugging as he passed Nessalima’s rocky body, now no larger than a human. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw a little something toward the gnomes later today. The Gods of Winter and Storms, perhaps.” He walked with his hands clasped behind him.
“Is that a guess?” Cyrus asked. He could feel the atten
tion in the forest shift to him and Terrgenden. “Or do you know?”
“I know some things,” Terrgenden said. “Others … are guesses. This is the latter, but … it’s a very good guess.”
“Why not just send everyone at once?” Terian eased closer, arms folded in front of him. “You have enough gods to mount a solid assault. Why send these three and then another two … and … what, another after that?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” Terrgenden said, never taking his eyes off Cyrus.
“Because he doesn’t want the gods to live,” Cyrus said, and he caught a subtle smile from the God of Mischief. “He wants them to die in the attempt.” Cyrus pursed his lips. “I can’t imagine they’d be too pleased if they found out that was what he had in store for them, though.”
“You should know well the persuasive powers of Bellarum, having followed him most your life,” Terrgenden said with a wan smile. “Only one question remains … what will you do?”
That hung for just a moment before the answer came from Cyrus, gut-deep: “Kill them all, of course.”
“I like our chances a lot better knowing that Bellarum is slicing them into manageable portions for us,” Aisling said, slipping into the conversation.
“Yes, we wouldn’t want to bite off more than we can chew by challenging multiple deities at once,” Martaina said with great sarcasm, tossing a look at the carcasses behind them.
“Don’t expect that to last,” Terrgenden said. “But for now … thin the herd while you can, yes?”
“Yes,” Cyrus said with a sharp nod. “All right … Aurous and Tempestus. How do we—”
“You attack them in their domains,” Quinneria said, descending from above like she was coming down an invisible staircase. “You go to their realms and kill them now, while they’re alone.”
“I like her plan,” Terrgenden said with that muted smile. “Simple, effective, leaves the job done—for now.”
“It’s a big job,” Cyrus said. “Seems to be getting bigger all the time. Kill the gods and defend the realm of mortals—not a small task with what I’ve got left.”
Terrgenden cast a look at the army of elves around them. “It would seem to me … your army is getting larger.”
“These aren’t my—” Cyrus turned his head away. “You can’t expect me to take these men into battle.”
“No, you should leave them to their generals, who know nothing of fighting gods,” Terrgenden said, his voice echoing through the woods, and now he was grinning. “Leave them here, let the gods come for their cities again—but this time, without Cyrus Davidon around to lead the fight.”
Cyrus opened his mouth to reply but a shout stopped him.
“No!” He turned his head and saw an elven soldier with sword in hand, shaking his head. Damned elven hearing, Cyrus thought.
“Don’t leave us, Lord Davidon!” called another.
“We would fight along with you, Husband of the Shelas’akur!” A roar of appreciation came with that last pronouncement.
“I’d probably fight alongside you, too,” Terian said, shuffling past as a chorus of voices shouted their proclamations of support for Cyrus. “You know, if you asked me to. Really nicely.”
“Shut up, Sovereign, you’re already with me.”
“And my army is again, too,” Terian said, “since it looks like Bellarum has designs on wrecking the world of mortals. Doubt he’ll leave the Sovereignty out of his schemes just because we’re superior to the rest of you in looks and scent.”
“Scent?” Martaina huffed. “As someone with the nose of a tracker, you are not superior to anyone, I assure you.”
“It seems unlikely he’ll leave you be,” Cyrus said, and then pushed past Terian to address the assembled soldiers still coming into the field of battle. “Warriors of Pharesia! I know you seek to protect your homes, your cities, your nation, your people—and there will come a moment when I will most assuredly need you. But that moment is not now. Go back to your walls, go back to your homes, and be steadfast in your defense.” He licked his lips. “Be ready to heed my call, for the hour when we will battle together against this murderous blight …” He looked with great significance at the corpses in front of him. “It draws near.”
With that, Cyrus snapped his fingers at Quinneria, and gestured to the bodies. She nodded once and said, “Back away!” Her meaning was plain, and soldiers and remaining Sanctuary members alike moved from the remains.
With a fiery glow, she lit the bodies, consuming them whole with blazing flames in mere seconds. They burned away to all but ash, and with a twist of her wrist and a clutching of her fingers, she snuffed the fires, leaving nothing behind.
A rising of voices in the clearing told Cyrus that it was time to leave.
“We are with you, Husband of the Shelas’akur!”
“We will follow your command!”
“Please remember us!”
Quinneria drifted down to the ground, her robes settling on the fern-covered forest floor around her. Cyrus looked around to see the others easing in around him now. Aisling was slinking once more, as she used to. Longwell stood with black ichor smudged on his cheek, his spear slung over his shoulder.
“Where to?” Terian asked. Mendicant and J’anda descended out of the sky above to float a few feet off the ground. Cyrus looked them all over, counting them mentally. Calene threw herself at Martaina, squeezing her tightly with an expression of relief.
“I think we’re going to the Realm of Winter,” Cyrus said, looking around for Terrgenden. He was, of course, gone. “And then … the Realm of Storms.”
“It’s going to be a long night, then,” J’anda said, as Zarnn eased his cat forward toward the circle, Rodanthar hanging off his belt. He didn’t offer it back to Cyrus, and Cyrus wasn’t inclined to strip one of his allies of their best weapon. Not now.
“The longest nights are the ones without hope,” Scuddar said, drawing every head to turn to him as though they were all on strings that he’d pulled.
“We have some of that left, though,” Calene said, pulling herself out of her hug with Martaina. “Right?”
“We do,” Cyrus said, “But Aurous and Tempestus … they damned sure won’t by the time we’re done.” And the swirl of Quinneria’s spell carried them away.
28.
Alaric
I awoke in pain, my left eye dark and aching, as though someone had driven a hot poker into it. It was a sharp pain, a lingering one, and it caused me to grunt as I came to. There was little lighting around me to give me guidance, but I was flat on my back, in a very soft place, considerably softer than the thin mattress I had been sleeping on for the last several weeks.
I felt nauseous from the pain, and confused by the darkness. I moved and felt disoriented, as though I’d been lying down for too long. Soft cloth played against the bare skin on my chest and legs. I blinked my one good eye and grunted again. My sound echoed through a long room, and as my eye adjusted to the darkness, I realized that the room I was in was larger even than the barracks.
A shadow moved somewhere ahead of me, the sound of feet padding over hard floor barely audible. I squinted, grimacing from the pain, which seeped from my eye socket into my head like water overflowing the bounds of a cup. The agony rolled over me, and I felt a sudden urge to lie back again.
“You feel it now,” said a man’s voice, deep and full, accented in the same way Jena’s was, like all the Protanians. Light blossomed at my side as a torch sprang to life. I turned my head away from it as the brightness blinded me. Moments later, I eased it back, trying to see who was speaking.
I stared up into a blue face; the man was standing over me now, staring down appraisingly. He wore smooth black robes, silken and flawless, and had his hands clasped behind him. His irises were a red color, striking, like the fiery hair of a maiden who worked the kitchen at Enrant Monge, or of a sunset I remembered seeing from the walls one day. His hair was a whitish grey, and he had a goatee that was gr
oomed close to the skin.
“Do you know who I am?” the man asked. Somewhere in his eyes I saw lightness, but everywhere on his face he was utterly closed off. There were hints of levity somewhere around his eyes, as though holding himself free of expression was a challenge. His face promised that later he would smile again, and it would be warm and friendly.
“I … barely know who I am,” I said, shifting in my soft, cotton prison of sheets. I wasn’t bound, but my body seemed sluggish. I tried to sit up once more and found myself so lightheaded that I gave up.
“You should take your time,” he said, staring down at me with careful regard. “My healers tell me that it will be some weeks for you to fully recover.”
I felt up my left cheek toward my eye socket, and once my fingers reached it, I found something hard, like stone, obstructing me from making further progress. “What … what is this?”
“It’s designed to keep you from shoving your fingers into the empty socket,” he said. “That causes all manner of illness, I’m told.”
“What …” I probed at the hard block. “Why … didn’t someone just use one of those magnificent healing spells your people have? To give me my eye back?”
“Because your foe cursed you before he took it,” the man said, and here I caught a flicker of regret. “No healing spell would work upon you for such a time as to preclude the possibility of healing your wounds. You were fortunate that you caught him by surprise with your own spell, for he meant to kill you.”
“Yes, I strongly suspected that,” I said, closing my eye in hopes that the headache blossoming through me might subside. “It’s why I used it.”
He leaned closer to me, his breathing steady. “I’ll ask again … do you know who I am?”
I stared up at him with my one good eye. I gave him a good, long look, and it dawned on me. “You’re the man surrounded by guards in the far Coliseum box. The … king, perhaps?”
Now that I was close to him, I could see the deep lines in his blue skin that hinted he was aged. “We Protanians have no kings,” he said.
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