Legend

by Robert J. Crane

Cyrus took a staggering step back. “Va … Vara …? You wanted me to …”

  “To bring her back, yes,” Bellarum said. “We could have done it together, you see?” He had a conciliatory warble in his voice. “I waited for you there. I thought you would come, that you would cut through the Trials yourself, with your friends, striding high and angry all the while, ready to take back what was yours. I would have helped you! I stood ready to.” He shook his head. “But you didn’t come. It was very disappointing. I know we’ve had our differences, that you’ve made your own choices, become your own … insolent little man,” the God of War’s irritation bled through, “but in this cause, I thought we would be united. Bringing back Vara for you—it would a gift for both of us, really.”

  Cyrus’s hand shook as he lowered it and it found Praelior. “Did you … without me, did you …?” His legs wobbled.

  “What?” Bellarum touched his breastplate again. “Would I bring back the love of your life as a blank slate? Would I do that?” He smiled, the corner of his lips turning up. “Consider the possibility … she would be malleable, none of the … ridiculousness poured into her head by her elven upbringing, by her silly paladin code … she would be an empty, near-formless piece of clay for me to meld. Like a child with the body of your wife.” He sounded strangely satisfied. “What could I do with that, I wonder?” He paced the cliff’s edge. “Or more properly … what would you do for her, returned to you … but without all that infernal weakness?” He looked back, his helm hiding his expression, but not the red eyes, nor the smile that shone through in his voice. “She would be a proper consort to a true warrior, wouldn’t she? The perfect reward, enticement for the aimless follower who had strayed and lost his way …”

  Cyrus felt his breaths coming quickly, hand shaking as he stood staring at the God of War. “You … you … you … you did this just to … to control me?”

  “I’ve controlled you nearly all your life, Cyrus,” Bellarum said. “You’ve been my greatest servant. When I needed Mortus killed, I sent him right to your loving embrace and you took care of him for me with that sword I granted you. When Yartraak’s course had run, I set him in your path and off you went, all righteous anger and indignation, and there went his head, under your sword, and if not by your hand at least by the hand of your … your valkyrie. Your warrior woman. True, you failed to establish my kingdom after that, but … I’m the forgiving sort, to a point. I want your service, and these last days … you have served me well.” He cackled lightly. “How many gods have you killed? How many rivals have you eliminated, power blocs destroyed? Why, there’s scarcely a functioning army left in Arkaria, thanks to you. War has seen its day and it has been a grand one, but that day is drawing to a close and we come to the dawning of a new era of peace.” Bellarum steepled his fingers. “I’ve gloried in war, but now I’m ready for some quiet—I want the last of the other gods destroyed, and then I’m going to set about the business of cleansing this land of those mortals who won’t serve. We will see a new age, one marked by the union of this land under one banner—mine. No more kingdoms, no more confederations—only the loyal, for the disloyal will be dead. Now, I could step down into the mortal world and run that the way Yartraak did—or I could give it over to a warlord, a man of skill, a general of capability, and he could enforce my will while I … well, explored other realms, growing my considerable strength and, ahh … tinkering with other possibilities.”

  “And I would be the one to sit astride Arkaria in your name,” Cyrus said, voice nearly a whisper.

  “With a blazing queen of war at your side who could bring your elven subjects right into line,” Bellarum said. He stared at Cyrus. “I can see the wheels turning in your head, your mind in motion like a runaway wagon down a hill. So let me finish explaining. If you don’t wish to partake in my glorious vision for a better Arkaria, here is how your life will proceed.” He raised his fingers and ticked off the points one by one, “Your army and anyone who swears loyalty to you will be annihilated, your warrior queen will become your destroyer and reign over a near-empty Arkaria, as close to the ruin of Luukessia as I can create with my own hands—and I can create great horror, I think you know,” he said with an amiable smile, “and finally, every single member of Sanctuary who has survived will die, painfully, at my hand, while you watch.” He sniffed. “Except, I think, the troll.”

  Cyrus stood there, the wind slipping through the joints in his armor to his sweaty underclothes. “Vaste? Why him?”

  Bellarum shrugged. “I find his insolence a welcome burr in the arse of others whom I despise. I think I would keep him as a jester, in thickest chains of quartal, and have my servants feed him pie while he mocks everything in his sight.”

  “I’m not sure whether he would consider that a good fate or a terrible one,” Cyrus said.

  “I don’t care what he or anyone else thinks,” Bellarum said. “I have sown the seeds of chaos from before your birth, opened the realms of gods to men, caused the theft of their sacred weapons by other powers, arranged their assassinations, brought all their greatest fears to fruition. I have worked my plans in the cold and lonely exile they granted me, and seen all others fall away or swear fealty to me.” He seemed to grow, from the size of a man to that of a troll. “I have done things they could not imagine in service of aims they cannot fathom. I will square the wrongs done millennia ago, and see this land put right again. I, who have gone farther than any of the rest.” He bowed his head. “And now you have a choice to make, Cyrus Davidon.” The God of War looked right at Cyrus.

  “To serve,” Cyrus whispered, “or to die.”

  “It is a choice you have faced before,” Bellarum said. “When Alaric Garaunt urged you to be a shield to the world of mortals—a defender. Not even an avenger of the wrongs done to you, but a champion of these faceless masses, a crusader bent on protecting the hopelessly doomed.” His voice dripped with spite. “You chose to be the benevolent master of Sanctuary rather than the conquering warlord I intended you to be. So I moved the machinery of the lands you tried to protect and had you declared heretic …”

  “But I survived,” Cyrus said.

  “Yes, you survived,” Bellarum said, “and now we stand with you facing the same choice again. I offer you the chance to become what you should have been before—eternal, timeless—join with me now and recapture the destiny I set out for you before you threw it away.”

  “What destiny?” Cyrus asked, feeling numb, his fingers clutching Praelior’s hilt. “What was I supposed to become? A ruler of the lands of man?”

  “A legend, Cyrus,” Bellarum said. “Like me. Something that lasts beyond the memory of mortal men, something that endures the ages without threat. Become my servant again, and I will restore to you the glory you should have had all along; right the wrongs done to you as I balance the accounts of this land.” He stuck out his gauntlet, palm open. “Take my hand. Join me. Serve again, as you once did, but willingly this time. Leave behind the mantle of the fools who toil for a life without meaning or purpose, and become … eternal. Become great. Leave behind the curse of miserable ignominy and weakness the way you left that old guild of yours when its time had passed.” The disgust dripped from Bellarum’s voice. “You and I together will achieve wonders that no one here has ever seen.”

  Cyrus stood there, his mind strangely still, his eyes fixed on the red ones before him, on the open hand extended to him.

  He has Vara.

  That’s not Vara. It will be … nothing like her. A shell.

  But he has her.

  “I have known who you are from the days before you did,” Bellarum said, hand still outstretched. “Stop denying your nature. Cease rejecting your destiny. Accept your place in a greater plan and take up your purpose in my service.”

  Purpose?

  “You know my strength from when last we clashed,” Bellarum said. “You could not stop me then. I have grown stronger in these last days. But I would not rule these lands alone. Join me
.”

  Cyrus blinked at him. Something the God of War had said gave him pause. He stared into the red eyes. “How … how would you become more powerful in mere days?”

  Bellarum paused, and Cyrus could almost see the canny way his eyes moved even through the red glow. “Because while I waited for you beyond the trials … I broke the veneer and did what you’ve been doing … I crossed over and met the God of Evil … a god not like us, not a mortal made eternal but a true immortal being.” Bellarum raised his gauntlet and darkness seemed to surge from it, squelching the light of the sun as surely as an eclipse or the fall of night. “And I didn’t just meet him … I killed him … and I took his power for myself.”

  Cyrus swallowed and took a staggering step back. I couldn’t beat him before.

  How do I beat him now?

  “You see my power,” Bellarum said. “It is foolish to resist. It has been foolish all along, but I acknowledge that the best servants are not passive lackeys but the ones with true power, true strength, insight of their own. I can use you. Your fellows have a place with me. You will rule as my right hand in this land. And there are other things I need done—things that only you can do.”

  Only one thought came to Cyrus’s mind, though, mired in misery, cloaked in sorrow, and it welled up inside him and permeated his whole being from top to bottom:

  He killed Vara.

  He destroyed Sanctuary.

  And whatever he has of my wife … is a mere ghost of the woman I loved.

  “Choose my way,” Bellarum said, extending the hand, taking another step toward Cyrus. “Come with me. We will seek out powers you have never known. You will find purpose that you never knew before—”

  “I knew purpose,” Cyrus said, and the sound of blade leaving scabbard sang at his side as he drew Praelior and held it before him in a defensive guard. “I knew purpose, and love, and home—and I will never forget that you are the one who took all of that away from me.” He narrowed his eyes, and watched the God of War.

  “You have made a poor decision,” Bellarum said, almost whispering.

  “Not as poor as yours,” Cyrus said, “when you thought to gain my loyalty by taking away everything I loved.” And he raised his blade and came at the God of War, no longer caring whether he lived or died.

  60.

  Alaric

  “Nooo!” came the shout over my shoulder, and a blade slashed hard against the Eruditia’s staff, turning it aside before it crushed my face. I rolled, breaking out of my stunned inaction and getting out from between the legs of my foe and Rin, who had blocked her killing stroke. I saw his face, torn with emotion as he stepped up where I had fallen. “You will kill this man, sacrificing him on the altar of your foolish idealism!”

  “I will sacrifice everyone I need to in order to end this atrocity,” Eruditia said, eyes narrowed as she looked at Rin over their crossed weapons, “but I’ll start with you.” She raised a hand, barely a movement, and Rin was thrown back by a bubble of force that sent him upward, as if he’d been kicked hard in the groin. He turned in the air and slammed down, his sword rattling free of his hands.

  I saw the sword as it skittered across the floor, its wide blade spinning in a slow circle on the stone. I darted in, forcing the Eruditia to raise her guard again in surprise as I attacked her. I could tell by how she used her staff that she was not used to defending herself physically. My ineffectual blade made no dent in her wood staff, and I stared at it, confused. How could metal fail against wood?

  She swept low and I darted back; my level of training scarcely eclipsed her own skill as she raised a hand and directed a spell toward me that I was forced to leap and roll to evade. It was not unlike the others she’d used; directed force, blasted from her palm in the way of the spell I’d turned against Curatio in the Coliseum, but stronger. Each blast carried a blue glow and hammered the stone floor, showering me with shattered fragments that drew blood.

  “You won’t stop me from killing him,” Eruditia said tautly, “and I have no need to save you now, fool. This is all distraction and theater, but I won’t be taken in by it. You’ve provided me just the sacrifice I need to make this point—this point that the empire must see, must feel, must bear the shock of down to the very heart of them. They need to be awakened from their stupor.” She stopped, and I could tell she was gearing up to cast something more dangerous, probably another wide-focus spell that I wouldn’t be able to dodge away from. She closed her eyes for just a second—

  I swept in and slashed at her belly. Only a fool or an amateur would close their eyes mid-battle with an opponent right at their side—the kind of fool I had probably been when I’d come to this land. I drew blood and a cry of shock from the Eruditia, whose eyes opened and then burned scarlet, magic light twinkling out of them as she swelled in fury. She lashed out with her staff again, too swiftly, and it struck me in the jaw and broke the bone. My vision flashed with the pain as I dropped and hit the ground, coming to a stop face-up, staring at the dark ceiling overhead.

  “You cannot stop the tide of this change,” Eruditia said from somewhere beyond my vision. The pain was excruciating, unbearable. “No pardwan could, nor Protanian, nor anyone from beyond these shores. This righteousness, its hour has come around at last—and all it requires is a small sacrifice.”

  I raised my head in time to see her standing over Rin, whose head was lolling as he laid there, eyes unfocused. He appeared slightly less conscious than I was, and blinked stupidly at the Eruditia. I could see dark spell-light twinkling around her fingers, and it occurred to me that it was exactly the kind I’d seen just before Curatio had taken my eye. She meant to kill Rin in such a way that no one would be able to resurrect him.

  I fumbled for my sword but couldn’t find it. I tried to get to my feet but wobbled, as the spell glowed dark in her fingers. She whispered the incantation under her breath, eyes shining fanatic conviction. “I am sorry,” she whispered to Rin as the glow grew darker, “but I—”

  A sword burst through the Eruditia’s face, tearing asunder bone and splattering blood as she hung there, suspended, the dark energy of her spell blasting outward like a splash of water, covering her body as it dispersed. Her muscles went limp, and she fell over, the sword dragged along with her, the hawklike nature of her face vanishing beneath its blade.

  She thumped facedown to the ground, and behind her stood the man who’d killed her. His cheeks and jowls were not nearly as pronounced as when we’d left Enrant Monge together so long ago, but his eyes seared with a fury as he looked over her corpse at me.

  “Olivier,” I said with a muffled gasp, barely pronouncing his name through my broken jaw, and then I sagged to the stone floor, unsure what to do next.

  “Ungh,” Rin gasped, eyes half closed as he looked over, taking in the sight of the Eruditia’s destroyed face and blinking. “Oh … oh, no.”

  I pushed to my feet, trying to ignore the pain as I cast a healing spell on myself. It flared white in the dark, and showed me the melee going on behind me as my soldiers crushed in on the shrinking rebellion of humans, trolls and others. I watched Stepan hammering away at one of the mighty, green-skinned creatures that stood a head above him, bringing his sword to bear and cutting open the creature’s belly. Writhing guts slithered their way out.

  “What have you done?” Rin asked, still grunting, getting to his own feet. I glanced at him, trying to decide whether to throw myself into the battle behind me. I felt a strange desire to do so, to fight and claw my way through with those men.

  “I didn’t,” I said, looking at Olivier, who had knelt and picked up the Eruditia’s staff and was holding it in his hands, staring at it longingly. I watched the hint of indecision play through him and then he stood, claiming it as his own with a motion.

  Rin bowed his head, grimacing in pain. I saw the resolution in his eyes as he cast a healing spell on himself. He did not stop grimacing once it took hold, however. I watched him cast another spell, this one on the Eruditia, but
nothing happened, and he closed his eyes and looked away.

  The sounds of battle began to die down behind us; my men were finishing the fight, and that last trace of desire to enter the fray myself faded as I stood there, torn between that odd calling and wanting to find out what was going through Rin’s mind. Finally, I spoke. “Rin?”

  He looked up at me, still pained. “Yes?”

  “Is she …?”

  “Oh, yes, she’s dead,” he said, nodding. “The curse she was casting on me must have dispelled around her the moment before she loosed it. No healing spell will take hold on her.” His lips pulled back tight in a pained grimace. “They will not be pleased with us for this, you know.”

  I glanced at Olivier and lowered my voice, stepping close to Rin. “We didn’t do this—and he saved your life and mine.”

  “We need to take the blame,” Rin said, lowering his eyes. “You for saving my life by killing her, for no other excuse would be tolerated. Chavoron will be able to protect you, which is more than I can say for your friend there if he were to take it upon himself.” He glanced at the blade still wedged through the Eruditia’s head, and I caught a hint of longing. “I worked so hard on that weapon.” He wrenched it loose of her corpse, and his face went an ashen blue in the moonlight that had worked its way through from outside. “Everything is going to change now.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked, feeling a little trickle of sweat, as though the heat of the original swamps had somehow intruded past the barriers of magic set up to defy nature in this place. “What’s going to change?”

  “Someone has killed a Protanian,” Rin said quietly, “something that has not happened in the memory of our people.” He looked up, a weariness in his eyes and a weight on his shoulders. “Nothing is going to be the same.”

  61.

  Cyrus

  Cyrus could feel the heat of the sun on the back of his neck, Praelior’s hilt clutched tight in his hands. His jaw was set, teeth clenched, and he stared at his foe across the small distance between them.