Legend

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus opened his mouth to gape, and words fell out. “Do I need one yet?”

  Bellarum stared at him. “Don’t be a fool. How hard a decision is this? Join with me and I spare your friends. Deny me and I kill everyone.”

  “Except Vaste?” Cyrus asked.

  The red eyes glowed. “Will killing him motivate you one way or another? Because I could be flexible, my amusement is not as key to this as you might hope.”

  Cyrus took a step back. “You’re bartering with me like a trader.”

  “I could try killing you like a warrior, if you’d prefer,” Bellarum said, but there was no menace in his voice. “Get it through your skull, Cyrus—I’m not the God of War anymore. Not locked into that shallow ideology. I still believe in strength—but I have it all now. Obedience is still important, but now that you cannot oppose me … why not try a little mercy as well? I can afford patience now, for war has come and come again, and now all I have wanted is in my grasp.” He held up a hand and clinked his gauntlet together, making a fist. “I have all the time in the world because the world is mine. Three gods yet live, and two are with me. It matters not, for I could kill all three as easily as I sent Terrgenden to his doom. And your armies?” He made a scoffing noise that was muffled beneath the helm. “Send them all, if you wish them to die. You know the truth of this. I know it runs circles in your mind on the long nights where sleep eludes. You are a great general—which is why I would have you be mine. You know what you face. You know what is on your side …” He clucked his tongue beneath the metal faceplate, his mouth hidden from view. “But you don’t entirely know what’s on mine, except that I could kill you myself with ease.”

  Bellarum reached out a hand and placed it on Cyrus’s shoulder, and he felt the weight of the massive paw. “Don’t be a fool. I have what you want. Survival for your friends. The love of your life. Purpose for yourself.” He paused and glanced at Cora. “Hope … for your future.”

  Cyrus stood there, the weight of the hand on him, and turned his head to look at Cora. She stood, stricken, in the corner, her face pale and washed out. Her eyes met his, and she opened her mouth. “Cyrus, the ark is—”

  There was barely a jerk against Cyrus’s shoulder to indicate Bellarum’s movement. Even with his hand firmly gripped on Praelior, Cyrus could only see the motion as though the God of War had moved with speed beyond his sight. There was a sound, and he saw the pain barely register on Cora’s face before she hit the wall behind and dissolved into blood and gore the way Terrgenden had.

  “Right,” Bellarum said, “that’s enough of that.” He pushed gently against Cyrus’s shoulder, adding just a hint more weight as he lifted his hand off. Cyrus stumbled slightly. “You need some time. I understand. You’ve been through a lot. Consider it carefully, but I think you’ll find at the end of your deliberation, it’s a very simple calculus—ignominious death if you deny me, for you and all you love. Or—glory, success, loved ones, acknowledgment, power, riches … all you’ve ever wanted.” He made a sound behind the helm like he was smacking his lips. “Think it over. We’ll talk again soon.”

  The door swung open before Bellarum reached it, and before Cyrus had worked his way out of the stunned disbelief that the God of War had left him in. His eyes flew to the doorway as it swung wide, and the unmistakable armor of Alaric Garaunt stood silhouetted in the light of the hall, causing Cyrus to draw in a sharp intake of breath.

  Alaric.

  His heart sank, then sank again as he realized who blocked the passage of Bellarum. No.

  Oh, Terian, no.

  “Isn’t this a cozy little meeting?” Terian Lepos asked, blocking the doorway.

  Bellarum stared at him, fixed in place. “Good gracious,” he said at last, after studying the dark knight for a time, “I really thought you were him for a second, until you spoke.” He chortled. “Terrible armor. Do you know from whence it comes?”

  “It comes from Alaric Garaunt,” Terian replied without missing a beat. His hand was already on the heft of his axe, which was ready at his side.

  “Terian, no,” Cyrus said, his own hand on Praelior, desperation rising. “Don’t—”

  “Shhhhh,” Bellarum said, holding up a finger to silence him. “The armor wasn’t Alaric’s originally. It was the armor of the Protanian Empire, issued to all their guards. Of course, their guards all died in the war, but Alaric managed to cling to that set of armor in the last long night, and here you stand with it.” He looked Terian over. “I used to wear a set exactly like it myself once, did you know that?”

  Terian stood there in silence for a long moment. “If you’re trying to convince me to take it off and throw it away, you’re doing a surprisingly fine job of it.”

  Bellarum chuckled, then seemed to reappear next to Terian, his hand clutching Terian’s axe near the broad head. “I’m glad you ended up with this. I meant for you all to get your hands on the godly weapons, but you were just too slow.” He yanked Noctus out of Terian’s grip with ease and examined it before glancing at Cyrus again. “I wavered in those moments, I’ll admit. Lost faith in you. I’d gone through all the trouble of dissolving the barrier to the upper realms so you people could get in, and meanwhile my supposed foremost warrior couldn’t even keep a guild together.” He looked down at Terian and sighed. “Part of that was your fault, though, you contentious little shit.”

  Terian did not step back, even without his weapon. “Yes. It was.” He squared his chin and looked Bellarum straight in the eye.

  Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat, and he drew Praelior. The sound caused Bellarum to look around at him slowly. “Shall I make another example of him, Cyrus? Would that help in your decision-making? Would a little flick of my finger,” he mimed bringing up a hand, aiming it at Terian’s chest, “persuade you at all?”

  Cyrus’s mouth was dry, his jaw open. “It would persuade me that no matter what … I would never be able to trust you.” Not that I could anyway.

  Bellarum studied him with those glowing eyes. “Trust is important.” He pushed Noctus back at Terian, who grabbed it as the God of War pushed its haft against his chest, the paladin staggering back from the force. Bellarum looked once more at the dark elf. “Perhaps you live to see another dawn, Lepos …” He chortled again. “Oh, that name. Irony.” He clapped his hands together. “Very well, then. This is where I leave you, gentlemen.” He looked pointedly at Cyrus. “Think it over.” And he twinkled away in a burst of light unlike any spell Cyrus had ever seen.

  “But don’t think too long,” his voice came, shaking the very earth as though the presence of the god who had departed were still with them, and would be with them always.

  76.

  Alaric

  Chavoron stared at me across the gulf between our two seats, and I stared back at him. He was leaning forward, but his hand slowly retracted back, coming to rest on the arm of his chair. A grim quiet settled over us as I looked at him, unsure, all that he’d just told me in the moments since I’d entered the room raising a confusing tangle of new questions in my mind, without a single old one answered.

  “I … I don’t understand,” I said. “That doesn’t … that doesn’t resolve anything for—”

  “Take my instruction,” Chavoron said. “I had written this all out in a letter that would have been presented to you, but … this is better, I suppose.”

  “But how do I make anything better with—”

  “You will find a way,” he said, and now he leaned back in his chair, gaze slipping away out the door, as though he were finished with me now that he’d said his piece.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, reeling. I felt a curious weight around me that was new, that I’d not had coming into this meeting. Something dawned on me. “You … were expecting someone else this eve.” I stood, looking out the balcony the way I’d come, hoping Curatio and Jena would have appeared by now. It had only been a few minutes, though, and they were likely still making their way slowly toward us
.

  “I was,” Chavoron said, his words heavy.

  “Who were you expecting?” I asked, my eyes trying to penetrate the darkness, whirling from balcony to balcony, searching for movement until I saw—

  Someone came in through the balcony to my left, a shadowed figure approaching from a direction that I knew was not the one Curatio and Jena would be coming from. There was a clink as armored feet came down on the stone, followed by another pair, and another.

  Three men in heavy armor brushed their way into the Citadel tower, the man in the lead a familiar sight. His hair was dark, that same whorl of hair visible over his forehead, and his square jaw was set in determination. At the sight of me, his expression flickered into anger. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” the Drettanden said. Behind him, his men drew swords as he pulled his own. It glowed a faint blue along the length of the blade, barely visible. He smiled slowly. “What an unexpected pleasure. I thought I would have to hunt you down, yet here you are! Convenient.” He beamed at me, and I shivered.

  “You knew they were coming,” I said.

  Chavoron nodded, then turned his attention to the Drettanden. “My friends … I know why you have come, and I am prepared to give you what you want—”

  “We came for your bloody head, Chavoron,” the Drettanden sniffed, all his kindness and mercy gone. He was unlike the man who had introduced himself to me before, kind and generous. He now looked angry, almost feral. “I doubt you’re willing to part with it so easily.”

  “I am perfectly willing to,” Chavoron said evenly, not even looking at me as he spoke, and I knew in that instant he spoke true. “Provided you let my friend go.”

  It dawned on me: he had been waiting for them to come and kill him.

  The Drettanden paused, looking back at one of his soldiers as though he were being deceived and looking for reassurance. “You’ll let us … kill you?”

  “Willingly,” Chavoron answered. “I have come to the end of my days, and my time as First Citizen is at its close. But you must spare Alaric and let him depart before I surrender my life to you.”

  “I smell a trick,” the Drettanden said, frowning.

  “No trick,” Chavoron said. “The scales must be balanced, and my death, I hope, will achieve that aim. I will die willingly to save this empire.”

  “No—” I started, but Chavoron held up a hand to stop me.

  “What do you say, Timmas?” Chavoron asked. “Do you accept my bargain? In the spirit of good faith, for the empire we have tried to rule.”

  The Drettanden stared at him from behind smoky eyes, and I could see him trying to decide. “Alaric cannot be allowed to live,” he finally seemed to decide, “for he is the symbol of everything wrong in this place, and with him—and you—dead, perhaps finally we can sculpt the empire we desire out of the ashes of—”

  I didn’t get any warning before Chavoron unleashed his magical ability. It was not like the fire spells that Jena had shown me. This was a golden fire, blindingly bright, and it swept forward with a flash. I watched the Drettanden throw his hands up in front of him, a blue light of his own flaring. The flames swept to either side of him and turned his guards to ash before I could blink my eyes. One moment they were there, the next they were gone completely.

  The Drettanden lashed back as the flames faded, a pink glow coming from his sword as he struck at Chavoron. Chavoron held up an arm and light blasted from where his shield met Drettanden’s spell. I jerked out of my shock.

  I cast a small flame spell, taking a step to the side and hurling it at the Drettanden. It was paltry, but it hit him in the arm and left a black mark on his armor. He turned his head to glare at me, and his eyes started to glow. I sensed danger and jumped behind Chavoron as an ice-blue line of magic burst out of both. It took a few seconds for it to appear after the initial spell began to cast, but when it hit, Chavoron stumbled back under its onslaught.

  “Your courage is great, Chavoron!” the Drettanden said as the spell energy met and broke upon Chavoron’s shield. “Your skill is more than proficient. You are a master in every way. And yet—you cannot save them all!”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I muttered from where I crouched behind Chavoron, pulsating blasts of spell bursting like repeated hammer blows upon Chavoron’s shield.

  “He and his fellows have started to liberate the slaves,” Chavoron said. I could see the strain on his face as the Drettanden struck at him again and again with his elongated, glowing blade, the spell-magic turning it into something akin to a spear, trying to find a weakness in Chavoron’s magical guard. “They are herding them together here in the city, slaughtering their masters.”

  I fought to my feet, still cowering in the shadow of Chavoron. “Then they mean to win this dispute of yours, once and for all.”

  “Indeed,” Chavoron said, brow sweating as he paused. His shield, translucent and glowing yellow, suddenly grew spikes that flashed outward for a second like pikes ramming forth. The Drettanden stumbled back, his armor taking a half dozen hits, the spell-magic melting the metal at the points of contact. His reflexes were incredible, and I realized that had he been a second slower, Chavoron would have perforated him with enough holes to surely bring him low.

  The Drettanden went left and Chavoron pushed at me to the side, putting us in a slow rotation opposite our foe. I wanted to charge but the fear bound me, holding me back. The Drettanden prodded the shield with his magical sword extension and where the magic met, hisses and pops followed. I could see the Drettanden’s face more clearly now, the section of helm that covered his forehead melted away by Chavoron’s spiked shield.

  “I ask you again to consider my offer,” Chavoron shouted over the din of the competing magics. “You will win this war, Timmas! I am reconciled to this. Your side will be victorious, and you will have everything you have wanted, with me cleanly out of the way. Your vision of our empire will triumph, you will be nearly unopposed save for the last holdouts.” A hint of pleading entered his voice. “All you need do … is spare Alaric.”

  “What is your affection for this pardwan?” Drettanden nearly laughed, his sword held high to guard him against attack. “He was a simple gladiator who merely proved that his people are more than dogs. Is he a pet to you?”

  “Your boundless commitment to the freeing of my people is breathtaking,” I said.

  “I am under no illusions about what you are,” Drettanden said, scoffing. “I have labored long to see your people freed.”

  “Freed for what?” Chavoron asked, and in his question I sensed a sort of trap of the kind he regularly set in conversation, especially when he was trying to make a point.

  “So that they need not be held down by us any longer, Chavoron,” the Drettanden said. “So that they can enter into regular service with us and choose their own fate—”

  “To be our serving class,” Chavoron said, “perhaps with less … starvation? Less whips of the masters at their back?”

  “Exactly,” the Drettanden said. “So we can free our consciences of—”

  “Of any responsibility for their well-being,” Chavoron finished, and suddenly the Drettanden looked starkly different. He was somehow darker, more shadowed.

  Annoyance crossed the Drettanden’s face, the shadows lengthening. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “For my part,” I said, “I wouldn’t care to serve you anyway.”

  “That’s good,” he said, “because you’ll be dead. You may have opened the gates to this calamity, but my brethren and I will walk through them, and build a new empire, free from the stain of the old—free from the stain of you and your kind.” He sneered as he said it.

  “Why?” I asked savagely. “Because we dared to stand against one of yours?”

  “Because you are a symbol of all that is wrong in this place,” Drettanden said, his anger flaring and turning the glow of magic around his sword a deeper red. “You stood with them against the best interests of your own. You are
a traitor to your own people and cause, and you will die as such, a sick root of a twisted tree.”

  Chavoron’s shield blazed and he pressed forward against Drettanden again, this time battering at him as the shield grew several moving appendages. They each came at the Drettanden and he was forced to scoot back, casting the spell to bring his feet off the ground. He ran out the balcony behind him as Chavoron launched a spear of light after him. I saw a subtle glow in Chavoron’s hand, and suddenly it was replaced by a blade; he’d somehow summoned his sword, Rodanthar, to his hand.

  “Is he—” I started to ask, ignoring the fantastical appearance of his weapon in his hand. It was clearly magic of some stripe at work.

  “No,” Chavoron said, and the Drettanden came blazing in again from our left, his magical sword held high, and a second weapon, composed entirely of spell-light, extending from his other hand. He struck at Chavoron and pushed him back. My feet tangled upon themselves as I hurried to move with him, causing me to fall as the Drettanden brought his blade down between us. Chavoron continued to move away until he realized we’d been separated, and then it was too late; the Drettanden’s magic cut us cleanly from one another. He leered as he held a glowing hammer just above my head, ready to drop.

  “I believe you wanted to make a deal, Chavoron,” the Drettanden said. “This looks to be your chance.”

  Chavoron stared at me through the glow of his magical shield. I could see his face, lit by the yellow light, weathered and tired by the casting of his spells, and then it faded as he let them go.

  “No,” I said, and felt a tingle as the power of the magical hammer above my head caressed my hair, causing it to tingle along my scalp. “Don’t do this.”