“And it has happened right now in Zanbellish,” the Yartraak said, turning our attention back to the matter at hand. “If someone has worked up the nerve to destroy that city …” He looked at each of us in turn. “Do you expect they’ll stop there?”
“Who would have done this?” I asked, and felt Jena slip her fingers into my hand. They were cold in the cave air, but I found them reassuring nonetheless.
“It could have been any of them,” the Mortus replied. “The Aurous, the Nessalima, the Levembre, the Tempestus—”
“Spare us the list,” Curatio said, ire running through every word. “It could have been all of them together.” He bowed his head, eyes flicking about in thought. “This empire is large. If someone has made the decision to do this … this appalling thing—”
“They won’t stop at Zanbellish,” I said, and Curatio nodded. “We must stop them,” I said, finally sure of my purpose.
“Stopping them will be impossible,” the Yartraak said. “They now have power beyond you. You will be destroyed, just the same as if you had challenged the Drettanden—”
“I killed the Drettanden,” I snapped, and saw the Yartraak’s long, thick eyebrows rise. The Mortus, behind him, brought his hands together again, stroking his fingers against one another. It seemed strange at the time, but he looked almost … hungry at my admission.
“Still,” the Yartraak said, speaking sense that I wanted to ignore, “if you stand in the middle of—of Sennshann, for it is the only other sizable city in the empire, and the next most logical target, you will be consumed by the spell the same as anyone else in its path. Best to hide,” he said, stepping forward, putting an awkward, thin-fingered hand on my arm. “Stay here, with us. We will close our gates, bury ourselves and those here with us. We will be safe here—all of us, human and Protanian and dwarf alike.” He made a face like he was trying to smile but didn’t know how to do it very well.
I felt a strange quiet in me. My men were still in Sennshann, my small remnants of an army. If whoever had done this thing to Zanbellish truly did intend to move beyond it to elsewhere in the empire, Sennshann was the place to go, more victims there than in any of the small outposts that dotted the landscape outside of that metropolis.
But I had faced the Drettanden and been a liability to Chavoron during the entire battle. He had died for me, died trying to protect me from the overwhelming power of one man turned godlike.
How could anyone protect me from more than one of them?
And how could I protect the people—the slaves—trapped in Sennshann, now sacrifices in someone else’s bloody attempt at cleansing their empire of sinful mistakes and rise to unfathomable power at the same time?
I pictured Varren, the others, waiting around because of my bargain with Chavoron. They were in the heart of the city, in the middle of where the storm would land, if the Mortus was right. Something about the way he’d explained it resonated in me, tugging at the strings inside that worked in my heart. I was certain that this fit, that it was exactly what the Protanians who had argued against slavery would do. They had lost sight of their original objective in their rage; the Drettanden’s fury had convinced me of that. Now they saw anyone who argued against them as an enemy, and were leaping quickly to the idea that their enemies needed to be destroyed, damn the consequences for any in their way.
“I have to go,” I said, whispering the words at first, because they made no sense coming out of my mouth. Yet came they still did, and rang in my ears, and I was then sure that I had spoken true.
“Why?” the Yartraak asked, agape. “Why would you leave safety for—”
“I need to go and protect the people,” I said, my voice growing stronger as I became more certain. “To shepherd them.”
“The Protanians will not listen to a pardwan,” the Mortus said in disbelief. “You are no fool, Alaric. You know this of our folk. Even among those about to be sacrificed, fully half hate you furiously for your part in quelling the uprising in Zanbellish, and the other half view you as less than them.” He held out all four hands. “You will die to no effect, and it will be a … terrible waste.”
The Yartraak looked sideways at him, but nodded. “You will die in this foolishness.”
“Then I will die with him,” Jena said, and her fingers clutched more strongly to mine, drawing an ireful glare from her father. She looked right at me, bright blue eyes anchored on mine. “I can dispel the effects of this sacrificial magic, at least within a certain area. If we can find a place to harbor the people we are trying to save, I can perhaps protect them there, but it will require—well, a massive tower or something of the like.”
“Something like the Citadel of Light and Hope?” Curatio asked dryly. “Which is almost sure to be empty at this hour, now that Chavoron is dead and the rest of the council is moving.”
“But the slaves we saw,” I said, focusing on those we might save, “they were being marched to the Coliseum. Could you defend—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can channel the magic through our stone’s enchantments, but the Coliseum is open air; to try and create a roof of magic to dispel anything coming through the sky above … it is beyond my skill.” She swallowed hard.
“How do we get the slaves to the Citadel?” I asked, mind racing. “I mean, they were still being marched through the streets when we left, countless …” I sank into silence; there were so damned many slaves in Sennshann, the task was beyond daunting.
“You won’t be able to get them all,” the Yartraak said, and I sensed he was clutching feebly at any straw he could, anything to stop us going.
“Yet we have to try,” the answer came from me, instantly, in reply to the Yartraak’s fatalism. I nodded at Jena. “Let us return to the city, then.”
“I wish you good luck,” the Mortus said.
“Don’t be a fool, daughter,” the Yartraak said in a low, desperate hiss. “We have—we have slaves to protect here as well, and also our own people. You could help us—”
“You will be fine,” she said coolly, and then took a breath, gathering her robes around her tightly. “I will endeavor not to do anything that shames you, Father.”
The Yartraak lost his composure for the first time since I’d seen him. “I’m not worried about shame, or our house—I’m worried about your bloody life being lost!” He pounded his chest with a skinny fist. “You are dear to me. Put aside foolishness and—”
“Put aside fidelity,” she said calmly, “put aside honor, the bonds of friendship, and all conviction … what would be left?” She looked around them. “It would be as to snuffing the light out of this place and living in darkness, always.” She raised a hand, and started to cast a spell.
As the green magic lit the room, it cast the Yartraak’s face in stark horror, and he watched his only child disappear to follow her convictions—and me—away from the safety of his realm.
81.
Cyrus
“Do you think we have a new ally?” Terian asked as they reappeared in the dark confines of the palace, their return spells carrying them across the miles from where they’d had their meeting in grey, windswept wastes.
“I hope so,” Cyrus said, tapping his helm and watching dust drift off in wafts in the darkness. He blinked; he hadn’t even realized he’d cast the Eagle Eye spell upon himself without conscious thought or word aloud. Getting better at this magic business. “They know where we’re going and when; it’ll be up to them to decide whether to join us or not.”
They stood in the middle of a dark room in the back of the palace, and Terian worked his way toward the door, armor squeaking slightly with every step. He walked with exaggerated weariness. “How do you think the others fared?”
“I daresay we’re about to find out,” Cyrus said, as they made their way down the cool, stone-lined hallway toward the meeting room.
A buzz of activity was audible even before Cyrus opened the door to reveal those within. He could hear voices inside,
Calene’s especially obvious before he finished turning the handle. He pulled it wide and stepped in to find a motley assortment around the table within. Some were sitting, some were standing, many were clustered around certain of their number in admiration.
Cyrus smiled when he saw what they were looking at. “Good haul, then?” he asked with a faint smile.
Isabelle made her way carefully through the small group that had surrounded her upon their entry, a length of beautiful wood clutched in her fingers. It looked to be about as long as her forearm, and no wider than her smallest finger. It had a faint red glow about it, nearly pink in the dusky light of the meeting room. She held it out toward him, pointing its tip away toward a wall, and said, simply, “Amoran—the Wand of Love.”
“And was it easily retrieved?” Cyrus asked, looking over the weapon.
“There were no guardians in her realm, no,” Isabelle said, blue eyes falling once more upon her prize. “It was as simple as striding in and taking it.” She looked up at him once more, and there was a hint of gratitude at war with other feelings there. “Thank you.”
Dahveed had made his way through as well, holding a glowing orb in his fingers. He held it up for Cyrus’s inspection and said, “Hiemes, the Orb of Winter.”
“Surprised that one wasn’t crushed,” Terian said, looking over his healer’s new prize.
“It took a bit of digging,” Dahveed said with a smirk. He bowed his head to Cyrus. “Thank you for thinking of me for this bequest.”
Cyrus felt a tug at his elbow and looked over to see Larning standing there, a powerful warhammer slung over his shoulder, tip extending out from a central haft. “Luminas,” he said, a glint in his eye as he looked sidelong toward his new weapon, “the Warhammer of Light.” He nodded once to Cyrus, and then cleared his throat, beckoning Cyrus to lean down. “I … can’t help but thinking …” Larning whispered, right into Cyrus’s ear, “you’re giving out the weapons of these gods you’ve defeated to … well, to people that aren’t your own.” Cyrus started to stand back up, but Larning caught him. “I know you’re a man who appreciates loyalty.” The dwarf’s eyes held a hint of warning. “They’ve been with you a lot longer than I have or … this Dahveed fellow has …” He made a slight shrug, as if to question Cyrus’s judgment.
“And I’ll make sure they’re taken care of,” Cyrus said coolly, then smiled at the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings. He rose and looked out over the assemblage crowding the meeting room. He saw Zarnn over the heads of the others, toward the back, and met his gaze. “How did it go?” he called to the troll.
Zarnn grunted. “Some. Not all.”
“Best we could expect,” Cyrus said, then glanced down the line to where Mendicant stood, nearly lost among the room’s occupants. The goblin met his gaze and then looked away, as if shamed. Just wait, Mendicant. A little longer. He scanned through the room until he found J’anda, then blinked at the enchanter. “Didn’t expect to see you back already.”
“It was not a long journey,” J’anda said, holding tight to his staff, a smile upon his lips.
“Will I need to undertake it myself?” Cyrus asked, finding the enchanter’s manner slightly maddening.
J’anda held his quiet for a long moment. “You should,” he said at last with a nod. Cyrus felt his tension dissolve in the hearing of the answer. “And take some friends,” the dark elf added, as though he didn’t already know.
Cyrus smiled, looking once more through the knotted crowd in front of him. “Ryin, Mendicant, Vaste, Scuddar and Longwell … with me.”
“And that’s it?” Terian asked. “You’re not planning to start the battle early, are you?”
“With us?” Longwell asked, picking his way through the packed room, lance over his shoulder. “We’d certainly be willing.”
“Some of us would,” Ryin said with a moment’s hesitation as he stepped past Larning to join Cyrus. He adjusted his robes. “Though I’d rather wait for everyone to go at once.”
“I’m curious what you need us for, Lord Davidon,” Mendicant said, sounding as subdued as his manner had indicated. “I mean … I know my spells will be of use to you in the fight ahead, but … I have felt … somewhat cast aside since we have begun preparations—”
“That’s because I have an important task for you that needed to wait for another condition to be fulfilled,” Cyrus said as Scuddar wordlessly joined their small party. Vaste shoved his way past Terian and finished the small circle, frowning at Cyrus all the while. “All right, Ryin.”
Ryin stood there for a second, then said, “Where to?”
Cyrus smiled, feeling just a little wistful. A wave of sentimentality washed lightly over him. “Back to where it all began.”
Ryin waited in silence, looking toward the ceiling as he seemed to try to make sense of the answer he’d received. “I … I don’t—”
“Take us to the Mountains of Nartanis,” Cyrus said, his voice calm and strong, at odds with the roiling storm within. The druid magic began, as it always did, with a strong wind that whipped around him, and Cyrus was reminded of days gone by, of a raid upon a dragon that had taken him to the portal he traveled to now. Fortunately the spell caught him and yanked him off with the others before the full weight of that memory had a chance to settle on his heart.
82.
Alaric
Finding my men was surprisingly easy. We took to the skies as soon as we left the portal nearby, and were flying over the city moments later. Docile slaves were still being herded through the streets, guardsmen doing what they did any other day and making certain their charges reached whatever destination was set for them by their masters. They flowed through the streets like ants between the channels of Sennshann’s massive towers, rivers of slaves in a city now dry.
“Chavoron had a small depot only a few streets away from the Citadel,” Jena said as we hurried along above the city, wind blowing furiously in the dark night. Her hair was swept by the intensity of the gusts, the Aurous having surrendered his control over weather. She looked at me. “It’s where he kept you while you ailed after … the Coliseum.” She glanced at Curatio, and I saw a tight line of his lips.
I paused, watching a line of slaves being marched southeast, roughly, and looked into the distance to see the Coliseum on the horizon.
“So they are taking them there,” I said, pointing to the wide, circular structure.
“It makes sense,” Curatio said. “They could easily pen in however many humans and gnomes and all else within its walls and the camps around it. It’s ideally suited to holding the slaves.”
“But it’s poor for our purposes,” Jena said. “Impossible to defend with my spells.”
I stared at the Coliseum, wondering what was going on within it. It was lit, an unusual thing at this time of day, magical lights of the sort that looked like miniature suns hovering above the stands and shedding their glow over the place. I wondered if the slaves within were being treated well or with the same callousness I was seeing in the streets. “Come on,” I said, and we hurried on.
I recognized Chavaron’s depot as soon as we set down on the abandoned avenue. It looked the same as it had when I was recovering. A forbidding wind whipped around us as we came down, and I felt as though the tension around us was taking tangible form.
Curatio stopped me with a hand upon my arm. “These men … they are the ones you had when we met in battle in the Coliseum?”
“The very same,” I said.
The elf gnawed his lower lip. “You trust them?”
I stared at him blankly. “They have since followed me into the slave revolt in Zanbellish.”
“That does not mean anything if their motives were for themselves,” Curatio said, and Stepan paused next to us, listening to our exchange. “Did you offer them something for their part in that?”
“Freedom,” I said, “of a sort.”
“What do you intend to offer them this time?” Curatio asked. Stepan was watching intently, and I c
ould tell he wanted to hear the answer for himself as well.
I stood there, trying to decide exactly what I was going to tell them. I had started this journey assuming their loyalty, and had learned through hard experience that it was a poor assumption to make. The answer came to me, words of Chavoron’s sparking a response. “Suffering. Toil. Likely death.”
Curatio raised his eyebrows. “I am not sure that is going to have the desired effect …”
I pulled my arm from his grasp and hurried forward, my tunic blowing lightly in the breeze. “I will make it have the desired effect.”
I stormed into the depot and found myself in a room guarded by two men with the standard of the Protanian guards. “Chavoron is dead,” I said. They hesitated, already surprised at my approach. “The council is broken. Some of the members are executing slaveholders and have destroyed the city of Zanbellish. They are likely coming here next. Gather your families and leave if you value your lives.”
The guards looked at each other, and the one on the left, a tall fellow, spoke first. “Where … where would we go?”
“Go to Saekajaren Sovaren,” Jena said. “My father is the Yartraak, and he is preparing shelter for this storm. Go.”
The men exchanged but a look and left their posts, batons dangling uselessly in their fingers as they walked away. I heard them open the door and leave, talking among themselves in hushed voices, as if afraid death itself might hear them.
I plunged through the unguarded door they’d left behind and found myself in a long room, the same one in which I’d ailed after my fight with Curatio, repurposed now to be a long barracks. There was a dull hum of conversation that died instantly the moment we entered, shocked faces turning to take in our appearance.
“Ulric!” Varren said, vaulting to his feet from a bunk down the way. He broke into a smile over that shaggy beard. “You’re alive! You’re here.” He seemed surprised by the last part of it.
Legend Page 54
