Master (Book 5) (59 page)

He sensed discomfort radiating from her. “I am not,” she said. “There are things your right hand likely does nowadays that are better left to a more willing elf.” She looked pointedly into the darkness, and he followed her gaze to Vara, who appeared not to notice.

Another flash, another small grouping flooded out of the closet.

“Sir,” Odellan said quietly, just loud enough that Cyrus could hear him, “we are terribly exposed here. We need to establish a guard of our own or we will inevitably be found out and killed before the bulk of our forces arrive.”

“Right,” Cyrus said. “Martaina, take your eagle eyes and watch ’round that corner. Bow out, make sure anyone who comes within view does not have another breath leave their lungs.” He watched the weapon appear in her hands, and she stalked quietly to the corner, peering out with only a fraction of her face exposed.

Cyrus turned his attention to the passage in front of them. “Then there’s this.” The next corner was far in front of them, at least three hundred feet. Countless doors lay to their left and right. “If we can establish a guard at the corner, the rest of us need to start securing these rooms so we don’t get surprised by someone going about their business and screaming in shock at being surrounded by an army.”

“This reminds me of Enterra,” Andren said, and Cyrus realized that he hadn’t even known that the healer had arrived. Another flash from the closet signaled the arrival of another wave, and Cyrus realized he had also lost count of how many times that had happened.

“Fortin,” Cyrus said, and the rock giant rumbled acknowledgment, “get to the corner—but step lightly; stop anyone that comes around it.”

“Also quietly, I presume?” the rock giant breathed then started toward the corner. He seemed to be moving on the tips of his toes, light enough that while Cyrus could feel some vibration, it was not quite the shaking of the earth sensation that the rock giant produced when running.

“Time to turn out the rooms,” Cyrus said and looked around himself for assistance. He counted Odellan, Vara, Terian and Ryin in close proximity. A fair host of other Sanctuary members were in close attendance as well, but he could not see them nearly as well the farther away they were.

“Like morning’s end at some of the dirtier establishments,” said a familiar voice, somewhat accented with the tones of the Northlands.

“Is that Menlos Irontooth?” Cyrus looked for the northman, squinting in the dark. He caught a glimpse of the dirty fellow, waving from behind the shoulder of Samwen Longwell, face partially obscured by the dragoon’s lance. “No wolves?”

“They’re here,” Menlos said. “You need them?”

“I need them quiet,” Cyrus said. “If you can deliver that, I can find a use for them to chase down anyone who might run.”

“Oh, I can provide quiet,” Menlos said. “And they’re always up for a good meal.”

“They may have to grab them on the run,” Cyrus said, “though I suppose that’ll get a bit loud.”

“I would advise against loudness,” Vara said. “Save it for your bedchamber.”

He stared at her in the dark. “That almost sounded like something that would be said by—”

She glared at him. “Do not … finish that statement.”

He let it go, instead turning his attention to the first door on their left. He gave a quick count and stopped after fifteen before them. “Damnation. Terian?” He waited to see the dark knight appear next to him. “I know you don’t know this part of the palace, but what would you think that is?” He gestured at the first door.

“It could be the keeping rooms for the Sovereign’s harem,” Terian said with a broad shrug. “Guard quarters, though I would think they’d be a bit more lively. Treasure rooms, perhaps. Dungeons? I really have no idea.”

“Into the dark,” Cyrus said.

“Find your courage,” Terian said with a wide grin.

“Maybe it’s back here,” Cyrus said and ripped open the first door, the dark metal handle shaking in his hand as he pulled upon it.

He stared into a pooled darkness within, a chamber bigger than the hallway, bigger than he would have guessed by the door next to him, bigger than it had any right to be from its outside appearance. It extended to a small, three-step staircase a few feet in front of him, the outer perimeter of the room leading into a pit. Glancing up, he could see the ceiling carved upward in a similar pattern, pyramiding upward in a stair-step effect.

Inky blackness lingered in the depths of it, and he felt himself shudder involuntarily.

“CYRUS!” Martaina’s shout snapped his head around; the ranger was standing at the corner, arrows flying from her bow as quickly as she could pluck them from her quiver. Shouts echoed down the hallway beyond her, furious, screams of pain and rage. “A whole godsdamned army division is marching down this hall!” The normally calm elf was moving with a frenzy, retreating a step at a time—

“WARLORD!” Fortin’s rumbling cry echoed down the hallway from the other end, and Cyrus barely turned in time to see him with a flood of tiny soldiers around him. The rock giant’s arms were in motion, spattering bodies, shearing bones, and throwing corpses against the wall with a fury. Doors began to open in the spaces between Cyrus and Fortin, bodies pouring out in armor, helmeted heads swiveling to find the army in their midst. They flooded into the halls and the Sanctuary force went forth to greet them, Odellan at the fore.

The split was automatic, and Cyrus did not whisper a word, the chaos and clangor so loud he would have had to shout to be heard in any case. He watched Andren fling a white, glowing hand at Martaina just as she failed to block a sword-strike with her bow and was impaled. She shrugged the sword out of the wound and was healed, Longwell coming to her aid with lance in hand as a dark elven squadron came around the corner in a fury.

Cyrus hesitated, just a moment too long inside the door. It was a curious thing, that which held him back. It was a compulsion, a question asked by the darkness—

“Cyrus Davidon …” came the voice. He felt the words shudder along his spine, the armor little protection from the power of the voice that spoke them. He turned, looking into the dark, watched it shrivel and fall away to reveal a grey-skinned figure with three horns sprouted from its head, thin legs and arms. It was a tall thing, rising up above his height even on the lower footing offered by the pit.

“Sovereign,” Cyrus said, using the thing’s official title. He stared at it—at him, he supposed—the red eyes looking terribly familiar as they glared out at him from within Yartraak’s own bedchamber.

“Come in … and close the door behind you,” Yartraak said. It was polite, it was a suggestion, but one that carried with it all the menace of a threat.
Come in and close the door behind you … or your entire army will be flanked by a god and splattered down the hallway in mere seconds.

Cyrus took only a moment to contemplate it. The smell of sweat and blood was heavy in the hall already; he could see floors slick with the dark, crimson liquid, saw the flash as Curatio arrived again bearing reinforcements that would be forced to immediately pour into the fight. He caught a glimpse of Terian in the midst of the soldiers flowing out of the doors down the hall, of Vara fighting among the ones pouring around Martaina’s corner. The battle was truly joined, the Sanctuary force was already overwhelmed, and there was little enough he could do save for wade in with Praelior—

And bring behind him the God of Darkness, into a battle that they were already losing.

He listened to the shriek of swords upon metal, the screams of the wounded and fallen, and he took one silent step back into the Sovereign’s chambers, shutting the door behind him. The sound of battle faded as he did so.

Cyrus stood there, and the darkness swelled around him, closing in like the night falling at the end of day.

“We meet at last, Cyrus Davidon,” Yartraak called into the darkness. The power of the spell that gave Cyrus sight seemed to have been ripped away, flooded by the black seeping from the god who held it in his sway. “Master of Sanctuary. Favored of Bellarum. Holder of Drettanden’s … trinket.” Cyrus heard the rumble in the Sovereign’s voice. “Now you stand before me, outside the assistance of your guild and your god. What have you to say for yourself?”

“It’s kinda dark in here,” Cyrus said, smarting off.

There was a low rumble of gleeful laughter. “This is what happens when you step into the domain of darkness, yes? All … alone.” He sounded immeasurably pleased.

There was a sound of the door opening and closing behind him, and then a flame lit in the darkness, a glowing blade wrapped in fire. Cyrus saw it illuminate the blue eyes, the high, pale cheekbones, and saw a small spatter of blood in a thin line across her cheek. “Oh, there you are,” Vara said casually. “I thought you’d wandered off. And in the middle of a battle, no less.”

“Vara, get out of here,” Cyrus hissed. He had Praelior in his hand, drawn the moment he’d seen her appear. The blue glow was a pittance of light compared to her flaming sword.

“And miss the chance to glare into the darkness, see the heart of its cowardice hiding within the ignoble black?” She taunted without fear, and he knew that she was aware of what they faced.

“The fabled Vara,” Yartraak said from in the pit, “the Goddess of Life’s own dear one. The two of you together, standing before me. What a day this is. Do you know what I call you?”

Cyrus blinked and found an answer immediately sprang to mind in light of what he’d seen of the God of Darkness before the black swept in and shrouded everything. “Damned good looking.”

“Puppets,” Yartraak said, an ounce of displeasure creeping into that dark tone. “Proxies.”

“I think you were closer to the mark, personally,” Vara said to Cyrus with just a bit of a stage whisper.

“And funny as well,” Yartraak said. “I’d heard that about you.”

“Well, now you’ve heard it with your own ears,” Cyrus said and felt to his belt for the pouch that contained the treasure of the Mler. He concentrated, just for a moment, and light flooded into the darkness. “And seen it with your own glorious eyes, gorgeous.”

There was a screech of surprise as the chamber was lit from the artifact in Cyrus’s hand. It glowed with a brightness not unlike the midday sun, sprinkling radiance in every direction. Cyrus was already moving when it flared, jumping into the pit with his sword at the ready. He saw Vara at his side, matching his movements with her own blade raised.

The treasure of the Mler—a light so powerful it could shine into the depths of the deepest ocean—blasted the swirling darkness shrouding Yartraak and gave Cyrus a full view of the creature. It was grey, as he’d seen before, and the horns that wrapped its head came around like elephant tusks to point along both sides of the God of Darkness’s elongated jaw. The third horn seemed to originate at the back of his head and ran in a low arc over his forehead, offering his nose some protection. Red eyes squinted into the sudden brightness, and the creature was tilted back, unnaturally bent at the torso, as though he possessed not one waist at which to bend but two.

Cyrus came low as Vara went high; his blade slashed into the tough skin at the god’s hip, opening a two-inch gash. Vara, her ambitions higher than his own, went for an impaling strike and was turned aside as Yartraak batted a backhand at her. He missed by less than an inch, and Vara was forced to fling herself aside, slamming into an oversized wooden couch that lay against the inside of the pit wall.

“First blood’s mine,” Cyrus said, coming out of his attack in a defensive stance. Yartraak already looked smaller than he had when Cyrus had first seen him. He was down a few inches in height but was still a commanding presence, taller than Cyrus still by a considerable margin. The red eyes seethed with the anger of a being not used to being physically attacked; the fear was mingled in there with the rage, and they were both almost tangible, coming off the Sovereign of Saekaj like hot breath.

“All your blood will be mine,” Yartraak said in a low fury and raised his three-fingered hand. It was aglow, and Cyrus did not hesitate, diving to his left behind an oversized bed. A gout of flame followed him and struck his feeble cover, causing it to explode from the sheer force.

“I could use some magic,” Cyrus muttered to himself. Splinters rained down on him, tapping upon his helm and pauldrons as he stayed behind the destroyed piece of furniture. A small fire crackled in his ear. The treasure of the Mler had fallen from his grasp, glowing faintly where it had skittered, about ten feet away, shedding only a fraction of its previous light and growing softer by the moment.

Yartraak appeared above him and Cyrus came out swinging. Using the glow of the artifact and the burning pieces of the bed, he dodged around the wreckage between them, the God of Darkness’s red eyes following him just slightly more swiftly than the grey flesh could. Cyrus rolled, something he’d practiced, aided by Praelior’s speed, and he came out of it on his feet. He tried to cast a look at Vara, but she was not visible—

A blast of concussive force hit Yartraak from the blind side, knocking him forward. He did not lose his footing, but Cyrus watched his red eyes close for a moment in the growing half-light as Vara’s sword lit into flame once more, this time behind him. Yartraak swayed on his feet like a drunk staggering down a Reikonos street, and Cyrus leapt at the opportunity. He raised Praelior high in his hand—

And a thunderous blow caught him midair, slamming into his breastplate and pitching him into the back wall with world-ending force. There was a crashing, thundering noise in Cyrus’s ears, the sound of all manner of things breaking, and then the darkness was complete, as though he had fallen completely to pieces and the world had gone with him.

Cyrus awoke feeling as if he were drowning, like he could not get a breath into his lungs. He forced air in painfully, the darkness shrouding his eyes like it was choking him.

This is what Alaric felt like …

Air surged into his nostrils, the pain increased, and he realized he was drawing breath. Painful breath, true, but breath. He could feel his fingers, his toes somewhere down in his boots. He took another breath, felt the pain that encircled his ribs.