Warlord (43 page)

Cyrus lost his vision again, but more slowly this time as his face was inclined downward when the spray came out, his body half-lodged in the dragon’s mouth. One moment he was looking at brown-stained tongue, the next his face was once more alight with what felt like the hottest fire spell Cyrus could imagine. Through it all, he stabbed and stabbed, upward, as teeth clanked futilely against his armor and Weck’arerr breathed more acid to no effect.

Cyrus made one last strike as his strength started to fade, driving the blade up and punching through bone. The teeth clinked against his armor, but more weakly this time, and suddenly he was dragged down inside the mouth of his enemy. Cyrus’s sight returned with the wash of the healing spell just as the dragon’s mouth hit the ground, and he lay there, stunned, even as shouts grew closer and light flooded in. Strong hands propped open the dragon’s mouth and tugged him out, his armor dragging along the front teeth, breaking them with a crack as his backplate hung up on them.

“Gods, you idiot!” Vaste shouted, his face clouded above Cyrus. Cyrus’s eyes still burned, as though he’d dipped them into something hot. Water splashed in his face from a skin held above him, forcing Cyrus to close his eyes. Another healing spell ran over him, and this time his vision cleared completely. Someone pulled his helm off as Cyrus tried to force open his eyes again, bleary, and another splash of water rushed over him and down into his helm. He could hear the sizzle of the toxic brew as it washed out onto the stones below.

“All of you, back away!” Vara said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Officers!” she snapped. “Get over here!”

Cyrus tried to sit up but felt a troll foot land on his breastplate. “You can take part in this from right there,” Vaste said. “No need to strain your already clearly impaired faculties.”

“I’m … fine,” Cyrus said, managing to finally open his eyes. There was a circle of the officers around him, Vaste standing just above him, tree-like foot still planted in the middle of his chest like he wanted to take root there.

“You are out of your gods-damned mind,” Vaste said in a hushed whisper.

“The elves can still hear you, probably,” Thad said, shuffling from side to side on alternating feet as he stood uncomfortably in the circle.

“To hell with anyone listening,” Vaste said. “Did anyone else just see what I saw? Because I’d wager some of the members did.”

“Saw what?” Cyrus asked, trying to stand again as Vaste planted all his weight on Cyrus. “Saw me go toe-to-toe with a poison dragon? Good. They should know I’m not above standing in the middle of the fight.”

“It seems to me there is a difference between standing in the middle of the fight,” Curatio said quietly, “and thrusting yourself heedlessly into certain danger.”

“My armor could take the breath,” Cyrus said, not remotely relaxing where he lay. “Others couldn’t.”

“Damnation, man,” Andren said, and Cyrus caught a glimpse of him, face as white as sheep’s wool. “Do you know even know what happened to you there?”

“I fought him,” Cyrus said, jerking his head at the carcass of Weck’arerr, staring dully at them from a few feet away, mouth wrecked and blood pouring out from where his rescuers had ripped him from the grasp of the dragon’s teeth. “We won. Yay for victory.”

“He burned your face off,” Vaste said with a little acid of his own. “Three times. I counted, because—well, because do you have any idea how that looked? I mean, I was surprised, because I honestly thought it would be an improvement, but it wasn’t. At all. It was horrible.”

“I did what had to be done,” Cyrus said.

“This is a familiar song,” Curatio said.

Cyrus clutched Praelior tight in his hand and bucked Vaste’s foot off his chest with a concentrated effort. The troll staggered a step back, and Cyrus got to his feet before the troll could recover. “Then I hope you enjoy the chorus,” Cyrus said with a little bitterness, “because you’re probably going to hear it again after the next dragon, too.”

“Cyrus,” Erith said quietly. “You just got into a fistfight with the earth dragon, and you threw your face literally into the dragon’s mouth with this one. We’re concerned about you.” She looked at Vara. “We are, aren’t we? All of us?”

Vara said nothing.

“Well, most of us are,” Vaste said, “because to the untrained eye, it’s starting to look like our esteemed Guildmaster has a death wish he wants to play out right here in front of us.” He held his gaze steady on Cyrus. “Is that right? Because the next dragon, if I’m not much mistaken, is going to give you a wonderful opportunity to prove us right, if we are.”

Cyrus felt the bristle of cold tingles down his back, the hot phantom pain still upon his scalp where the acid had been healed away. “The next dragon is fire, yes.”

“And are you planning to go nose-to-burned-off-nose with him as well?” Vaste asked. “Because I can tell you how that will end out before we even get there.”

“I’ve done it before,” Cyrus said as coolly as if Gren’averr had frozen him and not Nyad.

“This is insanity, Cyrus,” Andren said. “You shouldn’t have to face these things alone. You’re not a one-warrior army.”

“I think that I have to be in this case,” Cyrus said, holding up Praelior. “Because the alternative is to let him turn his attention to the rest of you, and let the consequences—and the death—fall wherever they may.”

“Or we could—here’s a brilliant idea—leave.” Vaste folded his arms. “We’ve done our part—”

“Our part is not done yet,” Cyrus said, the fury rising.

“You’re out of your damned mind,” Vaste said, “I’d say the acid got into your brain, but you were acting irrationally even before that—”

“This isn’t happening,” Erith said, shaking her head. “I’m dreaming this.”

“I think this is tending a little toward a nightmare, really,” Odellan weighed in, looking solemn.

“How many deaths since I put myself out front?” Cyrus asked, spinning in a slow circle to face each of them in turn. “I let that earth bastard turn away from me and we lost six. Gren’averr attacked our army, and we lost Nyad.” He slammed his palm into the center of his breastplate and it clanged loud enough that Vara flinched. “I got their attention, their focus on me, for these last two, kept them attacking me, and how many did I—did
we
—lose—” he corrected himself at the last second.

A silent pall settled over the officers. “Cyrus,” Curatio said, looking as if some of the life had drained out of him. “You can’t blame yourself for—”

“This is not a discussion we’re having right now,” Cyrus said through gritted teeth. “If you don’t want to be in this fight any longer, I invite you to have a wizard send you back to Sanctuary.” He looked at each of them with angry eyes. “The rest of you,” he said, raising his voice to let it roll over the army, “fall in. We have two more dragons to kill.”

He ignored the shocked silence as he pushed his way past Thad out of the officers’ circle, the warriors the first to fall in behind him, hurrying to catch up. He lifted the door out of Weck’arerr’s acid-stinking quarters and squeezed out, following the circle around the shrine to his right. The grey skies between the columns taunted him, the first hints of blue in days showing between them.

The clouds of ash seemed thinner up here on the highest floor, as if they’d ascended to near the peak. Cyrus suspected they were only halfway up the volcano based on his observations from outside, before they’d begun their climb. He stalked on along the circular corridor that opened to the sky outside, but the breeze between the columns did not reinvigorate him. He only turned once, to take stock and see if anyone was still following beyond the warriors at his immediate back. The officers were there, a ways further back, Odellan and Thad almost right behind him, along with Scuddar and Longwell. He caught a hint of a green-robed shape lurking behind one of the warriors and snapped, “Larana—back with the spellcasters.” He watched until she shuffled back in the formation, head bowed under her cowl.

Cyrus saw Vara about a third of the way back, her face still and settled, like she had been carved into statuary.
This is the way it has to be
, Cyrus thought as they approached the next door, the massive wood structure hanging from the ceiling like it had been carved out of the largest tree Cyrus could imagine. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he walked up to it, and had a brief flash, wondering if it was in fact death’s door he stood before. His nerves stirred, prickling at him, but duty pushed him on regardless.

This is what needs to be done.

This is the only way.

I am the only one who can stand before the might of these things
.

His mouth was dry and filled with bitterness, like he’d fallen on the earth outside and it had filled him up to the overflowing, dripping over his lips and absorbing every last ounce of moisture.

If I have to die to protect my people … so be it.

He hesitated only a second before the door and began to lift. Other warriors came forward to help, Odellan sneaking in at his side, Scuddar next to him, Longwell balancing his spear as he brought his shoulder low to help lift.

The door opened with a squeal that tore through Cyrus, and he did not hesitate now, ducking under the open door and stepping into—

—into—

—light?

The world changed around him in a single step, the grey sky outside the shrine replaced by something brighter, by a blue so rich he would have sworn he had never seen its like in all his life. Cyrus took another step and his boot clapped against hard stone as white, sheer curtains wafted in the wind before him. He turned his head and saw the wooden beams above him, the bed off to the side and the bare wooden figures where he and Vara kept their armor when not in use.

“Alaric?” Cyrus called, looking around the Tower of the Guildmaster in stunned disbelief, a sense of warm memory washing over him and replacing the momentary fears, the doubts that had so covered him only a moment earlier.

“I’m afraid not,” came a vibrant voice from behind Cyrus. He turned to see a dark elf standing there, hair as black as tar, eyes alight with the same vitality that had been so obvious in the man’s voice. He wore a half-smile, something that hinted at mischief to Cyrus. “He couldn’t make it today, but it was important that someone came,” he held his hands out, “so here I am.”

“Who are you?” Cyrus asked, letting the disappointment fade lightly.

“An interesting question,” the dark elf said, stepping toward him lightly. “One I suspect you have been asking yourself quite a bit lately.”

“Nice dodge,” Cyrus said.

The dark elf bowed his head. “Thank you. But I wasn’t really dodging, just answering in a roundabout way. My friends—and I extend that courtesy to you because we have a mutual friend or three—some more friend than mutual, and vice versa—but still. My name is Genn.”

“Genn?” Cyrus asked, frowning. “Who are you?”

“Oh, that question again,” Genn said, shaking his head. “Do you even know? Never mind,” he waved a hand. “Oh, all right. Add a ‘Terr’ at the beginning and a ‘den’ to the end, and you have me.” He waved a hand with a flourish.

“Terrgenden?” Cyrus asked. “The God of Mischief?” His hand fell to Praelior, which was now sheathed in his scabbard. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you,” Terrgenden said, and now the amusement was all gone. “Someone had to come … and I drew the short straw.”

“Short straw?” Cyrus asked, his sense of calm fading. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Terrgenden’s veil of amusement vanished, and he took a deep breath, sighing it out as though he were under great duress. “Because someone had to save your life, since you seemed unwilling to do it yourself … and so here I am.” His eyes glittered, but there was no hint of humor there. “And now we will have a talk.”

“What are we going to talk about?” Cyrus asked, noting the hint of chill coming off the wind whipping in from the Plains of Perdamun. “Mischief?”

“Ohh,” Terrgenden said, shaking his head, sounding mildly distressed. “Everyone always says that to me. ‘Oh, you’re the God of Mischief,’ ‘Oh, you’re responsible for the trouble I got into that one time I decided to run paint over my neighbor’s donkey and parade him through the square,’ ‘Oh, it’s your fault my brother played a prank on me when we were twelve.’” He made the noise again, a high note in the back of his throat. “It’s exhausting, being the scapegoat for so many.” He looked Cyrus over. “Probably not half as exhausting as being the scapegoat for yourself, though.”

“I’m about to get an Alaric lecture delivered by proxy from the God of Mischief in the middle of my own quarters,” Cyrus said to no one in particular. “This is a heady thing.”

“I’m not the God of Mischief, in point of fact,” Terrgenden said. “You, though—you’re in the process of trying to trick the dragons into getting involved in a battle you don’t think you can win.” He placed a finger on his lip as though contemplating. “Really, which of us is the trickster in this tower?”

“I’m doing what I … have to,” Cyrus said, but he lost all feeling for what he was saying halfway through, his words sounding tinny and far away.

“What you have to? Hm.” Terrgenden’s high voice lowered an octave. “They question I would ask, in my official capacity is … are your actions
just
?”

“Letting the titans continue to rampage across whoever they can crush is about the most unjust thing I can imagine,” Cyrus said, finding a little of the fire that had left him.

“That’s not what I asked.” Terrgenden strolled over to one of the balconies and looked out, apparently admiring the view. “The titans serve the same master you followed once upon a time, Cyrus Davidon.” He turned, a slow spin that almost looked like a movement from a dance. “Who do you serve now? The God of War?” He held a hand high, like a scale. “You are too … soft for him now, aren’t you?” He stared at Cyrus, and it felt as though he were burrowing right into Cyrus’s soul. “Or do you follow … the Ghost of this place?” He waved his hand around the Tower of the Guildmaster. “And who does that make you? Child of Bellarum? Or a protector of Arkaria?”

“It makes me the Guildmaster of Sanctuary,” Cyrus said roughly, his voice under a little strain.