Warlord (21 page)

“Oh, gods, I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Vaste swelled in size. “You put me in the group that’s fated for death, didn’t you?” He raised a hand over his mouth. “Well, I hope you’ll be happy when I haunt your sorry, muscular arse for all the rest of your days. I won’t be one of those calm, placid spirits, either, I’ll be the kind that issues one of those deathly screams right when you’re most intimate with Vara—”

“I might not hear you over my own screaming,” Cyrus volleyed back.

Vaste paused. “Ick. Icky. Ick ick ick.”

“You’ll be fine,” Cyrus assured him, and then moved on. The space in which the portal stood was a clearing in which the tall grasses of the savanna did not grow for some reason. Cyrus had long ago stopped pondering the mysteries of magic and its effects, instead focusing on watching the ceaseless motion of the army groups as they were teleported in and then shuffled back behind the portal and out of the zone where the spells carried the newly arrived.

He slowed as he walked past Andren and Martaina, whose heads were close together, Martaina’s chainmail coif hanging loose between her shoulder blades. He realized with surprise that he had not seen her wear that piece of armor in quite some time, and as Andren brought a hand around to hold the back of her head, she moved slightly and he heard the links rattle just a little.
That’s why
, he thought.
The noise.

Cyrus walked past Thad almost without noticing him, save for his head was turned in a different direction than the rest of his own army, which was waiting quietly in formation before the red-armored warrior. Thad was looking across at Martaina and Andren with something that looked very much like longing. “You all right, soldier?” Cyrus asked, pausing, and speaking so low that Thad’s army couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Thad jumped as though he’d been caught committing a crime. “I—no—nothing—uh, sorry sir.”

“Thad,” Cyrus said, low and reassuring. He traced the warrior’s former sightline and repeated his inquiry. “You going to be okay?”

“I’m fine,” Thad said, swallowing his emotions in an instant. He puffed up slightly. “I’m, uh—” He swallowed again.

“I’ve been where you are,” Cyrus said quietly, lowering his voice so that no one else could hear them. “It gets easier.”

“I’d heard that about you,” Thad said, low and gruff, but with a very slight intonation of wonder. “About your—your wife.”

“First wife, I hope,” Cyrus said, looking around until he found a shining silver helm with blond hair leaking out of it in a golden ponytail.

“Gets easier, does it?” Thad asked, casting his eyes sideways.

“Not at first,” Cyrus said, “but yes. It’ll burn for a bit, but eventually it’ll get easier.” He looked at Andren and Martaina, now locked at the lips. “Mostly.”

“What happened to your—your first wife, sir?” Thad asked.

Cyrus paused as he felt something lurch within him. “I hear she survived the sack of Reikonos and is back to running her stand in the markets, selling flowers to any who would buy them.”

“Have you seen her, then?” Thad asked.

“No,” Cyrus said, and he smiled, though there was no joy in it. “I don’t have the heart to see her.” He placed a hand on Thad’s shoulder. “Just hang in there and hold fast to your duty until your heart lightens.” He gave a glance at the small army waiting on Thad. “You’ve got a lot to worry about today, but I know you’re up to the challenge.” And he started away.

“Uh … what if it never does, sir?” Thad asked, sounding still worried, though perhaps a touch calmer than he’d started out. “If it never lightens, I mean?”

“We’ll talk about it after you get some titan blood on you,” Cyrus said in a low whisper, motioning his small, precursor army into formation behind him. He watched Andren and Martaina break free of each other and fall in, but Thad was already focused ahead with his own small army on the march, heading slightly left of where Cyrus’s was going.
That’s the way to do it.

“Are you going forth and spreading your experience again?” Vara asked as he slipped into position at the head of the army next to her.

“That and my sunny disposition,” Cyrus quipped. Nyad stood next to Vara on the other side, and Curatio beyond that. They marched quickly, though not at a terrible pace for Cyrus with his long legs.

They walked in silence through the long grass for hours, the whisper of it brushing Cyrus’s armor and being trod under the boots of the small army group that followed him. The gentle night wind rolled through, causing the stalks to wave above Cyrus’s head. He fell into the quiet that permeated the night, losing his own thoughts as he marched in time, each footstep in a cadence he lost measure of after a time, until he felt like all he had ever done was march, and it was all that was in his future as well.

Who are you?
he wondered.
Guildmaster? General? Warrior?
He flicked his eyes sideways and was rewarded with a glimpse of Vara, cheeks red with the exertion of the march, hair shining where it flowed from underneath her helm. She already had the nose guard down, obscuring her face, but he could have traced every line by memory if he had a charcoal pencil with which to work and a little parchment.
Lover? Friend?

Are these the things that define me?
He looked down and saw his armor, dark in the night, like a shadow out of place in the eve.
Or is it this?
This is how they know me in Reikonos, in Pharesia. The warrior in black, known by the armor my father left behind?
He let out a low breath that felt almost like a joyless laugh.
To be remembered for what my father gave me rather than anything I did …

The soft crunch of the ground underfoot persisted with each countless step. Cyrus let the compass Vara held be his guide, watching the metal spin in the curious device as they stalked through the night. It was the work of hours, and soon enough he heard a boisterous laugh from somewhere in the distance. When it came through, he held up a hand to stop his small force, waiting and listening.

“What is it?” Cyrus murmured quietly, looking sideways at Vara, who was stiff, her ears hidden under her helm. “What are they saying?”

“They’re making a very crude joke, I believe,” she said, eyes moving as she considered what she was hearing. “Typical soldiers.”

“But they don’t know we’re approaching?” Cyrus asked, a little more urgently.

She listened intently again then shook her head. “I don’t believe so. All I hear is casual conversation. No alarm, no watchfulness—just talk and the crackle of a fire below the tower.”

Cyrus smiled. “Well, that’s good. Whoever’s down there won’t be able to see squat in the darkness, not with that big light spoiling their night vision.”

“Take care,” she said, with a hand upon his shoulder in caution, “we don’t know how acute titan eyes are.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I know how cute yours are. Your ears, too—”

She rolled her eyes and made a
pfft!
noise with her lips, but he could see that she was pleased with the compliment. He motioned the army forward, and they continued their advance, this time toward the faint spot of light ahead of them through the grass. It grew brighter and more visible as they made progress, and soon enough Cyrus could see the tower above. Here was where the nerves kicked in, and he watched to make sure that the army spread the way he’d ordered, passing between blades of grass without touching them wherever possible, giving them only the lightest suggestion of contact, as though nothing but the wind were moving through the savanna.

It took the better part of an hour to make the final approach, so obsessed was Cyrus with not tipping their hand. It took a sort of maddening patience that he didn’t normally possess, and as soon as he was able, he locked his eyes onto the top of the watch platform and did not remove them from the titan atop it, keeping careful watch on the beast several hundred feet above him. It was an enormous platform, one designed to give the already-tall titans an extra boost to thrice their normal height. Cyrus estimated the tower was some forty feet in the air, a construction of mammoth logs and strong rope.

There was only one titan atop it. With a careful motion to his army to halt once more, Cyrus began a long creeping approach along the side. For the last hour he’d noticed that the titan on watch had not looked in any direction but straight ahead.
He’ll pay for that
, Cyrus thought.

Cyrus circled quietly around the camp, coming out at the rear and getting a quick look at the titans now sleeping around the fire. Only one was awake on the ground, and three were dozing, one of them very fitfully only feet away from the grass where he surveilled them.

“Easy pickings,” came a voice from beside him, and Cyrus nearly jumped as he turned to see Martaina there, edging close to him. “Terrible watch protocol, with the fire and low numbers of guards.”

“I agree,” Cyrus murmured, almost afraid to speak. He watched the lone titan on the ground lean against one of the support posts for the tower. “Well … that could be useful …”

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Martaina said softly. “Even if we could somehow kill him in one good stroke, which is hardly a foregone conclusion, it wouldn’t do much but unsteady the watch tower and tip the one above that they’re under attack, giving him a perfect chance to shout his alarm all over the savanna. Maybe someone hears him and maybe they don’t, but …”

“Right,” Cyrus said, nodding slowly. “Not a good chance.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Go back around and bring the army here. No point in coming at their front.”

She gave him a raised eyebrow as if she wanted to argue. “You just going to sit here by yourself until we get back?”

“Well, I’m damned sure not going to charge out into the middle of them to try and silently kill them myself,” Cyrus said, “though I appreciate your assessment of either my skill or my insanity.”

“Be right back,” she promised almost noiselessly, and she whispered off through the brush. He did hear the chainmail coif rattle just slightly as she did so, confirming in his mind his earlier guess.
But hopefully not loud enough for a titan to hear it over this gusting wind.

He sat there on the edge of the titan camp, waiting, watching. The lone waking titan on the ground began to pace every few minutes, walking back and forth under the tower, letting out a mighty yawn at one point. His footsteps did not quite shake the ground, but Cyrus felt them where he waited, the blades of grass twitching just slightly at the force of the steps.

Cyrus felt an internal pressure, like something squeezing him, compelling him forward.
I could kill those things, couldn’t I?
They can’t all be as strong as Talikartin. I’ve killed them before. Go at their knees, drop them down, open their throats … not a quiet business, though, unfortunately. That’s a mark in the favor of waiting
.

It was almost like an itch under his scalp, the desire to charge forth and unleash havoc. He drew slow breaths, calm in and chaos out, until the desire passed. Soon enough, he heard motion, not nearly so quiet as Martaina, and out of the grass came Vara at the head of the army. Cyrus moved his gaze back to the titans, but they continued their rounds seemingly unaware of the small force just behind them.

“I need Falcon’s Essence,” Cyrus said, low, and let the word be passed rather than shouting it out like he normally would, “Vara too, and all of group A.” He looked at the even smaller sliver of his army that comprised group A, and after a moment, they all began to float, though he felt his feet leave the ground before the others. “We go at the count of five, so ready yourselves.” He turned to face the camp, and held a hand aloft, all his fingers extended. One by one, he lowered them as he counted off.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1
—

And he led the quiet charge into the camp of the titans, almost soundlessly as they raced in to kill their foes in the still night.

After all the long waiting, Cyrus found the rush of true wind against his face invigorating. He did not spare the speed of Praelior, not this time, and circled the encampment in a rush, slitting the throats of two of the titans swiftly before the rest of his army caught up with him. The noise he unleashed in doing so was not quiet, a choking, gasping, gurking noise that caused the sentry under the platform to spin to see what was happening.

Cyrus was already on the move upward, though, trying to ignore the titan below as best he could.
The others will handle it
, he thought, ignoring the instinct to rush back down. Instead he circled in a hard spiral up the tower, running on imaginary stairs. He paced his climb perfectly, ensuring that he came even with titan’s platform around the creature’s back.

A small cry of surprise split the night, causing Cyrus’s target to jump in reaction. It did not cause Cyrus so much as a moment’s hesitation, however, and he plunged Praelior into the titan’s knotted flesh under the back plate the creature wore to protect its vital organs. It looked rather like a finger-sized dagger plunging into a creature that size, but the titan grunted in pain as Cyrus ripped the blade back out of the leathery skin and continued upward just a little further.

The titan jerked in pain at his attack, as though he’d been stung by an insect instead of a full-sized sword.
This is the problem with titans and dragons, it just takes so many hits to kill the bastards when they’re not lying there waiting for their throats to get cut
.

Cyrus watched the titan spin his head toward him, jerking as he saw the black-armored warrior right in front of his nose. Before he could cry out in shock, Cyrus buried Praelior directly in the joint of his jaw, drawing a muffled grunt of pain and a reactionary swipe at Cyrus, who dodged the blow easily by stepping backward.

The titan’s eyes alighted on Cyrus, fury gleaming within them. “Rogh rawr!” the titan said, clutching his jaw with one hand as he leaned forward to attack Cyrus again. Cyrus merely took another step back and let gravity take its course.

The titan swiped too hard, reached just a little too far, clutching into the night with extended fingers and nothing else. He hit the small wood beam that circled the platform as a guard rail and kept going, the strength of his momentum carrying him over the edge. He tried to scream out in fear as he fell over, but it came out muffled once more as he struggled to open his mouth.