Warlord (44 page)

“What we believe in defines us,” Terrgenden said. “What we tell ourselves we are is part of it as well. So … Sir Davidon … who are you?”

“I’m a man rapidly losing patience.”

“You’re a man who needs to look inward more often, then,” Terrgenden said. “Or perhaps …” And with a flourish, he disappeared and reappeared next to the full-length mirror, “… take a look at yourself?”

“Why would I—” Cyrus started, but he looked at the mirror and saw a flash of a warrior in stained armor, blood running fresh down the black metal, the face visible where it peeked from the helm covered in red, staring out at him with soulless eyes that were blank and yet dark, and he heard a rising scream in his mind—

Cyrus blanched and looked away, bringing a hand up to his forehead to block his sight. When he removed it as the cacophony in his head subsided, Terrgenden was standing right in front of him, watching him carefully. “What did you do?” Cyrus asked.

“I saved your life,” came the reply.

“You keep saying that,” Cyrus said, rubbing at his eyes. “Saved it from what?”

“You were about to charge headlong into the mouth of a fire dragon,” Terrgenden said quietly. “You were going to take its undivided attention upon yourself. Now, listen … anyone inhabiting the responsibility of this place,” he swept a hand around to indicate the tower of the Guildmaster once more, “is bound to develop at least some belief in themselves, some little whisper of ego and ambition to change everything, their own personal god complex …” He shook his head. “You are no god, Cyrus, in spite of whatever you might think. You are no child of a god, no being of incredible power and magic,” he swept his hands in front of him in light circles, twirling his fingers in mockery. “In spite of your armor and sword, you are a man. You live like a man—a brave one, but a man—and you can die as easily as any other.” He words came with a quiet solemnity. “But your time to die is not yet. You have work still in front of you—a man’s work.”

“I’m going to challenge that dragon,” Cyrus said, staring hard at Terrgenden’s surprisingly gentle eyes. “I’m going to do whatever I have to in order to—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Terrgenden said, nodding as he cut him off. “I’m sure you would be very brave, charging right into the thick of the battle, leading from the front … if you were there when it started.”

Cyrus felt a chill roll over him, like a thousand spiders making their way up his back and scalp. “What … did you say?”

Terrgenden took a slow breath. “You are brave.” He nodded, looking a little sad. “Too brave, sometimes, I think. Fearless for the wrong reasons, occasionally, and not fearful enough at the right ones. A man like you could change the world, Cyrus Davidon.” He let that breath out. “And you will. But not today. And certainly not if you died instead of—” And with a wave of his hand, Terrgenden brought down the curtain of night around him—

—and—

—and—

The flash of flame leapt somewhere in front of him, orange fire pouring forth from a dragon some hundred meters ahead of Cyrus, lighting the world around him now that the Tower of the Guildmaster and its blue sky had faded away. Cyrus blinked, and realized he was standing, alone, in front of the door in Merceragg, the dragon of fire’s quarters and—

The entirety of his army was already engaged in the fight.

“No,” Cyrus whispered as he clenched his fist, realizing that Praelior was back in it. He started forward, watching the dragon breathe flame once more, small figures dancing around his head in circles as they swept in and struck—

—without him.

Cyrus charged, dread welling in him, threatening to overflow like water pouring out of Wellsheverr’s quarters. He broke into a hard run, his eyes taking in the sight before him—Odellan, Vara, Thad, Scuddar and Longwell on high, swarming around the dragon’s head, fighting for his attention—

Merceragg whipped back and forth between his choice of targets, each of them moving slower, not endowed with a weapon of the gods, spell magic flashing below the dragon’s dark skin and pale eyes, a thousand blasts of ice and lightning having little effect on the creature but to antagonize him. Cyrus was still some fifty meters away when Merceragg locked eyes on Odellan and—

—and—

A wash of flame bellowed forth from the dragon’s mouth and Odellan was gone in a burst of orange mingled with scarlet. Merceragg swept his snout sideways as Vara rushed out of his path faster than the warrior next to her, his scuffed red armor caught for an instant in the glow of another burst as Thad was swallowed in flame—

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Cyrus screamed as he charged ahead, racing over the heads of the spellcasters on pounding legs.

Merceragg heard him, though, and his eyes locked on Cyrus, on the target streaking toward him. Merceragg’s nostrils flared to take a breath, and Cyrus zagged sideways, trying to remove himself from the thick knot of spellcasters below, tearing free of them to open ground where only one lone figure stood, away from the rest, his white robes and ruddy face staring up at Cyrus as the warrior tore past, trying to lead the inevitable, fiery cataclysm away from the eyes watching just below—

—the eyes of—

Oh, gods.

—of Andren—

The flame surged in Cyrus’s wake as he spun in blind panic, turning on air and nearly twisting himself into a knot. The breath of flame came out of Merceragg’s mouth just a few paces behind Cyrus, falling like a blanket of snow dropped from above, almost wafting down on Andren where he stood—

It danced as it landed, a small lake of fire that existed only for a second before it sputtered out, but long enough to turn the figure of Andren, white robes bright against the stone floor, into a shadow in the fire, then, as it disappeared—

There was nothing left of the healer, not even a trace of ash.

“NOOO!” Cyrus screamed again, and he ran at Merceragg, the world gone red around him. He flailed at the beast, but before he could even reach it, a flash of blood-red light glowed below him, and then came another burst, harsh green. Merceragg jerked, his head wavering atop his neck, recoiling as he staggered under the impact of magics that came from somewhere behind Cyrus.

Merceragg’s eyes went dead, and the dragon sank to the ground, splashing lava out of his nest as he fell onto his back, ungainly in death. His belly was scorched, scales torn free, scars of some powerful magic written all over his corpse. Cyrus looked at the wound as he sank to the ground in a slow spiral, letting the stone floor rise up to meet him as the Falcon’s Essence spell brought him back to earth.

“Are you all right?” Vara asked, sliding up next to him, breathless, from out of the air. She did not wait for his answer but slammed her armor into his, wrapping her arms around him and clanking her helm against his pauldrons.

Cyrus did not answer, merely stood in the silence as Curatio staggered forward, face utterly grey and spent, looking far, far worse than Cyrus had ever seen the healer. He looked as though he might fade away at any moment, keel over and hurt himself in the process. He fell to the ground on his knees, and it looked dimly to Cyrus as though it might have hurt, tears welling at the corner of the healer’s eyes.

“Odellan,” Cyrus said quietly, no one speaking. “Thad.” He heard a choked noise behind him and turned to see Martaina, her grief welling up and threatening to overwhelm her. “Andren.”

The names of the fallen hung in silence in Merceragg’s chamber, the only sound to break it the choked sobs of Martaina Proelius, whose loss was thick in the air. They all felt it, but none dared say anything at all.

“What now?” Vaste asked when they had assembled the officers, outside the dark of Merceragg’s chambers, the army gathered in silence around them.

“You know what now,” Vara said quietly.

“Ah, yes, the Sky dragon,” Vaste said, leaning against an interior wall as though he needed its strength to hold him up. “What’s his name?”

“Vervahz,” Curatio said, voice a thick whisper, gravelly and weak. “He’s the last.”

“Fine,” Vaste said, his own voice lower, heavy with grief. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Not yet,” Cyrus said, almost hollow.

“I just …” Vaste’s whole face sank. “This has been … just a day. Just a … I can’t even find a descriptor, but whatever odious term you’d like to come up with, I’m fine with. In fact, if we made another, even worse term, to describe a day of this sort, something beyond wretched, horrific, tragic, gods-awful—”

“It’s been a Goliath of a day,” Longwell said, sounding utterly drained.

“That just about covers it,” Vaste said, nodding.

“We can’t go yet,” Cyrus said, staring straight ahead at the grey sky between the columns. It truly was like a tease, like he’d been yanked away to a place of beauty and wonder, far from this hellish, torchlit nightmare, and then thrust back into it at the worst possible moment, just in time to see Thad and Odellan die, and to draw fire upon Andren himself. The guilt was like spears, magnified from the daggers of Belkan’s death and Nyad’s and those of the rangers, stabbing into him at all points.

“What happened to you back there?” Vaste asked, focusing on Cyrus. “You just … disappeared. I didn’t get into the room in time to see it, but I caught Odellan and Thad arguing over it, saying it was like you were teleported away.”

“I was in the Tower of the Guildmaster,” Cyrus said, staring straight ahead.

Silence greeted his proclamation. “Did you … see Alaric?” Vara asked finally.

“No,” Cyrus said, his voice growing hoarse with grief. “No, it was someone else.” He glanced at her. “Said Alaric couldn’t make it, so he came instead.”

“Was it anyone we’d know?” Vaste asked with a surprising level of calm.

“Said his name was Terrgenden,” Cyrus said.

“You were pulled from the fight by the God of Mischief?” Vara asked.

Cyrus just stared straight ahead. “So he said.”

“To what purpose?”

Cyrus swallowed heavily. “He said he was there … to save my life.” His voice came out unrecognizable.

Silence fell once more. “To hell with these gods of yours,” Longwell said at last.

“I was thinking that very thing myself,” Cyrus said, and suddenly the howl of a drake in the far distance reached his ears. He came to his feet in an instant, the sound of another screech somewhere, miles away, came to him, followed by another.

“Uh oh,” Vaste said.

“It’s time,” Cyrus said. He listened carefully, but heard nothing. Vara, on the other hand, was standing at rapt attention, listening intently. “Do you hear—?”

Before he even got it out, he heard it as well, the deep thundering of boots on stone. It came from behind them, and the Army of Sanctuary came to their feet in urgency, weapons drawn, frozen out of formation, the grey sky lighting them between the columns of the shrine.

The thundering of feet drew nearer and nearer even as the shrieks of distant dragonkin grew louder. “We won’t have long,” Cyrus said, casting a wide gaze. Everyone was on their feet, save for Curatio, who had pulled himself to one knee, his face sagging in a way Cyrus had not seen from him before.

“It’ll have to be enough,” Vara said, her sword drawn as the sound of the approaching footsteps turned the curve in front of them and burst into their sight.

Five titans came at a run, bellowing as they approached the Army of Sanctuary, roaring with a madness and rage that harmonized well with what Cyrus was feeling at the moment. They came sweeping toward the front of the army, utterly unprepared for assault—

And stopped short just before the edge, slowing to stand in a line, eyes dull and facing forward, staring over the army at their feet.

“Hello there,” J’anda called from atop the titan at the fore. Cyrus saw Mendicant and Ryin each holding onto the necks of their own mounts, the goblin and the man both looking considerably less comfortable than the enchanter. “I apologize for our tardiness, but as it turns out … titan pets are somewhat hard to control for a run as long as the one we just made, even for me.” He twirled his staff slightly as he looked down at them, and then stopped as he met a sea of faces swallowed in grief. His own fell, and he lowered his staff. “Oh, no.”

“You’re a grim lot considering you’ve been slaying dragons all the live long day,” Ryin called from atop his own titan. “It’s almost if someone di—” He froze as the words hung in his throat, and silence once more engulfed the Army of Sanctuary.

The path to the inside of the volcano was wide and obvious, and Cyrus ran along it with Vara and Longwell just behind him, Vaste trailing in tow. He knew from Ehrgraz that he would find no defenders here, and indeed the path to the center of the mountain was empty, a straight rock road that led through the side of the peak. The heat grew more intense the closer they got to the middle, and soon Cyrus was left feeling as though he were in the middle of the battle with Merceragg again, but with a closer look at the inside of the mouth this time—

Like Thad.

Shaking off that thought, he pushed on, his weary legs protesting. They ran in silence, the glow of hot magma ahead lighting their way. The army behind them was already leaving, teleporting out in segments as the final pieces of the plan were being put in place, executed like—

Like Odellan.

Cyrus forced that thought away as he broke through the wide tunnel and into the heart of the volcano. Here the air was searing and heavy, shimmering like the heat of a mirage where he stood a few feet from the edge of the path. He sauntered slowly over to it, half afraid a dragon would come leaping out at him.
I have had enough of dragons for today, for a lifetime—

Like Andren, probably
, his long lifetime cut considerably short.

Cyrus rummaged on his belt for the small leather sack that had hung there for more miles and more days than he could remember now. The journey had all blurred together in his tired mind, days and nights of unrest now punctuated by events so horrific that they almost seemed surreal. He cradled the small bag in his gauntlet, feeling its weight, and after another moment considering it, he tossed it over the edge into the pit below. He leaned over enough to watch it sail down into the pool of bubbling magma a hundred feet beneath them, and felt the others do the same, as though it were some grand sight to see, some final closure for this expedition into the jaws of utter death.