Warlord (2 page)

“I just can’t seem to find an answer that will satisfy you,” Cyrus said, hanging by his fingertips. He looked down into the blackness below, his shoulder muscles straining, on fire with the exertion. “What do you want? I’m a warrior. I’m a general. I’m a—”

WHO ARE YOU?
This time it wasn’t just the darkness that asked. Red eyes gleamed in the ebony chasm, like someone had lit twin fires beneath him, burning bright in the midst of an endless sea of blackness.
WHO ARE YOU?
The voice rattled across the rock and through his armor, into his very bones. The force of it drove the ash into fine clouds, blotting out the already dark sky and surrounding Cyrus in artificial night.

He hung there for another moment, sweating, sticky, his face covered in the fine ash that had started to drip in beads of sweat down into his eyes, where it burned. “I don’t know what you want from me,” Cyrus said to the eyes in the dark, “but—”

With one last bellowing question—
WHO ARE YOU?
—the rock beneath Cyrus’s hand cracked and turned him loose from his perch. He thrashed his feet around but found no purchase, and he dropped into the darkness below and the ruby light of the twin eyes swelled with his fall, until they swallowed him whole—

“Cyrus,” came the soft whisper in his ear as long, gentle fingers brushed against his shoulder, shaking him awake as lightly as if he were being touched by a morning breeze, “you’re dreaming. Wake up.”

Despite the nightmarish vision he’d been caught up in only a moment earlier, he was still slow to open his eyes. When he finally pried them apart, they quickly captured the setting around him: wood supports lining the ceiling, the circular construction of the cap of a vast tower, and a smooth, pale face hovering just above him, her blond hair flowing over each shoulder unrestrained by her usual ponytail.

“That was not a dream,” Cyrus rasped, levering himself up. Vara’s hand was upon his bare chest, lightly, her delicate fingers touching his skin with little more pressure than he might have found from having a small bird perched upon him. He ran his fingers, thick and rough, over a day’s worth of beard growth on his jaw as he exhaled. There was a foul taste in his mouth, not unlike the ash he’d dreamed of.

“No, I expect it wasn’t, given the noises you were making.” Vara brushed hair back to reveal the delicate points of her elven ears. A few light freckles showed on her nose, summer’s kiss upon his lady’s skin. He blinked the afterimage of his nightmare away as he stared into her beautiful, concerned face. Her hair was a little mussed from where it had been pressed against the pillow that now rested beneath her elbow. She lowered her voice, but the concern so evident on her face seeped into it nonetheless. “Cyrus, the war has been over for months.”

“Huh?” He stared at her, perplexed, until he realized what she was talking about. “No, it wasn’t—I wasn’t at Leaugarden.”
Not this time, anyway.
That battle had figured in more than a few of his nightmares of late, and the elf’s assumption was reasonable—though wrong, in this instance. His eyes trailed around the room until they fell upon the wooden dummy that held his armor, stationed at the end of the bed. A matching figure holding silver-gleaming armor designed for the slim woman in bed next to him stood next to his own, so close that they could have held gauntlets with one another.
Still not quite used to that—but I do like seeing this particular sign of the changing times. Unlike … others.

“Oh, good,” Vara said, and the exhalation of relief that followed stirred the hair upon his chest. She laid her head upon his shoulder, and he found his eyes drawn to the part of her hair, to the faint, pale skin peeking out between the flowing golden locks. “What was it this time, then?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said, clearing his throat, which felt as scratchy as if he’d swallowed a thistle—or a face full of ash. “Some loud voice asking, ‘Who are you?’ as the world fell apart around me.”

“I hope you answered them appropriately.”

“I did.” Cyrus rubbed at his bare throat, fingers finding the ridged scar above it, bare of the rough stubble that sprang up on the rest of his neck. “Apparently, whoever it was did not find my answer satisfactory.”

She ran her fingers down his chest, her breath stirring against the hair. “Did you tell them your full titles?”

“Of course,” he answered before really thinking about it. He paused afterward, realizing he’d been tricked. “Oh, you—”

“I always get a bit irritable when you recite all of them as well,” she said, pulling away enough for him to see the twinkle of amusement in her striking blue eyes. “Not only does it take all day, Guildmaster of Sanctuary, but it makes you sound a bit windy.”

“Oh, does it?” He snaked an arm around her bare back and pulled her close, drawing a laugh. She did not resist as he pressed her naked chest to his own and drew her face to his and kissed her. He felt her tongue work its way through his lips and did not resist; she did not taste like ashes, that was certain.

When she was done, she pulled her lips from his and opened her eyes slowly. She gave him a canny look, like she could read his intention, but she asked anyway. “What do you have in mind here, Warden of the Southern Plains?”

“Well …”

She let out a slight groan and shifted in his arms. “I should have known.”

“What?” He ran fingers over her back, finding the scar and letting his touch run over it. She no longer stiffened at his touching of it; in fact, she did not seem to notice at all anymore.
Almost like the one on my back, though I don’t care if I ever see Aisling again. If I were to run across Archenous Derregnault, though … well, I shouldn’t mind if I got a chance to cross blades with that bastard.

“I would swear you have but two interests,” she said, leaning her forehead against his chest, tucking it into the curve under his chin so that he could smell her hair. It wafted a clean scent, like fresh soap. “War and sex, with perhaps an occasional allowance to be made for the intake of enough food to continue both.”

“Well,” he said, his fingers on her shoulders now, “war and sex are both hungry businesses.”

“Yes, and your appetites for both are certainly vast.” She pulled her head up so that she could look at him with those eyes. “Almost as large as your—” she halted, and Cyrus felt his eyebrows spike upwards, “—land holdings, Lord of Perdamun.” Her eyes gleamed again, this time with amusement that caused her lips to curl in a smile. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Something a great deal more complimentary,” Cyrus said, looking directly into her eyes and letting her look back into his, “and more pertinent to the matter at hand.”

“Ohhh,” she let out a sigh. “It is the middle of the night, and you’ve woken me from a sound sleep. I do not know if you noticed upon my kiss, but a poor taste lingers in my mouth—”

“Sorry about that.”

She raised an eyebrow in amusement. “It was not your doing, on this occasion, though I might suggest drinking fruit juices more regularly in the future.” She pursed her lips and looked vaguely … pouty, for once, he decided. “I can promise you that on the morrow, I will be fully happy to engage in almost whatever you wish to partake in—within reason—when I am fully awake. But for tonight …” Her voice entered the territory of a plea. “Can we not just go back to sleep?”

“I suppo—”

He was cut off mid-thought by the sound of a trumpeting from somewhere in the night. It echoed and resonated through the stone walls around them, stripped of the volume he knew it would have contained only a floor below in the officer’s quarters. It was followed by another blast, and then the ringing of persistent bells, and the sound of shouting—faint, but growing in intensity with every passing second—filled the night.

“ALARUM! ALARUM!”

Cyrus’s eyes met Vara’s, and he saw hers widen in surprise as they both hurried to leave the warm, comforting sheets behind for the cold suits of armor that sat on the mannequins at the end of the bed, waiting for their wearers.

“I’m amazed at how fast you changed from ‘Let’s just go back to sleep’ to being ready for action,” Cyrus grumbled as they descended the stairs. Vara loped along ahead of him, taking them three at a time, her hand on her sword.

She shot him a serious look. “If you’d lived through the year of the siege, you might be a bit more circumspect about this and a little less grumpy.” He could see the tension in her shoulders even through the armor, in the way she held herself, in the tight lines around her eyes, and the way the humor she’d displayed in bed had vanished the moment the shouts, bells and trumpets had reached them.

“If you’d acceded to my desires about five minutes ago, maybe then I’d be less grumpy, but otherwise—”

“What the hell is going on?” J’anda Aimant’s thin voice sounded surprisingly strong as he rushed down the steps behind Cyrus. He wore full-length blue robes with runes stitched into the luxurious material, and vestments hung over his neck like a scarf with ancient lettering that marked him as an enchanter. He carried with him a long staff of metal that came to a glassy orb at the tip. It glowed purple from deep within, some magic that looked as though it might leak out at any moment. In spite of wrinkled blue skin and an aged look that had drained some of the vibrancy from his step, the enchanter easily caught up with both Cyrus and Vara, his quickness belying his appearance.

He's been different since he returned from Saekaj Sovar
, Cyrus thought, watching the dark elf’s speedy approach.
Faster, more energetic. Enough to put to lie the appearance of age he picked up in Luukessia
. He glanced at the orb atop the staff and wondered, not for the first time, exactly where J’anda had gotten it. Answers, however, had not been forthcoming. “No idea,” Cyrus said. “Other than a bellowing of ‘ALARUM’ from what sounds like the foyer.”

“Could it be danger at the walls?” Vara asked, and a thin streak of worry laced through her voice, almost causing it to crack a bit. “Some siege force, perhaps?”

“I looked out the balcony windows while you were putting on your greaves,” Cyrus said, eyeing her. “There’s nothing on the plains and a full moon shines down.”

“The portal in the foyer, then,” J’anda said as they came to a great clot of people upon the stairs. The staircase was jammed full, and Cyrus stopped before running full-on into a familiar, black-robed, green-skinned figure.

“Hihi,” Vaste said, turning to look up at the three of them. He looked past Cyrus and Vara to J’anda. “What, did you go to bed with these two tonight?”

“No,” J’anda said, voice strangely husky. “It takes me a little longer to dress these days.”

“You certainly weren’t slow coming down those stairs,” Cyrus noted, and his eyes fell to the staff again.

J’anda reached forward and swiftly tapped Cyrus on the head with one of the metal fingers that clutched the globe at the tip of his staff. It made a tinging noise that echoed in Cyrus’s ear, and it actually hurt a little from the impact, causing Cyrus to step down onto the stair beside Vaste. Cyrus shook off the ringing from his ears and looked up to see the enchanter smiling at him. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?” J’anda asked.

Cyrus opened his mouth, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. “What’s it called?”

“Rasnareke,” J’anda said, flourishing the staff, purple orb glowing, “the Ward of Justice.”

“Who gave it to—”

Something else clanged on the top of Cyrus’s helm, and he cringed, looking back to see Vaste staring at him with black pupils buried in a yellow iris, his white wooden staff still held guiltily high. “Oh, I’m sorry. I saw him do it and thought maybe it was ‘Bop Cyrus on the Head Day.’ Which, I might add, would easily be my favorite holiday save for ‘Beat the Stuffing Out of Ryin Day.’”

“Did someone say my name?” Ryin Ayend’s high voice shouted from across the open space of the staircase’s spiral. Cyrus looked down to see him half a circle away, looking around for the speaker.

Cyrus adjusted his helm again, slightly, less out of need than in hope for the ringing in his ears to stop, and his gaze fell to Vara. “Usually in the past,” he said as her eyes met his, “you would take several people knocking me about the skull as an opportunity to land a hit of your own.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Things are not as they were in the past, though, are they?” She smiled, just a trace. “However much I might occasionally wish it in the middle of the night, you randy little—”

“Okay,” Vaste said and turned abruptly with a twirl of his robes, “This is just so adorable I think I’m going to be nauseous.” He paused. “Yes. Yes, that’s nausea. Clearly a reaction to your oh-so-cutesy natures, and it’s manifesting in—” He brought up a hand and placed it over his lips. “Going to vomit. Yes. It’s happening.” He looked over the side of the staircase and down. “Ryin! Come here! I have need of your robes to catch my regurgitation.”

Cyrus looked across the gap and saw Ryin looking around again, once more apparently searching for whoever called his name. “You’re going to give that poor man an ache in his neck.”

“The nausea’s passed,” Vaste announced, straightening up.

“Are you certain?” Vara asked, looking at him innocently.

“Mostly,” the troll said, regarding her with a healthy dose of suspicion. “Why?”

Vara grasped Cyrus by his newly shortened hair and dragged his head down for a kiss, long and passionate, and interrupted by a heaving noise from Vaste. “I’m just going to jump off here,” the troll said, leaning over the edge of the staircase. “Make sure no one resurrects me at the bottom.”

Vara laughed in a somewhat evil way at his discomfort. “After years of you tormenting me, troll, I see nothing but advantage in this.”

Vaste’s lips pursed and faded to an almost yellow color. “This is what you get for wishing people well. From now on I’m wishing you nothing but ill.” The faint sound of someone shouting “Alarum!” below wafted its way up to them as the clot on the stairs began to work its way loose and movement resumed. “On second thought,” he said, “perhaps I’ll wait on that until we see how this works out.”