Warlord (37 page)

“Evening,” a scratchy female voice greeted him. The woman stepped out of the shadows, and Cyrus immediately guessed her to be in her fifties. She wore a scarf over her head, along with simple work trousers and a shirt. She had the look of a laborer, and the weariness of a long day was apparent in her posture.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Cyrus said, placing his gauntleted hands on the stone wall that separated him from the woman. “I was wondering how long you’ve lived here?”

The question seemed to catch her by surprise. “Oh, long enough, I suppose,” she answered, and he realized she was trying to count it out rather than being intentionally deceptive.

“Long enough to remember the house that used to be here?” Cyrus pointed at the vacant lot next door, and the woman’s brows surged up.

“Not that long, no,” she said, shaking her head. “That house was falling to ruin when I showed up, and it got hauled off brick by useful brick within a year of me coming here from the other side of town.”

“Ah,” Cyrus said, feeling a pinch of regret. “So you don’t know who used to live there?”

She shrugged. “Not really. Some of the older lasses from this street might know. Joenne, across the way, perhaps.” She pulled her pipe out of her mouth, pointing its stem at the house across the street. Cyrus turned to look, but not a light was on in the windows. “She’s out of town at the moment,” the woman said. “Visiting family in the Northlands.”

“So how long have you actually been here?” Andren asked, furrowing his own brow in concentration. “By the count of years, if you remember exactly?”

The woman puffed her pipe as she gave it some thought. “I reckon I’ve been here … twenty years now?” she finally decided. “Since I bought this place from that elven dame.”

“Hmm,” Cyrus said, still feeling the pinch of disappointment. “Thanks for your—”

“What elven dame?” Andren asked. “Do you recall her name?”

“Like you know every elf,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“Well, I might,” Andren said with a shrug.

“Mmmm,” the woman said, taking another draw of the pipe as its red light flared with her intake. “What was her name? She was a stately one, seemed like the sort who’d act like she was better than you—you know, like elves do—”

“I have heard that about them,” Andren agreed. He nudged Cyrus with his shoulder, lightly. “He’d know. He’s about to marry one.”

“I am n—” Cyrus gave him a dirty look.

“Corinne?” The woman asked, drawing Cyrus’s attention back to her before he realized she was trying to recall the name of the elf she’d bought the house from. “No, that’s not it … Cora. That’s it. Cora. That was her.” The old lady nodded, seemingly sure, and took another smoke.

Cyrus, for his part, sat there in the street, his hands on the stone fence, skin gone cold, tingles working their way up the crown of his skull.

“Well,” Andren said with immense self-satisfaction, “as it turns out, we both know her. What are the odds of that coincidence?”

“So low as to not be coincidence at all,” Cyrus said, the chill wind wrapping itself around his skin like a blanket. “In fact, I would say it’s well-nigh impossible.”

When Cyrus returned to Sanctuary, dusk had passed and darkness had fallen. He made his way through the grounds, around the ancient walls of the keep, the stones glistening in the dark from specks of lighter sand grains catching the reflection of the watch fires around the curtain wall.

He found her out in the garden, atop the bridge, staring down into the dark waters below. The pond was scarcely a few feet deep, but with the moon overhead and the watch fires burning, he could see her reflection where she looked down into the water as he approached.

“Hey,” he said, announcing himself. She did not look up, merely continued staring, her hands firmly planted on the stone railing that kept her from falling into the water below.

“Hello,” she said, a bit distantly compared to how she’d been of late. He sidled up next to her, planting his own hands against the railing and leaning. “I expected you ages ago, honestly.”

“I hope you’re not insulted that I’m late,” Cyrus said. “I wanted to give you some space, honor your wishes and all that.”

“I assure you I am not offended,” she said, leaning over to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Merely lost in my own contemplations.”

“About Alaric?” Cyrus asked, though he already knew the answer.

“About Alaric,” she agreed. “About where he might be if he is in fact still alive.”

“Well, when last I saw him he was in the Tower of the Guildmaster,” Cyrus said with a quiet smile. “But I expect you and I have, uh, explored every surface of that place over the last few months, and I don’t think he’s hiding in there now.” Cyrus paused. “Though if he is … he’s had quite an eyeful.”

“Indeed,” Vara said. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? The idea of searching for a man who can go as insubstantial as the mist. It rather boggles the mind when trying to decide where even to start.”

“I figure if he wants to be found,” Cyrus said, “he’ll let me know where to go. Until then,” he swept a hand toward the walls in the distance, and a hoot of laughter echoed in the night from atop them, “I have the responsibility he left.”

“I helped give away his armor to Terian,” Vara said, her face pinched.

“Which is strange because when I saw Alaric, he was wearing it,” Cyrus said with a shrug. “But then again, that was before Terian had it.” He frowned. “Maybe we should ask the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar his take on the matter.”

“Curatio gave him the armor,” Vara said with certainty. “I pilfered the helmet from the shrine once I heard what he was doing.” She nodded toward the small structure just past the bridge.

“And why did you do that exactly?” Cyrus asked. “I’m a little fuzzy on the logic there.”

“Terian was in need,” Vara said, and there was not a trace of doubt in her tone. “He was trying to make right a long series of wrongs, and he was without armor as he headed into a crucial battle. Whatever Terian did that caused us to cast him out, after Saekaj and Yartraak, I was convinced that he was making every effort to strive for the redemption he spoke of.” She lowered her voice. “Under those circumstances, I felt Alaric would want him to have the best possible chance at success.”

“Well, it seems to have worked out well,” Cyrus said. “He’s as changed a man as any I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a curious process to watch it play out in reverse,” Vara said, her face a little haunted. “I watched Archenous go from paladin to dark knight right under my nose, losing his soul to the reckless desire for power.” She flicked her gaze to him. “You asked me earlier what I fear? I fear that. I have seen in you, since the beginning, the same threads of ambition that he wove into purest darkness. I have counseled you all along to walk the right side of the path, to steer away from vengeance, turning you from warrior of Bellarum to the nearest thing to a paladin without magic that I could.” She stepped closer, and placed a bare hand upon his breastplate. “I have watched you struggle under burdens that would crush lesser men, watched you make difficult choices that others would have made more simply, expediently, and utterly wrongly. You took the harder path, and I admire you for it.” She bit her lower lip lightly. “But still … I fear. I fear what you would become if you chose the path of the warlord that everyone has always accused you of wanting to be.”

“I’m not a warlord,” Cyrus said, his throat dry. “I’m a Guildmaster.”

“You’re the Lord of Perdamun,” Vara said, “unchallenged by any government in that title. You need but reach out your hand and this whole land would be yours, a territory that would stretch from Prehorta down to the Waking Woods, all the way to the Bay of Lost Souls and around to the Perda. You could be a King with but a command, and the peasantry that remain here would accept gladly the thought of protection that would come from so strong an authority.”

“Don’t I have enough trouble running a guild at this point?” Cyrus asked. “I mean, I can’t even get Vaste to shut up for more than five seconds unless you threaten him with lewd stories about our romantic interludes—”

“I know you jest,” she said, but there was seriousness laced all through her stiff bearing, “but I see you caught between being the Warden of the Southern Plains, with a desire to protect all under your tent, and the man who would strive to fix every problem in the world the way he solved those of the goblins, the trolls and the dark elves.”

“Well, I’m up against a problem now that’s bound to keep me from exercising those imperial ambitions anytime soon,” Cyrus said, not really sure what to say but to quip.

Vara nodded in clear discomfort at his answer. “You don’t fear what you would become?”

“Not with you here beside me,” Cyrus said, and he leaned in to kiss her. She hesitated just a moment, then reciprocated, and she filled his arms as they got lost in each other—

And then a giant pillar of water doused them both, rushing down Cyrus’s collar as it fell with more volume than any rain he had ever seen, a steady gush as though the pond had leapt forth over the bridge railing and attacked them. Cyrus sputtered as the water splashed through his armor, soaking his underclothes. Vara let out a scream of protest at the sensation, and once it had drained away, they stood there staring at each other as quiet footsteps broke the silence behind Cyrus.

He spun to find Curatio standing there, wearing something approaching a smirk on his tired face. “Good evening, you two. Did I interrupt something?”

“What the hell sort of spell was that?” Vara asked, her outrage bleeding out through the chattering of her teeth.

“As with most I know, a heretical one,” Curatio said with a smile. “Would you like to see it again?”

“No,” Cyrus said, the steady drip off his armor louder than the steps Curatio had taken approaching them.

“Did you come here just to dump cold water on us?” Vara asked, spreading her arms wide and slinging excess dampness off her vambraces. Liquid spilled out from where her gauntlets were missing, heavy at first and then slowing to a drip.

“Not at all,” Curatio said, the smile disappearing. He looked straight at Cyrus. “Ehrgraz is here. He approached quietly in the night and asked a sentry at the wall to speak with you. Scared the poor bastard out of his mind; thought he was alone, and then suddenly, a dragon’s face was in his, making a polite inquiry.” The healer shook his head. “He says …” The elf’s eyes narrowed as he delivered the message, as though suspicion hid behind them, “… he says it is most urgent.”

Ehrgraz was waiting in the night, lurking just outside the curtain wall, eyes catching the light of the watch fires as they glowed like hot coals. He tracked Cyrus’s approach with fervent intensity but said nothing until Cyrus was nearly upon him.

“Cyrus Davidon,” Ehrgraz said, locking eyes with him. “So kind of you to grace me with your presence at last.”

“You should have sent a messenger,” Cyrus said, folding his arms in front of him as Vara settled in next to him, Curatio a few paces behind. “I would have scheduled you an appointment.”

Ehrgraz’s nose flared red in the night as fire appeared to rise out of it. “I do hope you’re joking.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Cyrus managed a tight smile at the dragon as the wind whipped in out of the east. “What can I do for you?” Beads of water ran down his skin from where Curatio had drenched him, and the wind gave him a bit of a chill.

“I have come to propose something to you,” Ehrgraz said, speaking more slowly than he usually did.

“Propose away,” Cyrus said, suddenly conscious that Vara was very close to him.

“I want to bring the dragons into your little war,” Ehrgraz said.

“So do it,” Cyrus said, cutting him off.

“If only it were that easy,” Ehrgraz said, his patience strained slightly judging by the tone of his voice. “But there is a way.”

“Not an easy one, I assume?” Cyrus asked, now warier than before.

“No,” Ehrgraz said softly. “Not easy at all. For either of us.”

“Make yourself plain, Ehrgraz,” Cyrus said. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to attack Yonn’revenn—the Dragonshrine.”

Curatio gasped and Cyrus turned to look at the healer, who recovered quickly. “Are you quite out of your mind, Ehrgraz?” Curatio asked. “You want us to attack your most sacred place?”

“I don’t
want
you to attack it,” Ehrgraz said slowly, with a hint of regret. “I
need
you to.”

“How does us attacking your shrine help get your dragons into the war against the titans?” Vara asked. “It seems to me that doing such a thing, if you view it that strongly, would invariably lead to you declaring war against
us
, not the titans.”

“And there is the difficulty,” Ehrgraz said. “You must not be seen to do it. It must appear as though the titans are responsible.” His wings moved in the dark, shadow against the plains ground. “I am not talking about some mean attack upon the outside, or some ineffectual slap at one of its defenders, either. It must be an attack, true, damaging and utterly abhorrent.” He lifted up, placing a clawed hand upon the edge of the curtain wall, bringing his enormous abdomen up as he did so. With his other claws he brought a small pouch, roughly the size of a gnome’s head. “You’ll need this if you’re to succeed.”

“What is it?” Cyrus asked, plucking the leather bag from Ehrgraz’s grasp. It was sealed, like a coinpurse.

“It is an alchemical compound of ancient derivation,” Ehrgraz said, narrowing his eyes. “And I do mean ancient, from the days when the demons of old still walked the world.”

“The … what of what?” Cyrus asked.

Ehrgraz made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “You short-lived races!” he grumbled. “Not you, Curatio, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Curatio said, nodding. “In the days before the War of the Gods, there were fiercer things roaming Arkaria. The ancients, at the height of their empire, brought these dangers to heel in what they—and we—called ‘the taming of the land.’”

“They wiped out the demons of old,” Ehrgraz said. “As best they could, at least.” He chuckled. “They did a poor job of it, though, or rather limited, at least.”