Master (Book 5) (41 page)

“Sounds like the dark elves,” Cyrus said as they reached the ridge of the overlook. Cyrus could see a cave, a dark, gaping mouth extending into the earth. “Sounds about like everything they do under the guidance of their Sovereign.”

“Aye,” Keearyn said, looking at the entry to the rock giant’s cave. “Do ye wish me to await you here, perhaps?”

“No,” Cyrus said with a shake of his head. “Your kindness is appreciated, but perhaps you should wait with your friends, out of the range of possible harm.”

The dwarf swallowed visibly. “Possible … harm?”

“There’s about to be a fight for supremacy,” Cyrus said. “When the healer arrives, tell him to wait with you lot until the earth stops shaking.”

The dwarf’s eyes were wide as wooden shields. “Ye mean to … fight?”

“I mean to fight,” Cyrus said, and felt the smile spread. “Go on, Keearyn, servant of Rotan. Rejoin your people with my thanks.”

The dwarf swallowed heavily again and bowed. “I wish ye greatest luck, Lord Davidon, and thank you again for the gift of my life.”

Cyrus listened and a thought occurred to him. “Make a gift of it, then.” He glanced back at where Keearyn began to retreat. “Do good service with your life; help these people in Emerald Fields carve a place in this valley that will protect and sustain them from harm. Do good works to make them independent and proud. Give your fealty to them and you’ll repay me more than any other act you might perform.”

Keearyn’s eyes looked slightly moist, the corners of his eyes glistening like morning dew pooling on the freshly broken earth. “It will be as you say, Lord Davidon.”

“Go on, then,” Cyrus said, dismissing him, and starting toward the cave mouth with his purpose firmly in mind. “Go forth and do your work.”

The dwarf disappeared down the slope, and Cyrus glanced back only to ensure he was clear of the area before entering the mouth of the cave. In the darkness, he could hear a gentle breathing, reassurance that he was in the right place. With a quickly drawn breath of his own, Cyrus smiled and felt the shadows creep long around him as he entered the place where the rock giant dwelled.

“Cyrus Davidon,” came the rumble as he entered a wide chamber. It was circular, bigger than Fortin’s cell in the Sanctuary dungeons, and wooden shelving stood in one of the corners. Slaughtered goats hung from hooks in the ceiling next to the shelving, dripping slowly into pails set out to catch the blood. The smell of the blood was rich in the air along with the scent of the earth. It was surprisingly fresh, the entry only twenty feet or so, and it did not possess the stale air of a long-shut or deep chamber.

“Fortin the Rapacious,” Cyrus said, his eyes adjusting to the slightly darker chamber. There was enough light from beyond the exit to allow him to see the shape resting in a natural cleft of rock. The eyes were red, of course, and faintly glowed in the dark.

“You have come seeking challenge,” Fortin said. He rose, his craggy skin rumbling as he did so, the sound of an avalanche moving down a hillside.

“I’ve come to subsume your will to my own,” Cyrus said and placed his right hand on his scabbard. “Come to challenge you for the right to govern your fate.”

“You seek to make me your slave?” Fortin asked, an aura of menace threaded through his words.

“I seek to show you who is the master, who is the strongest among us,” Cyrus said. “What you choose to do once that is established is entirely in your hands.”

Fortin breathed into the quiet, an ominous sound. “I told you I would remain in my own service until the day you found someone who could best me in single combat.”

“I found someone who can best you in single combat,” Cyrus said, still maintaining his hold on Praelior. “But I am no master to your slave; I am merely the strength that offers to be your guide.”

The red eyes considered him, and the answer came simply, just before the first movement. “Prove it.”

Fortin sprang through the chamber without warning, his only hint of what was to come the simple invocation he had offered Cyrus. Cyrus, for his part, was ready, and his blade was drawn before the rock giant was even halfway to him. His feet planted, Cyrus prepared, and when he judged the range right, he swung a mighty slash of his blade that caught the rock giant’s arm hard at the elbow. Cyrus ducked and moved, swinging low and reversing, and he caught Fortin with a slash of the blade to the hip that drew a grunt from the rock giant. Unable to change his direction, committed to a charge that would have wiped Cyrus across the floor of his cave in a bloody smear had he succeeded, Fortin stumbled on and landed face-first in the corner of the wall just behind Cyrus.

Cyrus followed his attack without waiting, driving the point of Praelior into the rock giant’s hindquarters. A rocky buttock caught the tip and Fortin roared in pain, lashing backward. Cyrus ducked low, removed his blade and drove it into the rock giant’s knee. Cyrus rolled quickly to his right as Fortin toppled, wiping out a small wooden table in the process.

Cyrus did not waste his time with a boast or an idle taunt. Fortin was face down upon the ground, and Cyrus struck. He drove his blade swiftly into the back of the rock giant’s head, sparing neither mercy nor thought for what he attacked. The blow delivered, he withdrew his sword and stepped back, maintaining a defensive posture.

Fortin did not move, did not stir, remaining still as stone. Cyrus waited there for a moment, then another, circling toward the mouth of the cave. He did not come within arm’s reach of the rock giant, keeping a safe distance. Still, Fortin did not move, and Cyrus edged his way out of the cave until he heard steps behind him.

Cyrus turned and saw a human in white garb hurrying along, the thin, silken vestment draped over his shoulder in a line. “Your name?” Cyrus asked.

“Ah, uhm, Jacub Smythe,” the man said, young and nervous as Cyrus might expect from a healer sent into the den of a rock giant.

“Cast your resurrection spell, Jacub Smythe,” Cyrus said, with a nod toward the fallen body of Fortin. “This is close enough.”

The twitchy young man stopped, blinked, eyes moving from Cyrus to the body and then back again. “This is close enough,” he finally decided, as though he had heard something truly wise. He closed his eyes, hands moving quickly, words coming out under his breath. A white gleam appeared from his hands, draping the corpse of Fortin, and the healer sighed, words spoken.

Fortin roared into the earth, surging to his feet so quickly he slammed his head against the ceiling of the cave. Dust and pebbles rained down and the rock giant screamed in pain at the fresh harm to his wound. He hit his knees as Cyrus watched, placing himself between the healer and the rock giant, who staggered, finally catching sight of Cyrus in the entry to the cave.

“I have bested you,” Cyrus said, still in a defensive posture, blade at the ready. “Do you yield?”

“You … killed me?” Fortin asked.

“I killed you,” Cyrus said. “Healer Smythe resurrected you.”

Fortin stood silently, swaying just a bit against the dark background of the cave. “I have only fallen in battle once before. This is … disconcerting.” The rock giant made a rumbling noise within his chest, something guttural that did not encourage Cyrus to step forth.

“Do you yield?” Cyrus asked again, an edge to his voice.

“I yield,” Fortin rumbled. “You have bested me, Warlord Davidon.”

“I’m not a Warlord,” Cyrus said, never taking his eyes off Fortin. “You will aid Sanctuary once more?”

“I am at your disposal in battle,” Fortin said, red eyes curiously not finding him in the dark. They seemed to be swaying with the rock giant, and Cyrus suddenly remembered the resurrection effects. “I will follow you into war.” There came another strange rumble from the rock giant. “Though I am not certain that was a fair fight.”

“Fighting fair is for paladins,” Cyrus said.

“Winning is for warriors, however it must happen,” Fortin agreed, sounding … woozy? “I will remain here, awaiting your command, ready to render assistance when you call for me.” He took a knee, dipping his head toward Cyrus. “If that is acceptable, Warlord?”

“I’m not a Warlord,” Cyrus said again. “But you may call me General.”

“I call you what you are,” Fortin said.

“As you wish,” Cyrus said, bowing his own head in acknowledgment. “I am afraid I must leave you for now, Fortin. I am sure we will see one another again ’ere too long.”

“I look forward to joining you in battle once more,” Fortin said.

“All right, then,” Cyrus said and began to back down the tunnel. He almost bumped into Healer Smythe before remembering that the man was there. “Come on, Smythe, let’s leave the Lord of Rockridge in peace.”

“I suspect you should leave me before I lose control of my …” Fortin rumbled, then shook, a mighty bellow following after.

Cyrus froze, waiting to see what happened, and regretted that he did.

An explosion emanated forth from the rock giant’s mouth, a whole carcass of lamb that Cyrus only recognized by the configuration of the ribcage, strung together by pieces of cartilage. The smell—gods, the smell, it hit like a punch to the face. Liquid bile followed, flooding out of the rock giant’s mouth in a foul waterfall down his chest and to the cave floor below. It soaked the gritty ground, a wave of stench issuing forth that sent Healer Smythe to his knees, vomiting forth his own breakfast immediately.

Cyrus assessed the situation, hand rushing to his nose, clanking against the blocking of his helm as he struggled to keep from making his own contribution. “I wish you well, Fortin, Healer Smythe,” he nodded to each of them in turn, not daring to sheathe Praelior, not yet. “And I bid you farewell, for now.”

Without another word, afraid to remove his hand from his mouth for fear of losing control of his own stomach, General Cyrus Davidon beat a hasty retreat from the rock giant’s cave, the stench of his own victory chasing him away from the scene of his great triumph.

“You look none the worse for a battle with a rock giant,” Cattrine commented as Cyrus made his way back into town. The main street was flush with activity, and Cyrus had watched the considerable goings-on with interest as he had threaded his way down the hill. He had avoided the overlook with the dwarves, preferring instead to take a long path to give his stomach time to settle. He thought the stench of Fortin’s upheaval hung with him, but part of him wondered if perhaps it was all his imagination. When he reached the base of the hill, he had chanced to look up, and saw Healer Smythe beginning to work his way down, green face stark against his white robes, with a dark liquid stain oozing down the front.

“I won,” Cyrus said, “and quickly.”

Cattrine made a most peculiar face. “What is that smell?”

Cyrus thought about it for a moment before answering. “The stink of victory.”

“Ancestors,” Cattrine said, her delicate nose wrinkling, “what would losing smell like?”

“Less potent,” Cyrus said.

“I congratulate you on your victory, then,” Cattrine said, pinching her own nose and waving a hand, as if to ward off the smell. “Perhaps you should bathe, though?”

He took her advice, letting her lead him to a creek nearby. She made herself scarce while he removed his armor, letting the water run over it only briefly, hoping to wash the scent clear of it. He made a reminder to himself to oil it later, give it a good going-over to insulate it from the elements. He waded in to the chill creek himself, felt the goosepimples rise on his flesh as it ran to the waist, and then he ducked his head under.

The water rushed by his ears, the sound of it blotting out the outside world. It was replaced with a quiet thrum, the noise of his own heart. He looked up into the blue sky above the surface, the world distorted by the water, and felt a strange, quiet peace settle over him. It was not born of contentment, for the stings and nettles of all that had passed were still there, at a distance but on his mind. The creek ran over them like a balm, though, quieting them, and as he stood, breaking the surface of the water and drawing breath, he found even the death of Cass was no longer quite as vexing as it had been just that morning when he’d awoken. The cold breath he drew in next was sweet invigoration, life flooding back into his lungs, and he felt tall as he stood in the stream. He waited there for a few minutes before wading to the shore and dressing again.

He found Cattrine again in the town, in the thick of things. He watched for a while, damp hair dripping occasionally on his armor, a faint tapping that drew him out of his thoughts. She was firmly in command of the goings-on, issuing light orders that were taken with grace, redirecting wagons filled with timber toward their eventual destinations, telling work crews where they needed to be. She even warned children out of the path of a coming convoy, sending them back to a safer locale.

She saw him watching, met his gaze with a smile, and broke from what she was doing to come greet him. Wordlessly, she led him to a field at the edge of town where trestle tables were being unfolded in a number beyond his counting. Cyrus helped, setting them upon a hillside of green grass. She told him that they ate a meal as a community once per day, at the noontime hour. Everyone came, from every work crew and business and shop. It was a massive undertaking.

“Soon enough I suspect it will have to end,” she said, “but for now it anchors our day. It gives purpose to those for whom there is not enough work to occupy them, something to put their efforts toward every morning. We eat as individuals and families in the morning and evening, but at noon each day we take our meal as a community.”

He stood on the hillside and watched once the tables were set up. Spell casters from Sanctuary moved among the tables, filling each with fresh bread. Cooks came along and supplemented the offering of the spell casters with small, carved wooden bowls of some porridge spooned out of cast iron pots. The smell reached Cyrus and he realized it was weak. Perhaps fish bones or marrow from some creature helped to give it more flavor, but there was little but water in its base. “It’s what we have,” Cattrine said with a smile, and he noticed for the first time that more than a few of the settlers of Emerald Fields were thin.