Part 29 (1/2)
The door opened with a squeal that tore through Cyrus, and he did not hesitate now, ducking under the open door and stepping into- -into- -light?
The world changed around him in a single step, the grey sky outside the shrine replaced by something brighter, by a blue so rich he would have sworn he had never seen its like in all his life. Cyrus took another step and his boot clapped against hard stone as white, sheer curtains wafted in the wind before him. He turned his head and saw the wooden beams above him, the bed off to the side and the bare wooden figures where he and Vara kept their armor when not in use.
”Alaric?” Cyrus called, looking around the Tower of the Guildmaster in stunned disbelief, a sense of warm memory was.h.i.+ng over him and replacing the momentary fears, the doubts that had so covered him only a moment earlier.
”I'm afraid not,” came a vibrant voice from behind Cyrus. He turned to see a dark elf standing there, hair as black as tar, eyes alight with the same vitality that had been so obvious in the man's voice. He wore a half-smile, something that hinted at mischief to Cyrus. ”He couldn't make it today, but it was important that someone came,” he held his hands out, ”so here I am.”
”Who are you?” Cyrus asked, letting the disappointment fade lightly.
”An interesting question,” the dark elf said, stepping toward him lightly. ”One I suspect you have been asking yourself quite a bit lately.”
”Nice dodge,” Cyrus said.
The dark elf bowed his head. ”Thank you. But I wasn't really dodging, just answering in a roundabout way. My friends-and I extend that courtesy to you because we have a mutual friend or three-some more friend than mutual, and vice versa-but still. My name is Genn.”
”Genn?” Cyrus asked, frowning. ”Who are you?”
”Oh, that question again,” Genn said, shaking his head. ”Do you even know? Never mind,” he waved a hand. ”Oh, all right. Add a 'Terr' at the beginning and a 'den' to the end, and you have me.” He waved a hand with a flourish.
”Terrgenden?” Cyrus asked. ”The G.o.d of Mischief?” His hand fell to Praelior, which was now sheathed in his scabbard. ”What are you doing here?”
”I told you,” Terrgenden said, and now the amus.e.m.e.nt was all gone. ”Someone had to come ... and I drew the short straw.”
”Short straw?” Cyrus asked, his sense of calm fading. ”What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?”
Terrgenden's veil of amus.e.m.e.nt vanished, and he took a deep breath, sighing it out as though he were under great duress. ”Because someone had to save your life, since you seemed unwilling to do it yourself ... and so here I am.” His eyes glittered, but there was no hint of humor there. ”And now we will have a talk.”
”What are we going to talk about?” Cyrus asked, noting the hint of chill coming off the wind whipping in from the Plains of Perdamun. ”Mischief?”
”Ohh,” Terrgenden said, shaking his head, sounding mildly distressed. ”Everyone always says that to me. 'Oh, you're the G.o.d of Mischief,' 'Oh, you're responsible for the trouble I got into that one time I decided to run paint over my neighbor's donkey and parade him through the square,' 'Oh, it's your fault my brother played a prank on me when we were twelve.'” He made the noise again, a high note in the back of his throat. ”It's exhausting, being the scapegoat for so many.” He looked Cyrus over. ”Probably not half as exhausting as being the scapegoat for yourself, though.”
”I'm about to get an Alaric lecture delivered by proxy from the G.o.d of Mischief in the middle of my own quarters,” Cyrus said to no one in particular. ”This is a heady thing.”
”I'm not the G.o.d of Mischief, in point of fact,” Terrgenden said. ”You, though-you're in the process of trying to trick the dragons into getting involved in a battle you don't think you can win.” He placed a finger on his lip as though contemplating. ”Really, which of us is the trickster in this tower?”
”I'm doing what I ... have to,” Cyrus said, but he lost all feeling for what he was saying halfway through, his words sounding tinny and far away.
”What you have to? Hm.” Terrgenden's high voice lowered an octave. ”They question I would ask, in my official capacity is ... are your actions just?”
”Letting the t.i.tans continue to rampage across whoever they can crush is about the most unjust thing I can imagine,” Cyrus said, finding a little of the fire that had left him.
”That's not what I asked.” Terrgenden strolled over to one of the balconies and looked out, apparently admiring the view. ”The t.i.tans serve the same master you followed once upon a time, Cyrus Davidon.” He turned, a slow spin that almost looked like a movement from a dance. ”Who do you serve now? The G.o.d of War?” He held a hand high, like a scale. ”You are too ... soft for him now, aren't you?” He stared at Cyrus, and it felt as though he were burrowing right into Cyrus's soul. ”Or do you follow ... the Ghost of this place?” He waved his hand around the Tower of the Guildmaster. ”And who does that make you? Child of Bellarum? Or a protector of Arkaria?”
”It makes me the Guildmaster of Sanctuary,” Cyrus said roughly, his voice under a little strain.
”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 G.o.d complex ...” He shook his head. ”You are no G.o.d, Cyrus, in spite of whatever you might think. You are no child of a G.o.d, 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 G.o.ds, spell magic flas.h.i.+ng 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, G.o.ds.
-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, splas.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sembled the officers, outside the dark of Merceragg's chambers, the army gathered in silence around them.