“Yeah, I know,” Cyrus said, overcoming the desire to gag, and waved Praelior in front of him. “It’s this, isn’t it?” He watched red eyes follow it. “This was yours when you were alive? Well, I didn’t take it from you, and I didn’t kill you. I put this together myself, after following a quest given to me by Bellarum-”
The beast roared and sprung at Cyrus at the last, jaws snapping as Cyrus dodged out of the way. Drettanden took two steps and sprung, crashing through the pillar and supporting wall as Cy fell back, rolling into the throne room. Dust and plaster came down, rock and stone as well, and Cyrus felt a rough shift in the palace above as he came back to his feet, sword in hand. “Hey, if you’re gonna charge at everything like a bull, could you at least look out for the load-bearing walls? Or do you want to kill me so bad you’re willing to risk killing yourself in the process?” Cyrus circled, putting his back to the balcony. “Because, if so, we could just keep going in this direction. It’d be great. Soft landing too, in the water.”
There was a flick of the red eyes, and Cyrus caught it. “Water. You don’t like the water, do you?” He waved Praelior and watched the eyes follow it. “But you want your sword back, don’t you? It’s a little small for you now, don’t you think?” There came another snap of the jaws at him. “That, surprisingly, was not a taunt or a goad, but just a simple statement of fact.” With dizzying speed, Drettanden came at him in a quick motion, leaping off its back feet and Cyrus dodged aside again, this time leaving his arm extended with the blade. It caught the scourge across the side of the neck and raked the grey flesh. Black blood oozed out, peppering the white marble floor as Cyrus put a foot on the first step below the throne.
“Welcome to the throne room of Actaluere,” Cyrus said, keeping the sword pointed at Drettanden. He stepped over the unmoving corpse of Hoygraf, which lay with its eyes wide, a small pool of blood gathered around it. “This was the self-proclaimed king, if you by chance wanted to have a bite of royalty while you’re here-” Cyrus dodged as it came for him again, this time leaping back onto the throne, then jumping high over the back of the creature, where he ran with his sword down along the spine, ripping open flesh until he jumped off at the end.
Cyrus landed with a flourish, spinning perfectly, ready to defend himself against another attack. There was none, however, and Drettanden had yet to turn back to him; the creature’s head was down, on the steps, and there was a sickening sound of bones crunching as blood dribbled down the stairs. “Really?” Cyrus asked, looking at the spectacle, dumbstruck. “The saddest part of this is that it’s not even the most unbelievable thing I’ve seen in this room in the last half hour.”
Drettanden spun, mouth still full of Hoygraf’s corpse, an arm and a leg hanging out of the grey lips and red staining the teeth. “You really do eat the dead,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “You feed on life. You’ve come a long way from being the God of Courage,” Cyrus watched a slight reaction at the edges of the red eyes, “to being the exterminator of as much of it as you can. Quite the fall, I suppose.”
There was motion to Cyrus’s left and he turned; five more of the smaller scourge were there at the smashed entry door, easing into the room. “Right,” Cyrus said. “Not as bad as the one I’m about to take, though …”
They all snapped into motion at roughly the same time; the five creatures at the door jumped for him like a pack of wild dogs, and Drettanden, at his right, came at him at full tilt. The scourges’ claws gave them poor traction, and Cyrus watched as they tried to spring and failed. He ran, every step of his boots pounding as he made for the edge of the balcony. Teeth were snapping behind him as he reached the open doors to the outside, and the smell of death was overwhelming as he thrust his foot upon the railing and vaulted.
The wind caught his hair, even through his helm, and tugged the strap against his chin. It ran all across his body as he felt the fall take over. With a look back he saw the scourge, looking over the railing and down at him as he fell, the smell receding as the air rushed past his ears, deafening him.
There was only a faint flicker of orange light above him as he swam, Praelior in hand to give him strength, until he broke the surface, taking a breath of air, tinged with smoke and wetness. He turned his head to see a boat cutting through the water toward him, and looking far up above, he saw the balcony, and the scourge looking down at him. One of them fell and splashed; he waited, clutching the hilt of Praelior to see if it surfaced again. Tension. Anticipation. It never came up.
“Ahoy!” Cyrus watched the boat as the oars stroked out the sides toward him. It was long, at least fifty feet in length, with a mast and sail and a few crew members. He swam up to it at the approach, seized the side and hauled himself out of the water with a hand from Martaina. He fell upon the deck and looked up to the pillared balcony far above. Drettanden remained, standing, head draped over the railing, eyes following Cyrus on the boat.
“That thing …” Cattrine said from beside him, “it seems quite fixated on you.”
“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “This is what happens when you insult a guy’s mother when you’re three. Old grudges die hard.”
She frowned. “You’re joking. This hardly seems the time.”
Cyrus shook his head, wiping water from his beard. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Cattrine stood as they came further out into the sea from the palace. There was light to their left, and Cyrus turned from looking at the crew of a half dozen rowers on the small lower deck to the city, where lights blazed, and his mouth fell open.
It burned. Half the city was on fire, blazing strips of light where smoke drifted in the corners against the walls. Against the fiery backdrop, figures were visible, running around on four legs, striking people down. The docks were a frenzy of activity, ships casting off, battles being fought. The fires cast light on the walls of the city, and Cyrus realized to some surprise that they crawled, covered over with scourge scaling them as easily as he might climb a ladder.
“Look at them go,” Martaina whispered, and the crew stopped rowing. Other boats were launching out of the docks as quickly as they could steer out of the harbor with crews rowing madly. Cyrus watched as a scourge ran to the end of the docks and leapt into a boat. The screams carried over the water.
“They came because of him,” Cyrus said, looking up into the air, to the outline of Drettanden, still watching him from the balcony. “He came because of me. We brought death to Caenalys.” He bowed his head and felt Cattrine’s hand on his wet hair, stroking it gently off his brow where it crept out from beneath his helm.
“It was coming anyway,” Cattrine whispered, and he felt her kneel next to him. “My brother would have laid siege to the city trying to get the walls open, and it would have taken months. The scourge would have come around behind him and taken his army then the city, anyway. She looked in concern. “Where is my brother?”
Cyrus felt a surge of guilt. “We rode ahead of his army three weeks ago. They would have arrived here in another week.” He swallowed heavily. “I don’t … I have no idea whether they met the scourge or not. We had thought these creatures bottled up, fighting our armies at Enrant Monge while we planned to evacuate the rest of Luukessia.” Blackness climbed into his mind.
“Where do we go now?” Aisling asked quietly as they sat there, drenched in the glow and the noise.
“West,” Cyrus answered, and he saw the men at the oars put them back in the water after a nod from Cattrine. “If the armies of Luukessia are still out there, they’ll have to flee toward the bridge. Hopefully we’ll meet up with them there.”
J’anda let the quiet remain in place for an additional moment before he spoke. “While I love the conditional ‘hopefully,’ what’s your plan if they’re not?”
Cyrus felt his jaw clench. “Then I guess we’ll have to cover the retreat of the last civilians ourselves … and hope the scourge don’t follow us over the bridge.”
He cast his eyes back toward Caenalys, even as they rowed away, past the palace and toward the west. The city burned, a little at a time. The air was cold, not like winter but the distant fires gave no warmth at all. The smell of death was heavy in the air, along with the smoke that came in drifts off the city. Cyrus sat there, dripping, breathing it all in, and watched as the Kingdom of Actaluere reached its end.
Chapter 97
