Crusader

blue-green waves lapping against the support. I could drop, fall in, all the way down to the bottom … and it’d all be over …

And why not? He looked up at the face of the former god, at the paw poised to destroy strike him down, hovering, and wondered. Why should I not go? What is there to stay for? What is there to live for? To see my people destroyed one slow step at a time? To watch as this thing overcomes us and kills everything in its path? What is there to fight for, to believe in …? The scourge-god looked at him and seemed to smile, the jagged teeth dripping with malice as his clawed foot began to descend on Cyrus …

There was a blast of force and Drettanden blew sideways, a sudden shock in its eyes as it was flung, slipping, into the nearby pillar atop the bridge. Cyrus heard the stone break along with bone, and the mewling scream from the scourge creature was louder than any he had heard since a dragon had shouted at him.

It’s not over.

He swung his other arm around again, clamped the other hand onto the side of the bridge. No leverage. I’ll have to pull myself all the way up if I’m to do this. He blinked and looked down at the water again, and it looked so appealing, the dark and mysterious depths.

“That is not the way,” a voice said from above him, and he felt a hand upon his-strong, clenching at his gauntlet. He looked up and felt a wash of relief at the sight, the half of a face that showed from beneath the old helm; the battered armor was recognizable in an instant.

“Alaric,” Cyrus said and pulled as the Guildmaster stood, dragging him up. For the knight it appeared no struggle at all, and he lifted Cyrus back upon the bridge and nearly to his feet without effort. He stared at the old knight’s chin, at his grey eye sparkling beneath the slit in the helm. “Alaric … you came.”

“I could not leave you to face these foes alone,” the Ghost said, turning back to Drettanden. “I see you have run into … difficulties.” There was a roar from Drettanden as it staggered off the broken pillar and turned toward Cyrus and Alaric, snorting and spitting blood, both red and black, upon the stone bridge.

“That’s Drettanden,” Cyrus said, looking at the creature. “Or what’s left of him.”

“Indeed,” Alaric said coolly, and Cyrus felt pressure in his palm as Alaric pressed Praelior into his hand. “You’ll be needing this, then.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said and took a fighting stance, sword in hand. “You could just hit him again, you know?” He looked to Alaric. “Sweep him off the bridge and into the water, end this?”

The eyes behind the helm did not blink. “I think he would always hold some mastery over you if I were to do that. Do not fear to face that which confounds you. Look it in the eyes and strike it down.”

Cyrus took a ragged breath and looked back at the God of Courage, fallen as he was, a distorted and pathetic creature, snarling at Alaric. “All right.” He took a step forward, then another, breaking into an attacking run. He let the air fill his lungs again, the anger course through his veins. They’ll destroy my land. They’ll crush everything that matters to me. They’ll break my home, and the entirety of my world will be consumed by death …

He brought the blade around as Drettanden snapped at him. He sunk it into the nose and across the lips, snagging it on a tooth, which broke free when he ripped hard at the hilt. A paw came up at him to strike but he dodged and blocked with his blade, letting the glow of it guide him to the grey and pallid skin. He heard the screech of a good block, listened to the pain, and roared himself as he struck again at the face, that soulless face with empty eyes. He saw the flash of his blade in them, the glow reflected as he ripped into the creature’s cheek, gouging the mouth wider with his strike.

The head came around again but Cyrus was ready. Instead of dodging, he threw himself at it, blade first. He buried the sword in the side of the head, and Drettanden halted his forward momentum quickly, screeching, jerking away rather than following through with a headbutt that would have sent Cyrus flying. Strike at your fear, and it will recoil. He worked the sword free, prompting Drettanden to retreat three steps to swing about to face him. Grasp at it and it will dissolve in the sunlight. Confront it, make it your own … and make it fear you.

He let out a cry of rage and emotion, jumping into the air and striking down with the blade again. A streak of black blood welled up on the face of the dead god, and he backed up again toward the still-standing wall of fire, toward the foes that waited beyond, a chorus of wailing voices and gnashing teeth. Cyrus pressed the attack and Drettanden moved into the fire and recoiled, screaming in a voice that was almost human but very definitely not. With three quick strikes, Cyrus carved into the face of the beast, and when it tried to bat at him, he slipped low and waited for the paw to land. You are faster than your fears. You need not outrun them when you can outfight them, conquer them, make them yours … He threw everything into the thrust, all his strength, the full twist of his hips and back, and he landed the blow at the ankle joint of Drettanden’s front leg. Praelior buried itself into the grey flesh all the way to the bone. Cyrus forced it in, harder now, gritting his teeth and pushing with all his strength as the creature lifted its foot.

With a surge forward, Cyrus felt the flesh and bone give first, and the foot came free, as did his sword. He stumbled forward then dodged to his left as Drettanden fell, squealing all the way down. The scourge-god landed heavily on his face, now missing a foot to stand on. Cyrus whirled about, saw the creature lying splayed out, and he spun his sword around. “You wanted to make me fear you. You thought you could drive me before you, keep running me.” Cyrus clenched his hand over the grip of the sword as he reversed it. “You think this is your sword, but it’s not. I won it through a price paid you can’t imagine, through sacrifice you probably can’t even conceive of anymore. This is Praelior, the Champion’s Sword. And I’m going to give it back to you-right now.”

Cyrus leapt, his arc taking him high above the creature. He landed heavily on the back of its neck as it struggled to stand. Without warning he plunged the blade down into the top of Drettanden’s skull, and he couldn’t even feel the resistance as he shoved it into the head of what once had been the God of Courage. There was a sound almost like a sizzle as the blade cut through the flesh, broke through bone, and then a sickening lurch as the creature’s balance shifted. As its legs collapsed, Cyrus withdrew the sword and vaulted off, coming to a landing and hitting with his shoulder, sliding into a forward roll that carried him back to his feet, armor clinking against the stone surface of the bridge.

He came up and Alaric was waiting, standing there peacefully calm, watching. Odellan was there, ghastly pale but alive, Longwell next to him, holding his side and using his lance to keep him upright. Scuddar watched as well, and Terian; the others stood back a ways, and Cyrus could see a druid straining, red glow around his hands.

“You may cease the fire now,” Alaric said to the druid, who dropped mercifully to the ground at that. Martaina caught the man in her arms and began to drag him backward. “You seem to have come up against your fears and won.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said. “I suppose I did, at that.”

“You couldn’t have done that at Enrant Monge?” Terian asked, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Might have made it easier on the rest of us.”

“Sorry,” Cyrus said, spinning about as the line of fire began to disappear from the bridge. “I don’t think it quite works that way.”

“Figures,” the dark knight said. “You’re so screwed up it took you a year to get the idea ironed out in your head that you’re the greatest warrior walking the land of Arkaria.” Cyrus looked at him in surprise, and the dark knight shook his head. “Or so I’ve heard others say.”

“They come,” Longwell said. “That big one might be dead, but there’s a whole host behind him that isn’t letting up.”

Cyrus looked back at them, and the smell of death washed over him. It was familiar and horrible-but no longer fearsome. He saw the black eyes and the emptiness within them, but instead of fear, he felt a curiosity, a pity-They didn’t ask to become this. To end them is a mercy. A cool reserve found him, a confidence, a glacial sense of inevitability. We will strike down many today. Kill many. They were loosed now, the fire no longer holding them back. They rushed forward in a mad dash, coming at Cyrus, at the others. He hefted Praelior in his hand, felt the weight of the blade, heard the scamper of the claws on the stone, and could taste the desire to break them as fast as they could come at him. Come on, then. Send all that you have, and I’ll fight them. To the death-mine or theirs. And I’d wager theirs comes long before mine.

I’m not afraid of you.