The mist rose up around her, encircling her for a moment, and then disappeared, just as he said, into nothingness.
Chapter 96
Cyrus
“Drettanden,” Cyrus whispered, and his fingers wrapped around the hilt of Praelior, the sword in his hand before he finished speaking.
The enormous scourge-beast stood before him. He handed Windrider’s reins to Cattrine as Drettanden snorted, filling the air with the reek of death again, bad enough that Cattrine gagged as it hit them. “Take this,” he said, pressing the leather into her fingers. “Be ready to lead them down to this dock.”
“And the people of Caenalys?” Cattrine muttered, coughing from the stench.
“If this thing is here,” Cyrus said darkly, watching as Drettanden stared at him, unmoving, “the streets are already flooded with his brethren. This battle is over.”
“Cyrus,” Martaina said quietly, still watching Drettanden as it stared at them.
“Go with her,” Cyrus said to Martaina then let his gaze flick to Aisling. “You too. We have no healer and the two of you carry short blades that won’t even make a dent in this thing’s hide. Get out of here. I’ll cover your retreat.”
“And an escape plan for yourself?” J’anda said, sotto voce.
“I expect I’ll be diving off the balcony in the throne room in five minutes or less,” Cyrus said. “It would be lovely if someone were there to fish me out of the water.”
“Five minutes?” Martaina let out a low whistle, and Drettanden growled menacingly to match it. “You’re feeling optimistic about your chances against that thing?”
“I like my odds,” Cyrus said, never breaking eye contact with the thing that stared at him. “Go. Now.” He clutched Praelior as Cattrine brushed a hand against his shoulder, so softly he couldn’t feel it. With a subtle look she went to his right, and he saw Martaina cast a regretful look as well, then slip away quietly along with her, horse in tow. Aisling went next, then J’anda. Cyrus listened for their quiet footsteps as they angled through a small, open door to where he could see a flat ramp spiral downward, and watched as the last of them faded into the darkness of it.
“So …” Cyrus said, looking at the scourge creature which stared back at him. It took a step forward, taking a deep breath, then exhaling so strongly Cyrus found himself wanting to retch. “Please stop that, will you?” The red eyes widened at him. “Do you have any idea what your breath smells like? Corpses. Yeesh. Do you eat everything you come across? Because you could stand to digest a field of mint, my friend-”
The grey lips came apart and Drettanden filled the air with a screeching roar, leering at Cyrus with a hard-edged gaze, mouth hanging open and enormous teeth exposed.
“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. Please don’t let there be rocks down there. His eyes forced themselves shut as he hit the water with painful force, pushing the air out of his lungs and shoving him into the depths.
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.