Chapter Four #2
due to visit the small town of Marinhold on the eastern coast. The wrongdoer Horkar, who was built like a bull and best avoided
by anyone with sense, had been residing there for many years. Surely he would put up a better fight.
But Maximillian was early. By the time Cyrus arrived, he found Marinhold jubilant and Horkar bound hand and foot, left trussed outside the town hall and ready to be carted off to face the Federation’s judgement for his crimes.
Cyrus stared at him from behind a tree, thrown by the sight.
He didn’t care for Horkar, but he was a strong fighter with biceps like boulders.
Maximillian must be skilled to have taken him down.
It was good that Cyrus had seen this; a reminder that he had to be careful.
Maximillian had managed to hold on to Heliarth for fifteen years with no magic. He had to have some prowess.
Locating the champion was easy since excitable cheering trailed his every move. Cyrus followed the irritating noise to a copse
of willows along the riverbank. Maximillian, the show-off, was busy saving somebody’s cat from a tree.
Cyrus lurked behind an uneven stone wall to watch as he descended the tree, one-handed, the cat tucked securely to his broad
chest. He wore formfitting leather trousers that sadly confirmed Cyrus’s hopes for a flat arse were unfounded, and a navy
shirt with one corner tucked artfully into his waistband. It billowed in the breeze as he jumped the final stretch. The neckline
seemed improbably deep. Cyrus imagined Maximillian deliberately slitting the fabric to show off more of his chest. Like anyone
wanted to see his stupid nipple anyway.
“Here you go,” Maximillian said as he reached the ground, holding the cat out to a nearby woman before stepping back. There
were tear tracks smudged across her grubby cheeks as she held the creature to her chest. The cat, unlike everyone else in
the immediate vicinity, looked unimpressed.
“You saved her,” the woman said. For all her tears, she didn’t appear to have eyes for her pet anymore. She was too busy looking at Maximillian—mooning, Cyrus might be tempted to call it if he was in an uncharitable mood, which he was. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Your thanks today is enough,” Maximillian declared. “I need no prize. To assist those in need is my calling.”
Cyrus would’ve gagged, had he an audience. Pretty words to match his obnoxiously pretty face, but the woman was not deterred.
She stepped forward, letting the cat down. She didn’t notice as it darted back towards the tree, too occupied with reaching
up to whisper into Maximillian’s ear.
Cyrus had come here to spy on Maximillian’s skills, not watch him flirt. Frustrated, he selected a pebble from the ground,
then hurled it at the woman. For all his dagger practice, his aim was off. The pebble caught Maximillian on the cheek instead,
provoking a yelp that didn’t sound very champion-like.
Oops. Cyrus swallowed a snort of laughter as he ducked behind his wall, though not before he saw Maximillian shake the woman’s
hand off his arm and look around with narrowed eyes.
“Who dares to attack the mighty Maximillian?” the woman trilled as the crowd started to peer around in confusion, looking
for the assailant.
Cyrus couldn’t resist sneaking one last glance around the edge of the wall. He was just in time to see Maximillian rise from
a crouch, the pebble in his hand. He frowned down at it, caressing the smooth surface with his thumb. Then he looked up.
Cyrus wasn’t quick enough in ducking back. Their eyes met. The recognition was instant.
His heart lurched. Maximillian would open his mouth, any second now. He would shout out, raise his finger, and point. He would draw his sword. Force a confrontation, here, where Cyrus hadn’t planned it, where he hadn’t prepared.
But he didn’t. The frown deepened, but it was more thoughtful than accusatory. Then he blinked and long lashes swept over
blue, cutting the contact between them.
It was all the chance Cyrus needed. Fool, to stay as long as he had. He set off at a sprint for the outskirts of the village,
where Soulripper paused her grazing to watch him approach with judgemental eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Cyrus griped as he swung himself up onto her back. “Like you could do any better. Can’t even
pick up a stone. No thumbs.”
Soulripper huffed, which was probably a threat against his thumbs if he didn’t shut up and ride. Cyrus was getting better at reading her. He huffed right back and tightened his grip
on the reins, trying to push Maximillian’s gaze from his head. But the memory of that strange, thoughtful frown outstayed
its welcome all the same.
The next day, Cyrus readied himself briskly but methodologically. Three daggers in his belt: his favourite, a backup, and
a backup for the backup.
His best cloak. A slick of grease in his hair. A touch of concealer under his eyes, because lately the shadows seemed constant,
and a thin swipe of kohl across the lash line for the drama.
Cyrus stared at himself in the mirror, holding his own gaze.
There was a steeliness there that he was glad to recognise.
He had been playing around for too long; it was time to cut the bullshit.
Maximillian had to die before he tried to set the people of Ranragh simpering around him, and he was due in little over a month. It had to be now.
He reached Arclee as the light was fading to dusk. Cyrus couldn’t imagine why the champion still harboured some sentimental
affection for the place—the backwater town was just as drab and dull as it had been upon his last visit—but no matter. Cyrus
would fix that for them.
He left Soulripper at the edge of a clearing a short walk from the village, stealing a quick pat on her nose for luck before
she could sink her teeth into him. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself. Not because he was nervous; of course he wasn’t. That would imply he had reason to be nervous. Just—
Memory leaked at the edges of his mind, unbidden. Maximillian leaning over the side of the boat, the sun an aggressive halo
behind him. Cyrus’s eyes stung from the river water and the cold and the deep, curdling humiliation—
No. He was here to defeat Maximillian once and for all; that was where his concentration needed to lie. The unfamiliar jitter
of apprehension was only because this fight mattered to him.
The clearing opened onto a dirt track leading into the village, lined with gnarled trees and oppressive weeds. The shadows
were long and ominous, perfect for the atmosphere he sought to create. It bolstered him. This time, everything would go as
he damn well wanted it to.
Cyrus strode into the village, moving quickly enough to draw attention, his cloak billowing behind him.
He saw eyes at windows—children peeping out at him and then turning away to speak, swiftly joined by pale-faced adults.
They recognised the signs of an oncoming wrongdoer attack better than their curious offspring.
One or two brave individuals cracked open their doors to peer out as he passed.
He cut a path straight through to the same village square where he had met Maximillian the previous month. The sound of a
fiddle trickling out from Arclee’s tavern came to an abrupt halt. The hush that fell over the village would almost be eerie
if he didn’t know what had caused it.
He had.
Cyrus allowed himself a small smile. This was the feeling he had sought all along, the heady little rush that came from knowing
that people were afraid of you. The fearful did not turn their backs, or ignore, or scoff at the mention of his name. They
kept their watchful eyes on him and held their breath, because they respected him.
“People of Arclee.” Cyrus turned in a full circle in the village square, sweeping his gaze over the clustered homesteads.
Projection had never been an issue for Cyrus. He knew his voice would penetrate. “You will remember me. It is I, Cyrus, Earthshaker,
and you well know why I visit you today. I ask of you: Send someone forth to speak with me. You will not be harmed.”
He waited as a tense silence stretched out. Before he could spin on a homestead and select an unfortunate peasant at random,
somebody stumbled out of a half-open doorway. A horrified hiss of “Alisa—!” followed her.
Cyrus turned to greet his volunteer with a sinister smile, expecting the best that Arclee had to offer in the way of brave youths or grim-faced elders.
Instead, a child stood staring at him curiously: a girl, about six or seven, sporting an uneven brown fringe that looked like she’d cut it herself and missing her two front teeth.
Unexpected. But he could work with it. “A brave volunteer,” he said in his very best menacing tone, sweeping his cloak behind
him for extra flair. No doubt the girl would start to weep within seconds.
Alisa ignored this. She cocked her head, inspecting him with a frown. Then she said, bluntly, “Thought you was Maxy-millan.”
Cyrus’s smile faltered. He made a valiant attempt to hitch it back up. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Big brown eyes skimmed him from top to toe again, lingering around his hair. Her frown deepened. “But you’re greasier
than he is.”
“I’m not gr—” Cyrus stopped, took a quick breath. Outrageous as her accusation was, launching into an argument with a bumbling six-year-old
would not be a good look. “My hair is styled, child. And no, I am not Maximillian.” Revolting little wretch. “But I am here to see him.”
“Maxy-millan ain’t here.” Alisa scratched her arm, unconcerned. “Not seen him for ages and ages.”
Cyrus knew that Maximillian hadn’t returned to Arclee since their initial confrontation, because he had been keeping closer
tabs on Maximillian than anyone here. But he wasn’t about to admit it.
Turning away from the child, Cyrus gave a mocking laugh for the benefit of everyone else, nice and loud. “As expected. Your so-called champion hides from me!”