Chapter Four #3
When he spun to face Alisa again, the mother had crept out of the homestead and was trying, frantic but unsuccessful, to usher
the girl back inside. Alisa was still staring at him. Bad survival instincts, that one.
“Ah,” Cyrus said pleasantly. “Two of you. Well, that’s good, because I have two requests. Firstly—” He eyeballed the mother.
She quavered nervously. “Arrange a messenger to find Maximillian. Tell him to make haste to Arclee right away. Your fastest
rider on your finest horse, if you please.”
The woman gave a shaky nod. She backed up to her homestead and thrust her daughter into the arms of a lanky teenager with
a matching mop of hair before she hurried across the village square and pushed open the tavern door. Cyrus caught a glimpse
of people huddled in the entrance, staring back at him, before the door swung shut and blocked them from view. After a few
moments, another body slid out of the cracked-open door and slunk past him, eyes on the ground. The messenger: good. He kept
his head down as he hurried for his horse. Cyrus listened in satisfaction to the familiar sound of hooves hitting the hard-packed
earth.
Alisa’s mother slipped out of the tavern door and stayed there, her eyes trained on the ground. Brave of her, to come back
out and face him. People were so predictable when they had loved ones to protect. Cyrus was glad he’d shunned such indignities.
“And now, my second request,” he said, enjoying himself. It had been a while since he’d let loose; he’d forgotten how fun it was, having so many people quiver before him. A hint of a smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Fetch me a flaming torch.”
The mother’s head jerked up, alarmed. “No,” she gasped. “No, please—”
“I’ll do it,” offered Alisa. Her brother hurriedly clapped a hand over her mouth.
Cyrus kept his eyes fixed on the woman and offered her his most unnerving smile. It did the trick. He watched as she disappeared
back into the tavern to find the requested torch. When she emerged and held it out to him with obvious reluctance, Cyrus thanked
her, enjoying the way the unexpected pleasantry made her flinch. As he weighed the torch in his hand, she hurried back to
her children, the door slamming shut after her.
Good. He enjoyed the sense that he was the sole actor in this, the villagers a distant audience as he stood alone on the stage.
Maximillian should not be long. He was still in Marinhold today, and that was not far from here. If the Arclee messenger rode
like he had the Summer’s flames at his heels and if Maximillian rushed to meet the challenge, he could expect the champion
within the hour.
In the meantime, Cyrus would have a little fun. He let time trickle by as he walked slowly around the square, dragging his
feet in the dust and peering into windows, enjoying the way people shrank nervously from his eyeline. Then, when the silence
began to feel strained, ready to crack at any moment, Cyrus looked up.
“People of Arclee,” he roared. “Let us play a game! Help me select my target. If you do not want me to burn your home to the ground, scream when I angle my torch towards you!”
He tipped the flaming torch threateningly. The people screamed accordingly, though they didn’t really seem to understand the
rules of the game. The screams came from all directions, some emitting shrill wails of terror, some bellowing with gusto.
Cyrus appreciated the variety, even if it didn’t really help his cause.
“You have spirit!” he shouted, striding back and forth between the tavern and the nearest home, letting his torch tip this
way and that. The peasants shrieked like he was a deranged musical conductor.
The tavern drew him in—the thought of all that liquor ready to burn, the frantic squeeze of too many bodies trying to escape
the doorway. Some would probably be drunk. He could watch as they tumbled over in their desperation to flee.
Target selected, Cyrus stepped forward, ignoring the cries this time, and touched his torch to the tip of the straw roof.
“STOP!”
The rich, deep voice was instantly recognisable. So too was the pleasant shiver down Cyrus’s spine, the triumph of having
caught the attention of the one he sought.
It was too late. The flames licked their way into the roof, feeding greedily upon the dry straw. The stink of burning rose
thick in the air, the familiar crackling giving way to screams. Cyrus stepped back, forcing himself not to turn just yet,
to enjoy the sight of the tavern door bursting open as the peasants began to spill forth in a panicked horde.
Among their screams was a word, a name Cyrus could pick out above the clamour and the sparking hiss of flames.
“Maximillian!”
“He is here, Maximillian is here!”
“Maximillian has come to save us!”
Cyrus closed his eyes and smiled. Then he took a deep breath and turned on the spot.
There he was, standing across the village square, the fire throwing out shadows that danced and cavorted across his noble
features. He radiated fury, a wronged god, mouth set tight in anger and the fathomless blue of his eyes turned cold as Cyrus’s
heart. There was a small red mark on his cheekbone where the pebble had struck him the day before. Cyrus wanted to reach out
and touch it, run his fingertip over the imperfection. Then he wanted to dig his fingernail in and make him bleed, mark him
with the knowledge that he had faced Cyrus and lost.
The breeze picked up, taunting the flames. Maximillian’s cream shirt billowed as the fire twisted and spat. The champion seemed
to glow in its reflected light, as if he too wielded magic. Yet Cyrus knew he was not so special as to call upon any powers
of his own. He was ordinary, an empty vessel of preening, posturing pride.
“You overstep, wrongdoer,” Maximillian said coldly.
Cyrus’s smile defied any attempt to control it. He probably looked like a mad thing, a grinning demon, but so what? Power
thrummed in every bit of him, his magic twisting and writhing and begging for release.
“I don’t think I do.” His voice was soft, but he knew Maximillian would catch every word.
He weighed the flaming torch in his hand, watching as Maximillian followed the movement.
Then he threw it to the ground. It rolled a couple of paces and came to a stop, the flame guttering in the breeze.
It wasn’t near any of the buildings, but someone still let out a sob of fear.
The sound drew Cyrus’s attention back to the people from the tavern, huddled a safe distance behind Maximillian.
He hadn’t noticed them gather there at first—he had been too fixed on the champion—but now he offered them a predatory smile.
“Relax,” he said, sweetness coiling around the word. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for your champion. If he will fight me,
then I have no quarrel with you.”
“You’ve already picked a quarrel with them,” said Maximillian sharply. “You’ve burned their tavern down.”
Cyrus sniffed. “Don’t be a drama queen,” he said, which was probably a bit hypocritical, but it was his party and he would
call the shots. “It’s just a bit of fire on the roof.”
From behind him, the tavern groaned and trembled on its foundations. The resounding crash of the roof caving in rang around
the village.
The villagers cried out. Cyrus risked a glance over his shoulder.
“Oh dear,” he said offhandedly. “Well. At least that put the fire out.”
When he looked back to Maximillian, the champion’s face was set in resolve. He took a step forward, his hand going to the
hilt of his sword.
That was more like it.
Cyrus opened his arms wide. The daggers on his belt glinted in what was left of the light.
“Come and get me,” he said coyly.
Maximillian charged. He was before Cyrus in a heartbeat, sword arcing above them. But Cyrus was fast too. He sidestepped,
ducking under the slice of Maximillian’s sword. It came close enough for Cyrus to hear the whistle as it cut through the air,
buffeting cold air that grazed his cheekbone like a kiss.
Cyrus straightened up. No time to stop and admire his own move. Maximillian lashed out at him again, and again. Cyrus gritted
his teeth as one blow glanced off his vambrace. Maximillian hounded him back a step and back once more, the sword a near-constant
presence at his throat, his chest. It was an intricate dance and for a handful of seconds he had no time to think, moving
on sheer instinct as he dodged each attack, a counterstep for each inch of ground Maximillian gained.
Maximillian backed him up against the smouldering remains of the tavern, suddenly driving his shoulder into Cyrus’s chest
to send him careering backwards. Cyrus staggered and fell, a jagged piece of wood slicing into the flesh of his thigh. His
flailing hand, thrust out for balance, caught hold of something that was still aflame, the heat of it biting viciously into
his palm.
“Fucking ouch—”
“I thought you wanted me to come and get you,” Maximillian goaded.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. He was more affected than he was letting on.
A sheen of perspiration glistened on the collarbone exposed by his loose-fitting shirt, matched by the gleam of sweat on his forehead.
He tossed his head back impatiently, swiping slickened hair out of his eyes.
Cyrus saw his chance. He flung the piece of burning wood into Maximillian’s face, the sear against his own flesh dwarfed by
satisfaction as the champion yelped, reeling back. Cyrus leapt to his feet, making the most of the distraction to grab two
daggers from his belt.
One in each hand, he advanced. Maximillian had already righted himself, an angry mark forming under his left eye where the
burning wood had caught him. The skin was blistered pink and tender, and his eyes burned hot as the flame.
Cyrus didn’t give Maximillian the chance to attack again. He was in the champion’s space before Maximillian could dodge backwards,