"My Lord Bellarum," Cyrus said, mouth suddenly dry. "You're ... here. You ..." A thought tumbled loose. "You taught the t.i.tans magic?"

Talikartin the Guardian smiled a viler smile than Cyrus had seen from him before, visible underneath the helm's gap. "I gave them no spells of teleportation to go to the north, nor healing magics to give them silly regard for fixing weakness; no, I gave them the power to strike out, to build my kingdom in the south and to go north by the pa.s.s if they could."

Cyrus blinked, feeling like the jungle was closing in around him, the air reaching out to strangle him in his armor as he stared, helplessly, at the red eyes that had followed him through a thousand dreams, and had reached out to him in one vision in particular that had changed the course of his life. He held Praelior weakly in his fingers, afraid to clench his hand around it for fear it might strike out at him with the anger of the one who had as good as put it in that hand. "Why?" he asked, voice cracking.

The red eyes narrowed, and the voice of Talikartin changed into a deeper timbre, that strange tone taking over. "I wanted to give you room to grow, to build a kingdom for me in the north while the t.i.tans did the same here." He made a scoffing noise. "You were handed those plains and what have you done with them? Nothing." He sneered. "You've grown weak, Cyrus. And weakness must be purged."

"I'm not ..." Cyrus felt staggered, as though the t.i.tan had already punched him squarely in the jaw. "I'm the strongest warrior in Arkaria."

"On the contrary," Talikartin said, thumping his chestplate.

"You've taken him over?" Cyrus stared at the G.o.d of War in the t.i.tan's form. "He's your ... avatar?" A nod followed, and the sense that battle could resume at any moment hung about them. "Why? Why bring an avatar to Arkaria?"

Bellarum laughed. "You of all people should know why, Cyrus. Did I not work that sword into your hand and place Mortus into your path, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to kill the woman you fawned over?" A discordant guffaw sounded like a blade jabbed into Cyrus's ears. "Did I not set Yartraak in motion on his grand plan to destroy the lands that you loved?" He glared down at Cyrus with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Oh, yes. My hand has been guiding the events of your life to my purpose-that to which you swore your loyalty!" The voice of the G.o.d of War caused a pain soul-deep in Cyrus. "I have done more for you than you even know, and you have turned away from my path. You were my loyal servant. I saw potential in you, strength in you. I groomed you for greatness ... and you embraced mediocrity." He pointed into the stunned crowd of fighters that encircled them, singling out Terian. "You might as well be wearing that armor."

"Hey!" Terian said. "It's ... well, it's comfortable. A little loose around the-"

"SILENCE!" Bellarum shouted into the night, and the command was obeyed by sheer force of the volume it carried. "Now," the G.o.d of War said from his earthly form, "Cyrus ... the time has come for me to beat the weakness out of you." He smiled. "I know your armor protects you against most attacks, so this may take some time, but we will get all the pesky disease of compa.s.sion ... of the heart ... that your former Guildmaster seeded in you, I will have you strong ... or I will have you dead." The eyes burned. "And at this point, I have lost all care which it will be."

The first punch was fast, faster than Cyrus remembered either Yartraak or Mortus being. It came with a speed that Cyrus recalled of wagons racing through the streets of Reikonos when he was a child, the wheels threatening to roll unceasingly over any child or man that got in the way. So too was this punch, a metal-encased hand as big as Cyrus's entire chest, thrown at his midsection and dodged only just in time.

Cyrus landed face first in a patch of gra.s.s. The scent of greenery invading his sinuses forcefully, the tickle of the blades ironic at a moment when he feared death itself was coming for him in the form of his angry G.o.d. He rolled as hard as he could to the side, already knowing that a killing attack would follow. It did, only a moment later, a fist slamming into the ground with merciless force where he had lain only seconds earlier, shaking the earth and rattling him in his armor, down to his very teeth.

"You are running from your fate like a coward!" Bellarum's voice echoed angrily in the night. "Stand and take your punishment like a man of war!"

Cyrus rolled once more, narrowly avoiding another hit, his head swimming. Is this really happening?

Is Bellarum really attacking ... me?

The world shook at the landing of another punch, and Cyrus rattled once more.

Yes.

This is happening.

Cyrus lurched to his feet as Bellarum's t.i.tan sh.e.l.l took a step back and surveyed him with unmistakable anger. The eyes showed a seething rage, furious at being thwarted even slightly in front of an audience. Bellarum balled Talikartin's fists and shifted on his mighty feet, and Cyrus knew he would be much more sure before the next attack came.

"If it is as you said," Cyrus looked up at the red eyes, "and you placed Mortus and Yartraak against me to get them killed ... why are you so d.a.m.ned displeased with me now? I have an army. I have done what you want-"

"You have failed!" Bellarum swung a shorter punch this time as he stepped forward, and there was no avoiding it. Cyrus clung tight to Praelior and pointed it outward in exactly the manner that had once cost Mortus a few fingers.

The blow struck and Cyrus felt it, the force running through his armor and sending him flying into a tree. When he hit, the breath was knocked from him for a moment and he fell to his knees on the roots, some ten feet above the jungle floor. He put down a hand to steady himself as he pushed up and found his opponent once more, standing, resolute, looking him in the eye, almost level with him.

Blood ran down the t.i.tan's hand, but a faint glow faded as Cyrus watched it, the healing spell subtle where Bellarum held his hand out of sight, but the glow unmistakable in the forest dark. "You hypocrite," Cyrus said, and the jungle around him came to life.

Vara was the first to spring, lunging in a leap at Bellarum, but she was knocked from the air by a t.i.tan who roared in disapproval. Terian came forth next, shouting his anger in the night, axe held high, but he was blocked by six t.i.tans suddenly in his path. Other t.i.tans sprang forward to defend the circle around Cyrus and Bellarum, and others fought them-J'anda's pets, trying to force their way through the line, a wrestling match at the edge of the battle as the fight carried on around them, unable to penetrate through to where the G.o.d of War stalked his prey.

"Your people were loyal and true," Bellarum said, "and they would have followed you in doing my will."

"No," Cyrus said, steadying himself as he watched the chaos unfolding around him. "Not all of them."

"Those who will not serve," Bellarum said, eyes flashing, "will die."

"I will not just die-"

The strike hit Cyrus unawares, from a t.i.tan that had crept up behind him. It was hardly a punch like the world ending sort that Bellarum was throwing about, but it knocked him firmly off the root on which he'd been standing, sending him headfirst to the floor of the jungle. A smaller root caught him in the lips, and he tasted blood, pouring down his chin. He started to get to his feet, Praelior clutched in front of him, but- Bellarum's t.i.tan foot descended onto his fingers, bending the joints of his armor back just far enough to cause Cyrus immense pain. The t.i.tan's ground down upon his fingers with all their weight, and then skidded hard against the ground- Yanking Praelior out of his grasp.

The Champion's Sword slid across the jungle floor and came to rest in the shadow of a root some ten feet away. Without the aid of its power, it might as well have been a mile away, for now he stared into the red eyes of a furious, smiling, satisfied G.o.d and knew that he was powerless.

"You were supposed to be an instrument of war," Bellarum said, "but without your weapon you are nothing." He leaned down closer to Cyrus and grabbed him around the chest so quickly that Cyrus could not respond, pulled him aloft, and shook him. "Without me ... you are nothing."

Cyrus felt the squeeze of the G.o.d of War held at bay by his armor, but the tension, the power of the grip was evident. "Alaric!" Cyrus called out impulsively.

Bellarum's eyes glowed harder crimson in fury, but his voice sounded almost amused. "He can't help you now." The G.o.d of War chortled. "Do you know what I did-what I have done to him?" The red eyes drew closer as Cyrus was raised up to Talikartin's horrendously glowing eyes. "I sent this sh.e.l.l north into the Plains of Perdamun all those years ago to kill Raifa Herde out of sheerest spite for her husband. Talikartin, unlike you, is a loyal servant, and he did my bidding well." Bellarum's mouth twisted in rage and glee. "He remains uncorrupted by the pox that is Alaric Garaunt. Unlike you." His nostrils flared. "Yes, I see it now. The weakness cannot be burned out of you by any cleansing fire. It is soul-deep, this filth."

He paused, and his voice grew deep as Cyrus blanched away from the pressure through his armor. In some of the cracks, the chainmail picked up the pressure and pushed inward on Cyrus, in the soft spots around his stomach and waist. He could almost taste the metal in his mouth ... or was that simply the blood?

"Now," Bellarum said, resolved, "die like as much of a warrior as you can ... by looking me in the eyes as I kill you."

A tingle ran over Cyrus's scalp and down his entire body, and he brought his head around to look the possessed t.i.tan in the eyes.

I meet you.

As Bellarum brought back his other fist to finish the task at hand, there was no mistaking the lethality of the maneuver. He would pummel Cyrus so that his own armor would cut him cleanly in two. Perhaps after that he would rip off the head, tear off limbs, shred him into a paste while the Army of Sanctuary watched, unable to reach him- Cyrus swept his gaze in the cool second before his death and saw the fight continuing, futile, the t.i.tans having taken advantage of the moments of truce to pour reinforcements into the trees around Amti-while no such numbers could possibly come on Sanctuary's side.

The world seemed to slow as the fist of a G.o.d came crashing toward Cyrus, reaching its high arc, the height of its force and beginning its descent to crush him. The air around him was still, the call of battle was like the silence of death, closing in, unerringly.

And a voice spoke into that silence.

Arnngraav, urnkaaav.

The words came in a voice he trusted implicitly, a voice deep and resonant that seemed to pluck at the very heartstrings deep within him. Cyrus blinked as the fist of Bellarum came toward him, and he put up a hand to ward off, instinctively, even knowing deep within it would do no good.

Arnngraav, urnkaaav! the voice came again, saying words that Cyrus did not know, but had heard-somewhere, once, perhaps?

ARNNGRAAV, URNKAAAV! the voice of Alaric Garaunt bellowed in his ear, snapping him out of the stunned, fearful wait for death that had consumed him and spurring him into simple, mad action.

"Arnngraav, urnkaaav!" Cyrus shouted into the night, and the hand of Bellarum wavered just a second in its fall.

Long enough for a billowing blast of flame to spray forth from Cyrus's hand and consume the head of the Avatar of the G.o.d of War.

The shrieks of a burning G.o.d spilled into the jungle night. The frightful grip around Cyrus faltered, and he fell some fifteen feet to the jungle floor, hitting soft soil and a patch of small ferns. He landed with a thump and looked up in surprise.

Bellarum clutched at Talikartin's face, fire still burning the flesh as though it had been brought to life behind the t.i.tan's very eyes. He fell to his knees and scratched at his eye sockets as he tried to beat out the fire that had struck him and caught eyebrows aflame.

Cyrus did not wait, did not watch; he scrambled forward on uncertain legs, lurching toward the glowing blue sword some ten feet away. He moved unsteadily, swaying from side to side, fatigued in a way he could not recall ever feeling, as though something had been drained from within him, some energy that he had never before noticed, until it was gone.

Cyrus's pained fingers closed in on the hilt of Praelior, and the world slowed around him. He scooped it up with the aid of its dexterity, and turned on the G.o.d of War, still kneeling and striking at his own face, the flames gone but the pain still clearly there.

Cyrus did not hesitate, but simply followed the training of the Society of Arms. He leapt like the paladin he now loved more than any other, using the strength provided by his sword to fly over the back of the G.o.d of War's mortal form. He swept down with Praelior as he did so, burying his blade into the back of Talikartin the Guardian's thick neck. It took a good, hard twist to land it right, and then Cyrus let his own weight carry him down- And he cut off the head of the Avatar of the G.o.d of War.

A silence fell over the Jungle of Vidara, whispering through the trees quieter than the rasp of crickets. It was broken by the first scream, then another, then another, the roar of t.i.tans not enraged, but terrified.

Terrified, for they had seen their own G.o.d die before them.

Cyrus listened to the shrieks, the wails, the plaintive moans, the first footfalls as t.i.tan after t.i.tan broke from the battle and ran, their opponents forgotten, their helms knocked aside and cast away, ma.s.sive gauntlets shrugged out of and dropped in the underbrush like so much refuse.

"I think we just ..." Terian staggered up to Cyrus, navy blood running down his jawline, splattered on his breastplate. "Did we just ...?"

"We won, yes," Vara said, sword in hand, moving into view on steadier legs than Terian exhibited. She looked sideways at Cyrus, with more than a little suspicion. "Or you did, at least."

Cyrus lifted his hand, transferring Praelior to the other, and held his gauntlet up, staring at it. "Did you see ...?"

"You shoot a big d.a.m.ned fire spell out of your hand into the face of the G.o.d of War?" Terian asked, sounding more than a little wary. "It would have been to hard to miss in this light."

Cyrus studied the lines of his gauntlet, staring at the traces of the folds. "How ... how did I?" He looked up, feeling the cool trickle of something like fingers rubbing across his scalp. "What am I?"

"I don't know," Vara said, swallowing hard. Cyrus looked around them and saw every face on them-on him. "But I do know what they will call you, when the Leagues hear about this.

"Heretic."

Falcon's Essence carried Cyrus along, Terian racing beside him as they ran through the Jungle of Vidara, the first hints of blue appearing in the gaps of the canopy above. The run was oddly uninvigorating despite the crisp morning air. The taste of blood and bitterness was still thick on his tongue, and Vara's speaking of the word echoed in his ears.

Heretic.

She was behind them a little ways, the power of Noctus and Praelior speeding them forward. J'anda and Fortin had gotten even farther ahead, the rock giant's mighty strides carrying him away from Amti even before Cyrus and Terian had made a start of their run. J'anda had followed, five t.i.tans still in his sway, riding atop the tallest of them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Terian asked as they circled around a particularly large tree trunk.

"Not really," Cyrus said, his head still awhirl. "I just want to make sure the t.i.tans don't rally and come back for more." The word bounced around in his mind like thrown mud, sticking to everything.

Heretic.

"Where'd you learn it?" Terian asked. "The fire spell?"

"I heard it from someone," Cyrus said, thinking of Mendicant but not daring to say his name aloud, "while they were trying to save my life."

"Good instinct," Terian said with a sharp nod, "keeping it to yourself. Whoever slipped up, well, they're going to get the full fire of the Leagues on their tail as well."

Cyrus frowned, and it felt like mud stuck in the creases of his face, freezing it into place. "It's going to be bad, isn't it?"

Terian c.o.c.ked his head. "You have trouble coming your way, my friend. I hope you'll call for my help if you find yourself needing it."

Cyrus felt a grim, ashen smile take root on his face. "It's very strange to hear the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar say that."

"It's just a t.i.tle, Cyrus," Terian said, looking at him as earnestly as the knight had ever appeared to Cyrus's eyes. "It's not who I am-or at least not all of it."

"Lord Davidon!" Fortin's voice rumbled as the first breaks in the jungle appeared ahead, deep blue sky of early morning shining through beyond. Cyrus slowed as he caught up to the rock giant, who crouched behind a tree, J'anda atop a t.i.tan behind another. "You will want to see this!"

Cyrus ran the last hundred meters or so to where the two of them crouched at the edge of the jungle, but it did not take him that long to realize what the rock giant was referring to.

Cyrus slowed his pace and felt Terian do the same behind him. Vara huffed as she caught up then stopped. He did not turn, but he felt certain that Vara's mouth was as agape as his surely was.

The Gradsden Savanna burned.

The fire started only a few hundred meters past the end of the jungle, scorched ground already giving way, the gra.s.s fire having nearly burned itself out already, black soil and ashen remains all that was left-that and scorched bones, too ma.s.sive to be those of anything but t.i.tans.

"G.o.ds," Cyrus murmured.

"Probably don't want to be invoking them right now," Vara corrected gently.

"s.h.i.ts," Terian said, staring out at the spectacle of destruction before them.

"Probably shouldn't invoke that, either, for fear of-"

"Too late," Terian said, stepping forward.

"Poor Alaric," she said. "I hope he doesn't ever plan to get that armor back."

There was little smoke, but the damage was plain from what had been done. Fast-burning fire had consumed the retreating t.i.tan army, and it was obvious and visible that the fire had not stopped with just that army. Black clouds were strung over the flat savanna in patches that Cyrus suspected corresponded to every single t.i.tan supply camp.

"What do you think did this-" Terian started to ask, but the question was answered before he even finished.

A deafening screech of anger was followed by a sweeping shadow flying overhead, and five more after it. The wings whispered with each flutter as they caught the dawn's light behind them. The dragons flew overhead, bellowing their anger out upon a savanna devoid of life-as they had made it.