The War of the Masters

Saliva drooled from the hellhound’s sharp, pointed fangs. The beasts growled viciously, seemingly held back only by a verbal command from their masters.

Cyrus had never heard of a hellhound before, but judging from the foul, ashen odor and the blazing yellow eyes, they looked extremely dangerous—probably more than they could handle.

He let none of this show on his face, however, careful to maintain the menacing demeanor he’d adopted upon entering the room. Not that it was difficult; his rage was already threatening to erupt. This just gave him the perfect excuse.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” he said, dropping his voice to a dangerous whisper. “If you want to live, get out of the castle. Now.”

This time the soldiers looked at each other, and he caught a flicker of doubt in their expressions. Then the older guard chuckled, trying to slough it off with a shrug. “You think you can stop us, little man?” he asked, mimicking the threatening tone Cyrus had used.

Cyrus narrowed his eyes. Then he reached to his belt and unhooked the Akieres Legacy Blade.

Both guards laughed, unaware of what the device could do in his hands. “A child’s toy? That’s what you’re gonna scare us with?”

The corners of Cyrus’s lips curled in the slightest hint of amusement. Power funneled into his left hand, channeling almost all of what remained in his supply. In a flash, he raised the weapon and fired at the middle hellhound. The blade sprang free, extending on the hidden chain and darting through the air in a blur until it smashed into the hellhound’s face, killing the monster before it even had time to move.

The other two dogs ceased their growling instantaneously, cowering back with soft whimpers emerging from their throats. The men stood in shock, mouths agape and eyes wide at what had just happened. Cyrus felt exhausted from the attack, both physically and mentally. His shoulders sagged a bit, and he fought the urge to kneel down and rest.

Instead, he fixed the two soldiers with an icy glare. Then he uttered quietly, “This is the last chance I’m going to give you.”

There was only a second’s hesitation before the two men and the hellhounds scuttled away, fleeing Cyrus’s wrath. The moment they were gone he surrendered to his fatigue, dropping down to all fours, his breathing coming in heavy, ragged gasps.

“Son!” Kendal said in a worried voice, kneeling beside him. “Are you all right?”

Unable to get the words out, Cyrus only nodded. He had used as much energy as he dared for today; he would simply have to go the rest of the mission without.

On the other side of the dining table, Terra helped the woman the soldiers had been trying to kidnap to her feet.

“Thank you,” the woman, probably in her late twenties, said graciously.

“You’re welcome,” Terra replied. “Do you think you can get out of the castle on your own?”

“Yes. Now that you’ve scared away the goons, at least.”

Terra smiled. “Do you know where the prisoners are being held?”

“You mean the ones in the dungeon?”

“No, I’m looking for an admiral and a woman named Jalinth.”

The woman shook her head. “I’m just a cook. But I do know the Magistrate and the Fire General are meeting in his throne room. If there are prisoners here, they’re likely nearby.”

“Thank you,” Terra said gratefully.

“No, thank you. I’d like to help you out more, if I could.”

“Not necessary. When you get outside, head to the church in Cordova for safety,” Cyrus suggested. Suppressing a groan, he pushed himself to his feet. “If—er, when we make it out, we’ll meet you there.”

“One more thing,” the cook told them, “when you come to a long hallway with a red carpet, take the door on your right.”

“Right door, got it.”

The sound of a trumpet cut off the conversation.

“That’s an alarm,” Terra shrieked. “Those guards must have tipped off the others that we’re here!”

“Let’s go!” Cyrus said, bolting toward the nearest door. The dining room opened into a statuary, with elaborate stone carvings decorating the chamber. Cyrus heard the heavy tread of footsteps closing in on them, and he didn’t have to look back to know the soldiers were hot on their heels. The trio darted through the door and into another corridor—this one with a red carpet.

He raced through the ostentatious hall, remembering the cook’s advice to take the door on their right. To his surprise, however, he saw not one, but two doors on the right.

You have got to be kidding me . . .

Grinding his teeth together, Cyrus chose the nearest door and threw it open to find an empty bedroom.

Shoot. This must be the wrong door.

The soldiers were almost upon them; he didn’t have time to go back into the hallway. Frantically, Cyrus scanned the chamber for something to barricade the door.

“The chest!” his father shouted above the yells of the oncoming soldiers and the pouring rain. The two men grabbed the chest and tipped it on its side so that it fell in front of the doorway.

That will buy us a little time.

Cyrus, Terra, and Kendal took hold of the bed next and pushed it up against the chest, wedging it firmly against the only door into the bedroom.

“Now what?” his father asked.

“The balcony!” Terra cried, even as the soldiers slammed into the door, trying to force it open. The trio piled out the double doors and onto the cold, rain-slicked veranda. There was another crack of thunder, louder this time.

A blurred moon peeked through a veil of clouds, giving Cyrus surprising visibility. The balcony protruded over the castle walls, directly above the cliff side. One wrong step and they would fall from the icy mountain tops into the valley more than a thousand feet below.

A balcony identical to theirs hung fifteen to twenty feet away—too long to jump. The flag of Cordova was raised proudly on the other side, and all three of them had the same idea at once.

“The grappling hook,” Terra said.

I’ve got to remember to thank Raiden for this handy little device, Cyrus thought as he handed the hook to his father.

Cyrus heard another crash against the bedroom door. They had to balance caution and haste perfectly if they were going to get out of this alive.

Kendal twirled the rope and launched the metal hook across the chasm, wrapping it tightly around the flagpole. He swung across in one fluid motion and threw the rope back.

“Hurry, Terra,” Cyrus urged. The guards were almost through the door.

The Princess swung to the other side just as gracefully, then passed the rope back as the bedroom door finally gave way. Angry shouts flooded the room as soldiers slipped inside. Cyrus squeezed the wet rope so hard that his knuckles turned white. Then he swung.

This time he flew over to the other side without a problem, landing neatly on the soaked stone rooftop. Soldiers scampered through the balcony doors they had just come from, scowling as they saw Cyrus on the other side.

His father yanked on the rope, pulling the grappling hook free as the troopers filed back inside, shouting orders to cut the group off.

Terra opened the double doors on the balcony, and they slipped into the dry stone interior of a throne room. The massive chamber was filled to excess with lush carpets, two solid oak tables, and beautiful, silk-woven tapestries spanning the entire breadth of the walls. Obviously Magistrate Hispen was a man who liked to flaunt his considerable wealth.

“What’s the meaning of this!?” the Magistrate asked from his lavish teak chair on a raised dais at the far side of the room.

Cyrus was about to answer when he realized the Magistrate wasn’t talking to them. Standing only fifteen feet away were two of the mutated husks, still reeking of oil. Between them was a slim man clad in a decorated black uniform with a symbol of fire emblazoned on the chest.

“I asked you a question, General!” the Magistrate spat furiously.

So, this is Dameon. Perfect: the two men responsible for these atrocities.

“Your usefulness in this matter has ended,” the Fire General replied, an arrogant smile twisting across his face. He grabbed one of the torches from the wall.

“What? You can’t do this!” the Magistrate protested. “Bergion has not yet taken control of Koh’Lah. We had an agreement!”

Dameon ignored the Magistrate’s ranting. Taking his torch, he barely waved the flame over the two mutated creatures. Fire erupted across the gaseous blisters on their necks, chests, and shoulders until their entire bodies were engulfed in flames.

“Go, my children,” Dameon commanded.

The two crazed beings flew into a frenzy, clawing their way up the ornate tapestries and lighting a portion of the chamber ablaze before the flames overtook them.

Embers streaked over, around, and toward Cyrus, igniting his boots and the door through which they had entered. With a growl, Cyrus stooped down and patted out the flames on his clothes.

His eyes still transfixed on the Magistrate, Dameon muttered, “Farewell!”

Then he left through the opposite door. A moment later the entryway burst into flames.

Great. Now what?

The flames were spreading like wildfire, quickly overtaking the back of the chamber and moving inexorably toward the Magistrate. Looking closer, Cyrus saw Hispen unlocking a hidden door behind his gaudy chair.

“C’mon!” Kendal said as he ran toward the Magistrate.

Hispen heard their approach and retrieved a huge ivory bow from the side of his chair. He slid an arrow back and fired. Cyrus ducked behind one of the wooden tables, feeling a rush of air as the arrow lanced mere inches above his head. Even with his throne room incinerating, the Magistrate was still intent on stopping them.

Safe for the moment, Cyrus racked his brain for a way out of this mess. Heat pressed at his back, the smell of charred wood and smoke stinging his nostrils from the fire’s ravenous advance. Pellets of rain still hounded the castle roof, and he heard the thrum of a bowstring as another arrow hurtled past them. They were trapped on both sides.

We’re dead if we stay here. At least if we move, we’ve got a chance.

Another table was positioned ten feet in front of them and off-set to the right.

“We have to make a break for that table,” Cyrus said, pointing at the sturdy oak refuge. Terra and his father nodded and followed him to the edge of their cover.

“Terra, you go first,” Cyrus ordered. She wiped the sweat from her brow and hovered in a squatting position. “As soon as we get his attention, make a break for it.”

Cyrus counted down in his mind, then he rammed his shoulder into the table, knocking it onto its side. Terra made her move, darting behind the other table just as Cyrus heard another volley of arrows splinter the wood.

An idea flashed in his mind, and he tried to push the overturned table to use it as a mobile shield.

“It’s no good, son,” Kendal’s voice interrupted him. “The table’s too big; it’s barely moving. The fire will catch up to us at this rate. We’ve got to make a run for it.”

Cyrus took a glance back. Droplets of sweat fell from his brow. The smoke was so thick it made his eyes water. It was now or never.

“C’mon, son, let’s go together,” Kendall reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He slid one of the chairs over to Cyrus, and grabbed another for himself. A confident smile formed at his lips and he gave a slight nod.

Cyrus nodded as well and turned to face Hispen. Grasping the sides of the chair, he sprang into the open, holding the makeshift shield over his face and torso. An arrow whizzed by, barely missing his feet.

After five long strides, Cyrus discarded the chair and dove beside Terra. Kendal was right behind him.

Cyrus coughed on the smoke. “Everyone okay?”

“Yes,” came their answer in unison.

Cyrus took a second to wrap his mind around the situation. They had bought themselves only a minute at most, but they were closer to the Magistrate.

“Terra, think you can scramble his brain long enough for me to disarm him?”

“No, I’ll need time to do that. Longer than we’ve got, anyway.” She gestured at the crackling flames chewing toward them.

“Dad, what about you?”

His father reached into his pocket and pulled out a large, smooth stone. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Cyrus nodded. “On three, grab his attention so I can charge him. Then follow right behind me. Got it?”

Terra took another glance at the fire, swallowed and nodded. She looked frightened, but there was nothing more he could do for her.

“One . . . two . . . three!”

Popping up from behind the table, Kendal hurled his stone at Hispen. The Magistrate instinctively dropped down, avoiding the projectile but giving Cyrus enough time to make his run.

Cyrus dashed across the plush carpet as fast as he could, a plan already forming in his mind. Hispen had his escape door slightly ajar, ready to flee once the fire drew too close. With what little power he had left, Cyrus would pin him against the door while Terra and his father slipped through.

Then he would leave the Magistrate to burn alongside the abominations he, himself, had created.

Energy flowed into his left hand, the last of his reservoir. It was a gamble, he knew; the last of his power was also what sustained the Breath of the Masters in him. As soon as he expended it, his body would revert back to when he’d first received the Breath: crippled, broken, and near death. But if he didn’t use it . . . Terra and his father might never leave this room alive.

It was a chance he had to take.

The Magistrate scrambled to his feet as Cyrus barreled toward him. It was going to be close . . .

Cyrus tried to force his legs to move faster. Flying up the stairs, his feet suddenly tangled together, causing him to lurch forward. He reflexively threw out his hands to break the fall.

The instant his left hand met the stone step, all the power he’d intended to pin the Magistrate with was released. Cyrus’s push met the unyielding stone and propelled him wildly into the air. His heart raced with terror as the floor grew farther and farther away. Cyrus twisted to avoid smacking into the castle’s high ceiling. From his pocket he heard Lucky gasp in fright.

Then gravity took hold of him.

Plummeting back down, Cyrus desperately clawed at the throne room’s far wall. His hands wrapped around one of the many tapestries. The fabric tore loudly, slowing his descent enough that the landing wasn’t fatal.

Instead, he smashed into the partially open door just behind the Magistrate, and he felt at least two of his bones breaking. Pain racked his body just as intensely as when the Savage King beat him to a bloody pulp. His joints were swollen and his muscles refused to cooperate. He was helpless.

Then came the unmistakable sound of an arrow pulled taut against the string of a bow.

Cyrus tried to lash out with his foot in a last-ditch effort to trip the Magistrate, but his old wounds suffered at King Xyloth’s hands resurfaced, puncturing his lung and quelling his efforts. Eyes swollen, Cyrus thought he glimpsed the hint of a smile on Hispen’s lips.

Without warning, his father slammed into the Magistrate with the force of a battering ram, knocking the giant bow aside before running Hispen through with his sword.

Looks like I provided the distraction for him, Cyrus thought with a relieved half-smile. Each rasping breath was a struggle of its own. Just before he lost consciousness he saw bright orange flames hungrily closing in . . .