Warlord by Robert J. Crane Read Free Book Online Page A

a damned expert—”
    “He’s—”
    “Oh my—”
    “We need Curatio for this,” Vaste said, firm, serious. He waited a breath, and then shouted, “ CURATIO !”
    “For—I mean—holy—what the—”
    Other voices were joining in now, frightening, frightened, and awestruck. The thump of feet against the street was a constant sound, but there was none of the thudding of titans running about, not now. A strange peace settled over Cyrus as the pain started to fade …
    “Aw, shits, he’s dying—”
    The light drifted out of his view like a candle snuffed in a light wind, a puff and gone—
    —then consciousness returned with the pain, harsh and unrelenting, and all the way up his arm this time, present now in a way it hadn’t been before. Before it had simply been numb, or gone, but now it screamed at him.
    “Yes,” Curatio’s soft voice said, straining. “And then—” He muttered something under his breath, and the pain receded from his arm’s joints, feeling instead like it was originating on the surface. “Then—yes, like that—” The healer murmured again, and this time his left leg screamed in pain for a brief second before it started to fade. “Almost—”
    A moment passed in which Cyrus felt as though he’d fallen into a sleep, then snapped back to a wakeful state with the sky dark orange above him. He could feel his own breath coming now, and when he raised a hand, it responded. His whole body was now at his command, and all of it hurt with that strange, phantom pain of wounds now healed. Cyrus grunted, the noise deep and full of discomfort.
    “Oh, thank Vidara,” Vara said, drifting into his vision, her cheeks red.
    “What the—hell …” Cyrus moaned, sitting up, his head woozy with the aftereffects of a resurrection spell.
    “Talikartin the Guardian smashed you into the ground about twelve good times before J’anda’s titan combined with one of Mendicant’s spells drove him off,” Andren said, blurring into focus. “We had a merry time trying to put you back together again.”
    Cyrus sat there, taking stock of the world around him. The air was still thick with the smell of smoke, and he could feel blood or sweat or both dripping down his skin inside his armor. It was hot, miserably so, and the sky was still dark with night, fires blazing all around him. Cyrus could not tell if it was the harsh heat of summer baking the Emerald Fields long after the sun had fled for the day, or simply all the fires still burning around him that was doing it, but it was as uncomfortable as sitting too close to a hearth.
    The taste of blood still tainted his saliva, dripping off his tongue when he went to speak. “Did …” He blinked and looked around the square. Fortin sat on his knees a short distance away, a strange noise coming from the rock giant, something that almost sounded akin to … sobbing?
    “Where … did they go?” Cyrus asked, the weight of all that had happened settling down on him. “Talikartin, I mean?”
    “Cast the return spell and disappeared,” Vara said. “Some of the other survivors went as well, flashing into the night …”
    Cyrus pushed himself up on unsteady legs. Vara tried to grasp him under the arm, but he waved her off and she relented, though he saw the tension in the way she held herself. He got to his feet and Andren stood up next to him. “Shouldn’t you be off … healing people?”
    “I …” Andren’s mouth flapped open and shut, and he swiveled his head to look down the street. Without another word, he broke into a run off toward one of the main thoroughfares that led west, robes flapping behind him. Cyrus could see other Sanctuary members in that direction, shouting as they ducked into and out of buildings, carrying bundles—bodies—both large and small.
    “Gods,” Vara whispered, and she sidled up to him, her armor clinking lightly against his. This time he did not brush her away, he let her lean against him as he did the same against