Victor of Tucson

Kethelket gestured to the hillside bordering the western side of the vale, directing his thirty brothers and sisters to land next to the lone, armored woman. He recognized the shimmering scales and knew it was Valla. He wasn’t surprised to see her with sword in hand, staring into the narrow valley where her—their—leader was streaking over the grass on that magnificent mount of his. How fast it was! Even airborne, on wings and magic, he and his squadron couldn’t match its pace. The mad giant was charging directly toward the rear ranks of the reaver army, more than a thousand strong, and beyond them, Kethelket could see what had prevented the fifth cohort from responding to messages; they were beset by enormous hounds.

“It’s madness,” Rincella cried from his right as they descended toward Valla.

“Aye, a mad scene, indeed.” Valla looked up at the sound of their voices, and he called down, “Do I need to send word to Captain Sarl?”

She watched him and his folk land lightly on the grass, shaking her head. “I spoke to him through the book. He marches. How long will it take?”

“If they double-time? Over these hills, maintaining some semblance of order? Half an hour? Three quarters?” Kethelket shrugged. He wasn’t an expert on foot soldier speeds.

“That’s what I feared, and look.” Valla pointed as Victor’s incredible charge neared the enemy ranks. Kethelket held his breath, wondering if the madman would veer at the last instant, taunting the enemies, trying to get them to slow or chase him. He heard Valla’s intake of breath as she, too, braced, watching the distant figure and trail of sparks his horse threw up in its wake.

“Gods!” she cried as he smashed right into the charging reavers, trampling through them. The explosive impact took a heartbeat to reach them, and in that gap, Kethelket looked at Valla, wondering where she’d taken the strange habit of invoking gods. Then the sounds of crashing metal, screaming men and women, and the thunderous roars of the mad titan echoed up the slope to them, and those wondering thoughts were chased from Kethelket’s mind as he watched the incredible, giant mount smash through the entire formation of reavers.

Gasps, cheers, curses, and various other exclamations broke out among the Naghelli flanking him and Valla. “I yearn to join him, but we’d be slain. There are too many; we’d be swarmed.” His words weren’t only for Valla; he knew some of his kin would want to join the titan in his madness. “His size gives him mobility among their host that we could not match.”

“I know, but I won’t stand here and watch him die. I hope he’s in control of his rage. He’s seemed so much better lately, but tonight . . . tonight he seemed different.”

“Lord,” one of his men said, forgetting that he was no longer a true prince, “will we not at least join the cavalry on the far side of the vale? There, we may make a difference against those giant hounds.”

“Good question, Givahn. Yes. Go. Rincella, you will lead these thirty to aid the fifth cohort. I will stay with Tribune ap’Yensha.”

The dark Naghelli lifted her fist to her heart and leaped into the air, her shadowy wings with their amber markings streaking into the sky as the rest of the thirty flew after her. Kethelket watched them, trusting they’d be wise enough to avoid death among their soil-bound comrades. Quick strikes, feints, and retreats were the order of the night—Rincella knew as much.

“You don’t have to stay with me.”

“No, but I will.” Kethelket followed Valla’s gaze to the giant, now riding his bloodied, prancing mount to and fro before the line of reavers who’d come to a halt and were cringing in the light of his enormous, blazing banner. “You wish you were with him.”

“Of course!” Valla spat the words, and Kethelket’s suspicions that she saw more in Victor than a leader began to deepen.

“He can break free. His size and speed . . .”

“I know.” Valla sighed in frustration, turning to look back toward the west, perhaps trying to spy some sign of Sarl’s troops.

“On a positive note, it seemed the fifth cohort was holding their own against those giant hounds. With my squad of Naghelli aiding them, they may prevail while Victor delays these reavers. Ancestors!” His outburst came as Victor slid from his mount, sending it away, and then charged into the thick of the reaver army with explosive force. More sounds of smashing metal and screaming soldiers echoed over the hillsides. “Did he actually dismiss his mount?”

“It doesn’t surprise me.” Valla now sounded resigned, though her eyes darted about, following Victor’s movements, and her breaths were slow, each one held until her body forced her to exhale and take a new one. Kethelket watched the giant and realized he didn’t seem so gigantic anymore; many of the reavers, hundreds of them, had exploded with their own growth, taking on vampyric forms like the baron and his kin they’d met earlier in the night. “Shit!” Valla cried, using one of the strange legate’s favorite curses. “Some of those vampyrs are nearly his size!”

“He’s far mightier than they, however.” Kethelket tried to sound reassuring, but she was correct; there were so many of the creatures. How could he hope to win? He attempted to answer his own question, “They can’t match his explosive power and speed, his ability to leap great distances. He merely bides his time, tormenting and slaying many of them. Without question, he’ll fight free before he succumbs to their numbers, and, hopefully, he’ll have delayed them long enough for Sarl to come.”

“Yes.” Valla looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes; she knew he was trying to reassure her. “If I didn’t think it would be a distraction, if I didn’t think I’d be overrun in minutes, I’d charge down there.”

“As would I, Lady Valla. If there were but a hundred for me to slay, I would try it.” Kethelket rested his hand on the pommel of his off-hand blade, Gevel, and listened to the hunger in her song as it trilled through the bones of his palm. She wanted to fight, but then, she always wanted to fight. Valla didn’t respond, and Kethelket allowed his mouth to rest while his eyes followed the mad, beautiful dance of destruction the titanic legate wove among the reavers. At this distance, it was hard to see details, but he could see the orange streak of his massive axe as it ripped, smashed, and tore among the reavers and the dark mist that clouded the air in its wake—smoke and blood.

Victor smashed through row upon row of the reavers, never standing still long enough for them to pile on. Still, it was clear he took wounds, and Kethelket couldn’t imagine the kind of Energy he had coursing through his pathways to mend him so quickly. Aside from his rapid healing, he was unfathomably sturdy. Kethelket saw spears, driven by large, powerful men, strike the giant’s legs and fail to penetrate enough to find purchase, falling away or shattering under the sweeps of Victor’s axe.

“He’s like an iron colossus.”

“He’s a true titan while Berserk; his bloodline is rich. Still, he bleeds, Kethelket, and the spells he weaves to bolster himself take a toll. He’s been fighting too long, been cut so many times. If not for his armor . . .”

“Such armor. Yours is the same?”

“Not the same, but crafted by the same artisan.”

“Wonderful stuff. Might I know the name of . . .”

“Not now, sir.” Valla’s words were clipped, her eyes narrowed as she stared at the battle below, and Kethelket felt a fool for trying to make small talk about armor while such a great man battled for his life. In the hope of redeeming himself, he launched into the air and turned to the west, scanning the hillsides. Sure enough, perhaps a mile distant, he saw the lights of the ninth cohort, the Glorious Ninth, as Victor had styled them.

He quickly descended, announcing as he did, “I see the Ninth—only a mile distant.”

“A mile over shrub-covered hillsides. Ten minutes, maybe? An eternity for Victor. Ancestors, damn it! Why doesn’t he break free? Look at how he slows . . .” her voice rose in a near-panic, “Oh no! His banner!” Kethelket saw what she meant—the blazing light of Victor’s glorious banner had winked out. Valla jerked her sword up, pulling its point from the sod, and began to jog down the hill. Kethelket hurried after her and grabbed her by the shoulder, darting back as she reflexively lashed out at him. “Unhand me!”

“Lady! Hold! Use your reason—would Victor want you to charge now? Would you even be able to get near him? Hundreds of reavers stand between us and him! Surely, he has a plan! Surely, he doesn’t want to die this night.”

“He . . .” Valla stopped pulling, some of the anger fading from her eyes, bright moisture pooling there to take its place. “He’s not so easy to predict! Something comes over him when he’s fighting—he loves it. His heart, his spirit, there’s so much conflict there! Rage, fear, glory, inspiration! It’s what he is, he’s . . . I can’t see him running, dammit!”

“He still battles, despite the banner’s fading, by all the dead and the spirits that claw at the gates, look! He’s no longer a giant, yet he fights on!” Kethelket pointed, and Valla, perhaps accepting that she couldn’t get to Victor in time to make a difference, joined him in his appreciation of Victor’s prowess. He was remarkable; the skill he showed among that host of enemies was the seed of a legend being born. Kethelket might fight so beautifully against a single foe, a dance of skill and grace with his two living blades, but he couldn’t hope to move that way among a horde of clamoring armored enemies. He’d be overrun, unable to find or create the gaps to move about like Victor did.

“He’s gotten so good with that axe. He’s making fools of them. Look how he ducks and weaves—I taught him that one!”

“I pray he’ll win free so I may yet spar with him.” Kethelket’s voice was hushed, watching how Victor, just a dark shadow at this distance in the moonlight, moved among the reavers and vampyrs, large and small, his glowing axe hacking limbs off, smashing skulls, and ripping in wide arcs, spraying steaming blood in misting clouds. “He truly is like a dancer . . .”

Every so often, Victor would explode with light and speed, ripping through more of the reavers, thunderously colliding with an enemy, and driving the hordes back with the concussion of his impact. Now, after just such a move, Victor paused, leaning on his axe, and, in the bright, green-tinted moonlight, Kethelket could see his shoulders heaving up and down with his inhalations—the man was exhausted. He knew if he were closer, he’d see that he was covered with wounds, that he was dark with blood, and that he must be near the end.

He glanced at Valla, saw tears streaking her cheeks, and turned to the west to see that the Ninth was close, cresting a hilltop only a quarter of a mile distant. “I will go to him. I’ll try to pull him free; fly off with him!” Valla’s eyes focused on him, and she nodded emphatically, something like desperate hope springing to life in them. Kethelket leaped into the air, streaking toward the army and the lone, heroic warrior at their center. He’d only covered half the distance when it seemed like Victor burst into flames.

#

Is your bloody work over? I don’t think so, child of the Quinametzin. I am Chantico, brave son, and I lend you my strength and my fire. Stand tall among these undead fiends. Teach them what it means to corner a titan!

At his ancestor’s words, Victor’s eyes began to smolder with deep, yellow-orange flames, and his vision took on a bright, yellow tint. He felt a warmth in his belly, an echo of the fire in his chest where his breath Core smoldered. At first, it was an echo, but as the reavers closed in, overcoming their fear of Lifedrinker’s edge, ready to finish him, the fire in his belly grew hot, turned into an inferno, and then exploded through his body.

His pathways blazed with the Energy, and Victor arched his back, screaming his enthusiasm for the fire, welcoming it as it invigorated his tired muscles and fueled his body’s healing. Victor’s dozens—hundreds—of wounds were cauterized on the spot, sealed beneath hot, new flesh, and, though the fiery Energy wasn’t compatible with his Core, and he struggled to bend it to his will, to push it into his spell patterns, Victor could feel his breath Core yearning for it, could feel it pulsing and throbbing, aching to absorb that hot Energy.

Had his ancestor known that he had an affinity for magma, for fire? Had she known about his breath Core? Had she gifted him this Energy for that use or simply to heal and revitalize him? Victor began to dance again, moving with grace and power, slipping blows, hacking limbs, and weaving between his many, many foes. All the while, he felt that fire burning, felt his breath Core yearning, and he wished he knew how to bring them together. Could he solve the puzzle before he was overwhelmed? Did it matter? He’d slain so many! Surely, his ancestors were proud. Surely, he’d left his mark on this world. Sarl must be close—the fifth cohort would be saved, and Rellia would have her foothold in these lands.

Valla . . . Valla would be proud of him, though she’d be angry at first. He was angry that he wouldn’t hold her again, and that thought made Victor turn more of his attention to his pathways, to his breath Core. “What’s the fucking deal?” he growled, shouldering aside a massive Vampyr and hacking down with Lifedrinker, carving a groove through its femur as he danced around it and spun, cleaving in an arc, driving back several reavers. Even with half his attention pointed inward, he and Lifedrinker were making fools of these pendejos.

He'd looked at his pathways so many times that he didn’t need to look now to know how they traversed his body. They rose from his Core to his head and out to his arms and hands. They went down from his Core to his legs and his feet. They branched into little tributaries that touched different parts of his body—his heart, his lungs, his . . .” Victor paused, and he felt like a spark had ignited in his brain. His lungs . . . his “breath” Core . . . Victor exerted his will, gathering all the Energy in his pathways and pushing it, driving it into the pathways that went to his lungs, driving it harder and harder until he forced new openings like he had in his hands.

He was a man, a titan, and he was used to doing things with his hands. He directed his magic with his hands, and he pulled it in through his hands. Humans and titans didn’t naturally have a breath Core; they didn’t naturally pull or push their magic with their lungs. “Time to change that!” Victor roared as he split the head of yet another reaver. Lifedrinker screamed with fury and pleasure, excited to still be fighting, proud of Victor for finding a second wind. Victor pushed the fiery magic in his pathways into his lungs, and then, with a deep inhalation, he willed it to flow into his breath Core.

He'd never felt anything like what happened next. It was, for lack of a more eloquent analogy, orgasmic. Pure pleasure radiated through his being as his breath Core swelled, as it split a shell Victor didn’t know had held it, and it expanded, flaring like a miniature, fiery sun, sending heat through his body. Victor felt his chest swell as he inhaled, felt his breath ignite, and savored the feeling. It was like all his life he’d been breathing something dead and lifeless, and now he had a living, dancing, raging wind in his lungs, and it wanted out.

Whatever fiery magic his ancestor had sent into him, Victor knew it was potent beyond his means, something epic and magnificent, something not meant for the world of Fanwath. The gift brought tears to his eyes as he realized what he’d received, as he tasted the life the flames had filled him with. He spread his arms wide, expanding his chest as he strained to fill himself with as much air as possible, savoring the pleasure as his Core continued to ignite it, as he swelled with the potent flames of his ancestor. His inaction encouraged the reavers and vampyrs, and they began to creep close, weapons and claws raised. Then Victor exhaled, and the world burst into flames.

Fire streamed out of Victor’s mouth like water from a fire hose. It cooked the flesh off the reavers before him in a thirty-foot cone, blackened their bones, and reduced them to ash. Victor wasn’t done—he turned in a circle, blowing that terrible, wonderful, awful yellow-white fire in a circular cone, utterly destroying hundreds of reavers and vampyrs. He wasn’t sure if it was the potency of the fire his ancestor gave him or a particular weakness to fire, but his enemies crumbled before his efforts, and the ones outside his cone, who only felt the heat of his flames, fell back, scrabbling to get away from him.

By the time he’d turned full circle and the awesome fire had fled his breath Core, Victor stood at the center of an enormous black circle of smoldering corpses. The reaver host was in disarray as they fought over each other to put more distance between themselves and the one who’d breathed the fury of a sun onto the battlefield. Victor lifted Lifedrinker high, and he roared his enthusiastic thanks, praising his ancestors with an ululating, howling scream. The reavers were broken, their will to fight demolished by the display of destruction, and that’s how the Glorious Ninth found them as they charged down the slope and smashed into them with Valla and Kethelket at the center of their front rank.

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