Page 14 of Nemesis Mine
No. He was here to defeat Maximillian once and for all; that was where his concentration needed to lie. The unfamiliar jitter of apprehension was only because this fight mattered to him.
The clearing opened onto a dirt track leading into the village, lined with gnarled trees and oppressive weeds. The shadows were long and ominous, perfect for the atmosphere he sought to create. It bolstered him. This time, everything would go as he damn well wanted it to.
Cyrus strode into the village, moving quickly enough to draw attention, his cloak billowing behind him. He saw eyes at windows—children peeping out at him and then turning away to speak, swiftly joined by pale-faced adults. They recognised the signs of an oncoming wrongdoer attack better than their curious offspring. One or two brave individuals cracked open their doors to peer out as he passed.
He cut a path straight through to the same village square where he had met Maximillian the previous month. The sound of a fiddle trickling out from Arclee’s tavern came to an abrupt halt. The hush that fell over the village would almost be eerie if he didn’t know what had caused it.
He had.
Cyrus allowed himself a small smile. This was the feeling he had sought all along, the heady little rush that came from knowing that people were afraid of you. The fearful did not turn their backs, or ignore, or scoff at the mention of his name. They kept their watchful eyes on him and held their breath, because they respected him.
“People of Arclee.” Cyrus turned in a full circle in the village square, sweeping his gaze over the clustered homesteads. Projection had never been an issue for Cyrus. He knew his voice would penetrate. “You will remember me. It is I, Cyrus, Earthshaker, and you well know why I visit you today. I ask of you: Send someone forth to speak with me. You will not be harmed.”
He waited as a tense silence stretched out. Before he could spin on a homestead and select an unfortunate peasant at random, somebody stumbled out of a half-open doorway. A horrified hiss of “Alisa—!” followed her.
Cyrus turned to greet his volunteer with a sinister smile, expecting the best that Arclee had to offer in the way of brave youths or grim-faced elders. Instead, a child stood staring at him curiously: a girl, about six or seven, sporting an uneven brown fringe that looked like she’d cut it herself and missing her two front teeth.
Unexpected. But he could work with it. “A brave volunteer,” he said in his very best menacing tone, sweeping his cloak behind him for extra flair. No doubt the girl would start to weep within seconds.
Alisa ignored this. She cocked her head, inspecting him with a frown. Then she said, bluntly, “Thought you was Maxy-millan.”
Cyrus’s smile faltered. He made a valiant attempt to hitch it back up. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Big brown eyes skimmed him from top to toe again, lingering around his hair. Her frown deepened. “But you’re greasier than he is.”
“I’m notgr—” Cyrus stopped, took a quick breath. Outrageous as her accusation was, launching into an argument with a bumbling six-year-old would not be a good look. “My hair isstyled, child. And no, I am not Maximillian.” Revolting little wretch. “But I am here to see him.”
“Maxy-millan ain’t here.” Alisa scratched her arm, unconcerned. “Not seen him for ages and ages.”
Cyrus knew that Maximillian hadn’t returned to Arclee since their initial confrontation, because he had been keeping closer tabs on Maximillian than anyone here. But he wasn’t about to admit it.
Turning away from the child, Cyrus gave a mockinglaugh for the benefit of everyone else, nice and loud. “As expected. Your so-called champion hides from me!”
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 sopredictablewhen 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 forgottenhow 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! Helpme 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.
