The Sanctuary Series, Books 1-3: Defender, Avenger and Champion
Author: Robert J. Crane
Date: 2015-05-29T04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction & Fantasy; Fantasy; Epic; Sword & Sorcery
Description: This is a collection of the first three titles in the Sanctuary Series, which is about a warrior in the mythical world of Arkaria, facing great battles against magical and fantastical foes. (Approx. 357,000 words or 950 pages total.) The world of Arkaria is a dangerous place, filled with dragons, titans, goblins and other dangers. Those who live in this world are faced with two choices: live an ordinary life or become an adventurer and seek the extraordinary. Books included: 1. Defender 2. Avenger 3. Champion Defender: Cyrus Davidon leads a small guild in the human capital of Reikonos. Caught
Publisher: Revelen Press

THE SANCTUARY SERIES

VOLUME ONE–THREE

By Robert J. Crane

DEFENDER

THE SANCTUARY SERIES: VOLUME ONE

3rd Edition

AVENGER

THE SANCTUARY SERIES, VOLUME TWO

2nd Edition

CHAMPION

THE SANCTUARY SERIES, VOLUME THREE

2nd Edition

Copyright Midian Press, 2011

All rights reserved

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or physical editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For information regarding permissions, please contact cyrusdavidon@gmail.com.

Find Robert J. Crane online at

http://www.robertjcrane.com

DEFENDER

THE SANCTUARY SERIES
VOLUME ONE

By Robert J. Crane

NOW

Prologue

The blood pounded in his ears as he rode his horse into the wind. We’re close to the end now, he thought. The Plains of Perdamun had been set upon by a blustery autumn wind. It whipped across the front gate of Reikonos, through the crops of the farmers’ fields, all the way to the valleys and passes of the Heia Mountains. It was an ill wind, out of the north, from beyond the Torrid Sea, and it smelled of decay.

Nestled at the split of the river Perda at the place where the northern branch flowed to the Torrid Sea and the eastern tributary flowed into the Bay of Lost Souls, there was a crater in the ground. Gaping, enormous, the only signifying mark on it was a simple headstone with an engraving that in beautiful, flowing script explained how the crater came to be in the midst of the smooth, unbroken grounds of the plains.

From across the lonely fields came the black cloaked figure on a white horse, making his way toward the scar in the ground. His traveling cloak revealed boots of metal, and hands that were encased in gauntlets. The hood of the cloak was raised and no helmet could be seen underneath. He rode to the edge of the crater and dismounted. With a gentle stroke across the back of the horse he walked away, a few murmured words in its ear; it whinnied at him in a friendly way.

He stared across the gap for a moment before his eyes came back to rest on the monument. Granite, glorious, a testament to the courage and fortitude of a group of fighters so noble that it took the power of the very gods themselves to wipe them from the lands of Arkaria. A feeling stirred, deep in his soul, one not felt in…years. One of longing, of regret, of the barest, most skeletal sense of fear. The last sensation was the most curious, since the tall, cloaked stranger had not felt afraid for a very, very long time.

He shook it off. He had seen great and terrible things in his time, and this was not nearly the worst of trials he had faced. Tracing his way back to the horse, he reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a leather bound tome. The worn cover indicated that the volume was hundreds, possibly even thousands of years old. A string marked the spot in the book that he was searching for, and once opened, he knelt and began to murmur an incantation. Reaching under his armor, his hand clutched something close to his chest. Invoking powers he had never before called upon, he whispered,

“I invoke thee who hear my plea,

I request thy aid,

For those who are soon to die.”

Closing the book, he centered his vision upon the crater. A flash lit his eyes as powerful magics moved before him. Seconds later, another flash. Then another, then lightning, radiating from the crater’s center – a shockwave of energy issued forth followed by a loud CRACK! that shook the countryside. The traveler, already kneeling, caught himself with his right hand, moved by the release of power before him.

An ethereal vision confronted him – like wisps of smoke, something began to wave and drift in the crater. Growing more solid, lines took shape and what began as the faintest afterimage became a building. It contained elegant lines and stones, archways and towers, but had a distinctly different appearance than a castle – it was made for a different purpose than housing an army and protecting its subjects – and was fading into view where once there was only the nothingness of the crater.

The traveler rose from the ground, cloak left behind him. His blackened armor glinted in the overcast day. His swords marked him as a warrior. His eyes surveyed the scene before him as though he were seeing a long lost friend.

And for the first time in long memory, the warrior smiled.

8 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1

Flames lit every surface in the caves and lava floes burned all around him, like some version of the Realm of Death he had heard tales of in his youth. There were flames leaping out of holes in the walls and floor like fiery stalagmites. Cyrus Davidon stood in the midst of it all, minding his steps very carefully, lest his black armor end up blacker still from an inadvertent scorching.

The sweat rolled off his face as he surveyed the group around him. Over one hundred adventurers, all with common purpose. They had come to this place intending to slay a dragon. There was some nobility in that, Cyrus reflected, but it was diminished by the fact that the dragon was trapped in these depths and not a threat to anyone but those looking for it. Which meant that most of them were here for the dragon’s sizeable treasure hoard.

“There’s nothing like fighting for your life with a small army of opportunists to watch your back, is there?” Cyrus murmured.

“You’re not joking. It makes you wonder if there’s even one of this lot we can trust,” came the voice of Narstron a dwarf who had traveled with Cyrus for many seasons and had shared a great many adventures with him.

“Trust is earned, not given. This group is so raw they’ll be dead before they even prove themselves,” came the voice on the other side of Narstron. Andren was an elf by nature and a healer by trade, a spell caster with the ability to bind wounds through magical means. “This lot has seen far too few seasons – and this is likely their last. Dragons aren’t to be trifled with.” He peered at Cyrus with his eyes narrowed. “You’d better have a damned good reason for accepting the invitation of a stranger in the square to come on this mass suicide.”

“I do.” Cyrus looked around, body tense, eyes coming to rest on the expedition’s leader. She was an elf, her armor was encrusted with rare gemstones.

“I have to believe,” Narstron said, “that the placement of those gemstones has to cut down on the effectiveness of her armor by a good margin.”

Andren snorted. “If that highborn elitist trash’s armor has ever seen combat I’ll eat the dragon we’re going to face in one bite.”

She had approached them in the square of the human capital of Reikonos, inviting them to join an army she had assembled for the purpose of killing this dragon. “He’s a tremendous threat to all life,” she’d begun after introducing herself as Angelique. “He was the Dragonlord of the southern lands, King of all the dragons, and intent on leading his people in a march to war against all the northern kingdoms – the elves, the humans, the dwarves, the dark elves, even the gnomes!”

“What’s this dragon’s name?” Cyrus had asked her, eyes squinting against the midday sun in the square.

“Ashan’agar.” Her voice was almost reverent.

Cyrus’s pupils dilated. His breath hung in his throat.

Narstron shook his head. “I think we’ll pass –”

“We’ll go,” Cyrus had answered, cutting off Narstron.

“Splendid.” The elf clapped, such was her enthusiasm. “The treasure hoard for this dragon is supposed to be quite rich, and of course we’ll split it equally, of course, after I take my fee for leading this expedition…”

That had been hours ago. Narstron brought Cyrus back to the present, in the fire light of the cave. “She’s abrasive, even for an elf.” He turned to Andren. “Why is it elves have no problem condemning other, younger races for their faults but praise is quick to flow and judgment slow to come when it’s one of your own?”

“Don’t go lumpin’ me in with her lot.” Andren eyed the dwarf in accusation. “She may be elven royalty. No low-born elf – you know, like me,” he said with a touch of pride, “would ever lead the way she’s doing it.”

Narstron laughed. “How many elven royals are in your kingdom anyway? A hundred thousand?”

“Eh, a little over five thousand members of the royal family – and that’s for the whole kingdom,” Andren said.

“Makes me wonder how you get anything done.”

“Halt!” Angelique held her gem-studded gauntlet aloft in a motion to halt the march. They were in a wide cavern, with considerable webbing in the corners of the room. There was no lava or fire, which was the first room without it that they had seen since entering the caves. “We need to address some basics before we go any further. I know that some of you are new, haven’t seen much combat.” She sniffed and made a face, as though she was trying to get the stench of something unpleasant out of her nostrils.

She droned for a few minutes about basic matters of combat in confined spaces. Cyrus took the time to look around at their army. It was a distinct mix of different races. He noted that the largest part of it was composed of dwarves, elves and humans.

Though he hadn’t noticed them earlier, there were three gnomes cloistered nearby. Quite small compared to a human of his stature, gnomes were often skilled in the magical arts. Cyrus also caught sight of two dark elves – blue skinned, a little shorter than humans, with pointed ears and white hair.

Cyrus’s exposure to dark elves was limited. Although the city of Reikonos had a healthy dark elf population, they were ostracized, unwelcome in many shops, and forced to live in a specific section of the slums. Conversely, humans and regular elves were killed if they approached dark elven cities.

Most of the army seemed to be listening intently as Angelique walked them through such basics as minding your footing, sticking together as a group during battle and allowing time for the healers to assist the injured. Tuning her out, Cyrus realized that many of these adventurers had joined singly, rather than in groups as he had. Only a very few parties were banded together, seeming like islands in the middle of an ocean of people.

In the closest group to his, only a few feet away his eye caught those of a human man who had a bow slung across his back and two short swords in scabbards hanging from his belt. A slight smile permeated his lips as he met Cyrus’s gaze. He touched two fingers to his head in a subtle salute to the warrior. A ranger, Cyrus thought; a wanderer of the wilds.

The ranger had three companions with him. The first was an elven woman whose sash and robes identified her as a healer, like Andren, tasked with mending wounds. Her face was expressionless.

The elf to her right was also a woman but wore the markings of a druid, a spell caster with the ability to control the power of nature itself. She had flaming red hair, almost the color of the lava and a bright smile that greeted Cyrus as he made eye contact with her.

Their third companion was wearing heavy armor that was molded to her form, but she was obscured by the shadows lingering around her. In the semi-darkness of the cave, Cyrus could see nothing of her face and only her silhouette told him she was female.

“Not bad,” Narstron said under his breath, looking into the shadows at the armored figure.

“How can you tell?” Cyrus looked at him in confusion.

Andren and Narstron exchanged a look and chuckled before the dwarf answered. “You humans can’t see in the dark for shite.”

The ranger stepped forward to introduce himself. “I’m Orion.” He was confident and at ease.

“Cyrus Davidon. These are my compatriots.” He introduced the ranger to his band. “We’re the Kings of Reikonos.”

“Kings of Reikonos?” Orion looked at him with uncertainty. “Is that a guild name?”

Cyrus nodded, burying his unease at having such a bold name. “Interesting,” Orion said, voice sincere. “I can’t say I’m familiar with you. Where’s your guildhall?”

Cy held back a slight flinch. Many guilds were bands of adventurers, and had great halls with enormous quarters for each of their members. The Kings of Reikonos had an old horse barn that had been refitted into a military barracks before being abandoned. It was in the slums of Reikonos. “We’re not far from the markets and the square.”

“Ah, centrally located. We’re a bit off the beaten path in the Plains of Perdamun, about five hundred miles south of Reikonos.” Favoring Cyrus with a smile, he gestured to the regal looking healer in his party. “This is my wife, Selene.”

Turning to indicate the red-haired druid: “And this is Niamh.” She flashed a smile at their party. “Hiding in the shadows over there is Vara.” The silhouette gestured in what might have been a wave; it was difficult to tell for human eyes in the darkness.

“So,” he turned back to face them and lowered his voice, “what do you think of the leadership thus far?”

“I’m still waiting to see some leadership,” Andren said. They all got a chuckle out of that.

Finishing his laugh, Orion’s face turned serious. “We’re in for some rough times very soon. I know these caves and we are walking into great danger. There is a nest of spiders nearby,” he indicated the webs on the walls, “that are the size of dwarves. Beyond this room are the dragon’s guardians – rock giants that are at least ten feet tall, with a skin so thick it resists fire. This dragon, Ashan’agar, has a powerful hypnotic magic – he controls everything in these caves.”

He paused for a moment to let it sink in. “With an inexperienced group such as this and incompetent leadership it will be a miracle if this assault works. Stick close to us,” he said, and the confidence he spoke with made Cyrus think that the army was listening to the wrong leader.

As if to punctuate Orion’s observations, the expedition leader’s words intruded into his thoughts. “…I don’t know exactly what we’ll be facing ahead from the dragon, but I predict that as dragons are solitary creatures, we’ll have a clear path to the dragon’s den.”

Cyrus looked at Orion in alarm. “Don’t you think you should tell her?”

The ranger looked amused. “I offered to counsel her with experience. She said she had it under control. I’ve walked in the shadows of these caves and she hasn’t,” he said with a trace of sarcasm, “but she has it ‘under control’.” He snorted. “I’m here to help save these people when things go wrong, lest they all die.”

Chapter 2

Cyrus felt a twinge of fear at Orion’s words. Human warriors were trained by the Society of Arms in Reikonos and didn’t feel fear easily, nor often. From the earliest days of youth in the Society, they had a culture based around combat. If you won, you won. If you lost, you fought harder the next time. If you died you went off to the afterlife. Cyrus had feared neither death nor pain for himself since he was six summers old, and still didn’t.

He looked at Narstron and Andren. On the outside they looked confident. He knew that inside, each was roiling. Though he never admitted it publicly, Narstron had once confessed that he knew that Cyrus was a better warrior – not because the human was taller or stronger, but because the fearlessness that the Society of Arms had instilled gave him an edge in combat that allowed him to make a commitment to battle that could only come from being willing to die at any moment.

Narstron didn’t feel that, nor did Andren. They would fight for their comrades, but to die in a battle for the sake of battle? Only a true warrior – and a devotee of Bellarum, the God of War – could ever feel good about that. Faith in the God of War had been hammered into him in the Society from an early age.

But this fear wasn’t fear for self, Cyrus realized. It was fear for those around him. He was their leader, and he brought them to this place. If either of them died, he was responsible. He choked on the bitter aftertaste of that thought.

A commotion broke his reverie. He watched as a spider half the size of a man spun down on a web and pincered one of the gnomes from above. Blood flew in a line, splattering across the floor, searing as it hit the hot rock. Cyrus jumped forward, along with a few others, dismembering the arachnid. Cries from behind him – and then to the side – caused him to look around.

The top of the chamber rose to a peak, and though it was too dark for his eyes to see the detail of the ceiling, he could see movement. The dome of the cavern was covered in the spiders.

Orion was at his side. “There are too many.” The ranger’s eyes were fixed; staring up at the imminent danger. Warriors and rangers took positions at the edge of the army, protecting the spell casters from the encroaching spiders.

“This way!” Angelique ordered from (far) behind him. Cy caught a glimpse of her in retreat, leading the spell casters toward the dragon’s den. Shrugging at Narstron and Orion, they backed in unison out the door and onto a massive bridge that stretched for several hundred feet across a lake of lava.

The spiders halted at the entrance to the bridge. Backing up, Cyrus shot a look behind him and saw two guardians at the other end of the span. Spiders forgotten, Cy fixated on the ten foot tall giants blocking their passage. Seemingly hewn out of living rock, they stood silent guard along the path to the Dragonlord.

“Attack them!” cried a high pitched voice. With some alarm, he realized it was Angelique, and she began to charge across the bridge.

“Wait!” Orion’s voice boomed over the army, and some of them actually halted – including, surprisingly, Angelique herself. A few continued to charge – one of the dark elves, a gnome and two human healers.

Approaching the guardians, the dark elf was half the size of his opponent and the two foot tall gnome disappeared under the foot of a rock giant. The dark elf brought his sword against the giant on the left. One of the humans, a healer, whose battle abilities were limited, made the decision to engage in the melee. A giant’s arm swept out, knocking the healer off the bridge and into the magma below. With a scream, he dropped into the lava, and his pale skin sank under the fiery surface.

Horrified, they watched as the giants overpowered the dark elf and the other human and sent them both to a similar fate. As they disappeared below the surface of the lake of fire, a hush fell over the ragtag army.

A few screams filled the cave as an air of panic set in on the expedition. Broken bones and gashes could be healed by a mending spell. Powerful healers even possessed the ability to reverse death. Those were rare. Death and pain still held fear for adventurers, who were by nature a blindly optimistic lot. The less veteran among them had not faced this before.

Cyrus could see the panic moving through the crowd. “This is about to get very ugly,” he breathed.

“No doubt.” Narstron raised his sword. “For a group of people that consider themselves adventurers, I don’t think these fresh faced rubes have tasted the downside of ‘adventure’.”

Looking back Cyrus saw the spiders had formed a wall blocking the chamber they had entered from, pincers jutting hungrily toward them.

“They’re servants of Ashan’agar,” Orion’s voice came from beside him. “You know who he is?”

Cy nodded. “The Dragonlord exiled from the dragon kingdom in the southern lands. He was king of the dragon city Hewat at one point, wasn’t he?”

“He was. According to rumor, something happened in their most sacred temple, south of their city in the mountains – something that caused a shakeup in Hewat about fifty years ago. He was exiled by the new Dragonlord and mystically sealed in this cave.”

“Any idea what he did?” Narstron’s face was screwed in concentration as he asked the question.

“No idea.” Orion shook his head. “No one has contact with the dragon kingdom. They are not known for kindness to so-called ‘lesser beings’, so all we have are rumors and speculation.’’ He focused back on Cyrus. “Everything in these caves is sworn to his service, and they obey his will. And apparently his will is that we go forward.” Orion’s expression twisted as he looked back at the spiders still advancing slowly toward them.

A call came from across the army, bringing their attention back to the rock giants in front of them. “No need to panic!” called the voice of the oblivious Angelique. “Run through them!”

Narstron rolled his eyes as Andren shrugged and Cyrus’s jaw dropped in shock. The panic in the front ranks was evident and the fore of the army began to charge again. Orion’s shouted plea for calm was drowned out in the commotion caused by the forward movement of the army-turned-mob.

Taking one last look back at the wall of spiders guarding the entry to the bridge, Cyrus started moving forward. He didn’t fight to the front of the battle line, afraid to push any of the combatants off the bridge and to their deaths.

The rock giants were swinging their massive fists, battering their attackers and taking little damage to show for it. Every few seconds, one of their blows would land, flinging some poor soul off the bridge and into fiery death below. A few fortunate members of the force were squeezing between the giants and into the caves beyond.

Cyrus watched, incredulous, as the one of the giants knocked several of their number off the bridge. He was close enough now… and the giant was leaning over, beginning to straighten up after swinging low to send combatants into the lava.

Cyrus charged at the back of the rock giant. Sure that he was invincible, the giant didn’t even bother watching his back. Cy hit him full force, slamming his pauldrons into the back of the giant’s knees, buckling them. It wasn’t a blow that could cause damage to the craggy skin of the giant – in any other circumstances, the rocky creature would have been able to fall to one knee, get up and smite him. Unfortunately for the giant, he was in a position where balance mattered. Arms pinwheeling, the giant plummeted into the lava which he had gloried in sending his foes.

Turning to face the remaining fiend, Cyrus watched as Narstron and Orion plunged blades through both its legs, breaking through the external layer of rock and dropping it to its knees facing the army. He watched as the giant fell amid a bevy of blades.

“Nice work, Cyrus. Never seen anyone take a rock giant solo before.” Orion’s eyebrows were raised, impressed.

“The rest of our army ran through there,” Cy brushed off the praise, focusing on the trouble ahead.

“Guess we better keep moving.” Orion was back to business.

They ran to catch up, dodging through the caves. They crossed another bridge to an island in the middle of the lava; a wall surrounded the island, extending hundreds of feet to the ceiling of the chamber. It was not a natural formation and even in the dim light of magma and fire it appeared to be made of a material much stronger than stone or brick.

They crossed under a smaller gate built into the wall and entered an enormous chamber with a circular platform raised in the midst of the magma that encircled the room. Charging through the arched entryway, Cyrus tumbled into the chamber just as somebody was half leaving – half their body flew past him, the other half was still lying on the floor at the dragon’s feet, severed by the claws of the beast. The balance of their force was huddled inside the archway, stunned at the sight before them.

Cyrus had never seen a dragon before – not a real one. He had seen a few drakes and wurms; pale shadows, imitations of dragon kind. There were few dragons in the north, preferring to live among their own in the southern lands. Ashan’agar was a dark red color with scales as big as Cyrus’s helm, a body fifty feet long with a long neck extending twenty feet from his body and spines that protruded from his back and ran from his neck to the end of his tail.

The Dragonlord’s head was focused on two spell casters on the other side of the chamber. The air around its head began to distort, and a gout of flame shot from its mouth toward its prey. The flames consumed the spell casters, immolating them. They dropped to the ground and the fires consumed them within seconds until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes.

“Interlopers!” came a deep roar. It took Cyrus a moment to realize it was coming from inside his own head.

He struck at the belly of Ashan’agar. Narstron followed him, each of them hacking at the thick scales. A roar blasted through the cavern and the dragon began to turn, trying to face the foes plaguing him. He spread his wings, filling the room from end to end and reared up on his hind legs, exposing Cy and Narstron to his piercing glare.

They scrambled for cover, running between the dragon’s legs. Cy took a moment to ram his sword between two of the scales of the beast’s belly, prompting a scream that shook the cavern.

Tail whipping, the dragon set down from the attack as Cy and Narstron hid behind his ankles and started hacking away. They could see Orion standing in the archway, firing arrows at the dragon. Only about one in four was finding its way between the scales but it was causing enough irritation to split Ashan’agar’s attention.

A high-pitched warcry caught Cyrus by surprise. A woman, clad in shining armor, leapt from the archway with a two-handed sword clutched in her hands. The jump she made was, by far, too much for a human to accomplish. Her sword drove into the shoulder of Ashan’agar and her feet found purchase between the scales. Possessed of extreme litheness the elf perched on the dragon’s shoulder, driving her sword deeper into the wound she had created.

Cyrus looked over to see Niamh gathering up survivors. He watched a gust of wind surround her and grow to the intensity of a tornado with her at the center. When the winds receded she and the group surrounding her were gone, leaving only a handful of the army’s remnants behind.

“Niamh is teleporting the survivors out!” Cy’s shout to Narstron was barely audible over the screeching of the dragon.

“She what?” The dwarf was behind the leg of the dragon. “Looks like she and the others disappeared!”

“She teleported!” Cyrus shouted back. “She’s a druid; they can do that! She’s getting the survivors to safety!” The tail of the dragon swept down, narrowly missing the warriors.

“I could use a little safety meself!”

Cyrus looked up at the woman on the dragon’s shoulder. It was an elven woman, but not Angelique in her ornate armor. He could see blond hair drawn into a ponytail, waving back and forth with the frenzied movement of the Dragonlord.

Ashan’agar had decided she was the greatest threat facing him and was scrambling to move his head into position to deal with her. As the long neck waved the elf removed her sword and dropped to the ground behind the dragon’s front left leg. She rolled perfectly out of the fall and sprang to her feet in a run toward the back of the dragon, where Cyrus and Narstron were both hacking away trying to find weaknesses.

Dodging behind the leg on the same side as Cyrus, he acknowledged her with a shout. “Nice work!” She fixed him with a momentary glare as she passed and turned to bring her sword to bear with an artistry that Cyrus had never seen, even from the instructors at the Society of Arms. Her first three strikes did more damage than all of his and Narstron’s efforts combined, biting through the layer of armored scaling and into the flesh beneath it.

“Nice of you to join us, Vara.” Narstron buried his sword once more. As the dragon’s leg lifted, the dwarf tugged the sword back from the moving limb. “You could have stayed on the shoulder, though; we have things firmly in hand here.” Cy realized with a shock that she was the fourth member of Orion’s party, the one who had been hidden in the shadows.

“Based on the damage you seem to have inflicted,” her voice came, taut and imperious, “it appears that the two of you have only one thing in your hands, and it is most certainly not your swords.” The shadow of a smile graced her lips. “Why don’t you,” she said to Cy with a mocking sweetness, “concentrate your efforts where I just cut that scale off? You’ll have better luck with that rusty butcher’s knife you’re carrying now that I’ve cleared the way.”

“I know that we’re facing a dragon here,” Narstron said with annoyance. “But you could at least try and buck your nature by not being a pretentious elf.”

“I’m sorry,” she said without a trace of irony or sincerity. “Should I say ‘please’ when I direct you to help me kill our large and implacable foe? Would that help assuage that sense of inferiority dwarves carry like a shield anytime someone instructs you toward intelligent action?”

Narstron’s reply was swallowed in the next bellow of the dragon. Having shifted his focus to the trio striking at his legs, Ashan’agar began to sidestep, trying to expose the threats beneath him. Unfortunately for the dragon they moved more quickly than he did; although it did prevent them from attacking him further.

As they passed in a circle, Cyrus couldn’t help but be reminded of a dog chasing its tail. A multi-ton, scaly, fire breathing, super-intelligent dog that commands every beast in a several mile radius chasing its tail, Cyrus corrected. Even facing death he couldn’t help but chuckle at what had to look absurd to anyone watching. Vara, only inches away, heard his laugh and cast a look at him that branded him an idiot.

Ashan’agar turned swiftly in the opposite direction. The dragon brought a claw around, felling Narstron; a geyser of blood erupted from the dwarf’s abdomen as he fell.

The Dragonlord bellowed in triumph. “Fools! Witness the death of those who oppose me!”

“Go!” Blood spurted from between Narstron’s fingers as he tried to sit up and failed. With his free hand, the dwarf waved at Cyrus to keep moving.

Cyrus, shocked, looked to Vara for guidance. “Don’t stop running,” she said. The ice in her eyes suppressed his concern. An unexpected step by the dragon left them exposed for a moment and Vara’s reflexes allowed her to shove Cyrus with a surprising amount of force back under the dragon to continue the pattern.

“The only thing stopping him from finishing your dwarven friend is us,” she said as she shoved Cyrus once more, herding him under the dragon’s belly.

Cy’s gaze flitted to the archway. The bridge into the chamber was packed with spiders and rock giants, clawing to get past Orion and the other defenders. Selene was moving to drag Narstron off the platform while Ashan’agar was distracted by Cyrus and Vara.

Ignoring the shout of protest from Vara (“Stay away from the foot, you fool!”), he jumped on Ashan’agar’s left hind leg and jammed his sword as hard as he could into the gap between the center claw and the scales on the middle toe.

He rolled off the foot and looked up to find the guardians on the bridge barely holding. Narstron was assisting them after Selene had healed him but they were outnumbered and had lost several of their number to the lava. Cyrus looked up to see the full anger of Ashan’agar, former king of the dragons.

The Dragonlord’s eyes locked onto his, pools of swirling black looking into the depths of him. “I see you, Cyrus Davidon,” he said, his harsh voice now melodic. “I can hear your thoughts. Serve me, and I will spare your life.”

The face came closer to Cyrus, and he could see every scale. Spikes jutted from the top of the dragon’s head as it slithered toward him, snakelike. It moved slowly, eyes fixated on him. It was such a sweet sound, the dragon’s voice in his head. “I have many treasures…”

A flash of images forced their way into the warrior’s mind. A flaming staff, a glowing sword, gold, coins, and… the Serpent’s Bane. “I know what you seek, Cyrus Davidon… I have it, you know… the Serpent’s Bane…”

“I do,” the warrior said, motionless, eyes focused on the Dragonlord’s.

“Tell me you aren’t marrying this thing!” Vara struck at Ashan’agar’s legs, but the dragon was hindering her efforts with wild swings of his tail.

“Kill her for me, Cyrus Davidon,” the Dragonlord’s voice boomed. “Kill the others, be my General and lead my armies… serve me… be my emissary and walk where I cannot… do my work…” The face grew closer and closer. “…and I will give you the Serpent’s Bane… and all else your heart desires… I will give you purpose…”

Cyrus smiled at the dragon’s face, now only a foot from his, luxuriating in the thought of possessing what he came here for. “No,” the warrior said, all dreaminess gone from his voice.

The dragon’s head recoiled but it was too late. Cyrus plunged forward from his motionless position with reflexes far beyond those of a normal human. His sword was raised and brought down in the blink of an eye – which in the case of Ashan’agar, was the last blink his right eye ever performed. Cyrus’s sword ruptured the eyelid and punctured the dragon’s eye.

A scream filled the cavern and Cyrus’s head, driving the warrior back. So stunned was he that Cyrus relinquished the grip on his sword’s hilt as the dragon’s head whipped in agony. In a fit of rage the Dragonlord began to flap his wings and rose from the ground in a shuddering, hovering flight.

The force of the air from the wings kept Cyrus on his knees until he felt strong hands reach under his arms and drag him to his feet. “No bowing down to the Dragonlord today, brave warrior,” Vara’s quiet voice breathed in his ear. He staggered to his feet and braced himself against the wind from the beating wings.

“Fool!” came Ashan’agar’s voice once more in his mind. “I would have given you everything you sought!”

“I always wanted to be the slave of an oversized snake,” Cyrus tossed back.

“…Impudence…” came the voice in his mind. “I will kill all of you for this insult.”

“And I thought we were headed for a nice cup of tea.”

“Cyrus! Vara! Over here!” Cy turned back to the bridge just in time to see Niamh running full tilt – on air! – over the heads of the attacking giants and spiders. “Hurry!” The druid landed behind the line of defenders on the bridge. Orion and Narstron were anchoring the ends closest to the edge, taking the greatest personal risk but each successfully trading blows with a giant – the rest of which were bottlenecked by Narstron and Orion’s efforts.

Between the two giants in the front of the line, a few spell casters poured magic into the fray and kept the spiders from making headway around the rock giants. The druid began casting her teleport spell again – Cyrus and Vara had seconds to make it to them before they would be gone.

“Hurry!” Vara called above the sounds of battle, wind and raging dragon. Her voice was strained; the urgency unmistakable and a distinct contrast from the calm she had displayed to this point. Cyrus took one last look past the dragon, at the glint that he knew was the treasure horde.

Turning his focus back to the archway, Cyrus realized there was no way he could make it in time. Vara jumped, missing the archway by inches and landing with a sword swipe that cleared the spiders attacking the middle of the defenders line.

He chanced to look back and saw the dragon drawing a deep breath, ready to spew the fire Cyrus was certain would consume him – and watched as Ashan’agar staggered from a blast of ice that hit the dragon in the face, rocking him back just enough in his hovering flight to send him into a spin. The Dragonlord crashed to the ground, struggling to get back to his feet.

Charging forward, Cyrus passed Niamh, who winked at him while brushing the frost from the hand she had cast the spell with. She began to murmur an incantation as Cyrus took his place in the middle of the line and plugged the gap next to Vara. He knew Niamh’s teleport spell was coming quickly, and that they only needed to hold for a few seconds…

“Glad you could join us!” Orion yelled. His blades were moving with lightning speed, blocking the giant’s fists with each blow, the odd strike catching a spider crawling between the fiend’s legs. Cyrus grabbed the sword from the ground and attacked the spiders that were crawling through the gap between the giants that Narstron and Orion were keeping at bay.

Vara was at his shoulder, slicing at the surging arachnids while he cleaved at them with brute force. Cyrus felt a wind whip around him, gentle at first, but then howling with hurricane intensity, his feet left the ground, and the spiders and rock giants, the caves and lava that surrounded him were no more.

Chapter 3

The blast of wind died down around him, and Cyrus found himself in the middle of the central square in Reikonos, the fading light of sundown painting the plaza in a light that didn’t look dramatically different from the orange and red of the lava in the fire caves. Some of the other survivors were still clustered around, recovering from wounds and discussing the chaos of the day. He immediately accounted for the Kings of Reikonos… finding them both present he began to relax. Several of the survivors were seriously wounded, and Selene was healing them as she went.

Vara looked irate and locked onto Cyrus immediately. “Was he speaking to you with his mind? Did he try to command you to do his bidding?”

“Yes.” Cyrus blinked. “He told me to kill you and the others.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she did not say anything further.

“How many made it out?” Cyrus asked.

Niamh grimaced. “Based on the count I did, 32 out of 121 that started this morning.”

Cyrus looked around at the remains of the army, fresh-faced rubes no more. “Did the leader at least have the decency to die?”

Vara shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. However…” Her words drifted off and she pointed to where the bejeweled elf was sitting propped against the wall of the fountain in the center of the square. She was trembling and her eyes were wide, staring into the distance. “I don’t think she’ll be leading any more excursions anytime soon,” Vara concluded with a tinge of satisfaction.

“I guess that finishes our business here.” Cyrus looked at the kings. “Ready to go?”

Andren was already in motion. “I got a keg waiting on me back at the barn. So long!” He set off at a run down the road to the slums. Narstron said a quick farewell and followed.

Cyrus turned back to Orion, not meeting the ranger’s eyes. He stood with them, strangers that had helped save his life, and fumbled for words. “Thanks for your help. If not for you, that would have turned out much worse.”

Orion studied him intently. “Cyrus, was that your first expedition?”

A flush of heat crept up the warrior’s cheeks. “I performed that poorly?”

The human ranger shook his head. “No. You handled yourself very well. But am I correct in assuming that now that I’ve met the three of you I now know every single one of the Kings of Reikonos?”

When Cyrus nodded, the ranger went on. “I thought so. You have a great group for adventuring but unless you’re doing things like this,” he gestured at the living flotsam around them, “you’re not doing much in the way of adventuring. If you’re on expeditions of this kind, it’s only a matter of time until you die in some hole.”

Cyrus met Orion’s gaze defiantly. “I learned that lesson well enough today. I don’t think I’ll be going on any more expeditions with people I don’t know and don’t trust.”

Orion’s stare bored into him. “Then unless you want to give up adventuring you’ll need a bigger guild to join.”

The heat rose up Cyrus’s face again. “I know what larger guilds want from adventurers. I promise you I’m not even close to having the type of training they would want me to have. And of course there are sacrifices they’d ask me to make – membership dues, leaving behind my friends – and I would never leave them behind to advance myself –”

Orion cut him off. “Not all guilds are like that. Ours isn’t. We don’t have any membership dues and we could use more people like the kings. We’ve got a sizable force, we’re going to places where there is an abundance of loot – which can buy a lot of good armor with mystical properties, things that help you to take harder hits as you face worse foes.”

He took a step toward Cyrus and reached up to place a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Niamh, Vara and I are on the Council that runs our guild. We would invite you to join us.”

There was a sudden and inexplicable lump in Cyrus’s throat. “I’ll… have to talk it over with my guildmates. But thank you.” The flush in his face began to subside.

“It was an honor to meet you, Cyrus.” Niamh reached out and took his hand. Selene echoed the druid. Vara was frozen, blue eyes locked on him, and made no move or gesture to say farewell.

“How will I find you to let you know the answer?” Cyrus asked Orion.

The ranger smiled. “I’ll be around. You can find me here or in the markets frequently enough. And if that fails, you could always visit our guildhall in the Plains of Perdamun.”

Cyrus thanked them again, and turned to leave. Remembering the question he had forgotten to ask, he turned in time to see the winds beginning to whip up around them, Niamh’s spell already in motion. “What’s the name of your guild?” he asked, taking a last look at all of them. His eyes came to rest on Vara, who was looking back at him, eyes drilling into his, burning the memory of the look on her face into his mind.

As the blast of wind encircled the party and carried them away, Cyrus heard Orion’s answer carried on the dying breeze.

“Sanctuary…”

Chapter 4

Cyrus approached the Kings of Reikonos guildhall, its rectangular shape standing out in the small dwellings of the slums. The faint, almost otherworldly glow from the last vestiges of sunlight added to the torchlight in the thoroughfares. The torches were lit all the time because the slums’ location in a valley sandwiched between the taller buildings of the commerce district and the markets never exposed the streets to direct sunlight but by the light of midday. The slums were darker than the square by far; almost darker than the lava-lit cavern.

So here I am, Cyrus thought, living in the slums of Reikonos. He looked around at the decrepit town of shanties and lean-tos that filled the streets around him, choking out the real structures and dwellings.

The City of Reikonos was built on the coast of the Torrid Sea, but even after living in the city his entire life, he had only seen the sea twice – once on a visit to the docks and the second time from the top of the Citadel, the massive tower that was the seat of Reikonosian government. The nicest houses in Reikonos were on bluffs, directly overlooking the ocean. The slums were far from the water.

The refurbished barn that served as the Kings’ guildhall had always been embarrassing, since the day he’d paid every last gold piece he possessed to buy it. But it had never felt so confining before. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. There was a conversation going on when Cyrus walked in. It died as he entered. Andren and Narstron turned to face him expectantly.

“What?” He looked at them with absolute nonchalance.

“Two questions,” Andren began, tall mug of ale already in his hand. “What was the name of their guild and did they ask us to join them?”

Cyrus took his time answering, eyes downcast. “The name of their guild was Sanctuary.” Cyrus began to unstrap his plate mail at a leisurely pace.

“Quit stallin’ and get on with it!” Narstron’s leg twitched with excitement as he sat on his bunk.

“The answer to your second question,” Cyrus let a smile play across his lips, “is yes, they did.”

Andren upturned his glass, downing it in a single pull. Narstron looked insufferably pleased as he pumped his fist and yelled, “Yes!”

“What about our meager means?” Andren asked as he refilled his glass from the keg. Fueled by alcohol, he brought forth a topic that he might not otherwise have broached.

“No membership dues and they’re training as they go.” Cyrus paused. “We still have to discuss this. I’d like us to be unanimous in our decision. Just to be clear – we are talking about folding the Kings. Shutting it down and walking away –”

Andren broke in. “Because this place is the sort of home we all dreamed of. We’re broke! We’re barely scraping a living with what we get from the places we can go with the abilities we have. Isn’t anybody else sick of sleeping in bunk beds like we’re children?”

He pounded his chest. “I’m well nigh tired of it. I’d be better off if I’d stayed in the Healer’s Halls than living this adventurer’s life! You know we’re better than this. We are being handed a golden opportunity to move up in the world. As long as we stick together, we can make this work for us. And if Sanctuary doesn’t feel like the right place we can always fill our pockets and keep moving up, right?”

Face impassive, Cyrus looked at him. “I know it’s hard to believe, considering how… unpleasant things are for us, but we’ve scraped enough together to get this far. We know next to nothing about this Sanctuary group and joining them is a big commitment.”

Narstron made his mind known. “We know that four of their people risked their lives in a dragon expedition they knew was doomed from the start to try and save lives. We might have died had they not been there.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “That tells me everything I need to know about them, right there. I think we can trust them.”

Cyrus laughed. “It wasn’t but an hour ago you were wondering if there was one person in that expedition we could trust. Now you’re ready to trust four of them with your future.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying we don’t do this but I need at least a night to think over the possibilities.” He smiled at what he saw in their eyes – hope, something that had been gone for far too long. They had joked and had fellowship here and built a bond that would endure. But it was a bond born of common suffering: bunk beds, secondhand mattresses, equipment and furniture that were falling apart.

“I’m as excited as you,” Cyrus added. “To have performed admirably enough that we’re invited to join them is an honor and we should be proud.” He paused. “I just need to be sure this is the right decision.” With the last word, he strode past them to his bunk and lay down, drawing the curtains. It didn’t do much to help the sound, but they’d all gotten used to living in close quarters. They kept their voices down, but Cyrus heard the possibilities in every word, as well as a few other things.

“What about that Vara?” Andren murmured. “She is really something. Her armor must be powerfully enchanted to let her leap like that. And did you see how fast she swung that sword?” He chortled, a low sound filled with unmistakable lust. “I wouldn’t mind helping her take down that ponytail.”

“I doubt you’d survive the attempt, old friend,” Narstron said. “I suspect there’s nary a man she’s met that she hasn’t employed that armor and sword on – the armor to keep them at bay, and the sword to put them out of their misery when they least expect it. You’re right, though: to move that fast and hit that hard, a little girl like that has to have some powerful friends. That armor is worth a fortune, I’m sure.”

Andren guffawed. “If ever someone got her out of the armor, he would behold the sweetest sight ever known to man.” The healer paused. “Actually, two of the sweetest sights, I suspect,” he said, laughing, the alcohol having overtaken all good sense.

Narstron laughed along with him. “Too true, but I think your error was in assuming it’d ever be a man that would witness. Maybe a woman?” A chuckle came from the dwarf. “She’s royalty, right?”

“Have to be. Unless…” Andren’s voice drifted for a moment. “Vara… unless she’s…” His voice drifted off and he said something that sounded to Cyrus’s ears like ‘shell massacre’. Andren was quiet for several moments after that.

The discussion continued but Cyrus tuned it out. What am I doing here? The thought made its way to the surface of his mind again, unbidden.

Tired as he was, the talking didn’t keep him awake, and soon he’d entered a fitful sleep, filled with visions of dragons, gold, battle, guildhalls… and a ponytailed elf, in shining silver armor, looking at him with an expression that was a cross between loathing and something very different.

Chapter 5

Cyrus awoke in the middle of the night. Silence surrounded him, broken only by the faint snores of Narstron in the bunk to his left. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and let his feet touch the floor. Strapping on his armor (he never left the hall without it, lest he be caught unprepared), he strolled through the streets of Reikonos. His feet carried him through the commercial district, where the shopkeepers had closed for the night.

His eyes came to rest on the storefront of a jeweler; a glass window with the name of the establishment emblazoned across it. In the bottom corner of the window was a sign big enough to be seen from some distance: ‘No Dark Elves’. A common sight in the commercial district, where shops were affluent and catered to different clientele than in the slums or the markets. Posters were nailed to the left of the door, a few of which screamed ‘WANTED’ and ‘HERETIC’ in bold letters and carried artists’ renditions of the faces of the accused.

A life in the slums was not what Cy had planned when he’d taken over leadership of the Kings of Reikonos from the previous leader. Gunter had been a human wizard, a great thinker who had passed the mantle of leadership so he could quest for knowledge in the elven capital of Pharesia. He had left a depleted guild bank, an untenable morale situation, and no guildhall.

The only three people in the guild at the time were Cyrus, Narstron and Andren. Talk of disbanding and joining another guild had given way to talk of expansion when no suitable options had been found, and Cy had been naïve enough to believe that he could lead them to glory. Efforts had yielded a few recruits here and there, but without a guildhall they were left meeting in wayside inns – a blow to their credibility when they proclaimed themselves ‘a guild on the move’.

Scorned by any reputable recruit, Cyrus had used his entire savings to clear up that nagging image problem, not considering the consequences of having their guildhall in a barn. Most of their potential recruits lasted less than a full night. Who can blame them? Cyrus thought. I don’t even want to live there, and it’s my guildhall!

His feet carried him down the street to the Reikonos market, the center of all commerce in the land of Arkaria. Almost every race was welcome in Reikonos (though not always heartily accepted, like the dark elves). Even a handful of the savage trolls bartered in Reikonos, and they had been at war with nearly every power in Arkaria less than twenty years earlier.

As he walked from stall to stall, he watched as vendors plied their wares, even now, in the wee hours of the morning. The rest of Reikonos might yet be asleep, but the market had a pleasant hum. He saw things that he wanted, that could help him; armors and potions, swords and helmets, things that could bear an attack by titans. And, he reflected, seemed less likely to be his as the gods coming down and smiting him.

His path carried him past a line of merchants and when he looked up he found himself face to face with Orion, who had finished bartering with a trader. “Fancy meeting you here, Cyrus. Having trouble sleeping?”

Cyrus blinked. Realizing the fruitlessness of arguing an obvious point, he decided to switch to the offensive instead. “Do you always do your shopping at 3 o’clock in the morning?”

“I usually don’t, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow and I wanted a new pair of chainmail pants.” Reaching out, he took them from the trader. “What do you think?” he asked as the small, flawlessly crafted chain links rolled down.

Though Cyrus was by far too big for them, he recognized the exquisite craftsmanship and material of the chainmail. They would easily have cost double what he had spent on the guildhall. “Those must cost a fortune – they’re very impressive.”

Nodding in thanks, Orion switched subjects as deftly as Cyrus had deflected his earlier inquiry. “What’s on your mind at this hour? Could it be the invitation I proffered?” He began to walk toward the Square.

Cyrus fell into step beside him. “Yes, I am wrestling with that decision.”

“What exactly are you wrestling with? Are your guildmates not interested?”

Cyrus laughed. “No, they’re definitely interested. In fact, were it up to them, we’d have been suppering at your guildhall last evening. No, it’s me you have to convince.” Looking around to make sure no one could overhear them, Cyrus took a step closer to Orion and lowered his voice.

“These are my people. I’ve shepherded them through good times and bad. I have their best interests at heart. They’re good people, a bit rough around the edges, but honorable.” He paused, considering his next words. “There are guilds that would use us for our talents, and discard us as easily – or leave us to die when it became convenient.”

Orion’s eyebrow rose. “Do you believe Sanctuary is that type of guild?”

Cyrus deflated. “No, I don’t. Everything I’ve seen indicates you’d go out of the way to help a stranger avoid death; I can’t imagine you’d abandon your own.”

Orion smiled. “You take so much responsibility for your people’s lives that you want to make certain that we would do the same.”

“If Sanctuary holds up to the same code of honor I’ve seen from you, Niamh, Selene and,” Cyrus drew a sharp intake of breath, “Vara, I have no doubt we’d be in good hands. I have a hard time entrusting my guild to yours without seeing more than I have.” He settled on what he really wanted to convey. “I just want to make sure that you’re the rule, not the exception.”

Orion nodded agreement. “I understand. I have a proposition for you.”

“The sleeplessness from your last proposition has yet to fade.”

The ranger laughed. “Hopefully this will ease your sleeplessness. I propose you join our army in battle so you can meet the rest of the guild and see what we’re all about.”

“You’d permit that? I would accept.”

“Great! When and where are we going?” A voice from behind startled them both. Narstron stood behind them, rubbing his hands together.

“Kortran, the City of the Titans – tomorrow evening. We’ll meet you inside the gates. It’s in the southern lands, in the valley at the south end of the Gradsden Savanna.” Orion walked up the raised steps to the fountain in the square. Another spell caster, an elven woman in red robes sat on the edge of the fountain, awaiting him. She stood up and joined him as Orion smiled down at them. “You won’t regret this.”

Watching the ranger vanish in a burst of blue light as the magics engulfed him, Cyrus could only hope he was right.

Chapter 6

It was hot on the savanna. Even with the sun setting it was much warmer than the slums in Reikonos that they had left hours earlier. Cyrus and Narstron had crept away from the guildhall at the noon hour while Andren was still passed out. He had handed a wizard in the square fourteen bronze pieces to teleport them to the Gradsden Savanna. They had walked through the tall grass all afternoon, working their way toward Kortran, which was nestled in a valley where the savanna gave way to impassable mountains.

Narstron did a surprisingly good job of cutting through the grass that barely stretched above Cyrus’s navel. Though he would never admit it, he was pacing himself so he didn’t leave Narstron behind. After a few more minutes they reached a large rock and crouched behind it. Before them, a mammoth stone arch stood as a protective gate in front of a pass leading down into the valley.

“Gods, it is massive,” Cyrus breathed. “It’s the height of forty humans – or fifty elves – or eight hundred and seventy three dwarves.”

Narstron let the remark pass. “It’s not the height of the arches that has me concerned – it’s the size of the titans guarding them.”

Cy’s eyes moved down from the top of the archway to the bottom and found two titans, at least twenty feet tall, stationed as sentries. He and Narstron crept forward, coming to rest and hiding behind the last clump of bushes between them and the titans.

“And in terms of a plan?” Cyrus looked at Narstron.

Taken aback, Narstron pondered before his reply. “Charge?”

A flash of irritation crossed Cyrus’s brow. “No healer. Brilliant thinking; typical of you.”

“Got a better idea?”

“Where are we meeting them again?”

“Inside the gates.”

“Damn.”

“Indeed.” Shaking his craggy head, a shout echoed forth from him. “‘Lo, Sanctuary, where are ye?!”

Cy’s stomach dropped – a sick feeling, made worse by the sight of two titans turning their heads to fix upon them. Their eyes burned with the fire of a killer about to destroy a helpless victim. Cyrus followed his stomach immediately, dropping to both knees behind the bushes.

Narstron lingered, head sticking out of cover. “No need to hide; they’ve seen us.”

A roll of the eyes, a breath of exasperation, and the sound of his sword being drawn – steel on scabbard, instinctively in his hand – all these sensations passed in a moment. A moment which was cut short by the war cry of the sentries charging toward them.

“Bugger.” Cy tensed. Not one to run from a fight, he prepared himself mentally for the impending possibility of death. Leaping from behind the cover of the bushes, he followed Narstron, already a half dozen steps ahead of him, moving toward the titans.

Roots suddenly sprung from beneath the earth, as though the grass had grown rapidly around them, entangling the feet of both titans, holding them in place. Arrows rained upon them and a bolt of lightning struck both of them from out of the clear sky. They were easy prey for the warriors when they reached them.

When both were on the ground, dead, Cyrus looked up to find Selene, Orion and Niamh standing behind the stone archway. “That’s the problem with warriors,” Orion chuckled. “No subtlety. Haven’t you boys ever heard of an invisibility spell?”

“I can’t cast spells.” Cyrus looked up as he closed the distance between them, Narstron in tow.

“You’re injured, Cy.” Selene looked on with concern when they had reached the archway. A faint trickle of blood ran down the armor on his wrist where one of the titans had grazed him.

“Flesh wound.”

She tut-tutted at him in a very matronly way, and murmured an incantation under her breath. He felt a healing wind cross his arm, and the blood stopped, flesh bound and made whole.

“Good timing.” Niamh’s red hair blew in the hot wind. “What was your plan if we hadn’t been here to save your sorry asses?”

“I don’t think you just saved our asses on that one, Niamh.” Cy blinked. “I’m pretty sure they would have chopped up the whole of us.”

“Yeah, but you’re all ass, all over, so…” She smirked.

They chuckled. “Come on,” Orion called out, “we heard you shout from the meeting point. The rest of the guild is waiting.” They hurried under the archway down the path to the valley beyond.

Cyrus breathed deeply as he trotted along; the air was slightly cooler as they began their descent into the valley. Boulders obscured the road ahead until they came to a point where the path widened. Adventurers were assembled throughout the area.

Almost eight feet tall, a troll stood in the midst of a group of elves, dwarves and humans. Cyrus’s sword was immediately unsheathed and in his hands, watching. Clad in a black tunic that clashed with his green skin and carrying a staff that glowed with mystical power, the troll was lounging against a rock. Cyrus forced a steely calm over himself.

Orion, sensing a tense moment, placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “It’s okay: he’s one of us.”

Cyrus’s jaw unclenched. “Do you regularly associate with trolls?”

“Vaste is different.” Orion paused for a minute. “You were too young to be in the war.”

Cyrus’s eyes were cold. “You’re right; the war with the trolls was going on when I was a child. But my father died in the Dismal Swamp campaign. I don’t even remember him. My mother raised me on tales of what the trolls did until she died.”

“I assure you that Vaste was not in the war; he’s younger than you are. Nor is he your typical troll; he’s a healer.

“I thought trolls were too stupid to use magic.”

“A common misperception. That’s a rumor that spread during the war. Most trolls don’t know how to use magic because it’s a lost art among their people.” Orion looked at the black clad troll. “In fact, Vaste is considered an outcast among his people. They don’t much like the ways of outsiders – the trolls that survived the war are a tightly cloistered community.”

A long pause filled the air between them. “That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “Us ‘outsiders’ don’t care for their ways either – slaving and banditry.”

Orion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to try and convince you that the empire of the trolls hasn’t done those things. All I’m telling you is that Vaste is different.”

Cyrus resheathed his sword. “We’ll see.”

“Most gracious of you,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “I can only hope you are as kind toward others – say, orphans and stray dogs.” Vara brushed past him to stand next to Orion. “If not, I fear you’ll be devoured by a puppy while trying to figure out which end of your sword is to be used for best results.” Her gaze was cold and her voice reflected it. The armor still shone, but today her long blond hair was worn in a severe bun atop her head.

“So nice to see you again, m’lady,” Narstron said with sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” Vara said, looking from left to right with exaggerated emphasis. “I hear someone talking, but I can’t see them.” She looked down and her face registered faked shock, lips forming a perfect o. “Oh, look, a street urchin.” She reached down to pat him on the head. “Well, it looks as though you’re getting plenty to eat.”

Narstron scowled at her.

Vara turned back to Orion. “Now that the stragglers are here,” she looked pointedly at Narstron but did not acknowledge Cyrus, “we’re quite ready, whenever you are.”

Cyrus’s eyes looked around the adventurers. He studied the troll named Vaste, watching his posture, seeing how he interacted with the elves around him. Most trolls, even the half dozen or so that were permitted in Reikonos, looked hostile, tense and barely restrained. This one did not. He was calm and even laughed at a joke that one of the elves had made. Cyrus watched as Vaste threw in a witticism of his own and the group roared with laughter.

Cyrus’s gaze turned to another small cluster of Sanctuary’s adventurers. In the group was a dark elf, his hair black and skin a deep navy. He wore armor that while not as blackened as Cyrus’s, had seen fair use. A battle axe was slung across his back, and he sported a half-serious look. He stood next to an elven man who could be described in no other way but radiant – his platinum hair was cropped short and he had the markings of a healer.

On the elf’s right was a much younger looking elven woman, who wore robes of deepest crimson. Her laugh was airy and loud. The last hole in their circle was filled by someone too short for Cyrus to see at first. As he strained his neck to look around the red-robed elven woman, he caught sight of a gnome, with a dark blue robe that hung perfectly on his tiny frame.

Orion broke Cyrus’s preoccupation. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves around? We’ll be moving in a few minutes, but we’ve got things to plan first.”

“Yes,” Vara added, “do hurry along, and we’ll let you know when we’re ready for you to poke at something with those dull and rusty farm implements.” She waved her hand at their swords.

Orion shook his head. “Can’t you be nice to anyone?”

She pursed her lips as Cyrus turned from her and walked toward the group he had been observing. “I’m nice enough to you, aren’t I?” Orion cleared his throat. “Well,” Vara said, “I haven’t impaled you yet, so count your blessings.”

“Just once,” Narstron muttered, “I’d like to meet a paladin that’s not so self-righteous and full of themselves, so focused on their ‘holy crusade’ – whatever that may be – that they’d ignore someone dying in the street as they passed.”

Cyrus was befuddled. “Paladin?”

“Tell me you’re joking. Paladin? White knight? Holy crusader?”

Cyrus shrugged. “If they didn’t teach it at the Society of Arms, I didn’t learn it.”

“They’re like you. They use one sword – but unlike you, they can also use magic. They can heal a little bit, mend some wounds; not as well or quickly as a healer, mind you, but well enough to get themselves out of a scrape.”

“So what? They can use a sword and a little bit of magic.”

“It’s a lethal combination.” Narstron locked his eyes on Cyrus. “You land a deadly sword thrust, impaling your foe. What happens if they’re a warrior like us?”

“They’re dead unless a healer is backing them up.”

“Exactly. But a paladin,” Narstron’s eyes glinted, “they take a couple steps back, cast a spell and knit the wound up, and they’re back at it a moment later, until they run you through.” He gestured pointedly, miming the motion of stabbing Cyrus.

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “What made them so damned special to be able to use magic?”

The dwarf shrugged. “What makes anyone able to use magic? You’ve either got it or you don’t. And if you do, they send you the Leagues.”

“What are the Leagues?” Cyrus frowned.

“Like ours is the Society of Arms, the organization that teaches adventurers their trades. Theirs is called the Holy Brethren. Paladins use their magic and swordplay for their cause, which is personal to each of them – like saving the poor, or protecting the downtrodden or freeing the slaves.”

“Sounds kind of silly.”

“Yeah. And they always worship one of the ‘good’ gods, like the Goddess of Love, or the Goddess of Life. They have a code of honor. For example, your foe turns his back to you – do you strike?”

“Damned right you do.” Cyrus nodded. “It’s the best time; they can’t hit you back.”

Narstron shook his head. “See, a paladin won’t do that. It’s not ‘honorable’.”

Cyrus nodded his understanding. As he and Narstron approached the group of adventurers, the radiant elven man turned to face them and beamed at them with a dazzling smile. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to welcome you to our band today,” he said in a tone that indicated he wholeheartedly meant it. He took Cyrus’s hand in a firm but warm handshake.

“My name,” the elf began, “is Curatio Soulmender, and I am the chief healer of Sanctuary, and one of the guild’s officers.” He favored them with a look that was as close to opposite of Vara’s normal expression as could be found. “Let me introduce you to some of our compatriots.”

He turned first to the dark elf with a sweeping gesture. “This is Terian Lepos. He is Sanctuary’s sole dark knight.”

“A dark knight?” Cyrus said with a start. “Kind of the opposite of a paladin?” He looked to Narstron for guidance.

“Quite right. Dark knights use treachery, black magics and serve ‘evil’ gods.” Narstron looked at Lepos almost apologetically. “Sanctuary seems like a rather noble outfit to employ a dark knight.”

“We may serve ‘evil’ gods, by your definition,” Terian said with dark eyes fixed on Narstron. “But I try to restrict my activities to conform to Sanctuary’s code of honor.”

“Really?” The dwarf’s eyes widened. “I thought dark knights were into soul draining, life sucking and backstabbing.”

“I haven’t done any of those things… today.” Terian smiled.

“I faced a dark knight once,” Cyrus said with sudden realization.

Lepos raised an eyebrow. “You’re still alive, so I presume you either had help in the battle or you met a very poor dark knight.”

Red flushed the warrior’s cheeks. “I did have help and you’re right,” he acknowledged with only a trace of shame. “If I hadn’t been with a healer, the dark knight I ran across – a bandit – would have killed me.” Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the memory. “He cast a spell while we were fighting and it literally tore the breath out of me. I nearly passed out from the pain.”

Another slight smile appeared on Terian’s face. “He used an incantation that stole a bit of your vitality – your life or your soul, depending on how you view it. It’s a useful spell; it’s kept me alive a time or two.”

Narstron nodded. “I need something like that.”

Terian threw his head back and cackled before replying. “Do you need it badly enough that you’re ready to initiate a soul sacrifice with Mortus, the God of Death, or Yartraak, the God of Darkness?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Perhaps not that badly.”

Lepos had a smile of mirth on his face but said nothing as the lady elf in the crimson robes spoke up. “Don’t mind Terian. He’s a bit… prideful. My name is Nyad Spiritcaster.”

Cyrus took her hand and alternated between looking at her and Curatio. “I had always heard that elves don’t have surnames.”

Nyad laughed. “That’s the effects of humans on us. We don’t have surnames – not in proper elvish society. However,” she explained, “I left Pharesia, the elven capital, when I first struck out on my own as a young elven woman of one hundred and eight –”

“One hundred and eight?” Cyrus echoed in astonishment. “I’d heard elves were long-lived, but I didn’t really know how long-lived.”

“Most elves live several millenia.” Nyad continued, “I left Pharesia, a place where elven culture is very strict and where there isn’t much influence from the outside world. No elf in Pharesia would even think of having a last name!” she said with a conspiratorial chuckle. “However, have you heard of Termina?”

Cyrus nodded. “Andren told me about it. It’s a massive elven city on the river Perda southwest of Reikonos.”

“It’s at the very edge of the Elven Kingdom, and while our capital is still very much in line with our caste system, Termina is a place where elven norms become a bit murkier. It was there I picked up my surname. Most elves who have lived in Termina have done the same. It’s quite trendy, and it makes it easier to relate to offlanders…” She coughed. “Excuse me, non-elves.”

“I’ve heard stories about Termina.” Cyrus chose his words carefully. “I’ve heard that in the kingdom an elven woman would never look at an outsider or a member of a lower caste for fear that she would lose status.” He thought about it for a moment. “Which would actually explain Vara. But in Termina it’s supposed to be different…”

“It is,” Nyad nodded. “The kingdom is very caste driven. Marrying or bedding an outsider would drop your status in the eyes of everyone. If a high-born elf and a low-born elf were to become involved, the high-born would lose significant face. In Termina, however, anything can happen. And does.”

“But,” Narstron asked, “isn’t Termina part of the Elven Kingdom? Ruled by that massive royal family of yours?”

Nyad blushed deeply, the color of her robes. “Of mine?” she asked in a pitch above her normal conversational tone. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

Narstron studied her with a raised eyebrow, aware that he had touched a nerve. “Of your kingdom,” he clarified. Cyrus looked at Curatio to gauge his reaction, but the healer’s expression was guarded. Terian, on the other hand, looked highly amused.

“Yes, the royal family rules Termina.” She paused for a moment and composed herself. “Pharesia has been the capital of the Elven Kingdom since its founding, long before humankind was around. Since the rise of Reikonos, and the growing trade with offlanders, that commerce has become vital to our economy. Without Termina, the Elven Kingdom would fall within a year.”

“How is that possible?” Cyrus looked at her in disbelief.

She shrugged. “Commerce is a dirty practice in Pharesia and that attitude radiates to the towns and villages of the kingdom. Only a lower-born would be a merchant while being high born or royalty is exalted above all else.” She looked Cyrus in the eyes. “When you demonize the merchants that bring your society prosperity and consider those who engage in it to be sneaky or criminal, you create a society where people want to be royalty and nobody wants to do the uncouth work that allow the royalty to survive.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Narstron. “They actually consider merchant work to be dirty in the Elven Kingdom?”

“Low status work,” Nyad corrected. “Merchants are like kings in Termina because there is no status barrier, money is exalted. Everything is for sale in Termina, and royalty and merchant are equal, and the same goes for offlanders. As long as you have money, anything is negotiable.”

“It sounds dramatically different from Pharesia,” Cyrus said.

“It is. About a tenth of the population of Termina is non-elves, and their,” she coughed again, seemingly her way of covering a somewhat embarrassing statement, “foreign ways have tremendous influence on the mostly younger and impressionable elven population of Termina.”

A roar sounded as two titans charged into the clearing and looked upon the party with outrage. “More intruders!” one of them bellowed.

Niamh was hovering (How does she do that? Cyrus wondered) overhead and suddenly dark bolts were flying from her hands, lightning coursing through the titans.

Cyrus darted into the battle. The titan before him was within his reach when it veered toward its comrade. The second titan assumed a defensive posture and blocked a sword-swipe, barely keeping it from removing his arm. A burst of fire bowled him over and consumed him. Cy started to alter course toward the one that had attacked his fellow but it was strangely still. The titan’s eyes were fixed and unmoving, staring straight ahead.

“Whaddya think, Curatio?” piped the gnome standing in the group with him. “Can I keep him?”

The elf smiled, and again it put Cyrus oddly at ease. It took him a moment to realize why. Stern was an attribute that could be assigned to most elves. They weren’t much for friendliness with outsiders. “Sure thing, J’anda.”

The army resumed a relaxed state. Cyrus could not shake a feeling of discomfort with a titan now standing in their midst. The gnome in the circle made his way past Curatio and looked up at Cyrus expectantly. “I am J’anda Aimant.”

Cyrus leaned down. “Forgive me; I haven’t had much contact with gnomes.”

J’anda chortled. “What makes you think I’m a gnome?” Cyrus looked at him curiously, not sure that he’d heard J’anda correctly. Cyrus blinked and the gnome was gone, replaced by a dwarf, still wearing the same blue robe, but resized to fit the much bulkier and taller frame.

“Uh… I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like this before…” Cyrus said.

“Ah,” J’anda replied. “Then you’ll really be impressed with this.” This time, Cyrus didn’t even blink – but the dwarf was gone and replaced with a human. Fine, delicate features graced his face. He smiled at Cyrus, and before the warrior had a chance to reply, J’anda’s ears grew and he had become an elf.

“Now that’s impressive,” Narstron said. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen an enchanter go through that many illusions.”

Cyrus relaxed a little. “An enchanter. That explains your ability to control the titan.”

J’anda gave him another dazzling smile. “One of my many talents, I assure you.”

Cyrus regarded the enchanter carefully. “What else can you do besides change your form and charm a titan to do your bidding?”

J’anda’s same charming smile made its way across his face, “An excellent question, and one you will surely learn the answer to should you join Sanctuary. I’m not charming this titan – I’m completely bending his will to mine. I could tell him to walk down there and attack the rest of the titan guards,” J’anda indicated the path ahead, “and he would do it cheerfully. And he will,” an air of impatience filled the enchanter’s voice, “as soon as we get moving.”

“I’ve had some experience with that recently.” Cyrus’s eyes focused on the titan captive’s. They were blank, unfocused.

“Oh?” J’anda smiled. “Were you witnessing it or did you get your will bent?”

“No, I didn’t get my will bent.” Cyrus remained expressionless. “But it was attempted.”

The elf’s eyebrow went up. “You resisted?”

Cyrus honed in on the enchanter. “Yes. Ashan’agar, the Dragonlord, tried to get me to do his bidding.”

Both of J’anda’s eyebrows retreated upward. “My goodness. How did you escape his power?”

A shrug. “I don’t know.”

Whatever response J’anda might have offered was cut off by the sudden arrival of Vara. “When these giants came around the corner, they said something about ‘More intruders’. Can you find out what that means?”

“Certainly.” J’anda nodded in accommodation. The enchanter’s eyes looked up at the titan, gazing deeply. J’anda did not move or speak for several moments, and when he broke his gaze from the titan, he was unsmiling. “Someone attacked their city last night from the southern entrance. Something was stolen. Something valuable.”

“Any idea what?” Vara blew air impatiently out of her lips.

“He doesn’t know,” came the enchanter’s reply. “Whatever it was, they’re not making it common knowledge.”

“We’re ready to move,” Orion commanded the attention of the entire group. “Let’s get this excursion underway. Security is bound to be tighter than we expected if they just got hit last night, so be on guard.” He began walking backward down the path to Kortran. “Move out, Sanctuary!”

Chapter 7

As the group began to move Cyrus tried to stick close to Orion. A flash of red made him start as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows.

“Niamh!” Orion seemed pleased to see her. “What news from the city?”

The elf smiled. “No more guards in the road ahead. Which is fortunate,” she raised her voice, “because this lot has all the stealth capability of a bar full of drunken trolls! We’re clear all the way to our objective,” she told the ranger with a smile. With a spell she faded back into the shadows.

Cyrus turned his attention to Orion. “What is our objective?”

Orion looked back at him. “How much do you know about the southern lands?”

Cyrus shrugged as they walked forward. “I know that we’re in them, it’s damned hot, and there are riches in here somewhere.”

Orion smirked before replying. “All true. There are three factions in the southern regions: the elves of Amti, a colony that is mostly independent of the Elven Kingdom somewhere east of the Savanna, in the Jungle of Vidara. Then there are the dragons of Hewat – you recall their former king?” The smirk grew wider. “The dragons are far south of here; the only way to get to them would be having a wizard open a portal to the wastelands, or to go through Kortran. Which brings us to the titans. Three factions, all fighting for the southern lands. The elves’ and dragons’ territory is separated by the territory of the titans, so they rarely engage in battle.”

“Why don’t they ally?”

The ranger shuddered. “Dragons don’t have much in the way of allies: just people they’re not at war with. Titans and dragons are a pretty good match, but the elves of Amti? They’re outnumbered and small compared to a titan or a dragon.”

Cyrus looked around. “Pretend you’re a titan.” Orion nodded. “You had intruders last night, they steal something valuable and secret enough that your guards don’t even know what it is, but you don’t increase your security?” Cyrus looked at the ranger with disbelief on his face. “This doesn’t look like a city at war. We’re heading in and I’ve yet to see more than token resistance.”

“They are at war. The problem is the war doesn’t come to Kortran. I’ve heard of outposts getting attacked on all sides. But taking it to the heart of their capital? The dragons aren’t threatened enough and the giants aren’t ready for that sort of strike.

“Hewat is south of here through fifty miles of mountain passes. Most of the titan forces are guarding those rather than worrying about attacks from the elves to the north.” The ranger wore a pitying expression. “I doubt Amti has made an offensive move against the titans in years. Their city is only standing for one reason: the titans haven’t found it yet.”

“How do you miss an entire city of elves?” Cyrus boggled.

Orion shrugged. “The location’s secret. You have to have an elven escort lead you there blindfolded. Back to your original question: the elves have done the only thing they can do without attacking directly. They’ve placed a bounty on the heads of the titans.” His eyes lit up. “The elves really don’t have an army, but they have money.

“Money buys armor, weapons, things with mystical power that can bear and deal damage better.” He held up his hand to halt the army as they crested a rise. “We’re here for those bounties. We need better equipment. Mystical equipment increases the power of our spell casters magic in addition to giving more resistance to hostile spells to our fighters.”

It had gotten so dark that Cyrus could no longer see more than a few paces in front of him. Faint lights in the distance indicated there was a city not far away. He had been following Orion, not worried about where he was going.

He felt a hand gently grasp his arm and looked over to see J’anda, who smiled as he placed something cold in the warrior’s palm.

Cyrus tried to bring the object closer so he could see it, but J’anda closed Cyrus’s palm firmly. A glow of blue exploded in his hand soundlessly and the sparkles of light shot up his arm to his neck. A flash of light lit the warrior’s eyes. Blinking it away he could see; the darkness had faded. “It’s an orb of lucense,” J’anda whispered. “Magical spell that conveys night vision. Thought you might like to see where you’re going,” he said with amusement.

“Another of your mysterious powers?”

The enchanter shrugged with a whimsical smile. “There are so many.”

Cyrus looked back down the path and his breath caught in his throat. The city of Kortran was stretched out before him. The path diverged into an ovoid ring road that looped around both sides of the valley and rejoined at the far southern end opposite them. A path led down from the split into the city proper like a ramp into the bowl of the valley.

The buildings were intricately carved. In fact, much of the city was carved out of the rock itself on the ground level as well as along one side of the outer ring road. The other side – what Cyrus believed was the eastern facing – had only two enormous arches that led into the mountainside, each seemingly going in different directions. Both of them had very intricate facades, carved with ornate statuary and more sophisticated in their appearance than the city’s other buildings.

In the center of the valley, larger stone buildings dotted the cityscape sprinkled between the more common stone and mortar dwellings, most of which carried intricate woodwork.

Niamh breathed from somewhere to his left, “I never get tired of seeing this.” Looking around, Cyrus realized that she had not faded into the shadows – her voice seemed to be coming out of thin air.

“I’ll never get used to that,” he muttered as he shook his head.

Niamh appeared next to him, caught his attention and smiled. “What, magic?”

He shook his head. “Yeah. It’s not like we saw a lot of it in the Society of Arms, where I was raised.” Cyrus turned to her. “You’re a druid?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve only known one druid. This is going to sound a little stupid,” Cyrus began. He looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. “What exactly does a druid do? I know you have power over nature…”

“Yes, we deeply appreciate nature. The spells I cast,” she licked her lips, “tend to center on control of nature and the elements. I can cast fire or ice spells – not as powerfully as a wizard, but well enough – command water, plant life, even animals to some extent. I can summon a mystical wind that can teleport us from place to place… and a few other things.”

Cyrus’s eyebrow shot up. “I’ve seen some of that. Useful magic, that’s for sure.”

Niamh nodded. “The good news is you don’t have to worry about spell casters facing you in Kortran. Titans don’t have healers, or wizards or druids. They favor martial strength to the exclusion of intellectual pursuits like magic. Just like all followers of the God of War.” Scorn dripped from her words.

Cyrus flushed. “Bellarum, the Lord of War? What’s wrong with worshiping him?”

“Not you too?” She shivered as though something dirty had crawled on her. “I don’t exactly shy away from battle, but I’ll never understand those who worship warfare and consider it some sort of ‘spiritual experience’.”

Cy raised an eyebrow. “Most don’t. It’s okay – I don’t understand your magic.”

“Maybe I’ll explain more about it sometime.”

Cyrus nodded and then realized they had been halted for nearing five minutes. He looked around for Orion, and found him whispering with Vara and Curatio. After a pause Orion signaled the army to move down the path into the city. They moved slowly, but Cyrus could see no activity in the city itself. He looked down at his feet as the texture of the path changed when they crossed onto the ring road – it was made entirely of a rich, dark wood.

Orion beckoned them down the ramp. J’anda’s titan still walked with them, casting shadows in the light of Kortran’s lamps. The enchanter paused with his titan, holding position in the middle of the road. “Shall I guard here?” he whispered to Orion.

“Not a bad idea in case we have to retreat,” the ranger said, turning forward again to lead the army into the heart of the city.

They left the ring road behind them as they descended, the large buildings surrounding them. Once they reached the bottom of the ramp, they crept into the darkness of a nearby alley, sticking close to the wall for cover. They followed back alleys for a few blocks to one of the larger buildings on the outskirts.

“Armory, maybe?” Narstron wondered, having reappeared at Cyrus’s side, startling the human.

“Whatever it is, I guess this is where Amti’s most wanted villains hide out.” Cyrus took in the scale of the building with some surprise. They were truly enormous up close.

It took three people to open the door. Cyrus peered into the darkness within, and felt a not-so-gentle shove. He looked over his shoulder to see Vara smiling at him mirthlessly. “After you,” she said with a bow and hand outstretched toward the door.

Without another word, Cyrus ran into the building.

Chapter 8

Cy took a sharp breath as he realized there was a titan in the room. It was sleeping on an oversized wooden chair in the corner. Letting out a sigh of relief, Cyrus watched it as they crept past.

They filed into the next room. Cy caught a flicker of motion behind a chair leg, and bolted forward. He ate up the distance to the chair quickly, cutting around the edge as something burst out and slammed into his chestplate, knocking him back a step.

Whatever had hit him dropped and rolled back, coming to rest a few paces away. When Cyrus’s gaze locked onto it, he saw it was a swarthy elf, moaning in pain and rubbing his shoulder. Orion, Vara and Narstron had been only paces behind him, and now surrounded the elf, weapons drawn.

Holding his hands up, the elf twitched before speaking, which he did in a low, hissing voice. “Friends, I can’t thank you enough for coming for me!” Something about the elf seemed oily to Cyrus. “My name is Erart, and I have been a prisoner here for far too long.”

Orion looked at him with undisguised skepticism. “I doubt that. Any elf in Kortran would either be dead or a traitor.”

A sign of panic entered the elf’s eyes. “No! No, I swear I am a prisoner, trapped here in the city! I was scared to leave!”

“You’re a liar.” Cyrus looked him in the eyes. He could see it, the subtle evasion as the elf avoided his stare, then relaxed before tensing every muscle in his body.

“HELP!”

The elf’s call caught them off guard. The next sound they heard was the tearing of cloth. Cyrus turned to see a tapestry pulled to the side, and three titans stepped out of the passage behind it. He looked back to see the door they had come through open to admit the sleeping titan plus another. Terian swept toward the titans behind them, sword already in motion.

Orion unstrapped his bow in a split second, arrow nocked and flying a moment later. Cy had turned and charged to close the distance between himself and the titans before him. He could hear Vara and Narstron behind him as Sanctuary’s army engaged the titans to the rear. Orion’s first shot was perfect: he caught the leading titan in the eye, causing him to let out an agonized yell.

As he dodged past the first foe, Cyrus raked his sword across the achilles tendon, causing it to topple and knock his closest following comrade backward. Dodging the two falling titans, Cyrus leapt upon them and quickly slit the second titan’s throat before he could free a hand to stop the warrior.

The third titan emitted a roar at the death of his comrade. Glancing back, Cy saw Narstron give the half-blind titan the same treatment Cyrus had given the first. It looked like a geyser of red when he ripped out its throat. Vara looked annoyed but followed Cyrus to the third titan.

The titan took a swipe at him designed almost as much to keep him back as to do him any harm. He feinted at the titan’s right leg, then pulled away. It fixated on him, ignoring Vara. She gracefully sidestepped and slammed her sword down on her enemy’s foot. He let out a howl of pained outrage, but before he could take a swipe at her, three things happened very quickly.

First, an arrow sailed into the titan’s upper lip, causing him to emit another startled yelp. Orion followed his arrow with a second that caught the titan squarely in the shoulder and caused him to drop his sword.

Second, Narstron jumped onto the last survivor’s leg, and drove both his blades into the side of its knee, slipping them under the kneecap and causing the leg to buckle and to drop the titan to the ground. Vara added a powerful sword-swipe to the afflicted area.

Finally, Cyrus charged into the opening created by their attack and jumped up to bury his sword into the side of the titan’s neck. With a wretched sound the titan fell to his hands and knees, then lay down and died. Cyrus looked around. The four of us just took out three titans with no healer! Not bad.

“My goodness, that took forever thanks to the two of you,” Vara grumbled. Cyrus rolled his eyes while Narstron clenched his teeth.

“I thought it went rather smoothly.” Orion favored the two warriors with a smile. Vara exhaled impatiently as she turned back to the Sanctuary army.

Cyrus turned to find the Sanctuary army running out the door in a mass, one titan dead on the ground, the other missing. He took off at a run, Orion a few steps ahead of him. The elf, Erart, was nowhere to be seen, Cyrus noticed as he flew through the door. Where is the other titan?

He and Orion pushed their way through the army, accidentally stepping on a gnome. He saw Niamh wielding twin bursts of fire from each hand, blasting the retreating titan’s leg, bringing it down. Terian was striking it with his sword. Vara jumped from behind Cyrus to land on the it’s back, delivering an impaling strike with her sword as the wounded titan let loose a cry.

Vara cut it short by stabbing into the titan’s lungs, but it was too late. The silence created by the titan’s death was filled with the sound of doors opening, bells ringing and shouts filling the air.

“RAIDERS AT MAJANI MANOR HOUSE!”

Other voices took up the call as titans poured into the streets of Kortran. Above the shouting, a fell voice cut through all others. “DESTROY THE INTRUDERS! TALIKARTIN, CLAIM THEIR SKULLS!”

Two titans stood above the rest. “That’s Emperor Razeel and Talikartin the Guardian. We cannot defeat either of them,” Orion breathed. “RETREAT!”

“I hate retreating!” Cyrus shouted – but didn’t argue.

The rangers’ bows hummed with arrows as they fell back, dashing past the titans that were swarming from every house into the narrow alleys and avenues. Cyrus stayed with the rear guard, but no titans had caught up to them yet - the arrows were proving a discouragement. Nyad let loose a spell that rained fire upon any who crossed beneath it. While it didn’t stop the titans, it certainly slowed them, as they stopped to put out the flames upon emerging from it.

Cyrus charged up the ramp, one of the last to go, the closest titan only fifty feet behind him. Narstron was moving fast enough that Cyrus was having trouble keeping up. The titans had a stride five times that of a human and near ten times that of a gnome. There is no way we can all make it, Cyrus thought as he watched the fastest of their pursuers close the distance.

Cyrus passed Niamh, who had stopped to cast a spell. Cutting his momentum for a beat to aid her if needed, she completed her incantation and blazed past him. He watched as roots burst from the ground, breaking through the wooden road in front of them, wrapping around their enemies’ feet and then ankles, dragging them down. As the roots reached their legs and pulled them to their knees, more burst forth and wrapped around arms of the titans, yanking them to the earth in a firm embrace.

Faces askew with anger, the trapped titans screamed in outrage, vines and roots clawing at them, grasping for purchase. Behind them, those that were free of the roots were attempting to climb over their trapped brethren.

Cyrus’s attention turned in the direction they had been retreating: a lone giant stepped over him and rushed into the ranks of his ensnared comrades, killing a few of the surprised titans before they reacted and brought down their traitor. Cyrus looked back to see J’anda salute his enslaved titan as it was killed by three of its own.

Orion’s voice rang over them, just behind him now. “Spell casters, fall back to the entrance – warriors, paladins, hold the line as the rear guard!” Orion caught an irritable look from Terian Lepos before adding, “Yes, you too.”

A few of the more enterprising titans used their trapped fellows as stepping stones. One front runner was ahead of the rest. Fresh meat, Cy thought.

The warrior feinted to his left as if to slip past the titan but instead dodged to the right at the last second and plunged both swords into the titan’s foot. Shocked and in pain, he screamed and plunged face first into the ground.

Cyrus scrambled up his fallen adversary to the back of its neck. He drove his sword blade into the base of the titan’s skull. He looked up to see Narstron, already covered in the blood of the next titan. They locked eyes for a moment and he could hear Narstron utter the warrior’s cry of exultation: “Ye gods, the battle!” Cyrus shot him a smile. This is what warriors live for, he thought with great satisfaction.

“Uh, boys?” Niamh’s voice rang out. “Care to join us in the retreat?” She gestured at the Sanctuary army, almost back to the ring road. Vines sprung up from Niamh’s spell, covering their escape as the three of them retreated up the ramp. A roar behind them startled Cyrus. He looked back to see the one called Talikartin the Guardian, his helm a shining silver to match his armor. Black sleeves flowed from beneath his chest plate and rough skin, scarred all over, covered the titan.

Beyond Talikartin, Cyrus caught sight of Emperor Razeel. He had a crown of gold shaped like the skull of a dragon and a green dragonskin cloak wrapped around him, buttoned at the collar. When he spoke, a terrible, cruel voice echoed through the caverns. “Intruders! I am Emperor Razeel of Kortran, the City of Titans.”

“Thank the gods he spelled that out for me,” Narstron quipped from behind Cyrus. “I was certain I’d stumbled into a troll brothel purely by mistake.”

“You would know from experience what those are like,” Vara’s voice came from behind them.

“You may win this day – as you did yesterday,” Razeel continued, “and some of you may escape like the cowards you are – but your transgressions will neither be forgotten nor forgiven by the citizens of Kortran.” The Emperor clenched his fist. “Talikartin the Guardian, make them pay with blood for the citizens they’ve killed and the priceless treasure they have stolen from us.”

Talikartin was a titan among titans. Massive, his muscled frame bespoke of a power both physical and mystical. He broke free of the vines that clawed at his feet with ease. With a swing of his arms the titan swept his own people from his path, scrambling to get to the rear guard.

Niamh whispered behind him, “We are not going to get away on foot – not from him.”

Cyrus looked back at her, a question on his lips. “Can you cast a teleport spell like you did in Ashan’agar’s den? Get some people out of here?”

She shook her head. “Too many people; they’re too scattered and far from me – one of the wizards needs to –” She stopped. “Nyad! We need an area teleportation spell!”

The blond elf looked stunned for a moment. She stopped and concentrated, whispering to herself. A bluish burst of fire engulfed her from toe to head – shocking Cyrus, who wondered for a moment if she’d accidentally scorched herself by mistake. He turned back to brace himself for Talikartin’s assault. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Narstron doing the same. A burst of blue fire shot past Cyrus’s eyes and hovered in front of him, a little ball of cerulean flame. Looking back, Cyrus saw the Sanctuary army, one by one, disappearing into the bursts of blue fire.

“Grab the orb!” Niamh shrieked. Talikartin was only thirty paces away now. The Sanctuary army was gone. Narstron grabbed the orb hovering in front of him and disappeared into blue flames. A whirlwind engulfed Niamh and she too was gone.

Alone, in the city of Kortran, Cyrus looked for a moment across the mass of titans, ensnared, and caught sight of the Emperor Razeel again, whose eyes were afire in outrage.

Talikartin was close now, reaching back, intent on raining a crippling blow on the lone warrior in black, a blow he could not stop or avoid. “Return Ferocis to us and I will make your death painless.”

“Ferocis?” Cyrus’s hand remained at his side. Twenty paces.

“Do not be coy! Return Ferocis – the Warblade of Bellarum – that you took from us, and I will make this fast. Otherwise, your death will not be swift.”

Cyrus’s eyebrow raised. Ten paces. “Tempting. But I didn’t steal it.” His eyes moved from Razeel to Talikartin, locking on the shocking blue pupils of this titan among titans. Five. And the warrior smiled. “So long, Tali,” he mocked, scorn dripping from his words. “I’ll be back for you – and your Emperor.”

His hands reached out and grasped the orb as Talikartin’s hand arced forward. Blue fire exploded, encompassing his vision and Talikartin the Guardian’s killing strike vanished before him.

Chapter 9

The magics of teleportation faded from his eyes. He had arrived at Reikonos Square and no one from Sanctuary was anywhere in sight. Just another day: no dragons, no titans – just people going about their business. Most were headed to the markets or the commercial district, a few perhaps to the slums and the illicit trade within, others heading toward the Citadel or the city gates. Unsure what to do next, he turned to head back to the guildhall.

“Hey.” The voice startled him. Floating a few feet above, smiling from ear to ear, was Niamh.

He returned her smile. “Glad to see you. Everyone made it out okay?”

She scowled. “Everyone but you, we thought. Another five minutes and I was going to assemble a search party.” Her smile returned. “Glad I didn’t have to. Ready to check out Sanctuary?” She cocked her head.

He hesitated. “I can’t go without Andren. I give my blessing to join Sanctuary without reservations. But we have to get Andren first.” He gestured in the direction of the slums. “Our guildhall is just through there; I’ll go and be right back.”

She floated down and grabbed him by the shoulder as he was turning to leave. “Hold it right there, hotshot. Nyad caught up with Narstron here at the same time I did. They’re probably already at Sanctuary right now; Nyad has a teleport spell that can bring them right to the foyer.” Her grin was now from ear to ear. “You and me? We got a ways to run. Hope you’re not too tired…”

A few moments later Cyrus felt his feet touch the ground as the teleport spell died away and found himself in the long, wild grass of the Plains of Perdamun. Finding Niamh next to him, still floating, he finally found the moment to ask the question that had been on his mind. “How do you do that?”

She grinned again. “How do I do what?” She flipped her flaming red hair over her shoulder. “You mean, how do I fly? Walk on air?” She laughed, a sound that harmonized with the breeze rustling in the grasses of the plains. “It’s magic, silly ass.”

“I figured that much out for myself.”

She paused, murmuring under her breath. Cyrus felt the light touch of magic, flowing from his feet up to his head. He looked down… and he was floating. “Because I’m a druid, a servant of nature, most of my spells are based on using nature’s power. For example, the roots of the trees of Arkaria? I can command them, like I did in Kortran. I also have a spell that imbues you with the essence of a falcon – which means you can fly.”

Without warning, she took off running north at top speed. With only a moment of delay Cyrus’s reflexes kicked in and he followed her. Not bad, he thought, wind rushing in his face. They flew across the plains, the tall grass swaying in their wake. The grass here was much less dry than that of the Gradsden Savanna. It was lush and green, and swayed in the autumnal wind.

Niamh had been exaggerating the length of the run. After only five minutes, enormous stone gates appeared before them, parting a very tall wall. Over the top of it he could see a large building peeking out. As they ran through the gates, he was momentarily breathless.

It was a building unlike any he had seen; towers were topped by spires at the four corners of the building. The front had multiple archways leading from the towers to the center of the structure; an arch larger than the rest peaked at the roof. An enormous, circular stained glass window placed roughly twenty feet above the largest doors Cyrus had seen other than in Kortran. The tallest spire of all was a tower in the center of the building leading several hundred feet above the rest of the structure.

Niamh stopped at his side. “Welcome to Sanctuary.”

Looking around he found the grounds were impressive as well. To his right were stables, and beyond them he could see an archery range. On the other side of the main building was a smaller stone building with a wooden roof that belched smoke from three different chimneys.

“Oy!” Narstron called out, coming from the stables with Andren and Nyad in tow. “Thought you might not have made it out.”

Cy looked at him, eyebrow raised. “Yeah, I can see you were torn up about it, too.”

He looked at Andren warily; the elf looked sober, for once, and a bit put out. “Thanks for bringing me along.” His expression was sour.

“Sorry.” Cyrus shrugged.

Changing his focus to Nyad, he bowed slightly. “Thanks for saving us all in there, Nyad. How long does the orb from that teleportation spell last before it disappears?”

Looking slightly baffled, she answered, “I think a minute or two? I’ve never stuck around long enough to find out. I do know,” she said, “that it will follow you around ’til it goes out.”

Niamh surveyed them anxiously. “So, are you gonna apply to join us or what?”

Cyrus looked at her, then looked at the expectant eyes of Andren and Narstron. “After consideration, I think Sanctuary is the kind of people we can rely on. So, yes.” Nods of approval from Andren and Narstron followed.

Niamh beamed at them. “Well, all right. Ready for the grand tour?”

After they nodded, she led them through the entryway and into an enormous foyer. Hallways exited from all sides, but ahead of them was another, slightly less massive set of doors that were open wide and led into a great hall – complete with dining tables. “Great hall,” Narstron mused aloud. “‘Tis truly great. Is this where the meals are served?”

Niamh looked down at him. “Sure is. Three squares a day, plus there’s always food available. There’s a pretty extensive kitchen. Most of the cooking is done by Larana Stillhet. She’s the handiest person around. She can cook, sew – almost any skill you’d need, she has. That’s her workshop out back.”

“The one with the three chimneys?” Cyrus asked.

Niamh nodded. “She tends to the domestic side of Sanctuary.”

“What about ale?” Andren asked before Cyrus could follow up on his question.

“Larana is a master brewer, too.”

“I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here,” Andren said.

After seeing the empty great hall, they went back to the foyer in time to see Vara crossing the room from the nearby lounge. She made no move to stop and talk to them, but Cyrus caught a glance from her that she averted after she noticed him looking.

“Vara!” Niamh called out, halting the paladin’s progress. “Don’t be rude to our guests.”

The elf stopped, her armor heaving from the exertion of her pace across the floor. She faced away from them for a moment, seeming to compose herself before turning back with a wide smile that was disingenuous. “So pleased to see you all.” Her voice was honey-sweet. “I do hope you find your way around well enough, and if you need any assistance in finding the exit, by all means, let me know.” Her expression reverted back to disdain.

“You know,” Narstron said, outraged, “I have no idea where your attitude comes from. You don’t even know us!”

Her eyebrow raised but the rest of her face stayed in the same unpleasant expression. “And you think that would improve your case?” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and left, striding up the staircase across the foyer.

Niamh had a pinched expression. “Don’t worry about it. Vara is really… prickly. But she’ll warm up to you all; it just takes time. “

“How many centuries, approximately?” Andren said.

“Vara is who Vara is,” came a deep voice from behind them. “Asking her to change would be like commanding the Torrid Sea to be still.” Cyrus tensed as he realized who was speaking. Vaste the troll joined them. Looking down at Cyrus, he graced the warrior with a smile that carried a surprising warmth.

Cy looked evenly at him. “So you’re Vaste.”

“And though we haven’t been introduced, I know your name to be Cyrus Davidon.” Vaste’s enormous hand came up to his mouth in a motion that made the green troll look reflective. “But what’s in a name? Is it a name that’s more important… or the content of one’s character, would you say?” He paused, regarding the warrior, waiting for an answer.

Cyrus looked at the troll suspiciously, pondering the question, trying to look beyond the obvious answer. “Of course the content of someone’s character would be more important than their name,” he answered finally.

“Well said,” the troll said with a nod. “So even if someone, say a gnome, had a suspicious name, something that sounded like it might make them goblin-born, would you look to the content of their character before you judged them?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes.”

“Very decent of you. That’s a wise sentiment indeed. How would you judge the content of that person’s character? Through their deeds? Actions? Words?” The troll’s stare once more locked on to the warrior, brown and black eyes shining down at Cyrus.

Cyrus could feel himself being verbally backed into a corner. “I suppose… that would be the usual way you would divine someone’s character. See if their deeds matched their words.”

“So logically speaking,” the troll finished, with no trace of a smile, “you’d have to wait and see what words and deeds came from a person before you could really tell anything about them, wouldn’t you?”

The rest of the group looked on. Nyad looked confused while Andren seemed annoyed. Narstron attempted to engage Niamh in a quiet conversation and ignore the exchange between Vaste and Cyrus.

Cyrus knew when he was beaten. “Point taken.” The warrior took a deep breath. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Vaste. I’ll be looking forward,” he continued with only a trace of irony, “to getting to know you.”

The troll bowed his head, smile fully returned. “And I you, Cyrus Davidon.” Vaste bowed at the midsection, looking for a moment like a tower falling down, and walked away.

“Cyrus!” He heard his name called across the foyer. He turned to see Orion. “Glad to see you made it back safely.” Orion’s grin matched his own.

“Hell, I’m glad I made it back safely. I just… had to deliver a message before I left.”

Though he didn’t ask, the curious expression on his face indicated the ranger caught what Cyrus had said. “How are you feeling?”

“Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of cutting and running,” Cyrus replied without expression.

Orion chuckled. “Get used to it in adventuring. Don’t get me wrong, we usually win. But when you’re that outnumbered, it makes it tough to do anything but live to fight another day.” He paused, and clapped his hand onto Cyrus’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that we’ll be seeing a string of victories that you’ll be a big part of.” Walking over to Niamh, he murmured something to her. “I’ll see you at dinner. There’s a Council meeting about to start; we have to go.” He headed up a nearby staircase, Niamh in tow, in the same direction Vara had gone.

A disturbing thought occurred to Cyrus. “Is Vara on the Council?”

Nyad smiled. “You mean is she an officer of the guild? Yes, she is. Now, would you like to finish the tour?”

As she led the way to a chamber in the back of the building, Cyrus walked beside her. “How long have you been with Sanctuary?” he asked, making conversation.

Nyad looked sidelong at him. “I’ve been here for a few years so I’ve had an opportunity to get to know the members of Sanctuary well. They’re a great bunch of people.”

They reached a door and Nyad paused to look directly into Cyrus’s eyes. “This guild is a brotherhood, dedicated to the ideal of service. They will go to their deaths for you, if you’re with us. But if we have an enemy, the converse applies – we’ll go to our deaths to pursue them, especially if they’ve harmed a guildmate.”

She did not break eye contact with Cyrus, and in that moment he saw the wisdom of a being much older than himself, something he had not noticed in her frivolity and cheeriness.

She opened the door before Cyrus had a chance to reply, and he took it to be her signal to close that subject of conversation. She continued by showing them through the armory. Inside stood an aged human with a craggy face. His armor looked even more battered than Cyrus’s. “This is Belkan, our armorer,” Nyad said as she gestured to the old man.

The man she called Belkan grunted at them and nodded. She introduced them.

“Davidon?” Belkan’s furry white eyebrow raised when she mentioned Cyrus’s name. A neutral expression forced its way onto the armorer’s face as he looked the warrior over. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes fell to Cyrus’s sword. “I suspect we can find better than that.”

Cyrus looked around and nearly drooled at the selection of weapons and armor on the walls. “I lost my sword fighting a dragon. I just picked this up off the ground.”

The bushy eyebrow raised again. “A dragon?” Belkan shook his head and muttered something unintelligible. “Stop by in the next couple days and we’ll find you something. Now get going,” the old man waved them off. “I have things to do.”

The next stop was the Halls of Healing. As Cyrus walked through the door, he found Curatio sitting in front of a table with a gnome atop it. As they walked in, the gnome pointed at Cyrus. “That’s him! He’s the one who stepped on me: I remember the black armor!” His entire arm was no longer than Cyrus’s forearm, and his voice had an almost comical pitch

Remembering that he had accidentally trod on someone in Kortran, Cyrus said. “I’m sorry! I was trying to get to the titan before it sounded the alarm. I didn’t even see you there!”

The gnome nodded, perturbed. “Typical of tall folk; feet too far from your eyes to see where you’re going.”

Curatio smiled. “You’re going to be just fine, Brevis.”

Without a word of thanks, the gnome jumped down from the table and skittered out the door. Shaking his head, Curatio turned to the group. “Nice to see you all here! You seem like you’ve got the attitude we’re looking for. If you need anything, just ask. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to. Nice to see you.”

They left the Halls of Healing, and after seeing the lounge they made their way to the applicant quarters. Their chambers were a series of dormitory-style rooms, each applicant having their own, with a common bath for all the applicants. Nyad left them to get settled after letting them know when dinner would be served.

After spending a few minutes in his room – a desk, bed, mirror and a comfortable chair for sitting - Cyrus left to explore. Pausing to consider the wisdom of prowling around where he had not been invited, he shrugged inwardly. What are they going to do? he thought. Kick me out? With a chuckle, he left the applicant quarters and went up the nearest staircase.

At the top of the staircase Cyrus found himself in a room that housed a set of ornately carved double doors. From behind them he could hear voices – then the sound of a woman laughing – Niamh, he believed. This must be the Council’s Chambers. Looking beyond the door he saw a staircase that lead up to the floor above the Council Chamber. Curious, he began walking toward it.

A sudden hissing sound made him freeze as he realized he was no longer alone. Descending the staircase was a paladin, which Cyrus knew from the regal bearing of the knight. His armor was scuffed but undamaged; he had clearly seen many battles and the wisdom that radiated from him showed it. He stopped before Cyrus, who was transfixed. His helm covered only a bit of his face, but he could see one of the eyeholes was covered in the helm.

Looking at Cyrus through the other with a stare that seemed to pierce directly into the warrior’s heart, the knight spoke. “Greetings, Cyrus Davidon. Do not be afraid, for I would not harm you. I am Alaric Garaunt.” A glimpse of humor flickered into his eye, the look of a man who was equal parts tired and wise. “I am the Ghost of Sanctuary.”

Chapter 10

Cyrus stared at the vision before him. The paladin stared back. “Nice to meet you,” Cyrus said. “How do you know who I am?”

A smile creased Alaric’s mouth. “I know all that happens within these walls.” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t mean to be mysterious… at least not at this moment,” the paladin said with an enigmatic smile. “You have heard of the Sanctuary Council?” When Cyrus nodded affirmation, he continued. “The Council is six officers sworn to the good of Sanctuary with a leader and an elder to assist. I am the leader.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’re the ‘Ghost of Sanctuary’,” Cyrus said with a nod. “It’s an honorary title for the leader.”

Alaric shook his head gently. “No, I am the Ghost of Sanctuary because…” he paused, “…that is who I am. I am also the Guildmaster,” he added. Catching the look of confusion on Cy’s face, he smiled again. “In the matter of position, I want you to be clear on the role I occupy. In the matter of my title, I was aiming for mysterious.” He chuckled. “I see it worked.”

Clearing the confusion in his mind, Cyrus asked, “So, how long have you been with Sanctuary and how long have you been the leader?”

Instead of answering immediately, Alaric began to walk in a slow circle around the warrior, forcing Cyrus to turn to follow him with his eyes. “The answers to your questions are one and the same. I have been here since the day Raifa Herde, Erkhardt the Mighty, Cora, Pradhar and I gathered here and formed this guild.”

Cyrus’s mind raced. “What happened to the others?”

A flicker of sadness crossed Alaric’s face. “A story for another time, perhaps. I, and the others of the Council, are pleased that you have joined us.” He looked Cyrus in the eye. “I have no doubt you will become a great servant of Sanctuary.”

He noted Cyrus bristle at the mention of the word servant. “Don’t misunderstand me. When I say serve, I mean that true leadership is service. In other guilds, the leader is dictator, especially in the high powered armies. Their General’s word is law, their bonds of fellowship non-existent. The members serve the ambitions of the leader, whatever they may be – hunger for power, desire for riches.”

The paladin’s eyes penetrated into Cyrus’s. “Though we all desire material success, great leaders derive their accomplishment from a life of service to their people’s ambitions. A feeling of purpose and significance rather than having the best armor and weapons in Arkaria.” His words hit a chord within Cyrus, who had to look away from the paladin’s gaze. How did he know? Cyrus wondered.

“That is not to suggest you cannot have both the bonds of fellowship and riches.” A twinkle lit Alaric’s eye. “Though perhaps you do not understand, someday you will see what I mean. For now, I must go to the Council.” He stopped, surveying the warrior before him. “We will speak again soon,” he said with absolute assurance. He turned and slid through the door of the chamber, opening it so thinly that Cyrus could not see anything within. Cyrus went back to his quarters, urge to explore oddly sated.

The appointed hour came for dinner and Cyrus made his way to the Great Hall, Andren and Narstron in tow. They found themselves in a group of over a hundred people, all as hungry as they. Many tables with benches were set up with a head table for the Council members at the back of the room, nearest the entrance to the kitchen.

A human woman worked behind the counter in the kitchen, bustling around with a few other servers as a line formed. As Cyrus made his way through, selecting from a wide variety of different dishes, he was pleasantly surprised: one of them was a meat pie. “This is my favorite!” he said.

The tanned woman in the kitchen smiled and blushed, not meeting Cyrus’s gaze. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

The three of them quickly found a table. “Very friendly lot,” Narstron commented. “I’ve gotten a good half-dozen offers to explore different places since I got here.”

“Do you mind if we join you?” An elven healer made her way over with a dwarf in tow. Cyrus couldn’t help but gawk – not only was she two feet taller than her companion, but he was wearing the most bizarre helmet Cyrus had ever seen. It came to a point on the top and two prongs on the sides swept forward. If I lose my sword in battle again, Cyrus reflected, swinging this dwarf by his feet would give me an adequate cudgel as replacement.

“I’m Celia,” the elf introduced herself. “This is my husband, Uruk.” They enjoyed a conversation with the two of them throughout dinner. Cyrus noticed that the Council went through the serving line last, in what he assumed was a reflection of Alaric’s leadership philosophy.

As the meal concluded, Alaric stood. The genial conversation and idle boasting in the hall died down quickly, a mark of respect for their leader. “I have a few announcements to make. First, for those who wish to attend, there will be a Sanctuary-sponsored Alliance invasion of Enterra, capital of the Goblin Imperium, tomorrow night.” Cy caught a glimpse of Vara out of the corner of his eye, feigning vomiting under her table. “Orion has asked,” Alaric continued, “to say a few words about this invasion, which he will be leading.”

Orion stood and placed his hands on his hips. “Tomorrow night we’ll be meeting the Alliance guilds at Enterra. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Alliance or Enterra –” Cy knew he was talking about himself, Narstron and Andren, even though he didn’t look at any of them specifically – “we are part of a three guild alliance composed of Goliath, the Daring and ourselves. Our targets are the Emperor and Empress of Enterra – as is their treasure trove.”

Orion took his hands off his hips. “We’ve received word that the Emperor Y’rakh,” the ranger stumbled over the goblin emperor’s name, “has begun preparations to build their army for a march toward the Gnomish Dominions.” Orion paced the forward length of the table. “Our goal is simple: to make our way into the depths of Enterra, kill the royal family and sack their treasury.”

Orion stopped and pounded his left fist into his right hand. “If we kill the royal family it should defray any plans for conquest they have. The goblins of Enterra are also the keepers of the Earth Hammer, one of the mystical weapons supposedly imbued with the power of the gods; in this case, that of Rotan, God of Earth.

“Our biggest challenge,” he said as he resumed pacing, “will be keeping quiet. This will not be a full scale invasion as we lack the numbers to defeat the goblins by brute force. We will take only our most experienced people. About a hundred of us from Sanctuary and roughly one hundred each from the remaining two guilds gives us a force of approximately three hundred.” There was a sound of awe from the crowd. Orion dismissed it. “The goblins have an army of over ten thousand in Enterra. We are bringing enough force to fight our way in and decapitate the Royal family.” His words were greeted with great approbation.

The applause continued until he was seated once more and Alaric had stood. “Dinner is adjourned,” he proclaimed with mock seriousness. “Good luck to the invaders tomorrow. Those of you chosen to participate will receive notice. Goodnight.” The great hall emptied quickly, as members of the guild filed out, many heading upstairs but more heading to the lounge.

Cyrus found himself in a corner of the lounge, a sprawling room with multiple tables and a variety of ways to entertain oneself. He was in a conversation area with comfortable seating. Andren was enjoying the fruits of Larana’s brewing abilities while Narstron looked pensive.

“Fine ale,” Andren said.

“All the finer for being free.” Cy gave a sly look to Andren, who did not respond.

Narstron was almost bouncing in his chair, barely containing his enthusiasm. “I wonder when they’ll announce who gets to go to Enterra?”

“I’m assuming you’ll want to go, then?” Andren said, sarcasm in his voice.

The lightness of his tone was lost on Narstron. “I’ve always wanted to see Enterra. When I was a lad, growing up in the caves of the dwarven capital of Fertiss, a scouting party captured a goblin and brought it back to the Society of Arms.” He paused. “Sometimes villages in the south would get sacked and they’d say it was goblins that done it. When they attack, they leave no sign – nothing that would tell you that they were the ones that did it. They even cover up their footprints.

“Anyway, they found one wounded in a destroyed dwarven settlement.” Narstron’s eyes narrowed. “We couldn’t understand him at first, but after a while, he learned our language.” His eyes grew intense at the memory. “Goblins are brutal creatures, absolutely nasty killers. They would have no hesitation about gutting you.

“But this one,” he hesitated, “he told stories of Enterra sometimes.” The dwarf looked embarrassed for a moment. “You know we dwarves like to be underground; it’s just how Rotan made us –”

“Filthy mud diggers, yes,” Andren said.

Ignoring Andren, Narstron continued. “This goblin told the stories… of how the stones of the city shone in the torchlight.” His voice took on a daydreamy quality. “I’ve always wanted to see it since then.” He straightened up. “I just hope I get chosen.” Narstron turned to Cyrus. “Whaddya reckon the odds are?”

“I’d say your odds are good.” Cyrus looked around and caught sight of the gnome, Brevis, holding court in front of a group. Whatever he was saying had them enthralled, but he had the look of a man discontented about something.

Cyrus shunted his attention back to Andren. “By the way, you never told me that elves live thousands of years.”

“Not exactly a cheery subject, is it?” Andren tipped his ale back. “I don’t enjoy reminding you that I’ll be here long after you’re dust.”

“So you’ll live longer than a human?”

“Already have,” he answered. “I’m two thousand years old, well into middle age. Most elves could make it to five thousand – maybe six if they’re really long lived.”

“What about the ‘Old Ones’ you told me about – the first elves, the ones that were immortal?” Narstron asked.

Andren frowned. “Legends and bullshit, that is.” He looked evenly at Cy, catching his gaze over his glass of ale. “Don’t you have a bit of your own business in Enterra?” When Cy didn’t answer, the elf pressed him. “Same business you had with Ashan’agar?”

Cy silenced him off with a look. Checking to make sure no one had overheard them, he turned back to the circle and lowered his voice somewhat. “Yes, I do.” Reaching beneath his chestplate, his hand emerged with a small, tattered piece of parchment that he carefully handed to Andren.

The elf looked at it without saying anything for a beat. “This looks impossible.” He threw it back and it drifted in the air for a moment before the warrior caught it. “Good luck.”

Narstron shrugged. “A lot of work, but not impossible.”

Cyrus eyed the piece of parchment. “When I assemble this sword, it will be worth it.” He had read it enough times to have memorized it, but his eyes caressed the list on the paper once more before he folded it up and put it away.

Serpent’s Bane – the guard and grip are in possession of Ashan’agar, the Dragonlord.

Death’s Head – the pommel is held by Mortus, God of Death.

Edge of Repose – the Gatekeeper of Purgatory holds the blade as a prize for one who knows to ask for it.

Avenger’s Rest – G’koal, Empress of Enterra has the Scabbard.

Quartal – the ore needed to smith the sword together is found only in the Realm of Yartraak, God of Darkness.

Brought together by one who is worthy, they shall form Praelior, the Champion’s Sword.

Vara was seated by herself in a corner, quartered away, allowing Cyrus to study her unobserved. Her nose came to a point, accenting the regal bearing of her face. Her pointed elven ears were behind her blond hair, which was hanging free for the first time since he’d met her. Instead of her armor, she wore a cloth shirt and pants that, while seated, clung tightly to her. She was very fit; Cyrus could tell.

Andren leaned over to Cyrus. “Taking a closer look at our resident ice princess?” Cyrus didn’t look away from Vara. He whispered, “If you keep staring at her like that, she’s likely to feel the heat of your intentions and burst into flames – round about her groin.” Cy averted his eyes and turned back to the group. Narstron was laughing quietly.

Andren looked at him with pity. “You have something for elven women? Was your wife an elf?”

Cyrus blushed. “No, she was human.”

“Wouldn’t have surprised me if she was an elf.” Andren sighed. “More elven women marrying human men these days than elven ones.” His eyes cast downward. “Makes it a bit difficult on the rest of us.” He refocused on Cyrus. “Why didn’t we ever meet your wife? I know you saw her not that long ago. Afraid to bring her to our old digs?”

A flash of memory hit Cyrus, and the words his former wife had spoken drifted to his mind unbidden. “You cling to your friends because you have nowhere else to go and nothing to do with your life.” His teeth gritted at the memory. “Showing her our guildhall was not going to impress her,” he said, controlling his emotions.

“See? That’s why you should date a dwarven woman, if you could find one not taken by a dwarven man,” Narstron shot at Andren, who looked away. “Dwarven women found our old guildhall quite homey. It’s so dark in the slums that it’s like being underground.” The dwarf smiled at the memory.

“Oh please,” Andren dismissed him. “Are you going to talk about that wench from the slums bar again? She had a bit more flesh than it took to cover her bones, if you take my meaning.”

“Aye, that’s how I like them,” Narstron said. “Anyway, she didn’t mind being in there, even with you lot snoring away.”

“Oy, that explains certain night noises.” Andren grimaced. “I’m going to meet some new people,” the healer said as he stood up and walked away.

“I have to go sit in my quarters and clean my brain out with my sword,” Cyrus excused himself. He took one last sidelong glance at the table where Vara sat reading and reflected that he had no interest in meeting new people but wanted to understand one he’d already met.

When he returned to his room he found an envelope on the bed. It said, in very simple lettering:

You are chosen to go to Enterra. – Orion

Chapter 11

The next day dawned bright and sunny, but by midday the promise of its glory was cut short by rain that had by dinner turned into a thunderstorm.

“Fortunately, we don’t have to travel in that.” Narstron laughed with relief. He and Andren had gotten the same invitation as Cyrus. If not for teleportation spells, Enterra was several months journey. Instead, a druid would transport them directly to the southern edge of the Mountains of Nartanis, only a few hours hike from Enterra’s entrance.

Cyrus looked across the crowd and found Brevis and his cronies laughing about something. Orion was talking quietly to Selene, who was unable to conceal a smile. Curatio, J’anda, Nyad, Vaste, and Niamh were scattered throughout the crowd but Cyrus found more curious those who were absent. Alaric was nowhere to be seen, nor was Terian or Larana. Vara was also missing, he thought, but then caught sight of her entering from a nearby doorway.

“Vara!” Brevis called out to her. “You should come with me.”

She continued walking. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What does it take,” he sauntered up to her, looking her straight in the knees, “to get some time together, just you and me?”

She halted forward progress, turning back with a frown. “I have no interest in one-on-one time with you, gnome, and I have told you this many, many times. Should you continue to persist in your incessant innuendo, I will personally kill you and have Larana turn your corpse into a weapons rack for my quarters. That way, every day, I can draw my sword from one of your orifices,” she concluded as the gnome blanched. “Would that qualify as some ‘time together’?”

Laughter echoed through the hall as Vara turned on her heel and resumed her course out the door.

Niamh materialized next to them. “Hi, guys,” she greeted them. “Everybody stick close: we’re going to be taking off in just a second. Squeeze in; druid teleportation spells don’t reach out nearly as far as a wizard’s,” she said.

She murmured a few words under her breath and the winds picked up, just as they had in Ashan’agar’s den, and soon Cyrus felt his feet touch the ground again. The strong smell of sulphur wrinkled his nose and he looked down to the ash and black dirt then raised his gaze up to the horizon. Volcanic rock was everywhere – streams of lava poured forth from volcanoes, pooling in lakes of magma. Drakes flew across the sky in the distance. Cy looked around him as whirlwind after whirlwind deposited Sanctuary’s army upon the volcanic soil of the Mountains of Nartanis.

Cyrus found it hard to believe that days before he had been standing in the same place, on the way to Ashan’agar’s den. Looking to the east, he knew the entrance to that cavern was in the distance and shuddered at the thought of what might have happened had Sanctuary not been there.

Once the army was assembled they began their trek. The gnomes and dwarves scrambled to keep up while the humans and elves had to put forth very little effort to keep pace. No one had brought horses, knowing that they would be venturing underground.

After a few hours they left the volcanic foothills and found themselves navigating around the edge of a crater. They approached a keep built into the side of a gargantuan mountain, gates built over a cave entrance with goblins walking the walls and manning the entrances. Cyrus had not seen goblins before. Between three to five feet in height, they were a sort of gaunt, squat, green and scaly creature with fearsome teeth. Their large ears drooped over their skulls.

They halted at the cover of the crater’s edge. Orion addressed the groups quietly. “We meet the Alliance inside the gates. Remember, stealth is our primary concern. There is an area inside the entrance where we’ll be forming up. Our spell casters will cast invisibility spells on the warriors and rangers, then on themselves and we will move to the rendezvous point. Remember, invisibility can be an unstable spell, so move through the gates quickly.”

“Why always inside the gates?” Cyrus muttered.

Orion signaled and Cy watched as one by one the army disappeared. He muted his own cry of shock as Niamh cast a spell on him and his hand and sword vanished. “It’s okay, Cy, hold on.” Her next spell made it seem as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes – everyone reappeared, although they looked faded, as though they were in a heavy mist.

Orion signaled the move after everyone had been made invisible and they walked through the gates, prompting a puzzled look from a nearby goblin who heard something but trusted his eyes. Cy continued to walk even after he had lost sight of where he was going in the dark, and he suddenly felt one of his feet meet empty air where he had thought there would be rock.

He fell forward, arms rushing out to cushion his fall, trying to roll out of it. He hit the ground a few feet later with a crash of armor on stone. He heard laughter all around him, and felt a hand reach into his and pull him to his feet. The hand was soft, gentle, but not without calluses. A lightness crept through his eyes akin to the sensation J’anda had created when he helped Cyrus see in Kortran.

An elven woman had helped him up. She was pretty and short, with a bow slung across her back, tangled in her long brown hair. He could now see in the darkness of the cave around them. Dirt walls led off into the distance, and a few people sat around waiting.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes.” What is it with all these pretty elves? “Nothing bruised but my massive arse and my bigger ego.” He blinked. “Who cast the spell on me? I can see now.”

“It was me,” Vaste said from behind him. “I was afraid you’d fall into me, and frankly I’m not sure I could support your ‘massive ego’ since I’m too busy carrying your arse.”

She laughed, a lovely sound, like a wind chime. “I’m Elisabeth, from the Daring.” She looked past him. “Hi, Vaste.” The troll nodded as he passed them.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Cyrus Davidon, with Sanctuary.”

She laughed again. “Nice to meet you. Hi, Curatio!” She waved past him. Curatio made his way over and they hugged. “Good to see you again!”

Cyrus looked around. The Sanctuary force had settled in for a break after their long hike. Curatio and Orion exchanged greetings with Elisabeth as others trickled over and joined them. Doing a quick head count, he only saw about two dozen people waiting.

“Cyrus, this is Cass Ward from the Daring.” Cyrus smirked at the warrior that joined them, a hulking human with armor painted grey. Catching the look exchanged between the two of them, Orion remarked, “Do you know each other?”

Cass answered first. “I would never claim to know this disgusting and uncivilized barbarian, who gives warriors of the Reikonos Society of Arms a bad name,” his voice dripping with a sort of mocking sarcasm.

“Nor would I ever claim to be affiliated with this boasting heap of horse dung.” Cyrus’s repartee was just a bit slower getting out. “Yes, we know each other – no we don’t hate each other. Cass and I were friendly rivals. We started at the Society of Arms at the same time, went through warrior training together.” Looking sidelong for a reaction, he continued, “He’s just never gotten over the fact that I am, in fact, a much better warrior – and much better looking – than he could ever claim to be –”

“Hardly!” Cass cut him off. Dropping the mocking tone, he finished Cyrus’s thought. “We’ve always had a grudging respect for each other.” A pause. “Well, he’s always had a grudging respect for me… I always thought he was as useless as an empty keg of ale…” His reply left Cyrus shaking his head but smiling back slyly.

Cass turned his attention to Orion. “We have about thirty here tonight. It was the best we could field at this point.”

Orion chewed his lip. “I appreciate your help, Cass. Goliath should be able to compensate for that.”

A voice broke in, feminine, abrasive, and straight to the point. “Goliath will not be attending tonight.” Cyrus caught sight of the owner of the voice as she edged closer. It was a female dark elf wearing the light robes and lettered shawl given to healers by the Healer’s Union when they finished their training.

Curatio smiled, ignoring the poor tidings. “As always, it’s a pleasure to see you, Erith Frostmoor.”

The dark elf acknowledged Curatio’s greeting. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Orion.” Her face wore a distasteful expression, as though the words she was speaking had soured within her lips.

Orion’s jaw dropped. His head swiveled between Elisabeth, Cass and Erith. “Where’s your Guildmaster, Partus?”

Erith exchanged a quick glance with Cass and Elisabeth. “Partus and most of our more experienced adventurers decided to part ways with those of us who wanted to make the Daring a great guild. They took about seventy-five percent of our number and left to join Goliath.”

Orion looked stunned. “They have the largest force in this Alliance… and they aren’t coming?”

Erith shook her head at Orion’s last inquiry. “The forces of Goliath are fully occupied in a march through the Ashen Wastelands.”

Curatio’s low whistle broke the group out of a moment’s silence. “They would dare to march through the dragon homeland?”

Erith nodded. “They’ve made the decision to kill dragonkin in order to ally themselves with the titans of Kortran.”

Cyrus shook his head in amazement. Why would anyone ever voluntarily align themselves with the titans of Kortran? Madness, he thought.

“They have some considerable wealth – perhaps unique armors and weapons as well.” Curatio shrugged, but his voice sounded hollow.

Erith shook her head in annoyance. “If that’s your price for being a servant of Emperor Razeel, then start begging now.” A pause emphasized her point. “Goliath will be killing dragonkin for the next three months before they’ll even be allowed into the city of Kortran to begin talking peace with the titan envoys.”

During this exchange, Orion was feverishly plotting, strain visible on his face. “We can still do this. We were planning to rely on stealth – now it’s just more urgent than ever with less than half the force we planned.”

“Why don’t we just cast invisibility on our entire force and sneak down?” Cyrus asked.

“The goblins will have guard checkpoints set up – they’ll have the ability to see through invisibility spells, so it won’t matter,” Curatio said. “Invisibility is only for short distances.”

Orion nodded. “We’ll need a screening force to take down sentries, and we’ll focus our attacks on the guard points.” He nodded, almost to himself in affirmation. “This will still work; we’ll just need to keep a tight formation. And, J’anda,” he shouted, turned to the enchanter, who appeared from out of the crowd, looking very human today. “You’ll need to be especially on guard. We’ll put the warriors out front to occupy the goblins and give each a dedicated healer and support force.” He nodded to himself again. “This will work.”

“I can certainly keep quite a few of them contained,” J’anda said, “but I am uncertain about the abilities of the other enchanters to ensnare more than one mind at a time. It is…” he paused, looking for a diplomatic way to state his point, “…complex, keeping more than one enemy confounded at a time.”

If Cass was skeptical he kept it to himself. “I have full faith in your plans, Orion. I only wish we had more support to offer you, but the full might of the Daring stands ready. Which warriors will you choose for this excursion?” He gestured to himself in what Cyrus thought to be an overly dramatic fashion.

“You will be one of the three.” Cyrus caught a tone of appeasement in Orion’s voice. He was a little too enthusiastic in agreement with his ally. “Narstron and Cyrus from Sanctuary can be the other two, unless anyone else has a candidate to put forward?”

Cyrus was surprised. He knew there were other warriors in Sanctuary with longer tenure than he and Narstron. He looked at Orion and nodded with a confidence he didn’t feel. “We won’t let you down.”

Over the next few minutes they broke the force into support groups, centered on the warriors. Cy found himself in a group with Elisabeth, J’anda, Niamh and with Erith as his healer. “Nice to meet you, Erith. I’m Cyrus Davidon.”

She smiled humorlessly. “You’ve healed one warrior, you’ve healed them all. Try not to make my job hard by doing anything stupid – like, say, getting yourself killed.”

“Well, ma’am, I can promise you I’m going to try not to die.”

“Try very hard.” She stopped smiling. “I don’t know the resurrection spell, so if you die, you’re not coming back.” She reared her hand back and slapped him on the backside. “Now get in there and fight.”

He looked in disbelief at the healer, but she didn’t crack a smile. Almost positive that she wasn’t serious, but not eager to test the theory, he walked forward with the lead element of the army as they began their descent into the caves.

“I need a ranger out front,” Orion called out. “One who’s good at stealth.”

Elisabeth raised her hand, slight smile on her face. “I’ve never been accused of being sneaky, but I have been known to disappear stealthily from time to time.”

Orion did not return her smile, clearly frazzled. “I need you to sneak down the tunnel and scout the goblin defensive positions. Get their attention, bring them to us one at a time if possible, or in small groups.” Elisabeth nodded with some enthusiasm. “If you run across a checkpoint, leave it be; we’ll attack it as a group.”

Elisabeth melted into the shadows of the cave, and even with his improved vision, Cyrus could not see her. She soon returned with three goblins – Cyrus attacked the first, slashing his sword into the scaled flesh. His group jumped into the action a moment later and the beast was hit with fire, ice, a small bolt of lightning that seemed to originate from midair, and a great many blades. It died within seconds, having never had a chance to do anything but stab at Cyrus once with its claws, drawing blood through a gap in his armor.

He heard Erith’s voice behind him. “You’re only getting three mending spells for the entire invasion, so you’d better pace yourself.” He looked back as he felt a healing wind on his arm as the spell took hold and saw her holding up her finger. “That’s one!” Irritated, he held up a finger of his own, and she was beset by a case of the giggles. “That’s two! I’d be careful, if I were you!”

They proceeded down the tunnel, Elisabeth bringing goblins to them a few at a time. They ignored side tunnels as Orion guided them down following a very worn map. They passed through areas of dirt and rock tunnels, and into areas of carved and intricate stonework, clearly built with incredible engineering skill. They alternated between action and boredom; long minutes would pass with no sign of the ranger, and then she would appear bringing groups of goblins in quick succession. None of their foes had a chance to run and their shouts did not attract others.

As they descended, a far-off chatter filled the air.

“It’s the city,” Narstron said. “Goblins are awfully loud, aren’t they?”

“Sounds like your snores,” Andren said under his breath.

Upon reaching a checkpoint, they halted, hiding in the shadows of the tunnel. About ten goblins were visible either in the entryway or atop a battlement built into the cave. They had a clear view for a long distance; there was no safe approach.

Orion looked ahead, face inscrutable. “This will be tough. It’s the entrance to the royal chambers. We need to be careful.”

Narstron looked under the ranger’s shoulder. “Why don’t we just charge the gate?”

Orion took on a pained expression. “There’s a garrison of at least five hundred goblins inside the walls of their complex, not to mention considerably more a few minutes away in the city.”

Narstron’s eyes went wide. “Good enough reason, I suppose.”

Orion waved for J’anda to join him. He discussed something at length with the enchanter while they waited.

“So where is the Daring’s guildhall, Elisabeth?” Cyrus said, attempting to make conversation.

She looked at him before answering, favoring him with a smile. “We’re in Reikonos, not far from the bank, in the guildhall quarter.”

Erith cut in and gave Cyrus an amused look. “You’re a pretty lousy flirt, even for a meat-head warrior.”

He sent her a glare before he could stop himself but when he saw the ear to ear grin of triumph on her face, he held his tongue. Niamh pretended not to hear her and changed topics. “Erith, when did the Daring start having the problems you were describing?”

Her smile turned back to the sour look she’d worn since they met. It gave him a warm, happy feeling to see her like this. “It’s been a problem for years. We’ve been allied with Goliath since before Sanctuary came along, and with their fortunes on the rise and ours falling, it was only a matter of time before some rats decided to jump ship.” She grimaced. “Of course, I don’t think we’d anticipated that the rats in question would be almost the entire officer corps…”

“I had no idea that the Daring were having that much trouble.” Niamh’s voice was sympathetic.

“It’s not something we’re publishing on our recruitment materials.” Erith’s voice turned hard. “We’ll build back; we just need some time. Unfortunately, without the Alliance we don’t stand much chance of being able to offer experienced adventurers what they want, which is a chance to get more powerful weapons, armor and gold.”

Niamh nodded. “I agree, but this turnout doesn’t bode well for the future of the Alliance. It just doesn’t seem like Goliath cares for supporting their allies. We all know this isn’t the first event they’ve failed to attend. I remember when we thought of this Alliance as one guild.”

“Many still do, Niamh.” A malicious grin split Erith’s lips. “It’s just that some of them think that instead of Alliance, it says ‘Goliath’ on our crest.”

Three goblins burst from the gates – the others looked strangely dazed. The first three were dispensed with in moments. Cyrus caught his with a slash of the blade across its skinny neck before the rest of his group could engage it. The goblin’s head floated through the air and came to rest in front of Erith, splattering her with blood.

She was irate. “You did that on purpose!”

Cyrus didn’t attempt to hold back his grin. “Did not.”

“Did too!”

“Children, please,” Cass said, smile bleeding through into his voice. “Nice work, Cy. If I didn’t know how truly wretched you were with a sword, I’d swear you aimed that shot right at your healer.”

Cy snorted. “If you know what a princess my healer is, you should know why she needed to play catch with a goblin skull.”

“Who are you calling princess?” Erith sputtered, all trace of humor gone.

Orion called for more incoming goblins but instead of three, six charged forth. Cyrus stepped forward, nicking the side of the first goblin but failing to penetrate the scaly hide. He swung his sword at the second target, and connected with its forearm, drawing blood. Both goblins screeched and clawed at him.

He managed to dodge the first one’s slashes, but in avoiding it he moved too close to the second and it managed to stab between the joining point of his arm and his chest plate. He felt the claw pierce him, and bit back the pain as he aimed a riposte across its eye socket. His slice took the goblin’s eye, causing a howl of pain. The rest of his party descended upon it, cutting it to ribbons as he turned to deal with the first.

He found it turning on its heel to flee, but before it had a chance he swiped with his sword, giving it a firm cut across its back. As it staggered, off balance, Cyrus watched a shape detach from the shadows – Elisabeth plunged two swords into its lower back, prompting a scream of pain that cut off as it fell backward and she slit its throat. She looked back to see Cyrus watching her, as she wiped her daggers off on the tunic of the goblin. “Not very pretty when you look at them up close, are they?”

“No,” Cyrus said, “They’re not.”

The last sentry at the entrance to the castle needed to be dealt with, Cy reflected –

He looked up the see it dead, riddled with arrows. Orion and a few other rangers were replacing their bows on their backs. “Mesmerize is an impressive spell, isn’t it?” Orion chuckled. “It left them dazed to the attack going on.”

A piece of the puzzle clicked for Cyrus. A powerful enchanter could control the mind of their enemies, and J’anda had lulled the goblins into a virtual coma to get them to come in small numbers. Now he wondered if perhaps some enchanter’s spell had kept them from running when they realized they had waltzed into a trap.

He had no time to further reflect on this possibility, as Orion called them to action again and they swept through the undefended gates, finding themselves out of the darkened caves and into hallways of stone.

Chapter 12

Cyrus scanned the room as they entered a large chamber that could have come from any castle he’d ever seen. There were no patrols within the halls. “Easy so far, isn’t it?” he said to Cass, who was walking alongside him.

Cass chuckled before answering. “We’re moving fast and we’ve been hiding the bodies of the sentries we’ve killed. It’ll get tough; just wait. I expect one hell of a fight in the throne room. Many, many guards there in addition to the royal family, who are not weaklings – they’re chosen from the finest fighters in the empire. It takes over a year of contests and battles to the death to determine the Emperor after one dies.”

“That process has to whittle down their numbers,” Cyrus realized.

“Weakening their military by killing a great many of their veteran fighters,” Cass finished for him. “You’ve got it. That’s why Orion’s plan is ingenious.” The warrior smiled. “We let them destroy themselves as a fighting force and we seize their treasury.”

Cyrus looked at him, surprised. “You didn’t learn about goblin culture at the Society of Arms.”

Cass laughed. “Hell no. They don’t teach you anything beyond what to do with a sword. I read a lot about the world after I left.” He slapped Cyrus on the shoulder. “You should try it.”

They crept down the hallways, which were wide enough for them to walk four at a time. Orion stopped them outside a large door. They had passed a great many doors as they went, but this was the most baroque and impressive thus far, with carvings that covered it from floor to ceiling. “Behind this door are the Emperor and Empress of Enterra. J’anda, prepare the enchanters.” Cyrus saw Narstron at the head of his group, eagerly anticipating the battle. Andren was assigned to his team, as was Vaste. “When the door opens, we storm the room. Everyone ready?” Orion held up three fingers and began to count down… three… two… one…

He threw open the door and the three warriors stormed past the ranger, picking their targets. Narstron was on the right flank and he engaged three guards on the right side of the room. Cass charged forward to the throne and caught the Emperor Y’rakh with a strike of his sword. It bounced off the Emperor’s thick skin, and Y’rakh flung out a hand, hitting Cass with a blow that propelled him backwards into a wall. He recovered quickly, but it put him out of the fight for precious seconds as his group moved to engage the Emperor.

Meanwhile, Cyrus caught sight of his target, G’koal, the Empress of Enterra. She stood slightly shorter than he but well over the height of the average goblin. He leapt forward, sword raised, and swung it at her. She met him with a perfectly timed backhand that sent him flying across the room the same way he’d seen Cass go sailing.

He hit the wall and bounced up to see four Goblins blocking his path to the Empress. He watched as blue lights surrounded two of them, enchanters working to mesmerize them while he dealt with the other two. Empress G’koal was leering at him from the throne platform, across the room, silently daring him to come back for her. She had a sword drawn, holding it her side. The scabbard caught his gaze – it was red, with patterns running the length of it.

His group was behind him at the door, moving through warily after seeing him flung across the room. A mending spell ran across his body and he cast a quick look at Erith, whose face was edged with concern. “That’s four!” he said in mild surprise.

Her eyes found his, and all trace of sarcasm was gone. “Be careful,” she mouthed, too quietly for him to hear but plain enough to see.

His group joined him in attacking the two goblins keeping him from re-engaging the Empress. His head was ringing from the hit he’d taken, but he killed one of them while his party killed the other. He saw Narstron and his group in the midst of at least ten goblins. Several had the dazed expression of mesmerization, but a few members of the dwarf’s party had fallen; there were bodies scattered around him. To his left, Cass waded into combat with the Emperor, his force behind him. Goblins were trickling out of a door in the wall behind Cass.

“Orion!” Cyrus shouted. “We’ve got goblins coming through that door!” He gestured in Cass’s direction.

Orion had a look of sudden panic. “It’s the door to the barracks! Elisabeth, keep it shut!” The ranger nodded and charged into the breach, knocking over three more goblins as she slammed the door shut. “Keep an eye out for any that make it past her!” A few grunts of acknowledgment met his order.

A look at Narstron’s part of the battle told him that things were not going well on the right flank. More dead bodies, but what seemed to be the same number of goblins. Cyrus changed direction and led his group into the fray with Narstron. They killed four goblins with no appreciable decrease in the numbers of the enemy.

As Cyrus looked up from the battle he noticed two more goblins slip into the fight. His eyes followed their path back to the door where Elisabeth had stood moments before, which now was only slightly obstructed by the corpse of an elf – goblins were pouring through in waves. He watched them hit the rear flank of Cass’s group at the door. Selene and Vaste were cut to ribbons by ten of the beasts. Another three pounced on J’anda, who was casting spell after spell, trying to stem the tide of foes. He crumpled and Cyrus realized for the first time, as the enchanter’s illusion dropped, that J’anda was a dark elf.

The moment the enchanter died, the noise level in the room exploded as every one of the goblins J’anda had mesmerized – almost thirty by that point – woke from their trances. Cass’s group, focused on the Emperor, was hit by a wave of goblins. Cyrus watched Niamh barely escape in a gust of wind too small to take anyone else with her. Nyad was killed as four Goblins impaled her with their claws from three different directions. Eyes rolling back in her head, she dropped to the ground.

Cyrus redoubled his efforts, swinging his sword as hard as he could. He was rewarded with three kills in three seconds – two decapitations and he pierced the last goblin cleanly through the heart. Even as the last goblin dropped, four more swarmed to replace it. Blocking their strikes as he retreated toward the wall, he heard Erith’s scream behind him, and watched as two goblins finished her off. Behind her he watched Orion melt into the shadows unseen.

Time slowed down for Cyrus. He saw Curatio, of all people, swinging a mace, crushing the skulls of three enemies with one swipe. He watched as five goblins swarmed the healer, pulling him to the ground. Cass died, the last of his force, as the Emperor let out a screeching cry of victory.

His own party decimated, Cyrus moved closer to Narstron, who was now cutting through a pile of goblins attacking him with great intensity. The dwarf’s blows were so strong that they were severing limbs and heads with every slash. Andren was buried under the dead, he was certain. Cyrus had his back against the wall, swinging like mad, and could see Narstron doing the same, using his lack of height to evade the enraged goblins that came after him in a swarm.

Cy risked a quick look at the Empress. His eyes froze as a human-sized figure emerged from behind one of the thrones, gliding toward the Emperor, completely covered in a long black cloak, head obscured by the cowl.

Cyrus felt a sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder. One of the scaly creatures clamoring over him had found purchase in his armor and fully exploited it. He felt the hot blood running down his side, felt his right arm cease working abruptly, and he had one arm left to swing his sword with.

A strangled victory cry rose from the throng to his right and he caught sight of Narstron lifted aloft on the shoulders of a crowd of goblins. A strange chant rang out over the room, something that sounded to Cyrus’s ears like, “Gezhvet! Gezhvet!” He twisted back to deal a killing blow to a goblin in front of him and saw the black cloaked figure reaching a hand out to the Emperor, who pulled a large warhammer from his belt and hand it to the figure somewhat reluctantly.

Cyrus’s senses were flooded with the beasts as his focus shifted to the growing number of goblins attacking him. The strange, pungent smell of them filled his nostrils. It was suddenly hot in the depths of Enterra, and there were more goblins than he could count. He felt another sharp pain, this one in his leg, and it brought him to his knees. As he looked up into the black eyes of Empress G’koal, standing over him triumphant, he tried to swing his sword at her. She swung her blade across his neck, hard, as he watched it, eyes transfixed on her elaborate scabbard. He felt a draining sensation, then lightheadedness, and his last vision was of the goblin Empress, somehow, impossibly, smiling in victory.

Chapter 13

Cyrus awakened, light bleeding into his vision. He saw Selene, badly wounded, shaking and crying, standing above him. He recognized where he was, as he looked up – it was the entrance to Enterra, where he’d fallen over and been helped up by Elisabeth.

“Selene!” he cried out. “What happened?” He caught sight of Curatio and Vaste moving among bodies, lined up in rows. The invading army, Cyrus realized.

The elf did not respond at first. “Niamh fetched help,” she said, struggling with every word.

Sounds of battle from down the corridor drew his attention. A goblin corpse flew through the air and landed at the edge of the rows of bodies. Alaric Garaunt followed it, anger radiating from the paladin even though his mouth was the only part of his face that was visible through his helm. The knight was flanked on either side by Terian Lepos and Vara, who each wore a neutral expression.

“The corridors in front of us,” Alaric said, voice taut with rage, “are quite clear now.” The Ghost calmed. “We won’t be seeing any more goblins in this segment of the caves for some time, I suspect. The rangers are bringing the dead out as quickly as safety permits.”

Cyrus looked to find Curatio nodding quietly. The healer turned away to another body, channeling powerful magics that lit up the inside of the cave. “If you can bring them to me, I’ll resurrect them as quickly as possible.” The healer tensed for a moment. “This would go much faster if not for the fact that Vaste, Selene and myself are the only healers that know the resurrection spell.” Curatio paused for a moment, looking almost reluctant. “Is there no other…aid…for us?”

Alaric’s face was hidden behind his helmet, masking most of his expression, but his mouth was drawn tightly in a line. “It would appear you have things under control. If the situation becomes dire, we will do…” the knight paused, searching for words, “…whatever it takes… to resurrect them all before time runs out.”

Vara made her way forward. “I can help. Though my mending spells don’t have the power of a healer’s, they can at least help relieve the pain.” Curatio nodded and Vara began to move among the wounded, starting as far from him as possible, breathing a few words here and there. Cyrus could hear thanks being murmured to her.

Brevis stood up to catch Vara’s attention. “My boot is missing.”

Vara looked at him, calm, cool, uncaring. “This affects me how?”

Brevis looked back at her, expression dull. “Did you take it?”

She blinked three times in rapid succession. “I didn’t touch your corpse except to drag it out of the way to make room for more bodies,” she said in a tone of near disbelief. “Besides,” she told him. “You’re far too ugly to molest when you’re dead.”

A familiar glint found its way into Brevis’s eye. “What about when I’m alive?”

A roll of the eyes. “When you’re alive, you smell too poorly.” Vara continued to work her way through the ranks of the freshly risen, casting healing spells.

Cyrus sat up, gingerly at first, and looked around. He saw Orion talking to Cass and Erith. None of them had been healed yet, and each was clutching painful-looking wounds. He suddenly understood why he was in such pain. No healer had the magical energy to spare for mending spells when there were so many dead to be brought back. He caught Andren’s eye in the corner and hobbled his way over to him, nearly falling over and catching himself on a cave wall for support.

Andren handed him a flask. “You look worse than I do,” he said as Cyrus took a drink. “But not as bad as Orion.” The ranger, though uninjured, had a haunted look in his eyes as he and Cass exchanged words with Erith, whose normally dark blue skin was much paler. “Or Curatio, come to that.” Curatio was working feverishly with the other two healers, casting resurrection spells as quickly as they could. “You only have so much time to cast before someone is dead for good.”

Cyrus broke his silence as he took another drink from the flask. It tasted like rum from the islands in the Bay of Lost Souls. Something stirred in the back of his head, making its way through the fog of discomfort from his broken ribs and countless bleeding wounds. At least none of them is gushing blood, he conceded. “Wait,” Cyrus realized, “why aren’t you healing the wounded?”

Andren’s cheeks reddened. “I’m drained. I tried to cast a heal on myself four times and it sparked out.” The healer took another swig. “I’m surprised that Curatio and the others can manage a resurrection spell – they’re supposed to be really draining, and if they just got resurrected themselves…” Andren shuddered. “They’re burning their own life energy if they’re out of magic.”

“How does that work?” Cyrus was curious.

“Only so much magical energy at a time,” Andren said. “Just like your arms get tired from swinging that meathook of yours, cast enough spells and you run out of magical energy. Resurrection spell brings you back near dead, low on every type of energy – magical, physical, emotional, mental. You need rest.” Another swig as a haunted look crossed Andren face. “They don’t have time for rest, though.”

Cyrus looked at him in accusation. “About your healing spells. You gonna try again?”

Andren glared at him. “Give me a minute, will ya? I dunno about you, but I just died, and frankly it was an unsettling experience for me!” The healer took another deep swig from the flask. “I’m trying to get back on an even plane here.”

Orion was picking his way through the wounded. The healers looked as though they had completed their work, and all the bodies were moving, moaning, some even crying out. Druids and paladins were healing the worst afflicted first, as they regained their strength. The healers looked exhausted; Curatio was bleeding profusely from a gash on his forehead that hadn’t healed. Niamh walked up to him and cast a spell to seal the wound. She gently wiped the blood from his face as she smiled down at him.

“Cyrus.” Orion approached, looking stricken. “We have a problem.”

“Oh?” Cy looked at the ranger, and awareness crept back to him. He realized what had been stirring in his mind earlier, a curious absence. “Where’s Narstron?”

Orion looked away. “We don’t know.”

Andren was on his feet in an instant, all other concerns forgotten. “What do you mean you don’t know? Where the hell is he?”

Orion shrugged helplessly before answering. “We don’t know. We’ve been looking for him –”

Cyrus almost bowled Orion over moving past him toward the tunnel down into the goblin city. “Then we go back after him.”

“Cyrus,” Orion said, “I’ve been into the throne room three times. I sorted through a pile of goblin dead, but I couldn’t find any sign of him. Elisabeth is down there right now, left just before Selene resurrected you.” Orion shook his head sadly. “We don’t have much more time.”

Cyrus and Andren sat there, stone-faced, peering down the tunnel. Long minutes passed as they waited, willing a small figure to come trudging up from the depths. The minutes turned into an hour. Then two. The entire force, still recovering from their grievous wounding, waited, murmuring respectably behind them. Niamh had cast a night vision spell on Cyrus again and he stirred as a small shape made its way out of the darkness. A figure, but who…?

It was both of them. Elisabeth moved quietly along the tunnel, dragging Narstron’s body behind her as quickly as she could manage. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and she was bleeding from her side. “Ran into a sentry that didn’t take kindly to me bringing him back.”

Curatio stepped forward, already casting the resurrection spell. Cyrus held his breath as the magical forces he summoned crackled with energy into Narstron –

And did nothing.

Curatio began chanting under his breath again, the same effect – nothing happened. He did it again, and again, until finally the elf fell over, completely spent, face blank.

Andren dropped to his knees over the dwarven body. He was weeping softly. Cyrus saw Niamh gasp and turn away, while Terian, Alaric and Vara stood expressionless. Cyrus bit back the emotion he felt, a deep, burning sensation that grabbed him in the chest. He wanted to take his sword and run through Enterra, killing everything he found. He wanted to take hold of a goblin, and beat it until its bones were no more. He wanted –

He wanted Narstron to be back. He half expected him to open his eyes, to make a joke about how he had killed more goblins than Cyrus or Cass or anybody.

But it didn’t happen. Cy looked down into the dwarf’s features. He’d been pierced at least a dozen times in the torso. “I found him dragged into one of their sacred places – near their treasure trove. There were hundreds of goblins on the other side of that door,” Elisabeth told Orion. “It’s like they were expecting us. There’s something else I need to tell you, but more important things come first: the army of the goblins is on the move, Orion – they are assembling and we need to get out of here.”

Orion was speechless; it was Alaric that spoke first. “Get your groups together!”

A clattering came from down the tunnel – the sound of an army on the march. Cyrus’s scowl deepened, as he stepped over the body of his friend. Alaric, recognizing his intent, didn’t fight him, just gestured to Niamh – and the whirlwind of her spell swept him out of Enterra, away from the army, and when the howl of the winds died down…

…his howl could be heard through the Plains of Perdamun. A cry of grief, of rage, of loss and sorrow. It took Alaric, Terian, Vara and three others to haul him back to Sanctuary. By the time they reached the front gates, he was unconscious, still bleeding from the wounds he’d suffered in Enterra’s throne room. Some of them would never truly heal.

Chapter 14

Cyrus looked out his window over the grounds of Sanctuary. He could see the gates, and watched as small figures rode through the entrance. It had been three days since Enterra. He had slept in the Halls of Healing the first night and had not regained consciousness until noon the next day. The rest of the first day and second night he had been restless, not talking to anyone. He had spent most of his time down by the river Perda. No matter what had happened, the river still ran. The world had collapsed around him, but it still ran. Looking from his window across the plains he couldn’t believe it had been three days. Today was the funeral.

At the appointed hour, he put on his armor, freshly cleaned but still black, and headed downstairs. Walking through the doors and outside, he followed the crowd across the grounds to the graveyard. A raised dais was set up at the far end of the cemetery, with chairs and a podium. In the center of it all was a small casket – the sight of which nearly dropped Cyrus to his knees.

He took his place to the right of the coffin and Andren sat beside him. Alaric and Curatio sat on the left side of the dais, along with a dwarven priest: a follower of Rotan, the God of Earth. The priest stood first, and delivered his message, followed by a few kind words from Alaric and Curatio and a rambling remembrance from Andren, who was quite drunk. No one stopped the healer, who went on for some time before ushering himself off the dais, sobbing.

Cyrus didn’t hear a word, lost in his own thoughts. He could tell from Alaric’s motions to him when it was his turn to speak. He walked to the podium, still numb. Scanning the crowd, he saw the entirety of Sanctuary was there, even Vara. Erith, Cass and Elisabeth were there from the Daring. There was a mix of emotions on the faces before him.

He cleared his throat. “When I was a young warrior, fresh out of the Society of Arms in Reikonos, I was at a bandit camp in the Pelar foothills. I was facing some very poorly trained enemies, some bandits armed with small maces and rusty swords; inadequate weaponry, little strength and no chance against a fighter with any real experience. Unfortunately, I was a fighter with no real experience. I had been cornered by three of the bandits, and my sword broke against one of their blades. I was about to be killed.

“A dwarf came screaming out of nowhere, and distracted them long enough for me to stab one of them with the remains of my blade. I took his weapon, and the dwarf and I killed the other two. We’ve been together ever since.” The sting of the memory halted him in his recollection. “We were inseparable. Along the way, we found another adventurer,” he swept his arm to indicate Andren, who was still weeping, “who shared our vision of exploration, and battle, and the idea of striving to better ourselves.

“We knew, as warriors, the dangers in the world and we faced it every day. A warrior’s purpose is to take the punishment so a healer, a wizard, a ranger doesn’t have to. Narstron lived that mission, every day.” His eyes came to Vara and he stopped for a moment. There was a single tear drifting down the elf’s cheek.

“He served his god, he served his guild, his family, and he fought to his last on a battlefield of his choosing, taking every enemy with him that he could.”

Cyrus turned to face the casket, strode over to it and placed both hands on it. He lowered his voice. “You were my oldest friend in the world, and I will miss you. I don’t believe in what you believed in, and I don’t serve Rotan – but a follower of Bellarum believes in vengeance. I swear, by the God of War, you will be avenged.” He leaned down and touched his forehead to the casket in the deepest bow he could, then turned on his heel and marched back to his chair, stiffly and formally so that he could focus on something other than the pain.

They lowered the casket into the ground and the first shovels of dirt were thrown upon it. As the funeral ended, many people tendered their regrets. He took them politely, but his eyes were elsewhere. Vara walked slowly through the graveyard to the far corner, and knelt on a grave. She sat there quietly for a few moments before she stood, dusted herself off and walked back to Sanctuary’s entrance.

After taking the last of the condolences from the Allied envoys he found himself wandering past the rows of tombstones to the grave that Vara had stopped at. Standing over it he found a simple marker.

Raifa Herde

Beloved Healer

and Wife

He looked around, startled, seeing a few other names he recognized – Pradhar, Erkhardt the Mighty on nearby tombstones. Each one of them, the names Alaric had mentioned –

“I see you’ve found the answer to your earlier question.” Alaric Garaunt appeared at his shoulder. “Here lie three of the founders of Sanctuary.”

Curiosity overpowered Cyrus’s weariness. “How did they die?”

Alaric hesitated. “Let us walk. The druids have a garden that you must see to believe.”

Cyrus thought for a moment of protesting but instead fell into step beside Alaric as the paladin walked. Neither made any attempt to speak until they crossed a small bridge over a flowing stream running into a small pond a few feet away. When Cyrus thought he could endure no further silence, Alaric spoke. “I come here, sometimes, when issues weigh upon me.” He paused. “A plant cannot grow without rain – and rain does not come but through a storm - the mildest shower to the most tempestuous thunderstorm. And so it is with us. We grow in times of trial, in storm and rain. I do not think anyone loves the storms of life.” The paladin’s face grew serious. “They sweep us to and fro – off the course we had planned for ourselves.”

He focused on the warrior’s eyes. “I have no words to make your grief go away. I would not deny you that pain, as it may define you and make you stronger. In the early days of Sanctuary, the titans were a strong presence in this part of the Plains. They attacked once when we were weak. Since that day, the day we laid Raifa to rest, I have seen thirty-two funerals for our own. I would bring every one of them back were it within my power. But it is not.”

The paladin looked weary. “I have learned more about what it takes to be a leader in these times than I ever did when things are going well. I do not wish you suffering, but I wish you to learn all the lessons that are only available to those who navigate through the heart of the storm.” He paused for a long time. “Tomorrow will be easier,” Alaric said with great certainty. With a final hand on the shoulder of the warrior, he left Cyrus staring out over pond with much to consider.

Later that night, Cyrus found himself alone in his quarters. Looking around, he couldn’t help but remember the warmth and chatter of the Kings of Reikonos guildhall fondly. If we were still there, Cyrus thought, Narstron would still be alive. Clutching his pillow tighter, he prayed for tomorrow to come, so he could see the easier day that Alaric had mentioned. When he was still awake at dawn, he realized that while the Ghost had said it would be easier, he didn’t say it would ever be easy.

Chapter 15

A few days after the funeral there was a knock on Cyrus’s door in the early hours of the morning. He looked around, startled. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Feigning sleep, he answered the door to find Terian Lepos standing in the hall. “Yes?” the warrior asked, befuddled.

“Let’s go,” Terian said with a directness Cyrus might have found refreshing under other circumstances. After several days with no sleep, Cyrus didn’t find anything refreshing.

“Go where?”

“Who cares?” the dark elf said, already turning to leave. “Anywhere and anything is better than the sleep you’re not getting right now.”

Cyrus didn’t argue. After arming himself, he followed Terian down the stairs and out the front gates of Sanctuary. They walked in silence to a path that lead into the Waking Woods, an enormous forest that stretched north almost halfway to Reikonos. They walked for over an hour into the woods, not saying anything. The warrior finally stopped at a disturbing sound in the distance – ghouls howled in the darkness.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Cyrus asked the dark elf.

“Like I said, anything and anywhere is better than your nightly routine, isn’t it?” He uncapped a flask and handed it to Cyrus. A strong odor of alcohol permeated from it. Cy made a mental note to introduce Terian to Andren later, and took a long slug of the liquor. “We’re going to run around in the woods with the dead for a while, I think.” A long, languid scream tore through the night – ghoulish and inhuman. Terian pocketed the flask and took off at a run along the path through the woods.

“Wait!” Cyrus said. Pondering his options he decided the best course of action was to turn back, walk through the front gate of Sanctuary, go back to bed and forget any of this had ever happened. He quickly discarded that idea, remembering that while he might have been in bed, sleep wasn’t on the agenda. “Great,” he muttered to no one in particular. “A haunted forest.” He took off after Terian, catching glimpses of the dark knight’s armor in the moonlight.

Howls of outrage came from his left, then his right, as the undead of Waking Woods came after them. Not stopping, he ran behind the elf, who Cyrus could swear was giggling in front of him. “You know why it’s called Waking Woods?” Terian shouted over his shoulder.

“I don’t know, but you’re attracting the attention of every undead creature in the area with this shouting!” Cyrus was so irritated he couldn’t keep his voice down.

“This part of the woods used to be a place where the followers of Yartraak, God of Darkness, and Mortus, God of Death would sacrifice their victims.” Terian slowed down to let him catch up. “See, right there.” Terian came to a stop and pointed to the shape of a pyramid towering above the trees.

“I’ve heard the legends, and I’ve been told since I was young that you do not stop in Waking Woods at night, because there are sections that are incredibly dangerous… yet here we go stopping in one of those sections.” Cyrus was a step below panic.

Terian put both hands on his knees, bending over, winded. “It’s a funny thing, that legend about not stopping. I heard it too. You were raised in Reikonos?” When Cyrus nodded, he continued, the screaming of the ghouls very near now. “I’m from Saekaj Sovar, the dark elf capital on the north end of Waking Woods. Funny we’d have heard the same legend, since there isn’t that much contact between Saekaj and Reikonos.”

Cy was looking over his shoulder now. He could see nothing in the darkness. “Wouldn’t that mean that there might be some credence to it?”

“You were told to run like hell, right?” Terian asked him, voice calm. “You were young, and new, inexperienced… and they told you to run through Waking Woods, every part of it, even the supposedly safe ones, without stopping, right?”

“Yes,” Cyrus told him, “but in fairness, they didn’t just warn us about the undead: they also warned us about bandits and belligerent dark elves – not necessarily in that order.”

Terian chuckled. “Have you ever stopped and faced the ghouls here?” His axe was drawn.

Cyrus paused. He resisted the ingrained urge to run, and drew his sword. He was a warrior. Fear was something he conquered, not vice versa. He assumed a defensive position, closing his eyes, and listened to the death rattle making its way through the trees to them. He opened his eyes as the ghoul burst into the open. It was a roughly human figure, with only patches of skin and clothing covering its bones. It looked at the two of them, and let out a scream of otherworldly fury.

“Be careful,” Terian called out from slightly behind him. “I’m not a healer, so try not to get hurt too bad.”

A sick feeling of doom crawled up Cyrus’s stomach. “What am I supposed to do if I get injured?”

Terian shrugged in a very casual manner. “Don’t worry; I’m pretty good at bandaging wounds.” He thought about it for a beat. “Of course, that’s not gonna help you much in battle, but afterward I’ll be able to patch you up real good.”

Burying Terian’s last statement, Cyrus let out a howl of outrage, and putting forth all the fury he’d liked to have directed at the goblins over the last few days, he tore into the ghoul with his sword. It withered under his assault, falling back, blocking halfheartedly. He slashed at it, over and over, pieces of bone chipping off as it weathered his strikes. He cleaved the bone at the wrist cleanly in two, and it lost its weapon.

Letting out a cry of its own, it made to stab him with its wrist bone, and he knocked it aside so brusquely that it broke the whole arm off at the shoulder socket. Forcing the sword across its jaw, he severed the maxilla from the mandible. The screaming stopped. He moved his right foot between its legs, forcing it to take a step back.

He brought his hands around and crushed the ghoul’s skull with the hilt of his sword and brought the other arm around its neck, pinning it against his leg. He brought his hands up above his head and hammered them down, shattering the skeleton into pieces, scattering them over the forest’s floor. The bones clattered against each other as they rolled across the wet grass.

The sound of slow clapping of armored gauntlets broke him out of his stunned silence. “Isn’t facing your childish fears much more fun than staring at the walls all night?”

His heavy breathing subsided, Cyrus turned to face the dark knight. “How did you know I could best this fiend?”

Terian shrugged again, a noncommittal movement of his shoulders. “I assumed you could because I can. And since it was easy for me, I figured you could at least kill it without dying.” More howls issued through the forest. “If you’d like, we can draw in some more.”

Cyrus thought about it for a minute. He drew his sword to a fighting position. “I’d like that very much.” Seeing the look of hungry anticipation in the dark elf’s eyes, he knew that Terian understood the call to war better than anyone else in Sanctuary.

They slayed ghouls until daybreak. Making their way back to Sanctuary by the dawn’s light, Cyrus’s heart felt somewhat lightened. He made his way back to his quarters in a veritable fog, and dropped into bed without taking off his armor. He fell into a deep, restful sleep, and did not wake until the next morning.

Chapter 16

Cyrus couldn’t believe how fast the last six months had gone. He had settled into a routine with Sanctuary – every day he spent adventuring in different areas of Arkaria, participating in the occasional Alliance expeditions and even more occasional (lately) Sanctuary expeditions to break up the regularity of his small group adventures. He was home almost every night at Sanctuary, save for once when he stayed at the old Kings guildhall after a long excursion to the Inculta desert in the far south-east, and with no druid or wizard available to bring him home afterward. That had been a long night, filled with unpleasant memories.

He, Niamh, Curatio, J’anda and Terian walked across the Mountains of Nartanis, on their way to an outlying goblin outpost on a nearby peak. His most frequent adventures seemed to be with officers of Sanctuary – and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. Curatio had proven himself the most skilled and reliable healer Cyrus had ever worked with, effortlessly casting mending spells that seemed to have more power than those of other healers. Andren had proved less reliable of late, spending the months since Narstron’s death in even more of an alcohol-fueled haze than before.

Coming over a hill, Terian, who was leading the party, indicated for them to halt. He was crouching behind a rock and gesturing for the rest of them to do the same. For Cyrus it wasn’t even a question – he grabbed Niamh and J’anda and moved them bodily to the nearest cover. Curatio was already diving behind a boulder. They made it just in time.

Sweeping above them, scales as black as obsidian, was a dragon. It was at least as large as Ashan’agar, Cy reflected. It swept over them in a lazy flight, flapping its wings and landing just beyond them, close to the edge of a lake of lava.

Terian leaned against the rock, facing them. “It’s Kalam. Sighting him here is an incredible find.” The dark knight was pensive for a moment. “I bet he has a lair close by.”

“How did you know his name?” Cyrus hissed. “Terian’s Dragon Compendium?”

The dark knight shrugged, and Cyrus watched as Kalam lay down less than one hundred feet from the lake of lava. A series of boulders had been pushed into a circle that was almost nest-like. Even at this distance, Cyrus could see the glint of objects in a corner of it, and he knew that Kalam was a hoarder of treasures, just like every other dragon.

“What the hell is this beast doing out of the southern lands?” Cyrus wondered.

“And so close to the lair of our friend Ashan’agar?” Niamh said with a smile.

“I would be willing to bet,” Terian changed the subject, “that a great many guilds would love to get a shot at a black dragon.” He looked around nervously. “Only the secluded location is keeping him alive right now. If any of the biggest guilds like Amarath’s Raiders, Endeavor, or Burnt Offerings knew where he was, he’d be dead and they’d be picking that nest clean.” He paused. “We can have a hundred people from Sanctuary out here in half an hour.”

Cyrus shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, chewing his lip, “that’s not going to cut it with a dragon like this. Trust me. We need aid from the Alliance if we want a chance of taking him down without losing a lot of people.”

Terian looked at him, nostrils flaring. “We have a shot to take him for Sanctuary, and your first instinct is to turn him over to Goliath?”

“I doubt they’re that dishonorable, Terian,” Cyrus said. “If we call for aid, the Alliance rules will bind them; we’ll end up splitting the loot, but it’s better than –” he raised a hand to cut off Terian’s already forthcoming reply – “it’s better than losing guildmates trying to bring this bastard down or having to retreat and leaving bodies on the ground. We need to be careful, and we need more people to succeed.”

Shrugging his shoulders, Terian relented. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you if Goliath ends up stealing everything.”

Cyrus turned to Niamh. “We need a Sanctuary officer to get the Alliance involved. Will you get word to the other guilds?”

Niamh nodded. “The Daring and Goliath are both located in Reikonos. I’ll take Curatio and we’ll go now.” She and Curatio were whisked away on the wind of her spell, leaving Cyrus, J’anda and Terian watching the nest of the dragon.

“At some point,” Cyrus said with a curious look at Terian, “maybe you can share with me why you despise the Alliance.”

Terian was watching Kalam from behind a boulder. The dark elf stiffened at Cyrus’s inquiry, but did not turn back to answer him at first.

Cyrus exchanged a look with J’anda, who shrugged, wearing the illusion of a dwarf. “Just because I’m a dark elf,” the enchanter said, “don’t expect me to understand him.”

“Why do you hide that you’re a dark elf?” Cyrus asked J’anda.

“Meh.” The enchanter looked away. “It’s not that I’m ashamed, by any means, but let’s face it: dark elves are not appreciated in the world outside Saekaj Sovar. After I got beaten in Reikonos twice I decided that my dark elven pride was best displayed elsewhere.”

Terian snorted. “So much for being yourself.”

J’anda smiled. “Why would you ever want to be yourself, when there are so many more interesting people to be?” With a flick of his fingers, the dwarven illusion disappeared and J’anda had become a mirror image of Terian himself.

The dark knight shook his head in annoyance. “Although your looks have improved in the last thirty seconds, I have no patience for people who are not what they appear to be.” The dark elf looked back at Cyrus. “Which is, by the way, the answer to your question about why I despise the Alliance.”

Cyrus looked at Terian, befuddled. “Huh?”

There was a long silence. Terian seemed to be pondering the black dragon, but then turned to face Cyrus. “I was there when the Alliance was formed. It was created with the best intentions. Three guilds, all of whom wanted to grow and be of assistance to each other, the heads of which were longtime friends, decided to become formal allies. Sanctuary, the Daring and Goliath each brought something different to the table, but it was a partnership. If one was in need, the others were there. It started nobly,” Terian continued, far off look in his eyes. “Unfortunately, that was a long time ago.”

“I still don’t understand,” Cyrus interrupted, “What you mean when you say they’re not who they say they are?”

“He’s just jealous,” J’anda said, dispersing his Terian illusion in favor of an elven appearance.

“I have no problem with the Daring or even most of the rank and file of Goliath.” The dark knight’s eyes grew intense. “But Goliath’s officers… they may appear to be allies, but I assure you they are not. Somewhere along the way the ideals of friendship and mutual assistance that was the core of the Alliance at its founding got perverted by their greed and lust for power.” Terian looked back down the slope to check on the sleeping dragon. “Now we’re allies in name only.” The dark elf looked back to fix his gaze on Cyrus’s eyes. “Or did you think that the lack of attendance at Enterra was a one time occurrence?”

“I have tried not to think about that night,” Cyrus answered, face frozen.

“Well,” Terian said, “try not to think about this, then. Before Alaric and the rest of us came charging to the rescue that night, he sent a messenger to Goliath asking for assistance. Their whole complement was at their guildhall; one of their officers, Tolada, sent his apologies – he said they were unable to help.”

“Wait a minute,” Cyrus said, jaw tensing. “To opt out of the invasion was one thing. But you’re telling me they knew we were in dire need, and chose not to come to our aid?”

Terian’s smirk stretched across his face. “Doesn’t it feel good to know that you have allies that will be there for you no matter what?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. He straightened. “I believe our first wave of reinforcements just landed.”

Looking up the hill behind them, Cyrus saw Curatio leading the way through the rocky terrain above the dragon’s nest. The elf made his way down the hill, minding his footing. Cyrus could see Vaste standing head and shoulders above the rest of the reinforcements. A blinding flash of light shone off the armor of a female elf, and Cyrus knew by the blond hair that Vara was among them. Andren also made his way down, in the company of Nyad and below her, Brevis. Cyrus felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Orion!” He turned with a start. “Glad you’re here. Look what we found – or should I say what almost found us.”

“I see.” Orion squinted against the sunlight. “Looks like we’re perfectly positioned. He won’t see us forming up from back here.” He turned to Cyrus. “Pretty exciting, isn’t it, leading your first attack?”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? I’m not leading this.”

Orion turned serious. “Of course you are. Niamh issued the call for aid you sent out.”

Cy was shocked. “I just thought we should get an army here, fast. I didn’t plan to lead the attack. He looked at Orion. “Look, you’re Sanctuary’s General, why don’t you take over?”

Orion froze. The ranger had been absent from Sanctuary frequently over the last six months and had led only one expedition, a boring and overpowered sweep through the pass of the Heia Mountains to the southern lands. With the exception of a few bandit camps and three titans, there had been no resistance at all during their two day march through the pass.

“I don’t think so,” Orion said, shaking his head. “You called us together, it seems only right that you get the glory. I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he finished as he faded into the burgeoning crowd, which had filled out with the arrival of the Daring.

“Cyrus,” Erith greeted him. “How are you?” she asked, dropping her voice so low that no one around them could hear her.

“I’m better,” he answered.

“Good,” she said, voice loud again. “Now try not to die, will you? I’m in the middle of a good book,” she waved a volume that she held in her hand, “and if I have to heal you mid-battle, I might lose my place.” She paused for a moment. “Or forget to heal you.” A grin split her face. “Either one of those would be bad, but one would be worse for me, I promise you that!” She cackled as she wandered off.

A dwarf and a dark elf walked side by side with a few others in tow. The dwarf squinted against the sunlight, looking around until his eyes found Curatio. Tapping the dark elf next to him, whose face was hidden in the folds of his brown cloak, the dwarf altered the course of the group toward Curatio.

“We are here, as called for by the dictates of the Alliance,” the dwarf said, a note of impatience in his voice. “Are you going to organize, Curatio, or are we simply going to sit around and stare at the dragon all day?”

Curatio smiled at him. “Tolada, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” Try as he might, Cyrus could not detect insincerity in the elf’s greeting.

The cloaked dark elf reached out with a skeletal hand and laid it upon Tolada’s shoulder. “Now, now,” came the dark elf’s voice, “let us not be hasty or uncivil.” Throwing back the cowl of his cloak, the dark elf revealed a visage that was as skeletal as his hand. His face was old, desiccated, and thin. His cheeks were sunken, eyes almost like slits. When the dark elf smiled, it gave the appearance of a snake that was ready to coil around its prey.

Curatio nodded. “Pleased to see you as well, Malpravus. Thank you for bringing Goliath along today.”

The dark elf named Malpravus bowed. “We are pleased to stand with our old allies in so noble an endeavor as striking down one of the dragons. Tell me, Curatio, who among you leads this assault? We should begin as quickly as possible.”

Curatio looked around before his gaze landed on Cyrus, who felt his blood freeze. “This is one of our newest warriors, Cyrus Davidon.” Curatio looked back to Malpravus. “He’s the one who called us here.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Malpravus said, almost too quietly for Cyrus to hear. The dark elf’s eyes rested on him and a great rush of discomfort filled Cy as he realized everyone around them was staring at him, waiting.

Curatio waved for him to join them. Shuffling, Cyrus entered the forming circle of Alliance officers. Elisabeth greeted him with a smile from her place next to Tolada. Cass beamed in support, as did Erith when she was certain no one was looking. Malpravus studied him carefully, still wearing the frozen smile. “So, my boy, do you have a plan?”

“Ah…” Cyrus looked to find Curatio, Niamh, Terian and Vara all standing behind him. Vara rolled her eyes and looked away, but the others looked at him with encouragement. “I have a few ideas,” Cyrus said, uncertainty causing his voice to quaver. He blushed.

“I see,” Malpravus said, unconvinced. “Well, having had some experience in facing dragons, perhaps it would be best if I were to… assist you…”

Cyrus heard perfectly timed twin coughing fits from behind him originating from Terian and Vara. They were silenced quickly by what Cyrus assumed was a glare from Curatio. “No,” Cyrus said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel, “I think I’ve got it well in hand.” This prompted a raised eyebrow from Malpravus, who bowed in acknowledgment.

Cyrus looked around the circle, taking a deep breath before speaking. “The biggest danger we face in using traditional assault tactics is the dragon’s fire-breathing capability. In order to counteract that –”

“Wait,” Cass said. “Not all dragons breathe fire. Are we sure this one does?”

Terian spoke up from behind Cyrus. “This is Kalam, one of Ashan’agar’s former ministers. He is definitely a fire-breather.”

Cyrus looked back at the dark knight. “Some time you’ll have to explain to me your intimate knowledge of the Dragon Kingdom.” The dark elf shrugged and smiled before Cyrus turned back to face the Alliance Council.

“Since he does breathe fire,” Cyrus said, “to approach him with standard tactics would be dangerous.” Looking down the hill to where the black dragon lay, Cyrus thought for a moment. “I believe we can nullify that danger with a little advance action.”

“Excellent.” Malpravus’s voice was smooth and hissing. “Then of course you’ll be willing to be the warrior in front of the dragon, keeping his attention while the rest of our force engages from behind?”

“And spare one of your better armed and equipped warriors from having to face this foe?” Vara shot from behind Cyrus before he could respond.

Cyrus answered before Malpravus could respond. “I’ll stand before the dragon and keep his attention. It’s my responsibility.”

Malpravus looked at him with an expression of undisguised pleasure. “My, my, you are quite brave, aren’t you?”

“In Sanctuary,” Cyrus said, “we accept only the brave. Gather your spell casters and place them behind the rocks surrounding the nest. Once I have the dragon’s attention, engage with all your forces.” As the group began to disperse, Cyrus gestured for Elisabeth to join him.

Before the ranger reached him, Cyrus felt a strong hand on his shoulder, hauling him around. He faced Vara, whose normally pale complexion was mottled with rage. “He wants you in front of that dragon,” she said without preamble, “because he knows that whoever is in front is most likely to die and he’s trying to spare any of his warriors that fate.” She thrust a finger into his face. “And you,” she said, “were stupid enough to play right into his hand with your stubborn nobility!”

He blinked at the elf before replying. She had said not a word to him in the last six months. “It’s my first time being lectured by a paladin about not being stubbornly noble. I assumed Malpravus was trying to do something of the sort. But it is my responsibility: I am the leader.” He studied her, seeing the bottled irritation threatening to boil over.

“I know you called the attack, you troll-brained sack of meat!” She looked at him with incredulity. “That doesn’t mean you have to be the head warrior! Goliath warriors always handle the head warrior duties, because they’re the best equipped to take the hits!” She glared at him. “Now, go to Malpravus and tell him you were wrong, that you want him to do what he’s damned well supposed to do and put his best equipped warrior in front of that bloody dragon!”

He met her gaze but did not answer for a long moment. “I won’t,” he finally answered. “They may be better equipped, but they won’t know how to pull off what I’m going to do.”

She looked at him, eyes narrow, visible skin along her thin neck an angry red shade all the way up her cheeks. “Malpravus has warriors armored well enough to take a blast of fire. What if your plan fails and that dragon sends a jet of flame your way?”

“Then the temperature in my armor will rise rather severely in a short period of time, and you’ll be free of one annoying warrior.” She blanched, but his face remained expressionless. “Honestly, why do you even care?”

“Of all the people I’ve known that have died while battling dragons,” she spat back at him after a moment, “you’re the first I’ve met that fully deserves the fate that awaits him.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd, ponytail dancing behind her as she stormed away.

Chapter 17

After a brief conversation with Elisabeth, Cyrus set everything in motion. The Alliance army crept down the hill toward the nest. Kalam had begun to snore loudly from within the rocky enclosure. Cyrus waited, staring at the dragon’s closed eyes while he waited for the signal. Cass waited with him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cass said. “I’ve never heard of anyone using this strategy to take out a dragon before.”

Cyrus nodded. “That’s because I came up with it myself and it’s unproven.” He saw Terian wave from where the melee fighters were stationed. “What I’m most concerned about is making sure no one gets fried while our army is doing their job.” Catching sight of Elisabeth, waving from the side of the nest, he slapped Cass on the shoulder. “Just be ready to jump in if I die.” Favoring the warrior with a wicked grin as Cass paled, Cyrus left the cover of the last boulder between him and the black dragon.

His boots crackled in the magmatic rocks as he crossed the ground to Kalam. Cyrus smiled as he saw Elisabeth approaching much more stealthily than he was, and also more quickly. In her hand was an old spear. She approached Kalam’s left nostril as Cyrus reached his position in front of the sleeping dragon. What was that old proverb about letting sleeping dragons lie? Cyrus watched as Elisabeth raised the spear and stabbed it into Kalam’s exposed and snoring nose, puncturing into the nostril on the other side of the dragon’s face.

The reaction was immediate. A screech of outrage and pain rose forth from Kalam as he screamed awake and scrambled to his feet, spear hanging like a tribal nose piercing in the cartilage that separated the dragon’s nostrils. Raring back onto his haunches, smaller front legs attempting to grasp the source of the pain, Kalam finally got a glimpse of Cyrus, standing before him.

“Good morning!” he said as the dragon settled its angry eyes upon him. “Sorry to wake you so unpleasantly, but I needed to get your attention. Do I have it now?”

The dragon didn’t respond verbally, though Terian had mentioned that Kalam, like Ashan’agar, was capable of speech. Cyrus could see the smoke rising from the dragon’s mouth, as he prepared to send down a flame that would destroy the warrior. He began to draw in a breath…

…and stopped suddenly, screeching in pain, unable to breathe through his nose. He coughed a small burst of flame that didn’t reach even halfway to Cyrus. The warrior grinned. Now all I have to worry about is a dragon that’s fifty feet long and thirty feet tall, Cyrus thought. With claws the size of a dwarf.

Letting loose a fearsome bellow, Cyrus charged forward at the same time as the Alliance forces began to attack from behind. Spells hit the aggravated and injured beast, but he ignored them in favor of the scornful, agitating human that was taunting him after causing grievous bodily harm. The dragon lunged for Cyrus, and the warrior felt the claws of the beast hit him, too fast for him to dodge. He slammed into the ground, hard at the same time Erith’s mending spell was cast upon him, curing him of all wounds. He staggered to his feet, glaring at Kalam.

By this time the rangers, warriors and knights were attacking Kalam’s flank, carving through his scales bit by bit. Cyrus saw Vara, her sword a blur, opening wounds for the other battlers to exploit. The dragon’s neck extended and the head lanced out toward Cyrus, eager to finish his foe so he could deal with the other injuries he was sustaining from the army behind him.

Cyrus was able to barely dodge but managed to bring his sword around for a glancing blow against Kalam’s face as it shot by. The cut continued down some of the more sensitive tissue on the dragon’s neck. Cyrus could hear an indignant scream from the dragon as it brought its head up; whether from his wound, the frustration of missing Cy, from the fighters tearing into his flanks or the spell casters that were hitting him with damaging magics, the warrior could not tell.

Spots of dragon blood were hitting the ground all around them now, and every place they fell let out a puff of black smoke as the heat of it burned the ground. “Stay away from the blood!” Cyrus shouted. He knew he was late as someone behind the dragon screamed.

Kalam twisted again, repositioning himself to get a better angle of attack on Cyrus. This time, the warrior was prepared. The dragon’s head dived at him with full force; Kalam had fully committed to this attack. Cyrus thrust his sword skyward and prayed to Bellarum that Erith was feeling charitable. The dragon hit him with the top of its skull, crushing him against the ground. Cy felt bones break, organs mashed to a pulp…and then a cool breeze of another mending spell, this one from Curatio, and the wounds faded and his bones knit back together.

Kalam’s head rolled to the side, and another small burst of flame issued from his mouth making it look as though his head was on fire. Cyrus rolled to his feet, sword still lodged in the dragon’s head. Before Kalam could finish shrugging off the effects of the impact, Cyrus grabbed the hilt and brought the sword downward, lengthening the wound into a gash before pulling the blade out.

At the rear, the fighters had hacked away at Kalam’s haunches enough to allow them to cleave his back legs off while the head was stunned, immobilizing the dragon. With a final roar, Kalam rolled over on his side. Vara soared from the back of the dragon to land a dramatic sword thrust between the scales and into the dragon’s heart. With a scream and a burst of smoke, Kalam, the black dragon breathed his last.

Cyrus looked at the body. Tongue hanging out his mouth, the dragon’s face was wrecked: Cyrus’s slashes had opened up the dragon’s face and the vein down his neck, where hot blood oozed and dripped, searing the ground. Spell damage checkered Kalam’s torso, with scales ripped off sporadically from the blasts of spell casters. Rejoining the fighters at the back of the dragon, he saw the rear legs cut off with messy sword strokes, and not a single scale left anywhere on the back of the beast, nor any meat left on its bones in the rear.

“All right!” Tolada’s shout echoed through the Mountains of Nartanis. The dwarf’s daggers were clean; by comparison, Elisabeth’s dripped with steaming dragon blood.

Cyrus turned to the crowd grouped around the rear of the dragon. “Everyone okay back there?” he asked.

Terian broke his way to the front of the crowd. “Everyone’s fine. A couple of people suffered burns from the dragon’s blood, but other than that, things went smoothly.”

Niamh and Andren came running up from the spell casters’ group. “That was amazing!” she exulted. “We’re all fine; he never got anywhere near us.”

Erith, Curatio and Cass trotted up from behind, catching the last bit of Niamh’s statement. “Looks like no fatalities and only a couple minor injuries, already healed,” Erith said. She looked around and nodded, impressed. “When I heard you had an idea for taking the dragon out, I thought for sure that because you were a human and a warrior, it would be a stupid idea. But,” she grudgingly admitted, “that worked well.”

Malpravus approached, entourage in tow. “That was impressively led,” the dark elf said with the same leathery smile. “I’ve never heard of a tactic to hamstring a dragon like that. We’ll be adapting it for use the next time we go to the Ashen Wastelands,” the Goliath leader said.

Elisabeth smiled. “Making it so painful he couldn’t breathe through his nose really did kill his ability to project his fire breath.”

“Couldn’t have done it without your help,” Cyrus said.

Elisabeth blushed. “Any ranger could have done that.”

“Would you mind,” Cyrus asked her, “helping to divide the spoils between the guilds?”

“An excellent idea,” Malpravus said. “In fact, we should go now and see what sort of hoard this dragon has left behind for us.”

Dividing the dragon’s hoard took less than an hour. The gold and other assorted treasures were split equally. The dragon had gold and baubles, armors and a variety of other items. How did he carry this? Cyrus thought.

Cy had found a small rock and was sitting on it, watching all the goings-on. Terian approached him from behind and clapped him on the back with a low whistle. “You enriched Sanctuary’s guild bank by a considerable amount today.”

Cyrus smiled but didn’t move or turn his gaze. “Goliath didn’t take everything?”

Terian’s smile faded, replaced by a dark expression. “No, they didn’t, but not for lack of trying. There were a few treasures that became points of contention. Malpravus tried to claim that a solid gold statuette was worth only a few coins.” The dark elf shook his head in annoyance. “Even Tolada couldn’t find it in his black little dwarven heart to agree with his Guildmaster on that.”

“I thought we were already wealthy as a guild.”

“No.” Terian snorted. “You’ve seen the little stipend we pay to our members on a monthly basis, maybe a little extra if we have a windfall month – like this month, thanks to you – but we haven’t had a month like that in the last few years.”

Various tradespeople from the Alliance were disassembling the dragon’s corpse, taking the usable scales, draining the blood for potion ingredients, and taking the meat for cooking. He saw Brevis squabbling with an elf over a vial of dragon blood and some steaming dragon meat. The dragon was skinless and stripped of all its musculature by this point – which was not a trivial undertaking with a creature so large. Cyrus watched as Brevis and the elf parted ways, the gnome now working on getting a piece of the dragon’s entrails. Shaking his head at the morbidity of picking the corpse clean, Cyrus turned back to the body of the army, talking among themselves in fellowship.

Orion sidled up to him. “That was an impressive victory,” he said, smiling at Cyrus. “You’re a natural leader.”

Cyrus chuckled. “I had a pretty good example to learn from.”

“You mean Angelique?” The ranger’s eye glinted and he grinned.

“Yeah,” Cy laughed. “A fine example of what not to do.” His expression turned serious. “You should lead again.”

Orion nodded, but his smile had frozen, stuck in place and clearly fake. He turned his attention back to the crowd, as Elisabeth had stepped onto a rock and was trying to get everyone’s attention. When she had silenced the crowd, she began. “Let’s all take a moment to thank Cyrus Davidon from Sanctuary for today’s victory.”

Enthusiastic applause greeted her statement, and he was forced to stand up and take a bow as the army turned toward him in acknowledgment. Elisabeth waited until the applause had died down. “I have an announcement to make. The Daring have received word through sources that in two days Mortus, the God of Death, will be leaving his Realm for a week to meet with other gods. We will be sponsoring an invasion to enter Death’s Realm, defeat the forces guarding it and escape with whatever spoils we can long before Mortus returns.

“The higher powered guilds do these sort of incursions every chance they get. We will begin in the evening hour, the day after tomorrow.” She looked around, expression tentative. “Can I have a show of hands to see who would be interested in attending?”

Almost every hand was in the air, some waving around like children in class, waiting to be called on. A smile broke across Elisabeth’s face. “The meeting point will be the Gates of Death, on Mortus Island in the Bay of Lost Souls. We will assemble at dusk. I look forward to seeing you there.” There was an excited buzz about the crowd as she finished.

Looking back, Cyrus saw the corpse of the dragon was almost entirely picked clean, with nothing left but a pile of bones. He watched with curiosity as Terian directed Vaste and J’anda, and the three of them worked to pull some of the bones off to the side, including the skull, now stripped of flesh and scale. Niamh and Nyad worked their way over to the others, each carrying armfuls of smaller bones.

Mentally shrugging it off, he turned to find Elisabeth had broken through the crowd of well wishers and curious raiders and was only steps away. “Congratulations!” She hugged him. “That was amazing; even Endeavor couldn’t have pulled this off without a fatality.” She smiled as he blushed.

“Glad I could be useful.” He brushed aside her compliment. “Death’s Realm? That should be a challenge.”

She nodded. “I’m looking forward to it. The ‘big three’ guilds run these incursions every chance they get – whether it’s the Realm of Darkness, or Death, even the Trials of Purgatory.” She could not hide her glee. “If we do this right, we’ll be announcing to Arkaria that the Alliance is a force to be reckoned with. We’ll be able to attract more powerful adventurers from other guilds that aren’t happy where they are but don’t want to take a step down. It’s a great growth opportunity for the Alliance.”

Cyrus nodded, but had paid particular attention to a few of her comments. “Do you think we’ll be going to the Realm of Darkness anytime soon? Or Purgatory?”

She looked a little puzzled but answered anyway. “Well, Purgatory is godless; just a number of different mystical creatures spread out as you descend through the five trials. The rewards for completing it are amazing, which is why the big three guilds – Amarath’s Raiders, Endeavor and Burnt Offerings – share it among themselves and don’t allow anyone else in.”

Cy frowned. “What?”

She nodded. “Those three guilds treat Purgatory like farmers harvesting their fields.” She smiled. “The Trials restart when a new group goes through, and all the enemies you face are reborn from the last time someone went through. The entity that runs it gives new rewards every time the trials are successfully completed.”

Cy shook his head. “But how do the big three guilds keep out others?”

Elisabeth blinked. “The only way to exit the Trials is through portals. And the exit portal after you complete the trials sends you into the middle of the Reikonos guildhall quarter, so everyone knows what you’ve done. A guild called Retrion’s Honor finished the Trials successfully three years ago, and when they exited through the portal, the ‘big three’ slaughtered them in the streets of Reikonos.”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “I heard about that! The Reikonos guards didn’t even try to stop them.”

Elisabeth shook her head. “The Reikonos guards couldn’t beat any one of them alone: together they’re far too powerful. The Council of Twelve was furious, threatened to expel them all from the city, until the three guild leaders came to the Citadel and made ‘restitution’ with ten million gold pieces. Since then, no one’s had the courage to try Purgatory.”

She took a breath. “You asked about the Realm of Darkness? I’d love to go there, but we don’t have any way of knowing whether Yartraak will be there or not, and the God of Darkness is really powerful; not someone we’d like to tangle with.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’d like to face any of the gods any more than I’d like the three most powerful guilds in Arkaria attacking me.”

Elisabeth laughed. “You’d stand a better chance against the three guilds. They don’t even challenge a plane when the god is actually there; gods can smash mortals into such a pulp that a resurrection spell has no effect. Taking on a god is suicide.”

Cy nodded. “So you’ve heard the tales of the mortals that faced the gods?”

A little sadness glimmering in her eyes, Elisabeth nodded in answer. “I think everyone has. The legend of Requiem, the guild from ten thousand years ago, is the most familiar cautionary tale about tempting the wrath of the gods.” She smiled. “You should probably rejoin your guild; it looks like everyone is about to leave.”

After exchanging goodbyes, Cyrus walked back to the Sanctuary group, trying to find Niamh. Instead he found Andren. “I found out a little bit more about the Realms. Elisabeth doesn’t think we’ll be able to go to Purgatory or the Realm of Darkness anytime soon. But if I can find what I need from Death, I’ll be making progress.”

Andren grunted. “This sword of yours had better be worth it, for all the trouble it’ll take to get it.”

Cyrus brushed him off. “Where’s Niamh? I need to get teleported out of here.”

“Niamh left a few minutes ago with J’anda, Vaste, Terian, and a hell of a lot of that dragon’s skeleton. I think you’re gonna need to find alternate transport.”

Cy looked at Andren. “Can I come with you when you cast your return spell?”

The elf raised an eyebrow. Every spell caster could use the ‘return’ spell to take them back to a point that they had chosen to attach themselves to. It was a personal teleportation spell; not nearly as wide reaching as a druid or wizard’s spells. Catching a ride with a spell caster that used the return spell meant getting intimately close with them. “No. If you were a pretty woman, it might be a different story,” Andren said, fidgeting. “Or a woman at all. No. Find another way.” Before Cyrus could argue, Andren murmured an incantation and vanished in a twinkle of light.

“You bastard,” Cyrus said, watching other spell casters teleported back to their respective guildhalls. He caught a glimpse of Nyad disappearing in the burst of magic accompanying her teleportation spell. With her went a group of fighters bound for Sanctuary.

Getting frantic at the thought of being left behind, Cyrus scrambled to find a druid. He saw Brevis, with Gertan and Aina – two of the gnome’s allies – and hurried over to them. “Aina, will you teleport me to the druid portal near Sanctuary?” he asked the elf.

Aina was a stately woman, tanned in a way that suggested she spent more time outdoors than inside. She wore a shawl that covered her auburn hair, and a cuirass that didn’t quite cover all her abdomen, revealing a flat and muscular stomach. She rarely showed emotion, making it difficult for Cy to get a sense of her.

Before she had a chance to answer, Brevis leapt in and answered for her. “Of course she’d be glad to teleport you! The hero of the day, the first person to lead a decent adventure in six months? We’d be honored to have you accompany us back to Sanctuary!” Something in the way he said it, the self-serving sneer in his voice, triggered a warning in Cyrus’s head. Aina nodded, affirming Brevis’s answer and allowing Cy to relax about finding his way home. Within moments, the winds were gusting around him; with a blast of air, they left the Mountains of Nartanis behind them.

Chapter 18

As the winds of the teleport faded, Aina was already casting another spell. The power of the Falcon’s Essence moved through Cyrus and his feet lifted from the ground once more, floating delicately over the grasses of the Plains of Perdamun. Brevis smiled at him, a snaggle-toothed smile that had no warmth. “Why don’t we run with you to keep you company?”

Cyrus hesitated. “That’s kind of you, but it’s only five minutes back to Sanctuary and you can all cast return and save yourselves some time.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “We would consider it a great pleasure to keep you company. I’ve been meaning to talk with you, anyway, so this is a perfect chance.” Cy kept silent, knowing that whatever kindness the gnome had offered had been with this in mind; the chance to bend the warrior’s ear.

“Oh, really?” Cyrus nodded, trying to pay as little attention possible to the scheming gnome running alongside him. Aina and Gertan followed a few steps back.

“Indeed, indeed,” he continued. “It has not escaped our notice that you are involved in helping this guild.” Cy raised an eyebrow. “I believe,” heavy emphasis was placed on the I, “that we have lagged far behind Goliath because we lack in a critical area.”

“What’s that?” Cy said, keeping his voice neutral.

“Why, leadership, of course!” the gnome said, as though it were obvious. “We have experienced adventurers, have grown considerably in recent months in capabilities, equipment and experience, but we don’t have expeditions! Our General is scared to attack so much as a bandit camp!”

“In fairness to Orion, I have heard that bandits in the Plains are much stronger now than they used to be.”

Brevis waved away Cyrus’s statement. “Even that abominable assault on the Heia Pass was at least doing something! It added riches to the guild bank. We have a General, and the Council sees fit to have him do nothing. He’s gone more of the time than he’s here!” Brevis concluded with a flourish. “And his wife is worse still. Mark my words. I’m certain she had nothing else going on today but failed to show up nonetheless. Support the guild? Ha!” His laugh sounded like a bark. “She’s a selfish one.” His face turned serious. “Someone needs to say something.”

Cyrus could see Sanctuary as they crested a hill. “Orion is scared. He led an excursion that ended in disaster and someone lost their life, which he didn’t anticipate. He blames himself, and he won’t let it go.” Cyrus blew the air through his lips noiselessly. “That’s not something you get over immediately.” He took a breath. “I think, based on my experience today, I’m going to start leading expeditions. Maybe if I do it, and Orion sees how well it’s going, he’ll get his confidence back.”

Brevis missed the point entirely. “See?” He gestured to Gertan and Aina. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! This is the sort of leadership we need: someone who’s willing to get things done. We need to be rid of Orion – you should take his place as Sanctuary’s General, command our army.”

Cyrus felt his brow furrow. “I will not support removing Orion as General. I’m happy to help the guild, but I’m not going to depose the man.”

“You’re missing the point,” Brevis sai. “When you’ve got someone who has such an attitude of entitlement you have to cut that out of your guild!” The little gnome made an almost absurd chopping gesture that looked as though it would be ineffective on anything, a ridiculous counterpoint to what he was proposing.

Cyrus studied Brevis with barely disguised annoyance. “Don’t you think Alaric knows what he’s doing by keeping Orion in place?”

“No! And don’t get me started on what I think should be done with Alaric. He’s never once led a battle that I’ve seen; rarely does anything. I’ve never seen a Guildmaster gone as much as he is. Almost as if he vanishes into thin air…” Brevis’s words trailed off as they approached the gates of Sanctuary. “Give everything I’ve said some thought, I’m sure you’ll come to the same conclusions I have.”

“I’m sure I won’t.” Cyrus didn’t even try to lie, but Brevis seemed not to notice.

“Of course, we’ll talk again in a day or two.” He scrambled off as though late for an appointment, Gertan and Aina trailing behind, but not before she had dispelled the Falcon’s Essence, returning him to the ground.

Shaking his head at the absurdity of the gnome plotting a coup, Cyrus breezed through the doors to Sanctuary. He watched Brevis walk up to a group in the foyer, greeted with great fanfare. Cyrus knew that Brevis had some influence in Sanctuary, though it was hard to imagine the odd, antisocial gnome having much support.

From the staircase on the other side of the foyer, Selene entered with an entourage of her own, Celia and Uruk behind her. Cyrus saw it only a moment before it occurred; Brevis and his group casting mutinous looks at Selene, and her completely oblivious expression as she crossed close to them, not noticing the gnome or his circle until he stepped into her path, halting her advance.

“So, I noticed you weren’t with us when we fought the dragon,” Brevis said.

“No, Brevis, I wasn’t. So nice of you to notice.”

“I’m sorry you weren’t feeling well,” he said, voice dripping with insincerity that was lost on Selene.

“What do you mean?” She looked confused. “I feel fine.”

“Oh, then you must have been gone when they called for help.”

“No.” She still had a befuddled look. “Celia, Uruk and I were talking and planning a trip to the Emerald Coast with Orion. They have a little village on the edge of the ocean; it’s supposed to be quite marvelous.” Cyrus desperately wanted to intervene, to tell her to shut up, but he could not find words that wouldn’t cause a scene.

“Oh, I see.” Brevis seemed to relent for a moment. “It must be an important trip.”

“Yes; we’re planning to go there to relax, just the two of us couples.”

A glint of victory shone in the enchanter’s eye. “So, planning a vacation is more important to you than helping guildmates who are going into danger – what kind of person are you?!” The last part of his statement was blurted: it came out as a sort of crazed scream, an indignant accusation that caught the attention of everyone in the foyer.

Selene’s jaw dropped, skin flushed in horror at his bluntness. “I-I don’t see how it’s any of your business what I –”

Brevis didn’t wait for her to finish. “You’re a member of this guild who doesn’t seem to want to help anybody in this guild.”

Selene was staggered. “That’s not true!”

Undeterred, Brevis went on. “Why did you miss the event today? Don’t you care when your guildmates face mortal danger?”

Selene had fallen into the trap. “Of course I care, but –”

“Actions speak louder than words.” The self-satisfied smile on Brevis’s face indicated he thought he had made a profound point. There were enough nods around the foyer that Cyrus knew others felt the same.

Vara, Curatio and Alaric entered the foyer from the great hall at that moment. “What is going on here?” the voice of the Ghost silenced the proceedings. Selene, on the verge of tears, looked askance at Alaric, who was moving toward her.

Brevis did not meet Alaric’s eyes as he approached. The paladin’s gaze bored in on the gnome, who suddenly found an excuse to leave. With Gertan, Aina, and a few others in tow, he headed upstairs. Selene looked at Alaric as he approached, eyes brimming with tears, and the Ghost said to her, “I believe Orion was looking for you, m’lady, after we adjourned from the Council a few moments ago.” She nodded, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and led Celia and Uruk upstairs as well, using a different route than Brevis had taken.

Cyrus watched them go, and felt Alaric’s attention turn his way. “I hear congratulations are in order. Vara told me you unleashed a very successful strategy on the dragon, something that no one had seen before.” The elven paladin blinked twice and then glared at Alaric, but bit back whatever reply she might have made.

Cyrus blushed. “I suspect Vara would not be so generous in her praise.” He paused for a moment. “Or that she would give praise at all.”

Vara shifted her glare to Cyrus, but it was more annoyed than dangerous. “In point of fact, you chattering pincushion, I did tell Alaric that you were quite brave in your action today, and that the strategy you employed was surprisingly brilliant.” She tossed her ponytail off her shoulder. “I did not, however, expect him to share that assessment with you.”

Cyrus looked at the elf in surprise. “Why not?”

The annoyance on her face compounded. “Because human warriors, you who have all the magical ability of a head of lettuce and the aggregate brainpower of a cabbage – which your skull mightily resembles – in my opinion, should not be in front of any monster, demon or beast we ever face in any adventure, anywhere, at any time. Since your kind seems to be not only front and center but the ecstatic choice of our leaders, I at least do my part to make certain that you lot – the few, proud, the idiotic – don’t walk into said battles with an overinflated sense of your own infallibility.” She crossed her arms.

“So,” Cyrus said, keeping his expression as straight faced as possible, “you’re concerned about the possibility of warriors getting killed?” He smiled. “How sweet.”

Vara’s nostrils flared. “I am more concerned with you, you tuber-headed narcissist, getting me and mine killed with your human arrogance.”

Alaric looked on with amusement at their exchange while Curatio wore an uncertain expression. “I trust,” Garaunt said, “that you are not concerned about human arrogance from all of us?”

Vara’s expression of indignant annoyance calmed at Alaric’s words. “No, I’ve never known you to be arrogant,” she said in a hushed tone. Turning her eyes back to Cyrus, fury burning in them, “But this one, since the day I have met him, has consistently tried to overreach his potential.”

“Yes, but that’s because you view my potential as being capped at using a knife and fork.”

“I’ve seen you eat in the Great Hall,” the elf shot back. “Perhaps you should find a more thoughtfully chosen argument to refute with next time.”

“If we may come back to my original point,” Alaric said. “Cyrus has done a masterful job of leading the assault using innovative tactics that saved lives.” The paladin surveyed Cyrus carefully through his helmet, one eye looking directly into the warrior’s.

“Anyone else would have done the same,” Cyrus mumbled.

“Nonsense!” Curatio interrupted him. “We took on a very powerful dragon without a single death.” His eyes grew intense. “I’ve faced many dragons and seen them cause numerous deaths.” He turned back to Alaric. “I would echo Vara,” he said, causing her to cringe behind him. “It was a very unique stratagem, and it paid off beautifully.”

“I agree, Curatio. It seems the warrior is being modest.” He regarded Cyrus with some interest. “Walk with us: we have matters to discuss.” Alaric, Curatio and Vara turned toward the door to the grounds, Cyrus following behind them. As they descended the front steps to the lawn below, Alaric began to speak. “It has been a while since last we talked, Cyrus. How are things going for you in Sanctuary?”

Cyrus thought for a long moment. Always on the move, or in Council chambers, no one could fully account for Alaric’s time. On the few occasions Cyrus had seen him at dinner, he tended to greet the warrior with enthusiasm, ask him how things were going, and then proceed to the next person he had to converse with. But occasionally the Ghost of Sanctuary sought him out, taking him on a walk and talking with him, like this.

Shaking off his thoughts, he focused on Alaric’s question. “It’s been good.”

“Good enough that you’d consider running for officer?” The paladin looked at him with a guarded expression.

Cyrus felt the heat in his cheeks again. “I don’t know that I have that much to offer Sanctuary.”

“Nonsense!” Curatio dismissed his modesty again. “You’ve shown yourself to be a capable leader. With the growth of the guild, we’re considering expanding the officers’ Council. We believe you to be the best candidate for that post.”

Cyrus demurred as the quartet turned the corner to the side yard of Sanctuary. “What about Brevis?”

“What of him?”

Cyrus looked at Alaric quizzically. “He’s quite popular. What you walked into earlier was him, taking Selene to task for not coming to our aid.”

Alaric was slow to respond. “Neither was I at the battle. Should I be ‘taken to task’ as well?”

Vara looked mutinous and Curatio remained silent as Cyrus answered. “In Brevis’ eyes, all of us should probably be slapped around for some offense or another.” Two of them laughed at his statement while Vara continued to keep her peace, irritation etched on her face. “I’m serious, Alaric,” Cyrus said. “Brevis is dangerous for Sanctuary right now. He’s aggravated and he’s got several targets for his resentment – Selene, Orion and – you.”

The Ghost removed his helmet, placing it into the crook of his elbow. Alaric Garaunt was not a young man by any means. His face was stern, but handsome; his brown hair, streaked with grey, was long enough to reach the top of his neck. His left eye was covered by an eyepatch that wrapped around his head. A thin beard and mustache covered the face of the Ghost. Leveling his gaze on the warrior, Alaric looked at Cyrus with his good eye, and the warrior would have given one of his own to be elsewhere. “Me?”

Cyrus nodded. “He feels that Orion is wasting the General post since he’s not leading anything, that Selene is too selfish to help anybody but herself, and that you’re allowing them to do whatever they want because Orion is an officer.”

Alaric stopped walking as they reached the archery range. “And what do you believe?” His eye bored into the warrior, and Cyrus could feel a ghostly chill in his stomach that might have been the basis of Alaric’s nickname.

It came out in a rush. “I think Orion feels so guilty about Enterra that it’ll be years before he willingly leads another expedition on his own. I think Selene has been acting selfishly, as people are wont to do, and I think you’d back them both to your death, because they’re members of Sanctuary. You’ve got the kind of loyalty that means more to you than your very life.” He stopped, breathless. “And while we’re being honest – Curatio, I thought all elves other than low-born were a bunch of uptight, arrogant tightasses like Vara until I met you.”

The healer barely suppressed a laugh. Alaric was not so able, and he let out a roar so deep and loud that it startled Cyrus. Vara, for her part, glared at him but did not argue.

Alaric’s laughter died down, and Curatio’s smile was diminishing when the Ghost next spoke. “Well, you certainly didn’t hold back your opinions.” His joviality began to evaporate. “You are correct, I believe, in your assessment.” Alaric cast a knowing eye to Vara. “Not about you.” Returning his gaze to Cyrus, he continued, “Orion is somewhat damaged in terms of his confidence, and Selene has become wrapped up in herself.” Alaric tapped his fingers on his armored greaves, drumming them several times, creating a deep rattling noise of metal on metal as Vara ground her teeth in irritation. “This brings us to an interesting conundrum.

“Although I have had very little use for expeditions, they are an activity that many adventurers wish to participate in. This is good: it certainly prospers the guild bank, and is no more dangerous than any other adventure one might pursue. Our problem is, how do we continue to offer these benefits to our members when our General doesn’t want to schedule or run any expeditions?”

Cyrus shrugged. “It’s quite a challenge.”

“Indeed, it is, but I believe you hold the solution.” The oblique smile on his face hinted that Alaric had an agenda.

“What did you have in mind?” Cyrus asked, caution infusing his tone.

“I told you before: I think you should run for officer,” Alaric replied.

“Won’t Orion get upset you’re stripping him of the title of General?”

Alaric shook his head. “You’re getting the wrong idea, perhaps because the guild seems to misperceive this. There is no formal ‘General’ title. Every officer picks duties that they feel best fit their strengths. Whether it be dealing with applicants or running the Halls of Healing,” he nodded at Curatio, “Orion felt his abilities lay in the direction of leading expeditions.” He frowned. “His change of heart does leave us with a rather sizable hole in our Council.” Alaric cast a sidelong glance at Vara. “And since my most knowledgeable leader won’t lead any excursions and Orion is scared to…”

Vara bristled. “I didn’t say I won’t lead any.” She smoldered for a moment. “But people don’t respond well to my leadership style.”

“Hard to imagine, that,” Cyrus quipped. “I can see it now: ‘You! I hate you, go over there and die, okay?’”

Vara looked daggers at the warrior but when she spoke it was with an icy calm. “After all my searching, you’ve found the exact sentiments I’ve been wanting to express to you since the day we met.”

Brushing off the paladin’s repartee, Cyrus asked, “How long do you have to be in Sanctuary before you can become an officer?”

Curatio and Alaric exchanged a confused glance, while Vara looked annoyed. Curatio answered, “According to the charter, one year.”

“Then this is a moot point. I am ineligible to be an officer of Sanctuary.” Cyrus tried to put on a disappointed look, but honestly felt a bit relieved at not having to go through a popularity contest that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to pass. Vara, surprisingly enough, did not look any happier at the revelation.

Alaric nodded. “Time loses its meaning for me. It feels like you have been here longer.” Not sure his meaning was taken, the Ghost corrected, “I hope you realize I mean that in the best possible way: that your loyalty seems like that of someone who has been here since the beginning.”

“I appreciate the sentiment. But I don’t think even having a new General that leads excursions every night of the week to the most interesting locations in Arkaria would satisfy Brevis. He’s got a burr under his saddle and I don’t think it’s going to be settled until someone is gone. Whether it’s him or Orion and Selene, mark my words,” he said, “Sanctuary isn’t big enough for all of them. At least not in Brevis’ eyes.”

“We’ll have to discuss this in Council.” Alaric surveyed the grounds before him. “Though I wish we could fix Orion’s broken spirit, I cannot – at least not immediately.” He turned back to Cyrus. “But I intend to have your word on something before we part. Our Council needs leadership. You are a leader.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I was only leader in my last guild because no one else wanted the job. I’m not a leader.”

Alaric nodded over Cyrus’s shaking of his head. “Yes, you are. Curatio, Vara, can either of you see any reasons, anything in this warrior’s character, that would prevent him from being an honorable and useful addition to the Council of Santuary?”

Curatio answered immediately. “Absolutely not. I believe Cyrus to be a guildmate of the highest caliber and that he would be an excellent officer.”

Cyrus looked at Vara expectantly, waiting for her to add a negative critique, to say something that would reflect her disdain for him, his skills, his abilities, his character or even his personal hygiene. None was forthcoming. After a long moment’s pause, Vara turned her gaze back to Alaric. As her eyes passed over him, Cyrus saw something nearly indefinable in her expression, that same something that he had noticed the first day they met. “No,” she said without emotion. “I can’t see any reason he shouldn’t run for officer.”

Alaric nodded. “Then it is settled.” The paladin turned back to Cyrus. “I want your word that in six months, when you are eligible, you will submit your name for candidacy and do your duty to Sanctuary by becoming an officer.” He held up his hand to forestall protest. “I will not allow any argument. I want your word.”

Though Alaric’s voice and manner had issued a command, Cyrus knew in his heart that he could tell the paladin no, if he really wanted to. He shifted his gaze from Alaric to Curatio, who was hopeful; a warm and encouraging smile upon the elf’s face. Cyrus desperately wanted to say yes… to be an officer, right now. Protests aside, he wondered what happened in Council meetings, wondered how he could help, if he could help. Long minutes passed, none of them speaking, all waiting for his answer.

Vara would not meet his eyes, and her gaze was fixed in the distance, giving him a look at her profile. Her mouth was set in a hard line, keeping whatever emotions she had tightly bottled. The hair stretched in a ponytail over her shoulder, the sun shining on her spotless armor. He looked at her for a few minutes, silence still hanging in the air. She never turned to him.

As all these thoughts were bubbling in Cyrus’s head, one solitary phrase slipped through his lips, a whisper, barely audible: “You have my word.”

Chapter 19

It was not yet four o’clock when the crowd began to gather at the portal to the Realm of Death. Cyrus came with the bulk of the Sanctuary army, who had hiked to the edge of the Bay of Lost Souls, only a few hours southeast of Sanctuary’s gates. Nyad and a team of wizards had conjured a boat that they sailed on across the bay to the Island of Mortus.

Cyrus could tell the island was small: he could see the entirety of it from where they had landed. In the middle of it all was a gateway that looked like a portal – a stone arch that crackled with black energy. No light escaped from it and the area around seemed dim even in the late afternoon sun. Alliance members were gathered about it in very casual groups.

The Daring were already waiting when they arrived. Erith was seated atop a little black and white pony, and when she saw Cyrus she giggled. “What’s going on, meat head?” she shouted.

“How the hell did you get a horse over here?” Cyrus asked her, bewildered. The dark elf shrugged and smiled at him.

A few of Goliath’s members flew to the island on winged mounts. Cyrus fixated on a warrior riding a griffon, a creature with the beaked head of a bird of prey and heavy, matted fur with a four-legged body. Claws jutted from its paws, digging into the ground as the creature landed and the warrior dismounted. I’d like one of those, Cy thought.

Cyrus waved at Elisabeth when she arrived. Any thought of striking up a conversation with her was forestalled: she was swamped with well-wishers and people seeking instruction. Cyrus knew how she felt: leading an invasion of this magnitude couldn’t be easy – at least not based on his experience. She went to work with a scroll, studying plans carefully.

She was all smiles as she stepped onto a rock in front of the army. “We have quite the assemblage tonight,” she announced with great pleasure. “I’m going to be reorganizing you into different elements in order to form a cohesive fighting force. We expect guardians by the entrance to the Realm and additional forces at certain key points which we’re going to be hitting.

“Opposition will be tough,” she continued, “but we have very good numbers on our side. Our main warrior for tonight will be Kilgar from Goliath,” she announced, making a sweeping gesture toward a hulking human as Cyrus rolled his eyes, “but we’ll also need some backups to ensure that if an enchanter can’t control an enemy, it doesn’t wreak havoc by killing our spell casters.” Lack of armor made spell casters easy prey for strong enemies. Even with a quick resurrection spell, it could take thirty minutes to an hour for them to regenerate enough magical energy and shake off the sickening effects of death to effectively cast spells again.

“Cyrus from Sanctuary, Cass from the Daring and Yei from Goliath will be our secondary warriors.” Cyrus blinked in surprise. He cast a sidelong look at Cass and then Yei. The Goliath warrior was a massive troll, bigger than Vaste. Yei had recently painted his armor into a bizarre, multicolored scheme involving deep purple, bright red and some strain of yellow. Terian had remarked during the assault on Kalam that it “defiled his eyes” to even look at the warrior.

“We’ll need our enchanters focused on occupying additional monsters, beguiling them by use of your charms or simply mesmerizing them.” Her voice turned serious. “We are outnumbered here, and we will be facing wave after wave of foes.” She proceeded to break the force into elements assigned to support each warrior.

“By the time we get this entire force facing the right direction, I’ll be older than Curatio,” Andren said under his breath. Niamh overheard him and giggled. Cyrus said nothing, but privately he agreed; leading this force of several hundred was going to be like trying to lead a herd of cats from the front.

When they had organized, the combined army lined up in formation before the portal. It was wide enough for only a few people to enter at a time. They lined up in order as best they could; the space around the portal was completely packed – as was the island itself.

“On my mark, I want a full charge into the portal and out of the way, as quickly as possible – without trampling any gnomes,” Elisabeth added. Cyrus heard a squeak of appreciation from somewhere in the crowd in front of him.

It was a tense moment. The portal glared at them, almost defying them to enter. Cyrus could hear the heavy breathing of Vaste next to him, and caught sight of J’anda ahead, his now elven features fixed in a look of intense concentration. Yei was scratching himself.

The seconds ticked away, and nerves were chewing at Cyrus. He could hear his heart pounding; he’d never before set foot in the domain of any god. At least I’m not challenging Bellarum, Cyrus thought. The God of War had to be at least as intimidating as the God of Death, he conceded, missing the irony of that thought in the intensity of the moment.

Looking sideways in the moments before the order was given, Cyrus’s gaze fixed on the smiling visage of Malpravus. The cowl of the Goliath Guildmaster’s cloak was once again covering his head, leaving the dark elf’s face shadowed but for the dim sunlight playing on it. His expression was bizarre, triumphant. His eyes flicked to the side and saw Cyrus looking at him. With a nod, Malpravus bowed toward the warrior.

“GO!” Elisabeth’s shout boomed across the island and in a blink, Kilgar and his group were in the portal and fading, the second group charging in behind them. Cyrus thundered forward, felt a twisting sensation in his stomach as he stepped into the darkness and his vision distorted like he was underwater; all trace of the world he had left behind on the island had disappeared.

When Cyrus’s feet hit the ground he was already moving forward, sword in hand. The sky was blood red, like a sunset that had never quite finished. Spread out before him were rolling fields, as far as the eye could discern, spreading out in every direction but one. His eyes alighted on an enormous structure in the distance. It had a gigantic base, miles wide, and gradually drew to a point on top. It was the single biggest tower he had ever seen.

Cy felt a thump as someone ran into him from behind. He realized he had stopped along with everyone else and turned his head to see Cass peering around him. “Frankly,” the Daring’s chief warrior said with a slightly disgruntled expression, “I was hoping for a little more combat on this side of the portal.”

Cyrus snorted. “I hope Mortus isn’t lingering to give you your fondest wish.”

Elisabeth made her way to the front of the army. “I was told to anticipate more resistance at the entryway.” Lines knit across her face as she scanned the area around them.

“More resistance?” Andren said from just behind Cyrus. “How about any resistance?”

Cyrus did not stop scanning the horizon, even as the rest of the Alliance force began to relax. “These must be the Fields of Paxis,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“Indeed they are,” came the reply from Vaste, startling Cyrus. “The Realm of Death is broken into many parts to reflect the fate awaiting the worst of us.” The troll smiled. “Did you know that Mortus, even as God of Death, doesn’t get all the dead?”

“I’d heard that,” Cyrus said, still looking for trouble.

“He only gets the really bad eggs; those who have done horrific things.” The troll shuddered all the way to the top of his enormous frame. “The Fields of Paxis are the entry point or sorting area for the newly arrived. The least of the offenders are sentenced to wander these fields eternally without guidance or hope of escape. The worst are judged here and sent elsewhere.” The troll gestured into the distance to the tower.

“The Eusian Tower,” Cyrus said without inflection.

“You got it,” Vaste confirmed. “Three main areas within, places of torment for the dishonored dead…” The troll’s voice drifted off.

“I hate waiting.” The warrior turned his eyes back to the horizon. “I hate waiting for possible death even more.”

“You should never go on a date with Vara then,” the troll said. “Not only does she take forever to get ready, she is the very definition of ‘possible death’.”

Cyrus laughed. “I don’t think there’s much danger of that.”

“Her killing you or you going on a date?”

Cy raised an eyebrow. “The latter. I’d actually lay odds on the former.”

The troll looked at him, face unreadable. “More than you probably realize.”

“Hah!” Cyrus laughed out loud. “The woman can’t stand me.”

“An all-too-familiar experience in your dating life, I’m sure.” Ignoring Cyrus’s rude gesture, the troll pressed on. “But in Vara’s case, you have to understand her.”

“Do I really want to?”

“Can’t answer that for you,” Vaste replied. “But I can tell you that Vara was nearly married once – to a human warrior, of all things.” The troll looked around before finishing his statement. “I heard it ended badly.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “The fact that she’d ever consider marrying a human is laughable. The idea that she’d have any involvement with a warrior puts your story well into the realm of fiction. She hates –”

“Yes, yes,” Vaste cut him off. “Haven’t you ever wondered why she can get along with me or Nyad, or Curatio – any one of a number of other guildmates – but not you?”

“I’m gonna go with… because she’s a heinous bitch.”

Ignoring him, Vaste went on. “I’d have thought you, genius of the umpteenth order, Mr. Strategy and Tactics and ‘Assessing the Battlefield’, would have figured it out. She doesn’t like you because you remind her of someone.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Very well then,” Vaste said, still inscrutable. “Far be it for me to disagree with the mighty Cyrus Davidon, who knows the hearts of all whom he meets.”

“Not all of them,” the warrior said. “But there’s no room in that heart for love; past, present or future.”

“Perhaps not,” Vaste said and let the matter drop.

At the front of the army, Elisabeth had been consulting with Malpravus and a few others. Shaking her head, she turned from the Goliath Guildmaster to address the army. “We’re going to move to the Eusian Tower now. I expect whatever enemies that aren’t here but usually would be are in the tower.”

The army of the Alliance moved forward through the tall grass of the fields. The journey to the Eusian Tower took a little over an hour, during which time the color of the sky changed not at all. As they approached, Cyrus felt several times that they had to be close to the entrance, such was the size of the tower. When they finally reached the entry, he had to admit that even the Citadel in Reikonos, the tallest building he had ever seen, would easily fit into the shadow of the Eusian Tower. They marched through the doorway, and Cyrus once again found himself in near-complete darkness.

Chapter 20

Upon entering the Eusian Tower, the Alliance force paused. Vaste cast a spell next to him, and a veil lifted from Cyrus’s eyes, allowing him to see in the darkness. They were in the middle of the largest open indoor space Cyrus had ever seen. It seemed to stretch for miles up and down. They crossed a massive bridge to a central platform that had three additional bridges spanning out in each direction of the compass.

As no foes were in sight, Elisabeth addressed them. “There are three wings to the Eusian Tower: one is the personal chambers of Mortus and his guards.” She looked up and gestured straight ahead from the direction they had entered, indicating a mammoth door made of solid metal, large enough that it would not have looked out of place in Kortran. “It is also where his treasure trove is. In order to gain access, we’ll have to go through the other two wings of the tower,” she said, brimming with confidence. “Defeating the guards in both wings will draw out the reserve in his private chambers. We’ll start with this direction.” She pointed to their right.

“How does Mortus have any treasure left if guilds are constantly stealing from his Realm and killing his guards every time he leaves?” Cy frowned.

Vaste shrugged. “If you’re a god, I guess you can make more treasure.”

“His followers pay him tribute in their temples,” Cass said from behind them. “And he can recreate his guards with ease.”

“Yeah, but if someone stole all your possessions every time you left your house, wouldn’t you stop leaving?” Cyrus asked.

“They don’t get all of Mortus’s possessions,” Cass said. “He keeps the best of them sealed under magical barriers that only the power of a god could breach.”

They stopped talking as they crossed the bridge and entered an archway. As they progressed down a dark corridor, Cyrus felt a deep-seated chill run through him. It took him a moment to realize that it was not internal; the temperature had dropped significantly as they continued along the corridor, which had also begun to slope downward.

They emerged into a cavernous area – not nearly as tall as the entryway but which extended so far into the distance that Cyrus could not see the opposite wall. Stretching down the middle of the cavern was a frozen lake, with blocks of ice stacked around the sides.

Cyrus said with surprise, “I expected to see more dead people in the Realm of Death, y’know?”

“I know what you mean,” Vaste said. “Where’s the fire and brimstone? Where’s the damnation?” The troll looked at the frozen lake and shook his head in disappointment. “I was expecting more damnation.”

“Damnation is here,” a rattling voice breathed next to them. Cyrus jumped in surprise before he realized that the words issued from Malpravus, who was at his elbow. “The damned are all around you,” the dark elf said with barely contained glee. “You cannot see them.” Malpravus inhaled deeply, as though he was enjoying a particularly pleasant scent. “There is a great deal of torment present here – many, many damned souls, enslaved in the ice.”

Cyrus looked at the Goliath Guildmaster, eyes wary. “Why can you see the dead when we can’t?”

Malpravus looked into Cyrus’s eyes and the warrior could see a hollow blackness in the dark elf’s sunken sockets that reminded him of the portal leading into Death’s Realm. “I am a very powerful necromancer, boy. The dead are mine to wield; it is only natural I would be able to see them.”

“I don’t think there’s anything ‘natural’ about what you just described,” Vaste said.

A smile lit the features of the necromancer as he steepled his fingers. “Those of us who study the nearly lost art of necromancy are very misunderstood.”

“I could stand for your ‘art’ to get a bit more lost.” Vaste bristled. “Manipulating the bodies and souls of the dead and deriving power from them is a far beyond morbid practice.”

Malpravus remained calm in the face of Vaste’s criticism. “Someday you will understand that however you must acquire it, power is the most important thing in this world.” The necromancer held a bony hand up to stay Vaste’s reply.

Malpravus fixed his gaze on Cyrus, giving the warrior sudden cause to squirm internally. “I see great potential in your leadership, lad. I expect to see great things from you after the battle yesterday.” Without another word, the necromancer glided away, his cloak sweeping against the ground.

Vaste and Cyrus exchanged a look. “That was… disconcerting,” the troll said, perfectly capturing Cyrus’s sentiments.

“I get the feeling that he’s even creepier among his own guild.”

Whatever reply Vaste might have made was cut off by an inhuman wailing. Seeking out the source of the cacophony, Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to figures moving in their direction across the frozen lake. The first of them was barely visible; a thin figure, emaciated, with skin of the grayest pallor and sunken eyes. Bloody, cracked lips uncovered sharp teeth and a nasty, nausea-inducing smell of decay preceded the shadowy beasts. The first of the rotting creatures leapt into their midst, reminding Cyrus of the first time he had met Vara.

He jumped into action, pushing through the crowd to engage the creature. “Wendigo!” he heard someone cry out. Cyrus brought his sword to bear as the wendigo’s claws swiped into the crowd and sent three spell casters flying, dead.

Horrified, Cyrus struck with his sword into the grey flesh, leaving the wendigo with an enormous gash from shoulder to waist. Seeming not to notice, it lunged at him, teeth exposed, missing him by mere inches as the warrior dodged. He aimed a counter blow at the wendigo as it passed, but missed. The wendigo sliced him three times in rapid succession. Two glanced off his armor but the third landed perfectly between the joints on his left arm, digging into the muscle of his forearm.

Cyrus grimaced and dropped his left hand from his sword, holding it in his right to fend off the wendigo’s advances. The point faced directly into the heart of the creature, which was keeping its distance, circling to his left to evade the tip of his blade. Cyrus pulled his injured arm against himself until he felt a spell mend the wound; he looked down to see the gash healed, but blood still trickled from beneath his armor and the painful sensation did not immediately cease.

Cyrus feinted at the wendigo, not returning his left hand to the hilt. The beast overreacted to the warrior’s bluff and dodged to the side, running into three rangers who stabbed the exposed back of the creature. Cyrus smiled as the wendigo turned to face the new threat and he drove his sword with both hands into the back of its head. A piercing scream filled the air and the wendigo went limp.

“No time for a victory dance!” Andren said from behind him. Cyrus scowled and turned to face the healer. Numerous wendigos were making their way through the ranks of the army. Cyrus saw J’anda’s arms sweeping about, casting spell after spell. The wendigos were halting, sunken eyes rolling back in their heads, mesmerized.

An attack from behind caught him off guard and knocked Cyrus to his knees. He felt claws grasping at him, digging into his sides just below his armpits in the vulnerable seam of his breastplate and back plate, penetrating the chain mail beneath his plate armor. The stabbing sensation increased as the wendigo that had grabbed him dug its claws in further. He reversed the grip on his sword and stabbed backward at the creature, gagging at the sickening stench of decay that filled his nose. A howl of pain told him he had not missed, and Cyrus stumbled forward, feeling the claws withdraw from his flesh.

He turned back to engage the wendigo, fighting past the agony in his side, and lunged forward, catching it on the arm with a sword thrust. A yelp filled his ears and forced a grin to the warrior’s lips, even as he ignored the pain. Other fighters – rangers, paladins, dark knights – were attacking the wendigo that was focused on him.

Every time the creature started to turn, changing its attention to the others behind it, Cyrus would bellow a warcry and leap forward, hacking and stabbing, turning its attention back to him. The first three times he scored gashing blows, leaving jagged cuts in the flesh of the undead-looking beast. The fourth, as soon as he yelled at it, the wendigo immediately refocused on him, not allowing him to get a strike in.

Elisabeth brought her daggers to bear in a powerful backstabbing blow that brought the wendigo to its knees. Cyrus swept forward with all his speed and decapitated it. When it dropped, Cyrus appraised the area around him for the next fight.

J’anda stood only a few feet away, the enchanter’s face a mask of concentration. “If you’re looking for something to do,” the dark elf said, eyes closed and illusionless for only the second time since Cyrus had met him, “you could try killing that one before my spell breaks.” His finger rose to point at one of the gray fiends that was standing close to the ice.

“How many of these do you have mesmerized right now?” Cyrus asked him, incredulous. There were at least forty wendigos standing completely still throughout the army, as if the cold had frozen them.

“Well,” J’anda said, voice straining, “we have eight enchanters and each of the other seven has one wendigo mesmerized. So if you subtract seven from however many there are, that would be the number that I have under control.” A tight smile made its way across J’anda’s blue lips. “It takes quite a bit of concentration and magical energy to create the illusion that mesmerizes these fiends, so forgive me if I stop speaking now.”

Cyrus shook his head and trotted with the rest of his element to the wendigo that J’anda had indicated. Positioning his group around it he struck with an impaling attack at the same time that his other fighters did, making short work of the wendigo, which died with a feral scream.

A quick look at J’anda showed the enchanter pointing in the direction of another of the frozen beasts. He and his group moved through the wendigos one at a time, along with the other elements of the army, until all the gray-skinned fiends had been killed. Kilgar drove his sword through the last as a sigh of relief ran through the cavern. From behind them came the sound of very slow clapping.

Cyrus turned to see J’anda Aimant, eyes half-lidded, bringing his hands together in applause. “Well done. Perhaps someday soon we can find an enchanter with enough talent to take at least two foes at any give time?” J’anda ignored the glares of the enchanters surrounding him and snapped his fingers to become a gnome.

They stood by the edge of the frozen lake while Elisabeth again consulted with Malpravus, Tolada and a few of the other Alliance officers. Cyrus stood with Andren and Vaste, looking across the ice into the darkness. “Andren,” he asked the elf, “Malpravus told us that the dead are all around us, and being tormented. Do you suppose that’s true?”

Andren did not respond at first. “Yep. There are tormented souls all around us right now.”

“Why can’t we see them?” Cyrus asked, puzzled.

Andren looked at the ice at his feet and pointed down. “Do you see anything at all? A shape, a specter, anything?”

The warrior peered at the ice. “It looks a little darker, like smoke or something.”

Andren nodded. “That is one of the dead. A necromancer can see them as easily as I can tell the difference between an ale and mulled mead. Which is no great difficulty for me, but most can’t. The training one goes through for his branch of magic makes him more sensitive to the spirit emanations that you can barely perceive. What looks like a faded specter to you appears to me as an old elf, buried to his face in the ice, screaming in agony and unable to see anyone around him.”

Cyrus looked at Andren, eyes wide. “That’s what you see? And it looks as clear as if he were alive?”

“I can see a bit better than you can but that has more to do with my age and magical training. I would imagine it would be clear to a powerful necromancer. What I see is a bit of a distorted image – as though smoke is obscuring the lines of their faces, and their words were being spoken through a waterfall.”

Any further questions were drowned out by Elisabeth’s order to move the invasion force back into the center of the Eusian Tower. As they walked back up the tunnel the temperature returned to a bearable level. The chill, however, failed to leave them.

Chapter 21

As they mulled around the center of the tower, Cyrus passed Erith, still riding on her horse, as he strode to the front of the army. Catching his eye, she spoke. “I miss healing you today. Any other day, I wouldn’t, but today I’m healing a dark knight, and he takes two hits and crumples like a ranger in a windstorm.”

“Hey!” the dark knight and ranger in Erith’s group chorused in unison, outraged.

“What?” she snapped back over her shoulder. “It’s not my fault that the two of you can’t get hit without dying.” She turned back to Cyrus. “I’d have better luck keeping an ant alive while a child stomped on its anthill.” Rolling her eyes at the dissenting opinions behind her, she tossed another insult over her shoulder. “The ant would probably be more grateful, too,” she grumbled. “Your fighter dies one or three times…”

Elisabeth rallied their army into the tunnel opposite the one they had just left. As they descended, there was another dramatic temperature change – this one turning the air brutally hot.

“It’s like an oven-heated punch to the face,” Andren said.

“Feels kinda like home,” Vaste said. The tunnel opened to another large cavern, this one again having a deep gash in the middle of it – but instead of containing ice, there was a lake of bubbling, boiling oil stretching into the distance.

“You think there are more lost souls in there?” Cyrus asked.

Vaste nodded. “Mortus is not a benevolent god. Those worthy of torment in the afterlife are subject to him, and remain with him for eternity.”

Andren took a swig of liquor from his flask. “Any guesses as to what it takes to land yourself here for eternity?”

Vaste’s eyes narrowed. “It’s all speculative, but there is the traditional range of sins – murder, thievery, intemperance…” The troll looked at Andren.

“Intemperance?” Andren asked, eyes wide. “You mean drinking?” An almost imperceptible nod from Vaste sent a visible shudder through Andren. “I reckon I’ll be quitting drinking, then.” Cyrus raised an eyebrow at the healer, who looked offended. “I can quit any time, you know.” Cyrus held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, at which point Andren began to nervously eye the boiling oil again.

A few of the adventurers wandered closer to the edge of the bubbling lake; Cyrus remained leery and kept his distance. In an instant the surface of the oil erupted in several places around the bank of the pool as something shot out of it. Whatever it is, Cy reflected, looks a hell of a lot like snakes held by their tails out of the oil.

With a reptilian head atop a long, twisting segment of scaled neck, seven of the creatures burst forth and attacked those that had wandered too close to the shore. Cyrus watched as several adventurers were grasped between the jaws of the snake heads – or in the case of one of Goliath’s rangers, grasped by the ankle and flung into the oil. Cyrus caught a glimpse of Malpravus, among those standing close to the shore, calm in the midst of the storm of action.

Cyrus rushed toward the shore, but before he could get there, he heard an elven voice behind him proclaim, “I can handle this.” Something in the way it was said caused him to turn around. Nyad was already casting a spell, flames forming around her hands.

“No!” he shouted, but to no avail – the fire spell burst from her fingertips and blasted past the snake heads to hit the oil behind it. Flames began to spread across the surface of the lake.

“Oops!” Nyad said. “I’ll fix it!” Once more, she began to cast a spell, this time with a whiff of what looked like smoke as a warning, something flew from her hand to the edge of the pool of now flaming oil, expanding into a cloud and raining on it.

Cyrus did not even have time to react. An explosion rocked the cavern, sending a burst of fire surging in all directions. The warrior dropped to his knees and covered his face as a wall of flame washed over the Alliance army. It dissipated quickly, but not before catching a few people on fire, including Nyad herself. He tackled the wizard, rolling on the ground to suffocate the flames.

Turning his attention back to the lake, the seven heads remained above the thick, flaming liquid, unaffected by the fires around them. Smaller pools had also caught on fire, making the cavern look like the den of Ashan’agar.

“Ah,” Vaste said from the ground next to Cyrus, “there’s the fire and brimstone I was looking for and… damnation.”

“I think,” Cyrus said, running his fingertips over the scorch marks on his already blackened armor, “I’m going to have to cut the heads off some snakes now.”

“Do run along then,” Vaste said from a prone position. “I’ll be here, watching in case you get hurt.”

“Much appreciated,” Cyrus grunted as he lifted himself to his feet.

“Thank you,” Nyad said in a muffled voice, face in the dirt as the warrior ran past her to the edge of the pool.

He looked to the lake of fire, seven snake heads still dancing back and forth within it, trying to grasp at any poor soul close to the edge. Malpravus stood by the shores, ignored by the waving heads. Cy dived to avoid two of them as they swept toward him. They missed him narrowly and with such force that one of them drove into the ground and did not move after the impact.

Rolling to his feet, Cyrus grasped the hilt of his sword in both hands, and swung it from over his shoulder into the unmoving neck. The beast screamed and flailed, but could not muster enough strength to break free. The warrior stomped on the hilt of his sword with a plated boot, driving the blade the rest of the way through the neck. The head screamed and the neck retracted into the pool of fire. As it entered the flames, the severed head screamed and stopped moving.

Two more heads swept in with a violent attack on the warrior, who dodged one of them but was caught flat-footed by the second, knocking him into the dirt. A healing wind ran through him, repairing the arm he knew had been broken. Rolling from his back to his hands and knees, he stood and charged past Vaste (“You’re welcome!” the troll shouted, still laying on the ground) to be greeted by the same two snake heads, writhing at the end of their reach, snapping their teeth at him.

“It’s a hydra,” came the calm voice of Malpravus, who was gently stroking the neck of one of the snakes. “The heads are all part of the same beast.”

Cyrus stayed out of the reach of the hydra heads, thrusting forward with his sword to strike a stinging blow to one of the heads, which hissed and withdrew. “Two questions come to mind – one, why isn’t it attacking you, and two – could you help me out?”

A wide, almost malevolent grin split the necromancer’s face. “Yes, I can help you, I suppose.” Reaching into his robes, the dark elf pulled a long dagger from a scabbard on his belt. Whispering something too low to be heard over the fire and screaming in the cave, Malpravus drew the dagger back and thrust it into the neck of the hydra that he had been stroking only moments before. The neck stiffened and dropped to the ground, great tongue lolling out of its scaly mouth. Malpravus cackled and brought the dagger to his lips.

“That is not normal,” Cyrus said before he lunged to strike at the remaining head. Malpravus made another bow to the warrior, arms extended out from his body, wide smile still fixed on his face. Then the dark elf turned on his heel, and swept away from the lake of fire, gliding back to where most of the Allied army was recovering from the explosion and avoiding the heads of the hydra.

Cyrus lunged once more, committing all his weight to the attack, and caught the hydra head off guard; he rammed his sword into the mouth of the creature. It screamed and tried to flee, but to no avail – close enough now to engage the beast physically, Cyrus threw his legs around the hydra’s neck and jammed the sword further into the mouth, pushing it until it burst through the top of the hydra’s head. The neck went limp, and the snake head dropped, pinning Cyrus to the ground.

“Yes!” exulted Tolada, who rushed up with a hammer and began to pound on the head that lay across Cyrus.

“Hey!” the warrior shouted, unpleasant impacts to the head reverberating through him. “It’s dead already! Why don’t you either pick a live one to attack or help get it off me?”

“It’s all the same beast!” Tolada said, face alight with glee. “It can still feel this!”

“Tell you what,” Cyrus said, eyes narrowed in irritation. “I’m gonna stab you through the hand until you can’t move it anymore. Then I’m going to pound what’s left of it with a hammer, and you let me know if you can feel it!”

Muttering something about a lack of allied cooperation, the dwarf put aside his hammer to help roll the hydra head off of Cyrus. By the time the warrior got to his feet, the Alliance force had engaged the other heads. Spells were flying through the air, bringing the waving heads to the ground one at a time, where they were greeted by vicious attacks from the melee combatants. Within a few minutes, the hydra was defeated.

“All right,” Elisabeth said, “let’s drag it on shore.”

“Drag it out?” Cyrus sputtered. “I vote we toss it back into the flaming oil.”

She smiled at him in understanding. “Do you know how valuable the bodies of the creatures we kill are? That’s some of the real wealth of these Realms – the same as it is with dragons. Sure, there’s a hoard of treasures around here somewhere, but there’s gold in selling the skins, the scales, things that yield high prices. That’s the reason why guilds like Amarath’s Raiders, Endeavor and Burnt Offerings are wealthy. They have access to materials no one else does and trade agreements with shops and companies that make them more money.”

“I don’t care if his left buttcheek is worth a million gold; let’s toss this thing back in and be done with it.”

Elisabeth frowned. “His butt isn’t worth anything. Hydra testicles, however, are worth a few hundred thousand gold each.” She brightened. “Let’s hope this one is a boy!”

Once they had finished extracting the most valuable of the materials from the corpse of the hydra (including three testicles, to the delight of Elisabeth and Malpravus), and those that had been tossed into the flaming oil had been recovered and revived, the Alliance army moved back up the long tunnel and into the platform of the entryway once more. Casting a sidelong look at the door to Mortus’s chambers, Cyrus saw they were still sealed.

“I’m not sure what’s going on here,” Elisabeth said. “I was told that defeating the enemies within both caves would get the attention of Mortus’s guards…”

A loud noise filled the entryway and the enormous doors split and began to open, sweeping wide to reveal an army within. A moment of panic set in among the allies. “We need to face them outside!” Elisabeth shouted. “Retreat to the Fields of Paxis!”

The Allied army broke and ran, retreating over the entry bridge and down the steps. Once outside, Elisabeth commanded once more, “Stop! Hold position here!” For the most part, her command was obeyed and they reformed at the bottom of the hill outside the Eusian Tower. A few adventurers continued beyond the rally point and up the hill, stopping once they reached the top.

The first rank of the army of Mortus appeared in the doorway to the Eusian Tower; four rows of the horrific wendigos, followed by demons with red skin, bulging muscles and fearsome teeth. Pointed ears stood atop their heads, giving them all the appearance of a devil. There were fewer of them than there were wendigos, but each of the devils stood one and a half times the height of a human and was armed with a weapon.

“The hell of it is,” Cyrus heard Andren say from somewhere behind him. “There are actually more of us than them.” He paused. “But I suspect they might pack a slightly nastier punch than most of us.”

J’anda called out, “Those demon knights – I cannot mesmerize them; their will is too strong.”

A few of the gray-skinned fiends halted their advance, bedazzled by the enchanters’ spells. The remaining wendigos broke ranks and charged, demon knights following behind.

The first wave of foes hit their front line warriors hard. The sheer numbers forced every Alliance fighter and some of the spell casters into one-on-one combat. The wendigos were strong and vicious, creating a poor match for most of the allied combatants. Cyrus swung his sword with all his strength, dispatching two of the bloody creatures in a row. By the time he had killed the second wendigo, the battle had turned into a complete melee. A demon knight waded toward him, accidentally killing a wendigo on its way.

Cyrus brought his sword up in time to block the first blow from the demon knight, which wielded a blade that looked like a massive meat cleaver. The strength of the demon knight’s strike chipped some of the steel from his sword where the blow impacted. Guess I’ll be needing a new sword soon, Cyrus thought. I’m sure Belkan will be pleased.

He successfully dodged the next attack and drove his sword into the leg of the demon knight which elicited a grunt and a backhand slap that sent Cyrus reeling, dragging his sword out of the wound. A small geyser of blood shot from the hole in the demon knight’s leg, but the grotesque face of the creature displayed no reaction beyond a strange slurping sound as its tongue danced outside its lips.

The demon knight jumped forward with no warning, knocking aside Cyrus’s sword and burying its teeth into the veins of his neck. Cy brought his sword down, burying it through the eye of the demon knight, which relinquished its biting grasp and fell over, dead.

Cyrus felt himself fall, warm blood rushing through his fingers as he tried to staunch the bleeding. He looked up to see Niamh, fingers glowing with a small healing spell, and he felt a swell of vitality as she kept him alive until he felt the spell from a healer that completely mended his wound.

Pushing back to his feet again, Cyrus ignored the agony from the now-healed wound as all battle around him stopped. A commotion came from atop the hill behind them. Something was thundering on the other side, and when it crested the ridge, Cyrus’s jaw dropped in shock.

It was the bones of a dragon, but not just any dragon. The crests and gnarls of the skeleton, the jutting spikes and fearsome teeth, left no doubt which dragon the skeleton belonged to. Kalam, Cy thought in astonishment. Shit. Shooting a searing glare at those around him, he yelled, “Who helped Terian resurrect that thing?”

Vaste shouted over the crowd. “It’s not resurrected. Kalam must be on his merry way to the afterlife or else he got co-opted by Mortus to defend this Realm. It’s probably his penance.”

A rumbling came from the skeletal jaw of the dragon’s bones. A hot rush shot through Cyrus, flushing his face and spurring him into action. A demon knight in front of him had turned its back to see the events unfolding on the hilltop. Behind the demon knight, Tolada stooped down to pick up the hammer that he had dropped in shock at the sight of Kalam.

With two long strides, Cyrus used the dwarf as a step to launch himself through the air and bury his sword in the neck of the unsuspecting demon knight. As it fell, Cy pulled the sword as roughly as he could, decapitating the demon, and dropping the head to the ground. He reached down to retrieve it and ran toward the base of the hill.

The battle had resumed, wendigos and demon knights hacking at the allied army. Shuffling his way through the fight, stabbing wendigos and knights as he passed, Cyrus finally broke through the battle and climbed to an elevated position on the hill. From the height it afforded him, the warrior could see J’anda working to mesmerize the wendigos. “J’anda!” Cyrus yelled. “Can you charm the wendigos and use them to battle for us?”

The dark elf did not respond for a moment, eyes closed, but then nodded.

“Do it!” Cyrus shouted. The dragon corpse lingered at the top of the hill, cutting off any chance of retreat for the Alliance army. Cy let loose a bellowing warcry that caught the attention of everyone, even the fiends. Thrusting the head of the demon knight into the air above him, Cyrus taunted them. “You over-bulked, under-brained servants of Mortus don’t even have the stones to take on a real threat – you’re content to wade in among spell casters and rangers who can’t give you a taste of real combat – COWARDS!”

Without waiting for reply, Cyrus threw the head at the nearest demon knight, only a few paces away. It caught the head and stared at it for a brief moment, shocked. Cyrus slammed into the demon full force on a downhill charge – his sword pierced it and he jammed the edge of his right vambrace into the mouth of the knight, breaking its lower teeth and cutting open its lip. A squeal of outrage filled the air as it attempted to push the warrior away. Cyrus gripped tighter, bringing his sword down again and again. His final blow penetrated the heart of the demon knight, ending its resistance.

Howls of outrage came from the forces of Death’s Realm. Cy ran back up the hill. His speed and quick action by two of J’anda’s charmed wendigos were the only thing that saved the warrior from being hauled down by the entire army of Mortus, now solely focused on him and following him up the hill.

Cyrus could see a faint light in the bone-dragon’s eye sockets as it thundered down the hill toward him. How the hell do I fight a pile of bones? he wondered. And a battalion of these damned demon knights at the same time? The dragon’s enchanted… and even if it’s a magical creature, it can take damage…

The dragon’s skeleton let out a hiss as he approached. Its head swung down, jaws open and extended. A rattling voice could be heard: “I am Kalam, defender of Mortus, the God of Death.”

Cyrus grunted as he ducked the dragon’s first attack. “I am Cyrus, warrior of Sanctuary. I piss on you and your god!” Bringing his sword around, he struck as hard as he could at the bone of the dragon’s front right ankle. A small crack appeared in the bone. He ran under the dragon, beneath where the belly would have been, and rattled his sword along every rib until he reached the tail, laughing all the way.

Dodging from behind the back leg he turned, and with a savage grin raised his hands above his head for a double-handed swing of his sword. He landed the strikes on the cartilage midway down the skeleton’s tail, and severed it at the halfway point. “I killed you yesterday,” he smirked at Kalam. “Today I’m going to dismember you.”

Five demon knights crested the hill, a small cluster of wendigos close behind. Somewhere down the hill was the Allied army. The dragon’s skeletal remains now had no tail – but it still moved around to face him. Cy didn’t wait to be within biting distance – he charged back under the dragon, and took aim at the same ankle he’d already cracked, landing another crushing blow in the same spot, widening the crack, then moved as the dragon repositioned and landed another and another until the crack was large enough that he could jam his sword into it.

There was no howl, no outrage, no sign that the dragon’s remains even felt the damage. Rather than chase the bone dragon, he grasped at the knee joint and held on while the undead monster thrashed about. Using the blade of his sword as a pry bar, he wedged it into the fracture he’d made in the ankle and applied all his weight to the hilt until –

CRACK!

Kalam’s foot broke loose and the bucking, heaving skeleton wobbled as it landed on its shin bone, losing its balance and toppling down the hill toward the tower. Cyrus rolled clear as it came crashing down, tons of bones onto the ascending demon knights – at least eight of which were smashed immediately, along with more than a few wendigos. He saw a gray-skinned torso fly through the air and land in the bony debris. With only a few exceptions, the allies escaped harm.

Wasting no time, Cyrus charged into the wreckage, ignoring his arriving Allies and hacking at the rear knee joint of Kalam, who was attempting to rise. He was joined by Orion and Tolada, surprisingly, and they snapped the leg free and moved on to the next. The third was removed with a bit more effort, leaving the skeleton of Kalam thrashing.

Cyrus scaled the dragon rib by rib as it jerked to get upright but couldn’t. Moving with care in case it began to roll over and turn him into mush, he reached the neck, flailing in the air. He wrapped his legs around the base of the neck, and brought his sword down again and again on the vertebrae until finally it gave a sickening crack and splintered. One more massive blow broke it into slivers and dust, and sent him, along with the dragon’s neck and skull, crashing to the ground below, where he heard a great many cracking bones, a few of which were his own.

Cyrus jumped to his feet as soon as the healer’s spell hit him and charged at the nearest demon knight, which was already on its knees, and finished it. The wendigos that weren’t charmed were now falling, one by one to mesmerize and to death at the hands of the allies. The last demon knight was brought down by a stunning blow from Cass that cut it in half at the waist. They finished killing the wendigos and within an hour the Realm of Death was silent but for the cheers of the Alliance army.

Chapter 22

The Alliance members waited in the Fields of Paxis while the officers of the Alliance split the treasures in Mortus’s chambers among themselves. After a half hour, Elisabeth stormed down the steps with something in her hand. Her eyes were narrowed and every step exuded irritation. She stopped in front of Cyrus and paused for a moment before she spoke, composing herself. “You must have really wanted this pommel,” she said. “I’ve never seen you ask for anything from an excursion before.”

She opened her hand to reveal a circular piece of metal with the carving of a skull at its center. “I do,” he said, voice desirous.

She handed it to him with care, then crossed her arms. “I didn’t expect us to have to kill the same dragon two days in a row. You really saved things from getting ugly.” She paused. “Uglier than they’re getting among the Alliance officers right now, anyway.”

He pulled his gaze away from the Death’s Head. “Doesn’t look like you had much fun in there.”

She sighed. “We’re not. When I planned this, there were a few things that we swore we weren’t going to do. Foremost among them was not stealing Letum.”

Cyrus looked at her with a blank expression. “Letum?”

She stared past him, her mind on something else. “Mortus’s Staff of Death. It’s supposed to be on a pedestal in there, protected by enchantments, but it’s not.” She shifted her gaze to him. “I guess it’s lucky that it’s not, because your pommel would have been under the protection of the enchantments as well.”

“Lucky for me, I guess.” He shrugged. “Never heard of this Letum. Maybe Mortus took it with him when he left?”

She waved her hand. “You think he dissolved the barrier he set up to protect his most treasured possessions before he left, when he knows that every time he leaves his Realm gets ransacked? I doubt it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s causing quite a stir among the other officers, though; quite a few accusations flying around –”

“Elisabeth!” Cass’s voice drifted down to them as he descended the steps, Erith beside him. “We’re leaving.”

“Did you get everything resolved?” She looked up at the warrior in grey, face expectant.

“I’ve resolved not to punch Tolada in his aggravating face, but that’s about it.” Cass pointed back up the steps. “We can argue until Mortus comes back, no one’s going to confess to taking Letum and we’re not going to search everyone here to figure out if they’ve got it. Especially,” he gritted his teeth, “since there are no protective barriers around the pedestal.”

“Couldn’t someone have broken through the barrier?” Cy looked at them, face blank.

Erith laughed. “Through a barrier erected by a god? Unlikely.”

Whatever else might have been said was halted by Malpravus, gliding down the steps with the officers of Goliath and Sanctuary trailing behind. Niamh’s face was suffused with rage, Curatio’s eyebrows were arched in irritation, and Orion looked annoyed.

“I would call that a successful endeavor,” Malpravus said, coming to a halt beside Cyrus. “Once again, your bravery has been instrumental in our victory.” The necromancer’s eyes drifted to Cy’s sword and armor. “I can only imagine what you’d be capable of if you were wearing the armor and wielding a sword of the power Goliath provides to our warriors.” He leaned in close to Cyrus’s ear. “You should imagine that as well.” Leaning back, he grinned at the warrior. “Let us away, my friends.” He and his entourage swept down the stairs.

The entire Alliance army teleported out of the Realm of Death moments later, each to their respective guildhalls. Cyrus found himself back in the lounge at Sanctuary, sitting alone, mulling over what he’d heard.

An armored figure eased into the chair across from him, jolting him out of his reverie. “I heard there was a ruckus in Death’s Realm today,” Terian said.

“You mean among the officers?” Cyrus looked at him.

“No, I mean with the remains of a dragon that we killed yesterday coming back to take another swipe at you.” Terian’s eyebrow raised. “How did you hear about the Alliance officers getting into an argument?”

“Gossip.”

“Ah.” The dark elf nodded. “So, you got your pommel?”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “How did you know about my sword? Andren was the only one I told!”

Terian shrugged. “When he drinks too much, he talks too much.” The dark knight paused. “Which is pretty constant, come to think of it.” He smiled. “Don’t be paranoid. You can tell your guildmates about things you’re working on. This is an honorable group; they’re not going to steal something from you. They might even help.”

Cy stroked his chin. “I’ll need their help as I get closer to putting it together.” He paused for a moment. “Terian, have you heard of Ferocis?” Terian shrugged. “You know, the Warblade of Bellarum?”

Terian frowned. “How did you know about it? Did Alaric tell you?”

Cyrus looked at him in confusion, but before he could ask another question, shouts interrupted them from behind them. They sprang to their feet and entered the foyer to find a crowd gathered; raised voices reached their ears as they made their way toward the center of the disturbance. Cyrus bumped into Nyad, and when she turned to him there were tears streaking down her face.

“What’s happening?” Cy asked her, Terian at his shoulder.

She blinked as she looked past Cyrus to Terian. “Brevis ambushed Selene again. He called her selfish and when Orion stepped up to defend her he told him the only thing more useless than a selfish healer is a General that won’t lead. Please, stop it!” She focused on Terian. “You’re an officer. Please, you have to stop this!” Her face was flushed, and the tears were flowing freely.

“You didn’t even take command when the invasion force was ambushed in Death’s Realm! Cyrus had to win the battle because you don’t even have the guts to marshal us in an emergency –” Brevis ranted, but was suddenly cut off.

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” Orion exploded. “What do you even know about leadership, you pointless hole?”

Cy turned to Terian, “You have to stop them.”

Terian folded his arms. “I don’t think I do.”

Cyrus was stunned, blinking at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re an officer. You have to intervene in this: it’s a dispute between guildmates!” He kept his voice low enough so that Terian was the only one that could hear.

“No, Cy.” Terian shook his head. “He’s not saying anything that’s untrue. He’s not saying it in a nice way, but I don’t think I should stop the truth from being spoken.”

Brevis’s voice drowned out any further comment at that point. “– know more about leadership than you do at this point, I’d wager. Not that it would take much. Larana would make a better officer at this point than you do, and she never says a word!”

Larana squeaked loudly in muffled outrage from somewhere in the crowd, but did not say anything.

The argument stopped for a moment before it started again, full force, with both sides yelling at each other. “Don’t you call her that –”

“Afraid to tell it like it is, typical of a coward –”

“DON’T YOU CALL ME A COWARD, YOU KNEE-HIGH PILE OF SHIT!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!” A voice like thunder rocked the room, overriding any other sound. Alaric strode down the stairs, commanding the attention of both parties. The crowd parted for him to make his way through. When he reached them, they launched into their stories at the same time.

“– attacked Selene and myself –”

“– said nothing but the truth, one hundred percent –”

“SILENCE!” Alaric commanded. “Are there no officers present besides Orion?”

The crowd moved aside as Terian approached. “I saw the last few minutes of it. Sounds like a dispute between the two of them. Maybe we should send them outside and let them duel.”

Alaric held his tongue, and his enormous helm contained most of his expression, but his mouth was etched into a thin line. “Did you not intervene, Terian?”

The dark elf shook his head. “I did not.”

Cyrus could see the narrowing of the Ghost’s eye, the clenching in his jaw, but he breathed not a word of critique on the dark knight’s handling of the matter. He turned back to Brevis and Orion. Selene stood behind her husband, shoulders shaking as she cried quietly. “What prompted this, Orion?”

Orion looked shocked. “Terian, you were here and you didn’t step in on our behalf?” He looked at the dark elf in amazement. “You left me twisting in the wind?” The ranger’s brow furled. “I’m a fellow officer!”

Alaric clapped his gauntlets together, catching everyone’s attention. “Orion, I asked you what happened.”

Orion blinked and his attention shifted back to Alaric. “We were coming into the foyer and Brevis just started attacking us – telling us we’re awful guildmates –”

“Because you are –” the gnome said.

“SHUT UP!” Orion cut him off again. Alaric raised his hands to restore order, and Orion continued. “He verbally attacked us – insulted us – called me worthless as an officer and a General.”

Alaric turned to Brevis. “What caused you to verbally assault your guildmates?”

“I have seen them continue to slide, month after month, into a spiral of selfishness,” the enchanter began, chin high, eyes defiant. “I have seen them turn their backs on guildmates that are going into mortal harm and do things for their own self-aggrandizement that risk lives, like that Enterra incursion. Narstron died, and for what reason?” He sneered. “I haven’t heard of the goblins marching on the warpath! It was a smokescreen, an attempt to get us to go somewhere that was pointless and unprofitable for us.”

A few nods and words of agreement answered him over the crowd. Orion looked around, stunned by the condemnation, while Selene put her face in her hands, sobbing.

Brevis turned back to Alaric. “I said nothing that others weren’t thinking. I just had the courage to speak up. Neither will I apologize; someone needed to say it.”

Alaric Garaunt shook his head. “Brevis, this is not the way. In Sanctuary we treat each other with courtesy and respect. While you may have a disagreement or a conflict with Selene and Orion, you should have addressed it behind closed doors, or to the Council.” He continued to shake his head. “This ambush is unworthy of you and your guildmates and will not be tolerated. You will apologize to Orion and Selene,” Brevis looked as though he’d swallowed something particularly bitter, “if not for the content of your message then for the method of delivery.”

“That’s not enough, Alaric,” Orion said. “He should be cast out for what he did.”

Alaric was still for a long moment. “That is a matter for the Council to decide. With Vara on leave of absence attending to family matters,” Cyrus blinked in surprise, having not heard this, “Niamh and Curatio away for the day and yourself involved in the dispute, it leaves only Terian and I capable of rendering a decision.” He straightened. “That is not enough for a disciplinary matter. I will not settle this without more of the Council involved. All I will do for now is demand Brevis apologize. Any consequences will wait until we have a quorum –”

“I will not apologize.” Brevis’s comment was lost in the shuffle of what happened next.

“– until the Council rules on the matter,” Alaric finished.

Orion looked evenly at Alaric. “And what of Terian, who stood by and let this happen? You are the leader of this guild, and you don’t seem concerned at all that one of your officers committed a total dereliction of his duty.” Terian was silent, but his eyes burned into Orion’s until the ranger was forced to look away first. “What are you going to do about him?”

Alaric watched the ranger, eyes betraying no emotion. “We will discuss it in the fullness of time.”

Orion shook his head, lower lip jutting out. “That’s not good enough.” He looked around the foyer. “All this time, all this effort, and this is how you would treat us? We’re leaving.” He took Selene’s arm and led her to one of the staircases.

Alaric moved closer to Brevis, and the two of them began a discussion in hushed tones. The hall was silent, the crowd still present, waiting to see what happened. A few minutes later, Orion and Selene emerged from the stairway again, laden with bags, a host of large trunks hovering behind them.

“This is your last chance, Brevis,” Alaric said to the gnome, low enough that only Cyrus and a few others could hear him. The enchanter shook his head like a child refusing to eat his vegetables.

Orion and Selene reached the entryway and he looked back, across the crowd one last time, seeming to take in the whole view of the scene assembled, turned on his heel and walked out, Selene at his side.

Alaric waited until they had descended the steps, then took a step back from Brevis as though he were a plague victim. “Brevis, you have failed to keep a civil interaction with your guildmates, and now you have refused to apologize. We will debate this disciplinary matter in Council, and decide on the consequences.”

“No need,” Brevis replied. “I said what no one else had the courage to say, and I won’t be hung out to dry for it.” The little gnome set his chin high. “I will leave as well.” Gertan and Aina behind him, he walked toward the stairway and out of sight.

On their way up, they passed Celia and Uruk coming down, laden similarly to Selene and Orion, everything they owned on their backs or magically following them. Nyad let out a great sob at the sight. They made their way through the crowd, exchanging hugs and saying a few farewells, but avoiding Alaric, whose gaze watched them from the center of the foyer.

For the next thirty minutes, a steady flow of guildmates in ones and twos came down the stairs, carrying with them all their worldly possessions, saying goodbye and walking out of the enormous doors of Sanctuary. One by one, Alaric watched them all go, strangely silent the entire time. When nightfall had come, and the outpouring had stopped, they had lost nearly a hundred members of Sanctuary.

“Terian,” Alaric spoke, breaking his silent vigil. “We must confer.” He turned, heels clicking on the stone floor and walked toward the stairway. Terian followed behind him, a little slower.

Cyrus looked at the faces of those around him – J’anda, Vaste and Andren. In them he could see indifference and determination. Nyad and Larana were crying, clinging to each other for comfort. But in other faces, he saw a different sort of determination, another decision being made, and he knew that those who left today would not, by any means, be the last.

Chapter 23

It had been only a few days since the ‘explosion in Sanctuary’ as Alaric had taken to calling the exodus, and Cyrus’s instincts had proven correct. There had been a steady flow of exits in the days following the departure of Selene, Orion and Brevis. When the final tally had been done, they’d lost one hundred and thirteen guildmates, two of them officers.

One of those departures had been particularly painful. Cyrus had come back from a walk around Sanctuary’s grounds to find Terian on his way out the door, a knapsack on his shoulder, axe slung behind him. “Terian!” he’d shouted. “Where are you going?”

The dark elf had looked up at him and waited before replying. “I’m going to roam the world for a while.”

“What does that mean?”

Only the trace of a smile showed on Terian’s lips as he answered. “It means I’m going to roam the world for a while. Wander.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I left a note for you, with a gift. It’s in your quarters.”

Cyrus had run up the stairs and into his room, only to come to a sudden stop. His leg hit the side of the bed – not his old, regular sized one; it was gone, replaced by another made from the bones of Kalam, the ones he’d seen Terian and the others carrying away on the day of the Alliance call to arms. It had been framed with four enormous elephant tusks as the posts, and took up most of the quarters. It was big enough that three trolls could comfortably lie in it, and had been crafted beautifully. There was a small note lying on the sheets, which he picked up and read.

Cy,

You should always celebrate your triumphs and keep something around to remind you that when things are bad, they weren’t always bad. I’d feed you a line about how although I’m gone, I’ll always be in your heart, but we both know that’s all a bunch of crap that girly elves and pansy-ass dwarves would say to each other to keep from crying. Here’s a bed: use it a lot, and not just for sleeping if you can find a woman who won’t run screaming from you – gold might need to be involved. You’re a hell of a warrior, but I’m a way better fighter. I’ll see you around the world.

– Terian

In spite of himself, Cyrus couldn’t help but laugh at the words his friend had left behind. Though not filled with profundity or a sorrowful farewell, they were the ones Terian Lepos would have wanted said to him if Cyrus had been leaving. Looking around, he realized that with the bed in the room, there was no floor space. “What the hell am I going to do about this?” he murmured. Looking back at the parchment, he saw a small postscript.

By the way, if you’re worried about having this bed in your quarters, I wouldn’t sweat it. I doubt you’ll be in them much longer.

Raising an eyebrow, Cyrus turned in the doorway and bumped into the Ghost of Sanctuary. Although Alaric Garaunt was half a foot shorter than him, it mattered little to none. He was still intimidated by the man, though not in a physical sense. The Ghost did a double take upon seeing the bed, and looked at the warrior. “How many women sleep in there with you?” A slight frown creased his face. “Where do you change out of your armor?” He paused. “Do you change out of your armor?”

Cyrus looked back into the room, and closed the door behind him. Alaric seemed to regain his concentration. “Odd to see you down here, Alaric. Did you need something?”

The paladin refocused on Cyrus. “Yes, I need to speak with you in the Council Chambers.” The Ghost turned and extended his hand toward the staircase, indicating that Cyrus should go first. They walked in silence up to the Council Chamber. Cyrus had not been to this floor since the day he had met Alaric.

The Ghost opened the door to the Chamber, and inside was a massive round table with eight seats. A stack of parchment waited at a chair in front of set of double doors that led to a balcony, framed by windows on either side. Alaric marched to the chair and sat down, gesturing for Cyrus to join him.

The Ghost studied him for a moment before he began to speak. “Though it has taken many days, and many conversations, I think we have turned the corner on this dramatic explosion within our guild.”

Cyrus sat back in the chair, thinking before answering. “I hope this exodus is winding down.”

Alaric nodded his agreement. “I believe the worst losses have been our officers. Here is my conundrum. I’ve sent a few druids and wizards looking for Niamh and Curatio, but in all likelihood they are fine and decided to spend a few days out of contact, in some elven village or another looking for some obscure artifact. Under normal conditions, that would be fine.” Alaric ran his hands over his helmet before resting them on the back of his head. “Unfortunately, we are by no means operating under normal conditions. Although I am confident they will return soon, Vara could be gone for an indeterminate length of time. We have things to accomplish in the interim.”

Cyrus blinked. “That is a problem.”

“It was.” Alaric smiled. “I believe I have it solved. Are you still willing to serve Sanctuary?”

“I am, but –”

“Then I hereby promote you to Officer of Sanctuary.”

Cyrus was stunned. “According to the charter, don’t I have to go through an election? And be in the guild for a year?”

Alaric exhaled heavily. “Under normal conditions, yes, but frankly I have no time for this. We have work that needs to be done. You will not be the only one dragooned into service. I will also be placing Vaste and J’anda into the service of the Council.”

Cyrus looked over the parchment at him, which were summons to each of the individuals he had just named. “You said there’s work to be done. What do you mean?”

Alaric broke into a smile. “We have to rebuild.”

Cyrus felt the excitement from Alaric’s words, and leaned forward in anticipation. “What do you need me to do first?”

Chapter 24

Vara returned from her mysterious leave that night in a bad temper, speaking to no one. The next day they were arrayed around the Council table for his first meeting. Alaric headed the table, with Cyrus sitting next to Vaste, and on the other side of the table, J’anda, wearing no illusion today. A soft cough brought their attention to the Ghost and he began to speak.

“I hereby convene the new Council. We are here on urgent business, but the two of us in the ‘old guard’ would like to welcome the new officers –”

“Ahem,” Vara interrupted him. “I would prefer not to welcome the new officers. I am still wishing the old officers were here, along with the other guildmates we lost.” The paladin folded her arms. “I can’t leave for a week without everything going to hell.”

Cyrus smirked at the elf. “You think your diplomatic skills would have mitigated our losses? I suspect that your absence was fortuitous in aiding our retention.”

Alaric wiped the grin off his face and moved on before Vara could respond to the warrior’s jibe. “Our first order of business is our wayward officers. We haven’t sent a full search party yet –”

The door to the Council chamber opened, interrupting him. As Niamh and Curatio walked in, he finished his thought. “– and apparently we won’t have to.” Without his helm, Alaric’s emotions were much easier to discern: he glared at them like an angry mother. “Where have you been?”

Niamh’s face was suffused with excitement and even Curatio looked more lively than usual. “You would not believe what’s happened!” Niamh began, ignoring the new faces around the table.

“I have a feeling they’ll say that about what happened here, too,” J’anda said under his breath.

“They’ve discovered the entrance to the realms of the gods – they’re open to mortals!”

A moment of silence greeted this pronouncement. Cyrus looked left, then right, to see if anyone else was going to say it. They didn’t. “Uh, Niamh… we were just in the Realm of Death last week…”

Her eyes flared and her red hair swished back over her shoulder. “Yes, I know that. But before we only had access to Death, Darkness and Purgatory. There’s a new gateway opened and it leads to all the others: Love, Wilderness, Storms, and the Realm of War…”

Cyrus’s spine straightened. Alaric looked around the table before focusing again on Curatio and Niamh. “What effect do you think this will have immediately on Sanctuary?”

Curatio scrunched his face in consideration. “Every major top-tier guild is scrambling to explore the new realms. They’ve abandoned their excursions to Purgatory and other locations so they can focus on these new realms because they believe the legend – that there’s a path to the upper realms: fire, air, water, earth, good and evil.”

Alaric shifted his gaze to Cyrus. “Can we hit some of those realms?”

Cyrus looked down in contemplation for a moment. “With the forces we have? I doubt it.”

Curatio looked around the table at the new faces. “Not that I’m sorry to see you all in here, but where are Terian and Orion?”

The story was told as the two of them took their seats. Niamh’s face became a horror-struck mask. Curatio took it better, reserving comment until the end. “We’ve spent the better part of two years building to have more than half our number blown out the door because of this sort of stupid, petty squabble.”

“Agreed, it is unfortunate,” Alaric said. “However –”

“Unfortunate?!” Niamh shrieked. “Unfortunate is when you go to bed with an elf after a night of drinking and wake up with a troll. This is a disaster, Alaric! Two years of effort lost in one day!”

Vaste leaned close to Cyrus and murmured, “I want to know where she’s been drinking.” Cyrus looked at the troll and nodded in understanding.

“As I was saying,” Alaric began again, “this is an unfortunate setback.” He pointed to Cyrus. “We have an officer capable of leading excursions, which is the most attractive factor in growing a guild.”

“You had an officer capable of that before,” Vara said with only a trace of annoyance.

“Yes, but willingness is key,” Alaric said, causing Vara to narrow her eyes. “Now we merely require a larger army. Our first priority is recruitment.” He looked around the table. “Ideas?”

J’anda raised his hand, causing Alaric to look at him pityingly. “You’re an officer now, J’anda. You may freely speak.”

A look of embarrassment crossed the face of the dark elf. “We should do a recruitment drive like we did in the past when numbers were low. Send officers to the major cities of Arkaria and hold a series of meetings to get across to anyone interested what we’re looking for in guildmates. We talk to members of the city’s armies, we talk to other adventurers, to anyone who’s had any experience.” He leaned back in his chair.

“An excellent point,” Alaric said. “We have stopped those because we felt fairly ‘on-target’ for growth. We will need to re-institute those recruiting practices to grow. I recommend we send delegations immediately so we can find candidates to begin the process.”

Cy raised his hand. “What exactly goes into the application process?”

Alaric looked sideways at Curatio, who fielded the question. “Officers engage with applicants, adventuring with them in smaller groups, trying to get a sense of who they are, what they stand for, and what type of guildmate they’re going to be when their back is against the wall. The officers have final say and vote either yea or nay once per month on the applicants.”

Cyrus frowned. “That seems labor intensive for the officers.”

Curatio nodded. “That was the reason we suspended those type of recruiting events. Our members were bringing in people they’d met while adventuring and we had no time to evaluate the ones that we were bringing in through other means.”

Cyrus leaned forward with a frown. “We’ll run into the problem again within six months if we don’t change that practice.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You have a suggestion?”

Cy thought for a moment. “Instead of relying on officer feedback to make the decision, we give our guildmates a say in who is Sanctuary material.”

“We need to be careful about who we let in here,” Vara said, voice filled with disdain. “We prize honor above all.”

Cyrus fired back at her, “Do you have such a low opinion of your guildmates that you don’t think they can determine for themselves if a potential member is dishonorable or not? Do we officers possess some special skill I’m unaware of?”

“In the order of your questions,” Vara snapped back, “I have a low opinion of only one of my guildmates, and as he’s the walking cesspool that made the suggestion, it makes the entire idea suspect.” Leaning back in her chair with a smug look on her face, she continued, “As for special skills, yes, I possess a few that you’re unaware of but that doesn’t say much; I’m sure you could fill many volumes with things you’re unaware of.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, cheeks flushed, “and the title of those volumes is ‘How to Be a Pretentious, Arrogant Elf With a Huge Chip on Her Shoulder for No Apparent Reason, Part One through Four Hundred’ by Vara.”

“Cyrus, that is unnecessary,” Alaric said, ending the verbal sparring match before the elf could riposte. “Old friend,” he said to Vara, who was glaring at Cy, “this idea has merit. We, the Council, serve our members, but that doesn’t mean they are stupid or easily fooled. Taking advantage of their insights means we can grow faster.”

Somewhat placated, Vara stopped speaking. When put to a vote, after a moment of delay, she voted in favor.

“So that’s settled.” Alaric cleared his throat. “Next, we have an Alliance officer’s meeting tomorrow, and we’ll need to send representation.” He coughed. “Naturally, I will be attending, simply because I have no choice in the matter.” The sour look on his face was evidence enough for Cyrus that he cared little for that idea. “Curatio, I trust you will be there?” A nod of affirmation came from Curatio. “Very well, and as senior officer remaining, Vara, you as well?”

Vara’s mercurial temperament showed again. “I am not going to deal with those vultures.”

Cyrus raised his hand. “I volunteer.”

Alaric looked around. “Very well. Cyrus, Curatio and I will attend the Alliance summit at Reikonos Coliseum. Other business?”

Vaste leaned in and looked around the table. “Who should we send on the recruiting mission?”

Curatio spoke up, “We should send a mix – dark elves can cover some areas the rest of us can’t reach without getting attacked, whereas elves, dwarves, gnomes and humans can cover other ground.” He paused for thought. “Obviously, no one who isn’t gnomish should go to their domain…”

J’anda furrowed his brow. “So even you supposedly ‘good’ races aren’t welcome in the gnomish city?”

Curatio laughed. “No, their city is built so small, we shouldn’t send anyone taller than a dwarf.” Assorted laughter greeted that remark, and even prompted a smile from the Ghost of Sanctuary. “They have a city where they handle their commerce with outside races, and that’s built large enough for others, but there are two other major cities and countless villages in the Gnomish Dominions that are built to gnome’s scale.”

“Very well,” Alaric said. “When next we meet, we’ll lay out specifics for this ‘recruitment drive.’” With that, the paladin called the Council meeting to a close. As they filed out one by one through the main door, Cyrus took a few minutes to look around the Council Chambers and noticed a door he hadn’t paid any attention to before.

Alaric was the last one still in the room, and caught his eye. “It’s the Council Archives. All the records of our decisions, meetings, and history are kept in there along with some tomes and spells that are very dangerous, as well as some records of incidents best forgotten.” He paused, giving it a moment of thought. “Rather like recent events we’ve experienced, I suppose.” Shifting his focus back to Cyrus, he started to speak again after a moment of consideration. “I’m glad you stayed after the meeting – I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Cyrus regarded him with a perplexed expression. “What?”

Alaric finished shuffling the parchment he’d used during the meeting into a manageable stack and favored Cyrus with a penetrating look. “I want to talk about your purpose.”

“I thought you wanted me to recruit for the guild and lead them into adventure?” Cy asked, puzzled.

“Not what I meant,” Alaric waved him off. “What I mean is what you hope to achieve being a member and officer of Sanctuary.”

After a moment of thought, Cyrus answered. “I’d like to recruit a bunch of people, attack tougher enemies and increase the wealth of our guild.”

Alaric looked at Cyrus, expression neutral. “Assuming we were able to create an enormous army and explore increasingly challenging places, would that make you happy?”

Confused and looking at Alaric with a slightly incredulous expression, he nodded. “Yes, I believe it would.”

“So all you want out of life is wealth and battle?” Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You don’t need Sanctuary for that; you could find all that with Endeavor or any of the high level guilds…” His voice trailed off.

Cy felt his cheeks burn with shame. “Well I don’t want to forsake all the bonds of friendship to get to the top.”

Alaric walked around the table. Cyrus suddenly felt smaller than the paladin. “If all you believe in are the things you can achieve by battle alone, you will do anything to anyone in order to get what you want. There are many who feel that way. There are those in this world that would kill anyone who got in their way, would destroy any who opposed them to advance their own ambitions.”

The stare continued. “I know that is not who you are. Your ambition is checked by your beliefs. So I ask you again: what is your purpose? Because you can achieve those aims, but doing them the Sanctuary way, with honor, your goal becomes a pure aim, to advance yourself and your fellows, but with respect for others instead of desire for self alone.”

The shame consumed Cyrus. “I’ve always wanted to be more, to do more, to have more than I had before, Alaric. I was raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos, and I’ve never had much to call my own.” He felt the warmth reach his eyes. “I gave everything I had to the Kings of Reikonos, to keep them in the best guildhall I could afford, to keep us fed and together. I held us together with the promise that someday we’d have more, that someday I could go for greatness.”

Looking out the window, Alaric crossed his arms. “What is greatness to you?”

Confused, agitated, impatient and almost wishing that this man he respected more than any he’d ever met would simply give him the right answer, he blurted out, “I don’t know. I always assumed it was being the best – having the best.”

Lowering his head and sighing, Alaric still did not look at him. “Are those two things one and the same?”

Cyrus shrugged his shoulders in exasperation. “I don’t know. I always assumed they were. In order to face the greatest threats of Arkaria, you need to be powerful.”

“We come to it at last. Power.” Alaric, turned, arms still crossed, and faced the warrior again. “There are two uses for power. You may use it to fulfill your ambitions and whims, both gross and tame – or you may use it for the good of others. Your purpose directs how you gain power and what you do with it.”

Alaric became lost in his thoughts for a moment. “A true officer of Sanctuary is driven by honor and self-sacrifice, knowing that service is its own reward.” The Ghost’s focus shifted back to the warrior. “Of this I can assure you – if you do not decide now what you believe in, what you stand for, and what you will do with the power and influence you acquire, then you will eventually leave Sanctuary just as Orion, Brevis, or any of the countless others that came before have.” Alaric moved his hand as if to forestall any response. “Think about it for a time.”

Cyrus thought about it intently for a moment. “What’s your purpose?”

A smile cracked the knight’s lips. “My purpose is what I have assembled Sanctuary for – to create a force capable of defending against threats to Arkaria.”

Cyrus’s brow furrowed. “Then why all this interest in excursions? In adventures?”

The Ghost sighed. “Armies do not function well in idleness – they need challenge and things to accomplish. Great threats do not present themselves every day. People as individuals also do not function well in poverty – with the exception of a paladin, of course. A constant series of explorations keeps our fighters sharp, lets us earn money and better positions us to fulfill my primary purpose.”

“I admit,” Cyrus said with a nod, “while honor has been emphasized since day one here, this is the first I’ve heard of a greater mission of Sanctuary.”

“That would be the result of Orion’s singular focus on expeditions at the time you were recruited. We help those who need it and protect against grave dangers to Arkaria.” Alaric sighed deeply. “Although I cannot prove it, I suspect one of those dangers is on the horizon at this moment.”

“What is it?” Cyrus asked with concern.

“I cannot say for certain; I have only suspicions based on fragments of information.” Alaric cast his eyes downward. “And now,” he turned back to the window, “I sense I must take my leave of you.” There was a hissing and Alaric was covered in a mist, which faded, leaving nothing behind.

Cyrus looked at the spot where Alaric had been, alarmed. “That was… ominous.” Cyrus looked around the room. That did not look like any teleport spell I’ve ever seen – and paladins can’t teleport anyway!

“He faded into the ether, didn’t he?”

Curatio’s voice startled Cyrus, who was already on edge, realizing that the ‘Ghost of Sanctuary’ might not be a nickname.

“Into the what?” Cyrus asked the elf, still astonished.

“The ether,” Curatio said. “When he appears, it’s like mist taking shape. Same thing when he disappears.”

Cyrus’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “How does he do that?”

Curatio shrugged. “I’m not certain,” he said, expression neutral. “He’ll be back in time for the Alliance meeting.” Changing the subject, he moved on. “Now that you’re an officer, have you moved into your new quarters yet?”

“No. I haven’t been an officer very long, after all.”

“Let’s get you set up, then.”

Cyrus followed Curatio up to the next floor and waited as he unlocked a room. Stepping inside, Cyrus was impressed. The officer’s quarters were easily four times the size of his previous quarters – and as if that weren’t enough, there was a door on the far end of the room to his own private bathroom, complete with running water – something that many cities in Arkaria didn’t have.

Looking around, he tried to imagine the placement of his new bed, but dismissed it as Curatio spoke to him again. “We’ll have your possessions brought up from your quarters, unless you’re dying to do it yourself. The Alliance Officers’ meeting will be taking place tomorrow afternoon at the Coliseum in Reikonos. We’ll set off after breakfast. A wizard will transport us to Reikonos Square. We’ll go on horseback from there.”

Cyrus looked at him skeptically. “And Alaric will be back by the time we leave?”

Curatio smiled. “Trust me.”

Chapter 25

Alaric appeared for breakfast the next day, looking the same as he always did. “What happened yesterday?” Cy asked.

“We will discuss it in great detail… someday,” Alaric said under his breath and returned to greeting other guild members.

When they departed, Cyrus was paired with a white horse named Windrider, who responded to him affectionately. Nyad brought them to the portal in Reikonos Square. Cyrus looked at the portal, an ovoid ring of rock that looked like a door.

They crossed under the shadow of the Reikonos Citadel, ignoring the hot, stuffy air that did not seem to be moving at all. They passed most of the journey conversing about a myriad of topics.

“Do you know how Lake Magnus was formed?” Curatio looked at the warrior as he asked the question, assuring Cyrus that he was not talking to Alaric.

Cyrus shook his head. “I’ve only been there once.”

Curatio nodded. “Most people don’t. Long ago, there was a war…”

It dawned on Cyrus that he knew what Curatio was talking about. “Yes, I’ve heard this. The gods were meddling in the affairs of mortals, pitting them against each other in wars, basically along classic good and evil lines – the titans, goblins and trolls against an alliance of dwarves, gnomes and elves. As the war spread all over the world, it also crossed into the Realms of the gods, as lesser gods tried to eliminate each other – the only stability in the pantheon was the six highest gods. The Elementals – Fire, Earth, Air, Water – and Good and Evil.”

Curatio smiled, pleased to have such an engaged pupil. “The names for the gods of Good and Evil have long been lost to the winds of time, but we know the lesser and elemental gods because some still interfere in the affairs of mortals. Sometimes literally,” Curatio said with a knowing look.

Cyrus snickered. “You’re referring to Yartraak’s dark elven harem in Saekaj Sovar, or perhaps the myth that Vidara, Goddess of Life, had a child with a human?”

The healer blushed. “Those are two of countless rumors spread through the ages. I was speaking of interference in mortal events – and of the war that consumed the world and spread to the Realms in ancient times. Bellarum, your god, gathered his mortal armies and sent them into the Realms of his enemies, causing all sorts of havoc.”

“Until one day,” Cyrus interrupted, “his army killed Eruditia, the Goddess of Learning, with Ferocis, his Warblade, and he was set upon by all the gods, even his allies, and he was punished.”

“Quite so,” Curatio said, clearly impressed. “The God of War’s reputation suffers to this day because of that. You probably know that, if you tell people you’re a follower of Bellarum.”

“Once or twice, it nearly got me killed,” Cyrus said, voice tight.

“Anyway,” Curatio went on, “Lake Magnus was a crater that filled with water after Ashea, Goddess of Water, sent down Amnis, the Spear of Water, for her truest follower to use during the war. Like all godly weapons, it was imbued with a portion of Ashea’s godhood, making it more powerful than mortal magics.”

“I’ve heard legends of godly weapons,” Cyrus said. “I wasn’t sure they existed outside the drooling stories of legend told by covetous warriors in the Society of Arms.”

“Oh, they exist,” Alaric said. “Reikonos has one, though it is not widely known. They have the aforementioned Amnis under heavy guard in the Citadel.”

“The Elven Kingdom is in possession of the Ventus, the Scimitar of Air,” Curatio said. “It rests in Pharesia and has been there for thousands of years.”

“How many are there?” Cyrus pulled the reigns of Windrider to keep pace.

Curatio shrugged. “Each god has at least one, but there are only five on Arkaria that we know of. The four elemental weapons are the most well-known. Amnis, Ventus, Terrenus, the Hammer of Earth – the Goblins in Enterra have that one – and Torris, the Scepter of Fire.”

“And Ferocis, the Warblade of Bellarum?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes, and that one,” Curatio nodded.

“I forgot to mention at the time,” Cyrus said, “but after everyone left Kortran, I was alone for a few minutes taunting Talikartin and Razeel, and they mentioned that Ferocis was stolen the night before we got there.”

“What?” Alaric stopped his horse suddenly, eye wide through the slit of his helm.

Curatio stopped his horse as well. “Are you certain?”

“Fairly certain,” Cyrus said. “Talikartin offered me a painless death if I returned it.”

“And you are certain,” Alaric enunciated every word, “he said it was the Warblade of Bellarum?”

“Oh yes.” Cyrus nodded heartily. “I wouldn’t forget. I do worship Bellarum, after all – I had heard of the Warblade… I was wishing I had it.” Cyrus looked more carefully at Alaric, whose mouth had drawn into a tight line. The rest of the Ghost’s emotions were carefully hidden by his helmet. Curatio, on the other hand, had downturned lips and his eyes were wide and haunted.

Cyrus thought for a moment. “I might have seen Terrenus as well, now that I think about it… I saw a cloaked figure receive a hammer from the Emperor of Enterra the night we were there, just before I died.”

“Did you see who the figure was that took the hammer?” Curatio and Alaric shared a look of great significance.

Cyrus shook his head. “It was dark and their cowl was down; it could have been anyone.”

Alaric frowned. “I cannot imagine the circumstances under which the Emperor of Enterra would freely part with a weapon created by their god.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I only know what I saw.”

“We should continue.” Alaric spurred his horse forward. “I appreciate your bringing this to our attention. It is cause for great concern when coupled with certain… other information.”

“Care to share?” Cyrus asked.

“Soon,” Alaric said.

They came through the city gates, and Cyrus’s eyes fell upon a coliseum constructed some distance from the city proper. An enormous entrance with post and lintel architecture, it was large enough for the biggest troll to walk through on a horse without difficulty. As they brought their steeds through the gates, Cyrus saw an expansive dirt floor, ideal for large battles. A group of people were at the entrance to the arena floor, sitting and standing around. As they rode closer, he started to recognize some of the figures, partitioned into two groups.

On his left side stood the officers of Goliath. Elisabeth was talking with Tolada and Malpravus as well as one of the other officers of Goliath that Cyrus had never learned the name of. Standing almost opposite of them was Erith with Cass. They seemed to be in good spirits, though somewhat sterner than in the past.

Greetings were exchanged after the trio had dismounted. Tolada began to speak. “Welcome, Alliance officers. As always, it is a great pleasure. We have several items on the agenda today, and we’d like to cover them quickly, so as not to delay our passage home to our guilds.” He launched into the first item on his agenda. “Last meeting, we entertained a proposal which I feel has merit: the idea of a regular sequence of expeditions with mandatory attendance for all Allied guild members –”

The dwarf didn’t get any farther than that before Alaric was standing. Rather than wait to be addressed, he butted in, talking over Tolada. “Sanctuary vetoed that idea and will continue to veto it every time it is brought up.” Unlike at Sanctuary Council, Alaric had his helmet on. Cyrus could see his mouth curled in irritation. “It is not our policy to compel people to go to places they have no interest in going.” He looked around the assemblage. “That is something best left to the guilds like Endeavor, Amarath’s Raiders or Burnt Offerings. It is unworthy of those of us who profess to believe in the bonds of fellowship more than conquest.”

Tolada looked ready to rebut when Erith intervened. “The Daring also veto. Since any proposed changes require unanimous agreement before passage,” she began to smirk at Tolada, “I’d say you got your wish: three minutes into the meeting and we’ve already scratched one dumb idea off the list of crap we have to go through.”

If the nettle bothered him, Tolada shrugged it off. “Very well. Malpravus has an interesting proposal. We have all heard the news that there are new Realms open to mortals. We have also seen a great departure by the guilds that Alaric mentioned – and it brings us an opportunity to follow them into these new Realms and see what awaits us there.” He nodded self-importantly and continued, “We do, however, need a structured force. To that end, Goliath would like to bring forth a proposal to make us more powerful. Malpravus?”

Tolada led the meeting in a smattering of lukewarm applause. Casting a glance, Cy found Curatio clapping politely while Alaric abstained, arms folded. Erith looked mutinous. Elisabeth applauded while Cass did not.

The Goliath Guildmaster seemed not to notice any of this as he glided into position to speak. “We will have a manpower problem going into these new Realms,” he pronounced. “Early rumors circulating from the contacts we have in the higher guilds all say the same thing. These excursions require either enormous groups of people, trained reasonably, or a smaller, elite group equipped with the best training, weapons and armor.” The dark elf stopped to favor them all with a snake-like smile. “Either path requires a different organizational structure than we have now. We miss opportunities on a consistent basis because scheduling excursions or attacks is of such great difficulty that none but the exceptionally experienced,” his hand waved toward Elisabeth, “or the naïve would do it.” His hand gestured toward Cyrus.

“In order to form a more consolidated command structure, I propose we combine into one guild.” The necromancer paused, looking around for reactions. Stunned shock filled Cyrus’s mind. Curatio’s lips were pursed. Erith had rolled her eyes again and Cass was stone-faced.

Cyrus heard a faint sound he couldn’t quite place; looking down he saw Alaric’s hand rattling in his gauntlet, shaking. Cy could see the paladin’s jaw was clenched and the muscles on his neck stood out, giving his skin a stretched appearance. “Just where,” he asked in a tone that belied his true emotions, “would you anticipate headquartering this new guild you’d like to form?” The question was directed at Malpravus, who was looking befuddled at Alaric’s odd posture while asking it.

“Excellent question,” Malpravus began smoothly. “Of course, accommodations large enough to house such a… Goliath,” he said with a grin, “are difficult to come by. However, I do recognize that one guild present possesses quarters large enough to handle our… modest needs.” Every word that came from the dark elf’s mouth positively dripped with oil as Cyrus heard them. “Naturally, I speak of Sanctuary’s guildhall… oddly placed, true, but large enough…”

“He’s been after our guildhall since before we joined the Alliance,” Curatio breathed, so low only Cyrus could hear him.

“Veto.” Alaric’s voice was strained; it sounded as though every muscle in his body was exerted. Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if that much pressure could result in all of the Ghost’s innards exploding out his back. He furrowed his brow, a question occurring to him after seeing Alaric’s disappearing act the day before: did the paladin have innards? Or was he a legitimate ghost?

Erith interjected again. “Yeah, I veto too.” Her eyes went back to Tolada. “This might be our quickest meeting ever if the topics keep coming like this.”

The dwarf took over for an emotionless Malpravus as the Goliath Guildmaster resumed his seat. “Those were the two topics I had in mind. Does anyone else have anything to cover?”

Erith raised her hand. “I have a proposal for a new Alliance rule.”

Tolada looked down at her. “Very well, you may present your suggestion.”

Erith walked to the place where the speakers had stood. “I propose that any member of an Alliance guild who leaves that guild must wait at least three months before applying and being accepted at another Alliance guild.”

Silence greeted this proposal. Tolada began to shift his weight from foot to foot, studying his boots. Malpravus had the cowl of his cloak back up to obscure his face.

Curatio whispered to Cyrus and Alaric, “We’re missing something here.” Cy was about to ask him to clarify when Erith continued.

“As we all know, Goliath greatly profited in the last few months from the Daring’s struggles. Now, with recent Sanctuary departures going to Goliath, I feel we need something to curb this tendency –”

She said more, after that, but Cyrus didn’t hear a word of it for several seconds. His vision blurred, so stunned was he by that admission. His hand went up, completely dumbstruck, and he asked his question before Alaric or Curatio could stop him, assuming that they would have if they could. “I’m sorry, who from Sanctuary went to Goliath?”

Erith was clearly not someone used to being cut off in mid-sentence. “Orion and Selene joined Goliath along with a few others,” she told him. Looking her in the eyes he saw a glimmer of empathy.

Cyrus heard a snap next to him, and he was certain that Alaric had just broken at least one bone in his hand, which also answered Cyrus’s earlier concern about innards. While Cy focused on the Ghost, he missed Goliath vetoing the proposal.

Tolada took the speaking position once more, with less enthusiasm than before. “Does anyone else have any other business to bring forward?” He hesitated, waiting for anyone to say anything, looking around for comment.

Erith piped up, “No other business. Let’s call this meeting quits and get out of here.” She turned to Cass. “Wasn’t that the best Alliance officer meeting ever? Not to mention the shortest. I wonder,” she said with her trademark sarcasm, “if those two factors are in any way linked?” A glare from Tolada did not seem to faze the dark elf.

Alaric grasped the harness of his horse, and started toward the gates of the coliseum. He did not mount the horse, instead walking slowly as the other delegations saddled up and rode away after saying their goodbyes. Cyrus waved to Elisabeth, Cass and Erith before following his Guildmaster. The other delegations had outpaced them by the time they reached the gates, and Curatio had walked beside Alaric, with Cyrus following close behind until finally the Ghost exploded in a tirade unlike anything Cyrus had seen from him before.

“It is absolutely unfathomable to me that these people can even consider us allies, then profit from our troubles. Vara was correct in her assessment: they are vultures!” He almost screamed the last word in frustration. “We put everything we have into growing and they act as though we’re a sick relative; instead of them wishing us well they sneak into our bedroom and choke the life out of us so they can get their inheritance!”

He paused for only a second before heading in another direction. “And did you hear Malpravus’s proposition? Yes, we can all become one guild, when the guild’s name is Sanctuary, and yes we can all use our guildhall, when you all fill out applications and I kick into the gutter the ones of you I can’t stand!” He calmed after the last words flew out.

Curatio, sensing that the worst was over, chimed in. “At least none of those measures passed. And in fairness, if Orion and the rest hadn’t gone to an Alliance guild, they would have gone somewhere else; somewhere that they would be of no benefit to anyone in the Alliance.”

Alaric shook his head. “We need to be independent. No more Goliath, no more treachery, and no more diplomacy with people who are constantly making your blood boil. I have weathered this so-called Alliance,” he said, looking directly at Cyrus, “in order to provide opportunities to those in our guild that desire a challenge without leaving the home that we’ve built. Now,” he continued, almost snarling, “the allies that are supposed to share our best interests are compromising ours to advance their own agendas.”

His gaze was powerful, and his words sent a rush of motivation through the warrior that would keep him moving for the next six months. “We face a grave threat, from a source unknown. Build our strength, get us powerful enough so that I can get us free of this wretched Alliance and convince our guildmates that we don’t need these vultures any longer.”

Chapter 26

“Burnt Offerings has inducted 1,152 people in the last month,” Niamh told the Council, reading from a roll of parchment. “Amarath’s Raiders have 911 new members; Endeavor has added another 783.” The elf looked around the shocked faces at the table, biting her lip.

“Holy Bellarum,” Cyrus breathed. “Where did they find that many people?”

“The armies of the major cities and empires, from other guilds a step below them on the food chain, from mercenary companies – from anywhere they could. The short answer,” Niamh said with a look of grave disappointment, “is they did everything we were intending to do. I heard they even sent envoys to the troll homeland.”

“This does not bode well for our impending recruitment drive,” Curatio said, eyes downcast.

Vaste spoke up. “This changes nothing.”

“I don’t know about that,” Niamh said. “They’ve put out feelers in every major city in Arkaria, letting everyone know that they’re looking for new members, that they’re not necessarily worried about how well equipped these people are, and they’ve temporarily suspended their membership dues. They’ve captured a lot of potential candidates that might have been looking.”

“True,” the troll said. “But we have something that they don’t.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

Vaste leaned forward, eyes burning. “We only care about the content of their character, not how experienced or equipped they are. In short, when it comes to their effectiveness as a fighter, we have no minimum standard. They do.” He looked around the table. “Right?”

Cyrus leaned forward. “It’s true. They might have dropped equipment requirements, but they will still require at least two years of combat experience, whether in an army, in a guild, or somewhere else.”

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Vara said. “You want to solve our strength problem – the problem we have with a lack of experienced candidates for our army – by recruiting inexperienced candidates for our army?” She rolled her eyes. “Brilliant. In fact, so brilliant I wonder how he,” she said, nodding in Cyrus’s direction, “didn’t come up with it first.”

Cyrus let the remark pass. “I think Vaste might have a good idea here.”

Vara froze. “Not that I think this will ever be a problem in your case, but I must insist that you don’t breed,” she said to Cyrus.

“Are you sure?” he replied, burying his annoyance in an ingratiating smile. “I think a few practice attempts at breeding would solve a great many of your attitude problems.”

“Oh,” Vara said, “I think I’m going to be quite ill.”

“If we could focus on the problem at hand?” Alaric appealed to them. “Cyrus, you were saying?”

“Right,” the warrior said, “what Vaste says has merit for two reasons: first, we can train rookies. Second, Niamh said that those guilds – and I’m sure countless other guilds a step or two down the food chain from the big three – have been recruiting in every major city.” The warrior’s eyes were alight. “But most of the people in Arkaria don’t live in a major city.”

Curatio nodded. “Most of the populace lives in towns, in the villages, on farms, and so on – which are usually not very close to a portal.”

“Which means it takes longer to get to them,” Cyrus said. “We can go to them, to every village in the countryside and seek out people that might be looking for adventure, young and old – and we can train them ourselves. We won’t get many magic users because of how the Leagues scoop them up to train them from childhood, but we can train anybody to use a sword or a bow or a dagger.”

“We could build an effective army with warriors and rangers at the core,” Vaste said.

“So, again,” Vara said, “your plan is to drag in any seamstress or pig farmer with visions of adventure and delusions of grandeur, give them a sword, and place them in the front lines of our continuing battle with the forces of evil and… what? Use their corpses as shields for those of us that can actually fight?”

“Anyone can learn to fight if they want to learn badly enough,” Vaste said. “I say we give them a chance and see who among them wants to.”

“It won’t be easy,” Cyrus said. “But if we focus on finding people who do have, as Vara so eloquently put it,” he shot her a dazzling but fake smile, “‘visions of adventure,’ and show them some success, we’ll find new recruits that we can grow with –”

Niamh jumped in. “And we have enough equipment; the Armory is full. We could give them swords and armor without any difficulty; we have plenty of spares lying around that we aren’t even using.”

“These potential recruits,” Cyrus said, “get a shot at adventure, something everyone dreams about, and we get new soldiers for our army.”

“You mean a barely-trained rabble,” Vara said.

“I’m impressed at your ability to constantly come up with creative insults and ways to criticize but never an idea to fix the problems we’re dealing with,” Cyrus said. “Tell me, does your myopia extend to all areas of your life, or just your duties as Council member? Because that would explain why you’re unable to see why no one likes you.”

“Myopia? I see quite clearly, thank you,” Vara returned as the color left her face.

“Please. You’re so narrow-minded you could wear the finger of my gauntlet as a helm.”

“That’s no difficulty; your fingers are the size of sausages,” she stammered.

“The better to… never mind.” Her eyes narrowed, as though she could sense the reply he’d discarded. “My point is, do you have anything to contribute that would help us or are you just here to piss on every idea we come up with?”

The elf said nothing for a long moment. Her eyes remained narrowed, but she did not meet Cy’s gaze.

“As long as we emphasize,” Curatio spoke up, breaking the tension of the moment, “that honor is of paramount importance to us.” The elf looked around the table. “So long as we remember that, we’ll be fine – forget it, and we are lost.”

“I agree, Curatio,” Alaric said. “I would rather have ten honorable comrades at my side that don’t know which direction to point their blade than a thousand skilled mercenaries that I can’t trust to turn my back on.”

A small sound followed as Vara cleared her throat. She had grown paler still since Cyrus’s last insult, and when everyone turned to her at the sound, she nodded without meeting anyone’s eyes. “Agreed. Honor above all else,” she said, her voice breaking ever so slightly.

“Very well,” Alaric said. “We have an agreement about what must be done. Let us adjourn.”

Alaric halted Cyrus as he began to head toward the door, and waited until the rest of the Council filed out. Vara was the last to leave, and cast a stricken look at the Ghost before she exited. She was still pale as she shut the door. Alaric Garaunt turned his full attention to Cyrus, who was waiting nervously for the Guildmaster’s rebuke.

“As the presumptive General you will need to spearhead this recruiting effort,” Alaric began without preamble. The knight looked up at the warrior, meeting his gaze with his one good eye. “I doubt you will be back for several months, if you’re to go to all the far off places that other guilds won’t.”

Cyrus blinked. “Are you sending me because I’m the best person for the task at hand or are you trying to put some distance between myself and Vara?”

Alaric leaned back in his chair, studying the warrior. “Your internecine squabbles do not concern me – at least not at their current level of intensity.” The paladin smiled ruefully. “Should they grow to be much more tempestuous, I may become concerned, but we are not quite at that juncture yet. No,” he finished, “I believe that when it comes to communicating the vision of the road we have ahead, both pitfalls and possibilities, you will be best for the job.”

“Very well,” Cyrus nodded. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Has she always been this… difficult?”

Alaric thought carefully for a moment before he answered. “Her skill with a sword is almost equal to her skill with her tongue – but the latter is sharper, I fear,” said Alaric. “In you she has finally found someone who will neither be intimidated by her forceful personality nor wear down from the constant sustained attack that she can muster.”

The paladin cast a sidelong glance out the window, gazing at passing clouds. “Vara,” he said without expression, “is the closest I’ve seen to somebody embodying the essence of a storm.” The paladin held up his hands. “Do not read more into that than what I have said. She is very much like a daughter to me since the day I found her, wounded and on the verge of death.”

“So that’s why she dislikes me so much? Because I’m not intimidated by her and because I won’t back down?” Cyrus chuckled.

“No,” Alaric said with a smile. “You assume too much. I never said she disliked you.”

“If that’s what she does to people she likes,” Cyrus said, brow furrowed, “I don’t want to know how she treats her enemies.”

“Nor did I say she likes you,” the paladin continued. “Let us focus on the task at hand. It would be best for you to travel with another guild member and leave tonight.”

“Here’s your helm, what’s your hurry?” Cyrus said with a touch of sarcasm. “Who should I take with me and where should I begin?”

“For the next thirty days you should head north, stopping at every village along the way. I will send druids and wizards in advance of you, to give word that you will be coming, and to set up times that you will be there to meet with interested parties. In a little over a month you will be in Reikonos. From there I want you to head east to the dwarven capital of Fertiss, then south into the Gnomish Dominions. Go through the Mountains of Nartanis and along the northern edge of the Inculta Desert, seeing the people of the villages along that line.”

The paladin stopped for a moment, considering. “That will take a further three months. Once you reach the village of Taymor, at the far western edge of the desert, on the shores of the Bay of Lost Souls, you will teleport to the oasis in the middle of the desert and you can visit the settlements of the tribes there before teleporting to the Elven Kingdom in the west. It will take you a month to make your way through the Kingdom properly.”

“That…” Cyrus said without emotion, “…is an aggressive schedule.”

“I will send aid to you throughout but it needs to be done and I know of no one better than you to carry out this mission,” the Ghost said. “As you leave these villages we will set up times for a druid or wizard to pick up potential candidates and bring them back to Sanctuary, where we will work with them in your absence on basic training and getting to know them and their character.”

Cyrus frowned. “What’s the hurry?”

Alaric brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. “The news that Ferocis has been stolen from the titans, by itself, would be of no great concern. People steal things of value on a regular basis. However when two godly weapons are stolen and a third changes hands mysteriously in a short window of time I become concerned.”

Cyrus’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Let’s say someone was stealing these weapons. What would they use them for?”

Alaric was lost in thought for a moment. “They are weapons that bear immense power. The fraction of godhood that imbues each weapon would bring the wielder greater strength, speed, dexterity – mystical shielding to absorb damage they would take.” Alaric sighed. “In short, a fighter equipped with one of these weapons would be able to take on an army and emerge victorious if they were skilled in battle. If it were possible, I should like to put one of these weapons in your hands and turn you loose on the Goblin Imperium.”

“If these weapons are that powerful, why didn’t the titans or the goblins have their most skilled warriors wielding them?”

“It is a double-edged sword, if you’ll forgive the metaphor.” Alaric pulled his hands apart. “Yes, it increases the strength of the fighter using it, but should that person fall, the weapon can be lost and you would face a much worse foe.” Alaric sighed. “The fear that it would be used against them has kept the Scimitar of Air and the Spear of Water under very close guard by their respective kingdoms for a long time.” He shuddered. “I do not care to consider the consequences should someone retrieve all of these weapons.”

“Why does it matter?” Cy asked, confused. “They’ve got one god’s weapon; didn’t you say that’s enough to defeat an army?”

“Yes,” Alaric said. “So far they have acquired three of six. Can you imagine they will stop halfway to getting them all?”

“How many do you really need?”

“It would depend on your ultimate goal. One would suffice for a loner; someone only looking out for him or herself. They would be able to win any duel they fought, commit any crime, escape from any lawful authority that decided to pursue them. But consider what you would be able to achieve with six superior fighters, each holding one of these weapons. If they fought together, as comrades, it is possible they could even conquer the world.”

Cyrus shuddered at the thought of facing six skilled and nearly invincible combatants. “Where is the Scepter of Fire – Torris, I think it’s called?”

Alaric nodded. “That was last said to be possessed by the dragons in Hewat.” The Ghost smiled. “Any fool that would steal from a city of dragons is unlikely to survive the attempt.” Alaric turned his gaze to the window. “But not knowing the foe that we face makes that assumption rather foolish, doesn’t it?”

“What should we do?” A steely determination filled the warrior.

Alaric turned back to Cyrus. “Our purpose remains unchanged. We are in no position to fight even a group of six that possess these weapons. They are imbued with the magic of the gods, and in order to face an enemy of this magnitude, we will need a true army. Your mission must begin as quickly as possible.”

Cyrus nodded. As he turned to leave, he looked back. “You still didn’t answer about who I should take with me.”

The Guildmaster looked at him, face inscrutable. “I think it would be best to have different people with you throughout the journey. For the first leg, between here and Reikonos, I would suggest J’anda. It will make things go smoother in your efforts to recruit dark elves.”

Cyrus nodded. “Then I will take J’anda, so long as he’s willing.”

“Before you go,” Alaric stopped him as he turned to leave, “I am certain you are fully capable of doing this. Are you certain you are willing? Because this will not be easy; it will tax you and only one who fully believes in the purpose of this mission will succeed in swaying others to our cause.”

Cyrus looked at the Ghost, eyes burning. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

A smile creased the knight’s worn features. “Then go, my friend, and let us make Sanctuary strong once more.” The Ghost took a deep breath. “Because if we are right, I suspect that soon we will need that strength.

Chapter 27

Cyrus set off the next morning on horseback with J’anda as his travel companion on the road toward Reikonos. Every day, they would stop in at least one village, following a plan drawn out by Alaric. They had large meetings to drum up interest and then follow-up talks with a number of locals throughout their journey, and as soon as they were done, they would leave.

The meetings always seemed to take longer than the time Alaric had allotted for them, and by the second week they were exhausted, having traveled through the night regularly to make their next destination on time.

One night, they had found themselves about to be attacked by a group of highwaymen outside of a village called Prehorta, between Sanctuary and Reikonos. The enchanter had caught the bandits with his mesmerization spell and they stood motionless as Cyrus killed them one by one.

“How does that spell work?” Cyrus asked, curiosity overcoming his fatigue. They had moved down the road and set up camp for the night. They sat around the fire, and he looked at the dark elf, who merely smiled back.

“Would you like to see?” J’anda said.

“Yes, I would.”

Before J’anda could raise his hand, there was a cracking of twigs in the underbrush behind them. The warrior leapt to his feet, sword in hand. Cyrus could feel his pulse racing, all trace of tiredness gone as he peered into the darkness, trying to see what was coming their way. The sounds grew louder and closer, soft footsteps walking through the wet grass – whoever it was drew near.

With a start, Cyrus lowered his sword. “You,” he said, irritated at being startled, words almost an accusation.

“Me,” Vara said, striding slowly out of the darkness, armor glinting in the light of the campfire.

Cyrus regarded her with suspicion. “How did you find us?”

She pointed at the campfire. “It’s not difficult when you set out a beacon that says, ‘Here I am! Come slit my throat and steal my belongings!’” Instead of favoring him with a look of usual disdain, it was a bit more impish. “It’s a bit of a mystery to me how you’ve survived to the ripe old age you have.”

He snorted. “Says the she-elf. What are you, a thousand years old?”

“Hardly.” She took a step closer to him. “If I were human, how old would you guess I am?”

“I would assume you were a teenager,” he shot back. “And that’s based on maturity.”

“What makes you think,” she said, voice soft, “I’m not?”

“I’m waiting for the insult,” he said. Where had J’anda gone?

“I’ve grown tired of insulting you. It’s far too easy.” She walked past him, and he felt her hand land on his side, putting a gentle pressure on it, even through the layers of armor.

A chill ran down his spine at her touch. “What are you doing?” he said, alarmed, fighting his instinct to take a step back.

“Shhh,” she told him, and he felt her other hand land on his side, undoing the strap of his armor and reaching under the chain mail beneath, finding his flesh and caressing it. “Aren’t you tired of fighting? It’s all just masquerade.” She slid around to his front as his breastplate and backplate hit the ground. Her fingers found their way into his hair, running through it as she brought his mouth to hers.

Cyrus put aside his shock, completely wrapped up in her kiss. She was soft and it had been… over a year, at least. Another surprise hit him: he found he wanted her desperately. He returned her kiss with a passion he could not have imagined, and he felt her other hand working, heard pieces of armor hit the ground and then he felt her pull away from him. Cyrus opened his eyes to see her standing before him, expression filled with the same almost indescribable look he had glimpsed on the day they met.

He drank in the sight of her, eyes dancing, hair gleaming in the firelight. Her hand came to rest on his chest and he felt a rush as she leaned into him. Their kisses were hungry and she continued to undress him, helping him slide the chain mail over his head and then he felt his skin against hers. He pulled back from her embrace, reflecting that Andren had been right in what he’d said so long ago; that what he saw now might be the sweetest sight known to man. Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him close once more; now there was nothing between them but the cool night air as they sank onto his bedroll.

A sudden shock ran through Cyrus, and a feeling that he was spinning, then he was sitting upright once more, next to the campfire, J’anda looking at him with pity. “Sorry,” the enchanter said with a little embarrassment. “I apologize for bringing you out of the trance at such a moment, but you were resisting the spell.”

Cyrus’s breath was ragged, coming in gasps. “That… was what being mesmerized is like?”

“Yes,” the dark elf said. “It shows you the deepest desires of your heart and brings them to you in a way that seems plausible to your mind. The spell keeps your mind trapped in your dream so you are unaware of the world outside. The stronger the enchanter,” he said with a smile, “the stronger the effect of the illusion.”

“Does it feel different than when you are charmed?”

“Much,” J’anda said with a smile. “It takes a much stronger will to resist mesmerization. You broke out of it, which is… unusual.”

The warrior had caught his breath. “Can you see what is happening in the mind of the person you’ve mesmerized?”

“Yes,” J’anda said with reluctance after a moment’s pause. “I don’t create the illusion but I help give it form. The magic exposes their heart’s desire, and I help craft the illusion to give it to them.”

Cyrus stared straight ahead, stunned. “So the deepest desire of my heart is…” His words trailed off and they sat without speaking. Cyrus finally looked up after being lost in thought. “Did you know?” he asked J’anda. The enchanter raised an eyebrow. “What I would see? Did you know before you cast the spell, before it told you my ‘heart’s desire’?”

The enchanter smiled. “As they say in Saekaj, where there is heat, there is fire, no?”

“We’ve certainly had a fair exchange of heat.”

“You maintain your free will during the course of the enchantment. Your reaction was genuinely yours.” The dark elf shrugged. “If you’d like, you could simply say to yourself that you are a man who has been without the company of a woman for far too long, and she was likely the first woman on your mind.”

Cyrus’s hands covered his face. “This must happen often if you’re that skilled at coming up with a lie people can tell themselves to feel better after they find out…” Cyrus’s words drifted off as he pondered the implications of what came next, “…what they truly want.”

J’anda laughed, cutting himself off abruptly after Cyrus sent him a pitiable look. “Ah,” the enchanter said, coughing, and turned serious. “It happens more than you think. The greater danger is that there are people in Sanctuary that ask me to mesmerize them so that they can have that moment of bliss, and they don’t want to leave the illusion.” The dark elf looked a bit downtrodden for a moment. “I’ve had to tell someone before that I cannot do this for them, ever again. It was… heartbreaking,” the enchanter said in a tone that left no doubt that it was just as he had described. “If you want my advice about Vara…”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Cyrus said. “Vara and I are not a healthy match for each other. It would be best if I just buried it.”

“You never know,” J’anda said. “Perhaps her ire for you is cover?”

“I doubt it,” Cyrus said with certainty.

“As you say.”

They did not speak of it again until the night J’anda returned to Sanctuary. They were in the Great Square of Reikonos, and had said their farewells. “Tell whoever is coming to join me that I’ll meet them here at midday. If they come before that, tell them to come to the old Kings of Reikonos guildhall in the slums.”

“The slums?” The enchanter raised an eyebrow, one of his favored expressions. “Hardly the place for so skilled an envoy to spend his night.”

Cyrus smiled at the enchanter. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Your illusions give you great adaptability when it comes to finding common ground with whoever you’re talking to.”

“Ah, but you see,” J’anda said with a glint in his eyes, “that is not the illusion; that is simply me.”

“I believe that,” Cyrus said with sincerity. “Take care, my friend. I know you’ll do your best to take the people we’ve recruited and help turn them into a capable force by the time I get back.”

“You take care as well,” J’anda said. “If Alaric is correct, we shall need all the help we can get to deal with whatever danger awaits from these weapons.” After a moment’s thought, he said to the human, “About your illusion, your ‘heart’s desire’…”

Cyrus shook his head impatiently. “I won’t dwell on it. It will never happen.”

“I see,” J’anda said, with sad eyes. “You should always be careful when saying the word ‘never.’ Such an ugly word; a killer of all possibilities. In the dark elven tongue, ‘never’ is a word that doesn’t exist – we would say, ‘It’s an unlikely thing,’ or ‘It seems improbable,’ but there is no word for ‘impossible’ or ‘never’, because the things you decide are never going to happen,” the enchanter said with an undisguised smile, “have a way of happening when you least expect them to.”

With a flourish, J’anda cast the return spell and vanished in a burst of light. While the light of the spell receded from his eyes, the enigmatic smile that the enchanter had flashed him as he left and the words that he said echoed in the warrior’s mind for the rest of the night.

Chapter 28

Cyrus blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he fought his way to consciousness. For a moment he was confused, awakening in the Kings of Reikonos guildhall. The sun was barely showing through the wood panels that made up the building. Due to the canyon-like nature of the slums, the appearance of sunlight meant that it was close to midday. Cyrus fought the urge to return to sleep and strapped on his armor and scabbard before bolting out the door.

The clock in the square showed 11 o’clock when he arrived, and Cyrus settled himself by the fountain after filling his cup from it twice. It tasted much, much different from the water he had been drinking from the rivers and springs of Arkaria over the last month, he reflected as his horse, Windrider, came up and dipped his face into the water for a drink. Cyrus shrugged and turned to scan the square, blinked and did a double take.

“Hello old friend,” Orion said from a few paces away.

Cyrus nodded. “Hello, Orion. How goes it?”

The ranger smiled. “Quite well. What brings you to Reikonos on this beautiful day?”

“I’m just passing through, but I’m waiting to meet another Sanctuary officer here.”

Orion couldn’t hide his pleasure. “So the rumors are true: you’re an officer now. Good for you.”

Cyrus returned the ranger’s smile, a bit more guarded. “Yeah. Doing our best to rebuild after the debacle.”

Orion’s eyes fell and his face turned grave. “Rebuilding is going to be a long road for you, brother. I’m sure you’ve heard: the big guilds of Arkaria have gotten most of the talent and everyone else has been scrambling to get their hands on as many new recruits as they can. There’s not much left at this point.”

Cyrus smiled. “We’ll see.”

Orion walked closer, sitting himself beside the warrior on the fountain. “Listen, when I brought you to Sanctuary, it was because you’re a great warrior with the potential to be one of the best – if not the best – in Arkaria.” Orion smiled again, but with a hint of insincerity. “But that was when Sanctuary was rising, when they were a force to be reckoned with. Because of – all that,” the ranger said, glossing over his defection, “Sanctuary is going to struggle as a fighting force for some time.

“You’re a great leader,” Orion coaxed him. “Goliath could use your talents.” Orion looked around the square. “Your only hope of successful expeditions with Sanctuary in the near future is going to be small actions, little invasions. With what you’ve got left you won’t be seeing any of the realms without the Alliance.”

“So what you’re saying,” Cyrus’s eyes focused on the dirt at his feet, “is I should leave Sanctuary behind, like you did, so I can move up to Goliath?”

“Right,” Orion said. “Isn’t your purpose to be the best? Don’t you want more?”

“I do.”

“Then follow me,” Orion’s eyes were alight with possibilities, “instead of wandering to the four corners of Arkaria in search of a farmer whose skill with a rusty pitchfork translates into swordsmanship.” The ranger smiled at him. “You’ll spend the next four or five months in the countryside, working your ass off so you can find a few good people, and the rest will be chaff that gets blown away by the next strong wind.”

Orion’s hand landed on the warrior’s shoulder, reason filling his soothing voice. “Come with us. No need to rebuild, and with your skill and with the equipment we would give you, you could step into the role of Goliath’s number one warrior, and be an officer candidate in no time. Malpravus likes you; he says you have great potential.”

“Oh my,” Cyrus breathed.

Orion did not hear him. “Bypass the next few months or years of hell you’re gonna put yourself through to build an effective fighting force – your odds of success are very low. You’ll end up frustrated and Sanctuary will still be in the same spot in a year.” Excitement filled the ranger’s voice. “This is not a time for building strength. You can’t compete with Endeavor or the others; they’ve got a lock on recruiting. You need a guild that’s already got strength, that can step up and take you where you want to go.”

“Well,” Cyrus said, voice flat. “You certainly paint a grim picture.”

The ranger shrugged. “It’s reality. What do you say?”

“To your proposition?” Cyrus asked, voice again devoid of emotion. “Thanks, but no thanks. I haven’t forgotten what Goliath did at Enterra, even if you have. If I’m to fight to the top, it should be in a place where I can trust my guildmates.”

“So you’ve fallen into the trap of Alaric’s ‘noble purpose’.” Orion shook his head. “Instead of wanting to be the aggressor, the victor, you want to be a defender? Spend your time helping the helpless instead of getting more powerful? You’re going to be sorry a year from now, when Goliath is exploring the realms of the gods and you’re still struggling to fight off bandits in the Plains of Perdamun.” Acid dripped from the ranger’s words.

“Perhaps,” Cyrus said. “But at least I’ll know that if I have a guildmate at my back, I need not fear they’ll put a knife in it.”

With a tight smile, Orion offered his hand to Cyrus once more, who shook it. “Best of luck, Orion,” Cyrus said.

“To you as well,” Orion said, but the words echoed with a certain hollow quality.

Curatio had shown up in the square a few minutes later, all smiles. “Good to see you, brother! Let’s see if we can make the next leg of this journey as productive as the first.”

They headed out the eastern gate of Reikonos and followed the road past the coliseum on a frantic schedule much like he had followed with J’anda, with too little time between meetings and times to talk with candidates on a one-on-one basis. Once again he found himself traveling late into the night, he and Curatio shorting themselves on sleep to meet Alaric’s schedule.

“When you get back to Sanctuary,” Cyrus had quipped one day as they were leaving a village, “please do give Alaric my thanks for his attempts to kill us.”

“Aye,” Curatio said with a smile. “I don’t think he believed J’anda when the enchanter told him that you were run ragged on the first leg, but I’ll make sure he knows it when I return.”

“Assuming that by the time we get done there’s anything left of you to return. Any news on the weapons?”

Curatio shook his head. “Nyad and I went to Pharesia to warn them and Alaric personally went to Reikonos to speak with the Council of Twelve that rules the Human Confederation. We were informed that both weapons are still there, and safe as they can make them.”

“Did they take you seriously or brush you off?”

Curatio raised an eyebrow. “I know we were taken seriously in Pharesia. I suspect Alaric has enough credibility to get his message across in Reikonos as well. How many people do you know who go before the ruling Council of Twelve?”

Cyrus thought about it for a moment. “That would be the first. Not many people get an audience in the Citadel.”

Over the next days they found the ground and the air around them getting colder, snow beginning to pile up as they trudged from the summery beauty of the Pelar Hills into the frozen tundra of the north that surrounded the mountains of the Dwarven Alliance that was north and east of Reikonos. Their destination was Fertiss, the dwarven capital, but they made stop after stop at human and dwarven villages along the way.

The humans of the northern clans were dramatically different than the dwarves that populated the frigid lands. Somewhat furtive and suspicious, the dwarves largely kept to themselves. The men of the north, on the other hands, welcomed them with open arms and Cyrus and Curatio had far too much ale in the days that followed.

“Next time we come this way I’m sending Andren in my stead. I cannot recall a time when I’ve had that much to drink,” Cy said one morning after a long, boisterous night at the inn with several potential recruits. His head was still swimming.

“There’s a reason for that,” Curatio said, looking a bit green. “You’re yet young enough to make these sort of mistakes. I’m old enough that I should know better.”

In village after village Cyrus made his plea for people to join them, always closing his argument with the same words: “Some of you have wanted adventure from a young age, have wanted to live life on your terms and not reliant on what the soils would give you or the nobles would hand you or what money would come in. Many of us believed that that life was not possible, that we had not the skill nor the ability to live in such a way.”

His eyes scoured the crowd, trying to make contact with every person in whatever place they were meeting. “I know this because I have felt the same – that perhaps life had passed me by, that I was always destined to be poor and stuck in a life I cared nothing for. I tell you now,” he said, fire in his eyes, trying to pass it on to the others in the crowd, “that this is lies. Adventure still awaits!

“You can have whatever it is you desire, but we must fight for that life. I can train anyone who wishes to learn to be an adventurer, who wants to learn to live for themselves instead of their lords, their masters. I can train them to live a life of adventure, with a purpose greater than living just for themselves.”

By the time he got to that point, he had already talked for several minutes about Sanctuary – who they were and what they did, where they wanted to go. His call to action got responses from his audiences. By the time he and Curatio reached Fertiss, they had actually outdone what he and J’anda had achieved in the first thirty days.

Cyrus and Curatio said their farewells in the halls of Fertiss, a city built into the mountains, combining dwarven love of cave architecture with the tacit acknowledgment that many outsiders did business in the dwarven city, and as such, half the town was located outside.

As Curatio disappeared in the light of his return spell, Cyrus reflected that although a genuinely decent elf, the healer was not much for conversation. Cyrus had only successfully engaged the healer about Sanctuary and their efforts. Whenever asked a personal question, Curatio would simply smile, shrug, and move on to another topic; usually an evaluation of one of their potential recruits, leaving the warrior frustrated. Curatio also refused to discuss members of Sanctuary, greatly curtailing their ability to find common ground. “It’s not my place to say,” was the elf’s response when asked about anyone, from Vara (most commonly) to Alaric.

Cyrus settled down for the night in an inn nestled in Fertiss’s foreign quarter, where the next person from Sanctuary to accompany him was to meet him on the morrow. He enjoyed a long soak in the inn’s hot springs, and it was five o’clock in the evening when he fell asleep in the extra large (to dwarves) bed. He did not wake up until he felt a gentle caress on his cheek at ten o’clock the next morning.

Chapter 29

Cyrus awoke to find Nyad smiling down at him from the edge of his bed, hand gently stroking his face. He blinked three times in surprise before he sat up. “How did you get in here?” he asked in shock. “I locked the door!”

The elf smiled back. “Locks are no great difficulty for a wizard.”

“Especially when the innkeeper opens it for you,” said a dwarf from the door. “You know this elf? She said she was to meet you.”

Cyrus looked down at the dwarf. “Yes, thank you.” The innkeeper nodded and shut the door behind him. Cyrus turned back to Nyad in surprise. “I thought they were sending an officer?”

She shook her head. “There are only so many of you to go around, you know. They sent me instead; the Council is busy making preparations for war and training the candidates you’ve sent.”

He yawned. “Sorry, I’m a bit tired; was just trying to catch up on my sleep.”

“You’ll need it. Alaric has set an aggressive schedule for us,” she said, handing him a piece of parchment with dates and times written on it.

Cyrus studied the parchment with a frown. “This is worse than the last two parts of the journey.” He looked up at Nyad. “Curatio told me he was going to get Alaric to loosen up the schedule.”

Nyad looked back at him. “Yes, Alaric said you might demur. He said to remind you that time is not our ally.”

“I suppose,” the warrior said. The sleep he had gotten had not cured his chronic sense of fatigue and malaise, but it had helped somewhat.

“Very well then,” Nyad said, jumping to her feet. “Let’s make a start on our mission.” She clapped her hands together like a child and looked at him expectantly, still wrapped up in the covers.

He looked back at her. “I’ll be needing to get dressed before we can go.”

“All right then,” she said, still staring at him. “Get to it! We have not a moment to waste!”

He blinked at her. “Nyad, I’m not wearing anything under the covers. I’d like you to leave so that I can dress.”

“Feh!” She brushed him off. “I’m two hundred and eighty-five years old, and spent more than fifty years of my life in Termina. I promise you,” she said with a smile, “there’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen before, many, many times.”

“You haven’t seen mine,” he said and refused to move.

Calling him a prude, Nyad finally acceded to his wishes and left, slamming the door behind her. Once he was dressed, they mounted their horses and rode out the front gate of Fertiss, making their way down the mountain paths.

“So you were… uh… with humans in Termina?” Cyrus said, uncertain how to broach the subject.

“With? You mean in bed with?” she said with a cackle. “Oh, certainly. Humans, dwarves,” she said, voice turned wistful. “A gnome one time – that was very unsatisfying. Even a dark elf or possibly five – that was a strange night,” the wizard said, lost in thought. “Termina is a very different place from – well, from where I was raised, which was in Pharesia, of course, but… even more so from the environment in which I was raised.”

“How so?” Cy’s grip tightened on Windrider’s reigns.

“Not that people don’t have sex in Pharesia, they do – what’s the point of living for thousands of years if you can’t enjoy yourself, right?” she said with a sly grin that made him remember that she was older than any human woman he’d ever met by almost two centuries. “In the Elven Kingdom relations are governed by caste. There are promiscuous elves in Pharesia, but if you wish to retain face, you must stay within the boundaries of the proper social behavior and not associate with someone in a lower caste than yourself. In Termina,” she smiled at the memory, “anything goes.”

Cyrus’s eyes were wide, having learned more in the last few minutes about elves than he had ever really wanted to know. Nyad, catching sight of the look on his face, cackled. “Prude,” she called out again, louder this time, echoing across the snowy road and through the mountain peaks beyond, mocking him.

“I am… not,” he said without feeling.

“You are,” she said with another laugh. “Your whole society is.” She turned her clear blue eyes on him. “It’s not as though everyone doesn’t do it. But humans get so caught up in talking about it, as though there’s some righteousness to ignoring such a fun practice. And when you do talk about it, it’s gossip. So-and-so slept with such-and-such.” She snorted. “And don’t get me started on the delicate practice of saying ‘slept with’ instead of –”

“That’s enough,” Cyrus interrupted, uncomfortable. “I get the point.”

She laughed again. “I doubt it, but we’ve reached the edge of your comfort zone.” She looked back at him, eyes dancing. “We’ll keep working on that. I’ve got thirty days to despoil you.”

They followed the mountains south to the river Mussa, leaving the frozen tundra and turning inland to follow the river south-west, stopping in the fishing villages by its edge. It was a wet country, with many streams feeding into the river, and a near-constant rain. They met with a succession of farmers and fishermen until they reached the shores of Lake Magnus, the largest lake in Arkaria. Taking a ferry across at the mouth of the river, they headed southeast into the Gnomish Dominions.

Along the way, Nyad would chatter for hours about a variety of topics, most of which seemed to lead back to sexual matters. He could safely say that compared to her, he was a prude. She spoke at great length of her ‘conquests’ and would not hesitate to throw aside her robes at a moment’s notice with nary a consideration to propriety, fording streams in the nude with her robes carried safe and dry above her head.

The third time in a morning that it had happened, Cyrus was fighting against the current in his heavy armor, teeth chattering from the cold, and the elf shook her head like a mother, already on the other side of the stream, redressed and mounting her horse. “Now your prudishness is going to cause you to catch a chill,” she clucked at him. Fortunately he did not catch a chill, but when they reached the fourth stream, he at least removed his armor before they crossed.

“Better,” she said as he strapped the metal coverings on his wet body. “But you’re still going to be cold for a while.”

His eyes lingered on her body when she undressed at the next crossing. As a human, she would have looked to be no more than thirty years old, and pretty enough, he thought. He reflected a bit too long, and she caught him looking. With another loud laugh, she pronounced with undisguised pleasure that he was beginning to come around to her way of thinking. Cy blushed but did not argue with her assessment.

He stripped his armor off, and his underthings as well, and crossed in the same manner as she. Upon reaching the other side of the stream, he did not shy away from her eyes as she looked him up and down in appraisal. She moved closer, still in the nude, rain falling down, and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close in a strangely comfortable manner, and put her hands on his face, drawing it to hers.

She met the heat of his gaze, and did not break off. Her look was sly, though, and there was something else to it. “Let’s be completely open with each other before I completely open to you,” she said, pressing her naked flesh against him. “If I were to give you the relief you seek…” her eyes studied him, “would you be thinking of me? Or of another blond-haired elf of our mutual acquaintance?” He looked away and her face fell. “I feared as much,” she said as she pulled away from him and began to redress.

His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he began to dress, slowly, frustrated. He heard Nyad’s voice behind him, formal in spite of the fact that they had just been pressed naked against one another. “You were married, yes?”

“Yes,” he said, voice hollow.

“But it didn’t go well.”

“No,” he said without further explanation.

“How long ago?” she asked, now fully clad in her robes, standing behind him.

He struggled as he pulled the wet chainmail over his head. “She and I parted ways over two years ago.” He did not meet the elf’s eyes.

She whistled, a low tone that seemed completely out of place coming from her. “So now I know from whence your desperation is born.” She knelt beside him, carefully adjusting her robes to avoid the mud. “I suppose I would not be wrong in suspecting you have not felt the touch of a woman since then?” She kept her hands away from him, folded in her lap.

All trace of shyness removed, he shook his head. “I see,” she said, eyes downcast. “I fear that I may have provoked you to action without knowing the facts.”

He turned his head toward her sullenly. “It seems like you knew all the facts already; perhaps someone told you; perhaps you’re just exceptionally discerning. No matter what, you’ve guessed accurately.”

The elf looked embarrassed for a change. “I did not know or suspect any of those things until the last few minutes; the only thing I guessed at before was your desire for Vara, but that was obvious to anyone who had watched the two of you for more than a few moments. I did not see the depth of it before I read it in your eyes just now; I thought it might have been a passing fancy.”

She blushed. “I am a relentless tease, of course I joke, and as you are a handsome man – yes, I said it – with all the desire inherent, I thought it would be fun to enjoy ourselves to the fullest in our time together. But I cannot,” she said, crestfallen, “now that I know about your feelings for Vara.” She held up a hand to forestall his protest. “I do apologize, especially in light of the facts of your case. Two years is a long term to serve, but I would be doing you no favors if I were to ‘give in’ to your desires.”

She stood up and looked down at him and he could see wisdom in her expression; it permeated her being. “You are in love with Vara,” she said. Though there was no accusation in her tone, it felt like it to Cyrus, who had thought of almost nothing else since his night by the campfire with J’anda.

“Yes,” he whispered, hoping for it not to be heard.

“It wasn’t a question,” she said. “You must resolve these feelings, one way or another – it is unhealthy to be in such a state as they would demand.”

He looked down, still seated on the muddy ground. “Can’t you just… I think it would be better if we…”

She shook her head. “That way lies madness.” She extended her hand and with a surprising amount of strength helped draw him to his feet, armor and all. “You think,” she said, looking at him with intensity, “that in all my years I have not tried that? Burying myself in the arms of another willing partner to avoid feelings I prayed to Vidara would pass?”

She shook her head again. “No, I’m afraid until you resolve this one way or another, my answer will remain ‘no’.” Her hand found his cheek, and brought his mind back to the day, two weeks earlier, when she had awakened him at the inn. She favored him with a sad smile and after he helped her back up on her horse, they rode on in a silence that did not lift until the next day.

Chapter 30

In the days after, the rain stopped as they entered the Gnomish Dominions and Nyad was much more restrained in her topics of conversation. Any time Cyrus steered their talk in a direction that could potentially lead to anything sexual, Nyad would change the subject to another matter. Toward the end of their journey, Cyrus finally brought up the one subject that he knew would be of interest to her. “Fine,” he said in response to a diverted inquiry into her time in Termina. “Why don’t we talk about Vara?”

Riding ahead of him, he could see Nyad smile. “You know I’m not at all reluctant to talk about others,” she laughed. “Although I have to confess, I don’t know Vara terribly well; we aren’t the closest of confidantes – not that anyone is with her,” she added with another laugh.

“What do you know about her?” he asked. “Why does she have such an attitude?”

“Well,” Nyad began, “I think that comes from her age.”

“Her age?” the warrior said with a furrowed brow. “Do you know how old she is?”

“Everyone – at least every elf – knows Vara’s birthday and age,” Nyad said. “She’s only twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight?” Cyrus said in shock. “I thought maybe you’d say one hundred and twenty-eight.” He paused in thought. “Why would every elf know Vara’s birthday and age?” The warrior looked alarmed. “Is she royalty?”

Nyad’s face turned dark. “No,” she answered in a voice that did not invite further inquiry, something uncharacteristic of the usually bright and cheerful wizard.

They did not speak about Vara again for the rest of the day. Sunset found them south of the Gnomish Dominions, which they had fully explored, stopping at a great many villages. Without sufficient-sized places to meet, Cyrus had taken to addressing their crowds in the streets of the gnomish towns, which got him yelled at on more than a few occasions for disturbing the peace and he had been kicked out of one village.

“Ornery enclave of necromancers in that village, if you ask me,” Nyad had said, rather nonplussed.

On the last day of their journey they climbed into the foothills of the Mountains of Nartanis, stopping in a human settlement called Montis along the northern edge of the mountain range. After meeting with people throughout the day, Nyad followed him to the inn that night. “Successful endeavor all the way around, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, that was pretty successful,” Cyrus said, yawning. “It would appear we’re going to swell the gnomish population of Sanctuary by a considerable margin.”

“That’s good,” Nyad said. “Gnomes don’t get a great deal of respect in the world at large; if you picked any race that’s likely to be a slave, it’d be gnomes. There are as many gnomish slaves as there are free gnomes.”

“I’ve heard that somewhere before,” Cyrus said without much enthusiasm. He looked around the inn. “I suppose this is where we say our farewells.”

Her face was locked a grimace. “No hard feelings.” Her eyes widened in alarm as she realized what she had said. “I mean…” she paused, calming herself. “You know what I mean.”

He grinned. “I know what you mean.” He waited a beat. “And for what it’s worth, thank you. For… almost everything.”

She smiled, and once more her wisdom shone through. “I suspect,” she said with a mysterious smile, “that at some point you’ll be glad that things did not play out here as they could have. I suspect I’ll be sorry that they didn’t.” Without another word, she summoned the energies of teleportation and vanished in a burst of green energy.

A moment after she vanished, the inn door swung open and a red-haired elf strode in. A flash of recognition crossed her face and Cyrus smiled at her. “Hello, Niamh. You just missed Nyad.”

“I wouldn’t say I missed her,” the druid said. “Ready to go?”

“Not really,” Cyrus replied. “I usually get at least one night to recover before the next leg of our mission. Which is fortuitous, because I haven’t had more than three hours of sleep per night in a month.”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” she said, “But tonight is not your night. We’re assembling an army, remember? Grave threat hanging over our head and all that?”

“It is uppermost on my mind, when I’m not too tired to think.” He shrugged. “Any news?”

“No news is good news,” Niamh said with a smile. “The weapons are still in place in Reikonos and Pharesia, and we’ve sent a detachment of our people to both cities to keep an eye on things. Now.” She clapped. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and the terrain between here and Taymor is very rugged; lots of mountain paths and then hundreds of miles of near-desert.” Niamh brightened. “Which is actually why they sent me to you now – my spell to imbue you with the essence of the falcon should come in handy.”

Cyrus nodded. “That is fortunate, but I’m still concerned about falling asleep and falling down a mountain.”

“No need to worry about that, silly ass, I’ll guide you. Come on,” she said. “We’re already running behind.”

Grumbling, Cyrus climbed back into the saddle of his horse and tried to keep his eyes open as the lulling of the spell that allowed them to float rocked him to sleep. Niamh had the reins of his horse gripped in her hand as she led the way out of town down a rocky path. So tired was he that Cyrus did not remember arriving at the next village, but was awakened by a shock of cold water on his face and sat up to realize he was laying on a bed of straw.

“You’re really heavy,” Niamh said in annoyance, standing at his feet with an empty bucket.

“What?” he spluttered.

“You fell asleep on your horse and I couldn’t get you in to the inn we were staying at so I just let you drift to the ground in the barn.”

“Couldn’t you have found some… more pleasant way to wake me up?” he asked, wiping the water from his face.

“Bah,” she said. “This was much more amusing. Besides,” she blinked her eyes innocently. “I tried shaking you, but like I said, you’re heavy, and I couldn’t get you to move much with all that armor.”

He pulled himself to his feet. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Well,” she said, unfolding a piece of parchment and handing it to him, “we’ve got early meetings in this town, and then around midday we’ll be out of here and into the next town by evening for another meeting.”

“If I survive the next two months,” Cyrus said, “I will not leave Sanctuary again for a very, very long time.”

“Right,” Niamh said. “Well, let’s get on that surviving business.”

The next few days passed in a blur. They crossed the mountainous terrain for a day or two at a time, then spent a half day in a small village or town, Cyrus speaking as usual, and then left as quickly as they had arrived, with a time and a list of names of people who would meet their druid or wizard later for passage to Sanctuary.

At some point, after about two weeks of travel, Cyrus and Niamh had entered into an easy rapport. Back and forth, and able to venture into the realm of personal inquiries.

“You’re in love with Alaric?” Cyrus said with just a hint of skepticism after the druid’s admission.

“Yeah,” Niamh said after a moment. “I don’t really know what to do about it, though.”

Cyrus blinked in confusion. “I thought you and Curatio were together?”

“Oh, heavens no. He’s a lot older than me. And an elf.”

Cy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re an elf.” She sputtered for a moment, unable to respond. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said with a sigh, “I found out a few months ago that I’m in love with Vara.”

“Wow,” Niamh said with a laugh. “You might be the only person in Sanctuary with less of a chance at love than me.”

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” he said in a sour tone.

“Misery loves company. Or at least a sympathetic ear.”

“I’ve got a question for you. Are you older or younger than Nyad – if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t mind. I’m six hundred and twenty-three. So, yes,” she said with a smile, “I’m older than Nyad by a bit.”

“Nyad said that every elf knows Vara’s age and birthday, and when I asked her if Vara was royalty, she said no but got tense and wouldn’t speak any more.”

“Vara’s not royalty,” Niamh said. “Nyad, on the other hand, is – which might be why she got so testy about it. She’s a princess of the royal family; the King’s youngest daughter. Not only a part of the massive royal family, but a Princess, no less – one of fifty or so, and being the youngest, she’s more honored than the older ones.”

“They respect youth more than age in the Elven Kingdom? Interesting,” Cyrus said with surprise. “Never heard of a race that does that before. But that also leads me to the next question I have – which is, if Vara isn’t royalty, why does everyone know her birthday and age? Nyad made it seem like she was famous throughout the elven world.”

“She is,” Niamh said. “But… I can’t really talk about it, I’m sorry,” she said. “Vara’s history is tied up in a pretty sensitive topic to elves, one we don’t discuss with outsiders.”

“Not at all?”

“No,” she said, red hair whipping in the wind.

The next two weeks passed more quickly than the first, and Cyrus felt progressively worse as they went. This was compounded by Niamh’s steadfast refusal to discuss the topic of Vara’s mysterious history with him. “I’ll tell you anything you want about Vara since she joined Sanctuary,” the red-haired elf told him. “But don’t ask me about anything before that, because I’ll give you the same answer: it’s a sensitive matter, one we don’t talk about among outsiders.”

As the days passed, the Mountains of Nartanis gave way to flat land on the edge of the Inculta desert: sparse, desolate terrain broken up by small villages at least a day’s ride from each other. When they reached the village of Taymor at the far edge of the desert and on the shores of the Bay of Lost Souls, they stopped for the night.

The next day, Niamh transported them to a portal on the edge of the oasis, a lake in the middle of the desert. They spent the next five days traveling to seven villages that ringed the body of water. Each of the villages belonged to a different tribe of desert dwelling humans. Wild men and vicious fighters, the tribes of the south catered to travelers passing through as well as a few mining operations but were feuding with each other. The heat of the desert gave Cyrus a feeling of perpetual feverishness and even when they reached the end of their time in the desert and left, the feeling did not depart.

On their final day together, Niamh teleported them to a town in the Elven Kingdom, on the other side of Arkaria. They appeared at a portal not far from a village called Nalikh’akur close to the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp.

“Nalikh’akur,” Niamh explained with the knowing voice of someone who had lived through more history than most humans had read about, “is an elven military outpost on the frontier of troll territory. During the war it was first to fall to their invasion but once they were defeated the Elven Kingdom rebuilt it, complete with a garrison to watch troll activity. Nalikh’akur means ‘Last Bastion’ in the human tongue.”

“Hmh,” Cyrus said, still feeling warm and flushed from their time in the desert.

“You don’t look well,” Niamh said. “I can’t believe you’ve done this for the last five months.”

“Neither can I,” Cyrus said without energy. He pulled tighter on Windrider’s reins. His arms felt heavy, as did his helm. “But ‘time is of the essence’,” he parroted Alaric for the umpteenth time.

“Getting close,” she breathed. “We’re meeting in the tavern.” She guided her horse to a stop. Dismounting, she walked through the door.

Cyrus did not notice; he nearly fell off his horse in his dismount attempt. Struggling to put one foot in front of another, he made his way through the door to the elven tavern, and discovered a sight that under normal circumstances might have shocked him: Vara, sitting at a table with Niamh, drinking an ale and waiting with an air of impatience.

“Took you long enough,” she harrumphed as he walked through the door.

“I made it as fast as I could,” he said as forcefully as he could muster – which wasn’t very forceful at all.

“We’ll be leaving this town at midday tomorrow” Vara began, “after a meeting tomorrow morning. We’ll ride south and west, to the Emerald Coast, and visit three villages there before we cross to the east and start meeting with some of the elves of the woods. From there we’ll head south, wending our way toward the capital, Pharesia, where we’ll conclude our business and teleport to Reikonos for a last meeting.”

“I thought…” Cyrus said, fighting to squeeze every word out, “…Reikonos had already been picked clean by every other guild in Arkaria.”

“They have. But Alaric believes that you may in fact be able to offer the last few unguilded souls in Reikonos something that no other guild can offer.”

“What’s that?” Cyrus said.

“A sense of honor and purpose,” Vara answered in annoyance. “You know, these basic principles upon which we stand, that you are supposed to be emphasizing as you go across the land bringing word of our efforts?”

“He’s telling everyone, trust me,” Niamh said before Cyrus could try and formulate an answer. “He’s doing a magnificent job of it. We managed to find another 165 potential recruits in the last four weeks.”

Vara straightened. “Not bad. That’s almost five hundred since you left, outside of our other efforts.”

“Other efforts?” Cyrus’s words sounded slow and distorted. Everything that was being said sounded as though he was listening to the conversation under water.

“Yes, we’ve not made you our only hope. Is there some reason,” she nearly spat at him, “that your head is laying on the table?”

“I’m tired.”

“Could you, for once in your time with Sanctuary, at least try to represent us with a spirit of dignity?” she snapped.

Cyrus was beyond caring. A moment after she spoke he slid from his chair and landed on the floor. There were interruptions in what he saw after that – Niamh and Vara, both looking concerned over him, talking quickly.

“He’s burning up and my healing spells aren’t doing anything,” Niamh said, breathless.

“Some sort of natural fever then,” Vara said from above him, looking down. “How long has he been ill?”

“I don’t know; he hasn’t complained about feeling ill – only about being tired.”

“Can you hear us?” Vara asked, turning her attention back to him. Cyrus saw but did not feel her slap his face. He heard the impact echo in his brain. She was there, hair shining in the dim lamplight.

“I think… I should tell you,” he said, focusing every last bit of his concentration on Vara, “I think you… need to know…” Gods, she looks beautiful, he thought. Even a bit concerned – a new expression to him.

“What?” came the elf’s reply, distorted, slow.

Blackness claimed him.

Chapter 31

“I don’t care!” Vara nearly shouted.

Cyrus awoke to the sound of an argument, still feverish. He clutched at the blankets that surrounded him, trying to pull them closer to his damp skin.

Niamh was standing in the corner, very near to a door, and Vara was facing her, back turned to Cyrus. The paladin was not wearing her armor. She was clad in a simple cotton shirt and pants, which was unusual for a woman – even an elf.

“Alaric wants it done now,” Niamh said. “He sent me to tell you.”

“If Alaric wants it done, then tell him to get off his etherial arse and do it himself!” Vara said, voice crackling with rage.

“I will tell him that,” Niamh said with a trace of a smile. “If for no other reason than it will bring him a laugh.” The druid brought her hands together and disappeared in a blast of wind.

Vara faced away for a moment, still looking at the spot where Niamh had teleported. He heard a sound come from her, something that sounded almost like a choked sob, and she turned to face him. His eyes were blurry as he stared at her.

“Ah,” she said with a sniff. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” he whispered, straining to string words together.

“How are you feeling? I only ask,” she said, “because Alaric is concerned that we are falling far behind on our mission.”

“I’ve felt better.”

“I should think so.” Vara stepped to the foot of the bed and adjusted the blankets around his feet. “You are still feverish. Healing spells will not improve your condition, which means that if you die of whatever illness you seem to have contracted, we will be unable to resurrect you.”

“Thanks,” Cyrus said without emotion. “That’s reassuring.”

“I am merely trying to be honest,” she said, eyes flaring in anger and – he might have been imagining it – fear?

“I see,” he murmured and passed out again. When he woke, she was beside him in a chair. She had changed into something that looked like a nightgown, and she was sleeping. The only light in the room came from the lanterns and candles. He watched her for a while, then drifted off again.

When next he awoke, he felt something cool and damp on his forehead. His eyes opened to a vision of Vara, cloth in hand, dripping cold water onto his head. “I’m trying to bring down your fever,” she said when her eyes met his.

He coughed and motioned for water, which she brought to his lips in a small dish.

“It’s been very difficult to get you to take water,” she said as he was drinking. “I’m glad you’re awake, because trying to get you to drink when you’re semi-conscious has been no mean feat. Niamh left a few days ago to let them know at Sanctuary that we wouldn’t be making our scheduled appointments. I’m told they have managed to cover for our absence.”

“It’s a shame,” Cyrus said. “I was looking forward to seeing the green elven country after the last weeks in the desert.”

“Oh, really?” she said without turning back to him. “And here I thought you had decided upon seeing me that night in the tavern that you would rather collapse and lie in bed for the next four weeks instead of tour the Elven Kingdom with me as your companion.”

“I’ll admit,” Cyrus said, shifting in the bed, “upon seeing you, I did have a momentary concern about working together. It felt as though as very big object was rushing at me, very quickly. But just moments later, it was replaced by the actual sensation of the tavern floor rushing up at me very quickly.”

She laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that turned into a somewhat girlish giggle partway through before she managed to choke it off. She turned her head; by the look in her eyes it was clear she hoped he hadn’t heard her slip. A hand covered her mouth in semi-shock.

“Hah.” Cyrus laughed at her. “You actually found humor in something I said – and we’ve exchanged a few sentences without bickering.”

“I often find humor in what you say.” She turned away from him again. “Unfortunately for you, it’s rarely from things you intended to be humorous.”

“Ah,” Cyrus said with a little disappointment. “There you are again.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said with a trace of sadness. “I’m tired. I think I’m going to rest now…” He felt a sudden pressure from his head hitting the pillow as his neck muscles gave out, and he was unconscious again.

He awakened again at night, but something was different. The world around him was blurred, and lights seemed to streak in his vision. Urgent voices filled the air around him.

“My spells are still ineffective,” came the voice of a man that seemed very familiar. “He’s getting worse.”

“No doubt,” came Vara’s reply. “The fever is going to kill him if we don’t do something.”

“I’m not sure what else we can do, here. If this were Sanctuary –” the man’s voice came back.

“You’re a healer, for gods’ sakes!” Vara exploded. A moment passed with nothing said. “Fine,” she continued, and Cyrus felt he might have imagined her gritting her teeth. “Help me get him out of bed.”

“A walk would be nice,” Cyrus said, but what came out was completely unintelligible. He felt strong hands grasp him under each arm and lift him out of the bed. The cloth nightshirt he wore was soaked, clinging to his skin and chest hair. He heard and felt the door to the room open as Vara and the man carried him between them, one arm on each of their shoulders and dragging his flailing legs behind him.

“Stop trying to help us,” she snapped at him. “You’re making this much more difficult.”

“Okaaay,” Cyrus said again, once more making a complete hash of his words. He turned his head to look back at what he could have sworn was Narstron, waving at him from the side of the street, but a flash of insight revealed that it was, in fact, a shrub.

“I had assumed,” Vara said, voice strained, “that relieving him of his armor would make him considerably lighter but in fact I cannot tell a difference.”

“Heh,” came the man’s voice next to him. Cyrus’s head swung around, feeling a bit loose on his shoulders. He realized with a start from the carefully groomed hair that it was Curatio.

“Curatio!” he shouted, barely sensate.

“Sounds like he’s at least conscious enough to recognize me,” came a grunt from the elf.

“Marvelous,” Vara said with sarcasm. “If only he were conscious enough to assist us in transporting his considerable bulk.”

“I tried to help,” Cyrus said, once again squeezing the words out, “but you told me to stop, and I did as you said.”

“Why does it take being feverish to the point of near death and being dragged around to get you to listen and act on reasonable suggestions? All right, we’re here. Curatio, wait on the shore; there’s no reason for both of us to get completely soaked.”

Cyrus felt water splashing around his feet, then ankles and knees, felt muddy dirt between his toes as their pace slowed and Vara took up more of his weight on her shoulder as Curatio relinquished his grip on the warrior. After a half dozen more watery paces, Cyrus could feel water up to his waist. Adjusting her grip on him with a hand across his chest and back, Vara kicked his legs from beneath him and dropped him onto his backside in the water, submerging him up to his neck. The water was cold and his teeth began to chatter immediately.

“Don’t thrash about like a gutted fish,” she said, voice stern.

“But it’s really cold!”

“It’s not cold. It is summer and this pond is warm. You are feverish.” She clutched him tighter to her.

He felt her warmth – the only warmth he could feel in the freezing water and pulled nearer to her as well. His teeth knocked together and he hugged her so tightly that he feared for a moment he would crush her. When he went to loosen his grip, she pulled him closer. His face lingered over her shoulder, and he could feel her wet hair, hanging in tangles on the left side of his face. In spite of the chill, it felt good being this close.

“I always suspected you were trying to kill me,” he said, “but I assumed it would be swordplay, not drowning, that you would do the deed with.”

“If I were to truly try and kill you,” she said with fake annoyance, “I would certainly use a sword, if for no other reason than it would not involve me having to carry your overmuscled arse across a village to ‘do the deed’, as you so eloquently put it.”

“Overmuscled?” he said, drawing back to look at her eyes. They were such a bright blue, catching a glimmer of the lamps hanging on the streets of Nalikh’akur. “You noticed.”

She flushed and her face softened. “It would be impossible not to notice, being pressed against you like… like…” He could tell, even in his weakened state that she was searching for an appropriately insulting analogy. “…like this.”

He felt her hand slapping him on the face and realized his head had lolled back and disorientation had taken him. “Please…please…wake up!”

“You can stop slapping me now.” His voice was a whisper. He lifted his head and steadied himself, looking once again into her eyes and found concern within them.

“Just… don’t do that.”

“I promise I’m not trying to.”

Another giggle escaped her, then a slightly deeper laugh. She wrapped both arms around his neck to hold him upright and drew him close, keeping his head above water until dawn.

Chapter 32

After the sun came up, Curatio helped them out of the water. “Your fever is broken,” the healer pronounced with a smile. Cyrus could barely stand under his own power. “You should be fine for now.”

“I’m hungry,” Cyrus said.

“Let’s get back to the inn and I think we can settle that problem,” Curatio said as he assumed a carrying position on Cyrus’s left. Vara moved to his right and grabbed his arm, more gently this time. He looked at her, and she looked back at him, but there was no venom in her eyes. She blinked at his gaze and looked away first. They walked back to the inn in silence but for the groans of the two elves, who were still carrying most of the warrior’s weight.

“You could at least help us!” Vara’s tone was all irritation, the moment of calm gone.

“I’m trying,” Cyrus said.

They deposited him in a chair at the tavern, where the owner proceeded to bring him platefuls of fresh eggs, beef, pork and chicken as he dripped on the floor.

Vara looked at him with a cocked eyebrow as he finished his fourth plate. “I don’t wonder anymore why you were so heavy to lift,” she said shortly after Curatio had left them to retire to his room upstairs.

The warrior looked back at her with a sly smile. “I bet you couldn’t go five minutes without throwing a verbal barb my way.”

“I could and I have, in fact, over the last few days – largely during times when you were sleeping.” She smiled. “But I usually don’t wish to defer such excellent ripostes to your often deserving statements.”

“I rest my case – I don’t think you could go a day without throwing some sort of jab my way.” He grinned.

She feigned shock. “You assume because you lack the self-discipline to control your tongue that I do as well. I could easily go a year without verbally abusing you for being an incompetent oaf with poor habits in your swordsmanship and hygiene.”

“Perhaps you could start with a week,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“I think…” she said, slowing the pace of her words, “a month would do nicely for a test, don’t you?”

“A month it is. But if I win, I want something from you.”

“What’s that?” Her brow furrowed, curiosity in her eyes.

“I don’t know yet. But traditionally, when you bet, there’s something to wager.” He sat back in his chair. “We’ll have to agree on something later; I’m too tired to come up with something creatively punitive right now.”

The next days passed in an agonizing mixture of quick moments and slow recovery. The fever lingered for two more days, hampering Cyrus’s ability to move about. As soon as Curatio had pronounced him healthy, he jumped from the bed, eager to go anywhere else.

“You probably won’t feel like yourself for a week or two,” Curatio beamed at him. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, brother.”

“Thank you. It can’t have been easy to leave Sanctuary right now, especially with everything that’s going on.” The warrior looked at Vara, who was reserved, but the ice normally present in her eyes had melted somewhat. Turning his gaze back to Curatio, he asked, “So, where do we go from here? I’d like to finish my mission in the Elven Kingdom.”

Curatio raised an eyebrow. “For the last couple weeks J’anda and Niamh have been covering your absence. If you’re feeling that much better, you could take over for them.”

“I’m not opposed to you killing yourself in principle, but we just nursed you back to health.” The fire was back in Vara’s eyes now. “You could at least do us the courtesy of waiting a few weeks before undoing all the good we just did.”

Cyrus laughed. “There’s only two weeks left. I could handle two more weeks of that schedule, given what’s at stake.”

“You’re mad,” Vara said, pointing a finger at him. “Barking mad. Howling at the moon mad!”

“I need to finish this,” Cyrus said, urgency permeating his voice.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I feel this need to complete a task once I’ve started it. And before you answer,” he said, interrupting her already forming reply, “remember that you just wagered me that you could go a full month without insulting me. Calling me crazy was close to the line.” He wagged his finger at her.

She looked at him through half-lidded eyes, considering her response. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it. Finally, she said, “Very well. But I want a lighter schedule that will allow you to take your time.”

Curatio chuckled. “We can work something out. In any case, I’m needed back at Sanctuary to deal with the influx of new blood. Can I do anything for you before I go?”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “What’s the word on the weapons in Reikonos, Pharesia and Hewat?”

“No idea about Hewat.” Curatio shrugged. “No one has contact with the dragons. We have a few people lingering outside the Citadel in Reikonos and the Museum of Arms in Pharesia.”

“They keep the Scimitar of Air in a Museum?” Cyrus shook his head. “Elves are bizarre.”

Curatio cast his return spell and disappeared into the burst of light that accompanied it, leaving Cyrus alone with Vara. “Back to bed with you,” she said in a voice that left no doubt that it was not a suggestion.

“I’ve been in bed for days,” he said, irritable.

“And you’ll be in bed for a few more if you want to be able to travel in good order. Take a nap,” she said, “and later we’ll work on getting your strength back up by going for a walk. We leave the day after tomorrow, and we have a long ride ahead of us.”

They left the inn two days later, setting out on horseback at a pace Cyrus would have found more appropriate for walking alongside an elderly grandmother. “We’re not going to push you to your limit,” Vara said. “I want you to be in good condition to talk to these potential recruits, else we might as well go back to Sanctuary.”

“Fair enough,” the warrior grumbled.

They settled into a silence that was only broken when Cyrus asked Vara a question. “I’ve heard about how busy things are back at Sanctuary but I haven’t heard much about Alaric lately. How is he?”

“Alaric is fine,” she said. “He was here, in Nalikh’akur. He came to check on you the day after Niamh left. We had…” her jaw tensed, “…a marvelous conversation, he and I.” She did not elaborate further.

Three days journey south placed them in a town called Traegon. Filled with exquisite elven architecture, the city had towers and minarets on almost every building. They ventured into a local inn and found Niamh sitting next to J’anda, who was wearing an elven illusion. After exchanging pleasantries over drinks (“Ale for us, water for him,” Vara had told the innkeeper, pointing at Cyrus), J’anda and Niamh departed.

They met with many elves that day, and Cyrus could feel his vitality return as he spoke, telling them of the direction Sanctuary was headed, and of the opportunity they had to be a part of that movement. He shook a great many hands while Vara stood back with her arms crossed. A few looked as though they wanted to ask her something, but none ever said what was on their minds. They left Traegon the next morning, southbound once more, this time heading for a smaller village only a half day’s ride away.

“When did you first start learning to cast spells?” Cyrus asked her in the midst of one of their increasingly common civil conversations.

“All holy warriors learn to use basic magics early in their training with the Holy Brethren,” she answered. “I suppose it was somewhere in the first year or so after I began my studies.”

“Holy Brethren?”

“It’s the paladin’s version of your ‘Society of Arms’. They train us in the Crusader’s path from an early age.”

“Hm,” Cyrus said aloud. “I wonder if I could learn any spellcasting ability. It’d certainly come in handy from time to time.”

“You have all the magical talent of a silkworm. If you’d had any, it would have been identified by one of the magic-using Leagues and cultivated from childhood.”

He regarded her with suspicion. “Sounded like an insult.”

“No… ah…” she fumbled, “silkworms create a silk thread, you know. Spin it into fabric – it’s really quite… magical.”

He laughed at her, and she smiled at him. “You know,” she changed the subject quickly, “I admire the effort you’ve put into this recruiting drive; especially how much fortitude it must have taken to do this.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I doubt… no, I know that I could not have handled this as well as you have.”

“It’s not that bad; I haven’t been in combat.”

“No,” she said with a grimace, “you’ve been dealing with rubes, which is infinitely worse.” He shot her a look of confusion and she explained, “In combat, at least you get to strike down those who offend you. You can’t kill a rube simply for being stupid, no matter how much you’d like to.”

He laughed. “You’re certainly not the patient sort.”

“I would say that I have never been one,” she said with an air of sweetness, “to suffer fools gladly.”

“The problem with that approach is that you so loosely define ‘fool’ to encompass anyone whose name isn’t Vara.”

She feigned shock, mouth comically agape. “That’s simply not true! It would also encompass Alaric and Curatio.” The smile widened, mocking him.

“I see. Then I suppose there’s no room in your heart for a certain human warrior to join that definition.”

“My heart?” She stuttered, a bit caught off her guard.

He grimaced and cursed to himself. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

She seemed rattled by his comment, and they proceeded in silence to the next town, where they met with people throughout the day and at night retired to the inn, where they enjoyed a quiet meal next to the fire. Vara had removed her armor and was wearing her cotton pants and shirt. As she came down the stairs, the firelight glinted on her fair hair and a smile covered her lips, pushing up the edges of her mouth and making Cyrus realize for the first time that she in fact had very slight dimples in her cheeks. He rose to greet her, and kissed her hand in an oddly formal manner that brought a blush to the cheeks he had just been studying.

They chatted pleasantly through dinner, avoiding any serious subjects. He got her to laugh three times, aided by a very good wine suggested by the innkeeper that came from elven vineyards close to Amti in the southern lands. By the end of the evening, the blush on her cheeks was permanent, and in his somewhat weakened condition, he too felt the effects of the spirit.

“I think I’ve finally come up with an idea for our little wager,” he said with a smile.

“Oh?” Her eyes bored in on his. “Do tell.”

“I think that if I win, we do this,” his hands moved in a sweeping gesture to encompass her and the room, “again. Except next time, you have to wear a dress.”

She frowned. “I have never cared to wear a dress.”

He grinned. “I’m sure it interferes with your ability to swing a sword.”

A small laugh escaped her. “In point of fact, it does.”

“And if you win…?”

“When I win, you mean? I haven’t given it much thought. Perhaps I’ll have you fetch my slippers in the morning and bring them to my bedside.”

His grin grew wider. “So I’ll be the first thing you think of when you wake up?”

Her eyes rolled. “Alas, Brevis could not have come up with a more pitiful response than yours.”

“I am feeling a bit short on wit lately.”

She snorted, almost spitting her wine back into the glass. “Terrible, that was.”

“I have to know,” he said after another sip of wine, “something that I’ve been wondering for months now…”

“What is it?”

“One of the other elves told me… that every elf knows your birthday and how old you are.”

She pulled the glass to her lips, stalling. “Is that so?” she asked when she had returned the glass to its position on the table.

“Yes, that is so,” he said, narrowly avoiding slurring his words. “So I asked… this elf, the one that told me that about you, and she said you’re not royalty. What conclusion should I draw from that?” he asked with what he thought was an endearing smile.

She met his smile with one of her own that twisted her mouth as she considered his question. “I think you should presume that elves are very funny people with a culture unlike your own and that putting together the pieces of the puzzle you just described would be very difficult… without further information.” Her smiled turned a bit wistful at the last.

Cyrus regarded her in seriousness. “Would Alaric know the answer to my question?”

She laughed. “Alaric might, but it would not be from me answering it. I suspect he and Curatio would have discussed that bit of elven trivia at some point.”

“Elven trivia?” he said with undisguised curiosity, made all the worse by the heat of the wine. “Niamh said it was an internal matter, and you don’t discuss it with…” he leaned across the table toward her, “…outsiders.”

“Oh, Niamh said that, did she?” The hint of a smile graced her lips. “We’re very private people, the elves. We keep a very intimate inner circle. What a human would call a friend, elves have a much deeper word for – covekan. It denotes an intimacy than humans can’t experience because elven relationships can last millenia.” She sipped from her cup once more. “Our closest covekan are with us throughout our lives, and the bond that entails means that once someone is part of your inner circle, you can truly share yourself with them. There are no barriers to communication, no withheld thoughts.”

“The elven version of a circle of friends, but more intimate?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes. The fortunate human lives between eighty and one hundred years. In that hundred years you would meet literally thousands of people and have a few good friendships – but most of them would start in your twenties or so. A quarter of the way through your life – and they take at least a few years to build true depth.” Her smile faded and her eyes became a bit lonely. “The average elf lives over five thousand years, some as many as six thousand. It takes over a hundred years for an elf to become covekan in the traditional sense of the word.” The light in her eyes grew dimmer still. “Imagine how close you could grow to someone in a hundred years.”

“You never did answer my question about you,” he said.

“My point is, elves do not let people into their confidence all willy-nilly. I hope you don’t take it as an offense, but I don’t think it’s something I’m ready to discuss with anyone.”

“So there’s no one yet that is covekan to you?” he asked.

She laughed. “No. As you pointed out, I am young by elven standards – at twenty-eight, I have not lived long enough to form that sort of attachment to anyone.”

“By your very actions you seem to try very hard to discourage any sort of attachment at all.”

“Yes,” she said, voice filled with regret. “There is that too.” She did not say anything for a few moments after that, but did not look away. She blinked a few times, then seemed to recover her newfound cheer. “So tell me,” she said, eyes alight, “what’s this I keep hearing about a sword you’re working on?”

Cyrus was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. “There are no secrets in Sanctuary, are there?” She shook her head. “It’s just something I’m working on.”

“You’re blushing,” she said with great amusement. “You’re actually embarrassed!” She stopped, perplexed. “Why would you be embarrassed?”

“It’s a grand quest, but it’s ultimately fairly selfish for me to want a new sword so badly I’d try and drag our guildmates to some fairly dangerous locations,” he explained with a shrug.

“I don’t think it’s selfish,” she said. “We all want things.”

“Even paladins?” Cyrus grinned.

Vara laughed. “Even the holiest of holy warriors wants something, although in most cases it’s to complete their crusade.” Her eyes refocused on his. “If you’re providing service to the guild, I don’t think it’s selfish unless you don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Then you’d be very selfish to drag your comrades at arms into danger unknowingly.”

He chuckled. “And what is it that you want?”

She bristled for a moment and then relaxed. “That remains to be seen,” she said, almost as though she were pondering whether she should tell him more. “I think I should retire for the evening. It’s been a long day, and we have a longer one ahead of us tomorrow.” She stood up and he joined her out of gentlemanly reflex. “Goodnight.”

He leaned in close to her and felt the pressure of her hand as she deflected him gently to a kiss on the cheek. “Goodnight,” he said with a whisper of sadness. As her back retreated up the stairs, he watched her go.

“What changed?” he called out. Blood hammered in his temples, filling him with a sudden recklessness. “A month ago you hated me. You would have danced on the day I left Sanctuary if you had heard I was never to return.” He shrugged. “I’m the same man I was a month ago, so what changed?”

She froze in the middle of the stairs, pondering for a moment in silence before she turned to face him. She stared at him, eyes brimming with a silent sort of despair that he had never noticed in her before. “I think… that in seeing you vulnerable, I saw the real you. Not the blustering warrior who’d jump into the middle of a battle at the drop of a helm; not the dashing and confident – sometimes arrogant – human who was quick with an insult – I think I saw you,” she said, words tumbling out. “And it was… different from what I had expected of you.”

He closed the distance between them, finding himself on the stairs next to her. “What do you see now?”

She blinked and turned away from his intense gaze. “Something different.” Looking back for just a moment, she added, “I see a good man, someone who won’t lead us into foolish action or abandon us when things become difficult.”

“Us?” he said, drawing closer.

“Yes. Us. Sanctuary.”

“What about you?” His hand rested on her back, so close he could feel her breath.

“Me?” she whispered. She pressed her forehead to his for just a moment before he could feel the change in the air. “I’m not ready yet,” she breathed, and pulled from his grasp, taking a few slow steps up the stairs, turning her back on him once more.

He stared at her receding back as she walked slowly up the stairs. “Just keep in mind, I don’t live as long as you do – if you wait too long, I’ll likely be dead.” Though he meant it as a jest, to lighten the moment, she did not laugh or look back. Upon reaching her room she shut the door and he did not see her again until morning.

Chapter 33

The next day, they did not speak of their conversation and Vara’s guardedness had returned. Although she admitted after a few hours that her head ached from the wine, she did not return to the more pleasant mood exhibited the night before. The next two weeks passed in much the same manner; Cyrus’s repeated attempts to return to a more intimate and friendly conversational style failed. Although Vara remained pleasant, she also remained distant.

By the end of the week, Cyrus attempted to quicken their pace, striving to finish early. Every time he tried to get ahead of schedule, Vara would interfere with a demand that he take a rest, or that they stay an extra day in some out-of-the-way town. He did not argue, and they ate their meals in relative silence. Once, on the last night, he could have sworn he caught her looking forlorn.

They met Nyad outside the elven capital of Pharesia at the appointed time. The elf greeted them with silence and a stricken look.

“What happened?” Cyrus asked her while dismounting.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with my fa-” she looked flustered. “From meeting with the King of the Elven Empire.”

Cyrus grinned. “Your father.”

Nyad rolled her eyes. “He informed me that the Museum of Arms was broken into last night, and that Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, was stolen.”

Vara’s jaw dropped. “Did any of our detachment report seeing anything?”

Nyad shook her head. “There was no sign of anyone entering through any of the doors: the intruder appeared to have entered through a skylight from above.”

Vara blinked. “Can we speak to our guild members from the detachment?”

“No.” Nyad shook her head. “They are in the process of being released from the jail – it will be several hours.”

“Jail?” Cyrus said with a start.

“They were all in proximity to the Museum at the time of the theft,” Nyad said with a deep frown. “I’ve spoken with my father and he’s agreed to release them on my request, but it will take time. Alaric ordered me to transport you to Reikonos. We’ve doubled the size of our detachment and he’d like the two of you to join him there.”

“He’s there?” Cyrus said. “Where can we find him? Around the Citadel?”

Nyad shook her head. “There’s a contingent there, but they’ve set up a headquarters at your old guildhall in the slums.” She looked at Cyrus as he blinked in surprise. “Andren is helping to lead the effort in Reikonos; he offered it.”

“We need to go now,” Vara said. “Who knows how much time there is before they strike Reikonos and takes the Spear?”

“Assuming they can. And assuming they’re going for it,” Cyrus said. “Who knows how many of these things they’re really after?”

“They can,” Nyad said grimly. “The Museum of Arms is one of the most well-defended buildings in the Elven Kingdom, complete with mystical barriers and a variety of other spells for defense, in addition to housing a large contingent of troops. If they can steal a weapon from here, they can take it from Reikonos.”

“In any case, would you care to bet the survival of our world on the idea that this nameless, faceless enemy is going to stop before collecting ‘the whole set’?” Vara glared at him.

“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “All right, Nyad, take us to Reikonos Square.”

Without a word, the wizard cast a spell that filled Cyrus’s vision with light and landed him in Reikonos Square. He and Vara exchanged a quick goodbye with Nyad as she disappeared in a blast of energy. Cyrus looked to the north to see the massive Citadel filling his view.

“Ever been inside?” Vara asked, not looking at him.

“Never.” Cyrus shook his head. “Let’s find Alaric.”

They made their way to the slums and Cyrus lashed Windrider at a hitching post outside the door of the old Kings of Reikonos guildhall.

“You actually lived here?” Vara said, voice high in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Cyrus said without meeting her eyes.

There was a long pause. “I cannot believe I made that stupid wager,” she said in a low tone. “The comedic possibilities here are endless.”

“Hush.”

Cyrus opened the door. Though the interior still contained the old bunk beds, they had been pushed against the walls and their old table had been set in the center of the room with a scale model of the Citadel sticking out from the middle. Clustered around it were Andren, Curatio, J’anda, Vaste and Alaric. Upon seeing them, the discussion halted.

Curatio greeted them with a smile. “Good to see you both – Cyrus, you’re looking much better.”

Alaric stood before him, helm placed on the table. The paladin’s good eye surveyed the warrior, and a slight smile creased the lines on the Ghost’s face. “It is good to see you, brother. I feared that I might have sent you to your death.”

“It’ll take more than a few months of hard work to kill me.” Cyrus smiled as he strode in, Vara at his side, to join them at the table. “What’s our plan?”

“As I was telling them, we have people here and here.” Vaste pointed at two spots around the Citadel. “A few more are spread out in something of a roving patrol, and we’ll increase our activity tonight.”

“Do we have any idea how they penetrated the security at the Museum in Pharesia?” Cyrus asked as he looked around the table.

“Other than entering from the roof?” Vaste quipped.

“I mean the mystical security Nyad mentioned? Barriers and whatnot?” Cyrus said with a sigh.

“No.” Curatio shook his head. “Although with their hands on the number of godly weapons they have, it would not be difficult for them to breach any mystical barrier, regardless of size.” The elf looked sick. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“What do you mean?” Cyrus looked at him blankly.

Curatio steadied himself on the edge of the table, suddenly very pale. “All the magics of our world can be harnessed and used by spell casters to varying effects. Whether it’s a druid, wizard, healer, dark knight or paladin, they all have different spells that harness the magics inherent in our world.”

The elf looked around the table, pupils dilated, eyes wide. “The weapons that they’ve been capturing have an advantage because they’re not from our world – they’re from the gods. Those weapons can cut through any barrier put up by anyone on our planet. They were created by the gods transferring some of their own power – their own godhood – into the weapon. Our magic is no match,” the healer finished with a sad finality.

“So why didn’t they just cut their way through the front door if the weapons are so powerful?” Vaste asked.

“I doubt that whoever is gathering these weapons would dare to risk any of their acquisitions in a frontal assault when they now have the power to bypass the mystical barriers and the stealth to avoid a confrontation.” Alaric leaned forward over the table, scouring the miniature streets.

“What’s the point of having these weapons if you’re not going to have a confrontation?” Andren mumbled.

“I’m sure they will,” Alaric said with a rueful smile. “But at a time and place of their choosing, not ours.”

“So the defenses for Reikonos are weaker than Pharesia’s?” Cyrus looked at Alaric and Curatio in turn.

Curatio nodded, still pale. “Correct.”

“So why take that one first?” Cyrus asked.

“No idea,” Alaric shook his head.

“Should we consider sending an envoy to warn the dragons?” Vaste asked. “They may have the only other weapon still out there.”

“They do not,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Cyrus turned to see a dark elf, axe slung behind him. The familiar smile was not present on the face of Terian Lepos as he crossed from the doorway to the table.

“I have asked for Terian’s assistance in this matter,” Alaric said, diffusing the surprise around the table. “He is well informed when it comes to the affairs of dragonkin; much more informed than anyone I have ever met.”

“Yes, I’m still wondering how that is,” Cyrus said with a smile.

“I’m friends with a few wurms – that’s w-u-r-m,” the dark elf said with a dazzling smile, aimed directly at Vara, who had already opened her mouth to say something and looked crestfallen. “The Scepter of Fire was stolen from them months ago, disappearing at roughly the same time as our old friend Kalam.”

“What are the odds?” Cyrus said.

“Very good odds,” Terian said, “when you consider that he was still highly placed in the dragon government, and would have had access to the weapon in question.”

Andren looked around the table. “So did he have it when we killed him?”

Terian shrugged. “I don’t know. When I checked his hoard with the other Alliance officers, I didn’t see anything that resembled it.”

Cyrus froze. “Wait. The Hammer of Earth was traded during an Alliance invasion, the Staff of Death disappeared before or during one, and now possibly the Scepter of Fire? I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

Alaric folded his arms and deep creases knotted his forehead. “This does not bode well for the Alliance if someone from within is involved in this plot.”

Terian snorted. “As though you trusted them to begin with.”

Vara slammed her fist onto the table. “I have never seen clearer evidence of Goliath’s treachery!”

“We don’t know for certain that Goliath is involved – or even if any of their members are involved,” Curatio said with alarm. “After all, the Warblade disappeared the night before our strike on Kortran. It could be someone from any of our guilds.”

Vaste raised an eyebrow, and for the first time Cyrus looked close enough at the troll to realize he had a new scar running down his forehead, a little dash of angry green standing out from the rest of his skin. “Or the entirety of one of the guilds.”

Alaric looked around the table, trying to meet the eyes of each of them in turn. “Or it could be none of them. I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt on this occasion.” The paladin cracked his knuckles. “Assigning blame would be pointless at this moment. We need to spend our time and energies on defending the last of the weapons.”

Vara crossed her arms. “There is a limited amount we can do, is there not? Can we place sentries inside the Citadel?”

Alaric shook his head. “No. The Council of Twelve is unwilling to let us involve ourselves in their internal security matters. They will not bar us from placing our people outside the Citadel, but neither do they wish us to ‘step on their toes’.”

Vaste stared at the diorama on the table. “How many people can we place around the Citadel?”

Curatio answered. “We have about a hundred in Reikonos right now; another fifty from Pharesia once they’re out of jail some time this afternoon,” he added. “We’ve got about fifty or so still back at Sanctuary, trying to get our new prospects up to speed. Which is going slowly because we’re spending so much time on these endeavors.”

Alaric stared hard at the Citadel model in the middle of the table. “I think I can safely say that regardless of the outcome here we will need those new recruits soon.” His eyes looked up to Curatio across the table. “Old friend, I need you to return to Sanctuary and speed up the training of our new adventurers. Don’t bother to have our comrades that are leaving Pharesia join us here: I want them back at Sanctuary aiding you.”

Curatio nodded. “I’ll leave immediately.” With a nod from Alaric, the healer cast the return spell and faded away.

“You’re not giving up on protecting the spear, are you?” Vara asked the Ghost.

Alaric shook his head. “No, but we are unprepared for the next step and I doubt we’ll need an army here.”

“What is the next step if we fail to protect Amnis?” Cyrus asked.

Alaric’s jaw tightened and he remained silent for a long moment. “The next step is facing whoever has these weapons when they make themselves known. And for that,” the knight said with some reluctance, “we will require an army.”

Chapter 34

They debated a course of action until sundown, when Alaric ordered everyone out of the old guildhall and to their stations around the Citadel. Cyrus knelt on a rooftop facing the towering spire. Vaste sat behind him a few feet, as did Andren and Niamh. Vara and J’anda were to either side of him. Cyrus surveyed the streets around the Citadel, his eyes seeing nothing but the city guards and members of Sanctuary. “Thanks for the frost stone,” he said to J’anda. “I wish the moon would come out from behind the clouds.”

The enchanter nodded. “All the better if it actually helps you see the thief.”

Vara turned to glare at them. “Maintain silence,” she hissed. “Our success is entirely predicated on the enemy not knowing we’re here, so shut up!”

“You’d think someone in Pharesia would have thought to station someone on a roof watching their museum,” Vaste said in a low rumble from behind them.

“High-born elves don’t possess a great deal of what you would call ‘common’ sense,” Andren said between swigs. “They rely on us lowborns to move their society forward while they watch. Amazing they’re still in charge of anything, really.”

Vara said nothing but Cyrus could see her roll her eyes.

Long moments passed in silence as the five of them scanned the nearby rooftops. Cyrus looked at the horizon, but the structures of Reikonos created an uneven skyline.

The Citadel was a spire that reached into the sky with a base as big around as any ten shops, perfectly rounded in structure. It stretched into the air to the height of thirty stories or more, the tallest building in Arkaria. At the top of the Citadel a bulbous expansion jutted out, wider than the tower that supported it, giving it the look of an exceptionally long neck with a rounded head at the top. Cyrus knew from rumor that within the top floors was contained the meeting room for Council of Twelve that ran Reikonos and the Human Confederation.

“How old is the Citadel?” Vaste said. “It’s so unlike the other buildings in this city and so much taller.”

“It’s older than Reikonos,” Andren said. “And older than me. The humans built the city around it.”

“Am I right in thinking that the spear would have to be on the top floors?” Cyrus said, refocusing their attention on the matter at hand.

Vaste grunted, but Vara answered before the troll could. “Seems likeliest, doesn’t it?”

Cyrus turned to face them. “If you were going to get someone into the top of that building, how would you do it?”

A moment of silence preceded the answers. “I’d take a flying mount, like a griffon,” Vaste answered first.

“Falcon’s Essence,” Niamh said.

“Invisibility spell.” Andren took the flask out of his mouth to answer.

“We can see through invisibility, you knucklehead,” Vara shot back.

“Hopefully we can see someone flying toward the tower or a griffon if it approaches as well,” Cyrus said. “Any other ideas?”

“An invisible person on an invisible griffon flying toward the tower?” suggested Andren half-seriously. Vara did not respond.

“If the Citadel were smaller,” J’anda said, “perhaps a rope to climb.” The enchanter looked at the structure. “But I think that even the strongest of warriors would have great difficulty ascending that height without falling.”

Cyrus looked at the Citadel with skepticism. “I’d have to agree. Any elf, human, dark elf, gnome, dwarf or other race would have a hell of a time climbing a rope to the top.”

They lapsed into silence. Something about that last exchange bothered Cyrus, tickling at the back of his mind. As he was considering it, the moon finally appeared from behind the clouds above them. A glint of something caught his eye in the moonlight. He looked closer. A strand was shining from one of the higher rooftops, leading up to the top floors of the tower and ending at one of the windows. Before he could say anything, a shadowed figure appeared from the window and began to descend in a line toward the rooftop below.

“There!” Cyrus hissed, finger extended to the rapidly descending shadow. An elongated rod was visible from the silhouette. “Whoever it is, they’ve got the Spear!” Changing his focus to Andren: “Get down to our troops on the street; get the rangers on their bows. Niamh, imbue him!” Without a word the healer ran toward the edge of the rooftop, running off just as Niamh’s spell took hold. “J’anda, see if you can mesmerize –” Cyrus tossed over his shoulder as he and Vara charged over the edge of the rooftop, Vaste and Niamh following on their trail.

“ALARUM!” came a shout from the street below. “ALARUM!” Lamps were shining up toward them now, and other voices were taking up the cry of, “ALARUM!”

Cyrus sprinted as hard as he could, legs pumping and feet carrying him forward as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He kept his eyes fixed on the silhouette moving down the rope, much more quickly than he could have imagined. He jumped and his hands caught the edge of the last rooftop, pulling himself up as the silhouette reached the end of its crawl. Cyrus drew his sword and heard Vara behind him doing the same. The silhouette unfurled from the rope and a sudden realization filled the warrior’s senses: it was not human-shaped at all. Eight legs set down upon the rooftop and two pincers clicked on the spear they grasped between them as the spider before him evaluated Cyrus. It was half his size and looked damnably familiar.

Cyrus charged and the spider bolted, crossing the rooftop in the opposite direction, spear clutched between its pincers, slung back over its torso. It slid across to the next rooftop on another thread of silk, and descended another after that, moving so quickly down the thread that Cyrus had difficulty keeping up, leaping from building to building. Vara was breathing heavily at his side, and considerably behind him the panting of Vaste was audible, as was the THUMP whenever the troll jumped to the next building. They crested another rooftop to find the spider descending from a one-story building into an alleyway.

Eight legs scampered along quickly, and Cyrus jumped to the street, bouncing off a wall and rolling to his feet. The spider turned a corner and dashed into the slums, but cut the corner a bit too short; Vara managed a slice that took off one of the furry legs at the second joint. The arachnid screeched in pain but did not slow.

“Seven legs to go,” Vara said under her breath.

“ALARUM!” Cyrus heard shouted behind him as he pounded through the dark of the slums, dodging merchant carts that were closed for the night. The spider was desperate now, and skittered into one of the open plazas in the heart of the slums. A cloaked figure stood waiting, hand extended toward the spider, which raced toward it and threw the Spear of Water from its pincers toward the figure, who caught it deftly and swirled into the magical current of a return spell.

The spider turned to face them, hissing as he and Vara circled the arachnid. They both attacked at the same time and the spider turned to meet him, driving its large pincers into the joint of his armor as he slammed his sword into its exposed thorax. He let out a grunt as the pain hit him. Searing, it climbed up his side as he drove his blade deeper. His eyes locked on Vara, who was attacking the spider with her sword from behind, taking advantage of Cyrus keeping it pinned in place. Her eyes did not meet his, so focused was she on dismembering the arachnid one slice at a time.

Cyrus felt his legs buckle and he fell over from the weight of the spider and the pain in his side. He twisted his sword, trying to carve as much damage as he could. The pounding of plated boots to his left ended with an axe and a sword perforating the crawler. He barely felt it when the spider’s pincers relinquished their hold on him and he fell to the ground. Vara was at his side, hand glowing. “It’s all right,” she said, eyes rimmed with concern. Alaric and Terian stood behind her, throwing the spider’s remains off of him.

Vaste and Niamh rounded the corner then, walking on air, and the healer muttered a few words. The blood stopped flowing from Cyrus’s side, but the pain did not disappear. Vara helped him to his feet and he looked at the dead arachnid with the others.

“Next time you’re going to do a rooftop chase,” Niamh said, eyes flaring, “wait until I give you Falcon’s Essence first?”

“Unbelievable,” Vaste said. “We actually catch the thief, in the act of the escape, and it turns out to be a spider.” The troll frowned. “What’s a spider going to do with a weapon forged by the gods?”

“Not a damned thing,” Terian said, voice bitter. “They can’t even use it.”

“We saw the spider hand it off to some figure in a cloak,” Vara said breathlessly.

“Did you get a look at them?” Vaste’s eyes widened in hope.

“No.” Vara shook her head.

“Doesn’t matter,” Cyrus said, his face a mask. “I know who’s gathering them now.” His head swiveled to Vara. “Go find our people around the Citadel and get them out of there before we have a repeat of Pharesia. Tell them to meet up with Niamh here within the hour.” He turned to Niamh. “I need you to get us back to Sanctuary immediately: we have preparations to make.” He bit his lip. “It’s going to be much worse than we thought.”

Chapter 35

An hour later Cyrus and the rest of the officers of Sanctuary were seated around the Conference table. Alaric stared at the warrior, fingers steepled in front of him. “Are you finished being dramatic?”

Cyrus smiled. “You want to know who it is, don’t you?”

The paladin’s eyebrow raised in amusement. “I do.”

Vara sat to Alaric’s left, arms on the table. “I’m puzzled as to how you supposedly figured this out.”

Cyrus looked at the elf, his eyes locked onto hers. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

She spread her arms. “Enlighten me.”

“Remember the day we met?” he asked with a smile.

She blew air from her lips. “I do. The sun was shining, the trees were swaying in the breeze, sulfur filled the air and I saved your arse from a dragon.”

“And a horde of spiders,” Niamh said with a note of surprise.

“Exactly. The Dragonlord was served by a horde of spiders like the one we killed in the slums.” Cyrus leaned forward. “The day we faced Ashan’agar, he offered me whatever I wanted if I would become his servant. He showed me a vision of the Serpent’s Bane, the hilt of my sword along with some of his other treasures. One of them was a flaming staff.”

“Torris?” Terian said from the end of the table. “So he had it even then?”

“He did,” Cyrus said. “Kalam gave it to him and was waiting around until Ashan’agar had the other pieces he needed.”

“I still don’t understand what a dragon is planning to do with all those weapons,” Curatio said with a blank expression. “It’s not as though he can use them, can he?”

“Not in the physical sense, no,” Cyrus said. “But you were the one who gave me the reason for why Ashan’agar would be collecting them.”

“I did?” Curatio said with a confused look.

“You did. Remember when you told us that the godly magic within the weapon could be used to breach the magical barriers that the elves had set up in the Museum of Arms?”

“Which they did so they could collect the Scimitar of Air.” Curatio nodded. “I still don’t understand.”

“The barrier,” Terian said in a choked voice. “The one that the dragons erected; the one that keeps Ashan’agar imprisoned.”

“You got it,” Cyrus said. “Dragon magic versus the essence of the gods – who wins?”

“That barrier is going down,” the dark elf murmured.

“Why would he need more than one of the weapons?” Niamh looked around in confusion. “Wouldn’t one be enough to drop the barrier?”

Terian shook his head. “Maybe not. Dragons are the longest lived creatures in Arkaria –”

“With the exception of the elvish old ones,” Niamh teased.

Terian ignored her. “Their magic is ancient, and Ashan’agar was sealed in by not one but thirty of the wisest and most powerful dragons. Some of the spells they used included charms to warn the dragons should Ashan’agar attempt to breach the barrier. One of the dragons – Ehrgraz – is the chief of their army, and every dragon fears him.”

“Because he’s afraid one dragon might be warned he puts off his escape by six months until he can collect all the weapons?” Vara looked at Terian with undisguised skepticism.

Terian looked around the table. “He would have been the first to be warned if Ashan’agar was trying to escape and I promise you that the Dragonlord was trying to avoid confrontation with Ehrgraz. Six months is nothing to a dragon; he would have waited sixty years if it meant being able to escape without facing Ehrgraz.”

“So the Dragonlord has plotted an escape,” Alaric mused. “What will he do when he reaches the surface?”

“Without Kalam to act as his herald,” Terian said, suddenly thoughtful, “he’s going to have to go to the southern lands and marshal his loyalists.” The dark knight shrugged. “After that, I would guess his followers will move north and create a new kingdom.”

“Why wouldn’t he fight for control of Hewat?” Vaste said. “I mean, he was in charge before, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Terian said. “But he wasn’t interested in starting a conflict with the other dragons. They don’t war amongst themselves; it’s anathema to them.” He looked around the table. “With a hundred dragons on his side, he could destroy the all the major northern cities and make his own kingdom here.” Terian leaned back. “The only one keeping things in check in the dragon kingdom is their new leader. He’s a moderate in that he’s not totally focused on annihilating all life but dragons.”

“All right.” Alaric nodded. “I think we get the idea of what the threat is and where it will be coming from. Now what do we do?” He turned to Cyrus.

The warrior took a deep breath. “We need every single person in Sanctuary for this one.”

Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You will have the support of every able body.”

The warrior took another deep breath. “We also need our allies if they’re willing.”

A grimace lit the Ghost’s face. “We will send messengers. I do not think we should wait for responses to move into action.”

“Agreed,” Vara said. “The northern lands could be in flames before Goliath decides to move.”

“True.” Cyrus nodded. “We move our entire force into the Mountains of Nartanis, now. All our veterans we bring down into the fire caves and leave the new inductees up top.”

Curatio blinked. “You don’t think we’ll need them down below?”

Cyrus shook his head. “With the head start Ashan’agar has, I doubt we’ll be down there for long – assuming he hasn’t left already. We need to move now.”

Alaric nodded. “So ordered. Niamh, get the word to our allies and meet us in the mountains.”

They broke from Council and an alarm sounded, blowing horns and voices filled the corridors as the entire force of Sanctuary mobilized. Cyrus found himself next to Alaric on his way down the stairs.

“I would have you lead the force that is going into the caves,” the paladin said, taking the steps three at a time.

“I assumed you would,” Cyrus said, voice tight.

“I trust you to do your best,” Alaric said. “You have my full confidence. Curatio and I will shepherd the inductees above ground until you return.”

Cy blinked. “Thank you, Alaric. I’ll do my best to make sure your confidence is well founded.”

“It is,” the Ghost muttered, so low Cyrus could only just hear it.

Within ten minutes nearly everyone was assembled in the foyer. Alaric stood before them on the balcony above the entryway and addressed them all.

“We face now the Dragonlord, a treacherous foe. Our time is short so I shall not belabor the point: our most experienced fighters will go into the depths of his den while the rest of our army remains above in case the battle should spill onto the surface. Cyrus?”

The warrior stepped forward. “Our worst case scenario involves the Dragonlord making it out of his den. If that should happen, we must keep him contained in the mountains and engaged in battle continuously. When the barrier goes down, the dragons of the south will receive a warning. Our objective is to kill him if possible but at least keep him occupied until they can arrive to deal with him. Should he escape…” The warrior’s words drifted off. “Say goodbye to your homes and families.”

A burst of alarm ran through the crowd. “Let us away, my friends.” Alaric gestured toward the sky. Druid teleportation spells filled the room and the forces of Sanctuary disappeared in a hurricane of sound.

Chapter 36

The Mountains of Nartanis appeared and Cyrus felt the hot air around them. He looked to the army appearing at his back. “Veterans, this way. New folks, stay here.” Without waiting for a reply, he headed west, boots crunching on the volcanic gravel.

“Not wasting any time, I see,” came a voice from his right. He turned to see Vara, long legs straining to match his pace and jogging every few steps to keep up.

“We don’t have any to waste,” he replied. A look back confirmed that the force had split and part of it was following him. On the horizon was the cave entrance, nestled in the shadows of a cliff. “I need someone to help me see in the dark,” he said and felt a flash of light enter his vision. “This way,” he gestured and was on the move again.

“Short walk from the druid portal,” Vaste said from behind him. “I’m surprised this cave doesn’t get more visitors.”

“Would you want to stumble into a dragon’s den for entertainment?” Andren said.

“Of course I would. It’s the reason I’m here.” He paused. “Besides saving your sorry asses from imminent death. And possibly the world as well,” he added.

“You seem a bit different since you got back from troll country,” Andren said. “What happened?”

“You mean other than being beaten to the brink of death by my own people for trying to recruit some of them to come to Sanctuary?”

Cyrus could hear a momentary stutter in Andren’s reply. “Yeah… other than that.”

“I was saved by a shaman, one of the few magic users still among our tribe, and he taught me a few things.”

“Such as?” J’anda’s voice entered the conversation.

“I suspect you’ll see very soon,” the troll said.

“Love the suspense,” Andren grunted.

Cyrus motioned for quiet behind him as they reached a fork in the path. He knelt as his eyes focused on each of the two tunnels before them.

“Do you remember which way to go?” Vara whispered in his ear. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and her breath washed over him in a warm wave.

“I do.” Cyrus frowned. “But where does the other path lead, and might it be faster?”

“Time is of the essence,” she whispered back. “Perhaps explore some other time.”

“Very well.” He nodded. He charged down the passageway without further comment, bursting into a wide cavern with webbing in the corners of the chamber.

“All too familiar,” Vara said from behind him.

“Yeah. Go stand in the shadows over there and it’ll be just like the day we met – except this time I can actually see you.”

“You couldn’t see me that day?” she asked, surprised.

“Not until you jumped on the dragon,” he said, watching for danger in the four corners of the cavern. He pointed at his eyes. “Human eyesight. Not as good as yours.”

She nodded. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I’m surprised we haven’t run into any resistance yet. But we didn’t last time either.” He frowned at the hole in the ceiling. “Better move quickly to the bridge ahead.” They exited the room and found themselves on the bridge leading across the lava. “Where are the rock giants?” Cyrus chewed his lower lip. “Keep moving forward,” he ordered with a shout over his shoulder.

“I hope our new recruits are all right,” Nyad said from behind Cyrus.

“With Alaric and Curatio leading them, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Andren said.

They crossed the final bridge into the chamber of Ashan’agar without incident. Nothing stood between them and the entrance to his platform. Cyrus stuck his head around the archway and breathed a short sigh of relief. The dragon stood beyond, along with the black-cloaked figure. Six weapons floated around the mysterious figure as chanting filled the air. There was a crackle of magic between the weapons, and Cyrus felt it before he saw it: a flash as a wave of energy filled the cavern, emanating from the cloaked figure. Cyrus dropped to a knee and grasped at the edge of the bridge to avoid being knocked off his feet.

“Unless I miss my guess,” Vara said under her breath, “we were about ten seconds too late.”

Cyrus gritted his teeth. “He’s not out yet.” Stepping out into the open of the Dragonlord’s platform, Cyrus yelled at Ashan’agar. “How far you have fallen – from Dragonlord of Hewat to a petty thief, stealing other people’s treasures!”

The dragon’s red scales stood out against the darkened cave walls around them. “I steal to garner my freedom,” the Dragonlord bristled. “And I am far from petty in my thievery.” The dragon’s face turned toward Cyrus, as did the black-cloaked figure. “Petty thieves steal trinkets and purses; I have engineered the theft of priceless relics of the gods.” The face of the dragon honed in on Cyrus, and the warrior could see the dragon’s right eye was missing, an angry scar running between the scales toward the Dragonlord’s snout.

“I see better than you do since last we met,” Cyrus taunted. “You’ve become a low form of life, trying to warp the minds of others to your will so you can escape this well-deserved prison.” Cyrus nodded to those behind him and the forces of Sanctuary began to spread out, encircling the platform.

“I have not needed to bend the will of my most recent servants,” came the near-indignant reply. “They,” he gestured to the figure in the black cloak, “have come to me willingly, offering their services for a price.

“You should have joined me.” The Dragonlord looked back at Cyrus. “Today is the dawn of a new order, one which will see me as Dragonlord of the northern lands, and soon enough, all Arkaria. Dragonkin,” Ashan’agar’s eye narrowed, “are a superior race, and those of you who survive will be ruled by us.”

“Where are your spiders and rock giants to defend you now?” he taunted the dragon.

“They are dealing with your rabble on the surface,” the dragon said. A cold chill ran up Cyrus’s spine and a cackle filled the cavern as the black-cloaked figure climbed onto the back of the dragon and the wings began to flap.

“Attack!” Cyrus shouted. The force of Sanctuary assaulted Ashan’agar from all sides. Vara leapt forward through the air as Cyrus experienced a moment of deja vu – brought to a halt when the dragon’s wing extended, blunting her sword thrust and blocking her landing. She impaled the dragon’s right wing, stabbing through the shallow tissue and out the other side. Her feet failed to find purchase, leaving the paladin hanging in mid-air, holding onto her sword.

Cyrus rushed forward, plunging his blade much more skillfully than he had a year prior, finding purchase between the scales of the dragon’s foot. Spells crackled in the air around him and the dragon roared. A burst of flames shot past Cyrus and across the chamber. I hope that didn’t hit anyone, he thought. He looked back to see people scurrying out of the way, a few narrowly dodging the fire.

He twisted his blade and pulled up, dislodging one of the scales as the dragon let out another shriek. Cyrus sheathed his sword and dug his gauntlets into the space between the scales of the dragon as he began to climb the Dragonlord’s leg. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed Vara was still hanging from the wing.

The ground began to recede as the dragon flew toward the top of the cave. “Wizards! Evacuate to the portal!” Cyrus shouted to the army below. He scrambled, climbing up the dragon’s shoulder. Upon reaching the wing, he wrapped his arms around it and clutched as hard as he could. “Vara!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Hang on!”

A jarring shook the warrior as the Dragonlord struck the ceiling of the cavern, claws digging in. Cyrus could hear the crumbling of the roof as the dragon smashed against solid rock at the ceiling of the cave. The sound of cracking stone filled his ears and boulders began to drop as the dragon hung upside down and clawed, throwing aside dirt and rock. Cyrus held onto the wing, protected from the falling rock by it.

A burst of sunlight filtered down and Ashan’agar’s head snaked toward it. A roar of triumph filled the air as the Dragonlord wrenched himself through the hole he had created, widening it and dropping more and more rocks into the chamber below.

Cyrus could only bear to look down for a moment, but in that moment he saw the ceiling of the cavern beginning to collapse. The platform below was strewn with rubble. Please, Bellarum, let them all have made it out, Cyrus thought. The ground shook around him and Ashan’agar burst into the air, flapping his mighty wings and tasting the sky for the first time in years.

Cyrus climbed the shoulder of the Dragonlord, hoisting himself onto the back of Ashan’agar as Vara worked her way along the wing toward the back of the dragon. The black-cloaked figure was clutching the dragon’s neck. Without much thought, Cyrus grabbed the edge of the cloak and tugged on it as he drew his sword. The dragon bucked and inverted, costing Cyrus the grip on his sword as he struggled to find something to hold onto. He saw Vara, hanging on the wing and a black cloak fluttering as he fell to the ground below.

There was a sickening crunch as Cyrus hit the rocks and bounced a few feet in the air, only to come down on his right arm. A snapping noise came beneath the armor, drawing a cry of pain. He rolled down a slope of magmatic rock and dust to come to rest at the bottom of a hill. He blinked and looked up. The Dragonlord was gone, having flown out of sight. The black cloak was fluttering through the air; the figure it was enshrouding nowhere to be seen.

“Hail,” came a voice from above him. Orion was on the hilltop, looking down.

“Ah, there you are,” Cyrus said. “Wondered when you’d turn up.”

Orion grinned. “Knew I was coming, did you?”

“I did.”

“Because of the call to the allies?”

“No,” Cyrus grunted as he rolled over and used his good arm to boost himself to a sitting position. “Because you’re a servant of the Dragonlord.”

The smile disappeared from the ranger’s face and his bow was out and raised. “How did you know?”

“Not so fast,” Cyrus said with a grin, holding his bad arm with the good. “I’m not the only one that fell from your master. Selene fell with me, and I saw where she landed. If she died and you kill me you’ll never find her in time to revive her.”

The bow was drawn back, pointed at Cyrus’s head. “Tell me where she fell.” The ranger drew his bow back further.

“I can show you. Why don’t we take a walk?” Cyrus grimaced from pain in his ankle as he forced himself to his feet. “I do have to ask… why?”

Orion scoffed. “You know why.” The ranger kept the arrow pointed at Cyrus as the warrior began a slow shuffle up a nearby hill. “Because the Dragonlord can give me everything I’ve ever wanted. He will rule our world.”

“He will wipe out every living being in order to make way for a new dragon kingdom,” Cyrus said. “Ever heard of the Ashen Wastelands? Hundreds of miles of dust and fire? That’s their home.”

“He can’t wipe out every living thing,” Orion said. “But you’re right: the major cities, like Reikonos, Pharesia, Saekaj – they’ll burn. There will be nothing left of them as he builds his empire.”

“I guess millions of dead don’t matter as long as you have a new pair of chainmail pants.” Cyrus shifted his weight from his left foot to the right to alleviate his pain. “The night I ran into you in the markets, that was from what he paid you – after you liberated Ferocis from Kortran for him?”

Orion raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re good at guessing today. How did you know?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I’ve been with Sanctuary for a year now and I know what our stipend is. I also know that the only bonus you’ve seen from spoils of war was after I led the assault on Kalam. I’ve never seen the kind of money that would pay for chainmail like that. So after leaving me in Reikonos Square that first day, you caught a ride back to the square with a Sanctuary teleporter, paid someone for a lift to the mountains and strolled right into the lair of Ashan’agar and offered your services. He didn’t even have to coerce you with magic like he tried to do to me.”

Orion smiled. “What can I say? I’m motivated, and the price was right.”

“And the price was?”

The ranger’s smile widened. “The best equipment that money can’t buy and all the gold I need for what it can.”

Cyrus grunted. “Not enough. So why stick with Sanctuary after that? Why go to Goliath later?” The warrior shook his head, trying to brush out the cobwebs from the fall. He was having trouble seeing straight and he began to sway. “Why not just leave and follow your Dragonlord full time? You might have gotten him free even faster.”

The ranger’s eyes looked left to right. “And what if he didn’t?” Orion shook his head. “No, I had to keep my options open until I knew we could deliver all the pieces. If we had failed, the reprisal would have been stiff and I’d have needed allies to help protect me.”

“So how did you convince the goblins of Enterra to part with the Hammer?” Cy’s eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t.” Orion looked around. “One of the Dragonlord’s other servants struck a deal with them and also delivered the Staff of Death.”

“Who was it?” Cy stopped as he felt his throat go dry.

“It’s not my place to tell.” Orion grimaced. “I didn’t know about that servant until after Enterra.”

“Would you have still led the expedition to Enterra if you had known the other servant would get the Hammer?” Cy eyed the ranger, measuring every word.

“Yes,” Orion said, expression neutral. “The Dragonlord’s other servant only acquired the Hammer because he betrayed us and gave the goblins…” His voice trailed off. “…what they were looking for.”

“Which is?”

Orion’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s Selene?”

“This way,” Cy resumed walking, pushing the thought of Narstron aside for a moment. “And in the Realm of Death? The Staff?”

“I told you, I didn’t take it,” Orion snapped. “Information was not forthcoming. The Dragonlord kept us in the dark.”

“But you managed to steal Amnis and Ventus from two of the most guarded locations in Arkaria?”

Orion’s eyes lit up. “Do you know how difficult those were to mastermind? Two of the most difficult sites in the world to break into, and we stole from both flawlessly.

“Reikonos was the toughest,” the ranger said. “That’s why we saved it until last. The elves, they’re so arrogant and sure of their magics, they left their barriers as the only line of defense. And they should be proud – their barriers were much more powerful than the ones in Reikonos – not that it mattered.” He chuckled. “Once Ashan’agar finally told us to use one of the weapons to breach the barrier, it was easy. Selene went in with the spider, broke the barrier and teleported herself out.

“In Reikonos, it was a different story,” Orion said, relishing his superiority. “We both had to be there – I had to sound the alarm so you and the Reikonos soldiers would follow the spider, allowing Selene to escape and retrieve the spear from our eight-legged distraction.” He chuckled. “It would have been a lot easier if I could have cast the return spell like Selene can.” A grim look filled the ranger’s eyes. “Where is she?”

“Close,” Cyrus said. “I’m just trying to draw things out a bit, because once you find her, you have no reason to keep me alive.”

Orion’s face relaxed, and an expression of regret filled the human’s features. “I wish you’d have joined us in Reikonos when I asked you to. You are the best warrior I’ve ever seen and with the power that Ashan’agar’s gifts would grant you, we could have formed a guild that would be unstoppable. You would have had the best armor and weapons on Arkaria. The warriors of Amarath’s Raiders and Endeavor would have begged at your feet for you to tell them how to be as great as you.”

Light filled the ranger’s eyes, and he lowered his voice. “These weapons, they could give us the power to slay the dragons – we could literally save the world, and no one from our guilds would have to know.” Orion smiled. “We’d be heroes. We could write our own ticket – to Burnt Offerings, to Endeavor, Amarath’s Raiders, our own guild, whatever. People would follow us. Those weapons grant power undreamed of in this age – enough to allow you to satisfy whatever ambitions you might have.”

“You mean the weapons buried at the bottom of a hundred tons of rock and mountain?” Cyrus said with a hint of a smile.

Orion blinked. “No. You’re kidding.”

“The Dragonlord broke the barrier and charged out through the ceiling of his cavern, like some sort of crazed bird hatching out of the ground.” Cyrus raised his hands in surrender. “He left them behind, buried.”

The ranger’s face contorted in seeming pain. “I guess the only way left is –”

“An eternity of service to the Dragonlord?” Cyrus said in a mocking voice, still trying to climb in spite of the pain in his extremities.

Orion’s face hardened. “I didn’t think you’d be wise enough to accept my bargain after refusing the Dragonlord once and me once, but now,” a smile creased the tanned features of the ranger, “I cannot let you live. I warned you about falling into the trap of Alaric’s nobility and where it would lead. You could have been the most powerful warrior in the world; instead your corpse will rot undiscovered in the mountains.”

The crunching of gravel behind the warrior heralded the arrival of Selene. Pale and waxy, she looked like she had barely survived the fall.

Cyrus felt a sudden rush as his wounds healed. The blood that had been oozing out of the joints of his gauntlet stopped, his arm knitted together and his head cleared. Without a moment’s hesitation he lunged forward, slapping aside the arrow pointed at his head as it flew from the bow and missed him by centimeters. Selene screamed at his side as Cyrus drove his head forward, knocking the ranger’s helmet aside. A satisfying crunch told him he had broken Orion’s nose.

He brought his head down again and again, both hands restraining the ranger’s as he drove the edge of his helmet into the ranger’s face. The crack of bones breaking, the sickening sound of flesh being hit by metal registered over and over again in his ears. Orion’s arms went limp in his grasp.

Cyrus stood, blood dripping down his face and locked his gaze on Selene, who charged him, arms flailing in mute rage. He dropped his shoulder, catching her in her breastbone. Another cracking sound filled his ears, then the wheezing sound of Selene struggling for a breath. He flipped her easily over his back and she hit the ground with a satisfying THUMP!

“You could have put Orion down a little faster,” came a voice from behind him. He turned, wary. Vaste’s hands came up in surrender. “Or you could have lied to him and told him you wanted to join him. That would have been smart; maybe even saved your life.” The troll frowned. “Why didn’t you tell him what he wanted to hear?”

Cyrus smiled blankly. “I’m just a warrior. I don’t have much use for lying. Thanks for the mending spell. It was well timed.” A sound from behind him drew his attention back to Orion and Selene. The healer had crawled to her husband and they both disappeared in the light of her return spell. “Damn…”

Vaste shrugged. “We have a dragon and an army of his cronies to deal with. Settle personal scores later.”

“They’re responsible for letting that dragon out!” Cyrus said. “They set this whole mess in motion!”

“Focus on the threat to the world, man!” the troll shouted. “Vara’s still riding the Dragonlord. I saw them fly over a few minutes ago –”

A whooshing sound overhead surprised Cyrus. “Good timing.” The scales of the dragon flew low over his head. “HEY!” he shouted at top volume. “HEY, ONE-EYE!”

Ashan’agar tilted his head back to peer at the warrior. Vara was holding onto her sword, which was plunged between scales in the dragon’s side, her legs wrapped around the dragon’s wing. The Dragonlord swept down, coming to a dramatic landing in front of Cyrus, forcing he and Vaste to dodge to the side to avoid being trampled.

“You again.” The Dragonlord flung his wings up and down, finally dislodging Vara. She flew to the side, ricocheted off a nearby boulder and came to rest, unmoving.

“Me again,” Cyrus said. “I’m like a bad case of the dragon pox; you just can’t get rid of me.” His eyes fixated on Vara’s sword, still stuck between the scales of the dragon. He dodged forward, rolling under the dragon’s wing before Ashan’agar could strike. With a quick reverse, he climbed the back leg and hopped up to grab hold of Ashan’agar’s back. “Let’s go for a ride.”

A frightening laugh filled the air around him. “As you wish,” the Dragonlord said as he lifted off from the ground. “I must ask,” Ashan’agar said with a quick flick of his head to look at the warrior, now climbing his back. “How did you resist my charm magic? It has been a long time since it has failed to dominate one of your kind…”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” Cyrus said, pulling Vara’s sword from the Dragonlord’s back and thrusting it into his belt. Ashan’agar had shifted direction and was flying almost straight up.

“Disappointing,” the dragon fired back over the howling wind. “I had assumed you had powers unknown, but perhaps you were just lucky.”

“I’m a lucky guy,” Cyrus said. “Where are we going?” He was only a few feet from the neck now, but was forced to climb using entirely his upper body strength. One arm length at a time, he scaled the dragon until he reached the neck and wrapped his legs around it, taking some of the weight off his hands. He climbed faster now, hand over hand, up the dragon’s long neck, Vara’s sword hanging from his belt.

“To your death,” the dragon answered with another unsettling cackle. “I will take you where there is no air to breathe. Worry not,” he said, soothing. “We’ll be there soon enough.” The dragon turned his head around to glare at the warrior, who had almost reached his head. The red eye glared at Cyrus. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Getting a closer look at my death,” Cyrus said, pulling Vara’s sword from his belt and stabbing forward as the dragon dodged out of the first strike and wheeled to the left. Now you see me, he thought, a grim smile covering his lips. Cy’s fingers dug between the scales and his second thrust penetrated the dragon’s single remaining eye. A scream rent the air around him, drowning out the howling wind. And now you don’t.

Sliding Vara’s sword back into his belt, Cyrus grabbed both sides of the dragon’s writhing neck and turned him – just a bit – to the right. Unintelligible howls flew from the dragon, along with staccato bursts of flame and curses in the dragon language. The ground whirled beneath them as Cyrus tightened his grasp around the dragon’s neck.

Ashan’agar entered a desperate end over end spin toward the ground below. The Dragonlord’s wings flapped to little effect; they were going down. “You fool! You will die too and no one will ever find your body!”

“Small price to pay to defend the world.” Cy braced himself against the neck of the Dragonlord.

During the descent, Ashan’agar did not cease screaming. The mountains below them were spinning. Cyrus could see masses of people, an army, moving in the hills. It was like he was watching ants. They kept getting bigger and bigger – the Dragonlord flapped his wings – and then they hit the ground –

Chapter 37

The Dragonlord roared somewhere in his mind. Curses rained from Ashan’agar’s mouth as Cyrus drew back to consciousness. The warrior blinked, sick to his stomach. He rolled over and surrendered to the nausea, throwing up violently.

“How charming to see you again,” came Vara’s voice from above him.

Cyrus buried his face in the volcanic ash. “I don’t feel well.” He rolled to his back. “Resurrection aftereffects, I presume?”

“I assumed you were greeting me in the traditional manner of your people,” came Vara’s voice once more, laced with equal parts sarcasm and relief, unmistakable even in Cyrus’s diminished condition.

“You do make me rather sick sometimes.” Cyrus pulled himself to a sitting position. “Alaric,” he said in surprise.

“What about him?” Vara replied with irritation.

“He is here,” came the deep voice of the Ghost of Sanctuary. The crunching of his feet upon the rocks behind them had been drowned out by the thrashing and cursing of Ashan’agar.

On the ridge above them a ragged cheer could be heard; the Army of Sanctuary began flowing down the hillside en masse. Cyrus picked Elisabeth, Erith, Cass and Tolada out of the crowd of them; the allies had arrived. Curatio was a few steps behind Alaric, as were the rest of the officers of Sanctuary and Andren.

Alaric extended his hand to Cyrus, who took it. The paladin pulled the warrior to his feet with power that the Ghost’s wiry frame did not indicate. “I am pleased to see you have survived, my brother.”

Cyrus blinked, a bit unsteady. “Not half as pleased as I am.” The warrior stared into the army massing behind him. “How did we do?”

Alaric smiled. “We did very well. The forces of the Dragonlord were no match for the reforged Army of Sanctuary and its allies.”

Malpravus glided to them from behind Vara. “Most impressive,” the necromancer whispered, eyes fixated on the writhing dragon. “Bringing down the Dragonlord by yourself – I did tell you I expected great things from you.”

Alaric cleared his throat but Cyrus met the necromancer’s gaze. “Two of your guildmates were aiding the Dragonlord in his endeavors. Selene and Orion assisted him in stealing the weapons of the gods and Selene cast the spells that allowed him to break his barrier.”

“That is… disconcerting,” Malpravus said, so low that Cyrus had to concentrate to hear him. “I will look into these allegations immediately.”

“While you’re doing that,” Cyrus said, “you might look into who stole Letum during our attack on the Realm of Death.”

“All in good time. We have a more pressing problem to deal with,” Malpravus whispered again. “The Dragonlord yet lives.”

“Ah, yes,” Alaric breathed. The Ghost strode to the downed dragon, rasping. “Any more venom to spew, Ashan’agar, before the end of your days?”

The dragon stiffened. “Whose voice is that? I know you…”

“I doubt that,” Alaric said with a tight smile. “Have you any last words, Dragonlord?”

The mountains were silent for a long moment, and only the rasping of Ashan’agar could be heard. Cyrus stood a few paces behind Alaric, and watched the Dragonlord’s side; ribs shattered. In every breath the scaly flesh heaved up and down only with monumental effort.

“Yes,” came the rasp of Ashan’agar’s voice. The dragon’s head turned and Cyrus found himself looking into the pits where the dragon’s eyes had been. “I offered you all; you would have been my Sovereign and ruled all the lesser races of Arkaria.” A tinge of sadness entered the dragon’s voice as he gasped for breath. “I would have given you purpose.”

The weakness in Cyrus’s knees faded. His jaw set and his spine straightened. “I have a purpose,” the warrior intoned.

Without warning, Alaric leapt forward, sword drawn so quickly it was almost imperceptible, and thrust it through the scales of the Dragonlord’s head. Cyrus blinked in surprise; the strike had been perfect, sliding between the scales and strong enough to break through the dragon’s thick skull. One final scream tore through the Mountains of Nartanis, and then Ashan’agar, the Lord of the Dragons, was finally silent.

Chapter 38

The day after the final battle had dawned especially bright at Sanctuary. Cyrus saw it through the window in the Halls of Healing, where Curatio had urged him to stay overnight. At sunrise, having had his fill of rest, he had argued with the healer until the elf had finally given in and let him leave.

He entered the Great Hall before the usual breakfast time to find a cluster of members sitting around a table in the corner, new faces by far outnumbering the old. Andren waved him over. Amidst handshakes and congratulatory slaps to his back, the warrior made his way over to his oldest friend. “Did we just save the world yesterday?” Andren asked him with a smile.

“I believe we did,” Cyrus said with one of his own. “I think we’re still wanted in Reikonos, though.”

“Bah.” Andren waved him off. “We’re heroes now; they’ll drop the charges.”

Cyrus’s smile turned sardonic. “I’m sure that’s been said a time or two.”

Andren’s expression turned downward. “I heard Ashan’agar’s den got buried – treasure trove and all.” The corners of the healer’s mouth drew tight, giving him a pained expression. “I guess you lost your sword hilt.”

Cyrus sat back and adopted a pensive expression. “The Serpent’s Bane?” He frowned. “I didn’t even think about it until now, I was so focused on stopping the Dragonlord.” A roiling torrent of emotion poured through him; hot regret tempered by a cool realization. “I’ll be all right,” he said and meant it.

“Did you hear?” Andren looked at him with an expression of wonder. “We captured one of Ashan’agar’s rock giants! It talks and everything. They’re keeping it in the dungeons below until you Council lot,” he waved in Cyrus’s direction, “work out what to do with it.”

The warrior’s eyebrow raised. “A rock giant? Why don’t we just kill it and be done?”

Andren shrugged. “Alaric said no. Not sure why.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Damn, I am hungry.”

“Killing a dragon works up an appetite, eh?”

The two of them laughed their way through breakfast, their first together in months.

“I almost forgot,” Cy said as their meal drew to a close. “Orion told me that someone betrayed us to the goblins in order to get the Earth Hammer. I guess the goblins wanted something from our expedition.” His jaw tightened. “The same person stole the Staff of Death when we were in Mortus’s Realm. They’re in the Alliance.”

Andren blinked several times. “Do you know who it is?”

“No,” Cy exhaled, expression grave. “But I will find out. We owe them – for Narstron.”

“For Narstron,” Andren said. “And for us.”

With a nod, Andren strode out the doors of the Great Hall. Cyrus was congratulated over and over again by mostly familiar faces; people he’d recruited in the last six months who had proven themselves in the crucible of the battle the day before. Their excitement was palpable, their hope for the future buoyed by the realization that they had played a part in saving the world.

Seeking solitude, Cyrus exited through the front door, wandering the still quiet grounds in the light of early morning. He found himself near the gardens and saw a familiar figure on the bridge. Today, her shining armor was once again missing, as was the ponytail. Vara stared at the waterfall across the pond. She was clad in something remarkably close to her attire on the night they had dined together in the elven realms. Her hair shone in the sunrise and a slight smile graced her face – which evaporated to neutrality upon notice of his approach.

“I am pleased to see you are up and moving again,” she said with a nod. “I was concerned,” she coughed, “that you might not have survived your encounter with the Dragonlord.”

His eyes met hers, and she looked away first. “I was more concerned with you. I’d have gotten back to Ashan’agar sooner if I hadn’t gotten bushwhacked by Orion.” He scowled at the memory.

Vara’s brow knit with concern. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you, but you and Selene fell quite a distance when the Dragonlord threw you off his back. How did you manage to beat both Orion and Selene? I assume you were,” she coughed again, “badly injured,” she finished with downcast eyes. “And I know you lost your sword.”

“I was injured.” Cyrus nodded. “And unarmed. I bought some time by telling Orion that Selene was either injured or dying and telling him that I knew where she was. It bought me enough time for Vaste to find me, right about the time Selene came wandering up. Vaste healed me and I jumped Orion.” The warrior paused in thought. “I beat Orion pretty badly. I think I killed him – I’m not sure.”

“You held Selene’s whereabouts hostage,” Vara said, voice neutral.

“You don’t approve.”

“No, it’s not that. My code would prevent me from doing such a thing – deceptive means and all that – but it was quite brilliant. I give you credit for thinking on your feet, injured and unarmed as you were.” She frowned. “One thing I don’t understand: how did Orion and Vaste find you, in the midst of the mountains?” She thought about it for a moment. “And again, after you fell from Ashan’agar, Vaste found your body.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Orion must have seen me fall; he was lurking in the area for some reason.” The warrior blinked. “Odd that he would see me fall and not see Selene.” Cyrus shrugged again. “Don’t reckon I’ll get a chance to ask him anytime soon.”

Vara still frowned. “But what about Vaste? He was in the middle of the battle with the rest of the army. How did he know where to find you?”

“I don’t know.” Cy smiled. “I appreciate how hard you must be trying to discuss my actions over the last few days and not come up with something critical and insulting to say.”

“I don’t mind not insulting you,” she said with a deep breath. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. “It seems to be the sort of habit that grows on you after a while.”

“The wager ended yesterday.”

“You’re aggravatingly daft. I can’t believe the best stratagem you could come up with to defeat the Dragonlord involved running him into the ground at terminal velocity.” She exhaled, fury spent.

He cocked his eyebrow in deep amusement. “Actually, I lied: the bet ends tomorrow. I win.”

“You bastard,” she hissed. She glared at him for a moment before a laugh escaped her lips. Her expression softened. “Don’t change the subject. You took a very great risk in bringing the Dragonlord crashing to the ground with you on his back.”

“First of all,” Cyrus said, “he told me he was going to take me up to where there was no air to breathe and kill me – so I really didn’t have much of a choice. Second,” he said with a tremendous and self-satisfied grin, “I didn’t know you cared. You are so up and down – first you seem like you hate me, then you tell me you don’t, and that I’m ‘a man Sanctuary can rely on’ and then you go cold again. Could you find some stability in your reaction to me?”

“I will… try,” she said with a thin smile.

“That will do for now.” He returned her smile and felt a flush color his cheeks. “I’m still feeling a bit weak…”

“I’m not surprised,” she returned, blue eyes locked on his. “You did plummet to your death yesterday. Perhaps you should rest for a while.”

He did not break her gaze. It was pleasant, looking into her eyes. “Before I go,” he said, and reached into his belt, drawing her sword with a flourish. “I couldn’t have done it without this.” He turned the sword so that he gripped the blade, pointing the hilt toward her.

She flushed. “Thank you for returning it to me. Could you leave it outside my quarters? I think I’ll be out here for a bit longer and I don’t want to carry it up when I go.”

“Sure.” He nodded, waving it in the air to the side of them. “Heavy, but perfectly balanced.” He peered at the elaborate carvings on the blade. “It looks old.”

She smiled. “It is. You really should rest.”

“I think perhaps you’re right. I’m going to go sleep for a bit longer.” With a sweeping bow that made her giggle behind her hand, he walked away. He looked back once to find her still watching him. Her cheeks blushed and she looked away, back toward the waterfall.

When he reached his chambers, he opened the door to find the lamps already lit. He shut the door and unstrapped his armor, fitting it piece by piece onto the shelves and bust set aside for it. “Where’s my helm?” he wondered, then saw it on the bed next to a small parcel. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he picked it up and unwrapped the small silk ribbon that encircled the box. He pulled the top off of it to find –

– the Serpent’s Bane. His eyes widened, and he turned it over and over in his hands, scarcely believing it to be the real thing. He looked into the box once more to find a small note in unfamiliar handwriting that was neat but nondescript.

Just because you give your all
doesn’t mean you have to lose it all.

One hand stroked his chin as he stared down at the unsigned note. A smile crept across his face; deep, sincere and spreading from the corners of his mouth as he contemplated the possibilities in front of him.

NOW

Epilogue

Sanctuary stood before him, massive and foreboding. A fog had crept over the plains, blown by the wind. He looked at the ancient gates as he walked through them, feeling like a man stepping into his past, something he’d left far behind. Crumbling stones greeted him on the path to the entrance and the tall wooden doors had been torn from their hinges in the last attack.

The hallowed halls were silent when he walked through them. The foyer was abandoned, dark and filled with shadow. Each footstep was measured, every sensation was catalogued. Remembering the happier times, he cast his eyes to the lounge; scorch marks were all that was to be found there. He strode past the grand doors to the Great Hall. Massive tables overturned, the stained glass windows broken. He felt a pain deep inside and knew it was not physical.

Walking to the staircase, he climbed to nearly the top. Stepping out in front of the Council chamber, the ghost of a smile flitted across his features as he shouldered his way into the room.

It was more damaged than he could have imagined. The table, the rectangular one that had replaced the round one of old, was splinters. Chairs were completely upended or destroyed entirely. Tapestries had been torn from the walls, and the few remaining were not without damage. The windows were completely destroyed, flooding the room with fog and a brilliant view of the shrouded Plains of Perdamun.

Quelling his emotions, the warrior picked his way through the wreckage to far side of the room. He opened the door to the Council Archives, and beheld the smell of old parchment. This was the most intact room he had seen thus far. “Maybe the gods are with me,” he said, mocking voice echoing in the empty room.

He rifled through the books until he found one that interested him. Dragging one of the surviving comfortable chairs from the Council Chamber into the Archive, he sat down, opening the book to the first page.

The Journal of Vara – An Account of My Days With Sanctuary

Cyrus browsed the book, skipping through large parts of it, eventually finding what he was looking for.

Today I attended a dragon expedition gone horribly wrong. I was approached while in the markets of Reikonos by one of the most annoying disgraces to the title of paladin that I have ever observed. This bejeweled buffoon observed me in close attendance to Niamh and Orion, as well as Selene and asked if we would assist in mounting a strike upon a dragon in the Mountains of Nartanis.

“I don’t think so,” I sniffed. I confess, this highborn piece of flotsam irked me, as all do who measure themselves by class. One of the benefits of being born and raised in Termina is a healthy disrespect for the accoutrements of the elven caste system beloved by the rest of our dying kingdom.

There was a flicker in her eyes as she recognized me. “Vara?” she said. “You’re Vara!”

“I’ll thank you to keep your voice down,” I ordered. Funny image: me, a Terminan ordering a highborn elf to shut her mouth. She did. I looked around, a bit embarrassed at being recognized. I could tell by Orion’s reaction that Selene had told him about me; he was utterly unsurprised.

“Where are you planning to attack?” Niamh intervened.

The elf’s chin jutted out. “We’re planning an assault on the den of Ashan’agar, the former dragon king. There will be much in the way of treasure…” She prattled on and on for several more minutes, but when Orion offered her counsel on defeating the Dragonlord, her ears were suddenly deaf to even my entreaties.

I eyed her army as she walked away after we had told her we were uninterested. There were a large number of them, many fresh faced and innocent looking. As an emotion, I find pity most annoying; you cannot feel pity for someone who is at the same level as you. It requires you to look down on someone and consider yourself their superior in some way. I felt a great swell of pity for that army of hers. The odds were against them in their experience, in their leader – they seemed destined to die.

I caught a glimpse of a warrior, clad in black armor, across the mass of people. I hate human warriors. I find their arrogance to be nearly unmatched – in fact, only by my own. This human, however… there was something so familiar about him. He reminded me so of… you know who. I tried to look closer, but I couldn’t. Not without stalking up to him in the middle of Reikonos Square and grabbing his face so I could examine it.

It was for he I felt the greatest pity. I am young, but as an elf, I will look young when that warrior turns one hundred. He was young in appearance and fact. He was familiar to me in a way I can’t describe. Call it elven intution but I knew that I had to save his life.

“I cannot abide such a waste,” I said under my breath.

“It’s a shame,” Niamh said. “They’ll all be dead soon enough.”

“We have things to accomplish today,” Orion said.

“We should go along and save all we can when things go awry,” I said. It was not one of my better ideas. If you had asked me in that moment why I was suggesting this, I could not have defined it for you. If you had picked that warrior out of his group of friends, dragged him over to me and forced me to explain exactly, precisely, what it was about him that was causing me to (somewhat uncharacteristically, even for a crusader) lead my party into gravest danger against such odds, I could not have told you in that moment why.

“Are you mad?” Orion said, amazed. “This is certain death! Even a noble paladin must recognize such a hopeless cause.”

“I recognize no cause as hopeless,” I said, surprised to find it true. Perhaps I was not as cynical as I believed.

“They will die and they will take us with them,” Orion said. Selene stood at his shoulder, expression neutral. “That interferes with my other plans for today.”

“Niamh can stand ready to teleport us out when things go wrong.” I exhaled, annoyed at having to convince this tree herding so-called officer of Sanctuary to behave with honor. “We can save at least some of them.”

“No.” Orion shook his head. “We’re a group and I say we vote – and I vote nay.”

Niamh looked at him. “I vote we go. This is our purpose in Sanctuary, remember? We help those who can’t help themselves, and I don’t think I’ve seen a more obvious group in that department.”

“I think it’s obvious I vote yes,” I said. All of us turned to Selene, who had frozen in place. Her expression was peaceful, but her eyes were closed in deep contemplation. After a moment, she spoke.

“We follow shelas’akur,” Selene whispered. Orion’s face fell, but he gritted his teeth and came along.

When we reached the depths of the cave, Orion introduced himself to several people, trying to make inroads to save us time when the moment came that we had to take over to save their lives. When he began a conversation with the warrior, I was in a position to look at him, observe him. I fear I might have stared a bit too much, however.

He really did look a bit like… you know.

In battle, he was brave. I’m not reticent about fighting, but the warrior killed a rock giant singlehandedly through brilliant positioning. He’s a bit more action than brains, and I let him know that, but in truth… he is strong and skilled. He fought the Dragonlord from underneath with me and survived. More than that, he somehow resisted the Dragonlord’s coercion spell, his hypnosis. I had been told that it never failed against our races, that if you looked into the eyes of Ashan’agar, he would own you down to your very soul, forever.

The warrior not only shrugged off the coercion – he struck the Dragonlord’s eye from his body. Impressive. I have no idea how he managed to avoid becoming a slave to Ashan’agar’s will.

Naturally, I did not let the warrior know I found any of this impressive in the least. When it comes to a warrior such as this, too much reckless confidence can lead to quick death. Orion began to fawn over this warrior, Cyrus, begging him to join Sanctuary. I, on the other, was much more reserved in my reaction. I suspect he may even have found me to be a bit cold.

If only he knew.

Cyrus looked up from the journal. The script was beautiful, flowing. He flipped ahead, finding a passage of great interest, and stopped to read.

Alaric gauged my reaction carefully. “If you say there is something… special about this warrior, I believe you.”

“There is,” I said. “He is… he reminds me of… but he’s not the same as…” My voice trailed off. My thoughts were chaotic, annoying. My mind was so firmly under my control until he showed up on that damned dragon expedition. “He somehow broke through Ashan’agar’s mind control.”

Alaric’s reaction was immediate. “How?” the Ghost demanded.

My eyes fell in embarrassment. “I don’t know.”

He leaned forward, hands crossed in front of him on the table in the Council Chambers. “Very interesting. I confess, I had met one other with that particular strength, but that was…” a smile crossed his face, “…long ago.” He stood. “Very well. This warrior bears watching, then.”

Cyrus frowned and looked up from the journal. The skies had begun to darken, lengthening the shadows in the room. The fireplace sprung to light, followed by the mystical torches, one by one around the room. With a smile of appreciation, Cyrus continued his reading by the firelight. He skimmed until another passage caught his eye.

“He’s going to die!” I shouted at Alaric. The innkeeper in Nalikh’akur was a man of great discretion, and had shown me the utmost respect since our arrival, having known I was shelas’akur on sight. I heard the back door open and shut as he left me to my conflict with my Guildmaster. “He’s going to die right here in this inn, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it!”

“This one has great strength: I doubt a simple fever will claim him.” Alaric studied me, his eye fixed on mine.

“While I will agree he is easily as stubborn as twelve mules, that does not make him immune to the laws of nature, Alaric.”

Alaric eyed me carefully. “Your conduct toward this warrior is most bizarre, my friend. You spar, you attack, you remonstrate and verbally eviscerate the man, yet in private you defend his conduct, his character and praise him with words that, were they to come out in public, would make you blush.” He folded his arms. “I am quite used to defending you for your verbal tirades but I am quite unused to you being less than candid with someone in this way.”

I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “I… my history, as you know, is somewhat complicated.”

A nod. “I know.”

“I cannot… explain what it is about him,” I said, searching for the words.

A twinkle filled the old paladin’s eye. “I believe I could find a word, if pressed into choosing one.”

“Oh, shut up,” I told him, a bit cross.

“You will continue to attend him?” Alaric gazed at me with that eye that bored into my very soul.

“Until he’s fully recovered,” I agreed without hesitation.

The Ghost pursed his lips as he pondered his next words. “I will send Curatio to aid you as soon as I can spare him.” His hand came up to forestall the protest already making its way to my lips. “He is a healer. He can help. Cyrus’s life is at stake.”

I nodded in surrender.

Alaric turned to leave, placing his helm back on his head. As he turned to go, he paused and looked back at me. “I offer you this final piece of advice in the spirit of our longstanding friendship. Since the day we have met, I have had nothing but the utmost respect and affection for you…”

I blinked, not quite sure what to say.

“I tell you this now: however you feel about this man, know that the way you are treating him is driving him down the road of hating you.” I bit my lip. “You cannot spew the venom that you do and then be sweet and kind behind his back and expect to have any sort of relationship – friendship or otherwise.” The Ghost’s eye narrowed. “If you ever mean to be closer to him than you are, you must stop,” he sighed, “or at least try to cut back – on the biting repartee.” He left without another word.

I hate crying. And yet, after he left, I sat in the chair next to Cyrus and wept for the next three hours, staring at the warrior the whole time.

Cyrus blinked in astonishment as he pictured Alaric and Vara sparring at the inn in Nalikh’akur. Flipping a few more pages he found an entry that looked as though it had water spilled on it, then dried. Streaks had caused the ink to run.

I am actually crying as I write this. Damn the man. Damn him for scaring the hell out of me. When he vanished out of sight on the back of the Dragonlord, Vaste and I scanned the sky continuously. I confess, with great difficulty, that I was worried.

A small speck caught my eye first. “Over there!” I shouted as it grew in size. I realized it was the Dragonlord spiraling to the ground. “My gods, he’s actually done it,” I breathed.

“It would appear there’s more to our warrior friend than meets the eye,” Vaste said.

“Or less,” I said without any conviction. “It could be less,” I said in reaction to Vaste’s look. He didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me. I took off toward the nearest peak, crossing hills for a closer look as the dragon continued to plummet. The descent slowed at the end but a tremendous crash could be heard throughout the mountains.

As soon as the impact was assured, I began an immediate descent of the slope in the direction of the sound, panic filling my senses. It took long minutes over the uneven ground of the Mountains of Nartanis, as well as much grumbling from Vaste (“Couldn’t we have just fought the dragon on the Plains of Perdamun?”) before we reached the site of the Dragonlord’s landing.

When I crested the last hill, my breath caught in my chest. Ashan’agar was stretched on his belly across the small valley, one wing ripped from his body and the other twisted at a sickening angle. The Dragonlord was breathing, a sad, rattling sound, and both his eyes were now missing. Without thought to my own safety, I ran down the hill, tripping several times and cutting my hand on one boulder.

I reached the dragon, who had moved only slightly since I had started my descent. Forgetting myself and that I had no weapon, I ran to the Dragonlord’s neck. “Where is he?” I asked, only then remembering I had no sword.

“Dead,” came a rattling pronouncement from the blinded Dragonlord. “I am triumphant.”

“Triumphant? You are blinded and dying!” I spat at him. Rage filled me. “Know this, Dragonlord: you were bested by a human warrior who fought you without assistance from any other. If that is your version of triumph then I would hate to be defeated under your definition.”

“I am not dead yet,” Ashan’agar rumbled. “And I am free. I have tasted the sky once more.”

“If I had my sword, I would kill you now,” I said, fury shaking my hands.

“For him?” the dragon needled.

“I would kill you for my own account.”

The dragon’s jaws snapped together and his head twisted toward me. Bones cracked as he moved. “Step closer; I will reunite you with your lover.”

“He’s not my…” My voice trailed off. “…lover,” I finished, inflection flat.

“He’s over here,” Vaste said from behind me.

I abandoned my conversation with the dragon and ran toward the troll, who stood above Cyrus’s shattered body.

“No no no no no.” I hit my knees by his side, grasping at him. I tore the helmet from his head and flung it aside, lifting his face to mine. I pressed my forehead to his, clutching him tightly, praying that the breath of life would be on his lips. He hung limp in my arms, tears falling from my eyes and splattering on the fallen warrior’s face.

“Would you like to compose yourself first or should I revive him now?” Vaste asked with a slight smile crooking his green face. I must confess, in my anguish I had quite forgotten about the resurrection spell. Seeing him lying there, I had only the thought that he might never speak again, that I might never argue with him… or tell him… I can’t even say it. I can’t even write it.

I sniffed and ran my hand across my eyes, dislodging the tears resting there. “Yes,” I said. “Please, do revive him.” I stood and dusted the ash and dirt from my greaves as the magical effect touched him and his pale skin flushed with the breath of life.

Cyrus blinked. He had known Vara for a long time, and to read her innermost thoughts was almost disconcerting. It did not fit well with his memories of the events in question; he had always ascribed her motives to hating him somewhere deep inside. To find it might not be true… he stroked the paper and closed the book, listening to the quiet shuffle of the pages brushing against each other. He set it aside and stood up, walking to the window.

Recalling the certainty he’d felt in that first year in Sanctuary, that strength of purpose, gave him pause. The feeling of confidence reached across the years and touched him where he stood, in the wreckage of this place he had called home, although it no longer had the power it once did. A tear ran down the warrior’s cheek at the memory of all that had been lost in the interceding years.

Out on the plains, the wind continued to whip under the gray skies and that same feeling came once more, the uncertain mixture of fear and regret, and the warrior in black looked across the horizon in hopes that soon – very soon – that feeling would be gone.

AVENGER

THE SANCTUARY SERIES
VOLUME TWO

By Robert J. Crane

NOW

Prologue

The warrior looked around at the wreckage of the place he had once called home. He sat in the archives of the ruined guildhall, a place where the ruling Council of Sanctuary had stored the records of their history. The hanging torches lit a room in chaos; books lay scattered across the floor, scorched walls showed where stone had been tested by fire and the furniture lay splintered and broken, pieces strewn over the chiseled gray block that made up the floors.

Cyrus Davidon was a man out of place. Even in the days when he called it home, Sanctuary had never looked like this. The archives were organized, the halls were clean and spotless at day’s end and by day’s beginning. He had seen the destruction stretch through the corridors as he climbed the tower to the archives, next to the room where the Council met. He stood and pushed through the door to the chambers for another look.

The table at the center of the room was smashed. The chairs that surrounded it were upended, their plush stuffing bleeding out in clumps. He knew that if he followed the call of his heart and wandered down the stairs to the foyer, the lounge and the Great Hall, he would find each of them in similar condition, wrecked, with all trace of life long gone. The fires that once burned in the hearths were long ago extinguished, the warmth of fellowship as gone as the souls that had once made this place great.

When did it all go wrong? Cyrus pondered. How did we go from where we were to here?

He didn’t bother to answer himself. He crossed back to the archives and resumed his seat. He picked up the volume that he had laid down to stretch his legs and flipped to the page where he had left off. The inside page told its purpose: The Journal of Vara – An Account of My Days With Sanctuary. Her image sprang to his mind; her long, blond hair tucked in a neat ponytail; her armor shining in the summer sun; the way her red lips contrasted her pale cheeks, and curled in disdain when she scoffed at something foolhardy. Which was often something said by him.

The skies outside had darkened but the torches had relit themselves, giving him enough light to read by. The words looped in a flowing script that spoke of long hours of practice in an attempt to make the handwriting more elegant.

It has now been a little over a year since I met the most frustrating person yet to come across my path in Arkaria, it began. In addition to the ego and arrogance so common in humans who wield swords, this man seems particularly well disposed to raise my ire in ways that I have not experienced since… well… long ago.

His grim mood broke for a moment as he chuckled at her assessment of him. His eyes skimmed further down the page. Whatever my problems with him, though, he is a man, and he possesses certain frailties inherent in men. Never has this been more evident to me than tonight…

As he read, his hand reached down and he stroked the hilt of his sword and the ghost of a smile sprang to his lips. A memory came rushing back to him, unbidden.

“We grow in times of trial,” Alaric, the Sanctuary Guildmaster, had once told him, years earlier. He remembered the feelings, remembered the trials that had taxed him… and remembered the days that had followed the battle in the mountains with the Dragonlord and thought his troubles, finally, might be over…

7 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1

The sword swung past Cyrus’s head, clashing against the metal of his helmet. He returned the favor to his attacker, impaling them with a vicious sword thrust that sent the monster spiraling away from him at an angle. A smile crept across the warrior’s face at the sight of the next foe. Green scaled skin stood out against the sharp, pointed teeth and yellow eyes of his enemy. The smell of damp air filled his nostrils. His blade found the throat of the next goblin in line.

His eyes swept the room. A full force from Sanctuary was around him, engaged in battle. The Emperor and Empress of Enterra stared down at him from their throne platform, watching with red eyes as he cut his way through their Imperial Guard. Cyrus threw his gaze to the side, falling on Nyad and Niamh, two elves that could not have been more different.

Niamh was a druid, who controlled the powers of nature through her spells. Her long red hair was tossed back as she raised her hand, throwing blasts of fire into a cluster of goblins coming through the door to the army barracks. Her eyes were lit with the excitement of the battle, and she cried out as she loosed another burst of flame at the enemy.

Nyad, on the other hand, had blond hair that fell below her waist. She was a wizard who carried a white staff with gnarled boughs at the top of it, and it was taller than her. Her crimson robes fell to her feet, but deft movements kept her from tripping over them. Energies channeled through her staff, sending a blast of ice from the tip that froze three goblins in place.

Cyrus swept his sword through two more goblins in front of him. He caught a glimpse of Orion, the ranger, clad in green and with his bow in hand, arrows flying. A goblin ran at him but Elisabeth swept forward, her short swords moving with such speed he couldn’t see anything but a blur from her hands. Cass, the warrior clad in gray armor, moved to Cyrus’s left, carving his way through the goblin army, Andren, J’anda and Vaste behind him.

Things became hazy. Blood swirled on the floor. Niamh and Nyad were dead, then Elisabeth, then J’anda and Vaste. Cyrus watched as Cass was impaled by a goblin with a spear and Andren’s body hit the floor immediately after. Cyrus howled and attacked even harder.

The red eyes of the Emperor and Empress hovered just beyond his reach, watching him. Behind them, a black-cloaked figure watched with red eyes of its own. His sword moved of its own accord; goblin blood covered him – pungent and smelling of iron, he could not stop swinging his blade. For every goblin he felled another sprang up, claws reaching out for him, their clicking driving him mad.

“Hold it together!” a voice called across the madness. His eyes found Narstron, smile wide and wreathed in battle. I have to get to him, Cyrus thought. His sword danced, slicing through five more goblins and then five more after that, but there were more… always more…

Narstron battled, but every step Cyrus took toward the dwarf brought him no closer. Narstron was so deft with a sword that Cyrus could scarcely see it move. The red eyes of the Imperials drew closer, just beyond the dwarf’s field of battle. Cyrus tried to move toward Narstron, but his sword was too slow and his feet were like leaden weights. The red eyes were coming for the dwarf; he could feel it.

A thousand stings pinched him in the ribs. Claws slipped between the joints of his breastplate and backplate, stabbing into his flesh. He did not care; he tried to move forward. More pain, more stabbing, and red eyes looking into his. The Empress grasped him by the neck, claws cutting into his throat. She was flanked on either side by the Emperor and the black-cloaked figure. He could not move.

The red eyes resolved, and her face began to clarify. It was Narstron – not G’Koal, the Empress of Enterra. The dwarf looked down at him, all trace of felicity gone. His face was creased with gashes, blood oozing from a dozen cuts. The dwarf’s lips were cracked, and when he opened his mouth, blood dripped out. His voice was a rasp, the sound of death.

“You promised to… avenge me…”

The red eyes swallowed him and he screamed.

Chapter 2

“Wake the bloody hell up!”

Cyrus bolted awake, slapping away the hand that was on his jaw. His eyes focused on the face a few feet in front of him, lit by the moonlight shining through the window of his quarters. She was pale and wore a look of annoyed concern. The moonlight leeched the color from her normally blond hair, giving it a ghostly tinge. He sucked for air, his gasping so loud it blocked out all other ambient noise.

“Vara!” he shouted before lowering his voice. “What are you doing in my quarters?”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “I was in my quarters, sleeping, and you had a nightmare that woke me from three rooms away.” He smelled a faint scent of lilacs from her.

His eyes fell from her face to her attire. She wore a nightgown cut low; much lower than anything he had seen her in before. His stare caused her to fold her arms, as though she could cover herself. “I’m up here,” she snapped, drawing his eyes back to her face. “You were thrashing about and shouting. I merely wished to be certain you weren’t struggling with a lethal foe – which, in your case, could be your pillow.”

His hands rubbed his eyes, massaging the sleep out of them. “I thought you were going to stop insulting me.

A slight smile upturned the corners of her mouth before disappearing back into annoyance. “I would never foreswear insulting you when great opportunities present. What was your nightmare about?” She stiffened. “Not that I care.”

He cocked his head to the side. “So you charged down the hallway in your barely-there nightgown because you wanted the noise to cease?”

“Damned right,” she said without a hint of humor.

“Do you remember our last excursion into Enterra?”

She frowned. “I remember being sick to my stomach upon hearing of Goliath’s abandonment of it. I remember rushing to save you after you all died in the depths.” Her voice faltered. “I remember your dwarven friend, Narstron. His funeral.”

Cyrus’s voice hardened out of necessity. “I remember that too.”

Vara did not say anything for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. “Your nightmare was about Enterra?”

Cyrus stared straight ahead, not daring to look in her eyes. “Yeah. It was.” When his words came again, they were halting and came in staccato bursts. “We went there the second day I was in Sanctuary. I don’t think I believed someone could die – really die.” His jaw set. “I wasn’t prepared for that.”

She was sitting on the edge of his bed. “You’ve been an adventurer for years. You never faced death before?”

He turned his head to look at her. “That night was the first time I’ve ever died. That was jarring, even though the resurrection spell brought me back. I can deal with dying.” His hand clenched involuntarily. “But I swore vengeance over Narstron’s coffin on the day of his funeral, and I have failed to deliver on my promise.”

Her face became a sudden mask.

He looked at her. “You disapprove of revenge?”

Vara’s face maintained its frozen state. “As a paladin – a holy warrior – we are taught that revenge is a self-serving emotion. The dead are gone. Desire for revenge is a trait of survivors.” She looked out the window. “It’s a mortal emotion, though, desire for revenge. I cannot say I have not felt it myself.” Her gaze drew back to settle on his eyes. Hers were clouded, her expression tight.

“I was raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos, the capital of the Human Confederation,” Cyrus began. “There are few followers of Bellarum, the God of War, in mankind. I think it makes people uneasy, the desire for combat.” He smiled. “In the Society, we were taught that battle is good, that revenge is good, and to pursue both with more ardor than you would give to wooing a lover – the instructor’s words, not mine,” Cyrus added as a flush crept across his cheeks.

Vara chewed her lip before she replied. “If you intend revenge, I would caution you in the words of one who once cautioned me. Hasty action is the domain of the fool; especially in the area of vengeance.”

“I’ve waited over a year,” Cyrus said. “I wouldn’t consider that ‘hasty action’.”

Her eyes flitted across his features. In the pale of the moon he couldn’t see the glittering blue that rimmed her pupils. “I would encourage you to…” She drew a deep breath. “– be careful.”

“Worried about me?” he asked with a sly grin.

She rose, her expression stern. “I’m worried that you’ll lead Sanctuary into danger to satisfy your desire for revenge.” Her arms crossed once more. “Regardless, I doubt you’ll invade the Goblin Imperium tonight.” A hint of mirth turned her lips up. “Especially not attired as you are.” She looked down, saw her nightgown and her face fell. “Nor I. If you’ll excuse me…”

He watched as she turned to leave. Her nightgown was silken and fell to mid-thigh. Her hair hung around her shoulders, hiding the points of her elven ears. She shut the door behind her – but not before she caught him looking again, which seemed to embarrass her more than it did him.

The window was open, letting the autumn air breeze through. A chill rushed through the warrior. No more sleep tonight.

It took him a few minutes to strap on his armor. He felt the curious absence of weight on his belt; his sword had been lost in a battle with a dragon only days before and he had yet to go to the armory for a replacement. Opening the door, he strode to the end of the hall and up the stairs.

Emerging from the spiral of the stairway, he found himself in front of double doors. Unthinking, he opened them and stepped into the Council Chamber. Voices halted and a burst of warmth encompassed him as he entered the chamber; fires were burning in the hearths on either side of the room, the logs cracking and spitting and filling the air with a lovely smell of burning wood.

“I had not thought that any of our brethren would be awake at this hour,” came the voice of Alaric Garaunt, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. The paladin stood to greet him.

Alaric Garaunt was just over six feet in height, with brown hair that fell at the base of his skull, streaked with gray. His face was weathered, and his left eye was covered by an eyepatch. In addition to leading Sanctuary, Alaric was also a paladin, a holy warrior that Cyrus knew from experience could wield a sword better than any other – as well as cast some spells.

“I don’t know what time it is,” Cyrus admitted. Terian Lepos and Curatio were arranged around the circular table. Curatio, an elf and a spell caster possessing the ability to magically heal wounds sustained in battle, was seated to Alaric’s right.

Terian, on the other hand, was a dark elf, with skin of the deepest blue. The smirk on his face as he turned in his chair to face Cyrus was reflected by his posture; he had one foot resting on the table and was leaning back as far as his chair would allow. He raised a hand in a salute to Cy as the warrior walked in. Terian’s nose was long and pointed, and the armored pauldrons that defended his shoulders from attack bore spikes that jutted six inches in the air to either side of his head.

Terian was a dark knight – the opposite of Alaric’s paladin. Dark knights could also wield a blade but used black magics. He was able to steal life from an enemy, cause searing pain or even a plague of disease to fall upon his opponents. He had left his post as one of Sanctuary’s officers a few months earlier during a dispute over his failure to intervene in a quarrel between guildmates, two of whom later turned out to be traitors that were conspiring with Sanctuary’s enemies.

“It’s three in the morning,” Curatio answered. The elf wore the white robes of a healer, fastened around the waist by a brown leather belt. Very slight crow’s feet were present on the healer’s face, not the result of age but from his perpetual smile. “Having trouble sleeping, brother?” Cyrus was uncertain as to when Curatio and Alaric had begun to refer to the members of Sanctuary as their brothers and sisters, but it made him feel more at home.

“Yes,” he replied. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Alaric smiled. “We were discussing Terian returning to us following his assistance with Ashan’agar.”

Cyrus restrained a smile as he took his seat. “You’d give up ‘walking the world’ to rejoin us?”

Terian’s smile vanished. “You’re such a smartass, Davidon. I’d say that I hope it lands you in trouble someday but I’d likely land in it with you.”

Alaric’s eyebrow cocked in amusement. “I will wait for the Council’s opinion, but since he helped save the world from the threat of the Dragonlord’s rise, I recommend we reinstate Terian as a member of Sanctuary – and an officer.”

“Not Elder?” Cyrus said, referring to the title accorded the most senior officer of the Council.

“I don’t want it.” The dark elf studied his hand as he spoke. “Officer is almost too much for me – I don’t like people enough to take on more responsibility.”

The door swung open behind Cyrus and he swiveled to find Niamh striding into the room, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Nice to see everyone’s working late tonight,” she giggled, sounding like a teenager. Cyrus knew she was over six hundred years old – yet she looked less than thirty in human years. She shot a smile at him as she slid into the seat to his left.

“Ah, yes,” Alaric began, but was interrupted as the doors to the Council chamber opened once more and disgorged Vara, now clad in her shining silver armor, and another.

“Vaste,” Cyrus nodded with a smile at the being standing beside Vara. Vaste was a troll who stood close to seven feet in height with skin of a light green hue. A few scars stood out on the troll’s head and face, all recent – enough so that Cyrus hadn’t yet to had a chance to ask about them. Vaste nodded as he took his place between Cyrus and Vara, smacking his lips and yawning.

“I cannot recall when so many officers were rendered sleepless at the same time,” Alaric remarked.

“Blame him,” Niamh yawned as she pointed at Cyrus. “He woke up everybody in the officer’s quarters with his howling.”

Cyrus turned a deep crimson. “I’m sorry.”

Alaric turned to Cyrus, brow furrowed. “Is everything all right, brother?”

Cyrus waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Before Alaric could respond, the last of the officers breezed in, looking a bit fresher than the others. J’anda Aimant was a dark elf and an enchanter, a spell caster who could bend the minds of his foes with illusions.

Cyrus still remembered the night that J’anda had shown him a mesmerization spell – he paralyzed foes by showing them a vision of the deepest desires of their heart come to life – in Cyrus’s case, it had been a vision of Vara, seductive and sweet. He had felt her touch against his skin and the warmth of her kisses. He shook the memory off before it had a chance to linger.

“You too, J’anda?” Cyrus grimaced. He studied the enchanter. “You look much more awake than the others.”

The dark elf’s distinctive, stitched blue robes swayed about his thin frame as he took his seat and waved a hand in front of his face. The skin rippled as the illusion spell fell away and his expression changed; the enchanter looked haggard, eyes half-lidded. “I took a moment to freshen myself up,” he admitted, waving his hand again. The sleepless look was replaced by a smiling and bright-eyed visage. “What are we discussing?”

Alaric looked around the table. “We were discussing returning Terian to Officer status.”

J’anda nodded, a subtle movement of his head. “All in favor, say aye.” A chorus of ayes, most tinged with fatigue, filled the air around them.

“The motion passes,” J’anda yawned. Cyrus looked at the dark elf in amusement. J’anda looked back. “I can’t cast an illusion to cover a yawn, sorry.” A pensive expression crossed his face. “Why am I apologizing to you, you’re responsible for this…”

Alaric turned to Terian with a broad smile. “Welcome back to the fold.”

Terian removed his foot from the table. “That’s good, because I already moved all my stuff back into my old quarters.” He looked at his fingernails, every one of which came to a vicious point. “It’s a real bitch to move some of it, too.”

Alaric turned his attention to the parchment in front of him. “Since we’re all here, does anyone object to covering the items we were going to attend to in the morning meeting?”

“If it means we can cancel it and sleep, I vote yes,” Niamh said without enthusiasm, face resting against her hand. “I need rest to keep up with you younglings.” A wide grin split her face. “Except you, Curatio – old man.”

J’anda leaned forward. “You have such a timeless quality, Curatio. How old are you?”

A sparkle lit the eye of the healer. “I am however old you think I am; it matters not to me.”

A laugh rounded the table. Alaric smiled once it was finished. “The first item on our agenda is to discuss our recent glut of applications.”

Curatio spoke. “We had around 850 people when we faced off with Ashan’agar. Nobody died, but we lost about 75 after the battle. We had recruited people that had never seen battle before, so they left after realizing it wasn’t for them.”

“That’s not good.” Niamh’s frown was interrupted as she stifled an involuntary yawn.

Curatio smiled. “It’s not bad. Our newfound prestige from slaying the Dragonlord netted us another 350 applicants in the last week. It’s tapered off quite a bit the last couple days, but we’re still getting a steady stream.”

Alaric frowned in concentration. “I would have thought the surge would continue for a few more days.”

“No complaints,” Curatio said with a shrug. “We have over a thousand people at our command now.” A gleam filled the healer’s eye. “The new people that have joined us are almost all veterans, unlike those we were recruiting before the battle.”

Cyrus cracked his knuckles. “That’ll make my job as General easier.”

Alaric smiled at the warrior. “In that department, I am curious as to what you believe to be our next step?” A long moment passed in which Cyrus did not answer. “Cyrus?” Alaric asked.

The warrior’s attention was focused out the windows behind Alaric. Cyrus stood without warning, chair tipping over behind him. “Gods dammit! They got another one!”

He rushed past Alaric, throwing open the doors to the balcony. The chill of the night air rushed over his skin and the grassy smell of the Plains of Perdamun filled his nose, but he ignored it as his eyes stayed focused on the horizon. The night noises of the plains were drowned out by the sounds of the Council joining him.

Alaric’s eyes narrowed at the spots of light in the distance. He turned to Niamh. “We must go to their assistance. We require the Falcon’s Essence.”

The red-haired elf nodded, and muttered a spell under her breath, giving them all the ability to walk on air.

“Is everyone armed?” Alaric asked.

“No,” Cyrus replied.

“Take this.” Terian pulled a short sword from under his back plate and tossed it to Cyrus. “But I want it back.”

“Curatio –” Alaric cast a look at the healer. “Awaken the guild. I do not anticipate difficulty, but just in case…” Curatio nodded and hurried back through the Council Chambers.

“Whaddya think?” Terian asked. “Twenty miles?”

Cyrus looked at the fires on the horizon. “About that.”

“With the Essence of Falcon,” Alaric remarked, stepping over the edge of the balcony and off the tower, “we will be there within the hour.” His voice receded into the darkness.

Without another word, they all followed him over the edge, running into the night.

Chapter 3

Alaric was barely visible in front of Cyrus, leading the charge across the plains toward the distant fires. Cyrus raised his gaze and felt his altitude increase; he brought it back down and joined the rest of them running low, skimming the tops of the tall grass.

“How many this week?” Vara said from his right.

“Four?” Vaste chipped in. “Five now, I think.”

Terian whistled from behind Cyrus. “I’ve been with Sanctuary since almost the beginning. We’ve had bandits in the Plains of Perdamun for years. But they only attacked people traveling in small groups or by themselves.”

“Whoever they are, five convoys in a week is a lot.” Cyrus’s face hardened as he added his opinion. “All from different places, with different destinations, and all destroyed, nothing left but dead bodies and burnt wagons. Whoever’s behind it, they’re putting a squeeze on the trade routes of the southern plains.”

“Disappearing without a trace is a neat trick for bandits.” Vaste spoke between gulps for air. “I wouldn’t feel so bad if they’d left behind even one of their dead, or a clue of some kind to tell us they were there. Whoever they are, it’s like they don’t exist after the attack.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Terian said with a laugh.

“Don’t being ridiculous,” Vara said sharply. “You’ll make Alaric think we’re talking about him behind his back.”

“I can hear you,” came the voice of the Ghost from far in front of them. “And it is no ghost.”

They ran in silence the rest of the way. Flames were roaring from several wagons. “Lighting them all on fire – was that really necessary?” Vaste asked as they crossed the last hundred feet to the site of the attack.

Cyrus stopped behind Alaric, who was hovering a few feet above the road, surveying the wreckage. “Whoever did this wanted it to be found. You don’t light thirty wagons on fire for the hell of it.”

“No sign of the attackers,” Alaric sighed. “Let us see if we can trace their movements.”

Bodies lay strewn around the burning wagons. A few corpses lay in the flames. The bodies were cut and bloodied; a few eviscerated. “No chance of resurrection spell – maybe give us a witness?” Cyrus asked, looking to Vaste.

The healer shook his head. “The time limit for a resurrection spell is an hour. These souls are lost to permanent death.”

Cyrus stooped over one of the corpses, a dark elf. “Looks like this convoy comes from a dark elven city?”

Terian joined him beside the body. “I’d say this was a shipment from Aloakna, the port on the Bay of Souls. It’s a neutral town – big dark elf population, lots of elves and humans too. Probably a shipment of cloth, silk, maybe even some gold – bound for Elven territory – most likely Termina.”

Niamh was flummoxed. “You guessed that all from looking at one body?”

Terian frowned. “No, I guessed it because of the direction they’re heading, the road they’re on, and the types of trade that would go from Aloakna to Termina that would be done by dark elves.”

Terian’s head swiveled to look at Alaric. “It’s a sovereignty convoy.” He grasped the wrist of the corpse and held up its bracer, which bore a distinctive circular crest. “Sovereign’s insignia. Not found on free citizens. This guy was a member of the Saekaj Sovar Militia. I see a few others as well.”

“Who would want to attack these convoys?” Cyrus mused. “This is wholesale slaughter.”

Terian answered. “Any group of bandits would want to. They’re filled with riches, which is why they’re protected the way they are. The question is, who possesses the strength to down a convoy? There have to be fifty soldiers mixed in with eighty or more traders.”

Alaric spoke first. “I do not know, but it is an ill sign that these attacks are occurring so near to us.”

“The Plains of Perdamun are vast,” Vara agreed, speaking for the first time since they had arrived at the site. “I wonder if perhaps there are other convoys being attacked elsewhere in the Plains? If not, this is no coincidence.”

Heavy footfalls padded behind them and Cyrus turned to see Curatio arrive with reinforcements. The elf’s face fell upon arriving.

They scoured the remains of the convoy for the next four hours. By then it was well past daybreak and the fires were dying.

“I don’t see anything,” Terian said with a curse.

Curatio nodded. “Not a visible footprint, no sign of hostile dead – nothing to prove anyone attacked this convoy.” The elf gestured at the wreckage. “Other than the ruin they left behind.”

Alaric’s hand came to his chin. “We have done all we can here. Have one of the wizards return us to Sanctuary.” The Ghost turned to face them and his eye moved to each of the Council members in turn as he spoke. “We will meet in Council when we return, to discuss this and the other matters we left behind.”

“So much for that nap,” Niamh said.

Cyrus took a last look at the wreckage of the dark elven caravan before he grasped the orb of teleportation that the wizard conjured for him, and saw the last flickering flames of the convoy replaced by the bright blue energy of the spell that carried him back to Sanctuary.

Chapter 4

They reconvened in the Council Chamber almost an hour later. Alaric had yet to arrive, but the rest of the Council was seated. A thin mist filled the room, flowing toward the head of the table. It slid from the floor up the chair, and Alaric faded into view, demonstrating once more the genesis of his title, ‘The Ghost of Sanctuary’.

Niamh pulled her head from the table at his appearance. “Maybe you can explain to us how a knight can disappear and reappear at will, ’cause I’ve never seen anyone but a full-on spell caster do anything close to that.” She looked pensive for a moment. “And how do you do that thing with the mist? I have the forces of nature at my disposal and I can’t do that.”

Alaric smiled. “Someday, I may explain. For now we have more pressing matters to attend to. These convoy attacks have become concerning to me.”

Cyrus looked around the table. “No one likes to see convoys get slaughtered, but is it our responsibility to get involved?”

“Are we not defenders of the weak and protectors of those who cannot protect themselves?” Vara bristled.

“Absolutely.” Cyrus met her gaze, unflinching. “But we are also only one thousand strong – with about five hundred veterans – and the Plains of Perdamun are sizable. If you restricted us to within fifty miles of Sanctuary in all directions, would you feel confident that we could guard that territory?”

The heat of Vara’s gaze fell upon him, and did not abate, although the intensity of her words was lost. “We would struggle to protect even that.”

“Indeed,” Curatio added. “That would be almost 8,000 square miles and we wouldn’t even be watching halfway to Aloakna.”

Cyrus looked around the table. “Whose territory is this?”

A shadow grew over Alaric’s face. “The Plains of Perdamun are disputed territory for over a thousand years. The dark elves enforce a boundary at the eastern edge of the Waking Woods, the Elven Kingdom patrols west of the river Perda, and the human government in Reikonos has yet to stretch the Confederation’s military presence south of Prehorta, which is a few hundred miles north of here.”

“But,” Cyrus realized with a start, “someone’s been keeping the bandit population in check. How do they handle criminal matters in this part of the Plains?”

Alaric answered. “Each village has magistrates and lawmen to handle their own. We’ve swept the spaces between settlements as needed for the last twenty years, whenever a bandit group became problematic. While the elves, the humans and the dark elves don’t fight over this territory, they all claim it and each race has settlements within it.

“This was originally Elven land, long before the rise of the current kingdom. Then it was claimed by the dark elves in a war about a millennium ago. They traded the territory back and forth in several wars since. It’s been a hundred years since the last war when the possession of the Plains of Perdamun was contested.”

“They fought over it for two thousand years?” Cyrus boggled.

“What precisely did you learn in the Society of Arms?” Vara interrupted. “Because they certainly didn’t teach you how to wield a sword – unless they taught you to use a cudgel and you’ve substituted it for a sword.”

He shot her an irritated look. “History was not my strong suit.”

Vara threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “Fine. Yes, they fought over these lands, the imperialist dark elves and the fair kingdom of light elves, in another timeless battle between the forces of good and evil –”

“Who are you calling evil?” J’anda straightened, glaring at Vara.

“Me, I hope,” Terian added with a nasty smile.

“Fear me, black knight,” Vara shot back. “My point is whoever won the last war got the territory.”

“So what changed?”

“This lesson in elementary history would go much faster if you would constrain yourself to shut up,” she fumed. “But,” her voice lightened a touch, “you asked the question, and you are the answer.”

“Me?” Cyrus looked at her, tentative.

“Your people, the humans.” Her frown deepened. “The coalition of human city-states that was precursor to your Human Confederation inserted themselves in the last war, tipping the balance of power in favor of the elves. There was a lasting peace after that war between the two major powers – now three, since you humans mastered the art of walking upright – and people from all three nations have settled the southern plains.”

Alaric took over. “Now, the hundred years of peace in this region might be undone by three different factions sending armies into our quiet little area, starting a war that will likely spill into the rest of the world.”

“You think,” Cyrus asked in astonishment, “that bandit attacks here, hundreds of miles from any of the major powers, could start a war?”

The Ghost straightened in his seat. “The Plains of Perdamun have become the breadbasket of Arkaria, supplying enormous quantities of foodstuffs to every major power. I have seen wars begin for lesser reasons. For example, the dark elves once began an assault on the borders of the Elven Kingdom when the King failed to send an appropriate gift for the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar’s wedding.”

“When was that?” J’anda said with a curious look. “I’m two hundred years old and I don’t remember that. The current sovereign doesn’t even…” His voice trailed off and he looked around the table. “…take wives.”

Alaric brushed it off. “While this seems on the surface like mere banditry, there are deeper concerns. Which brings me to other items of great import on our agenda – the first being our entanglement with the Alliance and the second being the training of our army.”

The eyes of everyone at the table subtly shifted to Cyrus. “I don’t really have a list of targets in mind.” He cleared his throat. “All my efforts right now involve training the new folks in basics. Elisabeth from The Daring informed me that they have a line on a time when Yartraak, the God of Darkness will be absent from his Realm, so she’s scheduling an Alliance incursion there.”

Alaric stared at Cyrus. “We need to host more audacious excursions if we intend to whip this army into shape and position ourselves to shed the Alliance.”

“I don’t disagree,” Cyrus said, “but what could we attempt with half our complement being inexperienced?”

“Perhaps the Trials of Purgatory?” Vaste suggested with light humor. “After all, the last guild that succeeded –”

“Was killed almost to the last person,” Vara interrupted, dour look on her face.

“A joke, only,” Vaste said with a nod toward the elf.

“Regardless,” the Ghost said, angling his head toward Cyrus, “I’m confident when next we meet you’ll have possibilities in mind.”

“Yes,” Cyrus stammered. “I will.”

“Excellent. Then we are adjourned,” Alaric gestured with a flourish. Cyrus stood, intending to be one of the first out of the Chamber. “Hold, Cyrus,” Alaric gestured to him. “I have things to discuss with you.”

The rest of the Council filed out one by one, Niamh yawning and Vara shooting him an indecipherable look on her way out. When the door shut, Cyrus found himself looking into the eye of the Ghost, steely gaze giving no hint of the paladin’s intentions. “I have two things to discuss with you,” Alaric began. “First, there is a matter that needs settling. I would have you meet me in the dungeons in two hours.”

Cyrus blinked. “Okay…”

“Second, I typically do not meddle in the personal affairs of my officers, but when one of them has a nightmare of such intensity that it awakens everyone, I become concerned.”

“I thought this was going to be about my lack of planning.”

A wave of the paladin’s hand dismissed that thought. “You have established that you will take care of that by the next meeting and I trust you to deliver on your word.” The gray eye of Lord Garaunt pierced him. “This nightmare – may I ask what it pertained to?”

Cyrus felt a sudden rush to his head and a numbness in the rest of his body. “It was about Enterra.”

“I assumed as much.” Alaric stood and began circling the table. “I received a report from a source that indicated Orion’s proclamation of the rising force of the Goblin Imperium is coming to fruition. They are stirring.”

Cyrus’s fingers found his temples and begin to massage them. “I thought Orion lied about that so he could stage an Alliance invasion as a diversion while he stole Terrenus, the Hammer of Earth, from the goblins?”

“All the best lies cloak themselves in truth. Orion knew that well. He failed to acquire the Hammer that night because one of Ashan’agar’s other servants betrayed the Alliance to the goblins in exchange for it.”

Cyrus’s jaw tightened. “I have not forgotten. But what does this have to do with my dreams?”

The Ghost’s gaze cooled. “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. At the moment it is impossible to say.”

“Really,” Cyrus stated rather than asked, “because you just inferred that events taking place in Enterra are influencing my dreams, which is a bizarre proposition for a warrior – one who has no magical ability whatsoever – to accept.”

The Ghost smiled. “Did I infer that? How peculiar a thing for me to suggest of you who have ‘no magical ability whatsoever’.” The smile vanished. “It might be more peculiar if you fully understood magic.”

“Enlighten me,” Cyrus said with the slightest tinge of annoyance.

“Perhaps some other day,” the paladin said with just a hint of regret. “I do not wish to antagonize you by making you think I am holding back some vital information; I merely have suspicions about the shape of events.” He held up his hand to stop Cyrus from interrupting him. “Suspicions which I will, of course, share with you –”

“– in the fullness of time,” Cyrus interrupted anyway.

The Ghost’s smile returned. “I hope you will accept that.”

“Do I have a choice?”

Alaric did not smile this time. “No.”

Cyrus shrugged, faking a grin. “Then I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Without another word, he crossed the distance between his chair and the door handle.

The Ghost’s voice came to him once more as he opened the door. “Should you have another dream, please seek me out… and we will discuss it further.”

“I’m sure that will be enlightening for me,” Cyrus said with unmitigated sarcasm. He turned to favor the paladin with a glare but the Ghost was already gone.

“Enlightenment comes to the patient,” a final whisper filled Cyrus’s ears.

He sighed and turned to leave. “Sadly, not one of my virtues.”

Chapter 5

Cyrus descended the stairway and entered the foyer of Sanctuary. An enormous open space with a balcony, the foyer could easily fit the entire population of the guild in it, and was used for times when the officers’ Council wanted to address everyone outside of a mealtime in the Great Hall. A hearth the length of three men laid end to end stretched across the wall nearest the stairwell. To his left sat the doors leading outside, and opposite him was the open entrance to the lounge where members spent much of their free time.

He had often admired the stonework around the walls, which were carved so perfectly that there was no sign of grout between them. The fireplace crackled even now, giving the entire foyer an aroma of sweet smokiness and a warmth that was comfortable but not so overbearing as to cause Cyrus to sweat. The entrance doors were mammoth, carved of a dark wood that was mysteriously light and easy to open.

They were open now, however, and Cyrus wandered over to a table resting close to the entrance with a familiar elf sitting behind it, inkwell and parchment before him and a quill in his hand.

“Andren,” Cyrus intoned as he approached the elf from behind. A line of five people unfamiliar to Cyrus stood in front of the table.

Andren wore a scowl and was writing on the parchment in front of him, hand moving with angry flourishes. “They’ve got me handling applications for these new people,” he said with a furious gesture that splattered ink on the red armor of the young human warrior that stood first in the line before him. The warrior did not flinch, standing at attention, arms straight at his sides and spine upright.

“Why would they go and do something like that during regular drinking hours?” Cyrus quipped.

“I don’t know,” Andren said, shaking his head hard enough that his long, dark hair fell off his shoulder. “Probably because I’m literate.”

Cyrus frowned. “I thought all elves were literate.”

“They are!” Andren scowled. “But you humans aren’t! Why don’t they teach you how to read and write?”

Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t know; I learned at the Society of Arms.”

The elf stared blankly back at him. “So they did teach you something there? I’m surprised.”

“Hey!” shouted the warrior standing in front of Andren. “I was trained at the Society of Arms as well!” His face contorted with fury.

Andren turned his empty gaze upon the new applicant. “Would you like me to ask the application questions more slowly?”

“Perhaps I should take over for you,” Cyrus suggested as the red-armored warrior’s face began to match the color of his breastplate.

“Meh. I’ll write, you talk.” Andren turned his head down and began to scribble furiously. “First applicant… warrior… human… below average intelligence… sub-par personal hygiene…”

“Shut up!” Cyrus’s voice came out as a low hiss, laced with urgency. Turning back to the warrior, whose expression had only gotten darker, he said, “What’s your name?”

The warrior tore his eyes from Andren, who was still writing. “Thad Proelius, sir.”

“At ease. You’re from Reikonos?” Cyrus asked. The warrior met his gaze and nodded. “When did you graduate from the Society?”

“About three months ago,” Thad answered. “You’re Cyrus Davidon. You were graduating when I moved into warrior training.” He outstretched his hand to Cyrus. “It would be an honor to stand by you in battle.”

“…projects the aura of a perfect lackey…” Andren droned as he wrote.

“Ignore him,” Cyrus said. “He’s harmless to everything but an alcoholic beverage.” He grasped the young warrior’s hand in a handshake. “Glad to have you with us, Thad.”

The next in line was an elven woman with brown hair pouring out of her chainmail headweave. She was pretty, Cyrus thought, and carried the look of someone who wore a perpetual smile. “My name is Martaina Proelius,” she said.

Cyrus returned her smile. “You’re married to Thad?” She answered him with a nod, her smile broadening. “I see more elven women married to human men than I do elven ones.”

Martaina’s smile turned into a smirk. “It’s because human men are so young, vibrant, passionate and excited – they know how to satisfy an elven woman who’s been around for hundreds or thousands of years. Elven men,” she said with a glare directed at Andren, “are old, boring, stodgy and self-absorbed.”

Andren’s lips had narrowed and pursed. “You wound me, madam, with your words.”

“If you’d prefer,” she said, “I could do it with a blade?”

Andren grimaced and Cyrus laughed to the obvious delight of Martaina, who nodded and moved off to the side to join her husband. The next applicant in line was another human, clad in more maneuverable leather armor. “I remember you,” Cyrus said, “you’re from the Confederation’s northlands – close to the border with the dwarves.”

“Aye,” the human said with a smile. A ragged beard of black hair covered the warrior’s face and the pommel of a sword jutted from his belt. A smell wafted off him of sweat and dirt. “You met me when you came through my village while recruiting a few months ago.”

“Your name,” Cyrus said, pulling from memory, “is Menlos Irontooth.”

The bearded human smiled. “Kind of you to remember; I know you must have talked to quite a few people since then.”

“I did, but you were memorable. Where are your wolves?”

Menlos pointed down. Cyrus and Andren leaned forward to see three wolves lying in the shadow of the table, each gnawing on a bone.

“My gods,” Andren said in surprise. “I thought that the gnawing noise was him –” pointing at Thad – “eating for the eighty-fifth time today.” Cyrus tossed an apologetic look to Thad. Martaina’s hand reached out to the red-armored warrior, soothing him.

“Are they always this quiet?” Cyrus asked.

Menlos shook his head. “They get loud during battle.”

“You use them in combat?” Andren said with a raised eyebrow.

“Wolves are vicious fighters,” Menlos confirmed, dirty fingernails running across the hilt of his sword. “They bring down my foes so I can finish them.”

“Interesting,” Cyrus said genuinely. He shook the northman’s dirty hand and watched Menlos join Thad and Martaina at the side of the table.

Next in line was a man clad in dark blue armor, steel plate covered with a white surcoat, and a coat of arms on it: a black lion with an extended paw, as though it were swiping at a foe. The human had a lantern jaw, and his deep brown eyes watched Cyrus shrewdly, gauging him. “I am Sir Samwen Longwell,” he said in a lilting accent that Cyrus couldn’t place.

“Pleased to meet you, Longwell. Where do you hail from?”

Longwell hesitated. “Far away. I doubt you would have heard of my homeland.”

A hint of curiosity went through Cyrus’s mind as he studied Sir Samwen Longwell. “Very well, then. Are you a paladin?”

“No, sir,” Longwell replied with a shake of the head. “I use no magics; where I come from, they do not exist. I am called a dragoon.”

“What does a dragoon do?” Cyrus asked, curiosity increasing.

“I am a very skilled fighter on horseback,” Longwell replied. “I prefer to use a lance, but I can also use a spear or my sword.”

He nodded to dismiss Longwell, who joined the others. He brought his attention to the last person in line to find a beautiful young dark elf with a shy smile. “Pleased to meet you…” His words drifted off.

“Aisling,” she said. “Aisling Nightwind.” She wore twin daggers and light leather armor. A few thistles were entangled in her white hair; whether by accident or intention Cyrus did not speculate.

“I don’t see a bow on you,” he said, looking her up and down. “I have to admit, that’s a bit unusual for a ranger.”

She stepped around the table, cutting the distance between them. She was short compared to him; her head barely reached the base of his chin. “I’m an unusual ranger,” she said in a throaty whisper. “I’m sure I have a bow around here somewhere… why don’t you –” she winked as she smiled at up at him – “see if you can find it?”

Cyrus stared at the dark blue face for a moment without saying anything, his own frozen without expression. When he regained the capacity for speech, he cleared his throat. “I… I will… take your word for it… that you have a bow… somewhere.”

“Are you sure?” She leaned in, brushing against him.

“Quite sure.”

She shrugged, smile receding. “If you ever change your mind…” She took a few steps toward the rest of the new applicants then turned back, tossing something. He caught it nimbly, realized with a start that it was his belt.

“What the…?”

“This too,” she added, pitching another object at him underhand. He caught it. “You’re very nimble for a warrior,” she purred. “That’s an enjoyable quality in a man.” Looking down, he examined the object – it was his coinpurse. He looked up to meet her gaze, which was bordering on salacious. “I told you I’m a very unique ranger.”

“Looks like the roguish sort to me,” a familiar voice crackled from behind him. Vara appeared at his shoulder, face contorted in a mask of annoyance. “Don’t think that removing objects from this addle-brained oaf’s person will endear you to anyone but him – and that’s only because it requires you to touch him in a nearly intimate way.”

“I wouldn’t mind touching him in a very intimate way,” the dark elf said with a grin. “And my touch has been known to endear me to more than just men.” She looked at Vara with the same lasciviousness that had been directed at Cyrus.

“Oh, my.” A clatter echoed in the foyer as Andren knocked over his inkwell.

Cyrus could feel Vara tense at his shoulder. Fearful of her reaction, he stepped forward and began to address the new arrivals. “Welcome to Sanctuary. We are glad to have you. You’ll find our purpose very simple – we are a band of adventurers that prize honor above all. We travel to the corners of Arkaria in search of new places to explore, new items and experiences to enrich us, but strive above all to be protectors, saving Arkaria from the dangers that lurk outside these walls.”

“And now, within it,” Vara muttered, eyes fixed on Aisling.

“It is our solemn duty,” Cyrus continued, “to defend those who cannot defend themselves. To assist the helpless, and to bring justice to those who would otherwise have no opportunity for redress. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

“I knew this was the right place,” Thad said. “Is it true that you helped Goliath kill Ashan’agar, the former Dragonlord?”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “What?”

The warrior stared at Cyrus, blank expression on his face. “I’d heard that you assisted Goliath in killing the Dragonlord in the Mountains of Nartanis last week.”

A strange pounding in Cyrus’s ears was suddenly all that was audible. He threw a look at Andren, who appeared stricken, then at Vara, whose fair complexion was flushed red, especially mottled on her cheeks and neck.

“I killed Ashan’agar,” Cyrus whispered, menace crackling through every syllable.

“No, you didn’t,” Vara said behind him, voice choked. “Alaric finished him after you blinded and crippled him.”

“The point is, Goliath had nothing to do with it! They barely arrived in time to reinforce our army in fighting the Dragonlord’s minions!”

“That’s not what the rumors around Pharesia are saying,” Martaina breathed. “I heard that Goliath, led by Malpravus, killed the Dragonlord and that Sanctuary and the Daring helped in the battle.”

“I heard the same thing in Saekaj Sovar,” Aisling agreed.

“Wow,” Andren said after a moment of silence. “We’ve been betrayed by Goliath. I can’t believe it. If only there had been some warning – like if they had betrayed us before,” he deadpanned.

“I’ll bring this to the Council. Feel free,” Cyrus said to the new applicants, “to ask around and see what your new guildmates have to say. Having actually been at the battle, they might be able to offer a different perspective than you’ve heard through rumor,” he said, jaw clenched. “Do any of you have any questions?”

“Yes,” Menlos interjected. “Can I keep my wolves with me?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow and shot a look at Vara. “We’ll have to discuss that in Council and get back to you. Anyone else?”

Martaina raised her hand and turned to Vara. “Are you… shelas’akur?”

Vara’s face became flintlike, and the normal glitter of her eyes dimmed. “Yes,” she said finally. “We will speak of it no more.”

Martaina nodded. Menlos, Thad, Longwell and Aisling all wore the same perplexed expression as Cyrus. Andren was unreadable to Cyrus; a first in all the time they had known each other.

Another moment of uncomfortable silence passed. “I look forward to getting to know all of you in the coming days,” Cyrus said, then turned his back and stalked toward the stairway, Vara only a few paces behind him. They did not speak until they had reached the top of the first landing.

“What the hell is shelas’akur?” Cyrus stumbled over the pronunciation.

“It’s elvish for ‘mind your own business’,” she snapped.

“I’m not shocked at your reticence to have a peaceful discussion,” Cy replied, trying to control his voice. “But you could let me know what questions I’m going to have to answer about you from applicants. It reflects poorly on us – on me.”

“That’s rich, coming from you!” Vara snarled. “Flirting with a new applicant as though she were some simpering courtesan from Pharesia!”

“Excuse me?” He looked back at her. “The flirting was one-sided, and it wasn’t my side.” His expression changed to a scowl. “Why do you care?”

“There is a certain standard of behavior expected from an officer of this guild,” she said irritably. “You do not involve yourself with people below your station.”

“How charmingly old-world elvish of you,” Cyrus spat back. “And here I thought you were from Termina, where everyone is equal.”

“It is not a matter of personal equality! It is a matter of positional equality – of you, as an officer, having power over whether they become members of this guild.”

His arms snapped crisply back and forth, fists balled, as he climbed the staircase. “How would you have me handle it? Remonstrate the poor girl in front of her fellow applicants?”

“Yes, remonstrate her for bad conduct, chide her for making an unfavorable impression, and admonish her for having exceptionally poor taste in men.”

“And women, it would seem.”

“We have other problems to deal with,” Vara changed the subject. “It would appear that Goliath is impugning our reputation.”

“Finally, a point on which we both can agree.”

They flew through the door to the Council Chambers to find it empty save for Niamh. “They did what?” she asked after hearing their explanation. “We need a meeting.” Her face darkened. “Another meeting.”

Vara nodded. “I’ll go see who I can find.”

“I’ll check the officers’ quarters,” Cyrus added. Vara slipped out the doors without even a backward glance at him.

Cyrus started to leave, then turned back. “Niamh,” he asked. “What does ‘shelas’akur’ mean?”

“Nice try.” The red-haired druid regarded him coolly, eyes indifferent. “No elf will answer that.”

“I don’t understand why no one can answer a simple question about her.”

“It’s a sensitive matter…” Niamh began.

“– one you don’t discuss with outsiders. Yeah,” he nodded. “I heard that line over and over from you when we were on our trek through the wilderness. But you know,” he said with a smile, “someone, sooner or later, is going to give me the answers I’m looking for, even if they don’t intend to.”

Her eyes became haunted, but her mouth upturned, giving her just a hint of a wistful smile. He turned to leave but heard her whisper something else, just loud enough for him to hear: “I hope so.”

Chapter 6

It took a few minutes to assemble the Council. By the time Cyrus re-entered the chamber he found Alaric waiting at the head of the table. He took his seat as Vara finished delivering the news.

Alaric folded his arms. “I am no more pleased than any of you. But we have no proof that this rumor originated with Goliath.”

“I’m sure that some peasant in Reikonos started the rumor because Vara insulted him,” Terian said, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth in rage.

“That’s plausible,” Cyrus deadpanned. “She’s offensive.”

Vara cast a glare at him, but whatever reply she might have made was halted by one look from Alaric. “While odious and damaging to the ego, stealing credit for our efforts is not a criminal offense.” The paladin placed his hands on the table in front of him. “We have many things to focus on; this cannot be one of them.” He looked around the table. “Until we have evidence, we will not discuss this any further.”

With grudging looks, the Council members stood to leave. “Cyrus,” Alaric called. The warrior turned. “You and I have an appointment.”

With a feeling of combined dread and curiosity, Cyrus followed him.

“Have you gotten yourself another sword?” the Ghost asked as they descended the stairs.

“No,” Cyrus admitted. “I’ve been postponing it.”

“Let us stop by the armory and see what Belkan can provide.”

Alaric pushed through the doors when they reached the armory. A smell of fresh leather filled the air, and hooks stuck out of every surface. When last Cyrus had been here, they were covered with weapons of all kinds. Now they all stood empty save for a few axes that clinked against the stone walls, disturbed by the shifting air current of the opening door.

Belkan, the armorer, was an aged warrior, with gray hair and a face that looked as though it had been poorly carved out of granite. His nose had been broken on several occasions by the look of it, and a host of scars crisscrossed the wrinkles that lined his chest all the way down his open vest, which looked to be made of some animal skin.

“Davidon,” the old warrior snapped in greeting. “I was expecting you days ago.” The old armorer turned to look at Alaric, favoring the Ghost with a nod of deference.

“Belkan, our young warrior seems to have misplaced his sword whilst battling a dragon,” Alaric said, voice dripping with irony. “Do you have a worthy replacement for him?”

A pained look crossed the armorer’s face. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I do.” His gaze flitted around the bare walls. “With all the recruiting he’s done, I’ve given out just about every sword that I had to get this army ready for battle.” Belkan leaned over, reaching under the counter. “The best I’ve got left is this,” he said as he placed a short sword on the counter in front of him.

The blade was as long as Cyrus’s forearm and hand, flat steel separated from a rounded handle by a thin rectangular guard. The pommel was a half a sphere of unadorned metal. This may be the plainest sword I’ve ever seen, Cyrus thought. And damned short. Cyrus felt his heart fall in his chest. “I had a feeling there wasn’t going to be much left.”

Belkan’s white, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Now see here, son, this might not be as fancy as your mystically enchanted swords –”

“Or long enough to keep a gnome at arm’s length,” Cyrus said with a pronounced glumness.

“– but it’s well made, it’s well taken care of, and it’s a fair sight better than using your gauntlets.”

“Yes, it is,” Cyrus said without enthusiasm.

“Take heart.” Alaric clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. “It is the warrior that makes the sword great, not vice versa.”

“Alaric,” Cyrus said in a muted whisper, “it’s half the length of the blades I normally use. I’ll take it because I’ve got no other options, but I’m going to be suffering until I get a better sword.”

“Perhaps,” the Ghost suggested, “you could go to Reikonos and acquire a sword that would be more fitting.”

Belkan snorted. “I doubt it. The ‘Big Three’ guilds – Amarath’s Raiders, Burnt Offerings and Endeavor – have bought every weapon in every major city they can get their hands on since they’ve begun expeditions into the Realms of the gods. The blacksmiths in Reikonos have a two year waiting list for weapons, and that’s just for me – I send quite a bit of business their way.” The armorer shook his head. “Sorry, son, but this is the only option unless you want a rusty blade.”

Cyrus dropped his eyes to the short sword. It gleamed in the torchlight, showing a blade that, although short, had been impeccably taken care of. “No, this will have to do.”

“Bring it back when you find better,” Belkan said, tipping the short sword into its scabbard. “I know you will. What about that sword of legend you’ve been working on assembling?”

“Not even close.”

“Pity,” Belkan said as he handed over the blade. Cyrus placed the scabbard on his belt as they walked out the door. “Davidon!” Belkan called out, causing Cy to turn back. “Next time, come see me right after you lose your sword, not a week later.”

“Would it have made any difference?” Cy asked.

“Yes,” the old armorer said. “Yesterday afternoon I gave up the long blade I was holding for you; figured you’d made other arrangements.”

Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment and let the words sink in. “Hopefully there’s not a next time.” He turned and left, following Alaric.

“Why are we going to the dungeons?” Cyrus asked as they crossed the foyer and entered a hallway that lead along the side of the Great Hall.

“We have a matter to settle,” the Ghost answered without inflection.

“Do you ever get tired of being cryptic?”

“No.” A slight smile upturned the corner of Alaric’s mouth. “Does it annoy you?”

“Yes.”

“You are in good company,” the Ghost replied as they reached the staircase and began the descent to the dungeons.

“Is there any reason you can’t just say, ‘Cy, here’s what I need taken care of and here’s why,’ and just be done with it?” Irritation rattled in every word.

“I could. I might say we are going to the dungeons to converse with a rock giant who until last week was a dedicated servant of the Dragonlord. But there is no anticipation in that. Life is full of surprises, and to have all them revealed at the outset would make a boring life, bereft of adventure.”

“After the last year,” Cy mumbled, “I could do with a little less surprise and a little more certainty.”

“An odd comment from an ‘adventurer’. Think how dull things would be if I simply spilled out all I knew instead of doling it a bit at a time.” The paladin halted at the bottom of the stairs, his face a mask of seriousness. “There are secrets I know that could get you and everyone you know killed, that could rock the foundations of Arkaria. Should I spill them out on the table, let you sift through and choose which ones you’d like to know?”

Cyrus’s eyes widened. “You’re joking to make a point.”

“Perhaps.” The seriousness did not fade. “When I am being mysterious, it is either for your own good or because I would not argue with you to get you to do something that is in your own best interests.”

Cyrus shifted back to annoyance. “So why won’t you tell me your suspicions regarding my nightmare?”

The paladin sighed. “Once again we go back to my earlier statement about it being ‘for your own good’.”

Cyrus threw his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Alaric nodded. “I know you are not pleased with me and I do not blame you.”

Cyrus brushed past him. “I’m sure hidden in my nightmare is a secret that could destroy Arkaria. Let’s just get done with whatever it is you brought me down here for.”

Alaric studied him for a long moment without speaking. “This way.” He led Cyrus through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached a locked door guarded by two warriors that Cyrus knew to be long time members of Sanctuary, swords at their sides. Cy looked with envy at their weapons as they saluted Alaric. One reached for a key and unlocked the door, stepping to the side to admit them.

Cyrus walked through the door following Alaric’s gesture that he should enter first. The cool air prickled his skin as he entered, and the lack of light sent his eyes into a scramble to adjust to the semi-darkness. There was a smell in the room that gave Cyrus a flash back to a time during a fight when he had been hit hard, dropped to the ground and his face landed in the dirt. A clacking of chains was subtle but audible against the far wall.

He focused his eyes, trying to find the origin of the noise. The stones on the wall opposite him seemed to be moving. His gaze moved up – and up, until it reached the apex of the moving rock in front of him. It was a rock giant: ten feet tall, brushing against the ceiling, with a skin that looked to be composed of living stone. Chains with steel links an inch thick were draped across both of its hands, binding them to each other and to its feet.

Cyrus hid his surprise, but only because he had faced this kind of beast before. “A rock giant,” he muttered. “I thought you were kidding.”

“Kidding makes it difficult to be mysterious.” Cy’s head whipsawed around to catch the smile on Alaric’s face. “Don’t be shy; introduce yourself.”

Cyrus turned to face the giant in front of him. “My name is Cyrus Davidon. I killed your master and I’ve killed your kind before.” The words came out in a snarl, all his frustration unbottled at once. His hand slid to the hilt of his sword.

The rock giant glared down, red eyes shining in the dark. They surveyed him for almost a full minute before it spoke in a voice that sounded like falling gravel. “You killed my master? You killed Ashan’agar?”

“Damned right I did, I took both his eyes and I rode him into the ground.” Cyrus did not break off, staring down the wall of a creature in front of him.

“He only had one eye.” The voice came out in a low rumble, the eyes still fixated on his.

“I took his other a year ago, when I invaded his den,” Cyrus crowed.

The red eyes of the rock giant fell for a moment. “So you killed Ashan’agar?”

A small cough from behind him stopped Cyrus’s reply. He turned to face Alaric. “I didn’t think about it at the time, but you deprived me of the kill.”

The paladin’s helmet was under the crook of his elbow and he looked at Cyrus in amusement. “You had just been resurrected and were still weak. I assumed you wanted him dead – the sooner, the better.”

“Good point.” Cyrus turned back to the rock giant. “I blinded and crippled Ashan’agar.” He gestured to Alaric with a thumb. “He delivered the killing stroke.”

The chains rattled in front of them as the rock giant readjusted himself. The red eyes turned to Alaric. “Is this true? Did you kill my master?”

Alaric coughed. “I did.”

The room shook as the rock giant fell to a knee and bowed his head. “You have killed my master. I, Fortin the Rapacious, am now your servant.”

“We do not condone the keeping of slaves,” Alaric said.

“I am not a slave.” The rumbling voice filled the air. “I am a rock giant, a creation of the god of Earth, Rotan. My people choose to follow those who are strongest. I pledged myself to Ashan’agar because he was mightiest.” The red eyes narrowed. “I pledge myself to you now, not as your slave but as a warrior in your service, because you have bested my former master.”

Alaric shifted to rest his hand on his chin. “What are the terms of your service?”

Fortin returned to his feet. “If you order me to do something, I will do it, even if it is to my death. In exchange, you feed and house me.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “What does a rock giant eat?”

The red eyes found his. “I prefer gnomes.”

Alaric shook his head. “That is unacceptable.”

“Dwarves, then?”

“No.”

The rock giant’s head sagged. “I can feast upon other beasts you would consume – cows, deer, leopards… but I prefer gnomes.”

Cyrus shook his head. “If only Brevis were still here.”

“May I eat your enemies?” Fortin asked, his voice laden with innocence.

Alaric sighed once more. “We will discuss it on a case-by-case basis.” The paladin straightened. “I accept your terms of service, provided you will restrain yourself in your choice of meals to options I deem acceptable.”

The rock giant bowed his head. “I will serve you until you are killed by someone stronger. Until then I will follow your orders – even if it means I cannot eat gnomes.”

Cyrus turned to Alaric. “Are you sure this is such a good idea? What if he turns on us?”

Alaric looked at Cyrus. “Then you will kill him.”

A clinking behind him drew Cy’s attention back to the rock giant, who was studying him. “How did you kill the rock giant you defeated?”

A flush crept up Cyrus’s cheeks. “I knocked him off a bridge into a pool of lava.”

The red eyes moved up and down with Fortin’s head in a slow nod. “I knew the giant whom you killed. Well done. Were I him, I would have minded my footing.”

“Were you there the day I killed him?”

The giant nodded once more. “I fought your compatriots on the bridge before you escaped. You were the warrior in black who challenged Ashan’agar on the platform.”

“You recognize me now?”

“Not really,” Fortin said, moving his shoulders in a shrug. “You tiny fleshbag races all look alike to me.”

“I will have a guard release you from those chains,” Alaric said.

“No need,” Fortin grunted. The sounds of the clanking chains stopped, replaced by the straining of metal.

Something stung Cyrus in the arm, impact blunted by his vambraces. “Ouch,” he muttered and stooped to pick up a piece of metal – a lock, broken open.

With a clanking, the chains fell from the rock giant. “Would you like me to sleep down here?”

Alaric’s eyebrow raised. “I think the upper floors would be unsuited for your weight. We will prepare accommodations here in the basement, but not in a prison cell.”

The red eyes surveyed the space around him. “Good. I find this underground space… homey.”

“Very well,” Alaric nodded. “We have a guard quarters down the hall from here. I’ll have it cleared out for you.”

“Where will your guards sleep?”

“We rarely have prisoners, but if we do they can remain in their quarters upstairs.”

“I can assist you the next time you do,” Fortin said. “Intimidation and torture are two of my specialties.”

“I doubt you’ll be needing those skills here.” With a bow, Alaric moved toward the door. “I will send for you when the dinner hour approaches, Fortin. Welcome to Sanctuary.”

Cyrus lingered for a moment. “You’re bigger than me, stronger than me, and every inch of you is a weapon.” His voice hardened. “But if you harm anyone in Sanctuary, I will smash through that rocky skin and disembowel you.” The warrior straightened. “Just so we understand each other.”

The rock giant’s red eyes followed Cyrus as he began to back out of the room. “Consider me duly intimidated, fleshbag.”

The look of intensity left Cy’s face as he followed Alaric back to the stairs. “I don’t know whether I should be excited or terrified that we have that fighting on our side.”

“You should be thrilled – so long as he continues to fight on our side.”

“Yeah, so long as someone doesn’t come along and kill you,” Cyrus said with a nod. A dawning realization crawled up his spine. “So if you ever die in battle, does that mean he would betray us then and there?”

The paladin shrugged with an air of unconcern. “It may.”

“Should I be worried?” Cy fixed his eyes on the Ghost, who removed the helmet from the crook of his arm and slid it over his face.

“I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it – you need all you can get at this point.” An amused smile crossed Alaric’s face as he turned and walked away.

Chapter 7

The days that followed were filled with training exercises; efforts to enforce martial discipline and teach the applicants how to be part of a large army. Fortin had shown up and responded to orders with more enthusiasm than almost any of the other new recruits.

“Fortin, refrain from swinging your arms when you’re in the middle of a formation,” Cyrus suggested after the giant had hit three rangers, almost decapitating one.

“I will try, because Alaric asked me to follow your orders, but perhaps it would be wise if you changed the formation to give me more elbow room.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas,” Vaste muttered from behind Cyrus.

“The only way I can change this formation,” Cy explained, drawing on reserves of patience he didn’t feel, “is to place you at the back.”

“That won’t work.” The rock giant’s boulder head swiveled from side to side. “I’m of no use to you in the back. Better I be out front and the others follow me.”

Cyrus did not respond but turned away, expression suffused with frustration.

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Niamh said.

“Of course he’s not wrong,” Cy snapped. “If he was wrong, I’d tell him so and be done with it. It’s because he’s right that it’s a problem. I’ve got an army trained with tactics that don’t take into account that we’ve got the most effective fighter in Arkaria in our midst. So my choices are to hamstring the fighter and lose his advantages or retrain my whole army.”

“But this is not a bad problem to have,” J’anda whispered. “Three quarters of our force have seen battle once and been training for only a few weeks. If we must retrain, this would be the time.”

“You’re right,” Cy muttered. “But I’ve never seen an army deal with this sort of… problem.”

“It’s a simple fix,” came Vara’s voice. “A rock giant is not much bigger than a troll warrior.” She nodded at Vaste. “The bigger guilds, like Amarath’s Raiders, would place him at the rear and use him as a strategic reserve in tighter spaces, like caves, knowing that he is a bottleneck that could slow down and kill them. In wide open spaces he becomes the front line, either replacing the primary warrior or becoming the secondary to mop up additional enemies. Either way, you give the biggest fighter the space to do what he does best.”

A moment passed before Cyrus spoke. “Makes sense. Do we have enough time to retrain the army before the Alliance invasion of the Realm of Darkness?”

Vara paused. When she broke her silence, every word seemed to come only with great effort. “You are a… capable… General. I am certain you will have them trained sufficiently to handle the dangers of Yartraak’s realm by the time you go.”

Cy turned to her, unable to hide his surprise. “Did it cause you physical pain to say that?”

“Hush.” Her eyes fell to his waist. “What is that?” she said, pointing to the scabbard in his belt.

“It’s my sword.”

“It’s appalling. My arms are longer,” she said with a distinct frown. “How are you to hold enemies at bay?”

“I’ll find a way,” he replied, nostrils flaring.

Things had been quiet in the Plains of Perdamun after the last bandit attack, with no destroyed convoys found in spite of several sweeps of the roads. “Perhaps they have given up,” J’anda said with a shrug.

“Seems odd that they’d devastate convoy after convoy and suddenly disappear,” Cyrus replied. “Why not keep doing what’s working?”

No answer was forthcoming. The day of the Alliance invasion of the Realm of Darkness was soon upon them, the chill of autumn deepening as the winds howled across the otherwise peaceful Plains. Cyrus entered the Great Hall an hour before the time that Sanctuary’s army would leave to meet the Alliance force.

The Great Hall was longer than the foyer but not nearly as wide. Along one side ran a hearth and fireplace bigger than the one in the foyer; along the other ran a window that opened into the kitchens with a long bar at the base, food resting upon it. Cyrus’s nose always found the Great Hall a pleasing place; the smell of the cooking reminded him of very faint memories of his childhood. The ceiling reached up several hundred feet, wood beams as big around as him supporting the stone ceiling. Many stories above, he knew, was the Council Chamber.

He joined Curatio in line at the window, filling his plate with bacon, ham, fresh rare beef cooked in spiced juices, eggs and fresh baked bread. Carafes of fruit juices lay at the far end, along with boiling hot coffee and fresh milk.

Larana Stillhet, Sanctuary’s resident cook, seamstress and blacksmith, was in the kitchen watching Cyrus quietly – which was how she did everything. Her eyes were green, and she habitually sported dingy robes of dark greens and browns. She was a bit older than Cyrus, but with stringy brown hair that looked as though it had never received half the attention she put into her cooking. Freckles dotted her sun darkened cheeks and when he caught her gaze, she blushed and looked away. He cast a smile her way, then followed Curatio to the Council’s table where Niamh, J’anda and Vaste were already eating.

They ate in relative silence until Vara arrived with a bowl of oatmeal and, after a moment’s hesitation, took the open seat next to Cyrus’s. “What’s that?” he asked between mouthfuls of ham. “Horse food?”

She rolled her eyes, a favorite expression. “Not all of us cart around as much padding in our armor as you.”

He stopped. “You calling me fat?”

“Only that unused space betwixt your ears,” she said before taking in a spoonful of her breakfast.

His brows furrowed together. He was wider than her, had more upper body strength and muscle mass. His eyes looked over her frame, which was thin and lean. She was not malnourished but neither did she have the heavily muscled look that warriors tended to sport. Her legs, even with their armor were less than half the size of his. And yet… he reached over, resting one of his hands on her shoulder.

The response was immediate and painful. Her hand was on his, his thumb was screaming in pain, and she knocked him off his chair with ease. “We keep our hands to ourselves during breakfast,” she said without looking up from her food. “And at all other times, as well.”

“Wasn’t trying to get amorous with you,” he grunted. “That was an experiment.”

“To test your tolerance for pain?” She kept eating, not even deigning to look at him.

He smiled as he picked himself up. “I already knew that was high. I’ve seen you leap unreasonable distances, do considerably more damage than a little waif with your musculature should be able to do.” His smile grew wider. “It’s your armor. It’s mystical.”

“You’re quite clever. It’s taken you a year to realize this? I weigh one hundred and forty six pounds and carry a sword that weighs half as much as I do.” She stopped eating to look at him for just a moment. “Your powers of deductive reasoning do truly fill me with a sense of awe.” With a certain stiffness, she returned to eating her oatmeal.

“Wow,” Niamh said. “Don’t you two ever take a rest from having a go at each other?”

An awkward silence filled the air and Cyrus looked at Vara, who returned his glance for just a beat. “No,” they chorused.

Curatio chuckled. “Vara, I take it you won’t be joining us in the Realm of Darkness today?”

“You assume correctly. I shall be spending my time outside of the company of treacherous trolls.”

Eyes widened around the table. Niamh shot a nervous look at Vaste. “She means me,” Cyrus explained.

She frowned. “I mean the Alliance. I have never died, and I avoid Alliance expeditions because I wish to continue that winning trend.” Her words hung heavy around the table.

“And what will you be doing while we’re gone?” Cyrus asked.

She smiled, a mischievous look turning up the corners of her mouth and putting a sparkle in her eyes. “Plotting your demise.”

The Sanctuary army assembled in the foyer in preparation for the trek to the Realm of Darkness portal. They took the path toward the Waking Woods. It was a merry bunch, the nearly thousand of them, most swooping along with the Falcon’s Essence, hovering a few feet off the path.

The walk took several hours through very pretty terrain. The trees of the Waking Woods grew taller and taller as they ventured deeper into the forest, until after an hour the boughs twisted together above them, creating a canopy of darkness that blotted out much of the sunlight. The biggest trees grew hundreds of feet into the air and had trunks fifteen and twenty feet in diameter. Moss hung from the low branches and the whole place smelled of fresh leaves, even as the first tinges of red had begun to leech the green from them.

The noise of the forest diminished as the army moved through, drowning out the animals and insects that made the Waking Woods their home. The autumn breeze stirred the first fallen leaves around Cyrus’s feet, bringing them around in small whirlwinds, dancing in the air.

“Don’t see vegetation like this in the Plains of Perdamun,” Niamh sighed. “Some of these trees are thousands of years old.”

“Do you talk to trees?” Cyrus asked her, voice tinged with curiosity.

The red-haired elf smiled. “As a druid, I do share a deeper bond with nature. I can pick up on certain signs, things that a forest might be telling me by intuition and experience, but no, I don’t talk to trees, unless they’re talking to me.”

Cyrus’s eyebrow raised. “Do trees often talk to you?”

Her smile turned sad. “Not anymore.” She did not elaborate.

Andren tromped up behind him. “So why are we going to Darkness again?”

“I don’t know why you’re going,” Cyrus replied. “But I’m going because I like places where I can’t see the things that are trying to kill me.”

“You’re a right funny bastard, you know that?”

“Adventure, Andren. It’s what we do.”

The elf sneered. “I haven’t forgotten that. But we’re talking about the Realm of a god here. I know they say he won’t be home, but I have concerns about facing a god: that I’ll be dismembered, or worse.”

“Let not your heart be troubled. And don’t forget that we’ve also got a personal stake in this invasion.”

“You mean your sword quest?”

“Yeah.” Cyrus looked away, staring into the woods. “That.”

A flash of irritation cut through Andren’s voice. “What’s left?”

Cyrus shook his head and reached beneath his armor, removing a scrap of parchment and unfolded it, reading it once before handing it to Andren, even though he knew every word by heart.

Serpent’s Bane – The guard and grip are in possession of Ashan’agar, the Dragonlord.

Death’s Head – The pommel is held by Mortus, God of Death.

Edge of Repose – The Gatekeeper of Purgatory holds the blade as a prize for one who knows to ask for it.

Avenger’s Rest – G’koal, Empress of Enterra has the Scabbard.

Quartal – The ore needed to smith the sword together is found only in the Realm of Yartraak, God of Darkness.

Brought together by one who is worthy, they shall form Praelior, the Champion’s Sword.

“I need the quartal to smith it. I need the blade from Purgatory. And I need the scabbard from Enterra to enchant the sword.”

Andren looked down at the parchment. “Because you got the pommel last year and someone left the Serpent’s Bane on your bed a few weeks ago – still don’t know who?” Cyrus shook his head at Andren’s question and the healer gave a head shake of his own before returning the parchment. “Still sounds like a lot of work to me.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

They reached a clearing, with a gap in the canopy above that let in the sunlight. At the center stood an ovoid ring of rock with runes carved around the edges. It had a gaping hole through the middle wide enough for several men to walk through side by side. It was filled with a crackling black energy that seemed to pull the light out of the air around them, darkening the sky as one drew closer, until finally, standing just before the portal, it was black as night even in the light of midday.

Forming around it was a small group that Cyrus knew was one of their Allied guilds – the Daring. Cyrus was greeted by three of their officers. The first was a human warrior with dark hair and light eyes. Unlike himself, this human had painted his armor a deep gray. “Cass,” Cyrus acknowledged him with a smile. “It’s been a few weeks. I hope you’re well.” Their hands met in a firm handshake that became a contest of grip.

“Boys, please – if you’re gonna wrestle it out, at least strip down and coat yourselves in oil first,” came the caustic voice of Erith Frostmoor, another of the Daring’s officers. A dark elf, her white hair stood in marked contrast to her dark blue skin. She wore a robe of red silk that glistened in the low light of the clearing. Her slightly fanged teeth pushed her lips back in a grin. “Then at least Elisabeth and I could enjoy watching.”

The third officer of the Daring frowned at being mentioned in Erith’s comment. “I don’t know that I’d enjoy watching that, Erith,” Elisabeth said, her fine elven features contorted with discomfort.

When Cyrus had first seen Elisabeth a year earlier, he had thought her one of the fairest elves he had ever laid eyes upon. Her long brown hair lay across her shoulders, which were covered with a light chainmail with tiny rings half the diameter of Cyrus’s little finger. Her features were perfectly carved and proportioned and her face was radiant, even with the slight cringe it now wore.

“Oh come on!” the dark elf harangued her lighter-skinned counterpart. “Two big, strapping men like that! How could you not?”

“Nice to see you, Cyrus,” Elisabeth said, ignoring Erith.

He nodded at her, but before they could exchange any further pleasantries, they were interrupted. A blowing horn filled the air as hoof beats echoed in the woods. An army marched from the opposite direction that Sanctuary’s had arrived from, a line of troops that stretched out of sight. Above came a winged griffon that landed in the clearing, the first of a dozen riders on flying mounts. Some rode on creatures Cyrus could scarcely imagine, including something that looked like a small dragon.

At the front of Goliath’s army came a host of riders, most on horses but a few on war wolves the size of cows, as well as what looked like an elephant and some other fantastic beasts that were unrecognizable to Cyrus.

Malpravus, Goliath’s leader, was a dark elf that habitually sported a dark blue robe with a hood that often covered his face. When it was exposed, his features were gaunt, almost skeletal. The black horse that he was riding looked impressive next to the smaller pony that Tolada, a dwarf and one of Goliath’s officers, rode in on.

A tall elf Cyrus recognized as a Goliath officer named Carrack, a wizard, dismounted on the other side of Malpravus from a war wolf, wearing black robes with crimson highlights and a red sash looped at the waist. His robes had no cowl and an open neck, showing his muscled chest, surprising for a spell caster. A black tattoo was visible leading up to his neck, stopping just short of his Adam’s apple.

“Remember,” Niamh said in a voice of warning, “Alaric wants no mention of the rumors. He’s saving it for the next Alliance officers’ meeting.”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do.” Cyrus shot her a wry smile that went unreturned.

Malpravus dismounted and slid over to where Cyrus had gathered with the other officers of the Daring. “So wonderful to see all of you here today.” Malpravus had a voice that was unnaturally smooth. “I see that Sanctuary has come in force, a pleasing sight indeed,” the dark elf smiled, mouth visible beneath the hood. “Of course, our own numbers have swollen in the last weeks as well…”

“Wonder how that happened,” Vaste said under his breath. If Malpravus noticed, he did not interrupt himself.

“With our additional forces, this should only be mildly difficult,” Malpravus mused. “We will divide our armies into smaller forces, with a general at the head of each.” His eyes flicked toward the small group of the Daring. “I would recommend we disperse your force into the Sanctuary group – I envision armies of about 500 combatants, making for easier movement and coordination. We’ll be marching in a column along a straight line for the bulk of the invasion.”

The dark elf swiveled to face Cyrus. “My boy, will you kindly divide your army in two? You lead half of it and pick another of your officers to lead the other half.”

“Sure,” Cyrus said after a moment of surprise. “Curatio will spearhead our second army.”

“Ah, yes, Curatio,” Malpravus said with an ever-widening smile. “Perfect.” Something in the way he said it caused Cyrus to shudder. “I will place Tolada, Carrack and Yei in charge of the other Goliath armies… perfect, perfect.” Now the Goliath Guildmaster seemed to be thinking out loud; though with his eyes covered, it was impossible to tell. Behind him, Carrack wore a self-satisfied smile while Tolada wore a blank expression.

Malpravus waved his hand vaguely and cocked his head at an angle. “You may disperse now; go and form your armies, and we enter the portal in a few moments. I will address everyone before we go.” Turning, he swept away, seeming to glide across the ground.

“So comforting to be given a clear idea of what we’re going into,” Vaste muttered again.

“Relax, big guy,” Elisabeth said in a soothing voice. “He’ll tell us before we go charging in.”

“I suspect he still won’t have told us what we’re facing by the end of the excursion,” Vaste replied.

“Bah!” She dismissed him. “You’re so negative.”

The troll’s eyebrows retreated up his massive and balding forehead. “And you’re so trusting. Like a fluffy bunny just before the leopard eats it.”

She gawked at Vaste. “You think he’d throw us into death?”

The troll healer’s jaw hardened. “If it benefited him in any way, great or small.”

“That’s not a good position for an officer of this Alliance to take.” Elisabeth’s eyes were narrow, her lips pursed in clear disapproval.

Vaste did not answer her. Fortunately, Erith broke the silence. “It’s not a good position, but it’s a safe one.” Elisabeth’s gaze moved to her own guildmate in silent accusation. “Malpravus would sacrifice his own mother’s soul in a flash if he thought he’d get a bronze piece out of it, Elisabeth.”

Curatio spoke. “We have orders from our General to divide into armies.” Nods around the officer’s circle greeted that assertion, and they broke.

It took Cyrus ten minutes to divide Sanctuary’s army. During training they had practiced breaking the army into smaller pieces. Moving them into the formations they had practiced allowed him to complete his reassignment before Goliath had begun theirs.

He placed Cass in Curatio’s army as the primary warrior, with Fortin as the secondary.

“You have a rock giant?” Cass muttered. “What do you need me for?”

“Human sacrifice.” Looking back he found Erith watching him from nearby and just behind her, Aisling. “What?”

Erith looked at him with amusement. “Sorry. Still thinking of you boys wrestling it out.”

He shook his head and turned to Aisling. “And you? Are you concerned about the invasion?”

“Nah.” She looked at him, black eyes shining. “I’m concerned with afterward. Any plans?”

Cyrus coughed. “After a successful expedition, there’s a celebratory feast in the Great Hall that filters into the lounge afterward, with much drinking and merriment.”

Erith watched Aisling with undisguised amusement as the blue skinned ranger slinked closer to Cyrus, her feet making no sound as she walked. Her hands rested on her hips, but almost seemed to caress upward along her sides, pushing her chest out. “What happens at those parties?”

Cyrus’s eyes widened and he looked at Erith in a moment of panic. She snorted, turned and walked away. “Like I said – a feast, then drinking and merriment.”

She took another step closer. He took a step back. “I won’t bite.” She giggled. “Until you ask me to.” Her eyes seemed to swallow his and he couldn’t break away from her gaze. In a flash he was reminded of Ashan’agar, trying to bend his will. “Until you beg me to.” A seductive smile creased her lips and now she was close enough that he felt her breath.

“Frankly, I’m more concerned with my gold at this point.”

“I was just showing off before.” She reached out to him and he counter-stepped away again. “I would never steal from a guildmate, especially not one so…”

“Stop,” he interrupted her, closing his eyes in a bid to break the rising tension between them. “I am an officer, you are an applicant. This is not right; it’s…”

“Wrong? Naughty?” she said before he could get another word out. He felt her brush against him, having taken full advantage of the second that he’d stopped to close the small distance between them. “Doesn’t that give you a rush, knowing you could have your way with me?” There was nothing but mischief and desire in her eyes.

“That’s appalling,” he answered, but the words came out feeble. “What is it that so entices you about me?”

She shrugged, still looking at him with her lips pursed just so, and he closed his eyes again for a second and let out a sigh. “Until you can answer, I’m not interested.” He turned on his heel to walk away.

“Maybe I just like a man who doesn’t cave to me in the first five minutes,” came her voice from behind him. He looked back. “Maybe I’m just looking for a man who can last longer than most.” She smiled again, and it was back to the suggestive look she had given him earlier.

“Perhaps in the future, a serious answer,” he said as he turned, leaving her alone on the edge of Sanctuary’s army.

“May I have your attention?” Malpravus called out from the far end of the assemblage, magic boosting the volume of his speech to overcome the thousand voices talking in the clearing. “We will begin in moments, and I need to outline things so that we can move forward, comfortable in our roles and in this army.”

He ticked off points on his bony fingers. “First, when you get separated from the army, do try not to panic. Screaming and thrashing about in the darkness will only hasten your death.”

“I’m not comfortable with that role.” Vaste had eased next to Cyrus.

“Second,” Malpravus continued, “some of you will die. I would estimate something on the order of fifty to seventy-five percent of you. These are acceptable losses,” he said, bringing a hush over the crowd. “We will of course endeavor to bring you back to life through the use of a healer’s resurrection spell.”

“My comfort is not growing,” Cyrus whispered to Vaste. “Why is my comfort not growing?”

“I think it has something to do with the evil and treacherous General admitting that getting three out of four of us killed would be acceptable to him.”

“Third,” the dark elf went on, “even if you are gifted with the eyes of an elf, or the magical equivalent, it is unlikely you will see more than a few feet in front of you. Be assured,” boomed Malpravus’s voice from beneath the cowl of his cloak, “I know where we are going at all times.”

“What if you die?” came a voice from the Sanctuary part of the crowd. A small rush of levity ran through the Goliath forces.

Malpravus smiled, visible beneath the cowl as a wide, knowing grin that was bereft of any warmth. “You need not fear, for I am a master of death.”

“If possible,” Vaste whispered, “that makes me feel less comfortable than the thought of leadership falling to Tolada.” Cyrus nodded in agreement.

“My army will move first into the portal,” Malpravus concluded. “All others, follow behind in order.”

“Wait,” Cyrus said under his breath, with a certain amount of alarm. “Did I miss the part about what we’re facing or what to do after we’re into the portal?”

“You did not,” Vaste assured him. “I believe that other than the comments, ‘Many of you will die,’ ‘Try not to thrash about in the dark,’ and ‘I’m a necromancer, watch me play with your corpse,’ there was no helpful instruction in his speech.”

“Well, the ‘try not to thrash about in the dark’ bit could come in handy.”

“I’m more worried about the ‘many of you will die’ part.”

The armies of Goliath began a steady march forward, disappearing into the portal in neatly ordered rows. When the time came, Cyrus marshaled his army into formation and led them through into the twisted, distorted black veil of the passage to the Realm of Darkness – and watched all light fade away.

Chapter 8

When Cyrus emerged on the other side, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only point of light visible to him was a lantern hanging from what looked like a lamppost, shedding a small amount of light on cobblestones below it. He took a deep breath that tasted of stale air and felt a sense of nervousness from the near-blindness of the dark cause a crawling sensation up his back. The background noise of the army around him was a low hum of conversation; from behind him were voices of alarm from those just entering the Realm and finding themselves unable to see.

“What the hell?” Cyrus muttered as he continued to move forward toward the lamp, following the elements of Goliath’s last army. He could hear the pads at the bottom of his plate boots landing on cobblestones.

A sudden lightening filled his eyes, and he looked back to see Vaste, fingers twirling in the conclusion of a spell. “That help at all?” the troll asked.

“A little. I think Yartraak is pretty serious about his Realm being in darkness. We might need a lantern.”

“I’ve heard that the Realm of Darkness swallows all non-mystical light sources.” He pointed to Thad nearby, who was tinkering with a lamp. “Hey, warrior,” he called out.

Thad looked up. “What?”

“How’s that working?”

“It went out the minute we crossed over.”

Cyrus looked at Vaste. “Any other ideas?”

His brow furrowed in thought; an unnatural look for a troll. “Nyad!”

The wizard broke through the crowd to come over to them, pale skin even more washed out in the lamplight. “Yes?” she asked, her tone meshing with the formal red robes that she wore. Nyad was royalty; the youngest daughter of the King of the Elves, yet Cyrus had seen her start blazing fires with a few words and a shake of her staff.

“Start a fire; we need light,” Vaste suggested.

She waved her hands in a series of gestures and pointed her staff into the distance. A jet of fire burst forth from it and shot fifteen feet before its arc carried it to the ground below. The light it put out flickered, illuminating the area around them. “I can cast a bigger flame,” she told them. “Just didn’t want to waste the magical energy if it didn’t work.”

The flames continued to burn from her last spell for several minutes, illuminating the edge of the cobblestone road and revealing dead grass and sand at the roadside. The army of Sanctuary marched along in silence, still following the last of Goliath’s forces. Cyrus walked at the fore of his group, struggling to see into the darkness.

A tingle once more ran down his spine. He turned to say something to Vaste only to find the troll gone from his place in the formation. “Vaste?” Cyrus called out. There was no answer. He looked at Nyad. “Where’s Vaste?”

Nyad looked around. “I… I don’t know, he was here a minute ago.”

“Formation halt! Everyone check to your left and right,” he shouted. “See if anyone’s missing.” Shouts filled the air around him.

“We’ve got one missing here!”

“A whole row missing in front of us!”

“One here!”

“Two here!”

“Andren… is missing here,” Erith said.

Cyrus craned his neck. There was a gap in the line where his old friend had been. His stomach dropped and a memory sprang to mind of a dark tunnel, with row after row of bodies, with one missing. “What is going on here?” he muttered.

“We’re in the middle of the Realm of Darkness, and we seem to be disappearing in ones and twos,” a voice answered him from behind. His head whipped around to find Aisling staring at him. “You asked,” she said with a shrug.

“Sounds sinister when you put it like that,” Cyrus agreed. “I wonder if they wandered away from the formation in the darkness?”

“You think they might wander back?” Nyad’s face was lined with concern.

“Sounds like going in circles,” Aisling said. “I don’t like going around; I prefer going down –”

Cyrus grunted. “Must you use everything for innuendo?”

A grin split her blue face, all he could see in the darkness. “Yes.”

“Where’s Vara when I need her?” Cyrus shook his head.

“What do you need Vara for?” Nyad replied from behind him. “Other than the obvious.”

“Quiet, you,” he shot back with exaggerated menace. Nyad had been a constant thorn in his side in the matter of Vara, telling him to confess his feelings for her. He had thus far refused, not wishing to expose himself to that particular hell.

There was a stir in front of them and his thoughts of Andren and the other missing souls receded. Screams echoed in the darkness, coming from the Goliath army in front of them. “Nyad,” Cyrus said in a low voice. “Illumination.”

The wizard nodded and grabbed one of her fellows out of the line behind them. Setting themselves at the front corners of the Sanctuary line, they sent twin bursts of flame at an angle on either side of the army’s formation. The fire was long and sustained, lighting the scene before them.

Scattered movement filled their view as the Goliath army scattered in all directions, most surging backward in retreat, running right into Cyrus’s lines. Faces frozen in terror passed him, breaking to either side of his army as they ran. In front of the remains of the Goliath army something else was moving, a shadow that seemed to absorb the light.

Twisting, turning, a shade lit by the wizard’s flame, it stood thrice the height of any of the mortals – and it struck down again as Cyrus watched, knocking bodies aside and causing screams of agony and pain as the firelight dimmed.

“Hold the line!” a voice shouted above the retreating Goliath army. “Stand your ground and fight!” Carrack stood at the very back of the Goliath army that was breaking, hectoring them onward. The elf brought a hand down, slapping one of Goliath’s retreating warriors and dragging another by the collar forward. He pushed the two of them forward and then took several steps back himself.

“Carrack!” Cyrus called. “March with us and we’ll help marshal your forces as we move forward!”

The elven wizard watched the two men he had sent forward disappear into the carnage of the battle with the shadow. Sickening screams cut through the dark. “I don’t think so,” he said with a shake of the head. “Best you go on without me.” A cockeyed smile twisted the wizard’s lips. “I’d only slow you down.”

Cyrus turned away from the Goliath officer, rage filling him at the blatant display of cowardice. “Nyad, keep the flames going! Sanctuary, move up and get ready to engage!”

He charged, army at his back. The Goliath forces were broken, scattering to either side of the road, screams filling the air, all martial discipline forgotten. Carrack tipped a salute to Cyrus as the wizard shoved past a Goliath ranger who got in the way of his retreat, knocking the human into the dirt as he passed.

Cyrus reached the last vestiges of the Goliath army’s front line. The wizards cast fire as they advanced, providing a horrific view of the carnage that was befalling the Goliath army.

Shadowed appendages swept down, shaped into blades and clubs, killing the Goliath guild members. Cyrus watched a dwarf impaled as he tried to run and a shadow slipped from the darkness and cut through him, black protrusion jutting from his chest. Inky blackness from the shadow spread from the wound, consuming the dwarf, covering him in a skin of darkness as he fell.

It struck again as Cyrus closed to sword range. With a ferocious strike, it seemed to sweep down on Goliath’s forces, knocking them out of the way of its advance as though it were a child kicking little dolls out of its path. The cries of Goliath’s wounded filled his ears – the specter made no noise at all and would have been invisible if not for the firelight cast by the wizards behind him. He saw more of the fallen, all covered in the darkness, it sliding over them like an inky skin.

He leaped forward to attack, sword raised, and brought it down on the specter. His sword swept through the darkness, making no contact with anything solid. Something moved in the specter and hit him in the breastplate, knocking him off his feet. He heard a cracking noise as he hit the cobblestone road and felt the wind knocked out of him.

“I need a healer,” he rasped, trying to pick himself up off the road.

“I’ve got you,” came Erith’s voice from behind him.

Cyrus vaulted to his feet after the mending spell knitted broken bones together within him. A shadowed appendage struck out at him from the body of the creature, grazing him and leaving a shallow open wound along his side.

“My daggers are having no effect!” Aisling shouted from behind the creature, her blades singing as she struck at it over and over again. She shrieked and narrowly avoided a strike by the specter that sent five members of Goliath sailing through the air, one of them in several pieces.

Fire filled the air above Cyrus as one of the wizards cast a powerful flame spell. It burned a translucent blue and streaked through the air above him, wrapping itself around the specter. An otherworldly sound – a high pitched wailing – left the warrior in no doubt that the creature was vulnerable.

“It’s immune to physical attacks! Spell casters, blast this thing!” he ordered, dodging three of the dark appendages as they struck at him in rapid succession. “I’ll keep it distracted!” Three prongs shot from the specter’s amorphous body at him and each found their mark.

The first one broke his jaw and knocked his helmet askew. The second landed against his ribcage, bruising him. The last was the worst by far, hitting him mid-thigh, breaking his femur and dropping him onto his already-broken jaw. He yelped in pain and rolled to his back. The specter extended above him, taller than even Fortin. It was engulfed in a series of flame spells from Sanctuary’s druids and wizards. A few of Goliath’s survivors were contributing their own spells to the fight, keeping the shadowy beast hemmed in by a circle of spell casters.

It howled once more, buffeted between attacks from all directions. The flames pitched it left and then right as it tried to avoid that which was causing it such agony. It swelled like a balloon then shrank to a thin state, wriggling in the light of the flames. At last, it focused on the only other thing within the fires that encircled it: Cyrus.

“Oh bugger,” he whispered through his broken jaw as the specter formed six appendages and drove them down one at a time. The first possessed a dull edge, an overlarge hammer, and he did not entirely avoid it, rolling as a searing pain engulfed his left arm from the elbow down, a crunching noise coming as it hit his wrist.

The second and third ghostly appendages carried a bladed appearance and snaked down at him, each skimming off his breastplate and missing his side as they hit the ground. The fourth and fifth were both smaller blunt instruments. The fourth missed him on the swing as he rolled across the ground and scrambled to get away, but the fifth hit him square in the backplate, smashing his face into the cobblestones.

The sixth appendage was sharp like a dagger and Cyrus looked behind him in time to see it slam down into the gap between his greaves and backplate, cutting its way through the chainmail beneath and stabbing him in the kidney. He felt the point of the blade dissolve, snaking its way up into him.

The first appendage returned with a brutal smash to his shoulder, driving him back to the ground as the sixth continued to cut inside him. A sharp pain was slowly driving its way through him. A howling filled the air. He couldn’t be sure whether it was the specter or himself, so great was his agony. Two more bladed limbs came down on him and he felt his arm go numb.

Urgent shouts filled his ears and the fires got hotter around him. The smell of something burning was strong in the air as the lightheadedness threatened to overcome him. He tasted the dirt between the cobblestones as he forced his head down to cope with the agony. The pain inside was getting duller and duller, and he thought it was somewhere around the bottom of his lungs, because it hurt to breathe.

“Where are you, Andren?” His words came in a wheeze. It was getting darker now; the flames were licking at him; he was sure of it even though he couldn’t lift his head to see them. It was so hot.

“Hold on,” came a voice to his left. Even with his cheek pressed to the road, he could see Aisling. Is she dying too? he wondered. Thoughts were becoming difficult to form.

Her face was next to his now. “It’s okay,” she whispered, and her hands were running through his hair. In spite of the heat and the fire above him, it seemed to be getting darker. Rough hands seized him and he was facing upright. The specter was gone and there was no fire. Still so damned hot.

“My spells are having no effect on him,” Erith’s voice faded in from above, her face looking down at him.

“That thing cut his arm off…”

“Help me put it back on,” Erith ordered, voice frantic. “Hold it in place, I’m going to try another mending spell.” She breathed a few inaudible words, then cursed. “Nothing! What the hell did it do to him?”

Aisling’s voice was clear, but he couldn’t see her anymore. “Did it get him with the darkness, like it did those others? Would that keep your spells from working?”

“I don’t know. Did someone go to get Malpravus?”

“Nyad left as soon as the specter died,” Aisling answered. “He won’t make it if you can’t mend these wounds; he’s bleeding to death.”

Cyrus coughed and a horrible, metallic taste filled his mouth as he began to choke.

“Roll him over!” Erith ordered. “He’s coughing up blood!”

“The darkness is enshrouding him,” came a calm voice. “It’s blocking your spells.”

“What?” Erith said, looking up in surprise. “Vaste?! Where the hell have you been?”

“Facing the darkness,” came the troll’s calm reply. “Stand back.” The troll began to speak low, almost a hum in a steady stream. Light blinded Cyrus, then was blotted out by darkness, then light cut through it, burning his eyes, filling him. He tried to breathe, but it choked him, as though something heavy was on his chest, forcing the life out of him.

I can’t breathe, he wanted to say. I can’t…

With a flash, the light was gone, and darkness crept back in. Faces stared down at him once more – two of the darkest blue, one green and leering. Vaste murmured a few words and Cyrus felt the wounds begin to close.

“How did you know that was there?” Erith regarded him with suspicion. “And what the hell is it?”

“The specter is composed of living darkness, a creation of Yartraak,” Vaste replied. “It seeped into him, gave him a fever and blocked healing by draining the energy of any mending spells. Not a pretty way to die.”

“Indeed.” Erith regarded him with suspicion. “Good thing you saw it. How did you do that, through his armor?”

“I saw it draining his spirit.”

“What?”

Whatever further reply Vaste might have made was stifled by Cyrus staggering to his feet. “You should rest for a few minutes,” Erith insisted.

Cyrus dismissed her. “Yeah, I’ll take a nap right here in the Realm of Darkness.”

Nyad arrived in a huff. “I spoke with Malpravus. He says it’s unfortunate that Cyrus is dying, but he’s preoccupied with other things at the moment.”

“What’s he preoccupied with?” Cyrus looked at her with undisguised curiosity.

“Three of those specters are attacking his army.”

“He’ll need help.” Cyrus put aside once more the thought of Andren, even as another flash of Enterra crept into his mind – the two of them, side by side in the tunnel, waiting for Narstron to return. He’ll be fine. He has to be. It can’t happen again.

“Why can’t his armies help him?” Erith looked at him with undisguised irritation.

“His armies will break and run at the first sign of trouble,” Cyrus replied. “Sanctuary, we’re moving! Spell casters to the front.” Splitting into two columns, the Sanctuary forces moved on either side of the formations of Goliath’s army in front of them. The Goliath soldiers milled about in scattered lines and allowed them to pass. A clamor of battle could be heard in front of them as they passed both Tolada’s and Yei’s unmoving armies.

Nyad cast a burst of fire, revealing the forward Goliath army. Malpravus stood back as his forces battled the specters. They attacked in force, spells flying at the specters and combatants trying to strike with swords and other melee weaponry. Cyrus paused for a moment – there was something very unnatural about the movements of the Goliath forces.

“Malpravus!” Cyrus shouted as the Sanctuary army streamed into place behind Goliath’s Guildmaster. “What’s the situation?”

The cloaked dark elf turned back to him, face marked with strain but a malevolent grin creasing it. “Ah, dear boy, I must say I am pleased to see you. We’ve run into a bit of a snag.” The necromancer turned back to the battle and waved his arms without saying a word.

The specters were attacking Goliath’s forces much as they had Cyrus’s army only moments before. Bodies, limbs and other pieces flew through the air as they turned loose their weapon-shaped appendages. Cyrus watched a ranger hit the ground in front of him, dead, neck at an unnatural angle.

“Ye gods,” he muttered. “Healers –”

“Ah ah ah!” Malpravus cut him off. “Healers would be most inconvenient for me right now. Save the resurrection spells until we are done.”

“What?” Cyrus gasped. His eyes dropped to the corpse of the ranger, which had begun to rise, head hanging to the side. Understanding dawned on Cyrus and his eyes swept the scene. “Malpravus,” he said with a sick feeling, “how many of them are dead?”

“Of my army? All. You really are quite bright, boy; most would not have picked up on that before charging into battle. You show such promise.”

“You’re… controlling them?” Erith’s face was lit with shock as Cyrus felt the nausea rise in his stomach. “Casting spells for them? Ordering their corpses to attack?”

“Indeed.” Malpravus’s grin grew wider still. “But I could use some help. If you’d care to add your efforts to mine.”

“I feel I should add my breakfast to the ground,” Vaste said with a scowl. “What’s to stop you from taking over our corpses if we fall?”

A surprised look crossed the Goliath Guildmaster’s face, eyebrows raised. “Your comrades are in the fight of their lives. Wouldn’t you assist them, even in death?” Malpravus turned back and waved his hands once more, bringing another twenty bodies lurching back into the fight.

“I honestly don’t know which monster is more deserving of our attacks, the specters or him,” Vaste said, face grim.

“Alaric will be most aggrieved if we attack Malpravus.” Cyrus’s hand masked his expression.

“I know you’re trying to cover how disturbed you are with a joke, but this isn’t funny!” Vaste thundered. “He’s subverted the bodies of his comrades and now he’s preventing them from being resurrected!”

“No, it’s not funny,” Cyrus agreed. “But we can’t attack him.”

“The sooner you help me kill these specters,” the voice of Malpravus chimed in, “the sooner we can start the resurrection spells on these poor, unfortunate souls.”

“Who follow you for some reason,” Vaste spit at Malpravus, “gods know why – perhaps ignorance.”

Malpravus’s gaunt fingers reached out as though he were taking hold of something delicate, and another body rose on the field of battle. “Strength. They follow my strength. If they fall, they know I will avenge them.” He turned back to the Sanctuary officers and smiled, locking his gaze on Cyrus.

Cyrus ignored the sudden drop his stomach took and held up a hand to stop Vaste as the troll took a step toward the necromancer. “We fight the darkness first.”

“If I die and he takes control of my corpse, I’ll kill him.” Vaste pulled himself to his full height, eyes narrowed and green skin glaring in the reflected light of the spells flying in front of them. It was strangely silent; none of the dead bodies vocalized as they swung their weapons, creating an atmosphere of metal clanging, flesh being hit and the screeching of the specters as spells impacted.

“Such misunderstandings do not help our cause,” Malpravus chided without turning around.

“Shut up,” Cyrus breathed. “Weapons are ineffective, so the spell casters attack from here. I’ll have the warriors and rangers form a line to protect them.”

After a moment to organize, the spell casters lined up in ranks behind Cyrus and the others and let fly a barrage of spells that struck down the first of the specters. Corpses of the Goliath army swarmed over the fallen enemy until it discorporated, fading like dust in the wind.

It took several more volleys to bring down the second specter, but when it finally fell, a ragged cheer rang through the Sanctuary army. Goliath’s first army, already throwing themselves after the final specter, was still silent – but at least this time, Cyrus knew why.

Another specter’s scream tore across the dark landscape. The last of them flung a wave of Goliath’s fighting corpses out of its way and slithered across the ground toward the Sanctuary army. The bodies it threw landed in front of Cyrus, and each of them was covered in the black tar-like substance that the specters gave off. Is that what I had in me? he wondered.

Cyrus moved forward to meet the specter, dodging the first attacks. A tentacle of shadow swung at him, followed by another and another. He dodged the first two and the third hit him on the breastplate, staggering him. He swung his sword, cutting through the specter’s appendage to no effect; it reformed as soon as the sword passed through it.

“Without a mystical blade, you can’t hit it,” Aisling’s calm voice whispered in his ear. He jumped in surprise and felt her push him to the side as another volley of the specter’s limbs flew at him and missed thanks to her efforts. Her breath was warm against his neck as she pressed against him.

“I know that!” he snapped. “I’m not trying to or I’d have ordered the whole army against it.” He lunged back to his feet and dodged another swipe from the specter. The next attack connected, drawing blood from a superficial cut to the side of his neck. “I’m trying to distract it,” he shot back at her. Another strike connected, this time a blunt instrument, and knocked him off balance.

“Marvelous job,” Aisling’s dry voice found him as his head was spinning. “It is focusing on splattering you on the cobblestones.”

“So nice to be paid attention to,” Cyrus muttered, ducking another attack.

“You talking about from me or it?” Aisling said from a few feet away.

“Get back! I’m trying to draw its attacks; I don’t need you getting killed.” A stabbing blow glanced off his shoulder. Fire lit the scene as Nyad and the other spell casters hammered at the shadowed fiend, flames of blue, red, yellow and orange lighting up the battle. Screeches filled the air and small shadows flaked off the specter’s mass.

“Don’t worry about me,” Aisling said with a grin that spread from ear to ear. Before his eyes, she began to fade from his view, slipping into the shadows.

“Wait!” he cried, a vision of Andren filling his head. She paused for a moment, shrouded in the shadows, flickering in the light of spells. Her smile froze and her eyes widened.

Cyrus felt the specter land three hits in rapid succession, pummeling him. Something snaked around his waist and yanked him upside down into the air. He swung the short sword in the direction he was pulled, but made no contact with anything. A sense of disorientation took over as he was pulled into the air. He could see flashes of his guildmates, a hundred feet below. He had a sudden memory of the feeling when Ashan’agar spiraled to the ground. A lurching twisted his stomach and for a beat he wondered if the specter would drop him.

A blur raced past, a feeling of lightness crept through him and an explosion of flame a few feet away drew a final scream from the specter. He braced himself for the inevitable fall, but it did not come. His feet floated below him as he began to drift to the ground. A flash of red blurred through the darkness in front of him, and he felt the caress of a small mending spell.

“Saved my ass again, Niamh,” he breathed.

“Pretty sure I saved the whole entirety of you.”

“Yeah, but I’m all ass, all over, so…”

She giggled and they floated to the ground to find Malpravus, expression passive as the invasion force’s healers labored to resurrect Goliath’s first army. “My boy,” the necromancer began as Cyrus descended, “you do have quite the flair for theatrics, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Getting captured by the specter like that?” Malpravus had a grin filled with smooth, even teeth, all of which gleamed a pearly white. “Pulled hundreds of feet into the air? I was certain I’d be adding you to my army, but you survived, once more, and quite admirably.” The smile dimmed a bit. “Of course, I am pleased to see you make it back to us in one piece.”

Cyrus suppressed a shudder at the thought of being in the control of the dark elf. “Not half as pleased as I am.” He turned to face the Sanctuary army, forming up in the gap between the ragged first army of Goliath and the second, which had distanced itself during the fighting.

Wizards kept the flames in the air, lighting the scene as the Alliance force recovered. Cyrus looked around, scouring face after face, until his hopes sank and the familiar feeling rose once more in his stomach – a feeling he would forever associate with a night of agony spent in the caves of the goblin city of Enterra, waiting for a friend who would never return.

Chapter 9

When the invasion force was reassembled, Cyrus found Malpravus standing next to him, fingers steepled. “Dear boy, why don’t you take the lead for a bit? Give my fighters a chance to recover from the beating they took and a chance for us to reorganize and help Carrack’s army… regain their courage?”

The way he said it sent a chilled knife to Cyrus’s guts. He could feel the looks of the officers of Sanctuary behind him in the loose circle where they had been talking. “We’ll be happy to lead the way.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to the ornate rings decorating each of Malpravus’s long fingers. One seemed to cover half his hand, a circle of metal with a red ruby the size of a walnut mounted in the center. It made his already slender fingers seem almost bony by comparison.

Niamh restrained herself until the Goliath Guildmaster was out of earshot. “What are you thinking?!” Her face flared an angry red to match her hair. “If Vara were here she’d tell you what a fool you are for playing into whatever devious plan Malpravus has in mind.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Curatio stepped in. “I’m sure Cyrus has good reason.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s something reasonable.” J’anda’s hands folded in front of him. “Like, ‘I don’t feel I’ve been possessed by a wicked sorcerer enough today.’”

“I agreed because by being up front, we’re leading this expedition,” Cyrus said. “Malpravus can’t issue orders to us from the back of the action, not when I’m in the thick of it. And we’re about to come up against something nasty. I’d rather have us facing it than them.”

A moment of silence passed over the circle of officers, broken by J’anda. “Say again?” The enchanter’s eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth forming a perfect o. “You would rather us face the deadly peril waiting ahead than throw three or four Goliath armies at it?”

“Yes.”

“Explain the bizarre troll logic behind that!” Niamh exclaimed, shock written across her face. She ignored Vaste’s scowl. “You’d rather throw our lives away than theirs? What if this creature causes permanent deaths? You’d rather have that visited on us than them?”

“No.” Cy shook his head. “But I think we’re walking into a tricky battle, something that is going to require more finesse than Goliath is capable of.” Cy’s eyes narrowed. “I think Malpravus knows that, and he’s drained – he doesn’t have another battle like the last in him.”

Niamh’s look of shock turned to confusion. “So we’re not facing peril ahead?”

“Oh, no,” Cyrus said, voice nonchalant. “We are. But we’re the best hope the Alliance has of overcoming it; Goliath has no military discipline in place. If they run into something nasty, they will break. They’re the barely-trained rabble that Vara was afraid we’d end up with – they’ve got a lot of people, most of them are even more experienced than ours, but they don’t fight as a unit – no one can trust the person next to them.”

“That feeling tends to flow from the top,” Curatio said. “I’m guessing it’s not encouraged by Malpravus.”

“What was the first giveaway?” Vaste said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That their Guildmaster decided to delay their resurrections by commanding their corpses to save his own ass?”

“That would be a strong indicator.” Curatio turned to Cyrus. “How will you prepare for what’s ahead?”

Cyrus stroked his chin once more. “Sanctuary’s armies need to combine; I want Fortin up front with me and the spellcasters in the middle of a ring of warriors and rangers to protect them. I need a count of how many are still missing. Be ready to move in five minutes.”

As they broke, Niamh remained behind for a moment. Her expression was skeptical. “How do you know you’re reading this right? Everything you’re doing is based on assumptions – the biggest being you’ve figured out Malpravus’s motives.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure he’s that easy to read.”

A moment of doubt hung in the air between them. Cyrus looked down as he answered. “You may be right. But our alternative is to let a Goliath army lead us.”

She said no more, and within five minutes they had consolidated the army. Cyrus marched alongside Fortin, leading the way down the road, the rocky skin of the giant bathed in the light of the fires cast by the wizards.

The thought of Andren nagged in his mind as the minutes wore on. Vaste interrupted his thoughts with a report. “All of our people have returned except one. All the missing reported feeling trapped by darkness, unable to escape it,” the troll said, face impassive. “Care to guess who hasn’t come back?”

“Andren.” Cyrus studied Vaste’s face. The troll had a plethora of scars; his life’s tale had been tragic. Only a few weeks earlier he had returned home to the troll homeland to try and recruit members of his tribe for Sanctuary’s expansion. Leery of associating with the races that had broken their empire in a war only twenty years prior, they had reacted unfavorably to his attempts, beating him nearly to death.

“You got it.”

“Think it’s coincidence?”

“That your oldest friend disappears in the Realm of Darkness and is the only person that doesn’t return?” Vaste’s eyebrow raised. “No, I don’t think that’s coincidence.”

“Why does it matter that he’s my oldest friend?” Cyrus looked around, trying to see past the army at his back and through the veil of darkness beyond.

“This place crawls.” Catching the quizzical look on Cyrus’s face, Vaste went on: “There are creatures lurking in the darkness and they can see and hear us but we can’t see them. Yartraak also makes fear his domain and a weapon in his arsenal. These servants are looking for leverage against a leader on this expedition. Malpravus has no weak points; at least not in the form of a person.”

A pang of fear for Andren hit Cyrus in the gut. “But I do.”

“Yes. And if you’re going to attack someone and make them fear something, why not tap into a loss that’s fresh in their mind?” Vaste’s eyes honed in on him.

“You’re delving into the territory of a mind reader, my friend.”

A smile cracked the troll’s face. “I’m just someone with good hearing that sleeps in the room next to yours.” The smile evaporated. “I don’t know what we face, but I know that it is staging a campaign of fear against us, trying to take us off guard, trying to make us doubt ourselves. Whatever it is, it’s close, and it wants us fragile.”

“You’re painting a grim picture.”

Vaste snorted. “Be ready for the worst.”

As their conversation concluded, Cyrus realized that he and Vaste had been the only ones talking. An ominous silence fell around them as Cy’s thoughts turned once more to Andren. A flash came to him, an image in his mind of the elf, injured in the darkness, dying, trying to find his way with no light. He suppressed a shudder.

The dark surrounded them, flames licking into it as they marched forward in uncertainty. Every few minutes, even over the tramping sounds of the army on the march, Cyrus could hear movement beyond the black. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to Vaste. I’m hearing things.

There are things all around you. Dark things. Things that are coming to get you. Like they got Andren.

Another vision of Narstron’s body fell into his mind, the sight of the dwarf’s corpse, lying on the floor of the tunnel at Enterra. Now it seemed more real than in his nightmares. He blinked, trying to expel the thought from his mind, and for a flash he thought that red eyes were staring back at him.

He’ll die too. Just like Narstron. So will the others.

Dark thoughts clung to him like the stench of rot fills a bog. Cyrus blinked again, suddenly aware that like a snake, these dark ideas had slithered into his mind. “Vaste,” he said, sotto voce, “whoever is running this ‘fear’ campaign you talked about? They’re worming their way into my thoughts right now.”

“Mine too,” the healer muttered back. “We’re not alone.”

Cyrus glanced around. Nyad was closest to him, sending gouts of flame in front of them, her expression laced with fright. Niamh stood behind her, all color sapped from her face, contrasting with the shock of bright red hair atop her head. Fortin’s rocky face was expressionless, but his gait had slowed. “Be ready to execute a formation change!” Cyrus called out to those around him. “Something is out here, and it’s playing with our minds.”

Found me out, did you? Or are you just talking to yourself?

My inner monologue isn’t this ominous, Cyrus thought. I can feel you, creeping through my thoughts.

But you can’t see me yet. Doesn’t that worry you?

Once you’ve faced a dragon, Cyrus thought with a steely calm, unexplained voices in your head don’t terrify nearly as much. Especially when they’re in the Realm of Darkness.

You should be afraid. For what I’m going to do to you. For what I’m going to do to your friends.

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. Now you’re just pissing me off.

They struck without sound: a hundred slimy arms from out of the dark, weaving their way through the feet of the Sanctuary force, grasping and wrapping them like snakes. A shock ran through Cy as one slithered up his leg and he brought his sword down. He heard a wet, sucking noise as his blade sliced through. Not quite so slippery as those specters, are you?

They are my harbingers. A laugh sounded in his head. They are nothing compared to me; I am the greatest servant of the Lord Yartraak, God of Darkness.

“They’re vulnerable to blades!” Cyrus called as he brought his sword down on another, this one wrapped around Nyad. A blaze of fire from her hand lit the area around them. Cyrus looked down to see what he was fighting – it was half his size, a purple octopus moving on eight tentacles across the ground. It had two of its tentacles wrapped around Nyad, pulling her toward an open mouth, fangs glistening. Cyrus sunk his sword into its forehead and the tentacles relaxed.

He looked past it to find thousands, swarming around them, filling every inch of available ground. Longwell had a spear in his right hand, three of the octopuses impaled on it and with his left he fended off attacks from two more. Fortin waded forward, splattering their foes with well placed stomps. Sanctuary’s neatly ordered formation had degenerated into a melee, octopuses scattered through their lines, dragging people toward those insatiable mouths.

Cyrus attacked, a blur of motion, striking at the creature nearest to him. It screeched as he sliced his way through three tentacles and plunged his sword into its head. It went limp, releasing Martaina, who pulled the bow from her back and shot three arrows into the next nearest of the creatures. Thad lay dead at her feet, a dead octopus on top of his body.

Erith stood in a whirl of activity, sending healing spells in all directions toward the wounded. Cyrus watched as she turned, mending Cass’s injured arm after a tentacle wrenched it, knocking his sword free. It was killed by a man of the desert that Cyrus had recruited into Sanctuary months earlier, Scuddar In’shara, his scimitar catching the light when he brought it down, cleaving the head of an octopus in two.

“We’re getting overwhelmed!” Vaste’s normally calm voice was infused with urgency. He held his staff with both hands, beating one of the fiend’s tentacles as it snaked toward him, one of Menlos Irontooth’s wolves already in its mouth.

Cyrus felt something slip around his leg and yank him to the ground. His head hit the cobblestones, knocking his helmet aside, and he felt a pressure on his chest as one of the octopuses climbed onto him. Tentacles slipped around his neck and arms, trapping and choking him as it eased his face toward the gaping mouth, a sucking noise of anticipation coming from within.

Light flashed from the back of the formation, causing Cyrus to flinch from the sudden brightness. The tentacles relaxed and he freed his sword hand, stabbing forward into the open mouth, and out the top of its head. The octopus slumped and fell off him.

Light filled the air around them. It glowed like the sun, illuminating everything, as the octopuses squealed and released their captives, blinded, eyes unable to cope with the darkness stripped away from them. The light source hovered into the sky, ascending from the back of the formation to hover a hundred feet in the air, bathing everything in light strong enough to make it look like midday.

“That looks… big,” Vaste said aloud. “At least half the height of Sanctuary.” Cyrus looked in confusion at the light until Vaste hit him in the back with a staff. “Over there.” He pointed in the direction they had been heading. Lit by the brightness, in their path stood… something.

It had a dozen legs on each side of its body, which appeared like the body of an insect. Vaste had been right: it was mammoth, a face that was blanching against the light streaming at it, but black eyes, a mouth big enough to devour a building whole, and a carapace of blackened skin that looked thick as stone blocks. Its torso stretched back to an engorged abdomen. It stood in the distance blocking the road and behind it lay a white city, fallen into ruins.

“What the hell is that and how do we fight it?” Erith asked, jaw dropped.

“Where is this light coming from?” Vaste said.

“Gift horse, my friend,” Cyrus replied. “We need to strike now – whatever that thing in the distance is, it’s the last of Yartraak’s servants.” He turned to shout, “Sanctuary, kill these things fast! We have more trouble ahead!”

The light… it hurts… so painful… suffer…

Good, Cyrus thought. Keep suffering. He plunged his sword into octopus after octopus, watching them quiver helplessly as he killed them. Their dark eyes rolled back in their heads, trying to retreat from the brightness, but their eyelids were flimsy and transparent.

The sounds of battle filled his senses, along with a smell of rot as he slashed his way through the octopuses.

You come to me… you bring the light… I hate the light…

“Let us hope that this light continues; it’s crippling that thing,” Cyrus said as he brought his sword down on another octopus.

Not crippled… but hurt… I hurt…

I’ll hurt you more, Cyrus thought.

A scream of mental shock ran through Cyrus; images invaded his mind of the night in Enterra, Narstron missing, the feeling of sorrow and loss thick in his chest. It shouted in his mind, and a wrenching insecurity ran through him.

You cannot protect them. You cannot protect them any more than you protected Narstron.

Yes I can! Cyrus clenched his eyes shut as the voice in his head exploded through his being.

You will fail.

I won’t stop, the thought came to his mind.

It does not matter. When the time comes, there will be no one left but you. You will be alone.

Cyrus opened his eyes. He was on his knees, octopuses struggling around him. His army was down, hands clenched on their heads, the voice overpowering their thoughts. In the sky, the light twinkled, dwindling, then a burst of pure blue flame streaked from it and hit the creature in the distance, rocking it back.

“We have to move now,” Cyrus muttered as he forced himself back up. “We have to move NOW!” he shouted to the Sanctuary army. “On your feet! Leave the octopuses behind! We have to fight the giant insect now!”

“It’s called an incubus,” came J’anda’s voice, louder than Cyrus had ever heard it. “Its skin will be nearly invulnerable to your swords.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Cyrus said. “We have to face it now or it will destroy us; only the light is keeping it in check.” As if on cue, a bolt of lightning streaked from the light in the sky, arcing at the head of the incubus. “Where is Niamh?”

“Here,” she replied. Cyrus turned to see her, pale and waxy, barely on her feet.

“I need Falcon’s Essence.” Cyrus watched the incubus rock back and forth, unsteady on its legs from the stunning light above. “Fortin too. Vaste, move the army forward to engage, Fortin and I will distract it.”

Vaste cast his eyes to the glowing orb in the sky. “Isn’t it already distracted?”

“Fine – we’re going to kill it. But we might need help.”

“Like a healer?” Erith chimed in. “Niamh, me too. I’m going with them.”

“Stay behind me,” Cyrus cautioned.

“I’m not going to stand between you and serious injury,” Erith said with a grin.

“Let’s go,” Cyrus commanded. He and Fortin sprinted into the air, Erith a few steps behind them. Cyrus fixated on the incubus head as he ran, feeling his feet climb invisible steps, watching the black eyes that were as tall as he, the head swaying as the light threw another bolt of lightning followed by three balls of fire the size of a human. “Whatever that light is, I hope it keeps the pressure up – it’s keeping the incubus from invading our thoughts.”

“I’d be interested to know what that light is,” Erith said.

“Questions for later,” Cyrus replied. “The biggest threat first.”

“Reminds me of an old story,” Fortin rumbled. “The gist of which is that not everyone that helps you is your friend.”

“Let’s not make any new enemies until the multistory mind-attacking incubus is dead, shall we?” Cyrus turned his attention to the incubus, now only a few hundred feet away. Its legs wobbled beneath it and a weak voice came to Cyrus’s mind.

You brought this upon us… I will make you suffer.

“Is everyone else hearing a voice in their heads?” Erith asked.

“Yes,” Fortin replied. “I find its incessant prattling annoying and wish to smash the speaker’s mouth to pieces.”

Erith cast a look at him. “If it’s talking directly to your head, don’t you think you should smash the brain?”

“I’ll smash everything.”

The face grew closer and Erith hung back, keeping her distance while Cyrus and Fortin closed on it. “Orders?” came the rumble of Fortin’s voice.

“Look for weak points,” Cyrus replied.

“I see one.” The rock giant sprinted ahead, legs moving with nothing under them, and surged toward the mouth of the incubus, which opened as if to devour him. Fortin slammed his fist into the open mouth, smashing past the teeth into the soft tissue. With a battle cry he leapt upon the tongue, which bounced him into the back of the incubus’s throat and he disappeared as a swallowing noise filled the air around them.

“Uh… that thing ate your rock giant!” Erith called from her position behind him.

“He’ll regret that,” Cyrus said aloud as he ran atop the head of the incubus. His sword was in his hand, and he aimed himself toward the opening in the side of the head that he assumed were ears.

“Regret what?” Erith said. “Dispensing with one of his attackers in about two seconds? I think he’ll be rather excited about it; one less of you to deal with! We should have brought more people.”

“Or one less,” Cyrus said, so low that she could not hear him. He plunged his sword into the open ear hole, then used it to swing down into the ear canal.

“What are you DOING?!” Erith shouted to him.

He did not reply. He made his way into the canal as the incubus began to jerk and move once more. It tilted to the side as the Falcon’s Essence spell dissipated, causing him to lurch backward and nearly fall out. He held onto the edge of the ear hole, looking below at the ground – a dingy brown mess of dead grasses. The incubus righted itself again as it completed its turn, now pointing toward the wrecked city.

Towers extended above them, some of which were taller than the Citadel, the tallest building in Arkaria. The incubus was moving fast now. A glance back revealed the Sanctuary army moving toward it at a run, and a mass of Goliath’s forces behind looked disorganized and scattered. The writhing octopuses had settled down – most had to be dead, Cyrus concluded, as there was little movement where they covered the ground.

Another rumble from the incubus shook him and his grip loosened. He looked over to see Erith running alongside where he hung, one hand on his sword, the other gripping the edge above. “If you fall from this height,” Erith shouted, “you’re going to splatter!”

“I’m not going to fall,” Cyrus muttered, plunging his sword up and into the ear. He felt rather than heard the cracking of the exoskeleton, and his sword sank into the incubus’s flesh. He pulled, bringing himself back into the ear. Another turn nearly tossed him out again and he held to the hole he had created with the sword and looked out, cracked facades of buildings moving past at an alarming rate. “Where are you going?” he murmured.

Away. Away from the light. Away from the pain.

Cyrus dived deeper into the ear canal, plunging his sword forward when he could go no further. No escaping the pain, he thought.

The incubus shook once more, an inarticulate howl filling his mind. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts….

What did you do with Andren?

It hurts, oh, it hurts…

He brought his sword back once more, prepared to plunge it into what he knew was the creature’s brain when his feet left him; the incubus tilted forward, as though its legs had been cut from beneath it, and Cyrus felt it drop. He threw his hands up and braced himself with his legs as the head plunged down, falling hundreds of feet to the ground. The impact brought his hands forward, breaking through the wall of the ear canal and into the tender flesh beyond. The light visible at the entrance to the ear disappeared and once more Cyrus was lost in darkness.

Chapter 10

It smelled awful, Cyrus reflected as he awoke. A pain radiated from his left collarbone. He could hear pounding in the distance, and the walls vibrated around him. He lay in a pool of something wet and sticky that felt like the insides of a pumpkin. He felt around with his left hand and found his sword. Pushing off it, he pulled himself to a crouch, cradling his right arm against his body.

A faint flickering light was visible, and after a moment he realized he was looking at the aperture he had used to enter the ear. Stooped over, he worked his way toward the light. He crawled the last feet out of the ear and onto the cobblestone street below. Bringing himself to standing, he navigated away from the incubus, which lay stretched out, three wrecked buildings buried under its abdomen.

“There you are,” Erith called out. He looked to see her waiting past the jaw. “He’s over here!” she shouted to the army, waiting beyond the carcass. The flickering was the fires of the wizards, lit once more against the darkness. The light in the sky had disappeared.

“Where’s Fortin? And Andren?” he asked, looking around. “And where did the light go?”

“Fortin never came out of the mouth. Still haven’t seen Andren,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not sure where the light went; it disappeared when the incubus hit the ground. How did you kill that thing?”

“I didn’t.”

A tearing noise was audible as a craggy hand ripped through one of the beast’s eyes and tore an opening large enough for Fortin to extract himself.

“That was fun,” the rock giant said, voice deadpan. “Got any more?”

“Not right now,” Cyrus replied. “I doubt there are any more of these.”

“There aren’t,” came a high, hissing voice. Cyrus turned to find Malpravus gliding up to him. “I certainly do have an eye for talent, don’t I?” the necromancer cooed. “Perhaps one in a thousand Generals could lead their army to victory against an incubus and the octopuses.” His fingers steepled together in front of his face, dark skin contrasting against his grin. “Well done, my boy. Who cast that light?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus replied. “I don’t even know what it was.”

“No matter.” Malpravus spread his hands wide in acceptance. “I have no doubt that you, dear boy, would have prevailed and overcome it even without that assistance.”

“That’s okay,” came Vaste’s voice, laced with sarcasm. “The rest of us had nothing to do with this victory.”

Malpravus raised an eyebrow in surprise, but before he could respond to the troll’s comment, the deep, rumbling voice of Fortin filled the air. “The General should receive all glory from a battle won; his troops should be grateful to be associated with such a skilled Warlord.”

“I’m not a Warlord,” Cyrus said, glancing back at the rock giant, voice quiet. “And I could not have done this without the assistance of our army. Or that light, whatever or whomever cast it.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Malpravus mused, glee evident. “You are a Warlord. You are a follower of Bellarum, yes? Why deny your true nature? Why turn away from the greatest honorific that could be bestowed on a devotee of the God of War?”

Cyrus cast another look back at the assembling ranks of the Sanctuary officers. J’anda and Curatio met his gaze with measured neutrality while Niamh blanched.

Vaste made no attempt to hide the disdain with which he held Malpravus, his face a darker green than normal. “He doesn’t accept the title because he’s not a bloodthirsty beast.”

Malpravus raised an eyebrow. “A narrow definition for such a beautiful title.” His fingers flexed, steepling further. “Very well, we shall discuss semantics some other time. For now…” The gleeful look spread to the necromancer’s eyes with a light that became almost frightening. “The way to Yartraak’s treasure hoard is open, the last of his servants slain.” He turned to his army, formed behind him, gesturing for them to move forward. Looking back to Cyrus, he added, “Dear boy, I’ll lead the way from here.”

“Malpravus,” Curatio said with a smile. “Erith and Niamh will accompany you so we don’t have any ‘misunderstandings’ in regards to the treasures in Yartraak’s chambers.”

The necromancer stopped and turned at the waist. “But of course, Curatio, whatever the Alliance requests, I am more than happy to render.”

“On behalf of the Alliance, I’d like you to render yourself over an open fire,” Vaste muttered.

“I doubt I’d be open to that, my green friend,” Malpravus said after a moment’s pause, without turning back. “Let us keep our discourse civilized, shan’t we?”

“How did he hear that?” Niamh asked, mouth open in shock.

“Dead men tell tales,” Vaste replied, expression unreadable.

The army of Sanctuary was arrayed around the corpse of the incubus. Fortin stood next to it, face inscrutable, admiring his handiwork. Lost in thought, Cyrus almost didn’t notice Aisling approach.

“So,” she said as she sidled up to him, “that was impressive, leading us to victory against an enemy like that. What’s your secret to success?”

Cyrus was distracted by the activity around the corpse. “I look for weak points to attack; feet, knees, eyes, groin.”

“Ouch,” Aisling winced. “The groin?”

Cyrus shrugged. “Given a chance, my foes would do the same to me.”

“Do enemies often attack your groin?”

Cyrus stared ahead, preoccupied while he answered. “Not often, but it does happen.”

“I’d like to attack your groin –”

“For the love of the gods, woman!” he exploded.

“– I’d do it with enthusiasm –”

“Shut up! Just stop!” he shouted as he hurried away from her.

Cyrus joined the reformed army, falling in behind Goliath’s forces. They marched through the streets of the decrepit city. Absent the light, it did not appear to be in as bad a state of decay. Wide avenues were flanked on either side by tall buildings, steps leading up into them. Columns were a prevalent theme; white marbled ones that reminded Cyrus of the library in Reikonos. Rubble from collapsed buildings and ruined columns littered the streets.

No wind moved through the buildings. The air was stale, reminding Cyrus of a crypt. The sounds he had heard in the darkness were gone, replaced by the good-natured joking of the armies surrounding them, already overcome by a feeling of victory.

After marching through the streets for a half-hour they approached a building at the center of the city that stretched several stories into the air. It was built like an overlarge cylinder that tapered to a rounded top. Stretching up the side were doors big enough to fit three Fortins, stacked on each other’s shoulders. The armies stopped outside the doors, but Cyrus moved forward with the other Alliance officers, catching up with Niamh and Erith, who stood next to Malpravus and the Goliath officers.

“Does no one else feel the anticipation of glorying in our spoils?” the necromancer asked with an expression of unguarded surprise. His gaze locked on Cyrus. “Surely, my boy, you must feel a desire for some object herein?”

“Not everyone has a price, Malpravus,” Erith said hotly.

“Everybody wants something, dear lady,” he replied.

Curatio answered before Cyrus could. “We’re all here. Perhaps we should get some wizards ready to cast flames inside so we can see –”

“That won’t be necessary.” With a wave of Malpravus’s hand, two of Goliath’s warriors cracked the door to Yartraak’s chambers, and a beam of light spilled out, bright as the sun, illuminating the darkness all around them.

“That hypocrite,” J’anda breathed. “God of Darkness, Father of Night, living in a lighted space?” A bitter dark elven curse filled the air, bringing an even bigger smile to Malpravus’s face.

“We all have our idiosyncrasies, don’t we? But it rather casts certain things in a different… light, doesn’t it?” Malpravus and J’anda shared a knowing look.

Cyrus strode forward while they talked, into the blinding brightness and seized hold of the door opposite the Goliath warriors. Applying all his strength, he pushed the door, moving it a few feet.

“I’m not sure that Yartraak has ever opened this door all the way,” the necromancer cautioned. “I believe he keeps this door closed but for a sliver to let himself in and out.”

Grunting, Cyrus pushed the door, widening the crack. Light spilled out, casting brightness upon the ruins of the city once more. The two Goliath warriors had moved to the opposite door and were opening it as well, after receiving a nod of approval from Malpravus. Vaste added his strength to Cyrus’s, standing with his back against the door, shoving it.

The brightness within Yartraak’s chambers lit the Realm of Darkness. The cobblestone road was bathed in a warm glow and the plains on the path out of the city were exposed in the light, showing dead grass and the occasional withered tree. The ruins of the city stretched in all directions.

“Why is there grass in the Realm of Darkness? Trees? Who would have lived in a city of perpetual night?” Niamh looked around the circle of Alliance officers. Blank looks greeted her, save for on two faces. Malpravus wore the same malicious grin as always. Curatio’s eyes were closed, his lips pursed.

“A most interesting question,” Malpravus opined. “Best discussed at a time when we are not trespassing on the domain of a god.”

“Oy there!” a shout came from behind them. Cyrus turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Blinking into the light of the open door was Andren, staggering toward them from the wreckage of the city.

Cyrus ran to greet his old friend. Vaste, Erith and Niamh followed close behind. Cy caught Andren just as he fell. The warrior turned to Vaste. “A healing spell?”

The troll shook his head. “No, I suspect he’s just wickedly tired.”

“Not tired,” Andren said. “I’m starving! And I could use a nip, if you know what I mean. My flask ran dry while that thing had me captive. Wish Larana had come with us; she could sort it all out.”

Vaste shifted his focus to Andren. “Do you remember what happened?”

The elf’s face grew haunted as they carried him into the light of Yartraak’s chambers. “I remember getting lost in the dark, and something talking in my head, for what seemed like forever. Then all the sudden it screamed and was gone, and I’m wandering as blind as can be until you lot shed some light on the subject.”

“Nimrod,” Cy breathed. “Why didn’t you just cast the return spell and go back to Sanctuary?”

Andren flushed. “I tried that; no use.”

Vaste frowned. “I wonder if there’s a barrier to keep us from teleporting out?”

“There is,” Malpravus said without emotion. Cyrus turned to see the Goliath Guildmaster standing between Elisabeth and Curatio. “It emanates from that.” The necromancer pointed into the chamber at an orb no larger than a crystal ball.

With two strides, Cyrus crossed the chamber and grasped the orb, crushing it in his gauntlet. “Try your return spell now,” he said to Andren. “Get back to Sanctuary and rest.”

“That was valuable,” Malpravus breathed, exasperated, as a twinkle of light encompassed Andren and he faded away. “There are other solutions besides smashing things.”

Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to a pedestal in the far corner. An axe hovered above it, with a long hilt and a double bladed head that was bigger than any Cyrus had seen. “Ah, yes,” Malpravus said with a grin. “That would be Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness. We’ll not be able to defeat Yartraak’s barrier around it. Excellent eye, though, seeing that first.”

Cyrus’s gaze darted past the pedestal to a smaller one a few feet away. On it sat a block of metal, bigger than a brick. He couldn’t feel himself walk as he approached it; all the sound around him faded as he picked it up and stared. The metal glinted, a prismatic effect running across the surface with a bevy of different hues shining on it; only on the Serpent’s Bane had he seen anything approaching the look of the metal he held in his hands. It felt warm to his touch, like a dinner roll fresh from the oven.

A rattling breath over his shoulder took him by surprise. “Quartal?” Malpravus wore a look of pleasant surprise. “Mined in small chunks from the Mountains of Blackest Night. Quite valuable. Were you interested in it, dear boy?”

Cyrus held back for a moment. “Yes. I am.”

Malpravus’s grin returned and he nodded. “Everyone wants something.” Turning to the other Alliance officers, he called out, “I believe that Cyrus, who has been of invaluable assistance on so many expeditions, deserves a special reward. Would anyone object to him being given this Quartal?”

Heads nodded around the room as Cyrus stared in shock. Malpravus interlaced his fingers. “There you go, my boy, all yours now.” He lowered his voice as he said to Cyrus, “Whatever you do, don’t let them catch you selling it, it might earn you bad will.”

The warrior blinked. The Quartal now seemed heavy in his hands and he looked at the necromancer, studying the dark elf. “I’ve never seen you give up a piece of treasure. What do you want?”

The smile deepened on the Goliath Guildmaster’s face. “Want? I was merely… showing my gratitude for such excellent effort.” Malpravus glided away, leaving Cyrus with an unsettled feeling that was far from gratitude.

Dividing the treasure among the guilds took less than an hour. Once it was over, Cyrus found himself standing next to Niamh.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something, but I didn’t want to do it until this invasion was over,” she said, chewing her lip.

“What is it?”

“Not here.” She lowered her head and murmured an incantation. With a blast of wind, Cyrus found himself at the portal in the Plains of Perdamun, only a few minutes walk from Sanctuary. Fields of wild grass swayed in all directions around them. With another incantation he felt his feet leave the ground as the Falcon’s Essence gave him flight. “Now, let’s move away from the portal so we won’t be interrupted by anyone else who teleports in.”

The crisp breeze blew past him, and an involuntary chill rippled across the flesh hidden under his armor. A putrid smell crinkled his nose involuntarily and he heard the braying of a horse nearby. Cyrus’s eyes stopped on something just through the hole in the portal. Climbing through the gap, he paused at the apex, a sick feeling taking hold in his stomach that had nothing to do with the smell.

“What?” Niamh said from behind him. She clambered through and froze next to him, hands covering her mouth in horror.

Before them lay the scattered remains of a convoy; human bodies were arrayed around it. The wagons were emptied but not burned, a silent monument to the souls that had died defending their precious cargo. Horses stood, still lashed to the wagons, stomping. Cyrus stepped out of the portal and walked to the nearest body, pulling off his gauntlet and feeling the cheek of the corpse.

Shaking his head, he slid his hand back into the gauntlet. “They’ve been dead for a day, not much beyond that.” He surveyed the carnage around them and shook his head once more.

“What is it?” Niamh looked at him with undisguised curiosity. “You’re holding something back.”

He nodded. “They’ve stopped setting fire to the convoys. We thought they’d stopped attacking, but they haven’t, and we haven’t been searching.” He looked at the wreckage of the convoy. “By now there could be dozens more… just waiting to be found.”

Chapter 11

The red eyes stared at him from the darkness. Once more, his sword found claws, and the clash jarred his teeth as though he had hit a wall. Cyrus brought his short sword back to attack again, but missed. A spear pierced him and he grunted. His eyes drifted to where Narstron had been fighting his battle, alone.

The dwarf was near dead. Blood dripped from him, and chanting filled the air. Gezhvet… gezhvet… gezhvet… repeated over and over again until it was maddening.

The red eyes of the Emperor and Empress of Enterra lingered just out of reach, the black cloaked figure’s high and taunting laugh filling the air as Narstron’s body surged toward Cyrus, born by a horde of goblins, their claws impaling the dwarf. “Vengeance…” Narstron rasped. “I died alone… no one to remember me…” The dwarf’s eyes locked on Cyrus, and they had turned deepest crimson. “AVENGE ME!”

With a start Cyrus woke up, sheets wrapped tight against his skin. Light streamed into the window as he sat on the edge of the bed, face buried in his hands. He stood and padded to the bathroom, looking in the mirror that was suspended over the stone basin of the sink. He splashed water over his face and looked up; for a moment he could swear his eyes blazed red instead of the usual blue.

The days had passed slowly since the Realm of Darkness. The frequency of Cyrus’s nightmares had increased and become more intense. He sought out J’anda, who had experience in matters of the mind. When pressed for an opinion, the dark elf had been very frank.

“The incubus awakened fears of all sorts in people that were part of the invasion force. Others have told me of nightmares they’ve had, things buried and long forgotten that have resurfaced since we returned from Darkness.” With a shrug, the dark elf looked at him. “The nightmares will fade in time, as your mind’s resistance returns.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I don’t understand. We faced the incubus days ago. Why is it still affecting us?”

“It’s not affecting everyone. In Darkness, everyone else was more paralyzed by the attacks of the incubus than you were. The only reason they were able to function was that you were shouting orders at them; very basic ones they had trained with a thousand times, that gave their minds structure to fight through the fear.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Even though they weren’t in the fight, three of Goliath’s armies fell apart, just sat there and quivered, or ran into the darkness when the octopuses attacked.”

“So why are the aftereffects hitting me so hard if the attacks affected me less?” He stared the enchanter in the eyes.

“What the incubus does is the opposite of mesmerization. Where my spell controls you by showing you joy, the incubus paralyzes with fear. Either way a strong mental defense is required to resist, which,” he nodded at Cy, “you have.

“However,” J’anda continued, “the mind’s defenses are a like muscle. When the mind grows tired, resistance wanes. Breaking a mesmerization spell, the aftereffects would be a pleasant feeling of basking in the joy you experienced.

“But if it were fear attacking your mind?” The enchanter clasped his hands together. “Much less pleasant, and perhaps more lingering. And if one were already having nightmares about the subject of the incubus’s attack?” J’anda’s eyes were agleam and he favored Cyrus with a sympathetic smile.

They had conversed two days after the return from Darkness. In the intervening time, the nightmares had gotten only slightly better.

Cyrus strapped on his armor and walked downstairs, mind on one task for the day. As he entered the armory, Belkan looked up from behind his counter, monocle clenched on one eye as he examined the tip of a spear. The armorer was talking to himself and did not stop as Cyrus approached. “Lousiest metalwork I’ve ever seen, smiths oughta be ashamed…” He blinked, his right eye comically enlarged in the monocle. “Davidon,” he acknowledged.

Cyrus’s hand fell to the hilt tucked away in his belt. “This thing damned near got me killed, Belkan. I’m used to having something with a few more inches of length on it –”

“Bet you hear that from all the girls,” the grubby old armorer said with a chuckle.

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “I don’t fight with a short sword. I need something better.”

“I still got nothing, so unless you want to go shake down some poor new recruit, you’ll be swinging that sword ’til you find a replacement.” The armorer leaned over the counter. “But… I contacted a smith I know in Reikonos. He’s busy, but he can make a sword that’d be more a fit for you… in a few weeks.”

Belkan dropped the monocle into his palm and slipped it into the drawer to his side. “‘Til then, be grateful for what you got.” The armorer turned back to the spear and shook his head in disgust. “Your sword may be short, but it’s solid – new crop of smiths sprung up in Reikonos since this arms shortage. Try and fight with this.”

Belkan brought the spear tip down against a block of steel on the edge of the counter, hard, and it shattered. “Don’t even know what they made that of! And selling them for twice what a good sword would have gone for a year ago. Count your blessings.”

Cyrus started to respond but stopped as shouts echoed through the hall. Ducking out of the armory he hurried toward the noise and found a small crowd in the foyer when he arrived. Vara and Alaric stood at the center of the disturbance, along with Terian.

“Cyrus!” Alaric called. “There is a convoy under attack…!”

Cy did not wait for Alaric to finish speaking; he was already charging out the entrance and down the steps. He could hear Vara paces behind him and a herd of footfalls after that. “Which way?” he called back to her.

“Follow!” she shouted and ran under the portcullis at the northern gate in the wall that surrounded Sanctuary.

Cyrus thundered ahead to take the lead. Stealing a look back, he realized the small force following was comprised of new recruits; not a single spell caster was among them.

His legs pumped for ten minutes before he caught sight of the convoy over a rise. Another ten of hard running drew him close. A few flashes caught his eye as teleportation spells flared around the wreckage of the wagons. At the edge of the convoy, he drew his sword and began to creep forward.

There was no sound but the small army behind him and then a clatter from one of the wagons. He crept around the side to find a dark elf, in armor, breath heavy and bleeding from several wounds. He looked back at Vara, sheathed his sword and knelt by the wounded dark elf, whose eyes found him and locked on.

“My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said as he unfastened the elf’s breastplate and pulled it loose. Below, the chainmail was soaked with crimson and when the dark elf exhaled, a fine mist of blood sprayed into the air. Cyrus cringed and shot a look at Vara. “Can you…?” he asked. She shook her head, but murmured anyway. Her mending spell did not stem the tide of blood flowing from his chest.

The dark elf turned his head to focus on Cyrus. “Yellow,” he breathed and was gone.

“Dammit,” Cyrus muttered. “We need a healer here!”

“I believe we emptied Sanctuary as we left,” Vara said, voice lifeless. “Alaric stayed behind to summon the others back, but who knows how long that could take?”

Feeling his jaw clench, Cyrus turned back to the body. “Where is everybody?”

“It’s after midday and most have gone on various adventures or errands, as always. We can’t all sleep until afternoon.” He met her glare, but looked away after a moment.

“We need a healer that can cast a resurrection spell. This dark elf could tell us who’s been attacking the convoys.”

She did not answer him, but her eyes looked around at the destroyed wagons. “They have doubled the detachment of soldiers that would escort a convoy of this size.”

“Cyrus?” A light voice drew his attention to the edge of the wagon where Martaina Proelius stood, Thad in her shadow.

“Yes?”

When Martaina hesitated, the red-armored warrior straightened. “Martaina is one of the best trackers to ever come out of the Wanderers’ Brotherhood.” She blushed at her husband’s words.

“That’s… nice.” Cyrus smiled, unsure of what to say. He felt a sudden sharp pressure on his shoulder as Vara punched him. “Ow! What was that for?”

“The Wanderers’ Brotherhood is the ranger version of your Society of Arms,” Vara said, voice high. “She can perhaps shed some light on – at least – where the attack came from, and possibly even some detail on who did it.”

“Oh!” Cyrus blinked and focused on Martaina. “Did you find anything?”

She frowned. “Not much. No discernible footprints. It looks as though someone wiped them clean. The attack came –” she turned and pointed to a slight rise at the edge of the road – “from behind that berm, and it appears they were overwhelmed by superior numbers. Some of the scorchmarks on the wagons indicate that the attackers have magic users working with them; because of the fire damage I would assume a druid, although it could be a weak or inexperienced wizard.”

“How do you know that the magic didn’t come from the guards escorting the wagons?” Vara asked, voice curious.

Martaina strode to the nearest caravan and pointed at one of the scorchmarks. “That’s a possibility, but unlikely. If you look at the damage, most of it is found on the wagons and the ground near them. If the defenders were using magic, there would be damage to the berm; there isn’t any. Also, magic users are more likely to be found in a guild than in a guard detail.”

“Fascinating,” Vara said coolly. “Thank you, Martaina.”

“One other thing,” Martaina said. “There are a number of riders heading toward us from the north.”

Vara’s head snapped around and she muttered a curse. “Damn. Right you are.”

Cyrus stared north. “I don’t see anything.”

“Nor I,” Thad added.

“With your human eyes, you wouldn’t,” Vara said as she drew her sword. “They are still at some distance.”

Cyrus pulled his short sword from its scabbard as Thad mirrored him, drawing a full sized longsword that caused Cy to stare enviously. “You think it’s the raiders?”

“Unlikely,” Martaina chimed in. “None of the attack sites I’ve seen have suggested horses were used.”

“Best to assume defensive positions,” Cyrus said, tension mounting. “We don’t have any healers on hand, after all.”

“Perhaps we should take cover behind the wagons?” Martaina suggested.

“Because it worked so well for the last chaps that tried it,” Vara muttered.

“Do it,” Cyrus ordered. “I’ll stand out front, the rest of you take cover,” he said with a look that silenced Vara’s already forming protest. “And send someone back to Sanctuary for reinforcements!”

He stood in the open air of the Plains of Perdamun, buffeted by the chill wind as the others took shelter behind him. Dust stirred on the horizon and Cy watched, silent, in the minutes it took for the riders’ approach. When they got close, he spotted the gold and black on the lead rider’s tabard that identified him as a member of the Reikonos militia.

“Hail,” the rider said as he approached Cyrus, bringing his horse to a halt. The rider’s comrades kept their distance as he bored in on Cyrus.

“Hail, friend, I am Cyrus Davidon. I presume that you are here to investigate the attacks on convoys?” Cy kept his tone pleasant.

The other rider didn’t bother. “I am not, but it shouldn’t surprise me to find one of Sanctuary’s army in the remains of an attacked convoy.”

Cyrus glanced back. “This is hardly an army, friend. We came to assist these dark elves, but arrived too late.”

The rider spat on the ground at Cyrus’s feet. His helm masked most of his expression, but his mouth and eyes were visible – and unpleasant. “I am no friend of yours or Sanctuary’s. While it does not trouble my heart to see a host of dark elves killed, it enrages me that you have brought the same fate on countless of my countrymen and our convoys.”

Cyrus felt a flash of heat run through him. “Neither I nor my guildmates have had anything to do with the attacks, and you are bold to make such an accusation. What is your name?”

“Your denials and lies matter not to me; I am Rhane Ermoc, Captain of Reikonos’s Lyrus Guards. I bring a message to Sanctuary from the Council of Twelve.”

Cyrus heard a gasp behind him but did not turn away. The Lyrus Guards were elite warriors; the best of the Reikonos militia. That they were in the Plains of Perdamun was cause for concern. That they had come to deliver a message was more concerning. “I am an officer of Sanctuary. I await your message.”

Rhane reached into a saddlebag and pulled out an envelope. Slinging it to the ground in front of Cyrus, he spoke: “Know this! The Lyrus Guards will be in the Plains of Perdamun until this matter is settled. If ever I catch you and yours so flagrantly involved in the destruction of a human convoy, I will crush you and your pitiful guild without a second thought.”

A flash of annoyance broke Cyrus’s restraint. “You’re gonna need a bigger army for that, jackass.” He glared at Rhane and gripped his sword, wishing that the Guard Captain would draw his own.

“I have one.” The contempt radiated off the Guard Captain in waves. “The longer these attacks persist, you can expect to see more and more of us encamped in the Plains. Unlike the elves and dark elves, the Council of Twelve will not stand for this attack to our interests. Do not expect me to turn my back on you and yours; do you think us fools?”

“Yes,” Cyrus agreed, “I think you’re a fool. Even more so if you believe Sanctuary is involved in these attacks.”

Rhane’s eyes narrowed but he ignored the interruption. “Do you think it has escaped the Council of Twelve’s attention that there is an army growing here in the south, outside the reach of the major powers and not acting like any guild we’ve ever seen? And further coincidence that they sit in the center of countless attacks?”

Ermoc tugged on the reins of his horse. “We will be watching, and waiting for you to expose yourself. The day that you do will be your last.” The Guard Captain turned his horse and rode back to his comrades.

Cyrus felt Vara at his shoulder. “Arrogant human,” she said in a voice that reminded him of steel. “I should like to be there on his last day.”

He stooped to pick up the envelope from the dirt and turned to her as he ripped it open. “This presents a problem.”

She scoffed. “You think that this egomaniacal, overconfident field full of horse dung presents a problem? It wasn’t that long ago we faced a dragon; armored goons on horseback don’t concern me.”

“It’s not the Lyrus Guards that concern me,” Cyrus said, pausing to read the letter. He handed it to her. “It’s what they represent. It’s a summons to appear before the Council of Twelve and defend ourselves against the accusation of colluding to attack the Human Confederation’s shipping in this area.”

“Who cares?” She rolled her eyes. “Let them think whatever they wish; we have no part of this.”

“If we fail to defend ourselves,” Cyrus said, “our members will be arrested anywhere they’re found in the Confederation then imprisoned and killed.”

“So we stay away from Reikonos,” she said acidly. “And the outlying human areas.”

“Easy for you to say, since it’s not your home,” Thad said from behind her. “I like to visit my family every now and again.”

“This will not be the last,” Cyrus continued. “If the Council of Twelve is considering this, no doubt the other powers will send a similar message.” He looked her in the eyes. “Our people will be persona non grata in the Elven Kingdom and the Dark Elven Sovereignty as well. And I doubt the dwarves and gnomes will be enthusiastic about us shopping in their towns if we’re pariahs everywhere else.”

He watched the Lyrus Guards as they rode toward the horizon. The bitter memory of Ermoc’s words stirred something in him, an anger as the realization set in. “Soon… we of Sanctuary will stand alone against every power in western Arkaria.”

Chapter 12

Cy and Vara entered the foyer as Alaric was exiting the stairway. He met them halfway across the floor. He gestured to the stairs and the three of them climbed in silence. The Ghost opened the door to the Council chambers and closed them once Cy and Vara had entered. “What happened?”

“We didn’t have a healer with us,” Vara snapped.

“We didn’t have a healer with a resurrection spell with us,” Cyrus amended. “The raiders teleported as we arrived. There was a survivor but he died without saying anything.”

“Wrong again,” Vara corrected. “He said ‘yellow’.”

Cyrus threw up his hands in surrender. “Let me know if you figure out what that means. It could refer to their attackers’ clothing, their hair or the doll that the guard played with as a child.”

Vara stared at him, failing to mask her amusement. “Did you play with dolls as a child?”

“Your verbal sparring will get us nowhere,” Alaric interrupted them.

“We have nothing more to go on,” Cyrus said. “We’re already going nowhere.” He tossed the envelope across the table to Alaric. “I shouldn’t say that – there is one place we’re going.”

Alaric did not reply as he read through the summons. Upon finishing, the paladin let out a deep sigh. “I feared something of the sort would be coming along. It is unfortunate, but I suspect it will be the first of three.”

The door to the Council chambers opened to admit the rest of the Council. Vara proceeded to inform them of what had happened. Cyrus listened to her, half paying attention while his head swam.

“…Martaina concluded that they had a druid with them, although she conceded it could have been a wizard that was somewhat unskilled –”

“Excuse me?” Frost dripped from Niamh’s voice.

“I am only repeating what Martaina said.”

“I’ll have a word with her later. Maybe give her a show of what these ‘unskilled wizard’ powers of mine can do –”

“That is unnecessary, Niamh,” the Ghost said. “Anything further, Vara?”

“If we’d had a healer with a resurrection spell, we would know who was responsible,” Cyrus interjected.

“And if we had possessed magical unicorns that could fly faster than the wind, we could have saved the entire convoy and been home in time for a drink before dinner,” Vara quipped.

“There are magical unicorns?” Cyrus’s brow was furrowed and he stared at Vara with a vacant expression.

“Dolt,” she said dismissively. “We can wish all day for what we do not have, but it is pointless –”

“No, I have a point,” he interrupted. “We have five healers and only two that can cast a resurrection spell – and over a thousand members now. We had three healers that could cast a resurrection spell when we had two hundred members.” He looked around the table. “We need healers – and the ones we have need to learn that spell.”

A silence fell around the table, broken by Niamh. “That’s an advanced spell. Magic can only be taught by the Leagues, and only at their halls, through their instructors. It would take years –”

“No,” Vaste said, voice quiet. “It would take a day at most.”

Niamh’s head swiveled to the troll. “Stop joking.” She shifted her gaze back to Cyrus. “If you want someone to learn the resurrection spell, then they’re going back to the Healer’s Union for a minimum of two years.”

“I’m a healer that casts the resurrection spell, and I’m telling you we can teach any healer that wants to learn in a day.” Vaste’s face remained neutral and his eyes were fixed, staring straight ahead.

Niamh’s lips parted, twisting into a grimace. “That is ridiculous. I know it takes two years to train the resurrection spell –” Vaste’s head shook, back and forth, a slow denial of her words – “there are advanced meditative techniques –” she ignored Vaste’s shaking head, even as it gained speed – “there are different aspects of the enchantment to learn – STOP SHAKING YOUR HEAD! Fine,” she hissed, “how can they learn the resurrection spell in a day?”

Silence fell once more. Alaric’s hand covered his mouth, but his eye was closed. J’anda and Terian surveyed the table without speaking. Vara’s eyes were pointed down, not looking at anyone. Cyrus had a sudden feeling that he was in the midst of a card game where one of the players had just alluded to cheating. The tension was such that when Curatio finally broke the silence, his soft words seemed as loud as a warcry.

“You don’t use League instructors and you don’t do it in their halls.” The elf hesitated. “I taught Vaste the resurrection spell – and yes, it took less than a day.”

Niamh’s complexion turned nearly the color of her hair, and she physically shook for a moment before she exploded. “WHAT THE HELLS, CURATIO!?”

“I don’t get it,” Cyrus admitted. “So Curatio taught Vaste some spells. What’s the problem?”

Niamh’s words came out in a low hiss that gained volume until it turned into a shriek of outrage. “By doing that they’ve risked making us all HERETICS!” The last word came out as a curse and her eyes blazed as she looked at each of them in turn. “A healer’s training, through the Leagues, is supposed to take ten years! Ten years to master spellcasting whether it’s druid, enchanter, healer… you cannot tell me you’ve instructed him in…”

“About six weeks?” Curatio said. “I did. He received the rudimentary training at the Healer’s Union in Fertiss, but his instruction was very basic and they kicked him out after a year because he’s a troll. I filled in the blanks. He was hardly a master, but after I finished I would have put him against anyone who spent the ten years in the ‘complete’ training.”

Cyrus looked around the table. “I know I’m not well versed in magic since I don’t use it, but I can’t help but feel there are things that some of you know,” he nodded to Vaste and Curatio, “that others of us don’t.”

“That’s because,” Niamh replied, her words suffused with righteous indignation, “everything they’re discussing is the stuff of heresy, the kind of things that could bring the full weight of the Leagues upon you. You know what heretics have in common? They aren’t just hunted in the kingdom they’ve committed the crime in, they’re hunted in all Arkaria by every power; the Leagues see to that.”

“Like the Wanderer’s Brotherhood and the Healer’s Union?” Cyrus asked, uncertain.

“Yes, but as a group they’re referred to as the Leagues.” Niamh’s fury had died down only slightly. Her complexion still struggled to dominate the red of her hair, coming damnably close. “They train paladins, dark knights, enchanters, druids… all of us.”

Alaric broke his silence. “This discussion is unprofitable for us, friends. We will consider the possibility of training additional healers in the resurrection spell later. At the moment, we have Reikonos to deal with –”

A knock interrupted them and Nyad, face gray, opened the door and carried forth two envelopes to Alaric. Without another word, she left and the Ghost stared at each in turn.

“You’re not going to open them?” Terian asked.

“I know what they say.” Alaric’s hand moved from his mouth to his forehead and began to massage his temples. His other hand reached down and slid one of the letters to Curatio and the other down the table to Terian. “Be my guest.”

The room was quiet as the letters were read. “It’s a summons to appear before the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar to answer for the crime of robbery and treason.” Terian looked around the table. “It’s addressed to me and J’anda.”

“The other is a notice to appear before the Elf King,” Curatio said as he refolded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. “It names all of Sanctuary.”

“They will seek monetary recompense for the lost shipments,” Alaric said. “I expect that in light of the fact that we do not have the financial resources to make restitution they will resort to sanctions.”

“I would have expected them to employ the death penalty,” Vaste muttered darkly.

“In the case of the Sovereign of Saekaj, I wouldn’t rule it out,” Terian said without enthusiasm.

J’anda looked at him with curiosity. “I thought he was gone?”

“He’s back,” Terian replied, looking like a child submitting himself for punishment. Looking around the table, he answered the unspoken question. “The Sovereign led the dark elves into the last war, a hundred years ago, which we lost. He… recused himself for a while. All governance was through a tribunal, but as of a few weeks ago… he’s back.” Terian took a deep breath. “And he’s not a merciful Sovereign.”

“Who is he?” Alaric asked.

Terian grunted but said nothing. J’anda answered for him after casting a sidelong look at the dark knight. “It’s not anyone you’d have met.”

“But perhaps someone we’ve heard of,” Alaric said.

“Perhaps. It is not my place to say.” J’anda’s face was inscrutable.

Cyrus buried his face in his palms. “Are there… any… of you at this table that aren’t keeping secrets?” Frustration edged into his voice.

Vaste raised his hand. “I don’t think I have anything to hide, so no.”

Cyrus’s head swiveled to fix on the troll. “So how did you find me in the Mountains of Nartanis? And how did you know what the specter did to me in the Realm of Darkness?”

“I stand corrected.”

“Now, now,” Alaric said, “think how boring life would be if you knew everything?”

“Speak for yourself,” Vara said. “I know everything and am rarely bored hanging around with you lot.”

“Let us focus on what must be done,” Alaric said. “Terian, J’anda, you will stand before the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar and present our defense.”

“Great,” Terian muttered.

“Curatio, you will take Nyad and speak with the King of the Elves in Pharesia,” Alaric said, turning to the wizened elf. Curatio nodded in acknowledgment. “Perhaps hearing from his youngest daughter that we have no involvement with these attacks will soften his resolve. Meanwhile, Cyrus and I will present our case before the Council of Twelve in Reikonos. I doubt it is coincidence that the hearings are set for the day after tomorrow. We have an Alliance meeting at the same time, so needless to say, that will not be attended unless Vara and Vaste would like to go in our stead…”

“No,” Vaste said in a tone of voice that offered no room for argument.

Vara smirked. “I think I’ll do something more enjoyable, such as light my entire body on fire.”

“So long as you keep your personal pyrotechnic displays out of the common rooms,” Alaric replied without expression. “We have an opportunity to stem some very unfavorable consequences if we act properly. By presenting our case, we may buy the time necessary to uncover the real culprit.”

“What do we do when we find them?” Niamh asked, complexion returned to normal.

Alaric’s eye narrowed. “They have slaughtered hundreds of guards and traders and are besmirching our honor. When we find them, they will be made to suffer consequences so great that they shall never ponder a course of action such as this ever again.”

“Oh,” Cyrus said. “I just assumed we would kill them.”

“That too.”

Chapter 13

On his way to dinner that evening, Cyrus ran across Andren in the foyer, drink in hand, skulking outside the doors to the Great Hall. After a nod of hello from the healer, Cyrus launched into the question that had been on his mind for hours. “Why didn’t you ever learn the resurrection spell?” Cyrus looked at the elf in curiosity.

Andren shrugged. “Never bothered to go back to the Healer’s Union to study it.”

The inner turmoil of his emotions over recent events overrode whatever tact Cyrus had. “There’s a spell that can teach you how to master death and you never bothered to go back to learn it!?” The last words came out in a bitter scream, one that echoed in his ears long after their conversation had ended.

“It takes years!” Andren said in protest. “And the Healer’s Union has a certain standard of conduct. For some reason,” he said with a shrug, “drinking is not allowed. So I’d have to give up ale for AT LEAST two years. I decided it wasn’t worth it.”

Cyrus bit back the first response that came to his mind. Then the second. And third. “Your drinking,” Cyrus said in a hollow voice, “has gotten worse since Narstron died.” Cy looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “I thought it was better when we were chasing the godly weapons and going after Ashan’agar, but it’s gotten worse. And I don’t know how it was the six months before that –”

“Because you were gone, yeah.” Andren flushed. “You were gone a fair sight before that, though, weren’t you? Adventuring every day, morning ’til night – never asking me if I wanted to go along.”

“When you sleep until noon, you miss out on things,” Cyrus said, an accusatory note creeping into his voice. “I’m not going to argue with you. It’s your business; keep it under control.”

“It is under control!” Andren shouted, voice filling the foyer. Cyrus looked around to find that everyone was already either watching them or pretending not to. Andren noticed as well, and lowered his voice. “It is under control. I’m fine. I just don’t want to go to the Healer’s Union in Reikonos almost two millennia after I finished my training, all right?”

Cyrus frowned. “Why would you go to the one in Reikonos? Didn’t you get your training in Pharesia?”

“Yeah, but that one’s closed.” Andren dismissed it with a wave. “Point is, I don’t want to do it.”

“Fine,” Cy nodded. “I might have an alternative. Could take less time too.”

“Sounds dodgy.”

“When have you ever cared how dodgy something was?”

“Good point.”

They filed into the Great Hall and Cyrus took his seat at the officers’ table after going through the line last with the other officers. “Bigger quarters, private bathrooms, but we have constant meetings and get the last pickings at supper.” He frowned at his plate. “Not sure if this officer thing is worth the tradeoffs.”

Niamh sat down beside him. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“I hope it’s not a mutiny.” All the color drained from his face as her expression remained serious. “Please tell me it’s not a mutiny. I know you were upset by the heretic talk in Council today –”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted, “although I’m not pleased at the thought of being an outcast. It’s something else. I meant to talk to you about it after the Darkness invasion, but we –”

“Found that convoy. So what is it?” She winced at him. “Uh oh. Out with it.”

“Well…” she began, struggling for words. “We have a new applicant. I’m afraid you’re going to be upset.”

“Why?” Cyrus laughed. “He’s not a troll, is he?”

“What’s wrong with trolls?” Vaste rumbled from a few seats away.

“They’re violent, ill-tempered, stupid and they smell like the chamberpot at the Reikonos Inn after meat pies are served.”

“I can’t argue with any of that,” Vaste admitted and returned to eating.

Cy turned back to Niamh. “You know Vaste and I made our peace after our… excursion to the bandit lands. If you’re looking at additional troll candidates that are as good as Vaste, I think we’ll be fine.”

“No one is as good as me,” Vaste corrected.

“It’s not a troll,” Niamh said with hesitation. “But you’re on the right track. He is an outcast among his people.”

“We already have a troll, a rock giant… is it a titan?”

“No.”

“I don’t know what I would have a problem with.” Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “Unless it’s Orion.”

“It’s not Orion. His name is Mendicant and he’s a wizard. Which is unusual because magic is feared among his people.”

“Mendicant?” Cyrus shrugged and smiled. “I’ll give anyone a fair chance, regardless of where they come from, Niamh. My experience with Vaste has taught me that much, and there’s no other race that has wronged me as badly as the trolls have.” His smiled evaporated. “Unless… he’s…”

“Yes.” She grimaced. “He’s a goblin. I’ve known him for years and he’s not like other goblins; he’s been out of Enterra for a very long time.”

A long pause hung in the air. Cyrus looked away, caught up in the background noise of dinner in the Great Hall; plates clinking against silverware, voices raised in merriment. The smell of succulent cooked meat wafted through the air and Cyrus realized he hadn’t touched his plate. “They don’t know yet, do they?”

Niamh blinked, confused. “Know what?”

“About the trouble that’s headed our way. The hearings.”

She looked out across the sea of their guildmates. “No, they don’t. Alaric won’t announce anything until after the hearings.”

Cyrus stared over them. “I remember my first day, when we had a fifth of the people we do now. I felt an army of that size could shake the foundations of Arkaria.” His smile faded. “Then Enterra came, and I wondered if any victory would ever matter again.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, eyes still scanning the crowd. “I predict a poor outcome for us in the hearings. And I don’t know when we’ll catch those responsible for the attacks, but I know that every day that passes between now and then, the likelihood grows that an army marches on the front gate of Sanctuary with violence in their hearts.” He looked back at her. “I don’t care if your applicant is a goblin or an ant-man. If he’s honorable enough for you to call him friend, I’ll judge him on his actions.”

Niamh swallowed. Tension bled from her shoulders as she relaxed. “Thank you. I just wanted be sure in light of your recent…” She floundered, searching for the right word.

“Nightmares. I appreciate your concern but I have bigger worries than my nightmares right now. Dark days are coming, and when they arrive, people will leave.” Cyrus swept his gaze back over the crowd. “Soon I may wish for hundreds of goblins to fill the gaps left by those who chose to depart rather than face the trials with us.”

Chapter 14

“Do they have the power to disband us?” Cyrus asked Alaric. They were in a wooden box, pulled by a thick twine through a system of pulleys, making its way to the top of the Reikonos Citadel, the tallest building in Arkaria. The squeaking of the wood as the elevator climbed did nothing to soothe his nerves. The box was open on the sides save for a small rail, and as they passed each floor he caught a glimpse of the Confederation’s bureaucrats going about their daily routines.

“No, but they believe they have the power to invade Sanctuary and kill us all, which might be worse,” Alaric replied, helm masking his expression.

“Only ‘might be’?”

The Ghost shrugged as the pulley above them screeched. “Sanctuary is my purpose. For me, death would be preferable to losing the guild I have spent the days and years of my life building. For a new recruit being disbanded would be preferable. As always, it is a matter of perspective.”

“Indeed.” They reached the top floor and stepped out as the elevator box banged to a halt. A stone wall stood in front of them, obscuring their view of the rest of the floor. A sign mounted on it indicated the double doors on either side of the wall before them held their destination.

Alaric led the way through the double doors to their left, which were opened by two guards wearing a different coat of arms on their tabards than the Lyrus Guards. They were announced and Cyrus found his way into a circular chamber that was big enough to house combat in its center. Against the far wall sat the Council of Twelve, seated behind a long wooden stand that concealed them below the chest and elevated them above the rest of the chamber. A mixture of men and women peered down from the council bench, which was a rich, dark-stained wood.

A podium stood in the center of the floor before the council and had been the focus of their attention until Cyrus and Alaric entered. A gesture from the member of the Council seated in the center of the bench moved several of the guards into action. The speaker that held the floor took no notice that the focus had shifted from him and continued to drone on about the city water supply.

Two of the guards approached Cyrus and Alaric as they made their way through the rows of benches toward the rail separating the spectator seating from the open area with the podium where the speaker stood. “Good sirs,” the guard said in a polite tone, “I’ll need your swords for the duration of the hearing. You may collect them on the first floor when you leave.”

Alaric chuckled. “Very well, but if I meant to assassinate the Council of Twelve I would hardly telegraph my intent by carrying a sword.”

The guard gave him a smile. “It’s a concern when people receive unfavorable judgments.”

Alaric returned the guard’s smile. “I’m already expecting one of those, so it should not come as a great surprise or cause me undue rage. But as you wish.” The paladin reached down and handed his sword to the guard.

Cyrus grunted, almost in pain. A warrior of Bellarum never relinquished his weapon willingly.

“Let it go,” Alaric whispered. “If they intend mischief, we can fight them hand to hand.”

Cyrus reached into his belt and withdrew the scabbard, handing it to the guard without meeting his eyes. The guard stepped aside.

“Yes, yes,” came a raspy voice at the front of the chamber. “We get the gist of what you’re suggesting.” The man in the center of the council table interrupted the speaker on the floor at the podium.

“But I have five more minutes!” came the protest.

“I am a man to whom time matters a great deal,” came the resigned voice of the chairman. “Five minutes or five hundred won’t make a difference in your case,” the chairman concluded. “All in favor?” No hands were raised. “The nays have it, and thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

“But you haven’t done anything about it!”

“Yes, but at least now we are aware of the problem, and perhaps we will explore it again at a later date. Thank you,” the Councilman said, dismissing the speaker.

Cyrus opened the gate of the railing for the retreating speaker, a small man with considerable years. “Better luck to you,” the little man said as he hobbled down the aisle.

“Will the representatives from Sanctuary come forward?” The chairman stared at them over rimmed lenses, something Cyrus had rarely seen. The chairman was at least sixty years of age, he estimated, and had jowls at either side of his mouth that shook when he spoke. Deep crimson robes flowed from a cowl that rested around his neck, a scrawl of symbols written around them.

Alaric halted Cyrus, whispering under his breath, “Do not underestimate this one based on his looks. He is one of the most fearsome wizards you could face and I suspect his influence extends far beyond the borders of the Human Confederation.”

Cyrus looked at Alaric, perplexed. “What, you think I’m going to insult him or challenge him to a fistfight?”

Alaric’s eye bored through the slit in his helmet. “Even if you were armed, I suspect it would end with an unfavorable outcome for you, my friend.”

“Noted. I’ll keep my rage to myself.”

The chairman cleared his throat. “Would the representatives from Sanctuary please come forward?” he reiterated, a note of impatience in his voice.

Alaric strode to the podium, Cyrus a few steps behind.

“If you could identify yourselves, please…”

Alaric did not remove his helmet. “I have spoken before this august body on numerous occasions. Must I identify myself?”

“For the record,” the chairman added with an imperious hand motion.

“I am Alaric Garaunt, Guildmaster of Sanctuary and this is one of my officers, Cyrus Davidon.”

“Davidon?” The Chairman’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated. “Very well. For the record the Council of Twelve stands in judgment of this matter, Chairman Pretnam Urides presiding.” The chairman raised his nose when he spoke his own name, as though catching an enjoyable scent on the air. “We are here to discuss the complicity of Sanctuary in the attacks on Confederation shipping in the Plains of Perdamun.”

“Let me also state, for the record,” Alaric interrupted, “that Sanctuary has no complicity in said attacks.”

“No admitted complicity,” Urides corrected.

“No complicity,” Alaric said with quiet finality.

“I see.” The chairman looked down at the desk in front of him. “In the last few months we have lost fifty-eight shipments, creating a total loss of 5.8 million gold pieces, counting the loss of slaves killed or missing in the attacks and not counting the loss of manpower from the deaths of the guards and traders.” His eyes raised and found Alaric and Cyrus standing below him. “That is a sizable number.”

“To which number are you referring, the gold or the number of lives?” Alaric’s voice contained just a hint of irony.

Urides eyes narrowed as he regarded the Sanctuary Guildmaster. “Both.”

“To say nothing of the losses to the Dark Elf Sovereignty and the Elven Kingdom,” Alaric added.

“Their losses do not concern me,” Pretnam Urides said. “I am concerned with human affairs.”

“I am afraid that the raiders of your convoys do not seem to share your narrow interest,” Alaric said with a trace of sarcasm.

Urides ignored Alaric’s comment. “We have seen your numbers grow in recent days, Alaric Garaunt. You have taken it upon yourself to go out into the world and drag people into your army that have never had a day of League training. You equip them with swords and bows, daggers and spears and call them warriors and rangers, even though their names have never been written on the rolls of the Wanderers’ Brotherhood or the Society of Arms.”

“I apologize,” Alaric said, stiffening. “I was not aware that swordplay had joined spell casting in becoming the sole province of the Leagues.”

The small man’s eyes peered down at the Ghost of Sanctuary. “Spell casting is a sacred power, and none but the Leagues have the ability and means to instruct in its subtle and magnificent craft.”

“And now you make the same claim for those who use a blade?”

“You border on heresy, Lord Garaunt.”

“That would be a matter for the Leagues to decide, would it not?”

A smile cracked Pretnam Urides lips for the first time since they entered the chamber. “Perhaps.” The smile faded. “Your army’s growth is a matter of concern to all who have an interest in the Plains of Perdamun. What is your purpose in assembling this force?”

Alaric’s hands gripped the podium. “I did not realize as I assembled my guild that I needed to explain my intentions to this body. We do sit far outside your borders.”

Urides’s smile returned, and it gave Cyrus a moment of disquiet. “Those lands have been long in dispute between the elves and the dark elves, and it is likely that they will never come to resolution. For that reason, the Council of Twelve believes that establishing our stewardship of those territories will be necessary to bring about peace.”

Alaric paused for a moment before leaning forward to speak. “I apologize, perhaps I misunderstood you. Did you just announce your intention to annex the Plains of Perdamun?”

“By no means,” Urides said with a derisive laugh, as though the idea were absurd. “We intend to steward those lands to avoid armed conflict over incidents such as this. We have already mobilized an army for that purpose.” He removed the glasses and his eyes were beady without them. “The force in place will keep the peace by ensuring Sanctuary attacks no further human convoys and will protect our interests by removing any other threats to peace in the area.”

“Meaning any other army that should cross into the southern plains,” Alaric said with a sigh.

“We would also consider any large-scale movement by your army to be a hostile action and a threat to peace.” Urides’ smile had returned, almost taunting. “In addition, because of Sanctuary’s role in the attacks and given the damages, we hereby levy a fine of 10 million gold pieces upon your guild, payable immediately, before any further commerce can be transacted between Sanctuary and any party in the Human Confederation.”

“Is the Council of Twelve’s treasury so empty that you would shake down parties innocent of any wrongdoing for gold?” Alaric asked with disgust.

“So you’ll not be making payment today?” Pretnam Urides said.

“I will not.” Alaric’s voice overflowed with revulsion.

Urides head bobbed up and down in a nod. “Very well. It is ordered that every member of the guild Sanctuary shall be exiled from the Confederation until they make restitution in the amount of 10 million gold pieces. The accounts of said guild members at all banks in the Confederation shall be appropriated but not counted toward restitution.”

Cyrus’s eyes widened as Urides went on. “Any member of Sanctuary found in Confederation territory shall be arrested and executed for crimes against the state until the fine is paid. Any citizen who trades or does business with a member of Sanctuary shall be arrested and imprisoned for a term not less than fifty years.” He looked around at the rest of the Council of Twelve. “I think that covers it.”

Dark clouds gathered around Alaric. “I presume the ‘arrest and execution’ clause of your judgment does not go into immediate effect.”

Pretnam Urides took a breath and exhaled, pleasant expression filling his jowly face. “I think we can be a little generous here. We can give you ten minutes.” He leaned forward. “Our intention is not to kill any of your number, although we will if pressed. But you will make restitution for the losses of our convoys and for the loss of face we suffer from the rest of Arkaria. And let this stain upon your honor remain until then.”

Alaric removed his hand from the edge of the podium and Cyrus could see an indentation pressed into the wood where the Ghost’s gauntlet had rested. “Make no mistake, Councilor; you will never see a single piece of gold in restitution from Sanctuary because we have not committed this crime. You will, however, eat your words and your insults to our honor when we find the guilty parties.”

“Very well, then.” Pretnam Urides dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “But don’t set foot in my Confederation again without either 10 million gold or your ‘guilty parties’ and an overwhelming amount of evidence to back up your assertions.” The pleasant expression returned. “Until then, you are unwelcome here. Gentlemen… your ten minutes is ticking away.”

Cyrus turned to leave, but Alaric was already moving. They entered the elevator and Alaric did not speak as they watched floor after floor go past. When they reached the first floor, Alaric ducked and jumped out of the elevator before it had stopped. He grasped his sword from the weapon’s rack at the entryway and tossed Cyrus his short sword.

Cyrus followed the Ghost outside, and as he looked back, five of the Citadel guards followed them as they walked toward the square. “How much time do we have left?” Cyrus asked as he caught up with the paladin.

“Not much.” Tension was evident in the Ghost’s voice.

“Gentlemen, your time is up,” came a voice from behind them. Cyrus turned to see the guard that had taken their weapons in the Citadel tower, standing behind them with his sword drawn.

Cyrus reached down to match the guard’s motion but felt the pressure of Alaric’s hand restrain his arm. “That won’t be necessary.” Cyrus turned back and a blur of red behind Alaric caught his eye.

“Hang on, boys,” Niamh said as she squeezed between them, wrapping her arms around them in a tight embrace. Cyrus felt a tingle through his body, something far different from the winds of druidic teleport, and then a burst of light as the streets of Reikonos disappeared from view.

Chapter 15

The foyer of Sanctuary appeared around them as the light of the spell faded. Niamh gave them both a squeeze and released her hold on them. “Nothing like ending your afternoon sandwiched between two big, strong men.”

“Your timing was impeccable,” Cyrus said with a smile. “You just keep saving my ass.”

“Should you keep eating at your current rate,” came Vara’s icy voice from over his shoulder, “that will involve more and more heavy lifting.”

Alaric’s head whipsawed around to Vara. “Has there been any word yet from the others?”

She shook her head. “I take it by your sudden appearance that things did not go well in Reikonos?”

“They threatened to have us arrested and executed if we didn’t pay a fine of 10 million gold,” Cyrus said. They were alone in the foyer; the rest of the guild were in the Great Hall for dinner.

Silence filled the air, broken at last by Niamh. “Did you say 10 million?”

“Yes,” Cyrus confirmed. “They threatened to do the same to any of our members found in human territory.”

“I see,” Vara replied, face inscrutable. “And what did you do to precipitate these sanctions?”

“Me?” Cyrus said with indignation, looking to Alaric for confirmation. The Ghost was absorbed in his own thoughts and not paying attention. “I surrendered my sword and didn’t say anything!”

“I sometimes find myself offended by your face,” Vara admitted. “Perhaps you should have surrendered that as well.”

“This is not a joking matter, Vara.” Niamh’s voice was stern, almost scolding.

“If we can’t laugh about this, we may end up crying about it,” Vara said.

A flash to Cyrus’s left surprised him, and he swiveled to find J’anda with Terian clinging to him.

“You can let go now,” the enchanter mumbled. Terian unwrapped his arms and took a step back.

“I take it your hearing did not go well?” Niamh eyed them with a glimmer of hope.

“The Sovereign ordered our executions after demanding a fine of 5 million gold pieces,” Terian admitted.

“That’s not bad,” Cyrus told him. “Reikonos ordered Sanctuary to pay 10 million gold pieces.”

“The 5 million is for personal betrayals committed by the two of us as well as any other dark elf members of the guild,” J’anda clarified. “The Sovereign has levied a 25 million gold piece fine against Sanctuary, and declared a death mark for all members.”

“Until it’s paid?” Cyrus shook his head.

“No, he expects us to pay the 30 million and then submit to our deaths,” Terian said, face serious. “We barely got out alive. If it hadn’t been for some quick thinking on J’anda’s part we’d be dead.”

Another flash of light brought Nyad and Curatio into focus. “I hope your meeting with the King went better than the rest went,” Niamh said.

Nyad’s face was pale. “We were expelled from the Kingdom and are required to pay a fine of 10 million gold to return.”

“He’s your father,” Cyrus commented. “Doesn’t he believe you when you tell him that we weren’t involved?”

“He removed me from the line of succession,” she said in disbelief. “And disowned me.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Cyrus looked to Curatio for explanation.

“Nyad was next in line for the throne.” Curatio’s mouth was turned down in a frown; one of the first times since Cyrus had met the usually chipper elf. “She’s been removed and all members of Sanctuary are banished from the kingdom.”

“Happy day for the next poor sod in line,” Vara muttered.

Nyad turned to Vara, mouth hanging open, but could not muster a response.

“Fool!” Alaric exploded, seemingly oblivious to the officers gathered around him. “He’s engaging in a land grab against two of the oldest powers in Arkaria, believing the human army to be their equal or better.” Alaric shook his head. “They will disabuse him of that notion, but not before a considerable number die.”

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the first part of that,” Vara said.

“Pretnam Urides, the Chairman of the Council of Twelve, is planning something arrogant and foolish,” Alaric began.

“As he is a human, I remain unsurprised,” Vara interjected. The squeak of a hinge filled the air as the front doors of Sanctuary opened.

“He intends – what the blazes are you doing here?” Alaric’s voice rose on the last few syllables and the assembled officers turned to find Malpravus, Carrack and Tolada standing in the entryway, flanked by Cass, Erith and Elisabeth. Erith in particular wore a more sour expression that was standard even for her.

“I had assumed that with the difficulties you are experiencing, you might forget the Alliance officer meeting scheduled for today,” Malpravus said with his usual skeletal grin. “Then I had heard that your entire guild was to be forbidden to enter the city of Reikonos, so I contacted the Daring immediately to find a more… hospitable location for us to meet.”

Malpravus continued, gliding across the foyer toward them, “Then I heard that you experienced a similar fate in the Elven Kingdom and the Sovereignty. So rather than meet in a gnomish city or some dwarven hole, I presumed we should meet here since it appears to be nearly the last place in Arkaria where you would be welcomed.” His fingers steepled in front of him and the Goliath Guildmaster’s grin grew deeper. “You have been causing quite a stir, haven’t you?”

“You know we have had no involvement in the convoy attacks,” Alaric said, aggravation edging through the restraint in his voice.

“Of course, old friend, I know you would protest to your last breath your lack of involvement in anything so foul as thieving attacks on wealthy convoys that pass by your door. It must be rather like starving, then seeing ripe plums hanging over your neighbor’s fence. What is the harm in plucking just one… then another…” His voice trailed off, but the grin widened.

“I don’t hear a suggestion of our innocence anywhere in that statement,” Vaste muttered as he appeared behind Cyrus.

“Probably thinking that if it were him in our shoes, he’d have been attacking the convoys long ago,” Cyrus replied, voice low.

“Such uncharitable thoughts do not become you, dear boy,” Malpravus said, not turning from where he stood, fingers caressing a torchlight mounted to the wall. His fingers slipped along the stone almost as if he were touching a lover. “But it matters not; we have many things to discuss. Where shall we meet, Alaric? Your Council Chambers, perhaps?”

“I think not,” the Ghost replied icily. “There is a room behind the Great Hall that will be adequate for our purposes.” Alaric turned and walked to the hallway that ran along the side of the Great Hall. Malpravus followed, gliding along with Carrack and Tolada in his wake and the Daring’s officers a few paces behind them.

Cyrus felt a hand on his shoulder and stopped to see Erith looking at him with concern. She pulled him down to an embrace, surprising him. “This is going to be bad,” she whispered in his ear. “Whatever happens, please try to remember that we are not all your enemy.” She pulled away from him and looked him in the eye, biting her lip, then turned and followed the rest of them down the hall.

A sense of dread and curiosity filled Cyrus as they walked down the long corridor. Through the wall he could hear the sounds of merriment that always accompanied dinner. I wonder how happy they’ll all be when they find out they can never go home again just because they’re members of Sanctuary? I’m upset about it, and I don’t even have any family left!

He reached a turn in the hallway and watched Erith disappear into a door. Almost across from it stood Malpravus, standing before another door. His fingers reached out and touched it as he turned to look at Cyrus. “Such a lovely guildhall, dear boy.” He extended a hand toward the door that Erith had disappeared through. “After you, lad.”

Cyrus watched the Goliath Guildmaster as he entered the room, a large chamber, bigger than the Council chambers upstairs, and laid out with tables along three sides. Malpravus followed behind him.

Cyrus looked around the room, amazed. Niamh gestured for him to join them at the longest table. “I’ve never seen this room before,” he said.

“We have realigning rooms,” she said as she took her seat.

“What?”

“They have enchantments that allow them to change based on what we need them for.”

He shook his head in amazement. “I’m not well-versed in magic, but I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s not common nowadays.”

“What kind of spellcaster would even cast that spell?” he marveled.

She shrugged. “I don’t know, an enchanter?”

“If we could begin?” Malpravus stood behind his table, taking command of the meeting. Cy shot a quick look at Alaric, whose arms were folded and whose face was unreadable under his helmet. “We have much to discuss. Instead of normal Alliance business, we find ourselves forced to deal with the difficulties of our members.”

Cyrus looked around to find Cass unable to meet his eyes. Elisabeth stared straight ahead and Erith looked like she was ill. He locked onto Vara’s face, which was already twisted with rage.

“How did he already know about our exile?” Niamh hissed. “We only found out in the last thirty minutes!”

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “He must have spies in all the governments.”

“I’m sure he does,” Vaste said, leaning over from Cyrus’s other side, “but he also communes with the dead, and there are so many dead listening to everything said that he wouldn’t need any spies.” Cyrus gazed at the troll for a moment in bewilderment before Malpravus dragged his attention back.

“Sanctuary’s attacks on these convoys,” Malpravus continued, turning a pointed gaze to Alaric, whose helm was lowered like a bull ready to charge, “have called possession of the southern plains into question. The Human Confederation has already sent an army, an action that is being mirrored as we speak by both the Sovereignty and the Kingdom. The humans also have additional armies marching this way, which will, inevitably, lead to armed conflict.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus interrupted. “How do you know that?”

“He’s right,” Elisabeth said, taking her feet. “This will escalate into a war here in the south, and once it starts, it will spread north. Armies will begin sacking the towns and villages along the borders and all of western Arkaria will mobilize.” She looked around in dismay. “The governments will activate the homestead clause in our guild charters, and then we’ll all be at war.”

“What’s a ‘homestead clause’?” Cyrus looked at her blankly.

“Those of us headquartered in a major city,” Elisabeth began, “had to sign a homestead clause before locating our guildhall there. It states that if the country goes to war, the guild will fight under their banner.” She looked at Erith and Cass. “Because the Daring and Goliath are headquartered in Reikonos, we would be required to fight for the Human Confederation.”

“Not quite,” Malpravus said with a smile. “Those clauses are flexible if you have the proper connections. I have a great deal of latitude when it comes to Goliath’s homestead clause. But that is neither here nor there. In the eyes of the three great powers of the west, Sanctuary is responsible for beginning this conflict; they have levied fines to force restitution, and if restitution is made and the attacks cease, this war can be stopped before it begins.”

“No restitution will be made,” came Alaric Garaunt’s quiet voice. “Sanctuary has had no part of these attacks and we will not be made to pay.”

“Is it because you don’t have the gold in your treasury?” Malpravus said. “Because while Goliath has in excess of two hundred million gold pieces, I recognize that not everyone is so proficient at amassing wealth –”

“Corrupt and thieving, you mean,” came the barely audible rumble from Vaste. Malpravus shot the troll a dirty look but did not answer his accusation.

“It matters not whether we have the money,” Alaric said. “We are not culpable, and to pay would be an admission of guilt. We will catch the raiders and prove our innocence; it is the only course we will entertain at this time.”

“Very well,” Malpravus said, voice cold. “Your intransigence will have repercussions beyond those you have already been dealt. In the wake of these sanctions, your fellow Alliance members have held a discussion to determine your status with us. To have such renegades allied with us is a mark upon our reputations that we do not wish to bear without comment. Therefore, jointly, the Daring and Goliath have taken the following actions.”

The Goliath Guildmaster reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a parchment which he read. “First, Sanctuary shall be reprimanded for their conduct, and marked among the Alliance. No Alliance voting rights shall be acknowledged during this time of shame.

“Second, in participation on Alliance expeditions, no loot rights shall be acknowledged for Sanctuary or any of its members.

“Third, no calls for aid will be answered from Sanctuary and no Alliance members will take part in any expedition, adventure, excursion or invasion run by or involving any Sanctuary members except those run by the Alliance.

“Last, these sanctions shall be in effect so long as Sanctuary remains a renegade guild operating outside compliance with Arkarian governments. For you who have chosen to shun the bounds of civilized society, you shall be cast out of our fellowship.” With that, Malpravus rolled up the parchment and placed it within his cloak.

Cyrus sat there, a low hum echoing in his ears as numbness crept through his limbs and he felt a slight sway in the room. Niamh, next to him, was open mouthed in her shock, and a small flame glowed around her hand. Terian’s spiked pauldrons had matched his forward lean and the dark knight looked as though he was ready to charge through the table and impale Malpravus. Alaric remained with his arms crossed and head down, while Vara offered a look of utter contempt hot enough to melt Quartal.

“While the Daring regrets to take these actions,” Elisabeth said softly, “our guild is a democracy, and every one of our members has a vote. An overwhelming majority of our members felt that the stain upon Sanctuary’s honor is not one that we wish to bear with them.”

“It’s good to have friends,” Vaste said. “But even better to have ones that will abandon you at the first sign of trouble.”

Elisabeth blanched, while Cass stared down at the table in front of him. Neither he nor Erith looked pleased.

“If these things seem unpleasant, know that we undertake these actions with great personal pain,” Malpravus said, voice dripping with sincerity. “And as your allies and friends, we come to you as well with a proposal, one which we believe will help remedy this situation before it spins out of control.”

“Oh, this should be good,” Vara said.

“Indeed, it is,” Malpravus agreed. “Your reputation is soiled, irrevocably, in the eyes of all the major powers. As word of their judgment spreads, it will become sullied in the eyes of the people of Arkaria as well. The Daring and Goliath, by association, will be viewed in unflattering terms, but less so. If we were to disband our individual guilds and reform as one, it would give a fresh start to all of us. The fines could be paid out of Goliath’s treasury and we would be the fourth largest and most influential guild in all of Arkaria.”

Malpravus’s eyes glowed as he expounded on the possibilities. “With numbers such as ours, who could challenge us? Within months we could be uncontested in the top three, and in the course of a few years become the top guild in Arkaria.” He surveyed the officers of Sanctuary. “The Daring has already voted and approved this proposal, pending acceptance by Sanctuary. The problems you’re having could be dispensed with, all at once.”

“We have the money to buy you out of your mistake, no questions asked,” Carrack added, face twisted in a smirk.

“We did not commit these crimes, you repugnant toad.” Vara’s reply lowered the temperature in the room by several degrees.

“Very well then.” Malpravus nodded. “Think of the force we could bring to the plains. Of course we would headquarter ourselves here, and we could assist in stopping these attacks and put an end to this war before it starts.”

Alaric stood so abruptly his chair tipped over and broke. “I think I’ve heard quite enough. Sanctuary will not consider that request.”

Malpravus flushed, his complexion turning a darker blue before he unveiled a nasty smile. “I am aware of the bylaws of your charter, Alaric. You need to bring this to a vote before your members. And what do you think they’ll say when they are given a golden out, after being placed in such a bitter position? We can make this problem go away, all of it, right now. They can all be welcomed home rather than be shunned in their own lands. And all it takes is one tiny formality – solidify the bonds of Alliance between us.”

The Ghost was silent. Vara was not. “It would seem you intend to use the bonds of Alliance like a rope to strangle us.”

“Vara, that’s unnecessary,” Elisabeth interjected. “If this proposal is to be decided, it should be decided by your members, not by a group of officers that have grudges that are based more on rumor than truth.”

“Speaking of rumors,” Cyrus said with unrestrained irritation, looking directly at Malpravus, “you spread a rumor that Goliath single-handedly killed Ashan’agar.”

Malpravus favored Cyrus with a pitying look. “Such an accusation seems petty when we are dealing with matters of war.”

“So you don’t deny it?”

The Goliath Guildmaster sighed. “Of course I deny it. Prove otherwise.”

“In this Alliance, it appears you need no proof of wrongdoing,” Vara said.

“I think we’ve made all the progress one could hope for,” Malpravus said with an air of finality as he stood. “We’ll look forward to hearing the results of your vote.”

Without another word, he gestured for the other officers to follow him. Carrack cast a cocky smile backward over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door. Elisabeth breezed out behind them, sending a reluctant look to Cyrus and the others. Cass hesitated, looking as though he wanted to say something, but left without expressing it.

Erith paused at the door. “This sucks,” she said without hesitation. “Cass and I were outvoted by our guild members but we think this is just as ridiculous as you do.” Without waiting for a response, she walked out the door.

Niamh was the first to turn inward. “What do we do?”

Alaric’s voice was strangled but unmistakable. “Council Chambers. Now.”

Chapter 16

They trooped up the stairs in silence, until the door was shut behind them and all the officers were assembled within. No one spoke for a beat as they looked around the table and Alaric finally removed his helm. The Ghost’s face was suffused with rage, and Cyrus felt a momentary urge to back away; he had never seen Alaric as angry as he appeared now.

“Why didn’t we leave the Alliance just now?” Vara demanded before Alaric could speak. “They have insulted us, stolen recruits from us, and now they have placed us in a subservient position. I see no reason to continue our association with these flagrant jackals.”

Alaric’s response was barely above a whisper, but heard by all. “When we leave the Alliance, it will not be with our tail between our legs and a stain upon our honor; it will be with our heads held high in triumph and with the knowledge that we need not ever associate with the remnants of those horrors ever again.”

“Also, members have to vote on forming and leaving alliances, according to the charter,” J’anda added.

“I give less than a damn about the charter right now,” Terian said. “Malpravus is intending to use it to force us into a marriage with Goliath. I say we suspend the charter right now.”

“We can’t do that,” Niamh said, face pale. “Isn’t it possible our members will understand? These are difficult times, they should be reasonable about it.”

Vaste laughed. “Our members are about to be told that with the exception of the gnomes, dwarves, the rock giant and myself, none of them can go home again under penalty of death. I’m sure our human, elven and dark elven guildmates will be very understanding about that.”

“Especially when they find there’s an alternative, and all it requires is to tighten the bonds to an Alliance that we have played up as being good and useful,” J’anda agreed.

“We have been hiding the difficulties with the Alliance for far too long,” Vara said. “We should have been frank with the members long ago, when our troubles with them first began.”

“It’s not a secret that we aren’t fans of the Alliance,” Cyrus noted. “People have noticed that you, Terian and Alaric don’t attend Alliance expeditions and have asked why. Under normal circumstances, I think the members would go along with a call from the officers to remove ourselves. Unfortunately…”

“These are not normal circumstances,” Alaric finished for him. “And many of them will see a ‘golden out,’ as Malpravus called it, and go along just to return to the status quo.” He shifted his gaze to Curatio. “I foresaw that things would go unpleasantly for us in Reikonos and Saekaj Sovar, but I am puzzled that you did not fare better in Pharesia.”

Curatio frowned. “It was not for lack of trying, I assure you. It would have gone much worse were Nyad and myself not the representatives – I have a personal history with the King, stretching a long ways back. Weighing against us, however, was our suspected involvement in the theft of Amnis, the Spear of Water.” The elf looked around the Council table. “With its loss in Ashan’agar’s den, we were never able to clear our name in the Kingdom.”

A knock on the door halted conversation. Nyad entered the room with an envelope that she handed to Alaric and then departed. She was still quite pale, Cyrus observed, even an hour after the events in Pharesia.

Alaric grunted after reading the contents of the envelope. “This letter is from a friend of mine, a member of the Council of Twelve. As I suspected, Pretnam Urides prearranged the results of our hearing. He intends to force a war to annex the southern plains and is blackmailing us to fill his treasury in preparation.”

He crumpled the note and cast it away. “His support is not strong, but enough to carry a majority. If we can find evidence to cast doubt on our role, we can remove the sanctions. If we find the true bandits, we may be able to break his support for war.”

“What about in Pharesia and Saekaj?” Cyrus asked. “Surely they can’t want a war?”

“The King of the Elves does not,” Curatio agreed. “My sense is that he is in a politically tenuous position right now because of… certain events that have occurred back home regarding the shelas’akur…”

“What does it have to do with Vara?” Cyrus asked. Vara flushed red but remained silent.

“I’ve said too much. Sorry, friends,” Curatio replied with a sad smile and a tone of apology. “Those of us who are not elves will have to understand that this is not a topic for discussion outside the Kingdom.”

“Thanks for bringing that up that titillating piece of information just to tell us we’re not allowed to know about it,” Vaste said. “Would you like to tease us with any other secrets we’re not allowed to know?”

“We all have secrets,” Alaric said. “We will respect their wishes and table any discussion of this topic in public.”

“But in private, we’ll be discussing it later in the lounge,” Vaste added.

“I’d appreciate you not talking about me behind my back,” Vara said, cheeks burning red.

“You’re more than welcome to attend,” Vaste agreed. “Perhaps you can answer some of our burning questions.”

“The burning you will feel if I find you discussing me will not leave you with many questions.”

“DAMMIT!” Alaric’s fist hit the table, splintering it down the middle. “We are embroiled in a fight for our lives here; we have no time to bicker and discuss irrelevancies! I don’t care about anyone’s secrets at this table – we are losing face, recruits and money every day this madness continues, and that will expand to include members, as well, when we announce this to the guild.”

“Screw the Leagues,” Niamh said in a whisper when Alaric finished. “They’re involved with the governments that have condemned us without any evidence.” She looked around at all of them, quiet determination on her face. “They’ve basically branded us all heretics. If you can do it, we should go ahead and teach our healers the resurrection spell.”

“I’m glad we’ve settled that, but it’s tied to a discussion that we had before all this broke loose,” Vara said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Perhaps we can focus on the matter at hand – namely, catching the bandits, clearing our name and sticking our victory so far down Malpravus’s craw that it gets lodged in his skinny throat.”

“What I’m discussing does pertain to that.” The red-haired druid surveyed her fellow officers with an air of hope. “We need to step up our efforts to catch the bandits but we also need to do something to fight against a slide of guild morale. We need a bold undertaking, something to involve the members.” Her green eyes danced, alight with possibility.

“You mean a distraction,” Vara said acidly.

“I mean a challenge,” she clarified.

“Yes,” Alaric agreed. “Something that will inflame the excitement of our guildmates, give them something to focus on, some positive news in the wake of the terrible blows we have suffered. Something to unite us in these dark times.” He nodded. “We need an expedition, something that would be of great note.”

“Why can we not just focus on catching the raiders?” Vara shook her head in disgust.

“We shall, but we also require a challenge,” Alaric stated. “This army is not well served by garrison duty, especially in light of the dismal news that they cannot return home. To have them stew on it for long hours while watching the plains with nothing else to look to will reduce morale further.” A fire entered the Ghost’s eyes. “We need a victory,” he pronounced. “A big one. Cyrus?”

Cyrus blinked, stunned. “I came up with a list of targets we could explore, but they’re on the edges of Arkaria, and none of them is well known.”

“It matters not. Find a target and let us attack.” The paladin’s jaw was set. “Make it something that will challenge us, that will tax our abilities, something that will fire our imaginations.”

“I’ll come up with something definite in the next twenty-four hours,” Cy agreed, a pool of nervous thoughts swirling in his head.

“Very well,” Alaric said. “I am pleased that we were able to reach a consensus on what needs to be done. While we may argue and discuss as much as necessary within the walls of this chamber, we must be united when we leave. In light of the trials that are coming, we must provide a bulwark of strength for our guildmates to look to in these troubled times. We will only see our way through this morass if we draw together.”

Curatio nodded. “We have, in the bylaws, a way to postpone any vote that is to be presented to the members for as long as six months, but only with unanimous officer agreement. I suggest we do that now. The measure must be validated every month for it to be kept in effect.”

“Agreed,” Alaric said. “Any disagree?” A shaking of heads from every officer sealed the vote. “Tomorrow evening at dinner I will address the issues at hand to the members. I suspect by then the rumors will have made their way to almost everyone.”

They adjourned and Cyrus moved toward the door. Alaric stopped him once more. When the door closed, the Ghost spoke. “Find a target, quickly.”

“I will.”

“I know we are in the midst of a considerable crisis, but I must ask you – have your nightmares returned?” Alaric’s voice was soft, understanding.

“Yes,” Cyrus admitted. “And there’s another element to them now. The word ‘gezhvet’. I heard the goblins say it the night of the Enterra invasion. Do you know what it means?”

“No.” Alaric shook his head. “But I believe Niamh told you we have a goblin applicant making his way to us in the next few days? I would suggest you ask him.”

Cyrus blanched. “All right.”

“Do not let revenge consume you now, my friend. It is a dangerous path, to obsess about vengeance when we are in the midst of a storm such as this. I need you to focus on helping us get through this.”

The warrior looked down at his hands. “I can’t stop thinking about that night in Enterra.” He brought his gaze up to meet Alaric’s. “We’re in bigger trouble than I’ve ever been in, and I can’t get myself to stop having nightmares about something that happened over a year ago. You’d think I’d be having nightmares about things that are happening here and now.”

Cyrus felt the pressure of Alaric’s hand on his shoulder. “I know of the strong calling for vengeance that you feel. I have felt it myself, and it is natural to desire retribution for so strong a loss as the one you suffered. I would tell you to let it go, but I doubt I would heed those words were I in your position.” Alaric gave him a knowing look. “Instead, I caution you that vengeance will not bring you peace. Disassembling the goblin capital stone by stone will not silence the memory of your lost friend.”

“I did not believe it would,” Cyrus said with a nod. “And although this vision haunts me at night, I worry less and less about it during the days. In a way,” he said with a tinge of guilt, “it’s good that these nightmares are plaguing me or else I would forget Narstron – and the promise I made.”

“We move on with our lives,” Alaric agreed. “It is not a betrayal to their memory if we do not think of them constantly – or if we were to pass on an ill-considered vow.”

“I know you’ve lost a lot of guildmates,” Cyrus said with quiet certainty, “but I have a hard time imagining you as close to any of them as I was to Narstron. Because if you were… I don’t see how you could dismiss the idea of revenge so easily.” Even through his gauntlets, Cyrus’s fingers pressed the metal into his palm.

Alaric’s expression did not change. “I daresay I was closer to one of them; Raifa Herde was my wife.”

Cyrus blinked in surprise. “Raifa Herde? Wasn’t she one of the founding members of Sanctuary?”

“She was,” Alaric said. “She was also the first member of Sanctuary to die permanently.”

“How can you not have wanted to hurt whoever killed her… as bad as they hurt you?” Cyrus asked.

Alaric did not answer at first. He walked toward the window and stared out across the Plains of Perdamun toward the horizon. “I believe I told you once that the titans were responsible for her death, as this was in the days before the elves controlled the pass through the Heia mountains to the southern lands. The titan that murdered her still lives.”

The Ghost turned to him. “I likely could have killed him by now, had I a single-minded intention to do so. I could have led assault after assault into the heart of Kortran, hunted him down and murdered him in his sleep if necessary, but I could have done it. Even so, Raifa would still be dead.” He turned back to the window.

“She was so delicate,” he said with a faint smile. “I could lift her with the greatest ease, as though she were a flower being hefted on the wind. When he hit her, she spun away like one.” His noble features darkened at the memory, the smile disappeared and was replaced with a look that sapped all the kindness from the Ghost’s face.

“Life is too short to exhaust it in mourning the loss of loved ones and trying to bring about the ruin of those who are responsible for taking them from us. We are adventurers who live by the way of the sword, and to swear revenge on all who aim to kill us and ours is to foreswear living any sort of life at all.

“When the day comes that Talikartin the Guardian meets his end, if it is by my hand it will not be because I have plotted and directed all my efforts to striking him down; it will be because he is a threat to my guildmates and in defense of them, he will die.” His point made, Alaric faced the window once more.

Cyrus, taking it as his cue to leave, walked toward the doors. As he opened one of them, he turned back to the paladin. “You said vengeance would not bring me peace. But you also said Talikartin still lives. Since you never took vengeance, how do you know that it wouldn’t give me some measure of peace?” His voice came out choked, more like a desperate plea than he wanted.

Alaric did not stir from his place by the window as he answered. “Talikartin the Guardian was hardly the first person to ever wrong me, Cyrus.” Alaric turned back to him, and Cy caught a glimpse of a flash of cold fury that passed as quickly as it appeared. The fact that it glimmered and was gone in less than a second disturbed the warrior more than even the righteous anger he had seen earlier in the Council meeting. Expecting some final, reassuring message from Alaric, his unease grew with the Ghost’s final word on the matter: “He is simply the only surviving one.”

Chapter 17

Cyrus descended the stairs to find Andren in the lounge, post-dinner ale already in hand. He sat across from the healer, who did not speak, and looked away at Cyrus’s approach. “What do you want?” He took a ferocious slug of the ale in his hand, pitching it back with more intensity than usual.

“Sorry I yelled at you.”

“It’s all right,” Andren replied with a shrug. “You have a few things on your mind lately. Vaste told me what happened in the Council meeting.”

“You going to let him teach you the resurrection spell?”

“He already did. I used it this afternoon; works just fine.”

Cyrus stopped, surprised. “How did you use it this afternoon? Who died?”

Andren flushed. “Well, no person died, so I used it on one of the cows that Larana was going to slaughter for dinner. He sprang back up and vomited grass gunk all over my boots.” The elf shrugged. “I guess they feel the effects like we do.”

“So you just tried it the once?”

“No, we killed it over and over again, just to be sure. Probably did it about ten times.”

Cyrus winced at the thought. “I feel kind of bad for that cow.”

“Yeah, he was wobbling quite a bit at the end. We decided to let him live; figured he’d been through enough for one day.” Andren took a pull from his ale. “Larana was not happy; her workshop stunk when we were done.”

“How could you tell she was angry? Did she yell?”

“Oh, yes. Very scary when she gets mad, that one.”

Cyrus chuckled. “She’s dead quiet around me.”

“She asked me about you once – figure maybe she’s got something for you?” Andren’s eyes were suggestive, then after a moment of looking at Cyrus, his eyebrows arched and lips thinned. “You okay?”

“No.” Cy shook his head, looked around and lowered his voice. “We’re about to hand out some very bad news.”

“You mean about how we’re banished from everywhere and everybody hates us?”

Cyrus blinked. “Yeah. That.”

“Everyone knows,” the healer scoffed. “Lot of talk about it, too. Not very happy tidings.”

“Yeah, well, we need to plan an expedition somewhere – something challenging that could profit the guild and give everyone something to focus on outside of our own problems.” His eyes narrowed. “Something that could cut through the bad reputation and make people think twice about leaving us, because we’re a guild on the move.”

“I don’t think a successful excursion to kill the God of Death would make people think becoming a pariah is an acceptable trade-off for joining us.”

“If we could just stem the tide of those who will want to leave, give them enough doubt to keep them here while we find these bandits…”

“There are rats already talking about jumping ship,” Andren warned. “I wouldn’t, because I have no family I care about seeing and give less than a damn if I ever lay eyes on the elitist Kingdom again, but there are some who are already homesick and heartsick and nothing you could plan would cut through that.”

“Those are the ones we’re going to lose anyway.” Cyrus straightened as a realization set in. “Since we’re pariahs and the whole world is against us, we might as well add a few thousand more people to the list.” He grinned. “Especially since it’d net us so much money.”

Andren did not look amused. “I can tell you’re having a right nice thought there, but would you care to share?”

“The Trials of Purgatory,” Cyrus said. “That’s our target. The big three guilds – Amarath’s Raiders, Endeavor and Burnt Offerings – are busy trying to make inroads into the Realms of the gods; the Trials are empty, no one’s even making any attempts.” His grin widened. “We’re going to do it. We’ll launch ourselves into the top tier of guilds.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Andren adopted a pensive look, “but the reason no one has attempted Purgatory in the last year is because the last guild that did successfully execute that particular expedition was slaughtered in the streets of Reikonos moments after they emerged from the exit portal – which, by the way, is the ONLY way out of the Realm. Not to mention it exits in REIKONOS – you know, where we’re all in danger of being executed if we show up?”

Cyrus shook his head. “First of all, the minute we step out of the portal, we can teleport out – before any other guild tries to slaughter us, and before the Reikonos guards show up.” He scoffed. “Actually, with the entire guild behind us, the Reikonos guards would be helpless against us.”

“Yeah, but there’s the fact that the big three slaughtered – right there in the streets, with every other guild in the city and the Reikonos guards watching – the last guild to do what you’re proposing we do!”

“I told you, we can teleport out before they assemble. That guild, Retrion’s Honor – some of them escaped, but their guildhall was in Reikonos; they didn’t know they’d have to run. We do.”

“Wasn’t their guildhall sacked and burned? You think the big three won’t take a little trip to the Plains of Perdamun if they want to make an example out of us?”

“I don’t think they’ll care enough to pursue us, no.” Cyrus’s eyes darted around as his mind raced. “None of them has been through Purgatory in over a year. Everyone else is too scared to try. Even if they make an attempt on us afterward, we’ll run and they’ll decide it’s not worth their time to unite forces and chase a guild whose days are already numbered in their eyes. If they chase us, we’ll seal the wall and make a stand here. They’d have a hell of a time trying to storm Sanctuary.”

“Fine. Assuming you’re right – and I’m not saying you are,” Andren said with practiced skepticism, “we still have a major obstacle in that we know nothing about the Trials of Purgatory! How are you going to plan an expedition when you don’t know what we’re facing? I mean, do we even know anyone who’s been on a successful run through the friggin’ Trials of Purgatory?”

“I have,” said a cool voice from behind them. “I can tell you everything you’d need to know about how to get our army through safely.”

Cyrus turned. Light from the entrance glinting off the shiniest armor he’d ever seen, and shone in her blond hair, which was loose and hanging around her shoulders for only the third time since he’d known her. Vara returned his stare, face impassive.

“I will help you lead us through the Trials of Purgatory.”

Chapter 18

“You know Purgatory?” Cy raised an eyebrow.

“I was an officer in Amarath’s Raiders when they succeeded in conquering the Trials.” She straightened. “I was involved in the planning.”

“You said ‘when they succeeded’,” Andred said with a tinge of caution. “So there were times they failed?”

“Horribly,” Vara confirmed. “Hundreds dead, rather like your experience in Enterra; those of us who survived returned to collect the dead and prepare them for resurrection – but we lost dozens to permanent deaths.”

Andren shot a pleading look at Cyrus. “I don’t want to die again.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Vara said in what could only be described as (for her) a soothing tone, “I have never died. And I have been on expeditions much more challenging than the Trials of Purgatory.”

“Never?” Cyrus said, taken aback. “How long were you with Amarath’s Raiders?”

“Five years,” she replied.

“Impressive.”

“Thank you. I did come very close once, close enough that I know I would not care to repeat that experience.” A smile upturned the corner of her mouth. “So let us attempt to keep that trend alive, shall we?”

The planning had taken almost a week, during which Cyrus had called the Sanctuary army together every day to practice maneuvers that would be employed during the expedition. Each night he spent in planning with Vara, examining every point, no matter how trivial, related to the Trials.

“This is crucial,” she said. “When you reach the fourth island, it becomes the point of no return. There is a gateway here –” she pointed to the hand-drawn maps on the table before them – “that is your last exit before the Final Guardian. If we choose to go forward and face the guardian, we are forced to exit into the Reikonos guildhall quarter.”

“So we need to be prepared to fight a rear-guard action for a few minutes in Reikonos before we leave the guardian’s island.”

“We should prepare for the possibility that they may place wizards in position to block our exit with a cessation spell that could cut off teleportation in the vicinity.”

“How do we counter that?” Cyrus’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Kill the wizards in question,” she said with a thin smile. “They’ll be exposed, close by, and they’ll have to continue the chanting in order to keep the spell in effect. It requires concentration, so they won’t be able to move or the enchantment will break.”

She pulled a map of the guildhall quarter to the top of the stack. “They’ll have to place the wizards here or here,” she said, pointing to the map. “Either way, since we know what we’re looking for, a ranger will be able to kill them or disrupt their spellcasting ability with some well-aimed arrows. And we’ll be out of there before they can re-establish the cessation field.”

Cyrus sat back and looked at the pile of maps in front of them. Exhaling, he felt a rush of panic. “Can we really do this?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “You know where the sticky points will be, and how we’ll need volunteers for… that,” she said.

“If that’s the worst,” he said, “I can take that myself – at least two thirds of it.”

“Yes, well –” She hesitated. “I’m certain you can find one other willing soul in all of Sanctuary to bear the other part of it. Everything else we face is a matter of preparation, strategy and effort. The first challenge is likely to be a problem, since the brute force that Sanctuary can bring to bear does not compare to the sheer power that Amarath’s Raiders has at their disposal.”

“I’m more concerned about the third trial,” he said, pulling the map in question from the pile. “This is something we’ve never practiced.”

“It’s easier than you would think. I worry about the power of the fourth trial; you will be in great peril during the entirety of that fight and it could be fatal.” Concern etched her face. “You will have to be quick on your feet to survive.”

“Don’t bet against me,” he replied with a smirk. “Remember what happened last time you did?”

“I won, as I recall.”

He frowned. “You recall incorrectly. I stood there with you on the bridge in the garden as you insulted me.”

“That was basest chicanery; you had deceived me about the timeframe on the bet.”

“You’re an adult, physically if not emotionally; take some responsibility – it’s not my fault you thought the bet had ended a day earlier.”

“I thought it had because you told me it had.” Irritation creased her brow, despoiling her pretty features. “You lied to me for the express purpose of collecting your prize.” The annoyance on her face turned into self-righteous satisfaction. “If you won, then why haven’t you tried to collect the ‘date’ you ‘won’?”

“I’ve been rather busy with other things of late. If you thought you won,” he said with a smirk, “why haven’t you collected on the favor you were owed?”

“I haven’t had need of any of your rather limited services yet, but be assured, when the day comes that I need a poorly brewed cup of tea or a slab of ignoramus to rest my feet on, you shall hear from me.”

“I’m also a reasonably good pincushion and a fair dancer.”

“I’ve seen you dance; I think you’re overstating it.”

They laughed for a moment before her expression became guarded once more. “Why did you choose Purgatory?”

He stared back at her, trying to mask his feelings. “It’s one of the biggest challenges out there. It’s high profile; it’ll give our name a boost right now – which we could use.”

“Of course the fact that you lack only two components for this weapon you’ve been assembling and that one of them is in Purgatory has no influence on your decision.” Her blue eyes pierced him.

“I can’t deny the appeal,” he admitted, “but that’s not the main reason. Since the ‘Big Three’ have been focused on exploring the newly opened Realms of the gods, all the tradespeople and merchants that were used to selling the exotic goods that came from their regular harvests of Purgatory have gone wanting. The goods we bring back will fetch a hefty price – enough to come close to paying off Reikonos, at least.”

She looked down. “So money’s the motivation.”

He exhaled. “It’s not just one thing, it’s a combination of factors. And why does it matter? This expedition is a good move for us; it can provide answers to a lot of different problems we’re facing right now.”

“Alaric will never consent to paying Reikonos – nor anyone else.”

Cyrus paused before answering. “If it gets desperate enough, he may change his mind – not for him, but for his guildmates.”

She shook her head. “He is a man who does what is right in all things, no matter the cost. He would sacrifice everything in order to do what is right.” Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “Not to ‘appear’ to do what is right. To do what he believes is right, always.”

Cyrus stood, smiling. “I admire him for it. I’ll follow his lead, but I want to give him the option to pay if necessary. And if that fits with giving us a boost and a challenge to aid our retention, all the better.” His smile disappeared. “Can I ask you something?”

Her face turned wary. “What?”

He leaned forward, peering at her. She stared back, eyes wide, not sure what to expect. “Do you ever think about the night we had dinner in that little village…”

She sat back and breathed in. “Elintany, it was called. South of Traegon.”

He almost chuckled. “You remember.”

“I do.” Her eyes held a certain reserve, and a glimmer of sadness.

“That night, I felt like I finally got to know you better, and the next day it was as though you had shut the door to the Vara I saw there.” He moved his head, trying to meet her gaze, but she was looking away, focused on the maps in front of them. “I’ve seen glimpses of her since that night, but it’s rare.”

Her head snapped up, a fire burning in her eyes. “I do not wish to discuss this any further; it is a dangerous path to consider.”

“It’s dangerous to consider what?” he fired back. “That you could melt that icy shield around you and come out and talk to me like a human being?” She rolled her eyes as she flipped her hair to reveal her pointed ears and stared him down. “Poor choice of words – like an elf being – whatever you’d call it. Like a person,” he said with urgency, “rather than as someone constantly worried about being harmed.”

“If I worry about being harmed,” she said with a tinge of outrage, “perhaps that says something about what I might expect from a man like you –”

“A man like me?” Cyrus reeled back in shock.

“A human,” she snapped back. “Let me ask you this: do you still want to kill every goblin in Enterra?”

He tensed but did not answer.

“I see.” Her eyes pulsed with a self-righteous fury. “Do you still dream about them at night, wish to claw at the Empress and Emperor and visualize their slaughter?”

“Of course I do!” Cyrus erupted. “He was my best friend and they killed him!”

“This sort of human bravado can get us killed!” she shouted back. “When we go into the Trials of Purgatory, the Gatekeeper will know your very soul! Part of the Trials is facing his attack on your very essence – he says things to undermine your confidence. He knows your weaknesses and he will nettle you with the things you fear and the things you’re obsessing over, try to hurt you with words and thoughts.”

“Words don’t concern me. Words can’t harm me.”

She laughed, but it was a bitter and scornful sound. “I have seen him use words to turn guildmates against one another. So perhaps I’m not as worried about his words harming you as his words causing you to harm another.”

“You really think I’d harm anyone?” He straightened, trying to meet her gaze, but she had once more turned her eyes away. “Do you think I’d harm you? I know you don’t hate me anymore –”

“I never did; do not presume to tell me my own emotions –”

“Well you acted like you did, and you don’t anymore –”

“We’ll see about that –”

“Fine,” he said with a burst of fury. “I can see this was a stupid topic of conversation for me to bring up. Let’s get back to focusing on the plans,” he said with a shake of the head. “But we’ll do it tomorrow morning; I’m done for the night.” Without waiting for her to say anything else, he walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter 19

“Cy,” the female voice interrupted his stride halfway across the foyer. He turned, ready to spit venom, only to have the desire fade as he took in the speaker.

“Niamh,” he acknowledged. The red-haired druid stood next to a goblin – dark green, scaled skin, almost the size of a dwarf, and possessed of long ears and sharp teeth. His eyes were cast down but his pupils were ringed with a yellow iris, visible even a few paces away because of their striking color. His body was covered by a light blue robe and bore the lettering given to wizards. Cyrus looked closer at the goblin, who appeared nervous and was almost twitching.

“My name is Mendicant,” the goblin said with a bow, still not lifting his eyes to meet Cyrus’s. “I am pleased to meet you, Lord Davidon.”

The internal tension that Cyrus had felt upon spying the goblin dissolved. “I… can’t say I’ve ever been called Lord Davidon before,” Cy said with a smile. “I am pleased to meet you, Mendicant. Niamh has told me good things about you.”

The goblin bowed again. “I only hope to be able to live up to her expectations, m’lord.”

“Stop calling him ‘m’lord’,” Niamh commanded. “You’ll swell his ego.”

“Don’t stop on my account,” Cyrus replied. “She’s just jealous because you don’t call her Lady Niamh.”

“Oh, he does,” she said with a smile. “But as a more mature, stable individual, I can take a compliment without letting it go to my head.”

Mendicant looked back and forth between them. “Let’s remember the new recruit in our midst, Niamh, and keep the focus on getting to know him better,” Cyrus said with an ingratiating smile. “Mendicant, you seem different than the goblins I’ve met in the past.”

Mendicant’s eyebrow arched. “Because I’m wearing clothing and not clawing at you?”

Cyrus studied him for any sign of sarcasm. Finding none, he replied, “That’s a start.”

“There are more goblins like me than you’d think,” Mendicant said. “Our city is ruled by the royalty, and they are the warrior caste; all else is secondary to them. They take the strongest fighters and indoctrinate them into the ruling class, and lord over the rest of us with an iron fist. Most of my people hate life in Enterra.”

Cyrus rubbed the stubble on his chin. “The Emperor and Empress are not beloved of all the goblins?”

Mendicant shook his head. “Only the warrior caste, but that’s all it takes. We have no magic users trained in Enterra for fear it would diminish the power of the warriors.” He looked down. “I may not look it to your eyes, but I am average for a goblin, too small to be a warrior. So they would have me be a worker, always doomed to be a second-class citizen. If a warrior wants to have his way with your life-mate, they may.”

His teeth showed at the thought, but Cy noticed they were smaller and less pointed than the goblins he had fought previously. “So I left. Better to live under my own conditions, with no goblins around me than the way they would have me live. But they do not let you leave voluntarily – I had to escape.”

A curiosity welled to the surface of Cyrus’s mind. “I need to ask you something, Mendicant.”

A nod. “Anything, Lord Davidon.”

“What does gezhvet mean?”

Mendicant recoiled and blinked several times. “You have heard of the gezhvet?”

“I’ve heard the word. I need to know what it means.”

Mendicant looked around, as if he were afraid of someone overhearing them. “Gezhvet is a tale of hope among the non-warriors, and a nightmare to the ruling class. Warriors have not always ruled our city. Several hundred years ago, we had a society that was wise, ruled by thinkers, scholars, workers and soldiers equally. Then came the days of upheaval when a strong General protected us from a great scourge that came from across the Sea of Carmas, and afterward came to believe that only martial strength was fit to rule. And so the ruling class was born.

“But the Prophecy of the Gezhvet is from the last of our magic users – a seer of some renown, who made many prophecies, all of which have come true after a fashion.”

“After a fashion?” Niamh asked.

“Prophecies are bullshit.” Cyrus shook his head.

Mendicant hesitated. “Prophecies are vaguely worded – the story of the gezhvet states that a dwarf shall come forth and be the ruin of the warrior caste and free the goblin underclass. It produces a great fear of dwarves in the royalty.”

Cyrus had a stricken look on his face. “You know that my friend who died in Enterra was a dwarf?”

“I did not. It could be they considered him the gezhvet, and killed him to trumpet their defeat of the prophecy. The royalty would pay any price to avoid the doom brought by the gezhvet.”

Cyrus set his jaw. “Even trade away their Hammer of Earth for a warning that he was coming?”

“They traded away Terrenus?” Mendicant’s jaw dropped in outrage. There was a beat of stunned silence before the goblin spoke again, his voice high. “That is the birthright of my people!”

“You sound surprised.”

Mendicant shook his head. “I should not be surprised. The powerful hold onto that power with all their strength. And with a race of warriors, that strength is considerable.”

Cyrus nodded back. “Although we are embroiled in our own problems at present, the day may come when we delve into the depths of Enterra once more. I trust that won’t be a problem for you?”

“So long as you don’t wade through the streets of the city, filling it with the blood of my people, there is no problem,” Mendicant said with a shake of his head. “If your intention is to storm the keep of the Imperials, you have my assistance every step of the way. And,” he said with a jagged-toothed smile, “I believe I can be of great assistance in that.”

“It would seem we have a common foe. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mendicant,” Cyrus said with a smile.

Mendicant bowed. “I am proud to enter the service of so noble and honored a guild as Sanctuary.”

Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment. “I wish I could say that we were as honored as we used to be, but unfortunately events have turned against us recently.”

“These are but temporary problems,” Mendicant said with a wave of his clawed hand. “Niamh has informed me of the difficulties and I am certain that you will clear this matter up.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

Mendicant bowed once more as Niamh led him away, up the stairs toward the applicant’s quarters.

“Cyrus,” came a quiet voice from behind him.

He turned and exhaled, the energy rushing from his body. “I don’t have the energy for another argument tonight.”

Vara stood before him, hands in the air in surrender. “I did not seek you out to fight you. I overheard your conversation with the goblin. I am impressed,” she admitted. “You handled that well; better than I would have given you credit for.”

“Because I didn’t sink my teeth into his throat like the vicious dog you think I am?”

“Perhaps I spoke in error.” Her hands fumbled at her sides, flitting from the plates of her greaves, where they left marks of perspiration in the shape of her palms on the shining metal. “My last experience in Purgatory was not a positive one. Amarath’s Raiders barely won the day and it was a vicious final battle that ended in a rather unfortunate spot as the Guildmaster was slain by one of his most trusted officers at the urging of the Gatekeeper.”

Her eyes looked up and behind them was a sheen of fear, something Cyrus had never seen from Vara before. “The Gatekeeper is one of the most frightening fiends I have ever faced, but he does not fight in battle; he undermines using every insecurity you could imagine. I am… afraid of him, which is the most difficult thing that any paladin could admit.”

“I would never harm you,” Cyrus promised. “Nor would I allow any harm to come to you.”

“I believe you,” she said, voice unsteady. “I am ready to resume planning on the morrow when you are.” She turned and began to walk away.

He watched her go and turned to find Aisling watching him from the shadow of a nearby doorway. “Doing a bit of eavesdropping?” he lashed at her in an accusing tone.

She shrugged, languid smile across her face. “I like to listen. It’s nice to stay informed.” A smirk lit her dark blue features. “She’s not just afraid, she’s terrified of this ‘Gatekeeper’. Unattractive trait in a fearsome fighter, isn’t it?”

A surge of inarticulate anger straightened his spine and tingled across his scalp. “We all have our vulnerabilities. There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s natural.”

“Nah.” She tossed her shoulders back in an even more casual shrug. “Not all of us do.”

“I don’t have time to search for it, but I’m sure you have a soft spot for somebody, somewhere.” He covered his eyes and bowed his head as the realization of what he’d said hit him. “You know what I mean.”

“I have a very soft spot for you –”

“Just stop,” he said in irritation. “Stop trying to convince yourself that you want to sleep with me.”

Puzzlement covered her face. “But I do.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “You do? You cannot possibly think that these ridiculous double entendres are doing anything other than irritating the hell out of me. You don’t strike me as a stupid person, yet time and again you persist in following the same pattern of attack, and I rebuff you every time. It’s wearing thin.” Dark clouds gathered above his eyes. “If you were really serious, you’d find a different method of approach, since the current one isn’t working… at all.”

She recoiled as though stung. “This is who I am. I’m not going to change for you.”

“Then I’ve got news for you,” he said with a cold smile. “I don’t like who you are. I don’t find you cute or amusing, and I’ve had my fill of your ridiculous attempts to ‘seduce’ me with stupid one-liners and over-the-top displays of sexual aggression. Stop wasting your time and mine with your childish attempts.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about any of my attempts in the future,” she said, acidity filling her tone. She turned back to the shadow of the doorway, her white hair standing out in the darkness.

“By the way,” he tossed at her disappearing back, “looks like you’re as insecure and vulnerable as the rest of us.”

Deep, rumbling sounds resonated from a nearby grating. Approaching with caution, Cyrus saw a red eye gazing up at him from below and realized that the noise was laughter. “You really have a way with the ladies, don’t you?” came a voice from below.

“Fortin?” he asked, peering into the grating. The eye blinked, showing a hint of rocklike-skin around it. “Do you listen to all the conversations that happen in the foyer?”

“Only the ones that interest me.”

“These are private conversations,” Cyrus said in irritation.

“Then have them in private.” As Cyrus shook his head and began to walk away, the rock giant’s voice rumbled at him again. “Don’t get snippy with me because the woman you don’t like likes you and the one you like doesn’t,” the rock giant called from behind him.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Fortin,” Cyrus threw back over his shoulder.

“Then why are you walking away in such a hurry?” came the rock giant’s voice one last time as Cyrus stormed up the stairwell.

Chapter 20

Although they planned together for several more days, Cyrus and Vara did not discuss her admission about the Gatekeeper in Purgatory. During their planning sessions, her eyes rarely met his and then only seemingly by accident. He had not seen Aisling since telling her off in the foyer; he suspected her considerable skill at evasion and stealth allowed her to avoid him without difficulty. Every time he passed the grate that looked down into Fortin’s quarters, he heard a hearty chuckle.

The day of assembly for Purgatory came at last; although reaction to the banishment and shunning of the guild had been unpleasant, the announcement of the Purgatory expedition coupled with Alaric’s promise that they would do all in their power to resolve it had cushioned the blow. Patrols left on horseback every morning and evening, scouring the plains for any sign of the raiders. With only a few exceptions, most of the guild had accepted it to be a temporary situation that would be remedied soon.

“After all,” Andren said when Cyrus had asked for his feeling on how the the guild was taking the news, “they know we’re not responsible for the attacks, so they assume the rest of the world will figure that out as well.”

Cyrus nodded and cast a glance down the corridor they were standing in to make sure no one was nearby. “And what do you think?”

The elf looked at him warily. “Most of our guildmates are from you younger races. Few of the elves here are as old as I. They’re all a bit taken in by your human optimism.”

“But not you?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to believe that we’ll find the raiders and all this will be resolved peaceably,” Andren said with a grimace. “The problem is that whoever they are, they’ve been exceptional at avoiding us so far. So who’s to say they’re going to get sloppy now? And without them, we’ve no evidence, which leaves us…”

“Still accused,” Cyrus agreed. “So the question becomes, after we finish buoying guild morale with this Purgatory expedition, what can we do to speed up the capture of the raiders?”

Andren pulled his flask from beneath his cloak and held it up in a salute to Cy. “That’s the question now, isn’t it? How do you catch them when they almost seem like ghosts?” He looked around. “Uh, no offense to Alaric.”

Cyrus chuckled. “I don’t think he’s lingering in the air watching you.”

Andren took another swig. “After what you’ve told me about his disappearing act, I don’t rule anything out. But if you could disappear into the air,” he said with a conspiratorial smile, “wouldn’t you take a wander through the female applicant baths?”

“You think,” Cyrus said with a disappointed shake of his head, “that Alaric Garaunt, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary, the most honorable man we’ve ever met, gifted with the power to disappear, is going to spend his time and effort misusing that power to peep on our new female applicants?”

“Just the pretty ones,” Andren said, looking mildly offended. “I wouldn’t accuse him of spying on that new dwarven gal or any of the gnomes.”

“In my culture, you would be considered a ‘dirty old man’, Andren.”

“Thank you,” the elf said as he took another swig. “I think.”

Cyrus shook his head as he began to walk toward the foyer, the point of assembly. Andren followed him. “What, you’re all high and mighty, you’re telling me you wouldn’t at least want a peek? Can’t say some of those new recruits aren’t attractive.”

“Didn’t say they aren’t.” Cyrus tossed a glance back at Andren. “I just said I wouldn’t use a power like that to spy on them.”

“What do you think of that Aisling, eh?” Andren said with a wink. “I’d always heard dark elf girls were a little dirty. She might be a good chance to prove it.”

“Not interested.”

“Oh, right,” Andren said with a nod, face impassive. “I forgot I was speaking to a man for whom the necessary elements of attraction include being roundly insulted at every turn.”

Cyrus stopped just short of the foyer. “That’s hardly a requirement –”

“But you can’t deny that she castigates you constantly,” Andren said with a cocky smile. “I mean, why would you be attracted to that? I mean, other than the obvious physical attributes. Are you a glutton for pain?”

“Well, I am a warrior…”

Andren rolled his eyes. “There are a great many good looking women in these halls, my friend. You could take a bit of an interest.”

“I’m an officer now. I have to uphold a certain standard, and pursuing recruits and members is not in line with that.”

“My, aren’t you an oak of resolve?” Andren said with a tsk-tsk sound. “I wouldn’t be so reluctant if I were you.”

Cyrus snorted. “Why does it matter what I do? Why don’t you worry about yourself? I haven’t seen you rolling in the female company of late.”

“I’m not the one lacking, friend. I’ve found as much companionship as I can handle here.” The elf smiled. “Just thought I’d try and help you out.”

“I appreciate it,” Cy said, tone softening. “But I have more pressing matters on my mind.”

“More like repressing matters. When all that bottled up energy finds an outlet, it’s going to be one hell of an explosion.”

“I have an outlet,” Cyrus replied as he resumed walking, entering the foyer to find an assembled crowd. “It’s called battle.”

“Oh, well, that should fix everything.”

Cyrus started toward the staircase leading to the balcony. Vaste fell into step next to him. “Need me to clear a path for you, oh exalted General?”

Cyrus surveyed the room, packed with people standing shoulder to shoulder, gnomes lingering around the edges for fear of being trampled in the middle. “I may; we’ll need a bigger foyer if we expand any more.”

“I wouldn’t go wishing for us to atrophy,” the troll replied.

“Might not need to wish for it if we can’t find these raiders,” Cy said while peering over the head of a human in front of him.

“If you want, you can clear a path for me, Vaste,” Andren said. “I want to get to the lounge; Larana usually sets a fresh keg out in the morning and I want a mug before we leave.”

The troll stared down at him. “You can make your way through on your own.”

Andren looked back at the assemblage. “Not all of us are eight feet tall and built like a titan,” he grumbled.

“Nor are you as pretty as I am, or as well hung,” the troll added lightly, “but you’ve got to work with what the gods gave you.”

With Vaste’s assistance, Cyrus made his way to the staircase. He passed someone in gray plate mail and his eyes flew back to see Cass standing before him with a wide grin. “What are you doing here?” Cyrus asked.

Cass wore a sly smile. “You didn’t think I was gonna throw you to the wolves and run, did you?”

Cyrus looked at him warily. “After the last Alliance meeting, yes. Yes, I did.”

“Ouch,” Cass said, feigning hurt. His expression turned serious. “Our guild is a democracy; as one of the three officers leading, I have to follow the members’ wishes, and their ignorant wish was to follow Goliath’s lead, in spite of mine and Erith’s objections. If I could have done it differently, I would have.” He smiled. “But I am here to help, if you’ll have me.”

“And pretend it was your idea the whole time, no doubt,” came Erith’s voice from beside Cass. “We are here to help,” she amended.

“You know what? We can use all the help we can get.”

“Knew you would,” Cass said with a wink that sent an infuriated look across Erith’s face. She turned to argue with him as Cyrus moved on, Vaste in front of him.

“Nice to know we still have a few friends left, isn’t it?” Cyrus asked the troll.

“Speak for yourself. I have many, many friends – you antisocial cur.”

They ascended the grand staircase to the balcony to find the other officers waiting for them. J’anda looked appropriately calm, Terian sported his usual cocky grin, Vara appeared lost in thought and Niamh surveyed the crowd with a look of nervous anticipation. Curatio and Alaric spoke to each other in hushed tones, but looked up at Cyrus upon his arrival.

“We’re ready for this,” Curatio pronounced with an air of youthful enthusiasm that belied his years.

“You seem excited,” Cyrus said with a hint of amusement.

“We haven’t been this on-the-move in years,” the healer pronounced. “I’ve lived… uh…” He halted and coughed – “…a long while and this is one of the most exciting times I’ve witnessed.”

“Yes, a death sentence that stretches across multiple nations tends to inject a bit of excitement into one’s life,” Vaste agreed.

“You know what I meant,” Curatio said to the troll with a smile.

“I agree,” Alaric said, “if not for the onerous clouds hanging over our heads at the moment, this could be perhaps our finest achievement as a guild.”

“I don’t know about that,” Cyrus said, pensive. “I think it will be our finest achievement because of the other adversities that we’re battling against right now.”

Alaric looked at him with a glint in his eye that almost looked like pride. “Well said.” The Ghost made a gesture toward the crowd. “Your army awaits, General.”

Cyrus stepped forward and gripped the rail of the balcony as applause echoed through the foyer. “We go now to a place that few guilds have seen and fewer have conquered,” he began as the applause began to die out. “When we walk out of the last gate of Purgatory later today, we will be only the fourth guild in Arkaria to have conquered it.” Another smattering of applause greeted this statement. “All the troubles we are facing will pale in comparison to this triumph. The nations that have accused us will wonder if perhaps they have viewed us wrongly.”

Alaric leaned in. “You’re going a bit over the top; the fools who govern those nations will likely not re-evaluate anything but how many troops they send our way.”

“Sorry,” Cy whispered back. Returning his voice to normal volume, he continued.

“We will face countless perils, but through our training and discipline, we will be triumphant. Maintain order at all times, be prepared for the worst, and watch out for your guildmates.” He straightened and looked over the crowd with undisguised pride. This was his army. “Follow my lead, and we’ll be out of the portal in Reikonos before you know it.”

He turned and raised his hand to Nyad, who nodded back at him in acknowledgment.

“I know that the exit leads out into the Reikonos guildhall quarter, but where is the portal to go into Purgatory?” Niamh asked.

“There isn’t one,” Cyrus said without looking up. His eyes roamed the crowd, falling from Longwell, who gripped his lance across his chest and stared ahead to the desert man, Scuddar, whose face was masked by the cloth he habitually wrapped around his head before battle, to Larana who looked at him with a nervous anticipation and then averted her eyes when he met her gaze. “A wizard has to know a special spell to teleport us there.”

Nyad muttered under her breath, and after a moment’s pause a flash of red light sent glowing orbs flying in all directions. One of them settled in front of Cyrus and he grabbed it, blinding him with a blast of crimson, searing his eyes and clearing the vision of the Sanctuary army from his view.

Chapter 21

A wave of energy blasted around him as Cyrus landed, stunned from the force of the impact. The sound of others around him getting the wind knocked out of them told him he wasn’t alone.

“That didn’t feel like a normal teleportation spell,” J’anda said, looking around while shaking his head. “That hurt.”

“We just tore out of the Realm of Arkaria and into a Realm of gods,” Vara replied as she stood up from landing. Dust filled the air around them and others picked themselves up. “It’s not as simple as crossing a street.”

“I’ve crossed the world with teleports,” Terian mumbled. “Never had one feel like that.”

“Can we save the chatter for another time?” Cyrus brushed a thin layer of dust off his black armor. “I had intended to lead an invasion of this place and your discussion is interfering with my ability to give orders.”

“Sorry, sir, won’t happen again, sir – get bent.” Terian shot Cyrus a grin.

“Now, Terian,” Alaric chided, “you should have added a sir to your last comment.”

“What a merry band are you,” came a voice from behind.

Cyrus pivoted, sword drawn before he had time to assess the situation. The speaker had not made a sound as he approached.

“Now, now,” came the voice again, from a wizened, middle-aged human, “I wouldn’t get too overeager with that blade or I should have to force you to eat it.” Gold robes draped a man who possessed a long nose that came to a point. His expression was severe, and his eyes were a shining black. His face was thin, which only added to the overall scornful look he carried.

“I’d like to see you –” Cyrus snapped before feeling Alaric’s hand on his shoulder. He cleared his throat. “You need not threaten us, Gatekeeper; I’m sure your trials will do worse than try and make me eat steel.”

“Quite right,” came the Gatekeeper’s reply. “My trials shall make you eat a sizable helping of crow, reducing your rampant ego to a manageable size.”

“No force created could keep his ego in check,” Erith commented from a few rows back.

“You’re a guest,” Cyrus hissed as he looked back at her.

“So I should lie to spare your feelings just because I’ve been invited to die with you?”

Cyrus turned to the Gatekeeper to find him shaking his head. “Ah, Sanctuary, a fractious lot.” A smile creased his worn face. “This should be most amusing.”

“You should know better than to underestimate anything,” Alaric said without expression.

“And you, Lord Garaunt, should know better than anyone that the Trials of Purgatory do not come without sacrifice.” The smile broadened on the Gatekeeper’s face, but Alaric did not rise to the bait and remained impassive.

The Gatekeeper shifted his attention to Vara, who since his arrival had remained quiet. “You, I am surprised to see again. I assumed after our last meeting that I would not see you again.” The smile turned wicked. “But you have returned, once more, to challenge the Trials. I trust we shan’t test you quite as hard as last time? Or shall we?”

There was a mutter of curiosity among the army that Cyrus silenced with a look. “Gatekeeper, I, Cyrus Davidon, General of Sanctuary’s army, inform you that we intend to challenge the Trials of Purgatory.”

The elder human raised an eyebrow. “And I, as Gatekeeper of Purgatory, do hereby open the gates to the Trials to you and your brethren. I hope your deaths are unpleasant and that your flesh serves as sustenance for our fiends.”

“A simple ‘good luck’ would have sufficed,” Terian muttered.

The Gatekeeper threw his head back and laughed, a long, malicious cackle that reminded Cyrus of Malpravus. “I do not wish you good luck but rather ill,” the Gatekeeper scoffed. “Only four guilds entering this Realm have left triumphant and for one of them, the triumph was short lived,” he said with a smirk. “I have nothing but hope that you will fail.”

“Yeah, who knows what could happen if we were to emerge victorious?” Vaste said with a trace of sarcasm. “You might have every guild in Arkaria knocking down your gates next week, and then you’d never have time to sit in your private sanctum and practice being an insufferable jackass for hours at a time.”

“Rein in your troll, Lord Garaunt, lest I remove his tongue,” said the Gatekeeper, ice in his voice infusing the air.

“I have no desire to rein him in, Gatekeeper. I find his wit amusing.” Alaric did not break the Gatekeeper’s stare. “Do you intend to open the Trials to us?”

A long pause hung in the air before the Gatekeeper spoke again. “They are already open,” he said, frost still falling from every word. “Should you survive,” he said with a bow, “I shall see you on the other side of the first trial.”

“Back to your sanctum to practice!” Vaste said with a smile and a wave.

The Gatekeeper did not respond, but his face thinned and he seemed to fold in on himself, disappearing.

“I would caution against taunting the Gatekeeper,” Alaric said. “He will latch onto any overconfidence on our part and turn it to our disadvantage later.”

“Seems harmless,” Terian said with a shrug.

“He’s not,” Vara croaked, paler than usual. “He has power and is not above using it to influence the outcome of the Trials.”

“He’s a foul old man,” Vaste opined.

“He is not a man – at least not anymore,” Alaric replied.

“He’s a foul old sonofabitch, regardless of species,” Vaste corrected.

“Can we move this expedition along?” Cyrus snapped. “Vara has been here before and if she says avoid taunting the old bastard, then I don’t care if he’s a ferret, a gnome or that creepy pederast that skulks around the Reikonos market, don’t taunt him! Now let’s go! Fall into formation!”

They moved forward, and for the first time, Cyrus got a good look at the Realm of Purgatory. It was not dark, but there was no visible light source; a pall hung in the air that gave the place a feeling of perpetual twilight. The ground was rock and a light dust filled the air as the army moved, causing Cyrus to gag from the dry, chalky taste of it filling his mouth and nose. There was no sign of greenery to break the horizon.

They stood upon an island, hanging in the middle of the air. From where he stood, Cyrus could see in the distance an end to the ground and nothing beyond it. “What’s out there?” he asked Vara, who had fallen into step beside him. Silence filled the air around him, save for the noise of the Sanctuary army.

“Oblivion,” she replied. “Anyone who is lost to the edge shall not be returned until you have conquered the Trials.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“We lost several in our first attempts at Purgatory when I was with Amarath’s Raiders,” Vara agreed. “When they were returned to us months later, after we defeated the Trials, they were scrawny and haggard, but alive. Every one of them described a torturous existence for those months, however.” She shuddered at the memory.

“Avoid the edges.” Cyrus nodded. “Got it.”

They marched forward, not in lock step, for their discipline as an army was not so formal, but in rows. Following Vara’s lead, Cyrus directed them to a short bridge that narrowed and led off the island to another. Standing before them at the entrance to the bridge was a magnificent gate, with an arch made of stone. The gate itself was large enough to admit several of Fortin.

They walked through the gate and Cyrus found the terrain had changed; instead of flat, dusty ground it became sloped and craggy. The dust subsided and the ground became solid rock, reminding Cyrus of the foothills of the Mountains of Nartanis, without the volcanic ash.

They began to ascend a short hill, and at the top Cyrus could see the far edge of the island and another bridge, leading to another gate. “That is our course,” Vara said.

“When will we be attacked?” Cyrus kept his voice low enough so that only she could hear him.

She answered him in the same hushed tone. “It could come at any time; there were occasions when we scarcely made it through the gate that they set upon us, and others when we had to take up a defensive position at the far gate and wait for them to appear.”

“Make ready!” Cyrus ordered to the army standing ready behind him. They began to move slower, in anticipation of attack. It could come from any direction, at anytime, he thought. Marvelous. It’s like Vara’s insults.

The thought caused a smile to spread across his face and a chuckle to escape him. Vara’s head whipsawed around to him. “And what do you find so funny at a moment such as this?”

“Nothing,” he said with great certainty. They lapsed into silence. The crunching of Fortin’s feet hitting the ground lulled Cyrus for a moment; the heavy footfalls caused small tremors across the ground. Cyrus turned to look at the rock giant, and felt a tremor that did not match Fortin’s stride.

A thrill of anticipation ran through him. “They’re coming!” Cyrus shouted. “Defensive positions!”

The army broke their square formation and moved into a circular perimeter, with warriors and rangers on the outside and spellcasters in the middle. The footfalls became louder until Cyrus heard a shout from behind him, at the point where Thad was stationed. “Incoming! It’s a golem!”

Cyrus nodded and heard the shout taken up by Cass to his left. “Another one!” He turned his attention back to his segment of the perimeter in time to see a creature made of solid rock crest the hill in front of him.

His eyes scanned it as it ran down the hill toward them. It was twice the size of Fortin, and while the rock giant had rocky skin, the golem appeared to be made of solid rock, given motion by some magic beyond the skills of any wizard Cyrus had ever met. There were no eyes, nor a mouth, ears or other weak spots visible. Damn.

It charged down the hill, and Cyrus had a moment of discomfort as a realization hit. “I wish we had set up at the top of a hill instead of the bottom,” he muttered.

“What?” came Terian’s voice next to him.

“It’s coming at us on a downhill charge,” Cyrus said. “I can’t stop that thing before it runs through our ranks like a bull. Which means –” He shifted to turn around and began to yell. “Move out of its path!” he shouted to the spellcasters behind him. “Warriors, get out there and engage them in front of our lines!”

Without waiting for acknowledgment of his orders, Cy charged out from behind their defensive perimeter. The golem was easily four times his height, invoking a memory of the time he had invaded the titan city of Kortran, where the combatants were also giant. But they were flesh, not rock, he thought. How do I hurt this thing?

It barreled toward him at high speed. To hit it full on means instant death, he realized. Which means I have to…

As the golem reached level ground, it did not slow down, and as they closed on one another, Cyrus at a dead run and the golem moving faster than should have been possible for something so giant, Cyrus leapt at the last moment, evading one of the giant’s legs by inches and raking his sword along the golem’s skin as he passed. Rolling as he hit the ground, Cyrus returned to his feet and watched the golem break through the scattering ranks of the Sanctuary army.

The other two golems had effected a similar charge, and they all ended up at the center of the Sanctuary army, which had parted for them. Cyrus could not see if there were any dead as he ran back toward the army, where the golems had begun to swat at the creatures crowding around their ankles with swords and daggers.

Spells flew through the air, fire marking with scorches where it hit upon the skin of the beasts, and small pockmarks of ice checkering the torso of the giant he had charged past. There was no sign on its leg that his slash had done any damage as he passed and when he stabbed forward with his short sword, there was no effect on the rock where he hit.

Three more rapid attacks did little more damage, chipping away only bits of rock, and Cyrus felt a pang of discomfort – in none of their plans had they discussed how to defeat the golems if their weaponry could not penetrate the skin. Cyrus’s eyes searched for Vara and found her behind the same golem he was attacking, but her sword was gouging large chunks out of the skin without difficulty.

The golem brought a leg up and stomped down. When it stepped again, Cyrus realized that several people had been killed underfoot. The golem’s hands swung through the crowds below it, killing wherever it struck.

Cyrus worked his way toward Vara, dodging three stomps. “Vara,” he shouted when he had moved close enough. She looked up for only a second, sword still dancing her hand. She had cut a deep hole in the leg, extending almost a foot into the golem. “Our fighters don’t have mystical swords as powerful as Amarath’s Raiders; they’re not doing much damage to the skin of these things.”

“I had noticed that,” she replied crossly, not looking at him. “Unfortunately, I’m rather busy trying to make up for it.”

“These things are made of solid rock! I don’t think even the spellcasters can get through that!” A quick look revealed the others around him attacking the golem were experiencing similar results, save for a few of their more experienced combatants that had better equipment. Longwell’s lance was gouging pockmarks an inch deep and Scuddar’s blade carved heavy lines wherever his blade found purchase.

I can’t break through solid rock with this piece of junk, Cyrus thought when he looked down at his short sword. I’d need a pickaxe to do any damage. He snorted at the thought then cut it off as he remembered a similar battle where he labored to cut through the skin of a dragon. That almost didn’t turn out well, either, he reflected. Wouldn’t have made it out of that cave if not for… a jolt ran through him.

“Niamh!” he shouted into the spellcasters, huddled away from the golems. “We need ice spells! Focus them on the legs!”

A flash of red as the druid turned her head to address the spell casters told him that she had complied with his orders. A volley of spells flew over his head and struck the legs of the golems. Ice spread from the impact sites, crusting as it ran down the legs of the stone creatures. Cyrus moved toward the nearest section of frost and struck with all his strength, shattering the ice and cracking the rock beneath it.

Rolling away from the golem’s next stomp, he returned to the same damaged spot and slashed at it again and again. Chunks of rock fell from the wound he had created, and he saw his efforts repeated in other places where ice spells hit; all the wizards and druids had unleashed their frozen magics, and ice was forming around the golem’s lower body. Vara had seized on a vulnerable spot and was wreaking tremendous havoc. A rumble made its way over the army as her last strike produced a satisfying CRACK and the golem’s leg broke off, sending it tumbling to the ground and killing several of their guildmates upon impact.

Far from being finished, the golem lashed out from a prone position, striking Nyad and sending her through the air. The spell casters unleashed a volley that completely encased its head in ice. Vara jumped into the air and landed on the head sword-first, shattering it. With its head destroyed, the magic binding the golem together released and the arms and remaining leg fell apart, turning into pebbles that spread from the spot where it died.

Vara’s face did not register a smile of victory as she moved to the next golem, similarly indisposed and delivered another shattering blow to end it, and then to the last as well.

“Next time,” Terian said to Cyrus as Vara was killing the last golem, “tell us about mystical skin before sending us up against something like these. My axe was only marginally effective,” the dark knight groused. “You and the new recruits didn’t do squat with your steel weapons. I hope there aren’t more of them.”

“I don’t think so,” Vara answered as she returned to them. “Each of the Trials is based off of one of the elements, save for the last island. This is the Earth island, so naturally the defenders would be…”

“Rock golems,” Terian said, shaking his head. “Of course. Why didn’t you mention the mystical skin, if you’ve been here before?”

“In truth, I did not know the skin was mystical,” Vara replied. “When I was here with Amarath’s Raiders, we all had mystical weapons and no one had any difficulty causing damage to them.”

“Must be tough to have such nice things.”

“Yes, truly your burden is great to be so ill-equipped for battle, but worse than that is the burden of your father’s disappointment in his son,” came the voice of the Gatekeeper. “Yes, I speak to you, Terian Lepos – great must be the shame of your father.”

Terian’s grip on his axe increased. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh?” The Gatekeeper’s eyebrows leapt up in amusement. “Your father, one of the greatest dark knights to walk the face of Arkaria? Did he not want his son to follow in his footsteps and become strong in the ways of the blackest of the black knights? Yet here you stand, a shade of what you could have become – closer to a paladin than a knight of the shadows.”

Cyrus stepped forward to bar Terian’s movement, matched on the dark elf’s other side by Vara. “It’s not worth it,” Cyrus whispered.

“It would be so worth it,” Terian said with undisguised loathing. “To hold his severed head in my hands as he died would be so enjoyable, it would be the benchmark by which I could judge all other joyous events in my life.” He did not struggle in Cyrus’s grip, but the dark elf’s eyes whispered murder.

“You take umbrage at the thought of being a noble paladin?” The Gatekeeper’s amused look was now taunting. “Take heart. Did you ever tell your friends what you were doing after you left Sanctuary last year? Does Lord Garaunt know what sins his pet knight was committing while out of his sight?”

“I have not asked and he need not tell me,” came the voice of Alaric. “I expect him to live up to the standards of Sanctuary while he is with us.” The paladin strode forward, interposing himself between the Gatekeeper and Terian.

“If only you knew…” the Gatekeeper said in a chiding tone.

Cyrus took his eyes off the Gatekeeper’s bemused expression long enough to confirm that Terian was focused on Alaric, a stricken look written on his face.

“There will be no need for explanation now,” Alaric spoke over his shoulder. He returned his cold glare to the Gatekeeper. “You will open the next gate.”

An accommodating nod from the Gatekeeper and a wave of his hand in the direction of the next bridge followed. “Your path is open. Many guilds before you have come this far and no further. I am required to offer you an exit, should you wish to leave now.” His hand moved to indicate a portal in the distance and it flared to life. The Gatekeeper’s smile evaporated. “I advise you to do so, as the next island shall be much more difficult than what you have experienced here.” Once more, he seemed to fold in upon himself and was gone.

“Charming bastard,” J’anda commented. “Are you sure we can’t kill him?”

Vara shook her head. “He is some sort of Emissary from the gods that serves as the steward of this place. Every one of the elemental gods is responsible for an island of this Realm, each according to their type. We just faced Rotan’s creations, for example.”

“But aren’t there five islands?” Niamh asked.

“Yes,” Vara replied.

“Fire, air, water, earth… who commands the fifth?” the red-haired druid asked, curious expression on her face.

Vara pursed her lips. “It has long been rumored that the last island and its monstrous creation are the product of the God of Evil, whose name we know not.” She looked down. “I would say, having been there, that it is a fair guess, since what is housed there is possibly the greatest evil I have ever seen.”

“Well that was nice and foreboding,” Vaste commented. “Are you going to act like Malpravus or will you tell us what we’ll face there?”

“I do not know how to describe it, but those who have faced it have called it the Last Guardian.” She hesitated. “Everything that the Gatekeeper has done thus far, preying on our weaknesses, stirring up doubts – the Last Guardian does as well. I believe that the Gatekeeper works to bring those insecurities to the surface to allow the guardian to better exploit them.”

“So it’s more of a mental battle?” J’anda asked.

Vara shook her head. “No, the guardian is also a fearsome fighter.”

“Vara and I have discussed the guardian,” Cyrus interjected. “We have a strategy in place to deal with him when the time comes. We have three more islands to deal with first.”

Vaste spoke up. “We’ve brought the dead back to life and should be ready to move in the next few minutes – but I would advocate a short break.”

Cyrus nodded. “That seems wise, to give those who died a chance to recover before our next challenge.” He turned to Vara. “Unless you think we shouldn’t?”

She shook her head. “No, we need to be at full strength to deal with the Wind Totem.”

Erith shouldered her way through the crowd surrounding the officers. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said with a curt nod toward Cyrus. “Alone,” she said with emphasis, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away from the army.

He did not protest. “What is it?” he asked when they were out of earshot.

“Not yet,” she said, releasing him. “Keep going.” He followed her over a nearby hill.

She stopped and turned to face him, then bit her lip. “You’re going to find out eventually, but I wanted to tell you here so none of your guildmates could see your reaction.”

His eyebrows arched in concern. “What is it?”

“When Sanctuary was dishonored among the Alliance,” she began, still looking tentative, “Malpravus rallied us all to turn against you. He came and spoke to our members, persuaded them.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I know. It stung, but it’s done now.”

“He told us something else,” she said. “He claimed that this act of dishonor cast in doubt every other act Sanctuary had done and every accusation you had ever made.”

“Why?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “Why does Malpravus do or say anything? To justify what he’s done or get what he wants.”

“Dishonoring us?” Cyrus shrugged. “He’s been trying for years to force a merger of the Alliance guilds. He wants us all under his control, knowing that with Goliath’s numbers, any kind of democratic process would work to his advantage.”

“That’s certainly an intent, but that’s not why he made that announcement,” she said, shaking her head. “He was giving himself cover for what he did next. He told us that you and the Sanctuary Council had conspired to release Ashan’agar into north with the understanding that he would elevate Sanctuary to rule over all the lesser races – that you had stolen the godly weapons, that you were known in Pharesia to be involved – and that you only took action against Ashan’agar and called in the allies after the Dragonlord betrayed you.”

“This does not surprise me,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.

“Then this might,” she said, biting her lip. “He didn’t just make the accusation – he brought one of his officers along to tell the whole sordid tale – of how this officer confronted you in the mountains while we were fighting. That he fought you and through treachery you killed him, and of how he narrowly escaped.”

“You’re joking,” Cyrus said darkly. “He didn’t bring back –”

“He did,” she confirmed. “Orion is back – and Malpravus has made him an officer of Goliath.”

Chapter 22

Cyrus returned to the army several minutes later, cloud hanging over him. Alaric sent him a questioning look as he approached, and Cyrus waved him off. “Later,” he said in a choked voice. “We need to speak in Council once this is over.”

Alaric nodded, his helm moving slowly downward in what seemed like an exaggerated bow of the head. “Of course.”

“We’re moving,” Cyrus announced after a moment to calm himself. They headed over the hill and toward the direction he had come from.

Vara once more fell into step beside him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, dismissing her.

“Fine,” she said tersely. “If you wish to pout about whatever it is, I will respect your wishes to act like a child. However, you know that we must plan and act accordingly for what we are about to face –”

“I’ll take it,” he said, cutting her off. “I will.”

She started. “You are the leader of this expedition. For continuity of command you should not be the one who –”

“It’s me, decision made. Stop arguing,” he said in a voice that brooked no further discussion.

“Very well, then,” she said, face inscrutable. “I won’t try to stop you.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

Shaking her head in annoyance, Vara drifted away from him and Cyrus turned to his own thoughts. Unbelievable. Orion, back in the Alliance. What do you do with a treacherous ally? How do you get rid of an enemy when you’ve got no weapon to use against it?

They crossed the next gate and the terrain turned once more to dirt. Another flat, dusty stretch of land filled Cyrus’s eyes, all the way to the edge of the island. In the distance, he could see the lights that denoted his enemies. He held up his hand to stop the army. “Hold here. I’m going to lead the way and I need you all to follow a few hundred feet behind me.”

Alaric surveyed him from the front rank, eye narrowed visibly through his helm. The Ghost took a few steps forward, drawing even with Cyrus. “Perhaps I should go with you, brother.”

Even as Cyrus faked a smile, he felt the unease grow inside him. “It’s all right, Alaric. Just follow behind me with the rest of the army. I want to lead the way during this battle.”

“Your bravery is unquestioned,” Alaric said under his breath. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” Cyrus’s smile grew wider, and more strained. “I’m just leading the way, like a General should.” The Ghost hesitated and Cyrus caught a flicker of emotion in his eye. “What do you think is going on here, Alaric?”

“Very well,” Alaric said with a bow of his head. “Lead the way.” Alaric rejoined the line as Cyrus opened the distance between himself and the army to almost three hundred feet before signaling them to follow once more.

The lights in the distance began to move closer, then they streaked towards him, lighting the skies.

Pegasus, Cyrus thought. They were winged horses that shone with an energy that made them glow white. Their red eyes shimmered against the soft light of their skin. The first of them flew at him and he caught it with a swing of his short sword. Blood spattered the ground as the pure white of the pegasus was marred by red. It slammed into him with a hoof, knocking him sideways. The others landed in a crashing attack, hooves raining down on him as he dodged. A strong kick hit his arm, numbing it and causing him to drop his sword.

Cries from the army behind him reached his ears only faintly, drowned out by whinnying above. Where are you, you bastard, he thought as he dodged one pegasus and felt another crash down on his shoulder. A snapping sound was followed by an exquisite burst of agony that ran the length of his collarbone. He was on his back now, rolling to dodge another beat of hooves. He looked up and saw the largest of the pegasi, a horselord, among them. It was twice the size of his own horse, Windrider, and each hoof was as big as the watermelons Larana had served at the end of summer feast.

Its red eyes locked onto his and he felt himself freeze. The Wind Totem. Damn, he’s big. Energy filled the air, and Cyrus knew his army was still at a distance – that Vara would keep them back. Just a moment longer. The Wind Totem glowed brighter than the other pegasi, and was getting lighter by the moment. He looked at its red eyes until his could bear the growing brightness no more, and an explosion of light filled his vision, even with his eyes closed –

Chapter 23

I have to hold them back, Vara thought as she watched the pegasi stomping on Cyrus, until that damned Wind Totem shows himself for the kill. “Hold! We must hold our position until the Wind Totem reveals itself!”

The winged horses attacked with a ragged ferocity, and she could not see the black-armored warrior through the half-dozen pegasi milling around him. Come on, she thought. Show yourself already. An inexplicable urge came over her and she started forward, but felt an iron hand clamp down on her upper arm. She looked back to see the gray eye of the Ghost staring into hers.

“Act now, and you nullify his sacrifice,” Alaric cautioned. “Wait a moment.”

Her shoulders clenched, and her feet wanted to charge across the ground but she restrained herself, waiting. She held up her hand to her right, holding back Terian as another light appeared above the herd of pegasi, a horse more massive than any she could imagine. It stared down into the circle of its fellows and gave off a glow brighter than the rest before exploding into a flash of blinding light that made her look away while a shockwave knocked her back a few steps.

“Let’s go!” Terian’s words came in a shout as he shoved her arm aside.

“There is no need to hurry,” she replied. Her voice was dull, bereft of feeling. “He is already dead.”

“What!?”

“He is dead,” she said, the lack of inflection in her voice belying every emotion tearing at her from inside. “He went ahead to draw it out and thus spare the rest of us from the shockwave that the Wind Totem uses when it reveals itself.”

“You knew?” Terian’s eyes darkened and his head seemed to shrink between the spikes on his shoulders. “You knew and you let him be slaughtered?”

“We all have our sins,” she said, hand on her sword. “We must retrieve his body for resurrection after we’ve defeated these pegasi.”

The Wind Totem hung in the air before them, ringed by a dozen pegasi that took flight one by one, leaving behind in the dirt the body of Cyrus. Niamh gasped behind her. You stupid, stubborn man, Vara thought. A fearsome, bellowing warcry filled the air and it took her a moment to realize that it came from her as she charged toward the pegasi. Arrows and spells filled the skies above her, and the pegasi scattered, three falling to the ground from the ferocity of the first Sanctuary volley.

She brought her sword down on the first pegasus she ran past as it was struggling to its feet and struck a killing blow. She watched as Terian’s axe cleaved the next one’s head off and then saw the dragoon, Longwell, arc his lance through the air into another pegasus, catching it in the wing and causing it to spiral to the ground, where it was finished by the desert man, Scuddar In’shara. Martaina delivered a coup de grace to the last one writhing on the ground with her short swords.

“Is this thing going to blast us all now that we’re near it?” Terian said from beside her.

“No, it will take several hours to recoup the spent energy before it can perform the shockwave again.” She pointed at the Wind Totem. “But we should make killing it our first priority!” It swept through the air above them, flying in a tight circle.

“Great, well, you kill the last two pegasi, and maybe the big guy will land.”

Vara turned and vaulted, sword in hand, reversing her grip in midair and plunged it into the neck of a pegasus that swooped down to attack Martaina while her back was turned.

“Yeah… uh,” Terian said in mild surprise, “like that.”

A volley of arrows filled the skies above them once more, followed by a blast of spells. The last pegasus fell to the ground and was dispatched, this time by Aisling, daggers twirling from her fingers. In spite of being hit by a flurry of spells, the Wind Totem remained aloft.

A burst of fire flew through the air, then another. The Wind Totem’s wing was engulfed in flames, burning away. Vara looked back to see Niamh’s hand inflamed, and a long, scorching blast of fire flew from her and engulfed the Wind Totem, who disappeared in the blaze as it fell to the ground. Niamh’s spell reached its end and she fell back, waxy pale, but the Wind Totem was grounded and struggling. The druid’s eyes fell to Martaina, who was nearby. “How’s that compare to a wizard?”

A host of Sanctuary warriors and rangers fell upon the Wind Totem, its white coat burned away and bloody, scorched muscle and sinew showing where once the fairest white hide had been. Vara did not hesitate: she leaped into the fray and brought her sword down. Even with all her strength behind the blow, she did not kill it in one strike – repeated blows finally brought the Wind Totem’s struggle to an end and drew a ragged cheer from the throats of the Sanctuary army.

Vara’s eyes fell to the black armored body nearby. A tremor ran through her hands, down her legs as she resisted the urge to run to it. “Curatio.” Her voice came out as a low, croaking sound. “Please resurrect Cyrus.” The healer nodded and trotted off to where a small crowd had gathered around the body of Sanctuary’s General.

Vara surveyed the damage around them. The pegasi lay dead, struck down by a vengeful Sanctuary force. Her eyes fell on Niamh, still looking weak from exerting so much magical energy. Terian and Vaste stood next to her, each catching Vara’s eye in turn. Terian turned to look at the group gathered around Cyrus, which included a near-hysterical Andren. Aisling and Larana both slunk around the edges of the crowd, sneaking furtive glances toward the downed warrior.

“You and Cyrus have kept a few secrets about your plans,” Alaric said, appearing beside her.

“We didn’t want to worry anyone,” she breathed. “Someone was going to have to die on this island and he chose to run headlong into it.” Like the noble idiot that he is, she thought.

Alaric nodded and shifted his gaze to the horizon and the gate in the distance. “It’s a shame he is bereft of magical talent in the eyes of the Leagues.” A mysterious smile hung on the Ghost’s face. “He would have been a magnificent paladin.”

“Stubborn nobility alone does not make a paladin, Alaric,” she snapped back. “He has no crusade, no cause but the conquest of enemies and the acquisition of pretty baubles and better equipment to aid his own aggrandizement.”

Alaric did not respond at first, prompting Vara to look to make certain he had heard her. “I think you misjudge his intentions. While treasure and conquest certainly motivate him, I suspect that Cyrus could find a cause that he could get behind had he been inculcated in the ways of the Holy Brethren, as you have.”

She snorted. “His only other focus is retribution for the loss of Narstron.” A worried sigh escaped her, and she looked at Alaric to see if he had noticed. A slight smile peeked from beneath his helm, telling her he indeed had. “I wonder whether he will move beyond the petty desire for revenge or if it will consume him completely.”

“You speak as though that desire has never filled your heart.”

“I made the right choice,” she snapped. “I set aside my desire for vengeance –”

Alaric interrupted. “I know. I was there during the time you spent trying to decide whether to pursue the reckless course. But you forget that you had counsel during that period, forewarning you about the perils you would face if you sought revenge.”

“I have not forgotten,” she said archly. “I remember standing in the doorway of Sanctuary, sword in hand, ready to set out in slaughter for the wrongs heaped upon me.” Her voice softened. “And I remember you stopping me.” Her tone rose again. “But he is different, Alaric –”

“We are all the same, you, he and I,” Alaric chided. “We all have reasons for wanting to punish those that have wronged us, we have all made ill choices that lead us to the places where we were wronged, and we all have the ability to walk away rather than give in to hatred and obsess over it day after day, letting it consume our lives.”

“We are not the same, he and I,” she said with a snarl.

“So you believe him doomed to the path of vengeance?”

“I did not say that. I do not know.” She sighed. “It is perhaps too soon to be sure.”

“If it is any comfort, I still say that about you.” Vara’s head turned to find the Ghost chuckling under his breath. “I also say it about myself, if it helps.” He turned to look at her. “Do you think that if Talikartin the Guardian crossed my path today, that I would not have to consider my actions? I believe that should… he… cross your path, you would do the same.”

“He…” she said with a pronounced air of superiority, “has crossed my path. Twice. And he yet breathes.”

“When not surrounded by his lackeys. When you have a chance at cold-blooded revenge. There is, after all, a difference between killing and murder.”

“Does that distinction matter to the victim of either?” Vara asked with a shake of her head.

“Perhaps not. But for us, it is an important distinction, because a noble guardian fights with a code of honor at all times. Shallow pursuits such as killing for base reasons – robbery, revenge – are to be avoided, as you well know. Justice, honor, defense of those who cannot defend themselves; these are noble reasons to engage in battle. You know that. I believe he will come to see that as well, before it is too late.” Alaric nodded at her and moved off through the Sanctuary army.

A moment of silence filled the air around her, interrupted by Terian. “I haven’t seen the challenge yet. Where’s the challenge?”

“The challenge, you nimrod, is steadily increasing, in case you failed to notice. We also have a much larger army than even Amarath’s Raiders possessed when last I was here with them. But we have had quite a few deaths thus far. It will get worse as we proceed.”

Her eyes flew unintentionally to the place where the warrior in the blackened armor was sitting upright. He tried to stand and was rebuffed by Curatio. Her pulse was racing, and she let out a mental sigh of relief when she saw him moving once more.

“You should go check on him,” Terian said with a nasty grin.

“You have known me too long, dark knight, and because of that, you think you know something that you do not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Terian shook his head while rolling his eyes. “You two are the most ridiculous, stubborn fools I’ve ever seen. You’re so damned combative by nature that you’d rather fight when it’s clear to everyone you’d prefer doing something much more pleasant.”

A flush of crimson hit her cheeks along with a burning sensation in her stomach. “You’re a moronic one, aren’t you? Perhaps he has spoken to me of such possibilities and I have rebuffed him. Did you ever consider that?”

“I would consider that likely. You have always been your own worst enemy, after all.”

“I have much more dangerous enemies than myself,” she said, eyes narrowed. “But you won’t find one more dangerous than me, Terian, and you would do well to consider that before speaking.”

“Oh, my,” he said with an unconcerned air. “I give you deep and inspiring insight into your own soul and you become defensive and tell me we’re not friends anymore?” He favored her with a wounded look that gave his already pinched face even more of a squeezed appearance that relaxed after he’d made his point. “If you’re sensitive about it, all you need to say is, ‘this topic of conversation is closed, why don’t you move along and chop some wood with your hatchet’ and I’ll be on my merry way, keeping my opinions to myself.”

She let the words hang in the air for a moment before replying, still staring him down through narrowed eyes. “This topic of conversation is closed. Why don’t you go take that hatchet and apply it to sensitive parts of your anatomy with aggressive force from now until morning?”

“Ouch. You’re not even nice anymore.”

She turned and began to walk away. “I never was,” she said without looking back. Upon walking away, she hesitated. Tend to the army or check on the General? A moment’s pause gave her no aid in making her decision. The army is in my charge; they are my responsibility; I need to be sure we are recovering and ready to move. Finally, despite the best intentions of her head, her feet carried her directly to Cyrus.

Chapter 24

Cyrus watched as Vara approached him, stopping for a moment to speak with Erith. I feel sick, he thought. I’ll never get used to this.

She stuttered for a moment before speaking. “I… uh… we did well against the pegasi and the Wind Totem; only a few deaths. Erith informs me that we will be ready to move in a few minutes.”

His head lolled back and forth before turning up to look at her. “Thank you. I take it everything went smoothly while I was out?”

“Of course.” She stood ramrod straight in front of him, searching for words. “I… am pleased to see you’re all right.” She hesitated. “I was concerned.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I would have been too, if it had been someone else in my place.” He pulled himself gingerly to his feet.

“You should not be up yet.” Her voice was cross.

“You’ve never died, right? So you’ve never known the loving touch of a resurrection spell.”

“I hear it is quite unpleasant.” She paused. “Thus, you should rest before you throw yourself back into the fray.”

“Small price to pay for coming back from the dead. I’ve got a lot to do,” he said with a shake of the head. “There will be plenty of time to rest when I’m really dead.”

“An event which cannot happen soon enough,” came the acid voice of the Gatekeeper.

“Spare me your insults and open the next gate,” Cyrus said, dismissing the human. “And when this is over – I want the Edge of Repose.”

The Gatekeeper studied Cyrus. “You are the first to ask me for it. Very well: it shall be your prize if you complete the tasks set before you.”

“Thank you,” he said without any sincerity. “You may go now.”

A look of outrage crossed the face of the Gatekeeper upon being dismissed, but he folded upon himself and was gone.

“I didn’t think he would be that easy to get rid of,” Vara said in amazement.

“He’s not,” Cyrus replied. “I think he’s humoring me.”

“Shall we proceed?” she asked. “Water is next.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said, and marshaled the army into motion. A few minutes later they crossed through the next gate to find themselves at the edge of a lake that stretched into the distance. The water was dark, almost black, and nothing was visible beneath the surface. Cyrus felt the dust and rock beneath his feet turn to the dark sands of a beach. The water smelled, an odd, sulfuric stink, like rotting seaweed.

“Spell casters,” Cyrus called out. “I want you to hit this lake with every lightning spell you have.”

Thunder filled the air around them and lightning bolts flew from all directions, striking the lake; bolts of energy coursed across the surface, and a hum could be heard from the water. The stink of ozone filled the air.

“You don’t believe that will work, do you?” The voice of the Gatekeeper did not even turn Cyrus’s head as he studied the surface of the water.

“No. But it was worth a try.” Cyrus turned back to the army. “I need Terian, Thad, Cass, Vara and Alaric with me. The rest of you, stay back.” His eyes caught another face in the crowd. “Menlos Irontooth, come with me as well. Leave your wolves.”

Menlos, the northman, came forward, a smile on his face. “Rather feel like the first whore picked in the house for the evening.”

“You’ll likely feel like one afterward, too,” Terian cracked.

“Charming,” Vara commented.

“Do you intend on having us swim, brother?” Alaric asked Cyrus.

“I doubt that gearing you up for a dance performance will get you across the lake,” the Gatekeeper mocked. “Although it will surely have more effect than whatever you have planned.”

“I do,” Cyrus said, ignoring the taunts. “There’s a monster in the depths and I don’t think it will be efficient to bring the whole army. You can all swim, correct?”

“I can,” Terian said with a note of protest. “But I don’t wish to.”

“Fine,” Cyrus nodded. “You can stay behind and guard the spell casters until we get back.”

Thad looked at the dark knight in amazement. “Are you a coward?”

Terian cast a loathing look at the red-armored warrior. “All right, you sold me; I’m coming.”

“Vara, care to explain what we can we expect from this creature?” Cyrus nodded toward her.

“It is a very large eel. He has thick skin,” she began. “His eyes are a weak point but will be difficult to hit.”

“Eel?” Menlos asked. “Isn’t that like a snake?”

Vara tried to disguise her irritation but failed. “It would only appear to be a snake to the ignorant. It is an eel; it has a vertically flat tail that allows it to swim.”

“Snakes swim, don’t they?” Menlos’s earnest face showed that he had not caught Vara’s annoyance.

“It is highly mobile,” she continued, ignoring him. “It is difficult to catch and difficult to hit.”

“How did you defeat it in the past?” Terian asked.

“Very much like this,” she answered. “You don’t chance sending your force across the water until it’s dead because it… jumps.”

“I’m sorry… it does what?” Thad’s eyes were wide, fixated on Vara.

“It jumps. It can leap from the water over a hundred feet into the air. Use Falcon’s Essence and it still devours your army. If you send them all into the water…” Her words trailed off. “All but the most advanced spell casters are useless underwater; only those that know sublingual casting have any effect, and only then if they stay away from casting lightning, ice or fire spells.”

She shook her head. “The only effective strategy we found was to send an elite corps of our strongest fighters and let them deal with it.”

She paused, pondering. “If the lot of you possessed better armor, that gave you more strength, speed and dexterity, I would suggest you wear it into the water for this battle.” She shook her head. “As it is, I must suggest that you don’t. You will be more mobile without it.”

“So now I have to swim, do battle with a giant eel, and I get to do it without the protection of my armor?” Terian shook his head. “This keeps getting better and better.” He reached up and began to unstrap his breastplate.

They took off their armor in relative silence. “You should take off your armor as well, Alaric,” Vara said, more gently than usual.

“Although it looks battered, this armor has more power than you realize, old friend,” the Ghost said with a smile, then returned to a conversation with Curatio.

“Giving the ladies of Sanctuary a real thrill here,” Terian grumbled as he dropped his breastplate.

Vara rolled her eyes. “Speaking for the ladies of Sanctuary… no, no you are not.”

Cyrus was first to finish removing his armor and slipped the short sword into his belt. “Are we ready?”

“Never,” Terian replied.

“Everyone else ready, then?” Cyrus asked. “Perhaps our two paladins would consent to lead the way, since they are armored and we are not.”

Vara nodded, as did Alaric, who took the lead, walking into the water until it reached his waist.

“Hold!” came a shout from the shore. Niamh moved forward, casting a spell as she walked. A faint glow of light ran across all of them. “That should give you protection from the deep; you’ll be able to see and won’t have to worry about drowning while you’re down there.”

“Yeah, the last thing I want to worry about when facing a giant eel is the thought that I might not be able to see him coming to kill me, followed by the thought that I might also drown,” Terian deadpanned.

They proceeded into the water, walking across the shoals until the water reached over their heads, submerging themselves and swimming into the depths. Cyrus could feel the chill creep through him as the water crawled up his skin, and the inevitable shock of cold when he plunged in over his head was almost painful.

Niamh’s spell aided their sight, giving light in the murky water beyond where the twilight from above failed to reach. Cyrus looked over to see Vara, swimming confidently, not seeming to be weighed down at all by the metal armor that encased her body.

Her body…

He shook the thought out of his head as he drifted to the bottom of the lake. There was no movement but for the group around him as his bare feet settled for a moment on the lakebed. He felt the mud between his toes and kicked off, swimming a few feet over the bottom.

Menlos and Thad swam to one side of him while Terian and Cass stuck to another. Vara and Alaric stood upon the lakebed, allowing their armor’s weight to keep them down while looking in all directions. As Cyrus looked up, he could not see the light of the surface; Niamh’s spell was all that was allowing them to see in the depths. Thank Bellarum for her, he thought.

A sudden movement caught his attention as Terian began to flail in the water. Cyrus looked past the dark elf, who was pointing into the distance, and a shadow began to slide out of the murk, slipping through the water.

The eel was long; perhaps a hundred feet or more in length, and even at this distance Cyrus could see the yellow eyes. A ridge ran the length of its back, scaled spikes sticking out every few feet, reminding him of Ashan’agar. He tried to speak, to warn the others, but only bubbles came out.

Fortunately, Terian’s flailing caught the attention of the party. Alaric and Vara kicked off the lakebed as the eel closed, jaws open in anticipation of a meal as it darted toward Terian. A blast of concussive force exploded through the water, knocking the eel off course. Alaric’s hand was outstretched and another wave of power burst through the water toward the eel, radiating a trail behind it. The eel staggered again, giving Thad time to clutch onto the side of its neck.

Thad’s sword moved up and down slowly, and Terian joined him, grabbing onto a gill for leverage and moving his axe in a sawing motion along the side of the eel, which whipped its tail, trying to avoid Alaric, who sent another burst through the water but this time missed.

Blood began to cloud the waters around them as the eel struggled. It turned and swept toward Vara, who brought her sword around and held it straight for the eel to run onto as it charged at her, clamping down with its jaws.

Bubbles streamed from Vara’s mouth as the eel bit down on her. Her sword found its mark inside the eel’s mouth and the head whipped around in pain, crimson clouding the water around him. It became so dense that Cyrus could not tell if it was coming from Vara or the eel.

He swam toward the battle and reached it just as Vara thrashed away from the fiend, blood trailing behind her. Alaric’s hand raised and the trail of blood that followed her stopped as she turned to join him and Cyrus. The eel circled, and Menlos sprung from behind some weeds and clamped on behind one of the eel’s gills, joining Terian and Thad in holding on while it jerked to shake them off.

Cy gestured to Alaric and Vara and the three of them spread out as the eel came around at them again. This time it streamed through the water toward Cyrus, who rolled out of the way, catching a glancing blow from the eel’s teeth as it slid by and giving it only a small cut in return.

The head jackknifed more quickly than he could have anticipated, and swirled around in a spiral, coiling in the water and clenching onto his midsection. Cyrus felt the skin rip and tear as the eel caught hold of him. He drove his sword into its upper lip, but a vicious jerk from the eel forced him to surrender his grip. Vara grabbed onto the eel and buried her sword in its side.

It began to struggle and its teeth released him. Cyrus felt himself fall out of the jaws of the monster, and looked up to see Menlos had opened up the gill. It thrashed about, sending Thad and Terian clear of it. Menlos and Vara held on as she continued to cut down the belly, but she was finally forced by a whip of the tail to let go.

The eel thrashed once more and Menlos fell back along the body as it darted off at high speed, slicing through the water with him attached to it. It came around at them again, yellow eyes enraged and pulsating with the power that a god had bestowed. A feeling like a thousand gentle touches ran along Cyrus’s belly as Alaric cast a spell that healed his wound.

Cass intercepted the eel halfway to them, swimming out from where he had been lurking to plunge his sword into its tail. Another shadowy figure joined him, a thin body grabbing onto the tail with speed that Cyrus could scarcely believe. Small blades sprung from the figure’s hands, cutting off almost ten feet of the tail.

The figure released the eel, which turned and struck; the figure dodged, and through the murkiness Cyrus realized it was Aisling. The eel missed again with another strike aimed at her, but her blades found its right eye, and she rolled into its blind side, plunging both daggers into its neck and riding along with it as it moved through the water toward Cy and the others.

Without the last part of its tail, it moved slower, allowing Cass, Thad and Terian to grab hold and continue their attacks. Blood flowed from dozens of open wounds on the beast. Cyrus swam at the jaws, open wide and coming at him again. He could see his sword jutting from the eel’s face and grasped for it as it moved to bite him.

His fingers brushed the edge of it and he felt the barest touch of the teeth against his skin before the eel went slack. He pulled his sword from its lip and looked in the remaining eye to find it lifeless; the yellow was already fading and the body drifted past him to the lakebed. It came to rest and the members of his group departed from it one by one, save for Menlos who could be seen through a cloud of blood, still stabbing away without mercy.

Cyrus swam up, breaking the surface and taking a deep breath for the first time in over an hour. Another head sprang up beside him, and he looked to see a matted blond ponytail hanging over Vara’s shoulder. She turned toward him and spoke. “That went rather smoothly, don’t you think?” The trace of a smile on her face was the only sign that she might have been joking.

He smiled. “Could have gone worse. I should get some of that armor that increases your strength because I don’t ever want to fight a battle like that again.”

“It does hurt, doesn’t it?” she asked as other heads broke the surface around them.

“Can you imagine how many spell casters we would have lost to that thing?” Terian said in amazement. “It would have taken out half our army, easy.”

“And now you can see the peril we face,” Vara said, grim. “We use time tested and proven strategies against these creatures. Those who faced them for the first time with no knowledge had much uglier results. It took almost two years of expeditions, twice a week, before Amarath’s Raiders became the first to conquer the Trials of Purgatory.” Her gaze fell, down toward the water. “We lost over a hundred members to permanent deaths during that time, because of this Realm.”

“And replaced them with a hundred more willing bodies, I’m sure,” Terian added. “It’s not like any of the big three have a shortage of volunteers.”

“Indeed not,” Vara agreed. “Especially since in the year after Amarath’s Raiders conquered the Trials for the first time, every member received a portion of the spoils – to the tune of over a million gold pieces each.” Seriousness filled her eyes. “But it does not diminish the sacrifice of those we lost in the process of conquering it for the first time.”

“Is everyone accounted for?” Cyrus’s eyes searched and saw Aisling’s head bobbing in the water a few feet from Menlos. He was rewarded with a tight smile from the dark elf. “Thank you for your help, Aisling. You were invaluable.”

The dark elf nodded. “I… decided to try something different… than what everyone else was doing, sitting on the shore.” Her eyes found Cyrus’s and she looked away again.

“Why were you here?” Vara snapped. “I did not hear your name mentioned as one who would be facing the eel.”

“I apologize,” Aisling said without a hint of remorse or sincerity. “Won’t happen again.”

“Now, Vara, there’s no need to get upset with one of our guildmates simply because she wanted to be of service in battle,” Alaric chided. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Martial discipline be damned, then,” Vara muttered under her breath. “Very well, she can help us drag the corpse of the eel to the shore.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Aisling’s white eyebrow was cocked in confusion.

“It’s valuable, and we’ll be selling off parts of it for gold.”

“I didn’t realize we were doing that,” Aisling said with a frown.

“Larana has been harvesting the useful parts of the creatures we felled, and this eel is no exception. But first,” Vara said with a vicious smile, “we drag it to the edge of the lake.”

“This thing is heavy,” Terian complained for the first time as they broke the surface of the water near the shore. It had taken over an hour to get the corpse even this far, where their feet rested on the shoals below.

“Our guildmates will help when we get closer,” Cyrus said. “Oh, look, here comes one now.” He pointed to a figure heading toward them.

“That’s not one of ours,” Vara said.

“Damn you and your elven eyesight,” Cyrus said as he squinted, barely able to make out the Gatekeeper’s robes as the Realm’s guardian strode across the water to them.

“Another challenge bested,” he called out upon reaching earshot. “I suppose I should be impressed? I am not.” He halted and looked down at them from his vantage point, sneering.

“You can open the gate and leave now,” Cyrus said.

“Unfortunately for you, I do not respond to your commands except when I choose to,” the Gatekeeper replied with a thin smile. “I have things to say to each of you before I depart.

“I know the hearts of each of you, the fears that consume you, the things that wake you in the night.” He cast a glance at Cyrus, who remained impassive as he hefted the remains of the eel with his shoulder and pushed. “I know the sins in your past that you wish you could forget. Some, of course, I am… intimately familiar with.” At this, the sneer turned into a vicious smile.

“You.” He turned to Aisling. “You, who claim to be fearless and invulnerable – but we two know the truth, the reason you cling to everything and everyone you can get your hands on, until they become too close – and see your vulnerability, and you leave before they can exploit it.” His head turned to Vara. “It’s funny that you detest her, since you and she are different sides of the same coin.”

“You’re a mighty one, aren’t you?” Thad said. “Trying to poke at the sensitive spots in people. Fine, then. Have at me, coward.”

The Gatekeeper laughed. “Coward? You would call me coward? That is amusing. You, a man who has run from danger –”

Thad began to redden. “Shut up!”

“– at every turn –”

“SHUT UP!”

“Did she cry when you left her behind?” the Gatekeeper asked in a mock whine. “Did you hear her sobs as you left her to die? To save your own skin?”

“I didn’t…” Thad’s voice was barely above a whisper; he had dropped his burden and was beginning to shake, face pale.

Terian looked as though he wanted to say something, but remained silent. Cass, too, did not speak, while Vara and Aisling kept their heads down. Menlos’s head remained under the water. Cyrus looked around and found himself staring at the Gatekeeper, who returned his gaze with cold amusement. “All right, then,” Cyrus said. “What have you got to say to me, you heaping pile of troll dung?”

“I would have had kind words for you, about your destiny, about your strength, about how you could become the greatest Warlord ever seen in Arkaria. But instead, let’s revisit the death of your best friend, shall we?”

Cyrus felt a fire fill him. “Yes, let’s. Narstron died in the dark catacombs of Enterra, at the hands of the goblins. We were betrayed by someone from within our own Alliance, and I swore vengeance.”

“A vengeance you have yet to deliver.”

Cyrus’s eyes burned as he looked at the Gatekeeper. “‘Yet’ being the key word in that statement.”

“When it comes to vengeance, ‘deliver’ is the key word. Your poor, dwarven friend, left to die alone… he was alive, you recall, when they took him… how do you think he died? Do you think it was painful? Do you think he kept his courage to the end? Or do you think he screamed and begged for mercy that would never be shown?” A twinkle lit the eye of the Gatekeeper, coupled with a smile that could only be described as sadistic. “Because I know.”

“So do I,” Cyrus said with a calm realization. He could see Narstron’s face in his mind’s eye, the last image of him being dragged off by the hands of a hundred goblins. “He lived like a warrior. He died like a warrior. And everything else you have to say is lies. I will deliver vengeance in the time of my choosing.”

The Gatekeeper turned back to Vara. “It would appear your fears are justified. Listen to him sit there and plot his vengeance; he’s an animal, and he will turn on you, just like –”

“ENOUGH!” Alaric’s voice crackled through the air with raw anger. “Cease your prattle, Gatekeeper, or I shall force you to do so.”

The Gatekeeper’s amused smile did not fade as he stopped speaking. With a wide, exaggerated bow, he spoke once more. “Oh, Lord Garaunt, perhaps I should start on you…”

“Perhaps you would do well to remember who I am, and obey my command.”

“I am the Hand of the Gods now, Alaric,” the Gatekeeper said, a look of indignity appearing on his face. “You would not dare.”

Alaric’s helmet masked his expression, but as he stepped forward in the shallow water to look up at the Gatekeeper, the Gatekeeper took a step back. “And when has invoking them ever stopped me in the past?”

The Gatekeeper’s sallow face hardened, and his look turned to anger. “I have opened the gate before you to the island of fire, but I will return when you are not watching, Alaric. You cannot shepherd them all, and I will claim some for my own amusement – because I can.”

“You will interfere no more.” Alaric’s helm came off in his hand, and his sword was drawn. “And you damned well know it. Go, fool.” He waved his hand. “Your amusement is to be found elsewhere, lest we find out how strong the Hand of the Gods really is.”

“In the interest of civility and of fulfilling my role as Gatekeeper, I will depart,” he said with a dark look. “But do not think I do this because I am afraid of any reprisal you may summon.”

“I know what you fear, Gatekeeper,” Alaric said darkly. “You claim to know all, but I know your soul. I know your sins. Never forget that.”

The Gatekeeper folded in on himself once more and vanished. Silence filled the air around them as Alaric donned his helm and strode through the shallows back to the corpse of the eel. With a nod at the others, he lifted once more.

“So, is anyone going to say anything about what just happened, or are we going to pretend it didn’t?” Menlos said, voice betraying his curiosity.

“I should be fine with never mentioning it again,” Thad said.

“I applaud your courage, Thad,” Alaric said. “To stand up to him and take his abuse to remove one of your comrades from his fire is an act of great courage.”

“I agree,” Vara said in a hushed tone. “I found myself unable to speak, paralyzed by the memory of previous conversations I have had with him.”

“Me too,” echoed Terian.

“If I had thought for a moment we could have attacked him physically, I would have been less reticent to insert myself in the conversation,” Cass said with a shake of his head. “I dislike verbal jousting. It’s a coward’s means to avoid combat.”

Alaric shook his head. “He would have welcomed the opportunity. As mentioned, he is the Hand of the Gods, and he has powers far beyond anything else we would face in this Realm.”

“Then why aren’t you afraid to confront him?” Cyrus asked. “And why is he afraid of you? Are you more powerful than he?”

Alaric smiled. “I knew him before he was the Hand of the Gods, and I know his darkest secrets, lies and fears better than anyone – and many times those are worth more in a battle than a sword.”

“How did you know him?” Cyrus asked.

“A matter for another time,” Alaric said. “We have business to attend to.”

“You know what that means, right, Cy?” Terian said with a chuckle.

“Yes,” Cyrus said with a sour expression. “It means ‘don’t bother asking later, either’.”

Alaric chuckled. “In time, gentlemen, all will be revealed… to those who are patient.”

“Guess that rules me out,” Terian snarked.

As they approached the shore, others from their army waded out to join them in carrying the eel. Larana stood quietly at the fore, with a smile on her face, and a cutting knife in her hand. Her eyes followed Cy as he led the party carrying the eel and dropped it at her feet. “All yours,” Cyrus said. Her eyes flicked down at his approach, then flitted back up for just a moment, giving him a hint of vivid green before she averted them from his gaze once more.

He walked back on dry land and threw himself down next to his armor. He watched as Thad embraced Martaina, and she began to help him put his armor back on, piece by piece. The warrior’s expression was still haunted, listless, in spite of trying to smile for his wife.

Cyrus looked for Aisling, but she was not to be seen. Erith was aiding Cass in putting his armor back on, as J’anda helped Terian. Nyad assisted Menlos, causing Cyrus to shake his head at the odd sight – the usually filthy, wandering northman and the composed elven princess.

He looked up with a start as someone approached him. Vara stood before him, dripping. “Do you require assistance with your armor?”

He smiled. “You wouldn’t mind being my squire?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I am offering my assistance. Do you wish it or not?”

“I would love it. It’s easier when I’m pulling the pieces off the bust I have in my quarters, instead of trying to strap it on and bend over to pick up the next piece.”

She rolled her eyes again. “I have been known to wear armor myself, from time to time.”

“Yes.” He nodded, staring absentmindedly at her chestplate, still gleaming in spite of having been so recently submerged in dirty water. “And you wear it well,” he said without thinking.

She stopped fastening his pauldrons. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He cringed. Oh, screw it. “I didn’t mean to say that, but it means that in addition to being damned handy with a sword and a nightmare to argue with, you’re also very pretty.”

She resumed fastening the straps on his armor, but her eyes looked down. “You forgot to mention how intelligent and charming I am.”

He grinned. “And they say I have a big ego.” She pushed him roughly, but had a sly smile to match his.

“We’ve done well so far,” she admitted, changing the subject. “The final two islands will be more difficult, but I have confidence we will prevail.”

“Next is fire,” he said. “I’m not much looking forward to it.”

“It is not an enjoyable battle,” she admitted, fastening the straps on his breast and backplate. “I recall my armor getting hot enough that it burned me even through my undergarments.”

A moment’s thought gave him pause as he considered her undergarments. Shaking that thought away, he fastened his belt and adjusted his scabbard. “How do I look?” he asked her with his best dashing smile.

Her eyes only half-rolled and she placed his helm on his head with undue force, jarring him. “Better if we could get a helmet that covered your face, like Alaric’s.”

He sighed. “I just called you pretty. I don’t suppose there will ever be a moment when you’ll let your guard down and say something nice about me that’s not related to my performance as an officer or a General?”

She did not speak, but her gaze softened and she hesitated before turning and walking away, one slow step at a time.

“No insult?” he said to her retreating back, then lowered his voice. “It’s a start.”

Chapter 25

“All right,” Cyrus called out to the army. “Next is the island of fire.” He outlined in a few sentences what he expected of them, and they set out on a path over the lake with the aid of Falcon’s Essence, floating a foot above the water. They reached the far gate, already open for them, and Cyrus marched through first. On the other side was a much smaller island, and instead of dry dust or rock, scorched earth greeted them, alight with scattered flames burning on the ground. The air smelled of acrid smoke, of burnt things, flesh and wood and metal.

“It looks like a battlefield,” Vaste said with a tone of awe. The troll stood to Cyrus’s side, looking over the burnt ground as Niamh moved behind them among the Sanctuary army, dispelling the Falcon’s Essence – it was not an easy matter to fight while floating.

In the middle of the island was a pit in the ground, filled with fire. “That’s it?” Cyrus looked for Vara. She was not in the front ranks of the army.

Alaric caught his eye, nodding. “That is the Siren of Fire.”

“Where’s Vara?” Cyrus asked, surprised. She never leaves the front line of battle.

“Here,” she announced, pushing to the front. “I was checking with some of our spell casters to ensure they were ready. Alaric is quite right. Approach the flame and she will come for you.”

“All right.” He nodded and shifted his attention to the army. “Move into position, encircle the flame, and wait for my signal to move in.”

“What’s your signal?” Terian asked. “A girlish scream of, ‘It burns, it burns’?”

“No,” Cyrus said with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for you using the lavatory.”

Terian flinched. “You can hear that? Through the walls?”

“I can.” Cy clapped the dark elf on the back with a broad grin that was not shared by Terian and stalked off toward the flame in the middle of the island.

Cy watched out of the corner of his eye as the Sanctuary army encircled him. He slowed his walk to give them time to complete the circle. He looked to the flames, burning in the pit. The fire stretched above his head and seemed to be emanating from the ground itself. As he closed on it, something began to take shape in the bottom of the fire.

With a screech so loud it made him look away for a second, the flames rose into the air and coalesced into a female form, a little taller than him. The fire slid up to reveal flesh beneath, red skin and a scathing look as the face was revealed. The flame settled at several points around the body, enshrouding both hands, both feet, and becoming the creature’s hair.

“I am the Siren of Fire,” came a voice that was melodic but tinged with a note of chaos. Without any warning, it flew at him, eyes burning and her hands grasped him by the armor, heating it to an unbearable temperature. He brought his sword down against her flesh but she knocked his hand away with almost no effort and battered him with a flaming slap across the face that sent him reeling.

“Good enough signal for me!” Terian shouted as he attacked. She parried his overhand axe blow and grabbed the dark knight by the neck and hurled him bodily into three other Sanctuary attackers. One of them, a ranger, was killed by Terian’s spiked pauldron upon impact.

Cyrus felt his chainmail burning through his undershirt as he pushed to his feet and checked his armor. It was hot but not melting. He blinked and watched as the Siren threw her hand out as though she were tossing a ball and a wall of fire ten feet high sprang up in a line leading through a densely packed group of spell casters. Screams filled the air as robes caught fire. Several of them ran, in flames. Alaric and Curatio charged toward the chaos. The smell of seared flesh filled the air.

Fortin stomped through the flames, bearing down on the Siren along with a half dozen other fighters. Smoke began to flow from her eyes and a burst of angry red shot forth, sending another half dozen combatants to the ground with blistered and blackened skin where the beam hit.

She moved her stare to Fortin, hitting him in the chest. The rock giant stopped moving forward. The intensity of the light from her eyes increased and he took a step back, then another. She moved, a subtle bob of her head, and the beam from her eyes knocked the rock giant onto his back.

Vara jumped at the Siren while her back was turned. As she was about to land, the Siren spun and caught the paladin with a blow that sent her rolling across the ground. Cyrus watched as she came to rest, blood trickling from her nose and a cut on her forehead, eyes closed, and his sword shook in his hands.

He charged, blood pounding in his ears, narrowly dodging the Siren’s perfectly timed answering blow. I will carve your flaming head off! he thought. He didn’t even raise the short sword, catching her instead with an offhand slash that was so quick she didn’t have time to riposte.

A flurry of blows came at him, two of them glancing off his armor, heating it up and rattling him from the force. He countered with another slice, another small gash, this time across her muscled abdomen, and blood sizzled as it dripped onto the ground.

She raised her arm, outrage blazing on her face. Her aim was true but just as she was about to connect, a blast of ice encapsulated her. Cyrus blinked in surprise and looked to see Mendicant, hands raised, a blast of freezing spell energy still flying from his long, clawed fingers.

Cracks began to appear in the ice and an explosion rocked the island. The Siren of Fire burst forth, cloaked in flames once more. A hail of arrows greeted her from the rangers holding position at the edge of the island, standing apart from the chaos in the middle.

Her feet returned to the ground and the flames retracted from her body, but the fire remained in her eyes. The red beam she had shot from them now honed in on him, hitting him in the center of the chest and left him clutching his sides and gasping as though he were hit by a battering ram operated by a host of trolls. He spit out a mouthful of blood and watched as Sanctuary army attacked again.

Thad and Cass moved toward her, each plunging their sword at her from opposite sides. Her arms moved quickly enough that on her left, Thad scored only a minor slash before she slammed him to the dirt, but on her right Cass managed to dig his blade several inches into her thigh before being backhanded head over feet.

Terian and Vara flanked her next, distracting her with a frontal assault while several newer warriors that Cyrus knew only by face attacked from behind, stabbing her in the back. The eyes flared once more and the Siren of Fire screamed, her flaming hair extending and taking on a life of its own, whipping back the attackers behind her while she moved forward to deal with Terian and Vara.

One of the Siren’s hands reached between the spiked pauldrons and grasped Terian by the neck while she fended off Vara with her other. Terian raised his axe and she knocked it away. Her eyes flared once more and Terian took a full blast to the face as her hand jerked him forward. Something flew through the air, landing near the burned and wounded spell casters. It rolled to a stop as she dropped the dark knight’s body, the head now missing.

Vara let out a howl of outrage and brought her sword down before the Siren of Fire could pull back the hand with which she dropped Terian’s body. The slash was powerful, cleaving the elemental’s hand from her body and forcing her to stagger away after backhanding Vara once more.

Vara stumbled and recovered. The paladin’s face was covered in blood and dirt. Cyrus pushed himself to his knees then fell down, unable to breathe. He looked to Terian’s body, decapitated, and felt rage, pushing himself to his knees once more, fighting for another breath. All my ribs are broken, he concluded, feeling agony in his chest.

The Siren screamed and flung her remaining hand at Vara, sending another wave of fire, which the paladin dodged. Cyrus watched as the dozen or so combatants behind her, who did not have the dexterity given her by her armor, were consumed in the wall of flame, screaming and tossing themselves to the ground.

“Curatio,” he muttered, but the Healer was far from him, across the battle, and tending to the spell casters that had been burned by the last wave of fire thrown by the Siren.

A swell of relief filled his chest and his lungs inhaled; most of the pain vanished, leaving only an echo behind. He drew himself to his feet and looked behind him to see Erith shaking her head. “Go,” she said, worried look written on her face.

Cyrus threw himself into battle again, rage burning through his veins like the fires scattered across the island. Vara was drawing to her feet again as well, he saw, and her face was crisscrossed with open cuts, blood dripping along her cheek and chin, but her jaw was set and her sword was raised.

The Siren of Fire drew her hand back as if to throw another burst of flame but Cyrus lunged, crossing the last of the distance between them and plunged his sword into her side. He brought it across her stomach, slitting her belly as she brought her remaining hand across and knocked him six feet into the air.

He landed with a thump a few feet away and Vara moved in to attack as the Siren was hit with another flight of arrows, peppering her body. The shafts and fletchings burned upon impact and the wounds dripped with melted metal from the arrowheads.

Vara struck from behind, bringing her sword down overhand and cutting several inches into the Siren’s shoulder. The elemental’s eyes blazed once more and Vara went flying from the blast, almost to the edge of the island. Upon landing, she did not move.

Cyrus rolled from his back and jumped to his feet, ignoring the dozen pains he felt. A figure shoved him back roughly and filled his view.

Alaric Garaunt stepped forward from where he had pushed Cyrus back, sword in hand. The Ghost took two quick strides forward and brought his blade down more quickly than Cyrus could have imagined possible for the old knight as he parried her attack. She struck again and once more he avoided it, scoring a stabbing blow to her midsection in return. His hand reached out and she staggered back from the spell he had cast, and he moved toward her again, almost a blur of motion, sweeping in to close range.

His sword swung again, but the Siren of Fire blocked it and countered with a blow that did not even seem to impact the Ghost. He swung with another strike, leaving another gash, this time across the Siren’s chest, drawing more blood and exposing bone. She staggered but threw another punch that he parried as he brought her arm down, breaking it and flipping her sideways to the ground, where he placed a boot upon her chest. He brought his sword to her throat and it hovered there.

“I have met you,” Alaric said with a cold indifference, “I have bested you, and in the name of Sanctuary, I send you back to your god.” A cool understanding lit the Siren’s eyes, the Ghost’s sword plunged down and the fires on the Siren’s body flickered and went out like blown candles, with only wisps of smoke drifting over the corpse.

Cyrus looked around at the detritus of the force around him. Three quarters of them were wounded in some way and at least half were on the ground, moaning or worse. Cyrus’s eyes looked across the island to find Vara, still unmoving. He rushed to her, feet thudding across the dusty ground.

He dropped to her side and rolled her over. She coughed and blood trickled down her chin from her mouth. She tried to speak but gasped and more blood poured out. “Healer!” he shouted. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

A sparkle of light ran up her body, and Cyrus turned to see Alaric standing behind him. “Do not be concerned; I can tend to her wounds. Our Healers are otherwise occupied.”

Vara sat up in Cyrus’s arms, breathing heavily. “I am in your debt once more, Alaric.” She looked around and a glimmer of sadness crossed her face. “Just like old times.”

Alaric’s expression was nearly unreadable through his helm, but Cyrus could have sworn he saw a flicker of some deep emotion run across the Ghost’s face, but when he looked again, it was gone. “Indeed,” he responded.

“What about Terian?” Cyrus asked.

Alaric held up his hand to stay the warrior. “Curatio is working on him as we speak.”

Cyrus stood and ran to the spot where Curatio, Vaste, Andren and Erith stood, looking down with a small crowd gathered around them. Cyrus broke through the observers and saw the dark elf, eyes open wide and staring at him.

“We brought him back,” Curatio said. “Tricky thing, the timing of the spells – a resurrection spell, a heal to rejoin the body parts – which, with a decapitation, usually causes death again, then another resurrection spell and another heal, some incantations to restore vitality.”

Cyrus looked to the dark knight laying prostrate on the ground. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like I just got the hell beat out of me by a living fireball until my head popped off.” Terian scowled at him. “How do you think I feel?”

“Crabby.”

The dark knight’s scowl lessened. “And thirsty.”

Curatio winced. “I wouldn’t drink anything for a bit. Reattaching a head is tricky business. We’re going to need to do some targeted healing to your neck later to make sure there aren’t any holes.”

Terian sighed. “So you’re saying that if I take a drink right now, I might spring a leak? Marvelous.”

“At least it won’t burn,” Cy added with an innocuous expression.

“I hate you,” Terian said, scowl deepening.

“Because my expedition got you killed?”

“Please. I hated you long before this.” Cyrus laughed. Terian tried and ended up with a coughing fit.

Erith spoke up from behind them. “Andren, I didn’t think you knew the resurrection spell?” she said with a frown.

“No, I do,” the healer said defensively.

Her frown deepened. “You didn’t before. And I know you haven’t been gone for two years to learn it.”

“Hey!” Terian said. “Can we please focus on what’s important over here – namely, me?”

“Sorry,” Erith muttered, but did not sound remorseful. Her eyes followed Andren, narrowed to suspicious slits.

“All right,” Cyrus said, looking over the carnage around them. “When can we be ready to move?”

Curatio looked with him. “Probably in a half hour if you want everyone at full strength. I’d prefer an hour.”

Fighting back internal pressure, he nodded. “An hour it is. I want everyone at their best.”

Vara hobbled up behind him at that moment and rested her hand on his shoulder. He looked at her in surprise and she blushed. “I am still unsteady and require some support to stand.”

He blinked and looked down at her hand, small and delicate but covered in dirt. Cyrus caught sight of Alaric walking across the flaming ground as he tended to wounded. “I’ve never seen a paladin cast spells other than for healing before. Can you do what Alaric did back there underwater?”

She stared back at him with a look of practiced incredulity. “The force blast spell? Of course. All paladins can.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

She deflated slightly. “I know many of the same spells as he does, but I haven’t learned sublingual casting – how to cast spells without speaking. It’s a rather advanced skill, one that I did not learn during my time with the Holy Brethren.”

Cyrus’s eyes followed Alaric as he picked his way across the island. “Do many spell casters know ‘sublingual casting’?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It takes quite a bit of additional study and by the time I reached the point that I could have learned it I was eager to get out into the world.” He chuckled, bringing a look of annoyance across her face. “What?”

“Nothing,” he chuckled again and waved away her inquiry. “I was just imagining you as a young paladin, sick of learning in a League and desperate to get out of there.”

She shrugged. “It happened very much that way.” A look of discomfort crossed her face. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I am not comfortable in any situation where I feel I’m not in control.”

He remained expressionless, but only with greatest effort. “I hadn’t noticed.” She glared at him but broke the effect of it with a half-smile of acknowledgment. “I guess Alaric must have been more patient if he took the time to learn sublingual casting before leaving the Holy Brethren.”

Cyrus saw a wall spring up in her expression, guarding her emotions. “Alaric is capable of more than any other paladin I’ve ever met,” she said with a note of awe. “For most paladins the force blast only stuns your opponent; Alaric’s can kill.” She paused, her words hanging in the air between them for a beat. “We have details to plan for the Last Guardian. He has a death glare and it will kill one combatant for each of his two eyes.”

Cyrus nodded. “Yeah, I figured I’d take the hit again.”

“That is unnecessary. There are a dozen people you could order to do it – it’s not as though they’re in any great danger. A resurrection spell shall sort them out in moments.”

Cyrus exhaled, and eased her hand off his shoulder as he walked to the pit where the Siren had sprung from. With a sudden weariness he sat, feet dangling into the hole. “I know you haven’t died, so I don’t think you realize how much it hurts – and how much you lose when it happens.”

She reddened. “I’ve heard it can be disconcerting –”

“Disconcerting doesn’t begin to cover it.” Cyrus looked out at the horizon beyond the islands, at the sky in perpetual twilight, with a dark orange glow filling the air around them. “Death hurts. Resurrection is almost worse. But you also lose memories. Things just disappear from your mind.” She flushed and looked away. “Things you don’t want to forget, things you’ll never get back.”

Cyrus looked over the Sanctuary army. “Thad would willingly throw himself into the guardian’s death glare if I ordered him to. He’s so gung-ho he’d die a dozen times over if ordered. Should I tell Martaina that the reason he can’t remember the moment they met is because I needed him to die ‘for the team’?” He looked at her soberly and shook his head. “No. I’ll do it.”

“How sweet and poignant,” came the voice like ice from behind him. The Gatekeeper appeared at Cyrus’s shoulder. “I am beginning to be somewhat impressed by your rabble and their consistent refusal to die. However, you cannot endure what you face next.”

Cyrus waved him away. “You told me a while ago that I could become the greatest warlord that Arkaria had ever seen. I’m about to show you why.”

A deep guffaw filled the air and the Gatekeeper’s eyes lit up. “Or perhaps you’re about to show me why I used the conditional phrase ‘could’.”

“Well,” Cyrus said with a sickeningly sweet smile that betrayed the turmoil and anger he felt inside, “why don’t you just open up the next gate for us and we’ll see?” Something gripped him, an instinct to draw his sword and gut the old man that had taunted them from the moment of arrival, someone who had hurt Vara badly in the past…

The Gatekeeper stared at Cyrus and the expression on his face showed a flicker of uncertainty. The Gatekeeper blinked at him, concentrating. “Who… are you?”

Cyrus met his glare and a laugh escaped him. “I thought you knew our destinies, our sins, our past and all that rubbish?”

The Gatekeeper took a step back, a look of undisguised shock filling his features. “I can’t – how are you –?” The Gatekeeper composed himself, severe expression returning. “I will open your gate, and you will face the death you so richly deserve.”

“You don’t sound as sure of that as you did a few minutes ago,” Cyrus said with a growing confidence. “What are you afraid of, Gatekeeper?”

“I am the Hand of the Gods!” the Gatekeeper barked. “I do not fear you – nor any mortal!”

“Hand of the Gods, eh?” Cyrus said with a sudden streak of recklessness. “Why don’t you open the gate and then go do whatever a god’s hand does?”

The Gatekeeper muttered something and folded in on himself once more, leaving them in silence. Cyrus turned to Vara, who wore a shocked expression. “I have… never, in all my excursions here, seen what you and Alaric have managed to do to the Gatekeeper today. He is never less than arrogant, full of threats and taunts.” She shook her head in amazement. “And he never retreats before striking a final verbal blow.”

“It would appear,” Cyrus said with a frown, “something about me disturbed him.”

“One sympathizes with him,” Vara said, “but I agree, it would seem something you said or did – I know not what – put him ill at ease.” A smile broke across her features, lighting up the twilight. “That bodes well for us.”

Erith appeared at Cyrus’s elbow. “The dead are healed. Curatio says we may be ready to move sooner.” She lingered, looking at the two of them. “Did I interrupt something?”

Vara stared at her in disbelief. “No. No, I suppose not. I have other matters to attend to.” She walked off and Cyrus watched her go, disappointed.

When she had left, he wheeled back to Erith, who was still standing there. “Yes?” he asked.

“Nothin’,” she said with a shrug. Her eyes shifted left and right, seeing if anyone was near them. “Okay, question – officer to officer, do you ever get tired of the whining and the stupidity and all the garbage that comes from running a guild?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… no? Although I admit being banished from the cities of western Arkaria is causing some stress.”

“The officers of the Daring do what we can,” Erith said, ignoring his reaction, “to grow our numbers, to find new members, to put together a program of expeditions – small scale ones, trying to keep our heads above water and grow. There’s no appreciation for what we do; just bitching and moaning; complaints about the other guilds in the Alliance, and how you and Goliath are expanding and we’re not.”

Cyrus nodded, a creeping feeling of familiarity washing over him. “I understand. I led a small guild once, and when you’re stuck in a bad situation, people would rather gripe than try and fix it.”

“Exactly!” she said. “Elisabeth is great with people; she’s smooth and sweet, and agrees with everybody, and everybody loves her, and Cass is all big and tough but pulls back on saying what needs to be said. So,” she went on, brow furrowing in annoyance, “I’m the bad guy. I get to speak the truths that they don’t want to, and have everyone hate me. I’m sick of it.”

“It’s tough,” he agreed. “I respect that; you’re willing to fight the good fight, even when sometimes it may not seem like it’s worth it.”

“What if it’s not worth it?” she asked. “What happened to the other guild you ran?”

“There were three of us and when Sanctuary offered, we did some thinking and jumped ship. Of course,” he chuckled, “Sanctuary was in a better spot then than we are now.”

“I don’t know about that,” Erith said. “You’ve got a lot of forces arrayed against you, but that could help you – you know, buckle down together, have each others’ backs, focus on the bond you have with people you fight alongside. I think you’ll come out of this crisis stronger than ever.”

He laughed. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” she sighed as she wandered off. “I only wish they saw that in my guild.”

Chapter 26

A sense of foreboding filled Cyrus as he watched the Sanctuary army recover and prepare to face the Last Guardian. Vara found him only five minutes before he was set to order reassembly of their formation. “You are still intending to be the first to take the death glare?” she asked.

“Yes,” he nodded. “I have to find a second.”

“No, you do not,” came a voice from behind him. Alaric strode up and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “I will join you.”

Cyrus flushed. “Alaric, I don’t think you should… what about Fortin? Won’t he turn on us when you die?”

The Ghost waved his hand dismissively. “So long as I am resurrected, he will not. Do you think I would ask one of my other brethren to die in my stead?” The Ghost’s glare penetrated Cyrus even through the helmet.

“Very well,” Cyrus agreed. “Once we enter the gate, you and I will charge. The guardian stands in the middle of the island.” He looked to Vara, whose expression was masked. “Right?”

She nodded. “The first two to catch his gaze will be killed instantly. His death glare will strike again every fifteen minutes until the guardian is dead.”

“Got it,” Cyrus nodded at her. “You lead the battle while I’m gone.”

“You would be better suited to this than I,” she said.

“But I’ll be dead, so you’re in charge.”

A look of argument came over her face, then disappeared. “Very well.”

Cyrus bellowed to get the attention of the Sanctuary army, reformed them and they marched toward the next gate, already opened. The officers, as usual, gravitated to the front of the formation. As they passed underneath the gate, Cyrus ordered the army to halt.

“The island of evil,” Niamh said with a gasp, then she straightened and looked around with a cocked head, face more curious than afraid. “It doesn’t look that evil.”

“Rest assured,” Vara breathed, “evil is here.”

The island looked like the ones before it; a long stretch of dust hanging in the air, unremarkable in every way but one: spaced around the far end of the island were a number of portals, similar to the ones scattered throughout Arkaria, save for one detail: they each pulsed with energy of different colors, like the entryways he had seen to the Realms of Darkness and Death.

In the middle of the island before them stood a pool of black, viscous liquid. It writhed, coalescing and taking shape, a thick tar that rose out of the puddle to form a dark figure that rose to the height of a titan, twenty feet into the air, and solidified. The Last Guardian’s body was not quite shaped like a human – it had four arms and four legs, with an unrecognizable head. Its skin glowed a shade of black that Cyrus had never seen, not even in the Realm of Darkness.

“Are you ready?” Vara asked from just behind him.

“Alaric?” Cyrus asked, looking at the Ghost, who shot him a sly smile and nodded. “We’re ready.”

“Good,” Vara said. Without warning she kicked Cyrus’s legs from under him as she hipchecked him to the side. He landed on his back, hard, the weight of his frame and his armor knocking the wind out of him. He watched her leap over him and blaze across the ground toward the guardian as he gasped for breath and struggled to retake his feet. Alaric followed behind her, and by the time Cyrus was upright again, he knew he would never reach her in time.

The Last Guardian’s head spun on the top of its neck, in ways that no living being could move. Two eyes gathered on the front of its head as Vara and Alaric approached.

“Charge!” Cyrus spurred the army of Sanctuary into motion, running toward the guardian.

A flash from one of the eyes lit the air around them and a cry of victory came from the guardian as Vara crumpled to the ground. Another flash and Alaric seemed to become hazy for a moment, but kept running, sword in hand.

As Cyrus closed the distance, Alaric engaged the guardian. Four arms swung down at him and two of the guardian’s legs moved to kick. Alaric dodged every blow that came his way. The guardian’s arms seemed to slide across the torso, positioning themselves all on one side to better strike at the Ghost.

Cyrus made his way past the Ghost, buffeting the leg with glancing strikes as he passed, not doing much damage. Fortin thundered up to the guardian and launched into it with a powerful fist, striking a blow that glanced off. Cyrus looked at the rock giant for a split second – there was a black scoring on his chest. Finally, all four of the guardian’s arms lined up and struck a flurry of punches at Fortin.

Cyrus could hear a cracking noise as the attacks landed one after another. The last hit the rock giant in the face with the force of an explosion. Chips of stone from the impact hit Cyrus in the face and drew blood. He watched Fortin drop to a knee. The arms struck again and when they withdrew, cracks like gashes could be seen along the rock giant’s chest and dark fluid oozed out.

Fortin’s red eyes faded and he slumped at the guardian’s feet, dead. He landed with a thump that forced Cyrus to step back, during which time the guardian waded into a cluster of Sanctuary attackers gathered behind it. It stomped its spider-like legs that had suddenly grown pointed at the ends and flailed its arms as it attacked much softer targets than Fortin.

Bodies flew through the air, whole and in pieces. Cyrus watched Terian duck one attack only to be flattened by another while Thad was not even fortunate enough to dodge the first: he was impaled by one of the guardian’s legs and flung off into the crowd, knocking over several spell casters upon impact. Aisling’s assault was cut off midway as one of the guardian’s arms struck her a killing blow.

Spells impacted upon the guardian’s skin and attacks continued by the survivors of the guardian’s assault. Cyrus dodged another round of strikes from the fiend and joined Alaric in attempting to attack the legs, the only reachable part of the creature.

Cyrus sensed another arm coming his way and swung his sword into it with all his force. The appendage cleaved in two but withdrew, leaving a slight residue of dark gray liquid behind on the blade. “I think I hurt it,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

“Excellent,” came Alaric’s reply over the chaos of the battle. “Keep doing so.” The paladin brought his sword back for another strike and Cyrus could see the Ghost’s weapon was coated in the same fluid that his was.

Does this thing have a weak point? Cyrus wondered. Vara seemed to think if we hacked away at it, it would eventually die – but she was used to fighting it with mystical weapons. But surely there must be a weak point…

He looked up, to the top of the creature, where two eyes stared down, rotating around the ovoid, formless head. “I need a ranger to strike those eyes!”

“With pleasure,” came a voice, breaking with anger. Cyrus looked back to see Martaina taking aim, a look of malice on her face. Arrows flew, one after another and peppered the head of the guardian. She placed four arrows in each eye, but still the head spun. The arms swept around, but with less purpose than before.

“At least he’s blinded now,” Cyrus said as he blocked another strike with a sword blow, cleaving an arm and then watching it reform before his eyes.

The guardian shuddered and pulled away from them, legs sliding back into something approaching a line. The guardian’s torso widened in one direction and flattened in another, becoming human-like but with four arms. The legs coalesced into two legs from four. The head disappeared for a moment and then sprang back up, eyes missing.

Cyrus brought his sword forward and was knocked off balance when it hit with a clang! and his short sword bounced off the guardian’s skin. He brought it back for another swing and was rebuffed once more with a shock of pain that rattled his teeth.

Cyrus looked over to see Alaric chipping away at the metallic skin with his sword, doing a little damage. Sheathing the short sword he dodged a swing of the guardian’s arms and ran to Vara’s body. He rolled her over gingerly and froze for a moment. Her eyes were closed and a peaceful expression lay upon her face. With a grimace, he pulled her sword from its scabbard and touched her hand, which was already cold.

Her sword was almost twice the length of his, with a blade almost as thick as his bicep. Serrated edges curved on either side, giving it an elegant appearance lacking in his simple short sword. The curves of the blade continued into the guard, which came to pointed edges. The hilt was all metal, cold in his hand, and the pommel was the head of a wolf, cast from a dark metal.

He swung the blade around, admiring the balance as he charged back into the battle and the Last Guardian’s arms came after him again. The closest was taking aim; a hand sprouted at its end, individual fingers balling into a fist. He smiled as it flew toward him and he sidestepped, bringing the sword sideways into a strike that split the arm once more, all the way to elbow. He used his weight and dragged the sword down, stripping half the lower arm off the guardian.

Another hand swung at him, palm open for a vicious slap and he brought the sword across the wrist, cutting the hand off. The other two arms avoided him as he crossed back to the leg to join Alaric. He plunged Vara’s sword into the upper thigh of the guardian, eliciting a sound of grinding metal on metal before pulling the blade out at the kneecap, creating a three foot gash. Grey fluid oozed from the wound, dripping onto the dusty ground and forming pools in the contour of the landscape as the guardian moved about.

Alaric mirrored Cyrus’s attack, pitching the guardian off-balance, then cast a spell. The same blast he’d used underwater was even more devastating now – the force blast flew from Alaric’s open palm, tilting the guardian at the waist and knocking it onto its back. Cyrus did not hesitate; he jumped, imitating a move he’d seen Vara execute many times. He flew through the air and landed on the torso of the felled guardian, plunging the blade into the side of its neck and dragging across it four times before a reprisal came from one of the arms. He blocked the attack with the sword, mangling another of the guardian’s hands.

He attacked the neck once more. He could sense Alaric behind him, warding off the arms as Cyrus brought the sword down again and again, until the head rolled free and stopped a few feet away, dissolving into the gray slag that had been oozing from the body.

Alaric brought his sword down on the torso, and channeled a spell through the blade, rocking the Last Guardian. It shuddered again and Cyrus felt his feet begin to slide into the body. He jumped free as it melted, losing its solid form and spreading across the ground in all directions, a thick sludge.

He sighed a breath of relief and returned to where he had left Vara. Curatio stood above her, hands glowing, magic already surging to revive her. She came back with a lurch and her head jerked forward as she gagged. He knelt next to her and she opened her eyes, squinting against the twilight around them.

“Alaric?” she gasped, looking around, disoriented. “Where am I?” Cyrus looked up to see the Ghost standing there, leaning on his sword.

“It’s all right, lass,” he said in a soothing voice. “We’re in the Realm of Purgatory.”

A beat passed before she seemed to comprehend. “Again?”

“You took the death glare of the Last Guardian,” Cyrus interjected. “Knocked me on my ass so you could do it.”

“I don’t…” She squinted at him, a look of confusion on her face. “What are you doing here? Am I wounded?”

“You died,” Curatio said.

“Curatio,” she breathed, and turned her eyes toward Cy. “Cyrus Davidon.”

He grinned. “Glad to see you didn’t forget me.”

She managed to roll her eyes. “I could scarcely forget you, but not for lack of trying.”

“Why did you knock me over?” he asked, a flash of annoyance welling in him.

She drew a breath before answering. “Because if I hadn’t, your thoughtless gallantry wouldn’t have allowed me to take the death glare,” she answered as she sat up. Wobbling on her arms, she stabilized herself by leaning against him. “You did not exaggerate the effects of resurrection.” Her eyes fell on her sword in his hand and irritation darkened her already wan features. “What are you doing with that?”

“I needed it,” he said, “to win the battle.” He slid it back into her scabbard, prompting an offended look from her.

“How dare you slide that into my scabbard without permission?” She blanched. “Oh, never mind.”

Cyrus laughed, prompting a weak smile from Vara. “So did you get all that curiosity out of your system? Don’t feel the urge to go dying again anytime soon, do you?”

She shuddered. “That was quite a bit worse than I’d anticipated. No, I don’t intend to try that again. Who took the other death glare?”

Cyrus looked up at Alaric, who was strangely calm. “Excellent question. Alaric was supposed to, but it doesn’t seem to have taken hold on him.”

Alaric shrugged. “It would appear that the guardian failed to attack with death glare a second time, for I am still here and feel quite well, I assure you.”

“I have no doubt,” Cyrus said with no small amount of irony. “I believe the guardian did reach out with a death glare a second time. How did you avoid it?”

“What you describe would seem impossible. I assume it somehow missed,” Alaric said. “If there were any other explanation, doubtless it would reveal itself –”

“In time, yes,” Cyrus said with an air of resignation. Alaric smiled, bowed and strode away to Larana, who was stooped over a puddle of the Guardian’s remains with a bottle, collecting it.

Vara watched him go. “Did the Guardian speak to you? Try to tell you anything? Try any of the things that the Gatekeeper has been doing?”

“No,” he said, unable to take his eyes off hers. “I haven’t had anything speak into my mind since the Realm of Darkness.”

“Peculiar. Every time we faced it the mental attacks were intense.” She frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t it attack that way?”

“I don’t know,” he said, gritting his teeth. Her grip, enhanced by her armor’s power, was crushing his fingers.

“Perhaps you’re special,” the Gatekeeper’s voice came from behind them. They turned to find him sneering, with something sitting across his hands. He tossed it at Cyrus’s feet, stirring up a cloud and causing both he and Vara to blanch from the dust.

“What is that?” she asked.

Cyrus pulled away from her, eyes fixated on the object in the dirt. He reached down and picked it up with delicate hands, holding it as one would hold a newborn baby, covetously, taking in every line of the intricate styling. The paladin’s words rang in his ears, but the warrior was far beyond hearing them.

It had been a blazing hot day in the slums of Reikonos, years before he’d met the forces of Sanctuary. The heat swelled, sweat dripped down his skin, soaking his undergarments. In the places where his armor touched skin it burned, even in the shadowed light of the canyon-like slums. The smell of mortal refuse from the latrines overwhelmed the air, so strong it turned from smell nearly to taste, gagging even those with the strongest stomachs.

Cyrus walked the streets at midday. All but the most courageous vendors had abandoned their carts due to heat. The normally vibrant, noisy slums, teeming with life and merchant activity – legitimate and not – had given way to a mere whisper of its normal volume.

Turning a corner into a quiet alleyway, a racking pain filled his head, as though a sword had been driven into his temple. He reached out to a nearby wall for support, blinked, and another shock of pain seized him, bringing him to his knees.

A hazy figure had appeared before him as the light from above swelled. “Cyrus Davidon,” boomed an all-consuming voice. The pain in his head was paralyzing, but the words were a soothing balm, and the angry tautness in his skull faded at the sound. “My loyal servant.”

“Who – who are you?” Cyrus’s mouth was dry and each word had to be forced out.

“You have served me for years, making war, giving combat and offering your prayers with loyal heart. I am here to help you achieve your destiny – becoming the most powerful warrior in Arkaria.” The figure’s eyes lit with an unknown power, blotting out anything but a faint, human-like outline.

Cyrus looked up, trying to discern details through the fog surrounding him. “Bellarum?” Even through the pain, a sense of palpable awe filled him. “You… you are the God of War?”

“I have watched your growth into a warrior since the days you took up my cause in the Society of Arms. You have been a good and faithful servant and I see great potential in you. I come to you now to assist you in obtaining a weapon of power unlike anything wielded since the ancient times.”

A scrap of parchment drifted from the cloaked figure’s grasp, landing at Cyrus’s feet. His hands darted forward after a moment’s pause, scooping it up from the dirt and bringing it close enough for his eyes to read.

Serpent’s Bane – The guard and grip are in possession of Ashan’agar, the Dragonlord.

Death’s Head – The pommel is held by Mortus, God of Death.

Edge of Repose – The Gatekeeper of Purgatory holds the blade as a prize for one who knows to ask for it.

Avenger’s Rest – G’koal, Empress of Enterra has the Scabbard.

Quartal – The ore needed to smith the sword together is found only in the Realm of Yartraak, God of Darkness.

Brought together by one who is worthy, they shall form Praelior, the Champion’s Sword.

“What… what is this?” Cyrus asked, confused.

The figure held out a hand, eyes blazing in that magnificent shade, overpowering everything. He gestured to the parchment Cyrus held. “I give you a test. It is no idle test fit for lone warriors – this task will require you to assemble or co-opt an army.” The figure paused, solemnity filling Cyrus with a palpable sense of awe. “Gather the pieces and the prize will shape your very destiny. Pass through the trial which I have set before you and I will guide your blade. Let us see the strength that you possess – if you are worthy of being called Warlord.”

Cyrus blinked and the pain that filled his head was gone, along with the figure. He was back in the alley in Reikonos, one hand against a wall for support, and in the other was clutched a small scrap of parchment - and a curiosity, a drive to know if what he had seen was real.

“The Edge of Repose,” Cyrus whispered. He turned to Vara. “It’s the blade – for my sword. I only need the scabbard now.”

“So glad I could grant your fondest wish,” said the Gatekeeper with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have others to attend to.” Before he turned, he favored Vara with a malicious look, mouth upturned in a smile. “And what about you? What do you want? Same as last time?”

“As I recall, you did not grant my request last time,” she said, dry lips smacking together.

“Ah, but it was granted, though perhaps not in the way you intended.” The smile grew larger on the Gatekeeper’s face.

Vara did not return it. “Not through any action of yours.”

“Well,” the Gatekeeper said lightly, with a shrug, “think about it and get back to me.” He smiled and strolled off to the next nearest member of the Sanctuary army.

“So he starts by trying to pinpoint your darkest fears and ends by giving you what you ask for?” Cyrus said with a shake of his head. “Bit strange.”

“Not really.” Vara stared at the Gatekeeper, now speaking with Thad and Martaina. “It’s all about what drives you – for good or ill. It’s not as though he will grant a wish,” she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He’ll give you things. Tangible objects. Easy requests for things you covet that can be created with godly power. It’s not as though he can bring back the dead.” She paled.

“It takes a while for the effects of the resurrection spell to wear off,” he cautioned her.

“It’s not that,” she said. “Never mind. It is quite overwhelming.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes as they watched the Gatekeeper. A line of their guildmates had formed in front of him. Whenever one of them made a request, the Gatekeeper would turn away for a moment and something would appear in his hands, much like the disappearance when his cloak seemed to fold in on him. After an hour, the line had been depleted.

“I think we are almost done,” the Gatekeeper said with the thinnest air of relief. “One left, I believe.” He turned to Alaric, who was standing at a distance. “So, Lord Garaunt, what would you have of me?”

“I would have nothing of you,” the Ghost said. “Unless you would be willing to offer your head, stuffed and mounted on a wall.”

“That would be asking a bit much.”

“I thought so.”

“Very well then,” the Gatekeeper said with a clap of his hands. He hesitated and stepped closer to Alaric. “Perhaps I could offer… just one thing.” His hands disappeared behind his back and his face went blank. When his hands re-emerged there was something clutched in his fingers, something small. The Gatekeeper held it out for Alaric to see.

It was a lock of hair. Brown, wispy and delicate, bound together at the middle by a white ribbon.

The Ghost did not react visibly. Stonefaced, he stared down at the Gatekeeper’s hands before reaching out and taking what was proffered. “Thank you,” he said in a voice without inflection. “I assume you mean for this to taunt me, but be assured I take it with gratitude.”

“Take it however you’d like.” The Gatekeeper’s voice was hushed. “It matters not to me.” The Gatekeeper paused, some twist of emotion almost unrecognizable passing over his weathered face. “You’ll want to leave through this portal.” He gestured to the one directly behind him.

“Why don’t we go through one of the others?” Terian said with an air of suspicion.

The Gatekeeper grinned. “You are most welcome to exit through any of them, but I wouldn’t recommend it, even for you.”

“He is right,” Alaric said with certainty. “The others will not take us anywhere that we wish to go. We will leave through the portal he indicated.”

A mutter ran through the crowd but upon Cyrus’s call to formation, the Sanctuary army assembled in front of the portal. “Remember,” Cyrus called out. “We’ll be appearing in the middle of Reikonos. If we encounter hostility, the front ranks will hold them off while the rest of the army exits the portal. Nyad,” he said to the wizard, “you’ll be the last one into Reikonos and as soon as you appear, cast the teleportation spell. We’ll have dealt with any… interference by then.”

“What’s the likelihood we’ll be seeing battle?” Thad asked.

“We just broke the big three’s monopoly on the Trials of Purgatory and we’re already wanted by the Reikonos guards,” Vara said. “I would say… high.”

Cyrus looked at the faces of the army standing before him. “We just became the fourth guild in Arkaria to claim victory over the Trials of Purgatory. Whatever we face on the other side of that gate is nothing compared to what we went through on this side of it.” Excitement infused his words. A roar of triumph from Fortin broke the uneasy tension and a small celebration rippled through the crowd as the realization of what they had accomplished spread over the expedition.

“I’m proud of you,” Cyrus said. “One last thing and we can go home as heroes.” He turned toward the portal and raised his hand. “Forward!”

Chapter 27

The light of the portal flickered on the walls of two massive guildhalls on either side of them as they emerged into the Reikonos guildhall quarter. The sun was behind the buildings, the chill of early evening was in the air and the sky was the same twilight color that had been present in Purgatory. The smells of cooking meat wafted as Cyrus looked from the raised platform the portal was mounted on down the street in front of him. A few souls were scattered on either side of the avenue.

Cyrus had passed through these streets many times; large guildhalls towered above the dainty structures of the markets and spread out for entire blocks of the city. He looked down the street to an intersection only a few hundred feet away, a place where the entrances to the four largest guildhalls in the city looked across a square at each other.

They varied in styles, one taking its appearance from ancient elven architecture like that of Pharesia while one across the street favored the more modern elven architecture seen in the city of Termina. Reikonos had almost no style of its own, an eclectic mix of different types of buildings that did not blend well. One of the halls even appeared to be human architecture with dwarven decorations ringing it.

As they emerged from the portal, Cyrus kept the army marching forward. The spectators watching had looks of awe. Whispers filled the air along with the crackling of energy from the portal behind them. Cyrus saw a few people run, some down side streets, some into their guildhalls.

“That is Amarath’s Raiders’ hall,” Vara said tightly, pointing to their left. She moved her hand toward the intersection, pointing at a building across the square. “That one belongs to Burnt Offerings; that one belongs to Endeavor.” She moved to point to the building to their right.

Cyrus eyed a structure almost as big as the other three, situated on the forth corner of the intersection. “Whose is that?”

“Take a guess,” Vara said with utter contempt as a dark elf in a cloak emerged from its doors followed by a dwarf and a host of others.

Cyrus stared at the dark elf as he moved forward, almost gliding. “Malpravus,” he whispered. “Goliath?”

“None other.”

The streets were filled as the four biggest guildhalls in the quarter emptied and others came from side streets, most keeping their distance, perhaps remembering the last time this had happened. Cyrus cast a look back to see only a little more than half his army had emerged from the portal.

The flow of people from the Burnt Offerings guildhall had slowed to a trickle; a mammoth clot of their members stood before Cyrus on the street. Endeavor’s and Amarath’s Raiders’ doors were open and their hall was still emptying. Cyrus continued to shuffle toward them, pushed by the growing numbers of his guildmates appearing from the portal behind him.

“Keep a tight formation,” he whispered, and heard the command passed row by row through the army. There was some movement on the street as a few figures pushed to the front of the crowd. A female elf that looked oddly familiar led the group. Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. Robes of the purest white were draped over her and held snug at her midsection by a belt that was black leather with a buckle of one of the finest and most intricate designs he had seen. A blue scarf was draped over her shoulders that matched her sparkling eyes and a smile stretched across her face.

She was flanked by a human dark knight, a man whose build was similar to Cyrus’s – he stood taller than most humans, had dark hair and light eyes, and a scar crossed his face diagonally from his forehead to chin. His armor was a dark shade, not quite black but polished to a sheen and made from a metal with a texture different than any Cyrus had seen before.

A dwarf stood next to them, a mighty warhammer slung across his back and a braided beard that stretched past his knees. Next to him was the most vicious-looking troll Cyrus had ever seen. Slitted yellow eyes peered at them, scuffed and battered armor spoke of a thousand battles won, and a sword big enough to be carried by a titan was slung across the troll’s back.

“It’s good to see you,” said the lady elf, voice sincere. “Congratulations on conquering the Trials of Purgatory.” She kept a distance between them, but even from ten feet away Cyrus caught a hint of an intoxicating lilac scent wafting from her.

Cyrus nodded warily. “Thank you.”

“You are Cyrus Davidon, an officer of Sanctuary?” she asked.

Cy raised an eyebrow. “Yes. And I believe you are Isabelle, officer of Endeavor.”

Her smile broadened. “So nice to be known.”

“I’m surprised you know me.”

Isabelle shrugged, again stirring a feeling of familiarity in Cyrus. “I know the names of all of Sanctuary’s officers. Allow me the pleasure of making your introductions.” She pointed to the troll behind her. “Grunt is also an officer of Endeavor.” The troll scowled at Cyrus. Cy did not return the troll’s glare but kept an eye on him.

She pointed to the dark knight standing at her shoulder. “This is Archenous Derregnault, the Guildmaster of Amarath’s Raiders.” She tilted her head to Vara and a strange tone filled her melodic voice, as though she were trying to keep it neutral. “I believe you have met.” Turning to indicate the dwarf with the warhammer, she said, “This is Larning, the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings.”

Cy nodded at each of them in turn, but his eyes were drawn back to Archenous, the human. He met Cyrus’s gaze, and there was something indefinable between them. Cyrus could feel a deep loathing spring up within him, something more powerful than he could have imagined from nothing but a shared glance.

“You need not worry,” Isabelle said, drawing his attention back to her. “We have no ill intentions toward you or your army.” Something in the way she said it made Cyrus believe her.

“You can trust her,” Vara said from behind him. “Probably.”

“Such kind words,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “How are you, little sister?”

“Not so little anymore, I’m afraid,” Vara said.

“You should come home more often.” Isabelle’s expression did not change. “Father misses you. Mother too, though she doesn’t say it.”

“I’m sure she hides it well under snide, judgmental remarks about how I’m wasting my life,” Vara replied.

“She does indeed,” Isabelle agreed. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t come home more often.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be doing that for the near future; you see –”

“You’ve been banished?” Isabelle said. “I heard. A flimsy excuse for so great a holy warrior. It’s not as though the Termina Militia would stand against you, since you are –”

“That’s enough,” Vara said, her voice a warning. “I will consider it.”

“Very well.” Isabelle turned to see Malpravus standing at a distance behind her, eying the Sanctuary army almost hungrily as they filed out of the portal. “It would appear you have no shortage of admirers.”

“Oh, yes, we’re very popular,” Cyrus said with a final backwards glance. The light of the portal had stopped flaring. He looked to the square to see a small assemblage of Reikonos guards, standing at the end of the crowd, glaring toward them.

“Perhaps you should go,” Isabelle said with a look of sadness. “I suspect they are assembling more guards as we speak and you wouldn’t want to have to kill them all.”

“Excellent work conquering the trials,” came the hoarse, guttural voice of Archenous Derregnault. “You are, as always, a master tactician, Vara.”

If she heard, she did not acknowledge him. Turning to Cyrus, she nodded. “My sister is quite correct: we have outstayed our welcome.”

“Agreed. Nyad?” he called out.

Before the words had left his mouth an orb of teleportation appeared in front of him. A loud clapping filled his ears as Isabelle applauded, then Archenous joined in and everyone on the street followed. The noise was thunderous, drowning out any other sound. He looked back to see his army begin to disappear in flashes of light as they grasped the orbs.

Malpravus caught his eye. The necromancer was not clapping, a motionless figure in a sea of movement, his hands hidden in his sleeves and the same gleeful, malicious smile filled his lips.

Isabelle looked on with an air of sadness as Vara disappeared. She turned and pushed past the entourage of guildmasters and officers behind her to disappear into the crowd.

Cyrus’s eyes fell once more on the dark knight, Archenous Derregnault, whose gaze was locked on him. A small smile cracked the knight’s stony facade, and he bowed his head to Cyrus. That same sense of loathing filled Cyrus as he stared down the human. It feels like I know him. I definitely dislike him. But why?

A last look confirmed that the rest of the Sanctuary army had disappeared save for one. Alaric stood at his shoulder. “I appreciate you staying behind to ensure safety for our comrades, my brother. But now,” the paladin said with an eye toward the Reikonos guards, who were moving through the crowd toward them, “it is time to go.”

Cyrus reached up to grab hold of the orb as Alaric did the same. The last Cyrus saw before disappearing was of a small guard force halted in their tracks, surrounded by a crowd of thousands, still applauding and shouting their congratulations to the army of Sanctuary.

Chapter 28

Cyrus felt his boots land with a gentle clank on the stone floor of the foyer. The noise of approbation he had left behind was replaced by the applause and cheering that filled Sanctuary’s entrance and was spilling over into the lounge; the beginnings, no doubt, of a party that would last into the night. Across the crowd Cyrus caught a glimpse of Andren, opening a cask of wine and a keg of ale simultaneously, seesawing back and forth between the two.

A smile crept across Cyrus’s face as the infectious nature of the atmosphere took hold of him. He felt hands clapping him on the back, voices crying out in excitement and exultation, and saw a flash of blond hair wrapped in a ponytail as Vara disappeared up the stairs.

“We did it!” Thad yelled across the room from a position atop a table in the lounge, Martaina at his side, looking no less jubilant. The warrior already had an ale in his hand. Menlos Irontooth stood in his shadow, nursing a flagon of his own, talking to Nyad.

A door banged open on the far end of the hall and Belkan stood silhouetted in the entryway, hands in the air in triumph. “Well done!” the armorer shouted, narrowly missing tripping over Mendicant as he made his way across the hall toward the lounge. Mendicant dodged expertly and backed up into a wall, startling himself. The goblin watched the celebration with as pleasant a smile as Cyrus imagined a goblin could produce, but eventually reached under his robes and pulled out a book, which he proceeded to read in the corner, sitting by himself.

Cyrus watched with amusement until he felt a gentle hand glide around his waist. He turned to see Aisling with her hand on his short sword, examining it. “This is unbefitting a warrior of your station,” she said, shaking her head. She looked up, dark eyes meeting his, a playful look on her face. “Would you like me to steal a better sword for you? I know lots of brigands and troublemakers that have very nice things and well deserve to be parted from their weapons. All I want in return is just…” The face got more playful and she leaned in close, whispering in his ear – something foul and yet pleasant.

He closed his eyes for a moment at the feel of her breath on his neck – it smelled of sweet cinnamon – then opened them again to roll his eyes. “No.”

“Well,” she said with a shrug as playful as her look, “at least you didn’t yell at me for suggesting it. Does that mean I’m making progress?” With a laugh, she darted through the crowd toward the lounge and the center of the party. Music had begun to fill the air from a few enterprising members who played instruments.

Cyrus shook his head at the dark elf’s persistence. No, it doesn’t mean you’re making progress, he thought. It means I’m grateful to you for saving my life in Purgatory. And I haven’t felt the touch of a woman in that way… outside of a mesmerization… in years. He sighed.

He turned, leaving the noise of the celebration behind and ascended the staircase, exiting in front of the Council Chambers. He opened the door to hear a loud whooping akin to what he had left behind and a blur of red as something small hit him squarely in the armor.

“WE DID IT!” Niamh shouted after kissing him on both cheeks. She let go of him and stepped back, her face flushed. She seemed to vibrate with excitement.

“I saw you give that treatment to Alaric and Cy, but not for me?” Terian asked with a frown. “I lost my head in Purgatory!”

“Nor for I, either,” Vaste agreed. “Although I am pleased to report I did not lose my head. At least not literally. I did freak out a little bit when the Siren started burning through the Healers like wildfire through a rotting forest, but I made it out okay. I only screamed once – maybe twice.”

“Oh, fine,” Niamh said and circled to the dark elf and the troll, giving them both strong kisses on each cheek. A deeply offended look by J’anda prompted her to go to him, followed by the surprised Curatio and even more surprised Vara, who had the look of a cat thrown into water.

“Do not expect me to kiss any of you on the cheeks,” Vara said archly as Niamh took her seat. “Nor anywhere else.”

“Come now, old friend,” Alaric said with a grin from the head of the table, “We would worry if you ever showed a sign of affection for anyone.”

“If you did, I would assume you were feverish and attempt to drown you in the nearest pond in the middle of the night,” Cyrus said with only the trace of a smile.

“Oh, yes, very droll,” she said with an expression that mirrored his own. “While we are all very pleased with ourselves – as well we should be – this does not solve our problems.”

“On the contrary,” Cyrus said. “It could solve one of our problems right now.” He turned to Curatio. “Did you get the tally?”

The Healer nodded. “Larana thinks that between a few of the rocks from the golems – they have some enchantments, I suppose – the skins and some other parts of the pegasi, pieces of the eel, embers from the Siren of Fire and all the liquid she managed to bottle from the Last Guardian, we will net somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 million gold pieces when we sell them through her contacts in the Dwarven Alliance.”

Vara frowned. “It should have been more.”

“I agree,” Curatio replied. “It would have been considerably more if we could sell in Reikonos, Pharesia or Saekaj – probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 million gold. But…”

“This could solve that problem,” Cyrus said, looking around the table. “We could pay off the fines without any difficulty – at least in Reikonos and Pharesia and have some money left over.”

Alaric’s hand hit the table as loud as if lightning had struck. “We will not buy our way out of this, like a thief bartering for his life! This is our honor and we will fight for it with our very lives, if necessary.”

“So… more battle, then,” Vaste quipped.

“I am quite serious,” Alaric said, eyes cool.

“So was I. Unless you see some way out of this that doesn’t involve us staring down armies from three hostile countries?”

Alaric stood, forcing his chair back from the table. He turned, helmet crooked under his arm and walked to the window behind him. “No, I do not see a way to avoid that conflict until we have proof that we are not behind the attacks.”

“Let us not forget,” Curatio said. “We still haven’t placed Goliath’s proposal before the members. We have a few months yet.”

“How could we forget that our allies have placed us in such a fun position?” Vara retorted. “I am only thankful we have no more ‘friends’ like Goliath, if this is what ‘friends’ do to you.”

“Let us discuss these matters tomorrow. We should be down there with our guildmates, celebrating.” Alaric stared out the window across the plains, helmet cradled beneath his arm. “Tomorrow, we begin the search for these bandits anew. We will catch them, even if we have to use every resource available to us.”

“Agreed,” J’anda said. “Tonight we eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we sit upon the plains for long periods of time, staring at the grasses and waiting for someone to attack a convoy.” The enchanter stood, followed by each officer in turn, until Cyrus and Alaric remained the last two in the Council Chambers.

Alaric turned. “For once it is not I who halts you at the end of a Council meeting.” A slight upturn of the lips gave the Ghost an amused look. “You have questions, I presume. I will answer what I can.”

“When we were in the water, the Gatekeeper said something about my destiny, about me becoming a Warlord greater than any in Arkaria,” Cyrus began. “Was he taunting me with idle words, or can he see the future?”

Alaric gaze met Cyrus’s, but the gray of the Ghost’s eye hid his thoughts. “The Gatekeeper – the Hand of the Gods – whatever you would like to call him – does possess some clairvoyance. But if you ever asked – and if he ever answered you – it would likely be something equivocal about how your choices shape your destiny, and that you are in control of whether you become a great Warlord or simply a great Warrior.”

“So he would have answered it like you,” Cyrus said with an air of amusement.

A smile split Alaric’s lips. “Likely. He, too, is enigmatic.”

“There was something else.” Cyrus rested his hands at his sides, nervous energy causing him to flex them unconsciously. “There was a moment where the Gatekeeper stared at me, and he seemed to get disconcerted, and asked me who I was.”

“Yes,” Alaric nodded. “Vara described the incident to me in some detail. I would not let it concern you.”

Cyrus’s eyebrows recoiled. “The Hand of the Gods became lost for words in my presence, Alaric. According to Vara, he’s never lost for words. And the only other person who can do that to him – and we’re talking about someone touched by the gods, who stares down the toughest, meanest fighters in Arkaria – is you. What am I supposed to think about that?”

The Ghost turned from him to face the window, and placed his helm on his head before answering. “In the interest of bringing the full facts to the table, you were also able to block the mind control efforts of the Dragonlord – an impossible feat for most. You can assume whatever you’d like about these curiosities. I cannot give you an answer.”

Cyrus felt his internal temperature change with a possibility he’d mulled over. “Am I the son of a god?”

Alaric turned back to him. “No. You are the son of a warrior that died in the Dismal Swamp campaign of the troll war.”

“How did you know that?” Cyrus stared at him with an air of suspicion.

“Belkan served with your father,” Alaric said, watching him through the slits in the helmet. “He knew your mother as well; well enough that we can rule out any godhood in your blood.”

The Ghost smiled. “There is no denying you have powers that others do not. You are special – and not just because of whatever gift you have in your mind, but because of your abilities as a warrior, a thinker and a tactician. Temper them with wisdom, courage and mercy and you have the elements of the greatest warrior in Arkaria.”

Cyrus let Alaric’s words hang in the air. “I need to know about these abilities. I need to know how to control them.”

Alaric stared at him from across the chamber. “I have no answers to give you.” The paladin turned back to the window. “You should rejoin the party.”

The words tasted bitter in Cyrus’s mouth as he spat them back at Alaric. “You ‘have no answers to give’ me? Or none you’re willing to give me?”

Alaric did not turn to face him, nor did he make any motion at all. “The result is the same.”

Head spinning, Cyrus left the Council Chamber. Is he lying to me? Holding something back? Cyrus wondered as he descended the stairs. He found himself at the back of a crowd, standing in the foyer while the party raged on in the lounge, but his thoughts stayed dark, brooding.

“You don’t look like you’re having any fun at this celebration,” came Vara’s voice at his side. He turned to face her. She still wore her armor, although she had cleaned some of the dirt and blood from her face after the Council meeting.

“I’m not,” he agreed. “I have a lot on my mind.” A sudden shock ran through him. “You never told me you had a sister!”

She did not smile. “You never asked.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. Any other questions I’ve forgotten to ask?”

“Many.”

“So your sister is an officer of Endeavor?” he probed. “And you were an officer of Amarath’s Raiders?”

“We might have been slightly competitive in my family.”

“She seemed pleased to see you.”

“Why would she not be, when I am such a pleasure to be around?” Vara’s expression was straitlaced, with only a hint of irony. She pointed a finger at him. “Let me not hear a word of disagreement from you, General Davidon, lest you discover tonight a reason to be displeased at seeing me.” The party hummed in the lounge, but even at a whisper, he could hear her perfectly in the foyer.

“General?” he laughed. “Feeling formal?”

She took another sip from the cup in her hand. “Actually, after that resurrection earlier and all its lovely side effects, I’m feeling rather tipsy. I can only conclude I should have eaten something before I had this. Or that perhaps I should go to bed.”

Glazing over her statement, he thought to ask a question that he had pushed to the back of his mind. “If you were an officer of Amarath’s Raiders, then you know that dark knight – Archenous Derregnault – that runs the guild?”

She stiffened and all trace of mirth was gone in an instant. “I do. Why do you ask?”

He thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “I don’t know. I got this sudden, deep, inexplicable loathing for him. I have no idea where it came from; it’s not as though he gave me cause.”

Vara stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Without warning her hand reached up to his cheek and held it still while she kissed the other. A quick peck, and she turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the foyer with a stunned expression.

“What was that all about?” came Fortin’s rumbling voice from the grating below.

At any other time, Cyrus might have snapped back at the rock giant. So stunned was he that he absentmindedly answered, “I don’t know.” He stared at Vara’s receding back as she climbed the stairs.

Chapter 29

He did not see Vara the next day to ask her about what she had done, nor the day after that. When he asked about her, Curatio mentioned that she had gone home for a few days to Termina. They had stood in the Halls of Healing, Curatio cleaning while waiting for any patients that might appear. The strong smell of lye filled the air as the elf scrubbed every surface with it. Light shined in from broad windows on the beds, lined up in rows.

“Isn’t she concerned that we’re banished from the Elven Kingdom?” Cyrus asked.

The Healer dismissed him with a smile. “I doubt they’ll arrest Vara.”

“Because she’s shelas’akur?” Cyrus asked.

Curatio looked at him shrewdly before answering. “Yes. But technically you would say ‘the shelas’akur’.”

“Care to explain what ‘shelas’akur’ means?”

“If you really thought about what you know of the elvish language,” the Healer said, tugging a bedsheet into place, “you could probably figure out what at least part of it means.”

Cyrus thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know anything about the elvish language.”

Curatio guffawed at that, a low laugh as he put a feathered pillow into a pillowcase. “You spent several weeks in the Kingdom last year; you learned nothing during that time?”

“Ha! I spent most of my time in the Kingdom on my back, recovering in Nalikh’akur –” He stopped. “Nalikh’akur. Shelas’akur.” His eyes wheeled to the healer, who went about his work with a faint smile. “What does Nalikh’akur mean, Curatio?”

The healer looked up, and his faint smile turned knowing as his eyes filled with a calmness. “Last bastion.”

“So what does ‘shelas’ mean?”

“Ah,” the elf said with a wag of his finger. “That would be telling – and you know elves don’t talk about that; it’s not seemly to discuss it with offlanders. However, I have heard that in Reikonos, someone has gone to the trouble of putting together a dictionary that would translate from the human tongue to elvish, if someone were interested.”

“As I cannot go to Reikonos right now under pain of death, that doesn’t help me,” Cyrus said with a frown. “But thank you – you’ve come closer to explaining it than any other elf.”

Curatio nodded, still smiling. “I’ve given you nothing but hints. From here, it’s up to you.”

“Thank you,” he said with a genuineness that he felt to the heart. “I was beginning to think that the Sanctuary Council was filled exclusively with enigmas.”

Curatio laughed. “I still have my secrets.”

Vara had not appeared again for a week, during which Cyrus patrolled the Plains of Perdamun on horseback with groups of his guildmates. The only exception was one day that he took to travel to Fertiss, the dwarven capital, with the ore and components of his sword to have them forged by a blacksmith that Belkan knew.

“Not much to look at,” the Sanctuary armorer said when Cyrus showed it to him. “But she’ll likely do a sight better for you than that short sword.” He held out his hand expectantly.

“I can’t give you the short sword back yet,” Cy argued. “Without the enchantments, the balance is wrong on this blade; it’s too heavy for the amount of damage it renders.”

“Mortus take you, Davidon!” Belkan said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Fine, keep it a while longer, but I’ll not hear any more bleating about how much you hate it!”

“I’ll return it when I get the enchantments on the other one – unfortunately, I suspect it will be a while before I make it to the depths of Enterra to pay my respects –” his jaw tightened at the thought of killing the goblins responsible for Narstron’s death – “and get the scabbard to enchant this blade.” He turned to leave the armory but paused. “You never mentioned that you knew my parents.”

Belkan grunted. “Your father and I served in the war together. Knew your mother because when we’d go back to Reikonos from the front she’d put up with the both of us carrying on ’til all hours of the night, so long as we didn’t wake your sorry baby arse.”

“You stayed in our house?” Cyrus looked at the armorer, face guarded.

“Many times,” Belkan answered. “My home was near Prehorta, and I rarely had a long enough furlough to make my way down there and back. So your mother would tolerate me staying with you lot. I still owe her quite a debt for that – and other things.” He looked down. “I was the one who told her when your father died. I brought back his armor to her.” Belkan nodded at the black mail Cyrus wore. “She went… mad with rage at the sight of it.” His eyes looked haunted. “Never seen anything like it before… or since,” he said with a shudder.

“I barely remember her,” Cyrus said with a far-off look. “I don’t have any memory of my father at all.”

“Good folk,” the armorer said. “Your father was the finest warrior in the Confederation army. Shouldn’t have died at Dismal, but the trolls had a shaman leading their troops and he was fearsome. Your father took him on in single combat while he weaved his wicked spells.” The armorer shuddered again.

“What’s a shaman?” Cyrus asked with a frown.

“Troll magics,” Belkan scoffed. “Spirit talkers, they are. Kind of like a healer, but with some foul twists. They use the powers of the dead.”

“Like a necromancer,” Cyrus whispered. “Like Malpravus.”

“The shaman your father fought, he was powerful. Made your dad delirious, sick, but your dad near killed him anyway before he fell. Rest of us finished the job, but the shaman and his troops had killed ten thousand men at that point.” He shook his head. “We never stood a chance in that battle.”

“If this shaman was so dangerous,” Cy said, “why didn’t the Confederation general order a retreat?”

“Pretnam Urides order a retreat?” Belkan snorted. Cy bristled at the mention of the Reikonos Councilor’s name. “That glory hound would never! But it wouldn’t matter if he had: your father was on the other side of the battle. When word got to us of a troll shaman killing men by the hundred, Rusyl charged headlong toward it. Couldn’t have stopped him if we’d all had a hold on him.” Belkan stared at Cyrus. “He was stronger than any ten men. One of the few that could stand toe-to-toe with a troll and come out ahead. Rest o’ us attacked in groups.”

“You said you brought my father’s armor back to Reikonos,” Cyrus said. “What about his body?”

Belkan looked down. “What that shaman did to him, with his plagues and horror, wasn’t a fit end for anyone. I couldn’t have Eri – your mother – see him like that. We buried him on a hummock near the battlefield. I marked it with a stone.” He shuffled behind his counter. “If you’d like, someday, once this damned banishment ends, I’ll get my daughter to teleport us out there. It’s a few days’ ride from an elven town on the edge of the swamps.”

“Your daughter?” Cyrus looked at him in confusion.

“Larana.”

“Ah.” How did I not know that? “I’d like that,” Cyrus agreed. “Thank you… for telling me.” He left the armorer, who did not seem upset at an end to the inquiries.

Late one night, after returning Windrider, his favored horse, to the stables after a long patrol of the plains, Cyrus entered the foyer to find Andren waiting with an ale in hand. “She’s back,” he muttered nonchalantly.

“What?” Cyrus said with a start. “Where?”

“Where she always is when she’s among us unwashed masses,” he said with a subtle nod toward the lounge.

Cy’s eyes followed Andren’s nod to where Vara sat in the far corner of the lounge, without her armor, staring out one of the windows with a book in her lap, unopened. He crossed the ground between them and stood behind her.

“Cyrus,” she said, staring at his reflection in the window.

“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m well.” When she turned to him, the look on her face did not match her words. “Yourself?”

“Just got back from a long patrol.”

She studied him. “I trust I haven’t missed anything terribly important, such as us catching the raiders?”

“No.” He stared out the window. “We found the remains of more convoys in the last week, but still no sign of our mysterious bandits.”

“I spoke with Alaric. He’s asked me to lead patrols as well, beginning tomorrow morning, early.”

“I’m leading one then as well,” Cyrus replied with a glimmer of hope. “I’m heading north. You?”

“Southwest. Toward Aloakna.” Her voice remained neutral and her eyes met his but revealed nothing. “I should turn in. Thank you for breaking my reverie; there’s no telling how long I might have been staring pointlessly out that window if you hadn’t interrupted.”

“You’re welcome, I think,” he said, unsure of what else to say.

“Goodnight,” she said, picking up her book and crossing various rugs that dotted the stone floor as she moved toward the foyer.

“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice a whisper.

For the next weeks, frustration grew heavy in the halls of Sanctuary. Cyrus spent upwards of sixteen hours per day on horseback, riding around the southern plains, searching for any sign of the raiders. On the rare occasions he did see Vara, it was in passing in the stables as she was either leading a patrol out or coming in. She greeted him cordially on all occasions but they never had a chance to speak.

The weeks of banishment turned into months, as the winter winds swept down the Plains of Perdamun. Far too temperate for snows, the plains received a liberal dousing of cold rains that settled over the open lands for days at a time. Almost four months since the day of banishment Cyrus found himself on a patrol in the early spring evening with Terian at his side. The grounds were still wet from heavy rain and the horses hooves could scarcely be heard as they journeyed through the quiet night.

“The rain may work to our advantage,” Cyrus said to the dark knight. “Our foes are more likely to leave obvious tracks, they’re less likely to hear us approach – perhaps we’ll finally get lucky.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Davidon: I get lucky all the time. Speaking of which,” Terian said with a grin, “what is going on between you and Vara? Every time you pass in the stables…”

“Nothing,” Cyrus replied. “She gave me a kiss on the cheek then disappeared for a week and since then we haven’t had a conversation that’s lasted over two minutes.”

“How long do you really need? Anything worth doing can be done in less than two minutes.”

Cyrus pulled back on the reins. “I’ve heard that’s your philosophy in many areas.”

“Ha ha,” Terian replied without mirth. “In all seriousness, why don’t you be as direct in speaking with her as you are with your sword in battle?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you since we got back from Purgatory – what did you do after you left Sanctuary last year?”

“I told you,” Terian said, tension in his voice rising. “I wandered the lands.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it –” Cy began.

“I don’t.”

“All right,” Cy agreed without argument. “But if you ever need to talk about it –”

“Please don’t say anything else,” Terian said with a bowed head. “You’re making me feel like we’re about to bond, and I’m a dark knight, which means I’m supposed to project an aura of danger. Bonding really interferes with that.”

“I see.” Cyrus thought about the knight’s words. “You probably shouldn’t wisecrack so much; it undermines that ‘danger’ aura you’re supposed to be projecting.”

“Davidon,” Terian said with an air of annoyance, “there are some sacrifices I’m not willing to make in my career as a dark knight, and giving up being a loudmouth smartass is one of them.”

“What about –” Cyrus was interrupted by Terian holding up a hand. The dark elf pointed to his ear, concentrating, and without warning spurred his horse into a ninety degree turn. Holding up his hand in a signal to the hunting party following them, Cy took off after the dark knight with the rest of his group close behind.

In the clouded night he could barely see Terian as the dark elf cut across the long grasses of the plains at high speed, galloping into the night. Ahead, Cyrus could hear the smallest noise above the beating of hooves, a noise that grew louder the longer they rode.

Screams. Of pain and terror.

Terian pulled the reins of his horse, too quickly for Cyrus to stop. He charged past the dark knight and burst onto a dirt road. Scattered wagons littered the ground around them and one last scream cut off as Cyrus jumped from his horse. Figures moved through the wreckage of the caravan. Too dark for his human eyes to discern features, Cyrus chased the nearest with a sword as it darted around the edge of a wrecked wagon.

Cyrus turned the corner and swung his sword, making unmistakable contact with the figure’s upper arm as it slid away behind the wagon and into a group of the raiders, all too dark for Cyrus to see. A grunt from the figure he had been chasing told him his attack was more than a grazing blow. He raised the sword again, prepared to leap forward when something hit him in the side, knocking him into the wagon he had just rounded.

Cyrus reached out in the direction of his attacker and grabbed hold of them in his gauntlet at he fell. He dragged his assailant down with him as a flash of light exploded in the air around them – a blue glow that lit the wagons and cast the face of his attacker in stark colors. His jaw dropped as the angular lines and pointed ears gave way to the sharp teeth. Yellow eyes stared back at him.

An orb of teleportation shot in front of him and a clawed hand reached up and grabbed it before he could react. His assailant disappeared in the flash of the wizard’s spell, leaving Cyrus flat on his back in the middle of the wrecked convoy, shocked into silence.

How? How is this possible?

Terian rounded the wagon, followed by Martaina and Thad, weapons drawn. “Did they get away?” When Cyrus did not move or respond, the dark knight dropped to a knee and pulled him to a sitting position. “Where did they go? Did you see them?”

“Yes,” Cyrus whispered. “Yes, they got away – and yes, I did see them.”

“My gods, man, don’t keep us waiting – who the hell was it?”

“It was… a goblin. There was a raiding party… of goblins… in the Plains of Perdamun.”

Chapter 30

“I am telling you,” Cyrus said in a defiant tone that filled the Council Chambers, “it was a goblin. A gods-damned goblin!”

“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Terian said with an air of quiet skepticism. “It’s that you’ve been having nightmares about goblins for months, your best friend got killed by them and you’ve been riding a horse sixteen hours a day, every day, for months with no break and lots of time to think. If I were you,” the dark elf said with an unmistakable – and uncharacteristic – air of sympathy, “I’d likely have seen a goblin too. But it was awfully dark out there. No moon, no starlight because of the clouds…”

“I saw it when the wizard cast the teleportation spell! An orb of teleportation parked itself in my face, between mine and his, and he was this close to me!” Cyrus moved his open palm to a position just inches from his nose. “I don’t care if it was a goblin, a dark elf, a troll or Pretnam Urides, at that distance and with the light of a teleportation orb, I know what I saw, and it was a goblin!”

Alaric sat at the end of the table, fingers steepled. “We were unable to resurrect any of the victims of the attack?”

“No,” Terian said with a shake of the head. “We’re so light on healers, we didn’t have one with us. Curatio was south with Vara’s group, Andren was with Niamh’s group and Vaste was…” He turned to the troll.

“Vaste was tired,” came the reply from the green-skinned healer. “I had just gotten back from riding for 36 hours straight, and when you’ve got my frame –” the troll’s hands rested on his ample belly – “you eventually have to eat something.”

“They’ve started doing something new,” Cyrus said, voice hushed. “In the last few convoys we’ve found, they’ve dismembered the bodies to prevent resurrection.”

“Yuck,” Niamh opined.

“How?” J’anda leaned forward with grim interest.

“Decapitation,” Terian replied. “The raiders are keeping the heads.”

“Yuck more,” Niamh said, face skewed with a look of disgust.

“What now?” Vara sat back in her chair, eyes on the Ghost.

Alaric stared at his gauntlets. “I, for one, believe that Cyrus may well have seen a goblin. Unfortunately, without a body, we have no evidence. Reikonos and the other powers will have difficulty believing that goblins are responsible for these assaults, especially since Enterra is far from here and goblins traditionally keep to their cloister.”

The Ghost shook his head sadly. “If we were near the Confederation’s Riverlands or the Gnomish Dominions, it would be no difficulty believing that these attacks are goblin-related. Since we are many months of travel on foot from Enterra and goblins have no magic users for teleport…”

“They’re as likely to believe us as if we said the Goddess of Knowledge came back from the dead and did it,” Cy finished bitterly. “But they are using teleportation spells. And we have a goblin wizard in our own ranks.”

“Indeed,” Alaric said, hand moving to his mouth in pensiveness. “We should send for Mendicant to ask some questions about goblin involvement in this.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Niamh said, pushing back from the table. Alaric nodded and she slid through the door.

“So you believe me?” Cyrus asked Alaric.

“I am open to the possibility,” the Ghost said. “However, there are many questions to be answered, and we must have evidence if we are to clear our name. This is, of course,” he continued, mouth curling downward in displeasure, “in addition to the other unpleasant duties in front of us.”

Cyrus looked at the Ghost in mild confusion and turned to find Terian and Vara sharing his look. Curatio’s eyebrow was raised.

“While you were gone,” J’anda answered for Alaric, “one of our members asked to address the entire guild tonight at dinner in regards to our current crisis.”

“Who was it and what about?” Curatio stared straight ahead.

“One of the applicants that joined us after Ashan’agar,” J’anda said. “Ryin Ayend – a druid if I’m not mistaken. Human.”

“I know of him,” Curatio said. “He’s a good druid.”

“Perhaps one of us should have a conversation with him?” Vaste suggested. “To get a feel for his topic?”

Alaric shook his head at the end of the table. “We have never inhibited our members from speaking their minds, even when the consequences are not pleasant.”

“What do you think he’s going to say, Alaric?” Terian stared at the Ghost.

“I suspect that he will discuss the proposal to merge with the other Alliance guilds – the one we have shelved for the last four months.” Alaric’s gauntlet clanked as he made a fist. “I think he will bring up the topic of paying our way back into several of the cities now that we have the means to do so, and he will make mention of the fact that three hostile armies still circle our location, able to strike at any moment. I suspect, in short, the worst, and will be pleased by any result less than that.”

“It’s nice to see you’ve set your expectations at a manageable level,” Vaste said with a nod. “We don’t have to stifle him – but wouldn’t it be nice if we had an officer talk to him first to see if these are his intentions?”

“I will not stop any of you from doing so,” Alaric replied, head bowed as he studied his gauntlet. “But I reiterate that I do not want his right to speak to be squelched in any way.”

The door opened as Niamh returned with Mendicant. She escorted the goblin to an empty seat next to J’anda at the round table and took her seat. Alaric wasted no time. “Mendicant, during last night’s patrol Cyrus became entangled with one of the raiders and before it vanished using a wizard’s orb of teleportation, he claims to have seen a goblin.”

Mendicant receded in his seat. “It wasn’t me. I was with Vara’s patrol at the time!”

Alaric exchanged a look with Vara, who nodded. “That wasn’t the reason we called you here, but thank you for vouching for your whereabouts. Our question pertained to the idea that goblins would be involved in attacks here in the plains.”

“Oh.” Mendicant’s eyes glassed over for a moment and his lips began to twitch. “Spellcasters among goblins are not tolerated nor trained in the Imperium because of the royalty’s love of strength above all.” He receded further into his chair, a gesture Cyrus thought odd until he realized it indicated embarrassment. “I am the only goblin wizard that I know of. And the idea that the royalty would send an expedition this far from Enterra, well…” He hesitated. “…it doesn’t make a great deal of sense.”

“I saw a goblin. I would swear it right now even if you demanded my life were I wrong,” Cyrus said with total conviction.

“It could be an outcast, like me,” Mendicant suggested.

“I saw the outline of several of the others; they were the size of goblins as well,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.

“It would be rare to see more than one or two goblin outcasts at a time,” Mendicant said with deference to Cyrus. “Coupled with the idea of a goblin wizard it becomes… impossible.” He looked around the table at the officers. “Goblins pull off secret attacks of this type, even down to the complete lack of evidence regarding the attackers afterward – but they are limited to human and gnome convoys and villages that sprinkle the areas around Enterra. This is far from the empire, several months journey for an armed force of goblin warriors,” Mendicant finished. He bowed his head to Cyrus in a gesture of supplication.

“You need not fear my wrath for disagreeing,” Cyrus said to the goblin. “You know your people and the points you make are well taken. But I say nonetheless, there was at least one goblin with the raiding party last night and likely more.”

“Could they have been dwarves?” Mendicant asked. “Dwarves have captured some of our number and could be using a goblin to advise them on attacking with stealth.”

“You think one of your warriors would betray their people and work with the dwarves?” Alaric looked down the table.

“Unlikely,” the goblin said, bowing his head. “But the Dwarven Alliance is far to the north of us, and not nearly the enemy that the Gnomish Dominion is. If the Imperials of Enterra were of a mind to raid convoys, they could find them much closer to home and I see no means for them to acquire a wizard without outside involvement,” Mendicant said with a note of regret, unable to look at Cyrus.

The goblins continued to stare at his lap. “As we have no alliances or ties to the outside world, that seems unlikely. If there was a goblin involved in this attack, I would guess it to be a rogue rather than an effort sponsored by the Empire.” He bowed his head. “I am sorry, Lord Davidon.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Mendicant,” Cyrus said softly. “You speak the truth. But I know the truth of my eyes and though it defies explanation, I know that I saw a goblin.”

“We come back to a search for evidence,” Alaric sighed. “We are no closer to proving our innocence, even if we had seen a hundred goblins slaying every convoy from here to Prehorta. No,” he said with great finality, “we will continue on our present course until we find evidence – not only testimony –” he held up a hand to Cyrus – “but something firm that we can take before the Council of Twelve and the King of the Elves.”

“And the Sovereign of Saekaj?” Niamh suggested.

“That will not turn out favorably, regardless of evidence,” Alaric replied. “Let us go – and if you intend to have a peaceful discussion with this Ryin Ayend, now would be the time,” he said with a gesture toward Vaste.

They broke, Mendicant scurrying to the door and holding it open for all of them. “Mendicant,” Alaric said gently, “there is no need, brother. We are here to serve you, not vice versa. Thank you for your time today.”

“Oh,” said the goblin with an embarrassed nod. He did not relinquish the door, but bowed. “Thank you, Lord Garaunt. Lords, Ladies,” he said, bowing to each of them in turn.

Alaric sighed as the goblin left. Cyrus had made it out of the chamber without a word from Alaric when he felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. He turned to see Vaste staring down at him. “Let’s go,” the troll said with a jerk of his head toward the stairs.

“Go where?”

“To Reikonos. I’ve had my eye on this exquisite pair of leather boots, and I saw a cuirass last week that would look just fabulous on you!” The troll rolled his eyes. “To talk to Ryin Ayend – where else?”

“Oh,” Cyrus said in surprise. “I thought maybe you were serious about the Reikonos thing for a second.”

“I don’t fancy the thought of fighting my way through a wave of guards right now, thank you, and certainly not so that you can solve your fashion woes.”

Cyrus frowned. “I do not have ‘fashion woes’.”

“Please,” Vaste said with an aura of impatience. “You wear black all day, every day. I’m not the most in-tune with style, but even I know the monochromatic look is not in vogue.”

Cyrus looked down at his black armor with a tinge of self-consciousness. “Why do you need me to come along to talk to this Ryin?”

“Because I need someone less intimidating than I am.”

“Shouldn’t you ask one of the women? Like Vara?” His frown deepened as Vaste laughed. “Maybe Niamh. I meant Niamh.”

“Let’s go.”

They descended the stairs and found Ryin Ayend in the lounge, surrounded by five of the newer members Cyrus recalled from the recruiting trip that had carried him across a good portion of Arkaria. There were three humans, a dwarf and a dark elf sitting around the druid. Vaste caught the attention of Ryin. “We’d like a word,” the troll told him.

“All right,” the human said with a nod.

“You want us to come with you, Ryin?” the dwarf sitting across from him watched Cy and Vaste. “In case they try something?” The dwarf’s chest puffed out, an indignant look on his face. Some of Ryin’s other associates sat forward, hands lingering near their weapons, or in the case of spell casters, hanging free.

“We’re guildmates, toerag,” Cyrus said to the dwarf with a welling sense of rage. He looked at the others. “What exactly do you think we’re planning to do? Rough him up? Kill him? Say unkind things about his mother?”

The dwarf deflated. “You can never be too careful,” he murmured, his hand moving away from his weapon and creeping nonchalantly to his shoulder, where it sat as he pretended to scratch himself.

“Can we have a word in private?” Vaste emphasized, staring down at Ryin.

“Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of my friends,” Ryin replied, looking up at Vaste with the frostiest eyes Cyrus had ever seen.

“Fine,” Vaste said. “We want to know why you want to address the guild tonight.”

“I need to speak,” Ryin began. “There are issues that need to be addressed in Sanctuary. Things are broken.”

“We’re a guild that’s been operating for twenty years without difficulty. You’re here for six months and you think we need fixing?” Vaste’s face turned a dark green shade, darker than the leaves of the trees. “Thank the gods you came along to fix us, then.”

“You cannot look at the situation Sanctuary is in and claim that all is well,” the druid replied, voice raised.

“Fine, fine,” Vaste said, taking his voice down a notch. “What… things… are not working in Sanctuary in your… opinion?” The last word came out as a sort of muttered curse.

“Let us not even address the fact that spell casters get treated worse in this guild than in any other guild I’ve been in –” Ryin began.

“It must be tough, being treated equally with the meatheads that use swords and maces,” Vaste interrupted, words dripping with sarcasm.

“Every other guild accords certain privileges upon those who are blessed with the gift of spell casting, in acknowledgment of their value – preferred looting rights, gold bonuses –” Ryin ticked them off on his fingers, one by one.

“I recognize that spell casters are rarer than those of us who fight with weapons –” Cyrus began.

“In a normal guild, 1 in 10 of their members would be a spell caster,” the druid said, voice heated. “Here, it’s easily 1 in 20.”

“And out there in the non-guild world, it’s 1 in 1000,” Vaste said, sounding bored. “You want more money and preferential treatment because you can wave your fingers and make the trees dance?”

“The spell caster Leagues – the Circle of Thorns, the Commonwealth of Arcanists, the Healer’s Union and all the rest – are a 5,000 year old tradition,” Ryin said with a glimmer of pride. “The Society of Arms and Wanderers’ Brotherhood didn’t even emerge until 2,000 years ago, and only then because warriors and rangers wanted to elevate themselves to the same level of importance that spell casters enjoy! They don’t even have to learn from those Leagues; they can be taught outside them, such is the lack of sophistication for their teachings!”

“So you want to be treated better than your guildmates because people who lived before you established fancy clubs that taught you everything you know?” Vaste nodded, expressionless. “Makes sense. You’ve certainly earned favorable treatment, based on that argument.”

The druid reddened. “That wasn’t even my original point. You interrupted me before I could make it, sidelining us into this discussion.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vaste replied, voice dripping with a mock-apologetic tone. “Please, let us discuss something outside your raging elitism. What did you intend to talk about tonight – other than how you’re brutally mistreated and forced to stay in a dungeon room while the warriors have wine and dance and song every night, and women delivered to their palatial quarters by the dozen?” He turned to Cyrus. “How was the wine and dance and song last night?”

“Not as good as the dozen women.”

“This is going nowhere,” Ryin stood, face red.

“Why don’t you just make your point?” Vaste bent down to look the druid in the eyes.

“Fine,” Ryin spat. “We’re banished from our homelands, and we have a way to solve that problem. The leaders in our Council have refused. We have hostile armies circling us like vultures around a dying soul, waiting for gods know what to attack and destroy us. We have patrols that have operated for months without ceasing, trying to prove our innocence in a futile search –”

“It occurs to me,” Vaste said with a low rumble, “that these patrols are voluntary, and I haven’t seen you on one.”

“It would be easy for you to think me a whining coward,” Ryin Ayend said, glaring at the troll with a fire in his own eyes. “But I have been on patrols every day for the last four months and will continue to do so until they are called off. If you don’t believe I am, ask Niamh; I ride with her every day.”

All eyes in the lounge now turned to the argument going on in their midst. “We have a way out. We could either pay the fine ourselves and work to redeem our own name, or we could merge with the Alliance and let Goliath pay the fine and use the merger as an opportunity to bury the disgraced Sanctuary name and start anew.” Ryin must have sensed Cyrus and Vaste bristle at the pairing of ‘Sanctuary’ and ‘disgraced’ because he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and waited before speaking again.

“I am not admitting guilt,” Ryin said, determination filling his eyes. “I know we have had nothing to do with these attacks. But that doesn’t change the perception of the rest of the civilized world that we are responsible. And our own guildmates –” he pointed at the three humans sitting with him – “can’t even go home right now because of events that are within our ability to control!”

His voice became impassioned. “Every day we delay costs our guildmates beyond measure. Jesha.” He pointed to one of the humans, a glum looking young woman. “Her father is on his deathbed in Reikonos, and she cannot go to him because of this banishment.” He pointed to another human, a scared-looking boy who was barely old enough to be in Sanctuary. “Corin has not seen his parents in six months, the longest he has ever gone without renewing these family ties. And Yeral –” his finger swiveled to the dark elf in his group – “his wife is in Saekaj and he cannot go to her and see his newborn son.”

Cyrus spoke up. “I feel for their plight – every one of them. But you are wrong. To pay our way out of this would be to admit guilt for something we had no part in. There is no disgrace on the Sanctuary name right now but that which we would bring by cowering before the bullying powers of the west, and paying them a toll like you would pay a bandit on a bridge to avoid a fight.”

“That is pride!” Ryin said, pointing at Cyrus. “That is akin to the highborn who watches a lowborn get pummeled by thieves but won’t involve himself because he’s afraid his robes might get dirty!”

“Strange metaphor for an elitist to use,” Vaste commented.

“I feel the pain of those you call brothers and sisters,” Ryin said with a sneer, ignoring Vaste’s jibe. “I sit down here every night while you sit in your high-and-mighty ‘honorable’ Council and hear none of the heartache and separation and loss that your guildmates feel.”

The druid composed himself, wiping the emotion from his face. “Change is coming. The moment will soon arrive when you in the Council will be forced to accede to our wishes – to take the actions necessary to remove this banishment – or we will find new leaders. Either from within Sanctuary, or from without.”

Ryin Ayend returned to his seat. A smattering of applause filled the lounge, and grew louder as Cyrus and Vaste left and entered the foyer. Cyrus looked back to see a swarm of guildmates huddled around Ryin, who was talking to them while casting a look over his shoulder at the retreating officers.

“That went well,” Vaste said as they entered the stairwell.

Cyrus grunted. “I don’t think he liked your attitude.”

“I have no time for anyone who claims to represent the people and then tries to rally for additional rights and privileges to be bestowed on a group that includes them.” Vaste stopped, bringing Cyrus to a halt a few steps above him. “That sort of elitist thinking may start soft, but it ends with one group thinking they’re better than the other.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds innocent enough to me. If other guilds treat spell casters better because they’re rare, it makes them a valuable commodity.”

“There are two problems with that thinking,” Vaste argued. “First, if they’re better than us, what does that allow? Because for someone who buys into that ‘superiority’ thinking and takes it to an extreme, it becomes perfectly acceptable to kill an inferior – because they looked at me funny, because they got in the way of what I needed, or because they opposed me and my ‘superior’ thinking. You marginalize them, write off their opinions as stupid and worthless, and say the same about them as people. Or the other problem,” the troll said with an odd expression, “is that you begin to treat people like a commodity.”

Cyrus stood back, looking at the troll with mild surprise. “You feel strongly about this.”

Vaste nodded. “I saw the same stupid thinking in my people the last time I was there. It nearly got me killed.”

“How?”

“You know how the last war played out, right?”

Cyrus nodded. “We studied the basics at the Society of Arms. The trolls started a war of conquest, invaded the Elven Kingdom, then they crossed the river Perda and began raiding human territories, which united the humans into the Confederation, who joined the elves against them and the trolls got well and truly shellacked.”

“I’m not surprised the Society of Arms teaches a different version than I learned growing up,” Vaste said with a healthy dose of irony. “However it started, yes, the trolls began invading other territories, enslaving people and all that. They were doing well as I understand it. Until just after the Dismal Swamp Campaign.”

“I’m somewhat familiar with that one.”

“Quite right,” Vaste acknowledged. “Just remember, my father died there too. Anyway, your people were losing. Dismal Swamp was a rout; the elves and the humans were running scared, retreating on all fronts until your dear father killed our most powerful shaman. Even still, the troll armies could have marched all the way to Saekaj and not met any resistance until they came up against the dark elf army. The human and elven forces were broken by that battle.”

“Fine.” Cyrus nodded. “I’ve heard it differently, but what you say may be true. So what happened after Dismal Swamp?”

“The Sorceress Quinneria, more powerful than any other, raised an army of magic users from the guilds, paired them with the tattered remains of your human and elven armies, and proceeded to kill almost a million troll warriors in a series of twelve pitched battles that annihilated most of our fighting force.” Vaste smiled. “Not that I’m sorry you won, because living under troll rule is not pleasant.”

“This relates to superiority how?”

“After their defeat, attributed to Quinneria’s unfair use of magics versus their infinitely more powerful warriors –” Vaste beat on his chest with exaggerated emphasis – “the trolls turned against all magic users, wiping out or exiling our few surviving shamans, claiming spell casters as cowardly and inferior – that they have to resort to nasty trickery because they are weak. Any magic user in our homeland is marked for death.”

“The scarring on your face, from your last visit to your homeland, when you were recruiting for us…”

“Yes,” Vaste said with a nod. “Not only did I represent a foreign influence, something that’s not popular, but while on the streets I watched two children playing our version of a kid’s game – fighting – and one accidentally killed the other. I resurrected and healed him and was soundly pummeled for it by a mob that included the child I’d just saved.”

His expression hardened. “They feel they’re superior in some way to spell casters. I don’t care if it comes from some true, deep-seated feeling of inferiority; it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen what that sort of thinking can do, and I despise it.”

“So you mocked and berated a druid who was expressing the mildest form of that elitism?”

Vaste shrugged. “Mighty trees start as seeds. Same thing with elitism.”

“We need to warn Alaric,” Cyrus said. “So we can prepare a response to what Ryin’s going to say.”

“I’ve already got a response to Ryin.” Vaste climbed the stairs, passing Cyrus as he watched, waiting to hear what the troll was going to say. A string of profanities reached the warrior’s ears, ending with a a suggestion that was anatomically impossible for a human.

“Well, that will certainly salve the situation,” Cyrus muttered to himself.

Chapter 31

Dinner that night was a grim affair at the officers’ table. The rest of the Great Hall was filled with hushed anticipation, eager voices cutting through the heavy atmosphere that had surrounded every meal for weeks. Cyrus looked around, realizing that as the banishment had dragged on, the Great Hall had become less and less festive with each passing day. Meals were eaten in near-silence; but the impending speech by Ryin had spurred the first sign of life in weeks.

“Are you ready to respond to his bullshit?” Vaste said, leaning toward Alaric, who sat in silence, not eating.

“I am prepared to address the concerns of our brother and guildmate,” Alaric said with a note of rebuke. “Can any of you say that you have not had the same doubts about this course of action?”

Vara bristled. “I don’t think any of us at this table have ever considered a merger with Goliath as anything other than lunacy.”

“Other than that, can any of you say his concerns are not valid?” Alaric surveyed the gathered officers. “That you would not be willing to pay any price to go home again?” He steepled his fingers as he leaned back in his seat. “Were it not such a black stain upon our honor, I would have paid the damned gold already.” He shook his head. “I think it is time.”

Alaric stood and conversation in the hall abated. “My brothers and sisters, this evening one of our guildmates would like a chance to address us about matters of great concern…”

Cyrus did not wait to hear the rest of the introduction. He stood as Alaric complimented Ryin as a thoughtful, concerned member of Sanctuary. Cyrus passed between tables and heard the scattered applause fill the hall as Ryin stood. He did not look back.

He exited the Great Hall, intent on heading up the stairs to his quarters but stopped at the doors from surprise. Standing in the middle of the room, enormous pile of boxes and bags around her, was Erith. Perplexed, he crossed the distance between them. “What in the hells is all this?” he asked without preamble.

She looked at him crossly. “It’s my luggage. Where do I put it?”

Cyrus was nonplussed. “Outside, where it came from, I would suggest. Perhaps the stables if you must.”

“Ha ha,” she said, not laughing. “Seriously, where do I go?”

“I’d pick a spot on the map,” Cyrus quipped, “that is uniquely you, that encapsulates your personality and the feeling you bring people. I’d say the Great Dismal Swamp. What do you think?” She glared at him. “Realm of Death? Darkness? Realm of Evil?”

“No one even knows if there even is a Realm of Evil,” she scoffed. “And you should be nicer to me; it’s not every day you have a first-rate Healer apply to join your guild, especially in these times.”

“Excellent,” he said with glee. “And where is the first-rate healer of whom you speak? I would be most eager to meet him or her.”

“Would you like me to leave and apply to Goliath, smart ass?” Her glare increased in potency.

“No, no. I’m sorry for teasing you.”

“No you’re not. Don’t apologize if you don’t mean it.”

He thought about it for a moment. “You’re right: I’m not sorry; I so enjoy mocking and derision.”

“I do too, which is the only reason you’re forgiven.” She smiled.

“Give me a minute,” Cyrus said, turning to look back into the Great Hall, hearing cheers for Ryin as the druid finished speaking. From the brief snatches that Cyrus had heard, it had all the markings of an impassioned plea similar to what he’d heard from the druid in the lounge. “I’ll show you to the applicant quarters.”

“You know,” she said, puffing up, “most guilds, even those not currently under embargo and banishment everywhere in the known world,” she emphasized the last part, “would be ecstatic to have a new healer – especially a princess that is truly a joy to be around. They might go out of their way to kiss her ass a little. You know – even more than they normally do for spell casters.”

Cyrus shook his head, not even deigning to look back at her as he stared into the Great Hall. “Everyone’s treated equally here, princess.”

She deflated. “So I don’t get my own suite?”

The applause filling the Great Hall was loud; maybe louder than anything Cyrus had heard since the Purgatory victory. He watched Alaric take his feet to respond. The sun sank below one of the windows to the side of the foyer and the light in the room dimmed as the sun’s rays faded. Torches began to light of their own accord around them.

“That’s amazing!” Erith said, staring at the walls. “How do they do that?” Her voice carried an awe that Cyrus couldn’t help but chuckle at.

“Magic.” He strained to listen as the Ghost began to speak.

“You’re an ass.”

“Come with me,” he said, walking back toward the Great Hall. He entered the room, sliding along the back wall with Erith behind him as Alaric spoke. He watched the Ghost, helmet on the table behind him, eye focused ahead as he seemingly prepared himself for what needed to be said.

“I hear the words that Ryin Ayend speaks, and I cannot deny their truth. These are troubling times, and anyone with family in the lands from which we are banished would be heartless if they did not long to see their own kin.” His hands met in front of him, clutching onto each other, fingers intertwining. “I feel the pain inflicted on every one of you, and it troubles me.

“These last twenty years we have seen peace in these lands. A lack of war and strong economies among the powers meant prosperity for the peoples of Arkaria, and that has flowed to the southern plains. In recent years I have seen this area grow in population and watched as its people have built lives from what was empty ground.

“But the world changes on us,” Alaric continued. “We have seen turmoil brought to the southern plains. We have seen traders and soldiers lose their lives without cause or provocation and we have seen the powers of western Arkaria align against a most unfortunate enemy – us.

“They would force us into a corner because they have no strength here and because they – three armies between them! – have failed to stop the raiders.” Alaric looked around the room, moving from person to person, reaching their eyes, looking into their souls. “Three governments, three armies, one supposed purpose – to find the guilty souls responsible for these attacks – and they have found not one shred of evidence to link anyone to them – let alone us, the ones they have blamed.”

His hands broke apart. “They have exiled us from our homelands, separated many of us from loved ones and demanded – without reason or provocation – that we make restitution. As though draining our treasury and insulting us were not enough, they would consider our payment to be admission to a crime we have yet to be proven guilty of! They stain our honor with these accusations, smearing our name to the world.”

He pointed to Ryin. “His words ring true. All we need do to end this pain and anguish, at least for now, is to bow to the governments that have scorned us, kiss their hands, swear allegiance once more, and promise that should they ring a bell in the future, we will come running to fight in whatever pointless conflict they intend to start on that day.”

Alaric’s brow creased, his countenance turned stormy. “I would not have it so. I did not start Sanctuary with the intention of turning us into a mercenary band, doing the bidding of whatever master offered us the greatest reward. We are our own masters! The name Sanctuary is meant to stand for something greater than the nations around us! Something greater than the other guilds, greater than our Alliance!

“We stood against the Dragonlord, racing to defeat him when no others understood the threat. We stand now at a crossroads, where the armies of the three greatest powers in Arkaria play games around us, charging ever closer to each other – and war.”

“Pay them then!” Ryin’s voice cut through Alaric’s, interrupting him as the druid took his feet. “Pay them and they would go away, and this war you speak of could be averted before it begins!”

Alaric smiled. “It is not that simple. Convoys brought their armies here. Conquest will keep them here. Foolish men have their eyes set on expanding their empires and this is the first step. Pay them all they demand and more, there will still be war, whether it begins here or elsewhere. And you will have the stain of blood on your hands as well as the stain of treachery forever upon your honor. Our integrity stands upon what we do, what we say and who we are. If we pay their blood price, we admit we are thieves, and we consign our names to the shame of being the bandits who start this conflict.”

“Even with all this in the balance,” Ryin said, looking at the Ghost with a sort of numb shock, “you will still not consider paying them? You could end this!” the druid shouted, a betrayed look on his face. “Your stubbornness and refusal to yield will leave us with nothing!”

Alaric stared him down. “Except our honor. Every one of you must decide if looking your families in the eye now is worth never being able to look another soul in the eye ever again without being associated with a guild of admitted thieves and bandits.” He straightened. “There is no course for me but to clear our names – and then you can see your families with your heads held high, knowing that when things were at their worse you did not yield to the lies that others might tell and believe about you.”

“And how long should we continue to be pariahs, Alaric?” Ryin’s face was laced with bitterness. “What if we never find the raiders? How long are you willing to stand out here in the cold, with everyone arrayed against us? How long do you expect they’ll let us sit here, with their armies growing every day? They’ll come for us, come to slaughter us – and then it won’t matter if we know the truth of our honor and goodness, because no one will be alive to tell it!”

“Very well.” Alaric bowed his head. “There is a motion before the Council now, as you are all aware. It is for a merger with the Alliance guilds. It will be before you – the members – to decide whether to accept it or not.” He held up a hand with two fingers aloft. “In two months, you will have the right afforded every member of Sanctuary, to guide the direction of our guild. It will be your choice, not the Council’s, that will determine how we proceed.”

“Why not now?” came a voice from the crowd, not far from Ryin. “We want to go home now!” A chorus of agreement rang across the hall.

Ryin looked across the crowd at Alaric. “No. Two more months is acceptable,” he said to the crowd surrounding him. “We may not be able to wait forever to see our families, but two months would be worth it and more – if we could prove ourselves innocent.”

Ryin looked down at the human next to him, whose name Cyrus remembered to be Jesha. “I am sorry, but he is right. And for two months…” Ryin’s eyes fell to the floor. “I am sorry, Jesha.” Cyrus could hear her sobbing from the back of the room.

“Very well,” Alaric said from his place by the officer’s table. “The next two months will decide the fate of our guild. Patrols will double. Officers… we are in Council in five minutes.”

“I just leave an Alliance guild that’s kowtowing to Goliath and I walk into another one,” grumbled Erith from beside him. “You damned sure better find these bandits.”

“Maybe with your help, princess.” He dodged past her and out the door, beating the crowd. He caught Andren’s eye as the Healer left the Great Hall.

“I would not want to be an officer right now,” Andren said.

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because in a couple of months, Malpravus could be leading us, and then my only trouble would be trying to find a new guild to join,” Cyrus fired back, ignoring the flinch from Andren. “I need you to show Erith to the applicants’ quarters. I have to get to a meeting.” The healer nodded and Cyrus left them, following Alaric into the stairway as the Ghost passed.

“All or nothing, Alaric?” Cyrus grimaced. “I don’t like it. I’d rather they elected a new Council from within Sanctuary and used our funds to pay the fines. At least then Goliath wouldn’t own us.”

“Goliath would own us, regardless,” the Ghost replied, taking the stairs more quickly than Cyrus. “Malpravus has many spies in our ranks; he would ensure it in whatever manner possible. The new Council’s first act would be to approve the merger.”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Because they are treacherous rats and it is likely they would waste their time in such weaselly matters,” came Vara’s strident voice, echoing up the stairwell from below Cyrus. He looked back to see her and the other officers following close behind.

Alaric halted mid-stride, bringing Cyrus to an abrupt stop behind him. “Are all the officers here?” He looked down the spiral of the stairs. “We need not venture to the Council Chambers. You have all heard what I have promised. It is now incumbent on us to deliver. Double patrols. Our healers will not sleep much in the next weeks, and for that I apologize.”

“I’ll sleep plenty,” Vaste said from below. “But it’ll be on my horse.”

“We have two months to prove our innocence or we face something too unpleasant to contemplate,” Alaric said, words echoing. “We will make every effort, exhaust every possibility.” His face hardened. “If this is to be the end of Sanctuary, then let it not end with anything other than a fight to the last.”

Chapter 32

A month passed in the blink of an eye. Ryin Ayend had held to his word and been on patrol every day without fail. Some of his followers had not been so pleased at the bargain the druid had struck; Jesha disappeared within the week, along with the glum youth Corin. Shortly thereafter the dark elf Yeral had gone missing. A handful of others trickled out the door openly, renouncing ties to Sanctuary, while others disappeared under the cover of darkness.

The departures continued for the first two weeks after the confrontation in the Great Hall and came to a halt with the arrival of ill tidings. Dinner, returned to the deathly quiet affair it had been before the night of Ayend’s speech to the guild, was interrupted by the squeak of both doors to the hall opening with violence. Thad Proelius made his way through the scattered tables with unusual urgency.

Alaric rose to meet him; Thad was posted to the detail that stood watch along the walls that ringed Sanctuary. For the first time since Cyrus had been part of the guild, the great gates that had always stood open were now closed against the possibility of attack. Thad cut through the Great Hall, stopping at the officer’s table and whispering into Alaric’s ear.

The Ghost remained stoic. Those who knew him well could read his anger in the clenching of the fist he held at his side, but his face gave no sign.

“The Council of Twelve in Reikonos holds Jesha, Corin and a half dozen others that have fled in the last fortnight,” he announced. “They will be executed unless we pay our fines and admit guilt.” He looked through the crowd, gauging reaction.

A voice in the back shouted, “Pay them!” and the call was taken up by another. Cyrus felt a pain in his gut.

“No,” a calm voice cut across the hall. Ryin Ayend stood. “It was agreed that we would wait two months before taking action. Their intemperance pains me, but they acted of their own accord.” The rumblings of the crowd settled. “We wait. We hunt. The day will come when we will make our peace with Reikonos and Pharesia, but it is not today.” The druid seated himself.

“I appreciate your patience,” Alaric said with a cool demeanor. “This is an intolerable state of affairs; Reikonos even holds captive several of the individuals who renounced all ties to us, refusing to acknowledge their renunciation.” The Ghost shook his head and returned to his seat as well; the rest of the meal passed in silence.

The next two weeks were hard. Word came that Yeral and other dark elves had been executed in Saekaj. The captives in Reikonos remained imprisoned but survived. No word had reached them from Pharesia about any captives after the first month had passed, and Cyrus found himself on a long patrol with Andren and Terian one day, curious about it.

“The King of the Elves is loath to upset his youngest daughter by detaining her guildmates,” Andren suggested.

“Doesn’t he have countless daughters?” Terian asked.

Andren shifted the reins of his horse to one hand so he could reach his flask with the other. “He does. But Nyad is the youngest, and that means much in the Kingdom.”

“That would count for nothing in Saekaj,” Terian said. “The Sovereign has more bastard children than he knows what to do with.”

Andren raised an eyebrow. “He cares nothing for his heirs?”

Terian snorted. “He hasn’t got any heirs. The Sovereign will never step down.”

“So he’ll die on the throne?” Andren asked.

Terian did not answer and looked away.

There had been no sign of raiders in the weeks since Cyrus had spied the goblin in the wrecked convoy, but his dreams had been haunted by the red eyes, green skin and shrill voices of the Emperor and Empress in his nightmares, as well as whispers and shouts of “Gezhvet!” The face of Narstron came to him, bloody and wrecked, whispering to him.

He always awoke in a sweat, crying out. Cyrus knew it was loud enough to wake all the officers, but they remained silent about his nighttime difficulties. He rarely managed more than a few hours of sleep a night and his dreams began to bleed into his waking thoughts.

Avenge me.

The three of them led the patrol up a hill and looked down upon the plains. The green grasses waved in the early summer winds and far in the distance, there was movement on the horizon. Cyrus drew Windrider’s reins, pulling him up as the other two halted.

“An army,” Andren said, squinting. “Looks like the elves to me.”

“We’ll be heading the opposite direction then,” Terian replied, sour look pasted on his face. “Having all these armies running around is interfering with our ability to hunt bandits.”

“You could go ask them nicely to clear out, but odds are they’d take that as proof that we’re the bandits they’re looking for.” Andren grinned as he took another swig.

“I doubt they think they need any more proof, so best we avoid them and the gallows they’d take us to,” Terian answered back. “West?” he asked Cyrus.

“Agreed,” the warrior replied. He’d kept quieter on this ride than any other. As if the hellish dreams of Narstron and the goblins weren’t enough, his days were spent obsessively focusing on finding the raiders. He rode hard every day, thinking of goblins, and went to bed every night dreaming of them.

They moved west and rode in silence for an hour or so before catching sight of another group on the horizon, smaller this time. “Vara’s patrol,” Andren said after a studying the horizon. “Looks like she’s got Niamh, J’anda and Vaste with her.”

Cyrus frowned and exchanged a look with Terian. “Niamh and Vaste were supposed to be on their own patrol.”

They rode closer, and as they approached, Cyrus could see that Andren had been right. “Hail,” Niamh said with a smile.

“Hi hi,” said Vaste across the short divide between them. “There’s a really big army of humans coming from the other direction, and we all know how they feel about trolls.”

“That they’re worthless and smell bad?” Terian asked with a smile.

“Just another area where you have it all wrong. Elves, they’re the ones who smell bad.”

Cyrus chanced a look at Vara, who was looking back at him with a blank expression. “I do not smell bad,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh… I never said you did. It was Vaste.”

“You looked at me accusingly.”

Cy reeled. “I… looked at you… I wouldn’t say it was accusingly. And in my experience, you have a lovely scent. Of course, I rarely get close enough to tell.”

Her eyes narrowed. “As it should be.”

“So the human army pushed you in this direction?” Cy asked.

Her wary look gave way to one of frustration. “Indeed. The noose tightens, it would appear. They may be reluctant to ride us down and confront us, but their patrols bring them closer to Sanctuary – and each other – day by day.”

“Which brings an interesting question,” Andren said. “Why haven’t they attacked Sanctuary yet, if they think we’re responsible for this mess?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Terian said with a snort of derision. “Either their governments don’t really believe we’re guilty or they’re still hoping we’ll pay. Or both.”

It was Andren’s turn to frown. “Then why haven’t they attacked each other yet, if it’s like Alaric says and the humans want war?”

“They want justification,” Vaste answered. “To be able to parade their grievance in front of the world, cloak it in righteousness, to be able to say that they didn’t start it but they’ll damned sure finish it.”

Andren shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a few months and we’ve yet to see a war. I’m starting to think they’re all just blustering.”

“They are, make no mistake,” Vaste replied. “But you cannot have this many soldiers this close to each other and so far from a brothel and not expect a war to start.” Laughter echoed from the ranks around them as well as from the officers.

“I suspect our patrols in this direction will be fruitless for the rest of the day,” Cyrus said. “Perhaps we should reassemble at Sanctuary and head out again on the morrow.”

“I agree,” Vara said, pulling the reins of her horse, a beautiful black stallion that belonged to her, not Sanctuary. “Heading in this general direction is sure to mean a visit from one army or another.”

They readjusted their course and set their horses at a trot toward home. Cyrus found himself riding next to Vara, a little apart from the rest of the patrol. “So,” he tried to break the ice, “how have you been?”

She had been looking straight ahead, but upon his question she froze and her head turned toward him, a look of incredulity on her face. “Is that the best you have? ‘How have you been’?”

He flushed. “You’re not the easiest person to talk to, you know that?” He began to lead his horse away but her voice stopped him.

“Wait,” she called out. “I am sorry,” she said with a flush of her own, scarlet creeping up to her normally white cheeks. “I should perhaps be more kind to you.” She looked down. “It is difficult for me to avoid the verbal jousting, as well you know.”

“Yes, you’re like one of those creatures that has spikes jutting out in all directions from its body.” He struggled for the words. “What do they call them?”

“Dragons?”

“That too,” he agreed, “but I meant something else. Anyway, my point is –”

“That I wall myself off from attempts at conversation, friendly inquiries and the like,” she interrupted, staring ahead once more. “I know this. It is intentional, after all.” She turned her head to look at him, and her armor glinted, distracting him from the earnest expression on her face. “Let us perhaps try and have a pleasant conversation on our way home, shall we?”

“I’m game if you are.”

“Very well.” She seemed to straighten in her saddle. “How have you been?”

He chuckled. “You just remonstrated me for asking that question.”

An abrupt exhalation of impatience from her was followed by a swift rolling of her eyes. “Yes, very well, I did. Fine, have it your way.” She paused. “So, how are your nightmares treating you? Still terrible, I would presume, judging by the screams that keep awakening me at odd hours,” she snapped, annoyance consuming her words.

He paled for a moment but did not respond. Her fiery look softened and her eyes widened and sunk downward, looking forward again. “I apologize,” she said after a moment. “That was unworthy.”

“Yeah.” His voice was strangled; her brusque mention of his nightmares brought on the guilt he felt for his failure to avenge Narstron and his discomfort at awakening the officers quartered around him. “I don’t think today’s our day for having a conversation.” He urged his horse forward, away from her.

“Wait.” A note of pleading entered her voice. “You still long for revenge on the goblins, do you not?”

He did not look back. “I do.”

“It is as I feared. You cannot bow to this craven desire. It could consume you at a time when we have more need of you than ever before.”

“These attacks and the goblin involvement have given me more reason than ever to want to finish them as a power.”

“Don’t you see?” The note of pleading had increased. “This is a reckless path. If we go to Enterra, it should be to prove our innocence – if what you say is true.”

“I always hear that kind of talk from people who have the least reasons for wanting revenge on anybody.”

Vara’s eyes hardened. “I assure you that I have more reason for revenge on someone than you could possibly imagine, but I have deigned not to claim that vengeance, as much as I would have liked to at times.”

His jaw set, eyebrows arched and eyes narrowed. “Then I guess you’re a better person than I am. Because I’m going to kill them. As many of them as I can. I will kill the Empress and Emperor, and anyone foolish enough to guard them.” He urged Windrider forward, widening the distance between them.

Looking back, he saw her bow her head. She did not speak to anyone for the rest of the ride home.

Chapter 33

When they returned to Sanctuary, Cyrus ran up the steps without speaking to anyone. He gathered his most commonly used belongings as well as the bust that he hung his armor on and packed a bag. Carrying the bust under his arm and the bag across his back, he returned to the foyer to see Erith enter with another patrol.

“Ran into the dark elven army,” she said with a scowl. “What the hell is that?” She pointed to the bust, a figure of wood, carved from head to upper thigh, with no facial features and an androgynous body.

“It’s for hanging my armor.”

“Oh.” Her face split wide in a grin. “I thought maybe it was a practice dummy.”

“For what?” Cyrus said. “Swordplay?”

“Nah,” she said with a nasty grin. “I heard you’ve been lonely. Figured you’d need some companionship.”

He raised an eyebrow as the bile of annoyance returned from his earlier conflict with Vara. “If so, I think I could find something prettier and more womanly than this.” He held up the faceless figure.

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “You’ve been rejecting Aisling over and over; maybe womanly isn’t a concern for you.”

His eyes flicked up. “It is. Which is why I’m not interested in you.” He turned, pushing the bust back under his arm.

“Don’t be jealous!” she called from behind him. “You couldn’t handle all this!” He turned to see her waving at herself while gyrating slightly.

“Nobody could handle all that –” he mimed her waves, pointing at her – “for very long.” He turned the corner and headed down the stairwell to the dungeons.

They were twice as dark as he remembered from the day he had ventured through with Alaric. The twists and turns led him through a host of paths, running against locked doors, until finally he found himself standing before the cell block where he had first met Fortin. A long hallway lined with cells stretched before his eyes, all the doors open. A rumble greeted him from inside Fortin’s chamber. “What brings you down here?”

“I’m looking to switch quarters,” Cyrus admitted, peeking his head inside the rock giant’s room. “Are there any that don’t have grates looking up into other rooms?”

“The cells,” the rock giant said. “But those are not nearly so entertaining.”

“I need some peace and quiet, where I can’t hear anyone and no one can hear me.”

Fortin waved toward the end of the hall. “Down there, past the big locked door. Those are all under the meeting rooms toward the back of the building; no grates, no noise.”

Cyrus left him, walking to the far end of the hall, passing an ornate set of double doors with a heavy bar across them and a series of locks. Cyrus picked out a cool, dark cell as far from Fortin as he could find. He pulled the key from the door and pocketed it, distributing his belongings around the room.

The walls were of the same dark stone as every other room in the guildhall, but most of the cells he had seen were considerably darker. This one had several lamps scattered around and looked bigger than the other cells. It had a sink and privy, to his relief. He lay down on the cot after unpacking, and could not hear any noise – not of the bells that rang in half-hour intervals during the day to mark time, and not a whisper of dinner, in spite of being certain it was being served above.

The next two weeks dragged, as Cyrus felt himself become isolated from everyone around him. He spoke less and when he did, it was with few words. When not on patrol, he had Larana send his meals to the dungeon cell. She delivered them herself, always with a beseeching look and not a word spoken.

In spite of the best efforts of the lamps, the cell was a gloomy place, perfectly reflective of his mood. The tinge of the stones was burned into his mind by the end of the second week.

There had been no Council meetings since the day that they first learned that former members of Sanctuary had been arrested and imprisoned. Alaric was scarcely seen, but when he was his mood was somber. An Alliance officer meeting had been scheduled, much to the dismay of the Sanctuary officers, and with no other option, Alaric had agreed with greatest reluctance to host it.

“Let us be clear,” the Ghost snarled to the messenger in the Great Hall. “This is our guildhall, and it will be on my terms – none other.”

The messenger had nodded and disappeared in a blaze of energy. The day of the meeting came quickly, only two weeks before the guild vote on the merger. Patrols had been hemmed in tighter and tighter by the movements of the armies around them, cutting their effectiveness. Even an attacked convoy was a rare sight in the small area left to them to monitor.

Cyrus entered the foyer on the day of the Alliance meeting in the hour before dinner to find Malpravus and the other Alliance officers standing before him. Elisabeth and Cass from the Daring, as well as Carrack, Tolada and another figure stood behind Malpravus – a ranger, dressed in a cloak and tabard of green and a helmet of solid metal that covered his face from top to bottom with the only holes being two narrow slits for the eyes.

Orion. In Sanctuary.

The sight called forth a rage in Cyrus. His hand found his short sword and it was unsheathed in a second. He lunged even as Elisabeth screamed “NO!” and Cass moved aside to let him pass with a slight smile. Carrack and Tolada moved to block him from Orion, while Malpravus stood to the side, hands wrapped in his sleeves.

Avenge me.

Tolada moved forward, warhammer unslung from his back, but Cyrus kicked him, hard, before he could strike, smashing his nose and face, blood spurting everywhere as the dwarf crumpled to the stone floor, limp as a boneless fish.

Cyrus’s sword came up of its own accord as Carrack raised his hand, fire already pulsing in his palm. The slash caught the wizard mid-wrist and sent his hand flying across the room in a low arc as he grasped the stump with his other and fell to his knees with a cry. With no conscious thought, Cy whipped his sword across the wizard’s neck, slitting his throat. A gurgle came from beside him as the elf fell to the floor.

You and me, now. His eyes burned into the masked ranger, who had yet to move. Cyrus brought his sword up and forward with a slash that Orion dodged, but only barely. “Looks like you need a longer sword,” came the familiar voice. “It would appear that your time with Sanctuary has not been kind to your wallet, if that is all you can afford.”

With a visceral cry, Cyrus plunged the sword forward in an impaling blow, but it glanced off the ranger’s doublet. SHIT! I forgot his gods-damned chainmail! He tried to bring the sword around for another slash, aiming for the gorget that was wrapped around the ranger’s neck but a dagger at his throat brought him up short.

“This is unacceptable, Cyrus!” Elisabeth’s voice hissed in his ear. Her blade at his neck held him back. He felt her other knife poke him in the small gap between his backplate and greaves. “You’ve attacked three Alliance officers and killed two of them!”

“Let me go and we’ll see about a trifecta.” His words came out in a low growl.

She threw him forward with a hard shoulder check that brought him to his knees, then stepped between him and Orion. He looked around to see a small crowd of Sanctuary guild members watching in shock. Terian and Vaste were holding back Andren, who was straining against them to no avail. The remnants of a broken glass of ale lingered on the ground at his feet.

A chuckle from behind caused him to whip his head around. Malpravus stood, unmoving, in the same place he had been when Cyrus began the attack. “I see that today we receive the full hospitality of Sanctuary.” His sleeves parted to reveal his skeletal fingers, steepled. His grin was from ear to ear. “I should have expected nothing less from anyone who would stoop to attacking convoys for plunder.”

“Cyrus!” The voice, like a thunderclap, filled the air around him. Alaric entered the foyer, Vara at his side. Her expression was tight and his unreadable, but they were both focused on Malpravus. The Ghost did not look at him as he passed the prostrate warrior. “You are excused from this meeting. Go elsewhere.”

Curatio and Niamh followed in the wake of Alaric and Vara, and the Healer was already casting the resurrection spell. His eyes found Cyrus’s, and he bowed his head in deep disappointment, flicking his gaze from the warrior. Cyrus tasted bitterness in his mouth and saw Vara cast him a contemptuous glance for only a second before looking away.

Cy pulled himself to his feet and left the way he had come. He passed the stairs to the dungeons at a fast pace, then felt as though he nearly flew down the hallway to his cell and slammed the door with a fury that echoed through the dungeon. He locked the door from the inside and did not answer any of the insistent knocks that came in the next few minutes and hours – not Terian’s, nor Andren’s, nor even Vaste’s. He had almost fallen asleep when a small but insistent tapping came from the other side of the door.

He ignored it for several minutes, until an exasperated sigh caught his attention for its unfamiliarity. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Dear boy,” came the voice of Malpravus, strong and clear through the heavy steel door, “there is only so much discourtesy I can take from you in one day without becoming deeply offended.”

Chapter 34

Cyrus walked to the cell door and swung it open. Standing before him was the Goliath Guildmaster, face impassive, dark robes covering him from neck to floor. “What do you want?” Cyrus asked, voice slow and curious.

“What does anyone want, really?” the necromancer asked, brushing past Cyrus to enter the cell. “For some, the answer is riches; for others, power. For me, it’s to answer needs. And you,” he said with a tight smile, “have a clear need.”

Cyrus stared at the dark elf who had invaded his room almost without permission. “And what is that need?” He folded his arms in front of him.

The necromancer’s eyes glistened. “Rumors have reached even my ears about your difficulties lately, dear boy. Trouble sleeping? Guilt eating at you for the loss of a dear, dear friend?”

Cyrus grew still, holding himself back with every bit of restraint he possessed. “What of it?”

Malpravus walked the length of the cell, looking it over. His eyes fell upon the sword in the corner, scabbardless and waiting for enchantment. His eyes looked it over hungrily, then flicked back to Cyrus. “When it comes to matters of death, you should consult an authority. And there is no greater authority about death,” he said in a lilting tone, bringing his fingertips to rest, palms down on his chest, “than I.”

Still Cyrus did not move. “My friend has been dead for over a year. So it would be a bit late for a resurrection spell, even assuming you were capable of casting one.”

The necromancer’s eyes danced and he made a tsk-tsk sound. “I see you still have grave misunderstandings about what I am capable of. Allow me to explain.” Malpravus reached into his robe and pulled out a small object, no larger than a peanut. It was red and glistened even in the light of the lamps. “This is a soul ruby. Very rare items, these,” he said with a smile, “and thus more valuable than you could imagine.”

When Cyrus did not respond he continued. “With the proper spell, performed by a necromancer, of course,” he said with something just short of delight, “this can bring back the dead, regardless of how long they’ve been departed.”

Cyrus stared back at him, unimpressed. “I’ve seen you bring back the dead. I’d sooner die a thousand deaths myself than have that fate befall my friend.”

“No, no, no.” Malpravus’s voice was as smooth as poured honey. “I agree: that would be a terrible way to live. A soul ruby,” he said, smile returning, “brings them back as they were,” he said with a flourish. “All their memories, their skills, their knowledge. A bit cold to the touch, it’s true, but a soul ruby truly does bring them back.”

Malpravus’s hand remained outstretched, the soul ruby dangling. Cyrus’s eyes were locked on it, suddenly hungry. What if it worked? Cy thought. What if I could bring him back, just as he was?

“I see you’re considering my offer.” Malpravus’s smile danced.

Cyrus’s face grew guarded again as he remembered who he was speaking to. “There’s nothing that comes without a price from you, Malpravus. What do you want in return?”

If the necromancer was offended, he did not show it. “That’s a wise perspective, dear boy. You recognize that there’s always a price, always a trade – power for power, this for that.” His smile faded. “I have made no secret of what I desire. This Alliance could be the most powerful guild in all of Arkaria, and dare mighty things that the ‘big three’ could not fathom.” He licked his lips. “But just as here, power has its price. I cannot create the most powerful guild in Arkaria without the support of Sanctuary’s officers – at least one of them.

“It is also no secret, I hope,” the necromancer said, “that I consider you to have great potential. Great ability. You could be the finest warrior in all Arkaria, and a great leader. I would cultivate that. I would help you grow, in the right directions, assist you in growing more powerful.” His hand still stretched out, the ruby shining red against his blue palm. “All I require is that you help me bring Sanctuary into the fold, and I will make you an officer of the new guild in return – and you can be my General – my Warlord.”

“And if I don’t?” Cyrus looked evenly at the necromancer. Caution prickled at the back of his mind, even as he continued to move his gaze back and forth from the Goliath Guildmaster’s face to the ruby in his outstretched hand.

The necromancer’s expression never changed at Cyrus’s words. “Now, dear boy,” he whispered, “do we really need to reflect on the possibilities of that answer?” His hand closed around the ruby, slowly pulling his arm away, cradling it as though it were an item of incalculable value.

Something in the way he moved, in the way he pulled his hand back into the sleeve, the darkness of the cell casting shadows on the fabric of the dark elf’s cloak spurred a memory in Cyrus. It was the nightmare again.

The black cloaked figure emerged from behind the thrones of the Emperor and Empress, gliding across the floor… the Emperor pulled Terrenus, the Hammer of Earth from his belt and handed it to the figure in black…

… with blue hands…

… and the figure pulled the Hammer away, cradling it… just like Malpravus did with the soul ruby.

“Someone in the Alliance,” Cyrus whispered. His eyes were glazed over.

“Give it some thought, dear boy, and let me know your answer.” Malpravus turned and slid from the cell, down the hall. Cyrus did not even bother to watch him go. The warrior’s mouth was dry. Thoughts of what he had done earlier in the foyer held him back from attacking the necromancer. I can’t prove it, he realized. But now I know who betrayed the Alliance to Enterra. And if he betrayed us to the goblins once…

Chapter 35

Cyrus sat on his cot after Malpravus left. His head was spinning and a raw feeling of annoyed disappointment filled him. I knew there was a traitor in the Alliance. Of course it was the most evil bastard I’ve ever met. He has no qualms about using the corpses of his guildmates to save his ass; why would he have a problem with betraying every member of Sanctuary to death?

He felt his hand shaking. A moment later he sat up, realizing that he was not shaking from anger, but because the cell was moving. A crashing of footfalls could be heard coming down the hall and his door burst open, revealing the face of Fortin, peering in at him.

Cyrus jumped to his feet. “You know, it’s rude not to knock.”

The rock giant looked at him, expressionless as always. “Knock knock,” he said.

“What do you want, Fortin?”

“It’s dinnertime,” the rock giant said, squeezing himself through the door. “Since there’s nothing to entertain me in the foyer, I came to find out what the necromancer wanted.”

Cyrus’s head was still spinning from his conversation with Malpravus. “He… he offered to bring back my friend.”

Fortin’s rocky eyelid slid up a few inches. “Narstron? Yeah, I heard that.”

Cyrus paused and looked at the rock giant in surprise. “You heard all that? From down the hall?”

“Rock giants have exceptional hearing.”

Cyrus sat back down. “How did you know Narstron’s name?”

“You don’t sleep quietly.”

“Oh,” Cyrus said with chagrin. “I’m sorry if I disturb your sleep –”

A giant, craggy hand dismissed him. “When I’m sleeping, your nightmares, loud as they are, would not wake me. I hear them if I’m not sleeping. I’ve had those kinds of dreams before.”

Cyrus looked away, focusing on the stones in the wall. “It’s not something I really want to discuss.”

“Fine,” Fortin said. “Any more kisses from the ice princess?”

Cy’s head snapped around. “Why would you call her that?” He thought about it for a beat. “Never mind.”

He felt his mind drift back to that simple motion from Malpravus of drawing the ruby back to him, and saw again the similarity to the hand in Enterra, drawing the hammer to the cloaked figure. He saw the red eyes of the Emperor and Empress, felt the raw bile of hatred fill his throat and mouth, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill them all, Malpravus as well.

Glee filled him as he remembered driving Tolada’s nose into his face, of slitting Carrack’s throat. He wished he had been able to knock Orion to the ground, to throw off that ridiculous helm and plunge his sword into him over and over. And then turn, and strike down Malpravus with a single blow, sword slicing through the cloak – why did everyone keep telling him he should avoid vengeance when it would be so sweet and satisfying?

“I sense that our conversation is not first priority in your mind right now,” Fortin said.

He looked up in surprise at the rock giant, one of the greatest warriors he’d ever seen. A moment of insecurity crossed Cyrus’s mind. “Let me ask you something, Fortin,” he began. “I think you’ll understand better than anyone.”

“Proceed,” came the rumbling answer.

“I’ve been wanting… revenge against those who killed… my friend,” he managed to choke out, unable to say Narstron’s name. “Everyone keeps urging me against revenge.” He shook his head and stood. “I’ve listened, so far, but the cry for vengeance does not leave my mind; I can’t even sleep without dreaming about it.” He turned and placed his hands against the walls, felt their coolness and roughness against his palms. “If it were you who were wronged, you’d pursue vengeance at all costs, wouldn’t you?”

A rumble of amusement filled the cell. “No.”

Cyrus froze and turned back to the rock giant. “No? Why not?”

A moment of silence filled the air. “I am the youngest brother of five in my family. My oldest brother was like a father to me after my real father died. He taught me to fight and when he entered the service of the Dragonlord, I followed him with my other three brothers. All of them with the exception of my oldest brother were killed in the last battle with Sanctuary in the Mountains of Nartanis.”

The rock giant paused. “My oldest brother was killed a year before when you pushed him into the lava while he was guarding the bridge to Ashan’agar’s den.”

Cyrus turned and felt a cold, gut-clenching sensation of warning slip through him as he faced the rock giant. His sword was not in easy reach; by the time anyone could get to them, he would be a smear on the walls; permanently dead. “And you don’t want revenge?” Cyrus asked, frozen in place, eyes fixated on the blade leaning against the wall between him and Fortin.

“Stop eying your sword like I’m going to splatter you across the dungeons; it’s insulting.” The rock giant guffawed, a deep, guttural sound akin to stones clacking together. “We were the sworn guardians of a dragon that everyone in the world wanted to kill. It’d be a fool who didn’t know the risks when they swore their loyalty and chose their path. I do not regret my service, and nor would my brothers – any of them. You are an adventurer, someone who dares death every day. You should understand.”

“I don’t think I do.” Cyrus sat back on his cot, head bowed.

Fortin took one massive stride to the door, where he turned to face Cyrus. The rock giant’s eyes glowed in the darkness as he spoke. “If you charge willingly into death and send others to it, you shouldn’t be upset when it comes for you the last time. Revenge for my brother would be pointless. He’s dead. The master we swore to serve is dead. They cannot help me; they cannot teach me. Sanctuary can give me a path. If I were to strike all of you down – and be assured I could – my desire for short term satisfaction would have cost me the infinite possibilities I could have pursued instead.”

Fortin cocked his head at Cyrus. “Let’s say you could kill the goblins, kill the traitor in the Alliance that you tried to earlier in the foyer – yes, I heard and saw it – you should have lunged harder on your first attempt – and even bring back your friend with that necromancer’s help. Only one of the three actions really matters. Everything else is just getting in the way of what you’re trying to do.” The rock giant ducked and stepped through the door. He turned back and looked at Cyrus before leaving. “Unless, of course, you want to spend every day for the rest of your life plotting and scheming at killing goblins, traitors and other people who have offended you in some way.”

“What if it didn’t take that long?” Cyrus said. “What if it could be over soon? Then it could be done. And I could… find peace.” He exhaled, heavy air rushing out of his nostrils and mouth as he sagged.

“Hell of a way to live your life, even for a short period of time,” the rock giant said. “I’d hate to think of what you might cost yourself in the meantime – expeditions, a guild, even ice princess kisses.” The loud crash of the rock giant’s steps faded as he retreated down the hallway, leaving Cyrus to his thoughts.

Alaric called them to Council the next morning. It was a short meeting. “We have nothing left to discuss. Malpravus’s intentions are plain; he will use this situation to take our guild. We have two weeks before this happens. Every hand should be ready.”

“I have… an idea,” Cyrus said quietly.

Heads swiveled to him in surprise. Curatio gave him a smile of encouragement, as did Alaric, in a patronly sort of way. “What is it, brother?” the Ghost said with an air of friendship.

Cyrus explained his plan, keeping out any mention of his suspicions regarding Malpravus. I’ll tell them when they’re ready to hear.

“If you are correct,” Alaric said with a nod, “this may indeed be our best chance to catch them.”

Vara had remained silent. “I have something that may help.” She laid a piece of parchment on the Council table. “My father sent this from Termina – it is a shipping manifest and schedule for a convoy that will pass through the southern plains in a week, coming from Termina to Aloakna.” Her eyes slid around the table. “It is ripe for the plucking. With this, we will have a general idea of where it will be and when. We could send a patrol to ride close by, waiting for the raiders.”

Alaric nodded. “I have received similar manifests from acquaintances in Reikonos; unfortunately I have had to dismiss them all as I suspect they are a trap.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you certain that this is not?”

Vara shook her head. “Not certain. But I don’t think my father would betray me; not ever. I explained our plight when last I was in Termina and he sent me word today of half a dozen shipments planned for the next months from his employer. The rest will not happen for several weeks, so this is our best chance.”

“Even if it is a trap,” Terian conceded, “we have nothing to lose.”

“Agreed.” Vaste nodded. “We have two weeks until we’ll involuntarily be forced to admit complicity; we might as well stalk a convoy now.” He grinned. “We could always hit it and make off with the proceeds; at least have some gold to start our new lives with.”

Scattered laughter around the table was brought to a halt by a harrumph from Alaric. “Not funny,” the Ghost said.

“Too soon?” the troll asked with a shrug.

“Very well,” Alaric nodded. “We will continue our patrols at an increased level over the next week, keeping Cyrus’s strategy in mind. Should we not achieve the desired results, we will follow this caravan that Vara’s father suggests.” A grim look crept over the Ghost’s face. “Trap or no, it may be our last chance to save Sanctuary.”

Chapter 36

The next week went the same as the previous: no attacks sighted, but the armies of the Elven Kingdom, Human Confederation and Dark Elven Sovereignty edged ever closer. By the day that Vara’s convoy rolled through the plains, there were no other options.

“So how do we get past the armies?” Terian said from the wall, looking out with Cyrus at his side.

“We teleport to the portal with our horses,” Cyrus said, looking down at the armies moving in the distance as dusk approached the plains. The armies clashed with the flat horizon, little bumps of darkness against the flat edge of the sky. “And we ride out from there.”

The two of them descended the steps in one of the wall’s towers, then stalked toward the stables. “So,” Terian said nonchalantly, “how’s life in the dungeons?”

“The beds are terrible and when Fortin snores it sounds like Ashan’agar’s den collapsing around me.”

As they crossed the grounds, Cyrus watched as the front doors opened and disgorged a host of members. Every horse was being taken from the stables and every rider would be part of the same patrol. His eyes saw Erith, Andren, Niamh, J’anda, Curatio, Vaste, Nyad and a hundred others. Alaric came last, helm on and sword at his side.

Cyrus waited at the doors to the stable for the Ghost. “Would you care to do the honors of leading us out?”

Alaric’s mouth twisted in a smile. “This is not Sanctuary’s last ride. I trust you to deliver the results we are seeking.”

“I hope you’re right.” He followed Alaric into the stables and watched as the Guildmaster mounted his horse, a gorgeous pure-white mount that looked as though she had never seen a spot of dirt.

Cyrus found Windrider already saddled. Longwell rode up to him, lance in hand. “I took the liberty of making ready your horse, Lord Davidon.”

Cy looked at the dragoon with nod of thanks. “I’ll need you and that lance of yours up front with me if we go charging into battle.”

Longwell nodded and fell into formation behind him. Cyrus rode Windrider out of the stables and through the mass of assembled riders. Ryin Ayend was there, sick look on his face as he sat atop his horse. “You should look more gleeful, Ayend. This may be our last chance to avoid the fate you seem determined to bring down on us – the dissolution of Sanctuary.”

The druid glared back at him, disgust written across his fair features. “If you think I want this guild wrecked, you can go to the hells. I pray to all the gods that we find these raiders tonight, goblins or otherwise.”

Cyrus gave the druid a grudging nod of respect. The patrol formed, officers in front per usual. He nodded at Niamh, who began to cast a spell. A burst of wind grasped hold and shook him, dropping his horse onto the plains, portal at his back. The rest of the patrol was behind him, still in perfect formation. He nudged Windrider into a gallop, heading north.

Vara had made clear the path the convoy was to take. He looked back and his eyes found her, atop her black horse, eyes vacant, staring into the distance. They set a pace that would allow them to meet the convoy, even if it were early. Cyrus sent riders ahead as scouts to report. As night fell, they found themselves on a ridge, looking down at the winding road below, barely visible in the last rays of sunlight.

Vara and the other elves stood forward and Vaste cast a spell on Cyrus, giving him night vision. J’anda shrugged as the troll cast. “It’s easier than handing you one of my orbs of lucense, I suppose.”

Cyrus peered into the distance. The patrol was quiet, as though a grim vigil for Sanctuary were taking place. After an hour of waiting, the scouts returned to report the convoy moving toward them. Minutes later they caught sight of it, a collection of thirty wagons with a few outriders – elven guards and humans mercenaries, well armed. The convoy moved at a slow gallop, wagon wheels bouncing in the ruts of the well-traveled road.

“It’s carrying mostly silks sewn in the Kingdom to be shipped from Aloakna across the Bay of Lost Souls to Taymor and up to the human settlements along the desert and mountains,” Vara said from behind him. “They’ll be easily spooked and I can almost guarantee that they’re more ready for raiders than previous convoys.”

“Good,” Cyrus said. “If they get attacked, it would help us if they could hold them off until we get there.”

The patrol rode down the small ridges, keeping a distance of a few miles from the convoy. “The road goes into a small canyon ahead,” Niamh warned them. “We won’t be able to see them for a minute or two.”

“That’s no good,” Cyrus said. “That’d be the place they’re attacked.”

“I don’t see what you can do about it,” Niamh said.

“I can go through the canyon before them,” Cyrus said as he spurred Windrider to a full gallop. “Longwell, Terian, Vaste, you’re with me; the rest of you split – half the formation ride ahead past the canyon, the other half stay here and keep watch on the entrance.”

Windrider galloped at full speed, the others following behind Cyrus. With a friendly wave, he cut in front of the convoy almost a hundred yards before they reached the canyon and heard the cursing of the outriders. “Sorry,” he shouted over the rattle of the wagons, “I’m in a hurry.”

He raced through the canyon – a short, shallow lowering of the terrain to coincide with an old riverbed before the road turned south. His eyes scanned the walls and rocks for any sign of movement. Seeing none, he relaxed for a moment as he emerged from the canyon on the other side. With a frown, he pulled up the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. “I thought they’d hit them there,” he said to the others as they pulled up behind him.

“Maybe we spooked them?” Terian suggested.

“These raiders are cowards,” Longwell agreed, clutching his lance. “They would likely hide at the sight of an unexpected force.”

Cyrus did not have a chance to reply to the dragoon as a bolt of lightning struck the warrior, coursing through his armor and blasting him clear of the horse. His teeth rattled with the power of the shock and his head ached beyond description. A slow pain spread across his back and he blinked the spots out of his eyes and heard the spooked horses around him.

Another blast of lightning seared the air and Terian flew from his mount, then Longwell. Cyrus watched Vaste jump from his horse, using it for cover against the next blast of lightning, aimed at him. His horse screamed and bucked, but the troll dodged out of the way. Cyrus watched Vaste cast a spell and the scorched skin around Cy’s hands faded to pink.

The convoy was almost to the end of the canyon and the low, guttural noise of voices could be heard. Goblins poured down the sides of the canyon, swarming among the convoy defenders, and another blaze of lightning lit Cyrus’s view, skipping over his head. A fire started, walling them off from the canyon. A figure in a cloak stepped behind the wall, flames flying from his fingers. A wizard, Cyrus realized. Their transportation.

The warrior was on his feet and running across the ground. A whinny caused him to turn his head, revealing Windrider running beside him at a trot. He jumped, landing a foot in the stirrup and swinging the other over as he urged the horse toward the fire. “You’re not a normal horse,” he whispered. Another whinny came back to him and the horse bore down on the wall of flames and leaped over it.

The image Cyrus saw as Windrider jumped was of goblins looking up in awe as he flew through the air toward them. His sword was in his hand, and upon landing he swung, sending foes flying left and right. He rode forward, eyes on the convoy, watching as goblins hauled elves and men off horses. The wizard was at the end of the caravan, cutting off the convoy’s retreat with another fire spell.

The outriders’ horses were spooked, throwing their masters to the ground where goblins were swarming over them. Cyrus rode to the end of the convoy, attacking and killing a half dozen goblins from horseback. He swept around the last wagon and passed the wizard too quickly to bring his sword around. He landed a heavy kick on the wizard’s chest. Though he could not see the face he was virtually certain of the identity of the spell caster. A grunt of pain came from the cloaked body as it tumbled to the ground.

He rode along the side of the canyon, screams of the convoy’s defenders ringing in his ears. Cyrus jumped from Windrider as he reached a concentration of goblins and began to cut his way through. Three goblins blocked his path forward. The first came at him while the other two held back. He dodged a two-handed attack and brought down the pommel of his sword on the goblin’s uneven skull, cracking it and sending him to the ground.

The next two goblins stepped forward, slashing and stabbing. One landed a claw under the armor at his elbow joint; the second glanced off his breastplate. He butted his chest forward, knocking the goblin back a few paces and giving him enough room to swing his short sword to decapitate the goblin’s comrade. He leaned forward and kicked the survivor and the force of his blow lifted the small body off the ground, causing it to carom off a wagon and come to a rest on the ground, motionless.

A warcry came from in front of him as the fire was extinguished by a blast of wind and rain. He could see the forward element of his patrol riding past the first wagons, attacking. A strangled cry came from behind him, and a light filled the air as half a hundred orbs of light shot past him to each of the goblins standing around the convoy. They began to wink out in a flash of light, leaving behind only their dead and wounded.

Cyrus saw a dozen goblin bodies interspersed with the wounded and surviving members of the convoy detachment. “My gods,” came a voice to Cyrus’s right. An elf lay wounded against a wagon wheel, eyes wide in fear, blood trickling down a corner of his mouth. “Those were goblins, I’d swear to Virixia! And… and…” His eyes found Cyrus, who looked down at him. “You stopped them! My thanks, sir! Who are you and where do you hail from?”

“My name is Cyrus Davidon and I hail from Sanctuary,” he said in a calm voice. “My healers will resurrect your dead and assist you and your convoy in getting back on the road. Make for the elven army – my riders will guard you until you reach them. Tell everyone what you have seen today,” he said, fire in his eyes. “Take some of the goblin bodies with you for proof.” He whistled, and Windrider was at his side.

“I will,” the elf promised, eyes still wide. “I will tell everyone. We all will.”

Cyrus climbed back into the saddle and dashed to the rest of the patrol, issuing orders as he came. “Vaste, Terian, stay here and escort the convoy; the rearguard should be here momentarily. Everyone else, you’re with me!” Vara made her way to him, looking him over with unease.

His eyes brushed past her as he looked for Niamh, finding her still on her horse. “You know where to take us.” She nodded, and began to cast a spell. “Longwell,” he said to the dragoon, who had returned to his side, a few of his hairs sticking up, singed from the lightning, “get your lance ready…”

A tornado of wind swallowed him and the patrol, leaving the last remnants of the convoy behind them.

Chapter 37

Cyrus urged Windrider out of the maelstrom that accompanied the teleportation spell. The horse stumbled for but a moment in gaining its footing on the unfamiliar grounds and whinnied as screaming filled the air around them.

Behind them, the Sanctuary forces moved forward from the portal, weapons drawn, spells already streaking through the air.

Before them, a horde of goblins squealed at their sudden appearance. The night was lit as the wizard accompanying the goblins raised his hands, magic arcing from his fingertips as he cast a spell.

Cyrus did not even get a cry out before a lance streaked through the air and caught the wizard square in the chest, knocking him backwards, spell energy already dispersing. A smile broke across Cyrus’s face as he watched Longwell pump his arm in victory.

“There is no retreat for them!” Cyrus called to his forces. “Ride them down!” His sword flashed in the light of the spells cast around them and hacked into goblin after goblin. The area around the portal was flat, filled with volcanic rocks and dirt, and in the distance, volcanoes spewed magma in the air and pooled in the ground.

“So nice to be back in the Mountains of Nartanis,” Terian breathed as his axe felled two more fleeing goblins. “It seems like we always find a victory here.”

“Except once,” Cyrus muttered. “They’ll flee towards Enterra!” he shouted. “Kill them here!”

Screams and whinnying filled the night as they gave chase to the goblins. The goblins’ meager efforts to defend themselves resulted in several wounded horses, but the only injuries to Sanctuary riders came when a pair of newer members were thrown from their mounts. Cyrus swept down on the goblins responsible before they could do any more harm.

Within minutes, the battle was over. Goblin bodies lay strewn across the ground and Cyrus sat atop Windrider, viewing the carnage with a feeling of odd dissatisfaction.

Niamh picked her way over to him. “You guessed right. They did head for home after the attacks.”

Cyrus nodded. “Now we’ve got some proof. A surviving convoy that can tell what they’ve seen, a host of goblin corpses and even a surviving conspirator.” He turned to look at the body of the fallen wizard. “If we choose to resurrect him.”

The other officers cantered over on horseback, Longwell and Andren in tow. “Where’s Alaric?” Cyrus said with a frown.

“He was with the rear guard,” Vara replied. “He’s back at the canyon. Any idea who our mystery wizard is?”

“Yeah,” Cyrus admitted. “I’m pretty sure.”

“Did you see him in the battle?” Niamh asked.

He shook his head. “No. Just a guess.”

The druid looked at him in amusement. “You’re guessing? Would you like to bet on it? Because I’m betting you can’t figure out which wizard, in all Arkaria, is under that cloak.”

Cyrus smiled even though he didn’t feel it. “I’ll bet you a hundred gold.”

“And you didn’t see him?” Niamh said, skeptical.

“On my honor, I have not seen his face nor anything but his cloak.”

“I’m in,” Longwell said.

“Me too,” Niamh agreed. “Unless that’s too rich for you?”

“That’s fine. Any other takers?” Cyrus asked, looking over the crowd of raiders milling around him. He looked to Andren. “You?”

“Nuh-uh.” The healer shook his head. “You’ve burned me with these tricks before.”

“It’s called perception.”

“It’s called me losing money, and I need every piece of gold I can get.”

Cyrus looked to Vara. “What about you?”

She looked at him evenly. “I wouldn’t care to bet against you – in this or any other matter.”

A small smile crossed his face at the memory of provoking her to an outburst to win a bet. “Because I change the odds?”

“Because you’re likely right.”

“All right,” Niamh interrupted. “All bets are in, so who is it?”

Cyrus smiled. “Carrack from Goliath.”

“That horse’s ass?” The druid looked at him in astonishment. With a flash of her red hair she dismounted and crossed the ground, Longwell a step behind her. Cyrus led Windrider at a slow canter toward the body, Vara and Andren behind him.

Niamh and Longwell stood over the corpse, having pulled back the hood. “Impossible,” Niamh gasped. Her red hair suddenly matched the color that her cheeks brought forth, anger filling her eyes.

“Damn,” Longwell breathed. He dropped his lance in surprise.

Cyrus looked down from Windrider into the still face of the Goliath wizard, eyes bulging from his head. “You just couldn’t resist taking a shot at me, could you? That was a mistake; if you’d kept it impersonal you’d have knocked out our healer first; he wouldn’t have been able to heal me and you would have made a clean getaway. If you were really smart, the minute you saw us you would have teleported out, but now you see what vengeance… gets you…” His words drifted off and he felt a sudden dryness in his mouth.

“Indeed,” came a whisper from Vara.

“We should get out of here,” Cyrus ordered, voice suddenly hoarse. “Gather up half a dozen of those goblin corpses and Carrack’s body, and let’s get back to Sanctuary.”

His orders were carried out and within minutes they were dissolving into a teleportation spell. The light faded and Cyrus found himself on Windrider, in the foyer.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to park your horses outside,” came the amused voice of Alaric from behind them on the balcony. Cyrus looked around to see the members of Sanctuary assembled in a ring around them, having moved aside when the light of teleport appeared. “We were just having a guild meeting in regards to what our evening’s efforts revealed.”

“Wait ’til you see this, then,” Niamh said with a nod at Longwell, who threw the corpse of Carrack into the middle of the floor. The wizard’s dead eyes stared up at the ceiling.

“I don’t understand,” came the voice of Ryin Ayend. Cyrus looked back to see the human staring, eyes dull.

Cyrus dismounted. “We suspected Malpravus was pushing the governments toward the action they took; now we know why.”

“I don’t get it,” Ayend said numbly. “Why would… our ALLIES… do such a thing?”

“It was the only way that Malpravus could ever get Sanctuary to merge,” Niamh said. “He brought all this down on us just so he could take over our guild.”

“None of you were there but Alaric and Curatio,” Cyrus began, “but in my first Alliance officer meeting, Malpravus proposed to merge the Alliance guilds. Alaric voted it down, as did the Daring, but with us disgraced I’m sure he found it easier to get the Daring to move.”

“Vultures,” Vara said under her breath.

“This is beyond circling the carcasses of your enemies, waiting for them to die,” J’anda said from his place on the balcony. “We’ve known Malpravus was capable of some evil things, but he’s been bringing goblins into the Plains of Perdamun, killing countless traders and guards on these convoys… all so he can absorb us?”

“And now, the last piece of the puzzle falls into place,” Alaric said from above.

“Not quite,” Cyrus replied. “I didn’t want to tell any of you without proof, but I remembered something from our night in Enterra – you know, the one I’ve been reliving every night for the last year.” His voice turned ironic. “I believe Malpravus was the one who conspired with the goblins.” A muttered gasp of shock filled the hall.

“He’s already conspired with the goblins to kill hundreds of people in an effort to get us banished and shunned from every civilized town in the west, and you all act shocked that he’d have sold us out before?” Vaste shook his head in amazement.

“He’s the one who betrayed us the night that Narstron died – he must have known we’d have at least one dwarf with us, so he played the Emperor and Empress, saying that their ‘gezhvet’, this prophesied harbinger of doom, was coming with us. He collected the Hammer of Earth as a reward –” Cy clenched his gauntlet – “and they killed Narstron thinking he was going to be the death of their Empire.”

Alaric answered with a nod. “It would make sense that he would have ties to them before proposing this scheme. So now the question becomes, what do we do about it?”

Cyrus looked up at the Ghost. “Is this sufficient evidence? If we resurrect Carrack – maybe cut out his tongue so he can’t teleport and heal him when we want him to talk?”

“There are less violent ways to restrain a wizard from teleporting, my friend,” Alaric said with a smile.

“Not as much fun,” Terian added.

“With the word of the survivors, the bodies of the goblins, and Carrack,” Curatio said from beside Alaric, “that will convince the King of the Elves.”

“Even Pretnam Urides would have difficulty ignoring all this evidence, but I would not be surprised if he tried very hard in spite of it,” Alaric agreed. “It might be best to have something more.”

With a sigh, Cyrus looked up at the Ghost. “If there’s any more evidence, it’s either in Goliath’s guildhall or in the depths of Enterra with the Imperials.”

A glisten lit the Ghost’s eye. “Precisely. It would seem unlikely we could storm Goliath’s guildhall, being as it is in the heart of Reikonos, so if you would please… General… make ready the guild for an expedition to Enterra.” Alaric surveyed the room. “We will clear our name – and make warning to all about what happens to those who attempt to stain our honor.”

A low, grinding feeling in Cyrus’s stomach filled him with unease but he looked up at Alaric and nodded, as a cheer filled the hall. At last, I’ll have revenge, he thought with a feeling of intense trepidation – and no excitement.

Chapter 38

Alaric dismissed them after announcing that they would reassemble for the invasion of Enterra in one hour. Cyrus left, wandering downstairs, ignoring the roars of approval at impeding battle that resonated from Fortin’s chamber, shaking the corridor as he made his way to the end of the long, dark stone passage in the dungeons to his cell.

I’ve wanted vengeance on these beasts for almost two years, he thought. Now we’re going… and I don’t know what to think. It’s not as if they don’t deserve it… killing Narstron… killing all those traders… but why? What’s in it for them? I know why Goliath is doing this, but why would the goblins send warriors across Arkaria? He thought again of the soul ruby in Malpravus’s hand, and shook his head. What if it worked? What if I could bring back Narstron?

He stared ahead and his eyes alighted on the sword, the Champion’s Blade, assembled and waiting for the scabbard that would make it whole. He shuffled toward it, almost afraid to approach it for fear that his hopes would be dashed. Last time I died in Enterra. So did everyone else. And Narstron never came back.

He reached down and grasped the hilt; it felt cool to the touch. He tossed his gauntlets aside and felt the pommel, stared at the carving, ran his fingers up to the swordguard, and finally the blade. It was sharp, but heavy, even for him. It was made of material that was stronger than any other he’d seen, but it was not light of weight.

“Reflecting on your impending triumphs?” Cyrus turned to see Vara leaning against the frame of the cell door. Her posture was almost relaxed, something he hadn’t seen from her in a long time.

“Worrying about my impending battle,” he admitted, tying a strap of leather across his back and tucking the sword into it. “In case you forgot, last time we were in Enterra, it did not end in triumph.”

“I have a very clear memory of that night,” she replied, straightening up and tucking her hands behind her back. “We also had a much smaller army at our disposal.”

“They still have us outnumbered ten to one.”

“Which are very bad odds, on an open field of battle,” she conceded. “But in the confined spaces of Enterra, the victory goes to the strongest fighters – which we have.”

“I don’t know,” he said, slumping onto his cot. “We won’t be able to sneak through the gates like we did last time; we have far too many fighters for that.” He looked up at her in surprise. “You didn’t come down to my cell to discuss strategy for the battle.”

She looked at him for a long moment before her eyes flicked down. “I did not. I have all the confidence in the world that whatever your strategy, it will be more than adequate to give us a great victory. I came…” she began with an air of reluctance, “…not to see what you planned to do when we get there, but what you planned for yourself when we come to the end of this. I need to know… if you’re going to let your personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I still want to kill them, the Emperor and Empress. I’d like to wipe out their whole army and disassemble that damned city stone by stone.”

She crossed the distance between them and lowered herself to sit next to him. “I… understand your feelings. I doubt anyone would begrudge you the right to feel that way. But in pursuing your revenge, what are you willing to sacrifice?”

“I don’t understand.”

She leaned her head against the wall behind them, armor making a slight scraping noise against the stones of the cell. “Carrack attacked you against his better judgment, I would think, embarrassed because a lowly warrior had killed him. If anyone else from Goliath had been running that attack party, they would have seen you coming and assumed you had others waiting with you.” She laughed lightly. “Actually, they should have seen you coming and assumed somehow you would crush them regardless of how many people you had with you.”

“Kind words,” he said, still expressionless. “But Carrack had to do what he had to do –”

“But what he did was wrong, don’t you see? It cost him his life – again – and fouled the whole raiding party and their plan in the process! They would have gotten away with it if not for his desire to pay you back for some nonsensical incident that he walked away from with no lasting damage but to his pride.”

She stood. “And that’s what’s happened to you. Your friend died, and it hurt. You felt it, in your guts, in your heart, and it stung. But you know what stung worse? Your pride – that you, the warrior, the strongest man I’ve ever met, couldn’t save him. And that sticks in your craw worse than anything else and leaves you with nothing left to do but strike out at the ones you think are responsible.

“It won’t bring him back – and it won’t make you feel even a whit better. And if you do something stupid while gaining your revenge, something that gets others killed in Sanctuary, I promise you’ll feel worse than you ever did with Narstron, because this time it will be something you could prevent.”

Her words came spitting out at him like howling winds of a tornado. He looked at her in wonderment. “I’m really the strongest man you’ve ever met?”

She froze. “I did say that, didn’t I? Oh, bollocks. Yes, you are.” She paused, and annoyance took root on her face. “I deliver an impassioned speech that’s incisive and cuts to the heart of your character and pain and that is all you got out of it?”

“No,” he said. “I heard the rest, too. And you’re right. Carrack acted foolishly and doomed his whole force because he wanted revenge on me. I promise you, that no matter what else, I won’t put our army in danger for my revenge.”

She bowed her head. “I believe you. I just wanted to make sure you thought about it before going down there.” She paused and looked down at him. “So what is your plan for Enterra?”

A rueful smile crossed his face. “I thought you had faith in my strategy, whatever it might be?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Just because I have faith in your ability to lead the attack does not mean I wish to charge blindly into a mountain filled with goblins.”

“I’ll spell it out for the officers as we’re riding there. I have something important for you to do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Truly? Then I suppose I should prepare.” She turned to leave.

“One more thing,” he said and she turned back. “When you leave, Fortin might ask you if you kissed me.”

She looked aghast. “What?!”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just tell him yes.”

“I already know she didn’t,” came the rumbling from down the hall.

Vara bristled at the sound of the rock giant’s voice. “He heard everything?”

Cyrus shrugged. “Rock giants have unusually good hearing.”

“Our sense of smell is pretty decent too,” came Fortin’s voice. “Did you know she put on a lilac scent before she came down here? I’ve never known her to do that before a battle.”

Vara’s pale cheeks reddened; she was more embarrassed than Cyrus had ever seen her. “Say nothing,” she snapped.

He stared at her and she stared back, and for a moment the silence hung between them unbroken. “You smell nice,” he conceded.

With a snort of fury, she turned and stormed out the door. Down the hall came the short, sharp laughs of a rock giant who had been soundly entertained.

Chapter 39

After a journey of a few hours the Army of Sanctuary was concealed behind the edge of a crater on the slope of a mountain. Inside the crater, jutting up to the mountainside was a keep. Grey stone walls stretched fifty feet into the air above the crater, backing up to the mountain’s sheer edges. It was a perfectly defensible keep, wooden gates standing ten feet tall, all defending a secondary gate built into the side of the mountain.

Cyrus looked down at the walls from his vantage point, hiding at the crater’s rim. “All right,” he announced to the force behind him. “Everyone knows what to do?” Nods greeted his statement. “I’d like this better if we had a battering ram, some siege engines and catapults, but we’ll make do.” A half-smile curled his lip. “Archers, to your places. Vara…” He looked over at her and she nodded, a little uncertainly. “You’ll do fine.”

Her expression turned severe. “I am not worried about my part in this endeavor. I am concerned about you, cannon fodder.” She sniffed and turned away, leaving him with the same half-smile.

He turned back to Alaric, who stood at his side. “We’ll be ready in a moment.” Drawing his sword, he took a moment to look at the Ghost’s weapon, not for the first time. A long, heavy sword, it had runes inscribed along the blade and a detailed pattern carved into the hilt. The pommel was a skull, with black onyx inlaid into the eyes. “I never have asked you about your sword – it’s very impressive.”

The paladin hefted his blade and flipped it, pommel first, to Cyrus. “It is called Aterum. Would you like to try it?”

Cy took the sword by the hilt and swung it in front of him. The blade was perfectly balanced and felt light in his hands. “It’s mystical, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” The Ghost took the blade back and held it at his side. “Your archers are in place, I believe.”

“Vara will be ready in a moment.” Cyrus turned to the army. “Once we get inside, I’ll need rangers to scout down the tunnels ahead of us.”

“I volunteer,” Aisling said, stepping forward.

“You’re not with the archers?” Cyrus asked her.

She gave him a wide grin. “Couldn’t find my bow and arrows. Care to search me for them?”

He looked down at her with a weathered look of resignation. “If you can disappear as well as your bow, you can be our first scout.”

Her eyes lit up. “I accept. And not only can I disappear, I can make other things disappear if you like.”

His eyes narrowed. “I sense a veiled reference. Still not learned our lesson yet?”

She covered her mouth, hiding the wide smile beneath. “I’m a slow learner. I’ll stop now. Thank you for entrusting this duty to me.” She seemed to hover for a moment, vibrating with excitement, then she surged forward and kissed him on the cheek, so soft he scarcely felt her touch. He could not ignore her warm breath on his neck as she passed him, though.

The flare of a fire spell lit at the base of the gates of the goblin keep. “That’s the signal,” Cyrus said. “They’re in position.” He waved his hand at the archers on the far rim of the crater, and saw an acknowledgment from Martaina as a volley of arrows filled the skies above the crater.

Shouts came from the keep as the gate began to close. “All right, we charge,” Cyrus called out. “Be loud; move around a lot; do everything you can to get them to watch us.” He thrust his short sword into the air. Bellowing a warcry, he jumped over the lip of the crater and began to half-run, half-slide down the sloped wall.

As he descended, in all the shouts before and behind him, he could have sworn he heard another, familiar voice once more in the clamor of the charge.

Avenge me.

He pushed it out of his mind as he reached the bottom of the crater. The portcullis was down, its latticework design dark against the fading strips of light disappearing as the gates behind it were shut. He smiled as he looked to the tops of the walls and saw goblins peering down through the gaps in the parapet.

Cy began to stride across the ground toward them. The army behind him slowed to match his pace, although some were still descending the slope. Arrows fell upon the keep in waves, keeping the goblins under cover.

“Hail, goblin folk,” Cyrus called out. “We are willing to accept your surrender. None of you need die.” There was no response but for a peal of laughter from behind a parapet. He sighed. “I’m going to need our battering ram up here.”

“We don’t have a battering ram,” Erith snapped from behind him. “So what do you plan to do now, genius?” She looked up as something brushed past her. “Oh.”

Fortin walked to the front of the army as the Sanctuary combatants made way for him. Cyrus smiled at the rock giant. “Would you prefer to open the gates or open the walls?”

“I think the walls would surprise them more,” the giant said in a quiet timbre. “They are short, somewhat like gnomes; may I eat my kills?”

Cyrus’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “I… uh…” He looked to Alaric, who nodded. “I guess so.”

“Excellent.” The rock giant interlaced his fingers, stretching his knuckles. His arms dropped back to his sides and for a moment Fortin looked completely at peace. Then a bellow filled the air that was louder than any war horn but just as resonant, and the rock giant was in motion, a blur streaking across the ground, aimed at the tower nearest the gate.

Cries of alarm filled the air on the walls, and the sounds of battle echoed from inside. All this noise was drowned out by the impact of a rock giant hitting a stone wall, a blasting noise as horrendous as any explosion and the sound of stone buckling and breaking. Cy looked away, covering his eyes as a shower of pieces no larger than slivers fell around them. When he looked back up, there was a hole in the wall of the keep tower roughly the size of a rock giant, and the stones above it began to crumble and fall.

Cyrus could hear fire and lightning being cast about inside the walls, and the screams of the goblins increased in intensity and pitch.

“Oh my,” Alaric said. “It sounds as though we are winning.”

Another explosion of stone marked the exit of Fortin very near to his entry point, and the tower next to the keep’s gate collapsed as though it were made of flimsy wood. The rock giant charged back to Cyrus, stopping short of the warrior, resting his hands on his knees as though he were out of breath. “They tried to retreat, of course, but the ice princess and her force have them cut off. The inner gate is sealed and its defenders are dead at the hands of her fighters. There will be no warning to the goblin city that we are coming.”

“Good,” Cyrus reassured him with a smile. “You mind opening that keep-gate for the rest of us now?”

“Certainly,” Fortin said and turned, charging this time at the portcullis.

“I’ll give two to one odds that says he bounces off,” Andren said from behind Cyrus. “That’s got to be worked dwarven steel.”

“You think they brought dwarves down here to craft it?” J’anda replied. “I’ll take your odds.”

“I’ll bet that it is dwarven steel, and I’ll bet that he breaks it down,” Cyrus added.

Before Andren could reply, the rock giant hit the portcullis. Dwarven steel or not, it broke free with the force of his impact and ripped into the gate behind it. Fortin’s momentum carried him sailing through the keep’s gate, ripping it off its hinges, and the rock giant landed in a lump just inside the gates.

A cracking noise filled the air. Pieces of heavy stone began to rain down as the wall above the gate began to collapse from the damage Fortin had done to the arch when he broke the portcullis. It fell with the sound of a rain of multi-ton stone blocks. When it finished, there was a pile of rock ten feet high where an open gate had stood moments earlier.

“Sorry,” came a rumbling voice from behind the wreckage. “I’ll make another door.”

Goblin screams came from above on the wall as a section of the keep burst open near the top of the parapets. Fortin had climbed the wall and was demolishing it piece by piece to clear a path. Stone blocks the size of Cyrus flew into the crater a few at a time as the rock giant broke the wall down. It took five minutes, by which time the goblin voices had faded and Cyrus saw Vara look down on them from the top of the keep, Niamh and Curatio at her side.

“It would appear you are unable to carry out your part of the plan, which was the simplest. I fear for our efforts from here on,” she needled at him, smiling down.

“What?” he called back to her.

“You were supposed to walk through the gate and meet us once our work of securing the inside gate was done. Even this modest task appears to be too much for you.” Her words were teasing rather than vicious, and her mood was light.

“You want to try climbing over the wreckage here?” he asked.

“I do not. That’s why I consented to lead the task force inside. I had a suspicion Fortin might not make your entry the cleanest.”

“Oh yes,” Fortin replied, clearing the last stones out of the wall, making a perfect V-shaped hole in the keep, wide enough for even him to walk through. “Blame the rock giant for shoddy goblin construction. I can’t help it if this place is as delicate as… a lilac,” he finished with gleeful laugh.

Vara cut short any reply she might have made, disappearing out of sight behind the wall. Cyrus rallied the army and they moved through the opening into the yard of the keep and found the gates to the mountain already opened. Vara stood at the door with her arms crossed, tapping her foot. As he approached, she extended her arms toward the open gates. “After you,” she said with a bow.

“I would normally say, ‘ladies first’, but if there’re goblins on the way down, I’d rather face them,” he said as he walked past her. She fell into line at his shoulder, and Aisling squeezed past him, Martaina at her side.

“I brought another ranger,” Aisling said as she passed. “What do you want us to do?”

“Aisling, you go scout ahead of us, let me know what’s coming,” he began. “Martaina, I want you to keep an eye down the side tunnels as we pass; let us know if there are soldiers. If you see any, spur our army to kill them. Pursue if necessary. Draft some other rangers to go with you if you feel like you need help, but keep it quiet. I don’t want the goblins to know we’re coming.”

“Maybe you should have avoided using a rock giant as a battering ram then,” Erith mumbled, barely audible.

He glared at her for a beat before turning back to Aisling. “Let me know if there’s any hint they know we’re coming. Vara,” he said and the elf appeared, “did anyone get away from you at the gate to the mountain?”

“No,” she said with shake of her head so vehement that it tossed her ponytail around. “The mountain gate was open when we snuck in so I placed our force in the tunnel before breaking invisibility and attacking. We hit them from behind before they knew what was happening. Between us and your friend the walking boulder, there was no escape.”

“Good,” he said, not breaking his pace down the tunnel. “Where’s Fortin now?”

“At the back,” Terian said, a few paces behind Cy. “He barely fits in these tunnels.”

“Have him be our rear guard. I want warriors spread out along the line. It’s a long way to the depths of the mountain. Lots of side tunnels where trouble could crop up, and I don’t want us vulnerable.”

With a nod, Terian dropped back to issue orders to the formation. The tunnels were narrow – only big enough for a few people to walk side by side. The walls had a shine of phosphorescence from the algaes living on the rock. The light of a spell that gave him vision in the darkness was the only thing that allowed him to avoid a sudden drop as the floor stepped down. He smiled in memory of the last time he had missed that step, and remembered what had happened after.

Aisling appeared from the shadows to his right and he halted. “There’s a half dozen goblins walking patrol routes between here and some sort of keep built into the cave walls. If you want to keep this party quiet, I recommend you do something about them.”

“J’anda,” Cyrus called quietly, and the enchanter emerged from behind Vaste. “I need you up front in case we get anyone who decides to run. Niamh,” he said to the druid, “can you send some vines to slow them down if need be?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a nod. “I can even make it a small patch instead of a big old mess of ’em.”

“Eyes open, then. We’re going to charge down the tunnel and kill them as we go.”

Cyrus descended the tunnel. He rounded a corner to find a goblin looking at him in shock from just behind the wall. He reached out, grabbed the goblin and impaled it on his sword before it had a chance to respond. Squeals down the tunnel told him that it had not been alone.

Vines burst from the dirt on either side of the tunnel walls and grabbed firm hold of two goblins. Cyrus struck both down with casual slashes as he passed.

“This seems easier than last time,” Erith said.

“We have more people and we’re not sneaking,” he replied. A shock ran through him. “I met you here for the first time, didn’t I?”

“Aww,” came her mocking reply, “you remembered.”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said. “I remember you told me I’d only get three healing spells for the entire expedition.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I lied. I’m a sucker for a hopeless case like you.”

“Hopeless now, am I? What does it say about you, who followed me here –”

“Children, perhaps keep you voices down so we don’t bring down a whole army of goblins upon us?” Vara looked daggers at both of them.

“My apologies.” He waved her off.

“You threw a goblin head at me last time,” Erith said with a pouty look.

“I actually decapitated the goblin with such skill that it hit you,” Cyrus whispered back.

“Bullshit,” came Vara’s succinct reply. “I remember those days; you were not so elegant with your sword strokes as to be able to accomplish such a feat.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Andren. “Did Vara just say ‘bullshit’?” The elf nodded. “You’ve been hanging around me and my ilk for too long, shelas’akur.”

She rolled her eyes. “You shouldn’t use words you don’t know the meaning of. Which, if you followed that simple rule, would actually cut down on the amount of pointless conversation spewing from your drivel hole.”

“I know more than you think,” he replied. “You remember that nice little elven town where you tried to drown me in the local watering hole in the middle of the night? Nalikh’akur?”

She regarded him with suspicion. “What of it?”

“Nalikh’akur?” he asked. “‘Last Bastion’?”

“So which is it?” she asked. “Is ‘akur’ ‘last’ or ‘bastion’?” She did not smile. “And what does ‘shelas’ mean, out of curiosity?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but do you think it’s impossible to figure out?”

“Well, it’s been roughly a year and you’re still in the dark, so yes, I believe it may be impossible for you to figure out.” She surveyed the crowd around them. “Unless anyone would care to throw him a hint? Anyone? You?” Her gaze turned to Andren, who shook his head when she stared at him. “I didn’t think so.” She turned back to Cyrus. “Good luck in your search for the answer. Your best friend won’t even tell you, and he knows.”

“While I think I speak for all non-elves here when I say I’d love to understand the tantalizing mystery that Vara is torturing Cyrus with,” Vaste spoke up, “I suggest we instead focus our efforts on the pack of goblins that’s lingering ahead of us.” He pointed down the tunnel as it widened into a small chamber. “Right there. Looking at us. They’re pointing. Their faces are covered with awe… and… they’re running.”

Cyrus bolted after them, Vara and Alaric on his heels. Twin flashes of light from spells cast by J’anda and Niamh streaked by on either side of him, but Cyrus honed in on the first goblin. A lance sailed over his head and perfectly speared the rear goblin, but a half dozen more were still running. “Nice job, Longwell,” Cyrus yelled, running to catch the shorter creatures.

“I thought you sent scouts ahead to apprise us of their positions?” Vara yelled, slashing into a goblin trapped by Niamh’s vines as they pursued down the tunnel.

“I did!” He beheaded one mesmerized by J’anda as he passed it. Four to go.

“There is no time for recrimination! Clear the way!” Alaric shouted and thrust his palm forward. A blast of concussive force shot by Cyrus, sending a stir of air as it blew by. It hit a goblin squarely in the back, knocking him to his knees with such force that he flipped. Another burst from Alaric missed, blasting an inch of solid rock off the tunnel wall.

Vara answered with a stun blast of her own. It grazed one of the remaining goblins, spinning him off balance into the wall, where she knelt and killed it.

A shadow moved in the distance, just in front of the last two goblins, reaching out for them as they ran down the tunnel. A figure emerged, dark blue skin almost invisible even with his spell-enhanced eyesight, and two daggers stabbed into the sides of the goblins as they passed, causing both to stumble. The feral shadow stepped delicately out of the way to let them drop, then pounced on one after another, stabbing them until dead.

Cyrus slowed to a walk. “Aisling,” he said, “I thought you were going to tell me when there were goblins ahead.”

She picked over the bodies and he saw her slip two coins into a small purse at her belt. “These weren’t in the main passage as I went down. They must have come out of a side tunnel after I passed.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry, though; they won’t be telling anybody about us.”

Alaric nodded. “Well done, lass. I was beginning to worry they’d get away.”

“Yes, well done indeed,” Vara said with an icy tone. “I could have leaped forward and killed them both if not for this lumbering beast in my way.” She pointed at Cyrus.

“Lumbering beast?” he said with a look of great offense. “I thought I was the strongest man you know?”

Her eyes became narrow slits. “Perhaps you are, but it would be in addition to being the most petty, vain and self-reverential man I know.”

“If you don’t want him,” Aisling said with a sly smile, “I’d be glad to take him – over and over –”

“Oh, stop it,” Cyrus said. Vara shook her head in irritation. “We have work to do, more ground to cover, innocence to prove and all that.”

“Agreed,” Alaric said. “We also have several miles to go before Aisling’s last uncomfortable statement purges itself from my memory,” he said without looking at the dark elf. “The sooner we begin, the better.”

Elements of the army began to catch up to them as the tunnel narrowed once more. “How are we doing?” Cyrus asked Terian, who had rejoined them at the front of the army.

“We’re starting to spread out,” the dark knight reported. “These tunnels were not meant to be invaded by an army of over a thousand. I don’t know for certain, but I have to guess that Fortin and the rear guard are at least a mile behind us.”

“What’s slowing us down?” Cy asked, brow furrowed.

“Lots of attacks out of side tunnels,” Terian replied. “We’ve managed to run them all down so far, but elements of our force keep splitting off to deal with these ancillary threats and it costs us time.”

“I want every element accounted for, and every single person accounted for within each element.” His grip tightened around his sword. “We will not leave anyone behind.”

“Are you sure?” Terian asked lightly. “Enterra seems like a great place to spend… uh…” The dark knight’s voice faded as he thought the better of his jest. “…about five minutes before deciding to go somewhere that doesn’t suck.”

Cy ignored him, marching down the corridor. The cave walls twisted and turned at bizarre angles, like a snake bending back on itself. No rock jutted out from the sides of the cave, but neither were they smooth or polished. Whoever had tunneled it had made it functional but not aesthetically pleasing. A smell of sweat and stale air lingered.

Upon reaching a corner Cyrus halted and peeked around. “Damn,” he breathed. “Glad I remembered.”

“What?” Vara asked, leaning past him to look. She crossed his midsection, her neck not far below his face. The faint smell of lilac wafted up to him and he shut his eyes for a moment. She glanced for a few seconds, withdrew and sighed. “Damn. That’s the complex where the Emperor and Empress are?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I counted about ten guards around the top wall – if we screw this up, they’ll seal the gate and we’ll be stuck here until we can bring up Fortin.” He frowned. “If we can bring up Fortin. They can hold that position against attack for months against conventional enemies.” Around the corner lay a long stretch of open tunnel leading up to a ten foot high wall built across a wider chamber. A small gate with a portcullis lay in the middle of the wall and goblins stood arm to arm across the parapets. “This will require coordination and precision.”

“I would have assumed given our efforts thus far, haste and violence would be in order.” Her eyebrow crooked and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“Perhaps some combination of all,” he replied. “Where’s Aisling?”

She slipped from the shadows in front of him with a bow in hand, arrow already notched. “I can take two, perhaps three of them before they realize what’s happening and take cover.”

His eyes fixated on the bow in her hands – it was almost as tall as she; a long length of hickory, with a taut string running down it. The only concession to beauty was a carving of a leaping fox running along the top end of the handle. “Where did you get that?”

She shrugged but did not bother to hide the impish smile that dotted her features. “I told you I had one.”

He shook his head. “All right, you take two of them.” He turned to Vara. “Can you hit any of them with that stun spell of yours?”

She shook her head. “The tunnel is too long; they are out of my range.”

“But not mine,” Alaric said, making his way forward to take a look. “Three of them are clustered together at the right side of the wall; I may be able to hit all of them with a force blast.”

“J’anda,” Cyrus called.

The enchanter made his way forward and snuck a peek around the edge. “Two, perhaps three if luck favors us. I think you would want me to go first?”

“Before the others start flinging arrows and spells at them?” Cy smiled at the enchanter. “We have a means of dealing with somewhere between six and nine of them, depending on how fortunate we are. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t feel that fortunate.” A quick look around revealed shakes of the head. “Niamh? Vines?”

She looked around the corner. “I can get one, maybe two of the ones close to the wall on the side Alaric’s not attacking, otherwise, no. They’re pretty far off the ground.”

Cy nodded. “Now we’ve got between seven and ten sewed up. Still not feeling lucky. Any other rangers close to the front of our line?”

Aisling shook her head. “They’re helping keep the side tunnels secure. Arrows tend to hobble runners. I can deal with the last ones.” She turned to J’anda. “I’m going to start shooting in thirty seconds, so get your targets mesmerized by then.” Without waiting for a response, she melted into the shadows.

The enchanter turned to Cyrus in alarm. “She’s not serious? We haven’t settled this plan yet!”

“Aisling?” He looked at the shadows with undisguised annoyance. “Yes, she’s serious,” he said to J’anda, “move!”

The dark elf slid into the shadows at the bend, hands already in motion, casting an incantation through unmoving lips. A faint light surrounded one of the goblins, then another, and then a third.

Cyrus watched as one of the goblins fell to his knees without warning, then dropped off the wall face first. “Alaric, Niamh,” Cy muttered warningly.

The Ghost stepped around the corner and unleashed a blast of force from his hand that caused Cyrus to sway. Another goblin near the back of the wall fell, and Cyrus could see a thin arrow shaft protruding from his eye. Alaric’s blast hit the goblins on the far right side, flinging two of them off the wall like stick men in a hurricane wind, limp bodies broken against the rocks behind them.

“Got two,” the old knight said through gritted teeth. “The other one moved to check on his fallen comrade before my spell hit.”

Niamh’s hands waved with fervor, and roots burst forth from the tunnel above the left side of the wall, enveloping one of the goblins, pulling him against the roof of the tunnel.

“Two left!” Cy yelled, watching as the last goblins dodged behind parapets. The portcullis began to descend as he, Vara and Alaric ran to cross the ground between them. It closed, leaving the three of them standing in the shadow of the wall. Cyrus drove his fingers under the bottommost iron segment and tried to lift. Alaric and Vara joined him, adding their strength to his own, but the portcullis did not budge. “They’ll have warned the defenders in the keep. We have to get this thing open now, before they swarm out or we’re screwed!”

“One more try?” Alaric suggested. “On three… one… two… three…” At the count of three, the portcullis jolted, moving upward with their insistent pushing.

A clanking noise could be heard behind the wall, and Cyrus stopped pushing. The portcullis continued to move upward. “Where are the goblins?” he asked. Vara and Alaric ceased their lifting efforts, and still the portcullis continued to rise.

A small mass hit the ground in front of Cyrus, followed by another, each with a muffled thump. After staring at them for a moment, he realized they were bodies – goblin corpses.

With catlike grace, Aisling dropped down after them, landing with a nimbleness that Cyrus could have predicted. “I killed the ones that were mesmerized too,” she said as she sheathed her daggers. “Niamh’s vines choked the other one to death. I snuck in while you were distracting them.”

“Once again, lass, well done,” Alaric nodded. “Your tactics of distraction and deception are… quite impressive. But I have to ask, must you stab them in the back unknowing?”

She shrugged, an air of unconcern. “It’s the fastest way.”

“And the most treacherous,” spat Vara.

“War’s not a pretty thing,” Aisling said to the paladin, tensing as if bracing for an attack. “And we can’t all be tall and graceful and strong as you.”

“Enough,” Cyrus said. “Beyond this door is an antechamber to the throne room. It’s big enough we can reassemble and prepare for the assault on the Emperor and Empress.” He walked to the handle and turned it.

“Are you quite certain you should do that?” Alaric asked. “Perhaps we should have Aisling scout the room first?”

“You’re right,” he agreed. His fingers left the knob but it continued to turn of its own accord. A moment of curiosity – How is the door handle turning itself? – flashed through his mind, replaced by the horror of realization as the door opened and he found a goblin looking up at him, mouth agape, sharp teeth gleaming.

Cyrus brought his sword down in a flash, but the goblin let out a startled cry that turned into a scream as he twisted away from Cyrus’s blow. The short sword caught the goblin between the ribs and caused him to squeal in agony, throwing himself backward off of the warrior’s sword. Cyrus looked past his foe to see a room half the size of the Great Hall at Sanctuary, balconies around the edges, and goblins staring down – dozens, maybe hundreds of them scattered throughout the room, all staring at the open door – and him.

Chapter 40

A howl of fury came from a hundred goblin throats as Cyrus thrust the door open. So much for a plan. “Get the army down here now!” he shouted back, sword in his hand.

He moved to the first rank of goblins, huddled in a cluster only a few feet from him. They stood on a rich, red rug that Cyrus barely took note of before bringing his sword down and making it redder still with the blood of two goblins caught unprepared. He heard a loud WHUMP! and to his right a half dozen goblins went flying with the power of Alaric’s spell. A few to his left were knocked asunder by Vara’s less powerful burst.

Stones cracked on the far side of the hall and entangling vines reached out, dragging goblins away from the impending fight as the room turned into a frenzy.

Cyrus raked his sword across another three foes, not killing any of them but wounding them enough that they stepped back. He saw a goblin streak at him to attack his flank when a light came over it. A glance back showed J’anda working his magic, sending a courteous nod toward the warrior as he mesmerized another goblin.

“They’ll be warning the Imperials!” Alaric shouted over the melee. The Ghost had waded into the growing number of enemies scampering forward to fight them. Cy watched Terian and Thad enter the fray, and felt a healing spell run across him as Erith sealed the small wounds that his foes had inflicted.

Vara hacked a great bloody swath across the packed crowd and pieces of four distinct green bodies flew across the room. Her next swing produced similar results, and the next. She moved too fast for them; the goblins’ mob attacks were causing them to trip over one another and limiting their effectiveness. Alaric and Vara kept them at arms’ reach without great difficulty; Cyrus was not so fortunate.

He swung his short sword again and again, and the goblins came crushing in at him with greater force. They were four deep now, all in a line, bunching up toward him and snapping and clawing. He felt a thousand tiny pinpricks as their claws found purchase in the gaps in his armor. Blood dripped from between links and plates, a hundred small wounds. His short sword found targets, over and over, yet still they came.

Another blast from Alaric knocked over the horde swarming Cyrus and gave him a moment to breathe as a heal, this time from Vaste, patched his wounds. The blood stopped flowing, but the aches remained. He nodded to the Ghost, who raised a hand to him before bringing around Aterum again and devastating another rank of goblins.

A rush of flame blasted forth to his left. He could feel the warmth, as though he had come too close to an open fire. It streamed into the tightly packed goblins, searing them, causing several to fall dead. Cyrus chanced a look – Mendicant stood behind him, hand raised, fire jumping forth, and a cool smile baring his teeth as he killed goblin warriors with the magics his people had scorned.

Into the gap rushed three blurs of white and gray, and Cyrus heard the goblins squeal in pain and terror. Wolves. A leather bound northman let out a howl and charged into the battle, a sword no longer than Cyrus’s clutched in one hand and a leather apparatus with claws mounted on it strapped to his other. Menlos Irontooth waded into the fray, a smile upon his lips that matched the snarl of his wolves.

Aisling had slipped through the line and was attacking the goblins at the rear. Her daggers found target after target, foes cut down by the lethal placement of her blades. Her bow was not in evidence anywhere on her person. The hall grew fuller as the forces of Sanctuary entered a few at a time, and the line of goblins fell further and further back. As they broke and ran, Aisling dispatched them; only a few made it from the room alive.

Alaric brought down the last goblin with a force blast that would not have been a killing blow but for the goblin’s proximity to a wall. It bounced against the stone, leaving a red streak on the stone as it slid to a final rest.

“No reinforcements,” Vara noted, looking at the far hallway leading toward the throne room.

“They’re waiting for us in there, I would guess,” Cyrus said. “We need to move now, before their Emperor and Empress can escape, or the garrison from their barracks can fill the room. There’s a passage that leads directly into the throne room; it’s how we were overwhelmed last time.”

He took a look around – less than a tenth of the Sanctuary army was present in the hall. “I’d prefer to regroup first, but we have no time. We have to storm the throne room now.”

“Agreed,” Alaric said. “Lead on, and let the word go back to the tail of the army that we have engaged the enemy and will need everyone as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll go,” Niamh volunteered. In a beat, she was gone, running through the door to the gate in a flash of red, shouting at the top of her lungs. “We’re in it now, hurry, hurry, hurry, we’re engaging the Emperor –!”

Vara moved to Cyrus’s side. “You’ve killed a great many of them now. Do you feel any better?”

Cyrus hefted the short sword. “Ask me after.”

He took off down the hallway at a jog. He passed countless doors, ignoring them, until he reached the end of the hallway, and a double door that stretched from floor to ceiling and had a carving of the history of the goblin empire on it. He cracked a door and looked in.

“The Emperor and Empress are still in there,” he breathed to Vara, who stood behind him.

“They are the foremost warriors of the empire,” she acknowledged. “It does make sense that they might want to be involved in the battle.”

Cyrus watched the Sanctuary forces pooling behind him, the hallway filling. “Alaric,” Cyrus said and the Ghost focused on him. “I think it might be best if you head for the door to the barracks, see if you can keep it closed.” He looked to Vara. “You feel like going head to head with the Empress of Enterra?”

She smiled. “I think I could teach the old biddy a thing or two about fighting.”

“Be careful,” he cautioned. “She killed me herself last time, and she hits like a titan.” He looked to the army filling the hall behind them. “Everyone be cautious. Remember, we’re looking for evidence…” He cringed internally at the admonition. “So try not to completely trash the place.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Cyrus Davidon?” Andren asked with a broad smile.

Without bothering to respond, Cyrus turned and kicked the door open, following through with his sword already in motion. The goblins were bigger than in the last chamber, the personal guards of the Emperor and Empress, and he had already felt a dozen grazing wounds by the time his sword claimed its first victory.

Vara and Alaric waded in behind him, both their swords in motion, merciless in their assault; yet still they were halted inside the door by the ferocity of the goblin attack. More soldiers poured through the door that Cyrus had told Alaric to guard; the Ghost was nowhere near it, weighed down by goblin opponents from all sides.

A sound of thunder filled Cyrus’s ears and a jagged bolt of lightning streaked through the open doors behind him, arcing through the goblins, knocking them back. Mendicant came forward, lightning flying from both hands, sending shrieks of pain from the mouths of a hundred of his own people as the current ran through them, pushing them back from the door.

Thad, Menlos, Terian, Scuddar and Longwell entered into the space the wizard had cleared for them. Thad moved into the battle, rough swings of his sword dislodging goblins from the half-circle line they had formed around the door. Menlos lit into them with a ferocity that was only matched by his wolves, which were moving through the room, finding prey of their own.

Cyrus saw Samwen Longwell, three goblins skewered on the end of his lance, and watched as the dragoon tossed the unwieldy weapon aside and drew his sword, swinging it in a style Cyrus couldn’t quite place. The dragoon wielded it in circular motions, almost as a shield and a sword.

Terian’s axe was slow to swing, but caused great havoc every time he brought it down, splitting the heads of goblins around him. Scuddar In’shara followed close behind the dark knight; his scimitar flashed with great speed, sending goblin parts raining in all directions.

The gap was widening now; more of Sanctuary’s forces were filling the throne room. The Emperor and Empress stood silent and still before their seats, waiting to prove themselves, and Cyrus caught a glimpse of the scabbard on the wall behind them. When last he had seen it, it had been on a belt on the Empress, close to her body as one cradles a child to them.

My scabbard, he thought.

Another heal mended a bone he hadn’t realized he’d broken and absolved him of a hundred cuts. He threw an elbow, catching a goblin unawares as it moved to attack him from the side, sending it to the floor in pain. His next sword strike killed another, but two more moved forward and drove him back a step, claws rattling against the metal of his armor.

The room was filling fast; dead goblins were on the floor all around, and Sanctuary attackers were wading in amidst the pile of the dead and the motion of those still fighting. Cyrus watched as goblin after goblin was swallowed by a blue glow and stopped, mid-battle, expressions serene as J’anda trapped them inside their own minds.

Alaric had taken the barracks door now, and was holding it against a steady stream of goblin attackers. Aterum flashed through the air and another goblin lost its head. The door swung open again and the Ghost fired a concussive blast through it before he slammed it shut once more.

Mendicant advanced through the crowd, throwing lightning and fire in turn, cowing the goblins in the front rank with the display of magic.

Vara favored the five goblins closest to her with a swipe of her sword that decapitated all but one of them and then leaped over the heads of the rest in her way to land a few paces from the Empress. Cyrus watched her and saw the Emperor move to attack before the paladin had steadied herself from her leap; the goblin moved with more speed than even Vara could boast. He clipped her and sent the paladin to her knees, sword skittering out of her grasp.

“Vara!” Cyrus cried out, scrambling to make his way through the line of goblins arrayed against him. He watched the Emperor pick up the elf by her throat, watched Vara look back with the dull, dead eyes of someone who had been stunned by a heavy blow. She threw her hand up but the Emperor batted it away and a stun spell knocked the Empress’s throne over backward. The Emperor’s hand twisted and Vara went limp, dangling from the grasp of the goblin, dead.

A howl of fury filled Cyrus’s lips and a storm took over his blade. His sword moved of its own accord, left and right with stunning precision, hacking a path to the elevated platform the thrones sat upon. The Emperor threw Vara’s corpse to the side where it crumpled against a wall, staring back at him with unfocused eyes.

Vara…

Avenge me…

Cyrus used his left fist in concert with his blade, knocking aside the last of the Imperial guard and stalking up the steps to where the Emperor and Empress stood watching him, coiled for attack. A warcry flew from his lips at such volume that it echoed through the chamber, the halls of Enterra, and the rest of Arkaria for all he knew. He threw himself at the Emperor, felt the goblin’s claws grasp hold of him on both arms, halting his thrust of the short sword.

The claws dug into the armor gaps on his forearms, and blood began to run. The floor below them was swarming, the throne room filling from the open door of the barracks. Alaric was in the middle of the room, a small space cleared around him, and a few bodies of Sanctuary members were scattered among the countless goblin corpses. J’anda, Andren and Thad were among the dead he could see. Menlos’s wolves moved like whispers among the goblins while the northman himself had his back against the wall close to the door of the chamber, Longwell at his side.

Cyrus saw the Empress enter his peripheral vision, moving toward him to help her husband. A flash of light distracted he and the Emperor both as Mendicant fired a lightning bolt from across the room that pulled a shriek from the lips of Enterra’s Empress. Cyrus butted his head forward, hitting the Emperor with his helm and knocking the goblin back a step.

He wrenched his hands free but dropped the short sword, bringing his shoulder down for a tackle that knocked the Emperor to his back. Cyrus pounded him with a flurry of blows, blood hammering in his ears as he pummeled the leader of the goblins. Cyrus felt strong hands drag him off the Emperor and fling him against the wall. With a crack, he felt teeth break in his mouth when he landed. He looked to his right and saw Vara’s body next to him. With a cry of sorrow lost in the sounds of the battle, he reached out a mailed hand and stroked her cheek.

Hatred filled him. Again. They’ve done it again. He pulled himself up, leaning against the wall for support, reeling from the horror inside him. With a howl of inarticulate rage he plunged forward again and hipchecked the Empress to the side, knocking her over her already fallen throne. The Emperor took a step forward, hands moving, and Cyrus felt the claws dig into his flank as he slammed into the goblin, tackling him. He brought his elbow across the goblin’s face, breaking three pointed teeth out.

Cyrus reached back and slammed his fist into the mouth again and again. The goblin snapped at him and Cyrus grabbed the Emperor’s arm and pulled it as hard as he could. A popping noise echoed as he dislocated the shoulder and slammed a knee into the goblin’s groin. Claws still dug into his sides but his chainmail slowed their progression and he felt them begin to relax. He grabbed the Emperor’s dislocated arm by the hand and pinned it under his knee.

Holding the Emperor’s other hand down with his left, Cyrus brought his right fist down on the goblin’s face. He felt the Empress’s hot breath behind him and backhanded her before she could strike. His next blow broke the front structure of the Emperor’s nose and jaw; the next after that changed the shape of the face entirely. He struck again, then once more, and again… he hated that face, those damned teeth, what few of them were left, those yellow eyes, rolling back in the Emperor’s head – those were the eyes that presided over the death of Narstron… and now Vara…

Avenge me. The words played in his head with every punch, every blow to the Emperor’s face.

“CY!” A voice cut across the clamor in the room, shaking him out of his trance. The room was filled with goblins, swarming from the door to the barracks. Sanctuary’s forces in the room were down to Alaric, holding his own in the midst of a crowd of goblins. Erith screamed at him from the doorway, protected behind the dual swords of Scuddar and Terian Lepos, retreating from the sheer force of goblin numbers weighing them down.

His eyes took stock of the situation in the throne room. Thad was dead. Andren – dead. J’anda, Mendicant, Vaste – Cyrus saw the outline of a large, green-skinned body in the corner of the room. Menlos – he could see the unmoving tail of one of the wolves, and a smear of blood on the wall where the northman had been defending, along with the top of Sir Samwen Longwell’s helm crowning the slumped figure of the dragoon. Before his eyes, Scuddar fell at the doorway, bleeding from a torrent of wounds and was swept down by the raging army of goblins, followed by Terian, then Erith.

Again. It’s happened again. And it’s all my fault. His eyes fell once more to Vara. Her blond hair ran along the floor where her body lay, looking like a river of gold running from the stone floor to her head to the prettiest face he had ever seen. With a final punch he caved in the skull of the Emperor of the Goblins and stood up. The Empress surveyed him warily, claws at the ready, and he looked at her with fury and murder in his heart.

Without waiting for her to move, he kicked the corpse of her husband to her feet and took two quick strides to the Emperor’s throne, stepped up and ripped the scabbard off the wall. He pulled the sword from the strap on his back and thrust it into the casing. The Empress watched in stunned silence as a light grew from within the scabbard, shining out onto his hand and lighting the semi-darkness of the room, drawing the attention and a moment of silence from the goblins rampaging toward the door.

The silence ended as Cyrus thrust the scabbard into his belt and drew Praelior, the Champion’s Blade.

The Serpent’s Bane was the hilt, inscribed with symbols across the sword guard and wrapped in a soft and pliable leather that gripped better than any Cyrus had felt. The Death’s Head was the pommel, forged to the bottom of the grip; it jutted out in a circular pattern, hollowed with a cross in the middle and came to a sharp point at the bottom – sharp enough to be used for a weapon of last resort. The Edge of Repose was the blade, and had been dull as old iron until he pulled it from the scabbard –

Now it shone. Where once had been a dull and tarnished edge, bereft of sharpness, there was now glistening metal, shining as though it were new, and glowing with an aura of energy that lit the walls around him. Quartal, the hardest metal in Arkaria, held it all together with a strength no normal blade could claim. The scabbard in Cyrus’s hand glowed with the magical power of a force beyond anything man – or goblins – could cast.

The soft blue glow of Praelior cast Cyrus’s face in relief from shadow; his jaw was set and the anger was visible on every line of his face. He did not wait for anyone to make the first move; he struck at the Empress with a warcry that caused G’Koal, one of the most powerful warriors in the Goblin Empire, to take a step back in fear for her life.

Cyrus’s first overhand strike with his sword was true – the blade was long, at least a foot longer than his short sword, and it met meat and bone at the shoulder of the Empress. In a contest between the strength of an enraged warrior and his mystical sword on one side and the sinews, scales and ligaments of the goblin Empress on the other, the winner was clear.

Empress G’Koal’s severed arm spun from her body as she screeched in pain, falling backward off the steps of the raised platform upon which she and her husband ruled an empire. Cyrus did not wait to see her hit the floor; he was already in motion.

Praelior swept through the flesh and bone of his enemies as if they were made of air. Arms and heads flew before him; the screams of his victims echoed as he worked his way toward the doors where his allies were falling. Still, the goblins came, more and more of them. The doors had swung shut and were opening and closing as more goblin soldiers moved forward to push back the Sanctuary army through force of their numbers.

Cyrus looked down and saw more of his fallen brethren than he cared to count – more than a hundred bodies lying on the stones of Enterra, no healer close by, and more enemies filling the room by the moment. Hope grew distant.

The doors flew open once more and a shout crackled through the air in a low, rumbling tone. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Cyrus flung himself, blade first, to the side, killing goblins in his path as the throne room doors blew off their hinges. Fragments of wood and metal ripped through the air, tearing a path of destruction ten feet wide in front of the entryway.

A blur of brown moved through at high speed, hitting several goblins and turning them to smears on the floor before coming to a stop next to the shattered remnants of the doors. Fortin looked around at the destruction he had wrought and a smile of satisfaction crossed the face of the rock giant, standing far above the goblins that surrounded him.

His hand reached down and plucked three of them up, dashing them against the nearest wall. With another wave of his hand, four more of them became messy splatters of blood that dotted the floor around the rock giant.

“Fortin!” Cyrus called with a smile. “Would you mind closing that gods-damned barracks door? It’s feeling a bit drafty in here.”

With a salute of his mammoth, rocky hand, Fortin charged once more, this time into the door at the far end of the room that led into the barracks. Once more, he blew the door off the hinges and sent it spiraling down the hall in front of him as a harbinger of the destruction that was to follow.

Cyrus cut once more into the goblins in the room, watching them reel from his attacks, now more lethal and painful than ever, watched them flash with pain and agony, watched them die… like Narstron…

Alaric was still alive, fending off a rapidly diminishing host of goblins. With their reinforcements cut off by Fortin and Cyrus’s and Alaric’s vicious, destructive attacks, their numbers dwindled. The Army of Sanctuary pushed back into the room, Martaina and Aisling at the head. The dark elf struck three goblins from behind in rapid succession, assisting Cyrus while Martaina dropped four in a row from across the room with her bow. Ryin Ayend blasted fire at a cluster of soldiers dogging Alaric’s steps while Niamh sent a lightning burst from her hands that turned another to a cinder.

Cyrus watched the last few goblins form a protective ring around the Empress, who was lying, armless and wounded, next to the body of Vara. Her defenders kept their distance from him. He closed on them without patience or mercy, and Praelior cut the first one in half at the waist while it tried to feint away from Cyrus.

The second guard went on the offensive, as did the third, and the blade caught one with a gash across the chest and the next with the spiked pommel to the head as he clawed into Cyrus’s ribs between the gap in his armor.

The body fell away and Cyrus struck the last defender with a long stabbing blow that impaled the goblin, then sliced him halfway apart as Cy removed his sword. He advanced on the Empress, who was crawling back, hissing. Her arm was gushing blood, missing at the shoulder, but her teeth were bared. She reached the wall and propped her back against it. She looked up at him and lashed out clumsily with her remaining hand.

He drew back and cut it off at the elbow with a flick of his wrist. She screamed again, a terrible, gnashing sound. He looked down at her, rage filling his heart. She’s the last… do it…

His eyes alighted once more on Vara’s dead eyes and he flicked his gaze back to the Empress. “Remember me?” he taunted. “Last time we met, this is how you left me. Back against the wall, dying, and you cut my throat with your sword. I remember looking up and seeing this –” he gestured down at the scabbard tucked in his belt – “right before I died.” His face tautened with the hatred he felt coursing through him. “Isn’t this ironic?”

With a gasping, heaving sound, the Empress of Enterra spoke. “You invaded my home… you were already dying… I killed you… it was a mercy… grant me the same.” It was not the dark, demonic voice of his nightmares. It was a cracking, strained voice, pleading for release.

“I invaded your home because you were a threat to everyone around you!” he yelled back at her. “How many gnomes and humans have you and your kind killed just because they were there! You were plotting a war with your neighbors… and I meant to stop you.” He relaxed for a moment, sword still pointed at her neck. “And now I have.”

She rasped back at him. “You came… brought the gezhvet… our doom.”

He leaned down and threw his helmet aside to look her in the face. “You don’t get it! You killed HIM! He’s dead! He was noble, and good, and forgiving – he would have settled for kicking your ass and being on his way to the next challenge!” His face convulsed as anger of every sort ran across his features. “But you killed him! And because of that, I’m your doom, G’Koal! I’m the death of your empire!”

He gestured at the door behind him. “Right now, my rock giant is in your barracks. And he will kill every one of your warriors, if he hasn’t already. Your husband is dead. There’s the ruin of the goblins. Narstron was the gezhvet because you made him the harbinger of your doom when you killed my best friend… and sealed your own fate.” He drew the blade back.

“Be done, then.” The pleading in her voice was worse than any angry words he could imagine. “You have destroyed my world, warrior. Do this final thing…” she coughed, “…and take your vengeance.”

He hesitated. Why are you waiting? he railed at himself. DO IT! She killed him! She and her people! SHE WANTS TO DIE! DO IT! The thoughts broke through his mind like a torrential flood sweeping through an old, dry stream bed.

A strange sense of calm filled him, his fury abated. He lowered his sword and got to his feet. “You know what?” he said with an air of grim realization. “You want to die more than I want you to.” He sheathed the Champion’s Blade. “You will come with us… and you’ll tell everyone why you sent raiders halfway across Arkaria to attack convoys. And you’ll tell them who colluded with you to do it.”

She looked up at him, yellow eyes slack, staring into his. “And why would I do this…?”

“Because I conquered you.” He looked down at her without any trace of anger. He felt only pity for her now, this broken, hollowed out shell of a warrior. “I bested you. Me. You fought for years to become the chosen Empress of Enterra. Out of all the goblin women, you were the strongest. And I beat you and your husband. Respect my strength, for I have conquered you, and you will do as I say.”

Her head bowed and the yellow eyes slipped away from his. “I will do as you say,” she repeated, voice breaking.

He turned from her to see Alaric next to Vara. The Ghost graced him with a nod of respect and turned away. From all across the throne room, the dead of Sanctuary were rising, Curatio returning them to life.

Sitting in the shadow of Alaric, Vara was staring at Cyrus, holding her hand to her neck. Light had returned to the shining blue eyes and they were fixed on him, a look of relief washing over her. Warring emotions fought on her face until it finally returned to her practiced stoicism. “I’m glad to see you didn’t let the desire for revenge overwhelm your good sense.”

A wan smile crossed his lips as he went and knelt down to her. “You just implied I had some form of good sense. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

Blood oozed from between her fingers at the place where they met her neck. “I was just resurrected from an abrupt and brutal death; it’s only natural I might be prone to confusion. When I said good sense, I meant –”

“Don’t go taking back a compliment once given,” he chided her.

She paused and looked into his eyes, earnestly. “Then the next time I proffer one, take it humbly.”

“I will… try.” He reached down to her hand and gently peeled it back from her neck. A thin trickle of red slid down to her still-shining armor. Looking at her wound, he frowned. “Can you heal yourself?”

“I have no magical energy left,” she said with a shake of her head. “But this is nothing. Let me see your sword.” He stared her down, and for the first time since he’d known her, her expression turned impish. “Let me see it. I did die so you could acquire it. At least do me the courtesy of letting me see what my blood bought.”

He drew the blade from the scabbard and handed it to her. A wearying feeling hit him, as if he were feeling the weight of his armor on his shoulders for the first time and he slid to the ground next to her, tired and overwhelmed.

“It’s a very fine blade,” she admitted, swinging it in front of her. She passed it back to him with a look of regret. “I don’t know that I’ve held one better.”

He took it back in his hand and felt strength fill him as he held it. His armor felt lighter, the sword felt like it weighed nothing in his grasp, and he stood almost without effort. “It has a powerful enchantment on it,” he said with awe.

“Do you know its origin?” she asked, eyes transfixed on the slight glow of the blade.

“No,” he half-lied.

“A pity,” she said. “But hardly the first time an object of power came to a bearer through mysterious means.” With great effort, she pulled her gaze from the blade and back to him. “I am… pleased… that you did not cave to your darkest desires and turn the Empress into a poorly cut meal for buzzards.”

He did not seem to register her comment for a moment, so intense was his stare at Praelior. “It was a very near thing,” he said at last. “When I saw the Emperor kill you…” His voice trailed off. “It looked very dark for a few minutes while you were dead.”

“You killed the Emperor?” she asked.

“With my bare hands, I think,” he said with a note of surprise at the memory. It felt like someone else had done it. Staring into those yellow eyes as they faded had given him no real joy. “It doesn’t matter; it’s done now.” He took a deep breath and the wan smile returned. “It’s done.”

Chapter 41

Hours later, he stood on the platform in the throne room, surrounded on all sides by the dead of the battle. Dull, yellow eyes stared up at him from the floor. The brave fighters of Sanctuary had left, and he was alone in the middle of the carnage. He turned back to see the Emperor’s body, still lying where he had kicked it. Blood pooled in between bodies and pieces, and his boots made a soft sucking sound as he walked through them, as though his feet were drinking it in as some bizarre spoil of war.

“You really did it for me, didn’t you?” The voice shook him, causing him to turn his head. There, picking through the debris of battle, was a familiar face. A dwarf, only waist-high to him, beard flowing from beneath a metal helm, with rough skin, but an unmistakeable grin. His eyes were dark, as Cyrus remembered him in life, instead of the red of his nightmares.

“Narstron,” he breathed. “I did. I killed them… but I have to tell you… when it came to the moment, I didn’t do it for you. I did it to stop them. I did it because I was angry.”

“Aye,” the dwarf said with a shake of his head at the bodies surrounding him. “That was a bit weak of you to falter before killing the last… but we can work on that as time goes on.”

The dark eyes found him again, but this time they were different, glowing deep crimson, as though the darkest fire Cyrus could imagine was burning behind them. The outline of Narstron became blurry, changing into something else, something familiar – a memory from a day years ago in Reikonos.

“You carry my sword now. You have completed my quest. You are my faithful servant. Now go forth and unleash havoc – in the name of Bellarum. And perhaps, in time, I will forgive you your weakness today.”

With a jolt Cyrus awakened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he realized he was in his officers’ quarters, back in the tower of Sanctuary. A thick silence hung in the air around him, punctuated by a loud snore from Vaste, far down the hall. He listened for any other sound, but none was evident.

This time when he awoke, he hadn’t been screaming. He turned over and lulled back to sleep, a deep, dreamless slumber from which he did not stir until after noon the next day.

When Cyrus arose, he donned his armor and slipped the scabbard onto his belt with a smile. A sense of pride filled him; Vara had not been false when she said it was perhaps the finest sword ever.

He descended the steps to find a celebration ongoing in the Great Hall, foyer and lounge. Niamh was the first officer he saw and he caught her by the arm as she flitted past. “What happened?” He paused, rethinking his question. “Other than our victory?”

A heady smile cracked her face. “While we were in Enterra, Alaric sent the evidence we had with messengers to Pharesia and Reikonos and they cleared our names!”

“What about Saekaj?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know that we’ll ever be welcome there until the Sovereign dies. Whoever he is, he must be one damned spiteful son of a bitch.”

“I suspect the Sovereign wasn’t born to a woman so much as spawned from a darkness you can scarcely imagine. But as for being spiteful, he’s all that and more,” Aisling said, appearing behind Cyrus. Cy’s hand instinctively reached down and caught hers on the hilt of his sword. He held it up in front of her and she made no move to pull it away. “If you wanted to hold hands, you need only ask,” she said with a taunting smile. “Can I see it?”

He humored her, and his display of Praelior drew admiring looks and comments from all around the foyer as his guildmates came to see the new weapon.

“You know,” came the voice of Alaric as he descended from the balcony above with a twinkle in his eye, “I don’t begrudge you that excellent weapon you’ve assembled, but do try to remember that an officer of Sanctuary must be humble, and not a braggart of any sort.”

Cyrus hesitated and began to sheath the sword until Alaric laughed. “I was teasing you, brother. Be proud of your weapon. Your quest was long and arduous to acquire it and we all celebrate your success with you. But,” he said, “I must speak to you about a different matter. It would seem that in light of recent events, we have a host of meetings to prepare for.”

Cyrus broke free from the crowd that had gathered around him and walked with the Ghost, who led him out the doors and onto the grounds. “What sort of meetings?” he asked as they descended the stairs.

“Mere formalities,” the Guildmaster assured him. “I presume you have heard that Reikonos and Pharesia have absolved us?” When Cyrus nodded, he continued. “Now we must go to Reikonos and cast the blame where it belongs,” the Ghost said with an air of deep satisfaction. “We leave in an hour. And then, after that, I have scheduled an Alliance officer meeting in the Coliseum at Reikonos. There was a guild meeting this morning while you were sleeping and we have… results to report to them.”

“We’ll be taking the Empress with us, I presume?” Cyrus asked.

“Indeed,” Alaric said with gusto. “She is with Nyad and Curatio right now in Pharesia, and Niamh informed me that before she teleported back to us, the Empress was filling the air of the King’s Court with a compelling tale of deceit and treachery.”

He smiled. “I confess, it has a twist in the tale that I did not quite expect, but should not surprise – after all, so busy were we proving that the goblins were the raiders that we never did ask ourselves what possible motive the goblins could have in participating in the attacks.”

Cy frowned at the Ghost in confusion. “I thought it was for the treasure that the convoys were filled with?”

“I would have thought so too,” Alaric replied, “but the Empress insists that Goliath received the majority of the proceeds and that the caravans grew poorer and poorer as the attacks dragged on, until their worth was but a fraction of the rich bounties they brought at first. No,” he said with a shake of his head, “something else was promised to the goblins.”

“What?” Cyrus asked in genuine curiosity.

The enigmatic smile that embodied the persona of the Ghost filled Alaric Garaunt’s face. “You will hear for yourself in only a few hours,” he promised, turning back toward the front steps. “Oh, and by the way… I am proud of you for reining yourself in at the last.”

Cyrus felt a rush of embarrassment. “Alaric, I still killed… hundreds of goblins. I beat the Emperor to death with my own hands in a rage that would put a bloodthirsty troll to shame. I ordered Fortin to kill the reinforcements that the goblins sent from the barracks, and I didn’t stop him from killing them even after we won.”

“All true,” the knight conceded. “But let us examine motives for a moment – were the goblins you killed attacking you at the time you killed them?”

Cyrus blinked. “Without exception.”

“And if you had called off Fortin from his attack on the barracks, do you think the goblins within would have given up and retreated?”

Cyrus looked at the Ghost. “No.”

“And had you relented in your battle with the Emperor, unarmed as you were, do you think he would have yielded to you?”

“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “I looked in his eyes as I killed him. There was no surrender in him, only defiance.”

“And which were you more upset about when you attacked him – the death of Narstron or the death of Vara?”

Without a moment’s hesitation Cyrus whispered his reply. “Vara.”

“Here is what I see,” the Ghost said, adopting a pensive tone. “You were attacking a clear enemy of Sanctuary, one which you had a long and bitter personal history with, but when it came down to it, they were an implacable foe in battle, and when you struck down their leader you were more upset at the plight of your comrade that died that day than the one that died over a year ago.” His eyes found Cyrus’s, and the Ghost’s look cut through him. “And when you found a foe that you had beaten, totally, you offered her mercy rather than slaughter her without it.”

“Yes, but the only reason that I did it is because I felt pity for her!” Cyrus felt the flush of embarrassment, as though he were confessing to a particularly filthy crime.

“Pity and mercy go hand in hand, for it was your pity that awakened the realization that you should be merciful – and you did not let your hatred wreck any hope for us to prove our innocence.”

Alaric stepped closer and placed a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Revenge is a dangerous obsession; and it is most dangerous because it is an obsession. Someone truly out for revenge at all costs – someone that irredeemable – would not have had their hand stayed by pity. They would have struck down the Empress, swift and true, and we would still be proclaimed innocent but the guilty would go free. All for the sake of fleeting revenge.”

Having said his peace, the Ghost turned again from Cyrus and marched up the stone steps into Sanctuary.

They left for Reikonos an hour later, teleported once more by Niamh into the city square. A frenzy of activity greeted Cyrus as he stepped away from the portal. Wagons were moving through the square and up and down streets at a much quicker pace than usual, but voices were hushed as people went about their business. Cyrus saw a cluster of dark elves around a wagon loaded to bursting, heading through the square toward city’s west gate. A few more dark elven parties were behind them, all heading in the same direction.

They walked to the Citadel, finding themselves once more at the base of the gargantuan gray tower. The guards waved them through, and the elevator moved just as slowly as the last time they had been here. Upon stepping out of it at their floor, Cyrus steered G’Koal from the lift and into the corridor. She walked without much prompting, feet bound by ropes just enough to slow her should she decide to run. Her arms were severed and she had refused reattachment, saying she would prefer to carry the scars of her shame for the rest of her days.

As they stepped through the door, Cyrus involuntarily reached for his sword, squeezing the hilt for reassurance that it was still there. He glanced behind the elevator and saw the balconies that opened up with a view of the entire city spread before them. Long way down, he thought. But it might be preferable to surrendering my sword.

Entering one of the sets of double doors, they marched the Empress down the aisle before them as the Council of Twelve looked on. Pretnam Urides’s jowled face stood out, a satisfied smile resting upon his lips. “Gentlemen,” he called out as they opened the waist-high wood gate that separated the floor before the Councilors from the benches where the audience sat, “I hear you have brought us evidence of treachery by one of the guilds in our city. I am eager –” the Councilor’s voice betrayed no sign of insincerity – “to see justice done.”

“Indeed,” Alaric began. “We appreciate your review of the evidence we provided you earlier; the testimony of the elven caravan leader and men, the bodies of the goblin raiders and the surviving wizard who brought them to the Plains. Were you able to coerce anything from him?”

“No, our guards have as yet been unable to loosen his tongue,” Urides admitted, jowls shaking along with his head. “But he is known to us; Carrack, officer of Goliath.” Pretnam Urides smiled. “Which is why I am so very interested to hear your evidence.”

“Behold the Empress of Enterra,” the Ghost said. “She had intimate knowledge of the planning and execution of the attacks on convoys and will tell you herself who was involved.”

Without prompting, the Empress spoke, in a low voice that did not sound female at all. “For over two years we have been allied with Goliath. Malpravus, their Guildmaster, came to us with a warning of an attack that was about to fall upon our city. With his assistance, we were able to stave off this danger to our realm in exchange for Terrenus, the Hammer of Earth.”

“I see,” Urides interrupted. “And did Malpravus express interest in other of the godly weapons?”

The Empress’s dull eyes looked up at the Councilor, uncaring. “He wanted to acquire them all, yes.”

“I see, I see,” Urides said. He shifted his focus to Alaric. “This seems to back up your assertion that Goliath assisted in stealing our spear. Please continue.”

“A few months ago, he came to us again, with another proposition.” The goblin’s voice was dull; she sounded like a broken thing; her voice dragged. “Over a year ago we were preparing to invade the Gnomish Dominions, but were concerned that with the Human Confederation as their chief trading partner, any attack on the gnomes would prompt a human response.”

Her eyes stared straight ahead, not acknowledging anything she saw. “We were not prepared to handle that threat; the might and numbers of the Human Confederation are known to us, and they are great.

“Malpravus came to us, promised us that with our help he could redirect human attentions for the next few years, giving us free reign to destroy the gnomes and claim their territory for our own. He claimed that his plan would distract the rest of the world for so long, we would be able to consolidate our power for a few years and conquer the dwarves when we were ready, adding their mountain halls to our territory.”

“And the human riverlands between you and the dwarves?” Urides had a look of indignation.

“He promised us,” the Empress continued, “that you would be so ground down by the war that he would begin that we could take them at our convenience.” She shook her head. “But we had no interest in riverlands when the mountains around Fertiss still stood, ripe for the conquest.”

“Do not think that coy words and denials will bring you any mercy!” Urides warned. “Threats to our territory are taken very seriously indeed and carry the death penalty in the Confederation.”

“I don’t think she much cares at this point,” Cyrus observed.

The Councilor looked at him with an air of surprise. “No one wants to die.”

Cyrus held his tongue. She does.

“Malpravus proposed that we should provide the forces; our goblin soldiers are known for their stealth. Our attacks are the stuff of legends.” Her voice betrayed the first hint of emotion – pride. “We can disappear without a trace, leaving the afflicted party to wonder if a ghost struck from thin air and attacked them.”

“It is much easier to disappear with a wizard to aid you,” Urides snorted.

“He provided the wizard.” The Empress’s voice returned to her flat, dull tone. “We provided everything else. We split the rewards with 70 percent going to Goliath and 30 percent to us, after Goliath sold the goods in the markets of Reikonos.”

“Did you hear that?” Urides remarked to the Councilor next to him, who was nodding. He leaned forward at his bench, looking down the row of Councilors to the place where their recordkeeper sat. “Trading in stolen goods. Theft. Murder. Conspiracy.” The recordkeeper nodded as she scrawled on the parchment before her.

“To make no mention of the fact that Goliath likely kept more than 70 percent,” Alaric added. “The goblins’ proceeds came from Goliath’s accounting, after all.”

“Yes, yes,” Urides jowls wobbled. “Find a charge for that as well,” he said to the recordkeeper. “Unfair dealing, or perhaps larceny.”

“Do you truly care that the goblins were treated unfairly in this transaction?” the Ghost asked without emotion.

“Of course not!” Pretnam Urides snapped. “They were engaged in attacking and destroying our convoys and selling the proceeds! I want more charges for Goliath, however, so I am willing to hear her complaints, real or perceived. Is there anything else?” He peered down at the goblin Empress.

She shook her head, her eyes focused on the floor. The pity that Cyrus felt when he spared her life grew in that moment, and he realized that whatever she had been responsible for, he no longer felt anything but sorry for her.

“Very well,” came the hurried voice of Pretnam Urides. “You will be taken into custody by the guards of Reikonos and placed in jail until trial. As for Goliath…” he said, voice trailing off as three of the Lyrus guards came to lead the Empress away.

With a start Cyrus realized one of the guards was Rhane Ermoc, haughty sneer ever present as he grasped the bandaged stump of the Empress’s arm and began to drag her away. She did not protest, trying to keep up with the bigger human’s strides. Cy watched as Ermoc gripped her around the bandage and squeezed. Blood oozed from between the fingers of his metal gauntlet but the Empress did not acknowledge any pain or cry out.

“I think for Goliath we should issue the following sanctions: their treasury shall be drained to pay damages. I want all their assets and all their members’ assets seized,” Urides began. He turned to another Councilor. “I believe you already spoke to the banks; their accounts totaled north of 400 million gold pieces?” A nod met his question.

“Very good. Goliath will be forced from their guildhall and exiled from the Confederation – all members, never to be allowed within our borders again. And this time, the executions will be upheld rather than stayed,” he said with a nod at Alaric. “We have already released your people that were detained.”

“Much appreciated,” said Alaric.

“No business shall be transacted with any member of Goliath by any merchant or citizen of the Confederation, under penalty of 50 years in jail. All in favor?” He surveyed the Council of Twelve with a quick glance. “None opposed? Good. Seize their assets, eject them from the Confederation and let us be done with this. Send a messenger to inform them of the findings of this Council.”

Cyrus let out a laugh, a short, sharp bark that was unintended but caught the attention of the Council. He covered his mouth. “Sorry,” he said with chagrin.

“Davidon, I believe it is… have you something to add?” Urides glared down at him, clearly unused to being challenged or interrupted.

“I was just… curious,” Cyrus said, “about how you planned to remove Goliath from the city.”

“With the greatest ease,” Urides said with cool assurance. He turned to the clerk at the opposite end of the bench from the Recordkeeper. “Send for the Guildmasters of Endeavor, Amarath’s Raiders and Burnt Offerings. Tell them I am invoking their Homestead clause in order to remove an undesirable element from within the city.” A smile lit Pretnam Urides’s fat face that Cyrus suspected came from the Councilor savoring the exercise of his power.

“My apologies, Councilor,” Alaric said with a bow of his head. “You will not find the Guildmaster of Goliath at his hall presently to deliver the message. He is waiting for us at a meeting in the Coliseum.”

“I see.” Urides’s eyes lit up. “Could I impose on you to deliver our message?” The Councilor seemed to relish the thought of Alaric twisting the knife on Goliath; his eyes glowed with excitement.

“It would be no imposition,” the Ghost admitted, keeping his expression neutral. “If there is nothing else?” After a moment’s pause, he began to leave.

“There is one last, small matter,” Urides admitted. “Some further service you might be honored to perform for the Confederation.”

Alaric turned back, wary. “And that is?”

“Our armies are withdrawing from the southern plains,” Urides said with a certain stiffness.

“An excellent decision, Councilor, if you mean to avert war,” Alaric said with a slight bow.

Pretnam Urides smiled. “There is no averting war now. The dark elves attacked our Sophisan Infantry regiment last night not far from your guildhall. War is declared, sirs, and armies are already on the march. No, the service we require of you is quite different,” he said, ignoring the stunned reactions on both their faces. “Our forces are moving to positions of great strategic importance elsewhere so that we may win this war quickly, and make the dark elves regret their aggressiveness.

“I require… a steward,” Urides said. “A force that can keep a close eye on the trade routes of the southern plains and keep them open against raiders and others that may decide to halt the flow of necessary commerce at an hour when it would be costly to us to strip forces from our other efforts. Be assured –” the Councilman’s smile returned – “when the war is concluded, we shall return our garrisons to the plains, likely by the end of the year – but until then, someone will need to guard the peace.”

Alaric stared, unblinking, at the Council of Twelve, drawing his eye across them all in a slow, long look that took each of them in. Whatever might have passed through his head, only a few words came out of his mouth. “As ever, Sanctuary will steward the southern Plains of Perdamun to the best of our ability.”

“Excellent.” Urides rubbed his hands together. “I am pleased we can count on your assistance.” He looked toward the back of the chamber. “You are dismissed, then. By all means, send us updates on your progress and stewardship. We look forward to reading them,” he said without enthusiasm. “Next matter…”

Cyrus led the way out of the chambers. Alaric was muted, and as they passed through the double doors into the room containing the elevator, Cyrus was surprised to see Rhane Ermoc standing beside one of the balconies, same malevolent smile on his lips. Upon seeing the two of them exit the Council chambers, Ermoc called out, “Your Empress tried to escape, but we stopped her.”

Cyrus looked around, sensing something unpleasant. “Where is she?”

Rhane Ermoc’s smile grew wider and more mocking as he stuck his thumb over his shoulder toward the balcony. “She fell. Accidentally,” the guard said with a laugh. “At least she didn’t escape.”

Cyrus’s jaw clenched and he felt Alaric grip the back of his armor, restraining him. Cyrus’s hand clutched the hilt of Praelior, ready to draw. Ermoc looked at him in mild amusement. “That’s right, Garaunt. Restrain your dog of war or I’ll teach him a lesson in respect.”

“And while that would end in your not-at-all-tragic and well-deserved death, I think perhaps you should realize that I am only assisting my comrade in remembering that some fleas are simply too insignificant to scratch.” The Ghost smiled. “I used your dog metaphor because I felt that if anyone could understand a comparison to worthless, bloodsucking insects, it would be you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The guard captain’s face had turned into a scowl not shared by his compatriots, who were trying (in vain) not to snicker.

Alaric guided Cyrus back to the elevator. “Take it to mean what you will. Good day, Rhane Ermoc. I hope you see the front line of the war soon. I suspect they will need your guidance and martial prowess, honed to a fine edge by killing armless goblins half your size.” The Ghost cast a final look at the guard as the elevator began to lower, and released his hold on Cyrus’s backplate. “You must get a better hold on yourself, my friend.”

“What he did,” Cyrus spat in rage. “That was unnecessary.”

“I do not disagree,” Alaric replied.

A moment of silence passed between them as the elevator crept downward. “She should have died in battle,” Cyrus said.

“That would have been what she wanted,” Alaric cautioned. “She schemed the murder and dishonor of our guild.”

“I’m aware,” the warrior said, tense. “But you know that Malpravus fed the imperial ambitions of the goblins until they couldn’t see anything but the possibilities. And he took advantage of them. He stole their most powerful weapon while feeding them a falsehood about some ridiculous prophecy –”

“That, as you pointed out, came true.”

“But –”

“There is no but,” Alaric said. “She made her own choices, as did her husband, as did her people. If you don’t believe that, look no further than Mendicant, who chose to go in the opposite direction of the Goblin Imperium. She and her husband ruled the non-soldiers of that empire with an iron fist, by the way of the warrior. Do not mourn for their destruction, and be glad of the mercy you found for her.”

“Why?” Cyrus said, a bitter tinge in his voice. “She’s just as dead as if I had killed her myself.”

“Not the point,” the knight replied. “It’s not the effect on her that mattered when it came to the mercy you showed. She would have been happier dead. The importance of what you did for her was the effect the mercy had on you.” Cyrus’s quizzical look was met by a knowing smile. “You and I have talked about purpose many times. Becoming a harder man, a killer who would destroy lives without mercy or provocation, is a hard path on the soul and sensibilities. You are a warrior. Your mercy kept you from becoming a murderer. Death is an awesome power. Make certain you have reason to wield it when you do, or be slow to employ its means.”

They passed the rest of the ride in silence as Cyrus contemplated the words Alaric had spoken. They returned to the square, where Niamh waited with Windrider as well as Alaric’s mount and one for herself. The journey to the Coliseum took longer than usual. The streets of Reikonos were filled with travelers, mostly dark elves leaving the city laden with horses, wagons or even packs on their backs.

They exited the city’s eastern gate and Cyrus’s gaze fell on an enormous circular building that was almost as tall as Sanctuary, and could nearly fit the Citadel lying on its side, within the walls. They entered through the square archway, finding their allies waiting in the dirt floor, where the spectacle of combats took place. Cyrus wondered when last the Coliseum had seen use for gladiatorial sport; for as long as he could recall it had been used largely for public events.

Malpravus stood waiting to one side, with Tolada and the helmeted Orion flanking him at each arm. Orion’s helm protected and covered his face totally, with only small slits for his eyes. Tolada had a bored look on his face and was fingering the handle of his warhammer.

To the other side stood Cass and Elisabeth. Cass’s arms were crossed and a look of disgust was evident on his face. He shifted to a slight smile and nod at Cyrus when the party from Sanctuary entered. Elisabeth also graced him with a faint smile, but the look in her eyes was cooler somehow than in their previous meetings; he assumed the memory of his attack on Orion was fresh in her mind.

Malpravus spoke first. “As you have summoned us here, Alaric, I can only assume you either have a death wish or you have managed to free yourself from the troubles encumbering you these last months. Tell me, have you decided to embrace wisdom and pay what they have asked?”

“I have not,” Alaric replied, dismounting. “But nor am I any longer banished from Reikonos.”

“Oh?” Malpravus’s eyebrow perked up in interest. “Do tell.”

“Malpravus,” Cyrus called out, catching the necromancer’s attention, “where’s Carrack?”

Malpravus let out an exasperated sigh, somewhat uncharacteristic of the usually cool dark elf. “Dear boy, how should I know where all my officers are at every hour of the day? I brought the three normally requested for Alliance meetings…” He grinned. “Although, if you should feel the need to assault them as you did last time, Alaric should perhaps pick differently when next we meet…”

“‘When next we meet’?” Alaric said, seizing upon the necromancer’s words. “I’m not much concerned about that. I have a message for you from the Council of Twelve.” He smiled as the Goliath Guildmaster froze. “Your assets are being seized as we speak; you are banished from the Human Confederation, and you will be removed from your guildhall by tomorrow at noon under pain of death. Whatever you cannot carry with you will become property of the Confederation.” He tossed the scroll from the Council’s clerk in the dirt at Malpravus’s feet.

The necromancer stared down at it, all mirth gone from his gaunt face. “If this is some form of a joke, I can only assume that my sense of humor is not quite up to the modern standard.”

“It is no joke,” Alaric replied as Tolada reached down and seized the parchment, unrolling it. His eyes widened as he read it, and Malpravus snatched it out of his hands before he was finished.

“Carrack blew your whole plan,” Cyrus said to the necromancer with a smile. “He was still mad at me for cutting his throat at our last meeting – mad enough that he made a really bad decision to go after a convoy that we had a clear watch on.”

“I see,” Malpravus said with cool indifference. “The word of one wizard is nothing. He lies.”

“That would be more persuasive if we hadn’t killed all the goblins you sent,” Cyrus answered back. “And then we stormed Enterra and brought the Empress back, and she told quite an interesting tale.”

“Goblin deceits,” the necromancer said with a small laugh. “You cannot possibly believe what any of them would say? They did kill your friend, after all…”

“They did,” Cyrus admitted. “But only after you warned them that the ‘gezhvet’ was coming to attack them.” The warrior’s voice grew icy. “Tell me, did you know that Narstron was with Sanctuary? Or did you just assume that there would be some dwarf on the Enterra invasion that you could pass off as the ‘gezhvet’ to get your hands on the hammer?”

Malpravus’s smile was gone. No evidence of laughter was present on his face, which had grown stiff, his eyes cold as the death he claimed mastery over. His expression was calculating and aimed right at Cyrus. “That is a powerful accusation to make.”

Cyrus met the necromancer’s cold stare with one of his own. “I’m a powerful warrior.” He gestured at Orion. “He told me last year that there was another traitor in the Alliance. It figures that the two of you would end up thick as thieves. After all, you both served the Dragonlord.”

Malpravus did not flinch at the accusation, but Tolada did. Cyrus could see Elisabeth out of the corner of his eye. “That’s enough, Cyrus,” she called out to him. “You go too far!”

“The Council of Twelve has spoken, as has the King of the Elves,” Alaric said matter-of-factly. “They have found the testimony of the Empress of the goblins and the presence of Carrack at the raid to be compelling enough to find Goliath guilty of these crimes, and levied sanctions accordingly. By the way,” Alaric continued, “Pharesia is also demanding payment, should you ever want to set foot in the Elven Kingdom again.”

“So we see how the wheel turns,” Malpravus said. He looked back to Cyrus for but a moment. “You have lost your chance, boy, and now your friend will rot forever.”

“I think he’ll rest in peace, actually,” Cyrus replied, “knowing that the treacherous dogs that got him killed have finally faced some justice – and knowing that I didn’t have to sell out everything I believed in just so you’d use your precious bauble to bring him back to life.”

“Bauble?” Cass said with a frown. “What are you talking about, Cyrus?”

“His soul ruby,” Cyrus said with a dismissive wave at Malpravus, who stiffened once more. “He claimed he could bring back Narstron.”

“Soul ruby?” Cass’s eyes hardened, a line of suspicion etched across the warrior’s brow. “You traffic in soul rubies, Malpravus?”

“Utter rubbish,” the necromancer replied. “The boy is mistaken.”

“He showed me one,” Cyrus said. “He had it in his sleeve.”

“That’s dark magic, even for a necromancer,” Cass said with contempt. “You have to sacrifice a life to make a soul ruby, Malpravus.”

The necromancer scowled. “I do not have –”

“Have you ever seen someone brought back to life by a soul ruby?” Alaric asked. “It is a not a life – it is a twisted, dark reflection of life, not even fitting for the worst of criminals as punishment.”

“This is ridiculous,” Orion protested, voice heated through his helmet. “The Council of Twelve and the King of the Elves have exiled us based on what? Your word, the ramblings of a goblin and some arrogant wizard?”

“Plus my word that you’re traitorous, malevolent, sell-your-mother-for a piece of chainmail –” Cyrus began to rattle off an insult but did not get a chance to finish it. Orion charged at him, blades already drawn, two of them, each the length of Cyrus’s borrowed short sword.

The warrior could feel the strength and speed of Praelior coursing through him; Orion moved as slow as if he were underwater. Cyrus drew the blade as Orion closed on him and brought it across in a purely defensive blow that knocked both the ranger’s swords out of his hands. He staggered from Cyrus’s strike, and with a knee to the abdomen, Cyrus spun him about and brought the ranger’s charge to a halt.

Orion lay on his back, gasping for air as Cyrus stood over him. “I took your advice and got a longer sword,” he said coolly. “I could scarcely afford better, as I have yet to be paid a large bounty of gold for being faithful to my friends and guildmates, rather than selling their lives to the highest bidder.” He swung the sword delicately across Orion’s doublet, peeling back the cloth with the blade. “You know, like you did to buy this fine, fine chainmail of yours.”

Cyrus stared down at the ranger. No one moved around him. Alaric stood back and watched, arms folded. Niamh bit her lip. Cass had an arm out, holding Elisabeth back from intervening. Tolada stood open-mouthed, but neither he nor Malpravus showed any sign of moving to help their fallen comrade. The necromancer stood with his hands crossed in front of him, eyes still cold.

Cy edged Praelior down with a push, splitting the first of the links of Orion’s armor with a sword harder than any other metal. “It’s a funny thing, honor,” he said as he brought his blade down from the neck of the chainmail to its terminus below Orion’s waist. “You pledged yours to your guildmates and allies, then made a pact with the Dragonlord who would have killed us all.”

Orion’s shirt of links fell from him and Cyrus brought his blade down, snagging the ranger’s chainmail pants at the hip. He dragged the blade along the ranger’s leg on each side. Orion’s priceless, finely crafted armor fell away from him, but still he made no move to stop Cyrus.

“We fought and in some cases died to check your insane ambitions, and you got away without a mark, without justice, without consequences.” Cy knelt down and looked the ranger in the eyes through the helmet. With a sneer he tipped the sword under Orion’s chin. “I’m sick of this ridiculous mask. I want to look at you when I call you a traitor.” With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the helm up and over the top of the ranger’s head, and it fell to the ground. Cyrus gasped.

“That’s not exactly true, is it, Cyrus?” Orion looked at him, eyes burning.

The ranger’s face was a ruined mess; his lips were split open in an exaggerated ovoid, showing far more of his teeth and gums than should have been visible. Heavy, ugly scars showed on his forehead, gashes grown over with new flesh, but ridges stood out on his brow and ran diagonally, and another from his left eye down to his mouth that ended in a peculiar V-shaped split that looked like a river running into the lake that was his mouth. His chin lacked almost any definition, as though there were no bones in it at all, and his right eyebrow seemed to have suffered the same fate.

Elisabeth looked away from the grotesque sight with a gasp and Cyrus could hear Niamh retching behind him. “I didn’t get away without a mark. You left me scarred for life. Selene got me out of the mountains alive, but she passed out and wasn’t able to heal me in time to fix the damage you caused.” He looked down, bowing his head. “Now my wife cannot even bear to look at me.” The ranger’s eyes turned defiant. “So do your worst. Tell me how I’ve wronged you. Take your revenge at last.”

Cyrus stood up, leaving his sword pointed at Orion and shook his head. “I don’t need revenge against you, Orion. Look at you. Revenge would be beneath me. If the day comes when we cross blades again, it will be because you provoked it, and it will be the last in a long line of your foolish mistakes.”

“Forgive and forget, Cyrus?” Orion brought his eyes up, looking at the warrior. “Is that it?”

“No,” Cyrus said. “Never forget.” Cyrus pivoted on his heel and brought Praelior down on Orion’s helmet, neatly cutting it in half. He cast a look at Orion, but the ranger showed no emotion on his ruined face.

He pointed the blade at Malpravus, who did not move or react in any way. “The same goes for you, necromancer. My business with you is done. What you tried, you failed, and it has cost you everything. If I ever catch you in wrongdoing again… I won’t let you survive.”

“I think that it goes without saying, but I will mention it anyway,” Alaric interjected, stepping forward. “Sanctuary voted unanimously this morning to reject a merger with the Alliance. In a second vote, we decided that we no longer desire to be affiliated with this Alliance, and so we are leaving it.”

A smile crossed the face of the Ghost, slow and sweet, full of a deep satisfaction. “We wish you all the very best.” He angled his head to Cass and Elisabeth. “Should you require our assistance in the future, we would be pleased to render it in honor of the bonds of fellowship we once shared.”

He turned his head to the Goliath officers. “I would hope that these events will bring to light the fact that some ambitions are not worth pursuing and that some bargains come at far too high a cost. Should that lesson not have sunk in to your thick skulls – we will be watching you.” A hard edge crept into Alaric’s voice, and even though the threat was not aimed at him, Cyrus was intimidated.

With a bow, Alaric led the way out of the Coliseum. Cyrus took a last look at Malpravus, still unmoving, and Orion, who sat in the dirt, head still bowed, his face forever marked with the wounds suffered in his treachery. Alaric waited until they had passed the gates until he spoke. “You’re passing up opportunities at revenge left and right.”

“You sound impressed,” Cyrus replied with a deep amusement. “Perhaps I’ve grown as a person. Best not to mention it to Vara; she might die of shock.”

Alaric shook his head. “If you wish to hide your best, most noble deeds…”

“Okay,” he said. “You can tell her. But don’t make it sound like I wanted her to know.”

The Ghost regarded him, impassive for a moment as they continued their walk. “I never cease to be amazed at the lengths two supposedly mature adults will go to in order to avoid the possibility that their feelings might be bruised by the possibility of rejection. I mean – gods, man, just tell her how you feel already and get it over with.”

“I second that,” Niamh said from behind them.

Cyrus shot her a glare that caused her to look away. “Perhaps I will.” He frowned. “I didn’t think about it at the time because of all the other things that happened in our meeting with the Council of Twelve, but Pretnam Urides said that the Confederation is already at war with the Dark Elf Sovereignty. Won’t that change things for us?”

“Worse than that,” Niamh said. “I heard in the square before you both showed up; the Dark Elves must have been ready before they made a move – they hit a dozen towns and outposts in the last fifteen hours all along their border. I guess the humans weren’t as prepared as they thought. There are armies marching through the Confederation as we speak, sacking everything in their path.”

“Pretnam Urides was so arrogant that he assumed that the war would start and stay confined to the southern plains,” Alaric said. “I suspect that the Sovereign of Saekaj has other plans, especially if his opening gambit was this ambitious. The elves will remain neutral, and the Sovereignty will take the lead in this war for the foreseeable future.”

“You don’t think the humans will be able to mount a counteroffensive?” Cyrus asked.

“Perhaps in time,” the Ghost said. “I believe Pretnam Urides was more ready for the war than the Confederation was,” he said with a sad shake of the head.

“Will this change things for us?” Cyrus asked.

“Of course,” Alaric replied. “We do not go about our business untouched by the outside world. As Reikonos and Saekaj Sovar make war against each other, all the powers and the peoples of Arkaria will be affected in some way. I doubt we’ll see the carnage show up on our front doorstep – yet – but be assured, the fires of war burn hot, and they consume all in their path. It will be a matter of time, and we will become involved in some way – willing or not. But for now, we will remain as we have been for all these years: a Sanctuary for those who need it most.”

Chapter 42

War news consumed the conversations in the lounge and Great Hall that evening, and carried over through breakfast the next day. The names of the human towns that had been destroyed in the first attacks were on the lips of everyone. Some members left to join the armies of their respective homelands; more applicants began to show up at the door as the truth spread faster than war news through the lands of Arkaria.

Cyrus found Niamh at the appointed hour the next day, waiting in the foyer for him. “You’re early,” she said with a hint of surprise.

“Wouldn’t want to be late, would I?”

“Not for this.” Her smile spread almost from ear to ear. “I doubt I’ll stay for the whole thing; I’m going home to Pharesia to see my family.”

“I didn’t know you even had family,” he said with a shake of his head. “We’ve known each other for two years, traveled the world together and you’re still just the girl who keeps saving my ass whenever I get into trouble.” She gave him a look that evidenced her six hundred plus years. “Woman,” he corrected.

“Family’s not a hot topic for those of us that have been here a long time,” she observed. “Sanctuary becomes your family after a while. I haven’t been home in years. Hadn’t felt a sudden urgency to, until I couldn’t anymore because of the banishment.” Her face grew solemn. “Then, suddenly, I wanted to see my mother and father, nephews and nieces and brothers and sisters more than anything.

“What about you?” she asked after a beat. “Do you have any family left in the world?”

A vision of hearth and home flashed before his eyes – of his childhood, of a fireplace, of the warm smell of meat pies cooking and a mother with green eyes and a laughing smile, whom he hadn’t seen since before he was dropped off at the Society of Arms at the age of six. “No.”

“Would you like to go home with me?” She had a half-smile, pity that she couldn’t quite conceal edging into her expression at the corners of her eyes. “They’re preparing quite the feast, I’m told.”

“You’re too kind, but I have some errands to run while I’m in Reikonos.”

She nodded, a wistful look on her face as a half dozen others joined them in the next minutes. Terian, Vaste, Andren, Nyad and more. When the last arrived, Niamh cast the teleportation spell and Cy felt the warm air of Reikonos hit his skin as the fountain in the square appeared when the wind of her teleport spell faded. They walked through the streets of the city unnoticed; even now, a steady line of dark elven refugees filtered out from the slums toward the city gates.

The guildhall quarter was buzzing with activity even though it was not yet noon. At the four corners where stood the biggest guildhalls in the city, the streets were already packed with people. He and the others picked their way through the crowd, ending up on the raised platform of the portal that exited from Purgatory. The portal was lifeless now; no energy crackled within the ovoid rock.

“You know, I still say it’d be a fine day for a mass public execution,” Andren said with not a little acrimony. Terian nodded along with the healer.

“I wonder how many members of Goliath actually knew what was going on?” Niamh said.

“I would guess few,” Vaste commented. “Enough to make it work and no more. Malpravus is no fool and this is the sort of plot that is best kept secret; the more people that knew, the worse chance of keeping it quiet.”

Cyrus watched the crowd. A bored assemblage stood guard at the doors to Goliath’s guildhall. Even from this distance he could see Archenous Derregnault, sour expression on his face. Larning, the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings, stood next to the human, warhammer slung behind him. Isabelle was not far from them, standing at a distance, arms crossed and golden hair flowing around her shoulders. She chanced to look up as he was studying her and a slight smile filled her lips. Her arms uncrossed and she offered him a salutory wave. He returned it.

“Look who’s here,” Vaste said with a smile, nudging Cyrus in the ribs. Vara picked her way through the crowd, caught sight of them and hesitated for only a moment before moving to join her guildmates on the platform.

“You never come to Alliance events,” Cyrus said as she climbed the steps to join them.

“I decided to make an exception,” she said. Her expression softened. “You know I wouldn’t miss this.”

The doors to the Goliath guildhall opened, and the first of a procession began to file out, all of them laden with bags and boxes. Hoots and jeers filled the air, as did a few rotten vegetables. Orion was near the front, face uncovered.

“You’d think they’d take wagons or horses,” Niamh wondered aloud.

“All seized. Part of the restitution; they killed an awful lot of horses in their raids,” Andren said. “Serves them right.”

“The goblins are finished as a power. Goliath is cast out, bankrupted and homeless.” Vara looked at Cyrus with a smile of undisguised pleasure. “I would say you got your revenge.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I would say justice was done.”

Andren remained sour. “Still galls me that Malpravus and Orion are allowed to walk free when they should be rotting in a Reikonos jail or hanging from a gallows. Your human justice system makes me sick.”

Vara rolled her eyes. “As I recall, Pharesia let them walk free as well.”

“Oh, yeah,” the healer said, taking a drink from his flask. “What’s wrong with people nowadays?”

“The Confederation couldn’t sort out exactly who in Goliath was guilty, and I doubt they could contain that many spell casting prisoners for very long,” Cyrus replied. “I think we’ve hurt them all more than you can imagine. It’s true, their schemes have killed quite a few people, but we’ve taken everything from them.”

Vara stared him down. “You know they’ll be back.”

“I know. But like Alaric told them – we’ll be watching, and waiting. And when they do come back, it’ll be the end for them. No more mercy, no more forgiveness.” He touched his sword, and the power of it flowed through him. “I’m not worried. If they come, we’ll stop them.”

“Only if you see them coming,” Vaste retorted. “They aren’t known for declaring hostilities before knocking us flat. It’s always treachery – the way of the sidewinder.”

They all chewed on that for a moment as the procession grew, the line from Goliath’s door stretching down the street. Cy turned to Vara. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

She nodded and followed him away from the group, behind the portal. “It is well that you asked me to speak, I have something I’ve been wanting to tell you as well.”

He blinked at her. “You go first.”

She pursed her lips. “Very well. Do you recall how you had mentioned your intense dislike of Archenous Derregnault?”

He frowned. “I do. I just saw him a few minutes ago, actually.”

She looked at him with curiosity. “And?”

“I still feel the same.”

She breathed, letting out a small laugh, then turned serious again. “I dislike him as well, obviously, though unlike yourself, for clearly defined reasons.”

His mouth felt dry. She’s letting me in, he mused. “Which are?”

“You know that I was an officer in Amarath’s Raiders.” She waited for his nod and continued. “When I was there, Archenous was also an officer, and we were proteges of the Guildmaster, a paladin named Trayance Parloure.

“He was a legend, and his personal honor was unquestioned. Archenous and I were both rising stars, new out of the Holy Brethren, deeply ambitious and clamoring to take over for Parloure when he stepped down as Guildmaster.”

“Archenous is not a paladin,” Cyrus said with measured uncertainty.

“Not any longer,” Vara agreed. She seemed to hold on to every word until the last possible moment, as though keeping them on her tongue longer might prevent her from having to finish her story. “We began our expeditions in Purgatory and spent months learning how to overcome the first battles, enduring the taunting of the Gatekeeper the entire time.”

She took a deep breath and paused, as if trying to decide whether to go on. She looked in his eyes and he could see the pain and vulnerability coming to the surface. “On the day we defeated the Trials, Archenous slew Trayance Parloure after we killed the Last Guardian. He did it at the behest of the Gatekeeper, who had been slowly turning Archenous to the path of the dark knight through the months we had spent there.”

“He betrayed his Guildmaster?” Cyrus said, stunned. “Didn’t anyone step up to defend him?”

“A few,” she said with a shake of her head. “He killed them all. I was mortally wounded, left for dead. The Gatekeeper taunted me as I lay dying, alone. I pleaded for life as my reward for completing the Trials.”

“You’re still here,” he said, hands open, gesturing toward her.

“I survived,” she said with a trace of a smile, “but only just.” She looked away from him, back toward the procession leading out of Goliath’s guildhall. “I hope… that story does not make me appear weak in your eyes. I have never pursued revenge against Archenous, though I wanted to more than once.”

Cyrus’s eyes flitted to the Guildmaster of Amarath’s Raiders, standing watch in the shadows of the Goliath guildhall. “To attempt it would be suicide,” he said. “How many guildmates does he have… and they’re the best equipped and most powerful fighters in all Arkaria.” He shook his head. “I don’t think less of you for it, nor do I think you’re weak. I would say –” he looked into her eyes and saw the faintest drops of water forming in the corners – “that you are wise… and strong… because sometimes it takes more courage to avoid foolish action than to charge into it.”

He reached for her hand and found it, and she stared at his fingers, intertwined with hers and did not pull away. “Thank you for telling me,” he said.

She looked up at him, blue eyes staring into his. “By your word and deed you continue to prove yourself to be the kind of man… that I can trust.” She looked at him for a long moment, then her hand pulled from his and brushed across his face, a slight touch that sent a strange quiver down his spine. She let it linger for only a moment, then slid past him to rejoin the group watching the last members of Goliath retreat from Reikonos.

Cyrus left them all behind, pushing his way through the crowd, out of the guildhall quarter. He slipped through side streets that he had walked for most of his life, passing landmarks that he could recall from childhood. He crossed the square on the opposite side of the long line of Goliath’s refugees, taking the same path out of the city as the dark elves that were fleeing.

He turned at the square, heading toward the Citadel, but veered down an avenue before he got there. He found the building he was looking for, sitting in the shadow of the Citadel, a multistory structure that bore a pillared facade that stretched across its entrance doors, cut from quarried marble, with an arched roof that was filled with stone statues of gods in varying poses.

The library.

He entered and made inquiries at the desk in the foyer, where the curator pointed him in the right direction. After a short search, he found it, holding in his hands a leather bound tome, thicker than a loaf of bread with pages so thin they were almost insubstantial. He placed it upon a stand and opened it. The pages were new, the ink still bold, and the words stood out at him – both the words he understood, written in short paragraphs, alongside the words he did not know.

He opened to the first word he searched for, sounding it out. “‘Akur’,” he said. His fingers ran through the pages until it jumped out at him – a definition as short as any he had seen. “‘Last’,” he repeated, reading off the page. A smile half-crooked his face. “‘Akur’ means ‘last’.”

He flipped toward the back of the book, still seeking. Page after page he turned, until finally he found the one he sought. His finger skipped down the page and a nervous tension filled his stomach. His finger stopped and he blinked, then read, then blinked again.

“‘Shelas’,” he breathed. He read the translation once more, just to be sure he had it right. “‘Hope’,” he said, then pieced the words together. “‘Shelas’akur,’” he repeated, turning the words over in his mouth. A strange feeling filled him, a sense that he now knew more – and yet somehow less – than he had before he had found the words.

“Last hope.”

NOW

Epilogue

Clouds filled the skies out the window of the Council archive. Pain gnawed at Cyrus, the memory of all that had come from those days. The ache was one of deep regret; most of all for things not said. He turned his eyes back to the journal and forced himself to read, trying to drown out the thoughts of what had come later. He flipped to a different page, then rifled back a few pages, until he reached a passage that answered a question he had long asked.

I left the Holy Brethren in a fury, sick of schooling, sick of memorizing spells, and sick of arrogant paladins droning on about their damned self-righteous holy crusades. I was eighteen years of age; a baby in the eyes of the elves, yet a legend because of my status as shelas’akur.

Whilst in the Kingdom I was seldom refused anything – which made me sick in and of itself. So I fled, leaving Termina behind for Reikonos, striking out on my own to find my path with the Holy Brethren, something that had been arranged for me since it was discovered I had magical talent as a young child. I left behind the home that I had known for the anonymity of the human world, and found something I had not expected: damned human arrogance.

It manifested in their belief that their efforts had resulted in the defeat of the ancient and powerful trolls, it stemmed from their annoying pride in that gaudy Citadel that jutted above all else in their deformed city (they didn’t even build the damned thing!) and worst, it sprang full grown from every human male that ever wielded a sword – a sort of cockiness that spawns from some unfathomable pit in their depths, possibly born from an insecurity so far buried that you would need to extract their gallbladder to find it.

It was annoying, to say the least.

But the talk of the crusades was worst of all. One would proudly proclaim his undying devotion to the ideal of freeing every slave in Arkaria while another would bleat about the plight of the suffering poor and how they deserved to be fed and clothed while another whined about advancing their god above all else – worthy causes, I am sure, with the possible exception of the evangelism (who wants to preach the gospel of the Goddess of Love? Truly.) – but in me they found no suitable audience. I am certain the Lord Knight who taught the Crusader Philosophy course could hear my teeth grind from the back of the room.

When the day came that I was forced to proclaim my crusade, I mumbled something about smiting the self-righteous and left. The Lord Knight let me get away with it; he was an elf, after all. But I never found that damned, insufferable arrogance an attractive quality until the day I met Archenous Derregnault. Tall, handsome and with a deep-seated conviction in the rightness of his cause, I found myself putting aside the word ‘arrogance’ in favor of ‘confidence’.

I do not know whether he pretended not to notice me since I was a year behind him in my studies or whether he genuinely did not, but when, by chance, we were introduced, I can honestly say I fawned over him.

Me.

Fawned.

Over him.

I’m embarrassed by the thought now. But he did some fawning of his own, and it worked out well. We became lovers within a fortnight; he was my first, and tender, and sweet, and his confidence was charming.

He, being a year older, of course left the Brethren before I did. He secured a spot as an applicant to Amarath’s Raiders, one of the foremost guilds in all of Arkaria. I was impressed, but not surprised – it’s not as though I would have wasted my time falling in love with an untalented warrior destined to spend his life on the bottom, devoid of ambition. He climbed quickly from applicant to member, and by the time I left the Brethren, six months later, bored out of my mind by the excruciating minutia of their curriculum, he welcomed me lovingly back to his arms as an applicant of Amarath’s Raiders.

The months passed quickly. The guild was large, but not so large that you didn’t know everybody. In fact, in my first two months I had become acquainted with nearly everyone in the guild. I was polite, I was friendly – upon reflection, probably something like a giddy schoolgirl. In love, excited to be there, eyes wide with possibility and danger and living a life of thrills. We would adventure throughout the day in small groups and come together as a guild at night to tackle challenges unfathomable to most.

Then came the Trials of Purgatory.

We found a spell on one of our excursions that opened the gates of that Realm to us, and spent months trying to conquer it. I had known the Guildmaster, Trayance Parloure, in passing, but more by reputation than personally. In our first attempt on the trials, we lost eighty-five percent of our force to the golems on the first island and were forced to retreat. I say with all the humility I can muster that it was only through my quick action that we fared as well we did. Trayance was impressed; he involved me in planning, sought my council.

Archenous became an officer at the same time I did, both of us favored by Trayance to help run the guild as we faced this new challenge. The officers would meet to discuss the intricacies of strategy until late in the night and Archenous would continue our discussions in bed after we made love, long after the other officers were sleeping.

It was through our late night debates that we finally hit upon the ideas for defeating the golems, then the pegasi and Wind Totem. All the while, I felt him drawing away from me. We talked of the battles ahead but made love less and less; Archenous became obsessed with defeating the Trials, of gaining the reward promised by the Gatekeeper.

I watched him, sometimes, when we would take a break after one of the battles. He was always with the Gatekeeper. That bastard. Always taunting us, humiliating people by revealing their secrets and sins to their guildmates.

I know of more than one person that killed themselves in shame after that treatment, after feeling the burn of his words, of feeling their innermost secrets - things they would die rather than admit – given voice and paraded in front of their comrades. He sickened me.

But Archenous… Archenous talked to him. Constantly. When I asked, he said not to worry, he was trying to get the Gatekeeper to part with secrets, things to help us along.

Liar.

When I came up with the strategy to defeat the Siren of Fire, on my own, it came on the heels of a bitter defeat Archenous had led us into. His strategy for battle with the Siren was so poorly executed that it cost us thirty members, permanently dead. Based on his success with the eel, Trayance had put his faith in Archenous without reviewing the plans and it ended in disaster.

I can still hear Trayance’s voice in my head, tearing a hole in Archenous in the officers’ meeting. I had known him better than anyone – I should, perhaps, have recognized the look in his eyes when Trayance berated him over and over, but by that point he was so distant to me that I can honestly say I had no idea. Archenous was removed from his position as General and placed in charge of applicants.

When I led us to victory against the Siren, Trayance praised me with effusive, pretty words, just the opposite of what he had done to Archenous only days before. I noticed a seed of darkness growing in Archenous, a bitterness, but I hoped it would pass. He took me savagely that night, and I let him, hoping that we could go back to the way it used to be. But when we were done, he felt… empty.

I focused my attention on the Last Guardian and ignored my flagging relationship. I could fix it later, I assumed, and defeating the trials was what Archenous wanted more than anything, right? Right.

Right.

Right?

It took dozens of defeats. Dozens, to get my strategy right. But they were conservative, always, and we never lost a single person to permanent death, even in my wildest experiments.

The day we defeated the Last Guardian was a day of triumph. There was celebrating, wild, frenzied excitement at the fact that after months of blood and tears and defeats, we could finally claim our reward. Archenous had eyes for my sword since the day we met in the Brethren, and when he stood before the Gatekeeper, he received one very similar. He turned and embraced me, sword still in hand.

All the strain, all the worries, all the concerns were gone in that instant. He kissed me, and it was a blissful washing away of all my fears for our relationship. In that moment, I felt that a return to the days when we had begun was possible. He muttered something under his breath and I felt his hand slip up my backplate, tempting me, I thought, with a possibility for later.

Imagine my surprise when his new sword slid into the space between my armor that he had made for it and slid out my belly.

He dropped me unceremoniously, and the applicants that he had been training for months turned on the staunchest defenders of Trayance Parloure. My mentor was killed by a pack of hungry dogs, led by a demon in crusader’s clothing. He took my sword, the one given to me by a noble elf with no children of his own, and threw down the one he’d just received from the Gatekeeper. Then he looked down at me. He knew I was still alive while all the others were dead, and he walked out the portal without a backward glance, taking all that was left of my guild with him.

I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. The minutes passed like hours. There was a fire in my belly, an agony I couldn’t control. I could barely remember the words to a healing spell, and whenever I used them it did nothing to help.

Of course the Gatekeeper was there. “Such a brave effort,” he said in that damned, taunting voice of his. “Such a glorious victory, and you showed them the way! You should be proud.”

At that moment, I would have been proud if I had possessed the strength to impale him on the damned sword that Archenous left me with, but unfortunately, I was in far too much pain. Hours passed. Maybe days. It felt like years. The Gatekeeper faded in and out along with my consciousness, and I found myself hating him and Archenous more and more. He taunted me while I lay there, fed me tender lines about how he had bent Archenous against me, fed his arrogance leading up to the defeat by the Siren and his desire for revenge at being embarrassed by Trayance.

He knew Archenous well; after a few months he had a grasp on the heart and soul of the only man I had ever loved better than I did. And he used it. Archenous knew I would turn on him if he attacked Trayance. And he wanted my sword. Do you know what you can become if you’re prepared to betray and sacrifice someone who loves you?

A dark knight.

And the Gatekeeper talked him into it. Fed him on thoughts of power, of ability to fight off death in ways a paladin never could. Of abandoning your holy crusade and focusing on what’s important – you.

Well, half of it isn’t bad, I suppose.

So he pushed him. And Archenous bought into it – waited until we were weary at the moment of ultimate triumph, waited until he had enough applicants with him to turn against us, and took me out first with a blade to the back. And he cast aside his holy crusade (yes, it was evangelizing for the Goddess of Love) in favor of power and a love for himself before others.

And the bastard stole my sword.

I lay there forever, I swear. We were the only guild to beat the Trials, after all, and the Gatekeeper did not seem eager to help me, regardless of how much I begged. I knew no one would come, and I wondered how long it would be before I succumbed to my wounds. I prayed to Vidara for salvation, over and over. When the pain became too great, I prayed for death.

The Gatekeeper left for a long time. When I saw him again, he was touching my cheek, and he looked different. He was missing an eye, for one thing, and he wore battered armor for another. He stared down at me, eye searching. “Please… help me…” I muttered, or something of the like. I hardly remember. I was dying, after all.

Then the real Gatekeeper appeared at the man’s side. “Life is about choices, isn’t it?” he said in the mocking, cruel tone of someone who thinks they’ve just told the funniest jest of all time. I still wanted to kill him. Other sounds came from around me, but I could not identify any of them.

A glow of light filled my vision, but no warmth entered my body. It was still a miserable cold, chilling me through the skin. I felt strong arms wrap around me.

“There was never a choice,” the man in armor said. He cradled me in his arms, picked up the sword that was next to me, and carried me through the portal. I woke days later in a far different place. And nothing was the same again after that. Ever.

Cyrus looked up from his reading. A sharp intake of breath filled the air as it all settled in. “Archenous,” he said with grim finality. He read a little further, then flipped ahead, reading a section at a time. Another passage drew his attention.

I looked at Alaric with rage. He was possessed of no arrogance, but Cyrus had enough for both of them. “He’s going to make the wrong decision,” I told the man they called the Ghost. He had looked at me just as enigmatically as he had all those years ago, when I lay on my back in Purgatory, then told me I was wrong.

“And if you are not wrong,” he went on, “and he does, at least be sound in the knowledge that you are an astute judge of human character.”

“Don’t be an ass,” I told him. “Cyrus fills the quotient of that for the Council at present.”

He shrugged in that infuriating way that he has when he’s trying to be flippant. “I counseled you about revenge. I will counsel him as well. Perhaps the reason you’re so upset by this is because… you’re hoping you haven’t fallen in love with the same man twice.”

I flung the stupid sword into the wall. It embedded a few inches into the stonework, and I felt warmth in the corners of my eyes. I hate crying. I don’t do it often. I never sob if I can avoid it. Damn the man, he knows. He just knows. “I…” Didn’t know what to say.

“Cyrus and Archenous are not the same person,” Alaric said. “To confuse them or paint them as the same man would be folly on your part.”

“I was betrayed, Alaric,” I snapped at him. “Being gutted, literally, by your first love does not make it easy to trust again. And in this case, perhaps I see the similarities because I know what to look for – and none of the rest of you do.”

“You are hardly the first among us to be betrayed,” he replied. “But keep watching. You’ll know soon enough.”

Cyrus sat back for a moment. He had been aware at the time of the debate raging inside Vara, but not of the substance and depth of it. He found another passage – from Termina. Right after she kissed me on the cheek and left, he realized.

I sat with Isabelle in my room long after my parents had gone to bed. She still labors under the illusion that because we are sisters, we should share our every prattling thought, every heartfelt desire and every girlish whim. I cannot believe she is older than me by two centuries. She acts like a child.

“Well done helping Sanctuary through Purgatory,” she said, lying next to me on the covers. “Everyone in Reikonos is talking about what you did.”

“Excellent,” I replied. “You know that my sole ambition in life was to not only be the talk of the Elven Kingdom but of all Arkaria. It’s why I left Termina in the first place,” I deadpanned.

“You still don’t take compliments well,” she said with a hint of resignation. She paused for a moment and brightened. “Tell me about Cyrus Davidon.”

I bristled at the name. “What is there to tell?”

“His name comes up often in my circles,” she said. “A rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, helping to lead your guild to prominence.”

“The thing about rising stars is that they tend to burn brightest just before they disappear.”

“So are you interested in him?” Her impish smile annoyed me.

“Hardly,” I snorted.

“Hm,” she said. “Then I might be.”

“Marvelous. I’ll introduce you, you can get married and raise fat halfbreed babies with pointed ears and lantern jaws.” My acid tongue has no effect on my sister. I know it. Nonetheless, she stopped trying to make conversation. When she reached the door, she turned back to me and started to say something, but must have thought better of it, because she left instead. I might have been mistaken, but I believe I caught just a hint of sadness in her eyes before she walked out the door.

Cyrus marveled at her admission; even among her family it seemed Vara did not bother with diplomacy. He frowned. Or was it because of her close intimacy with them that she didn’t bother?

“You were right,” I said, edging into the room. I felt as humbled as I could be, but relieved. The events in Enterra had born out Alaric’s belief in Cyrus – and my hope that I was wrong about him.

“You think so?” the Ghost said mysteriously.

“I know so,” I replied, giving him a confused look. “You saw what happened – he resisted it, the urge to kill the Empress. He held back.”

“Indeed, that is what I saw,” Alaric agreed. “But just because he won that battle today does not mean that it is won forever.”

My smile must have disappeared at that point, perhaps replaced by that fearsome expression I get when challenged, or annoyed, or sometimes when I have stomach pains, because he raised an eyebrow at me. “Alaric, this foe had hurt him more than anyone – as bad as Archenous hurt me, at least. You think that he’ll face a worse test in the future and fail it?”

“The only thing I said,” he reiterated, “is that a battle won today is not won forever. There is a war raging for the heart and soul of Cyrus Davidon. We stand on one side – those who would see him do great things, hold mercy and purpose in his heart and act in that spirit – while on the other side, there are those who would have him act from petty, cruel, self-serving motives. He is young – and impressionable. And that battle is not decided today. It goes ever on.”

“You are damnably cruel,” I told him. “And I care not what you say, I believe he has faced his worst trial and shown his true character.”

“If that is the case and you feel that way, then perhaps you should tell him how you truly feel – about him – and stop dancing around the subject.”

“Oh?” I asked. “And how would that factor into your belief that there is a war for his soul?”

“Favorably,” he replied. “I believe he would fight harder to please you than for anything else in his life right now – including his new sword.”

I blinked. Damned swords. But all I said was, “I’m not ready… yet. Perhaps soon. Perhaps I’ll start by telling him… something. And then,” I said with a hope that ran the length of my soul, “perhaps someday I’ll tell him… everything.”

I looked at the man who had been called the Ghost for as long as I have known him, and hesitated. He stared back at me, with that one, cold gray eye of his, looking into the depths of my soul. For as long as I have known Alaric, our relationship has been based on a mutual respect. He doesn’t write me off every time I swear and throw things and I don’t press him continuously with questions I know he doesn’t want to answer.

“What?” His look was wary, guarded. I think he sensed one of those unpleasant questions in the offing.

“Alaric… I have been through the Trials of Purgatory, many times. When we went through them with Sanctuary, they were only a fraction of the difficulty that I had experienced previously.” I looked at him, uneasy. “The Golems were slower and hit less hard, the Wind Totem and its pegasi were almost pathetically weak, susceptible even to arrows – and the Last Guardian was a joke; it never even made an attempt at using its mental abilities to influence the outcome of the battle.”

I looked at him and he sat unmoving, expressionless. “I have yet to hear a question.”

“Alaric…” I looked at him and he refused to meet my gaze. “How did you reach the last island of the Trials of Purgatory when you rescued me? And why were you there?”

A deep sigh filled the air and Alaric’s head turned to look out the window. The silence filled the room like the mist he creates when he appears and disappears. When he finally answered, it was in a voice just above a whisper.

“I will start by telling you some of it… and someday, when the time comes… I will tell you the rest.”

Cyrus looked up from the journal. The dark skies outside the window finally broke loose and cold autumn rain poured down outside.

CHAMPION

THE SANCTUARY SERIES
VOLUME THREE

By Robert J. Crane

champion (n.)—a person who fights for or defends any person or cause

NOW

Prologue

Even at a time when all manner of hell had broken loose, bright spots were there to be found if one looked hard enough. Rain drenched the Plains of Perdamun as Cyrus Davidon sat in the archives of Sanctuary, a book across his lap. Outside the window, a single beam of light stretched down from the clouds and shone on the fields in the distance. Cyrus smiled, a small, grim one that contained only the smallest kernel of actual happiness.

The window was broken off its hinges, shattered glass littering the floor in front of it. The light in the archive came from torches burning on the wall and a fire in the hearth that kept the damp chill of the rain at bay. He stared at the painting that hung crooked above the fireplace, a simple old picture of a hut built in a style far different from those of Arkaria.

The weight of his armor was heavier than it had been in years. He reached down and grasped the hilt of his sword and felt the power it held course through him, giving him strength. He looked over the plains and thought with a rueful smile, This is the perfect domain for me. Dark and gloomy, like my thoughts of late, with only the barest light for hope. The smile faded.

He looked back to the book that was cradled in his hands. The Journal of Vara, it said inside the cover. An Account of My Days With Sanctuary. He had stopped reading as the rains swept in, pausing to admire the quiet fury of the storm. Drenching, drowning rains, he thought, reshaping the landscape. He recalled a stream he’d seen on the ride to Sanctuary that had carved its way across the plains, one he couldn’t recall being there just a few years earlier.

Nothing stops the rains. Water runs its course, inevitable, and ploughs new pathways across the fields and the land. You can’t fight it; it’s a losing battle. He chuckled, again rueful. I know a thing or two about fighting losing battles. He stared back at the journal in his hands.

The words blurred as he refocused on them, and he realized that a droplet of water had fallen on the page. He looked around and realized the rest of the world had blurred as well. He sighed and removed his gauntlet, using the exposed sleeve of his undershirt to wipe his eyes. He wondered why he was bothering to read the next segment of the diary; after all, his memory was clear on what had happened.

Still, he blinked and focused on the words, the flowing script produced by the hand of Vara. He could picture her, sitting at the table in her quarters, long blond hair tucked in a ponytail that bounced as her hand moved up and down the page with the quill, laboring to produce the words he now read. The best days of my life, I am convinced, are those when I knew exactly who I was, and what I was willing to fight for. Unfortunately, as I age, those days seem to have long since disappeared, and I even find myself wondering if some fights are worth fighting at all. Especially when it comes to arguing with the most pigheaded man walking the face of Arkaria…

He laughed. “To be called pigheaded by her is an irony of the highest order,” he told the empty room. “And likely a compliment.” Her words went on, and Cyrus remembered the days Vara wrote about, as the feeble southern winter had settled in around Sanctuary. He remembered the night, the cold, the return from Purgatory, and all that had happened afterward. Inexplicably, another droplet of water appeared on the aged parchment…and another, until he could scarcely see the words that she had written.

6 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1

The light of a teleport spell faded around Cyrus Davidon. He looked across the Sanctuary foyer, from the massive balcony above the doors to the Great Hall to the open lounge, where already a celebration was taking place. The smell of the wood burning in the hearth filled his nose and gave him the warm feeling of home, taking the chill out of the early winter air.

“Keeps getting easier, doesn’t it?” The voice of Andren, his oldest friend came from behind him. Andren was an elf, dark hair reaching down to his shoulders, his beard wild and unkempt. His look was a contrast to the usual for elven men who sported shorter locks and no facial hair. Light freckles dusted his complexion and his hair covered his elongated ears, leading some who met him to assume he was human based on personality alone.

Cyrus looked back at him. “I would hope so. We’ve gone through the Trials of Purgatory a good dozen times now; we’d be in trouble if it was getting tougher.” He looked past Andren to see others talking, boasting and drinking all around them. Samwen Longwell, a dragoon who carried a lance as his weapon, stood in the corner of the Lounge talking with Thad Proelius, a warrior whose armor was red as raw meat.

“Aye.” Andren smiled at him; then the elf shot a look at Larana Stillhet, Sanctuary’s brewer and cook, who had teleported next to him. Her vivid green eyes looked out from underneath her black, tousled bangs. Her skin was dark – a surprise for someone who spent so much time in the kitchens, Cyrus had always thought. “Fresh kegs out in the lounge?”

She cast a brief glance at Cyrus, keeping her eyes low, not meeting his gaze. She nodded then shuffled toward the kitchen.

“Quiet one when you’re around, isn’t she?” Andren moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Cyrus and watched the diminutive druid disappear into the Great Hall. The elf shot Cyrus a twisted smile. “Has some feelings for you, doesn’t she?”

“It’s unkind to insult her when she’s not here to defend herself.” The voice that came from behind them lashed at Andren with a sarcastic edge. Cyrus turned to see cold blue eyes staring him down from a lovely face. The speaker was tall, even for an elven woman, standing a few inches under six feet. Her armor was shined to a glaring silver sheen even though they had been traipsing through the Trials of Purgatory for the last several hours. Not a hair was out of place in her golden ponytail, which was still bound tight behind her.

“Vara,” he said with a nod of his head.

“I didn’t say anything unkind about Larana,” Andren replied. “All I said was she gets quiet when Cyrus is around; thought maybe she had a little crush on him.”

“Implying she would have such poor judgment as to find herself attracted to this oafish lout is insult enough for the issuance of a duel in most cultures.” Vara’s eyes narrowed but glittered in the dancing firelight of the torches and the hearth behind them.

A deep sigh was followed by a slump of Cyrus’s shoulders. “I thought after all the work we’ve done planning these expeditions to Purgatory that you’d finally buried your need to belittle me.”

A gleam in her eye matched the slightest tug at the corner of her mouth. “Perhaps I was making a joke.”

Andren shook his head. “Impossible. You’re far too serious for that.”

Vara arched an eyebrow at the older elf then turned back to Cyrus. “Niamh just informed me that Alaric has called a Council meeting. I assumed,” she said, “you would want to know.” She brushed past them, running her shoulder into Cyrus’s as she passed and casting him a look that was equal parts affection and annoyance.

“What was all that about?” Andren looked at Cyrus as Vara reached the stairs.

“The Ice Princess teases the warrior in black,” came a voice from a grating below them.

“Fortin,” Cyrus said, looking down into the grate, “we’ve talked about listening in on private conversations.” Red eyes stared up at him from the darkness below. Fortin was a rock giant, half again as tall as most men, and more dangerous than any other warrior Cyrus had met. He lived in a dungeon room below the foyer.

“Yes, and if you want to keep them private, you wouldn’t have them in public. But,” the rock giant said with a hint of amusement, “I wouldn’t be nearly so entertained.”

Cyrus shook his head and turned back to Andren. “She’s been a lot kinder to me since Enterra.” He caught a glimpse of Aisling Nightwind skulking at the edge of the room, a dark elf with a roguish bent, looking at him with sly eyes as she slipped up the staircase behind Vara. Once she was gone, he looked to his left and through the doors to the Great Hall. Tables were lined up for dinner and already occupied by a sea of unfamiliar faces, almost all of them human. Andren followed his gaze.

“More refugees?” Andren shook his head. “I didn’t expect the dark elves would be ravaging your peoples’ lands the way they have.”

Cyrus shook his head, his spirits falling. “I don’t think anyone anticipated that. The war has gone badly for the Human Confederation—I heard that the dark elves have sacked and are holding Prehorta now.”

“Aye,” Andren agreed. “I remember the last war—and the one before that—and…” He frowned. “I remember a lot of them. One of them, I was in a town that they sacked in a surprise offensive. Their army came in, all lined up in neat rows, and once they realized there wasn’t anyone to defend the village, they just ran wild. Tore up everything in sight, killing the men—” his ruddy complexion whitened—“dragging away the women, burning everything and stealing what they could carry.”

“You made it out alive, though.”

“Clearly,” Andren said. “Once I knew it was a lost cause, I used my return spell to scamper back to Pharesia.” He swallowed, his eyes haunted, and he took a deep swig from his flask. “They’re not kind to their prisoners, either.”

Cyrus listened, thinking about what the dark elves might be doing in human towns even now. Andren was over two thousand years old, in spite of looking as though he was only in his thirties by human standards. “How many wars did you see between the Elven Kingdom and the Dark Elves?”

Andren shook his head. “Too many to count. They’re a warlike people, you know.”

“I’m sure they say the same thing about you.”

“Bah!” Andren waved him off. “It’s all about territory; they always infringed on ours.”

“I don’t know that they’re a warlike people, but it would seem that the Sovereign of the Dark Elves has an affinity for war.” Cyrus looked around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Do you know anything about their Sovereign?”

“Mostly bullroar. He’s a fearsome beast; eleventy feet tall, breathes fire, all that ruckus.”

“You don’t believe it?” Cyrus said with a smile that faded a moment later. “Do you think the Elves will intervene? If the Confederation keeps getting battered like this?”

Andren looked away. “I wouldn’t bet on it. The King…he’s unlikely to interfere if he can avoid it. The last war between the dark elves and the Elven Kingdom was a scarce hundred years ago, and the downside of us living so long is that we remember. We all remember the deaths of friends and loved ones, the cities burned, all that…” He looked at Cyrus. “Now that it’s aimed at your people and not ours? The King won’t order our soldiers to so much as look at them funny unless the dark elves cross our border at the river Perda.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I thought not.” He felt the pain, the punch in his stomach as the bile rose up, and he thought of villages being burned and ravaged. There was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and Cyrus took a deep breath. “It’s not easy watching your homeland get pummeled while you stay out of the fight.”

“Aye. Just remember your foolish Council of Twelve in Reikonos were the ones that wanted this war, not you or the other humans.”

Reikonos was the human capital, where Cyrus had been born and raised. He had a brief flash of remembrance; childhood days spent playing in the city square, of splashing water from the fountain. “They may have started it, but they sit high in the Citadel in Reikonos while the people of the Confederation bear its effects.” An image flashed through his mind of the city in flames, dark elves marching through the street with torches and swords, citizens screaming. “But if it comes to them invading Reikonos…” His words trailed off. He clapped Andren on the shoulder with more enthusiasm than he felt and walked toward the staircase.

“Don’t Council for too long!” Andren called after him. “The victory celebration will have started by the time you get back!”

Cyrus didn’t answer, mind still dwelling on the dark thoughts their conversation had stirred. In spite of our successes in Sanctuary, it doesn’t feel like victory because my homeland is in flames. He felt a stir within him, deep inside, and the acrid taste in the back of his mouth grew stronger as the torches on the walls seemed to burn all the brighter, as if to give him a sense of what the flames of war were doing to the Confederation. If the dark elves invade Reikonos…he thought as he climbed. …I don’t think I can stay here and let my city burn.

Chapter 2

“You’d have been proud, Alaric,” Curatio said. “Another flawless run through the Trials.” Curatio was the chief healer of Sanctuary, an elder elf with a constant gleam in his eye. He wore long, flowing robes with an ornamental sash wrapped around his shoulders that indicated his profession. His short-cropped hair contained just a touch of gray, giving his angular, regal features an air of distinguishment.

“I expected no less.” Alaric Garaunt tilted his head in the direction of Cyrus and then Vara. Alaric’s hair was peppered by far more gray than Curatio’s, and extended to the back of his neck. His armor was weathered but still polished, and his eyes bore a fire. His fine, chiseled features were handsome, the only mark upon them the black leather patch that covered his missing left eye. He favored them all with a smile that was at odds with his nickname: “The Ghost of Sanctuary.”

“We were in fine form,” said Niamh. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders, her green eyes alight with the same excitement that ran through her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Gatekeeper any madder. We tore through the Trials in record time.”

“Agreed.” Vaste the troll spoke up. His green skin was flushed dark with victory. “He was so flustered he didn’t insult us half as much as usual.”

“At the rate, our people are getting mystical swords and better armor. We’ll have the best equipped force in Arkaria before too much longer,” Curatio said with a smile.

Cyrus looked around the Council Chambers. The room was centered on a large round table with eight seats. Behind Alaric was a set of double doors to the balcony, surrounded by windows that looked over the darkened Plains of Perdamun. On either side of the room stood fireplaces, crackling along with a dozen torches that burned without a hint of smoke. The brightness of Sanctuary at night had surprised Cyrus at first; it was unlike any place he had ever been.

“I hate to interrupt the circle of self-love,” an annoyed voice interrupted. Cyrus’s head swiveled to Terian Lepos, a weathered dark elf with a long nose and navy blue armor crowned with spikes jutting from his shoulder pauldrons. “Can we please focus on the meeting? I’d like to drink a little bit before I pass out from exhaustion.”

Alaric’s staid expression returned, the levity gone. “Of course. We have a few things to discuss…”

“War news,” came the muttered voice of J’anda Aimant, Sanctuary’s most skilled enchanter. Capable of creating illusions upon himself, this evening he wore the serene features of an aged elf.

“I would prefer you come to the Council in your true form, J’anda.” Alaric’s eyebrow twitched as he stared down the enchanter.

J’anda’s chest heaved with a great sigh. “As you will.” His hand waved in a lazy pattern and his illusion vanished. The enchanter was a dark elf with features so average that they were overshadowed by any illusion he cast, leaving Cyrus unable to picture the dark elf’s face if he was not staring at it. “Now can we talk about the war?”

Alaric cleared his throat. “Another wave of human refugees has reached us, along with some new information. It is as we feared; Prehorta has fallen to the dark elven army and they have sacked and burned the town.”

“That’ll be a brutal end for a lot of men and a torturous experience for a great many women.” J’anda shook his head, appalled. “The dark elven army are bestial when they sack a town; nothing is prohibited.”

“And yet somehow they call your lot a civilization,” Vara said.

Terian leaned back in his chair, focusing on Alaric. “Do you think that army will be moving south?”

Alaric put his hands on the table and interlaced the fingers of his gauntlets in front of him. “I doubt it, but it would be unwise to assume. Both you and J’anda,” he said with a nod toward the enchanter, “have knowledge of the Sovereign of the Dark Elves; what do you believe his next move will be? Take the war here, to the Plains, or head west toward the river Perda and destroy the southern edge of Confederation territory?”

Terian shook his head. “I doubt he’ll march west to the river. I think sacking Prehorta and leaving a garrison will do much to cut off Reikonos from the food supply of the Plains of Perdamun, increasing the hardship the Confederation will endure as the war grinds on. He’ll likely move this army up to join the forces driving toward Reikonos.”

“A wise strategic move,” Curatio added. “Since the humans have been able to turn aside the dark elf attacks along a line south of Reikonos, it’s keeping the Sovereign from laying siege to their capital. If he cuts off routes to the Plains of Perdamun, it’ll help him weaken Reikonos when he does get around to moving his armies into siege positions.”

“There are still human armies in the east and north that have yet to come into battle,” Cyrus said. “If the Council of Twelve had anyone with brains planning this war they would have realized they had the dark elves damn near encircled at the start of the fight and would have moved to keep it that way.”

J’anda and Terian laughed, the enchanter in soft tones, the dark knight in loud, discordant ones. Curatio and Alaric shared a knowing look.

Vara’s eyes narrowed. “I would have agreed with the warrior’s assessment, yet I get the feeling there is something that you’re not sharing with us.”

Terian laughed again, alone this time. “Unlike humans or elves, we have one major city – Saekaj Sovar. All the dark elves live there except for exiles and expatriates like us.” He pointed to himself, then J’anda. “Saekaj is underground, with entrances and exits hundreds of miles in different directions. Good luck encircling it; you’d never find them all.”

“So it’s like Enterra?” Cyrus looked at Terian.

“No. Enterra was tunnels in a mountain; small, like a mine or an anthill. Saekaj is built into underground caves that are a hundred miles long and hundreds of feet deep.”

Vara wheeled to favor Alaric and Curatio with a glare. “How did the two of you know this? Are foreigners not put to death in Saekaj Sovar?”

Curatio remained mute but Alaric smiled and answered, “If they are found, I am told that is true.”

“Fascinating as this geography lesson is,” Vaste spoke in his low, rumbling voice, “the fact remains that an unpredictable dark elven host remains on the march a few hundred miles north of us and more refugees stream out of human territory by the day, unable to find help anywhere but through us.” The troll fingered the white crystal at the top of his staff, which rested against the edge of the table.

Alaric cleared his throat again and attention pivoted back to him. “We already have an overwhelming number of refugees passing through our halls, all seeking the relative safety of these lands. They arrive without food nor means to survive, and we will continue to help them as best we can. Those who come to us hungry will be fed, those who arrive naked will be clothed—”

“Unless they’re pretty,” Terian amended, “in which case they should be kept naked and sent to me.”

A light laugh echoed through the room. Alaric wore a slight smile and shook his head in dismissal. “Other business?”

“Applicants,” Curatio said. “In the past six months we’ve had a flood of them and Niamh and I are overwhelmed. Some of the refugees are even applying; merchants and farmers, people without proper experience.” He held up a hand to forestall Cyrus, who had started to interrupt. “I know we accept folks without experience and I’m glad of it, especially to give some of these poor souls a better lot in life, but it is making our job more difficult.”

“I’ve taken to falling asleep on a stack of parchment at night,” Niamh said, her bright eyes more lined than usual. “I’m doing everything I can to sort through and learn the stories of all these people that have joined us, but even with members helping us vet them, we’re backlogged evaluating all these potential guildmates.”

“Is it my imagination, or has the median size of our applicants diminished since our Enterra expedition?” Terian said with a sly smile.

“I haven’t noticed,” Vaste said, easily a foot taller than Cyrus, who was six and a half feet in height. “You all look like ants to me.”

“You’re right, Terian,” Niamh answered with a smile of her own. “Since we crushed the Goblin Imperium, we’ve had large numbers of goblin and gnomish applicants—gnomes because we knocked flat the Imperium, which was their biggest enemy, and goblins because we destroyed a hated government and brought freedom to their underclass and peace to their lands.”

“One would think there might be tension between the goblin and gnomish applicants,” Vaste said, a thoughtful expression pasted on his green face.

“Not thus far,” Curatio said. “They seem to be getting on rather well.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Alaric said with a nod. “One final matter before us, and we will part for the evening. With the growth in our numbers, I think it would be prudent to add new officers to the Council—”

He was interrupted by the doors to the hallway blowing open with exaggerated violence. Cyrus turned to look as the doors banged against the wall and then slammed shut. He looked back to the faces around the table and found them as confused as his own. “What was that?”

Alaric was still, his eyes lit with concern. “Peculiar.” The light in the room increased threefold as the fire of the torches blazed and the fireplaces burned with sudden force. Alaric’s expression shifted to mild alarm. “Most peculiar. I suggest we adjourn; the enchantments on Sanctuary seem to be trying to call our attention to something unusual occurring within our walls. Let us sweep the halls for any sign of…trouble.”

Chapter 3

“Never seen anything like that, and I’ve been here for two years,” Cyrus said with a grunt as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Curatio, Niamh and Vaste in tow.

“Can’t say I’ve seen it more than once myself.” Vaste’s long strides carried him into the foyer. “And that was quite some time ago.”

“Same here,” Niamh said, her red hair draped around her shoulders. “Curatio and I will sweep the Great Hall; you two check the foyer and the lounge.”

“Sounds good,” Cyrus said before turning to the front entrance doors, which blew open and slammed shut. The attention of everyone in the room was on them as the torches on the walls burned higher than the ones in the Council Chamber had and the fireplace belched forth a gout of flame that pushed bystanders back several feet.

Andren crossed from the lounge to join Cyrus and Vaste. “What the bloody hell is going on?” He looked at them askance. “There’s no wind outside; it’s like the doors and fires in this place have a mind of their own—and it’s a crazy one.”

Cyrus pointed to the doors, which slammed and opened again, making a thundering noise. “How long has this been going on?”

“A few minutes now,” Andren said, taking a sip from his flagon. “What does it mean?”

“Trouble,” Vaste replied. “Sanctuary carries enchantments that warn when someone has malicious intentions.”

“Couldn’t it find a quieter way of warning us?” Andren said with a pleading note. “I was carrying a keg of ale when it went off the first time. The entrance doors shut so loud I dropped it. Ruined a perfectly good run of Larana’s dark…and then, as if that weren’t bad enough, the fireplace exploded and I damned near ruined my pants…”

“Exploding fireplace?” Cyrus said.

“Not good,” Vaste interrupted his thought. “I wonder if the strength of the warning is tied to the seriousness of the threat?”

“So if someone were planning to steal one of our kegs…” Cyrus let his voice trail off.

“The doors would perhaps clap shut once or twice. Minor mischief. I’ve seen that a few times but never connected it.”

“But if the fireplace explodes and the doors slam over and over…”

“Right,” Vaste said. “Nothing good can come of this.”

“Stealing a keg is not ‘minor mischief,’” Andren said in a huff.

“Do the enchantments give us any clue as to where the trouble comes from?” Cyrus looked at Vaste with concern.

“The effects seem worse down here than in the Council Chambers.” His hand stroked his green chin, puzzling it out. “The worse the effects, the closer you’re getting to the disturbance?” Vaste wondered. “Since the entrance doors are slamming at the same rate as those of the Great Hall—” he pointed at the doors behind them—“if I’m right, it would follow that whatever is setting them off is in this room.”

“Ack!” Andren said with a cry. “I left the kegs undefended!” He beat a hasty path back to the lounge.

“At some point you’re going to have to deal with his overindulgence,” Vaste said in a warning tone.

“Not now.” Cyrus scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble. Refugees and new applicants were mixed with familiar faces, one of which was making its way toward him.

Aisling slinked down the stairs wearing a wicked smile that blended with her almost glowing white hair. She wore a red dress that clung to her figure and emphasized her womanly attributes; something much different than her usual apparel, loose fitting light leather armor that allowed her to move without making a sound. The daggers she wore in her belt were missing now, and Cyrus looked at her trim waistline for a moment too long, wondering if she had secreted them away on her person.

“I saw that,” she said with a hint of glee. “I chose this dress hoping it would catch your attention, and it would appear I succeeded.” She sashayed over, pressing herself against his armor. He felt one of her hands slide around to his back.

“Aisling,” he said. “Do you have your daggers?”

The mirth left her eyes as her hand disappeared into the folds of her dress, reappearing with two small, elegant blades that were curved, razor sharp and as wicked as the smile of the woman who wielded them. “So you weren’t looking at my figure?” Her voice went flat and her eyes flicked down, unable to hide her disappointment.

“Perhaps later. This thunderous racket,” he breathed, her face still next to his, “is an enchantment warning us of someone with very bad intentions, and that person is here in the foyer.”

She pulled back from him. “And you need to sort out who.” Her hand withdrew from his back and she turned to the crowd, focused and seeming to sift through them, one by one. She stopped and pointed to a figure, a refugee. “Him.”

Cyrus stared at the man, an elf, who was blond and had long hair in a ponytail. “How do you know?” Cyrus watched him as he awaited Aisling’s answer, but something about the elf gave Cyrus a peculiar feeling; whether it was Aisling’s warning or something else, he could not tell.

“We have over two thousand members and applicants and countless more refugees on our premises,” Vaste said. “You picked him out of a crowd in a room of at least three hundred in about ten seconds. Please, explain.” The troll folded his arms and favored the dark elf with an expectant look.

Aisling shrugged. “How is he dressed?”

Cyrus stared at the elf. “Like a refugee.”

“Where are the refugees coming from?”

“The Human Confederation,” Vaste answered, now impatient. “But there are plenty of elves, dark elves, gnomes and dwarves that live within their borders.”

“Sure,” Aisling said. “But the refugees are coming from small towns and villages. How many elves have you seen in rural areas of the Confederation?”

“Few,” Vaste said, now ponderous. “But that still doesn’t mean—”

The elf turned and Cyrus broke off his watch, but not before catching a glance of piercing eyes, absolutely at odds with the look of the elf’s clothing. Far from seeming like a scared refugee, worried about the ruckus, the elf had a predatorial air. “I think she’s right,” Cyrus cut him off. “Everyone else is gawking at the doors and fireplace. He’s scanning the room like he’s looking for something.”

“Being as there’s nothing in this room, he’s likely after someone.” Aisling leaned close to Cyrus and whispered, “Any idea who?”

“Any idea who what?” An icy tone washed over Cyrus from behind and he turned so fast that only Aisling’s catlike reflexes saved her from being knocked over. Vara stood silhouetted in the entry to the stairs, a cold glare focused on him and then Aisling in quick succession. “Any idea who is actually trying to sort out this threat? Because that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, not arranging a tryst.”

Cyrus’s cheeks reddened and he felt a twist in his stomach. “Aisling’s figured out who’s setting the enchantments off.”

“Has she?” Vara’s eyebrow shifted upward, but the rest of her expression did not change. “How convenient. May I wager that she believes the responsible party to be in your armor, and that if she can simply persuade you to remove it, she’ll show you who it is? And you, ignorant, naïve and undersexed, will find out on the morrow how wrong you were, both by the burning in your loins and the absence of your coinpurse.”

Aisling smiled, a deep, self-satisfied grin that bore no resemblance to actual joy. “Which would sting more? Me striking you down right now, or me bedding this man that you insult so frequently?”

“I daresay the striking down for me and the bedding for him.”

“Ladies, we have no time for this—” Vaste began to speak but stopped. “Oh gods.”

So focused was Cyrus on the rising tension between Vara and Aisling that he had not heard the clamor behind him die down. A scream brought his head around and he locked eyes with the elf that Aisling had pointed out. The man had moved and now had blades in his hands. His cloak was splayed out on the floor and he held a body tight against his, the red hair of his hostage standing out in contrast with the spotless white silk doublet he was wearing underneath his worn traveling cloak.

Niamh! Cyrus’s mind raced as he pushed his way through the crowd, Vara, Aisling and Vaste behind him. The red-haired druid had a knife tight against her throat, blood already running into the small amount of cleavage revealed by her robes. The dagger stood out against the pale skin and red hair of Niamh; it was obsidian black, with a small octagonal pommel that bore a circular emblem Cyrus could not see from where he was.

“No one come near me!” The elf’s voice was high and stressed, and Curatio stood closest to him, hands extended in a peaceful gesture. “Stay where you are and this one doesn’t have to die!” Niamh, for her part, was expressionless, biting her lip and staring into the crowd. When she caught sight of Cyrus, her lips tugged upward in a seemingly involuntary motion, then returned to the lack of expression that had been there before.

“I can help you,” Curatio said, maintaining his distance. “I’m an officer of Sanctuary. What do you want?”

“We can resurrect Niamh later if need be,” Vaste muttered in Cyrus’s ear.

“Let’s avoid getting our fellow guildmate and officer killed if we can, yes?” Vara’s eyes never left the elf that was holding Niamh prisoner.

“Something is wrong,” Aisling said. Cyrus chanced to look back at her and saw the dark elf wore a puzzled expression, her eyes concentrating on the scene in front of her.

“You are not the most powerful spell in the book, are you?” Vara said in a biting voice. “One of our own is being held hostage at the point of a knife in our own guildhall; yes, something is very wrong—”

“The daggers!” Aisling hissed. “They’re—”

She did not get a chance to finish. Niamh screamed, an agonizing, painful cry as the elf shoved her toward Curatio. Cyrus’s hand was already on the hilt of his sword, Praelior, and it was halfway drawn when the floor of the foyer exploded in a burst of broken stone.

Chapter 4

The power of his sword flowed through Cyrus, enhancing his reflexes and sending strength coursing through his muscles. Pieces of stone and rock flew into the crowd; shrieks and cries drowned out Niamh’s scream. Cyrus kept moving, realizing as the rock flew through the air that he would have to move quickly.

A long, craggy arm extended from the hole in the ground and grabbed the elven refugee around the waist. Stones moved aside as Fortin, the rock giant, pushed his way up from the dungeons below Sanctuary, a deafening howl of enmity drowning out all other noise. The rock giant lifted the elf above his head and pitched him with crushing force.

Cyrus watched the elf soar past, then the sound of crunching bone and flesh came from behind. He turned to look at the interloper, now a messy, broken heap, splintered against the wall near the doors to the Great Hall.

“Impeccable timing, Fortin,” Vaste called out. “But next time, couldn’t you restrain him?”

“Could have restrained him this time,” the rock giant rumbled, his torso jutting from the hole he had made in the floor, “but he stabbed the red-haired elf. I like her. He needed to suffer.”

Vara cuffed Cyrus on the shoulder. “Niamh.”

“Right.” Cyrus changed course, running to Niamh, who was lying in Curatio’s arms. He slid to his knees, the plate mail on his greaves screeching against the stone. “Hey, Red,” he said with a smile. She managed a weak one back at him, her white skin almost gray. “Curatio will have you healed in a second—” He looked up at Curatio, whose face was ashen, his head shaking from left to right.

“Knew you guys would save me…” Niamh’s eyes were dazed, glassy, and they honed in on Cyrus. “Especially you. After all, who else would save your…” Her words drifted off and her body went slack in Curatio’s arms, her eyes staring off into nothingness.

“What the hell, Curatio?” Andren’s voice came from behind Cyrus as the elven healer pushed his way through the crowd to Cyrus’s side. “Why didn’t you heal her? Looking to practice your resurrection spell?”

Curatio looked up at Andren with an anguish Cyrus had never seen from the healer. Cyrus turned to Andren, whose indignation had faded to uncertainty. Andren shook his head and bowed it, indistinguishable mutterings coming from under his breath as the healer began to cast a spell. With a flourish, he held his hands out and bluish white light filled the air around them; a resurrection spell sweeping from them to Niamh’s body, encompassing the red-haired elf’s corpse with a glow that could restore life…

…but didn’t.

“What the…” Andren muttered a curse and began to cast again.

“It won’t do any good,” Curatio broke his silence, voice laden with a mournful sadness that Cyrus hadn’t heard from the healer, ever. “She’s been afflicted with the black lace…a poison that nullifies magic.” The healer’s numb gaze shifted to where the elven assailant had been thrown by Fortin. “He must have coated his blades with it. I couldn’t heal her…and now she’s dead and we can’t bring her back…” His hand brushed against her cheek and came to rest in her red hair.

“Son of a…” Cyrus felt the rage overwhelming him, consuming him. He stood, and his vision swam as he pulled away from the druid’s body, and suddenly she seemed far away, even though he stood only a few feet above her. He turned on his heel and pushed through the crowd, not caring who he knocked aside as he made his way toward the killer.

He broke through the small circle grouped around the elf and stopped. Her assailant was crushed; bones jutted from points around his body, his blood covering the floor.

“Someone heal this bastard,” Cyrus seethed, “so I can do this to him again.”

“No good.” Vara spoke from his side. “We’ve already tried; it would appear he caught the blades of his own daggers when he landed.”

“Serves him right,” Cyrus said, a flush of white-hot rage upon him. “If he were still alive, I’d kill him myself.”

A coughing, gagging sound from the elf caused a stir in those who encircled him. “It would appear you get your wish,” came Fortin’s dry rumble from nearby. “You might want to hurry; it would seem he’s about to die of natural causes.”

“Which part of being thrown against the wall by a rock giant is natural?” Vaste shot back.

“If someone kills one of my friends, it’s natural that they will be next and that I will cause it,” Fortin replied.

All thought of revenge forgotten, Cyrus dropped to his knees next to the elf, whose head was shaped unnaturally from the fracturing of his skull. “Why did you come here?” Cyrus asked, trying to meet the unsteady gaze of the killer’s eyes.

“He’s an assassin,” Aisling said, handing Cyrus one of the daggers, its black blade gleaming in the light of a nearby torch. On the pommel was a snake eating its own tail. “An elven order by the name of Inta’yrakhir. I’ve only heard a whisper of them, once, and that was long ago. They’re quiet, all shadows and mystery—the sort of group that you get nothing out of but a name.”

Cyrus turned back to the assassin. “You had to know that you’d never get out of here alive. Who sent you? And who were you after?”

“My master ordered death…he will…receive death…” In a gasping, choking voice, the elf turned his head to look past Cyrus. “You will not see us…and we will keep coming…until you die.”

Cyrus reached down, calmness masking a more furious rage than almost any he’d ever felt, and grabbed the elf by the remains of his once spotless doublet, now more red than white. “Who sent you…and who are you here for?”

“My master…is greater than any you know.” The rasping of the assassin’s voice got deeper, more guttural, and slower as his eyes crept past Cyrus’s. “Your death is ordered…it shall be delivered…and we will not stop until you are dead…” He rasped, and his eyes fluttered as he looked over Cyrus’s shoulder and uttered one more word before succumbing to his wounds.

“Shelas’akur.”

Chapter 5

There was silence in the Council Chamber, the flames licking at the logs in the hearth, consuming them, sending shadows across everything. Cyrus sat in his chair, wondering how the room had become so veiled in shadow when it was bright only a short while earlier. Vaste had broken the news with a simple, “Niamh is dead.”

“Then resurrect her,” Terian said with a flat laugh. “We’ve got a meeting to finish.”

“She’s dead…” Vaste’s voice trailed off. “Permanently.”

“What?” The dark elf’s complexion darkened as though clouds had rolled in to obscure the light from his face. “She hasn’t been gone over an hour, so if she’s dead you could still use a resurrection spell—”

J’anda looked at them, wary disbelief cutting through his human illusion. “Was…her body destroyed?”

“No,” Vaste said. “Her body is still quite intact, unlike her assailant.”

“I don’t understand.” Terian’s voice rose, taking on a timbre and quality of madness. “If we still have her body, and it’s been less than an hour, why isn’t she being resurrected?”

Alaric spoke in a low, quiet voice filled with sufficient authority to silence the Council. “There are some curses and magics that can prevent healing from taking place.” He raised his head, his lone eye fixed on Curatio, who sat to his right. “Am I to assume that Niamh fell victim to something of this sort?”

Curatio seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking. “It was a poison, I believe, rather than a curse, but yes. Neither healing nor resurrection magic took hold on her and now she is simply…gone.” He choked on the last word.

Cyrus felt the grief and misery close in on him as he pictured Niamh, happy and carefree, her laugh like the twinkling of a crystal wind chime and her eyes as green as the grass of the plains in late spring. His eyes fell on her seat to his left, and he stared at the empty chair, the black leather skin glossy in the dim light, as if it was some amorphous, oily surface of despair that would devour anyone who sat in it.

With a choking feeling he remembered the times she had saved his life—or as she had put it, “saved his ass”—and wondered if, when he remembered her, it would be the thought of carrying her body through the foyer and Great Hall while their guildmates wept and cried out around him. It had been a long walk; maybe the longest he’d ever taken, and when he placed her in the iced room in the back of the kitchen, the freezing chill had come to rest in his bones, causing an ache that permeated through him, settling in his heart.

He had set her down with care, closing her eyes, the green in them faded to a dull sheen. Her cheeks were fair and white, and he took his gauntlet off to wipe a drop of blood from the pristine, snowy flesh and was amazed at how warm she still felt to his touch. He smoothed her flame-red tresses around her shoulders, feeling the fine hair slip between his fingers while Larana stared on from behind him in numb shock. As he left the kitchen, facing an audience of refugees and guildmates, silent in their respect for the fallen, the only noise he could hear was Larana’s sobs behind him.

A loud curse from Terian broke his reverie, catapulting Cyrus back to the Council Chamber. “Who did this?”

“An assassin,” Vaste replied. “From the Inta’yrakhir.”

“You say that name like it’s supposed to mean something to me.” Terian’s words slipped out in a long, uninterrupted stream, each flushed with the hotness of his anger. “The only thing it means is that every single person who is associated with this organization will die horribly, with their heads mounted on pikes as an example of what happens when you strike at Sanctuary.” He looked around the table, his long nose and spiked pauldrons combining with the dark clouds to give him an almost demonic look. “Who’s with me?”

“Hold,” Alaric said. “I must first confess I am not familiar with the Inta’yrakhir. What is this…’Hand of Fear’?”

“‘Hand of Fear’?” Cyrus asked, still waiting to feel something, anything.

“‘Inta’yrakhir’ is elvish for ‘Hand of Fear’,” Curatio said, features haggard and worn. “Aisling seemed to indicate that it was an order of elvish assassins.”

“Why would an assassin want to kill Niamh?” Terian’s fist hit the table, shaking it. “She was the sweetest of us…”

“They didn’t.” Vaste’s words seemed to echo through the chamber more than Terian’s rage. “They weren’t after her at all.”

“I’m sorry,” J’anda said. “Who was the assassin after?”

“Vara.” Vaste’s reply was cool. “He said his order would not stop until the ‘shelas’akur’ was dead.”

The pause was broken once more by Terian, now approaching the height of screeching as he swiveled to face the elven paladin. “What did you do to bring this down?”

Vara, who had remained silent and expressionless, now swelled as she turned to Terian, looking as though she were an adder about to strike. “What did I do to attract the death warrant of a band of assassins? I’m not quite certain.” Her sarcasm hung thick. “Perhaps you could track them down and ask on my behalf. If they attempt to stab you in the face, let them; it’s merely a ritual required for entrance to their good graces.”

“I don’t understand how this assassin could be after you without you knowing why. Have you offended someone… um… maybe done something to agitate… uh…” J’anda held up his hands in exasperation.

Vara’s hand slapped onto the table, her hue crimson with rage. “Let me repeat this for those of you who may be struggling with substandard intellects: I…DO…NOT…KNOW! I have no idea whether this is some personal grudge or related to…” She reddened further but her voice faltered. “Other…aspects of my life.”

She halted and Cyrus watched her lip quiver. “I don’t know why that bloody bastard felt the need to kill Niamh rather than restrict his murderous activities to me. I am…sorry for it.” Her face fell. “I would have preferred that if someone had to be caught on the end of that blade it be me instead of her.” Her chin came up and she looked around the table. “But it wasn’t. Please don’t ask me to apologize for being alive.”

“No one faults you for that, lass.” Alaric’s voice was soothing, filled with authority. “In our grief, we are trying to understand something that, without more facts—and possibly even with them—will be incomprehensible.”

“Yes, well, let’s try more facts,” Terian said. “This assassin, he said he was after Vara?”

“No.” Cyrus spoke up, ending his silence. “He said ‘shelas’akur’.” He had heard other elves refer to Vara by the name “shelas’akur” but none had ever been willing to discuss what it meant, not even Andren.

Terian stared Vara down. “And you can’t tell us what that means.”

“We do not discuss it with offlanders—non-elves,” she replied.

“It means ‘last hope’,” Cyrus said, drawing looks of surprise from Vara, Alaric and Curatio. He frowned and looked back at them. “What?”

“I was not aware you spoke elvish, brother,” Alaric said.

“I don’t know much,” Cyrus replied.

“A point on which we can all agree,” Vara said. “But regardless, it remains a matter of internal secrecy to the Elven Kingdom.”

“Your matter of internal secrecy just cost the life of an elf, and while that wouldn’t much trouble me if it happened inside your damned Kingdom,” Terian replied, voice rising once again until he was yelling, “it happened here! In Sanctuary! To one of our officers! To our friend! And I want to know why she’s dead!”

“I DON’T KNOW, YOU IGNORANT SODDING JACKASS!” Vara exploded at Terian, standing with such violence her chair flew back and broke into pieces on the floor.

“Perhaps,” J’anda stood, cold fury radiating from his eyes but his voice as smooth as steel, “you could give us some idea of why an elvish assassin might want to kill the…shelas’akur.”

“I DON’T KNOW! Are you deaf or merely addled by casting illusions on yourself so frequently that you can no longer remember who you are?”

“There is no good reason why an elvish assassin would want to kill Vara,” Curatio said. The elf tried to smile but failed, grimacing instead. “She’s a symbol to our people of…well, hope.”

“Leaving the ‘why’ of that aside for now,” Vaste said, “there are plenty of reasons that someone might want to kill a symbol of hope.” He began to tick them off on his fingers. “They have a grudge against your government and want to send a message; they dislike something she stands for; they want to upset your entire race…”

The grimace remained on Curatio’s face. “Without getting into much detail, Vara’s never associated herself with the Kingdom’s government in any way, so that doesn’t fit—”

“Perhaps someone in the government is displeased with that?” J’anda raised his hands in a questioning manner.

“Seems a bit much, sending an assassin because she doesn’t endorse the monarch,” Curatio said with a shrug. “King Danay I has been in place for about four thousand years and he’s not unpopular. The political situation in the Kingdom is stable; no major upheavals, no challenges to the powers that be…” He shrugged again. “I don’t think that’s it. The likelihood that someone is trying to dishearten the entire elvish race is much more likely…and rather sad.”

“This is all bullshit,” Terian said, seething. He pointed at Vara, hand shaking so hard it waved at her. “You should tell us everything. She trusted you, she died for you; the least you can do is give us the full facts so that we can find out what this is all about and slap this ‘Hand of Fear’ to a bloody pulp.”

Vara stood silent at Terian’s rebuke. Cyrus watched her, and for the first time he realized that she was trembling—ever so slightly, but there it was. “If Niamh were here, she wouldn’t tell you,” Cyrus said, drawing Terian’s stinging glare. “She always refused to tell me about this ‘shelas’akur’ business.”

Alaric folded his hands on the table in front of him. “In spite of having suffered a great loss we should remember that Vara is one of us and her loyalty to Sanctuary is unquestioned. Were she aware of any reason why these assassins were after her, I am certain she would tell us.”

“I would,” Vara affirmed, even though no one had looked at her. “I may not wish to discuss internal elven matters, but be assured, I would not put any of you in danger if it could be avoided.” Her hand came up to her neck and rested there; to Cyrus’s eyes it looked as though she were preparing to strangle herself.

“I do not wish to discuss this further until we have had time to settle,” Alaric said with finality. “Nor will we argue any longer. This is a time to pull together, remembering the friend and officer we have lost. Niamh would not wish to see us divided; nor should our guildmates have to suffer from our distraction.”

J’anda’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Alaric. “What will we do about this threat?”

“The assassin was disguised as a refugee,” Cyrus said. “We close the damned gates.” He looked to Alaric for confirmation.

“Agreed,” Alaric said with a deep sigh. “We will assign guard forces to watch the more sensitive areas of Sanctuary, and we will find a way to assist the refugees without compromising our security. Perhaps we can set up aid tents outside the walls.”

“Before I came up here I tasked Aisling with finding some trustworthy guildmates to set up guard at the applicant, member and officer quarters,” Cyrus said.

“Which means that by now all the good items will have been stolen,” Vara said under her breath.

“We know nothing about these assassins,” Cyrus went on, ignoring Vara’s jab. “It seems unlikely that the Hand of Fear will send another assassin so soon after the failure of the first—”

“Unless they’re already here,” Terian said, his voice filled with disgust.

“—but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Cyrus finished. “After all, we know next to nothing about them.”

“Too true,” Alaric said with a quiet exhalation. “Let us be the source of strength for our brothers and sisters in this sad hour.”

“And when we track down these Hand of Fear bastards, let us be the hammer of bloody vengeance for our fallen comrade,” Terian said, pushing away from the table, leaving without saying anything else.

“Alaric,” Cyrus said. “Did you know the disturbances caused by the enchantments get worse the closer you get to the cause of the problem?”

Alaric’s face remained impassive. “Alas, my friend—there are things about Sanctuary that remain a mystery even to me.” He turned his head to face Curatio. “Old friend…we have matters to discuss. Go. I will wait for you in my quarters.” The Ghost of Sanctuary stood while the rest of the officers filed out one by one. Alaric began to fade, his armor turning insubstantial as a thick white mist filled the room and then dissipated, leaving Cyrus alone.

How could this happen? he wondered. Niamh was one of the first people I met from Sanctuary; the thought of her gone…

He pulled to his feet, the weight of his grief making his armor seem like stones strapped to his body. He made his way to the door and past two sentries to the staircase leading up to the officer’s quarters, high atop the center tower. The seams in the stone walls blurred together as he climbed, and he was almost in a world of his own, dazed, by the time he reached the top of the staircase and entered the hallway leading to the officer quarters.

A potion that nullifies magic? With a blade coated in black lace, no one would be safe, he thought. All the rules that we’ve built our adventuring lives on change with something so simple and deadly as that. He shuddered at the thought of real, permanent death.

He paused at the entrance to his quarters. A deep, unsettled feeling in his stomach gave him pause. I’m going to be seeing trouble around every corner. In our own foyer, of all places! He shook his head. How are we supposed to feel safe here? How can we get things back to normal after watching…her…die like that? A bitter unease filled him. Things may never be normal again.

A sound from one of the far rooms stopped him before he turned the handle. A long, rattling cacophony filled the hallway as every door shook with explosive force and the torches lit off in a burst of fire that stretched to the high ceilings. Cyrus sprang forward, sword in hand. He burst into the room two doors down from his own, not stopping to consider the privacy of its occupant. The door crashed, broken, and he collided with someone as he flew through the frame.

Two someones.

An elven male shrugged out of his traveling cloak as Cyrus grabbed him around the neck and slammed him against the wall. A thin length of chain whipped across Cyrus’s face, freed from where it had been coiled around Vara’s neck, followed by an obsidian dagger that raked him across the cheek, only missing his throat courtesy of the enhanced reflexes granted him by Praelior. His gaze caught the dagger and found the same insignia that had been on the weapon of the assassin that slew Niamh.

A scream cut through the night air from behind Cyrus and he glanced back to see Vara clutching her neck, a red mark creasing it all the way around. He brought his sword forward in time to block the dagger as the elf spun free of his grasp, dancing away from him through the broken door, blade in hand.

Cyrus followed, interposing himself between the assassin and Vara. She remained on the floor behind Cy, gasping for air after the garrotting that the elf had given her. He felt breath force its way between his teeth and realized he was livid with the elven assassin. The elf, for his part, smiled and twirled his dagger.

Doors began to open in the hall, and a scream of utmost fury echoed as Terian burst forth from his room, sandwiched between Cyrus and Vara’s, a battle axe raised above his head. Before Cyrus could react, the dark knight brought his weapon down as the fleeing assassin tried to dodge away from both Cyrus and Terian and backed into another door opening behind him.

Vaste’s staff lowered against the assassin’s neck and the elf, almost a foot shorter than Cyrus, was lifted into the air by the troll. The assassin’s black blade came down on Vaste’s forearm, burying itself to the hilt and bringing forth no more than a grunt from the troll as he spun the elf about and rammed him into the wall thrice in rapid succession. When the assassin went limp in his arms, Vaste dropped him to the ground and stepped on the elf’s chest.

“Vaste,” Cyrus said with a quiet resignation, pointing at the dagger buried in the troll’s forearm.

“Yes, it hurts,” the troll said, plucking it out with nothing more than a grimace. The blade looked small next to his massive arm, like a black needle buried in a green ham.

“It probably had black lace on it.” Cyrus looked up at the troll’s dark eyes, feeling a rattling breath of exasperation leave his chest. Not you too, Vaste…

“Were I fatally injured, I might worry,” Vaste replied with a look of greatest unconcern. “I can’t heal it with a spell, but this wound won’t kill me.”

“I can bandage it; staunch the bleeding.” Terian’s axe was slung over his shoulder but his eyes were focused on the elf unconscious beneath Vaste’s foot. “We need to get him to the dungeons and under guard.” A flash of annoyance ran across the dark elf’s features. “I don’t know why there wasn’t a guard on this hallway; it is the officer quarters—you know, the living space of this ‘Hand of Fear’s’ supposed target.”

Cyrus looked back at Vara, who had pulled herself to the bed and was rubbing her throat. Her hand glowed with the light of a spell, faint blue magics of healing wrapped around her neck.

“They were posted downstairs,” Cyrus replied. “I didn’t think about an assassin having already made their way up here—until the doors rattled and I heard noise from Vara’s quarters—which turned out to be—”

“This fellow, doing his level best to keep me quiet until he could run me through. He must have wanted it to go quietly so he could escape afterward.” She was on her feet now, and joined them in the hallway, although her hand still hovered around her thin neck. She looked at Cyrus, her eyes softer than usual. “Your timing was impeccable; another few moments and I would have been unconscious and I suspect, shortly thereafter, quite dead.”

“Two assassins in two hours?” Cyrus shook his head. He looked from Vaste to Terian and finally his gaze came to rest on Vara, who did not meet his eyes.

“This does not bode well for your safety,” Terian said to Vara, voice much gentler than it had been during the Council meeting. “If we can’t protect you here…”

The words hung in the air as the four of them looked around, the shadows of the corridors deep in all directions. If we can’t protect her here, Cyrus followed Terian’s unfinished thought, will she be safe anywhere in Sanctuary?

Chapter 6

Cyrus sat, steeped in the early morning darkness of the lounge with only the small, flickering firelight of the hearth to keep him company. He watched the front entrance doors, bathed in shadow in both reality and thought.

They’re going to keep coming for her until she’s dead. Dark musings filled his mind, reminding him of a long ago revelation from J’anda’s mesmerization spell. It had given him a vision of that which his heart desired most; Vara, coy and seductive, kissing him. The fact that he harbored deep feelings for her had thus far gone unstated. They’re going to keep coming for her until she’s dead. And we are going to have to button this guildhall up so tight that even the applicants may have to sleep outside until this is settled.

The torches had dimmed of their own accord sometime after midnight and the hearths with them. Only a trace of the smell of wood burning lingered, filling the giant foyer with the same scent that had earlier reminded him of home. Now it reminded him of Niamh, of death and loss.

A solitary figure moved through the room, a shadow stretching across the floor as they crept from the staircase toward the front doors. A slight smile creased Cyrus’s lips. Nice to know my predictive powers haven’t atrophied, he thought as the firelight glimmered off a shining silver breastplate.

“You didn’t think you’d be able to slip out unnoticed, did you?” His words were scarcely above a whisper, but felt loud in the still quiet.

Vara froze, a half dozen paces from the doors, looking around in surprise until she saw him, at which point her eyes narrowed. “Seeing as two assassins have slipped through thus far tonight, I assumed that as an officer of this guild, I might be allowed to pass.” She wore a satchel draped across her back and her sword was slung at her side. “Was I in error?”

He rose to meet her. “Yes. You were in error.” He clapped his hands and a half dozen figures stepped out of the shadows, all members of Sanctuary that he had put on guard. “There are assassins out to kill you. I can’t just let you leave.”

Her face fell and her mouth wavered from its usual severe line. “May I speak with you in private? Perhaps just outside the doors?”

He looked around the assembled faces that were standing watch. “I’m going out. Keep guard.” Extending a hand, he opened one of the doors to Vara and stepped out into the chill of the autumn evening.

Cyrus heard Longwell speak as he shut the door behind them. “But aren’t we supposed to guard her?”

“You can’t just leave,” he said, preempting her as they walked down the front steps. “Assuming you manage to dodge these assassins as you make your escape, it’s not as though they’ll just stop coming after you—”

“I can’t stay. Every moment I remain here, lives are in danger. The lives of my guildmates are far more important to me than the illusion of safety that Sanctuary brings.”

He watched the emotions play across her face by the light of the moon. “Where would you go?”

“South,” she said without hesitation. “Following the refugees.”

“Bad idea.” He shook his head in disapproval. “After you cross the river, you’re penned in on two sides by the Heia Mountains and the Bay of Lost Souls. A party on horseback could run you down.”

Air hissed between her lips. “You have a better suggestion? Run toward Pharesia, perhaps?”

“Doubtful that the elven capital would be the safest place to hide from an order of elvish assassins. I was thinking we could get one of the wizards—”

“I don’t want to involve anyone from Sanctuary in this,” Vara said with a shake of her head. “Wherever they took me, I think Alaric would send well-intentioned search parties to bring me back.”

“Fine,” Cyrus said. “Then the best bet is to go north through the villages in the plains until you run into a wizard or druid who will teleport for a fee—they do those kind of jobs all the time for travelers who can pay.”

“And where should I go?” Vara’s voice carried no hint of sarcasm, and her blue eyes glittered, deadly earnest.

“North,” Cyrus said. “Either to Fertiss, the dwarven capital—there are enough outsiders there that non-dwarves are a common sight—or the Gnomish Dominions—Huern is a city built for them to trade with non-gnomes. Otherwise the Northlands or the Riverlands of the Confederation. They don’t get many elven visitors but if you wore a cloak with a hood you could pass for human easily enough—”

“Marvelous.”

“—if you’d speak with more humility. We don’t have a class system in the Confederation, so rather than be labeled ‘noble’ you’d be known as a ‘prissy wench’.”

“‘Prissy wench’?” Her nostrils flared. “I am not—”

“We need to leave now and ride at least until tomorrow morning to get us out of range of Alaric’s good intentions.”

She paused, eyeing him with suspicion. “We?”

He took a slow, deep breath before answering. “I can’t let you go alone.”

Vara looked around, her eyes cast to the curtain wall that surrounded Sanctuary. “I don’t have a great deal of time; certainly not enough for you to pack or lay in provisions—”

“My horse is saddled and provisioned,” he said. “I’ve left a note for Alaric and the Council in my room. Thad is in charge of the detachment manning the gate tonight; at my command, he’ll let us pass through.”

She looked at him, staring a great hole through him. “You knew I would be leaving.”

“I suspected that you’d see what I see,” he replied.

“And that is?

“Sanctuary is so large, and our security so porous, that it would take a long time to tighten it up enough to protect you—time we don’t have, at the rate of two assassination attempts per day. But if we were to get away for a while,” he said, leaning in toward her, “it would give Alaric and the Council time to weed out the assassins that have slipped in.”

“How long do you expect that will take?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I don’t know that it can even be done. I just know that, right now, it’s not safe for you here.”

“I don’t think it would be wise to take you away from Sanctuary at this critical juncture,” she said. “You could stay, help them to get things under control and then find me when you know it’s safe for me to return.”

“No.” His voice was quiet but emphatic as he stepped in closer and placed his hand upon her arm. “I know your pride recoils at the thought of me protecting you, but put it aside. These assassins are deadly, and they have no desire to best you in a fair fight; they will strike you down when you least expect it.”

“I see.” Her eyes flickered and her arms remained crossed. “If you come with me, what’s to stop them from striking you down? I am leaving to remove myself from the responsibility of seeing others harmed for my sake. I cannot see how bringing you along will accomplish that.”

“Because you need help, Vara.” His gauntlet clanked against the metal of the bracer that protected her wrist. “Your whole life you’ve fought alone and you’ve come to a point where you need someone you can trust—at the very least someone to watch out for you while you sleep. Unless you plan to not sleep at all?” He looked at her with a questioning glare. “Even without the Hand of Fear, there are countless dangers on the road—bandits, highwaymen—”

“Packs of goblins. Yes, very well,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do not dare slow me down or I shall leave you behind.”

“I won’t go any slower than you,” he said. He led her to the stables, passing by the guards with a simple nod of his head. He mounted Windrider, his preferred horse, while Vara put a saddle and her bags on a black stallion that she herself owned. With murmured affections, she led her horse out of the stables and swung herself into the saddle. Cyrus, for his part, managed to keep up.

“Hail, Thad,” Cyrus called into the darkness when they reached the gate. The wall that surrounded Sanctuary was massive, stretching forty feet into the air.

A helmeted head popped into view over the parapet and fired off a crisp salute. “Hail, General. How goes it?”

Cyrus tugged on Windrider’s reins, bringing the horse to a halt. “Not bad. I need you to open the gate for me, just as we discussed.”

The warrior atop the wall was clad in a red-painted armor that in the washed out light of the moon appeared to be more of a mauve. “All right.” Thad’s earnest face stared down at Cyrus, visible in the pale white glow from above. “Best of luck, General. See you…whenever I see you.”

“Take care, Thad.” Cyrus fired off a rough salute of his own as the portcullis began to rise.

“And he won’t betray us by telling Alaric?” Vara’s whisper was lost in the sound of the chains dragging the gates and portcullis open; the cowl of her traveling cloak was pulled over her head, casting all but her nose and mouth into impenetrable shadow. “Or anyone else?”

“He won’t until tomorrow morning, when Alaric comes to him. I trust Thad,” Cyrus replied, spurring Windrider through the gates as they opened, Vara a few paces behind him. “So the question is, do you trust me? Because if not, this is going to be a lot more difficult.”

Vara brought her horse alongside Cyrus and they cantered along. “I trust you,” she said at last, her face still shrouded by the darkness of the cowl. “But from this point, we trust no one else.” She spurred her horse to a gallop, riding north, Cyrus behind her.

Chapter 7

They rode through the day, taking breaks only when the horses grew weary. Vara said little, leading them north along the road. They passed caravans, almost all made up of humans, most wretched, bedraggled and begging for food. Although she apologized as she passed, she did not stop.

Cyrus followed in her wake, repeating the same message over and over. “Keep going, a day’s travel south. Sanctuary is not far from a fork in the road; they’ll give you food and help you however they can.”

By sundown, Cyrus could feel the pain that came from sitting on a horse all day, and the fatigue of being awake for two days also wore on him. Windrider whinnied, moving at a walk. “I think we’re going to have to bed down for the night.”

Vara gave no indication she had heard him. He urged Windrider alongside her. Her features were frozen in place, her eyelids shut, and she bobbed with the motion of the horse. “Vara,” he said, and reached over to nudge her.

With a start she jerked awake, surprise in her eyes. Her gauntlets gripped the reins and she pulled back in a sudden, violent motion.

He held his arms up, openhanded. “You fell asleep. I think it’s time to stop for the night.”

She stared back, her wall of glacial reserve melting under the strain of fatigue. “Perhaps you’re right. But not here.” She pointed off the road toward a copse of trees a few hundred yards away. “Over there, out of sight. And no fire.” Without waiting for him to respond she urged her horse off the road in the direction she’d indicated.

Cyrus followed, and caught her as she began to dismount. He cringed as he lifted himself off the saddle, feeling the sticky, painful prickle of skin peeling from his body. Vara busied herself unpacking her saddle bag and a bedroll from the side of the horse then spreading it on the ground. She pulled a small loaf of bread from the bag and began to nibble on it as she sat and stared into the trees.

“You seem to be the most tired,” Cyrus said, breaking the silence. “I’ll take first watch and wake you after midnight.”

“All right.” Her voice was hollow and far away. She turned to him. “The second assassin—you questioned him?”

A cool unrelated to the air caused Cyrus to shiver. “Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a thing,” Cyrus replied. “Fortin offered to torture him but Alaric refused.” He did not tell her the other thing he had noted from the interrogation; that the elf had the most soulless eyes Cyrus had ever seen.

“Probably for the best.”

“Terian threatened to transform him into a female with his axe, and he still wouldn’t talk—”

Vara blinked. “Did he?” She ran a hand across her bedroll, smoothing it. “He would do it, too.”

“He started to. Alaric had Fortin pull him from the room.” Cyrus frowned as he started to sit down but winced as the pain of his saddle soreness halted him.

A quiet murmuring filled the air around him and Cyrus looked to see Vara with her head bowed, muttered words on her lips. Faint light radiated from the tips of her fingers as she pointed a hand toward him. A soothing feeling coursed over his aching body as the raw spots his skin had developed in the last hour healed, leaving behind only a ghost of the pain he had been experiencing. “Thank you,” he said.

“Forgive me for not doing it sooner; I forget that you lack the ability to heal yourself.”

“Biggest drawback to being possessed of no magical talent,” Cyrus remarked, a rueful smile on his lips. “If you get impaled, you can’t save yourself.”

“Yes, well, do try and avoid that—as a paladin, my abilities are somewhat limited compared to a healer and I doubt I’d be able to save you from a wound so grievous as that.” She yawned. “In addition, I have no desire to clean up the significant mess that would leave on my boots.”

Cyrus chuckled. “Yes, I imagine that with me bleeding from a gaping hole in the chest, your biggest concern would be keeping the shine on your boots.” He stared at her feet, covered in the same metal plating as the rest of her body, a healthy sheen obvious even with the dust of travel still on them.

“Quite so,” she said with only a trace of irony, lying back onto her bedroll. “I can’t recall the last time I slept in my armor. Still, under the circumstances, I suppose it’s the wisest course.”

“I used to sleep in my armor all the time,” Cyrus said. “Before I joined Sanctuary, the guild I led adventured in far off places and we were…uh…well, broke, so we didn’t have the money to stay in local inns. We spent a lot of nights under the stars.”

“The stars.” Vara’s eyes sprung open. “I’ve grown so accustomed to spending my nights in the halls of Sanctuary, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sleep under the stars.”

“Did you do it a lot as a child?”

Her eyes looked into the darkening sky as though she expected them to already be out. “No. I was raised in Termina and my mother and father rarely ventured outside the city.”

“I suppose that made them difficult to see.” Cyrus stared up at the last rays of sunlight springing over the horizon. The sloping hills of the Plains of Perdamun made way for trees every so often, with farms and homesteads spread out over miles and miles of empty space. “I was raised in Reikonos and because of all the torches and fires I didn’t see a sky full of stars until I was seven, with the Society of Arms on a wilderness survival course.”

“How old were you when you went to the Society?” Her voice was fading, the sleep beginning to turn it lyrical.

“Six.” He watched her as she stared into the darkening sky. “You must have had a similar experience, since you went to…uh…” He racked his brain, trying to remember the name of the League that trained paladins.

Her quiet words filled the distance between them. “The Holy Brethren. And no, I did not begin my training with them until I was fourteen; before that I had a steady stream of League-Certified private tutors, the best that were available in the Elven Kingdom.” She stated it matter-of-factly, though Cyrus still caught a hint of pretension.

“Hm.” Cyrus pondered her upbringing. “We had a few people that joined the Society late, but they were all from families like yours; those that could afford to pay tutors to train their kids so they didn’t have to live in the barracks with us ‘uncivilized’ commoners, the orphans that were there from childhood.” He chuckled. “You probably didn’t have many of those in the Holy Brethren.”

She sniffed and turned toward him with irritated intensity. “What are you implying? Magical talent is hardly restricted to those who are well to do.”

“No, no!” He backpedaled. “I meant that because you don’t need magical talent, anyone can be trained to be a warrior, so they scoop orphans and truants off the streets of Reikonos and put them in the barracks at the Society or with the rangers at the Wanderers’ Brotherhood.”

“Ah.” She shifted in her bedroll, returning to her back to stare up once more. “My experience was quite a bit different than yours.” She paused. “What was it like, growing up in the Society?”

He thought about it before answering. “Tough. From day one, you learn that life as a warrior is about strength, and the whole Society reflects that. You start training with real weapons at eight or so and there are a lot of training accidents—”

“That’s barbaric.” Vara rolled toward him, a look of disgust plastered on her face.

Cyrus shrugged. “They kept a healer in the Society. Few of the injuries were permanent or maiming. Only the occasional death, followed by a resurrection spell. Maybe five to ten a year. Very few permanent deaths.”

Vara’s grimace had become an openmouthed stare of horror. “That’s appalling. You were mere children!”

“Well, none of the deaths were of the young children; most of them were from the family fights with the older—”

“Family fights?” Outrage dripped from her words.

Cyrus nodded. “When you join the Society, there’s a ritual in which you’re assigned a blood family. There are two defined blood families in the Society—the Able Axes and the Swift Swords.”

“An alliterative nightmare. What’s the difference between the two?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s a way of creating competition and an esprit de corps. You’re trained to trust in circles—the blood family is the highest circle; then the Society; then the world. You eat together, you bunk together and you fight together. You learn to trust the person beside you in battle and you think in black and white terms about the enemies you kill.”

“A narrow worldview.” Her fingers clutched her bedroll, her knuckles white. “No part of you finds it despicable to treat children in such a way?” Her voice softened. “You don’t…perhaps wish for a different childhood?”

Another thought drifted through Cyrus’s mind, and though he tried to push it away it lingered; the remembrance of a home, the feeling of his mother’s arms around him—maybe more wishful thought than tangible memory. He brought back another thought, a confined room, angry faces surrounding him; like demons at the time, but just children upon reflection. A memory of blood and pain.

“It doesn’t matter,” he answered, flint infusing his tone. “I didn’t have one.” He looked at her, glowing blue eyes still visible and shining in the last light of sundown. “What about you? What was your childhood like? You know, before you went to the Brethren.”

“It feels as though it were a lifetime ago,” Vara said. “I have spent over half my life now away from home—first in the Brethren, then several years with Amarath’s Raiders before I joined Sanctuary.”

“Isabelle—your sister, I mean—said you don’t go home much.” Cyrus looked at Vara, who was still. “Why not?” After a pause, he spoke again. “Vara?”

She let out a sharp exhalation of breath. “Let me see if I can answer your question whilst dancing around a delicate subject. As you know, I am the shelas’akur and there are certain…expectations others have of me, expectations I have no desire to live up to. My mother is the foremost among those who feel I should be doing more to fulfill my supposed responsibilities. I prefer not to argue with her, and thus I avoid going home as much as I can get away with.”

Cyrus pondered her words until she turned and cast a glance at him. “Tell me what you’re thinking, right now.”

He froze. “I was wondering how strong-willed your mother would have to be to make you, one of the most stubborn and irascible people I’ve ever met, want to avoid her.”

A light scoffing laugh filled the air in the clearing, almost as if Vara’s chuckle were coming from the trees around them. “Yes, well, that attribute did come from somewhere, and I assure you it was not from my father, who is as mild a man as you can imagine. I do miss my father. He was—is—exceptionally kind. What about your parents?”

“Dead,” Cyrus replied with leaden words. “Father died in the war with the trolls; Mother…I don’t know, sometime after that. I don’t remember how, just being dropped off at the Society sometime afterward.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice quivered with an empathetic note.

Is that because she’s been thinking of her own father or is it because she’s letting her guard down? “It was a long time ago.”

She cleared her throat. “I should get some sleep since I’ll need to relieve you on watch in a few hours.”

“Not a bad idea,” Cyrus agreed. “I’ll be shaking you awake before you know it; get it while you can.”

“Yes. Well, goodnight.”

“Sweet dreams, Vara.”

He turned away from her and began to scan the horizon. Silence fell, broken only by the sounds of owls in the night. Cyrus put his back against a tree, watching the road a few hundred feet away, and looked to his side ever so often, just to be sure that the beautiful, golden-haired elf was, in fact, still there.

Chapter 8

She awoke as the first rays of sunlight broke through the trees. He watched her blink the bleariness from her eyes as she assessed the situation. “It’s morning,” she said, a look of puzzlement on her fine, chiseled features.

“Yes.”

“You were supposed to awaken me in the night.” She stood and he joined her, aided by support from the tree he had been leaning against. “Did you fall asleep?”

“No.” He wore a tight smile.

“You didn’t get any sleep?” Her face fell. “At all?” He shook his head. “You daft bastard. That was as ill-conceived an idea as any you’ve ever had.”

“What?” He jerked from smiling to confused in the space of seconds. She looked at him with an irritation that sent unsettling feelings through him. “I was trying to be nice and give you a full night of sleep.”

“You’ve jeopardized everything with your idiotic gallantry.” She rolled her bedroll into a tight wad and wrapped it with leather fastenings. “You’ll be tired all day and of less use watching for foes.” She threw the bedroll over her shoulder, then snatched up her knapsack and strode toward her horse. “If you fall asleep, I’m leaving you behind.”

Cyrus’s hand reached under his helm and massaged at his scalp, fingers working through the locks of his hair. “Thank you, for reminding me what married life is like.”

She paused, bristling, and rounded on him. “Excuse me?” Her voice contained more chill than the morning air.

“You just caused me to remember why I got divorced,” he replied, anger beneath the surface of his words. “Leave it to a woman to take something nice that’s done for her and turn it into a life or death situation.”

She glared at him, contemptuous. “In case you’ve quite forgotten, it is a life or death situation.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He shook his head. “I thought I was doing something nice for you, yet somehow you got mad at me for it.” He threw the saddlebags back over his horse. “Couldn’t you just have been grateful and trust me to figure out a way to stay awake? It’s hardly the end of all things.”

“Perhaps I overreacted,” she said. “But should you ever compare me to a former wife of yours again, you will see quite a different reaction, something akin to the feeling you might have should Fortin step on you.” She turned away as she placed a foot in the stirrup and lifted herself onto the back of the horse. “Prehorta is still a few days’ ride, but we’ll start running into more and more villages as we get closer to human—well, what was human territory.”

They rode on with few words exchanged. Cyrus spent most of his attention on the roads, keeping an eye on anyone who approached, interposing himself between them and Vara if they got closer than he deemed prudent.

After the third time he had placed himself between her and a group of refugees she favored him with an amused smile. “Are you concerned that a band of broken down old women are plotting my demise?”

“Someone is plotting your demise, and twice they’ve disguised themselves as refugees. I wouldn’t put it past them to have an old woman in their ranks; what better way to sneak up on a person unsuspecting?”

“I suppose you’re right, but it feels a bit odd to let you protect me, feeble as those efforts might be.”

He let the comment pass as they approached a village. No more than fifteen structures stood clustered on either side of the road. Huts with thatched roofs accounted for all but three of the buildings; two of the last three appeared to be houses of worship; shrines to the gods of Arkaria. The last was a small wooden building that had a signpost out front with the word “Inn” written in large letters across it. Below was another shingle, this one less crafted than the first. It read, “Beggars Begone.”

Cyrus started to remark on the sign, but a grunt from Vara turned his attention to the nearest house. On the front door hung a sign with “No beggars!” spelled in bold script. Similar signs hung on every door in the village, even the houses of worship.

“I’ve never seen the Goddess of Love turn anyone away,” Vara said after seeing one of the signs hanging from the door to the shrine to Levembre. “One of her virtues is charity—or so I thought.”

“We all have our hypocrisies,” Cyrus said.

“Speak for yourself.”

After inquiring at the inn, Cyrus learned that there were no spell casters in the village, so they rode on, finding the same in the next town, though it was larger and had even more signs telling refugees to not to bother stopping. They settled later that night, hidden from the road in another copse of trees, and Vara forced him to sleep first this time.

The days went quickly. It was on the fourth day and past the tenth village that it began to rain. It was a cold downpour, the deluge tapping against his helm and his armor, soaking him. For her part, Vara said little, but weathered the damp and cold with little reaction. They continued to pass refugees every hour or so, misbegotten souls with forsaken looks upon their faces. They cried out in hunger, for any help or assistance. The smell of smoke, blood, sweat and terror was heavy on them from the loss of their homes, their family members, their lives.

The rain ceased after a few days and the Plains of Perdamun became more uneven the further north they went, turning from flat lands into rolling hills broken by small forests. Cyrus had traveled this road before; in spring and summer it was a green and verdant land, filled to the horizon with wheat, corn, potatoes and countless other crops. As it was, the grasses had turned brown and the fields were all fallow for the coming winter, which would bring cold but little or no snow.

Vara remained stoic and silent for long periods of the journey. She initiated conversation only out of necessity, but would break her silence if Cyrus asked her an engaging question, which he spent a good portion of his time attempting to craft. It came to his great surprise when Vara broke the silence with a question of her own.

“I have wondered,” she began as she pulled back on the reins of her horse, allowing him to come alongside her. The road stretched in a flat line in front of them with no one in sight. “What do you do in your spare time?”

He thought about her question before replying. “What spare time?” He looked at her with a sly grin that he saw returned, even as she rolled her eyes. “We don’t have much, what with running the guild and planning expeditions.”

“Surely you must find some time to do something other than hack at monsters with your sword.”

“Not much, I suppose, but…” He hesitated.

She raised an eyebrow at him, waiting.

“I read.”

A giggle escaped her lips, truncated as she covered her mouth with a hand. After composing herself, she pulled it away. “I apologize. Of course, I know you are literate, but I was expecting your answer to be something a bit more…”

“Fitting for a blunt instrument such as myself?” He smiled, trying to disguise the sting he felt inside. “It was brought to my attention after I joined Sanctuary that there was a large gap between what the Society of Arms taught and what I needed to know to be an effective general. So I started reading.”

“And what do you read?” She studied him with fierce intelligence; she seemed curious.

“I read about explorations of ancient temples, on the known history of the dragons and the titans. I’ve read more recent tomes about elven, uh…language and customs…” He paused, wondering what inference she would draw from his admission.

She rode on without reaction. “It is fitting that a general does their best to improve their knowledge. I am not surprised, as you are quite adroit at what you do, and of course competence is not the easiest thing to come by if you aren’t working at it.”

“What about you?” He drew a curious stare from her. “I’ve seen you in your spare time; you always park yourself in the same seat in the lounge, always with a different volume.”

“You watch me?” She raised an eyebrow but the rest of her expression stayed flat, giving him a moment of unease before the hint of a smile played across her face. “I have noticed. I suspect you know what sort of books I read.”

“Always fiction,” he said. “Stories of far-off places. I’ve seen you read one more than most—The Crusader and the Champion.”

“Ah, yes. A guilty pleasure, that one,” she said with a nod and a smile that was reserved, yet sheepish. “It’s about—”

“—A story of love and adventure involving a warrior and a paladin.”

Silence filled the air, and Cyrus wondered if the plains had gone quiet or if he had gone deaf. Vara’s look was guarded. “Have you read it?”

Fire crept across his face, starting with his cheeks, sending a burning feeling all the way to the tips of his ears. “I have.”

She looked to the road, any hint of emotion washed from her next words. “I see. And how did you come by a copy of it?”

“I asked for one from the library in Reikonos.” He cleared his throat. “After seeing you read it so many times I assumed it must be good.”

“What did you think of it?”

“It’s…good. I rarely read fiction, but it was interesting. A very different sort of book than I would have expected you’d enjoy.”

“How do you mean?” She cocked her head, a quizzical look on her face.

“Well…uh…” He felt a tightness in his chest. “Let’s put it this way—it’s not allowed on the shelves of the Reikonos library because elves have a different standard when it comes to what’s controversial…”

She laughed. “You’re quite the prude, you know that? Dancing around what you mean to say—which is that there are quite a few steamy passages, and you didn’t imagine I’d go for that. Let me tell you something, Cyrus Davidon.” She leaned toward him even though they were alone on the road, as though whispering a secret she wanted no one else to hear. “I’m quite fond of those parts of the book; I think they’re actually my favorite bits. Just because you and your pet rock giant think me a bloodless Ice Princess,” she said with a grin, “doesn’t mean that I don’t carry any fleshly desires.”

“I-I-I.” He stammered, not sure which of her accusations to respond to first. “I never called you an ‘Ice Princess’, except to ask clarification from Fortin about what he meant.” His cheeks were still flush with the heat as her last statement sank in and he realized what she had said. The words “fleshly desires” rolled around in his head.

“Why not? I am,” she said, indifferent. “It’s by my own design and efforts that I keep others—including yourself—at arm’s length. That doesn’t mean that I don’t crave the same things you do.”

“I don’t— I mean—” he stuttered, his mind whirling as he tried to decide what to say next.

“My goodness, I’ve flustered the great and mighty General of Sanctuary—Hero of the Battle of the Nartanis Mountains, Conqueror of the Goblins of Enterra.” A smile threatened to turn into a grin on her lips. “Had I known it was this easy to turn you into a stuttering mess, I’d have started each Council meeting where I expected an argument by whispering a filthy suggestion in your ear.”

“You wouldn’t have had the market cornered on that. Your friend Aisling—” he said it with sarcasm but it still drew a look of disdain from Vara—“has done all she can to push the bounds of bad taste in that regard. Nyad also gave me a fascinating glimpse into the sex lives of Terminan elves when I was traveling with her a couple years ago.”

“Did she?” Vara’s voice cooled. “I suppose this explains the sickness and exhaustion you were suffering from.”

“Nothing like that,” Cyrus said in alarm. “She just…opened my eyes to the fact that I led a sheltered life.” He coughed. “I believe she also called me a prude. Repeatedly.”

“Finally an area where the Princess and I—” she put mocking emphasis on Nyad’s title—“can agree. Likely the last time, as well as the first.” Her face twisted back to the look of mischief. “Now that I know how to torture you—”

“Wait,” Cyrus breathed an internal sigh of not-quite-relief. “There’s a village ahead with some activity. Maybe we can find a wizard.”

Vara’s gaze shifted back to the road. “Yes, we’ll plumb the depths of your race’s secret disdain for biological imperatives later.” With a slap of the reins, she urged her horse forward.

Cyrus followed with Windrider a few paces behind her. I was about to have a discussion about sex with the single most prim and proper elf I’ve ever met, he thought. And one that I have deep feelings for. That could either be incredibly good or insanely torturous, and I doubt I’d know which until it was too late.

They galloped along the road toward the village. Maybe I should have waited another minute or so. She might have opened up to me again…or she might have opened up on me, and left me in an even worse mess. A memory of Nyad’s not-so-gentle probing, of her constant badgering until he had admitted that the last woman he’d been with was his wife—now almost four years ago—crossed his mind. Not sure I want Vara to know that about me.

Ahead, the village swarmed. It was not much bigger than the others they’d visited, but hundreds of refugees surrounded a series of wagons where food was being handed out. Cyrus caught a whiff as they reached the edge of town and his nose conveyed a message to his stomach, which roared approval after over a week of dry loaves and salted meat.

The scent was lovely; spices and fresh cooked beef, and a smell of fresh bread. The clamor of crowds of refugees, not pleading but squealing in joy and relief from their hunger, filled the air. There was a festive atmosphere and Cyrus cast a look through the crowds of ragged humans and settled on Vara, who wore a smile.

He caught her attention. “Ice Princess indeed. You’re smiling at hungry people being given a meal.”

She composed herself. “We should be careful. These relief efforts could be a distraction to allow an assassin to close in on us.”

Cyrus looked ahead, his eyes fixated on a face in the crowd. Discomfort twisted his insides. “We let them draw us in.”

As Vara looked at him in puzzlement, he eased his horse closer to hers and pointed. She saw, but did not react beyond her words. “There’s no way we’ll be able to outrun them. Not after so many days on the road.”

“No.” Cyrus cursed under his breath. This is not going to be pleasant…

A figure cut through the crowd, taking the utmost care not to knock anyone over, touching weary and downtrodden refugees as he passed, whispering an encouraging word here and there as he went. Upon reaching the edge of the throng he crossed the distance to Cyrus and Vara, the clinking of his aged armor lost beneath the roar of people behind him. His words, however, were not.

Cy turned to Vara, who looked stricken. Before them stood Alaric Garaunt, the Ghost of Sanctuary, his shoulders broad, back straight, and his lone gray eye staring up at his wayward officers. His words came out hard as the armor worn by the man himself, in a phrase that implied suggestion, though his tone carried no hint that it was anything other than a command.

“Let us…have a discussion.”

Chapter 9

Alaric led them into the village inn, the door creaking as it swung shut, leaving the noise from the mob outside. Cyrus’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness; all the windows had heavy curtains drawn. Wood walls, dark and spotted with age, were illuminated by the light of torches and from a few places where the boards, warped from years of use, didn’t quite meet any longer. The air was still but held a faded aroma of old stew.

A long bar stretched in front of the far wall, a row of seats lined up before it. Behind it, leaning on an elbow, was a human woman, her lips curled in a sour expression until Alaric reached into his purse and placed three shining silver coins before her. “I’ll take a bottle of your finest mead.”

Her expression melted from harshness into something approaching hunger as she snatched them up, nodding. She busied herself with glasses while Cyrus and Vara followed their Guildmaster to a table in the corner. He extended his hand in a gesture for them to be seated, which they did, followed by the Ghost himself.

Alaric studied them, his mouth unmoving, his eye giving away less than usual. He waited, watching them, the silence unbroken until the innkeeper bustled over with three tankards of mead, busying herself with a much more pleasant demeanor than she had exhibited when they first entered. “So nice to have paying customers rather than that rabble outside! Anything else I can get for you? Room for the night? Hot bath?”

“I expect I’m about to be scalded well enough without any aid from your boiling water,” Vara muttered under her breath.

“Some privacy, if we could.” Alaric looked up at the innkeeper with a smile.

“Don’t expect you’ll be disturbed by other customers, seeing as we ain’t got any,” the innkeeper said with a laugh. “If any of that rabble comes through the door, just call me and I’ll sort ’em out.” She nodded her head again, clutching at the ragged seams of her dress, then backed away and disappeared into a door behind the bar.

“But for this woodpile she calls an inn, she’d be hard pressed to differentiate herself from any of the refugees,” Vara said after the innkeeper had left.

“And but for my skill in magic and practice with a sword, I would be nothing but a simple farmer,” Alaric said. “Just because this woman has elevated herself above others in her mind is no reason for us to lose perspective.” He leveled his gaze on them. “Nor should we become distracted, because a tavernkeeper is not the reason we are here.”

Vara cast a quick look at Cyrus before turning back to Alaric. “I won’t justify my decision to go—”

With a squeak, the door opened and interrupted her. Curatio swept in, white robes trailing behind him, a serene smile resting upon his face. “Sorry to interrupt, but I am pleased to see you here.” He moved toward them, pulling out the remaining chair and seating himself at the table. “By all means, continue.”

“I won’t—” Vara began.

“I am not here to argue with you,” Alaric cut her off.

“I’m not going back.” Vara’s voice rang through the room. She lowered her head. “I can’t go back.” Cyrus watched her, looking at the cheeks tinged with red, and knew she was thinking of Niamh.

The Ghost of Sanctuary leveled his eye on her. “I will spare you the requisite speech about how you are not responsible for what happened to Niamh.” Cyrus caught a glimpse of Vara’s staid expression as it crumbled. “I will cut to the point—since you left, we have had four more…altercations…with members of the Hand of Fear.”

Vara’s head snapped up but Cyrus spoke before she could. “Was anyone hurt?”

Alaric shook his head. “Three of the attempts were assassins trying to sneak through the gates, unaware that you had left. The fourth…” he sighed, “made it within the walls, disguised as another applicant when Terian managed to ferret him out.”

“They will not stop coming.” Vara’s voice took on a tone of quiet defeat. “Who knows how many of them there could be?”

“Many,” Curatio said. “Nyad spoke with her father, the King of the Elves, and he sent us all that they’ve collected on this cult. They’ve been operating in the Kingdom for over two thousand years—” He stopped when Cyrus let out a low whistle. “That’s nothing for elves, remember—and it would seem they have grown in strength in the last two centuries.” His lips drew a grim line across his face, the same as they had any of the times Cyrus had seen the healer deliver bad news.

“Why the last two hundred years?” Cyrus broke his silence as Curatio’s eyes darted to Vara. “You’re only twenty-nine.” Cyrus looked at the blond hair on the top of her head as she fixed her eyes on the tabletop.

Curatio cleared his throat. “Once again…”

“Not up for discussion?” Cyrus turned to Alaric. “I suppose you know.”

The Ghost shrugged his shoulders in a way that, to a stranger, would have indicated that he had no idea what was being discussed. Cyrus caught the familiar flick of Alaric’s eye as he looked down that told him that the Sanctuary Guildmaster was being less than forthcoming. “It is irrelevant. What matters is—”

The door opened, and a figure was silhouetted in the daylight that flooded into the room. The sun shone off red armor, casting a tinged glow in spots of maroon on the walls.

“Thad,” Alaric acknowledged the Sanctuary warrior. “Please, join us.”

“Can’t; I’ve come to get you.” The big human closed the distance between the door and the table in only a few strides. “Everything is in place. Aisling confirmed it, and we’re ready.”

Cyrus’s ears perked up. “Aisling is here?” Vara turned to him, her gaze so intense he feared a fire spell might have been cast upon him. “I was just curious,” he said with a slight stammer.

“Yes, I daresay she is curious as well—about how it would feel to rut in the dark with you like a wild beast.” Every word dripped with caustic malice.

“Well, honestly, who isn’t curious about that?” Cyrus said, his tone light. The withering glare he received in return forced him to look back to Thad. “What’s going on here?”

Thad looked to Alaric before speaking. When the Ghost gave a subtle nod, the warrior answered. “Based on comments made by the captured assassins, we think the Hand of Fear has figured out that Vara is no longer at Sanctuary. We ran into a few of their people coming in from the portal the day before yesterday, but we couldn’t be sure, so we’ve kept a low profile.”

Cyrus remembered the mobs surrounding the wagons outside, refugees swarming over them for food and supplies. He pointed toward the door. “You call that a low profile?”

Alaric responded, “That is only a fraction of the force we have in town. Once we realized that the enemy was watching, we knew we couldn’t lead them away until you got here. Nor could we confirm that they were assassins until—”

“Vara arrived, and you watched who was watching her.” Cyrus nodded at the Ghost with a grudging respect. “Aisling can pick a suspicious figure out of a crowd like nobody else.”

“And there you go, wondering what it’d be like to rut in the dark with her.” Vara’s voice rang off the bare walls. “I don’t trust her nor her supposed ability to pick assassins out of a crowd. She’s more likely to find the firmest, meatiest, most pigheaded warrior in the land—”

“Are you calling me firm and meaty?” Cyrus looked at Vara, who flushed in embarrassment. “As to pigheaded, I’d say it takes one to know one—”

“Children.” Alaric’s voice contained a hint of impatience coupled with urgency. “Aisling is quite adept at singling threats out of a crowd, as she has demonstrated on numerous occasions. I trust her judgment.”

“So long as you don’t trust her with the contents of your purse.”

Ignoring Vara’s riposte, Alaric continued. “We’ll take care of this threat, but before we do, I need to ask you—have you considered where you are fleeing?”

Cyrus looked to Vara. “We have.”

Alaric nodded. “May I suggest a brief stop?”

Vara looked at the Sanctuary Guildmaster with a wary edge. “Where?”

“I am not an assassin. But if I were, I would surmise that Sanctuary is the most likely place to catch you unawares.” Alaric’s hands met in front of him, fingers steepling, as they often did, when he was making a point. “Failing that, next I would try—”

Vara’s complexion deadened as she wilted in her chair. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “Home.”

The Ghost did not flinch. “I sent J’anda and Vaste along with a detachment of our best to Termina to keep an eye on your parents, but your mother refused our help, and nearly attacked J’anda.”

Vara’s words came out in a low, almost croaking tone. “My mother would not accept Sanctuary’s assistance if she were in flames and we promised to extinguish them.”

Alaric nodded to her in deference. “We have maintained a garrison in the house across the street after paying the couple who live there to quarter our forces, which they were only too happy to do when the situation was explained to them. Vaste has checked on them several times since then—”

“If she stabbed at the dark elf, I can only imagine what she’d do to a troll,” Cyrus muttered.

“There has been no answer but audible swearing behind the door,” Alaric said. “Your family has been warned, but your mother has not taken this threat seriously.”

Vara closed her eyes, arms folded on the shining breastplate. “I need to go to them. I need to convince my mother.” She blinked. “And perhaps my sister as well…”

“Isabelle has been warned,” Alaric said, “and Endeavor has increased their guard. As an officer in Arkaria’s foremost guild, I would imagine she is safer than most. Nonetheless, perhaps it would be best if you went to Termina to speak with your mother before going on to whatever destination you have chosen.”

A bristling, aggravated feeling rushed through Cyrus at the thought of hiding, quieted by his knowledge that they were up against a foe that did not show its face until it was ready to strike—and that by then it might be too late to save—

“Aisling has picked out three in the crowd outside,” Thad said. “They’re watching the front door, so I suggest we go out the back.”

“Let us not delay.” Alaric picked up his flagon and drained the last of his mead before replacing the vessel on the table. “There is, after all, no telling how much time we have before these assassins make a hasty mistake.”

Chapter 10

They left through the back door after Thad and Cyrus made certain it was clear, surprising the innkeeper as they passed her. Alaric handed her another few pieces of silver as Cyrus emerged into the sunlit yard behind the tavern, Nothing but fields extended to the horizon.

Cyrus held open the door for Vara, who was still paler than usual. The fading light of day gave her skin a washed-out, almost sickly appearance.

Thad halted them once they were outside. “Someone should wait with Vara while we get rid of these assassins.” Cyrus tried to signal the younger warrior to shut up, but to no effect; Thad stared at Cyrus’s motions with a look of curiosity that took his eyes off the elf in front of him.

Vara’s face turned from pale to an angry red flush. “I’m not some scared, weak little princess, hiding in the shadows of my stronger brethren.” She raised an open palm and a blast of force slammed into Thad, causing his arms to pinwheel and the warrior to land on his rump.

She took two steps forward to sneer at him. “Do not make the mistake of believing that because I ran from these cesspools that I did so out of fear for anyone but my comrades; I am a paladin, a holy warrior in the service of Sanctuary and Vidara, the Goddess of Life, and anyone who steps into my path should prepare themselves accordingly.”

Cyrus stood back, arms folded, along with Alaric and Curatio. Vara whirled around to face them, her anger yet unspent. “I hope none of you—”

“Lass,” Alaric began, interrupting her building tirade, “the three of us have known you long enough to recognize that when you set your mind to a course of action, no matter how ill-advised, it will be unchanged. We have foes to deal with.” The Ghost’s hand found its way to his sword, and he drew the runed blade, holding it in front of him.

They followed Alaric around the side of the inn, through an alley that led to the main road. The noise of the crowd was still resounding, shouts of jubilation, laughter and glee echoing around them.

Thad leaned in behind Cyrus, Curatio separating the two warriors from Vara in the narrow passage to the street. “You know, it’s a wonder she hasn’t killed you in the last few days.”

Cyrus snorted. “I’m not dumb enough to provoke her wrath unless I’m ready for it.”

“There is no preparation for my wrath,” Vara said without turning around. “And you’re plenty dumb enough.”

“How did she hear us?” Thad said, his voice low. “I was whispering and there’s a full scale riot of joy going on not a hundred feet away. I could barely hear my own words!”

Curatio shot them a sympathetic look as Vara cast a gaze of annoyance as she pointed to one of her elongated ears. “These? Not just for decoration.”

Alaric eased into the crowd, which filled the street to the alley. Cyrus brushed past Curatio, who gave him a reassuring smile as the warrior followed Vara. With a glance back, he confirmed that Curatio stopped at the mouth of the alley, his hands moving to flip up the cowl on his traveling cloak then returning to the folds of his robe where, unlike some healers who preferred to remain unarmed, Cyrus remembered he kept a mace.

“You’re not laboring under the delusion I’m some damsel in distress, are you?” Cyrus turned back to see Vara peering at him, question in her eyes.

“Not at all,” he said, talking over the raised voices on the street. “I’m just here to help a guildmate in dire need.”

“I am not in dire need—”

“Well, you’re in some need.”

Mollified, Vara turned her attention back to the crowd. “Can you spot the assassins from here?”

Cyrus scanned the crowd, trying to take in the small details; happy faces, children darting through the multitude, their voices raised in laughter. The smell of fresh baked loaves of bread wafted through the air coupled with a smell that he knew was Larana’s meat pies; a combination of beef, lamb and chicken in a thick crust of delicious dough, one of which could feed several people. His mouth watered; it was his favorite dish long before he joined Sanctuary. He felt the people brushing against him in the crowd, refugees with an air of hope so distant from the ragged desperation of the ones that they had encountered for the last few days that it was almost unrecognizable.

And yet, in the crowd, there were small holes in the atmosphere of festivity. A man was stock still near one of the wagons, his eyes fixed in their direction. Another, near the door of a house on the other side of the street, was focused not at all on the loaf of bread in his hands but directed to casting furtive glances at Vara.

“I see some of them,” he said. “It’s the ones that keep looking at you.”

“And you don’t allow for the possibility that they could be simply admiring my resplendent beauty?” The tension in her voice was the only hint she might be joking.

Cyrus replied in a low undertone, “Their eyes are hardened, sunken; these aren’t men who could appreciate beauty in any environment, resplendent or not. They’re intent on a purpose and it involves you in an unpleasant way.”

She turned away from him so that only her profile was visible, and he watched her look resolve. “I’m certain that their intentions and mine are not matching, so let us dispense with these murderers.”

“Yes, let’s—” Cyrus was interrupted when out of his peripheral vision came a blur of speed, a brown cloak on a direct line for Vara. A dagger was already extended from the sleeve and Cyrus caught only a glimpse of a man’s face as he moved past the warrior. It was contorted with a look of unrepentant viciousness, sadistic glee lighting up the dark-circled eyes as the elven assassin swept toward his unknowing target.

Cyrus’s hand was already on Praelior and he felt the familiar sensation of time slowing down. The blade was drawn and moving, flashing through the air in a crosswise cut that opened a gash across the ribs of Vara’s assailant, spinning him to his knees. Cyrus brought his sword across the throat of the elf as Vara turned in surprise.

A hush fell over the crowd followed by the first scream, then a hundred others. The calm and docile refugees, so contented only a moment before, saw the peaceful calm shattered and almost as one tried to scatter from the violence in their midst. Cyrus looked to the places where he had seen assassins, but they were all swept up in the movement of the throng, all gone.

One of the wagons flashed and a forked streak of lightning shot from the window. Cyrus could see Larana, her expression one of pure fury, as the bolt struck a figure whose cloak caught fire, forcing him to the ground. Another arced past Cyrus into an elf that was charging at Curatio, a dagger raised above his head. The healer waited with his mace in a defensive posture, but the lightning sent the assassin flying into a wall.

Cyrus turned back as a cry of alarm came from behind him. He was already in motion, his sword up, as he sprang forward, pushing Vara to the side. Distracted by the assailant attacking Curatio, Vara had turned her head as another assassin broke free of the fleeing crowd.

Cyrus brought his sword forward in a blocking motion, batting aside the first dagger of the assassin with his right hand as he interposed his body between Vara and the elven attacker. The assassin was knocked off balance, but brought around his other dagger in a glancing stab that skipped off the metal plating on Cyrus’s upper arm and funneled, by pure luck, into the gap beneath his pauldrons.

He cringed as he felt the blade bite into the meat of his left shoulder. Warm blood spurted out of the wound as he slammed his sword into his assailant’s face. The assassin’s hand slipped free of the dagger’s grip, leaving it buried in Cyrus’s arm.

The refugees had dispersed, leaving behind a handful of cloaked elves and a near-empty street. Cyrus saw Sanctuary guild members led by Ryin Ayend coming into the village at the north end; the opposite direction from which he and Vara had entered, but they were fighting against the fleeing crowds.

Cyrus maintained a defensive posture, his back against Vara’s. Two more elven assassins advanced toward them as he flinched through the pain and felt a burst of lightheadedness.

“Shall we show them the error of their ways?” Vara said.

Cyrus gritted his teeth, the pain in his arm bringing tears to his eyes. “Sure. Why not.”

Vara slashed at the assassin closest to her, causing him to take a step back. Cyrus did not wait to see how the next round of her battle went; his foe moved toward him and Praelior came up of its own accord to fend off the assassin’s attack. Every clash with the elf’s blades jolted him, sending waves of pain radiating from where the dagger was still buried in his shoulder.

Cyrus glanced back; Curatio and Thad were engaged with more assassins that had sprung out at them while Alaric was fighting off two assailants simultaneously. Vara was holding her own against the other, but was in no position to assist him. The pain in his arm was becoming an unstoppable agony, even with the aid of Praelior’s mystical strength. He suspected that without it, he would be on his back, helpless.

His assailant struck again and again, each blocked by Cyrus but battering the warrior back toward the inn. Cyrus countered with a clumsy swing, but the blow pushed the assassin back only a few steps, and at the cost of Cy’s footing. The warrior fell, the front of his armor a bloody mess, his black plating slick. The smell of it wafted up and his eyes felt heavy. He raised Praelior in front of him, fending off two more attacks by the assassin, whose angular features were cracked by a smile.

“I see you’ve felt the kiss of black lace,” his assailant taunted him. “The mighty Cyrus Davidon, General of Sanctuary, brought low. Not quite so unstoppable without a healing spell, are you?”

“That’s not what makes me unstoppable.” Cyrus tasted blood in his mouth. His armor felt heavy, and the mild ache in his knees from the position he was in was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his left arm.

“Oh, no?” The assailant grinned as he closed, his boot landing on Praelior, knocking the blade into the dirt.

Cyrus slumped back, looking up and seeing the overhang of the roof of the inn above him. “No…I’m just a so-so warrior…”

“Any other confessions before you die?” The assassin laughed and raised his blade.

“You’re about to get perforated with knife blades,” Cyrus said, his words slurred. “And I’m going to enjoy it.”

The assassin paused, a look of confusion on his face as from above them a shadowed shape detached itself from the roof, flying through the air. The elf looked at the sudden flash of motion. Cyrus reached up and batted the blades aside, knocking them from the assassin’s grasp as the shadow slammed into him.

Aisling landed with her weight on her daggers as Cyrus fell over into the dirt, clear of the dark elf’s attack on the unsuspecting assassin. He saw her action as if she were moving at half speed; her weapons plunged into the guts and neck of the elf, his grin supplanted by an openmouthed expression of shock, then dissolved by the torrent of blood that spurted from his body at her assault. The dark elf landed with both knees and the force of her impact hid the fact that she stabbed the assassin a half dozen more times in the seconds that followed.

With the lithe grace of a cat, Aisling moved from a crouch to standing, facing away from him. His eyes blurred as she stood silhouetted against the sun, her dark blue skin giving her the appearance that she was a human shrouded in semi-darkness.

Cyrus looked past her to see Alaric, locked in combat with two of the remaining assassins, his sword dancing to either side, keeping them off balance, whirling to avoid his offensive thrusts. A concussive burst of force shot from his hand, clipping one of the combatants and freeing him to focus on the other for a few seconds; all he needed to strike a killing blow on the first before returning to the second and finishing him off as well.

Cyrus glanced back to see Thad and Curatio making quick work of one of the remaining assassins as the remainder of the Sanctuary force arrived. Curatio broke away and came to his side, followed by Vara. The paladin dropped to her knees at his side, Aisling behind her but standing at a distance.

“You silly bastard,” Vara said under her breath. “I took mine out without difficulty, but you have to go and get impaled.”

“He didn’t get wounded by the last one,” Aisling said from behind her, every word drowning in accusation. “He got stabbed when trying to keep you from getting knifed in the back.” The dark elf kicked at the dust at her feet. “It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t had to save you.”

“And where were you while we were fighting them off?” Vara shot to her feet, tense and facing Aisling, who recoiled and dropped her hands to where her daggers rested in her belt.

“I was on top of the inn, waiting for an opportunity to be of use,” Aisling shot back, her purple irises seeming to glow in challenge. “And I was, just in time to save his life.”

“We have no time for this,” Curatio called to the two women as he knelt next to Cyrus. The healer’s hands removed Cyrus’s pauldrons, then unstrapped one side of his breastplate and backplate while Vara returned to his side and removed the other. Cyrus gritted his teeth again, the pain mounting.

Curatio frowned as he looked at the wound. “Knife went in the shoulder but it skipped off the bone and slid here.” The healer’s finger traced a line along Cyrus’s skin that roared with pain as he did it. “Probably hit an artery.” Curatio grimaced and pushed down so hard on Cyrus that motes of light swirled in front of his eyes. The healer’s hand re-entered his vision a moment later, a dagger clutched in it. With a sniff, his frown deepened. “Black lace.”

“I admit my understanding of human anatomy is very basic—” Aisling began.

“And limited to the area of the groin,” Vara said.

Aisling continued, “But if you can’t heal him, won’t he bleed to death?”

Curatio’s hand dug within his robes, a look of intense concentration on his face that brightened after a moment. His hand emerged, a small pouch gripped within it. “That would be true—if I couldn’t heal him.”

The words made their way through Cyrus’s pain-soaked mind. “Didn’t you say the dagger was coated in black lace?”

“I did.” Curatio opened the pouch and gathered a pinch of dried leaves between his fingers. “This is going to hurt, and for that, I apologize.” He turned to Vara and then to Thad, who showed up at his shoulder. “Hold him down.”

Curatio drove his finger into Cyrus’s wound, tearing a ragged scream from his throat, followed by a stream of shouted curses, most of which related to the healer’s parentage. The wound burned, screaming. Cyrus’s eyes were closed, squinted tight, and he forced them open while he tried to control the excruciating pain in his shoulder and arm.

Vara stared down at him, her blue eyes wide with fear, both her hands pushing his left arm to the ground, the veins in her thin neck bulging from the effort. Aisling was lying across one of his legs, which was spasming while Alaric forced the other down. Thad, on the other hand, grimaced but kept Cyrus’s right arm contained, unable to do anything useful, such as pummel Curatio to death for whatever he was doing.

In a moment, the healer wiped his bloodied hands together and stood. Cyrus still felt the searing in his shoulder, although it had abated a little. Curatio brought his hands together and closed his eyes, his mouth almost unmoving while a blue glow filled his fists. The light enveloped Cyrus and the pain faded, as though it were a mound of sand blown away by a light wind, a few granules at a time.

Ragged breaths tore from Cyrus’s lungs as he sucked in air, his eyes locked on Curatio’s. “Not sure I want to know how you did that.”

Curatio forced a smile, his expression grim. “I know it hurts.”

Thad looked up at the healer. “I thought black lace counteracted all magic?”

Curatio waited before replying. “Alchemists long ago created a cure for black lace as well as the dark magics that carry the same effect; unfortunately, it’s from a very rare and expensive plant and I didn’t have any on hand after depleting my stock…” His words came out in a low whisper. “…several years ago.” He bowed his head. “I should have bought more after we started raising our fortunes in Purgatory, but it wasn’t a priority.” His head came back up. “Until…”

“Niamh.” The name bubbled up on Cyrus’s lips, and he tasted bitterness that had nothing to do with the blood from where he had bitten his tongue.

“I had it on a list of things I was going to do. We’ve been out of it for years. I just hadn’t gotten to Pharesia to get it yet.” The healer’s eyes were haunted, glossed over and staring at the dirt beneath him.

“We’ve discussed this, Curatio.” The voice of Alaric was near silent, stoic. “This is not something we could have predicted.”

“We’d seen it before.” Curatio’s head did not move. “I should have been prepared.”

“When did you see black lace before?” Cyrus rasped, fingers kneading into his exposed shoulder, sending spikes of pain down his arm as well as into his chest.

“It wasn’t black lace,” Curatio said, looking up at Vara. “It was a spell that produces a similar effect. And it had nothing to do with what’s happening now.”

“Sorry, but we don’t have time.” Vara stood, a hint of impatience sneaking into her words. “I need to get to Termina to speak with my parents.”

“Yeah.” Cyrus reached for his breastplate, strapping it on as he attempted to stand, eliciting a murmur of protest from Curatio.

“You’re not fully healed—the black lace is still in your system; the rotweed only removed the effects where I was able to touch—”

“You put something called rotweed into my wound?” Cyrus paused, halfway to his feet, leaning against the wall of the inn for support.

Curatio shrugged. “Either that or watch you bleed to death.”

“Fair point.” Cyrus fastened the last strap and lifted his arms to put his pauldrons back on, but the pain elicited a cringe.

“The rotweed allowed me to heal most of the damage.” Curatio’s hand reached out to help Cyrus as he stood. “You’ll need additional healing over the next hour as the rotweed works its way into the portions of the wound it hasn’t affected yet.”

“Great,” Cyrus said, struggling into his armor. “Either you can come along to Termina or she,” he pointed at Vara, “can do it along the way.”

“You should go back to Sanctuary.” Vara’s expression was tender. “I appreciate your concern, but you’ll need time to recover.”

“I could help,” Aisling spoke up, sliding into place at his side. “I’m a very capable nurse. I’d have you up and active in no time. And eventually,” she said with an undisguised grin, “you might even leave your bed again.”

Vara’s nostrils flared as she fired back at the dark elf. “On the other hand, perhaps you should come to Termina simply so you don’t die of venereal disease.”

Cyrus pushed off the building and drew his arms back from those around him. “I’ll be fine. Let’s go.”

Alaric moved forward, his hand coming to rest on Cyrus’s unwounded shoulder. “Larana will teleport you to Santir. Thad and others will accompany you across the river until you reach Vara’s home. Do not linger; be quick about your purpose.”

“My mother is stubborn,” Vara said, her lips drawn in a thin line. “This may not be as quick as we could hope for; she has lived a long time and is set in her ways.”

Alaric looked back at her, exuding a calm that only hinted at the deadly threat hanging over her. “Convince them. Do it quickly and get out of the Elven Kingdom. Every moment you wait gives the Hand of Fear more opportunity to target them—and you.”

Chapter 11

The winds of the teleportation spell died and Cyrus urged Windrider forward, leading a small Sanctuary force ahead at a slow walk. Every time his horse set a foot down, pain shot through Cyrus’s wound. “This way,” Vara spoke from beside him, leading them to the west, the sun hanging low in the sky.

“I don’t understand,” Cyrus said, looking around the square. The portal where they had appeared was a stone ovoid laying with the long side down, runes inscribed around it. It sat in the middle of an open square, mostly wooden buildings surrounding it, in the heart of the human city of Santir. Ahead, Cyrus could see the dirt avenue leading to a massive bridge over the river Perda.

“You’ll have to narrow that down,” Vara said. “I don’t have time to mull over all the things you don’t understand in order to try to find a way to explain them to you.”

Cyrus gestured around him. “Santir is a human city, with…I think…a couple hundred thousand people. It’s not very old.”

“About a hundred years old,” Vara said. “It was the site of the final battle in the last great war, the one between the humans and elves on one side and the dark elves on the other. What don’t you understand?”

“Termina has a population of over a million, and it’s across the river,” Cyrus continued. “Why didn’t we just teleport there?”

“Termina doesn’t have a portal,” Vara replied. “Rather impossible to teleport somewhere that doesn’t have a portal.”

Cyrus frowned. “We teleport into the Sanctuary foyer all the time. There’s no portal there.”

“Actually, there is,” Vara said with a smile of self-satisfaction. “It’s built into the floor. There’s a room in the dungeons—just down the hall from your accommodations last year—you can go in there and if you look up, you’ll see it, mounted to the ceiling.”

“How did we manage that?”

“I don’t know. I would presume Sanctuary was built in the days when the portals were.” She paused. “Or somehow Alaric moved a portal into our cellar.” She gave it a moment of thought. “Upon reflection, I wouldn’t rule that out.”

“That brings us back to my original query,” Cyrus said. “Why doesn’t Termina have a portal of its own?”

Vara’s hands gripped the reins of her horse. “No elven city has a portal within its walls, yet all the larger ones have portals nearby. They’re all well outside the gates, even in Pharesia.”

Cyrus let his tongue run along his teeth, searching for the place where he had bitten it in the battle. “Maybe a defensive measure? To keep someone like the dark elves from teleporting into the heart of your city?”

Vara chewed her lip. “Perhaps, but I doubt it. There is a spell that can be used to render a portal inactive if one fears invasion. Surrounding it with soldiers also allows invasion forces to be routed a few at a time as they appear. Every elven city with a portal is thousands of years old; it is more likely an aesthetic decision.” She glanced back to the stone ovoid. “After all, they are rather ugly.”

They lapsed into silence as Cyrus took in the scenery of Santir’s main avenue. Dirt roads, wet from a recent rain, lay underneath the shoes of his horse, filling the air with a soft sucking noise. People filled the street, shopping from carts and wooden storefronts. Most of the buildings were comprised of wood, as though they were temporary.

Cyrus glanced behind him. Their small Sanctuary army was in tow, spearheaded by Thad and Ryin Ayend. Larana was visible as well, but when he glanced at her she looked away, giving Cyrus a charge of amusement. Her dark hair was tangled around her tanned face, giving her a bedraggled look.

As they approached the bridge, Cyrus noticed a striking change in scenery. The bridge, in addition to being enormous, was composed of beautiful stonework, with statues every few feet along the sides.

Looking down the river Perda, Cyrus saw docks stretching out into the water, with small fishing boats and even a few larger craft at the port to the north. In the distance on either side, Cyrus could see smaller bridges to the north and south.

As they reached the crest of the arching bridge, Cyrus’s eyes fell upon the elven metropolis of Termina for the first time. Buildings stretched over the horizon as far as he could see. Tiles dotted the sloped rooftops, red with the aura of sun-baked clay. All the buildings that he could see were built of stone, all made to survive the seasons that occurred in this part of Arkaria.

The avenue in front of him could not have been a more marked contrast to Santir; cobblestones lined the streets and trees were planted every few feet on either side of the road. From where he sat on the bridge, a half dozen squares were visible on the main thoroughfare, each with a fountain. Aquaducts ran across the tops of buildings, greenery hanging from their sides.

In the center of the city, Cyrus could see a structure reaching a dozen stories into the air, capped by a beautiful dome made of shining metal. The stonework glistened in the light, and it was by far the tallest building in Termina.

“The Chancel of Life,” Vara said, drawing his gaze back to her. “It’s a temple to Vidara, the Goddess of Life. She’s the most worshipped deity of the elves. Her temple is largest to reflect her place in our hearts.” Her finger traced a line to another building, a mile or so south of the Chancel. It was not so tall but stretched over a space large enough to fit the Chancel of Life within it. “That is the Great Bazaar, the largest market in Arkaria.”

Cyrus frowned. “I always thought Reikonos had the largest market.”

“Yes, well, being a human you would, wouldn’t you?” Vara said in a teasing voice. “This market is the largest, but only because there is more than one market in Reikonos. So, we have the largest market, and you have the most markets.”

He looked down the slope of the bridge once more at the Bazaar. He could see the bridge south of him connected with an avenue that ran straight to the enormous market. “I suppose that’s an important distinction to make…to someone.”

She looked back at him impishly. “Yes, to me. Because it still puts my hometown in front of yours.” Before he could respond, she pointed again at the horizon, this time to the north of the Chancel and a square building, devoid of any artistic elements. “See that one?”

“Yes?” The building she was pointing to was boxy, unremarkable—ugly, even.

“It’s the center of the elven government in Termina. Did you notice the design?”

He squinted. “It’s smaller…and kinda ugly,” he said, almost apologetic. He leaned back in his saddle, shifting his attention back to her, waiting for the inevitable eye roll.

It never came. “Indeed it is. You see, all three of those buildings make a statement about Termina. The tallest is the Chancel, placed at the center of the city and the widest or biggest in terms of square footage is the Bazaar. The city designers made it so,” she lectured, “to show that the heart of Termina was the love and worship of the Goddess of Life, and that the width and depth of our souls were in worship of her and pursuit of commerce.”

“And the government building?”

She laughed. “Ugly, shapeless, and well out of the way of the other two. Termina is the only place in the Elven Kingdom where that attitude about the monarchy would fly.”

“Are you…happy to be home?” Cyrus asked with hesitancy.

“I am,” she said after a short pause. Drawing a deep breath, she elaborated. “I do miss this city and all its charms.” She shifted her gaze from the horizon to him, and he tried to remove the hand he had rested on his own shoulder, as if he could massage the aching pain out of his muscles through the armor. “You need a healing spell.”

She raised her hand and under her breath muttered words so low that, like every other spell caster, he couldn’t come close to discerning what she said. A tingle ran through his arm and across his chest, as though a warm wind were soothing some of the pain away. “Did that help?” Her voice was an octave lower than usual and filled with concern.

“Yeah.” He raised his arm to swing it in a slow arc. “A few more heals, it’ll be fine.”

“We only have an hour to get it right,” she said. “After that, healing spells will have no effect. I need you strong—at your best and ready for what comes our way.”

“You’re worried about more assassins?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow.

Her jaw tightened. “There are other dangers we’ll face that you’ll need all your strength for.”

“Like what?”

“My mother.” She looked away as she said it.

He scoffed. “I’ve faced the dragonlord, servants and defenders of the gods, and the imperial leaders of the goblins. I doubt I have much to fear from an elven woman.”

She turned back to him, eyebrow raised in amusement. “We shall see. Make ready.”

They made their way down the wide avenue, taking a left turn several blocks before the Chancel of Life. Their horses cantered along the tree-lined boulevards as the cobblestone roads narrowed. “That wide avenue that led across the bridge? That’s called the ‘Entaras’iliarad’. It means ‘The Way of the Spirit’. It leads to the Chancel of Life; all the main roads in Termina do.”

Cyrus pondered that. “So the Goddess of Life is the main deity of the elves? No others?”

“There are pockets where other deities are worshipped, and they have temples.” She used the reins to steer her horse around a cart. “Several of the elemental gods are represented—Ashea, the Goddess of Water, for instance, has a loyal following in the Kingdom. Levembre, the Goddess of Love also has a faction. Virixia of Air and Sinaa, Goddess of Peace, have temples in the outskirts.”

“Any followers of Bellarum?”

Vara laughed. “Few here, if any, follow the God of War, and they’d all worship in secret. The same with the Gods of Darkness, Death and any of the other ‘evil’ deities. The Kingdom frowns on the activities and rituals that those gods require in their worship.”

“Explains why I’ve never heard Terian list here as a place he wanted to visit.”

She led them down the stone streets, past buildings that were well-maintained and timeless in their design. “This is the old district,” she said as they passed a row of homes. “These buildings are several thousand years old, but they’ve all been refinished.” She swelled. “It’s the most exclusive area of Termina, with the exception of the mansions on Ilanar Hill, where the greater royals and wealthiest citizenry live.”

“So the lesser royals live here?” Cyrus deadpanned.

“Quite a few, yes,” she replied, her thoughts elsewhere and missing the sarcasm in his remark. “This is where I grew up.”

“Impressive. What did your father do, to be able to afford such nice dwellings?”

“He was…given several businesses to run,” she said. “Unfortunately, my father is not skilled at such things, and so he ran each of them into the ground in turn, for varying reasons.”

“Ouch. Were his benefactors upset?”

“I suspect at least a little, but there were no shortage of others willing to give him the opportunity.” Her eyes had settled in the distance. “He finally conceded he was not disposed to try again and accepted a position with a shipping concern with much less responsibility. It pays well enough, and he’s content at his work.”

“It’s good that he understands his strengths and weaknesses,” Cyrus said, shifting once more in the saddle, the pain fading from his wound a little at a time. “Most people don’t. But if your father ran several businesses into the ground, how did he afford to live in this—exclusive, as you put it—district.”

Vara tugged the reins, bringing her horse to a stop. “We’re here.”

Cyrus looked up. The building Vara had led them to was three stories tall, sandwiched on either side by residences of similar design, built to share common walls and mirrored on the other side of the street. Tall trees stretched above them to shade everything from the evening sun, giving the avenue a darkened feel. Without exception, every one of the buildings on the street was flawless, the stonework detailed and intricate, unlike anything Cyrus had seen in any of the other cities he had traveled to.

He followed her to the door, five stone steps leading off the street, Thad and the rest of their Sanctuary allies remaining behind as Vara reached the door. Cyrus watched her hand freeze, hovering over the long handle. He stopped a couple steps behind her, watching as a cascade of emotions ran over her profile. He started to reach out to her but stopped. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” Her head turned and she nodded back at him. “Steel yourself,” she warned as her hand closed on the door handle. Before she could finish her thought, the door swung open.

Chapter 12

Framed in the doorway was a woman, her eyes slitted in the same manner as Vara’s did when they narrowed. A burgundy blouse and black breeches hung on her, revealing a woman who was still well in shape. Were she human, Cyrus would have guessed her to be in her thirties, but the points of her ears betrayed her elven heritage and made hazarding a guess impossible. Her resemblance to Vara was uncanny.

“Oh, look, our wayward daughter returns,” the woman said, her voice crackling with sarcasm. “I heard you were being chased by an order of assassins?”

Vara stood, unsteady, as if she were off balance. “I am.”

“How kind of you to come here, bringing danger and death to our very doorstep!” Her mother’s face was devoid any mirth, but her tone was mocking and ironic. “I know I told you that I hoped you would visit more often, but I didn’t realize I had to include a disclaimer that it would be best to do so when not in mortal peril.”

Silence hung in the air. Cyrus felt a sense of awkward embarrassment for Vara, who maintained her stoicism as her mother lashed at her.

With a flick of her eyes, Vara’s mother’s gaze fell on him, blue diamonds that glittered with all the brilliance of the sun sparkling on a prism, and Cyrus wished that he could make himself small enough to sink between the cobblestones. “And who is this?”

“Cyrus Davidon, this is my mother,” Vara said. “She’s an overly dramatic, reprehensible old shrew whose mastery of laying on guilt is comparable to a farmer’s spreading of manure, and just as prolific.”

“But I smell much more pleasant,” her mother continued, indifferent to her daughter’s insult. With a sniff, her face turned down and her eyes honed in on Cyrus again. “Which is more than I can say of some of us. He’s taller than the last man you brought home. But he has the same air about him, the smell of blood and glory and bile so common on a dog of war. It all smells like rot to me.”

Cyrus, unsure what to say, caught Vara’s eye and mouthed, “Last man?” She shook her head. He took a deep breath through his nose, wondering if she had been speaking about his smell in a literal or metaphorical sense.

“I see you’ve retained your inimitable charm, Mother,” Vara said with an air of impatience. “I need to speak with you and Father if you’re quite finished with your initial volley of verbal arrows.”

“My dear, my initial volley is plenty to ward off all but you and your sister; why, look, your barbarian friend is cowering.” She raised her hand toward Cyrus, who blinked in surprise.

“I’m not cowering…just, uh…”

Vara’s mother sent him a look of feigned sympathy. “Poor dear. This one seems a bit slow on the uptake. He must be hung like an ox if you keep him around in spite of his obvious intellectual deficiencies.”

“I wouldn’t know.” The temperature of Vara’s voice fell a hundred degrees in her reply. “Can we come in or shall I just move along and come back to bury your corpses?”

Her mother glared at her with great coldness. With reticence and a dramatic exhalation, she stepped aside. “Very well. But you’ll need to tie up your ox outside.”

“Mother.” Vara’s tone was warning, bordering on hostile.

“Fine. He can come in.” She turned and wandered down the hallway visible through the open door. “Mind the rug, dear. It’s new.”

Vara wheeled around to him before entering. “Say nothing,” she told him. “She is looking for anything with which to skewer you.”

“It’s like having a conversation with Malpravus, minus the civility.” Cyrus closed the door behind him. The interior of the house was beautifully furnished. To his left was a living room. The walls of the house were decorated with tapestries and paintings of all kinds. The one that caught his attention was hanging over the fireplace; a portrait of Vara as a girl.

“Admiring the painting of my daughter?” Cyrus looked back down the hallway to see Vara’s mother staring him down.

“Ah, yes,” he stammered back. “It’s lovely. It really captures the…” His voice trailed off as he stared at the unsmiling visage of a woman he’d known for years. “…the spirit of her.” He ignored the irritated eye roll from Vara.

“She wouldn’t sit still for the damned thing, even though she was twelve, and she scowled the entire time.” An amused smile appeared on her face. “So when you say it captures her spirit, are you saying my Vara is disagreeable?”

Cyrus pondered lying for a split second. To hell with politeness, he thought. She has yet to show me any. “Yes, she is,” he agreed. “Though I’m beginning to think she’s not half as uncivil as she would be naturally predisposed to be.”

The older elven woman’s eyes narrowed and then her expression lightened for the first time since he’d met her. “Yes, she fights her nature, but I’ve told her a thousand times she should go with her instincts; after all, it takes less energy to let fly the barbs that she produces than it does to suppress them.” She looked him over with an appraising eye. “Perhaps you’re not as slow as I gave you credit for; but with a face like that, you’d still have to be well endowed for her to keep you around.”

“Mother!” Vara’s shout crackled through the hallway. “He’s not…I’m not with him…I’m only…” Frustration rattled through her, causing her to clench her jaw shut. “He’s here to protect me; he’s not here as my…”

“Paramour?” her mother offered after a few seconds. “Lover? Heart’s desire?” She laughed. “Nighttime plaything?”

“There’s no need to be vulgar, Mother.”

“No need, perhaps, but such desire to be crass is an impulse that I can scarce resist.” She led them down the hallway with an imperious wave of her hand. Vara followed, Cyrus a few steps behind, until they emerged in a modest kitchen with a rounded table big enough for a half dozen to eat in comfort. Vara’s mother looked to Cyrus. “I would offer you something to drink, but I’m fresh out of the traditional types of poison. I have some old cabbage I’ve been meaning to throw away—it likely won’t kill you, but I doubt you’ll see much outside of the privy for the next day or so.”

Cyrus decided to let the remark pass. “We should get down to business.” He paused, realizing he hadn’t yet heard Vara’s mother’s name. “Uh…what should I call you…? Vara hasn’t called you by name; she keeps addressing you as Mother. I could call you Vara’s mother…or just Mother, I suppose…” Nerves took over and he could feel himself starting to ramble.

She stared at him. “Do not dare refer to me as ‘Mother’ unless you wish to insult me, and before you do, I must warn you that I am a formidable wizard and able to strike you down with a single spell.” Vara cleared her throat, a look of supreme irritation on her face. Vara’s mother sighed, a sound of deepest disappointment. “Oh, very well. You may call me Chirenya.”

Cyrus gritted his teeth. “If you know that there’s a threat to Vara’s life, then you must realize that these assassins could be after you as well?”

Her mother circled to the table, where she pulled out a chair and levered herself into it with exaggerated effort, as though she were pretending to be old. “I assure you I am still possessed of all my faculties, and I understand that if there is a threat to my daughter that it could well make me a target.”

“Listen.” Vara seated herself at the table next to her mother. “We need to get you and Father out of Termina.”

“And if we don’t wish to go?”

Vara blew air out of her lips noiselessly as she looked skyward. “I am appealing to your common sense and, if it exists, your love and trust for me, who has been responsible for quite a few…pleasant contributions to your lifestyle.” Chirenya looked around the room. “These assassins are very dangerous, and they have already killed one of our officers in an attempt to get to me. You are not safe. Please.” Her voice entered the range of a hushed whisper. “Let us get you out of here.”

Chirenya avoided her daughter’s gaze. “If I could do as you ask, I would. But I cannot.”

A hush fell over the table, broken by Vara. “Where is my father?”

“He’s taken ill.” Chirenya’s eyes pivoted to her daughter. “He’s been bedridden for weeks. You’d know this,” her finger came up in an accusatory fashion, “if you came home more often.”

Her words hung between them. Vara’s face was stone, unmoving. Her eyes focused on a point in the distance, beyond her mother’s shoulder. Vara’s hands fell to her lap, under the table, where her mother could not see, and Cyrus watched as the paladin clasped them together as she continued to stare ahead, one hand squeezing the other.

Standing at the entrance to the hallway leading back to the front door, Cyrus froze, stiffening as he heard a noise behind him. There came the soft click of a lock being plied, then another squeak as the handle turned and the door opened.

Chapter 13

Before it was open, Cyrus was in motion, sword drawn and in hand. He could hear the scrape of Vara’s chair and the sound of her blade being jerked from its scabbard as he pounded toward the door. Praelior was extended, ready to strike, but he hesitated as the last rays of sunlight shone off a head of long blond hair that flowed over immaculate white robes, stitched with the runes that marked the woman as a healer.

“Isabelle,” Cyrus said in acknowledgment, skidding to a halt and sheathing his sword, embarrassed.

“Cyrus Davidon,” said the elven woman who stood before him. “I’d assumed that the General of Sanctuary cut an imposing figure in battle, but to see you charging affirms all my beliefs in that area and then some.” She shut the door, casting the hallway in shadow once more.

Once his eyes adjusted, Cyrus saw her lips upturned, fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes showing themselves. “If I’m that frightening, why are you laughing?”

“It takes more than a hell bent warrior to scare an officer of Endeavor. But if I were, say, a member of the dark elven army? I’d be quaking in fear at your approach.”

“Flattery won’t help you, dear,” Chirenya’s voice came from the kitchen. “Your sister is already rutting with him.”

“I doubt that very much,” Isabelle muttered under her breath.

“Mother! I am not…rutting…with anyone!”

“Well, you should; it would eliminate some of that tension that contributes to the wrinkles on your forehead…you’re going to look older than I do soon.”

Vara made her way to Cyrus’s shoulder. “What brings you home?”

Isabelle unwrapped the delicate shawl from her neck. “Since Alaric sent a messenger warning me about the assassins, I’ve had a hundred or so of my guildmates encamped in the houses to the sides and back, keeping watch for trouble.”

“Wait,” Cyrus said. “Endeavor has forces to either side and behind the house?” He turned to Vara and shrugged. “You can’t get any safer than that, short of having a detail here.”

“Yes, I can only guess how marvelously that would turn out, based on your reaction to my eldest daughter coming to the door,” Chirenya shot at him from the far end of the hallway. “I assume that anyone who knocks on your door at night is lucky to survive the experience. Humans, such primitive creatures, especially the men—”

“Mother,” Isabelle said. “Be polite. He’s your guest.”

“He’s your sister’s guest,” Chirenya returned. “I would have just as soon had her tie him to the hitching post outside.” She turned to Cyrus. “You’re not going to endear yourself to me…”

“Ever,” Vara said.

Chirenya continued as if she had not heard. “…if you go charging about like a bloodthirsty troll at every person that passes through the neighborhood. The High Priestess of Vidara drops by, we have friends—”

“Fancy that,” Isabelle said.

Other than a frown directed at her eldest daughter, Chirenya was undeterred. “We are not leaving, not while Amiol is ill, and maybe not even were he well. This is our home and I will not retreat from it. If these assassins show up, I’ll be certain to send them in your general direction.” She waved her hand at Cyrus.

“I wish to see Father,” Vara said.

“He’s upstairs,” Chirenya said. “I will take you to him, if your sister will consent to watching the barbarian to make certain he doesn’t steal any of my fine silverware.” She lowered her voice as if she were speaking confidentially. “His kind don’t use utensils to eat, so they’re quite the novelty—”

“Mother,” Vara snapped.

“Oh, yes, very well,” Chirenya said with feigned exasperation before looking back to Cyrus. “Do not touch anything. That smell of yours, it gets on everything and you can’t get it out, no matter how hard you scrub…”

“Or how hard your maid does, at least,” Isabelle said.

Cyrus turned to Isabelle. “How close are your people?”

She smiled. “Seconds away if anyone comes to the door. They only let you two in alive because I allowed it.”

“Good.” He looked to Vara. “I’m going across the street to talk with our people. I’ll send Thad and a few others to loiter in the street while I’m gone.”

“Oh, dear, that’s certain to depress the property values,” Chirenya muttered.

Vara rolled her eyes. “I’ll come to you once I’ve seen Father.”

“It would certainly be quieter than me coming back here.” Cyrus looked at Chirenya as he spoke.

“But much less witty.” Chirenya leaned against the wall. “It’s no wonder you girls feel the need to engage in all these foolish invasions and conquests,” she told Vara as her daughters followed her around the corner. “There’s no one around to challenge your wits…”

Seething, Cyrus walked to the door, pausing in the hallway to take his gauntlet off and rub his sweaty hand along the frame of a painting of a meadow. “Enjoy the smell of that, hag,” he muttered so low that it was almost inaudible.

“I heard that,” came the shrill voice as he walked out the door. “Keep your hands off my things!”

Cyrus let the door almost close before he replied. “Yes, Mother.”

Chapter 14

Cyrus strolled across the street, still steaming. He nodded at Thad and chucked a thumb at the street behind him. The warrior signaled to two other Sanctuary guildmates, who stood up from the steps and followed him into the street as Cy passed them. He walked up the steps as the door swung wide, revealing Vaste, his green skin flushed and an exaggerated grin on his face, displaying his large canines.

“Hihi!” the troll said with over-the-top friendliness. “You must be our new neighbor.”

“I am,” Cyrus said, “and it looks like I’m going to be in the neighborhood for quite some time.”

“Damn. I hate this place.”

“Who’s at the door?” J’anda’s head peeked around the corner of a nearby wall, no illusion hiding his dark elven heritage. “Oh, it’s you. I take it you met Vara’s mother?”

“I did,” Cyrus confirmed.

“And?” The enchanter looked at him with a half-smile, expectant.

“She’s a real peach. One laced with arsenic, but still…a peach.”

“Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, eh?” J’anda’s half-smile had turned into a smirk.

“Can you assholes stop talking in fruit metaphors?” Vaste’s brow was furrowed in annoyance. “You’re making me crave pie.”

“Seen anything unusual since you’ve been here?” Cyrus looked past J’anda into the room. A half dozen bedrolls were spread out on the floor, and in front of the window stood two members of Sanctuary, watching the street.

“Other than catching a glimpse of Vara’s mother changing her clothes, no,” Vaste replied.

“Yeesh,” Cyrus replied with a cringe.

“It’s okay,” the troll said. “She may be a few millenia old, but she’s still well put together.”

“Don’t…ever…tell Vara what you just told me.”

“Do I look stupid to you?” Vaste stared down at Cyrus. “I have no desire to stick my head into that barrel of flaming oil.” The troll sauntered over to a sofa and lowered himself onto it. “But isn’t it reassuring that if ever you break through Vara’s icy facade, even when you’re old and falling apart, she’ll still look as stunning and frightening as she does today? Hells, she’ll look like that long after you’re dead.”

“Thanks for the morbid thought,” Cyrus sent a sour look at the healer. “But I’m not interested in—” He halted mid-sentence, catching a look shared between the troll and the dark elf.

“Sure you’re not,” J’anda said without conviction.

“Tell me,” Vaste began with practiced neutrality, “when you lie to yourself like that, does it sound true in your head? I mean…do you often provide escort for hundreds of miles to people in need?”

“If there’s a threat of death, I would hope any of us would.” Cyrus buried the faint pang of guilt he felt at lying.

“I see,” Vaste said with a nod. “And the fact that you’ve been in mad love with her for two years had no influence on your decision to go?”

“I’m not here to talk about my feelings.” Annoyance welled up in Cyrus. “Vara’s father is ill and her mother is refusing to leave town.” He rubbed his nose. “I have my doubts that she’ll want to leave, knowing her mother won’t go.”

J’anda’s eyebrows rose, alarm written on his soft features. “You need to convince her; staying here is suicide.”

Cyrus looked across the room at the enchanter. “You’ve had experience convincing Vara to change her mind?”

“This is not a good place to stand against assassins making a bid to kill her.”

“He’s right,” Vaste said. “We’re too exposed.”

“I’m not so sure,” Cyrus said. “Endeavor has taken over the houses on either side and the one out back; I don’t think you could get much safer than that.”

“Agreed, but this is not a good spot for a fight,” J’anda said with a shrug. “They could come from either direction on the street or through the yards in back—”

“Or they could drop down from a Gryphon,” Cyrus added with a disinterest born of fatigue, “smash into the basement with a rock giant…”

J’anda and Vaste exchanged another look. “We, uh,” the troll began, “hadn’t even thought of most of those.”

“Let’s hope the Hand of Fear shares your lack of imagination.”

“Maybe we’ve wiped them all out?” Vaste said with a note of hope. “Or done such damage to their numbers that they won’t be able to mount an attack?”

Cyrus sighed. “I’m not going to operate from that assumption—I mean, they had a half dozen assassins in a village in the middle of nowhere in the southern plains, on the chance that we were going to pass through on the way to Termina.” He shook his head. “No…more likely, they’ll come tonight, under cover of darkness, because if they’re watching, they know Vara is here now.”

J’anda’s eyes darted to look out at the street. “How do you think they’ll do it?”

“Hard to say.” Cyrus put his hands behind his head and leaned back. “You need to be ready to storm the house on a moment’s notice.”

“My mother will love that,” Vara’s voice came from the entryway.

Isabelle appeared at her side, glanced around the room and looked to Cyrus with a quizzical expression. “I don’t mean to criticize, but don’t you have more than two people?”

“We’re so good, there’s no point in having more,” Vaste said.

Cyrus leaned back into the padding of the couch. “How’s your father?”

“Sleeping. I’ll speak to him when he wakes up.” Vara looked around the living room. “We should probably be heading back; Isabelle just wanted to see our operation.”

“I have seen it, and I pronounce it very satisfactory,” Isabelle said. “If there is an attack, I have faith that you’ll all distinguish yourselves brilliantly, just as you have in building Sanctuary’s exemplary reputation over the last few years.” Warmth oozed out of her every word, Cyrus reflected, amazed at the contrast between her and her sister and their respective abilities to put people at ease or discomfort.

“Wow, you’re inspiring,” Vaste said. “Can we trade Vara to Endeavor in exchange for you?” Ignoring the paladin’s withering glare, he went on. “She hasn’t said anything that nice to me in…uh…ever.”

“Nor do I plan to,” Vara said with a glance toward Cyrus. “Come on then. We’re leaving.”

Cyrus continued to sit on the couch until her words sunk in. “Wait, me?”

Vara let out a deep sigh. “Yes, you. Mother has consented to letting you stay with us for added protection.”

“What heinous sin did I commit to deserve that?” Cyrus looked at her. “Listen, why don’t you stay over here at night, away from your parents—and especially your mother. It’ll be easier to protect you and you’ll be able to go over there during the day with ease.”

“Because I refuse to sleep in a common room with a group of men.”

“This house has bedrooms,” J’anda said. “You could have your own.”

“I will not leave my parents unattended,” she said, then turned to Cyrus. “Decide quickly if you’re going to come with me.”

He wrenched himself off the couch, leaving a deep imprint in several places from the edges of his armor. “I’m coming.”

She nodded. “Very well. With myself, you and Isabelle, we should be able to hold off any assassins until reinforcements are able to reach us.”

“Don’t forget Mother,” Isabelle said. “I sense that she misses being able to cast a fireball and hurl it at people.”

“That explains a lot,” Cyrus said, following Vara as she turned to leave. With a wave, Isabelle departed.

“Sleep tight!” Vaste called after Cyrus. “Don’t let the vicious she-elves bite! Well, maybe one of them.”

As he stepped back outside he almost bumped into Vara, who was waiting for him on the stoop. “You’ll be sleeping in my room,” she informed him.

He nodded. “All right.”

“On the floor. I don’t think I need to mention this,” she said after a moment’s hesitation, “but nothing will be happening between the two of us.”

Cyrus felt his cheeks redden as he looked past Vara at Isabelle, who averted her eyes. “We’ve been on the road together for days, sleeping in close proximity. I think I can handle it without getting inappropriate.”

“Yes, well…” Vara said, somewhat stiffly. “There’s a vast difference between sharing a camp, sharing a room, and sharing a bed, and I don’t want for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”

“I get it.” Cyrus’s cheeks burned and he chanced to look at Isabelle again. Hers were also flushed, and she seemed to be studying the texture of the sidewalk. “I will conduct myself as a perfect gentleman.”

“I am certain you will,” she replied, turning away from him.

You can tell she was uncomfortable with that, he thought, because she didn’t say, “For once.”

“I doubt I’ll do much resting anyway.” He fell in line behind Vara. “They’ll be coming tonight.”

“We’ve come to the same conclusion,” Isabelle said. “If these bastards are as bad as you’ve said, they’ll have someone watching, and they’ll have seen Vara by now, which makes it unlikely that they’ll hesitate. I have most of my people sleeping now in preparation. We suspect they’ll hit around midnight, hoping everyone will have gone to bed.”

“I would have guessed after sundown,” Cyrus replied. “But it could be any time. It’s not like they’ve been reticent about attacking in the middle of the day.”

“Regardless,” Vara said, turning to face them as she reached the front steps of the house, “this fight will be different. My parents are to be protected at all costs. I will not have them be killed or used as leverage against me.” Her jaw was set. “If these assassins are coming tonight, we face them, we kill them—then we get Father well and get the hell out of here.”

Chapter 15

Night fell as if it were the slow drip of dark coffee filtering into a mug, Cyrus thought as he peeked once more out of a second story window onto the street below. Lamps were lit every hundred feet and in the dim light he could see Thad and a handful of others from both Sanctuary and Endeavor lingering on the stones below.

Replacing the curtain, he turned to look around the sitting room. The house was three floors and a cellar; Vara’s parents had their bedroom on the top floor, Vara and Isabelle were housed on the second floor, along with a generous living space and bathrooms with running water.

Vara sat behind him, eyes looking toward the stairwell leading up to the third floor. Isabelle sat opposite her, legs crossed, leaning back, eyes closed in deep thought. Cyrus’s gaze lingered on her; the healer’s traditional white robes were tighter than those worn by Curatio or Vaste and much more flattering. Isabelle was fit, like her younger sister, but her hair was worn loose around the shoulders. In human years, she and Vara looked to be of comparable ages though in fact he knew Isabelle was almost two centuries the elder.

His eyes came to rest on the hem of her robes, then the well-stitched and elegant leather boots she wore that carried not a speck of mud. He brought his gaze back up to find her looking back at him, a sly smile draped across her lips. “We do look quite a bit alike, don’t we? I mean, excepting the differing attire.”

“What?” Vara’s head snapped up.

“Somewhat,” Cyrus said, recovering quickly from being caught looking. “But you’ve got a much more mischievous air about you, more relaxed and less…”

“Tense?” Isabelle looked to her sister. “She’ll calm down in a hundred years or so.”

“I am not tense,” Vara said. “Well, perhaps now I am, seeing as there are people trying to kill me, but on a normal day—”

“You’re tense, little sister. I could place my stave in the crack between your butt cheeks and it would snap in two, that’s how stiff you are. And it’s not a recent problem.”

“You do seem a bit tense, dear,” Chirenya’s voice came from the stairs as she descended from the floor above. “Perhaps your ox isn’t doing his job properly; you’re supposed to be more tranquil afterward.”

“I’m just here to protect her,” Cyrus said.

“Oh, yes, and I’m the younger sister of these two, not their mother,” Chirenya breezed as she continued down the stairs to the first floor.

Vara returned to her watch of the stairs, lost in thought. Isabelle stared around, languid.

“Did you come here from Reikonos?” Cyrus caught the healer’s gaze.

She nodded. “Why?”

“I was wondering how the war was going.”

“I suppose you haven’t heard all the latest, being on the run as you were.”

“Didn’t always hear it before that; most of what we heard was about the dark elf movements against the southwest part of the Confederation. I have no idea what’s happening around Reikonos, in the north or the Riverlands.”

Isabelle stared back at him, cool. “What have you heard?”

Cyrus took a deep breath. “Prehorta got sacked, hard. Survivors said most of the townsfolk fled long before the dark elves got there, but they burned everything and left a garrison force to block trade with the Confederation from the southern Plains of Perdamun. Haven’t heard anything since then.”

Isabelle took in a deep breath. “It’s not been pretty. Since then that particular dark elf army—somewhere in the neighborhood of 100,000 strong—has moved to Idiarna and sacked it.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Vara. “That’s the biggest town between Prehorta and Santir.”

“Yes. It would seem the dark elves mean to cut off the Confederation from the southern plains.”

“They haven’t come for Reikonos yet?”

“No.” She shook her head. “The Confederation army has held a firm line against any advances north of the Waking Woods and the dark elves haven’t bothered to drive east to the Riverlands or sneak past Lake Magnus to hit the Northlands yet. They’ve focused everything on the southwest; on cutting off the Plains of Perdamun.”

“Seems an odd choice,” Chirenya’s voice came from the stairs again. In her hands was a plate of meats and cheeses, which she carried over and sat on the table between Vara and Isabelle. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to throw everything they have at their enemy capital and knock them flat? Without Reikonos, the Human Confederation becomes a bunch of squabbling little provinces that lack any coordinated ability to fight back.”

“I think that is the plan,” Isabelle said. “But rather than try to hammer through the defenses around the city—which are considerable—the dark elves have chosen a roundabout way. Perhaps they don’t wish to lose all the forces they’d have to commit to a direct assault of the capital, or perhaps they hope to force the humans into a surrender without ever laying siege to Reikonos. Whatever the case, cutting them off from the southern plains is brilliant; at least half the capital’s grain supply comes from there with the other half coming from the Riverlands.”

“Starve them out, eh?” Chirenya’s voice was laced with disdain. “Reminds me all too much of the last war.”

Cyrus looked at her face, mottled with a simmering resentment. “How did that go?”

“We won, of course,” she said, not bothering to look at him. “But it was a brutal war, and the dark elves never go about anything directly. They didn’t come at Pharesia then, either—of course they were more spread out back then; they had cities and towns all throughout the southern plains and the Waking Woods, even in places as far flung as what you humans now claim in the Northlands and Riverlands. They had more to defend than they do now.”

Cyrus furrowed his brow. “If they had all these settlements, what happened to them?”

“Abandoned after the last war,” Isabelle replied. “In a great wave, the dark elves retreated from everything, claimed their borders encompassed the Waking Woods and retreated into the depths of Saekaj Sovar. It’s only been in the last twenty years or so that they’ve started to emerge again.” She chuckled. “For a time, if you saw a dark elf anywhere, it was a rare sight.”

“But before the war started—this one, I mean,” Cyrus said, “there were enormous numbers of dark elves in Reikonos. We have many in Sanctuary—”

“Indeed, we have some here in Termina and I’ve heard there are even a few in Pharesia,” Chirenya said. “As Isabelle says, all fairly recent. Well, at least on the timescale of an elven life,” she said, her final words carrying an edge aimed at him. “I suppose you were just a child when they began to reemerge into the world in numbers.”

“So was I, Mother,” Vara said.

“Yeah, she’s only older than me by a year,” Cyrus said.

“And more mature by only a millennium.” Vara’s impassive face cracked as she looked sidelong at him.

“Regardless, it’s an ugly thing, what’s happening to the humans,” Chirenya said with a sniff. “Though I suppose if your government hadn’t been quite so arrogant in sending their forces into the plains, it wouldn’t have happened.” Cyrus bristled, but bit back his first response—that the elven kingdom had an army present when the war began. “I’m just glad that the King recognizes that it’s in no one’s interest if the dark elves win the war with your people.”

So irritated was Cyrus that it took him a moment to realize what she’d said. “The King recognizes that? How so?”

“Oh, hadn’t you heard?” Chirenya spoke with the satisfaction of someone sharing forbidden knowledge. “It’s on the lips of everyone in the city. The rumor is, the Kingdom has been selling all sorts of weaponry and food to the humans at very discounted prices that are supposedly financed out of the Kingdom’s treasury. They’re shipping them up the Perda and along the coast to Reikonos.”

Vara was the first to speak. “Let us hope that the dark elves do not consider that an act of war.”

“They may consider it whatever they like,” Chirenya said. “If they try to begin a war with us they’ll be beaten back and taught a lesson for their arrogance.”

Vara stood. “That’s all the time I have for bravado today. I believe I’ll retire to my room.” She shot a look at Cyrus. “Coming?”

He nodded to her and followed, prompting Chirenya to let out a self-satisfied guffaw. “Do try to take your time, ox; it will take all you have to relieve the tension she’s building now. And don’t forget your ventra’maq!”

Vara opened the door to her room, bristling. Cyrus followed and shut the door as the paladin collapsed face first on the bed. She turned her head to look back at him and he could see a tiredness on her fine features. “You may not remember much about your mother, but I daresay you’ll never forget mine.”

Cyrus did not respond, and after a moment she rolled over, her cheeks flushed. “I apologize. That was…unkind.”

He walked to the window, brushing the curtain aside to look onto the darkened street. “You didn’t speak any untruths. I don’t remember my mother.”

“That doesn’t mean I was right to say it.”

He looked back at her. “What she said…don’t forget your ‘ventra’maq’? It sounds familiar.”

Vara buried her face in the pillow and her reply came back too muffled for him to hear.

He stared at her, in full armor, sunk into the bed as though she were a pouting teenager. “What did you say?”

Pulling her face out of the pillow, she turned back to him, her cheeks red. “Ventra’maq is a potion, mixed by an alchemist.” Her face got redder as she spoke. “It’s used by women who wish to avoid pregnancy.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “You really are a bit of a naif, aren’t you?”

He turned away. “I remember where I’ve heard of it; my wife used to take ventra’maq.”

“Ah, yes, your elusive wife.” She curled up on the bed. “I have wondered…divorce or…” Her words were soft, and drifted off mid-sentence.

“Divorce. A few years before I joined Sanctuary.”

“I see,” she said, staring off into space. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you were married at some point, commanding physical specimen such as you are.”

“What about you? Were you ever married?”

“Close, once,” she admitted after a pause. “But it ended…rather badly.” Her gaze softened. “How is your arm?”

He grimaced, reminded of the ache in his shoulder. “Better. Still hurts, but not enough to slow me down.”

“Take off your armor,” she commanded. “Curatio gave me a salve to apply to your wound. There’s nothing magical about it, but it should aid the natural healing process.” She turned and retrieved a small tin from the saddlebag she had left atop the nearby vanity.

“We’re under threat of attack,” he said. “Even ignoring the insinuations your mother just made, this is not the best time.”

“I always ignore the insinuations my mother makes—and it’s the time we have.” She strode back to him. “Would you enjoy an infection? Perhaps you prefer to be bedridden for a month? Lose your arm?”

Grumbling, he slid the pauldrons over his head after removing his helmet and gorget. With her aid, he unfastened his breastplate and backplate and slipped the chainmail over his head. He stared at the spot where the assassin’s dagger had broken the links.

“You should invest some of your growing fortune in stronger chainmail,” she said as she steered him to a chair in the corner of the room. “Sit,” she commanded as she walked behind him.

He complied. “There’s no chainmail I’ve ever seen that can perfectly protect you from harm.” He felt the cool sensation of the salve running across his skin, spread by her fingers, and let out an inadvertent gasp of surprise.

He looked up at her and she grinned. “Does that hurt you in some way?” Mischief caused her eyes to dance.

“No,” he replied. “But your hands are cold.” He shuddered from some combination of pain, chill and pleasure as her fingers rubbed the shoulder that had been in agony only a few hours before. She kneaded the tender muscle as she applied a healthy dollop of the salve, massaging the tender lip of skin where the assassin’s dagger had pierced his flesh. He groaned as she applied pressure to an area that had not received healing thanks to the black lace. “Now that spot—that hurts.”

“Tell me something.” Her words were calm and soothing, like the ointment she was applying. “You’ve now trekked hundreds of miles out of your way, putting yourself in the path of countless dangers on my behalf…” She hesitated.

His eyes were closed, and he felt her hands working through painful areas of his shoulder and upper chest. He grunted in discomfort as her fingers moved from relieving tension to stabbing at an unhealed section. “Yes?”

The pressure on his shoulder stopped and he heard the rustle of her armor move beside the chair as she knelt next to him, looking up, her blue eyes wide. “Why?” She continued to stare at him, her eyes fixed on his. “What are you fighting for?”

Cyrus licked his lips. The searing sensation of the salve had worn off and suddenly he felt cold and hot at the same time. He stared back at her, into the eyes of the blond-haired paladin, and saw something beyond the usual intensity there, a hope that he both knew and feared, one that reminded him of the night that J’anda had shown him through magic what he desired in the deepest well of his heart.

“I…”

He started to speak, then stopped. Her hand was on the metal of his greaves, resting on his thigh, sending a thrill through him even though he could feel but a little of the weight. He searched for the words again, and halted, still struck by her eyes. I need to tell her, he thought. I’ve needed to tell her for years, and this is it…

He felt a very slight tremor, and wondered if his legs were shaking. “I…what?” Vara had stiffened, her eyes darting around. “What is it?”

She stood and brushed passed the bed, tossing his breastplate to him on her way to the door. She unlocked and opened it as Isabelle appeared on the other side. “Did you hear?” The healer was breathless.

“Yes. The cellar?” Vara tossed another look at Cyrus, who was sitting in the chair, barechested as Isabelle looked around the doorjamb at him. “Come on, get dressed.”

“Why?” He fumbled with his chainmail, struggling to slide it on.

“Because,” Vara said. “They’re here.”

Chapter 16

“What?” Cyrus asked. “How did they get in the cellar?” Having looked around earlier in the day, he had found it to be empty, with no windows and no way in or out save for the staircase.

“Did you not hear that explosion?” Isabelle asked. “It shook the building.”

Cyrus stood as he began to fasten his breastplate. “I felt…a tremor.” He looked at Vara, mortified. “I thought it was me.”

She ignored him. “Isabelle, did you get Mother—”

“Upstairs,” Isabelle said. “We need to signal your people and mine—”

Cyrus turned and grabbed the chair that he had been sitting in. Raising it above his head, he heaved it at the window, where it ripped the curtain from the wall and broke the glass, flying onto the street, shattering the calm of the evening.

From a few stories below Cyrus heard shouts of “Alarum!” and turned back to Vara, who was looking at him with annoyance.

“You could have just opened the window and shouted for help.”

He shrugged as he brushed past her, drawing his sword. “This was faster.”

“What was that?” Chirenya’s voice rang down the stairwell as Cyrus led Vara and Isabelle into the sitting room. “Ox, did you just destroy my home?”

“Only part of it. More to come.”

“Mother, get back in your bedroom and lock the door!” Vara shouted. “They’re coming!”

“Oh, all right!” Chirenya’s voice was fraught with tension. “But tell your ox that he’ll be paying for any of my possessions that he destroys!”

Cyrus stared at the landing below, watching for movement. He waited, focused until a flash running up the steps caught his eye just as a crash of breaking glass came from behind him on the second floor, followed by the sound of the door to the street splintering below.

He turned to see a half dozen black-clad bodies sliding in the windows behind him. Screaming could be heard on the floor above and Cyrus watched Vara rush the stairwell as the first of the assassins reached their floor from below. She lashed out with her sword, a massive, two-handed blade, raking it across the chest of the first assassin, causing him to fall backward and knock down the two that followed him.

Without waiting to see what happened next, Vara ran up the steps, Isabelle at her heels, sword thumping against the railing all the way up. Cyrus shot a quick look at the assassins piling up on the landing, shouts coming from below, and then glanced back to the ones that had broken through the second floor window and were advancing on him. With a muttered curse he turned and sprinted up the stairs, listening as havoc filled the house.

His metal boots clanked on every step. He flew up the stairs and burst through the bedroom door to find a bizarre sight.

The entire third floor was a large bedroom with windows that faced the street. Vara’s father lay on the bed, unconscious, blankets tucked around his body. Vara and Isabelle stood in front of him, eyes fixed on the space on the other side of the bed. An orange, flickering light filled the room.

Chirenya was holding five assassins at bay in the open space between the bed and the windows. Her hands clutched a smooth black staff with a red crystal mounted at the top. The elven woman’s blond hair was tucked behind her ears. With her back turned, Cyrus could not see her face, but as she gripped the staff it vomited bursts of fire, spheres of blazing flame spewing forth every half second, each flying with unfaltering speed at its target.

Five assassins had broken through the windows, all dressed in black attire with a cowl and mask to hide their features; something similar in spirit but far different in look than the assassins Cyrus had encountered thus far.

And every single one of them was screaming and on fire.

Cyrus stared at the spectacle of a lone elven woman defeating five skilled killers, then remembered that they were far from the only threats. He turned back to the door with a shout to Vara and Isabelle. “Coming up the stairs!” He positioned himself against the wall next to the door.

He led with Praelior, swinging as a blur of black came through the doorframe, his stroke catching the first assassin across the neck. The body dropped to the floor as the next entered, tripping on the corpse. With a step forward, Vara jabbed her sword through the second elf’s back, causing him to writhe and then go still.

Cyrus moved to block the door but something exploded in front of him, knocking him aside. Smoke filled his eyes and lungs and he began to cough as he fell to the ground. Tears beaded up at the corners of his eyes and he felt a burning as he tried to blink away the smoky heat. Something whipped through the air above him and he heard a cry of pain, even as he crawled on his hands and knees away from the sounds of battle behind him.

His shoulder bumped something heavy and yet soft. The bed, he thought, grasping at the edge and using it to lever himself up, still unable to see through the pain in his eyes. With a tingle, he felt a healing spell run over his face and the tears stopped.

Blinking away the wetness, he rose and saw Isabelle at the edge of a cloud of smoke, her hand extended to him. An assassin appeared from behind her but before Cyrus could shout a warning she turned and a light flashed from her hand, bright enough to blot out the entire room in a blast of white. After it faded, Cyrus blinked and saw Isabelle with a dagger in her hand and the assassin in her grip. The knife came down on his neck again and again, and her white robes were sprinkled with red.

Where’s Vara? Out of the cloud of smoke came a whirlwind of activity. Vara stumbled back, appearing at the edge of the billow, an assassin following. She was coughing, her sword extended with one hand while the other covered her mouth. The assassin raised his hands to strike a killing blow and before Cyrus could cross the distance between them, a tinkle of glass came from behind him while something whipped through the air, causing the assassin’s head to jerk. An arrow rested in his eye, and the elf tried to speak but nothing came out as his body twitched and succumbed to gravity.

The cloud of smoke had begun to clear and assassins were pouring through the door. Cyrus moved to engage them, positioning himself between them and Vara. He could see Isabelle in the corner of his eye, her dagger extended with one hand while she cast a healing spell on her sister with the other.

Cyrus watched two assassins move to strike him. He blocked the one closest with a careful stroke of his sword, but left himself exposed to the other while he did it. The second came at him with a gurkha; a medium sized blade the length of Cyrus’s forearm, the point dripping with a liquid that gleamed in the low light. He raised his right hand to block with the metal of his gauntlet and braced himself for the blow.

Another sound of air rushing heralded the arrival of another arrow, this one coming to rest in the assassin’s ear. A strangled screech was cut short and he toppled toward the bed as Cyrus pressed the attack on the remaining assassin, who was joined by another arrival through the door.

Cyrus met the newest assassin with a sideways kick as he slashed at the other, keeping him on the defensive with Praelior’s longer reach. The clangor of battle on the floors below was an uncertain quantity; he had no idea who was winning or even who was fighting—whether it was the assassins, Endeavor, Sanctuary or all three.

With another hard kick, Cyrus sent the assassin in the door backward and over the edge of the stairs. A scream was followed by a crashing noise of flesh on wood and then the sound of something breaking. He turned back to the assassin he had engaged with his sword to find him within reach.

Cyrus braced himself for the inevitable pain as the assassin brought his dagger up in a stabbing motion, aimed at the gap at the bottom of his breastplate. Cyrus pulled Praelior back in a motion that would strike little more than a glancing blow against his opponent’s unguarded throat. Fortunately, with Praelior, a glancing blow would do all the damage necessary to end the fight. But will it be in time? The instinct and concept flashed in Cyrus’s mind more than the actual words.

A sword blow struck the elf just inches before he landed the dagger at Cyrus’s belly, knocking the assassin’s arm aside. Vara’s blade punched through the assassin’s stomach, turning the leering look of triumph into one of exquisite agony and surprise as her blade ran him through at the same time Cyrus’s slipped across his neck. A choked, gurgling sound made its way out of the elf’s mouth as he dropped to the ground.

A thundering clamor filled the air as another three assassins entered the room. Their blades were sharp and their steps quiet as they unfolded in a line along the wall toward Vara’s father, prompting the paladin to move toward the one closest, her sword rising. As she cut in front of him, Cyrus could see her porcelain face twist with fury.

Her hand came up and a cry of unholy rage left her lips as the assassin closest to her father raised his dagger over the sleeping figure. A concussive blast of force rocked the room as her spell flung the offender into the wall; Cyrus heard the elf’s skull crack, and he slid to the floor leaving a smear of blood down the wall.

Cyrus swept forward, bringing Praelior down in a crosswise swipe that knocked the assassin closest to the door’s dagger aside as it cut him from his right shoulder to left hip and sent him spinning to the ground.

Cyrus turned his attention to the last of the assassins and watched as a gout of flame engulfed him, wrenching a scream from his lips as another arrow whipped through the window and hit him in the chest, causing him to fall to the floor, still on fire.

“All clear!” came a shouted voice from the stairwell. Heavy footfalls on the steps ended as Thad entered, his sword in hand. “Everyone all right?”

Cyrus looked around the bedroom. Vara was leaning over her father, her hand on his cheek, whispering while Isabelle leaned against the wall behind Cyrus, taking labored breaths.

Chirenya, on the other hand, peered at the body still on fire on the floor before pointing her staff at it. The flames were drawn up in a whirlwind and reabsorbed back into the crystal that crowned her weapon. “I’m quite all right, but tell your friend with the bow across the way to stop putting these killers out of their misery before I’m done with them.” She indicated the bodies of the assassins that had come through the windows. Each of them had an arrow through their torsos, their skin charred and blackened where it had been exposed.

“That was my wife,” Thad said with a grunt. He raised his hand in a wave across the street. Cyrus turned, and in the third floor of the house where the Sanctuary force had been staying, a familiar elven face stared back at him, barely visible in the moonlight.

Cyrus looked back to the assassins that Chirenya had dealt with and frowned. “I thought there were five of them. I count three bodies.”

“Oh, yes,” Chirenya said. “Two of them jumped out the window; I presume they were of a mind to end their suffering before I intended it.”

J’anda appeared at the door, flanked by several warriors that Cyrus did not recognize. He shot a look at Isabelle, who nodded at him. Her skin, by its nature, was not as pale as Vara’s—but she was drawn, her mouth in a grim line, and her complexion was white.

“Isabelle…?” Cyrus said in a hushed voice.

“I’m all right,” she said, each word forced. Her robes, normally pure, still bore the stains of blood from her actions during the fight. Except, Cyrus noted, one of the spots at her side seemed to be growing. “I might,” she conceded as she began to slip down the wall, “need a little help…”

He rushed to her, catching her before she fell. Cyrus lowered her to the ground as a call went down the stairs from one of the members of Endeavor, a shout for help. She stared up, her eyes fixed on his.

“Vara,” he called out. He looked up to see Chirenya swoop down beside him.

“Isabelle,” Chirenya said with a lightness he would not have imagined possible. “Dear, why don’t you heal yourself?”

The healer’s expression was pained, her hand gripping her side. Cyrus pulled up her robes to find the flesh punctured where a kidney would be on a human. “Magic’s not working.” She tilted her head to look at Cyrus, every word struggling to get out. “Black lace?”

He nodded and looked to Chirenya. “I don’t suppose you have any rotweed?”

Chirenya looked back at him with a scowl. “I don’t know what that is, but I would never have anything that sounds that foul under my roof.” She looked around, surveying the damage. “At least until you and your kind showed up.”

“That,” Cyrus replied, keeping his voice even for the benefit of Isabelle, who was staring at him with glassy eyes, “is what we need to counteract the effects of what she’s been poisoned with.”

“Didn’t know these…assassins…were using it.” Isabelle spoke through gritted teeth. “Endeavor has bloody tons of it.” She looked down at her hand, clutching at her wound. “I would have brought some.”

“Fear not,” came a deep voice from the door, “I have quite a bit.” Thad parted the crowd of Endeavor guild members to make way for Vaste, who was wearing a heavy cloak to hide his troll features. As he slipped the cowl back to reveal his green skin and overlarge teeth, Chirenya recoiled, using her body to shield her daughter.

“I will not have some…troll!…work Vidara-knows-what kind of ministrations on my daughter!”

“Then she’ll die,” Vara said, her voice leaden, standing over Cyrus’s shoulder. “Then you’ll have only one disappointment to call your own.”

“He’s one of the best,” Cyrus said, before he realized that it might have been more effective to denounce Vaste to Chirenya in order to get her to take his advice. Before he could try and rectify his perceived error, the stately elf removed herself from her position covering her daughter.

“Very well,” Chirenya said, pulling herself to her feet. “Fail me not in this, troll, or I shall—”

“Threaten me until I burst into flames, I’m sure,” Vaste said, thrusting his cloak into the arms of J’anda as he knelt at Isabelle’s side. The troll’s long, elegant green fingers reached to his belt, where they fiddled with a small leather pouch. Pulling from them a pinch of ground leaf, he held it above Isabelle so she could see it.

“Yes, yes,” the elven healer said, her head bobbing against the floor. “I know how this works. Just do it already.”

“As you say.” Vaste pressed his hand to her side.

Cringing as he recalled the agony of this particular treatment, Cyrus looked away as Vaste placed his hand against her side. He felt Isabelle beneath him, felt the muscles of her shoulder tauten where he held onto her. A grunt of pain escaped her lips, but no more than that. A few seconds later, it was over.

“I’ve cast the healing spell,” Vaste said. “I suspect she’ll be able to heal herself going forward until the hour is up, but I’ll stay here just in case.” He turned to look at Chirenya, who was standing by the broken windows, staring out into the street.

“Hm?” She turned to look back at Vaste, her expression now haggard. “Yes, that will be fine, thank you.”

“Vara?” Cyrus called out to the paladin, who was sitting on the bed next to her father. Her hands were holding his, but her eyes were closed as if she had fallen asleep sitting up. “We need to leave. This place is not safe.”

“Not safe?” Thad looked around in wonder. “We just routed at least thirty assassins.”

“How did they get in?” Cyrus looked to Thad, who shrugged.

“Most came from the cellar,” J’anda spoke up from the door. “There’s a hole into the house next door.”

Cyrus wheeled around, turning to Isabelle. “I thought your people garrisoned the houses on either side?” She looked back at him, drained, but a look of puzzlement on her face.

“The assassins killed all the members of Endeavor in that house an hour or more ago, before they began the operation,” J’anda replied. “There’s twenty or thirty bodies over there. Most of them died in their sleep. The assassins must have figured trying to approach on the street or the backyard was too problematic, since we were watching this house, but…”

“No one was protecting the protectors,” Vaste said with a hint of irony. “So the assassins managed to wipe out a significant force from one of the most powerful guilds in Arkaria without raising an alarm.” The troll shook his large head. “That’s quite an accomplishment. These are no amateurs we’re facing.”

“Vara,” Cyrus spoke again, approaching the paladin from behind. He laid a mailed fist on her shoulder, as gentle as he could. “We need to leave. It’s not safe. We need to get your parents out of here.” He looked up to see Chirenya staring at him, expression blank.

“No,” came a choked voice that he didn’t even recognize. Vara looked up at him, and a righteous anger lit her features and caused him to take a step back. “My father is dying, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take him from his home for whatever time he has left.” Her jaw was set, her face steel. “We stay. To the end.”

Chapter 17

Cyrus watched her huddle close to her father, who was still unmoving. Whispers from the doorway caught his attention and a quick survey of the room revealed Chirenya now staring out the broken windows while Isabelle was still lying down, Vaste at her side.

“The Termina guard has arrived,” Chirenya said, her voice devoid of any emotion. Turning from the shattered glass, she looked to Cyrus. “Someone should speak to them. They don’t look kindly on battles in the streets.”

“Good thing we kept it in the house then,” Vaste said.

“I’ll go.” Cyrus felt numbness spread through him as he cast a final look at Vara. Her head lay against her father’s, her face buried in his cheek. He shot a look at Thad as he moved toward the stairs. “Keep an eye on her. In case anything happens, get her out of here.”

The human warrior bowed his head in a show of respect. “Will do.”

Cyrus brushed past the Endeavor members who stood guard at the entrance to the room, cramming the staircase with their bulky frames. All were roughly his size or larger; warriors, paladins, and even the occasional dark knight. He pondered the differential between them and the warriors he trained in Sanctuary—on average they were a foot shorter in height and weighed considerably less.

Sanctuary’s rangers were miniscule by comparison—few of them were League trained and almost all were smaller by a considerable margin than those he saw from Endeavor. The frame that would pass for a warrior in Sanctuary was small for a ranger in Endeavor.

Every one of them moved aside as Cyrus descended, and upon reaching the first floor he found a half dozen members of Sanctuary lingering in the kitchen and living room. The more formal among them saluted him and he found a familiar face at the front entryway, talking to an elf in full armor.

“Andren,” Cyrus said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I was sleeping when you came over earlier,” the healer said with a nod. “Long watch the night before. This is Endrenshan Odellan—Endrenshan is roughly translated to Captain—of the Termina Guard.” He gestured to the armored elf, who bowed his head in acknowledgment. The elf, like most Cyrus encountered, was at least a foot shorter than he, with a unique helm that came to a point at the top, with winged ornamentation that extended beyond either side, giving his head a very different shape.

“Cyrus Davidon, of Sanctuary.” Cyrus reached out and grasped the extended hand of the guard captain. “Has my comrade apprised you of what happened here?”

“Just basics,” Andren replied, his long, dark hair curled below his neck. “About the Hand of Fear and how they’re after one of our guildmates.”

Cyrus turned his attention to Odellan. “They broke in through the cellar from the house next door, about thirty or so—”

Odellan cocked his head. “Has anyone checked on the people who lived next door, to see if they’re alive?”

Cyrus shook his head. “They weren’t there. Endeavor had paid the occupants of the house to stay elsewhere—”

The Captain’s eyes grew wide. “Endeavor was involved in this skirmish as well?”

“Aye,” Andren said with a sidelong smile at Cyrus. “The people who own this house, one of their daughters is with Sanctuary, the other with Endeavor.”

“The members of Endeavor that were in the house next door are dead,” Cyrus said to Odellan. “They also took over the house on the other side and the one in back, while we have the one across the street.” He pointed out the door. “Do you need the local constabulary here to take a statement of some kind from me?”

Odellan’s youthful face was lit with a gleam of mirth. “The Termina Guard is the local constabulary.” The Endrenshan’s short blond hair peeked out from under the lip of his helm, which outlined his face on the sides and forehead. He was possessed of a clean-shaven, ruggedly handsome kind of confidence, the type Cyrus had always associated with the elves.

“I thought you were the army?”

“Army and constabulary are the same in the Kingdom,” Odellan said. “We police the cities and defend the Kingdom where necessary.”

“One would think you’d never been here before,” Andren said.

“I haven’t—not to Termina, anyway,” Cyrus said.

“I’m familiar with this Hand of Fear group, in passing at least,” Odellan said. “We’ve got a few dead in the last weeks, all attributed to them.”

Cyrus’s curiosity was awakened. “How did you know it was them?”

“I take it you haven’t lost anyone to them yet?” Odellan’s eyebrow was raised.

“We have.” Cyrus felt a burning in his chest as he thought of Niamh, lively, giggling—and no more. “One of our guildmates, back at Sanctuary.”

“My condolences.” Odellan’s flat face reddened. “But you must have caught them before they had a chance to leave their mark. You said they killed the defenders you had set up in the house over there?” He pointed.

“Somehow they blasted through the cellars. I haven’t seen it yet—”

“Walk with me,” the guard captain said, already in motion. He led them onto the street, where four columns of elven soldiers stood in formation while a few others milled about outside the houses surrounding them.

The metalwork in Odellan’s armor revealed patterns on the chestplate rather than the flat metal appearance that Cyrus was used to. Odellan led them to the front door of the house where the members of Endeavor that had been killed were staying.

Odellan pushed open the door. Inside was a house laid out not much differently than Vara’s. The sitting room was filled with dead bodies. A few live members of Endeavor looked up as Cyrus entered with Odellan and Andren, but said nothing.

“The walls.” Odellan pointed. Cyrus looked past the corpse of a warrior, a trickle of blood running down the mouth of the burly dwarf, to see spots on the white walls. “For every victim, they do this,” Odellan said.

Cyrus looked at the spots. They appeared a deep brown by the light of the lamps. He knelt and realized they weren’t spots, but blood, placed on the wall in a hand print. Empty space stood out between the joints and in the center of the palm, stark patches of white interrupted by the dried blood. “A hand print to mark the Hand of Fear,” Cyrus said. “Cute.”

“Not really.” Odellan stared at the carnage. “We’ve seen a few murders with the hand prints on the wall. Pharesia gave us a warning that this was the Hand of Fear. I guess they caught one in the act, before he made his getaway.” Odellan’s hand fell to his sword, where it rested as he looked at the bodies surrounding them. “A counselor of the King was killed along with his whole household guard.”

Cyrus stood up. “What about in Termina? Who has the Hand of Fear been killing?”

“Mostly wealthy individuals. Usually a lot more well off than your guildmate; the kind that live in the mansions on Ilanar Hill. Half a dozen or so—been quite the rumor mill starting about why they’d be targeting them.”

“Seems like the people who own a house like that could spring for a personal guard,” Andren said.

“They did,” Odellan said. “Some of the best, in fact. We’re not just talking about rank and file warriors. These assassins cut through druids, healers, paladins—even one particularly unfortunate dark knight.”

Andren perked up. “I don’t like the sound of that. Why was the dark knight ‘particularly unfortunate’?

Odellan shrugged. “He must have given them a hard time; there wasn’t much left of him by the time we found them. They either made an example of him or worked out some frustration on his corpse.”

Cyrus squinted, counting the number of hand prints on the walls. “And you’re sure it’s them?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Odellan said. “Termina doesn’t get much in the way of murders; nor does the Kingdom as a whole. Our worship of the Goddess of Life gives our culture more of a respect for it; the idea of taking a life is beyond simple scorn or punishment, it’s anathema to our existence. The crime we deal with is larceny, fraud, smuggling, some bar fights and assaults.”

Cyrus thought of the alleyways of Reikonos, of the bad ones where no one went unless they were ready for a fight to the death over whatever was in their purse. “Sounds idyllic compared to the Confederation.”

“But fairly dull compared to what your guild does on a weekly basis,” Odellan said with a hint of enthusiasm animating his face. Cyrus watched the guard captain, who looked to be in his twenties by human standards. “So are you the Cyrus Davidon who led the invasion that dethroned the Imperials of Enterra?”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Andren, watching the elder elf roll his eyes. “I am.”

“I heard a rumor,” Odellan said, “that it was you and your guild who fought the Dragonlord in the Mountains of Nartanis.”

“We did,” Cyrus confirmed.

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,” the guard captain said, his detached calmness gone. “I have to ascertain that the person who owns this home is still alive and look around to make sure no one’s in distress.”

“Sure.” Cyrus pointed to the staircase. “Why don’t we take a look at the hole they made in the cellar and we’ll go up through to the house.”

They descended to find a cellar much like the one in Vara’s home. Dark, dank walls of stone surrounded an open space that had been used for storage. A few casks and crates were set against the walls and a half dozen bodies lay on the floor, bloody hand prints barely visible on the stone. A tremendous hole was blasted through one of the walls and a few members of Sanctuary and Endeavor were visible on the other side.

“What makes a hole like this?” Cyrus ran his finger along the rough edge. The wall was thick; the blocks used had been quarried to have smooth edges, but the hole was a jagged line all the way around the circle.

“Dragon’s breath,” Odellan said. Cyrus shot him a quizzical look and the guard captain chuckled. “Not that kind. It’s an alchemist’s creation, a powder, granules that you place inside a container with a string and you light it on fire and run. It explodes, leaving you with a mess like this.”

Cyrus thought back to the fight in Vara’s parents’ room, of one of the assassins throwing something into the room that exploded. “They used something in the fight; it was small, and it exploded, but it made a big cloud of smoke. Nothing like the damage they did here.”

“Sounds like they’ve got a few different tricks.” Odellan stepped through the hole in the wall and looked around from the other side. “So you all heard it upstairs?”

“I didn’t,” Cyrus said. “I did feel the building shake, but not enough to alarm me.”

“So your companions warned you that trouble was coming.” Odellan was speaking almost to himself. “Can we go meet them?”

Cyrus gestured to the staircase and Odellan fell into line behind him. They reached the third floor and once again the members of Endeavor that were guarding the door parted so that the three of them could pass.

When Cyrus entered the room, Vara was still sitting on the bed, but she looked much more composed. Her hands were now in her lap, eyes alert. Catching sight of him as he walked in, she let out a small sigh.

“This is Endrenshan Odellan,” Cyrus said by way of introduction. Odellan’s eyes fell on Vaste, who leaned next to the chair that Isabelle was sitting in, and the captain’s eyes widened in slight surprise.

“Pleased to make your acquiantance.” J’anda had cast an elven illusion, stepping forward to grasp the hand of the captain.

Odellan’s gaze was still fixed on Vaste. “I…can’t say I’ve ever met a troll that wore the mark of a healer before.”

“These old things?” Vaste looked down at his robes as if seeing them for the first time. “I took them off a chap I met in a dark alley…after I drained his blood, mutilated his body and danced naked around it for a bit.”

“And he jokes,” the Endrenshan said. He turned to Cyrus, almost plaintive. “Please tell me he’s joking.”

“Vaste is a healer, and yes, he has a somewhat warped sense of humor.”

From behind Cyrus came a soft cough, just loud enough to be distracting. Turning, he saw Chirenya regarding him with great irritation. “Endrenshan Odellan, this is Chirenya. She’s the owner of this home.”

The elven woman crossed the distance between them, extending her hand to the guard captain. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Endrenshan. I believe I know your commanding officer, Oliaryn Iraid.”

“That’s like ‘General’ to humans,” Andren whispered to Cyrus. “Probably in charge of the whole city.”

Chirenya looked daggers at the healer. “The whole province, in point of fact.” She turned her attention back to the captain. “I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances, such as the Officer’s Ball.”

“I am newly arrived from Pharesia, madam,” Odellan said with a courteous nod.

“Really?” Chirenya’s tone was of pleasant surprise, though Cyrus would have wagered every piece of gold he’d saved in the last few years that she already knew. “You must meet my daughters. This is Isabelle.” She gestured toward the chair, where the healer raised a hand in a halfhearted wave. “She was injured in the attack, poor dear.”

“So sorry to hear that, madam,” Odellan said with a bow to Isabelle, who managed a weak smile in return.

“I wasn’t injured at all, fortunately,” Vaste said with a straight face. “In case you were worried.”

“And my other daughter,” Chirenya said, drawing Odellan’s discomfited expression back to her, “Vara.”

Vara stood from her place on the bed to greet the Endrenshan, drawing a double take from the guard captain. “Pleased to meet you,” she said in a low, tired voice. Cyrus saw a slight laceration at her hairline, crimson streaking her normally yellow locks.

“Vara?” The captain’s voice tremored with question. “Are you…?”

“Yes,” Chirenya answered with a smile. “She is.”

Odellan leaned in closer to Chirenya and lowered his voice. “Do you think that…she…might be targeted by this…Hand of Fear…?”

“Because she’s the shelas’akur?” Cyrus said, louder than was necessary, startling both Chirenya and Odellan and causing both to look at him as though he had thrown something at them.

Odellan cleared his throat, a loud, uncomfortable noise, as the captain stooped to examine one of the bodies. Chirenya glared at Cyrus with an expression he recognized from Vara’s face. The paladin, for her part, seemed to be regarding the whole situation with much more indifference than was normal for her.

Endrenshan Odellan pulled the cowl of the dead assassin’s uniform back to look at the ears, running his finger up to the point. “Are all of these assassins elven?”

“All that we’ve seen thus far,” J’anda answered. “I did a cursory look at the bodies downstairs and there don’t seem to be any non-elves.”

“I wish I could question one of them,” Odellan said, his fingers on his chin in contemplation.

Behind the Endrenshan, Cyrus watched Vaste begin to speak under his breath, lips moving as the faint glow of magical energy gathered on his hands. It built to a crescendo, a stunning burst of light that cast the room in brightness. The troll blinked as he finished and nodded when Odellan turned to him in surprise. “Wish granted,” he said.

Odellan’s brow furrowed, uncertain. “What? AHHHH!” With a start, the guard captain jumped back as the body he had been inspecting jerked to life and grabbed his leg.

“There you go,” Vaste said with a grunt of amusement. “Question away.”

“Heal me…please…” The assassin’s voice was a whisper, blood spurting from his lips.

“Looks like a lung wound,” Vaste said, craning his neck to see from where he was sitting on the floor. “Painful.”

Odellan looked in shock at the troll. “Aren’t you…going to heal him?”

“After all the trouble we went to putting the holes in him, I don’t think I’ll patch them up. Besides,” Vaste said, “if you interrogate him now, he’ll be more apt to answer your questions.”

“He’s bleeding all over my floor,” Chirenya said.

“Please,” came the strangled voice of the assassin. “It hurts…”

“You stormed into this house intending to do violence to its occupants,” Vaste said from the corner. “Did you not take into account the possibility that they might return the favor?”

Odellan cast a withering glare at Vaste, then knelt next to the assassin. “Who are you?”

The assassin’s lips curled into a pained smile, blood dribbling down his chin. “I have no name. I am a Hand of Fear.”

“So, more of a title then.” Vaste nodded. “And a dumb one at that.”

Cyrus held up his hand to Vaste. “Who is your leader?”

The dull eyes of the assassin met his, and from their exchange Cyrus looked away first; the assassin’s brown eyes were soulless. “Our leader?” He coughed, bringing up more blood. “His word is death.” Cyrus looked back to find the assassin fixated on Vara, who was meeting his gaze unflinching. “Yours. Your family’s. And everyone who aids you.”

“You’re not in a good position to be making threats,” Odellan said.

“Kill me; kill all of these.” The assassin tried to wave around the room to his fallen brethren, but his hand flopped. “More will come. We will pursue you to the ends of Arkaria.” The eyes glowed, still locked on Vara’s. “Until the ends of time. We will watch and learn, and our next attack will be more powerful still.” He coughed again and a geyser of blood flooded from his lips. “If necessary, we will kill everyone you love, one by one, to get to you. Just like we did with—”

The bloody smile on the assassin’s face was frozen as a ‘WHUMP!’ broke the silence in the room. Odellan jumped back, a two-handed sword sticking out of the taunting elf’s chest. Vara had drawn her blade and struck so quickly that no one had seen, let alone been able to stop her. She raised it again, and with a cry of rage brought it down and split the assassin’s head from his shoulders.

A cool indifference played across her face, broken by a twitch of emotion, then another. Her perfect mask cracked, and one hand flew to her face, trying to cover it as she stood by herself amidst all of them. Cyrus watched and behind her hands he caught glimpses of her facade breaking.

“Out!” Chirenya’s words were frantic, hurried, as she went to her daughter’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone out!” She looked to Odellan. “My apologies, Endrenshan, but of course we’ll continue this some other time.”

He nodded. “Yes, madam. I’ll come calling tomorrow.” Bowing, he backed from the room as the members of Endeavor cleared the path for him, followed by J’anda, Thad and Andren.

Vaste followed after reassurances from Isabelle that she was fine. Still clutching her side, the healer moved to her sister’s other shoulder. Vara was deteriorating now, both hands before her face, a choked sob leaving her lips. He was alone in the room with the three of them and Vara’s father, still unmoving on the bed.

“You too.” Chirenya made a shooing gesture, crossing the distance between them and pushing him toward the door.

“It’s not safe,” Cyrus said, his protest weaker than he would have thought possible under the circumstances.

“I know you’ll stand watch outside the door,” she replied as she began to close it in his face. “Isabelle and I will handle this, as we always have. No one comes through that door. I know you’ll watch it all night.”

“I—” He didn’t finish before the door was shut. He stared at it, amazed it was still in place after the battle.

As the sun rose over the wreckage a few hours later, he reflected that Chirenya was right—he did not move until well after sunup.

Chapter 18

Isabelle emerged sometime in the late morning. She looked at Cyrus with surprise as she closed the door behind her; he caught a glimpse of Vara, asleep in a chair in the corner of the room. “I didn’t expect you to be out here all night,” she said. Warriors from Endeavor lined the stairwells and greeted her with enthusiasm until she gestured for them to quiet. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “How’s Vara?”

“She’ll be all right.” Isabelle flashed him a reassuring smile. “Vara doesn’t come apart like that very often so it’s all the worse when it happens.”

“No, she doesn’t show much emotion. Other than irritation.”

“Walk with me,” she said with a smile.

“Well…” He could feel the internal tension rising. He glanced at the door.

“My warriors will keep watch.” She started down the steps and paused, turning to look back at him. “Come on then.”

He followed as she strolled to the second floor. Having not seen it in the daylight, he paused, amazed at the damage. All the windows were broken and blood streaked the floors where the bodies were dragged out of the house during the night. There were holes in every wall, glass was scattered on the floor, couches were ripped, paintings knocked from the walls, and chairs overturned and smashed.

Isabelle moved closer to the window, looking into the house across the way. Several of its windows were also shattered. Cyrus caught sight of Martaina in one of them, her bow in her hand, watching. She nodded then returned to watching. The sound of ringing bells filled the streets. The tolling was constant, a melodic noise in the distance.

“You were fortunate to weather the attack with no casualties.” Isabelle turned to give him a reassuring smile, then moved closer to the windows to stare down at the street below. Cyrus followed her and was amazed; the columns of Termina guards remained below, still in formation. At its head, standing at attention, was Endrenshan Odellan. On the side of the road was a wagon piled with bodies; the remains of the members of the Hand of Fear, stacked one on top of the other.

“Luck was on the side of Sanctuary.” He bowed his head. “I’m sorry about the loss of your people.”

He watched her pale cheeks for any sign of rage, but there was none. “These assassins are dangerous when they catch you by surprise, but after facing the Hand of the Gods, the Hand of Fear doesn’t seem quite so frightening.”

“I suppose it was different for Endeavor when you went through the Trials of Purgatory, but…” Cyrus stared out. “The Hand of Fear has killed more of our people than the Gatekeeper or the Trials ever did.”

“We lost very few in conquering Purgatory,” she said, “as we had several members of Amarath’s Raiders advise us on how best to handle them.”

Cyrus racked his memory, trying to remember what Vara had told him about their conquest and the subsequent purge of their ranks. “They came to you after Archenous killed their guildmaster?”

She nodded and looked to him, eyebrow raised in mild surprise. “She told you about that?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I suppose I am. She rarely speaks of it to anyone. It’s a good sign that after Archenous’s betrayal, she’s beginning to trust another man enough that she can talk about it.”

Cyrus stiffened, sensing there was more to the story than Vara had told him and unsure of how to respond. “Well…when you’re…betrayed, as she was…one would tend to take it…personally.”

Isabelle laughed, a crackling noise lacking in any mirth. “I think you might be understating it, but yes, being betrayed by your first lover, a man who is to be your husband; being gutted and left alone to die in a place like Purgatory is the sort of thing most people would take personally.”

A cold winter wind ran between the buildings and Cyrus felt the temperature drop in his armor, something that had precious little to do with the weather. So that’s what happened.

Isabelle seemed to catch sight of something on his face that was unexpected. “She…didn’t tell you all of that, did she?” Her head dropped as a hand came up to her forehead, hiding her eyes from his sight. “Bollocks.”

Silence passed between them before Cyrus spoke. “Before that, was your sister…I mean, has she ever been…” He fought for the words, not sure how to ask the question on his mind.

Isabelle looked back at him, now impish. “Calm? Peaceful? Sweet?” She chuckled. “No, even before Archenous she was just as acerbic and more guarded than most.” The amusement left her eyes and she became cold in an instant, as if all her joy had been taken by a single memory. “But he made her untrusting and sapped the vibrancy from her.” Isabelle turned to him. “You have to realize that although to humans Vara is a woman, to elves she’s still a child; not even lived a half a year if she had the lifespan of your people.”

“That’s…” He blinked. “Staggering.”

“And yet she is a woman, mature—in spite of what our mother thinks—and able to make her own decisions.” Isabelle straightened, her chin pointing as she looked at the building across the street. “I daresay that Vara has had to deal with more at her age than most elves ever have to, because of who she is and what it means.”

“Because she’s the shelas’akur?”

Isabelle turned to look at him, curiosity filling her eyes while her face remained cool. “Do you know what that means?”

“Only in the literal sense,” Cyrus said. “‘Last hope’.”

The hint of a smile blossomed into a wry one. “You could have bluffed me. I might have believed she had told you.”

“Twice in a row?” He shook his head. “You knew better this time.”

“Probably, but I’m surprised you didn’t make the attempt.”

“I will find out,” he told her. “Someone will let it slip, not knowing I’m around. Probably someday soon, since I’m surrounded by your people here.”

Her fingers brushed against the destroyed glass hanging in one of the windows, causing it to fall and break. Without any visible reaction, she said, “When you do, I hope you’ll keep the secret, for reasons that will become obvious. But about Vara…she has tremendous pressure on her, of a kind that may be henceforth unseen by anyone, even the Royal family members in the line of succession.” Her finger caressed another piece of broken glass.

“What kind of pressure?” Cyrus stared at the blond elf, who seemed fascinated by the shattered glass.

“Three kinds. The first is societal. The shelas’akur is recognized the Kingdom over. They adore her for who she is.”

“I’ve seen that,” Cyrus said. “Elves have made mention of her being shelas’akur, even having not met her before.”

“There’s political pressure as well,” Isabelle continued. “The King would love it if Vara were in Pharesia, operating as a member of his court.” Her smile thinned, becoming less genuine and more rueful. “I doubt he’d feel the same after a week of her being there. She’s never said it, but I know that’s part of the reason why she left the Kingdom to study in Reikonos when she did.”

“Huh?”

“By all rights, even with her magical abilities she shouldn’t have gone to the Holy Brethren until she was nearer to thirty or forty; in fact, given her status, she would have been given instructors from the Leagues and allowed to train at home. Instead, she left for Reikonos at fourteen to become a paladin.” She scoffed. “Realize that she took advantage of human standards when doing that—after all, humans may train from the age of six in a League, but that’s not normal for an elf. I didn’t start with the Healer’s Union until I was nearing fifty.”

“I didn’t realize she had been trained in Reikonos,” he said. “I assumed she’d learned in Pharesia or Termina.”

“None of the Leagues train here,” Isabelle mused, staring at the shard that she had plucked from the window. “Not anymore.”

“In Termina?”

“In the Kingdom,” she said. “Anyone who needs training would go to Reikonos. Which is why she was able to play off the humans who were in charge of the Holy Brethren in Reikonos, in spite of what I’m sure were screaming protests from the elves in the faculty about her being too young. Of course, that’s nothing compared to the last source of pressure on her.”

Cyrus waited a beat. “Which is?”

“Mother.”

“She wasn’t happy when Vara left?” He ran his gauntlet across the sill, brushing shards of glass out the window and onto the street below.

Isabelle’s head turned to favor him with a pitying look. “What do you think?”

“She left to study in the human capital?” Cyrus rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought. “Your mother probably went rabid, foaming at the mouth.”

“I did not.” Chirenya’s voice came from behind them, startling both Cyrus and Isabelle, who turned to see her staring at them from midway down the stairs. “But neither was I pleased that my daughter, barely capable of wiping her nose without assistance, took a horse from the stables—”

“One which was given to her as a gift,” Isabelle said with muted annoyance.

“—and proceeded to travel hundreds of miles to a savage city with only a note to warn her parents what she was doing.” The elven woman’s hand was locked on the chipped and damaged guardrail as she descended. “Of course, I didn’t see her for almost four years after that—”

“Because you were too stubborn to travel to Reikonos to see either of your daughters—”

“—and after, she showed up only sporadically, usually when she was in trouble.” After taking her last step, Chirenya’s hand left the banister and her arms folded in front of her, her gaze cold. “Like now, for instance. And of course, she continues to associate with bandits—”

“Excuse me?” Cyrus cut in, outrage edging his voice.

“You’re excused; you may leave whenever,” Chirenya replied before continuing argument. “Everything that’s gone wrong in her life is all attributable to the choices she made from the moment she left.”

Isabelle sighed, a deep, disbelieving noise. “I suppose if she’d continued to follow the path you’d laid out for her she’d be much better off.”

Chirenya’s eyes narrowed at her eldest daughter. “She’d have less scars.” Bristling, she changed tacks. “Clean up; we’re leaving in a few minutes.”

Cyrus caught the eye roll from Isabelle as Chirenya turned to leave. Casting a look back over her shoulder, the elder elf spoke again. “You too, ox. Find a working faucet and clean yourself up; if need be, use the pump in the yard. You’ll need to be presentable.”

Feeling as if the rug had been jerked from underneath his feet, he stared at Chirenya, almost agape. “Where are we going?”

She frowned. “Are you deaf, ox? Are those tiny ears of yours insufficient to the task of hearing? Men are already such poor listeners; I imagine women with human husbands must be doubly frustrated at their lot. Do you not hear the bells?”

Cyrus listened, hearing the deep intonations ringing down the streets from far in the distance. “I hear them…”

“We go to the Chancel,” Chirenya said. “They are calling in the city for morning worship.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Isabelle, who shook her head as if to suggest he not take it any farther. Ignoring her, he said, “I don’t know if you noticed, but your house was destroyed last night…”

A surge of heat hit him. Whether from a draft of air or the fire from the elven woman’s gaze, he did not know. “Hundreds of years accumulating and collecting possessions in my home, only to watch them destroyed in a single night? It did not escape my notice. But neither has it escaped my attention that my family has endured. So we go to the Chancel of Life to give thanks to Vidara.” With that proclamation, she turned and marched back up the stairs.

“My mother is quite serious about worship,” Isabelle said, following Chirenya up the stairs. “She’ll be ready to leave shortly and you’ll get an earful if you’re not ready.”

“She’s serious?” Cyrus asked, alarm rising. “I don’t have anything to wear that’s not…” He looked down. “…black armor. Nothing that would be appropriate in a temple dedicated to life.”

“Armor is fine,” Isabelle said in a reassuring tone as she began to ascend. “After all, you did preserve our lives last night with that armor of yours.” She paused. “But I would find a working faucet.” She pointed to his face. “You have a bit of blood on your face there…and there…and there…” She disappeared up the steps, leaving Cyrus with a growing sense of panic.

Once she was gone, he descended to the first floor and hit the street, mind racing. She can’t expect me to go to the Chancel and worship Vidara, can she? I’m a follower of the God of War!

So distressed was he that Cyrus didn’t notice when Odellan called his name, catching up to him as he reached the front steps of the house across the street. “You look like you’re in a hurry,” the Endrenshan said.

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” Cyrus said. “I just found out I have to go to the Chancel of Life with, uh…them.” He pointed at the top floor of Chirenya’s house and saw her looking down from one of the broken windows, glaring at him.

“Fifteen minutes,” she called down to him. “Wash up or I’ll have Vara push you into the horse trough.”

“She is…formidable, isn’t she?” Odellan said in a muted whisper. “Let’s talk inside.”

Cyrus shut the door behind them, nodding to Andren, J’anda and Vaste, who sat in the living room, looking across the street. “Gentlemen.” He looked to Vaste. “Troll.”

Vaste feigned an offended look. “I, too, am a gentleman.” He chucked a thumb at Andren. “Moreso than this drunkard, anyway.”

Andren stopped, flask raised almost to his lips. “Who are you calling a drunkard?”

“You.”

“Ehh, you’re right.” The elf shrugged. “Why deny such a beautiful love as exists between me and alcohol?”

Cyrus coughed, embarrassed. “We have company.”

Andren looked Odellan up and down. “Yeah, but it’s just a young Endrenshan; couldn’t be more than a couple hundred years old, if that.” The healer sniffed the air for a moment. “To be so young and an Endrenshan—you’re not from Termina. I’d bet Pharesia, born and bred, with parents that are mighty high in the court.”

Odellan halted and the pleasant expression he had been wearing became a mask. “I can’t deny my birth,” he said, stiff. “As this is Termina, I hope you’ll judge me by my actions and not by my class. I’ll accord you the same courtesy.”

Andren cackled. “Sounds like a better deal for me than for you, highborn.”

Cyrus clapped his hands together, startling Andren into silence. “I only have a few minutes. Vara’s mother intends to go to the Chancel of Life this morning, and I don’t know whether she intends Vara to go with them.”

J’anda, wearing the illusion of an elf, wrinkled his pale nose as he frowned. “What’s this Chancel of Life?”

“It’s a temple where they worship Vidara, the Goddess of Life,” Odellan said. “It’s the tallest building in the city. You can’t miss it, straight ahead on the main avenue when you arrive. You must be an enchanter with an illusion, because every elf in the Kingdom knows that.” He regarded J’anda with suspicion. “Dark elf?”

J’anda looked at the Captain coolly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

Odellan nodded. “Excellent idea, using an illusion. Dark elves are not well regarded in Termina at the moment. We do far, far too much business with the humans. I’m afraid we’ve had a few instances of assaults, mostly by human workers on dark elven merchants. Best not to draw attention to yourself.”

“Can we focus on what needs to be done?” Cyrus looked around the room. “I need a force ready to move in five minutes if Vara’s going to the Chancel.”

“And if she’s not?” Vaste leaned back and the couch he was sitting on moaned under his weight.

“I still need a force ready to move to protect her mother,” Cyrus replied.

“Might I suggest,” Odellan said, diplomacy and charm layering his suggestion, “my troops and I come along with you, along with any elves or,” he nodded at J’anda, “individuals who look elven from your group. It will generate less attention.”

“Because a column of Termina guards is discreet,” Andren muttered before taking a nip from his flask.

“We’ll be able to disperse in the Chancel and blend more easily into the crowd,” Odellan said. “Easier at least than offlanders would. Weekly Chancel is a largely elven affair; you won’t find many non-elves in the crowd.”

“Likely Isabelle will contribute some of Endeavor’s forces,” Cyrus said, mind racing. “We’ll need to leave some people behind, because I doubt Chirenya will leave Vara’s father alone and there could be another attack at any time—”

A crack as loud as thunder filled the air and Cyrus froze, looking at Odellan in a moment of gut-punching unease.

“What was that?” The Endrenshan’s hand was on his sword, as was Cyrus’s. There was a commotion on the floor above them and Cyrus turned toward the door, ready to bolt across the street. Frenzied shouting came from above.

“Hold on!” There was the sound of footfalls on the stairs. “Everything is fine,” a feminine voice called down. Cyrus waited in the living room as the footsteps approached, until Martaina appeared in the living room, her hair tousled, her chainmail coif hanging off the back of her head like a cowl.

“What was that?” Cyrus said.

“That old biddy,” Martaina snapped back at him. “I was watching to make sure there were no threats and she took umbrage; told me to stop looking in her windows.” She ran a dirty hand through her hair. “I told her I wasn’t looking in her windows because she didn’t have any, and that I wasn’t looking but every few minutes, just to keep her and hers safe. She told me to stop it, and I didn’t, so she sent a bolt of lightning at me.”

She turned to Cyrus. “Then she shouted at me as I was beating a retreat, said to ‘tell the ox to get his arse back over there, cleaned up and all’, whatever that means.”

“Oh gods, that’s me,” Cyrus said, ducking down the hallway into a washroom. A bronze tub sat in the corner, big enough that Cyrus could sit in it even with his armor on. Polished faucets hung over it, as well as into the sink on the opposite wall. A metal privy filled with water sat next to the sink.

Martaina poked her head through the open door as Cyrus looked at himself in the mirror. Dried blood encrusted his armor, and a few drips had settled on his face. “Facilities are at least as nice as what we have back at Sanctuary, eh?” The elven ranger smiled at him.

“Good thing, too,” he agreed. “After all these years, I doubt I could go back to using a chamber pot.” Ignoring her chortle, he tossed her his helmet, which she caught.

He leaned down, plugging the stopper in the sink, running the cool water until it filled the basin. While it did, he unstrapped his breastplate and backplate. He slipped the chainmail shirt over his head, sending it clinking to the ground. He reached down, cupping his hands in the frigid liquid, and brought a handful up to his face, scrubbing as hard as he dared, trying to remember where the problem areas had been.

He looked back to the mirror, and the blood was gone. Wetting his hands, he tried to slick back his long, brown hair. Tangles within his locks fought him, and from behind him Martaina let out a soft giggle. He turned to her, ready to snap in annoyance, but she reached over him to let the water out of the basin. Cyrus looked down; the liquid had a deep crimson tinge.

“This is not going to work.” Cyrus sighed, then looked down, realizing he had stripped to barechested in front of Martaina without even thinking about it. A flush crept over his cheeks and he felt his back teeth grind in embarrassment.

“You’ll make it,” she said with a chuckle. “And if you’re a few minutes late, it’ll be good for that old broad; I doubt she’s ever had anyone make her wait.” Replugging the sink, she opened a nearby drawer and removed a brush. She ran it through his hair, drawing a wince from Cyrus. “You get stabbed and sliced open in battle, but tangled hair makes you cringe?” She shook her head and laughed. “Human warriors! The Society of Arms teaches you how to keep from flinching from a sword blow but come near you with a brush and you freak out.”

“Hair pulling is not part of our combat training,” Cyrus replied. “At least not beyond the hand to hand combat or wrestling practiced within the Blood Families.” Martaina slowed the brush strokes with which she was straightening his hair, and he felt the loquacious elf turn into a pit of silence and unease behind him. “Thad told you, didn’t he?”

Cyrus could see her reflection; where she had worn a smile only moments before, it was replaced with a drawn look, sorrow behind her eyes. Her nod was slight, but there. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, trying to make eye contact with her through the mirror.

“It was horrible, what they did to you.” She stooped to pick up his chain mail. He took it from her and slid it over his head. “Thad told me it was nothing less than a miracle that you survived, that you were the first—because you were the toughest—”

“If I was the toughest,” he interrupted, “it was because of that. I think you’re discounting the other warriors the Society has trained.”

She fastened his breastplate and backplate together. “I can’t tell if you’re being falsely modest or if you’re really that delusional to downplay—”

“It’s done,” he said with quiet finality. “That’s all that matters.”

“As you say,” she said, skepticism lacing her statement. She handed him his helm. “Not quite perfect, but as good as you’ll get without a full bath and time to clean up.”

“Thank you.” He turned, taking his helm from her and replacing it on his head. “As for the other thing…if you could keep it to yourself, it’d be appreciated.”

Sadness filled her eyes. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, I’m not a follower of Bellarum, but Thad says you should be proud—”

“It’s in the past,” Cyrus said. “I’d like it to stay there.”

She stepped aside and he moved into the hallway and back to the entry to the house, where he paused in surprise. Vara stood there, her hair around her shoulders. Her expression was prim, her lips taut.

“Hello,” Cyrus said, approaching her slow, uncertain.

“Good morning. Mother has asked for our presence on the street in one minute. You have a guard force allocated to stay behind?”

“I do.” He swallowed, hard. “You look lovely.”

One of her eyebrows inched upward. “I don’t see how; I have had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to do anything more than bathe and let my hair down. It’s amazing what fighting for your life in the dead of night will do for one’s complexion, I suppose.”

Cyrus felt a tightness in his chest. “I’ve never been to a Chancel before. Am I…” He hesitated. “…presentable?”

She looked him up and down in a cursory manner. “You’re no worse off than the unwashed masses that will stand in the back of the Chancel.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Come along. Our time is up.”

Chapter 19

Cyrus followed Vara, Odellan and Martaina behind them with a few other elves. Chirenya waited in a carriage with Isabelle, its doors thrust open. Vara climbed in, seating herself on the bench next to her mother. Cyrus found himself sitting next to Isabelle, who pushed herself against the wall of the carriage to allow room for his armor. Even so, his left arm pressed against hers, prompting him to smile in contrition.

“You’ll have to forgive us,” Chirenya said without a hint of apology. “Our family’s carriage is designed to be pulled by beasts, not seat them.”

“It is also several sizes to small for your rudeness,” Vara said.

Odellan appeared at the window. “I have a column ready to follow you. The driver is at your command.”

“They always are,” Chirenya said under her breath. “Very well, Endrenshan. Proceed.”

With a clatter, the wagon lurched into motion. Vara stared out the window, as did Chirenya, while Isabelle playfully nudged Cyrus with her elbow. Chirenya took notice, sending her eldest daughter a scathing look. “Really, perhaps you should have let your sister sit with her ox.”

“Mother, please,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head. “With their armor, they could not possibly get close enough to keep from bursting out of the carriage.”

“It would not be difficult to imagine the two of them in much more intimate positioning than this.”

Cyrus choked, prompting all three women to look at him. “Why must you keep accusing your daughter of such… unpleasantness—”

“If it’s unpleasant,” Chirenya said, “you’re doing it wrong.”

“I meant,” Cyrus’s face reddened, “you continue to accuse her of things that she is telling you she is not doing—”

“Things?” Chirenya spoke with cringe of distaste. “Can you not speak plainly? You are a ridiculous man, and thoroughly unworthy of the honor of thrusting yourself between my daughter’s legs.”

Cyrus clenched his teeth so tight that he thought he heard them crack. “The only thrusting that goes on between your daughter and I is the thrust of her wit, my parry and riposte, and so forth.” He looked across to Vara for confirmation, but she had returned to staring out the window, impassive, her hair cascading down her shoulders.

The sound of the wooden wheels clacking against the cobblestones dominated the oppressive atmosphere in the carriage. Cyrus dared not look at Chirenya, for fear of beginning another conflict. Similarly, he averted his gaze from Vara after the paladin sensed him staring and looked at him with a quizzical expression. Isabelle smiled at him, and they exchanged a look every few minutes until Chirenya glared at them both. Finally, Cyrus gave up and looked out the window.

It was obvious they had left the more moneyed district where Vara’s parents lived. The houses were constructed in rows, just as in her neighborhood, but the dwellings were smaller, the streets were less kempt and filled with a throng of elves. They moved along in silence, men and women, as one. Cyrus stared out, something odd about the scene tickling the back of his mind, but he dismissed it.

The smell of food sold by street vendors filled the air, filtering into the stuffy carriage where the aroma of the three women was offset by what he had to concede was his less than ideal scent of days of travel and battle. The quiet chatter outside the carriage was a welcome break to the silence within it. The coolness of the outside air was warmed by the bodies close to him in the carriage, particularly Isabelle. Even through his armor, he could feel her breathing against his side. He looked across once more to Vara, who was still watching out the window, and wondered what it would be like to have her breathing against him.

The ride took twenty minutes, by which time Cyrus’s legs ached to move. The carriage ground to a stop in front of the Chancel. As he stepped out he reflected that although he’d seen bigger buildings—the Citadel in Reikonos and the Eusian Tower in the Realm of Death sprang to mind—he’d never seen any quite so ornate. The architecture of the Chancel was impressive, with a dome atop the squared building. At each of the four corners of the structure was a smaller tower, and after a moment Cyrus realized that it was from within the towers that the tolling of the bells came.

On every wall were stained glass windows capped by friezes that were carved in such small detail that Cyrus could tell even from hundreds of feet below that craftsmen must have labored on the Chancel for over a hundred years. Columns stretching hundreds of feet in the air lined the entrance and stone steps led up, filled by people answering the call of the bells.

Cyrus reached a hand up to help Vara, who ignored it and stepped down. Isabelle took his extended hand and kept the other on her robes, raising them so that the white hem did not touch the muddy road. Chirenya also accepted his proffered hand, stepping past him so quickly that Cyrus realized she didn’t want to acknowledge his assistance.

A phalanx of Termina Guards arrayed themselves around the party, Chirenya exhorting them to “Get moving, knaves.” The other parishioners moved aside, and Cyrus caught a glimpse of Odellan walking outside the perimeter of the soldiers.

As they neared the top of the stairs, the entrance doors awaited them behind a small courtyard of columns. A voice cried out in elvish, a gentle and melodic chant of some beauty. Cyrus found he understood some of the words. “It’s the traditional call to worship,” Isabelle whispered in his ear. Her breath was sweet, filling the air with a wash of mint.

“Chirenya, mother of the shelas’akur.” On a pedestal a few feet above the crowd stood an elven woman with dark hair. She wore an expression of utmost serenity, and very little else. Her robe wrapped around her waist, hugging both legs to below her knees but leaving her groin exposed. Her shoulders were covered by a silken cloth that stretched down both arms to cuffs at her wrists, and circled her neck with a simple band. From that band, the cloth ran below her arms, leaving her bosoms visible, along with her belly. “I greet you and your blessed offspring in the name of She who grants life.”

“Arydni, High Priestess of Vidara,” Chirenya said with a bow. “I offer my humble greetings and present both my daughters to Vidara’s grace.”

Cyrus felt his stare burning into the Priestess of Vidara’s uncovered body. Such a thing would have been unthinkable in Reikonos, where the clothing covered the zones of the body that the Priestess’s seemed engineered to display. “She’s not wearing much,” Cyrus said in a hushed whisper to Isabelle.

“She’s a High Priestess of the Goddess of Life,” came the healer’s amused reply. “Her vestments are designed to accentuate the life-giving and sustaining parts of the female body.”

Cyrus watched the High Priestess bow to Chirenya, unable to take his eyes off her. Her skin was supple and free of any blemishing. Her face was pretty and youthful and his eyes lingered a moment too long. He felt a sharp impact on the back of his head, knocking his helm over his eyes. When he readjusted it, he turned to see Vara glaring at him. “Don’t leer.”

The Priestess turned her attention to Vara and her smile brightened. “The shelas’akur. We are honored to count you among our faithful this week—as we are any week that you deign to grace us with your presence.”

“I’m certain,” Vara said. “And of course, I am pleased to be here, blah blah blah, you know the rest of the idle pleasantries.”

Chirenya’s mouth went agape. Cyrus watched Isabelle stifle a laugh and turn away, shaking her head.

If the High Priestess was offended by Vara’s response, she did not show it. Cyrus had fixated once more on her exposed bosoms, and this time he moved too slowly; she caught him looking. Instead of scowling, she smiled. “We welcome you, honored guest, with the blessings of She who is the source of all life.”

Before he could answer, Vara spoke for him. “He doesn’t speak elvish.”

“I understood what she said.” Cyrus took his eyes off the Priestess to glare at Vara. “I’m learning; I may not be able to speak your language, but I understand most of what’s said.”

“She who grants life welcomes all races to her sacred Chancel,” the priestess said in the human tongue. Her voice was melodic even in the rougher language of the Confederation. “Welcome to our shrine to Vidara. In honor of you, I will conduct the worship in the Human language.” She bowed to him, catching his gaze, which he averted to find Vara scowling at him once more, hand raised and eyes narrowed.

They were ushered past the High Priestess’s pedestal into the Chancel. When they entered, Cyrus was unready for the scale of the room that greeted him. Big enough for several of Sanctuary’s Great Halls to be encased within it, the Chancel stretched forward, benches all lined in concentric circles around a center pedestal. There were four aisles allowing the parishioners to be seated and the benches were already growing full as Chirenya badgered the guards toward the place she wanted to sit.

They seated themselves on a bench that Cyrus would have bet was the place Chirenya regularly sat; she went into the row first and immersed herself in conversation with an elven woman of her same approximate age, who cast curious looks at Cyrus. Vara followed, sitting next to her mother but ignoring the conversation taking place in favor of staring at the pedestal in the middle of the room.

Ensconced on the pedestal was a statue of a womanly figure at least ten feet tall. She was nude, with a baby nursing at each of her breasts. The statue captured her hair swirling around her shoulders with a benign expression on her face. He looked first to Vara at his right, but found her expression curiously blank as she stared at the statue.

Cyrus turned to his left, where Isabelle sat between him and the aisle. She was looking at him and answered before he could ask. “Vidara, of course.”

The air was thick with the smell of burning incense, and Cyrus realized that the bells had ceased tolling sometime after their entrance. A gong sounded from behind him, and a rhythmic chant rose as a line of elven women streamed down the aisle, lighting the candles that were placed at the end of each bench. They moved in a procession, almost dancing, each attired in the same revealing garb as the priestess outside and twirling staves that held a lit flame at the end. It reminded him of something he had seen during a carnival in Reikonos, something artful and beautiful, the chanting in perfect time with the lighting of the candles and the movements of the procession.

Down the aisle to his left came the High Priestess, clad as she was before. Cyrus found himself once more transfixed, this time more comfortable in the relative anonymity of the crowd. He watched her as the dancers made way, not interrupting their rhythmic movements. The High Priestess did not dance but instead walked with grace and dignity.

Isabelle leaned over to him. “How does it feel to ogle women that are at least five millenia older than you?”

Cyrus felt his jaw fall before he was able to control himself. “Not all of them?”

Isabelle looked back with a twinkle in her eye. “Yes. All.”

“I figured maybe they were less than a millenia old…they look so…” He blushed. “…you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Comely? Attractive?”

“I meant youthful.”

Isabelle chuckled, a light laugh that was only just audible over the chanting. “Elves maintain their graceful looks until the mid 5,000s.” She nodded at the High Priestess, who was ascending the pedestal. “How old would you estimate she is?”

Cyrus looked to the center of the room, where the High Priestess stood, arms open in a welcoming gesture as the dancers threaded their way around the pedestal. He looked at her dark, flowing hair, her golden skin, glowing under the light of the candles around her. “You said they were all in the 5,000s, so I would guess early on that scale. 5,100 maybe?”

She shook her head. “5,500 or so. She’ll take the turn soon—that’s what they call it when we begin to look old. Of course, that will take many decades.”

He looked down the bench to Chirenya before turning back. “How old is your mother?”

“It’s impolite to ask.” Cyrus turned back to see Chirenya hissing at him. “But I’ll have you know I’m not a day over 4,500.”

The High Priestess clapped her hands together, a sound that resonated throughout the Chancel that was followed by a gong. “In the name of the life-giving All-Mother, I summon you to worship.” She spoke for several minutes as the congregation listened. Cyrus watched the crowd as the High Priestess completed a ceremonial call to worship and concluded with a hymn sung by the dancers, who were circled around the base of the pedestal upon which she stood.

Cyrus felt the smooth woodwork of the bench behind his neck as he leaned back and looked up. Over the pedestal, hanging above the statue of Vidara, was another, this one a grotesque figure, with eight arms and the beak like that of a bird but filled with terrible teeth. It was built to hang from the rafters, and looked like an overlarge spider ready to descend on the nursing likeness of Vidara. As Cyrus watched, it began to lower and lanterns projected light directed by mirrors onto the figure, illuminating it.

“While I welcome you in her name, I caution you as ever,” the High Priestess said, “to be wary of He that stalks all of the Life-Giver’s children. His threat looms large over all we build in our lives, ready to take us at any time should we be careless or grow ill.” The High Priestess looked over the crowd and locked onto him. “I speak, of course, of the God of Death—Mortus. He reigns from inside the Eusian Tower in his realm,” she continued, “a fearsome place of infinite horror—”

“It’s not so bad,” Isabelle muttered under her breath as the Priestess continued to sermonize, her eyes off Cyrus now. “Not homey, but I’ve been worse places.”

“Last time I was there,” Cyrus said, “one of our less thoughtful wizards set the boiling oil on fire with an explosion.”

Isabelle snickered, drawing a reproachful look from her mother. “I bet that made fighting the hydra a challenge.”

“Yes, we capped off that expedition with a battle where we fought against the undead skeleton of a dragon I’d killed the day before,” Cyrus said. “It was…interesting. I’d rather not go back.”

“Agreed,” Isabelle said, sotto voce. “I’ve spent more time in Death’s Realm than anyone living has a right to.”

“Ever see Mortus himself?” Cyrus nodded toward the hanging statue.

“No,” Isabelle said with an emphatic shake of the head. “No mortal has, at least not in living memory. I heard tell about a guild a couple centuries ago that disappeared into Death’s Realm; speculation was that he had caught them in the act of pilfering from his treasure room.”

“I’ve only run that expedition with our old alliance,” Cyrus said. “How does one know if a god is going to be absent from his realm?”

“Or hers?” Isabelle said, teasing. “There are information brokers that deal in such things.”

“I don’t know any of them,” Cyrus said. “We’ve been hitting the Trials of Purgatory for the last few months, and of course the Gatekeeper’s grown very sick of granting our requests for treasures at the end of the battle; we’ve flooded the market with the formerly rare pieces of the beasts that live there. We need to look elsewhere for targets to keep our army busy.”

“You should join Endeavor in the higher realms,” she said with a whisper.

The High Priestess continued to deliver a soliloquy in the background, but he was not catching much of what she said. His mind raced at the thought of taking Sanctuary into the Realms that were being explored by the most elite guilds in Arkaria. “You think we can handle it?” He regretted it the moment after he said it, cursing himself as weak for even asking, fearing he sounded like he was begging for her approval.

“Tearing through the Trials of Purgatory at the rate you are, you won’t have much trouble with the upper realms.”

Chirenya leaned across Vara, who still sat back, her hands folded in her lap. “This is a time for reflection and holy worship, and the two of you are chattering so loud they can hear you in the backmost rows. Shut up!”

Isabelle made a playful eye roll and obeyed her mother, leaving Cyrus to listen to the words the High Priestess spoke. He felt uncomfortable throughout the service, as if he were there under false pretenses—that they would turn upon him if it were discovered that he was a follower of the God of War. Other than death, there cannot be any god more opposed to Vidara’s principles, Cyrus thought with a well-honed sense of irony. I haven’t been this uncomfortable since Imina dragged me to a worship for Virixia, Goddess of Wind.

The Priestess spoke in parables, telling a story about a miraculous blessing that was visited upon the people of Elvendom, and Cyrus tuned her out, thinking once more of the Hand of Fear and the threat they posed. If I could find a way to track them down…they must have a headquarters somewhere…or a base in the city…how do you find a secret organization?

“For those who fear, who doubt, who wonder if she exists and if they should tread her path…I say to you that there are miracles that she has performed and blessings placed around us…you need look no farther than this very Chancel to find her works.” The High Priestess clapped her hands together once more. “I’d like to call forth the children.”

A few of them came forward, down the aisles as the Priestess descended from the pedestal to sit with them at its base. Cyrus surveyed the room again. It was large enough for at least twenty thousand, if not double that. Children gathered around the Priestess, and she launched into another parable. He watched her gentle, matronly manner with the little ones and then looked back to Vara. Her head was bowed, deep in thought. The clean, angular lines of her face gave him pause. At the moment, dark circles hung underneath her eyes, her hair was tangled and she looked tired and careworn.

He resisted the urge to put a hand on her shoulder, to pull her close to him. It was not only inappropriate given the setting, but the fastest way to get slapped on the side of the head regardless of when he did it. He remembered the time a year ago when she had kissed him on the cheek, soft and gentle, a quick peck, and he felt the memory of it bring a tingle to where her lips had brushed him.

My life is tangled beyond belief, he thought. I’m in a Chancel for a goddess I don’t worship, sitting next to the woman who is the biggest enigma I’ve ever encountered. He frowned. Sometimes she seems like she wants me, sometimes I think she’d like to kill me; maybe it’s both. I wish I knew how she felt. He reached up, kneading the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Hell, I wish I knew how I felt.

He watched the children returning to their parents at the conclusion of the High Priestess’s parable and saw a half dozen walk down the aisle nearest him. Their ears were pointed, but only slightly. Hybrids, he thought. Half human, half elf. His mind drifted to another thought, of he and Vara…and of children…children just like the ones that were passing him now.

He looked to his right to find her staring back at him, her eyes vacant and with a touch of sadness. “What?” he mouthed, careful to keep from speaking aloud. Chirenya cast him an evil look nonetheless.

Vara shook her head, expression changing not a whit, and returned to staring straight ahead. He sighed, as close to under his breath as he could, drawing another scathing glare from Chirenya, and settled in to listen to the rest of the High Priestess’s message.

The worship lasted for a further two hours, during which time Cyrus became more restless. When the High Priestess signaled that the service was at an end, it finished with another procession of dancers leaving the way they came. When the rest of the congregation stood, Cyrus did as well.

The guards that had been seated around them kept them in place while the Chancel cleared; once it was almost deserted, they were escorted to the entrance. Odellan fell into line behind Cyrus just before the door. “I’ve had some of my people asking questions about the other victims of the Hand of Fear; who their business associates were, what they had in common, that sort of thing. They’ve discovered a link that I’d like to show you—why don’t you stop by my office this afternoon? You know where the government center is?”

Cyrus nodded. “I’ll do it as soon as I make sure that…” He looked and found Isabelle talking with her mother in a hushed whisper and Vara, still dazed, following behind them. “…everyone is safe and under guard.”

“Very well.” Odellan fired off a crisp salute and exited the Chancel, descending the steps while Cyrus stopped with his party in front of the pedestal now occupied once more by the High Priestess.

“Honored guest,” she said after nodding in acknowledgment to Chirenya, “have you learned more about the light of the All-Mother after today’s worship?”

“Ah, yes,” Cyrus stuttered. “I’ve learned…much more.”

The High Priestess smiled, a knowing smirk that gave the first hint of her age. “And remain unconvinced, it would seem.” He started to protest, but she raised a hand to stay him. “Worry not, friend of Chirenya—” Cyrus caught a sour expression on the face of Vara’s mother—“we do not badger the unconverted to believe as we do. Your spirit is your own, and those who seek the Life-Giver must do so of their own free will.” She bowed to Cyrus. “If you come to us a thousand times more as an unbeliever, you will be as welcome as you are this day.”

“I…uh…” He sputtered, looking for something smooth and articulate to say, something which would encapsulate his feelings about long worship services for gods he didn’t believe in, spearheaded by millenia-old elven women who looked young enough that they stirred the deepest fires of desire in him. He settled on, “Thank you,” and bowed to the High Priestess.

The High Priestess smiled and turned to Vara. “Vidara’s grace be with you, shelas’akur.”

Vara’s head snapped up at the blessing. “It has been, since the beginning.” Her voice was dull, dead, but her words courteous enough that they drew a half smile of acknowledgment from the Priestess.

Cyrus followed Isabelle and Vara back to the waiting carriage as Chirenya lingered to speak with the Priestess. The air was cold now, a brisk winter wind whipping through, with the sun shining but bringing little warmth. As Cyrus shivered, he realized he’d become accustomed to the mild winters of the Plains of Perdamun and forgotten how brutal the cold got as one went farther north. He shuddered to think of how bitter Reikonos would be at this time of year.

Once Chirenya joined them, the carriage got underway, and they lapsed into another silence, broken only for a moment when Chirenya looked daggers at Cyrus and Isabelle, saying, “You two couldn’t shut up during worship and now you’re dead silent?”

Vara continued to stare out the window in a placid calm as they wheeled through the streets. Once more, Cyrus looked out his window, trying to keep from mashing Isabelle under his armor while watching the elves in the streets pass by. The squares and avenues were crowded with people, filled to brimming, all of them clad in cloaks and winter garb. No snow was on the ground nor a cloud visible in the sky; Cyrus wondered if it snowed in Termina like it did in Reikonos.

The clattering of the wooden wheels ground to a stop as they reached the residence. Cyrus once again offered assistance, which was taken by all three women this time; Isabelle with quiet thanks and a smile, Chirenya with scorn and a sudden move to ignore Cyrus, and Vara without comment or emotion.

Something about the street bothered Cyrus. The houses still showed signs of damage from the night before, with windows broken and facades cracked from the combat that took place inside the house, but something was off. There was an eerie quiet on the avenue, with no sound of pedestrians and only the snorts of a dozen horses to break the silence.

He watched Chirenya lead the way up the steps, saw Isabelle follow with reserved silence. From the street he could see the living room through the broken glass, and he stared. A ripple of movement passed before the window as Chirenya opened the door, almost as if the window were the surface of a pond, disturbed by motion within.

He quickened his pace as he followed the women up the steps, and halted as Vara stopped in the doorway, but a moment too late. He ran into her as she stiffened, and he looked around the entryway and realized—the house they were in was not hers.

Chapter 20

“What deception is this?” Chirenya’s eyes were aflame, looking around the foyer of the home they had stepped into. “This is nothing like my house!”

“Sorry,” came an apologetic voice. Vaste stepped from the corner, where he sat at a table playing a card game with two members of Endeavor that Cyrus had seen but did not know by name. He took a step outside and looked through the window. Although the card game was going on right in front of it, none of the players nor the table was visible from the front step. “J’anda came up with a clever idea—use an illusion spell to switch the facade of your house with this one. Anyone who’s passing by won’t notice, and assassins might be fooled into attacking the wrong house.”

“That’d be a brilliant stratagem, you bloody green idiot,” Chirenya said, grinding her teeth, “but for the fact that I’d like to return to my actual house now, and continue to live in it.”

“Fortunately, ma’am,” Vaste continued, “I have a plan. And it’s one in which I will be able to accommodate your request, rather than one that would end with your crabby ass being dumped into the river Perda in a sack at midnight.” He smiled so sweetly that it was hard to tell he’d just threatened her. “Follow me,” he said, beckoning them toward the stairs.

As they descended into the cellar, Chirenya sniffed her nose. “Are you quite sure that this troll is trustworthy?” she asked Vara. “He’s not planning on murdering us in the cellar, is he?”

“I told you that wasn’t the plan,” Vaste said. “But it is a pleasant thought, isn’t it?” He stopped at the base of the stairs and extended his hand, pointing toward the hole in the wall that the Hand of Fear had created the night before. “Your humble abode, madam. And by humble, I mean I’ve seen mud huts in the troll homeland possessed of more warmth and charm.” He smiled again, pointed teeth displayed in a grin of pure antagonism.

“We’ve increased security in case the Hand of Fear decides to attack again tonight.” Vaste patted the banister with one massive green hand as he began to climb the stairs again.

“I want to discuss the security precautions,” Cyrus said, nodding at Vaste. “Meet across the street in a half hour?”

The troll nodded and continued his climb. Once he was out of earshot, Chirenya frowned. “I thought his people learned to respect their betters after the last war.”

Cyrus bristled, but it was Isabelle who answered first. “I daresay he does, Mother, which is why he doesn’t respect you.” The healer turned and followed Vaste back up the stairs.

“Well, I never.” Chirenya walked through the hole in the wall in a huff, and Cyrus heard her feet echo on the stairs in the next room, on her way up, leaving him alone with Vara, who was still inanimate.

She stood quiet in the dark of the cellar, with only a single lamp to light the room. Her back was to him and she turned, walked through the wall, and made her way to the stairs. Cyrus followed wordlessly.

They passed the first floor and reached the sitting room. Cyrus followed her to the door of her bedroom, which she entered. She made no move to shut it behind her, so he stopped in the frame as she looked out the window, her arms wrapped around her midsection. Her hair lay around her shoulders, still loose, framing her pale face with a golden outline.

After a moment of staring out the window, she turned to him. “Shut the door, please.”

He froze, heart thudding in his chest. “Do you want me in the room or outside the door?”

She did not turn back to him. “Either is fine.”

He stepped inside, taking care to shut the door behind him as gently as possible. He turned back to find her throwing her pauldrons on the ground as she unstrapped her breast and backplate. He watched as she slid off her plate metal boots, followed by her greaves and vambraces. Next she shed her chainmail, until all that was left was a suit of clothing she wore underneath it all, a white cloth shirt that was stained with years of the sweat and blood of battle, dark pants and worn leather footcovers that she wore inside her metal boots to protect her feet from wear and callousing.

She walked from the missing window to the armoire on the opposite wall before Cyrus’s shocked eyes, and opened it after pulling her arms out of her shirt, followed by her head. The worn piece of cloth fell to the floor behind her, leaving her naked to the waist, her back to him. She was careful not to turn lest she expose herself. To the right of her spine, a scar the length of his hand ran up from the small of her back.

He stood in muted shock, unable to think of anything clever to say, nor bring himself to any sort of action. He recalled two years earlier, when Nyad had showed a similar lack of modesty, and after coupling it with what he had seen in the Chancel of Life, he realized for the dozenth time since arriving in Termina that he was, again, no longer in Reikonos. Far from it.

He blinked his eyes in rough disbelief. Years, he thought, since I’ve seen…and now twice in one day…and Vara, of all people…

“The polite thing to do,” she said in, what was for her, almost a normal tone of voice, “would be to turn around while I change my clothing.” She chose a dress from the armoire, her back still to him, and slipped it over her head, pulling it down until it covered her to mid-calf. “Failing that, you could at least act as though you’ve seen those parts of a woman before.” She reached down, sliding off her leather footcovers and then shimmied off her pants, using the dress to keep her covered.

“Uhhh…all I saw was your back,” Cyrus said, still struck dumb.

Vara paused, cocking her head at him. “I was also referring to your unbridled display of lust at the Chancel.”

He shrugged as a flush crept up his cheeks. “It’s been…a while.” He cleared his throat before speaking again. “I cannot recall ever seeing you in a dress in the years I’ve known you.”

She looked down as if she were seeing herself in it for the first time. “I haven’t worn one since the day I left to join the Holy Brethren. I can’t recall ever wearing this when I was younger, and it fits marvelously, so I can only assume that either I haven’t grown since I was fourteen, or Mother has been stocking dresses in my size in the closet, hoping someday I would come back to the idea of wearing them.” She frowned. “It’s probably the latter.”

Cyrus crossed the floor to where her armor lay and picked up the breastplate. It shone, showing none of the wear and beating that Cyrus’s black armor did, even though he knew she had been wearing it for years and through countless battles. He picked up the pieces one at a time from the floor, gathering them together and setting them on the chest at the end of her bed.

She watched him with disinterest, but she watched him nonetheless. “How long ago were you married?”

Cyrus grunted as he scooped up her bracers. “Five years ago we got divorced. We were married for about two years.”

“Divorce is not common for humans, is it?” He found her looking back with a curiosity that did not match her languid posture.

“No. It’s rare and requires consent of both parties and the court. But she asked for it, I granted it, and the court agreed.” He turned away, facing the shattered windows, and looked out to the street. He saw a faint hint of distortion in the air, as though a mirage were outside the window; the magical evidence of J’anda’s illusion, visible only from this side.

“And what,” Vara continued, “were her grounds for wanting to part ways with such a distinguished warrior as yourself?” She said a moment later, more quietly, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I don’t mind.” He did not turn to face her. “We got married shortly after I left the Society of Arms, at a time when I was trying to be a guild warrior. I applied to several smaller guilds in Reikonos, and I was traveling constantly.” He eased himself onto the bed, still facing away. “She got tired of the lifestyle—of me wandering the world, always seeking battle. She wanted me to give up my aspirations and move to a small town where we could start a family and I could be a guard.”

“I have a hard time imagining you as a town guard, standing at a post for hours on end, every day for the rest of your life.”

He laughed. “I couldn’t see it myself. We argued constantly. She was a flower vendor, and was done every day by sundown. Whenever I got home, on the days I did get home, she didn’t know when she’d see me next, or…” He hesitated. “…if she’d see me. Smaller guilds don’t have as many healers as the larger ones, so permanent death is more commonplace. She got tired of the worrying, of arguing with me about it—tired of the fight, I guess you’d say.”

“Tired of the fight,” Vara said. “Yes, I can see that. You, though—you live for the fight, do you not?”

“I like fighting in battles,” he said. “But I didn’t enjoy arguing with her.”

“I meant battle,” she said, still draped across the chair. “You worship the God of War, after all. I could tell from the way you acted in the Chancel—outside of the moments when your jawbone was wedded to the floor, drool running freely from your mouth—that you were uncomfortable with the thought of being in a place where another deity was being worshipped.”

He shrugged, stung over her mention once more of his gawking. “It’s your idea of worship in general that confounds me. Have you ever heard of a Temple to Bellarum?”

Her face went blank. “I can’t recall ever seeing one in my travels.”

“That’s because worshipping Bellarum is done in battle; with a sword in your hand and the blood of your enemies sanctifying you.”

Vara rolled her eyes and let her head loll to stare at the ceiling. “Sometimes you really are quite barbaric.”

Cyrus leaned over his shoulder to look at her. “If you don’t like to fight, I would suggest you picked the wrong career.”

Unmoving, she waited a long moment before she spoke, and when she did, it came out in a small voice. “An excellent point.”

He spoke hesitantly, as if afraid to break the quiet. “Do you remember when we staged an invasion of the Realm of Darkness last year?” He cursed under his breath. “You weren’t there, never mind.”

She did not move when she replied. “As I recall, it came toward the end of summer, right about the time that the convoys began to be destroyed. What of it?”

“There was a moment when we were outmatched. These octopuses were killing us in the dark, and we couldn’t see, couldn’t fight them. There came a light from the back of our formation, filling the sky, paralyzing our enemies.” He chewed his lip, lost in remembrance. “I’d never seen anything quite like it until last night. It was what I saw your sister cast when she stunned that assassin.”

Vara lay still on the chair, then nodded her head. “I heard about it at the time—rather a gift horse as I understand it. The spell Isabelle cast is called ‘Nessalima’s Light’ and is every magic user’s first spell.”

“Named for the Goddess of Light, I presume.”

“Aye. But there is no one powerful enough to cast a light of the size you have described. Nessalima’s Light can help you find your way in a cave, or allow you to see a few feet in front of you on the blackest night, or blind an enemy for a few precious seconds; but not even the most practiced and experienced spellcasters could bring forth a luminescence powerful enough to brighten the Realm of Darkness. I would suspect something else.”

He thought about it for a turn. “So magic users’ spells become more powerful as they become more experienced?”

She lifted her head almost lazily. “Yes, but the amount of magical energy it would take to cast and sustain that light would be prohibitive; the spellcaster would be burning life energy to cast that monstrous of a spell.”

“How do you…burn life energy?”

She let out a great sigh of impatience. “Magical energy, that which we spellcasters use to craft a spell, is finite; once exhausted, one needs time to replenish that power before casting another spell. However,” she said, not raising her head, “if in dire straits and depleted of magical energy, one can continue to cast spells, but it leeches away your life.”

“That sounds…” Cyrus caught himself before finishing.

“Ridiculous?” Vara’s face was twisted in amusement. “Once, in battle with the Siren of Fire, I watched a young human wizard, fresh from his training in the Commonwealth of Arcanists—the wizard league—cast himself dry trying to extinguish her flames with ice. Once he was out of magical energy, he began drawing on his life. Before the end of the battle, he looked as old as any withered beggar you would run across on the streets of Reikonos.” She stopped and her voice turned sober. “He died a month later, still in the care of Amarath’s Raiders. He was twenty-five—and looked eighty years older.”

She lapsed into a silence again until Cyrus broke it. “The scar on your back,” he said. She lifted her head to look up at him. “Is that from Archenous?”

Her head flopped back against the chair. “Yes. A lovely reminder every time I look in the mirror of the value of trust.”

He thought about it. “Do you…look at your back in the mirror often?”

“What?” She looked up at him. “No, there’s a matching one on my stomach.”

“But still,” he said after another moment’s consideration, “that means you look at yourself in the mirror—”

“Oh, yes,” she said, voice cross, “I stare at myself naked all the time. Rather like you at the Chancel, I can’t keep my eyes off the female form.”

“I thought so,” he agreed with a nod. “It’s what I’d do if I was a woman.”

“Yes, you’ve proven that well enough already.” She lay back again. After a moment, a small laugh escaped her. “You were teasing me just now, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I absolutely missed it.” She stared at the ceiling.

“What’s on your mind?” He moved along the side of the bed until he faced her.

“What’s on my mind…” She let the words dribble out, slow and soft and completely in line with how she looked. “I’m tired.”

“So sleep.”

This time she only let out a sound of weakest amusement. “Not that kind of tired. Bone weary. Worried. Worn down by the incessant vicissitudes of my life.” She raised her head to look at him. “Vicissitudes means—”

“I know what it means.”

She arched her eyebrow. “Define it.”

He shrugged, uncaring. “It means bad things that happen to you.”

She snorted. “Pithy. But near enough to illustrate the point.” She fell back once more. “I’m sick of this—of running, of my father being ill, of my family and guildmates being threatened. I’m well and truly fed up of this whole sordid adventure.”

He stared back at her, catching the note of pleading desperation in her voice. “And me?” He said it with a smile, trying to defuse the tension, the raw emotion that was coming off her in waves despite her weary posture. “Are you tired of me yet?”

Her head did not move off the chair, but her eyes found his, and he could see the barest gratitude. “No. I’m not weary of you, Cyrus Davidon, though that may change if you continue to follow me into my bedroom and stare at me when I change clothes.” She sighed, the sound of a tired soul. “I am drained and wish for nothing more than an end to these countless troubles. I want peace. Rather like your wife, I suspect, I’m sick of fighting.”

When he did not answer, she went on. “When I was young, I fought because I had something to prove. Whether it was in the Holy Brethren or as a recruit for Amarath’s Raiders or as an officer for that guild, it mattered not. I had a chip on my shoulder, ambition for greatness, desire and a hunger to conquer and convince everyone of my strength and the rightness of my cause. Archenous’s betrayal burned that out of me as I watched my friends and guildmates slaughtered by their own, all because one man’s desire for power and riches had grown beyond any level conceivable by those who had trusted him.

“When I joined Sanctuary, I fought to protect instead of increase my riches and power—to defend my friends, my guildmates, and even the people of Arkaria. I channeled my tireless aggression, my irascible, irritable nature into the idea that I was doing some good.” She paused to breathe in. “I have fought more battles than I can count, and have even seen guildmates die—but never because of me. Never because of my ideas or decisions or efforts.

“Now I have seen people die because of me. Niamh.” Her words came with a mournful certainty. “My sister’s guildmates died to protect me and my family. All because someone, somewhere, wants me dead—for what reason I know not.” Her expression hardened. “I will root out this Hand of Fear like the vermin they are.” She sighed, then her body relaxed, her fury spent, and she lay her head back on the chair. “But after that, I honestly have no idea what I’m fighting for—or why.”

She paused, her hands gripping the chair as Cyrus watched her, the most determined, lively, caustic and powerful woman he had ever known, reduced to a moment of supreme weakness. She breathed in and out again, as though gaining strength from the air itself, and then spoke, her words coming as though they were the last proclamation of a soul in utter surrender.

“When this is all over…I believe I am done.”

Chapter 21

Cyrus did not speak after her words were delivered; he waited in silence with her for a few more minutes. He started to say something but stopped himself several times, unsure that anything he could offer would assuage her anguish. He listened to her breathing, watched her chest rise and fall with each breath, and thought.

I know how she feels because I’ve felt that way myself. I don’t think she’ll believe me…not without telling her about… He sighed softly. What the hells, why not? he thought.

He cleared his throat and started to speak, but stopped. At some point, Vara’s breathing had changed to something deeper. Her eyes were closed. She had fallen asleep, her arms hanging off the sides of the chair.

Cyrus rose from the bed and shuffled over to her, kneeling at her side. She did not move or acknowledge him in any way. As gently as he could, he placed his arms beneath her and lifted her up, as though he were cradling a child, and carried her to the bed, lying her down. He pulled a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her, walking as quietly as possible to the door before shutting it with only the hint of a squeak.

Two warriors from Sanctuary stood guard in the living room, greeting him with crisp salutes. Had they been there before? he wondered. “Keep an eye out,” he cautioned them as he descended back to the cellar and crossed into the other house.

He found Vaste still engaged in a game of cards with the Endeavor warriors as he emerged from the cellar. Friendly banter filled the front room of the house. “He’s a cheater,” one of the warriors, a dwarf, proclaimed in jest, throwing his cards on the table.

“Never seen anything like it,” another said, this one human. “How do you do it?”

Vaste looked up at Cyrus as he entered the room and nodded, scooping a handful of gold coins off the table and placing them in the coinpurse that hung at his side. “It’s a game of odds, boys—and you are the oddest I’ve ever seen.”

Jeering laughter filled the room as Vaste followed Cyrus onto the front steps. Cyrus waited until they were halfway across the street before he spoke, and only then in a low whisper. “They don’t know you can count cards?”

Vaste laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that came from within his overlarge belly. “No one ever thinks the troll capable of such memory-intensive and mathematical feats.” He rattled the coinpurse. “It’s made me a lot of money over the years.”

They entered the house that Sanctuary had commandeered to find J’anda standing with his hands extended at the front window, eyes closed in concentration. He opened them and looked sidelong at the two of them, but did not speak.

“He says it’s taking more and more concentration to maintain the illusion as the day goes on.” Andren nodded from a couch in the living room, Thad and Martaina seated opposite him. Just behind J’anda was a human in armor that was bluish in color, covered by a surcoat of purest white. Resting against the wall was a lance that was taller than Vaste, and the human’s hand hovered next to it. His eyes looked out the window, searching for any sign of trouble, save for the moment it took him to look to Cyrus and sketch a rough salute.

“Sir Samwen Longwell,” Cyrus said in genuine pleasure. “I’m glad to see you here.”

“Yes, sir,” Longwell replied, his odd accent even more evident to Cyrus after days of listening to the elves speak in their lyrical, singsong language. “Alaric added some more forces to the garrison after the attack last night.”

Cyrus nodded. “How are things back at Sanctuary?”

“Tense,” the human answered. When they met, Cyrus had asked the man what kind of fighter he was and Longwell had answered with a single word—dragoon. Longwell had proven himself a fierce fighter in numerous battles; a natural leader and a loyal soldier. “We’ve had more attacks from these Hand of Fear blighters.”

A jolt ran through Cyrus. “Any deaths?”

Longwell chewed his lip. “One. A ranger was on guard in the officer quarters and an assassin infiltrated disguised as an applicant—took out our man as the fires and torches were exploding, but not before the ranger let out a shout of alarm.” The dragoon lowered his head. “Curatio and Terian captured the assassin—but of course, he wouldn’t say a word. However many we’ve got in the dungeons now, it’s a quiet lot. Fortin keeps threatening to eat them, but they won’t say a word.”

Cyrus shook his head—the safety of Sanctuary members was his responsibility as general. “What was the ranger’s name?”

“Doubt you’d know him; he was a new one,” Longwell said, “but it was Rin Leviston. Human, from the Riverlands.”

“I’ve seen the name on guard reports,” Cyrus said, a flash of the weariness that Vara had described running through him. “Another attack is imminent here and I want to make sure we’re ready.” He looked to J’anda. “Any idea how long he can maintain that illusion?”

“Indefinitely,” J’anda replied, turning to face him, letting his hands drop to his sides. The enchanter strolled to a chair in the corner and flopped down, eyes bright and a smile on his lips.

Cyrus frowned. “I thought you had to sit there and keep casting to maintain the illusions.”

J’anda shook his head, a smile creasing his blue face. “No. A lesser enchanter, perhaps. I need only go to the window, cast once every few hours, and stay alive, and my spell will remain in place.”

“So why didn’t you say anything when we came in?” Cyrus looked back at him, confused.

J’anda held out his hands, palm up, as though he were saying the most obvious thing. “Because I was casting the spell then, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Cyrus replied. “Obvious to anyone—except us non-magic users. You know, the overwhelming majority of the population.”

“Yes,” J’anda said with a hint of wistfulness. “It must be difficult to be so…” His voice trailed off and his hand moved in front of his face, changing his features into those of an elf. “…ordinary.”

Cyrus turned back to the rest of the assembled. “I want to bring Fortin here and keep him in the cellar in case the next Hand of Fear attack is worse.”

Thad leaned forward and his armor squeaked at the joints. “Uh…boss, you think that this assassin group is going to come at us with more than the forty or so people they hit us with last night?”

“I don’t know,” said, “but I’d like to be overprepared rather than underprepared if they do.”

“I doubt Alaric will have much problem with that,” Longwell said, looking back at them from his place by the window. “Fortin spends most of his days stuck in the dungeon since they closed the wall.” The dragoon frowned. “He seems tense.”

Andren interrupted before Cyrus could respond. “He’s a ten foot tall pile of walking rock. How exactly can he ‘seem tense’?”

Longwell shrugged and Cyrus went on. “Get him here, if Alaric will part with him. A few more druids, healers and wizards wouldn’t go amiss if they can spare them.” He halted as the others nodded around him. “I need to go to the government center and meet Endrenshan Odellan—he has a lead on the Hand of Fear.”

“Want some company?” Longwell reached out for his lance.

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Andren, Thad, Martaina, Longwell…you’re with me.” He turned and passed Vaste on his way out.

“That’s right,” Vaste said. “Leave the troll behind. We wouldn’t want any delicate elven sensibilities to be offended by the sight of a mighty green god of healing riding through their city.”

Cyrus turned, keeping his expression straitlaced. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with the other activities you have planned for this afternoon, such as bilking unsuspecting warriors of Endeavor out of their drinking money.”

He turned from the laughter and halted on the front step, less than an inch from colliding with Isabelle, who looked into his eyes with amusement. “Fortunately, our warriors are paid a rather large stipend, enough that they can afford some ill-considered wagering and be none the poorer for it.”

The laughter evaporated behind him and Cyrus turned serious. “That was a joke.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Isabelle said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Your troll friend is an expert at counting cards. I heard you talking about it in the street.”

Vaste looked at her, slight alarm on his face. “I didn’t see you anywhere on the street, m’lady, or—”

“Or you’d have curbed your tongue?” She laughed. “I won’t tell my warriors. If they’re dumb enough to underestimate you, then they deserve to lose their coin. And you didn’t see me on the street because I wasn’t—I was upstairs, by my father’s bedside.”

There was a murmur behind Cyrus, then Martaina spoke. “Yes, Thad dear, our hearing is that good—in fact, she heard you whisper that question to me.”

“You are going to meet with Odellan, I believe?” Isabelle stared at him, eyes now cool.

“Yes,” Cyrus replied, not bothering to lie.

“I’ll accompany you.” She pivoted and walked back down the steps to a waiting horse.

They made their way along the boulevard in an informal column two wide. Cyrus found himself riding next to Isabelle. “You spoke with my sister,” she said, leading them onto a major thoroughfare.

“I did,” Cyrus replied, uncertain of how to respond.

“I have never seen her this despondent.” Isabelle’s cheery disposition had faded; not quite to the depths he had seen with Vara, but she was muted. “Even when we were children, if mother issued an order she did not care for, she would not hesitate to fight back.” Her blond hair stirred in the chill breeze. “I hate them for that, this Hand of Fear.”

“Not to mention they slaughtered a bunch of your guildmates,” Thad said. Cyrus whipped around and the human flinched in consternation. “I’m sorry,” Thad said. “It just popped out.”

Isabelle remained still on her horse, riding with a serenity Cyrus could not imagine he would have felt in her situation. “You speak the truth,” she said, her face hard as flint. “I cannot fault you for that. They died because of my command and I put them in place knowing the risk.” She turned to glance at Cyrus. “Still, it does not assuage the guilt.”

“You seem to be handling these deaths better than Vara,” Cyrus said.

“I’ve been doing it longer. I’m also older and more in control of my emotions,” Isabelle said. “I have been an officer in Endeavor for nearing thirty years. In that time, we climbed from being a guild much like Sanctuary was a few years ago to become the most powerful in Arkaria save two—and perhaps, someday soon, three,” she said with a nod to Cyrus. “Within that rank—Amarath’s Raiders, Burnt Offerings and Endeavor—is the most brutal competition you could imagine.

“We each push ourselves to outdo the others, mounting harder excursions, more taxing invasions of godly realms, and even participating in the occasional cutthroat guild war; though,” she said with a shudder, “thankfully it’s been years since the last of those. I have seen hundreds of our own die in my time, perhaps even a thousand or more.” She shook her head. “It would be cold to say I don’t feel the effects of those deaths last night, but I’ve seen so much worse, I suppose I’m numb to it.”

“Worse?” Thad said again. “What could be worse than your people slaughtered?” Cyrus blanched and shot the warrior another glare, matched by Martaina behind him. “Sorry,” Thad said. “Again.”

Isabelle seemed not to hear him. “What could be worse than that?” Her voice was far away, dreamlike. “What indeed.” She became quiet, and Cyrus thanked Bellarum, hoping that Thad would have no more chances to put his foot in his mouth.

They arrived at the government center a few minutes later. Cyrus had seen it from the bridge and thought it to be ugly; up close his impression was confirmed. Most buildings in Termina had greenery growing from them, vines hanging down the side, even in the chill of winter. The squares had fountains in them that were flowing even now, though Cyrus had seen ice forming on and around them.

The square that held the government center had no charms to speak of. The building itself was a dull grey, with a flat roof and no accoutrements to give it even a semblance of the flair that the rest of the city had. It was as though they designed everything else to reflect the majesty of the city and decided the government center would be solely functional.

Cyrus led Isabelle through the front doors after commanding the others to wait with the horses. As they entered, he found the interior not much different from the outside; an uninspiring entryway where a female elf took their names and handed them to a soldier who led them through a series of hallways.

Odellan sat in an open space, his desk against the far wall, writing on parchment with a quill in his hand. Their escort cleared his throat, then bowed and ducked back the way he came.

“If it isn’t the hero of Sanctuary,” Odellan said, rising to greet them. With a nod at Isabelle, he amended, “And Endeavor.”

“You give me too much credit, Endrenshan, and her—” Cyrus gestured to Isabelle—“not nearly enough.”

“The General of Sanctuary is known for his strong swordsmanship,” Isabelle replied, “but not nearly so well as he should be for his silver tongue.”

“Please, have a seat.” Odellan gestured to chairs that were pushed against the wall on the side of the room. When Isabelle refused, both Cyrus and the Endrenshan remained standing. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to stop by.”

“No, we were in the area and looking for directions to a brothel,” Isabelle said with a straight face.

Cyrus blinked and looked at her. “I think you just channeled the spirit of your sister.”

“Bah,” the healer said. “I taught her everything she knows about acerbic witticisms.”

Odellan, seeming a bit lost, reached over to the desk and produced a long piece of parchment. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not involving myself in your verbal back and forth—some other time perhaps. I have here a list of the men—and the few women—who were targets of the Hand of Fear.” He held it out for them to see.

Cyrus didn’t even get a chance to read the first name before Isabelle snatched it out of his hand. “Nonwren, Vadir, Prokhot, Ulonne…” She read a few more names under her breath. “All have homes on Ilanar Hill, all some of the wealthiest citizens of Termina.”

Odellan nodded. “There’s another commonality, I think, one that’s less obvious.” He smiled. “If you don’t mind me taking a moment to compliment myself, there’s not another Guardsman in Termina—and maybe elsewhere—that would have picked up on this.”

“Oh, yes,” Cyrus agreed, somewhat bored, “very impressive, a list of wealthy elves.”

“Not just wealthy.” Odellan adjusted his uniform. “All of them are former counselors to the King—every single person on this list has been a member of the royal court.”

Chapter 22

“Isabelle,” Cyrus said, “you told me if the political elements had their way, Vara would be in the court right now.”

“She would,” Odellan said. “My father is Prime Minister—which is how I know these people were on the court. Every last one of them has had a close association with King Danay at some point in the last few centuries. Each served a term in their station then moved back to private life here in Termina.”

“So,” Cyrus began, “why would someone be targeting former members of the court—and someone that would be wanted on the court? You both know more about elven politics than I.”

Isabelle exchanged a look with Odellan before she spoke. “No idea.”

Cyrus answered with practiced skepticism. “Really. And it doesn’t have anything to do with the shelas’akur?”

Odellan shook his head. “She’s being truthful. I see no linkage to Vara—at least nothing obvious. But that’s not the main reason I asked you to come here.” The Endrenshan’s eyes glowed with excitement. “I’ve been waiting for one of our local lowlifes—a gnomish smuggler who I caught with illegal goods—to get back to me with some information.”

Cyrus looked to Isabelle, then back to Odellan. “And?”

Odellan smiled. “There’s a man that lives on Ilanar Hill, was counsel to the King, and is now missing. I believed him to be in hiding. This gnome bartered his whereabouts in exchange for a reduction in a prison sentence.”

“Let’s go find him.” Cyrus turned toward the exit.

“Absolutely,” Odellan said with a nod. “I’ll get a few of my men and we’ll be on our way.”

They left and followed Odellan through another maze of corridors into a barracks, where he issued brisk orders in elvish to a half dozen men standing at the ready. They followed out a side entrance back to the street, where Thad, Andren, Longwell and Martaina waited ahorse. They were moving in minutes with a small column of elvish soldiers following behind them.

Odellan led the way, and the hushed military discipline of the soldiers seemed to carry over to their group; there was no talking as they headed east toward the river, following an avenue that led to the northern bridge that crossed to Santir. They took a right turn at one of the squares and began wending their way through a neighborhood of row homes that looked significantly smaller and much less well taken care of than Vara’s parents’ neighborhood.

“This is Var’eton,” Isabelle said in a whisper. “It’s called ‘The Lowers’ in the human tongue.”

Cyrus looked around. The streets were clean and well kept, though the cobblestone was more aged and cracked than in the other areas he’d been, and there was a smell in the air, something like meat. He crinkled his nose and tried to get a fuller sense of it.

“It’s the stew that the less privileged eat,” Isabelle explained when she caught sight of his wrinkling nose. “It’s made with the parts of the animals that no one else wants, and thus is spiced with arinder, a local herb that’s quite…pungent.”

They cantered along until they reached a house, a two story building made of old, crumbled brick with few windows. Cyrus dismounted and followed Odellan up the steps. “How do you want to handle this?” he asked the Endrenshan as they walked.

Odellan stopped. “He’s not a fugitive nor a criminal of any kind. We’ll just knock on the door and ask if he’d mind answering some questions. He’s in hiding for some reason if he’s here instead of at his mansion.” With a shrug, the Endrenshan knocked on the door.

Cyrus waited next to Odellan, but there was no response from inside. “Maybe he’s not home?”

Odellan chewed on his lip, still serious. “From what I’ve been told this is a man who has nowhere else to go.”

“Perhaps he’s not excited to see the law either.”

Odellan shook his head. “It’s possible he’s not excited to see anyone; this Hand of Fear is surprisingly capable. They seem to be everywhere and have incredible amounts of information.”

“How do you think they’re able to do that?”

“My guess?” Odellan asked before turning to knock on the door once again. “They have spies where I wouldn’t have thought it’d be possible to place them—the court in Pharesia, the heights of Termina industry, maybe even in the Chancel. It’s hard for me to believe it’s so easy to corrupt those institutions.”

“That would take a lot of money,” Cyrus said. “So where are they getting it?”

“Like so many other things in this investigation, I don’t know,” Odellan said as they heard a sound behind the door. There was the squeak of a floorboard and the door opened an inch, giving Cyrus a view of blackness from floor to ceiling in the house, with only a slight change of outline in the middle—and a lone eyeball, staring at him from out of the dark.

“I don’t accept guests,” said the man, keeping the door cracked.

“I am Endrenshan Odellan of the Termina Guard,” the captain began. “Are you Arbukant?”

The eyeball darted about, looking at Cyrus and then the Endrenshan. “I might be. What does the Termina Guard want with me?”

“I’d like to ask you some questions about some acquaintances from your days in the court. Perhaps you remember my father—”

“I’m sorry.” The door budged not an inch, the darkness within still hiding the elf from sight, and his eye slipped left to right, alternating between the two armored men standing on the doorstep. “I don’t want visitors.”

“I believe your life is in danger,” Odellan went on, “but you already know that. Why not let us protect you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arbukant said, eye wider now. “I don’t want to talk to you—not either of you. I have no words for the Termina guard and—” the eye rolled up and down Cyrus, taking him in—“whoever you are.”

“What about me?” A soft and familiar voice came from behind Cyrus. Vara stood at the foot of the steps, still wearing the red dress that she’d had on when he left her on the bed. Her eyes were slightly red, and her hair was tangled. “Do you have any words for the shelas’akur?”

“What are you doing here?” Cyrus’s words came out in a low hiss.

“Looking for answers,” Vara said without a trace of irony as she ascended to the step below Cyrus and Odellan.

The door opened a bit more and Cyrus caught a glimpse of the man inside; at least a portion of him. He looked middle-aged by human standards, and wore dark clothing that looked like a mass of black in the low light of his house. His face had a few wrinkles, and his jowls were exaggerated even though he was not fat at all. He opened the door enough for someone to enter. “I would speak with the shelas’akur,” he said. “But no one else. Step inside.”

Cyrus interposed himself between the door and Vara as she climbed the steps. “I’m her bodyguard. She doesn’t come in without me.”

“Are you mad?” Vara said. “He’s on edge; don’t antagonize the man. Let me see if I can get him to talk.”

“Absolutely not,” Cyrus returned, not bothering to lower his voice. “You don’t have your sword and without the strength granted by your mystical armor you’d have a hard time fighting off a kitten.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’ll regret that choice of words later when I unleash a bag of angry cats upon you while you sleep.”

“Be that as it may,” Cyrus said, turning back to Arbukant, “she’s not coming in without me.”

As Vara drew a breath to argue, the elf in the doorway stepped back to admit them. “Fine, fine,” he said, “but the two of you and no more!”

Vara shot Cyrus a nasty look that he ignored, and he stepped into the open door, pushing her aside to enter first. She made a grunt of impatience, which he also ignored. He rested his hand on Praelior’s hilt, feeling the additional strength and speed run through him. Time seemed to slow a degree while he stopped to look around the entryway.

The style of the house was similar to Vara’s parents’, but the size was much reduced; the hallways were narrower, the flooring was old wood, browned with age and use. There was a smell inside, pungent, and Cyrus thought again of the stew that Isabelle had remarked on.

As Vara passed into the entryway, Arbukant shut the door, casting the room into darkness. “The shelas’akur,” he said. “Long have I desired to meet you.”

“Yes, well I…” Vara looked around and Cyrus could tell by the way she squinted that her eyes were still adjusting. His had already done so, and his eyes slid over the cracked walls, looking for any sign of danger. “…I’m curious what a man as wealthy as yourself is doing in a place such as this.”

“Surely you must know.” Arbukant gave her a nod as he locked the door behind them. Vara stood in front of the elven man and Cyrus positioned himself so that he could see anything that happened between the two of them.

“All I know,” Vara said, “is that a group of assassins are after me; and they seem to be the same ones that are after you.” Cyrus watched her as she spoke, saw the muscles in her neck tense, saw the muscle in her cheek clench with her jaw. “I have no idea who they are or what they want, but they pursue me without relenting.”

“Poor dear. You really don’t have the slightest idea what this is about.” Arbukant stared at her, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. “I have something for you,” he said. His eyes flicked to Cyrus and then he reached into the folds of his robe—

And came out with a dagger.

The elf moved faster than Cyrus would have thought he could; but it was the eyes that gave him away. They turned into narrow slits as he pulled the blade free and thrust at Vara, who began to flinch away.

Cyrus’s sword accelerated his reflexes so long as it was touching his hand and he had not let go of it since entering the dwelling. As soon as he caught the hint of movement from the old man, the sword was drawn. He had it raised and ready to strike before the elf had extended his arm halfway to Vara, and by the time he drew close to her, the edge of Praelior struck him at the wrist, its blade made of a mystical metal harder than any other. Cutting through flesh was no obstacle; nor was the bone underneath.

The old man’s arm was spiraling away before he realized it had been severed. Cyrus followed his strike by stepping into him, shoulder first. His pauldron clipped the elf in the jaw as he forced him into the door, his right hand under the neck and his left still holding Praelior.

“Aiiieeee—” Arbukant began to scream, but Cyrus cut off his airway with the metal of the bracer that wrapped his wrist.

“Why do I doubt your name is Arbukant?” Cyrus looked around the room, listening for sounds of danger. Hearing none, he glanced back to Vara, who stood, shaking, a few feet behind him. “Are you okay?” She nodded and Cyrus turned back to the elf. “Where is Arbukant?” The elf wore a look of pure malice, lips twisted in rage, eyes wide with fury.

“He can’t answer with you choking off his airway,” Vara said from behind him, her voice brittle.

“He can point. Then I’ll think about letting him draw a breath.”

The elf pointed to a hallway that led back from the entry. Cyrus released his bracer from the elf’s neck and seized his throat with his hand then forced him to the floor. Relying on the strength granted him by his blade, he lashed out with his foot and broke the knob on the front door, causing it to creak and then open slightly.

“Odellan!” Cyrus called. “Get in here!” He looked back to the man they had thought was Arbukant. Odellan flew through the door, his weapon drawn, Thad and Longwell two steps behind him. “He says Arbukant—the real one—is back there.” He nodded toward the hallway. “See if he’s alive. Be careful—he might have friends.”

Cyrus gripped the elf’s neck, ready to break it if he heard the slightest sound that indicated battle was coming. I kill him then get Vara outside and make sure she’s safe… His thoughts ran wild until Odellan called back, “He’s dead. Looks like no one else is here.”

Cyrus loosened his grip on the elf’s neck. “Hand of Fear?”

The faux Arbukant coughed, then nodded, his remaining hand grasping at the bleeding stump of his right wrist.

“How many of you do I have to kill before this is over?” Cyrus said, his anger taking hold. “Let’s get to it, because I’m going to win and you’re going to lose, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you and your comrades can get dead. You can’t have her, and I will kill every last one of you until you stop coming.”

“We will never stop,” came the man’s low hiss. His eyes were wild, darting from Cyrus to Vara. “When our master commands a death, the death shall be had.” He fixated on Vara. “I will say no more,” the elf continued. “Do as you will; kill me, imprison me, it matters not.”

Cyrus picked him up by the chest and slammed him into the floorboards, yielding a horrifying crack. “I want the name of your master. If he commands fear then I want to meet him so I can teach him a few things.” He picked the man’s head up and slammed it again. “I can do this all day. I’ll just have one of my people heal you between deaths.”

“Cyrus,” Odellan’s voice came from over his shoulder. He turned to the Endrenshan to find him shaking his head. “I can’t let you do that. It’s not allowable under elven law.”

“What?” Cyrus asked. “This?” He slammed the elf’s head down again, this time so hard the man emitted a pitiful cry. “Termina doesn’t favor the punishment of assassins?”

“We have laws to protect our citizenry,” Odellan said. “I can’t let you torture the man, regardless of what he’s done. He’ll face justice through a trial.”

“Yes, that seems like a hell of a deterrent,” Cyrus grunted. He looked back down at the elf, and was surprised when a choked laugh made its way out of the man’s lips. “You think this is funny?” Cy punched him in the mouth and blood welled up from between his teeth, ran down his face, and he laughed again. “You think it’s funny to make a woman fear for her life?” Cyrus hit him again, and this time something broke; teeth and maybe more. The elf’s nose gushed blood and his eyes fluttered, brushing close to unconsciousness.

“Cyrus!” Odellan’s hand landed on his shoulder and the Endrenshan took a knee and whispered in his ear. “I know you wish to hurt this man, but if this continues, duty will compel me to expel you from the Kingdom. Who will protect Vara then?”

Cyrus squeezed his hand tight, his fist cocked and ready to deliver a killing blow to the assassin. “Fine.” The elf dropped to the ground, bleeding from the face, the floor already slick with blood, shining from the sunlight creeping across the floor into the entry. “Do whatever you want with him.” Cyrus turned to leave and was stopped short by a low, sucking noise. He turned back to the assassin and realized it was laughter; almost drowning in his own blood, the elf was still laughing.

“You…should have killed me…” His eyes fluttered once more and he fixated on Vara, his misshapen mouth contorted in a twisted, now toothless smile. “Your death is coming,” he said, spitting blood between every syllable, “because he who is most fearsome has commanded it and so you will die.

“You—and the old one as well.”

Chapter 23

Cyrus rode through the streets of Termina, having left the assassin in the hands of Odellan and his troops. Vara was sandwiched between him and Thad, with Longwell and Andren riding in front of them and Martaina behind with Isabelle. The silence was thick and the atmosphere almost as cold as the chill emitted by Vara. “You should not have brutalized him.” Vara’s words came flat, unemotional, and broke the silence with all the impact of the crack of a whip.

“Perhaps not,” Cyrus said. For the past few minutes he had stewed in the memory of what he’d done and felt a hint of remorse—mainly because his efforts had yielded nothing. They were on the Entaras’iliarad, the road that stretched between the Chancel of Life and the center bridge that led back to Santir, and the crowds were enormous, filling the streets with elves wrapped up against the elements. He looked back at Vara again, his cloak draped over the simple cloth dress that was all that stood between her and the icy wind howling through the streets.

“Perhaps not?” Isabelle said. “I think you permanently damaged his face.”

Cyrus grunted. “He’s not the first. What do you think he meant by saying they would kill Vara and the old one?”

“Maybe he was talking about you,” Andren said. “You’re looking a bit worn around the edges of late, you know.”

Cyrus fired off a rude gesture. “Is your wine-sodden brain capable of grasping that we have a serious threat?”

“Wine-sodden?” Andren said, offended. “I’ll have you know I prefer ale.”

“Old ones are a legend,” Martaina said from the back. “Supposedly immortal, they were the first elves.”

“So they’re going to kill some immortal elf?” Cyrus pondered, talking almost to himself.

“Yes, except that the old ones,” Isabelle said, “if they ever existed, are gone. We elves have a lifespan of six thousand years. That may seem long to a human, but I assure you, it’s not infinite.”

“Is it possible that they still exist?” Longwell asked. “I mean, would they look different? Or could it be that someone wouldn’t know that they’re immortal?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said with measured skepticism. “I suppose it’s possible in the sense that anything is possible; you could get hit by a dead griffon falling out of the sky right now—but it’s not likely.”

“In other words, you think the legend is bullshit,” Cyrus summed up. With a start, he looked back to the Endeavor officer, who wore her customary smile of amusement. “Sorry, I forgot you’re not one of my people; I wouldn’t have sworn.”

“I am familiar with the term, though most of the time I hear it in whispered breaths behind my back rather than to my face.” She smiled. “But to your point, most elves would think the legend is ‘bullshit’ as you so eloquently put it; we live in our communities, and over the millenia we see our friends and neighbors age. Though you might think me still young-looking by human standards, elves can judge my age very close to the mark. It is subtle but noticeable among our own. I would think that someone who lived forever would be discovered after a few decades; perhaps a century.”

Thad whistled. “That’s a long time to us humans.”

“But not to elves,” Vara said. “Most elves live in the same communities all of their lives. Termina is unique in that it has attracted enormous population growth by becoming a thriving trade city; most elven cities are dying because people do not leave them except by death, and they do not relocate within them to other neighborhoods because of the rigid caste system. It creates a community wherein you know your neighbors and build a relationship with them from birth until death. Even here, to a lesser extent, it happens.”

“So if I was an old one and I wanted to hide out, it wouldn’t be practical to do so in the Elven Kingdom anywhere but Termina?” Cyrus chewed his lip as Vara shook her head. He thought for a moment. “Maybe Arbukant was an old one?”

“Yes,” Vara said, “and maybe he was a dark elf in disguise. There are no old ones. It’s myth and legend.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus muttered under his breath, “and there’s no way goblins could be raiding convoys in the Plains of Perdamun.”

“Let us call it unlikely,” Isabelle said. “But assume he was—why would the Hand of Fear care if he was a thousand or ten thousand years old?”

“I don’t know anything about what they want—other than Vara dead.” Cy nodded toward the paladin, who shrugged her shoulders in a worn and noncommital way. “We don’t know who they serve, what their agenda is once these assassinations are completed—or why they’ve been wiping out former members of your King’s Court.” He nodded at Vara again. “Or a potential one.”

They lapsed into silence as they turned from the square onto a thoroughfare. Cyrus steered through the crowds, keeping watch for pedestrians. At one point, a small child darted into the street in front of him and he steered his horse out of the way at the last moment. He looked down at the little one—a boy, no older than five—and watched as his mother darted after him, thanking Cyrus with a stream of effusive words and begging his pardon a thousand times. Cyrus watched them retreat, and noticed the curve of the lad’s ear; another half-elf.

“Be on with it, woman,” Vara snapped at the mother elf. “If you keep apologizing to this lout, he’ll get a swelled ego.”

Cyrus looked back at the paladin, her cheeks red from the burn of the wind. “You don’t even have an ounce of gratitude to me for saving your life back there, do you?”

She rolled her eyes. “As usual, you look for praise for doing what is expected. I almost wish you hadn’t; then I wouldn’t have to go through the motions of puffing you up into a bloated and gelatinous mass.”

They rode down Vara’s street and dismounted. The illusion remained intact, the facades switched for the two houses. The front door flew open as they approached and Vaste stuck his head out. “Hihi.”

“Hihi yourself, you grotesque,” Vara said. “Get back indoors before someone becomes suspicious.”

“I will, after I’ve stripped naked and done a dance in the middle of the street,” Vaste said. “I thought you might like to know—your father is awake and he’s been asking for you ladies.”

Cyrus turned to Vara. Her face was frozen, eyes squeezed tight from where she had just hurled an insult at the troll. She shivered in the breeze, and after a moment’s wait she was in motion, running toward the door. Vaste ducked back inside in time to avoid being shoulder-checked by the much shorter elf.

“So she does have some emotion other than anger,” Andren said. “Who knew?”

Isabelle laughed. “She does. Not much, but she does.” With a nod to the members of Sanctuary around her, she proceeded toward the door, much slower and with more dignity than Vara had.

Cyrus watched the two of them go and turned around. “Be vigilant. We have no idea what will come next.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess…pineapples,” Andren said.

“Pineapples?” Longwell’s accent was even more obvious in his confusion. “What do pineapples have to do with anything?”

“Oh, they don’t,” Andren said. “I’m just sick of saying ‘assassins’.”

Cyrus shook his head and entered the house in time to see Vaste sitting back down at the table in the corner, the same warriors from Endeavor seated around him.

“This time will be different,” the dwarf told him as Cyrus headed past them to the cellar stairs.

“Sure it will,” Vaste agreed. “After all, you can only lose so many times in a row, right?”

He shut the door, making his way between the houses then up to the second floor of Vara’s home and found himself hesitating at the landing. It’s a family reunion, he thought. I’ll wait for her down here, keep watch in case someone comes upstairs. He walked toward the sitting area and realized, not for the first time, that he hadn’t slept since arriving in the city.

He positioned himself in a chair, his back to the broken windows, and felt his head rest against the padding. Just need to close my eyes for a few minutes, he thought. Or maybe an hour.

The fatigue from the battles of previous days and the ever-present pain from the wound in his shoulder finally caught up with him, settling over him like a blanket, and soon enough he was in a deep sleep.

Chapter 24

“I think you’ve ruined my chair.”

The words jolted Cyrus awake. He blinked his eyes and realized that he was cold, terribly cold, his cloak missing. He was seated, and his neck had a cramp from the position he’d adopted while sleeping. Bleary, he looked up to see the stern face of Chirenya leaning over him, examining the fabric of the chair next to his shoulder. “Your armor seems to be rubbing off,” she said in annoyance. “Are you really so ridiculous that you took the time and effort to paint it black?”

“No,” he said, his voice sounding far away as he tried to orient himself to his surroundings. “It was my father’s, but it’s the metal, not paint, because it’s yet to scrape off and it’s been hit quite a few times.”

“Then what are you rubbing off on my chair?”

“Blood, probably,” he said, hand finding his face and trying to rub the cobwebs away. He looked around the room, still wrecked from the battle the night before. He took it all in and looked back to Chirenya. “I kinda think this chair is the least of your decorating problems.”

“Cheeky,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Where’s Vara?” he asked, now irritated.

“Still upstairs, with her father,” Chirenya said, straightening up. “They haven’t seen each other in nearly a year, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“What is that supposed to mean, ox?”

“What is it with you and oxen? Did you have an affinity for romancing farm animals in your day?” Cyrus countered. “Is there a particular reason you don’t like me, or do I just fall under your blanket contempt for humans?”

She glared at him. “You wish to have this conversation now, do you?”

“Why not?” he said. “I doubt I’ll get back to sleep anyway.”

“I have no problem with your people,” she replied. “In my experience, humans are decent enough.”

“Then what have I done to offend you? Is it that I guard your daughter? You’d rather her go wandering alone with these assassins after her?”

A sigh of deep disapproval came from the elf. “Don’t be ridiculous. While I’m not pleased about the situation she’s in, I don’t mind that she’s got a loyal bodyguard—no matter how ox-like he may be.”

“Then what is it?” His words came out suffused with exasperation. “I realize you’re a mean old hag to everyone, but you seem to have a particular disdain for me.”

“Perhaps it’s not for you,” Chirenya said. “Perhaps it’s more for your type.”

“My type? Warriors?”

“That’s a start. ‘Adventurers’ would better encompass it,” she said with a haughty sniff. “I know who you are. I’ve met your kind before; the sort that thinks they’re a hotshot, noble and ambitious, with plans to conquer the whole world in order to better your pocketbook. You travel Arkaria and use your considerable martial abilities to steal from unsuspecting dragons, goblins and gods. Oh, yes, you are noble indeed.”

“What?” He blinked in outrage. “I’ve stolen from evil gods, yes, like for example the God of Death, the God of Darkness—you know, bad guys, in that they’ve been responsible for actual atrocities. I’ve stolen from the goblins, who, when they were the Goblin Imperium, not only fit the criteria of ‘evil’ but pretty much defined it, since a great many of their treasures came from convoys they’d destroyed and stolen from over the years. And don’t get me started on the dragons I stole from,” he said with a shake of his head. “They were plotting to bring about the destruction of the entire mortal world.”

“Oh, yes, always a justification for everything. I’m sure in your mind you think you defend the less fortunate.”

“I do,” he said with annoyance. “I did save the world from the Dragonlord, after all. And I helped overthrow a nasty, oppressive regime that was choking its people and raiding convoys.”

“And there was no benefit in it for you?” She looked at him triumphant as his face fell. “I thought so. My daughter and I have gone round and round about her choice of profession, and I doubt you’ll say much to sway me. In fact, likely as not, it’s her profession that has got her in this trouble.”

“You don’t know that,” Cyrus shot back. “It could be because she’s the shelas’akur. And you can’t possibly hate me for being a warrior in her guild; I joined Sanctuary long after your daughter and have had no sway over her decision to remain with us or to be an adventurer.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “My issue with you is as follows—while I’m certain you make a fine plaything, Vara requires a husband. An elven husband.”

Cyrus leaned back in the chair and emitted a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “I’m. Not. Having. Sex. With your daughter,” he said with exaggerated emphasis. “She’s made it quite clear that nothing will happen between us.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what she said,” Chirenya replied with a slow nod.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Cyrus shook his head in exhaustion.

“Vara has been a rebel her whole life,” came the measured response. “First she fought against the various social customs I expected her to observe; then she bucked the traditions regarding training of magic users by running off to the Holy Brethren at age fourteen; and then she went completely mad and joined a guild rather than use her abilities to serve her king and country.” Chirenya’s face was lit in the glow of a nearby lamp, serious and stern. “Then she brought home her fiancé—a human, shirking all expectations once more. Worse, an adventurer—an egomaniacal, power-hungry bastard that ended up stabbing her in the back, almost causing us to lose her—” her eyes blazed—“the last hope of our people.

“So you see,” Chirenya said, her calm restored, “I have my reasons for being displeased with both adventurers and humans that come home with my daughter.” Her smile returned, polite. “I have no desire to see her tread the same path again.”

“I’m not Archenous Derregnault,” Cyrus said. “To confuse me with him would be a grave mistake in addition to being one of the most insulting things you could say to me. I would…NEVER…hurt Vara. And why do you keep going back to the romance argument? She and I are not together.”

“You deny that you have feelings for my daughter?” Chirenya’s hands cupped one another. “Because you should understand…” She lowered her voice, so low that Cyrus could barely hear her. “I had a fling with a human once—it lasted about forty years, and while immensely satisfying on a physical level, at least at the start, I got to watch him die in the end.” The elven woman’s face was grim. “For me it lasted the equivalent of six months to your race, and he had lived a lifetime. Elves have a concept—covekan. Have you heard of it?”

Cyrus felt an unexpected tightening in his chest. “Yes. It’s the idea of a long-developed emotional bond between your people.”

“Even if I were to ignore Vara’s responsibilities as shelas’akur, my desire for her to embrace a less deadly career path and assume that you’re a decent—nay, perhaps even wonderful—man, humans cannot become covekan.” She drew herself up to her full height so that she could look down at him, a calm resignation upon her. “You would love her all your life and you would be nothing but a passing memory in hers, something that would wreck her heart and spirit for a hundred years or more.

“Suppose you should give her children?” She smiled, but it was a fake one, one that didn’t even come close to touching her eyes. “You would wound her doubly; half-elves have less than a quarter of the lifespan of a pure-blood elf. You would bless her with children that she would outlive by several thousand years.

“Perhaps you think me cruel. I assure you, I am not; I am her mother, and I want what is best for her.” Chirenya turned to leave, but looked back once more over her shoulder. “Protect her, Cyrus Davidon, protect her from harm. But remember this: the physical harm that will befall her would be nothing compared to the emotional harm of life with you. I don’t hate you,” she said with conviction as her hand slipped onto the banister and she began to climb the stairs. “But I love my daughter—both of them. And I, too, would do anything to protect them from harm.”

Chapter 25

Cyrus staggered out of the house, still exhausted, beckoning to Thad once he reached the street. The warrior trotted up to him, Longwell and a few others lurking nearby. “I’m going to get some sleep. Go up to the second floor of the house and wait there.” He walked past them, then stopped as a malicious thought crossed his mind. “Sit on the furniture, relax, and keep an eye on things.”

“Sit on the furniture?” Thad looked at Longwell with a guarded skepticism. “That sounds like something Vara’s mother won’t like.”

“If she says anything to you, let her know I told you to do it.”

Leaving Thad shaking his head, he opened the door to the Sanctuary safehouse. J’anda greeted him with a nod. “Come to rest? There’s a bed in a room on the top floor that’s unoccupied.”

“How is that?” Cyrus shook his head, trying to clear it from the fog of sleep and the spinning caused by his argument with Chirenya. “We’ve got a ton of people here.”

“Yeah,” J’anda said, “but most of them sleep during the day, when we’re least likely to be attacked by the order of shadowy assassins, and we moved about half our number over to the house on the other side, taking over for Endeavor. They had to reshuffle people after their losses in the attack.”

Cyrus sighed, a long, deep breath of tiredness leaving his body. “You’d think with as many people as Endeavor has, they’d be able to move more in to replace their losses.”

The door squeaked behind him, and Isabelle stood framed in it, hands on her hips, causing her robe to cling to her frame, hinting at curves that weren’t usually apparent through the white cloth. “Unfortunately, we’ll be moving considerably more out.” Her voice was laced with irritation. “I’ve been wondering when it would happen, and it has.”

“What?” Cyrus looked at her with curiosity.

“The dark elves have moved two armies into position to hammer the Confederation lines around Reikonos,” Isabelle began. “The humans are taking heavy losses south of the city, and the Council of Twelve has invoked Endeavor’s Homestead clause.” Her pretty face was filled with a putrid expression. “I’ve got to leave, and take every one of my guildmates. We’re to report along with the rest of Endeavor for assignment at the front within forty-eight hours.” She held up an envelope. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to take up the defense here yourselves.”

Cyrus felt his stomach drop at Isabelle’s words. Reikonos, he thought. They’ve finally started moving on my city. No matter that it had been years since he had lived there, no matter that there were more terrible memories there than pleasant ones, the human capital was still home to Cyrus. It hung there, in his mind, and always felt as though it were a warm blanket of comfort, waiting for him on the day he should need it.

He looked to J’anda; the dark elf was startled, even through the dwarven illusion he wore, but nodded. “I’ll send one of our druids to Alaric and see what he can spare, in addition to that…” He looked at Cyrus. “…other request I already forwarded.”

“Sorry to spring this on you.” Isabelle’s voice fell, along with her eyes. “I’m only one of our council and we have no guildmaster, unlike you. The others have been generous in assisting, and would doubtless have offered more, but this is an order we cannot refuse lest we be ejected from Reikonos.”

“How would they eject one of the most powerful guilds from the city?” Cyrus spoke out of pure curiosity. “Your guild could destroy every city guard they have.”

“They have a way, I assure you,” Isabelle said with a shudder. “It was almost used once before when the Big Three made some defiant decisions and became somewhat intractable in our dealings. Regardless, you need to make preparations to defend Mother, Father and Vara.” She raised her head, her chin jutted at Cyrus. “I would like a word with you in private.”

“We can step out on the street…” he began after a moment’s hesitation.

“No.” She shook her head. “In private. I heard him—” she jerked her head toward J’anda—“say that there was a room available on the third floor.”

“As good as elvish hearing is,” Cyrus said, “I wonder if we might have to travel halfway to Prehorta to have a private conversation.”

“And run into the dark elven host that’s wrecking the human territories?” Her dark smile of amusement lasted only a moment before returning to seriousness.

He led her up the steps past a sitting room on the second floor filled with members of Sanctuary, and then to a small bedroom on the third floor in the back of the house.

“I heard your conversation with Mother,” Isabelle began after shutting the door. “I wanted to caution you not to take anything she says to heart.”

Cyrus felt a small laugh leave him before he could stop it. “Which part should I not take to heart? The part where she told me I was a selfish thief or the bit about how I’d stab Vara in the back like Archenous—or all the remarks about sex—because it never gets old, being taunted about the sex I’m not having—”

“With the woman you’re in love with?” Isabelle cut him off, staring at his cheeks as they turned scarlet. “Yes, I know. It’s obvious to those of us who have been around a few centuries, which is why Mother continues to bring it up even though she knows you’ve yet to do so much as touch Vara in an ‘inappropriate’ way.”

“As if your sister would allow anyone to touch her inappropriately—”

“She would.” Isabelle’s eyes bored deep into his. “She would let you; not quite yet, but soon enough. That has Mother worried enough to try and drive you away.”

He stood, his mouth agape. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about—I mean, your sister—”

“Whom I have known much longer than you,” she said. “She is vulnerable right now, but am I wrong in guessing she had grown more…pleasant toward you before this assassin business broke loose?”

He felt a curious stir of hope inside at her words. “Perhaps a little.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, a gesture that made her look more than a little like her sister. “For Vara, that’s tantamount to crawling into your bed at night; but I believe she would have become perhaps more aggressive as time went on, less inhibited about her feelings for you.”

“I have a hard time believing she has any feelings for me.”

“I assure you, she does,” Isabelle said. “While she is under considerable pressure and more distressed than ever I have seen her, you have been her stalwart, and she has turned to you more than anyone else besides myself and Mother.”

Cyrus took a deep breath, uncertainty swirling, making him feel as if he were spinning. “Why are you telling me this?”

She took a step closer, cutting the distance between them, and raised a hand to his cheek. Her palm was warm, and smooth, and she smelled of flowers as she touched him. “Mother will try and drive a wedge between you. My sister is susceptible to her words, no matter how much she protests that she is not. Yet I see a possibility for her to be happier with you than any time previously.” Her hand dropped to her side.

“But your mother was right. I will die long before Vara does.” He felt the numbness prick at his heart, displacing the warm flutter of hope with cold reality.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I would think that this assassin business would have convinced you of the foolishness of that. She could die any day, at any time. You are adventurers and should embrace happiness where you find it.”

“I don’t know how much longer she’ll be an adventurer. She told me she’s weary of the battles.”

“She’s not pleased about having her family thrust into this,” Isabelle said. “Vara is a fighter and has been her whole life, even when she shouldn’t have been.” Isabelle laughed. “There is no one as ornery and combative as my sister, and so long as she draws a breath, she’ll fight. She’s low now, from the personal battles, just as she was when Archenous betrayed her, but if you see her through this, she’ll rise again, stronger than ever.” Isabelle’s eyes glistened. “And she would make a most excellent consort—and wife—to you.”

A ghost of a smile creased his lips. “You say that because you know that I’m the only one that can match her stubbornness.”

Isabelle nodded, her hair rolling off her shoulder, her face in a near-smirk. “There are some very good reasons that you two are drawn to one another.” She reached out again, this time grasping his hand, gauntleted as it was, and squeezed against the metal. “See her through this crisis, Cyrus Davidon, and hold to your hope; Vara could yet be yours.”

Chapter 26

She left him alone after that. He spoke with J’anda about the things that needed to be done and all the while his head spun with alternating thoughts of Reikonos and Vara, Vara and Reikonos. I should be there, he thought. But always, another would counterbalance it: I cannot leave Vara right now. If anything happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.

But if Reikonos falls to the dark elves, I wonder if I’d be able to forgive myself either.

He awoke the next day after a fitful sleep to find the sitting room full downstairs, packed with both new arrivals and older defenders that Cyrus had seen day after day—Martaina, Thad, Longwell, Andren, Vaste and J’anda were there, as was Nyad and Ryin Ayend, whom Cyrus hadn’t seen since the day he arrived, as well as Aisling, who greeted him with a more than friendly smile, and a smaller dark elf who slapped the helm off his head from behind as he entered.

“Nice to see you too, Erith,” he said, stooping to retrieve it.

“You disappear in the dead of night after an assassination, not telling anyone, and tromp off to the Elven Kingdom?” The dark elven cleric’s irises seemed to glow red in the morning light. “I’m not impressed, General Davidon.” Erith Frostmoor glared at him with an icy intensity that fit her surname perfectly.

“That’s not true,” he said, pushing his helm back onto his head. “I told Thad.”

“Like I said, you didn’t tell anyone.”

“Hey!” Thad interjected. “I am not no one!”

“What’s the matter, Erith?” Cy kept his expression neutral. “Did I worry you?”

“Hell no. I was bored. Without you around, there’s no one worthy to make fun of.”

“Good to see you all,” Cyrus said with a nod to each of them. “I take it Alaric sent us the reinforcements we asked for.”

“Over protest from some of the Council,” Ryin Ayend said with a hint of displeasure.

“What idiot would protest that?” Vaste’s green skin turned a degree darker. “Not even Terian is soulless enough to deny Vara assistance in her hour of need.”

Ryin Ayend flushed, as did Nyad at his side. “If you must know, it was me.”

“You’re not on the Council,” Vaste said with an air of disbelief. “Sanctuary is not so poorly run.”

“In your absence,” Erith said, “additional officers were elected—you know, to help run things.” She shrugged. “Alaric said you were planning to expand the Council, so he held elections and the members voted.”

“They elected you?” Vaste pointed at Ryin Ayend. “Were there no bloodsucking leeches available for candidacy? No man-eating griffons?”

“They also elected Nyad and I,” Erith said. “And Longwell.”

“I say again, no leeches?” Vaste frowned. “The Realm of Fire is surely frosting over as we speak.” He turned to Longwell. “No offense.”

The dragoon shrugged, unconcerned. “First I’ve heard of it. Thanks…I think.”

The front door swung open with a click, and Vara entered the room, now clad in a different dress than she had worn previously. This one was a deep green, and left her knees and the bottom of her thighs exposed. The neckline was cut lower than anything Cyrus had ever seen her wear before, revealing a surprising amount of cleavage. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to stare openmouthed at the change in the usually reserved paladin.

There was a stunned silence that filled the room at the sight of her clad in such attire, finally broken by Vaste’s deadpan. “Somewhere in the distance, I’m certain I hear molten magma freezing and fire being turned to steam.”

Vara’s eyes narrowed. “I need no sarcasm from you, troll.” She looked around the assemblage. “I heard shouting. What’s going on?”

“Ryin, Nyad, Longwell and Erith have all been advanced to officer status in our absence,” Andren said, a mug of ale in his hand. “Apparently, Ryin was not in favor of sending additional forces to help out here.” He took a swig and then positioned his hands as if he were setting two sides against each other. “Now…fight.”

“There is no need to fight,” Vara said, inclining her head toward Ryin, who was stonefaced, and Nyad, who looked stricken. “It would be inappropriate to ask for guild assistance in this matter; it is a personal problem.”

“It’s not that,” Nyad said, her high voice cracking. “I voted against it too, but not for that reason. We’re more than happy to help you in a personal emergency, which this is, or in a matter of defending yourself and your family—which, again—”

“Fine,” Vara said, interrupting the elven princess, her disdain for the wizard cutting through the facade of politeness she had displayed only a moment before. “Then what was your rationale?”

“Yes,” Erith said, voice dripping with anticipation. “Tell them. I can’t wait for the reaction to this.”

Vara frowned at the dark elf. “I assure you that I can keep my composure, regardless of what they have to say.”

Erith smiled with unrestrained glee. “It’s not your reaction I’m referring to.” She looked back to Nyad. “Please, do tell. The rest of you,” she gestured around her, “sit back and enjoy.”

Nyad was frozen in place, but Ryin Ayend spoke up. “In the two weeks since your flight after the assassination attempt, we’ve suffered a downturn in our activity, and it’s adversely affecting the guild and morale.”

Andren sat in his seat, his cup of ale extended only a few inches from his lips, expression frozen in befuddlement. “What?”

“What he means,” Cyrus said, his voice filling the room with ice, “is that since I’ve left, there’s no general to run our expeditions, so the Army of Sanctuary is sitting idle in the Plains of Perdamun rather than continuing our string of victories that has expanded our power and influence.” He glared at Ryin Ayend and Nyad, but the druid didn’t flinch away. Nyad did. “What’s wrong? Afraid to lead an expedition yourself?”

“I’m not the general,” the human said. “Until recently, I wasn’t even an officer, so it wasn’t my place to do so. You have a higher responsibility to the guild and a duty to fulfill—”

“You’re going to have a hell of a time lecturing me about duty with my hands wrapped around your throat—”

Ayend emitted a disgusted noise. “Just like a warrior to move past civil conversation and straight to threats of violence—”

“—wasn’t a threat so much as a promise—”

“—perfect representation of your ‘all-groin, no-brain’ leadership style—”

“—a leadership style it sounds like you’re missing, you prissy little tree-loving—” Cyrus rose to his feet, enraged. Days of fatigue had taken their toll, and all the time spent without a target to fight had left him ready to battle anyone. And this prancing little nebbish just happens to be the first to strut my way.

“This was worth getting glared at by every elf I passed on the way here,” Erith said with obvious glee.

“May I suggest we tone down the discord between officers of Sanctuary?” J’anda had stood and had both hands extended at Cyrus and Ryin, who was still seated.

“I’ve got no desire to fight him,” Ayend said, “but if he takes another step toward me I’ll defend myself.” His hand was extended as if he were warning Cyrus to stop, but the warrior knew he kept it at the ready to cast a spell.

“A fine way to convince me to come back and lead Sanctuary in battles, pointing at me in a threatening manner,” Cyrus snapped at the druid.

“I’m smaller than you and a spell is my only defense should you try and lay hands on me.” The man’s nose twitched.

Cyrus glared him down. “I’m not going to strike you, but I haven’t ruled out grasping you by the neck and shaking you until I get tired of seeing your eyeballs rattle.”

Ayend matched his glare. “Try it.”

“I’m not leaving,” Cyrus said, heated. “I’m not leaving Termina until Vara and her family are safe.”

Vara stood silent a few steps behind him, looking around at the new arrivals, keeping her eyes from meeting Cyrus’s. “What other news do you bring?”

Nyad spoke, wringing her hands. “Alaric has received a request from Pretnam Urides and the Council of Twelve; the Human Confederation has asked for Sanctuary’s aid in defending Reikonos.”

A moment’s silence was pierced when Vara spoke. “I trust he declined?”

“He did,” Nyad said. “He told them that to intervene would violate Sanctuary’s neutrality and make us a target for the dark elves.”

Cyrus felt his jaw clench. Before joining Sanctuary, the Council of Twelve that ruled the Confederation had been a mythical and wise decision-making body in his mind. Now that Alaric has shown me their pettiness, I know that at least half are utter fools; reckless, stupid and responsible for the war that is ruining their lands. Our lands.

“Alaric believed that keeping us out of the war was the wisest course for now. To act precipitously,” Ryin said with another superior sniff of his nose, “might bring an unnecessary doom. Of course the Council agreed.”

“What’s left of it, you mean.” Vaste wore a sour look—somewhat intimidating when on the face of a troll.

“The Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar will come knocking on Sanctuary’s door at some point if he wins this war,” J’anda said. “He still wants me dead, along with the rest of our dark elves.” He shuddered. “And he does not forget his grudges.”

“It matters not, for now,” Vara said. “We have force enough to defend this place, even when Endeavor’s troops leave. I…” She stumbled in her words, her voice breaking. “…thank all of you for your assistance.”

Ryin Ayend stood, bowing his head. “Though I did not support sending additional forces, know that I volunteered to come here myself to aid you. Nyad as well. We would like to see this order of assassins dealt with. After all, we’re edging close to the new year, and shortly thereafter, the winter solstice—it would a good tiding for the season.”

Cyrus looked up from studying the lines of his gauntlet. “What’s that?”

Ryin Ayend’s voice rang out with a stark, derisive amusement. “It shouldn’t surprise me; they don’t teach you much in the Society of Arms, do they?”

Cyrus felt his soul blacken with rage at the druid’s slight. “They spend their time focusing on what’s important. Things like fashioning a weapon out of a severed arm and strangling an opponent with their own intestines.” His voice became sharp as a blade. “Or your own, if that’s what’s available.”

The shocked silence returned, broken once more by Vaste. “I bet that’s come in handy.”

The gathering broke shortly after that. The new arrivals greeted Vara with smiles and warm words, and in the case of Nyad, a hug that made the icy paladin stiffen like a cat about to be thrown into a tub of water, her expression a mask of annoyance.

When she broke free, to his surprise she came to him, her eyes brighter than when last he’d seen her. “My father,” she began, and halted.

“Is he all right?” Cyrus felt a tremor of worry; not so much for the elven man lying on a bed across the street, but for Vara.

“He’s…better,” she said. “Still dying, but conscious and coherent. He has asked to speak with you.”

Cyrus stood still until the words sunk in. “Me?”

“Yes,” she said with no lack of sarcasm. “Were I on my deathbed, I should seek to avoid you until the last, but he has called for you after Isabelle and Mother told him you have been my ‘stalwart protector’.” She frowned. “Their words, not mine.”

“Of course.”

He followed her across the street, into the illusory facade of the house next door, nodding in greeting to the warriors of Endeavor, stern and standing in a line, no longer playing cards in the corner. Something was different, though he could not put his finger on what it was. The warriors seemed…discomfited somehow. The dwarf was edgy, twitching as they passed on their way to the stairs.

The cellar’s light seemed even dimmer, reflecting off the walls around him, the stones wet from moisture forming on them. A gleam could be seen in certain places, a yellow reflection of the torchlight on the wetness of the walls. Cyrus looked around and saw two of the spots glowed red. He paused, something waking in the back of his mind, and his hand fell to his sword.

“Too late,” a voice rumbled. “If I’d meant to kill you, you’d both already be dead.” The ground seemed to shake as a shadow taller than Cyrus separated itself from the wall and moved toward them, eyes glowing crimson. “I thought that sword was supposed to give you faster reflexes, but it appears to have made you slower and less wary.”

“Fortin,” Cyrus said with a nod. “For about a second there, you startled me.”

The light shone upon the rock giant’s torso, illuminating his craggy skin. Cyrus knew the truth, that although his flesh was near rock-hard, there was no rock anywhere on him, just a skin that could fend off swords and magic better than any mortal, other than perhaps a dragon. The smell he gave off was of dirt and mildest sulphur; earthy, an aroma that was pleasant but carried fearful memories that reminded Cyrus of facing the Dragonlord for the first time.

“For a second?” The rock giant’s words carried annoyance. “I could give you another reason to be startled, this time for longer…” He feinted at Cyrus, who stood still and watched a rocky hand speed at his face, stopping an inch from his nose. “How was that?”

“Unconcerning,” Cyrus said. “But be assured, if I didn’t know you, I would have run screaming from the room.”

The red eyes squinted down at him from the darkness. “No, you wouldn’t. You are a warrior through and through, taught from an early age not to flinch from even the most devastating blow, yes?”

Cyrus looked to Vara, who was watching the exchange without interest. “I was.”

Fortin began to recede, taking steps back to the wall of the cellar. “You would not have run; I am intimidating, I know. You were not merely trying to impress the Ice Princess, as some men would.” A deep, booming laugh rumbled through the room and the rock giant seemed to bow, as best he could. “Ice Princess, your new garb displeases me; where is the metal skin you don for battle?”

“It waits for me, above,” Vara answered. “But I am not sure that I want to keep wearing it.”

Fortin nodded. “You’ve doubtless found one stronger. Ice Princesses seem to get many fine gifts; Fortin receives none.”

“No, I haven’t received a stronger set of armor,” Vara answered him with a frown.

“Then what would you wear into battle?” The rumbling voice was baffled. “Surely not this flimsy cloth-skin; it exposes far too much of your soft flesh.”

Cyrus caught the flash of danger in Vara’s eyes and she wheeled on him, her glare warning him. “Say nothing.” He held up his hands in surrender and kept his mouth shut.

“What would you wear into battle, then?” Fortin continued, ignoring her outburst.

“I’m…I’m not certain I’ll be going into battle for the forseeable future.” Her voice was weak again; the fatigue had set in once more.

“I suppose there will always be a strong warrior such as this one around,” Fortin nodded at Cyrus, “easily bent to your commands so long as you continue to display ample flesh.” The rock giant shook his head. “I remain uncertain what it is about the chests of women that so fascinate these ones, but they seem to worship those flesh mounds you carry in the front of your clothing; with them I think you could keep a constant guard surrounding you.”

Cyrus heard a grinding noise and realized with no surprise that it was Vara’s teeth, her jaw clenched hard enough that he wondered if bits of enamel were splintering in her mouth. “Thank you for that observation,” he said, and hurled himself through the opening in the wall before Vara had calmed down enough to respond. His boots clattered upon the stairs, but below he heard the softer footfalls of Vara’s leather-clad feet a moment later.

He slowed when he reached the second floor, where a quick glance revealed Isabelle’s door was shut and Chirenya sat in the chair that she had awoken him from the day before. She stared out the window, and even the sound of him behind her did not seem to stir her from her reverie.

“Come along,” Vara said as she passed him, her long legs carrying her up.

“Right behind you,” he said, taking a last look at Chirenya, who still had not moved.

She halted before the door to her parents’ chamber and turned back to him, one hand on the doorknob and the other held up, her index finger extended, her eyes aflame. “Do not assume that because I have required help in this matter, or that because I have grown weary of fighting, that I am some weak, defenseless princess, waiting for a strong man to come along and save me.” She snapped out every word.

“I have never thought of you as weak nor helpless,” Cyrus said, “as demonstrated by the fact that even though you are unarmed and wearing a dress that gives you one tenth of your usual strength in battle—not to mention coverage of your skin—I’m still backpedaling from your ire.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, as though she were searching for some sign of sarcasm. “Very well.” She moved to turn to the door, but he caught her hand and stopped her. “What are you…?”

He held up his index finger to his own mouth, as if to shush her, and he cut the distance between them to inches, causing her eyes to widen in surprise. “I have never doubted your strength or your courage. I am here to aid you not because you require my help or the help of any others, but because the loyalty and fidelity you have sowed in Sanctuary should be repaid at your hour of greatest need.”

Her look of surprise softened, but she still maintained an air of discomfort at his closeness. “I…thank you. But, if you could…” She gestured for him to take a step back.

“No,” he said. “I can’t.” He leaned in close to her and she made to take a step back in alarm, but stopped when her shoulders made soft contact with the door. His hand found her chin and he applied only the gentlest pressure to it, holding it straight. She did not fight him, though her eyes were wide as he brought his mouth closer; they closed when their lips met and he kissed her. He felt her hand against his shoulder, the gentlest pressure, and she leaned into him and kissed him back.

When they parted she looked up at him, breathing deeply, his forehead still pressed to hers, her arms wrapped around him. She swallowed and her hands left his back. She turned, placing her hand on the doorknob, but did not turn it. She paused then spun back to him, her countenance clouded with suspicion and her finger raised once more. “Did you do that because you see me as some sort of ‘damsel in distress’? Because, if so—”

He leaned in and cut her off with another kiss, and this time she relaxed more quickly, her arms wrapping around him and her tongue parting his lips, finding his, swirling around in his mouth to his surprise and delight. This time, he broke from her. “I didn’t do it because I see you as a damsel in distress. I did it because I finally plucked up the courage to do what I’ve wanted to do for the last two years.” He looked down at her. “And maybe a little because of that dress.”

Her hand rested on her breastbone, just below her neck as she tried to catch her breath, her face awash in conflicting emotions. The somewhat serene look turned once more into a frown. “You can face death countless times in the form of dragons, titans, spiders, rock giants, bandits, goblins, instruments of the gods and more without fear, but it took you two years to find the courage to kiss me?”

His mouth hung open. “I…uh…well…to be honest…”

“If the next words out of your mouth are some variation on the idea that I am in some way scarier than all of those things—”

“It’s not that you’re ‘scarier’.” He picked his words with care, noting the danger in her eyes. “But if I died facing any of those things, I can be resurrected.” He took a deep breath. “If I tried to kiss you and found out that you didn’t feel the same way I did…” He let his words trail off.

She looked down. “I see. So you feared that I would leave you rejected? Cast off?”

“Yes. So what say you?”

She looked at him in confusion. “What say I about what?”

“A kiss returned under these circumstances could mean anything—it could be that you’re so weary that you don’t have the energy to denounce me the way you would if I’d attempted this on a normal day at Sanctuary. That I’ve caught you when you’re vulnerable, or in a rare moment of gratitude and you don’t want to say ‘no’. But I need—” his hands came to rest on her shoulders and he tried to look in her eyes—“I need you to tell me the truth.”

She gave him a subtle nod but did not meet his eyes. “Hm. Well.”

He felt as though he had taken a deep breath and was holding it, even though he was doing no such thing. The hopes he felt when she kissed him back were still just embers, waiting to catch fire. “Admit it. You have feelings for me.” He pasted a fake grin on his face, and hoped that she would confirm what he had always suspected.

She met his gaze after rolling her eyes. “Fine, I admit it. I do have feelings for you. Or at least a feeling—and it is called loathing.” She sighed after seeing the look on his face, the disappointment he was unable to contain at her words. “Oh, all right. I do. You…cause a great disquiet in me, upending my simple life and view of things. And it has been so since…” She hesitated. “Well, for quite some time.”

He cringed. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

This time her sigh was a sharp exhalation as she leaned forward, pulling him close to her, her lips finding his. He felt her hands on his cheeks, her touch causing him to warm from top to bottom. When she broke off, this time she wore the slightest smile. “My father waits for you within, you know. He told me to bring you to him so that he could thank you for protecting me—and our family.”

Cyrus took a breath, his face flushed with excitement, his stomach churning and the steady thrum of his heart in his ears. “I suppose I should go in and speak with him.”

Vara smiled at him—a long, slow one that spread to the corners of her mouth and lit her whole face in a way that he had seen few times since he had known her. She was resplendent, radiant, her skin carrying a flush of its own. “Yes, you should. But he can wait while I thank you for myself.” She leaned in and kissed him again.

He soon enough forgot about the old man waiting above, the rock giant below, his guildmates across the street, the assassins somewhere outside, and everyone else, as he lost himself in her touch, her kiss, her softness, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen, alive once more after being filled with despair for so long.

Chapter 27

He entered the room a few minutes later, and watching him from the bed was the elven man that he had yet to see conscious. Vara’s father wore a light silken shirt that split in a V, revealing his chest, sunken with age and spotted. He had gray hair around the sides of his head but none on top, and his skin was much darker than his daughter’s. His face was cracked with a smile as Cyrus entered. The elf waved him over, extending his hand in the customary human (not elven) greeting.

“I have heard much about you,” he said in thickly accented human. “My wife and daughters say you…” He struggled with the words. “…have protected them. Although if my ears do not deceive me, I suspect other…reasons?” He thought for a moment. “Motives,” he decided. “That is the word.”

Cyrus grasped Vara’s father’s hand and realized he did not know the man’s name. “I am Cyrus Davidon, and I have had the honor and privilege of serving with your daughter as an officer in Sanctuary over the last two years. She inspires such loyalty that it was only natural that we would come to her aid when needed.”

The old man studied him. “She inspires many things, and I am pleased that loyalty is among them. My name is Amiol—I doubt you would have heard it but through talking with Chirenya, as my daughters would call me—”

“Taedaron,” Cyrus finished for him. “In the Human language, we say ‘father’.”

Amiol nodded. “I am of the old generation. Fifty-seven hundred years old,” he said with pride. “I did not learn any of your language until nearly a thousand years ago, so you must…” He paused, searching for a word. “…forgive? Yes. Forgive me, but we did not trade with humans until then, and I have never been good with your words.”

“It’s all right,” Cyrus said. “I speak a little elvish.”

“Somehow we will make it through this,” Amiol said with a chortle that turned into spasming cough that lasted for nearly a minute. Cyrus started toward the door, but felt the elf’s still-strong hand grip his arm, holding him back. “I am fine. You have my thanks, for Vara. For keeping her safe.”

He felt the ghostly aftertouch of her lips on his. “It was my duty as her guildmate.”

“It was that and more,” Amiol said with a glimmer in his eyes. “It was long ago I was a man your age, but don’t think that I am so enfeebled that I cannot remember it.”

“I would never doubt it.”

“I think back on my youth,” he said with a sigh. “I am like you; I know no magic. But I was fair with a sword, and fought in my share of battles in the days when we were at the throats of the dark elves, like your people are now.” His eyes drifted away, and Cyrus had the sense that he was reliving things from long ago. “I was in the army when it was a shining pinnacle, the spear of Elvendom—before we were united into the Kingdom. I traveled to your human lands, to Reikonos, when it was the Citadel and little else.”

“When was that?” The vision of Vara filled Cyrus’s head. The remembrance of her touch caused his blood to rush, and he had to work to listen to the elder elf.

“Three thousand? Four thousand years ago?” Amiol shook his head. “It feels like…how do you say? The day before today?”

“Yesterday.” Yesterday I hadn’t kissed your daughter yet. It already felt so long ago.

“Yesterday…” The words came out of the elf’s mouth in a slow hiss, thickly accented. “So many of those times seem like yesterday, even though they were millenia ago.”

Cyrus pondered that; living thousands of years, watching entire cities grow up. Reikonos has been the largest city in the world for my entire life, he thought. Yet when this man was halfway through his life, it barely existed.

“You wonder what it would be like to live so long?” Amiol stared at him. Cyrus had not realized he had drifted off, captivated by the question. “It is not so different from your life, I expect, but more of everything—more experiences, more things you have learned, more wounds, more pain, more pleasure, more love.” He made a sound of dry amusement. “I have heard humans call elves wise but I suspect we would look foolish compared to someone who has lived so much longer than us. How old are you?”

It took Cyrus a moment to realize the question was pointed at him. “Nearly thirty.”

“A child among our people, and yet a man grown among your own.” He nodded and stared off into the distance. “Fit to have lands, be married and have children of your own.” Refocusing on Cyrus, he asked, “But you have no children of your own? No wives?”

Cyrus cleared his throat. “Humans aren’t allowed to have more than one at a time…and no, I don’t have a wife. Nor children.” But perhaps…

Amiol paused. “I was old when I met Chirenya; or I should say she was young. Now I am older still, and she remains as youthful and lovely as the day I met her.” He smiled in memory. “And still as stubborn, willful and damnably frustrating.”

“I heard that,” came a voice from the broken window, wafting up from the floor below.

“Then you heard the ‘lovely’ part as well, and I’ll thank you to take that to heart and stop eavesdropping,” he muttered in elvish, still smiling. Amiol folded his withered hands across his chest. “My days come to a close, which is a time of great sorrow among my people, since it comes so rarely. My brothers and sisters, of which there were eighteen, have all preceded me into the beyond.” A flicker of sadness lay upon the old man’s features. “Because I married so late, and had children even later, I was unable to finish all I needed.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“My eldest daughter is a woman grown,” he said. “Tough like her mother, but lighter of disposition. Capable of making her own decisions now, of—” he lowered his voice—“throwing off the yolk of her mother’s opinions on how to run her life.”

“I heard that too!” Chirenya’s voice once more came from below, shattering the calm.

“The illusion on the house doesn’t redirect your voice,” Cyrus said. He waited for a response, but there was none.

“My youngest daughter is still a child among my people,” Amiol said. “She will not be considered an adult until her hundredth year—though she is capable.” He smiled. “I still remember the day she was…” He struggled again. “…the day she came from her mother…we would say, ‘shelas’.”

Cyrus frowned, befuddled. “Hope?”

Amiol looked at him, confused. “No, the day her mother…she came forth from her mother, the day she was…ah…uh…”

Cyrus felt a chill, once more unrelated to the wintery air seeping in through the broken windows. “Born?” His voice was high, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes!” Amiol exulted. “I remember the day she was born, so small, but she had a full head of hair, if you can believe…”

The old elf went on, but Cyrus’s thoughts buzzed in his head, overwhelming everything that Amiol was saying. Words spun, whirling in his skull, the same two, over and over, and he felt the fool. He thought of the Chancel, of the streets, combing his memory, confirming what he’d seen in his mind’s eye, something so odd, and yet undefined; inexplicable at the time.

Shelas’akur, he thought.

Last born.

Chapter 28

He shut the door behind him a few minutes later, leaving the elder elf behind. Chirenya passed him on the stairs, shooting him an accusatory gaze and closing the door behind her. The rest of his conversation with Amiol had passed with leaden speed, as though Cyrus were having it whilst his head was underwater. It dragged, painful in places, as Amiol tried to engage him with questions that he could not find any answers for within the depths of his preoccupation.

Last born, he thought again. Last born.

His boots on the stairs made a sound similar to someone knocking on a door. He came off the landing to the second floor and saw her waiting for him at the door to her room, leaning against the frame with her hands behind her, a sly smile resting on her lips that—had this been only minutes before—would have excited him beyond belief at the possibilities.

Now he only wanted to ask questions.

He walked toward her, all thought of her posture gone, the memory of the kisses they’d shared far out of his mind. He brushed past her, eliciting a look of confusion as he strode into the room and stood at the window. “What?” she asked.

He did not look back. “Were you listening?”

“I am not so rude as my mother,” she said, creeping up behind him and placing a hand upon his back. “It takes concentration to eavesdrop; I chose not to.”

“I see,” he said, quiet. “Your father reminisced about the day you were born. Except he didn’t say born, because he couldn’t remember it; he used the elvish word, trying to bring its human counterpart to mind.” Even through his armor, he felt the pressure from her hand increase subtly. “Shelas’akur,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “I had it all wrong.”

She pulled away. “Not entirely.”

“You had to be laughing when I said it the first time,” he said, shaking his head. “I was so sure it was ‘last hope’.”

“It is,” she said, “and I did not laugh at you because of it. Not only because we were in no position to be laughing at the time, with Niamh dead just moments before, but because you were close—too close—to the truth of it.”

Cyrus felt his hand reach up and grasped at a piece of the window frame, plucking a splinter from it. “How was I close?”

She walked the length of the room, back to the chair she had been in the day before when they had talked. “It’s a funny trick of language,” she said, hands curled up in her lap. “Thirty or so years ago, the meaning of ‘shelas’ was ‘born’. And then, suddenly, on the day of my birth, it was ‘hope’ and has been ever after.” She let go the trace of a smile. “It’s a funny thing.”

He turned to her. “There are no more elven children, are there?”

“I am the last,” she said in a ghostly voice, hollow. “The last of the pure-blood elves; the shelas’akur. The last born.”

“It’s what keeps bothering me about this city; there are almost no kids playing in the streets! That’s why there are so few children in Termina,” Cyrus said. “It’s why all the ones I’ve seen have been half-elves.”

“Yes,” she said in the same voice. “Humans have become the most popular mating choice for elven women, since elven men can no longer produce children.”

“How…” His mouth was filled with the dry dust of the revelation. “How is that?”

She placed her hands on the arm of the chair and used her grip to pull herself to her feet. “No one is sure, but I can say for certain that the Elven Kingdom has not produced a viable generation in over a thousand years. There were fewer and fewer births over the last millennium, until, after my sister’s generation—about 1500 children spread out over the course of 300 years—they stopped entirely.” She held her chin high. “There was a 250 year gap with no births, not a single one—and then, mysteriously, thirty years ago…”

“You were born.” His hand was on his chin, and he was deep in thought. “But why the secret? Why hide this from everyone? Perhaps the humans or someone else could help?”

She laughed at him, but there was no joy in it. “They are the reason we did not tell anyone, the other races. Our lack of ability in breeding puts us at a dreadful disadvantage, wouldn’t you say? For every elf killed in a war, we cannot replace them. In a thousand years,” she said with doom, “we will have no army—and no Kingdom left because all who remain will be too old to defend it.”

“But I’ve seen children,” he said. “Hybrids. Can’t they help carry on for your people?”

“Don’t say that in front of my mother,” she said with a wistful smile. “It may come to that, but let us face it—children of two worlds, humans and elves, for example, do not live as long and they have just as much blood tying them to Reikonos as to Pharesia. That’s to say nothing of the complete and utter desperation it has produced in elven men. Even with human women they are infertile; thus it falls to the elven women to propagate what is left of the species—well.” She grimaced. “Almost.”

“Almost?” He shook his head, staggered at all he had learned in the last half-hour.

“I am the last hope.” Her bearing was straight and regal. “There has been a great deal of interest—and pressure—on me.”

Cyrus felt a tingle across his scalp as the full weight of what she said hit him. “They want you to…uh…”

She stared at him with grim amusement. “You’ve got the right of it. My mother would have me, the last born of the elven race, mate with a good pure blood elf as soon as I reach the age of elven maturity, if not sooner.” A sneer of disgust drove her beauty away for a flash. “And gods know, there have certainly been enough offers, for when the time comes; high born, low born, royals. ‘Just lay back and think of Pharesia,’ is my mother’s advice.” Clouds darkened her face. “I had other intentions for my life, which is why I left.”

“Do you still?” His words were quiet, but almost accusatory. “Have other plans?”

“Yes,” she replied, just above a whisper. He heard the soft ruffle of her dress as she moved closer to him. “A bit…worse for the wear of late, but I still have…hopes…dreams…things I would like to accomplish. I think…” Her hands found his breastplate and laid there. “…I may find some fight left in me, once I get past this trial.” She looked up at him, and though some of the despair had returned, there was hope in her eyes as well. She kissed him again, this time gentle and short. “I am somewhat vulnerable right now, as you pointed out. I hope you find it acceptable to…take things slowly.”

Ignoring that his body called out for her, cried for him to sweep her up in his arms and carry to her to the bed, he answered, “That’s fine. We can take things as slow as you want.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking his hands with her own. “I would not have what I hope to be pleasant thoughts and memories of our time together compromised by all the disasters currently upon us.”

Our time together. He froze, thinking of the fact that their time together, however long it lasted, would be limited by his lifespan, not hers. He put it aside. She has enough on her mind. Let’s not bring any more doubts and fears to add to the pile.

“I’m going to go speak with my father,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”

“Of course.” He bowed to her, exaggerated, and she laughed.

“Do you mock me, sir?”

He tried to contain his smile, but failed. “Must I stop? Because I doubt you’ll keep from making witticisms at my expense.”

She laughed again. “Do you like the sound of my voice?”

“I do; it’s like a pleasant ringing of bells or the tinkling of a windchime.”

“If you like the sound of it that much, I must continue to make fun of you, else I’d seldom speak.” She grinned wickedly.

“You were named for Vidara, weren’t you?” He stared down at her; even though she was tall, he was mountainous.

“Aye. Because of the ‘miracle’ of my birth, they gave thanks to the Goddess of Life.”

“Perhaps they should have named you after Terrgendan, God of Mischief.”

She slapped him on his shoulder. “The Trickster! He’s hideous. What are you trying to say?”

He caught her hand as she raised it to smack him again. “That you’re mischievous, that’s all.”

She drew her hand away and turned to walk out the door, halting after opening it. “Wait for me. I’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ve been waiting for you for two years; I doubt another hour or two will make much difference.”

She smiled, wicked again. “Perhaps, once this is all over with, we can give you a chance to get all that obsessive staring at feminine nakedness out of your system.” She walked away, and beneath the folds of her dress, he watched her hips move with a sway that was much more difficult to notice in armor.

When he emerged from the room a few moments later, the sitting room was empty. I wonder when we’ll get these windows fixed, he thought, shivering from the cold. He heard a squeak and a door opened behind him; Isabelle’s door. The healer slid into the room, sly smile on her face. She looked at him and shook her head as if to say, See? “You were right,” he said.

“Of course,” she said, smug.

“I damn you both, your rightness and all else.” Chirenya stood at the staircase, fury cloaking her.

Cyrus held his place by the door to Vara’s room, unmoving, and unsure which was colder; the anger coming off the woman or the blustery wind coming through the broken windows behind him. “When you thought I was sexually gratifying your daughter you were insulting and demeaning, but not pissed off like this.”

“Because then you were but an ignorant ox, unaware of the import of her destiny, of the vital nature of her future.” It seemed to Cyrus that a winter storm had swept into the room during the conversation and was swirling around the woman, chilling the air to the coldest he’d felt since he arrived in Termina. “Now you know what’s at stake—you know, and you have chosen to act selfishly, all while she’s emotionally vulnerable.”

“As much as you elves hate to admit it,” Cyrus said, grinding out his words with a rough satisfaction, desirous of bursting her arrogance as though it were a full wineskin, “she is a grown woman, capable and mature—”

“By the standards of your child-race,” Chirenya snapped back. “You may breed like rabbits in six weeks, but not us. Not elvendom.”

“As I understand it, at this point you don’t breed at all,” Cyrus said. He saw Isabelle cringe at his slight; Chirenya, for her part, simply grew more furious. “Placing the survival of the elven race on her shoulders is hardly fair,” he said, pre-empting Vara’s mother before she could respond to his jab.

“Too true,” Isabelle said. “It’s an unfair assumption to think she is immune to the infertility that plagues the rest of our race simply because she’s the only elf born in two hundred years.”

“It may be unfair, but she could at least try!” Chirenya’s words came out as more of screech than a coherent sentence. “You did!”

“With my husband, when I was married, yes. With how many men would you have her try?” Isabelle said, expression laced with irony. “Fifty? One hundred? One thousand?”

“As many as it takes!” Chirenya’s eyes were wide with rage, the fury of someone in absolute fear. “As many as it takes to save our race—our way of life—from extinction!”

“Should she bed them all at once, or would it be acceptable to wait a while between attempts?” Isabelle had a tired look, like someone who had had this discussion many times before.

“What do you think, Cyrus?” Vara looked down at them from the stairwell, eyes narrowed. “Being human, your culture has a somewhat different norm, but have you ever before heard of a mother attempt to convince her daughter to become a whore?”

“The situation is grave.” Chirenya was quiet now, her eyes lowered. “We stand no chance of survival; you are our—”

“Last hope? Sounds somewhat familiar, as though the words had been repeated so often as to lose all meaning.” She trod the stairs, her steps quick, dress whipping behind her. “But being the shelas’akur, perhaps I have a somewhat unique perspective; the men of our race can no longer have children. Not with elven women, not with any race. The women are still fertile, and have babies with humans, dark elves, even a dwarf or gnome, should they be so inclined. Therefore it follows that I am likely fertile, just as the other women of our race are.

“Everyone shouts the name shelas’akur without thinking of the true implications,” she went on. “Because if the men are the problem, the only way I’d be a genuine hope to you is if I were a man and fertile.”

“You are a symbol,” Chirenya said, stepping toward her youngest daughter. “You are something that people can believe in when times are dark. You haven’t been here in the last years, you don’t know; a people without children, without babies, they have no hope. They watch their friends and neighbors grow old and infirm around them and see no youth and vitality springing up to replace it!”

“I have no desire to be a false symbol.” Vara took the last steps to the bottom of the stairs. “I have even less interest in doing so whilst giving up my own freedom of choice. If I want to bed a human man,” she pointed at Cyrus, “I shall, and to the hells with anyone who dislikes it. If I someday choose to marry and have children with a human, a dark elf or even a troll—”

“Vaste would be pleased to hear you say that,” Cyrus said.

“—then I will do so,” she finished. “False hope is worse than none at all, and to believe that I am some miracle that will save the pure-blood elves from this calamity is cruel—to them and to me.” She looked to Cyrus. “Would you wait for me outside? I’m in the mood for a walk but I’d like to change first.” She brushed past him gently and closed the door to her room. He wordlessly walked past Isabelle, who followed him, and Chirenya, who said nothing, lost in her own thoughts.

When they reached the cellar, Isabelle stopped on the stair above him, causing Cyrus to look back when he heard her footsteps halt. “It’s time for me to leave. When you come back, I’ll be gone. I wanted to wish you good luck, and…” She stopped, as though unsure of what to say.

The dark pervaded the cellar, but he saw the glint of her hair in the daylight coming from the door, open above them. “I’ll protect her,” he said.

“You’d better.” Her eyes blazed in the dark and he saw her clench her fist. “She’s worth fighting for.”

He took a step up. “So is Reikonos. Keep her safe for me, will you?”

A cocky smile appeared on her lips. “The dark elves haven’t faced the ‘Big Three’ before. I doubt their armies will know what hit them. We’ll send them scurrying back to their mysterious Sovereign so brutally that they’ll swear Quinneria herself was leading the Confederation armies again.”

“I have no doubt.”

She turned but paused, as if she wanted to say something else. Her face was a mixture of regret and sadness. “Please…with Vara, just…be careful.”

“With the assassins or with…uh…”

“With both,” Isabelle said. Her grace was evident, and she looked statuesque staring down at him, the very picture of elvenly grace. “She still bears the scars of Archenous, and to proceed unduly might…inflame them. Be slow and gentle.”

“As much as a simple warrior can muster, m’lady.” He nodded to her in respect.

“I know you will. Farewell, Cyrus Davidon.” She raised her hand. “I suspect we shall meet again ’ere too long.”

“I sincerely hope.” He found he meant every word of it; the healer was truly one of the most shrewd and yet sweet persons he had met. I wonder if that comes from being old enough that you’re wiser than humans and yet young enough in elven terms to not lose your youthful vitality?

She left him, closing the door as he continued into the cellar. A rough, rumbling laugh greeted him when he stepped through the hole into the other house. “Ice Princess kisses, huh?” Fortin’s rocky face could hardly be described as expressive, yet the giant seemed to be leering at him. “Knew you’d get around to it someday. Or was she controlling you with those fleshy mounds on her chest?”

“Someday you’ll learn that those fleshy mounds damn near rule Arkaria,” Cyrus said, turning his back on the rock giant. “Those and the gods, and I’m honestly not sure which holds more sway.”

He reached the street and thought about walking across the street to the other house, to check preparations. No, he told himself. For once I will back off and trust to let the others handle this duty. I will simply…wait.

And he did, the minutes passing as sound came from the broken windows above; argument of some kind, muffled enough that it was not obvious what was being said, just that voices were raised. A slamming door could be heard, and then silence.

Cyrus waited on the walk, the wind swirling around him. He had grabbed his traveling cloak from where he’d hung it by the door on the way out of the house, and it helped. The metal of his armor was growing chill, even through the clothes he wore beneath it. The trees on the street maintained some leaf, though he saw some ice forming in the gutters. He stamped his feet, trying to get warm as he watched his breath fog the air in front of him.

I can’t believe I kissed her, he thought, feeling like a young warrior again. I can’t believe she kissed me back. I should have done that years ago. The thought warmed him, and then he shivered as he remembered the first time he kissed his wife. This time, things will be different. She’s an adventurer, after all. Or at least she was.

The door opened and out Vara stepped, her hair bound once more behind her in a tight knot, the dress gone and replaced with the shining silver breastplate and armor, which sparkled in the light, drawing his attention to her chest. “And still is,” he said under his breath.

“Perhaps, eventually, we’ll break you of that staring,” she said with a smile. “Though hopefully not anytime soon.” She held out a mailed hand to him. “Come along then.”

He took her hand and fell into step beside her. They walked to the corner of the street, where Thad was positioned, looking toward the Entaras’iliarad with great interest. When Cyrus called out to him, he looked back, then did a double take when he saw Vara’s hand conjoined with Cyrus’s. “What news, Thad?”

The warrior in the red armor shook his head. “Not sure. Heavy movement down the main thoroughfare to the bridge.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder. “Looks like the citizenry are heading toward the river for some reason.”

Cyrus saw, even from blocks away, that there was indeed a massing crowd heading east along the main avenue. Other elves were stepping out of their homes all around and walking in small clusters toward the Entaras’iliarad, talking in hushed voices.

“Any idea what it is?” Cyrus looked around, trying to overhear conversations, but none were audible. He turned to Vara, whose head was cocked in concentration. “What?”

“Shhh.” She held a finger up to his lips. He looked to Thad, who nodded approval. A smell of acridness wafted past him, something foul and unpleasant that filled his nostrils, faintly at first, then growing in strength until he could almost taste it, a bitter, burnt flavor in his mouth. Vara continued to listen, her eyes slitted in deep concentration. Chatter of a thousand voices and a far-off tumult to the east were all he could hear, but her finger remained on his lips, pressing softly against them.

After another moment, Vara’s head snapped back and she looked stricken as the blood drained from her face. She hesitated then started to say something to him and stopped, her eyes wide.

“What?” He grasped at her arm, holding her as lightly as he could. “What is it?”

When she recovered, she took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “The dark elves have an army across the river right now.” She was nearly breathless from the news, and her eyes conveyed regret for having to tell them. “They’re sacking Santir as we speak.”

Chapter 29

“Dammit.” Cyrus tried to look east down the cross street they stood on, but it ended in a row of houses on the next road. Small pillars of black smoke hung in the sky above. “It must be the same army that burned Prehorta; the one that’s been cutting off the Confederation from the Plains of Perdamun.”

“Aye,” Thad replied. “This’ll pretty much finish it if they’ve left garrisons in place in the towns they’ve taken. The Confederation won’t be able to ship food nor anything else north if they hold Santir; they’ll control all the shipping that comes up the river as well.” He cocked his head. “You don’t think they’d come across into Termina, do you?”

“Doubtful,” Vara said. “It would mean dragging the elves into the war; the Sovereign would have to be barking mad to consider fighting on two fronts.”

Something about that bothered Cyrus, though he couldn’t put his finger on what. “Nothing about this war has made sense, not a thing from the outset until now.” He looked east once more and could see the billowing smoke above the skyline. “We should go. Thad…keep watch. If ever there was a moment to strike when we’re distracted, this is it.”

The warrior nodded. “Wait here a minute and I’ll get a few others to go with you.”

“No,” Vara said. “Let’s not wait.”

“Sure, it’s only your life,” Cyrus said. “Nothing so important that we’d bother to take five minutes and gather a few people to protect you from the countless assassins that want you dead.”

“Exactly.” She began stalking down the street without him. “Come along.”

Cyrus shot a pleading look at Thad. “Tell them to hurry.” He ran to catch up with her.

When they arrived at the Entaras’iliarad, they blended into the crowd, Cyrus taking care to keep a hand clutched around Vara’s arm at all times. She looked back at him, giving him with a smile that cut the cold air. “Feeling particularly protective now, are we? Could it be you’re anticipating something at the conclusion of all this?” Her smile was teasing.

“Could be. It has been a while.” His reply was curt, and infused with tension.

She looked away. “You’re worried about the Confederation; about the outcome of this battle.”

He hesitated. “This does not bode well for Reikonos. They’re losing a good portion of their food supply and the dark elves will be well positioned to harrass any shipping that comes up the river bound for Confederation lands.”

“You’re worried it will come to a siege?” People edged around them on all sides, but the noise of the crowd made it unlikely anyone could hear them. “The dark elves are still at considerable distance from your capital and facing the toughest defenders your people have.”

“Aye, but the humans haven’t won a battle since the outset of the war.” Cyrus felt the uncomfortable ache of his shoulder for the first time in days. “When you lose long enough, the momentum shifts against you and it gets hard to see a path to victory.”

“If the Council of Twelve has summoned Endeavor to their defense they’ll have brought Amarath’s Raiders and Burnt Offerings into the fold as well.” She spoke with assurance, and he realized she was attempting to be comforting. “An army of one hundred thousand would fall to defeat against a guild with one-tenth their strength. No nation possesses magic users in the numbers guilds do, and being able to heal wounds and resurrect fighters presents a decisive advantage in combat.”

“We don’t know that the dark elves don’t have guilds of their own to summon to service.” The buildings around the avenue had ice frosted on the panes and a thin layer lay over the gutters, causing people to slip, slowing the progress of the crowd. Cyrus could see the bridge rising in the distance. “They could have a hundred guilds fighting for them.”

“Doubtful. But I believe they have at least one.” He looked at her quizzically and she answered, “Goliath.”

He swore, loudly enough that it attracted attention, shocked looks on the faces of nearby elves. “That’s where they ended up? I should have known. But I thought the Sovereign of Saekaj didn’t forgive his transgressors.”

“Apparently he does when you bring an army of several thousand along with you.”

They struggled along for a few more minutes, buffeted by the throng of elves around them. Cyrus took care not to use his strength and armor to plow through unimpeded. Vara was not so reluctant.

“Out of the way,” she said, shoving aside an elven man.

He stumbled and turned to say something to her, anger writ on his features, when he stopped. “My apologies, shelas’akur. This one did not intend to be in your way.” He bowed and spread his arms, using them to push people out of her way as he scooted back. “Make way for the shelas’akur!” The crowd began to part before them.

“Bloody right,” she said under her breath. She turned to Cyrus. “I was never much for abusing my status, but occasionally it comes in handy.”

“Yes,” Cyrus said, voice tight. “A brilliant time to draw attention to yourself, when there are people about who want you dead.”

“Please. If I waited to draw attention to myself until no one wanted me dead, I’d never say a word.”

The crowd parted. Cyrus looked back constantly, trying to see if the protectors Thad was sending were nearby, but he could not see anything through the crowd. When he looked forward, the span of the bridge blocked his view save for the black smoke filling the eastern sky.

As they drew close to the river, Cyrus felt something small and white land on his cheek. Then another, and another. He ran his gauntlet where it landed and drew his finger to look more closely at it. “Snow?” he murmured aloud.

“No,” Vara replied, rubbing her own cheek where some had landed. “Ash.” A black smear remained, dampening her usually pale complexion. “From the fires in Santir.”

His reaction was visceral and unexpected, a sudden tightening of the muscles in his guts. I know they’re burning the town and plundering everything of value, but the thought of it… He shook his head in disgust as they followed the road along the river, and the smell of the smoke overwhelmed him. The scent of it was so thick in the air that it filled his nose and mouth, leaving an ashy taste on his tongue.

“Thank Vidara there’s not wind today,” he heard a passerby say. He had to agree with that; if there had been wind, it would likely have come off the river, delivering so much smoke that breathing would have been well nigh impossible. As it was, more ash streamed down as the fires grew. Although smoke hung over Santir, it hung mostly over the far side of town. The river was still visible, small floes of thin ice on the banks of the dark waters of the river Perda.

The loud voices quieted at the edge of the river and held almost a funereal air. Grim realization set in on those watching their neighboring city burn; the homes, shops and citizens of Santir consumed by the flames and turned loose into the air in the columns of black that blotted out the sky. Cyrus looked across the water from the railing at the raised street that ran parallel to the river. A hundred feet below was a host of docks accomodating the ships that navigated the river. Stairs cut into the side of the riverbank led to the shoreside quay. The wharf was filled with elves observing the destruction.

“I can’t see,” Vara said. “You, move.” Her voice held such command that people moved without even looking at her.

“Not much to see,” Cyrus said. Being taller than the crowd had advantages. Across the river, the dark elven army still held in perfect formation near one of the dockside roads in Santir. “Looks like they’ve got forces massing by the river after marching through the town.” He shook his head. “Santir is all wood construction; it’s going to burn fast.” And along with it goes the last route for half of Reikonos’s supply of grain.

“The humans never stood a chance,” Cyrus overheard someone say. Vara shoved someone out of the way and a few muffled utterances of aggravation were replaced by quiet breathings of “shelas’akur” in utter reverence.

Vara’s metal gauntlets clanked as they wrapped around the cold metal railing and she looked across the river, then closed her eyes. “They never did, you know.” She opened her eyes and turned to him. “We were through there not long ago and they had barely a garrison of guards. That dark elven host has to be—”

“A hundred thousand,” came a voice from behind them. Cyrus turned to see Endrenshan Odellan, a few soldiers with him moving citizens back from Cyrus and Vara. “At least, I’m told.” He joined them at the rail. “The King had our riders overfly them a few days ago and they got an estimate before the archers took a few of them out of the air.”

“What?” Cyrus blinked at the Termina Captain.

“Flying mounts,” Odellan replied, casting his gaze over the water. “Riders on griffons and such, you know.” He pointed to the haze of smoke above Santir. Cyrus squinted and saw small figures flying around the clouds of smoke. “We thought they were going north because the march of the army indicated they were heading for the crossing hundreds of miles north of here.” The Endrenshan frowned. “Our army rode on that assumption—and they took most of my garrison with them.”

Cyrus felt his stomach drop. “You mean your army isn’t in Termina?”

Odellan shrugged as though he were trying to be indifferent. “We still have a garrison. And it’s not as though the dark elves intend to strike Termina; it’d be an act of war.”

Cyrus felt a chill unrelated to the air and leaned toward Odellan. “How many soldiers do you have left in the city?”

Odellan stared out at the water. “Five thousand. Not enough to defend it.”

“My gods.” A swell of awe and sickness ran through Cyrus and he held tight to the railing as the odd feeling he couldn’t quantify came crashing into place. He remembered the words spoken by Andren at Sanctuary only two weeks earlier; it felt like a year had passed.

“Their army came in, all lined up in neat rows, and once they realized there wasn’t anyone to defend the village, they just ran wild. Tore up everything in sight, killing the men, dragging away the women, burning everything and stealing what they could carry.”

“They’re going to cross the bridge.” Cyrus’s words came as a whisper, but Odellan and Vara both snapped their heads to look at him. He pointed to the massing army on the opposite shore. “Something Andren told me—when they sack a town, they unleash their army, they don’t keep it in formation.” He sifted through memories of refugees at Sanctuary, remembering similar stories of the dark elven army going wild, burning towns and villages. “Why keep them in disciplined rows unless…?” He let his voice trail off.

“Unless they plan on them going somewhere else.” Odellan looked suddenly ill and Cyrus watched the guard captain’s hand lash out and his mailed fist hit the railing. “I’ve heard the same tales,” he said, almost in a whisper. “We have no hope of turning them back; not with what we have to fight with.”

“Then what do we do?” Vara’s eyes were wide. “Termina has a million people and the dark elves are hardly shy about killing civilians; their army tends to seek them out to offer a warning to anyone who would oppose them.”

“The body count from their crossing will be astronomical,” Odellan said, ashen. “We have no time to spare—”

Odellan brought his hand down on the railing once more, creating a noise so loud that everyone in earshot turned to look at him. He turned and stepped onto the railing, boosting himself an extra few feet into the air. Raising his voice, he addressed the crowd, his words loud enough to echo for several blocks. “Good people! The dark elves intend to invade Termina.” A moment of silence was followed by mutterings through the crowd. “The city must empty! As Endrenshan and the ranking representative of King Danay the First, I hereby order the evacuation of Termina; abandon your belongings and leave at once! The enemy will be here within the hour!”

An aura of shocked disbelief hung in the air around them for a split second before eighteen different types of hell erupted. Half the citizenry began to speak; the other half began to speak and move, in flight away from the river. Pushing and shoving were rampant, and Cyrus could hear the word spreading in shouts and screams down the waterfront as the crowd began to convulse, pushing back toward the city in a terrible rush.

Odellan moved to the soldiers nearby, issuing orders that Cyrus could not hear. He turned to Vara, who stayed still at the railing and looked stark against the backdrop of the burning city of Santir, ash coming down all around her. “Your parents,” Cyrus said.

“My father.” She turned to him, panic in her eyes. “He can’t travel without help.”

“What is going on here?” Nyad and Ryin Ayend appeared, fighting through the crowd. Looking back toward the Entaras’iliarad, Cyrus realized that the news was spreading, the entire waterfront now in motion, the civilians clearing out.

“The dark elven army is about to invade Termina,” Cyrus said.

“My gods,” Ryin Ayend said, voice a near-whisper. “We have to get out of here!” Nyad paled, her skin a snowy white against the scarlet of her robe.

“Odellan!” Cyrus shouted over the crowd, and the guard captain looked back at him. “What are you going to do?”

Odellan trotted over to him. “We cannot defend the city with the forces we have. All I can do is try to aid the evacuation.”

“It is your duty!” Vara’s voice rose and her cheeks flushed.

“Duty or no,” Odellan said with a shake of his head, “there are three spans to guard—the Northbridge, with the Olenet’yinaii leading to the government center, the Southbridge, with the Ameeras’etas leading to the Bazaar, and the Grand Span that opens onto the Entaras’iliarad. To mount a defense I would need 20,000 soldiers to hold the bridges. Without that number, our position would be flanked and we’d be encircled and destroyed within an hour.”

“My father would send aid.” Nyad was ghostly pale and Cyrus looked up from deep thought to see her, the Princess of the Elven Kingdom, and he felt a rush of hope.

“There is no way to get reinforcements here in time,” Vara said in a ghostly whisper.

“What?” Cyrus looked at her and then Odellan in succession. Nyad bowed her head in resignation. Other members of Sanctuary stood beyond the perimeter of guards surrounding their conversation; Cyrus saw Longwell in particular near the front, watching them with great interest.

“The closest portal is in Santir, remember?” Vara’s voice carried a thread of hopelessness. “The next is three days’ ride southwest of here.”

“Three days’ hard ride,” Odellan said. “More likely four with an army. Our forces moving north are at least two days away, assuming you could get a message to them.” He looked back across the water, where the dark elven army continued to mass, growing larger by the minute, still wrapped in perfect formation. “There will be no reinforcement. The bridges will fall and the dark elven host will march through the city; our pitiful 5,000 will scarcely slow them down.” He shook his head sadly. “Tens of thousands will die if they do here what they’ve done in the Confederation.”

“We need to get out of here,” Ryin Ayend said. “We need to collect the Sanctuary force and get out of this city before the hammer falls.”

“Like hell,” Cyrus said before anyone else could speak. “Odellan, could your army hold the Northbridge?”

The Endrenshan looked at him with uncertainty. “For a time, perhaps; it is narrower than the Grand Span. But the dark elven host would simply march around on one of the others and surround us, wiping us out to a man.”

“If you can hold the Northbridge,” Cyrus said, drawing out every syllable as though each were some precious metal he was loath to surrender, “I’ll hold the other two.”

A great clamor rose around him as Nyad gasped and Ryin Ayend started to speak. “Are you mad?” The druid stared him down, his brown eyes inflamed with disbelief. “You intend to put Sanctuary in the middle of this war?”

“I intend to defend this city and give its civilian occupants time to escape the murder and death that the dark elf horde would visit upon them,” Cyrus replied.

“That will provoke the ire of the dark elves against us!” Ayend’s words came out in a shout. “We’re to remain neutral!”

“Neutrality be damned,” Cyrus said. “Go stand in the middle of the Entaras’iliarad when that host marches through and see how neutral the dark elven army is to you.”

“What’s to stop them from ending up on our doorstep next?” Ryin Ayend raised his hands above his head as if seeking divine intervention.”

“Me,” Cyrus replied. He turned to Nyad. “Have you anchored your soul back at the safehouse?” he said, referring to the process by which a spell caster could mark a location and use the return spell to travel back to it later. She nodded. “Go to the others and give them my orders—take Thad and Martaina along with Vara’s parents and teleport them out of here—Pharesia, Sanctuary, wherever Chirenya wants to go, there’s no time to argue with her. When you’re done with that, go to your father and tell him what’s happening. Let him know that we’re evacuating the city. Tell Andren and Fortin to get their asses to the Southbridge and defend it with their lives.”

“Andren will love that,” Vara said under her breath.

He finished. “Have everyone else meet us here at the Grand Span, and tell them to make ready for battle.”

Odellan spoke. “You’re sending two people to defend the Southbridge?” Skepticism ringed his words.

“A rock giant and a healer,” Cyrus said.

“A…what?!” Odellan was floored. “You brought a rock giant into Termina?”

“Does that violate some sort of zoning ordinance? Be upset with me later.” Cyrus locked eyes with the Endrenshan. “Will you hold the Northbridge?”

Odellan took a deep breath and his eyes closed. He sat there in the cold air, breathing in and out, the mist from his exhalations the only sign he was still alive. “Yes.” His eyes opened. Regret flashed over the Endrenshan’s youthful features. “I wish I had fought harder against my superiors when they took my army away. You and your spell casters, few as they are, stand a better chance of success on the Grand Span than my army does.” He drew up to attention and saluted Cyrus. “I wish you all the luck, General Davidon. Take command of the defense of Termina, please.”

Cyrus snapped to attention and drew his hand to his head in a sharp salute. “They’ll not get through us. We’ll hold until the morrow; that should be long enough to evacuate the city of all but the most stubborn.”

“Aye.” With a nod, Odellan broke his salute and barked orders to the soldiers surrounding them. The crowd had dispersed, save for a few gawkers that Odellan shouted commands at in elvish, causing them to scatter.

“Do you realize what you’ve committed us to?” Ryin Ayend’s stunned voice came from behind Cyrus. He turned and found the druid there, looking at him in disbelief. Vara was still next to him, staring across the river, impassive. “You mean to steer Sanctuary into war!”

“I don’t.” The determination stirred within Cyrus, the anger and rage welling up as though Termina were Reikonos. “But I will fight here, and if it brings us into war then at least it will be for good cause.”

“Good cause?” Ayend almost choked. “The dark elves will storm the gates of Sanctuary and kill everyone there if you persist in this course. I fail to see the ‘good cause’ in that. It’s not as though with our two hundred,” he said, taking a step closer to Cyrus, “you’ll be able to keep them out of the city! You risk your guildmates’ lives against an army of a hundred thousand for what? Death and glory? What possible reason could there be to engage in this utterly pointless fight?”

“Pointless?” Cyrus kept his voice calm. “I mean to use the width of the Great Span to funnel the dark elven host into our forces, where their numbers matter little to none. By holding the bridges, I’ll keep the dark elven army from descending on an undefended city and leaving a hundred thousand corpses in the streets.” He stepped closer and jabbed a finger in Ryin Ayend’s face. “If you have a problem with that, take it up with Alaric and see what he says. But if you’re not going to help us in the defense, at least make use of yourself by teleporting some elves out of the city while you retreat.”

Ryin Ayend stepped away from him, the human’s features still shocked. He twitched, as though his brain could not conceive what Cyrus had told him, and his voice was low and gravelly. “You’ll die.” He looked to the members of Sanctuary that had followed him to the waterfront, Vara’s guard. “Anyone who follows you will die.”

Cyrus turned to the waiting faces. Within the group of a half dozen he saw the face of Samwen Longwell, who nodded at him and grasped the handle of his lance, which was slung over his shoulder. Aisling’s face poked out from under a heavy hooded cowl, looking back at him, eyes glistening in the reflected light. Next to her stood another cloaked and cowled figure, and he realized that the eyes of Erith Frostmoor looked back at him from within.

He took a deep breath. “Right now, I am not your General. I am not talking to you as an officer of Sanctuary. Right now, I speak to you as a man. And in five minutes I’ll be standing on the Grand Span, sword in my hand, waiting for the dark elves to cross. I hope I’m wrong, that they’ll turn north and go elsewhere. But if they come, I will fight for every inch of that bridge, even if I’m the only one out there.” He turned away from them. “If you’re willing to do the same, follow me. If you’re not, kindly help the elves get out of the way of this bloody swath of destruction bearing down on them. I’ll stand alone if need be.” He felt a stir of emotion and suppressed it. “It won’t be the first time.”

He looked to Nyad. “Take that message back to the others—including Andren and Fortin—then tell them to run, not walk to the Southbridge. Go.” She nodded once, and disappeared in a flash of magical light that bathed the world in green.

Cyrus did not look over his shoulder; he turned north toward the Entaras’iliarad a few hundred feet away and started walking toward it, not daring to look back.

Chapter 30

He had almost made it to the span when he felt her next to him, armor clanking as she half ran, half walked to catch up. “Stirring speech,” Vara said. “I daresay you’ll get nearly the whole garrison once Nyad does her bit for King, self and country and delivers your message.” She lowered her voice. “Why are you really willing to do it? Risk war and oblivion and all that? This isn’t Reikonos, you know.”

“No. It’s not Reikonos. But there are innocent people here that stand no chance of escaping if someone doesn’t buy them time.”

“That’s it, then? You really are that noble?” She looked at him questioningly. “You’re willing to die for faceless masses you’ve never met?”

He laughed, a deep, rueful sound. “You’re the holy warrior. Aren’t you supposed to be on board for hopeless causes without question?”

“Yes, but warriors tend to be more mercenary and concerned for survival odds.” She drew him up short with a hand on his forearm. “Why are you really doing this? Why here? Why now? Why didn’t you go back to Reikonos when you knew the same sort of blow might fall on them?”

“Because you won our bet, remember? This is the service you get from me.”

She nearly scowled at him. “Very glib. You picked an odd moment to finally acknowledge my victory in that matter.”

They had reached the highest point of the bridge. Cyrus paced a few more feet, shrugging out of her grasp. He looked across the span into Santir, where the skies were black with smoke. He saw the fire was spreading, but the dark elves were massed and moving, the first rank turning onto the street that would lead them to the bridge. He could see the figures in armor, marching, spears over some of their heads. Mixed infantry, he thought. Probably some mounted horsemen behind them. This should be…interesting.

A line of dark elven soldiers guarded the base of the bridge on the Santir side. They put a picket on the bridge early on, he realized. That’s why this span isn’t completely flooded with human refugees. They boxed them in and slaughtered them. A white hot fury took hold of him and he gripped Praelior’s hilt tight.

He looked back and saw the half dozen members of Sanctuary that had followed him. Only Ryin Ayend is missing. Big surprise there, he thought with a small smile. He looked back to Vara. “You.”

She frowned. “What?”

“You. You’re the reason I didn’t go back to Reikonos to fight.” He turned away again. “It’s not my home. My life in Reikonos was hell, from the days I was in the Society, to the ones when I was married to the one when we met, when I ran the smallest guild in town and lived in a horsebarn scratching out a living. With Niamh dead, you’re the last remaining member of the group that saved my life in Ashan’agar’s Den—the day I first encountered Sanctuary.” He turned back to Vara. “You’re why I’m here. This is your city, this is your home—and mine is with you.”

“Gods, that’s sappy,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “If you didn’t want to answer me truthfully, you could have just said so.” She started to return to the others who were standing at a respectful distance behind them, but he grabbed her hand.

“I meant it,” he said. “You’re why I’m here. You’re what I’m fighting for. I’ll protect these people, because that’s what we do, but I wouldn’t have been here but for you.”

She looked up at him, but didn’t pull her wrist away. “You could die.” Her words were sedate, drifting like the breath of mist that came out of her mouth when she spoke them.

“Then I die,” he said. “But for a reason. I’ve fought my whole life, dancing it upon the edge of death, and I did it for less purpose than to protect your people.”

The words hung between them. She pulled her wrist away, grabbing him forcefully behind his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers. They sat there on the Grand Span, lips locked until the silence was broken by the beating of drums from the dark elven army before them. Cyrus pulled from her and turned to see the enemy formed and streaming toward them, ranks marching up the gentle slope of the bridge, their armor shining in the bare edges of light slipping through the smoke from the horizon behind them as the sun sunk low in the winter sky.

He looked back and saw others approaching from behind at a run, led by a troll that was head and shoulders taller than any of the others. He looked to the north and a mile distant he saw the bridge there filled with armored men to the center of the span. With a look south, he couldn’t see as much, but there was a lone figure in the middle of the bridge, taller than any human or elf, and standing behind him was another figure, smaller, more man-sized. He saw the second figure appear to take a drink from something in his hand and smiled. My pieces are in place. Almost time for the first move, I think.

The dark elven column filled the Grand Span from side to side, and at the fore was an officer on a horse, his armor more ornate than the others. He led on horseback, but his men followed close behind, plated boots hitting the ground in time, one row after another. This should be an interesting challenge, even with Praelior.

Cyrus felt the press of the others at his back, and looked around to see Vaste arriving at the head of their forces, breathless. “About time,” he called to the troll.

“I got here as fast as I could,” Vaste said. “You’d think people would be frightened of a howling troll telling them to get out of the way, but apparently they were more scared of the dark elves.” He saluted Cyrus in a sloppy snapped off mess that ended with an extended middle finger. “Reporting for ignominious death as a private citizen, sir.”

“I don’t have time for a headcount,” Cyrus said. “How many…?” He looked in question at the group behind Vaste.

“All but Thad and Martaina, who are getting Amiol out of town with Nyad as we speak. She’s teleporting them to Pharesia and taking him to the King’s Court to put him under the protection of the palace guard. He’ll be safe there.”

“There’s an order of elvish assassins that would love to get their hands on him and you think he’ll be safe in the capital?” Vara looked at the troll with incredulity.

“Safer than we’re going to be for the near future.” Vaste shrugged.

“Safe as anywhere,” Cyrus said. “Wait. What about Chirenya?”

“What about me?” The elf shoved her way past Longwell. “I’m here.”

“Mother,” Vara said, stunned. “What…”

“I’m here to fight,” Chirenya replied. “You don’t think I’d sit by and let these blue-skinned bastards burn my city down, do you?” J’anda coughed, sliding into place beside her. “Not you.” She pointed into the distance. “Those blue-skinned bastards. You’re merely a blue-skinned irritation.”

“Thanks for the clarification,” the enchanter said, miffed.

“It’s a great disappointment that more of our kind aren’t here to fight,” Chirenya said. “Where’s their sense of pride?”

“It’s tucked away safely behind their sense of reason,” Vaste said. “These are not friendly odds, and they’d be suicide for the untrained.”

“Lucky we’re trained, then.” Longwell made his way forward, his lance in hand. “I’m not familiar with the dark elven army,” he said to Cyrus. “What will we be facing?”

“I always forget you’re not from around here,” Cyrus said. “What would you expect an army to bring to a fight like this?”

“Archers.” Longwell didn’t hesitate. “Mounted cavalry. Footmen…er, infantry, I think you call them. Wielders of magic.”

“Likely all the above,” Cyrus said. “The foot infantry is easy enough to deal with. The cavalry, less so.” He frowned, deep in thought. “I have no idea what to do about the arrows; it’s not as though many of us carry shields.”

“I can solve your arrow problem,” Chirenya said. “Leave it to me.”

He raised an eyebrow and shot a quick look at Vara, who nodded. “All right, you handle that.” He turned to J’anda. “Anything else?”

The enchanter was still, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, eyes closed. “Sorry,” he said, concentrating. “Just a moment.”

Cyrus turned, hearing something behind them on the bridge. An army filled the Entara’iliarad; elves, resplendent in the ornate helm that their soldiers wore, marched up the bridge, thousands of them. He felt his heart leap.

“Don’t get too excited,” J’anda said. “They’re an illusion.” The dark elf showed his most charming smile. “I thought perhaps a bluff might be in order.”

“That is bloody brilliant,” Vara said. “If we can hold them here, hurt them bad enough and make them think there’s an army waiting behind us, we might be able to force them to cut their losses and run.” She shook her head in amazement at the enchanter. “Marvelous, J’anda. Absolutely marvelous.”

He bowed, and his smile became dazzling. “I aim to please, madam.”

“Form a battle line,” Cyrus ordered. “Warriors and rangers in front, and I need someone with a bow…” His eyes came to rest on Aisling, who had slipped to the front of the line, a bow in her hands, peeking out from beneath her cape. He shook his head. “I should have known it’d be you. On my order…you know what to do.”

She smiled. “You want to start things off with a bang.”

“I do.”

They formed in rows as the dark elven army approached, swords drawn. The footsteps of the dark elves were like thunder, marching in time on the cobblestones, the clash of metal on stone sounding the approaching inevitable. Cyrus tried not to concentrate on them, focusing instead on what he would say when the first rank reached him; the dark elves were side by side, a front line thirty wide and at least fifty deep. Fifteen hundred soldiers, he thought. And one officer at the head, the totalitarian figure that rules their entire lives.

The officer rode a black destrier, a massive warhorse. His helm left his face exposed, but covered the top of his head. At either end of the front row of infantry were the standard bearers; Cyrus recognized the flags they carried as belonging to a dark elven unit whose name he had forgotten since the days when memorizing them was required for him to pass out of the halls of the Society of Arms.

“Hail,” the dark elven officer spoke as he closed to within a hundred yards. He held up his hand, and his troops ceased their march behind him. He urged his destrier forward, toward Cyrus, who stood a little in front of the Sanctuary battle line. “I hereby order you to remove yourself from this bridge in the name of the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar.”

Cyrus nodded. “What is his name, by the way?”

“He is the Sovereign.” The officer’s already stony face darkened. “He requires you to vacate the bridge or die. That is all you need know.”

“Among free men, we decide what we need to know,” Cyrus said. “But you wouldn’t know anything of that, I suppose.”

The officer stared down at him, only a few feet in front of Cyrus. “I know a great deal. For example, seeing that you’re a warrior in black armor, at the head of a guild force, I know you’re Cyrus Davidon of Sanctuary.” He sneered. “Interfering with the passage of our army is an act of war.”

“Afraid you’re wrong,” Cyrus said. “My name is not Cyrus Davidon, it is Eloran, and I am but a simple elven pig farmer, here to show you and your army the error of your filthy raping and pillaging ways by slaughtering you to the last man.”

The dark elven officer looked back at him in amusement. “If you’re an elf and a pig farmer, I’m a gnome and a dressmaker.”

“You’re tall for your kind,” Cyrus said. “By any chance do you have any of your selection of wares handy?” He chucked his thumb toward Vara. “I’d like to buy a dress for my lady. Something slim in the middle that emphasizes her curves, with a short hemline and a deep neckline. Something in black, I think; it’d go well with her complexion.”

“You are ridiculous,” Vara muttered from behind him.

“Enough.” The dark elf made a threatening gesture. “Clear the bridge in the name of the Sovereign, or we will run you down and hang the survivors.”

Cyrus cracked his knuckles. “How about I clear the bridge in the name of the King of the Elves, and throw all your corpses unceremoniously into the river?”

The laugh of the dark elven officer filled the air. “You do not have the strength.”

Cyrus tossed a look back over his shoulder, where J’anda’s illusion of the elven forces marching up the bridge had grown closer and was now only a few hundred feet behind them. He looked to the dark elf on the horse and smiled. “You sure?”

Uncertainty lay fresh on the dark elf’s face. “We will crush your forces on the other bridges and flank you.”

“Gods bless you young officers; there’s no guile in you at all.” Cyrus smiled, the most arrogant, infuriating one he could manage. “I have enough men on the north span to hold it and I’m so confident I’ve only placed two of my fighters on the Southbridge.” He looked across the water where he saw Fortin, barely visible, with a line of dark elven forces in front of him, staring him down. Cyrus could not tell how many there were. “What are you, a lieutenant?”

“I’m a colonel.” The words came back confident and strong from the mounted officer. “My name is Rorne, and I command the Midnight Slayers division of the Sovereign’s army.”

“But you’re not in charge of the entire host?” Cyrus let a note of disappointment slip into his voice.

“I’m in charge of enough of the army to send you scurrying from the bridge,” the colonel replied.

Cyrus rested his hand on the hilt of Praelior, his fingers lightly touching the pommel. “Here’s the difference between your thinking and mine.” The dark elf leaned forward on his horse, intent on the words Cyrus was speaking. “The thought of sending you scurrying from this bridge never entered my consideration.”

A roar of laughter came from the dark elf. “You are wiser than I would have given you credit for; you see already the futility of your actions.”

“Naw,” Cyrus said, affecting a low drawl. “When I say I never gave a thought to you scurrying from the bridge, it’s not because I think my forces are going to lose. It’s because every man you send this way will die.” He grinned. “Starting with you. Ais—”

Before the last word finished leaving Cyrus’s lips, an arrow cut through the air. The aim was true, and the colonel flopped from the saddle, lifeless as a boned fish, the fletchings sticking out from his face.

A shocked silence filled the air for almost three seconds.

Cyrus drew his sword and felt the slow rush of time draw down; every second felt like ten with the power of Praelior flowing through him. He thrust the glowing blade into the air and bellowed his most fearsome warcry; it was so intimidating that the first row of the dark elven infantry took a step back, bumping into the soldiers behind them. He surveyed the foes arrayed against him. They’re fodder. They’re weak. Against an army of their own, they’d stand a chance. His grin became predatorial, nightmarish. Against me and mine, they’re chaff, waiting for the thresher.

He cried out again, heard the answering call from the Sanctuary force behind him, and felt a rush of satisfaction at the thought of breaking the enemy here, on this bridge. I may not be able to drive you out of Reikonos, but you won’t set a foot in this land. Cyrus felt the breeze of evening run over him, chilling his cheeks as he took his first step forward into war.

Chapter 31

He charged then and stopped, the air in front of him seeming to catch fire. The heat rolled in a billowing blast, driving him back a step as a wall of flames ten feet tall sparked to life, cutting him off from the enemy and causing his armor to warm.

“Get back, you daft bastard, or you’ll catch fire.” The words were casual, as though nothing of particular importance were happening. He heeded them, trying to avoid stumbling from the inferno that blazed so hot that he flinched from it. He looked back to see the rest of his force halted, and standing at the fore, hands aglow with the light of magic, was Chirenya. “Might as well start them off with the proper attitude—a healthy dose of fear.”

Cyrus looked back to the battle line of the dark elves. Through the fire he could see the front rank of soldiers ablaze. Screams rang over the crackling of the flames, the shouts of agony taking over as the blaze consumed everything within a hundred yards of the starting point. Cyrus watched bodies, wreathed in fire, leaping off the sides of the span into the river below by the dozens.

She just set fire to over half that column, he thought. A thousand of them, wiped out. The screams were howling, filling the air with the anguish of the burning. The inferno shifted, moving away from Cyrus and the Sanctuary force, rolling down the bridge as though it were wheeled, leaving flaming corpses behind as it moved forward, hungry to consume more of the dark elven army.

She has to be out of magical energy, he thought. Even if she’s four thousand years old, I’ve never seen a wizard cast a fire spell that powerful before; she has to be close to drained. Or is she already? Her eyes were fluttering in concentration, and the glow around her hands had changed from a bright blue to a dark crimson.

“Mother, stop!” Vara’s command was sharp, panic rising in her voice. “You’ll kill yourself!

Chirenya’s eyes opened, drifting, and her knees buckled. “I believe I just cost myself a century of life,” she said, falling into the arms of J’anda, who caught her. A thin trickle of blood dribbled out of her nose and onto her blouse. She looked down the bridge and saw hundreds of bodies still on fire, even though the spell had died down, and a smile appeared on her waxy face. “Very much worth it, I would say.”

“They’ll think twice before sending the next wave,” Longwell said, now at Cyrus’s side. “No army could stand up to that.”

“The next wave will be different,” Cyrus said, staring down the bridge. The army massed below, but a ripple was moving through them, their attack halted by the uncertainty brought on by watching their first division slaughtered in fire. “I’d expect archers to start peppering us soon.” He stared at the corpses in blackened armor littering the bridge in front of them. “That was a hell of a spell,” Cyrus muttered. “Is that how Quinneria beat back the trolls?”

“Not quite.” He turned to see Vaste standing calm behind him. “That was impressive, no doubt. But the Sorceress could kill ten thousand with a single spell. Seeing this makes me somewhat glad that Alaric killed her.”

“What?” Cyrus looked at the troll. “Alaric killed her? I thought she was a hero—you know, she helped the humans and elves win the war against the trolls—”

“She used unnatural magics,” Vaste said with a graveness that sapped all the levity out of the healer’s usually sarcastic delivery. “The Leagues declared her a heretic after the last victory.” A smug superiority came over the troll. “Of course, the fact that she did so was buried by your people to avoid the inconvenient truth that you only beat the troll armies because of a heretic, not because of how awesome your Confederation is. It gave you humans an inflated sense of self-importance.”

“What kind of unnatural magics?” Cyrus looked at the troll, genuinely interested. “Worse than soul rubies and raising the dead?”

Vaste shrugged. “I dunno. Scary stuff, if she killed ten thousand with a single spell. My people speak of it as though one of the gods came down and drove them into the tiny corner of the swamps they still inhabit.”

Another question brought itself to Cyrus. “If she was this monumental destroyer, how did Alaric kill her?”

Another shrug. “There’s more to the Ghost than meets the eye. I would think his ability to go incorporeal would have taught you that. However he did it, he delivered her body to the Council of Twelve—that’s why he’s respected enough to get an audience with them anytime he asks for one.”

“Can we please focus on the battle?” Vara’s sharp voice cut through, shaking Cyrus back to reality. “You know, massive dark elven army against our pitiful little force?”

He looked down the bridge. The dark elven army remained in Santir, shrouded now in the smoke from the fires that were growing closer to the shore of the river, threatening to consume the entire city. Flame in front of them, flame behind. Shouldn’t have burned the city until you were done with your crossing.

“Speaking of pitiful little…” Cyrus let his voice drift off as he walked to the southern edge of the bridge. Holding onto the railing, he squinted into the distance. The light of day was beginning to fade, and he could see the Southbridge across the water. Chaos reigned on it, as he saw a body flip into the air, followed by another and another. Four more flew over the stone railing and into the icy water below.

A voice rang out, powerful and bellowing: “I WILL EAT YOU ALL AS IF YOU WERE GNOMES!”

He felt Vara brush against him. “I daresay Fortin is holding out against all comers.”

“I’m not too worried about him,” Cyrus said. “Hopefully Odellan has enough men to hold the Northbridge.”

“You lied to that colonel,” she said as her mailed hand brushed against his cheek. Ash continued to fall around them, and her shining silver breastplate was tarnished with it, smeared with the remainder of the lives, houses and possessions of the humans who had called Santir home. That thought gave Cyrus another taste of bile in his mouth. “You said you intended to hold the bridge indefinitely, but you told Odellan you would only hold it until morning. Which is it?”

“In the heat of battle, you don’t consider retreat,” he replied, his words coming slow. “If you think about quitting, you’ll likely be doing it when you shouldn’t.”

“Don’t you allow for the possibility you might not win?” She looked at him with clear incredulity.

“Not when I’m fighting.” He shook his head. “It’s not hard to find an escape route, if it comes to that. But when I’m in the heat of the battle, the words I said to Odellan are not in my mind; holding this ground becomes an all or nothing proposition. To do anything less would allow fear to creep in, and they beat that out of me at the Society.”

He looked back to the base of the bridge and his smile tightened. I thought they’d try this next. “They’re readying the next wave.” He pointed to the base of the bridge. “Mounted cavalry.”

Longwell thrust his lance into the air. It was over six feet long, with a tri-blade at the tip; the primary three feet in length, with two smaller blades that jutted at a forty-five degree angle to either side of it. The metal was blue, different than steel, and seemingly unbreakable. Cyrus had seen the dragoon ram the weapon into foes at high speed yet it appeared undamaged. It has to be mystical; no weapon is that resilient, and no man could wield it in a fight against sword and shield the way Longwell does unless it gave aid in the form of speed and dexterity.

The cry came from down the bridge, among the enemy. Cyrus looked to Aisling, who stood just behind him. “They’re calling for a charge,” she said.

A row of horses waited at the bottom of the bridge. They began to trot forward, gaining speed as they rode. Another row of horsemen was following twenty feet behind them, and another behind that. At least six rows, Cyrus calculated. “Aisling,” he started to say, and turned to find her bow already out, arrow notched and looking down the shaft.

“Bet I can take the first row before they get here,” she said with a sweet smile. “And I could take you before the second row got here.”

“Bloody hell, woman,” Vara said. “Leave him be; he’s mine—at least for now.”

“For now?” Cyrus said.

“I’m willing to join both of you,” she said, releasing the first arrow and notching the second, letting it fly as she spoke. A few of the other rangers had loosed their arrows and the front row of horsemen had stumbled, prompting the second row to lose half its number tripping over the fallen first row. Aisling fired off five more arrows in quick succession, downing six more riders. “I’m very flexible, and gentle, if you’re into that sort of thing.” She loosed another and sent Cyrus a wicked smile. “Or not, if you’re into the rough stuff.”

“Sweet Vidara, I’m battling the dark elven army to keep them from invading my town while listening to my youngest daughter and her ox being propositioned by a dark elven harlot,” came Chirenya’s voice from behind them. “How have I wronged you so, Mother of Life, to have you kill me and consign me to the Realm of Death without any chance to atone?”

“You can bring your mother too,” Aisling said to Vara, firing off another arrow. “She sounds like she’d be an animal under the covers.”

Cyrus cringed. The only sound that could be heard from Chirenya was a deep and uncomfortable, “Oiiiiiiii….”

The fourth row of mounted cavalry had been half downed under the volleys of arrows, and as they came closer into range, a bevy of spells shot forth from the magic users. Bolts of lightning, fireballs and even a blast of concussive force from Vara sent a half dozen more riders to the ground, horses scared and wounded, writhing and snorting, and blocking the next row of cavalry from charging.

“If I don’t get to bury my sword in someone soon,” Cyrus said, “I may explode.” He looked around in time to see Aisling’s wide grin. “Don’t say it.”

“As soon as I get my magical strength back,” Chirenya said, “I’ll help you with that.” She hesitated. “Perhaps I’ll wait until we’ve killed all these dark elves.”

“That might be wise, Mother.” Vara stood with her hand raised and fired off another spell, unleashing a wave of concussive force that knocked a horseman from his mount, sending him tumbling over the bridge and into the water. “He and his sword are likely to be the most powerful thing standing between you and wasting another hundred years of your life wiping out an infantry formation.”

“Not more powerful than you, dear,” she said with a mother’s assurance.

“They should have sent the cavalry first.” Cyrus watched the sixth and seventh rows of horsemen fall to a combination of arrows and spells. “Now there are so many bodies here, the horses aren’t that effective.” There was a berm of corpses twenty feet in front of them, the result of the most recent charges. Horses and dark elves lay moaning and dying in the pile with the already dead. Cyrus watched one soldier trying to push his fallen horse off of him; an arrow appeared through his eye as the last row faltered and began to retreat. “If they keep this up, they’ll blockade the bridge for us and we’ll be able to leave their own dead to guard the way.”

“How do you think they’ll surmount that?” Longwell stood next to him, lance at the ready.

Cyrus sent him a sly smile. “How would you do it?”

“Footmen.” Longwell clicked the bottom of his lance against the ground. “But if their infantry saw what happened to the last group, they’ll be hesitant.”

“Ever seen what happens in a butcher shop?” Cyrus looked back at Longwell, who shook his head. “You’re about to; the rank and file that they send up here are going to get slaughtered. Their best chance for success in this position is to send so many at us that our arms get tired from hacking them to pieces.”

He waited a few minutes and watched the army below, massing again. The sun had begun to set behind them, and the sound of combat rang out from the bridges to the north and south. Fierce, rumbling laughter came from the Southbridge where Fortin continued to hold against superior numbers but not odds. An obvious battle line was visible in the middle of the Northbridge and it appeared Odellan was holding as promised.

The next round of dark elven infantry marched up the bridge as twilight came, the orange rays of the setting sun blunted by the thickening haze of black smoke that held in the air around them. The ash had begun falling thicker now, reducing visibility.

The infantry came slowly up the bridge, not at a charge but picking their way around the fallen corpses of their fellows, swords drawn and ready for combat. “Looks like we have a cautious lot here,” Vara said.

“Wouldn’t you take your time getting here if during the whole walk you were stepping over the broken and burned bodies of your countrymen?” Vaste’s words contained only a touch of irony.

“I believe I might consider finding another way around,” Longwell said. “Say, about five hundred miles north of here.”

“They fear the wrath of their generals and the Sovereign more than they fear us.” Aisling’s face was shadowed, hiding within the cowl whatever she felt.

“Would you like to tell me who this mysterious Sovereign is that commands so much fear?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow at her.

Aisling shrugged, noncommittal. “He’s not someone you’d know personally.”

He looked back at her shrewdly. “But someone I’ve heard of.”

She cracked a smile. “Maybe. I’ll tell you his name if you—”

“No,” Vara said, cutting her off before she finished.

“Your loss,” the ranger said with another shrug. “I’m a master at…” She leaned in close to Vara’s ear and whispered something. The paladin reddened, more embarrassed than Cyrus had ever seen the usually immutable Vara.

“I am eventually going to have to heal someone, right?” Erith’s voice came from the middle of their formation and suggested deep boredom. “I’m at my best when I’m challenged, you know.”

“Best be careful what you wish for,” Vaste said. “You may be challenged more quickly than you know.”

“Yeah, well, if wishes were horses—”

“Then they’d mostly be dead, if they’re on this bridge,” Longwell muttered.

Screeching came from above them; a flight of griffons with riders on their backs soared from out of the smoky haze above Santir and flapped their wings, flying in a straight line a few hundred feet above the bridge, heading toward Termina.

“Were those dark elves?” Cyrus asked, his eyes burning from the smoke hanging in the air. “I need someone to watch our flank. The last thing we need is a flight of those things swooping down on us from behind.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” J’anda said. “I’ve been wanting to spend more time at the rear with my faux elven soldiers anyway.”

The infantry had closed the last few hundred feet, armor clanking, and began to break into a run. “Here comes the charge,” Cyrus said. He clutched Praelior and his fingers dug into the leather grip as he raised the sword, ready to swing at the first foe to come his way.

Another flight of arrows and spells struck down part of the front row. The remainder kept coming, to their credit, and began to howl with cries of battle. Cyrus stepped forward, and Praelior sang, cutting through the cold air, then the neck of the first dark elf to cross his path and the leg of a second. He waded into the battle, brandishing his sword, delivering another cut that felled three more, ripping through their hardened armor chest plating as though it were nonexistent.

He heard a crack of thunder and there was a flash as a druid threw a bolt of lightning into a nearby cluster of armored footmen. The electricity arced between them, leaving spots in Cyrus’s eyes as eight dark elves fell in seconds. He blinked the flashes away in time to raise his sword to block the attacks of two more enemies, then countered with a thrust that left one of them dead and the other missing an arm.

The melee was wild as the dark elves pushed against their line. Cyrus delivered a hacking blow that decapitated an enemy and caught a glimpse of Longwell out in front, his spear swinging in wide circles, keeping enemies at bay and leaving behind a swath of dead bodies. His suspicions about the mystical nature of the lance were confirmed when the dragoon used it to pierce one dark elf’s breastplate and it came out the back and impaled another soldier behind him. Longwell yanked it sideways, freeing the tip by nearly ripping his foes in half, and promptly slashed down two more enemies with it.

He felt Vara alternate between being at his back and at his side, her blade in constant motion, felling one enemy after another. She caught his eyes once, and he saw the vitality had returned to them; the fire of battle that sent one infantryman scrambling from her assault as she pressed her attack against him, cutting away his light steel blade, then his helm, then his life. She yelled with the fury of a storm and raised her hand, knocking over a line of approaching soldiers with a spell as they closed on her and as an afterthought ran her blade across the throats of two of those she had downed.

Aisling moved through the advancing enemy like a shadow, darting between Cyrus and the rest, losing herself in the melee. She’d pop up and another soldier would fall, clutching at his back, wincing in pain and slumping to the ground, her daggers flashing for a second before she was gone again, after the next target.

Other figures moved through the battle—humans and elves, people he’d never seen before. They appeared behind the lines of the dark elven soldiers, distracting them. Cyrus saw one of them take an axe through the head and keep moving before he realized that they were illusions, cast by J’anda to distract and disorient the attackers. He has an illusionary army behind us and still has the ability to sow these shades to cause discord among our foes? He shook his head in amazement as he brought down another enemy soldier.

A ball of metal the size of his fist shot past Cyrus’s face, spikes jutting from it in all directions. A morning star, he thought. He followed the chain back to its owner and found an infantryman clad far different than the rest. His armor was steel, not the boiled leather of the infantry. His face was like a hatchet, his tall brow sloped up to a receding hairline with black, slicked back hair that hung past his shoulders. His nose was flat and pointed down, and his eyes were illuminated, a cruel smile on his face as he swung the long chain in front of him, his fellow soldiers clearing the way as he approached Cyrus.

Hooting catcalls from the dark elves filled the air as the beast of a fighter attacked again. His morningstar’s chain was twice the length of a man. It whizzed through the air and Cyrus barely dodged it again. He brought Praelior down on the chain when it was at full extension, driving down the edge of the blade with intent to cut it so he could close on the warrior unimpeded. His sword came down, hard, the clash of it against the metal chain of the morningstar ringing as Cyrus’s full and furious strength, increased by Praelior, was directed onto the dark elf’s weapon.

And bounced off.

What the…? Damn, the whole thing must be mystical! Alarm must have registered on Cyrus’s face, as his foe grinned in an even more predatorial manner. The dark elf yanked on the chain and Cyrus dodged the rebounding morningstar. The rest of the infantry were pouring in around them, leaving a wide gulf around Cyrus and the dark elven champion with the morningstar. Cyrus could hear Vara’s fevered clash with the onrushing forces, and Longwell was using his spear to block and attack the dark elves that were upon him. This bastard is distracting me, allowing them to slip in and overwhelm us.

Cyrus used Praelior to deflect the next attack. The dark elf jerked the chain back and swung the morningstar down like a hammer as Cyrus raised his sword. He absorbed the impact across the blade but it rattled his teeth and his arms shook from the strength of the blow, driving him to a knee. Damn, I need to get closer; if I stay at range he’ll tear me to pieces.

“Watch out!” Aisling’s voice rang in his ears and he saw her fighting her way through the melee, trapped behind a wave of enemies. “He’s an Unter’adon; one of the Sovereign’s sons; he’s got mystical armor and weapons!”

In addition to a warrior’s killer instinct, Cyrus thought, still at least ten paces from his attacker. The morningstar came around again, impossibly fast, and this time impacted his left arm, one of the spikes finding a joint and breaking through the chainmail beneath. Cyrus felt numbness creep down to his hand and a sharp pain shot up his arm. The weapon winged its way at him again but this time he dodged and it hit the bridge, sending stone fragments in all directions.

A breeze blew past him with a shockwave from Vara’s hand, but the Unter’adon flipped out of the path of the spell before it landed, blasting a hole in the rows of soldiers lined up behind him. He glanced over to see Vara return to fending off three opponents, sword moving in flashes in the gathering twilight.

The Unter’adon came at Cyrus again, morningstar gripped by the handle with one hand and the chain with the other, taking half the length out of it as he closed. With one hand he slashed forward with the spiked ball; the other used the chain almost as though it were a short whip. Shifting to his right, Cyrus avoided the business end but the other side, the chain, whipped him across the cheek, drawing blood and knocking his helm asunder.

Cyrus fell to a knee and the chain came at him again, this time striking his breastplate, breaking ribs and cartilage and bringing tears to his eyes from the pain in his chest. A heal would not be unwelcome right now. Cyrus saw Aisling fall before him, her white hair untucked from beneath her cowl, her purple eyes having lost their glister in the dark. She hit the cobblestones, blood pouring from beneath the seams of her leather armor, visible where her cloak parted at her front.

Around him was a mass of dark elves, pushing forward. Vara was far behind him now, fifty feet or more. The healers were behind the front line of battle, even farther back than that. Out of range for a healing spell. The thought broke into his mind a moment before Cyrus looked up to see the Unter’adon smiling down at him, and he felt the chain wrap around his neck and begin to draw tight.

Chapter 32

Cyrus tried to grasp at the the chain where it coiled around his neck, attempting to unwrap it, but the Unter’adon jerked forward hard and he lost his footing. Both his knees hit the hard metal inside his greaves and he crashed, cheek first, against the ground. If he kills me here, they’ll never be able to recover my body for resurrection—or Aisling’s. His vision blurred from the impact and he felt numerous pains as he tried to stand, fingers grasping hold of the chain in front of him and wrapping it around his gauntlet.

The Unter’adon jerked it again, and the mystical chain closed around his mailed fist, causing enormous pressure. Let’s hope my dad’s armor is strong enough to withstand this. Cyrus yanked back on it and felt the mail squeeze his hand as the chain tightened. He grasped for Praelior, but it was several feet away, its glow barely visible through a stampede of armored legs. Let’s hope someone doesn’t pick it up or we’re done.

His hand slipped down and behind him to his backplate. Thank Bellarum for all those trips to Purgatory. His fingers grasped as the Unter’adon yanked at him again, but he pulled back with his hand, forcing the dark elf to move closer to try for more leverage. His other hand brushed against the hilt of the curved short blade he hid as a backup. He had acquired it after an expedition through the Trials of Purgatory; after many successes there Cyrus had accumulated a variety of useful objects including a mystical dagger, rings that gave him additional strength, and the blade he used as a secondary weapon.

Composed of an unknown steel, the sword was infused with magical properties, giving it strength beyond its forging. The blade had a metallic sheen with a metal grip wrapped in soft leather. It was plain but effective, and when he pulled it out as he jerked on the chain, the Unter’adon was forced to give him some slack in order to avoid being impaled.

Cyrus took a breath as the chain loosened around his neck. His gorget had protected his throat from being crushed, but the chain had wrapped around his neck hard enough to leave marks. He pursued the Unter’adon ferociously, gripping the chain harder, wrapping it around his wrist and giving himself enough slack around his neck to avoid being choked. The dark elf whipped at him with the excess length, but Cyrus did not flinch as the blows struck his armor.

He spun and wrapped the chain around his chest, slashing at the Unter’adon with his short sword. Fortunately, I had a lot of experience with this sort of weapon last year, he thought. He was still at least an arm’s length from the dark elf and spun forward again with another slice, wrapping another few feet of the chain around him. They were close enough now that the dark elf couldn’t whip him with what remained in the length of the morningstar; he had begun to wrap chain around his own fist instead, preparing to use it to bludgeon Cyrus’s head as he drew closer, the spiked ball hanging trapped behind Cyrus.

The dark elven soldiers had moved in around them, and Cyrus became aware that those surrounding them knew that the morningstar was no longer a threat and their champion was in danger. He swiped with his blade at one of the soldiers that got too close, driving him back with a near miss and then cutting the throat of the second to close on him. His reward was for the Unter’adon to attack him while distracted; he heard the impact of the chain-wrapped fist on the side of his head rather than felt it. Scalp tore loose from his skull and he felt blood drip down the back of his neck.

Cyrus turned, head swimming, and brought his sword down on the still-extended arm of the Unter’adon. The mystical blade hit, skipping off the stronger armor, channeled toward the inside of the dark elf’s elbow. There, it found a seam and bit into his flesh, ripping a scream from the dark elf’s throat. Cyrus jerked his other hand forward, using the chain wrapped around it in the same way the Unter’adon had with him, as a cudgel, and watched the dark elf’s forehead above his left eye break as a wash of blood from the impact squirted from the socket.

The Unter’adon staggered and Cyrus dodged attacks from three infantrymen, still tangled up with the dark elf, fending them off with one hand. His vision was spotted and blood was running into his eyes, but he drew upon his Society training to keep them open in spite of the burning. He buried the short sword in the belly of the next dark elf to get too close and lashed out hard with a kick, his rage giving him strength enough to send another flying over the edge of the bridge.

He turned back to the Unter’adon, who was on one knee and rising, the chain fallen from his hands. Without hesitating, Cyrus buried the short sword in his face. You couldn’t even kill me when I was nearly unarmed, he thought as he pulled the blade out and watched the body fall. The circle of dark elves around him watched with wary disbelief, their fiercest fighter felled. This will last another second, maybe two. Better take advantage.

Howling a warcry that startled those surrounding him, he attacked the dark elves between him and the Sanctuary forces. Praelior was somewhere over…He saw a dark elf with a glowing blade raised above his head and a sinking feeling entered his stomach. …there.

He slayed the enemies immediately in front of him, the chain still wrapped around his fist knocking two of them down with a flurry of punches to the face, his sword finding a weakness in the plate under the other’s arm. He knocked the next two in line off their feet and whipped the handle of the morningstar through the air in front of him, knocking the helm off another and breaking the next dark elf’s nose. Chaos reigned and he heard foes closing in on him from behind. He swung the handle of the morningstar around again and heard it whistle through the air until it landed with a satisfying smack! that told him whoever it hit was no longer a threat.

He unthreaded the chain from his neck as he advanced, loosening it while striking down foes with the short sword, most of them with their backs turned to him. He emerged on the front line of battle and saw the dark elf with Praelior wielding the blade with confidence—against Vara.

He noted the elven paladin, on the defensive, staggering from the assault the dark elf was unleashing on her with the purloined sword. With a shoulder check he knocked a footman to the ground and brought the blade down on the back of his neck, killing him. He pulled the length of the chain and swung the handle of the morningstar up, clearing a space around him, then flipped the handle into his hand. He felt the mystical power of the weapon course through him. Not as good as Praelior, but it’ll do.

He took two quick steps forward, positioning himself behind the dark elf wielding his sword. Vara was sweating, her strength failing against the repeated blows delivered by the weapon more than the wielder, her face red and the strain obvious. Cyrus knew the dark elf sensed him and watched him begin to turn to counter the threat the warrior posed. If I had only my short sword, he’d have a chance. Thanks to this—he clutched the handle of the morningstar tighter—he doesn’t.

His sword slipped underneath the backplate of the dark elf as he started to turn, but Cyrus threaded the chain around his neck and jerked on it, pulling him onto the blade. It slid through the footman’s back then burst through his front, a dent appearing in his breastplate. Cyrus spun the body around, interposing it between him and the dark elven horde at his front, then let go of the chain grip and caught Praelior as it fell, enjoying the feel of it in his hand once more.

A healing wind brushed over him and the pain he’d been ignoring from his scalp lessened. He cast a look back and saw Erith with her hand extended, ghostly look of fright writ on her face. “You wanted a challenge,” he said.

“I take it back!”

Cyrus turned back to the dark elves and let out a scream of fury. He waded in amongst them, cutting through them. They fell quickly and he was followed by Vara, Longwell, and a dozen others behind them, driving the dark elven army back. Cyrus was a black blur in the middle of it all. His hands moved without thought, Praelior in one and his short sword in the other. His mind was focused on one thing—forcing his foes back and recovering the body he knew was somewhere ahead.

The dark elves kept coming, but Cyrus was in a blood-fueled rage. He passed the point where Aisling lay and drove on, slaughtering all that came forward to challenge him. He watched Vara and Longwell do the same, and between the three of them they made an unbreakable front line of advance. Other warriors behind them stood ready and rangers fired their bows, weakening the dark elven advance. Wizard and druid spells were loosed as well, but most reserved their magic until needed.

Cyrus halted as the dark elves in front of him began to retreat. He looked around and realized he was three-fourths of the way across the span. The dark elven army was broken; they were fleeing before him.

“Why did we stop?” Longwell sounded almost plaintive.

“Because I’m not of a mind to try and retake Santir,” Cyrus said.

Longwell looked around, realizing how far they had come. “Oh. Damn. We ran them off, didn’t we?”

“We three,” Vara said. The sun had long since set, the light of a thousand torches in the army ahead paling next to the fires still consuming Santir. Her cheeks were red and her breath froze before her as it came out in great gasps.

“Aye, we three,” Cyrus said. “But not alone.” He looked back at the Sanctuary war party.

“We’re still here,” came Vaste’s dry response. “I did cast a couple of healing spells on you at first, but as you began hitting your stride, I started healing your enemies instead. You know, to give them a sporting chance.”

“At odds of roughly 5,000 to one, I would say they still stand a sporting chance,” Vara said.

“Did you recover Aisling’s body?” Cyrus looked at Vaste.

The troll pointed with his staff, the white crystal in the center sparkling from its own inner light. Aisling sat on the ground beside Erith, her cloak thrown aside, head between her knees as though she were ill. The enemy was fleeing in disordered chaos back toward Santir as he walked over to her. She looked up as he approached. “Did you make it out alive?” Her voice came out as little more than a croak.

“Yes, but only just.” He knelt beside her, her white hair streaked with red, remnants of the wounds inflicted when she died.

“I thought I was done,” she said. “I saw the Sovereign’s bastard about to kill you, and I froze. I knew if you went down we were finished.”

“As it happens, there were others of us in the battle,” Vara said. Cyrus looked up at her, and after a moment she let out a hiss of impatience. “Oh, all right, it was him that cleared the bridge to recover you, but it was not without help.”

“How are you feeling?” Cyrus placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Sick.” She moved her head slowly, left to right. “Nauseous.”

“Take it easy,” he cautioned her. “It’ll fade in time.”

“I’ve never died before,” she said. “Is it true you lose memories?”

Cyrus swallowed, a lump bulging in his throat. “Yes. But you likely won’t know what you’ve lost until later. If ever.”

She stared back at him. “What did you forget?”

He stood, looking down at her. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time, but don’t push yourself too hard. It’s going to be a long night, and we need you at your best.”

The dark elf raised herself to a knee and placed a hand on his. “I’m at my best when I’m not on my feet.”

“You have blood in your hair,” Vara said. “And a little vomit as well.”

Cyrus slipped from her grasp, moving back toward the line he had held with Vara and Longwell. The mass of dark elven troops at the end of the bridge was still disorganized.

“Do they have any spellcasters with them?” Cyrus watched the tangled knot of the army with wary concern.

“Likely, but few.” Vara sidled closer to him. “Perhaps five, if that, and they will use them sparingly.”

“Ridiculous,” Longwell said. “Why don’t they have more?”

“Because the Leagues that train magic users keep a very strict ratio of how many can work for a government, and what function they’ll serve,” Vara replied.

Longwell twirled his lance at his side. “And if they violate that number?”

“If the government does it, they’re considered to be in violation of the League terms and all their current magic users are recalled,” she answered. “If the spellcaster committing the violation is found to be doing so willfully, they’re forsaken; unable to be hired by anyone reputable, for any purpose. It’s one step above being a heretic; you’re shunned everywhere you go.” She straightened. “But unlike being a heretic, you aren’t hunted to the death.”

“Makes sense.” Longwell’s spear was at rest now. He looked at Cyrus. “You know, you can take that off now.” He pointed to the chain of the morningstar, still wrapped around Cyrus.

The warrior looked down and grasped the morningstar’s handle, which hung loose off his shoulder. “You know, I don’t think I will. It doesn’t feel very heavy and it’s already come in handy once.”

Longwell arched an eyebrow at him. “Planning on losing your sword again? Let me know when so I can pay a visit to a different bridge.”

Vara inched closer to Cyrus, and he heard a clink as her armor touched his. “I was…concerned,” she said, “when I saw you overwhelmed by that juggernaut.”

He smiled down at her. “I was concerned myself.” He leaned down and kissed her, their armor making a fearsome clangor as he pulled her closer and their breastplates hit. She broke away first, an uncharacteristic grin on her face. “I’ve never kissed someone who’s wearing armor before,” he said with a smile of his own.

“Oh?” She smiled back in amusement as she pulled away and returned to her spot on their flank. “How was it?”

“Felt great. I’m going to do it again the next time I get a chance.” Suddenly self-conscious, he remembered Longwell and turned to find the dragoon staring at him.

“Don’t get any ideas; I’m not interested,” Longwell said.

“They’re rallying,” Vara said with an icy calm. She was correct; the torches on the avenue below had reformed into proper lines and were moving forward. “There are archers in their ranks,” she said, peering into the darkness.

“Elven eyesight,” Cyrus muttered, then turned to shout over his shoulder. “Chirenya! We’re about to have an arrow problem. You still think you can solve that for me?”

“I have an ‘ox kissing my daughter’ problem,” came the hostile voice from behind him. “While I burn their arrows from the sky, do you think you could keep your hands, lips and other assorted minutiae to yourself?”

“During that time, yes,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. “Afterwards, the things I’m going with do to your daughter would make Aisling blush—”

“Cyrus!” Vara snapped at him.

“I heard that,” came Chirenya’s weary reply. “I lose a hundred years off my life.” She shoved her way to the fore, coming to a halt between Cyrus and Vara. One of her hands rested on his arm and she leaned heavily on him. “And my thanks is you and a request for more pyrotechnics. This would be infinitely easier if you had your own wizards—”

“We do,” Cyrus said, lowering his voice. “They’re just not as powerful as you.”

She looked at him, taken aback. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

“Just realizing what your daughter likes about me?”

“My daughter likes the fact that you’re an ox, a beast of burden, and likely equipped as such. She is infantile and foolish, and being less than a hundred years old, still very preoccupied with such things.”

“Mother,” Vara said. Her tone changed in a half a heartbeat. “Arrows incoming!” Her shout drew their attention away and toward the sky.

Cyrus squinted and could barely make out the movement of something in the sky. A light appeared above him as a wall of solid fire, more intense than that which had consumed the first wave of the dark elven army but more compact. The heat brought beads of sweat onto Cyrus’s forehead, adding to the already sticky feeling of his skin.

He could see the shadows of arrows pass through the wall of fire that Chirenya had placed above them; after a moment, hot metal began to rain down in drips. He felt a splash of singeing liquid bounce off his shoulder, heard a muttered curse from Longwell and saw his armor streaked with molten steel from the arrowheads.

“I can burn up the shafts and fletchings but metal is another story,” Chirenya said, her eyes closed. “At least a burn is easier healed than a projectile which needs to be pulled from your body first.”

The infantry was only a hundred yards away now, Cyrus realized, and the rain of arrows must have stopped. Chirenya lowered the barrier of fire, dropping it down on the front rank of the advancing line. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her skin beyond pale and now a shade of gray. Her eyes rolled back in her head and Cyrus felt her knees buckle as she gripped his arm tighter, and he caught her before she fell. Her robes brushed against the chain of the morningstar, which was still wrapped around his chest.

“No more arrows?” Erith asked from behind.

Vaste answered. “Their army is too close; I’m sure they wouldn’t want to risk killing their own, since they have no one to heal and resurrect them.”

“We don’t know that,” Cyrus said as Chirenya relinquished her grip on him. “They could have a healer somewhere.”

“They pair their magic users in a unit of four or five spell casters,” came the faint voice of Aisling. She stood back, her bow in hand, loosing her first arrow as the dark elven army closed. “I would expect to see them soon.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a fireball twice the size of a man flew from the dark elven lines, aimed at Cyrus. He jumped to the side, pushing Chirenya out of the way as it impacted where he had been standing only a moment before. Another followed, aimed at Vara, who moved forward, ducking under the blast. “At least two wizards!” Cyrus said, moving forward with Longwell, closing the distance to the front line of the approaching army. “Aisling, see if you can—”

“Got one!” the ranger crowed. “The other is hiding in the midst of all those soldiers.”

Another burst of flame shot at them, forcing Cyrus to weave to the right while Longwell went left. It figures she didn’t get the more powerful of the two. The next attack came with two firebolts, each from a different location in the army ranks. “They’ve either got another wizard or they have a healer!” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Longwell lunge forward with his lance and impale through a footman in the front rank and into the wizard behind him. With a sweep he flung the bodies of both off his lance and over the edge of the bridge. One down, Cyrus thought.

He reached the front row of footmen and attacked, slashing through three with his first strike and moving to the next row. He felt a sword land on his right shoulder, stabbing through the chainmail and drawing blood. He turned to see one of the footmen he had just struck down, leering at him, bloody residue across his chest where Cyrus’s blow had severed his breastplate. The wound was gone. “They definitely have a healer!” The other two he’d struck down had risen, pressing the attack while they had him surrounded. “No wounding blows or they’ll be healed! Kill them all; they won’t be able to save their army with resurrection spells!”

He watched the expression of the dark elf in front of him, triumphant a moment earlier, turn sour. His eyes widened as Cyrus brought Praelior across his neck then watched his eyes and head loll backward and roll off his body. This is going to take way more effort, he thought, bringing the sword across the next dark elf in line, striking a wounding blow and watching it disappear before his eyes. Am I going to have to decapitate every single one of them?

His sword flashed, moving without thought through the enemies before him. He hacked and slashed, watching half the ones he struck down rise again. I need to find this healer. He led with his sword, attacking through the crowd, cutting his way deeper into the dark elven army, surrounded once more by the enemy. He heard a shout of protest from Vara behind him, but he ignored it. At least this time I’m just outnumbered, not overmatched.

A few rows of soldiers away, he saw a flash of white—a robe, hidden behind armor and near invisible in the darkness that had fallen around them. With a shout he shoved a dark elf out of his way and lopped the head off another. Behind a line of infantry stood a healer, eyes closed, hands raised and glowing. The protective line of soldiers screamed at his approach and charged him, and he felt the bite of a dozen blades hitting his armor. Most bounced off but a few found purchase in the weak points and the sting of the strikes was muted as he fought his way through the warriors that now surrounded him. From beside him he heard Vara shout and glanced to the side in time to see her take the head off another wizard. The man’s hands shook as his body fell limp.

It was a deadly ballet; he moved faster than any of them but they weighed him down with numbers and sprung back to their feet after he cut them down; only a few remained unmoving. He concentrated on fatal or crippling attacks—splitting the skull of one in half, removing the head of the next—or ones that would remove them from his path. He aimed an unsteady kick at the last dark elf standing between him and the healer, and felt three piercing attacks land while he did so.

His kick landed, pushing the dark elven warrior out of the way. Using the speed granted him by his weapon, he rushed forward toward the healer, a dark elf so shrouded in the fever of casting healing magics that her cloak appeared to be glowing. “Sorry,” he said with sincere apology as he brought his sword against the unarmed woman, striking her down, “I don’t like killing unarmed magic users, especially not women, but I can’t have you giving my enemies any more chances at life.” His slash spattered her robe with red as his stroke nearly cut her in half diagonally from shoulder to waist.

She gasped and looked up at him with stunned surprise, her purple eyes registering shock. Her mouth opened and a horrible sound came out, a desperate, choked moan audible even in the fury of the battle. “I’m sorry,” he said again to the eyes that looked back at him. “I’m so sorry.”

With that, he turned from her and howled, spending all the internal fury and sorrow he felt, channeling it into the next attack, which brought down eight dark elven footmen with ruthless efficiency. No longer worried about killing in one blow, Cyrus raked them across the chest, severed limbs, destroyed faces with vicious accuracy. They all have weapons in their hands and they’re invading someone else’s country, he told himself, but the image of the dying healer stayed with him.

Cyrus felt a sword strike him in the small of his back and pain lanced through him, causing him to stumble and miss wide with a swipe at a footman that would otherwise have been a killing blow. He looked back at the enemy who had wounded him and brought Praelior around, killing him in one hit. He turned back to the foes in front of him that were barring his passage back to the line where Vara and Longwell held out, but something stopped him. He looked to where he’d cut down the healer and found her, blood pooled at her feet.

But she was standing. Her hands were aglow, her clothing torn asunder by his attack, but she stood. The place where he’d cut her was healed, flawless blue skin with blood beaded up in drops all around the place where his sword had cut a swath through bone, tissue and internal organs only moments before. Son of a bitch. They must have a second healer; there’s no way she was able to mend herself after that.

Another line had formed between them, and the stabbing pain from the wound in his lower back kept him from rushing them as he had last time. I need to take her out—merciless this time. They won’t be able to reattach her head in the midst of this battle, he thought grimly. I should have done it last time—stupid—that’s what mercy is when you’re outnumbered.

A shout tore through the night. From far to the south, cutting through the darkness came a voice that rumbled like rocks falling down a cliff. “WHOEVER CONTINUES TO FIRE THESE ANNOYING POINTED WOODEN STICKS AT ME WILL DIE WHEN I VIOLATE YOUR LOWER BODY REAR APERTURE WITH THEM!”

Thank you for the distraction, Fortin. Cyrus charged through the line assembled in front of him, bowling them over and ignoring the pain that made him want to throw himself over the edge of the bridge. He reached the healer in three steps and raised his sword again. “This time I’m not sorry,” he said as he brought it around in a horizontal slice. He watched her body drop, the glow fading from her hands as her headless corpse fell to the ground.

A cry of anguish sounded over the fray, a desperate sob that drew his attention even in spite of the fact that he knew there were enemies closing on him. Another row back he locked eyes with a man in a robe who had a rounded face and black hair. When Cyrus saw him, he watched the pudgy blue face turn frightful and knew he’d found the second healer. He ignored the sting of a half dozen more blades as they clashed with his armor and flesh and let Praelior lead him to the man, who turned and tried to escape between the two soldiers behind him. He bumped against their armor, trying to squeeze his fat frame through the gap.

By the time the two of them realized what he was doing, it was too late. No mistakes this time. Cyrus brought his sword across, stepping into his stroke and bringing it through the heads of the soldiers on either side of the healer as well. The three of them fell together, and Cyrus felt a grin of triumph as he began to collapse under the weight of all the foes attacking him from behind. He howled and swung his sword in a wide radius, clearing a swath around him, and roared as they closed again, slashing with a circular swing of his weapon that gave him another minute of breathing room. I’m hurt bad. With his left hand he felt his back, and it came back bloody. Thank Bellarum my armor is black or they’d see how bad I’m hurt. He tried to stand and failed. Damn. I may be showing them anyway.

He looked around, and for once there was a gap. Surrounded again, he found himself in the midst of a sea of foes, but none of them close enough to strike. In front of him was the direction that led back to Vara, Longwell and the others, but from his kneeling position he could not see them. The clank of heavy boots awoke him to the danger behind and he rolled forward, feeling an excruciating pain that drew a scream from him as he forced himself back to his feet.

He turned, and before him stood a dark knight. His armor bore terrible angles, with spikes jutting from the vambraces, pauldrons and helm. Slits revealed segments of a humorless face, giving it a somewhat demonic appearance. He carried a two-handed sword that glimmered even in the absence of light, telling Cyrus it was mystical in nature.

The dark knight raised his sword and Cyrus brought Praelior up. He felt the blow land, rattling his teeth. Weak from blood loss, he tried to block the next attack but it was even stronger than the first, driving him back, where the jeer of a footman behind him was followed by a stabbing in his side. He jabbed back with his sword and felt a small satisfaction when he heard a shriek of pain.

The dark knight maintained his distance, circling toward Cyrus slowly. He’s not underestimating me; he knows I’m dangerous even wounded. You’d think I’d have learned by now not to get outside the range of my healers, but no…

The dark knight attacked again, swinging the heavy blade twice more, and twice more Cyrus blocked, though not without great effort. The strain allowed another dark elf to strike him from behind, and this time when he swung about, the footman danced out of range before he could land an attack, laughing, and Cyrus was forced to turn back to the dark knight.

Every breath was coming with more difficulty, and fatigue was washing over Cyrus. I just want to go to sleep, he thought. But now’s not the best time… The pain ate at him from a dozen places, from two sword wounds where he would have sworn they hacked out most of his lower back, to an ache in his shoulder. The smell of acrid smoke had been in his nose so long he had almost forgotten it, but he noticed it now, along with the growing edge of the cold in the air.

The dark knight brought his sword down again and Cyrus blocked, but this time his balance failed him and he fell to a knee. He raised his sword in time to block the next blow but the strength of it knocked him to his back. Not now. I have to keep moving or I’m dead. He began to struggle but the dark knight extended a hand and Cyrus felt a clutching pain in his chest from a spell. A scream tore from the warrior’s lips as a sensation like a fiery blade being thrust into his chest impaled him. He started to struggle once more and the searing agony shot through him again.

“Stay down,” the dark knight’s voice was low, raspy. He closed on Cyrus, his sword held in both hands, blade down. “It will be over in a moment.”

It sounded like sweet honey poured into Cyrus’s ear. His eyes fought to close and every muscle went slack, no will to move left in them. He felt the blood running down his back and knew that he was bleeding to death. Iron in his mouth told him that he’d bit his tongue and he wondered when it had happened. The clamor of the battle faded, and all he could hear was a great silence. The thousand pains that had plagued him for the last few minutes seemed very far away, and his eyes locked onto the armored figure standing above him. The sword raised, and started to descend, so fast and yet so slow—

Chapter 33

Cyrus watched Vara’s blade intercept the dark knight’s sword halfway to his chest and she knocked the dark elf back a step. She raised her hand and a blast of force sent the dark elves behind the knight backward, her fury manifested with magical energy. The dark knight held fast, like a man leaning forward in a windstorm, trying to avoid being blown away.

“You were quite right,” her lancing voice said as she raised her sword again. “This will be over in a moment.” Her hand pointed at Cyrus and he felt a soothing air cross his back, as though the pain in his back had dwindled.

Vara attacked without warning, a leaping offense led with her sword. She clashed with his blade, pushing him back another step and then raining another blow on him. “You would not have had such an easy time with him,” she said, voice infused with barely controlled fury, “if he hadn’t just finished a suicide mission to kill both your healers.”

“Oh, no doubt,” came the soothing voice of the dark knight amidst the clash of their blades. “But I would have killed him all the same, just as I’ll kill you.” His words turned to a bellow. “In the name of the Sovereign!” Echoing cries came from the throats of the dark elves all over the bridge as they rallied for another attack.

Cyrus dragged himself to his feet. He still bled, still hurt, still felt weak, yet Vara’s healing spell had given him enough strength to fight on. The nearest footmen were focused on the battle between the dark knight and paladin, and he charged them with a violent attack that sent both of them falling over the edge of the bridge. The Sanctuary force closed, Longwell pressing forward with his lance; for every two enemies he would catch with the blade he would end another with the tip.

Cyrus helped clear the way for the Sanctuary forces, keeping his eye on Vara, who was still locked in combat with the dark knight. He gestured toward Erith and felt strength course through him as his wounds were healed.

The dark knight brought his sword down against Vara, driving her back toward Santir and the still-advancing forces of the dark elven army. They were not speaking, but with every attack from the dark knight, Vara parried or blocked with a grunt. Her cheeks were red from exertion and her counterattacks were coming slower. She raised her hand to cast a spell and he pressed her, interrupting her casting. She fell back, circling to place her back to the edge of the bridge.

Cyrus kept himself toward the middle of the bridge. He fell upon the advancing forces and carved a path through them with Longwell. They had cleared the line between them and the Sanctuary war party, and Cyrus watched as the paladin and dark knight clashed to his right.

He waited, fending off the advancing infantry as Vara wearied. When he sensed she was faltering, he moved forward, exerting his lightning quickness, and struck at the dark knight while his back was turned, stabbing him in the side, his sword punching through the knight’s armor and causing him to look at Cyrus, stunned.

“You’re a dark knight; don’t look so shocked at the treachery of me stabbing you in the back.” He slid the dark elf off the tip of his sword, letting the body fall to its knees before he whirled around and delivered a finishing blow. “This is war, after all.” He looked to Vara, who was breathing heavy and appeared unsteady on her feet.

“You could have intervened sooner,” she said.

“You’re a paladin. I thought you’d be mad if I dishonorably intervened in your duel.”

“As you pointed out,” she said, scowling at him as another row of footmen advanced on them, “this is war and thus the honorable circumstances present in a duel do not apply.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” Cyrus looked at Vara, her irritation still obvious. “If you keeping making that face, it’ll freeze like that.” He turned to see Chirenya, glaring at him. “See? Like that.” He made another round of attacks, dispensing with another half dozen infantry, then looked down the bridge toward Santir. “You look tired. Want to take a break? We could bring up some others to hold the front line.”

She snorted. “You know that no one could hold it so well as I do.”

“I do.” He inflicted a crosswise cut to a nearby dark elf. “But I also know we’ve been at this for quite some time, and it would appear that they’ve got no intention of retreating anytime soon.” He took a deep breath as he pressed the attack again. “In fact, it looks like they’ll continue funneling reinforcements down the bridge until either we break or we bleed them dry.”

“How long do you suppose you can keep this up?” Vaste’s voice broke through after a few minutes of intense battle, during which Cyrus had given very little ground but taken a great many lives in return for it. Arrows whizzed from behind him as the Sanctuary force aided the three of them in holding the line.

“Until they’re all dead,” Cyrus replied. “Or until the night is over.”

“Well, one of those is about to come true,” the troll said. “Though I suppose it’s difficult to see.”

Cyrus pondered the vague reply while dispatching his next four enemies. His hands were cramped from holding his sword, and soreness permeated every muscle. Vara, next to him, was huffing, each breath coming so quickly after the last that he wondered if she might be ready to hyperventilate. The battlefield had begun to lighten, not only aided by the torches carried by their foes, but by another source.

He looked over the bridge and saw the devastation of Santir; the fires had largely burned out, and the smoke had begun to clear. Through the haze, the sun was rising, though it was not visible. It was dawn, Cyrus realized. We’ve been fighting for hours, he thought. No wonder we’re exhausted.

He dodged the attacks of four more infantrymen and killed them all, taking a moment to assess the situation. He cast his gaze to the Southbridge and saw a figure still standing in the middle of the span, great hands rising and falling with furious power. Bodies were swept over the side in clusters of two and three, and the occasional howls of Fortin that had been audible through the night continued even now.

Cyrus cut another foe down, then another, and turned his attention toward the Northbridge. He blinked as he looked at the span. The night before, it was obvious where the elves held the bridge in the center, even after the battle was joined, as their pointed helmets were a stark contrast to the much more blunted and dull helms worn by the dark elven regulars. The light was still dim and he could not differentiate between them.

“Vara,” he called. “Can you see the Termina guards on the Northbridge?”

She disengaged from her next foes, falling back as Cyrus moved to take up her slack in the line. He focused on the combatants moving toward him, keeping light on his feet and battling back, knocking over two more dark elven soldiers.

“I see them,” she said at last, slipping back into the fight and taking his place in the center. “You won’t like it; they’re at the very end of bridge. It would appear they’re about to be driven back.”

He heard a great hue and cry from the Northbridge, and wondered if that had indeed happened. “How long would it take an army to march from there along the waterfront and flank us here?”

“Twenty minutes,” she said as she drove her sword through another foe. “Perhaps fifteen if they hurry.”

Cyrus brought his sword down in another slash, sending another dark elf into the beyond. “Then that’s how long we have to stage our retreat before we get flanked.”

Chapter 34

“I need a druid,” Cyrus called over his shoulder. One of them appeared from the battle line behind him, a fresh-faced human. Gods, I wish Niamh was here. “I need you to use Falcon’s Essence to cross to the Southbridge and warn Fortin and Andren that we’re about to be flanked. Teleport them out of the city, back to Sanctuary.”

“Are you certain you want to take our most effective fighter out of the battle?” Vara looked at him with incredulity.

“They’re going to have to evacuate at some point and Fortin is not so light on his feet,” Cyrus said. He turned to the druid. “Teleport them out. We’re going to fall back to the Chancel and make sure the streets are clear.” With a nod, the druid cast a spell on himself, ran to the edge of the bridge and stepped off, continuing his dash across the air itself.

“Let’s start the retreat,” Cyrus said, sword dancing to keep the enemy at bay. Four dark elves charged at him. He looked to Vara and Longwell. “You two start backing up, I’ll follow.”

A burst of flame extended the width of the bridge, burning the dark elves in front of Cyrus. The foes behind the line of fire halted, and he heard a voice over his shoulder. “Enough of your stubbornness.” He turned to face Chirenya, her hand extended. “Come along—this won’t last forever.”

With a last look at the dark elven army trapped behind the barrier of fire, Cyrus exchanged a look with Vara and then Longwell. “Full retreat. Let’s go.”

They fell back, running across the bridge. The hidden sunrise cast Termina in a pale light, and the Entaras’iliarad was near-deserted, the quietest Cyrus had yet seen it. “J’anda!” he said to the dark elf. “Can you send part of your illusory army marching toward the Northbridge? Maybe we can buy some time.”

The dark elf did not answer, but half the illusionary force began a march down the bridge, executing an about-face and starting down the span. Cyrus’s eye fell on the harbor. Most of the skiffs and boats had left, but a few remained with the wooden docks and warehouses on the quay. “Chirenya, can you set the wharf on fire? No sense in giving the dark elves a city that’s equipped to blockade the whole river Perda.”

She halted in her run and raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you have more brains than I gave you credit for.” She waved a hand three times and he could see a burst of flame catch on three of the warehouses and one of the larger ships and begin to spread. “That should do it.” They resumed their run back toward the city.

Cyrus cast a look back and saw the barrier of fire remained across the bridge. “How long can you maintain that?”

Chirenya was sweating and drawn; whether from the exertion of maintaining the barrier or the running, he could not say. “Another minute or two, perhaps. Enough for us to have a bit more of a headstart.” She puffed and then looked at him with a grudging respect. “I know I have belittled you in the past, but I must say, you are quite an effective dog of war.”

Cyrus grunted. “But still a dog?”

“With fleas and all, yes.” Even through her ragged breathing, he could see she was trying to smile.

They reached the end of the bridge and Cyrus looked ahead to the Chancel of Life. The quiet of the Entaras’iliarad struck him, only a few souls lingering here and there. He watched the Sanctuary force running before him and felt a swell of pride at what they had done. I hope Odellan’s all right; I suspect without a healer he had a hell of a night.

The smell of the smoke from Santir overwhelmed the city. In the distance, Cyrus could hear the rumble of the army behind them, but the city was quiet, save for Vara’s shouts of “The dark elves are coming!” A door slammed somewhere far off, and the sound of the Sanctuary force’s footfalls threatened to drown everything else out.

“I need to go home,” Chirenya said, and started to change direction.

Cyrus stopped with her. “Why?”

“There are things I should bring,” she said. “Things I can’t bear to leave behind.”

“There’s a horde of dark elves descending on us,” Cyrus said. “If you have to choose, which is more important to you—whatever you’ve left in your destroyed house, or your life?”

The older woman glared at him, and he could see the resistance mounting in her eyes, her shoulders tensed as though she were about to lash out at him. Vara was to his right, her hands on her knees, gulping in deep breaths. Finally, Chirenya relaxed. “Fine. You are correct; nothing left behind is worth my life.”

“Good,” Cyrus said. “Let’s sweep toward the Chancel and make sure there aren’t any stragglers.” An uncomfortable thought presented itself. “Or a glut of people backed up trying to get out of the city.”

They moved onward. The fatigue by this point was such that Cyrus felt a great weakness in his arms. The night’s exertions had taken a toll, but since he had sheathed his sword his arms had begun to stiffen. I don’t know that I’ve ever engaged in that much combat in a single night. Evidently my body was not prepared for it. The cold morning air appeared in little puffs as he exhaled, his cloak long since discarded in the battle. When he had been fighting, it had felt too warm for it; now he could feel the sweat and sticky blood from the wounds he’d suffered cooling on his skin, giving him chills.

A few figures darted in and out of doorways and down alleys as Cyrus approached. Looters, he thought. No time to deal with them now; this city is about to go down in flames anyway, if the dark elves hold to their pattern.

They ran through the empty squares toward the Chancel, Cyrus’s eyes scanning for threats. A griffon screeched overhead, its rider steering it in a slow, arcing circle above them. An arrow shot up, followed by another, and the griffon reeled out of control, spiraling through the third floor window of a nearby building. Glass shattered and bricks fell from the hole left by the beast’s crash. Cyrus’s eyes flew to where the arrows had originated to see Aisling lowering her bow. She met his gaze as she slung it across her back. “No point in letting them live to harass us later,” she said with a shrug.

They ran on, reaching the Chancel square a few minutes later. Cyrus looked back to see the army marching down the Entaras’iliarad behind them, but only a quarter of the way along. I guess the illusory army slowed them down. As they followed the road around the Chancel, Vara called out to him. “Here in the square the road bends southwest toward Pharesia, and it is the way most of the evacuees would have gone. It becomes the Olenet’yinaii—the Monarch’s Road—here at the edge of the square.” She puffed, her breath still coming in gasps. “We should be able to see any stragglers.”

They turned the corner and stopped. The road stretched through many blocks and squares until the buildings ended and fields frosted by ice turned into rolling hills. Only a few souls were visible ahead, laden with many burdens.

“It would appear that the evacuation was successful,” Chirenya said. “I hate to say we can’t do anything for those who remain, but Vidara tends to help those who help themselves.”

“No,” Cyrus said. “There’s one last group to get out.”

Vara and Chirenya looked at him, and he pointed back toward the Northbridge. “Whatever is left of the Termina Guard will be shredded if we don’t get them out of there.”

“And we’re likely to be shredded if we attempt a street-by-street defense,” Vaste said. “Not that I don’t empathize with the plight of the Termina Guard, but neither am I eager to die trying to get to them.”

“All we need is a wizard,” Cyrus said, “and a few minutes. We can position a frontline—Longwell, Vara and myself, maybe a couple others—to take the heat off of them, and one of our wizards can evacuate us all.”

“How many wizards do you have remaining?” Chirenya arched her eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know,” he replied.”But you can do an area-based teleport, can’t you?”

“Assuming you’re intelligent enough to grasp the blue orb when it appears, yes.”

“I think I can figure that out.” Cyrus turned. “We go back, around the Chancel and down the Olenet’yinaii. We’ll give the survivors of the Termina Guard cover while we extract them, and then we’ll return to…” He looked to Chirenya. “Wherever she sees fit to take us.”

“Saekaj Sovar, perhaps. I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

They moved quickly, and as they passed through the square around the Chancel of Life, Cyrus took a moment to note that the dark elven army moving up the Entaras’iliarad was only about halfway to the Chancel square. He led the way to the next street, and as they came around the corner he saw the Termina Guard.

The street was wide, but not as wide as the bridge they had spent all night defending. The Termina Guard was three blocks away, strung out in a ragged formation that blocked the street, and Cyrus could tell they were in the midst of a brutal fighting retreat. There are less than five hundred of them left, Cyrus estimated. Rough night.

When they reached the back line of the Guard, Cyrus pushed his way through the rows of bloody and weary elves, Vara at his back and a few others behind them. One of the Sanctuary druids remaining with them hovered overhead using Falcon’s Essence and shot a bolt of lightning into the ranks of the dark elves as they continued to surge up the street. From where he stood, Cyrus saw no end to the dark elven forces. They filled the streets all the way to the Northbridge.

“Odellan!” Cyrus called out over the crowd.

One of the elves nearest to him pointed to the front line. “He’s at the fore. Has been the whole time.”

Cyrus pushed his way to the front line, where there was a slight separation. The dark elves were assaulting the remaining Termina Guards in waves, charge after charge. Two elves died before his eyes while a half dozen dark elves fell in the same space. “Odellan!” Cyrus said again, stepping into the battle and dispatching two dark elven footmen.

“General!” Odellan’s voice was weary but relieved. He bore a long, bloody cut across the left side of his forehead, from the peak of his hairline to his temple. His helm was long gone, his long hair red matted with blood. His golden armor was stained crimson as well, and he held his left hand at his side while fighting with his right. “Glad to see you managed a retreat before they flanked you. I was concerned—” he stepped into a charging dark elf and cut him almost in two with a rising slash—“that you wouldn’t see us breaking in the dark. I sent a runner to advise you to retreat.”

“The city is evacuated,” Cyrus said. “There’s nothing more your men can do here; we’ve come to teleport you out.”

The clanging of blades filled the air. “Aye,” Odellan said, “against these numbers, the city is lost.”

Cyrus watched Longwell slide into position at the left side of the street while Vara did the same to the right, as the Termina Guard eased back, swords still at the ready. While Vara and Longwell defended against the next wave of foes, he and Odellan held the center, and the dark elven army seemed to slow its approach, a steady trickle making their way forward rather than a charging line. They waited a few hundred feet ahead, drawing steadily closer.

“Chirenya, now!” Cyrus called. “It’s time to leave,” he told Odellan. “You and your men go first, and as soon as you’ve left, the last three of us will grab our orbs and teleport out.”

Odellan looked to the left in time to see Longwell kill three dark elves in succession. “All right.”

A glowing blue ball of translucent light appeared, hovering in front of Cyrus. Orbs of teleportation appeared in front of Vara, Odellan and Longwell, as well as every member of Sanctuary and the Termina Guard. Cyrus looked back and saw a bevy of flashes, bodies dissolving into the blue fire of wizard teleportation, born off to the destination Chirenya had selected with her spell. Pharesia, Cyrus suspected.

Four dark elves drew his attention back to the fight and he blocked their attacks, knocking over one and impaling another, taking out two more with a slash and then taking two steps backward as he waited for the next attack. He chanced another look at the formation behind him, but it was nearly gone; only a handful remained, including Chirenya and Vaste.

Cyrus looked to Odellan. “Now’s the time, Endrenshan.”

The Termina Guard Captain hesitated, his hand hovering over the blue orb. “We all go together,” he said.

Cyrus looked back; only Chirenya remained behind them, staring at him through slitted eyes. “Come on,” she said. “I’ve had enough of these dark elven beasts. Let us be done with this.”

Cyrus looked down the line to Longwell, then back to Vara. “On three. One…two…” He saw the next wave of dark elves beginning to charge, then cast a look back to Chirenya. “Three.” He froze, his hand only a second from grasping the orb, and a cold shock ran through him. “NO!”

It was too late; Odellan and Longwell vanished in a blast of blue fire, teleported away. Cyrus watched Chirenya as if she were in slow motion. Her hand grasped for the orb in front of her but came up short, her momentum interrupted by a sudden and vicious attack from behind.

An elf stood behind her in dark robes, a wicked expression on his face and twin daggers in his hands. Assassin, Cyrus thought as he watched the first blade buried in the wizard’s back. He heard a scream from Vara, a howl of inarticulate fury, and watched as Chirenya grimaced as her hand slipped away from the orb. The elf buried the second dagger in her back, and Cyrus watched as the wizard turned in numb shock, looking at the face of the man who had stabbed her.

Then she went limp and dropped from the assassin’s arms, crumpling on the ground, unmoving.

Chapter 35

“NOOOOOOO!!” Vara’s anguish echoed down the street and Cyrus watched her charge, all-consuming fury taking hold of her. Her hand glowed white as she moved, casting a healing spell, and he watched the light encompass her mother, then fade, then rise again to no effect. Chirenya was still.

Vara brought her sword forward in an assault that lacked any technique but was born of the fury of a daughter who had lost her mother. Great overhand slashes were thrown at the assassin again and again, but he remained outside the reach of her blade, sashaying and whirling to avoid the paladin’s attacks.

Cyrus looked for the orbs of teleportation, but they were gone. They vanished when she died, he realized. The next wave of charging dark elves was near now, and Cyrus did not have time to assist Vara. He turned to attack the dark elves and found himself surrounded on three sides. Using an offhand slash he cleared two of the sides, and with a heavy overhand blow he cleared the last.

“We’re about to be surrounded!” He looked back as two more soldiers commenced attacks on him. Vara was still hammering at the assassin, her face red with emotion; tears streamed down her cheeks and she leapt forward and caught the assassin with a blade in the shoulder, knocking him off balance. He spun from the wound as she pressed the attack and impaled him on the tip of her blade. A sob of rage flew from her as she thrust the sword deeper into the elven man.

With shocking speed, the assassin forced himself further down her blade, driving it deeper through his chest, all the way to the guard that separated the blade from the hilt. He reached out with his dagger as Vara watched, stunned, and buried his weapon into the gap in her side armor. She cried out and fell to her knees, wrenching her sword from the assassin’s body.

“NO!” Cyrus hit the remaining two dark elves attacking him with an assault born of desperation. They flew backward, one missing an arm and the other short a head. He turned and sprinted to where Vara knelt in the street, one hand on her sword and the other at her side. The hand at her wound came forward, pulling the dagger from it. She held it, staring at the bloody blade before dropping it to the ground. She tried to stand, but failed, sinking back to her knees.

Cyrus reached her as she tried to stand again. “Mother,” Vara croaked. “I need to see…”

“She’s dead,” Cyrus said, his voice no more than a whisper. He saw the horror and loss in her eyes as she looked to where Chirenya lay. “We need to get out of here.” The next line of dark elves was approaching, no more than a hundred feet away. He sheathed his sword, then hers, and placed her arm around his shoulders, lifting her to her feet.

“I can…walk,” she said, trying to shove him away.

“I’m sure you can, but we need to move fast right now,” he said as he shuffled them off the Olenet’yinaii into an alley that ran south. “We have to get out of the city before the dark elves catch us, and we’re short on magical transportation.”

He half-ran, half-walked her down the alley, the morningstar’s chain still wrapped around his armor, rattling against it as they went. Far ahead, past dozens of cross-streets, he saw the Entaras’iliarad, still clear. Behind he could see the formation of dark elven soldiers marching down the Olenet’yinaii. Immediately behind him he heard the jeers of a few that had broken off from the column, following them and no more than fifty feet back.

He half-turned and raised Vara’s palm in their direction. “Any chance you can knock them backwards?”

“I…what?” Her eyes were unfocused, and she blinked. “Oh.” Her hand wobbled in his grasp, and then a blast of energy shot from it, sending their pursuers bouncing off walls from the force of her spell.

“Thanks,” he said, “saved me from having to stop and draw a sword.”

“Aye,” she said, sounding as though she were groggy.

How do we get out of here? His mind was racing. We’ll have to take the Olenet’yinaii out of town, southwest toward Pharesia, and hope that we get a good enough lead on the dark elven army that they don’t catch us. We have to get through this alley and onto the Entaras’iliarad before that army reaches this alley, or we’re going to be stuck in the city.

He hobbled along, Vara becoming more dead weight as they went, until finally she went limp and he was forced to lift her up and carry her cradled in his arms. Blood ran down his gauntlets from where the dagger had penetrated her side. She’ll need care. Something to stop the bleeding, and it’s doubtful a healing spell will do it. That assassin’s blades had to be covered with black lace.

He cursed himself. How could we have gotten so involved in the battle that we forgot there were still lunatics out to kill her? He let out a string of epithets. They may have succeeded. I’m going to have to carry her to the next town, over uneven roads and with the dark elven army in pursuit, and it’s unlikely they’ll be very forgiving if I surrender since I did help kill about ten thousand of them last night. His feet felt heavier with every step, though Vara was relatively light. Can I carry her to the next town? Yes, he decided. I could carry her to Reikonos if I had to. To Fertiss. Anywhere.

He burst from the alley into the light of the Entaras’iliarad and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the dark elven army was still several blocks behind them. He ran the remaining block to the Chancel square, puffing with exertion by the time he reached it. The loud whinny of a horse followed by the sound of hooves beating against the street came from behind, causing him to turn. He nearly dropped Vara, already reaching for his sword to fend off whatever was coming.

Instead, he smiled. The horse whinnied again, hooves clomping to cut the distance between them. Windrider approached from across the square, Vara’s mount following behind. “Smartest horse I’ve ever met,” he said as his steed galloped to him. He placed Vara in the saddle and she slumped forward, still unconscious. He climbed up behind her, grabbed the reins to her horse and urged Windrider forward. Vara’s horse followed behind, unburdened. We’ll need the second horse; Windrider is bound to get tired of carrying both of us. He kept an arm protectively around Vara’s waist, holding her in place in the saddle, listening to the clink of her armor hitting against his on every step.

They ran at a full gallop for quite some time. They passed out of the Chancel square and headed southwest toward Pharesia, the buildings growing smaller and smaller, from mighty row houses into two story structures, then one story buildings, until finally they became spaced out wooden hovels and then wide open fields. The horse bore them on, still riding at full tilt as the sun rose behind them.

Chapter 36

The land sloped as they headed southwest up to the crest of a hill a few miles away from the city. When they reached the top, Cyrus brought Windrider to a stop. He dismounted and looked back. Termina was laid out before him and he could see the fires still burning in Santir. He could see that Chirenya had done well; the wharf by the river was in flames, thick black smoke covering the Grand Span from the fire. The dark elven horde moved through the streets, their columns dissipated. A full fledged sack was in progress, and he tried not to think about those who had remained behind for whatever reason.

Pillars of smoke were visible above the Chancel of Life. They’re burning the Chancel, he thought, his mouth dry. Similarly, the government center had smoke coming from it, as well as a few other points throughout the city. A concentrated knot of the dark elven army seemed to be grouped around the Great Bazaar, flowing in and out of it like ants from a hill.

Cyrus reached up to Windrider and lifted Vara from the saddle with utmost care. He carried her to a patch of frosted wheatgrass and set her down, placing his hand under her head and lowering it onto the soft bed of green. Her face was whiter than usual, the flush of battle gone from her cheeks, but her chest rose and fell under her breastplate, now dirty and spattered from the battle. Her hair was still bound and ran to the ground, her ponytail absorbing the frozen dew.

He took her pauldrons off first, removing them over her head with care, and then worked the plate gloves and vambraces from her hands and arms. Next came the breastplate, and finally he rolled up the chainmail at her side. The cloth undershirt she wore was torn above her hip and a small gash spat a thin stream of blood as he raised it. The stab wound was no more than an inch, and the blood around the edges had already begun to crust over.

I’m not a healer, Cyrus thought. I have no idea how to treat this wound other than to bandage it and hope she doesn’t bleed to death. Vara stirred, murmuring something, but did not awaken. Dammit. This is so ridiculously unfair. We finally… He shook his head. No time for self-pity. We need to ride.

He gathered up the pieces of her armor and stuffed them in the saddlebags of her horse, where he found a spare cloak and a few articles of clothing. He took a shirt and wrapped it around her waist, covering the wound before setting her back on Windrider. He climbed up behind her and urged the horse forward again.

They rode on, slowing after a few hours because of the increasing congestion on the road. Cyrus tried to bring the horse to a stop to change several times, but the white destrier ignored him. “Don’t kill yourself,” he whispered, and the horse whinnied. This is no ordinary horse, he thought for not the first time. Something is very peculiar about him. He held tight to Vara, who grew colder in his grasp. The nearest portal is three days’ hard ride. The words bounced in his mind, over and over, and he clung to them, hoping he could force time to move faster.

He moved to the side of the road, bypassing the fleeing citizens of Termina and ignoring calls from weary passersby to leave Vara’s horse. There was a hunger and desperation among the elves, and their piteous cries asking him for some mercy, for help, but mostly for food fell on deaf ears as he navigated the roads, which grew fuller. It was clear most of them had left as quickly as urged, without consideration for food, drink or shelter of any kind. Many of the refugees even lacked for a decent coat, as though they had run out the door without taking any heed of the weather.

Every hour or so he would pull back the dressing and check Vara’s wound. All this riding can’t be good for her. I need to find someone who can actually treat her.

As sundown approached, the refugees became thicker and thicker. Most of the elves were piteous by now, crying out for food where there was none, and arguments broke out along the road. Cyrus rode on, passing countless quarrels, ignoring pleas to “Just leave me the spare horse!” and hiding Vara’s face the entire time, her eyes covered by the cowl of the cloak.

Cyrus was weary as the darkness crept in. Ahead was a crowd thicker than those spread out along the road. As they grew closer he saw a tent set up ahead, the shadowy outline of it visible in the dimming light. Its angular lines jutted up above the nearby trees. It was gargantuan and possessed multiple spires, with small flags at the tip of each.

As they drew closer, Cyrus saw the crowd in front of it. Food was being given freely, served by the bare-chested priestesses of Vidara. Without conscious thought, he steered Windrider toward them. He pulled back the cowl from Vara’s head and spoke as the crowd grew thicker. “Shelas’akur,” he said, “shelas’akur.” Cries filled the air as the elves took up his call, and the crowd parted for them, hands reaching out and brushing her as they passed. He heard women wailing at the sight of Vara’s pale face, waxy and still. He stopped and a hue and cry went up from the priestesses as the word was passed to them that the shelas’akur was wounded.

He lowered Vara from the back of Windrider and carried her forward. Priestesses gathered around him and the tent flap opened. A hand emerged and beckoned him forward, the figure silhouetted in the light of a fire burning inside the tent. He lowered his head and carried her through as the shadow moved aside to admit them.

“Over here,” came the soft voice of the figure, leading them to a corner where a bedroll was piled with pillows. Cyrus set her gently upon them, brushing her hair out of her face as he did so, reminded of how he had done the same for Niamh when she died. He swallowed his emotions and looked up to see Arydni, the High Priestess of Vidara. “You’ve done well to get her out of the city in such a state.”

“For want of scant seconds, she wouldn’t be injured,” Cyrus said. “And her mother wouldn’t be dead.”

“Chirenya?” The High Priestess’s face had not looked so lined only days earlier when he had seen her. He could see by the light of the fire and the lamps hung in the corners that she still wore garb similar to what he had seen at the Chancel, her bare bosoms somewhat hidden by the shadows the flame cast.

“She helped us defend the bridges and evacuate the survivors of the Termina Guard,” he said as he rolled up the chainmail to Vara’s midsection and began to peel away the bloody shirt from her side. “An assassin attacked her after our party teleported away; Vara and I were left behind facing the dark elven army. She managed to kill the assassin, but he struck a final blow.” He pulled the cloth from her wound. “A dagger covered in black lace—she couldn’t heal herself.”

Arydni knelt down on all fours and sniffed the wound, then called for brandy in elvish. “Care for a drink?” she asked with a drawn smile as she dabbed some on a cloth.

“I don’t think that will do much for me right now. If my friend Andren was here, he’d be quick to take you up on it.”

“You know Andren?” She smiled as she placed the cloth on Vara’s wound.

“He’s my oldest friend.” Cyrus frowned. “You know him?”

Arydni smiled. “I should. He’s the father of one of my children, after all.”

“Wait…what?”

“It was long ago. He was very young, only a hundred or so, and I was much older, and a priestess. We stayed together long enough to raise our daughter to the age of maturity and parted as friends.” She looked wistful as she dabbed at Vara’s wound. “How is he? I haven’t seen him in so long.”

“He’s well. He’s one of our healers.” Cyrus searched his mind for details he could tell her. “He…uh…well, he drinks a lot.”

“Really?” She furrowed her brow. “He never touched the stuff in the century we were together, but that was almost two thousand years ago.”

Cyrus tried to put aside what she was telling him. “Will Vara be all right?”

“I don’t know.” Arydni snapped her fingers and spoke words in elvish, and one of the priestesses brought her a small box. It was red, covered with cloth, and when she opened it a needle and thread were within. “I need to close her wound now that I’ve cleaned it.” She muttered more words in elvish and the Priestesses brought lamps and candles closer, casting Vara in the flickering light. Her face was relaxed, and Cyrus could see the small perforation in the skin where the dagger had slipped into her.

He watched as the High Priestess moved her fingers with the delicate precision of a seamstress, slipping the needle in and out of the skin. He held Vara’s hand the entire time but the paladin never stirred. When Arydni finished, she handed the needle and thread to one of the other priestesses, then walked to the corner where a basin of water stood. She immersed her hands, taking a few moments to rinse them. She raised them out, and a priestess stepped forward with a cloth and dried them for her; then she walked back and knelt next to Vara, shaking her head.

“I remember when this one was born,” Arydni said in a hushed tone. “Her sister, as well. Never was a baby birthed with greater ease than Isabelle. This one, though…” Her hand brushed the blond locks off Vara’s head. “Her mother’s labor was long and hard.” She wore a small smile. “Of course, Chirenya was cursing the whole time.”

He swallowed hard, bitterness nearly choking him. He had not enjoyed Chirenya’s company, true, and she had been unkind, but… She was Vara’s mother. And she sacrificed more than anyone at the bridge.

If the Priestess saw his emotion, she ignored it. “She was a miracle from Vidara herself,” Arydni murmured. “A true miracle, the lightest spot since this curse began.”

Something stirred in Cyrus. “Curse? Are you talking about the infertility of the male elves?”

She looked at him, shrewd, her age and wisdom visible more in her eyes than in her firm and supple body. “She told you, did she?”

“Her father accidentally gave me the words and Vara confirmed it.” He squeezed her hand tighter. “She said nothing of a curse.”

The Priestess’s face bore a flicker of amusement. “How would you expect an entire race of men to go infertile but by a curse?”

Cyrus shook his head. “Is there any spell caster powerful enough to curse an entire race?”

She stared back at him, her eyes looking at his; a knowing look that told him that she knew more than she would tell him. “No. There is no spell caster that could do such a thing.”

“Then how…?”

His voice trailed off as Arydni leaned low over Vara, kissing her forehead and caressing her cheeks. “Thank you for saving the shelas’akur, Cyrus Davidon. I know you love her and would fight to your death for her.”

“I suppose that to Vidara, to fight is a sin.” He lowered his head and his lips brushed Vara’s forehead. Still, she did not stir.

When he raised his head back up, Arydni stared at him. “To protect life is the highest calling. To be a white knight dedicated to such cause is to be a paladin, a holy warrior in the All-Mother’s service. Some fight for greed, willing to kill another to take what they have; others for love or for lust, and still others for revenge or out of anger. Every day of life is a fight. You can acquiesce in these greater and lesser battles, and find yourself soon enough dead—or dead inside. Or you can fight for what is important to you, struggle for what matters, with word when possible and sword when necessary, and risk death to shape your world such as you would have it.”

He took a deep breath and watched the shadows play on the walls of the tent. “How is that any different from…uh…” He hesitated.

“You worship the God of War, do you not?” She stared him down, using her eyes to compel the truth from him.

“I do,” he said, though not proudly. Shame burned his cheeks at the thought of the imminent revulsion from the priestess.

“The God of War cares not what your motives are for conflict; he only craves it. You know that to Bellarum, mercy, compassion and tenderness are weaknesses to be purged. Vidara would raise those up as virtues, and commend any who practiced them. It is the same,” she went on, “with death. All creatures die and it is a part of life that the All-Mother accepts, for it makes the time of living more valuable and cherished.

“But the God of Death, Mortus, embraces the loss of life, but not life itself. Do you see the differences?” She waited for him to nod. “If so, you are wise beyond many priests and priestesses whose lives have been spent studying the gods and their philosophies.” She wore a gentle smile. “Vidara is the Lifebringer, and yet in defense of her own she does command death. Does that seem contradictory to you?”

“Yes. But no more so than the God of Death loathing life, I suppose, for were it not for life, would there be death?”

She laughed. “Another contradiction; I see you have grasped it. To be on a journey of the spirit and follow the path of any god requires either a rigidly inflexible adherence to dogma or a tremendous sense of humor; rarely are both to be found in the same person.” Her hand reached over Vara and rested on his shoulder. “You are tired.”

He looked across at her, and for the first time since entering the tent realized once more how much of Arydni was exposed. “I am,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers, the fatigue settling over him like a warm blanket.

“Rest, for a time,” she said. “We will watch over Vara, and tend to her.” She extended her hand and a priestess appeared at Cyrus’s shoulder. He stood, looking down at the figure of the paladin on the floor below him. He let the priestess lead him away and help him remove his armor, stacking it in the corner where a bedroll waited with another pillow. He lay down and she tucked him in, pulling the blanket up over his body, and he wondered idly when the last time was that that had happened. Before the Society of Arms, he thought. Back when…

His thought did not finish; he fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter 37

He awoke to a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him. When he rolled to his back, he saw it was one of the priestesses, a younger-looking woman with dark hair that hung well past her shoulders, tucked behind her pointed ears on either side. He had a moment of disorientation before the events of the last few days came flooding back to him. Light streamed into the tent from above and Cyrus rubbed his eyes.

“Someone has come for you, sir,” the priestess said as Cyrus sat up. He stood and looked to the corner where Vara rested. She remained unmoving, Arydni at her side. Another figure had joined them, huddled next to the High Priestess. She wore red robes, stitched with patterns, and a scarf of black and red silk that lay across her shoulders, hanging to almost below her waist in the style of all spellcasters; the runes stitched into it would have told Cyrus she was a wizard if he hadn’t already known.

He didn’t bother to put on his armor before walking over to her. “Nyad.”

The elven woman stood to greet him, coming at him so quickly that he didn’t have a chance to step back. She wrapped her arms around him in a hug and he felt the warmth of her against him without his armor, before she pulled away. “I’m so glad you’re safe. I was on my way back to Termina when I heard the crowds on the road saying Vara had been injured and was resting here.” Her relief was tangible. “Did everyone else get out? Did Termina…” She let her words trail off, and he could see the pain in her face.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Everyone else made it out except Vara’s mother. She cast the area teleport spell, and an assassin struck her down as we were reaching for the orbs. Vara killed him, but not before…” He gestured to her, helpless. “We had to flee on horseback. When last I looked, Termina was overrun.” At his words, Nyad’s head bowed in sorrow.

“You did well, getting her this far.” Arydni stood, joining them. “It’s too soon to be certain, but I think she’ll be all right; her wound has avoided infection thanks to the black lace.”

Cyrus shook his head in confusion. “I thought the black lace was a poison.”

“It nullifies magical effects, that’s true. But it’s hardly a poison. In fact, it has a sterilizing effect, so if you don’t die when attacked by a weapon coated in it, you’re unlikely to become infected later. We use it sometimes when treating natural wounds or ones that can’t be healed by magic.”

“Can she be safely teleported?” Cyrus looked down at Vara, who looked as peaceful as she had last night. “We need to get her somewhere defensible.”

“Yes,” Arydni said. “But she’ll need someone to tend to her. I think it best if I accompany you until she’s healed. May the Goddess strike me down for my immodesty, but I doubt you’ll find a better healer of natural ailments than I.”

“You have people to tend to here,” Cyrus said. “You’ve helped us so much, I don’t see how we can pull you from your duties any more than we already have.”

“There is much care needed here, it’s true.” The High Priestess folded her arms in front of her, reminding Cyrus once more that she wore nothing to cover her breasts. It’s getting easier to forget that and fail to notice, the more I’m around these priestesses. Or maybe I’m just too tired. She drew his attention back to her. “But there is no greater duty than tending to the health of the shelas’akur.”

“Very well.” He nodded. “Can you teleport us back to Sanctuary, Nyad?”

“No,” the wizard said. “I have orders to bring you to Pharesia.”

“Orders from whom?” I don’t much care for the sound of that…

“From my father and Alaric, who believes one more assassin remains in Sanctuary, and they’re in the midst of rooting them out. He suggested the Royal Palace in Pharesia might be more defensible and my father would be happy to host you.”

Cyrus thought about it. We can’t return to Sanctuary. Where else could we go? Fertiss? The gnomish lands? They’re not likely to have as much security as the palace of the Elf King. Our list of options grows very thin, and I don’t care for that. “What kind of security do they have? I don’t want to avoid Sanctuary for fear of an assassin and end up chancing into one in the Palace.”

“My father has guards that he trusts absolutely, that have been with him since the beginning,” she said. “He has pledged to employ the tightest security measures. He will guarantee Vara’s safety should we go to him; and yours as well, for your part in the defense of Termina.”

“All right,” Cyrus said. “What now?”

“If there are people hunting you, you cannot go as you are.” Arydni placed a hand upon his pauldron, her pale skin standing out against the black metal. “You may be the only warrior in Arkaria that wears black armor, and would be recognizable as the man who travels with the shelas’akur.”

Cyrus looked down. “This was my father’s armor. I can’t leave it behind.”

Arydni shook her head, her expression as impish as a woman of twenty. “Nay. When we teleport, we’ll need a means to transport Vara; let us take a wagon with us. We’ll attire you in the raiment of one of Vidara’s Paladins, and I will wear my finest High Priestess robes. We can hide the shelas’akur in the back of the wagon. In this way, it will appear you are escorting me to the Palace to counsel with the King.”

“Very wise,” Nyad said. “Such things are commonplace. No one will take notice of a Priestess of Vidara riding through the streets of Pharesia.”

“Save perhaps any human men with a wandering eye,” Arydni said, not looking to Cyrus.

It took them only an hour to make the preparations. The priestesses procured a wagon, which Vara was loaded onto under the careful watch of Arydni. Cyrus placed his armor with Vara’s in a heavy canvas bag that was loaded into the wagon and tied down so as not to roll.

Cyrus stared at himself in the simple, freestanding full length mirror that stood before him in the tent. The priestesses didn’t leave much behind in the evacuation, he thought. Where his armor was normally black as the darkest night, it was now shining steel. Not quite as bright Vara’s, he thought, but she’d approve. He wore a helm that was cylindrical in shape, tapering to a near-flat top with two slits for eyes and a small opening for a mouth. One of the priestesses draped a surcoat over him; it bore the heraldry he had seen on banners within the Chancel of Life; a green field with two trees, a stream running down the middle, and a few flowers of varying colors underneath a blue sky.

“You look very fine, Sir Cyrus,” the priestess who was attending to him spoke, her quiet voice carrying a whisper of suggestion.

“I feel ridiculous,” he said, tugging on the surcoat. “I’m an instrument of destruction; I’m supposed to be fearsome. I feel like a bunny is going to hop across this coat of arms.” He looked down through the holes in his helm. Even through this…this bucket, I can see I look ridiculous, and I can’t see much of anything.

“Nay,” she said. “You look splendid. Were you not the consort of the shelas’akur, I would show you the affection of a priestess for a man who wears the livery of the Goddess.”

“You would?” He mused. “Wait…what?” He turned to her, but she curtsied and brushed out the nearest flap of the tent without answering him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that a great many elven women have turned to human men out of a desperation to feel life grow inside them.” Arydni’s voice washed over him as she appeared at his shoulder. With delicate fingers, she straightened his surcoat. “Human men who come to the Kingdom are courted, and if they are desirous of a bride, they can doubtless find one.”

“I’ve seen a lot of human men with elven women,” he said, then nearly laughed. “Some of the men not nearly worthy of the look of the women on their arm.”

She stepped before him, making another minute adjustment to his armor. “In a time such as this, hope is harder to come by. Long have our peoples known friendship, but it is never far from an elf’s mind that in a thousand years, when we are still in the same positions, have the same King and government, your whole order could be completely different. And yet humans are the most like the elves of all the races. We share little commonality with the dwarves and gnomes, and the dark elves have been our longest and most hated enemy.”

She looked at him in the mirror. “I confess it myself, the curious draw toward human men. It is a predisposition that runs through our whole race now. I am a mother one hundred and forty-five times, yet I know I have time in me for a few more, and the desire as well. If I would have one, I have one place where I would need look—to the race of humans.” She admired her handiwork in the mirror. “Very good. You look every bit as dashing as a Knight of Vidara.”

“How would you know under the helm?” he asked.

“Why, General Davidon,” she said with almost a mocking air. “There is more to a Knight of Vidara than rugged good looks, just as there is more to a priestess than ample bosoms displayed openly.” She ushered him out of the tent as he blushed and failed to reply. The wagon was a simple vehicle, wood with overlarge wheels, the spokes made of iron. The sides were high and it had padded benches for sitting. This must be designed so the priestesses can travel in comfort.

“I will ride in the back with Vara,” Arydni said, climbing up. “As a paladin charged with my defense, you need ride up front with Nyad and drive.”

He nodded and helped Nyad up to the seat. “Everyone ready?” Nyad looked into the back of the wagon, waiting for a reply from Arydni, who answered in the affirmative. “Next stop—”

“Hush,” Cyrus said, grasping her arm. They were in front of the tent, and a crowd of ragged refugees stared at them; elves who only a few days earlier had been warm and well fed, finely clothed in the prosperous garb of Termina, the jewel of the elven empire. Now they were dirty and haggard and homeless, most of them having not so much as a possession to call their own. They didn’t deserve this. The whole Kingdom will be at war now, a war they can scarce afford since they can’t make up their losses. It may be wise for them to sue for peace.

Nyad’s hand was raised, and the glow of her spell encompassed them. Different than druid magic, the teleportation spell of a wizard came from a place of power and energy, crackling and coalescing around them with bright colors. There was a flash and the world grew bright then dimmed as Cyrus found himself somewhere completely different.

Chapter 38

Raised swords and spears greeted Cyrus as he appeared back into being. Soldiers of the Elven Army stood before him, a host almost as large as the one that had laid siege to Termina. Though they were clad in the winged helm and steel breastplates he had seen on the Termina Guard, their livery was different with heraldry that showed a city wall covered in green vines, with water flowing down it.

“Lady Nyad.” The officer standing at the forefront bowed before her. Thirty or so soldiers were gathered around the portal with their weapons in hand, ready to put down any potential invaders as they appeared. Easier than defending your city gates when the enemy armies show up, I suppose. “We are pleased to see you return.” With a waved hand, the officer commanded his men to lower their weapons. “Your father awaits your report.”

“Thank you,” she said as Cyrus took the reins and started the horses forward through a gap that the soldiers made. He watched as they reformed their line the moment the wagon had passed through. The road stretched before them and Nyad pointed him left.

They were in a clearing, and in the distance Cyrus could see the massive trees of the Iliarad’ouran woods. The last time he had passed through, he had marveled; some of their trunks were a hundred feet in diameter and stretched into the sky, blotting out the sun. They put the Waking Woods near Sanctuary to shame. It was a green and verdant land, and the air around them was warm, the sun shining down from above. The smell of fresh greenery was all about, the air bearing the scent of nature that had been so absent in Termina and, later, in the perfumed air of the tent of the priestesses.

Trees were all that was visible on the horizon. In front of him was a different sight, something he had not laid eyes on in nearly two years. Pharesia, the seat of Elvendom, was laid out before him, a massive, vine covered wall blocking all but the highest towers and minarets of the city from view. The wall stretched almost two hundred feet into the air, peppered with a window here and there, and complete with parapets, allowing defenders to fire arrows into any invaders while maintaining cover. The stones that made up the wall carried almost a white color, and shone in the sun.

The main gate was big enough that three titans could walk in on each others’ shoulders, and wide enough for fifty wagons. Was it this big when last I was here? Oh, that’s right, I met Nyad outside the city. They entered with a stream of other traffic onto a wide avenue. There were no street merchants but a great many shops on the boulevard. Bakers, armorers, a flower shop that offered a pleasing, familiar aroma were all there—but fewer than Termina or Reikonos, he thought.

Trees were in abundance, and every few buildings sat a garden filled with trees and lush grasses, flowers and the occasional water garden. Aquaducts flowed throughout the city, also vine-covered and with occasional offshoots that dumped water sluicing down the sides in waterfalls.

They passed one such garden, with water cascading down onto flattened circular rocks placed around a pool. Next to it was a grassy meadow sandwiched between two three-story buildings. It was a space bigger than two of the row houses Cyrus had seen in Termina, and it backed to the aquaduct’s waterfall. Moss grew around the pond made by the falling water, and two gardens grew to either side of it with rich purples and reds, yellows and blues of the flowers blooming in the mid-morning light. A few elves sat around the park, eating, talking and waiting, enjoying the shade.

They stayed on the same road they had entered the gate on, passing through squares with buildings covered in vines, trellises hanging next to every window with blooming flowers and every sill containing plants of some kind. The residents of Pharesia take their greenery seriously.

On their right came a large square, fountain at the center, in an odd design that threw off the symmetry of the street. At the far end of the square was a building larger than any other thus far in the city; a squarish structure with towers at all four corners, domed minarets atop each. “It’s the Museum of Arms,” Nyad whispered. “You remember, where—”

“Where they kept Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, until the Dragonlord decided he needed it more than the elves,” Cyrus said. “It’s an impressive building.” He looked up, where a large domed glass skylight rested.

The horses trudged along in silence. Cyrus suspected Nyad would have made an excellent tour guide, but the elf seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. The noise of the wheels clacking against the streets precluded the possibility of conversation with Arydni, so Cyrus contented himself with taking in the varied and beautiful architecture. Though he was certain that most of it had been built thousands of years ago, every building in Pharesia maintained a look of good repair.

The road made a slight turn, and before them Cyrus could see a colossal building. That has to be the palace. At each corner of the grounds sat one of the massive trees that made up the Iliarad’ouran forest. They stretched above the walls that encircled the building. Dozens of towers jutted into the sky—some short, some tall, so many he found himself dizzy from the counting. They weaved in and out, asymmetrical, each topped with a minaret of a different color, giving the rooftop a rainbow hue.

As they grew closer, Cyrus saw that the walls surrounding the palace were only half as high as those around the city. The road carried them to the main gate, where they were ushered through with only a nod from the guards. Other wagons were stopped and searched, their occupants staring jealously at Cyrus as they passed.

Once through the gate, the world opened up before them; the palace grounds were even more luxuriant and green than the city. The palace was a mile distant from the wall, Cyrus reckoned, and the space between was all greenery, the only sign of mortal interference being the trimmed hedges, grasses, trees and the tended flowers arranged in beds. Streams flowed through the area and the colors were intoxicating.

“They’re beautiful at night as well,” Nyad said from beside him. “Father had the gardeners cultivate a night garden where all the flowers within bloom in the evening. As the sun sets above the wall, the colors reflect off the pools and the stone. He has a few plants and flowers from exotic places that glow phosphorescent in the moonlight.” She sighed. “I haven’t spent more than a week here since I left home; and only then when our exile was rescinded last year. It truly is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought the Sanctuary garden was impressive, but this…” He took a deep breath. “This puts it to shame.”

Ahead was the palace. Before them, the road divided to run on either side of a reflecting pool and the two roads reunited before a covered entry. “We’re going to the north wing,” she said, pointing to an offshoot of the main building that sat to the left of the massive central, towered structure. “We’ll have it almost all to ourselves.” Cyrus steered the horses down the path Nyad indicated, veering away from the main covered entry to a smaller one around the corner. There, a guard greeted them and two more opened the double doors.

A steward waited within, a man who was perfumed and scented, his hair gray all over in spite of the fact that his flesh was still youthful and unwrinkled. He wore silken robes of blue and green, and seemed to walk on the air itself. His eyes were alight with glee at the sight of guests and he bowed and harrumphed while leading them from the entryway into an open foyer four stories tall. A chandelier hung in the middle of the room, twice as big as Cyrus was tall, a circular arrangement filled with a thousand candles, light reflected by the hanging glass on each ring.

He ushered them through labyrinthine corridors. Cyrus carried Vara in his arms, Arydni and Nyad behind him. Beyond the smell of the perfumed man was a scent of a building in disuse. The air was stale and though the hallways were free of cobwebs, Cyrus could sense that they had not been used in quite some time.

“This wing was used to house the immediate members of the royal family,” the steward said, his finger running along the wall. “But the immediate family is not so large as it used to be even a thousand years ago, and thus the north wing sits empty.” An unmistakeable sorrow filled his words.

The steward led them to a suite, opening the double doors with a flourish to reveal a large living space, the central hub of several rooms. There was an open-air balcony before them, a fountain in the center of the room, and doors on each side. Cyrus set Vara upon the bed in the largest bedroom in the suite. Once he had set her down, he drew a blanket with care and covered her with it, reminding him of when he had done the same in Termina only days earlier.

“When will we see the King?” Nyad asked the steward.

“Mmmm,” the steward said, his voice high and equivocal. “He’s very busy.”

“I’m his youngest daughter,” Nyad said with a flush to her cheeks.

“What’s he busy with?” Cyrus asked, drawing an amused look from the steward.

“Whatever he wants,” Nyad said. “He has advisors that handle most of the affairs of state so he spends his time lurking the palace, prowling through hidden passages, listening to hear what people are saying, playing hiding games with the half-elven children here on the grounds, courting additional wives—”

Cyrus blinked. “Elves can have multiple wives?”

A voice came from the bed behind them; strong, though a bit hoarse. “A product of an archaic bygone age.” Cyrus turned to see Vara staring at him, eyes half-lidded. “The only elven men with multiple wives nowadays are royalty—and only because they marry highborn women so singularly useless that they can serve no other function but to adorn a man’s arm—and bed.”

Nyad flinched at Vara’s assessment, her ears reddening under her long hair.

Cy crossed to the bed, kneeling at the side. Arydni sat next to Vara on the other. “How do you feel?” he asked, his gauntlet finding her uncovered hand.

“Not half as poorly as you are dressed,” she answered, staring at his helm. “You look absolutely ridiculous, by far more than usual.” She cleared her throat and looked around. “What happened? Where are we?”

“The Royal Palace,” Nyad said, stepping up behind Cyrus, the steward a step behind her.

“Do you remember what happened?” He removed the helm from his head and felt his long hair cascade around his shoulders.

“My head feels a bit foggy,” she said. “But I remember…” Her voice trailed off and when it returned, it was hollow. “Everything.” She looked first to Arydni, who nodded, and then to the steward and blinked. “Who the blazes are you?”

He bowed again. “My most pleasurable greetings, shelas’akur, I am but a humble steward of the Palace—”

“You are no more a steward than I am a dancing gnome,” she said, her eyes narrow. “I remember your face from the days when I was in the Holy Brethren. You spoke with me the first week that I was there and I never saw you again afterward.”

He bowed again. “You have an excellent memory, since that was sixteen years ago and I looked much different than now.”

“I thought it curious at the time, as you seemed to be known to the elven members of the staff and yet I never saw you again after we spoke.” Cyrus listened to Vara but watched the steward, his hand already on Praelior, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. “You asked questions no one else had the gall to ask—if I was happy with my parents, or if I was dissatisfied in some way with living in the Kingdom.”

The steward guffawed. “I suppose it would be curious; I came that day to discern your reasons for entering the Brethren so far in advance of what was expected. But it was not the first time we had met.”

Vara sat up in bed, grimacing as she did so. “Oh? Pray tell, I cannot recall any others.”

“We have a long association, you and I. I was present on the day of your birth, and have seen you many times throughout your childhood. In any of those times, I was not garbed in such a way as you would have paid any mind to my face,” he said. “In fact, I suspect that even those among you who would normally recognize me cannot do so outside of my customary outrageous attire.”

He nodded at Nyad, who was staring at him, curious. “Your mother, after all, taught you never to look the palace help in the face when you spoke with them; it’s unbefitting a highborn to look in the eyes of their lessers. I would never have taught you that, but this particular game of royals has helped me play my own game unnoticed for nearly three thousand years, so I dare not discourage it.”

Nyad still stared, puzzling at him. Cyrus looked to Vara, who frowned in confusion, while Arydni wore a serene expression, the look of a woman who had figured it out. “What?” Cyrus asked her.

“He’s the King,” she said.

“No,” Nyad said under her breath, “I would recognize…” A slight gasp of disbelief worked its way free from her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed in astonishment.

Cyrus looked to the wizard. “I take it you weren’t…close…during your childhood?”

“As close as any father who has fifty children and a country to run,” he said with a sad smile. “Even when I’m with them, I’m trapped in the absurd attire of the King, so ostentatious and yet beautiful and intricate I would swear the craftsman spent their entire lives designing them. It tends to draw the eye away from trifling details like my face, which is plain enough.”

Cyrus looked to him and saw the truth of it; the King was plain. His cheekbones were average, but his eyebrows were more pronounced. He was not fat, but neither was he thin. The robes of the steward were bright enough to draw attention away from his average features; Cyrus could not imagine what the robes, crown and staff of a King could do.

The King’s posture had been the somewhat stooped bearing of a steward. That was gone now, and something more majestic had taken its place. His shoulders were squared, back straightened, and he looked like a soldier at attention—or a King, about to make a pronouncement.

“Why come to us now, your grace?” Vara said. “Why like this?”

He nodded, a slow, careful nod. “Because this is the only way I can come to you, where we can speak without prying ears. The problem with putting yourself at the center of a monarchy is that all your subjects in court put you at the center of their lives. They all crave a minute of my time, then another, and another—and when they don’t, you can be sure one of my wives does. There is no privacy for a King, no words or message that can be delivered that aren’t listened for and heard by as many ears as can catch them.”

He slumped once more, a subtle transformation, as the weight and gravity of the King disappeared and was replaced by the flighty, carefree spirit of the steward. “But no one cares about the pronouncements of the caretaker of the abandoned north wing. The members of the court and the viziers are too busy fawning over the King, trying to curry favor and hoard power to pay attention to me.”

“What do you have to tell us?” Cyrus asked him. Nyad and Arydni shot him a prompting look that took him a moment to decipher. “…Your…uh…majesty,” he amended.

“It would be ‘your grace’, as a general rule,” the monarch said with a smile. “But since I am not here as the King, let us speak as though I were not one. You may call me Danay.”

Cyrus felt a curious lightheadedness. Danay. As in King Danay the First, he thought. “What brings you to us?”

“Things that cannot be said in a public setting.” He cast his eyes to the windows, saw they were shut, then looked to the door, which was closed, then back to Vara. “Your father is safe, only a few doors down the hall. He is not able to walk, but you may visit him at your convenience.” He took a deep breath. “I must caution you, however; his age overtakes him. My physicians assure me that he does not have long to live; a few days at most.”

Vara, already drawn and pale from her injury, seemed to grow even whiter at the King’s words. She has to tell her father that Chirenya is dead, he realized.

If the King noticed Vara’s discomfiture, he did not address it. “In a few days, when you have recovered,” he indicated her and Cyrus in turn, “the two of you will come before the court and be presented with our highest honors for your defense of Termina. Our spies have told us that between all three spans, the dark elves lost nearly half their invading army and cannot fortify their positions as they originally planned.”

His eyes glittered. “The Sovereign of Saekaj played us truly false on that, and his army and council are nearly as filled with spies as ours. His sealed orders for the attack on Termina went out with only two griffon riders, direct to his general, cutting out every member of his council and even the lower ranks of his military until the attack was in motion. We won’t be able to easily remove them from this side of the river, but if not for your efforts, we might not have been able to remove them at all; they would have had a hundred thousand yet with which to defend Termina.”

“But you will remove them, won’t you?” The question came from Arydni.

“We will try,” the King said. “We can scarce afford to suffer the losses it will take. My generals inform me that city fighting will be a much more difficult battle than meeting their armies on the open plains; our cavalry and experience counts for less in the narrow streets.” He shook his head. “The sole advantage of an army as mature as ours is experience. Close-in melee does not benefit us. With wider spaces our mounted soldiers can perform charges that would cause their infantry to wither.”

Cyrus swallowed heavily. “Can the Kingdom survive without Termina?”

King Danay looked at him with a grim amusement. “Not easily, no. Termina was the beating heart of the Kingdom’s economy, producing most of the weapons, armor and other equipment that we’ve been sending to the Human Confederation. All our shipping ran through the city, a large part of our fishing came through the port, along with most of our exports and imports.” He shook his head, deathly slow. “Without the taxes from all that, we’ll have a shortage in the treasury in the next year. Fighting a war on this footing will be difficult. We’ll be on the defensive, forced to focus on expelling the dark elves from Termina then protecting our borders, which is far from the kind of war I’d like to give them for their brazenness.”

Nyad spoke up, her voice straining. “Who will take the blame for losing Termina?”

“Now there’s an inconvenient truth of ruling,” Danay said with a nod. “Nobody predicted this. No one thought that the dark elves would be foolish enough to attack us in the middle of a war with the humans, and yet who looks the fool now? Well, if the dark elves do it’s solely because of your efforts, not ours. Also, those of that young Endrenshan, I suppose—Yemer’s son, I forget his name…”

“Odellan,” Cyrus said. “His name is Odellan.”

“I’m afraid that it’s irrelevant,” the King said with a sigh. “His name means less than nothing now. He lost 4,500 soldiers in the defense of the Northbridge. My generals view that—as would the public of the Kingdom– as an unsustainable loss. Never mind that he saved the lives of hundreds of thousands more, the fact that he lost such great numbers looks…well, it looks bad. Especially when coupled with the fall of the city.” The King threw up his arms in a gesture of resignation. “The chattering classes have already gone wild with anger. Odellan is to be expelled from the Termina Guard, stripped of his rank and exiled from the Kingdom.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Cyrus felt the heat of outrage rise within him. “Odellan is a hero. He led from the front and fought through the night the same as we did to protect the lives of the citizens of Termina. He was prepared to sacrifice his life to save the people and you ought to know it.”

“I do know it. But do you assume I am all powerful in some way?” The King said it with a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “My generals and the people have spoken. All I could manage was to spare his life, which was quite a bit under the circumstances. It’s not as if those lost can be easily replaced by recruiting the next generation of youthful soldiers.”

“The grim political realities of running an empire,” Vara said with unrestrained sarcasm. “Let no act of great courage go unpunished.”

Danay shrugged. “I can do little enough about it. He’ll be given transport out of the Kingdom to a place of his choosing, and some money. I suspect, as industrious as he is, he’ll end up all right. But that’s such a gloomy subject, and so far out of my control. We have more pleasant matters to discuss—such as the honors you’re about to be given.”

“I’ll pass,” Cyrus said. “The man you should be honoring is about to be exiled; he fought with a high risk of permanent death, and the gratitude you’ve shown him galls me. I care not for your honors.” His voice was hot with contempt, raising the eyebrow of the King. “…Your grace.”

King Danay straightened back into his royal posture, and his mouth became a tight line. Nyad cringed as he moved, and his voice was as unyielding as stone. “While you remain under my protection, you will at least do me the courtesy—”

“You mean give you the political hay—” Cyrus interrupted.

“—of accepting the honors I bestow. You will do so because I have a long and far-reaching relationship with your guild—”

“—every member of which was declared persona non grata in your country just a few months ago for a series of crimes we did not commit—” Cyrus went on.

“—and because it’s good manners for a houseguest to humor his host.”

“—And that’s why we’re leaving,” Cyrus finished, a cold fury having overtaken him. “You can stick your hospitality straight up your—”

“Cyrus!” He jerked his head away from the rising tempo of his disagreement with the King at Vara’s shouted command. Though she used only his name, he heard the implied message. Shut up. You’re arguing with a King in his own palace.

He’s a hell of a King, Cyrus raged internally. Odellan was the best leader he could have hoped for in Termina; any of his stodgy generals with more experience might have hesitated to evacuate the city, waiting to see if the dark elves made an aggressive move. For his part he gets exiled, cast out of his own homeland and spit on for doing the only reasonable thing he could have in the circumstances…

“I don’t expect you to understand our politics,” the King said, gathering up in his robes. “Odellan is not the first good man to be destroyed through no fault of his own, nor will he be the last. But while you are under my roof, you will accept my honors as well.” His eyes narrowed. “It is possible you may even enjoy a few of them—titles and whatnot. We will make arrangements in the next few days. Until then, enjoy your stay.” He bowed his head, not nearly so low as he had when playing the steward, and withdrew with a flourish, the door closing behind him.

Vara waited a few seconds after he left before rounding on Cyrus, her head whipsawing around as if it had been blown by a hard wind. “He’s the King, you daft bastard. You don’t address the monarch like that.”

“Why?” Cyrus’s teeth grated. “Because he has a royal title to excuse the fact that he just helped run an innocent man out of town?”

“No,” she replied with heated words, “because he’s the King and it’s unseemly to do so. You’re fortunate he was so forgiving else you might have found yourself hanging from the outer wall.”

“Yeah, it would have been a real shame if I’d needed to kill a thousand members of the palace guard today,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“The palace guard contains more than just warriors,” Nyad said, her voice oddly hollow. “Because governments can only hire so many members of the Leagues, they hold back a disproportionate number to protect their most valuable holdings. Anyone who attacks the palace would be set upon by wizards, druids, enchanters and an army protected by healers.” She stared off into space as though she were still shell-shocked. “I had no idea…he looked…”

“Yes, well, leaving aside the obvious questions about her sad and pitiful childhood—” Vara stared down Cyrus, ignoring the mortified look Nyad shot her—“it remains that you would do well to tone down your ego; even if you could kill the entire palace guard it would be for naught because you’d then be the enemy of the elves and be hunted throughout the lands, unwelcome wherever you go.”

“Your King can’t even defend his own lands, let alone hunt anybody in someone else’s,” Cyrus scoffed. He looked to Arydni, still at Vara’s bedside, “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “The priestesses are always at odds with the monarchy. You haven’t lived until you’ve told off the King.”

“I meant about our next move.”

“Vara will heal in a few days. You’ll be better protected here than anywhere else and if you must accept some ribbons, lands and titles from the King in order to assure her safety until you can return to your guildhall, then bury your pride and dignity in a dark place for Vara’s good health.” She kept her expression neutral, but Cyrus detected the faintest hint of reproach in her words.

They’ll throw an innocent man out of their Kingdom and I’m supposed to smile and accept accolades from a government like that? He looked around to find everyone staring at him. Vara’s face was still drawn and her lips were pursed as though she were in great pain but trying to suppress it. She lost her mother, got wounded in a battle that cost us her hometown, her people are at war and she’s still being hunted by the most secretive order I’ve ever run across. Shame burned his cheeks. I don’t care for what they did to Odellan, but if I’m going to fight to the death over a matter of principle I’d have it be my death, not hers. “All right. We’ll stay.”

The days that followed dragged as slow as any Cyrus had ever lived. He carried Vara in his arms to Amiol and listened to her tell him that his wife was dead. The elder elf took it well, comforting his daughter, who was largely stoic herself. Even her face maintained a stony countenance while she broke the news to him; two silent tears were the only outward expression of her grief. Later that night, he swore he had heard a choked sob, though it might have been a noise outside. The soft, steady breathing of Arydni by the window and the gentle snores of Nyad on a nearby chair held him in place, kept him from going to her. In the morning, the news came from a palace messenger that her father had died in the night.

She took it without reaction, remaining in bed, staring, her knees pulled to her chest but with little more than a blank expression. As much as he wanted to talk to her, Arydni and Nyad were ever-present in her room. The Priestess maintained a constant watch on the paladin, taking no meals, very little liquid refreshment and less sleep than Cyrus, who had taken to resting for brief periods on the fainting couch in the corner of the room.

Nyad remained in close attendance as well. After recovering from the shock of her father’s secret, she had prattled on about the palace, its history and the life of growing up in it until Vara had broken her silence and told the wizard in no uncertain terms to either shut up or leave. She had managed almost ten minutes of silence, after which she had begun to talk about Pharesia and the history of the city.

Days passed, then a week, then two. Servants brought meals of the finest elven delicacies; fresh vegetables from every corner of the Kingdom, citrus fruits garnishing and braising the meats that they supped upon. Everything was delicate, exquisite, and portioned so small that Cyrus had taken to asking for multiple servings to be brought with every cart lest he starve to death.

“The elven people are more about well crafted foods than abundances of it,” Nyad sniffed when he mentioned it.

“Well I’m about eating what it takes to maintain my frame,” he said. “Although that does explain why you lot are so small.”

“And you’ve overfed both the fat in your belly and betwixt your ears,” Vara had replied. Two weeks after they had arrived, her color had returned and Arydni was satisfied with the healing she was experiencing. “Though I suppose that dates back to your days in the Society of Arms, where they breed the next generation of war boars by dividing you neatly down the middle and telling you to kill everyone on the opposing side.”

“That’s not quite how it works,” he said, calm. “But the training program does encourage healthy amounts of eating.”

She rolled her eyes and then rolled off the bed. She had begun walking without his assistance only a couple days earlier. The King’s Physician and the Chief Healer for the realm had both visited her at various junctures and conferred with Arydni in conversations that had involved dense elvish words that Cyrus did not know. After they had left, his companions had summed up what was said—that Vara was recovering nicely. Notice had been given that a ceremony would be held in the throne room in which Cyrus and Vara would be rewarded for their efforts, along with the other defenders of Termina.

“Brilliant,” Cyrus breathed. “Won’t a public ceremony draw the attention of the dark elves to the fact that we breached our neutrality and declared ourselves their enemies?”

“I think that the tens of thousands of dead bodies we left might have done it for us,” Nyad said. “It’s not as though we could keep secret what was done there; the surviving members of the Termina Guard that we saved told their family members and friends, some of the Termina survivors saw us taking up defensive positions—”

Vara interrupted her, frowning at him. “It’s not as though there are countless warriors that dress entirely in black armor walking the paths of Arkaria. That dark elven colonel identified you the moment he set foot on the bridge. There is no hiding our involvement.”

“I had hoped,” Cyrus said, “that we might be able to defend the survivors and retreat without word getting out. At least not anything that could be conclusively proven.”

“Conclusively proven?” Vara’s laugh drew his attention to where she stood by the balcony, staring out onto an empty courtyard filled with swaying trees. “The Sovereign declared a death mark on our entire guild with much less evidence and for much less of a crime. Still, I suspect he’s rather occupied at the moment, making war on the two largest powers in Arkaria. Perhaps we’ll go unnoticed for a time.”

“Perhaps,” came a voice from behind them. “And perhaps not.”

Standing in the doorway was Alaric Garaunt.

Chapter 39

“Alaric,” Cyrus said, jumping to his feet. “You’re here,” he said. The words sounded lame in his ears. The old knight stood before him with arms crossed, like a disapproving father, and a twinge of shame interspersed with more than a little fear washed through Cyrus’s innards at the sight of his Guildmaster.

“I am,” the Ghost said. “I’ve come along with our guildmates for the ceremony—and to speak with the two of you.” He nodded at Cyrus and Vara. “It has been some time and much has transpired…since last we spoke. Cyrus…I would have words with you, alone.” He turned from them and walked out the door, with nary a look back to see if he followed.

With an uneasy feeling, Cyrus trailed after him, through the main living space and into a bedroom on the other side of the suite. “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said as he shut the door. “There were a million people in Termina and I couldn’t allow them to be slaughtered by the dark elves; you know they wouldn’t have had much remorse about making a pyre of the city with all the residents in it.”

The cool eye of the Ghost looked through his helmet at Cyrus, sending a chill through the warrior. Alaric reached up and removed his helm, revealing his gray-streaked hair and eyepatch. Of late, the Guildmaster had grown a beard, short but full, matching his hair in color but perfectly uniform in length. If nothing else, it helped to further cloak the already impassive paladin’s emotions.

The smell of the room swept over Cyrus; the rich aroma of citrus wafted in on the breeze, so much warmer than the one he felt in Termina, a hard chinook that could cut through him. This one was pleasant, carried a trace of warmth even in the thin chill of the midday. Light made its way in, stretching across the floor in small, angular shafts, conforming to the open arrangement of the balcony doors and windows. The room was decorated in rich reds and dark wood paneling, different from the lighter colors of the room they had stayed in. Maybe I should send Arydni and Nyad over here, he thought, then mentally slapped himself for it.

Outside, the noise of crickets and distant voices far below the balcony could be heard, a faint murmur that underlay the silence within the room. Cyrus tasted an almost coppery flavor in his mouth, the anticipation of bloodletting upon him, as if the Ghost was going to strike him for what he had done.

Alaric’s eye did not betray his emotional state, leaving Cyrus in turmoil until the Ghost spoke. “I am aware. I find no fault with your actions in Termina; had I been there, I would have done the same. If not for the fact that you were so very far from a portal, I would have attempted to move our army into place to reinforce you. If not for you, things would be going much worse for the elves than they are.”

“Oh?” Cyrus felt a stir of hope. “They haven’t told us anything in weeks; do you have news?”

“I do. The battle rages around Reikonos, though the line is holding. The elves have managed to keep the Sovereign’s forces contained in Termina and have made excellent progress in pushing them back. Fully a third of the city is back in elven hands, though the price has been high.” The Guildmaster made a fist. “I doubt the dark elves will easily surrender such a choice foothold; we’ve been told that more dark elven forces are marching to assist their brethren in holding the city, which bodes well for the Confederation, as it removes forces that might otherwise have been moved against their capital.”

Cyrus felt lightheaded but oddly relieved. “This war is spinning out of control.”

Alaric stared down at his clenched fist and when he answered, his tone was flat. “Wars are not known for being exercises in control, brother.”

“I know that; I only meant—”

“I know what you meant.” The Ghost unclenched his fist. “The Sovereign, on the surface, seems to be overreaching. Starting a war on two fronts seems foolhardy, yet the dark elves have won every battle that matters thus far. The best thing that could happen for Arkaria is for the Sovereign to have overextended; however, I fear that he may not have. One would think that when the Human Confederation aimed to begin this conflict, they would have been better prepared for it.”

“I had never known, in all my years living in Reikonos, how petty, vain and power-mad the Council of Twelve was until you brought me before them,” Cyrus said with no small amount of consternation.

Alaric wore the hint of a smile when he answered the warrior’s statement. “Why should they—and Pretnam Urides in specific—be different than any other mortal? Are we not all petty, vain, and power hungry in our own ways? When you came to our doors looking to gain better weapons and equipment from our expeditions, were you not seeking to expand your influence for your own gain?”

A flush of embarrassment caught Cyrus by surprise. He always does this. “I suppose, but—”

Alaric interrupted. “The difference is means and motive. If you fight only for yourself, if you are willing to kill innocent parties to get what you want—only disaster can follow. There’s nothing wrong with wanting, so long as you work for it and don’t put your desires before everything else—including other people.”

“That seems like a pretty big difference.”

“Whether you kill one or a million innocents with this intent, you are still a murderer. The only difference is scale.” Alaric scratched at his beard. “But we have other things to discuss. I was told you were reluctant to attend the ceremony?”

“I was,” Cyrus said, feeling the muscles in his jaw tense. “The Elven military has caused the ouster of a genuine war hero and I don’t care for it. But I’m willing to go along with the King’s wishes since we’ve taken shelter here.”

“Very good.” Alaric gave a perfunctory nod. “I realize that it might be difficult for you to understand that kings and councils make grave decisions that are sometimes unrelated to their own personal desires, but it frequently happens. And it rarely has anything to do with honor.”

Cyrus felt the unease once more, thinking of Odellan, left to scratch out a life for himself wherever he may, never to return to his homeland. I felt that, last year. I would not care to see anyone else have to suffer it, especially someone so undeserving of that fate.

“I sense your unease,” Alaric said. “But the King has accepted the judgment of his generals, and his generals have made your Endrenshan the scapegoat. Much as you might wish to change that, you cannot.”

“I realize that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.

“Your uncompromising loyalty toward your comrades is admirable,” Alaric said, turning away from Cyrus to face the balcony. “This Odellan is a hero, obviously.” He turned back to Cyrus. “Yet, with the dark elves sure to number us among their enemies, we need ties to the nations that fight against our foes. Do not judge the King too harshly for what he must do to protect his country. Accept his accolades with grace.”

“I will,” Cyrus said, still reluctant. “But I don’t have to do it with a song in my heart.”

“If you did, you would not be Cyrus Davidon,” Alaric said. “All that aside, you have missed quite a bit in your absence. We have purged what I believe to be the last of the assassins from our ranks. However, it would be difficult to be certain as we’ve had a massive influx of new recruits in the last month or so. We’ve taken pains to tighten security, and I think Vara will be well-protected in our midst now.”

“We need to track down this Hand of Fear.” Cyrus tightened his hand inside his gauntlet.

“The assassins we have captured have said nothing that would betray even a hint of who their master or masters are.” Alaric leaned against the railing of the balcony. “They appear to be fanatics, true believers in their cause, whatever it might be.”

“We need a plan,” Cyrus said, stroking his chin. “They seem to have limitless numbers. We can’t hold back these maniacs forever. Not at Sanctuary, not here. They will eventually get a lucky shot, and Vara will die.”

“Aye,” Alaric said. “Nor would we want to adopt the policies that the King has put in place to protect her here.”

“What policies?”

The Ghost winced. “Let us call them…severe. Should anyone unapproved approach your suite, they are killed if they cross beyond a certain threshold.”

Cyrus felt his stomach turn in disgust. “That is…barbaric.”

“Too true,” the Ghost said. “But it has resulted in the killing of two confirmed assassins. And one very confused gardener in search of a privy.”

Cyrus nearly choked. “They killed…an innocent man?”

“It would seem. The palace guard is not to be trifled with.”

“That…horrible!” Cyrus recoiled in disbelief. “We can never tell Vara.”

“Agreed. This is all the more reason we should return to Sanctuary as quickly as possible,” Alaric said. “We will continue to try and find this Hand of Fear organization when we return. All appearances to the contrary, they are surely not a bottomless pit of recruits and they must be hiding somewhere—they are not an ethereal menace, after all.”

“And you would know, being something of an ethereal menace yourself.”

With a smile of slight amusement, Alaric started to speak again, but stopped at a sound from the other room. Cyrus turned and opened the door to find a herald who bowed to him. “The King of Elvendom awaits your most gracious presence in the throne room.” His message delivered, the man withdrew.

“We will speak again later,” Alaric said, passing him as Arydni, Nyad and Vara joined them from the other chamber. “Now is the time for you to accept your rewards with all the decorum I’ve come to expect from you.”

“Or at least the decency not to start a blood feud with the entire Elven Kingdom.” Vara’s words were sharp, and she did not blink away when he looked at her with mock offense.

“Am I correct that after the ceremony, you’ll be returning to Sanctuary?” Arydni looked at them with her usual serenity, the sunlight from the balcony windows giving her a kind of tired luminescence.

“Yes,” Vara said, her voice quiet.

“Then this is where we part,” Arydni said. “I am pleased that you have mended, shelas’akur, but you have no more need of my ministrations.”

“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done,” Vara told the priestess.

“It is the duty of the All-Mother’s servants to take scrupulous care of her greatest blessing,” the priestess said. She turned to Cyrus. “It was my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cyrus Davidon. I hope that Vidara will bless you in all your endeavors.”

“My thanks to you,” Cyrus said with a bow. “I cannot bring myself to think of what might have happened without your assistance.”

“You are too kind,” she said. “I wish the best for all of you; I would not presume to say that we have seen the last of each other, but rather to say farewell for now.” With a bow, she exited the room. Cyrus realized after she left that she had been clad in the same priestess garb for the last two weeks that she had worn when first they met—and he had scarcely noticed.

The walk to the throne room was long. Cyrus marveled at the complement of eighteen guards that surrounded them. Nyad walked with them and Alaric trailed slightly behind Cyrus and Vara, who were side by side. Vara stared into the distance, clinking together her gauntlets, but the sound was lost in the noise of plate boots clattering on marble floors.

The air carried a sweet smell and Cyrus couldn’t help but notice vases filled with flowers throughout the palace. Trees filled earthen planters as they entered a hall larger than Sanctuary’s Great Hall, the floors marble with circular patterns, seals and crests everywhere. He could scarcely see the far edge of the hall, and the roof was hundreds of feet in the air, supported by pillars that were as large in diameter as two horses lined up front to back. Vines and plants grew out of shelves that ringed each pillar and the walls were covered by three tiers of planters filled with trees, flowers and the odd pond and waterfall.

A hundred gigantic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each with candles flickering, casting light over the hall. Above, massive skylights were open, allowing light into the room. The edges of the hall were lush and green, the center impressive with mosaics on the floor and carefully shaded marble that was patterned into royal seals.

“This is the main hall,” Alaric said from behind him. “It is the entrance to the palace and where anyone who desires an audience with the King would wait. It was designed to be so large and intimidating that no foe could look upon it and think that the Elven Kingdom was anything other than a dominant force.”

“The ‘look at me! I have money so I must have power!’ approach,” Cyrus said. “How novel and free of insecurity.”

Alaric let out a low guffaw. Several of the palace guard shot him scandalized looks but Cyrus ignored them. Near the middle of the hall was a crowd—over a hundred people waiting. Cyrus might have ignored them if not for the fact that within their ranks were a tall, green-skinned healer and a figure made out of rock. He smiled as they were led near the entrance to what he assumed was the throne room, and the Sanctuary army that had helped him defend the bridges of Termina made their way forward, forming into lines that would allow them to fit through the double doors.

One figure in particular stood out, his surcoat much cleaner than when last Cyrus had seen it. “Longwell,” he said, breaking free of the guardsmen, who moved to allow him to pass and then drew tighter around Vara once he had done so.

The dragoon detached himself from the Sanctuary army. “Good to see you, General,” Longwell said with a curt nod, his accent lilting. “I was not surprised to hear that you escaped from Termina. I apologize for not remaining until after you, Vara and Lady Chirenya had removed yourselves from the field of battle. It shan’t happen again.”

“You could not have predicted what would happen,” Cyrus said to the dragoon, whose head was bowed, his helm carried in the crook of his arm. His brown eyes burned with the fires of contrition. “The fault was mine for not urging Chirenya to leave first.”

“Knowing her even the little I did,” Longwell said, “I doubt she would have heeded you. I saw in the moment I grasped the orb what was happening; knew as I reappeared at the portal north of Sanctuary that you’d not be returning with us.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Cyrus said. “Your courage was exemplary in the bridge defense and I hope the King recognizes you for your efforts. Without your lance, I don’t know how we would have done it.”

The dragoon’s swarthy skin showed only the barest redness, but Cyrus could tell he was blushing. “The honor is in serving. All other awards are ancillary.”

Cyrus turned from the dragoon to see J’anda standing in the front row, his elven illusion looking particularly radiant. Vaste nodded and smiled, a gesture that seemed to be a compliment of sorts. Thad and Martaina stood side by side, the warrior’s red armor contrasting with the green hues of Martaina’s boiled leather, her hair done up in an elaborate braid, a radical departure from its usual muss. Lurking under a hood, Cyrus could see Aisling, and when he caught her eyes he couldn’t shake the feeling that she looked ready to dart away at the first hint of trouble.

The ground shook as Fortin made his way to Cyrus, who looked up at the rock giant in mild surprise. “Fortin. You were exceptional in holding the Southbridge; I’ve come to expect nothing less than excellence from you in every endeavor.”

The rock giant leaned forward with sudden speed and Cyrus took a step back, afraid Fortin might be falling on him. To his surprise, the stony warrior knelt and bowed his head in a solemn silence. Even kneeling, the rock giant was as tall as Cyrus. “Thank you, General Davidon,” his words came out in a rush. “Never before have I killed fifteen thousand of you fleshbags in a day.” His head raised and the red eyes glowed, his rocky mouth creasing a curved line upward on his face. “That. Was. Fun.” He stood as suddenly as he had knelt and turned, returning to stand at the back of the Sanctuary army. As he walked away, Cyrus could have sworn he heard Fortin whistling a tune.

“He’s bloodthirsty, even by your standards.” Andren’s voice cut through Cyrus’s haze and he turned to see the healer at his side, shaking his head at the back of the retreating rock giant.

“How did it go for you in the bridge defense?” Cyrus looked to his oldest friend. The circles under the healer’s eyes were darker than usual, likely the result of being awakened long before noon.

“Oh, that.” Andren wore a look of mild embarrassment. “Wasn’t much to it. I spent most of my time hiding behind an upturned wagon. I think I might have cast one heal, and it was because I was bored, not because he needed it.”

A strong odor of alcohol wafted from Andren as he spoke, and Cyrus felt a flash of rage. “Are you drunk?”

The healer’s brow creased at the accusation and his eyes turned stormy. “Well, I wasn’t going to go into this royal nest of vipers sober now, was I?”

Cyrus looked back in astonishment. “Unbelievable.”

“You don’t know what it’s like being back here,” Andren said, lowering his voice. As Cyrus listened to him, it almost reminded him of pleading. “I hate this city and these high and mighty bastards that think they’re better than everyone. They lord it over you because their mom and dad were sixteenth generation members of some house that got land and a title ten thousand years ago when they handed them out and mine were from peasant farmer stock and grew the foods they ate while they didn’t work a day in their lives.”

“All right, fine,” Cyrus said in a hiss. “Do you want to leave?”

“Hell no.” Andren looked back at him in befuddlement. “I’m about to get an award from the King!”

“I thought you said you hated royals and highborns!”

“Well, yeah, but he might give me something—like land, or a title.”

Cyrus looked at him through half slitted eyes. “You just said you hated the people that got those things handed to them.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t have them, isn’t it?” The elf shook his head as though it were the most obvious point.

Cy felt a sudden urge to strangle the healer, but resisted it. “I’m constantly impressed by your ability to have lived two thousand years and still be utterly blind to your own contradictions.”

“Thanks,” Andren said. “I think.”

Voices behind him turned Cyrus back to the bevy of guards clustered around Vara and Alaric. The paladins spoke to each other in hushed tones along with a third figure, a member of the court. He rejoined them to find that the elf they were talking to was a minister of protocol, there to assist them through the ceremony.

Cyrus listened to the man, a gray-haired, foppish fellow named Erdnim, as he described the formalities of the ceremony. Each of the members of Sanctuary that participated in the battle were to be given honors, a medal and ribbon, with a small award of gold. Larger awards were to be made to J’anda for his illusory army, Erith, Andren and Vaste for healing the front line of battle, and Aisling for slipping behind the enemy lines and fighting amongst the dark elves. They would receive a title along with their medal and gold. The largest awards were to come to Cyrus, Vara, Fortin and Longwell, for being the front line on the bridges.

“Along with each of these awards comes a granting of land and the title of Lord,” the protocol officer said, his perfumed smell forcing Cyrus to take a step back.

After a moment, the minister’s words sank in, and Cyrus blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say a land grant and a title?”

“Yes,” Erdnim replied, his pointed nose inhaling deeply as he raised it into the air. “The men will be Lords, the shelas’akur will be invested with the title of Lady, and each of you will be granted a parcel of land that the King feels would be appropriate given your stature.”

“So for me, it’s likely to be in the swamp outside Gren,” Cyrus said under his breath, referring to the troll homelands.

“Hardly,” Erdnim said. “That is not within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom.”

The doors opened and they were ushered into the throne room in a procession. Vara’s guard melted away once they entered. Probably because the entire room is filled with guards. The throne room was long and rectangular, with members of the court seated on either side and the King’s throne against the far wall, by itself. Upon it was a figure covered almost entirely in robes.

The robes were multicolorored, with subtle hues of red, yellow, blue, purple and green. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe those colors could ever go together, Cyrus thought. Yet somehow they did, with the cloth achieving a shimmering sheen, glossier than even the finest silk. From this distance, Cyrus could see woven patterns in the cloth. The cloak covered the King’s head and hair to just above the forehead and the sides of his face from the temples down to his chin. Upon his head rested a crown of glistening gold, silver and other metals, shining more brightly than his robes, studded with precious stones that reflected the same colors as his attire. The points of the crown jutted almost a foot above the King’s head. That crown must be worth more than half of Reikonos.

As he approached the throne, Cyrus realized that attired as he was, there was no way to notice the King’s face. The monarch’s hands rested on a stave that bore enough gemstones to put the crown almost to shame, and every finger was adorned in rings. Cyrus led the procession of Sanctuary’s heroes with Vara, Fortin and Longwell and the rest forming ranks behind them. He had watched Alaric break away at the back of the room, finding a place to stand near the doors.

Cyrus brought the formation to a rest at the base of the steps that led up to the monarch, where the Minister of Protocol gestured. Banners matching the King’s robes hung from above, bearing heraldry of different units of the Elven army. He looked until he saw that the one hanging directly above the King was of the Termina Guard—a city by a river against a light blue background. It seemed to be hanging lower than the others around it—in a place of honor.

The ceremony was long, but touching. Each member of the force had their name called across the assemblage. Cyrus saw more than a few decorated members of the Termina Guard in the crowd at the back of the throne room, watching and cheering when appropriate.

When the time came for the highest honors, J’anda was called before the King first, knelt and had a medal placed around his shoulders. The King whispered something in the dark elf’s ear that caused the enchanter to chuckle, then spoke in his loudest voice, “Arise, Sir J’anda the Cunning.”

Erith was next, and dubbed Madam Erith the Pure-Hearted, which caused Cy to snicker and her to shoot a dirty look over her shoulder at him. Aisling was dubbed “the Crafty,” and Cyrus watched as the King whispered something to her and she whispered something back to him that caused the monarch to laugh out loud. “Gods, I hope she didn’t do to him what she does to me,” he said under his breath. Vara turned her head to glare at him.

“Do you think the King feels a bit odd giving so many awards to dark elves when his Kingdom is at war with them?” Longwell’s voice was just below a whisper.

Cyrus ignored Vara’s attempt to shush them. “He strikes me as the sort to be grateful for whatever help he can get.”

Andren was called next before the King and pronounced “Sir Andren the Vigilant.” Except when he’s drinking, Cyrus thought. Vaste was the last of his group, and towered over the monarch by almost two feet. “You will be the first troll ever given this award,” King Danay pronounced.

“I’m not surprised,” Vaste said. “It’s difficult to honor someone when you’ve been so busy killing them.”

He knelt for the King to place the medal over his head and arose “Sir Vaste the Wry.” With an exaggerated smile and a long wave fit for a beauty queen, the troll made his way back to his place in the formation.

“Now we award those who tended the front line of the bridges, who fought until Termina was empty of our people. They led this struggle with courage and skill, and are deserving of a great reward and even greater renown. Each shall receive land and the title of Lord—or Lady, in the case of the shelas’akur.” A rumble of applause made its way through the crowd and Danay stopped to acknowledge it. Cyrus looked to Vara, but she stared straight ahead, a little flush on her cheeks.

“The first of these heroes is a warrior like no other. In the heart of battle, he held against all the forces that came against the Southbridge, and threw them back with no weapon but his own two hands. Come forward, Fortin of Sanctuary.” The rock giant moved toward the King, who flinched as Fortin dropped to a knee, causing a reverberation through the floor that forced the monarch back a step.

“For his bravery, Lord Fortin shall be awarded a landhold of ten thousand acres in the foothills of the Heia Mountains,” the King said. “It is a territory filled with caves, rocks and scarcely a mile of arable land—per his request.” The King wore a subtle smile. “For this, you shall be known as Lord Fortin of Rockridge. Arise a Lord.”

Fortin stood, dwarfing the King with his stature, and bowed once more before stepping back to the line. Longwell was called and stepped forward as the rock giant returned to their line. “Why not pick a spot of land that you could sell?” Cyrus asked in a low voice, once more disregarding the shushing noises coming from both Vara and Erdnim.

“Because I wanted something to remind me of home—that could be my home, someday,” he replied in a gravelly rumble that sounded nothing like his usual timbre. It took Cyrus a moment to realize that the normally stoic rock giant might be crying—or at least his version of it.

“Sir Samwen Longwell,” King Danay began, “a dragoon from a land we know not, defended the center span with tremendous effort, holding a third of the bridge from harm at his own peril. He did not flag, he did not fail, and he did it all without a word of complaint. Those who can wield a weapon as he did are few and valuable; those who do it with unquestioned honor and loyalty are worth more than a field of emeralds.” The King said the last with a smile, and a ripple of amazement ran through the assemblage. Vara gasped next to Cyrus, but when he made to ask her about it, she silenced him with a look.

“To you, sir, I give ten thousand acres in the plains and meadows south of Pharesia, stretching from the sea inland. They lay in the sight of the Heia mountains, but are a green and fertile land, ripe for cultivation if you so desire.” He gave the dragoon a benevolent smile. “Rise, Lord Longwell of the Emerald Fields.” He rose and bowed once more to the King, who nodded his head in acknowledgment.

Cyrus had a thought and turned to Vara. “If he awards this land, are we obligated to defend it?”

She shot him an acidic look and finally broke her silence, her voice low. “No, and I doubt you’d need to, based on where he’s assigned it thus far—south of Pharesia is far from the war.”

But not from the titans. Cyrus thought of the enormous, beastly inhabitants of the southern lands beyond the Heia mountains. Or the dragons, south of them. He shook away the thought. Neither has come in force over the mountains for millenia.

“Vara…” the King called her forward. Her hair was down again and her armor was in perfect order once more, shining in the light of the throne room. “Lady Vara defended her homeland, rather than remaining neutral as her guild would have allowed her to do, and defended the Grand Span against all attackers from dusk until dawn. When the shelas’akur was born, it was expected that she would be our hope in a dark time and lead our people back to greatness, warding us from the dangers that assailed the spirit of our great Kingdom.

“What was not foreseen was that she would choose to take up arms and protect the Kingdom from invaders as well. When one is born to great duty and honor, as she has been, it would be easy to shirk the concerns of the physical, to put aside the burden of sword and shield and consign oneself to an easier life. Instead, she took up the blade of honor as one of Vidara’s holy warriors, and fought to protect her homeland in a way that none of us could have expected from one so…exalted.” He gestured to her and she knelt.

“There is a village to the north that sits on a crossroads of great importance. The Lord of that place was known to you, I believe, for a gift he gave in your youth. He died in the close of the year last, and left no heir behind. In times of peace, the crossing is a land of quiet fields and solemn woods, cool streams and pleasant weather. I pronounce you Lady Vara of Nalikh’akur. Rise.”

Cyrus felt a slight, sharp exhalation as Vara rose and bowed her head to the King. She made her way back to them with stilted steps, dazed, a jumble of thoughts written upon her face. He waited until she was closer and then leaned toward her to whisper, “Isn’t that where…?”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“Finally,” the King continued, “General Cyrus Davidon. Most guilds, headquartered far from the territories that are defended by elves and men, would not have dared to involve themselves in the defense of Termina. Guilds that make their home within the walls of our cities are understood to have a vested interest in protecting the homeland. Not so with a guild that finds themselves in disputed territory; for them, it might be more expedient to remain uninvolved in the war and let it pass them by rather than expose their home and fellows to the harm that might befall them from hostilities.

“But not this man. When all manner of ill swept into Termina, he did not use his wizards to flee from the fires of war. He took up arms and defended the Grand Span, holding it against impossible numbers until daybreak to provide our people a chance to flee for their lives and safety. Then he ordered a careful retreat so as to be certain that our civilians had made it safely from the city streets. That would have been far more than was called for by an army and a general that had already gone so far out of their way to assist us.

“Not so for this warrior. He led his troops to cover and assist the evacuation of our own Termina Guard, allowing the remaining survivors to escape the city when otherwise they would have been killed. He stayed behind, planning to be the last man out of the city, when events beyond his control trapped him with a wounded companion. Yet he still managed to fight his way out, saving our beloved shelas’akur from certain death.”

“Before I conclude our final award, let this be known. For the nine heroes I have recognized individually, each will receive one further reward. When the day comes that our armies retake Termina, each will be given a mansion on Ilanar Hill, to be maintained by the Kingdom in grateful thanks for their service, and so they may ever dwell among the citizens they saved and own a piece of what they fought so hard for.

“Come forward, General Davidon.” The King’s eyes were fixed on him, and even through the robes, they made an impression, piercing him the way that Alaric’s did. Cyrus made his way in front of the King and hesitated before going to one knee. “For bravery and action above any that would be expected, I name you a Lord. The courage you have shown is worthy of more than any title I could give you. If I awarded you a holdfast in the Kingdom, I think it would be wasted on a man such as yourself.”

He leaned in to Cyrus and spoke in a whisper. “Instead, I award you that which I think you will have more use for; but be aware it is not mine to freely give. It comes with strings that must eventually be severed for you to truly possess it.”

Cy looked at him, confused, as the King went on. “Cyrus Davidon of Sanctuary. Your actions are beyond my ability to repay with a simple Lordship—though I award you that title. I cede and commit to your care a swath of land that has long been claimed by the Elven Kingdom, but today I renounce that claim. I give to you the Southern Plains of Perdamun, from the Waking Woods and the Bay of Lost Souls to the south fork and western bank of the river Perda north to Prehorta. I give them to you, in their entirety, and make them yours to defend.”

He looked at Cyrus with compelling eyes, light but alive, searching through him. “Stand, Lord Davidon of Perdamun. Arise as the Warden of the Southern Plains.”

Chapter 40

The applause was deafening as Cyrus walked, stunned, back to his place in the line. What does that mean? It’s not as though the humans or the dark elves are going to just give up their claims to the southern Plains of Perdamun. He blinked. But if they did…that would be a hell of a gift. I’d damned near have my own kingdom. An empty title, he decided as he rejoined the line. Probably did it as a means to keep me from holding land in his Kingdom, he thought with a grim smile as the King concluded the ceremonies and the crowd began to disperse. But the words “Warden of the Southern Plains” continued to rattle around in his head as he followed the procession to the exit.

“What a marvelous ceremony!” Erdnim’s voice was a high squeak. “Have you ever seen anything so magnificent?”

“Not since I looked at my naked body in the full length mirror this morning,” Vaste said, drawing a look of horror from the Protocol Minister, who edged away from the troll’s smiling visage.

“Lord Davidon,” a familiar voice came from behind him. He turned to find Endrenshan Odellan, clad in his finest, and still bearing the helm of the Termina Guard.

“Odellan!” Cyrus moved to meet him, thrusting his hand out and seizing the guard captain’s. “I had heard you were to be exiled.”

“Aye,” Odellan’s face was stern, not lively as it had been before. “I’ll be teleported out of the Kingdom at sundown; but they let me stay for the ceremony honoring my men—as well as for yours. I owe you my thanks—and my life.”

“It should have been you up there,” Cyrus said, his voice louder than it had been a moment before, drawing offended looks from members of the Royal Court around them. “You should have gotten the biggest land award of all of us.”

Odellan shrugged, his face gray. “It was not to be; my only regret is that I wasn’t able to fall in battle for my country and thus save one more of my soldiers to return home.”

Cyrus leaned in closer to the Endrenshan. “If you had, it wouldn’t have saved a single one and likely would have cost you more.”

Odellan’s mouth upturned. “It is kind of you to say so.”

“What do you plan to do when you leave?” Cyrus studied the elf with rapt attention.

“I don’t know.” Odellan’s face went slack. “I have considered going to Reikonos to pledge my sword to their defense; I’ve heard they are seeking volunteers,” he said with a shrug. “Or I could go to Fertiss to join the dwarven army. It’s more peaceful there, but I’m not sure I’d enjoy the quiet.”

“Or you could apply to join Sanctuary,” Cyrus said, “and have all the adventure you could stand and get wealthy in the bargain.”

The elf’s eyebrow rose. “I’ve wondered about that; if I’d be able to make it. If I had what it would take.”

Cyrus brushed him off. “Doubtless. You’re a veteran officer that commanded the defense in one of the largest battles in the last twenty years. That’s more experience than our applicants usually have.”

“Yes, but I commanded the forces that lost that battle.”

“So did I,” Cyrus said, scoffing. “We were outnumbered twenty to one with no reinforcements; we weren’t expecting to win, just to fight long enough for your people to escape. That takes more than martial prowess, it requires tenacity and honor, and you have it—and that’s what we’re looking for in Sanctuary. Say the word, and you’re in. You can come with us when we leave.”

Odellan froze in place. “Yes,” he rasped after a moment of quiet. “I’d be honored beyond belief.”

“We’re fortunate to have a war hero such as yourself.” Cyrus clapped him on the back. “Get your things and return here; we’ll wait for you.”

“If it’s all the same,” Odellan said, “I’d rather go out and see the city for the rest of the afternoon, and have the wizard the Kingdom assigned to transport me drop me off at the portal near your guildhall this evening.” His voice broke a little as he spoke. “I appreciate the kindness you’ve shown and your offer, but if I’m to leave my homeland forever, I’d like a little longer to say my farewells.”

Who would I even say goodbye to back in Reikonos? Cyrus wondered. “I wouldn’t begrudge you that.”

With a nod, Odellan left, striding through the crowds as another elf approached Cyrus, handed him a small scrap of parchment, bowed and left. Cy opened the paper and looked at the words scrawled within.

Meet me in the eastern gardens under the northwest tree. We need to talk one last time before you leave. Bring Vara.—The Steward

Cyrus frowned and crumpled the paper in his fist, making his way back to his allies. He eased up behind Vara, who was standing on the outside of a small circle of conversation that included Andren, Vaste and J’anda. She appeared disinterested, her eyes unfocused, staring into the distance. He rested a hand on her shoulder and she started, turning to him in surprise until he handed her the parchment. He watched her furrow her brow in concentration and then turn to Alaric, who was talking with of several members of the Royal Court.

Cyrus turned to leave, but found Aisling barring his path. “I was worried after you didn’t show up at the Pharesia portal when we left Termina. I should have known you’d make it through somehow. Still—” her hand found his cheek and he felt the warmth of her as she pulled close—“you made me worry.” He tried to turn to look at Vara, but when he caught sight of her there was no emotion on her face; her expression was flat and she stared at him with dead eyes.

“I have something for you when we get back to Sanctuary,” Aisling whispered. “Something just for you.”

He pulled away from her, trying to hide his discomfort. “I’ll give you points for being less suggestive, but I don’t think I want it.”

She laughed. “Oh, you will. It’s not what you think. Although…you’d want that too, if you knew what you were missing.” She gave him a wry grin, and without waiting for a response she bounded away, slipping into a group between Longwell and Erith, casting a mischievous look over her shoulder at him. He returned his gaze to Vara, who was unresponsive and followed him as he led the way out.

“You don’t think this is some sort of trap?” She broke the uncomfortable silence as they exited through the steps on the north wing of the palace, crossing the road below, the one they had entered the palace by days before.

“I don’t think so, but you never know.” He felt his hand drift to the hilt of Praelior, keeping it from swinging as much as it normally did when he walked. “I’m a little surprised the King felt a need to talk to us again after…” He let his words drift off.

“After you insulted him?”

“Among other things.” They followed the paths into the garden, heading toward the massive tree that stood above the palace on the northwest side of the grounds. The wending road was deceptively long, carrying them past walls that had flowers growing out of terraces, others where the vines had blooms as bright as any rose Cyrus had seen. So captivated was he that he didn’t realize that they hadn’t spoken since entering the gardens. He started to say something, but thought the better of it. She’s lost in her own thoughts; best I let her have this moment. It may be the last she has outside, under the sky, before we return to Sanctuary and she’s caged until we rid ourselves of these damned Hand of Fear creatures.

Fountains burbled and after nearly an hour’s walk they arrived at the trunk of the tree. It grew out of a large fountain, its trunk forked into a hundred pieces as it neared the ground. The bark-covered base twisted and expanded at the bottom of the trunk, like a cypress tree Cyrus had seen in Nalikh’akur on the edge of the swamp. But unlike that, this tree trunk was a hundred feet wide in the middle and rose up in the air a thousand feet, stretching above all the buildings in the city.

The fountain that it was planted in showed no sign of cracking, which Cyrus thought curious until he saw the bottom was dirt. The whole area carried a more earthy aroma than the flowered part of the garden. This deep in the gardens no one appeared to be about; they had not seen a living person in almost half an hour.

“I was worried you wouldn’t come.” Cyrus turned at the sound of a voice from behind them. The King strolled up, his pace leisurely as he passed a pot of green plants and stopped to pick at them. “After all, the request of a steward hardly carries the same weight as the command of a King.”

“I was more worried that it wasn’t you that sent it.” Cyrus kept his hand on his sword and the King noticed it and nodded, a very slight smile curling his lips.

“It’s wise to remain prepared in such times. Did I hear correctly—you offered Odellan a place in your guild?”

Cyrus looked back at him. “I did.”

The King pursed his lips before he replied. “Good. I have a message, and it comes to you because of your friend Odellan.”

Because of him? Cyrus waited, the tension returned, and he gripped the hilt a little tighter.

“The bequest I gave your people—the mansions in Termina,” the King began, his hand resting on his chin. “I could only give them because of the deaths of their original occupants, almost all of them without a clear heir.”

“Ah,” Cyrus said. “The ones that died by the Hand of Fear.”

“Yes,” the King said with a subtle hiss. “Odellan’s father gave me a list of their names, and this is a place where once more I owe your new guildmate a debt.”

“You could try pardoning him,” Cyrus said.

The King winced, and Cyrus could see the monarch’s regret. “If only I could. But these dead, I knew every one of them.”

“Because they were part of your court, yes?” Vara spoke up. She sat on the edge of the fountain and a clank of armor on stone distracted Cyrus. I’d like to see her with her armor off again, he thought, mind drifting.

“They were,” he agreed, his words hushed. “At various points throughout the last few thousand years, I counseled with each of them—in the early days of establishing the Kingdom, every one of them was vital; my most fervent supporters. They were the wealthiest and wisest among us, the last remnants of a group that cast support behind my grandfather 10,000 years ago, allowing him to establish the foundations upon which my father built and which I used to unite our people into the modern Elven Kingdom. With their deaths, this group has been nearly wiped out.”

Cyrus frowned. “Do you mean to say that this group had forerunners that supported your grandfather? Or—”

“No,” King Danay said. “These elves—these men, mostly—they supported my grandfather during his days, then my father during his, and finally me.”

Vara looked at the King with great concentration. “If you mean to say these men lived 10,000 years ago…that is impossible. Elves do not live that long.”

Cyrus felt a sense of awe as a piece fell into place. “Except the old ones.”

“Quite so,” the King breathed.

“I don’t believe it.” Vara leaned to her side, resting her hand on the fountain’s edge.

“But that Hand of Fear assassin said he’d kill you and the old one.” Cyrus looked from Vara to the King, his eyes wide. “You said ‘nearly’ wiped out. How many are left?”

“Only one now,” the King replied, his face reserved as he seated himself next to Vara and ran a hand through the water, admiring the ripples that came from it.

Cyrus leaned toward him. “The last old one—their life is in danger. Who is it?”

The King did not look up from where he held his hand under the water. “I cannot say; I remain bound to a promise I made three thousand years ago to keep their secrets, one that they extracted from me before they helped me gain the throne. I cannot give away the identity of the last of them, not so long as they yet live.”

Cyrus felt as though his lips were cracking as he spoke. “What do you expect us to do with this information if we can’t speak with the last of the old ones? They may know why the Hand of Fear is after her!” He pointed to Vara, who sat silent.

The King removed his hand from the water and shook it off, causing droplets to fall. “I expect you to return to your guild and inform your Council of all you have learned. I will get word to this last one and see if they wish to be revealed to you. Absent that, perhaps this information can give you some insight into these assassins and their intentions.” He wore a look of tiredness and regret. “I thank you again for your service to the Kingdom…” He turned to Vara, and nodded, his face suffused with pain. “…and I pray that you will come through these dark times unscathed, my Lady.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Vara said with a sadness of her own. “But I thank you for what you’ve done—sheltering, protecting and honoring us. And now, giving us what you were able to tell.” She blinked, and Cyrus saw the light catch on a few droplets of water in her eyelashes. “I thank you.”

“As with all of our meetings,” the King began, back in the hunched posture of the steward, “the pleasure is all mine.” He reached for her hand and kissed it, then turned and walked a long, meandering circle around the tree to disappear behind the trunk.

Cyrus waited with Vara, who stood staring down at the water. He moved forward to embrace her, but she held up a hand to halt him and turned away. He watched a few drops fall from her eyes and cause tiny ripples of their own in the fountain. “I’m fine,” she said at last. “We should get back to the others; they’ll be leaving soon.”

“Not without us,” he said. She still had a hand out to keep him at arm’s length, but he grasped at it with both his own, the plate mail around his fingers clinking against hers. She did not stop him, but finally pulled away and began walking toward the path they had arrived on. They walked back in silence. She led from a few paces in front of him and after he had tried three times to walk beside her, he gave up because every time she increased her pace to keep him from drawing even.

They arrived back at the palace to find Alaric and Longwell standing at the edge of the gardens, waiting for them with Nyad. “Ah, good,” the Ghost said upon catching sight of them, “now we can leave.”

“How did you know where we were?” Cyrus asked in puzzlement. The Ghost held up the small slip of parchment with the King’s note. “Didn’t realize I dropped it.”

“You didn’t,” Alaric replied. “Aisling pulled it off of you and gave it to me once you departed.”

Cyrus thought about it. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Hard to believe, engaged as you were with her thrusting her pelvis into you at the time,” Vara said in a voice of quiet accusation.

“I didn’t…” Cyrus started to say. He stopped when he realized that her voice had been as dead as her look. “Never mind. We need to meet with the Council.”

“I am afraid that will have to wait until the morrow, when Ryin Ayend returns to us. Let us go home, my friends,” Alaric said with a soothing demeanor, and turned to nod at Nyad, who seemed to awaken at his words and nodded back before casting a spell.

The light of the magic swirled around them and Cyrus felt the tingle as it consumed him, and he closed his eyes. When the bright flashes stopped, he opened them to find himself in a familiar setting that he hadn’t seen in over a month. The fire roared in the hearth of the foyer and a pleasant buzz of activity filled the room.

In the lounge he saw Andren, a horn of mead in his hand raised in salute to Cyrus. He turned round to look into the Great Hall. No refugees were visible but he caught a glimpse of Larana within, who froze at the sight of him, staring unabashed, her face awash with relief. He turned from her, embarrassed, after nodding in greeting, and felt Alaric’s hand come to rest on his shoulder. The Ghost had a hand on Vara in a similar manner. “Go to your quarters if you’d like; I’ll send for you once I’ve assembled the Council for our meeting on the morrow.” He gestured toward a couple of familiar warriors who were standing nearby at attention, and they both fell in line behind Vara as she made her way to the staircase.

“Vara,” Cyrus called out, and watched her stiffen and turn to him.

Her face was wrought of all emotion, even the hostility that she wore in the early days he had known her. She had fallen once more to the exhausted, weighted state he had seen her adopt in Termina. “Perhaps later,” she said, and turned away without further explanation. Her guards followed her up the stairs, Nyad a few paces behind them.

“Are you not glad to be home, brother?” Alaric stood at Cyrus’s shoulder.

“I am,” he said without enthusiasm. “But I can’t help but recall the night I left, and the events of that day.” He looked into the Great Hall, remembering the steps he had trodden with the burden in his arms, the red hair bouncing from his every step as he carried Niamh to her resting place.

“Yes,” Alaric said, a pall hanging over him. “I was sorry that you missed Niamh’s burial.”

“I was sorry about that too, but it seemed more urgent to get Vara out of here before it could happen again.”

“Agreed. That this threat has persisted as long as it has is disturbing.” Alaric shook his head. “I cannot fathom the depths of this group’s desire to kill Vara. They have continued to attempt strikes here, even after it is obvious that she is no longer with us.”

“What do you mean?” Cyrus felt a sudden and intense burst of curiosity. “How many assassins have you rooted out in the last month?”

“A dozen,” Alaric said. “Aisling tipped us to all of them, one by one, and we observed them carefully, starting the day you left. When cornered they attacked, causing grievous woundings. I doubt Curatio has left the Halls of Healing in weeks, so busy has he been tending to the injured. The last, however, was the worst,” the Ghost said, “a female who posed as an applicant. She nearly killed Scuddar In’shara and hurt a half dozen others trying to gain access to the Halls of Healing.”

“She did?”

“Yes,” Alaric said. “We speculate that she thought that Vara had returned here after the fall of Termina and was trying to ‘finish the job’ as they say.”

Cyrus felt his thoughts churning, in a jumble. “Makes sense. It wasn’t obvious where we were, I guess.”

“Aye,” Alaric said with a small smile before clapping a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “You look weary, Lord of Perdamun. You should get some rest.”

Cyrus frowned. He caught a glimpse of Larana, staring once more at him through the open door of the Great Hall, and he looked away, back to his Guildmaster. “Didn’t the Human Confederation give you a similar title to ‘Ward of the Southern Plains’ or somesuch last year? I’m sure I heard Pretnam Urides call you Lord Garaunt.”

“Lord is an honorific in the Confederation, not a true title. They merely made me a steward,” Alaric replied, his smile enigmatic, “without ceding any claims they have on the lands. I’m afraid it’s not nearly as impressive as a Lordship and convincing a power that has claimed this land for some 10,000 years to cede their claim.”

Cyrus waved him away, thoughts still swirling. “It’s hardly impressive. Other than the pissing-for-distance competition that the elves, dark elves and humans held here last year, a major power hasn’t held a serious claim to these lands for over a century.”

“Still,” Alaric said, “ceding an ages-old claim is not something that the Elven Kingdom would do in normal times. I’m afraid things have become dark indeed for them, that King Danay is acknowledging that the elves are not equal to the task of holding anything beyond the bounds of the river Perda.” He shook his head. “A stunning admission. But a topic for another time.”

Once more, he clapped Cyrus on the shoulder and the warrior felt the warmth of his Guildmaster’s touch; not physically, through the plate glove and mail that separated them, but the affection of the Ghost for his “brother,” in the way that Alaric Garaunt had always had for the charges under his command. “You are tired. Rest. I will send for you when I have assembled the Council.”

“That’s…not a bad idea,” Cyrus admitted, letting his feet carry him toward the stairs. Every step was familiar yet foreign to him after his absence. How long was I gone? he wondered, his body still weary. I didn’t sleep well in the palace, that’s plain. Something tickled the back of his mind, some words spoken that he couldn’t remember. There’s something I’m missing, something I’ve forgotten. Gods, I wish I wasn’t so tired.

His feet moved without his mind’s assistance, up the stone stairs, past the floors that held the applicant quarters, the members’ rooms, and the double doors behind which the Council met. The glorious stone that made up the walls and floors of Sanctuary blurred. The familiar smell of the wood fires burning in the hearths should have put him at ease, but all they did was remind him of Niamh, of the flash of red when she would whirl around, eyes aflame…

That was damnable, he thought. To lose her to some vile assassin… He felt a pang at the thought of the assassin hitting his true target. He remembered the night in Termina when they’d poured into the house of Vara’s parents, had killed so many members of Endeavor, and of the dawn on the streets, after the battle for the city, when a lone assassin had struck down the most forceful person Cyrus had ever met…

And still they struck here in the aftermath of that. Attacked the Halls of Healing trying to get to Vara, because they didn’t know where she was. He shivered as he turned the knob and opened the door to his room.

He stepped into the privy off his chambers. A small room, large enough for a tub, a metal plumbed shower in the corner, and a sink and full-length mirror. He stepped to the basin and turned the faucet, feeling the water run out as cold as a Termina morning. He splashed some over his face, which was still unshaven, and watched the droplets catch on his beard. He stared at his blue eyes in the mirror, eyes with dark lines beneath them. They didn’t know where she was…

The buzz in his head was disrupted by a shock, and he straightened back to bolt upright. But they did know, didn’t they? They sent assassins to Vara’s chamber in the Palace; the guards killed two of them. How could they have sent assassins to her chambers, in an abandoned wing, if they didn’t at least have an idea of where she was? He felt himself grow cold as words echoed in his head; the last piece fell into place, and he sprinted to the door.

Chapter 41

Within a few minutes the Council had been summoned, absent the presence of Ryin Ayend, who was explained to be visiting family overnight in Reikonos. Cyrus looked at the small circle around the chambers—Alaric, his eye clear and bright, more visible with his helm removed; Curatio, staid but wan and with less sparkle in his eyes than he used to have.

J’anda and Vaste sat in close attendance with Nyad nearby, all three looking slightly rumpled. Longwell, on the other hand, was stiff and looked somehow to be standing at attention even though he was sitting in his chair. Erith looked bored and tired, and had taken the seat to Cyrus’s left that had been occupied by Niamh until so recently. The addition of the officers gave the room a crowded feel, and Cyrus found himself bumping elbows with Longwell, who apologized for each occurrence.

Terian Lepos stared at Cyrus with a smug, self-satisfied grin, after nodding at the warrior when he entered. “Good to see you, man in black. I’m guessing after fighting off a constant rush of assassins and the entire dark elven army, a couple weeks in a palace must have been quite the vacation.”

“I didn’t find it all that restful, sleeping as I was on a fainting couch.”

“They have beds the size of a commoner’s house and you opted to sleep on the couch?” The dark elf shot him a look of revulsion and swung around to Vara. “I heard you finally caved in and locked lips with this lummox, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to let him into your bed?”

Vara had remained silent thus far, her head down and preoccupied, but at the dark knight’s jest her blank expression was replaced by a scowl. “I’m sorry, I was rather more occupied with healing a wound I suffered in battle, mourning the death of my mother and father, and thinking of the other two people who shared the room.”

“Nothing wrong with having an audience,” Erith said as she studied her nails. “It makes you perform better.”

Alaric cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. “You summoned us with some urgency,” he said, looking to Cyrus. “Is this about what the King told you and Vara?”

“No,” Cyrus replied, his fingers folded in front of him, mailed gloves laying on the table. “And yes. I mean, what he told us was incredible, but—”

“It was nonsensical,” Vara said.

“—I was just thinking,” Cy continued, “about all that’s happened in the time since we left, both here and to us in Termina, all the assassin attacks—”

“Perhaps you might fill us in on what the King told you that was so damned important,” Terian said, his amusement gone.

“In a minute,” Cyrus said. “But first, I have a question.”

The dark knight threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Always with the dramatics. Can’t you just cut to the point when you have one of your ‘revelations’ instead of dragging us unsophisticates through your mental hoops?”

“No,” Cyrus replied, “because otherwise you might begin to slip into the accepted wisdom that all warriors are unthinking idiots and you’d stop appreciating me.”

“If I appreciated you any less, it’d be quantified as hatred. Get to the damned point.”

“Soon.” Cyrus took a deep breath, looked once around the table, and stopped on the healer who sat at Alaric’s right hand. “Curatio, how old are you?”

“You’ll reinforce that assumption of ‘unthinking idiot’ yet,” Vaste said.

Curatio sat forward, his tiredness tempered by a slight sparkle of amusement. “I am however old you think I am.”

Cyrus leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with the elf. “I think you’re at least ten thousand years old. How far off am I?”

J’anda let a loud, scoffing laugh while Terian snorted. Chuckles filled the air as Cyrus continued to stare down the healer, who did not blink, but whose smile had frozen on his face. “Damned far off,” the enchanter said. “Elves only live six thousand years, after all. You know that.” J’anda looked around the table, but his expression halted at Alaric, whose fingers were steepled in front of him, his eyes watchful and serious.

“You are off by quite a bit,” Curatio said. He adjusted in his seat, not looking away from Cyrus, not breaking eye contact. “I don’t remember the exact day I was born, and the calendar has shifted somewhat since then, but it was something on the order of 23,000 years ago—give or take a few.”

Vara was staring at Curatio with open eyes. “‘We will kill you…and the old one’.”

“What?” Alaric straightened, turning his attention to Cyrus.

“Something one of the assassins said when we were in Termina,” Cyrus replied. “I didn’t report it to you, likely because the next day Santir was sacked and we were fighting for our lives. The assassin was posing as a man named Arbukant—” he turned to look pointedly at Curatio and watched a flicker of recognition fall over the elf’s face, and for the first time he caught a hint of age behind the healer’s eyes—“who was the second to last survivor of a group that the King claimed supported him and his father and grandfather before him as they put together the Kingdom; he said they were the ‘old ones’ of Elvish legend—the first elves, immortal.”

J’anda was the first to speak after several seconds pause. “I can’t believe…” He turned to Curatio. “You are one of these…an ‘old one’?”

Curatio looked aged, solemn, for the first time since Cyrus had known him, and the voice he answered in was brittle. “The last of them, apparently.”

“You were the one who saved us in the Realm of Darkness last year,” Cyrus said. Curatio cocked his head at the warrior. “You used Nessalima’s Light, but you have more experience using magic so it’s brighter than that of others, and you drew on your immortal life to feed it once you ran out of magical energy.”

“Aye,” Curatio said with a nod. Every movement seemed to be ponderous, slow. “The expedition was in danger of being overrun…I couldn’t chance that happening because, unlike Enterra, there was no possibility of rescue if we had fallen.”

“You’ve been there,” J’anda said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the Council table, his eyes wide and hungry. “You’ve seen history, the rise of the Elven Kingdom, of the Sovereignty, the wars between them—”

“Many have, that still live in the Kingdom,” Curatio replied.

“But you were around for the War of the Gods!” J’anda’s exclamation hung in the air, but caused the healer to sigh.

“I was,” Curatio said after a moment. “10,000 years ago.” He turned his head to look at Alaric, and almost seemed to be drawing strength from the Ghost, who sat silent, the lower part of his face hidden by the hands he had folded in front of him. “I have seen…” He hesitated. “Many changes, many wars…many things…I wish I had not.”

“My gods,” J’anda said. “You were around when the Dark Elves came forth from the caves of Saekaj for the first time.”

“I always heard that the dark elves were made from the torture of the first elves by Yartraak, the God of Darkness,” Nyad said with a look of innocence.

Terian answered, his eyes narrowed in irritation. “That’s a myth, one so insulting that I’m not going to respond to the notion that my entire race is nothing but a beleaguered offshoot of yours.” He looked with sudden uncertainty to Curatio. “It is a myth, right?”

“Yes,” the healer said. “But the dark elves interbred with several of the first elves and as a result gained longer life than your race originally enjoyed.”

“So here’s the question,” Cyrus cut off any further digression. “Why does someone want to kill you and Vara, the oldest and youngest of the elves?”

Terian’s ears perked up. “Wait, Vara is the youngest of the elves?”

“Oh,” said Vaste with mild surprise. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“That’s supposed to be a secret,” Nyad said, her voice strained.

“I expect we can keep that amongst ourselves,” Alaric said. “And it does seem more than coincidence that the assassins are targeting the youngest elf and the oldest. The question becomes why? What do they have in common other than being at chronologically opposite ends of the elven populace?”

It was Curatio that answered. “It is hoped that Vara is immune to the curse of infertility that plagues our people; I and my fellow ‘old ones’ were immune, without doubt.”

“You can have children?” Nyad stared at him, incredulous. “How do you…I mean…who…?”

The elder healer leaned forward on the table, neutral in his expression. “Seventy years ago, I fathered two children with a human woman. Since elven men are currently incapable of fathering children with anyone, it showed me that I was immune to the curse.”

“Who was it?” Vaste stared at the Healer with a sly grin.

“No one you’d know,” Curatio said, brushing him off. “The children, both girls, are in the Riverlands of the Confederation and will live close to a thousand years because they’re my daughters—and are, in essence, as pure-blood as any elf that walks in the Kingdom these days.”

“Then…you could save us!” Nyad’s voice was almost a cry, a jubilant noise of broken despair.

Curatio was unmoved, indifferent. “No, I can’t. Not like that.”

“What?” The wizard’s face registered shock as her jaw fell open. “Why not?”

Curatio took a deep breath and drew his hand to his face. “Because we made a pact, the other old ones and I. We vowed not intervene and become, as the only men capable of doing so, the saviors of the elven race. It was a calculated decision, to let human blood continue to intermingle with ours.” He didn’t look up from where his eyes were fixated on the table. “We had good reasons; it was a decision made by very wise men. And we were wrong, but it’s too late to do anything about it now.”

There was a long silence. Nyad looked almost collapsed at the other end of the table, Vara maintained her indifference, and Curatio had slumped in his seat, the most defeated Cyrus had seen him.

“So let’s say you’re immune to this…curse,” Terian said, breaking the silence. “Which you say makes elven men infertile? Why would anyone curse the elves that way? Who would want to kill you?”

“When in doubt,” Vaste said, “I blame Goliath.”

“The infertility of the elves stretches back nearly a thousand years,” Vara said. “I doubt even Malpravus would orchestrate a scheme that would not bear fruit for several millenia.”

“Perhaps the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar?” J’anda said, trading a look with Erith and Terian. The dark knight, for his part, looked murderous at the enchanter. Erith shook her head.

“Perhaps,” Alaric said. “He does take a notoriously long view of the game.”

“This is not a game,” Nyad snapped. “This is our people—our lives.”

“Not to him,” Alaric said, calm.

“Who is this Sovereign everyone keeps being so damned mysterious about?” Cyrus looked around the table, irritation overwhelming him. Of all the mysteries I’ve run across since joining Sanctuary, this one annoys me the most.

“Sorry,” Alaric replied. “Not yet. While it could be him, this is another secret that requires protecting for reasons that would become obvious if you knew the full details. And it may,” he held up a hand to ward off Cyrus’s response, “come to that, but not yet. Should we find the answer to who holds the chain of this Hand of Fear organization, I suspect all our questions will be answered.”

“They have a master,” Cyrus said, his hand curled into a mailed fist. “They’ve said he ordered the deaths of their victims.”

“And we have no idea who it is?” Terian looked around.

“It could be anyone,” Vara said. “For all their attacks, we still know next to nothing about the Hand of Fear.”

Silence reigned for a moment as Terian scratched his chin. “I know something.”

Alaric’s words cut through the quiet. “You tortured one of them, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” The dark knight’s normally cool expression was even more reserved.

The fire crackled behind Alaric’s eye. “I specifically told you—”

“You keep me around to do the things you’re not willing to do yourself,” Terian said, blazing defiance. “Protecting this guild from outside harm is my only priority, and if it’s between bleeding some gutless assassin who had a hand in killing Niamh and waiting for the hammer to fall on another of my guildmates, it’s an easy choice. Besides, it didn’t even require that much effort. The last one we caught was human, a young one. Folded easy, because he wasn’t a true believer like the others.”

“Who’s the master?” Cyrus leaned forward, intent on the dark knight.

“Not sure,” Terian said, some of his smugness disappearing. “This human was seemed to be more of an initiate. Whoever they are, the Hand of Fear is running low on experienced assassins. This one was unsure of who they serve, only that ‘the master is great and powerful and mighty’ and all that crap. But he did know where the lair was, after some…” He looked away from Alaric’s piercing gaze. “…coercion.”

“I will not accept this sort of behavior, Terian,” Alaric said in warning.

“If anyone ever kills another one of our guildmates this way, I suspect you’ll accept it again,” Terian replied. “Unless you’d like to see us keep losing people to these murderers.”

“What you have done is beyond our code of honor.” Alaric’s voice carried a warning. “It is not how we comport ourselves in this guild.”

“No? When it’s them or us, I pick them to suffer and die every time. Sorry if that makes me cold, but that’s how it is.”

“We will discuss this further in private.” Alaric’s eye was narrow. “For now, we must eliminate this threat once and for all.”

“Their base is in Traegon, in the Elven Kingdom,” the dark knight said. “They used to have an army of master assassins. My sense is that they’ve gone through a lot of them lately, but we should still expect a tough fight. The initiate told me that there’s a closed door in their headquarters, that only the initiated are allowed inside, and that they come back from behind it with orders from the master.” He smiled. “So if we’re lucky…”

“There’s a portal just outside Traegon,” Nyad said. “We can get my father’s permission to strike; he might even add some of the army to assist—”

“No,” Cyrus cut her off. “Get his permission, but don’t let him tell a soul. Hand of Fear has shown a remarkable talent for learning things that they shouldn’t know; they must have spies in his court. We can take a small army and hit them and maybe we’ll catch this mysterious master at home.”

Alaric turned to Nyad. “Go now. Every moment we wait gives the enemy further opportunity to place assassins within our walls again.”

“Aisling is keeping an eye on everyone that walks through the door,” Curatio said. “She seems pretty good at singling out the ones that are here for nefarious purposes.”

“Which she should be,” Vara muttered, “since she herself is here for nefarious purposes.”

Alaric ignored her and turned his gaze to Cyrus. “Put together a small strike force—thirty or so of our most elite, in preparation to strike. Be ready to move as soon as Nyad returns.” Cyrus nodded and Alaric turned back to face the occupants of the circular table. “If we are fortunate, this may be the last day that we need concern ourselves with the Hand of Fear.”

Chapter 42

“I’m going, right?” Andren asked as Cyrus sat at a table in the Great Hall, nibbling on a turkey leg that Larana had wordlessly set in front of him. He had smiled and nodded at her in thanks, and she retreated, casting the occasional look back at him. Even now he saw her through the open passthrough in the wall where she was hard at work in the kitchen preparing dinner and sending him furtive glances, looking away every time he caught her.

“Yes,” Cyrus said, turning his attention to his oldest friend. “I need a few healers, so I think it’ll be you, Erith and Vaste.”

“Yes!” The healer pumped his fist. “Revenge for Niamh at last.”

“This isn’t for revenge,” Cyrus said, setting his quill down in the jar of ink. “This is to protect our guildmates from further harm. This Hand of Fear, they intend to kill Curatio and Vara.”

“Well, yeah,” Andren said, looking insulted. “But I find no wrong in taking a bit of vengeance for our favorite druid.”

Cyrus did not respond; Curatio had entered the Great Hall and was making his way toward them. Cy nodded at his approach and the elder elf slid a chair out and sat down. “I’m going with you,” he said with an odd determination.

“I’m making a list right now,” Cyrus replied, feeling the need for a sudden caution. “I…believe it would be safest if you remained behind, along with Vara.”

The Healer shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I need to come with you.”

Cyrus exchanged a look with Andren. “I have several healers,” he began, “we can make it without your help.”

“It doesn’t matter how many healers you have. I’m coming along—exercising my prerogative as the Elder of Sanctuary.” Curatio stood; his words had come out the same way one might deliver a simple statement. With that said, he turned and began to make his way back toward the foyer.

“I doubt we’ll need your skills—” Cyrus said to his retreating back.

“Doesn’t matter,” Curatio called over his shoulder. “You’ll have them.” He disappeared through the doorway.

“I believe the Elder of Sanctuary just told the General how it is,” Andren said with barely contained glee. “I can’t remember you ever taking orders from anyone and liking it.”

“I don’t like it now, either,” Cyrus said. “But he’s more experienced than any of us and I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“So is it true?” Andren’s hand was wrapped around a horn of ale, and his light beard already dripped with the brew. “He’s an ‘old one’?”

“The last.” Cyrus dipped his quill back into the ink and added Curatio’s name to his list in small script at the bottom. “How would that feel, outliving everyone you’ve ever known?”

“Not fun. Not that all the elves I know are dead, but I’ve been shunning my own kind and hanging around you more-mortal races for a few hundred years now. While you certainly know how to have more fun than the elves, it tends to come to a damned abrupt stop far earlier than I’m ready for it to.”

“Which reminds me,” Cyrus said, a smile coming to his face. “We have a mutual friend; she helped me care for Vara and bring her back to health.”

“Oh?” Andren took a deep slug from his horn.

“Yeah, her name is Arydni—”

The mouthful of drink that the healer had taken erupted from his lips at the mention of the Priestess’s name, covering the table, the parchment and Cyrus’s breastplate. Andren made a strange, deep choking sound, as though he had inhaled some of his beverage. “I guess you remember her,” Cyrus said.

Andren coughed, pounding himself on the chest before taking his hand away and clutching the table. “It’d be tough to forget that one. I haven’t seen her in about two millenia. Has she taken the turn yet?”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean has she started to age to fit her years?”

“Yeah.”

A flash of Arydni in her priestess attire, with her supple flesh and ample bosoms, came to Cyrus’s mind. “She has not.”

“Really?” The healer’s voice carried a note of hope. “Maybe I should track her down after this. You know, reacquaint myself.”

Cyrus looked back to the blank spot under Curatio’s name on his parchment, dipped his quill and began to write another name. “I thought you had women enough to keep you occupied here in Sanctuary.”

“I do,” Andren said. “But Arydni was a whole different kind of woman. Not like these naïve human girls I’ve been playing around with; she was almost three thousand when I met her, and the things she knew how to do…” He shuddered, a smile cracking his face as he stared off into space.

“Keep it to yourself.” Cyrus shook his head. “I’ve already seen almost all of her; I don’t need to imagine what she’s capable of, it’ll give me…” He let his words drift off.

“Nightmares?”

“Quite the opposite, more like.” Cyrus shook his head. “Bellarum himself couldn’t help me if I got caught muttering her name in my sleep.”

“Yeah.” Andren scooted his chair closer to Cyrus. “What’s going on with you and the shelas’akur?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She’s been distant since her mother and father died. I won’t crowd her now that she’s been through all this; I’ll just wait and give her time to figure things out.” He shook his head. “It’s not as though she’s going anywhere, and if I were in her position I think I’d be wrecked, losing my hometown and both my parents in the course of a week.”

“Yeah. Lucky for you that you don’t have any parents to worry about.” He shook his head. “Or a hometown, really.”

Cyrus stiffened. “Reikonos is still my hometown.”

“Really?” Andren’s voice was measured incredulity. “If I’d have gone through what you went through at the Society, I’d have said good riddance and left the place behind the minute after graduation.”

“Yeah.” Cyrus felt a pang of bitterness. “It’s done though. It doesn’t matter. In the past. All that matters now…” He paused as he caught sight of a flash of blond hair, and a tight smile appeared on his face. “…is the future.”

Andren and Cyrus remained silent and watched Vara storm her way through the Great Hall. Her hand toyed with the sword in her scabbard and she stopped at the edge of the table and looked to Andren first. “Drunk,” she said to him with a nod of acknowledgment, then turned, focusing on Cyrus.

“Shrew,” Andren said, drawing a withering glare from Vara and an eye roll from Cyrus. “What? She insulted me, I fired back.”

“I stated a true fact about you.” She cocked her head and glared at him.

“As did I,” he returned and took another swig of his ale. “Would you rather I lied and called you ‘sweetheart’?”

Vara let out a breath of exasperation and turned back to Cyrus. “I am coming with you to Traegon. There will be no argument.”

“You sure about that?” Andren said, then buried his mouth back in his cup when she glared at him again. “Just asking.”

Cyrus stared back at her, impassive, as she began to speak. “These monsters have killed one of our comrades while trying to get to me, drove me from my home and killed my mother.” Her anger was white hot and visible on her face and in her mannerisms, the way she swung her finger around to point at Cyrus. “I don’t care what oafish, protectionary nonsense you might have in your head about keeping me safe; I will be attending this attack, regardless of what you say—”

He didn’t blink away from her assault, but reached down and grasped the list between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it with care to avoid the wet ink, angling the written words so she could read them, then pointed with his available hand to the line below Curatio’s name.

She halted her tirade, confused, then followed his finger and stared at the parchment in concentration. “That says my name. Is that—that’s the list for the raid?” He nodded, and a flicker of uncertainty was visible as she froze in place, finger still pointed at him. “That’s…well, good.”

He nodded. “I won’t bother to try to talk you out of it, but I will ask you to remember that our priority is to capture or kill all the members of Hand of Fear in their base. No pursuing vendettas that may result in allowing any of them to slip the net, all right?”

She drew herself to rough attention, hands at her sides, her head held high and chin pointed at him. “I assure you that I am well in control of myself and will remember my duty.”

“I’m sure you will.” Cyrus lowered his voice. “Can we talk?”

Hesitation marked the paladin’s body language, as she rocked back on her heels and half-turned. “I…think we should wait to speak until this is over. I…” She turned away from him and lowered her head. “…I have quite a bit on my mind at present, and I don’t feel up to the challenge of a deep and thoughtful conversation.”

Cyrus watched her and felt a ripple of concern roll through his belly. “All right,” he said, even as a voice in his head screamed that it was not. “We’ll talk after. Be ready to leave; as soon as Nyad returns we’ll be teleporting to Traegon.” He half-smiled. “Do you remember when we were in Traegon last?”

“We were only in Traegon once together,” she replied, and began walking toward the exit. “And I can’t recall anything of substance happening there.” She did not say anything else as she left, wandering out into the foyer toward the lounge.

“Well, that sounded promising,” Andren said the moment she was out of earshot.

“Shut up,” Cyrus said, but the words lacked any conviction.

“It’s almost as though the two of you got married or something,” Andren said, drawing Cyrus’s gaze. “About thirty years ago,” he clarified, causing Cy to shake his head. “Seriously, even when she hated you she wasn’t that cold and dismissive.”

“She lost her parents and her home,” Cyrus said without emotion, turning back to the parchment and staring at the names, trying to keep his mind away from anything else. “You’d be lucky to handle it half as well.” He shook his head and tore the parchment in half. “Find these people. Tell them I want them to come with us.”

“I’m drinking,” Andren said, his voice approaching a whine.

“Take your mug with you and find them while I track down the other half. This is important. If you’re in that much of a hurry to get back to drinking, hand off half of your list to the first person at the top of it and get them to do that for you.”

Muttering all the way, the healer made his way out of the Great Hall as Cyrus gathered the other half of the parchment. He tried not to think about Vara, but failed. She’s been through a lot. After Narstron died, I wasn’t even half as functional as she is right now, and I’d just lost a close friend. She got to watch a guildmate die for her benefit, then saw her hometown overrun by enemies and watched both parents die. He shuddered and shook his head. If Reikonos had been taken by the dark elves, it’d be enough for me to be edgy and isolated. She had a lot more happen than just that.

By the time he’d rounded up his half of the list and made his way back to the foyer, Andren was already sitting in the lounge. “See?” Cyrus asked him upon entering the room. “Was that so hard?”

“Nah,” the healer said. “Easy as pie.”

“I finished finding everyone on the list,” Cyrus heard Longwell’s voice from behind him and turned to see the dragoon carrying the parchment he had given Andren. “I told them all to assemble here, that we could get the call to go out at any time.”

Cyrus stared down Andren, who looked back, unflinching. “See? It’s done.”

Cyrus sighed and looked around the lounge and foyer to see most of the people from his list already scattered throughout the area. Vaste and J’anda were lingering near the main doors with Erith and a few others, and Curatio stood in front of the huge hearth in the foyer, his back to the room, absorbed in watching the fire. Vara was seated in her usual place in the lounge, looking out a window, on the edge of her seat, rocking back and forth from nervous tension.

He heard the scuff of a boot on the stone behind him and turned to see Aisling seat herself on the arm of his chair, leaning in, her teeth flashing a wide grin. “Hi there,” she said in a voice so low it sounded almost like purring.

“Aisling,” he said. “Thank you for continuing to keep an eye on the front doors for us—”

“That’s nothing,” she said, dismissing him. “You haven’t come to get the gift I have for you.”

“Yeah…I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not interested in—”

“I told you it wasn’t that,” she breathed in his ear. “It’s this.” Something slipped from her long cloak, a sword, glinting in the light of the dimming sun coming in through the windows on the far end of the lounge. “But you really should take me up on the other at some point, because it’s not fair to knock it if you haven’t tried—”

Cyrus’s eyes alighted on the sword she held before him. Runed, the blade was massive, bigger than Praelior by a few inches, and glowed a faint red in the steel. It looked familiar and he studied it with curious intensity before looking up to Aisling, whose purple eyes blazed with excitement. “It’s from the dark knight you killed on the bridge.” She sighed as she looked at it. “The devilish part of me wanted to sell it, but I just couldn’t.” She thrust the hilt toward him. “It’s yours; you did kill him, after all.”

“But you brought it out of the city.” He gazed at the glow from the blade. The light reflecting off it gave it an evil look, and he felt discomfort staring at it, even though he knew it was a finely crafted weapon.

“Even still.” She rested it in his hand and forced the hilt into his other. “It’s yours. I kept it for you; I know it’s not as good as what you’ve got, but maybe you can give it to someone who will use it. Seems a shame to waste a weapon like this by selling it to someone outside the guild. It’s near priceless.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, lost in the red glow. “I carried out the morningstar that the Unter’adon tried to kill me with as well.” He shook his head and closed his eyes, feeling his fingers close around the hilt. “I’m sure I can find someone who can use them.” He nodded at the dark elf, who looked at him with expectant eyes. “Thank you.”

“Cyrus.” The calling of his name brought his attention to Alaric, who stood behind him. Cyrus got to his feet, nodding at the Ghost, whose eyes settled on the sword he held. “A fine weapon; tinged with the strength of Yartraak, if I’m not mistaken.”

“The God of Darkness?” Cyrus stared at the blade in surprise. “It’s not a godly weapon, is it?”

“I think not,” the Ghost said, a slight smile peeking out from the bottom of his helm. “While mystical weapons are enchanted and bear powers a normal blade can’t hope to match, a godly weapon is of a whole different caliber. A mystical weapon can help a man hold off an army; a godly weapon can help him carve through said army, leaving nothing behind but a bloody swath.” Alaric stared at the sword and reached out for it, taking it when Cyrus proffered it to him. “This is a fine mystical blade, and it bears the touch of the Lord of the Dark, but it’s no godly weapon; his weapon is—”

“Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness,” Cyrus whispered in memory. Alaric raised an eyebrow and nodded. “I saw it last year when we were in Yartraak’s Realm.”

Alaric handed the weapon back to him. “I will accompany you to Traegon,” the Ghost said without preamble.

Cyrus kept his composure but inside he felt a curiosity; the Ghost rarely left Sanctuary. “You and everyone else, it seems.”

A hint of amusement drifted across the visible portion of Alaric’s features. “Curatio and Vara are going as well, I take it?”

“I assumed Curatio would have told you.”

“He didn’t need to,” the Ghost said. “Now that he is aware of the Hand of Fear’s interest in him, you would be hard pressed to keep him away from them. Knowing that they sought him as well as Vara, he feels responsible for Niamh’s death, and he’ll pursue this until the truth comes out about their leader.” The Guildmaster of Sanctuary’s lips faded from a smile into a hard line. “And I would not care to be this ‘master’ when Curatio finds out who he is.”

“Curatio is a healer,” Cyrus said. “They’re not renowned for their offensive abilities.”

Alaric’s eyebrow cocked at Cyrus. “Healer or not, he is a fearsome foe, and you would do well not to underestimate him. I assure you he did not survive to the age he has by being unskilled in the arts of war.” A memory made its way forward, a vision of a long ago incursion into the halls of the goblins under the mountain of Enterra—of Curatio with a mace in hand, killing goblins as the Sanctuary force was overwhelmed and destroyed. Alaric stared at Cyrus, apparently aware of his being lost in thought. “What?”

“The first time we went to Enterra.” Cyrus licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. “Do you remember it? When you had to come and rescue us?”

“I do.” The Ghost was quiet. “You speak of the night we lost your friend, Narstron.”

“Yes.” Cyrus felt the sting of the memory, but pushed it away. “Did Curatio die that night as well?”

“Yes; there were no survivors among you save for Niamh, who teleported out. Make no mistake, he may be immortal, but only in the natural sense. He can still be killed by weapons and spells.” The Ghost smiled. “He’s just more difficult to kill for being so damnably canny.”

“I can hear you,” came Curatio’s voice from across the foyer.

“There was never any doubt,” Alaric said. “I meant every word of it.”

“Did you know he was an old one?” Cyrus honed in on Alaric’s eye, which did not dodge away from him.

“Of course. Curatio and I have known each other for a long time; there are no secrets between us.”

“But plenty between you and the rest of the Council,” Cyrus said with a great sigh.

The Ghost’s eye glittered. “Perhaps. Know me for as long as Curatio has and that will change.”

“How long would that be, exactly?”

A chuckle came forth from Alaric. “I am human, brother. Whatever skills and abilities I may possess, I am still a man. Be assured of that.”

“I believe you,” Cyrus said. “But that doesn’t really answer the question, does it?”

Alaric chuckled again. “I suppose not.”

Any further inquiries that Cyrus might have put forth to press the issue were put aside when the blast of a teleportation spell brought a red robed wizard into view. Nyad’s blond hair tumbled down as she shook off the effects of the travel and looked around, her eyes alighting on Cyrus and Alaric. With a single nod, she told them all.

“Time to leave,” Alaric said, voice almost a whisper. “Time to end this hunt.” Without a word said by Cyrus, the men and women he had placed on his list were already moving toward the center of the foyer, ready.

“Gods, I hope so,” Cyrus replied, following his Guildmaster to the heart of the raiding party.

Chapter 43

They appeared outside the city after dark. Snow was falling and the roads were already covered. The crisp air flooded Cyrus’s nose and lungs, helping him stave off the desire to sleep. When challenged by the guards at the gate, Vara rode forward to speak with them, her stallion seeming to have more spring in its step than when last he had seen it. He patted Windrider and turned to Alaric. “Who do I owe thanks to for retrieving my horse from elven territory?”

“I believe it was Ryin Ayend. After you had gone to the palace, he teleported into the Kingdom and retrieved them from the Priestesses of Vidara.” Alaric coaxed his horse along with minimal effort.

“I have a hard time getting a read on him,” Cyrus said. “He takes positions that I find indefensible—like not wanting to help Vara or get involved in the war—and yet he still assists in the oddest and most useful ways.”

“He’s quite the contrarian,” Alaric said. “You may not like or agree with him, but you can’t argue with his loyalty.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, grudging. “I find it easier to see the world in absolutes—either someone is on my side or they’re not.”

Alaric laughed. “I can’t say I haven’t seen the world from the same perspective myself, in my youth. But Arkaria is a complex place. To try and label people good or evil is futile and a simplistic way to look at the world.”

Cyrus looked down at Windrider, who trudged along the snowy road without any urging from him. “I wish it was that simple. Good guys and bad guys, and obvious which is which.”

They passed through the gates, opened by the guards at Vara’s behest. The Traegon guards watched them warily. “Did you explain why we’re here?” Cyrus asked Vara, who nodded. “Did they say anything?”

“They asked to see the King’s letter, then requested that we try not to burn down the city in our efforts to apprehend the assassins.”

“Burn down the city?” Cyrus frowned. “Why would they think we would do that?”

She ran a hand along the side of her horse’s neck. “The King’s letter was explicit in that it required them to stand aside and allow us to do anything to capture our quarry, even if it involved burning the city to the ground.”

“You can see how high in regard the monarchy holds the cities of the common people,” Andren said from off to the side. “Whole damned Kingdom tilts to corruption on the side of the royals.”

“Now you’re part of the status quo, Sir Andren, in case you’ve forgotten.” Vaste graced the healer with a smile. “Do be vigilant, watching from your mansion as the royals continue to do all the things you’ve bitterly railed about for years.”

“Never should have taken that title,” Andren mumbled.

“What about the gold?” Vaste smiled, a wicked one that exposed his teeth.

“Well I wasn’t going to pass that up, was I?”

The town was much smaller than Pharesia or Termina, but almost every building possessed a tower capped by a minaret. Following Terian’s instruction, they made their way to a warehouse on the far edge of town. The building was made of bleached sandstone, and even in the dark Cyrus could see it would appear near-white in the light of day.

Cyrus dismounted and studied the sides of the building. “No windows to speak of,” he said, thinking out loud. “They won’t see us coming.” He pointed to a nearby door. “Since we have no idea what’s inside, one door is as good as another. We might as well come crashing through that one.”

“You have a strategy in mind for this, I assume?” Vara climbed down from her horse with athletic ease as Cyrus crossed the ground to the warehouse at a trot. He did not slow as he approached the door but sped up, crashing through shoulder-first, filling the air with a horrible cracking noise as he plunged into the darkness. “I should have bloody well known it would be something as stupid as that,” he heard her mutter.

She climbed through the wreckage of the door behind him, sword drawn. They were in a lamplit room with no one in sight. He moved forward to allow the others to join them, and the room began to fill as he moved around. There were paintings on the wall, furniture of a typical elven style with red silk cushions, and a smell of incense filled the air.

“I’d tell you to be on your guard,” Cyrus said in a whisper, “but if you weren’t already, you wouldn’t be here. Split into two groups. One with me, going this way, and the other goes with—” he glanced back and saw Alaric, sword in the paladin’s hand—“with Lord Garaunt, going that way. Take them alive if you can, kill them if there’s any possibility they might escape.”

He led the way through a door to his left, keeping his sword in hand in front of him, ready to block. The glow of the blade allowed him to see slightly better in the dimness. He heard Vara’s soft breathing a step behind him, and heavier breathing following her at a distance, punctuated by an occasional snort that told him that Vaste was in his procession. He walked down a long hallway, weaving around tables placed on the sides of the hall, filled with candles and statuary.

A noise ahead caught his attention. He swept forward, careful to muffle the sound of his boots by staying on the plush carpeting that ran down the middle of the hall. Another noise came and he crept forward with a single finger pressed to his lips in warning for quiet. The noise came from a door on the left.

He reached it and found it closed, and heard another sound from within, a creaking noise that caused a chill to run through him as he leaned against the wall and started to move his hand toward the knob. Vara took up position on the other side of the door, a line of others behind her starting with Terian and J’anda and followed by Vaste. Cyrus held up his hand with three fingers extended. Two…one…He opened the door with his shoulder, sword in hand as he charged into the room.

Cyrus came to a halt as he determined the source of the noise. Behind him Vara stopped before running into his back, but Terian did not, causing her to bump forward into him. The source of the creaking was obvious now. A rope hung from the rafters, looped around the neck of the only assassin in the room, and his body swung in a slow, lazy circle hanging before an altar with a massive statue on it that looked familiar.

“Cut him down,” Cyrus said, still focused on the dead man. The body was clothed in red robes, a more ornate version of the garb the other assassins had worn. A twang was followed by an arrow streaking through the air and cutting the rope in its flight. With a snap it broke and the body tumbled to the floor.

“Why would he kill himself?” Terian said.

Cyrus leaned over the corpse. It was an old elven man under the hood, eyes clouded with near-blindness even before he had died, the warrior realized. His hands were gnarled and the stiffness of death had begun to set in. “He was infirm. Blind, crippled hands, who knows what other kinds of ailments.” Cyrus reached down and closed the old man’s eyes, then felt down to the belt, where he removed a blade from a scabbard. It was a familiar dagger, one with the blade of black and the eight-sided pommel that held the circular snake emblem he had seen from every assassin of the Hand of Fear thus far.

“You think maybe he was the master?” Andren’s voice punctuated the silence.

“No,” Cyrus said. “I think he was the last of their order, and that he killed himself to atone for their failure.”

“Really?” Terian’s voice carried skepticism. “After all these attempts, one relentless assault after another, you think they finally reached the end of their numbers and this guy just gave up?”

“I’d ask him, but he’s already cold.” Cyrus pushed back to his feet. “I think if you’ve got a secret order and you’re sending initiates to fulfill your mission, you’re running low on people.”

The dark knight looked around the room. “Yeah. Maybe. But if this guy’s not the master, how do we find out who ordered Curatio and Vara’s deaths? It’s not like Alaric is gonna let me torture anyone else to get the answer.”

“You won’t need to.” Curatio’s voice came from the doorway behind them. “Alaric sent me to tell you that we’ve swept the rest of the building; there’s no one else here.”

“So they’re all dead?” Vaste wondered aloud.

“We should be on our guard for a while,” Cyrus said. “They may have a few more making their way toward Sanctuary, or in hiding, but other than that I think…they’re done.” He looked back to the body of the old man lying on the floor, and he caught sight of an overturned stool that the assassin must have stood on while preparing for his demise. “Without knowing who the master is, I don’t see how we can’t truly put an end to this.”

“Simple enough,” Curatio said. “The answer resides here—in this room.”

Terian’s head whirled around. Cyrus kept his turn more reserved, scanning for signs before coming to rest on the statuary of the altar. Vara stepped in front of him, fixated on the same thing he was, and he followed her up the small steps.

The altar was wooden, with two wide, sturdy legs parallel to each other. It was big enough to support the statue, which looked to weigh a few hundred pounds. From where he hung, and the way he was facing, it was almost as though he was sacrificing himself to…

“I don’t get it.” Longwell’s voice came from behind Cyrus. “What? The statue was the master?”

“A representation of him, at least.” Vara’s words came out in breaths, low and hushed.

The figure carved in stone had eight arms, radiating around him and jutting from his shoulders, back and torso. At the torso his legs split into four muscular supports for an oversized thorax. The head perching at the top of the long neck was beaked, like a bird, but open-mouthed to show fangs, and the statue was detailed enough that there were a hundred or more of them visible. The eyes were dead and lifeless in the stone, but large. It was an alien thing, and the expression was of pure malice.

“This is ridiculous,” Longwell said, stepping up to the altar. “This? They serve this…this thing?” He shook his head. “I mean…what is it?”

“Mortus,” Cyrus said. “It’s Mortus.”

“Mort-what?” Longwell placed a mailed fist on the statue and slid it across derisively. “Is it a creature? A beast? A monster? A ruler? A greengrocer in Reikonos? What?”

“No,” Curatio said, still quiet. “Not a creature, nor beast, nor ruler, not of these lands, at least not of late. It’s Mortus. And of all the masters they could possibly serve, this is…by far, the worst I can imagine.”

Longwell threw his arms up in despair, still looking at the healer. For answer, Curatio looked back at the dragoon, stared into his eyes, and spoke in a voice that cracked with terror and dread, so frightening in a normal voice, but one that drove sheer terror into Cyrus’s soul knowing that it came from a being 23,000 years old. “Mortus is a God.

“The God of Death.”

Chapter 44

“I’m afraid,” Longwell’s voice rang across the Council Chamber after they had returned to Sanctuary, “all this talk of gods runs right over me like so much water in a stream. I don’t believe it, I don’t understand it, and I’m surprised any of you, who seem so reasonable in all else, could buy into it.” The dragoon shook his head, his hair wisping as it fell on either cheek. “They’re not real.”

“Oh, they’re real enough,” Curatio said. The healer wore a traveling cloak still fastened around his neck. They had returned from Traegon and immediately gone to Council. “The gods are real enough to touch you if you should get in their way, real enough to kill you if you should cross them.”

Longwell snorted. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but from an outsider’s perspective, the idea of gods sounds… ridiculous. Forces, beyond our sight, manipulating people? Ludicrous. They tell similar fairytales in my own lands, but only the peasants believe them.”

“It’s no myth,” Terian said, causing Longwell to roll his eyes. “The Gods of Arkaria are quite real, not some imaginary figment. Many of them have been seen in the last few hundred years, and interfere in the affairs of mortals to this day.”

Cyrus leaned forward and looked to Longwell, who was still shaking his head. “Weren’t you with us in the Realm of Darkness last year?”

“Aye, I was. But I didn’t see a god in that place; just a hell of a lot of darkness, and some creatures that—while extraordinary—don’t require a god to exist any more than any of us do.”

“Putting aside the question of whether deities exist,” Erith broke in, “why would Mortus want Vara and Curatio dead?”

“He has good cause to want me dead,” Curatio said, his voice ragged. “I have no idea why he would want Vara to die.”

“What did you do to piss off the God of Death?” Terian looked at the healer with barely concealed awe.

Curatio smiled, a wan, sad curve of his lips. “You are aware that the vast majority of the Elven Kingdom worships Vidara?”

Terian nodded. “I’ve heard that, yes.”

“I brought her word into the Kingdom.” He paused. “I evangelized for her throughout Elvendom until she was the widest accepted deity.”

“Mortus hates Vidara,” Cyrus said. “I haven’t heard you speak out for Vidara since I’ve been here. Do you not believe in her any longer?”

Curatio shrugged, and it gave the effect of making him seem even more resigned. “I still believe in her in the same way I believe in anything I can see with my own eyes and feel with my own hands. I just don’t worship her as I once did. All my evangelism was after the War of the Gods, 10,000 years ago, when the beliefs were still spreading…” He hesitated. “…among the disbelievers and those who followed the…old ways.”

“Supporting the opposing god would be reason enough to make you an enemy, I suppose,” Vaste said. “But again, we come back to the other questions—why Vara and why the other old ones?”

“Vara is a symbol in the Kingdom, yes?” J’anda looked around the table. “Perhaps it was an attempt to destabilize the elves?”

“Arydni, the High Priestess of Vidara, told me that Vara was a gift from the Goddess of Life; the only hope since the curse began,” Cyrus said. “If Mortus and Vidara are bitter enemies, locked in perpetual struggle over mortals, then would that make one of the battlegrounds the Elven Kingdom?”

Alaric cleared his throat. “The biggest, actually. The original elves were near-immortal. Can you imagine any greater affront to the God of Death?”

“Six thousand years? I imagine he might be offended by a lifespan of such length,” J’anda said.

“Indeed,” Alaric continued, “the God of Death has long hungered for more souls from the elves than he receives. In addition, his tools are not limited to death, but also the means of fear.”

“Hand of Fear,” Cyrus murmured. “What greater is there to fear than death?”

“Quite a bit.” The Ghost placed a hand on the top of his helm, which was resting on the table. “That said, there is something that might cast this entire situation in a different light.”

“And that is?” Terian spoke after Alaric had paused for a moment.

“Since none of you but the elves among us have had cause to know of this curse that afflicts their people, you would not have had cause to ask yourself from whence this curse came.” Alaric’s face had resumed its harder resolve; his eye was a gleaming gray.

“I thought of it for a while last night,” Vaste said, clicking his staff against the ground. “But I assumed that if anyone knew for certain who had done it, we’d have been told.”

“No one knows.” Vara’s voice was scratchy, a choked whisper, as though she were straining to speak. “It has been the greatest mystery of the last millenium, and the secret in general precluded too much idle searching for the answer outside the Kingdom.”

“Cursing every male in the Kingdom with infertility?” Erith broke her silence. “What sort of spellcaster could even muster such a spell? Even if there was such a thing, who could cast it?”

“No one person,” Nyad said. “My father’s counselors suspected an army of dark elven wizards, traveling throughout the Kingdom, over the course of a hundred years—”

“No,” Alaric said. “Not the dark elves. It was Mortus.”

“You sound certain.” Vaste eyed the Ghost.

Alaric’s demeanor left no room for doubt. “I am.”

“Told you himself, did he?” Terian quipped.

“No,” Alaric said. “He did not. Yet I know that he did it.”

“What kind of spell could even do that?” Longwell looked at Alaric. “I don’t buy into this idea of gods—he’d have to be using the same magic as everyone else, so what kind of spell does such a thing?”

Alaric laughed, but it was hollow and mirthless. “He does not use the same magic as anyone else. The gods have powers of their own, things beyond the knowledge of mortals, and this is one of them.”

Cyrus stared straight ahead. “Beyond the knowledge of mortals…but are they beyond the use of mortals?” His eyes flicked up to catch Alaric’s gaze, and the Ghost did not look away quickly enough. “Could a mortal use a spell that the gods use, like we would use one of their weapons?”

Alaric hesitated and looked to Curatio, who for once remained cooler in his disposition than Alaric. The healer looked to the Guildmaster, and in a resigned voice, almost devoid of any emotion but a hint of accusation, said, “You didn’t tell me it was him.”

Alaric looked to Curatio and something passed between them, something so subtle Cyrus could not quite interpret it. “I was sworn.”

Curatio nodded, his jaw jutted out, as though he were chewing on the inside of his lip, and turned back to Cyrus. “Yes, but with some qualifications. Some mortals could use some magics that that gods wield, but only the most powerful spellcasters, and the spells would drain them, being somewhat more energy intensive than a simple healing spell, for example.”

“Heresy,” Ryin Ayend said in a low, hissing voice.

“If a cure to the curse existed and we found it in the Realm of Death, could you use it?” Cyrus stared down Curatio. “You, who have the ability to burn through more magical energy than any mortal.”

Curatio did not speak for a long moment, nor did he break from Cyrus’s gaze. “Yes. I likely could.”

“Assuming such a thing existed,” Ryin Ayend said, his eyes aflame with shock, “what you speak of is heresy, and reason enough for the Leagues to hunt you across Arkaria to the end of your days.”

“Which would be quite the merry chase,” Curatio said. “I daresay I’d just outrun them until they died, then go on living my life.”

“Even if you did such a thing, how would this help you and Vara?” Ayend looked from the healer to the shelas’akur. “Mortus sent assassins after you; stealing a spell to heal your people after he cursed them is hardly going to endear you further.”

“Since he already means to kill us,” Vara said, her response icy, “I don’t see how things could get worse if we further offend him.”

“Perhaps they wouldn’t for you,” Ryin said with a hint of exasperation, “but they would for us—as in Sanctuary. We have enemies enough without adding the God of Death to our list.”

“Speak for yourself,” Terian said. “I’m always willing to take on new candidates if they’re worthy, and I think the God of Death would be a pleasant enough challenge.” Terian looked down the table, his long nose seeming to point at Cyrus. “What are you proposing?”

“Nothing that radical.” Cyrus balled his fists inside their metal shells. “We’ve been on expeditions to Mortus’s domain in the past, while he’s absent. I say we do so again, only this time with the specific purpose of finding something that would help us break the curse inflicted on the elves.” He looked at Vara with a sidelong glance and saw her watching him. “If we save the elven people from this calamity, perhaps it will give the God of Death something else to focus on.”

“I still have no idea why this so-called God of Death would cast a curse on the elves like this,” Longwell said, shaking his head as if he could make the whole situation disappear. “And I’ve yet to hear any genuine, empirical evidence that convinces me that he is real, so if you want to raid his realm looking for something that doesn’t exist, why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”

“We could be caught by Mortus and smashed to a juicy pulp,” Vaste said.

“If we find and use some forbidden magic of the gods, we can be declared heretics and become the enemies of everyone in Arkaria from now to the end of our days.” Ryin Ayend had his hand over his eyes as though massaging a headache away, but his words were clear.

“I’ll take the dishonor of heresy upon myself,” Curatio said. “None of you need fear it, since none of you could use the spell anyway. But I doubt we’d find a cure; what we need is the curse itself, because with it I have a starting point for deriving a cure.”

“Branching off from accepted, League-taught magics,” Ryin Ayend said. “That’s more heresy. Will it ever cease?”

“Your Leagues have a great many rules,” Longwell said with a shake of the head. “I say we have nothing to fear in this Realm of Death and if the rewards are anything like what we found in Darkness’s Realm, it will be worth it.”

“Other than being mashed by a god,” Vaste said, “I’m inclined to agree. We’ve fought through the Realm of Death before. If we can do what every guild before us that’s assaulted a god’s realm has done and find a time that Mortus won’t be home, I vote we do it.”

Nyad spoke with a gasp. “Yes.” The wizard looked haunted.

Curatio smiled. “I see no reason why not; the God of Death has never before troubled himself when these things have happened to him in the past.”

One by one, around the table was a slow series of nods of assent. “This is madness,” Ryin Ayend said with a heavy sigh, “but as I see no more direct harm coming to us than we are already in line for, I vote ‘aye’.”

Vara was in a daze, but blinked out of it when her turn came to speak. “I do not know if this will help Curatio and I or not, but should we find the spell, and should he be able to cure the curse, it will help my people.” She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “And that is all I have left to care about.”

Alaric tore his gaze from her. “I would echo the sentiments of others in my words of caution. Gods are not to be trifled with. Were we to achieve this, it might distract the God of Death from our friends; but that is mere hope. He is not known for being a forgiving sort, nor of a mind to relinquish a goal once set. While the Hand of Fear may be destroyed, he has other servants who will take up the fight and follow his commands.” With sorrow he looked to Vara. “I do not know that this will end your torment, but I will give everything in me to attempt to make it so.”

Vara was sickly white when she answered, but it was with a mechanical voice. “I thank you. All of you.”

“I leave it to our general to work out the details,” Alaric said, nodding to Cyrus. “With that, let us adjourn.”

Cyrus remained in his chair while almost everyone else beat a hasty path to the exit. Vara looked back at him as though she were about to say something, then turned away, disappearing through the door behind Nyad. Cyrus turned to find Curatio staring down Alaric.

“You should have told me,” the healer said.

“I should have.” The Ghost looked back at him. “But I was sworn to secrecy.”

“And you violate it now?” Curatio’s words came out low and accusatory, harsher than anything Cyrus had heard from him.

“Lives are at stake, and you know this may be part of a larger plan by Mortus.” Alaric stood facing Curatio. “I am sorry I did not reveal…” His eyes flitted around the room to find Cyrus watching, as well as Terian. “…what I know…sooner. I did not wish to—”

“I know what you didn’t wish to do,” Curatio said, voice rising. “I know damned well what you didn’t want to admit to. To hell with it, Alaric. It was always you anyway. I thought I made my peace with…” An agonized grunt came from Curatio, and he shook his head, face awash in unexpressed emotions. “Damn it all. I’m 23,000 years old, I shouldn’t…”

“You are a man,” Alaric said, soothing. “Regardless of age, you share the same flaws as the rest of us, tempered only by greater wisdom than any other.”

Curatio stared back at him for a moment before reaching out in a fit of pique and knocking the Ghost’s helm from the table to the floor. “To hell with wisdom. To hell with tempering. And to hell with you.” With a snarl, the healer swept from the room, his cloak trailing behind him.

Alaric stooped to retrieve his helm and placed it upon his head. “I am sorry you had to witness that.”

“It’s kind of like watching Mommy and Daddy fight,” Terian said with a sadistic chuckle. “I’ve never seen even a hint of discord between the two of you before.”

“Yes,” Alaric said with a sigh. “I’m afraid there’s much more to it than my witholding information. But that is a story—”

“For another time,” Cyrus and Terian chorused.

A flicker of amusement made its way across the Ghost’s face, but did not reach his eye. “What can I do for the two of you?”

“Nothing for me,” Terian said. “I need to talk to Cyrus.”

Cyrus stared at the Ghost, who, after the argument with Curatio, seemed somehow smaller than he had ever looked before. “I…I have nothing that can’t wait.”

Alaric nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I feel the ether calling.” He took a deep breath, and Cyrus watched his armor rise with the inhalation. As it began to sink with his exhalation, the lines of the Ghost’s armor began to fade, and the streaks that ran down the plate of his mail blurred and became insubstantial, a thin mist filling the room around his feet, as Alaric became the Ghost in deed as well as name, and the fog disappeared from the room.

“Of all the weird things he does, that’s the weirdest,” Terian said with a shake of the head.

“What do you need?” Cyrus leaned against the table, watching the dark knight.

“Ah,” Terian said with a smile, “I need nothing. In fact, I come to you with assistance.” He straightened. “I can help you with invading the Realm of Death.”

Chapter 45

The light was dim in the Brutal Hole, a bar in the slums of Reikonos. Though he had seen it when living there, Cyrus had never trod in the establishment, which was for dark elven laborers that worked on the waterfront. The patrons were surly, protective and quarrelsome when standing outside, thus he had never been motivated to find out if the interior was as shabby as the broken down wooden facade.

Until now, he thought. It matches. Terian had dragged him here with the assistance of Nyad, who was waiting for them at the old Kings of Reikonos Guildhall only a few blocks away. The bar had a dim mirror stretched behind it, the edges scarred and blackened from age and poor use. The whole place had a smell he associated with unwashed garments mixed with saltwater. I’m used to smelling the death and horror of battles, and this place has a scent that makes me ill. What does that say about it?

Terian took a deep sniff. “Smells like home,” he said with a serene smile.

“Remind me never to visit Saekaj,” Cyrus said, taking a sip of the green ale in front of him. He kept his head hidden under his cloak, less worried that the patrons might start a fight with him than he’d end up killing all of them and have to answer to the Reikonos authorities. He looked around the motley crowd shouting crass comments at the woman behind the bar; she matched every one of the dock workers profanity for profanity, causing them to laugh even more.

“It’s no worse than here,” the dark knight assured him. With a slug of his ale, Terian looked back at him. “Aren’t you pleased to see that your city is still standing?”

Cyrus was reminded of the discomfort in his belly as they teleported into the main square. As it appeared before him, he let out a slight yet obvious sigh of relief. They were stopped by Reikonos guards that were stationed around the square and detained because of Terian’s presence. Once Cyrus’s identity had been established, the guards had let them pass with a glare at the dark knight, who shrugged the whole thing off. “If my city was under siege by humans, they’d kill any of you trying to teleport in.” He grinned. “Your people are far too merciful.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t cost us the war,” Cyrus had said without amusement.

In spite of the frigid Reikonos winter, the hearth was empty of a fire, with only the faintest embers still burning within it. “Wood is worth more than gold right now,” the woman behind the bar had said when she brought their drinks. She looked with suspicion on Cyrus’s downed hood, but didn’t press the issue. Terian had thrown extra coins her way to expedite her retreat, which she took without question and returned to the bar and the rowdy longshoremen gathered around it.

“How much longer?” Cyrus kept his voice low, in spite of the fact that it would be near impossible to be heard over the din the drunks were causing, another peal of raucous laughter filling the air.

“Now, I think,” Terian said as the door opened, allowing a sliver of sunlight to cross the floor. The obnoxious laughter of the crowd at the bar stopped as a figure entered, also hooded, and swooped past them with a shuffle, drawing the attention of the dock workers as it passed. After a moment, the laughter returned; a choice comment in dark elvish reached Cyrus’s ears, which he didn’t fully understand but grasped enough of to shake his head at the crudity.

The figure approached them with caution, shuffling on a leg that appeared unsteady. When it reached them, Cyrus was struck by the trailing stench that came in its wake, overwhelming any of the horrible fragrances of the bar. It smelled of the decay Cy had pondered earlier, overwhelming and gutwrenching. With a nod, it sat, and the lamplight caught features that were gray as a stormy sky.

With a sudden sense of revulsion, Cyrus pushed back against the chair. Terian’s hand gripped his, holding him down as he reached for his sword. “Don’t,” the dark knight said.

“It’s…it’s a…” Cyrus reached again for his sword but Terian blocked him with a gauntlet, clanking metal against metal.

“A wendigo?” The creature slid forward into the light, revealing a wreck of face. His eyes were sunken in the skull and a skeletal hand that reminded Cyrus of Malpravus slid across the table and picked up a gold coin from a stack in front of Terian. Its mouth was mangled, twisted with jagged teeth, and when it breathed on him Cyrus felt a need to vomit. “I am, a creature of Mortus that has long since fled the master’s realm.”

Cyrus yanked his hand away from Terian and held it in front of his nose. “What brings a foul servant of a foul god to Reikonos?”

“A foul place.” The wendigo’s mouth twisted into a smile, giving it a more grotesque look than before. “I come here to meet you, to treat with you, to offer you information for coin—are insults all I am to receive?”

“Don’t act so offended,” Terian said, sliding the stack of coins off the table and into his hand. “You’re a wendigo; your skin is rotted and you smell like a troll brothel on Sunday morning. Hrent, this is Cyrus Davidon. He’s faced your kind before.”

“You’ve fought the footsoldiers of death?” Hrent reached across the table, emaciated gray hand facing up, pointed toward Terian. “Then you know most of what you’ll be up against if you’re planning on going to the Realm of Mortus.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, holding his breath. “Is there still a hydra and demon knights?”

The rotted face of the wendigo twisted again. Milky white eyes stared back at him from beneath the hood. “Perhaps. Perhaps there’s more. I find gold helps me recall.”

Terian shared a look with Cyrus, then dropped a half dozen coins on the table. “Start talking. If what you say sounds good, more may follow.”

Hrent reached out and grasped at each of the coins, bringing them up to his teeth and biting them one by one. “All right,” he said when finished. “Yes, there’s a hydra and a host of demon knights; nothing different about them. But there’s more now.”

“Such as?” Cyrus said from behind his gauntlet.

The gray finger beckoned, and two more gold pieces were tossed upon the table. “Might be skeletons. I can’t recall.” Another gold piece clinked in front of the wendigo. “Yeah, skeletons. A whole army of them. Not particularly strong, but a nuisance when coupled with the demon knights and my brothers.” The thin fingers came up to Hrent’s face and scratched the skin, long claw digging into dead flesh, leaving a mark but no blood welled up within. “Something else, too.” He nodded at the small but growing pile of gold in front of him and two more pieces landed upon it. He nodded again and Terian threw two more. “They’ve changed their strategy. They don’t hide anymore; everything waits in the fields of Paxis by the portal. Except the hydra. You won’t have to face him unless you go looking for him.”

Cyrus exchanged a glance with Terian. “Anything else? A dragon skeleton or anything like that?”

The sunken eyes watched him. “No. Nothing like that. All that’s left is the time.”

“When?”

The long claws clicked on the gold, and Terian poured five more pieces out of his coinpurse and slid them across the table one at a time as Hrent bit them, his long teeth leaving little flaws in the face of the metal. “Tomorrow,” he said, scooping them all off the table. “He’ll be gone for three days; has a meeting with Bellarum in the Realm of War. Those two…they do go on and on,” Hrent said with a smile that made Cyrus’s stomach turn.

“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” Terian watched him expectantly.

The wendigo licked his split and cracked lips with a dry tongue. “Might be I’ll have some information on Yartraak soon; I’m making inroads with some of his former servants, but he’s a secretive bastard, that one.”

“We’ll see,” Terian said. “I doubt that will do you much good.”

Hrent slid the last coins into a leather pouch and Cyrus watched them drain into it through his rotted fingers. “Nice to know I’ve got a new customer to sell to,” he said with a pointed grin. “Tired of dealing with Goliath all the time. I do miss Endeavor and Amarath’s Raiders; they always had class—”

“You sold information to Goliath?” Cyrus left his seat and leaned across the table, grabbing hold of Hrent’s cloak and yanking him back.

The sunken eyes were wide with sudden fear. “Yeah, they bought off me a few times. What of it?”

“Cyrus…” Terian’s tone was warning and the warrior looked across the bar. The rowdy longshoremen were all looking at him, his hood now behind his head, face exposed for all to see.

“Never mind,” Cyrus said to Hrent. “Come to us again when next you have information. Go on.” Without hesitation the wendigo grabbed his pouch of gold and limped from the bar. At the counter, the dock workers watched Cyrus with sullen faces. He parted his cloak at the front so his armor was obvious, and rested a hand on Praelior. “Reckon I’ll be leaving now, too.” He led the way, keeping watch on the resentful eyes of the dark elves as they passed, flipped a silver coin to the bartender as he left, and she flashed a grateful look.

“So now we know when,” Terian said, walking beside him through the slums. “Can we put together an assault by tomorrow morning? Because it’ll take us at least a day to get to the portal to Death’s Realm.”

“We’re a little out of practice,” Cyrus said, steering around a vegetable cart that had only a few meager pickings left on it. “But the numbers are in our favor with an army of over three thousand, so a little sloppiness won’t harm us as it would have when we were a hundred or two hundred strong and reliant on larger allies.” He let out a breath and watched it fog the air in front of him. “The larger question is, can we trust him?”

“Who?” Terian cocked his head back in the direction of the bar. “Hrent? Not remotely. But he’s sold to others and he wants more people to sell to, so I think his information is accurate.”

“Listen to what you just said.” Cyrus shook his head in amazement. “We’re about to invade the Realm of a God, searching for the cure to a mystical curse, and on the say-so of one of his former servants.”

“When you put it that way, it sounds like fun.”

Cyrus laughed. “When I put it that way, it sounds like madness.” The mirth vanished from his face. “That’s a sobering thought.”

“No, it’s not,” Terian said. “It makes me want to drink.” They turned down an alley and Cyrus caught a sidelong glance from the dark elf. “This really is crazy. Why are you doing it?”

“I’m just spearheading it,” Cyrus said after a moment’s pause.

Terian stopped him with a hand on his arm. “We’re talking about crossing into the Realm of the God of Death and upending one of his schemes that is so nefarious, it ends in the death of a whole race. Do you have some kind of hero complex or just a death wish?”

Cyrus looked to the next building, the old horse barn where Nyad was waiting for them. “We’ve done it for lesser reasons. For gold, armor and weapons.”

“Yeah,” Terian said. “But what’s the reason this time? To find some miracle cure that probably isn’t even there? I mean, do you think that just because we show up and steal some of his stuff, Mortus will forget that he wants Vara and Curatio dead?”

“No.”

A hard look found Cyrus from the dark knight. “Then why?”

There was a long pause. “Because we have the power now. Because this is their last hope and there aren’t any others. Because we could save an entire race from dying out.” He took a deep breath and struggled with it, feeling the chill deep in his lungs, awakening an ache there.

“That it?” Terian stared him down.

“Yeah. That not enough reason for you?”

The dark knight looked away. “That’ll do, I guess.” He turned, going the last few paces to the old guildhall, where he opened the door and stepped inside.

Cyrus waited, hesitating just a moment before following him. And…because…I can’t bring back her mother and father.

Chapter 46

The quiet of night overwhelmed him. His window was open, and far below, the occasional whinny could be heard from the stables as well as voices from the guards walking patrols along the high walls that protected Sanctuary. A low, rhythmic snoring was audible from across the hall in Vaste’s room. It was not so loud it disturbed him on a normal night. But this is not a normal night, Cyrus thought.

Surrendering thoughts of sleep, he wandered to the window. The sill was stone, square, and high enough for him to rest his elbows as he leaned forward and out. He looked to his left and saw, two windows down, that Vara’s was open. She’s been through hell since Termina. Her city lost, her mother dead, then her father. Still, after years of dancing around it, I kissed her and she kissed me back. I feel selfish thinking it, but I hope she gets through this rough patch soon. A welling of guilt came up from deep inside him. I just wish she’d let me help her in some way.

A sob echoed through the night air, jarring him out of his thoughts. It was followed by another. He snatched a cloth shirt and pants and struggled to get them on, then walked down the hallway, his bare feet padding along on the cool stone. “At ease,” he said to the six guards stationed in the hallway. Quietly, he knocked on Vara’s door.

“Who is it?” came the muffled voice from the other side.

“Cyrus. I heard you through the open window. Can I come in?”

After a moment, a small reply made its way to him. “Yes.”

He opened the door, and she sat on the bed in full armor. The only visible light was from the moon outside. Her back was facing him, her head angled toward the window, but bowed instead of looking out. He shut the door behind him.

The silence filled the space between them, with only the ambient sounds to disturb the peace. She sniffed, enough to catch his attention, but still she did not turn. “Why did you come here?” she asked him at last.

“Why did you let me in?” He said it as gently as he could manage.

“If I hadn’t you’d likely take the same approach as putting a castle under siege; stand outside the door and hammer it, break it down and storm inside.” She sniffed again and turned to him. Her face was dry, though her eyes were red and swollen, the traces of tears still visible even in the moonlight.

He breathed in, then out. “You’re right. I likely would.”

“Yes. Since there’s nothing you can do to help me chase away these annoying emotions I’m grappling with, you might as well just leave me be.”

“I see,” he whispered. “When we were in Termina, I tried to show you how I felt about you, and regardless of whether you feel the same or not, what I was trying tell you was that—whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to be alone unless you choose to be.”

She laughed, a short, sharp, bitter sound. “But I am alone. My mother and father are now dead. The bedrocks of my life, perfectly fine only a week ago, when I was taking them for granted, are now gone, permanently. The home where I was raised, the place of all my childhood memories, is destroyed. Perhaps the Elves will reclaim Termina, perhaps not, but either way, it’s shattered. My sister remains at a distance—you are closer to her than I am—and I feel responsible for the deaths of at least two people in my guild.”

She laughed again, and it was a hollow and frightening sound. “I didn’t even know one of their names, and the other I’ve been less than kind to for years.” She turned, pulling one of her legs onto the bed, and a tearing noise resulted as the cloth sheet caught in the joint of her knee armor. She looked at it dully for a moment and then grabbed at it with both hands, standing up and pulling the sheets from the bed, heaving them across the room toward the privy, where they came to rest in a tumble. “I didn’t even know the name of that warrior, or ranger, or whoever it was, who died at the hands of an assassin, right out in that hallway! And it was my fault!”

Her words came out as a shout, and she lanced out with a foot, kicking her bed, which buckled under the force of her attack. The mattress flew into the wall and he heard shards of wood from the frame hit the stone. The door behind him opened and the guards rushed in, weapons drawn. “It’s all right,” he said them.

He turned back to Vara, who was attacking the headboard with her fists, punching holes in the wood with each strike, over and over until it snapped in half. She threw both pieces across the room, where one of them splintered and the other broke a bookshelf, sending a shower of books to the floor. “Leave us,” he told the guards.

He could read the eyes of the guards, both humans, both skeptical, but they closed the door and he could hear their voices in the hall along with the officers of Sanctuary who had been awakened by the din.

Vara slid to her knees, her breathing heavy, face racked with emotion, but still she retained her composure, and he watched her. He knelt at her side and without conscious thought his arms slipped around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about…everything. I’m here if you need me.” He reached around and touched her face, his skin against her cheek and felt wetness there. He leaned in and kissed her, felt the pressure of her lips against his, felt her return it for a moment, and then he saw her eyes open and she pulled from his grasp, standing up and walking toward the window.

“I’m sorry,” she said, leaning on the sill, refusing to look at him. “I can’t. Not right now. Please…leave. We can talk about this afterward. I just…I’m sorry.” She turned and he caught a glimpse of the anguish behind her eyes. “I’m truly sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he whispered, climbing to his feet. “It can wait. If there’s anything I can do—”

“There isn’t. Please. I just need to be alone.”

He nodded and left, shutting the door behind him. He passed Curatio, Terian, Longwell and Vaste in the hall, ignored their questioning looks and said, “She’s fine. Just…going through all the turmoil you’d expect her to be going through.”

He shut the door to his quarters and leaned against the wall. I hope I didn’t make it worse. I hope she…at least asks for help soon. I… He clutched at his hands, entwining them to keep from shaking. I need her. I don’t know when that happened, but I do. He returned to the window and looked to his left, but hers was shut, and the quiet was overwhelming, as if everything that had been making noise just a few minutes earlier had died. He lay down upon the bed, certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but only a few minutes later, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 47

Cyrus’s sleep was restless and dream-filled. Shadowy figures with glowing red eyes harangued him, demanding the answers to question after question. When he finally awoke, he considered it something of a blessing that he had been able to sleep at all given how troubled his mind had been.

The journey to the portal to the Realm of Death took all day to reach. It involved a long hike overland out of Sanctuary’s gates. While Cyrus and many of the others rode horses, there were not nearly enough for the entire army, as there had been when last he had been there. They reached the edge of the Bay of Lost Souls at sundown, where a group of wizards led by Nyad had been hard at work conjuring boats out of the sand.

By the time they reached the edge of the sea, the army was tired, and they built fires and supped on stew that Larana fixed out of stores she had brought on a wagon train. They bedded down by the water, and Cyrus fell asleep listening to the roar of the bay after a short meeting with the Council to discuss strategy.

The dawn broke over the eastern horizon and lit up the water with a thousand sparkles of light. The conjured ships were ready to carry them across the choppy seas, and after a breakfast of cold beef and hard bread they set out. The skies were blue, but the rocking of the boat made Cyrus feel ill, and he was thankful when the Island of Mortus appeared.

After they landed and offloaded their personnel (the horses and wagons had been returned to Sanctuary by the least experienced wizard and a handful of helpers), Cyrus found himself staring into the portal. It was like any of the countless others he had seen but for one critical difference: whereas the ones in Reikonos had a center that was empty save for when someone teleported into it, this one crackled with dark energy, a blackness that seemed to suck all the light toward it. He shuddered and remembered that the portal to the Realm of Darkness carried a similar, ominous feel.

The army assembled in marching order behind him as Cyrus stared into the darkness. Will this work? Will we accomplish anything here or just kill another god’s army and take his pointless treasures? His eyes found Vara, still distracted, staring into the distance, beyond the horizon and the sea. Will she ever have room for happiness in her heart again? Or will it remain as black and gloomy as…His eyes flitted back to the portal and watched as it leached the light from the air around it.

“General,” came Thad’s quiet baritone. He turned to see the warrior in red, who tossed him a quick salute. “Your army stands ready.”

Cyrus looked over the host gathered before him, filling the island to the edge of the sea in a formation best suited to squeezing through the portal a rank at a time. He raised his voice, ready to give the last commands before they moved forward. “The last time we were here, there was no battle to be had on the other side of this.” He pointed to the portal. “We marched to Eusian Tower in order to find and defeat Mortus’s minions. I’m told that today, things will be different, that we’ll be opposed from the moment we enter Death’s Realm. And that’s fine.

“The last time I was here,” he said, his words cold but clear, as though remembering an unpleasant memory, “it was for the purpose of depriving the God of Death of his treasures, to raise our fortunes by lowering his. Hardly a noble purpose. Today we come for a different reason. Two of our own have been marked for death by Mortus, and countless others stand at risk of a curse he has placed on them.” Cyrus kept his words vague, trying to keep the secret of the elves. “We come here today not to enrich ourselves, though surely that will happen as we storm Mortus’s Realm. We come here to try and find a way to protect those whom we hold dear, to save others who have been marked without knowledge, without reason—without sin.”

He squeezed his fist tighter in his gauntlet. “There is no more noble goal than fighting for others. Remember that, as the servants of Mortus come at you. Their visages are horrifying, their strength is great, their numbers are countless, but we are not here for ourselves. You do not wield sword, or cast spell, or sling arrows for yourself alone. We fight for others, for life, for our comrades. Remember that, when things grow grim. Remember that, when you become weary. No god can make you stand in a place of harm if you choose not to; but the bonds of fellowship have kept many a fighter from running when his heart was filled with fear.

“For the last months, our comrades have been under attack from the servants of Mortus. Wounded. Chased.” He hesitated, overcome by memory and emotion. “Some have even died. All in his name. We can’t strike at a god, but today we can make the servants of Mortus feel fear. Feel death. We fight for others. And we won’t be afraid.”

He drew his sword, raised it above his head, and howled a cry of battle. It was answered by thousands of voices, and weapons were upthrust with his. Cyrus turned, pointed to the portal, and charged through it, the feet of his army thundering behind him.

Chapter 48

When he appeared on the other side of the portal, the red sky drew his attention first, followed by the endless fields of faded grass that stretched off into the distance. The faint smell of decay was present under the scent of the earth wafting up from the fields. He could hear the wind rustling through the grass, watched it sway almost hypnotically, and felt the weight of his armor as the breeze slipped through all the nooks and crannies in the plate.

The first howl started like a gust of wind, but persisted even as the breeze died. It was loud, high-pitched, and followed by a rattling noise that sounded like teeth clacking together. A skeleton sprang from the grass, its bones held together by nothing more than magical power. A light was awake in its eyes, and it sprang for him, teeth wide and a rusted sword in its grasp.

The skeleton hacked at Cyrus, forcing him back more out of surprise than from the strength of its attack, which was formidable considering it had no musculature. Five more skeletons sprung out of the grass behind it, and another eight behind them, popping up in rows, an army springing from the ground. They clutched swords and maces, flails and hammers.

After dodging the first blow, Cyrus attacked, hacking the skeleton in half with a swipe that avoided the ribcage and severed the spinal column. He started to fend off the next attacker when he felt a shooting pain in his foot; looking down, he saw the skeleton he’d cut in half had used its upper body to crawl to his leg and ram a sword into the gap in his boot armor.

Cyrus swept his sword around, severing the head of the skeleton, and brought Praelior up to block the attack of the next three skeletons that fell upon him. More were rising in the distance and he heard the strains of combat beginning in earnest behind him as the Army of Sanctuary continued to flood into the the Realm.

Hobbling, Cyrus stepped forward, sword swinging, bones flying as he tried to make every attack count. He felt the bite and sting of a hundred swords, finding the gaps between the plate at his sides, poking holes in the chain mail. At some point maybe I should get something like what Orion used to wear, he thought as another prodded into his flesh above his left hip. On second thought, I don’t recall it doing him all that much good last time we met.

There was a roar behind him and Fortin broke forward, wading into the bony defenders of Death’s Realm. His arms flew one after another and a rain of bones filled the air. Arrows whizzed by Cyrus’s ears, knocking skulls from necks, driving the light out of the eyes of the undead. A healing wind ran over him, chasing away the thousand stings and leaving only mild pangs in their place as he bolted ahead. Fortin had a half-dozen skeletons hanging from him as he turned, and a hand came around, swatting at them like so many flies, breaking them to pieces.

A shriek in the distance caught Cyrus’s attention, and he smashed two more skeletons as he saw the next threat; wendigos, their gray flesh visible through the army of bone. He could smell them approaching, the same stink of rotting flesh that he’d caught from Hrent in the bar, and he remembered the teeth that could rip out a throat with little effort.

They hit his vanguard with a fury, pushing the Sanctuary force back into their fellows still coming out of the portal. Wendigos leapt into their midst and screams filled the air, from friend or foe he could not tell. Three skeletons and two wendigos made their attack on him. He hit two of the skeletons so hard that their bones were smashed to powder and the wendigo that caught the sword blade was hacked almost in half. It staggered and made to attack him again, but fell, bloodless, to the ground, where it struggled to return to its feet.

The fiends fought with more strength than their small bodies showed. Cyrus spun out of the way of a wendigo’s claws and struck two skeletons, knocking the head off one with a solid punch and caving in the skull of the other with the pommel of his sword. He saw another wendigo driving an unnamed warrior to the ground, teeth sunk into the man’s neck, blood squirting as the undead creature pressed his attack with feral savagery. A lance speared through the middle of the beast, allowing the Sanctuary warrior to drop to the ground, clutching his neck. Longwell appeared wielding the weapon and threw the wendigo through the air to the far side of the battle as though he were tossing a piece of fruit from his blade.

A fire sprung up before him, washing in a wave over the undead; large enough to surprise him, but not nearly as big as the inferno Chirenya had summoned in Termina. It rolled forward, pushing a ten-foot gap in the middle of the battle, giving Cyrus room to maneuver forward and allowing the other Sanctuary fighters space to wield their weapons. Cyrus pressed ahead, following the flames until they dissipated a few hundred feet away. He struck at the wendigos that flooded from behind it when it vanished, bringing Praelior to bear as quickly as he could wield it, cutting and ripping through his foes.

He felt Terian bump into him a few times and even looked back once, exchanging a nod and a smile with the dark knight in the heat of the battle. Longwell was nearby, the area around him cleared by his massive lance, and Vara carved a path of her own, along with Alaric, whose magical blasts sounded occasionally and were followed by a rain of bones as the force of his spell punched through the skeleton army, destroying all in its path.

He caught sight of a few others as the chaos prevailed; Scuddar In’shara of the desert, his blade sweeping wendigos before him like a reaper cutting through stalks of grain; Menlos Irontooth the northman felling skeletons by the dozen as his wolves swept through their ranks, depriving them of legs and arms and spines, crushing them in their jaws and howling as they brought them down. Odellan attacked with particular fury, battering skeletons to pieces with sword and shield, alternating between slashing with his blade and bashing with a large shield that bore the heraldry of the Termina Guard.

When Cyrus had thought the battle nearly over, a horn sounded at the far edge of the fight and he remembered the last of Death’s defenders. The demon knights stood nine feet tall, with muscles bulging in grotesque ways. Cyrus had never seen anything akin to them, even in the Society of Arms, where warriors turned pride in their muscles into a fierce competition. Their skin was tinged red, stretched over faces that were more teeth than anything, and their ears stood straight up, pointed in the air. Each of them carried a weapon of their own and rather than the rusty blades and cudgels of the skeletons, they were steel or better, shined to rival Vara’s armor, wielded by an enemy who was familiar with them.

The howls of the demon knights broke over Cyrus and his front rank as they faced the last wave of skeletons. Others had broken through their line into the Sanctuary army and a melee was being fought as the last of the bony undead were falling upon them. Wendigos were still in ample supply, leaping back and forth from target to target, striking with quickness and disappearing to find their next victim.

Cyrus was bleeding from a dozen wounds, and a wedge of skeletons had cropped up between their lines. No healer was near him, as no spells were forthcoming. He fought off the next attack by a slew of skeletons, hacked the head off three wendigos, and then the demon knights were upon him. As they strode into the fray, they swept aside their allies that got in the way; Cyrus watched one swing a sword to clear its path, cleaving a wendigo in half and sending it through the air.

He dodged the first strike of the demon knight and brought Praelior down upon its leg, hacking into the muscle and bouncing off the bone. He spun and withdrew his weapon, watching as the demon knight fell to a knee, where it was impaled through the face by Longwell. I hate to assume this is going to be easy, he thought, allowing himself a smile, but—

The blow from the next demon knight was not telegraphed, and he didn’t see it as he spun to face the creature, but somehow when he had completed his turn, there it was upon him, too close, and the cudgel landed under his side. His armor slammed into his ribs and he felt bones break along his flank as his side seemed to catch fire. The demon knight followed up as Cyrus dropped to a knee, causing the warrior to catch a punch that broke his nose and clouded his vision.

He saw the creature reach back and swing the cudgel again. It hit him flush on the chest and the agony in his side spread, becoming a screaming pain in his sternum. It took all that was in him not to fall to the ground; instead he remained on one knee with his sword in hand.

Another punch found him, sending his helm spiraling away, and Cyrus saw a flash as the red sky turned bloody, a crimson he had seen times beyond number on the battlefield. The stalks of wheat swayed above him and the demon knight filled his vision. There were other faces, too, demonic visages, not like the skeletons he had faced before, but distorted—shades of living bodies, mouths wide and features misshapen, screaming in torment. He could hear them, their cries of agony, and they were everywhere; laying on the ground, suspended in the air, the shouting, screaming creatures of damnation.

The sky snapped into focus and the red faded, along with the shades, and it took a moment for him to realize he had been healed. He rolled, avoiding the cudgel that was coming down at him, and it struck a glancing blow on his shoulder that made it go numb to the elbow. He pulled up, sword in hand, and surged to his feet as the cudgel came down for another stroke. He fended it off by striking it at an angle with Praelior, causing the demon knight to smash a cluster of skeletons.

The demon knights were among them now; most were fighting off two or three Sanctuary combatants. Lucky me. I get you all to myself, he thought as he watched Menlos and Scuddar taking turns distracting and then attacking theirs. Vara and Alaric outmatched another, driving it to its knees and pounding it with successive spells that battered it from two directions. Longwell had speared one with his lance and was spinning it in circles while Aisling attacked it from behind. She would sting it, burying her daggers and then darting away while Longwell pushed his lance into the wound and withdrew it, causing a spatter of blood.

Team tactics. Glad I taught them not to fight fair. But I got left without a partner. He gripped Praelior and glared at the cudgel-wielding demon knight. “You snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking.” The beast swung the cudgel overhand and Cyrus dodged, avoiding the blow. The cudgel hit the ground with a teeth-rattling impact, and Cyrus swung his sword at the beast’s arm as the knight began to retract its weapon for another attack. Cy misjudged his aim and only grazed the forearm of the knight, opening a gash a few inches deep. Black blood pooled in the wound and began to drip onto the ground.

“Bet that hurt,” Cyrus taunted as the cudgel came at him again and he whirled out of the way, this time striking at the fingers of the demon knight when its arm was fully extended. Cyrus felt the blade hit and watched three of the demon knights digit’s spin off to the ground. The next swing of the cudgel was wild to one side and Cyrus managed an attack that severed the demon knight’s unwounded appendage, sending it spinning to the ground as the creature let out a howl and began to attack with his stump, battering Cyrus to the side.

Didn’t see that coming, Cyrus thought, shaking off the motes of light from the hit. The demon knight’s forearm had whacked him across the skull, and without his helm, he felt it. The demon stormed up to him and raised a fist with two fingers, bringing it down with alarming speed. Cyrus held up his sword and heard the impact as well as felt it. The screech of pain from the demon knight was near-unbearable, and the black blood splattered all over his armor, covering his face.

The demon knight struggled, clutching at its stumps. While it was distracted, Cyrus darted in, blade flashing, and struck it in the gut, dragging the weapon across. A spurt of blood and the beast fell to its knees, gurgling. The wicked teeth were still visible, frightening and a threat when Cyrus stepped in behind the creature. “I guess you weren’t here last time I visited. I cut off the head of one of your brethren, stabbed another through the heart and rolled a dragon skeleton downhill into a whole passel of your kind.”

He raised Praelior and brought it down, severing the head of the demon knight before it could utter a response. “I find the old ways are best, wouldn’t you agree?” He spat, removing a thick coating of blood that filled his mouth. “Of course you would. You’re dead. The dead don’t argue.”

“Malpravus might disagree with you.” Vaste’s voice came from behind him, and Cyrus turned, having forgotten the battle. A few skeletons still moved on the ground and one demon knight was being toyed with by Fortin, but otherwise the fight was over. Members of the Sanctuary army loitered around the field, corpses of wendigos and demon knights scattered on the trampled ground along with an assortment of unattached bones.

“Thanks for the heal,” Cyrus said, surveying the scene before him. “Looks like we won.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” The troll’s smile carried a hint of mischief. “Still, I won’t be comfortable until we’ve left this forsaken place behind, hopefully with a cure in hand. Or something that can lead to a cure. Or possibly just some pie.”

Fortin picked up the last demon knight and brought him down over his knee, filling the air with a cracking noise. The rock giant roared and pulled the head from the creature’s body, holding it aloft amidst ragged cheers from some of the Sanctuary combatants. “I suppose that’s a sign that the battle is over,” Cyrus said.

“And a sign that the party has begun,” Vaste said.

“We can move when you’re ready.” Curatio wandered up to them, making his way over the debris that littered the battlefield. “Few deaths, few injuries, and a large and motivated army make for an easy conquest of this realm.”

“The God of Death should put more effort into his personal guard.” Cyrus shook his head. “We’ll head for the Eusian Tower in five.”

They assembled in formation, with the weakest and those newly resurrected pushed to the back of the army. In the far distance stood the Eusian tower, a structure larger than any Cyrus had seen, a staggering black spike that stretched into the sky. “I’ve only been in the first level,” he said, staring up at the heights. “What do you suppose is at the top?”

“Damned, more damned, and still more damned,” Vaste replied. “It’s their stock-in-trade here in the Realm of Death. Remember the boiling oil? Remember the cavern of ice?”

Cyrus shuddered. “Couldn’t forget those. Glad we don’t have to jump through those hoops this time.”

“Yes, hopefully someone’s left the master’s chambers open for us to plunder.”

They trudged on and every once in a while Cyrus would step to the side of the column, looking for the back of his army as it snaked off into the distance. The Eusian tower grew closer and closer, stretching beyond where the clouds would have been—if the Realm of Death had any.

“The Fields of Paxis go on forever,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“Not forever,” Curatio said, “but near enough that you can see forever from them.”

Cyrus smiled. “I suppose the few more minutes it will take us to get there must seem like such small and inconsequential things to someone who’s lived as long as you.”

Curatio waited before answering, seeming to take in the red skies and peaceful grasses that blew around them. “Aye, small things perhaps, but the stuff life is made of. If you seek to have the minutes pass faster, then what you seek is death, unintending as you may be. Minutes are all we have.”

They were at the tower moments later, climbing the great steps to file through the enormous doors. They crossed a bridge onto the grand, circular platform at the heart of the tower that branched off in four directions. On the wall opposite where they entered, two gargantuan doors stood open, large enough for five dragons to climb on each others’ shoulders and enter.

“Based on the scale of the chambers of the gods I’ve seen,” Vaste said, “I can’t imagine fighting something of the size they must be.”

“I’ve always told you size matters,” Erith said from behind, drawing a dirty look from the troll.

Cyrus looked back; his army stretched across the bridge and out the doors. “There’s no way a wizard will be able to cast an area teleport with us strung out like this.”

“Kinda reminds me of Enterra,” Erith muttered.

“That’s the problem with having an army so large, it’s like a snake, how it stretches,” Terian said, looking up into the darkness above them. “Where are we going?”

“This way.” Cyrus led them through the doors. The tower was silent save for the noises of the Sanctuary force marching through. The smells of cold air and hot oil had mixed to form something unsavory that settled in Cyrus’s nostrils when he was on the platform and failed to leave as he entered Mortus’s chambers.

The doors gave way to a balcony that overlooked a treasure room. Staircases curved down either side and there were pedestals lining the walls as well as shelves crammed with items that stretched to the far end of the room. Underneath a banner that held a picture of a hand reaching down to pluck a human being was a portal that crackled with light energy, as though it were the opposite of the one that had brought them into the Realm.

“Where d’you reckon that goes?” Erith asked the question Cyrus had already been wondering.

“Nowhere we’ll be exploring today,” Alaric said, surprising Cyrus by appearing at the front of the army. He hadn’t seen the Ghost since the column had begun its march. “Shall we officers begin our exploration?”

“Company halt,” Cyrus called out. “Officers, let’s take a look around. Everyone else, hold position here.”

Cyrus descended to the floor, Alaric, Curatio and Vara immediately behind him with the other officers trailing.

“What went there?” Longwell pointed, indicating a large pedestal in the middle of the room, empty of whatever it once held.

“I’m going to guess Letum, the Staff of Death,” Cyrus said, moving past it without looking back.

“You sure?” Longwell peered at the empty space.

“Pretty sure.”

Cyrus passed minerals, vases and other assorted treasures, pointing them out. Vaste followed behind, scooping up the less fragile items and stowing them in a burlap sack. When the troll picked up a glowing orb, he squinted at it. “Is this…?”

Alaric gazed at it. “It keeps anyone from teleporting out of the realm while Mortus is not here—preventing anyone from leaving save through one of the portals.”

“Let’s smash it,” Terian said. “I don’t like feeling trapped.”

“Here,” Curatio held his hand out, and Vaste gave it to him. Without words, Curatio cast a spell and the light left the orb. “Now it’s intact, and we can sell or keep it as we choose.”

“Breaking it would be more fun,” the dark knight said.

The treasures were minor in many cases; most not worth taking, pieces of old weapons or other junk. They passed several bookshelves filled with old volumes. “You think a cure is in here?” Cyrus pulled one of the tomes, its pages cracked with age and wear, the writing all in runes that although familiar were unreadable to him. “I don’t even know what this says.”

“It’s called literacy,” Erith said with a snicker. “It involves reading books, not eating them.”

“Fine.” He walked over to her and held the page in front of her face. “Use your amazing gift of literacy and read this to me.”

She squinted at the page. “It says…uh…um…” She looked at him and blinked. “It says you’re stupid.”

“Really? I thought it said you’re incredibly mature. By which I mean old.”

“It’s written in the language of the ancients,” Curatio said, looking over Cyrus’s shoulder. “There are few who can read it.”

“Can you?” Cyrus looked back at Curatio, questioning.

The elf smiled. “Of course. I am rather ancient, after all.”

“Why haven’t I ever heard of these ancients?” Erith pulled a book off the shelf then discarded it after one look.

“Because you’re uneducated,” Cyrus replied. “Listen to lessons, don’t run your mouth through them.”

“You’re about to learn a lesson—”

“The ancients were wiped out during the War of the Gods,” Curatio said, taking the book from Cyrus. “They left behind quite a few remnants of their civilization—for those who bother to look.”

“The portals,” Cyrus said with a sudden realization.

“Very good.” Curatio’s finger ran up and down the page of the book and he smiled. “And the Citadel and Colosseum in Reikonos. Some other scattered artifacts, great and small, exist.”

“How were they wiped out?” Vaste asked the question, the troll standing at a distance, leaning against a shelf.

“It all comes back to the War of the Gods,” Curatio said, still splitting his attention between the book and the words he spoke. “When the gods were challenged over meddling in mortal affairs, they lashed out, striking down those who offended them greatest. After the upheaval in the pantheon that came from some of their own—Bellarum, in particular—instigating attacks against them, they needed an example of what happens when you challenge their might.

“So, they chose the largest, most prominent civilization, the greatest threat to their power, and destroyed them.” He turned a page. “Very little was left standing when they were done.”

“That’s not how I’ve heard the story told,” Nyad sniffed. “I always heard Bellarum, the God of War, in his wickedness, showed mortals how to breach the realms of the gods. He sent his armies to wreak havoc with them and when Eruditia, Goddess of Knowledge, was slain with Bellarum’s Warblade, the other gods and goddesses banded together in outrage over the atrocity and destroyed his army, punishing him for a hundred years before allowing him to return to the Pantheon.”

“Yes, well, I would certainly trust the word of your nannies over the testimony of someone who was actually present at the time,” Vara said, voice laden with sarcasm.

“As always, there was more to the story than is widely known,” Alaric spoke up. “History records considerable fighting on Arkaria at the time, between an alliance of dwarves, elves and gnomes standing against the titans, the trolls and goblins on the other side. The dragons had risen up from their isolation. The gods were picking sides and at the heart of it all was the ancients.”

“Also,” Curatio said, looking up from his book, “a guild called Requiem, composed of some of the first humans to arrive on these shores from across the Sea of Carmas, was in the middle of the fight.”

Cyrus looked around, and his eyes rested on Longwell, who blushed. “That’s the land I’m from, yeah.”

“Oh?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow at the dragoon. “I…actually didn’t look at you on purpose, but…interesting.”

“So how did it all happen?” Erith looked at Curatio. “I mean, I’d always heard Nyad’s version, more or less, and about the alliances fighting each other.”

“A story for another time,” Alaric interrupted, drawing an acidic look from Curatio as he closed the book the elf was holding. “We are in the Realm of Death, after all, and our armies are waiting for us.”

Cyrus had stopped at a pedestal that held a single piece of parchment, covered in runes. “What about this?”

“Because the perfect place to display the curse you’re using to kill off an enemy race is in plain sight,” Vaste said, deadpan.

“It is when there’s a barrier put around it by the God of Death himself,” Alaric said.

“So it’s unbreachable?” J’anda walked to the edge of the pedestal. “Because you’d need one of the godly weapons to break down a barrier put in place by the gods, correct? Or be a god yourself, I suppose…” His fingers hovered over the outer edge of the barrier, a faint glow obvious only by close examination.

“Which means it’s…out of reach,” Cyrus said, numb, staring at the parchment.

“Not exactly,” Alaric said, voice taut. “If you would all stand back?” Exchanging a curious look with J’anda, Cyrus moved away from the scroll, followed by the other officers. Alaric looked at the pedestal then drew his sword, Aterum, and a blast of force shot from the tip with a power greater than his usual spells.

The energy hit the barrier and coruscated, crackling against it, filling the air with blinding flashes as the barrier dissolved under the force of the Ghost’s spell. The energy faded, leaving the piece of parchment in the center of the pedestal. Shocked silence prevailed among the Sanctuary officers as Alaric returned his sword to its sheath with precision.

“Wow,” came Vaste’s voice, laced with irony. “It would appear someone’s got a godly weapon and didn’t bother to tell the rest of us. I’m sure this will be a hotly debated topic in the lounge tonight, but probably not in the Council Chambers, at least not now. Maybe in—”

“—the fullness of time,” Cyrus chorused along with a few of the other officers. If Alaric was amused, he gave no sign. Curatio appeared to be suppressing a chuckle.

“No, we can discuss it when we return to Sanctuary, if you wish,” Alaric said, somewhat prim. “But I cannot guarantee I will answer all your questions.”

Vaste shrugged. “Well, it’s progress.”

Curatio approached the pedestal and picked up the parchment, holding it in front of his eyes, reading it. He murmured under his breath in intense concentration.

“So?” Erith looked at him. “Is it…?” Her voice trailed off.

Curatio did not answer at first, still staring at the page. “It is,” he said. “The curse comes from a branch of dark magic long forgotten.”

“What kind of spell caster would have used it?” Erith said with mild curiosity.

Curatio looked to Alaric, then back to Erith. “I…I’m not sure. It…it needs more study.”

“Anything else worth taking as long as we’re here?” Vaste pointed to the bag he carried. “I have room for more plunder.”

They scoured the room, taking a few more choice objects before returning to the staircase and the guild members waiting. Cyrus looked over the heads of his army and saw that the formation stretched beyond the bridge and platform and out of the tower. “As spread out as we are, a wizard spell will not get all of us home in one casting,” he said to the officers waiting. “We need to evacuate in phases.”

“At least we did away with the barrier to teleportation,” Terian said. “Otherwise we’d be heading back to the portal we came in by, right?”

“We didn’t clear the dungeons underneath us,” Cyrus said. “There could be enemies waiting in ambush.”

“Still thinking of Termina?” Longwell’s voice was quiet, so low that Cyrus knew it was meant for his ears only. Still, Vara turned her head and caught his eye before flicking her gaze away.

“I need the strongest fighters to stay until everyone else is out,” Cyrus announced. “If you came with us to the Hand of Fear raid, I want you to remain behind until I give you the order to accept teleport. We’ll start here and begin walking our way up the line, teleporting out as much of the army per time as we can.” He looked to Nyad. “Care to begin?”

The elf nodded, and her hands lit up with spell energy. A blue orb appeared in front of Cyrus, the surface flaring with the magics contained within. Flashes lit the walls around him as he watched about three hundred people disappear into the teleportation spell, leaving behind forty or so.

“Move up,” he ordered, striding back across the bridge, where the platform was filled. Fortin rose above the rest, and when Cyrus saw the rock giant, he called out to him. “We’re doing an area teleportation spell to send the army back to Sanctuary, Fortin. I need you to stay behind and help cover the retreat in case any of Mortus’s creations are lurking.”

“Sounds like good clean fun,” the rock giant replied. “Unless of course they are lurking, in which case it’ll be good messy fun.” Fortin laughed, a deep rumbling sound that reminded Cyrus of the noise he heard while visiting a quarry. The rock giant stopped and peered at Cyrus. “Messy…because of the blood of our enemies covering our hands, you know?”

“I caught that, yes.”

The next teleportation spell cleared the platform and bridges of the Eusian tower, sending another five hundred or so members of the Sanctuary army back home. Cyrus followed the bridge to the exit, stepping out under the red sky to see the remainder of his force crowding the stairs. Another few hundred more were sent on, followed by another wave as the path widened into the Fields of Paxis. Less than three hundred remained, Cyrus estimated as the wind rushed past, stirring the tall grass.

“This is it,” Cyrus said. “Veterans, hold off until the last of our people are away.” A teleportation orb from the last spell cast still lingered in front of him, hovering like a glass ball filled with light, waiting for him to seize it. “I don’t think there’s anything that’s going to try and attack us now, but there’s no use tempting fate.”

Nyad raised her hands to cast the final teleport spell, and Cyrus looked away. The winds were stirring the grass again and he remembered the horrific things he had seen when the demon knight nearly killed him. What the hell were those? he wondered. A murmur ran through the army behind him and he snapped to attention as the lights of the teleportation orbs guttered out, like a fire being snuffed.

He turned to Nyad, his heart racing. She stood before him, a perplexed look on her face. “Let me try again,” she said. Her hands moved, the light filled them and she released it, but no orbs appeared. “I…don’t know what’s happening! I can’t seem to summon—”

“I know what this is,” Alaric said, voice filled with menace.

An icy hand grabbed Cyrus by the heart. “No. You don’t mean…”

The breeze turned into a howling wind and the air crackled with power. Red forks of lightning sprang from the space behind them on the tower steps, lancing out, a maelstrom of pure magical fury splitting open the sky. From it emerged a behemoth; a creature with four legs anchored on a rounded pelvis, a thorax that sprouted eight arms, each twitching. The head appeared from the rift last of all, and it bore the beak of a bird, but was open so that jagged teeth were visible even in the flickering light cast by the portal it had opened.

It descended as though it were being lowered on a wire, gently, from the rift, which began to seal shut behind it. Within seconds, the tongues of red lightning had receded, revealing the sky above, now an even darker maroon than before. The maelstrom had been replaced by an eerie, still calm that settled over the entirety of the Realm, and a silence hung heavy over the last remnants of the Sanctuary army, punctuated by the realization that their escape, which seemed inevitable only a moment before, was now impossible.

Mortus—the God of Death—had returned home.

Chapter 49

“If Bellarum thinks he can talk to me that way he is mistaken, I am the God of Death…” Mortus spoke, a loud, grinding sound that sent waves of horror through Cyrus. The God of Death’s face was angled away and he seemed not to have noticed the Sanctuary army at his back. If he just goes back into his tower, we can run for the portal…

A scream tore from the throat of one of the newer recruits and Mortus swung around to see them standing at his feet, an army of ants when compared to him. Cyrus knew that he barely reached halfway to the God of Death’s knee, so large was the deity. He’s going to kill us. He’ll splatter us all over his realm and there’s nothing I can do…

“Interlopers! Intruders!” Mortus shouted in a deafening cacophony. “To me, defenders of death! To your master!” Cyrus pushed his way forward, trying to interpose himself between the God of Death and the Sanctuary remnants. “My servants, I summon you! Heed my call and destroy these thieves, these—” Mortus looked left and right, as though waiting for something. “You…have killed my servants.” Need to attack him now, give the others time to flee…

“We have,” came a voice from Cyrus’s side. A hand came to rest on Cy’s gauntlet, already on the sword. “Strike at him and we all die,” the Ghost hissed. “Wait.” Alaric raised his voice and spoke to the God of Death in even tones. “But they are such a little thing for one so great as you to resurrect.”

“Alaric Garaunt…” The God of Death’s voice carried a rasp and rattle that shook the Fields of Paxis. “The Army of Sanctuary.”

“None other,” Alaric said with a short bow. “Plainly, you have caught us in the act of doing something we should not be doing. I call upon you, the mighty Master of the Hereafter, to forgive us, and realize that while you may allow us to walk away today, all of us will be subject to your domain—death—eventually.”

“Sanctuary…” Mortus rumbled once more, and the birdlike head looked over them, eyes searching. “The shelas’akur…” He fixated on Vara, then his head swiveled to Curatio. “And the last of the old ones. With the two of you in my realm, I hold the final demise of the Elvendom in my hands.”

“Yet you have already masterfully set the fall in motion,” Alaric said, soothing. “No one can undo what you have done. Why hasten a painful demise? You could show mercy, knowing that none will escape you in the end. Let us go. Show Arkaria and the other gods that you do not fear mortals. Allow us to leave your Realm in peace.”

A low, hacking laugh came from the God of Death. “As a god, what need have I to fear mortals?”

“You need not,” Alaric said. “Yet with our deaths you buy nothing you will not eventually have anyway. But with mercy, you might convince others of your righteousness.”

“My righteousness…” Mortus’s arms hovered around him as he peered down at Alaric. “You are still deft, Alaric Garaunt. You barter for the lives of your people with all your cunning.” He stared down at the Ghost. “Your bargain is accepted…if…”

Cyrus felt a scant thrill of hope. My gods, Alaric talked him out of it. He’s going to let us…

“…you leave behind either the old one or the young one.”

Alaric was still as statuary. “I take your meaning as…Vara or Curatio?”

“Call them what you will.” The beak clicked. “I will let the rest of your number leave if one of them remains as a sacrifice.”

Alaric did not move, did not speak, as though paralyzed. Cyrus had never seen the Ghost halted into inaction.

Curatio stepped forward, his head held high. “I have had a long and storied life. I will remain behind.”

“No!” Vara shoved Longwell aside, stepping to the front of the line. “You can give our people hope with what you know,” she whispered, at Curatio’s side. “You’re the only one who can read…it.” She looked up to Mortus, towering above. “I will remain with you, God of Death, as your sacrifice.”

Cyrus saw Curatio thrust the parchment into her hand as he pulled her close to him, but she refused it. “You are young, and have much to live for.”

She shoved him away roughly, sending the healer back a few steps. “I do not. I am weary of this life, of living in a world that would take everything from you a piece at a time, until you have naught left.” She looked back to Mortus. “If you would have me be your sacrifice, strike swift and true. End it—and be quick about it.”

“Done.” The ragged voice of the God of Death crackled over the assemblage and he raised a hand above his head. Cyrus could see it, aimed at Vara, far enough away from all the others that the blow would strike flush, and she would be ended. Her eyes were closed, her head was bowed. She was ready.

“NOOOO!” The voice was loud in his head, an agonized scream of such force that it even delayed the God of Death in his attack for a split second. Cyrus was already in motion by the time he realized that the voice was his, and Praelior was in his hand by instinct alone, raised above his head as he checked Vara with his elbow, sending her rolling away from where she had been standing. He held Praelior aloft as though it were a shield that could protect him from harm; the foolishness of the gesture dawned on him only at the last.

The fist of Mortus descended upon Cyrus, slow, as if he were moving in half-time. A scream filled reached his ears and pain wrenched through him. He felt himself come apart, and he knew it was done.

Chapter 50

The screaming reached Cyrus’s ears first, followed by the realization that he was not dead. He blinked, his head heavy, his vision blurred. Without knowing, he pushed himself to his feet, felt the balance catch him enough to stand, and he looked down. His armor was covered in blood; his own. His nose was dripping, and the seams of his armor dribbled crimson onto the sands and grass that surrounded him.

“You’re healed,” came a voice from behind him. He whirled to see Curatio. “I healed you before his attack took you apart. Now go!”

Cyrus turned back, the scene returning to clarity in front of him. Mortus was screaming in agony. The hand he had attacked Cyrus with was gushing ichor, black fluid that sprayed from the stump as the God of Death swayed from side to side. “Interlopers! Thieves! Oathbreakers!”

Cyrus felt his head clear and thought suddenly that Mortus was…smaller, somehow…than he had been when he’d first appeared. “I made him bleed,” he said in shock. The God of Death’s head swiveled and focused on him, and three more arms rose to an apogy, ready to strike him down. “I made you bleed!” he called out to the face.

“Let us continue that trend,” Alaric said, “lest we die.” The Ghost leapt through the air, his sword drawn and raised above his head. The jump carried him high and he swung the sword as he began his descent. Alaric’s aim was perfect—the blade cut through two of the raised arms of Mortus and sent them flopping to the ground as the God of Death screamed and raised his head into the air in agony.

He can be hurt. He’s not invincible. Cyrus heard the words in his mind. The God of Death is not invincible. Does that mean…? He rushed to the front right leg of Mortus and brought his sword around. Another scream tore from the deity’s mouth, and Cy retracted his blade to find a gash several inches deep in the calf. He pulled back and sliced again, opening the wound further, causing Mortus to stagger.

“Bring him down!” Terian’s voice washed over Cyrus, and he saw the dark knight attacking the opposite front leg, his sword a frenzy of attacks, none of which seemed to be having near the effect of Cyrus’s. Praelior struck again, carving deeper, to the bone, and causing the God of Death to stumble and fall to a knee.

Longwell jabbed his lance, burying it a couple of inches into the god’s pelvis and wrenching another agonized cry from the beak. Vara was present in the fray, along with the others; Odellan hacked at the god’s foot until Fortin pushed him out of the way and sunk his hands into the gash, ripping it wider. Alaric soared through the air in another jump and Cyrus watched two more arms flop to the ground.

Fire crackled and bolts of lightning hit Mortus, drawing more screams from him as Cyrus pressed the assault. Two arms were still flailing along with one stump, and the deity was trying to force himself back to his feet, but the Sanctuary force was swarming, striking, like ants attempting to devour wounded prey. Cyrus climbed to the last arm moving on the deity’s left side and struck it, taking three hard attacks to hack it from the body.

The last arm swiped at Cyrus, forcing him to jump out of the way, and he swung, grazing it. A squeal came from Mortus, and Cyrus ran his blade along the abdomen as he dodged across and cut into the last arm, which seemed to move more like a tentacle with a hand at the end than a human appendage. It flopped to the ground and Cyrus turned, burying his blade in the God of Death’s chest, wrenching another cry.

This time, there was no doubt; Mortus shrank before Cyrus’s eyes. He’s getting smaller as the battle goes on, Cyrus thought, plunging the blade through the deity’s chest again and again. The beak swung down to bite him and he ran his sword across the side of the God of Death’s face, drawing a shriek. The deity’s whole body bucked and threw Cyrus off. He fell ten feet and landed on his back, looking up into the face of Larana, who was whispering under her breath, before he rolled back to his feet, sword in hand, ready to strike again.

Mortus was smaller yet, now just twice the size of Cyrus. His legs had collapsed under the attacks of the Sanctuary army, and his head was drooping. “I…am…the God of…DEATH!” An explosion of magical force sent all the combatants that had been crawling over him flying, and Cyrus skidded back a few feet on one knee, sword in hand. I’ll finish him, Cyrus thought, dragging himself to his feet, intent on nothing else.

Without his arms, Mortus’s upper body was oddly cylindrical, oozing ichor from the wounds he’d sustained. Three of his legs were removed, and the last was kicking, trying to right himself. His head and neck sagged under the weight of keeping his body upright without arms to balance, and every movement threatened to put him sideways on the ground. He now stood no taller than a man. His attempts at movement reminded Cyrus of an insect, plucked of all its legs, as the God of Death struggled toward the stairs, retreating from the Sanctuary forces.

A lone figure stepped in front of him, cutting off his escape. “I tried to get you to see reason,” Alaric said. “I begged you not to doom us to this course of action. I gave you every opportunity to escape with your pride intact, with the illusion of infallibility that you and yours have worked so hard to create.”

“You can leave,” Mortus wheezed. “You can leave without sacrifice!” His leg thrust out, trying to gain traction on the steps and pull him past Alaric. “Let me be!”

“The God of Death is not forgiving,” Alaric said. “Did you think I forgot?”

“Please…Alaric! Please!” Mortus halted in his attempts to escape, his beak flapping in desperation.

“I said the same to you not ten minutes ago. You were deaf to my request.”

The God of Death coughed, and black ichor spilled down his long torso. His voice changed, from desperation to something else, and a loud, sucking noise came when he spoke. “You…know…what this…means…”

The Ghost reached under his helm and grasped it with one hand, removing it in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the ground. He looked down at the broken Mortus, his eye coldly impassive as he raised his sword, Aterum, above his head, grasping it with both hands. “I do.” He brought the blade down in one swift motion, and the head of the deity rolled from the body, which toppled over.

A loud hissing filled the air, and Curatio cried out as if in pain. He clutched the parchment bearing the curse, the one they had liberated from Mortus’s chambers. Fire raced across it like a flame consuming a bit of chaff, and it disappeared from his hand with nothing but a wisp of smoke left behind to show it had ever been there.

A low, deep rumble filled the air, and the sky turned black. Red lightning flashed and ran down the sides of the Eusian tower. The smell of ozone descended as the air crackled and exploded around them. The figures he had seen before, the screeching phantoms with black eyes and mouths open in horror, were appearing in physical form, their lord and captor now dead. Their screeches resounded, horrifying, shrill, and they began to drift toward the Sanctuary raiders.

“NYAD!” Alaric’s call echoed over the booming of the thunder as the Eusian Tower released another wave of souls. “TELEPORT!”

Cyrus did not see the wizard work her magic, nor hear her in the fury of the storm as the winds whipped around him, but he saw the flashes of blue as people started to disappear. He watched Nyad go, then Curatio, and Ryin Ayend, Erith and Vaste, and countless others. Larana was silent, her orb in front of her, her eyes hollow and watching Cyrus when he saw J’anda reach out for her, grasping her in his arms and vanishing in the magic of teleport.

The tormented souls were swirling in a vortex above them now, the tempest of control broken loose with the master of the realm dead. They swept closer, and Cyrus exchanged a look with Longwell and Odellan, who remained, and Alaric, as the last few of the raiders disappeared, leaving the four of them alone with one other.

Vara was on her knees, her sword at her side, eyes dull. He cried out to her, but couldn’t hear the voice in his own head over the howling of the unnatural event taking place around them. She looked over her shoulder, meeting his gaze, and he felt a shudder through him.

She has no hope left.

The orb of teleportation glittered before her, waiting to be seized. She hung her head, a silent figure in the midst of the most destructive force Cyrus had ever seen. The tower was cracking; he could hear the structure buckling even over the wind, and it was a terrifying sound. The souls of Mortus’s damned were edging closer.

He ran forward, crossing the ground to her, watching the phantoms eddying across the ground like a stream unblocked, rushing toward her with soulless eyes, gaping mouths open and screaming. He hit his knees, wrapped his arms around her, gripped her close and reached out for the orb.

He watched Longwell, Odellan and Alaric seize their orbs, felt Vara fight back, trying to writhe out of his grasp as the magics consumed them, pulled them out of the Realm of Death, and carried them home.

Chapter 51

When the teleportation magic receded, Cyrus was left holding Vara in his arms. She was limp, motionless, but he felt her breath against his neck, and her hair was tangled across his face. He stood and lifted her to her feet. She did not fight him.

The foyer was loud with conversation; explanations flew from those who had remained for the battle with Mortus to those who had left. Exclamations, curses and disbelief all flowed freely in the hall. Cyrus walked Vara to the stairs, ignoring the inquiries that came his way, steering past Alaric, who stood stonefaced, watching everything that was transpiring, and past Longwell, who had sunk to the floor, shaking his head in disbelief.

He climbed the stairs and she leaned on him for every step. He opened the door to her quarters and helped her to the bed. He unstrapped her armor and set it to the side, and still she did not resist, did not fight back, did not say anything. As soon as her armor was off, she curled up on her bed, facing away from him. He started to leave, but she spoke.

“Will you…stay with me?”

He turned to find her looking at him, her eyes filled with fatigue and sadness, and something else, something undefined that recalled the day they first met. “Yes. I will.”

He sat in the chair by her bed until she slipped off to sleep; it wasn’t more than a few minutes and she was breathing softly, unconscious. He crept from the room, taking care when shutting the door and admonishing the guards who had taken up posts outside to not allow anyone to disturb her for any reason.

He went to the Council Chambers and found them already full, no conversation taking place within. It was a grim and quiet group of officers inside, and Alaric seemed to be the grimmest of all, staring down at the table, not acknowledging that anyone else was even present.

“So,” Terian broke the silence as Cyrus took his seat, “I’m just gonna say it. We killed a god.” He leaned back in his chair and frowned. “When you say it out loud, it sounds kind of bad.”

“We killed a god,” Vaste repeated. “Yeah, I think that’s bad.”

“We’re heretics for certain,” Ryin Ayend said.

“Doubtful.” Curatio held his hands cupped in front of his mouth. “No one gives a damn about the God of Death except some truly dark souls on the fringe of society. No one from the Leagues is going to care enough to declare us heretics; hell, most of them will congratulate us on a job well done.”

“Won’t…” Nyad twitched. “…won’t the other gods be upset with us? You know, for being mortals who killed a god?”

“That is what the legends say.” Erith cast an uneasy glance around the table.

“I’m starting to believe your legends after tonight,” Longwell spoke up. “But should it really be that easy to kill a god? I mean, I had some trouble piercing him, but it seemed like Cyrus and Alaric were cutting through him like he was a fresh softbread.”

“Yes,” J’anda said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, “if I didn’t know better, I would swear both of you were wielding godly weapons.”

Alaric looked up slowly. Then, without warning, his hand went to his hip and removed his belt, scabbard and all, and threw it on the table. “This is Aterum, the blade forged by Marei, the Goddess of Night, daughter of Yartraak, 10,000 years ago.”

Terian looked down the table at Cyrus, who shrugged. “Mine’s Praelior. Not sure what its story is.”

“Oh, but you do,” Alaric said, eyes filled with sudden intensity. “Praelior was assembled by you, it’s true, but the quest was given to you by the God of War himself.”

“I—” Cyrus started to protest, but stopped himself. “How did you know that?”

Alaric ignored his question. “Praelior was forged by Drettanden, the Demigod of Courage, who poured his very essence into the blade to give it the power it now holds. After his death, it was disassembled and scattered by the gods, so as not to be a threat to them in the future.”

Vaste let out a low whistle. “Should have hid it better.”

J’anda looked back at Alaric. “I have never heard of this Drettanden nor Marei.”

Alaric sighed. “That is because they are both dead. The legend, which isn’t widely circulated because of how weak it makes the gods look, holds that Drettanden was killed by the Guildmaster of Requiem—the same man that killed Eruditia with Ferocis—and beginning much of the destruction that took place during the War of the Gods. Marei was killed around the same time period, one of countless others.” He looked around the table. “Their names are buried in obscure tomes; gods and goddesses who died in that war and whose names lay forgotten in the dust of time.”

“Wait,” Nyad said, a confused look on her face. “Is that why we don’t know the names of the God of Good and God of Evil? Were they killed during the war as well?”

“Doubtful,” Curatio answered. “Alaric and I have done considerable research—some of which is aided by my memories, some of it hampered,” he said with a smile. “The good news is, I doubt we need to worry about any immediate reprisals from the gods. Mortals have killed gods before, and the division in the pantheon works to our advantage.”

“But what about the legend?” Nyad pressed. “If the gods didn’t unite in fury over Eruditia’s death, what was it?”

“There’s no evidence that they united against anyone but Bellarum.” Alaric stood and walked to the balcony window.

“In other words,” Terian said, “you don’t think we have anything to worry about. Other than the threat of the dark elves sending an army our way, someone else declaring war on us, or the gods themselves coming down and smiting our little haven off the face of Arkaria.”

A knock at the door sounded, startling them all. “I wonder which of those it is?” Vaste asked, sending a smile Terian’s way.

Thad peeked his head through the door. “Sir Longwell, you have a messenger—a man named Teodir—here to see you.”

Longwell blanched. “He’s one of my father’s men,” the dragoon said in surprise. “But he’d have to have traveled months to get here.”

Thad nodded. “He’s waiting for you in the foyer.”

Longwell looked to Alaric, the question in his eyes, but the Ghost did not turn from his place at the window, staring out across the plains. “We are adjourned,” he said. “We will assemble again tomorrow at some point.”

Cyrus waited as the others filed out. Curatio was the last, sending a final look at Alaric that was as mysterious as it was brief. When the door closed, he spoke. “How did you know that Bellarum guided me to my sword?”

“Not now,” came the knight’s quiet reply. His words came out even more weary than usual.

“But I—”

“I SAID NOT NOW!” Alaric’s fury blazed, and Cyrus flinched back from the heat in his words. He hesitated, unused to fleeing from anything, but took slow steps to the door and shut it behind him, placing it between them like a shield, to protect him from the anger of the man who was the closest thing he could remember to having a father.

Chapter 52

Vara stirred when he shut the door, even though he closed it as quietly as he could. Damned elven hearing. She rolled over to look at him, and he could see by her eyes that she had been crying again. In her sleep? She sat up, the fire in the hearth still crackling, spitting its warmth across the room. “Hello,” he said.

She nodded at him. “How fares the Council?”

“Awash, athwart and abuzz.”

She scrunched up her face, perplexed. “What?”

“Never mind. They’re confused. Alaric is as upset as I’ve ever seen him. He yelled at me when I asked him a question. I can’t recall him doing anything like that before.”

She pulled her knees close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “We did just kill a god. It’s a rather heady feeling.”

“Apparently I’m the only one excited about that,” Cyrus said. “I mean, if you can kill one—”

“Don’t. That road leads to madness; to a quest that has no good end and no real purpose.”

“I suppose not.” A moment passed, and he found the courage to speak the words on his mind. “In Death’s Realm, you were ready to—”

“I was.” She cut him off. “Perhaps I still am; I don’t know my own heart at the moment. Things seem very dark indeed, as though all my hopes were drained along with my spirit.”

“There’s always hope.”

She lowered her head. “No. There’s nothing left now. My people are doomed. My parents are dead.” Her hand reached up to her face, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. “My hope is gone.”

“I know it seems that way right now,” he said, a hand stroking her shoulder, feeling the cloth of her undershirt against his fingers, “but your life is long, and the black despair that covers you now will lift, given time and fortune. Trust me. I know.”

“You didn’t know your parents.” Her words came out free of accusation, but they stung all the same.

“True,” he recovered from the pain of her last statement. “But my wife left me, and I lost Narstron—”

“Let us not compare agonies. My last lover stabbed me through the back and then killed all my friends.”

“I am not minimizing your pain,” he said, trying to keep his voice soothing, “but you eventually recovered and continued living your life—”

“And that’s worked out marvelously for me.”

“It gets better,” Cyrus said in a whisper.

“Does it?” Her words were bitter, tinted with the emotion within her. “Tell me, warrior of Bellarum, how it gets better? I realize that you got over your parents quickly and easily by burying your sorrows in the bosom of your ‘blood family’ when you joined the Society—” he rankled at her words, feeling the swell deep inside, wanting to correct the wrong of what she said, but he held it in—“but some of us don’t open up that easily, don’t have anyone to go to.”

“You can come to me,” he said, eyes burning. “I have been here for you.”

“Can I?” She stared at him, dull, dead in the eyes. “Can I truly?”

“Yes!” He felt the words flowing over him, the feeling, and he let it take him. “I have loved you since the day I first saw you. I have dreamed about you, about what it would be like to be with you, and all I’ve wanted—all I’ve ever wanted—is to be with you, to love you…to have you love me.”

She stared back at him, unflinching at his admission. “And in a hundred years, when you are dead and I yet live, who am I to go to then?”

He heard her speak the words, but they hit him with almost physical force, stunning him. “What?”

“In a thousand years, will you be there for me? In two thousand, will I have forgotten your name? The touch of you against my skin? Will my memories of you be vivid, painful and bright? Or will they dry up like water in the desert, and leave me without remembrance of the blue of your eyes, the lines of your face, the callouses on your hands?”

He felt dry in the mouth, and stilled himself lest a tremble make its way through his body. “What…are you saying?”

“It will not work, Cyrus. It can never be, you and I. For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow. We will not, cannot be. Not ever.”

He staggered off the bed, barely in control of himself, feeling drunk though he hadn’t had a drop. “You don’t mean that.”

She looked at him coolly. “I mean every word of it. I thank you for trying to comfort me in my hour of need, but I’ll have you take your leave now.” She turned over in the bed and lay down, facing the window.

He staggered away and through the door, not bothering to shut it behind him, letting the guard do it instead. The world seemed to carry a strange hum, loud enough in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything around him as his feet carried him down the stairs to the foyer. There was still a gathered crowd, and a great many hands slapped him on the back as he passed. He felt them dimly, as though they touched him in a dream.

He found himself sitting in a chair in the lounge, staring out the front window into the darkness. Did she ever feel the same as I did? Was she just confused after having so many emotions running through her for so long? Is this because of that bastard Archenous Derregnault? If I killed him, maybe…

He looked up in surprise when he realized Longwell had spoken his name several times. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Didn’t mean to disturb you,” Longwell said. “I wanted to say farewell.”

“Farewell?” Cyrus tried to shake off the veil of confusion that hung around his head. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” the dragoon said. “I leave on the morrow. My father’s kingdom is invaded and the situation is grim. My father finds himself at war against long odds against our neighbors. He sent one of his knights to bring me home.”

“Where is home?” Cyrus asked the question almost ruefully, as much to Longwell as himself.

“Over the Endless Bridge, across the Strait of Carmas, in the Land of Luukessia. It’s a large place, but only humans live there; three kingdoms forever jousting back and forth over territory.” He looked down at his boots. “I hoped to escape that life of constant, pointless combat, but my father calls, saying things are dire. Luukessia has been deadlocked for a thousand years, and it seems the northern kingdom of the mountains has grown strong enough to upset the balance. My father needs every hand he can find.”

“Does he?” Cyrus said. “Could he make use of me?” He looked up at the dragoon, finding Longwell’s eyes startled.

“I daresay,” Longwell replied. “My father could use any able sword he could get, to say nothing of the fiercest warrior in all Arkaria.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll swell his head.” Terian spoke, crossing to join them from where he had been seated by one of the hearths. In his hands was something familiar, a scabbard, the one that held the sword that Aisling had brought Cyrus from Termina.

“That’s mine,” the warrior said, pointing at the weapon in Terian’s hands.

“Oh?” The dark knight’s voice was suddenly cold. “How so?”

“Aisling brought it back from Termina for me,” Cyrus said. “I was set upon by a dark knight, and we battled. I killed him.”

“Ah,” Terian said with a bow. “In that case, here is your prize, good sir.” He knelt with exaggerated pomp and proffered the hilt as a squire would, holding the scabbard for Cyrus to draw the sword.

“It’s all right,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head. “I kept it because I thought one of our brethren could use it; it’s a finer sword than most any and it seemed a shame for it to fall into disuse or be sold.”

Terian looked back at him, emotionless. “Aye. I’ve been looking to put aside my axe for a while. If you’d be amenable, I’d take it off your hands until a day comes when you have need of it.”

“I doubt that day will come,” Cyrus said. “Use it freely. I gift it to you.”

“A princely gift. I hope the day comes when I can repay you for what you’ve done.” Terian took the scabbard and fastened it into his belt, then turned to Longwell. “Would your father have need of a dark knight in this Land of Luukessia?”

“My father would find use for any who came with me,” the dragoon said. “His letter asked me to bring along any assistance I can provide. As I said, we know no magic in those lands, so anyone who fights with the aid of it, as you do, would be worth a hundred or more ordinary soldiers.”

“Then I will go with you into the east,” Cyrus said.

“We leave on the morrow,” Longwell told him. “We have a long ride ahead of us; I hope to have a wizard teleport us—”

“To the portal on the beach on the Sea of Carmas?” Cyrus asked.

“You know of it?”

“I’ve seen the Endless Bridge, once,” Cyrus said. “I wondered where it went at the time.”

“To another land,” Longwell said. “A green and beautiful place, but a long journey. It’s two days’ hike south on the beach, then five long days across the bridge. We must be provisioned amply before crossing, for there is no fresh water nor food to be found on it. At the other side lies the first kingdom of the three. They would let one man pass—perhaps two or three. Any more and we will be challenged. All told, it will take us near two months to make it to my father’s lands from here.”

“I’ll pack my things,” Cyrus told him, “and see you on the morrow.”

After nodding farewell to Terian, he climbed the stairs and hesitated at the landing where the doors to the Council Chamber were. After a moment of doubt tugged at him, he stopped. I owe him at least an explanation.

The door creaked as Cyrus entered. The hearth burned with a fire that warmed the room, and the smell of wood burning gave him a last sense of home. Alaric remained standing where Cyrus had left him earlier, and did not turn when the door opened. “Samwen Longwell is going back to his homeland, Luukessia, to help defend his father’s Kingdom, which is under attack. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be going with him, as is Terian.”

The Ghost turned, and Cyrus saw neutrality on his face. “The land of Luukessia is torn by war?”

“Aye,” Cyrus replied. “Longwell’s father has a kingdom there. They are in need of able hands to wield swords.”

“Enrant Monge.” Alaric’s words were quiet. “Very well. We have a problem to attend to before you leave.”

“Oh?” Cyrus rested a hand on the back of his chair.

“Because of our rising fortunes and the notoriety you garnered in your defense of Termina, we have accumulated over a thousand applicants who have little to no combat experience. Without a general to lead them, they will languish. Indeed, the attack on the Realm of Death was the first taste of battle for some of them, yet most were not even through the portal by the time the fight was over.” He walked to the table and leaned over it. “If you are to be absent for…as long as you are likely to be gone…we will need these new recruits trained.”

Cyrus stiffened. “If you have to appoint a new general, I understand—”

“I will put out a call for volunteers to join you; you will take as many of them with you as will come,” Alaric interrupted him. “They are of no use to us until they have known combat, and we are unlikely to be engaging in any invasions in your absence. A land without magic is a good place for them to learn what battle is about. You will assemble forty to fifty experienced veterans and magic users, and I will send word to the newest recruits, whose experience is lacking, and see who is willing to accompany you.”

“I’m…certain Longwell’s father will be pleased at any additional assistance we can offer.”

“His son has earned our loyalty.” Alaric gripped the back of the chair. “We will repay that fidelity in kind; we will help stave off the ruin of their kingdom and it will assist us in preparing our forces.”

“We’ll likely be gone for several months,” Cyrus said, looking away from the Ghost’s piercing gaze. “You’re certain you’re all right with that?”

“Whatever calamity comes our way will not be dissuaded by whatever inexperienced warriors go with you. We can defend Sanctuary against most any danger with even a few hundred defenders.” He looked at Cyrus, unblinking. “But I suspect your absence will be…noticed.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“Before you go…” Alaric held out a hand, as if to stop Cyrus. “I know the revelation that the gods are not invincible intrigues you. I do not want you to use the Army of Sanctuary against the gods in the future, do you understand? I want your word.”

“My word?” Cyrus blinked in disbelief. “Do you really think my mind is on that right now?”

“I think I am about to send you across the world at the head of an assemblage of our forces, and I want your word that no matter what happens, you won’t go after the gods.” Alaric’s eye burned with a fire and he closed the distance to Cyrus. “We were lucky that Mortus is so ill-favored among his own kind, lucky to kill him without any casualties. That luck may not extend to another god, and I don’t want you getting the idea that hunting deities is anything other than utter foolishness.”

“He died so quickly Alaric—”

“We…were…lucky!” The Ghost reached over and seized Cyrus by both shoulders, shaking him. “If you lead your guildmates into battle with another god, there will be death. Put aside your pride and listen to what I am telling you!”

“All right,” Cyrus said. “I…won’t go after them.”

“I want your word.” Alaric’s hands still rested on Cyrus’s pauldrons and he held firm.

“I promise,” Cyrus said, his words coming out soft and low.

“Very good.” Alaric looked away and strode back to the window. “Assemble your veterans. I will give the orders for the recruits to meet you in the yard on the morrow. Take at least five wizards or druids with you to send messages back with your progress.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus said. He paused, uncertain what else to say. “I’ll…see you in a few months.” He turned to leave but Alaric’s voice halted him at the door.

“Farewell,” the Ghost called out.

“Goodbye,” Cyrus returned. “We’ll see you then.”

As the door closed behind him, Alaric’s reply was nearly lost, but Cyrus could have sworn, underneath the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, he heard a whisper.

“No…you won’t.”

Chapter 53

The day dawned bright, sunny and glorious, with just the hint of bitterness that accompanied late winter. The warmth of the sun was offset by the chill of the morning air. As Cyrus made his way down the steps, he found the foyer in a state of odd quiet. I’m late, he thought, but the rest of the guild must be sleeping it off; undoubtedly they had a celebration.

He passed the doors to the Great Hall and saw a lone figure inside. Larana sat at a table and turned when he passed, her face smudged. She stared at him for a long moment without saying anything, then rose and made her way to him. He waited for her, stunned and curious in equal measure as she stopped, grabbed hold of him and hugged him close, finishing by giving him a simple kiss on the cheek. Her eyes were wet, and he felt a droplet splash as she pulled from him and ran back into the Great Hall, disappearing into the kitchen where he could not see her.

He turned mechanically and walked out the front door of Sanctuary, ready to go to the stables. He halted at the top of the steps, blinded by the harsh light of day and stunned by what he saw once his eyes adjusted.

“Company…present arms!” Thad’s shout jarred him back to awareness. The grounds were filled with members and recruits, with a company of at least a thousand assembled in formation, ready to march. The officers waited in two rows on the steps, presiding. To either side of the formation stood well-wishers, members cheering for their brethren, laughing and waving.

Alaric approached Cyrus, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “Your army awaits, General.”

“There must be over a thousand here,” Cyrus said in awe.

“Eleven hundred and fifty, but who’s counting?” Vaste, as always, weighed in with no small amount of irony.

“You, apparently,” Terian said.

“I don’t…” Cyrus stuttered as he looked over the assemblage. “I mean…I didn’t think…”

“You never do,” Erith sighed, “but we love you anyway.”

“Did you think that these new warriors would not want to follow their general into honorable battle in a new land?” Alaric squinted at him in the daylight. “They fell over themselves volunteering; in fact we had to refuse numerous veterans in order to keep the numbers within reason, else you’d have taken nearly everyone with you.”

Cy looked again over the crowd, overwhelmed. “I see.” He turned his eyes to the bottom of the steps, where horses awaited. He saw Aisling, shifting back and forth on a stallion next to Terian’s destrier, which waited for its master. Odellan waited, his winged helm standing out in the crowd. Martaina Proelius waited ahorse, whispering something in her mount’s ear while Mendicant the goblin looked bizarre on a pony.

“Anything to say to your army before you depart?” Alaric indicated the assembled crowd.

“Uh…” Cyrus coughed, then cleared his throat. “Today, we take the Army of Sanctuary into a new land, in support of a very dear friend. This is the heart and the essence of what we do. We hear of someone in need, and do all we can to assist them. There is no more faithful friend than Sanctuary—and no more faithful enemy, either, if it comes to that. Mortus learned that last night.” He saw Alaric blanch out of the corner of his eye.

“When I joined Sanctuary, it was for a far different purpose,” Cyrus said, voice straining as he shouted to be heard. “I came here to get better weapons and equipment, so I could pursue my ambitions of being a more powerful warrior. I was willing to invade any land, take from any god, goblin or dragon that had what I wanted, and do whatever it took to achieve my aims. But what I learned in lessons about honor, brotherhood and fidelity here changed my mind.

“We march now to a far off kingdom, without hope for reward, because a friend has asked for help. This is our true mission. What we’ve done in the past, be it striking down the Dragonlord or invading Enterra, has been for noble reasons. No other guild would do these things, and yet they are what define us. We fight for honor, for our brethren, and for those who can’t fight for themselves.

“Thank you, all who have come to wish us well. We will go and do our duty, and return before you know we’re gone.”

At the last word, he walked down the steps toward Windrider, who waited next to Aisling. It felt like the longest and loneliest walk he had ever taken. He took the reins from her and threw his saddlebags across the haunches before stepping up. Terian joined him, as did Longwell and Curatio. Cyrus looked at the healer in confusion. “You’re coming?”

“Aye,” the elder elf replied as he mounted his horse with ease. He looked away, toward the horizon. “I think it would be for the best if Alaric and I parted ways for a bit.”

Cyrus raised his hand in salute, and was matched by those lined up on either side of his army. He looked back to the assembled officers, all of whom were present save one, either on the steps or ahorse with him. He urged Windrider forward, leading the riders around. The army, neatly broken up into six blocks of soldiers, executed a turn toward the gate and began to march as he took the lead, the others behind him at a canter.

“We’ll teleport once we’re beyond the wall,” he said to Nyad, who rode next to Ryin Ayend. “You know the portal we’re going to?” The elf nodded. “Good.”

He stopped just beyond the gate, moving Windrider to the side of the road, and looked back, beyond the wall, above the crowd, to the tower in the center of Sanctuary. Far, far up the side, he looked for the windows almost at the top, where the officers were quartered. One was open, and a dot of blond hair was visible, even so many stories up.

Does she know that I’ve been fighting for her all this time? Does she care? Does it matter? The cold cynicism blanketed him, chilling him far more than any winter could. Time to go back to doing my duty, he thought, and fighting for Sanctuary.

He turned and rode back to the front of the line, leading his army away, out of the gates—and off to war.

NOW

Epilogue

Cyrus blotted another tear from his eyes and cursed himself for his weakness, then shook his head. The rain continued outside, and the dreariness caused him to curse again, before he turned his attention back to the words in the book.

Niamh is dead. I can scarcely believe it. She was such a force of personality, such a mischievous dreamer, such a happy spirit that I could not believe her age when first I heard it. I was certain she had to be of the youngest generation, like my sister, but no, she was over six hundred—and still young at heart, wild and free, happier and more full of life than anyone I have ever met, even the humans.

Until now.

And because of me.

I don’t know if these assassins have come to Sanctuary because I am shelas’akur or for some other reason, but I know that more than I can express, I mourn Niamh. Any brightness that may be manifest in my grim personality is not a result of myself, but of her—the constant example that I need to, in her words, “lighten up.”

I remember more than anything the day she told me something I didn’t want to hear. We had finished watching Goliath get run out of Reikonos and she was off to visit her family in Pharesia, and me to mine in Termina. She teleported me to Santir, and caught my arm after I thanked her but before I could get away. “I think he loves you,” she told me.

“I think you’re wrong.” She and I were officers together; we’d been on more than a few adventures, and yet we were no closer than any two other members of Sanctuary. “I suspect he merely feels the heat of that which he carries betwixt his legs.” I was lying, deflecting what she was saying. I was warming up to Cyrus Davidon, but I was hardly ready to accept anything but sincere affection at that stage. One step at a time, I believed, was most prudent.

“That too,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean he’s immune to the other.”

“You exaggerate,” I told her. “I am fond of him as well, but we’ve only known each other for a couple of years—”

“A veritable eternity to humans,” she replied. “He feels it; you clearly feel something back. Life—even for us elves—is too short and entirely too unpredictable to continue to let it drag out.” She shrugged. “Just making an observation.”

Before I could tell her to keep her observations to herself, she teleported away in a gust of wind. Now that she has died, just a few months later, all I can think about was what she had said about life being too short. Even for us elves indeed.

Cyrus rubbed his eyes, turned the page, and looked at the next passage.

I can’t believe he followed me. I’ve always suspected him of madness, but I never anticipated that he would come with me when I left. It’s been days since we left Sanctuary, and now we’re in Termina. Home.

Yet with father ailing, it doesn’t feel like home. Mother, as usual, is on the warpath. From the moment we arrived, all she has done is spit ill-considered wattle at Cyrus. He responded finally, once we were out of sight, by rubbing his hand across a painting in the hallway. Of course, we could hear it along with his whispered admonition of, “Enjoy the smell of that, hag,” and Mother knew right away what he’d done.

“I heard that,” she screeched at him. “Keep your hands off my things!”

The door shut behind him, but we still heard his reply. “Yes, Mother.”

She turned to me and gave an approving nod. “I like him. He’s much wittier than your last.”

“He’s not my…” I clenched my jaw shut in frustration. “…anything.”

The sound of rain cascading from the top of the tower was soothing. Cyrus flipped the page and looked to the next passage.

I stared down at my father, and he looked back at me. “You seem conflicted, my daughter.”

“Is that so unusual?” I asked him, trying to hide my fears behind a smile that was as fake as Aisling’s desire for anything but rutting. I couldn’t believe he kissed me. I couldn’t believe I kissed him back. And I couldn’t decide whether I was incredibly happy or just the opposite, so I believe I might have come off somewhat stern.

He frowned. “You are never conflicted. Your sister, she wavers, uncertain of what to do. You? Never. You always knew what you wanted and never hesitated to go for it. You are like your mother in that regard.”

“You make it sound like a personality flaw.”

He chuckled. “Hardly. I have been in many businesses in my life, after my days as an adventurer. Especially since you came along. The lesson I learned,” he said, turning serious, “is that life will only give you as much as you’re willing to fight for.”

“I’m not certain I have any more fight left in me.” I admitted it with a trace of sadness.

“I’ve felt that way myself,” he said. “The days came when things were hard, when nothing went right, and it had been a string of bad news and setbacks, sometimes for months at a time. I would get down and dispirited. Your mother kept me going, even when I didn’t want to. A business would be dying in my hands and she wanted me to turn it around—and believed I could.”

“I don’t think this is quite the same,” I told him.

“It’s exactly the same.” His eyes glittered. “The stakes are just higher. You put your life on the line in battle to get what you want, to shape your life to your whims by taking on adventure. I’ll be the first to tell you that life will hit you hard, regardless of what you do—adventurer, business person, king. No one is immune to the brutal reality that you lose people in life. That our decisions sometimes have horrible ramifications, even the innocuous ones. That people die. And that you may feel responsible, but have nothing to do with it.”

“What if I had done something different?” I asked him. “This…person…who died for me might yet be alive.”

“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “Perhaps not. You were born into a role that you didn’t ask for. Being the chosen one of your people, their last hope, was not a fair position to put you in.” His eyes hid behind a veneer of pain. “Not for one so young. Not to have so much piled upon your shoulders.”

“Shhh,” I told him. “I’m not so young anymore.”

“You are to me. You’ll always be to me.”

The sound of an argument made its way up the stairs and I exchanged a look with my father. We heard mother’s heated words, lashing at Cyrus, and he inclined his head toward the door. “Go.”

Cyrus remembered the argument and the kiss that had happened only scant minutes before it. His brow folded downward, as he recalled what had happened after, the battle for the bridge…and all else.

I stormed into my room to change, Mother on my heels. Cyrus and Isabelle had left, and I was to join him, to “take a walk” is what I had said. In truth, I cared naught for the walk. I only wanted to find a secluded place where I could kiss him. As utterly rubbish as it sounds, it is true. Me. All I wanted was to feel him against me. If we found a place private enough, I think I would even have been amenable to more.

Mother followed me into my room as I slipped on my undershirt and cloth pants. “Have you given any thought to what will happen in the future?”

“Yes, I have,” I said offhand. “I think, in the next few minutes, I’ll strip him naked, get astride him like a harlot, and ride him until I wring every sound of pleasure from his lips that I can.”

My mother let out an elvish curse. “You think of only what will happen in the next minutes and hours and days, but not that which will fill the rest of your life. You’re still a child—and you think like a child.”

“Yes, well, what I’m about to do to him is distinctly inappropriate for children.” I graced her with a wicked smile.

“He will die when you are barely an adult in our society,” she said with anger. “He will be dust by the time your second century rolls around. You can’t even be covekan with him, experience the most intimate emotional bond of our people, because he’ll be dead before he reaches an age where he can experience it!”

“I don’t care!” I shrieked at her. “It’s MY life! Mine! Not yours! This is why I left at fourteen, to get away from you and your incessant need to tell me what to do in every instance. I don’t care what elven society would have me do; I care less what you would have me do.” I finished strapping on my breastplate and pulled myself up to my full height, which allowed me to look down on her. “I care about what I want to do.” I didn’t bother to hit her with the shoulder of my armor as I passed, but given her expression, you might have thought I did.

“If you mean to do what you say,” she said with an air of haughty triumph as I reached the door, “then why are you putting on your armor?”

“Because I’m a paladin,” I shot back at her. “A holy warrior of Vidara, sworn to the cause of defending those who cannot defend themselves.” I took two steps back toward her and put my finger in her face. “And because the length of time to take it all off only builds the anticipation and heightens the pleasure for when the moment arrives.” I shot her a dazzling, evil grin and stormed out, leaving her with a look that was distinctly…disappointed.

Cyrus’s eyes skipped down the page as the same passage continued.

Of course I look back on the argument now and think about how positively over the edge I was at that moment. I never did find a secluded place with him because the dark elves burned Santir to the ground and invaded Termina. My home. My mother, dead, myself injured, and my hometown seized by the oldest enemy of our people. Add to that my father’s death a few days later and I’m surprised I was still able to move.

Recovering in the palace was a gloomy affair. Cyrus hovered at a distance, afraid to embarrass me in front of Arydni or Nyad. If I had still felt the same about him as I did the day we left to take the walk, I wouldn’t have cared if they were there or not, especially as I continued to mend.

But I didn’t. Every time I looked at him, I thought of the argument with Mother. The last one; the worst we’ve had. I’ve disappointed her on a thousand occasions. But the last time, the very last time we had a private conversation, to have her look at me like that…

She was dead less than twelve hours later. And all I can think of now is that look…that haunted, disappointed look…and it makes me feel like I’m fourteen again, and leaving her all alone in a house that’s too big for her.

He flipped a few more pages, skimming as he went, until he found one of particular significance. He clenched his hand and felt the cracking of his joints beneath the gauntlet.

We were caught. Hopelessly. Mortus stared down at us, and I knew in that moment that every one of us was dead along with any hope left for my people.

Except we weren’t. Alaric was a genius, playing upon the pride of the God of Death, using flattery in a way that few can, giving him golden words that must have cured like honey poured in his ear. I thought, just for a moment, that he would let us all go.

But hope failed as he forced a choice upon us—Curatio or myself; he would only allow the rest of them to pass if one of us stayed behind.

My thoughts were dark, jumbled. I had lost everything—home, Mother, Father. Mother’s words had settled in my heart, until the thought of holding Cyrus close to me was more bitter than the taste of ashes on my lips. I wanted him but I knew it was not to be and I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t want to tell him. All I wanted was for these overwhelming emotions to end, to give me peace, to let me sleep a full night, to not have my heart be filled with constant sorrow.

And there was Death himself. The eight-armed, four-legged representation of it, and he offered me a way out. By my death, I could buy the lives of the hundreds with me.

And I would never have to tell him.

Curatio, damn him for his nobility, spoke up first. “I have had a long and storied life. I will remain behind.”

“No!” I shoved my way to him. “You can give our people hope with what you know. You’re the only one who can read…it.” I stared up at my end, his face horrific, and I wondered how he would finish me. “I will remain with you, God of Death, as your sacrifice.” At that moment, I only hoped it would be quick.

Curatio tried to shove the parchment into my hand. “I’m not the only one who can read it,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “You are young, and have so much to live for.”

I shoved him away. “I do not. I am weary of this life, of living in a world that would take everything from you a piece at a time, until you have naught left.” Mortus met my gaze evenly, and I could see dark amusement in the eye that faced me. “If you would have me be your sacrifice, strike swift and true. End it—and be quick about it.”

“Done.” Knowing he had accepted my sacrifice, I felt my head bow and my body relax. The legends said a god could destroy a mortal in one blow. I could not have asked for a swifter end.

“NOOOO!” I felt something hit me, hard, in the chest, sending me reeling to the ground. When I looked back, I saw Cyrus with his sword raised, Mortus’s hand descending with the killing strike that had been meant for me. I had not the time to scream, though I felt it upon my lips, nor to cry, nor the strength to throw myself in front of him. He was going to die, for me, because everything Niamh had said was true.

He loved me. He always had. And I had felt the same, but he was out of my reach.

The God of Death hit him with enough force to kill, his palm landing on the edge of Cyrus’s sword. The warrior who I loved was flung apart and I saw him covered in light as the blow landed, pulling him back together, his body landing on the field a hundred feet away. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw him lift his head, dazed.

Then I turned back to the God of Death and I saw his hand was asunder, his black blood coursing onto the ground around him as he howled in anguish, and I knew that something was very, very wrong.

Cyrus remembered Mortus, the way he had staggered, the way he shrank as the battle had gone on. And finally, the way his crumpled body had looked in death, so pathetic that it was hard to believe he had been a god at all.

He didn’t awaken me when he opened the door to my quarters. I had been awake and thinking again about all the things that had been weighing on me for so long. The emotions had once more overwhelmed me like the waves of the Torrid Sea washing over a ship until she breaks apart and drowns. I wondered if that was to happen to me, awash in these horrible feelings that I couldn’t seem to control, this despair and sorrow that was unending.

He spoke quite a bit that night. The theme was the same—that my feelings would pass in time, and that he had felt pain such as this before. I tried to keep from fighting back with stinging words, but I fear I may have failed.

Finally, I told him the truth. Or at least most of it. I told him it would not work between us. I lied to him.

Because in truth, it would work fine. He would love me all the days of the rest of his life, I think, and I would love him all the rest of mine. Unfortunately, mine would last up to 5,900 years past his. I feared spending every day of them feeling about him the way I felt now.

I lost my home, my mother and my father.

My first lover stabbed me in the back, killed my friends, and left me to die.

I stabbed the man I loved more than any of them through the heart, saw the emotion wash over his face while I watched, impassive, a small voice inside me screaming what a fool I was to do it.

But I made a decision. Mother would have approved. My sorrow over losing him after a long, full life together would be worse than losing him before we had even begun. If I loved him this much now, how much worse would it get given a hundred years to compound? Putting an end to it now would hurt, certainly, but would I even notice next to all the other emotional agony I was experiencing?

He left. And I found out.

The answer was yes. Yes, I did notice.

And it made it ever so much worse.

Cyrus blinked back the tears again at her words. She felt the same way then as I did. Dammit. He brushed them away and turned back to the next passage, trying to keep his thoughts on what he was reading.

I watched him leave, with all the pomp and circumstance that Alaric could arrange. Cyrus rode out on that beautiful horse he always uses. I saw him go through the gate and look back. I could see him, and I could swear he was looking at me. After only a moment, he turned and rode away. I watched the formation halt a short distance from the wall, and a wizard teleportation spell swept them onward.

The next days were dark. I didn’t leave my room or my bed. J’anda, Vaste and Larana kept showing up, the latter bringing food every time she appeared. She never spoke, but I saw the pity and sorrow in her eyes every time she looked upon me. I’ve heard it said she pines for Cyrus, and I knew every time she appeared that it was true. She would try and clean my quarters when she showed up, and she never fussed about talking, unlike the others.

After a week I found the strength to leave my quarters. All right, I was forced out of them by that relentless harridan, Erith. She stopped by and harrassed me until I finally cleaned up, put on something cloth and went down to the lounge one afternoon. It was abuzz with activity when I got there (damn Cyrus for putting that word in my mind) yet she and I found a quiet place to sit and talk. Nothing deep—mostly superficial things—but I had a cup of ale, and it was the first time I’d felt…alive…in forever.

I noticed a dark elf standing by the door. He was tall for his sort, lanky, with distant eyes but a familiar look. I saw Alaric cross the foyer and speak with him at some length, taking an envelope from him. Then the dark elf departed.

I have known Alaric for…years. Years and years. He remains mostly an enigma, even to me, but this time I knew something was wrong. His hand hung at his side, and even with his helm on, I could almost see him flinch.

I walked away from Erith in the middle of a sentence. Alaric seemed not to notice me, even as I drew close to him. He continued to stare at the words on the page. “Hello, lass,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and moving again.”

“I could hardly stay down forever.”

“No,” he agreed, “you could not.”

“What have you got there that has you so distressed?” I stared at him, watching for his reaction.

He forced a smile. “Good news, certainly. We only ever get good news around here. Especially of late.”

“We rarely get good news around here,” I said, snatching the envelope out of his grasp. To his credit, he didn’t try and stop me. “Especially of late.”

“Let me summarize,” he said. “Terian’s father has died.”

I started to hand the letter back. “That’s a tragedy. Are you going to send a messenger to deliver it to him?”

His eye flickered, and I caught a hint that made me stop before giving it back to him. “I think not,” he said.

I don’t know why, but I felt a sudden chill, perhaps from standing in front of the main door. I looked at the parchment I held in my hands, and something told me—compelled me, really—to read it.

Dearest Terian,

I am writing to inform you that your father was killed in action with the dark elven army during the invasion of Termina. He fought and died with so many of his comrades in arms, taking the Grand Span that allowed our forces to march into the center of the city. As the foremost dark knight in our country, the Sovereign immediately declared a holiday in his honor, and pronounced whoever killed him a war criminal of the worst kind, and surely marked for death.

Unfortunately, his priceless sword, the one passed through our family for generations, was lost with him…

I looked up from the parchment, looked at Alaric, and I knew he saw the despair in my eyes. “Was it you?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “I fought him, certainly. He was a beast, the strongest dark knight I’ve ever battled. He set upon Cyrus when he was wounded, and nearly killed him before I intervened. He almost killed me as well but Cyrus stabbed him through the back.” I blinked in disbelief. “We had no idea he was Terian’s father…”

“Nor could you have,” Alaric said. “Terian and his father parted ways many years ago, and on less-than-agreeable terms. I know after he left us two years ago, Terian attempted a rapprochement with his father that did not go well for either party, but…” He shook his head. “I do not know how he will take this news.”

“That’s why you’re not sending him a messenger,” I said. “You’re afraid of how he’ll react. When he sees this letter, he’ll know it was either me that killed his father…” I let my words drift off.

“Or Cyrus,” Alaric said. “Or some combination of both. I would rather wait and control his reaction, to have him here, surrounded by those of us he has known for so long when he finds out, rather than have him learn of his father’s death by Cyrus’s hand at some ill-timed juncture, when he might be predisposed to…” Alaric paused, searching for the right words, “…reckless action.”

“You mean revenge.” The words were cold when I said them.

Alaric did not blink. “I mean revenge.” He took the letter back from me and tucked it behind him, along with his hands. “So long as we do not inform Terian, everything should proceed apace.” He shook his head. “Though I consider him a brother, the dark knight is dangerous and unpredictable at times and I will not have Cyrus or you anywhere nearby when the truth is told. By holding off, we keep him—all of you, really—safe.” He folded his arms. “They will proceed on their mission without news from us. It will be better for all if we hold off on this news until they return.”

Alaric is usually spot-on in his predictions. He has a keen observatory eye for the nature of us mortals, probably from long experience—or possibly some undisclosed skill that allows him to look into the heart of a person. In this case, though, he didn’t misjudge a person so much as he mistook an event. After all, he couldn’t have known that Aisling had brought back Terian’s father’s sword from Termina. He couldn’t have known that Cyrus had not only shown it to Terian, but given it to him, not realizing that he’d grown up around it, and knew his father’s sword when he saw it—and knew that if his father was parted from it, it wasn’t willingly. Or while he was still alive.

We didn’t find out until much, much later how very wrong Alaric was.

Cyrus closed the book. His mind was strained, having read for hours. He felt a throbbing behind his eye, a little pain that told him he was overwhelmed. Emotions tugged at him, he felt his breathing get ragged, and he felt himself reach for his sword in anger, then stop. Then he reached for it again and touched the hilt, felt the power surge through him, and he pulled it away only through sheer force of will.

I can’t believe she…didn’t tell me…I didn’t know…Thoughts flew through his mind, whirling, driving him to distraction. A flash of anger was hot, and he turned and punched the wall behind him, cracking the stone. He punched again, this time at a bookshelf, and it broke in an explosion of wood, splinters flying everywhere. She didn’t tell me…she didn’t…Another flash of pure rage took hold of him and he threw the diary as hard as he could.

It flew across the room and hit the painting that hung above the hearth. When it impacted, the frame splintered and broke in two. The bottom half fell, bouncing off the mantle to the ground. The top half hung at a tilted angle, and the painting that the frame had sheltered fluttered down, coming to rest facedown on the floor.

Cyrus blinked. Behind the hanging vestiges of the frame was an indentation in the wall that the painting had covered. A small shelf was secreted behind it. He crossed the gap to the fireplace and stared at it. The shelf was small, recessed a few inches; just enough to hold the contents.

A book. Worn, aged and ragged, he lifted it from the shelf and opened it to the first page.

Here begins the account of Alaric Garaunt, Guildmaster of these halls, and the first of my name…

He read the next page, and a feeling ran through him—a chill as certain as if he had run through the rains outside—and he sat down once more and let the fire wash over him as he read the old knight’s tale.

The Story Continues

in

CRUSADER

The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

AVAILABLE NOW!

Other Works by Robert J. Crane

The Sanctuary Series

Epic Fantasy

Defender: The Sanctuary Series, Volume One

Avenger: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Two

Champion: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Three

Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

Sanctuary Tales, Volume One - A Short Story Collection

Thy Father's Shadow: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 4.5

Master: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Five

Fated in Darkness: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 5.5* (Coming in 2015!)

Warlord: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Six* (Coming in late 2015!)

The Girl in the Box

and

Out of the Box

Contemporary Urban Fantasy

Alone: The Girl in the Box, Book 1

Untouched: The Girl in the Box, Book 2

Soulless: The Girl in the Box, Book 3

Family: The Girl in the Box, Book 4

Omega: The Girl in the Box, Book 5

Broken: The Girl in the Box, Book 6

Enemies: The Girl in the Box, Book 7

Legacy: The Girl in the Box, Book 8

Destiny: The Girl in the Box, Book 9

Power: The Girl in the Box, Book 10

Limitless: Out of the Box, Book 1

In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2

Ruthless: Out of the Box, Book 3

Grounded: Out of the Box, Book 4

Tormented: Out of the Box, Book 5* (Coming September1, 2015!)

Vengeful: Out of the Box, Book 6* (Coming December 1, 2015!)

Southern Watch

Contemporary Urban Fantasy

Called: Southern Watch, Book 1

Depths: Southern Watch, Book 2

Corrupted: Southern Watch, Book 3

Unearthed: Southern Watch, Book 4

Legion: Southern Watch, Book 5* (Coming in Fall 2015!)

*Forthcoming and subject to change

Acknowledgments

Defender

Writing a novel is a herculean effort, and requires much help. Here are the culprits involved:

Thanks to Diane Talluto and Rebecca Burns, two teachers who encouraged my writing efforts long before any others.

The cover art to this, the second edition, was created by the very talented Karri Klawiter, whose work can be found at artbykarri.com.

Thanks also to Nicholas J. Ambrose, author, editor, formatter and all-around publishing master. This novel would be much the poorer work if not for his efforts on my behalf.

Much thanks to Shannon Campbell, Heather Rodefer, Kari Phillips, Scott Garza and Debra Wesley for all their contributions to this book. The four ladies mentioned, especially, took enormous amounts of time to read through the book multiple times on several revisions and render their opinions and assist me in fixing my (numerous) errors.

Thanks to the GC Alumni, who inspired me to finally work on a story I’d had in mind for years and years, and motivated me through praise and occasional threats to keep working until I finished. They helped me believe I could tell a story people would be interested in reading. I still hope that’s true.

Thanks to my mom and dad, and my wife and kids. Your support has been absolutely invaluable. I couldn’t have done it without you all.

Avenger

Writing a novel takes a lot of work, and a lot of help. For this one I had to round up the usual suspects. In no particular order:

Kari Phillips was my trusted first reader, going through my unedited nonsense and repetitive prose (you think it’s bad now? HA!).

Shannon Campbell, Heather Rodefer and Debra Wesley spent countless hours fixing my numerous and prolific spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors. Any that are left remain mine… just as they were when I put them there.

Andrew Seager gave me a great, helpful critique on how my writing could improve from Volume One to Volume Two. For that, I am grateful.

Thanks also to Jon Burrell for being the first to buy my book.

Big thanks to Mary, Rocky, Monica and Derek Lyle for being so very, very vocal and early in their support. As far as I know, Rocky remains the first person to actually buy and finish my book after release, to which I say, “It may have been hot in Texas on that day, but you could have surely found SOMETHING better to do…”

To my grandmother and grandfather, for being helpful, kind and supportive.

The map of Arkaria was done by Robert Altbauer, a stellar cartographer (as in very good, not as in a mapper of the stars). His work is both fast and top notch. His website is http://www.fantasy-map.net/ and he can be reached via email at contact@fantasy-map.net Once I found him, getting the map made was the easiest thing about this book.

The cover for this, the second edition, was created by Karri Klawiter, whose name I only seem to spell correctly once out of every couple of times I try. Her work is exceptional, and can be found at artbykarri.com.

Thanks also go to Nicholas J. Ambrose, who has been an exceptional editor, formatter, and pretty damned cool guy to talk to about gaming and writing, two of my absolute favorite subjects. Since the very first book I wrote he’s been instrumental in carrying my vision onto the page, and I appreciate his efforts.

To the GC Alums: Again. You guys rock. Thanks for being the inspiration for my some of my characters as well as being some of my biggest fans.

My thanks to everyone who bought a physical copy of book 1. My first order went faster than I could have predicted.

Thanks to my mom and dad, and my wife and kids. I couldn’t have done it without you all.

Champion

Here we are again, the third time around (this series, not counting short stories), and I again have a mountain of thanks to dispense. So let’s get to it, shall we?

First, major gratitude to the inestimable Heather Rodefer. This time she not only fulfilled the function of first reader (again) but also was responsible for finding the cover art. For her extraordinary beyond-the-call-of-duty efforts, I hereby award her the designation of my Editor-In-Chief.

Next was the contributions of Shannon Campbell, who once more contributed a weather eye (or two, she’s not Alaric, after all) to finding errors that no one else seemed to find. She also helped me keep on track with the emotion of the story, letting me know when if I was resonating the way I wanted to be. Also, I owe her my apologies, because Niamh was based largely on her. Sorry, Red.

Last of the editing trio, thanks goes again to the knowledgeable and brilliant Debra Wesley whose wide breadth of knowledge about all things, from the mundane to the arcane, helped me create a better manuscript. Who else would keep me informed about the running abilities of horses and the growing patterns of grasses?

Also, thanks to Kari Phillips, who may or may not have read this book at some point in time; I’m not really sure. Better safe than sorry, though, especially with her. She will cut you.

I’d like to thank Patrick Ashton, Trevor Norman, Sam Best and Brittany Scott for helping to get my books out there in one way or another. Much appreciated, folks.

The cover art was once again handled on the second edition by Karri Klawiter of artbykarri.com, who has quite a prodigious talent for making my books look pretty.

Editing, formatting, all the stuff that holds the book together, was done by the great Nicholas J. Ambrose, as always.

Last of all, I’d like to give my grateful thanks to my mom and dad, wife and kids. As always, it’s all for you guys and because of you guys.

About the Author

Robert J. Crane may not be fully human. He can be contacted in several ways:

Via email at cyrusdavidon@gmail.com

Follow him on Twitter - @robertJcrane

Connect on Facebook – robertJcrane (Author)

Website – www.robertJcrane.com

Table of Contents

DEFENDER

NOW

Prologue

8 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38

NOW

Epilogue

AVENGER

NOW

Prologue

7 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42

NOW

Epilogue

CHAMPION

NOW

Prologue

6 YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53

NOW

Epilogue

Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
About the Author