The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger

by Robert J. Crane

  “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 A
shan'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.