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 stoppe
d 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.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 5
