“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 mov
e 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.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 8
