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 a
nd 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.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 9
