“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!?”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 10
