A dwarf stood next to them, a mighty warhammer slung across his back and a braided beard that stretched past his knees. Next to him was the most vicious-looking troll Cyrus had ever seen. Slitted yellow eyes peered at them, scuffed and battered armor spoke of a thousand battles won, and a sword big enough to be carried by a titan was slung across the troll's back.
“It's good to see you,” said the lady elf, voice sincere. “Congratulations on conquering the Trials of Purgatory.” She kept a distance between them, but even from ten feet away Cyrus caught a hint of an intoxicating lilac scent wafting from her.
Cyrus nodded warily. “Thank you.”
“You are Cyrus Davidon, an officer of Sanctuary?” she asked.
Cy raised an eyebrow. “Yes. And I believe you are Isabelle, officer of Endeavor.”
Her smile broadened. “So nice to be known.”
“I'm surprised you know me.”
Isabelle shrugged, again stirring a feeling of familiarity in Cyrus. “I know the names of all of Sanctuary's officers. Allow me the pleasure of making your introductions.” She pointed to the troll behind her. “Grunt is also an officer of Endeavor.” The troll scowled at Cyrus. Cy did not return the troll's glare but kept an eye on him.
She pointed to the dark knight standing at her shoulder. “This is Archenous Derregnault, the Guildmaster of Amarath's Raiders.” She tilted her head to Vara and a strange tone filled her melodic voice, as though she were trying to keep it neutral. “I believe you have met.” Turning to indicate the dwarf with the warhammer, she said, “This is Larning, the Guildmaster of Burnt Offerings.”
Cy nodded at each of them in turn, but his eyes were drawn back to Archenous, the human. He met Cyrus's gaze, and there was something indefinable between them. Cyrus could feel a deep loathing spring up within him, something more powerful than he could have imagined from nothing but a shared glance.
“You need not worry,” Isabelle said, drawing his attention back to her. “We have no ill intentions toward you or your army.” Something in the way she said it made Cyrus believe her.
“You can trust her,” Vara said from behind him. “Probably.”
“Such kind words,” Isabelle said with a laugh. “How are you, little sister?”
“Not so little anymore, I'm afraid,” Vara said.
“You should come home more often.” Isabelle's expression did not change. “Father misses you. Mother too, though she doesn't say it.”
“I'm sure she hides it well under snide, judgmental remarks about how I'm wasting my life,” Vara replied.
“She does indeed,” Isabelle agreed. “That doesn't mean you shouldn't come home more often.”
“I'm afraid I won't be doing that for the near future; you see –”
“You've been banished?” Isabelle said. “I heard. A flimsy excuse for so great a holy warrior. It's not as though the Termina Militia would stand against you, since you are –”
“That's enough,” Vara said, her voice a warning. “I will consider it.”
“Very well.” Isabelle turned to see Malpravus standing at a distance behind her, eying the Sanctuary army almost hungrily as they filed out of the portal. “It would appear you have no shortage of admirers.”
“Oh, yes, we're very popular,” Cyrus said with a final backwards glance. The light of the portal had stopped flaring. He looked to the square to see a small assemblage of Reikonos guards, standing at the end of the crowd, glaring toward them.
“Perhaps you should go,” Isabelle said with a look of sadness. “I suspect they are assembling more guards as we speak and you wouldn't want to have to kill them all.”
“Excellent work conquering the trials,” came the hoarse, guttural voice of Archenous Derregnault. “You are, as always, a master tactician, Vara.”
If she heard, she did not acknowledge him. Turning to Cyrus, she nodded. “My sister is quite correct: we have outstayed our welcome.”
“Agreed. Nyad?” he called out.
Before the words had left his mouth an orb of teleportation appeared in front of him. A loud clapping filled his ears as Isabelle applauded, then Archenous joined in and everyone on the street followed. The noise was thunderous, drowning out any other sound. He looked back to see his army begin to disappear in flashes of light as they grasped the orbs.
Malpravus caught his eye. The necromancer was not clapping, a motionless figure in a sea of movement, his hands hidden in his sleeves and the same gleeful, malicious smile filled his lips.
Isabelle looked on with an air of sadness as Vara disappeared. She turned and pushed past the entourage of guildmasters and officers behind her to disappear into the crowd.
Cyrus's eyes fell once more on the dark knight, Archenous Derregnault, whose gaze was locked on him. A small smile cracked the knight's stony facade, and he bowed his head to Cyrus. That same sense of loathing filled Cyrus as he stared down the human. It feels like I know him. I definitely dislike him. But why?
A last look confirmed that the rest of the Sanctuary army had disappeared save for one. Alaric stood at his shoulder. “I appreciate you staying behind to ensure safety for our comrades, my brother. But now,” the paladin said with an eye toward the Reikonos guards, who were moving through the crowd toward them, “it is time to go.”
Cyrus reached up to grab hold of the orb as Alaric did the same. The last Cyrus saw before disappearing was of a small guard force halted in their tracks, surrounded by a crowd of thousands, still applauding and shouting their congratulations to the army of Sanctuary.
Chapter 28
Cyrus felt his boots land with a gentle clank on the stone floor of the foyer. The noise of approbation he had left behind was replaced by the applause and cheering that filled Sanctuary's entrance and was spilling over into the lounge; the beginnings, no doubt, of a party that would last into the night. Across the crowd Cyrus caught a glimpse of Andren, opening a cask of wine and a keg of ale simultaneously, seesawing back and forth between the two.
A smile crept across Cyrus's face as the infectious nature of the atmosphere took hold of him. He felt hands clapping him on the back, voices crying out in excitement and exultation, and saw a flash of blond hair wrapped in a ponytail as Vara disappeared up the stairs.
“We did it!” Thad yelled across the room from a position atop a table in the lounge, Martaina at his side, looking no less jubilant. The warrior already had an ale in his hand. Menlos Irontooth stood in his shadow, nursing a flagon of his own, talking to Nyad.
A door banged open on the far end of the hall and Belkan stood silhouetted in the entryway, hands in the air in triumph. “Well done!” the armorer shouted, narrowly missing tripping over Mendicant as he made his way across the hall toward the lounge. Mendicant dodged expertly and backed up into a wall, startling himself. The goblin watched the celebration with as pleasant a smile as Cyrus imagined a goblin could produce, but eventually reached under his robes and pulled out a book, which he proceeded to read in the corner, sitting by himself.
Cyrus watched with amusement until he felt a gentle hand glide around his waist. He turned to see Aisling with her hand on his short sword, examining it. “This is unbefitting a warrior of your station,” she said, shaking her head. She looked up, dark eyes meeting his, a playful look on her face. “Would you like me to steal a better sword for you? I know lots of brigands and troublemakers that have very nice things and well deserve to be parted from their weapons. All I want in return is just...” The face got more playful and she leaned in close, whispering in his ear – something foul and yet pleasant.
He closed his eyes for a moment at the feel of her breath on his neck – it smelled of sweet cinnamon – then opened them again to roll his eyes. “No.”
“Well,” she said with a shrug as playful as her look, “at least you didn't yell at me for suggesting it. Does that mean I'm making progress?” With a laugh, she darted through the crowd toward the lounge and the center of the party. Music had begun to fill the air from a few ente
rprising members who played instruments.
Cyrus shook his head at the dark elf's persistence. No, it doesn't mean you're making progress, he thought. It means I'm grateful to you for saving my life in Purgatory. And I haven't felt the touch of a woman in that way... outside of a mesmerization... in years. He sighed.
He turned, leaving the noise of the celebration behind and ascended the staircase, exiting in front of the Council Chambers. He opened the door to hear a loud whooping akin to what he had left behind and a blur of red as something small hit him squarely in the armor.
“WE DID IT!” Niamh shouted after kissing him on both cheeks. She let go of him and stepped back, her face flushed. She seemed to vibrate with excitement.
“I saw you give that treatment to Alaric and Cy, but not for me?” Terian asked with a frown. “I lost my head in Purgatory!”
“Nor for I, either,” Vaste agreed. “Although I am pleased to report I did not lose my head. At least not literally. I did freak out a little bit when the Siren started burning through the Healers like wildfire through a rotting forest, but I made it out okay. I only screamed once – maybe twice.”
“Oh, fine,” Niamh said and circled to the dark elf and the troll, giving them both strong kisses on each cheek. A deeply offended look by J'anda prompted her to go to him, followed by the surprised Curatio and even more surprised Vara, who had the look of a cat thrown into water.
“Do not expect me to kiss any of you on the cheeks,” Vara said archly as Niamh took her seat. “Nor anywhere else.”
“Come now, old friend,” Alaric said with a grin from the head of the table, “We would worry if you ever showed a sign of affection for anyone.”
“If you did, I would assume you were feverish and attempt to drown you in the nearest pond in the middle of the night,” Cyrus said with only the trace of a smile.
“Oh, yes, very droll,” she said with an expression that mirrored his own. “While we are all very pleased with ourselves – as well we should be – this does not solve our problems.”
“On the contrary,” Cyrus said. “It could solve one of our problems right now.” He turned to Curatio. “Did you get the tally?”
The Healer nodded. “Larana thinks that between a few of the rocks from the golems – they have some enchantments, I suppose – the skins and some other parts of the pegasi, pieces of the eel, embers from the Siren of Fire and all the liquid she managed to bottle from the Last Guardian, we will net somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 million gold pieces when we sell them through her contacts in the Dwarven Alliance.”
Vara frowned. “It should have been more.”
“I agree,” Curatio replied. “It would have been considerably more if we could sell in Reikonos, Pharesia or Saekaj – probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 million gold. But...”
“This could solve that problem,” Cyrus said, looking around the table. “We could pay off the fines without any difficulty – at least in Reikonos and Pharesia and have some money left over.”
Alaric's hand hit the table as loud as if lightning had struck. “We will not buy our way out of this, like a thief bartering for his life! This is our honor and we will fight for it with our very lives, if necessary.”
“So... more battle, then,” Vaste quipped.
“I am quite serious,” Alaric said, eyes cool.
“So was I. Unless you see some way out of this that doesn't involve us staring down armies from three hostile countries?”
Alaric stood, forcing his chair back from the table. He turned, helmet crooked under his arm and walked to the window behind him. “No, I do not see a way to avoid that conflict until we have proof that we are not behind the attacks.”
“Let us not forget,” Curatio said. “We still haven't placed Goliath's proposal before the members. We have a few months yet.”
“How could we forget that our allies have placed us in such a fun position?” Vara retorted. “I am only thankful we have no more 'friends' like Goliath, if this is what 'friends' do to you.”
“Let us discuss these matters tomorrow. We should be down there with our guildmates, celebrating.” Alaric stared out the window across the plains, helmet cradled beneath his arm. “Tomorrow, we begin the search for these bandits anew. We will catch them, even if we have to use every resource available to us.”
“Agreed,” J'anda said. “Tonight we eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we sit upon the plains for long periods of time, staring at the grasses and waiting for someone to attack a convoy.” The enchanter stood, followed by each officer in turn, until Cyrus and Alaric remained the last two in the Council Chambers.
Alaric turned. “For once it is not I who halts you at the end of a Council meeting.” A slight upturn of the lips gave the Ghost an amused look. “You have questions, I presume. I will answer what I can.”
“When we were in the water, the Gatekeeper said something about my destiny, about me becoming a Warlord greater than any in Arkaria,” Cyrus began. “Was he taunting me with idle words, or can he see the future?”
Alaric gaze met Cyrus's, but the gray of the Ghost's eye hid his thoughts. “The Gatekeeper – the Hand of the Gods – whatever you would like to call him – does possess some clairvoyance. But if you ever asked – and if he ever answered you – it would likely be something equivocal about how your choices shape your destiny, and that you are in control of whether you become a great Warlord or simply a great Warrior.”
“So he would have answered it like you,” Cyrus said with an air of amusement.
A smile split Alaric's lips. “Likely. He, too, is enigmatic.”
“There was something else.” Cyrus rested his hands at his sides, nervous energy causing him to flex them unconsciously. “There was a moment where the Gatekeeper stared at me, and he seemed to get disconcerted, and asked me who I was.”
“Yes,” Alaric nodded. “Vara described the incident to me in some detail. I would not let it concern you.”
Cyrus's eyebrows recoiled. “The Hand of the Gods became lost for words in my presence, Alaric. According to Vara, he's never lost for words. And the only other person who can do that to him – and we're talking about someone touched by the gods, who stares down the toughest, meanest fighters in Arkaria – is you. What am I supposed to think about that?”
The Ghost turned from him to face the window, and placed his helm on his head before answering. “In the interest of bringing the full facts to the table, you were also able to block the mind control efforts of the Dragonlord – an impossible feat for most. You can assume whatever you'd like about these curiosities. I cannot give you an answer.”
Cyrus felt his internal temperature change with a possibility he'd mulled over. “Am I the son of a god?”
Alaric turned back to him. “No. You are the son of a warrior that died in the Dismal Swamp campaign of the troll war.”
“How did you know that?” Cyrus stared at him with an air of suspicion.
“Belkan served with your father,” Alaric said, watching him through the slits in the helmet. “He knew your mother as well; well enough that we can rule out any godhood in your blood.”
The Ghost smiled. “There is no denying you have powers that others do not. You are special – and not just because of whatever gift you have in your mind, but because of your abilities as a warrior, a thinker and a tactician. Temper them with wisdom, courage and mercy and you have the elements of the greatest warrior in Arkaria.”
Cyrus let Alaric's words hang in the air. “I need to know about these abilities. I need to know how to control them.”
Alaric stared at him from across the chamber. “I have no answers to give you.” The paladin turned back to the window. “You should rejoin the party.”
The words tasted bitter in Cyrus's mouth as he spat them back at Alaric. “You 'have no answers to give' me? Or none you're willing to give me?”
Alaric did not turn to face him, nor did he make any motion at all. “The result is the same.”
Head spinning, Cyrus left the Council Chamber. Is he lying to me? Holding something back? Cyrus wondered as he descended the stairs. He found himself at the back of a crowd, standing in the foyer while the party raged on in the lounge, but his thoughts stayed dark, brooding.
“You don't look like you're having any fun at this celebration,” came Vara's voice at his side. He turned to face her. She still wore her armor, although she had cleaned some of the dirt and blood from her face after the Council meeting.
“I'm not,” he agreed. “I have a lot on my mind.” A sudden shock ran through him. “You never told me you had a sister!”
She did not smile. “You never asked.”
“You're right, I didn't. Any other questions I've forgotten to ask?”
“Many.”
“So your sister is an officer of Endeavor?” he probed. “And you were an officer of Amarath's Raiders?”
“We might have been slightly competitive in my family.”
“She seemed pleased to see you.”
“Why would she not be, when I am such a pleasure to be around?” Vara's expression was straitlaced, with only a hint of irony. She pointed a finger at him. “Let me not hear a word of disagreement from you, General Davidon, lest you discover tonight a reason to be displeased at seeing me.” The party hummed in the lounge, but even at a whisper, he could hear her perfectly in the foyer.
“General?” he laughed. “Feeling formal?”
She took another sip from the cup in her hand. “Actually, after that resurrection earlier and all its lovely side effects, I'm feeling rather tipsy. I can only conclude I should have eaten something before I had this. Or that perhaps I should go to bed.”
Glazing over her statement, he thought to ask a question that he had pushed to the back of his mind. “If you were an officer of Amarath's Raiders, then you know that dark knight – Archenous Derregnault – that runs the guild?”
She stiffened and all trace of mirth was gone in an instant. “I do. Why do you ask?”
He thought about it for a moment and shrugged. “I don't know. I got this sudden, deep, inexplicable loathing for him. I have no idea where it came from; it's not as though he gave me cause.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 23
