“The Council of Twelve in Reikonos holds Jesha, Corin and a half dozen others that have fled in the last fortnight,” he announced. “They will be executed unless we pay our fines and admit guilt.” He looked through the crowd, gauging reaction.
A voice in the back shouted, “Pay them!” and the call was taken up by another. Cyrus felt a pain in his gut.
“No,” a calm voice cut across the hall. Ryin Ayend stood. “It was agreed that we would wait two months before taking action. Their intemperance pains me, but they acted of their own accord.” The rumblings of the crowd settled. “We wait. We hunt. The day will come when we will make our peace with Reikonos and Pharesia, but it is not today.” The druid seated himself.
“I appreciate your patience,” Alaric said with a cool demeanor. “This is an intolerable state of affairs; Reikonos even holds captive several of the individuals who renounced all ties to us, refusing to acknowledge their renunciation.” The Ghost shook his head and returned to his seat as well; the rest of the meal passed in silence.
The next two weeks were hard. Word came that Yeral and other dark elves had been executed in Saekaj. The captives in Reikonos remained imprisoned but survived. No word had reached them from Pharesia about any captives after the first month had passed, and Cyrus found himself on a long patrol with Andren and Terian one day, curious about it.
“The King of the Elves is loath to upset his youngest daughter by detaining her guildmates,” Andren suggested.
“Doesn't he have countless daughters?” Terian asked.
Andren shifted the reins of his horse to one hand so he could reach his flask with the other. “He does. But Nyad is the youngest, and that means much in the Kingdom.”
“That would count for nothing in Saekaj,” Terian said. “The Sovereign has more bastard children than he knows what to do with.”
Andren raised an eyebrow. “He cares nothing for his heirs?”
Terian snorted. “He hasn't got any heirs. The Sovereign will never step down.”
“So he'll die on the throne?” Andren asked.
Terian did not answer and looked away.
There had been no sign of raiders in the weeks since Cyrus had spied the goblin in the wrecked convoy, but his dreams had been haunted by the red eyes, green skin and shrill voices of the Emperor and Empress in his nightmares, as well as whispers and shouts of “Gezhvet!” The face of Narstron came to him, bloody and wrecked, whispering to him.
He always awoke in a sweat, crying out. Cyrus knew it was loud enough to wake all the officers, but they remained silent about his nighttime difficulties. He rarely managed more than a few hours of sleep a night and his dreams began to bleed into his waking thoughts.
Avenge me.
The three of them led the patrol up a hill and looked down upon the plains. The green grasses waved in the early summer winds and far in the distance, there was movement on the horizon. Cyrus drew Windrider's reins, pulling him up as the other two halted.
“An army,” Andren said, squinting. “Looks like the elves to me.”
“We'll be heading the opposite direction then,” Terian replied, sour look pasted on his face. “Having all these armies running around is interfering with our ability to hunt bandits.”
“You could go ask them nicely to clear out, but odds are they'd take that as proof that we're the bandits they're looking for.” Andren grinned as he took another swig.
“I doubt they think they need any more proof, so best we avoid them and the gallows they'd take us to,” Terian answered back. “West?” he asked Cyrus.
“Agreed,” the warrior replied. He'd kept quieter on this ride than any other. As if the hellish dreams of Narstron and the goblins weren't enough, his days were spent obsessively focusing on finding the raiders. He rode hard every day, thinking of goblins, and went to bed every night dreaming of them.
They moved west and rode in silence for an hour or so before catching sight of another group on the horizon, smaller this time. “Vara's patrol,” Andren said after a studying the horizon. “Looks like she's got Niamh, J'anda and Vaste with her.”
Cyrus frowned and exchanged a look with Terian. “Niamh and Vaste were supposed to be on their own patrol.”
They rode closer, and as they approached, Cyrus could see that Andren had been right. “Hail,” Niamh said with a smile.
“Hi hi,” said Vaste across the short divide between them. “There's a really big army of humans coming from the other direction, and we all know how they feel about trolls.”
“That they're worthless and smell bad?” Terian asked with a smile.
“Just another area where you have it all wrong. Elves, they're the ones who smell bad.”
Cyrus chanced a look at Vara, who was looking back at him with a blank expression. “I do not smell bad,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Uh... I never said you did. It was Vaste.”
“You looked at me accusingly.”
Cy reeled. “I... looked at you... I wouldn't say it was accusingly. And in my experience, you have a lovely scent. Of course, I rarely get close enough to tell.”
Her eyes narrowed. “As it should be.”
“So the human army pushed you in this direction?” Cy asked.
Her wary look gave way to one of frustration. “Indeed. The noose tightens, it would appear. They may be reluctant to ride us down and confront us, but their patrols bring them closer to Sanctuary – and each other – day by day.”
“Which brings an interesting question,” Andren said. “Why haven't they attacked Sanctuary yet, if they think we're responsible for this mess?”
“Isn't it obvious?” Terian said with a snort of derision. “Either their governments don't really believe we're guilty or they're still hoping we'll pay. Or both.”
It was Andren's turn to frown. “Then why haven't they attacked each other yet, if it's like Alaric says and the humans want war?”
“They want justification,” Vaste answered. “To be able to parade their grievance in front of the world, cloak it in righteousness, to be able to say that they didn't start it but they'll damned sure finish it.”
Andren shrugged. “I don't know. It's been a few months and we've yet to see a war. I'm starting to think they're all just blustering.”
“They are, make no mistake,” Vaste replied. “But you cannot have this many soldiers this close to each other and so far from a brothel and not expect a war to start.” Laughter echoed from the ranks around them as well as from the officers.
“I suspect our patrols in this direction will be fruitless for the rest of the day,” Cyrus said. “Perhaps we should reassemble at Sanctuary and head out again on the morrow.”
“I agree,” Vara said, pulling the reins of her horse, a beautiful black stallion that belonged to her, not Sanctuary. “Heading in this general direction is sure to mean a visit from one army or another.”
They readjusted their course and set their horses at a trot toward home. Cyrus found himself riding next to Vara, a little apart from the rest of the patrol. “So,” he tried to break the ice, “how have you been?”
She had been looking straight ahead, but upon his question she froze and her head turned toward him, a look of incredulity on her face. “Is that the best you have? 'How have you been'?”
He flushed. “You're not the easiest person to talk to, you know that?” He began to lead his horse away but her voice stopped him.
“Wait,” she called out. “I am sorry,” she said with a flush of her own, scarlet creeping up to her normally white cheeks. “I should perhaps be more kind to you.” She looked down. “It is difficult for me to avoid the verbal jousting, as well you know.”
“Yes, you're like one of those creatures that has spikes jutting out in all directions from its body.” He struggled for the words. “What do they call them?”
“Dragons?”
“That too,” he agreed, “but I meant something else. Anyway, my point is –”
“Th
at I wall myself off from attempts at conversation, friendly inquiries and the like,” she interrupted, staring ahead once more. “I know this. It is intentional, after all.” She turned her head to look at him, and her armor glinted, distracting him from the earnest expression on her face. “Let us perhaps try and have a pleasant conversation on our way home, shall we?”
“I'm game if you are.”
“Very well.” She seemed to straighten in her saddle. “How have you been?”
He chuckled. “You just remonstrated me for asking that question.”
An abrupt exhalation of impatience from her was followed by a swift rolling of her eyes. “Yes, very well, I did. Fine, have it your way.” She paused. “So, how are your nightmares treating you? Still terrible, I would presume, judging by the screams that keep awakening me at odd hours,” she snapped, annoyance consuming her words.
He paled for a moment but did not respond. Her fiery look softened and her eyes widened and sunk downward, looking forward again. “I apologize,” she said after a moment. “That was unworthy.”
“Yeah.” His voice was strangled; her brusque mention of his nightmares brought on the guilt he felt for his failure to avenge Narstron and his discomfort at awakening the officers quartered around him. “I don't think today's our day for having a conversation.” He urged his horse forward, away from her.
“Wait.” A note of pleading entered her voice. “You still long for revenge on the goblins, do you not?”
He did not look back. “I do.”
“It is as I feared. You cannot bow to this craven desire. It could consume you at a time when we have more need of you than ever before.”
“These attacks and the goblin involvement have given me more reason than ever to want to finish them as a power.”
“Don't you see?” The note of pleading had increased. “This is a reckless path. If we go to Enterra, it should be to prove our innocence – if what you say is true.”
“I always hear that kind of talk from people who have the least reasons for wanting revenge on anybody.”
Vara's eyes hardened. “I assure you that I have more reason for revenge on someone than you could possibly imagine, but I have deigned not to claim that vengeance, as much as I would have liked to at times.”
His jaw set, eyebrows arched and eyes narrowed. “Then I guess you're a better person than I am. Because I'm going to kill them. As many of them as I can. I will kill the Empress and Emperor, and anyone foolish enough to guard them.” He urged Windrider forward, widening the distance between them.
Looking back, he saw her bow her head. She did not speak to anyone for the rest of the ride home.
Chapter 33
When they returned to Sanctuary, Cyrus ran up the steps without speaking to anyone. He gathered his most commonly used belongings as well as the bust that he hung his armor on and packed a bag. Carrying the bust under his arm and the bag across his back, he returned to the foyer to see Erith enter with another patrol.
“Ran into the dark elven army,” she said with a scowl. “What the hell is that?” She pointed to the bust, a figure of wood, carved from head to upper thigh, with no facial features and an androgynous body.
“It's for hanging my armor.”
“Oh.” Her face split wide in a grin. “I thought maybe it was a practice dummy.”
“For what?” Cyrus said. “Swordplay?”
“Nah,” she said with a nasty grin. “I heard you've been lonely. Figured you'd need some companionship.”
He raised an eyebrow as the bile of annoyance returned from his earlier conflict with Vara. “If so, I think I could find something prettier and more womanly than this.” He held up the faceless figure.
“I don't know,” she said with a shrug. “You've been rejecting Aisling over and over; maybe womanly isn't a concern for you.”
His eyes flicked up. “It is. Which is why I'm not interested in you.” He turned, pushing the bust back under his arm.
“Don't be jealous!” she called from behind him. “You couldn't handle all this!” He turned to see her waving at herself while gyrating slightly.
“Nobody could handle all that –” he mimed her waves, pointing at her – “for very long.” He turned the corner and headed down the stairwell to the dungeons.
They were twice as dark as he remembered from the day he had ventured through with Alaric. The twists and turns led him through a host of paths, running against locked doors, until finally he found himself standing before the cell block where he had first met Fortin. A long hallway lined with cells stretched before his eyes, all the doors open. A rumble greeted him from inside Fortin's chamber. “What brings you down here?”
“I'm looking to switch quarters,” Cyrus admitted, peeking his head inside the rock giant's room. “Are there any that don't have grates looking up into other rooms?”
“The cells,” the rock giant said. “But those are not nearly so entertaining.”
“I need some peace and quiet, where I can't hear anyone and no one can hear me.”
Fortin waved toward the end of the hall. “Down there, past the big locked door. Those are all under the meeting rooms toward the back of the building; no grates, no noise.”
Cyrus left him, walking to the far end of the hall, passing an ornate set of double doors with a heavy bar across them and a series of locks. Cyrus picked out a cool, dark cell as far from Fortin as he could find. He pulled the key from the door and pocketed it, distributing his belongings around the room.
The walls were of the same dark stone as every other room in the guildhall, but most of the cells he had seen were considerably darker. This one had several lamps scattered around and looked bigger than the other cells. It had a sink and privy, to his relief. He lay down on the cot after unpacking, and could not hear any noise – not of the bells that rang in half-hour intervals during the day to mark time, and not a whisper of dinner, in spite of being certain it was being served above.
The next two weeks dragged, as Cyrus felt himself become isolated from everyone around him. He spoke less and when he did, it was with few words. When not on patrol, he had Larana send his meals to the dungeon cell. She delivered them herself, always with a beseeching look and not a word spoken.
In spite of the best efforts of the lamps, the cell was a gloomy place, perfectly reflective of his mood. The tinge of the stones was burned into his mind by the end of the second week.
There had been no Council meetings since the day that they first learned that former members of Sanctuary had been arrested and imprisoned. Alaric was scarcely seen, but when he was his mood was somber. An Alliance officer meeting had been scheduled, much to the dismay of the Sanctuary officers, and with no other option, Alaric had agreed with greatest reluctance to host it.
“Let us be clear,” the Ghost snarled to the messenger in the Great Hall. “This is our guildhall, and it will be on my terms – none other.”
The messenger had nodded and disappeared in a blaze of energy. The day of the meeting came quickly, only two weeks before the guild vote on the merger. Patrols had been hemmed in tighter and tighter by the movements of the armies around them, cutting their effectiveness. Even an attacked convoy was a rare sight in the small area left to them to monitor.
Cyrus entered the foyer on the day of the Alliance meeting in the hour before dinner to find Malpravus and the other Alliance officers standing before him. Elisabeth and Cass from the Daring, as well as Carrack, Tolada and another figure stood behind Malpravus – a ranger, dressed in a cloak and tabard of green and a helmet of solid metal that covered his face from top to bottom with the only holes being two narrow slits for the eyes.
Orion. In Sanctuary.
The sight called forth a rage in Cyrus. His hand found his short sword and it was unsheathed in a second. He lunged even as Elisabeth screamed “NO!” and Cass moved aside to let him pass with a slight smile. Carrack and Tolada moved to block him from Orion, while Malpravus stood to the side, hands wrapped i
n his sleeves.
Avenge me.
Tolada moved forward, warhammer unslung from his back, but Cyrus kicked him, hard, before he could strike, smashing his nose and face, blood spurting everywhere as the dwarf crumpled to the stone floor, limp as a boneless fish.
Cyrus's sword came up of its own accord as Carrack raised his hand, fire already pulsing in his palm. The slash caught the wizard mid-wrist and sent his hand flying across the room in a low arc as he grasped the stump with his other and fell to his knees with a cry. With no conscious thought, Cy whipped his sword across the wizard's neck, slitting his throat. A gurgle came from beside him as the elf fell to the floor.
You and me, now. His eyes burned into the masked ranger, who had yet to move. Cyrus brought his sword up and forward with a slash that Orion dodged, but only barely. “Looks like you need a longer sword,” came the familiar voice. “It would appear that your time with Sanctuary has not been kind to your wallet, if that is all you can afford.”
With a visceral cry, Cyrus plunged the sword forward in an impaling blow, but it glanced off the ranger's doublet. SHIT! I forgot his gods-damned chainmail! He tried to bring the sword around for another slash, aiming for the gorget that was wrapped around the ranger's neck but a dagger at his throat brought him up short.
“This is unacceptable, Cyrus!” Elisabeth's voice hissed in his ear. Her blade at his neck held him back. He felt her other knife poke him in the small gap between his backplate and greaves. “You've attacked three Alliance officers and killed two of them!”
“Let me go and we'll see about a trifecta.” His words came out in a low growl.
She threw him forward with a hard shoulder check that brought him to his knees, then stepped between him and Orion. He looked around to see a small crowd of Sanctuary guild members watching in shock. Terian and Vaste were holding back Andren, who was straining against them to no avail. The remnants of a broken glass of ale lingered on the ground at his feet.
A chuckle from behind caused him to whip his head around. Malpravus stood, unmoving, in the same place he had been when Cyrus began the attack. “I see that today we receive the full hospitality of Sanctuary.” His sleeves parted to reveal his skeletal fingers, steepled. His grin was from ear to ear. “I should have expected nothing less from anyone who would stoop to attacking convoys for plunder.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 27
