When Cyrus did not answer, Vaste began to walk toward the others. “Vaste,” the warrior called. The troll turned, looking back at him. “…thank you.”
With a nod and a half smile, Vaste turned and resumed his path back to Brevis. The rain became so loud pounding on his armor that Cyrus could hear nothing at all, and somewhere in the midst of it he fell asleep.
Five
The next day he awoke to the slow sound of droplets falling from the trees. The sharp smell of stagnant water had returned, muted by the previous night’s downpour. A chill in the air raised goosepimples on Cyrus’s arms and legs.
“Ah, good, you’re awake,” came the voice of Brevis. His gnarled face hovered into view above Cyrus’s eyes, causing the warrior to start.
“You seem more chipper than you were yesterday,” Cyrus observed.
“That’s because today we collect our gold and go home!” Brevis announced with enthusiasm. His hand pointed in the direction they had been going the day before. “We couldn’t see it in the rain.”
Cyrus’s eyes alighted on yellow stone jutting above the treetops. “That’s it?” He judged it to be only a few miles away.
“That’s it,” Brevis agreed. “Let’s go, shall we?”
They broke camp a few minutes later, striding through the jungle with renewed purpose. Soon they reached a clearing and stopped. The temple had a circular base several hundred feet wide, with each subsequent floor comprised of a slightly smaller, fifteen foot high circle stacked on top. Cyrus counted 20 when he hit the topmost ring, which was almost as tall as it was wide.
Cy was reminded of an ornate wedding cake he had once seen in a baker’s window in Reikonos. The stone of the temple was a faded yellow and the walls were carved with patterns and glyphs. A set of stairs was carved into the levels in front of them, stretching up to the tenth ring, where an opening stood, imposing and dark.
“Wonderful!” Brevis cried. “This shouldn’t take long!”
Vaste edged closer to Cyrus and spoke in a voice no one else could hear. “You seem jumpy.”
Cyrus sighed, but the tension did not leave his body. “I know it sounds cowardly and clichéd, but I have a very bad feeling about this place.”
Vaste frowned. “You’re right – that was clichéd.” He looked up at the aperture far above them. “But you’re not wrong.”
They followed Brevis as the gnome squealed with excitement up the steps. Cyrus noted that each floor, although smaller, left only a foot or two of edge around the temple. He looked back; trying to skip down from the top without using the stairs would be an exceptionally poor idea.
Vaste huffed next to him. “They couldn’t have put the entrance on the ground floor?”
At the top, Cyrus looked across the jungle. Ruins dotted the landscape as if there had once been a city in the jungle, but long, long ago. Nothing was left now but remnants.
Brevis sped into the entry without waiting. Cyrus followed a few steps behind, sword drawn out of a sense of caution that he could not define. He heard Vaste’s breathing behind him and felt the wind die as they drew down the tunnel. There was a stark silence in front of him save for the gnome’s footsteps. The smell of must and stale air wrinkled his nose.
“Light, Aina,” Brevis said. A small burst of fire flew along the side of the tunnel, lighting torches as it passed. “Much better.”
“Let me help you,” Vaste said behind Cyrus. The tunnel lightened further; the troll had cast a spell that gave Cyrus improved night vision.
They passed into a large circular chamber with four sets of steps ringing the walls; two sets leading up and two leading down into the base of the temple. In the center of the room an emblem was carved in the floor, a strange icon of a death’s head surrounded by figures; some kneeling, some standing, some dying. Cyrus felt a shudder of discomfort run through him. At the far end of the room an altar was carved into the wall, raised on a dais and sandwiched between the two staircases leading up.
Brevis squeaked. “Where’s the gold?” Outrage filtered through his voice. “This place was supposed to be adorned with it!”
“Perhaps it’s downstairs?” Vaste suggested.
“Nothing down there but worlds of trouble,” a husky voice called from one of the staircases in front of them. “Cultists that used this place before turned it into a catacomb, bodies everywhere.” A drawling accent filled Cyrus’s ears and he watched a figure descending the stairs. Others came down opposite him, and some rose from behind them, cutting off the exit. They were trolls and every one of them looked lean and rangy, wearing dirty rags and carrying swords and daggers, save for the speaker who wore a gray cloak, clean white gloves and a spotless doublet. Their green skin glistened in the torchlight.
Cyrus could see the leader’s dark eyes, his face crisscrossed with scars. He came down the stairs with a calm assurance that unnerved Cyrus in spite of the leader’s hands being free of armament. The cloak moved aside and Cy caught a glimpse of a sword on his belt.
“You’re Byb Hirrin,” Vaste said.
“You know me?” Byb said, feigning surprise, hand flung mock-dramatically to his breast. “A fan?”
“You know this troll?” Cyrus asked under his breath.
“We’re not an exclusive club where all the members know each other,” Vaste replied. “I’ve seen him on a wanted poster in Reikonos. He’s a heretic.”
Cyrus looked back at the troll leader who wore a grim smile, and a rush of familiarity ran him as he connected the name with a face he had seen on posters.
“I prefer visionary,” Byb replied, almost at the bottom of the staircase. Cyrus caught sight of a troll archer standing behind the heretic.
“As I recall,” Cyrus said, looking around with a weary tone in his voice, “you were an exiled troll dark knight who captured and tortured members of The Holy Brethren and the Commonwealth of Arcanists, trying to get them to teach you their magic in some bizarre bid to defy nature.”
“What can I say?” Byb said with a sardonic look, lips flat. “I got an urge to see if I could cast wizard and paladin spells, and I just couldn’t keep myself from giving it a try.”
“So you murdered and tortured people?” Cyrus asked. Brevis stood in front of him, looking stunned. Aina was inscrutable as usual but Gertan’s constant smile had disappeared.
“Here’s the real kick,” Byb said with a chuckle, “if I’d just killed and tortured people to sate my own lusts or enrich my wallet, I’d only be wanted in Reikonos, so I could go and live it up in Saekaj Sovar with the dark elves. I hear they like killing and torturing down there; we’d get along. But, no, I went and messed with the Leagues.” He shook his head. “Heretic is a name that follows you a long ways, you know? Like…the whole world over.”
“Why not go home to Gren?” Cyrus asked. “I hear your kind likes killing and torturing too.”
Byb’s smile was ironic. “I’ve been unwelcome there for a long time.” His head swung to Vaste. “Probably for the same reason as your young friend here. You should join us,” he said with a nod. “We welcome exiles.”
“Oh, joy,” Vaste commented. “My fondest ambition fulfilled – to find a decrepit temple in the wilderness that I could live in with a band of sadistic killers for the rest of my days.” His voice dripped with irony.
“Better than the alternative,” Byb purred.
“Is there no gold here?” Brevis asked, voice filled with the last vestiges of hope.
Byb laughed, a booming sound befitting his gargantuan frame. “Nothing here but dead bodies and soon-to-be-dead bodies.”
Cyrus did not wait for another word. He swept back with his sword, catching the heretic easing up behind him with a perfect stroke that slit his throat. A quick count revealed that Byb had about ten followers lined around the room – five behind them, blocking the exit, and four descending from above along with Byb. Nine now, Cyrus thought. And all of them are bigger than me, even the females.
With a bellowing warcry, Cyrus
lunged forward, brushing Brevis out of the way and launching into the front ranks of enemies before them. He crossed swords with two brigands, a male and a female, while behind him he heard a loud thump and tossed a glance back to see Vaste had seized one of the skinny heretics and hurled him against the wall. The heretic lay bleeding next to Cyrus’s first victim, and the other three were keeping their distance from Vaste but still blocking the exit.
Arrows flew past Cyrus’s head. “Your archers are pretty sorry to miss at this distance,” Cyrus said to Byb, who stood with his arms folded at the base of the left-hand staircase. “Perhaps troll brains aren’t large enough for archery.”
“It’s not wise to insult us,” the heretic responded, eyes closed, leaning against the wall with a look of great unconcern. “We might have given you a painless death.”
“If they aim a sword as well as they shoot, I doubt it’d be painless.”
“Get us out of here, Aina!” Brevis screamed, on his hands and knees.
She nodded and began to cast a spell. A look of panic replaced her normally inscrutable look and she shook her head. “I can’t,” came her wheezing voice. “Someone’s blocking spell casting!”
Cyrus kicked the female heretic off her feet then struck the second with such force that he was knocked back into the wall. Cy darted forward to attack Byb, who sprung from where he leaned, opening his eyes and drawing his sword, a long, black blade.
“Get back here!” Brevis shouted. It took Cyrus a moment to realize that the gnome was talking to him. A slight breeze crossed his face and he turned to see the winds of a teleport spell whipping around his party. Byb’s sword blow struck him in the gut, slipping under his armor and drawing his attention back to the fight he was in. The dark knight wore a sly grin as Cyrus pulled away from the wounding strike.
Cy felt hot blood slip down his belly. Judging by the pain, it was deeper than he would have hoped. He staggered back, running into another attack; the male brigand he had knocked over grasped him, locking his arm around Cyrus’s neck. The winds of the teleport spell stirred the air around them like a howling tornado had been loosed in the temple.
Must…get…back…
Reversing his grip, Cyrus plunged the sword down, through the joint of the brigand’s knee. A scream of pain and he relinquished his grip. The winds were at a fever pitch now, vortex filling the air as Cyrus leapt forward just as the teleport spell was cast and the tornado died; his last view of his party was Brevis’s wrinkled face, twisting and distorting behind the curtains of the wind as it swept out of existence.
Six
“Courageous bunch you run with,” Byb said with a grin. Cyrus looked over his shoulder and pulled back to his feet, turning to face the dark knight and the enemies that moved forward with him. The archers had their bows raised, arrows notched and pointed. This time it was unlikely they would miss. The circle of green faces around him was a mass of unbroken smiles as they edged closer to him.
He backed up and bumped into a solid wall. With alarm, he looked back to see Vaste standing, back against his. He felt a warm touch course against his belly wound as the troll cast a healing spell on him. “It would appear we’re against some dramatic odds here,” Vaste observed.
“I don’t favor your chances,” Byb drawled. “Eight against two? Why don’t you give up now and we can hash out what’s to be done with you.”
“Why?” Vaste asked. “Fancy the idea of torturing a healer to try to learn his magic as well?”
“Seems pointless,” Cyrus commented, “since he’s a dark knight and can only learn the spells of a dark knight.”
Byb’s grin grew wider. “That noble effort at experimenting – that’s what makes me a heretic.”
“And the torture and murder?” Cyrus gazed at the troll’s dark eyes and saw pools of uncaring, a reflection of everything he’d ever known about trolls. He would kill us and anyone that came after us, and not lose a wink of sleep over it.
“It’s fun,” the heretic replied. “You want to hear how I got started on that? See, I survived the battle of Thurren Hill, when Quinneria killed ten thousand of us with a single spell, and I had this crazy idea—”
Vaste pushed back from Cyrus, causing the warrior to stumble forward. He swung his sword in a clumsy swipe at the enemies in front of him, causing them to take a step back. He shot an angry look at Vaste, who had used his massive frame to knock back three of the enemies behind them. Two others circled to block the door. Arrows sunk into the back of the Healer, who let loose a roar of outrage and charged down the staircase behind them. “COME ON!” he shouted.
Cyrus did not need to be told twice. He took another swing at the approaching heretics and ran for the staircase. He followed Vaste, taking the steps two and three at a time. Torches burned ahead of him, and he saw the healer’s bulky figure cut to the right around a corner.
“There’s no way out from down there!” Byb’s voice called. “Get comfortable; we’ll wait for you up here. When you’re ready, come on out. If the human is dead, that’s even better.” A round of guffaws could be heard echoing in the catacombs. “He looks meaty. He’ll make a good dinner.”
Cyrus stopped and looked back around the corner. There was no sign of pursuit. “Do you believe him?”
“About you being a good dinner? I doubt it; you’re too lean; I like some fat on my meat—”
Cyrus glared through the dark. “About there being no way out.”
“Oh. Yeah. I believe him.”
“Can’t we just use your return spell to escape to Sanctuary?”
Silence hung between them as Vaste raised his hand and rested it on the back of his head. “We could. If I knew that spell.”
“You don’t know the return spell?” Cyrus hissed. “I thought every magic user got taught it in League training!”
Vaste shrugged. “My training was somewhat unconventional.” He shifted his gaze downward. “I’ll learn it when we get back. I’ve been meaning to for a while, but when you always travel with wizards and druids it seems unnecessary.”
“Figures.” Cyrus’s voice was low and malicious. “I get saddled with the only healer in Sanctuary that doesn’t know how to cast a return spell – and you’re just like them: a…” His hands gesticulated, pointing at Vaste in accusation.
“A what?” Vaste spat back. “A troll?”
“A savage!”
“Says the man with the blood-covered sword! Brilliant, dumbass. Because I’m a troll I’m automatically a savage? You’re ignorant – and not because you’re human, but because you’re a damned ignorant idiot!”
“Your whole race is savages. Everybody knows it. Slavers and savages; it’s why the humans and the elves went to war against you twenty years ago!” The adrenaline was coursing through Cyrus’s veins and his words were flowing faster now, no care to what he was saying.
“You think I’m like them?” He waved at the entrance to the catacombs. “Do you blame me for your father’s death too?” Vaste looked at Cyrus, the torchlight reflecting in his dark eyes, specks of brown shining in them. “Oh, yes, Orion told me – your father died in the war with my people. Congratulations!” A sneer crossed the troll’s face, his lips twisted. “I hate to tell you this, but I was your age during the war, because all I remember of it was the day my mother and father died, and the outrage and public mourning when we surrendered.”
“And did you mourn too?” Cyrus snapped. “Did you pound your chest with all the other trolls? Rejoice in human deaths like all the others?”
“Of course I did.” Vaste’s calmness unnerved him. “I was four years old and I had lost my parents. I went along with the crowd; it’s not like I had the capacity to make up my own mind yet. In fact, I didn’t really make up my own mind until long after I left the troll homeland.”
Vaste’s finger reached out, resting light on the front of Cyrus’s breastplate. “I could sit around and bemoan fate and get bitter about all I’ve lost every day for the rest of my life. Most tr
olls do; they wake up and spend their days grousing about how much their life sucks and how they went from being citizens of the largest and most powerful nation in Arkaria to being refugees living in tent cities in a swamp, and every night they go to bed with a complaint on their lips. I wanted more; and I’m smarter than most of them – smarter than you as well, by the appearance of things.”
“You think so?”
“Well, we’re outnumbered in the middle of a temple filled with troll heretics who would let me freely join them if I killed you, and you seem to want to piss off the only person in this temple that would like to see you live, so you tell me – how smart are you?” Vaste crossed his arms, staring down at the human warrior.
Dammit. He’s right. “Fine, we’ll settle this later.”
“Settle what?” Vaste asked. “Settle my stupidity for assisting you at every turn? Settle my idiocy for trying to make nice with you even though you have constantly rebuffed my every attempt to be friendly? Settle my entire people’s debt for killing your father in the war?”
“I don’t know – we’ll talk about it later!” Cyrus replied.
“Talk about what?!” Vaste shouted at him. “Do you think I would sell you out to them to save my own skin? Do you think I killed your father?”
“YES!” Cyrus shouted back, last reserve of fury breaking loose. “You and your whole treacherous, violent, brutal race!”
A silence hung in the air between them as Cyrus took a moment to compose himself. He struggled to catch his breath while Vaste stared him down. “You’re still alive, Davidon. I haven’t betrayed you.”
“Yet.” The words came with a bitter, acrid tone that burned his tongue.
“I’ve extended the hand of friendship at every turn and you’ve slapped it away,” Vaste said. “Now we’re alone in the jungle, surrounded by enemies, and you want to count me among them. What is it going to take?” Vaste shook his head, a look of incredulity in his eyes. “You told me when we met that you would judge me based on my actions and not my race. I have extended courtesy after courtesy and had you throw them back in my face! I’ve judged you based on those words and not your actions, and you have judged me by lumping me in with those vile murderers up there!” Vaste’s long finger wagged at the corridor they had entered from. “I’m not them! You might have been right about those trolls, but you’re wrong about me!”
Sanctuary Tales (Book 1) Page 2
