by Joseph Lallo
“What about our meager means?” Andren asked as he refilled his glass from the keg. Fueled by alcohol, he brought forth a topic that he might not otherwise have broached.
“No membership dues and they're training as they go.” Cyrus paused. “We still have to discuss this. I’d like us to be unanimous in our decision. Just to be clear – we are talking about folding the Kings. Shutting it down and walking away –”
Andren broke in. “Because this place is the sort of home we all dreamed of. We’re broke! We’re barely scraping a living with what we get from the places we can go with the abilities we have. Isn’t anybody else sick of sleeping in bunk beds like we’re children?”
He pounded his chest. “I’m well nigh tired of it. I’d be better off if I’d stayed in the Healer’s Halls than living this adventurer’s life! You know we’re better than this. We are being handed a golden opportunity to move up in the world. As long as we stick together, we can make this work for us. And if Sanctuary doesn’t feel like the right place we can always fill our pockets and keep moving up, right?”
Face impassive, Cyrus looked at him. “I know it’s hard to believe, considering how… unpleasant things are for us, but we’ve scraped enough together to get this far. We know next to nothing about this Sanctuary group and joining them is a big commitment.”
Narstron made his mind known. “We know that four of their people risked their lives in a dragon expedition they knew was doomed from the start to try and save lives. We might have died had they not been there.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “That tells me everything I need to know about them, right there. I think we can trust them.”
Cyrus laughed. “It wasn’t but an hour ago you were wondering if there was one person in that expedition we could trust. Now you’re ready to trust four of them with your future.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying we don’t do this but I need at least a night to think over the possibilities.” He smiled at what he saw in their eyes – hope, something that had been gone for far too long. They had joked and had fellowship here and built a bond that would endure. But it was a bond born of common suffering: bunk beds, secondhand mattresses, equipment and furniture that were falling apart.
“I’m as excited as you,” Cyrus added. “To have performed admirably enough that we’re invited to join them is an honor and we should be proud.” He paused. “I just need to be sure this is the right decision.” With the last word, he strode past them to his bunk and lay down, drawing the curtains. It didn’t do much to help the sound, but they’d all gotten used to living in close quarters. They kept their voices down, but Cyrus heard the possibilities in every word, as well as a few other things.
“What about that Vara?” Andren murmured. “She is really something. Her armor must be powerfully enchanted to let her leap like that. And did you see how fast she swung that sword?” He chortled, a low sound filled with unmistakable lust. “I wouldn’t mind helping her take down that ponytail.”
“I doubt you’d survive the attempt, old friend,” Narstron said. “I suspect there’s nary a man she’s met that she hasn’t employed that armor and sword on – the armor to keep them at bay, and the sword to put them out of their misery when they least expect it. You're right, though: to move that fast and hit that hard, a little girl like that has to have some powerful friends. That armor is worth a fortune, I'm sure.”
Andren guffawed. “If ever someone got her out of the armor, he would behold the sweetest sight ever known to man.” The healer paused. “Actually, two of the sweetest sights, I suspect,” he said, laughing, the alcohol having overtaken all good sense.
Narstron laughed along with him. “Too true, but I think your error was in assuming it’d ever be a man that would witness. Maybe a woman?” A chuckle came from the dwarf. “She's royalty, right?”
“Have to be. Unless...” Andren's voice drifted for a moment. “Vara... unless she's...” His voice drifted off and he said something that sounded to Cyrus's ears like ‘shell massacre’. Andren was quiet for several moments after that.
The discussion continued but Cyrus tuned it out. What am I doing here? The thought made its way to the surface of his mind again, unbidden.
Tired as he was, the talking didn’t keep him awake, and soon he’d entered a fitful sleep, filled with visions of dragons, gold, battle, guildhalls… and a ponytailed elf, in shining silver armor, looking at him with an expression that was a cross between loathing and something very different.
Chapter 5
Cyrus awoke in the middle of the night. Silence surrounded him, broken only by the faint snores of Narstron in the bunk to his left. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and let his feet touch the floor. Strapping on his armor (he never left the hall without it, lest he be caught unprepared), he strolled through the streets of Reikonos. His feet carried him through the commercial district, where the shopkeepers had closed for the night.
His eyes came to rest on the storefront of a jeweler; a glass window with the name of the establishment emblazoned across it. In the bottom corner of the window was a sign big enough to be seen from some distance: ‘No Dark Elves’. A common sight in the commercial district, where shops were affluent and catered to different clientele than in the slums or the markets. Posters were nailed to the left of the door, a few of which screamed ‘WANTED’ and ‘HERETIC’ in bold letters and carried artists’ renditions of the faces of the accused.
A life in the slums was not what Cy had planned when he’d taken over leadership of the Kings of Reikonos from the previous leader. Gunter had been a human wizard, a great thinker who had passed the mantle of leadership so he could quest for knowledge in the elven capital of Pharesia. He had left a depleted guild bank, an untenable morale situation, and no guildhall.
The only three people in the guild at the time were Cyrus, Narstron and Andren. Talk of disbanding and joining another guild had given way to talk of expansion when no suitable options had been found, and Cy had been naïve enough to believe that he could lead them to glory. Efforts had yielded a few recruits here and there, but without a guildhall they were left meeting in wayside inns – a blow to their credibility when they proclaimed themselves ‘a guild on the move’.
Scorned by any reputable recruit, Cyrus had used his entire savings to clear up that nagging image problem, not considering the consequences of having their guildhall in a barn. Most of their potential recruits lasted less than a full night. Who can blame them? Cyrus thought. I don’t even want to live there, and it’s my guildhall!
His feet carried him down the street to the Reikonos market, the center of all commerce in the land of Arkaria. Almost every race was welcome in Reikonos (though not always heartily accepted, like the dark elves). Even a handful of the savage trolls bartered in Reikonos, and they had been at war with nearly every power in Arkaria less than twenty years earlier.
As he walked from stall to stall, he watched as vendors plied their wares, even now, in the wee hours of the morning. The rest of Reikonos might yet be asleep, but the market had a pleasant hum. He saw things that he wanted, that could help him; armors and potions, swords and helmets, things that could bear an attack by titans. And, he reflected, seemed less likely to be his as the gods coming down and smiting him.
His path carried him past a line of merchants and when he looked up he found himself face to face with Orion, who had finished bartering with a trader. “Fancy meeting you here, Cyrus. Having trouble sleeping?”
Cyrus blinked. Realizing the fruitlessness of arguing an obvious point, he decided to switch to the offensive instead. “Do you always do your shopping at 3 o’clock in the morning?”
“I usually don’t, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow and I wanted a new pair of chainmail pants.” Reaching out, he took them from the trader. “What do you think?” he asked as the small, flawlessly crafted chain links rolled down.
Though Cyrus was by far too big for them, he recogn
ized the exquisite craftsmanship and material of the chainmail. They would easily have cost double what he had spent on the guildhall. “Those must cost a fortune – they're very impressive.”
Nodding in thanks, Orion switched subjects as deftly as Cyrus had deflected his earlier inquiry. “What’s on your mind at this hour? Could it be the invitation I proffered?” He began to walk toward the Square.
Cyrus fell into step beside him. “Yes, I am wrestling with that decision.”
“What exactly are you wrestling with? Are your guildmates not interested?”
Cyrus laughed. “No, they’re definitely interested. In fact, were it up to them, we’d have been suppering at your guildhall last evening. No, it’s me you have to convince.” Looking around to make sure no one could overhear them, Cyrus took a step closer to Orion and lowered his voice.
“These are my people. I’ve shepherded them through good times and bad. I have their best interests at heart. They’re good people, a bit rough around the edges, but honorable.” He paused, considering his next words. “There are guilds that would use us for our talents, and discard us as easily – or leave us to die when it became convenient.”
Orion’s eyebrow rose. “Do you believe Sanctuary is that type of guild?”
Cyrus deflated. “No, I don’t. Everything I’ve seen indicates you’d go out of the way to help a stranger avoid death; I can’t imagine you’d abandon your own.”
Orion smiled. “You take so much responsibility for your people’s lives that you want to make certain that we would do the same.”
“If Sanctuary holds up to the same code of honor I’ve seen from you, Niamh, Selene and,” Cyrus drew a sharp intake of breath, “Vara, I have no doubt we’d be in good hands. I have a hard time entrusting my guild to yours without seeing more than I have.” He settled on what he really wanted to convey. “I just want to make sure that you’re the rule, not the exception.”
Orion nodded agreement. “I understand. I have a proposition for you.”
“The sleeplessness from your last proposition has yet to fade.”
The ranger laughed. “Hopefully this will ease your sleeplessness. I propose you join our army in battle so you can meet the rest of the guild and see what we’re all about.”
“You’d permit that? I would accept.”
“Great! When and where are we going?” A voice from behind startled them both. Narstron stood behind them, rubbing his hands together.
“Kortran, the City of the Titans – tomorrow evening. We'll meet you inside the gates. It’s in the southern lands, in the valley at the south end of the Gradsden Savanna.” Orion walked up the raised steps to the fountain in the square. Another spell caster, an elven woman in red robes sat on the edge of the fountain, awaiting him. She stood up and joined him as Orion smiled down at them. “You won’t regret this.”
Watching the ranger vanish in a burst of blue light as the magics engulfed him, Cyrus could only hope he was right.
Chapter 6
It was hot on the savanna. Even with the sun setting it was much warmer than the slums in Reikonos that they had left hours earlier. Cyrus and Narstron had crept away from the guildhall at the noon hour while Andren was still passed out. He had handed a wizard in the square fourteen bronze pieces to teleport them to the Gradsden Savanna. They had walked through the tall grass all afternoon, working their way toward Kortran, which was nestled in a valley where the savanna gave way to impassable mountains.
Narstron did a surprisingly good job of cutting through the grass that barely stretched above Cyrus’s navel. Though he would never admit it, he was pacing himself so he didn't leave Narstron behind. After a few more minutes they reached a large rock and crouched behind it. Before them, a mammoth stone arch stood as a protective gate in front of a pass leading down into the valley.
“Gods, it is massive,” Cyrus breathed. “It’s the height of forty humans – or fifty elves – or eight hundred and seventy three dwarves.”
Narstron let the remark pass. “It’s not the height of the arches that has me concerned – it’s the size of the titans guarding them.”
Cy’s eyes moved down from the top of the archway to the bottom and found two titans, at least twenty feet tall, stationed as sentries. He and Narstron crept forward, coming to rest and hiding behind the last clump of bushes between them and the titans.
“And in terms of a plan?” Cyrus looked at Narstron.
Taken aback, Narstron pondered before his reply. “Charge?”
A flash of irritation crossed Cyrus’s brow. “No healer. Brilliant thinking; typical of you.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Where are we meeting them again?”
“Inside the gates.”
“Damn.”
“Indeed.” Shaking his craggy head, a shout echoed forth from him. “'Lo, Sanctuary, where are ye?!”
Cy’s stomach dropped – a sick feeling, made worse by the sight of two titans turning their heads to fix upon them. Their eyes burned with the fire of a killer about to destroy a helpless victim. Cyrus followed his stomach immediately, dropping to both knees behind the bushes.
Narstron lingered, head sticking out of cover. “No need to hide; they’ve seen us.”
A roll of the eyes, a breath of exasperation, and the sound of his sword being drawn – steel on scabbard, instinctively in his hand – all these sensations passed in a moment. A moment which was cut short by the war cry of the sentries charging toward them.
“Bugger.” Cy tensed. Not one to run from a fight, he prepared himself mentally for the impending possibility of death. Leaping from behind the cover of the bushes, he followed Narstron, already a half dozen steps ahead of him, moving toward the titans.
Roots suddenly sprung from beneath the earth, as though the grass had grown rapidly around them, entangling the feet of both titans, holding them in place. Arrows rained upon them and a bolt of lightning struck both of them from out of the clear sky. They were easy prey for the warriors when they reached them.
When both were on the ground, dead, Cyrus looked up to find Selene, Orion and Niamh standing behind the stone archway. “That’s the problem with warriors,” Orion chuckled. “No subtlety. Haven’t you boys ever heard of an invisibility spell?”
“I can't cast spells.” Cyrus looked up as he closed the distance between them, Narstron in tow.
“You’re injured, Cy.” Selene looked on with concern when they had reached the archway. A faint trickle of blood ran down the armor on his wrist where one of the titans had grazed him.
“Flesh wound.”
She tut-tutted at him in a very matronly way, and murmured an incantation under her breath. He felt a healing wind cross his arm, and the blood stopped, flesh bound and made whole.
“Good timing.” Niamh's red hair blew in the hot wind. “What was your plan if we hadn’t been here to save your sorry asses?”
“I don’t think you just saved our asses on that one, Niamh.” Cy blinked. “I’m pretty sure they would have chopped up the whole of us.”
“Yeah, but you’re all ass, all over, so…” She smirked.
They chuckled. “Come on,” Orion called out, “we heard you shout from the meeting point. The rest of the guild is waiting.” They hurried under the archway down the path to the valley beyond.
Cyrus breathed deeply as he trotted along; the air was slightly cooler as they began their descent into the valley. Boulders obscured the road ahead until they came to a point where the path widened. Adventurers were assembled throughout the area.
Almost eight feet tall, a troll stood in the midst of a group of elves, dwarves and humans. Cyrus’s sword was immediately unsheathed and in his hands, watching. Clad in a black tunic that clashed with his green skin and carrying a staff that glowed with mystical power, the troll was lounging against a rock. Cyrus forced a steely calm over himself.
Orion, sensing a tense moment, placed a hand on Cyrus’s s
houlder. “It’s okay: he’s one of us.”
Cyrus’s jaw unclenched. “Do you regularly associate with trolls?”
“Vaste is different.” Orion paused for a minute. “You were too young to be in the war.”
Cyrus's eyes were cold. “You’re right; the war with the trolls was going on when I was a child. But my father died in the Dismal Swamp campaign. I don’t even remember him. My mother raised me on tales of what the trolls did until she died.”
“I assure you that Vaste was not in the war; he's younger than you are. Nor is he your typical troll; he’s a healer.
“I thought trolls were too stupid to use magic.”
“A common misperception. That’s a rumor that spread during the war. Most trolls don’t know how to use magic because it’s a lost art among their people.” Orion looked at the black clad troll. “In fact, Vaste is considered an outcast among his people. They don’t much like the ways of outsiders – the trolls that survived the war are a tightly cloistered community.”
A long pause filled the air between them. “That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “Us 'outsiders' don’t care for their ways either – slaving and banditry.”
Orion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to try and convince you that the empire of the trolls hasn’t done those things. All I’m telling you is that Vaste is different.”
Cyrus resheathed his sword. “We'll see.”
“Most gracious of you,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “I can only hope you are as kind toward others – say, orphans and stray dogs.” Vara brushed past him to stand next to Orion. “If not, I fear you’ll be devoured by a puppy while trying to figure out which end of your sword is to be used for best results.” Her gaze was cold and her voice reflected it. The armor still shone, but today her long blond hair was worn in a severe bun atop her head.
“So nice to see you again, m’lady,” Narstron said with sarcasm.
