by Joseph Lallo
Cyrus’s mind raced. “What happened to the others?”
A flicker of sadness crossed Alaric's face. “A story for another time, perhaps. I, and the others of the Council, are pleased that you have joined us.” He looked Cyrus in the eye. “I have no doubt you will become a great servant of Sanctuary.”
He noted Cyrus bristle at the mention of the word servant. “Don’t misunderstand me. When I say serve, I mean that true leadership is service. In other guilds, the leader is dictator, especially in the high powered armies. Their General's word is law, their bonds of fellowship non-existent. The members serve the ambitions of the leader, whatever they may be – hunger for power, desire for riches.”
The paladin's eyes penetrated into Cyrus’s. “Though we all desire material success, great leaders derive their accomplishment from a life of service to their people's ambitions. A feeling of purpose and significance rather than having the best armor and weapons in Arkaria.” His words hit a chord within Cyrus, who had to look away from the paladin’s gaze. How did he know? Cyrus wondered.
“That is not to suggest you cannot have both the bonds of fellowship and riches.” A twinkle lit Alaric's eye. “Though perhaps you do not understand, someday you will see what I mean. For now, I must go to the Council.” He stopped, surveying the warrior before him. “We will speak again soon,” he said with absolute assurance. He turned and slid through the door of the chamber, opening it so thinly that Cyrus could not see anything within. Cyrus went back to his quarters, urge to explore oddly sated.
The appointed hour came for dinner and Cyrus made his way to the Great Hall, Andren and Narstron in tow. They found themselves in a group of over a hundred people, all as hungry as they. Many tables with benches were set up with a head table for the Council members at the back of the room, nearest the entrance to the kitchen.
A human woman worked behind the counter in the kitchen, bustling around with a few other servers as a line formed. As Cyrus made his way through, selecting from a wide variety of different dishes, he was pleasantly surprised: one of them was a meat pie. “This is my favorite!” he said.
The tanned woman in the kitchen smiled and blushed, not meeting Cyrus's gaze. “You're welcome,” she mumbled.
The three of them quickly found a table. “Very friendly lot,” Narstron commented. “I’ve gotten a good half-dozen offers to explore different places since I got here.”
“Do you mind if we join you?” An elven healer made her way over with a dwarf in tow. Cyrus couldn’t help but gawk – not only was she two feet taller than her companion, but he was wearing the most bizarre helmet Cyrus had ever seen. It came to a point on the top and two prongs on the sides swept forward. If I lose my sword in battle again, Cyrus reflected, swinging this dwarf by his feet would give me an adequate cudgel as replacement.
“I’m Celia,” the elf introduced herself. “This is my husband, Uruk.” They enjoyed a conversation with the two of them throughout dinner. Cyrus noticed that the Council went through the serving line last, in what he assumed was a reflection of Alaric’s leadership philosophy.
As the meal concluded, Alaric stood. The genial conversation and idle boasting in the hall died down quickly, a mark of respect for their leader. “I have a few announcements to make. First, for those who wish to attend, there will be a Sanctuary-sponsored Alliance invasion of Enterra, capital of the Goblin Imperium, tomorrow night.” Cy caught a glimpse of Vara out of the corner of his eye, feigning vomiting under her table. “Orion has asked,” Alaric continued, “to say a few words about this invasion, which he will be leading.”
Orion stood and placed his hands on his hips. “Tomorrow night we’ll be meeting the Alliance guilds at Enterra. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Alliance or Enterra –” Cy knew he was talking about himself, Narstron and Andren, even though he didn’t look at any of them specifically – “we are part of a three guild alliance composed of Goliath, the Daring and ourselves. Our targets are the Emperor and Empress of Enterra – as is their treasure trove.”
Orion took his hands off his hips. “We’ve received word that the Emperor Y'rakh,” the ranger stumbled over the goblin emperor's name, “has begun preparations to build their army for a march toward the Gnomish Dominions.” Orion paced the forward length of the table. “Our goal is simple: to make our way into the depths of Enterra, kill the royal family and sack their treasury.”
Orion stopped and pounded his left fist into his right hand. “If we kill the royal family it should defray any plans for conquest they have. The goblins of Enterra are also the keepers of the Earth Hammer, one of the mystical weapons supposedly imbued with the power of the gods; in this case, that of Rotan, God of Earth.
“Our biggest challenge,” he said as he resumed pacing, “will be keeping quiet. This will not be a full scale invasion as we lack the numbers to defeat the goblins by brute force. We will take only our most experienced people. About a hundred of us from Sanctuary and roughly one hundred each from the remaining two guilds gives us a force of approximately three hundred.” There was a sound of awe from the crowd. Orion dismissed it. “The goblins have an army of over ten thousand in Enterra. We are bringing enough force to fight our way in and decapitate the Royal family.” His words were greeted with great approbation.
The applause continued until he was seated once more and Alaric had stood. “Dinner is adjourned,” he proclaimed with mock seriousness. “Good luck to the invaders tomorrow. Those of you chosen to participate will receive notice. Goodnight.” The great hall emptied quickly, as members of the guild filed out, many heading upstairs but more heading to the lounge.
Cyrus found himself in a corner of the lounge, a sprawling room with multiple tables and a variety of ways to entertain oneself. He was in a conversation area with comfortable seating. Andren was enjoying the fruits of Larana’s brewing abilities while Narstron looked pensive.
“Fine ale,” Andren said.
“All the finer for being free.” Cy gave a sly look to Andren, who did not respond.
Narstron was almost bouncing in his chair, barely containing his enthusiasm. “I wonder when they’ll announce who gets to go to Enterra?”
“I’m assuming you’ll want to go, then?” Andren said, sarcasm in his voice.
The lightness of his tone was lost on Narstron. “I’ve always wanted to see Enterra. When I was a lad, growing up in the caves of the dwarven capital of Fertiss, a scouting party captured a goblin and brought it back to the Society of Arms.” He paused. “Sometimes villages in the south would get sacked and they'd say it was goblins that done it. When they attack, they leave no sign – nothing that would tell you that they were the ones that did it. They even cover up their footprints.
“Anyway, they found one wounded in a destroyed dwarven settlement.” Narstron's eyes narrowed. “We couldn’t understand him at first, but after a while, he learned our language.” His eyes grew intense at the memory. “Goblins are brutal creatures, absolutely nasty killers. They would have no hesitation about gutting you.
“But this one,” he hesitated, “he told stories of Enterra sometimes.” The dwarf looked embarrassed for a moment. “You know we dwarves like to be underground; it’s just how Rotan made us –”
“Filthy mud diggers, yes,” Andren said.
Ignoring Andren, Narstron continued. “This goblin told the stories… of how the stones of the city shone in the torchlight.” His voice took on a daydreamy quality. “I've always wanted to see it since then.” He straightened up. “I just hope I get chosen.” Narstron turned to Cyrus. “Whaddya reckon the odds are?”
“I’d say your odds are good.” Cyrus looked around and caught sight of the gnome, Brevis, holding court in front of a group. Whatever he was saying had them enthralled, but he had the look of a man discontented about something.
Cyrus shunted his attention back to Andren. “By the way, you never told me that elves live thousands of years.”
“Not exactly a cheery subject, is it?” Andren tipped his ale back. “I don't enjoy reminding you that I'll be here long after you're dust.”
“So you'll live longer than a human?”
“Already have,” he answered. “I'm two thousand years old, well into middle age. Most elves could make it to five thousand – maybe six if they're really long lived.”
“What about the 'Old Ones' you told me about – the first elves, the ones that were immortal?” Narstron asked.
Andren frowned. “Legends and bullshit, that is.” He looked evenly at Cy, catching his gaze over his glass of ale. “Don’t you have a bit of your own business in Enterra?” When Cy didn’t answer, the elf pressed him. “Same business you had with Ashan'agar?”
Cy silenced him off with a look. Checking to make sure no one had overheard them, he turned back to the circle and lowered his voice somewhat. “Yes, I do.” Reaching beneath his chestplate, his hand emerged with a small, tattered piece of parchment that he carefully handed to Andren.
The elf looked at it without saying anything for a beat. “This looks impossible.” He threw it back and it drifted in the air for a moment before the warrior caught it. “Good luck.”
Narstron shrugged. “A lot of work, but not impossible.”
Cyrus eyed the piece of parchment. “When I assemble this sword, it will be worth it.” He had read it enough times to have memorized it, but his eyes caressed the list on the paper once more before he folded it up and put it away.
Serpent's Bane – the guard and grip are in possession of Ashan'agar, the Dragonlord.
Death's Head – the pommel is held by Mortus, God of Death.
Edge of Repose – the Gatekeeper of Purgatory holds the blade as a prize for one who knows to ask for it.
Avenger's Rest – G'koal, Empress of Enterra has the Scabbard.
Quartal – the ore needed to smith the sword together is found only in the Realm of Yartraak, God of Darkness.
Brought together by one who is worthy, they shall form Praelior, the Champion's Sword.
Vara was seated by herself in a corner, quartered away, allowing Cyrus to study her unobserved. Her nose came to a point, accenting the regal bearing of her face. Her pointed elven ears were behind her blond hair, which was hanging free for the first time since he'd met her. Instead of her armor, she wore a cloth shirt and pants that, while seated, clung tightly to her. She was very fit; Cyrus could tell.
Andren leaned over to Cyrus. “Taking a closer look at our resident ice princess?” Cyrus didn't look away from Vara. He whispered, “If you keep staring at her like that, she’s likely to feel the heat of your intentions and burst into flames – round about her groin.” Cy averted his eyes and turned back to the group. Narstron was laughing quietly.
Andren looked at him with pity. “You have something for elven women? Was your wife an elf?”
Cyrus blushed. “No, she was human.”
“Wouldn't have surprised me if she was an elf.” Andren sighed. “More elven women marrying human men these days than elven ones.” His eyes cast downward. “Makes it a bit difficult on the rest of us.” He refocused on Cyrus. “Why didn't we ever meet your wife? I know you saw her not that long ago. Afraid to bring her to our old digs?”
A flash of memory hit Cyrus, and the words his former wife had spoken drifted to his mind unbidden. “You cling to your friends because you have nowhere else to go and nothing to do with your life.” His teeth gritted at the memory. “Showing her our guildhall was not going to impress her,” he said, controlling his emotions.
“See? That's why you should date a dwarven woman, if you could find one not taken by a dwarven man,” Narstron shot at Andren, who looked away. “Dwarven women found our old guildhall quite homey. It’s so dark in the slums that it's like being underground.” The dwarf smiled at the memory.
“Oh please,” Andren dismissed him. “Are you going to talk about that wench from the slums bar again? She had a bit more flesh than it took to cover her bones, if you take my meaning.”
“Aye, that’s how I like them,” Narstron said. “Anyway, she didn't mind being in there, even with you lot snoring away.”
“Oy, that explains certain night noises.” Andren grimaced. “I'm going to meet some new people,” the healer said as he stood up and walked away.
“I have to go sit in my quarters and clean my brain out with my sword,” Cyrus excused himself. He took one last sidelong glance at the table where Vara sat reading and reflected that he had no interest in meeting new people but wanted to understand one he'd already met.
When he returned to his room he found an envelope on the bed. It said, in very simple lettering:
You are chosen to go to Enterra. – Orion
Chapter 11
The next day dawned bright and sunny, but by midday the promise of its glory was cut short by rain that had by dinner turned into a thunderstorm.
“Fortunately, we don’t have to travel in that.” Narstron laughed with relief. He and Andren had gotten the same invitation as Cyrus. If not for teleportation spells, Enterra was several months journey. Instead, a druid would transport them directly to the southern edge of the Mountains of Nartanis, only a few hours hike from Enterra's entrance.
Cyrus looked across the crowd and found Brevis and his cronies laughing about something. Orion was talking quietly to Selene, who was unable to conceal a smile. Curatio, J'anda, Nyad, Vaste, and Niamh were scattered throughout the crowd but Cyrus found more curious those who were absent. Alaric was nowhere to be seen, nor was Terian or Larana. Vara was also missing, he thought, but then caught sight of her entering from a nearby doorway.
“Vara!” Brevis called out to her. “You should come with me.”
She continued walking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What does it take,” he sauntered up to her, looking her straight in the knees, “to get some time together, just you and me?”
She halted forward progress, turning back with a frown. “I have no interest in one-on-one time with you, gnome, and I have told you this many, many times. Should you continue to persist in your incessant innuendo, I will personally kill you and have Larana turn your corpse into a weapons rack for my quarters. That way, every day, I can draw my sword from one of your orifices,” she concluded as the gnome blanched. “Would that qualify as some 'time together'?”
Laughter echoed through the hall as Vara turned on her heel and resumed her course out the door.
Niamh materialized next to them. “Hi, guys,” she greeted them. “Everybody stick close: we’re going to be taking off in just a second. Squeeze in; druid teleportation spells don't reach out nearly as far as a wizard's,” she said.
She murmured a few words under her breath and the winds picked up, just as they had in Ashan'agar's den, and soon Cyrus felt his feet touch the ground again. The strong smell of sulphur wrinkled his nose and he looked down to the ash and black dirt then raised his gaze up to the horizon. Volcanic rock was everywhere – streams of lava poured forth from volcanoes, pooling in lakes of magma. Drakes flew across the sky in the distance. Cy looked around him as whirlwind after whirlwind deposited Sanctuary's army upon the volcanic soil of the Mountains of Nartanis.
Cyrus found it hard to believe that days before he had been standing in the same place, on the way to Ashan'agar's den. Looking to the east, he knew the entrance to that cavern was in the distance and shuddered at the thought of what might have happened had Sanctuary not been there.
Once the army was assembled they began their trek. The gnomes and dwarves scrambled to keep up while the humans and elves had to put forth very little effort to keep pace. No one had brought horses, knowing that they would be venturing underground.
After a few hours they left the volcanic foothills and found themselves navigating around the edge of a crater. They approached a keep built into the side of a gargantuan mountain, gates built over a cave entrance with goblins walking the walls and m
anning the entrances. Cyrus had not seen goblins before. Between three to five feet in height, they were a sort of gaunt, squat, green and scaly creature with fearsome teeth. Their large ears drooped over their skulls.
They halted at the cover of the crater's edge. Orion addressed the groups quietly. “We meet the Alliance inside the gates. Remember, stealth is our primary concern. There is an area inside the entrance where we’ll be forming up. Our spell casters will cast invisibility spells on the warriors and rangers, then on themselves and we will move to the rendezvous point. Remember, invisibility can be an unstable spell, so move through the gates quickly.”
“Why always inside the gates?” Cyrus muttered.
Orion signaled and Cy watched as one by one the army disappeared. He muted his own cry of shock as Niamh cast a spell on him and his hand and sword vanished. “It’s okay, Cy, hold on.” Her next spell made it seem as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes – everyone reappeared, although they looked faded, as though they were in a heavy mist.
Orion signaled the move after everyone had been made invisible and they walked through the gates, prompting a puzzled look from a nearby goblin who heard something but trusted his eyes. Cy continued to walk even after he had lost sight of where he was going in the dark, and he suddenly felt one of his feet meet empty air where he had thought there would be rock.
He fell forward, arms rushing out to cushion his fall, trying to roll out of it. He hit the ground a few feet later with a crash of armor on stone. He heard laughter all around him, and felt a hand reach into his and pull him to his feet. The hand was soft, gentle, but not without calluses. A lightness crept through his eyes akin to the sensation J'anda had created when he helped Cyrus see in Kortran.
