Quest SMASH

by Joseph Lallo

  It was for he I felt the greatest pity. I am young, but as an elf, I will look young when that warrior turns one hundred. He was young in appearance and fact. He was familiar to me in a way I can't describe. Call it elven intution but I knew that I had to save his life.

  “I cannot abide such a waste,” I said under my breath.

  “It's a shame,” Niamh said. “They'll all be dead soon enough.”

  “We have things to accomplish today,” Orion said.

  “We should go along and save all we can when things go awry,” I said. It was not one of my better ideas. If you had asked me in that moment why I was suggesting this, I could not have defined it for you. If you had picked that warrior out of his group of friends, dragged him over to me and forced me to explain exactly, precisely, what it was about him that was causing me to (somewhat uncharacteristically, even for a crusader) lead my party into gravest danger against such odds, I could not have told you in that moment why.

  “Are you mad?” Orion said, amazed. “This is certain death! Even a noble paladin must recognize such a hopeless cause.”

  “I recognize no cause as hopeless,” I said, surprised to find it true. Perhaps I was not as cynical as I believed.

  “They will die and they will take us with them,” Orion said. Selene stood at his shoulder, expression neutral. “That interferes with my other plans for today.”

  “Niamh can stand ready to teleport us out when things go wrong.” I exhaled, annoyed at having to convince this tree herding so-called officer of Sanctuary to behave with honor. “We can save at least some of them.”

  “No.” Orion shook his head. “We're a group and I say we vote – and I vote nay.”

  Niamh looked at him. “I vote we go. This is our purpose in Sanctuary, remember? We help those who can't help themselves, and I don't think I've seen a more obvious group in that department.”

  “I think it's obvious I vote yes,” I said. All of us turned to Selene, who had frozen in place. Her expression was peaceful, but her eyes were closed in deep contemplation. After a moment, she spoke.

  “We follow shelas'akur,” Selene whispered. Orion's face fell, but he gritted his teeth and came along.

  When we reached the depths of the cave, Orion introduced himself to several people, trying to make inroads to save us time when the moment came that we had to take over to save their lives. When he began a conversation with the warrior, I was in a position to look at him, observe him. I fear I might have stared a bit too much, however.

  He really did look a bit like... you know.

  In battle, he was brave. I'm not reticent about fighting, but the warrior killed a rock giant singlehandedly through brilliant positioning. He's a bit more action than brains, and I let him know that, but in truth... he is strong and skilled. He fought the Dragonlord from underneath with me and survived. More than that, he somehow resisted the Dragonlord's coercion spell, his hypnosis. I had been told that it never failed against our races, that if you looked into the eyes of Ashan'agar, he would own you down to your very soul, forever.

  The warrior not only shrugged off the coercion – he struck the Dragonlord's eye from his body. Impressive. I have no idea how he managed to avoid becoming a slave to Ashan'agar's will.

  Naturally, I did not let the warrior know I found any of this impressive in the least. When it comes to a warrior such as this, too much reckless confidence can lead to quick death. Orion began to fawn over this warrior, Cyrus, begging him to join Sanctuary. I, on the other, was much more reserved in my reaction. I suspect he may even have found me to be a bit cold.

  If only he knew.

  Cyrus looked up from the journal. The script was beautiful, flowing. He flipped ahead, finding a passage of great interest, and stopped to read.

  Alaric gauged my reaction carefully. “If you say there is something... special about this warrior, I believe you.”

  “There is,” I said. “He is... he reminds me of... but he's not the same as...” My voice trailed off. My thoughts were chaotic, annoying. My mind was so firmly under my control until he showed up on that damned dragon expedition. “He somehow broke through Ashan'agar's mind control.”

  Alaric's reaction was immediate. “How?” the Ghost demanded.

  My eyes fell in embarrassment. “I don't know.”

  He leaned forward, hands crossed in front of him on the table in the Council Chambers. “Very interesting. I confess, I had met one other with that particular strength, but that was...” a smile crossed his face, “...long ago.” He stood. “Very well. This warrior bears watching, then.”

  Cyrus frowned and looked up from the journal. The skies had begun to darken, lengthening the shadows in the room. The fireplace sprung to light, followed by the mystical torches, one by one around the room. With a smile of appreciation, Cyrus continued his reading by the firelight. He skimmed until another passage caught his eye.

  “He's going to die!” I shouted at Alaric. The innkeeper in Nalikh'akur was a man of great discretion, and had shown me the utmost respect since our arrival, having known I was shelas'akur on sight. I heard the back door open and shut as he left me to my conflict with my Guildmaster. “He's going to die right here in this inn, and there's not a damn thing any of us can do about it!”

  “This one has great strength: I doubt a simple fever will claim him.” Alaric studied me, his eye fixed on mine.

  “While I will agree he is easily as stubborn as twelve mules, that does not make him immune to the laws of nature, Alaric.”

  Alaric eyed me carefully. “Your conduct toward this warrior is most bizarre, my friend. You spar, you attack, you remonstrate and verbally eviscerate the man, yet in private you defend his conduct, his character and praise him with words that, were they to come out in public, would make you blush.” He folded his arms. “I am quite used to defending you for your verbal tirades but I am quite unused to you being less than candid with someone in this way.”

  I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “I... my history, as you know, is somewhat complicated.”

  A nod. “I know.”

  “I cannot... explain what it is about him,” I said, searching for the words.

  A twinkle filled the old paladin's eye. “I believe I could find a word, if pressed into choosing one.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I told him, a bit cross.

  “You will continue to attend him?” Alaric gazed at me with that eye that bored into my very soul.

  “Until he's fully recovered,” I agreed without hesitation.

  The Ghost pursed his lips as he pondered his next words. “I will send Curatio to aid you as soon as I can spare him.” His hand came up to forestall the protest already making its way to my lips. “He is a healer. He can help. Cyrus's life is at stake.”

  I nodded in surrender.

  Alaric turned to leave, placing his helm back on his head. As he turned to go, he paused and looked back at me. “I offer you this final piece of advice in the spirit of our longstanding friendship. Since the day we have met, I have had nothing but the utmost respect and affection for you…”

  I blinked, not quite sure what to say.

  “I tell you this now: however you feel about this man, know that the way you are treating him is driving him down the road of hating you.” I bit my lip. “You cannot spew the venom that you do and then be sweet and kind behind his back and expect to have any sort of relationship – friendship or otherwise.” The Ghost's eye narrowed. “If you ever mean to be closer to him than you are, you must stop,” he sighed, “or at least try to cut back – on the biting repartee.” He left without another word.

  I hate crying. And yet, after he left, I sat in the chair next to Cyrus and wept for the next three hours, staring at the warrior the whole time.

  Cyrus blinked in astonishment as he pictured Alaric and Vara sparring at the inn in Nalikh'akur. Flipping a few more pages he found an entry that looked as though it had water spilled on it, then d
ried. Streaks had caused the ink to run.

  I am actually crying as I write this. Damn the man. Damn him for scaring the hell out of me. When he vanished out of sight on the back of the Dragonlord, Vaste and I scanned the sky continuously. I confess, with great difficulty, that I was worried.

  A small speck caught my eye first. “Over there!” I shouted as it grew in size. I realized it was the Dragonlord spiraling to the ground. “My gods, he's actually done it,” I breathed.

  “It would appear there's more to our warrior friend than meets the eye,” Vaste said.

  “Or less,” I said without any conviction. “It could be less,” I said in reaction to Vaste's look. He didn't believe me. Hell, I didn't believe me. I took off toward the nearest peak, crossing hills for a closer look as the dragon continued to plummet. The descent slowed at the end but a tremendous crash could be heard throughout the mountains.

  As soon as the impact was assured, I began an immediate descent of the slope in the direction of the sound, panic filling my senses. It took long minutes over the uneven ground of the Mountains of Nartanis, as well as much grumbling from Vaste (“Couldn't we have just fought the dragon on the Plains of Perdamun?”) before we reached the site of the Dragonlord's landing.

  When I crested the last hill, my breath caught in my chest. Ashan'agar was stretched on his belly across the small valley, one wing ripped from his body and the other twisted at a sickening angle. The Dragonlord was breathing, a sad, rattling sound, and both his eyes were now missing. Without thought to my own safety, I ran down the hill, tripping several times and cutting my hand on one boulder.

  I reached the dragon, who had moved only slightly since I had started my descent. Forgetting myself and that I had no weapon, I ran to the Dragonlord's neck. “Where is he?” I asked, only then remembering I had no sword.

  “Dead,” came a rattling pronouncement from the blinded Dragonlord. “I am triumphant.”

  “Triumphant? You are blinded and dying!” I spat at him. Rage filled me. “Know this, Dragonlord: you were bested by a human warrior who fought you without assistance from any other. If that is your version of triumph then I would hate to be defeated under your definition.”

  “I am not dead yet,” Ashan'agar rumbled. “And I am free. I have tasted the sky once more.”

  “If I had my sword, I would kill you now,” I said, fury shaking my hands.

  “For him?” the dragon needled.

  “I would kill you for my own account.”

  The dragon's jaws snapped together and his head twisted toward me. Bones cracked as he moved. “Step closer; I will reunite you with your lover.”

  “He's not my...” My voice trailed off. “...lover,” I finished, inflection flat.

  “He's over here,” Vaste said from behind me.

  I abandoned my conversation with the dragon and ran toward the troll, who stood above Cyrus's shattered body.

  “No no no no no.” I hit my knees by his side, grasping at him. I tore the helmet from his head and flung it aside, lifting his face to mine. I pressed my forehead to his, clutching him tightly, praying that the breath of life would be on his lips. He hung limp in my arms, tears falling from my eyes and splattering on the fallen warrior's face.

  “Would you like to compose yourself first or should I revive him now?” Vaste asked with a slight smile crooking his green face. I must confess, in my anguish I had quite forgotten about the resurrection spell. Seeing him lying there, I had only the thought that he might never speak again, that I might never argue with him... or tell him... I can't even say it. I can't even write it.

  I sniffed and ran my hand across my eyes, dislodging the tears resting there. “Yes,” I said. “Please, do revive him.” I stood and dusted the ash and dirt from my greaves as the magical effect touched him and his pale skin flushed with the breath of life.

  Cyrus blinked. He had known Vara for a long time, and to read her innermost thoughts was almost disconcerting. It did not fit well with his memories of the events in question; he had always ascribed her motives to hating him somewhere deep inside. To find it might not be true... he stroked the paper and closed the book, listening to the quiet shuffle of the pages brushing against each other. He set it aside and stood up, walking to the window.

  Recalling the certainty he'd felt in that first year in Sanctuary, that strength of purpose, gave him pause. The feeling of confidence reached across the years and touched him where he stood, in the wreckage of this place he had called home, although it no longer had the power it once did. A tear ran down the warrior's cheek at the memory of all that had been lost in the interceding years.

  Out on the plains, the wind continued to whip under the gray skies and that same feeling came once more, the uncertain mixture of fear and regret, and the warrior in black looked across the horizon in hopes that soon – very soon – that feeling would be gone.

  Thanks for reading

  If you enjoyed this story, you can continue the adventure with the next chapter of The Sanctuary Series: Avenger.

  Other Works by Robert J. Crane

  The Sanctuary Series

  Epic Fantasy

  Defender: The Sanctuary Series, Volume One

  Avenger: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Two

  Champion: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Three

  Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

  Sanctuary Tales, Volume One - A Short Story Collection

  Thy Father's Shadow: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 4.5

  Master: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Five

  Fated in Darkness: The Sanctuary Series, Volume 5.5* (Coming in 2015!)

  Warlord: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Six* (Coming in 2015!)

  The Girl in the Box

  and

  Out of the Box

  Contemporary Urban Fantasy

  Alone: The Girl in the Box, Book 1

  Untouched: The Girl in the Box, Book 2

  Soulless: The Girl in the Box, Book 3

  Family: The Girl in the Box, Book 4

  Omega: The Girl in the Box, Book 5

  Broken: The Girl in the Box, Book 6

  Enemies: The Girl in the Box, Book 7

  Legacy: The Girl in the Box, Book 8

  Destiny: The Girl in the Box, Book 9

  Power: The Girl in the Box, Book 10

  Limitless: Out of the Box, Book 1

  In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2

  Ruthless: Out of the Box, Book 3

  Tormented: Out of the Box, Book 4* (Coming in June 2015!)

  Southern Watch

  Contemporary Urban Fantasy

  Called: Southern Watch, Book 1

  Depths: Southern Watch, Book 2

  Corrupted: Southern Watch, Book 3

  Unearthed: Southern Watch, Book 4* (Coming 2015!)

  Legion: Southern Watch, Book 5* (Coming 2015!)

  *Forthcoming

  About the Author

  Robert J. Crane may not be fully human. He can be contacted in several ways:

  Via email at cyrusdavidon@gmail.com

  Follow him on Twitter - @robertJcrane

  Connect on Facebook – robertJcrane (Author)

  Website – www.robertJcrane.com

  Draykon

  (Book One of the Draykon Series)

  By

  Charlotte E. English

  www.charlotteenglish.com

  Copyright 2011 by Charlotte E. English

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold.

  Prologue

  On one cool afternoon when the rain fell in gentle, glittering droplets and the ground underfoot was spongy with moisture, nine-year-old Llandry Sanfaer walked with her mother beneath the trees far to the south of the Glinnery forests. They were gathering mushrooms, diminutive little fungi with stems fat with juice and caps painted with colour. Llandry crowed with delight each
time she found a new mushroom ring, picking the fattest or the most colourful specimens with nimble fingers. Their baskets were growing heavy with gathered produce when Ynara began to speak of returning home.

  'Not yet, Mamma, just a little bit longer!' Llandry loved these excursions, loved the hours they spent in close companionship, just her and Mamma. She gazed up into her mother's face with her most hopeful smile, and of course Mamma relented.

  'All right, little love, but don't pick too many more mushrooms, or we'll never be able to carry them home.' Llandry promised and was off once more, her small form a whirlwind of activity.

  Then a faint melody reached her ears and she came to an abrupt stop, her keen eyes searching the mossy slopes for the source.

  'Ma, what's that sound?'

  'What sound, love?' Llandry looked up to find nothing but incomprehension in Mamma's face. She frowned and dismissed the thought, dancing onward once more.

  There; again, a hint of music. Not a sound at all, in fact, more of a feeling of spiralling harmony, drawing her onward through the vast, pale trunks dotted like serene guardians over the meadow. In the shade of a particularly broad-capped glissenwol tree was a glade encircled by tall, variegated fungi. The mosses that carpeted the circle of ground were not of the customary colour. Instead of the deep blue that matched the eventide sky, these were lavender touched with green. Golden sunlight drenched the clearing, bright and glittering in spite of the glissenwol cap that rose above. And the drifting motes of light that filled the air of Glinnery were thickly clustered here, twinkling far more brightly than their paler cousins, sparking with energy and laced with colour. Llandry stood, mesmerised by this scene. She was distantly aware of her mother's voice calling her name, but she was unable to answer.