Something caused her to shudder. The thin fog that had seemed to creep into the room was gaining in volume, rolling over the floor and swirling into the center of the foyer. Behind her, she could still hear the wail of the horns, the slamming of doors and the roaring of fires bursting out of the hearth across the room, warning the residents of Sanctuary of the attack in their midst. All of that seemed to calm, along with the swell of the battle as the mist rolled to the center of the room, rising from the floor into a man-sized pillar, gaining definition and swelling into a figure.
Worn, battered armor appeared out of the cloud along with a helm that covered all but the mouth of the man within it. A sword of darkened metal swept out of the fog, cutting neatly through seven different assailants who surrounded the mist. The cloud dissipated and flowed to the other side of the room, near the hearth, gathering behind a cluster of dark elven warriors. It sprang into a pillar once more and out came a sword, stroking neatly across the bodies of the foes arrayed about it, then dispersed once more and moved to a spot near the lounge, where it became a tornado of mist and exploded, puffs of the smoky air evaporating to leave behind Alaric Garaunt, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. He sprang forth from the smoke, his mouth contorted in fury and the sound of his yell rained upon the foes that he struck down a moment later.
Pieces of Alaric’s quarries flew across the floor, rolling in among the bodies and the blood that was already slickening the stone. Vara cut her way through a dark elf and found herself standing in the doorway to the Great Hall, looking within at the place where the guild dined. More than a dozen dark elves had funneled into the Great Hall and were battling with Sanctuary defenders scattered among the tables. There was a smell of hearty stew mingled with baked bread, at odds with the crimson-covered surfaces and the bodies that lay amidst the upturned tables. The clash of blades and the screams of fury and pain warred with the simple, homey scent of the meal being prepared within.
Vara’s eyes flew over shattered tables and broken chairs to see Larana, the mistress of the kitchens, hovering in the air, feet at least a head above Vara’s own height, her druidic magic issuing forth from her hands. Blasts of coarse flame shot forth to consume the dark elves who were moving forward to attack her, a wave of heat from the fire washing over Vara even at this distance. Her hand came up out of instinct, as if to protect her from it. When she lowered it again, a passel of flaming corpses lay about the Great Hall, thick, black smoke gathering above at the high ceiling.
She paused to watch the normally mild, quiet druid, eyes aflame, float toward her remaining enemies, driving them back toward Vara, who braced and attacked as the dark elves ran into her in ones and twos, turning from Larana with panic in their eyes, the flames driving them to focus more on what they were retreating from than what they were running to. Vara stepped into them, sword moving horizontally in a slash that killed three of the first four with one stroke and sent the other to the ground, crying in low guttural noises that choked the air.
Vara stopped, turning to look back to the melee still proceeding in the foyer. Larana’s eyes met hers, the druid’s gaze a bright, verdant green that reminded Vara somehow of life—and the end of it. “They’ll be needing help mopping up in the foyer,” Vara said, and Larana nodded, drifting gently a foot off the ground before she flew forward, past Vara and into the battle.
There was a shift, Vara could tell, as she charged back into the fight in the foyer, blade in hand. Where before there had been wall-to-wall melee, now only a few dark elves remained, backed into a corner to the left of the doors that led outside. The moans of the injured filled her ears. She ignored it all as she shouldered her way through the crowd toward the dark elves standing off in a line. They were backed into the corner, staring down the members of Sanctuary who stood opposite them. Larana hovered menacingly nearby, and Vara could see other spellcasters, waiting to break the uneasy peace. Warriors of Sanctuary had crowded to the front, and a small distance, the length of a sword or two, was all that separated the dark elves from being overrun by the larger numbers.
“I am an officer of Sanctuary,” Vara said when she reached the front of their line. “You are surrounded, outnumbered, and soon to be headless, your skulls adorning pikes on the top of our walls as a warning to your countrymen of the folly of assailing us.” She stared with cold eyes at the last of them, and the enemy stared back as one, not questioning, a cold, unfeeling mass, their irises the striking dark-elven reds, yellows and purples, otherwordly. Demons. “Surrender and you’ll be shown the hospitality of our dungeons, but at least you’ll be alive.”
There was a quiet moment before something broke it. “In the name of the Sovereign.” A dark elf close to the back of their formation near-whispered it, but she heard. Another took up the call, louder this time. “In the name of the Sovereign.” Then another. The heavy smell of smoke and iron lay upon the air, burning her eyes with its pungence.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Vara whispered.
“IN THE NAME OF THE SOVEREIGN!” It grew to a chorus, then a chant. Their shared voices all offered up to the heavens, they banged their mailed feet against the floor as though trying to make the Sanctuary army flinch with their effort. Vara grasped her sword tighter and she felt the tension in the ranks behind her as others did the same, knowing that the charge was coming, and that it would be short and bloody. There was a rattle of swords and behind her the noise of tense breaths being drawn. Another smell reached her nose, flooded it, the scent and feeling of humidity, of mist in the air, and she saw it swirl around her feet, so dense that the stones of the floor disappeared beneath a thick layer of the wafting, whitish clouds.
The mist gathered and swirled into the corner behind the dark elves, who continued their rage and bluster, making a fearsome racket that drowned out almost all else in her ears and made her head ache from the noise of it. A solid mass began to take shape behind the dark elves, who were oblivious to the sight of a perfect cloud forming in the corner. It grew in size and volume and turned darker, a storm gathering unto itself, until finally a hand swept out following the point of a sword, and Alaric Garaunt appeared behind them from within the depths of it. Vara saw three fall with the first attack as the Ghost’s ancient blade, Aterum, swung high and sloped a bloody line on the brown stones of the wall to his side as it descended.
Vara could hear the collective intake of breath around her, the Sanctuary soldiers waiting, their line formed to contain the last dark elves. They watched as the screams and chaos consumed the dark elves and shattered their formation, as the elvews, so prepared for bloody sacrifice and shouting their willingness to die for the Sovereign only moments earlier, fell to pieces under the onslaught of one man behind them. It was short and bloody, covered in the swirl of fog and mist, and in the end it came down to a final dark elf, and Alaric held him out at the edge of his blade, the warrior trembling. There had been twenty or more of them in the corner before the Ghost had appeared, and the last seemed to realize this, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, his sword clenched in his fist, navy skin around his knuckles turned sky-blue from the strength of his grip.
Alaric stared down his sword at the dark elf, who dropped his weapon with a clatter, and began to raise his hands. The Ghost stared down, his lone eye unflinching. Vara caught an almost imperceptible shudder down Alaric’s arm and the sword began to move, sliding through the belly of the dark elf, who gasped and looked up at Alaric with wide eyes.
“You have sieged and invaded my home, slain my brothers and sisters.” Alaric’s voice was low and as filled with malice as Vara had ever heard it. “Let this be a warning to you and yours; there is no mercy for those who would do such things.” His palm reached out and the dark elf shuddered as a surge of power shot from Alaric’s gauntlet, the energy of the spell sending the dark elf into the wall at such a speed that Vara could hear the splatter of his flesh and blood even as she turned her head not to look.
When she turned back, Alaric stood, red splotching the batte
red surface of his armor, looking coldly down at his hand as though it were something foreign to him. “Alaric?” Her voice was barely above a whisper but it stirred him as though drawing him from a trance. “We have been attacked from within; we must make preparations to protect ourselves. We must either shut down the portal or station a small army here to deal with additional assaults should they come. We need a messenger to go speak with Thad at the wall; we may have to reinforce the guard there if the dark elves are attacking.”
The Ghost stared back at her, quiet, almost lifeless, before finally nodding his head underneath his massive helm. “Let it be done.” He looked through the crowd until his eye came to rest on Larana. “Go to Thad. See if the dark elves have begun their attack in earnest.” He looked again through the crowd until he found a grizzled man in armor, whose face was exposed through the front of his helm. “Belkan … you will form a guard and keep watch on the foyer every hour of the day and night. We cannot shut down the portal, lest we strand Cyrus’s army in a foreign land without retreat or any way to get a message home.” The old knight looked suddenly weary though he still held Aterum in his hand.
Larana did not wait for any further instruction; she surged forward over the head of the crowd, running on air and seeming to slip through the crack of the main door without it opening but barely. Vara watched her go then walked slowly toward Alaric, who remained still, unmoving, a statue of steel and flesh. “Alaric,” she said quietly, “are you quite well?”
He did not move at first, but when he did it was only to move his head ponderously to look upon her with his one good eye, an almost imperceptible smile upon his lips. “A goodly portion of our army is away in a foreign land under the command of our General. We have not heard from them in six months though they were to have been gone only three. We have been surrounded by the legions of the dark elves, most aggrieved at us for our part in defending the Elven Kingdom during their recent invasion, and now they have gone so far as to use a wizard to slip an elite force of their soldiers into our home using a spell I felt certain was unknown to any but our own spellcasters. If that were not enough, only half a year ago we slew the God of Death himself.” The smile grew slightly larger, and all the more grotesque in its obvious falseness. “Tell me, child— why would I not be quite well?”
“As long as you’re keeping a good perspective on things.” Vaste’s voice rang out from just behind Vara, but she heard the usual irony only on the surface; there was a deeper sense of darkness hidden from all but those who knew him best.
A shout of alarm came from behind them and Vara turned. A point of magical energy had appeared in the center of the foyer, over the great seal that was placed in the middle of the room. It crackled and glowed, shedding green upon the face of Belkan across from her, his sword braced in his hand and pointed toward the brightness. She saw others mirror the action as the spell grew in its intensity as the seconds ticked by. She gripped her sword more tightly as the front door burst open and Larana shouted (of all people, Vara thought; it would be the worst if she were the one shouting), “We are under attack! They have siege towers at the walls!”
The sparkle of magic at the center of the foyer grew brighter; something began to coalesce within. Another round, then. Let’s have at it, Sovereign of the Dark Elves. Send me all you have, every last one of your bastard children and all the sons of whores you slap into armor and call warriors. Send them all and I’ll throw them back at you, bloody and shattered. Throw your whole army at us and I’ll take them one by one, grind them up and heave them back to Saekaj Sovar, march through your city, and leave it in ruins the way you did mine, you right bastard—
The spell magic faded, leaving not another small army but a lone figure. A druid, a human man, a little shorter than she but not by much, his eyes dark and already looking around at the carnage and bodies that lay strewn across the foyer. He let out a short, sharp breath as his eyes walked over the scene.
“My gods,” Ryin Ayend said as the last of his spell faded, “what has happened here?”
“You have missed much in your absence,” Alaric said, walking toward the druid with a slow, shuffling gait. “And it has been long since we have heard from any of your brethren.”
Ayend paused, a subtle cringe on his face, a slight twist of pain and discomfort. “Things have … gone astray in Luukessia. We have had some … unforeseen difficulties.”
There was a low whistling sound from outside that seemed to grow closer, swelling into a loud squeal as Vara threw herself to the ground in front of the hearth. The massive, circular stained glass window above the front doors exploded inward as a huge rock—launched, Vara was certain, by one of the catapults surrounding the walls of Sanctuary—burst through and landed with a crash, rolling through the foyer and sending bodies flying, until it came to rest in the Great Hall, butted against the ruin of one of the large oaken tables. Moans of pain and screams of loss issued forth from the path of the boulder, and Vara pulled herself back to her feet, shaking the little pieces of colored glass out of her hair.
“Unforeseen difficulties?” she said, in a most rueful tone drawing the attention of Ryin, who was pulled to his feet by Alaric from where he lay not far from her. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the door to the Great Hall and the boulder lying within. His jaw hung open. With the window shattered, sounds from the outside filtered into the foyer, and a low roar could be heard in the distance: the maniacal, chanting sound of an army, the low rumble of the siege machines, and the sound of other rocks hurled from catapults impacting elsewhere, the flat thump and shaking of the ground as they hit. “Yes, we’ve experienced a few of those ourselves since your departure.” With that, she looked back to the broken window, the blue sky visible beyond and listened again, to the sounds of battle, the sounds of war, of all the different kinds of hell waiting just outside the Sanctuary gates to be unleashed on them.
Damn you, Cyrus Davidon. Damn you for leaving me like this …
Chapter 2
Cyrus
Six Months Earlier
Cyrus Davidon had a dream he was running. A pair of red, glowing eyes were following him somewhere as the fear grew within him. When he awoke, he was on a beach. He sat up in his bedroll, a heavy sweat rolling off his skin even though the air was filled with a pleasing coolness all around him. The sands sloped down to the Sea of Carmas, where the waves lapped at the shore, the ebb of low tide bringing small breakers onto the beach at regular intervals, the low, dull roar of the water a kind of pleasant background noise.
His breath came erratically at first as he tried to catch it and control it, taking long, slow gulps of air as he swallowed the bitterness that had been on his tongue since waking. A hundred fires lit the night around him, providing heat and warmth for his army, protection against the light chill of the tropical winter. The smell of smoke hung around him, of lingering fish on the fire, hints of salt in the air.
A light breeze came off the sea as the wind changed directions, bringing the smell of sulfur and rot. He sniffed and the scent of the seaweed down the shore became lodged in his nostrils, reminding him of the Realm of Death, where only days earlier he had led an assault that killed the God of Death, Mortus. The memory came back to him, of the listless and unmoving air in that place, of the image of death itself, a clawed hand as it reached out, grasping for Vara …
Just over the sound of the waves against the shore, Cyrus could hear chatter from around some of the fires where the members of his army sat huddled for warmth. He turned his head to look; there were warriors and rangers, men and women of no magical ability, still talking, laughing and boisterous.
“I would have thought two days march would have cured most of them of their enthusiasm,” came a voice at his side. Cyrus looked back to see the face of Terian Lepos lit by the fire, the orange glow flickering against the deep blue of the dark elf’s skin. “They were tired enough yesterday from the long march on these sands, I suppose. But now they’re back at it again, all full of e
xcitement, eager to get into their first battle.” The dark elf’s face was narrow and his nose stuck out, coming to a point, his hair black as obsidian, and he wore a half-smile that couldn’t look anything but cruel in the low light.
“They’ll get over it quick enough once they’ve been in it.” Cyrus’s armor creaked as he turned to face Terian. He pulled off a gauntlet and ran his fingers across his bedroll. Sand covered the surface of the cloth. He felt the tiny grains, like little pins as he brushed against them, a few of them glimmering like shards of glass in the light, and he remembered other sand, in another place, a whole pit of it, with red blood pooling and holding it together in great lumps—
“Trouble sleeping?” Terian’s words drew Cyrus back to the present. The dark knight sat slumped a few feet away, legs arched in front of him, his new double-handed sword resting across them, a cloth in his hand, polishing the blade. Cyrus saw the little glint of red in the steel, a hint of the magic that the weapon carried.
Cyrus let a half-smile creep onto his face; the blade had come from a dark elf whom Cyrus had defeated in the city of Termina while defending it from the dark elven army. He felt a pang at the thought of Termina as it led to thoughts of Vara, a stirring pain in his heart and guts, and the half-smile disappeared as quickly as the waters receded down the shore. “Just a nightmare,” he said to Terian. “It won’t be trouble unless it happens over and over again.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 2
