Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “Not as much as I might hope,” Alaric Garaunt said with a sigh of impatience, breaking from their ranks and striding down the alley toward the thin girl who stood, watching them all, transfixed. “The four of you stand here, catching up, as though you haven’t spent the last thousand years in each others’ company—”

  “It’s a little different hanging out in the ether versus actually being here, Alaric,” Cyrus said, reaching out and touching Vara’s shoulder, his gauntlet clanking against her pauldron. “There’s … sensation …” He pulled his gauntlet off, then ran his hand over her armor again. It felt cool to the touch, smooth. He brought his hand up and brushed her cheek, and she flushed slightly. “I’d forgotten what this felt like, actually being corporeal. It’s reminding me of … things.” He stepped closer and leaned down, kissing Vara on the lips. She kissed back, wordless.

  “Yes, indeed, it would appear he’s reawakening in all sorts of ways,” Vaste said.

  “We have just saved someone,” Alaric said, irritation rising as he moved over to the thin girl who was still staring, wide-eyed and silent, at the lot of them. “Perhaps someone might wish to inquire how she is doing?”

  “Maybe later,” Cyrus said, his lips still on Vara’s. “I’m remembering—”

  “That he has a groin,” Vaste said.

  Vara broke from Cyrus. “We all have groins, you idiot.”

  “Actually, we didn’t, until we came out of the ether,” Cyrus said.

  “You didn’t have brains, either,” Alaric said. “And that doesn’t seem to have changed.” With another sigh, he offered a hand to the girl standing before him. “Are you all right?”

  The girl just stood there, gaping at him for a few seconds. “You …”

  “My name is Alaric Garaunt,” he said, hand still extended. “And you are?”

  “Shirri,” she said after a brief pause in which she seemed to be making up her mind about something. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the Ghost. “Shirri Gadden.”

  Curatio walked toward her, his sandals slapping upon the cobbles as he stepped away from Vaste, Cyrus and Vara. “You seemed to have drawn a fair amount of ire from those toughs, Shirri Gadden.”

  Her face was small and pinched. “I … don’t know you.”

  “You said my name,” Cyrus noted. “I heard you. And you called out for us—for help. Summoned us here.”

  “You’re not … who you look like,” Shirri said, and Cyrus could see the full retreat of belief playing out on her face. Whatever hope he’d kindled in her by his appearance, and by running off those thugs, it had faded in mere moments, and now was fully replaced by something else.

  Disbelief. Hints of fear were visible as well.

  “Who do I look like?” Cyrus asked.

  Shirri shook her head, too quickly. “You’re not him.”

  “Who else might I be?” Cyrus asked.

  “An imposter,” Shirri said.

  “No imposter could manage this ego,” Vaste said. “It’s well-earned, the product of many battles, and insufficient time ethereally divorced from his groin. The bravado just rolls off of him, even after a thousand years.”

  Shirri opened her mouth, held it that way as though trying to form a question. What finally came out was, “And who are you supposed to be?”

  Vaste just stared at her. “That hurts. I just saved your life, and this is how you repay me? The ingratitude.”

  Shirri regarded him with a careful eye. “Ahhhh … I’m not sure you saved my life.”

  “Ridiculous,” Vaste said, now stepping toward her as well. “They were going to kill you. I’m very familiar with the sort of hatred that turns to murder, having seen it in the eyes of more than a few of my enemies. I know, I know—you look at this face,” and he brushed a hand over his massive, distorted green cheek, “and you wonder—‘How could anyone want to kill something so pretty?’ But I assure you, they have tried. Envy, I assume.”

  “I may think with my groin, but you think with your arse,” Cyrus muttered.

  “And why should I not, when it’s such a brilliant thing?” He turned and bent slightly, his rear jutting out beneath the robes.

  “I … should go home,” Shirri said, taking a step back as Vaste thrust out his backside.

  “Pay no attention to the company of fools behind me,” Alaric said, extending a hand to her. “You found yourself in danger, and you sought for help. We are the answer to your call. Please.” He swept the bucket-shaped helm from his head. “Let us help you.”

  “As fine a company of … actors? Impersonators?” She took another step back. “Whatever you are … as uh, convincing as you are, those toughs, as you call them … they will be back.” She shook her head. “They don’t take no for an answer. And the people who give them their orders, who sent them after me …” She shuddered. “They won’t take kindly to being told fanciful tales of some long dead …” She looked right at Cyrus, and he saw a flicker of it in her eyes again, just for a second.

  Hope.

  It died just as quickly, and she looked away from him. “So … thank you for the reprieve, but … I should be going before they—”

  Thundering footsteps, like the march of an army, sounded through the alleyway. Shirri froze, her back stiff, looking like a trapped animal.

  “I think they’re coming back,” Cyrus said, amusement and anticipation rippling through him. “And they’ve brought friends.”

  “Try not to sound too gleeful at the prospect of a fight,” Curatio said, paused between Alaric and them.

  “Get behind us,” Alaric said, reaching out to Shirri and brushing her shoulder. She let him steer her away, pulling her back behind him as Cyrus came forward with the others. It was a moment to close ranks. “We will protect you.”

  “You’re carrying swords,” Shirri said as Vara pushed past her, the paladin placing herself in front of the thin girl, “and sticks and … whatever that is,” she gestured to the rounded ball in Curatio’s hand.

  “This,” Curatio said, lifting it by the handle and pressing a button, “is very painful.” Spikes shot out from the ball in every direction, and Shirri flinched.

  Vara slid next to Cyrus and leaned into him. He kissed her again as she put a hand on his waist, sighing as they parted. “That was—” he started to say.

  She slid Ferocis free from his scabbard, and he looked down at her, scandalized. She gave him an innocent smile. “I have no godly weapon of my own, and it would appear we are going into an actual fight this time. Surely you would not wish to leave your beloved and adorable wife defenseless?”

  “I would not,” Cyrus conceded, “but you better put it back in my scabbard after the fight.” He cringed. “That … sounded much worse than I intended it.”

  “Hah hah, Cyrus likes for Vara to slide a sword into his scabbard,” Vaste said, brandishing his staff, Letum. “It’s hilarious, because it’s a reversal of the traditional roles—”

  “The fight, you fools,” Alaric muttered. “Do you not see this coming?”

  It would have been hard to miss. Shadows were streaming into the alleyway. Where before there had been perhaps a dozen, they were returning in many times that number. More footsteps came from the exit behind them. They all wore cloaks that stretched down to their knees with high collars. The cloth was black and shone in the night, leather with a gleam to its surface like dull armor.

  “We’re being flanked,” Cyrus said with cautious amusement. “Wife … you might wish to watch our backsides.”

  “Pay special attention to mine,” Vaste said. “I think a thousand years in the ether without eating anything has really toned and firmed it.”

  Vara rolled her eyes. “I care nothing for your backside, even if it were toned to the point of being twin hills of pure muscle.”

  Vaste’s face fell. “Your words hurt me like sword wounds. But there is no healing spell for the damage you do me.”

  Cyrus let out a chuckle, then met Vara’s eyes. “But … you still like mi
ne, right?”

  “That long old thing?” Vaste let out a hiss of derision. “You practically need a woman’s dress to cover it.”

  “It’s a fine arse, husband,” Vara said, patience on the wane. “But perhaps we might discuss it later. Battle first, sex later.”

  “I never did get things in the right order,” Vaste said. “It was always battle, never sex.”

  “Because we never kept goats,” Curatio said, voice thick with amusement.

  “All of you need to be quiet,” Cyrus said, “it’s time to be serious and win this fight—quickly.” He hesitated only a moment. “Because we defend innocents from peril. And also so that I can get with Vara afterward.”

  “Chavoron,” Alaric said, almost pleading, “why have you left me to this fate? Were my crimes so great as to require nearly eternal penance—”

  “It’s been a thousand years, man,” Vaste said. “And they haven’t even been using innuendo until now, now that they’ve realized they’re corporeal and fleshly again.”

  “It feels as though it’s been eleven thousand years for me,” Alaric said, brandishing Aterum and holding it high as the shadows crept in. They lingered at a distance, easing closer. This was no mad army, rushing in on them. These were men and women who had heard a tale and come to put the lie to it. “And that was just the last five minutes.”

  “Carnival performers,” came a voice down the way, slipping through the shadows. “Look at them.” A man passed out of the dark, lit by the glow of Vaste’s spell. “This is what sent Broaderick running?” His voice was rich and resonant, and he let out a cawing laugh. “What a weak-teated fartwat.”

  “What’s a ‘fartwat’?” Cyrus asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “I imagine it’s like a near-twat, but at a greater distance,” Vaste deadpanned. “For example, the man speaking to us is a fartwat because he’s not close enough to be gutted—yet. But as soon as he is, he’ll be a deadtwat.”

  “And what the hell are you supposed to be?” the man asked, peering at Vaste in the dark. “Some freak dropped out of a ship at the airship docks?” His thick brow furrowed into deep lines. A smell wafted off of him, of sweat, of worse—a failure to bathe for many years, Cyrus thought.

  “Don’t be coy,” Vaste said, “I know what you’re thinking—‘This immense, brute green man is the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon.’ Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’re simply not my type. You might think that’s because you’re a man—and it is, you know, on a surface level. But mostly it’s because you’re small and weak and shriveled, and obviously a coward who had to come rushing in here with thirty or fifty friends rather than walk down a dark alley by himself to see what all the fuss is about. Also, I suspect impotence.” Vaste threw up a hand. “I know, I know—that should be of little consequence, given that your parts are not really my interest, but I’ll tell you—impotence is just not an attractive quality for anyone but a raper.”

  The man just stood there, blinking. “What the hell did you just say?”

  “Also, you’re very stupid,” Vaste said. “Sorry. I can’t handle stupid. It makes me ooze sarcasm, and that wears my tasty arse out.”

  “That’s about enough of this twaddle,” the man said. He stepped into the light a little further, and his long, dark hair was matted and hung limp at his shoulders, hanging over his black coat. Now Cyrus could see an armband wrapped tightly around his bicep—white cloth with a strange, eight-point symbol in black upon it. “Shall we end this?”

  “About time.” Cyrus stepped forward. He cast a quick glance back; there were only ten or so behind them, and Vara was facing them, sword already in hand, Vaste just behind her, watching her back. Curatio was a step back behind Alaric, and Shirri—the thin girl—was between their impromptu lines.

  Alaric stood at Cyrus’s shoulder and let out a pensive sigh that cracked with ghostly energy through the alley. “After all these years … it still comes down to this.”

  Cyrus found himself smiling tautly, Praelior in hand. “You were expecting the world to eschew violence entirely while we were away?”

  “I had hope,” Alaric said, sighing once more, his own sword still in a high guard.

  “There’s no hope left in Reikonos,” the oily lead thug said. He was smiling, entirely too amused for what he was facing. “Haven’t you heard?” He reached into his vest and pulled something out in a long, smooth motion.

  “That’s about to change,” Cyrus said, brandishing Praelior as he stared at the man.

  “Yeah, well … you say that carrying a sword and wearing armor.” The man finished his draw, pulling the object out of his coat. It was wooden, with metal at the top of it, forming an L shape. He gripped it at the bottom, and pointed the long end right at Cyrus. “Good luck changing anything like that.” He could see a dark recess at the tip, like staring into a circular pit no bigger than his fingertip. The man pointed it right at him, and closed one eye as he stared down it lengthwise at Cyrus. “You even look like a product of the past … so … welcome to the future.”

  “What the hell is that?” Cyrus asked, staring at it as the man’s finger tightened. Then there was a flash and the alleyway lit for just a moment, and a boom like thunder echoed everywhere.

  2.

  A thunderclap echoed down the alley. Cyrus felt the sharp impact of something strike him on the breastplate like a hard sword thrust to his right pectoral, and a clang echoed in the dying wake of the thunder. He took a staggering step, off balance for just a second before he stepped down hard again and set his feet, staring at the oily gang leader in the black coat, and then looked down, just briefly, before looking back up into the man’s wide eyes.

  “What the hell was that?” Cyrus asked. Something small and metal dropped from his chest plate and made a THUNK! as it hit the alley floor and rolled a few inches.

  “Huh,” the man with the strange object said, “that should have … that should have killed you.”

  Cyrus gripped Praelior tight. “Really? I didn’t feel much of anything, to be honest.”

  “I bet your wife says that all the time,” Vaste piped up.

  “Quite the opposite, in fact,” Vara said.

  “I hate that you always take his side now,” Vaste said. “I remember when you were up for a good laugh at his expense. Remember the time you brined his underclothes when he sent them down to the laundry?”

  Cyrus looked over his shoulder. “That was you?”

  Vara did not meet his eyes, looking instead at the ten or so shadowy figures trying to flank them. “Thank you for that, Vaste, you utter arse.”

  “I smelled like pickles for a week,” Cyrus said. “Every time I sweated—”

  “You’re supposed to be dead,” the oily man said, voice dragging in disbelief. “Armor doesn’t work on bullets. Everyone knows that. It’s why no one wears armor anymore.”

  “But his just stopped one,” one of the other shadowy thugs said. “I don’t know about this, Murrice.”

  “You don’t know much of anything,” oily Murrice said. “And I bloody well saw it for myself, didn’t I?” He paused for just a second and dropped his strange barreled contraption, raising his finger instead. “Get them! They can’t take us all!”

  Silence fell in the alley. “As far as battle cries go,” Cyrus said, “I’ve heard better.”

  “Like, ‘To your deaths, fools!’” Vaste said. “That’s better.”

  “Certainly more accurate,” Vara said.

  “Go, you idiots,” Murrice said. “Or McLarren will be most aggrieved.”

  “Wait, who is McLarren?” Cyrus asked, but it was too late for an answer.

  The shadowy figures came charging in at them, but it was almost pathetic how slowly they moved. The closest, a woman as dirty and ragged as any street urchin, came at him with a shriek, and he spared her the blade and punched her in the stomach so hard she folded and hit the ground in a heap just past him.

  “I just drew first blood,” Cyrus said
, and a man came leaping at him so slowly as to seem like he was sliding through tree sap. Cyrus reached out and touched his chest, then applied some strength.

  The man flew through the air with a cry of surprise and landed on a fence, one of the decorative spikes burying itself through his upper arm.

  “Now you’ve drawn first blood,” Vaste said. “Except Vara actually beat you to it by a few seconds. She’s not sparing the sword.”

  “One of them attacked me with a dagger,” Vara said. “It didn’t seem enough to just punch him in the face, so I ended him in hopes of preventing future alleyway stabbings, ones in which the victims might not possess a godly weapon and mystical armor.”

  “If you hadn’t stolen my sword, that’d be half you,” Cyrus grumped as someone tried to stab him in the chest. The knife blade bent against his chest plate, and he reached out, turned it around, and put the blade, bent though it was, in the thug’s neck. He stepped aside to avoid the spurt of blood and backhanded another attacker as he did so. Both collapsed.

  “Do not get complacent,” Alaric said, his own blade whirling. He opened some poor fool’s belly as he moved, and the victim’s screams filled the alley. “We don’t know what other devilry they may have at their disposal. Whatever that man fired at you, I suspect it would have had a different effect had he hit your face.”

  “Unless he’d hit his brain,” Vaste chirped. “Then it would have had no appreciable effect whatsoever.”

  A tough came right at Cyrus, breathing stinking breath at him. Cyrus threw out a hand and thumped the ragged man in the nose. He already had several teeth missing, and when Cyrus made contact with his face, a few more loosened and fell out. The man flipped, landing facedown on the alley floor with a groan.

  Cyrus turned his gaze back to the oily Murrice, who was fiddling with his barreled implement once more. He had a small animal skin of some sort and was pouring something down the open tubing at the front. “What do you call that?” Cyrus asked.

  “It’s a pistol,” Murrice said, doing his work with a few quick, wary glances at Cyrus. He stopped pouring whatever it was down the tube, then threw it back in a pouch on his belt. That done, he pulled a small piece of what looked like parchment, then another of those small metal balls, and shoved it down inside with a little rod no longer than half of Cyrus’s forearm.