Call of the Hero
The Sanctuary Series, Volume Ten
Robert J. Crane
Ostiagard Press
CALL OF THE HERO
The Sanctuary Series, Volume Ten
Copyright © 2018 Ostiagard Press
All Rights Reserved.
1st Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Teaser
Author’s Note
Other Works by Robert J. Crane
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Cyrus
“I can offer you gold, my friend,” Malpravus said, extending his skeletal fingers toward Vaste, a languid smile perched upon the blue-faced dark elf's lips, “'so much gold', as you said–”
“How can you have survived?” Cyrus Davidon asked, trying to satisfy the disbelief coursing its way through him. His gauntlet creaked where it gripped the hilt of Rodanthar, his sword, so tightly he felt he could hear the two unyielding metals strain, one against the other. “We killed you, you wretched pile of bones.”
“I've already won gold from these lackwits,” Vaste said, his immense frame hidden beneath his black robes, Letum, the Staff of Death, clutched in his green hands. The troll was looking a bit pale, a lighter shade of green than usual. He still stood head and shoulders above the rest of their group, though. “Also, I second Cyrus's question, because I was fairly certain we had beaten your bony arse to the ground, deservedly.”
“We didn't kill him, though, did we?” Vara asked, her blond hair flashing, Ferocis, the Warblade, held in a high guard over her head. “We imprisoned him in the seal inside the Temple of Darkness.”
“As you fellows well know,” Alaric Garaunt chimed in, his weathered face showing not one hint of amusement, “things trapped in those seals tend to find their way back out again at the most inopportune times.” He, too, held his sword, Aterum, at a high guard, almost in perfect synchronization with Vara, as though he'd taught her himself.
“And so I did find my way back out again,” Malpravus said, holding his hands before him, “and I hold no ill will toward any of you. I acted as I saw fit, trying to better myself—”
“You sacrificed your entire army,” Cyrus said, raising his blade. He and the others were now circled around Malpravus's throne, a raised dais in the center of Reikonos's Citadel, some thirty floors from the ground below. Cyrus's mind was racing through the possibilities – We kill him here, perhaps free the guards from whatever spell he has them under and walk out – or no, they might simply be paid, and we'll have to fight our way out... He flicked his gaze to Malpravus. He's buying time, stalling us, talking to us rather than fighting...maybe he's lost his power? “You were trying to become a god on the altar in that temple, trying to kill us and drink our magic to make yourself greater.”
Malpravus's eyes danced with amusement inside his gaunt skull. “Yes, but I failed, and death swept upon this land of its own accord only years after your success. Surely you've heard by now—?”
A pang quivered in Cyrus's belly like someone had plucked a painful harp string within him. The Scourge now covered Arkaria like a plague of locusts, all life driven from any grounds they had access to. “We've heard.”
“When the Scourge came,” Malpravus said, holding court over them all, “I helped as best as I could, you see. I escaped when some poor unfortunates were killed seeking shelter in the temple, those deathly creatures overrunning them so tragically—”
“Bringing blood to your magical seal,” Vaste said, the troll's big head moving up and down in a slow nod. “Well, that explains it.” He brandished his staff in front of him. “We need to kil
l him, this time for real. No seals.”
“Aye,” Vara said, creeping in. “Someone needs to deal with the guards while we finish this necromancer.”
“There is no need for such extreme measures,” Malpravus said, still holding up his hands. “Peace, my old friends. I realize we have had our difficulties—”
“You sold us – and all life – out to the Dragonlord,” Alaric said. “Nearly got the entirety of Northern Arkaria turned to ash by Ashan'agar.”
“You betrayed us,” Curatio spoke at last, the healer's voice cracking. “Made an alliance with goblins, took to attacking the shipping lanes around our halls. Tried to get our guild crushed under the armies of the various governments of the day so you could take us over—”
“I wanted your friendship,” Malpravus said. “I wanted us to be closer allies, and you kept thwarting my overtures.”
“You tried to help the dark elves annihilate us wholesale,” Vaste said. “You joined our enemies against us, helped them besiege our guildhall—”
“You helped them sack this city,” Cyrus said. “Helped them annihilate other cities.”
“This guy sounds like really bad news,” Dugras said from behind them. Cyrus caught a flicker of movement from the dwarf, only a few feet tall, stout, his almond eyes suggesting his origin from the land of Amatgarosa. He held in his hand a six-barreled pistol pointed at the guards behind them. “I thought we were here because you were friends with him?”
“I think he was impersonating their friend,” Birissa, standing almost back-to-back with Vaste, said. Her sword was almost as tall as Vara, the blade as wide as Cyrus's forearm. “He sounds like a proper villain.” The corner of her mouth rose. “I think this is going to be a good fight.”
“I'm glad someone is excited about it,” Hiressam said, his own sword at a lower ready position. He watched the guards that encircled their back rank with a wary eye. Loyal soldier, Hiressam, he'd taken up this duty without even being asked. He cast a wary eye at Cyrus, who just nodded.
“I did the things I thought right at the time,” Malpravus said. “Clearly I erred. But does it count for nothing that I have faithfully served here, in Reikonos, for almost a thousand years?” He took a gentle step back. “Do you not find room in your hearts to...forgive? Hm?” He wore an almost plaintive look. “I extended you the hand of friendship and invited you here—”
“While posing as one of our actual friends,” Vara said. Her jaw was tight, and Cyrus recognized the look in her eyes as killing malice. Malpravus had, in fact, killed her when last they'd faced him, so heartily that Cyrus had scarcely been able to reverse its effects in time. The memory left him flushed, heat burning beneath his skin, looking at the blue-skinned necromancer with more than a little desire to rush forward and end the skeletal bastard.
But he did not, yet. Something held him back.
“I assumed the identity of Lord Longwell not out of some malice, but rather because I desired to give aid where I could. And thus I am here, in Reikonos, and have kept order in this city these long years.”
“You put a criminal organization on the necks of the people here,” Alaric said, his already thinly pleasant disposition given way to pure, furious anger boiling out, such a curious difference from the usual calm of the Ghost of Sanctuary. “You have done little good in this place, Malpravus.”
“I did the best I could, old friend,” Malpravus said.
“I told you all he was in charge of the Machine,” Vaste said. “If anyone's going to run a criminal syndicate out of the old Goliath guildhall – I told you it was him.”
“This makes no sense,” Cyrus said, easing a step closer to Malpravus. “You were trying to ascend to godhood. Why step back and become a city mayor, a criminal overlord? You were inches from everything you wanted, power beyond belief. Why come back to this – this – petty politicking?”
Malpravus smiled. “Dear boy, there is no shame in being involved in the care and aid of people—”
“Magic,” Vaste said, staring steadily at him. “You lost your magic, didn't you? With everyone else? It left you, and you couldn't pull off the juice necessary to cast a spell that could sacrifice a city anymore.”
Malpravus sagged, though his eyes burned with malice. “Dear Vaste. Always so clever, striking to the heart of the matter with your words.”
“Good heavens,” Vara said, “that's it?” She blinked. “You haven't sacrificed this city on the altar of your ego because you don't have the bloody power?”
Malpravus's face hardened, thin eyebrows tilting down. “You all think...so very ill of me, always. And perhaps you have the right. But I say to you—”
“This is nothing but bullshit,” Curatio said, and the healer stepped forward. “Vaste has hit the right of it. He's changed not at all, and we need to slay this monster immediately before he can do any more harm.” The healer raised Praelior, the Champion's Sword, and pointed it right at Malpravus. “Now let us be done with this incessant nuisance – once and for—”
A red blast scythed out of Malpravus's hand, slashing out and striking Curatio. The healer flew back, slamming into a gold-inlaid column and smashing through, a cloud of dust rising as he disappeared into the shower of debris. The sound of flesh crashing into wall echoed through the once-quiet chamber of the Lord Protector.
Malpravus wore a thin smile, filled to the brim with satisfaction. “I'm sorry...what was that you were saying about my lacking magic?”
Chapter 2
“Kill him!” Cyrus shouted, lunging into motion. Curatio might have gone down – it was tough to tell, given that he'd been driven through a pillar by Malpravus's spell – but they could ill afford to let the necromancer just strike at will.
“Music to my ears,” Vaste said, and a plume of flame burst out of the tip of his staff, a ball of fire the size of a fist. It shot at Malpravus as though launched from a pistol, and the necromancer swept a hand around, dispelling it with but a motion. Vaste followed with another after, and another. Each disappeared in front of the necromancer, though, his skinny arms moving in a perpetual whirlwind.
Vara howled and leapt, sweeping toward Malpravus with her blade before her. Cyrus followed behind, Alaric similarly charging across the steps between them. Between the three of them, surely–
Malpravus batted Vara's attack aside, slapping the edge of Ferocis and deflecting it as though his own arm were a sword. Cyrus blinked mid-charge. The necromancer hadn't even flinched, just swept her blow off to the side and stepped, casually, out of the way. Vara landed, a little roughly and off balance, behind him.
“No mercy,” Alaric said, and he and Cyrus swept in, swords high.
Malpravus met them with blades of his own, his hands morphing into swords, the tinge of his blue flesh carrying into their blades. They extended out of his sleeves as though grafted to his wrists, and flexed as though jointed to his very arms. He grinned wide, turning aside both Cyrus's and Alaric's blades, then spun to keep them, as well as Vara, in front of him.
As Cyrus came about, he was treated to quite the spectacle. Malpravus stood between the three of them and Vaste, who was with the other, new adoptees of Sanctuary, all of them fighting Malpravus's guards. Dugras, Hiressam and Birissa were deep in combat, outnumbered, with the fiery little Amatgarosan leveling guard after guard with his multi-shot pistol. Birissa howled, sending three guardsmen flying across the chamber with a vicious sword sweep. Hiressam, for his part, seemed to keep a lid on his anger, fending off two guards trying to flank him with great skill with his blade.
“This isn't really going the way I thought this visit would,” Cyrus said, moving to his right as Vara slipped to the left. Alaric stayed anchor in the center, the three of them attempting a pincer maneuver without so much as a word exchanged. It was a fairly obvious tactic, but Malpravus made no move to counter – not that he could, outnumbered three to one.
“Consider what you are doing,” Malpravus said. “We are all old hands at this. Products of a differe
nt age. A different world. We have more in common than any other people in this world. We should be allies.”
“We tried that,” Alaric said. “It ended in betrayal for us before. As the old saying goes – 'fool me once, shame on you'. How much the fool you must think we are, to believe you would change yourself, especially given the state of Reikonos under your hand?”
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