Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “Now that was a polite ask,” Pamyra said, nodding. “And of course.”

  “Birissa, Vaste,” Alaric said. “Cyrus and I will require your assistance in our next endeavor.” That said, he turned on his heel and prepared to walk out.

  “Wait...what are we doing now?” Birissa asked, though by the cadence of the footsteps behind him, Alaric knew that all three of them were following him, unquestioned.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” Cyrus said, rather tightly and understandably, given the occasion, “we're going to rob a bank.”

  There was a bare moment of quiet that followed that pronouncement, then Birissa let out a little squeal. “Like I said, mad things! Always! I love it!”

  Chapter 44

  Cyrus

  “In my day,” Cyrus said, looking sourly at the old facade of the building before him, “this was Reikonos Bank and Trust.” The triangular roof of the building lay atop elven columns that stretched all the way around the boxy center structure, opulent marble almost obscuring the core of the real building from sight. It was huge, too, one of the widest and longest structures he'd seen thus far. Though not terribly tall, as these things went, probably only three-four stories in height.

  “In my day,” Alaric said, starting his ascent up the marbled steps, boots clattering with each footfall like a gunshot over the busy street, “this was a residential district filled with Protanians.”

  “In my day, it was a place where people hated the hell out of me,” Vaste said, a couple steps behind the two of them. Birissa walked with him. “But then, every place in Reikonos was like that. Horrid city.”

  “And in my day, it's the First Bank of Elvendom,” Birissa said, looking straight up at the elvish characters scrawled into the facade in beautiful, flowing script. “You're all fossils, see? My day is today.”

  “I like your girlfriend, Vaste,” Alaric said, pumping his legs to climb the last few steps. “Her energy is infectious and her attitude is top flight.”

  “What about my attitude?” Vaste asked.

  “Ceaselessly negative and somewhat narcissistic,” Cyrus opined.

  “Damn you,” Vaste said. “I can't even argue; I do always make it about me.”

  “Come,” Alaric said, leading them through the tall marble archway, which was wide open, a guard on either side eyeing them with undisguised curiosity. Cyrus wondered vaguely how they closed the place at night, then saw metal doors mounted to either side, heavy enough it looked like it would take a team of oxen to move them.

  Cyrus froze. “We need something to carry the gold.” He caught the sidelong look from Alaric. “Gold is heavy. We can't just carry it out ourselves—”

  “Brilliant heist,” Vaste whispered. “Smartly done. We forgot a most crucial component of the job.”

  Alaric's eyes darted around. “Forgive me for not being better at stealing things!”

  Cyrus concentrated, squinting.

  “Are you trying to defecate in your greaves?” Vaste asked. There was movement ahead; some banker in a long-tailed black suit with a pressed white shirt had started toward them, clearing his throat all the while, as though already anticipating an unpleasant interaction.

  “I'm trying to summon a wagon with Windrider and six other sturdy horses,” Cyrus said, still concentrating.

  “Oh,” Vaste said as the suited man approached. “Oh boy.” He looked left, then right, and Cyrus noted that the guards were inching toward them, hands slipping toward their pistol belts. “Um. Guys? I think they've picked out that we don't belong here.”

  “We don't belong anywhere around here,” Alaric muttered, looking at the guards. “Still, we were going to have to make ourselves known and obvious sooner or later to carry off this robbery.”

  “This is going to go so badly,” Vaste said, eyeing the guards as they drew their pistols. “So badly for those of us who don't have armor against these new weapons. Why, my pretty face is going to be torn asunder by this. I don't know why I listen to you people. Nothing ever goes as we plan, and always in the worst way–”

  “Cyrus Davidon? Is that you?”

  The voice was loud, cracking over the bank like a whip snap. Cyrus turned, as did the others. The man in the long-tailed black suit stood peering at him over crescent bifocals. His ears bore points.

  Cyrus stared back at him. “Croesidas?”

  The elf approached, the crisp lines of his suit moving little as his long legs carried him to Cyrus, hand extended. Cyrus took it, and the elf pumped once, crisply. “So good to see you, Lord of Perdamun.” Croesidas's smile spread across his aged face. “It has been some time.”

  “A thousand years,” Cyrus said, frowning at the elf. Belatedly, he looked over at Alaric. “This is one of my bankers. From Termina.”

  “You have a banker?” Vaste asked.

  “I was the guildmaster of the most powerful guild in Arkaria,” Cyrus said, blushing slightly. “We made quite a bit of gold, and it would have been foolish to keep it all at Sanctuary.”

  “Not as foolish as giving it to a banker and then promptly disappearing for a thousand years,” Vaste said.

  “In human institutions, that might indeed be a problem,” Croesidas said with a wry smile. “But ours is an elven one, and we take a longer view of investment and lifespan. Lord Davidon's accounts with us are still quite active.”

  “But he's human,” Vaste said. “Humans die after a hundred years.”

  Croesidas looked Cyrus up and down. “Apparently not. And besides, his wife's body was never found, and she was not, in fact, a human at all.” He bowed his head to Cyrus. “Your accounts with our bank remain quite open, Lord Davidon.”

  “Not sure that's a title that's recognized for me anymore, but thank you, Croesidas,” Cyrus said. “I deposited here when this was Reikonos Bank and Trust. But you say my accounts are still here?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Croesidas said, very deferentially. “You did draw down your accounts at our branch before your...disappearance. But we absorbed this bank shortly after the fall of Eastern Arkaria to the scourge and thus your accounts are carried over and accessible here with the clear identification of yourself to one of our staff, such as myself, who have memory of you.” He smiled. “We are, as ever, your humble servants.”

  “Well, that's just great,” Vaste said. “We come here for gold, and Cyrus knows the banker. This is going to be quite awkward unless he's got millions and millions available.” Vaste jerked his head toward Croesidas. “Because that's what we need. Millions and millions.”

  “In fact, I looked at your accounts myself during our most recent audit,” Croesidas said, beckoning Cyrus and the others forward. There was series of desks in the corner of the marble-covered room. “If I'm not in error, with interest compounded over the last thousand years,” he appeared deep in thought, adjusted his spectacles. “Millions and millions is a bit...low.”

  Cyrus stopped walking and Vaste nearly plowed into him. The troll sputtered, stopping just in time. “Figures,” Vaste said, utterly disgusted. “You come back a god and rich.”

  “I need some of that gold,” Cyrus said to Croesidas. “Immediately, if possible.”

  Croesidas just stared at him for a moment. “Very well, sir.” He snapped his fingers and two young men in suits, both humans, came running over. “Please begin to bring up gold for Lord Davidon.” He looked queryingly at Cyrus. “How many million would you like, sir?”

  “Ten?” Cyrus asked, looking at the others for certitude. “Ten million to start, I think?”

  “Absolutely,” Croesidas said, and the two suited men ran off toward the back of the building. “This will take a little bit of time, and I'll need you to make your mark here in the book.” The banker drew a book from the desk, sliding it in front of him and thumbing through the pages. “If I might ask, Lord Davidon...?”

  Cyrus blinked. “Yes?”

  Croesidas concentrated on the book in front of him, flipping until he reached a ledger page in which Cyrus could
see his own name written followed by a number followed by a great many zeroes. He kept his eyes inside his skull, only barely, though. “That business over at the Citadel yesterday,” Croesidas said, scrawling ten million and subtracting it from Cyrus's account. When he was done it had barely changed the amount written there. “Was that you?” He looked up from his spectacles.

  Cyrus stiffened. “Well...I was there for part of it before I was launched out of the wall.”

  “Ah, yes, I saw that before the explosion,” Croesidas said, turning his attention back to the ledger. “You cut quite a dashing figure streaking across the sky, my lord.”

  “Yes, he was so very dignified,” Vaste said. “Why, I'd like to start every morning by sending his long arse streaking like a comet over the cityscape. I think it would be properly humbling for him.”

  “Then the airship that pulled up to the Citadel...that was not your doing?” Croesidas asked. His work done, he closed the book.

  “No,” Cyrus said. “That was my colleagues here. Well, them and some others.”

  “Ah,” Croesidas brightened. “Is the fabled guild of Sanctuary to make their long-awaited return, then?”

  Cyrus exchanged a look with Alaric, who seemed coldly amused by this whole exchange. “Undoubtedly,” Alaric answered for him. “As though we never even left.”

  “Oh, good,” Croesidas said without enthusiasm. “I believe I will be booking a ticket out on the next available liner to Termina, then.” He picked up the ledger from his desk. “I'll need to...apprise the home office of your return, after all. Best to do that in person.” He nodded once.

  “The dockyards are closed,” Vaste said. “Good luck getting out until someone opens them.”

  “Yes, well, all the same,” Croesidas said, bowing his head. “I think it's best if I find a place to hide. Perhaps in the disused tunnels beneath the city. Sanctuary returning.” He made a pained chuckling noise. “This will be, ah...interesting.” And off the elf went, waving for two other suited men to attend to Cyrus.

  “All right, in the name of combating my nascent negativity and narcissism,” Vaste said, “I'm just going to say it – that went marvelously well compared to how it usually goes.” The two men Croesidas had dispatched to retrieve the gold returned presently with a pallet loaded to the top with bullion bars, rolling it through the building. One of them waved for Cyrus to join them as they crossed toward a different entry on the side of the building. “Also, did anyone notice how quickly he ran when he realized Sanctuary was back?”

  “I'm not sure that's the reaction we're looking for to that announcement,” Alaric said.

  “I think it's wonderful,” Vaste said. “Let us be known as the elf-shit crazies. Let us be known as the people who leap into an airship as it pulls alongside an exploding tower, and as the people who streak our black-armored arses across the morning sky–”

  “I would rather not be known as the last,” Cyrus said.

  “For Sanctuary has returned, people!” Vaste bellowed across the bank, drawing every eye. “And we are elf-shit crazy! Be ready! For the revolution is coming! And our arses will fly across this city like winged doves!” He leered in a way that made two patrons simply leave in the middle of their transactions. “Make ready for that!”

  “Come along, love,” Birissa said, dragging him by the collar out of the bank through the side door where the men had disappeared with the gold. “No need to get so excitable when we're out and about. Save it for later.”

  Cyrus stole a look at Alaric, who was standing in the doorway, looking around. “Well?” Cyrus asked.

  “It really did go much smoother than it usually does,” Alaric said. “It did not go at all to plan, as Vaste predicted, and yet—”

  “Shh, let's not jinx it,” Cyrus said as the two men with the pallet cart hurried past him, rushing to refill it with more gold. “Besides, we've never had any great difficulty finding more trouble than we can properly deal with, so...” The warrior smiled ruefully. “Let's just take this blessing for what it is – a bright spot in the middle of storms.”

  “Right you are,” Alaric said. “I'm sure the next storm will be along momentarily.” And out the door they went, to supervise the loading of their gold.

  Chapter 45

  Alaric

  The wagon rattled to a stop before Curatio, who stood in the middle of the alley in robes of purest white. He regarded them with an amused expression. Birissa and Vaste rode atop the gold, Cyrus steering on the seat while Alaric had disappeared into the ether to find Curatio. When he'd reappeared, he'd guided them here, an alley in the far districts of Reikonos in near proximity to the old Elf Gate, the road that led toward Termina. It was only blocks from the far southeastern wall, just off a vacant alley with an empty lot on one side and a disused warehouse on the other. They had come down it at a canter, and now they drifted to a stop.

  “You appear to have done your job properly,” the healer said, eyeing the wagon.

  “Yes, we're proper bank robbers now,” Vaste said cheerily.

  “Really more like bank withdrawers,” Birissa said. “Customers. No robbery involved.”

  Curatio cocked an eyebrow at them. “How is that?”

  “Our general is quite the wealthy man,” Alaric said. “And recognized, in this instance, for the bank we picked has been taken over by a Termina establishment and is now run by elves, by their bylaws regarding keeping accounts for thousands of years.”

  “Ahhh,” Curatio said. “And who runs this particular establishment?”

  “Croesidas,” Cyrus said quickly. “You probably don't know–”

  “I know Croesidas well,” Curatio said smoothly, circling around and lifting the cloth disguising the gold from public view. “He must be nearing the turn by now. I should check in on him; my own accounts with his establishment have likely seen a commanding return since my departure as well.”

  “See, this just confirms my poor opinion of you all,” Vaste said. “You owe me 'so much gold' and it's clear you have it. You're all rich as shit. But miserly bastards, every last one.”

  “How do you think we accumulated all that gold?” Curatio asked. “It certainly wasn't by paying out ill-founded bets which I did not properly even take.”

  Vaste shot Alaric a spearing look. “Are you rich, too? Am I the only poor one in this little grouping, since Vara is sure to take half of Cyrus's wealth?”

  “She's – what?” Cyrus asked.

  “Of course he's not familiar with elven divorce laws,” Vaste muttered. “Well, Ghost? What say you?”

  “I am not a man of great means,” Alaric said. “Sanctuary only became truly wealthy after I left to be tortured and you lot went mercenary,” he gave the troll a steady, piercing look of his own, “thus none of the riches you all enjoyed found their way to me, so I, too, am a pauper. But without the excuse that I've 'blown' any gold that came my way, as I am guessing you did.”

  Vaste sagged. “Whatever. It was worth it. I bought many exotic pies from the four corners of Arkaria before I knew Quinneria or Sanctuary could just conjure anything I wanted. I regret nothing.”

  “There, there, dear,” Birissa said. “I have gold. I might even share it with you if you can work on that humility bit.”

  “Thank you,” Vaste said.

  “And that arse.”

  Vaste's shoulders slumped. “Well, that should help with the humility.”

  Alaric turned his attention back to Curatio. “Have you succeeded in what I asked?”

  “A moment more, please,” Curatio said, holding up a hand. “And perhaps some aid from you.”

  Alaric closed his eyes. “Very well, then.”

  “What is this?” Cyrus muttered.

  Alaric concentrated. Thought of it, what he wanted to see accomplished, and then–

  “Ahhhhh!” Vaste cried out sharply. “What did you do?”

  Alaric had felt it too, though. A sharp pang like a stitch between his ribs. A momentary feeling of falling
, weightlessness, as though somehow he'd tumbled off the wagon. Then–

  A crack like a rifle. A flash.

  And then...

  Sanctuary was there, in the vacant lot that had been to Curatio's left.

  “I see how you did it now,” Curatio said, resting a hand on the side of the wagon, his breath coming slowly.

  “That...did not feel good,” Cyrus said, slightly tilted in his seat.

  “You felt it too, then?” Alaric asked. He looked to Cyrus, then Vaste. Each nodded. Birissa just stared into space, frowning uneasily. “Good. That means you're bonded to Sanctuary. Which you should be after this last thousand years.”

  “You moved it?” Cyrus asked, staring at the walls, the gate. All of it had popped up here, in this empty space Curatio had chosen.

  “No, he left it right where it was, you're just suffering from a delusion,” Vaste said cheerily.

  “It seemed ill-advised to leave it where your soldiers had last seen it,” Alaric said, taking the reins and guiding the horses in through the gate. It was exactly as they had left it, no changes. Their purloined horseless gatling wagon was even parked out front where they'd left it before the move. “As much as I want to believe the best of people, including those men you've adopted as the seeds of your new army–”

  “You're not a fool,” Vaste said, “and you don't trust much of anyone.”

  “No,” Alaric said. “Not among these new people. I trust perhaps Dugras, Shirri, Pamyra and Birissa. Maybe Mazirin.” He paused, feeling a curious sensation in his stomach at his mention of her name. “Of course I count Hiressam among the trusted old, as well as Vara–”

  “How is Vara going to find us now?” Cyrus asked. He wore a stricken look.

  “She will find us,” Alaric said. “She can feel Sanctuary as we do. It will call to her always, like a beacon guiding her steps home.”

  “You know, if she wants to find her way home,” Vaste said under his breath.