Another moment of uncomfortable silence passed. “I look forward to getting to know all of you in the coming days,” Cyrus said, then turned his back and stalked toward the stairway, Vara only a few paces behind him. They did not speak until they had reached the top of the first landing.
“What the hell is shelas'akur?” Cyrus stumbled over the pronunciation.
“It's elvish for 'mind your own business’,” she snapped.
“I'm not shocked at your reticence to have a peaceful discussion,” Cy replied, trying to control his voice. “But you could let me know what questions I'm going to have to answer about you from applicants. It reflects poorly on us – on me.”
“That's rich, coming from you!” Vara snarled. “Flirting with a new applicant as though she were some simpering courtesan from Pharesia!”
“Excuse me?” He looked back at her. “The flirting was one-sided, and it wasn't my side.” His expression changed to a scowl. “Why do you care?”
“There is a certain standard of behavior expected from an officer of this guild,” she said irritably. “You do not involve yourself with people below your station.”
“How charmingly old-world elvish of you,” Cyrus spat back. “And here I thought you were from Termina, where everyone is equal.”
“It is not a matter of personal equality! It is a matter of positional equality – of you, as an officer, having power over whether they become members of this guild.”
His arms snapped crisply back and forth, fists balled, as he climbed the staircase. “How would you have me handle it? Remonstrate the poor girl in front of her fellow applicants?”
“Yes, remonstrate her for bad conduct, chide her for making an unfavorable impression, and admonish her for having exceptionally poor taste in men.”
“And women, it would seem.”
“We have other problems to deal with,” Vara changed the subject. “It would appear that Goliath is impugning our reputation.”
“Finally, a point on which we both can agree.”
They flew through the door to the Council Chambers to find it empty save for Niamh. “They did what?” she asked after hearing their explanation. “We need a meeting.” Her face darkened. “Another meeting.”
Vara nodded. “I'll go see who I can find.”
“I'll check the officers’ quarters,” Cyrus added. Vara slipped out the doors without even a backward glance at him.
Cyrus started to leave, then turned back. “Niamh,” he asked. “What does 'shelas'akur' mean?”
“Nice try.” The red-haired druid regarded him coolly, eyes indifferent. “No elf will answer that.”
“I don't understand why no one can answer a simple question about her.”
“It's a sensitive matter...” Niamh began.
“– one you don't discuss with outsiders. Yeah,” he nodded. “I heard that line over and over from you when we were on our trek through the wilderness. But you know,” he said with a smile, “someone, sooner or later, is going to give me the answers I'm looking for, even if they don't intend to.”
Her eyes became haunted, but her mouth upturned, giving her just a hint of a wistful smile. He turned to leave but heard her whisper something else, just loud enough for him to hear: “I hope so.”
Chapter 6
It took a few minutes to assemble the Council. By the time Cyrus re-entered the chamber he found Alaric waiting at the head of the table. He took his seat as Vara finished delivering the news.
Alaric folded his arms. “I am no more pleased than any of you. But we have no proof that this rumor originated with Goliath.”
“I'm sure that some peasant in Reikonos started the rumor because Vara insulted him,” Terian said, flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth in rage.
“That's plausible,” Cyrus deadpanned. “She's offensive.”
Vara cast a glare at him, but whatever reply she might have made was halted by one look from Alaric. “While odious and damaging to the ego, stealing credit for our efforts is not a criminal offense.” The paladin placed his hands on the table in front of him. “We have many things to focus on; this cannot be one of them.” He looked around the table. “Until we have evidence, we will not discuss this any further.”
With grudging looks, the Council members stood to leave. “Cyrus,” Alaric called. The warrior turned. “You and I have an appointment.”
With a feeling of combined dread and curiosity, Cyrus followed him.
“Have you gotten yourself another sword?” the Ghost asked as they descended the stairs.
“No,” Cyrus admitted. “I've been postponing it.”
“Let us stop by the armory and see what Belkan can provide.”
Alaric pushed through the doors when they reached the armory. A smell of fresh leather filled the air, and hooks stuck out of every surface. When last Cyrus had been here, they were covered with weapons of all kinds. Now they all stood empty save for a few axes that clinked against the stone walls, disturbed by the shifting air current of the opening door.
Belkan, the armorer, was an aged warrior, with gray hair and a face that looked as though it had been poorly carved out of granite. His nose had been broken on several occasions by the look of it, and a host of scars crisscrossed the wrinkles that lined his chest all the way down his open vest, which looked to be made of some animal skin.
“Davidon,” the old warrior snapped in greeting. “I was expecting you days ago.” The old armorer turned to look at Alaric, favoring the Ghost with a nod of deference.
“Belkan, our young warrior seems to have misplaced his sword whilst battling a dragon,” Alaric said, voice dripping with irony. “Do you have a worthy replacement for him?”
A pained look crossed the armorer's face. “Unfortunately, I don't think I do.” His gaze flitted around the bare walls. “With all the recruiting he's done, I've given out just about every sword that I had to get this army ready for battle.” Belkan leaned over, reaching under the counter. “The best I've got left is this,” he said as he placed a short sword on the counter in front of him.
The blade was as long as Cyrus's forearm and hand, flat steel separated from a rounded handle by a thin rectangular guard. The pommel was a half a sphere of unadorned metal. This may be the plainest sword I've ever seen, Cyrus thought. And damned short. Cyrus felt his heart fall in his chest. “I had a feeling there wasn't going to be much left.”
Belkan's white, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Now see here, son, this might not be as fancy as your mystically enchanted swords –”
“Or long enough to keep a gnome at arm's length,” Cyrus said with a pronounced glumness.
“ – but it's well made, it's well taken care of, and it's a fair sight better than using your gauntlets.”
“Yes, it is,” Cyrus said without enthusiasm.
“Take heart.” Alaric clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. “It is the warrior that makes the sword great, not vice versa.”
“Alaric,” Cyrus said in a muted whisper, “it's half the length of the blades I normally use. I'll take it because I've got no other options, but I'm going to be suffering until I get a better sword.”
“Perhaps,” the Ghost suggested, “you could go to Reikonos and acquire a sword that would be more fitting.”
Belkan snorted. “I doubt it. The 'Big Three' guilds – Amarath's Raiders, Burnt Offerings and Endeavor – have bought every weapon in every major city they can get their hands on since they've begun expeditions into the Realms of the gods. The blacksmiths in Reikonos have a two year waiting list for weapons, and that's just for me – I send quite a bit of business their way.” The armorer shook his head. “Sorry, son, but this is the only option unless you want a rusty blade.”
Cyrus dropped his eyes to the short sword. It gleamed in the torchlight, showing a blade that, although short, had been impeccably taken care of. “No, this will have to do.”
“Bring it back when you find better,” Belkan said, tipping the short sword into its sca
bbard. “I know you will. What about that sword of legend you've been working on assembling?”
“Not even close.”
“Pity,” Belkan said as he handed over the blade. Cyrus placed the scabbard on his belt as they walked out the door. “Davidon!” Belkan called out, causing Cy to turn back. “Next time, come see me right after you lose your sword, not a week later.”
“Would it have made any difference?” Cy asked.
“Yes,” the old armorer said. “Yesterday afternoon I gave up the long blade I was holding for you; figured you'd made other arrangements.”
Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment and let the words sink in. “Hopefully there's not a next time.” He turned and left, following Alaric.
“Why are we going to the dungeons?” Cyrus asked as they crossed the foyer and entered a hallway that lead along the side of the Great Hall.
“We have a matter to settle,” the Ghost answered without inflection.
“Do you ever get tired of being cryptic?”
“No.” A slight smile upturned the corner of Alaric's mouth. “Does it annoy you?”
“Yes.”
“You are in good company,” the Ghost replied as they reached the staircase and began the descent to the dungeons.
“Is there any reason you can't just say, 'Cy, here's what I need taken care of and here's why,' and just be done with it?” Irritation rattled in every word.
“I could. I might say we are going to the dungeons to converse with a rock giant who until last week was a dedicated servant of the Dragonlord. But there is no anticipation in that. Life is full of surprises, and to have all them revealed at the outset would make a boring life, bereft of adventure.”
“After the last year,” Cy mumbled, “I could do with a little less surprise and a little more certainty.”
“An odd comment from an 'adventurer’. Think how dull things would be if I simply spilled out all I knew instead of doling it a bit at a time.” The paladin halted at the bottom of the stairs, his face a mask of seriousness. “There are secrets I know that could get you and everyone you know killed, that could rock the foundations of Arkaria. Should I spill them out on the table, let you sift through and choose which ones you'd like to know?”
Cyrus's eyes widened. “You're joking to make a point.”
“Perhaps.” The seriousness did not fade. “When I am being mysterious, it is either for your own good or because I would not argue with you to get you to do something that is in your own best interests.”
Cyrus shifted back to annoyance. “So why won't you tell me your suspicions regarding my nightmare?”
The paladin sighed. “Once again we go back to my earlier statement about it being 'for your own good'.”
Cyrus threw his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
Alaric nodded. “I know you are not pleased with me and I do not blame you.”
Cyrus brushed past him. “I'm sure hidden in my nightmare is a secret that could destroy Arkaria. Let's just get done with whatever it is you brought me down here for.”
Alaric studied him for a long moment without speaking. “This way.” He led Cyrus through a labyrinth of corridors until they reached a locked door guarded by two warriors that Cyrus knew to be long time members of Sanctuary, swords at their sides. Cy looked with envy at their weapons as they saluted Alaric. One reached for a key and unlocked the door, stepping to the side to admit them.
Cyrus walked through the door following Alaric's gesture that he should enter first. The cool air prickled his skin as he entered, and the lack of light sent his eyes into a scramble to adjust to the semi-darkness. There was a smell in the room that gave Cyrus a flash back to a time during a fight when he had been hit hard, dropped to the ground and his face landed in the dirt. A clacking of chains was subtle but audible against the far wall.
He focused his eyes, trying to find the origin of the noise. The stones on the wall opposite him seemed to be moving. His gaze moved up – and up, until it reached the apex of the moving rock in front of him. It was a rock giant: ten feet tall, brushing against the ceiling, with a skin that looked to be composed of living stone. Chains with steel links an inch thick were draped across both of its hands, binding them to each other and to its feet.
Cyrus hid his surprise, but only because he had faced this kind of beast before. “A rock giant,” he muttered. “I thought you were kidding.”
“Kidding makes it difficult to be mysterious.” Cy's head whipsawed around to catch the smile on Alaric's face. “Don't be shy; introduce yourself.”
Cyrus turned to face the giant in front of him. “My name is Cyrus Davidon. I killed your master and I've killed your kind before.” The words came out in a snarl, all his frustration unbottled at once. His hand slid to the hilt of his sword.
The rock giant glared down, red eyes shining in the dark. They surveyed him for almost a full minute before it spoke in a voice that sounded like falling gravel. “You killed my master? You killed Ashan'agar?”
“Damned right I did, I took both his eyes and I rode him into the ground.” Cyrus did not break off, staring down the wall of a creature in front of him.
“He only had one eye.” The voice came out in a low rumble, the eyes still fixated on his.
“I took his other a year ago, when I invaded his den,” Cyrus crowed.
The red eyes of the rock giant fell for a moment. “So you killed Ashan'agar?”
A small cough from behind him stopped Cyrus's reply. He turned to face Alaric. “I didn't think about it at the time, but you deprived me of the kill.”
The paladin's helmet was under the crook of his elbow and he looked at Cyrus in amusement. “You had just been resurrected and were still weak. I assumed you wanted him dead – the sooner, the better.”
“Good point.” Cyrus turned back to the rock giant. “I blinded and crippled Ashan'agar.” He gestured to Alaric with a thumb. “He delivered the killing stroke.”
The chains rattled in front of them as the rock giant readjusted himself. The red eyes turned to Alaric. “Is this true? Did you kill my master?”
Alaric coughed. “I did.”
The room shook as the rock giant fell to a knee and bowed his head. “You have killed my master. I, Fortin the Rapacious, am now your servant.”
“We do not condone the keeping of slaves,” Alaric said.
“I am not a slave.” The rumbling voice filled the air. “I am a rock giant, a creation of the god of Earth, Rotan. My people choose to follow those who are strongest. I pledged myself to Ashan'agar because he was mightiest.” The red eyes narrowed. “I pledge myself to you now, not as your slave but as a warrior in your service, because you have bested my former master.”
Alaric shifted to rest his hand on his chin. “What are the terms of your service?”
Fortin returned to his feet. “If you order me to do something, I will do it, even if it is to my death. In exchange, you feed and house me.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “What does a rock giant eat?”
The red eyes found his. “I prefer gnomes.”
Alaric shook his head. “That is unacceptable.”
“Dwarves, then?”
“No.”
The rock giant's head sagged. “I can feast upon other beasts you would consume – cows, deer, leopards... but I prefer gnomes.”
Cyrus shook his head. “If only Brevis were still here.”
“May I eat your enemies?” Fortin asked, his voice laden with innocence.
Alaric sighed once more. “We will discuss it on a case-by-case basis.” The paladin straightened. “I accept your terms of service, provided you will restrain yourself in your choice of meals to options I deem acceptable.”
The rock giant bowed his head. “I will serve you until you are killed by someone stronger. Until then I will follow your orders – even if it means I cannot eat gnomes.”
Cyrus turned to Alaric. “Are you sure this is such a good idea? W
hat if he turns on us?”
Alaric looked at Cyrus. “Then you will kill him.”
A clinking behind him drew Cy's attention back to the rock giant, who was studying him. “How did you kill the rock giant you defeated?”
A flush crept up Cyrus's cheeks. “I knocked him off a bridge into a pool of lava.”
The red eyes moved up and down with Fortin's head in a slow nod. “I knew the giant whom you killed. Well done. Were I him, I would have minded my footing.”
“Were you there the day I killed him?”
The giant nodded once more. “I fought your compatriots on the bridge before you escaped. You were the warrior in black who challenged Ashan'agar on the platform.”
“You recognize me now?”
“Not really,” Fortin said, moving his shoulders in a shrug. “You tiny fleshbag races all look alike to me.”
“I will have a guard release you from those chains,” Alaric said.
“No need,” Fortin grunted. The sounds of the clanking chains stopped, replaced by the straining of metal.
Something stung Cyrus in the arm, impact blunted by his vambraces. “Ouch,” he muttered and stooped to pick up a piece of metal – a lock, broken open.
With a clanking, the chains fell from the rock giant. “Would you like me to sleep down here?”
Alaric's eyebrow raised. “I think the upper floors would be unsuited for your weight. We will prepare accommodations here in the basement, but not in a prison cell.”
The red eyes surveyed the space around him. “Good. I find this underground space... homey.”
“Very well,” Alaric nodded. “We have a guard quarters down the hall from here. I'll have it cleared out for you.”
“Where will your guards sleep?”
“We rarely have prisoners, but if we do they can remain in their quarters upstairs.”
“I can assist you the next time you do,” Fortin said. “Intimidation and torture are two of my specialties.”
“I doubt you'll be needing those skills here.” With a bow, Alaric moved toward the door. “I will send for you when the dinner hour approaches, Fortin. Welcome to Sanctuary.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 4