Vara stared at him, mouth slightly agape. Without warning her hand reached up to his cheek and held it still while she kissed the other. A quick peck, and she turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the foyer with a stunned expression.
“What was that all about?” came Fortin's rumbling voice from the grating below.
At any other time, Cyrus might have snapped back at the rock giant. So stunned was he that he absentmindedly answered, “I don't know.” He stared at Vara's receding back as she climbed the stairs.
Chapter 29
He did not see Vara the next day to ask her about what she had done, nor the day after that. When he asked about her, Curatio mentioned that she had gone home for a few days to Termina. They had stood in the Halls of Healing, Curatio cleaning while waiting for any patients that might appear. The strong smell of lye filled the air as the elf scrubbed every surface with it. Light shined in from broad windows on the beds, lined up in rows.
“Isn't she concerned that we're banished from the Elven Kingdom?” Cyrus asked.
The Healer dismissed him with a smile. “I doubt they'll arrest Vara.”
“Because she's shelas'akur?” Cyrus asked.
Curatio looked at him shrewdly before answering. “Yes. But technically you would say 'the shelas'akur'.”
“Care to explain what 'shelas'akur' means?”
“If you really thought about what you know of the elvish language,” the Healer said, tugging a bedsheet into place, “you could probably figure out what at least part of it means.”
Cyrus thought about it for a minute. “I don't know anything about the elvish language.”
Curatio guffawed at that, a low laugh as he put a feathered pillow into a pillowcase. “You spent several weeks in the Kingdom last year; you learned nothing during that time?”
“Ha! I spent most of my time in the Kingdom on my back, recovering in Nalikh'akur –” He stopped. “Nalikh'akur. Shelas'akur.” His eyes wheeled to the healer, who went about his work with a faint smile. “What does Nalikh'akur mean, Curatio?”
The healer looked up, and his faint smile turned knowing as his eyes filled with a calmness. “Last bastion.”
“So what does 'shelas' mean?”
“Ah,” the elf said with a wag of his finger. “That would be telling – and you know elves don't talk about that; it's not seemly to discuss it with offlanders. However, I have heard that in Reikonos, someone has gone to the trouble of putting together a dictionary that would translate from the human tongue to elvish, if someone were interested.”
“As I cannot go to Reikonos right now under pain of death, that doesn't help me,” Cyrus said with a frown. “But thank you – you've come closer to explaining it than any other elf.”
Curatio nodded, still smiling. “I've given you nothing but hints. From here, it's up to you.”
“Thank you,” he said with a genuineness that he felt to the heart. “I was beginning to think that the Sanctuary Council was filled exclusively with enigmas.”
Curatio laughed. “I still have my secrets.”
Vara had not appeared again for a week, during which Cyrus patrolled the Plains of Perdamun on horseback with groups of his guildmates. The only exception was one day that he took to travel to Fertiss, the dwarven capital, with the ore and components of his sword to have them forged by a blacksmith that Belkan knew.
“Not much to look at,” the Sanctuary armorer said when Cyrus showed it to him. “But she'll likely do a sight better for you than that short sword.” He held out his hand expectantly.
“I can't give you the short sword back yet,” Cy argued. “Without the enchantments, the balance is wrong on this blade; it's too heavy for the amount of damage it renders.”
“Mortus take you, Davidon!” Belkan said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Fine, keep it a while longer, but I'll not hear any more bleating about how much you hate it!”
“I'll return it when I get the enchantments on the other one – unfortunately, I suspect it will be a while before I make it to the depths of Enterra to pay my respects –” his jaw tightened at the thought of killing the goblins responsible for Narstron's death – “and get the scabbard to enchant this blade.” He turned to leave the armory but paused. “You never mentioned that you knew my parents.”
Belkan grunted. “Your father and I served in the war together. Knew your mother because when we'd go back to Reikonos from the front she'd put up with the both of us carrying on 'til all hours of the night, so long as we didn't wake your sorry baby arse.”
“You stayed in our house?” Cyrus looked at the armorer, face guarded.
“Many times,” Belkan answered. “My home was near Prehorta, and I rarely had a long enough furlough to make my way down there and back. So your mother would tolerate me staying with you lot. I still owe her quite a debt for that – and other things.” He looked down. “I was the one who told her when your father died. I brought back his armor to her.” Belkan nodded at the black mail Cyrus wore. “She went... mad with rage at the sight of it.” His eyes looked haunted. “Never seen anything like it before... or since,” he said with a shudder.
“I barely remember her,” Cyrus said with a far-off look. “I don't have any memory of my father at all.”
“Good folk,” the armorer said. “Your father was the finest warrior in the Confederation army. Shouldn't have died at Dismal, but the trolls had a shaman leading their troops and he was fearsome. Your father took him on in single combat while he weaved his wicked spells.” The armorer shuddered again.
“What's a shaman?” Cyrus asked with a frown.
“Troll magics,” Belkan scoffed. “Spirit talkers, they are. Kind of like a healer, but with some foul twists. They use the powers of the dead.”
“Like a necromancer,” Cyrus whispered. “Like Malpravus.”
“The shaman your father fought, he was powerful. Made your dad delirious, sick, but your dad near killed him anyway before he fell. Rest of us finished the job, but the shaman and his troops had killed ten thousand men at that point.” He shook his head. “We never stood a chance in that battle.”
“If this shaman was so dangerous,” Cy said, “why didn't the Confederation general order a retreat?”
“Pretnam Urides order a retreat?” Belkan snorted. Cy bristled at the mention of the Reikonos Councilor's name. “That glory hound would never! But it wouldn't matter if he had: your father was on the other side of the battle. When word got to us of a troll shaman killing men by the hundred, Rusyl charged headlong toward it. Couldn't have stopped him if we'd all had a hold on him.” Belkan stared at Cyrus. “He was stronger than any ten men. One of the few that could stand toe-to-toe with a troll and come out ahead. Rest o’ us attacked in groups.”
“You said you brought my father's armor back to Reikonos,” Cyrus said. “What about his body?”
Belkan looked down. “What that shaman did to him, with his plagues and horror, wasn't a fit end for anyone. I couldn't have Eri – your mother – see him like that. We buried him on a hummock near the battlefield. I marked it with a stone.” He shuffled behind his counter. “If you'd like, someday, once this damned banishment ends, I'll get my daughter to teleport us out there. It's a few days’ ride from an elven town on the edge of the swamps.”
“Your daughter?” Cyrus looked at him in confusion.
“Larana.”
“Ah.” How did I not know that? “I'd like that,” Cyrus agreed. “Thank you... for telling me.” He left the armorer, who did not seem upset at an end to the inquiries.
Late one night, after returning Windrider, his favored horse, to the stables after a long patrol of the plains, Cyrus entered the foyer to find Andren waiting with an ale in hand. “She's back,” he muttered nonchalantly.
“What?” Cyrus said with a start. “Where?”
“Where she always is when she's among us unwashed masses,” he said with a subtle nod toward the lounge.
Cy's eyes followed Andren's nod
to where Vara sat in the far corner of the lounge, without her armor, staring out one of the windows with a book in her lap, unopened. He crossed the ground between them and stood behind her.
“Cyrus,” she said, staring at his reflection in the window.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“I'm well.” When she turned to him, the look on her face did not match her words. “Yourself?”
“Just got back from a long patrol.”
She studied him. “I trust I haven't missed anything terribly important, such as us catching the raiders?”
“No.” He stared out the window. “We found the remains of more convoys in the last week, but still no sign of our mysterious bandits.”
“I spoke with Alaric. He's asked me to lead patrols as well, beginning tomorrow morning, early.”
“I'm leading one then as well,” Cyrus replied with a glimmer of hope. “I'm heading north. You?”
“Southwest. Toward Aloakna.” Her voice remained neutral and her eyes met his but revealed nothing. “I should turn in. Thank you for breaking my reverie; there's no telling how long I might have been staring pointlessly out that window if you hadn't interrupted.”
“You're welcome, I think,” he said, unsure of what else to say.
“Goodnight,” she said, picking up her book and crossing various rugs that dotted the stone floor as she moved toward the foyer.
“Goodnight,” he echoed, voice a whisper.
For the next weeks, frustration grew heavy in the halls of Sanctuary. Cyrus spent upwards of sixteen hours per day on horseback, riding around the southern plains, searching for any sign of the raiders. On the rare occasions he did see Vara, it was in passing in the stables as she was either leading a patrol out or coming in. She greeted him cordially on all occasions but they never had a chance to speak.
The weeks of banishment turned into months, as the winter winds swept down the Plains of Perdamun. Far too temperate for snows, the plains received a liberal dousing of cold rains that settled over the open lands for days at a time. Almost four months since the day of banishment Cyrus found himself on a patrol in the early spring evening with Terian at his side. The grounds were still wet from heavy rain and the horses hooves could scarcely be heard as they journeyed through the quiet night.
“The rain may work to our advantage,” Cyrus said to the dark knight. “Our foes are more likely to leave obvious tracks, they're less likely to hear us approach – perhaps we'll finally get lucky.”
“That's the difference between you and me, Davidon: I get lucky all the time. Speaking of which,” Terian said with a grin, “what is going on between you and Vara? Every time you pass in the stables...”
“Nothing,” Cyrus replied. “She gave me a kiss on the cheek then disappeared for a week and since then we haven't had a conversation that's lasted over two minutes.”
“How long do you really need? Anything worth doing can be done in less than two minutes.”
Cyrus pulled back on the reins. “I've heard that's your philosophy in many areas.”
“Ha ha,” Terian replied without mirth. “In all seriousness, why don't you be as direct in speaking with her as you are with your sword in battle?”
“I don't know,” Cyrus said. “By the way, I've been meaning to ask you since we got back from Purgatory – what did you do after you left Sanctuary last year?”
“I told you,” Terian said, tension in his voice rising. “I wandered the lands.”
“If you don't want to talk about it –” Cy began.
“I don't.”
“All right,” Cy agreed without argument. “But if you ever need to talk about it –”
“Please don't say anything else,” Terian said with a bowed head. “You're making me feel like we're about to bond, and I'm a dark knight, which means I'm supposed to project an aura of danger. Bonding really interferes with that.”
“I see.” Cyrus thought about the knight's words. “You probably shouldn't wisecrack so much; it undermines that 'danger' aura you're supposed to be projecting.”
“Davidon,” Terian said with an air of annoyance, “there are some sacrifices I'm not willing to make in my career as a dark knight, and giving up being a loudmouth smartass is one of them.”
“What about –” Cyrus was interrupted by Terian holding up a hand. The dark elf pointed to his ear, concentrating, and without warning spurred his horse into a ninety degree turn. Holding up his hand in a signal to the hunting party following them, Cy took off after the dark knight with the rest of his group close behind.
In the clouded night he could barely see Terian as the dark elf cut across the long grasses of the plains at high speed, galloping into the night. Ahead, Cyrus could hear the smallest noise above the beating of hooves, a noise that grew louder the longer they rode.
Screams. Of pain and terror.
Terian pulled the reins of his horse, too quickly for Cyrus to stop. He charged past the dark knight and burst onto a dirt road. Scattered wagons littered the ground around them and one last scream cut off as Cyrus jumped from his horse. Figures moved through the wreckage of the caravan. Too dark for his human eyes to discern features, Cyrus chased the nearest with a sword as it darted around the edge of a wrecked wagon.
Cyrus turned the corner and swung his sword, making unmistakable contact with the figure's upper arm as it slid away behind the wagon and into a group of the raiders, all too dark for Cyrus to see. A grunt from the figure he had been chasing told him his attack was more than a grazing blow. He raised the sword again, prepared to leap forward when something hit him in the side, knocking him into the wagon he had just rounded.
Cyrus reached out in the direction of his attacker and grabbed hold of them in his gauntlet at he fell. He dragged his assailant down with him as a flash of light exploded in the air around them – a blue glow that lit the wagons and cast the face of his attacker in stark colors. His jaw dropped as the angular lines and pointed ears gave way to the sharp teeth. Yellow eyes stared back at him.
An orb of teleportation shot in front of him and a clawed hand reached up and grabbed it before he could react. His assailant disappeared in the flash of the wizard's spell, leaving Cyrus flat on his back in the middle of the wrecked convoy, shocked into silence.
How? How is this possible?
Terian rounded the wagon, followed by Martaina and Thad, weapons drawn. “Did they get away?” When Cyrus did not move or respond, the dark knight dropped to a knee and pulled him to a sitting position. “Where did they go? Did you see them?”
“Yes,” Cyrus whispered. “Yes, they got away – and yes, I did see them.”
“My gods, man, don't keep us waiting – who the hell was it?”
“It was... a goblin. There was a raiding party... of goblins... in the Plains of Perdamun.”
Chapter 30
“I am telling you,” Cyrus said in a defiant tone that filled the Council Chambers, “it was a goblin. A gods-damned goblin!”
“It's not that we don't believe you,” Terian said with an air of quiet skepticism. “It's that you've been having nightmares about goblins for months, your best friend got killed by them and you've been riding a horse sixteen hours a day, every day, for months with no break and lots of time to think. If I were you,” the dark elf said with an unmistakable – and uncharacteristic – air of sympathy, “I'd likely have seen a goblin too. But it was awfully dark out there. No moon, no starlight because of the clouds...”
“I saw it when the wizard cast the teleportation spell! An orb of teleportation parked itself in my face, between mine and his, and he was this close to me!” Cyrus moved his open palm to a position just inches from his nose. “I don't care if it was a goblin, a dark elf, a troll or Pretnam Urides, at that distance and with the light of a teleportation orb, I know what I saw, and it was a goblin!”
Alaric sat at the end of the table, fingers steepled. “We were unable to resurrect any of the victims of the attack?”
&nb
sp; “No,” Terian said with a shake of the head. “We're so light on healers, we didn't have one with us. Curatio was south with Vara's group, Andren was with Niamh's group and Vaste was...” He turned to the troll.
“Vaste was tired,” came the reply from the green-skinned healer. “I had just gotten back from riding for 36 hours straight, and when you've got my frame –” the troll's hands rested on his ample belly – “you eventually have to eat something.”
“They've started doing something new,” Cyrus said, voice hushed. “In the last few convoys we've found, they've dismembered the bodies to prevent resurrection.”
“Yuck,” Niamh opined.
“How?” J'anda leaned forward with grim interest.
“Decapitation,” Terian replied. “The raiders are keeping the heads.”
“Yuck more,” Niamh said, face skewed with a look of disgust.
“What now?” Vara sat back in her chair, eyes on the Ghost.
Alaric stared at his gauntlets. “I, for one, believe that Cyrus may well have seen a goblin. Unfortunately, without a body, we have no evidence. Reikonos and the other powers will have difficulty believing that goblins are responsible for these assaults, especially since Enterra is far from here and goblins traditionally keep to their cloister.”
The Ghost shook his head sadly. “If we were near the Confederation's Riverlands or the Gnomish Dominions, it would be no difficulty believing that these attacks are goblin-related. Since we are many months of travel on foot from Enterra and goblins have no magic users for teleport...”
“They're as likely to believe us as if we said the Goddess of Knowledge came back from the dead and did it,” Cy finished bitterly. “But they are using teleportation spells. And we have a goblin wizard in our own ranks.”
“Indeed,” Alaric said, hand moving to his mouth in pensiveness. “We should send for Mendicant to ask some questions about goblin involvement in this.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 24