“Cyrus!” The voice, like a thunderclap, filled the air around him. Alaric entered the foyer, Vara at his side. Her expression was tight and his unreadable, but they were both focused on Malpravus. The Ghost did not look at him as he passed the prostrate warrior. “You are excused from this meeting. Go elsewhere.”
Curatio and Niamh followed in the wake of Alaric and Vara, and the Healer was already casting the resurrection spell. His eyes found Cyrus's, and he bowed his head in deep disappointment, flicking his gaze from the warrior. Cyrus tasted bitterness in his mouth and saw Vara cast him a contemptuous glance for only a second before looking away.
Cy pulled himself to his feet and left the way he had come. He passed the stairs to the dungeons at a fast pace, then felt as though he nearly flew down the hallway to his cell and slammed the door with a fury that echoed through the dungeon. He locked the door from the inside and did not answer any of the insistent knocks that came in the next few minutes and hours – not Terian's, nor Andren's, nor even Vaste's. He had almost fallen asleep when a small but insistent tapping came from the other side of the door.
He ignored it for several minutes, until an exasperated sigh caught his attention for its unfamiliarity. “Who is it?” he asked.
“Dear boy,” came the voice of Malpravus, strong and clear through the heavy steel door, “there is only so much discourtesy I can take from you in one day without becoming deeply offended.”
Chapter 34
Cyrus walked to the cell door and swung it open. Standing before him was the Goliath Guildmaster, face impassive, dark robes covering him from neck to floor. “What do you want?” Cyrus asked, voice slow and curious.
“What does anyone want, really?” the necromancer asked, brushing past Cyrus to enter the cell. “For some, the answer is riches; for others, power. For me, it's to answer needs. And you,” he said with a tight smile, “have a clear need.”
Cyrus stared at the dark elf who had invaded his room almost without permission. “And what is that need?” He folded his arms in front of him.
The necromancer's eyes glistened. “Rumors have reached even my ears about your difficulties lately, dear boy. Trouble sleeping? Guilt eating at you for the loss of a dear, dear friend?”
Cyrus grew still, holding himself back with every bit of restraint he possessed. “What of it?”
Malpravus walked the length of the cell, looking it over. His eyes fell upon the sword in the corner, scabbardless and waiting for enchantment. His eyes looked it over hungrily, then flicked back to Cyrus. “When it comes to matters of death, you should consult an authority. And there is no greater authority about death,” he said in a lilting tone, bringing his fingertips to rest, palms down on his chest, “than I.”
Still Cyrus did not move. “My friend has been dead for over a year. So it would be a bit late for a resurrection spell, even assuming you were capable of casting one.”
The necromancer's eyes danced and he made a tsk-tsk sound. “I see you still have grave misunderstandings about what I am capable of. Allow me to explain.” Malpravus reached into his robe and pulled out a small object, no larger than a peanut. It was red and glistened even in the light of the lamps. “This is a soul ruby. Very rare items, these,” he said with a smile, “and thus more valuable than you could imagine.”
When Cyrus did not respond he continued. “With the proper spell, performed by a necromancer, of course,” he said with something just short of delight, “this can bring back the dead, regardless of how long they've been departed.”
Cyrus stared back at him, unimpressed. “I've seen you bring back the dead. I'd sooner die a thousand deaths myself than have that fate befall my friend.”
“No, no, no.” Malpravus's voice was as smooth as poured honey. “I agree: that would be a terrible way to live. A soul ruby,” he said, smile returning, “brings them back as they were,” he said with a flourish. “All their memories, their skills, their knowledge. A bit cold to the touch, it's true, but a soul ruby truly does bring them back.”
Malpravus's hand remained outstretched, the soul ruby dangling. Cyrus's eyes were locked on it, suddenly hungry. What if it worked? Cy thought. What if I could bring him back, just as he was?
“I see you're considering my offer.” Malpravus's smile danced.
Cyrus's face grew guarded again as he remembered who he was speaking to. “There's nothing that comes without a price from you, Malpravus. What do you want in return?”
If the necromancer was offended, he did not show it. “That's a wise perspective, dear boy. You recognize that there's always a price, always a trade – power for power, this for that.” His smile faded. “I have made no secret of what I desire. This Alliance could be the most powerful guild in all of Arkaria, and dare mighty things that the 'big three' could not fathom.” He licked his lips. “But just as here, power has its price. I cannot create the most powerful guild in Arkaria without the support of Sanctuary's officers – at least one of them.
“It is also no secret, I hope,” the necromancer said, “that I consider you to have great potential. Great ability. You could be the finest warrior in all Arkaria, and a great leader. I would cultivate that. I would help you grow, in the right directions, assist you in growing more powerful.” His hand still stretched out, the ruby shining red against his blue palm. “All I require is that you help me bring Sanctuary into the fold, and I will make you an officer of the new guild in return – and you can be my General – my Warlord.”
“And if I don't?” Cyrus looked evenly at the necromancer. Caution prickled at the back of his mind, even as he continued to move his gaze back and forth from the Goliath Guildmaster's face to the ruby in his outstretched hand.
The necromancer's expression never changed at Cyrus's words. “Now, dear boy,” he whispered, “do we really need to reflect on the possibilities of that answer?” His hand closed around the ruby, slowly pulling his arm away, cradling it as though it were an item of incalculable value.
Something in the way he moved, in the way he pulled his hand back into the sleeve, the darkness of the cell casting shadows on the fabric of the dark elf's cloak spurred a memory in Cyrus. It was the nightmare again.
The black cloaked figure emerged from behind the thrones of the Emperor and Empress, gliding across the floor... the Emperor pulled Terrenus, the Hammer of Earth from his belt and handed it to the figure in black...
... with blue hands...
... and the figure pulled the Hammer away, cradling it... just like Malpravus did with the soul ruby.
“Someone in the Alliance,” Cyrus whispered. His eyes were glazed over.
“Give it some thought, dear boy, and let me know your answer.” Malpravus turned and slid from the cell, down the hall. Cyrus did not even bother to watch him go. The warrior's mouth was dry. Thoughts of what he had done earlier in the foyer held him back from attacking the necromancer. I can't prove it, he realized. But now I know who betrayed the Alliance to Enterra. And if he betrayed us to the goblins once...
Chapter 35
Cyrus sat on his cot after Malpravus left. His head was spinning and a raw feeling of annoyed disappointment filled him. I knew there was a traitor in the Alliance. Of course it was the most evil bastard I've ever met. He has no qualms about using the corpses of his guildmates to save his ass; why would he have a problem with betraying every member of Sanctuary to death?
He felt his hand shaking. A moment later he sat up, realizing that he was not shaking from anger, but because the cell was moving. A crashing of footfalls could be heard coming down the hall and his door burst open, revealing the face of Fortin, peering in at him.
Cyrus jumped to his feet. “You know, it's rude not to knock.”
The rock giant looked at him, expressionless as always. “Knock knock,” he said.
“What do you want, Fortin?”
“It's dinnertime,” the rock giant said, squeezing himself through the door. “Since there's nothing to entertain me in the foyer, I
came to find out what the necromancer wanted.”
Cyrus's head was still spinning from his conversation with Malpravus. “He... he offered to bring back my friend.”
Fortin's rocky eyelid slid up a few inches. “Narstron? Yeah, I heard that.”
Cyrus paused and looked at the rock giant in surprise. “You heard all that? From down the hall?”
“Rock giants have exceptional hearing.”
Cyrus sat back down. “How did you know Narstron's name?”
“You don't sleep quietly.”
“Oh,” Cyrus said with chagrin. “I'm sorry if I disturb your sleep –”
A giant, craggy hand dismissed him. “When I'm sleeping, your nightmares, loud as they are, would not wake me. I hear them if I'm not sleeping. I've had those kinds of dreams before.”
Cyrus looked away, focusing on the stones in the wall. “It's not something I really want to discuss.”
“Fine,” Fortin said. “Any more kisses from the ice princess?”
Cy's head snapped around. “Why would you call her that?” He thought about it for a beat. “Never mind.”
He felt his mind drift back to that simple motion from Malpravus of drawing the ruby back to him, and saw again the similarity to the hand in Enterra, drawing the hammer to the cloaked figure. He saw the red eyes of the Emperor and Empress, felt the raw bile of hatred fill his throat and mouth, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill them all, Malpravus as well.
Glee filled him as he remembered driving Tolada's nose into his face, of slitting Carrack's throat. He wished he had been able to knock Orion to the ground, to throw off that ridiculous helm and plunge his sword into him over and over. And then turn, and strike down Malpravus with a single blow, sword slicing through the cloak – why did everyone keep telling him he should avoid vengeance when it would be so sweet and satisfying?
“I sense that our conversation is not first priority in your mind right now,” Fortin said.
He looked up in surprise at the rock giant, one of the greatest warriors he'd ever seen. A moment of insecurity crossed Cyrus's mind. “Let me ask you something, Fortin,” he began. “I think you'll understand better than anyone.”
“Proceed,” came the rumbling answer.
“I've been wanting... revenge against those who killed... my friend,” he managed to choke out, unable to say Narstron's name. “Everyone keeps urging me against revenge.” He shook his head and stood. “I've listened, so far, but the cry for vengeance does not leave my mind; I can't even sleep without dreaming about it.” He turned and placed his hands against the walls, felt their coolness and roughness against his palms. “If it were you who were wronged, you'd pursue vengeance at all costs, wouldn't you?”
A rumble of amusement filled the cell. “No.”
Cyrus froze and turned back to the rock giant. “No? Why not?”
A moment of silence filled the air. “I am the youngest brother of five in my family. My oldest brother was like a father to me after my real father died. He taught me to fight and when he entered the service of the Dragonlord, I followed him with my other three brothers. All of them with the exception of my oldest brother were killed in the last battle with Sanctuary in the Mountains of Nartanis.”
The rock giant paused. “My oldest brother was killed a year before when you pushed him into the lava while he was guarding the bridge to Ashan'agar's den.”
Cyrus turned and felt a cold, gut-clenching sensation of warning slip through him as he faced the rock giant. His sword was not in easy reach; by the time anyone could get to them, he would be a smear on the walls; permanently dead. “And you don't want revenge?” Cyrus asked, frozen in place, eyes fixated on the blade leaning against the wall between him and Fortin.
“Stop eying your sword like I'm going to splatter you across the dungeons; it's insulting.” The rock giant guffawed, a deep, guttural sound akin to stones clacking together. “We were the sworn guardians of a dragon that everyone in the world wanted to kill. It'd be a fool who didn't know the risks when they swore their loyalty and chose their path. I do not regret my service, and nor would my brothers – any of them. You are an adventurer, someone who dares death every day. You should understand.”
“I don't think I do.” Cyrus sat back on his cot, head bowed.
Fortin took one massive stride to the door, where he turned to face Cyrus. The rock giant's eyes glowed in the darkness as he spoke. “If you charge willingly into death and send others to it, you shouldn't be upset when it comes for you the last time. Revenge for my brother would be pointless. He's dead. The master we swore to serve is dead. They cannot help me; they cannot teach me. Sanctuary can give me a path. If I were to strike all of you down – and be assured I could – my desire for short term satisfaction would have cost me the infinite possibilities I could have pursued instead.”
Fortin cocked his head at Cyrus. “Let's say you could kill the goblins, kill the traitor in the Alliance that you tried to earlier in the foyer – yes, I heard and saw it – you should have lunged harder on your first attempt – and even bring back your friend with that necromancer's help. Only one of the three actions really matters. Everything else is just getting in the way of what you're trying to do.” The rock giant ducked and stepped through the door. He turned back and looked at Cyrus before leaving. “Unless, of course, you want to spend every day for the rest of your life plotting and scheming at killing goblins, traitors and other people who have offended you in some way.”
“What if it didn't take that long?” Cyrus said. “What if it could be over soon? Then it could be done. And I could... find peace.” He exhaled, heavy air rushing out of his nostrils and mouth as he sagged.
“Hell of a way to live your life, even for a short period of time,” the rock giant said. “I'd hate to think of what you might cost yourself in the meantime – expeditions, a guild, even ice princess kisses.” The loud crash of the rock giant's steps faded as he retreated down the hallway, leaving Cyrus to his thoughts.
Alaric called them to Council the next morning. It was a short meeting. “We have nothing left to discuss. Malpravus's intentions are plain; he will use this situation to take our guild. We have two weeks before this happens. Every hand should be ready.”
“I have... an idea,” Cyrus said quietly.
Heads swiveled to him in surprise. Curatio gave him a smile of encouragement, as did Alaric, in a patronly sort of way. “What is it, brother?” the Ghost said with an air of friendship.
Cyrus explained his plan, keeping out any mention of his suspicions regarding Malpravus. I'll tell them when they're ready to hear.
“If you are correct,” Alaric said with a nod, “this may indeed be our best chance to catch them.”
Vara had remained silent. “I have something that may help.” She laid a piece of parchment on the Council table. “My father sent this from Termina – it is a shipping manifest and schedule for a convoy that will pass through the southern plains in a week, coming from Termina to Aloakna.” Her eyes slid around the table. “It is ripe for the plucking. With this, we will have a general idea of where it will be and when. We could send a patrol to ride close by, waiting for the raiders.”
Alaric nodded. “I have received similar manifests from acquaintances in Reikonos; unfortunately I have had to dismiss them all as I suspect they are a trap.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you certain that this is not?”
Vara shook her head. “Not certain. But I don't think my father would betray me; not ever. I explained our plight when last I was in Termina and he sent me word today of half a dozen shipments planned for the next months from his employer. The rest will not happen for several weeks, so this is our best chance.”
“Even if it is a trap,” Terian conceded, “we have nothing to lose.”
“Agreed.” Vaste nodded. “We have two weeks until we'll involuntarily be forced to admit complicity; we might as well stalk a convoy now.” He grinned. “We could always hit it and make off with the proc
eeds; at least have some gold to start our new lives with.”
Scattered laughter around the table was brought to a halt by a harrumph from Alaric. “Not funny,” the Ghost said.
“Too soon?” the troll asked with a shrug.
“Very well,” Alaric nodded. “We will continue our patrols at an increased level over the next week, keeping Cyrus's strategy in mind. Should we not achieve the desired results, we will follow this caravan that Vara's father suggests.” A grim look crept over the Ghost's face. “Trap or no, it may be our last chance to save Sanctuary.”
Chapter 36
The next week went the same as the previous: no attacks sighted, but the armies of the Elven Kingdom, Human Confederation and Dark Elven Sovereignty edged ever closer. By the day that Vara's convoy rolled through the plains, there were no other options.
“So how do we get past the armies?” Terian said from the wall, looking out with Cyrus at his side.
“We teleport to the portal with our horses,” Cyrus said, looking down at the armies moving in the distance as dusk approached the plains. The armies clashed with the flat horizon, little bumps of darkness against the flat edge of the sky. “And we ride out from there.”
The two of them descended the steps in one of the wall's towers, then stalked toward the stables. “So,” Terian said nonchalantly, “how's life in the dungeons?”
“The beds are terrible and when Fortin snores it sounds like Ashan'agar's den collapsing around me.”
As they crossed the grounds, Cyrus watched as the front doors opened and disgorged a host of members. Every horse was being taken from the stables and every rider would be part of the same patrol. His eyes saw Erith, Andren, Niamh, J'anda, Curatio, Vaste, Nyad and a hundred others. Alaric came last, helm on and sword at his side.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 28