Cyrus looked down and saw more of his fallen brethren than he cared to count – more than a hundred bodies lying on the stones of Enterra, no healer close by, and more enemies filling the room by the moment. Hope grew distant.
The doors flew open once more and a shout crackled through the air in a low, rumbling tone. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”
Cyrus flung himself, blade first, to the side, killing goblins in his path as the throne room doors blew off their hinges. Fragments of wood and metal ripped through the air, tearing a path of destruction ten feet wide in front of the entryway.
A blur of brown moved through at high speed, hitting several goblins and turning them to smears on the floor before coming to a stop next to the shattered remnants of the doors. Fortin looked around at the destruction he had wrought and a smile of satisfaction crossed the face of the rock giant, standing far above the goblins that surrounded him.
His hand reached down and plucked three of them up, dashing them against the nearest wall. With another wave of his hand, four more of them became messy splatters of blood that dotted the floor around the rock giant.
“Fortin!” Cyrus called with a smile. “Would you mind closing that gods-damned barracks door? It's feeling a bit drafty in here.”
With a salute of his mammoth, rocky hand, Fortin charged once more, this time into the door at the far end of the room that led into the barracks. Once more, he blew the door off the hinges and sent it spiraling down the hall in front of him as a harbinger of the destruction that was to follow.
Cyrus cut once more into the goblins in the room, watching them reel from his attacks, now more lethal and painful than ever, watched them flash with pain and agony, watched them die... like Narstron...
Alaric was still alive, fending off a rapidly diminishing host of goblins. With their reinforcements cut off by Fortin and Cyrus’s and Alaric's vicious, destructive attacks, their numbers dwindled. The Army of Sanctuary pushed back into the room, Martaina and Aisling at the head. The dark elf struck three goblins from behind in rapid succession, assisting Cyrus while Martaina dropped four in a row from across the room with her bow. Ryin Ayend blasted fire at a cluster of soldiers dogging Alaric's steps while Niamh sent a lightning burst from her hands that turned another to a cinder.
Cyrus watched the last few goblins form a protective ring around the Empress, who was lying, armless and wounded, next to the body of Vara. Her defenders kept their distance from him. He closed on them without patience or mercy, and Praelior cut the first one in half at the waist while it tried to feint away from Cyrus.
The second guard went on the offensive, as did the third, and the blade caught one with a gash across the chest and the next with the spiked pommel to the head as he clawed into Cyrus's ribs between the gap in his armor.
The body fell away and Cyrus struck the last defender with a long stabbing blow that impaled the goblin, then sliced him halfway apart as Cy removed his sword. He advanced on the Empress, who was crawling back, hissing. Her arm was gushing blood, missing at the shoulder, but her teeth were bared. She reached the wall and propped her back against it. She looked up at him and lashed out clumsily with her remaining hand.
He drew back and cut it off at the elbow with a flick of his wrist. She screamed again, a terrible, gnashing sound. He looked down at her, rage filling his heart. She's the last... do it...
His eyes alighted once more on Vara's dead eyes and he flicked his gaze back to the Empress. “Remember me?” he taunted. “Last time we met, this is how you left me. Back against the wall, dying, and you cut my throat with your sword. I remember looking up and seeing this –” he gestured down at the scabbard tucked in his belt – “right before I died.” His face tautened with the hatred he felt coursing through him. “Isn't this ironic?”
With a gasping, heaving sound, the Empress of Enterra spoke. “You invaded my home... you were already dying... I killed you... it was a mercy... grant me the same.” It was not the dark, demonic voice of his nightmares. It was a cracking, strained voice, pleading for release.
“I invaded your home because you were a threat to everyone around you!” he yelled back at her. “How many gnomes and humans have you and your kind killed just because they were there! You were plotting a war with your neighbors... and I meant to stop you.” He relaxed for a moment, sword still pointed at her neck. “And now I have.”
She rasped back at him. “You came... brought the gezhvet... our doom.”
He leaned down and threw his helmet aside to look her in the face. “You don't get it! You killed HIM! He's dead! He was noble, and good, and forgiving – he would have settled for kicking your ass and being on his way to the next challenge!” His face convulsed as anger of every sort ran across his features. “But you killed him! And because of that, I'm your doom, G'Koal! I'm the death of your empire!”
He gestured at the door behind him. “Right now, my rock giant is in your barracks. And he will kill every one of your warriors, if he hasn't already. Your husband is dead. There's the ruin of the goblins. Narstron was the gezhvet because you made him the harbinger of your doom when you killed my best friend... and sealed your own fate.” He drew the blade back.
“Be done, then.” The pleading in her voice was worse than any angry words he could imagine. “You have destroyed my world, warrior. Do this final thing...” she coughed, “...and take your vengeance.”
He hesitated. Why are you waiting? he railed at himself. DO IT! She killed him! She and her people! SHE WANTS TO DIE! DO IT! The thoughts broke through his mind like a torrential flood sweeping through an old, dry stream bed.
A strange sense of calm filled him, his fury abated. He lowered his sword and got to his feet. “You know what?” he said with an air of grim realization. “You want to die more than I want you to.” He sheathed the Champion's Blade. “You will come with us... and you'll tell everyone why you sent raiders halfway across Arkaria to attack convoys. And you'll tell them who colluded with you to do it.”
She looked up at him, yellow eyes slack, staring into his. “And why would I do this...?”
“Because I conquered you.” He looked down at her without any trace of anger. He felt only pity for her now, this broken, hollowed out shell of a warrior. “I bested you. Me. You fought for years to become the chosen Empress of Enterra. Out of all the goblin women, you were the strongest. And I beat you and your husband. Respect my strength, for I have conquered you, and you will do as I say.”
Her head bowed and the yellow eyes slipped away from his. “I will do as you say,” she repeated, voice breaking.
He turned from her to see Alaric next to Vara. The Ghost graced him with a nod of respect and turned away. From all across the throne room, the dead of Sanctuary were rising, Curatio returning them to life.
Sitting in the shadow of Alaric, Vara was staring at Cyrus, holding her hand to her neck. Light had returned to the shining blue eyes and they were fixed on him, a look of relief washing over her. Warring emotions fought on her face until it finally returned to her practiced stoicism. “I'm glad to see you didn't let the desire for revenge overwhelm your good sense.”
A wan smile crossed his lips as he went and knelt down to her. “You just implied I had some form of good sense. Are you sure you're feeling all right?”
Blood oozed from between her fingers at the place where they met her neck. “I was just resurrected from an abrupt and brutal death; it's only natural I might be prone to confusion. When I said good sense, I meant –”
“Don't go taking back a compliment once given,” he chided her.
She paused and looked into his eyes, earnestly. “Then the next time I proffer one, take it humbly.”
“I will... try.” He reached down to her hand and gently peeled it back from her neck. A thin trickle of red slid down to her still-shining armor. Looking at her wound, he frowned. “Can you heal yourself?”
“I have no magical energy left,” she said with a shake of her head. “But this is nothing.
Let me see your sword.” He stared her down, and for the first time since he'd known her, her expression turned impish. “Let me see it. I did die so you could acquire it. At least do me the courtesy of letting me see what my blood bought.”
He drew the blade from the scabbard and handed it to her. A wearying feeling hit him, as if he were feeling the weight of his armor on his shoulders for the first time and he slid to the ground next to her, tired and overwhelmed.
“It's a very fine blade,” she admitted, swinging it in front of her. She passed it back to him with a look of regret. “I don't know that I've held one better.”
He took it back in his hand and felt strength fill him as he held it. His armor felt lighter, the sword felt like it weighed nothing in his grasp, and he stood almost without effort. “It has a powerful enchantment on it,” he said with awe.
“Do you know its origin?” she asked, eyes transfixed on the slight glow of the blade.
“No,” he half-lied.
“A pity,” she said. “But hardly the first time an object of power came to a bearer through mysterious means.” With great effort, she pulled her gaze from the blade and back to him. “I am... pleased... that you did not cave to your darkest desires and turn the Empress into a poorly cut meal for buzzards.”
He did not seem to register her comment for a moment, so intense was his stare at Praelior. “It was a very near thing,” he said at last. “When I saw the Emperor kill you...” His voice trailed off. “It looked very dark for a few minutes while you were dead.”
“You killed the Emperor?” she asked.
“With my bare hands, I think,” he said with a note of surprise at the memory. It felt like someone else had done it. Staring into those yellow eyes as they faded had given him no real joy. “It doesn't matter; it's done now.” He took a deep breath and the wan smile returned. “It's done.”
Chapter 41
Hours later, he stood on the platform in the throne room, surrounded on all sides by the dead of the battle. Dull, yellow eyes stared up at him from the floor. The brave fighters of Sanctuary had left, and he was alone in the middle of the carnage. He turned back to see the Emperor's body, still lying where he had kicked it. Blood pooled in between bodies and pieces, and his boots made a soft sucking sound as he walked through them, as though his feet were drinking it in as some bizarre spoil of war.
“You really did it for me, didn't you?” The voice shook him, causing him to turn his head. There, picking through the debris of battle, was a familiar face. A dwarf, only waist-high to him, beard flowing from beneath a metal helm, with rough skin, but an unmistakeable grin. His eyes were dark, as Cyrus remembered him in life, instead of the red of his nightmares.
“Narstron,” he breathed. “I did. I killed them... but I have to tell you... when it came to the moment, I didn't do it for you. I did it to stop them. I did it because I was angry.”
“Aye,” the dwarf said with a shake of his head at the bodies surrounding him. “That was a bit weak of you to falter before killing the last... but we can work on that as time goes on.”
The dark eyes found him again, but this time they were different, glowing deep crimson, as though the darkest fire Cyrus could imagine was burning behind them. The outline of Narstron became blurry, changing into something else, something familiar – a memory from a day years ago in Reikonos.
“You carry my sword now. You have completed my quest. You are my faithful servant. Now go forth and unleash havoc – in the name of Bellarum. And perhaps, in time, I will forgive you your weakness today.”
With a jolt Cyrus awakened. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he realized he was in his officers’ quarters, back in the tower of Sanctuary. A thick silence hung in the air around him, punctuated by a loud snore from Vaste, far down the hall. He listened for any other sound, but none was evident.
This time when he awoke, he hadn't been screaming. He turned over and lulled back to sleep, a deep, dreamless slumber from which he did not stir until after noon the next day.
When Cyrus arose, he donned his armor and slipped the scabbard onto his belt with a smile. A sense of pride filled him; Vara had not been false when she said it was perhaps the finest sword ever.
He descended the steps to find a celebration ongoing in the Great Hall, foyer and lounge. Niamh was the first officer he saw and he caught her by the arm as she flitted past. “What happened?” He paused, rethinking his question. “Other than our victory?”
A heady smile cracked her face. “While we were in Enterra, Alaric sent the evidence we had with messengers to Pharesia and Reikonos and they cleared our names!”
“What about Saekaj?”
She shrugged. “I don't know that we'll ever be welcome there until the Sovereign dies. Whoever he is, he must be one damned spiteful son of a bitch.”
“I suspect the Sovereign wasn't born to a woman so much as spawned from a darkness you can scarcely imagine. But as for being spiteful, he's all that and more,” Aisling said, appearing behind Cyrus. Cy's hand instinctively reached down and caught hers on the hilt of his sword. He held it up in front of her and she made no move to pull it away. “If you wanted to hold hands, you need only ask,” she said with a taunting smile. “Can I see it?”
He humored her, and his display of Praelior drew admiring looks and comments from all around the foyer as his guildmates came to see the new weapon.
“You know,” came the voice of Alaric as he descended from the balcony above with a twinkle in his eye, “I don't begrudge you that excellent weapon you've assembled, but do try to remember that an officer of Sanctuary must be humble, and not a braggart of any sort.”
Cyrus hesitated and began to sheath the sword until Alaric laughed. “I was teasing you, brother. Be proud of your weapon. Your quest was long and arduous to acquire it and we all celebrate your success with you. But,” he said, “I must speak to you about a different matter. It would seem that in light of recent events, we have a host of meetings to prepare for.”
Cyrus broke free from the crowd that had gathered around him and walked with the Ghost, who led him out the doors and onto the grounds. “What sort of meetings?” he asked as they descended the stairs.
“Mere formalities,” the Guildmaster assured him. “I presume you have heard that Reikonos and Pharesia have absolved us?” When Cyrus nodded, he continued. “Now we must go to Reikonos and cast the blame where it belongs,” the Ghost said with an air of deep satisfaction. “We leave in an hour. And then, after that, I have scheduled an Alliance officer meeting in the Coliseum at Reikonos. There was a guild meeting this morning while you were sleeping and we have... results to report to them.”
“We'll be taking the Empress with us, I presume?” Cyrus asked.
“Indeed,” Alaric said with gusto. “She is with Nyad and Curatio right now in Pharesia, and Niamh informed me that before she teleported back to us, the Empress was filling the air of the King's Court with a compelling tale of deceit and treachery.”
He smiled. “I confess, it has a twist in the tale that I did not quite expect, but should not surprise – after all, so busy were we proving that the goblins were the raiders that we never did ask ourselves what possible motive the goblins could have in participating in the attacks.”
Cy frowned at the Ghost in confusion. “I thought it was for the treasure that the convoys were filled with?”
“I would have thought so too,” Alaric replied, “but the Empress insists that Goliath received the majority of the proceeds and that the caravans grew poorer and poorer as the attacks dragged on, until their worth was but a fraction of the rich bounties they brought at first. No,” he said with a shake of his head, “something else was promised to the goblins.”
“What?” Cyrus asked in genuine curiosity.
The enigmatic smile that embodied the persona of the Ghost filled Alaric Garaunt's face. “You will hear for yourself in only a few hours,” he promised, turning back toward the front steps. “Oh, and by the way...
I am proud of you for reining yourself in at the last.”
Cyrus felt a rush of embarrassment. “Alaric, I still killed... hundreds of goblins. I beat the Emperor to death with my own hands in a rage that would put a bloodthirsty troll to shame. I ordered Fortin to kill the reinforcements that the goblins sent from the barracks, and I didn't stop him from killing them even after we won.”
“All true,” the knight conceded. “But let us examine motives for a moment – were the goblins you killed attacking you at the time you killed them?”
Cyrus blinked. “Without exception.”
“And if you had called off Fortin from his attack on the barracks, do you think the goblins within would have given up and retreated?”
Cyrus looked at the Ghost. “No.”
“And had you relented in your battle with the Emperor, unarmed as you were, do you think he would have yielded to you?”
“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “I looked in his eyes as I killed him. There was no surrender in him, only defiance.”
“And which were you more upset about when you attacked him – the death of Narstron or the death of Vara?”
Without a moment's hesitation Cyrus whispered his reply. “Vara.”
“Here is what I see,” the Ghost said, adopting a pensive tone. “You were attacking a clear enemy of Sanctuary, one which you had a long and bitter personal history with, but when it came down to it, they were an implacable foe in battle, and when you struck down their leader you were more upset at the plight of your comrade that died that day than the one that died over a year ago.” His eyes found Cyrus's, and the Ghost's look cut through him. “And when you found a foe that you had beaten, totally, you offered her mercy rather than slaughter her without it.”
“Yes, but the only reason that I did it is because I felt pity for her!” Cyrus felt the flush of embarrassment, as though he were confessing to a particularly filthy crime.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 33