Sanctuary Tales (Book 1)

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus stood still, the lack of air movement causing his skin to crawl. He watched Vaste, stonefaced, unmoving before him, anger spent. He heard light laughter in the distance from the staircases and tasted the bile in his mouth as his mind replayed his every act of unkindness toward Vaste. “I’m sorry.” The shame crept over him. “You’re right.”

  “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Vaste replied, “let’s make a plan to deal with them. We can take them out and walk out of here – together.”

  I don’t know that I want to, Cyrus thought. “You have been decent to me since we met – and I’ve been…” He took a deep breath. “…not so gracious. If we can make it to the entrance tunnel, I can hold them all off while you get away – maybe even take enough of them out that they won’t want to follow you. I’ll cover your retreat and join you when I’m finished.” And maybe soon I’ll see Narstron again.

  “You’ll be dead,” Vaste replied. “Byb is a dark knight and he has nasty magics at his command – tunnel or not, he’ll slaughter you from a distance with his spell casting ability. I can keep you healed.”

  “There are at least eight of them,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head. “The odds are against us. They are bigger than me – and some of them are stronger.”

  “But if they’re coming at you in the tunnel, it’s one-on-one or one-on-two. Those are good odds for us with you in front – your skill with a sword is far beyond any of theirs. And you’ve got an expert healer backing you up. They get wounded, die and stay dead.” The troll cracked a smile. “That evens the odds.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus agreed, tired of arguing. Exhaustion filled him and he wanted the fight to be over. “Let’s give it a try. But be ready to run if things turn ugly.”

  Vaste’s eyes flickered in the dark. “I’m not a coward that’s concerned with saving my own hide above all else; I’m a member of Sanctuary and I stand and fight beside my guildmates.” He arched an eyebrow at Cyrus. “Even the ignorant ones.”

  “Loyalty,” Cyrus said with a downward look.

  “Surprised to find it from a troll?”

  Cyrus’s eyes traced the lines around his boots. “We should go. Vaste?” Cyrus said.

  “Yes?”

  Cyrus froze. “When you get back to Sanctuary, please don’t tell anyone about…what I said here.”

  Vaste stared him down, bending to look him in the eyes. “If you survive, I won’t. But if you do something asinine to get yourself killed, I’ll tell everyone what a moron you were.” Cyrus’s eyes snapped up, inward fire burning as Vaste stared him down. “This isn’t your chance to redeem your ignorance by dying a hero. I don’t care how much you’re drowning in despair from what happened in Enterra or if you feel like a stupid wretch for espousing ignorant dogmas; this is your chance to learn and change – and not be a zealot who has to hide from living in the world his whole life.

  “What I said is unforgivable.”

  “Not unless you continue believing it.”

  Cyrus led the way, easing toward the staircase. None of the heretics were in sight when they reached the bottom of the steps. “Let’s try and catch them by surprise.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Vaste whispered back.

  From above, a peal of laughter rang out over quiet conversation. Cyrus knew that at least two of the enemies had their backs to the staircase from their laughter, and they were close by. If I can get those two first, it’ll help our chances…

  He climbed the stairs slowly, taking a step at a time and being careful not to clank his metal boots on the stone. He saw two of the brigands – the male and female that had assaulted him earlier, both standing with their backs to the stairs, unaware of his presence.

  He jumped the last couple steps and reached up, grabbing each of them by an ankle, yanking with all his weight. Twin cries echoed as they lost their footing and were dragged down by Cyrus. The male tried to grab the ledge and failed, his jaw breaking on it as he passed. He crumpled to Cyrus’s feet, unconscious, a thin line of blood running out of his mouth.

  The female, by virtue of faster reflexes, managed to catch the ledge as she fell. Cyrus reached up and grabbed her around the waist. His hand slithered up to her stomach and ripped loose her fragile hold, slamming her to the stairs below with a thunderous crack of breaking bones. He could feel the shock of her impact and watched as she went limp and lifeless, her corpse sliding down the stairs.

  Shouts filled the air above him as he charged up the remaining steps. There was no one between him and the entrance tunnel now. Vaste followed only a step behind, and Cyrus interposed himself between the healer and the remaining six heretics.

  “It would appear you’re without a healer, Byb.” Cyrus smirked at the sight of the bodies of the two they had downed earlier, lying off to the side of the chamber.

  “Indeed,” returned the dark knight, no amusement on his face. “It’s why I was hoping your comrade would be willing to betray you.”

  “I’m afraid I must decline,” Vaste’s deep voice boomed. “I make an effort not to be seen in the company of swine such as yourself.”

  “A blood traitor, huh?” Byb’s smile cracked his serious expression. “Too good for your own people?”

  “Too good for you,” Vaste said with a smile.

  “A diet of his toejam would be too good for you,” Cyrus replied.

  “My toejam?” Vaste said, sotto voce. “That’s fairly graphic. And inaccurate – I’ll have you know I wash my feet regularly—”

  “Shush,” Cyrus said as they backed down the tunnel.

  Byb’s archers had moved into position, flanking the dark knight. “You know,” Byb said, “I think we’re about to see you riddled with arrows.”

  “Only if your archers have gotten better with their aim than last round,” Cyrus shot back. As if to answer him, two arrows shot at him, both glancing off his armor – one at the chest, one at his shoulder. “It would appear they have not. Maybe if they stood right next to me and held the arrow to my head…?”

  “Laugh while you can.” Byb’s voice turned easy, genial. “It’s a long tunnel.”

  Cyrus paused. “Good point.”

  Without telegraphing his intentions, Cyrus charged. Although unlikely to match the strength of the trolls, his speed was greater. Two more arrows bounced from his armor, one skipping the seam where his forearm plate met his gauntlet. He closed the distance before the archers could bring another volley to bear.

  Sidestepping Byb, who had drawn his sword, Cyrus plunged his blade into the first archer, who had thrown his bow aside to draw a dagger but failed to free it from the scabbard in time.

  Byb swung at Cyrus but the slice went wide as the warrior sidestepped, lowered his shoulder and lunged, knocking Byb back a few steps. “You can’t stop me,” the dark knight spouted as Vaste’s staff came down from behind and clipped him in the back of the head. Byb fell to his knees, clutching the base of his skull.

  Cyrus did not halt his attack, slinging his sword around in an arc in front of him as he took a step toward the second archer. This one had freed his dagger, but the blade was too high to react to Cyrus’s attack. The warrior’s sword stabbed through the troll’s canvas shirt and Cy kicked the archer to free his blade from where it had lodged between the heretic’s ribs.

  Cy did a quick assessment of the situation. With Byb on the ground and the two archers dead, it left only three heretics. One walked with a pronounced limp from where Cyrus had impaled his knee earlier; one of the others was attacking Vaste, who was holding her back with his staff, her rapier clicking against the hard wood. With a last flourish, Vaste struck her hand, sending the sword skittering across the floor, then brought the staff around and knocked her to her knees. He struck her a final time across the back of the neck and she slumped to the ground.

  Cyrus looked at the two that he faced – one limping and the other lean and rangy, a worried look in his eyes. The one with perfect mobility kept out of arm’s reach, brin
ging a smile to Cyrus’s face. He lunged and raked his sword across the troll’s neck; a perfectly aimed strike that dropped the heretic with a single hit, hands shaking as they tried in to control the geyser of blood welling from his throat. The one that limped held his sword in front of him as though it were a shield and circled away from Cyrus.

  “It would appear the odds have evened,” Cyrus taunted the brigand, whose shaggy black hair hung over his face, eyes wide and looking down at Cyrus in fear and anticipation of an attack. Just need to circle him a bit more… “I bet you didn’t see things turning out quite this way.”

  Cyrus had turned him so the limping brigand was hobbling back now, in retreat, so scared of the warrior that he paid no attention to Vaste, who was standing behind him. He bumped into the healer, turned in fright with sword raised to strike and Cyrus closed and yanked him by the ragged collar, impaling him through the chest. The heretic’s sword clattered to the stone and Vaste watched with impassive eyes as he fell to the ground.

  “Byb?” Cyrus asked.

  Vaste shrugged. “I got distracted.”

  They turned to see the dark knight standing in front of the entrance tunnel. “Boys, you’ve cleaned out my hideout. I’m gonna have to relocate myself to somewhere choicer.”

  “You think you’ll make it out the door?” Cyrus asked, now smiling like Byb. A gripping pain slammed into his chest, an agony as intense as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a sword. He dropped to a knee, gasping.

  “I reckon I’ll be all right,” Byb replied with a smirk. “I’m not planning to go back to Reikonos with you, that’s for sure. They’re lying to everybody about how magic works.” His eyes were deadened as he spoke, a haunted look passing over him. “And when you find out their secrets, they call you a heretic.”

  “Says the troll who delights in the slaughter and pain of others,” Vaste retorted. “Thanks for giving the rest of us a bad name.”

  “Embrace it,” Byb said, mouth twisted. “Humans and all these other mortals are so small, so flimsy. Trolls were made to rule them. There’s another war coming, and our people will need us. There’s no mad sorceress to stop us this time. If we just embrace the magics of our heritage…” He glared down at Vaste. “Everything I’ve done is for us. Our kind. They need us! They will welcome us back as heroes! In a land without magic…we are gods!”

  “You’re no god,” Vaste pronounced.

  Byb smiled. “Someday you’ll see it my way. And I’ll be there to say ‘I told you so’. It’s been a joy. Although you’ve killed my clan, you did liven up a dull stay out here.” He tipped an imaginary hat in salute.

  “I’ll find my joy in bringing your head back to Reikonos,” Cyrus growled at him, pain subsiding in his chest.

  Byb smiled, a wide grin aimed at Cyrus. “I think we’ll cross swords again.” He started to run down the tunnel.

  Cyrus snatched Vaste’s staff out of the healer’s hands and sprung after Byb. His legs pounded as he ran down the tunnel and hurled it like a javelin. It flew between Byb’s legs as the heretic ran through the open entryway and began to descend the stairs. His shin connected with the staff and it snagged his foot. He stumbled, twisting as he fell sideways off the temple. Cyrus watched as he disappeared, arms flailing, black eyes wide.

  Cyrus chewed his lip for a moment and pondered the drop. “I think not.”

  “You better not have broken my staff,” Vaste said, annoyed. “It’s mystical.”

  “Then it’s doubtful that some skinny troll tripping over it and dropping it a few hundred feet is going to break it, right?”

  “You better hope.”

  “If it’s broken, the two hundred thousand gold pieces we’re about to collect should buy a new one.”

  “Two hundred thousand?” Vaste frowned.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus replied, “A hundred for him, ten for each of his cronies. They’re all heretics.”

  Vaste’s eyes glazed over. “Two hundred thousand gold…that’s more than we would have gotten from Brevis’s treasure…”

  “Especially after he deducted his percentage.” Cyrus smiled. “Fifty-fifty, right?”

  “Well, if I had to become a bounty hunter and split money with any ignorant savage, I’m pleased it was you.” His frown dissolved, making way for a crooked grin across his face.

  “Well, I’m aspiring to become more than that.”

  “Keep working on it,” Vaste told him with a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know when you’ve arrived.”

  They followed the long staircase down to find Byb’s body crumpled at the base of the temple. The bandit’s green face was slack, his neck at an impossible angle, Vaste’s staff lying a few feet away. Cyrus picked it up, dusted it off and handed it to Vaste. “Seems fine.”

  The troll looked at it with suspicion, eyes scouring it. “It could be damaged. The crystal could be cracked. I want an expert opinion.”

  Cyrus yanked it out of the healer’s hands and peered at it, inspecting every inch with a weathered eye before tossing it back. “Flawless. Now quit griping.”

  “How do we collect these bounties?” Vaste asked. “Do we have to carry the bodies back to Reikonos?”

  “Not the whole body, no…”

  A hint of pleading ran through Vaste’s voice. “I don’t do decapitations.”

  “Fine, you elf-girl. I’ll do it.”

  “Don’t let Vara hear you call anyone that.”

  Cyrus drew his sword and finished in a few cuts, turning back to Vaste when he was done. The troll’s skin held a greener hue than usual and he almost stammered as he spoke. “I’ve seen that done during battles – you know, a good, sure slice. Even during an execution or two. But…that was brutal.”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said with a grin of obvious enjoyment at the troll’s discomfort. “I’ve got to go back up and get the rest, and I’ll need someone to hold the bag.”

  “Pass.”

  “This is a vital part of collecting the bounty!” Cyrus’s grin deepened to what he was certain could only be described as evil.

  “Still pass. Saving your ass was a vital enough part of collecting the bounty for me. Way to work on overcoming your savagery.”

  “My savagery is about to make us a lot of money.” The grin faded as Cyrus looked at the healer, clearly ill at the thought of the gore involved. “I’ll take care of it,” Cyrus promised. “Wait for me here.”

  Vaste rolled his eyes. “Well I’m not going to stalk off into the jungle by myself and leave the bounties behind. Or you.”

  The ascent to the entrance of the temple seemed half as high with the battle won. Cyrus found a knapsack carried by one of the heretics and dealt with them one by one. The red blood stood in contrast to the green skin of the trolls and began to pool in the cracks of the old floor, running toward the carved symbol in the middle of it. Cyrus had finished with the last of them, taking care to raid their purses before he left, and cinched the knapsack when a low hissing filled his ears.

  A slight shiver ran down his spine and his eyes darted around, looking for the source of the noise. He looked to all sides and clutched his sword in one hand. A voice filled the air, emanating from the space around the raised altar. “I am…the Avatar of the God of Death…of Mortus. You have brought me sacrifices…”

  Cyrus blinked in alarm, edging toward the door. “Uh…you’re welcome?”

  “For a hundred years my followers worshipped here…extolling the glory of death…until he came…trapping me in the darkness…but you…have freed me with the blood of sacrifice…”

  Cyrus did not see anything in the darkness before him. An indescribable feeling of dread clutched at him, driving a fear unlike any he had ever felt. He cast a look back. Almost to the door. Don’t know if that counts for anything, but hopefully I can get away. “Again, you’re welcome.”

  “Need…more blood to bring…the personification of Death…to Arkaria…”

  “Well,” Cyrus said with a gulp, clutching the bag
of heads in his hand, “those bodies are still draining, so you’ll continue to have a fair supply for a while.” Almost there…

  “Need more…fresh…blood…”

  “I might be able to help you with that…there’s another troll outside…let me get him for you…”

  “Yes…you are my servant…bring me fresh blood…feed my master’s mark…make me strong…free me…”

  “Sure. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Cyrus had reached the aperture and turned, running full force down the steps, taking them five at a time.

  Vaste looked up at him from a seated position on a log, face filled with curiosity. “What? Dead trolls didn’t scare you, did they?”

  “Run, you jackass! I’ll explain later!”

  Cyrus tore into the jungle at top speed. A scream of unearthly fury filled the air, radiating from the top of the pyramid, and Cyrus heard Vaste’s heavy footfalls only a few steps behind him. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!” the healer shouted as they tore through the jungle along the faint path that they had followed coming in.

  “Apparently I brought the blood of sacrifices to the Avatar of the God of Death!”

  Vaste’s voice was incredulous. “Why would you go and do something like that?”

  “It wasn’t intentional, and if you weren’t such a weak-kneed elf you’d have been helping me do it, so shut up!”

  “Can we outrun it?” Vaste’s voice was edged with concern and fear.

  Cyrus puffed, legs hammering at the soft jungle soil. “If not we can fight it when we get sick of running.”

  “Great, and we’ll be tired out; just the condition I want to be in for a battle with some epic evil!”