Sanctuary Tales (Book 1)

by Robert J. Crane

  They ran for hours, long past the fall of night. Every noise that found their ears sounded like the approach of the ancient death that Cyrus had heard in the temple. Even the normal sounds of the jungle took on a wicked whisper, like a demon stalking their steps. When daybreak came, they had left the jungle path and had been following the road back toward the beach for several hours.

  “I don’t…know how much…longer I can…run…” Vaste said, breath coming in a sad, wheezing pant, his run slowed to an exhausted jog.

  “Yeah…I think we should…rest,” Cyrus agreed. “You take first watch.”

  “I’m not taking first watch; I’ve been running all night!”

  “So have I! And I had to decapitate the damned heretics,” he said, waving the bag of heads in front of Vaste’s face, “and you trolls have really thick necks!”

  “Screw you, I’m sleeping,” Vaste said and laid his head down. Heavy, not quite genuine snores filled the air seconds later, replaced in a few minutes by the real thing.

  “Fine, let the Avatar of Death sneak up on us in our sleep,” Cyrus muttered, eyes darting back and forth.

  Vaste awoke several hours later, and Cyrus was eating cold salted beef. “We should get moving again,” the warrior said, “so eat fast.”

  “Did you sleep?”

  “No,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head. “And I doubt I will until we get back to Sanctuary – which I may never leave again.”

  “The world will be all the poorer for the loss of your gentle spirit – oh, wait, you don’t have one of those.”

  “Shut up.”

  They began their journey again, walking this time, following the road as it loped. Cyrus couldn’t help but cast a worried glance back every few seconds for the first miles, especially as darkness began to fall.

  “I don’t think it’s coming,” Vaste assured him.

  “I hope not,” Cyrus replied. “I didn’t even see it, whatever it was…but it just…gave off an aura of being scary as hell. It was unlike anything I’ve ever felt.”

  “You’re not usually one to run, are you?”

  Cyrus thought about it, realizing for the first time that he had run away from the temple. “No. No, I’m not. Damn.” He turned, the cold feeling in his guts replaced with a hot, burning sensation of humiliation. “Damn. Now I have to go back.”

  “Are you insane?” Vaste asked, eyebrow cocked in disbelief.

  “No.” Cyrus shook his head. “In the Society of Arms, where I learned to be a warrior, they teach you that you don’t run from fear, or you’ll have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.” A deep, biting anger filled him. “I can’t believe I did that. I never run unless ordered!”

  “I know this is an alien concept, but let’s use reason for a moment,” Vaste said in a soothing voice. “Why did you run?”

  Cyrus frowned, his stomach churning. “It…it spoke to me. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it… and there was something… about that voice. Disembodied, vicious, bloodthirsty… something told me to run.”

  “That was your common sense. Heed it.”

  “But what if I could have beaten it? What if we could have killed that thing?”

  “Do you know what an Avatar is?” Vaste scoffed. “It’s the persona of a god in a form that allows it to be present in Arkaria. It’s the nearest thing to taking on a god, short of a trip to their realm. Do you want to fight a god?”

  “Maybe,” Cyrus replied. “But not today. Not by ourselves. Not…now.”

  “Yes,” Vaste agreed. “Not now. Not ever, in my case. But I applaud your audacity. Some would call it stupidity, but I now consider myself your friend and I will call it audacity just to spare your feelings.”

  Cyrus ignored the troll’s offer of friendship, turning his eyes downward. “I appreciate you sugarcoating your words to spare my foolish pride. And for not betraying me to…them.”

  Vaste shrugged, massive shoulders causing his head to tilt, peaceful smile on his face. “It’s us against ‘them’. A friend could do no less.”

  “Indeed.” Cyrus couldn’t help but return the troll’s magnanimous smile. “A friend could not. Thank you. For saving my life…and forgiving my ignorance.”

  “You’re welcome.” The troll’s toothy grin stretched from ear to ear. “Besides, they would have probably forced me to eat one of your haunches, and frankly that’s just not appealing to me.”

  The next two days passed quickly, and by the time they reached the beach, Cyrus had stopped looking back at all. Upon reaching the sandy shores, he stared at the Sea of Carmas. “I think I’m going for a swim. I need to wash the stink of this jungle off me.”

  “Really? The smell reminds me of home.” Vaste frowned. “On second thought, I can’t wait to wash it off.”

  “Hold that thought,” Cyrus said, looking to the north. Moving along the beach was a host, a line of figures, a few miles away and moving toward them. “An army?”

  “Perhaps,” Vaste agreed. “See the one in front – female, walking on air?”

  Cyrus squinted, looking at who Vaste was pointing to. Even at this distance he could see her, slightly above the others, and atop her head was a tousle of red hair. “Niamh?”

  “Indeed.” The troll’s smile reappeared. “It would seem we have warranted a rescue party.”

  The Army of Sanctuary moved down the beach toward them, and they waited and waved at their would-be rescuers. As they came into view, Cyrus could see Brevis at the front, fretting next to Niamh, who wore a look of surprised relief. Terian was visible, a knowing smile on his face as he shook his head at the sight of them – as well as Andren, muttering and shaking his finger at Cyrus.

  Cyrus saw Vara as well, up front at first, but upon sighting them she sunk to the back of the group, disappearing in its depths. Cheers and well wishes came as they were embraced by the rescue party. Alaric was there too, with a smile peeking out from bottom his metal helm, cut so it left his mouth exposed. “Gentlemen,” he greeted them. “I am pleased to see that reports of your demise were premature.”

  “They weren’t far off,” Cyrus answered the Ghost, shaking the bag with the heads in it. “But we killed the heretics.”

  Alaric nodded. “Of course. I would expect no less from the two of you.”

  Brevis forced his way up to them from next to Alaric, almost falling over himself. “Glad to see you both. So sorry about leaving you behind; if I’d only known…”

  Cyrus looked at the gnome with a fading sense of indignation. “We’re fine. That’s all that matters.”

  Andren made his way through the crowd, grabbing hold of Cyrus by the shoulders and shaking him. “You leave…no warning, no word, and you go and get your damned fool self left behind! You’re gonna put me in an early grave…” The elf’s face was a wreck, relief cascading across it along with emotions that normally did not make their way across the elf’s facade. “I can’t…not you too,” he said, looking Cyrus in the eyes. “Not you too, you understand?”

  “I understand,” Cyrus replied, patting Andren’s arm. “But in fairness, Vaste got his ‘damned fool self’ left behind too.”

  “Quite the act of courage, my friend,” Alaric said, turning to the troll. “Brevis told us you jumped out of the teleportation spell just as it was about to take you out of there.”

  Cyrus felt a jolt of shock run down his spine. His jaw hung open and he stared, mouth agape, at the troll. “You did that on purpose?”

  “What can I say?” Vaste replied, reaching out and placing his arm around Cyrus’s shoulder. “I couldn’t leave you to face those trolls on your own. After all,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, “you really didn’t know a thing about them.”

  A FAMILIAR FACE

  Note: This story takes place during Avenger: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Two, in the opening pages of Chapter 7, in the weeks before the invasion of the Realm of Darkness.

  The wind of a teleportation spell dispersed around Cyrus Davidon. The clin
k of his armor settling reached his ears, and the smell of home filled his nose. The Great Square of Reikonos appeared before his eyes, with the fountain spraying water above its wide pool and eight tiers of ornate construction. Humans flitted in and out of shops around the massive square and a throng of hundreds of people passed through on the main avenues and side streets.

  A hum filled the air, the sound of a thousand voices around him; haggling, talking, shouting and laughing. Horses drank around the fountain, children ran through the streets playing, while vendors accosted the passersby from their street carts, selling wares. Meats hung from strings on stands and the aroma of good food hung heavy in the air.

  It was a crisp, early autumn day. Vegetable sellers displayed the last remains of the harvest's freshness, with ears of corn, leeks, tomatoes and potatoes pushed to the front of their stands. Jewelry of cheaper varieties was present as well, along with some metalwork and leather items.

  The high voice of Niamh, a red-haired druid, broke through the commotion around them. “Any chance you can just get what you need here in the square and we can be on our way back to Sanctuary?” Short, with bright eyes and a broad smile, which she displayed now, she could control the currents of magic to teleport from location to location across the world of Arkaria.

  “I won't be long,” Cyrus replied. “You have things you could be doing, I trust?”

  “Mmm...” She chewed on her lip as she thought about it. “I could...maybe go play with the kids around the fountain.”

  He stared across the square where a few human children splashed water on each other while their mothers filled buckets from the fountain. He looked back at her. “How old are you again?”

  “Six hundred and—”

  “Never mind,” he muttered. “Meet you back here when I'm done?”

  “Okay.” She wandered toward the fountain, slinking in a way that led him to believe that she was planning to do some splashing, and he shook his head in amazement.

  The truth was that Cyrus had no real need to shop; none of the blacksmiths in town had a sword and that was all he required at present. Sanctuary, the guild that gave him food and lodging, provided for almost all of his material needs, leaving him wanting for little else. No, he thought, this is just the kind of day when I need to get out of Sanctuary for a while and stretch my legs. He smiled. And maybe I needed to see the old hometown.

  The streets became more packed as he walked, the side streets off the square beckoning him onward, toward the old market. I wonder why, he thought. I haven't been through this part of the city in a while.

  The buildings grew faded as he went on, and they spaced out; the square was lined with shops next door to one another that gave way to more and more stalls and stands as he went deeper into the market. Vendors haggled with their customers over all variety of wares, many even odder than the commonplace items found in the square. Eel eyes sat in a prominent place on one stand, next to various herbs and other strong foliage. Alchemy, Cyrus thought. Such an interesting art. Another stand promised dragonmeat. After stopping and staring, Cyrus suspected it was merely the haunch of a goat, cut and seared in an odd shape.

  He walked down the row until one stand caught his eye. Flowers sprouted from it, all different shapes and shades, from mundane – dandelions – to the extraordinary – a glowrose. The light sparkled off its petals, shimmering in a thousand different colors, as though a rainbow had been woven beneath the skin of the flower.

  A woman carried a vase filled with a dozen of the more common red roses from behind the stand. Her hair was dark and fell to mid-back, and her olive skin carried a deep tint that reminded Cyrus of the rich wood that Sanctuary's furniture was made of. She wore a dress of deep red, and her apron and heavy gloves told him she worked at the stand. She caught sight of him as he passed and halted in surprise, as though she hadn't seen him approach. “Hello,” she said cautiously. “How do you do?”

  “I'm well,” he replied, stopping his forward progress to check her wares. No harm in being polite, he thought. “And yourself?”

  “Much the same.” Her words came out stiff, unnatural, somewhat forced. “What brings you by my stall on such a fine day?”

  “Just taking a walk.” He forced a smile, and thought she had a familiar face, but he couldn't place it.

  “I haven't seen you in the markets for quite some time,” she said. She smiled, but it was tight, as though she were putting a great deal of effort into it.

  He felt a prick of embarrassment at not being able to place her. Do I know her? he wondered. Should I admit to her I can't remember her name or where I know her from? He faked a smile as he looked over her cart. A flower seller; she must know me because of Imina.

  He felt a pang of guilt; Imina had been his wife for two years. She also sold flowers in the Reikonos market; it was a community of sorts, with fierce competition, but within bounds. She always came home smelling of sweetness and dirt at the end of the day, and he took deep breaths, enjoying the scent of both when he buried his face in her long, luxuriant hair. They had parted ways after he refused to give up the life of a guild warrior. “I haven't been around much,” he answered. “I live at the Sanctuary guildhall now.”

  “I see.” She folded her hands over her belly, as though she were nervous and didn't know what to do with them. Something about the way she did it struck him as odd. “I'd heard a rumor that a dashing young warrior clad all in black armor ran afoul of the old Dragonlord, Ashan'agar. That he fought him in single combat and killed him in a brutal showdown.” She turned away for a moment and walked to the side of the cart, then looked back at him as she pulled out a scissor and cut a rose at the stem, placing it in a vase. “Then I heard a different rumor that suggested that the guild Goliath had been responsible for killing the Dragonlord, not the warrior in black.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were focused and bored into his. “I decided I liked the second story better.”

  He reddened. “I've heard that rumor myself. Didn't much care for the Goliath version; it smacks of lies.”

  She stared at him, not breaking eye contact, her chin up, before she deflated slightly and looked down to the roses she was cutting. “I figured as much. But I still like it better.”

  Cyrus looked at the glowrose, its petals gleaming in the light of the sun. “Those were my wife's favorite flower.” He coughed. “My former wife,” he corrected.

  She looked up at him with a slight glitter in her eyes and said, “I know.”

  He nodded and picked up one of them gently, to avoid crushing it in his armored fingers. “Do you see her – my lady wife – often?”

  She looked up at him, regarding him carefully. “Every day,” she answered after a pause.

  “Is she well?”

  The flower girl returned to her work. “Well enough. She misses you.”

  He looked away, not sure of how to respond. He had a memory of Imina, before the hard times had set in, of being in bed with her on a lazy day, begging her not to go to the stand, to just stay with him. She'd smiled and hemmed and hawed, but eventually left...perhaps a little later than expected, but she'd gone nonetheless.

  He smelled the sweet scent of the flowers and brought the glowrose up to his nose. Although she sold them, she'd never had one of her own. A product of elven gardens, glowroses were exceptionally rare and expensive, and Cyrus had never had enough money to buy her one. She'd always demurred and said she saw them all day at work, but he'd seen the way she stared at them, longing. Would things have gone differently for us if I'd taken a job as a Reikonos guard and bought her a glowrose of her own every now and again? Or would I have been so miserable, chafing under that life, that I'd have taken it out on her?

  “Sir?” The flower girl stirred him out of his lapse. He looked back at her, the pretty face staring at him. “I must ask you...in your adventures, have you died?”

  “Aye. A few times now.” He laughed. “Don't tell Imina.” He held the stem between his fingers and stared at the glo
wrose. It was truly beautiful, and of all the things he regretted, not ever having enough money to buy Imina one was probably the biggest regret of them all. He turned serious. “You said you see her every day. Will you see her yet this day?”

  She turned her eyes to the task she was undertaking. “Yes. I will.”

  He opened the coinpurse on his belt and pulled several gold coins, setting them on the cart in front of her. It was likely more than she made in a week, even if she sold a glowrose or two. “Give the glowrose to her, when next you see,” he told her, handing it back. “I owe her this much, at least.”

  She took it with an outstretched hand, the gold glaring in the sunlight against the dull cloth of her glove, her face registering a stunned reaction. “I...I...I can't take this...” She stared at the gold.

  “Then give it to her as well,” he said, cinching the coinpurse shut and turning away. A heady rush of emotion threatened to overwhelm him, and he walked away, ignoring the calls of the flower girl as he strode through the market.

  I haven't thought of Imina in years. He brushed past a vendor hawking carpets as another memory bubbled up.

  “I don't complain about how much time you spend at your stand,” he said, lying in bed, watching her dress.

  Her green eyes glared at him as she cinched a belt around her narrow waist. It hung on her hips, which curved wonderfully out in a way he couldn't take his eyes away from, especially when she was undressed. “Working at my flower stand doesn't seem likely to end in my death.” She sat down on the bed next to him and ran a hand over his rough cheek, her ring glittering with a beautiful emerald green light. The ring was the only possession they'd had that was worth anything, other than his armor. The light flooded in from the single window of their rented apartment. “If you ever join one of these big guilds, you may die.”

  He stretched and sat up, wrapping his arms around her, his naked flesh pressed against the soft cloth of her dress. “They have healers. They can cast a resurrection spell that will bring me back.”