by Joseph Lallo
“A dwarf came screaming out of nowhere, and distracted them long enough for me to stab one of them with the remains of my blade. I took his weapon, and the dwarf and I killed the other two. We’ve been together ever since.” The sting of the memory halted him in his recollection. “We were inseparable. Along the way, we found another adventurer,” he swept his arm to indicate Andren, who was still weeping, “who shared our vision of exploration, and battle, and the idea of striving to better ourselves.
“We knew, as warriors, the dangers in the world and we faced it every day. A warrior's purpose is to take the punishment so a healer, a wizard, a ranger doesn’t have to. Narstron lived that mission, every day.” His eyes came to Vara and he stopped for a moment. There was a single tear drifting down the elf's cheek.
“He served his god, he served his guild, his family, and he fought to his last on a battlefield of his choosing, taking every enemy with him that he could.”
Cyrus turned to face the casket, strode over to it and placed both hands on it. He lowered his voice. “You were my oldest friend in the world, and I will miss you. I don’t believe in what you believed in, and I don’t serve Rotan – but a follower of Bellarum believes in vengeance. I swear, by the God of War, you will be avenged.” He leaned down and touched his forehead to the casket in the deepest bow he could, then turned on his heel and marched back to his chair, stiffly and formally so that he could focus on something other than the pain.
They lowered the casket into the ground and the first shovels of dirt were thrown upon it. As the funeral ended, many people tendered their regrets. He took them politely, but his eyes were elsewhere. Vara walked slowly through the graveyard to the far corner, and knelt on a grave. She sat there quietly for a few moments before she stood, dusted herself off and walked back to Sanctuary's entrance.
After taking the last of the condolences from the Allied envoys he found himself wandering past the rows of tombstones to the grave that Vara had stopped at. Standing over it he found a simple marker.
Raifa Herde
Beloved Healer
and Wife
He looked around, startled, seeing a few other names he recognized – Pradhar, Erkhardt the Mighty on nearby tombstones. Each one of them, the names Alaric had mentioned –
“I see you’ve found the answer to your earlier question.” Alaric Garaunt appeared at his shoulder. “Here lie three of the founders of Sanctuary.”
Curiosity overpowered Cyrus’s weariness. “How did they die?”
Alaric hesitated. “Let us walk. The druids have a garden that you must see to believe.”
Cyrus thought for a moment of protesting but instead fell into step beside Alaric as the paladin walked. Neither made any attempt to speak until they crossed a small bridge over a flowing stream running into a small pond a few feet away. When Cyrus thought he could endure no further silence, Alaric spoke. “I come here, sometimes, when issues weigh upon me.” He paused. “A plant cannot grow without rain – and rain does not come but through a storm - the mildest shower to the most tempestuous thunderstorm. And so it is with us. We grow in times of trial, in storm and rain. I do not think anyone loves the storms of life.” The paladin's face grew serious. “They sweep us to and fro – off the course we had planned for ourselves.”
He focused on the warrior’s eyes. “I have no words to make your grief go away. I would not deny you that pain, as it may define you and make you stronger. In the early days of Sanctuary, the titans were a strong presence in this part of the Plains. They attacked once when we were weak. Since that day, the day we laid Raifa to rest, I have seen thirty-two funerals for our own. I would bring every one of them back were it within my power. But it is not.”
The paladin looked weary. “I have learned more about what it takes to be a leader in these times than I ever did when things are going well. I do not wish you suffering, but I wish you to learn all the lessons that are only available to those who navigate through the heart of the storm.” He paused for a long time. “Tomorrow will be easier,” Alaric said with great certainty. With a final hand on the shoulder of the warrior, he left Cyrus staring out over pond with much to consider.
Later that night, Cyrus found himself alone in his quarters. Looking around, he couldn’t help but remember the warmth and chatter of the Kings of Reikonos guildhall fondly. If we were still there, Cyrus thought, Narstron would still be alive. Clutching his pillow tighter, he prayed for tomorrow to come, so he could see the easier day that Alaric had mentioned. When he was still awake at dawn, he realized that while the Ghost had said it would be easier, he didn’t say it would ever be easy.
Chapter 15
A few days after the funeral there was a knock on Cyrus's door in the early hours of the morning. He looked around, startled. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Feigning sleep, he answered the door to find Terian Lepos standing in the hall. “Yes?” the warrior asked, befuddled.
“Let’s go,” Terian said with a directness Cyrus might have found refreshing under other circumstances. After several days with no sleep, Cyrus didn’t find anything refreshing.
“Go where?”
“Who cares?” the dark elf said, already turning to leave. “Anywhere and anything is better than the sleep you’re not getting right now.”
Cyrus didn't argue. After arming himself, he followed Terian down the stairs and out the front gates of Sanctuary. They walked in silence to a path that lead into the Waking Woods, an enormous forest that stretched north almost halfway to Reikonos. They walked for over an hour into the woods, not saying anything. The warrior finally stopped at a disturbing sound in the distance – ghouls howled in the darkness.
“What the hell are we doing here?” Cyrus asked the dark elf.
“Like I said, anything and anywhere is better than your nightly routine, isn’t it?” He uncapped a flask and handed it to Cyrus. A strong odor of alcohol permeated from it. Cy made a mental note to introduce Terian to Andren later, and took a long slug of the liquor. “We’re going to run around in the woods with the dead for a while, I think.” A long, languid scream tore through the night – ghoulish and inhuman. Terian pocketed the flask and took off at a run along the path through the woods.
“Wait!” Cyrus said. Pondering his options he decided the best course of action was to turn back, walk through the front gate of Sanctuary, go back to bed and forget any of this had ever happened. He quickly discarded that idea, remembering that while he might have been in bed, sleep wasn’t on the agenda. “Great,” he muttered to no one in particular. “A haunted forest.” He took off after Terian, catching glimpses of the dark knight's armor in the moonlight.
Howls of outrage came from his left, then his right, as the undead of Waking Woods came after them. Not stopping, he ran behind the elf, who Cyrus could swear was giggling in front of him. “You know why it’s called Waking Woods?” Terian shouted over his shoulder.
“I don’t know, but you’re attracting the attention of every undead creature in the area with this shouting!” Cyrus was so irritated he couldn’t keep his voice down.
“This part of the woods used to be a place where the followers of Yartraak, God of Darkness, and Mortus, God of Death would sacrifice their victims.” Terian slowed down to let him catch up. “See, right there.” Terian came to a stop and pointed to the shape of a pyramid towering above the trees.
“I’ve heard the legends, and I’ve been told since I was young that you do not stop in Waking Woods at night, because there are sections that are incredibly dangerous… yet here we go stopping in one of those sections.” Cyrus was a step below panic.
Terian put both hands on his knees, bending over, winded. “It’s a funny thing, that legend about not stopping. I heard it too. You were raised in Reikonos?” When Cyrus nodded, he continued, the screaming of the ghouls very near now. “I'm from Saekaj Sovar, the dark elf capital on the north end of Waking Woods. Funny we’d have heard the same legend, sinc
e there isn't that much contact between Saekaj and Reikonos.”
Cy was looking over his shoulder now. He could see nothing in the darkness. “Wouldn’t that mean that there might be some credence to it?”
“You were told to run like hell, right?” Terian asked him, voice calm. “You were young, and new, inexperienced… and they told you to run through Waking Woods, every part of it, even the supposedly safe ones, without stopping, right?”
“Yes,” Cyrus told him, “but in fairness, they didn't just warn us about the undead: they also warned us about bandits and belligerent dark elves – not necessarily in that order.”
Terian chuckled. “Have you ever stopped and faced the ghouls here?” His axe was drawn.
Cyrus paused. He resisted the ingrained urge to run, and drew his sword. He was a warrior. Fear was something he conquered, not vice versa. He assumed a defensive position, closing his eyes, and listened to the death rattle making its way through the trees to them. He opened his eyes as the ghoul burst into the open. It was a roughly human figure, with only patches of skin and clothing covering its bones. It looked at the two of them, and let out a scream of otherworldly fury.
“Be careful,” Terian called out from slightly behind him. “I’m not a healer, so try not to get hurt too bad.”
A sick feeling of doom crawled up Cyrus’s stomach. “What am I supposed to do if I get injured?”
Terian shrugged in a very casual manner. “Don’t worry; I’m pretty good at bandaging wounds.” He thought about it for a beat. “Of course, that’s not gonna help you much in battle, but afterward I’ll be able to patch you up real good.”
Burying Terian’s last statement, Cyrus let out a howl of outrage, and putting forth all the fury he’d liked to have directed at the goblins over the last few days, he tore into the ghoul with his sword. It withered under his assault, falling back, blocking halfheartedly. He slashed at it, over and over, pieces of bone chipping off as it weathered his strikes. He cleaved the bone at the wrist cleanly in two, and it lost its weapon.
Letting out a cry of its own, it made to stab him with its wrist bone, and he knocked it aside so brusquely that it broke the whole arm off at the shoulder socket. Forcing the sword across its jaw, he severed the maxilla from the mandible. The screaming stopped. He moved his right foot between its legs, forcing it to take a step back.
He brought his hands around and crushed the ghoul’s skull with the hilt of his sword and brought the other arm around its neck, pinning it against his leg. He brought his hands up above his head and hammered them down, shattering the skeleton into pieces, scattering them over the forest’s floor. The bones clattered against each other as they rolled across the wet grass.
The sound of slow clapping of armored gauntlets broke him out of his stunned silence. “Isn’t facing your childish fears much more fun than staring at the walls all night?”
His heavy breathing subsided, Cyrus turned to face the dark knight. “How did you know I could best this fiend?”
Terian shrugged again, a noncommittal movement of his shoulders. “I assumed you could because I can. And since it was easy for me, I figured you could at least kill it without dying.” More howls issued through the forest. “If you’d like, we can draw in some more.”
Cyrus thought about it for a minute. He drew his sword to a fighting position. “I’d like that very much.” Seeing the look of hungry anticipation in the dark elf's eyes, he knew that Terian understood the call to war better than anyone else in Sanctuary.
They slayed ghouls until daybreak. Making their way back to Sanctuary by the dawn’s light, Cyrus's heart felt somewhat lightened. He made his way back to his quarters in a veritable fog, and dropped into bed without taking off his armor. He fell into a deep, restful sleep, and did not wake until the next morning.
Chapter 16
Cyrus couldn’t believe how fast the last six months had gone. He had settled into a routine with Sanctuary – every day he spent adventuring in different areas of Arkaria, participating in the occasional Alliance expeditions and even more occasional (lately) Sanctuary expeditions to break up the regularity of his small group adventures. He was home almost every night at Sanctuary, save for once when he stayed at the old Kings guildhall after a long excursion to the Inculta desert in the far south-east, and with no druid or wizard available to bring him home afterward. That had been a long night, filled with unpleasant memories.
He, Niamh, Curatio, J'anda and Terian walked across the Mountains of Nartanis, on their way to an outlying goblin outpost on a nearby peak. His most frequent adventures seemed to be with officers of Sanctuary – and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. Curatio had proven himself the most skilled and reliable healer Cyrus had ever worked with, effortlessly casting mending spells that seemed to have more power than those of other healers. Andren had proved less reliable of late, spending the months since Narstron's death in even more of an alcohol-fueled haze than before.
Coming over a hill, Terian, who was leading the party, indicated for them to halt. He was crouching behind a rock and gesturing for the rest of them to do the same. For Cyrus it wasn’t even a question – he grabbed Niamh and J'anda and moved them bodily to the nearest cover. Curatio was already diving behind a boulder. They made it just in time.
Sweeping above them, scales as black as obsidian, was a dragon. It was at least as large as Ashan'agar, Cy reflected. It swept over them in a lazy flight, flapping its wings and landing just beyond them, close to the edge of a lake of lava.
Terian leaned against the rock, facing them. “It’s Kalam. Sighting him here is an incredible find.” The dark knight was pensive for a moment. “I bet he has a lair close by.”
“How did you know his name?” Cyrus hissed. “Terian's Dragon Compendium?”
The dark knight shrugged, and Cyrus watched as Kalam lay down less than one hundred feet from the lake of lava. A series of boulders had been pushed into a circle that was almost nest-like. Even at this distance, Cyrus could see the glint of objects in a corner of it, and he knew that Kalam was a hoarder of treasures, just like every other dragon.
“What the hell is this beast doing out of the southern lands?” Cyrus wondered.
“And so close to the lair of our friend Ashan'agar?” Niamh said with a smile.
“I would be willing to bet,” Terian changed the subject, “that a great many guilds would love to get a shot at a black dragon.” He looked around nervously. “Only the secluded location is keeping him alive right now. If any of the biggest guilds like Amarath's Raiders, Endeavor, or Burnt Offerings knew where he was, he’d be dead and they'd be picking that nest clean.” He paused. “We can have a hundred people from Sanctuary out here in half an hour.”
Cyrus shook his head. “No,” he said slowly, chewing his lip, “that’s not going to cut it with a dragon like this. Trust me. We need aid from the Alliance if we want a chance of taking him down without losing a lot of people.”
Terian looked at him, nostrils flaring. “We have a shot to take him for Sanctuary, and your first instinct is to turn him over to Goliath?”
“I doubt they're that dishonorable, Terian,” Cyrus said. “If we call for aid, the Alliance rules will bind them; we’ll end up splitting the loot, but it’s better than –” he raised a hand to cut off Terian’s already forthcoming reply – “it’s better than losing guildmates trying to bring this bastard down or having to retreat and leaving bodies on the ground. We need to be careful, and we need more people to succeed.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Terian relented. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you if Goliath ends up stealing everything.”
Cyrus turned to Niamh. “We need a Sanctuary officer to get the Alliance involved. Will you get word to the other guilds?”
Niamh nodded. “The Daring and Goliath are both located in Reikonos. I'll take Curatio and we'll go now.” She and Curatio were whisked away on the wind of her spell, leaving Cyrus, J'anda and Terian watch
ing the nest of the dragon.
“At some point,” Cyrus said with a curious look at Terian, “maybe you can share with me why you despise the Alliance.”
Terian was watching Kalam from behind a boulder. The dark elf stiffened at Cyrus's inquiry, but did not turn back to answer him at first.
Cyrus exchanged a look with J'anda, who shrugged, wearing the illusion of a dwarf. “Just because I'm a dark elf,” the enchanter said, “don't expect me to understand him.”
“Why do you hide that you're a dark elf?” Cyrus asked J'anda.
“Meh.” The enchanter looked away. “It's not that I'm ashamed, by any means, but let's face it: dark elves are not appreciated in the world outside Saekaj Sovar. After I got beaten in Reikonos twice I decided that my dark elven pride was best displayed elsewhere.”
Terian snorted. “So much for being yourself.”
J'anda smiled. “Why would you ever want to be yourself, when there are so many more interesting people to be?” With a flick of his fingers, the dwarven illusion disappeared and J'anda had become a mirror image of Terian himself.
The dark knight shook his head in annoyance. “Although your looks have improved in the last thirty seconds, I have no patience for people who are not what they appear to be.” The dark elf looked back at Cyrus. “Which is, by the way, the answer to your question about why I despise the Alliance.”
Cyrus looked at Terian, befuddled. “Huh?”
There was a long silence. Terian seemed to be pondering the black dragon, but then turned to face Cyrus. “I was there when the Alliance was formed. It was created with the best intentions. Three guilds, all of whom wanted to grow and be of assistance to each other, the heads of which were longtime friends, decided to become formal allies. Sanctuary, the Daring and Goliath each brought something different to the table, but it was a partnership. If one was in need, the others were there. It started nobly,” Terian continued, far off look in his eyes. “Unfortunately, that was a long time ago.”