by Joseph Lallo
“No news is good news,” Niamh said with a smile. “The weapons are still in place in Reikonos and Pharesia, and we've sent a detachment of our people to both cities to keep an eye on things. Now.” She clapped. “We've got a lot of ground to cover, and the terrain between here and Taymor is very rugged; lots of mountain paths and then hundreds of miles of near-desert.” Niamh brightened. “Which is actually why they sent me to you now – my spell to imbue you with the essence of the falcon should come in handy.”
Cyrus nodded. “That is fortunate, but I'm still concerned about falling asleep and falling down a mountain.”
“No need to worry about that, silly ass, I'll guide you. Come on,” she said. “We're already running behind.”
Grumbling, Cyrus climbed back into the saddle of his horse and tried to keep his eyes open as the lulling of the spell that allowed them to float rocked him to sleep. Niamh had the reins of his horse gripped in her hand as she led the way out of town down a rocky path. So tired was he that Cyrus did not remember arriving at the next village, but was awakened by a shock of cold water on his face and sat up to realize he was laying on a bed of straw.
“You're really heavy,” Niamh said in annoyance, standing at his feet with an empty bucket.
“What?” he spluttered.
“You fell asleep on your horse and I couldn't get you in to the inn we were staying at so I just let you drift to the ground in the barn.”
“Couldn't you have found some... more pleasant way to wake me up?” he asked, wiping the water from his face.
“Bah,” she said. “This was much more amusing. Besides,” she blinked her eyes innocently. “I tried shaking you, but like I said, you're heavy, and I couldn't get you to move much with all that armor.”
He pulled himself to his feet. “What's on the agenda for today?”
“Well,” she said, unfolding a piece of parchment and handing it to him, “we've got early meetings in this town, and then around midday we'll be out of here and into the next town by evening for another meeting.”
“If I survive the next two months,” Cyrus said, “I will not leave Sanctuary again for a very, very long time.”
“Right,” Niamh said. “Well, let's get on that surviving business.”
The next few days passed in a blur. They crossed the mountainous terrain for a day or two at a time, then spent a half day in a small village or town, Cyrus speaking as usual, and then left as quickly as they had arrived, with a time and a list of names of people who would meet their druid or wizard later for passage to Sanctuary.
At some point, after about two weeks of travel, Cyrus and Niamh had entered into an easy rapport. Back and forth, and able to venture into the realm of personal inquiries.
“You're in love with Alaric?” Cyrus said with just a hint of skepticism after the druid's admission.
“Yeah,” Niamh said after a moment. “I don't really know what to do about it, though.”
Cyrus blinked in confusion. “I thought you and Curatio were together?”
“Oh, heavens no. He's a lot older than me. And an elf.”
Cy's eyes narrowed. “You're an elf.” She sputtered for a moment, unable to respond. “If it makes you feel any better,” he said with a sigh, “I found out a few months ago that I'm in love with Vara.”
“Wow,” Niamh said with a laugh. “You might be the only person in Sanctuary with less of a chance at love than me.”
“I'm glad you find this so amusing,” he said in a sour tone.
“Misery loves company. Or at least a sympathetic ear.”
“I've got a question for you. Are you older or younger than Nyad – if you don't mind my asking.”
“I don't mind. I'm six hundred and twenty-three. So, yes,” she said with a smile, “I'm older than Nyad by a bit.”
“Nyad said that every elf knows Vara's age and birthday, and when I asked her if Vara was royalty, she said no but got tense and wouldn't speak any more.”
“Vara's not royalty,” Niamh said. “Nyad, on the other hand, is – which might be why she got so testy about it. She's a princess of the royal family; the King's youngest daughter. Not only a part of the massive royal family, but a Princess, no less – one of fifty or so, and being the youngest, she's more honored than the older ones.”
“They respect youth more than age in the Elven Kingdom? Interesting,” Cyrus said with surprise. “Never heard of a race that does that before. But that also leads me to the next question I have – which is, if Vara isn't royalty, why does everyone know her birthday and age? Nyad made it seem like she was famous throughout the elven world.”
“She is,” Niamh said. “But... I can't really talk about it, I'm sorry,” she said. “Vara's history is tied up in a pretty sensitive topic to elves, one we don't discuss with outsiders.”
“Not at all?”
“No,” she said, red hair whipping in the wind.
The next two weeks passed more quickly than the first, and Cyrus felt progressively worse as they went. This was compounded by Niamh's steadfast refusal to discuss the topic of Vara's mysterious history with him. “I'll tell you anything you want about Vara since she joined Sanctuary,” the red-haired elf told him. “But don't ask me about anything before that, because I'll give you the same answer: it's a sensitive matter, one we don't talk about among outsiders.”
As the days passed, the Mountains of Nartanis gave way to flat land on the edge of the Inculta desert: sparse, desolate terrain broken up by small villages at least a day's ride from each other. When they reached the village of Taymor at the far edge of the desert and on the shores of the Bay of Lost Souls, they stopped for the night.
The next day, Niamh transported them to a portal on the edge of the oasis, a lake in the middle of the desert. They spent the next five days traveling to seven villages that ringed the body of water. Each of the villages belonged to a different tribe of desert dwelling humans. Wild men and vicious fighters, the tribes of the south catered to travelers passing through as well as a few mining operations but were feuding with each other. The heat of the desert gave Cyrus a feeling of perpetual feverishness and even when they reached the end of their time in the desert and left, the feeling did not depart.
On their final day together, Niamh teleported them to a town in the Elven Kingdom, on the other side of Arkaria. They appeared at a portal not far from a village called Nalikh'akur close to the edge of the Great Dismal Swamp.
“Nalikh'akur,” Niamh explained with the knowing voice of someone who had lived through more history than most humans had read about, “is an elven military outpost on the frontier of troll territory. During the war it was first to fall to their invasion but once they were defeated the Elven Kingdom rebuilt it, complete with a garrison to watch troll activity. Nalikh'akur means 'Last Bastion' in the human tongue.”
“Hmh,” Cyrus said, still feeling warm and flushed from their time in the desert.
“You don't look well,” Niamh said. “I can't believe you've done this for the last five months.”
“Neither can I,” Cyrus said without energy. He pulled tighter on Windrider's reins. His arms felt heavy, as did his helm. “But 'time is of the essence',” he parroted Alaric for the umpteenth time.
“Getting close,” she breathed. “We're meeting in the tavern.” She guided her horse to a stop. Dismounting, she walked through the door.
Cyrus did not notice; he nearly fell off his horse in his dismount attempt. Struggling to put one foot in front of another, he made his way through the door to the elven tavern, and discovered a sight that under normal circumstances might have shocked him: Vara, sitting at a table with Niamh, drinking an ale and waiting with an air of impatience.
“Took you long enough,” she harrumphed as he walked through the door.
“I made it as fast as I could,” he said as forcefully as he could muster – which wasn't very forceful at all.
“We'll be leaving this town at midday
tomorrow” Vara began, “after a meeting tomorrow morning. We'll ride south and west, to the Emerald Coast, and visit three villages there before we cross to the east and start meeting with some of the elves of the woods. From there we'll head south, wending our way toward the capital, Pharesia, where we'll conclude our business and teleport to Reikonos for a last meeting.”
“I thought...” Cyrus said, fighting to squeeze every word out, “...Reikonos had already been picked clean by every other guild in Arkaria.”
“They have. But Alaric believes that you may in fact be able to offer the last few unguilded souls in Reikonos something that no other guild can offer.”
“What's that?” Cyrus said.
“A sense of honor and purpose,” Vara answered in annoyance. “You know, these basic principles upon which we stand, that you are supposed to be emphasizing as you go across the land bringing word of our efforts?”
“He's telling everyone, trust me,” Niamh said before Cyrus could try and formulate an answer. “He's doing a magnificent job of it. We managed to find another 165 potential recruits in the last four weeks.”
Vara straightened. “Not bad. That's almost five hundred since you left, outside of our other efforts.”
“Other efforts?” Cyrus's words sounded slow and distorted. Everything that was being said sounded as though he was listening to the conversation under water.
“Yes, we've not made you our only hope. Is there some reason,” she nearly spat at him, “that your head is laying on the table?”
“I'm tired.”
“Could you, for once in your time with Sanctuary, at least try to represent us with a spirit of dignity?” she snapped.
Cyrus was beyond caring. A moment after she spoke he slid from his chair and landed on the floor. There were interruptions in what he saw after that – Niamh and Vara, both looking concerned over him, talking quickly.
“He's burning up and my healing spells aren't doing anything,” Niamh said, breathless.
“Some sort of natural fever then,” Vara said from above him, looking down. “How long has he been ill?”
“I don't know; he hasn't complained about feeling ill – only about being tired.”
“Can you hear us?” Vara asked, turning her attention back to him. Cyrus saw but did not feel her slap his face. He heard the impact echo in his brain. She was there, hair shining in the dim lamplight.
“I think... I should tell you,” he said, focusing every last bit of his concentration on Vara, “I think you... need to know...” Gods, she looks beautiful, he thought. Even a bit concerned – a new expression to him.
“What?” came the elf's reply, distorted, slow.
Blackness claimed him.
Chapter 31
“I don't care!” Vara nearly shouted.
Cyrus awoke to the sound of an argument, still feverish. He clutched at the blankets that surrounded him, trying to pull them closer to his damp skin.
Niamh was standing in the corner, very near to a door, and Vara was facing her, back turned to Cyrus. The paladin was not wearing her armor. She was clad in a simple cotton shirt and pants, which was unusual for a woman – even an elf.
“Alaric wants it done now,” Niamh said. “He sent me to tell you.”
“If Alaric wants it done, then tell him to get off his etherial arse and do it himself!” Vara said, voice crackling with rage.
“I will tell him that,” Niamh said with a trace of a smile. “If for no other reason than it will bring him a laugh.” The druid brought her hands together and disappeared in a blast of wind.
Vara faced away for a moment, still looking at the spot where Niamh had teleported. He heard a sound come from her, something that sounded almost like a choked sob, and she turned to face him. His eyes were blurry as he stared at her.
“Ah,” she said with a sniff. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he whispered, straining to string words together.
“How are you feeling? I only ask,” she said, “because Alaric is concerned that we are falling far behind on our mission.”
“I've felt better.”
“I should think so.” Vara stepped to the foot of the bed and adjusted the blankets around his feet. “You are still feverish. Healing spells will not improve your condition, which means that if you die of whatever illness you seem to have contracted, we will be unable to resurrect you.”
“Thanks,” Cyrus said without emotion. “That's reassuring.”
“I am merely trying to be honest,” she said, eyes flaring in anger and – he might have been imagining it – fear?
“I see,” he murmured and passed out again. When he woke, she was beside him in a chair. She had changed into something that looked like a nightgown, and she was sleeping. The only light in the room came from the lanterns and candles. He watched her for a while, then drifted off again.
When next he awoke, he felt something cool and damp on his forehead. His eyes opened to a vision of Vara, cloth in hand, dripping cold water onto his head. “I'm trying to bring down your fever,” she said when her eyes met his.
He coughed and motioned for water, which she brought to his lips in a small dish.
“It's been very difficult to get you to take water,” she said as he was drinking. “I'm glad you're awake, because trying to get you to drink when you're semi-conscious has been no mean feat. Niamh left a few days ago to let them know at Sanctuary that we wouldn't be making our scheduled appointments. I'm told they have managed to cover for our absence.”
“It's a shame,” Cyrus said. “I was looking forward to seeing the green elven country after the last weeks in the desert.”
“Oh, really?” she said without turning back to him. “And here I thought you had decided upon seeing me that night in the tavern that you would rather collapse and lie in bed for the next four weeks instead of tour the Elven Kingdom with me as your companion.”
“I'll admit,” Cyrus said, shifting in the bed, “upon seeing you, I did have a momentary concern about working together. It felt as though as very big object was rushing at me, very quickly. But just moments later, it was replaced by the actual sensation of the tavern floor rushing up at me very quickly.”
She laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh that turned into a somewhat girlish giggle partway through before she managed to choke it off. She turned her head; by the look in her eyes it was clear she hoped he hadn't heard her slip. A hand covered her mouth in semi-shock.
“Hah.” Cyrus laughed at her. “You actually found humor in something I said – and we've exchanged a few sentences without bickering.”
“I often find humor in what you say.” She turned away from him again. “Unfortunately for you, it's rarely from things you intended to be humorous.”
“Ah,” Cyrus said with a little disappointment. “There you are again.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” he said with a trace of sadness. “I'm tired. I think I'm going to rest now...” He felt a sudden pressure from his head hitting the pillow as his neck muscles gave out, and he was unconscious again.
He awakened again at night, but something was different. The world around him was blurred, and lights seemed to streak in his vision. Urgent voices filled the air around him.
“My spells are still ineffective,” came the voice of a man that seemed very familiar. “He's getting worse.”
“No doubt,” came Vara's reply. “The fever is going to kill him if we don't do something.”
“I'm not sure what else we can do, here. If this were Sanctuary –” the man's voice came back.
“You're a healer, for gods' sakes!” Vara exploded. A moment passed with nothing said. “Fine,” she continued, and Cyrus felt he might have imagined her gritting her teeth. “Help me get him out of bed.”
“A walk would be nice,” Cyrus said, but what came out was completely unintelligible. He felt strong hands grasp him under each arm and
lift him out of the bed. The cloth nightshirt he wore was soaked, clinging to his skin and chest hair. He heard and felt the door to the room open as Vara and the man carried him between them, one arm on each of their shoulders and dragging his flailing legs behind him.
“Stop trying to help us,” she snapped at him. “You're making this much more difficult.”
“Okaaay,” Cyrus said again, once more making a complete hash of his words. He turned his head to look back at what he could have sworn was Narstron, waving at him from the side of the street, but a flash of insight revealed that it was, in fact, a shrub.
“I had assumed,” Vara said, voice strained, “that relieving him of his armor would make him considerably lighter but in fact I cannot tell a difference.”
“Heh,” came the man's voice next to him. Cyrus's head swung around, feeling a bit loose on his shoulders. He realized with a start from the carefully groomed hair that it was Curatio.
“Curatio!” he shouted, barely sensate.
“Sounds like he's at least conscious enough to recognize me,” came a grunt from the elf.
“Marvelous,” Vara said with sarcasm. “If only he were conscious enough to assist us in transporting his considerable bulk.”
“I tried to help,” Cyrus said, once again squeezing the words out, “but you told me to stop, and I did as you said.”
“Why does it take being feverish to the point of near death and being dragged around to get you to listen and act on reasonable suggestions? All right, we're here. Curatio, wait on the shore; there's no reason for both of us to get completely soaked.”
Cyrus felt water splashing around his feet, then ankles and knees, felt muddy dirt between his toes as their pace slowed and Vara took up more of his weight on her shoulder as Curatio relinquished his grip on the warrior. After a half dozen more watery paces, Cyrus could feel water up to his waist. Adjusting her grip on him with a hand across his chest and back, Vara kicked his legs from beneath him and dropped him onto his backside in the water, submerging him up to his neck. The water was cold and his teeth began to chatter immediately.