by Joseph Lallo
Cyrus looked at the Citadel with skepticism. “I'd have to agree. Any elf, human, dark elf, gnome, dwarf or other race would have a hell of a time climbing a rope to the top.”
They lapsed into silence. Something about that last exchange bothered Cyrus, tickling at the back of his mind. As he was considering it, the moon finally appeared from behind the clouds above them. A glint of something caught his eye in the moonlight. He looked closer. A strand was shining from one of the higher rooftops, leading up to the top floors of the tower and ending at one of the windows. Before he could say anything, a shadowed figure appeared from the window and began to descend in a line toward the rooftop below.
“There!” Cyrus hissed, finger extended to the rapidly descending shadow. An elongated rod was visible from the silhouette. “Whoever it is, they've got the Spear!” Changing his focus to Andren: “Get down to our troops on the street; get the rangers on their bows. Niamh, imbue him!” Without a word the healer ran toward the edge of the rooftop, running off just as Niamh's spell took hold. “J'anda, see if you can mesmerize –” Cyrus tossed over his shoulder as he and Vara charged over the edge of the rooftop, Vaste and Niamh following on their trail.
“ALARUM!” came a shout from the street below. “ALARUM!” Lamps were shining up toward them now, and other voices were taking up the cry of, “ALARUM!”
Cyrus sprinted as hard as he could, legs pumping and feet carrying him forward as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He kept his eyes fixed on the silhouette moving down the rope, much more quickly than he could have imagined. He jumped and his hands caught the edge of the last rooftop, pulling himself up as the silhouette reached the end of its crawl. Cyrus drew his sword and heard Vara behind him doing the same. The silhouette unfurled from the rope and a sudden realization filled the warrior's senses: it was not human-shaped at all. Eight legs set down upon the rooftop and two pincers clicked on the spear they grasped between them as the spider before him evaluated Cyrus. It was half his size and looked damnably familiar.
Cyrus charged and the spider bolted, crossing the rooftop in the opposite direction, spear clutched between its pincers, slung back over its torso. It slid across to the next rooftop on another thread of silk, and descended another after that, moving so quickly down the thread that Cyrus had difficulty keeping up, leaping from building to building. Vara was breathing heavily at his side, and considerably behind him the panting of Vaste was audible, as was the THUMP whenever the troll jumped to the next building. They crested another rooftop to find the spider descending from a one-story building into an alleyway.
Eight legs scampered along quickly, and Cyrus jumped to the street, bouncing off a wall and rolling to his feet. The spider turned a corner and dashed into the slums, but cut the corner a bit too short; Vara managed a slice that took off one of the furry legs at the second joint. The arachnid screeched in pain but did not slow.
“Seven legs to go,” Vara said under her breath.
“ALARUM!” Cyrus heard shouted behind him as he pounded through the dark of the slums, dodging merchant carts that were closed for the night. The spider was desperate now, and skittered into one of the open plazas in the heart of the slums. A cloaked figure stood waiting, hand extended toward the spider, which raced toward it and threw the Spear of Water from its pincers toward the figure, who caught it deftly and swirled into the magical current of a return spell.
The spider turned to face them, hissing as he and Vara circled the arachnid. They both attacked at the same time and the spider turned to meet him, driving its large pincers into the joint of his armor as he slammed his sword into its exposed thorax. He let out a grunt as the pain hit him. Searing, it climbed up his side as he drove his blade deeper. His eyes locked on Vara, who was attacking the spider with her sword from behind, taking advantage of Cyrus keeping it pinned in place. Her eyes did not meet his, so focused was she on dismembering the arachnid one slice at a time.
Cyrus felt his legs buckle and he fell over from the weight of the spider and the pain in his side. He twisted his sword, trying to carve as much damage as he could. The pounding of plated boots to his left ended with an axe and a sword perforating the crawler. He barely felt it when the spider's pincers relinquished their hold on him and he fell to the ground. Vara was at his side, hand glowing. “It's all right,” she said, eyes rimmed with concern. Alaric and Terian stood behind her, throwing the spider's remains off of him.
Vaste and Niamh rounded the corner then, walking on air, and the healer muttered a few words. The blood stopped flowing from Cyrus's side, but the pain did not disappear. Vara helped him to his feet and he looked at the dead arachnid with the others.
“Next time you're going to do a rooftop chase,” Niamh said, eyes flaring, “wait until I give you Falcon's Essence first?”
“Unbelievable,” Vaste said. “We actually catch the thief, in the act of the escape, and it turns out to be a spider.” The troll frowned. “What's a spider going to do with a weapon forged by the gods?”
“Not a damned thing,” Terian said, voice bitter. “They can't even use it.”
“We saw the spider hand it off to some figure in a cloak,” Vara said breathlessly.
“Did you get a look at them?” Vaste's eyes widened in hope.
“No.” Vara shook her head.
“Doesn't matter,” Cyrus said, his face a mask. “I know who's gathering them now.” His head swiveled to Vara. “Go find our people around the Citadel and get them out of there before we have a repeat of Pharesia. Tell them to meet up with Niamh here within the hour.” He turned to Niamh. “I need you to get us back to Sanctuary immediately: we have preparations to make.” He bit his lip. “It's going to be much worse than we thought.”
Chapter 35
An hour later Cyrus and the rest of the officers of Sanctuary were seated around the Conference table. Alaric stared at the warrior, fingers steepled in front of him. “Are you finished being dramatic?”
Cyrus smiled. “You want to know who it is, don't you?”
The paladin's eyebrow raised in amusement. “I do.”
Vara sat to Alaric's left, arms on the table. “I'm puzzled as to how you supposedly figured this out.”
Cyrus looked at the elf, his eyes locked onto hers. “I'm surprised you haven't.”
She spread her arms. “Enlighten me.”
“Remember the day we met?” he asked with a smile.
She blew air from her lips. “I do. The sun was shining, the trees were swaying in the breeze, sulfur filled the air and I saved your arse from a dragon.”
“And a horde of spiders,” Niamh said with a note of surprise.
“Exactly. The Dragonlord was served by a horde of spiders like the one we killed in the slums.” Cyrus leaned forward. “The day we faced Ashan'agar, he offered me whatever I wanted if I would become his servant. He showed me a vision of the Serpent's Bane, the hilt of my sword along with some of his other treasures. One of them was a flaming staff.”
“Torris?” Terian said from the end of the table. “So he had it even then?”
“He did,” Cyrus said. “Kalam gave it to him and was waiting around until Ashan'agar had the other pieces he needed.”
“I still don't understand what a dragon is planning to do with all those weapons,” Curatio said with a blank expression. “It's not as though he can use them, can he?”
“Not in the physical sense, no,” Cyrus said. “But you were the one who gave me the reason for why Ashan'agar would be collecting them.”
“I did?” Curatio said with a confused look.
“You did. Remember when you told us that the godly magic within the weapon could be used to breach the magical barriers that the elves had set up in the Museum of Arms?”
“Which they did so they could collect the Scimitar of Air.” Curatio nodded. “I still don't understand.”
“The barrier,” Terian said in a choked voice. “The one that the dragons erected; the one that keeps Ashan'ag
ar imprisoned.”
“You got it,” Cyrus said. “Dragon magic versus the essence of the gods – who wins?”
“That barrier is going down,” the dark elf murmured.
“Why would he need more than one of the weapons?” Niamh looked around in confusion. “Wouldn't one be enough to drop the barrier?”
Terian shook his head. “Maybe not. Dragons are the longest lived creatures in Arkaria –”
“With the exception of the elvish old ones,” Niamh teased.
Terian ignored her. “Their magic is ancient, and Ashan'agar was sealed in by not one but thirty of the wisest and most powerful dragons. Some of the spells they used included charms to warn the dragons should Ashan'agar attempt to breach the barrier. One of the dragons – Ehrgraz – is the chief of their army, and every dragon fears him.”
“Because he's afraid one dragon might be warned he puts off his escape by six months until he can collect all the weapons?” Vara looked at Terian with undisguised skepticism.
Terian looked around the table. “He would have been the first to be warned if Ashan'agar was trying to escape and I promise you that the Dragonlord was trying to avoid confrontation with Ehrgraz. Six months is nothing to a dragon; he would have waited sixty years if it meant being able to escape without facing Ehrgraz.”
“So the Dragonlord has plotted an escape,” Alaric mused. “What will he do when he reaches the surface?”
“Without Kalam to act as his herald,” Terian said, suddenly thoughtful, “he's going to have to go to the southern lands and marshal his loyalists.” The dark knight shrugged. “After that, I would guess his followers will move north and create a new kingdom.”
“Why wouldn't he fight for control of Hewat?” Vaste said. “I mean, he was in charge before, wasn't he?”
“He was,” Terian said. “But he wasn't interested in starting a conflict with the other dragons. They don't war amongst themselves; it's anathema to them.” He looked around the table. “With a hundred dragons on his side, he could destroy the all the major northern cities and make his own kingdom here.” Terian leaned back. “The only one keeping things in check in the dragon kingdom is their new leader. He's a moderate in that he's not totally focused on annihilating all life but dragons.”
“All right.” Alaric nodded. “I think we get the idea of what the threat is and where it will be coming from. Now what do we do?” He turned to Cyrus.
The warrior took a deep breath. “We need every single person in Sanctuary for this one.”
Alaric raised an eyebrow. “You will have the support of every able body.”
The warrior took another deep breath. “We also need our allies if they're willing.”
A grimace lit the Ghost's face. “We will send messengers. I do not think we should wait for responses to move into action.”
“Agreed,” Vara said. “The northern lands could be in flames before Goliath decides to move.”
“True.” Cyrus nodded. “We move our entire force into the Mountains of Nartanis, now. All our veterans we bring down into the fire caves and leave the new inductees up top.”
Curatio blinked. “You don't think we'll need them down below?”
Cyrus shook his head. “With the head start Ashan'agar has, I doubt we'll be down there for long – assuming he hasn't left already. We need to move now.”
Alaric nodded. “So ordered. Niamh, get the word to our allies and meet us in the mountains.”
They broke from Council and an alarm sounded, blowing horns and voices filled the corridors as the entire force of Sanctuary mobilized. Cyrus found himself next to Alaric on his way down the stairs.
“I would have you lead the force that is going into the caves,” the paladin said, taking the steps three at a time.
“I assumed you would,” Cyrus said, voice tight.
“I trust you to do your best,” Alaric said. “You have my full confidence. Curatio and I will shepherd the inductees above ground until you return.”
Cy blinked. “Thank you, Alaric. I'll do my best to make sure your confidence is well founded.”
“It is,” the Ghost muttered, so low Cyrus could only just hear it.
Within ten minutes nearly everyone was assembled in the foyer. Alaric stood before them on the balcony above the entryway and addressed them all.
“We face now the Dragonlord, a treacherous foe. Our time is short so I shall not belabor the point: our most experienced fighters will go into the depths of his den while the rest of our army remains above in case the battle should spill onto the surface. Cyrus?”
The warrior stepped forward. “Our worst case scenario involves the Dragonlord making it out of his den. If that should happen, we must keep him contained in the mountains and engaged in battle continuously. When the barrier goes down, the dragons of the south will receive a warning. Our objective is to kill him if possible but at least keep him occupied until they can arrive to deal with him. Should he escape...” The warrior's words drifted off. “Say goodbye to your homes and families.”
A burst of alarm ran through the crowd. “Let us away, my friends.” Alaric gestured toward the sky. Druid teleportation spells filled the room and the forces of Sanctuary disappeared in a hurricane of sound.
Chapter 36
The Mountains of Nartanis appeared and Cyrus felt the hot air around them. He looked to the army appearing at his back. “Veterans, this way. New folks, stay here.” Without waiting for a reply, he headed west, boots crunching on the volcanic gravel.
“Not wasting any time, I see,” came a voice from his right. He turned to see Vara, long legs straining to match his pace and jogging every few steps to keep up.
“We don't have any to waste,” he replied. A look back confirmed that the force had split and part of it was following him. On the horizon was the cave entrance, nestled in the shadows of a cliff. “I need someone to help me see in the dark,” he said and felt a flash of light enter his vision. “This way,” he gestured and was on the move again.
“Short walk from the druid portal,” Vaste said from behind him. “I'm surprised this cave doesn't get more visitors.”
“Would you want to stumble into a dragon's den for entertainment?” Andren said.
“Of course I would. It's the reason I'm here.” He paused. “Besides saving your sorry asses from imminent death. And possibly the world as well,” he added.
“You seem a bit different since you got back from troll country,” Andren said. “What happened?”
“You mean other than being beaten to the brink of death by my own people for trying to recruit some of them to come to Sanctuary?”
Cyrus could hear a momentary stutter in Andren's reply. “Yeah... other than that.”
“I was saved by a shaman, one of the few magic users still among our tribe, and he taught me a few things.”
“Such as?” J'anda's voice entered the conversation.
“I suspect you'll see very soon,” the troll said.
“Love the suspense,” Andren grunted.
Cyrus motioned for quiet behind him as they reached a fork in the path. He knelt as his eyes focused on each of the two tunnels before them.
“Do you remember which way to go?” Vara whispered in his ear. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and her breath washed over him in a warm wave.
“I do.” Cyrus frowned. “But where does the other path lead, and might it be faster?”
“Time is of the essence,” she whispered back. “Perhaps explore some other time.”
“Very well.” He nodded. He charged down the passageway without further comment, bursting into a wide cavern with webbing in the corners of the chamber.
“All too familiar,” Vara said from behind him.
“Yeah. Go stand in the shadows over there and it'll be just like the day we met – except this time I can actually see you.”
“You couldn't see me that day?” she asked, surprised.
�
��Not until you jumped on the dragon,” he said, watching for danger in the four corners of the cavern. He pointed at his eyes. “Human eyesight. Not as good as yours.”
She nodded. “I didn't think about that.”
“I'm surprised we haven't run into any resistance yet. But we didn't last time either.” He frowned at the hole in the ceiling. “Better move quickly to the bridge ahead.” They exited the room and found themselves on the bridge leading across the lava. “Where are the rock giants?” Cyrus chewed his lower lip. “Keep moving forward,” he ordered with a shout over his shoulder.
“I hope our new recruits are all right,” Nyad said from behind Cyrus.
“With Alaric and Curatio leading them, I'm sure they'll be fine,” Andren said.
They crossed the final bridge into the chamber of Ashan'agar without incident. Nothing stood between them and the entrance to his platform. Cyrus stuck his head around the archway and breathed a short sigh of relief. The dragon stood beyond, along with the black-cloaked figure. Six weapons floated around the mysterious figure as chanting filled the air. There was a crackle of magic between the weapons, and Cyrus felt it before he saw it: a flash as a wave of energy filled the cavern, emanating from the cloaked figure. Cyrus dropped to a knee and grasped at the edge of the bridge to avoid being knocked off his feet.
“Unless I miss my guess,” Vara said under her breath, “we were about ten seconds too late.”
Cyrus gritted his teeth. “He's not out yet.” Stepping out into the open of the Dragonlord's platform, Cyrus yelled at Ashan'agar. “How far you have fallen – from Dragonlord of Hewat to a petty thief, stealing other people's treasures!”
The dragon's red scales stood out against the darkened cave walls around them. “I steal to garner my freedom,” the Dragonlord bristled. “And I am far from petty in my thievery.” The dragon's face turned toward Cyrus, as did the black-cloaked figure. “Petty thieves steal trinkets and purses; I have engineered the theft of priceless relics of the gods.” The face of the dragon honed in on Cyrus, and the warrior could see the dragon's right eye was missing, an angry scar running between the scales toward the Dragonlord's snout.