“We put things in motion,” Aisling said. “Toppling these men, these enemies … it’s not going to be easy. You’ll need to assemble coalitions of the willing against them, make deals at the very top of the power structures of Arkaria. It will take time, and it needs to be done in utter secret or it will fail.”
“We just declared war on the Leagues,” Cyrus said, shaking his head.
“And you should be seen huddling down,” Terian said. “We all should, because we’re outnumbered. They know we’re outnumbered. They know we know.”
“I know almost nothing,” Vaste said cheerfully.
“Indeed,” Vara said.
“I set that up so perfectly for you,” Vaste grumped.
“They know Cyrus Davidon as a man whose first instinct is battle,” Terian said. “You’ve been hit. You’re reeling. You need to play into that, but not look so weak that they come at you right away. We need time. Hiding behind the walls provides it.” He darted a gaze at Cattrine. “Their first move is likely to try to find a way to sever us from each other. Without allies to come to your aid, you’re much easier prey.”
“They’re going to strike at you, then,” Vara said, looking at Terian.
“Very likely,” Cattrine said. “At Terian or me, directly or indirectly.”
“What are you going to do to guard against that?” J’anda asked.
“We have a plan or two,” Cattrine said.
“But it’s hardly infallible,” Terian said in a warning tone. “Goliath’s treachery should never be underestimated, after all.”
“They never come at you cleanly,” Vaste whispered.
“And they won’t this time, either,” Terian said. “They will knock the legs from beneath us and strike when we’re down.” He took a step closer to Cyrus. “You won’t see the strikes coming, but you have to be ready anyway. You have to be willing to knock them down with you, to wrestle in the dirt, to fight and scrape and push their faces into the mud. This isn’t even war, it’s not troops in lines marching against each other.” His eyes burned as he stepped right up to Cyrus. “This is the lowest form of combat, a brawl in a dirty alleyway, and the only prize is that you and yours get to keep breathing. Are you ready for that fight?”
“To keep this secret, maybe to your grave?” Cattrine asked.
“You’re asking me,” Cyrus said slowly, “to subvert Sanctuary. To go against who we are. To compromise—”
“I’m asking you,” Terian said, landing both hands on Cyrus’s pauldrons and shaking him lightly, “to not be stupid at a time when your very survival requires you to be aware—your enemies are coming in the night, with blades, and you don’t know who all of them are.” He lowered his voice, and it was thick with emotion. “Cyrus … you need to decide whether you’re going to fight for Sanctuary to live … or just give up and let it die with all its people as they close in on all sides.”
Cyrus looked at Vara, who gave him a subtle nod. Glancing at Vaste and J’anda, he saw the same approval.
The guild looks to me … and I look to … The quiet in the tower was a palpable thing, every single one of them waiting on his answer. He looked around, not at them but at their feet, his mind awhirl. This is not what Alaric would do.
But Alaric has never faced these enemies before.
He sighed, as the answer—the only one—came. “All right,” Cyrus said, “let’s find a way to save this guild.”
13.
“Is this really necessary?” Cyrus asked, straightening his breastplate. The way he’d fastened it, in haste, on his way out of the tower, had caused it to poke into his chainmail and press it sharply against his ribs. If he wore it into battle in this lopsided way, he knew it would result in injury, but he wasn’t counting on a battle.
“You definitely need armor for this,” Vaste said. “What if they throw things?”
“Don’t listen to him,” Vara said, seizing the edge and adjusting it straight with one good tug. She gave the troll a searing glare. “You know this is necessary.” She looked him in the eyes. “You need to address the guild about these events. It’s been elided over for entirely too long.”
They were standing in the foyer outside the Great Hall, and dinner was already well underway. The clatter of plates and silverware rattled in the air, and the smell of cooked meat enticed Cyrus even as the prospect of what he needed to do repelled him. Taking up a prominent place close to the door, Cyrus could see the new troll applicants eating rather messily. He glanced at Vaste, who had covered his mouth with his hand. “Gods, that’s embarrassing,” the healer muttered.
“You’ll do fine,” J’anda said, giving a look behind him. The rest of the Council lingered in the foyer as well, the Great Hall looking empty compared to what it had been only a year earlier. “Go through the sequence of events, answer questions at the end, and don’t forget to be your usual, charming self.”
“Yes,” Erith called from behind him, “do try to remember to charm.”
“Or at least try not to kill anyone,” Ryin said, an aura of weary resignation about the druid. “That seems important right now.”
“Such encouraging words,” Vara said under her breath. She looked up at him once more, and he could see the faint light of hope within her eyes. “You can do this.”
“I can do this,” Cyrus agreed, sure that she was right. He still felt a sense of unease, stemming not only from all that was coming at them now, but also by his consideration of the plans put forth by Terian and the others only the night before. I am actually going to do this, to fight this battle … as I might have when I was a warrior in the Society, on my own. Bare knuckles, whatever weapon I can find. He sucked in a breath, but his armor did not stab him as it had a moment earlier. “I’m ready.”
“Oh, good, because you’re the one who really needs to be,” Vaste said. “I mean, I could be unready for days, possibly, because I don’t need to speak—”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Vara said, nodding at Cyrus and stepping up beside him. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Cyrus said and started into the Great Hall before the troll could retort, the officers following behind him. They threaded their way through the crowd, which was packed in knots around some tables with others left empty and abandoned. Cyrus made his way up front to the officers’ table, surprised that the Great Hall didn’t look emptier. The Luukessians aren’t here … we have a tenth of the numbers eating tonight that we had a year ago, yet the place doesn’t appear utterly desolate. He caught a glimpse of Larana watching him through the pass-through to the kitchen, eyes intently upon him. When he caught her looking, he smiled. She did not return the smile, but neither did she look away.
Cyrus stopped before the officers’ table and waited for the others to file in around him. We still have a full complement at the walls … the hall is even emptier than I knew … at least it doesn’t look it. Doubtful that having that be obvious would appear as anything other than weakness to the members we have left. “Good evening,” he called, swallowing once, hard, before he began to speak. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“It’d be hard to miss, given it’s dinnertime!” came a rough voice out of the crowd. Peals of laughter crackled through the room and Cyrus smiled, nodding along with the jest. They’re bound to feel isolated, alone, with this recent news. Some of them are probably very afraid. Let them have some humor, and maybe this will go easier.
“Well, I wanted a captive audience,” Cyrus said, prompting a little laugh of his own. He caught a glimpse of Calene Raverle sitting with some of the rangers in one of the front tables. She smiled at him encouragingly when she caught his eye, but he could see that her expression was nevertheless laced with uncertainty. “It’s been a long time since last I addressed the guild this way. Too long. Much has changed—”
“Too much!” someone in the crowd hooted, and a chorus of catcalls followed.
“Too much, agreed,” Cyrus said with a nod. “And too little of it we controlled. No one enjoys c
hange, especially not change for the worse, and yet that’s what we’ve been presented, time after time, of late.” He kept his voice steady and loud, booming out to those sitting in the back of the room. “Well, I don’t care for it any more than you do, and I think it’s time we—”
“When are we going on an expedition?” a voice—the same one that had been calling since the first thrown jest—yelled. A murmured chorus of assent flew through the ranks, running through the room like water down a steep slope.
“Well,” Cyrus said, trying to keep his good humor about him and delivering his answer with as much levity as he could muster, “more or less the entire Council is now declared heretics and are considered persona non grata in many of the major cities. Several very large, very dangerous guilds—Goliath and Amarath’s Raiders, for instance—are presently trying to find ways to kill us, so … running expeditions out from behind these walls and our defenses is not a priority until we clear this matter up.”
“You don’t just clear up a declaration of heresy!” that same voice called again, and again, many others chorused in agreement.
“No, you don’t,” Cyrus said when the yelling faded. “It’s not that easy, but we are—”
“We got no stipend!” came another voice, less cultured than the first. “We haven’t been paid gold in nearing a year!”
“Well, we haven’t been on any expeditions,” Cyrus said then inwardly cringed. Like they don’t know that.
“So, what, are we working for free now?” came the first voice again. Cyrus peered into the crowd and saw the speaker. He was a swarthy human in his thirties with glaring eyes, and his lips looked like they might not ever have cracked in a smile at any point in his entire life.
“What’s your name?” Cyrus asked, looking right at him.
The man stood, and his long, dusty-blond hair fell around his face as he rose to his feet. “Mathyas Tarreau, Lord Davidon.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘Lord Davidon,’” Cyrus said. “And yes … you’re working for free. Or for room, board, food, lodging, protection … almost everything except actual gold.” He looked around the room. “I know this isn’t what a lot of you signed on for—”
“I came for coin!” shouted someone at the back of the room, and a roar of agreement ran through the Great Hall.
“Oh, I am sick of this interrupting arsehole,” Ryin muttered under the roar of the crowd.
“I remember when that interrupting arsehole was you,” Vaste said, elbowing him in the ribs.
The druid shot the healer a sour look. “When it comes to interruptions, you remain the king.”
“I’m sure you did,” Cyrus said to the gathering. “And for a time, obviously, Sanctuary had a stipend unlike any guild in Arkaria. Our members practically floated in gold while we took mercenary contracts during the war. But that was never the reason we were here.” A silence had fallen, and he could feel his audience listening. “The purpose of Sanctuary was to be here to help Arkaria in its hours of greatest need.” A creeping sense of guilt prickled at Cyrus. Is that what I’m doing now, in conspiring to remove leaders from governments to save my own skin? To save my people? “We were meant to protect this land against all threats. We were never a mercenary company except when we had to be. We did what we had to do to help the people of Emerald Fields survive, to help ourselves survive. We beat the Dragonlord. We destroyed the tyrannical Goblin Imperium. We knocked back the dark elves when they reached forth their hand for empire. We killed Mortus and Yartraak, have fought enemies … unfathomable enemies to save a people … we have battled dragons and titans, and now we face the governments of men and elves, and allies of old turned against us.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Vara looking at him. “We have a purpose. We are not mercenaries, though we have taken gold for service. We are not mere adventurers, though we have adventured. And we are not soldiers, though we have fought. This guild is more than any of those things. It is a home, it is our place—” He looked sideways and saw Larana staring at him, now out of the kitchen, watching him in rapt attention, “—and they’re going to come for us. And we’re going to fight them.”
“You’re out of your godsdamned mind if you think we’re fighting the Confederation, the Kingdom, Amarath’s Raiders and Goliath, and for free, no less,” Mathyas Tarreau said, still standing up in the crowd. Others stood up to join him.
And so we come to it at last. “No one is going to force you to stay,” Cyrus said. “As ever, Sanctuary is a haven for those who want to be here. Anyone who doesn’t …” He looked uneasily over the crowd. “You should leave. Before things get untenable.”
“That’s it, then?” Mathyas Tarreau asked him, looking through the crowd with furious eyes. “You’re just … done with us?”
“We’re heretics here, Mathyas,” Cyrus said, staring him down. “Arkaria is turning against us. We’ll be besieged. Enemies will come for us from all sides.” He raised his voice. “If you’re here for coin, there is none. If you’re here for adventure, all we have is battle, at least for the foreseeable future. If you’re looking for a home, and loyalty that runs thicker than blood, that won’t abandon you in your darkest hour … then don’t abandon us in ours.” His gaze flicked across the crowd, seeing a gamut of emotions represented there. “If that’s not you … then, yes. We’re done.”
A shocked silence fell over the guildhall, broken by the sound of a chair sliding against the stone floor. Someone stood up in the back, turned, and with hunched shoulders, shuffled out of the Great Hall. Another chair slid out a moment later, then another, then so many of them Cyrus couldn’t count them all. It seemed like half the hall rose and started toward the door. He stood in silence and watched, remembering a time when Alaric had done something very similar, and waited, as over half their number streamed out, leaving Sanctuary behind for the cold, dark night and the empty plains beyond the wall.
14.
“That could have gone better,” Ryin said once they were safely ensconced back in the Council Chamber, the light of the fire crackling and giving the room a lively tone in spite of the dead silence that had hung over them.
“It also could have gone worse,” Vaste said. When everyone looked at him, he said, “They could all have left.”
“Did anyone get a count?” Cyrus asked, brushing his helm where it lay next to his right hand on the table. It made a slight noise skidding against the wood, reminding him of the chairs in the Great Hall scooting back all in unison.
“I believe the technical measure is a ‘shit ton,’” Vaste said. “As in, ‘Those people were shits, and there were a ton of them.’”
“They were our sworn brothers and sisters,” Vara said quietly.
“Less than a thousand,” J’anda said. “Nine hundred, perhaps?”
“We lost more on the wall,” Samwen Longwell said, newly reappeared from where he’d been on guard duty during the meeting. “I had to drag people onto night duty once we closed the gates. It’s been a steady trickle since, as well, people coming to regret not walking out with the rest.”
“Gods, we’re here again,” Cyrus said, bracing his chin against his hand. “Time runs in a circle, and now we move back to the beginning.”
“In the mood to travel Arkaria to rustle up new recruits?” J’anda asked with a warm smile.
“Even if I weren’t likely to be attacked on the road whilst doing that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head, “I think that might be a task for a younger man. Alaric sent me, after all; he didn’t go himself.”
“Oh, he’s blaming himself for this,” Vaste said. “I can see it in the way he’s about to droop onto his hand. The self-loathing is running over like mead in a shallow cup. It’s splashing onto me.”
“That might just be your own self-loathing,” Erith said quietly, her complexion a pale blue. She looked sick, Cyrus thought.
“So, what do we do?” Longwell asked, drumming his spear against the ground. “Close up the wall, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Vaste said, “since we don’t want to pit our—what? Less than a thousand now? Against Goliath’s twenty thousand?”
“We should get a count,” Vara said, her voice almost a whisper. “So we know.”
“We need new officers,” Cyrus said. “That’s what Alaric did when all hell broke loose last time. He appointed Vaste, J’anda, and me to the Council in order to help bring things back in line.”
“And it worked out just marvelously. At least until now,” Vaste said.
“We’re still not as small as we were then,” J’anda pointed out. He looked to Cyrus, warm regard on his wrinkled features. “Who were you thinking for officers?”
“Calene Raverle,” Cyrus said, “Scuddar In’shara. Menlos Irontooth?”
“I’m not so sure about Menlos,” Erith said, shaking her head. “He’s nice and all, but … he seems more like the front line type, not the sort you put on the Council.”
Cyrus frowned. “Are you sure? He seems like a leader.”
Erith shrugged. “Just my feeling. I guess I don’t know him that well.”
“I hate to say this, but …” Vara looked around. “We could use Fortin here on the grounds for a time. With our numbers this low, having a rock giant at our disposal would not be a terrible idea.”
“Agreed,” Cyrus said, somewhat reluctantly. “I’m sure he won’t be pleased, but … he’ll come if I call.”
“So that’s it, then?” Longwell asked. “We have nothing else? Hide and appoint a few new officers, and hope that this storm blows itself out?”
Cyrus traded a look with Vara and carefully kept himself from glancing at Vaste or J’anda. Instead he surveyed the remaining few officers that were not in his circle of confidence, his shadow council. “Of course not,” he gazed at Ryin, who sat in quiet, obvious desperation, then at Mendicant, who looked rather stoic, all things considered, staring straight ahead like Ryin but without his lethargy. Erith squirmed in her seat, looking as if she wanted to run out and never come back, her blue complexion almost grey in the torchlight. Longwell, for his part, clutched his lance in his gauntleted hand firmly, ready for action that would not be coming their way soon, Cyrus hoped. “We need to wait for now, though,” Cyrus said. “In a fight with a bigger foe, one that you can’t win through contest of strength, it becomes a game of waiting, of skill. Their guard is strong, but it won’t last forever. If they come at us, we may be able to bleed them dry, if we are prepared. Sanctuary withstood a siege of a hundred thousand before—”
Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) Page 9