Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “What’s to stop them from reactivating the portal themselves?” Mendicant asked nervously as he rejoined Cyrus and the small war party forming just inside the gate.

  They stood under a grey spring sky, the wind blowing harshly across the Plains of Perdamun. “Hopefully, the arcane and lost knowledge of how to do it,” Cyrus said. “While it’s hardly secret, neither is it a commonly taught spell in the Leagues.” He looked back at his group, which included Vara, J’anda, Mendicant, Samwen Longwell, Erith, and Fortin, as well as roughly one hundred others, and gave them a reassuring nod. With the exception of the rock giant and Mendicant, they were all mounted on horses. “We’re going to ride out, at guard, ready for anything. I don’t think there’s an army lurking out there, and should we find ourselves alone, our mission will be to run down the corpses dotting the plains around us.”

  “We used a gnomish spyglass to get a rough position and count,” Vaste said, holding a parchment with a crude map of Sanctuary and the surrounding area on it. Small, crudely drawn skulls with X’s to denote the eyes and tongues stuck out marked the locations of the dead. Cyrus stared at the map with a raised eyebrow as Vaste continued to speak: “We’ve seen about fifty.”

  “Reanimated corpses make for poor eating,” Fortin rumbled. “All in all, warlord, the meals since I have come back to guard this place have been exceedingly poor.”

  “We apologize for the lacking in your culinary experience,” Vaste said with undying sarcasm.

  “Your apology is accepted,” Fortin said.

  “That wasn’t a—” Vaste began, then sighed. “Never mind.”

  “All right, then,” Cyrus said with a thin smile, “let’s get started.”

  They rode out onto the quiet plains, Mendicant casting cessation on a constant basis as they went. Cyrus had been torn when the strategy had been proposed; taking magic out of their defense seemed a poor decision to him. Vara had argued that it was their only true way to be certain there wasn’t an invisible army lurking, so he had acceded to her argument.

  They rode without incident for nearly an hour, in a careful ring around the wall. The early kills were easiest, and they caught many of the dead unawares, riding them down with little trouble. Soon enough, though, the corpses began to run, and finding them via the map was becoming an increasingly difficult proposition.

  “None of these seem to be where you say they are,” Longwell complained, putrid chunks of meat and flesh trapped on his three-pronged lance.

  “Yes, it’s almost as if a necromancer is controlling these creatures and is now fully aware we’re slaughtering his pets,” Vaste said, eyes fixed on the map as though trying to decode some great secret from within the parchment. “It seems obvious he would start moving them to avoid that, doesn’t it?”

  “How far away do you suppose he is from us?” Mendicant asked, on the back of a pony that struggled to keep up with the other horses.

  “He could be a thousand miles away for all we know,” Cyrus said, looking for their next quarry. He spotted it in the distance, ambling off on rotting legs toward the horizon. “There.” The war party turned in that direction, hooves thundering. “Or he could be lingering near the river. Who knows?”

  “If he’s a thousand miles away,” Mendicant said, bumping along to the uneven plains, “that’s impressive magical control.” He looked to J’anda. “Could you control someone that far away?”

  J’anda nodded. “I have done something similar a few times. I can recall influencing people in Reikonos after teleporting back to Saekaj. The distance does not seem to matter in control, though proximity was required to set the original spell.” The enchanter stared off into the distance, clearly contemplating something.

  “If the same holds true for necromancy,” Vaste said with a sour look of his own, “that means Malpravus was here at one point, in order to establish his control over these corpses.”

  “That’s hardly surprising,” Cyrus said. “Someone had to drop these bodies here, after all.” He rode up on the next corpse and took its head off in a slashing motion. The body fell to the ground, its momentum and fall causing it to break apart. The stink made him blanch, the strong odor of rot creeping down his throat and threatening to start him retching. “It’s not as if they’re local.”

  “Where do you suppose he got them?” Vaste asked. “And who do you think died in order to make the soul rubies that allowed him to revive them?”

  “I don’t even want to know,” Cyrus said, sheathing his new sword with a rattle in Avenger’s Rest. The blade had acquired a deathly stink in the course of their hunt, but putting it away seemed to help.

  They rode for another hour and killed half as many of the corpses as they had in half the time before. The next two hours produced similar results, until finally, some five hours later, they felt reasonably assured that they had rid the area of all of the undead spies left behind by Malpravus. The horses kept their distance while Mendicant cast a fire spell upon the last body, consuming it with flame. Lines of black smoke still puffed up on the horizon in all the places where they’d found a corpse, like signs of a war that had been waged and lost.

  “Urnnnnnnngh,” Fortin said, grunting low and wheezing, shifting laboriously from side to side as he walked in a slow circle around the war party.

  “You all right, Fortin?” Erith asked, guiding her pony nearer to the rock giant. Cyrus, having experienced firsthand what rock giant vomit smelled like, carefully guided Windrider in the opposite direction.

  “I have not run this much in quite some time,” Fortin said, making a low gasping noise that sounded like rocks grinding against steel. “I find myself … unpleasantly fatigued … and perhaps a tad ill.”

  Cyrus gave Windrider another slight jolt to move him away; the horse did not seem to require much encouragement. Cyrus cast an eye back toward Sanctuary. “Looks like we’re a couple miles out. You going to be able to make it back all right?”

  “I just need … a minute to rest …” Fortin said, bending at the waist, placing his enormous hands on his knees. “Every time we caught one of those things, I thought maybe … we’d take a break … but no, we kept moving. You people and your horses. I need a mount.”

  “Maybe a dragon?” Cyrus asked with vague amusement.

  “I think he’d have better luck with one of those savanna cats,” Vara said, watching Cyrus edge ever farther from Fortin and taking a cue from him. She was following only a dozen feet behind him.

  “Yes …” Fortin said, nodding. “A savanna cat … those creatures the size of three of your trolls. Those would be a worthy mount for a Grand Knight such as myself.”

  Cyrus raised an eyebrow at the rock giant’s use of the title. “I’m not so sure they’d let you ride them, Fortin.”

  “I would tame one,” Fortin said, taking a breath and seemingly inflating himself back to standing upright. The sound of rock rumbling rolled over the plains. “I would show it my fearsome strength and it would be cowed at my power. Yes … when this task is over, I will go to the Gradsden Savanna and find myself a worthy steed.”

  Cyrus thought about replying. Any number of possibilities sprang to mind, most of them detailing exactly how fatal such an expedition would play out for the cat. He caught a look from Vara, though, and said nothing. Let him dream.

  And so he said nothing, and the war party rode back to Sanctuary quietly, for no one else had the heart to quash the dreams of the rock giant, either.

  34.

  The time between the sealing of the portal north of Sanctuary and the scheduled meeting with Governor Allyn Frost of the Northlands was another dragging series of weeks, time spent unproductive and stale, with few breaks in the routine.

  One of them was a meeting that Cyrus scheduled even before he’d begun the process of sealing the portal. This one took place in the dead of the night, and was made possible by Mendicant undertaking a journey to Emerald Fields on Cyrus’s behalf. A day earlier he’d sent word to Cattrine by a different m
essenger requesting her to deliver a sealed missive into the hills above Emerald Fields, into the mines of Rockridge. This she did, and as a result, Mendicant appeared moments after he left, twinkling back into existence at his point of bind, the return spell carrying him back with a dwarf clutched tightly to him.

  The dwarf was of medium height, hair and beard braided carefully, his face cleaned for the meeting, lacking the dust and dirt with which it had been covered when last Cyrus had met him. The dwarf looked around nervously as he appeared in Mendicant’s quarters. Cyrus was awaiting them both, leaning against the wall, the torch fires and the hearth burning. As they appeared, Cyrus looked out into the hall, checking to see that it was empty. “Hold on,” Cyrus said and then practiced his illusion spell by transforming the dwarf into J’anda, whom he knew to be in his quarters, asleep. “All right, let’s go.”

  “So much secrecy,” Mendicant said softly, under his breath, as if in awe of what was being done.

  “Come to my quarters in five minutes, Mendicant,” Cyrus said. “Knock softly on the door, and I’ll let you in as soon as our meeting concludes.” He smiled with reassurance at the goblin. “And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mendicant said, bowing, his robes dragging the floor as he stooped. “I am happy to be of service.”

  “Follow,” Cyrus told the dwarf, who was now disguised as J’anda, complete with the staff. The dwarf, whose hands had been empty when he’d arrived, stared in wonder and pushed the illusion into the floor. It disappeared when it made contact with the stone, as if it had somehow been thrust into the floor and wedged there. “Don’t do that,” Cyrus warned, and the dwarf jerked the staff out again and followed him as he opened the door.

  “Shh,” Cyrus said, beckoning the J’anda illusion forward. They ascended the stairs with only minor incident—the dwarf nearly tripped over his feet while trying to figure out how to reconcile what he saw of his taller dark elven self with his actual, shorter legs. When they arrived at Cyrus’s quarters, he opened the door and led the dwarf up after locking the door and then dispelling the illusion behind him.

  “Hello,” Vara said as they both reached the top of the stairs. She was waiting on one of the chairs, a book beside her, clearly put down when she’d heard them approaching.

  “Vara Davidon,” Cyrus said, making the introduction, “this is Keearyn.”

  “Lady Davidon,” Keearyn said, quickly kneeling, “it is a very great honor to meet you.”

  “No need for any of that,” Vara said, rising to her feet. She was dressed in her full armor and her sword was on her hip, clearly prepared in case the dwarf proved something other than compliant. Cyrus had met the dwarf before and considered the likelihood roughly equivalent to Vaste shutting his mouth when presented an opportunity to insult someone or Ryin passing up a chance to argue. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Keearyn.”

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, ma’am,” Keearyn said, bowing his head.

  “It’s not?” Vara asked, her brow furrowing lightly. “I have to apologize, as I can’t seem to recall—”

  “Keearyn is one of the slaves we freed from Gren two years ago,” Cyrus said, feeling a curious reserve tugging at him. “He was captured by the dark elves when they sacked Aloakna—”

  “Caught me and my family on the road outside town,” Keearyn said, burbling with excitement. “And sacked is the right word for what they did to us as well—stuffed us in canvas and took us to the Depths, that hellhole—”

  Vara frowned. “I recently had cause to visit the Depths, and I met one of your fellow dwarves there.”

  Keearyn’s large brow rose up. “Truly? I pity that poor bastard. I could not conceive of a worse fate than being stuck there for any stretch of time.”

  Cyrus and Vara shared a look. “Tolada seemed like he was enjoying himself,” Cyrus said, prompting Keearyn’s eyes to seem to grow wider than his stubby fists. “Anyhow,” he went on, explaining to Vara, “I met Keearyn when I went to … uh … fight with Fortin. He’s the foreman at the mines up on Rockridge.”

  “Ever at their service, yes,” Keearyn said, stooping again, quickly. “And yours, if you need me for something.”

  “As it happens,” Cyrus said, smiling weakly, “I do.”

  Keearyn stared up at Cyrus with wide eyes, struck with awe. “You have … need of a humble miner?”

  “I have need of an excellent miner,” Cyrus said, “which I have heard you are. I have a task for you, one which must be carried out in absolute secret, and which I can pay you and whoever else you need a significant sum of gold to undertake.”

  “I … I … no gold is necessary—” Keearyn began.

  “I think it is,” Cyrus said. “It’s likely to be an extended bit of work. You’ll need workers you can implicitly trust, and from what I’ve heard … they’ll need great skill.”

  Keearyn nodded. “Whatever you require and request, I shall make happen. Many of my workers are members of my own family, and I trust them with my life. Whatever you need, we can accomplish.”

  Cyrus let out a long breath. “You might want to hear the task I’m setting forth before you agree so readily.” He took another breath, and then told the dwarf exactly what he wanted of him. The fire crackled in the hearth, shading the dwarf’s astonished face in orange tones, highlighting the braided beard that hung down below his belt. After Cyrus had outlined in broad strokes what he needed, he asked, “Can you do that?”

  “You weren’t making a jest at all,” Keearyn said, rocking back on his haunches. “I—I’ll have to see it to be sure, but yes. It could take quite some time, though. And you’re right … I’ll need gold. To do something of that scale … I couldn’t fund it out of my own accounts.”

  “We’ve got some time,” Cyrus said. “And I’ve managed to accumulate a reasonable fortune as Guildmaster of Sanctuary.” He pursed his lips. “Some of it is here, and you’ll have it before you leave. Some of it’s in banks in Reikonos and Pharesia, and getting to that will be a bit more difficult under present circumstances. For now, though, I’ll make sure you have plenty enough to get started.”

  “If it’s as you say, this could be the work of years,” Keearyn said, his rugged face struck with worry.

  “As I said before,” Cyrus said, smiling lightly at Vara, who met his with a much more concerned look, “we’ve got some time …”

  35.

  The day of the arranged meeting with Governor Frost seemed to come more swiftly than other events Cyrus had waited for of late. The spring air had turned warm, the skies had cleared and any trace of winter had been left far behind. In the distance, from the top of the tower, Cyrus could see the fields of the nearest farmers to the north going about their labors, if he chose to spend his time watching. Sometimes he did, for lack of anything else to do, leaning against the stone rail that lined the edge of the balcony, staring hard out at the far distance, watching a small spot on the horizon tread across the fields. He knew it was a beast of burden of some sort, its master an imperceptible speck, gradually turning the ground a deeper shade of brown as he tilled the way that Lord Merrish had been doing in his own fields.

  “Only an hour to go,” Vara said, easing up on him. They were both already in their armor, waiting for nothing more than the appointed time to arrive. There was quiet below, the silence of Sanctuary a difficult thing for Cyrus to get used to. Time was, there would have been peals of laughter from the lawns, activity on the archery range, people wandering about the gardens or taking horses out for a ride from the stables. Now the lawn was empty, though he’d been across it enough of late to know that it was getting saturated from some of the recent torrential rains.

  “Not that we’re counting,” Cyrus said, turning his head to glance at her.

  “It has been a long, difficult few months,” Vara said, staring past him. “Perhaps now that spring is here—”

  “Perhaps if we can get what we have set out to accomplish done,” he corrected,
and she nodded. “Because the simple change of seasons is unlikely to reduce the pressure upon us. If anything, the steady atrophy of our numbers will only make it worse.”

  “Are you still obsessed with our numbers, then?” Vara asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

  “I haven’t asked and no one has told me,” Cyrus said, turning to look back at the horizon. “That seems the wiser course, since we’re already reduced to the barest minimum to allow defense of the wall.”

  She nodded once and did not press the point. “Do you think—?” she began, but a hard knock from the door down the stair halted her in the middle.

  “Come in,” Cyrus said, looking back as he called out. He waited, Vara at his side, the gentle breeze blowing between them as footsteps sounded. Calene appeared a moment later, an envelope in hand, and went straight to Vara, offering it to the paladin without a word.

  “Thank you,” Vara said, taking it, staring at it with a frown. She opened it and began to read.

  “How goes it among the rangers, Calene?” Cyrus asked as he waited for Vara to finish.

  “It goes,” she answered. “We’re scheduled for an archery practice later today, just to sharpen our skills. Seems leaving hands idle too long causes problems, and since a stealth march practice would require us to leave, and that seems unfeasible at the moment ….”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself in relation to the idleness,” Cyrus said. “Are you ready for your first council meeting?”

  “Aye,” Calene said, reddening. “I’m ready. Not sure what I can possibly contribute, but I’m ready as I can be.”

  “Thank you for this, Calene,” Vara said with a nod, her face as blank. Cyrus gave her a frown at a glance; there was a burgeoning excitement behind her eyes, though she was clearly trying to contain it.