Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus looked sidelong at Ermoc, who still stood, stunned. “I guess Malpravus should have sent more men,” he said and pointed Rodanthar at Sareea, who blinked as he pointed the blade at her and the men behind her. She took a step back, clearly intimidated, and Ermoc ran at her as she began to twinkle with light, a return spell clearly at work. Ermoc slammed into her as she disappeared, the spell drawing the both of them out of the line of fire the second before Cyrus let loose a billowing flame spell that struck the other rank of soldiers, immolating them in an instant.

  The intensity of the heat made Cyrus flinch back. It was as hot as any spell he’d ever cast, perhaps hotter, and it had landed in a solid thirty-foot circle, scourging the men within it with flames worthy of a blacksmith’s furnace. The armored figures within danced in agony, running to and fro until they fell to their knees one by one like puppets being dropped as their master cut them loose.

  Cyrus felt the sweat trickle down his forehead as he surveyed the battlefield. There were no other survivors save one; Orion was grunting, trying to get back to his feet at the base of the burning guard tower. Carrack’s corpse was beneath the flaming wreckage of the other tower, the wood structure already collapsed on itself. The gates of the keep were thrown open and the guards who had barred the doors had made good their escape, no sign of them on the drawbridge.

  Cyrus cast a furious eye at the tower behind him and raised a hand. “Reynard Coulton!” he shouted, and heaved a fire spell at the wooden roof far above. It blossomed in flame as a meek face peeked out of third floor window, wide eyes looking up in shocked surprise. Cyrus could see a beard on the man, and hints of fine cloth in the form of a cloak draped around his shoulders. The flame Cyrus had cast would burn his roof, spread to the interior of the tower, and surely, eventually, leave the entire thing a charred mess, burning the governor out of his home. “Come out before I start a fire at your front door as well!”

  Cyrus did not wait for the governor to follow his instruction. He hurried over to Samwen Longwell. The dragoon had been pierced with so many swords and blades that the mud around him ran a dark shade of red. Summoning the words to mind, he drew upon the resurrection spell and cast it, and Longwell lurched painfully back to life, blood spurting once more from his many wounds. The smell of the blood was sticky in the warm air, and Cyrus hurriedly cast the healing spell upon him, watching the sprays of red come to a halt as Longwell’s wounds were healed. He breathed in and out, the harsh and ragged breaths slowing, losing their fearful urgency, as Longwell’s deep brown eyes met Cyrus’s.

  “We … made it?” the dragoon asked, his gaze almost blank, drifting around Cyrus.

  “So far,” Cyrus said, kicking the dragoon’s lance back in easy reach from where it had fallen. “Get yourself together; it’s not over yet.”

  Cyrus rushed over to Vaste where the troll had fallen. His face was buried in the mud, and Cyrus knelt down to roll him. It was not easy, even with Rodanthar in hand, but he managed it with some grunting. The first survivors from the burning keep’s tower began to emerge as he was casting the resurrection spell upon Vaste. He watched them with furious eyes as he brought the troll back to life. They did not watch him nearly so closely, coughing and hacking as they cleared the smoking entry to the now-burning tower. Plumes of black were starting to reach into the sky, soiling its pleasant blue with their smoke.

  Vaste surged back to life with a vomiting of nearly black blood, and when the healing spell was done, he had not finished regurgitating the blood from his mouth. His eyes were wide and panicked, as if he were choking upon his life’s blood—which, Cyrus realized, he probably was. The troll groaned as he hacked up the last of it, spitting into the already saturated mud. It did not smell like human blood smelled, Cyrus reflected dimly; it was different, more earthy, perhaps. “Or maybe that’s just the horse manure,” Cyrus muttered.

  “Wha … t?” Vaste said through sputtering lips, strings of blood still oozing their way to the ground as he rolled to all fours in preparation to stand. “Oh,” the troll said, his normally yellow-green skin looking far, far more yellow at the moment, like fresh-shucked corn. “That’s horse manure, right there. My hand is in it. Gods. This is the worst resurrection ever.”

  “Count yourself lucky you’re back,” Cyrus said, hurrying over to J’anda, once more casting furious looks at the men streaming out of the tower. He was waiting for Coulton, but once the man showed up, he wasn’t likely to stop what he was doing just to deal with the bastard.

  As he began to cast the spell to bring J’anda back, Cyrus could feel the drain of the spells he’d cast like a hard-settled fatigue wearying him. It was like he’d done a whole day’s labor and was ready for bed, but it was not yet even midday. He cast the spell, watching the light at his hands, hoping it would not turn red. It didn’t. J’anda sprang to life, and Cyrus grabbed his fallen staff and thrust it in his hand. J’anda’s thin fingers clung to it, hard, as Cyrus ripped the arrows out of him, chopping them neatly beneath the heads with Rodanthar and pulling them through, and then cast the healing spell. Again his fingers flashed white, though once more he felt the curious drain. He clutched tightly to his new sword, as if afraid to let it go.

  J’anda seemed to take his resurrection better than the others. His eyes flashed to Cyrus, less fearful, less pained, and Cyrus wondered if it was because of the staff held in his fingers, the knuckles as pale as his face from the strain of desperation to cling to it. “Somehow …” J’anda said quietly, “… I knew you would see us through this.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without your help,” Cyrus said and then waved his sword over the enchanter’s face. J’anda’s eyes caught the motion and followed the blade. “We had some other help, though, too.”

  “Indeed,” J’anda said, rolling over to get to his feet. Behind him, Cyrus could hear Vaste attempting much the same, and Longwell’s heavy footfalls as he shuffled through the mud, leaning heavily on his lance. “Goliath … gone?”

  “All but the last dregs,” Cyrus said, nodding toward Orion, who was trying to crawl through the mud but making a bad show of it, crying in pain as he tried to pull himself forward on one working arm. “Fish Carrack’s burnt corpse out of that tower over there, will you?”

  J’anda raised an eyebrow at him, casting his gaze toward where Cyrus had pointed. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I asked so nicely,” Cyrus said as he strode toward Orion, who floundered in the mud. Time to settle a very old score … for good.

  Cyrus walked up to where Orion lay in the mud, cradling a broken arm, his legs clearly not functioning, pointed at odd angles. His helm shielded his expression, but his head was tilted so that the thin eye slits were turned toward Cyrus. “How’s it going down there?” Cyrus asked him lightly, clutching Rodanthar in his hand.

  “Never … better,” Orion practically spit at him. “How are you?”

  “Well, since I just waltzed out of Goliath’s carefully set ambush for me, things are definitely looking up.” Cyrus stared down at him. “So … how long until your idiot leader lands a thousand troops in the Idiarna portal?”

  “You’ve got hours,” Orion said, obviously lying. “Have a seat, let’s talk for a while, chat about old times.”

  “Or we could just fight to the death,” Cyrus said squatting down to look Orion in the eye. “Once and for all.”

  Orion stared back at him, and when he spoke the loathing just bled out. “If you’re going to kill me … just get it over with.”

  “I don’t think so.” Cyrus shook his head. “Since the day we met, you have consistently betrayed me and attempted to destroy everything I care about. I’ve been fairly magnanimous thus far, but magnanimity has run the hell out, Orion. So, no, you’re not going to die quickly, but I’m going to try and make it somewhat fair, if a bit humiliating.” He stood, stuck the point of his sword behind Orion’s ear, and tapped the edge of his helm, knocking it up and inch and catching it on the blade. He did it twice more, tak
ing care not to cut Orion as he did so, and took the helm off his head. With a kick, Cyrus punted it into the smoldering wreckage of the guard tower Carrack had perished in. J’anda, dragging a blackened corpse by the ankles, his robes covered in ash and soot and his staff clutched awkwardly in one hand, gave him a frown for his efforts. “Sorry,” Cyrus said to the enchanter.

  “Stop playing with your food and eat already,” J’anda shot back, dragging the carcass toward the center of the bailey, where men were still coming out of the tower.

  “No,” Cyrus fired back. “All right,” he turned his attention back to Orion, whose scarred face leered up at him through lips that had been peeled back from his mouth, a gaping gash running toward his cheek. “Now let’s make things a little more fair, shall we?” He cast a healing spell upon the ranger. It did not fix any of the scarring on his hideous face, but his legs cracked as the bones set, and his arm straightened where it had been broken.

  “There you go,” Cyrus said, sheathing his sword. “Now … I think it’s time we settle this like men.”

  Orion lurched to his feet, mud and manure dripping from his tunic. “You’re bigger and stronger than me.”

  “Yes,” Cyrus agreed.

  “You’re going to hammer me like old beef,” Orion said, seething resentment.

  “Now, now,” Cyrus said, “for years you’ve tried to arrange my death and destruction through every treacherous means you could bring to your aid. What is that if not changing the rules to favor yourself?” Cyrus smirked at him, raw anger surging through him. “I think it’s time you got a taste of your own horseshit.”

  Orion wavered for a moment. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “Last I recalled, you still have daggers,” Cyrus said, not looking away from Orion. “I’ve put away my sword. This is the closest to a chance to kill me as you’ll ever get, Orion.” Cyrus leaned toward him. “You might want to take it, because in five seconds, if you haven’t tried, I’m going beat you to death right here—no mercy.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Orion whispered through his gaping lips.

  “You’re damned right I will,” Cyrus said. “One—”

  Orion drew a blade, a short sword, from behind his back. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.”

  “Die?” Cyrus surveyed him with pitiless eyes. “I know. It’s why you keep coming after me, and until now I’ve been too decent to grant your request. But now,” he let his voice fall low, fury infusing it enough that Orion’s mangled eyes widened just slightly in fear, “I’m granting all the requests to die, every last one. Every single person who has crossed me, who is coming after me and mine, they are about to have it granted—and I’ll start with you.”

  Orion came at him with skill, a lancing strike that would have done well against normal armor. It could easily have broken through solid chainmail, and his slash was perfectly positioned to sail past Cyrus’s plate at the elbow. It could have opened an artery, started the bleeding—

  But instead it clanged, steel against quartal, and Cyrus jerked his arm into a right angle. The edge of his vambraces pushed tight against the bracers wrapped around his wrists and trapped the blade between them. With a twist of his hips, Cyrus ripped the weapon from Orion’s grasp and flung it across the ground. It plopped softly into the mud some ten feet behind him, and Cyrus was left standing only three feet from Orion, who gaped at having his weapon yanked away in mere seconds.

  “What else do you have?” Cyrus asked the ranger, staring at him with undisguised fury, just waiting for him to make a move.

  Orion did not answer, instead turning and breaking into a run. He was angled for the open gates, pelting along on uncertain footing, and he made it almost three steps before Cyrus reached out with a long arm, seized him by the collar and yanked him backward, ripping his balance away and slamming him into the mud. Cyrus dragged him backward, Orion kicking his feet involuntarily and flailing his arms as he skimmed the mud. Cyrus drove a boot into Orion’s left shoulder and heard the cracking of his collarbone. The ranger gasped hoarsely at the pain.

  “You betrayed Sanctuary,” Cyrus said, looming over the ranger. “You sold us out to the Dragonlord. You conspired to steal the godly weapons from almost every nation, and to free Ashan’agar, which would have killed nearly every single person in Arkaria. And as if that was not enough, you aided Goliath in turning the three major powers against us and starting a war that led to the death of millions. You helped sack Reikonos, and you’ve done everything you can to try kill me and mine.” Cyrus kicked Orion in the ribs and heard them break, taking sweet satisfaction at the cracking of bones. He kicked him again and the ranger jerked in pain, moaning. “I can’t pretend this is justice, Orion, because that would probably come at a gallows, perhaps with some impartial hangman knocking the footing from beneath you while your neck stretched and you kicked and twisted in midair. But this is what I’m going to give to you—the vengeance of someone who has had enough of your shit.”

  Cyrus knelt down astride the ranger, landing his armored greaves in the center of Orion’s chest and heard them crack the ranger’s breastbone beneath chainmail. All the air left Orion in one hard exhalation, and his ruined lips burst comically open. Cyrus stared into that scarred face and remembered the day he’d let him walk away in the arena of Reikonos. “How many people do you reckon have paid the price for my last dose of mercy for you, Orion?” Cyrus asked. “I told you I forgave but didn’t forget, and now I don’t do either.” He raised a gauntleted fist and brought it down on Orion’s face, ripping open the ranger’s cheek with the first punch. He took hold of Rodanthar with his left hand and punched with the right, and the ranger’s face disintegrated with the second blow, Cyrus’s gauntlet buried up to the wrist. He struck twice more, shattering what little was left, insuring no resurrection spell could ever put back together what he’d put asunder, and then he stood, momentarily contented that there was one less problem for him to worry about, and he turned his attention to the burning tower.

  “This is turning out to be a good day,” Vaste said, leaning heavily against his spear, as Cyrus strode past him. “I didn’t think it would, you know, what with the ambush and dying and spitting up blood, and the neck injury, but you know … it’s getting quite a bit better.”

  “Watching a man get his head burst like a ripe cantaloupe does it for you, eh?” Longwell asked, leaning slightly less heavily on his own spear, still terribly pale, either from the resurrection spell or watching what Cyrus had done.

  “Watching this man get it like that?” Vaste asked. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  Cyrus walked right past them to the burning tower. Flames licked out of the stone windows on every floor now, and out of the roof, black clouds climbing into the air above them, and smoke was billowing from the entrance. He turned his focus on the men lingering close to the door in a thick knot. Cyrus had seen fires before, had seen the way people behaved during them. The instinct was to get as far as possible from the blaze, to turn around and look, watch as the fire did its magnificent, horrific work.

  These men did none of that; they stayed close to the tower, their fear of what lay beyond it far greater than their fear of it.

  “If any of you wants to die at the end of my sword, or possibly my fist,” he waved his bloodied gauntlet before him, “then stay between me and Governor Coulton,” Cyrus called, catching the attention of every one of them. “If, on the other hand, you want to live … get out of my way.” He made his voice low and guttural, his visceral fury pouring out.

  The men scattered, circling away from him as Cyrus barreled toward Reynard Coulton, unmistakable in his lush, velvet cloak and silken doublet, a man of wealth in a city of utter poverty. Cyrus grabbed his doublet with his bloody gauntlet, smearing it red with chunks of Orion’s skull and soft tissue. Coulton looked ready to faint.

  Cyrus dragged him forward, lifting him into the air. Coulton was not a tall man, and his short-cropped white hair was darkened by soot. Cy
rus stared into wide, hazel eyes, and felt the fear pouring out of the governor of the Southern Reaches. “Hello,” Cyrus said tightly.

  “I … I’m … sorry!” Coulton said by way of greeting.

  “That much is obvious,” Cyrus said, not breaking eye contact. “Give me a compelling reason why I shouldn’t kill you like I just did him.” Cyrus tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “After all, perhaps if you die, the next governor of the Southern Reaches will be more … flexible.”

  Coulton shook his head like a leaf dancing in a strong gust, trapped by its twig. “No, no, no. There wouldn’t be a next governor, and if there was, he’d be appointed by Pretnam Urides, so they’d be beholden to—”

  Cyrus lifted Coulton even higher. “Plainly you’re already beholden to Urides, so what have I got to lose by burning the rest of your keep to the ground and hoping for better next round? Hell, maybe this will serve as a warning to Karrin Waterman about who she really ought to fear in the contest between myself and Urides.”

  Coulton shook his head desperately again. “Waterman—Waterman will gladly fall in line with what you want, with what Frost wants. I—I can arrange a meeting—”

  “Like this one?” Cyrus’s eyes flared with anger and he felt the silken doublet tear slightly as he lifted Coulton closer to his face.

  “NO NO NO!” Coulton screamed. “This was Urides! All Urides! He heard about your meeting with Frost, and he—he approached me! Wanted me to set this meeting. Made me do it, under threat of death! He knows you were conspiring against him!”

  “Then you’re useless to me,” Cyrus said, “because if Urides knows—”