Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Nothing but a lot of high-minded ideals that these people apparently died for,” Terian said, peeking around, the water on his helm beading and running off in small rivers.

  Vara peered around as well, her own helm dripping furiously. “If there’s anything here, I don’t think we’re going to find it now. Not in this.” The sky flashed once more, momentarily illuminating the scene around them before it relapsed into a darkness like night. “If you intend to keep searching, we need to come back later.”

  Cyrus threw a look around again as the next flash lit the sky and the town. It all looked like ruins, like the bones of a once-healthy city laid out for vultures the way the corpses of its people had been. He looked at one of the buildings that ringed the square and as the lightning faded, he saw a tall tower in its midst that reminded him of Sanctuary. He cocked his head and stared at it as the lightning flashed again, revealing it as an old chapel of some sort, decaying and falling. He was struck with a sense of horror, imagining Sanctuary decayed and falling, and he was seized with an urgent desire to return home.

  “All right,” he said, his throat suddenly thick, as though he’d swallowed something too wide for his gullet. “We’ll go. We can come back some other time.”

  “If the town’s still here,” Aisling muttered between claps of thunder.

  “I’ll take your horses,” Larana said, beckoning Cyrus and Vara forward, “so you don’t have to walk them downstairs in this.”

  “You think it’s this bad at Sanctuary already?” Cyrus asked, a burst of wind blowing water into his eyes as he blinked away while he dismounted, holding the reins up for Larana to take.

  “Almost certainly,” the druid replied, taking the reins. The lightning flashed again, revealing a new assurance in her expression, her mousiness all gone. He stared up at her as the light faded then shook his head, catching a glimpse of something familiar in her face. You give a girl a godly weapon, I suppose maybe she develops a little confidence …

  “We’ll talk on the morrow,” Terian said, waving his hand before disappearing in a twinkle of light from his spell.

  “We’ll talk … never, I hope,” Aisling said to Vara, riding close to the tall warrior and Bowe, who cast his druid spell and vanished in the ensuing gust, a barely noticeable stir in the heart of the storm. The healer, Dahveed, followed in his own return spell.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Vara said as she cast her own return spell, disappearing in a twinkle of light.

  “You should go,” Larana said, staring down at Cyrus as she drew the horses all tight together in preparation to cast her own spell.

  “I know.” Cyrus gave one last look at the town of Aloakna in all its dead glory. The wind blew hard and rattled the timbers that stuck into the air. In the distance, he heard a building collapse, the distinctive sound of wood falling in, coming to the ground hard, and he sucked in a salty breath of sea air.

  There’s nothing here, he thought and looked at Larana once more. She nodded at him, and the lightning lit her calm face once again. He stared at her for only a second before averting his gaze, embarrassed to be caught staring so blatantly.

  With nothing more left to do, Cyrus cast his own return spell and left the dead city behind him to rattle, like bones, in the winds of the storm.

  77.

  “What idiot left the balcony doors open in a bloody gale?” Vara asked in clear annoyance as Cyrus reappeared in the Tower of the Guildmaster, the rain slapping hard against the stone floor, blowing in from all directions.

  “If I recall correctly,” Cyrus said coolly, the doors rattling hard against their bindings in the furious wind, “we both left at the same time, neither of us much paying attention to the state of the weather as we did so.”

  “Well, that was all down to your daft mission to soak us to the bone to little profit,” she said, her ponytail absolutely drenched. She reached back and squeezed it, and water sluiced out of her hair. She had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the chaos outside, the storm’s rising fury.

  “I thought there’d be something there,” Cyrus said, watching the rain blow in from outside, rolling across the uneven stone floor, finding the cracks, turning the grey stone a darker slate shade. A distant part of him wanted to close the doors, to lock them against the fury of the typhoon. But the floor in the tower was already well soaked, and the spread of the water could do little more at this point. Little droplets blew in and found his face, but he hardly noticed them against what was already there from his time out in the storm in Aloakna. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “I suppose you were,” Vara said, more grudging and less gloating. A wind howled particularly hard, drawing Cyrus’s attention to the hearth, the flames within billowing at the fury of the gust. He looked back at Vara as the balcony doors rattled hard once more against the ropes that lashed them in place. “In truth,” she said, standing very still and speaking loud over the chaos around them, “I had hoped we would find something there.”

  “So I wasn’t the only one, then,” Cyrus said, smiling wanly, “in spite of your protestations that it was a fool’s errand?”

  “Well, knowing you as I do, I expect some foolishness now and then,” she said, walking calmly over to him as the sky outside flashed once more, and the torches blazed and burned, stirred by the wind that once more shook the tower with its fury. “I married you knowing you were occasionally a fool, after all.” She blinked against the gust that ran through just then as she stared up at him. “You try, in spite of everything. It’s why you long to lead a party to war in the Bandit Lands, to go conquer Zanbellish even though you know it’s bound to be fraught with peril. It’s a reason I love you.” She leaned up and kissed him on the lips.

  He felt the warmth of her kiss, the salt air from the sea still in traces upon them as she opened her mouth to him. The storm without seemed to mirror the one within him as the very tower quivered in its fury. He kissed her more deeply, ignoring the sound of nature’s primal anger, and lost himself in her for a moment, forgetting all about Goliath and Malpravus and all else as his fingers found his wife’s wet hair and ran through the blond locks as he shed his gauntlet—

  “Ooh, isn’t this cozy?”

  Cyrus broke from Vara’s embrace to find Menlos Irontooth rising the last steps to the top of the stairs, looking around, taking in the Tower of the Guildmaster. The Northman had an appraising look on his face, but he was dry as could be and when a hard gust brought in a rain he blinked at the intensity of it. Cyrus watched the three wolves follow their master up the stairs.

  “Menlos, what are you doing here?” Cyrus asked, flexing his hand. “News from the wall?”

  “I haven’t been out in this,” Menlos said, shaking his head and pointing at the dark skies beyond the balcony. Movement at the stairs drew Cyrus’s gaze back; this time, Erith Frostmoor was rising up them, looking a little tired, as though she were forcing herself up the last steps only through great effort.

  “What’s going on?” Vara asked, voice heavy with concern. She was coiled tightly beneath her armor, watching the two officers of Sanctuary as they stood, Menlos still examining the tower, Erith staring at her feet as though she had news of the worst sort to deliver.

  “You haven’t heard?” Menlos asked.

  “Heard what?” Vara asked.

  Menlos glanced around once more then gestured his hand toward the fire. “Heard … anything?”

  Cyrus stared at the hearth, the flames blazing hot and high, and a sudden chill ran down his back, unrelated the weather or the soaking. He cast his eyes around the room swiftly, saw the torches burning high, and then the doors rattled hard once again, in the wind—

  “No …” Cyrus muttered, “not the wind …” The gust’s timing was wrong, it came after the rattle, the balcony doors struggling to burst free of their bindings, trying to warn the occupants of Sanctuary in the manner that they always did when they were—

  “Dear boy,” Malpravus said, his head appearing at t
he top of the stairs as he strode up into the Tower of the Guildmaster as though he owned it himself. The necromancer’s cowl was draped behind his head, and he looked like a thin shadow rising up the stairs into this place where he so definitely did not belong. Cyrus’s mind screamed its alarm at the mere sight of him, his muscles tense at the invasion of his home, and it only worsened, turning to rage as Rhane Ermoc followed a pace behind, grinning as his master spoke, Praelior held ready in his hand. “I must say …” Malpravus grinned, standing tall in the Tower of the Guildmaster, casting his shadow as the hearths violently spat fire all around them at the intrusion, “… it is so very good to see you again.”

  78.

  “Let us not be hasty in our action,” Malpravus said, holding up a hand as Cyrus grasped for Rodanthar’s hilt, “for it would be a shame if your new bride were to have her soul ripped out irreparably before your very eyes.” He twisted his thin fingers in front of him, and they glowed with dark light. “I can do it, but I would be loathe to harm you in such a manner, dear boy. Please don’t force me to.”

  “How did you get here?” Cyrus asked, his fingers dangling above Rodanthar’s hilt, seemingly a mile away. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, the shock at seeing Malpravus here, in this place, almost as immediate and powerful as a punch to the jaw from a rock giant.

  “Oh, that was simple,” Malpravus said, “I had my good friend Erith open your portal to me and my friends.” He smiled, beckoning Erith forward, and she came to stand next to him, still staring at her feet. “Even now, my army is swarming into your keep, paying their respects to your noble defenders.” He raised a thin eyebrow and then looked back at Erith. “Did you know I’ve had her watching you for all these years?”

  “I had no idea she was a lying traitor, no,” Cyrus said. Erith blanched but said nothing.

  “Why, she joined Sanctuary at my behest,” Malpravus said. “She came to Goliath first, wanting to leave the Daring behind, but I persuaded her that she could do so much more good by watching you lot here, making certain that you never got yourselves into too much trouble without me knowing about it.” He glanced at Menlos, who stood with his wolves arrayed tightly around him, all faced toward Vara. “Of course, Orion recruited our other friend here to come join you, keep a watch of his own. He came to join us but we sent him back to you after he told us he’d met you during your little trip through the north, and hasn’t he been just invaluable in keeping us apprised of everything?” Malpravus waved behind him, and Sareea Scyros emerged from the stairs with another figure—Mathyas Tarreau. “And this one, of course, has earned his due from Goliath. He is an officer now as well, having served us truly and faithfully.”

  “You’ve done a marvelous job undercutting my every action these last few years,” Cyrus said, unable to take his eyes off the horror unfolding before him. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the shadowed trenches in Malpravus’s skull-like face.

  “I have undercut very few of your actions, in fact,” Malpravus said with the air of a lecturer patiently correcting a student. “It was not I who got you declared heretic, who turned the King of the Elves or the Council of Twelve against you. You did all that on your very own, without any of my assistance. Only when absolutely necessary to my goals have I brought you low, and you have done the same to me, I might add. Except that I have actually tried to help you on several occasions—why, I even had Orion extend an offer to you to join us, and you should have taken us up on that generous overture, or the one I made after it. This rift between us is quite senseless. You are powerful, there is no doubt of that. There is no need for constant clashes betwixt us.”

  “I’ve never sent an assassin after you, Malpravus,” Cyrus said, staring the necromancer down. “I can’t say the same for you.”

  “Surely you understand that was not my doing, not truly,” Malpravus said, sounding offended. “The Council of Twelve sanctioned your death; I sent only the barest minimum I could get away with and look convincing. If I’d intended you to die I would have sent far, far more than I did, I assure you.” His eyes glinted as he smiled like snaked. “If I wanted you dead … you would be dead.”

  Cyrus started to turn his head to look at Vara, but the necromancer spoke again, drawing his attention back. “Ah ah ah!” Malpravus said. “Don’t get any terrible ideas for heroic maneuvers. Your bravery is already well known to all, and I have no interest in hurting either one of you. I haven’t hurt your last wife, after all. She’s been my honored guest these last several months.”

  “Where is Imina?” Cyrus asked, staring back at Malpravus’s smug face.

  “Safe, of course,” Malpravus said. “Under guard, naturally, at my home.” Cyrus debated throwing the name out, but Malpravus beat him to it. “Of course by now,” the necromancer said, “you know how to get to Zanbellish … but you haven’t come to visit.” He smiled thinly. “I think I know why, but I can assure you, you would be met with a warm welcome.”

  “That’s why I don’t visit,” Cyrus said. “I’ve enjoyed enough of your hospitality.”

  “Such an unpleasant sentiment,” Malpravus said, walking to the wall and running his hand over the wet stones. “I only wish to educate you, to give you a chance to live up to your … potential.” He appraised Cyrus carefully as his thin hand slid over the wet surface of the stone wall. “You don’t even realize what you have at your own fingertips. But I could help you. Aid you. Be the counsel that you have lacked these last years, stagnant, barely stumbling toward the greatness you once sought—”

  “I doubt I’d find much greatness at your side,” Cyrus said, fixed on the necromancer.

  “You need all the help you can get,” Malpravus said, almost sadly, “and I have studied the paths of power and advanced greatly since last we met, when your compatriot, Curatio, awakened me to possibilities, some of which I had not previously considered—power you sorely need, for I know you know,” he nearly whispered, “in your heart of hearts … that Bellarum is hardly done with you.”

  The chill in Cyrus’s bones became a hard freeze that spread to his skin, cold all over him as he stood there. “What do you know?”

  “It is not about what I know,” Malpravus said, “at least, not all that I alone know. If you have spoken to Carrack, you will know the power that I seek.” His bony face remained intent upon Cyrus. “The power you should be seeking.”

  “The power to destroy a city?” Cyrus asked, barely controlling his face, his fury. He longed to look at Vara, to seek her counsel, but she was just out of his view. He could still feel her touch upon his lips and wondered at her silence. “The power to level Aloakna, for instance?”

  Malpravus breathed, almost silently in the storm, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Your dear mother understood that power. She left you behind to seek it, to exercise it …”

  Cyrus’s right hand clenched, still so far from Rodanthar’s hilt that the sword might as well have been in Fertiss. Menlos, Mathyas, Rhane and Sareea all stood before him, their weapons already drawn, and Erith stood a step ahead, as withdrawn as Larana had ever been. I need help, Cyrus realized at last. This is too much, too much for Vara and I. The power …

  He blinked. Perhaps … perhaps Malpravus has a point about power …

  “Together we can take our first steps to ensuring your triumph in your next meeting with the God of War,” Malpravus said, stepping back over to him, eminently reasonable, an island of calm in the middle of the storm. “We can take them right here, in this place, today …” He stood before Cyrus, backed by his small army, the rest of his force surging through the halls of Sanctuary, drowning every floor in the blood of the last defenders. “Put aside the maudlin sentimentality,” Malpravus said, taking another step toward him, smoothly and slowly, “this weak and craven desire to seek out a home and a family to make up for the one that you never knew as a child … Walk in your mother’s footsteps, as you were always meant to, the way she wanted you—”

  The spell-blast hit Malpravus f
rom behind and knocked him forward as though a barrel of Dragon’s Breath had exploded behind him. The necromancer flew into the gap between Cyrus and Vara as Cyrus whipped around to see him rolling to a halt on the soaking balcony, his robes drenched within an instant of being hurled into the storm. Cyrus snapped his head back around in time to see—

  Larana floating with Philos in hand, just above the stairs, officers of Sanctuary flooding up behind her—Vaste, blood running from his forehead; Ryin, hands aglow with lightning and fire; J’anda, his furious face lit by the purple glow of his staff’s orb; Scuddar In’shara with his scimitar at the ready; and Mendicant scampering up at the last, looking more furious and feral, teeth bared, than Cyrus could ever recall seeing him.

  “You strike hard, witch,” Malpravus said, coming back to his feet, his robes smoking beneath him, “but my army will see you finished—”

  “Your army is gone,” Larana said, all trace of meekness gone, “and I have sealed the portal on them. Some, as they were coming through, in fact—” Her cheeks quivered with fury, alight with the glow of her hands, one burning a furious crimson and the other blue. “They didn’t quite make it, at least—not all the pieces of them did. Those that made it before them are dead to the very last.”

  Cyrus turned his head back to look at Malpravus, whose own lips were quivering now, though whether in disappointment or fury, Cyrus could not say. “Very good, then,” the necromancer said, drawing himself. “You always escaped my notice before—the cook, the smith, the tailor—always trifling with silly things … but now I see you plain, the last secret that Alaric Garaunt hid in open sight.” The necromancer laughed, but it was dry and sounded sick. “I cannot believe I missed it. I should have known … he was far too soft-hearted to have done the thing …”

  “Done what thing?” Cyrus asked, the Tower of the Guildmaster turned as still and silent as if there were no storm, the sound of wind and thunder replaced by the crackle of the magics convulsing upon Larana’s hands.