Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  “Reminds me of a dragon,” Cyrus shouted back to Terian. “Any chance this is Ashan’agar? He’s dead and was none too happy with me when last we parted.”

  “Or Kalam,” Terian replied, now visible in Cyrus’s peripheral vision, fending off the smaller scourge while Cyrus focused on the General. “You did kill him twice, and you sleep on a bed made of his bones.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Curatio said, appearing between the two of them. His hand came out, glowed briefly, and Cyrus felt the banal wounds of the fight thus far disappear, minor scrapes knitting themselves shut. He clutched his mace in both hands, holding it ready, and swung it around to crush the skull of one of the scourge, causing it to go dead and fall, twitching, into a pile.

  “I think I’ve killed a couple dragons,” Cyrus said, waiting for the beast in front of him to make its next move. It seemed almost overwhelmed, looking at the assault coming at it from all directions—Scuddar had cut off its tail six feet from the tip, Nyad was bombarding it with spells, Martaina had expended a dozen or more arrows around its face. Cyrus watched Terian and Aisling keeping the remaining scourge back while the two druids maintained the wall of flames routing the other scourge away from them and toward the rest of the battle line, which was holding. “This thing looks big enough to be one of them—and it also seems to be carrying one hell of a grudge against me.” Cyrus met the gaze of the thing and it honed in on him again, the red eyes flicked downward, off his, away from all the other distractions and locked on to his hands.

  “Don’t you see?” Curatio said, to his right. “It doesn’t care about you at all! It’s your sword—that’s what it cares about—and not that it’s your sword, but that it’s Praelior.”

  There was a bellow from the creature at that moment, deafening, at the sound of Curatio’s words. Cyrus blinked and stared at it, holding his blade forward as it stared back at him, ignoring the attacks of all the others that surrounded the dead creature. “Praelior,” Cyrus said, and another bellow was loosed, this one louder, more violent, and the beast turned its head down, ready to charge. “It’s the sword,” Cyrus whispered. “But why?”

  “Because,” Curatio said, as the General of the scourge began its charge toward them, “it was HIS once upon a time.”

  Cyrus dodged out of the way as though the creature were a bull, but only just. It was fast, fast enough that the grey head skipped off his elbow, causing it to go numb even as he rolled out of the way of the charge. “No …” Cyrus muttered, looking at the creature as it turned around, its red eyes finding him again, finding the blade in his hands, his lifeline. “It can’t be …”

  “It is,” Curatio said simply. “You face all that remains of Drettanden—the God of Courage.”

  Chapter 85

  “Mortus, you bastard,” Cyrus said as the Drettanden-scourge turned to come at him again. “What the hell were you doing with these things?”

  “Feeding off of them,” Curatio answered, and Cyrus heard the tension in his voice. “Ten thousand years in the Realm of Death being used like that and I expect you’d be a bit put out as well.”

  “God of Courage,” Cyrus said, whipping Praelior in front of him. “Well. I believe I’ve killed gods before.”

  “Don’t—”

  Curatio’s words were lost as the Drettanden beast charged at him again and Cyrus answered with a bellowing warcry of his own and charged, feeling the strength of Praelior. Fear is weakness, fear is undue caution, fear of pain is deadly …

  He vaulted, leaping as the enormous scourge put its head down to ram him, dragging his sword beneath him. This is how I used to fight, when I was fearless. No timidity, no concern, no worries to bog me down. No … He blinked, and thought of Vara. No worries for the future. He whipped the blade around as he landed on the other side of Drettanden, and dragged a cut through the beast’s hindquarters. “Of all the gods I’ve met,” Cyrus said as he came back to his feet and the creature came around with a roar, “you’re actually only the second-most dead.” Cyrus frowned. “Does that mean we’re going to see Mortus dolled up like this?”

  “I rather doubt it,” Curatio called from across the field, “since it would appear he was the one trapping the souls that have been loosed here. It would have been difficult for him to trap himself, what with being preoccupied with dying and all, especially since these lot were breaking free roundabout that very time.”

  “Are there more like you?” Cyrus asked, waving the blade in front of him. “Alaric said that other gods died.” There was a bellow from the Drettanden creature at that, and he came at Cyrus again, faster this time, if it was possible. Cyrus started to throw himself to the side and run his blade out but the head came to meet him, the snout landing hard on the inside of his ribcage. Cyrus felt it hit, sending pain shooting through his side and a sudden numbness in his arm. His blade was at full extension; he had been aiming Praelior for the creature’s eye as he dodged.

  The stinging agony of the blow sent a numbness up his arm, and when he felt the beast’s snout come up it jarred his already loosened grip. Praelior went spinning into the air and so did Cyrus, but in the opposite direction. He hit the ground hard, at a bad angle, and heard his shoulder break as he did so, rolling poorly out of it in a way that snapped his neck to the side and left him with a tingling numbness below his waist. That … was not good …

  He rolled as best he could; his eyes alighted on Praelior on the other side of Drettanden. It was aglow, shining against the white snow. Cyrus breathed heavily into the mush pressed into his beard and tried to lift himself up, but failed. A healing spell landed upon him and he felt his strength return, the feeling in his legs come back and he was already in motion, clawing back to his feet, making his own charge at the beast, which was distracted, torn between him and the sword. A flare of flame caught it in the face and turned it away from him, toward the blade, as Cyrus slipped between its legs and leapt for it, landing in a desperate roll as his fingers clinched around the hilt.

  He came up with the blade pointed back just in time to see the creature charging again. His sword caught it full in the face as it hit him, and he felt the full fury of its effects this time. There was no abatement of the blow, the full force of the multi-ton creature hit him with solid bone against his armor. His armor held, but pushed the impact into his chest where he felt his ribs shatter against the padding.

  Cyrus maintained his grip on Praelior but little else; he was flung through the air in much the same way a doll tossed by a child in rage might. He watched himself arc over the line of his forces, saw them stare at him as he flew overhead like he was on a Griffon or some other such beast. The ground came at him, suddenly, and he was reminded of riding the back of Ashan’agar when he hurtled toward the earth—

  Chapter 86

  Vara

  Day 162 of the Siege of Sanctuary

  They’re at the walls, she thought as she ran out of her chambers, vaulting down the stairs. The alarm was blaring, of course, had been for a few minutes, but she’d been asleep, deeply, and for some reason the horn hadn’t sounded real. The stairs were not terribly crowded, but there was fighting below. Perhaps not the walls but the foyer. Again.

  She burst out of the last steps to find the full melee in action. Her eyes widened as she did so, because there was something she did not anticipate waiting for her.

  Trolls. Full-blooded trolls, taller than Vaste and armored to the maximum. They swung maces and sent men flying; spells hit them and did little enough damage without hitting collaterally and hurting Sanctuary members. A fire was going in the middle of the floor and Vara was amazed, blinking the shock out of her eyes as she stared, stunned—the Sanctuary force was losing.

  She pulled her sword and rushed into the fight. There have to be close to a hundred of them. A hundred trolls. Is the Sovereign mad? He’s been keeping his own troll strike force? The smell was overwhelming, a kind of musty mildew and body odor more rancid than anything she’d ever scented. She made a move
to strike the nearest enemy but her sword glanced off his armor. And mystical armor? What madness is this …?

  The troll she struck dealt a murderous blow to a warrior with his mace, and Vara watched the man’s head sag on a broken neck, limp and loose in a way she’d never seen save for when a paladin she’d trained with broke a shin so badly that the heel of his foot was pointed upward and the bone jutted out of the skin. She swallowed her nausea and looked for the weak point; the trolls were in a formation, though they had appeared to have made a jolly game of the first attacks. There were dead everywhere, more than she could safely count. More than we could stand to lose and still defend this place.

  A burst of flame came from behind her, carefully targeted at the troll’s face. It hit him dead on and he screamed, dropping his weapons and clawing at his helm. It was a full helm, one that completely covered his eyes and his face, and the flame had heated the helm or slipped through the eyeholes. He screamed and threw it off, bending low while holding himself.

  Vara took the opening and leapt; the troll was tall, taller than Vaste even by at least a head, but her leap was long. She brought her sword down and struck true. The hearty blow did not remove the head, but made it through enough to get the job done. The troll hit the ground as Vara landed, and she felt the impact through the padding in her boots, as well as the aftershock of the troll slumping over.

  She glanced back to see Larana at the entrance to the Great Hall, another spell already in motion. Goddess help us should they send another round, we’ll be bloody dead.

  The trolls were aligned, formed into a rank, with the forward line carrying shields and the back containing at least one dark elven healer, she realized, seeing movement of white robes through the tall, green armored beasts that were backing toward the doors under a timid onslaught from Sanctuary’s defenders. A healer. Bloody hell. We’re f—

  There was a glow from Vara’s left and she looked to Larana again; there was a blazing ball of fire forming in front of the cook, bigger than a person, and it launched like a catapulted stone right over the top of the formation and into the middle of the trolls. It burst like a blast of water but flooded outward as though it were splashed, a rain of lava coming down on everything inside the troll formation then moving outward to the armored periphery. There were screams louder than any she’d heard and the line broke, trolls running left and right to escape the fires that had shot out from Larana’s spell.

  “What … the hells … was that?” Ryin Ayend said, turning to look at the timid druid. Larana flushed under her frizzed hair and turned away from him, running to the side of the foyer near the stairs.

  “I give less than a damn,” Vara said, advancing on the trolls, whose formation was broken, as they tried to reform. There were bodies amongst them where the flaming blast from Larana had hit; the healers, dark elves, scorched away to near-nothingness, only bones and ash remained. A few of the trolls had similarly been afflicted, and there was a molten slag of steel wrapped around the remains of charred green flesh where their armor had melted around them.

  Her next thought was interrupted by a howl of outrage. A body flew through the massive entrance doors over the heads of the trolls that were blocking it. The body was overlarge, green, and came to rest in the middle of the floor after hitting and rolling. There was a shout from outside, one near-deafening that stopped the action in place. “STAY AWAY FROM LORD VASTE’S FLOWERS!”

  Vara shot forward at the nearest troll and aimed for the joint of his armor at the knee, plunging her sword into the open crack while he was still turned toward the commotion outside. She buried the blade up to the hilt and he shrieked, turned and hit her with a short backhand that sent her to the floor. She hit the ground and slid, the feeling of blood rushing warm down her nose. She wiped her face with the back of her gauntlet, and it came back red. The flavor of it was on her lips, tangy with iron, and she spat. My nose is broken. She knew it from the pain, from the crack that had accompanied the hit. Her nostrils gushed with it, a warm stream flowed down her front as she rose to a squat and looked at the troll who glared back at her.

  With a shout, she launched herself at him, darting under his reach as he swiped for her and tried to catch her with his gauntleted paws. She grabbed her sword from where it remained lodged in his knee and yanked down. She twisted it and prompted another howl from him and then jerked the sword free as she slid around behind him. The troll staggered forward and she saw the gap at the back of his armor and lunged up, sticking it in. She felt it resist and hammered it as hard as she could. He dropped with a squeal and she pulled the weapon out and down, feeling the torsion on it as though it were a pry bar with too much weight against it. She knew it was cutting him terribly inside and she did not care; she listened to his scream as she finished withdrawing it, remembering how it had felt when Archenous Derregnault did it to her. Curious. I don’t remember screaming that much. With a kick, she pulled it free and sent him forward onto his face, unprotesting. She brought her sword over her head and rammed the blade into the back of his neck.

  There were other fights still going on around the foyer, she saw. Larana had three of the enemy boxed into the corner. Lighting forked out from her hands, causing her foes to jerk and twitch on the ground. The druid’s green eyes were cold, colder than Vara could ever recall seeing on the woman before. She let the lightning flow out of her and smoke had begun to pour off the trolls. Vara started to say something but shrugged; there were a dozen more still on their feet around the room in various states of attack. Most were contained; a few were not. She watched as one seized an elven ranger by the neck and shook him then threw him bodily into the hearth, which exploded and knocked the ranger free with a minimum of fire.

  “This is not going our way,” Vara said quietly and launched herself at one of the trolls who was half bent, slumped over. She brought her sword down into the side of his neck perfectly. The combination of her weight and swing did the trick, and she dragged him down to death. She looked left and saw Mendicant, quietly lurking next to the stonework around the hearth. His hands were extended and Vara could see a group of trolls being frozen solid by his ice spell. Belkan attacked them one by one, shattering their hands, their bodies, and then their heads last of all.

  There was a misting just then that swept through as though carried on a strong breeze. Buffeted by a crack of thunder from Larana’s lightning spell, Alaric Garaunt appeared, his blade flashing motion, impaling a troll through the back, causing a grunting scream from the creature. Guts spilled upon the floor. The Ghost’s eyes were afire, and he moved with his customary speed between battles, mist and then not, solid form striking, attacking, killing all that opposed. When the fight was finished, he stood in the midst of the carnage, his sword dripping blood.

  Erith Frostmoor was there, Vara realized, quietly making her way among the bodies, bringing them back to life where needed, casting healing in other places. The carnage was great, the smell of blood and gore filled the room, along with other smells—emptied bowels and bladders and troll stink, the like of which she had not experienced.

  “Larana,” Alaric said quietly, and Vara’s head snapped around to see the druid, lightning still flaring from her fingertips at the bodies of three dead trolls that were near fried, blackened from her magic. “Enough.” The mousy druid looked up, and Vara saw the blaze in her eyes, the light coupled with horror of a depth she had not remembered seeing ever before.

  “Alaric,” Erith said, rising to her feet from healing a ranger who had been gushing blood, “We must close the portal.”

  Alaric stood stock still in the middle of the room, waiting, his shoulders slumped, his weapon still dripping blood on the floor, drop by drop, onto the great seal in the middle of the room. “To do so would leave our guildmates in Luukessia with no way to return to us.”

  “If we leave it open,” Erith said, “the Sovereign will continue to send wave after wave of enemies upon us. These are mere forays, designed to push us, to test us.
His forces are assaulting the wall even now because he’s trying things out. If we leave the portal open for when his final assault comes, we’re simply making it all the easier for him to crush us.”

  Alaric’s head came up and found Vara, looking her in the eyes. There was not a word exchanged between the two of them, but even behind Alaric’s helm Vara could see the eyes, the grey eyes, and saw the flicker that revealed the thoughts. No. Please, no.

  “Aye,” Alaric said, and slowly slid Aterum back into the scabbard at his side. “We cannot continue to fight the enemy at our gates as it grows in strength, and the enemies that would come at our bellies with a dagger in the night.”

  “Alaric,” Vara said, alarmed, “please consider—”

  “All I have done is consider,” Alaric said, his hand sweeping to encompass the foyer, the carnage around them. “Hundreds dead, and the Sovereign has yet to visit a true horror upon us, one of the choicer delights he has at his command. They come at us from outside the wall right now as well.” He shook his head. “I do not wish to abandon our guildmates, but if we do not close the portal …”

  He stopped speaking, and the world around seemed to become louder for Vara, as though a great sweltering hum filled the air. Chanting. From the army outside. They are making another assault on the gates. Right now. They keep coming … and coming … She bowed her head.

  “If we do not close the portal,” Alaric said, shaking his head sadly, “they may not have a guild to return to.”

  Chapter 87

  Cyrus

  The darkness was total, complete, save for the flashes of spells around him. The battle had gone on for days. They had not seen the Drettanden beast, not since the first time, but that had been plenty enough. Cyrus had died, killed upon impact with the ground, and when he woke up later, behind the lines, he’d found only Calene Raverle at his bedside.