The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  “I do not wish to discuss this further until we have had time to settle,” Alaric said with finality. “Nor will we argue any longer. This is a time to pull together, remembering the friend and officer we have lost. Niamh would not wish to see us divided; nor should our guildmates have to suffer from our distraction.”

  J’anda’s eyes narrowed as he focused on Alaric. “What will we do about this threat?”

  “The assassin was disguised as a refugee,” Cyrus said. “We close the damned gates.” He looked to Alaric for confirmation.

  “Agreed,” Alaric said with a deep sigh. “We will assign guard forces to watch the more sensitive areas of Sanctuary, and we will find a way to assist the refugees without compromising our security. Perhaps we can set up aid tents outside the walls.”

  “Before I came up here I tasked Aisling with finding some trustworthy guildmates to set up guard at the applicant, member and officer quarters,” Cyrus said.

  “Which means that by now all the good items will have been stolen,” Vara said under her breath.

  “We know nothing about these assassins,” Cyrus went on, ignoring Vara’s jab. “It seems unlikely that the Hand of Fear will send another assassin so soon after the failure of the first—”

  “Unless they’re already here,” Terian said, his voice filled with disgust.

  “—but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Cyrus finished. “After all, we know next to nothing about them.”

  “Too true,” Alaric said with a quiet exhalation. “Let us be the source of strength for our brothers and sisters in this sad hour.”

  “And when we track down these Hand of Fear bastards, let us be the hammer of bloody vengeance for our fallen comrade,” Terian said, pushing away from the table, leaving without saying anything else.

  “Alaric,” Cyrus said. “Did you know the disturbances caused by the enchantments get worse the closer you get to the cause of the problem?”

  Alaric’s face remained impassive. “Alas, my friend—there are things about Sanctuary that remain a mystery even to me.” He turned his head to face Curatio. “Old friend...we have matters to discuss. Go. I will wait for you in my quarters.” The Ghost of Sanctuary stood while the rest of the officers filed out one by one. Alaric began to fade, his armor turning insubstantial as a thick white mist filled the room and then dissipated, leaving Cyrus alone.

  How could this happen? he wondered. Niamh was one of the first people I met from Sanctuary; the thought of her gone...

  He pulled to his feet, the weight of his grief making his armor seem like stones strapped to his body. He made his way to the door and past two sentries to the staircase leading up to the officer’s quarters, high atop the center tower. The seams in the stone walls blurred together as he climbed, and he was almost in a world of his own, dazed, by the time he reached the top of the staircase and entered the hallway leading to the officer quarters.

  A potion that nullifies magic? With a blade coated in black lace, no one would be safe, he thought. All the rules that we’ve built our adventuring lives on change with something so simple and deadly as that. He shuddered at the thought of real, permanent death.

  He paused at the entrance to his quarters. A deep, unsettled feeling in his stomach gave him pause. I’m going to be seeing trouble around every corner. In our own foyer, of all places! He shook his head. How are we supposed to feel safe here? How can we get things back to normal after watching...her...die like that? A bitter unease filled him. Things may never be normal again.

  A sound from one of the far rooms stopped him before he turned the handle. A long, rattling cacophony filled the hallway as every door shook with explosive force and the torches lit off in a burst of fire that stretched to the high ceilings. Cyrus sprang forward, sword in hand. He burst into the room two doors down from his own, not stopping to consider the privacy of its occupant. The door crashed, broken, and he collided with someone as he flew through the frame.

  Two someones.

  An elven male shrugged out of his traveling cloak as Cyrus grabbed him around the neck and slammed him against the wall. A thin length of chain whipped across Cyrus’s face, freed from where it had been coiled around Vara’s neck, followed by an obsidian dagger that raked him across the cheek, only missing his throat courtesy of the enhanced reflexes granted him by Praelior. His gaze caught the dagger and found the same insignia that had been on the weapon of the assassin that slew Niamh.

  A scream cut through the night air from behind Cyrus and he glanced back to see Vara clutching her neck, a red mark creasing it all the way around. He brought his sword forward in time to block the dagger as the elf spun free of his grasp, dancing away from him through the broken door, blade in hand.

  Cyrus followed, interposing himself between the assassin and Vara. She remained on the floor behind Cy, gasping for air after the garrotting that the elf had given her. He felt breath force its way between his teeth and realized he was livid with the elven assassin. The elf, for his part, smiled and twirled his dagger.

  Doors began to open in the hall, and a scream of utmost fury echoed as Terian burst forth from his room, sandwiched between Cyrus and Vara’s, a battle axe raised above his head. Before Cyrus could react, the dark knight brought his weapon down as the fleeing assassin tried to dodge away from both Cyrus and Terian and backed into another door opening behind him.

  Vaste’s staff lowered against the assassin’s neck and the elf, almost a foot shorter than Cyrus, was lifted into the air by the troll. The assassin’s black blade came down on Vaste’s forearm, burying itself to the hilt and bringing forth no more than a grunt from the troll as he spun the elf about and rammed him into the wall thrice in rapid succession. When the assassin went limp in his arms, Vaste dropped him to the ground and stepped on the elf’s chest.

  “Vaste,” Cyrus said with a quiet resignation, pointing at the dagger buried in the troll’s forearm.

  “Yes, it hurts,” the troll said, plucking it out with nothing more than a grimace. The blade looked small next to his massive arm, like a black needle buried in a green ham.

  “It probably had black lace on it.” Cyrus looked up at the troll’s dark eyes, feeling a rattling breath of exasperation leave his chest. Not you too, Vaste...

  “Were I fatally injured, I might worry,” Vaste replied with a look of greatest unconcern. “I can’t heal it with a spell, but this wound won’t kill me.”

  “I can bandage it; staunch the bleeding.” Terian’s axe was slung over his shoulder but his eyes were focused on the elf unconscious beneath Vaste’s foot. “We need to get him to the dungeons and under guard.” A flash of annoyance ran across the dark elf’s features. “I don’t know why there wasn’t a guard on this hallway; it is the officer quarters—you know, the living space of this ‘Hand of Fear’s’ supposed target.”

  Cyrus looked back at Vara, who had pulled herself to the bed and was rubbing her throat. Her hand glowed with the light of a spell, faint blue magics of healing wrapped around her neck.

  “They were posted downstairs,” Cyrus replied. “I didn’t think about an assassin having already made their way up here—until the doors rattled and I heard noise from Vara’s quarters—which turned out to be—”

  “This fellow, doing his level best to keep me quiet until he could run me through. He must have wanted it to go quietly so he could escape afterward.” She was on her feet now, and joined them in the hallway, although her hand still hovered around her thin neck. She looked at Cyrus, her eyes softer than usual. “Your timing was impeccable; another few moments and I would have been unconscious and I suspect, shortly thereafter, quite dead.”

  “Two assassins in two hours?” Cyrus shook his head. He looked from Vaste to Terian and finally his gaze came to rest on Vara, who did not meet his eyes.

  “This does not bode well for your safety,” Terian said to Vara, voice much gentler than it had been during the Council meeting. “If we can’t protect you here...”

  The words
hung in the air as the four of them looked around, the shadows of the corridors deep in all directions. If we can’t protect her here, Cyrus followed Terian’s unfinished thought, will she be safe anywhere in Sanctuary?

  Chapter 6

  Cyrus sat, steeped in the early morning darkness of the lounge with only the small, flickering firelight of the hearth to keep him company. He watched the front entrance doors, bathed in shadow in both reality and thought.

  They’re going to keep coming for her until she’s dead. Dark musings filled his mind, reminding him of a long ago revelation from J’anda’s mesmerization spell. It had given him a vision of that which his heart desired most; Vara, coy and seductive, kissing him. The fact that he harbored deep feelings for her had thus far gone unstated. They’re going to keep coming for her until she’s dead. And we are going to have to button this guildhall up so tight that even the applicants may have to sleep outside until this is settled.

  The torches had dimmed of their own accord sometime after midnight and the hearths with them. Only a trace of the smell of wood burning lingered, filling the giant foyer with the same scent that had earlier reminded him of home. Now it reminded him of Niamh, of death and loss.

  A solitary figure moved through the room, a shadow stretching across the floor as they crept from the staircase toward the front doors. A slight smile creased Cyrus’s lips. Nice to know my predictive powers haven’t atrophied, he thought as the firelight glimmered off a shining silver breastplate.

  “You didn’t think you’d be able to slip out unnoticed, did you?” His words were scarcely above a whisper, but felt loud in the still quiet.

  Vara froze, a half dozen paces from the doors, looking around in surprise until she saw him, at which point her eyes narrowed. “Seeing as two assassins have slipped through thus far tonight, I assumed that as an officer of this guild, I might be allowed to pass.” She wore a satchel draped across her back and her sword was slung at her side. “Was I in error?”

  He rose to meet her. “Yes. You were in error.” He clapped his hands and a half dozen figures stepped out of the shadows, all members of Sanctuary that he had put on guard. “There are assassins out to kill you. I can’t just let you leave.”

  Her face fell and her mouth wavered from its usual severe line. “May I speak with you in private? Perhaps just outside the doors?”

  He looked around the assembled faces that were standing watch. “I’m going out. Keep guard.” Extending a hand, he opened one of the doors to Vara and stepped out into the chill of the autumn evening.

  Cyrus heard Longwell speak as he shut the door behind them. “But aren’t we supposed to guard her?”

  “You can’t just leave,” he said, preempting her as they walked down the front steps. “Assuming you manage to dodge these assassins as you make your escape, it’s not as though they’ll just stop coming after you—”

  “I can’t stay. Every moment I remain here, lives are in danger. The lives of my guildmates are far more important to me than the illusion of safety that Sanctuary brings.”

  He watched the emotions play across her face by the light of the moon. “Where would you go?”

  “South,” she said without hesitation. “Following the refugees.”

  “Bad idea.” He shook his head in disapproval. “After you cross the river, you’re penned in on two sides by the Heia Mountains and the Bay of Lost Souls. A party on horseback could run you down.”

  Air hissed between her lips. “You have a better suggestion? Run toward Pharesia, perhaps?”

  “Doubtful that the elven capital would be the safest place to hide from an order of elvish assassins. I was thinking we could get one of the wizards—”

  “I don’t want to involve anyone from Sanctuary in this,” Vara said with a shake of her head. “Wherever they took me, I think Alaric would send well-intentioned search parties to bring me back.”

  “Fine,” Cyrus said. “Then the best bet is to go north through the villages in the plains until you run into a wizard or druid who will teleport for a fee—they do those kind of jobs all the time for travelers who can pay.”

  “And where should I go?” Vara’s voice carried no hint of sarcasm, and her blue eyes glittered, deadly earnest.

  “North,” Cyrus said. “Either to Fertiss, the dwarven capital—there are enough outsiders there that non-dwarves are a common sight—or the Gnomish Dominions—Huern is a city built for them to trade with non-gnomes. Otherwise the Northlands or the Riverlands of the Confederation. They don’t get many elven visitors but if you wore a cloak with a hood you could pass for human easily enough—”

  “Marvelous.”

  “—if you’d speak with more humility. We don’t have a class system in the Confederation, so rather than be labeled ‘noble’ you’d be known as a ‘prissy wench’.”

  “‘Prissy wench’?” Her nostrils flared. “I am not—”

  “We need to leave now and ride at least until tomorrow morning to get us out of range of Alaric’s good intentions.”

  She paused, eyeing him with suspicion. “We?”

  He took a slow, deep breath before answering. “I can’t let you go alone.”

  Vara looked around, her eyes cast to the curtain wall that surrounded Sanctuary. “I don’t have a great deal of time; certainly not enough for you to pack or lay in provisions—”

  “My horse is saddled and provisioned,” he said. “I’ve left a note for Alaric and the Council in my room. Thad is in charge of the detachment manning the gate tonight; at my command, he’ll let us pass through.”

  She looked at him, staring a great hole through him. “You knew I would be leaving.”

  “I suspected that you’d see what I see,” he replied.

  “And that is?

  “Sanctuary is so large, and our security so porous, that it would take a long time to tighten it up enough to protect you—time we don’t have, at the rate of two assassination attempts per day. But if we were to get away for a while,” he said, leaning in toward her, “it would give Alaric and the Council time to weed out the assassins that have slipped in.”

  “How long do you expect that will take?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I don’t know that it can even be done. I just know that, right now, it’s not safe for you here.”

  “I don’t think it would be wise to take you away from Sanctuary at this critical juncture,” she said. “You could stay, help them to get things under control and then find me when you know it’s safe for me to return.”

  “No.” His voice was quiet but emphatic as he stepped in closer and placed his hand upon her arm. “I know your pride recoils at the thought of me protecting you, but put it aside. These assassins are deadly, and they have no desire to best you in a fair fight; they will strike you down when you least expect it.”

  “I see.” Her eyes flickered and her arms remained crossed. “If you come with me, what’s to stop them from striking you down? I am leaving to remove myself from the responsibility of seeing others harmed for my sake. I cannot see how bringing you along will accomplish that.”

  “Because you need help, Vara.” His gauntlet clanked against the metal of the bracer that protected her wrist. “Your whole life you’ve fought alone and you’ve come to a point where you need someone you can trust—at the very least someone to watch out for you while you sleep. Unless you plan to not sleep at all?” He looked at her with a questioning glare. “Even without the Hand of Fear, there are countless dangers on the road—bandits, highwaymen—”

  “Packs of goblins. Yes, very well,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do not dare slow me down or I shall leave you behind.”

  “I won’t go any slower than you,” he said. He led her to the stables, passing by the guards with a simple nod of his head. He mounted Windrider, his preferred horse, while Vara put a saddle and her bags on a black stallion that she herself owned. With murmured affections, she led her horse out of the stables and swung herself into the sa
ddle. Cyrus, for his part, managed to keep up.

  “Hail, Thad,” Cyrus called into the darkness when they reached the gate. The wall that surrounded Sanctuary was massive, stretching forty feet into the air.

  A helmeted head popped into view over the parapet and fired off a crisp salute. “Hail, General. How goes it?”

  Cyrus tugged on Windrider’s reins, bringing the horse to a halt. “Not bad. I need you to open the gate for me, just as we discussed.”

  The warrior atop the wall was clad in a red-painted armor that in the washed out light of the moon appeared to be more of a mauve. “All right.” Thad’s earnest face stared down at Cyrus, visible in the pale white glow from above. “Best of luck, General. See you...whenever I see you.”

  “Take care, Thad.” Cyrus fired off a rough salute of his own as the portcullis began to rise.

  “And he won’t betray us by telling Alaric?” Vara’s whisper was lost in the sound of the chains dragging the gates and portcullis open; the cowl of her traveling cloak was pulled over her head, casting all but her nose and mouth into impenetrable shadow. “Or anyone else?”

  “He won’t until tomorrow morning, when Alaric comes to him. I trust Thad,” Cyrus replied, spurring Windrider through the gates as they opened, Vara a few paces behind him. “So the question is, do you trust me? Because if not, this is going to be a lot more difficult.”

  Vara brought her horse alongside Cyrus and they cantered along. “I trust you,” she said at last, her face still shrouded by the darkness of the cowl. “But from this point, we trust no one else.” She spurred her horse to a gallop, riding north, Cyrus behind her.

  Chapter 7

  They rode through the day, taking breaks only when the horses grew weary. Vara said little, leading them north along the road. They passed caravans, almost all made up of humans, most wretched, bedraggled and begging for food. Although she apologized as she passed, she did not stop.