The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  “Unless they plan on them going somewhere else.” Odellan looked suddenly ill and Cyrus watched the guard captain’s hand lash out and his mailed fist hit the railing. “I’ve heard the same tales,” he said, almost in a whisper. “We have no hope of turning them back; not with what we have to fight with.”

  “Then what do we do?” Vara’s eyes were wide. “Termina has a million people and the dark elves are hardly shy about killing civilians; their army tends to seek them out to offer a warning to anyone who would oppose them.”

  “The body count from their crossing will be astronomical,” Odellan said, ashen. “We have no time to spare—”

  Odellan brought his hand down on the railing once more, creating a noise so loud that everyone in earshot turned to look at him. He turned and stepped onto the railing, boosting himself an extra few feet into the air. Raising his voice, he addressed the crowd, his words loud enough to echo for several blocks. “Good people! The dark elves intend to invade Termina.” A moment of silence was followed by mutterings through the crowd. “The city must empty! As Endrenshan and the ranking representative of King Danay the First, I hereby order the evacuation of Termina; abandon your belongings and leave at once! The enemy will be here within the hour!”

  An aura of shocked disbelief hung in the air around them for a split second before eighteen different types of hell erupted. Half the citizenry began to speak; the other half began to speak and move, in flight away from the river. Pushing and shoving were rampant, and Cyrus could hear the word spreading in shouts and screams down the waterfront as the crowd began to convulse, pushing back toward the city in a terrible rush.

  Odellan moved to the soldiers nearby, issuing orders that Cyrus could not hear. He turned to Vara, who stayed still at the railing and looked stark against the backdrop of the burning city of Santir, ash coming down all around her. “Your parents,” Cyrus said.

  “My father.” She turned to him, panic in her eyes. “He can’t travel without help.”

  “What is going on here?” Nyad and Ryin Ayend appeared, fighting through the crowd. Looking back toward the Entaras’iliarad, Cyrus realized that the news was spreading, the entire waterfront now in motion, the civilians clearing out.

  “The dark elven army is about to invade Termina,” Cyrus said.

  “My gods,” Ryin Ayend said, voice a near-whisper. “We have to get out of here!” Nyad paled, her skin a snowy white against the scarlet of her robe.

  “Odellan!” Cyrus shouted over the crowd, and the guard captain looked back at him. “What are you going to do?”

  Odellan trotted over to him. “We cannot defend the city with the forces we have. All I can do is try to aid the evacuation.”

  “It is your duty!” Vara’s voice rose and her cheeks flushed.

  “Duty or no,” Odellan said with a shake of his head, “there are three spans to guard—the Northbridge, with the Olenet’yinaii leading to the government center, the Southbridge, with the Ameeras’etas leading to the Bazaar, and the Grand Span that opens onto the Entaras’iliarad. To mount a defense I would need 20,000 soldiers to hold the bridges. Without that number, our position would be flanked and we’d be encircled and destroyed within an hour.”

  “My father would send aid.” Nyad was ghostly pale and Cyrus looked up from deep thought to see her, the Princess of the Elven Kingdom, and he felt a rush of hope.

  “There is no way to get reinforcements here in time,” Vara said in a ghostly whisper.

  “What?” Cyrus looked at her and then Odellan in succession. Nyad bowed her head in resignation. Other members of Sanctuary stood beyond the perimeter of guards surrounding their conversation; Cyrus saw Longwell in particular near the front, watching them with great interest.

  “The closest portal is in Santir, remember?” Vara’s voice carried a thread of hopelessness. “The next is three days’ ride southwest of here.”

  “Three days’ hard ride,” Odellan said. “More likely four with an army. Our forces moving north are at least two days away, assuming you could get a message to them.” He looked back across the water, where the dark elven army continued to mass, growing larger by the minute, still wrapped in perfect formation. “There will be no reinforcement. The bridges will fall and the dark elven host will march through the city; our pitiful 5,000 will scarcely slow them down.” He shook his head sadly. “Tens of thousands will die if they do here what they’ve done in the Confederation.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Ryin Ayend said. “We need to collect the Sanctuary force and get out of this city before the hammer falls.”

  “Like hell,” Cyrus said before anyone else could speak. “Odellan, could your army hold the Northbridge?”

  The Endrenshan looked at him with uncertainty. “For a time, perhaps; it is narrower than the Grand Span. But the dark elven host would simply march around on one of the others and surround us, wiping us out to a man.”

  “If you can hold the Northbridge,” Cyrus said, drawing out every syllable as though each were some precious metal he was loath to surrender, “I’ll hold the other two.”

  A great clamor rose around him as Nyad gasped and Ryin Ayend started to speak. “Are you mad?” The druid stared him down, his brown eyes inflamed with disbelief. “You intend to put Sanctuary in the middle of this war?”

  “I intend to defend this city and give its civilian occupants time to escape the murder and death that the dark elf horde would visit upon them,” Cyrus replied.

  “That will provoke the ire of the dark elves against us!” Ayend’s words came out in a shout. “We’re to remain neutral!”

  “Neutrality be damned,” Cyrus said. “Go stand in the middle of the Entaras’iliarad when that host marches through and see how neutral the dark elven army is to you.”

  “What’s to stop them from ending up on our doorstep next?” Ryin Ayend raised his hands above his head as if seeking divine intervention.”

  “Me,” Cyrus replied. He turned to Nyad. “Have you anchored your soul back at the safehouse?” he said, referring to the process by which a spell caster could mark a location and use the return spell to travel back to it later. She nodded. “Go to the others and give them my orders—take Thad and Martaina along with Vara’s parents and teleport them out of here—Pharesia, Sanctuary, wherever Chirenya wants to go, there’s no time to argue with her. When you’re done with that, go to your father and tell him what’s happening. Let him know that we’re evacuating the city. Tell Andren and Fortin to get their asses to the Southbridge and defend it with their lives.”

  “Andren will love that,” Vara said under her breath.

  He finished. “Have everyone else meet us here at the Grand Span, and tell them to make ready for battle.”

  Odellan spoke. “You’re sending two people to defend the Southbridge?” Skepticism ringed his words.

  “A rock giant and a healer,” Cyrus said.

  “A...what?!” Odellan was floored. “You brought a rock giant into Termina?”

  “Does that violate some sort of zoning ordinance? Be upset with me later.” Cyrus locked eyes with the Endrenshan. “Will you hold the Northbridge?”

  Odellan took a deep breath and his eyes closed. He sat there in the cold air, breathing in and out, the mist from his exhalations the only sign he was still alive. “Yes.” His eyes opened. Regret flashed over the Endrenshan’s youthful features. “I wish I had fought harder against my superiors when they took my army away. You and your spell casters, few as they are, stand a better chance of success on the Grand Span than my army does.” He drew up to attention and saluted Cyrus. “I wish you all the luck, General Davidon. Take command of the defense of Termina, please.”

  Cyrus snapped to attention and drew his hand to his head in a sharp salute. “They’ll not get through us. We’ll hold until the morrow; that should be long enough to evacuate the city of all but the most stubborn.”

  “Aye.” With a nod, Odellan broke his salute and barked orders to the soldie
rs surrounding them. The crowd had dispersed, save for a few gawkers that Odellan shouted commands at in elvish, causing them to scatter.

  “Do you realize what you’ve committed us to?” Ryin Ayend’s stunned voice came from behind Cyrus. He turned and found the druid there, looking at him in disbelief. Vara was still next to him, staring across the river, impassive. “You mean to steer Sanctuary into war!”

  “I don’t.” The determination stirred within Cyrus, the anger and rage welling up as though Termina were Reikonos. “But I will fight here, and if it brings us into war then at least it will be for good cause.”

  “Good cause?” Ayend almost choked. “The dark elves will storm the gates of Sanctuary and kill everyone there if you persist in this course. I fail to see the ‘good cause’ in that. It’s not as though with our two hundred,” he said, taking a step closer to Cyrus, “you’ll be able to keep them out of the city! You risk your guildmates’ lives against an army of a hundred thousand for what? Death and glory? What possible reason could there be to engage in this utterly pointless fight?”

  “Pointless?” Cyrus kept his voice calm. “I mean to use the width of the Great Span to funnel the dark elven host into our forces, where their numbers matter little to none. By holding the bridges, I’ll keep the dark elven army from descending on an undefended city and leaving a hundred thousand corpses in the streets.” He stepped closer and jabbed a finger in Ryin Ayend’s face. “If you have a problem with that, take it up with Alaric and see what he says. But if you’re not going to help us in the defense, at least make use of yourself by teleporting some elves out of the city while you retreat.”

  Ryin Ayend stepped away from him, the human’s features still shocked. He twitched, as though his brain could not conceive what Cyrus had told him, and his voice was low and gravelly. “You’ll die.” He looked to the members of Sanctuary that had followed him to the waterfront, Vara’s guard. “Anyone who follows you will die.”

  Cyrus turned to the waiting faces. Within the group of a half dozen he saw the face of Samwen Longwell, who nodded at him and grasped the handle of his lance, which was slung over his shoulder. Aisling’s face poked out from under a heavy hooded cowl, looking back at him, eyes glistening in the reflected light. Next to her stood another cloaked and cowled figure, and he realized that the eyes of Erith Frostmoor looked back at him from within.

  He took a deep breath. “Right now, I am not your General. I am not talking to you as an officer of Sanctuary. Right now, I speak to you as a man. And in five minutes I’ll be standing on the Grand Span, sword in my hand, waiting for the dark elves to cross. I hope I’m wrong, that they’ll turn north and go elsewhere. But if they come, I will fight for every inch of that bridge, even if I’m the only one out there.” He turned away from them. “If you’re willing to do the same, follow me. If you’re not, kindly help the elves get out of the way of this bloody swath of destruction bearing down on them. I’ll stand alone if need be.” He felt a stir of emotion and suppressed it. “It won’t be the first time.”

  He looked to Nyad. “Take that message back to the others—including Andren and Fortin—then tell them to run, not walk to the Southbridge. Go.” She nodded once, and disappeared in a flash of magical light that bathed the world in green.

  Cyrus did not look over his shoulder; he turned north toward the Entaras’iliarad a few hundred feet away and started walking toward it, not daring to look back.

  Chapter 30

  He had almost made it to the span when he felt her next to him, armor clanking as she half ran, half walked to catch up. “Stirring speech,” Vara said. “I daresay you’ll get nearly the whole garrison once Nyad does her bit for King, self and country and delivers your message.” She lowered her voice. “Why are you really willing to do it? Risk war and oblivion and all that? This isn’t Reikonos, you know.”

  “No. It’s not Reikonos. But there are innocent people here that stand no chance of escaping if someone doesn’t buy them time.”

  “That’s it, then? You really are that noble?” She looked at him questioningly. “You’re willing to die for faceless masses you’ve never met?”

  He laughed, a deep, rueful sound. “You’re the holy warrior. Aren’t you supposed to be on board for hopeless causes without question?”

  “Yes, but warriors tend to be more mercenary and concerned for survival odds.” She drew him up short with a hand on his forearm. “Why are you really doing this? Why here? Why now? Why didn’t you go back to Reikonos when you knew the same sort of blow might fall on them?”

  “Because you won our bet, remember? This is the service you get from me.”

  She nearly scowled at him. “Very glib. You picked an odd moment to finally acknowledge my victory in that matter.”

  They had reached the highest point of the bridge. Cyrus paced a few more feet, shrugging out of her grasp. He looked across the span into Santir, where the skies were black with smoke. He saw the fire was spreading, but the dark elves were massed and moving, the first rank turning onto the street that would lead them to the bridge. He could see the figures in armor, marching, spears over some of their heads. Mixed infantry, he thought. Probably some mounted horsemen behind them. This should be...interesting.

  A line of dark elven soldiers guarded the base of the bridge on the Santir side. They put a picket on the bridge early on, he realized. That’s why this span isn’t completely flooded with human refugees. They boxed them in and slaughtered them. A white hot fury took hold of him and he gripped Praelior’s hilt tight.

  He looked back and saw the half dozen members of Sanctuary that had followed him. Only Ryin Ayend is missing. Big surprise there, he thought with a small smile. He looked back to Vara. “You.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “You. You’re the reason I didn’t go back to Reikonos to fight.” He turned away again. “It’s not my home. My life in Reikonos was hell, from the days I was in the Society, to the ones when I was married to the one when we met, when I ran the smallest guild in town and lived in a horsebarn scratching out a living. With Niamh dead, you’re the last remaining member of the group that saved my life in Ashan’agar’s Den—the day I first encountered Sanctuary.” He turned back to Vara. “You’re why I’m here. This is your city, this is your home—and mine is with you.”

  “Gods, that’s sappy,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “If you didn’t want to answer me truthfully, you could have just said so.” She started to return to the others who were standing at a respectful distance behind them, but he grabbed her hand.

  “I meant it,” he said. “You’re why I’m here. You’re what I’m fighting for. I’ll protect these people, because that’s what we do, but I wouldn’t have been here but for you.”

  She looked up at him, but didn’t pull her wrist away. “You could die.” Her words were sedate, drifting like the breath of mist that came out of her mouth when she spoke them.

  “Then I die,” he said. “But for a reason. I’ve fought my whole life, dancing it upon the edge of death, and I did it for less purpose than to protect your people.”

  The words hung between them. She pulled her wrist away, grabbing him forcefully behind his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers. They sat there on the Grand Span, lips locked until the silence was broken by the beating of drums from the dark elven army before them. Cyrus pulled from her and turned to see the enemy formed and streaming toward them, ranks marching up the gentle slope of the bridge, their armor shining in the bare edges of light slipping through the smoke from the horizon behind them as the sun sunk low in the winter sky.

  He looked back and saw others approaching from behind at a run, led by a troll that was head and shoulders taller than any of the others. He looked to the north and a mile distant he saw the bridge there filled with armored men to the center of the span. With a look south, he couldn’t see as much, but there was a lone figure in the middle of the bridge, taller than any human or elf, and standing behind him was another f
igure, smaller, more man-sized. He saw the second figure appear to take a drink from something in his hand and smiled. My pieces are in place. Almost time for the first move, I think.

  The dark elven column filled the Grand Span from side to side, and at the fore was an officer on a horse, his armor more ornate than the others. He led on horseback, but his men followed close behind, plated boots hitting the ground in time, one row after another. This should be an interesting challenge, even with Praelior.

  Cyrus felt the press of the others at his back, and looked around to see Vaste arriving at the head of their forces, breathless. “About time,” he called to the troll.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Vaste said. “You’d think people would be frightened of a howling troll telling them to get out of the way, but apparently they were more scared of the dark elves.” He saluted Cyrus in a sloppy snapped off mess that ended with an extended middle finger. “Reporting for ignominious death as a private citizen, sir.”

  “I don’t have time for a headcount,” Cyrus said. “How many...?” He looked in question at the group behind Vaste.

  “All but Thad and Martaina, who are getting Amiol out of town with Nyad as we speak. She’s teleporting them to Pharesia and taking him to the King’s Court to put him under the protection of the palace guard. He’ll be safe there.”

  “There’s an order of elvish assassins that would love to get their hands on him and you think he’ll be safe in the capital?” Vara looked at the troll with incredulity.

  “Safer than we’re going to be for the near future.” Vaste shrugged.

  “Safe as anywhere,” Cyrus said. “Wait. What about Chirenya?”

  “What about me?” The elf shoved her way past Longwell. “I’m here.”

  “Mother,” Vara said, stunned. “What...”

  “I’m here to fight,” Chirenya replied. “You don’t think I’d sit by and let these blue-skinned bastards burn my city down, do you?” J’anda coughed, sliding into place beside her. “Not you.” She pointed into the distance. “Those blue-skinned bastards. You’re merely a blue-skinned irritation.”