The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  He unthreaded the chain from his neck as he advanced, loosening it while striking down foes with the short sword, most of them with their backs turned to him. He emerged on the front line of battle and saw the dark elf with Praelior wielding the blade with confidence—against Vara.

  He noted the elven paladin, on the defensive, staggering from the assault the dark elf was unleashing on her with the purloined sword. With a shoulder check he knocked a footman to the ground and brought the blade down on the back of his neck, killing him. He pulled the length of the chain and swung the handle of the morningstar up, clearing a space around him, then flipped the handle into his hand. He felt the mystical power of the weapon course through him. Not as good as Praelior, but it’ll do.

  He took two quick steps forward, positioning himself behind the dark elf wielding his sword. Vara was sweating, her strength failing against the repeated blows delivered by the weapon more than the wielder, her face red and the strain obvious. Cyrus knew the dark elf sensed him and watched him begin to turn to counter the threat the warrior posed. If I had only my short sword, he’d have a chance. Thanks to this—he clutched the handle of the morningstar tighter—he doesn’t.

  His sword slipped underneath the backplate of the dark elf as he started to turn, but Cyrus threaded the chain around his neck and jerked on it, pulling him onto the blade. It slid through the footman’s back then burst through his front, a dent appearing in his breastplate. Cyrus spun the body around, interposing it between him and the dark elven horde at his front, then let go of the chain grip and caught Praelior as it fell, enjoying the feel of it in his hand once more.

  A healing wind brushed over him and the pain he’d been ignoring from his scalp lessened. He cast a look back and saw Erith with her hand extended, ghostly look of fright writ on her face. “You wanted a challenge,” he said.

  “I take it back!”

  Cyrus turned back to the dark elves and let out a scream of fury. He waded in amongst them, cutting through them. They fell quickly and he was followed by Vara, Longwell, and a dozen others behind them, driving the dark elven army back. Cyrus was a black blur in the middle of it all. His hands moved without thought, Praelior in one and his short sword in the other. His mind was focused on one thing—forcing his foes back and recovering the body he knew was somewhere ahead.

  The dark elves kept coming, but Cyrus was in a blood-fueled rage. He passed the point where Aisling lay and drove on, slaughtering all that came forward to challenge him. He watched Vara and Longwell do the same, and between the three of them they made an unbreakable front line of advance. Other warriors behind them stood ready and rangers fired their bows, weakening the dark elven advance. Wizard and druid spells were loosed as well, but most reserved their magic until needed.

  Cyrus halted as the dark elves in front of him began to retreat. He looked around and realized he was three-fourths of the way across the span. The dark elven army was broken; they were fleeing before him.

  “Why did we stop?” Longwell sounded almost plaintive.

  “Because I’m not of a mind to try and retake Santir,” Cyrus said.

  Longwell looked around, realizing how far they had come. “Oh. Damn. We ran them off, didn’t we?”

  “We three,” Vara said. The sun had long since set, the light of a thousand torches in the army ahead paling next to the fires still consuming Santir. Her cheeks were red and her breath froze before her as it came out in great gasps.

  “Aye, we three,” Cyrus said. “But not alone.” He looked back at the Sanctuary war party.

  “We’re still here,” came Vaste’s dry response. “I did cast a couple of healing spells on you at first, but as you began hitting your stride, I started healing your enemies instead. You know, to give them a sporting chance.”

  “At odds of roughly 5,000 to one, I would say they still stand a sporting chance,” Vara said.

  “Did you recover Aisling’s body?” Cyrus looked at Vaste.

  The troll pointed with his staff, the white crystal in the center sparkling from its own inner light. Aisling sat on the ground beside Erith, her cloak thrown aside, head between her knees as though she were ill. The enemy was fleeing in disordered chaos back toward Santir as he walked over to her. She looked up as he approached. “Did you make it out alive?” Her voice came out as little more than a croak.

  “Yes, but only just.” He knelt beside her, her white hair streaked with red, remnants of the wounds inflicted when she died.

  “I thought I was done,” she said. “I saw the Sovereign’s bastard about to kill you, and I froze. I knew if you went down we were finished.”

  “As it happens, there were others of us in the battle,” Vara said. Cyrus looked up at her, and after a moment she let out a hiss of impatience. “Oh, all right, it was him that cleared the bridge to recover you, but it was not without help.”

  “How are you feeling?” Cyrus placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “Sick.” She moved her head slowly, left to right. “Nauseous.”

  “Take it easy,” he cautioned her. “It’ll fade in time.”

  “I’ve never died before,” she said. “Is it true you lose memories?”

  Cyrus swallowed, a lump bulging in his throat. “Yes. But you likely won’t know what you’ve lost until later. If ever.”

  She stared back at him. “What did you forget?”

  He stood, looking down at her. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time, but don’t push yourself too hard. It’s going to be a long night, and we need you at your best.”

  The dark elf raised herself to a knee and placed a hand on his. “I’m at my best when I’m not on my feet.”

  “You have blood in your hair,” Vara said. “And a little vomit as well.”

  Cyrus slipped from her grasp, moving back toward the line he had held with Vara and Longwell. The mass of dark elven troops at the end of the bridge was still disorganized.

  “Do they have any spellcasters with them?” Cyrus watched the tangled knot of the army with wary concern.

  “Likely, but few.” Vara sidled closer to him. “Perhaps five, if that, and they will use them sparingly.”

  “Ridiculous,” Longwell said. “Why don’t they have more?”

  “Because the Leagues that train magic users keep a very strict ratio of how many can work for a government, and what function they’ll serve,” Vara replied.

  Longwell twirled his lance at his side. “And if they violate that number?”

  “If the government does it, they’re considered to be in violation of the League terms and all their current magic users are recalled,” she answered. “If the spellcaster committing the violation is found to be doing so willfully, they’re forsaken; unable to be hired by anyone reputable, for any purpose. It’s one step above being a heretic; you’re shunned everywhere you go.” She straightened. “But unlike being a heretic, you aren’t hunted to the death.”

  “Makes sense.” Longwell’s spear was at rest now. He looked at Cyrus. “You know, you can take that off now.” He pointed to the chain of the morningstar, still wrapped around Cyrus.

  The warrior looked down and grasped the morningstar’s handle, which hung loose off his shoulder. “You know, I don’t think I will. It doesn’t feel very heavy and it’s already come in handy once.”

  Longwell arched an eyebrow at him. “Planning on losing your sword again? Let me know when so I can pay a visit to a different bridge.”

  Vara inched closer to Cyrus, and he heard a clink as her armor touched his. “I was...concerned,” she said, “when I saw you overwhelmed by that juggernaut.”

  He smiled down at her. “I was concerned myself.” He leaned down and kissed her, their armor making a fearsome clangor as he pulled her closer and their breastplates hit. She broke away first, an uncharacteristic grin on her face. “I’ve never kissed someone who’s wearing armor before,” he said with a smile of his own.

  “Oh?” She smiled back in amusement as she pulled away and re
turned to her spot on their flank. “How was it?”

  “Felt great. I’m going to do it again the next time I get a chance.” Suddenly self-conscious, he remembered Longwell and turned to find the dragoon staring at him.

  “Don’t get any ideas; I’m not interested,” Longwell said.

  “They’re rallying,” Vara said with an icy calm. She was correct; the torches on the avenue below had reformed into proper lines and were moving forward. “There are archers in their ranks,” she said, peering into the darkness.

  “Elven eyesight,” Cyrus muttered, then turned to shout over his shoulder. “Chirenya! We’re about to have an arrow problem. You still think you can solve that for me?”

  “I have an ‘ox kissing my daughter’ problem,” came the hostile voice from behind him. “While I burn their arrows from the sky, do you think you could keep your hands, lips and other assorted minutiae to yourself?”

  “During that time, yes,” Cyrus muttered under his breath. “Afterwards, the things I’m going with do to your daughter would make Aisling blush—”

  “Cyrus!” Vara snapped at him.

  “I heard that,” came Chirenya’s weary reply. “I lose a hundred years off my life.” She shoved her way to the fore, coming to a halt between Cyrus and Vara. One of her hands rested on his arm and she leaned heavily on him. “And my thanks is you and a request for more pyrotechnics. This would be infinitely easier if you had your own wizards—”

  “We do,” Cyrus said, lowering his voice. “They’re just not as powerful as you.”

  She looked at him, taken aback. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

  “Just realizing what your daughter likes about me?”

  “My daughter likes the fact that you’re an ox, a beast of burden, and likely equipped as such. She is infantile and foolish, and being less than a hundred years old, still very preoccupied with such things.”

  “Mother,” Vara said. Her tone changed in a half a heartbeat. “Arrows incoming!” Her shout drew their attention away and toward the sky.

  Cyrus squinted and could barely make out the movement of something in the sky. A light appeared above him as a wall of solid fire, more intense than that which had consumed the first wave of the dark elven army but more compact. The heat brought beads of sweat onto Cyrus’s forehead, adding to the already sticky feeling of his skin.

  He could see the shadows of arrows pass through the wall of fire that Chirenya had placed above them; after a moment, hot metal began to rain down in drips. He felt a splash of singeing liquid bounce off his shoulder, heard a muttered curse from Longwell and saw his armor streaked with molten steel from the arrowheads.

  “I can burn up the shafts and fletchings but metal is another story,” Chirenya said, her eyes closed. “At least a burn is easier healed than a projectile which needs to be pulled from your body first.”

  The infantry was only a hundred yards away now, Cyrus realized, and the rain of arrows must have stopped. Chirenya lowered the barrier of fire, dropping it down on the front rank of the advancing line. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her skin beyond pale and now a shade of gray. Her eyes rolled back in her head and Cyrus felt her knees buckle as she gripped his arm tighter, and he caught her before she fell. Her robes brushed against the chain of the morningstar, which was still wrapped around his chest.

  “No more arrows?” Erith asked from behind.

  Vaste answered. “Their army is too close; I’m sure they wouldn’t want to risk killing their own, since they have no one to heal and resurrect them.”

  “We don’t know that,” Cyrus said as Chirenya relinquished her grip on him. “They could have a healer somewhere.”

  “They pair their magic users in a unit of four or five spell casters,” came the faint voice of Aisling. She stood back, her bow in hand, loosing her first arrow as the dark elven army closed. “I would expect to see them soon.”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than a fireball twice the size of a man flew from the dark elven lines, aimed at Cyrus. He jumped to the side, pushing Chirenya out of the way as it impacted where he had been standing only a moment before. Another followed, aimed at Vara, who moved forward, ducking under the blast. “At least two wizards!” Cyrus said, moving forward with Longwell, closing the distance to the front line of the approaching army. “Aisling, see if you can—”

  “Got one!” the ranger crowed. “The other is hiding in the midst of all those soldiers.”

  Another burst of flame shot at them, forcing Cyrus to weave to the right while Longwell went left. It figures she didn’t get the more powerful of the two. The next attack came with two firebolts, each from a different location in the army ranks. “They’ve either got another wizard or they have a healer!” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Longwell lunge forward with his lance and impale through a footman in the front rank and into the wizard behind him. With a sweep he flung the bodies of both off his lance and over the edge of the bridge. One down, Cyrus thought.

  He reached the front row of footmen and attacked, slashing through three with his first strike and moving to the next row. He felt a sword land on his right shoulder, stabbing through the chainmail and drawing blood. He turned to see one of the footmen he had just struck down, leering at him, bloody residue across his chest where Cyrus’s blow had severed his breastplate. The wound was gone. “They definitely have a healer!” The other two he’d struck down had risen, pressing the attack while they had him surrounded. “No wounding blows or they’ll be healed! Kill them all; they won’t be able to save their army with resurrection spells!”

  He watched the expression of the dark elf in front of him, triumphant a moment earlier, turn sour. His eyes widened as Cyrus brought Praelior across his neck then watched his eyes and head loll backward and roll off his body. This is going to take way more effort, he thought, bringing the sword across the next dark elf in line, striking a wounding blow and watching it disappear before his eyes. Am I going to have to decapitate every single one of them?

  His sword flashed, moving without thought through the enemies before him. He hacked and slashed, watching half the ones he struck down rise again. I need to find this healer. He led with his sword, attacking through the crowd, cutting his way deeper into the dark elven army, surrounded once more by the enemy. He heard a shout of protest from Vara behind him, but he ignored it. At least this time I’m just outnumbered, not overmatched.

  A few rows of soldiers away, he saw a flash of white—a robe, hidden behind armor and near invisible in the darkness that had fallen around them. With a shout he shoved a dark elf out of his way and lopped the head off another. Behind a line of infantry stood a healer, eyes closed, hands raised and glowing. The protective line of soldiers screamed at his approach and charged him, and he felt the bite of a dozen blades hitting his armor. Most bounced off but a few found purchase in the weak points and the sting of the strikes was muted as he fought his way through the warriors that now surrounded him. From beside him he heard Vara shout and glanced to the side in time to see her take the head off another wizard. The man’s hands shook as his body fell limp.

  It was a deadly ballet; he moved faster than any of them but they weighed him down with numbers and sprung back to their feet after he cut them down; only a few remained unmoving. He concentrated on fatal or crippling attacks—splitting the skull of one in half, removing the head of the next—or ones that would remove them from his path. He aimed an unsteady kick at the last dark elf standing between him and the healer, and felt three piercing attacks land while he did so.

  His kick landed, pushing the dark elven warrior out of the way. Using the speed granted him by his weapon, he rushed forward toward the healer, a dark elf so shrouded in the fever of casting healing magics that her cloak appeared to be glowing. “Sorry,” he said with sincere apology as he brought his sword against the unarmed woman, striking her down, “I don’t like killing unarmed magic users, especially not women, but I can’t have you giving my enemies any more chance
s at life.” His slash spattered her robe with red as his stroke nearly cut her in half diagonally from shoulder to waist.

  She gasped and looked up at him with stunned surprise, her purple eyes registering shock. Her mouth opened and a horrible sound came out, a desperate, choked moan audible even in the fury of the battle. “I’m sorry,” he said again to the eyes that looked back at him. “I’m so sorry.”

  With that, he turned from her and howled, spending all the internal fury and sorrow he felt, channeling it into the next attack, which brought down eight dark elven footmen with ruthless efficiency. No longer worried about killing in one blow, Cyrus raked them across the chest, severed limbs, destroyed faces with vicious accuracy. They all have weapons in their hands and they’re invading someone else’s country, he told himself, but the image of the dying healer stayed with him.

  Cyrus felt a sword strike him in the small of his back and pain lanced through him, causing him to stumble and miss wide with a swipe at a footman that would otherwise have been a killing blow. He looked back at the enemy who had wounded him and brought Praelior around, killing him in one hit. He turned back to the foes in front of him that were barring his passage back to the line where Vara and Longwell held out, but something stopped him. He looked to where he’d cut down the healer and found her, blood pooled at her feet.

  But she was standing. Her hands were aglow, her clothing torn asunder by his attack, but she stood. The place where he’d cut her was healed, flawless blue skin with blood beaded up in drops all around the place where his sword had cut a swath through bone, tissue and internal organs only moments before. Son of a bitch. They must have a second healer; there’s no way she was able to mend herself after that.