“Yeah. Lucky for you that you don’t have any parents to worry about.” He shook his head. “Or a hometown, really.”
Cyrus stiffened. “Reikonos is still my hometown.”
“Really?” Andren’s voice was measured incredulity. “If I’d have gone through what you went through at the Society, I’d have said good riddance and left the place behind the minute after graduation.”
“Yeah.” Cyrus felt a pang of bitterness. “It’s done though. It doesn’t matter. In the past. All that matters now...” He paused as he caught sight of a flash of blond hair, and a tight smile appeared on his face. “...is the future.”
Andren and Cyrus remained silent and watched Vara storm her way through the Great Hall. Her hand toyed with the sword in her scabbard and she stopped at the edge of the table and looked to Andren first. “Drunk,” she said to him with a nod of acknowledgment, then turned, focusing on Cyrus.
“Shrew,” Andren said, drawing a withering glare from Vara and an eye roll from Cyrus. “What? She insulted me, I fired back.”
“I stated a true fact about you.” She cocked her head and glared at him.
“As did I,” he returned and took another swig of his ale. “Would you rather I lied and called you ‘sweetheart’?”
Vara let out a breath of exasperation and turned back to Cyrus. “I am coming with you to Traegon. There will be no argument.”
“You sure about that?” Andren said, then buried his mouth back in his cup when she glared at him again. “Just asking.”
Cyrus stared back at her, impassive, as she began to speak. “These monsters have killed one of our comrades while trying to get to me, drove me from my home and killed my mother.” Her anger was white hot and visible on her face and in her mannerisms, the way she swung her finger around to point at Cyrus. “I don’t care what oafish, protectionary nonsense you might have in your head about keeping me safe; I will be attending this attack, regardless of what you say—”
He didn’t blink away from her assault, but reached down and grasped the list between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it with care to avoid the wet ink, angling the written words so she could read them, then pointed with his available hand to the line below Curatio’s name.
She halted her tirade, confused, then followed his finger and stared at the parchment in concentration. “That says my name. Is that—that’s the list for the raid?” He nodded, and a flicker of uncertainty was visible as she froze in place, finger still pointed at him. “That’s...well, good.”
He nodded. “I won’t bother to try to talk you out of it, but I will ask you to remember that our priority is to capture or kill all the members of Hand of Fear in their base. No pursuing vendettas that may result in allowing any of them to slip the net, all right?”
She drew herself to rough attention, hands at her sides, her head held high and chin pointed at him. “I assure you that I am well in control of myself and will remember my duty.”
“I’m sure you will.” Cyrus lowered his voice. “Can we talk?”
Hesitation marked the paladin’s body language, as she rocked back on her heels and half-turned. “I...think we should wait to speak until this is over. I...” She turned away from him and lowered her head. “...I have quite a bit on my mind at present, and I don’t feel up to the challenge of a deep and thoughtful conversation.”
Cyrus watched her and felt a ripple of concern roll through his belly. “All right,” he said, even as a voice in his head screamed that it was not. “We’ll talk after. Be ready to leave; as soon as Nyad returns we’ll be teleporting to Traegon.” He half-smiled. “Do you remember when we were in Traegon last?”
“We were only in Traegon once together,” she replied, and began walking toward the exit. “And I can’t recall anything of substance happening there.” She did not say anything else as she left, wandering out into the foyer toward the lounge.
“Well, that sounded promising,” Andren said the moment she was out of earshot.
“Shut up,” Cyrus said, but the words lacked any conviction.
“It’s almost as though the two of you got married or something,” Andren said, drawing Cyrus’s gaze. “About thirty years ago,” he clarified, causing Cy to shake his head. “Seriously, even when she hated you she wasn’t that cold and dismissive.”
“She lost her parents and her home,” Cyrus said without emotion, turning back to the parchment and staring at the names, trying to keep his mind away from anything else. “You’d be lucky to handle it half as well.” He shook his head and tore the parchment in half. “Find these people. Tell them I want them to come with us.”
“I’m drinking,” Andren said, his voice approaching a whine.
“Take your mug with you and find them while I track down the other half. This is important. If you’re in that much of a hurry to get back to drinking, hand off half of your list to the first person at the top of it and get them to do that for you.”
Muttering all the way, the healer made his way out of the Great Hall as Cyrus gathered the other half of the parchment. He tried not to think about Vara, but failed. She’s been through a lot. After Narstron died, I wasn’t even half as functional as she is right now, and I’d just lost a close friend. She got to watch a guildmate die for her benefit, then saw her hometown overrun by enemies and watched both parents die. He shuddered and shook his head. If Reikonos had been taken by the dark elves, it’d be enough for me to be edgy and isolated. She had a lot more happen than just that.
By the time he’d rounded up his half of the list and made his way back to the foyer, Andren was already sitting in the lounge. “See?” Cyrus asked him upon entering the room. “Was that so hard?”
“Nah,” the healer said. “Easy as pie.”
“I finished finding everyone on the list,” Cyrus heard Longwell’s voice from behind him and turned to see the dragoon carrying the parchment he had given Andren. “I told them all to assemble here, that we could get the call to go out at any time.”
Cyrus stared down Andren, who looked back, unflinching. “See? It’s done.”
Cyrus sighed and looked around the lounge and foyer to see most of the people from his list already scattered throughout the area. Vaste and J’anda were lingering near the main doors with Erith and a few others, and Curatio stood in front of the huge hearth in the foyer, his back to the room, absorbed in watching the fire. Vara was seated in her usual place in the lounge, looking out a window, on the edge of her seat, rocking back and forth from nervous tension.
He heard the scuff of a boot on the stone behind him and turned to see Aisling seat herself on the arm of his chair, leaning in, her teeth flashing a wide grin. “Hi there,” she said in a voice so low it sounded almost like purring.
“Aisling,” he said. “Thank you for continuing to keep an eye on the front doors for us—”
“That’s nothing,” she said, dismissing him. “You haven’t come to get the gift I have for you.”
“Yeah...I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not interested in—”
“I told you it wasn’t that,” she breathed in his ear. “It’s this.” Something slipped from her long cloak, a sword, glinting in the light of the dimming sun coming in through the windows on the far end of the lounge. “But you really should take me up on the other at some point, because it’s not fair to knock it if you haven’t tried—”
Cyrus’s eyes alighted on the sword she held before him. Runed, the blade was massive, bigger than Praelior by a few inches, and glowed a faint red in the steel. It looked familiar and he studied it with curious intensity before looking up to Aisling, whose purple eyes blazed with excitement. “It’s from the dark knight you killed on the bridge.” She sighed as she looked at it. “The devilish part of me wanted to sell it, but I just couldn’t.” She thrust the hilt toward him. “It’s yours; you did kill him, after all.”
“But you brought it out of the city.” He gazed at the glow from the blade. The light reflecting off it gave it
an evil look, and he felt discomfort staring at it, even though he knew it was a finely crafted weapon.
“Even still.” She rested it in his hand and forced the hilt into his other. “It’s yours. I kept it for you; I know it’s not as good as what you’ve got, but maybe you can give it to someone who will use it. Seems a shame to waste a weapon like this by selling it to someone outside the guild. It’s near priceless.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said, lost in the red glow. “I carried out the morningstar that the Unter’adon tried to kill me with as well.” He shook his head and closed his eyes, feeling his fingers close around the hilt. “I’m sure I can find someone who can use them.” He nodded at the dark elf, who looked at him with expectant eyes. “Thank you.”
“Cyrus.” The calling of his name brought his attention to Alaric, who stood behind him. Cyrus got to his feet, nodding at the Ghost, whose eyes settled on the sword he held. “A fine weapon; tinged with the strength of Yartraak, if I’m not mistaken.”
“The God of Darkness?” Cyrus stared at the blade in surprise. “It’s not a godly weapon, is it?”
“I think not,” the Ghost said, a slight smile peeking out from the bottom of his helm. “While mystical weapons are enchanted and bear powers a normal blade can’t hope to match, a godly weapon is of a whole different caliber. A mystical weapon can help a man hold off an army; a godly weapon can help him carve through said army, leaving nothing behind but a bloody swath.” Alaric stared at the sword and reached out for it, taking it when Cyrus proffered it to him. “This is a fine mystical blade, and it bears the touch of the Lord of the Dark, but it’s no godly weapon; his weapon is—”
“Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness,” Cyrus whispered in memory. Alaric raised an eyebrow and nodded. “I saw it last year when we were in Yartraak’s Realm.”
Alaric handed the weapon back to him. “I will accompany you to Traegon,” the Ghost said without preamble.
Cyrus kept his composure but inside he felt a curiosity; the Ghost rarely left Sanctuary. “You and everyone else, it seems.”
A hint of amusement drifted across the visible portion of Alaric’s features. “Curatio and Vara are going as well, I take it?”
“I assumed Curatio would have told you.”
“He didn’t need to,” the Ghost said. “Now that he is aware of the Hand of Fear’s interest in him, you would be hard pressed to keep him away from them. Knowing that they sought him as well as Vara, he feels responsible for Niamh’s death, and he’ll pursue this until the truth comes out about their leader.” The Guildmaster of Sanctuary’s lips faded from a smile into a hard line. “And I would not care to be this ‘master’ when Curatio finds out who he is.”
“Curatio is a healer,” Cyrus said. “They’re not renowned for their offensive abilities.”
Alaric’s eyebrow cocked at Cyrus. “Healer or not, he is a fearsome foe, and you would do well not to underestimate him. I assure you he did not survive to the age he has by being unskilled in the arts of war.” A memory made its way forward, a vision of a long ago incursion into the halls of the goblins under the mountain of Enterra—of Curatio with a mace in hand, killing goblins as the Sanctuary force was overwhelmed and destroyed. Alaric stared at Cyrus, apparently aware of his being lost in thought. “What?”
“The first time we went to Enterra.” Cyrus licked his lips, which felt suddenly dry. “Do you remember it? When you had to come and rescue us?”
“I do.” The Ghost was quiet. “You speak of the night we lost your friend, Narstron.”
“Yes.” Cyrus felt the sting of the memory, but pushed it away. “Did Curatio die that night as well?”
“Yes; there were no survivors among you save for Niamh, who teleported out. Make no mistake, he may be immortal, but only in the natural sense. He can still be killed by weapons and spells.” The Ghost smiled. “He’s just more difficult to kill for being so damnably canny.”
“I can hear you,” came Curatio’s voice from across the foyer.
“There was never any doubt,” Alaric said. “I meant every word of it.”
“Did you know he was an old one?” Cyrus honed in on Alaric’s eye, which did not dodge away from him.
“Of course. Curatio and I have known each other for a long time; there are no secrets between us.”
“But plenty between you and the rest of the Council,” Cyrus said with a great sigh.
The Ghost’s eye glittered. “Perhaps. Know me for as long as Curatio has and that will change.”
“How long would that be, exactly?”
A chuckle came forth from Alaric. “I am human, brother. Whatever skills and abilities I may possess, I am still a man. Be assured of that.”
“I believe you,” Cyrus said. “But that doesn’t really answer the question, does it?”
Alaric chuckled again. “I suppose not.”
Any further inquiries that Cyrus might have put forth to press the issue were put aside when the blast of a teleportation spell brought a red robed wizard into view. Nyad’s blond hair tumbled down as she shook off the effects of the travel and looked around, her eyes alighting on Cyrus and Alaric. With a single nod, she told them all.
“Time to leave,” Alaric said, voice almost a whisper. “Time to end this hunt.” Without a word said by Cyrus, the men and women he had placed on his list were already moving toward the center of the foyer, ready.
“Gods, I hope so,” Cyrus replied, following his Guildmaster to the heart of the raiding party.
Chapter 43
They appeared outside the city after dark. Snow was falling and the roads were already covered. The crisp air flooded Cyrus’s nose and lungs, helping him stave off the desire to sleep. When challenged by the guards at the gate, Vara rode forward to speak with them, her stallion seeming to have more spring in its step than when last he had seen it. He patted Windrider and turned to Alaric. “Who do I owe thanks to for retrieving my horse from elven territory?”
“I believe it was Ryin Ayend. After you had gone to the palace, he teleported into the Kingdom and retrieved them from the Priestesses of Vidara.” Alaric coaxed his horse along with minimal effort.
“I have a hard time getting a read on him,” Cyrus said. “He takes positions that I find indefensible—like not wanting to help Vara or get involved in the war—and yet he still assists in the oddest and most useful ways.”
“He’s quite the contrarian,” Alaric said. “You may not like or agree with him, but you can’t argue with his loyalty.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said, grudging. “I find it easier to see the world in absolutes—either someone is on my side or they’re not.”
Alaric laughed. “I can’t say I haven’t seen the world from the same perspective myself, in my youth. But Arkaria is a complex place. To try and label people good or evil is futile and a simplistic way to look at the world.”
Cyrus looked down at Windrider, who trudged along the snowy road without any urging from him. “I wish it was that simple. Good guys and bad guys, and obvious which is which.”
They passed through the gates, opened by the guards at Vara’s behest. The Traegon guards watched them warily. “Did you explain why we’re here?” Cyrus asked Vara, who nodded. “Did they say anything?”
“They asked to see the King’s letter, then requested that we try not to burn down the city in our efforts to apprehend the assassins.”
“Burn down the city?” Cyrus frowned. “Why would they think we would do that?”
She ran a hand along the side of her horse’s neck. “The King’s letter was explicit in that it required them to stand aside and allow us to do anything to capture our quarry, even if it involved burning the city to the ground.”
“You can see how high in regard the monarchy holds the cities of the common people,” Andren said from off to the side. “Whole damned Kingdom tilts to corruption on the side of the royals.”
“Now you’re part of the status quo, Sir Andren, in case you’ve forgotten.” Vaste gr
aced the healer with a smile. “Do be vigilant, watching from your mansion as the royals continue to do all the things you’ve bitterly railed about for years.”
“Never should have taken that title,” Andren mumbled.
“What about the gold?” Vaste smiled, a wicked one that exposed his teeth.
“Well I wasn’t going to pass that up, was I?”
The town was much smaller than Pharesia or Termina, but almost every building possessed a tower capped by a minaret. Following Terian’s instruction, they made their way to a warehouse on the far edge of town. The building was made of bleached sandstone, and even in the dark Cyrus could see it would appear near-white in the light of day.
Cyrus dismounted and studied the sides of the building. “No windows to speak of,” he said, thinking out loud. “They won’t see us coming.” He pointed to a nearby door. “Since we have no idea what’s inside, one door is as good as another. We might as well come crashing through that one.”
“You have a strategy in mind for this, I assume?” Vara climbed down from her horse with athletic ease as Cyrus crossed the ground to the warehouse at a trot. He did not slow as he approached the door but sped up, crashing through shoulder-first, filling the air with a horrible cracking noise as he plunged into the darkness. “I should have bloody well known it would be something as stupid as that,” he heard her mutter.
She climbed through the wreckage of the door behind him, sword drawn. They were in a lamplit room with no one in sight. He moved forward to allow the others to join them, and the room began to fill as he moved around. There were paintings on the wall, furniture of a typical elven style with red silk cushions, and a smell of incense filled the air.
“I’d tell you to be on your guard,” Cyrus said in a whisper, “but if you weren’t already, you wouldn’t be here. Split into two groups. One with me, going this way, and the other goes with—” he glanced back and saw Alaric, sword in the paladin’s hand—“with Lord Garaunt, going that way. Take them alive if you can, kill them if there’s any possibility they might escape.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 36