The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion

by Robert J. Crane

  “Move up,” he ordered, striding back across the bridge, where the platform was filled. Fortin rose above the rest, and when Cyrus saw the rock giant, he called out to him. “We’re doing an area teleportation spell to send the army back to Sanctuary, Fortin. I need you to stay behind and help cover the retreat in case any of Mortus’s creations are lurking.”

  “Sounds like good clean fun,” the rock giant replied. “Unless of course they are lurking, in which case it’ll be good messy fun.” Fortin laughed, a deep rumbling sound that reminded Cyrus of the noise he heard while visiting a quarry. The rock giant stopped and peered at Cyrus. “Messy...because of the blood of our enemies covering our hands, you know?”

  “I caught that, yes.”

  The next teleportation spell cleared the platform and bridges of the Eusian tower, sending another five hundred or so members of the Sanctuary army back home. Cyrus followed the bridge to the exit, stepping out under the red sky to see the remainder of his force crowding the stairs. Another few hundred more were sent on, followed by another wave as the path widened into the Fields of Paxis. Less than three hundred remained, Cyrus estimated as the wind rushed past, stirring the tall grass.

  “This is it,” Cyrus said. “Veterans, hold off until the last of our people are away.” A teleportation orb from the last spell cast still lingered in front of him, hovering like a glass ball filled with light, waiting for him to seize it. “I don’t think there’s anything that’s going to try and attack us now, but there’s no use tempting fate.”

  Nyad raised her hands to cast the final teleport spell, and Cyrus looked away. The winds were stirring the grass again and he remembered the horrific things he had seen when the demon knight nearly killed him. What the hell were those? he wondered. A murmur ran through the army behind him and he snapped to attention as the lights of the teleportation orbs guttered out, like a fire being snuffed.

  He turned to Nyad, his heart racing. She stood before him, a perplexed look on her face. “Let me try again,” she said. Her hands moved, the light filled them and she released it, but no orbs appeared. “I...don’t know what’s happening! I can’t seem to summon—”

  “I know what this is,” Alaric said, voice filled with menace.

  An icy hand grabbed Cyrus by the heart. “No. You don’t mean...”

  The breeze turned into a howling wind and the air crackled with power. Red forks of lightning sprang from the space behind them on the tower steps, lancing out, a maelstrom of pure magical fury splitting open the sky. From it emerged a behemoth; a creature with four legs anchored on a rounded pelvis, a thorax that sprouted eight arms, each twitching. The head appeared from the rift last of all, and it bore the beak of a bird, but was open so that jagged teeth were visible even in the flickering light cast by the portal it had opened.

  It descended as though it were being lowered on a wire, gently, from the rift, which began to seal shut behind it. Within seconds, the tongues of red lightning had receded, revealing the sky above, now an even darker maroon than before. The maelstrom had been replaced by an eerie, still calm that settled over the entirety of the Realm, and a silence hung heavy over the last remnants of the Sanctuary army, punctuated by the realization that their escape, which seemed inevitable only a moment before, was now impossible.

  Mortus—the God of Death—had returned home.

  Chapter 49

  “If Bellarum thinks he can talk to me that way he is mistaken, I am the God of Death...” Mortus spoke, a loud, grinding sound that sent waves of horror through Cyrus. The God of Death’s face was angled away and he seemed not to have noticed the Sanctuary army at his back. If he just goes back into his tower, we can run for the portal...

  A scream tore from the throat of one of the newer recruits and Mortus swung around to see them standing at his feet, an army of ants when compared to him. Cyrus knew that he barely reached halfway to the God of Death’s knee, so large was the deity. He’s going to kill us. He’ll splatter us all over his realm and there’s nothing I can do...

  “Interlopers! Intruders!” Mortus shouted in a deafening cacophony. “To me, defenders of death! To your master!” Cyrus pushed his way forward, trying to interpose himself between the God of Death and the Sanctuary remnants. “My servants, I summon you! Heed my call and destroy these thieves, these—” Mortus looked left and right, as though waiting for something. “You...have killed my servants.” Need to attack him now, give the others time to flee...

  “We have,” came a voice from Cyrus’s side. A hand came to rest on Cy’s gauntlet, already on the sword. “Strike at him and we all die,” the Ghost hissed. “Wait.” Alaric raised his voice and spoke to the God of Death in even tones. “But they are such a little thing for one so great as you to resurrect.”

  “Alaric Garaunt...” The God of Death’s voice carried a rasp and rattle that shook the Fields of Paxis. “The Army of Sanctuary.”

  “None other,” Alaric said with a short bow. “Plainly, you have caught us in the act of doing something we should not be doing. I call upon you, the mighty Master of the Hereafter, to forgive us, and realize that while you may allow us to walk away today, all of us will be subject to your domain—death—eventually.”

  “Sanctuary...” Mortus rumbled once more, and the birdlike head looked over them, eyes searching. “The shelas’akur...” He fixated on Vara, then his head swiveled to Curatio. “And the last of the old ones. With the two of you in my realm, I hold the final demise of the Elvendom in my hands.”

  “Yet you have already masterfully set the fall in motion,” Alaric said, soothing. “No one can undo what you have done. Why hasten a painful demise? You could show mercy, knowing that none will escape you in the end. Let us go. Show Arkaria and the other gods that you do not fear mortals. Allow us to leave your Realm in peace.”

  A low, hacking laugh came from the God of Death. “As a god, what need have I to fear mortals?”

  “You need not,” Alaric said. “Yet with our deaths you buy nothing you will not eventually have anyway. But with mercy, you might convince others of your righteousness.”

  “My righteousness...” Mortus’s arms hovered around him as he peered down at Alaric. “You are still deft, Alaric Garaunt. You barter for the lives of your people with all your cunning.” He stared down at the Ghost. “Your bargain is accepted...if...”

  Cyrus felt a scant thrill of hope. My gods, Alaric talked him out of it. He’s going to let us...

  “...you leave behind either the old one or the young one.”

  Alaric was still as statuary. “I take your meaning as...Vara or Curatio?”

  “Call them what you will.” The beak clicked. “I will let the rest of your number leave if one of them remains as a sacrifice.”

  Alaric did not move, did not speak, as though paralyzed. Cyrus had never seen the Ghost halted into inaction.

  Curatio stepped forward, his head held high. “I have had a long and storied life. I will remain behind.”

  “No!” Vara shoved Longwell aside, stepping to the front of the line. “You can give our people hope with what you know,” she whispered, at Curatio’s side. “You’re the only one who can read...it.” She looked up to Mortus, towering above. “I will remain with you, God of Death, as your sacrifice.”

  Cyrus saw Curatio thrust the parchment into her hand as he pulled her close to him, but she refused it. “You are young, and have much to live for.”

  She shoved him away roughly, sending the healer back a few steps. “I do not. I am weary of this life, of living in a world that would take everything from you a piece at a time, until you have naught left.” She looked back to Mortus. “If you would have me be your sacrifice, strike swift and true. End it—and be quick about it.”

  “Done.” The ragged voice of the God of Death crackled over the assemblage and he raised a hand above his head. Cyrus could see it, aimed at Vara, far enough away from all the others that the blow would strike flush, and she would be ended. Her eyes were closed,
her head was bowed. She was ready.

  “NOOOO!” The voice was loud in his head, an agonized scream of such force that it even delayed the God of Death in his attack for a split second. Cyrus was already in motion by the time he realized that the voice was his, and Praelior was in his hand by instinct alone, raised above his head as he checked Vara with his elbow, sending her rolling away from where she had been standing. He held Praelior aloft as though it were a shield that could protect him from harm; the foolishness of the gesture dawned on him only at the last.

  The fist of Mortus descended upon Cyrus, slow, as if he were moving in half-time. A scream filled reached his ears and pain wrenched through him. He felt himself come apart, and he knew it was done.

  Chapter 50

  The screaming reached Cyrus’s ears first, followed by the realization that he was not dead. He blinked, his head heavy, his vision blurred. Without knowing, he pushed himself to his feet, felt the balance catch him enough to stand, and he looked down. His armor was covered in blood; his own. His nose was dripping, and the seams of his armor dribbled crimson onto the sands and grass that surrounded him.

  “You’re healed,” came a voice from behind him. He whirled to see Curatio. “I healed you before his attack took you apart. Now go!”

  Cyrus turned back, the scene returning to clarity in front of him. Mortus was screaming in agony. The hand he had attacked Cyrus with was gushing ichor, black fluid that sprayed from the stump as the God of Death swayed from side to side. “Interlopers! Thieves! Oathbreakers!”

  Cyrus felt his head clear and thought suddenly that Mortus was...smaller, somehow...than he had been when he’d first appeared. “I made him bleed,” he said in shock. The God of Death’s head swiveled and focused on him, and three more arms rose to an apogy, ready to strike him down. “I made you bleed!” he called out to the face.

  “Let us continue that trend,” Alaric said, “lest we die.” The Ghost leapt through the air, his sword drawn and raised above his head. The jump carried him high and he swung the sword as he began his descent. Alaric’s aim was perfect—the blade cut through two of the raised arms of Mortus and sent them flopping to the ground as the God of Death screamed and raised his head into the air in agony.

  He can be hurt. He’s not invincible. Cyrus heard the words in his mind. The God of Death is not invincible. Does that mean...? He rushed to the front right leg of Mortus and brought his sword around. Another scream tore from the deity’s mouth, and Cy retracted his blade to find a gash several inches deep in the calf. He pulled back and sliced again, opening the wound further, causing Mortus to stagger.

  “Bring him down!” Terian’s voice washed over Cyrus, and he saw the dark knight attacking the opposite front leg, his sword a frenzy of attacks, none of which seemed to be having near the effect of Cyrus’s. Praelior struck again, carving deeper, to the bone, and causing the God of Death to stumble and fall to a knee.

  Longwell jabbed his lance, burying it a couple of inches into the god’s pelvis and wrenching another agonized cry from the beak. Vara was present in the fray, along with the others; Odellan hacked at the god’s foot until Fortin pushed him out of the way and sunk his hands into the gash, ripping it wider. Alaric soared through the air in another jump and Cyrus watched two more arms flop to the ground.

  Fire crackled and bolts of lightning hit Mortus, drawing more screams from him as Cyrus pressed the assault. Two arms were still flailing along with one stump, and the deity was trying to force himself back to his feet, but the Sanctuary force was swarming, striking, like ants attempting to devour wounded prey. Cyrus climbed to the last arm moving on the deity’s left side and struck it, taking three hard attacks to hack it from the body.

  The last arm swiped at Cyrus, forcing him to jump out of the way, and he swung, grazing it. A squeal came from Mortus, and Cyrus ran his blade along the abdomen as he dodged across and cut into the last arm, which seemed to move more like a tentacle with a hand at the end than a human appendage. It flopped to the ground and Cyrus turned, burying his blade in the God of Death’s chest, wrenching another cry.

  This time, there was no doubt; Mortus shrank before Cyrus’s eyes. He’s getting smaller as the battle goes on, Cyrus thought, plunging the blade through the deity’s chest again and again. The beak swung down to bite him and he ran his sword across the side of the God of Death’s face, drawing a shriek. The deity’s whole body bucked and threw Cyrus off. He fell ten feet and landed on his back, looking up into the face of Larana, who was whispering under her breath, before he rolled back to his feet, sword in hand, ready to strike again.

  Mortus was smaller yet, now just twice the size of Cyrus. His legs had collapsed under the attacks of the Sanctuary army, and his head was drooping. “I...am...the God of...DEATH!” An explosion of magical force sent all the combatants that had been crawling over him flying, and Cyrus skidded back a few feet on one knee, sword in hand. I’ll finish him, Cyrus thought, dragging himself to his feet, intent on nothing else.

  Without his arms, Mortus’s upper body was oddly cylindrical, oozing ichor from the wounds he’d sustained. Three of his legs were removed, and the last was kicking, trying to right himself. His head and neck sagged under the weight of keeping his body upright without arms to balance, and every movement threatened to put him sideways on the ground. He now stood no taller than a man. His attempts at movement reminded Cyrus of an insect, plucked of all its legs, as the God of Death struggled toward the stairs, retreating from the Sanctuary forces.

  A lone figure stepped in front of him, cutting off his escape. “I tried to get you to see reason,” Alaric said. “I begged you not to doom us to this course of action. I gave you every opportunity to escape with your pride intact, with the illusion of infallibility that you and yours have worked so hard to create.”

  “You can leave,” Mortus wheezed. “You can leave without sacrifice!” His leg thrust out, trying to gain traction on the steps and pull him past Alaric. “Let me be!”

  “The God of Death is not forgiving,” Alaric said. “Did you think I forgot?”

  “Please...Alaric! Please!” Mortus halted in his attempts to escape, his beak flapping in desperation.

  “I said the same to you not ten minutes ago. You were deaf to my request.”

  The God of Death coughed, and black ichor spilled down his long torso. His voice changed, from desperation to something else, and a loud, sucking noise came when he spoke. “You...know...what this...means...”

  The Ghost reached under his helm and grasped it with one hand, removing it in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the ground. He looked down at the broken Mortus, his eye coldly impassive as he raised his sword, Aterum, above his head, grasping it with both hands. “I do.” He brought the blade down in one swift motion, and the head of the deity rolled from the body, which toppled over.

  A loud hissing filled the air, and Curatio cried out as if in pain. He clutched the parchment bearing the curse, the one they had liberated from Mortus’s chambers. Fire raced across it like a flame consuming a bit of chaff, and it disappeared from his hand with nothing but a wisp of smoke left behind to show it had ever been there.

  A low, deep rumble filled the air, and the sky turned black. Red lightning flashed and ran down the sides of the Eusian tower. The smell of ozone descended as the air crackled and exploded around them. The figures he had seen before, the screeching phantoms with black eyes and mouths open in horror, were appearing in physical form, their lord and captor now dead. Their screeches resounded, horrifying, shrill, and they began to drift toward the Sanctuary raiders.

  “NYAD!” Alaric’s call echoed over the booming of the thunder as the Eusian Tower released another wave of souls. “TELEPORT!”

  Cyrus did not see the wizard work her magic, nor hear her in the fury of the storm as the winds whipped around him, but he saw the flashes of blue as people started to disappear. He watched Nyad go, then Curatio, and Ryin Ayend, Erith and Vaste, and countless others. Larana was
silent, her orb in front of her, her eyes hollow and watching Cyrus when he saw J’anda reach out for her, grasping her in his arms and vanishing in the magic of teleport.

  The tormented souls were swirling in a vortex above them now, the tempest of control broken loose with the master of the realm dead. They swept closer, and Cyrus exchanged a look with Longwell and Odellan, who remained, and Alaric, as the last few of the raiders disappeared, leaving the four of them alone with one other.

  Vara was on her knees, her sword at her side, eyes dull. He cried out to her, but couldn’t hear the voice in his own head over the howling of the unnatural event taking place around them. She looked over her shoulder, meeting his gaze, and he felt a shudder through him.

  She has no hope left.

  The orb of teleportation glittered before her, waiting to be seized. She hung her head, a silent figure in the midst of the most destructive force Cyrus had ever seen. The tower was cracking; he could hear the structure buckling even over the wind, and it was a terrifying sound. The souls of Mortus’s damned were edging closer.

  He ran forward, crossing the ground to her, watching the phantoms eddying across the ground like a stream unblocked, rushing toward her with soulless eyes, gaping mouths open and screaming. He hit his knees, wrapped his arms around her, gripped her close and reached out for the orb.

  He watched Longwell, Odellan and Alaric seize their orbs, felt Vara fight back, trying to writhe out of his grasp as the magics consumed them, pulled them out of the Realm of Death, and carried them home.

  Chapter 51

  When the teleportation magic receded, Cyrus was left holding Vara in his arms. She was limp, motionless, but he felt her breath against his neck, and her hair was tangled across his face. He stood and lifted her to her feet. She did not fight him.