“I’m...certain Longwell’s father will be pleased at any additional assistance we can offer.”
“His son has earned our loyalty.” Alaric gripped the back of the chair. “We will repay that fidelity in kind; we will help stave off the ruin of their kingdom and it will assist us in preparing our forces.”
“We’ll likely be gone for several months,” Cyrus said, looking away from the Ghost’s piercing gaze. “You’re certain you’re all right with that?”
“Whatever calamity comes our way will not be dissuaded by whatever inexperienced warriors go with you. We can defend Sanctuary against most any danger with even a few hundred defenders.” He looked at Cyrus, unblinking. “But I suspect your absence will be...noticed.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Cyrus said under his breath.
“Before you go...” Alaric held out a hand, as if to stop Cyrus. “I know the revelation that the gods are not invincible intrigues you. I do not want you to use the Army of Sanctuary against the gods in the future, do you understand? I want your word.”
“My word?” Cyrus blinked in disbelief. “Do you really think my mind is on that right now?”
“I think I am about to send you across the world at the head of an assemblage of our forces, and I want your word that no matter what happens, you won’t go after the gods.” Alaric’s eye burned with a fire and he closed the distance to Cyrus. “We were lucky that Mortus is so ill-favored among his own kind, lucky to kill him without any casualties. That luck may not extend to another god, and I don’t want you getting the idea that hunting deities is anything other than utter foolishness.”
“He died so quickly Alaric—”
“We...were...lucky!” The Ghost reached over and seized Cyrus by both shoulders, shaking him. “If you lead your guildmates into battle with another god, there will be death. Put aside your pride and listen to what I am telling you!”
“All right,” Cyrus said. “I...won’t go after them.”
“I want your word.” Alaric’s hands still rested on Cyrus’s pauldrons and he held firm.
“I promise,” Cyrus said, his words coming out soft and low.
“Very good.” Alaric looked away and strode back to the window. “Assemble your veterans. I will give the orders for the recruits to meet you in the yard on the morrow. Take at least five wizards or druids with you to send messages back with your progress.”
“Thank you,” Cyrus said. He paused, uncertain what else to say. “I’ll...see you in a few months.” He turned to leave but Alaric’s voice halted him at the door.
“Farewell,” the Ghost called out.
“Goodbye,” Cyrus returned. “We’ll see you then.”
As the door closed behind him, Alaric’s reply was nearly lost, but Cyrus could have sworn, underneath the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, he heard a whisper.
“No...you won’t.”
Chapter 53
The day dawned bright, sunny and glorious, with just the hint of bitterness that accompanied late winter. The warmth of the sun was offset by the chill of the morning air. As Cyrus made his way down the steps, he found the foyer in a state of odd quiet. I’m late, he thought, but the rest of the guild must be sleeping it off; undoubtedly they had a celebration.
He passed the doors to the Great Hall and saw a lone figure inside. Larana sat at a table and turned when he passed, her face smudged. She stared at him for a long moment without saying anything, then rose and made her way to him. He waited for her, stunned and curious in equal measure as she stopped, grabbed hold of him and hugged him close, finishing by giving him a simple kiss on the cheek. Her eyes were wet, and he felt a droplet splash as she pulled from him and ran back into the Great Hall, disappearing into the kitchen where he could not see her.
He turned mechanically and walked out the front door of Sanctuary, ready to go to the stables. He halted at the top of the steps, blinded by the harsh light of day and stunned by what he saw once his eyes adjusted.
“Company...present arms!” Thad’s shout jarred him back to awareness. The grounds were filled with members and recruits, with a company of at least a thousand assembled in formation, ready to march. The officers waited in two rows on the steps, presiding. To either side of the formation stood well-wishers, members cheering for their brethren, laughing and waving.
Alaric approached Cyrus, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “Your army awaits, General.”
“There must be over a thousand here,” Cyrus said in awe.
“Eleven hundred and fifty, but who’s counting?” Vaste, as always, weighed in with no small amount of irony.
“You, apparently,” Terian said.
“I don’t...” Cyrus stuttered as he looked over the assemblage. “I mean...I didn’t think...”
“You never do,” Erith sighed, “but we love you anyway.”
“Did you think that these new warriors would not want to follow their general into honorable battle in a new land?” Alaric squinted at him in the daylight. “They fell over themselves volunteering; in fact we had to refuse numerous veterans in order to keep the numbers within reason, else you’d have taken nearly everyone with you.”
Cy looked again over the crowd, overwhelmed. “I see.” He turned his eyes to the bottom of the steps, where horses awaited. He saw Aisling, shifting back and forth on a stallion next to Terian’s destrier, which waited for its master. Odellan waited, his winged helm standing out in the crowd. Martaina Proelius waited ahorse, whispering something in her mount’s ear while Mendicant the goblin looked bizarre on a pony.
“Anything to say to your army before you depart?” Alaric indicated the assembled crowd.
“Uh...” Cyrus coughed, then cleared his throat. “Today, we take the Army of Sanctuary into a new land, in support of a very dear friend. This is the heart and the essence of what we do. We hear of someone in need, and do all we can to assist them. There is no more faithful friend than Sanctuary—and no more faithful enemy, either, if it comes to that. Mortus learned that last night.” He saw Alaric blanch out of the corner of his eye.
“When I joined Sanctuary, it was for a far different purpose,” Cyrus said, voice straining as he shouted to be heard. “I came here to get better weapons and equipment, so I could pursue my ambitions of being a more powerful warrior. I was willing to invade any land, take from any god, goblin or dragon that had what I wanted, and do whatever it took to achieve my aims. But what I learned in lessons about honor, brotherhood and fidelity here changed my mind.
“We march now to a far off kingdom, without hope for reward, because a friend has asked for help. This is our true mission. What we’ve done in the past, be it striking down the Dragonlord or invading Enterra, has been for noble reasons. No other guild would do these things, and yet they are what define us. We fight for honor, for our brethren, and for those who can’t fight for themselves.
“Thank you, all who have come to wish us well. We will go and do our duty, and return before you know we’re gone.”
At the last word, he walked down the steps toward Windrider, who waited next to Aisling. It felt like the longest and loneliest walk he had ever taken. He took the reins from her and threw his saddlebags across the haunches before stepping up. Terian joined him, as did Longwell and Curatio. Cyrus looked at the healer in confusion. “You’re coming?”
“Aye,” the elder elf replied as he mounted his horse with ease. He looked away, toward the horizon. “I think it would be for the best if Alaric and I parted ways for a bit.”
Cyrus raised his hand in salute, and was matched by those lined up on either side of his army. He looked back to the assembled officers, all of whom were present save one, either on the steps or ahorse with him. He urged Windrider forward, leading the riders around. The army, neatly broken up into six blocks of soldiers, executed a turn toward the gate and began to march as he took the lead, the others behind him at a canter.
“We’ll teleport once we’re beyond the wall,” he said to
Nyad, who rode next to Ryin Ayend. “You know the portal we’re going to?” The elf nodded. “Good.”
He stopped just beyond the gate, moving Windrider to the side of the road, and looked back, beyond the wall, above the crowd, to the tower in the center of Sanctuary. Far, far up the side, he looked for the windows almost at the top, where the officers were quartered. One was open, and a dot of blond hair was visible, even so many stories up.
Does she know that I’ve been fighting for her all this time? Does she care? Does it matter? The cold cynicism blanketed him, chilling him far more than any winter could. Time to go back to doing my duty, he thought, and fighting for Sanctuary.
He turned and rode back to the front of the line, leading his army away, out of the gates—and off to war.
NOW
Epilogue
Cyrus blotted another tear from his eyes and cursed himself for his weakness, then shook his head. The rain continued outside, and the dreariness caused him to curse again, before he turned his attention back to the words in the book.
Niamh is dead. I can scarcely believe it. She was such a force of personality, such a mischievous dreamer, such a happy spirit that I could not believe her age when first I heard it. I was certain she had to be of the youngest generation, like my sister, but no, she was over six hundred—and still young at heart, wild and free, happier and more full of life than anyone I have ever met, even the humans.
Until now.
And because of me.
I don’t know if these assassins have come to Sanctuary because I am shelas’akur or for some other reason, but I know that more than I can express, I mourn Niamh. Any brightness that may be manifest in my grim personality is not a result of myself, but of her—the constant example that I need to, in her words, “lighten up.”
I remember more than anything the day she told me something I didn’t want to hear. We had finished watching Goliath get run out of Reikonos and she was off to visit her family in Pharesia, and me to mine in Termina. She teleported me to Santir, and caught my arm after I thanked her but before I could get away. “I think he loves you,” she told me.
“I think you’re wrong.” She and I were officers together; we’d been on more than a few adventures, and yet we were no closer than any two other members of Sanctuary. “I suspect he merely feels the heat of that which he carries betwixt his legs.” I was lying, deflecting what she was saying. I was warming up to Cyrus Davidon, but I was hardly ready to accept anything but sincere affection at that stage. One step at a time, I believed, was most prudent.
“That too,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean he’s immune to the other.”
“You exaggerate,” I told her. “I am fond of him as well, but we’ve only known each other for a couple of years—”
“A veritable eternity to humans,” she replied. “He feels it; you clearly feel something back. Life—even for us elves—is too short and entirely too unpredictable to continue to let it drag out.” She shrugged. “Just making an observation.”
Before I could tell her to keep her observations to herself, she teleported away in a gust of wind. Now that she has died, just a few months later, all I can think about was what she had said about life being too short. Even for us elves indeed.
Cyrus rubbed his eyes, turned the page, and looked at the next passage.
I can’t believe he followed me. I’ve always suspected him of madness, but I never anticipated that he would come with me when I left. It’s been days since we left Sanctuary, and now we’re in Termina. Home.
Yet with father ailing, it doesn’t feel like home. Mother, as usual, is on the warpath. From the moment we arrived, all she has done is spit ill-considered wattle at Cyrus. He responded finally, once we were out of sight, by rubbing his hand across a painting in the hallway. Of course, we could hear it along with his whispered admonition of, “Enjoy the smell of that, hag,” and Mother knew right away what he’d done.
“I heard that,” she screeched at him. “Keep your hands off my things!”
The door shut behind him, but we still heard his reply. “Yes, Mother.”
She turned to me and gave an approving nod. “I like him. He’s much wittier than your last.”
“He’s not my...” I clenched my jaw shut in frustration. “...anything.”
The sound of rain cascading from the top of the tower was soothing. Cyrus flipped the page and looked to the next passage.
I stared down at my father, and he looked back at me. “You seem conflicted, my daughter.”
“Is that so unusual?” I asked him, trying to hide my fears behind a smile that was as fake as Aisling’s desire for anything but rutting. I couldn’t believe he kissed me. I couldn’t believe I kissed him back. And I couldn’t decide whether I was incredibly happy or just the opposite, so I believe I might have come off somewhat stern.
He frowned. “You are never conflicted. Your sister, she wavers, uncertain of what to do. You? Never. You always knew what you wanted and never hesitated to go for it. You are like your mother in that regard.”
“You make it sound like a personality flaw.”
He chuckled. “Hardly. I have been in many businesses in my life, after my days as an adventurer. Especially since you came along. The lesson I learned,” he said, turning serious, “is that life will only give you as much as you’re willing to fight for.”
“I’m not certain I have any more fight left in me.” I admitted it with a trace of sadness.
“I’ve felt that way myself,” he said. “The days came when things were hard, when nothing went right, and it had been a string of bad news and setbacks, sometimes for months at a time. I would get down and dispirited. Your mother kept me going, even when I didn’t want to. A business would be dying in my hands and she wanted me to turn it around—and believed I could.”
“I don’t think this is quite the same,” I told him.
“It’s exactly the same.” His eyes glittered. “The stakes are just higher. You put your life on the line in battle to get what you want, to shape your life to your whims by taking on adventure. I’ll be the first to tell you that life will hit you hard, regardless of what you do—adventurer, business person, king. No one is immune to the brutal reality that you lose people in life. That our decisions sometimes have horrible ramifications, even the innocuous ones. That people die. And that you may feel responsible, but have nothing to do with it.”
“What if I had done something different?” I asked him. “This...person...who died for me might yet be alive.”
“Perhaps.” He shook his head. “Perhaps not. You were born into a role that you didn’t ask for. Being the chosen one of your people, their last hope, was not a fair position to put you in.” His eyes hid behind a veneer of pain. “Not for one so young. Not to have so much piled upon your shoulders.”
“Shhh,” I told him. “I’m not so young anymore.”
“You are to me. You’ll always be to me.”
The sound of an argument made its way up the stairs and I exchanged a look with my father. We heard mother’s heated words, lashing at Cyrus, and he inclined his head toward the door. “Go.”
Cyrus remembered the argument and the kiss that had happened only scant minutes before it. His brow folded downward, as he recalled what had happened after, the battle for the bridge...and all else.
I stormed into my room to change, Mother on my heels. Cyrus and Isabelle had left, and I was to join him, to “take a walk” is what I had said. In truth, I cared naught for the walk. I only wanted to find a secluded place where I could kiss him. As utterly rubbish as it sounds, it is true. Me. All I wanted was to feel him against me. If we found a place private enough, I think I would even have been amenable to more.
Mother followed me into my room as I slipped on my undershirt and cloth pants. “Have you given any thought to what will happen in the future?”
“Yes, I have,” I said offhand. “I think, in the next few minutes, I’ll strip him naked, get astride him
like a harlot, and ride him until I wring every sound of pleasure from his lips that I can.”
My mother let out an elvish curse. “You think of only what will happen in the next minutes and hours and days, but not that which will fill the rest of your life. You’re still a child—and you think like a child.”
“Yes, well, what I’m about to do to him is distinctly inappropriate for children.” I graced her with a wicked smile.
“He will die when you are barely an adult in our society,” she said with anger. “He will be dust by the time your second century rolls around. You can’t even be covekan with him, experience the most intimate emotional bond of our people, because he’ll be dead before he reaches an age where he can experience it!”
“I don’t care!” I shrieked at her. “It’s MY life! Mine! Not yours! This is why I left at fourteen, to get away from you and your incessant need to tell me what to do in every instance. I don’t care what elven society would have me do; I care less what you would have me do.” I finished strapping on my breastplate and pulled myself up to my full height, which allowed me to look down on her. “I care about what I want to do.” I didn’t bother to hit her with the shoulder of my armor as I passed, but given her expression, you might have thought I did.
“If you mean to do what you say,” she said with an air of haughty triumph as I reached the door, “then why are you putting on your armor?”
“Because I’m a paladin,” I shot back at her. “A holy warrior of Vidara, sworn to the cause of defending those who cannot defend themselves.” I took two steps back toward her and put my finger in her face. “And because the length of time to take it all off only builds the anticipation and heightens the pleasure for when the moment arrives.” I shot her a dazzling, evil grin and stormed out, leaving her with a look that was distinctly...disappointed.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 43