Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness

by Robert J. Crane

  “I …” Coeltes said, looking at J’anda, lips parted and barely able to form words.

  J’anda held him lightly, almost afraid to touch Coeltes. “Yes?”

  Coeltes stared right at him and blinked. “I thought …” he said, struggling to speak, “… for sure … you’d die … first.”

  J’anda stared into Coeltes’s open eyes, pain creeping in, his face knotting up. “Are you afraid?” J’anda asked him.

  He looked back into J’anda’s eyes, dulled, the pain the only thing keeping him from passing out. “Yes.”

  “Don’t be,” J’anda said and wove the spell of mesmerization with but a thought. Peaceful calm seeped into Coeltes’s mind for the last seconds of his life as his mind went to a place where he had all he ever wanted—and it was less than J’anda would have believed necessary.

  Vracken Coeltes’s neck went slack, and the Staff of the Guildmaster fell out of his hand and bounced against J’anda’s chest. He caught it as it rolled against him, more out of from the surprise than intention.

  And as the shock of what he’d done rolled in his mind, giving him once again that weightless feeling, another sensation spread through him in that instant from the staff, one far stranger, one that was akin to the world slowing to a crawl around him, the battle coming to something approaching a halt as magical energy surged through him in a way he’d never felt before.

  86.

  Terian

  “You are not fated to die in darkness.”

  Terian swallowed hard, the bright light around him like a sunny day shining through closed eyelids. He felt strangely out of place, as though he’d been standing somewhere a moment ago—somewhere dark, yes—and now was somewhere else entirely, as though he’d been picked up by a Yartraak-sized figure and placed in a different position.

  His eyes adjusted to the brightness and he found himself surrounded by blue skies ahead, blocked only a little by the shade of something keeping the light from overwhelming him. It took a second for him to realize that it was a roof overhead, that the light was shining in sideways, that the skies were only visible around him through white sheer silky curtains that blew in the wind, which was cool and passed through his armor as though it weren’t there. It took him another moment to realize that it actually wasn’t.

  “What the hells?” Terian murmured as he looked down to find himself draped in white robes that matched the sheer draperies.

  “Not the hells,” the voice spoke again, drawing his gaze to a figure wearing his armor—well, his armor now—standing between him and the blue skies beyond.

  Terian blinked again. “Alaric?”

  The figure in the helm—his helm, dammit—took a step forward, and the shadow drawn by the light around him allowed his face to clarify. “Indeed,” the old paladin said, taking his own look around. “And it would appear we are in the Tower of the Guildmaster, back in Sanctuary.”

  Terian’s eyes darted around. “So it would. Umm … isn’t this Cyrus’s tower now?” He paused. “Also, aren’t you dead?”

  Alaric shrugged at the query. “Suppose I am. Does that mean that you are also dead?”

  Terian thought about it. “I was certainly heading that way.”

  “Even with that?” Alaric gestured toward Noctus, still clutched in Terian’s hand.

  “I was … overmatched,” Terian said, looking a little forlornly at the axe. “I always thought that the sword made Cyrus who he was, at least since he got it. I guess I forgot that he was pretty good with one before he laid a hand on Praelior.”

  “You’re not bad yourself,” Alaric said, nodding at him. “I am curious, though—why not use your spell, the one that reverses your injuries on your foes?” Terian blinked in surprise. “You know the one, yes?”

  “You were watching that?” Terian asked. Alaric merely shrugged again. “Well, I couldn’t on my father, because he’s dead. No vitality to take. As for Sareea …” He looked down. “I don’t know, I … I suppose I’m a fool, but I’m surrounded by two dark knights and realizing that I don’t want to be anything like either of them.”

  “Mmm,” Alaric said, nodding as he walked toward one of the balconies where the sheer drapes fluttered in the breeze. “And so you fight them as a warrior, without an ounce of magic. It certainly is noble.”

  “You mean stupid,” Terian said, trailing behind the paladin. “I’m taking on two spell-casting knights while injured and refusing to use the one means at my disposal that could save my life.” He gritted his teeth. “It is stupid. And yet—”

  “Stealing the essence of another to save your own life carries a certain unpleasant connotation to you, does it not?” Alaric turned to face him, hands clipped behind his back. “Stirs unpleasant memories?”

  Terian’s throat constricted, almost as though he’d had the lockjaw curse inflicted upon him. “You know me too well.”

  “Just well enough, I’d say.” Alaric kept his hands behind his back and looked at the dark knight evenly. “You chose darkness before, Terian. Chose it.”

  “I know,” Terian said, and his throat felt dry as dust.

  “But redemption is a path we must walk every day,” Alaric said, with a twinkle in his eye, “and you can choose to walk in the light … as you have proven.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in redemption, Alaric,” Terian said, letting loose the feelings that had hung heavy upon him for days and months. “I don’t see how I could.”

  Alaric’s face was inscrutable, save for his smile, which had not moved one bit. “I have faith in you.”

  “Faith in me to what?” Terian cried, looking around him. “I failed, Alaric. I failed, and countless people will die because of it. I may have walked in the light, but I didn’t bring any of it to Saekaj or Sovar, where they needed it at least as much as I did.” He squeezed his eyes shut and felt once more the burning of failure, of fear, of emotion in the corners of them as heat streamed down his face.

  “Terian,” Alaric said, and Terian opened his eyes to see the paladin standing in white robes, his armor gone. He had his hands crossed in front of him now, and suddenly Terian was aware of the armor back on his body now, the helm only obscuring his vision a tiny bit. “Repeat after me: Lacherone, a’shay, metiiree.”

  Terian blinked at him but did not hesitate in following the knight’s command. “Lacherone, a’shay, metiiree.” Light swelled, glowing around him as if the sun had moved to shine in his eyes, and when it disappeared, he was back in the darkness—

  And his father stared at him with his mouth slightly open, Sareea like a statue next to him with her sword frozen in place, her own look of astonishment perched upon her lips.

  “How …?” Amenon asked, the shadow of the caves lying upon him as the light from the healing spell faded.

  Terian blinked into the darkness as the army of undead rattled behind them, unease rolling through them as though they’d seen something—clearly not a ghost, Terian thought ruefully—that had frightened them all.

  “Impossible,” Sareea pronounced, still lingering back, keeping her distance.

  Terian kept the axe level and twisted his back just enough to tweak the spot where his wound should have been.

  It was gone.

  “You were a knight of the shadows,” Amenon said, his surprise twisting to disgust. “You were supposed to thrive in the dark, to live in the dark, fated to die in the darkness—”

  “No, I am not,” Terian said, and he felt a small thrill of excitement run tingling over his scalp. “I choose my path, you don’t choose it for me. I may have been born in the darkness, but I don’t choose to live here, and I damned sure don’t choose to die here—”

  Ayliiron, harajann, epishee.

  The words sprang to his mind and he spoke them like an incantation, and the axe in his hands burst into flame as the army of the undead gasped in front of him, fear lighting their dark eyes at the sight of—

  —of—

  “No,” Amenon gasped, staggering bac
k in horror.

  “Yes,” Terian said and stepped forward with his axe on fire with the holy light of a true paladin …

  … a white knight.

  87.

  Aisling

  “Well, that’s a hell of a thing,” Aisling said. It was certainly not a thing she had expected to see, Terian Lepos in Alaric Garaunt’s armor, wielding Noctus, the Battle Axe of Darkness, on fire from a paladin spell and up against Goliath’s undead army headed by his father and that wench Sareea Scyros. It was almost too much to take in with a single look, in the midst of a battle, but fortunately she seemed no longer constrained by petty details such as fighting when she didn’t want to.

  She slipped through the crowd of guardsmen toward the front of the battle and nearly tripped over Erith Frostmoor’s corpse, which looked like it was already festering from some sort of spell, she assumed. With some effort and without fully knowing the reason why, she dragged the carcass toward the side of the tunnel. Guardsmen looked down as she passed, the corpse making a skiffing noise she pulled it across the dirt of the tunnel floor, the sound of Terian’s battle not quite drowning it out.

  Once she was sure that Erith was out of the way, she stood to watch the proceedings again. She stepped out of the right-side line of the guardsmen that were at least no longer retreating, even if they weren’t fighting, and watched a white knight take the battle to two dark ones.

  88.

  Terian

  The Battle Axe of Darkness sang as he whipped it through the air, bringing it down hard on his father’s sword. Chips of the mystical steel flew through the air, tinging on his armor as he spun swiftly and batted aside Sareea’s attack at his back as though she were moving at a trot rather than a run. He pointed the head of the axe at her and whispered “Sae-aro, pho-ashon!” under his breath as the voice of Alaric bade him, and a burst of force shot forth from the hilt-tip and sent Sareea flying back into the Goliath army, bowling over another six dead men.

  “My son …” Amenon said as Terian turned his attack back to the dark knight.

  “I am no son of yours!” Terian shouted as he brought the axe down again, chipping a quarter inch of metal out of the already damaged blade just above the sword guard. “I failed you and you forsook me, I chose a different path and you denied me! I want nothing to do with you—and you will pay for what you have done to me and everyone else in this place!”

  Amenon’s face crumpled as though life left him, and his sword sagged in his hand as he raised his other hand to desperately strike at Terian. Terian could sense the spell coming, like with Erith. Going to take the soul of your last child to save your own life, Father? Amenon’s fingers jutted forth at Terian’s chest, and Terian knew there was no chance he could strike fast enough stop it in time, not even with Noctus—

  The spell shot forth as Terian brought his axe down to shield himself, and the flame running across the weapon guttered slightly, as though a strong breeze had just blown through. It stayed afire, though, and a sound like screaming filled the air as hints of light shot forth from the axe, following a trail back to Amenon’s hand, still extended in the casting of the spell—

  His father’s eyes went wide, stricken, as the spell he’d sent out to take Terian’s soul drew something else entirely back into him. His red irises grew somehow redder, angrier, and then orange—

  Amenon Lepos burst into flames from the eyes out, a fast-running fire that shot out of every crevice of his armor as his flesh lit. The scream was potent but short, lipped with yellow and red as it flew forth from his mouth in a fiery exhale, and it completely consumed the dead man in seconds, burning him up and leaving nothing but an empty suit of angled armor that came clattering to the ground, still smoking.

  Terian held the fiery axe in front of him, staring at the flames as they burned, dancing on the weapon as though inspired by the sight before them. “He should have known that my soul would disagree with him utterly.”

  “A most intriguing notion,” came the thin, reedy voice of Malpravus as he stepped out of the ranks of the dead army of Goliath. “I confess, my boy, I thought we’d cured you of such sentiments, and yet here you are, standing before me a white knight, in the raiment of Alaric himself, no less.” The necromancer seemed to drift across the ground on air, as though he wore a Falcon’s Essence spell to lighten his passage. “I must admit disappointment; I had such high hopes for you.”

  “I’m not sorry to disappoint you,” Terian said, keeping his axe in front of him like a bulwark to protect his soul. “The path you offered is one I’d never care to commit myself to—power for the sake of power, shunning all decency when the moment arises, forgetting any bonds of fellowship if the chance comes to betray them for greater strength—”

  “You’re all fools,” Malpravus said, shaking his head. “Noble fools, you Sanctuary idiots, but fools nonetheless.” He swept a hand forward to encompass the army of guards behind Terian. “Look at these people. During your battle, they feared for their lives, yet watched you struggle in a fight for yours. Watched. Did nothing. They fear what comes for them, and they should. Death marches the way of all the living, and the only way to turn it aside is power. Yet what do most people do? Chase coin? Fight for scraps? Seek minor influence over others? Aim to breed with someone whose face is beautiful for but a day in the scheme of things?” He shook his head as though casting his words of wisdom before a swinish audience. “No, no. Power endures. In fact, it is the only thing that does.” He looked to the dead, lined up next to him, and the front snapped their jaws as one, at his command. “All else fails, but power endures.” Malpravus’s thin hands came to rest upon his chest as though he were crossing them to meet there. “As I endure.”

  “Yeah, well …” Terian nodded, “… let’s see what we can do about that.” He breathed the words of the spell again, his axe pointed at Malpravus, and was rewarded with a rush of force that burst forth and hit the necromancer squarely in the chest. The black robes billowed as Malpravus was launched over the front row of his army, and the second, and the third. The black cloak fluttered as he fell down in their midst somewhere, like a stone dropped to earth with a handkerchief to trail it.

  The army of the dead quieted in shock, bony jaws open in utter surprise. There was no sound, not from the Goliath army nor from the guardsmen behind Terian, just silence and amazement, and the distant sound of water dripping somewhere far away.

  “You will walk your dead asses out of my city,” Terian said, breaking the still, “or I will exorcise every last one of your empty shells and leave you a pile of burning bones.” He pointed his axe straight ahead, taking a breath that flared his nostrils as he did so. “I will fight you to your second death in the name of the united Saekaj and Sovar, and you will spend the last moments of your servitude burning with holy fire.”

  He thrust the axe forward again and breathed the words, and his blast of holy force hit the center front rank of the undead army and sent bones flying in a storm. It bowled through at least six rows of them, and Terian twisted to his left, firing again with his new spell. He could feel the magic drain, but he cast again, this time to the right, and watched rows of skeletal enemies, barely held together by the rotted remains of flesh, torn asunder by his power.

  Pieces of his foes showered down on the infinite rows of dead behind them, and Terian felt his magical energy beginning to wane. He twisted his lips in fury, again shouting loud enough to be heard through the entirety of the caves. “Now get the hell out!”

  For a moment, he thought it might work. They seemed so tentative, the frightened dead, at the sight of a holy knight standing his ground against them. But then Sareea’s armor clawed its way out of a pile of bones, and further back, he saw Malpravus’s hand do the same, the cowl-shrouded face rising out of a ribcage, wearing a skull as an unintentional hat.

  “Strike him down,” Malpravus hissed, in a voice that sounded amplified by spellcraft, high and horrible, “kill them all!”

  89.

&nb
sp; J’anda

  The fighting had stopped between the mob of Sovar, now quivering at the sound of shouts that J’anda knew originated from Terian, bellowing at the top of his lungs about a “united Saekaj and Sovar” and “holy fire,” and who knew what else. J’anda was barely listening, the Staff of the Guildmaster clenched tight in his hands as he shoved his way through the Saekaj guardsmen, who seemed to be doing a fair amount of quailing in fear at the mere sound of the raised voice.

  With the staff in his hand, J’anda felt as though he could move faster than he had before. It was a curious sensation, akin to the one he’d felt when he’d had Cyrus Davidon’s sword in his hand once upon a time, when he’d asked the warrior if he could merely hold it. He used the staff as a cane, even though it reached slightly over the top of his now-stooped height, and it gave him strength. His speed was much improved as well, and he shouldered his way through the guardsmen with an alacrity he couldn’t recall enjoying even as a young man.

  And so, he concluded, the Staff of the Guildmaster is a godly weapon of some stripe, it would seem. Which might explain why Coeltes never carried it in the presence of Yartraak; I would imagine he’d find that sort of thing threatening.

  Skeletons were dissolving in what looked explosions of bones by the time J’anda reached the last few rows of waiting guardsmen. They were bunched tighter here, and he used the staff to sweep them away at will, pushing them sideways so that he could move to the fore. By the time he reached the front, Malpravus’s hissing voice was filling the cavern with its unnatural sound, invoking the dead to “kill them all!”

  J’anda already had his spell prepared before the first rank of the dead began to charge. He snaked the casting through the front row with ease, tangling the minds of the dead men with all the simplicity of tying a knot with a piece of string. The dead have such simpler minds than those of the living, he thought, remembering the facility with which he had deceived them into avoiding the Kings' Guildhall back in Reikonos. He charmed the front rank, pulling them easily out of Malpravus’s grip and halted them, causing the second row to smash into them while charging. Three of the skeletons dissolved in that moment, breaking to pieces as their minds discorporated.