Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “Always a favorite among the stubbornly self-reliant,” Cyrus said, and then, drawing looks from the other four, said, “I know by personal experience, of course.”

  “Of course,” Alaric said. Then, turning his attention back to Shirri, he said, “You need not fear with us.”

  “She won’t believe you,” Vara said, studying her shrewdly. “She’s been running from this ‘Machine’ for so long she doesn’t know how to do anything else.”

  “Mmm,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “The taste of one’s own fear must get quite wretched after a while. Just running all the time, always looking over one’s shoulder. I mean, I wouldn’t know what that’s like myself, but … I imagine it would be horrible.”

  “Look, weirdos,” Shirri said, still easing back. “I appreciate that you all are … fighters, I guess? I’m not. This isn’t the way things are done here—”

  “All evidence to the contrary,” Curatio said, eyeing the slew of bodies around them.

  “Did you hear that?” Vaste asked. “They’ve cured all the violence in the souls of men since we were gone. Will wonders ever cease?”

  “I’d say no, wonders will not,” Cyrus said, still examining the pistol as he picked his way back over to Murrice’s corpse and started to rummage through his belt. What was it he’d used to prepare this weapon …?

  “Yes, you’re a very civilized person in a clearly civilized time,” Vara said, dripping with sarcasm as Cyrus tried to contain a smile of appreciation. He enjoyed her wit when not on the receiving end of it—in much the same way he appreciated her swordsmanship. “We relics should probably just pack up our things and go, because clearly displays of violence on the streets are a product of a bygone age.”

  “You’re all making sport of me,” Shirri said, coming to a standstill and not looking amused.

  “Oh, good, they still have insult-based humor,” Vaste said. “Without that and magic, I’d say all the joy would be gone from the world.”

  “I’ll let you know how sex is,” Cyrus said. “Because if that was gone, too …” He ran a finger over his own throat.

  “This isn’t what you think it is,” Shirri said, still standing her ground.

  “Truly?” Curatio asked. “Because it looks to this practiced eye as though this lot wants something from you that you are either unwilling or unable to give, and they have turned to the means they most easily understand to compel you to cooperate—violence.”

  “But surely it’s not that, Curatio,” Vaste said. “Because she says violence is gone.”

  “I don’t know, that violence still felt pretty real—and quite good—a few minutes ago,” Cyrus said.

  “You sound just as randy about that as the other thing,” Vaste said.

  Cyrus came up with the strange ball of animal skin that he’d seen Murrice pouring in the end of the pistol, uncorked it and gave it a sniff. He made a face. “Smells like Dragon’s Breath.” And when he saw Vaste’s frown, amended, “The alchemical substance, not like a sniff inside Ehrgraz’s mouth. And I’m quite satiated as relates to violence—for the moment. But I’m sure the desire will well again soon enough. Or that I’ll be called back for more, whether I’m ready or not.”

  Vaste blinked. “Are we still talking about violence?”

  Cyrus smiled. “Maybe.”

  “It must have been good to be you during the heydays, before your wife conquered your long arse along with the rest of you,” Vaste said.

  “You have nothing to fear with us,” Alaric said, extending a hand toward Shirri. “We can protect you, whatever comes.”

  Shirri let out a little sigh. “I don’t know who you are … but … thanks. And … no, you can’t.” She looked at each of them sadly, her gaze coming to rest on Cyrus. “If you were really him … maybe. But maybe not even then.”

  “I’m really me,” Cyrus said, pouring a little of the Dragon’s Breath down the tubing of the pistol. He could hear it rattling somewhere in the bottom of the contraption. What was the next thing Murrice had done? He fished through the man’s belt again and came up with some small, papery substance, and a little bag of heavy metal balls. Right. This. He wadded one of the papers up and stuffed it inside, then dropped the ball in after. Seizing the thin rod that was attached to another tube on the side of the barrel, he warred with it until he found a set of grooves that released it, then crammed it down the tube. “I think this is how this works …”

  “Yeah, you’re packing the powder, wadding, and bullet down the barrel,” Shirri said, eyeing him uncomfortably. “Then you just pull back the hammer and press the trigger.”

  “Hm,” Cyrus said, securing the rod in back its place. He lowered the strange latch at the back—she’d called it a hammer—and laid his index finger gently across the—trigger, was it? He pointed it at one of the corpses. With a thunderous boom, smoke appeared and the corpse jerked, a new wound and trail of blood spattering the cobblestones.

  “This …” Cyrus stared at his new weapon in admiration.

  “There are bigger and better than that,” Shirri said. “Or worse and more terrible, I should say. That one’s … outdated. But probably the best a street thug like Murrice could hope for. They’re contraband, after all. Possessing one is a crime.”

  Cyrus stared. “… I could have better than this?”

  “It’s rather like him and swords,” Vaste said. “Or women. Never satisfied.”

  “Until he finds the best,” Vara sniffed. “Then he’s quite satisfied.”

  “You can’t help me,” Shirri said, edging away again. “Any of you. I … I have to figure out how to leave town.”

  “I’d suggest the elf gate,” Cyrus said, slipping the scabbard for the pistol from Murrice’s belt. “Assuming it’s not overrun with … I don’t know … gnomes or something.”

  Shirri just frowned at him. “The gates have been closed for a thousand years. Since the time of …” Her gaze froze on him. “Look, you play him well, but …” she shook her head, “… I don’t have time for games or imitations or …” She looked down. “False hope. I need to scrape up the gold to leave this town, now. I’m sorry for the trouble I brought your way. You should get out of here before the survivors come back with more.”

  Cyrus looked at Vara. “If we’re going to squeeze in a roll in the hay, we should do it before they get back. I’m thinking in practical terms, here—”

  “Shush,” she said, holding up a finger to him and turned back to Shirri. “What have you done to these people?”

  Shirri stiffened. “I haven’t done anything to them.”

  “What hold do they have upon you?” Vara asked.

  Shirri seemed to war with herself. Caught between wanting to tell these strangers—and Cyrus was under no illusions about how she viewed them, as ‘weirdos’—her troubles, but also not wanting to linger.

  Haste won. “I’ve got to go,” Shirri said, and turned away, decision made.

  Alaric must have felt it, too. “We will be here should you change your mind or need our aid again. Our doors remain open to those who seek help.”

  Shirri looked back over her shoulder but didn’t turn. She had a hunted expression on her face; Cyrus had seen it countless times before. “You’ll find a lot who could use it here,” she said, hurrying down the alley. “This is Reikonos, after all, and—”

  “‘There is no hope left in Reikonos’,” Alaric said, softly, as she disappeared around the corner. “That … is something we shall have to change.” Cyrus recognized the tone, of course. He’d heard it from the Ghost before.

  Cyrus stood with the others, watching the girl retreat down the alley, hurrying away. “What do you suppose has happened, to leave this place so … hopeless?” he asked, sniffing the sharp scent of the black powder still clinging to the fingers of his gauntlet. The dust blended perfectly with his metal gauntlets, but the smell helped blot out the stink of this city …

  This strange, rotting city. The thought rose unbidden in Cyrus’s min
d.

  “I don’t know,” Alaric said, and there was the same determination in his voice that Cyrus had heard before, “but we will find its source, and then …” he clenched his own mailed fist, “… solve the problem. Whatever it may take.”

  4.

  “It’s getting a bit fragrant out here,” Vaste said, stepping over the bodies and moving back toward the gates of Sanctuary. A small wall lay at the edge of the street, only seven or eight feet high, blending in with the walls of the squarish building that rose around them. “May I suggest we adjourn back inside? Where perhaps Sanctuary will conjure us some rosewater?”

  “Shall we just leave this mess here, then?” Vara asked, looking at the corpses around them. Vaste was right; already they stunk, the bowels and bladders of these attackers emptied in their moments of death. No groans of pain echoed in the alley, either. Death had come, swift and sure, at the hands of the Sanctuary defenders.

  “I’m not dragging them inside,” Cyrus said, easily stepping over two on his way back to the gate, “I don’t care how much rosewater Sanctuary conjures, there are some smells you just can’t cover up.” He sniffed, looking down at a corpse, which stared back up at him with a stricken look. “Also, I’m a destroyer, not the man who rolls the corpse wagon around town. Cleaning up is someone else’s department.”

  “This is like leaving a trail right to us,” Vaste said, swinging an expansive hand over the bodies littering the alleyway. “I mean, it is outside our gates.”

  “If you drag a bunch of bloody carcasses inside, it’s going to leave even more of a trail, fool,” Vara said, scraping her boots against the cobblestones. They left dark red stains behind.

  “Perhaps a short cleansing might be in order,” Curatio said, and lifted a finger. A small spray of water came out of his fingertip, and washed over his boots, rinsing the ichor from them. He frowned. “I used to be able to command a pond’s worth of water with this spell.”

  “Speaking of one of your former dowsees,” Cyrus said, “I think this may be an improvement.” Curatio turned the spray toward him, but it fell greatly short.

  “There are curious things going on in this world,” Alaric said, staring at the mouth of the alley where Shirri had disappeared. “Some strange Machine that generates fear. Dishonorable weapons that wound your foe at a distance.” He glared at Cyrus.

  “Because casting a flame spell on an unarmed warrior is so very honorable,” Cyrus said drily. “I view this as simply an improved version of the bow and arrow or spellcraft, and if you find that dishonorable, then I don’t know why Sanctuary ever had archers or wizards.”

  Alaric frowned. “I hear your point, and I don’t like it.”

  Cyrus watched the Ghost carefully. “Because you can’t refute it?”

  Alaric was quiet for a moment. “Aye. And because … whatever that thing is, it makes me feel … old.”

  Curatio let out a small laugh. “You come from a world where magic was used to construct buildings the size of mountains. Where it was taken to such an extreme as to scourge an entire people from the face of Arkaria. And you find your honor itching over this small thing?” He pointed at the weapon in Cyrus’s hand.

  “It’s not that small,” Cyrus said, a little uncomfortably.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Vaste chirped.

  “It’s a good size,” Cyrus said.

  “Old, and there are bigger, according to that odd girl. The one who doesn’t think we’re actually who we are.”

  “Clearly her judgment is impaired,” Cyrus said, stuffing the pistol back in the scabbard for it, which he’d now attached to his belt. A sound in the distance caught his attention. “We should get back inside. Close the gates.”

  “You don’t fear these men, do you?” Vaste asked, then stopped. “Oh. Right. Hay-rolling.”

  “Damned straight,” Cyrus said. “The last thing I need is a fight while I’m having a—well, you know.”

  “There are serious issues in need of resolution,” Vara said, familiar impatience rising.

  “Yeah, and I’m one of them,” Cyrus said, picking his way over the last of the bodies and into the open gates. He glanced around; he hadn’t seen much before. His Eagle Eye spell was now working—at least one spell still did—and now he could see the yard that surrounded Sanctuary.

  It was pitiful compared to how it had been before. Where there had once been acres of space, enough to contain a barn, workshops, and archery ranges, there was now only fifteen feet or so of grass before the start of the building itself. An old tree remained in the yard, growing up and over the wall. Its branches hung over into the alleyway.

  The walls, too, were much reduced. Where once they’d boasted a curtain wall that could be held against almost any attacker, now it was but a small partition from the street, one that Cyrus could have climbed with only a little effort.

  “Need a bigger wall,” Cyrus muttered, and before his very eyes it elongated, going at least three feet higher. “Better,” he said, and looked down the way. To grow it any higher would risk making it out of alignment with the walls of the buildings on either side.

  “Sanctuary itself will cloak us once we’re inside the gates,” Alaric said, stepping next to Cyrus.

  “You’re in favor of a retreat, too?” Vaste asked, coming up behind them. “Or are you just hoping Cyrus’s personality will become less thorny once he’s found relief?”

  “I’m not thorny, you uncouth pile of elephant turds,” Cyrus said, rolling his eyes. “I’m the same as ever—and if you don’t stop trying to throw cold water on my modest plans for this next half hour, I’m going to have Sanctuary conjure a goat in your quarters the next time you sleep. I bet you’ll wake up excited to see that.”

  “Disturbing,” Vaste said.

  “Agreed,” Vara said, giving the troll a shove from behind. He stumbled past Cyrus and into the yard. “Now let’s get off the street.”

  “Does no one want to continue this fight?” Vaste asked.

  “Now who’s thorny?” Cyrus asked.

  “We face an unknown host in an unfamiliar land,” Curatio said, stepping within the walls as Alaric and Cyrus moved to shut the gates. “Only a fool would invite that sort of trouble when there is no clear goal. And presumably, at some point, the city guards would become involved in such a conflict. Being new in this city, I should think we would like to avoid running afoul of the authorities—at least until we have reason to do so.”

  “I hate your logic,” Vaste said, watching the gates close soundlessly. Cyrus dropped the heavy steel bar across it, securing them closed. “Because it feels like us going back inside this place again, not to come out for a thousand years more.”

  “It will not be that long,” Alaric said with a faint smile, stepping up the small rise—only three steps now—to the great doors of Sanctuary.

  Cyrus’s eyes ran over the facade. It looked much the same, but smaller. Where before Sanctuary had boasted towers at each corner, now it consisted only of the central building, and perhaps a tower at its center, as ever, though he could not see it from where he stood. Passing beneath the great lintel he realized that the stained glass window above the entry was smaller now as well, barely large enough for a man to pass through.

  “If we go by Cyrus’s endurance, I’m sure it won’t be,” Vaste said.

  “For that comment, I shall prolong our encounter,” Vara said. “Beyond your puny ability to imagine.”

  “Trust me, I will be doing my level best not only not to imagine,” Vaste said, “but to plug my ears so as not to hear. And perhaps to beg Sanctuary to conjure more layers of stone between us to defray any noise.”

  Cyrus listened to them snipe at each other with only the slightest attention. His gaze instead roamed the foyer. The second-level balcony and the massive hearth to his right seemed much reduced. As did the lounge to his left, comprising only a half dozen seats, and ahead, the Great Hall …

  Was little more than a small dining room, with a
central table set for a half dozen. Food waited upon the table, and silence reigned over the guildhall.

  It was in flawless condition, not a gash upon the walls, no sign of burns nor attack, but …

  Nothing was the same anymore.

  “It’s so different,” Cyrus said under his breath, eyes coming to rest on the central staircase just to the right of the Great Hall. It was a fraction of the size it had been before, barely wide enough for one person to walk up at a time.

  “Sanctuary changes to accommodate the space needed—and given,” Alaric said, also sweeping the room with his gaze. “Moving our old guildhall into the heart of the city would be rather more attention gathering that we might wish—assuming we could find a place where it would even fit.”

  “I didn’t really have a chance to look before, seeing as we appeared here and immediately had to run outside to give help to a person who apparently would have preferred death, but …” Vaste gave a small sigh, “it really is different.”

  “Everything is,” Curatio said, steady as a stone. “A thing you will learn, watching the world change around you … nothing ever stays the same except perhaps the nature of people. Things will change, the world will change. But people, with their petty vanities, their cravings for power, even their basic interactions …” And here he favored Cyrus and Vara with a very knowing look that made Cyrus blush, “… those remain the constant as everything else moves.”

  “Forgive me,” Alaric said, and Cyrus turned to see him fading, etheric and cloudy, “but I wish to get a better sense of the world around us … and what shape that change has taken …” And then he was gone, faded into mist and evaporated into the air.

  “I believe I’ll take stock of what has changed within these walls,” Curatio said, looking around. “With spellcraft diminished, seeing that the Halls of Healing remain and are well-stocked seems prudent.” And then he moved toward the stairs, walking up the spiral with a purpose.

  “Shit,” Vaste said, eyeing Cyrus and Vara with undisguised discomfort.