Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  Gaull blocked another of Cyrus’s strokes, turning it aside with alarming ease. Cyrus began to feel a creeping sense of concern as Gaull’s eyes glittered with growing triumph. “There was one, though. A champion among their kind. Strong. Fearless. Capable. He fought us, tooth and claw, and he killed so many of my fellows. But in the end … he fell.” And Gaull dashed in, striking at Cyrus driving him back a step now. “A dagger thrust or twelve in the back when he was fending off the attacks of others … that sorted him out.”

  Tirner Gaull struck a glancing blow against Praelior, turning the weapon aside as Cyrus was about to redirect it to shatter the man. He stepped nearer, and Cyrus prepared to raise a knee to his unarmored gut. Before he could gather his balance to do so, though, Gaull reached out and shoved him.

  Force ran through Cyrus’s body, the same sort he used to punch men across entire rooms. It did not hurl him, the weight of his armor saving him from free flight. But it did make him stumble and lose his footing. Cyrus hit the edge of one of the raised walkways and tumbled into a pit where slaves had labored. The landing stunned Cyrus even as the slaves broke his fall, their cries beneath him as he came crashing down like the pleas of the damned.

  “Was he a friend of yours?” Gaull called, dropping to his knees and thrusting. The tip of Rodanthar found Cyrus’s armpit, open wide as he splayed out over the fallen slaves, and a soft hit turned into blossoming pain. Cyrus jerked, and felt hot blood rush out as he rolled away from Gaull. “The troll?”

  Cyrus came back to his feet, trying ignore the groans of the slaves he’d just rolled over, and the pain that was starting to scream from under his right arm. He transferred Praelior neatly to his left and clenched his right fist. He was on a lower footing than Gaull, who stood, again patiently waiting for Cyrus to make a move against him. The confidence he displayed, coupled with having drawn first blood, made Cyrus uneasy.

  “Indeed he was,” Cyrus said, tasting a little blood in his mouth. He found a place where he’d bitten the inside of his jaw upon the landing from his fall. “His name was Zarnn, and a finer warrior you could not meet.”

  “I imagine not,” Gaull said, remaining utterly still, his sword swinging leisurely around his legs, no worry displayed for any impending attack from Cyrus. “But even the strongest of bull creatures can be bled down, can’t they?” And here he smiled more broadly. “I mean … look at you. A legend. And yet I’ve drawn your blood.”

  “Don’t count on it doing you much good,” Cyrus said, and he mouthed the words to a healing spell. The pain mitigated, but a little trickle of blood remained.

  “So magic does still exist in these lands,” Gaull said, watching his fingers light up with envy. “I have long wondered.”

  “Wonder no more,” Cyrus said. “Ponder instead how long you’ll live with my sword in your guts.”

  Gaull let out a bark of a laugh. “I have other matters of more consequence to set myself to, should I need for entertainments.” He smirked. “To wit—”

  And he thrust his blade down into the fallen slaves, burying it up to the hilt in one man’s back as a strong gasp made its way through. Without pause he thrust it into another, Rodanthar red with the blood of an innocent—

  Cyrus saw a red of his own as Rodanthar’s edge came up fouled by Gaull’s heinous deed. He leapt across the gap between them toward Gaull’s smiling visage, fury pounding through Cyrus’s veins.

  Tirner Gaull met him with a sure stroke, one that struck at the gaps of plate between Cyrus’s cuisse and codpiece. It let out a mighty clang as Rodanthar met the chainmail cleanly, and another sharp poke was Cyrus’s reward even as Gaull seemed to fade before his hard slash, the tip of Cyrus’s sword slicing cleanly toward Gaull’s neck but failing only centimeters away as the Machine henchman bent his back in an almost dancelike move.

  Cyrus stumbled on his landing, the pain in his leg hobbling him a step. He kept from crashing down, but Gaull was upon him, striking at his back most expertly. He found the spot where Cyrus’s backplate ended and delivered a poking blow. Under the assault of a normal sword, it would have a pinprick at best.

  But with Rodanthar in Gaull’s hand, it was much more. It opened a wound at least an inch in length as Gaull dragged his blade across, pulling the chainmail links with it. It bit into the tissue and fat, stinging Cyrus as he staggered away.

  Gaull did not let up, however, lifting his blade and thrusting it into Cyrus’s side, once more finding the place where his plate armor wasn’t, and driving the tip of Rodanthar between the seemingly impregnable mail in order to drag small wounds across Cyrus’s skin. He struck there, then at the back of Cyrus’s knee where the greaves gave way for a small space—

  Cyrus fell to his knees, the pain of these small wounds enough to stagger him but not fell him completely. He threw himself into a roll in hopes of coming up in a more solidly defensible position. He was unsure whether it would work, but tried it anyway. Gaull was so quick, though, he seemed to be everywhere at once—

  And he was after Cyrus, striking him mid-roll, catching him under the gorget as Cyrus began to rise again. Gaull sliced him with a long scratch into the flesh of his neck, missing the artery by a hair’s margin. As Cyrus tried to move sideways to counter, he fell—

  Once more, Gaull was upon him.

  “Truly … I expected more,” Gaull said, greeting him with a solid punch to the face that rang Cyrus’s head even through the blow. “From a legend, after all, from Cyrus Davidon? I guess there’s even less to you than I always thought—” Gaull raised up Rodanthar, poised to deliver a death strike upon him—

  28.

  There it was, his father’s sword, the sword his mother had used in her conquest of the trolls, the sword he’d given to Zarnn to fight the gods—

  And it was about to driven into Cyrus’s own face.

  Tirner Gaull let gleam only a momentary flash of triumph before he brought it down. Gaull was a boastful one, Cyrus could tell, but he wasn’t foolish enough to let his boasting distract him. The motion of the blade as it descended was dizzying, the end point coming straight for his face where he had no defense for it—

  It clanged as another blade turned it aside.

  Ferocis struck it cleanly away and then swiped up, forcing Gaull to dodge back, lightning fast as a silvery figure dashed before him, interposing herself between Gaull and Cyrus.

  “He is so much more,” she said. “For example, he’s also a husband to a very, very vengeful and occasionally protective wife.”

  Gaull let out a laugh. “That’s less about him and more about you, I would think.”

  “Ah, but he managed to win me,” she said, coming at Gaull with as much fury and perhaps a touch more speed than Cyrus had mustered in his assaults. “And that is no small accomplishment—though I doubt a fool like you would understand what it means to win the heart of a woman.”

  “I find little interest in a woman’s heart,” Gaull said, eyes gleaming as he turned aside her attacks as well. “In favor of other, less troublesome and more satisfying parts.”

  “Such as the mind, I do hope—though I doubt you have the class or wit to enjoy that, either,” Vara said, slashing at him. Gaull took the blows with grace, and to Cyrus’s surprise held onto his sword all the while. “Even if you somehow managed to unlock that.”

  “What need have I to joust with some lady’s wit?” Gaull asked. “None I have met could match you in this regard, and still—you will fall before me.” He countered one of Vara’s blows particularly hard, and nearly scored a blow against her chainmail. “Too slow,” he said, and danced back again. “Armor makes a sluggard out of you.”

  Too late, Cyrus realized that Gaull was brilliant at striking at the weakest points of their armor. He’d been fighting and living and fighting more for a thousand years while they’d dwelled in peace in the ether.

  And unfortunately, that edge in skill showed.

  Cyrus was pushing to his feet, fighting the pain. He’d murmured the incantat
ion for the healing spell, but it was doing little in proportion to the damage Gaull had done. In addition, he felt a prickling through his body, and his fingertips glowed red.

  He grunted; Cyrus had reached the end of his magical energy, and unlike before, when he might have been able to drag some more out of Praelior, now things felt curiously empty. As though he were trying to pull water from the air.

  “Your defense is good, as far as these things go,” Gaull said to Vara, dodging one of her attacks. She was faster than Cyrus, but Gaull seemed a step above. His footwork was perhaps the finest Cyrus had ever seen, always certain, never in doubt. “You have a natural skill.” Gaull gave a leering grin. “But I’ve been doing this for nearly a thousand years, my dear; what have you been doing in that time?”

  Vara swiped at him and he turned her aside sharply, exposing her flank. He struck then, and Cyrus heard the breaking of the links of her chainmail, and his breath left him as a sharp splash of crimson splattered the dull machinery beside her.

  Vara sank to a knee, her face in a tight grimace, as Gaull raised up his sword. There was nothing between him and the back of Vara’s neck save air, and as Gaull shot Cyrus look of satisfaction, he began to bring down the sword.

  29.

  Shirri

  The sounds coming from the mill were not encouraging. Shirri could hear them—a dash of screaming, a hint of cries, more trouble than she might have estimated given the ease with which her newfound allies—good heavens, she shuddered to consider these weirdos that way—had gone through the Machine’s previous outposts.

  A swirling blast of grey mist materialized next to her, and from it emerged Alaric and Curatio, causing Shirri to draw her breath sharply. Alaric wore a smile, subtle but present because of her obvious discomfiture, and she glanced away from him with impatience and annoyance at his obvious glee from startling her.

  “I take it the liberation of this place from the Machine goes well?” Alaric asked.

  “Slaves keep running out,” Shirri said, folding her arms before her. “People keep screaming inside. I suppose that augers well for your people.”

  “And, let us hope, your mother as well,” Alaric said.

  “Let us hope,” Shirri whispered, though she did not dare to hope any longer. For all she knew, her mother had been summarily executed by the Machine sometime in the night.

  “Do not despair,” Curatio advised, “for despair ages us all long before our time.”

  “Is that your secret?” Alaric asked with great humor. “Failure to give in to despair?”

  “That and a life energy that seems to fail to deplete,” Curatio said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Get my mother back and perhaps I’ll stop despairing,” Shirri said as another bunch of slaves came running out of the mill, beating a hasty retreat into the city streets. Probably heading to the homes they had before the Machine had snatched them.

  “If that’s what it takes,” Alaric said. “But I am curious—why does everything here seem so hopeless?”

  Shirri let out a sharp laugh. “You’re joking, right?” He stared back at her evenly. “You don’t see it?”

  “I see a city more prosperous than the one I left,” Alaric said, “I see houses more impressive than the ones that stood here before. I see—”

  “I see grey, grim lines everywhere I go,” Shirri said, looking at the ash that gathered in the joints between cobbles along the road and sidewalk. “I see a city choking, barely able to breathe from the black smoke piping out of every chimney. I see food that’s brought in and sold at prices that make the richest in the city balk. I see no easy ways out, unless you want to ride an airship over the deadly grey hellscape between here and anywhere else—and plenty do, they’re so starved for hope. I see a Machine that watches over this city with a constant eye, waiting for someone to show some talent, some ambition. And the moment they do, the Machine swoops in, finds out what’s special about you, discerns how they can bleed you dry—and then they do.” She bowed her head, all passion expelled; now she was tired and limp as a wet rag. “So tell me, Alaric—what is there to have hope about?”

  “That things will get better,” Alaric said. “That now that we’re here, something will change.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Shirri said, giving him a tight, cynical smile. “Because so far … all you’ve done is break a couple of the Machine’s fingers. And I’m guessing they’re going to punch back—soon. You’ve scarcely seen what they have to offer yet.”

  “Then I suppose we have something to look forward to,” Alaric said, with a thin smile of his own. Unlike her he actually did seem to feel, and perhaps even be pleased about more trouble rolling their way.

  “Yeah, well—” She started to reply, but a sharp scream, different from the general shouting, from the mill cut her off, and Alaric was only there for another second before he vanished into mist, leaving her standing there with Curatio.

  30.

  Cyrus

  The sword was descending on the back of Vara’s neck, and Cyrus was too far away to do anything about it. He gasped for breath in the dusty air, choking on terror.

  Vara was on all fours, Ferocis still in her hand but unable to push herself back up. Blood drained from the hole in her chainmail beneath the armpit.

  Cyrus’s eyes met Vara’s as the blade came down. His mind ran desperately through his options, but could come to only one conclusion:

  Gaull was going to take her head off. And given the enfeebled state of healing magic now … Cyrus wondered if they would even be able to reattach it once the deed was done.

  A sharp, electric bolt of fear ran through Cyrus’s guts. He stared into those stunning blue eyes as the sword traversed its last inches to the back of her neck, and he felt like he could read her thoughts—

  Pain.

  Fear.

  And a glint of … cleverness?

  Her eyes went dull and unfocused as he stared at them, turning a kind of hazy, almost grey—

  And the sword passed cleanly through the back of Vara’s neck—

  Then slammed into the floor with great force, striking loose chips of stone that flew in all directions.

  “What the hell …?” Gaull asked, blade all the way down at the floor—

  Vara’s head was still firmly atop her shoulders.

  She rolled and kicked him, and Cyrus saw at last—

  She’d gone ethereal, just for a moment, as the sword came down upon her.

  Vara rolled to her feet and rose, huddled over, her blade in hand and pointed at Gaull defensively. She was still wounded, still badly injured, but her guard was up again and Gaull was staring at her, one arm over his stomach and the other keeping his blade aloft defensively. He had a look of fierce determination on his face, Cyrus could see it even though Gaull was turned sideways in profile to him. The next attack was coming, and soon—

  Cyrus drew his last pistol, clicked the hammer and pointed it right at Gaull’s head. He jerked a little too hard on the trigger as Gaull lunged forward—

  Gaull’s scream was high pitched with fury. He staggered back, blood running down his face where the bullet had creased his cheek. It was split wide, and part of his ear lobe was missing. Gaull threw a furious look in Cyrus’s direction, then Vara’s, but neither seemed capable of rising to fight him.

  “You—you —” Gaull lunged toward Vara. He was still lightning fast and sure-footed, and her weak defensive guard was not going to be enough to turn his blade away.

  “NO!” Hiressam leapt into the fray and turned aside Gaull’s blade with skill, though not speed. Gaull saw him coming and twisted, elbowing the elf, who turned to mitigate the blow. Gaull came around and tried to cleave Hiressam’s head from his body with fury and his enhanced speed, but again, the elf was one step ahead, going defensive and moving back, carefully, though slowly, and allowing Vara to become the third point of a triangle comprised of him, her, and Gaull.

  Vara reached out to strike at Gaull
, and the Machine henchman was forced to counter her while Hiressam made a probing strike. Gaull tried to lash back but Hiressam was already guarded, taking no chances against his faster opponent.

  Cyrus lurched to his feet and tried to come into the fray, but Gaull slashed at him, driving him back after seeing him out of the corner of his eye. “This is not my end but yours,” Gaull said, batting Praelior aside when Cyrus made a weak thrust of it. His hand was numb and he felt as though he had little left to give, his attack so frail an infant might have been able to guard against it.

  “Is that so?” Vara asked, and a force blast pulsed from her fingers, distorting the air around Gaull as it threw him back a few steps. Cyrus moved into position next to Hiressam and Vara, forming a tight defensive line opposite Gaull.

  Tirner Gaull stared back at them, Rodanthar held high. “I nearly beat all three of you.”

  “You came nowhere close to beating me,” Hiressam pointed out, coolly but proudly.

  “Legends,” Gaull said with a derisive snort. “Legends indeed.”

  “Don’t knock my legend,” Cyrus said. “I did just give you a new scar, after all. You won’t be quite so pretty when next we meet, Gaull.”

  Gaull touched his cheek, and his eyes flashed like furious lightning had gone off behind them. “When next we meet … I’ll take your sword, kill your wife—or worse. Perhaps some combination thereof.” And he grinned. With a faux salute, Gaull leapt over a piece of machinery and was gone.

  “Excellent timing, Hiressam,” Cyrus said, slumping against a nearby support beam made of thick metal and folded to be all right angles and strangeness. “Though I admit—I am a little concerned that you decided to go toe to toe with a godly weapon with nothing but regular steel in your own hand.”