Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  A slow breath crept out of her lungs, regret filling the air in the cell. “I shouldn’t have left,” she whispered.

  “A common refrain here, in this place,” Dugras said. “I often find myself saying the same thing about my unfortunately timed trip to the privy. What if I’d waited five minutes? What if I’d held it until I got back to the ship? I never thought I’d spend my last days pondering the timing of a piss.”

  Shirri chuckled, the sound just escaping. “You sound rather amused for a hopeless man.”

  “I suppose I’m not entirely hopeless,” Dugras said with a chuckle of his own. “Every time I think this is the end, that I’ll never get out, I think about my captain turning over every stone in this city to try and find me.”

  “I wish someone was looking for me,” Shirri said softly.

  But no one would be, of course. She’d left the last people who might have behind just hours earlier.

  A metallic clang followed, short, sharp footsteps at the door. Dugras barely had time to say, “Someone’s coming,” before the lock was unbolted and the door thrust open.

  Shirri tried to stagger to her feet using the wall as support but stumbled. Dugras caught her, and she made it upright as a shadow filled the room, cast by figures in the door and light from beyond. Shirri was blinded, temporarily, and another figure was shoved into the room with a gasp. It landed at Shirri’s feet and her eyes ran over the dark hair, the dirty robes, and recognition flared—

  “Mother!” she fell to her knees and touched her mother’s face, prompting a groan as the woman lifted her head, eyes alighting on Shirri’s in the dark. Her mother could see in the darkness, always could—her elven blood at work. Shirri’s was a more muddled heritage, her human father having gifted her with eyesight almost as poor as his own had likely been.

  “Shirri,” her mother said, reaching up to touch her face.

  “Such a touching reunion.” McLarren’s voice dripped with mock sincerity. “And now, that you’re both here, together …” the hateful tone evaporated, replaced by something far more sinister.

  Glee.

  “Now,” McLarren said, his pause for dramatic amusement done, “we can begin.”

  44.

  Vaste

  “Pretty sure I’m not supposed to feel this bad after … well, after,” Vaste said, looking out his open door into the hallway of the much-reduced officer quarters. As near as he could tell, now there were but two rooms here, his and Curatio’s. The room still bore the smell of Birissa, an earthy aroma mingled with a hint of perfume.

  Vaste looked around the empty room. There was at least one floor of quarters beneath him; perhaps that was where Alaric was staying, unless he’d decided to move in with Cyrus and Vara. Or just not have quarters at all. All Vaste’s things were here, of course, roughly as he’d left them before Bellarum had “destroyed” Sanctuary—actually just driven it back into the ether. A thousand years, and it had reconstituted itself perfectly.

  “If only I were so easily reconstituted,” he murmured, draping his robes back over himself. He’d opened the door again after Birissa left; it was mostly a sop to his pride and maybe a little bit of a spite, leaving it open in the first place during—well, during.

  “If only you would shut the hell up so I could sleep,” Curatio said, throwing his door open across the hall. The healer stepped out, dark and shadowed beneath the eyes. He cast a baleful gaze upon Vaste. “What is your problem now? I heard the great moaning; I assumed now that your primal crisis of virginity had been solved, perhaps some rest might be had by all—or at least me.”

  “I’m sorry, Curatio,” Vaste said, and he truly meant it. “That was … inconsiderate of me.”

  Curatio blew air soundlessly between his lips and rolled his eyes. “Of course it was. Because right now you are fully up your own arse, and thus incapable of considering others.”

  “Oh … oh gods, I am up my own arse,” Vaste said, taking a step back. “Why … I’ve seen it so often in Cyrus, yet I didn’t recognize it in myself—I’m up my own arse.” He blinked. “I’m—I’m becoming mopey!”

  “Yes,” Curatio said, “very much so. Please stop.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Vaste said. “I’m—I just—I’m having all these thoughts about—”

  “Vaste,” Curatio said, impatience causing him to hiss, “take it from someone who has watched the world change many times, and pondered his place within it more than you could ever imagine—you have a place in this world, in spite of your people’s disappearance. You are valued. Wanted, even—though if you persist in being up your own arse for much longer, you may be less so.”

  “Thank you, I think?”

  “The only way you will solve this problem for yourself is to see that there is a place in this world for you,” Curatio said. “And the only way to do that is to go out and live in it. It’s not as though you can find your place in this new world by just lying in your bed with a beautiful woman, satisfying as I know that must be in the short term.”

  “You have a point, I suppose,” Vaste said. “But how will I know where I’m need—”

  “ALARUM!” The voice rang up the stairs and was followed by the fierce ringing of a bell.

  “There’s a start,” Curatio said. Darting out of his room without closing the door, he rushed toward the stairs.

  Vaste followed only a few steps behind, tempted to cut in front of the healer but then trapped in the narrow staircase as they descended. Looking ahead, Vaste could see Hiressam a flight below, and Birissa a few below that, everyone descending at a run to the foyer.

  When Vaste burst out into the open space, he realized he was in fact last to arrive. Birissa had already made it to the bell, which was mounted by the hearth, and Hiressam was only a step behind her. Both were trying to aid a figure who was struggling to stand upright, blood coursing down the front of his armor—

  “Alaric, what has happened?” Curatio asked with alarm, hand already glowing.

  “Unfortunately, Vaste’s theorem about my weakness to godly weapons was most unfortunately demonstrated,” Alaric said, wincing even as the healing spell causing his chain mail to glow around his gorget. “And by this Tirner Gaull, no less, as he battled Cyrus and Vara.”

  “Oh, infinite hells,” Hiressam said, taking up some of the Ghost’s weight as he slackened and began to fall, Birissa aiding him on the other side.

  “I was forced to leave them behind,” Alaric said, “lest I be decapitated in front of them.”

  “Hardly the sort of the thing that would aid their morale in an already difficult battle,” Curatio said, hand aglow again—but red, this time.

  “This Gaull is a beyond able swordsman,” Hiressam said in earnest alarm as he helped Alaric to the ground and slid him against the side of the hearth. “He reminds me of elven sword-dancers, the warriors who spend a thousand years learning their craft.”

  “Yes,” Curatio said. “Famed for their ability to duel and cut a human swordsman of great renown to ribbons in mere minutes.”

  “That sounds humbling,” Vaste said. “But surely Cyrus the great—”

  “Is a human swordsman of great renown,” Curatio said tightly. “But he is practiced with his blade for a mere twenty-five years or so.”

  “What are you talking about?” Vaste asked with a frown. “He’s a thousand years old.”

  “But he’s spent most of that time in the ether,” Alaric said with a gasp, through gritted teeth. “And he has not practiced with a sword in there. I assure you—an elven sword dancer could tear me apart on even footing.”

  “But he’s not on even footing,” Vaste said. “He’s got a godly—oh. Right. Gaull has one, too.”

  “A godly weapon and fifty times the combined experience of his foes,” Curatio said, taking another step forward. “Alaric—I know you’re in pain, but we must get them out of there.”

  “I know,” Alaric said, struggling now to get to his feet. Hiressam, looking mildly stunned, aided him w
hile Birissa, regarding him with indifference, took a step back. “If I could but stand, I think you have healed me enough to go forth and at least take them back—”

  “You should take us with you,” Curatio said. “We must aid them, and if you should fail—”

  “We’ll need all the help we can get, right on hand,” Vaste said, stepping forward. All that doubt clouding him a moment earlier was gone, now that he had something urgent to do. “Take the two of us.”

  “Then come back for me,” Hiressam said, holding to Alaric’s arm.

  “And me,” Birissa said with a grunt. “You can’t have swordplay without me.”

  “I will do what I can,” Alaric said, grunting. He seized hold of Curatio’s arm as the healer came to him, then Vaste’s, as the two of them took up the Ghost’s weight from Hiressam, who moved back. “But we must hurry, for I fear …” He took a breath. “… I fear. Let us leave it at that.”

  And with a cloud of misty fog, Vaste felt the pull of the ether, and the tug into white nothingness that heralded his disappearance from this world.

  45.

  Cyrus

  The fight was brutal and sharp and hard and horrifying. Sweat dripped down Cyrus’s face and stung his eyes as he stepped sideways, back, forward, minding his footwork even as his strength began to fail.

  He and Vara had Gaull surrounded, their blades raining down on him from both directions, their attacks sure and swift, the sort of onslaught the gods would have found beleaguering, the sort of offense that Cyrus had employed against Bellarum himself.

  And Tirner Gaull … was beating them.

  “I haven’t had a fight this good in ages,” Gaull said, turning aside Vara’s attack with his sword while dodging Cyrus’s with ease. “It’s energizing, you know? Cleansing, really.” His blade moved in perfect parry as Vara’s slipped across his belly but missed him by millimeters. Gaull struck true and pirouetted away, and there was nothing Cyrus could do about it as Vara took a staggering step back, blood coursing from beneath the chain mail at her hip.

  Cyrus moved to aid her, but Gaull came back at him. Two perfectly aimed attacks that forced Cyrus to either commit and be struck or to move aside and stay separated. Cyrus gave way, seething all the while but recognizing the man’s actions for what they were—a means to keep the two of them from presenting a united front while he danced around them endlessly, striking his little stinging blows that would gradually deprive them of their strength.

  And eventually, Cyrus reflected, looking down at a wound on his wrist that was still oozing red, deprive them of their lives.

  Gaull, for his part, had suffered not a single wound save for the bullet that had destroyed his cheek when last they’d clashed. It affected his smile and made his speech thicker, but didn’t seem to slow the man at all. Cyrus was looking for an opportunity to use his last pistol, but Gaull seemed ever on his guard, sparkling eyes turning back at Cyrus any time he tore them away for more than a second. That was cursable, and Cyrus did curse, loudly, enough to draw a smile from Gaull.

  “You don’t like a challenge, do you?” Gaull asked playfully. “Does it affront your ego? Sting your pride?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said. “Also, the people who do it inevitably end up dead.”

  “Your threats carry little weight now that we’re seeing the truth of your abilities,” Gaull said, coming at him with a flawless offense that forced Cyrus back on bad footing. He stumbled and Gaull struck again, a small blow that nicked his elbow through the links of the mail. “Legends can die, it would seem. I think we’ll be proving that shortly.”

  Vara came at Gaull clumsily from behind, wounded hip slowing her advance, and Gaull turned only slightly to deal with her, striking her between the plates of shoulder and breast. She stiffened, then pulled back, more red spurting out across the once-shining silver. She let a little gasp and barely kept on her feet.

  A loud voice suddenly interrupted. “I don’t know that you will be proving anything—other than that you’re a silly little prick with a hole in his face.” Vaste struck, his staff slamming into Gaull’s sword, which rose to block him just in time. Gaull had moved with preternatural speed.

  “Here comes another challenger,” Gaull said, whirling as Cyrus attacked him just then. “The more, the merrier—and the more that will die.”

  “Just one will die, I think,” Vaste said, coming at Gaull furiously, Letum slamming down upon his blade, rattling Gaull’s grip. “And it’ll be—”

  Gaull stabbed at Vaste, and the troll took the hit right in the side. “You,” Gaull said, smirk spreading over his face. “Time to—”

  Something slammed into Gaull from behind, knocking him off his feet before he could deliver the killing blow. Curatio slipped into position next to Vaste, hand already aglow—and red. “You fool,” he muttered. “I told you not to rush in.”

  “Oh, come on,” Vaste said, grunting in pain. “Cyrus needed help.”

  “And this helped him, did it?” Curatio asked, mace in hand. He’d knocked Gaull asunder with a blow the bastard hadn’t even seen coming, and Cyrus wasn’t too proud to admit the healer had pulled it off over anything he’d managed.

  “Well, he’s not hurting from it,” Vaste said, cringing. “Though I obviously am.”

  A burst of dark fog appeared next to Vaste and took up his weight; Alaric had returned. “Come,” the Ghost said, and then disappeared again. Vaste was gone, but Curatio remained.

  “Your numbers are fading,” Gaull said, back on his feet, though a little unsteady. “Someone has called your retreat?”

  That burned Cyrus, and his cheeks went scarlet. He looked around for Vara, but she was already gone. “Well,” Cyrus said tightly, trying to hide his fury and embarrassment, “No legends will be dying today.”

  Gaull stared back at him evenly. “It’s going to happen.”

  “But not today,” Alaric’s voice said, and he was there, beside Cyrus and Curatio both, then they were gone, again, into the ether.

  But before they went, Cyrus saw Gaull’s face one last time.

  Saw the fury.

  Saw the determination.

  And recognized them for what they were.

  He came out of the ether into a beam of light that was shining down on him, in an alleyway some distance from their fight. Vara was there, against a wall, pale and bleeding. Vaste was next to her, green blood darkening his black robes and staining the cobbles beneath him. Alaric was still cringing from the wound inflicted by Gaull, and Cyrus …

  The pains were myriad, and Cyrus thought back to Gaull’s face as Alaric marshaled himself, doubtless to bring them from this area of immediate retreat back to the safety of Sanctuary …

  Gaull would not stop in his quest to kill them. And here was the proof of his power—Vaste, Vara, Cyrus, and Alaric, all wounded. Some beyond the capacity even to fight.

  No, Gaull would not stop. He would be coming again, coming for them.

  And he would not rest until he found them—found them and killed them.

  46.

  Shirri

  “Tell me what I want to know and the hurting can stop,” McLarren said, shrouded in shadows. He was here in the cell with them, overpowering Shirri, as her mother slumped, barely conscious, in the corner, Dugras attending her and watching with a tightly clamped jaw as McLarren asked Shirri questions, each punctuated with an attack when it went unanswered.

  Shirri twitched. She lifted a hand, tried to conjure a healing spell—just a small one, to knit the wounds slightly, ease the pain—

  But nothing came of it, and McLarren stomped on her hand. She could sense his grin in the stinking darkness, the fetid smell of wet straw, urine, and emptied bowels suffocating her. The pain surged in her hand and she looked at him, biting back a scream so as not to give him the satisfaction.

  McLarren held something in his hand. “Have you ever seen one of these?” He threw it up in the air, like a ball, and caught it again. “It quells magic in its presence. You’ll
find no soothing with me—or this—around.”

  “I never did find you … soothing,” Shirri choked out, the taste of blood thick in her mouth.

  He grabbed her by the collar and shook her furiously, eyes squinted. “Tell me what I want to know.”

  “I don’t … know …” Shirri said, eyes lolling. He’d steered clear of hitting her in the head for the most part. A few slaps, sure, but mostly he’d kept from knocking the sense out of her. Part of a well-structured plan to get her to talk where her mother hadn’t, no doubt.

  “Oh, Shirri, I know you’re lying,” McLarren said, and drove a hard slap across her face. “You’ve been striking out at the Machine all day. Carting around some Cyrus Davidon imposter, letting him do your dirty work for you—some mercenary in black armor—you think he can save you from us?” He slapped her again. “From us? You’re going to tell me what I want to know—and now—or else—” And here he brought a knee down into her belly, which seemed to be a favorite target of his.

  Shirri nearly vomited—again, for he’d already done this once—but managed to hold whatever she had left down. She sprawled across the floor, her body just screaming at her that she’d had enough, by gods, how could she not have had enough? And yet he kept going. Soon enough, perhaps, she’d even have to tell him what he wanted to know.

  Perhaps. If he didn’t kill her first.

  “Your mother is already in our clutches,” McLarren said, driving home another slap that Shirri barely felt. “You’re here. You’re not getting out. No one is coming for you. Your mercenaries are surely dead on the square at the hands of Gaull even now. Why would you think there’s any hope for you here?” And he slapped her again, but she only felt the impact, her head rocking back, the pain …

  “What hope do you have left?” McLarren hit her again, and again she barely felt it. “None. None at all. Because there’s no hope for you—you street rat. You and your purloined power, this remnant, this artifact of a bygone age. Hope is for those with a future, Shirri—and you don’t have one. None of your kind does. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll answer the great calling of your kind—I’ll kill you. Mercifully. The suffering will end—and that’s all you’ve lived, isn’t it? Suffering? How could it be anything but, living where you live? Scraping out your life like a chamber maid scrapes out a pot? Yours is the leavings, Shirri—but you discovered something, and I’m going to give you a graceful exit for that—just tell me. Where is it?”