Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “Hear, hear,” Cyrus said.

  “Don’t be an arse in my moment of confessional regret,” Vaste said, “you can’t pull it off nearly as adroitly as I can. Anyway … I have been a selfish prick. A self-centered one, worried only about myself when everything around us in this city has clearly gone to shit. My life was never better than when I was surrounded by my brethren here in Sanctuary. Not when I was in Gren. Not when I was here in Reikonos, or any of the other places I’ve lived and felt like an outcast. When I was in Sanctuary, everything made sense because I worked toward the purpose Alaric just laid out.” He looked at Alaric, and raised Letum, leaning the length of the staff down the table toward the Ghost in a gesture of offering. “I don’t want to think about myself anymore, Alaric. If you’re refounding Sanctuary, I want to be part of it so that I can drown my selfishness in service—and become the kind of person who is eminently worthy. Who is defined by their actions, not their stupid, self-serving thoughts.”

  Curatio stood and flipped his mace so that he had hold of the round end and offered the haft to Alaric. “You have long had my aid if ever you needed it, and I have pledged myself to your cause before. Now, all these long years later, I find my ardor for your ideals even more inspired, if possible. To be part of this group is to make even an old man like me feel young again. To do the good we have tried to do—and to make good all that we have failed upon—that is a noble quest which I would gladly expend all my years upon. You have my aid, too, old friend, should you want it.”

  Vara started to stand. “I—”

  Birissa knocked her chair over getting out of her seat, and drew her immense blade, holding it delicately with one hand as she extended the hilt to Alaric. “Can I live here if I serve with this … crew?”

  Alaric blinked at her. “… Yes.”

  “I’m in,” Birissa said, and when she saw others staring at her, she said, “Reikonos rents are ridiculously expensive. And if I can use my sword to fight people … this sounds perfect for me.” She glanced sidelong at Vaste. “There might be other benefits as well.”

  “Oh my,” Vaste said, breaking into a smile when he saw her leering at him pleasantly.

  “Well, all right then,” Vara said, pulling Ferocis from its scabbard and pointing the hilt toward Alaric. “You pulled me from the jaws of death long ago and saved from a fate worse than it, I think. I had long used avarice as my guide, seeking challenges and riches—and it nearly killed me. But you saved me, you and Curatio and …” she looked at Cyrus. “… another. You brought me here, where I found fellowship and eventually someone who could love me for the … somewhat prickly person I am.”

  “We were all surprised on that day, I assure you,” Vaste said. “It gave me hope there’d be someone out there for me.” And here he smiled at Birissa, receiving a smile in return.

  “Sanctuary has made me better,” Vara said, “it made me whole, these ideals. Filled that gap in my soul—”

  “Did anyone else’s mind just go somewhere dirty?” Vaste asked.

  “Stop it,” Curatio said. ”And … yes.”

  “… that no riches nor conquest at the head of an army could sate,” Vara said, ignoring them both. “Finding the simple joy in putting my sword toward righting the wrongs of this world was something that I had never realized I had always wanted. A curious ignorance for a paladin, but then … there I was. If that is to be our mission in this new world, I can think of no greater thing for us to do. I am most definitely in.”

  “Hey,” Dugras said, rising to his feet, head just a little above the table. “I kinda wandered here not knowing what’s going on, looking for somewhere I could hide and not get taken back the dungeon. But now you people are actively planning to go back to the dungeons … and beat the people who dragged me from my ship.” The dwarf’s eyes fluttered. “Okay. That’s laudable. I come to Reikonos quite a bit. I’ve never met anyone who had the balls to throw a punch at the Machine before, let alone somebody who actually took them down a peg. That’s really impressive.” He shook his head slightly. “I’m not from here, and I don’t know if I’ll be staying long—I owe my service to my captain, you see—but … if you don’t mind me serving two masters … what you’ve said is noble, and it inspires me.” His eyes looked moist, his face sincere. “I would join you for this. And … I don’t know if I can aid you completely … I’m really more of an engineer than a fighter, though I might have a couple tricks up my sleeve if you give me a bit … but I guess what I’m saying is,” and he pulled one of the plain pistols that so many in the Machine seemed to carry, and turned it so that the barrel pointed toward him and the grip toward Alaric. “I’m in for knocking over the Machine and … maybe more. We’ll see.”

  Finally came a silence at the table. Cyrus, still seated, noted he was one of only three that remained so. Pamyra still sat across from him, though she was no longer glaring. Now her eyes rested on her lap, though she flicked her gaze to Shirri at her left when there came motion from the girl.

  “I’m with you,” Shirri said, standing and looking down the table at Alaric. “I’ve lived in this city in fear … for so many days of my life.” A glistening tear ran down her pale cheek, and now Cyrus could see the resemblance to her mother … and to Andren. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to live without hope anymore. I want to believe that there could be a better tomorrow—for me, for everyone here—and that will never happen with the Machine. They have dogged my steps for … so long now. They will keep coming until there is nothing left of me but tatters. They do this to anyone they set their eye on, anyone they think they can use.” She brushed her cheek with her sleeve. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to live without hope any longer. If you want to break the Machine … I will help you however I can.”

  Pamyra stared up at her, mouth slightly open, blinking. “Oh … Shirri …”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Shirri said, keeping her eyes fixed, determinedly, on Alaric. “I can’t live like this anymore. Life under the Machine is no life at all. I would rather die trying to knock them over than endure a life being crushed under the weight of fear.”

  Pamyra stared at her for a moment before she bowed her head once more. “Is this …” and she looked up at Cyrus, “… why he fought with you?”

  Cyrus met her gaze, and beneath the loathing he’d seen was pain; pain that Cyrus hadn’t even dared to look in the eye. “Yes,” Cyrus said quietly. “We started … looking for riches. Andren, I, and one more. But when we came to Sanctuary …” Cyrus swallowed hard. “Everything changed. Somewhere along the way, we stopped fighting for wealth. We stopped fighting to be the best … and somehow we became the best anyway. And we fought for each other. For others. Andren died trying to save the elven kingdom, to save the entirety of northern Arkaria from certain doom at the hands of the titans.” Cyrus’s mouth felt dry. “And in this … he succeeded … and yet still … we didn’t entirely succeed.”

  “We have not failed until we have failed to try again,” Alaric said, still standing tall at the head of the table, so many weapons offered him. “You mourn the loss of a battle, Cyrus—and a heavy defeat, no doubt. The casualties are high, and the field looks grim indeed. But the war we have long fought is hardly over. The enemies before us are great—but together—we can build an army again, one mighty enough to challenge them, to beat them—to win this day and all the days going forward.” His eye glinted. “Join me, General … and we will see the glorious days of Arkaria—and Luukessia—renewed once more.”

  “I … would be with you for that, I suppose,” Pamyra said, and now she stood, putting out her hand like her daughter had. “I learned spellcraft in the days of old, and learned to use it through the suffocating wane of magic. I taught my daughter,” and she nodded at Shirri. “I fought for other guilds, for governments, in the days before the breaking of the Leagues. I fought for anyone I chose after that—and then I searched … for something … ever since.” She still looked at
the table. “For my father, I suppose. For the reason this man—this … achingly flawed man … would give up his life. For … a cause, I suppose.” She took a deep breath, and her shoulders moved with it. “Now … I see it at last. The company he kept in life must have led him willingly into death. Your ideals …” And she swallowed, “… are worthy in a way no guild I ever worked for were. Now I see it,” she said, “and now … I am with you. I only wish … that I listened to my father … and had seen it a thousand years ago.”

  “A thousand years ago … you would have been one of many,” Alaric said, “Now, you are here at a new beginning, with new skill, when we need you most.”

  Pamyra nodded. “Aye. I suppose I am at that.”

  Another silence fell, and Vaste cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Cyrus. “I’m not saying this staff is getting heavy, because it gives me godly strength, but if you don’t get on your feet and declare loyalty soon, I’m going to lose patience, and the bopping of that helm of yours? It’s going to be particularly epic and fueled by annoyance this day.”

  Cyrus let out a long breath. “You speak true, Alaric. Your words cut me to the quick.”

  “On your feet, asshole,” Vaste said. “Join us in our foolishly grand gesture.”

  Cyrus skidded his chair’s legs as he slowly pushed out from the table. He looked down at Praelior, hilt peeking out where it rested on his belt. “I have served Sanctuary for many years. As a member. As a warrior. As an officer and then general … and finally …” He lifted his eyes to Alaric, who watched him patiently. “As Guildmaster.

  “And in that last role,” Cyrus said, reaching up and preparing to take the chain from around his neck, “I have failed most grandly.” He lifted the medallion from beneath his armor, prompting a cry of surprise from Shirri. “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Shirri said, shaking her head swiftly. “Later.”

  Cyrus shook off the distraction, and started to remove the medallion.

  “Hold,” Alaric said.

  “Why?” Cyrus asked, medallion clutched in his gauntlet. “You are the leader, Alaric. You have rallied these people—some of whom never met you until the last day—to risk their lives in pursuit of a cause that is hardly the stuff of normal life in Reikonos at this point.”

  “That’s true,” Dugras said. “I mean, normal life in Reikonos at this point? It’s a little like hell, honestly. Terrible place. I never liked to visit, and that was before I got attacked taking a piss. I mean, really—who attacks a man relieving himself …?”

  “Yet you inspired them to act against a wrong that has laid in place for years,” Cyrus said. “You moved Vaste to withdraw his head from his arse—”

  “I was just looking at it,” Vaste said, “I wasn’t actually up the arse. It’s so pretty, how could I not look?” Birissa made a great show of leaning back to do just that, and a chuckle ran through everyone at the table.

  “You have provided a place where fellowship has stood,” Cyrus said, “you provided a home where we could do … works … that no one else would dare. You are the leader. And I return this to you now—”

  “I don’t want the damned medallion, Cyrus,” Alaric said, eye fixed on him. “It’s just a medallion. Metal. Ether. Who cares? It does nothing we have need of right now. I will take the mantle of leadership, but I tell you now—the medal matters not at all to me. What concerns me … and always has … is the man wearing it.”

  Cyrus froze, the medal in his gauntlet. He let it slip, and it clinked against the front of his breastplate. “I suppose that’s true, isn’t it? Since the days you saw to my safety at the Society of Arms.”

  “I have an obligation to you,” Alaric said, holding his gaze. There was a warmth within it. “But … there is more, at this point, than mere obligation between us.” He leaned in. “I have need of your aid … General. I could certainly spearhead this attack—or Vara could, or Curatio—”

  “Or me,” Vaste said, and when he caught the amused glances, he sighed. “Well, fine. I could spearhead an attack on the Sanctuary kitchens or this table, though. The damage would be massive.”

  “I would join you in that fight,” Birissa said, slipping a hand into his.

  “I’d fight that one, too,” Dugras said. “And I will … once the standing and declarations are over.” He looked around. “Are they almost over? Will we have time before the next fight?”

  “—I need a general if we’re to build an army again,” Alaric said. “You see, here—we have the building blocks. We have enough to strike at the Machine, to take the head off the serpent, perhaps. And I will provide the guidance and the inspiration you look to me for, but if we’re to conduct a war, I need—”

  “A warrior,” Cyrus said calmly, and pulled Praelior, reversing his grip upon it.

  “A leader,” Alaric said.

  “A general,” Vara said.

  “A total arse, and a long one at that,” Vaste said, and when he drew the attention of everyone in the room, “What? I thought we were talking about what Cyrus was to us. Oh, fine—a very special friend, whose best interests I almost always look after. Provided it’s not mealtime, because that takes precedence.”

  “A godsdamned, gods-killing legend,” Curatio said, amusement curling his lip as he looked at Cyrus.

  Cyrus stared at the faint glow let off by Praelior. “I got this blade in service to Sanctuary,” he said, looking at the curve where it met the tip. He looked up, to Vara. “Everything I have of note, of worth, save for perhaps this armor, I got in the service of Sanctuary. And even this, I would not have but by the grace of Sanctuary keeping it safe until I could take possession of it.” Cyrus slid the blade, clenching tight to it, and pushed the hilt toward Alaric. “You need a general? A leader?” He shot a pointed glance at Vaste. “A godsdamned, gods-killing, legendary arsehole?”

  “That’s right,” Vaste said, “embrace it, you prick.”

  “You have my sword,” Cyrus said, and saw Alaric stiffen slightly, a smile slowly spread across the ghost’s face. “You have my service. And, as ever …” He looked at Vara, whose smiled glowed in the dim light of the hall, “… you have inspired me, Alaric.” Cyrus smiled back. “Now … let’s go kick the ever-loving hell out of this Machine … and get onto the next task in the long road to saving Arkaria … and Luukessia.”

  51.

  Cyrus was the first out the door once they were done with the proclamation of loyalties. They assembled beyond the gate without directive, Birissa and Dugras still carrying food, and all of them walking with purpose.

  The ash came slowly down into the steadily deepening twilight as Curatio stared around the alley. Alaric reached the gate to Sanctuary and unbarred it, becoming ethereal in the process. “This seems likely to be a dangerous thing,” Curatio said. “Any misgivings anyone has should now be aired—or else hold your peace and let us do this thing right.”

  “Agreed,” Alaric said. “No one should be held a coward for speaking in the heat of the moment. If you have misgivings, there is no shame in vanishing quietly into the night now. No one will think the less of you for it.”

  “I will,” Vaste said, and when he caught an ireful glare from Alaric and Curatio, he shrugged. “What? I will absolutely think less of you. Don’t talk big if you’re not willing to back it up. Gather the remaining threads of your dignity and press on after terrible decisions, like all the rest of us have learned to do.”

  “That is easier said with a godly weapon in hand,” Alaric pointed out.

  “I thought it even when I didn’t have a godly weapon,” Vaste said. “Now—let’s go obliterate these thuggish idiots.” And he started down the alley, Birissa a step behind him.

  “Yes,” Cyrus said, with a sharp nod, and following the troll now, “Let’s.”

  “Cyrus,” Alaric said, coming along beside him.

  Cyrus looked at his guildmaster. “What?”

  “We don’t know what we’re going into here,” Alaric said.


  “Sure we do,” Cyrus said, “the headquarters of the Machine. It’s in one of four guildhalls, all are massive, and surely labyrinthine inside. By now, I think we can expect the Machine will have pulled men from their other locations throughout the city in order to beef up their guard—”

  “That seems foolish, does it not?” Vara asked. “Now that Dugras, Pamyra, and Shirri have escaped, would it not make more sense for them to spread their forces out on the streets of Reikonos, looking to recapture them?”

  “Surely they will be doing at least some of that,” Alaric said. “But it seems likely that they will also be attempting to—”

  “Let me inform you about a small piece of human nature that you have perhaps overlooked in your youth,” Curatio said with a knowing smile. “Never does one guard something so fiercely as after one has lost it. It is very much like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped, and it is one of the more peculiar certainties I’ve learned in my long dealings with humanity. We can expect stiff resistance at this headquarters now that they’ve been embarrassed by Shirri’s escape with the others—”

  “Aye,” Cyrus nodded, “and I think you’re right as well. The Machine will be out in the streets in great numbers.” He caught a wry smile from Curatio. “They will have called up everything they have; the natural tendency once wounded in the pride is to draw yourself up, strike harder, to blind anyone who might have seen your weakness with a show of your strength. The Machine will be out in force this eve—and forceful, I think, to make up for the incident on the square and the subsequent escapes.”

  The moment they reached the mouth of the alley, a scream reached their ears from down the way. Cyrus’s eyes were immediately drawn to a wagon, and several Machine thugs in their long coats, wrestling with a woman over the reins while a man was already downed in the street, blood spreading from a wound on his head and four thugs cackling and shouting in the night.