Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  “This will not be allowed to stand,” Alaric said, breaking into a run, boots ringing out on the cobblestones as his steps clanged on the sidewalk. “Not in our city. Not now—not ever.”

  “Aye,” Cyrus said, bursting into a run beside him, hearing the others follow, picking up their pace. “We should see it finished this night.”

  “Cutting apart a hydra is no easy or quick feat,” Curatio replied, only a few steps behind them, the speed of those with godly weapons carrying them out in front of the others behind. “You should know this.”

  “Let us at least find one head to cut off,” Alaric said, “and then, perhaps, we can deal with the others as they come. Chop off enough … no more will answer.” And he sprang at the nearest of the Machine thugs.

  The thug had started to turn as Alaric swept in, burying Aterum in his chest as the man swung around. The thug gasped, taking it right in sternum, the cracking of bone as the blade passed through a sickening sound in the night.

  “What is th—” the one atop the wagon, wrestling for the reins, began to say. Vara leapt high through the air as she always did, striking his head from his body and coming down on the other side of her leap to slash at the next of them, a man who threw up his hands and received a blow to both, shearing them at the forearms and prompting a fierce scream.

  “My turn!” Vaste shouted, and with his elongated range, swung Letum with all his force. He slammed the staff into the last of the thugs, who let out a cry of pain as it walloped his side. The crunch of bones sounded like husks underfoot as he flew sideways, swept back past a surprised Cyrus and toward the rank behind him—

  The man was thrown directly into a waiting blade—Birissa, her mammoth sword jutting out, caught the man on the tip and ran him through clear to the guard of her sword. She shook him off a moment later, and he limply fell into the street and simply died.

  “I did that for you,” Vaste said, winking at Birissa.

  “So sweet a gift I have seldom received,” Birissa said, winking back.

  “We were never this bad, were we?” Vara asked, sidling up to Cyrus.

  “No,” Curatio said with amusement, “you were ever so much worse.” And without a laugh, he was on, casting a healing spell that stirred the unconscious victim back to wakefulness.

  “Get off the street,” Alaric commanded the woman in the wagon. “Nothing good will come from being out this night.”

  The woman stared at him, mouth agape, and then her eyes found Cyrus, standing in their midst, no blood drawn for him yet. She stared at him nonetheless. “Is it …” She raised a hand to him. “Is it really you … m’Lord Davidon?”

  “It is I,” Cyrus said, his voice scratching some. “Get home. Lock your doors. The Machine is angry at me, and in their ire they are reaching out with grasping hands, seeking to hurt any who cross their path. Be safe this eve—and in the morning … you will hear from others of my return.” And he strode on past her, not daring to look back.

  “She’s never going to forget this,” Vaste said, catching up with Cyrus to walk beside him. “First she gets attacked, then she gets saved by her own god. Not many people here have had that experience.”

  Cyrus gritted his teeth, determination surging through him. “Well, more are about to.”

  They walked on through the night, the strangeness of the buildings around them fading as Cyrus felt, rather than saw, his way through the city. It was starting to feel familiar—that bank on the corner, the shop that offered cutlets, even the candlemaker’s store where they’d dealt the Machine its first shattering blow.

  “You seem … more comfortable,” Vara said, now beside him.

  “This is not the Reikonos I knew,” Cyrus said, “but it’s becoming familiar. I recognize this street now. I know the direction I’m heading. I feel as though I’m becoming reacquainted with an old friend.”

  “I feel the same about you,” Vaste said.

  Cyrus merely rolled his eyes. “It’s as though I’ve come back after a long absence to find an old ally in the thrall of a new enemy. My purpose is fixed now. All gives way to one goal—breaking the Machine.”

  “A suitable pursuit for a man of war,” Vara said, and when he looked at her in surprise, she smiled. “Don’t be shocked. Killing Bellarum might have killed the purported god of war, but it hardly did away with war itself, nor your skill at it. It may not have been what you were born to, but it is what you excel at.”

  “Hear, hear,” Vaste said. “Now you can turn that evil you were pushed toward into something noble.”

  “That was almost profound, Vaste,” Alaric said, falling into step beside the troll. “The sort of thing I’m supposed to say in response to your comic statements. Now what am I to do?” The Ghost wore a faint smile. “Let me try this—‘A cause worth fighting for’? You mean, such as pie?’”

  A round of snickers made their way from Vara, Cyrus and Curatio, as the Ghost smiled. “Very good,” Vaste said. “You know me too well, Alaric.”

  “That is what happens after you spend a thousand years in someone’s ethereal company,” Alaric said.

  “Yes,” Vaste said. “Now I shall have to do all in my power to come up with new jests. Once more, you challenge me to rise to greatness, not only in the fight for the soul of this land, but also in the realms of repartee. Thank you for that.”

  There were more Machine thugs ahead, though; a cry in the night drew them forward, Dugras, Birissa, Shirri, Hiressam and Pamyra only steps behind the five at the fore. Once more, Cyrus struck no blows. The three toughs of the Machine were downed easily by Vara and Vaste, with only a little aid from Hiressam, who came surging in with a fierce battle cry at the end, and an even fiercer swing that left one of the thugs without his head.

  “This will be a long night for the Machine,” Hiressam said, a glimmer of pride in his eye as he sheathed his sword.

  “But a short one for some of its members,” Vaste said, trying to scrape a layer of blood from the tip of Letum. “Like these fellows for instance.”

  They moved on through the streets, dealing with the black cloaked and armbanded thugs of the Machine as they came upon them. Screams from streets away would prompt them to alter course in a dizzying, twisting path. They saved all that they found and left them, most staring gape-mouthed at Cyrus as he exhorted them, “Get inside. Tomorrow things will be different.”

  Cyrus recognized the awe in their faces and tried as best he could to ignore it while knowing in his gut that he was shamelessly exploiting it to his own purposes—to get them out of harm’s way. When he was walking, he kept his head down for the most part, scanning the streets around them, gradually becoming more familiar with the city. Still, when he reached the cross street into the guildhall quarter, he barely recognized it. The buildings here had almost all been torn down and replaced with newer ones, built in the style of this Reikonos, and not his.

  “There,” Vara said, pointing at the intersection ahead, where four sprawling buildings that had been of immense height in days of old and were now modest in comparison to the buildings around them dominated the street corners. Although they had been built upon and renovated over the years, they still reflected their original architectural styles. The old Burnt Offerings guildhall was on their left coming into the intersection; its human design looked dated and the dwarven decorations upon the facade were aged and covered in ash. To his right lay the old hall of Amarath’s Raiders, built in the sweeping, old style of the Pharesian Elves. Vara’s eyes slid across it, her jaw tight as they passed. Across the street from it ahead was the Termina elven design of old Endeavor’s hall, stained with age. And then … across the main avenue on the left, farthest from them …

  “That’s it right there,” Pamyra said, pointing at the last building as they came up to the intersection. Machine thugs, their armbands and cloaks missing, but their bearing as guards obvious, stood just outside, watching these strangers approach in the dark with little concern. And why should they worry? Cyrus thou
ght. They were at a distance, probably couldn’t see the armor and swords just yet … and who would dare attack the Machine? That told him something about the information they were getting—which was to say probably none at all.

  Still … that guildhall …

  “Naturally,” Alaric stared at the edifice before them in its old Reikonosian style. “It would be this one.”

  “Naturally,” Curatio agreed, tension in his voice.

  “Oh, wow,” Vaste said, providing the counterpoint to them all. “Who could have guessed the seat of all evil in modern day Reikonos would be the Goliath guildhall?”

  52.

  “The more things change,” Alaric said into the darkness of the gas-lit street, “the more they stay the same, apparently.”

  “I’m putting money on Malpravus having escaped that damned seal and being behind all this bullshit,” Vaste said, rustling around at his belt for change. “Who wants that bet?”

  “I’ll take that action,” Curatio said. “Admittedly, I was ethereal when it happened, but I distinctly remember Malpravus attempting to step up to godhood. I seriously doubt he would then be content to step down to running a mere street gang when he could, instead, sacrifice this entire city on the pyre of his ambitions and become—well, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know,” Vaste said pointedly, “because I was there to fight him when he became that skeleton thing—but do you know?”

  “I know in general,” Curatio said airily. “I heard enough discussions by your members from within the ether before we were pulled away by Bellarum’s attack.”

  “If you didn’t see,” Vara said tightly, “you don’t know what a horror he became. But I agree with Curatio—this would considerable step down for Malpravus. I doubt he would condescend to this level. More likely, this is either coincidence, or else we’re dealing with some other member of Goliath whose evil either remains or has spawned a long legacy.”

  “I heard a lot of talk just now, but I’m not seeing gold to back it up,” Vaste said. “Put your money where your mouth is, paladin.” He blinked. “Uh, on second thought, maybe don’t put money on Cyrus’s lips—and, uh—never mind. Gold. Bets, people.”

  “What?” Cyrus asked, feeling like he’d missed something.

  “So … anyone other than Curatio want to put money against Malpravus?” Vaste asked. “I’ve got perfectly good gold.”

  “Not for long,” Curatio said with a smile as they crossed the street.

  “Whatever,” Vaste said. “You’re all betting. Tacitly, because you’re too scared to admit you know I’m right.”

  “You are not right,” Alaric said tautly.

  “Bet me.”

  “No one cares about this at present,” Vara said and surged into the street. Cyrus shrugged and followed, as did the others a few steps behind.

  “Tacit bet,” Vaste said. “You’re all going to owe me money. So much money. I’ll be wealthy.”

  “Halt!” one of the guards on the front steps of the Goliath guildhall called out as Vara and Cyrus strode up the steps. Alarm was now evident on their faces in the lamplight. The lead started to reach for a pistol.

  “Stop that,” Cyrus said and charged the last of the distance between them, burying Praelior in the center of his chest, leaving him staring at the blade jutting from his breastbone. Cyrus ripped it free and claimed the head of the other with a sure swipe as he tried to pull his own pistol. Pausing, Cyrus scooped up both weapons and placed them in the empty scabbards of his belt.

  “Share and share alike,” Vara said, and immediately seized one from his belt and placed it in her own.

  “You’re worse than a tax collector,” Cyrus complained.

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Do they sleep with you before relieving you of your property?”

  He stared back at her evenly. “Okay, you’re better than a tax collector. But this ‘what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is yours’ bullshit is getting to be a bit much.”

  “I would gladly share my salad with you later,” she said with an impish smile, taking up position on the right hand main door of the guildhall as he moved opposite her to open the left. They were massive double doors, and Cyrus noted the lack of hinge outside suggesting they would swing in.

  “Thanks for that meaningless gesture,” Cyrus said, “given Sanctuary produces all the meat I can consume—”

  “So long as you keep killing people on its doorstep anyway,” Vaste chimed in.

  “—and thus it rings a little hollow and lacking in generosity,” Cyrus said.

  “I give you so much more than salads,” she said. “Why, you get the pleasure of my company.”

  “This is hardly a fair trade,” Vaste said. “There are thousands of members of Sanctuary who actively avoided that for years.”

  “Well, that’s because they didn’t know me, did they?” She arched her eyebrows at him. “And certainly not as Cyrus does—which is why he puts up with my little quirks.” She held the pistol beside her face in one hand, hammer thumbed back, Ferocis in the other. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” Alaric said and kicked both doors off their hinges with a mighty blow that sent them spiraling in as if they’d been wrecked with a battering ram. Cyrus stared at him, eyes wide, and the Ghost caught the look and replied with a thin smile. “You assumed because I am generally quiet and mild that my strength was all in my speed?”

  “I … never thought about it,” Cyrus said.

  “No, you didn’t,” Alaric said, from behind his grey beard, “you only saw my apparent age, my reserve, and made your assumptions. And that is all fine,” and he smiled, “for that is exactly what my foes do.” And he plunged forward, striking down two guards that came running toward them.

  Cyrus stepped inside the old Goliath guildhall and was struck by the scale of the foyer. It was comparable to the Sanctuary of old, a sprawling two-story space with high ceilings that were decorated with wood paneling and impressive art. Lamps burned in every sconce and candles hung flickering in the chandelier above. A beautiful oak staircase that was almost as wide as a city street lay before them, leading up to a landing and then to the balcony above, which spanned two sides of the room, and from atop which countless Machine guards now stared down at them, open-mouthed at their audacity.

  “Knock knock,” Vaste said, stepping inside, brandishing Letum. “Sorry about your doors. They looked expensive. I’d offer to replace them, but I don’t like any of you, and I rather want to bash your skulls in instead.” A guard stood just inside the doors, stunned, staring at Vaste. The troll reached out and struck with the end of his staff, caving the man’s head in. “Like that, you see. Now—everybody form one line, I’ll get to you all eventually. No shoving, no cuts—especially no cutting me. Or shooting me.” He made a noise of impatience. “Come on, then. I haven’t got all ni—”

  “GET THEM!” someone shouted, and the room burst into motion. A bell began ringing loudly somewhere upstairs, the alarm sounding. From a hallway along the back wall to their right came a rush of guards in black coats, their armbands on display. Others began to flood down from the upstairs, and Cyrus was impressed to see them gather their courage so quickly.

  Someone shot out of a side hallway and leapt from the top balcony, coming to a landing swiftly, so quickly that even with Praelior in hand, his eye had some difficulty following them. The figure came for him at a sprint, and Cyrus blinked as he realized—

  It was Gaull.

  Gaull kicked him full in the chest as Cyrus raised his weapon to respond. He saw him coming, but somehow Gaull moved strangely, just as swift as him but more practiced, perhaps, and when the kick landed it rammed Cyrus’s breastplate into his chest and sent him flying through the wall and out onto the street, where he rolled until he reached the cobblestones in the middle of the road.

  Suddenly Gaull was there, just feet from him, sweeping in, and his sword clashed with another as Cyrus got up, struggling from the hits he’d just taken. The man was no
quicker than he—or shouldn’t be—but he certainly knew how to use his blade to maximum effect. Compared to nearly anyone else Cyrus had fought, save gods perhaps, he moved with such ruthless efficiency and skill as to make any other foe look as though they were standing still.

  “I see you’ve come to deliver yourself to die at my hand,” Gaull said with his smile, fending off Vara with one hand, who was attacking him from behind. “Saves me the trouble of coming to look for you.”

  “Yeah, well,” Cyrus said, springing to his feet and attacking Gaull, who now moved out of the way and let Vara overextend herself, putting her between the two of them, “don’t go writing my epitaph just yet.”

  “I should like a try at that,” Vara said, blade clanging against Gaull’s in a frenzied storm, flashes of lamplight glinting off its edge as Ferocis struck Rodanthar, neither coming away with decisive advantage. “‘Here Lies the Great Cyrus Davidon, mostly mediocre before he met his wife and she drove him to new heights of glory.’”

  “Hey,” Cyrus said, bringing his blade in and forcing Gaull to alter his stance again to counter, “I graduated the Society of Arms without a blood family before I met you. That’s not mediocre. No one had ever done it before.”

  “There are many things that many people have not done before,” Vara said, “for instance, this jackass in front of us has yet to die. But when he does, it will be not grand or glorious, but very mediocre, and no one will remember him shortly after he passes.” Her eyes glittered as she struck at Gaull again.

  “You cut me to the quick, madam,” Gaull said, amusement flickering in his own eyes as he rebuffed her advance perfectly. “But—” and he struck, catching Vara in the right arm and drawing blood as the tip of his blade made perfect contact through the links of her chainmail, “—it’s all right. After all, it’s not as though either of you could do any real cutting on me.” And he swept toward Cyrus as Vara staggered back, exploiting Cyrus’s distraction and catching him in the joint where his greaves met his boots, drawing a sharp pain and causing Cyrus to stagger.