Ghosts of Sanctuary

by Robert J. Crane

  Cyrus fended him off, and Gaull stepped back as Vara and Cyrus both recovered, blades waiting in case Gaull tried to exploit the moment of weakness. He did not, though, standing back and grinning, instead. This was not his best chance, and surely he knew it, which was why he stood back, waiting for the two of them to overextend themselves again.

  “Now then,” Gaull said, first blood drawn on both of them—again—his sword dancing as he waited for their next attack, “shall we finish this?”

  Cyrus took a sidelong look at his wife; Alaric’s encouragement had emboldened them in the face of their two defeats against Gaull thus far. But bold words only carried one so far, and here again they were confronted with the truth of the matter:

  Gaull was simply a better swordsman than either of them.

  “Oh, to hell with your finish,” Vara said, raising a palm and blasting a spell at him, fire and force, which Gaull managed to deflect with Rodanthar. “I’ll be damned if I surrender and dance to your tune.” And she came at him again. Gaull responded to her attack with a great grin, and Cyrus stepped forth with an attack of his own. The battle was joined once more as Gaull continued to fend them both off with greatest ease and the occasional hearty laugh of gusty glee, but the question was—in the face of this obviously superior foe—

  How long could the two of them last?

  53.

  Vaste

  “This is all so very new for me,” Vaste said, bashing in another skull. Machine thugs were everywhere, their black coats whirling like some kind of synchronized dance as they crashed in upon the line of Birissa, Hiressam, Curatio and Alaric, more daggers flashing in the foyer of the old Goliath Guildhall than any cutlery showroom Vaste could imagine.

  “Less banter, more smash,” Birissa called as she sheared five Machine thugs in half with one swing. Her blade was so immense and the enemy so plentiful that she was not starved for targets. And she seldom missed; it was much like a scythe going through an endless field of grain, but with blood and guts sailing in all directions. This was what Cyrus gloried in?

  “I think I like the back of the battle lines better,” Vaste said, smashing another Machine thug’s head so that gore splattered his robes—yet again. They were soaked through now, and he sighed. “These were so nice once, too. Elven tailoring, I tell you. I paid a fortune for them. Now look at them. They’re like a butcher’s apron, but with more brains.”

  “The butcher has more brains?” Alaric asked, slashing and moving, disappearing into a blast of dark fog and reappearing behind a cluster of thugs, tearing into them. Screams filled the open foyer, loud and seemingly as endless as the waves of enemies falling upon them. “Or your clothing now does? I’m unclear. Either way, I think we can safely assume whoever or whatever you’re talking about has more brains than you do, my friend.” The Ghost wore a playful smile.

  “Stop stealing my role, Alaric,” Vaste said. “You wouldn’t like it if I starting being cryptic and disappearing and reappearing everywhere. Acting all fatherly toward everyone.”

  “You acting fatherly presupposes you showing maturity,” Alaric said, “and I think I would welcome it.”

  “Well, you’ll see it, then,” Vaste said, whipping Letum forward and dashing another thug’s brains across his robes. “In the fullness of time.”

  “Speaking of fatherly,” Alaric said, reappearing next to Vaste and catching a Machine thug just as he slid in to stick a dagger in Vaste’s side. Alaric cleaved him in two, and both halves hit a nearby wall, making a considerable mess. “How do you suppose our wayward warrior and paladin are faring outside—you know, against their great challenge?”

  “I don’t know,” Vaste said, his voice evincing a little strain as Hiressam darted in front of him. Thugs were swarming at him now, apparently picking the largest target in the room and trying to overwhelm him. It was almost working; the length of Letum made it more difficult to work up a good swing, and by crowding him they threatened to eliminate the space in which he built up the momentum he was using to kill them. “I’m hoping your words inspired them, and they’ll come back in, covered in his blood, with Cyrus wielding two blades again, triumphant, a little happy—not too happy, you know, because if he gets too happy he gets insufferable—”

  “I have a better question,” Alaric said, looking to his side. Birissa was near at hand, letting out a bellowing roar as she ripped apart another press of Machine thugs, “where did our guests go?” He whipped his head around. “And where is Curatio?”

  But there was little time to answer, for it seemed as though the Machine was pouring everything it had at them. Vaste tensed as they continued to rush in, and he began to feel the stings of the occasional blade landing upon him even as he swung his weapon even more wildly and swiftly, trying to batter them all away and keep them from surging past into the street to attack Cyrus and Vara—who probably had enough to contend with.

  54.

  Shirri

  They’d gotten separated and forced down a hallway, not because they wanted to, but because when a clutch of Machine thugs came at you with blades and guns, and you lacked a weapon to strike them down, that was what you did. Shirri was desperate; she hadn’t even had time to call out to Alaric to let him know what was wrong—no magic at all, thanks to McLarren and his accursed globe, probably—and off they’d gone, her, her mother and Dugras, separated from the body of the Sanctuary assault and now running through winding, twisting corridors in the Machine’s base.

  “Do you have any spellcraft yet?” Shirri asked her mother as they ran past endless doors. This section of the building did not look anything like the dungeons; a definite plus in her mind.

  Pamyra raised her hand, stared at it for but a second, then shook her head. Lamps glowed, hanging from the walls, but it was still dim in here indeed. “No. Wherever McLarren is, his defense against us still works, it would appear.”

  “They’re coming,” Dugras said, strain showing on his face as he urged them around another corner. He’d led them thus far, and the two of them had tried to keep up with him. He could move surprisingly fast given his shorter legs. Shirri had actually had to hurry a few times to keep pace.

  “We’re in the middle of their base,” Shirri said dryly. “I should be surprised if they stopped coming anytime soon. Unless Alaric and the others simply bleed them completely dry of soldiers.”

  “These are not soldiers,” Dugras said, opening a door off the hallway and swiftly closing it again. “Though it would appear they live in something approaching a barracks style.”

  “Well, they’re as good as,” Shirri said, “for purposes of hunting us.” And she followed them around another corner.

  “They’re here! Over here!” someone shouted from just behind them.

  “Not really,” Dugras said, but he was hesitating. “They’re more like dogs. But without the decency, loyalty, or adorableness.” He stopped at a corner and cocked his head. “Say, things are starting to look different here. Maybe this is—”

  Dugras’s face flickered with pain as something struck him from behind and drove him forward. The dwarf struck a wall, then slumped, bleeding from the head as another figure came out from the corner.

  The scarred face surprised her, leering as it did from beyond the corner, the blank eye staring back at her. And clutched in the man’s hand …

  Was the orb that deprived her of all magic.

  “Hello, Shirri, Pamyra,” McLarren said with cool precision, showing just the smallest hint of pleasure that he’d found them.

  Shirri just stared at him, gape-mouthed, and the last flicker of hope within her was like a candle when the hard winds swept in; it took only a moment for it to gutter … and then go out.

  55.

  Cyrus

  “You fight with such passion,” Gaull said, landing another pointed blow on Cyrus’s shoulder, and Cyrus staggered back. The pain seemed to throw the world around him into astonishing clarity. The smell of Reikonos was everywhere, the black ash fall
ing from the sky like a gentle rain. Cyrus took two faltering steps as Gaull moved away. Raising his hand to try and conjure a healing spell, he saw the glow turn red, and cringed as the dull sense of pain that accompanied draining his life to turn it to magic worked its way through him.

  And still the blood seeped out.

  Cyrus pulled one of his pistols and furiously fired it at Gaull, who merely raised Rodanthar at the last second as a shield, stepping out of the way of Vara’s attack. The bullet spanged off the blade and then he was back at it again, coming at Vara with precision, not fury.

  Vara met his attack cannily and carefully, but it seemed little headway could be made. As Cyrus watched, tossing aside the pistol, Gaull drove in at her side, and a spearing attack moved Vara back, leaving a little trace of red bleeding down her side where his blade had pushed through the chain once more.

  “But passion is hardly a guarantor of victory,” Gaull said, smugness seeping out, the tip of his sword dripping crimson. “Skill, my friends. Skill will carry you through where passion fades. Skill is the bridge, and you …” He let out a small chuckle. “You are clearly in deep water already.”

  Vara’s eyes met Cyrus’s, and they flashed for a second. He knew what she would do before she did it, and tried to join her in time. Vara came at Gaull in an attack, and Cyrus lurched forward to do the same. A pincer—another one—coordinated, careful, trying to land an attack where none had been successful thus far.

  Gaull saw them coming, of course; the charge was too grand, his eyes too quick and his mind too canny. He met Cyrus with a kick that came out of nowhere and knocked him over backward, and then clashed with Vara as Cyrus landed, hard, end over end.

  The impact left Cyrus with the taste of blood in his mouth, and an ache in his side. He lifted his hand, trying to decide if it was even worth it to try and cast a meaningless heal. Staring up into the night sky, things seemed … dark indeed.

  No help … is coming, he thought, the dark staring down, clouds of black hung above him like draperies.

  And as he lay there, trying to catch his breath, Cyrus wondered if the dawn would see him dead—this time, for good.

  56.

  Vaste

  “This … is going downhill rather quickly,” Vaste said as the room seemed to flood with Machine thugs and the bullets started to whizz around as more and more of them began to jerk their pistols and go to work. Certainly, they were hitting themselves more than they were succeeding in hitting him—or Alaric, or Hiressam or Birissa, for that matter—but they were still damned sure trying, and it was getting loud, and he was having to constantly duck out of the way of pistol shots, while simultaneously take advantage of them by pushing Machine thugs into their path. Hilarious, yes. Exhausting, also yes. They were heavier than they looked, those thugs, and his energy of movement was hardly boundless.

  “It’s because you’re too busy thinking and not acting,” Birissa said as she cut another swath through the enemy. They were still roughly in the center of the room, almost at the foot of the stairs, and down came the flow of endless thugs in black coats. Vaste was swinging Letum for all he was worth, and bodies were flying across the room, heads were erupting with his strikes like tiny volcanos of gore.

  And still … they came.

  “Has anyone actually seen Curatio?” Vaste called. Hiressam shook his head as he plunged his blade into the center of a thug’s chest and back kicked another. “So … we’re missing more than half our allies in the middle of a battle that’s not going our way.”

  “Have faith, brother,” Alaric said, appearing and disappearing once again with a blast of fog. It was nowhere near as impressive now with a godly weapon in hand, but Vaste had to admit it still looked damnably cool when he did that, and Alaric was certainly generating his share of carnage.

  “I’d rather have a plan,” Vaste shouted back as the Ghost disappeared again.

  “Why can’t you have both?” Birissa asked, and she met his eyes across the battle. “Faith in yourself and your comrades,” and she dealt a blow that sent five more thugs flying in pieces, two of them discharging their pistols into the air in surprise as they flew, “and a plan?”

  Vaste froze. Cyrus always tended to have a plan for these things, didn’t he? But it often went awry. When they went to Enterra, he had plans—and then the goblins swept in and shit went wrong. The same thing happened in the Realm of Death with Mortus.

  “Okay,” he said, feeling a little grim, “maybe a plan is not all it’s cracked up to be. But still—”

  He stopped when his eyes caught motion at the top of the balcony above and across the room. There was a line of black there, thugs with the long weapons, leaned against the end of the balcony, ten or twelve of them, all taking aim to fire. He looked up and saw more on the opposite balcony; elevated and looming over them, they had Vaste, Birissa and Hiressam in a crossfire.

  Vaste blinked. Their hammers were back, and their weapons raised. The shots would come, and soon, and there would be no avoiding them this time—not all of those. He could see death coming now, a hailstorm of metal bullets tearing him to shreds, with no healing spell to save him, no resurrection to bring him back.

  The death of magic would, apparently, be the death of him.

  57.

  Cyrus

  Pain lanced through him, and Cyrus ached as he tried to sit up. Vara was giving Gaull hell—or as near as she could without actually striking an effective blow. She was stalling him, nothing more, and the sound of their swords clashing in the night was the only thing other than the taste of his own blood and the smell of ash that Cyrus was truly aware of outside of the pain.

  He braced himself, trying to rise, and suddenly someone was there, standing over him; white robes turned grey with ash and face set in a serious expression. “So …” Curatio said, “… how goes it?”

  “Have you been watching?” Cyrus asked, trying to push to his feet. “He’s cutting us into tiny cubes of meat which I presume he’s going to use to feed—I don’t know, probably himself, since I doubt he gives a fig for the poor or has any pets.”

  “He strikes me as the sort to favor cats,” Curatio said, calmly watching Gaull battle Vara, as though the subject before him were of no more interest than a landscape painting. The healer raised a hand and Cyrus felt a little better.

  “Curatio … he’s going to beat us both,” Cyrus said, winded, breaths coming out with urgency.

  “Yes,” Curatio said, matter-of-factly. “He has nearly a thousand years more experience than you; and he’s quite right about passion. It will carry you only so far against someone who has studied footwork so long that any move you make comes as no surprise to him. Every muscle movement betrays you, for he has lived more lives than you and trained harder.”

  “How the hell do I beat a guy like that?” Cyrus asked. “And why wasn’t Bellarum like that? He’d lived lifetimes.”

  Curatio wore a hint of a smile. “Bellarum was effectively immortal, never worried about actually battling his way through life.” He nodded at Gaull. “This one, though … even with Rodanthar in hand, he feels the bite of mortality. Look at what you did to his cheek; surely he has other scars as well. It spurred him to keep working, to always be wary, to put his arrogance aside and earn his life every day. No god you ever met felt need to do that. Cosseted by their magic and insulated by ten thousand years without challenge … what need would Bellarum, or indeed, any of them, have of learning what Gaull has learned by hard experience?”

  Cyrus sagged, watching Vara manage her stance carefully as Gaull swept in on her nonetheless, striking another blow. “I can’t beat him. And neither can she.”

  “Do you need to?” Curatio asked, still calm.

  “What the hell does that mean, Curatio?” Cyrus nearly exploded. “In order to win this, yes, we have to beat him.”

  Curatio smiled. “Do you need to beat him? Does your ego require it, General?”

  Cyrus stared at the healer. “Hell no. Let’s kic
k his ass together, I’m fine with that.”

  The healer rolled his eyes and thrust out his hand. “Give me your sword.” Cyrus stared at his open palm and hesitated only a moment before pressing Praelior into it.

  “Ahhh,” Curatio said with a long sigh, then deploying the spikes on his mace from his other hand. “Now …” And he turned to Gaull, “let us see what over twenty thousand years of fighting experience can make of this foe.” And he whistled, shockingly loudly, causing Gaull to glance at him briefly. “You there—time to leave the children alone and face a real challenge.”

  Gaull evinced a flicker of surprise. “So … the legend in black throws in the towel of defeat.” He smiled, a little cruelly. “I don’t think I ever really believed in you, Lord Davidon,” he said the title mockingly, “but this … handing over your sword and giving up? Truly, this is lower than a legend would stoop.”

  “Before I was a legend, I was general, dumbass,” Cyrus said. “I command troops to win the battle. I don’t siege the entire enemy line my own damned self.” And he watched as Curatio stepped up and Vara moved to match him—

  “No,” Curatio said, indicating with his head that she should move away. “I appreciate the thought, my dear, but … you’ll only cramp my style.”

  “Your style—” Gaull started to say mockingly, but was forced to go on the defense a second later and never managed to finish his goad.

  Curatio came at him with lightning quickness; Cyrus had seldom seen a godly weapon turned loose when he didn’t have one in his own hand, and it was dizzying to watch the battle unfold at such unbelievable speed. The healer whirled and struck a blow with one weapon against Gaull, then another, and Gaull was forced to react and counter—but poorly. Every time Curatio struck with Praelior, the mace followed to a different spot a second later, and within three parries, Gaull took his first hit.