The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Read online

  AVENGER

  THE SANCTUARY SERIES

  VOLUME TWO

  Robert J. Crane

  AVENGER

  THE SANCTUARY SERIES

  VOLUME TWO

  Robert J. Crane

  Copyright © 2011

  All Rights Reserved.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part without the written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, please email [email protected].

  Formatting and layout by Everything Indie

  http://www.everything-indie.com

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  A Note to the Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  NOW

  Prologue

  The warrior looked around at the wreckage of the place he had once called home. He sat in the archives of the ruined guildhall, a place where the ruling Council of Sanctuary had stored the records of their history. The hanging torches lit a room in chaos; books lay scattered across the floor, scorched walls showed where stone had been tested by fire and the furniture lay splintered and broken, pieces strewn over the chiseled gray block that made up the floors.

  Cyrus Davidon was a man out of place. Even in the days when he called it home, Sanctuary had never looked like this. The archives were organized, the halls were clean and spotless at day's end and by day's beginning. He had seen the destruction stretch through the corridors as he climbed the tower to the archives, next to the room where the Council met. He stood and pushed through the door to the chambers for another look.

  The table at the center of the room was smashed. The chairs that surrounded it were upended, their plush stuffing bleeding out in clumps. He knew that if he followed the call of his heart and wandered down the stairs to the foyer, the lounge and the Great Hall, he would find each of them in similar condition, wrecked, with all trace of life long gone. The fires that once burned in the hearths were long ago extinguished, the warmth of fellowship as gone as the souls that had once made this place great.

  When did it all go wrong? Cyrus pondered. How did we go from where we were to here?

  He didn't bother to answer himself. He crossed back to the archives and resumed his seat. He picked up the volume that he had laid down to stretch his legs and flipped to the page where he had left off. The inside page told its purpose: The Journal of Vara – An Account of My Days With Sanctuary. Her image sprang to his mind; her long, blond hair tucked in a neat ponytail; her armor shining in the summer sun; the way her red lips contrasted her pale cheeks, and curled in disdain when she scoffed at something foolhardy. Which was often something said by him.

  The skies outside had darkened but the torches had relit themselves, giving him enough light to read by. The words looped in a flowing script that spoke of long hours of practice in an attempt to make the handwriting more elegant.

  It has now been a little over a year since I met the most frustrating person yet to come across my path in Arkaria, it began. In addition to the ego and arrogance so common in humans who wield swords, this man seems particularly well disposed to raise my ire in ways that I have not experienced since... well... long ago.

  His grim mood broke for a moment as he chuckled at her assessment of him. His eyes skimmed further down the page. Whatever my problems with him, though, he is a man, and he possesses certain frailties inherent in men. Never has this been more evident to me than tonight...

  As he read, his hand reached down and he stroked the hilt of his sword and the ghost of a smile sprang to his lips. A memory came rushing back to him, unbidden.

  “We grow in times of trial,” Alaric, the Sanctuary Guildmaster, had once told him, years earlier. He remembered the feelings, remembered the trials that had taxed him... and remembered the days that had followed the battle in the mountains with the Dragonlord and thought his troubles, finally, might be over...

  7 YEARS EARLIER

  Chapter 1

  The sword swung past Cyrus's head, clashing against the metal of his helmet. He returned the favor to his attacker, impaling them with a vicious sword thrust that sent the monster spiraling away from him at an angle. A smile crept across the warrior's face at the sight of the next foe. Green scaled skin stood out against the sharp, pointed teeth and yellow eyes of his enemy. The smell of damp air filled his nostrils. His blade found the throat of the next goblin in line.

  His eyes swept the room. A full force from Sanctuary was around him, engaged in battle. The Emperor and Empress of Enterra stared down at him from their throne platform, watching with red eyes as he cut his way through their Imperial Guard. Cyrus threw his gaze to the side, falling on Nyad and Niamh, two elves that could not have been more different.

  Niamh was a druid, who controlled the powers of nature through her spells. Her long red hair was tossed back as she raised her hand, throwing blasts of fire into a cluster of goblins coming through the door to the army barracks. Her eyes were lit with the excitement of the battle, and she cried out as she loosed another burst of flame at the enemy.

  Nyad, on the other hand, had blond hair that fell below her waist. She was a wizard who carried a white staff with gnarled boughs at the top of it, and it was taller than her. Her crimson robes fell to her feet, but deft movements kept her from tripping over them. Energies channeled through her staff, sending a blast of ice from the tip that froze three goblins in place.

  Cyrus swept his sword through two more goblins in front of him. He caught a glimpse of Orion, the ranger, clad in green and with his bow in hand, arrows flying. A goblin ran at him but Elisabeth swept forward, her short swords moving with such speed he couldn't see anything but a blur from her hands. Cass, the warrior clad in gray armor, moved to Cyrus's left, carving his way through the goblin army, Andren, J'anda and Vaste behind him.

  Things became hazy. Blood swirled on the floor. Niamh and Nyad were dead, then Elisabeth, then
J'anda and Vaste. Cyrus watched as Cass was impaled by a goblin with a spear and Andren's body hit the floor immediately after. Cyrus howled and attacked even harder.

  The red eyes of the Emperor and Empress hovered just beyond his reach, watching him. Behind them, a black-cloaked figure watched with red eyes of its own. His sword moved of its own accord; goblin blood covered him – pungent and smelling of iron, he could not stop swinging his blade. For every goblin he felled another sprang up, claws reaching out for him, their clicking driving him mad.

  “Hold it together!” a voice called across the madness. His eyes found Narstron, smile wide and wreathed in battle. I have to get to him, Cyrus thought. His sword danced, slicing through five more goblins and then five more after that, but there were more... always more...

  Narstron battled, but every step Cyrus took toward the dwarf brought him no closer. Narstron was so deft with a sword that Cyrus could scarcely see it move. The red eyes of the Imperials drew closer, just beyond the dwarf's field of battle. Cyrus tried to move toward Narstron, but his sword was too slow and his feet were like leaden weights. The red eyes were coming for the dwarf; he could feel it.

  A thousand stings pinched him in the ribs. Claws slipped between the joints of his breastplate and backplate, stabbing into his flesh. He did not care; he tried to move forward. More pain, more stabbing, and red eyes looking into his. The Empress grasped him by the neck, claws cutting into his throat. She was flanked on either side by the Emperor and the black-cloaked figure. He could not move.

  The red eyes resolved, and her face began to clarify. It was Narstron – not G'Koal, the Empress of Enterra. The dwarf looked down at him, all trace of felicity gone. His face was creased with gashes, blood oozing from a dozen cuts. The dwarf's lips were cracked, and when he opened his mouth, blood dripped out. His voice was a rasp, the sound of death.

  “You promised to... avenge me...”

  The red eyes swallowed him and he screamed.

  Chapter 2

  “Wake the bloody hell up!”

  Cyrus bolted awake, slapping away the hand that was on his jaw. His eyes focused on the face a few feet in front of him, lit by the moonlight shining through the window of his quarters. She was pale and wore a look of annoyed concern. The moonlight leeched the color from her normally blond hair, giving it a ghostly tinge. He sucked for air, his gasping so loud it blocked out all other ambient noise.

  “Vara!” he shouted before lowering his voice. “What are you doing in my quarters?”

  Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. “I was in my quarters, sleeping, and you had a nightmare that woke me from three rooms away.” He smelled a faint scent of lilacs from her.

  His eyes fell from her face to her attire. She wore a nightgown cut low; much lower than anything he had seen her in before. His stare caused her to fold her arms, as though she could cover herself. “I'm up here,” she snapped, drawing his eyes back to her face. “You were thrashing about and shouting. I merely wished to be certain you weren't struggling with a lethal foe – which, in your case, could be your pillow.”

  His hands rubbed his eyes, massaging the sleep out of them. “I thought you were going to stop insulting me.

  A slight smile upturned the corners of her mouth before disappearing back into annoyance. “I would never foreswear insulting you when great opportunities present. What was your nightmare about?” She stiffened. “Not that I care.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “So you charged down the hallway in your barely-there nightgown because you wanted the noise to cease?”

  “Damned right,” she said without a hint of humor.

  “Do you remember our last excursion into Enterra?”

  She frowned. “I remember being sick to my stomach upon hearing of Goliath's abandonment of it. I remember rushing to save you after you all died in the depths.” Her voice faltered. “I remember your dwarven friend, Narstron. His funeral.”

  Cyrus's voice hardened out of necessity. “I remember that too.”

  Vara did not say anything for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. “Your nightmare was about Enterra?”

  Cyrus stared straight ahead, not daring to look in her eyes. “Yeah. It was.” When his words came again, they were halting and came in staccato bursts. “We went there the second day I was in Sanctuary. I don't think I believed someone could die – really die.” His jaw set. “I wasn't prepared for that.”

  She was sitting on the edge of his bed. “You've been an adventurer for years. You never faced death before?”

  He turned his head to look at her. “That night was the first time I've ever died. That was jarring, even though the resurrection spell brought me back. I can deal with dying.” His hand clenched involuntarily. “But I swore vengeance over Narstron's coffin on the day of his funeral, and I have failed to deliver on my promise.”

  Her face became a sudden mask.

  He looked at her. “You disapprove of revenge?”

  Vara's face maintained its frozen state. “As a paladin – a holy warrior – we are taught that revenge is a self-serving emotion. The dead are gone. Desire for revenge is a trait of survivors.” She looked out the window. “It's a mortal emotion, though, desire for revenge. I cannot say I have not felt it myself.” Her gaze drew back to settle on his eyes. Hers were clouded, her expression tight.

  “I was raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos, the capital of the Human Confederation,” Cyrus began. “There are few followers of Bellarum, the God of War, in mankind. I think it makes people uneasy, the desire for combat.” He smiled. “In the Society, we were taught that battle is good, that revenge is good, and to pursue both with more ardor than you would give to wooing a lover – the instructor's words, not mine,” Cyrus added as a flush crept across his cheeks.

  Vara chewed her lip before she replied. “If you intend revenge, I would caution you in the words of one who once cautioned me. Hasty action is the domain of the fool; especially in the area of vengeance.”

  “I've waited over a year,” Cyrus said. “I wouldn't consider that 'hasty action'.”

  Her eyes flitted across his features. In the pale of the moon he couldn't see the glittering blue that rimmed her pupils. “I would encourage you to...” She drew a deep breath. “– be careful.”

  “Worried about me?” he asked with a sly grin.

  She rose, her expression stern. “I'm worried that you'll lead Sanctuary into danger to satisfy your desire for revenge.” Her arms crossed once more. “Regardless, I doubt you'll invade the Goblin Imperium tonight.” A hint of mirth turned her lips up. “Especially not attired as you are.” She looked down, saw her nightgown and her face fell. “Nor I. If you'll excuse me...”

  He watched as she turned to leave. Her nightgown was silken and fell to mid-thigh. Her hair hung around her shoulders, hiding the points of her elven ears. She shut the door behind her – but not before she caught him looking again, which seemed to embarrass her more than it did him.

  The window was open, letting the autumn air breeze through. A chill rushed through the warrior. No more sleep tonight.

  It took him a few minutes to strap on his armor. He felt the curious absence of weight on his belt; his sword had been lost in a battle with a dragon only days before and he had yet to go to the armory for a replacement. Opening the door, he strode to the end of the hall and up the stairs.

  Emerging from the spiral of the stairway, he found himself in front of double doors. Unthinking, he opened them and stepped into the Council Chamber. Voices halted and a burst of warmth encompassed him as he entered the chamber; fires were burning in the hearths on either side of the room, the logs cracking and spitting and filling the air with a lovely smell of burning wood.

  “I had not thought that any of our brethren would be awake at this hour,” came the voice of Alaric Garaunt, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. The paladin stood to greet him.

  Alaric Garaunt was just over six feet in height, with brown hair that fe
ll at the base of his skull, streaked with gray. His face was weathered, and his left eye was covered by an eyepatch. In addition to leading Sanctuary, Alaric was also a paladin, a holy warrior that Cyrus knew from experience could wield a sword better than any other – as well as cast some spells.

  “I don't know what time it is,” Cyrus admitted. Terian Lepos and Curatio were arranged around the circular table. Curatio, an elf and a spell caster possessing the ability to magically heal wounds sustained in battle, was seated to Alaric's right.

  Terian, on the other hand, was a dark elf, with skin of the deepest blue. The smirk on his face as he turned in his chair to face Cyrus was reflected by his posture; he had one foot resting on the table and was leaning back as far as his chair would allow. He raised a hand in a salute to Cy as the warrior walked in. Terian's nose was long and pointed, and the armored pauldrons that defended his shoulders from attack bore spikes that jutted six inches in the air to either side of his head.

  Terian was a dark knight – the opposite of Alaric's paladin. Dark knights could also wield a blade but used black magics. He was able to steal life from an enemy, cause searing pain or even a plague of disease to fall upon his opponents. He had left his post as one of Sanctuary's officers a few months earlier during a dispute over his failure to intervene in a quarrel between guildmates, two of whom later turned out to be traitors that were conspiring with Sanctuary's enemies.

  “It's three in the morning,” Curatio answered. The elf wore the white robes of a healer, fastened around the waist by a brown leather belt. Very slight crow's feet were present on the healer's face, not the result of age but from his perpetual smile. “Having trouble sleeping, brother?” Cyrus was uncertain as to when Curatio and Alaric had begun to refer to the members of Sanctuary as their brothers and sisters, but it made him feel more at home.