The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Read online

  CHAMPION

  The Sanctuary Series

  Robert J. Crane

  Praise for The Sanctuary Series

  Avenger: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Two

  “I am a huge fan of J.R.R Tolkien and Terry Goodkind and I seriously believe that these books, Defender and Avenger, could be another classic in the fantasy genre.”

  Reviewer Amy Sanders, Read To My Heart’s Content Book Blog

  “...I cannot wait for the next book in this series.”

  Reviewer Mindy Kleinfelter

  I liked this one even more than the first...it is a joy to read some of the quips...some of them even made me laugh out loud. The story is filled with elements that a lover of fantasy will adore...I enjoyed the read and highly recommend it. —”

  Reviewer Cheryl M.

  I enjoyed this second book in the Sanctuary Series even more than the first (the first was good too!)

  Reviewer Jen, Goodreads.com

  Defender: The Sanctuary Series, Volume One

  “This book is full of action, adventure, emotion and anticipation, so much so that I didn’t want it to end!”

  Reviewer Gina Hurteau-Jackson

  “I have always been a fan of fantasy novels and this book rates way up there with “Lord of the Rings” and others...am so excited for the next in the series I can barely contain myself and please give this book a chance because it is really going to be one of the best of our time. Great author and great novel!”

  Reviewer Amy Sanders, Read To My Heart’s Content Book Blog

  “The characters are well written and the dialog can be very witty...will gladly order the next book in the series.”

  Reviewer Jeremy/Andrea S.

  “...despite my early reservations, I found myself wanting the next book in this series and I do recommend it to anyone looking for a fantasy with plenty of action and adventure!”

  Reviewer Littleroonkanga2

  “Cyrus leads a cast of wonderful characters and the character development is topnotch...I would highly recommend this book to anyone who loves to get “lost” in a fantasy world when they read.”

  Reviewer Marie C. Cordalis

  CHAMPION

  THE SANCTUARY SERIES

  VOLUME THREE

  Robert J. Crane

  Copyright © 2012

  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]

  Layout provided 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

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Epilogue

  A Note to the Reader

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Further Reading

  A sample of ALONE: The Girl in the Box, Book 1

  champion (n.)—a person who fights for or defends any person or cause

  NOW

  Prologue

  Even at a time when all manner of hell had broken loose, bright spots were there to be found if one looked hard enough. Rain drenched the Plains of Perdamun as Cyrus Davidon sat in the archives of Sanctuary, a book across his lap. Outside the window, a single beam of light stretched down from the clouds and shone on the fields in the distance. Cyrus smiled, a small, grim one that contained only the smallest kernel of actual happiness.

  The window was broken off its hinges, shattered glass littering the floor in front of it. The light in the archive came from torches burning on the wall and a fire in the hearth that kept the damp chill of the rain at bay. He stared at the painting that hung crooked above the fireplace, a simple old picture of a hut built in a style far different from those of Arkaria.

  The weight of his armor was heavier than it had been in years. He reached down and grasped the hilt of his sword and felt the power it held course through him, giving him strength. He looked over the plains and thought with a rueful smile, This is the perfect domain for me. Dark and gloomy, like my thoughts of late, with only the barest light for hope. The smile faded.

  He looked back to the book that was cradled in his hands. The Journal of Vara, it said inside the cover. An Account of My Days With Sanctuary. He had stopped reading as the rains swept in, pausing to admire the quiet fury of the storm. Drenching, drowning rains, he thought, reshaping the landscape. He recalled a stream he’d seen on the ride to Sanctuary that had carved its way across the plains, one he couldn’t recall being there just a few years earlier.

  Nothing stops the rains. Water runs its course, inevitable, and ploughs new pathways across the fields and the land. You can’t fight it; it’s a losing battle. He chuckled, again rueful. I know a thing or two about fighting losing battles. He stared back at the journal in his hands.

  The words blurred as he refocused on them, and he realized that a droplet of water had fallen on the page. He looked around and realized the rest of the world had blurred as well. He sighed and removed his gauntlet, using the exposed sleeve of his undershirt to wipe his eyes. He wondered why he was bothering to read the next segment of the diary; after all, his memory was clear on what had happened.

  Still, he blinked and focused on the words, the flowing script produced by the hand of Vara. He could picture her, sitting at the table in her quarters, long blond hair tucked in a ponytail that bounced as her hand moved up and down the page with the quill, laboring to produce the words he now read. The best days of my life, I am convinced, are those when I knew exactly who I was, and what I was willing to fight for. Unfortunately, as I age, those days seem to have long since disappeared, and I even find
myself wondering if some fights are worth fighting at all. Especially when it comes to arguing with the most pigheaded man walking the face of Arkaria...

  He laughed. “To be called pigheaded by her is an irony of the highest order,” he told the empty room. “And likely a compliment.” Her words went on, and Cyrus remembered the days Vara wrote about, as the feeble southern winter had settled in around Sanctuary. He remembered the night, the cold, the return from Purgatory, and all that had happened afterward. Inexplicably, another droplet of water appeared on the aged parchment...and another, until he could scarcely see the words that she had written.

  6 YEARS EARLIER

  Chapter 1

  The light of a teleport spell faded around Cyrus Davidon. He looked across the Sanctuary foyer, from the massive balcony above the doors to the Great Hall to the open lounge, where already a celebration was taking place. The smell of the wood burning in the hearth filled his nose and gave him the warm feeling of home, taking the chill out of the early winter air.

  “Keeps getting easier, doesn’t it?” The voice of Andren, his oldest friend came from behind him. Andren was an elf, dark hair reaching down to his shoulders, his beard wild and unkempt. His look was a contrast to the usual for elven men who sported shorter locks and no facial hair. Light freckles dusted his complexion and his hair covered his elongated ears, leading some who met him to assume he was human based on personality alone.

  Cyrus looked back at him. “I would hope so. We’ve gone through the Trials of Purgatory a good dozen times now; we’d be in trouble if it was getting tougher.” He looked past Andren to see others talking, boasting and drinking all around them. Samwen Longwell, a dragoon who carried a lance as his weapon, stood in the corner of the Lounge talking with Thad Proelius, a warrior whose armor was red as raw meat.

  “Aye.” Andren smiled at him; then the elf shot a look at Larana Stillhet, Sanctuary’s brewer and cook, who had teleported next to him. Her vivid green eyes looked out from underneath her black, tousled bangs. Her skin was dark – a surprise for someone who spent so much time in the kitchens, Cyrus had always thought. “Fresh kegs out in the lounge?”

  She cast a brief glance at Cyrus, keeping her eyes low, not meeting his gaze. She nodded then shuffled toward the kitchen.

  “Quiet one when you’re around, isn’t she?” Andren moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Cyrus and watched the diminutive druid disappear into the Great Hall. The elf shot Cyrus a twisted smile. “Has some feelings for you, doesn’t she?”

  “It’s unkind to insult her when she’s not here to defend herself.” The voice that came from behind them lashed at Andren with a sarcastic edge. Cyrus turned to see cold blue eyes staring him down from a lovely face. The speaker was tall, even for an elven woman, standing a few inches under six feet. Her armor was shined to a glaring silver sheen even though they had been traipsing through the Trials of Purgatory for the last several hours. Not a hair was out of place in her golden ponytail, which was still bound tight behind her.

  “Vara,” he said with a nod of his head.

  “I didn’t say anything unkind about Larana,” Andren replied. “All I said was she gets quiet when Cyrus is around; thought maybe she had a little crush on him.”

  “Implying she would have such poor judgment as to find herself attracted to this oafish lout is insult enough for the issuance of a duel in most cultures.” Vara’s eyes narrowed but glittered in the dancing firelight of the torches and the hearth behind them.

  A deep sigh was followed by a slump of Cyrus’s shoulders. “I thought after all the work we’ve done planning these expeditions to Purgatory that you’d finally buried your need to belittle me.”

  A gleam in her eye matched the slightest tug at the corner of her mouth. “Perhaps I was making a joke.”

  Andren shook his head. “Impossible. You’re far too serious for that.”

  Vara arched an eyebrow at the older elf then turned back to Cyrus. “Niamh just informed me that Alaric has called a Council meeting. I assumed,” she said, “you would want to know.” She brushed past them, running her shoulder into Cyrus’s as she passed and casting him a look that was equal parts affection and annoyance.

  “What was all that about?” Andren looked at Cyrus as Vara reached the stairs.

  “The Ice Princess teases the warrior in black,” came a voice from a grating below them.

  “Fortin,” Cyrus said, looking down into the grate, “we’ve talked about listening in on private conversations.” Red eyes stared up at him from the darkness below. Fortin was a rock giant, half again as tall as most men, and more dangerous than any other warrior Cyrus had met. He lived in a dungeon room below the foyer.

  “Yes, and if you want to keep them private, you wouldn’t have them in public. But,” the rock giant said with a hint of amusement, “I wouldn’t be nearly so entertained.”

  Cyrus shook his head and turned back to Andren. “She’s been a lot kinder to me since Enterra.” He caught a glimpse of Aisling Nightwind skulking at the edge of the room, a dark elf with a roguish bent, looking at him with sly eyes as she slipped up the staircase behind Vara. Once she was gone, he looked to his left and through the doors to the Great Hall. Tables were lined up for dinner and already occupied by a sea of unfamiliar faces, almost all of them human. Andren followed his gaze.

  “More refugees?” Andren shook his head. “I didn’t expect the dark elves would be ravaging your peoples’ lands the way they have.”

  Cyrus shook his head, his spirits falling. “I don’t think anyone anticipated that. The war has gone badly for the Human Confederation—I heard that the dark elves have sacked and are holding Prehorta now.”

  “Aye,” Andren agreed. “I remember the last war—and the one before that—and...” He frowned. “I remember a lot of them. One of them, I was in a town that they sacked in a surprise offensive. Their army came in, all lined up in neat rows, and once they realized there wasn’t anyone to defend the village, they just ran wild. Tore up everything in sight, killing the men—” his ruddy complexion whitened—“dragging away the women, burning everything and stealing what they could carry.”

  “You made it out alive, though.”

  “Clearly,” Andren said. “Once I knew it was a lost cause, I used my return spell to scamper back to Pharesia.” He swallowed, his eyes haunted, and he took a deep swig from his flask. “They’re not kind to their prisoners, either.”

  Cyrus listened, thinking about what the dark elves might be doing in human towns even now. Andren was over two thousand years old, in spite of looking as though he was only in his thirties by human standards. “How many wars did you see between the Elven Kingdom and the Dark Elves?”

  Andren shook his head. “Too many to count. They’re a warlike people, you know.”

  “I’m sure they say the same thing about you.”

  “Bah!” Andren waved him off. “It’s all about territory; they always infringed on ours.”

  “I don’t know that they’re a warlike people, but it would seem that the Sovereign of the Dark Elves has an affinity for war.” Cyrus looked around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “Do you know anything about their Sovereign?”

  “Mostly bullroar. He’s a fearsome beast; eleventy feet tall, breathes fire, all that ruckus.”

  “You don’t believe it?” Cyrus said with a smile that faded a moment later. “Do you think the Elves will intervene? If the Confederation keeps getting battered like this?”

  Andren looked away. “I wouldn’t bet on it. The King...he’s unlikely to interfere if he can avoid it. The last war between the dark elves and the Elven Kingdom was a scarce hundred years ago, and the downside of us living so long is that we remember. We all remember the deaths of friends and loved ones, the cities burned, all that...” He looked at Cyrus. “Now that it’s aimed at your people and not ours? The King won’t order our soldiers to so much as look at them funny unless the dark elves cross our border at the river Perda.”

  C
yrus shook his head. “I thought not.” He felt the pain, the punch in his stomach as the bile rose up, and he thought of villages being burned and ravaged. There was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and Cyrus took a deep breath. “It’s not easy watching your homeland get pummeled while you stay out of the fight.”

  “Aye. Just remember your foolish Council of Twelve in Reikonos were the ones that wanted this war, not you or the other humans.”

  Reikonos was the human capital, where Cyrus had been born and raised. He had a brief flash of remembrance; childhood days spent playing in the city square, of splashing water from the fountain. “They may have started it, but they sit high in the Citadel in Reikonos while the people of the Confederation bear its effects.” An image flashed through his mind of the city in flames, dark elves marching through the street with torches and swords, citizens screaming. “But if it comes to them invading Reikonos...” His words trailed off. He clapped Andren on the shoulder with more enthusiasm than he felt and walked toward the staircase.

  “Don’t Council for too long!” Andren called after him. “The victory celebration will have started by the time you get back!”

  Cyrus didn’t answer, mind still dwelling on the dark thoughts their conversation had stirred. In spite of our successes in Sanctuary, it doesn’t feel like victory because my homeland is in flames. He felt a stir within him, deep inside, and the acrid taste in the back of his mouth grew stronger as the torches on the walls seemed to burn all the brighter, as if to give him a sense of what the flames of war were doing to the Confederation. If the dark elves invade Reikonos...he thought as he climbed. ...I don’t think I can stay here and let my city burn.