Sanctuary Tales (Book 1) Read online

  SANCTUARY TALES

  VOLUME ONE

  The Sanctuary Series

  Robert J. Crane

  SANCTUARY TALES

  VOLUME ONE

  SAVAGES

  A FAMILIAR FACE

  Robert J. Crane

  Copyright © 2012 Reikonos Press

  THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE GEZHVET

  THE GREENEST FIELDS

  A PRINCESS OF SOVAR

  THIEVING WAYS

  Robert J. Crane

  Copyright © 2013 Reikonos Press

  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]

  CONTENTS

  Savages

  A Familiar Face

  The Last Moments of the Gezhvet

  The Greenest Fields

  A Princess of Sovar

  Thieving Ways

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  Other Works by Robert J. Crane

  Acknowledgments

  SAVAGES

  Note: This story takes place during the events chronicled in Defender: The Sanctuary Series, Volume One, in the six month gap between chapters 15 and 16.

  One

  It had been almost three months since the Enterra expedition and Cyrus Davidon spent his days moping. For the last three weeks he had not left Sanctuary, and the walls of the guildhall were beginning to make him feel as if he were in a prison.

  Mornings were the toughest part of his routine. His good friend and constant companion Andren usually didn’t awaken until the afternoon, and spent the rest of his day parked in the lounge, drinking from the kegs of ale, broken by the occasional sip of Dark Elven brandy or Gnomish cognac. Cyrus had tried Pharesian whiskey with him, but afterwards regretted it for three days of punishing headaches.

  This morning found Cyrus in the Great Hall, picking over eggs with gravy. It would normally have appealed to him, but food had lost its flavor. He habitually dined alone so when a tray found its way onto his table he looked up in surprise.

  “Cyrus,” came the voice of a gnome. “I’ve watched with great concern as you sink lower and I’m here to do something about it,” came the squeaky voice of Brevis Venenum. Brevis was two feet tall and garbed in a black robe that would have fit on a doll. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Brevis had not spoken to him since they had met – when Cyrus had accidentally stepped on the diminutive enchanter.

  “Indeed.” Brevis lowered his voice. “I’ve learned the location of a temple far from here, where zealots of a wealthy cult used to worship. I’m told they left quite a hoard of gold behind. I’m leading an expedition.”

  “Why would the cultists leave behind gold?” The question popped out before Cyrus could stay it.

  “They were attacked while on a pilgrimage and never came back for it. But it works out well for us, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I have a small group assembled. We leave tomorrow.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll split the treasure,” Brevis continued. “It’s good to have a first class warrior joining us; lets me sleep better and focus on the planning, knowing you’ll have things well in hand.”

  “I didn’t say I was in yet,” Cyrus protested.

  Brevis leaned across the table to give Cyrus a pat on the glove and nearly fell over. “We meet in the foyer tomorrow at daybreak. It will be several days’ journey.” With a quick salute, the gnome stepped off the bench and walked away.

  “I didn’t say I was in,” Cyrus mumbled under his breath. He considered sitting around Sanctuary, wandering the halls aimlessly, and remembered advice Terian had given him – anything would be better than the nothing he was doing. “All right,” he called at the retreating back of the gnome, “I’m in!”

  Two

  Cyrus waited in the foyer the next morning, before it seemed anyone else was awake. The sound of heavy footfalls on the stairs jarred him from his thoughts, and he looked to see the troll, Vaste, move into sight from under the spiral of the staircase. Cyrus tucked himself behind the fireplace; he did not care for trolls.

  Vaste stood a head taller than Cyrus, yet shorter than most of his kind. His skin was a light green, almost glowing, with no hair to crown him and teeth that were barely concealed by his overlarge lips. He wore a black tunic, which was unusual for a healer. He also wore a sash that accompanied his class of spell caster and carried a staff that was tall enough to be used as a walking stick, with a gem at the top that pulsated white, glowing with energy.

  The troll entered at a slow walk, pausing in the middle of the foyer. Please don’t see me, Cyrus thought. Vaste turned, saw Cyrus, and gave him an informal nod. “How goes it this fine morning, Warrior Davidon?”

  “It goes,” Cyrus grunted.

  “Indeed,” Vaste said with a pleased smile. “I haven’t seen much of you in the last few months. How are you coping?”

  Now he’s asking personal questions. Cyrus felt the heat rise in his face. “Fine.”

  “Perhaps it’s the monosyllabic response, but I doubt it.”

  Take the hint and go away. Vaste continued to stare at him, polite smile on his face. Cyrus did not reply. I don’t want to talk with you, troll scum. Leave me alone.

  “You know,” Vaste said, “I find that the best way to get through an awkward moment – and that’s what we’re having here, an awkward moment – is to find common interests. Me, I enjoy reading. You?”

  Cyrus stared at him. “I…no, I don’t read much.”

  “Hunting?” Vaste asked. “I don’t have much interest in the killing of wild beasts myself, but often Sanctuary sends out hunting parties around the plains and into the woods – we are feeding a sizable number of people after all, and that requires fresh meat. Is that something you enjoy?”

  “I…no,” Cyrus replied, flustered.

  “I’m sorry for assuming,” Vaste replied. “I thought perhaps since you enjoyed battle, hunting might be a natural extension of that.”

  “In battle your quarry fights back,” Cyrus said in annoyance. “And I’d have a hard time catching a deer in full plate mail, wouldn’t I?”

  The troll shrugged. “I’ve seen Vara do it, but I suppose she is more agile than yourself.” The dark eyes of the troll focused on him. “So…what do you do to fill the long days?”

  Cyrus clenched his teeth. “I…I…”

  “Excellent!” came the squeak of Brevis’s voice. “Punctuality is an attribute highly prized.” He was flanked on either side by Gertan and Aina, his close companions. Aina, who was tanned, had her auburn hair pulled back in a knot and wore leather clothing that exposed more than would be desirable on most. Her face was impassive and rarely showed a hint of feeling. Gertan was a dark elven warrior with a sycophant’s smile, nodding his head whenever Brevis spoke.

  “I have to go,” Cyrus said with an overly ingratiating smile directed at Vaste. He stepped forward to stand next to Brevis.

  “Step close,” Brevis said with a gr
in, “we’re teleporting east of the Inculta Desert, to the very last portal in that territory. We’ll need to be careful: there are no kingdoms or principalities; it’s a land under the dark shadow of banditry.”

  Vaste took a few steps toward them, causing Cyrus to look at him. “We’re leaving now; you might want to step back.” When the troll smiled, Cyrus felt a small discomfort. “He’s not coming along, is he?”

  “Would you like to try healing yourself?” Vaste asked. “Because I’d guess that being mortally wounded thousands of miles from home would be an ill way to end your trip.”

  “He’s one of the best healers in Sanctuary,” Brevis said with uncontained glee. “He gets ten percent of the base profit, plus ten percent of the share of anyone he has to cast a healing spell on.”

  Vaste’s toothy grin caught Cyrus’s attention. “I anticipate you’re going to make me wealthy.”

  “He also knows the resurrection spell. That may come in handy.”

  “You know, in case you die,” Vaste interrupted. “A bargain at only twenty percent per casting.”

  Brevis, unperturbed, continued. “Aina, if you would?”

  Aina was a druid, a spell caster with the ability to control nature as well as being blessed with the magics of teleporting from one place in Arkaria to another, tied to the giant stone portals that dotted the lands. Her hands swirled through the air as she murmured inaudible words under her breath. Her hair stirred from within its knot by a wind swirling around them in the foyer.

  Cyrus’s eyes met Vaste’s and his look of incredulity was matched by the wide smile on the troll’s. “This will be so much fun,” Vaste said. “If we get into battle, your life is in my hands!”

  A tornado’s fury consumed them as the winds of Aina’s teleportation spell swept them away.

  Three

  Cyrus felt the soft crunch of sand under his boots as the winds faded. Blue skies replaced the dingy torchlight bouncing off the stone walls, and a beach of white sand under his feet stretched to clear blue seas making their way up to the horizon. He glanced back to see the ovoid circle of rock that was the portal; magical objects somehow tied to teleport spells.

  Gertan, Aina, Brevis and Vaste were scattered around him. The troll seemed to be taking enormous pleasure in the beach; he had taken off his boots and was mashing the sand between his green toes. “I was raised in the coastal swamps,” he explained. “I heard of places like this, but since my people were defeated in the last war they don’t leave the homeland much.”

  “Shame it’s at all,” Cyrus muttered under his breath.

  “All right.” Brevis commanded their attention. “We head south along this beach for two days; then head inland when we reach a road. We follow the road for three days, and it’s through the jungle from there.”

  “No horses?” Cyrus asked.

  Brevis shook his head. “We’d lose them in the jungle. And…” The gnome looked down. “My pony can’t keep up with the rest of you.”

  “And you, on foot, will have better luck?” Vaste smiled down all seven feet of his frame to the two foot tall gnome. Brevis hissed an angry and inaudible reply and began stalking down the beach.

  The first two days passed slowly. Gertan and Aina contributed little to the conversation; Aina, in fact, said nothing, and Gertan only nodded after every point Brevis made. The gnome dominated the conversation. Cyrus determined not to speak unless spoken to. Vaste also said little, leaving Brevis to fill the conversational gaps.

  “I asked for Orion’s help, did I tell you that?” Brevis said for tenth time that day. “He turned me down, said it was foolish to venture into these lands. We’ll show him; I tell you, since the Enterra expedition he’s lost all heart for adventure. Why, just the other day…” Brevis prattled on while Cyrus took advantage of his height to move ahead, taking long strides that would leave the gnome behind.

  When he was far enough away to be out of earshot, Cyrus let out a deep sigh that was mirrored by one to his left. He looked toward the sound and felt a scowl part his lips. Vaste was only a few paces behind him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I can take another week of his griping.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  Vaste’s eyebrow cocked. “I apologize; I had marked you for someone with a great deal more sense.”

  Dark clouds drew over Cyrus’s face. “You insult me, troll.”

  “At last,” Vaste replied. “Did you assume that I’d allow your verbal jousts at me forever without an eventual riposte?”

  “I have not…” Cyrus gritted his teeth, biting back the reply he’d planned. “I have tried to be as cordial to you as possible—”

  “Then you’re failing.”

  “I think it would be best,” Cyrus said, commanding every ounce of patience he had left, “if we stuck to the task at hand and left any conversation for another time.”

  “Very fine,” Vaste said, complexion turning to an even deeper green. “Since the day I first left my homeland, I’ve been exposed to a constant diet of people who hate trolls with every fiber of their being. Until now,” he said, thick eyebrows furrowing, “I’ve never met anyone within Sanctuary so ignorant as to treat me this way without cause. I suppose I thought we had a higher standard for our members.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about me,” Cyrus snapped at him.

  “Well, not to get philosophical with you, but likewise.” Vaste’s scowl deepened. “At least you’re giving me reason to dislike you.” The troll slackened his pace as Cyrus sped up, letting the warrior leave him behind.

  Four

  Cyrus walked ahead of the group for the rest of the day. When they made camp on the edge of the beach that night, he stayed away from the fire, preferring to sleep early and awaken before any of the others. By the light of dawn he wandered down the beach, heading south, until something caught his eye in the distance. He approached a little closer and realized it was a stone bridge; enormous columns stuck hundreds of feet out of the sea, supporting a causeway that extended beyond the horizon. When he returned to camp he made mention of it to Brevis, who waved him off.

  “Yes, the Endless Bridge, seen it a thousand times. Impressive, yes? Extends off over the Strait of Carmas. Not really sure where it goes.”

  “But who built it?” Cyrus asked him. “And how? It’s longer than any bridge I’ve ever seen.”

  “Amazing,” Vaste commented. “I heard about it while I was studying in Fertiss. I’d heard rumors it leads to a different land.”

  “Irrelevant,” Brevis said. “We have a mission. There’s no time for exploration!”

  “Have you heard of anyone crossing it?” Cyrus asked Vaste, curiosity overcoming his acrimony toward the troll.

  “A few,” the troll replied. “Can’t say I’ve read any accounts of anyone who’s come back.” He smiled ruefully. “Take that for whatever it’s worth.”

  “It’s worth less than a heap of horse dung,” Brevis interrupted. “Now, about the temple we’re going to: there were accounts of their gold…”

  They broke camp after a breakfast of fresh fish that Aina had caught the night before. They had camped at the entry to the road Brevis had mentioned, but it seemed more like a dirt path.

  Cyrus once more led the way. Vaste walked close to the gnome, expression neutral. Every so often, Cyrus would catch a note of annoyance cross the troll’s face, but all he heard was the occasional grunt from Vaste whenever Brevis reached a point in his utterings that seemed to require concordance.

  After three days and nights of walking the path, the flat lands around the beach had turned into swamps, then rough plains until finally they came to an almost unbeaten divergence from the path that led into the jungle that had appeared around them over the last half day. “This is it!” Brevis declared with a squeak of triumph. “Only a couple more days and we’ll be there, collect the treasures, and we can teleport home.”

  “Lovely,” Vaste commented, swatting at a mosquito that looked larger
than Brevis.

  The path through the jungle was scarcely that. At times it became near impassable. Rocks, vines and other natural obstacles blocked their way. At one point Brevis was nearly swallowed in a pit of quicksand while arguing with Vaste about their heading. Cyrus sighed, not quite in relief when Gertan and Aina recovered the gnome from what could have been a tragic end.

  At nightfall, they had seen no sign of a temple and Brevis ordered them to make camp, annoyance cutting through the facade of politeness the gnome had shown to this point. “Don’t understand,” he muttered, “it’s supposed to be here.” He had been rambling under his breath for most of the afternoon.

  Their camp spot was in the middle of the “trail” in the increasingly impassable jungle. Surrounded on two sides by water, the small strip of land they sat upon did not offer much space for sleeping. Rain had begun at midday and was persisting even now; there was no wood available that had not been soaked. In spite of Aina’s best efforts, they had no fire.

  Cyrus sat with his back to a tree, out of conversational earshot of the rest of the group. Brevis was complaining, judging by the look on his face. Gertan was nodding along while Aina sat stonefaced, watching the gnome gesture in frustration with his hands pointed skyward.

  “Isn’t this fun?” came Vaste’s voice from the darkness. The troll appeared next to his tree.

  “No,” Cyrus replied, returning his gaze to the gnome, who was now throwing a fit. “But,” he added, “it could be worse.”

  Vaste looked at him. “What would be your definition of worse?”

  Dark caves and claws, yellow eyes and green scaled skin flashed through Cyrus’s mind. “Enterra.”

  Vaste chewed on his lower lip. “Yes. That would be worse.” He started to say something and halted. “I…” The troll’s hands clutched his staff, as though he were unsure of how to use it. “I was sorry…about your friend.”