The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 2

  Chapter 2

  “You’d have been proud, Alaric,” Curatio said. “Another flawless run through the Trials.” Curatio was the chief healer of Sanctuary, an elder elf with a constant gleam in his eye. He wore long, flowing robes with an ornamental sash wrapped around his shoulders that indicated his profession. His short-cropped hair contained just a touch of gray, giving his angular, regal features an air of distinguishment.

  “I expected no less.” Alaric Garaunt tilted his head in the direction of Cyrus and then Vara. Alaric’s hair was peppered by far more gray than Curatio’s, and extended to the back of his neck. His armor was weathered but still polished, and his eyes bore a fire. His fine, chiseled features were handsome, the only mark upon them the black leather patch that covered his missing left eye. He favored them all with a smile that was at odds with his nickname: “The Ghost of Sanctuary.”

  “We were in fine form,” said Niamh. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders, her green eyes alight with the same excitement that ran through her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Gatekeeper any madder. We tore through the Trials in record time.”

  “Agreed.” Vaste the troll spoke up. His green skin was flushed dark with victory. “He was so flustered he didn’t insult us half as much as usual.”

  “At the rate, our people are getting mystical swords and better armor. We’ll have the best equipped force in Arkaria before too much longer,” Curatio said with a smile.

  Cyrus looked around the Council Chambers. The room was centered on a large round table with eight seats. Behind Alaric was a set of double doors to the balcony, surrounded by windows that looked over the darkened Plains of Perdamun. On either side of the room stood fireplaces, crackling along with a dozen torches that burned without a hint of smoke. The brightness of Sanctuary at night had surprised Cyrus at first; it was unlike any place he had ever been.

  “I hate to interrupt the circle of self-love,” an annoyed voice interrupted. Cyrus’s head swiveled to Terian Lepos, a weathered dark elf with a long nose and navy blue armor crowned with spikes jutting from his shoulder pauldrons. “Can we please focus on the meeting? I’d like to drink a little bit before I pass out from exhaustion.”

  Alaric’s staid expression returned, the levity gone. “Of course. We have a few things to discuss...”

  “War news,” came the muttered voice of J’anda Aimant, Sanctuary’s most skilled enchanter. Capable of creating illusions upon himself, this evening he wore the serene features of an aged elf.

  “I would prefer you come to the Council in your true form, J’anda.” Alaric’s eyebrow twitched as he stared down the enchanter.

  J’anda’s chest heaved with a great sigh. “As you will.” His hand waved in a lazy pattern and his illusion vanished. The enchanter was a dark elf with features so average that they were overshadowed by any illusion he cast, leaving Cyrus unable to picture the dark elf’s face if he was not staring at it. “Now can we talk about the war?”

  Alaric cleared his throat. “Another wave of human refugees has reached us, along with some new information. It is as we feared; Prehorta has fallen to the dark elven army and they have sacked and burned the town.”

  “That’ll be a brutal end for a lot of men and a torturous experience for a great many women.” J’anda shook his head, appalled. “The dark elven army are bestial when they sack a town; nothing is prohibited.”

  “And yet somehow they call your lot a civilization,” Vara said.

  Terian leaned back in his chair, focusing on Alaric. “Do you think that army will be moving south?”

  Alaric put his hands on the table and interlaced the fingers of his gauntlets in front of him. “I doubt it, but it would be unwise to assume. Both you and J’anda,” he said with a nod toward the enchanter, “have knowledge of the Sovereign of the Dark Elves; what do you believe his next move will be? Take the war here, to the Plains, or head west toward the river Perda and destroy the southern edge of Confederation territory?”

  Terian shook his head. “I doubt he’ll march west to the river. I think sacking Prehorta and leaving a garrison will do much to cut off Reikonos from the food supply of the Plains of Perdamun, increasing the hardship the Confederation will endure as the war grinds on. He’ll likely move this army up to join the forces driving toward Reikonos.”

  “A wise strategic move,” Curatio added. “Since the humans have been able to turn aside the dark elf attacks along a line south of Reikonos, it’s keeping the Sovereign from laying siege to their capital. If he cuts off routes to the Plains of Perdamun, it’ll help him weaken Reikonos when he does get around to moving his armies into siege positions.”

  “There are still human armies in the east and north that have yet to come into battle,” Cyrus said. “If the Council of Twelve had anyone with brains planning this war they would have realized they had the dark elves damn near encircled at the start of the fight and would have moved to keep it that way.”

  J’anda and Terian laughed, the enchanter in soft tones, the dark knight in loud, discordant ones. Curatio and Alaric shared a knowing look.

  Vara’s eyes narrowed. “I would have agreed with the warrior’s assessment, yet I get the feeling there is something that you’re not sharing with us.”

  Terian laughed again, alone this time. “Unlike humans or elves, we have one major city – Saekaj Sovar. All the dark elves live there except for exiles and expatriates like us.” He pointed to himself, then J’anda. “Saekaj is underground, with entrances and exits hundreds of miles in different directions. Good luck encircling it; you’d never find them all.”

  “So it’s like Enterra?” Cyrus looked at Terian.

  “No. Enterra was tunnels in a mountain; small, like a mine or an anthill. Saekaj is built into underground caves that are a hundred miles long and hundreds of feet deep.”

  Vara wheeled to favor Alaric and Curatio with a glare. “How did the two of you know this? Are foreigners not put to death in Saekaj Sovar?”

  Curatio remained mute but Alaric smiled and answered, “If they are found, I am told that is true.”

  “Fascinating as this geography lesson is,” Vaste spoke in his low, rumbling voice, “the fact remains that an unpredictable dark elven host remains on the march a few hundred miles north of us and more refugees stream out of human territory by the day, unable to find help anywhere but through us.” The troll fingered the white crystal at the top of his staff, which rested against the edge of the table.

  Alaric cleared his throat again and attention pivoted back to him. “We already have an overwhelming number of refugees passing through our halls, all seeking the relative safety of these lands. They arrive without food nor means to survive, and we will continue to help them as best we can. Those who come to us hungry will be fed, those who arrive naked will be clothed—”

  “Unless they’re pretty,” Terian amended, “in which case they should be kept naked and sent to me.”

  A light laugh echoed through the room. Alaric wore a slight smile and shook his head in dismissal. “Other business?”

  “Applicants,” Curatio said. “In the past six months we’ve had a flood of them and Niamh and I are overwhelmed. Some of the refugees are even applying; merchants and farmers, people without proper experience.” He held up a hand to forestall Cyrus, who had started to interrupt. “I know we accept folks without experience and I’m glad of it, especially to give some of these poor souls a better lot in life, but it is making our job more difficult.”

  “I’ve taken to falling asleep on a stack of parchment at night,” Niamh said, her bright eyes more lined than usual. “I’m doing everything I can to sort through and learn the stories of all these people that have joined us, but even with members helping us vet them, we’re backlogged evaluating all these potential guildmates.”

  “Is it my imagination, or has the median size of our applicants diminished since our Enterra expedition?” Terian said with a sly smile.

  “I haven’t noticed,
” Vaste said, easily a foot taller than Cyrus, who was six and a half feet in height. “You all look like ants to me.”

  “You’re right, Terian,” Niamh answered with a smile of her own. “Since we crushed the Goblin Imperium, we’ve had large numbers of goblin and gnomish applicants—gnomes because we knocked flat the Imperium, which was their biggest enemy, and goblins because we destroyed a hated government and brought freedom to their underclass and peace to their lands.”

  “One would think there might be tension between the goblin and gnomish applicants,” Vaste said, a thoughtful expression pasted on his green face.

  “Not thus far,” Curatio said. “They seem to be getting on rather well.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” Alaric said with a nod. “One final matter before us, and we will part for the evening. With the growth in our numbers, I think it would be prudent to add new officers to the Council—”

  He was interrupted by the doors to the hallway blowing open with exaggerated violence. Cyrus turned to look as the doors banged against the wall and then slammed shut. He looked back to the faces around the table and found them as confused as his own. “What was that?”

  Alaric was still, his eyes lit with concern. “Peculiar.” The light in the room increased threefold as the fire of the torches blazed and the fireplaces burned with sudden force. Alaric’s expression shifted to mild alarm. “Most peculiar. I suggest we adjourn; the enchantments on Sanctuary seem to be trying to call our attention to something unusual occurring within our walls. Let us sweep the halls for any sign of...trouble.”

  Chapter 3

  “Never seen anything like that, and I’ve been here for two years,” Cyrus said with a grunt as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Curatio, Niamh and Vaste in tow.

  “Can’t say I’ve seen it more than once myself.” Vaste’s long strides carried him into the foyer. “And that was quite some time ago.”

  “Same here,” Niamh said, her red hair draped around her shoulders. “Curatio and I will sweep the Great Hall; you two check the foyer and the lounge.”

  “Sounds good,” Cyrus said before turning to the front entrance doors, which blew open and slammed shut. The attention of everyone in the room was on them as the torches on the walls burned higher than the ones in the Council Chamber had and the fireplace belched forth a gout of flame that pushed bystanders back several feet.

  Andren crossed from the lounge to join Cyrus and Vaste. “What the bloody hell is going on?” He looked at them askance. “There’s no wind outside; it’s like the doors and fires in this place have a mind of their own—and it’s a crazy one.”

  Cyrus pointed to the doors, which slammed and opened again, making a thundering noise. “How long has this been going on?”

  “A few minutes now,” Andren said, taking a sip from his flagon. “What does it mean?”

  “Trouble,” Vaste replied. “Sanctuary carries enchantments that warn when someone has malicious intentions.”

  “Couldn’t it find a quieter way of warning us?” Andren said with a pleading note. “I was carrying a keg of ale when it went off the first time. The entrance doors shut so loud I dropped it. Ruined a perfectly good run of Larana’s dark...and then, as if that weren’t bad enough, the fireplace exploded and I damned near ruined my pants...”

  “Exploding fireplace?” Cyrus said.

  “Not good,” Vaste interrupted his thought. “I wonder if the strength of the warning is tied to the seriousness of the threat?”

  “So if someone were planning to steal one of our kegs...” Cyrus let his voice trail off.

  “The doors would perhaps clap shut once or twice. Minor mischief. I’ve seen that a few times but never connected it.”

  “But if the fireplace explodes and the doors slam over and over...”

  “Right,” Vaste said. “Nothing good can come of this.”

  “Stealing a keg is not ‘minor mischief,’“ Andren said in a huff.

  “Do the enchantments give us any clue as to where the trouble comes from?” Cyrus looked at Vaste with concern.

  “The effects seem worse down here than in the Council Chambers.” His hand stroked his green chin, puzzling it out. “The worse the effects, the closer you’re getting to the disturbance?” Vaste wondered. “Since the entrance doors are slamming at the same rate as those of the Great Hall—” he pointed at the doors behind them—“if I’m right, it would follow that whatever is setting them off is in this room.”

  “Ack!” Andren said with a cry. “I left the kegs undefended!” He beat a hasty path back to the lounge.

  “At some point you’re going to have to deal with his overindulgence,” Vaste said in a warning tone.

  “Not now.” Cyrus scanned the crowd for any sign of trouble. Refugees and new applicants were mixed with familiar faces, one of which was making its way toward him.

  Aisling slinked down the stairs wearing a wicked smile that blended with her almost glowing white hair. She wore a red dress that clung to her figure and emphasized her womanly attributes; something much different than her usual apparel, loose fitting light leather armor that allowed her to move without making a sound. The daggers she wore in her belt were missing now, and Cyrus looked at her trim waistline for a moment too long, wondering if she had secreted them away on her person.

  “I saw that,” she said with a hint of glee. “I chose this dress hoping it would catch your attention, and it would appear I succeeded.” She sashayed over, pressing herself against his armor. He felt one of her hands slide around to his back.

  “Aisling,” he said. “Do you have your daggers?”

  The mirth left her eyes as her hand disappeared into the folds of her dress, reappearing with two small, elegant blades that were curved, razor sharp and as wicked as the smile of the woman who wielded them. “So you weren’t looking at my figure?” Her voice went flat and her eyes flicked down, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “Perhaps later. This thunderous racket,” he breathed, her face still next to his, “is an enchantment warning us of someone with very bad intentions, and that person is here in the foyer.”

  She pulled back from him. “And you need to sort out who.” Her hand withdrew from his back and she turned to the crowd, focused and seeming to sift through them, one by one. She stopped and pointed to a figure, a refugee. “Him.”

  Cyrus stared at the man, an elf, who was blond and had long hair in a ponytail. “How do you know?” Cyrus watched him as he awaited Aisling’s answer, but something about the elf gave Cyrus a peculiar feeling; whether it was Aisling’s warning or something else, he could not tell.

  “We have over two thousand members and applicants and countless more refugees on our premises,” Vaste said. “You picked him out of a crowd in a room of at least three hundred in about ten seconds. Please, explain.” The troll folded his arms and favored the dark elf with an expectant look.

  Aisling shrugged. “How is he dressed?”

  Cyrus stared at the elf. “Like a refugee.”

  “Where are the refugees coming from?”

  “The Human Confederation,” Vaste answered, now impatient. “But there are plenty of elves, dark elves, gnomes and dwarves that live within their borders.”

  “Sure,” Aisling said. “But the refugees are coming from small towns and villages. How many elves have you seen in rural areas of the Confederation?”

  “Few,” Vaste said, now ponderous. “But that still doesn’t mean—”

  The elf turned and Cyrus broke off his watch, but not before catching a glance of piercing eyes, absolutely at odds with the look of the elf’s clothing. Far from seeming like a scared refugee, worried about the ruckus, the elf had a predatorial air. “I think she’s right,” Cyrus cut him off. “Everyone else is gawking at the doors and fireplace. He’s scanning the room like he’s looking for something.”

  “Being as there’s nothing in this room, he’s likely after someone.” Aisling leaned close to Cyrus and whispered, “Any idea wh
o?”

  “Any idea who what?” An icy tone washed over Cyrus from behind and he turned so fast that only Aisling’s catlike reflexes saved her from being knocked over. Vara stood silhouetted in the entry to the stairs, a cold glare focused on him and then Aisling in quick succession. “Any idea who is actually trying to sort out this threat? Because that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, not arranging a tryst.”

  Cyrus’s cheeks reddened and he felt a twist in his stomach. “Aisling’s figured out who’s setting the enchantments off.”

  “Has she?” Vara’s eyebrow shifted upward, but the rest of her expression did not change. “How convenient. May I wager that she believes the responsible party to be in your armor, and that if she can simply persuade you to remove it, she’ll show you who it is? And you, ignorant, naïve and undersexed, will find out on the morrow how wrong you were, both by the burning in your loins and the absence of your coinpurse.”

  Aisling smiled, a deep, self-satisfied grin that bore no resemblance to actual joy. “Which would sting more? Me striking you down right now, or me bedding this man that you insult so frequently?”

  “I daresay the striking down for me and the bedding for him.”

  “Ladies, we have no time for this—” Vaste began to speak but stopped. “Oh gods.”

  So focused was Cyrus on the rising tension between Vara and Aisling that he had not heard the clamor behind him die down. A scream brought his head around and he locked eyes with the elf that Aisling had pointed out. The man had moved and now had blades in his hands. His cloak was splayed out on the floor and he held a body tight against his, the red hair of his hostage standing out in contrast with the spotless white silk doublet he was wearing underneath his worn traveling cloak.

  Niamh! Cyrus’s mind raced as he pushed his way through the crowd, Vara, Aisling and Vaste behind him. The red-haired druid had a knife tight against her throat, blood already running into the small amount of cleavage revealed by her robes. The dagger stood out against the pale skin and red hair of Niamh; it was obsidian black, with a small octagonal pommel that bore a circular emblem Cyrus could not see from where he was.