The Sanctuary Series: Volume 02 - Avenger Page 22

  Alaric mirrored Cyrus's attack, pitching the guardian off-balance, then cast a spell. The same blast he'd used underwater was even more devastating now – the force blast flew from Alaric's open palm, tilting the guardian at the waist and knocking it onto its back. Cyrus did not hesitate; he jumped, imitating a move he'd seen Vara execute many times. He flew through the air and landed on the torso of the felled guardian, plunging the blade into the side of its neck and dragging across it four times before a reprisal came from one of the arms. He blocked the attack with the sword, mangling another of the guardian's hands.

  He attacked the neck once more. He could sense Alaric behind him, warding off the arms as Cyrus brought the sword down again and again, until the head rolled free and stopped a few feet away, dissolving into the gray slag that had been oozing from the body.

  Alaric brought his sword down on the torso, and channeled a spell through the blade, rocking the Last Guardian. It shuddered again and Cyrus felt his feet begin to slide into the body. He jumped free as it melted, losing its solid form and spreading across the ground in all directions, a thick sludge.

  He sighed a breath of relief and returned to where he had left Vara. Curatio stood above her, hands glowing, magic already surging to revive her. She came back with a lurch and her head jerked forward as she gagged. He knelt next to her and she opened her eyes, squinting against the twilight around them.

  “Alaric?” she gasped, looking around, disoriented. “Where am I?” Cyrus looked up to see the Ghost standing there, leaning on his sword.

  “It's all right, lass,” he said in a soothing voice. “We're in the Realm of Purgatory.”

  A beat passed before she seemed to comprehend. “Again?”

  “You took the death glare of the Last Guardian,” Cyrus interjected. “Knocked me on my ass so you could do it.”

  “I don't...” She squinted at him, a look of confusion on her face. “What are you doing here? Am I wounded?”

  “You died,” Curatio said.

  “Curatio,” she breathed, and turned her eyes toward Cy. “Cyrus Davidon.”

  He grinned. “Glad to see you didn't forget me.”

  She managed to roll her eyes. “I could scarcely forget you, but not for lack of trying.”

  “Why did you knock me over?” he asked, a flash of annoyance welling in him.

  She drew a breath before answering. “Because if I hadn't, your thoughtless gallantry wouldn't have allowed me to take the death glare,” she answered as she sat up. Wobbling on her arms, she stabilized herself by leaning against him. “You did not exaggerate the effects of resurrection.” Her eyes fell on her sword in his hand and irritation darkened her already wan features. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I needed it,” he said, “to win the battle.” He slid it back into her scabbard, prompting an offended look from her.

  “How dare you slide that into my scabbard without permission?” She blanched. “Oh, never mind.”

  Cyrus laughed, prompting a weak smile from Vara. “So did you get all that curiosity out of your system? Don't feel the urge to go dying again anytime soon, do you?”

  She shuddered. “That was quite a bit worse than I'd anticipated. No, I don't intend to try that again. Who took the other death glare?”

  Cyrus looked up at Alaric, who was strangely calm. “Excellent question. Alaric was supposed to, but it doesn't seem to have taken hold on him.”

  Alaric shrugged. “It would appear that the guardian failed to attack with death glare a second time, for I am still here and feel quite well, I assure you.”

  “I have no doubt,” Cyrus said with no small amount of irony. “I believe the guardian did reach out with a death glare a second time. How did you avoid it?”

  “What you describe would seem impossible. I assume it somehow missed,” Alaric said. “If there were any other explanation, doubtless it would reveal itself –”

  “In time, yes,” Cyrus said with an air of resignation. Alaric smiled, bowed and strode away to Larana, who was stooped over a puddle of the Guardian's remains with a bottle, collecting it.

  Vara watched him go. “Did the Guardian speak to you? Try to tell you anything? Try any of the things that the Gatekeeper has been doing?”

  “No,” he said, unable to take his eyes off hers. “I haven't had anything speak into my mind since the Realm of Darkness.”

  “Peculiar. Every time we faced it the mental attacks were intense.” She frowned. “It doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't it attack that way?”

  “I don't know,” he said, gritting his teeth. Her grip, enhanced by her armor's power, was crushing his fingers.

  “Perhaps you're special,” the Gatekeeper's voice came from behind them. They turned to find him sneering, with something sitting across his hands. He tossed it at Cyrus's feet, stirring up a cloud and causing both he and Vara to blanch from the dust.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Cyrus pulled away from her, eyes fixated on the object in the dirt. He reached down and picked it up with delicate hands, holding it as one would hold a newborn baby, covetously, taking in every line of the intricate styling. The paladin’s words rang in his ears, but the warrior was far beyond hearing them.

  It had been a blazing hot day in the slums of Reikonos, years before he’d met the forces of Sanctuary. The heat swelled, sweat dripped down his skin, soaking his undergarments. In the places where his armor touched skin it burned, even in the shadowed light of the canyon-like slums. The smell of mortal refuse from the latrines overwhelmed the air, so strong it turned from smell nearly to taste, gagging even those with the strongest stomachs.

  Cyrus walked the streets at midday. All but the most courageous vendors had abandoned their carts due to heat. The normally vibrant, noisy slums, teeming with life and merchant activity – legitimate and not – had given way to a mere whisper of its normal volume.

  Turning a corner into a quiet alleyway, a racking pain filled his head, as though a sword had been driven into his temple. He reached out to a nearby wall for support, blinked, and another shock of pain seized him, bringing him to his knees.

  A hazy figure had appeared before him as the light from above swelled. “Cyrus Davidon,” boomed an all-consuming voice. The pain in his head was paralyzing, but the words were a soothing balm, and the angry tautness in his skull faded at the sound. “My loyal servant.”

  “Who – who are you?” Cyrus's mouth was dry and each word had to be forced out.

  “You have served me for years, making war, giving combat and offering your prayers with loyal heart. I am here to help you achieve your destiny – becoming the most powerful warrior in Arkaria.” The figure's eyes lit with an unknown power, blotting out anything but a faint, human-like outline.

  Cyrus looked up, trying to discern details through the fog surrounding him. “Bellarum?” Even through the pain, a sense of palpable awe filled him. “You... you are the God of War?”

  “I have watched your growth into a warrior since the days you took up my cause in the Society of Arms. You have been a good and faithful servant and I see great potential in you. I come to you now to assist you in obtaining a weapon of power unlike anything wielded since the ancient times.”

  A scrap of parchment drifted from the cloaked figure's grasp, landing at Cyrus's feet. His hands darted forward after a moment's pause, scooping it up from the dirt and bringing it close enough for his eyes to read.

  Serpent's Bane – The guard and grip are in possession of Ashan'agar, the Dragonlord.

  Death's Head – The pommel is held by Mortus, God of Death.

  Edge of Repose – The Gatekeeper of Purgatory holds the blade as a prize for one who knows to ask for it.

  Avenger's Rest – G'koal, Empress of Enterra has the Scabbard.

  Quartal – The ore needed to smith the sword together is found only in the Realm of Yartraak, God of Darkness.

  Brought together by one who is worthy, they shall form Praelior, the Champion's Sword
.

  “What... what is this?” Cyrus asked, confused.

  The figure held out a hand, eyes blazing in that magnificent shade, overpowering everything. He gestured to the parchment Cyrus held. “I give you a test. It is no idle test fit for lone warriors – this task will require you to assemble or co-opt an army.” The figure paused, solemnity filling Cyrus with a palpable sense of awe. “Gather the pieces and the prize will shape your very destiny. Pass through the trial which I have set before you and I will guide your blade. Let us see the strength that you possess – if you are worthy of being called Warlord.”

  Cyrus blinked and the pain that filled his head was gone, along with the figure. He was back in the alley in Reikonos, one hand against a wall for support, and in the other was clutched a small scrap of parchment - and a curiosity, a drive to know if what he had seen was real.

  “The Edge of Repose,” Cyrus whispered. He turned to Vara. “It's the blade – for my sword. I only need the scabbard now.”

  “So glad I could grant your fondest wish,” said the Gatekeeper with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have others to attend to.” Before he turned, he favored Vara with a malicious look, mouth upturned in a smile. “And what about you? What do you want? Same as last time?”

  “As I recall, you did not grant my request last time,” she said, dry lips smacking together.

  “Ah, but it was granted, though perhaps not in the way you intended.” The smile grew larger on the Gatekeeper's face.

  Vara did not return it. “Not through any action of yours.”

  “Well,” the Gatekeeper said lightly, with a shrug, “think about it and get back to me.” He smiled and strolled off to the next nearest member of the Sanctuary army.

  “So he starts by trying to pinpoint your darkest fears and ends by giving you what you ask for?” Cyrus said with a shake of his head. “Bit strange.”

  “Not really.” Vara stared at the Gatekeeper, now speaking with Thad and Martaina. “It's all about what drives you – for good or ill. It's not as though he will grant a wish,” she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “He'll give you things. Tangible objects. Easy requests for things you covet that can be created with godly power. It's not as though he can bring back the dead.” She paled.

  “It takes a while for the effects of the resurrection spell to wear off,” he cautioned her.

  “It's not that,” she said. “Never mind. It is quite overwhelming.”

  Neither of them spoke for several minutes as they watched the Gatekeeper. A line of their guildmates had formed in front of him. Whenever one of them made a request, the Gatekeeper would turn away for a moment and something would appear in his hands, much like the disappearance when his cloak seemed to fold in on him. After an hour, the line had been depleted.

  “I think we are almost done,” the Gatekeeper said with the thinnest air of relief. “One left, I believe.” He turned to Alaric, who was standing at a distance. “So, Lord Garaunt, what would you have of me?”

  “I would have nothing of you,” the Ghost said. “Unless you would be willing to offer your head, stuffed and mounted on a wall.”

  “That would be asking a bit much.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Very well then,” the Gatekeeper said with a clap of his hands. He hesitated and stepped closer to Alaric. “Perhaps I could offer... just one thing.” His hands disappeared behind his back and his face went blank. When his hands re-emerged there was something clutched in his fingers, something small. The Gatekeeper held it out for Alaric to see.

  It was a lock of hair. Brown, wispy and delicate, bound together at the middle by a white ribbon.

  The Ghost did not react visibly. Stonefaced, he stared down at the Gatekeeper's hands before reaching out and taking what was proffered. “Thank you,” he said in a voice without inflection. “I assume you mean for this to taunt me, but be assured I take it with gratitude.”

  “Take it however you'd like.” The Gatekeeper's voice was hushed. “It matters not to me.” The Gatekeeper paused, some twist of emotion almost unrecognizable passing over his weathered face. “You'll want to leave through this portal.” He gestured to the one directly behind him.

  “Why don't we go through one of the others?” Terian said with an air of suspicion.

  The Gatekeeper grinned. “You are most welcome to exit through any of them, but I wouldn't recommend it, even for you.”

  “He is right,” Alaric said with certainty. “The others will not take us anywhere that we wish to go. We will leave through the portal he indicated.”

  A mutter ran through the crowd but upon Cyrus's call to formation, the Sanctuary army assembled in front of the portal. “Remember,” Cyrus called out. “We'll be appearing in the middle of Reikonos. If we encounter hostility, the front ranks will hold them off while the rest of the army exits the portal. Nyad,” he said to the wizard, “you'll be the last one into Reikonos and as soon as you appear, cast the teleportation spell. We'll have dealt with any... interference by then.”

  “What's the likelihood we'll be seeing battle?” Thad asked.

  “We just broke the big three's monopoly on the Trials of Purgatory and we're already wanted by the Reikonos guards,” Vara said. “I would say... high.”

  Cyrus looked at the faces of the army standing before him. “We just became the fourth guild in Arkaria to claim victory over the Trials of Purgatory. Whatever we face on the other side of that gate is nothing compared to what we went through on this side of it.” Excitement infused his words. A roar of triumph from Fortin broke the uneasy tension and a small celebration rippled through the crowd as the realization of what they had accomplished spread over the expedition.

  “I'm proud of you,” Cyrus said. “One last thing and we can go home as heroes.” He turned toward the portal and raised his hand. “Forward!”

  Chapter 27

  The light of the portal flickered on the walls of two massive guildhalls on either side of them as they emerged into the Reikonos guildhall quarter. The sun was behind the buildings, the chill of early evening was in the air and the sky was the same twilight color that had been present in Purgatory. The smells of cooking meat wafted as Cyrus looked from the raised platform the portal was mounted on down the street in front of him. A few souls were scattered on either side of the avenue.

  Cyrus had passed through these streets many times; large guildhalls towered above the dainty structures of the markets and spread out for entire blocks of the city. He looked down the street to an intersection only a few hundred feet away, a place where the entrances to the four largest guildhalls in the city looked across a square at each other.

  They varied in styles, one taking its appearance from ancient elven architecture like that of Pharesia while one across the street favored the more modern elven architecture seen in the city of Termina. Reikonos had almost no style of its own, an eclectic mix of different types of buildings that did not blend well. One of the halls even appeared to be human architecture with dwarven decorations ringing it.

  As they emerged from the portal, Cyrus kept the army marching forward. The spectators watching had looks of awe. Whispers filled the air along with the crackling of energy from the portal behind them. Cyrus saw a few people run, some down side streets, some into their guildhalls.

  “That is Amarath's Raiders’ hall,” Vara said tightly, pointing to their left. She moved her hand toward the intersection, pointing at a building across the square. “That one belongs to Burnt Offerings; that one belongs to Endeavor.” She moved to point to the building to their right.

  Cyrus eyed a structure almost as big as the other three, situated on the forth corner of the intersection. “Whose is that?”

  “Take a guess,” Vara said with utter contempt as a dark elf in a cloak emerged from its doors followed by a dwarf and a host of others.

  Cyrus stared at the dark elf as he moved forward, almost gliding. “Malpravus,” he whispered. “Goliath?”
>
  “None other.”

  The streets were filled as the four biggest guildhalls in the quarter emptied and others came from side streets, most keeping their distance, perhaps remembering the last time this had happened. Cyrus cast a look back to see only a little more than half his army had emerged from the portal.

  The flow of people from the Burnt Offerings guildhall had slowed to a trickle; a mammoth clot of their members stood before Cyrus on the street. Endeavor's and Amarath's Raiders’ doors were open and their hall was still emptying. Cyrus continued to shuffle toward them, pushed by the growing numbers of his guildmates appearing from the portal behind him.

  “Keep a tight formation,” he whispered, and heard the command passed row by row through the army. There was some movement on the street as a few figures pushed to the front of the crowd. A female elf that looked oddly familiar led the group. Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. Robes of the purest white were draped over her and held snug at her midsection by a belt that was black leather with a buckle of one of the finest and most intricate designs he had seen. A blue scarf was draped over her shoulders that matched her sparkling eyes and a smile stretched across her face.

  She was flanked by a human dark knight, a man whose build was similar to Cyrus's – he stood taller than most humans, had dark hair and light eyes, and a scar crossed his face diagonally from his forehead to chin. His armor was a dark shade, not quite black but polished to a sheen and made from a metal with a texture different than any Cyrus had seen before.