Sanctuary 5.5 - Fated in Darkness Page 3

  J’anda struggled to find something to say that would reassure the troll. What was there to say, though, truly? “We never know what the future holds,” he said, but it sounded flimsy to him, like the wing of a lame bird, flapping almost noiselessly, trying to hold him aloft and failing.

  “I think you know what your future holds,” Vaste said, “now, anyway.”

  “That was always in my future,” J’anda said, easing toward the troll. “It is the one thing that binds all of us together; the inevitability of an uncertain end.”

  “Yes,” Vaste agreed, “all of us except Curatio. That bastard.”

  J’anda felt a chuckle rise, unexpectedly, within. “I do not know if, after what I have seen this last year, I could properly tell you whether what Curatio has is a great blessing, or the worst form of curse.” Something about that tugged at a thread of memory within him, and his eyes went back to the waiting letter once more, remembering another time when he’d received a letter sealed by markless wax, and his blood held pause within him, his breath refusing to come for a long moment.

  “I call it a fortunate thing,” Vaste said, prattling on, unaware of the catch in J’anda’s chest, the sudden fear clutching at his innards, “because who wouldn’t want to go on living, in perfect form, ageless, for thousands of years? I mean, having children at the ripe old age of twenty thousand? Who wouldn’t—?”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with me, friend,” J’anda said abruptly, like the clangor of a bell of alarum at midnight. “I am quite fine.” He found himself suddenly glad that he had not bothered to put on the illusion. “Though very tired. I hate to cut short our reunion, but … could I trouble you to let me rest? I would be very glad to take up our conversation in the morn, if you’d like to continue then.”

  Vaste’s expression rippled with subtle doubt. “Would you? Would you, truly?”

  “I would, truly,” J’anda said, as sincerely as he could. “But I have been awake for the space of days, have cast more magic than I thought I had in me, and find myself depleted … much like …” he waved a hand, as though he could pull the desired words out of the air itself.

  “… like the larders of Sanctuary, I would imagine,” Vaste said, nodding. “Very well, I’ll leave you to collapse into your bed without further ado.” The troll started to stand, and a great cracking came from beneath him. The yellow eyes widened in panic, but the troll’s reflexes were insufficient to the task before him.

  The bed crumbled beneath Vaste’s large frame, the mattress crushed beneath his weight. The troll’s legs flew up in the air as his back fell. There was an explosion of feathers as the entire mass came to the stone floor with a thunderous sound that faded into stark silence.

  “Ow,” Vaste said.

  J’anda stood there, feathers drifting around him like a gentle, falling snow. “Are you all right?” he asked, finally. Rushing forward to help the troll, who outweighed him immensely, seemed an exercise in futility, so he simply stood his ground, a hand on his chin, watching with a curious mixture of resignation and dismay.

  “I believe I’ve just ensured a terrible night of sleep for you,” Vaste said, legs in the air and his robe fallen down to expose his boots and thighs as large as the trunks of small trees. J’anda averted his eyes politely as the feathers and dust settled from the destruction. The troll was flat on his back in the wreckage of the bed. The white staff rattled as it dropped out of Vaste’s grasp, rolling in front of the hearth. “For that, I apologize.”

  “You, ah,” J’anda said, focusing all his attention on the fireplace, “you should probably get up.”

  “I am trying,” Vaste said, and J’anda could hear the strain in the troll’s voice. “Could you help me?”

  “I doubt it very much,” J’anda said, watching the crackling of the fire.

  “Oh, right,” Vaste said. “Well, I suppose I could—” He strained again, making a sound not dissimilar to a mule grunting under a heavy load. “Okay. All right. I’m good now.”

  J’anda turned to find the troll on all fours, robe up above the crest of his back. “I do not think I would define that as ‘good,’” J’anda said, looking swiftly back to the fire again.

  “I believe you’ve just insulted the quality of my ass,” Vaste said, getting to his feet. The troll stepped on a piece of the bed’s frame and it cracked loudly. “Errr … which is, admittedly, perhaps a little outsized.” He adjusted his robes back into place and the hem fell all the way to the floor.

  J’anda watched the whole proceeding out of the corner of his eye, still detached from the destruction of his furniture and considering the letter once again. If that is from …

  “Well, I should probably leave you now,” Vaste said awkwardly, stooping to retrieve his staff. “Let me know if you want me to destroy any of your other furnishings.”

  J’anda struggled to find the polite thing to say, with his mind so occupied by other matters. “It is of no consequence,” he said with only a moment’s pause.

  “You say that now,” Vaste said, “but you’ll change your tune in about two hours, when your old bones are rattling across the cold stone floor. I think it actually might be more comfortable out in the yard, if you can believe it—”

  “I will make do,” J’anda said, the desire for haste finally setting in. He forced a half-smile, something wry, and opened his door, as quickly as he could without appearing rude or hurried. “I do thank you for your concern, my friend.”

  “Well,” Vaste said, taking the hint and moving out of the door with less haste than J’anda would have preferred, “it’s not out of the way for me, you know. I’m always concerning myself with everything.”

  “I have often said that about you,” J’anda said, drawing a curious look from Vaste. “That you are a concerning individual,” he added.

  “Oh, very funny,” Vaste said, pausing outside the door. “You know—”

  “Tomorrow,” J’anda said and closed the door without allowing for a reply.

  “Right,” Vaste said through the closed door. “Tomorrow it is, then. Good night.”

  J’anda leaned against the door, his eyes traveling slowly over the broken bed and back to the desk in the corner, where the yellowed paper rested, waiting. He let the inviting, smoky aroma of the hearth drift over him, the warmth of the room drift over his skin, and he eased his way to the desk and picked up the sealed letter. He ripped it open, but found the tearing of the paper not at all satisfactory.

  And then he read the words within and wondered if anything would be satisfactory ever again.

  4.

  Terian

  Returning to the shrouded dark of the Sovereign’s throne room would have been a strange experience, even absent the extenuating circumstances that hung heavy on his mind like an extra set of armor. Terian passed through the intricately carved double wooden doors in the antechamber, the scent of some lingering aroma, incense perhaps, drifting deep into his nose.

  A wooden floor stretched into the distance of the throne room, far ahead of him. Dim lanterns hung on the wooden walls to either side, but their light was diminished, less than a normal candle, as though they were shrouded in dark glass.

  Terian walked alongside Malpravus toward the throne in the distance. He’d seen the creature upon it before; spindly grey legs that were disproportionate to the size of the body, a face with tusk-like protrusions jutting from either side of his mouth and a third tusk that extruded from the top of his head and curved between his red eyes. The Sovereign’s body was nothing like a dark elf’s; his torso was strangely thin, almost insect-like in its appearance, but with grey flesh that reminded Terian of the scourge. He saw the Sovereign’s eyes turn toward him as he entered, the three-fingered hands of the leader of Saekaj and Sovar grasping the arms of his ornate wooden throne as he shifted to consider his impending visitors.

  This is bound to be interesting.

  “Do mine eyes deceive me, or does Terian Lepos approach my throne?” the Sovere
ign asked. His voice was the same cold hiss as always, his face inscrutable. The tall creature rose to greet his guests.

  “Your eyes don’t deceive you, my Lord Yartraak,” Terian said, curiously uncaring about the outcome of this meeting. Either I’ll live or I won’t. Or I’ll live and be tortured horrendously. Or maybe he’ll make me his loyal servant again—which might be worse, honestly. “I present myself for your judgment.”

  “And at an auspicious moment, no less,” the Sovereign said, eyes locked on his. “Do you know of what I speak?”

  Terian halted as Malpravus did, the click of his boots against the wood floor dying away. “Are you speaking of the incursion of Mortus’ dead that Sanctuary just turned back in the east?”

  “I speak, of course, of—” The God of Darkness halted in the middle of his thought, his jaw pausing in a jutted position, giving the god a strange underbite. “Explain what you mean by that.”

  “Mortus’ collected souls,” Terian said, catching a glimpse of naked curiosity from Malpravus at his side. There was a slight shroud of darkness around the throne, but Terian could make out a figure stooping next to one of the arms of the seat, a man in the garments of a servant. “They poured out of a portal into the land of Luukessia, beyond the Endless Bridge, taking physical form and putting to ruin the entirety of the land.”

  The Sovereign made a deep, hissing noise, a sound born out of the back of his throat. “But your guild halted this … incidence?”

  “Alaric Garaunt destroyed the bridge and sent the—we called them a scourge—” Terian began.

  “A fitting name for those malformed wraiths,” the Sovereign agreed, though his eyes flashed curiously at the mention of Alaric’s name, crimson glowing in the artificial night.

  “—to the bottom of the sea of Carmas,” Terian said and controlled his instinct to swallow heavily with the pronouncement that followed, crushing it down into his insides. “Alaric was also lost in the commission of this action.”

  The Sovereign made a broad wave of his hand, as though sweeping the thought of that away. “I find it disquieting that Mortus’s failure to seal that portal led to such a grand error. Those … things could easily have spilled over the bridge and created a great difficulty in these lands.”

  Terian paused, trying to decide how best to address his question, then remembered he might die at any moment. Best to just get it out there, then. “You’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

  The Sovereign stroked his nearly nonexistent chin, and for a moment Terian struggled to remember that he was in fact a living god; he looked so very normal in his mannerisms, though his form was truly bizarre. “Of course. It is well known to us that transitioning a disembodied essence through a portal creates a monstrous physical form. Mortus, being a collector of … well, he should have known better.” Yartraak’s gaze swiveled back to Terian. “Should I thank you for bringing me these tidings? Or should I kill you for the other news I have received on this night?”

  Terian wondered whether he should ask if the ‘us’ the Sovereign referred to was a royal one or an actual one, but he decided not to press his luck once the threat was leveled. “I have no idea what other news you’ve received, having just returned to these shores.”

  The Sovereign’s crimson eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you do not. Cyrus Davidon returned with you, then?”

  Terian’s calm wavered, just for a moment. “In spite of my best efforts … yes.”

  Yartraak’s voice rumbled. “You tried to kill him?”

  “Tried,” Terian agreed. “Some.”

  “And failed?” Yartraak asked.

  “I cursed him and cut his horse’s throat while he was fleeing the scourge,” Terian said, pursing his lips, “in payment for what he did on the bridge in Termina.”

  The Sovereign sat heavily on the throne. “Interesting. But he survived, as he always seems to.”

  The God of Darkness does seem to take an inordinate amount of interest in Sanctuary and its players. “It’s becoming something of an annoying habit of his,” Terian said. “Defying the best efforts of all to kill him.” Terian searched for any trace of feeling in the matter, and found it curiously lacking.

  Shouldn’t I still want him dead? Didn’t I just swear it wasn’t over between us?

  So why can’t I seem to feel regret for my failure to kill Cyrus? He fixed his gaze back on Yartraak. Maybe it’s the company I’m keeping. Cyrus Davidon somehow seems quite the minor concern at the moment, for some reason.

  “He led an army against mine this very eve,” the Sovereign rumbled. “The one I had perched in siege ’round the neck of Sanctuary. They were to be my vise, my strong hand, to squeeze that pustule until the infection was purged out of the Plains of Perdamun.” He raised a three-fingered hand, his claws catching the light and glistening. “Cyrus Davidon broke them.”

  “I beg your greatest pardon,” Malpravus said, bowing as he took a step forward to stand next to Terian, “but how many of the Sovereignty’s soldiers survived?”

  “Nearly none,” the Sovereign said in a low hiss, “Davidon’s forces came in on mounted cavalry and ran our army to ground. We lost spell casters, our own horsemen, and infantry beyond the counting. Our officers were taken, caught out in the charge. General Vardeir has failed to report in; I can only hope that it means he has died with the rest of the fools.”

  Terian blinked. A small giggle escaped him, then another. He broke into an unquenchable laughter, bending double at the waist, unable to control himself, and looked up to find himself laughing at the Sovereign directly. “I’m sorry,” he said, not remotely meaning it.

  “You find this amusing?” the Sovereign asked. Terian could see Malpravus creeping away from him in slow steps.

  “As you know,” Terian said, composing himself, “my candor with you has always been … stunningly frank. And I see no reason, perched as I am with my very heart on the tip of your blade, to change that at present. So, yes, I find it funny that Ardin Vardeir and his army were broken in their siege of Sanctuary. I find it hilarious, actually, a heady moment of levity in the midst of what has been a most depressing year, honestly. And probably not for the reason you think.”

  “I think you are so loyal to your Sanctuary friends,” the Sovereign said, unmistakably dangerous, “that to let you leave this throne room alive would be to allow a traitorous worm to writhe his way out of my grasp.”

  “Well, then, I might as well hit you with the full weight of my honesty before I get killed,” Terian said, “and we can make it an execution for the ages. Spilled entrails and whatever else.” Why, oh why, do I always find it necessary to be a bracing ass in the presence of the most powerful being I’ve ever met? He must bring it out in me. “Why would you waste your time and effort attacking Sanctuary when it would be better spent crushing Reikonos?”

  “You question my efforts?” the Sovereign asked, fury creeping into his voice.

  “Yes,” Terian said flatly. “I question your strategy. I question it most vociferously. I wonder if your advisors are completely incompetent, or if they’re merely traitors who hate you with everything they have, because thus far, they’ve squandered the single largest army in Arkaria by throwing it wildly against everything that moves.” He ticked points off on his fingers one by one. “Why would anyone even think of broadening the war to the elven kingdom by invading Termina when the Sovereignty was already at war with the humans? That’s a staggeringly stupid maneuver, as was driven home in obvious terms over the last year, I assume—”

  “You assume much,” the Sovereign said, but his red eyes flared. “I gave the orders to take Termina, to cut off their aid to the humans up the Perda.”

  “Then your advisors should be gutted for not opposing you tooth and nail,” Terian said. “Did even one of them raise the possibility that you were extending your army too far?”

  “My advisors are loyal subjects,” Yartraak hissed, “unlike you.”

  “Yet they marched your armies into a ca
tastrophic battle on the bridges,” Terian said, “without even advising you as to the potential consequences? That’s not loyalty; that’s fear for their own hides holding them back from informing their Sovereign of the downsides inherent in a military campaign. That’s Dagonath Shrawn trying to keep from letting a breath of bad news pass from his lips to your ear.”

  The Sovereign settled in his throne. “After all this time, your grudge against Shrawn still governs your thoughts, Terian of House Lepos.”

  “He’s a traitor, but let’s leave that aside,” Terian said, letting his opinions roll off his tongue unheeded. “I understand the desire for revenge, believe me,” Terian felt a cool prickling inside at the admission, “but there’s a time and a place, and the time to take on a third army is not when you’re already fighting two others to a stalemate.”

  “I’m sure you find it easy to criticize those actions, now,” the Sovereign said, “with the benefit of hindsight and time as your allies, aiding you in seeing to the truth that is brought only through the course of events being carried to their natural conclusion.”

  “The natural conclusion,” Terian said, “of this war was that you would win it by crushing humanity’s largest city and then mopping up their lesser territories in the east and north with little effort. That you would own them, break them, put them under the heel, and once your gains were consolidated you could extend your boot to the throat of the gnomes, the dwarves, the goblins and the men of the desert, if you so desired, before stretching across the Perda and breaking the dying kingdom of the elves. A strategist with half a brain would have opposed the idea of pledging as much of your force to Sanctuary as you did, because you couldn’t afford to lose them and keep the fight going.”

  The Sovereign’s clawed fingers clutched at his throne’s wooden arms, and the sound of scratching wood filled the chamber. “Then what would you counsel now, Terian? Now that these setbacks have been dealt, now that your former guild has hobbled our efforts.”