The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 7

  Vara closed her eyes, arms folded on the shining breastplate. “I need to go to them. I need to convince my mother.” She blinked. “And perhaps my sister as well...”

  “Isabelle has been warned,” Alaric said, “and Endeavor has increased their guard. As an officer in Arkaria’s foremost guild, I would imagine she is safer than most. Nonetheless, perhaps it would be best if you went to Termina to speak with your mother before going on to whatever destination you have chosen.”

  A bristling, aggravated feeling rushed through Cyrus at the thought of hiding, quieted by his knowledge that they were up against a foe that did not show its face until it was ready to strike—and that by then it might be too late to save—

  “Aisling has picked out three in the crowd outside,” Thad said. “They’re watching the front door, so I suggest we go out the back.”

  “Let us not delay.” Alaric picked up his flagon and drained the last of his mead before replacing the vessel on the table. “There is, after all, no telling how much time we have before these assassins make a hasty mistake.”

  Chapter 10

  They left through the back door after Thad and Cyrus made certain it was clear, surprising the innkeeper as they passed her. Alaric handed her another few pieces of silver as Cyrus emerged into the sunlit yard behind the tavern, Nothing but fields extended to the horizon.

  Cyrus held open the door for Vara, who was still paler than usual. The fading light of day gave her skin a washed-out, almost sickly appearance.

  Thad halted them once they were outside. “Someone should wait with Vara while we get rid of these assassins.” Cyrus tried to signal the younger warrior to shut up, but to no effect; Thad stared at Cyrus’s motions with a look of curiosity that took his eyes off the elf in front of him.

  Vara’s face turned from pale to an angry red flush. “I’m not some scared, weak little princess, hiding in the shadows of my stronger brethren.” She raised an open palm and a blast of force slammed into Thad, causing his arms to pinwheel and the warrior to land on his rump.

  She took two steps forward to sneer at him. “Do not make the mistake of believing that because I ran from these cesspools that I did so out of fear for anyone but my comrades; I am a paladin, a holy warrior in the service of Sanctuary and Vidara, the Goddess of Life, and anyone who steps into my path should prepare themselves accordingly.”

  Cyrus stood back, arms folded, along with Alaric and Curatio. Vara whirled around to face them, her anger yet unspent. “I hope none of you—”

  “Lass,” Alaric began, interrupting her building tirade, “the three of us have known you long enough to recognize that when you set your mind to a course of action, no matter how ill-advised, it will be unchanged. We have foes to deal with.” The Ghost’s hand found its way to his sword, and he drew the runed blade, holding it in front of him.

  They followed Alaric around the side of the inn, through an alley that led to the main road. The noise of the crowd was still resounding, shouts of jubilation, laughter and glee echoing around them.

  Thad leaned in behind Cyrus, Curatio separating the two warriors from Vara in the narrow passage to the street. “You know, it’s a wonder she hasn’t killed you in the last few days.”

  Cyrus snorted. “I’m not dumb enough to provoke her wrath unless I’m ready for it.”

  “There is no preparation for my wrath,” Vara said without turning around. “And you’re plenty dumb enough.”

  “How did she hear us?” Thad said, his voice low. “I was whispering and there’s a full scale riot of joy going on not a hundred feet away. I could barely hear my own words!”

  Curatio shot them a sympathetic look as Vara cast a gaze of annoyance as she pointed to one of her elongated ears. “These? Not just for decoration.”

  Alaric eased into the crowd, which filled the street to the alley. Cyrus brushed past Curatio, who gave him a reassuring smile as the warrior followed Vara. With a glance back, he confirmed that Curatio stopped at the mouth of the alley, his hands moving to flip up the cowl on his traveling cloak then returning to the folds of his robe where, unlike some healers who preferred to remain unarmed, Cyrus remembered he kept a mace.

  “You’re not laboring under the delusion I’m some damsel in distress, are you?” Cyrus turned back to see Vara peering at him, question in her eyes.

  “Not at all,” he said, talking over the raised voices on the street. “I’m just here to help a guildmate in dire need.”

  “I am not in dire need—”

  “Well, you’re in some need.”

  Mollified, Vara turned her attention back to the crowd. “Can you spot the assassins from here?”

  Cyrus scanned the crowd, trying to take in the small details; happy faces, children darting through the multitude, their voices raised in laughter. The smell of fresh baked loaves of bread wafted through the air coupled with a smell that he knew was Larana’s meat pies; a combination of beef, lamb and chicken in a thick crust of delicious dough, one of which could feed several people. His mouth watered; it was his favorite dish long before he joined Sanctuary. He felt the people brushing against him in the crowd, refugees with an air of hope so distant from the ragged desperation of the ones that they had encountered for the last few days that it was almost unrecognizable.

  And yet, in the crowd, there were small holes in the atmosphere of festivity. A man was stock still near one of the wagons, his eyes fixed in their direction. Another, near the door of a house on the other side of the street, was focused not at all on the loaf of bread in his hands but directed to casting furtive glances at Vara.

  “I see some of them,” he said. “It’s the ones that keep looking at you.”

  “And you don’t allow for the possibility that they could be simply admiring my resplendent beauty?” The tension in her voice was the only hint she might be joking.

  Cyrus replied in a low undertone, “Their eyes are hardened, sunken; these aren’t men who could appreciate beauty in any environment, resplendent or not. They’re intent on a purpose and it involves you in an unpleasant way.”

  She turned away from him so that only her profile was visible, and he watched her look resolve. “I’m certain that their intentions and mine are not matching, so let us dispense with these murderers.”

  “Yes, let’s—” Cyrus was interrupted when out of his peripheral vision came a blur of speed, a brown cloak on a direct line for Vara. A dagger was already extended from the sleeve and Cyrus caught only a glimpse of a man’s face as he moved past the warrior. It was contorted with a look of unrepentant viciousness, sadistic glee lighting up the dark-circled eyes as the elven assassin swept toward his unknowing target.

  Cyrus’s hand was already on Praelior and he felt the familiar sensation of time slowing down. The blade was drawn and moving, flashing through the air in a crosswise cut that opened a gash across the ribs of Vara’s assailant, spinning him to his knees. Cyrus brought his sword across the throat of the elf as Vara turned in surprise.

  A hush fell over the crowd followed by the first scream, then a hundred others. The calm and docile refugees, so contented only a moment before, saw the peaceful calm shattered and almost as one tried to scatter from the violence in their midst. Cyrus looked to the places where he had seen assassins, but they were all swept up in the movement of the throng, all gone.

  One of the wagons flashed and a forked streak of lightning shot from the window. Cyrus could see Larana, her expression one of pure fury, as the bolt struck a figure whose cloak caught fire, forcing him to the ground. Another arced past Cyrus into an elf that was charging at Curatio, a dagger raised above his head. The healer waited with his mace in a defensive posture, but the lightning sent the assassin flying into a wall.

  Cyrus turned back as a cry of alarm came from behind him. He was already in motion, his sword up, as he sprang forward, pushing Vara to the side. Distracted by the assailant attacking Curatio, Vara had turned her head as another assassin broke free of the fleeing crowd.<
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  Cyrus brought his sword forward in a blocking motion, batting aside the first dagger of the assassin with his right hand as he interposed his body between Vara and the elven attacker. The assassin was knocked off balance, but brought around his other dagger in a glancing stab that skipped off the metal plating on Cyrus’s upper arm and funneled, by pure luck, into the gap beneath his pauldrons.

  He cringed as he felt the blade bite into the meat of his left shoulder. Warm blood spurted out of the wound as he slammed his sword into his assailant’s face. The assassin’s hand slipped free of the dagger’s grip, leaving it buried in Cyrus’s arm.

  The refugees had dispersed, leaving behind a handful of cloaked elves and a near-empty street. Cyrus saw Sanctuary guild members led by Ryin Ayend coming into the village at the north end; the opposite direction from which he and Vara had entered, but they were fighting against the fleeing crowds.

  Cyrus maintained a defensive posture, his back against Vara’s. Two more elven assassins advanced toward them as he flinched through the pain and felt a burst of lightheadedness.

  “Shall we show them the error of their ways?” Vara said.

  Cyrus gritted his teeth, the pain in his arm bringing tears to his eyes. “Sure. Why not.”

  Vara slashed at the assassin closest to her, causing him to take a step back. Cyrus did not wait to see how the next round of her battle went; his foe moved toward him and Praelior came up of its own accord to fend off the assassin’s attack. Every clash with the elf’s blades jolted him, sending waves of pain radiating from where the dagger was still buried in his shoulder.

  Cyrus glanced back; Curatio and Thad were engaged with more assassins that had sprung out at them while Alaric was fighting off two assailants simultaneously. Vara was holding her own against the other, but was in no position to assist him. The pain in his arm was becoming an unstoppable agony, even with the aid of Praelior’s mystical strength. He suspected that without it, he would be on his back, helpless.

  His assailant struck again and again, each blocked by Cyrus but battering the warrior back toward the inn. Cyrus countered with a clumsy swing, but the blow pushed the assassin back only a few steps, and at the cost of Cy’s footing. The warrior fell, the front of his armor a bloody mess, his black plating slick. The smell of it wafted up and his eyes felt heavy. He raised Praelior in front of him, fending off two more attacks by the assassin, whose angular features were cracked by a smile.

  “I see you’ve felt the kiss of black lace,” his assailant taunted him. “The mighty Cyrus Davidon, General of Sanctuary, brought low. Not quite so unstoppable without a healing spell, are you?”

  “That’s not what makes me unstoppable.” Cyrus tasted blood in his mouth. His armor felt heavy, and the mild ache in his knees from the position he was in was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his left arm.

  “Oh, no?” The assailant grinned as he closed, his boot landing on Praelior, knocking the blade into the dirt.

  Cyrus slumped back, looking up and seeing the overhang of the roof of the inn above him. “No...I’m just a so-so warrior...”

  “Any other confessions before you die?” The assassin laughed and raised his blade.

  “You’re about to get perforated with knife blades,” Cyrus said, his words slurred. “And I’m going to enjoy it.”

  The assassin paused, a look of confusion on his face as from above them a shadowed shape detached itself from the roof, flying through the air. The elf looked at the sudden flash of motion. Cyrus reached up and batted the blades aside, knocking them from the assassin’s grasp as the shadow slammed into him.

  Aisling landed with her weight on her daggers as Cyrus fell over into the dirt, clear of the dark elf’s attack on the unsuspecting assassin. He saw her action as if she were moving at half speed; her weapons plunged into the guts and neck of the elf, his grin supplanted by an openmouthed expression of shock, then dissolved by the torrent of blood that spurted from his body at her assault. The dark elf landed with both knees and the force of her impact hid the fact that she stabbed the assassin a half dozen more times in the seconds that followed.

  With the lithe grace of a cat, Aisling moved from a crouch to standing, facing away from him. His eyes blurred as she stood silhouetted against the sun, her dark blue skin giving her the appearance that she was a human shrouded in semi-darkness.

  Cyrus looked past her to see Alaric, locked in combat with two of the remaining assassins, his sword dancing to either side, keeping them off balance, whirling to avoid his offensive thrusts. A concussive burst of force shot from his hand, clipping one of the combatants and freeing him to focus on the other for a few seconds; all he needed to strike a killing blow on the first before returning to the second and finishing him off as well.

  Cyrus glanced back to see Thad and Curatio making quick work of one of the remaining assassins as the remainder of the Sanctuary force arrived. Curatio broke away and came to his side, followed by Vara. The paladin dropped to her knees at his side, Aisling behind her but standing at a distance.

  “You silly bastard,” Vara said under her breath. “I took mine out without difficulty, but you have to go and get impaled.”

  “He didn’t get wounded by the last one,” Aisling said from behind her, every word drowning in accusation. “He got stabbed when trying to keep you from getting knifed in the back.” The dark elf kicked at the dust at her feet. “It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t had to save you.”

  “And where were you while we were fighting them off?” Vara shot to her feet, tense and facing Aisling, who recoiled and dropped her hands to where her daggers rested in her belt.

  “I was on top of the inn, waiting for an opportunity to be of use,” Aisling shot back, her purple irises seeming to glow in challenge. “And I was, just in time to save his life.”

  “We have no time for this,” Curatio called to the two women as he knelt next to Cyrus. The healer’s hands removed Cyrus’s pauldrons, then unstrapped one side of his breastplate and backplate while Vara returned to his side and removed the other. Cyrus gritted his teeth again, the pain mounting.

  Curatio frowned as he looked at the wound. “Knife went in the shoulder but it skipped off the bone and slid here.” The healer’s finger traced a line along Cyrus’s skin that roared with pain as he did it. “Probably hit an artery.” Curatio grimaced and pushed down so hard on Cyrus that motes of light swirled in front of his eyes. The healer’s hand re-entered his vision a moment later, a dagger clutched in it. With a sniff, his frown deepened. “Black lace.”

  “I admit my understanding of human anatomy is very basic—” Aisling began.

  “And limited to the area of the groin,” Vara said.

  Aisling continued, “But if you can’t heal him, won’t he bleed to death?”

  Curatio’s hand dug within his robes, a look of intense concentration on his face that brightened after a moment. His hand emerged, a small pouch gripped within it. “That would be true—if I couldn’t heal him.”

  The words made their way through Cyrus’s pain-soaked mind. “Didn’t you say the dagger was coated in black lace?”

  “I did.” Curatio opened the pouch and gathered a pinch of dried leaves between his fingers. “This is going to hurt, and for that, I apologize.” He turned to Vara and then to Thad, who showed up at his shoulder. “Hold him down.”

  Curatio drove his finger into Cyrus’s wound, tearing a ragged scream from his throat, followed by a stream of shouted curses, most of which related to the healer’s parentage. The wound burned, screaming. Cyrus’s eyes were closed, squinted tight, and he forced them open while he tried to control the excruciating pain in his shoulder and arm.

  Vara stared down at him, her blue eyes wide with fear, both her hands pushing his left arm to the ground, the veins in her thin neck bulging from the effort. Aisling was lying across one of his legs, which was spasming while Alaric forced the other down. Thad, on the other hand, grimaced but kept Cyrus’s right arm
contained, unable to do anything useful, such as pummel Curatio to death for whatever he was doing.

  In a moment, the healer wiped his bloodied hands together and stood. Cyrus still felt the searing in his shoulder, although it had abated a little. Curatio brought his hands together and closed his eyes, his mouth almost unmoving while a blue glow filled his fists. The light enveloped Cyrus and the pain faded, as though it were a mound of sand blown away by a light wind, a few granules at a time.

  Ragged breaths tore from Cyrus’s lungs as he sucked in air, his eyes locked on Curatio’s. “Not sure I want to know how you did that.”

  Curatio forced a smile, his expression grim. “I know it hurts.”

  Thad looked up at the healer. “I thought black lace counteracted all magic?”

  Curatio waited before replying. “Alchemists long ago created a cure for black lace as well as the dark magics that carry the same effect; unfortunately, it’s from a very rare and expensive plant and I didn’t have any on hand after depleting my stock...” His words came out in a low whisper. “...several years ago.” He bowed his head. “I should have bought more after we started raising our fortunes in Purgatory, but it wasn’t a priority.” His head came back up. “Until...”

  “Niamh.” The name bubbled up on Cyrus’s lips, and he tasted bitterness that had nothing to do with the blood from where he had bitten his tongue.

  “I had it on a list of things I was going to do. We’ve been out of it for years. I just hadn’t gotten to Pharesia to get it yet.” The healer’s eyes were haunted, glossed over and staring at the dirt beneath him.

  “We’ve discussed this, Curatio.” The voice of Alaric was near silent, stoic. “This is not something we could have predicted.”

  “We’d seen it before.” Curatio’s head did not move. “I should have been prepared.”

  “When did you see black lace before?” Cyrus rasped, fingers kneading into his exposed shoulder, sending spikes of pain down his arm as well as into his chest.