Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 7

  “So logically speaking,” the troll finished, with no trace of a smile, “you’d have to wait and see what words and deeds came from a person before you could really tell anything about them, wouldn’t you?”

  The rest of the group looked on. Nyad looked confused while Andren seemed annoyed. Narstron attempted to engage Niamh in a quiet conversation and ignore the exchange between Vaste and Cyrus.

  Cyrus knew when he was beaten. “Point taken.” The warrior took a deep breath. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Vaste. I’ll be looking forward,” he continued with only a trace of irony, “to getting to know you.”

  The troll bowed his head, smile fully returned. “And I you, Cyrus Davidon.” Vaste bowed at the midsection, looking for a moment like a tower falling down, and walked away.

  “Cyrus!” He heard his name called across the foyer. He turned to see Orion. “Glad to see you made it back safely.” Orion’s grin matched his own.

  “Hell, I’m glad I made it back safely. I just… had to deliver a message before I left.”

  Though he didn’t ask, the curious expression on his face indicated the ranger caught what Cyrus had said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of cutting and running,” Cyrus replied without expression.

  Orion chuckled. “Get used to it in adventuring. Don’t get me wrong, we usually win. But when you’re that outnumbered, it makes it tough to do anything but live to fight another day.” He paused, and clapped his hand onto Cyrus’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that we’ll be seeing a string of victories that you’ll be a big part of.” Walking over to Niamh, he murmured something to her. “I’ll see you at dinner. There’s a Council meeting about to start; we have to go.” He headed up a nearby staircase, Niamh in tow, in the same direction Vara had gone.

  A disturbing thought occurred to Cyrus. “Is Vara on the Council?”

  Nyad smiled. “You mean is she an officer of the guild? Yes, she is. Now, would you like to finish the tour?”

  As she led the way to a chamber in the back of the building, Cyrus walked beside her. “How long have you been with Sanctuary?” he asked, making conversation.

  Nyad looked sidelong at him. “I’ve been here for a few years so I’ve had an opportunity to get to know the members of Sanctuary well. They’re a great bunch of people.”

  They reached a door and Nyad paused to look directly into Cyrus’s eyes. “This guild is a brotherhood, dedicated to the ideal of service. They will go to their deaths for you, if you’re with us. But if we have an enemy, the converse applies — we’ll go to our deaths to pursue them, especially if they’ve harmed a guildmate.”

  She did not break eye contact with Cyrus, and in that moment he saw the wisdom of a being much older than himself, something he had not noticed in her frivolity and cheeriness.

  She opened the door before Cyrus had a chance to reply, and he took it to be her signal to close that subject of conversation. She continued by showing them through the armory. Inside stood an aged human with a craggy face. His armor looked even more battered than Cyrus’s. “This is Belkan, our armorer,” Nyad said as she gestured to the old man.

  The man she called Belkan grunted at them and nodded. She introduced them.

  “Davidon?” Belkan’s furry white eyebrow raised when she mentioned Cyrus’s name. A neutral expression forced its way onto the armorer’s face as he looked the warrior over. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes fell to Cyrus’s sword. “I suspect we can find better than that.”

  Cyrus looked around and nearly drooled at the selection of weapons and armor on the walls. “I lost my sword fighting a dragon. I just picked this up off the ground.”

  The bushy eyebrow raised again. “A dragon?” Belkan shook his head and muttered something unintelligible. “Stop by in the next couple days and we’ll find you something. Now get going,” the old man waved them off. “I have things to do.”

  The next stop was the Halls of Healing. As Cyrus walked through the door, he found Curatio sitting in front of a table with a gnome atop it. As they walked in, the gnome pointed at Cyrus. “That’s him! He’s the one who stepped on me: I remember the black armor!” His entire arm was no longer than Cyrus’s forearm, and his voice had an almost comical pitch

  Remembering that he had accidentally trod on someone in Kortran, Cyrus said. “I’m sorry! I was trying to get to the titan before it sounded the alarm. I didn’t even see you there!”

  The gnome nodded, perturbed. “Typical of tall folk; feet too far from your eyes to see where you’re going.”

  Curatio smiled. “You’re going to be just fine, Brevis.”

  Without a word of thanks, the gnome jumped down from the table and skittered out the door. Shaking his head, Curatio turned to the group. “Nice to see you all here! You seem like you’ve got the attitude we’re looking for. If you need anything, just ask. If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to. Nice to see you.”

  They left the Halls of Healing, and after seeing the lounge they made their way to the applicant quarters. Their chambers were a series of dormitory-style rooms, each applicant having their own, with a common bath for all the applicants. Nyad left them to get settled after letting them know when dinner would be served.

  After spending a few minutes in his room — a desk, bed, mirror and a comfortable chair for sitting - Cyrus left to explore. Pausing to consider the wisdom of prowling around where he had not been invited, he shrugged inwardly. What are they going to do? he thought. Kick me out? With a chuckle, he left the applicant quarters and went up the nearest staircase.

  At the top of the staircase Cyrus found himself in a room that housed a set of ornately carved double doors. From behind them he could hear voices — then the sound of a woman laughing — Niamh, he believed. This must be the Council’s Chambers. Looking beyond the door he saw a staircase that lead up to the floor above the Council Chamber. Curious, he began walking toward it.

  A sudden hissing sound made him freeze as he realized he was no longer alone. Descending the staircase was a paladin, which Cyrus knew from the regal bearing of the knight. His armor was scuffed but undamaged; he had clearly seen many battles and the wisdom that radiated from him showed it. He stopped before Cyrus, who was transfixed. His helm covered only a bit of his face, but he could see one of the eyeholes was covered in the helm.

  Looking at Cyrus through the other with a stare that seemed to pierce directly into the warrior’s heart, the knight spoke. “Greetings, Cyrus Davidon. Do not be afraid, for I would not harm you. I am Alaric Garaunt.” A glimpse of humor flickered into his eye, the look of a man who was equal parts tired and wise. “I am the Ghost of Sanctuary.”

  10

  Cyrus stared at the vision before him. The paladin stared back. “Nice to meet you,” Cyrus said. “How do you know who I am?”

  A smile creased Alaric’s mouth. “I know all that happens within these walls.” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t mean to be mysterious… at least not at this moment,” the paladin said with an enigmatic smile. “You have heard of the Sanctuary Council?” When Cyrus nodded affirmation, he continued. “The Council is six officers sworn to the good of Sanctuary with a leader and an elder to assist. I am the leader.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re the ‘Ghost of Sanctuary’,” Cyrus said with a nod. “It’s an honorary title for the leader.”

  Alaric shook his head gently. “No, I am the Ghost of Sanctuary because…” he paused, “…that is who I am. I am also the Guildmaster,” he added. Catching the look of confusion on Cy’s face, he smiled again. “In the matter of position, I want you to be clear on the role I occupy. In the matter of my title, I was aiming for mysterious.” He chuckled. “I see it worked.”

  Clearing the confusion in his mind, Cyrus asked, “So, how long have you been with Sanctuary and how long have you been the leader?”

  Instead of answering immediately, Alaric began to walk in a slow circle around the warrior, forcing
Cyrus to turn to follow him with his eyes. “The answers to your questions are one and the same. I have been here since the day Raifa Herde, Erkhardt the Mighty, Cora, Pradhar and I gathered here and formed this guild.”

  Cyrus’s mind raced. “What happened to the others?”

  A flicker of sadness crossed Alaric’s face. “A story for another time, perhaps. I, and the others of the Council, are pleased that you have joined us.” He looked Cyrus in the eye. “I have no doubt you will become a great servant of Sanctuary.”

  He noted Cyrus bristle at the mention of the word servant. “Don’t misunderstand me. When I say serve, I mean that true leadership is service. In other guilds, the leader is dictator, especially in the high powered armies. Their General’s word is law, their bonds of fellowship non-existent. The members serve the ambitions of the leader, whatever they may be — hunger for power, desire for riches.”

  The paladin’s eyes penetrated into Cyrus’s. “Though we all desire material success, great leaders derive their accomplishment from a life of service to their people’s ambitions. A feeling of purpose and significance rather than having the best armor and weapons in Arkaria.” His words hit a chord within Cyrus, who had to look away from the paladin’s gaze. How did he know? Cyrus wondered.

  “That is not to suggest you cannot have both the bonds of fellowship and riches.” A twinkle lit Alaric’s eye. “Though perhaps you do not understand, someday you will see what I mean. For now, I must go to the Council.” He stopped, surveying the warrior before him. “We will speak again soon,” he said with absolute assurance. He turned and slid through the door of the chamber, opening it so thinly that Cyrus could not see anything within. Cyrus went back to his quarters, urge to explore oddly sated.

  The appointed hour came for dinner and Cyrus made his way to the Great Hall, Andren and Narstron in tow. They found themselves in a group of over a hundred people, all as hungry as they. Many tables with benches were set up with a head table for the Council members at the back of the room, nearest the entrance to the kitchen.

  A human woman worked behind the counter in the kitchen, bustling around with a few other servers as a line formed. As Cyrus made his way through, selecting from a wide variety of different dishes, he was pleasantly surprised: one of them was a meat pie. “This is my favorite!” he said.

  The tanned woman in the kitchen smiled and blushed, not meeting Cyrus’s gaze. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

  The three of them quickly found a table. “Very friendly lot,” Narstron commented. “I’ve gotten a good half-dozen offers to explore different places since I got here.”

  “Do you mind if we join you?” An elven healer made her way over with a dwarf in tow. Cyrus couldn’t help but gawk — not only was she two feet taller than her companion, but he was wearing the most bizarre helmet Cyrus had ever seen. It came to a point on the top and two prongs on the sides swept forward. If I lose my sword in battle again, Cyrus reflected, swinging this dwarf by his feet would give me an adequate cudgel as replacement.

  “I’m Celia,” the elf introduced herself. “This is my husband, Uruk.” They enjoyed a conversation with the two of them throughout dinner. Cyrus noticed that the Council went through the serving line last, in what he assumed was a reflection of Alaric’s leadership philosophy.

  As the meal concluded, Alaric stood. The genial conversation and idle boasting in the hall died down quickly, a mark of respect for their leader. “I have a few announcements to make. First, for those who wish to attend, there will be a Sanctuary-sponsored Alliance invasion of Enterra, capital of the Goblin Imperium, tomorrow night.” Cy caught a glimpse of Vara out of the corner of his eye, feigning vomiting under her table. “Orion has asked,” Alaric continued, “to say a few words about this invasion, which he will be leading.”

  Orion stood and placed his hands on his hips. “Tomorrow night we’ll be meeting the Alliance guilds at Enterra. For those of you who may not be familiar with the Alliance or Enterra—” Cy knew he was talking about himself, Narstron and Andren, even though he didn’t look at any of them specifically — “we are part of a three guild alliance composed of Goliath, the Daring and ourselves. Our targets are the Emperor and Empress of Enterra — as is their treasure trove.”

  Orion took his hands off his hips. “We’ve received word that the Emperor Y’rakh,” the ranger stumbled over the goblin emperor’s name, “has begun preparations to build their army for a march toward the Gnomish Dominions.” Orion paced the forward length of the table. “Our goal is simple: to make our way into the depths of Enterra, kill the royal family and sack their treasury.”

  Orion stopped and pounded his left fist into his right hand. “If we kill the royal family it should defray any plans for conquest they have. The goblins of Enterra are also the keepers of the Earth Hammer, one of the mystical weapons supposedly imbued with the power of the gods; in this case, that of Rotan, God of Earth.

  “Our biggest challenge,” he said as he resumed pacing, “will be keeping quiet. This will not be a full scale invasion as we lack the numbers to defeat the goblins by brute force. We will take only our most experienced people. About a hundred of us from Sanctuary and roughly one hundred each from the remaining two guilds gives us a force of approximately three hundred.” There was a sound of awe from the crowd. Orion dismissed it. “The goblins have an army of over ten thousand in Enterra. We are bringing enough force to fight our way in and decapitate the Royal family.” His words were greeted with great approbation.

  The applause continued until he was seated once more and Alaric had stood. “Dinner is adjourned,” he proclaimed with mock seriousness. “Good luck to the invaders tomorrow. Those of you chosen to participate will receive notice. Goodnight.” The great hall emptied quickly, as members of the guild filed out, many heading upstairs but more heading to the lounge.

  Cyrus found himself in a corner of the lounge, a sprawling room with multiple tables and a variety of ways to entertain oneself. He was in a conversation area with comfortable seating. Andren was enjoying the fruits of Larana’s brewing abilities while Narstron looked pensive.

  “Fine ale,” Andren said.

  “All the finer for being free.” Cy gave a sly look to Andren, who did not respond.

  Narstron was almost bouncing in his chair, barely containing his enthusiasm. “I wonder when they’ll announce who gets to go to Enterra?”

  “I’m assuming you’ll want to go, then?” Andren said, sarcasm in his voice.

  The lightness of his tone was lost on Narstron. “I’ve always wanted to see Enterra. When I was a lad, growing up in the caves of the dwarven capital of Fertiss, a scouting party captured a goblin and brought it back to the Society of Arms.” He paused. “Sometimes villages in the south would get sacked and they’d say it was goblins that done it. When they attack, they leave no sign — nothing that would tell you that they were the ones that did it. They even cover up their footprints.

  “Anyway, they found one wounded in a destroyed dwarven settlement.” Narstron’s eyes narrowed. “We couldn’t understand him at first, but after a while, he learned our language.” His eyes grew intense at the memory. “Goblins are brutal creatures, absolutely nasty killers. They would have no hesitation about gutting you.

  “But this one,” he hesitated, “he told stories of Enterra sometimes.” The dwarf looked embarrassed for a moment. “You know we dwarves like to be underground; it’s just how Rotan made us—”

  “Filthy mud diggers, yes,” Andren said.

  Ignoring Andren, Narstron continued. “This goblin told the stories… of how the stones of the city shone in the torchlight.” His voice took on a daydreamy quality. “I’ve always wanted to see it since then.” He straightened up. “I just hope I get chosen.” Narstron turned to Cyrus. “Whaddya reckon the odds are?”

  “I’d say your odds are good.” Cyrus looked around and caught sight of the gnome, Brevis, holding court in front of a group. Whatever he was saying had them enthralle
d, but he had the look of a man discontented about something.

  Cyrus shunted his attention back to Andren. “By the way, you never told me that elves live thousands of years.”

  “Not exactly a cheery subject, is it?” Andren tipped his ale back. “I don’t enjoy reminding you that I’ll be here long after you’re dust.”

  “So you’ll live longer than a human?”

  “Already have,” he answered. “I’m two thousand years old, well into middle age. Most elves could make it to five thousand — maybe six if they’re really long lived.”

  “What about the ‘Old Ones’ you told me about — the first elves, the ones that were immortal?” Narstron asked.

  Andren frowned. “Legends and bullshit, that is.” He looked evenly at Cy, catching his gaze over his glass of ale. “Don’t you have a bit of your own business in Enterra?” When Cy didn’t answer, the elf pressed him. “Same business you had with Ashan’agar?”

  Cy silenced him off with a look. Checking to make sure no one had overheard them, he turned back to the circle and lowered his voice somewhat. “Yes, I do.” Reaching beneath his chestplate, his hand emerged with a small, tattered piece of parchment that he carefully handed to Andren.

  The elf looked at it without saying anything for a beat. “This looks impossible.” He threw it back and it drifted in the air for a moment before the warrior caught it. “Good luck.”

  Narstron shrugged. “A lot of work, but not impossible.”

  Cyrus eyed the piece of parchment. “When I assemble this sword, it will be worth it.” He had read it enough times to have memorized it, but his eyes caressed the list on the paper once more before he folded it up and put it away.

  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.