The Sanctuary: Warlord Part 29

The door opened with a squeal that tore through Cyrus, and he did not hesitate now, ducking under the open door and stepping into- -into- -light?

The world changed around him in a single step, the grey sky outside the shrine replaced by something brighter, by a blue so rich he would have sworn he had never seen its like in all his life. Cyrus took another step and his boot clapped against hard stone as white, sheer curtains wafted in the wind before him. He turned his head and saw the wooden beams above him, the bed off to the side and the bare wooden figures where he and Vara kept their armor when not in use.

"Alaric?" Cyrus called, looking around the Tower of the Guildmaster in stunned disbelief, a sense of warm memory washing over him and replacing the momentary fears, the doubts that had so covered him only a moment earlier.

"I'm afraid not," came a vibrant voice from behind Cyrus. He turned to see a dark elf standing there, hair as black as tar, eyes alight with the same vitality that had been so obvious in the man's voice. He wore a half-smile, something that hinted at mischief to Cyrus. "He couldn't make it today, but it was important that someone came," he held his hands out, "so here I am."

"Who are you?" Cyrus asked, letting the disappointment fade lightly.

"An interesting question," the dark elf said, stepping toward him lightly. "One I suspect you have been asking yourself quite a bit lately."

"Nice dodge," Cyrus said.

The dark elf bowed his head. "Thank you. But I wasn't really dodging, just answering in a roundabout way. My friends-and I extend that courtesy to you because we have a mutual friend or three-some more friend than mutual, and vice versa-but still. My name is Genn."

"Genn?" Cyrus asked, frowning. "Who are you?"

"Oh, that question again," Genn said, shaking his head. "Do you even know? Never mind," he waved a hand. "Oh, all right. Add a 'Terr' at the beginning and a 'den' to the end, and you have me." He waved a hand with a flourish.

"Terrgenden?" Cyrus asked. "The G.o.d of Mischief?" His hand fell to Praelior, which was now sheathed in his scabbard. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you," Terrgenden said, and now the amus.e.m.e.nt was all gone. "Someone had to come ... and I drew the short straw."

"Short straw?" Cyrus asked, his sense of calm fading. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

Terrgenden's veil of amus.e.m.e.nt vanished, and he took a deep breath, sighing it out as though he were under great duress. "Because someone had to save your life, since you seemed unwilling to do it yourself ... and so here I am." His eyes glittered, but there was no hint of humor there. "And now we will have a talk."

"What are we going to talk about?" Cyrus asked, noting the hint of chill coming off the wind whipping in from the Plains of Perdamun. "Mischief?"

"Ohh," Terrgenden said, shaking his head, sounding mildly distressed. "Everyone always says that to me. 'Oh, you're the G.o.d of Mischief,' 'Oh, you're responsible for the trouble I got into that one time I decided to run paint over my neighbor's donkey and parade him through the square,' 'Oh, it's your fault my brother played a prank on me when we were twelve.'" He made the noise again, a high note in the back of his throat. "It's exhausting, being the scapegoat for so many." He looked Cyrus over. "Probably not half as exhausting as being the scapegoat for yourself, though."

"I'm about to get an Alaric lecture delivered by proxy from the G.o.d of Mischief in the middle of my own quarters," Cyrus said to no one in particular. "This is a heady thing."

"I'm not the G.o.d of Mischief, in point of fact," Terrgenden said. "You, though-you're in the process of trying to trick the dragons into getting involved in a battle you don't think you can win." He placed a finger on his lip as though contemplating. "Really, which of us is the trickster in this tower?"

"I'm doing what I ... have to," Cyrus said, but he lost all feeling for what he was saying halfway through, his words sounding tinny and far away.

"What you have to? Hm." Terrgenden's high voice lowered an octave. "They question I would ask, in my official capacity is ... are your actions just?"

"Letting the t.i.tans continue to rampage across whoever they can crush is about the most unjust thing I can imagine," Cyrus said, finding a little of the fire that had left him.

"That's not what I asked." Terrgenden strolled over to one of the balconies and looked out, apparently admiring the view. "The t.i.tans serve the same master you followed once upon a time, Cyrus Davidon." He turned, a slow spin that almost looked like a movement from a dance. "Who do you serve now? The G.o.d of War?" He held a hand high, like a scale. "You are too ... soft for him now, aren't you?" He stared at Cyrus, and it felt as though he were burrowing right into Cyrus's soul. "Or do you follow ... the Ghost of this place?" He waved his hand around the Tower of the Guildmaster. "And who does that make you? Child of Bellarum? Or a protector of Arkaria?"

"It makes me the Guildmaster of Sanctuary," Cyrus said roughly, his voice under a little strain.

"What we believe in defines us," Terrgenden said. "What we tell ourselves we are is part of it as well. So ... Sir Davidon ... who are you?"

"I'm a man rapidly losing patience."

"You're a man who needs to look inward more often, then," Terrgenden said. "Or perhaps ..." And with a flourish, he disappeared and reappeared next to the full-length mirror, "... take a look at yourself?"

"Why would I-" Cyrus started, but he looked at the mirror and saw a flash of a warrior in stained armor, blood running fresh down the black metal, the face visible where it peeked from the helm covered in red, staring out at him with soulless eyes that were blank and yet dark, and he heard a rising scream in his mind- Cyrus blanched and looked away, bringing a hand up to his forehead to block his sight. When he removed it as the cacophony in his head subsided, Terrgenden was standing right in front of him, watching him carefully. "What did you do?" Cyrus asked.

"I saved your life," came the reply.

"You keep saying that," Cyrus said, rubbing at his eyes. "Saved it from what?"

"You were about to charge headlong into the mouth of a fire dragon," Terrgenden said quietly. "You were going to take its undivided attention upon yourself. Now, listen ... anyone inhabiting the responsibility of this place," he swept a hand around to indicate the tower of the Guildmaster once more, "is bound to develop at least some belief in themselves, some little whisper of ego and ambition to change everything, their own personal G.o.d complex ..." He shook his head. "You are no G.o.d, Cyrus, in spite of whatever you might think. You are no child of a G.o.d, no being of incredible power and magic," he swept his hands in front of him in light circles, twirling his fingers in mockery. "In spite of your armor and sword, you are a man. You live like a man-a brave one, but a man-and you can die as easily as any other." He words came with a quiet solemnity. "But your time to die is not yet. You have work still in front of you-a man's work."

"I'm going to challenge that dragon," Cyrus said, staring hard at Terrgenden's surprisingly gentle eyes. "I'm going to do whatever I have to in order to-"

"Oh, yes, yes," Terrgenden said, nodding as he cut him off. "I'm sure you would be very brave, charging right into the thick of the battle, leading from the front ... if you were there when it started."

Cyrus felt a chill roll over him, like a thousand spiders making their way up his back and scalp. "What ... did you say?"

Terrgenden took a slow breath. "You are brave." He nodded, looking a little sad. "Too brave, sometimes, I think. Fearless for the wrong reasons, occasionally, and not fearful enough at the right ones. A man like you could change the world, Cyrus Davidon." He let that breath out. "And you will. But not today. And certainly not if you died instead of-" And with a wave of his hand, Terrgenden brought down the curtain of night around him- -and- -and- The flash of flame leapt somewhere in front of him, orange fire pouring forth from a dragon some hundred meters ahead of Cyrus, lighting the world around him now that the Tower of the Guildmaster and its blue sky had faded away. Cyrus blinked, and realized he was standing, alone, in front of the door in Merceragg, the dragon of fire's quarters and- The entirety of his army was already engaged in the fight.

"No," Cyrus whispered as he clenched his fist, realizing that Praelior was back in it. He started forward, watching the dragon breathe flame once more, small figures dancing around his head in circles as they swept in and struck- -without him.

Cyrus charged, dread welling in him, threatening to overflow like water pouring out of Wellsheverr's quarters. He broke into a hard run, his eyes taking in the sight before him-Odellan, Vara, Thad, Scuddar and Longwell on high, swarming around the dragon's head, fighting for his attention- Merceragg whipped back and forth between his choice of targets, each of them moving slower, not endowed with a weapon of the G.o.ds, spell magic flashing below the dragon's dark skin and pale eyes, a thousand blasts of ice and lightning having little effect on the creature but to antagonize him. Cyrus was still some fifty meters away when Merceragg locked eyes on Odellan and- -and- A wash of flame bellowed forth from the dragon's mouth and Odellan was gone in a burst of orange mingled with scarlet. Merceragg swept his snout sideways as Vara rushed out of his path faster than the warrior next to her, his scuffed red armor caught for an instant in the glow of another burst as Thad was swallowed in flame- "NOOOOOOOOO!" Cyrus screamed as he charged ahead, racing over the heads of the spellcasters on pounding legs.

Merceragg heard him, though, and his eyes locked on Cyrus, on the target streaking toward him. Merceragg's nostrils flared to take a breath, and Cyrus zagged sideways, trying to remove himself from the thick knot of spellcasters below, tearing free of them to open ground where only one lone figure stood, away from the rest, his white robes and ruddy face staring up at Cyrus as the warrior tore past, trying to lead the inevitable, fiery cataclysm away from the eyes watching just below- -the eyes of- Oh, G.o.ds.

-of Andren- The flame surged in Cyrus's wake as he spun in blind panic, turning on air and nearly twisting himself into a knot. The breath of flame came out of Merceragg's mouth just a few paces behind Cyrus, falling like a blanket of snow dropped from above, almost wafting down on Andren where he stood- It danced as it landed, a small lake of fire that existed only for a second before it sputtered out, but long enough to turn the figure of Andren, white robes bright against the stone floor, into a shadow in the fire, then, as it disappeared- There was nothing left of the healer, not even a trace of ash.

"NOOO!" Cyrus screamed again, and he ran at Merceragg, the world gone red around him. He flailed at the beast, but before he could even reach it, a flash of blood-red light glowed below him, and then came another burst, harsh green. Merceragg jerked, his head wavering atop his neck, recoiling as he staggered under the impact of magics that came from somewhere behind Cyrus.

Merceragg's eyes went dead, and the dragon sank to the ground, splashing lava out of his nest as he fell onto his back, ungainly in death. His belly was scorched, scales torn free, scars of some powerful magic written all over his corpse. Cyrus looked at the wound as he sank to the ground in a slow spiral, letting the stone floor rise up to meet him as the Falcon's Essence spell brought him back to earth.

"Are you all right?" Vara asked, sliding up next to him, breathless, from out of the air. She did not wait for his answer but slammed her armor into his, wrapping her arms around him and clanking her helm against his pauldrons.

Cyrus did not answer, merely stood in the silence as Curatio staggered forward, face utterly grey and spent, looking far, far worse than Cyrus had ever seen the healer. He looked as though he might fade away at any moment, keel over and hurt himself in the process. He fell to the ground on his knees, and it looked dimly to Cyrus as though it might have hurt, tears welling at the corner of the healer's eyes.

"Odellan," Cyrus said quietly, no one speaking. "Thad." He heard a choked noise behind him and turned to see Martaina, her grief welling up and threatening to overwhelm her. "Andren."

The names of the fallen hung in silence in Merceragg's chamber, the only sound to break it the choked sobs of Martaina Proelius, whose loss was thick in the air. They all felt it, but none dared say anything at all.

"What now?" Vaste asked when they had a.s.sembled the officers, outside the dark of Merceragg's chambers, the army gathered in silence around them.

"You know what now," Vara said quietly.

"Ah, yes, the Sky dragon," Vaste said, leaning against an interior wall as though he needed its strength to hold him up. "What's his name?"

"Vervahz," Curatio said, voice a thick whisper, gravelly and weak. "He's the last."

"Fine," Vaste said, his own voice lower, heavy with grief. "Let's get this over with."

"Not yet," Cyrus said, almost hollow.

"I just ..." Vaste's whole face sank. "This has been ... just a day. Just a ... I can't even find a descriptor, but whatever odious term you'd like to come up with, I'm fine with. In fact, if we made another, even worse term, to describe a day of this sort, something beyond wretched, horrific, tragic, G.o.ds-awful-"

"It's been a Goliath of a day," Longwell said, sounding utterly drained.

"That just about covers it," Vaste said, nodding.

"We can't go yet," Cyrus said, staring straight ahead at the grey sky between the columns. It truly was like a tease, like he'd been yanked away to a place of beauty and wonder, far from this h.e.l.lish, torchlit nightmare, and then thrust back into it at the worst possible moment, just in time to see Thad and Odellan die, and to draw fire upon Andren himself. The guilt was like spears, magnified from the daggers of Belkan's death and Nyad's and those of the rangers, stabbing into him at all points.

"What happened to you back there?" Vaste asked, focusing on Cyrus. "You just ... disappeared. I didn't get into the room in time to see it, but I caught Odellan and Thad arguing over it, saying it was like you were teleported away."

"I was in the Tower of the Guildmaster," Cyrus said, staring straight ahead.

Silence greeted his proclamation. "Did you ... see Alaric?" Vara asked finally.

"No," Cyrus said, his voice growing hoa.r.s.e with grief. "No, it was someone else." He glanced at her. "Said Alaric couldn't make it, so he came instead."

"Was it anyone we'd know?" Vaste asked with a surprising level of calm.

"Said his name was Terrgenden," Cyrus said.

"You were pulled from the fight by the G.o.d of Mischief?" Vara asked.

Cyrus just stared straight ahead. "So he said."

"To what purpose?"

Cyrus swallowed heavily. "He said he was there ... to save my life." His voice came out unrecognizable.

Silence fell once more. "To h.e.l.l with these G.o.ds of yours," Longwell said at last.

"I was thinking that very thing myself," Cyrus said, and suddenly the howl of a drake in the far distance reached his ears. He came to his feet in an instant, the sound of another screech somewhere, miles away, came to him, followed by another.

"Uh oh," Vaste said.

"It's time," Cyrus said. He listened carefully, but heard nothing. Vara, on the other hand, was standing at rapt attention, listening intently. "Do you hear-?"

Before he even got it out, he heard it as well, the deep thundering of boots on stone. It came from behind them, and the Army of Sanctuary came to their feet in urgency, weapons drawn, frozen out of formation, the grey sky lighting them between the columns of the shrine.

The thundering of feet drew nearer and nearer even as the shrieks of distant dragonkin grew louder. "We won't have long," Cyrus said, casting a wide gaze. Everyone was on their feet, save for Curatio, who had pulled himself to one knee, his face sagging in a way Cyrus had not seen from him before.

"It'll have to be enough," Vara said, her sword drawn as the sound of the approaching footsteps turned the curve in front of them and burst into their sight.

Five t.i.tans came at a run, bellowing as they approached the Army of Sanctuary, roaring with a madness and rage that harmonized well with what Cyrus was feeling at the moment. They came sweeping toward the front of the army, utterly unprepared for a.s.sault- And stopped short just before the edge, slowing to stand in a line, eyes dull and facing forward, staring over the army at their feet.

"h.e.l.lo there," J'anda called from atop the t.i.tan at the fore. Cyrus saw Mendicant and Ryin each holding onto the necks of their own mounts, the goblin and the man both looking considerably less comfortable than the enchanter. "I apologize for our tardiness, but as it turns out ... t.i.tan pets are somewhat hard to control for a run as long as the one we just made, even for me." He twirled his staff slightly as he looked down at them, and then stopped as he met a sea of faces swallowed in grief. His own fell, and he lowered his staff. "Oh, no."

"You're a grim lot considering you've been slaying dragons all the live long day," Ryin called from atop his own t.i.tan. "It's almost if someone di-" He froze as the words hung in his throat, and silence once more engulfed the Army of Sanctuary.

The path to the inside of the volcano was wide and obvious, and Cyrus ran along it with Vara and Longwell just behind him, Vaste trailing in tow. He knew from Ehrgraz that he would find no defenders here, and indeed the path to the center of the mountain was empty, a straight rock road that led through the side of the peak. The heat grew more intense the closer they got to the middle, and soon Cyrus was left feeling as though he were in the middle of the battle with Merceragg again, but with a closer look at the inside of the mouth this time- Like Thad.

Shaking off that thought, he pushed on, his weary legs protesting. They ran in silence, the glow of hot magma ahead lighting their way. The army behind them was already leaving, teleporting out in segments as the final pieces of the plan were being put in place, executed like- Like Odellan.

Cyrus forced that thought away as he broke through the wide tunnel and into the heart of the volcano. Here the air was searing and heavy, shimmering like the heat of a mirage where he stood a few feet from the edge of the path. He sauntered slowly over to it, half afraid a dragon would come leaping out at him. I have had enough of dragons for today, for a lifetime- Like Andren, probably, his long lifetime cut considerably short.

Cyrus rummaged on his belt for the small leather sack that had hung there for more miles and more days than he could remember now. The journey had all blurred together in his tired mind, days and nights of unrest now punctuated by events so horrific that they almost seemed surreal. He cradled the small bag in his gauntlet, feeling its weight, and after another moment considering it, he tossed it over the edge into the pit below. He leaned over enough to watch it sail down into the pool of bubbling magma a hundred feet beneath them, and felt the others do the same, as though it were some grand sight to see, some final closure for this expedition into the jaws of utter death.

"That feels anticlimactic," Vaste said.

"I could push you in if you desire a more exciting ending," Vara said, but her voice broke at the last.

"I-" Cyrus began but paused as a stir went across the pool of white-hot lava. It rippled like a rock had been thrown into a pond, the surface writhing as the effect spread. Folds of lava bubbled up and came crashing down again, molten rock slung up the sides of the crater.

Cyrus stood on the path and watched the pool of the volcano come alive with motion, a cauldron stirred, sloshing, like a tornado had been unleashed in its depths. It came to a crescendo, bursts of hot lava exploding into the air, and then it died just as suddenly, the red surface turning black, the heat fading dramatically, like someone had poured cold water all around them, or unleashed a blizzard- Like Nyad.

The rock hissed as it cooled and came to rest, the volcano dying before their eyes. There was no steam, no release, just a sudden change from liquid to stone, solid enough that Cyrus knew if he jumped, he would be smashed upon it- Like Belkan.

He turned from the edge of the path and started his run back to where he'd left his army. The others fell in behind him; he could hear their boots. Vaste's were creaking, the leather moving. Vara's were quietest of all, the small plate barely clanging with each step against the stone. Longwell's were punctuated with the haft of his lance hitting on each step, and Cyrus wondered if it was merely habit or a deep-seated weariness that made the dragoon do it.

They came back to the wide circle around the shrine's upper floor to the sound of a thousand drakes and wyverns howling in the distance, ever so much closer than when they'd left. Cyrus paused, less than three hundred of his army remaining before them, the last of their number before the retreat was to be sounded. J'anda was gone, of course, with his t.i.tans, but the rest of them were there, even Ryin and Mendicant- Howls of rage came from their right, and Cyrus turned his head with the rest of the army. The last dragon's quarters were just a few hundred meters down the way. Vervahz of the sky was awakened, it seemed, his ire raised as surely as any of the lesser dragonkin that howled in the distance as they approached even now.

"Launch the teleport spells," Cyrus said to Mendicant, and several hundred orbs glittered into existence before them. Cyrus made but a motion and the flashes began, the last members of the army making good their retreat back to Sanctuary.

Cyrus waited and listened, hearing the sounds of battle, of combat, skin against scale. There were grunts and moans, the rush of air as Vervahz turned loose his breath on the t.i.tans attacking him in the chamber.

Now it was down to the officers and a few more. Calene Raverle and Scuddar waited next to Mendicant, Larana stared at Cyrus with worried eyes, and Menlos Irontooth stood silently in the middle of them all, his wolves surrounding him.