Crusader

figure, however, only a little taller than he, with a beard that was braided all the way down to his waist, and a hammer slung across his back.

“Well, damnation,” Belkan Stillhet said from his place beside a pillar, his sword held in his ancient hand.

“Or as near as one can get to seeing it from here,” came the voice of Alaric Garaunt, as a faint mist subsided in the corner next to Vara. She fell into step behind him as the Master of Sanctuary strode across the foyer toward the seal, gesturing to Mendicant, who was nervously looking around, to move away from the stranger in the middle of the room. “Partus,” Alaric said, staring down at the dwarf who remained indifferent, examining his surroundings as though they mattered little, “how unpleasant it is to see you again.”

Chapter 70

“Well, Alaric,” Partus said from where he sat in the Council Chambers (in Cyrus’s seat, which he had selected entirely at random, and oh, how it chafed at her) “it would appear you’re in a bit of a bind here.” Vara kept her eyes fixed on the dwarf as he spoke. It’s as though I fear to take them off him, as though I suspect he would begin stealing things were I to stop watching him for a moment. She ran her tongue over her teeth nervously. For all know, he might do just that.

“So it would seem,” Alaric said, looking over his steepled fingers at the dwarf. “I presume you had no idea that we were under siege when you jumped onto Mendicant’s back as he cast his return spell?”

“Had I known,” Partus said with a slightly sour frown, “I might still have done it, because being surrounded by the dark elven army here is still likely safer than what your blighting guildmates are planning over in Luukessia. They’re going to fight a slow retreat across the northern steppes trying to buy time for Syloreas to empty-as in for all the people to leave the lands.” The dwarf snorted in derision. “How well do you think that one’s likely to turn out?”

“Mendicant,” Alaric said, looking to the goblin, “you are here to make Cyrus’s report, yes?”

The goblin had been still throughout the meeting thus far, as though he were awed by the surroundings; the Council Chambers and their stone walls, slow, quiet hearths that radiated warmth through the room. It was dark outside the windows out on the balcony, but within the chambers it was light, with torches aplenty burning on sconces on the walls in such close proximity that one could comfortably read in the room despite the hour.

“Mendicant?” Alaric asked again.

The goblin seemed to shake himself out of a stupor of sorts. “Oh, yes. Partus speaks correctly, the bulk of the Sanctuary army is presently engaged in a long holding action on the Filsharron Steppes, north of Enrant Monge.” Alaric stirred, but the rest of the table was quiet and still, save for Partus, who shot a wicked grin at Vara. She held the urge to let fly a force blast but only just. “Cyrus, Longwell and a few others are making their way to Vernadam to try and sway them to enter the war with their army, and Actaluere is presently calling up the remainder of its forces to meet them at Enrant Monge in an effort to effect a counterthrust north and destroy the portal in the cave that is allowing them to flood Luukessia with these dead souls.” Mendicant’s eyes glistened as he spoke matter-of-factly. “Lord Davidon-”

“Lord of damned near nothing, if you ask me,” Partus said with a chortle below his breath.

“He’s Lord of Perdamun and Warden of the Southern Plains,” Vara snapped without thinking then tempered the widening of her eyes out of sheer reflex. Why in the blazes did I say that? Partus made no reply but feigned being impressed by flattening his lips, then pursing them, holding a hand over his mouth as though amazed.

“Lord Davidon requests aid,” Mendicant said after a momentary stumble, “for you to send another army to reinforce him and allow him to better fight back in the impending battle, assuming you have not already sent such an army.”

Alaric sighed, while Ryin laid his head on the high back of his chair. Vara expected Erith to shift her gaze around the table, but her sight was firmly fixed on Partus at her right, the dark elf’s icy glare beyond any sort of loathing Vara had come to expect even from the mercurial healer. “Can we teleport him into Saekaj?” Erith asked, indicating Partus with a nod of her head. “I think he’d do well there, in the vek’tag pens, eating their dung with the rest of the mushrooms-”

“How I’ve missed you as well, Erith,” Partus said with a crooked grin. “I don’t suppose we’ve spoken since the day I left the Daring-”

“You mean the day when you stripped our guild of most our members and left for Goliath?” Her arms were folded in front of her, and her teeth were bared in a snarl. “Gee, Partus, I can’t really think of any reason why I might not have spoken to you since then. Oh, wait, because you’re a traitorous, lecherous ass.”

Partus feigned innocence and looked around the table as if for support. “Lecherous? Just because we had a singular night of passion-”

“It wasn’t a night,” Erith said. “It wasn’t even a minute. Though I can see why you might have thought so; judgment is the first thing to go when drunk-”

“Aye,” Partus agreed sadly, “which is why I was in your bed to begin with-”

“ENOUGH!” Alaric said, loud enough to draw the attention of all in the chamber.

There was a squeak at the door and it opened; Andren slid in as Vara stared at the healer, perplexed. Vaste followed a moment later and shut the door behind him, his staff in hand, and the troll stared at the table and those around it.

There was the sound of a chair sliding back and Partus was on his feet, his hammer unslung. “My gods, it’s a troll.”

Vaste blinked at the dwarven interloper who had been sitting with his back to the door and was now standing, weapon in hand. “Well spotted. What gave it away-that I’m seven feet tall or the green skin and big teeth?”

Partus hesitated, keeping his eyes on Vaste. He turned his head to speak to Alaric out of the corner of his mouth. “Did you always have a troll, Alaric? They’re savages, you know.”

Vaste’s heavy frame swelled with a deep breath and then a long sigh followed. “Yes, I know, uncivilized I may be, standing here without a weapon drawn while you’re clearly about to challenge me to a duel, but what can I say? I abhor civilized society. I’d rather just sneak up behind you when you’re unable to defend yourself and mash you into a fine paste with my bare hands.”

Partus pointed his hammer at Vaste. “You’ll find me a greater challenge than you think if you mean to attack me when I’m not expecting it.”

“I doubt I’ll find you much at all, unless I’m crawling around on my hands and knees,” Vaste said, and promptly walked past Partus to his seat, turning his hammer aside and toward the hearth with a gentle push of his staff. “Thanks to the rest of you for speaking up for me when he called me a savage, by the way.”

“It was unworthy of answer,” Alaric said, at the head of the table, his helm still on. His eye was piercing through the slight gloom that inhabited the room; not because of the darkness, Vara realized, but because of her mood. He should have come back as well, not this miniaturized jackass. “Andren,” Alaric said, turning to the healer, who was in Nyad’s usual seat next to Vara, “thank you for joining us.”

“Aye,” Andren said, then twitched as though he were reaching for something near his belt, hesitated, and thought the better of it. “Can’t pretend I know what this is all about, though.”

“I am taking things into consideration,” Alaric said. “Mendicant, finish your report, if you please? Cyrus requests aid, I believe you said?”

“In most strenuous terms, sir,” the goblin said. “We need assistance, desperately, to be able to finish this fight and destroy the portal. These things, this scourge, they are beyond number.”

“As you may be able to tell,” Alaric said quietly, “we have some minor problems of our own; the dark elves have left an army in place around Sanctuary to cut us off from the outside world while they attempt to starve us out and break us.”

“How’s it all going so far?” Partus asked snidely.

“Poorly on the starving us out,” Vaste answered him with a grin, “even more poorly on the breaking us. Spirits are high. We’re planning a dance recital for next week.”