The sparkle of magic at the center of the foyer grew brighter; something began to coalesce within.
The spell magic faded, leaving not another small army but a lone figure. A druid, a human man, a little shorter than she but not by much, his eyes dark and already looking around at the carnage and bodies that lay strewn across the foyer. He let out a short, sharp breath as his eyes walked over the scene.
“My gods,” Ryin Ayend said as the last of his spell faded, “what has happened here?”
“You have missed much in your absence,” Alaric said, walking toward the druid with a slow, shuffling gait. “And it has been long since we have heard from any of your brethren.”
Ayend paused, a subtle cringe on his face, a slight twist of pain and discomfort. “Things have … gone astray in Luukessia. We have had some … unforeseen difficulties.”
There was a low whistling sound from outside that seemed to grow closer, swelling into a loud squeal as Vara threw herself to the ground in front of the hearth. The massive, circular stained glass window above the front doors exploded inward as a huge rock-launched, Vara was certain, by one of the catapults surrounding the walls of Sanctuary-burst through and landed with a crash, rolling through the foyer and sending bodies flying, until it came to rest in the Great Hall, butted against the ruin of one of the large oaken tables. Moans of pain and screams of loss issued forth from the path of the boulder, and Vara pulled herself back to her feet, shaking the little pieces of colored glass out of her hair.
“Unforeseen difficulties?” she said, in a most rueful tone drawing the attention of Ryin, who was pulled to his feet by Alaric from where he lay not far from her. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the door to the Great Hall and the boulder lying within. His jaw hung open. With the window shattered, sounds from the outside filtered into the foyer, and a low roar could be heard in the distance: the maniacal, chanting sound of an army, the low rumble of the siege machines, and the sound of other rocks hurled from catapults impacting elsewhere, the flat thump and shaking of the ground as they hit. “Yes, we’ve experienced a few of those ourselves since your departure.” With that, she looked back to the broken window, the blue sky visible beyond and listened again, to the sounds of battle, the sounds of war, of all the different kinds of hell waiting just outside the Sanctuary gates to be unleashed on them.
Chapter 2
Cyrus
Cyrus Davidon had a dream he was running. A pair of red, glowing eyes were following him somewhere as the fear grew within him. When he awoke, he was on a beach. He sat up in his bedroll, a heavy sweat rolling off his skin even though the air was filled with a pleasing coolness all around him. The sands sloped down to the Sea of Carmas, where the waves lapped at the shore, the ebb of low tide bringing small breakers onto the beach at regular intervals, the low, dull roar of the water a kind of pleasant background noise.
His breath came erratically at first as he tried to catch it and control it, taking long, slow gulps of air as he swallowed the bitterness that had been on his tongue since waking. A hundred fires lit the night around him, providing heat and warmth for his army, protection against the light chill of the tropical winter. The smell of smoke hung around him, of lingering fish on the fire, hints of salt in the air.
A light breeze came off the sea as the wind changed directions, bringing the smell of sulfur and rot. He sniffed and the scent of the seaweed down the shore became lodged in his nostrils, reminding him of the Realm of Death, where only days earlier he had led an assault that killed the God of Death, Mortus. The memory came back to him, of the listless and unmoving air in that place, of the image of death itself, a clawed hand as it reached out, grasping for Vara …
Just over the sound of the waves against the shore, Cyrus could hear chatter from around some of the fires where the members of his army sat huddled for warmth. He turned his head to look; there were warriors and rangers, men and women of no magical ability, still talking, laughing and boisterous.
“I would have thought two days march would have cured most of them of their enthusiasm,” came a voice at his side. Cyrus looked back to see the face of Terian Lepos lit by the fire, the orange glow flickering against the deep blue of the dark elf’s skin. “They were tired enough yesterday from the long march on these sands, I suppose. But now they’re back at it again, all full of excitement, eager to get into their first battle.” The dark elf’s face was narrow and his nose stuck out, coming to a point, his hair black as obsidian, and he wore a half-smile that couldn’t look anything but cruel in the low light.
“They’ll get over it quick enough once they’ve been in it.” Cyrus’s armor creaked as he turned to face Terian. He pulled off a gauntlet and ran his fingers across his bedroll. Sand covered the surface of the cloth. He felt the tiny grains, like little pins as he brushed against them, a few of them glimmering like shards of glass in the light, and he remembered other sand, in another place, a whole pit of it, with red blood pooling and holding it together in great lumps-
“Trouble sleeping?” Terian’s words drew Cyrus back to the present. The dark knight sat slumped a few feet away, legs arched in front of him, his new double-handed sword resting across them, a cloth in his hand, polishing the blade. Cyrus saw the little glint of red in the steel, a hint of the magic that the weapon carried.
Cyrus let a half-smile creep onto his face; the blade had come from a dark elf whom Cyrus had defeated in the city of Termina while defending it from the dark elven army. He felt a pang at the thought of Termina as it led to thoughts of Vara, a stirring pain in his heart and guts, and the half-smile disappeared as quickly as the waters receded down the shore. “Just a nightmare,” he said to Terian. “It won’t be trouble unless it happens over and over again.”
The dark elf nodded, face inscrutable. “Those sort of dreams tend to find me when I’m troubled during the day, as if to follow you into your bed and attack you when they know you’re at your weakest.” He took his shining eyes off Cyrus and turned them back toward the fire. “But I suppose you’d have more experience with those than I would.”
Cyrus caught the knowing tone in the dark knight’s voice. “I suppose I would.” With a low, deep breath, Cyrus pushed to his feet and felt his armored boots sink into the sands. He felt unsteady at first then caught his balance. His breath caught in his throat as another thought crossed his mind, of Vara, of what she had said to him the last time they had spoken.
“Something on your mind?” The low rasp of Terian’s voice drew Cyrus’s attention back to him. “You’re not usually the silent type.” The dark elf took a breath and a slight smile caused his white teeth to peek out from behind his dark blue lips. “Someone, perhaps? Someone tall and blond, with a heart as icy as her eyes?”
Cyrus stared back at Terian, and caught the glimmer of understanding there. Cyrus deflated, his shoulders slumping as the weight seemed to drag him down even as he remained on his feet. “What …” he began to speak, but his words came out in a low croak. “What do you do … when someone that you … when someone close to you … betrays you so thoroughly?” He felt the bitter taste of what he said and remembered the last words she had spoken to him.
“What do you do when someone betrays you?” Terian’s voice was dull as he repeated the words. “That’s an excellent question.” It hung there between them as Cyrus watched his old friend. Terian ran his cloth down the flat facing of the sword, polishing the side, rubbing the metal.
After a moment of silence, Cyrus looked around, the waves still crashing, inevitably, on the shore around
