Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (4 page)

Cyrus took a step and his boot crunched in fresh snow. He looked down; he hadn’t left Sanctuary in months, and it seldom snowed in the Plains of Perdamun. The wizard, noting his surprise, said, “It’s been falling here and there for a month. We received a plentiful dosing the day before yesterday, though. Almost a foot.”

“Indeed,” Cyrus said under his breath as the frigid air seeped in through the gaps of his armor and crawled over his skin like tentacles of ice. He cast a steady gaze over the crowds that swarmed through the square, treading through the snow and leaving their own prints in the process, long cloaks sweeping and smoothing the soft powder behind them.

“I was told by the lady who gave me the missive that we would find her in the markets,” the wizard said stiffly, starting past Cyrus across the square.

“I thought she was going to be waiting here?” Cyrus asked, holding his ground. The wind whipped through hard just then, and he cringed as his cheek numbed.

The wizard turned back to look at him, raising his cowl against the hard blast. “She runs a flower stand. Without her, business halts, so I presume she did not dare lose gold on the chance that you might not come immediately.”

“Fair enough,” Cyrus said and started his slog through the snow, following in the wake of the wizard. In spite of the steady traffic, the snow still reached a high point around his shins and slowed his passage. The wizard seemed to be having an even harder time of it, but together they trudged out of the square and into the realm of stalls and shops, their cloth hangings covered in an inch or more of snow.

How long has it been since I’ve seen Imina?
Cyrus wondered, trying to place their last meeting in his mind.
Four years? I didn’t even recognize her the last time …

The traffic thinned as they took a turn down a market street. Costermongers hawked their wares on either side, vivid splashes of color on white-covered streets telling him that the bright cloth dyes of the Dark Elven Sovereignty had made their way into the human city. The new imports seemed to have taken over the market for colored cloth, and a rainbow of hues was spread before Cyrus, muted by the traces of white snow that were draped on the cloth hangings above each stall to protect them from the elements. The keepers of these open-air shops were bundled tight against the elements, with cloak and cowl, misting the air with their shouted bargains.

Cyrus followed the wizard closely, only a couple steps back, afraid he might lose him to an abrupt turn. The wizard was looking back every now and again, apparently concerned about the same, casting careful looks over his shoulder to confirm that Cyrus was, indeed, still there, trailing in his distinctive black armor, as though he might disappear if given the chance.

Cyrus didn’t dare, though. Not after that letter.
Not if Imina needs my help.

They turned a final corner, the traffic hurrying all around them. A woman in a cloak brushed past Cyrus, a look of horror crossing her face as her eyes fell on him. She gave him a once over and scampered away as though he’d cast a fire spell at her. When he turned back to the elf, the wizard was approaching a stall where a woman waited, dark hair curling out of her cowl, which was pulled forward to shield her against the wind. Her stall was replete with flowers tied off against the winter’s edge, a beautiful bundle of glowroses fixed in the middle of the small display.

Imina
.

Cyrus started to speak, to greet her across the distance between them, but his mind and his eyes forced him to hold his tongue. He swept his gaze over the lines of the woman beneath the cloak, and something seemed … off.

The way the cloth held her body, loosely, felt most peculiar to him.
Am I just suffering from another failure of memory?
Or is there something different in the way she holds herself? The way she—

“Hello, there,” came a grunted voice at his side, low and full of glee. Cyrus turned; he had not even realized that someone had crept in on under cover of the crowd until they were practically upon him, at his side, perfectly positioned to jab at him with a dagger or a sword—

He spun, but not quickly enough. There was a hand already upon him, one that yanked him closer, hard, ripping him off balance and pulling him forcefully toward the speaker. Cyrus grunted, unable to resist, the strength greater than his legs could muster at the notice of a moment, and then he realized, seeing the face with the scars around the man’s lips—

It was Rhane Ermoc, warrior of Goliath.

And he had his hand upon Praelior.

Rhane Ermoc stepped nimbly aside as he pulled Cyrus past him, unsheathing Cyrus’s own sword as he did so. The speed and strength of Praelior was now at Ermoc’s disposal, not Cyrus’s, and Ermoc immediately swept his feet with a hard kick to the shins—

Cyrus landed on his elbows in the snow and tried to roll, but without Praelior to aid his movements, he flopped upon the ground with a clank, his vambraces hitting the stone buried beneath the snow, knocking over a wooden stall selling herbs and spices, a mixture of scents threatening to overwhelm him as they fell all around him. Cyrus tried to get up, but a hard thrust of his own blade found his back—

It drove into his breastplate and ran him into the snow, the force pushing through plate and mail to bruise his skin but failing to so much as rupture his armor. Cyrus grunted in pain, and then bucked against the attack, pushing the point of his sword off of him.
This bastard thinks he can sneak up on me and steal my sword without a fight?

Cyrus rolled over to see Ermoc stumbling back, recovering before he crashed into a nearby stall, Praelior clutched before him in both hands.

I’m going to have to show him how wrong he is.

A hard gonging noise distracted Cyrus as something clanged against his helm. It was followed by another, and he lowered his head against this new attack. Arrows, he knew in an instant. He glanced in the direction they had come from as another whizzed at him, clinking as he turned his head against it.

Orion
.

The ranger was in the distance, his bucket-shaped helm as distinctive as a battle standard hoisted aloft on a battlefield. He fired again and his aim was true, his steel-tipped arrow bouncing harmlessly off Cyrus’s pauldrons.
If I weren’t wearing my armor, he would have killed me thrice by now.
As it is, I just need to keep my face away from him, and the plate and mail should protect me until I can get Praelior back and then gut that sonofabitch like one of those man-sized fish they bring in at the Reikonos docks—

Cyrus reached behind him as Rhane Ermoc came hard at him once more, Praelior extended ahead of the Goliath warrior like a spear. Cyrus turned slightly to blunt the attack and Ermoc landed his blow with full force against Cyrus’s breastplate. Again, his armor withstood the blow, and Ermoc’s face twisted in surprise and fury.
I guess he didn’t realize that my armor is quartal as well
, Cyrus thought as the force of impact smashed him into a wooden stand filled with glass statuary. The shattering sound filled the cold air as Cyrus stumbled to recover his balance.
Ermoc never was that bright.

Cyrus’s fingers grasped the hilt secreted away behind his backplate and pulled the blade he kept in reserve. The sword was shorter than Praelior and had none of its strength or speed-boosting abilities.
But it’s better than trying to fight him with my gauntlets while dodging Orion’s arrows.

A tongue of flame lipped at Cyrus from his left and he dodged away as a fire spell burst at him. It faded after a second and he saw a smiling, emaciated figure with terrible teeth leering at him through a ragged beard and sallow skin.
Carrack
.
He looks about like I last saw him, like he’s still suffering from his years in prison here in Reikonos.
I should relieve him of his misery.

“What else does Goliath have to throw at me?” Cyrus asked, barely dodging Ermoc’s next breathless attack. Praelior came sweeping in, destroying the hanging cover to a produce stand as Ermoc applied his pathetic swordsmanship to chasing down Cyrus.

“Oh, it’s not just Goliath,” came a rough, low voice at Cyrus’s back, and he didn’t quite dodge in time. A hammering blow landed on the back of his head, rocking him even through the quartal. He felt as if someone had dropped an anvil from the top of the Citadel upon his head.

I know that voice.

Cyrus hit the snow, his spare sword skittering out of his grasp under a nearby fruit stand and sliding down a small hill of wet snow. Screams filled the air all around, and Cyrus wondered if people had been crying out all along and he hadn’t noticed or if perhaps the crowds had only just realized there was a fight in their midst.

Cyrus’s head rang, the blow having done far more harm than Orion’s attempts to plink his brains out with arrows at a distance. This was the cry of nerves and skull done harm, a resonating blast of pain that swept into the area behind his eyes and bounced around within it. Cyrus tried to push himself to all fours, but a heavy foot landed upon his backside, kicking him over onto his back. He looked up into the darkening skies and saw a face darker still, with long black hair and a crooked grin. A pale scar crossed it diagonally from forehead to chin.

Archenous Derregnault.

The Guildmaster of Amarath’s Raiders.

The man who betrayed Vara and left her to die—

“I hear you married my former fiancée,” Derregnault said in a rough whisper as Rhane Ermoc and Carrack lurched up to flank him.

“I figured after you stabbed her and left her for dead, you wouldn’t mind,” Cyrus said bitterly.

“I don’t,” Derregnault said. “My business with Vara is settled. My business with you, however—well, it’s not personal, exactly. Call it a matter of advantage. See, I lost some face when Amarath’s Raiders fled Reikonos during the war …” He pointed his sword right into Cyrus’s face, and Cyrus could see intricate carvings all along the blade. “This is my chance to redeem that mistake, and to, shall we say, leave Vara in the dirt once more.” Derregnault’s lips split into a sinister grin. “I see no downsides to this matter at all.”

Rhane Ermoc spat over Archenous’s shoulder down upon Cyrus. “Now you’re going to get what’s coming to you, Davidon, you swine.”

Carrack grinned from where he stood over Cyrus. “And don’t be thinking you can cast your fire spell against us, either. Lift so much as your hand and I’ll cook you as black as your armor.”

“You should have joined us when I asked you to, Cyrus,” Orion said, creeping into view above Cyrus now, his arrow nocked and pointed right into Cyrus’s face.
At this range, he won’t miss.
He’ll plant it in my head and kill me, or near enough to it as not to matter.
“But you had to be the big man, had to go and build Sanctuary up … and why? So you could just tear it down with your own idiocy later?” Orion’s eyes danced where they peeked through the metal slits in his helm.

“You’re going to do this right here?” Cyrus asked, looking around him. He could see the faint shape of a cloak above him, just out of his vision.
Where Imina was standing.
“Right in the markets of Reikonos?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Orion asked with an obvious glee. “There’s been a declaration made by the Leagues. You’re officially a heretic. We can kill you right here, and not only will we not be punished, we’ll get rewarded for it.”

“So do it already and stop leering at me like a bunch of smitten schoolgirls,” Cyrus said through gritted teeth.
So it finally happened. I’d almost tricked myself into believing that they weren’t going to do it.

“Oh,” said the last figure above him, “but that would be too easy.” The rasping, high voice was entirely familiar and entirely expected.

Malpravus.

The skeletal dark elf stepped into Cyrus’s line of sight, just above where he lay, and looked down at him. Because of the way he stood, he appeared upside down to Cyrus, like a bat hanging above him with a leering grin.

A bat with a lock of Imina’s hair hanging out the front of his cowl.

“I hate to say it, dear boy, but you are too valuable to be allowed to go to waste.” He reached up and pulled the lock of Imina’s hair out from his cowl and let it fall onto Cyrus, who caught it reflexively. “Such a shame that you are so very foolish sometimes, lad. Charging headlong into danger for your friends, for your allies, and even for a past lover … It makes you tragically predictable.”

“And it’s about to make you tragically dead,” Ermoc said with a smug satisfaction.

“There’s one thing you seem to have forgotten, Malpravus,” Cyrus said, looking up at the enemies arrayed around him. He could see others creeping in at the edges of his vision, clearly part of Malpravus’s ambush—a dark elven woman in sharp armor with spikes that marked her a dark knight, some elven soldiers in full regalia, even a few city guards of Reikonos—all waiting, watching, no doubt ready to deliver news of his demise to countless interested parties. Cyrus flicked his gaze to the bony necromancer, who stirred within his robes.

“And what is that?” Malpravus asked, watching him through slitted eyes.
He expects treachery because he is treacherous. It’s all he is. It’s all he’s ever known.

“I’m a heretic,” Cyrus said, forcing a cold smile out upon his lips. The only satisfaction he was going to have today was spoiling Malpravus’s mood. He looked one last time at Ermoc, who held Praelior tight in his fingers.
There’s no way I can get it back now, and if I stay, I will die.
He looked back to the necromancer, who had already begun to react as Cyrus mouthed the words, “
Arn-schee, raun-noang, laav-vule!
”

“Stop him!” Malpravus shouted, but it was too late. Blades and spells descended upon Cyrus as the magic of the return spell he had cast consumed him, carrying him back to Sanctuary before their attacks, safe—but without his sword.

“What were you thinking?” Vara asked, the fires roaring on the torches and in the hearth, spreading their warmth around the Council Chambers of Sanctuary. A grim quiet lay over the room, the round table not filled, conspicuous gaps between the occupied seats. An ever-so-faint smoky smell wafted in the air, something familiar and homey, though at present, Cyrus did not feel much at home. The crackle of his wife’s voice was faster and sharper than the blade he’d just been forced to leave behind.