Heretic (The Sanctuary Series Book 7) (12 page)

“You’re out of your godsdamned mind if you think we’re fighting the Confederation, the Kingdom, Amarath’s Raiders
and
Goliath, and for free, no less,” Mathyas Tarreau said, still standing up in the crowd. Others stood up to join him.

And so we come to it at last.
“No one is going to force you to stay,” Cyrus said. “As ever, Sanctuary is a haven for those who want to be here. Anyone who doesn’t …” He looked uneasily over the crowd. “You should leave. Before things get untenable.”

“That’s it, then?” Mathyas Tarreau asked him, looking through the crowd with furious eyes. “You’re just … done with us?”

“We’re heretics here, Mathyas,” Cyrus said, staring him down. “Arkaria is turning against us. We’ll be besieged. Enemies will come for us from all sides.” He raised his voice. “If you’re here for coin, there is none. If you’re here for adventure, all we have is battle, at least for the foreseeable future. If you’re looking for a home, and loyalty that runs thicker than blood, that won’t abandon you in your darkest hour … then don’t abandon us in ours.” His gaze flicked across the crowd, seeing a gamut of emotions represented there. “If that’s not you … then, yes. We’re done.”

A shocked silence fell over the guildhall, broken by the sound of a chair sliding against the stone floor. Someone stood up in the back, turned, and with hunched shoulders, shuffled out of the Great Hall. Another chair slid out a moment later, then another, then so many of them Cyrus couldn’t count them all. It seemed like half the hall rose and started toward the door. He stood in silence and watched, remembering a time when Alaric had done something very similar, and waited, as over half their number streamed out, leaving Sanctuary behind for the cold, dark night and the empty plains beyond the wall.

“That could have gone better,” Ryin said once they were safely ensconced back in the Council Chamber, the light of the fire crackling and giving the room a lively tone in spite of the dead silence that had hung over them.

“It also could have gone worse,” Vaste said. When everyone looked at him, he said, “They could all have left.”

“Did anyone get a count?” Cyrus asked, brushing his helm where it lay next to his right hand on the table. It made a slight noise skidding against the wood, reminding him of the chairs in the Great Hall scooting back all in unison.

“I believe the technical measure is a ‘shit ton,’” Vaste said. “As in, ‘Those people were shits, and there were a ton of them.’”

“They were our sworn brothers and sisters,” Vara said quietly.

“Less than a thousand,” J’anda said. “Nine hundred, perhaps?”

“We lost more on the wall,” Samwen Longwell said, newly reappeared from where he’d been on guard duty during the meeting. “I had to drag people onto night duty once we closed the gates. It’s been a steady trickle since, as well, people coming to regret not walking out with the rest.”

“Gods, we’re here again,” Cyrus said, bracing his chin against his hand. “Time runs in a circle, and now we move back to the beginning.”

“In the mood to travel Arkaria to rustle up new recruits?” J’anda asked with a warm smile.

“Even if I weren’t likely to be attacked on the road whilst doing that,” Cyrus said, shaking his head, “I think that might be a task for a younger man. Alaric sent me, after all; he didn’t go himself.”

“Oh, he’s blaming himself for this,” Vaste said. “I can see it in the way he’s about to droop onto his hand. The self-loathing is running over like mead in a shallow cup. It’s splashing onto me.”

“That might just be your own self-loathing,” Erith said quietly, her complexion a pale blue. She looked sick, Cyrus thought.

“So, what do we do?” Longwell asked, drumming his spear against the ground. “Close up the wall, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Vaste said, “since we don’t want to pit our—what? Less than a thousand now? Against Goliath’s twenty thousand?”

“We should get a count,” Vara said, her voice almost a whisper. “So we know.”

“We need new officers,” Cyrus said. “That’s what Alaric did when all hell broke loose last time. He appointed Vaste, J’anda, and me to the Council in order to help bring things back in line.”

“And it worked out just marvelously. At least until now,” Vaste said.

“We’re still not as small as we were then,” J’anda pointed out. He looked to Cyrus, warm regard on his wrinkled features. “Who were you thinking for officers?”

“Calene Raverle,” Cyrus said, “Scuddar In’shara. Menlos Irontooth?”

“I’m not so sure about Menlos,” Erith said, shaking her head. “He’s nice and all, but … he seems more like the front line type, not the sort you put on the Council.”

Cyrus frowned. “Are you sure? He seems like a leader.”

Erith shrugged. “Just my feeling. I guess I don’t know him that well.”

“I hate to say this, but …” Vara looked around. “We could use Fortin here on the grounds for a time. With our numbers this low, having a rock giant at our disposal would not be a terrible idea.”

“Agreed,” Cyrus said, somewhat reluctantly. “I’m sure he won’t be pleased, but … he’ll come if I call.”

“So that’s it, then?” Longwell asked. “We have nothing else? Hide and appoint a few new officers, and hope that this storm blows itself out?”

Cyrus traded a look with Vara and carefully kept himself from glancing at Vaste or J’anda. Instead he surveyed the remaining few officers that were not in his circle of confidence, his shadow council. “Of course not,” he gazed at Ryin, who sat in quiet, obvious desperation, then at Mendicant, who looked rather stoic, all things considered, staring straight ahead like Ryin but without his lethargy. Erith squirmed in her seat, looking as if she wanted to run out and never come back, her blue complexion almost grey in the torchlight. Longwell, for his part, clutched his lance in his gauntleted hand firmly, ready for action that would not be coming their way soon, Cyrus hoped. “We need to wait for now, though,” Cyrus said. “In a fight with a bigger foe, one that you can’t win through contest of strength, it becomes a game of waiting, of skill. Their guard is strong, but it won’t last forever. If they come at us, we may be able to bleed them dry, if we are prepared. Sanctuary withstood a siege of a hundred thousand before—”

“And they blew down our walls,” Ryin said, covering his face, his worried eyes, with a hand. “I don’t see how we stand against that.”

“Ice spells cast from the parapets,” Vara said. “A careful watch. What spellcasters we have left that are willing, we should make heretic as well, give them all the abilities we can. Imagine a hundred enchanters at our command, that could switch to wizardry in an eye’s blink.”

“Most of our spellcasters left in the last months,” Mendicant said, sounding oddly indifferent. When he looked up, it was with a curious look. “They, more than warriors or rangers, were acutely aware of the mark of heresy or excommunication and wished to avoid it most assiduously. Still, training those we have left …” His eyes glittered with hints of excitement.

“That’s what we’ll need to do,” Cyrus said, nodding. “We need time. Time to train these people. Time to study the defenses, to anticipate the movements of those would come to us. We’ll prepare, we’ll watch, and we’ll watch for openings. We’ll grow stronger, and perhaps they’ll lose their resolve?”

“Against heretics?” Erith asked, her voice like ground glass had been run down her throat, choked and lifeless. “Not likely. They’ll never forget us. They’ll never let up. They will come eventually, one way or another.”

“And we’ll be waiting,” Cyrus said, keeping his eyes low.

“But defending the wall with less than a thousand?” Longwell asked, shaking his head. “It would be … a slaughter if they break through.”

“No,” Cyrus said. “Because if it comes to that … we’ll leave before they get the chance.” And with a weight in his heart, he looked at the faces around him, filled with as much despair as he found resting in his own heart at the thought of leaving Sanctuary behind.

The dawn’s breaking found Cyrus awake, Vara already dressed in her armor by the time his eyes opened from a slumber he had thought would never find him. He stirred sleepily to see her sitting in a chair on the far edge of the bed, an envelope grasped in her fingers. “Message from Cattrine,” she said, fatigue showing in the dark circles under her eyes and the way her hair was still mussed from sleep. “We have a meeting arranged in Termina today.”

Cyrus got out of bed, cringing inwardly at the feel of the cold floor beneath his feet. The hearth was quietly burning, nearly down to ashes, but it sprung to life as he got up, a new energy within it, as though it sensed his wakening. “Who brought the message?” he asked as he began to slip on underclothes, soft and clean.

“That druid of Terian’s, Bowe,” Vara said, still as a statue where she sat. “Apparently he has been vouched for as one of the only people our dear Sovereign considers completely trustworthy in this.”

“If he’s good enough for Terian,” Cyrus said, his chainmail rattling as he pulled it on over his head, “I suppose he’s good enough for me.” He stifled a yawn; he’d been awake into the small hours of the morning, too many thoughts awhirl for him to sleep.

“Trust does seem to be an active concern going forward,” Vara said, rubbing her face, causing her pale cheek to turn red. “For example, with Bowe already gone, we have no way of easy transport to our meeting.”

“Damn,” Cyrus said as Vara got up to assist him in fastening his armor on. “We’ll have to take a druid or wizard along, I suppose.”

“Disguise will also be necessary,” Vara said, pulling hard the strap to Cyrus’s breastplate and backplate, ratcheting it tight against him enough to elicit a grunt of discomfort. “I’ve already left a message for J’anda under his door. Hopefully he will be awake enough for us to collect him when we head down.”

“I suppose it would be asking too much for them to let us teleport into Santir and walk into Termina as we are,” Cyrus said as he fastened one arm’s vambrace while Vara tended to the other. He gave her a smile, a thin one that was nonetheless motivated by the grim humor he found in the whole situation. “Though it would be funny to show up, declare ourselves, and then—”

“Die, horribly, at the end of many arrows and swords,” Vara said dryly. “There is most likely a garrison in Santir at the moment, though hopefully they will not be at the portal. There is definitely an army in Termina, watching the bridge carefully in fact—”

“And of almost no use now that there is no dark elven army moving across the plains to cross and sack the town,” Cyrus said with a hearty yawn. “Armies—always looking to fight the last war.”

“It’s not as though there’s much cause for the elven army to go elsewhere,” Vara said, tightening Cyrus’s right arm bracer to the point where he felt a numbness even under the chainmail. “I believe the rest of the elven army is gathered south of Pharesia, massed in case the dark elves and Luukessians around Emerald Fields get any imperial ambitions and decide to come north. Or in case Danay decides to make the first move.”

“An unsettling if entirely plausible scenario.” Cyrus turned his attention to the bracer just fastened by Vara, loosening it slightly as she watched, unamused. “I’ll need to meet with Calene, Menlos, and Scuddar later today to inform them of their impending officership.”

Vara rolled her eyes. “More people in the Council that we cannot fully trust. This appears to my eyes to be some sort of window dressing, husband. Why do we need more officers now, when our numbers are sunk to their lowest level in years? And as much as you might bemoan the exodus last night, we have lost some ten times more than what we saw yesterday eve.”

“Not at one time, though,” Cyrus said quietly. “Not all in one go.”

“I suppose their exit was somewhat more dramatic than the steady trickle of departures that came before,” Vara said, thick with tiredness, “leaving in their ones and twos, often in the middle of the night, without a word of warning, as their hope dwindled. I confess I thought perhaps we were through the worst of it, knowing how many we had lost, but … yes, from an emotional point of view, seeing that many go at once does leave something of a mark on the soul.”

“A little bit,” Cyrus admitted, stooping to fasten his greaves. That done, he straightened in silence, sighed, and placed his helm upon his head as Vara reached for hers and did the same. Cyrus cinched his belt, the sword resting loosely in the scabbard upon it, and then turned his head to look for a chest that he’d thought he’d seen stored somewhere in the room. His eyes searched the corners until they fell upon a wooden box in one corner that had been moved with the rest of his personal effects when he’d taken over as Guildmaster. He strode over to it lazily, pausing over the thigh-high chest with its metal bindings around every edge to hold it together, an object clearly made by a skilled craftsman—or two, even; a blacksmith to piece it all together with the metal and a carpenter to make the sides.

“What are you doing?” Vara asked, watching him carefully.

“Placing my thumb on the scales currently weighted against us,” Cyrus said, opening the unlocked chest to find exactly what he was looking for within. “To balance things slightly.” He took hold of the mystical ball and chain stored away within the chest and began to wrap it around his armor. He started by draping the length of chain around his waist, then crossed it diagonally over his chest both ways, winding the long chain around himself until it ran out of length. At one end was a steel ball covered in spikes, and at the other, a simple leather-wrapped handle, which he hung so that he could easily reach it with his left hand.

He turned to see Vara staring at him, a look of revulsion over her face, warring with her obvious weariness. “I guess you remember this, then,” he said.

“It would be hard to forget,” she said with a mild shudder, “seeing as you acquired it during our last trip together to Termina. I honestly thought that Unter’adon was going to kill you.”

“He had a good chance,” Cyrus agreed, taking hold of the handle of the chain and feeling the very slight power imbued in the weapon rush through him. It was no Praelior, that much was certain, but it was better than nothing. He drew the sword on his belt and practiced with a sudden feint, then a forward strike. “Well?”