CHAMPION.

The Sanctuary Series.

Robert J. Crane.

NOW.

Prologue.

Even at a time when all manner of hell had broken loose, bright spots were there to be found if one looked hard enough. Rain drenched the Plains of Perdamun as Cyrus Davidon sat in the archives of Sanctuary, a book across his lap. Outside the window, a single beam of light stretched down from the clouds and shone on the fields in the distance. Cyrus smiled, a small, grim one that contained only the smallest kernel of actual happiness.

The window was broken off its hinges, shattered glass littering the floor in front of it. The light in the archive came from torches burning on the wall and a fire in the hearth that kept the damp chill of the rain at bay. He stared at the painting that hung crooked above the fireplace, a simple old picture of a hut built in a style far different from those of Arkaria.

The weight of his armor was heavier than it had been in years. He reached down and grasped the hilt of his sword and felt the power it held course through him, giving him strength. He looked over the plains and thought with a rueful smile, This is the perfect domain for me. Dark and gloomy, like my thoughts of late, with only the barest light for hope. The smile faded.

He looked back to the book that was cradled in his hands. The Journal of Vara, it said inside the cover. An Account of My Days With Sanctuary. He had stopped reading as the rains swept in, pausing to admire the quiet fury of the storm. Drenching, drowning rains, he thought, reshaping the landscape. He recalled a stream he'd seen on the ride to Sanctuary that had carved its way across the plains, one he couldn't recall being there just a few years earlier.

Nothing stops the rains. Water runs its course, inevitable, and ploughs new pathways across the fields and the land. You can't fight it; it's a losing battle. He chuckled, again rueful. I know a thing or two about fighting losing battles. He stared back at the journal in his hands.

The words blurred as he refocused on them, and he realized that a droplet of water had fallen on the page. He looked around and realized the rest of the world had blurred as well. He sighed and removed his gauntlet, using the exposed sleeve of his undershirt to wipe his eyes. He wondered why he was bothering to read the next segment of the diary; after all, his memory was clear on what had happened.

Still, he blinked and focused on the words, the flowing script produced by the hand of Vara. He could picture her, sitting at the table in her quarters, long blond hair tucked in a ponytail that bounced as her hand moved up and down the page with the quill, laboring to produce the words he now read. The best days of my life, I am convinced, are those when I knew exactly who I was, and what I was willing to fight for. Unfortunately, as I age, those days seem to have long since disappeared, and I even find myself wondering if some fights are worth fighting at all. Especially when it comes to arguing with the most pigheaded man walking the face of Arkaria...

He laughed. "To be called pigheaded by her is an irony of the highest order," he told the empty room. "And likely a compliment." Her words went on, and Cyrus remembered the days Vara wrote about, as the feeble southern winter had settled in around Sanctuary. He remembered the night, the cold, the return from Purgatory, and all that had happened afterward. Inexplicably, another droplet of water appeared on the aged parchment...and another, until he could scarcely see the words that she had written.

6 YEARS EARLIER.

Chapter 1.

The light of a teleport spell faded around Cyrus Davidon. He looked across the Sanctuary foyer, from the massive balcony above the doors to the Great Hall to the open lounge, where already a celebration was taking place. The smell of the wood burning in the hearth filled his nose and gave him the warm feeling of home, taking the chill out of the early winter air.

"Keeps getting easier, doesn't it?" The voice of Andren, his oldest friend came from behind him. Andren was an elf, dark hair reaching down to his shoulders, his beard wild and unkempt. His look was a contrast to the usual for elven men who sported shorter locks and no facial hair. Light freckles dusted his complexion and his hair covered his elongated ears, leading some who met him to assume he was human based on personality alone.

Cyrus looked back at him. "I would hope so. We've gone through the Trials of Purgatory a good dozen times now; we'd be in trouble if it was getting tougher." He looked past Andren to see others talking, boasting and drinking all around them. Samwen Longwell, a dragoon who carried a lance as his weapon, stood in the corner of the Lounge talking with Thad Proelius, a warrior whose armor was red as raw meat.

"Aye." Andren smiled at him; then the elf shot a look at Larana Stillhet, Sanctuary's brewer and cook, who had teleported next to him. Her vivid green eyes looked out from underneath her black, tousled bangs. Her skin was dark a surprise for someone who spent so much time in the kitchens, Cyrus had always thought. "Fresh kegs out in the lounge?"

She cast a brief glance at Cyrus, keeping her eyes low, not meeting his gaze. She nodded then shuffled toward the kitchen.

"Quiet one when you're around, isn't she?" Andren moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Cyrus and watched the diminutive druid disappear into the Great Hall. The elf shot Cyrus a twisted smile. "Has some feelings for you, doesn't she?"

"It's unkind to insult her when she's not here to defend herself." The voice that came from behind them lashed at Andren with a sarcastic edge. Cyrus turned to see cold blue eyes staring him down from a lovely face. The speaker was tall, even for an elven woman, standing a few inches under six feet. Her armor was shined to a glaring silver sheen even though they had been traipsing through the Trials of Purgatory for the last several hours. Not a hair was out of place in her golden ponytail, which was still bound tight behind her.

"Vara," he said with a nod of his head.

"I didn't say anything unkind about Larana," Andren replied. "All I said was she gets quiet when Cyrus is around; thought maybe she had a little crush on him."

"Implying she would have such poor judgment as to find herself attracted to this oafish lout is insult enough for the issuance of a duel in most cultures." Vara's eyes narrowed but glittered in the dancing firelight of the torches and the hearth behind them.

A deep sigh was followed by a slump of Cyrus's shoulders. "I thought after all the work we've done planning these expeditions to Purgatory that you'd finally buried your need to belittle me."

A gleam in her eye matched the slightest tug at the corner of her mouth. "Perhaps I was making a joke."

Andren shook his head. "Impossible. You're far too serious for that."

Vara arched an eyebrow at the older elf then turned back to Cyrus. "Niamh just informed me that Alaric has called a Council meeting. I assumed," she said, "you would want to know." She brushed past them, running her shoulder into Cyrus's as she passed and casting him a look that was equal parts affection and annoyance.

"What was all that about?" Andren looked at Cyrus as Vara reached the stairs.

"The Ice Princess teases the warrior in black," came a voice from a grating below them.

"Fortin," Cyrus said, looking down into the grate, "we've talked about listening in on private conversations." Red eyes stared up at him from the darkness below. Fortin was a rock giant, half again as tall as most men, and more dangerous than any other warrior Cyrus had met. He lived in a dungeon room below the foyer.

"Yes, and if you want to keep them private, you wouldn't have them in public. But," the rock giant said with a hint of amusement, "I wouldn't be nearly so entertained."

Cyrus shook his head and turned back to Andren. "She's been a lot kinder to me since Enterra." He caught a glimpse of Aisling Nightwind skulking at the edge of the room, a dark elf with a roguish bent, looking at him with sly eyes as she slipped up the staircase behind Vara. Once she was gone, he looked to his left and through the doors to the Great Hall. Tables were lined up for dinner and already occupied by a sea of unfamiliar faces, almost all of them human. Andren followed his gaze.

"More refugees?" Andren shook his head. "I didn't expect the dark elves would be ravaging your peoples' lands the way they have."

Cyrus shook his head, his spirits falling. "I don't think anyone anticipated that. The war has gone badly for the Human Confederation-I heard that the dark elves have sacked and are holding Prehorta now."

"Aye," Andren agreed. "I remember the last war-and the one before that-and..." He frowned. "I remember a lot of them. One of them, I was in a town that they sacked in a surprise offensive. Their army came in, all lined up in neat rows, and once they realized there wasn't anyone to defend the village, they just ran wild. Tore up everything in sight, killing the men-" his ruddy complexion whitened-"dragging away the women, burning everything and stealing what they could carry."

"You made it out alive, though."

"Clearly," Andren said. "Once I knew it was a lost cause, I used my return spell to scamper back to Pharesia." He swallowed, his eyes haunted, and he took a deep swig from his flask. "They're not kind to their prisoners, either."

Cyrus listened, thinking about what the dark elves might be doing in human towns even now. Andren was over two thousand years old, in spite of looking as though he was only in his thirties by human standards. "How many wars did you see between the Elven Kingdom and the Dark Elves?"

Andren shook his head. "Too many to count. They're a warlike people, you know."

"I'm sure they say the same thing about you."

"Bah!" Andren waved him off. "It's all about territory; they always infringed on ours."

"I don't know that they're a warlike people, but it would seem that the Sovereign of the Dark Elves has an affinity for war." Cyrus looked around to make sure he wasn't overheard. "Do you know anything about their Sovereign?"

"Mostly bullroar. He's a fearsome beast; eleventy feet tall, breathes fire, all that ruckus."

"You don't believe it?" Cyrus said with a smile that faded a moment later. "Do you think the Elves will intervene? If the Confederation keeps getting battered like this?"

Andren looked away. "I wouldn't bet on it. The King...he's unlikely to interfere if he can avoid it. The last war between the dark elves and the Elven Kingdom was a scarce hundred years ago, and the downside of us living so long is that we remember. We all remember the deaths of friends and loved ones, the cities burned, all that..." He looked at Cyrus. "Now that it's aimed at your people and not ours? The King won't order our soldiers to so much as look at them funny unless the dark elves cross our border at the river Perda."

Cyrus shook his head. "I thought not." He felt the pain, the punch in his stomach as the bile rose up, and he thought of villages being burned and ravaged. There was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, and Cyrus took a deep breath. "It's not easy watching your homeland get pummeled while you stay out of the fight."

"Aye. Just remember your foolish Council of Twelve in Reikonos were the ones that wanted this war, not you or the other humans."

Reikonos was the human capital, where Cyrus had been born and raised. He had a brief flash of remembrance; childhood days spent playing in the city square, of splashing water from the fountain. "They may have started it, but they sit high in the Citadel in Reikonos while the people of the Confederation bear its effects." An image flashed through his mind of the city in flames, dark elves marching through the street with torches and swords, citizens screaming. "But if it comes to them invading Reikonos..." His words trailed off. He clapped Andren on the shoulder with more enthusiasm than he felt and walked toward the staircase.

"Don't Council for too long!" Andren called after him. "The victory celebration will have started by the time you get back!"

Cyrus didn't answer, mind still dwelling on the dark thoughts their conversation had stirred. In spite of our successes in Sanctuary, it doesn't feel like victory because my homeland is in flames. He felt a stir within him, deep inside, and the acrid taste in the back of his mouth grew stronger as the torches on the walls seemed to burn all the brighter, as if to give him a sense of what the flames of war were doing to the Confederation. If the dark elves invade Reikonos...he thought as he climbed. ...I don't think I can stay here and let my city burn.

Chapter 2.

"You'd have been proud, Alaric," Curatio said. "Another flawless run through the Trials." Curatio was the chief healer of Sanctuary, an elder elf with a constant gleam in his eye. He wore long, flowing robes with an ornamental sash wrapped around his shoulders that indicated his profession. His short-cropped hair contained just a touch of gray, giving his angular, regal features an air of distinguishment.

"I expected no less." Alaric Garaunt tilted his head in the direction of Cyrus and then Vara. Alaric's hair was peppered by far more gray than Curatio's, and extended to the back of his neck. His armor was weathered but still polished, and his eyes bore a fire. His fine, chiseled features were handsome, the only mark upon them the black leather patch that covered his missing left eye. He favored them all with a smile that was at odds with his nickname: "The Ghost of Sanctuary."

"We were in fine form," said Niamh. Her red hair flowed down her shoulders, her green eyes alight with the same excitement that ran through her voice. "I don't think I've ever seen the Gatekeeper any madder. We tore through the Trials in record time."

"Agreed." Vaste the troll spoke up. His green skin was flushed dark with victory. "He was so flustered he didn't insult us half as much as usual."

"At the rate, our people are getting mystical swords and better armor. We'll have the best equipped force in Arkaria before too much longer," Curatio said with a smile.

Cyrus looked around the Council Chambers. The room was centered on a large round table with eight seats. Behind Alaric was a set of double doors to the balcony, surrounded by windows that looked over the darkened Plains of Perdamun. On either side of the room stood fireplaces, crackling along with a dozen torches that burned without a hint of smoke. The brightness of Sanctuary at night had surprised Cyrus at first; it was unlike any place he had ever been.

"I hate to interrupt the circle of self-love," an annoyed voice interrupted. Cyrus's head swiveled to Terian Lepos, a weathered dark elf with a long nose and navy blue armor crowned with spikes jutting from his shoulder pauldrons. "Can we please focus on the meeting? I'd like to drink a little bit before I pass out from exhaustion."

Alaric's staid expression returned, the levity gone. "Of course. We have a few things to discuss..."

"War news," came the muttered voice of J'anda Aimant, Sanctuary's most skilled enchanter. Capable of creating illusions upon himself, this evening he wore the serene features of an aged elf.

"I would prefer you come to the Council in your true form, J'anda." Alaric's eyebrow twitched as he stared down the enchanter.

J'anda's chest heaved with a great sigh. "As you will." His hand waved in a lazy pattern and his illusion vanished. The enchanter was a dark elf with features so average that they were overshadowed by any illusion he cast, leaving Cyrus unable to picture the dark elf's face if he was not staring at it. "Now can we talk about the war?"

Alaric cleared his throat. "Another wave of human refugees has reached us, along with some new information. It is as we feared; Prehorta has fallen to the dark elven army and they have sacked and burned the town."

"That'll be a brutal end for a lot of men and a torturous experience for a great many women." J'anda shook his head, appalled. "The dark elven army are bestial when they sack a town; nothing is prohibited."

"And yet somehow they call your lot a civilization," Vara said.

Terian leaned back in his chair, focusing on Alaric. "Do you think that army will be moving south?"

Alaric put his hands on the table and interlaced the fingers of his gauntlets in front of him. "I doubt it, but it would be unwise to assume. Both you and J'anda," he said with a nod toward the enchanter, "have knowledge of the Sovereign of the Dark Elves; what do you believe his next move will be? Take the war here, to the Plains, or head west toward the river Perda and destroy the southern edge of Confederation territory?"

Terian shook his head. "I doubt he'll march west to the river. I think sacking Prehorta and leaving a garrison will do much to cut off Reikonos from the food supply of the Plains of Perdamun, increasing the hardship the Confederation will endure as the war grinds on. He'll likely move this army up to join the forces driving toward Reikonos."

"A wise strategic move," Curatio added. "Since the humans have been able to turn aside the dark elf attacks along a line south of Reikonos, it's keeping the Sovereign from laying siege to their capital. If he cuts off routes to the Plains of Perdamun, it'll help him weaken Reikonos when he does get around to moving his armies into siege positions."

"There are still human armies in the east and north that have yet to come into battle," Cyrus said. "If the Council of Twelve had anyone with brains planning this war they would have realized they had the dark elves damn near encircled at the start of the fight and would have moved to keep it that way."

J'anda and Terian laughed, the enchanter in soft tones, the dark knight in loud, discordant ones. Curatio and Alaric shared a knowing look.

Vara's eyes narrowed. "I would have agreed with the warrior's assessment, yet I get the feeling there is something that you're not sharing with us."

Terian laughed again, alone this time. "Unlike humans or elves, we have one major city Saekaj Sovar. All the dark elves live there except for exiles and expatriates like us." He pointed to himself, then J'anda. "Saekaj is underground, with entrances and exits hundreds of miles in different directions. Good luck encircling it; you'd never find them all."

"So it's like Enterra?" Cyrus looked at Terian.

"No. Enterra was tunnels in a mountain; small, like a mine or an anthill. Saekaj is built into underground caves that are a hundred miles long and hundreds of feet deep."

Vara wheeled to favor Alaric and Curatio with a glare. "How did the two of you know this? Are foreigners not put to death in Saekaj Sovar?"

Curatio remained mute but Alaric smiled and answered, "If they are found, I am told that is true."

"Fascinating as this geography lesson is," Vaste spoke in his low, rumbling voice, "the fact remains that an unpredictable dark elven host remains on the march a few hundred miles north of us and more refugees stream out of human territory by the day, unable to find help anywhere but through us." The troll fingered the white crystal at the top of his staff, which rested against the edge of the table.

Alaric cleared his throat again and attention pivoted back to him. "We already have an overwhelming number of refugees passing through our halls, all seeking the relative safety of these lands. They arrive without food nor means to survive, and we will continue to help them as best we can. Those who come to us hungry will be fed, those who arrive naked will be clothed-"

"Unless they're pretty," Terian amended, "in which case they should be kept naked and sent to me."

A light laugh echoed through the room. Alaric wore a slight smile and shook his head in dismissal. "Other business?"

"Applicants," Curatio said. "In the past six months we've had a flood of them and Niamh and I are overwhelmed. Some of the refugees are even applying; merchants and farmers, people without proper experience." He held up a hand to forestall Cyrus, who had started to interrupt. "I know we accept folks without experience and I'm glad of it, especially to give some of these poor souls a better lot in life, but it is making our job more difficult."

"I've taken to falling asleep on a stack of parchment at night," Niamh said, her bright eyes more lined than usual. "I'm doing everything I can to sort through and learn the stories of all these people that have joined us, but even with members helping us vet them, we're backlogged evaluating all these potential guildmates."

"Is it my imagination, or has the median size of our applicants diminished since our Enterra expedition?" Terian said with a sly smile.

"I haven't noticed," Vaste said, easily a foot taller than Cyrus, who was six and a half feet in height. "You all look like ants to me."

"You're right, Terian," Niamh answered with a smile of her own. "Since we crushed the Goblin Imperium, we've had large numbers of goblin and gnomish applicants-gnomes because we knocked flat the Imperium, which was their biggest enemy, and goblins because we destroyed a hated government and brought freedom to their underclass and peace to their lands."

"One would think there might be tension between the goblin and gnomish applicants," Vaste said, a thoughtful expression pasted on his green face.