CRUSADER.

THE SANCTUARY SERIES.

Robert J. Crane.

NOW.

Prologue.

Fear consumes us, the diary read. It owns us, makes us its chattel and property, takes hold of our lives and enslaves us to it. There are only three ways to best fear. The first is to care nothing for anything, including your own life. The second is to confront it and thus build courage by facing your demons. The final is to believe so deeply in some cause that you are willing to walk through any fire, no matter how scorching, because of that belief. Unfortunately, all three of them are difficult for a coward such as myself, and of the three, one is of little appeal to anyone.

The rains had left with almost as little warning and fanfare as they had arrived with, and Cyrus Davidon stared out the window, Alaricas journal clutched in his hand, mulling over his path. The room smelled faintly of wet wood and mildew; no great shock since the rains had blown into the Council Chambers of Sanctuary next door. All around him rested broken tables, smashed bookshelves, even a shattered paintinga"though that was my work rather than that of a well a The only sound in earshot was the crackling of the fire and the popping of the torches. They gave the air a sort of sickly smell, sweet, of oil burning, perhaps. Cyrus realized for the first time that it could have been magic burning, for all he knew. They were magic torches, after all, lighting and unlighting as needed. He leaned his left hand against the chair, feeling the pain within, and as he shifted, the ring on his finger caught on the inside of his gauntlet. Iave been sitting here like this for too long, he thought, putting the journal aside. The lettering was elegant on every page; not quite a surprise though close, as Cyrus could not recall having seen the Master of Sanctuary write much of anything for himself during the time Cyrus had been a member of the guild.

The rains had stopped at some point after nightfall, Cyrus dimly realized. It was after midnight now, and the strain on his eyes had been considerable. Putting aside the book, he stood and heard the cracking of his joints. He sighed. I sound as though Iam about to fall apart. He chuckled ruefully at the thought. Soon, perhaps.

He paused, pondering. What Alaric said in the journala"Iam afraid. Fear. How long ago did I master fear? When I was at the Society? He did the arithmetic in his head and found it unfavorable. How long ago did I stop feeling the pinch of fear? He thought about it for another moment but received no argument from himself. Then. I stopped truly fearing after a He let out a swift exhalation, as though he could purge the thought from himself, and tasted bitterness almost tangibly in his mouth. Alaric was right. There are few enough ways to truly purge fear from your life, and I believe he might have figured them all out. Not caring about anything is certainly a swift way to do it, and I did that for long enough to know. Confronting it is easier in conjunction with the third a he blinked. Believing in something enough to die for it, well a thatas the most difficult of them all.

His eyes worked their way back to the book again. Head read most of it during the night, much of it from times long, long before he had even met the man known as the Ghost of Sanctuary. There had been new insights, fascinating ones, things he hadnat fully understooda"until now. But what would it say about the time I spent in Luukessia? What was he doing in that time, what was he thinking? He found himself walking back to the chair unconsciously. Sitting back down, he picked up the journal of Alaricas thoughtsa"and the other. Varaas. He stared at the dull cover, the dark leather binding of it, ran his hands along the front as though he could feel it through his gauntlet.

He sat them both on his lap and opened them, skimming through the pages of the first until he found what he was looking for: a date. He read for a few paragraphs and his jaw dropped. Ah. So that was it. He turned his attention to the other book, Varaas journal, the handwriting only slightly less flowing, and opened it, jumping through the pages until he found the one that fit. It was wrinkled, the parchment rumpled as though it had been exposed to water.

Damn you, Cyrus Davidon a He looked up, around the empty room and toward the darkness outside. aThatas a hell of a way to start a journal entry.a His eyes fell back to the page and he read on, trying to absorb it all, flicking back and forth from one journal to the other, reconciling what he knew of that year with what he didnat, fitting the pieces of it together in his head. It all crept in, slowly, much like the darkness outside, and he did not want to stop reading, even when he heard a noise of something from within the walls, something quiet but certain, something very much alive a in a place that was not.

FIVE YEARS EARLIER.

Chapter 1.

Vara.

Damn you, Cyrus Davidon, Vara thought as the sounds of battle rang through the halls of Sanctuary. You were not meant to be gone this long. Her sword felt heavy in her hand as she ran down the stairs from the tower, a horn blaring all around with shouts of aALARUM! RAIDERS!a loud enough to roust even the near-dead. Her plate metal boots slapped against each step, ringing out in a clatter and clang that would have reverberated through the entirety of Sanctuary on a normal day; now they were well drowned out by all else that was going on.

Six months heas been gone. Six long months. With every step down the stairs she felt the hard metal through the leather footcovers she wore underneath her boots. When the day comes that I see him again, Iam going to let our General know exactly how poor his sense of timing is. There was a smell wafting up the stairs, a scent of blood and fire, and not of the smokeless flames produced by Sanctuaryas torches, but of real fire, of battle and death.

She jumped the last flight of stairs, vaulting over the few others who were storming down, to find the foyer awash in chaos. There was battle, and fire, and blood all; armor and swords, axes and arrows, all winging their way over the sweeping stone architecture of the usually peaceful halls of Sanctuary. The room was packed with dark elves in the blackened steel armor of the Sovereignas forces, warring with the motley and unmatched army of Sanctuary. She saw Sanctuary rangers, human, elven and dark elven, wearing cloaks of green and brown, warriors in armor of flat steel and dull hues, some with surcoats of red, blue and white; all of them clashing with dark elves in their dim armor, like the forces of light arrayed against the legions of dark.

And dark appears to be winning.

She watched as a dwarf clad in silver mail was cut down by a cleaving attack from a dark elf, who let out a shriek of triumph as his foe dropped to the ground, dead. Vara took it all in, a tingle running through her. She felt it slipping through her, six months of rage, pent-up anger and frustration. There was a taste of morning breath in her mouth, the bitter, acrid flavor of waking still there, and it only felt more appropriate when coupled with the anger surging through her now.

Damn you, Cyrus Davidon.

She channeled her fury into a yell that rang out over the battle. She leapt, not a small leap but a great, ungainly leap of twenty feet, using the mystical strength granted her by armor and sword. She brought her blade down on the dark elf who had slain the dwarf. He stared at her flight, wide-eyed, as she landed upon him and pierced him through his armor. She left a great rent in it, cutting through it as though it were nothing more than old, tattered parchment.

The melee lay open before her, half the heads in the room on her, watching. The clash of swords, the clang of blades, the sight of hundreds of bodies pressed against each other, and yet something familiar prickled at her mind even as she rushed forward, sword in motion to deal with the next dark elf, and the next. There was an aura of low-hanging fog, of something passing beneath her feet as she brought down a sword and split the metal helm and skull of a dark elf while whirling to land a hard-edged slash against another enemy.

Something moved out of the corner of her eyea"several somethings, actually, as this was a full-fledged battlea"but this one more pronounced. It was big and green, with black robes and a sash around the shoulders that bore the markings of a healer. The troll, Vaste, brought his staff down on the neck of a dark elven warrior whose blade was only inches from Varaas side. The warrioras skull cracked, a sickening noise of bones and wetness echoing in her ears as the body hit the floor and was trampled under the trollas feet as he moved on to his next opponent.

aThatas okay, donat thank me or anything,a Vaste said under his breath. aAfter all, why bother to be grateful to me for saving your life?a Had she not been an elf, and possessed of the exceptional hearing that was a hallmark of her race, she might not have heard him. aIall thank you later, should we both survive this. As it is, you may have done nothing more,a she laid her blade across the throat of another dark elf, athan buy me a temporary reprieve; we seem to be somewhat outnumbered.a aWeare not, actually,a Vaste said, his hand glowing and pointed into the distance. Vara turned and watched as a healing spell settled on a human ranger whose face was slick with blood pouring from a gouge in his throat. Skin closed up, leaving only the spilt blood as a mark of the death that had nearly visited the man. He shouted his thanks and plunged twin blades into a dark elf whose back was turned. aItas just that most of our force is arrayed on the wall against the army that has us surrounded.a aDid it not occur to anyone that the Sovereign of the Dark Elves would simply teleport a force into our midst?a She caught the blade of one of the dark elven attackers on hers and turned it aside, spinning him about while she plunged her sword into the back of his neck.

aI donat know. Did it occur to you?a She narrowed her eyes, but she was turned from him, dealing with two dark elven warriors that came at her with axes. aFair point.a aIam sorry, I didnat hear that?a She couldnat see the trollas face, but she heard the smile in his reply.

aI said focus on the battle, you malodorous pile of rubbish.a She struck down the first of her foes with an offhand attack, keeping his body between her and the second as the dark elf sunk to his knees. aWhere is Fortin? He could turn the tide of this contest in mere seconds.a aVisiting his estate in the Elven Kingdom, I believe,a Vasteas voice had a sudden strain to it and she turned to find him holding back three dark elven warriors who were pressing their advantage and driving him toward the doors to the Great Hall, where another battle appeared to be taking place. aHe does so love to commune with the rocks and boulders; who would have known that a rock giant had a sensitive side? Certainly not me, but then again I rather enjoy his abatter your enemies with superior strength until their skulls become a fine pastea approach.a aAye,a she said, moving to help Vaste but finding herself cut off by three strong dark elven warriors. aWe could use a bit of that right now.a She found herself boxed in, the one on the left driving her back while the one in the center pushed at her with an oblong blade that hosted a right angle at the tip. She watched Vaste block attacks with his staff, the focusing crystal on the tip of it glowing a ghostly white. aDo our forces outside even know that weave got enemies in the damned foyer?a aI would have to guess that this is a coordinated attack.a Vasteas words came out in great, shuddering gasps as he exerted himself, striking a killing blow against one of the dark elves menacing him. aTheyare probably making an assault on the wall even now.a aBloody hell.a Vara saw the white, toothy grin of her center assailant as he thrust his great sword at her and she dodged, countering with an abrupt lunge, her sword at full extension. Her movement caused her to avoid strikes from the dark elves on her left and right, and she let her attack carry her through, striking the dark elf in the mouth with her blade. She felt it slide in, watched his grin dissolve in blood and broken teeth, then pulled her sword left, jerking it free and striking against the neck of her foe to the side. She pirouetted and brought it across the throat of the one to her right. With athletic ease she jumped over the bodies of both of them as they fell and moved toward Vaste, who had acquired another attacker.

aOh, good,a the troll said as she struck down the first of his assailants from behind, without warning, causing two of the others to pivot to face her. aI was beginning to worry that perhaps I just wasnat that important to you.a aYou truly arenat.a She crossed swords with the next that came at her. The clash of her mystical blade against her opponentas cut steel, chipping his sword.

aAt least until you need a healing spell,a Vaste said. aYou ungrateful tart. I bet if I was a warrior wearing black armor, youad feel differently.a He said it lightly, with just the hint of a barb, but when it reached Varaas ears, it curdled and she felt heat rush through her veins, setting her blood afire. She struck down the next two enemies with reckless disregard for her own safety, catching a wound to the shoulder that slid through the joint of her armor. She ignored it, felt the searing pain of it and set it aside, letting the thought of the warrior in black burn her internally. Six months, you arrogant bastard, and not so much as a scrap of news; I hope Terian caught you right in your pompous, overmuscled arse with a bladea"

She felt a pain that was nowhere near her shoulder, a pain so acute and stunning that she hated herself for feeling it. Guilt washed over her, halting her uncharitable thought midway through, leaving her with only the same familiar mantra that had been rolling through her mind for the last six months: Damn you, Cyrus Davidon. Damn you for your arrogance, for your idiotic nobility, your lack of considerationa"and for leaving, most of all. Damn you for all of it. She buried her blade in another foe, then another.

Something caused her to shudder. The thin fog that had seemed to creep into the room was gaining in volume, rolling over the floor and swirling into the center of the foyer. Behind her, she could still hear the wail of the horns, the slamming of doors and the roaring of fires bursting out of the hearth across the room, warning the residents of Sanctuary of the attack in their midst. All of that seemed to calm, along with the swell of the battle as the mist rolled to the center of the room, rising from the floor into a man-sized pillar, gaining definition and swelling into a figure.

Worn, battered armor appeared out of the cloud along with a helm that covered all but the mouth of the man within it. A sword of darkened metal swept out of the fog, cutting neatly through seven different assailants who surrounded the mist. The cloud dissipated and flowed to the other side of the room, near the hearth, gathering behind a cluster of dark elven warriors. It sprang into a pillar once more and out came a sword, stroking neatly across the bodies of the foes arrayed about it, then dispersed once more and moved to a spot near the lounge, where it became a tornado of mist and exploded, puffs of the smoky air evaporating to leave behind Alaric Garaunt, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary. He sprang forth from the smoke, his mouth contorted in fury and the sound of his yell rained upon the foes that he struck down a moment later.

Pieces of Alaricas quarries flew across the floor, rolling in among the bodies and the blood that was already slickening the stone. Vara cut her way through a dark elf and found herself standing in the doorway to the Great Hall, looking within at the place where the guild dined. More than a dozen dark elves had funneled into the Great Hall and were battling with Sanctuary defenders scattered among the tables. There was a smell of hearty stew mingled with baked bread, at odds with the crimson-covered surfaces and the bodies that lay amidst the upturned tables. The clash of blades and the screams of fury and pain warred with the simple, homey scent of the meal being prepared within.

Varaas eyes flew over shattered tables and broken chairs to see Larana, the mistress of the kitchens, hovering in the air, feet at least a head above Varaas own height, her druidic magic issuing forth from her hands. Blasts of coarse flame shot forth to consume the dark elves who were moving forward to attack her, a wave of heat from the fire washing over Vara even at this distance. Her hand came up out of instinct, as if to protect her from it. When she lowered it again, a passel of flaming corpses lay about the Great Hall, thick, black smoke gathering above at the high ceiling.

She paused to watch the normally mild, quiet druid, eyes aflame, float toward her remaining enemies, driving them back toward Vara, who braced and attacked as the dark elves ran into her in ones and twos, turning from Larana with panic in their eyes, the flames driving them to focus more on what they were retreating from than what they were running to. Vara stepped into them, sword moving horizontally in a slash that killed three of the first four with one stroke and sent the other to the ground, crying in low guttural noises that choked the air.

Vara stopped, turning to look back to the melee still proceeding in the foyer. Laranaas eyes met hers, the druidas gaze a bright, verdant green that reminded Vara somehow of lifea"and the end of it. aTheyall be needing help mopping up in the foyer,a Vara said, and Larana nodded, drifting gently a foot off the ground before she flew forward, past Vara and into the battle.

There was a shift, Vara could tell, as she charged back into the fight in the foyer, blade in hand. Where before there had been wall-to-wall melee, now only a few dark elves remained, backed into a corner to the left of the doors that led outside. The moans of the injured filled her ears. She ignored it all as she shouldered her way through the crowd toward the dark elves standing off in a line. They were backed into the corner, staring down the members of Sanctuary who stood opposite them. Larana hovered menacingly nearby, and Vara could see other spellcasters, waiting to break the uneasy peace. Warriors of Sanctuary had crowded to the front, and a small distance, the length of a sword or two, was all that separated the dark elves from being overrun by the larger numbers.

aI am an officer of Sanctuary,a Vara said when she reached the front of their line. aYou are surrounded, outnumbered, and soon to be headless, your skulls adorning pikes on the top of our walls as a warning to your countrymen of the folly of assailing us.a She stared with cold eyes at the last of them, and the enemy stared back as one, not questioning, a cold, unfeeling mass, their irises the striking dark-elven reds, yellows and purples, otherwordly. Demons. aSurrender and youall be shown the hospitality of our dungeons, but at least youall be alive.a There was a quiet moment before something broke it. aIn the name of the Sovereign.a A dark elf close to the back of their formation near-whispered it, but she heard. Another took up the call, louder this time. aIn the name of the Sovereign.a Then another. The heavy smell of smoke and iron lay upon the air, burning her eyes with its pungence.

aOh, bloody hell,a Vara whispered.

aIN THE NAME OF THE SOVEREIGN!a It grew to a chorus, then a chant. Their shared voices all offered up to the heavens, they banged their mailed feet against the floor as though trying to make the Sanctuary army flinch with their effort. Vara grasped her sword tighter and she felt the tension in the ranks behind her as others did the same, knowing that the charge was coming, and that it would be short and bloody. There was a rattle of swords and behind her the noise of tense breaths being drawn. Another smell reached her nose, flooded it, the scent and feeling of humidity, of mist in the air, and she saw it swirl around her feet, so dense that the stones of the floor disappeared beneath a thick layer of the wafting, whitish clouds.

The mist gathered and swirled into the corner behind the dark elves, who continued their rage and bluster, making a fearsome racket that drowned out almost all else in her ears and made her head ache from the noise of it. A solid mass began to take shape behind the dark elves, who were oblivious to the sight of a perfect cloud forming in the corner. It grew in size and volume and turned darker, a storm gathering unto itself, until finally a hand swept out following the point of a sword, and Alaric Garaunt appeared behind them from within the depths of it. Vara saw three fall with the first attack as the Ghostas ancient blade, Aterum, swung high and sloped a bloody line on the brown stones of the wall to his side as it descended.

Vara could hear the collective intake of breath around her, the Sanctuary soldiers waiting, their line formed to contain the last dark elves. They watched as the screams and chaos consumed the dark elves and shattered their formation, as the elvews, so prepared for bloody sacrifice and shouting their willingness to die for the Sovereign only moments earlier, fell to pieces under the onslaught of one man behind them. It was short and bloody, covered in the swirl of fog and mist, and in the end it came down to a final dark elf, and Alaric held him out at the edge of his blade, the warrior trembling. There had been twenty or more of them in the corner before the Ghost had appeared, and the last seemed to realize this, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, his sword clenched in his fist, navy skin around his knuckles turned sky-blue from the strength of his grip.

Alaric stared down his sword at the dark elf, who dropped his weapon with a clatter, and began to raise his hands. The Ghost stared down, his lone eye unflinching. Vara caught an almost imperceptible shudder down Alaricas arm and the sword began to move, sliding through the belly of the dark elf, who gasped and looked up at Alaric with wide eyes.

aYou have sieged and invaded my home, slain my brothers and sisters.a Alaricas voice was low and as filled with malice as Vara had ever heard it. aLet this be a warning to you and yours; there is no mercy for those who would do such things.a His palm reached out and the dark elf shuddered as a surge of power shot from Alaricas gauntlet, the energy of the spell sending the dark elf into the wall at such a speed that Vara could hear the splatter of his flesh and blood even as she turned her head not to look.

When she turned back, Alaric stood, red splotching the battered surface of his armor, looking coldly down at his hand as though it were something foreign to him. aAlaric?a Her voice was barely above a whisper but it stirred him as though drawing him from a trance. aWe have been attacked from within; we must make preparations to protect ourselves. We must either shut down the portal or station a small army here to deal with additional assaults should they come. We need a messenger to go speak with Thad at the wall; we may have to reinforce the guard there if the dark elves are attacking.a The Ghost stared back at her, quiet, almost lifeless, before finally nodding his head underneath his massive helm. aLet it be done.a He looked through the crowd until his eye came to rest on Larana. aGo to Thad. See if the dark elves have begun their attack in earnest.a He looked again through the crowd until he found a grizzled man in armor, whose face was exposed through the front of his helm. aBelkan a you will form a guard and keep watch on the foyer every hour of the day and night. We cannot shut down the portal, lest we strand Cyrusas army in a foreign land without retreat or any way to get a message home.a The old knight looked suddenly weary though he still held Aterum in his hand.

Larana did not wait for any further instruction; she surged forward over the head of the crowd, running on air and seeming to slip through the crack of the main door without it opening but barely. Vara watched her go then walked slowly toward Alaric, who remained still, unmoving, a statue of steel and flesh. aAlaric,a she said quietly, aare you quite well?a He did not move at first, but when he did it was only to move his head ponderously to look upon her with his one good eye, an almost imperceptible smile upon his lips. aA goodly portion of our army is away in a foreign land under the command of our General. We have not heard from them in six months though they were to have been gone only three. We have been surrounded by the legions of the dark elves, most aggrieved at us for our part in defending the Elven Kingdom during their recent invasion, and now they have gone so far as to use a wizard to slip an elite force of their soldiers into our home using a spell I felt certain was unknown to any but our own spellcasters. If that were not enough, only half a year ago we slew the God of Death himself.a The smile grew slightly larger, and all the more grotesque in its obvious falseness. aTell me, childa" why would I not be quite well?a aAs long as youare keeping a good perspective on things.a Vasteas voice rang out from just behind Vara, but she heard the usual irony only on the surface; there was a deeper sense of darkness hidden from all but those who knew him best.

A shout of alarm came from behind them and Vara turned. A point of magical energy had appeared in the center of the foyer, over the great seal that was placed in the middle of the room. It crackled and glowed, shedding green upon the face of Belkan across from her, his sword braced in his hand and pointed toward the brightness. She saw others mirror the action as the spell grew in its intensity as the seconds ticked by. She gripped her sword more tightly as the front door burst open and Larana shouted (of all people, Vara thought; it would be the worst if she were the one shouting), aWe are under attack! They have siege towers at the walls!a The sparkle of magic at the center of the foyer grew brighter; something began to coalesce within. Another round, then. Letas have at it, Sovereign of the Dark Elves. Send me all you have, every last one of your bastard children and all the sons of whores you slap into armor and call warriors. Send them all and Iall throw them back at you, bloody and shattered. Throw your whole army at us and Iall take them one by one, grind them up and heave them back to Saekaj Sovar, march through your city, and leave it in ruins the way you did mine, you right bastarda"

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.

aMy gods,a Ryin Ayend said as the last of his spell faded, awhat has happened here?a aYou have missed much in your absence,a Alaric said, walking toward the druid with a slow, shuffling gait. aAnd it has been long since we have heard from any of your brethren.a Ayend paused, a subtle cringe on his face, a slight twist of pain and discomfort. aThings have a gone astray in Luukessia. We have had some a unforeseen difficulties.a 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 rocka"launched, Vara was certain, by one of the catapults surrounding the walls of Sanctuarya"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.

aUnforeseen difficulties?a 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. aYes, weave experienced a few of those ourselves since your departure.a 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.

Damn you, Cyrus Davidon. Damn you for leaving me like this a

Chapter 2.

Cyrus Six Months Earlier 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 a 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.

aI would have thought two days march would have cured most of them of their enthusiasm,a 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 elfas skin. aThey were tired enough yesterday from the long march on these sands, I suppose. But now theyare back at it again, all full of excitement, eager to get into their first battle.a The dark elfas face was narrow and his nose stuck out, coming to a point, his hair black as obsidian, and he wore a half-smile that couldnat look anything but cruel in the low light.

aTheyall get over it quick enough once theyave been in it.a Cyrusas 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 lumpsa"

aTrouble sleeping?a Terianas 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. aJust a nightmare,a he said to Terian. aIt wonat be trouble unless it happens over and over again.a The dark elf nodded, face inscrutable. aThose sort of dreams tend to find me when Iam troubled during the day, as if to follow you into your bed and attack you when they know youare at your weakest.a He took his shining eyes off Cyrus and turned them back toward the fire. aBut I suppose youad have more experience with those than I would.a Cyrus caught the knowing tone in the dark knightas voice. aI suppose I would.a 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.

aSomething on your mind?a The low rasp of Terianas voice drew Cyrusas attention back to him. aYouare not usually the silent type.a The dark elf took a breath and a slight smile caused his white teeth to peek out from behind his dark blue lips. aSomeone, perhaps? Someone tall and blond, with a heart as icy as her eyes?a 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. aWhat aa he began to speak, but his words came out in a low croak. aWhat do you do a when someone that you a when someone close to you a betrays you so thoroughly?a He felt the bitter taste of what he said and remembered the last words she had spoken to him. We will not, cannot be. Not ever a I thank you for trying to comfort me in my hour of need, but Iall have you take your leave now. He slid his fist back into his gauntlet and felt it clench.

aWhat do you do when someone betrays you?a Terianas voice was dull as he repeated the words. aThatas an excellent question.a 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 him. He waited, but Terian seemed frozen in thought, staring at the black, endless sea in the distance, listening to the lapping of the tides. The blue skin on his hand stood in contrast to the red metal of the blade and the white cloth. aTerian?a Cyrus asked. aAre you all right?a The dark knight didnat answer, his hand still moving in regular rhythm, up and down the blade. His fingers slipped, over the edge, and jerked. The dark knight stared down dully as though he couldnat quite fathom what he was seeing. Liquid welled up, and the first drops fell to the sands. Cyrus stared at it, and remembered again of a time long, long ago, long before Sanctuary.

aDamn,a Terian said mildly. The dark elf stared at his wounded hand.

aIall get Curatio,a Cyrus said, starting to move.

aNo,a Terian said, and Cyrus heard the dark knightas armor rattle as he got to his feet. aIall go. I should have been paying attention.a He clenched his fist and Cyrus watched a thin stream of red run out of his palm and form a droplet on the base of Terianas wrist. The dark knightas expression was still formless, almost indifferent to his wound. aBut about your question aa Cyrus stared at him. Terianas eyes seeming to fixate on a point beyond Cyrus, as though he were looking through the warrior, not at him. aYes?a Terianas gaze came back to him, found his, and there was something in it that Cyrus couldnat define, some depth that made Cyrus think of an open window, curtains stirred by a breeze only slightly to reveal furnishings inside. He caught a hint before the curtains blew back into place and hid the room within from view once more. aI donat know. You got your vengeance, once upon a time, didnat you? For your friend, after he died?a aAfter we were betrayed?a Cyrus remembered, with a knot in his stomach, Narstron, his oldest friend. Of how he died. aNot revenge. Not really. Besides, this is a different.a aIs it?a Terian took his hand and brought it to his lips, pursing them to catch the next drop before it fell to the ground. aHurt is hurt, right? Pain is pain.a Cyrus recalled the gut-punch pain, the agony of realizing later that people they had been allied with had betrayed him. Varaas words came back to him again: We will not be, cannot be. Not ever a aNo,a Cyrus said. aItas not the same.a He weighed the sensations, the loss of his oldest friend, the anguish of it all, and found it a lacking.

aI suppose,a Terian said. aDeath is a much more a permanent wound, and the vengeance so much more a deserving.a Cyrus stared out again, across the dunes, without answering. The hundred fires left spots in his vision as he cast his gaze over them then turned his eyes again toward the sea. Endless, infinite, and deep beyond any measure he could fathom. The sea goes down, perhaps forever. The blackness it contained was akin to the darkness within him, the empty cold that threatened to swallow him in despair. He felt a hand clap him on the back as Terian turned and walked away. He did not watch the dark knight go, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts.

Itas warm enough; I shouldnat feel a chill. But it was there. The pain of losing Narstron had been bitter and hard, had laid him low for days, long days filled with a despair that choked out any happiness or possibility thereof in the future. It had been darker than the days when his wife had left hima"darker than any save for those at the Society of Arms a Until now. The little points of light that the fires had left in his vision seemed to coalesce, to flash in front of him, to give him an image, one that he wanted and yet wished he could blot from his memory. A face, her skin as pale as the northern snowfields, her hair as yellow as the gold he carried in his purse, eyes as blue as glacial ice. He felt the same pang, again, inside, the dagger wound that shead left him with.

Cyrus tasted the bitterness on his tongue again, the sadness that clung to him like a cloak. He looked back to his bedroll and knew that his slumber was over for the night. The moon hung in the sky overhead, far above him, and he drew an uneasy breath. The morning was far, far off, many hours away, and yet it would come, inevitably, and he would marshal his armies and drive them across the bridge that he had seen by last light, the one that stretched over the infinite sea, over the unfathomable depths, one that head been told led to a new land and an uncertain future.

And perhaps, somewhere over there, I will forget about hera"the blond-haired elf with the pale skin, and her words, the ones that had cut him deeper than any pain that the warrior in black armor had ever felt in his life.

Chapter 3.

Sunrise found Cyrus staring out across the water, watching as the red disc rose over the horizon. The chatter of the young warriors and rangers had died down only a few hours earlier, and he had been left alone with his thoughts, staring across the Sea of Carmas as the first members of his army began to rise. Cyrus heard the sound of footsteps in the sand behind him and turned to see Curatio, his pointed elven ears catching the light and casting shadows on the side of his head.

aYouare up early,a Curatio said, making his way over to the fire next to Cyrus, a small loaf of bread in his hands. aOr perhaps late.a The elf broke the bread and offered Cyrus a half, which he took. aTerian said he was talking to you when he cut his hand last night.a Curatio wore the scarf of a healer, a long, rectangular cloth sash that remained untied, wrapped around his shoulders and hanging loose, the ends reaching to his waist. Runes were stitched into it in dark lettering, but the white color told all who saw that he was a healer, a spellcaster with the ability to mend wounds and restore life. aYou havenat been up since then, have you?a Cyrus gnawed on the loaf, which was fresh, still warm. He looked up at the healer in surprise and drew a smile from Curatio. aMagically conjured bread. Itall be down to the spellcasters to keep us in bread and water as we march onward, especially for the next few days as we traverse the bridge.a Cyrus picked a large piece out of the doughy center and ate it, shifting it around in his mouth, enjoying the soft flour taste. He grasped a piece of the crusty exterior. It broke between his fingers and he popped it in his mouth, listening to the crunch between his teeth. He looked south and saw the Endless Bridge, something he had seen only once before. It was stone and sloped up to a hundred feet over the water, with enormous supports that reached above the span every few hundred feet, symmetrically placed pillars of stone lining its avenue. It extended into the distance, beyond the horizon, and the stone seemed to glitter in the light of the sunrise.

Cyrus smacked his lips, stopping before he took another bite. aLeaves me feeling a bit a empty inside.a Curatioas smile cooled. aThe bread? Or something else?a aLeaves me feeling weak,a Cyrus said, lowering the bread. aAnd the last thing I want to be when Iam marching into an unknown country is weak.a He turned and looked into the distance where the horses were tied to trees at the edge of the beach. aHow are the horses?a aTheyave been curried, their feet have been picked out, and Martaina is saddling them now,a Curatio said, his eyes following Cyrusas. aSheas quite the wonder with animals, that one. Sheas got a few others helping her, but she seems to be taking excellent care of them.a aGood,a Cyrus said without emotion. aThe more we have delegated to good people, the more we can focus on whatas coming.a The elfas face lost its smile gradually, fading as the lines slackened and Curatio turned serious. aAnd what might that be?a Cyrus took another bite, a heavier one, and chewed, answering only after head swallowed about half of it. aBattle. Longwell says weall be passing through an unfriendly Kingdom on the other side of the bridge. Says theyall have pickets out, riders, you know. They may throw trouble our way to keep us from passing.a Curatioas eyebrow rose, sending his ageless face into a very slight display of amusement. aPickets? Outriders? A scouting party of what? A dozen men on horseback? Versus our fifty on horse and thousand afoot?a A light chuckle came from the healer. aI wish them the best of luck.a Cyrus didnat join the laughter. aTheyall present themselves, theyall threaten, but Longwell says the outriders wonat make much fuss. This Kingdom, itas the one by the seaa"Actaluere, Longwell called ita"it has holdfasts between the bridge and Longwellas fatheras lands. They may send armies out to halt us once they know weare here.a Curatioas eyebrow twitched slightly higher. aDo you think theyall succeed, General?a The elfas odd formality stirred Cyrusas irritation. aNot if weare careful, they wonat. But even a hundred men with no magic could wipe out an army ten times their size if they were to catch us sleeping.a Cyrus clutched the bread tighter. aWe have a journey of several weeks across their territory. Thatas a long while that they could cause us problems, and a very long time to maintain an all-hours watch, especially after a hard march every day.a aGood practice,a Curatio said, taking a bite of the thick, hard crust of his bread. aAfter all, we are here to season our young and inexperienced recruits.a aA march of several weeks, with the threat of attack hanging over us every hour of the day?a Cyrus looked at the bread in his hands and was suddenly no longer hungry. aThat will season them, all right.a He stood, and looked over the stirring army. aIad rather have peace from them, though, and stay at their inns, buy fresh food from their people, spread our gold around their realm on our march than seed their lands with sword and fire.a The sergeants of the army were shouting now, yelling their displeasure at the recruits, stirring them out of their stupors as the sound echoed down the shore.

aAye,a Curatio said softly behind him as the the noise of the rousing army carried on, aalways better to have peace than war. But in my experience, itas not always a luxury we are afforded.a It took another hour to get everyone fed and formed up to move. They reached the bridge after another houras walk, and took a break in the shade by the span. The stone bridge was wide enough to accommodate ten columns of their troops walking side by side. After the army was formed up again, Cyrus began the procession to lead them over. He kept his horse, Windrider, in front of the army, a few yards ahead of the rest of the mounted members of Sanctuary. The steady clip-clop of hooves against the stone of the bridge lulled him.

It will not work, Cyrus. It can never be, you and I. For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow. We will not, cannot be. Not ever. Varaas words echoed over and over in his mind as the gentle wash of the water lapping against the supports of the bridge beat a steady rhythm in his consciousness. The sun shone down from overhead, but the salt air and sea breeze kept him cool, even in his black armor. Not ever.

The sound of someone next to him jarred Cyrus, causing him to look up. As soon as he saw who it was, he relaxed. aYou,a he said with a sigh.

aMe,a Aisling said. Her hair was white, flush against the navy skin it framed on her face and an exaggerated amount of cleavage was on display under her traveling cloak, which was open. Her usual leather armor was gone, replaced by a cloth garment of deepest red that hugged her belly and her upper body.

Cyrus stared at her, his expression in near-disbelief. aAre you wearing a bustier?a Her eyebrows danced up and her lips pursed in a smile. aIam surprised you know what that is.a He looked away, shaking his head in annoyance. He hadnat intended to give her any sort of encouragement. aMy wife used to wear them.a He looked back, slightly uncomfortable. aFrom time to time.a aOh?a Her voice trilled in interest. aYou were married?a aA long time ago.a He turned his head to look at her, a little too much frost in his voice, even to him. aTry not to pretend you didnat know.a She shrugged expressively, exaggeratedly, and as though every bit of chill in his words had melted somewhere between the two of them. aI was just being polite. Of course Iave heard the rumors about you being married. Iave heard a great many rumors about you. But then, Iave heard a few about myself as well and not always true, so I prefer to glean the fact of them directly from the source before I go believing something I hear in passing, no matter how good it sounds.a Cyrus felt the breeze off the sea stir the hair under his helm and reached up to take the metal contraption off, securing it to a hook on his saddle. With that done, he ran his hand through his hair, felt the slight sweat that had developed on his forehead, and wiped it onto the sleeve that stuck out of his gauntlet. Once done, he looked back to Aisling, who still rode next to him, watching him, almost expectantly. aAnd what rumors would you have me dispel?a aJust one,a she said, but the slyness and her smile were gone, replaced by something else: an almost primal hunger, as though she were thirsty and waiting for a single drop of water to fall upon her tongue.

aJust one?a He looked back at her. aThen what? Youall ride back into the line and trouble me no more?a aFor today, yes.a The hunger on her face grew, an insatiable curiosity. aI make no promises about tomorrow.a aAsk your question, then.a He felt his hands on the reins, on the leather, felt them squeeze tightly against the dry material that lined the inside of his gauntlets, felt the hint of perspiration on his palms. aAsk and then be gone.a aIs it true aa She started and then stopped, but the desire had grown in her eyes. aIs it true that you and Vara a?a She didnat finish, as though she couldnat bring herself to ask the question. aI mean, in Termina you were together, but I heard a it was rumored aa aItas true,a he said, bowing his head, feeling the despair overwhelm his desire to snap back at her, to growl, to tell her to ride off the edge of the bridge. aItas all true.a He twisted his neck to look at her. aNow say it and be done.a He spoke with no acrimony, his voice was dry and hollow.

aSay what?a She looked at him, and all the emotion he had seen writ upon her face was gone, replaced by a slight furrowing of the lines of her brow, a puckering of her full, purple lips.

aWhatever racy suggestion youare going to throw my way,a Cyrus said, still wary. aJust say it. Get it over with.a There was a subtle flicker in her eyes, and the curiosity washed from her face, replaced by something elsea"genuine regret, Cyrus thought. aIam sorry,a Aisling said. aI canat think of anything like that right now. All I have to say is aa Her lips curved with just a hint of wistfulness, aa Iam sorry for you that it didnat work out.a She nodded at him and slowed her horse, falling back into the line with the others that followed behind him.

Cyrus rode on. The bridge stretched before him as far as he could seea"and so did his pain.

Chapter 4.

The days ran together, one upon another, until all Cyrus could remember was the bridge, the endless grey stone that went on infinitely into the distance. On either side the waters were blue, and a cool breeze ran through the cracks in his armor, keeping the heat of the sun at bay. By the end of the third day, Cyrus imagined throwing himself over the side into the water below, letting his armor drag him down, down to the bottom of the sea, letting his boots sink into the sand, the water rush into his lungs, drowning all his despair along with him a The conjured bread grew old by the fourth day, and Cyrus was sick of chewing it, the light airy flavor turning to nothing but mush in his mouth. The conjured water was even worse, less satisfying somehow. Without wood to burn, they slept without fires at night. The only flame available to them was that conjured by wizard and druid, and there were only five of those. Three times a day, long lines were cast over the edge of the bridge and fish were caught, but it was a paltry amount, enough to feed but a few and as flavorless as the bread.