by Joseph Lallo
Meanwhile, Cyrus caught sight of his target, G'koal, the Empress of Enterra. She stood slightly shorter than he but well over the height of the average goblin. He leapt forward, sword raised, and swung it at her. She met him with a perfectly timed backhand that sent him flying across the room the same way he’d seen Cass go sailing.
He hit the wall and bounced up to see four Goblins blocking his path to the Empress. He watched as blue lights surrounded two of them, enchanters working to mesmerize them while he dealt with the other two. Empress G'koal was leering at him from the throne platform, across the room, silently daring him to come back for her. She had a sword drawn, holding it her side. The scabbard caught his gaze – it was red, with patterns running the length of it.
His group was behind him at the door, moving through warily after seeing him flung across the room. A mending spell ran across his body and he cast a quick look at Erith, whose face was edged with concern. “That's four!” he said in mild surprise.
Her eyes found his, and all trace of sarcasm was gone. “Be careful,” she mouthed, too quietly for him to hear but plain enough to see.
His group joined him in attacking the two goblins keeping him from re-engaging the Empress. His head was ringing from the hit he’d taken, but he killed one of them while his party killed the other. He saw Narstron and his group in the midst of at least ten goblins. Several had the dazed expression of mesmerization, but a few members of the dwarf's party had fallen; there were bodies scattered around him. To his left, Cass waded into combat with the Emperor, his force behind him. Goblins were trickling out of a door in the wall behind Cass.
“Orion!” Cyrus shouted. “We’ve got goblins coming through that door!” He gestured in Cass's direction.
Orion had a look of sudden panic. “It's the door to the barracks! Elisabeth, keep it shut!” The ranger nodded and charged into the breach, knocking over three more goblins as she slammed the door shut. “Keep an eye out for any that make it past her!” A few grunts of acknowledgment met his order.
A look at Narstron’s part of the battle told him that things were not going well on the right flank. More dead bodies, but what seemed to be the same number of goblins. Cyrus changed direction and led his group into the fray with Narstron. They killed four goblins with no appreciable decrease in the numbers of the enemy.
As Cyrus looked up from the battle he noticed two more goblins slip into the fight. His eyes followed their path back to the door where Elisabeth had stood moments before, which now was only slightly obstructed by the corpse of an elf – goblins were pouring through in waves. He watched them hit the rear flank of Cass's group at the door. Selene and Vaste were cut to ribbons by ten of the beasts. Another three pounced on J'anda, who was casting spell after spell, trying to stem the tide of foes. He crumpled and Cyrus realized for the first time, as the enchanter's illusion dropped, that J'anda was a dark elf.
The moment the enchanter died, the noise level in the room exploded as every one of the goblins J'anda had mesmerized – almost thirty by that point – woke from their trances. Cass’s group, focused on the Emperor, was hit by a wave of goblins. Cyrus watched Niamh barely escape in a gust of wind too small to take anyone else with her. Nyad was killed as four Goblins impaled her with their claws from three different directions. Eyes rolling back in her head, she dropped to the ground.
Cyrus redoubled his efforts, swinging his sword as hard as he could. He was rewarded with three kills in three seconds – two decapitations and he pierced the last goblin cleanly through the heart. Even as the last goblin dropped, four more swarmed to replace it. Blocking their strikes as he retreated toward the wall, he heard Erith’s scream behind him, and watched as two goblins finished her off. Behind her he watched Orion melt into the shadows unseen.
Time slowed down for Cyrus. He saw Curatio, of all people, swinging a mace, crushing the skulls of three enemies with one swipe. He watched as five goblins swarmed the healer, pulling him to the ground. Cass died, the last of his force, as the Emperor let out a screeching cry of victory.
His own party decimated, Cyrus moved closer to Narstron, who was now cutting through a pile of goblins attacking him with great intensity. The dwarf's blows were so strong that they were severing limbs and heads with every slash. Andren was buried under the dead, he was certain. Cyrus had his back against the wall, swinging like mad, and could see Narstron doing the same, using his lack of height to evade the enraged goblins that came after him in a swarm.
Cy risked a quick look at the Empress. His eyes froze as a human-sized figure emerged from behind one of the thrones, gliding toward the Emperor, completely covered in a long black cloak, head obscured by the cowl.
Cyrus felt a sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder. One of the scaly creatures clamoring over him had found purchase in his armor and fully exploited it. He felt the hot blood running down his side, felt his right arm cease working abruptly, and he had one arm left to swing his sword with.
A strangled victory cry rose from the throng to his right and he caught sight of Narstron lifted aloft on the shoulders of a crowd of goblins. A strange chant rang out over the room, something that sounded to Cyrus's ears like, “Gezhvet! Gezhvet!” He twisted back to deal a killing blow to a goblin in front of him and saw the black cloaked figure reaching a hand out to the Emperor, who pulled a large warhammer from his belt and hand it to the figure somewhat reluctantly.
Cyrus's senses were flooded with the beasts as his focus shifted to the growing number of goblins attacking him. The strange, pungent smell of them filled his nostrils. It was suddenly hot in the depths of Enterra, and there were more goblins than he could count. He felt another sharp pain, this one in his leg, and it brought him to his knees. As he looked up into the black eyes of Empress G'koal, standing over him triumphant, he tried to swing his sword at her. She swung her blade across his neck, hard, as he watched it, eyes transfixed on her elaborate scabbard. He felt a draining sensation, then lightheadedness, and his last vision was of the goblin Empress, somehow, impossibly, smiling in victory.
Chapter 13
Cyrus awakened, light bleeding into his vision. He saw Selene, badly wounded, shaking and crying, standing above him. He recognized where he was, as he looked up – it was the entrance to Enterra, where he’d fallen over and been helped up by Elisabeth.
“Selene!” he cried out. “What happened?” He caught sight of Curatio and Vaste moving among bodies, lined up in rows. The invading army, Cyrus realized.
The elf did not respond at first. “Niamh fetched help,” she said, struggling with every word.
Sounds of battle from down the corridor drew his attention. A goblin corpse flew through the air and landed at the edge of the rows of bodies. Alaric Garaunt followed it, anger radiating from the paladin even though his mouth was the only part of his face that was visible through his helm. The knight was flanked on either side by Terian Lepos and Vara, who each wore a neutral expression.
“The corridors in front of us,” Alaric said, voice taut with rage, “are quite clear now.” The Ghost calmed. “We won't be seeing any more goblins in this segment of the caves for some time, I suspect. The rangers are bringing the dead out as quickly as safety permits.”
Cyrus looked to find Curatio nodding quietly. The healer turned away to another body, channeling powerful magics that lit up the inside of the cave. “If you can bring them to me, I'll resurrect them as quickly as possible.” The healer tensed for a moment. “This would go much faster if not for the fact that Vaste, Selene and myself are the only healers that know the resurrection spell.” Curatio paused for a moment, looking almost reluctant. “Is there no other...aid...for us?”
Alaric's face was hidden behind his helmet, masking most of his expression, but his mouth was drawn tightly in a line. “It would appear you have things under control. If the situation becomes dire, we will do...” the knight paused, searching for words, “...whatever it takes... to resurrect them all before time runs
out.”
Vara made her way forward. “I can help. Though my mending spells don't have the power of a healer's, they can at least help relieve the pain.” Curatio nodded and Vara began to move among the wounded, starting as far from him as possible, breathing a few words here and there. Cyrus could hear thanks being murmured to her.
Brevis stood up to catch Vara's attention. “My boot is missing.”
Vara looked at him, calm, cool, uncaring. “This affects me how?”
Brevis looked back at her, expression dull. “Did you take it?”
She blinked three times in rapid succession. “I didn’t touch your corpse except to drag it out of the way to make room for more bodies,” she said in a tone of near disbelief. “Besides,” she told him. “You’re far too ugly to molest when you’re dead.”
A familiar glint found its way into Brevis's eye. “What about when I’m alive?”
A roll of the eyes. “When you’re alive, you smell too poorly.” Vara continued to work her way through the ranks of the freshly risen, casting healing spells.
Cyrus sat up, gingerly at first, and looked around. He saw Orion talking to Cass and Erith. None of them had been healed yet, and each was clutching painful-looking wounds. He suddenly understood why he was in such pain. No healer had the magical energy to spare for mending spells when there were so many dead to be brought back. He caught Andren’s eye in the corner and hobbled his way over to him, nearly falling over and catching himself on a cave wall for support.
Andren handed him a flask. “You look worse than I do,” he said as Cyrus took a drink. “But not as bad as Orion.” The ranger, though uninjured, had a haunted look in his eyes as he and Cass exchanged words with Erith, whose normally dark blue skin was much paler. “Or Curatio, come to that.” Curatio was working feverishly with the other two healers, casting resurrection spells as quickly as they could. “You only have so much time to cast before someone is dead for good.”
Cyrus broke his silence as he took another drink from the flask. It tasted like rum from the islands in the Bay of Lost Souls. Something stirred in the back of his head, making its way through the fog of discomfort from his broken ribs and countless bleeding wounds. At least none of them is gushing blood, he conceded. “Wait,” Cyrus realized, “why aren't you healing the wounded?”
Andren's cheeks reddened. “I'm drained. I tried to cast a heal on myself four times and it sparked out.” The healer took another swig. “I'm surprised that Curatio and the others can manage a resurrection spell – they're supposed to be really draining, and if they just got resurrected themselves...” Andren shuddered. “They're burning their own life energy if they're out of magic.”
“How does that work?” Cyrus was curious.
“Only so much magical energy at a time,” Andren said. “Just like your arms get tired from swinging that meathook of yours, cast enough spells and you run out of magical energy. Resurrection spell brings you back near dead, low on every type of energy – magical, physical, emotional, mental. You need rest.” Another swig as a haunted look crossed Andren face. “They don't have time for rest, though.”
Cyrus looked at him in accusation. “About your healing spells. You gonna try again?”
Andren glared at him. “Give me a minute, will ya? I dunno about you, but I just died, and frankly it was an unsettling experience for me!” The healer took another deep swig from the flask. “I'm trying to get back on an even plane here.”
Orion was picking his way through the wounded. The healers looked as though they had completed their work, and all the bodies were moving, moaning, some even crying out. Druids and paladins were healing the worst afflicted first, as they regained their strength. The healers looked exhausted; Curatio was bleeding profusely from a gash on his forehead that hadn’t healed. Niamh walked up to him and cast a spell to seal the wound. She gently wiped the blood from his face as she smiled down at him.
“Cyrus.” Orion approached, looking stricken. “We have a problem.”
“Oh?” Cy looked at the ranger, and awareness crept back to him. He realized what had been stirring in his mind earlier, a curious absence. “Where’s Narstron?”
Orion looked away. “We don’t know.”
Andren was on his feet in an instant, all other concerns forgotten. “What do you mean you don’t know? Where the hell is he?”
Orion shrugged helplessly before answering. “We don’t know. We’ve been looking for him –”
Cyrus almost bowled Orion over moving past him toward the tunnel down into the goblin city. “Then we go back after him.”
“Cyrus,” Orion said, “I've been into the throne room three times. I sorted through a pile of goblin dead, but I couldn't find any sign of him. Elisabeth is down there right now, left just before Selene resurrected you.” Orion shook his head sadly. “We don’t have much more time.”
Cyrus and Andren sat there, stone-faced, peering down the tunnel. Long minutes passed as they waited, willing a small figure to come trudging up from the depths. The minutes turned into an hour. Then two. The entire force, still recovering from their grievous wounding, waited, murmuring respectably behind them. Niamh had cast a night vision spell on Cyrus again and he stirred as a small shape made its way out of the darkness. A figure, but who…?
It was both of them. Elisabeth moved quietly along the tunnel, dragging Narstron’s body behind her as quickly as she could manage. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and she was bleeding from her side. “Ran into a sentry that didn’t take kindly to me bringing him back.”
Curatio stepped forward, already casting the resurrection spell. Cyrus held his breath as the magical forces he summoned crackled with energy into Narstron –
And did nothing.
Curatio began chanting under his breath again, the same effect – nothing happened. He did it again, and again, until finally the elf fell over, completely spent, face blank.
Andren dropped to his knees over the dwarven body. He was weeping softly. Cyrus saw Niamh gasp and turn away, while Terian, Alaric and Vara stood expressionless. Cyrus bit back the emotion he felt, a deep, burning sensation that grabbed him in the chest. He wanted to take his sword and run through Enterra, killing everything he found. He wanted to take hold of a goblin, and beat it until its bones were no more. He wanted –
He wanted Narstron to be back. He half expected him to open his eyes, to make a joke about how he had killed more goblins than Cyrus or Cass or anybody.
But it didn’t happen. Cy looked down into the dwarf’s features. He’d been pierced at least a dozen times in the torso. “I found him dragged into one of their sacred places – near their treasure trove. There were hundreds of goblins on the other side of that door,” Elisabeth told Orion. “It's like they were expecting us. There's something else I need to tell you, but more important things come first: the army of the goblins is on the move, Orion – they are assembling and we need to get out of here.”
Orion was speechless; it was Alaric that spoke first. “Get your groups together!”
A clattering came from down the tunnel – the sound of an army on the march. Cyrus’s scowl deepened, as he stepped over the body of his friend. Alaric, recognizing his intent, didn’t fight him, just gestured to Niamh – and the whirlwind of her spell swept him out of Enterra, away from the army, and when the howl of the winds died down…
…his howl could be heard through the Plains of Perdamun. A cry of grief, of rage, of loss and sorrow. It took Alaric, Terian, Vara and three others to haul him back to Sanctuary. By the time they reached the front gates, he was unconscious, still bleeding from the wounds he’d suffered in Enterra’s throne room. Some of them would never truly heal.
Chapter 14
Cyrus looked out his window over the grounds of Sanctuary. He could see the gates, and watched as small figures rode through the entrance. It had been three days since Enterra. He had slept in the Halls of Healing the first night and had not regained consciousn
ess until noon the next day. The rest of the first day and second night he had been restless, not talking to anyone. He had spent most of his time down by the river Perda. No matter what had happened, the river still ran. The world had collapsed around him, but it still ran. Looking from his window across the plains he couldn’t believe it had been three days. Today was the funeral.
At the appointed hour, he put on his armor, freshly cleaned but still black, and headed downstairs. Walking through the doors and outside, he followed the crowd across the grounds to the graveyard. A raised dais was set up at the far end of the cemetery, with chairs and a podium. In the center of it all was a small casket – the sight of which nearly dropped Cyrus to his knees.
He took his place to the right of the coffin and Andren sat beside him. Alaric and Curatio sat on the left side of the dais, along with a dwarven priest: a follower of Rotan, the God of Earth. The priest stood first, and delivered his message, followed by a few kind words from Alaric and Curatio and a rambling remembrance from Andren, who was quite drunk. No one stopped the healer, who went on for some time before ushering himself off the dais, sobbing.
Cyrus didn’t hear a word, lost in his own thoughts. He could tell from Alaric’s motions to him when it was his turn to speak. He walked to the podium, still numb. Scanning the crowd, he saw the entirety of Sanctuary was there, even Vara. Erith, Cass and Elisabeth were there from the Daring. There was a mix of emotions on the faces before him.
He cleared his throat. “When I was a young warrior, fresh out of the Society of Arms in Reikonos, I was at a bandit camp in the Pelar foothills. I was facing some very poorly trained enemies, some bandits armed with small maces and rusty swords; inadequate weaponry, little strength and no chance against a fighter with any real experience. Unfortunately, I was a fighter with no real experience. I had been cornered by three of the bandits, and my sword broke against one of their blades. I was about to be killed.
