“I mean to leave them with nothing,” she said. “I will fight for every inch of this place, and they will kill me before taking me prisoner. If you wish to surrender, go to the basement, lock yourself inside and await your fate there. If you truly believe that letting them score a painless victory here will do the world we leave behind one bit of good, then flee. I, for one, find the thought of letting them leave here without a gaping, bloody scar to be so unpalatable I’m willing to throw myself in the path of this meatgrinder, to put a stick in the eye of the Sovereign’s war machine.” She bit down on her spite, choked on it. “I will make this bastard pay for every life he takes with ten of his own, and I will not yield until the last breath has fled my body. When they have hurt me so badly I can no longer walk, I will crawl, dagger in hand, in the direction of their boots and bury my blade in their ankles, pull them to my level and murder them unexpectedly.”
There was a shocked silence before the battering ram hit the door again, and the door cracked slightly wider. “That’s the spirit,” Vaste said with false upbeatness. “Go for the ankles. They’ll need those for marching and stomping on our corpses. That’ll put a kink in the Sovereign’s efforts.”
“If you want to leave,” Vara said, “now’s your chance. None of us will look down on you because you don’t want to die here, like this.”
“Some of us actually will,” Vaste said, “but you should do it anyway, because embracing your inner coward in these last few moments will probably give you something to regret for the span of time it takes the dark elves to rape you to death. You know, like they do with all their prisoners.”
There was a shocked silence as the battering ram hit home. “Stop helping me!” Vara hissed at him.
The crowd grew quiet, no one daring to speak. Swords were drawn and clattered about against armor as people clutched them tight. Vara saw wizards pull daggers, druids grab logs from beside the fire to use as clubs, as her eyes slid over the crowd. Mendicant was nearby, clicking his claws together noiselessly as he shed his robes, joining a few of his fellow goblins nearby. They crouched low to the ground, skittering toward the doors, prepared to ambush the first enemies through. She felt a surge of pride in them. Andren was nearby, too, just behind them, a tankard in one hand and a knife in the other. Belkan and Thad, both bleeding profusely, stood just behind Fortin. There was a growling noise, a subtle one, and Vara noticed the wolves of Menlos Irontooth in the middle of the foyer, ready to spring. Alaric would be proud. We’ll not go down without a fight. Larana stood next to Erith and Nyad; the wizard and the healer held weapons of their own, a small blade in both cases, but the druid’s eyes were closed, a tear dripping down her cheek as she stood in utter silence, the very picture of despair.
Aisling slipped between them all, sliding into the shadows near the door, and all Vara could see of the dark elf was the glistening of her blades, ready to strike at an exposed back. Let her have at it. I need all the help I can get at this point.
She felt someone at her side and looked up to see Vaste, staring down at her, his staff in hand. “If it had to end this way,” Vaste said, “I’m glad it was you here to lead us. I can’t imagine a better voice of inspiration and fortitude than yours, here at the end of all our days.”
She stared at him briefly then blinked as her face dissolved into disbelief. “You utter arse,” she said. “Can you not be serious for even one moment now, at the end?”
His face stiffened in shock. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I actually was being serious. Just this once. Don’t tell anyone.”
The battering ram hit home once more and the brace that held shut the great doors of Sanctuary broke loose along with the doors themselves. There was a cacophony from outside as the dark elves started in, around the fringes of the battering ram, streaming in at the sides, and were attacked by Fortin on one side and low-to-the-ground goblins on the other side. The first wave of the enemy fell quickly as the crew of the battering ram tried to remove the giant obstruction from the battle.
“Why, Vaste,” she said, holding her sword high above her head, “whoever would I tell?” She let out a cry that was matched by a thousand more around her, and let her feet carry her forward, into what she knew beyond reason would be the last fight of her life.
Chapter 116
Cyrus
He pulled himself ashore, barely there, crawling on all fours onto the sand. He spat the salt water out. It had begun to fill his nose, his mouth, and all else. He coughed, bringing it up. The bridge was to his right, but there were fires in front of him, spread out all along the shore, but more to the north than south of the bridge, where he had come ashore. He looked toward the camp in front of him, but lay down on his back, studying the dancing flame from the top of his field of vision. He heard voices in that direction, but he cared little for who they might be or that they called out in alarm, met with voices from the bridge.
Alaric …
“Cyrus!” The sharp, clear voice was feminine and all too familiar. He looked up and saw figures running toward him across the sand, and he felt the tide come in again and wash over him. There was a strong whinny of a horse above him, and he dimly realized it was Windrider, standing above him with others. He blinked, and recognized Cattrine, who was now by his side, her face close to his. “Are you all right?”
“I’m still alive,” Cyrus managed to get out. “Which is more than I can say for …” he almost choked on his words, “… some.”
“What happened?” Cattrine asked. There were others, he could hear them, talking. “We saw the bridge come down, and then Windrider went mad, stamping and snorting. He didn’t stop until just a moment ago, when he went charging off down the shore and led us to you.”
“Alaric came,” Cyrus said. “My Guildmaster. He …” Cyrus felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. “He destroyed the bridge, drowned the scourge. And he …” Cyrus let his voice trail off.
Cattrine’s eyes flickered in the light of a torch someone was carrying nearby. “Oh, Cyrus … I’m so sorry.”
“He saved us,” Cyrus said numbly, pushing himself to sit upright. “He saved us all.”
There was noise at the base of the bridge, commotion and shouting, and Cyrus grasped Windrider’s reins, which dangled before him, and without warning the horse pulled him to standing then snorted at him. “Okay, then,” Cyrus said.
“Where is he?” came the voice from the bridge. “Has anyone seen Cyrus?”
“I’m over here!” Cyrus called and felt his feet sink into the sand with every step forward. He kept his hand on Windrider’s reins. “I’m here.”
There were torches atop the bridge, lighting the edges of it as it sloped toward the sands at the end where it met the ground. They followed off in a procession. The twilight turned dark now, night having fallen. He felt Cattrine next to him rather than saw her, sensed her presence as he moved through the night, and the water that drenched his underclothes sloshed in his boots and on his person as he walked. The water was beginning to cool on him, to chill him, like the winter at Enrant Monge.
The torches grew closer, and Cyrus could see the faces lit by them now—Terian, Longwell, Odellan. Martaina was there as well, and he saw the relief pass over her face as he appeared to them. Curatio broke into a smile at Cyrus’s appearance. Cyrus blinked in surprise at the sight of Ryin Ayend, who stood next to J’anda. “Ryin,” he said in acknowledgment.
“Cyrus,” Terian said, standing apart from the others. He had broken off from them and stood at an angle to the side. Cyrus stared closer at him, saw the faint red glow in the torchlight and felt a whisper of menace through him as he drew Praelior, causing the others to halt their advance toward him.
Cyrus walked slowly toward Terian, angling himself away from the others. “Now, Terian?”
“No,” Terian said, choked, as he raised his blade and pointed it at Cyrus. “Not now. I did what you asked. I fought to the end. Now … I’m not going back with you. Not to Sanctuary. Not so you
can put me on trial like some kind of circus or example. I’m leaving.”
“Terian,” Curatio said menacingly, “you tried to murder a fellow officer. If you think you can simply walk away from that—”
“No,” Cyrus said and pointed Praelior at the dark knight’s shade, his blue face almost fading into the background of the jungle behind him. “He can go.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Terian snapped.
“I wasn’t giving permission,” Cyrus said slowly. “I was releasing you from the charge of attempting to murder me. Go on. Be about your business, then; we have no more between us now to deal with, it’s all settled on my end.”
Terian gave him a slow, hard nod. “Not on mine. This isn’t over between us. Not yet.”
Cyrus gave a long sigh. “Fine. But at least do me the courtesy of not coming at me like a sidewinder next time. Try it head-on, like a man. I’ll give you the fight you’re looking for.”
Terian said nothing but started to back away, up the slope of the beach, until he finally turned, sheathed his sword and entered the jungle. Cyrus watched him go until he disappeared and felt a familiar chill he could not define as he watched the darkness of the space between the trees. He wondered if Terian had turned around, was watching him, was giving him that eerie feeling.
“Cyrus,” Ryin said, jarring the warrior out of his reflection.
“Ryin,” Cyrus said. “You brought Alaric here?”
“Aye,” the druid said. “When we left, the dark elves were hitting Sanctuary’s walls with a strong attack, trying desperately to break through.”
“Gods,” Curatio said, sagging. “First Alaric, now this. How many of the enemy?”
“At least a hundred thousand,” Ryin said. “And no way for us to get back behind the walls. And no way to dislodge an army of that size, with only your thousand or so remaining.”
Cyrus’s head spun at the thought. A hundred thousand encamped around Sanctuary, hell-bent on breaking down that wall. “What kind of soldiers?”
“Infantry, mostly,” Ryin said. “Some trolls, for variety. They’ve been launching staggered attacks at us, but they were warming up for the finale when we left two days ago. They kept coming, aiming for the gate, trying to break it down.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“A hundred thousand,” J’anda said in quiet awe. “We would need an army of our own of at least similar size in order to break them loose from around the wall … at least as many …”
Cyrus felt his jaw set in determination, felt the fury flood his veins. Attack Sanctuary, will you? The words came back to him now, the ones Alaric had said—
Protect Sanctuary.
There were hushed voices, raising discussion around him, unsure, starting to argue.
“Enough,” he said, and they ceased, every head turning toward him. “We have no time for argument.”
“Cyrus,” Odellan said, “I appreciate your desire for harmony at this moment of all moments, but this is in serious need of discussion. Sanctuary under siege from such a superior army is cause for great concern. With the portal closed, it seems unlikely we’ll be able to relieve our beleaguered comrades; to get back inside—”
“Sure we will,” Cyrus said, and began to walk past them all, his hands still on Windrider’s reins, toward the bridge.
“Uh, Cyrus?” Longwell said, speaking up. “Maybe you didn’t hear Ryin. There are a hundred thousand foot infantry surrounding them, and we can’t get back inside by teleportation.”
“I heard,” Cyrus said. “I don’t want to get back inside by teleportation. I want to ride through the front gate.”
Curatio coughed, but still they all followed him, even as he picked up speed and curved around the bottom of the bridge, beginning to run. He stepped up onto the arc of it, the bottom, and ran up the slope of it ten feet, using the height to give him a higher perspective. Please let them have remained. Let them have stayed in the order we sent them in. He crested, reached a high enough height to see, under the moonlight a thousand fires scattered along the beach, saw what he needed to, heard the noise of them—and he smiled.
“Cyrus,” Curatio said, coughing politely. “A hundred thousand dark elven warriors stand between us and the front gate of Sanctuary, and with the portal shut down, about six months’ ride for us, assuming we wanted to walk right up to their army of a hundred thousand and try to kill them with our thousand.”
Cyrus’s eyes surveyed the scene before him. “We don’t have an army of a thousand, Curatio. And it doesn’t matter how many infantry they have.” He flicked a gaze back at them, then let their eyes wander where his had been only a moment earlier. Longwell and Odellan got it first, the elf letting an “Ahhh …” in recognition. “They have a hundred thousand men on foot, pinned against the walls of Sanctuary. And I mean to ride through the front gate.” He smiled and saw the slow dawning of understanding catch on Curatio’s face as well. Martaina wore a subtle smile, and Ryin still looked around in confusion.
“I don’t understand,” Cattrine said, from just behind him. “You’re outmatched, yes? A hundred thousand soldiers would seem to be a tremendous disadvantage to run up against.”
“If I were going to stand and fight them by myself, you are correct,” Cyrus said. “But I don’t mean to stand toe to toe with them; and I don’t mean to give them an even chance.” He looked at the officers before him, surveying them quietly. “Longwell … you know what to do—rally. Odellan, get our army together. They’ll be marching in behind. Ready the wizards; this will be a hell of a feat for them.” He looked back out over the edge of the bridge, to the sand and fires below, through the moonlit night, and the last hope of Sanctuary, and he knew deep within him what he was fighting for now, knew to the core. I believe.
“Let’s go home.”
Chapter 117
Vara
Day 223 of the Siege of Sanctuary
She wanted to weep but she killed another dark elf instead, striking his head from his body with enough force that it flew through the air and hit one of his fellows. The door had been open for less than thirty seconds, but already the dead were beginning to pile up, slippery on the floor where the blood was spilled. There was sound in the distance, too, trumpets heralding some sort of advance. She could barely hear it, but it both infuriated her and demoralized her, and not in equal measure. The fury won out, and another dark elf failed to survive his day of victory.
Aisling slipped out from behind one of her enemies and punched twin holes through a dark elf’s back, then thrust one knife in the back of another’s neck. The goblins were spitting and screeching in the corner in some sort of frenzy, joined by Irontooth’s wolves, and blood was flying thick through the air and streaking the walls. Vara watched a gnome no more than three feet tall, charge forward, a cane in his knubby fists, slamming it down on a troll’s foot, dashing between its legs and away as Belkan drove a sword through its belly while it was distracted.
She saw red armor fly through the air and Thad hit the wall near the hearth. He fell to the ground and did not move, and she knew he was dead. A troll bellowed, then slung a sword again and sent Menlos Irontooth smashing to the ground, guts opened to the air and grunting in agony.
We’ll lose, she thought. This is it. Only a minute of battle in here, and we’re already decided. The horn sounded in the distance again, and she bowed her head slightly. It was faint, but something about it prickled at her mind. Why would it be far off? Their army is here now. She felt a tingle and raised her sword again, cutting through the dark elf who appeared in front of her. She listened harder over the sounds of the battle, and faintly, near the edge of the walls, she could hear the worried cries of the enemy, looking out over the battlements. The horn sounded again as a ripple of uncertainty ran through the army that was outside but within the walls; she could barely hear it over the chaos in the foyer, but it was there—a rumor of something approaching.
The horn sounded
again, louder this time, loud enough for others to hear it faintly. The battle did not pause, but it slowed for a moment, even in the foyer, as everyone assessed. She looked out the door, straight down the path toward the open crater where the front gate used to be, and in the darkness she saw movement over the heads of the dark elves. Torches burned in procession, cutting a wide V through the middle of the dark elf army at the gate. The torches seemed to split, surging out into three prongs, riding through the heart of the dark elves, with the largest prong still coming forth.
It was just inside the walls now, and Vara slashed aside a dark elf who came at her, shoving his corpse out of the way to keep her eyes upon the disturbance. The horn blew again, louder this time, at the fore of the movement, somewhere at the front of the torches that were coming toward them now, coming for them …
All motion seemed to come to a halt outside. She saw the armored dark elves who had queued up toward the steps to Sanctuary, waiting their turn to plunge inside and attack, begin to shuffle back and turn toward the approaching disturbance. The torches kept coming, moving erratically up and down but inexorably forward. Her eyes strained to make out what was behind them, what could be moving so fast to carry them forth. They were just inside the curtain wall now and had only slowed slightly; screams and cries from their wake were just now audible to her ears, along with the sound of battle, the clash of steel on steel.
There was a faint blue glow at the front, in the shape of a blade. She pushed a dark elf out of the way, shoved him roughly down, stabbed him in the back of the neck and then placed a boot atop him as she levered herself up to look over the crowd. The blue glow moved up and down with alarming speed, and it grew closer, more distinct. She watched as dark elves lined up on the lawn fell before it in waves, the momentum of the thing bringing it forward with the others, with the torches, as though it were being carried—
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 89
