Cyrus took that in, but Vara beat him to the follow-up punch. “You’re saying that the other Leagues don’t answer to their nation’s authorities?”
“Nope,” Terian said with a shake of the head. “They answer to the gods.” He made an almost apologetic shrug. “Which, I mean, technically, answering to the Sovereign—well, it used to be the same thing …”
“That’s interesting,” Cyrus said and meant it. He watched the slow mingling of the Sanctuary group with the dark elven forces, an uncomfortable melding at first, the sides looking slightly standoffish or shy. “I have to admit, Terian … it’s a relief to see you.” He caught the curious look from the white knight. “I mean, I saw your fires on the horizon when your people took out the watch towers we’d assigned, but a part of me didn’t dare to hope you’d actually be here until now.”
Terian let out a low guffaw. “Hope? I imagine it’s not an emotion you’re used to associating with me at this point.”
“But once, yes,” Cyrus said, and he smiled ever so slightly, “and lately, again.”
Terian planted a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder, reaching up to do so. “We’ll keep working on that.” He looked around, his new helm snug upon his head, the axe on his back sticking far up into the air as though he were bearing a pole to hold a standard behind him. “Where’s the rest of your army? Things are looking a little spare around here.”
“Well, they didn’t have quite the short jaunt that we did,” Cyrus said, turning his head to look to the east. “We sent some to another portal closer to their targets, and of course we had some help out of Amti—”
“Which has arrived,” came a quiet voice from only a few paces behind Cyrus. He turned and saw Gareth, nearly blending in with the grass. Cora appeared at his side, her spell of invisibility dropping like water sloshing off her. Cyrus saw other elves, cloaked in what looked grass cloth, their movement in the still night the only thing to give them away.
“Cora,” Terian said warmly.
“Gods,” Cora whispered, taking a step toward. “Terian, is that you?”
“It is I,” Terian said, and she took halting steps forward until she embraced him, wrapping her arms around the armor. “I suppose I’m not as easy to recognize as I used to be.”
“You look very distinctive,” Cora said, pulling back and taking him in with a glance, “but, you are correct … you no longer look like the old Terian.” She tapped his pauldron, now smooth, though weathered. “It would appear you found an impressive chrysalis for your transformation.”
“I had one given to me,” Terian said with a muted smile, “at a cost most dear.”
“General,” came another voice from behind Cyrus. He turned once more to find Odellan approaching, footsteps as silent as Gareth’s, though his armor was covered in scarlet liquid, the blood tracing lines in the intricate designs. His helm was slightly off center as well, the wings pointed just a touch to the right.
“Odellan,” Cyrus said, acknowledging him. “I take it you were successful?”
“We destroyed our target,” Odellan said, easing into the small circle forming. He looked at Gareth and Cora, and gave each a nod before taking in Terian with a careful, considered look. “Isn’t that the armor of …?”
“Did you succeed in your mission?” Cyrus asked Cora and received a nod in return.
“It was a bit of a strain,” Gareth said, voice a little rough. Cyrus glanced around and saw Martaina standing a ways off with Andren, her eyes on Gareth.
“I suppose you’re used to hunting smaller game,” Cyrus said, turning his attention back to the ranger of Amti.
Gareth made a rough snorting sound that was near-silent. “Have you seen the beasts of these savannas and the jungle?” When Cyrus shook his head, Gareth went on. “The predatory cats we hunt are one and half times the size of a titan. They can swallow you whole.” He looked toward the hill just south of them, the one that stood between them and Fortress Returron. “Our only advantage there is that they’re solitary creatures.” He looked back at the assemblage. “Titans hunt in packs.”
Another few minutes passed in quiet conversation, and another few army groups trickled in, their leaders making their way to the circle of officers and leaders for the expedition. Cyrus listened to the conversation, Vara standing still next to him, only the occasional look passing between them. The arrival of Samwen Longwell, his spear tip bloody and crusted in dirt along with Curatio, white robes covered in red splotches, signaled the end of the waiting. Cyrus looked to the sky and saw no hint of dawn, which gave him a very slight relief.
“Looks like it’s time to begin,” he said, tracing his way to the center of the circle without hesitation. When he got there, he paused, reflecting. I’m in the middle of leading an expedition that includes all the forces that Amti and Saekaj can spare, with their respective leadership here, listening to me.
And five years ago I was sleeping alone in a horse barn, in a bed barely big enough for me, with Andren and Narstron not ten feet away, broke, utterly desperate, and with not a follower to my name other than those two. Now I speak to the leaders of nations and command larger armies than anyone else. He caught a glimpse of Vara watching him, and she quietly gave him a smile of encouragement, as though she could read what he was thinking.
Oh, how the wheel does turn. And swiftly, at that.
“You’ve all seen the plans,” Cyrus said, “so I won’t belabor the point. The tasks are assigned, and I know you all well enough to be sure you know your parts.” He saw a nod from Terian and got a more subtle one from Gareth. “When we go over this hill, everyone needs to take their positions slowly and quietly. You are all in charge of your own divisions, and they must move perfectly in synchronization for this plan to come out a success. If even one of our groups should move out of turn, or go before the attack is called, we risk the safety of this entire combined army.” He took a deep breath. “We have only a few precious hours until dawn, and we have another stop to make after this. Let’s get going.” With a sharp nod, he dismissed them and strode forward out of the camp, his force falling into line behind him without need of a word being spoken, the Guildmaster of Sanctuary on march with his army.
33.
Cyrus waited under the last cover of grass, an even hundred yards separating him from the outer wall of Fortress Returron, the immense structure looking like a forest transplanted out of the south beyond Kortran, the trees the size of the ones around the Iliarad’ouran woods. They had clearly been harvested, had the boughs skinned off, been smoothed slightly, and driven hard into the ground to make a great wall around the fort. Stationed at six equidistant points around the wall were towers of the sort that had been built out on the savanna. Cyrus counted two titans per tower, on watch and in varying states of sloth. The two nearest him were laughing, and to his left, almost near the back gate to the south, the two atop that tower appeared to be sleeping on their feet.
“Druids,” Cyrus said, “you know what to do.” He felt his feet lift off the ground a moment later. He had held there a moment to give the others time to get into position and make ready. Now he floated up and looked to the south. The watch tower fires were burning brighter against the sky than they had appeared to when last he checked. So, we’re ready, then, so long as the ones to the west are burning … and I have to assume they are.
“Forward,” he hissed and sprang forward out of the grass at a dead run, heading straight for the wall ahead, not daring to use Falcon’s Essence to rise, not yet.
Cyrus ran, pumping his legs and letting the strength of Praelior take him ahead of the others. The longer the army is exposed on this run, after all, the more likely the titans see us and start to sound the alarm … and we can’t have that.
When he reached the wall, with all its rough-cut timber, bark still patchy and present, he started to run upward in a spiral once again, just below the tower. I hope the others caught the sight of my motion … they should if they were watching at all, and they’ll be
moving on all six now …
He reached the topmost section of the spiral and came up behind both the titans. One of them, the one nearest him, had his head down, peering at the ground. He started to speak, and Cyrus sprang forward and rammed Praelior into the exposed base of the titan’s spine.
The titan did not even cry out; he had no chance to. Instead, his weight took over and he slid off the point of Cyrus’s blade, toppling against the wooden rail and slumping to his knees, limp as a boned fish.
The other titan looked left to watch his companion’s fall, somehow missing Cyrus’s dark, shadowed movement in the corner of his eye. Cyrus, for his part, did not fail to take advantage. He moved in haste and shot forward to jab Praelior into the titan’s exposed temple. It prompted a sharp cry as the pain started to hit home, but before the titan could fully react, Cyrus stabbed once more, and deeper this time, running his blade along the front of the skull in a hard line, dragging his sword down just above the nose.
The titan jerked, spasmed, and lurched backward. He hit the rail with his lower back and made a scraping noise as the metal armor met wood. Then the titan went over backwards, unbalanced, and Cyrus watched him land on his head and shoulders, his neck breaking at an unnatural angle.
“Showoff,” Vara whispered as she joined him atop the tower. Others from his group were moving up now to stand with them. There was movement on the tower directly opposite theirs, and Cyrus squinted but could not discern what was happening, merely that one of the titans was already on the ground and another seemed to be swinging wildly at something he could not see. “Terian,” Vara said, nodding in that direction. “He’s making mincemeat of them with that axe of his.”
“Good,” Cyrus said. He let his eyes trace over to the nearest tower to his left, where the titans still stood, but they faced inward now, toward the interior of the fortress, and a small figure stood between them. He peered over and realized it was Cora, plainly in view of her enemies. “She’s charming them,” he realized as the titans moved to climb down the ladder into the fortress.
Cyrus made a quick sweep of the fortress with his gaze, confirming everything he’d suspected about it from a distance atop Ehrgraz. Two enormous barracks were built across the southern wall on either side of the gates, big enough to quarter a few thousand titans each, he guessed. The building against the northeast wall had the flat, bulky look of a storehouse, without much in the way of windows. Burning that will put a crimp in the titan supply lines. He shifted his gaze to the northwest corner, and there he found a smaller building. In the middle of the fortress was muddy, open ground. Parade grounds, he thought. And that smaller building must be the command post—and possibly the officer quarters, he thought as he let his eyes dance to the building connected to the command post.
“Well, what do you think?” Vara asked, her gaze darting about to each of the towers where fighting was still—quietly—going on.
“I think I had the right of it from my first impression,” Cyrus said, nodding as much to confirm for himself as for Vara. “The plan is sound.”
“Well, good,” she said, “because it’s about to be executed.”
“So are the titans,” Cyrus said grimly, and with a last look over the Fortress Returron, he charged over the walls, and saw the rest of the army, at the six points around the fortress, mirror his motion as he led them into war.
34.
“Fire the corners!” Cyrus shouted, breaking the quiet he’d imposed on them before. Here in the heart of the savanna it would not matter, surrounded as they were by their enemies already. Cyrus heard the noises of alarm in the barracks, the sound of a titan army stirring to wakefulness as he charged down into the parade grounds.
Cyrus had scarcely made it to the ground when his order was taken up. Flame spells sprang up at the doors to the nearest barracks; he looked and saw the same happening at the other barracks. This is the tense part; if the buildings burn, it will be both good and bad, and it’s hard to say which it will be in greater measure until we see how it all plays out …
The door to the nearest barracks was ripped open first, and a half-asleep titan stumbled near-naked through the flames of a waiting wizard spell. He screamed, agony piercing the night as the fire burned his knotted flesh. Cyrus got a good look at him shirtless before the fire ate at his skin, and it was just as thick and nubbed as the faces of these creatures. Scars from training, or natural skin growth? In either case, it certainly makes them tougher in a way that does us no kindnesses.
The first titan burned, skin sloughing off as he danced forward, screaming loud enough that Cyrus might have thought the heavens themselves were descending upon them. The titan fell to its knees, blackened muscle exposed on his forearms and face, all his tangled hair gone, consumed by the fire spell that was even now being replaced by another. They were to go in cycles, the wizards and druids, covering each of the major entrances and preventing titans from escaping.
Cyrus looked toward the southern horizon, but was stymied in his gaze by the wall of wood. We can only hope that our other forces have arrived at their targets, because if this gets seen by the sentries at Kortran’s gates …
The flames burned all comers, catching the titans alight as they streamed through the threshold of the barracks. The screams were loud, punishing to Cyrus’s ears, but provided all the distraction he needed as the titans began to come out from other exits as well, half-clad and furious, running shirtless and armor-free into the fight. They came in numbers too many to count, the titans so tall as to strain Cyrus’s perspective and make him feel like he were trapped in another world.
Cyrus led on his front of the attack, rushing toward the command post and catching a titan with a long, ripping strike across his calf as he used his superior speed to rush past and attack the next in line. They wore no uniforms, caught next to naked while sleeping, and while this one had a blade in hand, he appeared not to know quite what to do with it. He made a thrust at Cyrus that was easily parried.
Cyrus came at him toward the neck and was forced to back off as a hard backhand struck him a glancing blow, rattling his helm and armor and making him take a shuddering step back on air. Cyrus readjusted his attack and looped around, the titan following him with angry eyes under knotted cheeks. Cyrus feinted toward him and the titan swung with all his might, missing and exposing his back. Cyrus rushed in and planted Praelior behind the creature’s ear, drawing a sharp grunt that cut off after a moment and led to the titan pitching forward into the dirt.
Flames danced all around, the fires on the parade ground and blocking the main doors of every building in the fortress growing higher and higher by the moment. They’d spread to the thatched roofs of the barracks and Returron was becoming a hellish spectacle reminiscent of the time that Cyrus had seen the boiling oil pits in the Realm of Death lit afire. Please, oh, please let our people have killed the Kortran sentries, he offered in silent hope.
When he swept his gaze around to survey the field, he found war lit by firelight. A titan was howling on the ground, a pack of three wolves tearing at his legs, ripping them open. The master of the animals, Menlos Irontooth, was plunging his sword into the titan’s lower back all by his lonesome, his long beard and frightening, angry visage filled with a battle fury that might have exceeded that of his wolves. The titan was swatting at him ineffectually, and Menlos withdrew his short blade to battle the probing hand, delivering defensive strikes to the titan’s palm every time he brought it around for another swipe.
Cyrus turned his head at the sight of a flash and saw Ryin Ayend blasting forth with coursing lightning that was drawn to a titan wearing his breastplate. It hit the metal and sparked, causing the titan to jerk, his feet planted to the ground like they’d been nailed in by long spikes. The lightning ran up and down the enormous beast with each bolt thrown from the druid, and the creature’s fingers danced and twitched as he fell to his knees, then slumped onto his face, limp, eyes open in death.
Cyrus dodged an incoming
strike by instinct alone, bending at the waist as he flipped, Falcon’s Essence keeping him aloft in his maneuver. His opponent came at him with a balled fist, furious and calloused as if he had practiced his punches on a boulder until each knuckle had outgrowths of rough skin enough to make it appear doubly bony. The punch sailed over his head, and Cyrus realized dimly that had it hit him, it might have killed him. The titan’s movement carried him through, and Cyrus caught him in the armpit with Praelior, driving it into the skin and up to the quillons. As he pulled it out, a rush of foul air and a slight spritz of blood sprayed him in the face. The titan’s breath went out of him and he bent double. Not waiting for him to succumb to his wound, Cyrus delivered Praelior’s edge to the back of the massive neck with a fury, hacking it thrice before the head came off entirely.
Cyrus spun, looking for his next foe, and caught a glimpse of Longwell in the firelight of the parade grounds, two titans coming at him. He jabbed one straight in the belly with his spear, the long haft braced against his side. It landed in the titan’s liver and the beast stopped, grunting in obvious pain, his face lit with the horror of his wounding. It started to bend at the stomach, as though to control the agony surely writhing through its belly, but Longwell pulled the spear out and spun, catching the next titan charging him under the chin with it as it stooped to swipe at him. The tri-pointed blade lodged under the jaw and the mighty mouth came up, revealing the center point of Longwell’s weapon sticking out of the middle of its tongue like a stake planted in its mouth. The dragoon withdrew his blade and spun once more, this time delivering the weapon to the exposed heart. The titan sank sideways, curling up to die without a fight.
“This is how we do it!” Vaste’s cry caused Cyrus to pivot. The healer ran up to a titan that was distracted, half a dozen arrows jutting out of its face like a porcupine’s quills, Calene Raverle plucking away at it with her bow. Vaste ran right between its legs, raised up his staff, and shouted, “LIKE A CHIPMUNK!” before striking a mighty blow into the titan’s groin.
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