His nose adjusted to the cold air, to the smell of wood fires burning and nothing cooking. The army was subdued. All joking and laughter seemed to have fled long ago, blanketed over and suppressed like the night sky that wrapped the world above them. They are weary. These men have fought for weeks, some of them for months. If I’m this tired, I cannot imagine how someone like Odellan feels, having done this now for so long.
He reached the fire at last, the largest one, and there was a small circle of men in armor standing guard around it. They didn’t stop him, stepping aside when his face became visible. He entered the circle and found Longwell sitting on the ground next to Tiernan, both facing the roaring flames. Briyce Unger was there as well, though he was standing. Cyrus did not bother greeting them with anything more than a nod before dropping onto the melting snow next to Longwell. He heard the light squish of the muddied ground, and realized that he truly did not care.
“I see you’re in as fine a state as the rest of us, Lord Davidon,” Milos Tiernan said.
“Indeed,” Longwell said, scarcely turning his head, “we are truly a kingly lot, we masters of Luukessia. Sitting here, far from our halls-” He looked at Unger, a look laced with profound apology, “we who still have halls, that is-sorry-and watch our lands swallowed up a day at a time.”
Cyrus felt a stir of pity. I’ve felt the same, remembering the dark elves coming to Reikonos. Home. He felt a slight pang, deep within, buried under layers of weariness. It’s been so long. “How many more days until we reach Enrant Monge?”
“One,” Unger answered, waving behind them. “You can’t see it now, because of the darkness, but we’re in sight of it.”
“In sight of it?” Cyrus sat up, a cold clutch of surprise pushing back the weariness. “The refugees-”
“Evacuated,” Tiernan said, staring into the fire. “They’ve been moved south, toward Actaluere.” The King of Actaluere looked up from the flames. “Does anyone want to say it yet?”
There was a pause and a silence, then Briyce Unger spoke. “You speak of the fact that nearly half of Luukessia has been devoured by these things.”
“Aye,” Tiernan replied. “I received a messenger from Grenwald Ivess today with missives from border towns to the west; the scourge advances along a line, taking the towns south of Actaluere’s border with Syloreas. They are eating my realm now, and my citizenry are moving south as quickly as possible.” He looked expectantly at Longwell.
Longwell was glum, but did not look up from the fire. “Much the same to the east. They will be at Harrow’s Crossing in another few weeks. Their advance is slower there, in fewer numbers, but enough to consume what remains. The villages and towns have emptied, and the people are in full flight before them. They seem to be following the lead of the battle here, letting their fellows who hammer us on this front be the guiding force for their advance. It gives us time to evacuate the cities and towns, but … to what purpose?” Longwell gave a weary shrug. “We are soon to run out of land to give them in exchange for the time we buy.”
Briyce Unger waved into the darkness. “It seems likely that they’ll take Enrant Monge within a day or two of enveloping it-which I suspect will be tomorrow evening, the following morn at the latest. We’ll be forced to divide, or perhaps retreat and reform beyond it, adapting to the woodlands to the south as we make our moves.” He shook his head. “This is a slow-burning nightmare, like watching Syloreas swept away all over again. I see these things when I sleep, like the avalanches in the passes near Scylax, and everything they touch as they rumble down is dragged with them, to the underworld. Ancestors,” he cursed. “We shan’t be making so much as a stop to them. We’ve fought them from Filsharron and have yet to stymie them to delay for so much as a night. They come on, more and more. How many have we killed now?”
“Hundreds of thousands,” came Tiernan’s hollow reply. “A million or more, perhaps. How many can there be?”
“Of the dead?” Cyrus asked. “Because that’s what these things are, the dead, unleashed, furious, ready to consume the still-living. Countless dead. The spirits of all your ancestors and mine, for all we know, unremembering-” He thought of the Drettanden beast, of the attacks it mounted on him, holding the sword that had once been wielded by the God of Courage himself. “Or perhaps not unremembering but beyond reason. Mad with desire and craving life, that elusive thing they’ve lost.”
“We cannot reach the portal,” Unger said quietly. “All hope of that is lost. So what now?”
“Keep running,” Tiernan said. “Go south. Buy time until we can find some new stratagem.”
“There is no new stratagem,” Longwell said, his voice edged with sorrow. “This land will be destroyed, filled with the bodies of the dead, with the wreckage of those creatures as they continue to eat us piecemeal.”
“Do not lose hope,” Cyrus said, but weakly, as though he did not feel it in himself.
Longwell let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Why should I not? Tell me, Cyrus, what is there left to hope for? What is there to believe in besides a long, slow death? Every inch of Luukessia will be covered in these things, and where have we to go? What have we left?”
“Your people,” Cyrus answered. “They live yet. They look to each of you for guidance. Show them the way to safety.”
“There is no way to safety,” Unger said quietly.
“Arkaria,” Cyrus said, and the three Kings looked to him. “You are correct, they will continue to come. But perhaps, if we can keep going south, leave the lane of retreat open to the Endless Bridge, we can allow your people to escape. Perhaps if-”
“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,” Longwell said, and Cyrus could hear the light desperation in his voice as well. “Perhaps we can get to the bridge, perhaps we can herd our entire surviving people over it-those who haven’t dropped dead from exposure, from lack of food, from the journey of miles to get there from all over the land-and then we give them … what? A fool’s hope that we can defend the bridge against the onslaught of these things that cannot be stopped? A frantic hope that perhaps they won’t follow?”
“What else would you have them do?” Cyrus asked. “Lay down in the snow and wait for death?”
“I could at least believe in the truth of that,” Longwell said, folding his hands before him, rubbing his fingers together before the fire, as though he could feel no warmness within them. “I do not believe we will survive these things. I do not believe we were ever meant to.”
“A strange thought from a man who only a year ago told me that he didn’t believe in gods that controlled our actions.”
“It’s been a long year,” Longwell said and didn’t look up.
“Even if we could get … a portion of our people to the bridge,” Tiernan spoke up, “and that’s a very large ‘if,’ considering that those traveling from the north have been walking for months already, we could still march them into Arkaria and have these things follow and be no better off than we were before. We would only be prolonging the inevitable.”
“What is the alternative?” Unger said, and Cyrus was surprised at the strength of the Sylorean King’s conviction. “To yield all hope up as lost?” Unger reached back for his maul and slapped the handle against his hand, a whomping noise that did little more than cause Tiernan and Longwell to look at him. “If we are to lose Luukessia-and I agree, it seems likely-I mean to make these beasts choke on that loss. I won’t simply bow down and be chewed up by the unrelenting mouth of this thing. I will take as many of them with me as I can, and I’ll fall to my death proud that I went to my last breath fighting for something greater than those things will ever conceive of-my people. My land. My Kingdom. My brethren. Come to it, these things die like beasts, all trying to chew up their next meal. I’ll take my death and go willingly, as a man, and for a reason. For Luukkessia.” Unger set his jaw and slapped the handle of the maul against his palm again.
There was a silence until Tiernan spoke. “I’ve never much seen the margin in
war. Nor in these endless battles we fight; oh, certainly I’ll take what I can get, expand my territory and my tax revenue, but I never understood the call to war. But this … this slaughter they intend for us, this is truly the most grotesque thing I can remember.” He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back over his shoulder. “I swore when I took the throne to do my best by my people. I never thought it would require much more than fighting you lot,” he waved a hand from Unger to Longwell. “Now we find ourselves staunchest allies, with an enemy that the three of us combined may not be able to defeat. I will fight these things to the death. I gave a sacred oath to protect my Kingdom, and I took it meaning every word I said. I will not go back on it now simply because all that I anticipated has faded away and drawn me into something unimaginable.” He pointed toward the southwest, toward his Kingdom. “They are good people, my citizens. Hard workers, not all virtuous but on the whole good people, unworthy of the fate this scourge would visit upon them. I would be a willing sacrifice to stop these things, to stem their advance. I would die in the fight with these monsters, but not til I’ve given every last drop of my blood for these people.” He stood. “I never thought I would say that. Never thought I’d ever see an enemy so horrid that I would stand with the two of you and be willing to die to stop it, but … here we are.”
Cyrus waited to see if Longwell would speak. He did not, and after a moment Unger spoke again. “Should we even try to defend Enrant Monge when the moment comes?”
“If the pattern holds,” Cyrus said, “they’ll envelop it, and perhaps crawl over the top, I don’t know. If we defend it, expect to die doing so. Enrant Monge is nothing compared to Scylax.”
“You need not worry about Enrant Monge.” The voice came from behind them, and Cyrus turned, blinded by the light of the fire still flashing in his eyes. When it faded, a grey cloak was obvious, and a bearded man emerged from the darkness.
“Grenwald Ivess,” Briyce Unger said, stepping forward to offer his hand. “What brings you out of the castle?”
“It has hardly escaped our attention that you are nearly upon us,” Brother Ivess said, keeping his hands joined together within his sleeves. “I came to speak with you, to discuss our next moves.”
“We have decided to retreat toward the Endless Bridge,” Tiernan said, still standing, his back now to the fire, shadowing the man. “We will reform south of Enrant Monge and continue the defense, fighting for every inch of ground to give the people time to make their escape.”
Grenwald Ivess gave a short nod. “You are brave, I will give you that. The Brotherhood will remain at Enrant Monge as you withdraw, and we will buy you the time to remake your formations.”
“That is unnecessary,” Unger spoke, his beard shifting as he ran a hand through it. “With the Arkarian magics to cover our retreats and hold lines, you should leave the castle. It is vulnerable and will cause you naught but death when they come. Get your men out, head them toward the southwest, and have your soldiers help the civilians make their way.”
Ivess stood still, but Cyrus noted the subtle vibration of his body under the robe. “I’m afraid I cannot do that. The Brotherhood has kept Enrant Monge against all challenges for ten thousand years. We will not abandon it now.”
There was a moment of silence before Longwell spoke. “Brother Ivess, the purpose of Enrant Monge was unity of Luukessia, is it not?”
“It is,” Ivess replied.
“We have achieved unity,” Longwell said, gesturing to Unger and Tiernan. “We stand united against the darkness before us. There is no need for your Brotherhood to die now for a place, even Enrant Monge. The people of Luukessia are the true beating heart of our land, not some castle, no matter how old it is. We could make much use of your soldiers in our retreat.”
“And you shall,” Ivess said. “I will send seven hundred and fifty of my thousand with you. The others have all refused to leave. We will remain to defend Enrant Monge against this enemy.” He held up a hand as the three Kings began to speak as one. “You must remember, our order is old and set in its ways. To die in defense of Enrant Monge is no great burden for us. It is what we have been living for all our lives. And it is a small thing, really, having seen this day come. You are quite right,” he said, looking to Longwell. “We have sought the unification of Luukessia for ten thousand years. Though this is not how we would have hoped it would play out, it is what has happened. Those of us who remain will do so gladly, having known our purpose was fulfilled and that we stood against the single greatest threat our land has ever known.”
“I feel as though I should clap,” Longwell said, finally standing for himself, “but I suppose instead I will have to content myself with bidding you farewell, Brother Ivess.”
“I am not leaving quite yet,” Ivess said, and then looked to Tiernan. “I have some unfortunate tidings to deliver as well.” His hands emerged from his sleeves, breaking them apart, and he handed a small envelope to Milos Tiernan, who took it and walked back to the fire with it in his hands, ripping it open to pull free a letter, which he proceeded to read.
“What is it?” Unger asked under his breath.
“I am not free to speak for the King of Actaluere,” Grenwald Ivess said. “If he means to have you know, he will-”
“DAMN THE MAN!” Milos Tiernan’s voice echoed across the camp. He took the note, crumpled it and tossed it into the fire.
“Luukessia is already beset upon by the most fearsome beasts we have ever known,” Unger said, “and we’ve just decided to tell every man, woman and child of our Kingdoms to flee to the edge of the sea and cross it on a bridge that will take us to a foreign land that likely has no place for us. Something tells me that whatever the contents of that letter, they would have to be powerfully bad tidings to agitate King Tiernan after all that’s already transpired here tonight.”
Tiernan paced, staring for a moment at the flames, regretfully, as though he could snatch back the letter he had cast into it. Grenwald Ivess stared at him quietly, as did Longwell, while Unger stood with his arms folded. “Well?” the King of Syloreas asked. “Out with it.”
“Hoygraf,” Tiernan said, and it came as more of a curse than any word Cyrus had ever heard spoken. A flash of irritation passed through him, and he thought of the dark haired Baron-Grand Duke, he corrected himself-and thought of the faded memory of the last time he’d seen the man, knife in hand.
“Oh, yes, that pestilence,” Unger spoke again. “What is your dear brother-in-law up to now? It must be a powerful irritant if it can inspire such rage in you after we’ve already had such a down evening-”
“Oh, it is,” Tiernan said, now pacing before the fire. His head snapped up and he looked to Cyrus. “You.”
Cyrus blinked at him. “Me, what?”
“You must come with me,” Tiernan said, and took two steps forward to grasp Cyrus by the forearm. Cyrus did not stop him, but stared in mild curiosity at the King’s grip on him.
“Come with you where?” Cyrus asked. “We have a battle ahead of us, in case you forgot? So unless it’s to the front-”
“To Caenalys,” Tiernan said, and Cyrus could feel the slight squeeze of the King’s hand even through his armor.
“Your capital?” Cyrus asked. “Any particular reason why?”
“The weather there is bound to be better than it is here,” Unger said under his breath.
“Because that’s where Hoygraf is,” Tiernan said. “He’s taken my sister and captured my city with his forces,” Cyrus felt a cold sensation plunge through him in spite of the warm fire nearby. “He holds her hostage, claiming to be the new King of Actaluere.” Tiernan’s cold eyes burned into Cyrus. “He says that if I attempt to reclaim Caenalys, he will kill her.”
Chapter 88
Cyrus’s walk back to the fire that he shared with the others was long and stumbling. The cold bit at him in a way that felt foreign, as though he hadn’t been exposed to it for weeks now. His eyes even felt cold, the air freezing the moistu
re within them. He cracked his knuckles and moved his tongue around in his dry mouth, as though the bread he’d eaten had formed a coating of yeast around it. The smell of the cold air and the dead around him was overwhelming, and he felt himself stagger from the weariness.
She’s his problem now. She’s the one who went willingly back to him-for whatever reason. He mentally kicked himself for even thinking it. She went back for Luukessia. To save her land, to turn her brother loose for war. She went back for-
“Are you lost?” An arm snugged into the crook of his elbow, giving him strength. He smelled the surprising scent of sweat and-faintly-greenery.
“Martaina,” Cyrus said, recovering from a near-stumble. “Watching out for me again?”
“Someone has to.”
He took a few steps with her. “You heard?”
She had her cowl up, but he could see her lips present themselves in a pursing motion. “I did.”
“You have an opinion.”
She smiled, and at this she was almost impish. “Have you ever met a woman who didn’t?”
He chuckled in spite of the fatigue. “You think I should go to Caenalys.”
She waited before answering and came to a halt, their boots crunching against the packed snow, which still gave a little at every step as Cyrus put his weight onto it. “I think that if Milos Tiernan goes to retake his capital in order to save the hundred thousand people that live within the walls, if he doesn’t have some form of magical assistance, then Cattrine Hoygraf will be quite dead by the end of the endeavor.”
“I see,” Cyrus said, and nodded. “And that raises the likelihood that Hoygraf’s army will cause even more damage in Caenalys before he is defeated.”
“Tiernan will have to pull more away from this battle in order to break open the city walls and save those people from Hoygraf’s delusions,” Martaina said. “The man will make Caenalys a mass grave site, bottling himself up with the scourge coming.”
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