“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-
On horseback. By cavalry. She blinked at the sight of the destruction outside, stretching back past the walls, at the cries of anguish and agony and the swath of destruction cut whole through the dark elven army. It would take … thousands of cavalry to do that … who could manage such a thing …? Her eyes alighted on the blue glow, the sword, and she felt a rush as she killed another dark elf, shoving her way forward through the knot of them, recognition flooding her heart with relief.
The sword shape came at the head of the cavalry, riding down the dark elves on the lawn even as his army fanned out behind him. When he reached the broken doors she saw him in profile, rugged as always, Praelior at his side, and watched as he dismounted, killing three enemies on his drop to the ground. Her gasp of recognition was drowned out by the calls of others shouting his name, screaming it as he cut down a troll from behind, then another, blocking the door to the outside all by himself as those in the foyer turned on the limited number of enemies within their midst and began to slaughter them.
There was other noise, too, the sounds of “RETREAT! RETREAT!” being shouted from outside, but in the dark elven tongue, not human standard. The fighting in the foyer had begun to die down already, and the dark elves who tried to retreat were cut down in the doorway while attempting to flee by the same blue blade that he had carried for years as he took up the defense himself. The courtyard behind him was already emptying, she could see, corpses strewn across it all the way to the broken wall. There were still torches moving outside it, visible, fast horsemen riding down footmen without any challenge at all. Now the momentum had shifted, the dark elves were afraid and broken, running out the holes in the wall and pouring out onto the plains in all different directions.
He stood in silhouette, the moonlight glaring down from behind him, putting his face in shadow as he watched out the front doors at the last vestiges of the fight concluding outside. There was little enough battle on the lawn now, and the cavalry, which had struck through and driven the dark elves out, was streaming back through the wall now as well, following the retreating army of the Sovereign. Cyrus Davidon watched them-and she watched him.
She started toward him but something stopped her, a notion that something was about to go wrong. His head was bowed as he looked out over the remains of the fight, and someone came up to him in that moment, before Vara could overcome her fear and move forward again; a dark elf, small, catlike-Aisling with her white hair and leather armor slunk up to him and curled herself around him in a tight embrace. Vara recoiled at the sight as though something had burned her, and it only worsened when the dark elven ranger leaned up and kissed him, full and with feeling, deeply, and he returned her kiss, his hand upon her back.
Vara turned away, her legs carrying her unintended up the steps of the staircase, toward the Council Chambers-and away, away from him.
Chapter 118
Cyrus
There were slaps on the back enough to satisfy the largest ego, but Cyrus felt them hardly at all and not because of his armor. He watched as the dark elves were broken in their advance, driven out of the wall, leaving their dead behind them. Aisling had kissed him, he dimly remembered, but his thoughts were not of her, not at that moment-they were on the dead.
And Alaric.
“I need healers,” he said, taking the first strides down onto the lawn, caked so thickly with bodies it could scarcely be believed. “We need to work starting at the gates and move inward, I need resurrection spells-” He paused, and noticed Andren at his side. “Hey.”
“Oh, and a fine hello to you as well,” the healer said, glaring at him. “Remember when you said you would be back in a few months? You know, something on the order of a year ago?”
“I got a bit sidetracked,” Cyrus said. “You know, there are a lot of people here who could use your talents-”
“Fine,” the healer huffed. “But don’t be thinking that our conversation is done. We need to have a discussion, you and I.”
“I look forward to it,” Cyrus said, exhausted, as the healer moved away, upturning bodies as the members of Sanctuary began to look among the dead for their own. Calls of finds filled his ears, but he filed them all away, not really taking anything in.
A horseman appeared in the dimness, under the light of the moon, dismounting as he reached Cyrus. Cyrus blinked then recognized was Odellan by the winged helm. He greeted the elf with a nod. “Report.”
“They’re broken and fleeing,” Odellan said. “You were right; they were utt
erly unprepared to be flanked while they were trying to lay siege to the keep. We rode them down, took minimal losses, and our men are running them through the plains even now, making merry slaughter of them.” He sighed and looked at the gap in the wall where the gate had once stood. “They won’t get away, you know. Our Luukessian cavalry friends seem to be relishing the opportunity to pay us back for their perceived debt. They’re pursuing with an aggressiveness I’d find disquieting if not for the fact that the dark elves are completely in disarray. One of our thrusts hit their command tent and cut it to pieces. There are the bodies of at least four generals on the pile, along with more adjutants and colonels than I’d care to count. High-ups in their army, too, ones I read reports on when I was an Endrenshan.” He looked out over the chaos. “They must have placed most of their force here in the Plains of Perdamun. We’ve dealt the Sovereign a hell of a blow tonight, and it’ll be all the worse when we’ve finished. He’ll be lucky to get a thousand of them back at the rate we’re riding them down.”
“Good,” Cyrus said numbly. “I need a Council meeting of … whoever’s left.”
Odellan nodded at him. “I’ll see who I can rally together for you. A time?”
Cyrus looked at the destruction around him. “Give it an hour. That’ll be enough time to bring back all the dead that’ll be coming back.” He saw Erith Frostmoor casting a spell in the distance as members of Sanctuary dragged the bodies of their comrades over to her. “Odellan-make sure any of our Luukessian friends who might have died in the charge get brought back, will you?”
“I already have soldiers bringing their bodies together,” the elf said and saluted with a tight smile. “It was a great victory, you know. The scourge and the dark elves vanquished in a single day.”
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