“Get her down,” he said in a voice so low and guttural he didn’t even recognize it as his own. An arrow flew from his left, from Aisling, and the rope broke, sending what had been Calene Raverle falling into the moat where her body landed with a splash, then floated to the surface. “Someone go get her.” Martaina made to get off her horse and Cyrus held out a hand to stop her. “Not you. Keep your bow ready to fire.” He didn’t watch for her nod.
Odellan stepped in front of him, shedding his armor piece by piece as he made his way to the edge of the filthy moat. The elf jumped in, causing Cyrus to grimace. “That was my responsibility, I suppose,” he said, so low it was almost inaudible to his ears. He caught a worried look from Martaina on one side and an almost imperceptible nod from Aisling on the other.
Odellan grasped the body and swam back to the edge of the moat, where he was helped out of the water by Longwell and Scuddar In’shara, a Sanctuary warrior from the Inculta Desert. Cyrus watched as Odellan handed the body up first, with care and reverence, as others stepped forward to handle it.
“Curatio,” Cyrus said, low enough that he knew that those watching on the battlements above them couldn’t hear it, “take her to the back before you do it. Then join me up here again. We go in ten minutes.”
“Aye,” he heard Curatio say.
“Admirable, what you’ve done for your comrade. You have one hour,” Olivere said from above them, “and then we will execute the rest of your people. One hour to begin your journey home, or all of your people will come to a sudden, tumbling end, just as that one did.”
Cyrus looked up at Olivere, but could only see the shadow of the man’s face. “I can tell you truly treated her well as a prisoner, and I assume you’ve extended the same courtesies to the rest of our people that you’ve taken.”
He heard a laugh from behind the parapet, and Olivere’s voice was tinged in humor. “You come at the head of an army into a foreign land, bringing the threat of sword and fire to our holdings, but you expect great civility in the treatment of those captured in the course of your transgressions?” Olivere let out a humorless bellow. “You presume too much, foreigner. Count yourself lucky we haven’t executed all of your people yet—though that hour is drawing nearer.”
“I expected civil treatment because while I have come at the head of an army,” Cyrus said, “you have yet to seen our ‘sword and fire.’” He gave Olivere a grim smile, one he was certain the envoy could not see at the distance they were apart. “But soon, I think, you will.”
“Bold threats,” Olivere said. “Perhaps I should tell the baron you’ve refused his offer and to just send me the other prisoners now?”
“The remaining prisoners are your only hope for mercy at this point.” Cyrus’s hand lingered on the hilt of Praelior. “Kill them if you must, but remember my words, Olivere. You are trifling with the wrong people.”
“You have one hour. Start marching.” Olivere disappeared behind the battlements, leaving Cyrus staring up at the castle walls, a cold, seeping fury blanketing him, making him immune to the warm rays of the sun.
“Plan?” Aisling said from his left.
“Kill every last one of them and let Mortus sort them out,” Terian said. “Oh, wait, we killed Mortus a few weeks ago, didn’t we? All right then, kill them all and let them remain unsorted.”
“The following people will come with me,” Cyrus said. “Mendicant, J’anda, Ryin, Terian, Longwell, Curatio, Nyad, Martaina, Aisling and …” he looked around and caught sight of a familiar robed figure toward the front of the army, “Scuddar In’shara. Odellan will remain here in charge of the army and continue to watch them.”
“And you’ll be …?” Odellan asked, pure curiosity on his face.
Cyrus let a bitter smile seep out. “Taking an afternoon run.”
Chapter 10
Curatio rejoined them minutes later, and Cyrus gave a subtle nod to Ryin, who began an incantation under his breath. Cyrus had explained the details to those he had selected once Curatio returned from the back of the army. Cyrus felt a gentle wind rush over him and he looked to the healer. “Is she …?”
“She’ll be fine,” Curatio said brusquely. “Physically, at least.”
“I had hoped that the resurrection spell would allow her to forget what happened.” Cyrus stared at the castle walls. “I take it that …?”
“No such luck.” Curatio reached into his robes, keeping his face impassive, and his hand emerged with a small but wicked looking mace. He pressed a button on the handle and half-inch spikes popped out along a horizontal line on the ball of the mace.
“Don’t you worry about that button getting pressed accidentally in your robe?” Cyrus said, looking at the weapon, eyes wide.
Curatio stared at it and cocked his head, indifferent. “It has happened, once or twice.”
“And?”
Curatio shrugged. “I’m a healer. It’s a rather simple fix.”
“Ah.” Cyrus turned his attention back to the castle. “All ready?” He heard words of affirmation behind him, the subtle agreement of those going with him. “Mendicant, Nyad, J’anda and Ryin, follow directly behind me, Aisling, Martaina, Longwell, Terian, and Scuddar, you’re up front. Curatio—”
“I’ll be up front, too,” the healer said, and rolled his wrist in a circle, spinning the mace around by a leather strap, making it blur as though he were about to throw it like a hammer.
“You’re the only healer we’re taking with us,” Cyrus said.
“Then you should probably watch my back,” the elf said without emotion, “and I promise they’ll not strike me down from in front.”
Cyrus shifted his gaze to Scuddar, Longwell, and Terian in turn, his eyes carrying a warning. Protect him. He received nods in return from all but Terian, who was paying him no mind.
“Let’s get this carnival of slaughter underway,” Terian said, placing his helm on his head. It bore spikes like devil horns, curving six inches into the air. When coupled with his spiked pauldrons and darkened steel armor, it gave him a demonic appearance. Cyrus saw the gleam of red in his sword and shook his head—truly, the dark knight lives up to his title. He darted forward, causing Cyrus to gesture to the others to move as he ran after Terian.
Cyrus felt his feet leave the ground, as the subtle pressure of the earth against his metal boots lifted away with his next step. He continued to run, the wind of his motion stirring his beard and hair, and he looked upward as he felt himself rise with each step. He kept the battlements in his sight, saw the faces peeking from behind the parapets, mouths open in shock at the sight of a war party—his war party—charging at them while running on air.
Martaina and Aisling had their bows unslung and were firing as they ran. Cyrus saw arrows striking some of those who were leaning out of cover, heard them scream as the arrows struck home and he watched as one of them staggered and fell into the murky, disgusting moat below. Another screamed and came out from behind cover in time to catch another arrow, this one through the chest, sending him to his knees. Most of the castle’s defenders weren’t even wearing armor. Arrogance. That will cost them.
They crested the wall and Cyrus lunged over a battlement, Praelior in hand, driving his sword into a soldier who was waiting for him on the other side. The man had shouted in alarm and begun to run away as Cyrus punched his blade into the man’s lower back. Cyrus saw him jerk, tensing at the pain before going limp. There were roughly ten defenders left along the battlement, and most were so awestruck at the sight of invaders coming over their seemingly impregnable walls that all but three were running to staircases that led down into the bailey, the courtyard below the wall.
Cyrus looked down as he swept Praelior across the chest of one of the castle’s guards who had chosen to fight. The man fell to the courtyard below. The bailey was an open area with a few carts filled with hay and other goods and stables off to the left, which gave the air an aroma of horses. Twenty or more knights were in the courtyard below, and
a battle cry went up from their number. They had been standing in formation, their armor covered with the same blue surcoats that Olivere had worn to treat with Cyrus.
“Nyad, Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and pointed Praelior at the knights below. He heard the murmur of the wizards casting spells behind him as he watched the knights spring into motion, their helms covering their heads save for slits for eyes and holes punched to breathe. They had split into two parties, one storming each staircase when the spells struck—flames encircled them in a solid wall and then they rose within the wall as well. A blaze taller than a man seemed to grow out of the ground itself, swirling around the knights, drawing shouts from them at first, of alarm, then of pain that degenerated into shrieks and cries. Cyrus watched as the figures within the fire seemed to melt away, falling to the ground in a slick motion, like water poured out of a cup. A horrendous smell of charred, burnt flesh wafted over the courtyard as Cyrus and his party stared down into the burnt remnants.
“We’re clear to the living quarters,” Martaina said, her bow still nocked and pulled up to fire.
A few pitiful moans made their way to Cyrus’s ears; the last surviving defenders who had run from the battlements had arrows protruding from them and were scattered between the walls and the stairwell. Cyrus looked to his right, where Martaina stood, then to his left, where Aisling had already slung her bow on her back. He caught sight of two of her victims, moaning, saw the fletchings of the arrows protruding from the soldiers’ groins, and winced. He looked at Aisling, who shrugged. “For Calene,” she said simply.
“Keep a close formation.” Cyrus stepped over the edge of the wall and drifted down into the courtyard. “I’m sure there are more of them inside the living quarters. Swords up front, spellcasters behind.” He caught a look from Curatio that was pure heat. “Except you, warrior priest. Go ahead and dispel the Falcon’s Essence, Ryin.” Cyrus felt the wind beneath him dissipate and the clunk of his metal boots hitting the ground echoed through the bailey. “J’anda, you know what to do.”
“I always know what to do,” the dark elf said. “For funerals, you send flowers, for a dinner date, you bring wine, and for those times when your significant other has been putting on weight, you say nothing at all.”
“Very suave,” Terian said. “What do you do when you’re in a foreign land and an army of thugs has kidnapped members of your guild and is holding them hostage?”
“Ah,” J’anda said with a light smile, “I have the perfect answer for that as well.”
They made their way across the stone courtyard, the yellow blocks reminding Cyrus of grains of seasoned rice as the midday sun cast shadows under the ramparts. The living quarters were at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Scuddar was operating the mechanism to open the bridge while Cyrus and the others made their way toward the wooden doors. “Barred?” Cyrus asked as he approached.
“You taking bets?” Terian was beside him. “Because I’d guess yeah. You think they’re oblivious to all this commotion?”
“Thus far,” Cyrus said, “intelligence hasn’t been their strong suit.” When he reached the door he leaned back, Praelior in hand, and felt the strength of the sword surge through him. With a mighty kick he splintered the doors, breaking them from their hinges and sending them twisting inward, falling to the ground with a thunderous clatter. A throne room lay before Cyrus, small of scale, with eight ranks of soldiers, twenty across, shoulder-to-shoulder, standing in his way. These were wearing plate mail, he noticed, as he stared at them, unimpressed.
“I’m here for Baron Hoygraf,” Cyrus said, and pointed his sword at the unmoving statues, their armor giving them the appearance of being posed. “Anyone who doesn’t want to experience unspeakable pain, move out of my way.”
The soldiers remained, their steel armor locked in place, their spears lowered, shields side by side in an impenetrable wall. Cyrus let out an annoyed sigh. “Perhaps you’re laboring under the impression I’m going to charge you down. I’m not. Although if I did, I assure you that your spears and shields are of no concern to me. Are any of you going to surrender? We breached your castle in minutes and have killed every one of the guards you’ve sent at us thus far. Does that not frighten you? Do you not feel a twinge of uncertainty that such an impossible thing could happen?” He watched them, looking for some sign of emotion, but their helms concealed any thoughts they might have had. “Very well then. Just remember, you chose unspeakable pain, not me.”
A strange twinkling of light filled the room. “J’anda?” Cyrus asked. “You gonna be okay?”
“There are rather a lot of them,” the enchanter said, his voice strained. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t talk; I’d like to get this over with.”
“That’s what she said.” Terian’s voice was low but amused and Cyrus caught a glint of humor from the dark knight when he said it. “And by she, I mean Nyad.”
“Oh, yes, I see, very funny,” Nyad said from behind them. “Because I’m a woman who enjoys sexual relations, I must be a horrible, disgusting person. You’re just jealous, you syphilitic, whore-mongering nightmare.”
The lights cascaded in front of the soldiers, and Cyrus saw reflections of eyes inside their helmets, watched the first few of them slacken, the points of their spears drifting downward. “What is that?” he heard one of the soldiers in the back ask, but no one answered.
Then the front rank of the soldiers dropped their shields as one with a great clatter that rang through the hall. They turned in a single motion, raised their spears, and thrust them forward. Cyrus watched as they hit home, in the joints of armor, through gorgets and into necks, and there was shouting as the first three rows of the formation turned on the next, and a melee commenced as the soldiers of Green Hill tried their best to kill one another. Cyrus saw one of the armored soldiers slip a sword under the breastplate of another, watched two others decapitate a third, and he felt a slight smile creep across his face.
“They’ll do this until they’re dead,” J’anda said, and Cyrus looked back to find the enchanter with his eyes closed. “I only needed less than half under my direct control—the others I simply made blind to our presence.”
“Can you maintain this?” Cyrus asked.
“At least until they’re all dead, yes,” J’anda replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Go forth and give my regards to the Baron when you meet him.”
“I’m gonna stick a sword up his ass,” Terian said. “Is that what you mean by regards?”
“Good enough,” J’anda said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Cyrus led the way, skirting the side of the battle, angling toward a hallway to the left of the red velvet padded wooden thrones that sat in the middle of the hall on a raised dais. He walked down the long, grey hallway, motioning to the rooms on either side and letting Terian and Longwell kick open the doors. He heard the screams of women, the cries of children, and then heard the doors shut and the footsteps of Terian and Longwell beside him again moments later. Smells like fear.
He reached another commanding set of double wooden doors, with candles lit on either side of the hallway to offset the darkness that had crept in after he left the main hall. There were no windows and the hall came to an end up ahead. Cyrus turned at the door, pushed on it, and found it barred. “This is it,” he said. “Hoygraf lives until we have a conversation.” Cyrus saw Scuddar push past Nyad and Ryin to join them. “Scuddar, I take it the army is in the castle?” The desert man nodded. “Are they seeing to the dungeons, then?” Another nod from Scuddar, who wore robes that stretched from his face to his feet, an odd bit of attire for one who uses a sword, but then Scuddar is something of a rarity. “All right.”
With another thunderous kick, Cyrus broke down the doors in front of him and let Martaina and Aisling sweep past, their bows already firing. Arrows caught two sentries unprepared; Martaina’s landed in the neck of her foe, Aisling’s once more in the groin. Other guards were arrayed around the room and began to move to engag
e the Sanctuary force. Cyrus swept two of them aside with a strike that broke their swords neatly in half. Scuddar, Longwell and Curatio took down enemies of their own, and Cyrus saw a bolt of lightning streak through the air and wrap around three guards surrounding another man who huddled at the back of the room.
The one who wasn’t hit by the lightning was clearly standing apart from the others. He wore a red cloak with a fur collar, and his clothing was more sophisticated than most of what Cyrus had seen in Termina or even Pharesia. His hair was black, his face was pale, pale white and his beard was scraggly and black. When he came up from his knees after watching his men downed by Ryin’s lightning spell, there was visible anger etched on his face and a fury in his pale blue eyes.
“Halt!” The man called out, his voice carrying no sign of strain and in a tone that led Cyrus to believe he had never once been disobeyed—at least not without the perpetrator going unscathed.
Cyrus reached out and cut down one of the guards that had halted at the man’s command, then another, and another. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, when the man turned his furious eyes on Cyrus, “I didn’t listen when you told me to turn back, Baron Hoygraf. I didn’t listen when you said you’d kill my people. Do you really expect me to stop now?” Cyrus thrust Praelior through the last of the standing guards, sliding the blade through the guard’s chest and the breastplate he wore as though it weren’t even there.
“But in fairness,” Cyrus said, advancing on Hoygraf, who backed into a wooden hutch, causing the contents inside to clatter like glass, “you didn’t listen to me either. I told you that I would destroy your keep, kill all your men, and give you a painful end if you didn’t return my people, and now here we are, and I’ve nearly kept my word.” There was a bustle behind him and Cyrus turned to see two of his army shoving their way into the room, dragging a haggard figure along with them. “Oh, good, my old friend Olivere.” Cyrus looked at the Sanctuary warriors. “I take it you cleared the dungeons and turned loose our compatriots?” One of the warriors nodded, his crooked front teeth bared in a smile. “Were they similarly harmed like Calene?” The smile of the Sanctuary warrior disappeared, replaced with a scowl that made the crooked front teeth look much more intimidating.
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 8