Their bleak eyes stared at him, black holes in their grey-skinned visages, their teeth pointed fangs. And how they ran: faster than a man, but slower than a horse, their gait akin to a three-legged animal but faster than one would expect of such a creature. They kept coming, Cyrus knew, and they would bunch up at the front line as the first of them started to fall. They were close now, only fifty feet away … thirty … ten …
He swung Praelior with brutal force in a short stab as the first of them leapt at him. All along the line he saw similar movement, heard the cries of battle joined, and he killed the first of them with a solid impalement that it ran headlong into. He kicked the body from his sword and brought it up just in time to catch the next one, his speed enhanced by the weapon’s enchantments enough that he could counter them faster than they could attack. He dodged out of the way of the next to come at him, letting the man behind him strike his first blow; he heard the sound of an axe driving home but was too busy dealing a killing blow of his own to shout congratulations. It was irrelevant, anyway; the front line was already beginning to muddle as the fight turned into a melee within seconds of contact with the enemy.
Cyrus waded through them, trying to keep his back to the men in the line behind him and letting through only what he could not stop personally, which was little. His sword moved in a flash of light, a dance of elegance. There was a bellow to his right and Partus unleashed a blast of force that tunneled through their foes and sent several hundred skyward as it flung them in its wake. The line of power cut through them for several hundred feet before it reached its end, but all along that line it appeared as though the earth had been shredded, all the grass cleared, the dirt upturned and every one of the scourge within that space had been tossed clear. That empty ground refilled only moments later, however, as the grey-skinned enemy flooded back into it, still surging forward toward the waiting armies.
The ground was full all the way to the horizon, the scourge lining the grasslands. Battle. It was the be-all, end-all for me once upon a time. He swung his sword, cutting the head from one of the scourge, and black blood sprayed out as another of the beasts used its decapitated fellow as a springboard to launch at him. Cyrus stepped aside and drove his blade deep into the flank of the creature as it passed; if it screamed, he did not hear it over the sounds of battle that filled his ears. I used to thrive in the heart of the battle, used to glory in the destruction of my foes. Titans. Dragons. Goblins, he thought darkly, and saw three of his own goblin soldiers down the line tear apart a cluster of the grey scourge-beasts with nothing more than their claws. What happened? When did I go from believing in the glory of battle as an end of itself to thinking of it as a means to an end—to protecting people from it rather than bringing it to the foes most worthy of it?
He racked one of the attacking demons with a sharp downswing that split it to the shoulder then plunged his next attack into the face of another enemy. His blows killed with each strike; he gave no mercy, severing heads and stabbing through hearts. There can be no room for mercy with these creatures; they will fight on after losing a limb, keep dragging themselves toward you with any life left in their bodies, hoping to sink their teeth into you. His next swipe killed three. It would appear that being merciless is not something that I’ve lost with time and age. I lived for battle once. Now it’s become merely a profession. His blade cut into four more enemies in rapid succession, tearing throats, severing heads, and bisecting one of them. A profession I’m good at, to be sure, but not the obsession, the glory that it was when I worshipped Bellarum with a faith that burned brighter than the flames of a brazier.
Did I get soft? His sword moved of its own accord, cutting and slashing. Did I buy into Alaric’s ideals of honor and nobility and put aside the glory of combat? Did I do it because of him? Or for her? The blond ponytail flashed into his sight again, as though he could see her dancing out there in the mass of the scourge, her own blade in hand, though he knew she was as far removed from this place and this battle as one could be.
No answer was forthcoming. Still, he worked his profession, Praelior in his hand, as the midday sun moved deeper into the sky above him, and night began to fall. Still the enemy came, on and on, wave after wave—and he slaughtered all of them that he could.
Chapter 63
Vara
Day 29 of the Siege of Sanctuary
The convoys had armed escorts now, almost a hundred soldiers of the dark elven army led by officers on horseback, their troops following behind them in their leather armor that was as easy to punch through with a mystical sword as unguarded flesh. Vara stared down at them, Vaste next to her squinting through a gnomish spyglass.
“This will likely only work once in this place, you realize that?” The troll asked, not breaking away from the spyglass.
“Not being an idiot, I do recognize that.” She considered some form of physical reaction, like hitting him on the shoulder to let him know what she thought of him, but decided against it. Too much like Cyrus. “Although if we covered our tracks exceptionally well, we might be able to pull it off twice before the Sovereignty becomes wise.”
“Perhaps,” Vaste said. Below them lay a caravan, making its way into a short canyon where the road dipped into the plains to follow an old riverbed. “You seem to have no shortage of ideas to help us wage this little war of ours, but it’s disturbing to me how many of them have been borrowed from Goliath.”
“We go with what works,” she said. “How did they manage it? Casting fire at either end of the canyon to spook the horses and then riding through?”
“Something along those lines,” Vaste said, and she caught the unease in the way he replied. “They managed to turn it into a perfect ambush, save for the fact that Cyrus got inside the perimeter of their fire and played merry hell with the goblins until they retreated. I must suggest we do not allow something similar.”
“As I saw it,” Vara said, trying to remain patient, “he was only able to do that because of that wondrous horse of his. Any other horse would have been frightened away from jumping over a wall of fire. Soldiers would similarly know better than to try it in most instances. Besides, my intent is to merely contain the convoy while we eliminate their escort.” She stood and dusted off the plains dirt that clung to her armored greaves. “As always, the drivers are free to go.”
“As you say,” Vaste agreed, but the unease was still there; she knew him well enough to hear it.
She whistled to the others and took up position on her horse. The Sanctuary raiding party was already disguised on either side of the road before the gulch; half a hundred rangers hiding in the brush with bows and arrows, and helping to conceal three wizards and four druids. Vara watched from the ridge above, some fifty warriors behind her ready to ride on her command. A neat pincer maneuver if ever there was one. With their escort wearing little in the way of armor, the arrows will do their bit while the wagons are contained by the fire. We sweep down and mop up their resistance, and leave them mourning the disappearance of their ill-gotten gains. She let her hand drift to her sword hilt then stopped herself. I am not Cyrus Davidon, and I need not adopt his more obvious mannerisms. She pondered for a moment, then wondered idly: Does he touch the hilt of his sword not only out of nervous habit but to enjoy the faster reflex it offers? If so, that might explain a choice riposte or two he managed to get out when verbally cornered …
“Shall we go?” Vaste asked, now back on his horse.
“Too soon and we risk being seen, thus spoiling the ambush,” Vara said, holding up her hand to keep the raiding party halted. There were another fifty or more horses with them, those belonging to the rangers and spellcasters below, and the smell of horse was strong here. “Too late and we’re of little use—though I suspect we’ll be of little enough use anyhow, given how well set-up this ambush is.”
“Well set-up is not well executed,” Vaste said, and there was a rumble of disquiet from the troll.
“What is your difficulty?” Var
a asked under her breath, moving her horse close enough to him that only he could hear her whisper.
“Hard to explain,” Vaste said, quieter still. “I recognize that we’re in a bit of box here, and that what we’re doing is necessary to draw pressure away from the siege, but there is something about using strategies that were first employed by Goliath while trying to sully our honor that I find damned disquieting in general.”
“So it’s a silly moral issue, is it?” she asked, and found she had drawn a frown from him.
“I have no moral objection to what we’re doing here,” he said. “We’re attacking convoys of dark elves who are blockading us and stealing the goods that they’ve plundered from the farmers of the plains. If I have any objection, it’s that I wish we had thought of the idea ourselves instead of having to steal it from the most loathsome sacks of treacherous flesh that are still strolling the land of Arkaria.” He blinked, and looked pensive. “Speaking of which, where is Goliath strolling nowadays? You can’t tell me there’s a war consuming the land without them trying to get a piece of it.”
“I bloody well wish they were strolling into the Realm of Death, enjoying the lovely taste of those fiends that our army is facing on the other side of the world,” Vara said, no longer bothering to constrain her loathing. “I suspect they’re still where they were when last we heard about them—hiding under the Sovereign’s considerable skirt, doing whatever bidding he has for them.”
“Does it not disturb you to think about what he might be bidding them do?” Vaste’s angular face was filled with curiosity. “They’re amoral, desperate, and quite powerful. Hardly one of the big three, but still strong enough to cause enormous problems for whoever crosses their path. And if they’re in the service of the Sovereign, and his eye is fixed upon us—”
“No time to discuss that now,” Vara said, and started her horse along the ridge. “The ambush is about to begin.”
“I understand,” Vaste said, “of course you’re incapable of discussing something like this when you’re riding a horse toward battle. You probably have to mentally prepare to eviscerate a dark elf or something. Don’t let me interrupt that level of deep thought with something as frighteningly trifling as one of the largest and most powerful guilds in the land being deployed by our enemies to aid in our destruction. It’s really not worth giving much consideration to, come to think of it.”
She rolled her eyes, though he could not see it. “I don’t see much that we’re able to do about it at present,” she said, allowing her steed to take her at a gallop toward the gulch far ahead as the first wagon in the convoy disappeared into it. “Perhaps if you’d care to raise it in Council later …”
“I’d really rather annoy you with the thought,” Vaste said. “I suspect the others will find it just as disquieting, but it’s much more fun to watch you squirm and pretend you want to think about killing people rather than consider it.”
“You’re an arse,” she said simply. But after a moment, she conceded, “And quite correct.”
“Thank you.”
The last wagon of the caravan rolled into the gulch and a wall of flame leapt up under the belly of the officers of the escort force, causing their horses to throw them. Vara could hear the sound of the armored lieutenants hitting the ground even from a few hundred feet away and over the first exclamations of the soldiers lined up in ranks. The sound of their cries took a turn for the more desperate and pained only minutes later, however, as the first arrows found their targets. She estimated something approaching a third of the soldiers fell with the first volley; half again as many fell with the second, leaving the escort in disarray, the back ranks breaking and even causing a few of them to run back down the road.
As if that would save you, she thought as she swept into the first of the runners. Her sword came down on him, hard; he had been looking back, not even seeing her until she was upon him. Blood spattered her horse’s hair and was joined by more as she rained down death upon the second runner. She did not stop, riding her horse into the dark elven soldiers who still maintained their lines, after the third volley of arrows had landed. She cut a bloody swath through them as the rangers emerged from hiding at either side of the road and joined the melee.
Is this how you would have done it, General? She cut loose on another unsuspecting dark elf from horseback. He had been distracted by the rangers coming out of hiding, uncertain of where to turn. He lost his head for his transgression—not that he would have kept it had he been paying full attention, but still. Is this how you would do it, Cyrus, were you here? Would you run our enemies to ground, ambush them, and drag them in different directions the way I am? Or would you have a different strategy, something so brilliant that it would take my breath away at the knowledge you came up with it yourself?
She let out an audible curse, an elvish one that came from no particular setback in the battle but from a very deep place of dissatisfaction within her. Her blade came down on another dark elf, this one prepared with his sword waiting to block it. Her blade broke his weapon, went through his skull, and well into his torso before she pulled it back. Damn you, Cyrus. Damn you for leaving me to do these things, to become what you were supposed to be. Damn you for—
She stopped before she brought down her sword again, this time almost striking another dark elf, but this one not wearing the leather and seal of the Sovereign, but a hood and cloak that denoted a ranger, one dressed like a member of Sanctuary. “Sorry,” she muttered in apology upon seeing his face. “I didn’t mean to … sorry.” She looked around from the Sanctuary rangers on foot, their knives and short blades glistening with the dark blood of their enemies, then back to the warriors who had ridden into their enemies ranks on horseback; there was no sign of injury, though plenty enough of them had blood on their horses and selves. There was no crying left, no sobbing of the wounded or wailing of the dying. She looked to Vaste, but he merely shrugged, as if to say, We’re done.
“Secure the convoy,” she said loudly to one of the warriors nearest her, a capable human named Jet Tindar. “Don’t kill them unless you have to.” With a nod, Jet rode on, the warriors on horseback following him as the flames that blocked the gulch diminished at their approach. “The rest of you—let us try to clear the signs of our attack as best we can, and take the bodies with us so as to not give away our tactics.” She felt the dull clack of her jaw. “Perhaps we can do this very same maneuver again in a week or two, to the same effect.”
She pulled the reins and guided her horse away as the rangers moved into action, pulling the bodies together for transport. She didn’t watch, unworried that the job would be done correctly, the blood would be covered over by a second group after the first had teleported out with the wagons, the corpses and the majority of their force. Would you have done it this way, Cyrus? How would it have been different if you were here, instead of fighting over there? She felt an involuntary twinge in her cheek; as small as even it was, it was more emotion than she would have preferred to be displayed on her face. … and how would it be different for me … if you were here …?
Chapter 64
Cyrus
Nightfall came upon the steppes—as Cyrus had heard the locals call the plains they fought upon—and still, the enemy came. The scourge filled the horizon as far as Cyrus could see, but as the light drained out of the day and the crescent moon cast its luminescence, there was no end in sight to the enemies that came upon them, filling the battlefield with their dead. His line of sight diminished to only thirty feet or so in front of him, Cyrus watched for the flashes of spells to give him guidance. The sounds of battle still rang around him, and the height of war was taking place on three sides. The smells that filled the air were all of the scourge, the decaying scent of dead flesh and nothing else.
They were overwhelming, so much so that Cyrus knew the army had been falling back all day, not out of a genuine pressure put upon them by the enemy but from a general weight of numbers pressing against the armies. T
he bodies piled up, too, and while it didn’t seem to bother their enemy, as the creatures merely crawled over and avoided their own dead, for Cyrus they became a hazard after a short time, stacking three and four deep and providing an excellent ambush point for a live enemy to jump from behind their own dead and attack. He had seen a few of his guildmates attacked that way.
“It’s nice to know we’re at least running free of casualties,” Odellan said between the clashes of weapons cutting into flesh.
A bellow sounded to Cyrus’s right and another shockwave burst forth from Partus, blasting aside a line of the scourge, sending bodies into the air once more. “We’re taking them out in great numbers, no doubt,” Cyrus said. “But we’ve been swapping out people along the line all day as though this was some sort of sporting event where you can bow out any time you please. Our people are exhausted and there’s still no sign that the enemy is coming close to running low on more bodies to throw at us. It makes me wonder just how many souls Mortus kept in his lands, if it’s all of them, all the way back to the beginning of time, or if somewhere we’ll eventually reach the end.
A cry and hue came from farther down the line, to the right. “Not a good sound,” Cyrus said under his breath. “Do you think that means …?”
There was no need for him to finish, as Martaina appeared out of the darkness to his right, firing two arrows in rapid succession, both hitting one of their foes in the face and causing them to cease all motion. She slid to a stop in front of Cyrus, slung her bow over her shoulder and drew blades, slipping into the formation next to him. “Bad news from the Sylorean lines, sir.”
“Let me guess,” Cyrus said, cleaving another head as one of their enemy slid past him in a foiled attack, “the Syloreans broke in the middle.”
“Solid guess.” She buried a dagger in a grey face and another in a stout, four-legged body. “Our healers did their best, but they ran short of magical energy about ten minutes ago. Mendicant is about to try something to drive them back, but we’re running low on things we can throw into the breach.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 58