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 utterly 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.”
Cyrus nodded as the elf walked off into the Sanctuary foyer. Then why does it feel like a defeat? He recalled the bridge, Alaric disappearing as the stone broke apart around him and he fell … Right. That’s why.
He looked up at the moon, staring at the pale disk hanging in the sky above. It almost seemed as though it were slightly red, tinged with blood. He stared at it for only a moment more before he began to pick his way through the bodies, moving aside the countless corpses of dead dark elves in hopes of finding a few familiar faces before it was too late.
Chapter 119
The Council Chamber was quiet when he arrived. There was a stir as he entered, motion around the table as they stood to greet him. It was a somber silence, though, with a kiss on the cheek from Erith, her eyes filled with regret. Nyad gave him the same, and Cyrus saw the tears from her. Vaste stood before him, an imposing figure, and he stared up at the troll’s impassive face for a moment, started to say something but was swept from his feet in a bear hug that pressed him against the healer’s tattered and stained robe.
“I missed you, too, Vaste,” Cyrus said as the troll pulled him tight. “But perhaps not that much.”
Vaste turned him loose. “Oh, sorry,” he said with aplomb. “I was just trying to burp you. You look like you could use a good burping.”
“Thanks,” Cyrus said with a nod as he took his seat. It squeaked when he eased himself into it. The smell of wood burning in the hearth was especially strong, and familiar, but still, something was off, something that kept it from feeling like …
Home.
There was a quiet, and the darkness outside the windows was impenetrable, though Cyrus knew that out there the Luukessians were still running dow
n the enemy and that druids and wizards were bringing more and more of the refugees into the Plains via the portal in Sanctuary’s foyer, newly reactivated, as well as the one a few minutes north of the gates. Sanctuary troops and scouts were spread out in a pattern around it, and the foyer was packed with guardians, all facing the seal in the center. The Sovereign won’t soon try that again, not without an army at the gates. It would be pointless now.
Curatio sat at his usual place next to Alaric’s empty seat, which was a gaping thing, a missing piece that made the whole place seem strangely empty. Cyrus’s eyes darted to Terian’s seat as well, also empty. Terian. Niamh. Alaric. He bowed his head.
“I call this Council to order,” Curatio said quietly, somberly, “in my capacity as the Sanctuary Elder and acting Guildmaster.” The elf’s mouth became a thin line. “And it grieves me so to do it, let it be known.”
“So noted,” Nyad said, with her parchment in front of her and an inkwell at her side.
“We find ourselves in an unusual situation,” Curatio began. “How goes the pursuit of the enemy?”
“A hundred thousand or more killed,” Longwell said with a shrug. “Very few still alive. Hard to outrun men on horseback when you don’t have any for yourself. We managed to hit their cavalry at the outset of the battle and caught them unhorsed, so they had no horses with which to flee or fight back. A few wizards took some of ours out but only in small groups. There are likely a few hiding here and there, but sunrise will essentially see the end of that campaign.” His eyes were half-lidded, as though he had lost any interest in it, though there was a little fire remaining. “What does that mean for the war?”
Vara cleared her throat, and Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to her for the first time since he had returned. She looked worn, scuffed, a healed gash left dried blood under her eye. Her ponytail was back as always, but a few strands were out of place—well, more than a few. She leaned against the back of her chair, looking down her face at all of them as though she would fall asleep at any moment. She did not look at Cyrus. “The Sovereign threw the bulk of his forces at us here, hoping to capture the plains to feed his armies as he marched them in conquest. To have lost … even ninety percent of them will cost him dearly and stall their progress on the other fronts.” She shrugged, lightly, as though it were a matter of no consequence. “I should find it hard to imagine he will be able to continue the war in its present form, not without some other source of troops. There are simply not enough remaining for him to be anything but defensive.”
“You don’t know that for certain,” Erith said. “This was a massive upset, true, but we don’t know the disposition of the dark elven forces. And it would certainly be in our best interest to get the wall repaired as soon as possible.”
“Because it held so marvelously against whatever devilry he employed on it this time,” Vara muttered.
“We captured some prisoners,” Longwell said, “his intellectuals, if you will. They spoke of a kind of powder, black as the night itself, that when lit afire, explodes. It was no magic, according to them, but some form of alchemy.”
“Whatever it was,” Vaste said, “it was a fearsome power to unleash. It blasted those holes in the wall; took some of our people with it, I suspect.” He glanced toward Erith, who nodded.
“At least a couple hundred unaccounted for,” Erith said. “Some of their bodies might still be out there, but if any of them got caught in that—alchemy—then there’s probably not enough left of them to resurrect.”
“I hate to even speak of it at a time such as this,” Nyad said from her place at the table, holding the quill, “but it seems unlikely that even with the siege broken, we’ll be seeing much in the way of applicants at the moment. Who wants to be part of a guild that’s likely to be blockaded by dark elves at some point in the future?”
There was a stark silence. “I hate that you spoke of it, too,” Vaste said. “Because now I’m thinking about it, and I wish I weren’t.” The troll leaned his face into his hands, elbows on the table. “Can we not have … can we not mourn for just a small amount of time? Think of how many we’ve lost, how much battle we’ve seen …” He scanned the table, eyes coming to a rest on Cyrus. “I mean … some of you just watched an entire land—three whole Kingdoms—go down in flames.”
“Aye,” Longwell said, “and some of us will never forget it, not for the rest of our lives.”
No one spoke for a long time after that. When the silence was finally broken, it was Cyrus who did it. “We have a lot of survivors of Luukessia who have no homes and no place to go. We can feed them here for a time, but—” He shrugged. “I doubt they’d want to settle close by here. We seem to be a magnet for trouble of late. Especially of late.”
“I had an idea about that,” Longwell said, looking up. “As you may recall, in addition to being the King of a land now lost,” he said with a sharp taste of bitterness, “I am also a Lord of the Elven Kingdom with a very nice holding not far from a portal in a green, verdant, and unfarmed land.” He looked around the table. “I have spoken with some of the dragoon captains, and with a few leaders among the survivors. If I can secure King Danay’s permission, I will settle the survivors there on my land.” He looked to Nyad.
“He’ll likely consent, especially if you get them to pay taxes of some form,” Nyad said. “He’ll agree to just about anything if it increases his coffers right now. The destruction of Termina and the war have left them quite dry, I suspect.”
“I doubt your people have much in the way of money,” Cyrus said quietly.
“They do not,” Longwell said, “but I think I know of a way they might earn their keep, might add some value in a place that could grant them incomes.”
Cyrus watched the dragoon cannily. “Go on.”
“If you would care to have tens of thousands of new applicants to Sanctuary,” Longwell said, drawing the silence around him as surely as if he had slammed a sword into the table, “I believe we would be quite content to put our weapons to your service.”
Vaste rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can see we’re going to move right past that mourning and on to the next conquest.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said. “We’ll mourn. But we need to focus on something other than grief before it chokes us to death.” He scanned the table. “Alaric believed that we of Sanctuary had a greater purpose than merely acquiring wealth and fighting enemies to take from them. He believed we were supposed to protect the helpless and give aid to those who need it.” He looked each of them in the eye in turn. “How might we give aid if we have no money to give it with?” He waited for an answer but found none. “We’ll go to Purgatory again with the new applicants from Luukessia. We’ll get them equipped, build our guild bank, get some coin dispersed among our people again to make up for this catastrophic year.” He held his head high when he spoke, though he didn’t feel it. I’ll protect Sanctuary, Alaric. I’ll do it however I have to. “We’ll rebuild, become what we were before but stronger. We just won an epic battle against the dark elves. That has to be worth something in the eyes of the people of Arkaria. That has to enhance our reputation at least some. We need to keep growing.” He felt his voice crack as he said the last. “It’s what Alaric would have wanted.”
Chapter 120
The Council broke in silence, some to their duties, some to their beds. Cyrus waited, though, head down at the table, hearing them file out one by one. There was a taste of bitterness in his mouth, an acid in the back of his throat that caused him to realize he had not eaten a substantive meal in a day or perhaps two. Yet I do not hunger. His mouth was parched, he realized, but he didn’t care.
“Cyrus,” Longwell said, and he blinked at the dragoon. “The first groups of survivors have begun to come through the portal. I wanted you to know.” He hesitated then looked across the table as though guilty of some crime, and Cyrus’s gaze followed his to where Vara sat, in her seat, still reclined, watching them both.
“Out with it,” Cyrus s
aid, but Longwell hesitated, casting a look at Vara, uncertain. “Go on.”
“Cattrine is with them,” Longwell said. “I have … allocated her quarters here in Sanctuary for the night. I did not wish to overstep my bounds, but as she was of the royal family of Actaluere, it seemed … appropriate, somehow—”
“That’s fine,” Cyrus said, with a dismissive hand.
Longwell nodded slowly then stepped aside, walking out the door. Behind him, J’anda remained, as did Curatio. Vara was still in her seat, Cyrus noted, still looking quite weathered—and beautiful. Always beautiful, even when she’s been through hell. Her cheeks looked thinner, but when she looked at him in response to his stare, he did not look away afterward.
J’anda coughed. “I don’t mean to interrupt your long, meaningful look at each other, but I did want to …” he paused. “Well, I had to show someone.”
“Show someone what?” Vara said slowly, as though she were so tired that she were pushing the words out one syllable at a time.
“I stayed behind with the Luukessians on the beach when the cavalry teleported back here,” J’anda said. “Myself and one of the druids went back with a couple rangers, back to the site of the bridge destruction, to go underwater, to see if we could find anything.” He looked down, chagrined. “We used Nessalima’s light, as brightly as we could, and spells that allowed us to breathe underwater. We searched for two hours, shifted some of the rubble—”
“Did you find anything?” Cyrus cut him off, leaning forward. “Did you see—” He stopped, and felt the pressure build in the back of his throat.
“We found the bodies of more scourge than you would care to count,” J’anda said quietly. “And this.” He reached into his robes and pulled something out, something rounded, and set it upon the table with a thunk, right where it usually sat on the table next to its owner—
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 90