“You are a symbol,” Chirenya said, stepping toward her youngest daughter. “You are something that people can believe in when times are dark. You haven’t been here in the last years, you don’t know; a people without children, without babies, they have no hope. They watch their friends and neighbors grow old and infirm around them and see no youth and vitality springing up to replace it!”
“I have no desire to be a false symbol.” Vara took the last steps to the bottom of the stairs. “I have even less interest in doing so whilst giving up my own freedom of choice. If I want to bed a human man,” she pointed at Cyrus, “I shall, and to the hells with anyone who dislikes it. If I someday choose to marry and have children with a human, a dark elf or even a troll—”
“Vaste would be pleased to hear you say that,” Cyrus said.
“—then I will do so,” she finished. “False hope is worse than none at all, and to believe that I am some miracle that will save the pure-blood elves from this calamity is cruel—to them and to me.” She looked to Cyrus. “Would you wait for me outside? I’m in the mood for a walk but I’d like to change first.” She brushed past him gently and closed the door to her room. He wordlessly walked past Isabelle, who followed him, and Chirenya, who said nothing, lost in her own thoughts.
When they reached the cellar, Isabelle stopped on the stair above him, causing Cyrus to look back when he heard her footsteps halt. “It’s time for me to leave. When you come back, I’ll be gone. I wanted to wish you good luck, and...” She stopped, as though unsure of what to say.
The dark pervaded the cellar, but he saw the glint of her hair in the daylight coming from the door, open above them. “I’ll protect her,” he said.
“You’d better.” Her eyes blazed in the dark and he saw her clench her fist. “She’s worth fighting for.”
He took a step up. “So is Reikonos. Keep her safe for me, will you?”
A cocky smile appeared on her lips. “The dark elves haven’t faced the ‘Big Three’ before. I doubt their armies will know what hit them. We’ll send them scurrying back to their mysterious Sovereign so brutally that they’ll swear Quinneria herself was leading the Confederation armies again.”
“I have no doubt.”
She turned but paused, as if she wanted to say something else. Her face was a mixture of regret and sadness. “Please...with Vara, just...be careful.”
“With the assassins or with...uh...”
“With both,” Isabelle said. Her grace was evident, and she looked statuesque staring down at him, the very picture of elvenly grace. “She still bears the scars of Archenous, and to proceed unduly might...inflame them. Be slow and gentle.”
“As much as a simple warrior can muster, m’lady.” He nodded to her in respect.
“I know you will. Farewell, Cyrus Davidon.” She raised her hand. “I suspect we shall meet again ‘ere too long.”
“I sincerely hope.” He found he meant every word of it; the healer was truly one of the most shrewd and yet sweet persons he had met. I wonder if that comes from being old enough that you’re wiser than humans and yet young enough in elven terms to not lose your youthful vitality?
She left him, closing the door as he continued into the cellar. A rough, rumbling laugh greeted him when he stepped through the hole into the other house. “Ice Princess kisses, huh?” Fortin’s rocky face could hardly be described as expressive, yet the giant seemed to be leering at him. “Knew you’d get around to it someday. Or was she controlling you with those fleshy mounds on her chest?”
“Someday you’ll learn that those fleshy mounds damn near rule Arkaria,” Cyrus said, turning his back on the rock giant. “Those and the gods, and I’m honestly not sure which holds more sway.”
He reached the street and thought about walking across the street to the other house, to check preparations. No, he told himself. For once I will back off and trust to let the others handle this duty. I will simply...wait.
And he did, the minutes passing as sound came from the broken windows above; argument of some kind, muffled enough that it was not obvious what was being said, just that voices were raised. A slamming door could be heard, and then silence.
Cyrus waited on the walk, the wind swirling around him. He had grabbed his traveling cloak from where he’d hung it by the door on the way out of the house, and it helped. The metal of his armor was growing chill, even through the clothes he wore beneath it. The trees on the street maintained some leaf, though he saw some ice forming in the gutters. He stamped his feet, trying to get warm as he watched his breath fog the air in front of him.
I can’t believe I kissed her, he thought, feeling like a young warrior again. I can’t believe she kissed me back. I should have done that years ago. The thought warmed him, and then he shivered as he remembered the first time he kissed his wife. This time, things will be different. She’s an adventurer, after all. Or at least she was.
The door opened and out Vara stepped, her hair bound once more behind her in a tight knot, the dress gone and replaced with the shining silver breastplate and armor, which sparkled in the light, drawing his attention to her chest. “And still is,” he said under his breath.
“Perhaps, eventually, we’ll break you of that staring,” she said with a smile. “Though hopefully not anytime soon.” She held out a mailed hand to him. “Come along then.”
He took her hand and fell into step beside her. They walked to the corner of the street, where Thad was positioned, looking toward the Entaras’iliarad with great interest. When Cyrus called out to him, he looked back, then did a double take when he saw Vara’s hand conjoined with Cyrus’s. “What news, Thad?”
The warrior in the red armor shook his head. “Not sure. Heavy movement down the main thoroughfare to the bridge.” He chucked a thumb over his shoulder. “Looks like the citizenry are heading toward the river for some reason.”
Cyrus saw, even from blocks away, that there was indeed a massing crowd heading east along the main avenue. Other elves were stepping out of their homes all around and walking in small clusters toward the Entaras’iliarad, talking in hushed voices.
“Any idea what it is?” Cyrus looked around, trying to overhear conversations, but none were audible. He turned to Vara, whose head was cocked in concentration. “What?”
“Shhh.” She held a finger up to his lips. He looked to Thad, who nodded approval. A smell of acridness wafted past him, something foul and unpleasant that filled his nostrils, faintly at first, then growing in strength until he could almost taste it, a bitter, burnt flavor in his mouth. Vara continued to listen, her eyes slitted in deep concentration. Chatter of a thousand voices and a far-off tumult to the east were all he could hear, but her finger remained on his lips, pressing softly against them.
After another moment, Vara’s head snapped back and she looked stricken as the blood drained from her face. She hesitated then started to say something to him and stopped, her eyes wide.
“What?” He grasped at her arm, holding her as lightly as he could. “What is it?”
When she recovered, she took a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “The dark elves have an army across the river right now.” She was nearly breathless from the news, and her eyes conveyed regret for having to tell them. “They’re sacking Santir as we speak.”
Chapter 29
“Dammit.” Cyrus tried to look east down the cross street they stood on, but it ended in a row of houses on the next road. Small pillars of black smoke hung in the sky above. “It must be the same army that burned Prehorta; the one that’s been cutting off the Confederation from the Plains of Perdamun.”
“Aye,” Thad replied. “This’ll pretty much finish it if they’ve left garrisons in place in the towns they’ve taken. The Confederation won’t be able to ship food nor anything else north if they hold Santir; they’ll control all the shipping that comes up the river as well.” He cocked his head. “You don’t think they’d come across into Termina, do you?”
“Doubtful
,” Vara said. “It would mean dragging the elves into the war; the Sovereign would have to be barking mad to consider fighting on two fronts.”
Something about that bothered Cyrus, though he couldn’t put his finger on what. “Nothing about this war has made sense, not a thing from the outset until now.” He looked east once more and could see the billowing smoke above the skyline. “We should go. Thad...keep watch. If ever there was a moment to strike when we’re distracted, this is it.”
The warrior nodded. “Wait here a minute and I’ll get a few others to go with you.”
“No,” Vara said. “Let’s not wait.”
“Sure, it’s only your life,” Cyrus said. “Nothing so important that we’d bother to take five minutes and gather a few people to protect you from the countless assassins that want you dead.”
“Exactly.” She began stalking down the street without him. “Come along.”
Cyrus shot a pleading look at Thad. “Tell them to hurry.” He ran to catch up with her.
When they arrived at the Entaras’iliarad, they blended into the crowd, Cyrus taking care to keep a hand clutched around Vara’s arm at all times. She looked back at him, giving him with a smile that cut the cold air. “Feeling particularly protective now, are we? Could it be you’re anticipating something at the conclusion of all this?” Her smile was teasing.
“Could be. It has been a while.” His reply was curt, and infused with tension.
She looked away. “You’re worried about the Confederation; about the outcome of this battle.”
He hesitated. “This does not bode well for Reikonos. They’re losing a good portion of their food supply and the dark elves will be well positioned to harrass any shipping that comes up the river bound for Confederation lands.”
“You’re worried it will come to a siege?” People edged around them on all sides, but the noise of the crowd made it unlikely anyone could hear them. “The dark elves are still at considerable distance from your capital and facing the toughest defenders your people have.”
“Aye, but the humans haven’t won a battle since the outset of the war.” Cyrus felt the uncomfortable ache of his shoulder for the first time in days. “When you lose long enough, the momentum shifts against you and it gets hard to see a path to victory.”
“If the Council of Twelve has summoned Endeavor to their defense they’ll have brought Amarath’s Raiders and Burnt Offerings into the fold as well.” She spoke with assurance, and he realized she was attempting to be comforting. “An army of one hundred thousand would fall to defeat against a guild with one-tenth their strength. No nation possesses magic users in the numbers guilds do, and being able to heal wounds and resurrect fighters presents a decisive advantage in combat.”
“We don’t know that the dark elves don’t have guilds of their own to summon to service.” The buildings around the avenue had ice frosted on the panes and a thin layer lay over the gutters, causing people to slip, slowing the progress of the crowd. Cyrus could see the bridge rising in the distance. “They could have a hundred guilds fighting for them.”
“Doubtful. But I believe they have at least one.” He looked at her quizzically and she answered, “Goliath.”
He swore, loudly enough that it attracted attention, shocked looks on the faces of nearby elves. “That’s where they ended up? I should have known. But I thought the Sovereign of Saekaj didn’t forgive his transgressors.”
“Apparently he does when you bring an army of several thousand along with you.”
They struggled along for a few more minutes, buffeted by the throng of elves around them. Cyrus took care not to use his strength and armor to plow through unimpeded. Vara was not so reluctant.
“Out of the way,” she said, shoving aside an elven man.
He stumbled and turned to say something to her, anger writ on his features, when he stopped. “My apologies, shelas’akur. This one did not intend to be in your way.” He bowed and spread his arms, using them to push people out of her way as he scooted back. “Make way for the shelas’akur!” The crowd began to part before them.
“Bloody right,” she said under her breath. She turned to Cyrus. “I was never much for abusing my status, but occasionally it comes in handy.”
“Yes,” Cyrus said, voice tight. “A brilliant time to draw attention to yourself, when there are people about who want you dead.”
“Please. If I waited to draw attention to myself until no one wanted me dead, I’d never say a word.”
The crowd parted. Cyrus looked back constantly, trying to see if the protectors Thad was sending were nearby, but he could not see anything through the crowd. When he looked forward, the span of the bridge blocked his view save for the black smoke filling the eastern sky.
As they drew close to the river, Cyrus felt something small and white land on his cheek. Then another, and another. He ran his gauntlet where it landed and drew his finger to look more closely at it. “Snow?” he murmured aloud.
“No,” Vara replied, rubbing her own cheek where some had landed. “Ash.” A black smear remained, dampening her usually pale complexion. “From the fires in Santir.”
His reaction was visceral and unexpected, a sudden tightening of the muscles in his guts. I know they’re burning the town and plundering everything of value, but the thought of it... He shook his head in disgust as they followed the road along the river, and the smell of the smoke overwhelmed him. The scent of it was so thick in the air that it filled his nose and mouth, leaving an ashy taste on his tongue.
“Thank Vidara there’s not wind today,” he heard a passerby say. He had to agree with that; if there had been wind, it would likely have come off the river, delivering so much smoke that breathing would have been well nigh impossible. As it was, more ash streamed down as the fires grew. Although smoke hung over Santir, it hung mostly over the far side of town. The river was still visible, small floes of thin ice on the banks of the dark waters of the river Perda.
The loud voices quieted at the edge of the river and held almost a funereal air. Grim realization set in on those watching their neighboring city burn; the homes, shops and citizens of Santir consumed by the flames and turned loose into the air in the columns of black that blotted out the sky. Cyrus looked across the water from the railing at the raised street that ran parallel to the river. A hundred feet below was a host of docks accomodating the ships that navigated the river. Stairs cut into the side of the riverbank led to the shoreside quay. The wharf was filled with elves observing the destruction.
“I can’t see,” Vara said. “You, move.” Her voice held such command that people moved without even looking at her.
“Not much to see,” Cyrus said. Being taller than the crowd had advantages. Across the river, the dark elven army still held in perfect formation near one of the dockside roads in Santir. “Looks like they’ve got forces massing by the river after marching through the town.” He shook his head. “Santir is all wood construction; it’s going to burn fast.” And along with it goes the last route for half of Reikonos’s supply of grain.
“The humans never stood a chance,” Cyrus overheard someone say. Vara shoved someone out of the way and a few muffled utterances of aggravation were replaced by quiet breathings of “shelas’akur” in utter reverence.
Vara’s metal gauntlets clanked as they wrapped around the cold metal railing and she looked across the river, then closed her eyes. “They never did, you know.” She opened her eyes and turned to him. “We were through there not long ago and they had barely a garrison of guards. That dark elven host has to be—”
“A hundred thousand,” came a voice from behind them. Cyrus turned to see Endrenshan Odellan, a few soldiers with him moving citizens back from Cyrus and Vara. “At least, I’m told.” He joined them at the rail. “The King had our riders overfly them a few days ago and they got an estimate before the archers took a few of them out of the air.”
“What?” Cyrus blinked at the Termina Captain.
�
��Flying mounts,” Odellan replied, casting his gaze over the water. “Riders on griffons and such, you know.” He pointed to the haze of smoke above Santir. Cyrus squinted and saw small figures flying around the clouds of smoke. “We thought they were going north because the march of the army indicated they were heading for the crossing hundreds of miles north of here.” The Endrenshan frowned. “Our army rode on that assumption—and they took most of my garrison with them.”
Cyrus felt his stomach drop. “You mean your army isn’t in Termina?”
Odellan shrugged as though he were trying to be indifferent. “We still have a garrison. And it’s not as though the dark elves intend to strike Termina; it’d be an act of war.”
Cyrus felt a chill unrelated to the air and leaned toward Odellan. “How many soldiers do you have left in the city?”
Odellan stared out at the water. “Five thousand. Not enough to defend it.”
“My gods.” A swell of awe and sickness ran through Cyrus and he held tight to the railing as the odd feeling he couldn’t quantify came crashing into place. He remembered the words spoken by Andren at Sanctuary only two weeks earlier; it felt like a year had passed.
“Their army came in, all lined up in neat rows, and once they realized there wasn’t anyone to defend the village, they just ran wild. Tore up everything in sight, killing the men, dragging away the women, burning everything and stealing what they could carry.”
“They’re going to cross the bridge.” Cyrus’s words came as a whisper, but Odellan and Vara both snapped their heads to look at him. He pointed to the massing army on the opposite shore. “Something Andren told me—when they sack a town, they unleash their army, they don’t keep it in formation.” He sifted through memories of refugees at Sanctuary, remembering similar stories of the dark elven army going wild, burning towns and villages. “Why keep them in disciplined rows unless...?” He let his voice trail off.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 22