Another line had formed between them, and the stabbing pain from the wound in his lower back kept him from rushing them as he had last time. I need to take her out—merciless this time. They won’t be able to reattach her head in the midst of this battle, he thought grimly. I should have done it last time—stupid—that’s what mercy is when you’re outnumbered.
A shout tore through the night. From far to the south, cutting through the darkness came a voice that rumbled like rocks falling down a cliff. “WHOEVER CONTINUES TO FIRE THESE ANNOYING POINTED WOODEN STICKS AT ME WILL DIE WHEN I VIOLATE YOUR LOWER BODY REAR APERTURE WITH THEM!”
Thank you for the distraction, Fortin. Cyrus charged through the line assembled in front of him, bowling them over and ignoring the pain that made him want to throw himself over the edge of the bridge. He reached the healer in three steps and raised his sword again. “This time I’m not sorry,” he said as he brought it around in a horizontal slice. He watched her body drop, the glow fading from her hands as her headless corpse fell to the ground.
A cry of anguish sounded over the fray, a desperate sob that drew his attention even in spite of the fact that he knew there were enemies closing on him. Another row back he locked eyes with a man in a robe who had a rounded face and black hair. When Cyrus saw him, he watched the pudgy blue face turn frightful and knew he’d found the second healer. He ignored the sting of a half dozen more blades as they clashed with his armor and flesh and let Praelior lead him to the man, who turned and tried to escape between the two soldiers behind him. He bumped against their armor, trying to squeeze his fat frame through the gap.
By the time the two of them realized what he was doing, it was too late. No mistakes this time. Cyrus brought his sword across, stepping into his stroke and bringing it through the heads of the soldiers on either side of the healer as well. The three of them fell together, and Cyrus felt a grin of triumph as he began to collapse under the weight of all the foes attacking him from behind. He howled and swung his sword in a wide radius, clearing a swath around him, and roared as they closed again, slashing with a circular swing of his weapon that gave him another minute of breathing room. I’m hurt bad. With his left hand he felt his back, and it came back bloody. Thank Bellarum my armor is black or they’d see how bad I’m hurt. He tried to stand and failed. Damn. I may be showing them anyway.
He looked around, and for once there was a gap. Surrounded again, he found himself in the midst of a sea of foes, but none of them close enough to strike. In front of him was the direction that led back to Vara, Longwell and the others, but from his kneeling position he could not see them. The clank of heavy boots awoke him to the danger behind and he rolled forward, feeling an excruciating pain that drew a scream from him as he forced himself back to his feet.
He turned, and before him stood a dark knight. His armor bore terrible angles, with spikes jutting from the vambraces, pauldrons and helm. Slits revealed segments of a humorless face, giving it a somewhat demonic appearance. He carried a two-handed sword that glimmered even in the absence of light, telling Cyrus it was mystical in nature.
The dark knight raised his sword and Cyrus brought Praelior up. He felt the blow land, rattling his teeth. Weak from blood loss, he tried to block the next attack but it was even stronger than the first, driving him back, where the jeer of a footman behind him was followed by a stabbing in his side. He jabbed back with his sword and felt a small satisfaction when he heard a shriek of pain.
The dark knight maintained his distance, circling toward Cyrus slowly. He’s not underestimating me; he knows I’m dangerous even wounded. You’d think I’d have learned by now not to get outside the range of my healers, but no...
The dark knight attacked again, swinging the heavy blade twice more, and twice more Cyrus blocked, though not without great effort. The strain allowed another dark elf to strike him from behind, and this time when he swung about, the footman danced out of range before he could land an attack, laughing, and Cyrus was forced to turn back to the dark knight.
Every breath was coming with more difficulty, and fatigue was washing over Cyrus. I just want to go to sleep, he thought. But now’s not the best time... The pain ate at him from a dozen places, from two sword wounds where he would have sworn they hacked out most of his lower back, to an ache in his shoulder. The smell of acrid smoke had been in his nose so long he had almost forgotten it, but he noticed it now, along with the growing edge of the cold in the air.
The dark knight brought his sword down again and Cyrus blocked, but this time his balance failed him and he fell to a knee. He raised his sword in time to block the next blow but the strength of it knocked him to his back. Not now. I have to keep moving or I’m dead. He began to struggle but the dark knight extended a hand and Cyrus felt a clutching pain in his chest from a spell. A scream tore from the warrior’s lips as a sensation like a fiery blade being thrust into his chest impaled him. He started to struggle once more and the searing agony shot through him again.
“Stay down,” the dark knight’s voice was low, raspy. He closed on Cyrus, his sword held in both hands, blade down. “It will be over in a moment.”
It sounded like sweet honey poured into Cyrus’s ear. His eyes fought to close and every muscle went slack, no will to move left in them. He felt the blood running down his back and knew that he was bleeding to death. Iron in his mouth told him that he’d bit his tongue and he wondered when it had happened. The clamor of the battle faded, and all he could hear was a great silence. The thousand pains that had plagued him for the last few minutes seemed very far away, and his eyes locked onto the armored figure standing above him. The sword raised, and started to descend, so fast and yet so slow—
Chapter 33
Cyrus watched Vara’s blade intercept the dark knight’s sword halfway to his chest and she knocked the dark elf back a step. She raised her hand and a blast of force sent the dark elves behind the knight backward, her fury manifested with magical energy. The dark knight held fast, like a man leaning forward in a windstorm, trying to avoid being blown away.
“You were quite right,” her lancing voice said as she raised her sword again. “This will be over in a moment.” Her hand pointed at Cyrus and he felt a soothing air cross his back, as though the pain in his back had dwindled.
Vara attacked without warning, a leaping offense led with her sword. She clashed with his blade, pushing him back another step and then raining another blow on him. “You would not have had such an easy time with him,” she said, voice infused with barely controlled fury, “if he hadn’t just finished a suicide mission to kill both your healers.”
“Oh, no doubt,” came the soothing voice of the dark knight amidst the clash of their blades. “But I would have killed him all the same, just as I’ll kill you.” His words turned to a bellow. “In the name of the Sovereign!” Echoing cries came from the throats of the dark elves all over the bridge as they rallied for another attack.
Cyrus dragged himself to his feet. He still bled, still hurt, still felt weak, yet Vara’s healing spell had given him enough strength to fight on. The nearest footmen were focused on the battle between the dark knight and paladin, and he charged them with a violent attack that sent both of them falling over the edge of the bridge. The Sanctuary force closed, Longwell pressing forward with his lance; for every two enemies he would catch with the blade he would end another with the tip.
Cyrus helped clear the way for the Sanctuary forces, keeping his eye on Vara, who was still locked in combat with the dark knight. He gestured toward Erith and felt strength course through him as his wounds were healed.
The dark knight brought his sword down against Vara, driving her back toward Santir and the still-advancing forces of the dark elven army. They were not speaking, but with every attack from the dark knight, Vara parried or blocked with a grunt. Her cheeks were red from exertion and her counterattacks were coming slower. She raised her hand to cast a spell and he pressed her, interrupting her casting. She fell ba
ck, circling to place her back to the edge of the bridge.
Cyrus kept himself toward the middle of the bridge. He fell upon the advancing forces and carved a path through them with Longwell. They had cleared the line between them and the Sanctuary war party, and Cyrus watched as the paladin and dark knight clashed to his right.
He waited, fending off the advancing infantry as Vara wearied. When he sensed she was faltering, he moved forward, exerting his lightning quickness, and struck at the dark knight while his back was turned, stabbing him in the side, his sword punching through the knight’s armor and causing him to look at Cyrus, stunned.
“You’re a dark knight; don’t look so shocked at the treachery of me stabbing you in the back.” He slid the dark elf off the tip of his sword, letting the body fall to its knees before he whirled around and delivered a finishing blow. “This is war, after all.” He looked to Vara, who was breathing heavy and appeared unsteady on her feet.
“You could have intervened sooner,” she said.
“You’re a paladin. I thought you’d be mad if I dishonorably intervened in your duel.”
“As you pointed out,” she said, scowling at him as another row of footmen advanced on them, “this is war and thus the honorable circumstances present in a duel do not apply.”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?” Cyrus looked at Vara, her irritation still obvious. “If you keeping making that face, it’ll freeze like that.” He turned to see Chirenya, glaring at him. “See? Like that.” He made another round of attacks, dispensing with another half dozen infantry, then looked down the bridge toward Santir. “You look tired. Want to take a break? We could bring up some others to hold the front line.”
She snorted. “You know that no one could hold it so well as I do.”
“I do.” He inflicted a crosswise cut to a nearby dark elf. “But I also know we’ve been at this for quite some time, and it would appear that they’ve got no intention of retreating anytime soon.” He took a deep breath as he pressed the attack again. “In fact, it looks like they’ll continue funneling reinforcements down the bridge until either we break or we bleed them dry.”
“How long do you suppose you can keep this up?” Vaste’s voice broke through after a few minutes of intense battle, during which Cyrus had given very little ground but taken a great many lives in return for it. Arrows whizzed from behind him as the Sanctuary force aided the three of them in holding the line.
“Until they’re all dead,” Cyrus replied. “Or until the night is over.”
“Well, one of those is about to come true,” the troll said. “Though I suppose it’s difficult to see.”
Cyrus pondered the vague reply while dispatching his next four enemies. His hands were cramped from holding his sword, and soreness permeated every muscle. Vara, next to him, was huffing, each breath coming so quickly after the last that he wondered if she might be ready to hyperventilate. The battlefield had begun to lighten, not only aided by the torches carried by their foes, but by another source.
He looked over the bridge and saw the devastation of Santir; the fires had largely burned out, and the smoke had begun to clear. Through the haze, the sun was rising, though it was not visible. It was dawn, Cyrus realized. We’ve been fighting for hours, he thought. No wonder we’re exhausted.
He dodged the attacks of four more infantrymen and killed them all, taking a moment to assess the situation. He cast his gaze to the Southbridge and saw a figure still standing in the middle of the span, great hands rising and falling with furious power. Bodies were swept over the side in clusters of two and three, and the occasional howls of Fortin that had been audible through the night continued even now.
Cyrus cut another foe down, then another, and turned his attention toward the Northbridge. He blinked as he looked at the span. The night before, it was obvious where the elves held the bridge in the center, even after the battle was joined, as their pointed helmets were a stark contrast to the much more blunted and dull helms worn by the dark elven regulars. The light was still dim and he could not differentiate between them.
“Vara,” he called. “Can you see the Termina guards on the Northbridge?”
She disengaged from her next foes, falling back as Cyrus moved to take up her slack in the line. He focused on the combatants moving toward him, keeping light on his feet and battling back, knocking over two more dark elven soldiers.
“I see them,” she said at last, slipping back into the fight and taking his place in the center. “You won’t like it; they’re at the very end of bridge. It would appear they’re about to be driven back.”
He heard a great hue and cry from the Northbridge, and wondered if that had indeed happened. “How long would it take an army to march from there along the waterfront and flank us here?”
“Twenty minutes,” she said as she drove her sword through another foe. “Perhaps fifteen if they hurry.”
Cyrus brought his sword down in another slash, sending another dark elf into the beyond. “Then that’s how long we have to stage our retreat before we get flanked.”
Chapter 34
“I need a druid,” Cyrus called over his shoulder. One of them appeared from the battle line behind him, a fresh-faced human. Gods, I wish Niamh was here. “I need you to use Falcon’s Essence to cross to the Southbridge and warn Fortin and Andren that we’re about to be flanked. Teleport them out of the city, back to Sanctuary.”
“Are you certain you want to take our most effective fighter out of the battle?” Vara looked at him with incredulity.
“They’re going to have to evacuate at some point and Fortin is not so light on his feet,” Cyrus said. He turned to the druid. “Teleport them out. We’re going to fall back to the Chancel and make sure the streets are clear.” With a nod, the druid cast a spell on himself, ran to the edge of the bridge and stepped off, continuing his dash across the air itself.
“Let’s start the retreat,” Cyrus said, sword dancing to keep the enemy at bay. Four dark elves charged at him. He looked to Vara and Longwell. “You two start backing up, I’ll follow.”
A burst of flame extended the width of the bridge, burning the dark elves in front of Cyrus. The foes behind the line of fire halted, and he heard a voice over his shoulder. “Enough of your stubbornness.” He turned to face Chirenya, her hand extended. “Come along—this won’t last forever.”
With a last look at the dark elven army trapped behind the barrier of fire, Cyrus exchanged a look with Vara and then Longwell. “Full retreat. Let’s go.”
They fell back, running across the bridge. The hidden sunrise cast Termina in a pale light, and the Entaras’iliarad was near-deserted, the quietest Cyrus had yet seen it. “J’anda!” he said to the dark elf. “Can you send part of your illusory army marching toward the Northbridge? Maybe we can buy some time.”
The dark elf did not answer, but half the illusionary force began a march down the bridge, executing an about-face and starting down the span. Cyrus’s eye fell on the harbor. Most of the skiffs and boats had left, but a few remained with the wooden docks and warehouses on the quay. “Chirenya, can you set the wharf on fire? No sense in giving the dark elves a city that’s equipped to blockade the whole river Perda.”
She halted in her run and raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you have more brains than I gave you credit for.” She waved a hand three times and he could see a burst of flame catch on three of the warehouses and one of the larger ships and begin to spread. “That should do it.” They resumed their run back toward the city.
Cyrus cast a look back and saw the barrier of fire remained across the bridge. “How long can you maintain that?”
Chirenya was sweating and drawn; whether from the exertion of maintaining the barrier or the running, he could not say. “Another minute or two, perhaps. Enough for us to have a bit more of a headstart.” She puffed and then looked at him with a grudging respect. “I know I have belittled you in the past, but I must say, you are quite an effective dog of war
.”
Cyrus grunted. “But still a dog?”
“With fleas and all, yes.” Even through her ragged breathing, he could see she was trying to smile.
They reached the end of the bridge and Cyrus looked ahead to the Chancel of Life. The quiet of the Entaras’iliarad struck him, only a few souls lingering here and there. He watched the Sanctuary force running before him and felt a swell of pride at what they had done. I hope Odellan’s all right; I suspect without a healer he had a hell of a night.
The smell of the smoke from Santir overwhelmed the city. In the distance, Cyrus could hear the rumble of the army behind them, but the city was quiet, save for Vara’s shouts of “The dark elves are coming!” A door slammed somewhere far off, and the sound of the Sanctuary force’s footfalls threatened to drown everything else out.
“I need to go home,” Chirenya said, and started to change direction.
Cyrus stopped with her. “Why?”
“There are things I should bring,” she said. “Things I can’t bear to leave behind.”
“There’s a horde of dark elves descending on us,” Cyrus said. “If you have to choose, which is more important to you—whatever you’ve left in your destroyed house, or your life?”
The older woman glared at him, and he could see the resistance mounting in her eyes, her shoulders tensed as though she were about to lash out at him. Vara was to his right, her hands on her knees, gulping in deep breaths. Finally, Chirenya relaxed. “Fine. You are correct; nothing left behind is worth my life.”
“Good,” Cyrus said. “Let’s sweep toward the Chancel and make sure there aren’t any stragglers.” An uncomfortable thought presented itself. “Or a glut of people backed up trying to get out of the city.”
They moved onward. The fatigue by this point was such that Cyrus felt a great weakness in his arms. The night’s exertions had taken a toll, but since he had sheathed his sword his arms had begun to stiffen. I don’t know that I’ve ever engaged in that much combat in a single night. Evidently my body was not prepared for it. The cold morning air appeared in little puffs as he exhaled, his cloak long since discarded in the battle. When he had been fighting, it had felt too warm for it; now he could feel the sweat and sticky blood from the wounds he’d suffered cooling on his skin, giving him chills.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 27