Master (Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  Verity hit the ground with a fearsome sound, her horse landing atop her. The violence of the impact was sudden but muted by a flash of cerulean that nearly blinded Cyrus. A ball of blue energy hovered before her and Aisling, and Cyrus watched numbly as the wizard grasped it, moaning as she did so. She disappeared into a flash of light that consumed her as well as her fallen horse.

  Cyrus swept his gaze to Aisling, letting his hand fall to Praelior, finally, his instincts finally coming back to life after the stunning weight of pain and emotion had kept him on his knees and at her mercy for entirely too long. “I trusted you,” he rasped.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and he was left with the impression she truly was. She did not wait for his reply, however, snatching the ball of light out of the air and vanishing in the power of the spell.

  “Cyrus!” Vara shouted as she was nearly upon him. The skies were dim, now, and his hand was upon the grip of his sword, sweating profusely within the lining of his gauntlet. The pain was still sharp, the taste of blood still present but slightly diminished. The hoofbeats of Vara’s horse came to a halt feet from him, drawn to a sharp stop, raring to its hind legs. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cyrus lied as he fumbled for Windrider’s reins. He felt slow, diminished even with his hand on Praelior. He turned to look at Vara as he did so. “She tried to kill you all,” he said dumbly.

  “And what did she do to you?” Vara’s voice whipsawed past him. “Because it looked as though she stabbed you in the back under your armor.”

  “She did,” Cyrus said, keeping the pained expression off his face. “But that’ll keep.”

  “Fool,” she said mildly, her heart plainly not in the remonstration. She raised a hand and he saw the twinkle of spell-light. “Have Curatio heal you as well; mine do not carry nearly so much curative power as his.”

  “Okay,” Cyrus said cautiously. His head already felt light. He put his loose left hand upon his flank and brought it forward; it was covered with dark liquid that shone against the black metal palm. His mind was strangely blank, and only one thought recurred: I cannot lose this battle.

  “Are you coming?” Vara asked, still ahorse. She had the reins tight in her hands, staring down at him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Okay.” Windrider snorted at him, whinnying loudly as he tried to place a foot in the stirrup and failed the first time with a grimace. The pain was manageable, he told himself. He landed his foot on the second try and hoisted himself up with a grunt that contained a scream only by the judicious application of his teeth to his lips. He made it, though, and swung himself over to balance atop the horse, who held incredibly still under the sway of his considerable weight.

  “Hurry,” Vara said as he slowly brought Windrider about, “unless you’d like to become fodder for the dark elven army’s spiders.”

  “I’m hurrying,” Cyrus said, spurring Windrider into a trot, every step of which hurt. The grey sky clung above him like a blanket, and made him crave a long sleep in which he could tuck himself under it. He could still taste the blood, but his mouth felt strangely dry.

  He returned the to chaotic lines, reforming behind the Sanctuary officers. The ground was scorched and glassy, the wet, trodden grass completely burned away by Verity’s spell. Cyrus stared at the line, neatly made, each officer standing where they were before the incident. Cyrus steadily guided Windrider back into place, easing into the line. “Are you quite alright?” he asked, looking down at each of them, their horses blurring together and forcing him to shake his head to clear it.

  “We are fine,” Curatio said seriously. There was a tightness to his expression that belied the fury Cyrus had seen radiate from the healer moments before. “In spite of a serious betrayal.”

  “Tell me about it,” Cyrus said, and realized he had said it somewhat hoarsely.

  “Are you quite well?” Curatio asked. “Do you require a healing spell?”

  Cyrus waved him off. “Vara took care of it.”

  “Damnation,” Andren said from his place a few horses down the line, “she bled you good.”

  “What’s that?” Cyrus asking. He could feel himself sway atop the horse. Windrider whinnied loudly.

  “You’ve bled all down the back of Windrider.” Andren pointed at the flank of the horse. Cyrus tried to turn and nearly passed out from the pain.

  “Nothing to be done for it now that I’ve had a healing spell,” Cyrus said, stringing together the lie as best he could.

  “They’re coming,” Longwell shouted from down the line. He hoisted his lance in the air, high enough for Cyrus to see it.

  “Okay,” Cyrus said, “remember this … is a battle of maneuverability. From what we know, they’re an … infantry-based army.” His head swam, and he could see the lines of the dark elves, blurry in the distance. It was as though the sun was shining directly in his eyes, without the glare. “We’ll hammer them with cavalry when they close, break them up with a charge, then go about disassembling them once their ranks are broken and … disorganized.” He managed to get it all out, stringing together thoughts as though he were threading a piece of twine between trees in a forest.

  He looked to his right; Vara peered at him with narrowed eyes. “You are not well.”

  “I’m as well as I’m gonna get,” Cyrus said, putting on a wolfish grin that was all facade. “Is Forrestant ready to do his part?”

  “He stands ready,” Curatio said. “Perhaps you should stay out of the fray until you recapture yourself.”

  Cyrus started to argue and turned just a degree, far enough to feel a scream of pain that nearly caused him to lose his balance and topple. “Not a bad idea. Odellan,” Cyrus caught the soldier’s attention, “you’ll lead the infantry into the field while Longwell moves with the cavalry.”

  “Aye,” Odellan said, and Cyrus did not miss the odd tone in the elf’s voice at his choice.

  “Leading from behind is not exactly your usually stratagem,” Andren said quietly.

  “What is wrong with you?” Vara said, but it was not harsh; it almost sounded caring, warm concern stretched over urgency.

  “I’ve just been stabbed in the back by someone I trusted,” Cyrus said, waving his right hand lightly at her to dismiss her concerns. “Forgive me if I’m slightly rattled.” He looked at her, and could tell she was not convinced. The first rank of dark elves was only a few hundred feet away now. “Ryin, signal for Forrestant to begin his bombardment.”

  “So ordered,” Ryin said from his place in the air, and a barrage—roughly a third or less of what had been fielded at Livlosdald—broke overhead a moment later. The explosions rocked the battlefield just shy of the advancing enemy, which stopped just outside the first round of falling bombs. Cyrus blinked at the maneuver, the sudden stop of the army opposite them. It took him a moment to realize—

  “That’s Malpravus behind the first rank,” Vara said, her eyes now thankfully shifted to the battle. Her voice hardened. “And Terian.”

  Terian. Cyrus’s eyes blinked, watering, as he stared across the field of impending battle at the massive dark elven army. He felt as though he were too tall for the world, too tall for his horse, and he bobbed with Windrider underneath him. The horse moved to compensate, and he managed not to fall.

  The dark elven army began to move again, to charge across the blackened field of battle, men in armor easily hurdling the small fires left behind after the explosion of the projectiles Forrestant’s segment of the army had sent forth. They ran across the field in a mad hurry, and they seemed so very many to Cyrus, like they stretched beyond the horizon. He squinted, trying to focus his attention on them, trying to determine a count. Isn’t this usually easier? He found himself unable to concentrate, the pain welling up and displacing every thought he attempted to form.

  The second wave of projectiles launched overhead to mixed effect. It hit in pockets, wiping out segments of the charging army but failing to slow them. Body parts flew through the air with each i
mpact, small craters left where each landed.

  “It’s not stopping them like last time,” Vaste said from somewhere down the line. Cyrus did not turn to look.

  “Ready the army,” Odellan said, presumably to someone behind him.

  “Perhaps you should head to the back of the lines,” Vara said. It took Cyrus a moment to realize she was talking to him.

  Cyrus still held his grip on Praelior, but he could feel his hand shake uncontrollably with even his light grip upon the hilt. “All right,” he said. He looked down the fore of the charging army and could form just enough thought to realize that if he could barely remain ahorse, dismounting to fight would be an exceedingly poor idea. He turned Windrider and started the horse on a slow canter back to the nearest break in the lines that would lead him away from the fight.

  “Cavalry, ready!” Cyrus could hear the shout, and turned his head to look. He could see the dark armor of Longwell on the left flank, lance held high. They’ll wait until the dark elves are good and exposed, until the snake is fully uncoiled. Cyrus stopped his horse about two-thirds of the way back of the army’s ranks, surveying the battle. He could feel eyes on him, watching him, wondering and questioning why he was not at the fore. For his part, he simply tried to keep drawing breath, which was becoming more and more of a challenge.

  The clouds above were exceedingly dark, the wind whipping bitterly around him. He could smell fire on the air as well as taste the blood in his own mouth. The noise was chaotic, a cry, a roar, a hubbub that all blended together in a faint cacophony under the sound of wind or blood rushing in his ears; he could not tell which.

  “Lord Davidon, are you all right?” a faint voice asked. Cyrus found he could not answer. He felt as though the beads of sweat that ran down his forehead were as big as his gauntlets. He felt both cold and hot at the same time.

  He had a perfect view of the front rank of dark elves slamming into his forward army, and a stench washed over him that reminded him of death. They were clad in armor from head to toe, light armor that extended to leather masks and guards for every part of their body. It was a fearsome effect, he reflected, and was surprised he had not noted it until now. It gave them the look of lightly armored knights, churning up the field in their uniform appearance, an army sweeping in time toward his; the tide rushing in.

  They hit his lines and there was chaos, immediate and certain. The dark elves broke through in places, crashing like waves on the rocks and slipping into every gap. He watched it as though it were happening in a fever dream, his people falling here and there even as they struck down dark elves. The bombardment added a chorus to the thing, low roars here and there, a drum pounding in the background.

  Arrows flew. Had he noted them before? They shot from a formation of archers on the right flank to little effect, sprinkles of spices dropping through leaden air upon an army so thick that they did not seem to fell a single soldier. Cyrus watched the chaos hew closer to him, watched it as though it were unfolding miles away even as the dark elves slashed their way through the front ranks of the Army of Sanctuary.

  Cyrus saw Curatio, still atop his horse, swinging his mace down upon unsuspecting enemies. One of the dark elven helms flew through the air as though it were a ball thrown by a strong arm. It made a low, lobbing arc and rolled into the left flank.

  Cyrus looked up and saw the horses of his cavalry in motion. He imagined he could smell them, hear them champing and stamping, churning the wet Riverland sod as they made their charge. They came all in a spear, riding hard toward the body of the dark elven army. There went a ripple through that side of the dark elven formation, and he thought it curious.

  Curious. Almost as if it had been preplanned. As if it indicated something.

  Something important.

  Cyrus found himself wanting to shout, but a hoarse whisper came out instead, deep and throaty, almost unrecognizable. “Stop the charge. Stop the … charge.” He coughed, a wracking spasm that almost caused him to fall from Windrider. He tasted the tang of blood upon his lips, wet and rolling down his chin, a warm slobber of his lifeblood.

  The air grew still around him as the cavalry closed their distance on the dark elven army’s right flank, the axe ready to fall upon the enemy. He watched it grow closer and closer, watched it fall home—

  As the first of the horses hit that edge of the dark elven formation, he watched them fall as though their legs had been cut from underneath them, and every horse and rider that slashed their way into the depths of the dark elven army disappeared under the swords and axes and clubs of an enemy that stopped their charge as though it were nothing more than a child toddling into the midst of a bloodthirsty horde. In helpless horror he watched them fall, line after line, and he could not even raise his voice to make it stop.

  Chapter 60

  Cyrus watched the horses disappear in wave after wave, ripples radiating out from the right flank of the dark elven army as they sunk almost without sight under whatever assault the dark elves were making. He felt a panic rise within him and urged Windrider forward unthinking even as he realized his army was falling back in front of him. Chaos tinged the air, screams and cries of battle mingled in his ears. The dark elven horde was surging, the Army of Sanctuary was wavering; the failure of the charge of the cavalry ahead was at least obvious to most of their number from the slightly higher ground which they occupied.

  Every step of the horse brought Cyrus stinging pain. He drew his blade and urged Windrider forward. There was a whicker that almost sounded like a denial, but the horse continued steadily on, up to the disintegrating front lines.

  Dark elves saw him and started for him when he was but a hundred feet from the beginnings of the ever-expanding battle. The Sanctuary formations made a ripple of their own, warriors and rangers bowing out to precede him, to fight the seeping precursors to keep them away from their General and Guildmaster. Cyrus respected the gesture but said nothing; he could not muster any words.

  He stopped the horse and slung over his right foot to dismount, keeping his torso from twisting to aggravate his wound. As he stepped down, the agony speared him again, nearly causing him to sink to his knees as he folded in half at the midsection. He recovered, though, and raised himself back to standing. He held Praelior in his hand and turned to face the advancing ranks of dark elves. Their dark armor, their faceless masks, they filled his view as far as his eye could discern.

  He made ready for the onslaught coming. He swung his right arm experimentally; he managed several strong strokes without twisting his torso and making his wound do little more than murmur in pain. This is manageable. I can do this.

  He took slow steps forward. Dark elves emerged from the increasingly swirling lines, throwing themselves at him. They were not as slowed by his sword's magical effect as they usually were, but they were slow enough. Praelior cut through them—and their armor—as though they were boots running over soft sod. He watched them fall into the mud, dark blood draining out on dark ground.

  Cyrus heard a chorus of cheers from behind him; his army, watching their General take the field. The horde of the enemy was still swirling as far as his eye could see. There was not a single troll in view.

  “What are you doing?” He heard Vara from his right and turned his head to look, turning it back just in time to slash through another small wave of dark elves. She was there in the fray, looking at him questioningly, silver armor slick with red—her own blood, or that of one of another member of Sanctuary.

  “Fighting,” Cyrus managed to say loud enough for her to hear. “Do we have a cessation spell out?”

  “No,” she said, “but the dead are not exactly rising.”

  “Good.” Cyrus turned his attention to a dark elf that broke free of the line in front of him and slashed the beast’s head off. “Then we’ll be able to unleash some spells. We need to work our way out to the fallen cavalry.”

  “Are you barmy?” Vara shouted. “We’re not even holding them back here, let alone in any
position to start trying to drive them back!”

  Cyrus blinked, taking three dark elves in turn, the last rushing him from the left and forcing him to turn slightly. It hurt, a knife of pain in his side that caused his sword stroke to miss slightly low. It still decapitated his foe, but it was not as clean as he would have preferred, an extra inch of shoulder taken off with all the extra effort that required.

  Cyrus turned his eyes back toward the place where the cavalry had disappeared; long lines of them were still visible, halted in their charge and standing off at a distance from the battle. Cyrus thought that wise; whatever the dark elves had deployed—caltrops, probably, judging by the way the horses had fallen once they hit the line of battle—there was no attacking the dark elves on that side from horseback. Nor, he had to concede, was there room to maneuver over to the other flank, assuming the dark elves did not have caltrops ready to deploy on that side of their formation. Which would be a poor assumption.

  Cyrus saw an empty circle in the far section of the dark elven army, a break in their charge, their forward surge. He could see something moving around within it, keeping them at bay. He watched a lance go skyward for a moment before sweeping in a circle, and he knew who was at work within their army. Longwell. He’s still alive. Gods be with him.

  “We need to turn the tide,” Cyrus muttered. His sword was moving slowly but automatically; still, slow to him was fast to those without the weapon of a fallen god in their grasp, and he fended off every comer in his place just behind the front Sanctuary rank, slashing holes in any dark elf that dared to try and slip through to wreak havoc. The forward line was strong, healers keeping their charges hearty. The soldiers were covered in their own blood by this point, the flaws in their armor exposed and obvious by the bright red signs left behind, stains of wounds long since healed.