“She’ll be fine,” Curatio said brusquely. “Physically, at least.”
“I had hoped that the resurrection spell would allow her to forget what happened.” Cyrus stared at the castle walls. “I take it that …?”
“No such luck.” Curatio reached into his robes, keeping his face impassive, and his hand emerged with a small but wicked looking mace. He pressed a button on the handle and half-inch spikes popped out along a horizontal line on the ball of the mace.
“Don’t you worry about that button getting pressed accidentally in your robe?” Cyrus said, looking at the weapon, eyes wide.
Curatio stared at it and cocked his head, indifferent. “It has happened, once or twice.”
“And?”
Curatio shrugged. “I’m a healer. It’s a rather simple fix.”
“Ah.” Cyrus turned his attention back to the castle. “All ready?” He heard words of affirmation behind him, the subtle agreement of those going with him. “Mendicant, Nyad, J’anda and Ryin, follow directly behind me, Aisling, Martaina, Longwell, Terian, and Scuddar, you’re up front. Curatio-”
“I’ll be up front, too,” the healer said, and rolled his wrist in a circle, spinning the mace around by a leather strap, making it blur as though he were about to throw it like a hammer.
“You’re the only healer we’re taking with us,” Cyrus said.
“Then you should probably watch my back,” the elf said without emotion, “and I promise they’ll not strike me down from in front.”
Cyrus shifted his gaze to Scuddar, Longwell, and Terian in turn, his eyes carrying a warning. Protect him. He received nods in return from all but Terian, who was paying him no mind.
“Let’s get this carnival of slaughter underway,” Terian said, placing his helm on his head. It bore spikes like devil horns, curving six inches into the air. When coupled with his spiked pauldrons and darkened steel armor, it gave him a demonic appearance. Cyrus saw the gleam of red in his sword and shook his head-truly, the dark knight lives up to his title. He darted forward, causing Cyrus to gesture to the others to move as he ran after Terian.
Cyrus felt his feet leave the ground, as the subtle pressure of the earth against his metal boots lifted away with his next step. He continued to run, the wind of his motion stirring his beard and hair, and he looked upward as he felt himself rise with each step. He kept the battlements in his sight, saw the faces peeking from behind the parapets, mouths open in shock at the sight of a war party-his war party-charging at them while running on air.
Martaina and Aisling had their bows unslung and were firing as they ran. Cyrus saw arrows striking some of those who were leaning out of cover, heard them scream as the arrows struck home and he watched as one of them staggered and fell into the murky, disgusting moat below. Another screamed and came out from behind cover in time to catch another arrow, this one through the chest, sending him to his knees. Most of the castle’s defenders weren’t even wearing armor. Arrogance. That will cost them.
They crested the wall and Cyrus lunged over a battlement, Praelior in hand, driving his sword into a soldier who was waiting for him on the other side. The man had shouted in alarm and begun to run away as Cyrus punched his blade into the man’s lower back. Cyrus saw him jerk, tensing at the pain before going limp. There were roughly ten defenders left along the battlement, and most were so awestruck at the sight of invaders coming over their seemingly impregnable walls that all but three were running to staircases that led down into the bailey, the courtyard below the wall.
Cyrus looked down as he swept Praelior across the chest of one of the castle’s guards who had chosen to fight. The man fell to the courtyard below. The bailey was an open area with a few carts filled with hay and other goods and stables off to the left, which gave the air an aroma of horses. Twenty or more knights were in the courtyard below, and a battle cry went up from their number. They had been standing in formation, their armor covered with the same blue surcoats that Olivere had worn to treat with Cyrus.
“Nyad, Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and pointed Praelior at the knights below. He heard the murmur of the wizards casting spells behind him as he watched the knights spring into motion, their helms covering their heads save for slits for eyes and holes punched to breathe. They had split into two parties, one storming each staircase when the spells struck-flames encircled them in a solid wall and then they rose within the wall as well. A blaze taller than a man seemed to grow out of the ground itself, swirling around the knights, drawing shouts from them at first, of alarm, then of pain that degenerated into shrieks and cries. Cyrus watched as the figures within the fire seemed to melt away, falling to the ground in a slick motion, like water poured out of a cup. A horrendous smell of charred, burnt flesh wafted over the courtyard as Cyrus and his party stared down into the burnt remnants.
“We’re clear to the living quarters,” Martaina said, her bow still nocked and pulled up to fire.
A few pitiful moans made their way to Cyrus’s ears; the last surviving defenders who had run from the battlements had arrows protruding from them and were scattered between the walls and the stairwell. Cyrus looked to his right, where Martaina stood, then to his left, where Aisling had already slung her bow on her back. He caught sight of two of her victims, moaning, saw the fletchings of the arrows protruding from the soldiers’ groins, and winced. He looked at Aisling, who shrugged. “For Calene,” she said simply.
“Keep a close formation.” Cyrus stepped over the edge of the wall and drifted down into the courtyard. “I’m sure there are more of them inside the living quarters. Swords up front, spellcasters behind.” He caught a look from Curatio that was pure heat. “Except you, warrior priest. Go ahead and dispel the Falcon’s Essence, Ryin.” Cyrus felt the wind beneath him dissipate and the clunk of his metal boots hitting the ground echoed through the bailey. “J’anda, you know what to do.”
“I always know what to do,” the dark elf said. “For funerals, you send flowers, for a dinner date, you bring wine, and for those times when your significant other has been putting on weight, you say nothing at all.”
“Very suave,” Terian said. “What do you do when you’re in a foreign land and an army of thugs has kidnapped members of your guild and is holding them hostage?”
“Ah,” J’anda said with a light smile, “I have the perfect answer for that as well.”
They made their way across the stone courtyard, the yellow blocks reminding Cyrus of grains of seasoned rice as the midday sun cast shadows under the ramparts. The living quarters were at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Scuddar was operating the mechanism to open the bridge while Cyrus and the others made their way toward the wooden doors. “Barred?” Cyrus asked as he approached.
“You taking bets?” Terian was beside him. “Because I’d guess yeah. You think they’re oblivious to all this commotion?”
“Thus far,” Cyrus said, “intelligence hasn’t been their strong suit.” When he reached the door he leaned back, Praelior in hand, and felt the strength of the sword surge through him. With a mighty kick he splintered the doors, breaking them from their hinges and sending them twisting inward, falling to the ground with a thunderous clatter. A throne room lay before Cyrus, small of scale, with eight ranks of soldiers, twenty across, shoulder-to-shoulder, standing in his way. These were wearing plate mail, he noticed, as he stared at them, unimpressed.
“I’m here for Baron Hoygraf,” Cyrus said, and pointed his sword at the unmoving statues, their armor giving them the appearance of being posed. “Anyone who doesn’t want to experience unspeakable pain, move out of my way.”
The soldiers remained, their steel armor locked in place, their spears lowered, shields side by side in an impenetrable wall. Cyrus let out an annoyed sigh. “Perhaps you’re laboring under the impression I’m going to charge you down. I’m not. Although if I did, I assure you that your spears and shields are of no concern to me. Are any of you going to surrender? We breached your castle in minutes and hav
e killed every one of the guards you’ve sent at us thus far. Does that not frighten you? Do you not feel a twinge of uncertainty that such an impossible thing could happen?” He watched them, looking for some sign of emotion, but their helms concealed any thoughts they might have had. “Very well then. Just remember, you chose unspeakable pain, not me.”
A strange twinkling of light filled the room. “J’anda?” Cyrus asked. “You gonna be okay?”
“There are rather a lot of them,” the enchanter said, his voice strained. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t talk; I’d like to get this over with.”
“That’s what she said.” Terian’s voice was low but amused and Cyrus caught a glint of humor from the dark knight when he said it. “And by she, I mean Nyad.”
“Oh, yes, I see, very funny,” Nyad said from behind them. “Because I’m a woman who enjoys sexual relations, I must be a horrible, disgusting person. You’re just jealous, you syphilitic, whore-mongering nightmare.”
The lights cascaded in front of the soldiers, and Cyrus saw reflections of eyes inside their helmets, watched the first few of them slacken, the points of their spears drifting downward. “What is that?” he heard one of the soldiers in the back ask, but no one answered.
Then the front rank of the soldiers dropped their shields as one with a great clatter that rang through the hall. They turned in a single motion, raised their spears, and thrust them forward. Cyrus watched as they hit home, in the joints of armor, through gorgets and into necks, and there was shouting as the first three rows of the formation turned on the next, and a melee commenced as the soldiers of Green Hill tried their best to kill one another. Cyrus saw one of the armored soldiers slip a sword under the breastplate of another, watched two others decapitate a third, and he felt a slight smile creep across his face.
“They’ll do this until they’re dead,” J’anda said, and Cyrus looked back to find the enchanter with his eyes closed. “I only needed less than half under my direct control-the others I simply made blind to our presence.”
“Can you maintain this?” Cyrus asked.
“At least until they’re all dead, yes,” J’anda replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Go forth and give my regards to the Baron when you meet him.”
“I’m gonna stick a sword up his ass,” Terian said. “Is that what you mean by regards?”
“Good enough,” J’anda said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Cyrus led the way, skirting the side of the battle, angling toward a hallway to the left of the red velvet padded wooden thrones that sat in the middle of the hall on a raised dais. He walked down the long, grey hallway, motioning to the rooms on either side and letting Terian and Longwell kick open the doors. He heard the screams of women, the cries of children, and then heard the doors shut and the footsteps of Terian and Longwell beside him again moments later. Smells like fear.
He reached another commanding set of double wooden doors, with candles lit on either side of the hallway to offset the darkness that had crept in after he left the main hall. There were no windows and the hall came to an end up ahead. Cyrus turned at the door, pushed on it, and found it barred. “This is it,” he said. “Hoygraf lives until we have a conversation.” Cyrus saw Scuddar push past Nyad and Ryin to join them. “Scuddar, I take it the army is in the castle?” The desert man nodded. “Are they seeing to the dungeons, then?” Another nod from Scuddar, who wore robes that stretched from his face to his feet, an odd bit of attire for one who uses a sword, but then Scuddar is something of a rarity. “All right.”
With another thunderous kick, Cyrus broke down the doors in front of him and let Martaina and Aisling sweep past, their bows already firing. Arrows caught two sentries unprepared; Martaina’s landed in the neck of her foe, Aisling’s once more in the groin. Other guards were arrayed around the room and began to move to engage the Sanctuary force. Cyrus swept two of them aside with a strike that broke their swords neatly in half. Scuddar, Longwell and Curatio took down enemies of their own, and Cyrus saw a bolt of lightning streak through the air and wrap around three guards surrounding another man who huddled at the back of the room.
The one who wasn’t hit by the lightning was clearly standing apart from the others. He wore a red cloak with a fur collar, and his clothing was more sophisticated than most of what Cyrus had seen in Termina or even Pharesia. His hair was black, his face was pale, pale white and his beard was scraggly and black. When he came up from his knees after watching his men downed by Ryin’s lightning spell, there was visible anger etched on his face and a fury in his pale blue eyes.
“Halt!” The man called out, his voice carrying no sign of strain and in a tone that led Cyrus to believe he had never once been disobeyed-at least not without the perpetrator going unscathed.
Cyrus reached out and cut down one of the guards that had halted at the man’s command, then another, and another. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, when the man turned his furious eyes on Cyrus, “I didn’t listen when you told me to turn back, Baron Hoygraf. I didn’t listen when you said you’d kill my people. Do you really expect me to stop now?” Cyrus thrust Praelior through the last of the standing guards, sliding the blade through the guard’s chest and the breastplate he wore as though it weren’t even there.
“But in fairness,” Cyrus said, advancing on Hoygraf, who backed into a wooden hutch, causing the contents inside to clatter like glass, “you didn’t listen to me either. I told you that I would destroy your keep, kill all your men, and give you a painful end if you didn’t return my people, and now here we are, and I’ve nearly kept my word.” There was a bustle behind him and Cyrus turned to see two of his army shoving their way into the room, dragging a haggard figure along with them. “Oh, good, my old friend Olivere.” Cyrus looked at the Sanctuary warriors. “I take it you cleared the dungeons and turned loose our compatriots?” One of the warriors nodded, his crooked front teeth bared in a smile. “Were they similarly harmed like Calene?” The smile of the Sanctuary warrior disappeared, replaced with a scowl that made the crooked front teeth look much more intimidating.
“See, you shouldn’t have done that.” Cyrus turned back to Hoygraf. “Terian? Would you kindly make Olivere aware of the gravity of his liege’s mistakes?”
“With utmost pleasure,” Terian said, and Cyrus could hear the grin in the dark knight’s words without turning to look at him. A moment later, Olivere screamed, even though Terian hadn’t taken so much as a step toward the man. A smell emanated around them, of pestilence and illness, the rancid stench of boils opening to the air. The scream continued, growing in pitch, and Cyrus watched the hard lines on Hoygraf’s face dissolve, his eyes going from narrow to wide as he watched Terian’s spell take effect on his envoy. Hoygraf’s jaw dropped, and the Baron let out a little exhalation of horror.
“Oh, Baron,” Cyrus said. “You tortured and beat our people, had your soldiers do unspeakable things, but a little spell makes you wilt like a flower on the hottest day of summer?” The stench worsened as Cyrus circled Hoygraf, and watched the Baron turn away. Cyrus looked to Olivere, who was now covered in burst, bleeding pustules and writhing on the ground. “That’s right, I forgot. You don’t have spellcasters in Luukessia. But we came from over the bridge, so you had to know it was a possibility that you were up against something of this sort.”
“Illusions and trickery.” Little flecks of spittle came from Hoygraf’s lips when he made his reply. “Your sort is the worst of demons and devils, the curses of all manner of evil that comes from your side of the bridge. You don’t belong over here, in this blessed land of our ancestors, you filth.”
Cyrus felt his hand drift forward, the tip of his sword pressing into the throat of the Baron. “Filth? You call us filth yet you had no issue with brutalizing our women rangers when you captured them.”
“Women need to know their place, and if they wish to stand in the line of battle next to the men, then they should know the injury of-”
“Dear gods, just sh
ut up,” Cyrus said, pressing Praelior’s tip into the Baron’s neck, causing blood to run down his throat in a thick line. “You disgusting, wicked pile of shite, you’re lucky I don’t give you similar injury to theirs with my sword.”
“You unnatural beasts,” Hoygraf said. “King Milos Tiernan marches this way as we speak-”
“And when he gets here, he’ll find us gone,” Cyrus said. “If he’s lucky, he won’t meet us in battle, because I think-and you might agree with me-my army is going to be too much for him to handle. We have wizards, druids, healers and enchanters, and every last one of them will be turned loose to wreak havoc. All we want is to pass through your lands, and every day you asses make me waste here is another day I’m going to make your lives miserable. Your best bet is to let us go on, so we can stop making your lives miserable and start doing the same to Briyce Unger, who I’m told is no friend of yours.”
“He is not,” Hoygraf spat. “But do not think you will be allowed to simply walk through our territory uncontested-”
Cyrus pulled his sword from Hoygraf’s neck and stabbed it into the Baron’s stomach, burying it in his guts. Hoygraf screamed, grunted, and moaned, falling to his knees. Cyrus took care to keep the sword steady as the Baron fell, not letting the blade move. “Let me make this clear to you. You are impotent against us. Your army, even if it numbers ten thousand, will fall before our magical wickedness like wheat falls to the reaper. Your threats against us possess all the efficacy of a castrated bull trying to mate and none of the grace. And speaking of castrated …” Cyrus let his eyes fall down, drawing a look of panic from the Baron. “Kidding. That’s too easy for you.”
Cyrus looked back to Terian, who had Olivere by the collar. The envoy’s eyes bulged from his head and he was still. “I think he’s dead, Terian. You can drop him now.”
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