Chapter 112
Cyrus
There was nothing but the soulless eyes of death, staring at him, waiting, looking him down. The teeth were exposed, and something dripped onto his face-blood, he realized as it speckled him, spattered on his black armor, the strong smell of it came to his nose along with the wet, disgusting feeling of the sticky saliva mixed with it. It was enough to make him want to let go, to let his fingers, screaming with pain, release, but he held on. He stared back into the red eyes, heard the low growl that Drettanden made, and wondered where his army was, what they were doing. There were screams in the distance, of pain or surprise, he couldn’t tell, but they were there.
The pain in his knuckles was near unbearable. Even the cushioning in the gauntlets did not assuage it, the searing ache that radiated out from having the entirety of his weight relying on the one hand. He tried to readjust, staring back at Drettanden, lifting his other arm, still numb from the scourge-god’s blow, and trying to reach up to the bridge. He failed and nearly lost his grip. I can’t do this. I can’t hold on. Why am I bothering? It’s over. He’s broken through our line. The minute that fire drops, his friends will join him and that’ll be it. They’ll be on Arkaria, and there will be no stopping them, even if we could get everyone allied and cooperating. This is the end. I’ve failed. He looked from the red eyes, the hopeless feeling they conveyed, to the sea below, blue-green waves lapping against the support. I could drop, fall in, all the way down to the bottom … and it’d all be over …
And why not? He looked up at the face of the former god, at the paw poised to destroy strike him down, hovering, and wondered. Why should I not go? What is there to stay for? What is there to live for? To see my people destroyed one slow step at a time? To watch as this thing overcomes us and kills everything in its path? What is there to fight for, to believe in …? The scourge-god looked at him and seemed to smile, the jagged teeth dripping with malice as his clawed foot began to descend on Cyrus …
There was a blast of force and Drettanden blew sideways, a sudden shock in its eyes as it was flung, slipping, into the nearby pillar atop the bridge. Cyrus heard the stone break along with bone, and the mewling scream from the scourge creature was louder than any he had heard since a dragon had shouted at him.
It’s not over.
He swung his other arm around again, clamped the other hand onto the side of the bridge. No leverage. I’ll have to pull myself all the way up if I’m to do this. He blinked and looked down at the water again, and it looked so appealing, the dark and mysterious depths.
“That is not the way,” a voice said from above him, and he felt a hand upon his-strong, clenching at his gauntlet. He looked up and felt a wash of relief at the sight, the half of a face that showed from beneath the old helm; the battered armor was recognizable in an instant.
“Alaric,” Cyrus said and pulled as the Guildmaster stood, dragging him up. For the knight it appeared no struggle at all, and he lifted Cyrus back upon the bridge and nearly to his feet without effort. He stared at the old knight’s chin, at his grey eye sparkling beneath the slit in the helm. “Alaric … you came.”
“I could not leave you to face these foes alone,” the Ghost said, turning back to Drettanden. “I see you have run into … difficulties.” There was a roar from Drettanden as it staggered off the broken pillar and turned toward Cyrus and Alaric, snorting and spitting blood, both red and black, upon the stone bridge.
“That’s Drettanden,” Cyrus said, looking at the creature. “Or what’s left of him.”
“Indeed,” Alaric said coolly, and Cyrus felt pressure in his palm as Alaric pressed Praelior into his hand. “You’ll be needing this, then.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said and took a fighting stance, sword in hand. “You could just hit him again, you know?” He looked to Alaric. “Sweep him off the bridge and into the water, end this?”
The eyes behind the helm did not blink. “I think he would always hold some mastery over you if I were to do that. Do not fear to face that which confounds you. Look it in the eyes and strike it down.”
Cyrus took a ragged breath and looked back at the God of Courage, fallen as he was, a distorted and pathetic creature, snarling at Alaric. “All right.” He took a step forward, then another, breaking into an attacking run. He let the air fill his lungs again, the anger course through his veins. They’ll destroy my land. They’ll crush everything that matters to me. They’ll break my home, and the entirety of my world will be consumed by death …
He brought the blade around as Drettanden snapped at him. He sunk it into the nose and across the lips, snagging it on a tooth, which broke free when he ripped hard at the hilt. A paw came up at him to strike but he dodged and blocked with his blade, letting the glow of it guide him to the grey and pallid skin. He heard the screech of a good block, listened to the pain, and roared himself as he struck again at the face, that soulless face with empty eyes. He saw the flash of his blade in them, the glow reflected as he ripped into the creature’s cheek, gouging the mouth wider with his strike.
The head came around again but Cyrus was ready. Instead of dodging, he threw himself at it, blade first. He buried the sword in the side of the head, and Drettanden halted his forward momentum quickly, screeching, jerking away rather than following through with a headbutt that would have sent Cyrus flying. Strike at your fear, and it will recoil. He worked the sword free, prompting Drettanden to retreat three steps to swing about to face him. Grasp at it and it will dissolve in the sunlight. Confront it, make it your own … and make it fear you.
He let out a cry of rage and emotion, jumping into the air and striking down with the blade again. A streak of black blood welled up on the face of the dead god, and he backed up again toward the still-standing wall of fire, toward the foes that waited beyond, a chorus of wailing voices and gnashing teeth. Cyrus pressed the attack and Drettanden moved into the fire and recoiled, screaming in a voice that was almost human but very definitely not. With three quick strikes, Cyrus carved into the face of the beast, and when it tried to bat at him, he slipped low and waited for the paw to land. You are faster than your fears. You need not outrun them when you can outfight them, conquer them, make them yours … He threw everything into the thrust, all his strength, the full twist of his hips and back, and he landed the blow at the ankle joint of Drettanden’s front leg. Praelior buried itself into the grey flesh all the way to the bone. Cyrus forced it in, harder now, gritting his teeth and pushing with all his strength as the creature lifted its foot.
With a surge forward, Cyrus felt the flesh and bone give first, and the foot came free, as did his sword. He stumbled forward then dodged to his left as Drettanden fell, squealing all the way down. The scourge-god landed heavily on his face, now missing a foot to stand on. Cyrus whirled about, saw the creature lying splayed out, and he spun his sword around. “You wanted to make me fear you. You thought you could drive me before you, keep running me.” Cyrus clenched his hand over the grip of the sword as he reversed it. “You think this is your sword, but it’s not. I won it through a price paid you can’t imagine, through sacrifice you probably can’t even conceive of anymore. This is Praelior, the Champion’s Sword. And I’m going to give it back to you-right now.”
Cyrus leapt, his arc taking him high above the creature. He landed heavily on the back of its neck as it struggled to stand. Without warning he plunged the blade down into the top of Drettanden’s skull, and he couldn’t even feel the resistance as he shoved it into the head of what once had been the God of Courage. There was a sound almost like a sizzle as the blade cut through the flesh, broke through bone, and then a sickening lurch as the creature’s balance shifted. As its legs collapsed, Cyrus withdrew the sword and vaulted off, coming to a landing and hitting with his shoulder, sliding into a forward roll that carried him back to his feet, armor clinking against the stone surface of the bridge.
He came up and Alaric was waiting, standing there peacefully calm, watching. Odellan was ther
e, ghastly pale but alive, Longwell next to him, holding his side and using his lance to keep him upright. Scuddar watched as well, and Terian; the others stood back a ways, and Cyrus could see a druid straining, red glow around his hands.
“You may cease the fire now,” Alaric said to the druid, who dropped mercifully to the ground at that. Martaina caught the man in her arms and began to drag him backward. “You seem to have come up against your fears and won.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said. “I suppose I did, at that.”
“You couldn’t have done that at Enrant Monge?” Terian asked, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “Might have made it easier on the rest of us.”
“Sorry,” Cyrus said, spinning about as the line of fire began to disappear from the bridge. “I don’t think it quite works that way.”
“Figures,” the dark knight said. “You’re so screwed up it took you a year to get the idea ironed out in your head that you’re the greatest warrior walking the land of Arkaria.” Cyrus looked at him in surprise, and the dark knight shook his head. “Or so I’ve heard others say.”
“They come,” Longwell said. “That big one might be dead, but there’s a whole host behind him that isn’t letting up.”
Cyrus looked back at them, and the smell of death washed over him. It was familiar and horrible-but no longer fearsome. He saw the black eyes and the emptiness within them, but instead of fear, he felt a curiosity, a pity-They didn’t ask to become this. To end them is a mercy. A cool reserve found him, a confidence, a glacial sense of inevitability. We will strike down many today. Kill many. They were loosed now, the fire no longer holding them back. They rushed forward in a mad dash, coming at Cyrus, at the others. He hefted Praelior in his hand, felt the weight of the blade, heard the scamper of the claws on the stone, and could taste the desire to break them as fast as they could come at him. Come on, then. Send all that you have, and I’ll fight them. To the death-mine or theirs. And I’d wager theirs comes long before mine.
I’m not afraid of you.
Chapter 113
Vara
Day 223 of the Siege of Sanctuary
They came in a flood now, from all directions, from holes in the wall that were beyond number. The Sanctuary defenders were forced up against the front steps in retreat, and there was fighting everywhere within the walls. There is only room in this space for a few thousand, but a few thousand we have and more. A few thousand of ours trying to beat them back, a few thousand of theirs trying to come forward, and we’ll be left with a few thousand dead on each side by the time this is through-a better bargain for them with their more than a hundred thousand in number than us with our less than four.
The striking of swords, the guttural cries of men and women at war: these were the things that dominated the space around her. Clash of weapon against weapon, of blade on blade and against armor, shield and gauntlet. It was frenzied chaos, wall to wall, a shoving match and a swordfight all in one, and the smell of the dead filled her nose until she could taste it, death and despair in equal measure, and no matter how many times she plunged her sword into a dark elf, it did not cease.
Fortin was at the gap, the closest one, where the gate had once stood, and he was holding out, armored bodies flung through the air every few seconds. She saw spells arcing toward him but the rock giant appeared unmoved by them, and another armored dark elf hit the wrecked wall, cracking and screaming as he fell back to the earth.
A fire burst held the next gap, surging, almost a living flame, reminding her of the bit of magic she’d seen used against the trolls at the last assault on the foyer. We’re losing. Too many of them, too few of us, and all the time in the world helps us little. She felt a nick against her arm as a dagger bit into it and she gasped but did not halt her swing. She killed the wielder of the blade and was prepared to deal death to the next dark elf in line when a face popped into her view.
“This is not going well,” Aisling said to her, wrenching a dagger across the throat of an unsuspecting dark elf who stood between her and Vara.
“Ah, so your talent for understatement is what Cyrus finds attractive about you,” Vara muttered, striking down another dark elf with even more fury than she thought she had in her.
“Actually, it’s my talent for-” The dark elf was forced to parry a strike by a troll, rolling between his legs and coming up behind him to strike him in the kidneys with two blades. “Well,” she called back to Vara as the troll toppled over, clutching his back. “You know.”
Vara did not answer, but a bout of fury overcame her and the next enemy who crossed her sight line ended up bisected at the waist from an unrelenting strike. As the upper body fell, she parlayed it into a diagonal cross strike of her next foe, and she saw the blood shining from his exposed ribs as he fell. Go on, bitch. Say it again. Tell me all about it, I could use some rage to fuel my fire. She raised a hand at the gap in the wall to their left and mentally repeated the incantation she knew by heart; at the last moment a bit of excess anger bled into her thoughts and something hiccupped from her hand, a blast of pure, furious force that ballooned wider than she’d ever made it go before. It surged forward, knocking flat half a hundred dark elves flooding through the gap, flinging countless numbers of them into the air and into their fellows to sounds of bones breaking, men screaming in pain, and bodies falling from their apogee, some launched as far as twenty feet into the air. She blinked and looked back to Aisling in surprise.
The dark elf stared back at her, openmouthed. “Would it help if I taunted you again?”
“It wouldn’t help you,” Vara growled, and turned back to the enemies that came at her in two prongs. Her sword was a blaze of motion, and the frenzy was more than she could stand. He held her, touched her, was-WITH her-smelling her white hair, pressing his skin against hers. She fought off the urge to feel anything but the rage and turned it loose, sword a blur of fury, blood scything through the air around her.
“We can’t hold them back!” The voice broke into her consciousness after several minutes and she seemed to come back to herself. It was darkening, the skies above them, and not with rain. The sun was nearly below the wall and the sky was dimming. How long have we been fighting? The lawn was strewn with bodies, countless dark elves and more than a few of her own. Healers are mitigating that. If they weren’t, we’d be matching them corpse for corpse. “We need to retreat!” She looked to the source of the voice and realized it was Vaste, his staff in hand, at the top of the Sanctuary steps only feet away. The troll whipped his staff across the face of a dark elf that charged up at him then grabbed the man and flung him off the top of the stairs. “Vara, do you hear me?”
“Just … keep healing us!” she called back, at the base of the stairs herself. She blinked in surprise. Wasn’t I at the left break in the wall just a moment ago?
“We’ve been doing so for hours,” Vaste called back. “We’re nearly dry of magical energy. Call the retreat and barricade the doors while we recover, or every soldier you lose will be lost for good.”
The world spun about her, filling her vision with cracks and a whirl, as though the sky had taken up its own rotation. We can’t lose. We can’t fall, not now. She looked to the front gate, where it had stood; even Fortin had moved back now, only thirty feet in front of her, and a solid wall of dark elves was pushing forward. The rock giant wobbled, and black liquid ran down the surface of his body as he battled with three trolls simulataneously. They were all of a height and looked like titans fighting in the middle of the battlefield.
“Retreat,” she whispered, so low only she could hear it at first, or so she thought. Aisling’s head snapped around to gape at her in shock. “RETREAT!” she called again, louder this time, and heard other Sanctuary voices take up the call, weary ones, almost drowned out by the screams of victory by the dark elves around them, screams that echoed off the remains of the walls of Sanctuary and up and up, until she was certain that they could be heard the whole world over.
Chapter 114
Cyrus
It was nearing night now, and the end of the bridge was close, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. The sweat poured off him in gallons, he was certain, as though his whole skin were drenched with it and the blood of the scourge, that foul-black stuff that had smelled of death only this morning. The gasping of those fighting on the line beside him was strong but not overwhelming, and Cyrus could scarcely feel his arms but to know that they were there, and that Praelior was in a death-grip in his right hand, ready to deal out whatever destruction he saw fit to mete.
“Running out of time,” Terian’s call was calm, calmer than Cyrus thought it should be given the circumstances.
“And to think,” Longwell said, driving a lance through three of the scourge to the far right of Cyrus, “I could have been mouldering and dead on the shores of my homeland right now. Instead I get to watch us fail here and see these things delivered upon the shores of Arkaria.” He almost sounded mocking, but there was no joy in it. “I can’t thank you enough for saving me so I could witness this day. Truly, it will haunt me for all the rest of my life, all six months of it, should the pattern of Luukessia hold.”
“I don’t wish to see these days, either,” Odellan said darkly. “To think of what we’ve wrought on the people already dead is almost too much to bear. To add Arkaria to it is a frightful thing, not worthy of contemplation. I would rather die here than watch my land go slowly into the devouring mouths of these things the way we watched Luukessia go. Better to finish out swiftly than the slow slide, like ailing to death.”
There was silence for only a moment before Alaric spoke from Cyrus’s left, his blade always in motion and faster than even Cyrus’s had been. “I find it dispiriting, your lack of faith that we can stop these beasts before they reach the shore.”
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