“It’s all right,” Terian said, shrugging it off as he began to descend a staircase he had walked more times than he could remember, his father trailing a step back. What a curious reversal of power but a few years bring. Life can change with barely a month’s notice, and spin wildly away from the expected path given more time.
“You have a look upon your face,” Amenon said, now alongside him as they came down to the first floor landing. The wood planks squeaked under the combined weight of the two men in armor. “What were you thinking just now?” His face darkened. “Unless it’s something I wouldn’t care to know, like one those idiotic japes you’re so fond of.”
“Nothing so whimsical as that,” Terian said, descending the last floor in the house of his birth. “I was just marveling at how things change, and how quickly they do.” He caught that look of regret from Amenon again, and sighed. “Why, who even knows how they might change between today and tomorrow?”
The look on his father’s face was pure sourness, bitter feelings born of their current location, Terian knew, and he actually regretted saying it for a moment. But there was something else about it, too; an honesty he couldn’t deny, and he found a strange sort of comfort in the thought, as though change, no matter which direction it took, could not lead him anywhere worse than where he already was.
33.
Aisling
She waited on the field of a place called Leaugarden for Cyrus Davidon to turn his head and look at her. She held her hands tight to her horse’s reins, the instructions clear and foremost in her mind, words repeating over and over like a shameful memory that would not depart.
Kill Cyrus Davidon.
“Gods,” Cyrus said, almost a whisper, as she walked her horse slowly toward him. His reticence was hardly a surprise; never a fan of high emotion in any case, Aisling had prepared herself by forcing tears, trying to make her eyes puffier to play the role. In truth, she felt strangely settled about the whole matter, which by now had begun to feel like a task she simply wanted to get over. She was numb to the moral implications of stabbing a man she’d been forced to share a bed with for the last year, or perhaps she simply did not want to consider them too deeply. It’s a little like staring into the mouth of madness when you’re already on the edge. Seems such an inviting jump, if you wanted to simply take that last step and fall for a short while.
“Can I talk to you for a moment before the battle?” Aisling asked, guiding her horse closer to the place where the officers waited.
“Can it wait?” Cyrus’s expression was wary, trepidation mixed with unease, though she was not fully certain whether it was all down to her causing it, or if some anticipation from the coming battle was blended in. “We’re moments from the start of a battle.”
“Not really.” I have no choice but to do this now, before it begins. My instructions were explicit.
“All right.” He nodded, and she saw the decision made. He was not one to linger long on a choice, though she suspected that attribute had bitten him hard more than once. “Can we make it quick?”
“Certainly,” she said and started to lead him away.
“Go on,” Vara said, almost under her breath, “harken to the crack of your master’s whip.” Aisling could hear her victory in the statement, but she felt no sting. Like me with Norenn all those years ago, she’ll soon feel the rage and sorrow of helplessness in the face of your love being yanked away.
“There we go,” Cyrus said as he moved his horse to follow after her, “gleeful and unkind all in one.”
She led him into the field, far enough away from his army that even his officers’ intervention would be difficult in the short term. This was as it had been planned, and a quick look confirmed that the dark elven army was indeed in sight, far off down the road through the rolling of the landscape. She got off her horse, hesitant now as the moment drew close.
Cyrus hesitated before dismounting, finally coming off his horse and sinking into the soft ground just slightly. “Well?”
“Have you reconsidered?” she asked. The moment was coming. Even if he had changed his mind—which he won’t have—she was without choice now. Nothing left but to embrace him tightly and make it quick.
“No,” he said, and she could tell he was taking pains to be as gentle as possible. I’ll repay the favor to him when the moment comes. “Aisling, it’s over. Nothing is going to change my mind.”
“Okay. All right.” It was all performance now, and she made her slow move toward him to close the distance. Every motion was measured, careful, trying to keep from looking like she was the predator slinking toward her prey. His stiff discomfort was blatant, obvious, standing unnaturally like a statue in the middle of this field of soon-to-be battle. She approached him unthreateningly, but avoiding the seductive—more like a last kiss.
One last embrace for old time’s sake.
She wrapped her arms around him as he stood there, stock still, and waited a breath. Two.
As she drew the third, he relaxed almost imperceptibly and his hands came up from his sides to wrap around her slim frame. His strong arms were without their usual strength, though, holding her lightly, as though she were a thing broken that he couldn’t bear to do further harm to. She slipped her dagger out of the arm of her cloak where she’d hidden it, and the smell of the black lace wafted into her nostrils, making her afraid for just a moment that he’d smell it and know.
Her fingers played their way up his back plate, lifting it just enough so that she could work the blade up. Angle it just so, and it’d pierce his heart. Without a healing spell, he’d bleed to death in one minute, perhaps two since he was so large. Her head was on his shoulder, her hand in place, and she opened her eyes, tensing to make the move—
Then she paused for just a second too long as she opened her eyes and saw something quite unexpected.
Genn was standing there in the field to her side. She opened her eyes and he was there, shaking his head, almost unnoticeably, and then—
He was gone.
It took her less than another second to process it, to believe she’d seen it, and to read the message given.
Don’t kill him.
She jabbed the blade into his back, angling down further, away from the heart, and Cyrus tensed in her arms. The strike was sudden, speedy, not something he’d been prepared for, clearly. She knew by the way the blade had entered his body that she’d still most likely gotten his kidney, or at least part of it. She’d studied these things in the service of the Sovereign, of course, and knew how to do the most damage.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to him as his legs buckled under his weight. “But once I told him I had lost your ear, he told me that I had to do this.” A lie, but preferable to the whole truth.
He moved to look her in the eye, and she tried to keep her face implacable. It wasn’t hard. “Wh-who?”
“The Sovereign, of course. He’s the one who told me to get close to you.” Part of her wanted to mention the other reasons, the other guilty parties. But she didn’t, looking him in the eyes instead, staring into the blue chill, the unreasonable wideness of an unbelievably naïve man who hadn’t predicted this, not by a long, long shot.
“Y-you,” Cyrus said, the strength of his legs fading. She kept him on his feet as he stuttered his thoughts. “You were …”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you have no idea what he’s like. What he can do. How he—and his servants—can compel cooperation. There’s a reason you never heard his name until now.”
“They’ll … heal me, you know. I’m not … finished.” He staggered in her grasp, his weight becoming harder and harder to control as his strength faded.
“My blade was coated in black lace,” she said, whispering in his ear. “If there was ever a man strong enough to survive, it would be you.” She withdrew the blade and stared at him curiously. Why did Genn want him alive, I wonder? And how am I supposed to explain this to Shrawn? “I hope you do. But your battle is over, I’
m afraid, and that’s what he wanted.”
“You won’t … get away with this,” Cyrus said, but Aisling was already looking past him to Verity, galloping toward them from over the warrior’s shoulder. The wizard cast a spell of flame and it descended upon the line of Sanctuary officers like one of Forrestant’s bombs, scourging fire deployed from her staff as though being spit from the mouth of a furious dragon.
Verity rode hard toward them, steering her horse in a sharp circle around Aisling and Cyrus. This is the complicated moment; if the Sovereign and Shrawn are truly done with me, they’ll have her kill me now. Or worse, leave me behind, though that’s unlikely …
I simply know too much.
“Surprised to see me?” Verity asked, taunting Cyrus, who was barely standing.
“Serving the Sovereign? Not the usual … choice … for an elf.” Cyrus’s words came slowly, and only with great effort.
“But before I served him, I served one of his friends,” Verity said and raised her staff into line with the warrior’s face. She glanced at Aisling, and there was fury and yet satisfaction there, as though she were happy at the failure. “For Mortus.”
Thunder cracked under the clear sky, and Verity’s horse was thrown as if by a giant, the wizard tossed along with the animal. Aisling turned her head to see Vara ahorse, riding hard toward them, her hand raised with the hint of a spell still stirring the air out of her gauntlet. The fire around the officers of Sanctuary was under control, siphoned toward Curatio. Aisling watched for a second out of purest curiosity, then remembered her place was not here, and that her time was limited and growing shorter by the moment.
A flash of blue light appeared in front of Aisling, and she deciphered it immediately. Verity cast a teleportation spell for her allies. I suppose the Sovereign and Shrawn don’t want me left behind, then. She tossed a glance toward the wizard and saw her disappear in a burst of magical energy that crackled over the sound of Vara’s hoofbeats.
Cyrus leveled his gaze on her, his hand now on his sword, coming back to life after the paralysis of shock and numbness at her attack. “I trusted you,” he said, voice low and gasping. Blood was trickling down his leg, his side. She felt a pinch of regret now, and not for failing to kill him.
“I’m sorry,” she said and grasped at the orb of teleportation in front of her. She looked in his eyes as she disappeared, and wondered in a cold and detached way if she would ever see him again. Part of her almost hoped she did, even though she suspected that she would not survive if that day ever came.
34.
Terian
The field of Leaugarden was a rush of chaos, the Army of Sanctuary beleaguered in a way Terian could not recall seeing since the earliest days of its assemblage. Much to his chagrin, the deployment of the caltrops had stopped the charge of the Luukessian cavalry dead. He shook his head as he waded through the battle, trying his hardest not to actually kill anyone. What were you thinking, Cyrus? You should have seen this coming and adapted, should have halted the charge as soon as you saw it going wrong …
He could see Cyrus Davidon moving through the battle ahead of him. The warrior moved like cold fish guts sliding down an angled cutting board, slowly slipping through the fight. His moves were exaggerated, graceless, like he was holding himself stiff to avoid injury. The smell of blood and rot was thick in Terian’s nose as he shoved aside the dark elves around him as he worked his way to the warrior, who was stuck out on his own with only one ally at his back, a human woman in warrior armor that looked flimsy as old wood compared to Cyrus’s full-body plate. What the hell are you thinking, Davidon? This isn’t like you at all …
The human woman at Cyrus’s back took a sword to the throat and sprayed red blood everywhere as Terian closed, the surging army of the dark elves all around him. He glanced back only for a moment to see Malpravus far, far behind him. “Dear boy,” the necromancer had said when Terian dismounted to join the fray, “there are always other fools to stand in front.”
I guess I’m a fool for being drawn to the thick of this, then.
He watched the fight circling around Cyrus, blood streaming down the warrior’s back armor as Terian parted the circle around the man in black armor. He’s been cut, and good. His sword is the only thing keeping him alive, then. The enemies that surrounded him seemed fearful to strike forth, like dogs kept at distance by an angry master. Even the dead fear to attack him when he’s wounded. But that won’t last …
Terian shoved his way through the last of the line around Cyrus, smashing the skull of a putrid human in armor that covered his corpse-like body. He had lost patience with these dead long ago, and now wanted nothing but to be away from the stink of them; it made him want to retch, the thought of these people being used in death, their will irrelevant at the urge of Malpravus and the others who held dominion over death.
“Terian,” Cyrus said, his eyes alighting on the dark knight.
“Cyrus.” Terian lifted his axe above his head slowly. The warrior’s eyes were dulled, their usual liveliness faded like a sky clouding over. His sword is right there. He’s too numb to stop anything at this point. I could cut his head clean off and take it, and—
“Today, Terian?” Cyrus asked as the axe fell.
Redemption is a path you must walk every day.
Terian stopped the blade mid-fall and swept it to the side as he caught a glimpse of a soldier moving up behind him. “Gods damn you, Cyrus Davidon!” And you, Alaric Garaunt, for preying on my weakness as a dark elf and a dark knight, for showing me a path and then not walking me clear to the damned end of it, for leaving me alone in the wilderness without guide. “No, not today.”
“I’m not sure … there’ll be another,” Cyrus said quietly, still slumped on the ground on all fours, waiting to be killed.
“Why did you have to get yourself beaten in battle for the first time ever today, of all days?” Terian swung his axe with a fervor; the animalistic dead had surged against him, recognizing him now for what he truly was. I am a foe to you, creatures. I am your enemy, the enemy of the dead. The enemy of the Sovereign and all he stands for, with his tyranny, his necromancy—and for all his horrendous allies.
Malpravus.
Dagonath Shrawn.
Father.
“Aisling …” Cyrus said, the warrior lifting up to strike at a foe coming toward him. “She … got me.”
“She was the spy,” Terian said, going low against the legs of the dead sweeping toward him. “Son of a bitch. I should have seen it.” Naturally. Why wouldn’t they have sunk a traitor in his bed? It’s the easiest place to keep watch on him. I can’t believe …
I guess I never thought she was the type to do that. She goes up a few notches in my estimation on that one … Gods, I hope they didn’t do that to me with Kahlee …
“She was the … traitor,” Cyrus said, trying to get to his feet and failing.
Terian swung a hard circle, his axe flying over Cyrus’s head and destroying a goodly number of the sweeping horde of the dead. Limbs split, heads broke free, and it did little to nothing to end the surge of foes around them. Terian prepared to swing around again, hoping to buy another moment for something to change, when something did.
A flash of silver plate and yellowed hair landed hard on two of the dead, splitting them asunder with a sword stroke as the paladin came to the rescue with her usual style and grace. Her eyes fixed on Terian for just a moment before she went to the next enemy, but he could see the restrained rage there, the flash of time in which she considered killing him, then passed on the notion out of expediency rather than loyalty.
“You bloody fool,” Vara said as she moved into a frenzy, defending Cyrus from all comers. “What did she do to you?”
“Knife … black lace,” the warrior said, coughing up blood. “You can say … you told me so … both of you.”
“I told you so,” Terian said, hearing his voice matched in tone and cadence by Vara as he cast a look at her. He smiled at his elven c
ounterpart, but she offered no such peace offering. She’ll kill me when I’m not helping her save his life, sure as shit. “We’re going to get overwhelmed,” Terian threw out. The tide of the battle was no longer something he could even pretend could be held back. “Cyrus, on your feet!”
The warrior tried to get to his feet and stumbled back to his knees immediately. “Can’t.” His lips were coated in reddish-black liquid and whatever he tried to mumble out next was lost under the clangor of battle.
“Idiot,” Vara said.
“He is rather a dunce, isn’t he?” Terian buried his axe in another dead body that should have been resting in peace. “Any chance of help?”
Vara’s answer came back slowly. “Perhaps some.”
The sound of their reinforcement was a low rumble that Terian dismissed as horses at first. Then it grew in pitch and power, hard and heavy, until he was forced to turn simply to make sure that something horrible was not bearing down on them.
Ah, Fortin.
The rock giant arrived without any subtlety, crashing into bodies and sending a shower of bones and parts into the air in a fury that forced Terian to blink away and hold up his axe to deflect a flying femur.
“Fortin, get him out of here,” Vara said. “He’s been poisoned by that dark elven slattern.”
“Poison is a coward’s weapon,” the rock giant said, splattering a foe. “I should like to show these cowards what I think of them.”
Red magic rose over the battlefield and Terian turned his head back toward the dark elven lines. Malpravus’s hand was raised high, the spell energy threading out from him to raise the fallen, and that sick pit in his stomach rose once more. “Shit,” Terian said. “We need to get out of here.”
“Get the General behind the lines,” Vara said, and Fortin lifted Cyrus with greatest ease, the warrior dripping red down the rock giant’s craggy skin as he was raised up. “We need to pull in tighter.”
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