hordes,” Vaste said lightly. After a moment, he sighed jauntily. “Is this how everyone feels about the trolls all the time? Because I think I finally get it, you know, after having been the brunt of it for so long. Kill them!” He raised his voice. “Kill the aggressors!” He lowered his voice again. “You know, it feels good not to be one of ‘them,’ for once. You should have had your people make war against the entire civilized world years ago.”
“I hardly had anything to do with it,” Erith said with as much frost as her name indicated.
“Oh, now, do give yourself some credit. You probably at least inspired one or two soldiers to pleasure themselves at the latrines.”
Erith let out a hissing sound and Vara ignored it. The foyer was visible now, the stream of people that filled the stairwell breaking loose and running across the foyer floor. “At least it doesn’t look like they’ve teleported in an attack force this time,” Erith said, all trace of her irritation gone.
“Yet,” Vara and Vaste said in a chorus. The troll raised an eyebrow at her, and she gave him a scorching glare that affected him little to none.
“Such happy thoughts you two share,” Erith said. “Remind me not to come to either of you when next I experience a down day and need some optimism.”
“Were you really ever going to visit Vara for such a thing?” Vaste asked, vaulting over the edge of the steps about fifteen from the bottom as the spiral opened up. He didn’t wait for either of them to reply nor to reach the bottom; the healer ran for the door and was out onto the Sanctuary grounds before Vara even cleared the stairs. Taking the step Vaste had was not possible for someone of her height, certainly not without breaking a leg.
She was out the door moments later, having passed through the foyer, which was still guarded by a force headed by Belkan. The day was grey, the skies hanging, clouds overhead that muted the sun, wherever it might have been hiding. The green, well-trod grasses of the Sanctuary lawn were particularly dark today, the late summer having come to them.
She climbed the wall, the same place she had on the day when they broke the siege, and wondered how many towers there would be this time. Last time it had been a host of fifty thousand, a fairly thin line that came at them from one direction, head on. This time would surely be different; there would be at least another twenty-five thousand, perhaps even another fifty. They might attempt a direct assault again or attempt to encircle and direct their main attack at the walls rather than the gate.
When she took the last step off the ladder and stepped out of the stale air inside of the wall, she found herself overlooking the fields in front of the wall, all empty. The place where the battle had been done last time was open ground, though the smell of death still lingered as there had been only a small detail to deal with the fallen from the last battle, and they had been instructed to leave some of the bodies. Many corpses were still where they had fallen, left as a reminder for the next army that came along. The remains of the siege towers had been burned, though, and only blackened husks remained there.
Vara’s eyes came up to the horizon, and she peered toward the place where she knew the portal was, north of the wall several minutes walk. It was there, but beyond it there were shapes, assorted figures that looked no larger than ants on the hill. The grey clouds did them no favors, and only through her elven eyesight could she even see that they were there.
“I don’t see them,” Thad said, drawing her attention. The warrior was at the edge of the wall, staring over. “But I know they’re there, because the elves in my detail tell me so. How many would you estimate?”
Vara did not speak at first, not for a long, long moment, as she tried to count and failed. Part of the army that waited ahead was obscured, not visible at this great a distance. “Many,” she said at last. “More than last time. More than I can count at this range.” She felt the dryness in her mouth as she said it. “But more. Many more than before. At least double their number, visible from here.” She blinked, and stared at the horizon, her picture of the dark elf force incomplete. “More than we can see. And that means …” she tasted the dryness again, even as she said it, “likely more than we can easily handle.”
Chapter 55
Cyrus
The days had grown long, Cyrus noted, even as the jarring motion of the wagon carried them on. The third day after he had awakened, Curatio gave him lease to leave the wagon. They had stopped, finally, having reached the open plains that were the rendezvous point for their meeting with Actaluere’s northern armies.
“Don’t nod your head too much,” Curatio said as Cyrus stood, feeling somewhat weak as his head got light. He started to shake it to see if he could clear the feeling, but the healer grasped him by the face, capturing his chin and part of his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t shake it, either.”
“Why?” Cyrus asked. “Is it going to fall off?”
“Unlikely,” Curatio said, “I’m just annoyed by how often you do that. Try speaking more.”
“My throat feels raw, as though someone poured Reikonosian whiskey down it while I was asleep.” Cyrus rubbed his neck.
“We gave you as much water as we could,” Martaina said, standing with him now, in the wagon. She had not left for more than a few hours since he had awakened. “But it’s surprisingly difficult to make a man who’s hallucinating drink and eat.”
Cyrus stood between the two of them, ducking his head to avoid hitting it against the canvas top of the wagon. “I would think after the last few days I’d never want to sleep again.” He yawned. “Somehow I’m still tired.”
“Get some sunlight,” Curatio said. “It’ll do wonders for you, that and walking around for a spell. Not an actual spell,” he clarified, “because that’s impossible and also heresy, but walk for a while.”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus said as Martaina pulled back the tent flap for him. The air in the wagon had grown stale to him, the smell of healed wounds and sweated flesh was near-unbearable. He had put his armor on with Martaina’s assistance, after saying flatly that he’d rather be able to walk ten feet with it on than thirty feet without it. She’d snorted her impatience with his attitude but ultimately helped him. He rested his hand on the hilt of Praelior and felt energized.
The air outside came in with a subtle breeze, a coolness, a tinge of winter on the wind even though the sun was shining its warmth down. Cyrus squinted away from it, looking back into the darkness of the wagon to either side, gradually turning his face toward the light. After a minute had passed, then another, he took a step forward unaided, sat down at the end of the wagon and slid himself off the carriage. His feet crunched against the ground where the wagon sat, made soft by a rain he had heard in the night. He sniffed, and realized that in addition to the smell of the campsite, he smelled himself, the odor of the tent and of sweated flesh, healed wounds, and he wondered if there was a river nearby or a pond that would be suitable for bathing.
His first steps were funny things, as though he were regaining the habit of balance, of walking. Martaina stood to the side of him, well clear, but he knew her reflexes were such that she could catch him should he stumble. Her speed was also such that he did not worry about it. The first steps were hardest, but his legs seemed to regain their use as he walked, the whole of the campsite laid out before him, the massive army more than he might have imagined when first he’d heard that Actaluere had joined with them at Enrant Monge. He could not see it all from where he stood, but he knew by what little he had glimpsed of it from the back of the wagon that it was massive.
“Where are Actaluere’s northern armies?” Cyrus asked Curatio, who hovered only a bit behind him, just out of arm’s reach, as though he were hiding the fact that like Martaina, he was lingering to save Cyrus from falling.
“A week’s march, by the accounts we’ve heard,” the elf replied, not stepping any closer to Cyrus. “They’re making haste, and Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan have been planning the coming battle. Their intent is to throw everything at the enemy, with Sanctuary at the center and our healers in use to help stem the bloodshed and fall of their people. Once we’ve broken the scourge, we’ll march north through the passes to get to the cave where the portal sits.”
