stripped away from him.”
She lunged at the first dark elf and buried the curved blade up to the hilt in his throat. She ignored his surprise and spun it loose, plunging it into the second one’s gullet, up through the jaw. She followed him to the floor and grasped the blade of her sword and picked it up, turning back to the melee ongoing in the foyer. “Perhaps he acquired the idea from me, did you ever consider that?”
Andren’s hand reached out, and she felt the soothing balm of his healing spell as the bones in her shoulder knitted together. “Perhaps, but I think it would be nothing but small recompense compared to that broken heart he acquired from you.”
She stood, frozen, watching the fight going on for a few seconds as the tide shifted in favor of the Sanctuary forces and no one seemed to pay her any mind. She let out a howl of fury and leapt forward at the nearest dark elf, using both blades in tandem to hack the startled warrior to death with swift, sure strokes, then the next, then the next.
To finish the battle took less than thirty minutes, and when it was done she was soaked, disgusting, her own sweat and dark elven blood dripping all over her, the smell of steel and gore heavy in the air. She wiped her face and found it wet, slick from the work she’d done.
“I believe there are some that would say you look like a bride of Bellarum right now, drenched as you are in the blood of your enemies.” Andren’s voice held a sarcastic edge and she turned on him to find him still there, malingering beneath the staircase, shadowed in the gloom with his beard and flask, the lecherous-
“Who would say that, exactly?” she asked, taking steps toward him in a raw fury. “Who would say that to my face right now, would think it of interest, would dare to mention it to me?” She cast aside her secondary blade to the floor with a throw that caused it to lodge in a body. She watched Andren’s eyes widen as she reached out a bloody hand and grasped his white healer’s robes, leaving red on them, and dragged him forward and down to look her in the eye. “Are you a follower of Bellarum yourself?”
“Nope,” Andren said, and took a long pull from his flask, even though his face was only inches from hers. He did not fight her grip, and the smell of strong gin came off him in waves. “But, you see, I know a fella who is. And he had this … all-consuming love for a girl much like yourself. Scary love, really, too scary to even admit to anyone, maybe even himself for the longest time, but it was there. It kept him away from others who might have wanted him, kept him isolated, alone … for years. When he finally went for her and got cut down … I think it hit him harder than anything, harder than losing his wife,” she blanched as he said it, “than losing his best friend. Yeah, I think that pretty much did it for him. But hey,” he took another swig, “what do I know?” Her grip on him slackened, and he pulled gradually away from her. “It’s been a few months now. He’s probably right as rain at this point. Moved along.” Andred shrugged, and uncrumpled the stained cloth of his robe where her hands had clutched him. “After all, it’s not like he spent years pining after that lady.”
With a last shrug, the healer pulled loose of her, and she stood there, sword in her hand as the sound of horns blew in the distance, somewhere far over the wall, and she did everything she could to keep her face straight.
Chapter 66
Cyrus
The retreat was long, aided by the wizards and druids. Fires burned through the night behind them, giving them a rear guard as they retreated, long flaming rows that stretched out along the plain in an infinite line, with only a gap for the river, as the flames burned in a curve to follow the bank. Cyrus didn’t feel the heat, not at the distance he was at; he watched a haggard Nyad keeping her eyes on the fire as they rode into the distance, trying for escape. After a few hours, the dim, distant noises of the scourge army faded, not to reoccur when the fire line came down. By morning, they were not even in sight as the sun came up.
“Where do you reckon they are?” Partus asked Cyrus, atop a small horse that Cyrus believed had been Ryin Ayend’s.
“Spread out along the plains,” Cyrus said, numb. The wind came from the north today, and it was all rot and death, cold and chill.
“Those things …” Partus said, shaking his craggy, bearded head, “those things are the legends of torment come to life. They truly are Mortus’s works. I’ve been in his Realm, many times, but these … these are staggering, those things. Monstrous works. They look like-”
“Wendigos, a little bit,” Cyrus said. “But four legged, no arms. No hair. I’ve met wendigos that could talk, that seemed like they had a soul. None of that here, just a raw, feral savagery you don’t even see in wild wolves.”
“Aye,” Partus said. “So many, they cover the whole ground and could cover the land like locusts in the harvest. They’ll eat Luukessia whole and everything on it.”
“No,” Cyrus said with a fierce shake of the head. “No, they won’t.” He urged Windrider forward, toward the front of the column, and they rode on until midday.
At midday they stopped by a stream; the armies of Actaluere and Syloreas had marched with them, their darker armor and distinctive flourishes marking them clearly-the Actaluereans had livery and surcoats, like Longwell’s, though they almost all were dirty and stained with the black blood of the scourge. The Syloreans, on the other hand, wore no such livery but their armors carried fur padding that stuck out of the neck and at the shoulders, to give it a different appearance than most kinds of armor Cyrus had seen, and a distinct look that fit the northmen well. There was no tent pitched, and Cyrus knew it was because this was to be a fast convocation. Somewhere to the north, he knew, somewhere below the mountains that stared down from the horizon, was an army that was as relentless as it was unmerciful.
Cyrus took the cloth seat that was offered him again, his officers at his back. Tiernan was quiet, fingers caressing his unshaven chin, the first time Cyrus had seen a hint the man could grow whiskers. In Tiernan’s hangdog look, Cyrus caught just a hint of Cattrine, but he brushed that thought away with all the ease of scouring the remains of baking from a pan. Unger, on the other hand, stared straight ahead, his eyes flicking to and fro from the small, quiet circle to the horizon, as though at any moment the enemy would burst over it and he might have his revenge.
“They’re going to keep coming,” Cyrus said after a moment of silence. Tiernan looked up at him as though Cyrus had drawn a sword; the King of Actaluere’s eyes were wide yet vacant, watching as though he were a child, bereft of understanding for what was transpiring. “We lack the numbers to stop them. We lack the punch.”
“We killed at least ten thousand of them last night,” Briyce Unger said. The King of Syloreas appeared to have no desire to exit his seat, the usual twitch of his left leg muted, exhaustion heavy on the King’s frame. “And more still came. More than could be imagined, I think, though it would be hard to tell in the dark.”
“Yes,” Cyrus said. “My elves tell me that they still filled the ground to the horizon, even after all we did. But there cannot be an endless supply of them.”
“Whether there is an endless supply of them or not is wholly irrelevant,” Tiernan said with an exasperated chuckle that lacked any humor at all, “what matters is whether there are enough to block us from sealing that damnable gate through which they invade our land. There seems no way to be able to pull that one off, as they don’t break or back off even when confronted with overwhelming losses. As he said,” Tiernan raised a hand and gestured to Unger, “we killed numbers of them so staggering it would make any of our armies break and scatter from the loss. We lost few enough ourselves, and yet we were the ones who broke. Still they came on and would have kept pressing on us until we were finished had it not been for the western magic that saved us. Ancestors!” Tiernan said it as though it were a curse. “How do you fight an enemy that will stand before you and let you pound on his face and not even blanch whilst you do so?”
“You pound away at him until he does blanch,” Cyrus said.
“That might hearten me, if we were by some chance facing a human adversary with a human reaction,” Tiernan said. Unger watched, silent, while the King of Actaluere spoke. “These things show no sign that we may
