departing and changing the currents in the room as he did so. She sat there for quite some time, wondering at his words, wondering at his change, and for some time after that … wondering what had prompted such musings on the finite lives of mortals.
Chapter 83
Cyrus
The battles were long, the snow was deep and the cold was bitter. Cyrus had come off the front line after just under twenty-four hours; he had fought through the night, slaughtering more of the scourge than he could count. It was midday now, the snows had stopped but the wind blew, causing it to drift, blowing sideways over the flat lands upon which they battled. His nose was cold, frigid enough to feel like it was frozen stiff, but he sat in front of a warm fire now, a mile behind the battle, and heard the sound of the war in the distance.
“This is a peculiar way to fight,” J’anda said in the midday gloom. The clouds hanging over them were meager cover, casting a shroud of grey over everything. The enchanter had bread in his hand, nibbling at it. “I have never been part of a battle so large that it rages while you can leave it behind, take a break, use the latrines, then come back to find it still going.”
“It’s not exactly like anything I’ve ever done before, either,” Cyrus said, Aisling next to him, chewing on the nub of bread she held in her hands. “Can you imagine taking a breather like this in the midst of fighting the Dragonlord? Or the goblins in the depths of Enterra? Or on the bridge in Termina?” He shook his head and sipped from a skin of water that had been filled by Nyad with a touch and a word as he passed, dragging himself off the front line of battle.
“These things are utter madness,” J’anda said, looking to Curatio, who sat next to him, unspeaking, and Terian, who sat idly, not saying anything but staring at his gauntlets. “They throw countless numbers at us, watch them get ground up and die, but throw more yet. I was not exaggerating when I said that I could not determine how they think. There is no guessing, not from what I saw inside the mind of the one I tried to commune with. If our soldier was right, that there is a General of some sort out there, that may be the key.” He looked to Cyrus. “My view was somewhat obstructed, sitting in the back of the lines and of very little use for the first time in my life. Did you see it while you were up there?”
Cyrus thought about it for a minute then shook his head. “I saw something out there, big, but far in the distance. It never got close enough for me to catch much more than a shadow, even in the best light today.”
“I saw it,” Aisling said.
“Me too.” Terian did not look up from his gauntlets.
“Must be nice to have such fine eyesight,” Cyrus said. “What did it look like?”
“Like one of them,” Terian said, waving his hand in the direction of the battle, “but writ large; four legs, walking around like a dragon without wings. It kept low, though, lower than I think it normally would have, like it knew we had archers and it wanted to be low profile. It was out on the edge of sight, and it stayed there during most of the fight.”
“Most?” Cyrus asked.
“It came closer once,” Aisling took over for Terian. “Not much, but a little. At the beginning of the fight, when we got to the front of the line. That’s when I noticed it, when I felt its presence. After that it receded, like it didn’t want to be seen.”
Cyrus chewed that one over for a minute. “You think this thing is the mastermind? The brain of the operation?”
Terian chuckled. “If this operation has any brains other than the ones it eats on the field of battle, yes.”
“What if we made a direct assault at it?” Cyrus asked.
“Sounds like a fine way to lose your body,” Curatio murmured. “Have you seen what happens when these things start to lose any ground? They throw more at you, more of their numbers. Failing that, they hit you on either side, drive back the lines around you so you end up bulged, in a little pocket, sticking out like an arm, Then they winnow it, chopping into the sides at your weakest point until they can surround you; then it is over.” He slapped his hands together and the echoing noise was loud enough to startle Martaina, who had been sleeping nearby, into jumping to her feet, bow drawn and arrow already nocked. “Sorry,” Curatio breathed, and the ranger nodded, replaced the arrow and bow across her chest, and lay back down.
“You don’t think it’s possible to stage an assault on that thing without getting swallowed by the scourge army and destroyed?” Cyrus asked, chewing on a stubbornly hard piece of bread. The grains cracked in his teeth and the yeasty flavor lingered on his tongue. He stook a swig out of the water skin to wash it out.
“I think that you’re talking about trying to storm something alive as though it’s a fortification,” Curatio said carefully. “It moves, Cyrus. Let us assume you managed to cut your way across the field of battle towards it: what’s to stop it from retreating once it realizes what you’re up to? Soon enough you’re on a chase to wherever it leads, which, by the way, is halfway to perdition and with the whole of its army surrounding you.” He angled his head. “Unless you have some idea of how to escape that, which I am unaware of.”
Cyrus ran a hand over his chin, brushing the crumbs out of his beard. He let the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, and stared straight ahead as the others gradually stopped what they were doing and looked at him, at the curious hint of something long gone, now appearing upon his face.
“Well, you know … I actually do have an idea …”
Chapter 84
The battle raged on; it came evenfall and darkness, and they returned to the front as the line worked its way back to them. The smell of the latrines had grown strong in the hours Cyrus waited with the others-resting, most of them did, lying in their bedrolls. He and Aisling had burned off nervous energy, as always, but he had not joined her in sleep. Also as always, of late. He lay awake in the clouded afternoon light and felt the snowy ground beneath him. The cold seeped, but not too badly; it seemed warmer today than it had the day before for whatever reason, even in spite of the lack of sun. The lingering taste of the water and bread was little enough for sustenance, but he had eaten plenty. Sleep would not come, however, not with the calls of battle growing ever nearer, and the snoring of Terian just across the fire. The thought of his plan rustled around in his mind like a cat trapped in a sack, twisting every way possible to get loose of what held it.
Soon enough it was time to go again, and someone shook his shoulder, waking him out of a sleep he didn’t even realize he had fallen into. It was Aisling, already dressed. She leaned down and kissed him, and for a moment the smell of her sweat from battle and their lovemaking overpowered everything else in the camp. When she broke free of him he sat up and began to put on his armor. She did not help, having already moved on, heading over the hill in the direction of the latrines.
The lines were almost upon them now, Cyrus realized, the sound of fighting coming from only a few hundred feet away.
He waited once his armor was on; the others lingered as well, as though afraid somehow to be on about the day. The line of battle came ever closer, and when they could ignore it no more, Cyrus pulled to his feet, drew his blade and stepped toward the fight. He heard the others with him, and cast a look back to see some stewards and young boys gathering up the things they had left behind, throwing them in the backs of wagons that waited across the camp, horses snorting into the cold air. The wagons began to move as Cyrus reached the back line of
