visible, leaking out of a cavalier’s helm. “I have passed along your message to the baron and he has one for you in return.”
Cyrus felt his jaw click into place, felt his teeth bear down. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Oh, no,” Olivere said, teeth bared in a broad grin. “You’ll see it.”
With a flourish, the envoy stepped aside and two guards joined him, lifting something under the edge of the battlement. “Make ready with your arrows, ladies,” Cyrus said, tense, waiting for what he suspected was coming. “I’ll need someone willing to take a swim if they do what I think they’re about to.”
“I’ll go,” Ryin said. “I can use Falcon’s Essence to-”
“No,” Cyrus cut him off. “I need someone to swim.”
The three men behind the rampart came up again, this time with a struggling burden. It was a woman, a human in the garb of one of Sanctuary’s rangers. Her face was bruised and her clothing was in disarray, her leather armor missing, and her underclothes were ripped and tattered. She said nothing as the men lifted her and set her upon the ramparts, but she struggled, a spiteful look of hatred burning in her eyes as she glared at her captors.
“Calene Raverle,” Martaina said in a gasp at Cyrus’s side. “She looks like the hells have had at her.”
“Something has had at her, that’s for certain,” Terian said, his voice low and menacing. “And by something, I mean animals that don’t deserve the mercy we’d show a dying dog.”
“You had your warning,” Olivere said, “army of Sanctuary!” With a push from Olivere, Calene Raverle screamed and was loosed from the battlements. She fell almost ten feet before the noose around her neck caught her.
The crack of the rope reaching full extension caused Martaina to cry out, but Cyrus kept his eyes on Calene Raverle. He had seen her before, in the Realm of Death, he realized, had passed her by when they were teleporting out. He had seen her face among the other rangers throughout the journey, and he realized he didn’t know a thing about her-not even her name, until Martaina had said it. He stared at her now, though, looked at her face, her dead eyes, staring at him accusingly. Cyrus stared back.
“Get her down,” he said in a voice so low and guttural he didn’t even recognize it as his own. An arrow flew from his left, from Aisling, and the rope broke, sending what had been Calene Raverle falling into the moat where her body landed with a splash, then floated to the surface. “Someone go get her.” Martaina made to get off her horse and Cyrus held out a hand to stop her. “Not you. Keep your bow ready to fire.” He didn’t watch for her nod.
Odellan stepped in front of him, shedding his armor piece by piece as he made his way to the edge of the filthy moat. The elf jumped in, causing Cyrus to grimace. “That was my responsibility, I suppose,” he said, so low it was almost inaudible to his ears. He caught a worried look from Martaina on one side and an almost imperceptible nod from Aisling on the other.
Odellan grasped the body and swam back to the edge of the moat, where he was helped out of the water by Longwell and Scuddar In’shara, a Sanctuary warrior from the Inculta Desert. Cyrus watched as Odellan handed the body up first, with care and reverence, as others stepped forward to handle it.
“Curatio,” Cyrus said, low enough that he knew that those watching on the battlements above them couldn’t hear it, “take her to the back before you do it. Then join me up here again. We go in ten minutes.”
“Aye,” he heard Curatio say.
“Admirable, what you’ve done for your comrade. You have one hour,” Olivere said from above them, “and then we will execute the rest of your people. One hour to begin your journey home, or all of your people will come to a sudden, tumbling end, just as that one did.”
Cyrus looked up at Olivere, but could only see the shadow of the man’s face. “I can tell you truly treated her well as a prisoner, and I assume you’ve extended the same courtesies to the rest of our people that you’ve taken.”
He heard a laugh from behind the parapet, and Olivere’s voice was tinged in humor. “You come at the head of an army into a foreign land, bringing the threat of sword and fire to our holdings, but you expect great civility in the treatment of those captured in the course of your transgressions?” Olivere let out a humorless bellow. “You presume too much, foreigner. Count yourself lucky we haven’t executed all of your people yet-though that hour is drawing nearer.”
“I expected civil treatment because while I have come at the head of an army,” Cyrus said, “you have yet to seen our ‘sword and fire.’” He gave Olivere a grim smile, one he was certain the envoy could not see at the distance they were apart. “But soon, I think, you will.”
“Bold threats,” Olivere said. “Perhaps I should tell the baron you’ve refused his offer and to just send me the other prisoners now?”
“The remaining prisoners are your only hope for mercy at this point.” Cyrus’s hand lingered on the hilt of Praelior. “Kill them if you must, but remember my words, Olivere. You are trifling with the wrong people.”
“You have one hour. Start marching.” Olivere disappeared behind the battlements, leaving Cyrus staring up at the castle walls, a cold, seeping fury blanketing him, making him immune to the warm rays of the sun.
“Plan?” Aisling said from his left.
“Kill every last one of them and let Mortus sort them out,” Terian said. “Oh, wait, we killed Mortus a few weeks ago, didn’t we? All right then, kill them all and let them remain unsorted.”
“The following people will come with me,” Cyrus said. “Mendicant, J’anda, Ryin, Terian, Longwell, Curatio, Nyad, Martaina, Aisling and …” he looked around and caught sight of a familiar robed figure toward the front of the army, “Scuddar In’shara. Odellan will remain here in charge of the army and continue to watch them.”
“And you’ll be …?” Odellan asked, pure curiosity on his face.
Cyrus let a bitter smile seep out. “Taking an afternoon run.”
Chapter 10
Curatio rejoined them minutes later, and Cyrus gave a subtle nod to Ryin, who began an incantation under his breath. Cyrus had explained the details to those he had selected once Curatio returned from the back of the army. Cyrus felt a gentle wind rush over him and he looked to the healer. “Is she …?”
“She’ll be fine,” Curatio said brusquely. “Physically, at least.”
“I had hoped that the resurrection spell would allow her to forget what happened.” Cyrus stared at the castle walls. “I take it that …?”
“No such luck.” Curatio reached into his robes, keeping his face impassive, and his hand emerged with a small but wicked looking mace. He pressed a button on the handle and half-inch spikes popped out along a horizontal line on the ball of the mace.
“Don’t you worry about that button getting pressed accidentally in your robe?” Cyrus said, looking at the weapon, eyes wide.
Curatio stared at it and cocked his head, indifferent. “It has happened, once or twice.”
“And?”
Curatio shrugged. “I’m a healer. It’s a rather simple fix.”
“Ah.” Cyrus turned his attention back to the castle. “All ready?” He heard words of affirmation behind him, the subtle agreement of those going with him. “Mendicant, Nyad, J’anda and Ryin, follow directly behind me, Aisling, Martaina, Longwell, Terian, and Scuddar, you’re up front. Curatio-”
“I’ll be up front, too,” the healer said, and rolled his wrist in a circle, spinning the mace around by a leather strap, making it blur as though he were about to throw it like a hammer.
“You’re the only healer we’re taking with us,” Cyrus said.
“Then you should probably watch my back,” the elf said without emotion, “and I promise they’ll not strike me down from in front.”
Cyrus shifted his gaze to Scuddar, Longwell, and Terian in turn, his eyes carrying a warning.
“Let’s get this carnival of slaughter underway,” Terian said, placing his helm on his head. It bore spikes like
