Crusader

at his command. They come at us from outside the wall right now as well.” He shook his head. “I do not wish to abandon our guildmates, but if we do not close the portal …”

He stopped speaking, and the world around seemed to become louder for Vara, as though a great sweltering hum filled the air. Chanting. From the army outside. They are making another assault on the gates. Right now. They keep coming … and coming … She bowed her head.

“If we do not close the portal,” Alaric said, shaking his head sadly, “they may not have a guild to return to.”

Chapter 87

Cyrus

The darkness was total, complete, save for the flashes of spells around him. The battle had gone on for days. They had not seen the Drettanden beast, not since the first time, but that had been plenty enough. Cyrus had died, killed upon impact with the ground, and when he woke up later, behind the lines, he’d found only Calene Raverle at his bedside.

“What happened?” he’d asked in a grog.

“You died,” she said simply and handed him a skin of water, which he drank from. The sounds of battle had carried from beyond. He had not asked her anything else, the strike of swords and cries of wounded answering all his further questions and filling in any gaps.

It was days later now. Cyrus had lost count of how many times he’d stood on the front lines since, sword in hand. Drettanden was out there, he could feel the creature instinctively, but it kept well back from the fighting. And a good thing, too. I need another clash with that beast like I need to be splattered all over the snow.

“Second rank, coming up!” came a call from behind him. Odellan, he thought, as he swung his sword through the face of a scourge. Time for relief. Cyrus eased back into a defensive posture, hacking apart the next scourge to jump at him. It was all he did, anymore, hit these creatures with his sword, stare into their black and soulless eyes and hit another one. Kill it, kill the next, kill another. Day after day until this moment had come. He found a dry sort of relief sprinkle over him at the thought of going back behind the lines, of eating something, even bread, possibly some hard cheese. There had been nothing but cheese, all the meat having been consumed by the refugees, but that was to be expected. Bread was enough to go with, bread and water and perhaps some jerky or salted pork every now and again.

Cyrus let himself fade between the next rank of combatants as the second rank took up the battle, and he let his shoulders slump as he placed Praelior back into his scabbard. How long has it been? Did I ask that this morning? Or was it last night? Two days ago?

It was dark enough that he could not see the horizon; a few torches lit the way for him, the people behind him carrying them to brighten the battlefield, to cast a little illumination on the moonless night. Heavy clouds hung overhead, and the smell of unwashed armies was heavy. Infection, pain and death were faint, but stronger the farther one got behind the lines.

“How long have we been doing this?” Terian asked, rattling into place beside Cyrus.

“Three weeks,” Curatio said, “this time.” The elder elf walked slower than usual, his seemingly inexhaustible nature oddly subdued; Cyrus suspected he had been burning life energy again. That’ll cost him over time. Even he can’t do that forever without repercussions. Can he? “Three weeks since we started the defense of Enrant Monge.”

There was movement all around them, the armies holding the fight to the field. “I could use a break,” Cyrus admitted, and he saw a flash of green ahead in the darkness as a shadow broke toward him, female. “Nyad,” he said, acknowledging the wizard with a nod. She hobbled toward him with her staff, coming from behind the lines with a few others, looking only slightly less haggard than he himself-though she probably just finished a rest. Bad sign for all of us, I think.

“I have a message for you,” she said, brushing blond hair back behind her pointed ears. He watched the motion she made, and it stirred Vara to his tired mind, if only for a second. “The Kings of Luukessia request your presence for a moot.”

“A moot, eh?” Cyrus asked. “I suppose it’s about time we discussed strategy, seeing as how we’ve been going about this for a few weeks without much success.” She shrugged, and started to brush past him. “Is that it?” he asked, watching her go.

“That’s all I’ve got,” the Princess of the Elven Kingdom said, favoring him with a weary smile, “but then I’m rather tired.”

“Aren’t we all,” Cyrus said as he started his path back to the rear of the lines, a few others in tow, “aren’t we all.”

He found J’anda waiting beside a fire with a few loaves of bread that he wordlessly handed to the new arrivals as they strew themselves around the campsite. The dark elf’s face flickered in the light, and he wore no illusion of late. I wonder why not? He doesn’t go to the front because there’s no use for him there, you’d think all he’d have to do is sit around and play with illusions. Cyrus took the bread offered to him wordlessly. “I have a meeting to attend-I’m sorry, a moot.” His fingers came up to his eyes and tried to brush away the sleep, but found only dried blood encrusted on his forehead. I don’t even know if that’s mine or not. “I’ll return when I’m done.”

“I was figuring you’d just collapse wherever you were standing when it was over,” Terian said, staring down at the bread clasped between his gauntlets. He stared at it as though it were an adversary; Cyrus knew well what he was feeling, as the taste of it had grown quite old for him as well. “You know, from exhaustion.”

“I’ll be waiting for you to get back,” Aisling said, her eyes glistening in the firelight.

“Or possibly something venereal,” Terian muttered. “I don’t know where you find the energy,” he said, a little louder.

Cyrus didn’t answer, instead turning his face toward the largest fire behind the lines, a roaring blaze off in the distance. It was a bonfire, almost, and he could see a few figures gathered around it. That’ll be where they are, he thought, taking the first trudging steps toward it. I hope they speak quickly, though I have my doubts that they’ll do any such thing.

The snows had grown deep around his feet but were packed down from having an army treading constantly over them. He heard the crunch with each step and huddled tighter against his cloak, trying to find shelter within it from the wind. He tried to keep his head down, eyes directly off the fires that punctuated the dark around him. The moonless night gave him little enough to see by, and every time he gazed directly into a flame he was forced to blink the afterimage of it out of his sight for a few seconds in order to see the path he was walking. The only good news is that every bit of foliage that can be burned has already been cleared to do so. I expect they’ve taken to chopping down the woods around Enrant Monge itself by now, sending it north to us by wagon along with whatever meager supplies they have remaining.

His nose adjusted to the cold air, to the smell of wood fires burning and nothing cooking. The army was subdued. All joking and laughter seemed to have fled long ago, blanketed over and suppressed like the night sky that wrapped the world above them. They are weary. These men have fought for weeks, some of them for months. If I’m this tired, I cannot imagine how someone like Odellan feels, having done this now for so long.

He reached the fire at last, the largest one, and there was a small circle of men in armor standing guard around it. They didn’t stop him, stepping aside when his face became visible. He entered the circle and found Longwell sitting on the ground next to Tiernan, both facing the roaring flames. Briyce Unger was there as well, though he was standing. Cyrus did not bother greeting them with anything more than a nod before dropping onto the melting snow next to Longwell. He heard the light squish of the muddied ground, and realized that he truly did not care.

“I see you’re in as fine a state as the rest of us, Lord Davidon,” Milos Tiernan said.

“Indeed,” Longwell said, scarcely turning his head, “we are truly a kingly lot, we masters of Luukessia.