devil horns, curving six inches into the air. When coupled with his spiked pauldrons and darkened steel armor, it gave him a demonic appearance. Cyrus saw the gleam of red in his sword and shook his head-
Cyrus felt his feet leave the ground, as the subtle pressure of the earth against his metal boots lifted away with his next step. He continued to run, the wind of his motion stirring his beard and hair, and he looked upward as he felt himself rise with each step. He kept the battlements in his sight, saw the faces peeking from behind the parapets, mouths open in shock at the sight of a war party-his war party-charging at them while running on air.
Martaina and Aisling had their bows unslung and were firing as they ran. Cyrus saw arrows striking some of those who were leaning out of cover, heard them scream as the arrows struck home and he watched as one of them staggered and fell into the murky, disgusting moat below. Another screamed and came out from behind cover in time to catch another arrow, this one through the chest, sending him to his knees. Most of the castle’s defenders weren’t even wearing armor.
They crested the wall and Cyrus lunged over a battlement, Praelior in hand, driving his sword into a soldier who was waiting for him on the other side. The man had shouted in alarm and begun to run away as Cyrus punched his blade into the man’s lower back. Cyrus saw him jerk, tensing at the pain before going limp. There were roughly ten defenders left along the battlement, and most were so awestruck at the sight of invaders coming over their seemingly impregnable walls that all but three were running to staircases that led down into the bailey, the courtyard below the wall.
Cyrus looked down as he swept Praelior across the chest of one of the castle’s guards who had chosen to fight. The man fell to the courtyard below. The bailey was an open area with a few carts filled with hay and other goods and stables off to the left, which gave the air an aroma of horses. Twenty or more knights were in the courtyard below, and a battle cry went up from their number. They had been standing in formation, their armor covered with the same blue surcoats that Olivere had worn to treat with Cyrus.
“Nyad, Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and pointed Praelior at the knights below. He heard the murmur of the wizards casting spells behind him as he watched the knights spring into motion, their helms covering their heads save for slits for eyes and holes punched to breathe. They had split into two parties, one storming each staircase when the spells struck-flames encircled them in a solid wall and then they rose within the wall as well. A blaze taller than a man seemed to grow out of the ground itself, swirling around the knights, drawing shouts from them at first, of alarm, then of pain that degenerated into shrieks and cries. Cyrus watched as the figures within the fire seemed to melt away, falling to the ground in a slick motion, like water poured out of a cup. A horrendous smell of charred, burnt flesh wafted over the courtyard as Cyrus and his party stared down into the burnt remnants.
“We’re clear to the living quarters,” Martaina said, her bow still nocked and pulled up to fire.
A few pitiful moans made their way to Cyrus’s ears; the last surviving defenders who had run from the battlements had arrows protruding from them and were scattered between the walls and the stairwell. Cyrus looked to his right, where Martaina stood, then to his left, where Aisling had already slung her bow on her back. He caught sight of two of her victims, moaning, saw the fletchings of the arrows protruding from the soldiers’ groins, and winced. He looked at Aisling, who shrugged. “For Calene,” she said simply.
“Keep a close formation.” Cyrus stepped over the edge of the wall and drifted down into the courtyard. “I’m sure there are more of them inside the living quarters. Swords up front, spellcasters behind.” He caught a look from Curatio that was pure heat. “Except you, warrior priest. Go ahead and dispel the Falcon’s Essence, Ryin.” Cyrus felt the wind beneath him dissipate and the clunk of his metal boots hitting the ground echoed through the bailey. “J’anda, you know what to do.”
“I always know what to do,” the dark elf said. “For funerals, you send flowers, for a dinner date, you bring wine, and for those times when your significant other has been putting on weight, you say nothing at all.”
“Very suave,” Terian said. “What do you do when you’re in a foreign land and an army of thugs has kidnapped members of your guild and is holding them hostage?”
“Ah,” J’anda said with a light smile, “I have the perfect answer for that as well.”
They made their way across the stone courtyard, the yellow blocks reminding Cyrus of grains of seasoned rice as the midday sun cast shadows under the ramparts. The living quarters were at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Scuddar was operating the mechanism to open the bridge while Cyrus and the others made their way toward the wooden doors. “Barred?” Cyrus asked as he approached.
“You taking bets?” Terian was beside him. “Because I’d guess yeah. You think they’re oblivious to all this commotion?”
“Thus far,” Cyrus said, “intelligence hasn’t been their strong suit.” When he reached the door he leaned back, Praelior in hand, and felt the strength of the sword surge through him. With a mighty kick he splintered the doors, breaking them from their hinges and sending them twisting inward, falling to the ground with a thunderous clatter. A throne room lay before Cyrus, small of scale, with eight ranks of soldiers, twenty across, shoulder-to- shoulder, standing in his way. These were wearing plate mail, he noticed, as he stared at them, unimpressed.
“I’m here for Baron Hoygraf,” Cyrus said, and pointed his sword at the unmoving statues, their armor giving them the appearance of being posed. “Anyone who doesn’t want to experience unspeakable pain, move out of my way.”
The soldiers remained, their steel armor locked in place, their spears lowered, shields side by side in an impenetrable wall. Cyrus let out an annoyed sigh. “Perhaps you’re laboring under the impression I’m going to charge you down. I’m not. Although if I did, I assure you that your spears and shields are of no concern to me. Are any of you going to surrender? We breached your castle in minutes and have killed every one of the guards you’ve sent at us thus far. Does that not frighten you? Do you not feel a twinge of uncertainty that such an impossible thing could happen?” He watched them, looking for some sign of emotion, but their helms concealed any thoughts they might have had. “Very well then. Just remember, you chose unspeakable pain, not me.”
A strange twinkling of light filled the room. “J’anda?” Cyrus asked. “You gonna be okay?”
“There are rather a lot of them,” the enchanter said, his voice strained. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t talk; I’d like to get this over with.”
“That’s what she said.” Terian’s voice was low but amused and Cyrus caught a glint of humor from the dark knight when he said it. “And by she, I mean Nyad.”
“Oh, yes, I see, very funny,” Nyad said from behind them. “Because I’m a woman who enjoys sexual relations, I must be a horrible, disgusting person. You’re just jealous, you syphilitic, whore-mongering nightmare.”
The lights cascaded in front of the soldiers, and Cyrus saw reflections of eyes inside their helmets, watched the first few of them slacken, the points of their spears drifting downward. “What is that?” he heard one of the soldiers in the back ask, but no one answered.
Then the front rank of the soldiers dropped their shields as one with a great clatter that rang through the hall. They turned in a single motion, raised their spears, and thrust them forward. Cyrus watched as they hit home, in the joints of armor, through gorgets and into necks, and there was shouting as the first three rows of the formation turned on the next, and a melee commenced as the soldiers of Green Hill tried their best to kill one another. Cyrus saw one of the armored soldiers slip a sword under the breastplate of another, watched two others decapitate a third, and he felt a slight smile creep across his face.
“They’ll do this until they’re dead,” J’anda said, and Cyrus looked back to find the enchanter with his eyes closed. “I only needed less than half under my direct control-the others I simply made blind to our presence.”
“Can you maintain this?” Cyrus asked.
“At least until they’re all dead, yes,” J’anda replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Go forth and give my regards to the Baron when you meet him.”
“I’m gonna stick a sword up his ass,” Terian said. “Is that what you mean by regards?”
“Good enough,” J’anda said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Cyrus led the way, skirting the side of the battle, angling toward a hallway to the left of the red velvet padded wooden thrones that sat in the middle of the hall on a raised dais. He walked down the long, grey hallway, motioning to the rooms on either side and letting Terian and Longwell kick open the doors. He heard the screams of women, the cries of children, and then heard the doors shut and the footsteps of Terian and Longwell beside
