Cyrus drew Praelior as he watched Longwell heft his lance. “Not at present,” Cyrus said. “But I expect you’ll be whistling quite a different tune when we’re on the other side of the sea.”
“I dearly hope not,” Longwell said as the army before them opened ranks to channel the horses through as they fell back. Cyrus rode past the Actaluerean army, through its midst, three short rows before he hit the scourge, coming forward in the darkness, advancing into the last hundred miles of Luukessia that was left.
Chapter 102
“Well, that was effective,” Terian said beside the fire as the sun was rising nearby. Martaina was there, as well as Curatio and Nyad, who was sacked out already. Calene Raverle and Scuddar In’shara shared the fire with them, the desert man strangely quiet-
“Yet, we still find ourselves a mile back from where we started the night,” Curatio said, studying a book draped across his lap. “Tens of thousands of the enemy dead but ultimately irrelevant. Even with the effectiveness of the dragoons, we’ll be seeing the Endless Bridge inside of a week.”
Cyrus sat staring at the fire in front of them. “That means we’ll see the end of the bridge in a week or so after that. And after that …” He let his words trail off. “There’s no holding them back at that point. They can flank us in the jungle and we’ll have a hell of a time doing much other than forming a line on the beach and fighting with our backs to the waves.” A thought occurred to him. “Actually … we might try that here, on the shores of Luukessia.”
“Not a bad idea,” came a voice from behind him, and Longwell trudged up, lance in hand, his helm under the other arm. He threw down his weapon, careful not to hit anyone. The smell of activity came with him, the strong scent of sweat. Cyrus knew it well, having smelled it on himself earlier, but it had faded away now, blended into the background behind the smell of the logs burning. The crack and pop of them owned the air while they waited for Longwell to speak again. “A last stand against the shores of the sea might just produce some killing results.”
“For the day or so you lasted,” Curatio agreed, “yes. Then, when you became too tired to fight any longer, you’d likely be up to your chest in water already, and left with no options save one: drown.”
“Perhaps,” Longwell said. “But to take as many of those things down with you as possible before the end, to have them keep coming and to refuse to yield, to not leave Luukessia’s shores and lay down your life for the country?” He gave a subtle nod as he fixed on the fire. “I could think of worse ways to go. Besides, if those things do make the choice to crawl over the bridge,” he waved a hand behind them in the direction of the Endless Bridge, “our days are over soon enough anyhow. I don’t expect drowning would be much worse than being devoured by one of them.”
Curatio looked up from his book with a raised eyebrow. “Drowning is agony.”
“And being ripped apart and crushed in the jaws of one of those creatures is a fun and easy way to leave this life?” Calene Raverle asked, looking at the healer.
“Point,” Curatio said. “The only thing I was suggesting was that of all the ways I could pick to go out, drowning is not a good one. You struggle for breath for agonizing minutes, fighting to get air, and it lasts what seems like forever.”
“Drowned to death once or twice in your life, have you Curatio?” Terian asked.
“Just the once,” Curatio said. “I wouldn’t do it again.”
“I’m now taking recommendations for ways to die,” Calene said. “I will say that hanging wasn’t terrible,” she shuddered, “though what came before it was a bit … much.”
“Do you remember it?” Martaina asked. The ranger’s eyes were on her counterpart, and Calene Raverle seemed to focus on a distant point behind them.
“Sort of,” Raverle said. “I mean, yes. But it’s almost as though it happened to someone else. It feels … very long ago, very far away.”
Cyrus did not say anything; he just kept his head down and watched the fire.
“I believe it’s time for me to sleep,” Terian said as he stood, and his spiked profile receded into the darkness.
“Not staying by the fire?” Martaina teased as she stood, disappearing into the black as well.
“Gods, no,” Terian replied. “Too hot.”
“I kind of figured that out for myself,” Martaina said with a roll of her eyes.
“I mean I’m too hot,” Terian said with a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t want any of the rest of you to get-”
“All right, that’s enough for me,” Curatio said as he stood, and then walked off in the other direction.
“It seems likely we’ll be awakened in the middle of the night,” Longwell said, and grabbed his lance, using it to push himself to his feet. “To move back or come to the front. The advance is harsh, and the dragoons are doing great damage, but not nearly enough, I think.”
“How much more flat ground do they have to fight on?” Cyrus asked.
“A day’s worth, perhaps,” Longwell said with a shrug. “After that, the land becomes swampy, the grasses hide water and soft ground, and we’ll need to withdraw. “We’ll do as much damage as we can for as long as we can, but in another day, we might as well be infantry for all the good we’ll do.”
“Your day will come again,” Cyrus said. “On the other side of the bridge, I think. We’ll need to move you out to flat ground if we’re to carry on. Perhaps use a wizard to teleport your men to Taymor or one of the portals northwest of there. You can assemble on the flatlands north of the Inculta desert and make another defense there as these things come north.”
“I don’t love the turn of inevitability this conversation has taken,” Calene said from across the fire.
“Nor do I,” Scuddar said quietly from behind his cowl.
Cyrus stared at the two of them; though he had shared a fire with both of them on numerous occasions, he could hardly say he knew them well. “I’m sorry. But this is not going well, and I think we have to conclude that we need a plan to deal with what’s about to happen.”
“And what’s that?” Calene asked. Scuddar’s eyes watched as well, silently accusing.
“We’re going to get pushed back to the bridge,” Cyrus said. “And once we’re on the bridge, we’ll be pushed back all the way to Arkaria.”
“Why?” Scuddar was the one who asked this time.
“Because,” Cyrus said, feeling as though he were explaining the concept to children, “there are more of them than there are of us. Because the viciousness of their attack inevitably requires us to give ground.”
“Why?” Scuddar asked.
“It’s a natural part of losing a battle, seems to me,” Calene said quietly, avoiding Cyrus’s eyes.
“Which makes sense,” Cyrus said with as much patience as he could find, “since we are losing this battle. This war, really. As much as I’d like to rail against the inevitability of loss, I can’t find an example to point to of when we’ve ever pushed them back. We’ve only seen the opposite happen.”
“It would seem we lack only belief and hope,” Scuddar said quietly.
Cyrus tried to avoid rolling his eyes but only succeeded in looking to Longwell, who shrugged in some agreement. “Really?” he asked the King.
“He makes a point,” Longwell said. “We retreat because we accept the inevitability of their advance. We don’t fight to push them back because we believe they’re going to keep coming long past the point when we’re willing to stand and die to push them back. Because that’s what it would take-a full-blooded, mystic-bladed warrior with the conviction that they could singlehandedly cut the enemy down if they advance one step further.” He shrugged. “You put someone like that in front of the scourge-on a bridge, no less, where all their myriad numbers count for less-I believe they’ll buckle before the warrior.”
Cyrus hid a foolish grin, a patronizing one, behind his hand.
