Crusader

“I would laugh,” Vara said tightly, firing again, “but I seem to be in the midst of a crisis that has my attention. Be assured, though, I am remembering this moment for later, and I will certainly give it due amusement at that time. By which I mean I’ll be sitting around later whilst reading and will perhaps spare a moment to frown at your ridiculousness.”

“So long as we all live to see that moment, I’m fine with that,” Vaste said, still on his knees. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to crawl down the ramparts a ways,” he pointed toward the gates to the left, “and assist that poor bastard who has an arrow sticking out of his buttock.” The troll sighed. “One would think that armor would protect against that sort of thing. And who do you think will have to pull it out? Why couldn’t it have happened to a short, swarthy human woman? I like those.”

Vara rolled her eyes. “I have things to be getting on with, troll. Be about your business.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vaste said, beginning to crawl left, “I didn’t realize it was my presence keeping you from looking at where you were firing, I thought it was the ten thousand arrows that were filling the air like the worst cloud of mosquitos ever visited upon a swamp.”

She shook her head as he left. This is ridiculous, this press of the attack. She stuck her head out of the rampart for one second only, and saw that the battering ram was down again, wreathed in flames, and she spared only a little smile. Not today, Sovereign. Not today.

“They come again,” the voice was shot through with fatigue, but the figure appeared in a cloud of smoke, wafting off him in waves. “I see they’ve already fallen,” Alaric said, peering over the rampart as arrows flew through his exposed face and upper body. “Let us make this moderately more difficult on them.” Vara leaned her eyes over and felt an arrow clink! off her helm, causing her to blanch. She looked down upon the battering ram as Alaric’s force blast hit it and sent it rolling as though it had been kicked by a titan; it hit the ground and bounced five feet into the air and off the trodden road, bowling over a knot of dark elven soldiers, landing on them while still on fire. Their agonized screams blended into the chorus already filling the air. He fired another burst and the ram bounced again into the air from the force of his spell, this time even higher, almost ten feet, before it came down into another thicket of men.

Vara eyed the chaos that the paladin’s spell had caused; that injured over a hundred men and killed quite a few of them. “Satisfied yet?” she asked.

“No,” Alaric’s voice was gruff, uncaring. “Wizards! Druids!” he called, as though his words were amplified beyond a shout. “SEND THEM RUNNING!”

She watched as the flames rose around the walls, a burning, roiling firestorm ten feet high of interconnected fire spells that ate into the dark elven army surrounding them like little she had seen. It was not terribly thick-not like Mother’s-but it burned with a fury, lancing into the thickest concentrations of soldiers and raising the volume of screaming that filled the air by a considerable amount. Some began to flee, throwing the knot of soldiers around them into disarray and chaos, and Vara watched as a soldier fell and was trampled while attempting to escape. She ducked back behind the teeth of the wall and put her back against it. “Not bad, Alaric.”

“I told you,” the Ghost said, “they will not breach our walls.”

“Thanks to you,” she said.

“Courtesy of our wizards and druids,” he replied. “I have little to do with it save for sending their battering ram off course in a fit of pique. It will take them a few attempts to get it back to the road and in position again. That will cost them a few men.”

Vara gave him a nod. “A few men indee-” she tore her eyes from him at a blur of motion that came out of the tower to her right, a leather-clad figure who ran surefootedly, bent double, keeping her white hair low as she crossed the top of the rampart to reach them. Vara blinked in surprise as she registered recognition. “YOU!”

“Me,” the woman said, coming to a rest and kneeling next to where Alaric stood. “And you wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get here.” Her white hair was caked with dirt as was the rest of her outfit, leather armor and all.

“Aisling,” Alaric said mildly, peering down at the ranger. “You have returned to us. I would ask how, but I suspect ‘Why?’ is the more important question.”

“There’s a waste tunnel that leads to the river over there,” she waved in the distance toward the river Perda’s split, which rolled by outside the walls almost a mile away. “It’s a tight squeeze over a long distance, but I managed. Nyad, too-she teleported us in behind the army through the portal over there — ” she waved out the direction of the gate, “but she’s a little slower than I am after that trek.” She looked up at Alaric in seriousness. “Cyrus sent me to plead for your help. They’ve evacuated the whole of Luukessia.”

Alaric blinked at her, but said nothing. “Excuse me,” Vara said. “Did you say-”

“The whole land of Luukessia has fallen, yes,” Aisling said. “They’ve taken it, from one side to the other, killing …” There was a moment’s pause as the dark elf seemed to waver then compose herself. “We’ve managed to get the last of the survivors onto the bridge, and Cyrus and the others are staging a slow withdrawal and bridge defense, but …” she shook her head, “they need help. They need an army before the scourge breaks loose of the Endless Bridge … or we’ll be facing the same fight here that cost us Luukessia.”

Alaric stood silent, and Vara looked to him for guidance. He did not react openly, but she could see even in the slight twitch of his mouth that something roiled beneath the surface. “Alaric?” she asked. “The dark elves-”

“The lesser threat, now, I think,” Alaric said quietly. “How long until this scourge make landfall?”

“A day,” Aisling said. “Perhaps two. They’re strong, Alaric, too strong for us to hold back the tide of them forever.”

Alaric nodded. “Very well.” He looked out across the panorama of the army surrounding the curtain wall. The volume of arrows still flying through the air was considerably decreased. “I need you to find Ryin Ayend and bring him to me. He will be just down the wall in that direction, I think,” and the Ghost pointed to his right. “Tell him to hurry.”

Aisling nodded and was off at a run, bent over and moving at incredible speed and with enough grace that Vara felt a surge of jealousy as she had a flash where she saw Cyrus pressed against the dark elf in her mind, naked- “Alaric,” she said, throwing cold water upon that thought, “what do you intend?”

“It would appear Cyrus Davidon requires assistance,” Alaric said calmly, and he crouched down next to her. “I will go to him myself to render it.”

She frowned at him as though he were insane. “Alaric, one man will not be able to turn back the tide of these things that are coming, not if Cyrus’s reports or that diseased harpy,” she waved at Aisling’s retreating- and firm, she noted irritably-backside, “are to be believed. These things swept our army and the armies of three nations before them. What makes you think that they’ll do any different to you?”

Alaric stared at her through his helm, calmly impassive, but only for a moment before he smiled. “Have faith, Vara. I will take care of this. It is upon you to hold our home safe until my return.” His smile flickered. “Take care of yourself-and the others.”

She lay her head back against the wall behind her and caught a sudden waft of death far below. “How long will you be gone?”

He hesitated, an unusual thing for him to do. “As long as need be and not a moment more,” he answered finally. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and Ryin appeared, led by Aisling. She gave the dark elven woman a sneer, but it was halfhearted and she received only a coldly satisfied gaze in return. Alaric gave Ryin a nod. “Ladies,” Alaric said, “take care while I am away.” With that, the winds carried up around them, sweeping like a tornado around the ramparts, stirring Vara’s hair and rushing through the cracks in her armor to touch her skin while roaring in her ears. There was the taste of bitterness in her mouth as the wind settled, and Alaric was gone.

Chapter 107

Cyrus

The slog was hard, the salt air on his tongue along with the sweat that fell in drops with his exertion. The breeze kept him cool under the sun, but with every swing of Praelior he let another exhalation out, another muted curse at the things that came at him, black eyes, foul breath, no souls, and he took his fury out upon them.