Cyrus turned and found the dwarf already upon him, hammer raised above his head. Cyrus brought Praelior up, turning aside the dwarf’s first attack by landing a glancing blow on the head of the big, stone hammer that sent it reeling off to the side. The dwarf was fast, however, and used the momentum of the attack to pirouette, coming around with a spinning assault that Cyrus dodged, but only barely.
Cyrus brought Praelior around and landed the blade on the hammer’s long handle; it was almost as long as the dwarf was tall, and when he hit the wood with his blade, it chipped only slightly.
“You’re faster than most dwarves I’ve met,” Cyrus said, feeling the hammer strike a glancing blow off his breastplate as he landed one home upon the dwarf’s shoulder, leaving a thin line in the steel that drew the mercenary’s attention.
“Oh, yah?” The dwarf smiled, his long, brown mustache and beard shaking. The beard was braided at the bottom, and his bushy hair was ponytailed in the back. He wore weathered armor, steel with a dirty sort of look, and his eyes carried little spots of brown in the middle of large white eyeballs. “Then I’ll tell you that you move faster than most humans I’ve met.”
“So long as we’re forming this fine mutual admiration society,” Cyrus said, meeting the hammer’s head with Praelior again, blocking the dwarf’s attempt to crush his skull, but at the cost of sending a jarring pain through both of Cyrus’s arms, “I’ll tell you that your hammer is quite impressive, even for a mystical weapon. Most of them I’ve met can’t stand up to my sword.”
“Big strapping fellow like you, dressed all in black? I’m surprised your foes don’t all run away from you screaming in terror.” The dwarf pivoted around and landed a blow under Cyrus’s exposed armpit as he was stepping into a swing of his blade. Cyrus felt the armor hold but ram, hard, into his ribs. They cracked and felt the searing agony run through his side, gritting his teeth, trying to keep the pain from overwhelming him. The dwarf pressed forward, lifting his hammer over his head for a killing blow, but Cyrus used Praelior to deflect the strike, whirling away from the paladin.
“I believe you’re mocking me, sir,” Cyrus said, tasting blood in his mouth. A quick glance around the battlefield found the Syloreans in panic; they’d turned and engaged J’anda’s army thinking it was real and had discovered too late it was not. The Galbadien dragoons were visible behind the dwarf, some already cutting through the Sylorean forces, their upper bodies visible over the heads of the writhing and panicked Sylorean army as the dragoons cut their way through on a charge. Shouts drowned out everything, screams of the defeated and the battle cries of those still standing and fighting. The only difference was in pitch, not volume.
“I believe you’re right,” the dwarf said without irony. “But it’s nothing personal, even though you did just kill my comrades.” He brought the hammer down furiously again and Cyrus felt the impact as he blocked it with his sword.
“Away.” The dwarf swung his hammer with one hand and Cyrus was forced to step back. The dwarf raised his other hand and white light coursed down his side, a small healing spell. The dwarf smirked at him. “Just for a second though, lad. I wouldn’t want to step out on you before I’ve killed you, after all.”
“Not much chance of that.” Cyrus came at him again, ignoring the pain in his ribs, embracing the agony, letting it enrage him.
“Why?” The dwarf smiled, that irritating smile. “Do you think your friends’ll be saving you? Because I don’t.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cyrus brought his blade down and it clanged against the head of the hammer, and he raised it and brought it down again, this time cutting centimeters into the handle. “Why’s that?”
“Because …” the dwarf said, bringing his hammer up and hitting Cyrus in the nose with the handle, “… Curatio there is far too busy trying to rally your spellcasters to keep the Sylorean army from turning around and stampeding through you lot on their retreat.”
Cyrus staggered back, stunned by both the blow to his face and dimly aware that the dwarf had called Curatio by name. He glanced back, a quick turn of the head and saw that it was true; the healer was with the spellcasters, flames were rippling in careful lines across the plains, turning back the tide of screaming Syloreans as the Galbadien dragoons continued to cut through their ranks. Cyrus turned back to the dwarf and over the little man’s shoulder he saw the Sanctuary army, the bulk of it, burrowing into the footmen in the center of the melee while the dragoons drove through the flanks of the Sylorean army.
“So you’re from Sanctuary, eh?” The dwarf leered at him, little half-smile wicked upon his face. “You’re a long way from the Plains of Perdamun, lad.” He balanced the hammer in his hand, bouncing it with one hand and letting the handle slap his palm in the other as he advanced toward Cyrus slowly. “A long damned way you came just to try and kill me and mine.”
“I killed yours,” Cyrus said, trying to shake off the disorientation. Blood flowed freely from his nose down his lips and every word he spoke let more of it run into his mouth, the hard, metallic taste of it drowning out all else. “Now all that’s left is to kill you.”
The dwarf chuckled, his small frame gyrating slightly from the laugh. “Easier said than followed through with.” He extended the hammer with one hand and pointed it at Cyrus. “But if you want to give it a try, now seems the opportune moment.”
Cyrus clutched Praelior in both hands, holding it defensively. “I’ve been known to do dumb things,” he said, staring the dwarf down, “but attacking a strong adversary to no purpose while I’m injured isn’t one of them.”
“Let me give you reason, then.” The dwarf held up his palm and Cyrus nearly flinched as another blast of force hit him before he could dodge.
The spell made contact with his shoulder as it passed and jerked him around in a half-circle before leaving him to come to rest on the ground. He felt the numbness in his arm from the blast, and clenched his other fist to find he had, in fact, held onto his sword. He rolled to the side as the hammer landed in the mud where he had lain, splattering his armor from the force of impact. The hammer came down again as Cyrus rolled to a knee, this blow missing him by only inches.
Cyrus saw Terian, a half-dozen paces away, the flames from the spellcasters behind him, a wall of fire keeping the army of Syloreas from retreating. The dark knight stared at him, blade in hand. Smoke was everywhere, black clouds that drifted lazily around him. “Terian,” Cyrus said. “Help me!”
Terian did not move, and Cyrus cocked his head at the dark elf, who stood still, watching. Cyrus started to call out to him again but the hammer hit him in the face, a short, fast stab that landed on Cyrus’s already-wounded nose and caused a flash in his eyes. He blinked and realized he was on the ground and the dwarf was over him, brandishing the hammer.
“Friends, eh?” The dwarf said, shaking his head. “Guildmates, yah? Someday, lad, maybe if you grow wise, you’ll realize that you really can’t rely on anyone but yourself.” The dwarf chuckled. “‘Course, that’d mean living long enough to learn from your mistakes.” He hefted the hammer on his shoulder. “Best of luck with that.”
The dwarf raised the hammer above his head and brought it down on Cyrus, a full-force swing from on high. Cyrus watched it come down, the arc slow and graceful, and wondered what it would feel like when it-
Chapter 19
Vara
There was a thundering sound, somewhere far above Vara, and one of the people across the foyer let out a shriek that overpowered the moans of the last few unhealed wounded. “Those damnable catapults,” she said, meaning it. The smell of smoke drifted in from outside, so thick she could taste it. The weight of her armor felt
