“I will try,” the healer said as they reached the bottom of the hill, “but don’t hold out much hope; it looks as if they’ve been dead for some time.”
“Answer me this question, then,” Terian said, “without an army at our backs, what’s the likelihood we’ll be able to take on whatever horde of beasts did this to them?”
“Not as good as if we had an army at our backs,” Cyrus said as Windrider picked his way around the debris and bodies. “Why do you ask questions that you already know the answer to?”
“Rhetorical,” Terian said. “Well, rhetorical and practical. Because, you see, those things,” and the dark knight raised his hand and pointed to the ridgeline above them, “they seem to be watching us.”
Cyrus cursed and drew his sword, dismounting from Windrider and slapping the horse on the backside after aiming him in a direction where there were no visible signs of the scourge. “Oldest trick in the book, isn’t it? They set a trap for us.”
“Stupid creatures,” Briyce Unger said, unslinging a mighty spiked mace from his back, so grand in scale that it looked to Cyrus almost as tall as the man himself and with spikes longer than a child’s forearm, “they’re not smart enough to do anything so sinister. They must have heard us approach.”
“You keep denigrating their intelligence,” Cyrus said, “but we’re the fools, the hundred of us, up against however many of them.”
They were situated in a neat bowl-shaped depression in the ground, with hills surrounding them and the mountain rising behind them. The only avenue of retreat was the way they had come. To their left was an oppressive rise, a hill that backed to a steep series of cliffs, behind them was the north slope of the mountain they had just avoided by taking the pass back to the east. Before them, strung along the hillside for a mile or more, was a waiting line of the scourge, the creatures on all fours, moving only slightly, in position, watching from the top of the hill.
“They fear us,” Unger said, clutching his mace and remaining atop his steed. “And they rightly should. Their numbers look small, weak. Perhaps they’re all that remains after my men destroyed many of them.”
“You seem far too sharp a battlefield commander to be taken in by bluster,” Cyrus said, trying to keep any recrimination or reproach from his tone. “Why don’t we assume the worst, and if it’s better than we think, we’ll be no worse off?”
Unger cursed behind him, and Cyrus heard the King of Syloreas let out a grim hiss. “Too right. Assume the worst. Perhaps they’re surrounding us? Setting us up for another hammer to fall?”
“They could be trying to draw us in,” Longwell said from beside Cyrus, still atop his horse, spear in hand. “You might do better fighting from horseback, especially with their disadvantage in height.”
“I’ve always been rubbish at fighting on horseback,” Cyrus said, “and with Praelior, believe me when I say you want me on the ground. I’m more dexterous and maneuverable than Windrider and faster to boot.”
“You’re also more vulnerable,” Terian said, “but that’s really more your issue than mine.”
“I will try to keep you all healed and protected,” Curatio said, “but against these numbers and with only one other healer to aid me, this could get fairly dirty, fairly fast.”
Cyrus twirled Praelior in a circle from his hand, catching hold of it and pointing it toward the hilltop where the scourge still waited, making little noise and moving even less. “I didn’t think keeping it clean was going to be an option.”
Cyrus felt movement behind him and turned to see Aisling dismounted, standing just behind his shoulder. “I’m not much use on horseback, either.”
“We could use a wizard or five right now,” Cyrus said, and then saw Mendicant’s pony step into line next to Curatio, the goblin’s scaly skin glistening in the cold morning light. “I suspect you’ll do well enough, Mendicant.”
“As well as I can,” the small goblin said, his claws looking particularly pointed. “I can put up a wall of flame twenty feet across when they charge, but I won’t be able to maintain it for more than thirty seconds or so; after that, I’ll be forced to engage one on one-or perhaps heave some fireballs into dense concentrations of the enemy.”
“Do what you can,” Cyrus said, feeling the tension flood him. “It seems they’re waiting for something, and that concerns me.”
“Another wave to flank us?” Terian asked, “reinforcements from the village? I wish they’d get to it.”
The sun was too bright, Cyrus thought, seeing the light shine off the armor in the formation around him. Only a few had chosen to dismount; Briyce Unger’s men remained on horseback, and besides Aisling, two veteran warriors of Sanctuary as well as Scuddar In’shara were the only others who had chosen to fight on foot. Scuddar looked particularly lethal, his robes a crimson red, his scimitar spinning in his hands in a display of swordsmanship that Cyrus never found less than impressive.
A wind kicked up around them as they stared across the hilly no man’s land between them and the scourge on the hill. Cyrus kept his eyes moving, looking left to the ridgeline, then behind him again, for any sign of another attack, for any idea of what might be delaying the creatures charge.
“Will anyone feel bad if we just charge them and get it over with?” Briyce Unger asked.
“I’ll feel bad if we do it and they sideswipe us with a flanking attack we ran voluntarily into,” Terian said.
“I’ll feel worse if we die of old age while waiting for their attack,” Curatio said, “and for me, that’s saying something.”
“J’anda,” Cyrus said, “I suspect you’re about to have to find out if these things can be mesmerized.”
“I was planning to try,” the enchanter said. “Failing that, perhaps I can take charge of a few and disturb their formation to start things off?”
“Can a spell even reach them out there?” Terian asked.
“For most, it would be impossible,” J’anda said, closing his eyes and raising a hand. “For me, it is merely another day.” A glow wrapped his fingers, a greenish-blue hue that encompassed him, and his eyes snapped open. “Oh. My. Oh, gods. This is … they are not mindless beasts. Not at all.” J’anda’s eyes widened and the enchanter let out a long, gasping exhale that clouded the air in front of him. “This … unfathomable … they … ahhhh …” His eyes rolled back in his head, he shuddered and shook in the saddle as Cyrus ran between the horses that separated them while the animals began to snort, shuffling back and forth on their hooves. The sounds of the horses took on an eerie quality, being the only noise audible other than the crackling voice of the flailing enchanter.
Cyrus reached J’anda’s side and grabbed him by the robes, jarring the dark elf. His eyes snapped open and looked down at Cyrus, wide, the enchanter’s usually unflappable calm gone. His breaths came in deep, rattling bursts, as though he were cold and winded, ragged in his breathing as his thin shoulders rose and fell in poor time. His eyes locked on Cyrus and they were wild, filled with undefinable emotion, as though the enchanter’s mind were overwhelmed.
“J’anda?” Cyrus asked, dragging the dark elf’s eyes to him. Cyrus could see the bloodshot element to them, the red, strained look that they carried. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” J’anda breathed, “and no. Not all right at all. They’re … you would not believe what they are.” He reached down and clutched Cyrus’s shoulder. “
“Who are they?” Cyrus asked, spellbound by the enchanter’s seeming breakdown.
“Not now,” J’anda breathed. “Not now … I cannot even explain it, not now.”
“Why not?” Terian interrupted, and the dark knight’s eyes and voice burned with impatience. “What’s got you so addled?”
“Addled?” J’anda asked with a laugh, a loud, high, demented one. “You don’t know. Of course you don’t, you couldn’t. And it doesn’t matter right now, anyway, because we have to run.” The crazed amusement fled his face and he looked Cyrus straight in the eye. “We have to run, we have to leave now. We might stand a chance if we hurry, if we fly back to the pass.”
“What the blazes is going on here, J’anda?” Cyrus asked. “What are you talking about? What are these
