Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (26 page)

The others changed course behind him, and Cyrus felt the wind rushing through his hair, blowing it out the bottom of his helm. His mouth was wide with a feral grin; he was going into battle, riding into danger from the fore, his forces behind him. The dwarf ahead of him was already running out to meet him, along with the others in his party, while the rest of the Sylorean army was still executing its turn and trying to shift their formations to deal with the threat at their flank. Cyrus saw horses beginning to stream out of the woods behind the backs of the Syloreans. The real Galbadien Dragoons were forming up to hit the unsuspecting Syloreans from behind while Cyrus distracted them.

“Watch out for the paladin’s attack!” Cyrus shouted as they closed the distance to the mercenaries. He locked his eyes to the dwarf, watched him extend his hand, felt Windrider tense beneath him.

A blast of ice sent the dwarf staggering, his hand flying into the air as he loosed a massive burst of force that went sailing over Cyrus’s head, barely brushing his helm but sending it flying. Cyrus could see the two mercenary warriors, armored at the fore, and the two rangers, their bows drawn and arrows ready to loose. Each of them was downed in the next moment; one caught an arrow in the face from Martaina, who smiled grimly as she drew another arrow. The other was blasted by a bolt of lightning that originated from Ryin Ayend, who sent the man spiraling through the air as though thrown.

“Spellcasters!” Cyrus yelled, “let loose on the armies! Keep them off us while we finish the mercenaries!” He watched another arrow sail forth, this one from Aisling, and it came to rest in the thigh of the mercenary healer, who let out a cry and fell to the ground.

Flames sparked up in a line along either side of their charge, isolating Cyrus and the Sanctuary forces from the Syloreans on either side; the lines blazed back toward the woods but stopped behind the mercenaries, sending the grass into conflagration as it looped around the four surviving mercenaries, cutting them off from Sylorean reinforcement.

Another arrow caught the healer in the face as he cast a spell, sitting on his haunches, his legs in front of him. His hand dropped, limp, into his lap, and he fell backward, dead, forcing Cyrus to smile. The dwarf had been knocked over by the ice spell, but was back on his feet now, hunched over, the two heavily armored warriors flanking him to either side. “Get the paladin!” Cyrus shouted as the dwarf’s hand rose again, this time without warning. Cyrus was only ten feet away now—

The air around the paladin’s hand rippled as his spell burst forth from his mailed hand. With the aid of Praelior’s mystic enhancement to his speed and reflexes, time seemed to slow as the air folded around the force of the spell, the world distorting as the enchantment sped toward Cyrus. Windrider had already cut hard to the right before the blast landed, and the horse managed to dodge under the effects. Cyrus felt himself hit by the widening radius of power as the wave bloomed outward, like a wall had been picked up and slammed into him. He flew sideways off the horse, dragging his legs behind him as he flipped in midair, before coming to rest on his shoulder.

The impact knocked the air out of him, but he maintained his grip on his sword. He looked back and saw the paladin’s attack wreaking havoc behind him; half of Cyrus’s small force had been hit, and a trail of upturned earth ten feet wide marked the place where the paladin’s incantation had wrought its effects. Those who hadn’t been hit had dodged outside of the cone of destruction, trying to get their horses back under control. Cyrus saw Curatio among them, as well as Terian. “Come on!” Cyrus shouted and slung himself to his feet. “Terian, get over here!”

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.
His hammer is mystical. Praelior would cut through regular wood as easily as passing through flesh.

“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.

Being on the defensive is not a good strategy for this fight,
Cyrus thought.
I need a healing spell.
“The Syloreans are faltering.” Cyrus sidestepped another vertical attack from the dwarf. “Without you and your friends to save them, the Galbadien army will break them.” Cyrus lunged forward as the dwarf was turning to swing his hammer around again. Cyrus’s attack ran right along the seam of the dwarf’s waist, and he felt it hit chainmail; the dwarf halted his attack and tried to back off, toddling backward on his short legs. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“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—

Vara

Four Months Later

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 heavy on her shoulders, and it was seldom ever a bother.

“What has happened here?” Ryin Ayend stared around the foyer, the stone that had burst the window only moments earlier was still sitting in the Great Hall, in the midst of splintered tables.

“We are under siege,” Alaric answered him, crossing the distance between them and placing a hand on Ryin’s shoulder. “I am most pleased to see you, my brother, but unfortunately the news you bear will have to wait, unless you have anything life-threatening to tell us?”

“Not exactly,” Ryin said. “But I was sent back to let you know—”

Another thunderous roar filled the room as the entirety of Sanctuary quaked to the foundations. There was a moment’s respite from the fury and then the earth shook again so violently Vara was only just able to keep her footing. Others were not so lucky and landed on the floor in a heap.

“If I am not mistaken, we have just lost the southwest tower to a bombardment,” Alaric said, much more calmly than Vara felt.

“Lucky shot,” Vaste said, pulling himself to his feet. “There’s no way that was intentional, not with a catapult. Those things are hideously inaccurate.”

“You don’t have to be that accurate when you’re firing a ton of stone.” A voice whipped through the room and Vara saw Erith Frostmoor, a dark elven healer, cut down the stairs and take in the foyer in one glance. “I was on the battlements—we did lose the southwest tower, and it was a lucky shot, but the boulders they’re firing at us are bigger than any I’ve seen heaved from a catapult before. Two lucky hits and the tower came down, along with whoever was in it at the time.”

“Applicant quarters,” Vaste said. “Gods, that’ll be messy.”

“Healers,” Alaric said, looking to Erith and Vaste, “get to the wreckage of the tower and begin pulling the dead and wounded out. Any able-bodied warriors should join you. Rangers, I’ll need with me,” he said, voice tight, “along with anyone who can cast a spell. I believe it is time to give the dark elven host a taste of our fury.”