Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (93 page)

She pulled her sword and rushed into the fight.
There have to be close to a hundred of them. A hundred trolls. Is the Sovereign mad? He’s been keeping his own troll strike force?
The smell was overwhelming, a kind of musty mildew and body odor more rancid than anything she’d ever scented. She made a move to strike the nearest enemy but her sword glanced off his armor.
And mystical armor? What madness is this …?

The troll she struck dealt a murderous blow to a warrior with his mace, and Vara watched the man’s head sag on a broken neck, limp and loose in a way she’d never seen save for when a paladin she’d trained with broke a shin so badly that the heel of his foot was pointed upward and the bone jutted out of the skin. She swallowed her nausea and looked for the weak point; the trolls were in a formation, though they had appeared to have made a jolly game of the first attacks. There were dead everywhere, more than she could safely count.
More than we could stand to lose and still defend this place.

A burst of flame came from behind her, carefully targeted at the troll’s face. It hit him dead on and he screamed, dropping his weapons and clawing at his helm. It was a full helm, one that completely covered his eyes and his face, and the flame had heated the helm or slipped through the eyeholes. He screamed and threw it off, bending low while holding himself.

Vara took the opening and leapt; the troll was tall, taller than Vaste even by at least a head, but her leap was long. She brought her sword down and struck true. The hearty blow did not remove the head, but made it through enough to get the job done. The troll hit the ground as Vara landed, and she felt the impact through the padding in her boots, as well as the aftershock of the troll slumping over.

She glanced back to see Larana at the entrance to the Great Hall, another spell already in motion.
Goddess help us should they send another round, we’ll be bloody dead.

The trolls were aligned, formed into a rank, with the forward line carrying shields and the back containing at least one dark elven healer, she realized, seeing movement of white robes through the tall, green armored beasts that were backing toward the doors under a timid onslaught from Sanctuary’s defenders.
A healer. Bloody hell. We’re f—

There was a glow from Vara’s left and she looked to Larana again; there was a blazing ball of fire forming in front of the cook, bigger than a person, and it launched like a catapulted stone right over the top of the formation and into the middle of the trolls. It burst like a blast of water but flooded outward as though it were splashed, a rain of lava coming down on everything inside the troll formation then moving outward to the armored periphery. There were screams louder than any she’d heard and the line broke, trolls running left and right to escape the fires that had shot out from Larana’s spell.

“What … the hells … was that?” Ryin Ayend said, turning to look at the timid druid. Larana flushed under her frizzed hair and turned away from him, running to the side of the foyer near the stairs.

“I give less than a damn,” Vara said, advancing on the trolls, whose formation was broken, as they tried to reform. There were bodies amongst them where the flaming blast from Larana had hit; the healers, dark elves, scorched away to near-nothingness, only bones and ash remained. A few of the trolls had similarly been afflicted, and there was a molten slag of steel wrapped around the remains of charred green flesh where their armor had melted around them.

Her next thought was interrupted by a howl of outrage. A body flew through the massive entrance doors over the heads of the trolls that were blocking it. The body was overlarge, green, and came to rest in the middle of the floor after hitting and rolling. There was a shout from outside, one near-deafening that stopped the action in place. “STAY AWAY FROM LORD VASTE’S FLOWERS!”

Vara shot forward at the nearest troll and aimed for the joint of his armor at the knee, plunging her sword into the open crack while he was still turned toward the commotion outside. She buried the blade up to the hilt and he shrieked, turned and hit her with a short backhand that sent her to the floor. She hit the ground and slid, the feeling of blood rushing warm down her nose. She wiped her face with the back of her gauntlet, and it came back red. The flavor of it was on her lips, tangy with iron, and she spat.
My nose is broken.
She knew it from the pain, from the crack that had accompanied the hit. Her nostrils gushed with it, a warm stream flowed down her front as she rose to a squat and looked at the troll who glared back at her.

With a shout, she launched herself at him, darting under his reach as he swiped for her and tried to catch her with his gauntleted paws. She grabbed her sword from where it remained lodged in his knee and yanked down. She twisted it and prompted another howl from him and then jerked the sword free as she slid around behind him. The troll staggered forward and she saw the gap at the back of his armor and lunged up, sticking it in. She felt it resist and hammered it as hard as she could. He dropped with a squeal and she pulled the weapon out and down, feeling the torsion on it as though it were a pry bar with too much weight against it. She knew it was cutting him terribly inside and she did not care; she listened to his scream as she finished withdrawing it, remembering how it had felt when Archenous Derregnault did it to her.
Curious. I don’t remember screaming that much.
With a kick, she pulled it free and sent him forward onto his face, unprotesting. She brought her sword over her head and rammed the blade into the back of his neck.

There were other fights still going on around the foyer, she saw. Larana had three of the enemy boxed into the corner. Lighting forked out from her hands, causing her foes to jerk and twitch on the ground. The druid’s green eyes were cold, colder than Vara could ever recall seeing on the woman before. She let the lightning flow out of her and smoke had begun to pour off the trolls. Vara started to say something but shrugged; there were a dozen more still on their feet around the room in various states of attack. Most were contained; a few were not. She watched as one seized an elven ranger by the neck and shook him then threw him bodily into the hearth, which exploded and knocked the ranger free with a minimum of fire.

“This is not going our way,” Vara said quietly and launched herself at one of the trolls who was half bent, slumped over. She brought her sword down into the side of his neck perfectly. The combination of her weight and swing did the trick, and she dragged him down to death. She looked left and saw Mendicant, quietly lurking next to the stonework around the hearth. His hands were extended and Vara could see a group of trolls being frozen solid by his ice spell. Belkan attacked them one by one, shattering their hands, their bodies, and then their heads last of all.

There was a misting just then that swept through as though carried on a strong breeze. Buffeted by a crack of thunder from Larana’s lightning spell, Alaric Garaunt appeared, his blade flashing motion, impaling a troll through the back, causing a grunting scream from the creature. Guts spilled upon the floor. The Ghost’s eyes were afire, and he moved with his customary speed between battles, mist and then not, solid form striking, attacking, killing all that opposed. When the fight was finished, he stood in the midst of the carnage, his sword dripping blood.

Erith Frostmoor was there, Vara realized, quietly making her way among the bodies, bringing them back to life where needed, casting healing in other places. The carnage was great, the smell of blood and gore filled the room, along with other smells—emptied bowels and bladders and troll stink, the like of which she had not experienced.

“Larana,” Alaric said quietly, and Vara’s head snapped around to see the druid, lightning still flaring from her fingertips at the bodies of three dead trolls that were near fried, blackened from her magic. “Enough.” The mousy druid looked up, and Vara saw the blaze in her eyes, the light coupled with horror of a depth she had not remembered seeing ever before.

“Alaric,” Erith said, rising to her feet from healing a ranger who had been gushing blood, “We must close the portal.”

Alaric stood stock still in the middle of the room, waiting, his shoulders slumped, his weapon still dripping blood on the floor, drop by drop, onto the great seal in the middle of the room. “To do so would leave our guildmates in Luukessia with no way to return to us.”

“If we leave it open,” Erith said, “the Sovereign will continue to send wave after wave of enemies upon us. These are mere forays, designed to push us, to test us. His forces are assaulting the wall even now because he’s trying things out. If we leave the portal open for when his final assault comes, we’re simply making it all the easier for him to crush us.”

Alaric’s head came up and found Vara, looking her in the eyes. There was not a word exchanged between the two of them, but even behind Alaric’s helm Vara could see the eyes, the grey eyes, and saw the flicker that revealed the thoughts.
No. Please, no.

“Aye,” Alaric said, and slowly slid Aterum back into the scabbard at his side. “We cannot continue to fight the enemy at our gates as it grows in strength, and the enemies that would come at our bellies with a dagger in the night.”

“Alaric,” Vara said, alarmed, “please consider—”

“All I have done is consider,” Alaric said, his hand sweeping to encompass the foyer, the carnage around them. “Hundreds dead, and the Sovereign has yet to visit a true horror upon us, one of the choicer delights he has at his command. They come at us from outside the wall right now as well.” He shook his head. “I do not wish to abandon our guildmates, but if we do not close the portal …”

He stopped speaking, and the world around seemed to become louder for Vara, as though a great sweltering hum filled the air.
Chanting. From the army outside. They are making another assault on the gates. Right now. They keep coming … and coming …
She bowed her head.

“If we do not close the portal,” Alaric said, shaking his head sadly, “they may not have a guild to return to.”

Cyrus

The darkness was total, complete, save for the flashes of spells around him. The battle had gone on for days. They had not seen the Drettanden beast, not since the first time, but that had been plenty enough. Cyrus had died, killed upon impact with the ground, and when he woke up later, behind the lines, he’d found only Calene Raverle at his bedside.

“What happened?” he’d asked in a grog.

“You died,” she said simply and handed him a skin of water, which he drank from. The sounds of battle had carried from beyond. He had not asked her anything else, the strike of swords and cries of wounded answering all his further questions and filling in any gaps.

It was days later now. Cyrus had lost count of how many times he’d stood on the front lines since, sword in hand. Drettanden was out there, he could feel the creature instinctively, but it kept well back from the fighting.
And a good thing, too. I need another clash with that beast like I need to be splattered all over the snow.

“Second rank, coming up!” came a call from behind him. Odellan, he thought, as he swung his sword through the face of a scourge.
Time for relief.
Cyrus eased back into a defensive posture, hacking apart the next scourge to jump at him. It was all he did, anymore, hit these creatures with his sword, stare into their black and soulless eyes and hit another one.
Kill it, kill the next, kill another.
Day after day until this moment had come. He found a dry sort of relief sprinkle over him at the thought of going back behind the lines, of eating something, even bread, possibly some hard cheese. There had been nothing but cheese, all the meat having been consumed by the refugees, but that was to be expected. Bread was enough to go with, bread and water and perhaps some jerky or salted pork every now and again.

Cyrus let himself fade between the next rank of combatants as the second rank took up the battle, and he let his shoulders slump as he placed Praelior back into his scabbard.
How long has it been? Did I ask that this morning? Or was it last night? Two days ago?

It was dark enough that he could not see the horizon; a few torches lit the way for him, the people behind him carrying them to brighten the battlefield, to cast a little illumination on the moonless night. Heavy clouds hung overhead, and the smell of unwashed armies was heavy. Infection, pain and death were faint, but stronger the farther one got behind the lines.

“How long have we been doing this?” Terian asked, rattling into place beside Cyrus.

“Three weeks,” Curatio said, “this time.” The elder elf walked slower than usual, his seemingly inexhaustible nature oddly subdued; Cyrus suspected he had been burning life energy again.
That’ll cost him over time. Even he can’t do that forever without repercussions. Can he?
“Three weeks since we started the defense of Enrant Monge.”

There was movement all around them, the armies holding the fight to the field. “I could use a break,” Cyrus admitted, and he saw a flash of green ahead in the darkness as a shadow broke toward him, female. “Nyad,” he said, acknowledging the wizard with a nod. She hobbled toward him with her staff, coming from behind the lines with a few others, looking only slightly less haggard than he himself—
though she probably just finished a rest. Bad sign for all of us, I think.

“I have a message for you,” she said, brushing blond hair back behind her pointed ears. He watched the motion she made, and it stirred Vara to his tired mind, if only for a second. “The Kings of Luukessia request your presence for a moot.”

“A moot, eh?” Cyrus asked. “I suppose it’s about time we discussed strategy, seeing as how we’ve been going about this for a few weeks without much success.” She shrugged, and started to brush past him. “Is that it?” he asked, watching her go.

“That’s all I’ve got,” the Princess of the Elven Kingdom said, favoring him with a weary smile, “but then I’m rather tired.”