Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (25 page)

“I … I won’t,” the man breathed. “Torture me all you want, I’ll never tell you a thing.”

“I believe you wouldn’t,” Cyrus said, staring into the man’s eyes; they were wide, but defiant. “You’ve got a good-sized hole in you, you’ve just been dragged a considerable ways, and you’re still so full of spit and whiskey that you’d tell me to go to the hells eighteen times over, even if I cut off your leg. I admire your spirit. Curatio, heal this man.”

“Uh …” The healer sputtered. “All right.” He muttered under his breath and Cyrus saw the glow of a healing spell encompass the wounded captive.

“Is that better?” Cyrus asked, soothing.

“Yes,” the captive said, momentarily losing his defiant tone. “But I still won’t talk.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Cyrus said. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t bleed to death while my enchanter cracks your mind open like a ripe gourd. J’anda?” Cyrus turned and looked at the dark elf, who nodded. “Take him.”

J’anda closed his eyes and stretched his hand out at the man, who recoiled and turned from where he’d been sitting upright, and scrambled to crawl away. He made it almost a foot before a blue light swirled around his head and he went slack, on all fours in the mud. He swayed, then put a hand on the stirrup of Martaina’s horse and pulled to his feet, turning to face Cyrus, a dazed look in his eyes.

“What’s the word, J’anda?” Cyrus looked at the enchanter then to the captive, who stood stonefaced, staring straight ahead.

“He’s a scout from their army, all right,” J’anda said, his eyes closed. “Bad news. They’ve encamped at the edge of the forest. They’ve traversed the entire plains to be ready …” The dark elf sighed. “They had planned to ambush us when we arrived tomorrow. They’re already set up to hit us with a charge the moment we emerge from the forest.”

“Dammit,” Cyrus said. “The trees are too thick to allow us to move off the path in any numbers.”

“That was the plan,” J’anda said. “If they could lock down the army, keep it from getting mobile on the plains, the dragoons would lose their advantage.” He shook his head sheepishly. “Hard to do much with an army of horseman all trapped in a line.”

“Excellent strategy on their part,” Odellan said. “It does rather complicate things for us.”

“Ask him how many mercenaries they have and what types,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider on the side of his neck. The horse’s mane was soaked.

J’anda stared into the man’s eyes, as though he were trying to sift the truth out. “Two warriors, two rangers … a healer … and a paladin.” The dark elf turned back to Cyrus. “I had to pull that out of his memories; he didn’t know what they were by name, but he’s seen what they can do.”

“Should be simple if we can get the healer first,” Terian said, lingering behind Martaina. “He goes down and the paladin is vulnerable. Wiping out the rest of their army will be as easy as making a new recruit cry if we can sift out those two bastards first.”

“I don’t think we should discount the effectiveness of their trap,” Odellan said. “They can pincer us, surrounding our forces as we emerge from the woods, making our numbers count for nearly nothing.” He looked to Cyrus. “I believe you’re somewhat familiar with the technique.”

“I’ve always called it a choke point,” Cyrus said. “Like when we employed it on the bridge in Termina, you’re grabbing your enemy around the throat and slowing the flow of blood—their troops, in this case—until they falter.”

“And falter we may,” Odellan said, “unless we can break through their ambush.”

“Could be tough in the rain,” Longwell conceded. “Poor maneuverability, the numbers against us, our visibility cut to nothing and we’re fighting on unfamiliar terrain. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

“I think not,” Cyrus said, a grin on his face. “By then, they’ll be up and waiting for us.”

J’anda raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I told you what I learned from this scout’s mind—they are already waiting for us, and the minute we appear from the forest, they’ll spring on us from three sides.”

“I heard you,” Cyrus said. “Which is why they’ll be totally caught by surprise when our army marches into their rear flank at dawn.”

There was silence save for the rain, which showed no sign of tapering, large droplets of water hammering down in the puddles all around them. “All right,
General
,” Terian said, sarcasm dripping over Cyrus’s title, “how do you propose to maneuver 2,000 dragoons, 5,000 footmen, 1,000 of our soldiers and fifty of our horsed veterans in a long, wide arc through the muddy woods so that we can flank them? Oh, and do it all in the next … what, four hours? Five? Before dawn.”

Cyrus didn’t answer them, even though every last one of them was watching him. He only smiled.

The sun’s first rays had scarcely begun to show over the horizon and Cyrus was still riding. He could feel the fatigue edging on him. A river lay to his left, burbling against its bank, snaking out of sight. Less than a mile ahead was a bridge: large, made of stones stacked one on top of the other, grouted together to hold against all manner of traffic that would cross it. The river was not particularly wide or particularly deep but enough so to make traversing it wickedly difficult, even if the water hadn’t been as high as it was.

“It is called the Fennterin River,” Longwell said, his voice a low whisper. “The bridge ahead is called Harrow’s Crossing. The Fennterin overruns its banks every spring, likely in a few weeks as the water seeps down from the highlands when the rains come. They built the bridge to aid travelers going to the northern towns, to help keep the trade routes open to Vernadam and southern Galbadien in times of flood.”

Cyrus stared at the bridge in the distance and saw figures over the small ridge of stones that railed either side of it. “You’re sure that the walls are only a few feet high?”

“Absolutely,” Longwell said. “I’ve been on it countless times; it’s low enough that an upset horse could easily jump over.”

“Good.” Cyrus peered ahead. “Martaina, what does it look like to you?”

The elf was to his left, and her eyes were trained on the bridge. “Men on horseback, some others dismounted, with bows.” She turned to him and smiled. “I think that scout J’anda pulled the information out of had the right of it; it looks as though they’ve placed their entire cavalry and all their bowmen on the bridge to protect their retreat.”

“Leaving a nice wide swath of open fields between them and their exit route,” Terian said, his destrier carrying him along with them. “Imagine their surprise when they see an army at their backs and their retreat cut off.”

“Let’s keep it low,” Cyrus said, dropping his voice. “We still need the element of surprise.” He heard the soft release of an arrow to his left and turned to see Martaina, bow in hand. She shrugged and he followed her sightline to see a body up the incline of the riverbank, rolling down, lifeless, an arrow protruding from the face. “Good shot.”

The riverbank sloped at a steep angle, obscuring their view of the fields and the flat ground above them. They had taken a long, circuitous route that Martaina had found for them through the woods, traversing rocky paths and uneven ground, taking care to eliminate the enemy’s scouts and even one small line of pickets when they reached the edge of the forest. They had crossed from the wood’s edge to the incline down by the river several miles west of where the Sylorean army waited in ambush. It had taken all night.
But it will be worth it, if we can pull this off.

Every twig snap seemed to carry with it extra danger, and the long night’s journey had taken its toll. Cyrus looked around at the ragtag officers on horseback: Terian’s dark eyes darted back and forth, keeping careful watch for anything around them. Curatio looked relatively intact, but Cyrus caught a glimpse of the healer rubbing his face, as though he were trying to brush off the desire to sleep. Past him was the wizard, Mendicant, the goblin’s green scales and facial ridges barely visible in the dawn’s early light.

The bridge drew ever closer, and Cyrus beckoned for others to join him at the fore; Nyad, Ryin, Mendicant, and J’anda came forward, along with a few other spellcasters. The voices on the raised bridge were hushed, but occasional laughter came from the horsed cavalry.

Cyrus held up his hand, bringing them all to a stop a hundred feet from the bridge, partially obscured. “Remember,” he whispered so that the spellcasters could hear him. “I want chaos. Fire. Lightning is acceptable, but only if it produces a hell of a thunderclap. Chaos is the word of the day, ladies, gentlemen, and goblin, so let’s spread the word to the Sylorean army.” Nods greeted him as the spellcasters turned their attention to the bridge. “Let’s give ’em a sunrise they’ll remember,” Cyrus whispered.

“Their last?” Terian shrugged when Cyrus turned to look at him questioningly. “Well, it is.”

“J’anda,” Cyrus said, “are you ready to do your part?”

“I am ever ready to do my part,” the enchanter said, “and, if needs be, the part of ten thousand others as well.”

“Needs be,” Cyrus said. “Get to it.”

Cyrus waited, counting the seconds as they passed, the cool air coming off the river slipping through the joints of his armor, chilling him. He ran his hand over his helm, straightening it.
Damned hair,
he thought, shifting it back under his helm.
At least the beard will be gone soon.
He felt a stir of something within and smiled.

The first blast of flame exploded on the bridge only a moment later, a blast ten feet wide and ten feet tall, at the railing opposite them. Screams tore through the early morning silence, breaking it as another burst of fire landed on the bridge a moment later and shouts overcame the pre-dawn calm, dissolving it into the chaos Cyrus had sought. Three men tumbled over the side of the bridge in the first few seconds, along with their horses.

Cyrus heard a soft moan from Martaina. When he looked over at her, she wore a frown. “Couldn’t we have found a way to rout them without hurting the horses?”

“Sorry,” Cyrus said with a shake of the head. “I’ve got no love of harming animals, but we need to throw their rearguard into utter disarray.”

Another dozen or more horses vaulted off the side of the bridge, flames covering their riders, wreathing the end of the bridge in a way that reminded Cyrus of another bridge, only months earlier, and a wizard who had sacrificed years from her life to bring twice as much fire as his whole corps of spellcasters were delivering now—and not nearly so sustained as what Chirenya had created.

Cyrus could feel the heat, as though a furnace door had opened in front of him. He could see bodies tumbling off as the men and horses sought to escape the fiery doom that awaited any who remained on the bridge. They fell, dropping off the side onto the rocks in the shallows below. Most remained unmoving, but a few still moaned or cried out. Cyrus saw one man trapped under a whinnying horse that could not stand, though it kept trying, and he cringed. “Martaina,” he said. “For the gods’ sakes, give them some mercy.”

He heard the arrows begin to fly only a moment later, and he turned away from the destruction he had ordered as the last of the inferno faded away. The bridge was silent, but the ground and water below was a mass of moaning and whinnying, the survivors of the jump crying out for relief that would not come—at least not in the way they intended it.

“I’d say you’d suffer in Mortus’s oil pits for that bit of cruelty,” Martaina said as she loosed another arrow, “but I think we both know that at this point, that’s not likely true.”

“There were some folks suffering there, that’s certain,” Cyrus said, recalling the phantoms that had been loosed when Mortus died; souls crying out, screaming in pain for vengeance; they sounded much like the suffering souls under the bridge. “No time for recriminations now. J’anda?” Cyrus looked to the enchanter. “Are we set?”

“Set,” J’anda said. “Excellent choice of words. They look like a matching set, in fact.” He waved his hand toward figures that were lined up in even rows behind them, stretching over the riverbanks and onto the river, horsemen with the helms of Galbadien’s dragoons, walking on water as though it were the greenest grass. “Let us hope that our enemies don’t look too closely at their conformity and see through the illusion of it all.”

“They’ve never seen an enchanter at work,” Cyrus said. “And by the time they figure it out, hopefully it’ll be too late.” He drew his sword, Praelior, and urged Windrider up the bank. “Let’s get out in front of this charging army of specters and get these Syloreans turned around.” His horse stormed up the embankment as Cyrus held his sword aloft. He heard the others follow him in the morning gloom and saw the illusory dragoon army close behind as they crested the top of the ridge.

A flat, grassy plain stretched before him, running all the way to the edge of the Forest of Waigh. Cyrus saw the road that led from the bridge back to the forest, the one they had been following with the army until they caught the scout. Set up on either side of the road at the forest’s edge were ranks of soldiers, footmen with pikes, polearms, and swords. Standard bearers waited at either end, each of which was divided into six armies, each with four or five ranks lined up one behind another. They were arranged in a half circle around the entrance to the woods, although now many of them had turned, heads looking toward the bridge to try and make sense of the flaming chaos.

When Cyrus crested the edge of the embankment he judged the distance to the nearest army at only a few hundred yards. He let Windrider carry him onward as he watched the armies before him panic, men turning, stunned at the appearance of a charging army on the rear flank. The Sylorean officers screamed at their men to turn in formation but Cyrus watched them hesitate before beginning to organize.
Too slow.

Detached from the body of any of the six legions, dead in the center of the road back to the forest was another cluster, smaller, this one only a few men. Cyrus squinted, and saw that one of them appeared to be much shorter than the others, and had a long beard, one that reached nearly to his waist. The dwarf carried a hammer almost as tall as he was, holding it diagonally across his body with both hands. The small group of fighters was only about six strong, Cyrus noted. He pointed his sword at them and noticed Windrider had already altered his heading to charge the mercenaries. “Clever horse,” he said faintly. “So, so clever.”