Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (46 page)

“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
they are.” J’anda pushed off, balancing back on his horse and moving away from Cyrus. “They are not fools. They are not beasts. And they are not mindless.”

“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 things? What is wrong with you?”

“I saw,” J’anda whispered. “I looked into the mind of one of them when I charmed him and I saw—what they are. Who they were. What they’ve been through. And I know,” he said hoarsely, “I know. And something else, too—” He looked away, stunned, frightened, back to the hill where they waited, still, staring down at the expedition.

“That more of them are coming—enough to destroy us all. And they’ll be here in moments.”

“Start moving,” Cyrus said in a tone of low dread. “Everybody start heading back the way we came.” No one moved, and Cyrus felt the pressure building internally, and it exploded out of him in a shout. “What are you waiting for? He told us they’re coming, MOVE!”

With that, some of the Syloreans broke ranks and began a run up the hill from whence they had come, a few of the reluctant Sanctuary members following just behind. Curatio hesitated, as did Longwell, and Cyrus waved them in the direction of the hill as he tried to find Windrider in the chaos that was breaking around them. “This isn’t a moment to stand here and die, get moving!”

“Not leaving you here until you’re saddled and going, sir,” Longwell said, and Curatio nodded as well. Terian, too, lurked with them, along with Mendicant. “This isn’t a time to be leaving anybody behind.”

Cyrus watched the others who had dismounted with him, climbing up into their saddles, and he looked for Windrider. Cyrus was surrounded, the Syloreans breaking around him, cutting him off from the direction he knew the horse had run. He heard a familiar whinny from behind the line of retreating Sylorean horses, but to cross them now would mean trampling, injury, unintentional death. He waited until the last of them stampeded past, and Windrider thundered to him. He slung a foot in the stirrup and jumped, sliding onto the saddle as his horse took off, trying to lead the way for the others.

“They’re moving now,” Longwell shouted.

Cyrus turned to see it was true, that the beasts on the hill—the scourge, as he’d come to think of them—were coming down in great numbers. “J’anda looks to have been right,” Cyrus said. “They got some reinforcements.”

A flood of them came as Cyrus and the others galloped, hugging the trail and following the Syloreans ahead of them as they hurried their way back toward the pass. The creatures of the scourge were behind him, Cyrus saw, waiting for trouble to descend, but it seemed as though they were losing them. The creatures, unable to keep up with the speed of the horses, were falling back as Cyrus and the others were pressing ahead.

Cyrus kept to the rear of the column, a little distance between him and the others in front of him. He felt a sudden cold, clammy chill run over his body but ignored it, continuing to hold tight to Windrider’s reins as the horse raced along, fast enough to keep up with those in front of him but keeping an eye on the enemies coming from behind.

“Cyrus,” Terian’s voice came from beside him, low, hushed, barely audible over the hoofbeats. Cyrus turned and the dark knight was there, riding next to him, the nearest person ahead of him by at least ten feet. Behind Terian, to Cyrus’s left, another swarm of the scourge was emerging from the woodline a few hundred feet behind the dark knight. Cyrus made to exclaim, already pointing, but Terian said, “I know. I saw them coming. We can outrun them on horseback. But I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Cyrus asked, and he realized that he was sweating, an unusual feeling for such a cool day. His mouth was dry, papery, as though someone had poured sand into it, and his voice came out scratchy, so low he could barely hear it himself.

“You’ve been afflicted with a curse,” Terian said as Cyrus felt at his throat, trying to discern the nature of his own malady. “You’ll feel the fever in a moment, and the seering pain will start shortly thereafter. You may scream,” Terian said, eyes cold, “but because of your throat, no one’s going to hear you. I want you to know that this isn’t personal, not really.” Cyrus stared at him blankly, disbelieving, as Terian continued. “You killed my father on that bridge in Termina, and for a dark elf, that means vengeance. It has to be taken. I swore a vow and performed a soul sacrifice to become who I am, and I can’t just let it go, not that easily. I do want to thank you, though,” Terian said, drawing his sword. “I doubt I would have ever gotten this back if you hadn’t brought it to me.” Terian’s eyes flicked forward, and his sword darted out and hit Windrider across the neck.

The geyser of blood from the horse hit Cyrus in the face, a slap of wetness so quick and brutal that he didn’t even realize it had happened until it had. The next strike was even more brutal as Terian slapped him across the face with the dull edge of the blade. Windrider was already falling, skidding in the dirt and Cyrus felt himself lift off upon impact, cartwheeling end over end in the dirt and grass, his head hitting, then dull impacts along his shoulders and back as he rolled. The horse’s weight settled on his leg and he felt the bone break, but the pain was muted, somewhere far in the back of his head, beyond the pain in his face, his body, and the desire to just sleep.

Cyrus coughed, and he felt the warm blood flow out of his mouth, onto the ground, turning the dirt red. He watched the little grains of sand float inside it. He felt something else, then, too, something around him—grey flesh, grey faces, horrible teeth, pointed and vicious, a bloody, disgusting spectacle that lingered in front of him, snapping at him, at his face, even as his vision faded into nothingness and he felt nothingness—save for the pointed, far off sensation of his flesh being torn by a thousand hungry mouths.

“GET OFF!” A shriek echoed through Cyrus’s ears as a chill sensation returned to his limbs and he saw a flash of movement in front of his now-opening eyes. Aisling moved above him, her blades a dance of motion as she cut through three of the scourge beasts and kicked another so hard it flew through the air and into its fellows. Cyrus felt blood dripping out of his armor but realized his skin was intact, his flesh renewed, and looked up to see Curatio, far in the distance, beyond a solid wall of the scourge, a hundred of them separating him from the healer and the others. He jumped to his feet in a well-practiced move and his blade was already out.

Cyrus heard the familiar whinny behind him and saw Windrider lift up and kick, stomping three of the creatures to death with rapidity, then back away from them to form a tight circle with Cyrus and Aisling. A wave of flame was burning through the flank of the scourge, the wall of beasts separating Cyrus and Aisling from the rest of the Sanctuary force.

“There seem to be an awful lot of them,” Cyrus said, clutching Praelior and raking a circle around him, killing a half-dozen of the creatures as they began to surge in on all sides. “Not sure we can fight this many.”

“Just you and I against the world?” Aisling asked with a hint of amusement. “I pity the world.” Windrider whinnied, drawing Cyrus’s attention to his neck, where stains of blood remained on his hide. “All right,” Aisling conceded, “us four.” She turned her head and attacked three of the beasts that came at her, her daggers a blur of motion, and there was a shriek as her horse was pulled to the ground, the creatures swarming over it, tearing it apart while Cyrus and Aisling fought off their advance. “Us three,” she amended. “But they’ll pay for that. That was the best horse I’ve ever stolen.”

Cyrus flicked Praelior out in a defensive line around him as three of the scourge jumped at him, and he cleaved them neatly in two before taking the heads off two more that came at him. “Remind me to remonstrate you for thieving later.”

“I might forget,” she said with a smirk. “I’ve never been much for sermons, especially from a man whose life I just saved. That was some damnably clumsy riding on your part. Why’d you pick now to fall off your horse?”

“That was no accident,” Cyrus said. “Terian cut Windrider’s throat and cursed me.”

“What?” she cried as one of the scourge leapt for her. Cyrus swung his sword and clipped the beast, sending it to the ground in a heap. They stood side by side, Windrider behind them, still stomping in a frenzy, keeping the creatures from pulling him down as they had Aisling’s horse. Cyrus watched the hooves land on another one of the scourge and cringed at the sight of its skull caving in, no blood oozing from it, instead a thick, black liquid puddled underneath the unmoving creature. “Why would he do something like that?”