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.”
“Aren’t we all,” Cyrus said as he started his path back to the rear of the lines, a few others in tow, “aren’t we all.”
He found J’anda waiting beside a fire with a few loaves of bread that he wordlessly handed to the new arrivals as they strew themselves around the campsite. The dark elf’s face flickered in the light, and he wore no illusion of late. I wonder why not? He doesn’t go to the front because there’s no use for him there, you’d think all he’d have to do is sit around and play with illusions. Cyrus took the bread offered to him wordlessly. “I have a meeting to attend-I’m sorry, a moot.” His fingers came up to his eyes and tried to brush away the sleep, but found only dried blood encrusted on his forehead. I don’t even know if that’s mine or not. “I’ll return when I’m done.”
“I was figuring you’d just collapse wherever you were standing when it was over,” Terian said, staring down at the bread clasped between his gauntlets. He stared at it as though it were an adversary; Cyrus knew well what he was feeling, as the taste of it had grown quite old for him as well. “You know, from exhaustion.”
“I’ll be waiting for you to get back,” Aisling said, her eyes glistening in the firelight.
“Or possibly something venereal,” Terian muttered. “I don’t know where you find the energy,” he said, a little louder.
Cyrus didn’t answer, instead turning his face toward the largest fire behind the lines, a roaring blaze off in the distance. It was a bonfire, almost, and he could see a few figures gathered around it. That’ll be where they are, he thought, taking the first trudging steps toward it. I hope they speak quickly, though I have my doubts that they’ll do any such thing.
The snows had grown deep around his feet but were packed down from having an army treading constantly over them. He heard the crunch with each step and huddled tighter against his cloak, trying to find shelter within it from the wind. He tried to keep his head down, eyes directly off the fires that punctuated the dark around him. The moonless night gave him little enough to see by, and every time he gazed directly into a flame he was forced to blink the afterimage of it out of his sight for a few seconds in order to see the path he was walking. The only good news is that every bit of foliage that can be burned has already been cleared to do so. I expect they’ve taken to chopping down the woods around Enrant Monge itself by now, sending it north to us by wagon along with whatever meager supplies they have remaining.
His nose adjusted to the cold air, to the smell of wood fires burning and nothing cooking. The army was subdued. All joking and laughter seemed to have fled long ago, blanketed over and suppressed like the night sky that wrapped the world above them. They are weary. These men have fought for weeks, some of them for months. If I’m this tired, I cannot imagine how someone like Odellan feels, having done this now for so long.
He reached the fire at last, the largest one, and there was a small circle of men in armor standing guard around it. They didn’t stop him, stepping aside when his face became visible. He entered the circle and found Longwell sitting on the ground next to Tiernan, both facing the roaring flames. Briyce Unger was there as well, though he was standing. Cyrus did not bother greeting them with anything more than a nod before dropping onto the melting snow next to Longwell. He heard the light squish of the muddied ground, and realized that he truly did not care.
“I see you’re in as fine a state as the rest of us, Lord Davidon,” Milos Tiernan said.
“Indeed,” Longwell said, scarcely turning his head, “we are truly a kingly lot, we masters of Luukessia. Sitting here, far from our halls-” He looked at Unger, a look laced with profound apology, “we who still have halls, that is-sorry-and watch our lands swallowed up a day at a time.”
Cyrus felt a stir of pity. I’ve felt the same, remembering the dark elves coming to Reikonos. Home. He felt a slight pang, deep within, buried under layers of weariness. It’s been so long. “How many more days until we reach Enrant Monge?”
“One,” Unger answered, waving behind them. “You can’t see it now, because of the darkness, but we’re in sight of it.”
“In sight of it?” Cyrus sat up, a cold clutch of surprise pushing back the weariness. “The refugees-”
“Evacuated,” Tiernan said, staring into the fire. “They’ve been moved south, toward Actaluere.” The King of Actaluere looked up from the flames. “Does anyone want to say it yet?”
There was a pause and a silence, then Briyce Unger spoke. “You speak of the fact that nearly half of Luukessia has been devoured by these things.”
“Aye,” Tiernan replied. “I received a messenger from Grenwald Ivess today with missives from border towns to the west; the scourge advances along a line, taking the towns south of Actaluere’s border with Syloreas. They are eating my realm now, and my citizenry are moving south as quickly as possible.” He looked expectantly at Longwell.
Longwell was glum, but did not look up from the fire. “Much the same to the east. They will be at Harrow’s Crossing in another few weeks. Their advance is slower there, in fewer numbers, but enough to consume what remains. The villages and towns have emptied, and the people are in full flight before them. They seem to be following the lead of the battle here, letting their fellows who hammer us on this front be the guiding force for their advance. It gives us time to evacuate the cities and towns, but … to what purpose?” Longwell gave a weary shrug. “We are soon to run out of land to give them in exchange for the time we buy.”
Briyce Unger waved into the darkness. “It seems likely that they’ll take Enrant Monge within a day or two of enveloping it-which I suspect will be tomorrow evening, the following morn at the latest. We’ll be forced to divide, or perhaps retreat and reform beyond it, adapting to the woodlands to the south as we make our moves.” He shook his head. “This is a slow-burning nightmare, like watching Syloreas swept away all over again. I see these things when I sleep, like the avalanches in the passes near Scylax, and everything they touch as they rumble down is dragged with them, to the underworld. Ancestors,” he cursed. “We shan’t be making so much as a stop to them. We’ve fought them from Filsharron and have yet to stymie them to delay for so much as a night. They come on, more and more. How many have we killed now?”