“Plan?” Aisling said from his left.
“Kill every last one of them and let Mortus sort them out,” Terian said. “Oh, wait, we killed Mortus a few weeks ago, didn’t we? All right then, kill them all and let them remain unsorted.”
“The following people will come with me,” Cyrus said. “Mendicant, J’anda, Ryin, Terian, Longwell, Curatio, Nyad, Martaina, Aisling and …” he looked around and caught sight of a familiar robed figure toward the front of the army, “Scuddar In’shara. Odellan will remain here in charge of the army and continue to watch them.”
“And you’ll be …?” Odellan asked, pure curiosity on his face.
Cyrus let a bitter smile seep out. “Taking an afternoon run.”
Chapter 10
Curatio rejoined them minutes later, and Cyrus gave a subtle nod to Ryin, who began an incantation under his breath. Cyrus had explained the details to those he had selected once Curatio returned from the back of the army. Cyrus felt a gentle wind rush over him and he looked to the healer. “Is she …?”
“She’ll be fine,” Curatio said brusquely. “Physically, at least.”
“I had hoped that the resurrection spell would allow her to forget what happened.” Cyrus stared at the castle walls. “I take it that …?”
“No such luck.” Curatio reached into his robes, keeping his face impassive, and his hand emerged with a small but wicked looking mace. He pressed a button on the handle and half-inch spikes popped out along a horizontal line on the ball of the mace.
“Don’t you worry about that button getting pressed accidentally in your robe?” Cyrus said, looking at the weapon, eyes wide.
Curatio stared at it and cocked his head, indifferent. “It has happened, once or twice.”
“And?”
Curatio shrugged. “I’m a healer. It’s a rather simple fix.”
“Ah.” Cyrus turned his attention back to the castle. “All ready?” He heard words of affirmation behind him, the subtle agreement of those going with him. “Mendicant, Nyad, J’anda and Ryin, follow directly behind me, Aisling, Martaina, Longwell, Terian, and Scuddar, you’re up front. Curatio-”
“I’ll be up front, too,” the healer said, and rolled his wrist in a circle, spinning the mace around by a leather strap, making it blur as though he were about to throw it like a hammer.
“You’re the only healer we’re taking with us,” Cyrus said.
“Then you should probably watch my back,” the elf said without emotion, “and I promise they’ll not strike me down from in front.”
Cyrus shifted his gaze to Scuddar, Longwell, and Terian in turn, his eyes carrying a warning. Protect him. He received nods in return from all but Terian, who was paying him no mind.
“Let’s get this carnival of slaughter underway,” Terian said, placing his helm on his head. It bore spikes like devil horns, curving six inches into the air. When coupled with his spiked pauldrons and darkened steel armor, it gave him a demonic appearance. Cyrus saw the gleam of red in his sword and shook his head-truly, the dark knight lives up to his title. He darted forward, causing Cyrus to gesture to the others to move as he ran after Terian.
Cyrus felt his feet leave the ground, as the subtle pressure of the earth against his metal boots lifted away with his next step. He continued to run, the wind of his motion stirring his beard and hair, and he looked upward as he felt himself rise with each step. He kept the battlements in his sight, saw the faces peeking from behind the parapets, mouths open in shock at the sight of a war party-his war party-charging at them while running on air.
Martaina and Aisling had their bows unslung and were firing as they ran. Cyrus saw arrows striking some of those who were leaning out of cover, heard them scream as the arrows struck home and he watched as one of them staggered and fell into the murky, disgusting moat below. Another screamed and came out from behind cover in time to catch another arrow, this one through the chest, sending him to his knees. Most of the castle’s defenders weren’t even wearing armor. Arrogance. That will cost them.
They crested the wall and Cyrus lunged over a battlement, Praelior in hand, driving his sword into a soldier who was waiting for him on the other side. The man had shouted in alarm and begun to run away as Cyrus punched his blade into the man’s lower back. Cyrus saw him jerk, tensing at the pain before going limp. There were roughly ten defenders left along the battlement, and most were so awestruck at the sight of invaders coming over their seemingly impregnable walls that all but three were running to staircases that led down into the bailey, the courtyard below the wall.
Cyrus looked down as he swept Praelior across the chest of one of the castle’s guards who had chosen to fight. The man fell to the courtyard below. The bailey was an open area with a few carts filled with hay and other goods and stables off to the left, which gave the air an aroma of horses. Twenty or more knights were in the courtyard below, and a battle cry went up from their number. They had been standing in formation, their armor covered with the same blue surcoats that Olivere had worn to treat with Cyrus.
“Nyad, Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and pointed Praelior at the knights below. He heard the murmur of the wizards casting spells behind him as he watched the knights spring into motion, their helms covering their heads save for slits for eyes and holes punched to breathe. They had split into two parties, one storming each staircase when the spells struck-flames encircled them in a solid wall and then they rose within the wall as well. A blaze taller than a man seemed to grow out of the ground itself, swirling around the knights, drawing shouts from them at first, of alarm, then of pain that degenerated into shrieks and cries. Cyrus watched as the figures within the fire seemed to melt away, falling to the ground in a slick motion, like water poured out of a cup. A horrendous smell of charred, burnt flesh wafted over the courtyard as Cyrus and his party stared down into the burnt remnants.
“We’re clear to the living quarters,” Martaina said, her bow still nocked and pulled up to fire.
A few pitiful moans made their way to Cyrus’s ears; the last surviving defenders who had run from the battlements had arrows protruding from them and were scattered between the walls and the stairwell. Cyrus looked to his right, where Martaina stood, then to his left, where Aisling had already slung her bow on her back. He caught sight of two of her victims, moaning, saw the fletchings of the arrows protruding from the soldiers’ groins, and winced. He looked at Aisling, who shrugged. “For Calene,” she said simply.
“Keep a close formation.” Cyrus stepped over the edge of the wall and drifted down into the courtyard. “I’m sure there are more of them inside the living quarters. Swords up front, spellcasters behind.” He caught a look from Curatio that was pure heat. “Except you, warrior priest. Go ahead and dispel the Falcon’s Essence, Ryin.” Cyrus felt the wind beneath him dissipate and the clunk of his metal boots hitting the ground echoed through the bailey. “J’anda, you know what to do.”
“I always know what to do,” the dark elf said. “For funerals, you send flowers, for a dinner date, you bring wine, and for those times when your significant other has been putting on weight, you say nothing at all.”
“Very suave,” Terian said. “What do you do when you’re in a foreign land and an army of thugs has kidnapped members of your guild and is holding them hostage?”
“Ah,” J’anda said with a light smile, “I have the perfect answer for that as well.”
They made their way across the stone courtyard, the yellow blocks reminding Cyrus of grains of seasoned rice as the midday sun cast shadows under the ramparts. The living quarters were at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Scuddar was operating the mechanism to open the bridge while Cyrus and the others made their way toward the wooden doors. “Barred?” Cyrus asked as he approached.