Her sword found its first target, a troll warrior who was looking the wrong damned way. Trolls seemed to be the leading edge, ten feet tall, most of them. The smell of swamp wafted off of them in waves, as though they had been freshly plucked out of Gren and its surroundings, fitted with armor, and thrown to the front lines. A bold move. Savvy, though, O Bastard Sovereign. She spilled the beast’s guts out with a crosswise slash and ran on, clashing next with three dark elven warriors in full armor. She broke the sword of the first with a furious slash, splintering the blade and then the man’s helm. She made a stabbing motion toward the next to feint then kicked him with such fury in the chest that his armor dented in and he clutched himself in pain. The third she brought her sword across, aiming for the neck but hitting low and glancing off his armor, leaving a deep crease in the steel. She swung around faster than he could adapt to her angle of attack and came up with a strike that caught him where the legging armor of his greaves met his groin and the armor broke. The man folded, and she finished him with a stroke to the face, plunging her sword into his open-faced helm.
They were coming too fast, though, and she saw others around her; the red armor of Thad, fighting off four of them, Belkan with his sword and shield, battering away at another one. Fortin had waded into the fray and pieces of bodies began to fly through the air with every hit the rock giant levied. Flames shot forth into the new hole in the wall, scorching those that were there, turning back the advance. The dark elven assault had stalled, and the first wave that had besieged the wall was trapped. Yes. Come forth a few at a time, and we’ll destroy you in those small numbers. We’ll plunge blades into you, spear you to death, stick your heads upon pikes as warnings to the next to come that this is what happens when you face the might of Sanctuary. You can carry the message back to your Sovereign, with your very deaths, that he … will … not … break … ME.
She took a breath as the battle began to subside. There were a few more of them now, and Fortin was wiping the last of them out, holding a dark elf in each hand and listening to them squeal as he crushed the life from their armor, squeezing it in the palm of his hand as she listened to it strain under the screams, heard the cracking of bones and the rending of flesh-and she did not stop him.
“They failed,” Thad said, a rough smile on his face. “They made their bid, some new magic and horror, that-but they failed. We held them back.” He nodded to the hole in the wall, blocked by fire, then looked to Mendicant. “Can you maintain that?”
“For a time,” the goblin agreed.
“Then drop it,” Vara said, “and let them come forth for a while before you raise it again. “We’ll disassemble them piecemeal, a hundred at a time, and in a thousand cycles of this we’ll have them killed.” She wore a grim smile. “We can hold them back like this, we can defeat them. The Sovereign will come to rue the day he ever set upon us here-”
The explosion whistled first then loudly blew down the section of wall a few hundred feet to the left of the gate. Vara covered her head instinctively but looked back quickly and saw that another fifty-foot gap of wall had been removed, smoke in its place, and the first surge of dark elves came through, wildly, screaming their victory. And they came even as another explosion rocked the ground from the wall far down to the other side and then another and another.
Chapter 112
Cyrus
There was nothing but the soulless eyes of death, staring at him, waiting, looking him down. The teeth were exposed, and something dripped onto his face-blood, he realized as it speckled him, spattered on his black armor, the strong smell of it came to his nose along with the wet, disgusting feeling of the sticky saliva mixed with it. It was enough to make him want to let go, to let his fingers, screaming with pain, release, but he held on. He stared back into the red eyes, heard the low growl that Drettanden made, and wondered where his army was, what they were doing. There were screams in the distance, of pain or surprise, he couldn’t tell, but they were there.
The pain in his knuckles was near unbearable. Even the cushioning in the gauntlets did not assuage it, the searing ache that radiated out from having the entirety of his weight relying on the one hand. He tried to readjust, staring back at Drettanden, lifting his other arm, still numb from the scourge-god’s blow, and trying to reach up to the bridge. He failed and nearly lost his grip. I can’t do this. I can’t hold on. Why am I bothering? It’s over. He’s broken through our line. The minute that fire drops, his friends will join him and that’ll be it. They’ll be on Arkaria, and there will be no stopping them, even if we could get everyone allied and cooperating. This is the end. I’ve failed. He looked from the red eyes, the hopeless feeling they conveyed, to the sea below, blue-green waves lapping against the support. I could drop, fall in, all the way down to the bottom … and it’d all be over …
And why not? He looked up at the face of the former god, at the paw poised to destroy strike him down, hovering, and wondered. Why should I not go? What is there to stay for? What is there to live for? To see my people destroyed one slow step at a time? To watch as this thing overcomes us and kills everything in its path? What is there to fight for, to believe in …? The scourge-god looked at him and seemed to smile, the jagged teeth dripping with malice as his clawed foot began to descend on Cyrus …
There was a blast of force and Drettanden blew sideways, a sudden shock in its eyes as it was flung, slipping, into the nearby pillar atop the bridge. Cyrus heard the stone break along with bone, and the mewling scream from the scourge creature was louder than any he had heard since a dragon had shouted at him.
It’s not over.
He swung his other arm around again, clamped the other hand onto the side of the bridge. No leverage. I’ll have to pull myself all the way up if I’m to do this. He blinked and looked down at the water again, and it looked so appealing, the dark and mysterious depths.
“That is not the way,” a voice said from above him, and he felt a hand upon his-strong, clenching at his gauntlet. He looked up and felt a wash of relief at the sight, the half of a face that showed from beneath the old helm; the battered armor was recognizable in an instant.
“Alaric,” Cyrus said and pulled as the Guildmaster stood, dragging him up. For the knight it appeared no struggle at all, and he lifted Cyrus back upon the bridge and nearly to his feet without effort. He stared at the old knight’s chin, at his grey eye sparkling beneath the slit in the helm. “Alaric … you came.”
“I could not leave you to face these foes alone,” the Ghost said, turning back to Drettanden. “I see you have run into … difficulties.” There was a roar from Drettanden as it staggered off the broken pillar and turned toward Cyrus and Alaric, snorting and spitting blood, both red and black, upon the stone bridge.
“That’s Drettanden,” Cyrus said, looking at the creature. “Or what’s left of him.”
“Indeed,” Alaric said coolly, and Cyrus felt pressure in his palm as Alaric pressed Praelior into his hand. “You’ll be needing this, then.”