Being on the defensive is not a good strategy for this fight, Cyrus thought. I need a healing spell. “The Syloreans are faltering.” Cyrus sidestepped another vertical attack from the dwarf. “Without you and your friends to save them, the Galbadien army will break them.” Cyrus lunged forward as the dwarf was turning to swing his hammer around again. Cyrus’s attack ran right along the seam of the dwarf’s waist, and he felt it hit chainmail; the dwarf halted his attack and tried to back off, toddling backward on his short legs. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away.” The dwarf swung his hammer with one hand and Cyrus was forced to step back. The dwarf raised his other hand and white light coursed down his side, a small healing spell. The dwarf smirked at him. “Just for a second though, lad. I wouldn’t want to step out on you before I’ve killed you, after all.”
“Not much chance of that.” Cyrus came at him again, ignoring the pain in his ribs, embracing the agony, letting it enrage him.
“Why?” The dwarf smiled, that irritating smile. “Do you think your friends’ll be saving you? Because I don’t.”
“Oh, yeah?” Cyrus brought his blade down and it clanged against the head of the hammer, and he raised it and brought it down again, this time cutting centimeters into the handle. “Why’s that?”
“Because …” the dwarf said, bringing his hammer up and hitting Cyrus in the nose with the handle, “… Curatio there is far too busy trying to rally your spellcasters to keep the Sylorean army from turning around and stampeding through you lot on their retreat.”
Cyrus staggered back, stunned by both the blow to his face and dimly aware that the dwarf had called Curatio by name. He glanced back, a quick turn of the head and saw that it was true; the healer was with the spellcasters, flames were rippling in careful lines across the plains, turning back the tide of screaming Syloreans as the Galbadien dragoons continued to cut through their ranks. Cyrus turned back to the dwarf and over the little man’s shoulder he saw the Sanctuary army, the bulk of it, burrowing into the footmen in the center of the melee while the dragoons drove through the flanks of the Sylorean army.
“So you’re from Sanctuary, eh?” The dwarf leered at him, little half-smile wicked upon his face. “You’re a long way from the Plains of Perdamun, lad.” He balanced the hammer in his hand, bouncing it with one hand and letting the handle slap his palm in the other as he advanced toward Cyrus slowly. “A long damned way you came just to try and kill me and mine.”
“I killed yours,” Cyrus said, trying to shake off the disorientation. Blood flowed freely from his nose down his lips and every word he spoke let more of it run into his mouth, the hard, metallic taste of it drowning out all else. “Now all that’s left is to kill you.”
The dwarf chuckled, his small frame gyrating slightly from the laugh. “Easier said than followed through with.” He extended the hammer with one hand and pointed it at Cyrus. “But if you want to give it a try, now seems the opportune moment.”
Cyrus clutched Praelior in both hands, holding it defensively. “I’ve been known to do dumb things,” he said, staring the dwarf down, “but attacking a strong adversary to no purpose while I’m injured isn’t one of them.”
“Let me give you reason, then.” The dwarf held up his palm and Cyrus nearly flinched as another blast of force hit him before he could dodge.
The spell made contact with his shoulder as it passed and jerked him around in a half-circle before leaving him to come to rest on the ground. He felt the numbness in his arm from the blast, and clenched his other fist to find he had, in fact, held onto his sword. He rolled to the side as the hammer landed in the mud where he had lain, splattering his armor from the force of impact. The hammer came down again as Cyrus rolled to a knee, this blow missing him by only inches.
Cyrus saw Terian, a half-dozen paces away, the flames from the spellcasters behind him, a wall of fire keeping the army of Syloreas from retreating. The dark knight stared at him, blade in hand. Smoke was everywhere, black clouds that drifted lazily around him. “Terian,” Cyrus said. “Help me!”
Terian did not move, and Cyrus cocked his head at the dark elf, who stood still, watching. Cyrus started to call out to him again but the hammer hit him in the face, a short, fast stab that landed on Cyrus’s already-wounded nose and caused a flash in his eyes. He blinked and realized he was on the ground and the dwarf was over him, brandishing the hammer.
“Friends, eh?” The dwarf said, shaking his head. “Guildmates, yah? Someday, lad, maybe if you grow wise, you’ll realize that you really can’t rely on anyone but yourself.” The dwarf chuckled. “‘Course, that’d mean living long enough to learn from your mistakes.” He hefted the hammer on his shoulder. “Best of luck with that.”
The dwarf raised the hammer above his head and brought it down on Cyrus, a full-force swing from on high. Cyrus watched it come down, the arc slow and graceful, and wondered what it would feel like when it-
Chapter 19
Vara
Four Months Later
There was a thundering sound, somewhere far above Vara, and one of the people across the foyer let out a shriek that overpowered the moans of the last few unhealed wounded. “Those damnable catapults,” she said, meaning it. The smell of smoke drifted in from outside, so thick she could taste it. The weight of her armor felt heavy on her shoulders, and it was seldom ever a bother.
“What has happened here?” Ryin Ayend stared around the foyer, the stone that had burst the window only moments earlier was still sitting in the Great Hall, in the midst of splintered tables.
“We are under siege,” Alaric answered him, crossing the distance between them and placing a hand on Ryin’s shoulder. “I am most pleased to see you, my brother, but unfortunately the news you bear will have to wait, unless you have anything life-threatening to tell us?”
“Not exactly,” Ryin said. “But I was sent back to let you know-”
Another thunderous roar filled the room as the entirety of Sanctuary quaked to the foundations. There was a moment’s respite from the fury and then the earth shook again so violently Vara was only just able to keep her footing. Others were not so lucky and landed on the floor in a heap.
“If I am not mistaken, we have just lost the southwest tower to a bombardment,” Alaric said, much more calmly than Vara felt.
“Lucky shot,” Vaste said, pulling himself to his feet. “There’s no way that was intentional, not with a catapult. Those things are hideously inaccurate.”
“You don’t have to be that accurate when you’re firing a ton of stone.” A voice whipped through the room and Vara saw Erith Frostmoor, a dark elven healer, cut down the stairs and take in the foyer in one glance. “I was on the battlements-we did lose the southwest tower, and it was a lucky shot, but the boulders they’re firing at us are bigger than any I’ve seen heaved from a catapult before. Two lucky hits and the tower came down, along with whoever was in it at the time.”
“Applicant quarters,” Vaste said. “Gods, that’ll be messy.”
“Healers,” Alaric said, looking to Erith and Vaste, “get to the wreckage of the tower and begin pulling the dead and wounded out. Any able-bodied warriors should join you. Rangers, I’ll need with me,” he said, voice tight, “along with anyone who can cast a spell. I believe it is time to give the dark elven host a taste of our fury.”
“Taste of our fury?” Vaste said with a frown. “That sounds awfully cheesy, Alaric. Why don’t you give them a taste of our bread and stew while you’re at it?”
“Because at this point our bread and stew are in a puddle on the floor of the Great Hall,” Larana whispered, so low only Vara heard her.
“Spellcasters,” Alaric said, “with me. All others, to your duties.”