Master (Book 5) (52 page)

“Shit,” Terian said. “We need to get out of here.”

“Get the General behind the lines,” Vara ordered, and Cyrus felt a strong, rocky hand lift him from the ground, cradling him under an arm. It was an odd perspective, and he had a firsthand view of Fortin’s other hand smash one of the rising dead into pieces with a backhanded thrust. It looked like he’d thrown a clod of dirt that disintegrated into smaller pieces midair, and Cyrus watched them in awe. “We need to pull in tighter.”

“You don’t understand,” Terian said, “you need to withdraw the Sanctuary Army now. You cannot handle the numbers Malpravus has without a strong front line and a more organized spell caster front. You—we’ve already lost.”

“A convenient thing for someone in the opposing army to say,” Vara snapped at him.

“It is,” Terian agreed, “but no less true. Have you not noticed what you’ve been facing all along? Have you not seen what is hidden behind the armor of the dark elven troops?”

“Dark elves,” Fortin said, and a swipe of his hand wiped out a line of advance.

“Dead dark elves,” Terian said, smashing a few opponents of his own. “And not the sort Malpravus is raising now, either. You face a limitless army of the dead, raised from every soldier the dark elves have lost in battle whose corpses they were able to recover.”

Cyrus’s eyes flitted back to Vara, whom he could now see from his perspective under Fortin’s arm. She swung her sword, clean and smooth, lightly taking the mask from a dark elf without killing him. The leather fell away to reveal that same light-blue skin, strangely bloodless, a deep rot already set in upon the cheek, maggots festering in a wound and running down the face—

With horror she struck its head, then turned her blade on the next one in line, impaling it through its mask. She threw it off and the mask remained on her weapon until she flung it down. The dark elf fell to a knee, gaping wound in its cheek from where she’d struck it, but it did not bleed. Instead a cascade of white maggots ran out of the wound where the blood should have been, the white eyes as lifeless as any corpse Cyrus had ever seen, but more focused. The dark elf started to rise, and she ended it with a decapitation.

Cyrus watched as the horror hit home for her, ran across her face and the battle fury deteriorated. He saw her gaze quickly at the horizon, trying to count. “Retreat,” she whispered then said it louder. “RETREAT!”

“This battle is not lost,” Cyrus said, but he could barely hear his own voice. There were many of them, that much he could see. The world was darkening, though, darkening with dark elves.

“RETREAT!” The call was taken up, and Cyrus felt Fortin spring into motion, sprinting back toward a line of Sanctuary’s army in the distance. He caught sight of Terian following behind, swinging his axe and giving a solid run for his efforts.

“No …” It was only a whisper, but Cyrus managed it. It was a sound of drifting words in the chaos of the storm. He saw bodies on the ground as the rock giant ran him past. Sanctuary bodies. Corpses of his people, fallen in battle, some still speaking, whispering into the storm at him with bloody lips as he flew by overhead, born of a strength that was not his own.

Cyrus thought of the fallen cavalry somewhere out there, of Longwell’s spear making its way through the army, and he wondered where it—he—was now. How many had died?

The pain was a seeping darkness of its own. The skies had turned black, and Cyrus felt every jolting step the rock giant took. He had only the presence of mind to take Praelior, still faintly clutched in his fingers, and thrust it back into his scabbard. His fingers lingered on the hilt for a moment more, feeling the symbolism of what he’d just done.

I just surrendered. Gave up the battle.

Alaric would never have done this.

He took his fingers off the hilt as he saw a light flash before him. It was a warm, green glow, like sunlight on summer grass, and it offset the chill he felt spreading from his fingers. He embraced it, hoping it would lead him somewhere better—home, perhaps—as he drifted into the dark as the light faded around him.

He awoke in pain, the sort that had followed him through his dreams and nightmares to bring him back to this place. White curtains wafted in sunlight, a gentle breeze swelled around him, and Cyrus could feel a slight chill around his shoulders even though his body was warm. He came back to himself in light, a powerful light that made him wonder if he was in the middle of a sunlit day. The smell of home, of a hearth burning, was heavy in the air. When he opened his eyes he could see beams of wood running out of a central radius. It looked familiar, like he’d seen it before, and he realized he was in his quarters atop the central tower of Sanctuary.

“Welcome back to us,” came Curatio’s voice from his bedside. He turned to look and felt the pain in his back as he did so. Cyrus gritted his teeth together; his head felt clear save for the searing spikes of anguish that his motion had triggered. He turned his eyes instead to find the healer seated by his bedside. “It would be best if you did not move just yet. I consulted with our friend Arydni in treating your wound—which I was unable to fully heal even after spreading rotweed into it, since the time had nearly passed before I could address it.” He leaned forward on his chair, eyes hard. “What you did was incredibly foolish. You nearly died.”

“I was … trying to lead,” Cyrus said, but it came out as a whisper. He coughed lightly, and Curatio brought a skin of water to his lips, drops of refreshment running into his dry mouth like life returning to a desert parched by heat.

“I cannot fault you for your intentions,” Curatio said once he had withdrawn the skin. Cyrus watched hungrily as drops of water ran down the dried bladder, catching the sunlight coming in from the open balconies. “Obviously, the Sovereign has been planning a rather comprehensive response to deal with us, something a bit more treacherous than we were expecting.”

“Then we lost?” Cyrus asked, watching the healer as he turned to set the bladder down.

“Completely,” Curatio said, turning back to look at him, not one ounce of hesitancy. “We lost thousands unresurrected in the retreat, mostly our front-line warriors and rangers, as well as several hundred cavalry and their soldiers.”

“Longwell?” Cyrus asked, coming up with the only name he could think of.

Curatio smiled faintly but only for a second. “He made it back to our lines before the escape. We are unlikely to get a full tally of the dead, and it is entirely possible that some still living were left behind in the retreat. Though you would not ask, Martaina managed to save your horse from being left behind.”

Cyrus frowned. He had forgotten about Windrider completely. “A curious decision, fighting to spare my horse. Was she not in the battle on the right flank with the other archers?”

“Apparently she crossed the lines,” Curatio said without expression. His white robes nearly glowed in the sunlight. “She saw you fall and was fighting her way over to help. She was unable to reach you in time and thus rendered what service she could. She covered the retreat until the last possible second, firing arrow after arrow into that …” Curatio’s voice fell and his lips pursed, “… that godsdamned undead army.”

“What happened there, Curatio?” Cyrus asked, squinting at the healer. “How could have they have managed to raise their dead?” He waited for a response, but the healer’s lips remained firmly pressed together. “Those soldiers weren’t freshly resurrected; some of them had been dead for weeks or months—”

“Have you ever heard of a soul ruby?” Curatio asked, and Cyrus caught a hint of weariness at the corners of his eyes.

Cyrus felt a sick sense of nausea descend upon his belly, twisting it. “Yes.”

“This is the product of that dark magic,” Curatio said, staring straight ahead. A cloud crossed the sun and a shade fell upon them as the breeze stirred the hangings once more. “A soul ruby applied to a dead body produces a creature between death and life; all the skill and memory and ability of the deceased, but with a will that is easily subverted.” Curatio was stiff in his seat. “Easily bent to the control of one who is master of the dead.”

“Malpravus,” Cyrus said.

“A general for the dead,” Curatio agreed. “There are others, of course, necromancers who can command just such a legion. But such a legion has never been seen before, because soul rubies are impossible to produce without the sacrifice of another’s soul. The power inherent in that essence allows a spell caster such as Malpravus to fuel such powerful, dark magic.”

“How did they come up with so many soul rubies?” Cyrus asked, staring at the dark ceiling beams overhead. They looked like a masterwork of carved wood, impressively done, smooth and glossy, varnished to gleam in even the reflections of sunlight that were hitting them. “Who did they sacrifice?”

“Every soul in Aloakna, perhaps?” Curatio shook his head. “I do not know. It would be a ridiculous task, raising an army of that size. No one with any decency would do such a thing.”

“Which is why Malpravus and Yartraak are directly involved,” Cyrus said. “How did you know about all of this?”

“Terian told the Council the same story that he gave to you and Vara upon the field of Leaugarden,” Curatio said, once again impassive. Cyrus looked in his eyes, but could derive no sense of the healer’s feelings about the dark knight. “Once he had said his part, I was able to fill in a few of the things he did not know through my own rather considerable knowledge.” He sighed. “Though it is knowledge I wish I did not have.”

Cyrus looked past him, out over the plains. He could see green grass in the distance, stretching out the north, uninterrupted. “How do we even fight something like that?”

Curatio’s silence was rather damning in and of itself. “The Council conferred while you were invalided and came to the determination to do nothing immediately save for close the portal both here and at Emerald Fields. Those orders have already been carried out.” Cyrus started to sit up in bed, but Curatio stopped him with a heavy hand upon his chest. “We still have constant communication between the two places; two spell casters, with their return spells linked both there and here, carry messages back and forth as needed. They are fine there, and we are fine here. The Sovereign has … other concerns at the moment.” The menacing way he said it made Cyrus shiver slightly.

“And the rest of Arkaria?” Cyrus asked. “What of them?”

Curatio turned his head to look away from Cyrus. “Our failure at Leaugarden has resulted in a rather spectacular forward attack of the dark elven army upon the Riverlands.” He made a sipping sound with his tongue. “Their crops are being spared, but little else is.”

Cyrus felt a desire to smash something, to slap something, and tensed his back. A wave of pain crested and ran over him, tearing a grunt out of his throat. “Son of a bitch.”

“The Sovereign is son of no one,” Curatio said wryly. “You should rest. In the coming days we can confer about this; there is little to be done now, though.” He stood and gestured to the balcony doors with a hand. They closed slowly with a click.

Cyrus looked at him in surprise. “What magic is that?”

“Not the same as that used on the field of Leaugarden, that much is sure,” Curatio said, more than a little dour. He started down the stairs and Cyrus heard his footsteps halt. “Hope is not lost, you know.”

Cyrus could not see the healer, but he could sense his presence. “Sanctuary just watched their General and Guildmaster brought low just before the dark elves fielded a seemingly unstoppable army that beat us with tactics I would have found hard to counter even if I’d been able to command the battle.” Cyrus stared at the swirls in the wood beams above him. “We may not be hopeless, but our hope has certainly been dealt a rough blow, Curatio.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Cyrus heard the feet upon the stairs again, followed by the whisper of hinges opening a door. “And yet it remains, so long as the Guildmaster says it does and acts as though it does. Remember that.” The door closed.

Cyrus lay there, staring at the ceiling. It only came to him later that Curatio had said something that had sounded almost as if it had come directly from Alaric.

“I’ve scraped more lively looking turds off my boot,” Terian said, staring down at Cyrus with Vara standing watch over the dark knight. Two other guards stood nearby as well, both paladins; all three were watching the dark elf with a level of scrutiny and suspicion Cyrus had rarely seen outside of the Reikonos market when the suspected pederast wandered past.

“Thanks to you, I’m alive to be scraped,” Cyrus said. He was still flat on his back a week after awakening. Two of the balconies were sealed at the head and foot of his bed due to a heavy crosswind this morning, but the breath of the autumn day still made it through the room in spite of the best efforts of the hearth to keep the chill out.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t tell you who the traitor was before she nearly gutted you from behind,” Terian said, rattling the chains wrapped around his wrists.

“That’s all right,” Cyrus said, and cast a look at Vara, who was staring at Terian impassively. “I ignored the warnings of the only person who did.” She gave him little other than a prim look that held no emotion. “You mentioned when last we met that you had people in Saekaj that needed assistance …”

“I had them moved out before the battle,” Terian said. “Saekaj was turning into a prison camp; I couldn’t wait any longer to act on it.”

“Is not Saekaj always a prison camp?” Vara said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

“Not Saekaj, no,” Terian said seriously. “Sovar, yes. Sovar is where the underclass live; Saekaj is where the wealthy are. Even they are currently feeling the squeeze of the Sovereign’s war. Travel restrictions, diversion of crop land formerly devoted to luxury foods such as corn turned to wheat for the army instead, the expensive threads and imports market drying up completely …” He smiled viciously. “Yes, the wealthy are feeling the pinch of war this time, and the griping that’s following is so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if even the Sovereign can’t ignore it.”