Robert Crane - Crusader

Vara turned away, her legs carrying her unintended up the steps of the staircase, toward the Council Chambers-and away, away from him.

Cyrus

There were slaps on the back enough to satisfy the largest ego, but Cyrus felt them hardly at all and not because of his armor. He watched as the dark elves were broken in their advance, driven out of the wall, leaving their dead behind them. Aisling had kissed him, he dimly remembered, but his thoughts were not of her, not at that moment-they were on the dead.

And Alaric.

“I need healers,” he said, taking the first strides down onto the lawn, caked so thickly with bodies it could scarcely be believed. “We need to work starting at the gates and move inward, I need resurrection spells-” He paused, and noticed Andren at his side. “Hey.”

“Oh, and a fine hello to you as well,” the healer said, glaring at him. “Remember when you said you would be back in a few months? You know, something on the order of a year ago?”

“I got a bit sidetracked,” Cyrus said. “You know, there are a lot of people here who could use your talents-”

“Fine,” the healer huffed. “But don’t be thinking that our conversation is done. We need to have a discussion, you and I.”

“I look forward to it,” Cyrus said, exhausted, as the healer moved away, upturning bodies as the members of Sanctuary began to look among the dead for their own. Calls of finds filled his ears, but he filed them all away, not really taking anything in.

A horseman appeared in the dimness, under the light of the moon, dismounting as he reached Cyrus. Cyrus blinked then recognized was Odellan by the winged helm. He greeted the elf with a nod. “Report.”

“They’re broken and fleeing,” Odellan said. “You were right; they were utterly unprepared to be flanked while they were trying to lay siege to the keep. We rode them down, took minimal losses, and our men are running them through the plains even now, making merry slaughter of them.” He sighed and looked at the gap in the wall where the gate had once stood. “They won’t get away, you know. Our Luukessian cavalry friends seem to be relishing the opportunity to pay us back for their perceived debt. They’re pursuing with an aggressiveness I’d find disquieting if not for the fact that the dark elves are completely in disarray. One of our thrusts hit their command tent and cut it to pieces. There are the bodies of at least four generals on the pile, along with more adjutants and colonels than I’d care to count. High-ups in their army, too, ones I read reports on when I was an Endrenshan.” He looked out over the chaos. “They must have placed most of their force here in the Plains of Perdamun. We’ve dealt the Sovereign a hell of a blow tonight, and it’ll be all the worse when we’ve finished. He’ll be lucky to get a thousand of them back at the rate we’re riding them down.”

“Good,” Cyrus said numbly. “I need a Council meeting of … whoever’s left.”

Odellan nodded at him. “I’ll see who I can rally together for you. A time?”

Cyrus looked at the destruction around him. “Give it an hour. That’ll be enough time to bring back all the dead that’ll be coming back.” He saw Erith Frostmoor casting a spell in the distance as members of Sanctuary dragged the bodies of their comrades over to her. “Odellan-make sure any of our Luukessian friends who might have died in the charge get brought back, will you?”

“I already have soldiers bringing their bodies together,” the elf said and saluted with a tight smile. “It was a great victory, you know. The scourge and the dark elves vanquished in a single day.”

Cyrus nodded as the elf walked off into the Sanctuary foyer. Then why does it feel like a defeat? He recalled the bridge, Alaric disappearing as the stone broke apart around him and he fell … Right. That’s why.

He looked up at the moon, staring at the pale disk hanging in the sky above. It almost seemed as though it were slightly red, tinged with blood. He stared at it for only a moment more before he began to pick his way through the bodies, moving aside the countless corpses of dead dark elves in hopes of finding a few familiar faces before it was too late.

The Council Chamber was quiet when he arrived. There was a stir as he entered, motion around the table as they stood to greet him. It was a somber silence, though, with a kiss on the cheek from Erith, her eyes filled with regret. Nyad gave him the same, and Cyrus saw the tears from her. Vaste stood before him, an imposing figure, and he stared up at the troll’s impassive face for a moment, started to say something but was swept from his feet in a bear hug that pressed him against the healer’s tattered and stained robe.

“I missed you, too, Vaste,” Cyrus said as the troll pulled him tight. “But perhaps not that much.”

Vaste turned him loose. “Oh, sorry,” he said with aplomb. “I was just trying to burp you. You look like you could use a good burping.”

“Thanks,” Cyrus said with a nod as he took his seat. It squeaked when he eased himself into it. The smell of wood burning in the hearth was especially strong, and familiar, but still, something was off, something that kept it from feeling like …

Home.

There was a quiet, and the darkness outside the windows was impenetrable, though Cyrus knew that out there the Luukessians were still running down the enemy and that druids and wizards were bringing more and more of the refugees into the Plains via the portal in Sanctuary’s foyer, newly reactivated, as well as the one a few minutes north of the gates. Sanctuary troops and scouts were spread out in a pattern around it, and the foyer was packed with guardians, all facing the seal in the center. The Sovereign won’t soon try that again, not without an army at the gates. It would be pointless now.

Curatio sat at his usual place next to Alaric’s empty seat, which was a gaping thing, a missing piece that made the whole place seem strangely empty. Cyrus’s eyes darted to Terian’s seat as well, also empty. Terian. Niamh. Alaric. He bowed his head.

“I call this Council to order,” Curatio said quietly, somberly, “in my capacity as the Sanctuary Elder and acting Guildmaster.” The elf’s mouth became a thin line. “And it grieves me so to do it, let it be known.”

“So noted,” Nyad said, with her parchment in front of her and an inkwell at her side.

“We find ourselves in an unusual situation,” Curatio began. “How goes the pursuit of the enemy?”

“A hundred thousand or more killed,” Longwell said with a shrug. “Very few still alive. Hard to outrun men on horseback when you don’t have any for yourself. We managed to hit their cavalry at the outset of the battle and caught them unhorsed, so they had no horses with which to flee or fight back. A few wizards took some of ours out but only in small groups. There are likely a few hiding here and there, but sunrise will essentially see the end of that campaign.” His eyes were half-lidded, as though he had lost any interest in it, though there was a little fire remaining. “What does that mean for the war?”

Vara cleared her throat, and Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to her for the first time since he had returned. She looked worn, scuffed, a healed gash left dried blood under her eye. Her ponytail was back as always, but a few strands were out of place- well, more than a few. She leaned against the back of her chair, looking down her face at all of them as though she would fall asleep at any moment. She did not look at Cyrus. “The Sovereign threw the bulk of his forces at us here, hoping to capture the plains to feed his armies as he marched them in conquest. To have lost … even ninety percent of them will cost him dearly and stall their progress on the other fronts.” She shrugged, lightly, as though it were a matter of no consequence. “I should find it hard to imagine he will be able to continue the war in its present form, not without some other source of troops. There are simply not enough remaining for him to be anything but defensive.”