Robert Crane - Crusader

Larana did not wait for any further instruction; she surged forward over the head of the crowd, running on air and seeming to slip through the crack of the main door without it opening but barely. Vara watched her go then walked slowly toward Alaric, who remained still, unmoving, a statue of steel and flesh. “Alaric,” she said quietly, “are you quite well?”

He did not move at first, but when he did it was only to move his head ponderously to look upon her with his one good eye, an almost imperceptible smile upon his lips. “A goodly portion of our army is away in a foreign land under the command of our General. We have not heard from them in six months though they were to have been gone only three. We have been surrounded by the legions of the dark elves, most aggrieved at us for our part in defending the Elven Kingdom during their recent invasion, and now they have gone so far as to use a wizard to slip an elite force of their soldiers into our home using a spell I felt certain was unknown to any but our own spellcasters. If that were not enough, only half a year ago we slew the God of Death himself.” The smile grew slightly larger, and all the more grotesque in its obvious falseness. “Tell me, child- why would I not be quite well?”

“As long as you’re keeping a good perspective on things.” Vaste’s voice rang out from just behind Vara, but she heard the usual irony only on the surface; there was a deeper sense of darkness hidden from all but those who knew him best.

A shout of alarm came from behind them and Vara turned. A point of magical energy had appeared in the center of the foyer, over the great seal that was placed in the middle of the room. It crackled and glowed, shedding green upon the face of Belkan across from her, his sword braced in his hand and pointed toward the brightness. She saw others mirror the action as the spell grew in its intensity as the seconds ticked by. She gripped her sword more tightly as the front door burst open and Larana shouted ( of all people, Vara thought; it would be the worst if she were the one shouting ), “We are under attack! They have siege towers at the walls!”

The sparkle of magic at the center of the foyer grew brighter; something began to coalesce within. Another round, then. Let’s have at it, Sovereign of the Dark Elves. Send me all you have, every last one of your bastard children and all the sons of whores you slap into armor and call warriors. Send them all and I’ll throw them back at you, bloody and shattered. Throw your whole army at us and I’ll take them one by one, grind them up and heave them back to Saekaj Sovar, march through your city, and leave it in ruins the way you did mine, you right bastard-

The spell magic faded, leaving not another small army but a lone figure. A druid, a human man, a little shorter than she but not by much, his eyes dark and already looking around at the carnage and bodies that lay strewn across the foyer. He let out a short, sharp breath as his eyes walked over the scene.

“My gods,” Ryin Ayend said as the last of his spell faded, “what has happened here?”

“You have missed much in your absence,” Alaric said, walking toward the druid with a slow, shuffling gait. “And it has been long since we have heard from any of your brethren.”

Ayend paused, a subtle cringe on his face, a slight twist of pain and discomfort. “Things have … gone astray in Luukessia. We have had some … unforeseen difficulties.”

There was a low whistling sound from outside that seemed to grow closer, swelling into a loud squeal as Vara threw herself to the ground in front of the hearth. The massive, circular stained glass window above the front doors exploded inward as a huge rock-launched, Vara was certain, by one of the catapults surrounding the walls of Sanctuary-burst through and landed with a crash, rolling through the foyer and sending bodies flying, until it came to rest in the Great Hall, butted against the ruin of one of the large oaken tables. Moans of pain and screams of loss issued forth from the path of the boulder, and Vara pulled herself back to her feet, shaking the little pieces of colored glass out of her hair.

“Unforeseen difficulties?” she said, in a most rueful tone drawing the attention of Ryin, who was pulled to his feet by Alaric from where he lay not far from her. His eyes were glazed, fixed on the door to the Great Hall and the boulder lying within. His jaw hung open. With the window shattered, sounds from the outside filtered into the foyer, and a low roar could be heard in the distance: the maniacal, chanting sound of an army, the low rumble of the siege machines, and the sound of other rocks hurled from catapults impacting elsewhere, the flat thump and shaking of the ground as they hit. “Yes, we’ve experienced a few of those ourselves since your departure.” With that, she looked back to the broken window, the blue sky visible beyond and listened again, to the sounds of battle, the sounds of war, of all the different kinds of hell waiting just outside the Sanctuary gates to be unleashed on them.

Damn you, Cyrus Davidon. Damn you for leaving me like this …

Cyrus

Six Months Earlier

Cyrus Davidon had a dream he was running. A pair of red, glowing eyes were following him somewhere as the fear grew within him. When he awoke, he was on a beach. He sat up in his bedroll, a heavy sweat rolling off his skin even though the air was filled with a pleasing coolness all around him. The sands sloped down to the Sea of Carmas, where the waves lapped at the shore, the ebb of low tide bringing small breakers onto the beach at regular intervals, the low, dull roar of the water a kind of pleasant background noise.

His breath came erratically at first as he tried to catch it and control it, taking long, slow gulps of air as he swallowed the bitterness that had been on his tongue since waking. A hundred fires lit the night around him, providing heat and warmth for his army, protection against the light chill of the tropical winter. The smell of smoke hung around him, of lingering fish on the fire, hints of salt in the air.

A light breeze came off the sea as the wind changed directions, bringing the smell of sulfur and rot. He sniffed and the scent of the seaweed down the shore became lodged in his nostrils, reminding him of the Realm of Death, where only days earlier he had led an assault that killed the God of Death, Mortus. The memory came back to him, of the listless and unmoving air in that place, of the image of death itself, a clawed hand as it reached out, grasping for Vara …

Just over the sound of the waves against the shore, Cyrus could hear chatter from around some of the fires where the members of his army sat huddled for warmth. He turned his head to look; there were warriors and rangers, men and women of no magical ability, still talking, laughing and boisterous.

“I would have thought two days march would have cured most of them of their enthusiasm,” came a voice at his side. Cyrus looked back to see the face of Terian Lepos lit by the fire, the orange glow flickering against the deep blue of the dark elf’s skin. “They were tired enough yesterday from the long march on these sands, I suppose. But now they’re back at it again, all full of excitement, eager to get into their first battle.” The dark elf’s face was narrow and his nose stuck out, coming to a point, his hair black as obsidian, and he wore a half-smile that couldn’t look anything but cruel in the low light.

“They’ll get over it quick enough once they’ve been in it.” Cyrus’s armor creaked as he turned to face Terian. He pulled off a gauntlet and ran his fingers across his bedroll. Sand covered the surface of the cloth. He felt the tiny grains, like little pins as he brushed against them, a few of them glimmering like shards of glass in the light, and he remembered other sand, in another place, a whole pit of it, with red blood pooling and holding it together in great lumps-