He laughed, a deep, rueful sound. "You're the holy warrior. Aren't you supposed to be on board for hopeless causes without question?"

"Yes, but warriors tend to be more mercenary and concerned for survival odds." She drew him up short with a hand on his forearm. "Why are you really doing this? Why here? Why now? Why didn't you go back to Reikonos when you knew the same sort of blow might fall on them?"

"Because you won our bet, remember? This is the service you get from me."

She nearly scowled at him. "Very glib. You picked an odd moment to finally acknowledge my victory in that matter."

They had reached the highest point of the bridge. Cyrus paced a few more feet, shrugging out of her grasp. He looked across the span into Santir, where the skies were black with smoke. He saw the fire was spreading, but the dark elves were massed and moving, the first rank turning onto the street that would lead them to the bridge. He could see the figures in armor, marching, spears over some of their heads. Mixed infantry, he thought. Probably some mounted horsemen behind them. This should be...interesting.

A line of dark elven soldiers guarded the base of the bridge on the Santir side. They put a picket on the bridge early on, he realized. That's why this span isn't completely flooded with human refugees. They boxed them in and slaughtered them. A white hot fury took hold of him and he gripped Praelior's hilt tight.

He looked back and saw the half dozen members of Sanctuary that had followed him. Only Ryin Ayend is missing. Big surprise there, he thought with a small smile. He looked back to Vara. "You."

She frowned. "What?"

"You. You're the reason I didn't go back to Reikonos to fight." He turned away again. "It's not my home. My life in Reikonos was hell, from the days I was in the Society, to the ones when I was married to the one when we met, when I ran the smallest guild in town and lived in a horsebarn scratching out a living. With Niamh dead, you're the last remaining member of the group that saved my life in Ashan'agar's Den-the day I first encountered Sanctuary." He turned back to Vara. "You're why I'm here. This is your city, this is your home-and mine is with you."

"Gods, that's sappy," she said with a roll of her eyes. "If you didn't want to answer me truthfully, you could have just said so." She started to return to the others who were standing at a respectful distance behind them, but he grabbed her hand.

"I meant it," he said. "You're why I'm here. You're what I'm fighting for. I'll protect these people, because that's what we do, but I wouldn't have been here but for you."

She looked up at him, but didn't pull her wrist away. "You could die." Her words were sedate, drifting like the breath of mist that came out of her mouth when she spoke them.

"Then I die," he said. "But for a reason. I've fought my whole life, dancing it upon the edge of death, and I did it for less purpose than to protect your people."

The words hung between them. She pulled her wrist away, grabbing him forcefully behind his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers. They sat there on the Grand Span, lips locked until the silence was broken by the beating of drums from the dark elven army before them. Cyrus pulled from her and turned to see the enemy formed and streaming toward them, ranks marching up the gentle slope of the bridge, their armor shining in the bare edges of light slipping through the smoke from the horizon behind them as the sun sunk low in the winter sky.

He looked back and saw others approaching from behind at a run, led by a troll that was head and shoulders taller than any of the others. He looked to the north and a mile distant he saw the bridge there filled with armored men to the center of the span. With a look south, he couldn't see as much, but there was a lone figure in the middle of the bridge, taller than any human or elf, and standing behind him was another figure, smaller, more man-sized. He saw the second figure appear to take a drink from something in his hand and smiled. My pieces are in place. Almost time for the first move, I think.

The dark elven column filled the Grand Span from side to side, and at the fore was an officer on a horse, his armor more ornate than the others. He led on horseback, but his men followed close behind, plated boots hitting the ground in time, one row after another. This should be an interesting challenge, even with Praelior.

Cyrus felt the press of the others at his back, and looked around to see Vaste arriving at the head of their forces, breathless. "About time," he called to the troll.

"I got here as fast as I could," Vaste said. "You'd think people would be frightened of a howling troll telling them to get out of the way, but apparently they were more scared of the dark elves." He saluted Cyrus in a sloppy snapped off mess that ended with an extended middle finger. "Reporting for ignominious death as a private citizen, sir."

"I don't have time for a headcount," Cyrus said. "How many...?" He looked in question at the group behind Vaste.

"All but Thad and Martaina, who are getting Amiol out of town with Nyad as we speak. She's teleporting them to Pharesia and taking him to the King's Court to put him under the protection of the palace guard. He'll be safe there."

"There's an order of elvish assassins that would love to get their hands on him and you think he'll be safe in the capital?" Vara looked at the troll with incredulity.

"Safer than we're going to be for the near future." Vaste shrugged.

"Safe as anywhere," Cyrus said. "Wait. What about Chirenya?"

"What about me?" The elf shoved her way past Longwell. "I'm here."

"Mother," Vara said, stunned. "What..."

"I'm here to fight," Chirenya replied. "You don't think I'd sit by and let these blue-skinned bastards burn my city down, do you?" J'anda coughed, sliding into place beside her. "Not you." She pointed into the distance. "Those blue-skinned bastards. You're merely a blue-skinned irritation."

"Thanks for the clarification," the enchanter said, miffed.

"It's a great disappointment that more of our kind aren't here to fight," Chirenya said. "Where's their sense of pride?"

"It's tucked away safely behind their sense of reason," Vaste said. "These are not friendly odds, and they'd be suicide for the untrained."

"Lucky we're trained, then." Longwell made his way forward, his lance in hand. "I'm not familiar with the dark elven army," he said to Cyrus. "What will we be facing?"

"I always forget you're not from around here," Cyrus said. "What would you expect an army to bring to a fight like this?"

"Archers." Longwell didn't hesitate. "Mounted cavalry. Footmen...er, infantry, I think you call them. Wielders of magic."

"Likely all the above," Cyrus said. "The foot infantry is easy enough to deal with. The cavalry, less so." He frowned, deep in thought. "I have no idea what to do about the arrows; it's not as though many of us carry shields."

"I can solve your arrow problem," Chirenya said. "Leave it to me."

He raised an eyebrow and shot a quick look at Vara, who nodded. "All right, you handle that." He turned to J'anda. "Anything else?"

The enchanter was still, his hands tucked inside his sleeves, eyes closed. "Sorry," he said, concentrating. "Just a moment."

Cyrus turned, hearing something behind them on the bridge. An army filled the Entara'iliarad; elves, resplendent in the ornate helm that their soldiers wore, marched up the bridge, thousands of them. He felt his heart leap.

"Don't get too excited," J'anda said. "They're an illusion." The dark elf showed his most charming smile. "I thought perhaps a bluff might be in order."

"That is bloody brilliant," Vara said. "If we can hold them here, hurt them bad enough and make them think there's an army waiting behind us, we might be able to force them to cut their losses and run." She shook her head in amazement at the enchanter. "Marvelous, J'anda. Absolutely marvelous."

He bowed, and his smile became dazzling. "I aim to please, madam."

"Form a battle line," Cyrus ordered. "Warriors and rangers in front, and I need someone with a bow..." His eyes came to rest on Aisling, who had slipped to the front of the line, a bow in her hands, peeking out from beneath her cape. He shook his head. "I should have known it'd be you. On my order...you know what to do."

She smiled. "You want to start things off with a bang."

"I do."

They formed in rows as the dark elven army approached, swords drawn. The footsteps of the dark elves were like thunder, marching in time on the cobblestones, the clash of metal on stone sounding the approaching inevitable. Cyrus tried not to concentrate on them, focusing instead on what he would say when the first rank reached him; the dark elves were side by side, a front line thirty wide and at least fifty deep. Fifteen hundred soldiers, he thought. And one officer at the head, the totalitarian figure that rules their entire lives.

The officer rode a black destrier, a massive warhorse. His helm left his face exposed, but covered the top of his head. At either end of the front row of infantry were the standard bearers; Cyrus recognized the flags they carried as belonging to a dark elven unit whose name he had forgotten since the days when memorizing them was required for him to pass out of the halls of the Society of Arms.

"Hail," the dark elven officer spoke as he closed to within a hundred yards. He held up his hand, and his troops ceased their march behind him. He urged his destrier forward, toward Cyrus, who stood a little in front of the Sanctuary battle line. "I hereby order you to remove yourself from this bridge in the name of the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar."

Cyrus nodded. "What is his name, by the way?"

"He is the Sovereign." The officer's already stony face darkened. "He requires you to vacate the bridge or die. That is all you need know."

"Among free men, we decide what we need to know," Cyrus said. "But you wouldn't know anything of that, I suppose."

The officer stared down at him, only a few feet in front of Cyrus. "I know a great deal. For example, seeing that you're a warrior in black armor, at the head of a guild force, I know you're Cyrus Davidon of Sanctuary." He sneered. "Interfering with the passage of our army is an act of war."

"Afraid you're wrong," Cyrus said. "My name is not Cyrus Davidon, it is Eloran, and I am but a simple elven pig farmer, here to show you and your army the error of your filthy raping and pillaging ways by slaughtering you to the last man."

The dark elven officer looked back at him in amusement. "If you're an elf and a pig farmer, I'm a gnome and a dressmaker."

"You're tall for your kind," Cyrus said. "By any chance do you have any of your selection of wares handy?" He chucked his thumb toward Vara. "I'd like to buy a dress for my lady. Something slim in the middle that emphasizes her curves, with a short hemline and a deep neckline. Something in black, I think; it'd go well with her complexion."

"You are ridiculous," Vara muttered from behind him.

"Enough." The dark elf made a threatening gesture. "Clear the bridge in the name of the Sovereign, or we will run you down and hang the survivors."

Cyrus cracked his knuckles. "How about I clear the bridge in the name of the King of the Elves, and throw all your corpses unceremoniously into the river?"

The laugh of the dark elven officer filled the air. "You do not have the strength."

Cyrus tossed a look back over his shoulder, where J'anda's illusion of the elven forces marching up the bridge had grown closer and was now only a few hundred feet behind them. He looked to the dark elf on the horse and smiled. "You sure?"

Uncertainty lay fresh on the dark elf's face. "We will crush your forces on the other bridges and flank you."

"Gods bless you young officers; there's no guile in you at all." Cyrus smiled, the most arrogant, infuriating one he could manage. "I have enough men on the north span to hold it and I'm so confident I've only placed two of my fighters on the Southbridge." He looked across the water where he saw Fortin, barely visible, with a line of dark elven forces in front of him, staring him down. Cyrus could not tell how many there were. "What are you, a lieutenant?"

"I'm a colonel." The words came back confident and strong from the mounted officer. "My name is Rorne, and I command the Midnight Slayers division of the Sovereign's army."

"But you're not in charge of the entire host?" Cyrus let a note of disappointment slip into his voice.

"I'm in charge of enough of the army to send you scurrying from the bridge," the colonel replied.

Cyrus rested his hand on the hilt of Praelior, his fingers lightly touching the pommel. "Here's the difference between your thinking and mine." The dark elf leaned forward on his horse, intent on the words Cyrus was speaking. "The thought of sending you scurrying from this bridge never entered my consideration."

A roar of laughter came from the dark elf. "You are wiser than I would have given you credit for; you see already the futility of your actions."

"Naw," Cyrus said, affecting a low drawl. "When I say I never gave a thought to you scurrying from the bridge, it's not because I think my forces are going to lose. It's because every man you send this way will die." He grinned. "Starting with you. Ais-"

Before the last word finished leaving Cyrus's lips, an arrow cut through the air. The aim was true, and the colonel flopped from the saddle, lifeless as a boned fish, the fletchings sticking out from his face.

A shocked silence filled the air for almost three seconds.

Cyrus drew his sword and felt the slow rush of time draw down; every second felt like ten with the power of Praelior flowing through him. He thrust the glowing blade into the air and bellowed his most fearsome warcry; it was so intimidating that the first row of the dark elven infantry took a step back, bumping into the soldiers behind them. He surveyed the foes arrayed against him. They're fodder. They're weak. Against an army of their own, they'd stand a chance. His grin became predatorial, nightmarish. Against me and mine, they're chaff, waiting for the thresher.

He cried out again, heard the answering call from the Sanctuary force behind him, and felt a rush of satisfaction at the thought of breaking the enemy here, on this bridge. I may not be able to drive you out of Reikonos, but you won't set a foot in this land. Cyrus felt the breeze of evening run over him, chilling his cheeks as he took his first step forward into war.

Chapter 31.

He charged then and stopped, the air in front of him seeming to catch fire. The heat rolled in a billowing blast, driving him back a step as a wall of flames ten feet tall sparked to life, cutting him off from the enemy and causing his armor to warm.

"Get back, you daft bastard, or you'll catch fire." The words were casual, as though nothing of particular importance were happening. He heeded them, trying to avoid stumbling from the inferno that blazed so hot that he flinched from it. He looked back to see the rest of his force halted, and standing at the fore, hands aglow with the light of magic, was Chirenya. "Might as well start them off with the proper attitude-a healthy dose of fear."

Cyrus looked back to the battle line of the dark elves. Through the fire he could see the front rank of soldiers ablaze. Screams rang over the crackling of the flames, the shouts of agony taking over as the blaze consumed everything within a hundred yards of the starting point. Cyrus watched bodies, wreathed in fire, leaping off the sides of the span into the river below by the dozens.

She just set fire to over half that column, he thought. A thousand of them, wiped out. The screams were howling, filling the air with the anguish of the burning. The inferno shifted, moving away from Cyrus and the Sanctuary force, rolling down the bridge as though it were wheeled, leaving flaming corpses behind as it moved forward, hungry to consume more of the dark elven army.

She has to be out of magical energy, he thought. Even if she's four thousand years old, I've never seen a wizard cast a fire spell that powerful before; she has to be close to drained. Or is she already? Her eyes were fluttering in concentration, and the glow around her hands had changed from a bright blue to a dark crimson.

"Mother, stop!" Vara's command was sharp, panic rising in her voice. "You'll kill yourself!

Chirenya's eyes opened, drifting, and her knees buckled. "I believe I just cost myself a century of life," she said, falling into the arms of J'anda, who caught her. A thin trickle of blood dribbled out of her nose and onto her blouse. She looked down the bridge and saw hundreds of bodies still on fire, even though the spell had died down, and a smile appeared on her waxy face. "Very much worth it, I would say."

"They'll think twice before sending the next wave," Longwell said, now at Cyrus's side. "No army could stand up to that."

"The next wave will be different," Cyrus said, staring down the bridge. The army massed below, but a ripple was moving through them, their attack halted by the uncertainty brought on by watching their first division slaughtered in fire. "I'd expect archers to start peppering us soon." He stared at the corpses in blackened armor littering the bridge in front of them. "That was a hell of a spell," Cyrus muttered. "Is that how Quinneria beat back the trolls?"

"Not quite." He turned to see Vaste standing calm behind him. "That was impressive, no doubt. But the Sorceress could kill ten thousand with a single spell. Seeing this makes me somewhat glad that Alaric killed her."

"What?" Cyrus looked at the troll. "Alaric killed her? I thought she was a hero-you know, she helped the humans and elves win the war against the trolls-"

"She used unnatural magics," Vaste said with a graveness that sapped all the levity out of the healer's usually sarcastic delivery. "The Leagues declared her a heretic after the last victory." A smug superiority came over the troll. "Of course, the fact that she did so was buried by your people to avoid the inconvenient truth that you only beat the troll armies because of a heretic, not because of how awesome your Confederation is. It gave you humans an inflated sense of self-importance."

"What kind of unnatural magics?" Cyrus looked at the troll, genuinely interested. "Worse than soul rubies and raising the dead?"

Vaste shrugged. "I dunno. Scary stuff, if she killed ten thousand with a single spell. My people speak of it as though one of the gods came down and drove them into the tiny corner of the swamps they still inhabit."

Another question brought itself to Cyrus. "If she was this monumental destroyer, how did Alaric kill her?"

Another shrug. "There's more to the Ghost than meets the eye. I would think his ability to go incorporeal would have taught you that. However he did it, he delivered her body to the Council of Twelve-that's why he's respected enough to get an audience with them anytime he asks for one."

"Can we please focus on the battle?" Vara's sharp voice cut through, shaking Cyrus back to reality. "You know, massive dark elven army against our pitiful little force?"

He looked down the bridge. The dark elven army remained in Santir, shrouded now in the smoke from the fires that were growing closer to the shore of the river, threatening to consume the entire city. Flame in front of them, flame behind. Shouldn't have burned the city until you were done with your crossing.

"Speaking of pitiful little..." Cyrus let his voice drift off as he walked to the southern edge of the bridge. Holding onto the railing, he squinted into the distance. The light of day was beginning to fade, and he could see the Southbridge across the water. Chaos reigned on it, as he saw a body flip into the air, followed by another and another. Four more flew over the stone railing and into the icy water below.

A voice rang out, powerful and bellowing: "I WILL EAT YOU ALL AS IF YOU WERE GNOMES!"

He felt Vara brush against him. "I daresay Fortin is holding out against all comers."

"I'm not too worried about him," Cyrus said. "Hopefully Odellan has enough men to hold the Northbridge."

"You lied to that colonel," she said as her mailed hand brushed against his cheek. Ash continued to fall around them, and her shining silver breastplate was tarnished with it, smeared with the remainder of the lives, houses and possessions of the humans who had called Santir home. That thought gave Cyrus another taste of bile in his mouth. "You said you intended to hold the bridge indefinitely, but you told Odellan you would only hold it until morning. Which is it?"

"In the heat of battle, you don't consider retreat," he replied, his words coming slow. "If you think about quitting, you'll likely be doing it when you shouldn't."

"Don't you allow for the possibility you might not win?" She looked at him with clear incredulity.