"Not when I'm fighting." He shook his head. "It's not hard to find an escape route, if it comes to that. But when I'm in the heat of the battle, the words I said to Odellan are not in my mind; holding this ground becomes an all or nothing proposition. To do anything less would allow fear to creep in, and they beat that out of me at the Society."

He looked back to the base of the bridge and his smile tightened. I thought they'd try this next. "They're readying the next wave." He pointed to the base of the bridge. "Mounted cavalry."

Longwell thrust his lance into the air. It was over six feet long, with a tri-blade at the tip; the primary three feet in length, with two smaller blades that jutted at a forty-five degree angle to either side of it. The metal was blue, different than steel, and seemingly unbreakable. Cyrus had seen the dragoon ram the weapon into foes at high speed yet it appeared undamaged. It has to be mystical; no weapon is that resilient, and no man could wield it in a fight against sword and shield the way Longwell does unless it gave aid in the form of speed and dexterity.

The cry came from down the bridge, among the enemy. Cyrus looked to Aisling, who stood just behind him. "They're calling for a charge," she said.

A row of horses waited at the bottom of the bridge. They began to trot forward, gaining speed as they rode. Another row of horsemen was following twenty feet behind them, and another behind that. At least six rows, Cyrus calculated. "Aisling," he started to say, and turned to find her bow already out, arrow notched and looking down the shaft.

"Bet I can take the first row before they get here," she said with a sweet smile. "And I could take you before the second row got here."

"Bloody hell, woman," Vara said. "Leave him be; he's mine-at least for now."

"For now?" Cyrus said.

"I'm willing to join both of you," she said, releasing the first arrow and notching the second, letting it fly as she spoke. A few of the other rangers had loosed their arrows and the front row of horsemen had stumbled, prompting the second row to lose half its number tripping over the fallen first row. Aisling fired off five more arrows in quick succession, downing six more riders. "I'm very flexible, and gentle, if you're into that sort of thing." She loosed another and sent Cyrus a wicked smile. "Or not, if you're into the rough stuff."

"Sweet Vidara, I'm battling the dark elven army to keep them from invading my town while listening to my youngest daughter and her ox being propositioned by a dark elven harlot," came Chirenya's voice from behind them. "How have I wronged you so, Mother of Life, to have you kill me and consign me to the Realm of Death without any chance to atone?"

"You can bring your mother too," Aisling said to Vara, firing off another arrow. "She sounds like she'd be an animal under the covers."

Cyrus cringed. The only sound that could be heard from Chirenya was a deep and uncomfortable, "Oiiiiiiii...."

The fourth row of mounted cavalry had been half downed under the volleys of arrows, and as they came closer into range, a bevy of spells shot forth from the magic users. Bolts of lightning, fireballs and even a blast of concussive force from Vara sent a half dozen more riders to the ground, horses scared and wounded, writhing and snorting, and blocking the next row of cavalry from charging.

"If I don't get to bury my sword in someone soon," Cyrus said, "I may explode." He looked around in time to see Aisling's wide grin. "Don't say it."

"As soon as I get my magical strength back," Chirenya said, "I'll help you with that." She hesitated. "Perhaps I'll wait until we've killed all these dark elves."

"That might be wise, Mother." Vara stood with her hand raised and fired off another spell, unleashing a wave of concussive force that knocked a horseman from his mount, sending him tumbling over the bridge and into the water. "He and his sword are likely to be the most powerful thing standing between you and wasting another hundred years of your life wiping out an infantry formation."

"Not more powerful than you, dear," she said with a mother's assurance.

"They should have sent the cavalry first." Cyrus watched the sixth and seventh rows of horsemen fall to a combination of arrows and spells. "Now there are so many bodies here, the horses aren't that effective." There was a berm of corpses twenty feet in front of them, the result of the most recent charges. Horses and dark elves lay moaning and dying in the pile with the already dead. Cyrus watched one soldier trying to push his fallen horse off of him; an arrow appeared through his eye as the last row faltered and began to retreat. "If they keep this up, they'll blockade the bridge for us and we'll be able to leave their own dead to guard the way."

"How do you think they'll surmount that?" Longwell stood next to him, lance at the ready.

Cyrus sent him a sly smile. "How would you do it?"

"Footmen." Longwell clicked the bottom of his lance against the ground. "But if their infantry saw what happened to the last group, they'll be hesitant."

"Ever seen what happens in a butcher shop?" Cyrus looked back at Longwell, who shook his head. "You're about to; the rank and file that they send up here are going to get slaughtered. Their best chance for success in this position is to send so many at us that our arms get tired from hacking them to pieces."

He waited a few minutes and watched the army below, massing again. The sun had begun to set behind them, and the sound of combat rang out from the bridges to the north and south. Fierce, rumbling laughter came from the Southbridge where Fortin continued to hold against superior numbers but not odds. An obvious battle line was visible in the middle of the Northbridge and it appeared Odellan was holding as promised.

The next round of dark elven infantry marched up the bridge as twilight came, the orange rays of the setting sun blunted by the thickening haze of black smoke that held in the air around them. The ash had begun falling thicker now, reducing visibility.

The infantry came slowly up the bridge, not at a charge but picking their way around the fallen corpses of their fellows, swords drawn and ready for combat. "Looks like we have a cautious lot here," Vara said.

"Wouldn't you take your time getting here if during the whole walk you were stepping over the broken and burned bodies of your countrymen?" Vaste's words contained only a touch of irony.

"I believe I might consider finding another way around," Longwell said. "Say, about five hundred miles north of here."

"They fear the wrath of their generals and the Sovereign more than they fear us." Aisling's face was shadowed, hiding within the cowl whatever she felt.

"Would you like to tell me who this mysterious Sovereign is that commands so much fear?" Cyrus raised an eyebrow at her.

Aisling shrugged, noncommittal. "He's not someone you'd know personally."

He looked back at her shrewdly. "But someone I've heard of."

She cracked a smile. "Maybe. I'll tell you his name if you-"

"No," Vara said, cutting her off before she finished.

"Your loss," the ranger said with another shrug. "I'm a master at..." She leaned in close to Vara's ear and whispered something. The paladin reddened, more embarrassed than Cyrus had ever seen the usually immutable Vara.

"I am eventually going to have to heal someone, right?" Erith's voice came from the middle of their formation and suggested deep boredom. "I'm at my best when I'm challenged, you know."

"Best be careful what you wish for," Vaste said. "You may be challenged more quickly than you know."

"Yeah, well, if wishes were horses-"

"Then they'd mostly be dead, if they're on this bridge," Longwell muttered.

Screeching came from above them; a flight of griffons with riders on their backs soared from out of the smoky haze above Santir and flapped their wings, flying in a straight line a few hundred feet above the bridge, heading toward Termina.

"Were those dark elves?" Cyrus asked, his eyes burning from the smoke hanging in the air. "I need someone to watch our flank. The last thing we need is a flight of those things swooping down on us from behind."

"I'll keep an eye out," J'anda said. "I've been wanting to spend more time at the rear with my faux elven soldiers anyway."

The infantry had closed the last few hundred feet, armor clanking, and began to break into a run. "Here comes the charge," Cyrus said. He clutched Praelior and his fingers dug into the leather grip as he raised the sword, ready to swing at the first foe to come his way.

Another flight of arrows and spells struck down part of the front row. The remainder kept coming, to their credit, and began to howl with cries of battle. Cyrus stepped forward, and Praelior sang, cutting through the cold air, then the neck of the first dark elf to cross his path and the leg of a second. He waded into the battle, brandishing his sword, delivering another cut that felled three more, ripping through their hardened armor chest plating as though it were nonexistent.

He heard a crack of thunder and there was a flash as a druid threw a bolt of lightning into a nearby cluster of armored footmen. The electricity arced between them, leaving spots in Cyrus's eyes as eight dark elves fell in seconds. He blinked the flashes away in time to raise his sword to block the attacks of two more enemies, then countered with a thrust that left one of them dead and the other missing an arm.

The melee was wild as the dark elves pushed against their line. Cyrus delivered a hacking blow that decapitated an enemy and caught a glimpse of Longwell out in front, his spear swinging in wide circles, keeping enemies at bay and leaving behind a swath of dead bodies. His suspicions about the mystical nature of the lance were confirmed when the dragoon used it to pierce one dark elf's breastplate and it came out the back and impaled another soldier behind him. Longwell yanked it sideways, freeing the tip by nearly ripping his foes in half, and promptly slashed down two more enemies with it.

He felt Vara alternate between being at his back and at his side, her blade in constant motion, felling one enemy after another. She caught his eyes once, and he saw the vitality had returned to them; the fire of battle that sent one infantryman scrambling from her assault as she pressed her attack against him, cutting away his light steel blade, then his helm, then his life. She yelled with the fury of a storm and raised her hand, knocking over a line of approaching soldiers with a spell as they closed on her and as an afterthought ran her blade across the throats of two of those she had downed.

Aisling moved through the advancing enemy like a shadow, darting between Cyrus and the rest, losing herself in the melee. She'd pop up and another soldier would fall, clutching at his back, wincing in pain and slumping to the ground, her daggers flashing for a second before she was gone again, after the next target.

Other figures moved through the battle-humans and elves, people he'd never seen before. They appeared behind the lines of the dark elven soldiers, distracting them. Cyrus saw one of them take an axe through the head and keep moving before he realized that they were illusions, cast by J'anda to distract and disorient the attackers. He has an illusionary army behind us and still has the ability to sow these shades to cause discord among our foes? He shook his head in amazement as he brought down another enemy soldier.

A ball of metal the size of his fist shot past Cyrus's face, spikes jutting from it in all directions. A morning star, he thought. He followed the chain back to its owner and found an infantryman clad far different than the rest. His armor was steel, not the boiled leather of the infantry. His face was like a hatchet, his tall brow sloped up to a receding hairline with black, slicked back hair that hung past his shoulders. His nose was flat and pointed down, and his eyes were illuminated, a cruel smile on his face as he swung the long chain in front of him, his fellow soldiers clearing the way as he approached Cyrus.

Hooting catcalls from the dark elves filled the air as the beast of a fighter attacked again. His morningstar's chain was twice the length of a man. It whizzed through the air and Cyrus barely dodged it again. He brought Praelior down on the chain when it was at full extension, driving down the edge of the blade with intent to cut it so he could close on the warrior unimpeded. His sword came down, hard, the clash of it against the metal chain of the morningstar ringing as Cyrus's full and furious strength, increased by Praelior, was directed onto the dark elf's weapon.

And bounced off.

What the...? Damn, the whole thing must be mystical! Alarm must have registered on Cyrus's face, as his foe grinned in an even more predatorial manner. The dark elf yanked on the chain and Cyrus dodged the rebounding morningstar. The rest of the infantry were pouring in around them, leaving a wide gulf around Cyrus and the dark elven champion with the morningstar. Cyrus could hear Vara's fevered clash with the onrushing forces, and Longwell was using his spear to block and attack the dark elves that were upon him. This bastard is distracting me, allowing them to slip in and overwhelm us.

Cyrus used Praelior to deflect the next attack. The dark elf jerked the chain back and swung the morningstar down like a hammer as Cyrus raised his sword. He absorbed the impact across the blade but it rattled his teeth and his arms shook from the strength of the blow, driving him to a knee. Damn, I need to get closer; if I stay at range he'll tear me to pieces.

"Watch out!" Aisling's voice rang in his ears and he saw her fighting her way through the melee, trapped behind a wave of enemies. "He's an Unter'adon; one of the Sovereign's sons; he's got mystical armor and weapons!"

In addition to a warrior's killer instinct, Cyrus thought, still at least ten paces from his attacker. The morningstar came around again, impossibly fast, and this time impacted his left arm, one of the spikes finding a joint and breaking through the chainmail beneath. Cyrus felt numbness creep down to his hand and a sharp pain shot up his arm. The weapon winged its way at him again but this time he dodged and it hit the bridge, sending stone fragments in all directions.

A breeze blew past him with a shockwave from Vara's hand, but the Unter'adon flipped out of the path of the spell before it landed, blasting a hole in the rows of soldiers lined up behind him. He glanced over to see Vara return to fending off three opponents, sword moving in flashes in the gathering twilight.

The Unter'adon came at Cyrus again, morningstar gripped by the handle with one hand and the chain with the other, taking half the length out of it as he closed. With one hand he slashed forward with the spiked ball; the other used the chain almost as though it were a short whip. Shifting to his right, Cyrus avoided the business end but the other side, the chain, whipped him across the cheek, drawing blood and knocking his helm asunder.

Cyrus fell to a knee and the chain came at him again, this time striking his breastplate, breaking ribs and cartilage and bringing tears to his eyes from the pain in his chest. A heal would not be unwelcome right now. Cyrus saw Aisling fall before him, her white hair untucked from beneath her cowl, her purple eyes having lost their glister in the dark. She hit the cobblestones, blood pouring from beneath the seams of her leather armor, visible where her cloak parted at her front.

Around him was a mass of dark elves, pushing forward. Vara was far behind him now, fifty feet or more. The healers were behind the front line of battle, even farther back than that. Out of range for a healing spell. The thought broke into his mind a moment before Cyrus looked up to see the Unter'adon smiling down at him, and he felt the chain wrap around his neck and begin to draw tight.

Chapter 32.

Cyrus tried to grasp at the the chain where it coiled around his neck, attempting to unwrap it, but the Unter'adon jerked forward hard and he lost his footing. Both his knees hit the hard metal inside his greaves and he crashed, cheek first, against the ground. If he kills me here, they'll never be able to recover my body for resurrection-or Aisling's. His vision blurred from the impact and he felt numerous pains as he tried to stand, fingers grasping hold of the chain in front of him and wrapping it around his gauntlet.

The Unter'adon jerked it again, and the mystical chain closed around his mailed fist, causing enormous pressure. Let's hope my dad's armor is strong enough to withstand this. Cyrus yanked back on it and felt the mail squeeze his hand as the chain tightened. He grasped for Praelior, but it was several feet away, its glow barely visible through a stampede of armored legs. Let's hope someone doesn't pick it up or we're done.

His hand slipped down and behind him to his backplate. Thank Bellarum for all those trips to Purgatory. His fingers grasped as the Unter'adon yanked at him again, but he pulled back with his hand, forcing the dark elf to move closer to try for more leverage. His other hand brushed against the hilt of the curved short blade he hid as a backup. He had acquired it after an expedition through the Trials of Purgatory; after many successes there Cyrus had accumulated a variety of useful objects including a mystical dagger, rings that gave him additional strength, and the blade he used as a secondary weapon.

Composed of an unknown steel, the sword was infused with magical properties, giving it strength beyond its forging. The blade had a metallic sheen with a metal grip wrapped in soft leather. It was plain but effective, and when he pulled it out as he jerked on the chain, the Unter'adon was forced to give him some slack in order to avoid being impaled.

Cyrus took a breath as the chain loosened around his neck. His gorget had protected his throat from being crushed, but the chain had wrapped around his neck hard enough to leave marks. He pursued the Unter'adon ferociously, gripping the chain harder, wrapping it around his wrist and giving himself enough slack around his neck to avoid being choked. The dark elf whipped at him with the excess length, but Cyrus did not flinch as the blows struck his armor.

He spun and wrapped the chain around his chest, slashing at the Unter'adon with his short sword. Fortunately, I had a lot of experience with this sort of weapon last year, he thought. He was still at least an arm's length from the dark elf and spun forward again with another slice, wrapping another few feet of the chain around him. They were close enough now that the dark elf couldn't whip him with what remained in the length of the morningstar; he had begun to wrap chain around his own fist instead, preparing to use it to bludgeon Cyrus's head as he drew closer, the spiked ball hanging trapped behind Cyrus.

The dark elven soldiers had moved in around them, and Cyrus became aware that those surrounding them knew that the morningstar was no longer a threat and their champion was in danger. He swiped with his blade at one of the soldiers that got too close, driving him back with a near miss and then cutting the throat of the second to close on him. His reward was for the Unter'adon to attack him while distracted; he heard the impact of the chain-wrapped fist on the side of his head rather than felt it. Scalp tore loose from his skull and he felt blood drip down the back of his neck.

Cyrus turned, head swimming, and brought his sword down on the still-extended arm of the Unter'adon. The mystical blade hit, skipping off the stronger armor, channeled toward the inside of the dark elf's elbow. There, it found a seam and bit into his flesh, ripping a scream from the dark elf's throat. Cyrus jerked his other hand forward, using the chain wrapped around it in the same way the Unter'adon had with him, as a cudgel, and watched the dark elf's forehead above his left eye break as a wash of blood from the impact squirted from the socket.

The Unter'adon staggered and Cyrus dodged attacks from three infantrymen, still tangled up with the dark elf, fending them off with one hand. His vision was spotted and blood was running into his eyes, but he drew upon his Society training to keep them open in spite of the burning. He buried the short sword in the belly of the next dark elf to get too close and lashed out hard with a kick, his rage giving him strength enough to send another flying over the edge of the bridge.

He turned back to the Unter'adon, who was on one knee and rising, the chain fallen from his hands. Without hesitating, Cyrus buried the short sword in his face. You couldn't even kill me when I was nearly unarmed, he thought as he pulled the blade out and watched the body fall. The circle of dark elves around him watched with wary disbelief, their fiercest fighter felled. This will last another second, maybe two. Better take advantage.

Howling a warcry that startled those surrounding him, he attacked the dark elves between him and the Sanctuary forces. Praelior was somewhere over...He saw a dark elf with a glowing blade raised above his head and a sinking feeling entered his stomach. ...there.

He slayed the enemies immediately in front of him, the chain still wrapped around his fist knocking two of them down with a flurry of punches to the face, his sword finding a weakness in the plate under the other's arm. He knocked the next two in line off their feet and whipped the handle of the morningstar through the air in front of him, knocking the helm off another and breaking the next dark elf's nose. Chaos reigned and he heard foes closing in on him from behind. He swung the handle of the morningstar around again and heard it whistle through the air until it landed with a satisfying smack! that told him whoever it hit was no longer a threat.

He unthreaded the chain from his neck as he advanced, loosening it while striking down foes with the short sword, most of them with their backs turned to him. He emerged on the front line of battle and saw the dark elf with Praelior wielding the blade with confidence-against Vara.

He noted the elven paladin, on the defensive, staggering from the assault the dark elf was unleashing on her with the purloined sword. With a shoulder check he knocked a footman to the ground and brought the blade down on the back of his neck, killing him. He pulled the length of the chain and swung the handle of the morningstar up, clearing a space around him, then flipped the handle into his hand. He felt the mystical power of the weapon course through him. Not as good as Praelior, but it'll do.

He took two quick steps forward, positioning himself behind the dark elf wielding his sword. Vara was sweating, her strength failing against the repeated blows delivered by the weapon more than the wielder, her face red and the strain obvious. Cyrus knew the dark elf sensed him and watched him begin to turn to counter the threat the warrior posed. If I had only my short sword, he'd have a chance. Thanks to this-he clutched the handle of the morningstar tighter-he doesn't.

His sword slipped underneath the backplate of the dark elf as he started to turn, but Cyrus threaded the chain around his neck and jerked on it, pulling him onto the blade. It slid through the footman's back then burst through his front, a dent appearing in his breastplate. Cyrus spun the body around, interposing it between him and the dark elven horde at his front, then let go of the chain grip and caught Praelior as it fell, enjoying the feel of it in his hand once more.

A healing wind brushed over him and the pain he'd been ignoring from his scalp lessened. He cast a look back and saw Erith with her hand extended, ghostly look of fright writ on her face. "You wanted a challenge," he said.

"I take it back!"

Cyrus turned back to the dark elves and let out a scream of fury. He waded in amongst them, cutting through them. They fell quickly and he was followed by Vara, Longwell, and a dozen others behind them, driving the dark elven army back. Cyrus was a black blur in the middle of it all. His hands moved without thought, Praelior in one and his short sword in the other. His mind was focused on one thing-forcing his foes back and recovering the body he knew was somewhere ahead.

The dark elves kept coming, but Cyrus was in a blood-fueled rage. He passed the point where Aisling lay and drove on, slaughtering all that came forward to challenge him. He watched Vara and Longwell do the same, and between the three of them they made an unbreakable front line of advance. Other warriors behind them stood ready and rangers fired their bows, weakening the dark elven advance. Wizard and druid spells were loosed as well, but most reserved their magic until needed.

Cyrus halted as the dark elves in front of him began to retreat. He looked around and realized he was three-fourths of the way across the span. The dark elven army was broken; they were fleeing before him.

"Why did we stop?" Longwell sounded almost plaintive.

"Because I'm not of a mind to try and retake Santir," Cyrus said.

Longwell looked around, realizing how far they had come. "Oh. Damn. We ran them off, didn't we?"

"We three," Vara said. The sun had long since set, the light of a thousand torches in the army ahead paling next to the fires still consuming Santir. Her cheeks were red and her breath froze before her as it came out in great gasps.

"Aye, we three," Cyrus said. "But not alone." He looked back at the Sanctuary war party.

"We're still here," came Vaste's dry response. "I did cast a couple of healing spells on you at first, but as you began hitting your stride, I started healing your enemies instead. You know, to give them a sporting chance."

"At odds of roughly 5,000 to one, I would say they still stand a sporting chance," Vara said.

"Did you recover Aisling's body?" Cyrus looked at Vaste.

The troll pointed with his staff, the white crystal in the center sparkling from its own inner light. Aisling sat on the ground beside Erith, her cloak thrown aside, head between her knees as though she were ill. The enemy was fleeing in disordered chaos back toward Santir as he walked over to her. She looked up as he approached. "Did you make it out alive?" Her voice came out as little more than a croak.

"Yes, but only just." He knelt beside her, her white hair streaked with red, remnants of the wounds inflicted when she died.

"I thought I was done," she said. "I saw the Sovereign's bastard about to kill you, and I froze. I knew if you went down we were finished."

"As it happens, there were others of us in the battle," Vara said. Cyrus looked up at her, and after a moment she let out a hiss of impatience. "Oh, all right, it was him that cleared the bridge to recover you, but it was not without help."

"How are you feeling?" Cyrus placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Sick." She moved her head slowly, left to right. "Nauseous."

"Take it easy," he cautioned her. "It'll fade in time."