"I've never died before," she said. "Is it true you lose memories?"

Cyrus swallowed, a lump bulging in his throat. "Yes. But you likely won't know what you've lost until later. If ever."

She stared back at him. "What did you forget?"

He stood, looking down at her. "You'll be back on your feet in no time, but don't push yourself too hard. It's going to be a long night, and we need you at your best."

The dark elf raised herself to a knee and placed a hand on his. "I'm at my best when I'm not on my feet."

"You have blood in your hair," Vara said. "And a little vomit as well."

Cyrus slipped from her grasp, moving back toward the line he had held with Vara and Longwell. The mass of dark elven troops at the end of the bridge was still disorganized.

"Do they have any spellcasters with them?" Cyrus watched the tangled knot of the army with wary concern.

"Likely, but few." Vara sidled closer to him. "Perhaps five, if that, and they will use them sparingly."

"Ridiculous," Longwell said. "Why don't they have more?"

"Because the Leagues that train magic users keep a very strict ratio of how many can work for a government, and what function they'll serve," Vara replied.

Longwell twirled his lance at his side. "And if they violate that number?"

"If the government does it, they're considered to be in violation of the League terms and all their current magic users are recalled," she answered. "If the spellcaster committing the violation is found to be doing so willfully, they're forsaken; unable to be hired by anyone reputable, for any purpose. It's one step above being a heretic; you're shunned everywhere you go." She straightened. "But unlike being a heretic, you aren't hunted to the death."

"Makes sense." Longwell's spear was at rest now. He looked at Cyrus. "You know, you can take that off now." He pointed to the chain of the morningstar, still wrapped around Cyrus.

The warrior looked down and grasped the morningstar's handle, which hung loose off his shoulder. "You know, I don't think I will. It doesn't feel very heavy and it's already come in handy once."

Longwell arched an eyebrow at him. "Planning on losing your sword again? Let me know when so I can pay a visit to a different bridge."

Vara inched closer to Cyrus, and he heard a clink as her armor touched his. "I was...concerned," she said, "when I saw you overwhelmed by that juggernaut."

He smiled down at her. "I was concerned myself." He leaned down and kissed her, their armor making a fearsome clangor as he pulled her closer and their breastplates hit. She broke away first, an uncharacteristic grin on her face. "I've never kissed someone who's wearing armor before," he said with a smile of his own.

"Oh?" She smiled back in amusement as she pulled away and returned to her spot on their flank. "How was it?"

"Felt great. I'm going to do it again the next time I get a chance." Suddenly self-conscious, he remembered Longwell and turned to find the dragoon staring at him.

"Don't get any ideas; I'm not interested," Longwell said.

"They're rallying," Vara said with an icy calm. She was correct; the torches on the avenue below had reformed into proper lines and were moving forward. "There are archers in their ranks," she said, peering into the darkness.

"Elven eyesight," Cyrus muttered, then turned to shout over his shoulder. "Chirenya! We're about to have an arrow problem. You still think you can solve that for me?"

"I have an 'ox kissing my daughter' problem," came the hostile voice from behind him. "While I burn their arrows from the sky, do you think you could keep your hands, lips and other assorted minutiae to yourself?"

"During that time, yes," Cyrus muttered under his breath. "Afterwards, the things I'm going with do to your daughter would make Aisling blush-"

"Cyrus!" Vara snapped at him.

"I heard that," came Chirenya's weary reply. "I lose a hundred years off my life." She shoved her way to the fore, coming to a halt between Cyrus and Vara. One of her hands rested on his arm and she leaned heavily on him. "And my thanks is you and a request for more pyrotechnics. This would be infinitely easier if you had your own wizards-"

"We do," Cyrus said, lowering his voice. "They're just not as powerful as you."

She looked at him, taken aback. "Aren't you a charmer?"

"Just realizing what your daughter likes about me?"

"My daughter likes the fact that you're an ox, a beast of burden, and likely equipped as such. She is infantile and foolish, and being less than a hundred years old, still very preoccupied with such things."

"Mother," Vara said. Her tone changed in a half a heartbeat. "Arrows incoming!" Her shout drew their attention away and toward the sky.

Cyrus squinted and could barely make out the movement of something in the sky. A light appeared above him as a wall of solid fire, more intense than that which had consumed the first wave of the dark elven army but more compact. The heat brought beads of sweat onto Cyrus's forehead, adding to the already sticky feeling of his skin.

He could see the shadows of arrows pass through the wall of fire that Chirenya had placed above them; after a moment, hot metal began to rain down in drips. He felt a splash of singeing liquid bounce off his shoulder, heard a muttered curse from Longwell and saw his armor streaked with molten steel from the arrowheads.

"I can burn up the shafts and fletchings but metal is another story," Chirenya said, her eyes closed. "At least a burn is easier healed than a projectile which needs to be pulled from your body first."

The infantry was only a hundred yards away now, Cyrus realized, and the rain of arrows must have stopped. Chirenya lowered the barrier of fire, dropping it down on the front rank of the advancing line. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her skin beyond pale and now a shade of gray. Her eyes rolled back in her head and Cyrus felt her knees buckle as she gripped his arm tighter, and he caught her before she fell. Her robes brushed against the chain of the morningstar, which was still wrapped around his chest.

"No more arrows?" Erith asked from behind.

Vaste answered. "Their army is too close; I'm sure they wouldn't want to risk killing their own, since they have no one to heal and resurrect them."

"We don't know that," Cyrus said as Chirenya relinquished her grip on him. "They could have a healer somewhere."

"They pair their magic users in a unit of four or five spell casters," came the faint voice of Aisling. She stood back, her bow in hand, loosing her first arrow as the dark elven army closed. "I would expect to see them soon."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than a fireball twice the size of a man flew from the dark elven lines, aimed at Cyrus. He jumped to the side, pushing Chirenya out of the way as it impacted where he had been standing only a moment before. Another followed, aimed at Vara, who moved forward, ducking under the blast. "At least two wizards!" Cyrus said, moving forward with Longwell, closing the distance to the front line of the approaching army. "Aisling, see if you can-"

"Got one!" the ranger crowed. "The other is hiding in the midst of all those soldiers."

Another burst of flame shot at them, forcing Cyrus to weave to the right while Longwell went left. It figures she didn't get the more powerful of the two. The next attack came with two firebolts, each from a different location in the army ranks. "They've either got another wizard or they have a healer!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Longwell lunge forward with his lance and impale through a footman in the front rank and into the wizard behind him. With a sweep he flung the bodies of both off his lance and over the edge of the bridge. One down, Cyrus thought.

He reached the front row of footmen and attacked, slashing through three with his first strike and moving to the next row. He felt a sword land on his right shoulder, stabbing through the chainmail and drawing blood. He turned to see one of the footmen he had just struck down, leering at him, bloody residue across his chest where Cyrus's blow had severed his breastplate. The wound was gone. "They definitely have a healer!" The other two he'd struck down had risen, pressing the attack while they had him surrounded. "No wounding blows or they'll be healed! Kill them all; they won't be able to save their army with resurrection spells!"

He watched the expression of the dark elf in front of him, triumphant a moment earlier, turn sour. His eyes widened as Cyrus brought Praelior across his neck then watched his eyes and head loll backward and roll off his body. This is going to take way more effort, he thought, bringing the sword across the next dark elf in line, striking a wounding blow and watching it disappear before his eyes. Am I going to have to decapitate every single one of them?

His sword flashed, moving without thought through the enemies before him. He hacked and slashed, watching half the ones he struck down rise again. I need to find this healer. He led with his sword, attacking through the crowd, cutting his way deeper into the dark elven army, surrounded once more by the enemy. He heard a shout of protest from Vara behind him, but he ignored it. At least this time I'm just outnumbered, not overmatched.

A few rows of soldiers away, he saw a flash of white-a robe, hidden behind armor and near invisible in the darkness that had fallen around them. With a shout he shoved a dark elf out of his way and lopped the head off another. Behind a line of infantry stood a healer, eyes closed, hands raised and glowing. The protective line of soldiers screamed at his approach and charged him, and he felt the bite of a dozen blades hitting his armor. Most bounced off but a few found purchase in the weak points and the sting of the strikes was muted as he fought his way through the warriors that now surrounded him. From beside him he heard Vara shout and glanced to the side in time to see her take the head off another wizard. The man's hands shook as his body fell limp.

It was a deadly ballet; he moved faster than any of them but they weighed him down with numbers and sprung back to their feet after he cut them down; only a few remained unmoving. He concentrated on fatal or crippling attacks-splitting the skull of one in half, removing the head of the next-or ones that would remove them from his path. He aimed an unsteady kick at the last dark elf standing between him and the healer, and felt three piercing attacks land while he did so.

His kick landed, pushing the dark elven warrior out of the way. Using the speed granted him by his weapon, he rushed forward toward the healer, a dark elf so shrouded in the fever of casting healing magics that her cloak appeared to be glowing. "Sorry," he said with sincere apology as he brought his sword against the unarmed woman, striking her down, "I don't like killing unarmed magic users, especially not women, but I can't have you giving my enemies any more chances at life." His slash spattered her robe with red as his stroke nearly cut her in half diagonally from shoulder to waist.

She gasped and looked up at him with stunned surprise, her purple eyes registering shock. Her mouth opened and a horrible sound came out, a desperate, choked moan audible even in the fury of the battle. "I'm sorry," he said again to the eyes that looked back at him. "I'm so sorry."

With that, he turned from her and howled, spending all the internal fury and sorrow he felt, channeling it into the next attack, which brought down eight dark elven footmen with ruthless efficiency. No longer worried about killing in one blow, Cyrus raked them across the chest, severed limbs, destroyed faces with vicious accuracy. They all have weapons in their hands and they're invading someone else's country, he told himself, but the image of the dying healer stayed with him.

Cyrus felt a sword strike him in the small of his back and pain lanced through him, causing him to stumble and miss wide with a swipe at a footman that would otherwise have been a killing blow. He looked back at the enemy who had wounded him and brought Praelior around, killing him in one hit. He turned back to the foes in front of him that were barring his passage back to the line where Vara and Longwell held out, but something stopped him. He looked to where he'd cut down the healer and found her, blood pooled at her feet.

But she was standing. Her hands were aglow, her clothing torn asunder by his attack, but she stood. The place where he'd cut her was healed, flawless blue skin with blood beaded up in drops all around the place where his sword had cut a swath through bone, tissue and internal organs only moments before. Son of a bitch. They must have a second healer; there's no way she was able to mend herself after that.

Another line had formed between them, and the stabbing pain from the wound in his lower back kept him from rushing them as he had last time. I need to take her out-merciless this time. They won't be able to reattach her head in the midst of this battle, he thought grimly. I should have done it last time-stupid-that's what mercy is when you're outnumbered.

A shout tore through the night. From far to the south, cutting through the darkness came a voice that rumbled like rocks falling down a cliff. "WHOEVER CONTINUES TO FIRE THESE ANNOYING POINTED WOODEN STICKS AT ME WILL DIE WHEN I VIOLATE YOUR LOWER BODY REAR APERTURE WITH THEM!"

Thank you for the distraction, Fortin. Cyrus charged through the line assembled in front of him, bowling them over and ignoring the pain that made him want to throw himself over the edge of the bridge. He reached the healer in three steps and raised his sword again. "This time I'm not sorry," he said as he brought it around in a horizontal slice. He watched her body drop, the glow fading from her hands as her headless corpse fell to the ground.

A cry of anguish sounded over the fray, a desperate sob that drew his attention even in spite of the fact that he knew there were enemies closing on him. Another row back he locked eyes with a man in a robe who had a rounded face and black hair. When Cyrus saw him, he watched the pudgy blue face turn frightful and knew he'd found the second healer. He ignored the sting of a half dozen more blades as they clashed with his armor and flesh and let Praelior lead him to the man, who turned and tried to escape between the two soldiers behind him. He bumped against their armor, trying to squeeze his fat frame through the gap.

By the time the two of them realized what he was doing, it was too late. No mistakes this time. Cyrus brought his sword across, stepping into his stroke and bringing it through the heads of the soldiers on either side of the healer as well. The three of them fell together, and Cyrus felt a grin of triumph as he began to collapse under the weight of all the foes attacking him from behind. He howled and swung his sword in a wide radius, clearing a swath around him, and roared as they closed again, slashing with a circular swing of his weapon that gave him another minute of breathing room. I'm hurt bad. With his left hand he felt his back, and it came back bloody. Thank Bellarum my armor is black or they'd see how bad I'm hurt. He tried to stand and failed. Damn. I may be showing them anyway.

He looked around, and for once there was a gap. Surrounded again, he found himself in the midst of a sea of foes, but none of them close enough to strike. In front of him was the direction that led back to Vara, Longwell and the others, but from his kneeling position he could not see them. The clank of heavy boots awoke him to the danger behind and he rolled forward, feeling an excruciating pain that drew a scream from him as he forced himself back to his feet.

He turned, and before him stood a dark knight. His armor bore terrible angles, with spikes jutting from the vambraces, pauldrons and helm. Slits revealed segments of a humorless face, giving it a somewhat demonic appearance. He carried a two-handed sword that glimmered even in the absence of light, telling Cyrus it was mystical in nature.

The dark knight raised his sword and Cyrus brought Praelior up. He felt the blow land, rattling his teeth. Weak from blood loss, he tried to block the next attack but it was even stronger than the first, driving him back, where the jeer of a footman behind him was followed by a stabbing in his side. He jabbed back with his sword and felt a small satisfaction when he heard a shriek of pain.

The dark knight maintained his distance, circling toward Cyrus slowly. He's not underestimating me; he knows I'm dangerous even wounded. You'd think I'd have learned by now not to get outside the range of my healers, but no...

The dark knight attacked again, swinging the heavy blade twice more, and twice more Cyrus blocked, though not without great effort. The strain allowed another dark elf to strike him from behind, and this time when he swung about, the footman danced out of range before he could land an attack, laughing, and Cyrus was forced to turn back to the dark knight.

Every breath was coming with more difficulty, and fatigue was washing over Cyrus. I just want to go to sleep, he thought. But now's not the best time... The pain ate at him from a dozen places, from two sword wounds where he would have sworn they hacked out most of his lower back, to an ache in his shoulder. The smell of acrid smoke had been in his nose so long he had almost forgotten it, but he noticed it now, along with the growing edge of the cold in the air.

The dark knight brought his sword down again and Cyrus blocked, but this time his balance failed him and he fell to a knee. He raised his sword in time to block the next blow but the strength of it knocked him to his back. Not now. I have to keep moving or I'm dead. He began to struggle but the dark knight extended a hand and Cyrus felt a clutching pain in his chest from a spell. A scream tore from the warrior's lips as a sensation like a fiery blade being thrust into his chest impaled him. He started to struggle once more and the searing agony shot through him again.

"Stay down," the dark knight's voice was low, raspy. He closed on Cyrus, his sword held in both hands, blade down. "It will be over in a moment."

It sounded like sweet honey poured into Cyrus's ear. His eyes fought to close and every muscle went slack, no will to move left in them. He felt the blood running down his back and knew that he was bleeding to death. Iron in his mouth told him that he'd bit his tongue and he wondered when it had happened. The clamor of the battle faded, and all he could hear was a great silence. The thousand pains that had plagued him for the last few minutes seemed very far away, and his eyes locked onto the armored figure standing above him. The sword raised, and started to descend, so fast and yet so slow-

Chapter 33.

Cyrus watched Vara's blade intercept the dark knight's sword halfway to his chest and she knocked the dark elf back a step. She raised her hand and a blast of force sent the dark elves behind the knight backward, her fury manifested with magical energy. The dark knight held fast, like a man leaning forward in a windstorm, trying to avoid being blown away.

"You were quite right," her lancing voice said as she raised her sword again. "This will be over in a moment." Her hand pointed at Cyrus and he felt a soothing air cross his back, as though the pain in his back had dwindled.

Vara attacked without warning, a leaping offense led with her sword. She clashed with his blade, pushing him back another step and then raining another blow on him. "You would not have had such an easy time with him," she said, voice infused with barely controlled fury, "if he hadn't just finished a suicide mission to kill both your healers."

"Oh, no doubt," came the soothing voice of the dark knight amidst the clash of their blades. "But I would have killed him all the same, just as I'll kill you." His words turned to a bellow. "In the name of the Sovereign!" Echoing cries came from the throats of the dark elves all over the bridge as they rallied for another attack.

Cyrus dragged himself to his feet. He still bled, still hurt, still felt weak, yet Vara's healing spell had given him enough strength to fight on. The nearest footmen were focused on the battle between the dark knight and paladin, and he charged them with a violent attack that sent both of them falling over the edge of the bridge. The Sanctuary force closed, Longwell pressing forward with his lance; for every two enemies he would catch with the blade he would end another with the tip.

Cyrus helped clear the way for the Sanctuary forces, keeping his eye on Vara, who was still locked in combat with the dark knight. He gestured toward Erith and felt strength course through him as his wounds were healed.

The dark knight brought his sword down against Vara, driving her back toward Santir and the still-advancing forces of the dark elven army. They were not speaking, but with every attack from the dark knight, Vara parried or blocked with a grunt. Her cheeks were red from exertion and her counterattacks were coming slower. She raised her hand to cast a spell and he pressed her, interrupting her casting. She fell back, circling to place her back to the edge of the bridge.

Cyrus kept himself toward the middle of the bridge. He fell upon the advancing forces and carved a path through them with Longwell. They had cleared the line between them and the Sanctuary war party, and Cyrus watched as the paladin and dark knight clashed to his right.

He waited, fending off the advancing infantry as Vara wearied. When he sensed she was faltering, he moved forward, exerting his lightning quickness, and struck at the dark knight while his back was turned, stabbing him in the side, his sword punching through the knight's armor and causing him to look at Cyrus, stunned.

"You're a dark knight; don't look so shocked at the treachery of me stabbing you in the back." He slid the dark elf off the tip of his sword, letting the body fall to its knees before he whirled around and delivered a finishing blow. "This is war, after all." He looked to Vara, who was breathing heavy and appeared unsteady on her feet.

"You could have intervened sooner," she said.

"You're a paladin. I thought you'd be mad if I dishonorably intervened in your duel."

"As you pointed out," she said, scowling at him as another row of footmen advanced on them, "this is war and thus the honorable circumstances present in a duel do not apply."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you?" Cyrus looked at Vara, her irritation still obvious. "If you keeping making that face, it'll freeze like that." He turned to see Chirenya, glaring at him. "See? Like that." He made another round of attacks, dispensing with another half dozen infantry, then looked down the bridge toward Santir. "You look tired. Want to take a break? We could bring up some others to hold the front line."

She snorted. "You know that no one could hold it so well as I do."

"I do." He inflicted a crosswise cut to a nearby dark elf. "But I also know we've been at this for quite some time, and it would appear that they've got no intention of retreating anytime soon." He took a deep breath as he pressed the attack again. "In fact, it looks like they'll continue funneling reinforcements down the bridge until either we break or we bleed them dry."

"How long do you suppose you can keep this up?" Vaste's voice broke through after a few minutes of intense battle, during which Cyrus had given very little ground but taken a great many lives in return for it. Arrows whizzed from behind him as the Sanctuary force aided the three of them in holding the line.

"Until they're all dead," Cyrus replied. "Or until the night is over."

"Well, one of those is about to come true," the troll said. "Though I suppose it's difficult to see."

Cyrus pondered the vague reply while dispatching his next four enemies. His hands were cramped from holding his sword, and soreness permeated every muscle. Vara, next to him, was huffing, each breath coming so quickly after the last that he wondered if she might be ready to hyperventilate. The battlefield had begun to lighten, not only aided by the torches carried by their foes, but by another source.

He looked over the bridge and saw the devastation of Santir; the fires had largely burned out, and the smoke had begun to clear. Through the haze, the sun was rising, though it was not visible. It was dawn, Cyrus realized. We've been fighting for hours, he thought. No wonder we're exhausted.

He dodged the attacks of four more infantrymen and killed them all, taking a moment to assess the situation. He cast his gaze to the Southbridge and saw a figure still standing in the middle of the span, great hands rising and falling with furious power. Bodies were swept over the side in clusters of two and three, and the occasional howls of Fortin that had been audible through the night continued even now.

Cyrus cut another foe down, then another, and turned his attention toward the Northbridge. He blinked as he looked at the span. The night before, it was obvious where the elves held the bridge in the center, even after the battle was joined, as their pointed helmets were a stark contrast to the much more blunted and dull helms worn by the dark elven regulars. The light was still dim and he could not differentiate between them.

"Vara," he called. "Can you see the Termina guards on the Northbridge?"

She disengaged from her next foes, falling back as Cyrus moved to take up her slack in the line. He focused on the combatants moving toward him, keeping light on his feet and battling back, knocking over two more dark elven soldiers.

"I see them," she said at last, slipping back into the fight and taking his place in the center. "You won't like it; they're at the very end of bridge. It would appear they're about to be driven back."

He heard a great hue and cry from the Northbridge, and wondered if that had indeed happened. "How long would it take an army to march from there along the waterfront and flank us here?"

"Twenty minutes," she said as she drove her sword through another foe. "Perhaps fifteen if they hurry."