Authors: Robert J. Crane
“I know,” she said, and her bow was unslung. “As ever, I am your only plan. Have you considered finding other people of skill to carry out your will in moments such as these?”
“It’s easier to just use you.” Cyrus nudged her. She fired him a gaze of pure malice, lips flattened in a dull line.
There was a whisper of breeze through the trees at that moment, and Cyrus watched the ranger nock her arrow as she ascended the last few steps to take her to the top of the hill. Cyrus could see the watch house from where he stood, but only barely. It was a shack at best, a wooden building that looked as though it might have been built by the most unskilled carpenter in all of Reikonos. The boards that composed it were spaced erratically, giving the shack gaping holes. The roof was poorly thatched and looked as though it had merely had dried fronds thrown atop it. Cyrus saw them shift in the wind.
The first arrow found a target in the eye socket of the troll standing nearest them. It plunged into him with but a whisper. The troll exhaled and made a guttural noise, something that made it sound as though he did not even perceive the harm that had just come to him. Another arrow plunged into his throat, and that made a slightly louder sucking noise.
The troll fell at that, dropping to his knees, staring at the blood that ran nearly black down his fingers. He had a vacant expression in his remaining eye, hands shaking as he stared at them. Cyrus wondered if he had time to perceive what had happened before the last arrow took his other eye and he flopped face-first to the ground.
Cyrus moved up the incline. The guard post was occupied by another troll, but this one had its back turned. It wore chainmail of some sort, but the links were large enough to slide a dagger through, and it reached only as far as his midsection, revealing a paunch of fat extending beneath the mail. The troll wore little in the way of pants, a thong of leather tied neatly around its waist in some sort of loincloth.
“Gods,” Vaste said under his breath, “why even armor your upper body if you mean to leave your lowers exposed like that?”
“Yeah,” Cyrus said, “seems like you’d be open to attack by all manner of hedgehogs and chipmunks.”
The next arrow fell on the troll’s unarmored neck, lodging itself in the vertebra of the back of his head. Cyrus admired the mastery of the shot, perfectly centered, and watched the troll fall without so much as a chance to call out. He fell right into the wall of the flimsy shack.
Wood cracked under the weight of the troll’s impact, boards splintering not from force but sheer lack of strength. The shack collapsed, falling around the corpse of the troll. Splintered slats fell across the back of the beast and covered him neatly as he landed on his face, backside up in the air. The remains of the guard post came down around him, covering his back and head, leaving only his massive green rump exposed and sticking up in the air.
Cyrus stood there, staring in slow disbelief, unable to remove his eyes from the ridiculous spectacle. “Is he … showing us his arse?”
“An unintentional final insult, I suppose,” Vaste said, shaking his head. “The loincloth does little to preserve his dignity, doesn’t it? I can’t say you’re seeing the best side of my people here.”
“He did fall in the most peculiar way,” Martaina said, her bow still clutched in her hand but now at rest. “I doubt you could have orchestrated things to go exactly in that manner if you gave me a hundred shots just the same.”
“At least he didn’t—” Vaste began and stopped as a burst of flatulence as loud as a thunderclap filled the air, followed by a rancid smell. “Oh, wait, yes he did.”
Cyrus nearly choked at the smell of it. “Gods! I know bodies do that after their death, but that is particularly foul.”
“We need to move quickly,” Vaste said, holding his nose. “We need to get the army down into the city before they have a chance to mobilize—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cyrus said, waving a hand in front of his face. He signaled in the air with a quick motion, and the Army of Sanctuary started forward with a thousand simultaneously taken steps. Their uniform movement reassured him even as he tried to clear his nose of the vile stink. “Form up!” he called, falling into a front rank.
“I see you’ve once again led us into a terrible situation,” Vara said, falling into step beside him as they reached the apex of the hill.
“A terrible-smelling one, at least,” Cyrus agreed as they crested the rise. The troll corpse and the remains of the shack it rested in passed on their right as they moved to avoid it. Below them stretched a flat plain, absent the lowland marshes that they had traversed the past few days. The ground looked slightly rough but easily passable, none of the rocky hummocks or heavy trees surrounding the city.
Gren stood at the edge of the short plain, a city encircled by a wooden wall of pikes. They were only about the height of a troll and a half, and Cyrus realized he could climb it in a pinch, if necessary. It was a rough fortress designed more to obstruct the passage of natural predators than stop an army. There were gates built into the front of the wall, and the road upon which they stood wended its way across the short-grassed plain to end at those very gates. They stood wide open, without any hint of guard or watch, as if opened for the Sanctuary army to enter.
“This looks easy enough,” Vara said as they began their descent. The other side of the hill was a slow descent to the plain, and Cyrus estimated the city of Gren was no more than ten minutes walk from where he stood.
“You’ll regret saying that.” Vaste’s voice called from behind them.
Cyrus did not bother to turn his head to look at the troll. “I hope she’s right. We could use an easy battle here.”
“They’re trolls,” Vaste said. “‘Easy’ and ‘battle’ do not go along with their name, much the same as ‘good’ and ‘smell.’”
Cyrus walked over the hill, watching the passage of the short grasses to either side of him as he finally caught a glimpse of the base of the hill—
And saw a troll running down it at full speed.
“Damn,” Cyrus said, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s light. “A guard got away.”
“Must have run when he heard his companion trumpet the alarm,” Vaste said with a healthy dose of irony.
“I do not think a burst of post-mortem flatulence counts as an alarm,” Vara said archly.
“You heard that?” Cyrus asked.
“It would be impossible to miss, even with your ears,” Vara replied. “He will warn them in the city.”
“Right you are,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. The cool breeze blew from the east, chilling the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. “Army, double time!” He stepped up his pace.
“This will not be any good for the gnomes and dwarves!” he heard Nyad shout from several rows back. The sound of boots against the road was loud, but she made herself heard even over it.
“They shouldn’t be in the thick of a troll battle anyway,” Vaste said.
“I shouldn’t be in the thick of a troll battle, either,” Andren said from a couple rows back, his distinctive accent allowing Cyrus to pick him out of the sound of the army on the move. “I’m delicate, you know.”
“Just drink until you’re numb,” Vara said, “if you’re not already; it will help to mitigate the pain when they start to rip you apart.”
“I don’t appreciate your suggestion that they’ll be ripping me apart,” Andren said. “Why, they might take one look at my handsome face and decide to keep me as a slave for their baser needs.”
“That’s possible,” Vaste said. “Your hindquarters do look a bit like a goat’s.”
“Quiet down,” Cyrus said, keeping to his trot.
Oh, how I miss Windrider.
He could feel the aches of the days of travel, and a rumble sounded within his belly from the pitiful sustenance that the preserved cheeses, dried jerky and conjured bread had provided.
I suppose they were right; I am ornery and quite ready for this battle.
He adjusted his helm, moving a lock of his long hair back behind his ear.
“Why don’t you,” Vara said, and he could feel her gaze burning on him, “use that sword of yours to run that guard down?” She gestured into the distance, where the troll was still hurrying toward the gates, running with a most peculiar gait, as though he were clenching something between his buttcheeks.
Probably holding in what that last fellow let loose.
“And abandon the army?” Cyrus asked. “I don’t think the warning is going to do them much good. We’re a force of ten thousand; they’re a bunch of civilians. They can’t stop us.”
“But they can bloody us,” Vaste said. “And they can—”
“If the next words out of your mouth involve the phrase ‘goat buggery,’ I’m going to bugger you with a sword,” Vara said.
“Fine,” Vaste said archly. “Did I mention they like to eat elven meat? They do. It’s a delicacy. Human, too, though it’s a little tougher, obviously—”
“Have you eaten human meat before?” Cyrus asked Vaste with a dawning sense of horror.
“I didn’t care for the taste,” Vaste said, completely nonchalant. “Elves, though—they’re quite tender.”
Vara turned her head slowly to look at him, eyes burning in fury, even as she continued her steady run down the hill. “Is there any part of me that you would describe as ‘tender’? Choose your answer carefully.”
“Well,” Vaste said, “I can’t fairly answer that. Perhaps if you’d warmed up to our randy and potent General just a bit longer before turning on him, he might be able to tell me—”
“Die, troll,” Vara said, abruptly turning away from him.
“Knowing what we’re marching into, I just might.”
“They’ll probably close the gates once they’re alerted,” Cyrus said, and he quickened his pace slightly. The troll was still running wildly across the plain.
I could catch him. I could. Am I truly holding back because I want to stay with the army? Or am I holding back because I’m about to march ten thousand people into a city of civilians?
Either sounds reasonable to my mind
.
“He’s in,” Vara said, sounding the moment when the guard crossed under the gate. Cyrus watched him go with curious emotions.
There was a time when I would gladly have slain every troll in that city, with a song in my heart and a swing of my sword. When did that go away? After I got to know Vaste?
He blinked.
After Enterra? I’ve never been reticent about killing when needs be; and they’ve got our allies, so needs would seem to be
…
“There’s no movement at the gates,” Vara said. The steady sound of the army’s advance over the flat, dusty plains road filled Cyrus’s ears. “It’s almost as if there’s no one to guard them.”
“That would go hand in hand with what J’anda was telling us about their men all leaving to fight for the dark elves,” Cyrus said.
Leaving their women and children alone.
We are none of us alone.
Cass Ward’s words rang through his mind again.
The gates grew larger, the individual splinters showing on the worn pikes surrounding the city of Gren. And pikes they were, Cyrus realized as he got closer. They stood tall, but were ultimately trees that had been shaved to a hard point. Bones rested atop them, worn ones that had seen many years of sun to bleach them and winters to smooth them over.
“Those are human bones,” Vara said.
“Or elven ones,” Cyrus added. He saw her jaw tighten, but she took no issue with his pronouncement. “They’ve been there for a long time, I think.”
“Since the war,” Vaste agreed. “Or at least that’s when I remember them placing skeletons atop each, after they’d been picked clean for dinners and—”
“I think I’ve heard about enough of that savagery,” Vara said.
The smell of swamp was fading, replaced by the smell of something else. It was the stink of city, but fouler and heavier than that of even Reikonos. The aromas were nauseating to Cyrus, causing his stomach to quiver. He drew his blade, even though he saw no immediate threat, and he heard his action repeated in the ranks of the Army behind him.
He was the first under the gate, Vara at his elbow less than a pace behind; and this gap he knew she only allowed because he had taken a long stride just before they reached the entrance. Guard towers on either side lay empty, the streets quiet before him.
“I heard shouting before we came in,” Vara said quietly, low enough for him to barely hear her. “If they are here, they know we are coming.”
“Ambush,” Cyrus said, eyeing the rough hovels that lined either side of the muddy street.
There was no other word for them but hovels. They were mud-packed huts, built with shoddy, dried dirt that had been fired for strength and laced with straw or something to give it hold. The quality of the brick was pitiful, and clear signs of the ravages of weather were upon every single dwelling within their sight.
Cyrus could taste the strong tang of acid on his tongue, the flavor of his insubstantial meals come back to visit him. He swallowed it down and ignored the prickling sensation running across the flesh of his back. He gripped Praelior tighter in his hand while his eyes swept over the houses lining the street. He could see a square in the far distance, but the detail was too faint to make out.
“Looks like Termina after the evacuation,” Cyrus said, this time low enough that only Vara could hear him.
“But much better kept,” she sniffed.
“Termina or Gren?” he asked with a smile, not bothering to look back.
She made a harrumphing sound but did not reply with the acidic retort he had expected.
That in and of itself is probably a sign
, Cyrus thought.
He kept walking, slowing his advance as he made his way down the avenue. He looked to the door of a hut to his right; the only thing blocking the dark, shadowy interior was a hanging, tattered cloth. He glanced left and saw the same.
“Shall we search the houses?” This came from Vara, but she sounded terribly uncertain to Cyrus.
“Not just yet,” Cyrus said. “If this is a trap, I suspect they’ll spring it soon.”
“And you wish to walk deeper into it?” Vara asked. “What sort of daft strategy is that?”
“Deft strategy,” Cyrus said. “We’re an army. They’re a civilian populace.”
“Hubris is quite unbecoming on you,” Vara said to him after a moment’s pause. “Much like that black armor.”