Crusader

Chapter 33

“Start moving,” Cyrus said in a tone of low dread. “Everybody start heading back the way we came.” No one moved, and Cyrus felt the pressure building internally, and it exploded out of him in a shout. “What are you waiting for? He told us they’re coming, MOVE!”

With that, some of the Syloreans broke ranks and began a run up the hill from whence they had come, a few of the reluctant Sanctuary members following just behind. Curatio hesitated, as did Longwell, and Cyrus waved them in the direction of the hill as he tried to find Windrider in the chaos that was breaking around them. “This isn’t a moment to stand here and die, get moving!”

“Not leaving you here until you’re saddled and going, sir,” Longwell said, and Curatio nodded as well. Terian, too, lurked with them, along with Mendicant. “This isn’t a time to be leaving anybody behind.”

Cyrus watched the others who had dismounted with him, climbing up into their saddles, and he looked for Windrider. Cyrus was surrounded, the Syloreans breaking around him, cutting him off from the direction he knew the horse had run. He heard a familiar whinny from behind the line of retreating Sylorean horses, but to cross them now would mean trampling, injury, unintentional death. He waited until the last of them stampeded past, and Windrider thundered to him. He slung a foot in the stirrup and jumped, sliding onto the saddle as his horse took off, trying to lead the way for the others.

“They’re moving now,” Longwell shouted.

Cyrus turned to see it was true, that the beasts on the hill-the scourge, as he’d come to think of them-were coming down in great numbers. “J’anda looks to have been right,” Cyrus said. “They got some reinforcements.”

A flood of them came as Cyrus and the others galloped, hugging the trail and following the Syloreans ahead of them as they hurried their way back toward the pass. The creatures of the scourge were behind him, Cyrus saw, waiting for trouble to descend, but it seemed as though they were losing them. The creatures, unable to keep up with the speed of the horses, were falling back as Cyrus and the others were pressing ahead.

Cyrus kept to the rear of the column, a little distance between him and the others in front of him. He felt a sudden cold, clammy chill run over his body but ignored it, continuing to hold tight to Windrider’s reins as the horse raced along, fast enough to keep up with those in front of him but keeping an eye on the enemies coming from behind.

“Cyrus,” Terian’s voice came from beside him, low, hushed, barely audible over the hoofbeats. Cyrus turned and the dark knight was there, riding next to him, the nearest person ahead of him by at least ten feet. Behind Terian, to Cyrus’s left, another swarm of the scourge was emerging from the woodline a few hundred feet behind the dark knight. Cyrus made to exclaim, already pointing, but Terian said, “I know. I saw them coming. We can outrun them on horseback. But I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Cyrus asked, and he realized that he was sweating, an unusual feeling for such a cool day. His mouth was dry, papery, as though someone had poured sand into it, and his voice came out scratchy, so low he could barely hear it himself.

“You’ve been afflicted with a curse,” Terian said as Cyrus felt at his throat, trying to discern the nature of his own malady. “You’ll feel the fever in a moment, and the seering pain will start shortly thereafter. You may scream,” Terian said, eyes cold, “but because of your throat, no one’s going to hear you. I want you to know that this isn’t personal, not really.” Cyrus stared at him blankly, disbelieving, as Terian continued. “You killed my father on that bridge in Termina, and for a dark elf, that means vengeance. It has to be taken. I swore a vow and performed a soul sacrifice to become who I am, and I can’t just let it go, not that easily. I do want to thank you, though,” Terian said, drawing his sword. “I doubt I would have ever gotten this back if you hadn’t brought it to me.” Terian’s eyes flicked forward, and his sword darted out and hit Windrider across the neck.

The geyser of blood from the horse hit Cyrus in the face, a slap of wetness so quick and brutal that he didn’t even realize it had happened until it had. The next strike was even more brutal as Terian slapped him across the face with the dull edge of the blade. Windrider was already falling, skidding in the dirt and Cyrus felt himself lift off upon impact, cartwheeling end over end in the dirt and grass, his head hitting, then dull impacts along his shoulders and back as he rolled. The horse’s weight settled on his leg and he felt the bone break, but the pain was muted, somewhere far in the back of his head, beyond the pain in his face, his body, and the desire to just sleep.

Cyrus coughed, and he felt the warm blood flow out of his mouth, onto the ground, turning the dirt red. He watched the little grains of sand float inside it. He felt something else, then, too, something around him-grey flesh, grey faces, horrible teeth, pointed and vicious, a bloody, disgusting spectacle that lingered in front of him, snapping at him, at his face, even as his vision faded into nothingness and he felt nothingness-save for the pointed, far off sensation of his flesh being torn by a thousand hungry mouths.