“All right,” Cyrus said, his hands feeling at the hilt of Praelior at his side. The rush of strength from it gave him a jolt, helping him wake. “I don’t want to become too alarmed yet. They may have had good cause to detour around something, or perhaps found something that they’re taking a closer look at. We’ll wait, for now. We’ll give them until sunrise, then go looking for them.”
“You don’t want to send searchers after them now?” Odellan looked concerned.
“Purely at a gut level, yes,” Cyrus said. “But six hours could be reasonable caution on their part, taking care to get back to us without getting themselves into trouble. There are a host of possibilities, and I don’t want to get overexcited when we have no idea what’s happened to them.”
“So we send a search party at dawn?” Odellan’s body was frozen in a hesitant state, stiff and formal.
“No,” Cyrus said, causing the elf to blink. “Then we go looking for them. All of us—the whole army. If something caused one scouting party to disappear, I’m not taking a chance on sending another into the same trap. We go in force.”
Odellan cracked a smile. “Aye, sir.”
The night lasted long, and Cyrus never returned to the ever-elusive sleep he had found before. Instead he stared at the campfire, watched the flames dance, the hues of orange at the top, the whitish heat at the base of it, and he saw a shade that seemed familiar. The fire swayed in the wind, and he saw the yellow at the heart of it, the same color as her hair, and it moved, like the swishing of her ponytail …
The sun came up as it always did and brought with it a surprise. A rider with a flag of truce was brought to Cyrus at dawn, Longwell and Odellan escorting him. The man was stout, red of hair and beard, both of which were long and reached to the middle of his chest and back. He approached Cyrus’s fire, with Longwell and Odellan flanking him. Neither looked particularly happy to Cyrus’s eyes, and the warrior felt a chill inside as the man approached, his face freckled and aged, his chin held high.
“My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said upon greeting the envoy, “of the army of Sanctuary.”
“My name is Olivere. I bring the compliments of Baron Hoygraf,” the envoy began, “who speaks in the voice of Milos Tiernan, King of Actaluere.” Olivere wore darkened steel armor with a blue surcoat that had a shark upon it, leaping out of a field of water.
“I accept his compliments,” Cyrus said, “and wonder what would possess the good Baron and the King to be sending an emissary to me.”
The envoy smiled, a cunning smile that caused Cyrus’s concerns to congeal inside him like old blood. “You march an army through their lands without their leave to do so and kill game from their fields, fish from their streams. You’re fortunate that you’ve received an emissary and not darker tidings.”
“Come now,” Cyrus said, in as friendly of a tone as he could manage, “we’ve made no hostile movements against your King or your Baron. We’re passing through on our way to Galbadien to aid in their war against Syloreas. I have no quarrel with your King or Baron and will even pay them a toll for using their roads or killing their game if they would so like.”
“I’m afraid that’s unacceptable,” the man said. “Having an army, hostile or no, traveling through the heart of the peaceful Kingdom of Actaluere, is not something that Baron Hoygraf will permit. It is considered an act of war. However,” the envoy said, his smile becoming more genial, “should you turn your force around and take them back the way you came, we will grant you safe passage back to the bridge, so that you may return to your foreign homeland and inform them of the graciousness of Baron Hoygraf of Actaluere and our primacy over the spiteful Kingdoms of Galbadien and Syloreas.”
“Hmmm,” Cyrus said. “I had a feeling we might come to this particular sticking point.”
“Oh?” The man cocked his head, and his red beard shifted with him, lying flat against his dark armor. “You don’t wish to turn around, I take it?”
“Wishing has little enough to do with it.” Cyrus turned his back on the envoy. “I’ve committed our force to act on the behalf of the King of Galbadien, and I keep my word.” He turned to the envoy. “That’s something you should tell your Baron about me—about us, I should say, the army of Sanctuary and myself. We keep our word and our commitments.”
“I see,” Olivere said. “And I take it that my peaceful words shan’t change your mind?”
“Doubtful,” Cyrus said. “So try making your threat, instead.”
“Very well.” Olivere smiled, a smarmy, disingenuous smile this time that made Cyrus want to bury his sword in the man’s face. “You realize that you’re missing a war party, I take it?”
“I realize that you’ve taken our scouting party,” Cyrus said, eyes narrowed. “Are they dead or alive?”
“They live, for now,” Olivere said. “Had you been reasonable and agreed to go back to the bridge, they would have been released immediately. As it is, if you turn back, we’ll return them to you there before you cross. If you don’t turn back, we’ll kill them, one per day, until you either return to the bridge or we’re forced to bring our army against yours.” He leaned forward to Cyrus, and the smile got wider. “And their deaths won’t be quick nor will they be painless.”
Cyrus stared into Olivere’s eyes, saw the twisted pleasure, the taunt within, and Cyrus felt something grow very cold within him, a chill that seemed to ice his skin and bones like the frost on winter mornings in the Northlands. He looked behind Olivere to Longwell. “How far away is Green Hill?”
“A few hours ride,” Longwell said, concentrating. “Why?”
“Get the army moving,” Cyrus said. He looked back to Olivere. “Carry this message back to your liege. I will be at his gates with my army within hours. If my people are not safely delivered to me upon our arrival, I will burn his keep and kill all his men. And it will not be quick,” Cyrus said with malice, “nor will it be painless, especially in his own case.”
Olivere’s eyes flickered, and the man withdrew his head from where it had been leaning forward, the wicked light in his eyes smothered. “Green Hill is a fortress. You’ll spend months trying to lay siege to us—months you don’t have. The Army of Actaluere is already in motion and will fall on you sooner than you expect. We have watchers in the hills by the bridge, and we were informed of your arrival the day you set foot on our shores. We’ve been watching you since you camped by the bridge, indulging in your pitiful excess by lounging for an entire day after your journey.” Olivere’s lips turned up in a cruel smile. “The King of Actaluere rides with an army of ten thousand men, ready to meet you on the field of battle. Your pitiful force stands no chance.”
Cyrus leaned toward Olivere and beckoned that the envoy should lean closer to him. “Last month,” Cyrus whispered, “I went up against an army of one hundred thousand with only a few hundred.” He pulled back, a coarse, soulless grin on his face. “Do you think your ten thousand scares me?” Cyrus looked to Odellan and ignored the slightly stricken look on Olivere’s face. “See him safely back to his horse.” He focused on Olivere, stared the man straight in the eyes. “Warn your liege. I have more at my command than you can possibly weather.”
Cyrus watched the envoy be led away as Ryin Ayend joined him, still yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What was that all about?” the druid asked.
“The Baron who’s in charge of the nearby holdfast captured one of our scouting parties during the night and is threatening to kill them unless we leave these shores,” Cyrus said.
Ryin froze midway through stretching an arm over his head. His tanned face became hard lines in a moment, mouth slightly open. “I take it that you bypassed calm reflection of peaceful remedies to this situation? You mean to show him the error of his ways by burning his home to the ground, yes?”
“Is that going to be a problem for you?” Cyrus gave the druid have an icy glare.
“Not necessarily,” Ayend said. “But I do think we should consider options that
might result in less conflict before rushing headlong into battle.”
“I asked him to release our people,” Cyrus said.
“Did you ‘ask’ politely or was there some component of a threat attached to it?”
“Now, Ryin,” Cyrus said, all too patronizingly, “you’ve known me long enough to recognize that when someone threatens me, or any of my people, they’re not going to get much in the way of politeness in return.”
“Aye,” the druid said, voice cracking, “that’s what I was afraid of.”
The news spread through the camp as the army was awakened, and Cyrus found himself surrounded by the other officers. The last embers of the fire had begun to die down, and Cyrus ignored the last few logs that he could throw upon it. Curatio was pensive, as was J’anda. Longwell and Odellan spoke in hushed tones at the edge of the knot of officers. Ryin and Nyad huddled close together, as if for warmth, but no words were exchanged between the two of them. It was Terian who watched Cyrus with a certain intensity, who finally broke the morning quiet.
“So we break down the walls, take our people back and drag our enemies’ entrails from their still-writhing bodies?” The dark knight’s face was twisted, spiteful.
“I’m not opposed to that if it comes to it—save for perhaps the grisly entrail removal portion of it,” Ryin said. “But are we certain there is no other way?”
“They could give our people up peacefully before we get there,” Terian said, “and then we walk inside and drag their entrails out of—”
“They’re in a keep,” Ryin said, shaking his head. “Are we really prepared for a siege? This could take weeks or months.”
“No, it won’t,” Cyrus said, cutting across the words of argument that came from J’anda and Terian before they could begin. “In Arkaria, it might take that long. But this is Luukessia, a land that has never known magic, yes?” He looked to Longwell, who nodded in confirmation. “This will take less than an hour.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to discount the power of spellcasters since I am one,” Ryin said, staring at Cyrus with a sort of scornful distaste, “but I don’t think they add as much to sieging a castle as you might think.”
“Ever laid siege to a castle?” Terian asked, looking at Ryin.
“Yes, once,” Ryin said, his arm wrapping more tightly around Nyad, almost defensive. “In the Northlands, when I was with my old guild. A group of bandits had taken it by subterfuge and we were employed by the Confederation to help lay siege to it. It took close to a month. We magic users had little to nothing to do during the time, just sat back and waited.”
“The other side had magic users as well?” Cyrus said. “To put up defensive spells on the ramparts to block invasion, and such? Because that would be the only reason they wouldn’t have used you in the siege, assuming your leader was competent.”
“You mean … oh, I see,” Ryin said, nodding his head. “Oh. Oh, my.”
“Yes,” Cyrus said with a thin smile. “The possibilities are near-endless. Rally the army. We march as soon as they’re ready.”
Campfires were doused, packs were gathered, blades were hoisted, and the army was moving minutes later. Cyrus was at the fore, with the officers and Odellan riding in a tight-knit group around him. “This will be a two-pronged attack,” Cyrus said. “The first prong is the army at the gates. The other is a smaller group of veterans.” He turned to Odellan. “You’re on gate duty.”
Odellan’s eyebrows raised. “Where will you be?”
“With the other prong, cutting into their delicate entrails.”
The day was sunny and bright, an absolute contrast to Cyrus’s mood. It was as though all the darkness he had carried with him had been given shape, the mournfulness turned to rage and now pointed at a target which he could feel good about spearing with his blade. They crossed over hills and through valleys, until at the crest of a ridge a castle appeared in the middle of a green, grassy valley below.
It was surrounded by a moat, with a curtain wall almost thirty feet high the entire way around. There was a drawbridge that began to rise as they drew closer, with a little village less than a mile away from the walls. Cyrus saw a stream of people in the village square, a hubbub of activity, as though they were evacuating, heading south in a cluster.
“Do they think we’re going to attack their town?” J’anda asked. “We’ve been so nice to their countrymen.” The sun was high overhead, beating down upon them.
“The smallfolk who are left unprotected in villages tend to bear the brunt of any war in Luukessia,” Longwell said. “They likely believe we will act as every other invading force would and start by sacking the village.”
“Keep our people clear of the village,” Cyrus said, measured neutrality in his tone. “It seems to me those folks had nothing to do with their Baron’s decision to commit suicide, so we’ll have no part in wrecking their lives.” He looked back at them. “Pass the word. I don’t expect we’d need to worry about it with a seasoned Sanctuary army, but these people are new, some of them may be from armies where that was permissible and I want them to understand—anyone sacking, looting, burning or raping will be killed and left to rot in this land—that sort of behavior is simply not tolerated in Sanctuary.”
“But we can sack, loot, and burn the castle, right?” Terian looked around. “Right?”
“That depends on how the Baron responds to our arrival,” Cyrus said.
They followed the road outside the village. The cool mid-morning air still bore the chill of the pre-dawn even though the sun shone down on them now, casting shadows through the pines that were scattered along the path. The smell of the trees filled his nose, the sharp scent as present as the crunch of the needles under the hooves of their horses. The army marched behind Cyrus, and he looked up at the white stone curtain wall, shining in the sunlight, and saw heads peeking from behind the ramparts. The castle had towers at each corner, and across the battlements Cyrus saw spears poking up. To lay siege to this castle in a traditional way, I’d need siege towers, catapults … and lots of time. But I have no time to spare for bastards such as these.
Blocks were set a few feet apart, creating teeth on the battlements, parapets in a line for archers to fire down at approaching armies from behind cover. Cyrus watched them coldly, analytically, trying to decide how best to approach. The curtain wall was square and went all the way around, a thirty-foot ascent no matter which direction they approached from. Though he couldn’t see it, he suspected that the Baron’s chambers would be toward the back of the castle, past the courtyard—a bailey, he had heard them called—and it would be a guess whether the prisoners would be kept in quarters there or in the dungeons.
“One hour,” he said under his breath as he brought Windrider to a halt. “One hour,” he said more loudly, to the officers behind him, and he heard the words passed back to the army on foot behind them.
A slight breeze stirred his hair under his helm. He looked up at the battlements, heard hushed voices from behind them. The drawbridge was up, a mighty wooden brace separating him from the walls by a moat filled with brown, grimy water. It stank from stagnation and the castle’s waste. He saw slick walls next to holes in the edge of the battlements, and knew he wanted to go nowhere near the water nor the front gate, either.
“Pass the word for Martaina and Aisling to come forward,” Cyrus said, and he heard the murmur of voices behind him. Martaina appeared at his side almost instantly, her horse edging past Longwell’s to stand next to him. Aisling was slower to appear, taking her time, showing up almost a minute later, her traveling cloak hiding her features in the light shadow created by the cowl. “Ah, good, there you are.”
“You summoned us, oh great and mighty General,” Aisling said, each word coming out as a curse. Her bustier was gone, and she was clad in the familiar leather armor that he had always known her to wear.
“Shelve your issues with me until later,” Cyrus said. “We’ve got people being held hostage in that castle.
Do you have your bow?” He turned to look at Aisling, and she stared back, defiant, before reaching under her cloak and pulling out a bow with a fox carved near the grip. “Good.” He took a breath. “You’ll need it, I suspect.”
“Hail,” came a voice from above them. Cyrus looked up to see Olivere staring down, his red hair and beard visible, leaking out of a cavalier’s helm. “I have passed along your message to the baron and he has one for you in return.”
Cyrus felt his jaw click into place, felt his teeth bear down. “Let’s hear it, then.”
“Oh, no,” Olivere said, teeth bared in a broad grin. “You’ll see it.”
With a flourish, the envoy stepped aside and two guards joined him, lifting something under the edge of the battlement. “Make ready with your arrows, ladies,” Cyrus said, tense, waiting for what he suspected was coming. “I’ll need someone willing to take a swim if they do what I think they’re about to.”
“I’ll go,” Ryin said. “I can use Falcon’s Essence to—”
“No,” Cyrus cut him off. “I need someone to swim.”
The three men behind the rampart came up again, this time with a struggling burden. It was a woman, a human in the garb of one of Sanctuary’s rangers. Her face was bruised and her clothing was in disarray, her leather armor missing, and her underclothes were ripped and tattered. She said nothing as the men lifted her and set her upon the ramparts, but she struggled, a spiteful look of hatred burning in her eyes as she glared at her captors.
“Calene Raverle,” Martaina said in a gasp at Cyrus’s side. “She looks like the hells have had at her.”
“Something has had at her, that’s for certain,” Terian said, his voice low and menacing. “And by something, I mean animals that don’t deserve the mercy we’d show a dying dog.”
“You had your warning,” Olivere said, “army of Sanctuary!” With a push from Olivere, Calene Raverle screamed and was loosed from the battlements. She fell almost ten feet before the noose around her neck caught her.
The crack of the rope reaching full extension caused Martaina to cry out, but Cyrus kept his eyes on Calene Raverle. He had seen her before, in the Realm of Death, he realized, had passed her by when they were teleporting out. He had seen her face among the other rangers throughout the journey, and he realized he didn’t know a thing about her—not even her name, until Martaina had said it. He stared at her now, though, looked at her face, her dead eyes, staring at him accusingly. Cyrus stared back.
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 7
