Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  Chapter 37

  Cyrus followed her only a moment later, after a pause and a curse, and he yanked Windrider’s reins to lead the horse through the portal. He felt the air distort as he stepped through, the world seeming to upend and twist around him, light blinding him, until his feet settled on solid ground and he bumped into something ahead of him, and realized it was Aisling.

  “Why does this look so familiar?” she asked, and Cyrus looked around the room they stood in.

  It was a massive chamber that drew off into the distance, a room longer than it was wide, with torches burning in sconces on all the walls. Cyrus could smell something, a faint dustiness, and display cases lined every wall, while others sat in the middle of the floor. A tingle ran through Cyrus as he stepped forward, pushing Aisling behind him. “Because we’ve been here before.” He looked around again, saw the balcony in the distance with the stairs leading up to either side of it, and felt a shudder. “This is Mortus’s treasure room.” He took a step forward and laid his hand on one of the pedestals. “We’re in the Realm of Death.”

  “Nice to see they left the lamps on for us,” Aisling said as she stepped up to join him. “But wasn’t this place filled with howling death when last we were here? Spirits of the damned, loosed upon the demise of their master?”

  “Yes, that’s true—” Cyrus said, and stopped. There was a faint rattle, something clicking slowly against something else, as the torchlight flickered around them as though stirred by a wind he couldn’t feel.

  “What?” Aisling asked, then froze at attention, listening. “Oh, gods.”

  The rattle got louder, and a howling torrent of fury burst through the door at the top of the balcony. Souls, the damned, the trapped remnants of the God of Death’s collection filled the air around them, a tornado of spirits, circling lower and lower.

  “Time to move,” Cyrus said, scooping up Aisling in one arm and pulling her back to the portal. Windrider was already turned and galloping through. Cyrus followed, letting the world distort around him as he stepped inside, and a moment later found himself back in the cave, in the circular chamber, and it was still empty. “That was lovely. If you ever leave me to jump into idiocy like that again, I’ll let you die.”

  “You should really save that kind of sweet nothing for pillow talk, darling.” Aisling’s ears perked up and she turned, backing away from the portal as flickers of light flashed from within it. “Can those things follow us here?”

  “I daresay we’re about to find out.”

  “Oh,” she said sarcastically, “is that what you think?”

  They backed away from the portal as shapes started to coalesce in the light, black shadows, and something began to emerge. A horrific screeching preceded it, as though something had taken to tormenting an animal and refused to let it go. The first shape came through the portal and a shock of horror ran through Cyrus from top to bottom; claws and a four-legged appearance became obvious first, then the rounded head and vicious teeth, followed by the black, glassy eyes that had no feeling behind them. It skittered out, one of the scourge, followed immediately by more.

  “That’s—” Aisling said, her voice jerking to get the words out, “—the souls of the damned, from the Realm of Death, they turned into—is that—how is that possible?”

  “They’re taking physical form.” Cyrus’s voice was a low growl, and it came from a part of his throat that wanted to scream, something he never did. “They can’t come through as spirits, so they’re taking form, and …” He turned, and saw others coming through the big entrance. “We’ll never make it out through the narrow passage.” He tightened his grip on Praelior. “Charge the big tunnel—NOW!” His last word came as a shout and he ran, sword swinging as he did so, his blade striking out as his legs pumped, chewing up the ground between him and the opening that seemed to lead out of the cavern.

  The first of the scourge looked as though it was slithering toward him. He struck with his sword before it had time to react. More followed, countless, and he struck at them, too, using the speed Praelior granted him to stay a step ahead, clearing the tunnel, which although larger than the narrow passage, was only a few feet wide. They came at him a few at a time, but he moved on, driven, emotion bubbling over as he swung his sword. Daylight was ahead, and he kept on toward it—

  They broke out into the sunlight and Cyrus’s eyes fought to adjust to the brightness. The sky was clouded over, but still somewhere above the sun shone, behind a cloud, and he tried not to blink from it as he sliced through three more scourge. He could smell rotting flesh, it filled his nose and the still air around him, even as the cold and the snow were obvious, the ground covered with white for miles all around. He looked down from the abutment he was on, a craggy trail of rocks, and below was a path leading to a village, teeming with the scourge, thousands of them, making the thirty or so he had cut through in the flight from the cavern look like a miniscule number by comparison.

  “Come on!” he heard Aisling shout, and he turned after striking a few more down to see her already on Windrider’s back. The horse lunged forward and Cyrus jumped, catching a foot in a stirrup as Windrider passed and jerking himself onto the horse through sheer rote practice. They galloped down the hill and through the center of the town as the streets began to fill with the monsters, streaming out of buildings. As they rode by an open door, Cyrus could see bodies inside, a cloth dress that had been dull grey, stained now with blood and horror.

  Windrider did not spare the speed as he ran, carrying them along the path out of town, galloping along a snowy road toward the pass they had come through only the day before. They did not meet any resistance, and the horse kept up the speed for as long as possible, until they were beyond the valley and into the pass, leaving behind everything that they had seen save for the horror which they carried with them in their minds.

  Chapter 38

  They found mountain springs and places for Windrider to graze after they cleared the snowy valley, and they stopped occasionally, long enough for Cyrus to rest and tend to his horse, which he did mechanically, at best. After a day’s ride wherein they had barely exchanged a word, Aisling said to Cyrus, “Let me do it,” and took care of Windrider herself before they retired for the night.

  Cyrus lay down on the bedroll, the only one they had. His thoughts had been a swirling fury all day during the ride, racing so fast that he could scarcely even grasp them. He ate only a little, finding he had no appetite, and when Aisling came to join him on the bedroll, curiously, he found something he did have an appetite for, but he did that mechanically as well, though she did not seem to notice. She fell asleep immediately thereafter, and to his surprise, he did as well.

  They arose early, before dawn, and were riding again minutes later, following the path south. The horse’s hoofprints left a deep impression in the thin snow that coated the ground, and Cyrus felt every one of them resonate through him. His mind was stirred, unclear, but the same thought kept bubbling to the surface over and over again. This is my fault. This is all my fault.

  After another day and night, another perfunctory evening spent with Aisling, who either did not notice or did not care that Cyrus was vacant and unable to look at her with his eyes open whilst they were together on the bedroll, he still found himself able to go through at least the motions there. It was a curious thing: he couldn’t seem to think straight, couldn’t manage more than a few bites of bread until he was starving, but she moaned in pleasure at his touch and enjoyed his company for as long as it lasted, but it left him even more hollow, empty inside, and lost in thought.

  On the third day they arose and dressed in silence once more. She did not seem to feel any need to bring conversation out of him, but let her body speak, and he drank in the sweaty stickiness of her, and he found he didn’t care. Something primal urged him on, gave him solace with her, allowed him to put aside all the thoughts that drew him down and silenced him during the day.

  On the fourth day they reached lo
wer ground and at a high point they looked out over the greener fields, where the snow had not fallen this far south, and saw a caravan ahead.

  “That’s them,” Aisling said. “They’re moving at a decent speed, about a half day’s ride ahead. We can probably catch them by nightfall tomorrow if we hurry.”

  “Let’s hurry, then,” Cyrus said, the void in him now filling with something else, a gut-deep thought of satisfaction at a confrontation that loomed large ahead of him like the mountains that filled the horizon. “I’ve got some talking to do when we get there. We’ll need to keep to cover so they don’t see our approach.” Cyrus’s voice hardened. “I don’t want Terian to know we’re coming.”

  They spent another night alone under the stars, Windrider keeping silent vigil for their night’s watch, while beneath the blanket on the bedroll other things occurred that sent the horse shying away into a thicket beyond their camp. They rode the next day again in silence and Cyrus tried to focus his thoughts on keeping to the path, on avoiding being seen by the column ahead. They kept to the trees as often as possible, moving openly only when there was no high ground ahead that they might be seen from. When nightfall came they took a break. Cyrus laid the bedroll on the ground. Aisling came to him, and when they were done they rolled it up again by silent accord and continued the ride, heading onward toward campfires they could see just over the horizon.

  The wind was more subtle here but still carried a bite that left Cyrus’s armor icy cold. The night had come down around them like a black shroud pulled over one’s eyes, and the chill left Cyrus with a sense like ice melting on his tongue. Howls of distant wolves in the mountains brought to Cyrus’s mind the image of lonely hunters, separated from their pack, and brought Terian to the forefront of his thoughts again. Soon.

  They reached the camp around midnight. Sentries called out, two warriors of Sanctuary whom Cyrus knew in passing, and when he rode into the light, the shock on their faces was sweet to him. He admonished them to be quiet, gave over the reins to Windrider to one of them, and was pointed in the direction of a small figure when he asked his question. Cyrus crept along, not half so stealthily as Aisling, to one of the nearby fires, and found the sleeping figure he was looking for. When he reached down, it stirred, then sat up, eyes widening at the sight of him.

  “Lord Davi—!” Mendicant began to cry, but Cyrus put a hand over the goblin’s mouth. After holding a single finger over his own to quiet the wizard, he took his hand away and Mendicant spoke unhampered. “Lord Cyrus,” he said, his voice a whisper. “You have returned to us.”

  “You didn’t think a little thing like ten thousand of those beasts would be the death of me, did you?” Cyrus asked, not harshly but not kindly, either. “I need a small service of you.”

  “Anything, m’lord,” Mendicant said. “All my spells are you at your command.”

  “I only need one of them. Come with me.”

  They made their way to the other side of the camp in the pervasive quiet. Cyrus heard a few bodies stir as he passed, and one of them made to cry out, but Aisling quieted him with a quick hand. Cyrus went on, Mendicant just behind him, until they reached a fire at the edge of the camp. Cyrus held up a hand to stay Mendicant, who stopped, and with a nod from Cyrus, began to cast a spell.

  Cyrus walked forward, not bothering to be silent any longer. He could see Terian, asleep, clutching the long, red sword that Cyrus had given him, snug against his body, cradled as though it were a lover. It remained in its scabbard, something that no doubt carried none of the majesty of the one that his father had used—it had remained with his body on the bridge, after all. Cyrus looked at the blade as Terian held it and thought of the words again—It will drink the blood of my enemies. All of them. He drew Praelior, and let the sound of the steel against the scabbard awaken his target.

  Terian’s eyes fluttered open, and Cyrus saw his hand tense around the hilt of the sword. After a moment of widening in shock, they returned to normal, and Terian lay there, staring up at his general, and nodded once in complete and utter disinterest. “Hello, Cyrus.”

  “Hello, old friend.” Cyrus pointed his sword at Terian. “I trust you’ve had a satisfying few nights of sleep?”

  “For the first time in a while, I would have thought,” Terian replied. “But not really. Been a little fitful, if we’re being honest.”

  “‘If we’re being honest’?” Cyrus snorted. “That’d be a first, at least in recent memory. Honesty would break you, dark knight. Honesty would have meant that instead of playing a treacherous dog and trying to feed me to those rotted beasts, you’d challenge me in open combat and let the dice roll what they may.”

  “I could have taken you in open combat,” Terian said. “There wouldn’t have been much challenge in that. The only challenge would have been your allies and guildmates, who wouldn’t have let me approach within a mile of you with sword in hand to ask for a duel.”

  “You think not?” Cyrus asked, pushing the blade toward Terian’s throat, causing the dark knight to blanch not one bit. “You think they wouldn’t have let me cross swords with you in honest dispute?”

  “No,” Terian said, “because they’d know you would die. You can’t match a dark knight, Cyrus, and no one but you is fool enough to trifle with magics when they have only a blade to do it with. Stab me five times and I’ll cast a spell that takes away my wounds and visits them upon you in return, restoring me and cursing you to a self-inflicted death. Anyone with sense would not let you face me in a duel. So it was treachery, a surprise, the quick and dirty, and off you went to die at hands other than my own—yet still I would be revenged.”

  “This from a man who told me once that he despised those who weren’t what they appeared to be,” Cyrus said, and saw the flicker in Terian’s eyes. “Well, it would appear your boundless hypocrisy has come back to visit you. Get up.”

  Terian shuffled his feet out of his blanket and stood before Cyrus, leaving his sword to lie on the ground. “Pick it up,” Cyrus said, nodding at the sword. “If you wanted to have a go at me, now you’ll get one—a legitimate one.”

  “You think so?” Terian said, and his hand flew up in a quick motion, as though he were flinging something at Cyrus with it.

  Cyrus stood back smiling grimly as Terian blinked then thrust his hand at Cyrus again. “Pick up your sword, dark knight,” Cyrus said, “and let’s truly see who will win this battle of blades.”

  Terian looked around as he stooped to retrieve his blade. “Mendicant,” he said, seeing the goblin standing a distance away. “You’ve had him place a cessation spell over us.”

  “Over us and everything nearby,” Cyrus said, noting that several of the bundles on the ground, officers of Sanctuary who had been sleeping were stirring now, sitting up in their bedrolls with tired eyes. He saw J’anda look at him with an openmouthed astonishment that turned into a smile. Cyrus nodded his head at the enchanter and turned back to Terian. “You tried to kill me dishonorably and failed. I give you one chance to do it in a duel and perhaps save that shredded rag you call your honor.” Cyrus held his sword upright, in front of his face. “I wish you the best of luck, because I suspect you’ll need it.”

  “Luck,” Terian said with unmistakable sorrow. “Never did seem to have much of that.” He hoisted his sword above his head in a high guard, waiting for Cyrus. When Cyrus beckoned him forward, Terian attacked without warning, striking with his blade as Cyrus blocked it, knocking the red sword aside.

  The camp was awakening now, the sounds of a battle echoing through the night. Cyrus heard the cries of surprise, of alarm, of his name, and he felt the warm flush that battle brought to his skin, coupled with the chill of sweat that had long since settled and grown cold from the mountain air. He tasted the embers in his mouth, the ashen desire to strike back at Terian for knocking him asunder and cursing him, and it was the bitterest thing he had ever eaten. From out of the darkness, figures strode closer, whispers were exchanged by those who knew what was h
appening, and Cyrus could smell fear in the air, mingled with the metal of his blade as he set it against Terian’s again and again as the dark knight raged against him.

  “What’s the matter, warrior?” Terian said with fury, bringing his sword down for another attack that Cyrus blocked. “You’re not attacking me. Am I too fast for you? Were you too arrogant for your own good?” He clashed with Praelior and then drew the blades close to look at Cyrus between the locked swords. “Was this how it was with my father? Did he overmatch you until someone else had to save you?”

  Cyrus pushed him back, sending Terian staggering, and then brought Praelior back to a defensive position in front of his face. “No. Your father attacked me when I was wounded and near dead. When Vara kept him from killing me,” he said, circling the dark knight as Terian watched him with smoldering eyes, “they fought for a spell, and before he could land the coup de grace on her, I stabbed him through the back.” Cyrus spun Praelior in a neat circle in front of his face. “Your father was a coward, like you, and I ended him like a coward—”

  “LIAR!” Terian lunged at Cyrus, his weapon high over his head, coming down in a furious attack that sent reverberations through Cyrus’s armor from his gauntlets to his boots. “My father was a hero of the Sovereignty!” He brought the blade down again and again against Praelior, and still Cyrus repelled each blow and turned it aside. “He was the most powerful dark knight in all Arkaria! He could kill you and Vara a hundred times over!”