Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  “Scylax has fallen,” Tiernan said without preamble, and the silence was overwhelming enough that Cyrus had to relive the words in his mind to be sure he’d heard what he thought he did. “We received the carrier pigeons only hours ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Unger said, as though Tiernan had not said a thing. “You mean to tell me that the village has been taken and they’ve fallen back to the castle for a siege?”

  “No,” Tiernan said, “the message came to us with very clear wording—the village was overrun yesterday, and the pigeons were the last to fly from the castle.” Tiernan pulled himself up and faced the King of Syloreas. “‘They are inside the walls. Castle Scylax is lost. Their numbers … ’” Tiernan swallowed, deep, and his eyes fell away from Unger as the King of Syloreas sat down, heavy, felled like a tree in the forest, “‘… their numbers are overwhelming. None will survive.’”

  Chapter 42

  There was a still quiet in the garden for several moments after Tiernan delivered the news. Unger sat on the bench in his row, stunned into disbelief, staring at the ground in front of him. Even King Longwell had reseated himself. “Scylax was a city of fifty thousand,” Unger said at last. “Fifty thousand people, and none survive?”

  “We do not know, your grace,” Grenwald Ivess said, a peculiar quiet settled over his words. “Perhaps some fled through the mountains before this … this—”

  “Scourge,” Cyrus said, loud enough to be heard. “It’s a damned scourge.”

  “Before this scourge … arrived at their gates,” Ivess finished. “They would not have had pigeons to tell us, in all likelihood, and thus we do not know. All of this happened days ago, that much is certain, for the pigeons to have reached us here at Enrant Monge. Obviously, if Scylax has fallen, this is a matter of gravest concern—”

  “That might be understating it,” Unger said, quiet, shaking, his head bowed. When he raised his face, determination had settled in his eyes. “When these things move from Scylax, they’ll be hard pressed to travel fast until they’re out of the foothills. But that won’t take long, even for them. They’ll be out on level ground and moving south as pretty as you please, and we need to meet them with an army big enough to crush them, now, and with a plan to seal them off from taking Luukessia, immediately.”

  “Such a plan,” Tiernan said, a slight flush coming back to his face, “would be monumental in scale. I have been to your city of Scylax once, and to take it would require more effort than any two armies in Luukessia could muster.”

  “So you see the threat we face,” Unger said. “We need an army, we need forces to stand against these things, we need to meet them with blood and blade, sword and fire, and we need to drive them back. We have a plan,” he said, gesturing to Cyrus, “and people with experience who can carry it out, who know the origin of these creatures—”

  “The origin of these creatures?” Aron Longwell scoffed. “Assuming you have actually been invaded, and this isn’t some elaborate farce cooked up by you to distract from Galbadien’s inevitable conquest of your armies and your lands,” a few eyes were rolled, including, to Cyrus’s surprise, those of Samwen Longwell, “then these invaders are probably but savage men from beyond the northern reaches of your Kingdom, not some mythical beasts that are unlike anything approaching that which we deal with in everyday life.”

  “Your own man has seen these creatures in action,” Unger said, gesturing to Ranson. “Your own son has seen them, enough to know that this is no charade, no farce scheduled to hew me out of comeuppance for my invasion of your lands, Longwell. If you mean to press your victory, by all means, press your victory—send your army north, to the foothills of Scylax,” Unger’s lips twisted in a sneer, “and take my capital by force of your arms. You won’t get complaint from me—by all means, if you can take it, you can have it, and I’ll be all the more thankful for your help in beating back this threat.”

  “I have no desire to sit on the throne in your mountain hall,” Aron Longwell brushed Unger’s statement aside, but even at a distance of several rows, Cyrus saw the gleam of perfidy in Longwell’s eye, the hint of hesitation as he said it, and heard the lie through every bit of it. “I have a Kingdom to rebuild after you plundered your way through the middle of it.”

  “Sir,” Cyrus heard Count Ranson say from behind King Longwell.

  “Not now,” the King replied, and held up his hand to silence Ranson. “This seems like some crass deception that only you could have come up with, Unger, and I want no part of it.”

  “Will you not at least listen to your own man before becoming an intractable prick?” Unger fired back. “He saw what we’re facing—what you’ll be facing soon enough, if you don’t band together with us.” Unger turned to Tiernan. “What about you, Milos, you seem the reasonable sort, at least enough to save your own skin. What say you?”

  Milos Tiernan stood, slowly, like a broken thing, or a puppet that was jerked by its strings to its feet. “At this time, I am unable to pledge you any support. Our grievances with Galbadien are unresolved and look to be unable to be resolved. As such, my army will be going to war as soon as we leave this place. They are already moving.” He looked to Aron Longwell and shook his head. “Fair warning. We will crush you.”

  “And when my western army,” Aron Longwell’s hand came up and indicated Cyrus, “uses their magics to demolish every one of your horseman, footmen, and bowmen, then takes your war and makes it in the streets of Caenalys, you may say I warned you as well.”

  “Good luck with that,” Cyrus said, and stood. “You have no western army, no magics at your disposal. The army of Sanctuary will move north to assist Syloreas.” He jutted his finger at Aron Longwell, whose face had degenerated into utter contempt. “You’ll be twice damned, sir. First, when Actaluere destroys your western Kingdom, and again when these beasts sweep down from the north and eat the remainder of your realm alive, dooming your people to death.”

  “You dare talk to me in such a way?” Aron Longwell pointed his finger back at Cyrus, and the garden fairly exploded in shouting; Unger was yelling at Milos Tiernan, who remained silent but whose delegation was on their feet, shouting at Unger in return. The Galbadien delegation had become a fury of its own, turning inward, and Cyrus was being shouted down by a dozen of the King’s military advisors, including Odau Genner, whose red cheeks were especially puffy and his eyes were slitted with rage.

  “ENOUGH!” The booming voice of Grenwald Ivess crackled through the warm, breezy midday garden like a thunderbolt had landed in their midst. “We hereby adjourn for a cooling off period until such time as there is a reason to meet again.” Ivess looked saddened, his pudgy face locked in a semi-scowl. “As you know, if there is no call from any party for a meeting within twenty-four hours, then the negotiations are over, and this summit will be dissolved.” He held his hands up. “I urge you not to do that, gentlemen. Find common ground, find a reason to negotiate, and talk amongst yourselves so as to discover a purpose to keep talking rather than going your separate ways—and into war with each other.” With that, Ivess, turned and left without another word.

  Cyrus half-expected the cacophony to resume, but it didn’t. The delegates filed out through their tunnels. Cyrus waited for the Galbadiens to pass him by, and they did, some with muttered curses, others with simply dirty looks. “What now?” J’anda asked when they were nearly alone; very few of the delegates had stayed to speak with their counterparts in the other governments, far fewer than last time.

  “We have an officer meeting,” Cyrus said, looking over each of them in turn—Nyad, Ryin, Longwell, Curatio and J’anda. He did not see Cattrine, who had been seated by Nyad and Ryin, and wondered what had become of her. “Right now, back at the tower.”

  He didn’t wait for any of them to acknowledge before walking toward the tunnel. He strode through the half-light cast by the torches as he passed under the wall, the sunlight behind him and torches within the only signs of light in the long structure. The shad
ow cast by the whole thing was enormous, and spanned a great distance.

  As he emerged, he caught movement to his right and reached for the sword that wasn’t there. It was Cattrine, and her green eyes were what he saw first, and it reminded him of the summer, of all he had seen since leaving Sanctuary all those months ago. He felt a pronounced drop inside but quickly walled off. “Lord Davidon?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “Yes,” he answered, barely above a whisper himself.

  “I need to know the truth of what you’ve seen.” She held her distance, a few feet from him. “I need to know about these things. Are they truly as bad as Briyce Unger says they are?” She hesitated. “Do you believe that they will cover our land in a darkness?”

  He hesitated, staring into her green eyes before blinking away. “I believe they will cover Luukessia in death, yes. Absolute, total death to everything they come across. They will sweep from the mountains to the seas and leave only blood and decay behind them,” Cyrus said, letting the fervency of his thoughts seep out of him, mingling with the undercurrent of feeling he experienced from seeing her, hearing her speak. “I believe they will be the end of Luukessia to the last person here, that they won’t quit coming until that happens.” He closed his eyes, just for a moment. “And I believe that without help, that’s doomed to be the fate of this land, regardless of how much blood those of us who will fight are willing to shed.”

  She looked in his eyes, stared into them, and Cyrus was reminded of nights and days at Vernadam, but he did not look away. “I believe you,” she said simply and turned, walking in the opposite direction of the tower.

  Cyrus opened the door to his room back at the tower and put his armor back on while the other officers trailed in behind him over the next few minutes. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” Ryin said as he shut the door behind him, the last to enter. Nyad sat on the bed, where Ryin joined her. Cyrus looked out the window, and far below he could see over the wall into the Garden of Serenity, empty, the trees and plants around the edges a marked contrast to the stone benches and amphitheater at its center. He turned to face the room and found J’anda and Curatio each occupying one of the chairs, while Samwen Longwell leaned against the wall. Longwell looked as though he were relying more on his armor than his strength to keep him upright. He had looked like that quite a bit lately, Cyrus reflected, though he had no motivation to ask the dragoon what weighed on him.

  “We found out where this scourge comes from,” Cyrus said, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

  “Yes, we surmised as much since it was stated in the assembly,” Ryin said, unconcerned. “From where do they hail? The far north of this country?”

  “You’re a little off,” J’anda answered. “Try the Realm of Death.”

  Silence gripped Ryin and Nyad. Cyrus watched the slow tick of emotions run over both of their faces—confusion, disbelief—Nyad turned scarlet after a moment, and Ryin grew still. “From where?” Nyad asked.

  “The Realm of Death,” Cyrus said, subdued. “They’re the reconstituted spirits of the souls Mortus had imprisoned, given flesh by the journey through the portal from his realm.” Nyad sat openmouthed, and Ryin did not speak, merely shook his head slowly. Cyrus looked at him, and gave him a slow smile after catching his gaze. “This would probably be a fine time to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Ryin looked at him almost perplexed, lips slightly parted. “What?”

  “You were the only one who argued against invading Mortus’s realm before we ended up killing him,” Cyrus said. “You were the sole voice that suggested against going.”

  “I voted for it in the end,” Ryin said. “I was only opposed to the concern of heresy being committed in the process. I had not considered any … other consequences.” He rubbed his eyes. “Certainly nothing like this. Does this …” He halted, and a look like guilt weathered the human, turning his visage from that of a young man to a much older one in a second’s time, “… this means we’re responsible, doesn’t it?”

  Cyrus let the silence endure for almost a minute. “Yes. It does.”

  It became uncomfortable after that, a low, drudging toil of quiet, as though everyone were fighting hard not to say anything. Ryin spoke at last. “We can’t just leave them to it, then.”

  “It was never my intention to leave them to it,” Cyrus said, “even before I knew we were the cause of this particular calamity.” He looked at the druid. “I suppose I am a little surprised not to hear you argue against it, though. I mean, you haven’t been renowned for wanting to get involved in other peoples’ wars.”

  “I’m a bit of a contrarian, but this isn’t their war,” Ryin said, “it’s ours, spilled over here. If what you say is true, then the only thing that has spared Arkaria from the fate of these creatures falling on us is that our portal is in the middle of the Bay of Lost Souls.” He frowned. “These things can’t swim, then?”

  “It would seem that the distance to shore is a problem,” J’anda said, indifferent. “It is quite far from the portal on the Island of Mortus to Arkaria, several hours sail by boat.”

  Nyad frowned and looked around the room. “Where’s Terian? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  This time the silence was pained, and Cyrus felt a particularly sharp dagger in his heart. “We’ll need to mobilize the army to get them ready to march north. I’ll ride out and give orders to Odellan while the rest of you …” Cyrus ground his teeth slightly, “explain what’s become of our illustrious dark knight. I doubt I could come up with anything that would make sense at this point. After that, one of you,” he pointed a finger between Nyad and Ryin, “needs to return to Sanctuary and deliver the news of our predicament—and to ask for aid.” He looked them all over once, then went for the door, and shut it behind him as he heard the quiet tones of Curatio explaining something matter-of-factly, too low for Cyrus to hear.

  “HE DID WHAT?” Nyad’s voice was loud enough to be heard in the hallway as Cyrus descended the ramp, down to the bottom of the tower.

  The air was warm as he walked out, across the courtyard. The nearby stable was open to the air, a single line of stalls under a cover that afforded only a little protection from the elements. Windrider waited, standing above a spread of oats lying on the ground next to a watering trough. He gave Cyrus a steady gaze as the warrior approached, and Cyrus pulled his gauntlet off to stroke the horse’s face as he took hold of the reins. “You’ve done well,” Cyrus said in a breath, and caught motion from his side, a stableboy moving in his peripheral vision. He patted Windrider as the stableboy, a red-haired, freckled lad no older than twelve edged closer, staring at Cyrus.

  “Are you him?” the boy asked.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider, “this is my horse.”

  “No,” the boy replied, edging slightly closer to Cyrus. “Are you … him? Lord Garrick?”

  Cyrus paused, uncertain of what to say. “I am Cyrus Davidon, of Sanctuary,” he answered after a moment. “I know not this Lord Garrick of whom you speak.”

  The stableboy was quiet, his eyes staring out of the shade cast by the barn’s flimsy straw roof. “He’s legend, Lord Garrick of Enrant Monge. He was of the last generation of rulers of the castle before the fall and the fracture of Luukessia. He’s our greatest ancestor, watches over us from above.” The boy eased closer and ran a careful hand, stroking Windrider’s flank. “They say he keeps his eyes on us, here in Luukessia, from above, from the halls of all our ancestors in the land of Gredenyde.” The boy’s eyes blinked at Cyrus innocently. “They say he’ll come back to us—to save us—in our darkest hour of need.”

  Cyrus’s hand paused on Windrider’s neck, and he froze, his blood running cold. “I’m not your Lord Garrick, believe that. And I wouldn’t put much stock in prophecy if I were you.”

  There was a pause as the boy studied him. “Are you sure?

  Cyrus took the reins and started to lead Windrider out of the cover under the barn, felt the warm sunligh
t stream down on him as he stepped from under the cover of the stables. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He slung the saddle over the horse and bound it, then slipped a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself up. “But I will do my best to save your land from what’s coming.”

  The stableboy followed him out, covering his eyes with a freckled hand, that of a lad who had been working long hours in the sun. “I’ve heard the rumors, since the pigeons came. They say Scylax has fallen. They say something is coming from the mountains of the north, something terrible, something that wants to devour the souls of every man in Luukessia.” Cyrus didn’t say anything as he steadied himself in the saddle. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is it true that they’re coming, these things, to kill us all?”

  “Aye,” Cyrus answered finally.

  “But you’re going to stop them?” The boy looked uncertain, and Cyrus tried not to look too hard on him; he knew there were boys only a couple years older in the Sanctuary army. Only a couple years older physically but worlds older in maturity, having seen blood, and bile and battle. “Then that makes you Lord Garrick, doesn’t it? Come to save us?”

  “It’s not your darkest hour yet, kid,” Cyrus said, and started Windrider forward. “Save some fear and legends to pass on to your grandkids.” The clip-clop of the horseshoes on the stone echoed as Cyrus steered his horse out the eastern gate and into the second courtyard, across it, then out of Enrant Monge and down the road.

  The world opened up before him when he left the second gate, the forests a mile or so in the distance smoking with pillars of wafting black coming from the fires of his army, his and Galbadien’s. The road crooked into a forest path as Windrider went along, the branches cut high enough that even though they formed a thick canopy over him, reducing the sunlight, none of them threatened his face as he rode.