Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  “I suppose,” Terian said. “Death is a much more … permanent wound, and the vengeance so much more … deserving.”

  Cyrus stared out again, across the dunes, without answering. The hundred fires left spots in his vision as he cast his gaze over them then turned his eyes again toward the sea. Endless, infinite, and deep beyond any measure he could fathom. The sea goes down, perhaps forever. The blackness it contained was akin to the darkness within him, the empty cold that threatened to swallow him in despair. He felt a hand clap him on the back as Terian turned and walked away. He did not watch the dark knight go, absorbed as he was in his own thoughts.

  It’s warm enough; I shouldn’t feel a chill. But it was there. The pain of losing Narstron had been bitter and hard, had laid him low for days, long days filled with a despair that choked out any happiness or possibility thereof in the future. It had been darker than the days when his wife had left him-darker than any save for those at the Society of Arms …

  Until now. The little points of light that the fires had left in his vision seemed to coalesce, to flash in front of him, to give him an image, one that he wanted and yet wished he could blot from his memory. A face, her skin as pale as the northern snowfields, her hair as yellow as the gold he carried in his purse, eyes as blue as glacial ice. He felt the same pang, again, inside, the dagger wound that she’d left him with.

  Cyrus tasted the bitterness on his tongue again, the sadness that clung to him like a cloak. He looked back to his bedroll and knew that his slumber was over for the night. The moon hung in the sky overhead, far above him, and he drew an uneasy breath. The morning was far, far off, many hours away, and yet it would come, inevitably, and he would marshal his armies and drive them across the bridge that he had seen by last light, the one that stretched over the infinite sea, over the unfathomable depths, one that he’d been told led to a new land and an uncertain future.

  And perhaps, somewhere over there, I will forget about her-the blond-haired elf with the pale skin, and her words, the ones that had cut him deeper than any pain that the warrior in black armor had ever felt in his life.

  Chapter 3

  Sunrise found Cyrus staring out across the water, watching as the red disc rose over the horizon. The chatter of the young warriors and rangers had died down only a few hours earlier, and he had been left alone with his thoughts, staring across the Sea of Carmas as the first members of his army began to rise. Cyrus heard the sound of footsteps in the sand behind him and turned to see Curatio, his pointed elven ears catching the light and casting shadows on the side of his head.

  “You’re up early,” Curatio said, making his way over to the fire next to Cyrus, a small loaf of bread in his hands. “Or perhaps late.” The elf broke the bread and offered Cyrus a half, which he took. “Terian said he was talking to you when he cut his hand last night.” Curatio wore the scarf of a healer, a long, rectangular cloth sash that remained untied, wrapped around his shoulders and hanging loose, the ends reaching to his waist. Runes were stitched into it in dark lettering, but the white color told all who saw that he was a healer, a spellcaster with the ability to mend wounds and restore life. “You haven’t been up since then, have you?”

  Cyrus gnawed on the loaf, which was fresh, still warm. He looked up at the healer in surprise and drew a smile from Curatio. “Magically conjured bread. It’ll be down to the spellcasters to keep us in bread and water as we march onward, especially for the next few days as we traverse the bridge.”

  Cyrus picked a large piece out of the doughy center and ate it, shifting it around in his mouth, enjoying the soft flour taste. He grasped a piece of the crusty exterior. It broke between his fingers and he popped it in his mouth, listening to the crunch between his teeth. He looked south and saw the Endless Bridge, something he had seen only once before. It was stone and sloped up to a hundred feet over the water, with enormous supports that reached above the span every few hundred feet, symmetrically placed pillars of stone lining its avenue. It extended into the distance, beyond the horizon, and the stone seemed to glitter in the light of the sunrise.

  Cyrus smacked his lips, stopping before he took another bite. “Leaves me feeling a bit … empty inside.”

  Curatio’s smile cooled. “The bread? Or something else?”

  “Leaves me feeling weak,” Cyrus said, lowering the bread. “And the last thing I want to be when I’m marching into an unknown country is weak.” He turned and looked into the distance where the horses were tied to trees at the edge of the beach. “How are the horses?”

  “They’ve been curried, their feet have been picked out, and Martaina is saddling them now,” Curatio said, his eyes following Cyrus’s. “She’s quite the wonder with animals, that one. She’s got a few others helping her, but she seems to be taking excellent care of them.”

  “Good,” Cyrus said without emotion. “The more we have delegated to good people, the more we can focus on what’s coming.”

  The elf’s face lost its smile gradually, fading as the lines slackened and Curatio turned serious. “And what might that be?”

  Cyrus took another bite, a heavier one, and chewed, answering only after he’d swallowed about half of it. “Battle. Longwell says we’ll be passing through an unfriendly Kingdom on the other side of the bridge. Says they’ll have pickets out, riders, you know. They may throw trouble our way to keep us from passing.”

  Curatio’s eyebrow rose, sending his ageless face into a very slight display of amusement. “Pickets? Outriders? A scouting party of what? A dozen men on horseback? Versus our fifty on horse and thousand afoot?” A light chuckle came from the healer. “I wish them the best of luck.”

  Cyrus didn’t join the laughter. “They’ll present themselves, they’ll threaten, but Longwell says the outriders won’t make much fuss. This Kingdom, it’s the one by the sea-Actaluere, Longwell called it-it has holdfasts between the bridge and Longwell’s father’s lands. They may send armies out to halt us once they know we’re here.”

  Curatio’s eyebrow twitched slightly higher. “Do you think they’ll succeed, General?”

  The elf’s odd formality stirred Cyrus’s irritation. “Not if we’re careful, they won’t. But even a hundred men with no magic could wipe out an army ten times their size if they were to catch us sleeping.” Cyrus clutched the bread tighter. “We have a journey of several weeks across their territory. That’s a long while that they could cause us problems, and a very long time to maintain an all-hours watch, especially after a hard march every day.”

  “Good practice,” Curatio said, taking a bite of the thick, hard crust of his bread. “After all, we are here to season our young and inexperienced recruits.”

  “A march of several weeks, with the threat of attack hanging over us every hour of the day?” Cyrus looked at the bread in his hands and was suddenly no longer hungry. “That will season them, all right.” He stood, and looked over the stirring army. “I’d rather have peace from them, though, and stay at their inns, buy fresh food from their people, spread our gold around their realm on our march than seed their lands with sword and fire.” The sergeants of the army were shouting now, yelling their displeasure at the recruits, stirring them out of their stupors as the sound echoed down the shore.

  “Aye,” Curatio said softly behind him as the the noise of the rousing army carried on, “always better to have peace than war. But in my experience, it’s not always a luxury we are afforded.”

  It took another hour to get everyone fed and formed up to move. They reached the bridge after another hour’s walk, and took a break in the shade by the span. The stone bridge was wide enough to accommodate ten columns of their troops walking side by side. After the army was formed up again, Cyrus began the procession to lead them over. He kept his horse, Windrider, in front of the army, a few yards ahead of the rest of the mounted members of Sanctuary. The steady clip-clop of hooves against the stone of the bridge lulled him.

  It will not work, Cyrus. It can never be, you and I.
For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow. We will not, cannot be. Not ever. Vara’s words echoed over and over in his mind as the gentle wash of the water lapping against the supports of the bridge beat a steady rhythm in his consciousness. The sun shone down from overhead, but the salt air and sea breeze kept him cool, even in his black armor. Not ever.

  The sound of someone next to him jarred Cyrus, causing him to look up. As soon as he saw who it was, he relaxed. “You,” he said with a sigh.

  “Me,” Aisling said. Her hair was white, flush against the navy skin it framed on her face and an exaggerated amount of cleavage was on display under her traveling cloak, which was open. Her usual leather armor was gone, replaced by a cloth garment of deepest red that hugged her belly and her upper body.

  Cyrus stared at her, his expression in near-disbelief. “Are you wearing a bustier?”

  Her eyebrows danced up and her lips pursed in a smile. “I’m surprised you know what that is.”

  He looked away, shaking his head in annoyance. He hadn’t intended to give her any sort of encouragement. “My wife used to wear them.” He looked back, slightly uncomfortable. “From time to time.”

  “Oh?” Her voice trilled in interest. “You were married?”

  “A long time ago.” He turned his head to look at her, a little too much frost in his voice, even to him. “Try not to pretend you didn’t know.”

  She shrugged expressively, exaggeratedly, and as though every bit of chill in his words had melted somewhere between the two of them. “I was just being polite. Of course I’ve heard the rumors about you being married. I’ve heard a great many rumors about you. But then, I’ve heard a few about myself as well and not always true, so I prefer to glean the fact of them directly from the source before I go believing something I hear in passing, no matter how good it sounds.”

  Cyrus felt the breeze off the sea stir the hair under his helm and reached up to take the metal contraption off, securing it to a hook on his saddle. With that done, he ran his hand through his hair, felt the slight sweat that had developed on his forehead, and wiped it onto the sleeve that stuck out of his gauntlet. Once done, he looked back to Aisling, who still rode next to him, watching him, almost expectantly. “And what rumors would you have me dispel?”

  “Just one,” she said, but the slyness and her smile were gone, replaced by something else: an almost primal hunger, as though she were thirsty and waiting for a single drop of water to fall upon her tongue.

  “Just one?” He looked back at her. “Then what? You’ll ride back into the line and trouble me no more?”

  “For today, yes.” The hunger on her face grew, an insatiable curiosity. “I make no promises about tomorrow.”

  “Ask your question, then.” He felt his hands on the reins, on the leather, felt them squeeze tightly against the dry material that lined the inside of his gauntlets, felt the hint of perspiration on his palms. “Ask and then be gone.”

  “Is it true …” She started and then stopped, but the desire had grown in her eyes. “Is it true that you and Vara …?” She didn’t finish, as though she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. “I mean, in Termina you were together, but I heard … it was rumored …”

  “It’s true,” he said, bowing his head, feeling the despair overwhelm his desire to snap back at her, to growl, to tell her to ride off the edge of the bridge. “It’s all true.” He twisted his neck to look at her. “Now say it and be done.” He spoke with no acrimony, his voice was dry and hollow.

  “Say what?” She looked at him, and all the emotion he had seen writ upon her face was gone, replaced by a slight furrowing of the lines of her brow, a puckering of her full, purple lips.

  “Whatever racy suggestion you’re going to throw my way,” Cyrus said, still wary. “Just say it. Get it over with.”

  There was a subtle flicker in her eyes, and the curiosity washed from her face, replaced by something else-genuine regret, Cyrus thought. “I’m sorry,” Aisling said. “I can’t think of anything like that right now. All I have to say is …” Her lips curved with just a hint of wistfulness, “… I’m sorry for you that it didn’t work out.” She nodded at him and slowed her horse, falling back into the line with the others that followed behind him.

  Cyrus rode on. The bridge stretched before him as far as he could see-and so did his pain.

  Chapter 4

  The days ran together, one upon another, until all Cyrus could remember was the bridge, the endless grey stone that went on infinitely into the distance. On either side the waters were blue, and a cool breeze ran through the cracks in his armor, keeping the heat of the sun at bay. By the end of the third day, Cyrus imagined throwing himself over the side into the water below, letting his armor drag him down, down to the bottom of the sea, letting his boots sink into the sand, the water rush into his lungs, drowning all his despair along with him …

  The conjured bread grew old by the fourth day, and Cyrus was sick of chewing it, the light airy flavor turning to nothing but mush in his mouth. The conjured water was even worse, less satisfying somehow. Without wood to burn, they slept without fires at night. The only flame available to them was that conjured by wizard and druid, and there were only five of those. Three times a day, long lines were cast over the edge of the bridge and fish were caught, but it was a paltry amount, enough to feed but a few and as flavorless as the bread.

  The others steered clear of Cyrus, as though they could sense his foul mood, save for Aisling and Curatio, each of whom made at least one attempt per day to speak with him. Curatio’s efforts were squarely in the realm of morale, of worry about the army’s waning enthusiasm as the journey across the bridge dragged on. Cyrus spoke in a perfunctory manner, and at the beginning and end of each day attempted to deliver a somewhat motivational speech urging them onward, mentioning that green lands and fresh meat were somewhere over the horizon.

  His conversations with Aisling, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. The dark elf had taken to speaking with him in a cheery manner. Cyrus kept the acidity of his responses low, usually not deigning to answer rather than say something that might drive Aisling away. In something of an odd move for her, Aisling had steered well clear of any innuendo in speaking with him-a fact that by the fourth day was not lost on Cyrus.

  “So you were born and raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos?” she asked him.

  Cyrus gripped Windrider’s reins tighter. He could feel the horse tense under him, and he ran his gauntlet along the side of the horse’s neck gently. “No. I was dropped off there at age six, after my mother died.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Did you know your father at all?”

  He thought back, thought about memories from so long ago that they swirled together. “Not well. He died when I was very young, and he was away in the war off and on for a year or two before that.” Cyrus tried to remember his mother’s face and failed, only a blurry haze where it once had been, the only distinguishing feature being bright eyes, as green as the summer grasses in the plains outside Sanctuary. “I don’t really remember my mother either, come to that.”

  “That’s a shame,” Aisling said. “What do you remember? About your childhood, I mean?”

  Cyrus thought about it, trying to stir some memory in his brain. He felt his nostrils flare and the salt air of the sea loomed large in his mind again. “Meat pies,” he said softly, almost too low to be heard. “My mother used to make them. Big, hearty ones, with beef and pork and chicken all crammed into a doughy crust.” He could almost smell them, taste them, even though it had been more than two decades since last he had tasted the ones his mother made. “Every time Larana makes them, it brings me back to sitting at the wooden table in our house, eating dinner.” He squinted his eyes and the horizon grew fuzzy, blurring. “I can almost picture her when I think of eating meat pies.” He remembered brown hair framing the green eyes, and the soft touch of a hand along his face to wipe off dirt or grime. “What ab
out you?” He looked to her and caught a faint blush of darker blue on her cheeks.

  “Another time, perhaps,” she said, a coy smile covering her embarrassment. Drops of rain splashed upon her head, the first signs that the dark skies above them were preparing to loose their fury. She steered her horse away from him as he watched her go, suddenly regretful at her departure.

  He called a halt to their travel as the downpour became so heavy that they could scarcely see the bridge in front of them. Cyrus sat against a pillar as the rain washed down, gathering in puddles that became nothing but rippling rivers running over the sides of the stone bridge in great waterfalls. He looked back at the outline of shapes behind him. He felt a pang and knew that when the rain let up, he’d need to check with the other officers to make certain someone hadn’t wandered to the edge of the bridge to relieve themselves during the storm and been swept off by the deluge.

  As the rain poured down, rattling his helm, he sat in the shadow of the pillar, Windrider next to him. He looked up at the horse, which whinnied. “Soon,” Cyrus said. “You’ll have fresh dirt under your hooves soon. Another day at most.”

  The snort of reply caused Cyrus to crack a smile. “Well, if this rain lets up, anyway. What’s wrong, you don’t like conjured oats?”

  Cyrus could swear he heard a slight growl in the horse’s whinny as Windrider answered him, and he looked into the shapes to his side, shrouded in the rain. “I don’t like it either. But we’ll be there in a few weeks … and after that, we’ll be home … sometime. A couple months, maybe.”

  Cyrus could almost hear the thoughts of the horse as he whinnied. He shook his head, wondering how pitiful he must be to think he was talking to a horse. He looked up at the beast, white coat and mane looking grey in the rain. “Then what? I don’t know.” Cyrus’s eyes settled again on the horizon, the darkness ahead where the bridge disappeared into the pouring rain only a hundred feet in front of him. “I don’t know what happens when we get home.”