Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  “I should have expected nothing less from a petulant child-” Ryin let out a snort of disgust.

  “I’m having a strategy meeting to organize the next phase of our march,” Cyrus cut him off, cool as steel. “If you want to have a temper tantrum about why a man who has led an army is sitting in on my planning session, I suggest you do so while teleporting yourself back to Sanctuary.”

  The silence hung in the air until Terian broke it. “I haven’t had this much fun since that time I got kicked out of the guild for standing back and letting Orion squabble with that dipshit gnome. You two should fight; I put my money on Cyrus.” Terian looked to Cyrus, who met his gaze. “Maybe after you’re done kicking his ass, he’ll let you relieve your tension with his wizard squeeze.” The dark elf waved vaguely at Nyad. “Unless you’re just saving it all up for battle. Which would explain a lot, come to think of it-”

  “Enough.” Curatio’s voice crackled across them all. “Ryin, Cyrus is General and in command of this mission. Including a former guard captain of the elves who is quite experienced is a wise and prudent course of action; surely you must see that.” Curatio’s tone was soft, but Cyrus heard the iron beneath it. The healer’s eyes cut over to Cyrus, ignoring Terian entirely. “General, if you’d care to continue.”

  “Not much more to say, I think.” Cyrus looked around the circle. “We’ll travel by day because it’s an easier march. I’ll want watches around the clock, sentries keeping an eye on everything-and no one on watch more than one night in a row. We need everyone well rested. I also want outriders scouting during the day, experienced rangers who will know how to escape getting caught by hunting parties. We’ll stay in villages and inns as much as we can manage, buy local goods and food, spread some gold around, which will be good for us and for the locals. Hopefully that will give Milos Tiernan cause enough to let us pass uncontested.” He turned to Longwell. “How long will we be traversing Actaluere?”

  Longwell frowned, pensive. “I would say nearing two months. Perhaps a month and a half if we make haste, but two months is more probable. I suspect it will be a week, two if we are fortunate, before Actaluere becomes aware of our presence here. After that,” he shrugged his shoulders lightly, “another week perhaps before they challenge our resolve, if it comes to that.”

  “We’ll make ready on the morrow, then,” Cyrus said. “We’ll need to be vigilant as we cross their territory.” He turned his head to Nyad. “We won’t be going around. I’ll have Martaina organize the rangers for what we talked about. She is the most senior ranger with us, yes?” Catching a nod from Curatio, he went on. “Odellan, Terian, Longwell and I will coordinate with the warriors and other front rank fighters, setting up watches and preparing for the imminent conflict with Actaluere’s army.”

  “Let me caution you,” Longwell said, “I was guessing when I said how long it would take for them to rally. It could be shorter. They could band together two or three holdfasts worth of knights and infantry and make a challenge to us tomorrow if they saw us walking about.”

  “Duly noted.” Cyrus gave Longwell a curt nod. “We’ll prepare as if they’ll be waiting for us behind every corner, and we’ll march as quickly as we can without causing our army to wear out. The next two months will be hard, harder on morale than on our bodies, methinks. They’ll grow lean from the march, but it’ll be the mind that feels the friction of this before their feet do, this constant motion forward. Our army will tire of looking around every turn in the road for the enemy, and complacency will set in. We need to remind them of the urgent need for constant vigilance, especially among the veterans, the watchers. They’ll be the most prone to overconfidence.”

  Cyrus turned his eyes toward the berm and the trees beyond. “They’re out there, somewhere, and we need to march out of here tomorrow as though they know we’re already here and that they’re waiting for us in ambush. We need to carry that feeling, without fatigue, for the next two months.” He looked back at the Council, at all of them, saw the disinterest in Ayend’s eyes contrasted with the rapt attention from Odellan. “Because the only threat to us now is that we don’t-and then they’ll overwhelm us when we least expect it.”

  Chapter 9

  They marched out the next day, over the berm and along a path that carried them inland. By the end of the day they had passed through coastal swamps and long grasses at the side of the path and had grown tired of palm trees and algae-covered ponds. A week passed as they followed the same routine: breaking camp as the sun rose, marching for two hours then taking a short break, followed by another two-hour walk at which point lunch was served (meat from whatever could be hunted, foraged berries and plants supplemented with conjured bread and water). In the afternoon there came another two or three more marches before they ended their day finding a suitable campsite.

  Some days they would make camp earlier or later depending on what the scouts told Cyrus. Good ground was critically important, and Cyrus planned their final stop of the night around finding defensible positions on level ground. Edible plants and game were plentiful, providing the army with sustenance and keeping the grumbling to a minimum. From time to time they stayed in inns, buying local animals from farms for slaughter, and ale from the tavern keepers, who seemed pleased at the amount of gold that came to them in exchange for what they gave. Complaints about the length of marches were more frequent, though after the second week only the most disgruntled even bothered any longer. Most took the long days in stride, accepting of the direction they were heading.

  “What do we do about the ones who want to go home?” Ryin had voiced the thought after only a day’s march past the bridge.

  “Tell them that the bridge is back that way,” Terian pointed behind them, “and invite them to be on with it.”

  As the second week died, Cyrus could feel the tension that had surrounded them upon leaving the beach dissolve, the quiet marches giving way to laughter and joviality, the evening campfires going from being solemn events where all were watchful to festive occasions.

  “I’m trying to decide if I like them better like this or worse,” Cyrus said to Curatio one night in the second week as they sat by the fire, Cyrus chewing on a roasted haunch from a herd of goats that Martaina’s rangers had bought from a local farm.

  “So long as the outriders and the watch take their duties seriously, we’ll be fine,” the elder elf told him. “This journey will be hard enough on their spirits and their bodies without driving constant fear into them. They wake early and go to bed early, and live their lives on their feet in all moments between. Remind the watchmen of their duty with all the fury you’d waste on the ranks of the army, and spare the others the misery.” Curatio took a sip from a skin of wine from the last village they had visited. “Their feet give them enough of that, I suspect-I’ve healed enough blisters in the last two weeks to know that much.”

  They passed a moment in silence, Cyrus chewing on a piece of meat. “Alaric sent more than half the Council on this expedition.”

  Curatio grunted in acknowledgment, and when Cyrus said nothing in response, the healer spoke. “Is there a question to go along with that observation?”

  Cyrus continued to stare into the fire that crackled and popped in front of them as it caught hold of a branch that had slipped to the edge of the fire. “He knew what happened between Vara and I, didn’t he? He thought I wouldn’t be up to the task of commanding the expedition on my own.”

  “Alaric and I did not part on the best of terms, so I wouldn’t feel qualified to tell you what he might have been thinking when we left,” Curatio said. “But I will tell you that the officers that are here volunteered to be here-in fact, every officer volunteered to come.” Curatio hesitated. “Save one, of course.”

  “Of course. She was hardly in a fit state to go on a long pilgrimage, after all.” Cyrus felt his lips become a grim line. “Nor do I think she would have wanted to be burdened by the company she’d have had to keep while on this jaunt.”


  “Alaric knows people,” Curatio said. “That’s his gift, really, to know people, to see into their hearts. It’s not some magical power, just a keen insight into the soul. If he sent more officers than was strictly necessary, it is not because he didn’t trust you. It’s because he sought to aid you in a time when he knew you would be going through great difficulty.”

  He looked at Curatio, who remained stoic, staring into the fire. “You’ve lived for 23,000 years. Any advice on getting through this …” He blanched as he felt the pain rising within, “‘great difficulty’?”

  Curatio did not move, did not stir, did not even seem to breathe. When he broke his silence, his voice sounded like a whisper caught on the wind. “Did you love her? Well and truly, more than anyone you’d loved before?”

  Cyrus heard the quiet scrape of the fingers of his gauntlet as he ran them across his greaves, heard the sound of the breeze coursing over him and stirring the leaves of the forest that surrounded them, smelled the meat on the fire. “Yes. More than anyone. More than the woman I married.”

  “Then no.” Curatio moved at last, reaching for a piece of dried wood behind him and tossing it upon the fire. “I don’t have any advice that will help you.”

  Over the next seven days they marched into more populated areas. The coastal swamps gave way to green fields, orchards with citrus trees as far as the eye could see, fields of sugar cane and countless other farms. The army began to pass people on the road, horse-drawn carts, small children playing, all of whom moved aside to gawk at the army of Sanctuary as they went past in neat formation. Eyes widened at the sight of dark elves; Cyrus saw a small child run in terror upon seeing the handful of goblins who marched with them.

  As Cyrus rode past the onlookers, he felt someone slip into formation next to him, at the head of the army. He blinked when he realized it was Martaina, her usual carefree happiness gone, replaced by a taut expression, the lines of her face all angled, her eyes darting in all directions.

  “What is it?” Cyrus asked.

  “I’ve been seeing watchers,” she said, turning to give him all her attention. “In the woods, in the trees. At distance, to be sure, but they’re there. We’ve got shadows, and they’re following us about the countryside.”

  Cyrus looked around, trying to spy to the horizon, across the fields, but all he saw were groves of trees on one side, long grass on the other, and a road that wended its way into the distance. “If you say you saw them, I believe you. Human eyesight is can’t compare to yours.”

  “They’re out there.” She chewed her lip. “Not many, not yet. Maybe a dozen or two, it’s hard to tell. I think they have spyglasses, because I see the shine of light off them from time to time. They’re definitely watching and waiting but hard to say what for.”

  “Scouting party, maybe. Longwell!” Cyrus called behind him, and the dragoon dutifully trotted up to join he and Martaina. “Our rangers have sighted watchers keeping an eye on us.”

  Longwell’s serious face grew more drawn. “Should have figured. We’re only a day’s ride from Green Hill, which is Baron Hoygraf’s keep. One of Luukessia’s most singularly humorless chaps. If there was to be a fight for us on this side of Actaluere, it would be from him.”

  “This would have been good to know,” Cyrus said. “You think this Baron Hoygraf will try something?”

  Longwell gave a broad, expansive shrug. “Only a little more than any other titled defender of the realm of Actaluere whose game we’re picking off. The animals we eat are his property by the laws of the land. None of them will take kindly to our treading across their roads either, especially with an army. I’m certain word has reached their capital, Caenalys, by now. Hoygraf would be his leading edge if their King means to move against us. He’ll be operating independently of King Tiernan for now, which should be a cause for concern.” Longwell dipped his shoulder, almost contritely, apologizing for the news he was delivering. “Like I said, he’s a humorless bastard.”

  “How many men does he have at his command?” Cyrus asked.

  “A half-thousand, perhaps, at his hold. Maybe a few score more but not many.” Longwell’s hand pointed to the horizon. “He’ll be able to secure reinforcements if he calls for his bannermen from nearby holdfasts, but it’ll take a few days.”

  “He won’t be a serious threat in a direct battle until then,” Cyrus said. “But we’ll still need to keep careful watch. Unless the people of Luukessia have no use for treachery?”

  “Oh, they have many uses for it,” Longwell said with a half-smile. “Many.”

  They rode without incident for the rest of the day and camped that evening on a grassy plain, a thousand stars lighting the skies above them. Cyrus fell asleep with his mind on a blond elf, her words fading in his ears, and awoke when Odellan shook him shortly after midnight.

  Cyrus sat up and looked into the face of the elf, whose helm was hiding his fair hair. “What happened?”

  Odellan’s mouth was a thin line. “We lost a scouting party.”

  “Lost?” Cyrus got to his feet. “I presume they were too experienced to get ‘lost’ if they were a scouting party.”

  “One veteran ranger named Mikal, a human,” Odellan said. “Had a couple new warriors and rangers with him. They were sent to the north during the night to reconnoiter the farms above us, see if there was any sign of trouble. They didn’t report in when they were supposed to.”

  Cyrus rubbed his eyes. “How overdue are they?”

  Odellan’s grimace became worse. “Six hours.”

  “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.”