Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  Chapter 12

  Cyrus awoke after a fitful night of sleep. The Baron’s bed was massive, almost as big as Cyrus’s bed back at Sanctuary. This one was carved entirely of wood, however, and had four posts that reached the ceiling, with hanging curtains for some illusory privacy should someone else be in the room. There was a chill from where he had left the window open, a thin port that allowed blue sky to filter in from outside along with crisp morning air. Cyrus felt the heavy covers over him, soft cotton cloth that smelled of other people.

  He rolled out of bed, felt the cold on his skin, and went rummaging for underclothes in a wooden dresser. The first drawer he opened presented him with women’s undergarments. “Oh,” Cyrus said after staring at them for a moment then shut the drawer. He walked across the room to the armoire on the other side and opened it to find male attire. He selected a cloth shirt and pants that he proceeded to stretch until he fit into them comfortably. Once finished, he began to strap on his armor.

  Before placing his helm upon his head, he walked to the mirror and took a long look. His hair had grown long, long enough to place into a ponytail. His beard had also come in thick, black, and heavy. He sighed, thinking about how much more he had liked it when his face was bare and dismissed the thought. “I’ll shave again when I’m back home,” he said. “And not before.”

  When he opened the door to the Baron’s quarters, he found Martaina outside with the same three guards. She didn’t look tired at all but stood stiff against the wall at attention. “Have you been out here all night?”

  When he spoke, she seemed to stir, angling her head to look at him. “Of course. There was a concern that some of the Baron’s men had hidden away in the castle, and we couldn’t take a chance on them getting to you in the night.”

  Cyrus felt a smile struggle out from beneath his stony facade. “Then … shouldn’t someone have been in the room with me?”

  Martaina’s eyes flashed, and her jaw tightened. “I suggested as much, but Curatio believed that a thorough search of the room before you turned in was a good enough precaution.”

  Cyrus suppressed a snicker. “Ranger, horse whisperer, master archer, guard-tell me, Martaina Proelius, is there anything you’re not proficient at?”

  He watched the emotion fall off her face, little cracks of it, hiding behind a wall she built in the span of a second. “Very little,” she said with an emotionless smile. “Very little, indeed.”

  “Did you manage to get all the valuables taken out of the Baron’s quarters last night when you swept through?” Cyrus gestured for Martaina to follow him, which she did.

  “We found quite a few riches, yes,” she said, stepping shoulder to shoulder with him. Martaina was taller than most of the other women in Sanctuary, only slightly shorter than six feet tall. “I think we found most everything of value.”

  “Consider taking some of the liquor if you’re into that sort of thing,” Cyrus said, feeling a slight ache behind his eyes. “I get the feeling it wasn’t cheap, any of it.”

  “I’ll inform Terian. I think he would perhaps get more use out of it than any of the rest of us that are here.”

  Cyrus smiled. “Because Andren isn’t here, you mean to say.”

  “I mean to say.”

  They emerged in the throne room to find it largely clear of people. Only a few souls lingered, engaged in quiet conversations. Cyrus passed through the entry doors to the courtyard, Martaina still at his side, and the sunlight caused him to blanch. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Nearing nine o’clock,” came the soft voice of J’anda Aimant. The enchanter sat on a wooden chair just outside the door, lounging in the shadow of the rampart over his head, his feet on another chair in front of him. “We assumed that since our General was unready to move forward, it might be safe to wait a while longer before hustling to be ready ourselves.” J’anda had a silver goblet in his hand and a bottle of wine was on the ground next to him, the cork removed. He took a drink from the goblet after holding it up in silent toast to Cyrus.

  “I take it you’ve insured that the Baron’s wine cellar didn’t go unattended?” Cyrus asked.

  “I only took a few choice vintages. With Longwell’s help, actually. I thought all humans spoke the same language, but these Luukessians have the most curious handwriting. It looks nothing like any of your words.”

  “That’s because the writing of humans in Arkaria is based on the elvish alphabet,” Martaina said.

  “Ah,” J’anda said after taking another light sip. “Now that you mention it, I never noticed before, but yes, I see it now. But your letters are so peculiar compared to theirs.”

  “They have more than we do,” she replied. “So they had to have added some at some point.”

  “Is the army ready to move?” Cyrus asked, looking between J’anda and Martaina.

  “Soon,” J’anda said, unconcerned. “Curatio is in the dungeons, taking a final look around, and, if I’m not mistaken, examining our dear, soon-to-be-departed Baron.”

  As if on cue, Cyrus heard a great outcry from somewhere inside, and there was a slamming of doors within the keep. A few people joined them in the courtyard, leaving the confines of the throne room behind. Cyrus heard loud footsteps within, and Curatio and Terian emerged, the dark knight looking strangely satisfied and the healer a bit flushed. “What was that?” Cyrus asked.

  “The Baron still has some fight left in him,” Terian said. “He got very upset when Curatio tried to look at his wound, so I was forced to settle him down.”

  Cyrus felt cool trepidation run through him. “How is he?”

  Curatio sighed. “Not well. I suspect he has an infection, something I’m not able to cure. He appears feverish from a distance, but that could just be from the pain of having a large hole in his middle.”

  “I know that’s the sort of thing that would tend to put me in a sour mood,” J’anda said, irony dripping from every syllable.

  “Well, have him dragged out,” Cyrus said without emotion. “As cruel as I am, I don’t want to burn the man’s house with him still in it. We have a message for him to deliver, after all.” He turned away as Curatio gestured to two warriors standing near the entry to the throne room, motioning them back inside.

  Cyrus walked out across the drawbridge and felt a slight current of air as he crossed the filthy water below. The army was present, for the most part, on the other side, but not assembled nor ordered at all. They stood about, in clumps of people, talking in subdued circles. Cyrus could see empty bottles strewn on the ground and suspected that the Baron’s wine cellar had been well and truly pillaged in the night. “I hope no one’s too hung over to march today,” he said as he passed a clump of soldiers. Laughter greeted his words even as he caught sight of a couple green faces in their midst.

  Windrider waited with the other horses, already saddled. Cyrus approached him and ran an ungloved hand across his back, causing the horse to whinny at him. He brushed the back of Windrider’s neck and whispered to him before turning back to see Martaina staring at him from next to her own horse, an eyebrow raised. “He seems to understand me,” he explained, feeling slightly embarrassed.

  “He does,” she said. “That one is the rarest breed I’ve ever seen. That’s not just an ordinary horse-or even just an exceptional one, for that matter. Where did you find him?”

  “He’s Sanctuary’s horse,” Cyrus said. “I’ve been riding him since the first time I had need of a horse, as I recall.”

  “Since the day Alaric paired you with him, you mean.” Cyrus turned his head to see Curatio already mounting his steed, a slight smile on his face.”

  Cyrus frowned. “I suppose he did, at that. Anyway, I’ve always gone back to him since then.” He ran his hand through Windrider’s mane and was rewarded with the horse turning his head to brush against Cyrus.

  “That’s quite a horse,” Martaina said, “I’d keep him close.”

  Cyrus put a foot in the stirrup and climbed up. As h
e settled himself, he saw Odellan a few paces away. “Odellan,” Cyrus said, drawing the elf’s attention. “Did you stay out here all night?”

  “No, sir,” Odellan said as his horse trotted over to stand next to Cyrus’s. “All of our soldiers slept behind the walls last night, myself included. We bunked in the barracks in shifts, so everyone got some time in a genuine bed.”

  Cyrus shot a look at Martaina, who looked away innocently. “Well, almost everyone.” He looked beyond Odellan to where a few horse-drawn wagons were parked at the far edge of the army. “Is that our spoils?”

  “Indeed,” Odellan said. “We’ve made out rather well. The injured prisoners we freed-including Calene-will be riding in the wagons the next few days. The six of them that were men seem to be holding up rather well. They were only beaten, after all. Calene and the other woman-Sinora is her name-are slightly worse for the wear. Calene seems to be adapting, but Sinora may be riding the wagon the rest of the trip.”

  “Let’s talk about this later,” Cyrus said as a familiar figure rode up on a horse. Today her hair was down, wrapped into a ponytail behind her, the long brown strands standing out against the white shirt she wore. Gone was the dress, replaced by immaculate white breeches that went all the way to her ankles. Her boots were worn, brown cowhide, and she wore a navy overcoat that fell to mid-thigh. Her eyes were visible as she approached him, the green standing out against her garments and her face. A few stray hairs blew around the sides of her head as she brought her horse to a canter, then a stop next to him.

  “Baroness,” he said. “A pleasure to see you.”

  “I believe it’s soon to be simply Cattrine, if it is not already.” She remained proud, her head held up. “I have mulled over your offer and believe it is in my best interest to leave this place behind.”

  “I see,” Cyrus said. “Very well then. Follow my commands and keep up.” He looked at her horse. “That looks like a solid animal; I doubt you’ll have any trouble in that regard.”

  “Thank you, Lord Davidon,” she said, oddly formal. “I shan’t present any problems for you.”

  “Good to know,” he said. “How familiar are you with the lands between here and Galbadien?”

  He saw the first hint of emotion as the corner of her lip curled slightly in response to his inquiry. “I am an expert rider, sir. I have been over the entirety of Actaluere, from the southern shores to the northern and eastern borders. I have even been,” she said with a hint of pride, “all the way to the bridge to your land and on it, though only for a short distance.”

  “The well-traveled sort,” Terian said as he mounted his destrier. “Which makes sense, considering who your husband was.” The dark knight smiled wickedly. “I bet he broke you in quite well.”

  Cattrine’s eyes narrowed. “I think I hear an inference from you that I don’t care for, sir. Don’t think that simply because my fortunes have been lost in the last day that I’ll take any sort of insults from some blue-skinned devil. I am a lady, sir, and if you won’t accord me the respect due-”

  “You’ll what?” Terian moved his horse close enough to hers to look her in the face, and Cyrus saw nothing but pique in the dark elf’s expression. Cyrus started to tell Terian to back off her, but there was a flash of metal and Cyrus saw a dagger at the dark elf’s throat.

  “I’ll ask you to take a step back,” Cattrine said in a low voice.

  “Get away from her, Terian,” Cyrus said.

  The dark knight backed his horse away, a few steps at a time, and Cattrine sheathed her dagger under her cloak.

  Cyrus cleared his throat. “I trust that the rumor of this will spread through the ranks-and let them know that the Baroness,” he heard her cough, softly, “excuse me, the former Baroness, is under my personal protection and any harm that comes to her will be revisited upon the giver a hundred-fold.” Cyrus turned his gaze on Terian, who was already glaring at him.

  There was a ripple of quiet agreement, but no one said anything of distinction. Those close in attendance held the awkward silence until Cyrus broke it. “Is everyone with us?”

  “The last of them are coming out of the castle now,” Longwell said, pointing to the drawbridge, where a few stragglers carried large burlap bags, and a few carried other outsized objects. Two men struggled with the Baron, dragging him over the drawbridge. Once he was over, they dropped him limply to the ground and left him there, filing away back into the neatly ordered rows of the army’s formation.

  “Very well,” Cyrus said, and turned to Odellan. “Let’s start heading east. We’ve lost enough time in this place.” He looked around and caught the Baroness’s unflinching gaze and he blinked. “I mean … uh …” She did not say anything, merely stared at him with an eyebrow raised, without emotion until he looked away first. “I don’t know what I meant.” He looked back at Nyad and gave a subtle nod, which she returned. With a slight extension of her hand she pointed to the castle Green Hill-a hellhole if ever there was one-and Cyrus saw black smoke rise from within it, small puffs going up into the sky.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s start this convoy moving.” He urged Windrider forward at a canter, following the muddy dirt path that cut through the green fields and hillocks.

  He checked after a half a mile, just to be sure that the army had fallen in. It had, a long line of marchers, with a few wagons visible at the far back of the column, bringing up the rear. A few of the officers and veterans on horseback rode alongside the column rather than at the front with the other horses. Odellan and Longwell were the most obvious, their armor in shining silver and deep blue, respectively. Longwell’s white surcoat had appeared as clean as ever, showing no signs of the battle yesterday. Behind them, some distance back, a pillar of black smoke rose into the heavens.

  Cyrus’s wandering eyes found Curatio in deep conversation with J’anda, the two of them especially cheerful this day. The sun shone down; Cyrus could feel the warm tropical air of spring and wondered if the mild winter around Sanctuary had broken yet, if the occasional patch of white, frosted grass that could be found in the mornings had disappeared. It was like seeing the first signs of age, the little bits of silver streaking hair, leeching the color from the strands.

  He thought of Reikonos, of the bitter snowfalls that encased the city in winter, the white snows that would pile up while one slept, waking to find the world changed the next morning. He thought of the uneven roofs of the city, the high and low buildings situated next to each other, the towers beside one-story dwellings. He thought of the slums, of the deep valley that saw direct sunlight only at midday and of how bitter and dark it became in the winter. He wondered if the dark elves had surrounded the city or if the humans still held them at a distance.

  Cyrus thought back to a winter in Reikonos, the worst of all of them, and it was like a thread of oddly colored string in a tapestry; unfamiliar, unmatching, that looked nothing like the rest of the weaving. When was that? I was young … first year at the Society? Yes …

  “What were you thinking,” Terian’s voice whipsawed Cyrus out of his memories, “having her come along? Are you so hard up to get laid that you’ve taken to embracing the wives of your enemies before they’re even dead?”

  “Are you a little testy because she held a knife to your throat?” Cyrus tried to keep his tone indifferent.

  “That’s hardly the closest anyone’s gotten to me with a blade,” Terian said, and Cyrus heard the groan of metal in the dark knight’s gauntlets as he gripped the reins of his horse tighter. “We’re in the middle of this hostile Kingdom. Her husband ordered the capture of our people and personally tortured and beat them.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,” Cyrus said.

  Terian’s face turned a deeper blue, darkening, almost purple. “Then why did you have the wife of an enemy who you personally gutted and left to die a slow, torturous death come along with us? She could be a spy, she could be harboring a desire for revenge-she could just be here to t
ry and get close to you so that she can slip a knife in your back.”

  “She had a chance to do that last night,” Cyrus said. “She’s coming with us because with her husband’s death she loses everything. I offered her a chance to come to Arkaria, to make a new life in a place where she’s not reliant on a man for everything.”

  Terian’s flush subsided and his face loosened, settling into a kind of disbelieving wonderment. “And you believed her? Did she try to sleep with you?”

  “Lately, who doesn’t?” Cyrus asked warily.

  “Umm, me,” Martaina said from over Cyrus’s shoulder. He looked back and saw the elf raise her hand in the air.

  “I was joking,” Cyrus said. “But duly noted, and thank you.”

  “I don’t know how to take that,” Martaina muttered under her breath. “But you’re welcome.”

  “She tried to use her feminine wiles on you,” Terian said, bringing Cyrus’s attention back to their conversation. “She’s getting close to you to exact revenge.”

  “Revenge would be easy.” Cyrus shook off the dark knight’s concern. “I’m not worried about that. And if she ‘used her feminine wiles,’ as you said, it’s probably because the women of Luukessia have no other weapon to use. We’re in a land where women don’t carry swords and are subject to men’s whims. What else are you going to use when force of arms is denied you? Sharp words?”

  “I find they get me where I need to go.”

  “Because you can use a sword to back them up,” Cyrus said. “The women of Luukessia have no such option; they’re not trained with weapons, and if you’re going to take a blade to a skilled swordsman, you damned sure better have the element of surprise on your side, otherwise you’re going to get cut into tiny fillets. So what else is she supposed to do? She tried to persuade me, it didn’t work. I didn’t give her what she wanted, I offered her an alternative that she decided to avail herself of.”