Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  Curatio rode up as they started around the switchback, heading down the path. The sky overhead had taken on some clouds, and the sun seemed to be trying to shine through them, but dimly. Cyrus caught a hint of dust as the wind blew across his face, the dry, earthy smell of dirt that came off the hill behind them.

  “You ready?” Curatio said as he slowed his horse to ride next to Terian. “Head clear? Prepared for battle?”

  “Quite so,” Cyrus said.

  “And was the Baroness still aglow when you left her?” Curatio’s usual infectious smile had been curiously absent of late, but Cyrus saw the tug of it on the elf’s mouth, even as he looked straight ahead, giving Cyrus only a view of the healer’s profile.

  “Been doing a little eavesdropping, Curatio?” Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “It wouldn’t take much eavesdropping to hear your conversation about ‘wagon rides,’ even if I hadn’t been quartered next door to you last night.”

  They rode into the village. The army of Sanctuary was already assembled in formation, neatly ordered rows beginning at the square and leading all the way down the main avenue out of town. “I’ll need to talk with Odellan and Longwell as we’re riding,” Cyrus said as he rode down the street, the musk of animals filling the air around them, the hooves clopping. “No need to delay our departure, especially since it appears Count Ranson is already waiting for us.”

  Cyrus rode down the line, the others falling in behind him, leading the procession past the rows of his army. He heard hundreds of greetings and acknowledgments of his presence, and smiled, trying to wave at as many of them as he could.

  “You might want to cool it off with the excess enthusiasm,” Martaina stage whispered behind him. “You’re so damned happy this morning, they’re bound to wonder where their real general has gone.”

  “I prefer going to war under the command of a testy general,” Terian said as Longwell and Odellan fell in behind them. “There’s something unseemly about storming into a fray of swords and arrows, blood and bile, with a guy who looks so damned happy.”

  Cyrus rolled his eyes and rode on, past the villagers lined up on both sides of the streets. I wonder if they know how close their Kingdom is to defeat? I wonder if it matters? His thoughts were dark as he rode to the end of the line and the edge of the village. Where else could they go?

  The steady sound of hoofbeats carried him forward as Cyrus led the procession out of town; ahead, Count Ranson waited on horseback with Odau Genner and a few of the other familiar faces he’d seen back at the castle.

  “Good day, Lord Davidon,” Ranson said as they closed. “My army is assembled and ready to move.”

  “Well, then,” Cyrus said, “let us not hesitate any longer.”

  “As you are the leader of this force,” Ranson said, “you’ll be proceeding ahead of us, I trust?”

  “Aye,” Cyrus said, and felt a stray droplet of rain splatter off his armor, touching his cheek as it splashed. “I trust Sir Longwell can guide us.”

  “I’ll be accompanying you as well,” Odau Genner said with a nod, “if that’s all right with you, General.”

  “Always room at the front of battle, less so at the rear,” Cyrus said, grinning at Genner in a manner that was not returned. He turned to the army following behind him. “All right, Sanctuary, let’s move out!”

  Chapter 17

  The ride was long, and by sundown Cyrus was weary of the journey again. They passed into woods called the Forest of Waigh, and the ground become uneven around them as they followed a road north. The trees were bunched close together, moss hanging from the branches, blotting out the sky at the highest levels of the boughs. Raindrops still made their way through, however, and a steady drizzle kept the expedition cool as they made their march.

  After the sun went down, the rain seemed to come in torrents, wave after wave of water sluicing down on them, reminding Cyrus of the time he’d been caught in a riverboat during a storm.

  “Ha ha,” Terian crowed as Cyrus passed him after inspecting the wet and weary column. “Not quite so happy now, are you, Mr. I-Just-Experienced-The-Long-Forgotten-Thrill-Of-My-Crotch-Last-Night-And-Can’t-Wait-For-More!”

  Cyrus ignored him and they plodded on through the gathering darkness. The storm went on into the night, a driving rain that threw sheets of water onto Cyrus’s armor, the heaviest downpour that they had experienced since arriving in Luukessia.

  “Our pace has slowed,” Longwell said as he and Odellan rode next to Cyrus. “Unless the rain lets up soon, we won’t be on the Fields of Gareme until long after midnight.” The dragoon looked at Cyrus, almost cringing from the fury of the rain pounding his helm. “And we won’t be in a position to hit their army until after sunrise.”

  Cyrus cursed. “I guess we should have left last night.”

  “I’m certain they’ll have scouts, sir,” Longwell said. “They’ll see us long before we see them; we need lanterns to travel in this dark, but a single scout doesn’t.”

  “We have pickets out as well,” Cyrus said. “If we’re lucky, perhaps they’ll catch any enemy scouts before they get close enough to spot us.”

  “Doubtful, sir,” Odellan said, raising his voice over the pouring rain battering their armor. “A scout could pass within yards of us without us noticing, but they’re not likely to miss an entire army tromping by.”

  “I feel obligated to warn you in advance, sir,” Longwell said, “the dragoons will not be nearly as effective fighting on the plains after this weather.”

  “What?” Cyrus stared at Longwell, questioning.

  “The rain will turn the fields into mud,” Longwell said. “The dragoons will be at poor advantage if the army of Syloreas holds true to their usual tactics and carries spears. In a full out charge, dragoons can break through lines of spears, though with some difficulty.” He grimaced, his eyes hidden in the shadow his helm cast over them. “In this, it becomes unlikely they will be able to.”

  “Damn,” Cyrus said. “What about bowmen? Surely they must have some.”

  “Bows are not nearly so well loved here as you’d find in Arkaria,” Longwell said with regret. “They are neither as accurate nor as useful at range, and as such we have archers, but you’d be in a much better position relying on the Sanctuary rangers to fulfill any role you’d have in mind for my father’s bowmen.”

  “That’s to both our advantage and detriment, then,” Cyrus said. “At least we won’t have to advance under volleys of arrows, but it would be awfully nice to be able to shower them with a hail of them.”

  “With the accuracy of our rangers,” Odellan said, “we could use our archers to target their officers, perhaps? And these magic-wielding mercenaries that are of such concern?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said. “And we’ll be turning loose some spellcasters of our own. I doubt that they have a wizard.” He smiled grimly. “That bodes ill for them.”

  They rode on through the wet and the night, the rain coming down around them with all the fury of a sky’s rage turned loose upon the earth. The ground turned to mud, the sky became black, and the lamps that were carried by the army forced Cyrus and the others on horseback to ride alongside the column, straining to see in the dark as the water that fell through the trees above continued ever on.

  “The troops are cold,” Odellan said, forcing Cyrus to turn around and look for the elf. He was a horse-length behind Cyrus, trying futilely to turn his face from the rain. “They could use a rest and they won’t be of much use to us in a fight if they arrive fatigued.”

  Cyrus nodded. “Column, halt!” he called out, and heard his cry taken up by others down the stream of endless soldiers that vanished into the black behind him. Curatio and J’anda appeared out of the darkness on the other side of their troops, riding their horses to join Cyrus and Odellan.

  “Can’t see a thing,” J’anda said, his hair soaked and his deep blue skin fading into the night. “The rain has cut our visibility to nothing.”

 
“Remember that time in the Realm of Darkness,” Cyrus said with a smile, “when Curatio lit up the sky?”

  “I could do that here, I suppose,” the healer said with a wry smile, “but we’d be giving away our position to anyone with eyes; and I can’t be sure over the rain, but I suspect there’s enemies about.”

  “There are,” Martaina said, riding up with Terian behind her. Cyrus saw something in her hands, a rope, and she tugged on it as her horse slowed, and Cyrus saw it trail to something dragged behind her, something cutting a wake through the mud on the path. “I caught this one hiding in the trees.”

  Cyrus looked at the object at the end of the rope. It moaned, a low, plaintive cry, and he realized it was a muddy human, a man bound by the hands, stretched prone across the ground. He raised his face from where it had come to rest in the mud and groaned. Cyrus could see some blood dripping in the low light, mixing with the sopping wet dirt that coated him.

  “Is he capable of speaking?” Cyrus asked.

  “I can fix what ails him, if you’d like,” Curatio said.

  “Please,” the man croaked. “Please … it hurts, so much.”

  “Oh,” Martaina said and dismounted. She bent over the man and reached down. He screamed, a long, agonized howl, and she came back up with an arrow. “Almost forgot about this. I had to hobble him so he wouldn’t get away.” She scowled. “Tracking is a real bitch with all this rain washing away footprints.”

  Cyrus guided Windrider over to the man, and peered down at his dirty face from horseback. It was impossible to see any detail of the man, only mud that covered his face and long hair. He appeared to be wearing a tattered cloak, and if his shirt and breeches had been new before Martaina dragged him along, it was now impossible to tell. “My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said. “Answer my questions and my healer will soothe all your pains.”

  “I … I won’t,” the man breathed. “Torture me all you want, I’ll never tell you a thing.”

  “I believe you wouldn’t,” Cyrus said, staring into the man’s eyes; they were wide, but defiant. “You’ve got a good-sized hole in you, you’ve just been dragged a considerable ways, and you’re still so full of spit and whiskey that you’d tell me to go to the hells eighteen times over, even if I cut off your leg. I admire your spirit. Curatio, heal this man.”

  “Uh …” The healer sputtered. “All right.” He muttered under his breath and Cyrus saw the glow of a healing spell encompass the wounded captive.

  “Is that better?” Cyrus asked, soothing.

  “Yes,” the captive said, momentarily losing his defiant tone. “But I still won’t talk.”

  “I didn’t expect you to,” Cyrus said. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t bleed to death while my enchanter cracks your mind open like a ripe gourd. J’anda?” Cyrus turned and looked at the dark elf, who nodded. “Take him.”

  J’anda closed his eyes and stretched his hand out at the man, who recoiled and turned from where he’d been sitting upright, and scrambled to crawl away. He made it almost a foot before a blue light swirled around his head and he went slack, on all fours in the mud. He swayed, then put a hand on the stirrup of Martaina’s horse and pulled to his feet, turning to face Cyrus, a dazed look in his eyes.

  “What’s the word, J’anda?” Cyrus looked at the enchanter then to the captive, who stood stonefaced, staring straight ahead.

  “He’s a scout from their army, all right,” J’anda said, his eyes closed. “Bad news. They’ve encamped at the edge of the forest. They’ve traversed the entire plains to be ready …” The dark elf sighed. “They had planned to ambush us when we arrived tomorrow. They’re already set up to hit us with a charge the moment we emerge from the forest.”

  “Dammit,” Cyrus said. “The trees are too thick to allow us to move off the path in any numbers.”

  “That was the plan,” J’anda said. “If they could lock down the army, keep it from getting mobile on the plains, the dragoons would lose their advantage.” He shook his head sheepishly. “Hard to do much with an army of horseman all trapped in a line.”

  “Excellent strategy on their part,” Odellan said. “It does rather complicate things for us.”

  “Ask him how many mercenaries they have and what types,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider on the side of his neck. The horse’s mane was soaked.

  J’anda stared into the man’s eyes, as though he were trying to sift the truth out. “Two warriors, two rangers … a healer … and a paladin.” The dark elf turned back to Cyrus. “I had to pull that out of his memories; he didn’t know what they were by name, but he’s seen what they can do.”

  “Should be simple if we can get the healer first,” Terian said, lingering behind Martaina. “He goes down and the paladin is vulnerable. Wiping out the rest of their army will be as easy as making a new recruit cry if we can sift out those two bastards first.”

  “I don’t think we should discount the effectiveness of their trap,” Odellan said. “They can pincer us, surrounding our forces as we emerge from the woods, making our numbers count for nearly nothing.” He looked to Cyrus. “I believe you’re somewhat familiar with the technique.”

  “I’ve always called it a choke point,” Cyrus said. “Like when we employed it on the bridge in Termina, you’re grabbing your enemy around the throat and slowing the flow of blood-their troops, in this case-until they falter.”

  “And falter we may,” Odellan said, “unless we can break through their ambush.”

  “Could be tough in the rain,” Longwell conceded. “Poor maneuverability, the numbers against us, our visibility cut to nothing and we’re fighting on unfamiliar terrain. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

  “I think not,” Cyrus said, a grin on his face. “By then, they’ll be up and waiting for us.”

  J’anda raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I told you what I learned from this scout’s mind-they are already waiting for us, and the minute we appear from the forest, they’ll spring on us from three sides.”

  “I heard you,” Cyrus said. “Which is why they’ll be totally caught by surprise when our army marches into their rear flank at dawn.”

  There was silence save for the rain, which showed no sign of tapering, large droplets of water hammering down in the puddles all around them. “All right, General,” Terian said, sarcasm dripping over Cyrus’s title, “how do you propose to maneuver 2,000 dragoons, 5,000 footmen, 1,000 of our soldiers and fifty of our horsed veterans in a long, wide arc through the muddy woods so that we can flank them? Oh, and do it all in the next … what, four hours? Five? Before dawn.”

  Cyrus didn’t answer them, even though every last one of them was watching him. He only smiled.

  Chapter 18

  The sun’s first rays had scarcely begun to show over the horizon and Cyrus was still riding. He could feel the fatigue edging on him. A river lay to his left, burbling against its bank, snaking out of sight. Less than a mile ahead was a bridge: large, made of stones stacked one on top of the other, grouted together to hold against all manner of traffic that would cross it. The river was not particularly wide or particularly deep but enough so to make traversing it wickedly difficult, even if the water hadn’t been as high as it was.

  “It is called the Fennterin River,” Longwell said, his voice a low whisper. “The bridge ahead is called Harrow’s Crossing. The Fennterin overruns its banks every spring, likely in a few weeks as the water seeps down from the highlands when the rains come. They built the bridge to aid travelers going to the northern towns, to help keep the trade routes open to Vernadam and southern Galbadien in times of flood.”

  Cyrus stared at the bridge in the distance and saw figures over the small ridge of stones that railed either side of it. “You’re sure that the walls are only a few feet high?”

  “Absolutely,” Longwell said. “I’ve been on it countless times; it’s low enough that an upset horse could easily jump over.”

  “Good.” Cyrus peered a
head. “Martaina, what does it look like to you?”

  The elf was to his left, and her eyes were trained on the bridge. “Men on horseback, some others dismounted, with bows.” She turned to him and smiled. “I think that scout J’anda pulled the information out of had the right of it; it looks as though they’ve placed their entire cavalry and all their bowmen on the bridge to protect their retreat.”

  “Leaving a nice wide swath of open fields between them and their exit route,” Terian said, his destrier carrying him along with them. “Imagine their surprise when they see an army at their backs and their retreat cut off.”

  “Let’s keep it low,” Cyrus said, dropping his voice. “We still need the element of surprise.” He heard the soft release of an arrow to his left and turned to see Martaina, bow in hand. She shrugged and he followed her sightline to see a body up the incline of the riverbank, rolling down, lifeless, an arrow protruding from the face. “Good shot.”

  The riverbank sloped at a steep angle, obscuring their view of the fields and the flat ground above them. They had taken a long, circuitous route that Martaina had found for them through the woods, traversing rocky paths and uneven ground, taking care to eliminate the enemy’s scouts and even one small line of pickets when they reached the edge of the forest. They had crossed from the wood’s edge to the incline down by the river several miles west of where the Sylorean army waited in ambush. It had taken all night. But it will be worth it, if we can pull this off.

  Every twig snap seemed to carry with it extra danger, and the long night’s journey had taken its toll. Cyrus looked around at the ragtag officers on horseback: Terian’s dark eyes darted back and forth, keeping careful watch for anything around them. Curatio looked relatively intact, but Cyrus caught a glimpse of the healer rubbing his face, as though he were trying to brush off the desire to sleep. Past him was the wizard, Mendicant, the goblin’s green scales and facial ridges barely visible in the dawn’s early light.