“You fear my mercenaries?” King Longwell was already on his feet. “You bring your own, wreck my Kingdom, and now you wish to warn of the dangers of westerners, now that a group of them is poised at your neck?” Cyrus watched the King, and from the side profile he could see veins standing out on the man’s temple, his ire either real or well feigned.
Unger waved his hand in utter dismissal. “Were your western mercenaries camped outside my hall in Scylax even now, I would be unworried. I have greater concerns.” He waved his hand up the stairs, and four of his men came down, carrying a large bundle between them, wrapped in cloth as though it were a funeral shroud being borne by the four warriors, one at each corner. “Things have happened between us, battles,” he nodded at King Longwell, “wars, takings of women and sisters,” he nodded at Tiernan. “But what is waiting for us right now is a threat graver than any of our petty concerns.”
“I doubt he’d feel the same had he taken Vernadam a moon ago,” Genner said under his breath. Cyrus heard grunts of agreement from the benches in front of him.
Unger ignored whatever comments were made and focused on his oratory. “In the last month and a half, my Kingdom has been invaded.”
Milos Tiernan sat up in interest, as did Aron Longwell, Cyrus saw. “I didn’t think Count Ranson’s armies had made it into Syloreas’s territories yet?” he asked Genner under his breath.
“They haven’t. It must be Tiernan, that bastard opportunist. He always strikes when a back is turned.” Genner guffawed. “Better Unger than us.”
“What accusation are you making here?” Milos Tiernan asked.
“I’m not accusing anyone here,” Briyce Unger said, holding up his arms. “I’ve lost the northern mountain reaches of my Kingdom to an invasion. No man is responsible, not as near as I can tell. It’s this,” he kicked out with his toe, pointed at the bundle his soldiers had laid at his feet. “These … things.”
With that, his men pulled back the cloth. A smell of rot wafted over the crowd, causing a few weak stomachs to gag. Cyrus’s eyes were fixed on the black cloth, on the creature within. It was pale of skin, without a hair to be seen. Decomposition had set in and the flesh had begun to decay, maggots crawling over it, but the figure was still visible, and Cyrus stood to get a better look.
It walked on four legs, even with a roughly man-shaped body. A hideously disfigured mouth was still visible, though the edges of it had begun to decay. Had he not seen one recently, it still would have looked familiar, though Cyrus could not place the thing, could not decide where he had ever seen one before, or even if-
“It’s the …” J’anda was the one who spoke. “From the swamp, when we captured Partus, it’s the … ghoulish thing that was attacking him. It’s just like it.” The enchanter covered his nose. “But I think it might smell worse than the other one.”
“These things,” Briyce Unger said, “have cut to the heart of my Kingdom. They come by the thousands, out of the mountains to the north, the impassable lands of snow, and even now they are sweeping south toward Scylax.” The big King drew himself up, and a look of utter calm descended upon him. “And soon enough, if we don’t act together, they’ll keep coming south, until they cover all Luukessia.”
Chapter 28
“What in the blazes is that?” King Longwell cried out, half-laughing. “A rotted goat?”
Briyce Unger looked down at the festering corpse then back at Aron Longwell, who was still chortling. “Does that look like a goat to you, Longwell? Is your vision so poor and your wits so dulled from sitting your throne these last years, not feeling the song of blades in your bones, that you don’t know something unearthly when you see it?”
Aron Longwell stiffened. “You insult me, sir.”
Briyce Unger drew up short. “I suppose I did, at that. It was not my intention when I started, but I got there, sure enough. I apologize. But surely you must see that this is no man, no beast that we’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve seen one before,” Cyrus said, standing. He looked down the benches toward the center of the amphitheater as faces turned toward him. “One of them attacked us after the battle of Harrow’s Crossing. They’re fast, they’re mean, not too tough, but enough that it gave us a fight.”
“I’ve never seen such a thing,” Aron Longwell said with a shake of his head. “Ridiculous creature.”
“Sire,” Count Ranson spoke from next to him. “I told you of this when I returned. Lord Davidon brought the body of one of these things back to us at the crossing, but I scarcely believed it was real. I have heard reports of similar creatures, sporadic, herds being culled, disappearances throughout the Kingdom, and a few indescribable … things … found responsible.”
“I still do not believe it to be real,” King Longwell. “That could be some other sort of creature, a farm animal, dressed up to look like something …” He stared at it, as though trying to discern its nature, “… something else entirely. This is a distraction, meant to muddy the issues before us at a time when we should be addressing grievances.”
Briyce Unger let out a bellowing sigh that turned into a grunt. “Once you’re quite finished reporting your grievances, then will you be willing to listen to me about these creatures?”
“I disbelieve that this threat you name even exists.” King Longwell shook his hand in the direction of the corpse. “You are playing at something, Briyce Unger, but I know not what.”
Unger’s eyes narrowed and the man seemed to grow another foot as he swelled with anger, dark clouds gathering across his countenance. “You and I have known each other for a great amount of time, Aron Longwell, and you know full well that I am not one to move about treacherously. If I want something, I go straight at it until I get it or I’m too badly beaten to go onward. I am telling you that something is devouring my Kingdom whole. A pestilence-a scourge of these things, is sweeping down out of the mountains of the north, taking whole villages and leaving only the survivors who can outrun their grasp before they move again. If you choose not to believe me, that’s your prerogative, but understand this-they are coming, and I doubt seriously that once they’ve run across all the lands of Syloreas they’ll simply stop at your borders, bow to your greatness, and hold their line.”
“I am of a mind to listen to King Briyce,” said Milos Tiernan. “At least insofar as maneuvering goes, he shows little of the taste for it that you and I have, King Aron.” Tiernan raised a goblet at Longwell, who seethed. “Perhaps there might be something to his claim; I have my doubts that he would wait until this late stage in his life to develop a knack for treachery.”
“I think I might have heard an echo of an ‘old man’ joke in there somewhere,” Briyce Unger said, voice dripping with irony, “and yet I don’t care. What will it take to convince you that we need action?”
“There have been reports from the northern reaches of my Kingdom as well,” Tiernan said shrewdly, “strange news, strange occurrences, odd creatures blamed, but not in such numbers as you claim. I would like to send an observer to see these things with his own eyes and report back to me with the veracity of your assertions.” Milos Tiernan finished, taking another sip from the goblet that was held by one of his courtiers. “If what you say is true, there should be no shortage of places where they could witness your Kingdom under siege from these creatures.”
“Aye,” Unger said, “no shortage. We can do that, arrange for someone to come north with us, see some of the carnage these things leave. But we’ll need to hurry.”
“What is the great hurry, Unger?” Aron Longwell sneered with disdain. “Afraid that your mystery creatures will vanish by the time his observer gets there?”
“No, you great dolt,” Unger said, bitterness dripping from his words, “I’m afraid that by the time they see the truth of my words, we return and your man motivates your slow-spinning arse into action that my Kingdom will be naught but ashes and blood.” He drew himself up again. “Every Sylorean, we men of the north, know battle in our souls,
quest for it in our lives, but this scourge that sweeps across our lands spares not women nor children, and is unmerciful in every way.” He looked around. “I see in these things the death of all I hold dear, of my lands, of my people …” he seemed to grind out the last words, “… even of the rest of Luukessia. And I don’t mean to have it happen while I’m lying about. Give me your observers and I’ll take them north, I’ll show them the right of it, and we’ll come back-but when we do, I want your word that you’ll move your armies to action, because if you don’t-if you don’t mean to do anything-then I’ll be leading all my armies in a last charge. Something, anything to stem the tide of these creatures,” he spat onto the grey skinned rotting body at his feet, “and try to save my people.”
Chapter 29
The moot went on for a bit after that, a few more grievances aired (by King Longwell only-every time he was offered the opportunity to speak, Unger demurred and Tiernan did the same), petty concerns, mostly, dealing with small matters.
Cyrus turned to Odau Genner as Grenwald Ivess took to his feet once more. “What about Cattrine?” Cyrus asked. “I must have missed the resolution of what was to happen with regard to her.”
Genner shook his head. “There was little argument because the discussion was tabled as unresolved, destined to be debated further in the coming days. The reporting of grievances can only end with accession or dispute; in larger matters, accession is the rarer course.” Genner smiled faintly. “I suspect it will be hotly debated on the morrow in session.”
“The King wants me to turn her over, doesn’t he?” Cyrus asked, prompting Genner to hem and haw. “I won’t. I will not send her back to the arms of that coward so she can be whipped and beaten.”
Genner’s face became slack. “Then you’ll need to fight for her, else you’ll be placing our Kingdom in the midst of another war, one I have doubts we could win at present.” He looked away. “It’s not something we need to worry about yet, anyway.”
“Who will the King send north?” Cyrus asked, causing Genner to cough.
“I suspect Count Ranson will be our envoy,” Genner said. “If I had to guess.”
“I want to go with him,” Cyrus said, feeling a stir inside. The moon shone down overhead; long ago the sun had set and it was deep in the night. The stars were barely visible against the blue-black of the sky, and the torches burning on sconces around them lent the garden a smoky scent, reminding Cyrus once again that he was not in Sanctuary, with her smokeless torches and bright hallways. “I want to go north, to see this threat for myself.”
Genner nodded. “You are in charge of your own army. I can’t see the King refusing you, especially while we are still encamped here at Enrant Monge-and it seems unlikely we will be leaving until this expedition returns from the north.”
The benches cleared a few at a time; some of the delegates remained to chat with others in their own party, and in a few cases, with other delegates. “There looks to be some crossover,” Cyrus said. “Some of them know each other?”
“Oh, yes,” Genner said. “It has been over a decade since the last moot, but the older among us know each other. Between you and me,” he said with a smile, “this is how the diplomacy gets done, the deals worked out. It’s not presented in session, but haggled by lower level intermediaries, argued back and forth, until something amenable comes to be discussed in the garden.” Genner shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “We have discussions, surely, but all the real work is done when the session ends or on a break. In these meetings all we do is shout our position at the top of our lungs, never changing it until we’ve privately agreed with the other side on concessions. With Actaluere, anyway,” Genner amended. “Briyce Unger is usually not so subtle in his negotiations.”
“Sounds like a lot of bullshit to me,” Cyrus said. “I think I prefer Unger’s method.”
“There is no finesse, no subtlety to it,” Genner said. “He is a brute, a man who leads with his sword and follows with whatever is left.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said with a smile. “I like him already.”
“Eh?” Genner looked at Cyrus, mystified. “I’ll communicate your desire to go north with Count Ranson, old boy. I wouldn’t presume to tell you exactly how it has to be, but if they’re in as great a hurry as Unger appears, they’ll likely leave tonight or early on the morrow, and you’ll be restricted to taking only horsed men with you. I doubt they’ll want to wait for men on foot given the urgency of this mission.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Cyrus said, and turned to look at the others, now folded into a group behind him. “I mean to go north with Unger,” he told them. “We’ll only take those on horseback, and I need a good, solid corps of veterans-somewhere between twenty and thirty, but not so many that the army is crippled without us.” He nodded at Curatio. “You and J’anda, for certain. Longwell, I’d like you to be your father’s eyes on this, in case he doesn’t trust Ranson.” Cyrus turned to Terian. “You, I think will need to stay and keep an eye on things around here.”
“No,” Terian said. “I’ll be coming with you; send for Odellan to keep an eye on things in the castle here if you must, but I’m coming along.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? All right. I’ll need you three to go to the army. I don’t want Odellan to leave them; he’s proven himself far too apt at commanding them to pull him away from that now. Have Ryin and Nyad come here to watch the proceedings for us. I’ll want Mendicant and Aisling going north with us as well as a druid or two as can be spared. Make sure you leave at least a couple healers behind.”
“You’ll be needing to send a messenger to Alaric,” Curatio said. “We’ve been gone for over four months now.”
“We’re about to split our forces rather dramatically,” Cyrus said. “Let’s wait until we get back to send word. I don’t want anyone to have to anchor their soul here on Luukessia just yet; they may need the return spell to carry them back to Sanctuary at an inconvenient moment.”
“Very well,” Curatio said shrewdly, but Cyrus could see the argument in his eyes that the healer was saving for later. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll start culling a force out of our army to go north.”
Cyrus nodded, and watched J’anda and Terian follow the healer. “I’ll confer with my father, if it pleases you,” Longwell said, still somewhat despondent. “Make certain he doesn’t take our desire to go north the wrong way.”
“I could certainly use some help in that department, young Longwell,” Genner said. “Between you and me, King Aron seems quite changed from the days when he rode at the fore of the dragoons. More quick to anger, less quick to listen.”
“Aye,” Longwell said. “My mother’s effect on him is sorely missed. Let us go.” He gestured to Genner, who followed him. Aron Longwell was already making his way toward the tunnel which they had entered through hours earlier, leaving Cyrus alone with Cattrine and a few remaining delegates. Briyce Unger waited too, speaking with two of his men at the bench he had been sitting upon during the moot, his white robe colored orange by the tint of the torchlight.
Cyrus glanced at Cattrine and then walked away from her, stepping over the benches in front of him in a clumsy descent, avoiding the stairs and the line of people filing up them toward Actaluere and Galbadien’s gates. He stepped over the last and looked at Cattrine again; she was frozen, all but her eyes, standing in the place where he had left her, looking from him to where the Grand Duke Hoygraf watched her, standing with his walking stick, his face twisted in a smile that made Cyrus want to snatch away the cane and batter him with it until the man moved no more.
Instead, Cyrus continued on across the center of the amphitheater until he reached Briyce Unger, who had watched him during his approach. The smell from the corpse of the thing that waited at Unger’s feet permeated the air. The King stood at Cyrus’s eye level, and when Cyrus approached, the big man stopped speaking with his subordinates, eyeing Cyrus with cold brown eyes.
“
Briyce Unger?” Cyrus asked. “My name is-”
“Cyrus Davidon of the guild Sanctuary,” the King of Syloreas said, unmoved. “I heard your name announced when you came in. My men who survived tell me it’s you that’s the hero of Harrow’s Crossing, not Ranson.”
“It was me,” Cyrus said. “Does that gall you, sir?”
“Can’t pretend it tickles me overmuch,” Unger said, still not registering much in the way of emotions on his bearded face. “Six months ago-hell, even three months ago-if Harrow’s Crossing had happened, I would have come after you with everything to avenge my men. Nothing personal, you understand-well, as impersonal as the heat of battle gets-but no one does that to my army and gets away with it.” The big man shrugged. “Now, with all this,” he nudged the remains of the creature wrapped in cloth at his feet, “I find myself hoping you and your army of western magicians will be on our side.”
“I’d like to be,” Cyrus said. “I want to go north with you, get a look at these things for myself.”
“I thought you said you already saw one,” Unger said, regarding Cyrus with some suspicion.
“I did,” Cyrus said. “When we went out to capture Partus after Harrow’s Crossing, we found him being attacked by one of them. If there’s more,” he leaned in closer to Unger, “I want to see them for myself.”
“There’s more,” Unger said. “Plenty more. You’re more than welcome to come along; especially if you bring your western magics.” Unger cocked his head, and Cyrus saw the regret channel through the man.” We could use more than a little of it in Syloreas right now.”
“I take it you’ll be leaving soon?” Cyrus asked.
“Right now, if I could swing it,” Unger said with a laugh that sounded like a bark. “Most likely at first light.”
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