Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  Milos Tiernan stood, slowly, like a broken thing, or a puppet that was jerked by its strings to its feet. “At this time, I am unable to pledge you any support. Our grievances with Galbadien are unresolved and look to be unable to be resolved. As such, my army will be going to war as soon as we leave this place. They are already moving.” He looked to Aron Longwell and shook his head. “Fair warning. We will crush you.”

  “And when my western army,” Aron Longwell’s hand came up and indicated Cyrus, “uses their magics to demolish every one of your horseman, footmen, and bowmen, then takes your war and makes it in the streets of Caenalys, you may say I warned you as well.”

  “Good luck with that,” Cyrus said, and stood. “You have no western army, no magics at your disposal. The army of Sanctuary will move north to assist Syloreas.” He jutted his finger at Aron Longwell, whose face had degenerated into utter contempt. “You’ll be twice damned, sir. First, when Actaluere destroys your western Kingdom, and again when these beasts sweep down from the north and eat the remainder of your realm alive, dooming your people to death.”

  “You dare talk to me in such a way?” Aron Longwell pointed his finger back at Cyrus, and the garden fairly exploded in shouting; Unger was yelling at Milos Tiernan, who remained silent but whose delegation was on their feet, shouting at Unger in return. The Galbadien delegation had become a fury of its own, turning inward, and Cyrus was being shouted down by a dozen of the King’s military advisors, including Odau Genner, whose red cheeks were especially puffy and his eyes were slitted with rage.

  “ENOUGH!” The booming voice of Grenwald Ivess crackled through the warm, breezy midday garden like a thunderbolt had landed in their midst. “We hereby adjourn for a cooling off period until such time as there is a reason to meet again.” Ivess looked saddened, his pudgy face locked in a semi-scowl. “As you know, if there is no call from any party for a meeting within twenty-four hours, then the negotiations are over, and this summit will be dissolved.” He held his hands up. “I urge you not to do that, gentlemen. Find common ground, find a reason to negotiate, and talk amongst yourselves so as to discover a purpose to keep talking rather than going your separate ways-and into war with each other.” With that, Ivess, turned and left without another word.

  Cyrus half-expected the cacophony to resume, but it didn’t. The delegates filed out through their tunnels. Cyrus waited for the Galbadiens to pass him by, and they did, some with muttered curses, others with simply dirty looks. “What now?” J’anda asked when they were nearly alone; very few of the delegates had stayed to speak with their counterparts in the other governments, far fewer than last time.

  “We have an officer meeting,” Cyrus said, looking over each of them in turn-Nyad, Ryin, Longwell, Curatio and J’anda. He did not see Cattrine, who had been seated by Nyad and Ryin, and wondered what had become of her. “Right now, back at the tower.”

  He didn’t wait for any of them to acknowledge before walking toward the tunnel. He strode through the half-light cast by the torches as he passed under the wall, the sunlight behind him and torches within the only signs of light in the long structure. The shadow cast by the whole thing was enormous, and spanned a great distance.

  As he emerged, he caught movement to his right and reached for the sword that wasn’t there. It was Cattrine, and her green eyes were what he saw first, and it reminded him of the summer, of all he had seen since leaving Sanctuary all those months ago. He felt a pronounced drop inside but quickly walled off. “Lord Davidon?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “Yes,” he answered, barely above a whisper himself.

  “I need to know the truth of what you’ve seen.” She held her distance, a few feet from him. “I need to know about these things. Are they truly as bad as Briyce Unger says they are?” She hesitated. “Do you believe that they will cover our land in a darkness?”

  He hesitated, staring into her green eyes before blinking away. “I believe they will cover Luukessia in death, yes. Absolute, total death to everything they come across. They will sweep from the mountains to the seas and leave only blood and decay behind them,” Cyrus said, letting the fervency of his thoughts seep out of him, mingling with the undercurrent of feeling he experienced from seeing her, hearing her speak. “I believe they will be the end of Luukessia to the last person here, that they won’t quit coming until that happens.” He closed his eyes, just for a moment. “And I believe that without help, that’s doomed to be the fate of this land, regardless of how much blood those of us who will fight are willing to shed.”

  She looked in his eyes, stared into them, and Cyrus was reminded of nights and days at Vernadam, but he did not look away. “I believe you,” she said simply and turned, walking in the opposite direction of the tower.

  Cyrus opened the door to his room back at the tower and put his armor back on while the other officers trailed in behind him over the next few minutes. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” Ryin said as he shut the door behind him, the last to enter. Nyad sat on the bed, where Ryin joined her. Cyrus looked out the window, and far below he could see over the wall into the Garden of Serenity, empty, the trees and plants around the edges a marked contrast to the stone benches and amphitheater at its center. He turned to face the room and found J’anda and Curatio each occupying one of the chairs, while Samwen Longwell leaned against the wall. Longwell looked as though he were relying more on his armor than his strength to keep him upright. He had looked like that quite a bit lately, Cyrus reflected, though he had no motivation to ask the dragoon what weighed on him.

  “We found out where this scourge comes from,” Cyrus said, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

  “Yes, we surmised as much since it was stated in the assembly,” Ryin said, unconcerned. “From where do they hail? The far north of this country?”

  “You’re a little off,” J’anda answered. “Try the Realm of Death.”

  Silence gripped Ryin and Nyad. Cyrus watched the slow tick of emotions run over both of their faces-confusion, disbelief-Nyad turned scarlet after a moment, and Ryin grew still. “From where?” Nyad asked.

  “The Realm of Death,” Cyrus said, subdued. “They’re the reconstituted spirits of the souls Mortus had imprisoned, given flesh by the journey through the portal from his realm.” Nyad sat openmouthed, and Ryin did not speak, merely shook his head slowly. Cyrus looked at him, and gave him a slow smile after catching his gaze. “This would probably be a fine time to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Ryin looked at him almost perplexed, lips slightly parted. “What?”

  “You were the only one who argued against invading Mortus’s realm before we ended up killing him,” Cyrus said. “You were the sole voice that suggested against going.”

  “I voted for it in the end,” Ryin said. “I was only opposed to the concern of heresy being committed in the process. I had not considered any … other consequences.” He rubbed his eyes. “Certainly nothing like this. Does this …” He halted, and a look like guilt weathered the human, turning his visage from that of a young man to a much older one in a second’s time, “… this means we’re responsible, doesn’t it?”

  Cyrus let the silence endure for almost a minute. “Yes. It does.”

  It became uncomfortable after that, a low, drudging toil of quiet, as though everyone were fighting hard not to say anything. Ryin spoke at last. “We can’t just leave them to it, then.”

  “It was never my intention to leave them to it,” Cyrus said, “even before I knew we were the cause of this particular calamity.” He looked at the druid. “I suppose I am a little surprised not to hear you argue against it, though. I mean, you haven’t been renowned for wanting to get involved in other peoples’ wars.”

  “I’m a bit of a contrarian, but this isn’t their war,” Ryin said, “it’s ours, spilled over here. If what you say is true, then the only thing that has spared Arkaria from the fate of these creatures falling on us is that our portal is in the middle of the B
ay of Lost Souls.” He frowned. “These things can’t swim, then?”

  “It would seem that the distance to shore is a problem,” J’anda said, indifferent. “It is quite far from the portal on the Island of Mortus to Arkaria, several hours sail by boat.”

  Nyad frowned and looked around the room. “Where’s Terian? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  This time the silence was pained, and Cyrus felt a particularly sharp dagger in his heart. “We’ll need to mobilize the army to get them ready to march north. I’ll ride out and give orders to Odellan while the rest of you …” Cyrus ground his teeth slightly, “explain what’s become of our illustrious dark knight. I doubt I could come up with anything that would make sense at this point. After that, one of you,” he pointed a finger between Nyad and Ryin, “needs to return to Sanctuary and deliver the news of our predicament-and to ask for aid.” He looked them all over once, then went for the door, and shut it behind him as he heard the quiet tones of Curatio explaining something matter-of-factly, too low for Cyrus to hear.

  “HE DID WHAT?” Nyad’s voice was loud enough to be heard in the hallway as Cyrus descended the ramp, down to the bottom of the tower.

  The air was warm as he walked out, across the courtyard. The nearby stable was open to the air, a single line of stalls under a cover that afforded only a little protection from the elements. Windrider waited, standing above a spread of oats lying on the ground next to a watering trough. He gave Cyrus a steady gaze as the warrior approached, and Cyrus pulled his gauntlet off to stroke the horse’s face as he took hold of the reins. “You’ve done well,” Cyrus said in a breath, and caught motion from his side, a stableboy moving in his peripheral vision. He patted Windrider as the stableboy, a red-haired, freckled lad no older than twelve edged closer, staring at Cyrus.

  “Are you him?” the boy asked.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider, “this is my horse.”

  “No,” the boy replied, edging slightly closer to Cyrus. “Are you … him? Lord Garrick?”

  Cyrus paused, uncertain of what to say. “I am Cyrus Davidon, of Sanctuary,” he answered after a moment. “I know not this Lord Garrick of whom you speak.”

  The stableboy was quiet, his eyes staring out of the shade cast by the barn’s flimsy straw roof. “He’s legend, Lord Garrick of Enrant Monge. He was of the last generation of rulers of the castle before the fall and the fracture of Luukessia. He’s our greatest ancestor, watches over us from above.” The boy eased closer and ran a careful hand, stroking Windrider’s flank. “They say he keeps his eyes on us, here in Luukessia, from above, from the halls of all our ancestors in the land of Gredenyde.” The boy’s eyes blinked at Cyrus innocently. “They say he’ll come back to us-to save us-in our darkest hour of need.”

  Cyrus’s hand paused on Windrider’s neck, and he froze, his blood running cold. “I’m not your Lord Garrick, believe that. And I wouldn’t put much stock in prophecy if I were you.”

  There was a pause as the boy studied him. “Are you sure?

  Cyrus took the reins and started to lead Windrider out of the cover under the barn, felt the warm sunlight stream down on him as he stepped from under the cover of the stables. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He slung the saddle over the horse and bound it, then slipped a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself up. “But I will do my best to save your land from what’s coming.”

  The stableboy followed him out, covering his eyes with a freckled hand, that of a lad who had been working long hours in the sun. “I’ve heard the rumors, since the pigeons came. They say Scylax has fallen. They say something is coming from the mountains of the north, something terrible, something that wants to devour the souls of every man in Luukessia.” Cyrus didn’t say anything as he steadied himself in the saddle. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is it true that they’re coming, these things, to kill us all?”

  “Aye,” Cyrus answered finally.

  “But you’re going to stop them?” The boy looked uncertain, and Cyrus tried not to look too hard on him; he knew there were boys only a couple years older in the Sanctuary army. Only a couple years older physically but worlds older in maturity, having seen blood, and bile and battle. “Then that makes you Lord Garrick, doesn’t it? Come to save us?”

  “It’s not your darkest hour yet, kid,” Cyrus said, and started Windrider forward. “Save some fear and legends to pass on to your grandkids.” The clip-clop of the horseshoes on the stone echoed as Cyrus steered his horse out the eastern gate and into the second courtyard, across it, then out of Enrant Monge and down the road.

  The world opened up before him when he left the second gate, the forests a mile or so in the distance smoking with pillars of wafting black coming from the fires of his army, his and Galbadien’s. The road crooked into a forest path as Windrider went along, the branches cut high enough that even though they formed a thick canopy over him, reducing the sunlight, none of them threatened his face as he rode.

  The breeze was soft, even as Windrider galloped along, at a higher speed than normal. “Just a little farther,” he whispered to the horse. The warm sun tried to peek through the boughs overhead, but the shade was cooling, late summer’s wrath spent on the trees overhead, long before it got to him. He could smell the fresh air, the same air he’d been breathing for months, the pine almost blended behind everything else, the tinge of the horse’s smell, though it wasn’t as heavy now as when he was stationary. Terian. The latest in a long line of people to betray me, to harm me. What is it about them? About me? His eyes fell downward. Vara … why did you-

  The arrow hit him in the shoulder, glancing off his armor but causing him to jerk in surprise. Windrider whinnied and shied involuntarily, trying to compensate for Cyrus’s abrupt change of balance. Cyrus gripped the reins and tensed his abdomen, trying to right himself on the horse. The second arrow, however, hit him in the neck, putting to sunder any idea of maintaining his grip. The shock of the arrow caused Cyrus’s fingers to loosen, and he felt himself fall, the heavy impact of his body and all that armor hitting the ground caused his head to wash, as though he were floating on an ocean all his own. His fingers came up without thought, found the round shaft of the arrow protruding just above his gorget, tracing it back to the place where it was lodged in his neck.

  “Isn’t this fortunate?” A low voice scratched into his consciousness. Cyrus turned his head and saw a man in a dark cloak hobbling in the midst of a party of other men. Cyrus’s vision was blurred, his head felt heavy, but he knew that voice. Clarity struck his eyes, and the man came into focus for a moment: black beard that was thin, very thin and patchy, his pale skin even paler. “Now I can thank you properly for crippling me,” Grand Duke Hoygraf said, and Cyrus saw figures all around, beginning to circle him.

  Praelior. Cyrus’s hand moved to his sword, felt the rush of strength it gave him. He drew the blade and pulled to his feet, still feeling as though he were moving underwater. The men around him seemed to move at regular speed, and Cyrus blocked one of them who came at him with a polearm, cutting the man’s head from his shoulders, covering his blue livery and surcoat with blood.

  “Well, look at you,” Hoygraf said, maintaining his distance from Cyrus, watching him with a spiteful smile. “I suppose I’m not the only one of my wife’s lovers who refuses to die on command.” Hoygraf’s face twisted into spite. “The difference is, you’ll stay dead when I kill you.”

  “Didn’t … kill you,” Cyrus said, and felt blood bubbling out of his mouth as he spoke, the sour taste coating his tongue. “Stabbed you … bad enough you wished you were dead. Planning to do it … again … in a few minutes, but now I’ll do it so many times you’ll have to die when I’m done.”

  “You’re bleeding like a cow with a cut throat,” Hoygraf said with a sneer. “I don’t think you’ll last a minute the way you’re going now.”

  Cyrus felt a slow smile spread across his bloody lips. “I’ll only need thirty seconds.” Cyrus flung himself
backward, sword first, sensing the presence of Hoygraf’s men behind him. He hit the first with a hard stroke between the eyes, the blade running down the man’s forehead and stopping after cutting out the mouth. The man dropped as Cyrus freed his blade and brought it around to the next attacker, catching him across the chest and cutting through the breastplate of his armor. The bottom of the man’s blue surcoat fluttered to the ground and Cyrus watched as he stepped on it, as he finished his stroke and blood spattered across the dirt and the surcoat. Two left, he thought, and they’re right over-

  The arrow hit him in the lower back and cut through the chainmail where he’d exposed it while in his attack. Cyrus felt a curious punching sensation and force, each in twine, arcing along his spine as he fell. Even the might of Praelior was unable to mask the pain or give him enough strength to fight off his knees. He sat there, wobbling, as a man with a sword shuffled, hesitant, over to him. Cyrus jammed Praelior upward with all the speed and strength he had left, and saw the sword enter the bottom of the man’s jaw as his mouth opened in surprise, and watched it flash through the man’s tongue, visible through his gaping maw, blood running down the blade it.

  A sharp pain in the back of his neck threw Cyrus facedown in the dirt, and he felt something hit him on the sword hand, hard. The world faded as Praelior was knocked away and Cyrus felt his body rolled onto his back. The branches above him were swaying, whether from the breeze of the late summer’s day or the swimming of his head from the wounding, he could not be sure. He tried to draw a breath but struggled, his chest heavy, every attempt so labored that it felt as though he were trying to lift a mountain to even partially fill his lungs.

  Grand Duke Hoygraf appeared at the edge of his vision, filling his eyes, another man next to him with a bow and arrow, a nameless, armored man in the Grand Duke’s livery. “You killed my men,” Hoygraf said flatly. Cyrus tried to reply but felt only the bubbling of blood on his lips. “You had your way with my wife,” the Grand Duke went on, “destroyed my home, left me an invalid, unable to walk straight.” The Grand Duke’s cane came down on Cyrus’s face, and another dull pain made its way through Cyrus’s consciousness.