Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  Curatio. He’ll find me. Aisling will help him. Martaina will …

  “You think you’ve hurt me,” Hoygraf said, kneeling in front of Cyrus’s face. “You think you’ve beaten me? Humiliated me? Did you think I would let that stand unanswered?” He spat, and curiously Cyrus could feel the warm spittle make its way down his cheek, and he tried to move a hand, go for the Grand Duke’s throat, just as he’d been taught-

  “No,” Hoygraf said, and Cyrus saw a dagger in his hand, saw Hoygraf catch his arm and rip the gauntlet off, throwing it away. Cyrus watched as Hoygraf lifted the exposed arm and stabbed the dagger through Cyrus’s wrist. The sharp pain was there, in the background, but Cyrus barely felt it. “Did you think I would simply let you have my wife, wreck my keep, leave me to die and merely forget about you? Let it pass?”

  J’anda. Mendicant. Odellan. Longwell. I need … help. The names ran through his mind one by one as though by thought he could appeal to them directly to come to him. Weariness settled upon him like a heavy blanket, dulling the pain.

  “I know your western magic,” Hoygraf said, and twirled the dagger in his fingers. “If I leave you here, as you are, they’ll find you. They’ll bring you back to life.” Hoygraf’s lips pursed and he shook his head. “I can’t have that. I need everyone-everyone-to know that you don’t trifle with me, not this way. And I’ll make sure … that you won’t come back.”

  Alaric … Cyrus’s thoughts were drifting now. Was Alaric even around?

  The knife flashed in front of Cyrus’s eyes, and then he felt a sharp pain in his neck, the blade’s edge against his flesh, sawing down.

  “They’ll have a hard time reviving you, I’d wager,” he heard the Baron’s voice say, “without a head.”

  The last thought through Cyrus’s mind before the flash was uncontrolled, unanswerable, and unexpected.

  Vara …

  Chapter 43

  Vara

  The Council Chambers seemed to briefly twist around her, the torches a blur of light in her peripheral vision as she honed in on the druid’s face as he spoke, a dull, tanned mass of flat nose and pale lips that she wanted to hit with the palm of her hand as she would slap an overripe melon to get it to crack open. Instead she pressed her armored fingers into the table and pushed, hearing a splintering sound that caused her to draw back her hand self-consciously. She looked up and saw Vaste staring at her with his pointy-toothed grin, and she gave him venom in return.

  “… so, of course, he’s keeping the army in Luukessia and marching them north, to meet and battle the scourge as it continues to come south,” Ryin Ayend finished with a nod of his head, perched atop that implausibly thin neck.

  “Oh, of course,” Vara said, letting sarcasm drip from every syllable. “Because the problems of another continent are so much larger than the enemies storming down our own gates.”

  Ryin’s jaw worked open and then shut, a quick motion that caused his lips to purse. “Of course we didn’t know over there what you were experiencing here, else we might have come back a bit quicker. However-”

  “This scourge,” Alaric said, interrupting. “You have mentioned the danger they pose, but you did not speak to the origin of these creatures.”

  Ayend’s face went ashen. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, that’s the other part of the problem and the reason Cyrus sent me back. He wants you to send reinforcements-”

  “Then he’s just as daft as ever he’s been,” Vara said, and she felt the twitch and contraction of the muscles at the corners of her eyes. “Unsurprising, given that he’s been operating out of contact for so long, but the idea that the war here would just run a pleasing and gentle course is ridiculous, and a supposed ‘master strategist’ such as Cyrus Davidon should damned well have known that the Sovereign of Saekaj wouldn’t be sitting idly by while he grew fat in his black armor, feasting beyond the eastern sea.”

  “You don’t understand,” Ayend said with a shake of the head. “He’s not just fighting the good fight for the sake of it over there-”

  “Because he’s never gotten involved in an ill-advised fight before?” Vara said, cutting across Ayend’s words.

  “To your advantage, I believe, not his,” Ryin said.

  “Yay, verbal fisticuffs,” Vaste said, “I have so missed the arguments in these chambers over the last months.”

  “I haven’t,” Alaric said, dark circles under his eyes now that his helm was removed. “Vara, if you might, please allow our esteemed brother Ryin to finish his train of thought without interruption … About the origin of this scourge …?”

  “Ah,” Ryin said, all contrition. “That is the sticky part, as I said.”

  “Something on the order of five times now you’ve said it was a sticky part,” Vara said, her fingers now on her face and ready to dig into the skin in lieu of anything else to squeeze her frustration out on. “Some of us grow weary of being sticky-”

  “Not I,” Vaste said. “I could do with more of it. Though not with any of you.”

  “Perhaps you might cut to the point of it and be done,” Vara continued, ignoring the interruption, “so that those of us who have other things to do-say, seeing to the defense of Sanctuary-could get back to that.”

  “Would you allow me,” Ryin said, irritation infusing his tone, “sixty uninterrupted seconds without the extreme pleasure,” he put emphasis on pleasure, as though it were the foulest curse, “of your sweet and indulgent voice, and I might complete a full sentence and thus end the story I am trying to tell.” His jaw worked as though he were chewing something heavy. “J’anda read the minds of these creatures and saw their monstrous origin, and then Cyrus and Aisling confirmed their creation by seeing-”

  “What a wondrous pairing, those two,” Vara said, and her hand dropped from her face to the table again, where she dug her fingers into the edge once more.

  Ryin ignored her. “-seeing how they were created. There is a portal, and it leads to Mortus’s chambers. The creatures are the souls turned loose after the God of Death’s-well, his death,” Ayend said, after struggling with the phrase. “They are the legacy of what we released when we killed Mortus.” A heavy silence covered the room before Ryin began to speak again. “Cyrus says he will stay until the end to defeat them to, ah …” Ayend pursed his lips, “… atone for his part in their release.”

  Vara’s eyes met Alaric’s, which were cool indifference, but she caught a glint in them that she ignored. “Well,” she said, suppressing the internal desire to scream, “isn’t that … noble … of him.”

  “He’s quite the honorable chap,” Ayend said coolly.

  “Interesting to hear you speak so favorably of him,” Vaste said with amusement, “seeing as you’ve always been his harshest critic.”

  “I’m everyone’s harshest critic,” Ryin said, sitting up straight in his chair, “because I don’t believe in letting ideas pass unless they’ve some virtue and until they’ve been considered carefully. Perhaps we made a mistake in killing Mortus, perhaps we erred in defending Termina for the evacuation, perhaps not on one or both counts; either way, there are plainly consequences that need to be dealt with by someone, both here and abroad. Whatever our prior decisions, we are stuck with the fallout from them now, and I see Cyrus trying as best he can to cope with his part. Luukessia is at war, these things are numerous, the land is fragmented and the coming war will likely be disastrous. Cyrus could use additional forces to drive these things back and finish them in order to have Curatio destroy the portal.”

  There was a long pause, and Alaric stared at Ryin from his place at the head of the table, the grey skies highlighted out the small windows behind him to the balcony. It might have been Vara’s imagination, but the sky seemed to dim further as Alaric wrapped a hand around his mouth as if trying to suppress any sound that might escape. “No,” he said at last. “His cause is, of course, just, and worthy, but the army we broke is not the last of what we will see of the dark elves. We cannot move to assist our comrades in L
uukessia unless we know for fact that the dark elves have moved all their armies against other objectives.” He bowed his head. “I do not see us coming into an abundance of news in that regard, not anytime soon, not more than idle rumors.”

  Vara stared at him, at the specter of quiet and defeat that hunched the Ghost’s shoulders. We should protect our own gates, take care to watch our backs now. What has happened to these people of Luukessia is unfortunate, all the moreso because of our part in setting loose this scourge, but to send more of our army to aid them would be to sentence those remaining behind to defend Sanctuary to a terrible and bloody death, especially now that the Sovereign has learned how to breach our very foyer and send his troops in directly. No, further excursions would be a terrible idea, awful in its application and idiotic in the stripping of more forces from our own walls …

  Even still, she spoke. “Perhaps …” she said, “… if I went to the front south of Reikonos and spoke with my sister, who helps head the defense of human territory, we might gather some idea of how goes the war in general, and the disposition of forces. With that insight, we might know if it were safe to send another expedition to assist our beleaguered forces in Luukessia.” She clamped her mouth shut after it was said, and wanted to scream. Where the hell did THAT come from?

  “An interesting idea,” Vaste said. “And here I thought you were firmly against committing any more troops outside of our walls. I wonder what might possibly have shifted the weight in your mind against that idea.”

  “An outpouring of concern for our army across the sea, no doubt,” she said icily.

  “Because you spend a vast majority of your time concerned about the plight of our new recruits,” Vaste replied with a barb and a raised eyebrow.

  “I spend my time as an officer concerned about our entire guild, you miscreant.”

  “Of course,” he said contritely.

  The doors opened to the hall behind them, a slow creak of the hinges as Erith Frostmoor entered the chamber, her white hair bound behind her in a long braid, her robes tattered, the white thread now brown and smudged. “The hour is over,” she said as she took her seat, as though it were an explanation of itself.

  “The hour is … what?” Vara asked her with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Is over,” Erith said, her usual mischief faded, her eyes weighed down in hard lines, lips tight, the purple flesh that made them stand out from the blue skin of her face tightly compacted in a line that wavered. “The hour we have to resurrect people who might have been killed in the tower collapse is up, and they were still pulling bodies out of the stone when I left a few minutes ago.” She lowered her eyes. “It looks like a quarry where it came down, piles of block everywhere, and you can still hear moans and cries from inside, so all hope is not lost, but …”

  “A terrible day,” Alaric pronounced. “To see so many of our brethren fall in a battle that we didn’t even truly partake in. How many unaccounted for?”

  “Eighteen,” Erith said, her head hanging. “Some yet live, and our strongest are working to unearth them, but some are certainly lost. Then there are the consequences of the collapse. It looks like someone took the corner of the building and dragged it down, exposing all the lower floors to the air and elements. You’ll have to have someone more familiar with design tell you how that will affect things. We’ve lost a good many quarters, though, I can tell you that much.”

  “We have empty housing enough,” Vaste said. “Not to marginalize the loss of the tower or the deaths, which are unpleasant, no doubt, but we will make do. The bigger concern is if the dark elves come again, with more men, more war machines.”

  “The Sovereign is unpredictable yet spiteful,” Alaric said, still holding himself to his seat, pensive. “Yes, I think it might be wise to have you speak to your sister about the war’s progress,” he said with a nod to Vara. “We need to know what to expect, what will be coming and how it will hit us.” He brought his hands around to steeple in front of his face. “You will go immediately, and return as soon as possible.”

  “Very well,” Vara said, and began to stand.

  “Hold,” Ryin said. “I will take you to Reikonos, but there is one last thing I have to report.”

  “Oh, good,” Vara said, lowering herself back into her chair. “Because you weren’t overly dramatic enough with any of the other information you brought us. What pointless drivel have you left to-”

  “Terian,” Ryin said, and Vara stopped speaking, a knifeblade cutting into her under the armor, as though something unseen had stabbed her.

  “What about him?” Alaric said, stiff, shifting in his seat to focus attention on Ryin.

  “He attempted to kill Cyrus while they were on the northern expedition.”

  “Attempted to kill him?” Erith said with mild surprise. “What, did he cook his infamous vek’tag casserole again? Because that isn’t technically an attempt to kill, though your digestive tract won’t know the difference.”

  “It goes somewhat beyond cooking,” Ryin said archly.

  “Not many non-dark elven palates can handle that spider-meat your people consume like some of us eat chicken,” Vaste said, chiming in, “though I’ve always found vek’tag to be something of a delight.”

  “Shut up,” Vara said, her voice only a whisper. How could he have known?

  “What?” Vaste said, watching her. “You can’t seriously mean that Terian would actually try to kill Cyrus? This must surely be some sort of-”

  “It is no mistake,” Ayend said. “It was deliberate, plotted. He cursed Cyrus and slit the throat of his horse while he was on the run from the scourge. Save for the efforts of Aisling and Mendicant, he would have died.”

  “They saved him?” Vara said, and her voice cracked slightly.

  If Ryin noticed, he did not call attention to it. “It was how Cyrus and Aisling discovered the origin of the scourge. They became entrapped behind enemy lines together for several days after their retreat was cut off.”

  “How … fortuitous that she was able to save him,” Vara managed to choke out.

  “Yes, you sound extremely pleased that she was able to risk her life in order to spare him from our guildmate’s treachery,” Vaste said. “But if I may observe, you and Alaric seem unsurprised that Terian would try such a thing. Whereas I am shocked, and there is little that shocks me, aside from the smell that comes from Erith’s quarters.”

  Erith flushed a deeper blue. “I’m not much of a housekeeper.”

  Vaste snorted. “And they say that trolls smell. But that is neither here nor there. The point remains that our esteemed Guildmaster and fellow officer seem to know something of this that the rest of us do not.”

  “While in Termina, defending the bridge,” Vara began, “Cyrus killed a dark knight. He was Terian’s father.”

  “Oh, dear,” Vaste said, his green face wiped clear of amusement for once, and his mouth open into an ‘o’ that was distorted by his ungainly teeth. “The sword.”

  “What sword?” Alaric said, leaning forward now.

  “Aisling brought the sword of that dark knight back to Sanctuary,” Vaste said, and shifted to one side in the chair. “She carried it with her in the escape and presented it to Cyrus as a trophy of his accomplishment.”

  “His accomplishment?” Vara leaned onto the table. “I fought the bloody bastard almost to the death before Cyrus stabbed him in the back-”

  “Let us keep sight of what has happened here,” Alaric said gravely. “Terian discovered a truth we hoped he would not find out until we could comfortably present it to him here, in carefully controlled circumstances.”

  “It would appear the circumstances have spiralled far, far out of your control,” Erith said with a furrowed brow.

  “Yes, and your predictive powers are usually spot-on,” Vaste said mildly. “I suppose we’re all allowed a failure of judgment every now and again.”

  “It was not a failure of judgment,” Alaric whispered, “it was a failure of com
munication. I saw no way for him to know that his father had died, and so I worried not about it but of the myriad of other things we have to deal with. Had I known, I could have predicted his response, the slyness of it, the wait, the consideration. Terian is many things-conflicted, devious, somewhat cold-but revenge is not out of the question for him. If he knew what had happened, I would have assumed vengeance could follow, in its own time, and that it would be in a manner of his choosing.”

  “Am I the only one wondering why you brought him back after he left the guild, then?” Ryin asked. “If you knew he was this dangerous?”

  There was a pause, stark and quiet. “Because danger is not all there is to Terian,” Alaric said, “and there is good in him, enough to outweigh the baser desires, should he have the right … outlet.”

  “He’s a menace,” Vara said, and the words surprised her, “and now a murderer, it seems.”

  “It seems,” Alaric said. “But there are no innocents at this table, remember that. Our profession is the sword and shield, but I note that none of you choose to use a shield.”

  “I use a shield all the time,” Vaste said, “but I call it Vara, and it squirms when I force it to absorb the blows of my angry enemies. Also, it speaks harshly to me sometimes.”

  Vara felt the snap of heat across her cheeks. “This is hardly the time for humor, you fool. We have too many problems for you to sit here and make light of every one of them!”

  “I’ve got the time,” Vaste said. “What else would I be doing? Trying to solve them? They’re a world away! Silly idea, that.”

  “Enough,” Alaric said quietly and turned back to Ryin. “Why did Cyrus not send Terian back with you?”