Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  They rode on, down an alley onto a side street and on toward the palace, with its columns and massive steps. Guards were peeling off from the gates as they got close, the dirt streets an unpleasantly muddy place to be. They rode through without being questioned or inspected, the chaos wild around them. There was a harbor visible to their left, dark waters lapping at the piers; the palace was built on the water but rose stories above it, high enough that the entire side was protected by the sheer face of the palace’s eastern walls. The back of it was against the ocean too, Cyrus realized as they entered the courtyard; he wondered if there was an easy way out. The shouts of the palace guard filled the air, crackling as the portcullis to the palace’s smaller curtain wall began to crank slowly shut. A few more guards rushed to beat the closing.

  “Let us hope there is another way out,” J’anda said, eyeing the gate closing behind them. “If it truly is the scourge, then I don’t expect we’ll be going out the front.”

  “Aye,” Martaina said. “We’re bottled up now.”

  “Well, let’s be quick about this, then,” Cyrus said, eyeing the palace steps. “Aw, hells, why be polite and shy?” He urged Windrider forward and the horse began to climb the front steps, a few at a time with a neigh. Cyrus heard the clopping of hooves on the stone and knew the others were following behind. The palace steps narrowed toward the top, running into a column-lined portico and within moments Cyrus was under it, a few guards staring at him in shock. “Urgent message for the King,” he called as he passed. “Urgent!” At a checkpoint ahead he saw two guards stare at him, crossed poleaxes ineffectually blocking his path. At the sound of his cry, they uncrossed them, then stepped aside as he thundered into the palace on Windrider’s back.

  “What are you going to do when they find out you don’t have a message?” he heard Martaina say behind him.

  “I actually do have a message for King Hoygraf,” Cyrus said tersely.

  “I don’t think he’s going to want to hear that one,” Martaina replied.

  “No one ever wants to hear bad news,” Cyrus said. “It still shows up anyway. Urgent message for the King!” he called, and a bevy of guards ahead of him parted in a slow sea, the two closest to the bronze doors behind them opening them for Cyrus to pass. As the doors opened, he could see a throne room ahead, a high seat in a wider room than Vernadam’s. Columns lined either side of the room and to his left there was an open balcony that overlooked the sea running the length of the room. There were a few guards scattered about that came to attention as he entered, and Cyrus dismounted swiftly, saluting Hoygraf as he did so.

  Hoygraf rose from his seat on the great throne as Cyrus dismounted. The man still carried his obsidian cane, leaning heavily upon it as he pulled up. Cyrus froze for only a beat as he looked to the seat next to Hoygraf; Cattrine sat there, upon a grand throne with a teal backing. Hoygraf’s seat was teal as well, and the ocean’s salt air seemed to fill the room around them as Cyrus stared at Cattrine. Her hair was only neck-length, now. She watched him without interest, slumped slightly to the side in her chair, her neck limp and angled, as though even sitting were some great effort for her. Her left eye was blacked, and there was a crust of blood at her lip. Her hand came up self-consciously to daub at her face as Cyrus began to stride across the wide, blue carpet toward the throne, his head bowed.

  “Your majesty,” Cyrus said, traversing the carpet in quick steps, struggling to remain nonchalant and keep his hands free from his sword belt. One chance at this. The minute I draw on him I’m going to have a fight on my hands. Ballsy effort has taken us this far, I just need a minute to make this happen.

  “That’s close enough,” Hoygraf said, stopping at the edge of the rise of steps. He leaned heavily on his cane for support, stooping over like an old man.

  “As you wish, m’lord,” Cyrus said, and knelt to one knee roughly ten feet away from the man, bowing his head.

  “You ride horses into my throne room,” Hoygraf said, straining at each word. “If you have an urgent message, deliver it.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Cyrus said, adding a tone of contrition. “M’lord, the scourge appears on the horizon.”

  Hoygraf let out a small hiss of disbelief. “Yes, I know that, you idiot. We have lookouts posted that rode back here with that message long before you.” Hoygraf frowned at him. “Is that your only message? Why didn’t you report that to a guard captain?”

  “Because, m’lord,” Cyrus said, and bowed lower, obscuring his upper body as he reached for his sword, “I have a further message to deliver, one meant for you and you alone.”

  Hoygraf’s voice bled caution, and Cyrus could hear the man standing up straighter. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “That the westerner, Cyrus Davidon, even now rides for Caenalys and means to strike you down in your own throne room,” Cyrus said, his hand finding Praelior’s hilt even under the illusion.”

  “Well,” Hoygraf said with dark amusement, “I doubt he’ll be getting through the hundreds of thousands of those beasts filling every square inch of ground outside our city gates, but I do welcome him to try. I don’t fear that petty coward, who hides his vileness and impotence behind western magics and wickedness.”

  “I believe if you were to consult with your Lady, you’d find he’s anything but impotent,” Cyrus said, raising his head with a smile, “but you are quite right that he hides behind western magics. But only because sometimes … it’s the fastest way into your enemy’s throne room.” Cyrus stood, letting his blade hang by his side. “Oh, and not to correct the faux-King in his own chambers, but … you do fear me. You always have, since the day I put a sword in your belly and left you to die.”

  Hoygraf reached for the tip of his cane and ripped it aside, revealing a narrow blade. “Perhaps you mistake hate for fear; I fear no man, especially not a man I have personally removed the head from in the past and shall again. Guards!” He called out, his voice reverberating through the chamber.

  Cyrus looked left and right, and in the eye of every guard he saw the same dead expression, their faces blank, drool dripping down a few of their chins. “I don’t think you’ll be finding much help within their ranks at the moment.” He smiled, and with a nod at J’anda, said, “Western magic. You know how it goes.”

  “So it’s to be the two of us, then?” Hoygraf said, wavering on his legs, from one side to the other, balancing tentatively as he held the narrow blade of his cane aloft. “I welcome the opportunity to have a chance to gut you as you’ve gutted me.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Cyrus said, staring at him. “You can barely stand.”

  “I will surprise you with my strength,” Hoygraf said. “My resolve is not to be questioned, nor is my prowess-”

  “Much like the idea of you living to rule this puppet kingdom you’ve set up,” Cyrus said, “the idea of you lasting more than a second in a sword fight with me is simply delusion.”

  “Puppet kingdom?” Hoygraf spat. “I will have you know that this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of planning, of waiting for so rich an opportunity. This land is mine, now, and no Arkarian filth is going to ruin my moment. I will finish you, and then my men and I will end this scourge that you and yours couldn’t find the balls to deal with. This is the beginning of a thousand year reign for my house!”

  Cyrus looked at him blankly then blinked his eyes, twice. “When you called me impotent, earlier, you were really talking about yourself, weren’t you?”

  Hoygraf’s hand made a swift gesture, waving at him. “Come at me, fool. Let us see what sort of power you have against a God-King. This is my destiny. This is the moment I was born for-” With a sudden choking noise, he looked down, then sideways.

  “I agree,” Cattrine said, her hand on his shoulder, the other behind his back. “You were born for this very moment. You’ve lived your whole life leading up to it, and now you’re here. It is a culmination, husband of mine, a reaping of all the seeds of discord you’ve sown throughout the
great and small moments along the way.” Her other hand came from behind his back, now, and a long, bloodstained dagger was clenched in it, and she rested it on his throat. “Enjoy the reaping, dear.” She ran it across his neck, opening his throat to a gasping noise as he collapsed. “Enjoy your moment.” He fell to the ground and blood washed out onto the blue carpet, his mouth still open in shock as his eyes went from her to Cyrus, then his face grew still.

  “You all right?” Cyrus asked, staring at Cattrine. Her blue gown was stained with crimson she stared at the knife in her hands with empty, hollow eyes. “Cattrine?”

  She looked up and found him again. “I didn’t dare to hope you’d come. I dreamed it, at night, when I hoped he wouldn’t hear me thinking it. I thought of you in the worst of moments, the darkest of them. I thought of you.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked again, and closed the distance between them with two long steps. He took hold of her arms, gently, and watched the shock on her face dissolve as she leaned into him, kissed him, on the lips, and he could taste the spattered blood on her as she did it, smelled the court perfumes. His free hand ran across her back, gently, his gauntlet feeling the soft flesh beneath, and he wondered how many new scars she had now, how many he had let her acquire by abandoning her …

  Cyrus broke away from her as Aisling cleared her throat. He turned and looked at the dark elf, who was back to her normal appearance, white hair and all. Her face was only slightly less inscrutable than of old, but he knew betrayal when he saw it. “We have to get out of here,” he said, and heard Windrider whinny in agreement.

  “The city is surrounded?” Cattrine asked. Cyrus nodded. “There is a small dock in the bottom of the castle, there is a spiral ramp just outside the throne room-”

  “The city is going to be destroyed unless we do something,” Cyrus said. “The scourge will consume it whole. We need to save these people.”

  “Whatever we do,” J’anda said, his hands still waving vaguely in the motions of a seamstress spinning a tapestry, “may I suggest we do quickly? I grow weary of this, and I suspect these soldiers will not be happy that we are standing here in the midst of a floor covered in their anointed King’s blood.”

  “Easily fixed,” Aisling said, and turned to the nearest guard, running a dagger across his throat. A spray of blood caused Cyrus to blanch, and by then she had killed three more the same way. “What?” she gave a caustic look over her shoulder at the silence as she killed another. “They would have happily done the same to us and still will when they awaken if we’re here and unwilling to fight them.”

  Cyrus exchanged a look with Cattrine, who gave him the faintest nod of approval. He started toward the line of soldiers that was in front of the balcony, but Martaina ran swiftly and cut all their throats in seconds. Cyrus blinked at her. “I guess Terian was right about that one thing …” She gave him a frown, and he shrugged.

  “In terms of a plan?” J’anda asked, grabbing the reins of his horse and turning it around toward the large bronze doors they had entered through. They were open, and braziers lit the antechamber outside, though the door beyond had been shut, the one that led to the main hall’s chamber.

  “We rally the people of Caenalys,” Cyrus said, taking Windrider’s reins purposefully and striding forward. He looked back and took Cattrine’s hand with his other after sheathing Praelior. “With luck, the scourge will still be outside the city walls-”

  There came the loudest of noises, a shattering that nearly defied explanation, as the doors to the main hall broke open off their hinges and skittered across the floor of the antechamber to the throne room. The floor shook as they landed, twelve-foot tall pieces of lumber that had been carved with intricate patterns that reminded Cyrus of fish and seas.

  Replacing them was Drettanden, a beast that took up the entirety of the doorframe, from marbled floor to crown-moulded ceiling, breathing at them, flooding the antechamber with the smell of rotting flesh so rancid it made Cyrus nearly gag, infesting his very sense of taste and hanging on his tongue as though he had kissed a rotted corpse. A steady breathing filled the air like a starving dog panting for food, and there came a drop of sweat that rolled down his back, so acute he felt it, like the gentle kiss of a lover.

  “Or,” J’anda said, breaking the quiet shock that permeated the antechamber, “we could just run for our lives.”

  Chapter 95

  Vara

  Day 209 of the Siege of Sanctuary

  She stalked across the lawns, green now at least, though footpaths had been worn between the front steps of Sanctuary and the guard towers on the wall, brown strips of ground where the green had simply been lost from overtravel. A rain had started, one that made everything smell more pungent somehow, fresh earth on the path as though it had been tilled. She watched him disappear inside and she followed at a jog, trying to catch him. “Alaric!” she called. She quickened her pace, breaking into a run, feeling the first droplets splash her cheeks as she did so. There was a peal of thunder in the far distance, and she ignored it as she climbed the steps and entered the foyer.

  The doors were open, shedding the grey light of day into the room. It was quiet now, of course, with nearly everyone out on the wall from repelling the latest attack. Larana was visible in the opening to the Great Hall, along with-Aha! He was speaking to her in a hushed whisper even Vara couldn’t hear. The druid nodded once then locked eyes with Vara for a split second before bowing her head in shyness and mousing away toward the kitchens. “Alaric,” Vara called again, more quietly this time and more accusing.

  “Yes?” The Ghost did not turn to face her, leaving his armored back in her full view, his bucket-shaped helm only slightly twisted as if to acknowledge her. “What can I do for you, Vara?” It was slow death, his every word, a sort of weariness she recognized in her own soul.

  “You killed him.” She heard the bluntness and was surprised at the lack of accusation. “For nearly nothing-”

  “He raised his hand to you,” Alaric said, and his helm slid so that he was facing once more toward the officer’s table at the far end of the Great Hall. “I found that unacceptable.”

  “A great many men and beasts have raised a hand at me,” Vara said. “I should think you would find it to be a full-time occupation to kill them all.”

  “But a worthy one, I believe,” the Ghost said, quietly.

  Vara let her boots clink step by step toward him. “This is unlike you, Alaric. Snapping in Council. Killing an annoying dwarf who but raised a hand to me. Slaughtering prisoners as they surrender. What has happened to you? Where is this burgeoning darkness coming from?”

  The helm came around again, and she saw his chin in profile, his mouth a thin line. “Perhaps it has always been here.”

  “No.” She took a last quiet step and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I have known you for years. Seen you in one of the darkest periods of your life, in fact, which was upon the day we met. This? I have never seen this from you. Not you.”

  His helm slid away, hiding his face wholly from her. “You know nothing of my darkness.”

  She blanched at his response. “Were you not the man who counseled me away from deadly action? Were you not the one who guided me back to the path of the light after my fall? Did you not say that vengeance leads to dark roads, roads that are not worth walking?”

  There was a quiet for a moment before he responded. “Sometimes,” he said, “you look down upon a road that you’ve chosen in earnest, with best intent, and it leads to a far different place than you thought it might when you chose it. Dark roads, yes, they are not worth walking. But sometimes the path turns dark of its own accord, long after you’ve begun your walk down it.”

  “This is not the path,” she said and tried to step around him to look him in the face, but he turned so abruptly it threw her off balance. “Why will you not look me in the eyes when I talk to you?”

  He took a step away from her, still giving her nothing but his back. “I hear y
ou just fine. Finish speaking your mind.”

  She let her mouth drop slightly open. “But do you listen?”

  He swung around on her then, and she saw the fury burning within him. “I listen. All I do is listen. To you. To your guildmates. Your fears, your worries. Will the dark elves break down the gates? Will I die here, in Sanctuary, still but a bloom not yet come to flower?” His face went from frightful to neutral, which made her stomach lurch alarmingly, giving her more than a pinch of fear. “How many crises must I lead you through? How much counsel must I give that is ignored? How many times must I watch others die undeserving-” His voice broke, and she flinched at it. “How many sacrifices must I make before the end? How many times must I give all to you and to your brethren here?”

  He brought his hand up and slammed his gauntlet into his chest in a fist, and it made a dreadful clank that echoed through the Great Hall. “I have fought for this guild. Believed in this guild, in our purpose, believed in it when no one else did. I have bled for it, and I would die for it.” He waved a hand around him, as though to encompass the entirety of Sanctuary, and all the people standing out on the walls. “Yet I have an army who worries for their lives. Not for the world that will burn if we fail but for themselves.” He sagged, and she saw the fight go out of his eyes. “And I fear for them as well. For them, and for all Arkaria.”

  His hand came up, and she saw his long fingers clutch at his chin. “I cannot keep carrying the purpose of this guild all on my back; I cannot keep believing when no one else does.” He raised a hand out, as though he were going to point, and then let it fall to his side. “I cannot do it all on my own.” He seemed to recede then, as if he was stepping away from her, but she realized that he was not; he began to dim, to turn translucent in the lighting. “I will carry it as long as I can, as far as I can, until I reach my limits, and then, I think you will find … I will merely fade away.”