She stared back at him, quiet, then looked at Scuddar, then Longwell. “Haven’t you ever had someone you knew you could count on before? That no matter how bad it got, you knew they’d be there with you, no matter what?”
Cyrus felt an icy chill run through his gut and a memory flitter. They all left, one by one. Left me alone. Father. Mother. Imina. Narstron. Orion. Niamh. He looked around the fire. And this lot … they’re the ones counting on me. Who am I supposed to count on?
Vara. He blinked away the thought. “I don’t know,” he said at last, almost mumbling.
“Belief in others is a powerful thing,” Scuddar said, his quiet, deep timbre. “Hope is sometimes all we have. There’s an old legend among my people, the story of the Ark. Have you heard it?”
“No,” Cyrus said with a shake of his head.
“When the world was first new,” Scuddar began, “there were only two gods who ruled over it-the God of Good, and the God of Evil. They divided among themselves all the attributes and aspects that each prized. Courage, Light, Knowledge, Life-these were but a few of the virtues held by the followers of good.” His countenance darkened in the firelight. “Darkness, Despair, Death and War-those and others were held high in esteem by the God of Evil. It was a mighty struggle, waged day and night over the surface of the bare land. But the forces were too evenly matched, as evil had captured the hearts and souls of mortal beings to even the score. Mortals began to despair, so wracked were they with the darkness sent from evil. And so the God of Good sent forth his last gift to mortals-the Ark. It was to be what they looked to in times of trouble, as within they could find that most ephemeral of all the virtues.”
Cyrus stared across the fire at the desert man, heard the pop of the logs, felt the smoke fill the air around him as though the words were taking on a mystical quality of their own. He took a deep inhalation through his nose and the smell of the wood fire took him back, as though he were around a campfire in the days when the story was happening. He listened on as his skin prickled from the back of his neck and up his scalp, and he watched through the flames as the man of the desert moved his hands in time with the story, as though he had told it numerous times before. “What was it?” Cyrus asked, and realized that if Scuddar had, in fact, told this story numerous times before, he had paused and was waiting for someone to answer.
“Hope.” Scuddar’s hands came down. “It is in our darkest hours that we let despair creep in, let it drain us of any faith in ourselves. Hope is our respite, the answer to our cries. The belief that darkness can be destroyed by the light, that despair can be turned back if we believe-if we have hope for a brighter day ahead.”
Cyrus ran his hand up to his long hair, tangled and matted. How many days has it been since I bathed? Since I breathed? Since I slept in my own bed, lived in my own walls, breathed air that didn’t have even the slightest tinge of decay and wondered if these things would be coming? How long since I first started to lose … hope? The thought came easy: It was the day I carried her to her room and listened to her say that we would never be together-could never be together. Everything since has made me question every action taken, every consequence I’ve set loose. “How can you dare to hope …” Cyrus began, “… when you know that all you have wrought is … darkness … and despair … and death?”
Scuddar leaned forward over the fire, and his eyes caught the light; they were yellow, and Cyrus had never noticed that before, but they glowed. “Because darkness … and despair and death … these are things all rooted in your past. Hope … is about a future. You need not live your whole life governed by them. That road is despair. Futility. Hope is the idea that no matter what evil you might have done, willing or unwilling-it can redeemed.”
Cyrus felt the gut clench of emotion. “I fear that there are some things so wrong, so dark, that there is no redemption for them.”
Scuddar’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Well, that is not really up to you now, is it?”
“Didn’t you believe in the God of War, once upon a time?” Longwell asked, breaking Cyrus out of his trance and turning his head away from Scuddar. “In battle and chaos, destruction and death?”
“For combatants, yes,” Cyrus said. “Not for the innocent. For those who wanted it, for those who thrived on battle, the clash of blade, the evangelism of the trial by fire.”
“Those things are combatants,” Longwell said, pointing him toward the field of battle, somewhere ahead in the darkness, barely visible beyond the fire-lit camp. “You don’t believe they deserve to die?”
“They’re already dead,” Cyrus said, “but yes, they deserve to die. And I’ll kill as many as I can.”
“Ah,” Scuddar said. “So you believe in something, at least. Even something so minor as that. It’s a start.”
“And what do you believe?” Cyrus asked, watching the smoke waft between him and Scuddar, between the night and those yellow eyes.
“I believe that when you come to the moment when you believe all hope is gone,” Scuddar said, “you will be forced to reach down inside yourself, to touch whatever remains within you. I believe in that moment, General … you’ll find the embers of whatever is left. You’ll find what you truly believe in. And I think …” the desert man smiled, “… that whatever it is, our enemy will have cause to fear. Because a man can only live with despair for so long before hope resurges.”
Chapter 103
The next day was a long battle, one that grated and dragged along him, like a whip taken to flesh. He could feel the pain in his muscles at the close of the day, the smell of death fixed in his nose as though he had swallowed it, the stench hanging in the back of his throat and threatening to gag him with every breath. The sound of swords tearing flesh was in his ears as was the guttural screaming of the scourge, their cries echoing in the night even now, far behind the lines. Cyrus was arrayed in a council, Curatio and Martaina with him along with Terian. Opposite him were Longwell and Ranson, directly across, Briyce Unger to his left and Milos Tiernan to his right, a fearsome scarring present on Tiernan’s face.
“Before we begin,” Tiernan said, nodding in acknowledgment to Cyrus, “I owe you my thanks for saving my sister.”
“I only wish it hadn’t cost you Caenalys in the process,” Cyrus said. Tiernan’s jaw clamped shut; he said nothing.
Silence reigned for almost a full minute. “Well, we’ve come to it at last,” Unger said. The mountain King’s shoulders were slumped, as though one of the fabled avalanches had finally come down on him.
“Aye,” Longwell said. “Our flat ground is done; from here to the bridge it’s a swampy corridor of peninsula. Our last advantage is gone.” He made as if to turn and look to the fields of recent battle. “It was a good fight while it lasted, though.” He turned serious, sober. “We could have the dragoons dismount and fight as foot infantry-”
“Foolish,” Unger said, shaking his enormous head.
“A waste,” Tiernan agreed. There was a somber spirit of dejection upon them, but Tiernan seemed to brush it aside. “The time has come to plan the next phase. To see our people safely across to the west. We have the foot troops to hold the last of the peninsula for a time.” The King of Actaluere set his jaw. “I’ve discussed it with my men, and many of them have no desire to leave these shores. I mean to stay, to water these last miles with my blood and tears, and to give our people as great a head start as we can.”
The silence filled the air. “I never thought an Actaluerean would leave aside merchant sensibility for something so …” Unger smiled, “… deeply felt. I’ve lost my homeland. Few enough of my people have made it over that bridge.” He shook his head. “I have no desire to keep fighting this battle into a new land when I’ve already lost my own.” His eyes flicked toward Longwell.
“Aye,” Samwen Longwell said, and Cyrus saw the full weight of a crown that wasn’t there, weighing down his head. “I have seen things … done things … to try and save this land … things I don’t wish to carry with
me to the west. I was born in Luukessia, and I wish to die here.” He looked up at Cyrus. “Will you lead my men-my dragoons-into the west and help them to protect our people as best you can? We will buy you as much time as our bodies allow,” he said with a grim smile.
Cyrus looked from Tiernan to Unger then to Longwell. “I obviously can’t stay with you gentlemen, much as I might like. My land has yet to be hit by these things, but we all know it’s coming. Yes, I will protect your citizenry in their retreat with everything I have left,” he said, without much feeling. “I’ll take whatever men you have who don’t wish to die in the last defense of Luukessia and into battle in Arkaria.” He settled in, a glum feeling hanging over him. “And perhaps we’ll … find a way, over there, to stem the tide of these things. If they follow.”
“There’s no guarantee they will, after all,” Longwell said, but with enough of a kernel of disbelief that Cyrus knew that the dragoon didn’t believe it either. “If we give you enough time, perhaps the smell of life will be lost among their fear of the waters.”
“A faint hope,” Cyrus said with a slight smile, “but one I’m clinging to right now.”
There hung a moment of silence as the four of them all looked to one another. Tiernan broke it when he stood first, and gestured toward Cyrus, who stood and stepped closer to take the King of Actaluere’s outstretched hand.
“I trust you’ll continue to see to my sister,” Tiernan said, “and make certain she’s kept well out of the danger that comes?”
“I will,” Cyrus said.
“Your word,” Tiernan said firmly. “I’d like it, please.”
Cyrus felt a pinch inside. “I give you my word I’ll protect her for as long as I’m able.”
He smiled tightly. “Thank you.” He shook Cyrus’s hand hard and stepped aside.
Unger stood and stepped over to Cyrus. “Thank you for believing me when no one else would. Without your help, we’d not have gotten much of anyone out of Syloreas before the fall.”
Cyrus felt a clutch of pain inside. If not for me, you’d still have a Kingdom. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more.”
Unger gave a slow shake of his head. “You’ve done quite enough. More than I likely would have done were our situations reversed. I’d have fled and not looked back.”
Longwell stood last and his crossing was slow, the King of Galbadien looking down at his feet, his helm clutched under his arm. When his head came up, Cyrus saw him biting his lower lip. “I owe you great thanks for all you’ve done. You’ve shown me a world I never would have believed. That you came here in the name of our friendship, out of loyalty to me, when you didn’t need to-it means everything.”
“I wish I’d had purer motives in doing so,” Cyrus said.
“Whatever your motives when you started,” Longwell said, “you stayed when you didn’t have to. You went north to Syloreas when you had no reason to think you were responsible in any way. And you’ve fought-ancestors! How you’ve fought.” He seized Cyrus’s hand, hard. “I believe in you-that if anyone will find a way to stop them, it’s you. If anyone could hold that bridge …” Longwell’s face tightened. “Well. I’m sorry I won’t be there to help you this time-”
There came a crack from behind Samwen, and the dragoon slumped, falling abruptly to Cyrus’s feet. Ranson stood behind him and unclenched his gauntlet. “Enough of that,” the Count said. “Take him with you, would you please? This is not a place for a young man to die, especially one whom you know could help you hold that bridge.”
Cyrus looked at the fallen figure of Longwell, out cold on the ground. “You could have … made your case to him about that.”
Ranson scoffed. “I’ve served his family for all my life. Served Galbadien for my entire life. I’ll die here, willingly, but I’ll not have the last vestige of our old ways destroyed because he’s got a foolish desire to spend himself before his time. If he truly wants to die, he can do it across the sea-after he’s ensured the safety of our people. It’s his last duty as King of Galbadien.” Ranson cocked an eyebrow. “You tell him I said that, when he wakes up.”
Cyrus looked between the Kings of Luukessia. “All right. We’ll pull back to the bridge with the dragoons and any men you want to send our way, and we’ll hold there until the last are on it. After that, we’ll go and cover the retreat-and hope that we make it far enough, fast enough to leave those bastards behind.”
“We’ll give you all the time we can spare,” Milos Tiernan said. “We’re placing the last of our Kingdoms in your hands-the last of the Luukessians. I dearly hope you’ll save them.” He looked from Ranson to Unger, then back to Cyrus. “After all,” the King of Actaluere said with a smile, “you are our last hope.”
Chapter 104
With the dawn they were headed west, Cyrus and the Sanctuary army, on a slow march along the road. The sound of combat faded behind them as the morning wore on, and they set out pickets that night after sunset. The territory was familiar in appearance, the coastal ground they’d trod in their first days in Luukessia. The crickets sang in the grasses, the winds blew sea air fresh across them from the south, a salt breeze that reminded Cyrus of the boat, or of a day on the beach long ago-the first day he had been in Luukessia. The swaying grass and short sight lines reminded him of plains, just briefly. Of home. Or whatever Sanctuary is to me now.
There was a sound, a low moan. Cyrus turned to look and saw Longwell clutching his head nearby, stirring from the place where he was bound with rope. He had been thrown unceremoniously on the back of a horse and left there for a good portion of the day after a healing spell from Curatio. Cyrus had looked at the damage done by Ranson before the healing spell had been cast; privately he did not envy the dragoon.
“What happened?” Longwell said, trying to sit up and struggling against the rope.
Cyrus looked him over. “Ranson knocked you out and asked me to take you with us.”
Longwell blinked and looked at the ropes that bound him. “You must surely be joking.”
Cyrus shrugged. “I think you’ll agree I haven’t been in much of a joking mood of late. More brooding, I think.”
“Are you going to let me loose?” Longwell said, struggling against the bonds that bound him under his armor.
“In another day or so,” Cyrus said, taking a drink from a skin of water and then holding it up to Longwell to let him sip from it. “Wouldn’t want you trying to escape and go back to throw yourself into a massacre, after all.”
Longwell finished his drink, giving Cyrus a measured glare. “So this is how you would treat me, after all this time? Bind me like a criminal?” He eyed Terian, who sat nearby and cocked his head at the comment. “Sorry.” He switched his gaze back to Cyrus. “You would strike my ability to choose for myself?”
“Yep,” Cyrus said. “I hope you understand. I’m going to need your help on that bridge.” He favored Longwell with a look, a cool, understated one.
“I … what?”
“The bridge,” Cyrus said. “I need someone at my side who can handle this situation. Someone who’s been in a fight like this before because if these things end up crossing, we’re the last line of defense. Your horsemen are going to be useless in a fight of this sort. The Sanctuary army can do some good if we fail, but we need to be the stone wall upon which the scourge breaks-for as long as it takes to get your people off that bridge and headed north to the portal, where we can evacuate them quickly.” He took another sip. “Hopefully some of them have already reached the other side and started to head that way.”
“You want me by your side for this again,” Longwell said, letting his bound hands hang in front of him.
“I need your help,” Cyrus said. “You, Scuddar, Odellan,” he darted a look backwards, “Terian, probably. This could be days of fighting. I have a lot of veterans thanks to our army being in a near-constant battle these last few months, but I need an elite, a front rank that won’t buckle, no matter what.”
Longwell settled, his
struggle with the bonds done. “It almost sounds as though you mean to try and drive them back; to stand and fight and make them feel the pain and blink.”
Cyrus looked at Longwell out of the corner of his eye, just for a moment, then back to the dark, swampy night. “Maybe I do. Maybe I do.”
Longwell gave a short nod after a moment of thought. “Very well, then. I cede the wisdom of your proposal. I will fight alongside you on the bridge.” He held out his hand. “You may release me now; I won’t go anywhere.”
Cyrus pulled the water skin from between his lips. “I know you won’t. Because you’re going to stay roped until we get to the bridge.”
Even in the dark, Cyrus could see the disbelief as Longwell’s face fell. “What? But I gave you my word.”
“Yeah,” Cyrus agreed. “But a man desperate to die in the defense of his homeland might be possessed to say some untruths. After all, who’s gonna care if he lied after he’s dead?”
“But,” Longwell said, sputtering, looking around for some sort of support. “I’m the King of Galbadien!”
“Right you are, Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, and bowed his head. “Would you like some more water?”
Longwell’s expression turned from disbelief to fury, then slowed to irritation, then finally to a long, sustained eyeroll. “Very well.”
Chapter 105
Two days later, they crossed the berm to see the bridge spanning the sea before them. The last of the straggling refugees were already upon it, barely visible on the horizon. At the base of the span, though, waited a familiar party-two blue-skinned figures at the side of the bridge along with another, her brown hair above her shoulders. Cyrus rode up to them, felt the salt spray of the tide hitting his face, and gazed upon J’anda’s face in shock. His own gasp filled his ears, and a feeling like someone had jammed a rod into his spine set him upright in the saddle. After a moment it subsided, as he got closer, and looked at the lined, worn skin on the enchanter’s face. “You burned through your magical energy,” Cyrus said, “and started trading your life for bread.”
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