Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (11 page)

“Ah,” J’anda said with a light smile, “I have the perfect answer for that as well.”

They made their way across the stone courtyard, the yellow blocks reminding Cyrus of grains of seasoned rice as the midday sun cast shadows under the ramparts. The living quarters were at the opposite end of the drawbridge. Scuddar was operating the mechanism to open the bridge while Cyrus and the others made their way toward the wooden doors. “Barred?” Cyrus asked as he approached.

“You taking bets?” Terian was beside him. “Because I’d guess yeah. You think they’re oblivious to all this commotion?”

“Thus far,” Cyrus said, “intelligence hasn’t been their strong suit.” When he reached the door he leaned back, Praelior in hand, and felt the strength of the sword surge through him. With a mighty kick he splintered the doors, breaking them from their hinges and sending them twisting inward, falling to the ground with a thunderous clatter. A throne room lay before Cyrus, small of scale, with eight ranks of soldiers, twenty across, shoulder-to-shoulder, standing in his way. These were wearing plate mail, he noticed, as he stared at them, unimpressed.

“I’m here for Baron Hoygraf,” Cyrus said, and pointed his sword at the unmoving statues, their armor giving them the appearance of being posed. “Anyone who doesn’t want to experience unspeakable pain, move out of my way.”

The soldiers remained, their steel armor locked in place, their spears lowered, shields side by side in an impenetrable wall. Cyrus let out an annoyed sigh. “Perhaps you’re laboring under the impression I’m going to charge you down. I’m not. Although if I did, I assure you that your spears and shields are of no concern to me. Are any of you going to surrender? We breached your castle in minutes and have killed every one of the guards you’ve sent at us thus far. Does that not frighten you? Do you not feel a twinge of uncertainty that such an impossible thing could happen?” He watched them, looking for some sign of emotion, but their helms concealed any thoughts they might have had. “Very well then. Just remember, you chose unspeakable pain, not me.”

A strange twinkling of light filled the room. “J’anda?” Cyrus asked. “You gonna be okay?”

“There are rather a lot of them,” the enchanter said, his voice strained. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t talk; I’d like to get this over with.”

“That’s what she said.” Terian’s voice was low but amused and Cyrus caught a glint of humor from the dark knight when he said it. “And by she, I mean Nyad.”

“Oh, yes, I see, very funny,” Nyad said from behind them. “Because I’m a woman who enjoys sexual relations, I must be a horrible, disgusting person. You’re just jealous, you syphilitic, whore-mongering nightmare.”

The lights cascaded in front of the soldiers, and Cyrus saw reflections of eyes inside their helmets, watched the first few of them slacken, the points of their spears drifting downward. “What is that?” he heard one of the soldiers in the back ask, but no one answered.

Then the front rank of the soldiers dropped their shields as one with a great clatter that rang through the hall. They turned in a single motion, raised their spears, and thrust them forward. Cyrus watched as they hit home, in the joints of armor, through gorgets and into necks, and there was shouting as the first three rows of the formation turned on the next, and a melee commenced as the soldiers of Green Hill tried their best to kill one another. Cyrus saw one of the armored soldiers slip a sword under the breastplate of another, watched two others decapitate a third, and he felt a slight smile creep across his face.

“They’ll do this until they’re dead,” J’anda said, and Cyrus looked back to find the enchanter with his eyes closed. “I only needed less than half under my direct control—the others I simply made blind to our presence.”

“Can you maintain this?” Cyrus asked.

“At least until they’re all dead, yes,” J’anda replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Go forth and give my regards to the Baron when you meet him.”

“I’m gonna stick a sword up his ass,” Terian said. “Is that what you mean by regards?”

“Good enough,” J’anda said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

Cyrus led the way, skirting the side of the battle, angling toward a hallway to the left of the red velvet padded wooden thrones that sat in the middle of the hall on a raised dais. He walked down the long, grey hallway, motioning to the rooms on either side and letting Terian and Longwell kick open the doors. He heard the screams of women, the cries of children, and then heard the doors shut and the footsteps of Terian and Longwell beside him again moments later.
Smells like fear.

He reached another commanding set of double wooden doors, with candles lit on either side of the hallway to offset the darkness that had crept in after he left the main hall. There were no windows and the hall came to an end up ahead. Cyrus turned at the door, pushed on it, and found it barred. “This is it,” he said. “Hoygraf lives until we have a conversation.” Cyrus saw Scuddar push past Nyad and Ryin to join them. “Scuddar, I take it the army is in the castle?” The desert man nodded. “Are they seeing to the dungeons, then?” Another nod from Scuddar, who wore robes that stretched from his face to his feet,
an odd bit of attire for one who uses a sword, but then Scuddar is something of a rarity.
“All right.”

With another thunderous kick, Cyrus broke down the doors in front of him and let Martaina and Aisling sweep past, their bows already firing. Arrows caught two sentries unprepared; Martaina’s landed in the neck of her foe, Aisling’s once more in the groin. Other guards were arrayed around the room and began to move to engage the Sanctuary force. Cyrus swept two of them aside with a strike that broke their swords neatly in half. Scuddar, Longwell and Curatio took down enemies of their own, and Cyrus saw a bolt of lightning streak through the air and wrap around three guards surrounding another man who huddled at the back of the room.

The one who wasn’t hit by the lightning was clearly standing apart from the others. He wore a red cloak with a fur collar, and his clothing was more sophisticated than most of what Cyrus had seen in Termina or even Pharesia. His hair was black, his face was pale, pale white and his beard was scraggly and black. When he came up from his knees after watching his men downed by Ryin’s lightning spell, there was visible anger etched on his face and a fury in his pale blue eyes.

“Halt!” The man called out, his voice carrying no sign of strain and in a tone that led Cyrus to believe he had never once been disobeyed—
at least not without the perpetrator going unscathed
.

Cyrus reached out and cut down one of the guards that had halted at the man’s command, then another, and another. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, when the man turned his furious eyes on Cyrus, “I didn’t listen when you told me to turn back, Baron Hoygraf. I didn’t listen when you said you’d kill my people. Do you really expect me to stop now?” Cyrus thrust Praelior through the last of the standing guards, sliding the blade through the guard’s chest and the breastplate he wore as though it weren’t even there.

“But in fairness,” Cyrus said, advancing on Hoygraf, who backed into a wooden hutch, causing the contents inside to clatter like glass, “you didn’t listen to me either. I told you that I would destroy your keep, kill all your men, and give you a painful end if you didn’t return my people, and now here we are, and I’ve nearly kept my word.” There was a bustle behind him and Cyrus turned to see two of his army shoving their way into the room, dragging a haggard figure along with them. “Oh, good, my old friend Olivere.” Cyrus looked at the Sanctuary warriors. “I take it you cleared the dungeons and turned loose our compatriots?” One of the warriors nodded, his crooked front teeth bared in a smile. “Were they similarly harmed like Calene?” The smile of the Sanctuary warrior disappeared, replaced with a scowl that made the crooked front teeth look much more intimidating.

“See, you shouldn’t have done that.” Cyrus turned back to Hoygraf. “Terian? Would you kindly make Olivere aware of the gravity of his liege’s mistakes?”

“With utmost pleasure,” Terian said, and Cyrus could hear the grin in the dark knight’s words without turning to look at him. A moment later, Olivere screamed, even though Terian hadn’t taken so much as a step toward the man. A smell emanated around them, of pestilence and illness, the rancid stench of boils opening to the air. The scream continued, growing in pitch, and Cyrus watched the hard lines on Hoygraf’s face dissolve, his eyes going from narrow to wide as he watched Terian’s spell take effect on his envoy. Hoygraf’s jaw dropped, and the Baron let out a little exhalation of horror.

“Oh, Baron,” Cyrus said. “You tortured and beat our people, had your soldiers do unspeakable things, but a little spell makes you wilt like a flower on the hottest day of summer?” The stench worsened as Cyrus circled Hoygraf, and watched the Baron turn away. Cyrus looked to Olivere, who was now covered in burst, bleeding pustules and writhing on the ground. “That’s right, I forgot. You don’t have spellcasters in Luukessia. But we came from over the bridge, so you had to know it was a possibility that you were up against something of this sort.”

“Illusions and trickery.” Little flecks of spittle came from Hoygraf’s lips when he made his reply. “Your sort is the worst of demons and devils, the curses of all manner of evil that comes from your side of the bridge. You don’t belong over here, in this blessed land of our ancestors, you filth.”

Cyrus felt his hand drift forward, the tip of his sword pressing into the throat of the Baron. “Filth? You call us filth yet you had no issue with brutalizing our women rangers when you captured them.”

“Women need to know their place, and if they wish to stand in the line of battle next to the men, then they should know the injury of—”

“Dear gods, just shut up,” Cyrus said, pressing Praelior’s tip into the Baron’s neck, causing blood to run down his throat in a thick line. “You disgusting, wicked pile of shite, you’re lucky I don’t give you similar injury to theirs with my sword.”

“You unnatural beasts,” Hoygraf said. “King Milos Tiernan marches this way as we speak—”

“And when he gets here, he’ll find us gone,” Cyrus said. “If he’s lucky, he won’t meet us in battle, because I think—and you might agree with me—my army is going to be too much for him to handle. We have wizards, druids, healers and enchanters, and every last one of them will be turned loose to wreak havoc. All we want is to pass through your lands, and every day you asses make me waste here is another day I’m going to make your lives miserable. Your best bet is to let us go on, so we can stop making your lives miserable and start doing the same to Briyce Unger, who I’m told is no friend of yours.”

“He is not,” Hoygraf spat. “But do not think you will be allowed to simply walk through our territory uncontested—”

Cyrus pulled his sword from Hoygraf’s neck and stabbed it into the Baron’s stomach, burying it in his guts. Hoygraf screamed, grunted, and moaned, falling to his knees. Cyrus took care to keep the sword steady as the Baron fell, not letting the blade move. “Let me make this clear to you. You are impotent against us. Your army, even if it numbers ten thousand, will fall before our magical wickedness like wheat falls to the reaper. Your threats against us possess all the efficacy of a castrated bull trying to mate and none of the grace. And speaking of castrated …” Cyrus let his eyes fall down, drawing a look of panic from the Baron. “Kidding. That’s too easy for you.”

Cyrus looked back to Terian, who had Olivere by the collar. The envoy’s eyes bulged from his head and he was still. “I think he’s dead, Terian. You can drop him now.”

“Oh?” Terian looked down, let Olivere drop to the floor, then turned back to Hoygraf. “Then this is the last of their kind left alive in the castle. How shall we finish him?”

“We don’t.” Cyrus motioned toward the door, and he heard the others begin to move toward it. Cyrus stood and let the blade of his sword slip from the Baron’s abdomen. “I’ve heard a stomach wound is the most painful way a man can die. I took care to make sure I didn’t go too close to the bottom or the top, just right in the middle.” He craned his neck to look down at Hoygraf. “I think I got it about right. It’ll probably take you a few days to die from that, and it’s not going to be much fun while you’re doing it.

“So we’re just going to leave you here,” Cyrus said, backing away from Hoygraf. “I think you’ll have enough time to communicate to your King what I’ve said to you, but just in case, I’ll have Longwell leave a note.” He nodded at Longwell, who blinked and began to look around for parchment. “I’d give you a long sermon about how raping is wrong and how attacking strangers who have done you no harm is unkind, but frankly,” Cyrus said with a sneer, “you’ll be dead, so I think the lesson will be irrelevant to you. Besides, your impregnable castle has been breached and all your soldiers have been killed. We’ll be escorting your women and children to the town down the hill where they can wait for your army before we burn this place to the ground. I think that everyone who could benefit from the lesson will have learned it.” He nodded. “Best of luck, Hoygraf.” He met the Baron’s wide, pained eyes. “Enjoy your slow, agonizing death.”

Cyrus stood and turned to find that all but Terian and Longwell had left the chamber. He looked to Longwell first. “Write something that reflects my threat that if they interfere with our crossing, we’ll burn every holdfast between here and Galbadien. If they leave us be, we’ll be out of their lands in a month or so—and their villages will be all the richer for our passing.”

Longwell nodded. “I’ll try and be diplomatic about it, but I’ll come up with something in that vein.”

“Diplomatic?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve left the Baron gutted in his own castle. The moment for diplomacy has passed. Make it a threat, make it obvious, and let the King know that the consequences for failing to follow my directive will be the absolute destruction of his entire Kingdom. I will leave a swath of scorched earth ten miles wide as I exit this land, and if Milos Tiernan wants that on his head, so be it.” Cyrus turned and started for the door, but Terian caught his eye, causing him to stop.