Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (19 page)

They came to the main square of the city and halted, Odau holding up a hand to stop them. “This is where we leave your army. Our men are already working to clear accommodations for them, and they’ll be working at it for some time. However, the lodgings for your officers are ready at the castle, and we have food and drink waiting for you. If you’d care to join me—”

“Give me a moment,” Cyrus said and turned Windrider around. “Odellan,” Cyrus said, and the elf made his way through the horse ranks to him. “You’ll see to the army and make certain everyone gets food and lodging?”

“Aye, sir,” Odellan said. “You can count on me; I’ll not rest until they’re taken care of, every one.”

“Tell them to have fun,” Cyrus said, “but make certain they understand that they’ll need to keep themselves in line. I have no problems with them enjoying whatever sort of recreation they can find—honorably, of course—but I want no angry complaints from the local populace. That means keep the drinking to a manageable level, and make sure they’re all in bed at a reasonable hour. We’ll likely be marching by midday tomorrow, so let them know that.”

Odellan hesitated, the slightest grimace on his face. “You don’t wish to address the troops yourself, sir?”

Cyrus looked around the square; the noise was already overwhelming, and the army was strung out along the narrow boulevard halfway back to the town limits. “This isn’t the best place for a speech, and I doubt they’d hear much of it anyway. Make sure they understand. I’m going to talk with the King and see if we can hammer out a strategy to beat this army that’s coming.”

“Aye, sir,” Odellan said. “It will be as you say.”

“I never doubted it for a minute,” Cyrus said, bringing his horse around and looking to Odau. “How many of my officers does your King expect for this feast?”

“We could house several hundred comfortably,” Odau said with a pleasant smile. “However, his Grace expects you would have twenty or so officers to lead your troops.”

“I’m going to define officer a little more broadly then.” He turned to look at the force on horseback behind him. “Ryin, Nyad, Curatio, Terian, J’anda—Longwell, of course—I’ll also have the Baroness, Martaina and Aisling come with us.” He glanced through their ranks and saw Mendicant sitting on his small pony next to the massive desert man, Scuddar In’shara. “Mendicant and Scuddar, too.”

Mendicant, only about four feet tall, pointed a clawed finger at himself, and Cyrus saw his mouth open, sharp teeth visible within, though he only saw the goblin mouth the word, “Me?”

Aisling guided her horse from behind Odellan. “Why me?”

Cyrus shrugged, but his eyes never left hers. “I have my reasons. For all of you.” He looked around. “All here?” He tossed a glance back to Odau. “Lead on.”

There was a short road to the gates of the castle. The curtain wall took advantage of the steep slopes around the hill it was built upon—Cyrus estimated that a siege would be well nigh impossible by traditional means, as the only easy approach was up the winding path to the main gate. “It seems to me,” he said to Odau, “your King could simply close up his wall and wait for this Briyce Unger to get bored of standing at the bottom of his hill, trying to rally forces to crash his gate. He’d never have to surrender if he didn’t care to.”

“Aye,” Odau Genner said with a slow nod, “and the King might do that, yet. But his Kingdom would be lost, nonetheless, as with no one to defend the smallfolk, Briyce Unger could control every city without ever taking Vernadam.” Odau smiled, but it was a bitter one. “If one controls all of a Kingdom but for the castle that governed it, has one not conquered that Kingdom?”

They made their way up the twisted path and Cyrus noted the curves and at least one unnecessary switchback in its construction—undoubtedly designed to make siege more difficult. He looked up at the stone behemoth that stretched into the sky above him and marveled at the single-minded effort it must have taken to construct such a gargantuan fortress.
How many slaves worked how many years to do this? Or was it simple workmen? Either way, this is nothing short of astounding; it’s a wonder.

Smooth walls gave way to ramparts that jutted out over the hillside below like an uneven lip sticks out from a face.
From the ramparts they can shower boiling oil or arrows onto anyone who tries to climb the hill.
The stone was all grey, dull, with some blocks taller than he and wider than three men laid end to end.
Where did they quarry all that stone? And how did they get it here?

“Why did you pick me to come?” Cyrus looked over in surprise to see Aisling looking at him. He had not heard her ride up, so busy had he been staring at the castle. “I’m hardly an officer—or even one of your favorite people, of late.” She frowned. “Or ever.”

“I have no quarrel with you, Aisling,” he said. “You have a unique perspective, and I’d be a fool to ignore it.”

He watched her deflate slightly. “If my point of view is what you seek from me, then I will do my best not to fail you in that regard.”

“Perhaps it’s not all I seek,” Cyrus said, smiling, then urged Windrider forward, “but it’s all I have time for at the moment.” He looked back to see her looking at him cautiously but with slight wonderment.

The path straightened as they reached the gate, guiding their horses under the portcullis to follow Odau Genner. Once through it, Cyrus found himself in a massive courtyard, twice the size of the entire castle at Green Hill. He could smell the stables to one side, saw the activity bustling ahead in the entrance to the keep, where a procession was already making its way down the steps to greet them.

Guards stood at attention in columns down either side of the steps, arranged to face the stairway. The procession came down, and at the head stood a man with the same build as Longwell—muscular, tall, dark haired, though grey was present, frosted in a patch on the top of his head. Cyrus saw no crown, though the cloak he wore was of finest velvet. He was flanked by ten men, all in armor like Longwell’s, every one of them wearing the surcoat with the black lion on the front.

Cyrus followed Odau Genner across the courtyard, and he felt the Baroness brush against his side. He glanced at her and saw her look back, a nervous smile flitting across her face. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re here as part of my army.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have no ability with sword or shield or bow, nor any of the magical powers that many in your army possess.” She looked down at herself and then back at him. “I look nothing like the women of your army.”

“And yet you are, nonetheless,” he said cheerfully. “So worry not.”

“Why have you asked me to come along with you to the castle, rather than being lodged in town with the rest of your people?” Her voice betrayed the worry that her face concealed, along with something else, something more hopeful.

“You know the people of Luukessia,” Cyrus said, whispering to her as they followed Genner toward the steps. “You have been the enemy of Galbadien for all your years. I’d be a fool to have you along and not ask your opinion of these men.”

“Don’t you trust these total strangers?” she asked, almost mocking.

“As a rule, I trust no strangers.”

“But isn’t this King the father of your man Longwell?” She regarded him carefully. “You trust him, do you not?”

“I do,” Cyrus said. “Samwen Longwell is a man of honor. But he left this Kingdom for good reason, and he has yet to tell me what it is … so I keep my suspicions, and I keep watch.”

“A sound plan,” she whispered back. “But if I may be so bold as to make an observation …” she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, waiting for him to give her a subtle nod before she continued. “I am nearly a stranger to you. Do you trust me?”

“Mmmm,” Cyrus let out a deep, guttural sound that reminded him of a purr. In his head, it was a simple stalling tactic, as he tried to find a way to phrase his reply so as not to offend her. “Not entirely,” he said at last, drawing a small smile of response from her. “But neither do I distrust you.”

The smile was cool, but her green eyes danced and gave life to it. “When it comes to the confidences of ‘Cyrus the Unbroken,’ I suppose I shall take what I can get, when I can get it.” They arrived at the King before Cyrus could make his reply. “If you introduce me, remember to call me Cattrine,” the Baroness said in a last whisper, drawing a smile. “Better not to tell them from whence I come.”

“Your accent is rather distinctive,” Cyrus mumbled as Odau Genner filled the air with a formal and lengthy announcement of the arrival of the Sanctuary officers.

“I can fix that,” the Baroness said, sotto voce, her words now carrying the smooth, flat cadences of a Reikonosian born.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “How did you do that?”

She kept her eyes forward, on the King. “I’ve been listening to you.”

“May I introduce Cyrus Davidon,” Odau Genner said, “General of the army of Sanctuary.”

Cyrus bowed low to the King, who, upon closer inspection, was thinner and more gaunt than Longwell. His eyes were slightly sunken and his flesh had settled oddly upon his bones, as though his build had once been powerful and was now diminished, the excess skin loose and ill at ease on his frame. The only exception was his belly, which was distended and paunchy, hanging over his belt.

“My cherished son,” the King said, opening his arms wide to Longwell, who followed a pace behind Cyrus. The King’s gaunt features lifted in a smile. “You have returned to us in Galbadien’s darkest hour, and at the head of your own army from the west. This is more than I could have imagined was possible when last we parted.”

Cyrus looked back to Longwell, who stood stock still, a pained smile pasted on his features. “Father,” he said before making his way forward to embrace the man.

Cyrus watched, noting the dragoon’s slow movement, the uncomfortable shuffle as he went to hug his father, as they fumbled to place hands, and a thought ran across the warrior’s mind—
Do they even know each other?
After a moment, father and son parted, and as they withdrew, Cyrus noted the awkward space between them that lingered, even as the King put his hand upon his son’s shoulder and tried to draw him close. Samwen went along with it, but the dragoon remained tensed.

“Greetings to all of you,” the King said with the same, wide smile. “I welcome you as friends of my son and thank you for coming to the service of our Kingdom in this hour of need.” His arms were spread in welcome, but his right hand remained on his son’s shoulder, resting there, drawing Cyrus’s attention from the King’s words to his face. “If my son trusts you as allies and compatriots, you must surely be of the finest quality, and I look forward to getting to know you as we break bread together.” He extended the hand that wasn’t on Longwell’s shoulder and gestured to the stairs and the open doors above them. “Come, my friends, and let us welcome you to the halls of Vernadam.”

The King turned and began to make his way up the stairs, adjusting his hands so that he could wrap an arm around his son’s shoulder and pull him close. Cyrus watched the King whisper to Samwen, unmistakable pride and emotion on the elder man’s face.

“Does something seem a little odd there?” Cattrine asked him quietly.

“I didn’t want to be the first to say it, but yes,” Cyrus said, keeping his voice to a whisper. “We should probably wait to talk about it until later.”

Cyrus followed, leading his party up the stairs. The door to the keep was an arched portal fifteen feet tall with wide, solid wooden doors, which were opened by the guards. They swung inward in a wide arc, and as Cyrus passed through them with the Baroness at his side, he caught a glimpse of others behind them, helping to pull them open. A grand hall lay ahead, with another staircase that led to a large landing that split in twain; the steps then veered left and right, to a balcony that wrapped around the entry foyer.

Cyrus paused on the marble tiles. They were checkered in black and white squares, with a craftsmanship that he hadn’t seen outside of the Elven Kingdom. He looked at the Baroness but she remained cool; the palatial appearance of the keep was deeply at odds with Green Hill or any of the other keeps he had seen in all his days.

The King continued onward to a room to their left. Double doors, smaller than the entry, swung open at the hands of a servant and Cyrus found himself in a formal dining room. The checkered marble floor gave way entirely to white tiles, and a long dining table stretched the length of the room, culminating in a chair that was taller and more ornate than any of the others. “I’ll bet you a gold coin that’s where the King sits,” he whispered to the Baroness.

“Not only is that a poor bet, but since someone sacked my home, I find I have no coins with which to gamble.”

“Did I hear a note of complaint?” Cyrus asked as his eyes roamed the room.

“About losing my husband? Never,” she said. “I do, however, wish I had been allowed to keep his fortune.” She sighed. “It was hardly worth the trade, but if I could have had his money and been rid of him, I believe I might have been able to find some measure of happiness.” She frowned. “Damn this land and their thorough dislike of women with any strength at all.”

“I agree,” Cyrus said. “You should find somewhere that they can appreciate you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me?”

“In this case, no.” His eyes tracked around the room. “I might later, though, so be on your guard.”

The balcony from the foyer extended into the dining hall, and a hearth sat behind the King’s chair, though it was not in use. Paintings of knights, ladies, scenes from nature, and of castles dominated the decor. The walls were comprised of a faint white plaster, apparently spackled over the natural stone walls of the keep. The whole thing gave the room a more comfortable look to Cyrus’s eyes, reminding him of the houses in Reikonos, wood structures, rather than the rock and stone that made some keeps feel like dim caves.

The smell of fresh-baked dough filled the room, along with other scents that he couldn’t quite place. He thought he caught a hint of fish cooking, but it mingled with the smell of other meats and perhaps some vegetables as well. He heard a clatter in the next room and realized that it must be the kitchens. A door swung open and then closed again, confirming his suspicion as a line of servants walked into the room in perfect step, snaking their way around the table, each standing behind a chair. Cyrus lingered in the doorway as he watched the King make his way to the head seat and point his son to the chair to his right. The King stopped before sitting down and beckoned to Cyrus to come sit on his left. Cyrus exchanged a short look with the Baroness and came forward, placing himself in the seat that the King had indicated.