Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (24 page)

“The battle’s going to be tonight,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the Sanctuary members gathered at the gate to follow him. “We’re meeting the count and his men in the village?” Cyrus waited until Longwell nodded at him, then started out of the gate and turned back to Terian, who was on one side of him while Martaina had taken up the other flank. “And, yes, it will be fine,” he said, catching a glimpse of Aisling riding close to Mendicant, as far away from him as possible while remaining in the knot of Sanctuary forces. “I’m particularly looking forward to swinging my sword around; it’s been a while.”

Martaina snickered and looked at him, amusement on her features. “Interesting choice of words. I’m surprised you have enough energy to swing a sword after all the time you spent … wagon racing with the Baroness on your bed last night.”

Terian straightened. “Wagon racing? Is that supposed to mean something?” His brow furrowed. “Did you rut with her last night, Cyrus?”

Cyrus felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “A gentleman never tells.”

“That’d maybe be of concern to me if I’d asked a gentleman, but instead I asked
you
. Did she bring the dagger to bed? Because after Vara, I can see that being the sort of thing you’d be into, pain and whatnot.”

“I didn’t hear a dagger come into play,” Martaina said. “Although it may have on the fourth time; there was so much squealing it sounded like they were having a livestock auction in there.”

“Aren’t you bound by an oath of silence or something?” Cyrus asked.

“My gods, Cyrus,” Terian said. “I knew you’d been deprived of female company all these years, but—four times? Have you not been taking matters into your own hands?” He looked down. “I suppose the gauntlets make it somewhat colder, but—” Terian shifted his gaze to look at Martaina, “Four times? You’re not exaggerating?”

The elven ranger smirked and held up her hand, the four fingers extended, and she nodded.

“I guess it’s too much, asking an elven woman to be quiet,” Cyrus said, glaring at Martaina.

“I didn’t
say
it,” Martaina replied, her eyebrow raised. “And it sounds like you might be picking up some local color, sir—like their attitude toward women.”

“Not true,” Cyrus said. “I made sure my partner crossed the finish line each time. I even let her ride on top of the wagon once.”

Terian smirked at him. “So is this the end of the dour and sour Cyrus? Have we finally banished the thoughts of Queen Frostheart to the nether realms of Mortus’s tower?” Terian’s smirk turned into a frown. “Or wherever that giant oddity went when he died.”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said soberly, the thoughts of the blond-haired elf returning for the first time that day, “but I think we’re on our way.”

“Good,” Terian said, “because you were really insufferable—boring and whatnot—for the last couple months.” The dark knight smiled, but there was a malicious edge in his voice. “I felt bad for you. Honestly, it made me a little sick inside. I almost felt like if you died, it’d be a mercy killing.”

“It might have been,” Cyrus said. “But we’re moving past that now. And this is no time to think about … her.” He blinked. “Actually, either of them, for now. I need to focus on this battle. After that … I guess we’ll see.”

“What happens after that?” Martaina asked.

“If we crush the Sylorean army, I suppose we go home,” Cyrus said. “If we just splinter them, we’ll probably have to pursue them north for a while, help break them so this doesn’t happen again in the near future.”

“And if we lose?” Terian’s smirk had returned.

“Then I suspect we’ll have bigger problems to worry about than whether I’m over Vara,” Cyrus said with a smile of his own.

“Dealing with the odd smell that hangs on my chainmail is a bigger concern to me than whether you’ve embraced sanity and returned to the realm of normal womenfolk,” Terian said. “But all the same, you were one sour bastard after she twisted on you.”

“Look out there,” Martaina said, pointing her finger down the hill, past the town. The army of Sanctuary was assembled in the streets, already facing in the direction they were set to march. Beyond them, out in the fields, another army waited. On one side of the pasture were thousands of men on foot, at least five-fold what Sanctuary had. Across the field, and not nearly so well ordered, were thousands more on horseback; so many that Cyrus could not hope to reasonably count them all.

“Where the hell were those guys when we came into town yesterday?” Terian asked.

“I’m guessing they were set up to the north,” Cyrus said. “Probably positioned between where the enemy is coming from and Vernadam.”

Curatio rode up as they started around the switchback, heading down the path. The sky overhead had taken on some clouds, and the sun seemed to be trying to shine through them, but dimly. Cyrus caught a hint of dust as the wind blew across his face, the dry, earthy smell of dirt that came off the hill behind them.

“You ready?” Curatio said as he slowed his horse to ride next to Terian. “Head clear? Prepared for battle?”

“Quite so,” Cyrus said.

“And was the Baroness still aglow when you left her?” Curatio’s usual infectious smile had been curiously absent of late, but Cyrus saw the tug of it on the elf’s mouth, even as he looked straight ahead, giving Cyrus only a view of the healer’s profile.

“Been doing a little eavesdropping, Curatio?” Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at him.

“It wouldn’t take much eavesdropping to hear your conversation about ‘wagon rides,’ even if I hadn’t been quartered next door to you last night.”

They rode into the village. The army of Sanctuary was already assembled in formation, neatly ordered rows beginning at the square and leading all the way down the main avenue out of town. “I’ll need to talk with Odellan and Longwell as we’re riding,” Cyrus said as he rode down the street, the musk of animals filling the air around them, the hooves clopping. “No need to delay our departure, especially since it appears Count Ranson is already waiting for us.”

Cyrus rode down the line, the others falling in behind him, leading the procession past the rows of his army. He heard hundreds of greetings and acknowledgments of his presence, and smiled, trying to wave at as many of them as he could.

“You might want to cool it off with the excess enthusiasm,” Martaina stage whispered behind him. “You’re so damned happy this morning, they’re bound to wonder where their real general has gone.”

“I prefer going to war under the command of a testy general,” Terian said as Longwell and Odellan fell in behind them. “There’s something unseemly about storming into a fray of swords and arrows, blood and bile, with a guy who looks so damned happy.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and rode on, past the villagers lined up on both sides of the streets.
I wonder if they know how close their Kingdom is to defeat? I wonder if it matters?
His thoughts were dark as he rode to the end of the line and the edge of the village.
Where else could they go?

The steady sound of hoofbeats carried him forward as Cyrus led the procession out of town; ahead, Count Ranson waited on horseback with Odau Genner and a few of the other familiar faces he’d seen back at the castle.

“Good day, Lord Davidon,” Ranson said as they closed. “My army is assembled and ready to move.”

“Well, then,” Cyrus said, “let us not hesitate any longer.”

“As you are the leader of this force,” Ranson said, “you’ll be proceeding ahead of us, I trust?”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, and felt a stray droplet of rain splatter off his armor, touching his cheek as it splashed. “I trust Sir Longwell can guide us.”

“I’ll be accompanying you as well,” Odau Genner said with a nod, “if that’s all right with you, General.”

“Always room at the front of battle, less so at the rear,” Cyrus said, grinning at Genner in a manner that was not returned. He turned to the army following behind him. “All right, Sanctuary, let’s move out!”

The ride was long, and by sundown Cyrus was weary of the journey again. They passed into woods called the Forest of Waigh, and the ground become uneven around them as they followed a road north. The trees were bunched close together, moss hanging from the branches, blotting out the sky at the highest levels of the boughs. Raindrops still made their way through, however, and a steady drizzle kept the expedition cool as they made their march.

After the sun went down, the rain seemed to come in torrents, wave after wave of water sluicing down on them, reminding Cyrus of the time he’d been caught in a riverboat during a storm.

“Ha ha,” Terian crowed as Cyrus passed him after inspecting the wet and weary column. “Not quite so happy now, are you, Mr. I-Just-Experienced-The-Long-Forgotten-Thrill-Of-My-Crotch-Last-Night-And-Can’t-Wait-For-More!”

Cyrus ignored him and they plodded on through the gathering darkness. The storm went on into the night, a driving rain that threw sheets of water onto Cyrus’s armor, the heaviest downpour that they had experienced since arriving in Luukessia.

“Our pace has slowed,” Longwell said as he and Odellan rode next to Cyrus. “Unless the rain lets up soon, we won’t be on the Fields of Gareme until long after midnight.” The dragoon looked at Cyrus, almost cringing from the fury of the rain pounding his helm. “And we won’t be in a position to hit their army until after sunrise.”

Cyrus cursed. “I guess we should have left last night.”

“I’m certain they’ll have scouts, sir,” Longwell said. “They’ll see us long before we see them; we need lanterns to travel in this dark, but a single scout doesn’t.”

“We have pickets out as well,” Cyrus said. “If we’re lucky, perhaps they’ll catch any enemy scouts before they get close enough to spot us.”

“Doubtful, sir,” Odellan said, raising his voice over the pouring rain battering their armor. “A scout could pass within yards of us without us noticing, but they’re not likely to miss an entire army tromping by.”

“I feel obligated to warn you in advance, sir,” Longwell said, “the dragoons will not be nearly as effective fighting on the plains after this weather.”

“What?” Cyrus stared at Longwell, questioning.

“The rain will turn the fields into mud,” Longwell said. “The dragoons will be at poor advantage if the army of Syloreas holds true to their usual tactics and carries spears. In a full out charge, dragoons can break through lines of spears, though with some difficulty.” He grimaced, his eyes hidden in the shadow his helm cast over them. “In this, it becomes unlikely they will be able to.”

“Damn,” Cyrus said. “What about bowmen? Surely they must have some.”

“Bows are not nearly so well loved here as you’d find in Arkaria,” Longwell said with regret. “They are neither as accurate nor as useful at range, and as such we have archers, but you’d be in a much better position relying on the Sanctuary rangers to fulfill any role you’d have in mind for my father’s bowmen.”

“That’s to both our advantage and detriment, then,” Cyrus said. “At least we won’t have to advance under volleys of arrows, but it would be awfully nice to be able to shower them with a hail of them.”

“With the accuracy of our rangers,” Odellan said, “we could use our archers to target their officers, perhaps? And these magic-wielding mercenaries that are of such concern?”

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “And we’ll be turning loose some spellcasters of our own. I doubt that they have a wizard.” He smiled grimly. “That bodes ill for them.”

They rode on through the wet and the night, the rain coming down around them with all the fury of a sky’s rage turned loose upon the earth. The ground turned to mud, the sky became black, and the lamps that were carried by the army forced Cyrus and the others on horseback to ride alongside the column, straining to see in the dark as the water that fell through the trees above continued ever on.

“The troops are cold,” Odellan said, forcing Cyrus to turn around and look for the elf. He was a horse-length behind Cyrus, trying futilely to turn his face from the rain. “They could use a rest and they won’t be of much use to us in a fight if they arrive fatigued.”

Cyrus nodded. “Column, halt!” he called out, and heard his cry taken up by others down the stream of endless soldiers that vanished into the black behind him. Curatio and J’anda appeared out of the darkness on the other side of their troops, riding their horses to join Cyrus and Odellan.

“Can’t see a thing,” J’anda said, his hair soaked and his deep blue skin fading into the night. “The rain has cut our visibility to nothing.”

“Remember that time in the Realm of Darkness,” Cyrus said with a smile, “when Curatio lit up the sky?”

“I could do that here, I suppose,” the healer said with a wry smile, “but we’d be giving away our position to anyone with eyes; and I can’t be sure over the rain, but I suspect there’s enemies about.”

“There are,” Martaina said, riding up with Terian behind her. Cyrus saw something in her hands, a rope, and she tugged on it as her horse slowed, and Cyrus saw it trail to something dragged behind her, something cutting a wake through the mud on the path. “I caught this one hiding in the trees.”

Cyrus looked at the object at the end of the rope. It moaned, a low, plaintive cry, and he realized it was a muddy human, a man bound by the hands, stretched prone across the ground. He raised his face from where it had come to rest in the mud and groaned. Cyrus could see some blood dripping in the low light, mixing with the sopping wet dirt that coated him.

“Is he capable of speaking?” Cyrus asked.

“I can fix what ails him, if you’d like,” Curatio said.

“Please,” the man croaked. “Please … it hurts, so much.”

“Oh,” Martaina said and dismounted. She bent over the man and reached down. He screamed, a long, agonized howl, and she came back up with an arrow. “Almost forgot about this. I had to hobble him so he wouldn’t get away.” She scowled. “Tracking is a real bitch with all this rain washing away footprints.”

Cyrus guided Windrider over to the man, and peered down at his dirty face from horseback. It was impossible to see any detail of the man, only mud that covered his face and long hair. He appeared to be wearing a tattered cloak, and if his shirt and breeches had been new before Martaina dragged him along, it was now impossible to tell. “My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said. “Answer my questions and my healer will soothe all your pains.”