Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (72 page)

“I’ve heard he’s not even the same since I left,” Longwell said. “He dwells in his chambers, doesn’t see anyone for days at a time, that not even the maidens they send him can lift his spirits for more than an hour or so at a go. He’s fearful, all right, though I didn’t see it when we quarreled before I left. He argued me right out of Vernadam, without so much as a notice that it might be anything other than petty anger driving him.”

“A father and a son arguing?” J’anda said with a quiet chuckle. “Hard to believe.”

“Oh, yes,” Longwell said. “There was stubborn pride on display enough to choke the both of us. He rooted in his conviction, and I in mine.”

“What did you argue about?” Curatio asked, ever the sage, implacable, all-knowing.

Longwell thought about it, and Cyrus watched the dragoon’s face as it squinted in consideration. “I don’t rightly know,” Longwell said. “It seemed of vital importance at the time, some minor trifle about how the army ran that felt like the most important thing in the world, but upon reflection …” Longwell let out a quiet, mirthless laugh, “I’ll be damned if I can remember.”

“Pettiness is hardly an exclusively human trait,” Curatio said. “I recall—just barely, you understand—arguing with my own father. Though obviously this was some time ago.”

“How did your father die, Curatio?” Cyrus asked.

The healer stared into space, his face blank. “It was a long time ago.”

“Does that mean you don’t recall?” Longwell asked, his attention turned to the elf. “Or that you don’t want to?”

Curatio didn’t change expression, and continued to stare straight ahead. “It was a long time ago.”

“It would appear we’ve brought some of Alaric’s ‘vague and mysterious’ along with us to this new land,” J’anda said, prompting a chuckle from Longwell, and even a smile from Curatio, one that lasted far past all the other smiles at the table.

That night, when Cyrus lay down in his bed, the sounds of the inn alive around him, he tried not to think about what was to come. There was a fire in the hearth beside him, and the Syloreans were still drinking downstairs and telling stories, though Milos Tiernan and his few aides had left even before Cyrus and his party had called it a night. There was a quiet creaking as Cyrus shifted in the bed, which was old and made a corresponding amount of noise every time he moved in it. It gave a squeak of protest, the wood in the old frame taking umbrage to his motion on top of the thin mattress. There was still the smell of chicken in the air, and the aroma of the pickled eggs that had been kept in a barrel in the corner which the innkeep left open all night, as though the smell were of no consideration. The smoke of the fire did all it could to overcome it, yet still failed. The nub of a feather was sticking out of the mattress and poking into Cyrus’s back, and when he shifted, another took its place.

There was a very quiet sound of a door opening, and a thin shaft of light flooded into the room, running across his bed for only a second before a shadow blocked it, then one more second before the door closed quietly again. He saw the figure, unmistakable in her curves and careful, quiet walk. “Aisling?” he whispered, and he felt a finger cross his lips as she silently slipped into the bed.

Her lips pressed onto to his, and the swarm of thoughts in his mind faded blissfully. The bed frame continued to squeak, building to a fever pitch of motion, and then subsided. She left as quietly as she came in, and once she was gone, his thoughts plagued him no more.

Vara

Day 18 of the Siege of Sanctuary

The alarms sounded in the middle of the night, along with the customary calls of “Alarum! Alarum!” that set her teeth to rattling.
Why call out the elongated version of the damned word? Why not just say “alarm” and be done with it?

She had slept once more in her armor and was down the stairs quickly enough to avoid the pileup that had seemed to occur with every alarm of late. Her only consolation was knowing that the members were taking every attack seriously. Except perhaps now, in the dead of the night, the slowness of things coming to awakeness.
Of course they would attack us now, draw us out weary and exhausted after I’ve just spent another day preying on their convoys and shipments.
She let slip a feral smile.
I’d strike them that way, just the same. No mercy.

There were only two heralds in the foyer, two warriors shouting the alarm. Rather than correct them (
or slap them,
she thought uncharitably) she instead followed their outstretched hands, pointing to the front doors. She ran past the ranks of guards stationed around the portal in the foyer, swords, spears and axes pointed at the center of the room and she fled down the steps at a run, only a few others with her. She had heard the sounds up the stairwell and on the other floors as she passed them;
They’ll all be awake and turned out soon enough.

The night air was cool as she crossed the distance of the yard to the wall. The slap of her boots on the steps was lost to her breathing this time, steady, determined. She burst out onto the parapet and found a surprisingly quiet scene—a crowd of people circled down the wall a space, no one watching the fields below. She stole a glance over the edge, and by the light of the crescent moon she could see no army close by, no immediate threat, the grounds below still wafting the stench of the dead from the last battle, their bones now picked clean by the carrion birds, rats, worms, and maggots.

“What the bloody hell was that?” she asked as she shoulder checked her way through the crowd standing on the wall. Most moved aside when her voice was heard.
It is nice to know that some move aside not only because I am the shelas’akur but because I’m bound to knock them aside if they don’t.
She burst through into the open space on the other side of the wall and there found Alaric, standing with his arms folded next to Thad, surveying the scene.

There were a dozen bodies lying splattered atop the wall, all dark elves she could see by the complexion of the ruined flesh, every one of them in armor of some sort. One of them was obviously a dark knight, fully covered from head to toe in plate mail, a stream of blood oozing out of the cracks and clefts. “What the hell is this?” Vara asked again, and this time Alaric turned to face her, registering no surprise.

“Hello, lass,” the Ghost said. “It would appear that our enemies intended to launch a surprise attack to open our gates.”

“I presume it failed,” she said, kicking one of the bodies with her toe and finding it mushier than she expected.

“Indeed,” Thad said, his amusement unhidden. “They tried to use Falcon’s Essence to sneak over the wall a few hundred feet over our head. It worked, we didn’t even see them coming until they hit the magical barrier at the perimeter and it stripped the enchantment right off of them, sending them plummeting to their deaths.” He nodded over the wall toward the army in the distance. “My guess is that they’re watching the gate, wondering why it hasn’t opened yet. Could be a long night for the poor bastard behind those spyglasses.”

“It could be a long night for those of us who were rousted for an alarm when there is plainly nothing to be alarmed about yet,” she said, grinding her teeth together. “And also those of us who have an early morning sortie planned at daybreak.”

“Sorry,” Thad said with a shrug, “but it’s the standard response to a surprise attack. We should be on our guard for the next few hours in case they try and storm the gates anyway.”

Vara steamed for a moment, staring at the castellan in sheerest irritation. “You were at the Society of Arms in Reikonos, were you not?”

He blinked at her in surprise. “I was.”

“Then I presume you were no Swift Sword.”

Thad seemed to wobble as if not sure how to answer. “No, I was. I was most assuredly not one of the cursed Able Axes.”

“I certainly believe that you might be swift but not able, based on what I’ve seen of your performance this night,” Vara said bitingly. “I will be returning to my bed, and I trust
if
there is another alarm raised, it will be done only when an actual dark elf threat, complete with a still-beating hearts, is imminent.”

Thad started to protest but was overcome by Alaric. “Do have a good night, Lady Vara.”

“Lady Vara?” she spun at the Ghost of Sanctuary. “And shall I begin addressing you as Lord Garaunt?”

Alaric’s gaze was steady and even, though there was a wearier bent to the man, she thought. “You may address me however you see fit, within the bounds of our mutual respect for each other.” He favored her with a smile that was shot through with fatigue but made no move to return to Sanctuary or his own bed, and after a moment of watching him, she turned and made her way back inside, threading through the steady flow of people that were coming to join in the defense of their home.

Cyrus

They were formed up in a line along the plain, north of the village he had heard the others refer to as Filsharron. It was at least two miles north of the place they had been staying in for the past few nights, the humble inn with the squeaking bed and the rapidly diminishing supply of pickled eggs. Cyrus could still taste one of them on his beard, a messy thing, and filled with the foulness of vinegar, nothing like the fresh ones he was accustomed to at Sanctuary. The line was surprisingly quiet, the anticipation running across the men in it. Cyrus was at the fore, and the Sanctuary forces were stacked four deep in rows behind him. The spellcasters were behind that in a loose formation, and to his right, at the end of the Sanctuary line, was the ragged, motley assortment of the men and armies of Syloreas. To the left was the more neatly ordered rows of Actaluere’s forces, Milos Tiernan at the head with a few of his aides.

“Tiernan doesn’t seem the sort that would lead his army into battle,” Cyrus heard a rumbling voice say from behind him. He turned and saw Partus at the front of the line, his head well below the next person in the row.

“Appearances can be deceiving, I’m told,” Cyrus said with a slight barb to his voice. He watched Partus fail to react and tried to decide whether the dwarf had missed the point or was merely uninterested in it.

“He doesn’t look like he’s led a battle from the front in his entire life,” Partus said after Cyrus turned around. “Looks like he’s enjoyed life at the back of the fray—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’d gladly take ruling a Kingdom over tangling with an army any day.”

Cyrus tilted his head to look at the dwarf, which was easier since they remained on foot, all the horses well to the rear of the battle lines save for cavalry reserves on either flank. Longwell, Cyrus knew, was with the Syloreans, and had taught them a few basic maneuvers in the last few days to increase their effectiveness in battle ahorse. “Why are you still here, Partus? Did we turn you loose or something?”

“Aye, Curatio cut me a deal,” Partus said, turning to loose a great wad of spit upon the dusty ground. “I’m to take part in this fight, and I can come back to Arkaria with the rest of you lot when it’s all over and done.”

“Couldn’t you just have gone back to Arkaria on your own, over the bridge?” Cyrus asked.

“And walk months to get there, then have to travel five days over the bridge on foot and gods knows how many months after that just to make my way to the nearest settlement? I think I’d rather take my chances with you lot and these beasties. After all, I’ve seen what they can do and we’re coming at them with a shite ton of men and swords.” Partus hefted his hammer. “I like our odds better than I like the idea of the walk.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Of course, you care about what happens to this land and it’s people too, right?” He said it with all due sarcasm.

“I could give a pickled fig what happens to this land and its people,” Partus said with another great slop of brown spit; Cyrus realized now that it was filled with tobacco juice. “I’ve seen enough of Luukessia to choke me out for seven lifetimes. I’ll be heading back to the Dwarven Alliance after this, perhaps hire on as a mercenary to take up some nice, quiet picket duty watching the humans go about their business in the Northlands from atop a hill, or guarding the caverns and streets of Fertiss against drunken mischief-makers. All I want to do is get drunk every night on wine and ale, find myself in a bed with a woman every morning and work as little as possible at making a living.”

“You’re really quite the inspiration,” Cyrus said, and turned back to the northern horizon.

“I don’t see you sticking your neck out here under the axeman’s blade any longer than you have to,” the dwarf replied. “Or am I wrong and you’ll just hang around here being jolly in the hinterlands with these tribes of squabbling men and children who sit around the campfires at night trying to engineer up new ways to fornicate with their animals.”

“I don’t see them fornicating with animals,” Cyrus said, “but perhaps I spend my time in different places than you do.”

“This whole land reeks of backwardness,” Partus went on, undeterred by Cyrus’s jibe. “Their women are like property, they’ve got no magical ability at all, not enough to cast a light in early evening, and their finest hovels don’t even possess running water.” Another gob of spit made the same squirting noise, though this time Cyrus didn’t watch it. “This was a good lesson, thinking that things couldn’t get any worse than they had for me in Arkaria before I left; they can. They did. And I can’t bloody wait to get back.”

“You’re a charming fellow, Partus, don’t let anyone tell you differently,” Cyrus said and strode off down the front line, away from the dwarf. He didn’t say anything until he reached Odellan, who stood at ease but still more at attention than most of the men around him. “What do you say, Odellan? Are we ready?”

“Having not seen what you’ve seen about these enemies,” Odellan said, a little stiffly at first, “I don’t quite know what to expect. That said, I’m confident that we’re more up to the challenge than our companions from Syloreas and Actaluere.”