Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (79 page)

“Yes, well, I shan’t make that mistake again.”

There was a movement of the rock giant’s torso that was as expressive as one might expect from a creature who appeared to be made of living stone. “Why is it a mistake? You confessed your feelings for him, and he plainly felt the same for you. To make all these tiresome games, to accept, then to deny, then to reject him when you obviously still care, it’s all very disagreeable to the constitution.” Fortin clacked his jaw together and caused Vara to flinch from the noise of rock grinding on rock. “He was plain with you, but you can’t find it in yourself to be plain with him?”

“I was very plain with him,” Vara said quietly. “Plain enough with my intent, with my reasons. But that was between him and me, not him and me and the entire guild, which is why I don’t discuss it.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Fortin said with a heavy nodding motion, “fleshlings have their notions of privacy and decorum. Well, perhaps ‘forgot’ might be a strong word. ‘Chose not to remember because your ideas are silly and irrelevant’ better captures it, I’d say. If I were to act as coyly as you people do, I don’t think I would ever find a partner to raise hatchlings with.”

She blinked. “Is that how …?” There was a noise in the foyer, and Vara heard it, her ears perking up. “Something is amiss.”

“Come along,” Fortin said, but he was already running, the ground shaking under his feet with every shuddering step. When he hit the front steps, the sound became worse, the stone floor hitting against the rock giant’s bare skin, reminding Vara of the noise of bricks being slapped together. Fortin flung open the door and there stood the guard contingent, weapons pointing into the middle of the foyer as Vara slipped around Fortin’s leg when the rock giant stopped, giving her free view of the room.

The alarm was silent, no one speaking or calling out for any manner of assistance. Still, the swords remained down, the spears remained pointed. Standing at the middle of the room on the great seal was a goblin, Mendicant, his scaly skin reflecting in the torchlight and his bright robe catching her eye. Behind him was another figure, however, only a little taller than he, with a beard that was braided all the way down to his waist, and a hammer slung across his back.

“Well, damnation,” Belkan Stillhet said from his place beside a pillar, his sword held in his ancient hand.

“Or as near as one can get to seeing it from here,” came the voice of Alaric Garaunt, as a faint mist subsided in the corner next to Vara. She fell into step behind him as the Master of Sanctuary strode across the foyer toward the seal, gesturing to Mendicant, who was nervously looking around, to move away from the stranger in the middle of the room. “Partus,” Alaric said, staring down at the dwarf who remained indifferent, examining his surroundings as though they mattered little, “how unpleasant it is to see you again.”

“Well, Alaric,” Partus said from where he sat in the Council Chambers (in Cyrus’s seat, which he had selected entirely at random, and oh, how it chafed at her) “it would appear you’re in a bit of a bind here.” Vara kept her eyes fixed on the dwarf as he spoke.
It’s as though I fear to take them off him, as though I suspect he would begin stealing things were I to stop watching him for a moment.
She ran her tongue over her teeth nervously.
For all know, he might do just that.

“So it would seem,” Alaric said, looking over his steepled fingers at the dwarf. “I presume you had no idea that we were under siege when you jumped onto Mendicant’s back as he cast his return spell?”

“Had I known,” Partus said with a slightly sour frown, “I might still have done it, because being surrounded by the dark elven army here is still likely safer than what your blighting guildmates are planning over in Luukessia. They’re going to fight a slow retreat across the northern steppes trying to buy time for Syloreas to empty—as in for all the people to leave the lands.” The dwarf snorted in derision. “How well do you think that one’s likely to turn out?”

“Mendicant,” Alaric said, looking to the goblin, “you are here to make Cyrus’s report, yes?”

The goblin had been still throughout the meeting thus far, as though he were awed by the surroundings; the Council Chambers and their stone walls, slow, quiet hearths that radiated warmth through the room. It was dark outside the windows out on the balcony, but within the chambers it was light, with torches aplenty burning on sconces on the walls in such close proximity that one could comfortably read in the room despite the hour.

“Mendicant?” Alaric asked again.

The goblin seemed to shake himself out of a stupor of sorts. “Oh, yes. Partus speaks correctly, the bulk of the Sanctuary army is presently engaged in a long holding action on the Filsharron Steppes, north of Enrant Monge.” Alaric stirred, but the rest of the table was quiet and still, save for Partus, who shot a wicked grin at Vara. She held the urge to let fly a force blast but only just. “Cyrus, Longwell and a few others are making their way to Vernadam to try and sway them to enter the war with their army, and Actaluere is presently calling up the remainder of its forces to meet them at Enrant Monge in an effort to effect a counterthrust north and destroy the portal in the cave that is allowing them to flood Luukessia with these dead souls.” Mendicant’s eyes glistened as he spoke matter-of-factly. “Lord Davidon—”

“Lord of damned near nothing, if you ask me,” Partus said with a chortle below his breath.

“He’s Lord of Perdamun and Warden of the Southern Plains,” Vara snapped without thinking then tempered the widening of her eyes out of sheer reflex.
Why in the blazes did I say that?
Partus made no reply but feigned being impressed by flattening his lips, then pursing them, holding a hand over his mouth as though amazed.

“Lord Davidon requests aid,” Mendicant said after a momentary stumble, “for you to send another army to reinforce him and allow him to better fight back in the impending battle, assuming you have not already sent such an army.”

Alaric sighed, while Ryin laid his head on the high back of his chair. Vara expected Erith to shift her gaze around the table, but her sight was firmly fixed on Partus at her right, the dark elf’s icy glare beyond any sort of loathing Vara had come to expect even from the mercurial healer. “Can we teleport him into Saekaj?” Erith asked, indicating Partus with a nod of her head. “I think he’d do well there, in the vek’tag pens, eating their dung with the rest of the mushrooms—”

“How I’ve missed you as well, Erith,” Partus said with a crooked grin. “I don’t suppose we’ve spoken since the day I left the Daring—”

“You mean the day when you stripped our guild of most our members and left for Goliath?” Her arms were folded in front of her, and her teeth were bared in a snarl. “Gee, Partus, I can’t really think of any reason why I might not have spoken to you since then. Oh, wait, because you’re a traitorous, lecherous ass.”

Partus feigned innocence and looked around the table as if for support. “Lecherous? Just because we had a singular night of passion—”

“It wasn’t a night,” Erith said. “It wasn’t even a minute. Though I can see why you might have thought so; judgment is the first thing to go when drunk—”

“Aye,” Partus agreed sadly, “which is why I was in your bed to begin with—”

“ENOUGH!” Alaric said, loud enough to draw the attention of all in the chamber.

There was a squeak at the door and it opened; Andren slid in as Vara stared at the healer, perplexed. Vaste followed a moment later and shut the door behind him, his staff in hand, and the troll stared at the table and those around it.

There was the sound of a chair sliding back and Partus was on his feet, his hammer unslung. “My gods, it’s a troll.”

Vaste blinked at the dwarven interloper who had been sitting with his back to the door and was now standing, weapon in hand. “Well spotted. What gave it away—that I’m seven feet tall or the green skin and big teeth?”

Partus hesitated, keeping his eyes on Vaste. He turned his head to speak to Alaric out of the corner of his mouth. “Did you always have a troll, Alaric? They’re savages, you know.”

Vaste’s heavy frame swelled with a deep breath and then a long sigh followed. “Yes, I know, uncivilized I may be, standing here without a weapon drawn while you’re clearly about to challenge me to a duel, but what can I say? I abhor civilized society. I’d rather just sneak up behind you when you’re unable to defend yourself and mash you into a fine paste with my bare hands.”

Partus pointed his hammer at Vaste. “You’ll find me a greater challenge than you think if you mean to attack me when I’m not expecting it.”

“I doubt I’ll find you much at all, unless I’m crawling around on my hands and knees,” Vaste said, and promptly walked past Partus to his seat, turning his hammer aside and toward the hearth with a gentle push of his staff. “Thanks to the rest of you for speaking up for me when he called me a savage, by the way.”

“It was unworthy of answer,” Alaric said, at the head of the table, his helm still on. His eye was piercing through the slight gloom that inhabited the room; not because of the darkness, Vara realized, but because of her mood.
He should have come back as well, not this miniaturized jackass.
“Andren,” Alaric said, turning to the healer, who was in Nyad’s usual seat next to Vara, “thank you for joining us.”

“Aye,” Andren said, then twitched as though he were reaching for something near his belt, hesitated, and thought the better of it. “Can’t pretend I know what this is all about, though.”

“I am taking things into consideration,” Alaric said. “Mendicant, finish your report, if you please? Cyrus requests aid, I believe you said?”

“In most strenuous terms, sir,” the goblin said. “We need assistance, desperately, to be able to finish this fight and destroy the portal. These things, this scourge, they are beyond number.”

“As you may be able to tell,” Alaric said quietly, “we have some minor problems of our own; the dark elves have left an army in place around Sanctuary to cut us off from the outside world while they attempt to starve us out and break us.”

“How’s it all going so far?” Partus asked snidely.

“Poorly on the starving us out,” Vaste answered him with a grin, “even more poorly on the breaking us. Spirits are high. We’re planning a dance recital for next week.”

“How exciting,” Partus said without enthusiasm.

“While I do not believe we could spare the army Cyrus has called for,” Alaric said, “I believe sending a messenger—or two, as the case may be—would be both wise and prudent. Thus I am considering sending you,” he nodded to Andren, “and Mendicant, to deliver the message to Cyrus that help will not be arriving.”

“Well, won’t that be a fun message to deliver,” Andren muttered.

Mendicant straightened in his chair, and spoke, slowly. “I do not believe sending only two people to deliver that message would be wise.”

Alaric frowned. “Why not?”

“Because to get to Cyrus and the rest of the army,” Ryin said, “the messengers would have to travel through the Kingdom of Actaluere by themselves.”

“I thought you said that Actaluere was now allied with our army’s cause?” Erith asked, frowning. “Why would they deny our messengers free passage?”

“They wouldn’t,” Ryin said, speaking over Mendicant, “but you said Milos Tiernan was at the front with the army?” Mendicant nodded. “Did he leave Hoygraf in place along the route?” The goblin nodded again. “There’s your trouble; we ran afoul of this Baron Hoygraf on the journey in.”

“You didn’t think to mention this?” Vara asked, her irritation rising.

“We’ve been a little busy with our own problems here,” Ryin said calmly. “Far too busy for me to mention the prosaic details of our trip, especially unrelated as they were to the crisis we were experiencing as I left Luukessia.”

“So you presume that this … Hoygraf,” Alaric tested the word, as though he were tasting it and found he disliked it immensely, “would interrupt their passage out of some grudge?”

Mendicant’s gaze shot immediately to Ryin, who kept calm—and yet Vara saw the hint of unease within him. “Yes,” Ayend said, “if he caught a hint that we had messengers passing through—which he would—they would not make through his territory alive, even though the King of Actaluere is now allied with us.”

“What the hell did Cyrus do to him?” Vaste said, low, almost too low to be heard.

“As I heard it,” Partus said with a wide grin, ignoring the look of frozen horror on Ryin Ayend’s face, “he stormed the man’s castle, sacked the place, stabbed the man through the guts and left him to die—which he did not, by the way—then stole the man’s wife and proceeded to cuckold him.” Partus let a hearty guffaw. “I like your General. He’s got style.”

Vara felt the ice pump through her veins, freezing her expression at some bizarre in-between of shock and horror.

“So,” Erith said into the quiet around the table, where every face was split between looking at Vara or looking away to spare her shame, “he took the man’s wife and made her his lover? That does carry something of a sting.” She cast a sidelong glare at Ryin. “I suppose you thought we were too busy for you to mention that Cyrus was taking a taste of the local flavor? And a Baroness, no less.”

“Well,” Mendicant said, his voice coming back to him now in the quiet horror that no one else would speak into, “they had some sort of falling out, you see. The Baroness went back to her husband.” Vara felt the cold ratchet down a few notches. “Cyrus is sleeping with Aisling now.”

There was a dead calm, a quiet so unnatural as to border on the surreal. Vara felt no motion in her face at all, nothing in her head but a screaming void, an interminable desire to cry out but her mouth, strangely enough, stayed well shut, fortunately. She caught Ryin’s face covered out of the corner of her eye and saw Vaste bow his head. Erith tried to give her a smile of support but it was wasted. All that was there was what she saw, the screaming void in her head the loudest silence she’d ever known.

It was into that silence that Andren spoke at last. “Well done, Cyrus,” the healer said, his face a smile of grudging admiration. He looked at Vara and his grin faded. “Uh … I mean … how dare he not spend these last months pining for a woman who rejected him so harshly that he fled the continent afterward.” Andren turned to Alaric, faux outrage on the healer’s bearded face. “I thought you sent him there to fight, not f—”