Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (86 page)

“We just came out of a war,” Ranson said, “one that was particularly costly to us in terms of lives.” He gestured his head back behind them, where followed some twenty thousand men, half on horseback. “We have a great many dragoons, though, and we lost few enough in the last battle. Some of the men are long-time veterans—”

“Meaning they’ve seen too much combat,” Cyrus added.

“—and some new blood,” Ranson finished with a raised eyebrow.

“Meaning they’ve seen too little.”

Ranson sighed. “Aye. It would have been more convenient if this scourge had come before we had our little war with Syloreas. Instead, they picked the first time in a decade when both of us were well and truly ground down. Our eastern armies will meet us a bit farther on, the ones we moved to the Actaluere border. That will swell our numbers somewhat.”

They rode on. The sun rose and set what felt like a hundred times, but was more probably only thirty. The air turned colder as they hooked north on the road that led past the shores of an enormous lake. Cyrus went to his bedroll with Aisling every night and awoke with her next to him in the morning, putting out of his head all the troubles and worries of the battle ahead. The numbness inside was still there, but he managed it, thinking about it sometimes late at night when she lay against his side, and he listened to her slow, soft breathing.

As the mornings became bitterly cold, the scenery began to change; there came a morning where there was frost on the ground, glittering in the early morning sunrise like diamonds sprinkled in the grasses, and Cyrus could have sworn that he had been there recently. He had, he realized, been this way only months before, with a smaller army at his back.

After so many days of numbing, wearying travel, one arrived where he found himself staring into the distance and staring back at him at the top of a crest was the familiar shape of Enrant Monge. He heard a few whoops from behind him as the men of the Galbadien army let out their pent-up emotion at seeing their destination after a long journey.

“I will not be sorry to be done riding,” J’anda said, his hand rubbing the outside of his robes just below his back. “This is quite enough for a while.”

“I never get tired of riding,” Aisling said with a lascivious smile toward Cyrus.

He glanced back at her. “You haven’t done that in a long time.”

She shrugged, and he thought he caught a hint of disappointment. “Before I was trying to work to entice you. Now, I scarcely have to entice you at all.”

They left the army behind on the flat grounds before the woods, left them to set camp in an open space as Cyrus rode with Longwell and the others into the big, wide gate on the western facing of Enrant Monge. There were Sylorean refugees along every bit of the ride, as there had been for the last few hundred miles of the journey, sunken-eyed beggar folk with weary looks.

“Do you suppose we’ll finally ride through the Unity gate now?” Longwell asked, and Cyrus watched the new King, who maintained an air of guarded skepticism.

“This would be the closest we’ve ever gotten, my King,” Count Ranson answered after a second’s reflection. “Perhaps not as anticipated, in a new Kingdom of Union for all Luukessia, but united in common purpose.”

“Seems more genuine than with a monarch at your head,” Cyrus said, “ruling through fear.”

“The last Kings of all Luukessia were hardly tyrants,” Ranson said, as though delivering a history lesson to an interested student. “The Kings of Old Enrant Monge were good men, fair men, who ruled with strength and honor, and who delegated most of their power to the three Grand Dukes. When the last King died and his only son, Lord Garrick, went missing after an expedition, the three Grand Dukes broke with formality, argued among themselves, and each declared himself the new King in turn. They made their protestations, but none would see the other for the true ruler of Luukessia, and so each left Enrant Monge in turn, so furious with the others that they went out through their own gate, to consolidate and hold their own seats of power, and then each raged at the others in turn, in wars, for the next ten thousand years, returning to Enrant Monge and the old guardians of the King of Luukessia—the Brothers of the Broken Blade, who remained there to mediate disputes, and to hold the castle against the predations of the the three Kingdoms.”

“So it was your forerunners who were the tyrants,” Cyrus said with a half-smile.

Ranson seemed to take the jest in the spirit it was intended. “Not my forerunners, no.”

They galloped through the inner gate. The refugees watched the column and the King of Galbadien with awe as he passed into the courtyard, which had masses of the careworn gathered around its walls, their hungry eyes quieted by the food that members of the Brotherhood of the Broken Blade were dispensing to them from a station in the corner. There were dark clouds overhead, putting the whole of the world in a dim glow. The stones of the castle that had been a shining orange when Cyrus saw them in sunlight were greyed now, the overcast light tingeing them. The smell of sodden hay was even sharper in the crisp air, the smell of the horses potent as they approached the small stables. There were a few boys milling about, caring for the animals, and Cyrus could hear one of the horses whicker as they approached. He gave a reassuring pat as he dismounted, to which Windrider responded with a whinny.

“It’s you, m’lord,” said the boy who rushed out to take the reins of the horse from Cyrus. He was familiar, and it took only a second for Cyrus to realize that it was the same lad who had spoken to him when last he’d left Enrant Monge. “You’ve come back to us again.”

“I have,” Cyrus said, feeling the stress in him as he recalled the lad’s words when last they’d spoke.

“You’re going to save us,” the boy said, in awe. “You’re going to save Luukessia from them … from those things.”

Cyrus didn’t answer at first, looking back to see if anyone had heard. The others of his party were met by additional lads from the stable, boys collecting the reins to more than one horse, leading the animals away. Ranson and Longwell stood apart, off to the side, as though trying to make a decision. J’anda was the only one watching him, listening; J’anda and perhaps Aisling, though her back was turned and he knew not what she was doing.

“I’m going to try,” Cyrus said at last, handing the reins to the boy.

“You’ll do it,” the boy said with utmost faith, surprisingly cheerful to Cyrus’s ears. The boy favored him with a smile. “You’re him. You’ll do it.”

Cyrus tried to smile back but failed; a little bitter grimace of half-effort was all he managed. He followed the others as they went, the chill seeping into him. There was a trace of snow here and there as they walked, gathered into near-insubstantial piles on the ground; Cyrus wondered how deep the snow would get here, if it would turn bad at all. He looked north\ toward the wall of the courtyard, where he knew a gate led to Syloreas’s courtyard.
How far away are they now?

There was a quiet in the castle as they entered the tower; none of the Brothers were in sight, and Cyrus wondered where the keepers of the castle were. They made their way forward toward the center of the structure, toward the Garden of Serenity. Still, there were no Brethren so they entered the long tunnel to the garden. There were voices within, echoing from the hallway, distorted. Cyrus recalled the listing of names, of accolades shouted by heralds in this very place. Now there was only talk on the other end, low, discontented, and just as bitter to his ears as the wind when it picked up and raced through.

When Cyrus emerged behind Ranson and Longwell, the voices died down, and he could see men huddled around the amphitheater at the center of the Garden of Serenity. He recognized Milos Tiernan immediately then saw Briyce Unger standing in his usual place, his face puckered with a new scar. Brother Grenwald Ivess stood at the west facing of seats, where he had been when last they had met. Eyes swiveled toward the entourage from Galbadien, and Cyrus saw the frown from Unger and the soft dissolve to impartiality on Tiernan’s face as they came down.

There were other figures, too, Cyrus realized as they descended into the amphitheater; Curatio and Terian waited in the place where the Galbadien delegation was usually seated. Curatio gave him a half-hearted smile when they began to descend the steps. Cyrus kept his gaze on Terian, though, and the dark knight kept his on Cyrus, their eyes locked as the meeting came to a halt while the new arrivals took their seats.

“We are well pleased to see you,” Grenwald Ivess said as Cyrus shuffled past Terian. Ranson and Longwell remained standing at the front row, and Curatio stayed forward with them, though he gave a short bow and stepped aside so they could take the center of the bench. Longwell stood there, still in his blued armor, his helm being carried by Odau Genner, who hovered in the second row, his red face glowing in the grey day.

“May I present the King of Galbadien,” Count Ranson said, drawing a look of surprise from Briyce Unger and Grenwald Ivess. Tiernan, for his part, remained nearly inscrutable, only a small smile making its way from behind his facade.

“Your Majesty,” Grenwald Ivess said with a nod and the slightest bow. “You have, I fear, run into the middle of our discussion at an inopportune moment, but your arrival will perhaps make it more opportune than it was. You have brought some forces, I take it?”

“I have brought everything that Galbadien holds,” Longwell said. “Every man who can ride with a spear or lance, every man who can stand and fight with sword or shield, and every boy and grey-haired fellow to boot. Whatever Galbadien holds, I have committed to this defense—to Luukessia.”

Briyce Unger straightened, nodding at Longwell. “Every man I could summon to escape, save for those escorting our women and children south, I have brought here or to the to fight to our north. Syloreas has fallen, but our men fight on—for Luukessia.”

Milos Tiernan gave a sigh. “Every man I command, from here to the southern seas, I have summoned to me. Every one who has responded is here and is willing to fight to defend this place in the hopes that this scourge will never touch their homes or their families.” He hesitated. “For Luukessia—and for us all.”

“We commit to this fight everything that we have brought with us,” Curatio said, speaking in Cyrus’s place. The warrior considered standing and dismissed the thought;
to move to the front would expose my back to Terian. Best to let Curatio do the speaking for us, since he is the Elder—and a better spokesman than I, in any case.
“We have asked for additional aid and should it come, it will be pledged to your cause, to defend your land.” The elf gave a slight nod. “For Luukessia.”

Grenwald Ivess took it all in, and Cyrus had a feeling that the Brother was almost letting it steep like tea leaves in water, allowing the words to run into the ears of all present, to let them take it all in. “The Brotherhood of the Broken Blade has maintained Enrant Monge as the last vestige of the old world of Luukessia; the days when our Kingdoms were one. We have also kept our presence here to defend this remnant against those who would attack it. We have on the grounds over one thousand knights in our sworn service, volunteers all and well-trained. We commit them to this effort to save our homeland.

“I appreciate the sacrifices that all of you have made to come here,” Ivess said, “and to bring with you all you have. The people of Luukessia are losing their homes, their lands, and their lives at so startling a speed that it is barely fathomable. The men who stand before me are the last hope of this land. You men, who once upon a time vied for yourselves and your Kingdoms, I see now before me united against this common foe. It is well that you think of Luukessia at a time like this, even those of you who have been scarcely touched by this menace as yet.

“Let this be the place where the unity of Luukessia was made final,” Grenwald Ivess said, hitting his stride, his rich baritone echoing in the garden, “let this be the place where ten thousand years of bitterness and enmity were put aside for the good of our people. Let us unite once more in hopes that our combined efforts may stave off this disaster that brews, that sits outside our door even now. Let us gather together, stand together—that we may not be divided. That we may not fall.”

The day was filled with planning; when night fell, it was almost sweet relief of its own kind. Cyrus woke in the middle of the small hours, Aisling settled in next to him in the quiet, nothing audible in the tower room but her breathing. The smell of the air was stale, and the last taste of the night’s stew was still with him. There was a chill in the room, as it had only a small hearth of its own and the fire had died down. He tossed a log upon it and stirred, feeling the slight weight of the poker in his hand as the ashes came back to life slowly over the next minutes and were roaring again soon enough.

Aisling did not move, and he watched her for a few minutes in the quiet, her white hair catching the orange glow of the fire.
She looks so … small,
he thought, and wondered about it only until he remembered that she was short, shorter than—

Cyrus’s fingers came to his face, rubbed his eyes, as though he could strike the vision out of them, rub the image of the blond-haired elf from them.
It has been near a year since last I saw her. One would think I would be well and truly done with her by now.
He looked back to Aisling, who lay under the blankets, her blue skin dull against the grey cloth.
I am different. Things are different, now. She told me flatly that it would never work, could never work.
He squeezed his bare hand against the cold stone floor, pressed it, felt the smoothness of it.
Why is it so hard to be rid of her?

He stewed for only another minute before he stood, quietly dressed and went out the door. He gave a last look at his lover before he left; if she was awake, she had the good grace to say nothing.
Another reason she’s vastly superior to … her. Sometimes I just need to be alone with my thoughts.