Warlord (31 page)

“If all I have to do is read,” Cyrus said, eyeing her for a hint of deceit or anything further that she might be hesitating to mention, “I suppose I can do it, though I … I’m surprised Andren didn’t come to me for this himself.” He searched out the healer and found him plodding along atop his horse, eyes partially closed, looking like he was fully asleep. “He certainly looks enthused about the nuptials.”

“He’s on a long ride,” Martaina said with clipped annoyance. “Give you a few more hours and you’ll be nodding off in the saddle as well, and just in time to fight a battle with titans three times your height.”

“Thanks for that warning,” Cyrus said sourly. “I might have forgotten otherwise and gone for a nice nap as soon as we arrived, all thought of titans as gone as a good dream when you wake.” The smell of horses and unwashed riders hung heavy in his nose. He parted from her with one further thought. “How do you think Thad is going to react to this?”

“Him, I haven’t talked to about it,” she said, and now she rode off, “for what I do does not concern him in this regard, and he is at the pass in any case.” She showed her unease at this last, and when Cyrus tried to discern her feelings on the matter, the conclusion he came to was that she was slightly more fearful of her former husband’s current safety than she was of his approval for her new marriage.

His head still whirling, Cyrus rode on through the night, the dawn coming. Not a titan was yet in sight on the dusty trail through the Heia Pass. And yet still he found no comfort.

The camp still stood at a small, flat gap just north of the southern terminus of the Heia Pass when they arrived, and yet still Cyrus felt no relief. At the last hill, he had stood upon one of the elven watchtowers and looked out on the slice of Gradsden Savanna visible over the last two peaks that heralded the end of the pass, and the sight which greeted his eyes was not a happy one.

A titan war camp stood a few miles ahead on the plains, stretching as far as he could see, more troops than he could count without climbing high into the sky. Tents big enough to house all of Sanctuary’s keep were visible, billowing in the warm savanna wind behind the smaller tents that were merely large enough to engulf a reasonable-sized barn.

When they rode into their own camp, there were muted cheers of relief from all within, lined up as though to watch a parade. Cyrus caught sight of elves in their intricate armors, unit standards from some of Danay’s northern armies flapping the breeze. The army of Sanctuary’s forces were apparent as well, though they did more to disguise their relief at the arrival of reinforcements.

Thad was one of the first to greet Cyrus as he rode up, dismounting and watching an elf in leather armor hustle forward to take Windrider’s reins. The horse whickered at the elf but allowed himself to be led off.

“Have you seen?” Thad asked without preamble, looking more anxious that Cyrus would have liked.

“I saw,” Cyrus said with a nod. Belkan Stillhet ambled up beside the young warrior and elbowed him aside without mercy. Thad, looking slightly discombobulated, faded back into the crowd as the old warrior took his place with a generous spit at Cyrus’s feet. “You seem calm about it.”

“Calmer than some,” Belkan agreed, motioning Cyrus forward.

Cyrus looked back and watched Vara dismount her horse rather stiffly as he walked ahead with Belkan. She gave him a wan smile, her ire clearly passed somewhere in the night. “What do you think the hold-up is?”

“Provisioning, maybe?” Belkan shrugged his broad shoulders, old pauldrons clanking as he did so. He walked toward a line of troops milling about underneath the last rocky chasm that surrounded the trail before it flattened out into rolling foothills out of the mountains. “Once they start moving, they’ll need a lot of food to feed that army.”

“They can conjure bread now,” Cyrus said, taking large strides forward. “And water. It shouldn’t be a concern to them.”

Belkan snorted. “You see titans eating a lot of bread, do you? I picture them tearing into meat constantly.”

“I don’t,” Cyrus said, looking out past the foothills. The enemy camps were nowhere near as visible from here, but he could see the tops of some of the larger tents, like pointed mountain peaks in the distance. “Can you imagine how much meat that would take? How much grazing land? What sort of herds?”

“I saw a mountain goat from around those lands once,” Belkan said quietly, staring out at the savanna with him. “They’re taller than you, hoof to back. I hear they keep them up in the high peaks, out to the west of Kortran.”

“Well, that answers the meat part, I guess,” Cyrus said, chewing his lower lip. “It’s not as if they spend any time sowing, that much is sure.”

“That much is sure,” Belkan agreed, and he turned his back to the savanna, looking inward at the camp and the army within.

“What’s on your mind, Belkan?” Cyrus asked.

Belkan shook his head. “Got a lot of people spread out all over the place, Davidon. I don’t like it.”

“I’m not so fond of it myself,” Cyrus said. “But we have to guard the portal nearest Emerald Fields, and keep those scouts watching the others near—”

Belkan spit again, and for the first time Cyrus realized there was dark tobacco in the stream of saliva. He shuddered a little bit, and Belkan clearly noticed, for he smiled in amusement. “Your father didn’t truck with this habit of mine, either.” His face darkened. “But he listened, dammit, and you should, too. No good is going to come of this.”

“You think we should pull back?” Cyrus asked, looking out at the savanna again. “Leave this defense to the elves?”

“Pfft,” Belkan said, “elves can’t win this.” He shook his head. “I just don’t like being spread this thin, is all. Sanctuary doesn’t even have a good castellan in place right now because Thad and me are here with all these young and impressionable pieces of titan luncheon.” He made a humming noise, but lower. “I didn’t like fighting the trolls, but this is—it’s worse.”

“You’d know,” Cyrus said, feeling that stir of discomfort come back. “Belkan … we’re not going to walk away from this fight. You know that, right?”

“At my age, Cyrus,” Belkan said, “you get a little tired of fighting sometimes. At this point, I’d just like to sit in my armory for a while and get things back in order. You seen the mess in there?”

“I have not,” Cyrus said, reaching down to touch Praelior’s hilt. “Haven’t needed a sword in a while.”

“Now you’ve got a spare, as well, I hear,” Belkan said, clinking him on the spine where his reserve blade rested below his backplate. “I recall you walking in my armory with a bronze weapon you picked up off the ground in a dragon raid, and now you’re standing here with mystical rings under your gauntlets, sword of a dead god on your belt, and some mystical short thing hiding behind you in case you—I don’t know, decide to get really angry and need something for your other hand.”

Cyrus felt a smile force itself out from beneath sullen lips. “I have been known to wield two every now again when things get a mite … touchy.”

“You’ve changed, lad,” Belkan said, making it sound like a curse, “and not necessarily for the better. I’ll always remember you knee-high to me. Now you’re knee-high to a titan.” He made a rough bark of a laugh. “You’re doubting yourself, aren’t you?”

“Hard not to when you’ve got enemies like this coming for you.” He pointed at the most obvious tent in the distance, the pointed top bearing a flag, barely visible.

“Enemies are enemies. The bigger they are, the more they bleed before they die, that’s all.”

“I think you got that expression wrong,” Cyrus said.

“I like mine better,” Belkan said, waving him off. He finally turned back around to look at the pass. “Whenever they’re ready … they’re going to come rolling in like one of those hurricanes that works their way up the Bay of Lost Souls every now and again.” He scowled and looked at Cyrus. “You ever been around for one of those?”

“No.”

“It’s a hell of a thing,” Belkan said, staring off into the distance. “Rattles the windows like it’ll tear the latches. So much rain you swear the chimneys will drown the fires in it, but they don’t. Like Tempestus himself is leading the storm’s vanguard ashore, and he’s got the angriest warriors in any realm with him to help make the stir.” He shook his head, coming out of what looked a little like a trance while he spoke about it. “It’s not a cracking good time, and I suspect we’re going to see it from these titans once they get their supply lines in good order.”

“How long do you figure?” Cyrus caught a scathing look from Belkan. “Come on. You’ve lived through more wars than most of us can name. Give me your best guess.”

“A week,” Belkan said, puckering his lips before letting out another spit. “Maybe a month. Then that storm’s gonna come tearing right up this pass, because these big idiots,” he waved a hand out to the savanna, “they don’t know any better. If they were smart they’d use Falcon’s Essence and come over the peaks on us—”

“Oh, gods,” Cyrus said.

“I already posted sentries against that,” Belkan said with a grim smile. “My point is, though … it won’t be long, and we’ll be—I’d say up to our necks in them, but … really, it’s more like in over our heads, isn’t it?”

“Over our heads sounds right,” Cyrus said, and he finally broke from looking at the savanna as a late afternoon breeze came whipping through the pass behind him. It gave him a surprising chill even though it was mild, almost warm. “It sounds like exactly where we stand, in fact.”

A week passed with sight of nothing but titan tents and titan patrols, moving occasionally up into the foothills before marching back to their camps. Cyrus got little rest, sleep being elusive even in the tent that he was sharing with Vara. She watched him with careful eyes when he thought deeply, as though she were afraid to break silence for fear of him losing the one idea that would save them all. At other times they spoke and acted normally, as though they were in the Tower of the Guildmaster and all was right with the world.

Cyrus often took to walking during the sleepless night watches himself, patrolling among the soldiers on the last hilltop and then wandering back into the camp, sparing a few kind words for the sentries that were up on the peaks above them, and then making his way back to the tents in the night when he realized that the attack was not coming, not yet, not on this watch.

It was on one of these patrols that he found Thad watching in roughly the same spot where he had had his conversation with Belkan only a few days earlier. The warrior was looking for himself, focused on the night fires in the titan camp over the foothills. The sky was alight with the burning flames, though not a single fire was visible from where they were. Cyrus had seen them, though, from the other stations, and they were so numerous as to make him worry anew.

“Guildmaster,” Thad said as Cyrus stood there with him. “General. I always think of you that way, first.”

“It’s what I’ve been known as for longer,” Cyrus said in quiet acknowledgment. A peal of laughter from somewhere behind him reminded him that there were still others taking comfort in this camp, doing their jobs and finding some measure of relaxation when their day was through. Cyrus looked at the red-armored warrior. “How are you doing, Thad?”

“I’m fairly well, considering we’re standing at the edge of the world I knew,” Thad said, nodding at the pass walls a hundred feet to their left and right, sheer rock forming a canyon. “I only ever heard tell of the southern lands, you know. Wasn’t sure I really believed half the things I’d heard about creatures so large they defy the mind to come up with a scale for them.”

“It’s a bit of an adjustment,” Cyrus agreed, crossing his arms over his breastplate. “Takes the eye some time for the mind to digest a morsel this big.”

“Aye,” Thad said. They paused for a moment. “I took in what you said before, about marriage. You were right. It’s gotten easier, especially with all we’ve got going on down here at the moment.”

“Good,” Cyrus said, suddenly stiff, unsure of what he should say after his conversation with Martaina about her impending nuptials. It caused a sudden tightness in his stomach. “I’m glad you, uh … that it was helpful for you.”

They stood there for a while, just staring out into the blessed quiet, until Thad broke the silence. “I’ve got a question for you.”

Cyrus stared out across the empty, rolling foothills beyond, and realized it was not possible for him to stiffen his muscles any further. “All right,” he said, wondering exactly how much discomfort the impending inquiry would cause him.

“That was your father’s armor, wasn’t it?” Thad nodded at Cyrus’s black metal encasement.

Cyrus stood there, frowning. “This is what you’ve been thinking about? My armor? Now? Here? With this going on?” He swept a hand out to indicate the savanna beyond the hills. “And with, uh—your personal, uh …”

“Well, I—yes, I mean—uh …”

“It was my father’s armor, yes,” Cyrus said, bemused by the query.
That could have been so much worse.

“Well, that wasn’t really my question,” Thad said, feet shifting on the dirty trail, the grains of sand crunching beneath his boots.

“Okay,” Cyrus said slowly.
Uh oh.
“What is your actual question?”

“My armor’s from the Gatekeeper,” Thad said, looking down, “in Purgatory, you know? He gave us mystical steel back when we first started to conquer the place—”

“I was there, I know this.”
Where the hell is he going with this?

Thad nodded at the scuffs dotting his breastplate, nicks in the red where the steel showed beneath it. “I’ve had mine for going on four years now, you’ve had yours for as long as I’ve known you, and to my knowledge you’ve never repainted it.”

Cyrus blinked a few times, trying to figure out where the warrior was taking him with these inquiries. “… And?”

“So it’s beyond mystical, isn’t it?” Thad asked, sounding like a little bit of life had been poured back into him.

Cyrus looked at his black armor. It looked dusty, that was certain, but it always seemed slightly dull, even after he’d just polished it. He frowned as he stared down; he certainly hadn’t ever painted it, and it wasn’t dented or dinged to speak of, it merely looked worn, like it had been through considerable daily wear for longer than he had worn it. “Maybe,” Cyrus said, wondering for the first time if the warrior might have a point.