Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  “So we’ll be heading to his castle, not the front line?” Cyrus looked at the dragoon. Odellan rode on the other side of Cyrus, listening to them both.

  “Aye,” Longwell said. “It has been something akin to six months since my father first sent his messenger to us; it would be difficult to tell where the army is after such an interval.” Tightness creased the dragoon’s face. “If it is as bad as he said in his message, we may not have far to go to find his army.”

  “That doesn’t sound as if it bodes well,” Odellan said, the light rain trickling down over his armor.

  “It didn’t bode well when my father contacted me.” Longwell looked glum. “He knew it would be an exceptionally long journey to send someone after me. I didn’t tell them exactly where I’d be, because I didn’t know anything of Arkaria when I left.” He paused, frowning. “Nor was I of a disposition to tell him at the time either, I suppose. I only told him I was going over the Endless Bridge to find a strong army to join. His messenger tracked me down based on whispers of my involvement in the defense of Termina.”

  “That’s a hell of a walk if you don’t have have a wizard to teleport you.” Cyrus heard Windrider whinny. The rain was chill, the little splashes of water bouncing off his armor and into his face.

  “I think he hoped I’d have found a strong army I could bring back with me,” Longwell said. “Syloreas has long been our enemy, back thousands of years, since the three Kingdoms began.”

  “Perhaps you could give us some history of the conflicts of this land,” Odellan said.

  Longwell looked at the elf with dull eyes and an amused smile. “Certainly. They fought constantly; not ten years would go by without one of the three Kingdoms declaring war on another and pressing the attack. Sometimes there were defeats, occasionally a Kingdom would be conquered for ten or twenty years—I think Actaluere was actually put under Syloreas’s boot for almost fifty years once, but that was several thousand years ago. Every time, eventually, the people would rise up, throw off the lazy army with the help of the other Kingdom, and the cycle would start again a few years later.”

  “Oh my,” Odellan said. “That makes the sordid history of the elves and dark elves look quite peaceful by comparison.”

  Cyrus stared at Longwell with a raised eyebrow. “No offense, but your people sound as bloodthirsty as the trolls. That’s an awful lot of wars.”

  Longwell shrugged. “I didn’t start them. And I was only involved in one of them—the last war, between all three Kingdoms.”

  “Who started that one?” Cyrus asked.

  “Syloreas,” Longwell said. “Briyce Unger began with an invasion of Actaluere’s northern borders, and my father,” he said, rising tension apparent in his voice, “decided it would be an opportune moment to deprive Syloreas of some of their southern lands while they were distracted with an invasion thrust that nearly reached halfway to Caenalys, the capital of Actaluere. What my father hadn’t anticipated was that Briyce Unger would turn his armies around when he heard that we had begun assaulting his border and march them directly there to hammer us.”

  “What did Actaluere do?” Odellan asked.

  “Not a damned thing,” Longwell said bitterly. “They tossed out the remaining garrison troops that Briyce Unger had left behind, then sat their army back and waited until Unger and my father’s forces had done a good amount of damage to each other. Then King Tiernan of Actaluere launched an attack on our border, taking two cities away from us and leaving Unger unpunished.”

  “Can you really blame him?” The Baroness’s voice came from behind them, startling Cyrus and causing him to turn. She sat on horseback, following only a few paces behind them. “He saw an opportunity to get Unger out of his territory and take two jewels out of Galbadien’s crown with minimal effort while you and Syloreas were busy bleeding each other dry in the north. King Tiernan ended the war he hadn’t even started with more territory, while Galbadien and Syloreas both lost half their armies.” She shook her head and smiled. “Your father got perfidious and thought to turn our war to his advantage, but Unger’s bullheaded pride worked against him. Your father was outsmarted by Milos Tiernan. There’s no shame in it; Tiernan’s shrewd above all else.”

  “That was treachery,” Longwell said, reddening. “My father gave Milos Tiernan a perfect opportunity to get revenge on Syloreas for invading their territory; it could have been mutually beneficial for both our Kingdoms and instead Tiernan stabbed my father in the back.”

  The Baroness kept an infuriating smile perched upon her lips, giving her an impish look that caused Cyrus more intrigue than he cared to admit. “I thought it was an exceptionally clever way to pit two enemies against each other to maximum advantage. After all, it wasn’t as though there’s ever been any sort of peace or alliance between Actaluere and Galbadien—only a few years without war between us.”

  “No formal peace, but no formal war either,” Longwell said. “It was basest treachery.”

  The Baroness shrugged. “See it however you like; Milos Tiernan walked away from the conflict with more territory and an army ready for the next war. Your father’s Kingdom limped away just as Syloreas did, with countless young men dead, less territory than when you started, and forced to concede what you’d lost. If the point of war is simply honor and not winning, you’re still doing it wrong. I hear tell your father’s soldiers are just as savage when sacking a town as Briyce Unger’s are.”

  Longwell did not answer, and seemed to slump slightly forward on his horse, his eyes focused ahead. Cyrus watched the dragoon for a long moment, and when it seemed unlikely he would ever speak, he did. “I cannot argue with that.” Longwell rode off a moment later, after the silence had hung in the air. He rode toward the back of the column, ignoring several soldiers who hailed him along the way.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Odellan said, “perhaps I should speak with him—and inspect the column while I am at it.”

  “Certainly,” Cyrus said with a nod. Odellan turned his horse and rode away. Cyrus turned to speak with the Baroness, but she was already gone, ensconced in a conversation with Nyad and Ryin, the three of them riding side by side.

  The next week passed quickly, the flat lands over which they traveled speeding their journey. Longwell seemed to come alive again a few days after the conversation with the Baroness. He had been sulky and withdrawn, causing Cyrus to privately wonder if he had been that depressing to be around when they had first set out on their journey.

  Only a few days later, they came around a bend in the road and something enormous became visible on the horizon. Cyrus was riding at the front of the column as he almost always did, and when the silhouette began to take shape as the sun was starting to set behind them, he wondered if perhaps it was a cloud bank.

  “That is the Castle of Vernadam,” Longwell said, riding to the fore to come alongside Cyrus. “That is my father’s home.”

  “Not yours?” Cyrus asked.

  He caught a glimmer of regret from the dragoon. “Once perhaps. Not anymore.”

  They bedded down for the night in a clearing, and as the campfires lit the sky, Cyrus stared into the distance, where he could still see the faintest shadow of the castle on the horizon. He heard someone move next to him where he stood at the far edge of the army’s camp, and he turned to see the Baroness, clad in her riding outfit but with a blanket wrapped around her to guard against the chill of the early evening.

  “There stands Vernadam,” she said, almost whispering, “a place I never thought I would see, not in my lifetime.”

  “No?” Cyrus looked over to her, saw the wind stir her hair. “The borders of your lands don’t seem too hostile to crossing, if it were for just a person by themselves.”

  She looked over at him, her glazed eyes returning to focus. “Women do not travel alone, and the Baron does not travel this far outside his holdfast.”

  “How long were you married?” Cyrus watched her. She didn’t answer him quickly, as though she were t
aking her time coming up with the right reply.

  “Only a year or so,” she said. “It was a very quick arrangement, really.”

  “Hm.” Cyrus nodded, looking at the fire. “Less than a year and already happy to leave him behind. He must have been a real monster.”

  “As though you don’t already know.” He could feel her bristle.

  “I know what he did to others,” Cyrus said, reaching for a branch and stirring the embers of the fire with it. “I know how he treated strangers in his land who meant him no harm. So, yes, that gives me some idea of how he might treat his wife.”

  “You have no idea,” she pronounced, and her words were stiff. “Beatings were commonplace. Whippings he saved for occasions of special displeasure, which seemed to happen whenever he was drunkest.”

  “You’re not making me sorry I left him to die,” Cyrus said, holding the branch steady, letting it catch fire. He watched the flames lick at the healthy bough, saw the first black scoring appear upon it.

  “As you said, I’ve been married for a year and I was glad to leave him to die,” she said stiffly. “I never considered myself a cold or vicious person, but perhaps I am.” She looked away and her eyes fixated again on Vernadam’s shadow in the distance. “I certainly was not much of a wife, to hear my husband tell it.”

  “I doubt you gave him any cause for beatings or whippings,” Cyrus said, letting the branch drift through a pile of ashes. “Because there is no cause for such things, not between husband and wife. He did not seem the sort of man whose justification I would accept as anything other than the petty anger of a man denied something.”

  “Denied?” She looked at Cyrus and wore the faintest half-smile. “I denied him nothing. Not my body, at all hours, not his favors, requested day and night. He came to me often in the hours of the morning too early to be measured by any light, and I would give him that which he craved so fervently, no matter how asleep I was. Once, he came to me when I was in a deep grog. I moved too slowly for his liking, so he dragged me by the hair out to the courtyard where he bound me to a post, naked, and had his way with me in front of all of his men and the servants and everyone.” Her lip quivered, but her eyes smoldered like the fire. “So that he could show them—and me—that he ruled his household with a firm and unyielding hand. When he was done, he left me there for a day, without food or water, like a common thief or drunk, and forbade the doctor to see to my injuries.”

  The twigs at the end of Cyrus’s branch caught on fire at last, and he pulled it out of the flame, holding the length above it, the smallest reaches of it burning with a light of their own. “How did you get saddled with him?”

  She looked away again. “My brother gave me to him in marriage, in hopes of gaining his favor.” She looked back at Cyrus. “Since my father is dead, my brother was well within his rights to give me to anyone he wanted to.”

  “And now?” Cyrus watched the slow burn of the twigs spread up the branch. “Now that he’s dead, wouldn’t your brother want to marry you off again, to someone else?”

  “No,” she said simply. “Because now I am damaged, imperfect.”

  Cyrus frowned. “Because you’ve been married before? By that standard, I suppose I’m damaged and imperfect, too.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which I actually am but not because of being married before.”

  “No,” she said. “Because of the scars. Because of the whippings, the beatings … and … other things he’s done to me.” She swallowed hard. “He used to say that he had left his mark on me, that no other man would ever want me, or would ever have me, after what he’d done.”

  “I don’t, uh …” Cyrus looked at her. “I’m sorry, I mean, I’ve seen you in a … somewhat revealing dress … I guess ….I mean, I didn’t see anything.”

  “You wouldn’t.” She shook her head, very slightly and perched on her lips was a rueful smile. “The men and women in the courtyard the night he dragged me out and tied me to the post, they saw. But he kept it … all well below what the rest of the world would see. Women are expected to maintain a certain standard of propriety, after all.” He saw a single tear flow from her left eye, down her cheek, to rest on her defined chin. It was a perfect droplet, just the one, and it lingered there. “The simple loss of my virginity to my husband would not be considered enough to defile me for life, to make me untouchable to other men for marriageable purposes.”

  “Ah,” Cyrus looked at the Baroness again, saw the smoldering anger in her eyes, and felt it touch him. My emotions are muted and best they remain that way. I already feel less remorse for leaving the Baron as I did. Men who dominate and abuse women in such a manner are scum, but I fear my anger with him would have me become a torturer were I to fully loose it upon that wretch. He looked back at her; she was undeniably beautiful, stunning even, to his eyes, which had become somewhat jaded of late, filled to the top as they were with the intoxicating beauty of a she-elf who had hurt him so.

  The Baroness is different. She seems … not helpless. Far from it. But wounded. Like me. She possessed an air, a quality of genuine and natural beauty. She seemed to sense his gaze and turned to look at him. “And you?” she asked. “You are not married?”

  “Not anymore.” He sniffed and threw the branch into the fire, smelled the smokiness of the wood filling the crisp air.

  “Is she … gone on?” The Baroness looked at him carefully, probing.

  “She was still quite lively when last I saw her, which was a year or two ago,” he said. “She left me.”

  “Left you?” There was a rising curiosity in the Baroness’s voice. “You allowed this?”

  “Allowed it?” Cyrus suppressed a laugh. “I gave my full consent when she asked for the divorce decree. She didn’t want to be married to a warrior who was always traveling, always gone, always in danger.”

  Cattrine frowned, as though contemplating something impossible. “Is that … does that happen often in your land? A woman leaving a man when she is unsatisfied?” She blushed. “I don’t mean to suggest she was unsatisfied by you. I’m certain you’re very satisfying.” She blushed deeper, a crimson shade in the firelight.

  Cyrus watched her with some amusement before he shrugged. “It happens. More among the elves than the humans, I’m told, but it happens among my people as well.”

  “Fascinating,” the Baroness said, her skin lit by the flickering of the fire. “Your world is ever so much different than my own.”

  “If you think that’s different, you should see Sanctuary,” Cyrus said.

  “Your guild is called Sanctuary, yes?” The Baroness looked at him once more, her hand resting on her leg, her knees pulled up to her chest. “But there is a place called Sanctuary as well?”

  “Our guildhall, yes.”

  “What is it like there?” Her voice carried a combination of awe and wistfulness.

  “It’s in the middle of the Plains of Perdamun, a long, wide stretch of grasslands. When you teleport into the plains, you have to run south through a field of wildflowers to Sanctuary. They’ll be in bloom now, I suppose, all the colors on display … red, blue, purple and orange. It’s like a rainbow growing from the ground, and if you’re with a druid, and they cast the Falcon’s Essence spell, you can run right over them, watch them rock in the wind as you pass, stirring them. The main tower appears first, looming above you like a spire sticking out of the ground, then you see the other towers and the wall … it’s built with a curtain wall like a castle, but it’s like no castle you’ve ever seen.

  “The wall goes around for a mile or more … encloses gardens, stables, an archery range … and in the middle of it all is Sanctuary.” Cyrus smiled at the memory, the thought of the stone blocks that comprised the guildhall, of the stained glass window glowing in all its colors above the main doors. “It’s gorgeous. One of the … warmest places I’ve ever been. It was …” His smile faded. “Home.”

  “You miss it.” Her voice punctuated the quiet against the crackle of the fire against the l
ogs.

  “I suppose.”

  “Were you always in Sanctuary?”

  “No. I was born and raised in Reikonos, the capital of the Human Confederation.”

  “Was that where you learned to fight?” She hugged her knees closer to her chest. “Was that where you got your sword?”

  “I learned to fight there, but I got my sword—this sword,” he tugged at the hilt of Praelior, “later, when I was with Sanctuary.”

  “Did your parents teach you how to fight?” She looked at him with genuine interest, and he felt himself warm, something unrelated to the fire.

  “My father was a great warrior, but he died when I was far too young to learn how to fight. No, I learned in the Society of Arms—where they send all young men and women who wish to learn to master the fighting arts.”

  “Women, too?” Cattrine looked vaguely impressed. “You had women train alongside you?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus said. “Some of the older boys would take it easy on the younger kids, knowing they could crush us without difficulty. Some of my roughest fights were against the girls. They did not yield an inch, regardless of age.”

  “It did not …” She searched for a word, “humiliate you, being defeated by a woman?”

  “Heh,” Cyrus said. “Every defeat was a humiliation, and there was no more shame in being beaten by a girl than by a boy. Sometimes there was less. Some of those girls had a pain threshold that made me look pitiful by comparison.” Cyrus felt his expression change. “I haven’t talked about this in years until a couple months ago. And again now. I don’t talk about these things. How’d you do that?”

  She smiled. “I asked. Doesn’t anyone else ever ask you about yourself?”

  A thought of Aisling flashed through his mind, settling within him, leaving an uneasy feeling. “Not particularly,” Cyrus said.

  They were quiet for a minute then the Baroness spoke. “What is her name?”

  Cyrus blinked, then looked at her, at the orange light casting a warm glow on her face in the soft light. She coaxed him with a hint of a smile. “Who?” he asked.