Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  The man stiffened in his seat, as though he had been insulted. “No,” he said, his voice low and scratchy. “You cannot help me.” His accent lilted in the same way as Longwell’s and the King’s, the end of his statement rising in pitch.

  “Forgive me,” Longwell said, “for not making introductions. General Cyrus Davidon, this is Count Ewen Ranson, of the castle Ridgeland to the southeast. He is the marshal of my father’s armies.”

  “Ah, so it’s you I’ll be coordinating with,” Cyrus said, letting the icy calm within take over his outward persona, frosting over the internal desire to scorch the man for his rudeness. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ewen.”

  “You’ll call me count or marshal,” Ranson snapped, his pinched face causing him to look especially snotty.

  “Very well,” Cyrus said. “My full title is Lord Davidon of Perdamun, Warden of the Southern Plains and General of Sanctuary. You can go ahead and call me that. Every single time you address me, that is—and don’t leave out the ‘Warden’ bit as it’s very important.”

  Ranson’s ruddy complexion went blood red. “What foolishness is this?”

  “Why, Count Ranson,” Cyrus said, his icy reserve melting quickly, “it’s called custom and protocol, and it’s the very thing you just threw in my face, so you should recognize it.”

  “What I recognize,” Ranson said, still flushed scarlet, “is that sitting before me is the same sort of scum that’s helping our enemies trounce us in battle after battle. The same cheeky bastards from a foreign land, come to lord it over us with your magics and fancy ways—well, I’ll have none of it. You don’t fool me—you’re all the same.”

  Cyrus stared across the table at the count then looked to the King, who sipped another spoonful of soup with a slight smile, waiting to see what happened next. Cyrus turned his gaze back to the Count. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do,” Ranson said, unmoving.

  “I see,” Cyrus said, feeling particularly wry. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from a treacherous Luukessian. After all, you’re an easterner, the same as Baron Hoygraf of Actaluere, beaters and oppressors of women, rapists and—”

  There was a crash of furniture as the chair that Count Ranson was sitting in fell back, splintering on the floor. The count’s sword was in his hand and a look of purest rage was on his face. “You take that back, you filthy bastard, I’ve never laid a hand in anger on a woman in my life, let alone beaten and whipped them like that scum—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, mock-offended, “perhaps I shouldn’t have unfairly grouped all you easterners into the same lot.” He picked up one of the six spoons gathered around his plate and dipped it in the soup, bringing it up to his mouth slowly and taking a long sip with one hand while keeping the other rested on Praelior under the table and well out of sight.

  “Well said, sir,” the King guffawed. “Count Ranson, surely you can tell that there are differences between our guests and these mercenaries. After all, I see no half-men here among our guests.”

  “We left our dwarves back at the village,” Cyrus said. “But let’s be plain,” he looked to Count Ranson, who had resumed his seat with the aide of the servant lingering behind him, “there are several nations and powers in the west, just as there are here. To confuse the peoples of different nations and guilds with each other is as insulting to us, in some cases, as it would be for me to make the comparison here that I just did.”

  “I had said before that we should move to more felicitous topics of conversation,” the King said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can do so now.” With that, he picked up the remainder of his bowl and brought it to his lips, slurping the rest of his soup.

  Cyrus sent a furtive look to the Baroness next to him. She was cringing even though she was trying to keep her eyes on her own soup, which she took dainty spoonfuls of. Past her were Ryin and Nyad, seated side by side and conversing pleasantly with Odau Genner. The rest of the Sanctuary members were sprinkled around the table, talking with their counterparts from Galbadien’s army.

  The only two notable exceptions were Martaina and Aisling, each of whom was only a few seats down from the Baroness, on the other side of Odau Genner. Martaina’s hand was on her bow, which leaned against her chair, while she used the other to feed herself. Her eyes were slitted, watching the table coolly for any sign of trouble; if Cyrus had to guess, he would have bet that her bow had in fact been nocked with an arrow only moments before, when Count Ranson had been out of his chair.

  Aisling sat a little further down than Martaina, a quiet spot in the gathering. The dark elf seemed to be watching everything with a furtive eye, and Cyrus noticed her turning her ears toward certain conversations under the guise of adjusting her hair. All the while, she was nursing her bowl of soup but had scarcely eaten any of it.

  “What do you think of our predicament, General Davidon?” The stiff words drew Cyrus’s attention back to Count Ranson, who was looking at him with eyes that were hard like stone, dark circles glaring at him out of the candlelit dim.

  “I think we should march out tomorrow and meet your enemies,” Cyrus said, taking another spoonful of the soup. It was rich and flavorful, and he found himself enjoying it much more than anything he’d had in months.

  “The battle is set for the day after tomorrow,” the King said from the head of the table as a loaf of bread was placed before him. He reached for it with both hands and tore off the end, handing it to a servant who slathered it with butter. “I see no reason why we should hurry into it recklessly, especially now that we have forces at our disposal with which to surprise Briyce Unger.” The King’s smile was broad and full as he took the bread from the servant and bit into it, crumbs falling upon his deep blue blouse.

  “Sire,” Count Ranson said, “we have danced to Unger’s tune throughout this entire war and look what it has gotten us.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with the count,” Cyrus said, drawing the King’s attention. A very brief flash of ire was visible in the King’s eyes but disappeared quickly. “Obviously, I have no idea what your strategy has been from the outset, but I know that in battle, if an enemy expects attack in two days, I prefer to hit him the day before, when he doesn’t expect it.”

  “That sounds like base chicanery,” the King said, lowering his head and biting deep into the bread in his hands. “Like something that would come from the Kingdom of Actaluere and not our own halls.”

  Cyrus heard another cough from the Baroness and saw her begin to open her mouth. He reached over and tried to drop a hand on hers and missed, sending his gauntlet to her thigh instead. He looked at her with chagrin and saw her mouth drop slightly open and her eyes widen in amusement. He began to stutter an apology, but the count started to speak again, drawing the Baroness’s attention—and his own—back to the table.

  “They have yet to treat us with the honor you speak of, Your Highness,” Count Ranson said in measured tones. “They struck without warning, have burned and pillaged our lands, used outsiders with power that we could not match, and now stand at our gates, ready to send us into ignominious defeat. If your enemy strikes at you from behind, does it not make sense to do the same to him?”

  The King chewed his bread thoughtfully. “Let them have their dishonor. We shall hold our heads high and defeat them nonetheless.”

  Cyrus could see the Count lock his jaw and lower his head, turning away from his liege. “Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, “I understand your wish for your army to maintain their honor. However,” he continued, feeling the tension rise in the room, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to march with my army on the morrow.”

  The King’s face became slack, a grim mask at the defiance being aired in his hall. “You would do this without my leave?”

  “I apologize, Your Highness,” Cyrus said. “I intend no disrespect, nor do I wish to challenge the high standards with which you govern your realm and conduct your affairs. However, I led my army to this land
with the intent of bringing every last one of them home again, and I will live up to that promise to the best of my ability. That means if I’m going to pit them against superior numbers and a force that contains spellcasters, I’m going to need every advantage I can get, even ones I make for myself. Which includes the element of surprise, something which has won more battles than any wizard.”

  The King watched him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth downturned. “I find your intransigence … disconcerting. But I cannot find fault in your desire to protect your people.” A lamb leg was placed in front of the King, and he picked it up. He took an enormous bite, chewing as he responded, words coming between movements of his jaw. “Very well, then. Let it be upon your honor. You will be at the head of our army and in nominal command of the battle. If anyone should ask, I will put the dishonor of surprise attacks upon you, not our Count Ranson.” Ranson stiffened at that, but nodded his head somewhat reluctantly. “Would you be amenable to that, Lord Davidon?”

  “Amenable to taking over your army?” Cyrus smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

  “To clarify,” the King went on, “you will lead the battle, but Count Ranson will have full control over the movements of our army. If you wish for him to do something, you will have to convince him yourself.”

  Cyrus felt his hands clench and heard a sharp intake of breath from his left. He looked over to realize his gauntlet was still on the Baroness’ thigh and hastily removed it, earning a pitying look from her. “Very well,” Cyrus said.

  The King’s eyebrow rose. “Very good, then. Let us speak of these dull matters no more, and turn our attention instead to the entertainments of the evening.” He lifted his hands as if to clap them, but before he could, a door opened at the far end of the room and a quartet of musicians with instruments came forth, situating themselves in the corner far to Cyrus’s left, where the King could see them best. The lead musician was a singer, and his voice rang out over the room, a smooth, dulcet sound that echoed beautifully from the walls as heads turned to watch.

  Cyrus looked from the singer to the Baroness as the rest of the members of the group began to play stringed instruments. The Baroness looked back at him with deep amusement, a sly smile on her face.

  Cyrus leaned close to her ear. “I was reaching for your hand, earlier, to try and calm you down after what was said.”

  She pulled back to look at him, and her eyebrow raised, her smile widened before turning coy. “And you think taking my hand would calm me? Apparently we should change your nickname from Cyrus the Unbroken to Cyrus the Oblivious—to take into account the effects you have on women that you don’t even notice.”

  Cyrus hemmed then hawed. “I doubt that my taking your hand would be cause for all that much excitement.”

  “Mmmm,” the Baroness seemed to ponder his reply as she let out a humming sound that harmonized with the music. “I don’t know. I think you might be underestimating your charisma and legendary reputation as a leader who keeps very strictly to himself—including his hands and all else.”

  “Ha ha,” Cyrus said with a fake, low-key laugh. “I prefer to channel all my efforts into battle. It’s less dangerous.”

  “Well, now,” the Baroness said, “I suspect that has more to do with the women you’ve courted. Perhaps if you tried one who didn’t carry a sword …”

  “Perhaps one who carried a dagger, instead?”

  She put her hand on her chest in mock outrage, drawing his attention to her shirt, which had a high collar but reminded him for a beat of the low-cut dress she had worn when first they met and how it had displayed her ample bosoms. “That a lady would carry a weapon is such an outrageous proposition.” Her feigned shock disappeared as she tossed a shoulder casually, then smiled. “However, when in the company of Arkarians, one can never be too well armed, especially if one is a woman.”

  Cyrus reached for his wine glass and took a deep drink as he pondered his reply. “And when in the company of beautiful women, regardless of origin, I find that blades are the least painful way that they can hurt you.”

  The Baroness reached for her wine glass and held it before her. “I’ll drink to that truth, Lord Davidon, if you’ll drink to mine—when it comes to men, being outmatched by them physically is quite a bit more painful and likely to happen than being outmatched by them mentally.” She smiled broadly as she noted his pained reaction. “Present company excepted, perhaps.”

  “I’m not likely to do either if I keep drinking this excellent wine,” Cyrus said, setting down his cup and watching the servant behind him rush forward to refill the glass.

  “Oh my,” the Baroness said in a quiet voice as the singer trilled in the corner. “Lord Cyrus Davidon, physically and mentally vulnerable? Quickly, grab for my hand—I may become very excitable.”

  He chuckled under his breath as she leaned in closer to him. “You’re different than the women I’ve known, Cattrine.” He stared at her and she stared back, her green eyes glinting at him.

  “Have you met many Baronesses?” She said it with the amusement that she seemed to layer over everything, and he found himself chuckling again.

  “No. But I doubt that’s why I find you so intriguing.”

  “Oh?” He caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes, but the sound of chairs scraping against the marble floor drew his gaze back to the King’s seat, where the King himself was now standing.

  “If you’ll all excuse me,” the King said as the music died in the room, the last squeals of bows drawn across instruments ending abruptly. The entire table rose belatedly to pay him homage, but he walked from the room toward a nondescript door, three servants and two armored guards in tow, before they had all gotten to their feet.

  “Did I just miss the end of the party?” Cyrus asked as they sat back down.

  “You’ll have to excuse the King,” Odau Genner leaned over the table from several seats away to address him. “He’s not feeling quite well right now—understandable, given what he’s faced with at the moment.”

  “Lord Davidon,” came the voice of Count Ranson across the table from him. “My army can be ready to leave by sunrise tomorrow. Would that be sufficiently early for you?”

  “I’d like a chance to review maps of this area, if you have them,” Cyrus said, watching the Count as the man nodded. “I don’t want to leave and march off to battle without some hint of strategy.” He smiled. “I’d like to catch them while they’re sleeping tomorrow night, if we can.”

  “That should be possible,” Ranson said, a hand on his clean-shaven chin. “They’ll be camped in the northern reaches of the Fields of Gareme. It is half a day’s march. It is a flat land, and if we can deal adequately with their scouts, we should be able to approach them without being seen.” The count’s face twisted into a half-grin. “Which is better than meeting them in the middle of the fields in broad daylight.”

  “Aye,” Cyrus said and glanced at the leg of lamb waiting upon his plate. “Why don’t we meet first thing in the morning with our officers to discuss the strategy? We can come to some agreement before we leave.”

  “Very well,” Count Ranson nodded and stood, executing a short bow. “I will go and make preparations.” The older man grimaced slightly. “If you would be willing to hear suggestions, I am very familiar with those lands and could likely help you to come up with a battle plan.”

  “I am eager to hear suggestions, Count,” Cyrus said with a tight smile, “as I have no knowledge of these plains you speak of, nor of the Kingdom of Syloreas’s army.”

  “Very good, Lord Davidon,” the count said with a curt nod. “I’ll have one of my men send for you at sunrise and we’ll discuss preparations then.” The count let a half-smile of obvious relief flood his face, then turned and walked around the table and from the room, through the double doors into the foyer.

  The singer commenced with his song again shortly thereafter, and Cyrus had some more wine. He saw Samwen Longwell sitting across from him, but the younger m
an did not meet his gaze, picking at his food instead. Did something happen between father and son when I wasn’t paying attention? He looked down the table, noted the others engaged in conversation and discussion save for Aisling, who seemed to almost disappear between two Galbadien men in armor, and Martaina, who was no longer seated but had instead removed herself to lean against the wall. Cyrus had to almost turn around in his chair to find her, but when he did, she nodded at him.

  He shook his head and turned back to find the Baroness delicately picking at the meat on her plate with a fork and knife. “How do you do that?” he asked.

  She glanced at him and went back to sawing off a small cut of meat no larger than Cyrus’s pinky knuckle. She then delicately speared it with her fork and placed it into her mouth, chewing slowly and with a smile on her face the entire time. When she swallowed it, her smile grew more enigmatic. “It’s called patience, Lord Davidon, and it’s required when you’re eating like a lady, else you might become exasperated with the miniscule bites that manners require you to take and try to gnaw the meat directly from the bone.”

  Cyrus held the leg bone in his hand, pondering the meat on it, then the five different forks and three knives that were set around his plate. “I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t subscribe to your dainty eating habits.”

  She chuckled. “I think I should be more offended if you did. I am eating like a lady, after all. If you did the same, I might wonder about you, to think that perhaps the reason that you’re rumored to have gone so long without female companionship in your bed is something more basic than poor luck and good consideration.”