“I don’t see reason to concern ourselves overmuch,” Cyrus said, “but better to be overprepared than under, I reckon. Bind it, too, just in case, and bring it along on the back of your horse.”
“My horse?” Aisling said, looking at him with equal parts disbelief and offense. “Why mine?”
“Because as the brilliant originator of the plan,” Cyrus said with a smile, “you get to carry it out.” He sniffed. “Also? That thing smells.”
“Great,” Aisling muttered under her breath. “Because I need more reasons to help you find me unappealing.”
Cyrus ignored her, whistling instead to Windrider, who came to a halt beside him. He patted the horse and climbed up in the saddle. “Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and waited for the goblin to appear out of the clump of the Sanctuary party, which had gathered behind him, between where they stood and the hill that he had charged down, “do you think your horse can bear the weight of you and our prisoner?”
“If we don’t run him too hard,” the goblin warned. “It’s been a long day, though, and we’ll be needing to rest the horses soon.”
“It’s an hour or so back to the edge of the swamp and a little farther to the crossing,” Cyrus said. “Let’s make camp once we’ve met up with the rest of our army, give our horses a night of rest.” He frowned, adjusting himself in the saddle and feeling a dozen aches and pains. “And ourselves as well. We’ll make our way back to Vernadam tomorrow.”
They took a few minutes to get situated and give the horses ample time to drink from a small stream of fresh water, and then started back. The journey took hours, and seemed slower than the trip in, the party mostly quiet from the fatigue of traveling through the night on the evening before.
Cyrus found himself riding next to Aisling and Martaina at one point, as the two trackers attempted to steer them clearly back toward the plains. “I never did get a chance to ask you,” Cyrus said to Aisling, startling the dark elf, “what was your impression of the Galbadien rulers when we were at Vernadam?”
Her eyes became snakelike as she studied him. “I came to make my report and found you … otherwise occupied.”
“You say that like it’s a curse,” Cyrus said mildly. “You’ve been badgering me for two years to loosen up, and now I have. Perhaps it’s a sour taste in your mouth, some envy that springs from deep within.”
Aisling let out a sharp exhalation of breath, almost like a hiss, and rolled her eyes. “You presume too much. Just because I’ve been honest about my interest in you, don’t assume that I’m so petty and insecure that I can’t handle even the thought of you pleasuring yourself with another woman.” She held her head high as she spoke to him. “I’ve offered in the past to bed you and another woman at the same time, though something tells me that the Baroness wouldn’t be much interested in that.”
“Fair assumption,” Cyrus said. “But still, I point out, your reaction to this turn of events is rather …” He thought about it, trying to find a diplomatic turn of phrase, “… sharp. Less than pleasant.”
“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Perdamun,” Aisling said, bending at the waist in a graceful bow that saw her nearly fold double yet not lose her balance on horseback. “My intention was not to be acute in my response to you. If I was, I apologize. Perhaps I was merely dismayed that after so many times offered, it seemed that you might finally be coming around—and you did, but with someone else.” Her eyes flashed again as she stared at him, and he caught a flippant toss of her white hair. “Forgive me for not quickly adapting to the new state of things.” Some of the acid was leeched out of her words, but enough remained that Cyrus felt the burn of it.
“I … can’t say I feel nothing for you. I am warming to you, but …” he pulled back, not wanting to finish his sentence.
“You felt more for her?” Aisling did not bother to hide the bitterness; she wore it plainly. “I can’t fault you for that; it’s not as though you can control the direction of your feelings. But it does hurt.”
“I have to ask,” Cyrus said, feeling the pull of a question within. “What is it about me that draws you so? You tried to seduce me, even though you knew I was in love with Vara. Now I’m with another woman, and still …” She blanched and he stopped speaking.
There was a pregnant pause before she spoke. “You asked, and in your question you have your answer.”
He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re guileless,” she said with a sigh. “There’s no deception within you when it comes to personal matters. In battle you’re cunning when need be, but you’re straightforward in all else—you go right at what you want, no treachery, no trickery.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at her. “What about Vara? I danced around her for ages.”
“Not exactly.” She steadied herself on the horse. “That wasn’t guile, that was a form of cowardice.”
“I don’t know whether I should be offended by that or not.”
Aisling shrugged. “You didn’t think you had a real chance with her. When it became obvious she’d warmed enough to you, you tried. Good effort, but it would appear she needed more time. That’s not on you, that’s on her. You threw yourself into the path of a god, ready to die for her. It’s hardly your fault that she became fixated more on what she’d do after she lost you than what she’d get from being with you.”
“That … was sweetly poetic,” Cyrus said. “But I think you give me too much credit.”
“Nope,” she said, voice flat. “Unless you didn’t jump in front of Mortus’s hand, the credit is yours. You were willing to die for her; she was unwilling to live past your death. Kind of a peculiar irony, but there it is. Not all that surprising, though; human and elven ideas about death are dramatically different. Probably has something to do with your lifespan.”
“Not for me it doesn’t,” Cyrus said. “For me it’s training and doctrine. The God of War doesn’t suffer cowardice—at least, not on the battlefield,” he said, face flushing at the recall of Aisling’s earlier mention of his cowardice. “That means committing to the fight, above all else, including one’s life.”
“I don’t hear you talk much about your religion,” Aisling said, matter-of-factly. “One might conclude you’re either not terribly faithful or you’re just not much of an evangelist.”
“Following the path of the God of War is who I am,” Cyrus said, a little miffed. “I don’t evangelize because no one wants to hear about the glory of battle, the sacrifice of blood on the altar of combat. Most Arkarians consider that savage behavior.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing about it sometime,” Aisling said, “but I doubt you’ll get me to change my lacksadaisical worship of Terrgenden to a lacksadaisical worship of Bellarum.”
Cyrus chuckled. “Now who’s the unfaithful one?”
She smiled. “I never said I was faithful. But I would say I’m worth it.”
He laughed again. “Well, I’m not sure I am.”
“From what I heard the other night, you are,” Aisling said, a little regretfully. “And what girl wouldn’t want a man who’s willing to die for them? What you did that day in the Realm of Death confirmed everything I’d felt about you from the beginning. Vara is more the fool for letting you slip away.”
“It’s kind of you to say.” Cyrus steered Windrider out of the swamp as they reached the edge of the plain. The horse whinnied in gratitude when they reached dry land and Cyrus patted him on the back of the neck. “Soon, old boy. You’ll get unsaddled and brushed out, and we’ll get you taken care of. Just a little farther back to the crossing.”
“Sir.” Longwell drifted toward Cyrus, Partus trussed up and gagged on the back of his horse. “Now that we’ve won the battle, my father will want us to stay for a spell, to enjoy at least a moon of feasting and celebration for winning the war.”
“Winning the war?” Cyrus looked at him in askance. “We broke one of Syloreas’s armies, but surely they must have more manpower somewhere. This
army was hardly the be-all, end-all.”
“I suspect they do have more, yes,” Longwell said. “It was a weak offering, and uncharacteristic of Unger not to have led the battle himself from the front. For him not to be present at all is simply bizarre.”
Cyrus shook his head. “I can’t imagine he thought that was wise strategy, sending only that many and no more. Unless perhaps Actaluere drew him away with an attack, I would have thought he’d throw everything he had at this fight; after all, he was inches from defeating your Kingdom. That’s hardly the moment to pull back and be cautious.” Cyrus thought about it. “Is it possible he brought another army around wide and flanked us, attacking Vernadam?”
Longwell thought about if for a moment and then shrugged. “I can’t see what good it would do him. He might conquer the town, but in order to take the castle, he’d need time, which he wouldn’t get if we beat his other army in the field. He’d get flanked while trying to mount a siege of the most impregnable fortress in the land.” Longwell shrugged again. “Not the wisest course, and Briyce Unger is no fool. No, more likely he’s into something else, though I can’t imagine what.”
A fearful wind was whipping across the plains now and it brushed through Cyrus’s hair with all the enthusiasm of a cat at play with yarn. The green grasses came up to the knee of his horse, and the smell of the animals, wet with the travel through the swamp, followed them. He could hear the chatter behind him and the rustling of the grass in the breeze, as well as the occasional whinny. The plains lay uneven all the way to the horizon, and Cyrus could see the river ahead.
A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Longwell. “Your father greeted you with great enthusiasm when we arrived the day before yesterday.”
Longwell’s jaw tightened under his helm. “Aye. I expect he was quite pleased that I returned, especially seeing how I was at the head of an army that could save his realm. Even as … distracted … as he is nowadays, it had not escaped my father’s notice that Syloreas was about to conquer his Kingdom.”
“But you left,” Cyrus said. “You’re the heir to the throne, aren’t you? But you went far, far away. You must have gone for a reason.”
“I did,” Longwell said. “My father and I had a great disagreement. My mother has been gone for many years, and she and I always got on better than my father and I did.” The dragoon’s tension was obvious even through his armor. “My father thought I’d come under unsavory influences.”
“What?” Cyrus did a double take. “You’ve never acted with anything but honor for as long as I’ve known you.”
Longwell gave Cyrus a slow, subtle nod of acknowledgment. “I’ve always tried to; but it led me to defiance of my father’s will. In his eyes, there is no greater sin. It led me out of his house, out of his Kingdom, and out of this land, as I couldn’t see myself fighting for Actaluere or Syloreas.” He puckered his lips in distaste. “That much a traitor I am not. Now, in his hour of need, I return. Let us hope that buys me back into his good graces for longer than a fortnight.” The dragoon shook his head as if to clear it. “It matters not. We shall find ourselves in good company and my father will throw an impressive feast.”
“I could use some time to rest after this journey,” Cyrus said. “Two months to get here, a nasty battle along the way, one big fight, and a little hunt for a dwarf,” he waved toward Partus, whose wide-hipped rump was facing Cyrus off the back of Mendicant’s horse, “and we’re done. Some feasting and celebrating doesn’t seem out of line. Our people have earned it—especially given how far they’ve walked,” he said with a smile. Windrider whinnied. “And horses, too, of course.”
The river appeared before them, broad and dark in the falling light, and within an hour they were crossing the bridge, the Galbadien army already encamped on the other side. Tents had been set up, large ones, and there was some manner of dinner being served from the fires. A wagon train had come with the army, giving them more sustenance than conjured bread and water. Cyrus saw Sanctuary army members, looking far different than the Galbadiens in their distinctive livery.
They rode into the camp in the gathering twilight, cheers from the men, cups hoisted into the air in their honor. The men of the Galbadien army, dragoons and footmen all, came forth to see the dwarven mercenary who had caused them such fear paraded along on the back of their prince’s horse. That thought crackled across Cyrus’s mind as they walked in a procession toward the area where it appeared Sanctuary’s army had concentrated.
“You’re the prince of this land, aren’t you?” Cyrus asked Longwell, who was waving obligingly to the troops they passed, and receiving a great many toasts of hoisted mugs and shouted promises to buy him ale when they returned to town.
“Yes,” the dragoon said bitterly. “Why do you ask?”
“It just occurred to me, that’s all.” Cyrus steadied himself as the crowd closed in on them, cheering louder. “I’d never thought of you as a prince before, and I didn’t know if someday you were going to be ruler here, or if you had siblings.”
“No siblings,” he said glumly. “Just me. But as for ruling the Kingdom … that remains to be seen. Blood will out, but my father designates his heir as he sees fit. I don’t know that I want the crown,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I’d say you’re favored for it right now.” Cyrus took in the steady chant around them, a low but rising one of Longwell’s last name. “Just going by the words of the fighting men.”
Longwell let a smile slip through his glumness. “It’s their respect I wanted all along; my father would have had me be a court lackey.” He grasped the lance that stuck vertically out of the holder on the back of his saddle. “It was I who wanted to be on the battlefield. Just as he was, once.”
They paraded about, on a slow path to where Cyrus saw Odellan in his distinctive armor. The elf waited for them, arms crossed, a smile upon his face as they approached. Count Ranson waited with him, along with Odau Genner and a few of the other members of the Galbadien war council Cyrus had seen at the dinner and strategy meeting. Cyrus dismounted and grabbed the gagged and bound Partus, lifting him off Mendicant’s horse and setting him upon the ground. The dwarf’s legs were tied together, allowing only shuffling steps. Cyrus nudged him to move foward toward Count Ranson.
“Well done,” the Count said, delivering a slow but sincere clap that was picked up by the Sanctuary and Galbadien soldiers that surrounded them. Large tents were stationed in a rough circle around them, the biggest of them open to the air, with only a roof to cover the insides from the elements. A few tables were within, along with the remains of some dinner that reached Cyrus’s nose; the smell of meat was unmistakable and made his mouth water after two days of salted pork and insubstantial bread. “Truly, you’ve done wonders here. Defeated the mercenaries, helped us break the Sylorean army in a crushing defeat. Wondrous,” the count smiled. “Truly wondrous.”
“And this was all their army?” Cyrus pushed Partus forward again.
“No,” the count said. “They had another one that was moving south, a host more than double the size of this one, but according to our scouts and messengers, it’s turned north, back to Syloreas.” The count scratched his cheek. “We received word by carrier pigeon that they crossed back over their own border last night and that the royal convoy with Briyce Unger and his generals was riding hard to catch up. They’ve started to abandon some of the southernmost keeps that they’d taken in our territory.” He shook his head. “They could have put up a much nastier fight here if they’d shown up with everything, but it seems something else is going on; it’s not like Briyce Unger to stop fighting in the middle of a war.”
“Sounds worrisome,” Cyrus said. “I’d suggest you ask this one,” he pointed to Partus, who leered at him out of the corner of his eyes, “but I don’t know that he’d spill it.”
“He’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Terian said, striding forward off his horse and clapping Partus on the back with such force that t
he dwarf was nearly knocked onto his face. “He’s a mercenary now. All you have to do is pay him a fat sack of gold, and he’ll do whatever you want, including betraying his former masters.” Terian unslung his sword and rested it, edge down, on Partus’s armor, the blade only inches from the side of his neck. “Or maybe just the thought of saving his skin will be enough to get the old dwarf talking.”
“Terian,” Cyrus said. “We’ll be handing the prisoner over to Count Ranson. It’ll be up to him how he wants to handle him.”
“As I understand it,” Ranson said, a look of concern upon his weathered features, “you’ll need magic to contain this one.” He waited for Cyrus to nod, then shook his head. “No, it won’t do. You can keep him. Just get him off our shores; kill him or take him back with you, it makes no mind to me. If you mean to leave him, then let’s kill him and be done with it now.”
“Tempting,” Terian said with a wide grin, looking down at Partus, whose eyes were slightly wider but spiteful, and who wasn’t saying a word. “Very tempting. I could find myself enjoying an execution.”
“Not today,” Cyrus said. “Let’s have a talk first. Nyad,” he looked back to find the wizard behind him. “I’ll need a cessation spell, if you could, please.”
She nodded, and began to cast the spell. Her eyes rolled back in her head, a light green glow seemed to emanate from around her body, giving her red robe a peculiar aura. She nodded once at Cyrus and continued to speak low words under her breath, keeping the spell in effect.
Cyrus pulled the gag out of Partus’s mouth, and the dwarf spat the last of the oversized rag out with a choked noise that turned into a cough. When he was finished, he glared at Terian. “After all we’ve been through, dark knight, I’d have expected a little more kindness from you when you stuffed that in.”
“After all we’ve been through,” Terian looked at the dwarf with a raised eyebrow, “you should have been grateful I didn’t slit your throat before putting you on the horse.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 24