“Enough niceties,” Cyrus said, pushing Partus’s shoulder enough to cause the dwarf to look up at him with a smoldering rage in his eyes. “Where’s the rest of the Sylorean army heading?”
“North,” Partus said, his eyes flicked down in uncaring. “What, you didn’t hear him a minute ago?” He jerked his head toward the count. “Might wanna clean your ears out.”
Terian lifted a knee and hit the dwarf perfectly in the back. Partus’s armor had been removed before they had bound him, and the dwarf let out a sharp cry and fell to his knees; Terian’s hit had perfectly landed on the tender spot above Partus’s kidney. The dwarf sucked air in through gritted teeth, his hands still bound behind him.
“Terian, enough,” Cyrus said, placing a hand on the dark elf’s breastplate, barely touching him but prepared to hold him back. “He’s a smartass; it’s not as though we haven’t dealt with those every day of our lives.”
“He’s a Goliath smartass,” Terian seethed, “and you’d do well to remember it. They’re treacherous, traitorous blighters who have no issue with sticking a blade in your exposed back the moment it’s turned. If he sold out his own guild to Goliath for a few pieces of silver, you can imagine what he’d do to the likes of us for much less.”
“I didn’t sell out my own guild,” Partus said, wrenching himself off his knees and back to his feet. “Time came that the Daring was too set against moving forward, I moved on. Hardly my fault others followed with me. It’s not as though they came with me when I left Goliath, did they? Save for the few you lot just left rotting on the battlefield here.”
“I can see you’re real broken up about their deaths,” Terian said, now leaning against Cyrus’s placed hand. “If we left you to your overwhelming grief for just a few more years, we might even see a single tear.”
“I’m not the excessively sentimental kind,” Partus said sullenly. “Unlike some people I know, I deal in the real world; and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes in our line of work, things take an occasional wrong turn down a bad alley. Those blokes knew what they were into when we signed up for this. So did I. If you mean to take my head off for what we’ve done, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d get to it and spare me, please, this sanctimonious, holier-than-thou sermon from the dark knight.” He straightened. “I think I’ve had quite enough of being lectured on virtue by you, Terian Lepos.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terian asked, and Cyrus felt the very slight pressure against his hand from Terian’s breastplate slacken.
“It means Aurastra,” Partus said with a sneer.
Cyrus watched as Terian’s pupils seemed to dilate before his eyes, like pinpricks of color lost in the light. He felt the subtle shift in the dark knight’s footing through the plate armor, sensed something was amiss before it happened, and a shudder ran through his arm as Terian drew his sword and let out a shout, pulling the blade over his head.
Before the dark elf had a chance to get his balance, Cyrus lunged, kicking Terian’s legs from underneath him. They landed with a clatter of armor as Cyrus seized the dark knight’s sword hand by the wrist, holding it up as he crashed to the ground on top of Terian. Cyrus shoved down with his weight and strength, pinning the dark knight into place. “Enough! You’re not killing him.”
“Oh yes, I am,” Terian said, not even bothering to strain against Cyrus. The dark knight glared at Cyrus with frosty eyes. “It may not happen today, or tomorrow, or even this month or year, but something you need to realize, Davidon—it will happen. If I mean to kill a man, he will die.” Terian jerked his hand away from Cyrus, and slowly slid his sword back into the scabbard as Cyrus stood up and proffered a hand to help Terian up. “Nothing stops that. It’s just a matter of timing, that’s all. But you’re right,” Terian said, hauling himself back to his feet. “It’s not today.”
Cyrus watched Terian out of the corner of his eye but also saw the smug Partus send Terian a little wave. The dark knight didn’t react, at least not visibly, though Cyrus could swear he felt Terian’s glare burning a hole into his back. “I’m not even going to ask you what Aurastra means,” Cyrus said, his attention back on Partus.
“You should, it’s an interesting tale,” the dwarf said.
“I want to know about the Sylorean army.” Cyrus kept his gaze trained on the dwarf, though he spared a glance at Count Ranson, who watched the proceedings with cool disinterest mingled with a certain disdain. He’s not impressed with the discipline of my army right now, that’s for sure. Neither am I, when you come to it. I just had a man try and slay a prisoner in front of me and I had to take him down myself. Not a great sign; at least I got the result they were looking for.
“Yeah, it went north,” Partus said. “We split far up the countryside from here. They were supposed to hit country towns, plunder and pillage and the like, lay siege to some keeps and then meet us at Harrow’s Crossing for the battle with you lot, but a couple nights ago the King—Unger, the bloke who hired me—gets a messenger from his capital. Something happened up there, something bad. We’re in the middle of dining on some spoils from a keep we’d broken down the night earlier, and he takes his officers and loads up and buggers off in the middle of a meal.” Partus spat on the ground. “Left one of his lessers in charge, didn’t say much of what it was about. Didn’t much matter, neither, rolling over Vernadam was supposed to be a foregone conclusion, that we were going to crush your army at Harrow’s Crossing even with our reduced numbers and waltz right in or blockade the place if necessary. War over.” Partus let out a rough snort. “Promises not worth the warm air they’re breathed into.”
“So what was it about?” Cyrus spoke and Partus turned to look at him; previously the dwarf had been addressing his comments to the Count.
“Told you, I don’t know.” The dwarf shrugged his shoulders.
“You said he ‘didn’t say much of what it was about,’” Cyrus repeated. “Word for word.”
The dwarf let a half-smile curl his lips, a snide one, as though he knew he’d been caught. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, he didn’t say much, and what he did say didn’t make a bit of sense, really, not to me at least. Then he and his band buggered off before he went and explained it.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Enough drama. What did he say?”
Partus met Cyrus’s eyeroll with one of his own. “He said, ‘they’re coming.’” The dwarf held his bound hands in front of him. “That’s it. And then he got on a horse and scampered off to the north with his little wagon train in tow, as though Mortus himself was following behind him.”
Cyrus concentrated, looking at Count Ranson. “That mean anything to you?”
Ranson shrugged. “Nothing. I’m left with the obvious question of who ‘they’ are. Actaluere’s army, possibly?”
“I doubt it,” Partus said, with a slight snicker. “Because you see, you’re missing it. It doesn’t matter, the bit he said. Because that’s not the news. It’s how he said it that matters. That and what he did afterwards.”
Count Ranson sighed heavily. “Very well. How did Briyce Unger say it, then?”
“Scared.” Partus let it slip matter-of-factly, like he was letting loose something precious indeed. “He was scared, I’d stake my life on it.”
Ranson’s mouth opened slightly at the dwarf’s words, as though he were weighing them in his mind, trying to calculate the value of them. “That is … interesting. And, if true … greatly disturbing.”
“Disturbing?” Cyrus looked around at the officers behind him, and the men surrounding him, and found one face in particular—Longwell. The dragoon’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wider than usual. “Longwell?” Cyrus asked. “What does it mean? Why does it matter?”
Longwell stepped forward, brushing past Terian to stand next to Cyrus. “Briyce Unger, the King of Syloreas, has led every single battle he’s fought from the vanguard. He fights like a madman in personal combat; it’s said no man can take him down. He carries a mac
e with a ball the size of a man’s head, and the spikes on it are as long as my forearm. He’s huge, taller maybe even than you,” Longwell acknowledged Cyrus’s height with a nod. He is one of the mountain men of Syloreas, rocky and inhospitable. They don’t fear many things. Briyce Unger is the most fearless of them all.”
Longwell looked at the circle around Partus, and the dwarf looked at him and nodded. “So for this man—dwarf—whatever he is, to say that Briyce Unger took this news and was scared …” The dragoon swallowed hard. “It doesn’t sound terribly good for him.”
Cyrus watched Longwell carefully then shifted his attention to the still-chuckling Partus. “Let me give you a helpful hint, mercenary,” he said, stripping the smug look from the dwarf’s face. “When the fearless man is afraid, it’s not just bad for him, as a rule.” Cyrus stared north, as though he could sense something was ahead of them, over the horizon. “It’s bad for all of us.”
Chapter 21
The rest of night was subdued; conversations hashed over and over again. Partus was gagged once more and bound hand and foot, tied to a cot and put under guard. He was allowed water before he went to sleep, but only with a cessation spell over him, then he was strapped down and left quiet with two guards and Mendicant to watch over him. The goblin was ordered by Cyrus to thoroughly cover the dwarf with a fire spell should he attempt to escape, a fact which was not lost on the wide-eyed Partus.
Cyrus sat in a circle around a fire with his officers, but the conversations lost his attention after only a short while. They discussed what Partus had talked about, but it meandered in circles. Terian was silent, almost as though he were pouting or lost in his own thoughts. After their conflict, Cyrus had not bothered to approach the dark knight. Better to let him stew on it and talk with him in the morning. He’s sore that I had to remonstrate with him in a public forum. He frowned. Well, he shouldn’t have tried to kill the prisoner.
Longwell contributed little to the conversation, only reiterating that Briyce Unger had little use for cowards, so the thought of him terrified was disquieting, at least. Ryin weighed in with his own observations, after which Nyad proceeded to dissect at length (interminably, to Cyrus’s mind) every bit of what was said about the Sylorean army, Briyce Unger, and all other minutia. Shortly before midnight, Cyrus gave up and retreated to a tent that Ranson had indicated was for him.
Within, he found a wooden cot with a roll of furs to use as a mattress. Cyrus lay upon it, resting his head, hearing the sounds of the thousands of soldiers encamped around him. Though he knew the latrines were far from his tent, the smell of the battlefield was still present; the first hints of souring flesh, the real or perceived scent of blood on the air. He buried his face in the furs, sniffing at the clean, just-washed smell of them, the barest remains of soap still on them. He thought of the Baroness, of the morrow, and of how he would feel her against him again, and he slept.
The next day came similarly gloomy, and he woke to the sounds of the camp stirring. After stretching, Cyrus stepped outside the tent. Rain was in the air again, the heavy, humid feeling of a storm, ready to break. The clouds were grey and wended their way to both ends of the sky without break or interruption. Some patches were darker than others, but it was all a dark sky, and all a worrisome thing to have hanging over one’s head, ready to break loose at any moment.
After a brief conversation with Count Ranson, who urged Cyrus to begin the journey back to Vernadam, which awaited them for celebrations, Cyrus rallied the Sanctuary army. They made their way out of the camp, the column being led once more by the riders on horseback. They had left behind their own wagons at Vernadam, and so made their way onto the rough road leading into the Forest of Waigh before the morning had entirely left.
The sky remained gloomy but did not deliver on the promised rain until nearing midday, when it came in short, staccato bursts. For ten minutes the skies would pour buckets and then stop, the clouds finally breaking to reveal sunlight. A few minutes later, another cloud would cover the sun, drench the army of Sanctuary as it tried to hide under the boughs of the forest, and then be onward in the sky, letting the sun shine down again. After the fourth rainstorm, Cyrus lost count, not worrying, already soaked and near uncaring about the chill. Although he felt bad for the soldiers in the column, he knew the only thing for them was to finish the march, which would take another six hours or so before they’d reach Vernadam.
Cyrus spent his time quiet, thinking of the Baroness, of her touch. He found to his surprise that even in the short time he’d been gone, he’d missed having her travel with them, that he’d wanted to comment on something to her. Madness. That was fast. He imagined her face, her smile, and lapsed once again into thinking of the night before he’d left, and felt his own anticipation for their arrival.
The journey passed quickly, especially after the rain, and the Forest of Waigh ended when they had only three hours of marching left to their destination. From the moment they left behind the tree-covered skies, Vernadam was visible in the distance, the towering top spire sticking above all else, a faintly shadowed pillar on the horizon that grew and grew as they marched closer. Sundown cast it in a shadow against the purple sky, a black outline of the tallest castle Cyrus had ever seen.
They reached the city not long after sundown to much jubilance and celebration in the street. Women leapt from the crowds and kissed the men in the column (some to great joy, some to great dismay) and Cyrus found himself pelted with flowers and the recipient of countless offered bottles, most of which he declined.
They halted in the square to cheers and adulation. The environment around them was stunning, excitement was rampant, and Cyrus could feel himself sucked into it, a heady feeling of being a part of something grand, once-in-a-lifetime. He dodged a group of Galbadien boys who chanted his name, “CY-RUS, CY-RUS, CY-RUS,” and thought quietly that they looked to be of an age with some of the newest recruits in his army. The village was entirely turned out, and the smell of strong wine was already pervasive in the street, along with good ale and some urine as he rode past an alley or two.
He shouted to Odellan. “Keep them in line,” he said, and saw the elf nod at him. Cyrus gestured to his officers to proceed, and they did, to muted cheers and a widening chant of Cyrus’s name that seemed to grow even louder as they exited the square and the village, ringing out even as they made their way up the path to Vernadam.
“Figures,” Terian said, muttering under his breath. “We all go out and fight the battle, and he’s the one that gets the cheers.”
“I don’t remember seeing you get your brains dashed out by a hammer for this victory,” Cyrus said.
“No great loss there,” Terian replied. “You didn’t have much in the way of them to start.”
Cyrus chuckled as they made their way up the winding path. It was darker, now, and the gates to the castle were visible ahead. The switchback sent them winding around at a slow canter, and Cyrus felt the discomfort in his haunches from all the sitting over the last months. A month without riding might be nice. Well, without horseback riding, anyway …
The gate of Vernadam was impossibly large, yawning, the portcullis up and inviting them in. Cyrus imagined trying to lay siege to this castle, to deal with the meandering path, to fight against the steep sides, or attempt to put a siege engine against the curtain wall. Even the thought of bringing a battering ram heavy enough to shatter the great wooden gates was laughable. I pity whatever fool tries to take this place by force; assuming they were provisioned, it would be the effort of years. His mind drifted again to within the walls, to the Baroness, to the bed in his chambers. He was tired, again, after a long day’s ride, but not ready to sleep, not yet …
They went through the tunnel of the portcullis, into the courtyard, and Cyrus looked up to the stairs that led to the front doors. The doors were open, and a procession was making its way down, following the King. He was almost to the bottom, and in the bevy of servants and house guards was another face, a shinin
g one, resplendent, really—Cattrine, in a green dress of the most elegant silk, waiting for him only a few steps behind the King.
Cyrus dismounted and one of the servants from the stables came and took Windrider’s reins from him. He waited until Longwell, Terian, and a few of the others joined him; Partus was paraded before them, looking murderously annoyed. Still gagged, the dwarf couldn’t say anything, but he grunted in irritation every time Terian poked him to move forward.
The courtyard was insulated from the breezes that had run so infrequently outside, and Cyrus found himself a little warmer as he took his first steps toward the King. He could see the Baroness, a glow in her eyes and on her skin, as he smiled at her and came before the King, who nodded at him.
“King Aron,” Cyrus said, “I present to you the dwarven mercenary who has caused you so many difficulties, as a sign, from us of the Sanctuary Army, that we hope your troubles with Syloreas are at an end after the battle of Harrow’s Crossing.”
The assembled servants and guards burst into spontaneous applause, encouraged by the benign smile upon the King’s face. When they had quieted, the King spoke, not taking his eyes off the dwarf. “Your gift is much appreciated, as are your efforts in these dark days, made light by your victory over our enemies. When my only son left,” he turned toward Samwen Longwell, who looked at his feet, “I feared the worst for my house, only to see the worst come after his departure. But what I thought would be our ruin became our salvation as he returned with you wonderful people of the west.”
The King raised his hands above him. “I declare the next thirty days to be a time of celebration and feasting throughout the Kingdom of Galbadien. Let all who are fit raise their cups to Cyrus Davidon, Samwen Longwell, and the heroes of Sanctuary, who have delivered us from our ancient foes! Let all who have lips to speak praise their names, and let us dedicate this time to salving their weariness, resting them from their troubles, and feasting them upon the most succulent delicacies our lands have to offer.” The King’s thin face was positively radiant. “This in the name of those who have ventured so far to offer a hand of friendship. This is your time.” He spread his arms wide, beckoning them forward to the castle. “We invite you to stay with us, and enjoy all we have to offer—in the name of our friendship.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 25