Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  Vara turned back. “I might have been accused of being unreasonable from time to time, you needn’t worry about that.”

  “Not an unreasonable pain in the backside,” Isabelle said. “Unreasonable in the sense of making a decision with your soft, yet-walled off and vulnerable heart rather than your thickly protected and indestructible head. There is a clear difference between the two.”

  “If there is,” Vara said, and pushed open the flap to let the smell of the army camp outside wash over her, the faint foulness of the cooking and the latrines and all the bodies pushed together in this space, along with the warm evening air, “I can’t afford to discover what the former might be saying and still expect to hold to my duty. And that, really, is the essence of the crusade right there, isn’t it? A simple choice, and one that is already made.”

  “Take care,” Isabelle said, “you and your choice. Take care that you don’t regret that choice later.”

  “I am elf,” Vara said, as she left the tent, and let the flap fall behind her. “My life is long, and my sorrow is great—and what is the weight of one more regret on the top of that pile in the grand scale?” She knew Isabelle heard her, even though there was no answer from within the tent. She ignored the trolls that flanked her on either side as she crossed back over to Ryin, who waited by a fire. She ignored the thought of that weight, too, consciously at first, but by the time the return spell took hold and carried her back to Sanctuary, she had forgotten it entirely.

  Chapter 45

  Martaina

  There was something wrong in the air, something she couldn’t quite narrow down. It was as if the breeze had shifted direction, and it carried with it an ill smell, something far away, something like death. She sniffed again, and it was faint, something dead, some blood, and it was too early and the woods too sparse for the camp to be getting fresh meat tonight. And if we were, odds are better than good that I’d be the one providing it, Martaina thought.

  There was a stir as the expedition returned, Aisling at the fore with Terian, bound and gagged on a horse that she led. Martaina caught sight of Partus, further down the line, untethered, riding a horse of his own. “Before you left,” Martaina called out to Aisling, who looked at her in return, “the dwarf was bound hand and foot, and Terian was loosed upon the world. You return and the dark knight is the one restrained.”

  “Does that make you curious about what happened?” Aisling asked, a sly smile perched on her blue lips.

  Martaina sniffed the air again, trying to tune out the dull, pungent scent of people and focus on what she was scenting from upwind. “Not really.”

  “It’s quite the tale,” Aisling said, handing off her reins to one of the other rangers that Martaina had set to taking care of the animals. Mendicant hopped off his pony and took up the rope that was tied around Terian’s bindings as he started to lead him off. “Filled with adventure and derring-do.”

  Martaina looked at the dark elf as she approached, the usual measure of thistles caught in her white hair. With another sniff, something else became obvious as well, something that was beyond the usual faint hint of cinnamon that Aisling used to freshen her breath, something primal and sweaty on her blue skin, something that wasn’t usually there, in spite of the dark elf’s self-proclaimed reputation. Martaina watched her evenly, not giving her much expression, though she knew that scent, would know it anywhere, as pronounced as it was. “And also,” Martaina said, “filled with much sex with your General, it would seem.”

  Aisling’s face didn’t fall as expected, it almost flushed, near-aglow. “You can tell?”

  “I can smell it,” Martaina said, and went back to her quiver, checking each arrow in turn for splintering on the shaft, and fussing about every fletching.

  “Smell what?” Aisling stared back at her.

  “Him,” Martaina replied, “on you. Every man in this guild has a unique smell when they sweat. His is faint most of the time, but after a long ride and strenuous activity, it gets more pronounced. It took me a minute to sort it out, because it smells like he might have been in a hot springs recently, and that sulphur really covers it over well, but no, it’s there, it’s obvious—oh, and his horse, too. Very different smell than other horses, and it clings to him like that thistle in your hair.” She watched with some minor satisfaction as Aisling’s face purpled about the cheeks, her race’s version of blushing. “Don’t fear; I won’t tell.”

  “Much appreciated,” Aisling said tightly, “I doubt our esteemed general would much like it if this …” She searched for a word but admitted defeat after only a few seconds, “… this were to get out among the guild.”

  “Because his last two relationships were something he actively tried to hide?” Martaina raised an eyebrow at her and watched Aisling flinch away, the fingers of one hand touching her lips almost self-consciously.

  “Ah, good to see you’ve returned,” Odellan said, wandering in from the opposite direction. His smell was straightforward, clean whenever possible, just like him. Not bad looking, either, for one so young, Martaina thought. “Where are the officers?” he asked Aisling.

  “Back at Enrant Monge,” Aisling said, all trace of her embarrassment gone. “I believe the general will be along shortly.”

  The smell from the woods was stronger now, Martaina thought, something obvious about it, the blood. She hadn’t heard anything, but that was hardly an indicator given that the camp noise was so prevalent. I wouldn’t smell anything either, but I’m here at the fringe, and the wind is just right. “Somebody died,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?” Odellan looked away from Aisling, to her, and Martaina realized now she’d said it out loud.

  “There’s blood in the air, a lot of it,” Martaina said with some chagrin. “I can track based on many factors, and that is one of them—one I don’t talk about much, obviously. It’s faint, but there, and it’s a ways off, so that means there’s a lot of it.”

  “You’re saying—” Odellan began.

  “Someone died?” Aisling asked. “No … someone was killed, if there’s that much blood.” Martaina could hear the young dark elf, and the slow line of reasoning as she drew it out in her head.

  “How close by?” Odellan asked. “After all, there are armies encamped to our east, north and west—”

  “Somewhere between here and Enrant Monge, I think,” Martaina said, sifting through it.

  “Let’s go take a look.” Aisling’s hand went to her dagger, resting on the hilt, palming it. “After all, it could be—”

  Odellan whistled, and a few nearby warriors came trotting over. “Short march. I’ll need a couple of rangers as well, as runners if need be. And a healer, so someone fetch one and bring them to catch up.” He looked to Martaina. “Lead on?”

  “Yes,” Martaina said, and let her bow find her hand, and an arrow nocked itself. “Follow.”

  She didn’t run through the trees, not exactly, but followed the path, the one that Aisling and the others from the northern expedition had come in on just moments earlier. The wind had shifted directions, now, and was blowing from the east. I hope what we’re looking for is on the path, because wandering afield on a search like this will be like trying to hit an apple at forty yards with a black hood on. She smiled. I can do it, but it’ll strain me.

  The wind was fair but shifted again as they got closer down the path. It was all woods around them now, slight bluffs and rises on one side of the road. She ran along, her feet on the uneven path, the suggestion of rocks through the leather soles of her shoes. Hers gave flexibility but not as much support or protection. But neither were they as weighty as what the warriors wore, either, and she had to slow down to keep from outrunning the escort behind her.

  The wind shifted again, and the smell was obvious now, close, a bend or two ahead in the road. Too many scents, mingled together to make a distinction about what she was smelling other than blood. The leaves whipped by her on either side, the string of her bow bit into her fingers the
way it always had, the elven twine. It wasn’t a problem and hadn’t been in the thousand years since she first started to use it, but it was there, the pull of the string, just another feeling, a reminder to her that she was alive.

  She came around the corner, a hard twist in the road just beyond a rise that blocked the view and there it was; blood, plenty of it, oozed out all over the road. The bodies were gone, dragged off, save one, the black armor so familiar that she knew the scent then, at least one of them. Martaina heard a hiss behind her as Aisling came around the berm, and she too saw what was there in the road.

  The body was laid out, defaced in the cruelest ways possible, the head missing. The sword was still there, amazingly enough, and stuck in the body, which had been stripped naked, the armor left off to the side. It was still obvious, even so, whose body it was, being so tall and muscled as it was. She dropped next to it, felt the slide on the dirt road against her knees, as her fingers ran over the shoulder, as though she could offer the corpse some reassurance.

  Aisling was across from her now, kneeling, not saying anything. There was a pall and quiet, the warriors who had followed them speaking only in hushed voices. It was obvious to them, too, who it was, and the rage and tension in the air was palpable. The words “The General” were bandied about, over and over, and she heard one of the rangers that had followed along running back to camp even as another ran down the road toward Enrant Monge.

  “How long?” Aisling asked, jarring Martaina out of the long stare she had given the uneven cut around the throat, the place where the lifeblood was draining out onto the sand even now, aided more by gravity than the beating of a heart that had ceased minutes ago. Martaina looked up at the dark elf, who stared her down, and in the red eyes there was a fierce flame, as though the gates of the Realm of Fire had opened and all blazes had spilled loose into the dark elf’s soul. “How long?”

  “He’s been dead ten, perhaps fifteen minutes,” Martaina said as she felt the arm again. It wasn’t cool to the touch, not yet, and wouldn’t exactly cool in the warm summer sun. “It’s possible that the head is around here, somewhere—”

  “Unlikely,” Odellan said, and he was standing over them. “If someone takes a head, it’s either meant as spite to deprive them of resurrection or it’s a trophy. It’s not meant to be done just to kick it around a clearing.” The elf grew thoughtful, his helm held in the crook of his arm, his usually dark, sun-kissed skin a bit white. “Not in an orchestrated attack like this.”

  “Hoygraf, then,” Aisling said, and she stood. “Actaluere.”

  “That would seem the most likely.” Martaina stood, the wind blowing a few grains of sand from the road across her face along with a few stray strands of hair.

  “This is not an opportune time or place for us to make war on Actaluere,” Odellan said, responding more to the sudden rumble that ran through the thirty or so warriors, armored and armed, standing behind him arrayed along the road and even up on the embankment. “Calm yourselves.”

  “I don’t wish to calm myself,” Aisling said, though she kept her pitch well under control. “I wish to find the bastards responsible and collect their heads for myself while returning his to where it belongs.”

  “This is not a moment for rash action,” Odellan said.

  “This is not a moment when we can afford to wait and NOT act, either,” Aisling said. “We have less than forty minutes to find his head and have a healer reattach it or else he will not be coming back to life. I would have to guess that will put at least some kink in our efforts to defend Luukessia.”

  “We cannot simply charge into the midst of the army of Actaluere,” Odellan said, “regardless of how strong our suspicions might be. What if this is some feint by Galbadien, some political game by the Syloreans? Or a simple, ill-timed and gruesome bandit attack?”

  “This is about as likely to be a bandit attack as you are to sprout gills and start swimming about in the wellsprings under Saekaj Sovar,” came a voice from the embankment. Martaina looked up, but not far; Partus stood there, a few feet above them, along with others now arriving, trickling in from the encampment as the news spread. The clink of chains heralded the arrival of Mendicant, Terian in tow. The dark knight’s eyes flashed as he saw the body, but his mouth was covered by the gag and his expression muted by the cloth that covered half his face.

  “What’s he doing here?” Martaina asked Mendicant. She saw the goblin start in surprise at being addressed.

  “I couldn’t just leave him at the campsite,” Mendicant said. “They’re all heading over here, now. So I brought him along.”

  “He’s probably getting a deep feeling of joy from seeing this,” Aisling said, leering at Terian. The dark knight shrugged then shook his head. “No? Must be because you wanted the joy of doing it for yourself.” She waited, and Terian looked at her knowingly then nodded once. “A finer friend I doubt he’s ever known,” she said, and touched the headless body with the toe of her shoe, delicate, almost a caress. “At least when he killed your father, he didn’t know what he was doing, that he was harming you. His excuse was duty; what’s yours? Spite?”

  “Enough of this,” Odellan said. “We need the officers, and we need them now.”

  “They won’t be here for twenty more minutes,” Aisling said, wheeling about on him. “By then it’ll be too late to act. Do whatever you will, but I’m going to the Actaluere encampment. I’m likely to stir some trouble, and anyone who wants to come with me—”

  “No,” Martaina said. “You know he wouldn’t want it. Not like this. Not a war without any proof, not a fight to no purpose. Odellan is right; we don’t know for fact it is Actaluere.”

  “You’re a fool if you think it’s otherwise,” Aisling said, her eyes narrowed. “But since you make mention of it, there were other bodies here and now they’re gone. Why don’t we simply follow the trail, oh skillful ranger?” She indicated the drag marks in the dirt of the road that led off the embankment, back up into the woods, with a sweeping gesture that was as much sarcasm as grandiloquence. “You know … while we wait for the officers to appear and make their august rulings and decisions and whatnot.”

  Martaina wanted to slap her own forehead. Of course. Follow the trail. She didn’t waste time agreeing or disagreeing, but instead sprang into motion, her feet finding purchase on the embankment as she followed the drag marks. It was a short jaunt, only a few feet, as the bodies were tucked into the underbrush, covered by a few pine needles and a couple of fallen branches. Their livery was obvious, and the smell of the fish and sea that was so dominant in the soldiers of Actaluere that she had met was present.

  “The most obvious conclusion is most often the right one,” Aisling said, and her daggers were in her hands now. “Actaluere soldiers, dead at the edge of Praelior.”

  “How can you tell?” Partus shuffled through the brush next to them, his head peeking out from just behind Martaina.

  “Because some of these wounds look like something cut through them in impossible ways,” Martaina answered, turning her head to look at him. “This one, for example—through the bottom of the jaw and out. You see many non-mystical swords do that?”

  “Gold coin for the pretty she-elf,” Partus said. “Looks like you got your culprits, you got your general fighting with them, and … you’ve still got no head. You gonna ride out into their camp and raise havoc, or what?”

  “Or what,” came a voice from behind them, and the surface noise that was filling the air, all the soldiers, the low hum of conversations, was interrupted with the sweep of Curatio into the woods, silhouetted against the light coming from the break in the trees where the sun shone down closer to the road. His white cloak billowed as he walked, reminding her of the priests of Nessalima back in Pharesia, their robes just as loose as the healer’s. “Windrider rode back to Enrant Monge in such a fit that the lad who tends the stables swore to me he had been possessed by powers of darkness heretofore unseen in Luukessia.” The healer took a deep b
reath and his nostrils flared. “We have a dead general, we have no head, we have assailants from Actaluere, and we have more problems than we can safely count without an abacus.” Nyad, J’anda and Longwell followed in his wake; the younger Longwell was flushed, his helm carried in the crook of his arm as well and his lance not with him.

  “These are Hoygraf’s men,” Longwell said, heavy boots crunching in the greenery as he came to stand next to Odellan, staring down at the bodies. “Let there be no doubt.”

  “So now we know who took the head,” Curatio said, “but we can’t prove it beyond doubt, and that’s a flimsy premise to start a war on now, when we least need to be ensnared in other conflicts.”

  “We already had a conflict with Hoygraf,” Aisling snapped, “that’s plain. We just haven’t seen the end of it, yet.” She spun one of her daggers, twisting it fast in her grip. “I mean to see it through though, even if the rest of you don’t—”

  “This will be fruitless,” Curatio said, holding a hand up to forestall her. “Even if we rallied the army and ran down the entire Actaluere force, which—given their size and ours, would be quite the endeavor given the time constraint—there’s still no guarantee his head is there, in their camp. They’d be foolish to be caught with it, after all—”

  “He never was all that bright,” Longwell said, “but proud, though.” Heads swiveled to him. “Hoygraf, I mean. If Cyrus did take the Baroness’s charms in the Garden again before we left,” no one noticed the slight flinch from Aisling save for Martaina, “then that is the last in a long line of insults and woundings that our general has inflicted on the man. It’s more than his pride can bear. He’ll keep the head, and it’ll be dipped in tar and put in a place of special favor so that he can keep it together for as long as possible.”

  “Well, that’s the sort of fixation that’s not grotesque and disturbing at all,” J’anda muttered so low that no one else heard him.