She pulled away from him leisurely, opening her eyes slowly after the kiss. “You realize you just did that in front of …”
“Everyone, yes,” Cyrus said and kissed her again. “I don’t care who knows, who sees. I’ve seen some of them do it as well, the soldiers. They crawl into their bedrolls together at night and everyone pretends to give them the illusion of privacy, like a silent law we all follow. Well, I want it too, to stop hiding, to stop worrying about it, to have you when I want you instead of always worrying I’ll be found out.” His hand slipped around her hip and pulled her waist close to him. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I just want to have you whenever I want.”
She watched him cannily, with a slight smile. “That might prove awkward in the midst of a battle.”
“Try to pretend you wouldn’t find it incredibly arousing.”
She took a moment of slow inhale to pretend as though she were thinking about it. “Perhaps. But as we are not presently in a battle, there’s no need to consider it. If you want to have me as a soldier has his lover, you need only lay out a bedroll and crawl in it with me and let the rest take its course. There’s no danger but the idea that others will see their General having an immensely good time.”
He let himself smile again, fake but with a foundation in the grim reality that he wanted to unburden himself, to claim that relief she gave him. “Well, there is another danger,” he said, as he slid a hand around her waist to lead her off to where his pack lay, near his saddle, across the camp, “… after all, you do tend to bite when you’re overly excited …”
She slapped him in mock offense as he led her away, and they put down the bedroll on the ground and climbed into it. Everyone saw, but no one watched, and they remained beneath it until they were both well and truly sated.
Chapter 69
Vara
Day 47 of the Siege of Sanctuary
The dark elven army held its distance, she knew, though she rarely went to the wall to see for herself. It was a quiet night, all things considered, after another long day of riding the Plains of Perdamun looking for caravans to raid. This morning they had caught a fat one, killing almost two hundred dark elven soldiers in the process. In the afternoon they’d managed to spring a trap on another, sending some hundred and fifty more soldiers to their deaths and securing almost twenty wagons laden with goods and riches. Vara stared at her hand, which clutched an inlaid silver bracelet with a soft clasp that snapped gently when she pushed it closed. There was a light circle of the precious metal that parted, a decent-sized ruby encrusted within. Not the possession of a noble, she knew, not locked up as it was in one of the caravans. It was something owned by a farmer, given to his wife after a particularly good harvest. It lacked polish, but the ruby still shone, and she wondered which poor sod had lost his valuables in addition to his crop. And likely his life as well and the life of his family, knowing how these dark elves operate.
The lounge was muted around her. Ever since the guard had taken up in the foyer every hour of every day, fewer and fewer people seemed to enjoy conversations, exchanges, and ale within the bounds of the lounge. I suppose it’s rather difficult to make merry when there’s a visible reminder that we’re under siege only a few feet away. Perhaps I’d be happier in my room as well, were I one of them. She had a book across her lap, but it lay unopened. The Champion and the Crusader, something she’d read dozens of times, the words as familiar to her now as any expression her mother had ever used. It was usually a good distraction. Usually.
Without warning, or even a clear idea of what she was doing, she stood and let her feet carry her. In times of peace I’d wear cloth and leather. Now we live in times of war, and I go nowhere without my armor and my sword. She let her fingers touch the hilt and guard and then mentally slapped herself for again acting like Cyrus.
The front doors of Sanctuary swung wide from her effort; they were not nearly as heavy as they appeared, which prompted her to wonder for the thousandth time if they had an enchantment on them. She had always meant to ask Alaric, but whenever she came into his presence there were always more consequential matters to discuss. The crickets were chirping in the warm night air, and she took each step slowly, drawing her pace so slow that she could feel the resonance of her every step clacking on the stone of the Sanctuary steps, each sound ringing out like the noise of the catapult’s firing through the glass window atop the foyer. She glanced back; it had been repaired, oddly enough, and quickly.
When she reached the dirt path, she stepped off it, letting her feet sink into the soft grass. Even though she couldn’t feel it, she drew some odd reassurance from the green, springy vegetation. It was the nearest sort of affirmation she could find, something that harkened her back to her childhood lessons in the Temple of Life, where the Priestesses of Vidara spoke to her for hours about the Goddess and all Her wonders. She chooses the lengths of all the grasses, they said, and the seasons of their growth, and all that they become. She chooses the ones that live, and the ones that die as seedlings, and all the trees of the forest. She took one step after another, letting her feet settle in the grass, while overhead the stars gleamed down at her, an endless field of them.
Does he see them, where he is? Is he under the stars tonight? Or staying in some great castle, or a quiet wayside inn? Is he at peace or war right now? Did he find a way to best this scourge that plagues those lands or … She left that thought unfinished by the words in her mind; the unspoken unease that it reflected was not similarly dismissed so easily.
“What does an Ice Princess care for stars?” The quiet rumbling of the rock giant did not cause her to turn, even when she heard and felt his heavy footsteps behind her. “Do they remind her of the glisten of the light on the snow, where each bit shines as though it were fallen from the heavens?”
“As far as poets go,” Vara said, stifling much of her annoyance, “you leave much to be desired, Fortin.”
“I am not a poet,” Fortin said, stepping into place beside her and looking up, his towering frame almost double her height, “merely an observer. Here, I observe an Ice Princess, one who doesn’t care for such things, and she’s seemingly transfixed. An odd occurrence, surely worthy of some note.”
“Hardly worthy of any note, I would think.” She gave him the barest turn. “You are standing watch?”
“Between the wall and the foyer,” the rock giant said. “Though I am not of much use in a melee where others might be harmed by being in close combat around me, I do function well as a line of defense against any dark elves who decide to try and run for the wall, as though they could overwhelm our forces there and open the gates and portcullis in a hurry.”
“Seems a foolish notion,” she said, “with you between them.”
“I agree,” Fortin said in his hearty rumble. “But what brings the Ice Princess out here on such a night, I wonder? And she’s trying to distract me from that question.”
She rolled her eyes. “I hardly need to distract you from the simple fact that I decided to take a stroll under the summer sky.”
“It is almost autumn now,” Fortin said, “or so I’m told by those who keep track of such things.”
“Ah, yes,” Vara said. “Midsummer’s eve passed with but a whisper, and now it is …” She blinked. “Goddess, that was quick. It seems only yesterday it was the beginning of spring.”
“The time does go quickly, does it not?” Fortin’s low rumble was louder now, as he looked down at her, his eyes glistening red in the dark. “How long has it been since he left now?”
“Ten months …” She said before she realized she’d even done it. She blinked, and turned to favor the rock giant with a glare. “That was craftier than I would have given you credit for.”
The red eyes seemed to dance. “Which was why I could manage it when no other could. You simply assume I wander around eating rocks and bashing my head into things, as though I were some peon, like a troll. I am not.”
“Yes, well, I shan’t ma
ke that mistake again.”
There was a movement of the rock giant’s torso that was as expressive as one might expect from a creature who appeared to be made of living stone. “Why is it a mistake? You confessed your feelings for him, and he plainly felt the same for you. To make all these tiresome games, to accept, then to deny, then to reject him when you obviously still care, it’s all very disagreeable to the constitution.” Fortin clacked his jaw together and caused Vara to flinch from the noise of rock grinding on rock. “He was plain with you, but you can’t find it in yourself to be plain with him?”
“I was very plain with him,” Vara said quietly. “Plain enough with my intent, with my reasons. But that was between him and me, not him and me and the entire guild, which is why I don’t discuss it.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” Fortin said with a heavy nodding motion, “fleshlings have their notions of privacy and decorum. Well, perhaps ‘forgot’ might be a strong word. ‘Chose not to remember because your ideas are silly and irrelevant’ better captures it, I’d say. If I were to act as coyly as you people do, I don’t think I would ever find a partner to raise hatchlings with.”
She blinked. “Is that how …?” There was a noise in the foyer, and Vara heard it, her ears perking up. “Something is amiss.”
“Come along,” Fortin said, but he was already running, the ground shaking under his feet with every shuddering step. When he hit the front steps, the sound became worse, the stone floor hitting against the rock giant’s bare skin, reminding Vara of the noise of bricks being slapped together. Fortin flung open the door and there stood the guard contingent, weapons pointing into the middle of the foyer as Vara slipped around Fortin’s leg when the rock giant stopped, giving her free view of the room.
The alarm was silent, no one speaking or calling out for any manner of assistance. Still, the swords remained down, the spears remained pointed. Standing at the middle of the room on the great seal was a goblin, Mendicant, his scaly skin reflecting in the torchlight and his bright robe catching her eye. Behind him was another figure, however, only a little taller than he, with a beard that was braided all the way down to his waist, and a hammer slung across his back.
“Well, damnation,” Belkan Stillhet said from his place beside a pillar, his sword held in his ancient hand.
“Or as near as one can get to seeing it from here,” came the voice of Alaric Garaunt, as a faint mist subsided in the corner next to Vara. She fell into step behind him as the Master of Sanctuary strode across the foyer toward the seal, gesturing to Mendicant, who was nervously looking around, to move away from the stranger in the middle of the room. “Partus,” Alaric said, staring down at the dwarf who remained indifferent, examining his surroundings as though they mattered little, “how unpleasant it is to see you again.”
Chapter 70
“Well, Alaric,” Partus said from where he sat in the Council Chambers (in Cyrus’s seat, which he had selected entirely at random, and oh, how it chafed at her) “it would appear you’re in a bit of a bind here.” Vara kept her eyes fixed on the dwarf as he spoke. It’s as though I fear to take them off him, as though I suspect he would begin stealing things were I to stop watching him for a moment. She ran her tongue over her teeth nervously. For all know, he might do just that.
“So it would seem,” Alaric said, looking over his steepled fingers at the dwarf. “I presume you had no idea that we were under siege when you jumped onto Mendicant’s back as he cast his return spell?”
“Had I known,” Partus said with a slightly sour frown, “I might still have done it, because being surrounded by the dark elven army here is still likely safer than what your blighting guildmates are planning over in Luukessia. They’re going to fight a slow retreat across the northern steppes trying to buy time for Syloreas to empty—as in for all the people to leave the lands.” The dwarf snorted in derision. “How well do you think that one’s likely to turn out?”
“Mendicant,” Alaric said, looking to the goblin, “you are here to make Cyrus’s report, yes?”
The goblin had been still throughout the meeting thus far, as though he were awed by the surroundings; the Council Chambers and their stone walls, slow, quiet hearths that radiated warmth through the room. It was dark outside the windows out on the balcony, but within the chambers it was light, with torches aplenty burning on sconces on the walls in such close proximity that one could comfortably read in the room despite the hour.
“Mendicant?” Alaric asked again.
The goblin seemed to shake himself out of a stupor of sorts. “Oh, yes. Partus speaks correctly, the bulk of the Sanctuary army is presently engaged in a long holding action on the Filsharron Steppes, north of Enrant Monge.” Alaric stirred, but the rest of the table was quiet and still, save for Partus, who shot a wicked grin at Vara. She held the urge to let fly a force blast but only just. “Cyrus, Longwell and a few others are making their way to Vernadam to try and sway them to enter the war with their army, and Actaluere is presently calling up the remainder of its forces to meet them at Enrant Monge in an effort to effect a counterthrust north and destroy the portal in the cave that is allowing them to flood Luukessia with these dead souls.” Mendicant’s eyes glistened as he spoke matter-of-factly. “Lord Davidon—”
“Lord of damned near nothing, if you ask me,” Partus said with a chortle below his breath.
“He’s Lord of Perdamun and Warden of the Southern Plains,” Vara snapped without thinking then tempered the widening of her eyes out of sheer reflex. Why in the blazes did I say that? Partus made no reply but feigned being impressed by flattening his lips, then pursing them, holding a hand over his mouth as though amazed.
“Lord Davidon requests aid,” Mendicant said after a momentary stumble, “for you to send another army to reinforce him and allow him to better fight back in the impending battle, assuming you have not already sent such an army.”
Alaric sighed, while Ryin laid his head on the high back of his chair. Vara expected Erith to shift her gaze around the table, but her sight was firmly fixed on Partus at her right, the dark elf’s icy glare beyond any sort of loathing Vara had come to expect even from the mercurial healer. “Can we teleport him into Saekaj?” Erith asked, indicating Partus with a nod of her head. “I think he’d do well there, in the vek’tag pens, eating their dung with the rest of the mushrooms—”
“How I’ve missed you as well, Erith,” Partus said with a crooked grin. “I don’t suppose we’ve spoken since the day I left the Daring—”
“You mean the day when you stripped our guild of most our members and left for Goliath?” Her arms were folded in front of her, and her teeth were bared in a snarl. “Gee, Partus, I can’t really think of any reason why I might not have spoken to you since then. Oh, wait, because you’re a traitorous, lecherous ass.”
Partus feigned innocence and looked around the table as if for support. “Lecherous? Just because we had a singular night of passion—”
“It wasn’t a night,” Erith said. “It wasn’t even a minute. Though I can see why you might have thought so; judgment is the first thing to go when drunk—”
“Aye,” Partus agreed sadly, “which is why I was in your bed to begin with—”
“ENOUGH!” Alaric said, loud enough to draw the attention of all in the chamber.
There was a squeak at the door and it opened; Andren slid in as Vara stared at the healer, perplexed. Vaste followed a moment later and shut the door behind him, his staff in hand, and the troll stared at the table and those around it.
There was the sound of a chair sliding back and Partus was on his feet, his hammer unslung. “My gods, it’s a troll.”
Vaste blinked at the dwarven interloper who had been sitting with his back to the door and was now standing, weapon in hand. “Well spotted. What gave it away—that I’m seven feet tall or the green skin and big teeth?”
Partus hesitated, keeping his eyes on Vaste. He turned his head to speak to Alaric out of the corner of his mouth. “D
id you always have a troll, Alaric? They’re savages, you know.”
Vaste’s heavy frame swelled with a deep breath and then a long sigh followed. “Yes, I know, uncivilized I may be, standing here without a weapon drawn while you’re clearly about to challenge me to a duel, but what can I say? I abhor civilized society. I’d rather just sneak up behind you when you’re unable to defend yourself and mash you into a fine paste with my bare hands.”
Partus pointed his hammer at Vaste. “You’ll find me a greater challenge than you think if you mean to attack me when I’m not expecting it.”
“I doubt I’ll find you much at all, unless I’m crawling around on my hands and knees,” Vaste said, and promptly walked past Partus to his seat, turning his hammer aside and toward the hearth with a gentle push of his staff. “Thanks to the rest of you for speaking up for me when he called me a savage, by the way.”
“It was unworthy of answer,” Alaric said, at the head of the table, his helm still on. His eye was piercing through the slight gloom that inhabited the room; not because of the darkness, Vara realized, but because of her mood. He should have come back as well, not this miniaturized jackass. “Andren,” Alaric said, turning to the healer, who was in Nyad’s usual seat next to Vara, “thank you for joining us.”
“Aye,” Andren said, then twitched as though he were reaching for something near his belt, hesitated, and thought the better of it. “Can’t pretend I know what this is all about, though.”
“I am taking things into consideration,” Alaric said. “Mendicant, finish your report, if you please? Cyrus requests aid, I believe you said?”
“In most strenuous terms, sir,” the goblin said. “We need assistance, desperately, to be able to finish this fight and destroy the portal. These things, this scourge, they are beyond number.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 62