Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  “I hardly think that I’m looking for them to fill some gap in my belief,” Cyrus said, staring at the northern reaches; there were no fires here, just vast, empty woods. There was light in the distance, though, something like a fire, but it was far off.

  “Truly?” Terian asked. “Is it possible that the great Cyrus Davidon, that shining light of all virtue, has finally come to the point where all he looks to a woman for is the physical? Because I believe we had a conversation about this some time ago, my friend—”

  “I think we stopped being friends when you cursed me and left me to die,” Cyrus said quietly.

  There was a pause. “True enough,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him clutch the edge of the wall, and the image of a man clinging to something for life sprang to mind.

  “Shouldn’t you be happy about that, if it’s true?” Cyrus asked, flicking his gaze back to the empty lands in front of him. “You were the one who chided me to ignore the idea of deep feelings or of any kind of resistance to baser appetites. You were the one who wanted me to come to whorehouses with you, to ‘scratch the itch,’ as it were, with any woman freely available. Now that I’ve done it, you say I’ve lost something—what? You were the one urging me down that path all along; I think it a bit late now to fret about some irrelevant consequence of me doing what you suggested, however unwittingly I might have come to it.”

  “I never thought you would,” Terian said quietly. “Not in a hundred years, not in a thousand. Cyrus the Unbroken, wallowing about in the filth, fallen from his iconic high?” He turned to gaze directly at Cyrus. “I think I erred in trying to kill you.”

  Cyrus snorted. “You erred? You slit the throat of my horse after casting a spell on me that caused immense pain and left me surrounded by enemies. You betrayed a guildmate and a friend who had no idea he had wronged you; yes, Terian, I would say you erred. Badly.”

  “That’s not quite what I meant,” the dark knight said, a quiet sadness held firm on his face, his pointed nose angling just away from Cyrus. “What I meant was … revenge on you might have been a foolish notion, seeing how much you’ve suffered this last year. Perhaps a more fitting punishment was to let you live in this strange, fallen state of anguish you seem to have gathered to yourself.”

  “‘Fallen state of anguish’?” Cyrus repeated. “That’s poetic.”

  “No,” the dark knight said, “I mean it. Truly. As a friend, killing you might have been more merciful—”

  “You have a strange notion of mercy, ‘friend.’”

  “Think about it,” Terian said, and Cyrus watched him anchor his hands on the wall, holding them there as though he might fall if he didn’t. “Everything horrible that could have happened to you this year has just about happened. The woman you loved rejected you in spectacularly brutal fashion. Your mentor and father figure berated you for the first time in your history, you came thousands of miles from home, trying to find some soothing balm for your tortured soul, and instead the woman you started to fall in love with lies to you about who she is and you cast her away over it.” He laughed, but it was a sad, pitying sound. “I could not have orchestrated a worse punishment for you than all that.”

  “This is pathetic, even for you,” Cyrus said. “Merely reminding me of the less pleasant turns of events that have occurred this last year is hardly the stuff required to break my spirit, though it brings me no joy. But you might consider adding to your list the moment when one of my sworn and chosen brothers tried to kill me himself.”

  “There was that, true,” Terian said. “I could also make mention of your decapitation, or the fact that Alaric has yet to send even an acknowledgment of your pleas for aid, but why? The worst of it,” and Terian’s voice dripped with a sort of sad sincerity, “the real torturous prize is not the pain they caused, but the scars they left.” Terian shrugged, as though trying to shake off some unpleasantness or warm up from the chill wind that blew by. “You don’t see it, but you’ve changed, Cyrus. And not for the better. You’ve become a harder, colder sort of person.”

  “I’m becoming you, in other words.”

  “Yes!” Terian said and clinked his gauntlet while snapping his finger and pointing it as Cyrus. “Your soul is calloused, my friend, and all those things that you carried with you into the Realm of Death—the illusion of what you were fighting for, the idea of a future with Vara—you walked out of the gates of Sanctuary on the journey here without any of them. Whoever you were last year—when I was your friend—that man is gone. I don’t even recognize the one in front of me anymore.”

  “Yet still you’ll kill me when this is done?” Cyrus asked.

  There was a twist in Terian’s face, the hint of something unpleasant as his face stretched, lips pursed, in a sort of pained grimace. “Perhaps. Not until this is over, but … perhaps.”

  “Then it really doesn’t matter how I’ve changed, does it?” Cyrus asked, and let his hand drift over the crenellation, let it settle as the first snowflake drifted down by the aurora’s light; clouds were moving over now, the red and orange had begun to be covered by tge dark, grey shapes drifting across the sky, threatening to overcome the entirety of it. “I’m still the man you want to kill.”

  “Maybe,” Terian said, and the first flakes came down to rest upon his armor, soft symbols next to the spikes and edges of that which protected him from harm. “But the other Cyrus—the one who killed my father—I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to see him bleed his righteous life out in front of me, suffer for what he’d done.”

  “And now?” Cyrus looked at him expectantly. “You think I’ve suffered enough?”

  “I don’t think you have any idea how much you’ve suffered,” Terian said, turning away from him as the snowfall intensified. “I don’t think you have any idea how much you will continue to, as the man you are now. The changes you’ve made, that have happened to you, this jading, this winnowing of decency—I don’t know how to explain it other than that—you’re an empty man, walking forward with each step following a path laid out long ago.” The dark knight smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “What do you even believe in anymore?” He gave Cyrus a ghostly grin across the rampart.

  “Duty,” Cyrus said. “Loyalty. To my brethren in Sanctuary. I believe I unleashed this scourge that is costing a great many people their lives, and I aim to correct it.”

  “And what after that?” Terian asked, but his head was bowed and he no longer looked at the warrior. The snow had begun to accumulate now, just a little bit, a faint white dusting, but it came down heavily enough that all the land was cut before him, and Cyrus could see only a hundred feet off the wall at best. “What will you do if you fail?” He blinked and turned his head to Cyrus. “What will you do if you succeed? Where will you go? What will you fight for?”

  “I’ll go home,” Cyrus said, but he didn’t feel it, not really, not in the emptiness within. “I’ll fight whoever next crosses the path of Sanctuary—just like I always have.” He turned away, brushing the wet snow from his shoulders as he began to make his way back to the tower. “What about you, Terian?” he asked as he walked away. “You’re no longer welcome in Sanctuary, unless Alaric finds some measure of deep pity for you. What will you do? Where will you go?” He turned and looked back, but the dark knight was all shadow now, just an outline, a silhouette in the rising frenzy of the snowstorm as it blew around him. “What will you fight for?”

  “The same thing I have been since the days when I lost all my belief and care, like you have,” Terian answered, the wind muffling him as he spoke. “Myself. And I’ll go wherever the road takes me.” He turned away, and the next words were nearly lost to the wind. “If I’m not much mistaken, it won’t be that long before you do exactly the same.”

  Chapter 80

  The snow had come heavily, all through the night. Cyrus did not sleep, but he lay down next to Aisling in the tower room, the fire crackling and shedding warmth now. The sweet smell of wood smoke harkened him back to thoughts
of Sanctuary, but he found less comfort in them than he would have imagined. A dull, gnawing feeling ate at him from the thought of it, of going home, he realized. The smell of meat pies came back to him, whether from thoughts of Sanctuary or memories of the days before, when he was a child in a home of his own, with a mother and father, he knew not which. Alone. It’s how I lived, from the day Belkan dropped me at the Society to the day I … what? Made my first prayer to Bellarum? Met Narstron? Perhaps. Married Imina? He grimaced. Doubtful. She knew I felt the call to war more than to stay with her. From the day I …

  There was the flash again, in his mind, of blond hair, of a sword in motion, laying open foes on a battlefied. Of a sharp voice and sharper wit, of her fluid motion in a fight, and of her face … oh gods, her face …

  From the day I joined Sanctuary. Even the echo of the words only in his mind was as loud as any battle; it resonated in the quiet night of his chamber, and even the presence of Aisling against his side, almost purring, was no consolation.

  Dawn found him unrested, and he wondered if he had shut his eyes at all after returning to bed. Terian’s words rattled in his head, thoughts of the man he was plagued him, of who he had been.

  He rose, ate breakfast with the others in a somber feast in a room at the bottom of the stairs, the brothers quietly bringing them porridge. No one spoke, not even Martaina, though she looked to be of a mind to say something at one point. When finished, they filed outside. The courtyard had filled with snow during the early morning hours, and still it came down heavily, lying already in drifts up to mid-calf on the women, Cyrus noted upon seeing Aisling slip into it. She cringed and he knew that wet slush had fallen into her leather shoes, low as they ran to the ground.

  The horses were saddled and waiting, and the same stable boy brought Cyrus his reins. He took them wordlessly, the lad’s shining face not adding any brightness to an already dim mood. The snowfall was lighter now than it had been last night, but the crunch of it underfoot, the way it drowned out all the distant noises and made the land still and quiet was deeply unnerving, especially before battle. The remnants of his cinnamon porridge, sweetened with cream, still hung on his moustache and beard, and he could taste the sugar still lingering on his tongue. He pulled tight his cloak again once he was on Windrider’s back, and the horse started off right away, without even a prompting from him, heading toward the north courtyard, following Longwell’s lead in this case.

  Briyce Unger and Milos Tiernan were already waiting, having a quiet conversation with aides behind them, ahorse. As Longwell approached they each gave a nod of courtesy and were off, toward the gate north, out through it and then the second gate beyond, where the world opened up before them. The snowflakes forced Cyrus’s eyes to squint every few minutes. He blinked them away when needed, but a few minutes later they would return, and he would brush them off his face. It was a steady path to madness, he was certain, but his coat began to become wet, and his armor chill, the inside padding saving him from the worst of the cold.

  They rode out, and the army of Galbadien joined them past the forest road, falling into line behind them. Others rode out from the east as well, the other armies of Actaluere that had filtered up. Cyrus rode at the front—the tip of the spear, he liked to think of it—with the Kings and his own command. He looked back and wondered, trying to see through the snow, stealing a look at the army of Actaluere.

  Tiernan caught his eye when he looked back around, and there was a slight smile on the King of Actaluere’s face. “He’s not here, of course.”

  Cyrus blinked at Milos Tiernan. “Who?”

  “Hoygraf,” Tiernan said with a smug look. “Can’t be of much good since you gutted him; he remains in his lands, along with a considerable contingent of Actaluere’s troops.” The smile was gone now, and it became somewhat shrewd as a look, giving Cyrus the slightest hint that the King was holding something back.

  “Wouldn’t we be better off with his men coming along with us?” Cyrus asked, keeping his eye on Tiernan.

  “We have about a third of them with us,” Tiernan replied, now turned to look in the direction he was riding, giving Cyrus a sideways profile. He had not noticed before, but the King’s chin was weak, withdrawn. “The rest remain as a sort of reserve—insurance, if you will, against any sort of strike by Galbadien or Syloreas against our holdings.”

  “Speaking for Galbadien,” Longwell said from his place not far away, on the other side of Cyrus, “we have no intention to strike at you, nor do we have any forces left in our country with which to do so if we wanted.” He shrugged, his pointed helm with a hawklike visor giving him a predatory edge. “Though I suppose if you wanted to, Baron—I’m sorry, Grand Duke Hoygraf—could just about march to Vernadam without any sort of serious opposition.”

  “Good to know,” Tiernan said without any sort of pleasure. “But my greater concern is the refugees of Syloreas that pour through my borders unfettered even now. We give them all the charity we can, but it is a risk, however slight, that they may decide to turn on my people. The troops who remain are there to keep the peace. Refugees are hungry, after all, and sometimes desperate, and I don’t wish to see my people bear the brunt of an angry, starving mass cutting a rugged path across our landscape.”

  “What exactly do you think they’ll be doing,” Briyce Unger asked, “this hungry, starving mass of desperation?” The umbrage was obvious from the way he said it. “Capturing Caenalys? Sacking your treasure room?”

  “I worry more about the farmers in the northern reaches,” Tiernan said bluntly. “Starving people do desperate things—like, say, murder a man for food. Form a mob and destroy a town while trying to get fed. I am doing what I can for charity, but I must also preserve my people’s safety. I would hope, were our roles reversed, you would understand that.”

  Cyrus could see that Unger did not, but the King of Syloreas did not voice whatever irritation he held. He guided his horse away from the discussion, though, away from Tiernan and back to a thick knot of his aides who rode at the front of the formation. Cyrus could see them casting glances every now and again, though, and he did not like the look of them at all.

  With the snow slowing their pace, and even more the walking speed of the men on foot, the great army of Luukessia took the better part of the day to get to the flat lands that had been marked for the site of their battle. There were no tents set up when they arrived, but fires were set. The whole camp was a buzz of subdued activity; quiet in the gloom, the snow still coming down. There were whispers, rumors, flat-out lies, and all of them reached Cyrus’s ears as he walked through the encampment, alone, his feet crunching through the snow. Men were huddled near fires for warmth; and every once in a good while he saw a woman in armor or with a sword. There was thin stew cooking and not much else. A skin of ice was broken off a nearby creek for drinking water and for boiling, and latrines were set up over a hill to the rear. Coming back from them, Terian said, “I suggest we try and lead the scourge in that direction when they come; it’ll be certain to send them running back to the north.”

  “Even on such a cold day as this?” Martaina had her bow out and was fletching, working on arrows, putting tips upon shafts she had carved while gathering wood earlier. The shafts had a wet look to them, and when she caught Cyrus looking she shrugged. “I work with what I have.”

  The night came upon them early, and no sign of the aurora was to be had under the cloudy, still-snowing skies. It was quiet in the camp, though Cyrus wondered how many men were actually sleeping. The snows came down on them, and still no tents had been set up; the need for mobility and a quick retreat trumped comfort, and so tens of thousands of men and a few hundred women lay beneath a sky that wafted snow down upon them. Aisling lay next to him, of course, and as much as she had tried to take his mind off of all matters, it had not worked as it did before, and he lay awake again, unease hanging over him as he hoped sleep would claim him, yet knowing that it would not.

  Dawn was a grim affair
, and the snow went ever on, unhalting, now almost a foot deep. It flurried hard in spurts then reduced to a manageable few flakes before picking up again. The wind howled, sending icy slaps hard against the men who were standing around fires that were whipped with every gust. They kept their heads low, their cowls and collars up to get warmth by any means they could find.

  The first messenger for the army came an hour after daybreak, when pickled eggs, hard cheese and bread were being eaten by the armies of Actaluere and Galbadien. The Sanctuary members ate conjured bread and water with their supplies. An uneasy quiet hung in the air until the messenger appeared, a half-elf, half-human warrior whom Cyrus knew only in passing. The man was exhausted, it was obvious, his eyes red with fatigue. He whispered a few words to Curatio and then stumbled into the nearest bedroll, not even bothering to care that it wasn’t his own.

  “They’ll be here within hours,” Curatio said. “Perhaps two, perhaps a little more, depending on how well our efforts to hold them back go. The whole line is exhausted; which should not be surprising, as they’ve been performing a strategy of engaging and falling back for months now. When we left them a week ago,” he gave a quick nod to Terian, “I wondered if they’d be able to hold for as long as it would take. I suppose they have.”

  “How is our force doing?” Cyrus asked.

  “Faring well,” Curatio said, snow turning his hair white. “They’ve never once been the cause of a retreat. It’s become obvious, though, that these things are drawn to life, absolutely drawn to it. They doggedly come at us, ignore the possibility of pulling a wide flanking maneuver; we’ve seen them break off in numbers when we pass a village that still has occupants. They go, they slaughter, they return with bloodied faces. I honestly thought they’d take longer to get here, but it would appear the army is wearier than even I thought.”