And for some reason she could not explain, even when she thought about it at great length, she cried over the thought of Cyrus Davidon’s upbringing for the next several hours, and when she stopped, it was only because she had no tears left to shed.
Chapter 91
Cyrus
The sun rose on trees glazed with ice on the branches. It caught Cyrus riding south, fatigue catching him ahorse, bumping along to the briskness of early morning. The snowstorm he had ridden through in the night had settled into a winter’s mix, and his beard was as frosted as the tree branches, though he had used his fingers to attempt to brush it loose every now and again. At least the rest of me is warm. He tugged on Windrider’s reins; the horse was at no more than a canter now. Looking back, he saw Enrant Monge just barely on the horizon, a boxy shape behind him on a hill.
Enrant Monge is a majestic castle, no doubt. A tremendous place, and one so wrapped up in the glories of Luukessia that I can see why the Brothers are willing to die for it. He felt a tug of regret. And die they shall, if Scylax is any sort of indication. All it would take is for Drettanden—if that’s what that thing truly is—to come charging at the gates and I suspect they would buckle after only a few good hits. Still, he looked back, the majesty of that place is not to be underestimated. Even as a shape on the horizon, the squarish nature of the outside walls, the soaring towers and the meaning behind it all gave him a feeling of sadness. They’re going to lose … everything.
He started to turn again to the road ahead but blinked and looked back, down the barely noticeable track that he knew to be the road. Wagon ruts were the only sign that this was a path, and they were partially covered over from the snowstorms. There were figures coming up behind him, on horses, their hooves struggling through the snow. They were moving faster than he was, and he pondered, just for a moment, pulling Praelior out and readying for them. Then he caught the first sight of deep blue skin under robes, and waited instead, keeping Windrider in place.
“You left without saying goodbye,” J’anda said as his horse trotted along, each step a slight struggle with the snowy road. “If there is one thing I simply cannot abide, it is the thought of a trusted comrade and friend throwing himself into oblivion without so much as a ‘fare thee well’ before doing so.”
Cyrus watched the others who were with him; Aisling was easy enough to pick out, with her sullen eyes, her easy smile long gone, no trace of it left on her face. Martaina, too, though her eyes were hidden by her cowl. “So you came to say goodbye?” Cyrus asked.
“No, fool, we came to go with you.” J’anda waved a hand at him dismissively. “My talents are wasted here, conjuring bread all the day long. But sieging the city by the sea? You may have use for an enchanter’s skill yet.” He said it with a twinkle in his eye.
“And you?” Cyrus asked Martaina.
“I’m here to keep an eye on you,” she said grudgingly, “as I said I would. I expect you’ll be easier to keep an eye on if you remain alive and in close range.”
Cyrus looked to Aisling but didn’t say anything. She smoldered, looking back at him. “I told you,” she said finally, “I’m here to give you what you need, no questions.”
Cyrus looked back at her. “Aisling … I’m s—”
“Don’t.” It was only a little pointed, the way she said it. She didn’t flinch, didn’t react, just took the reins of her horse and urged it forward to lead the way along the snowy road.
“How far is it to Caenalys?” J’anda asked, starting his horse forward, the smooth landscape a long, rolling plain of white broken only by the snow-wrapped trees, jutting out of it like an ocean of bones.
“A moon’s change, at least,” Martaina replied, coming alongside him. Aisling was ahead of them both now, and Cyrus was only just turning Windrider around to follow.
“A month?” J’anda asked. “With those two in a snit? Hm.” The enchanter shook his head. “Well, that won’t be dreadfully uncomfortable.”
Chapter 92
They caught up with the Army of Actaluere on the following day, and outrode them three days later, packs on their backs and laden with provisions. The sky remained a dreary color for the most part; only the occasional daybreak found beauteous pink in the sky with the dawn. Most mornings it was grey all the way through, and the snowy ground persisted for the first week, the brisk air chilling Cyrus’s nose until they could set the fire every evening.
The flavor of hard cheese was long familiar to them by the second week, coupled with the conjured bread that J’anda could provide, and the smaller servings of salted pork and pickled eggs that helped break the monotony. The snow began to disappear in the second week, becoming patchier and more occasional until one day it yielded to brown earth and bare trees, with leaves still on the ground, uncovered. They rode through deep brown woods that smelled of fresh air, found empty houses and inns along the way that had been stripped of everything edible by the masses of refugees passing down the highway. They began to run across stragglers and slow-moving bands a day later. By the end of the week they traveled on full roads, and every soul they encountered was a beggar, starving for the most part.
The smell was overwhelming, a stink of a people who had not bathed in a month, coupled with horses, manure, and all manner of other things—poor food, muddy roads. The sound of them was incredible, babies and children crying from hunger. J’anda conjured bread from morning until long after the sun had gone down and yet still had not enough to provision the people they encountered. Cyrus watched the faces that came to them, tired, beleaguered, desperate in some cases.
Martaina killed a cutthroat who crept into their camp in the dead of night with a sword. A few nights later a haggard man had tried to corner Aisling when she had gone off into the woods on her own, and when she returned she casually mentioned that someone had tried to “force his way with her.” After an alarmed query from Cyrus, she led them to the place where the body lay, already stripped of its belongings. Though he cast a sidelong glance at her, Cyrus did not bother to ask her whether the man had any possessions of note before he had died.
Aisling had not forgiven Cyrus in the truest sense of the word, he could tell. She had not, however, withheld her favors from him, not even for a night after rejoining him. She did, however, become less charitable and—he noted one morning while feeling the shape of a bruise on his neck—more vengeful. He did not complain, continuing to lie with her at night.
By the third week of their journey, the ground had returned to a somewhat green state, albeit a darkened one. Some of the trees retained their leaves, and the roads became choked with refugees. Cyrus watched one day as J’anda’s spells to conjure bread turned from their usual white aura to a reddish one and he shook the enchanter by the shoulder. “Stop,” Cyrus said.
“I can’t,” the dark elf said, his lower lip quivering, “these people are starving.”
“You won’t do them any good if you kill yourself trying to feed them.” Cyrus watched the enchanter carefully for the rest of the trip and warned Martaina to do the same. He rode in silence, for the most part, the perpetual glimmer gone from his eyes, staring ahead in silence. He conjured bread at every occasion, and water too when necessary, for anyone he could as they passed.
On the fourth week, the sun came out and the land turned flatter, the road less winding. “We’ll have entered the lands around Caenalys by now,” Martaina said, studying a hand-drawn map that had guided them thus far. “There is a signpost ahead just a bit farther, and it will put us upon the last leg of the way.” She let her jaw tighten. “After that, we’ll be at the gates soon enough.”
“Are you certain about this?” Aisling asked, flicking her eyes to him in the barest hint of impatience.
Cyrus paused. “Certain as I can be. The people of this city deserve a chance to flee, to survive, and the Baroness …” he felt his throat constrict. “I owe her a debt.”
“Is that all?” Aisling asked.
Cyrus looked down. “It
’s all I’ve got for now. If that army has to besiege the city, she dies. She suffered a lot to make sure I lived. I owe her.”
“She wasn’t the only one who helped bring you back to life,” Aisling said quietly. “Don’t forget that.”
He looked at her evenly. “I haven’t.”
That night she was particularly vicious, more frenzied than before, and he felt the pain of it in the following morning’s ride, with scabbed-over nail marks along his back. He felt them pulse and sear with each step of the horse, each bump in the road.
The land was green now, green with spring, grasses gone dormant for the winter returning to life. “This is canal country,” Martaina said to him as they rode along, “we are likely no more than two days’ ride from the city.”
“And an army,” Cyrus said.
“I haven’t forgotten them, I assure you,” Martaina said with a roll of the eyes.
The flat lands and coastal swamps gave them a day of blessed warmth at the next dawn. The sun shone down and Cyrus felt the heat upon his armor at midday, and realized that he felt warm for the first time outside the presence of a fire in months.
“I could become used to this,” J’anda said, turning his face to the sun, closing his eyes and letting his horse meander down the path.”
“What can we expect when we get there?” Aisling asked.
“We should be outside the city gates in a few hours,” Cyrus said, though he saw no sign of any city on the flat horizon. There were few enough travelers and refugees here, most having turned southeast at the previous crossroads. There were scarcely any travelers at all, and their number grew sparser as the day went on.
“It’s a fishing town, a seaport,” Martaina said, repeating the same information that Milos Tiernan had given them before they departed the army. “But the port is closed, I suppose, and the gates under watch.”
“If King Hoygraf can’t hold the city voluntarily,” Cyrus said, “he’ll squeeze it to death by force.”
J’anda looked at Cyrus accusingly. “When you pick an enemy, you don’t do it in half measures, do you?”
“My only regret is only half-killing him,” Cyrus said.
Martaina cast him a cocked eyebrow. “That’s your only regret? Not—” She stopped and looked to Aisling, who glanced at her sideways without turning her head. “Never mind.”
Night fell, the skies darkened, and soon enough the swaying of the trees was only visible by moonlight. They rode on, quietly. The gates of the city grew larger in the distance, braziers lit all around the perimeter of the wall to give the city an imposing feel. It was wide, huge.
“Any bets on them seeing this coming?” J’anda said.
“I’m not much of a gambler these days,” Martaina replied, tense.
The walls were wide and flat, and reached a hundred feet up. There was nothing visible behind them save for a few lanterns hung in high towers. We should have come in the daylight. It would have been more glorious to see this city the way Cattrine described it to me.
The thundering hooves of the horses around Cyrus lulled him into the quiet as they went. “Are you sure you’ve got this, J’anda?”
“Fear not,” the enchanter said. “You have never looked more unthreatening than you do right now.”
“Glorious,” Cyrus said, “my life’s ambition, fulfilled.”
“Look at me,” Martaina said, “I’m no different than I was.”
“I am,” Aisling said, holding out a tanned, browned hand. “Human is not a good look for me.” She swiveled to look at Cyrus. “Is it?”
He favored her with a once-over. “I don’t mind it. You look good.”
She gave him a slow nod. “Maybe I’ll keep it on. For later. Variety, you know.”
There was a silence around them, broken only by the sound of the horses’ hooves hitting the road. “What a fabulously misplaced use for my beautiful magics,” J’anda said mournfully.
“Try and pretend you haven’t used them for the same purposes or worse,” Aisling snapped at him. The enchanter shrugged with a slight smile of mystery.
The flat, dark colors of the stone wall were rising at them. The gates were open—thank the gods—as they came along the last few hundred feet. Guards were in the shadows, Cyrus could sense them, and they stepped out upon the approach of the party on horseback. Cyrus stared at them.
“What have we got here?” the head guard asked, utterly disinterested.
“I’m escorting a party of holy women into the Temple of Our Forebearers,” J’anda said. “You know, helpers to prepare the dead for their departure.”
One of the guards shot his partner a look. “You know the city is closed to exit? Once you go in, you don’t come out until it reopens.”
“I’m quite fine with that,” J’anda’s human face smiled. “Once I’ve dropped the ladies off, there are a few locations I’m keen to visit. Traveling with holy women … you understand. It provides little enough comfort.”
The guard guffawed. “All right, then. In you go. It’s after dark, and martial law is in force, so be quick to your destination. No loitering about in the streets, or you’ll be arrested.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward J’anda. “If it’s female companionship you’re looking for, try the Scalded Dog out near the seaport. Very fine wenches there and reasonable as well.”
“Oh, I’ve heard good things,” J’anda said. “But as I believe your sailors say, ‘any old port in a storm,’ yes?”
The guards shared a laugh at that one. “Too right. Be on your way, then. Don’t dawdle.”
“Oh, I shan’t,” J’anda said, spurring his horse forward to lead the way. “I’m in too much of a hurry to get where I’m going to linger for long.”
Another laugh filled the night as they went on, crossing through the torchlit dark under the portcullis. There were murder holes above, Cyrus saw, archers with arrows pointed down at them as they passed. Cyrus kept his mouth shut, waiting for the tension to subside.
There was a definite quiet as they went, and when the tunnel underpass for the wall opened up, they found themselves on a wide avenue. Small buildings lined either side of it, most of them three stories, set back off a dirt path in the center that was deeply rutted with wagon tracks. It had turned to mud, Cyrus realized, from spring rains.
Ahead was clearly the palace, and palatial it was, with columns and a dome that reached into the sky. There was a bridge ahead, one that dipped over a canal running through the city. There are dozens of them, allowing the citizens to navigate on water as easily as they do on the streets.
There was a commotion behind them, something atop the wall, and Cyrus turned to listen. He saw Martaina freeze, her face hidden behind a conjured mask that covered her features save for her eyes. That was plenty enough to give Cyrus the impression that something was desperately wrong. Just behind them, the clanking of the portcullis as it began to descend and the shouts of “ALARUM!” rang over the wall.
“What is it?” Cyrus asked, grasping at Martaina’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Is the Army of Actaluere here already?”
“No,” she said with a shake of the head. “Worse.”
There was scurrying atop the walls, and screams, shouts that were undistinguishable to Cyrus’s ears. Bells began to ring in the streets, and suddenly an aroma hit him, overpowering, with the wind that rushed through the rapidly closing portcullis—death, rot … fear. In the blackness beyond the lowering gate he could see nothing but the tingle ran over his flesh nonetheless and his mouth filled with a bitter, acrid flavor as the blood pumped through his veins. He watched as the gates began to close behind that latticed portcullis, as it clanged to the ground and reverberated through the tunnel. A single word bubbled to his lips, and he knew by all that happened around him that he was right, even before Martaina confirmed it.
“Scourge.”
Chapter 93
Vara
Day 209 of the Siege of Sanctuary
The rattle of the remaining sieg
e engines rolling away from the wall was loud, but not overpowering. Vara stood on the heights, smelling the fetid waste in the no man’s land below her, watched the last few surviving siege towers limping away across the muddied plain and breathed a sigh that came out of her slowly, as though she could scarcely believe it was through. Another done. Another repelled.
“That’s right!” A voice cried to her left. She turned to see Thad, standing there in his red armor, waving his sword over the wall at the backs of the retreating dark elven army. “Remember this! This is what happens when you mess with the best!”
“Or in your case,” Vara said acidly, “the barely competent.” She tasted the burning on her lips of the words, as though they were real, as though they were vile in truth as well as content, and she shrugged involuntarily. She leaned heavily against the tooth of the battlement before her and felt her whole weight lean with her, armor and all. It felt heavy, in spite of the enchantments. It’s not the weight of the armor, it’s the weight of the burden. The defense of this place is dragging me down, it becomes all I’ve ever lived and all I’m living for. She ran a hand across her face and flipped up the nose guard on her helm, removing the little line from her vision where it sat to protect her face from harm. It is almost as though I can remember nothing before this.
“Nasty bit of business, isn’t it?” She turned her gaze to the side, where she caught Partus looking at her with a gap-toothed grin. “They keep coming, we keep slaying them. The Sovereign has to have thrown away fifteen, twenty thousand lives here thus far, and all on these half-arsed attacks we keep turning back. You’d think he’d make a concerted push sooner or later.”
Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four Page 77