Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four

by Robert J. Crane

  “I don’t think I wish to see your definition of a concerted push.”

  “It’d involve throwing more and more men at the gate,” Partus said, “taking up where their brethren fell, grabbing the battering ram when the men who hold it drop it—”

  “Would you want to grab that?” she pointed to the gate where the last battering ram the dark elves had used was lying. It was long, about thirty feet, a felled tree with the ends sawed off, a massive log. The men who carried it lay dead around it, all of them in flames, as was the ram.

  “Not as it is, no,” the dwarf said with a shrug. “But you put a wizard and a druid close up by it, they use a water spell to extinguish it, you throw another forty men under it and keep hammering until the gates give.”

  “Our gates do not give,” she said simply, but her eyes remained on the flaming ram, where it burned on the once clearly defined dirt road that led to the Sanctuary gates. It had become indistinguishable from the fields around it, however, because of attacks during rainy times, and the entire verdant plain for several hundred feet around the Sanctuary walls had become nothing but a slick mudscape, a messy pit of dead bodies, discarded armor and weapons, and only a few stubborn patches of grass that had not yet been wiped out.

  “Every gate gives if you hammer it hard enough and long enough,” Partus said, still looking at her and not the battlefield. “Take you, for instance—” She gave him a disgusted, scathing look and he held up his hands before him in surrender, with amusement. “Now, now. We’ve known each other a good long time, Vara, since the days of Alliance yore. I’ve always respected you—”

  “You’ve rarely seen me, since I attended few enough Alliance functions and never went to the meetings.”

  “Not after a time,” Partus said with a grin, “but at first you did, when you were new and sweetly innocent to the way things ran.” He ignored her searing look at the remark. “Anyhow, you’ve always had such a charming personality, I just can’t tell you how amazed I was when I heard that the one who finally broke down your gates was that blockhead Davidon—”

  “Stop talking,” she said. This time there was no menace to her voice, only a whisper that sounded like thunder to her ears.

  “Ooooh,” Partus said, hands still up in front of him. He wiggled his fingers and made an amused sound. “So it’s true, is it? I had always wondered if you’d ever melt for a man, but Davidon? Really? What is it about him that has women throwing themselves at his feet? The Princess of Actaluere, that smutty little rogue dark elf, and you—”

  “Stop what you’re saying right now,” Vara raised her hand at him, “or I’ll—”

  “Now, now,” Partus replied, waving his own hand, which was still pointed at her, “let’s not be hostile about things. Assuming you could fire off a blast before I did, which is a bit iffy because I’ve seen you work your magic and you’re just not that fast—but assuming you did, I don’t think it would end out well for you, my dear, because you know I wouldn’t go far, and I’d be back in mere moments to slaughter you—”

  There was the sound of an explosive blast, and Partus was launched to the side, smashing into the battlement wall. Vara heard the crack of his bones as his leg and hip hit the stone and broke. His upper body was carried by the force of the spell into a flip, his hip the center of gravity. He tipped upside down and was flung, end over end, off the wall. Vara leaned over to look and saw the dwarf fall in a spiral from his momentum, and when he landed with a crack, he did not stir, eyes wide, staring up at the battlements, dead.

  “You wished to leave Sanctuary, Partus,” came Alaric’s voice, to Vara’s right. She turned and saw him there, his hand still extended, even as he spoke to the empty space where the dwarf had stood only a moment before. “Now I have granted your wish.” Without bothering to look over the battlement at the fallen dwarf, the Ghost turned, walking back to the tower nearest them, and disappeared into the darkness without another word.

  Chapter 94

  Cyrus

  The sound of troops filled the street, guards shouting, men marching in armor. The clatter of the gates shutting was complete, and the smells of death were cut off abruptly, replaced with the city scents—old baked bread from communal ovens, torch oil, and latrines. Cyrus whipped his head around, and saw more soldiers running toward them, toward the walls, the gates, and felt the padding of his armor brush against him as he tried to decide what to do next. “The palace,” Cyrus said. “If the scourge is coming now, they’ll be pulling defenses. We need to go.”

  “No time like the present,” J’anda said as the first wave of guards began to pass them. He waved his hand, and Cyrus saw the enchanter’s appearance change from a human man in robes to an armored guard wearing the livery of Grand Duke Hoygraf’s Green Hill guard. Cyrus looked down and saw his armor masked in the same way. Martaina and Aisling were now absent, but beside him on horseback were two others, similarly clad.

  “Let’s go,” Cyrus said, and urged Windrider forward, holding as close to the side of the street as possible. The soldiers made way for them as they passed, the hooves of their horses splattering in the muddy street. The steady clang of armored men on the march echoed off the houses to either side, and Cyrus watched as the lines of infantry maintained their formations, holding to their discipline as they headed for the gates. “That’ll be important for them,” he said out loud, “especially as those things come over the walls.”

  “This is not going to end pretty,” Martaina said, glancing back nervously, her Actaluerean helm sitting atop a blond man’s head. That her soft voice came through in a husky whisper was even stranger to Cyrus, who had to think about it for a moment to remember it was, in fact, her.

  They rode on, down an alley onto a side street and on toward the palace, with its columns and massive steps. Guards were peeling off from the gates as they got close, the dirt streets an unpleasantly muddy place to be. They rode through without being questioned or inspected, the chaos wild around them. There was a harbor visible to their left, dark waters lapping at the piers; the palace was built on the water but rose stories above it, high enough that the entire side was protected by the sheer face of the palace’s eastern walls. The back of it was against the ocean too, Cyrus realized as they entered the courtyard; he wondered if there was an easy way out. The shouts of the palace guard filled the air, crackling as the portcullis to the palace’s smaller curtain wall began to crank slowly shut. A few more guards rushed to beat the closing.

  “Let us hope there is another way out,” J’anda said, eyeing the gate closing behind them. “If it truly is the scourge, then I don’t expect we’ll be going out the front.”

  “Aye,” Martaina said. “We’re bottled up now.”

  “Well, let’s be quick about this, then,” Cyrus said, eyeing the palace steps. “Aw, hells, why be polite and shy?” He urged Windrider forward and the horse began to climb the front steps, a few at a time with a neigh. Cyrus heard the clopping of hooves on the stone and knew the others were following behind. The palace steps narrowed toward the top, running into a column-lined portico and within moments Cyrus was under it, a few guards staring at him in shock. “Urgent message for the King,” he called as he passed. “Urgent!” At a checkpoint ahead he saw two guards stare at him, crossed poleaxes ineffectually blocking his path. At the sound of his cry, they uncrossed them, then stepped aside as he thundered into the palace on Windrider’s back.

  “What are you going to do when they find out you don’t have a message?” he heard Martaina say behind him.

  “I actually do have a message for King Hoygraf,” Cyrus said tersely.

  “I don’t think he’s going to want to hear that one,” Martaina replied.

  “No one ever wants to hear bad news,” Cyrus said. “It still shows up anyway. Urgent message for the King!” he called, and a bevy of guards ahead of him parted in a slow sea, the two closest to the bronze doors behind them opening them for Cyrus to pass. As the doors opened, he could see a throne
room ahead, a high seat in a wider room than Vernadam’s. Columns lined either side of the room and to his left there was an open balcony that overlooked the sea running the length of the room. There were a few guards scattered about that came to attention as he entered, and Cyrus dismounted swiftly, saluting Hoygraf as he did so.

  Hoygraf rose from his seat on the great throne as Cyrus dismounted. The man still carried his obsidian cane, leaning heavily upon it as he pulled up. Cyrus froze for only a beat as he looked to the seat next to Hoygraf; Cattrine sat there, upon a grand throne with a teal backing. Hoygraf’s seat was teal as well, and the ocean’s salt air seemed to fill the room around them as Cyrus stared at Cattrine. Her hair was only neck-length, now. She watched him without interest, slumped slightly to the side in her chair, her neck limp and angled, as though even sitting were some great effort for her. Her left eye was blacked, and there was a crust of blood at her lip. Her hand came up self-consciously to daub at her face as Cyrus began to stride across the wide, blue carpet toward the throne, his head bowed.

  “Your majesty,” Cyrus said, traversing the carpet in quick steps, struggling to remain nonchalant and keep his hands free from his sword belt. One chance at this. The minute I draw on him I’m going to have a fight on my hands. Ballsy effort has taken us this far, I just need a minute to make this happen.

  “That’s close enough,” Hoygraf said, stopping at the edge of the rise of steps. He leaned heavily on his cane for support, stooping over like an old man.

  “As you wish, m’lord,” Cyrus said, and knelt to one knee roughly ten feet away from the man, bowing his head.

  “You ride horses into my throne room,” Hoygraf said, straining at each word. “If you have an urgent message, deliver it.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Cyrus said, adding a tone of contrition. “M’lord, the scourge appears on the horizon.”

  Hoygraf let out a small hiss of disbelief. “Yes, I know that, you idiot. We have lookouts posted that rode back here with that message long before you.” Hoygraf frowned at him. “Is that your only message? Why didn’t you report that to a guard captain?”

  “Because, m’lord,” Cyrus said, and bowed lower, obscuring his upper body as he reached for his sword, “I have a further message to deliver, one meant for you and you alone.”

  Hoygraf’s voice bled caution, and Cyrus could hear the man standing up straighter. “Oh? And what might that be?”

  “That the westerner, Cyrus Davidon, even now rides for Caenalys and means to strike you down in your own throne room,” Cyrus said, his hand finding Praelior’s hilt even under the illusion.”

  “Well,” Hoygraf said with dark amusement, “I doubt he’ll be getting through the hundreds of thousands of those beasts filling every square inch of ground outside our city gates, but I do welcome him to try. I don’t fear that petty coward, who hides his vileness and impotence behind western magics and wickedness.”

  “I believe if you were to consult with your Lady, you’d find he’s anything but impotent,” Cyrus said, raising his head with a smile, “but you are quite right that he hides behind western magics. But only because sometimes … it’s the fastest way into your enemy’s throne room.” Cyrus stood, letting his blade hang by his side. “Oh, and not to correct the faux-King in his own chambers, but … you do fear me. You always have, since the day I put a sword in your belly and left you to die.”

  Hoygraf reached for the tip of his cane and ripped it aside, revealing a narrow blade. “Perhaps you mistake hate for fear; I fear no man, especially not a man I have personally removed the head from in the past and shall again. Guards!” He called out, his voice reverberating through the chamber.

  Cyrus looked left and right, and in the eye of every guard he saw the same dead expression, their faces blank, drool dripping down a few of their chins. “I don’t think you’ll be finding much help within their ranks at the moment.” He smiled, and with a nod at J’anda, said, “Western magic. You know how it goes.”

  “So it’s to be the two of us, then?” Hoygraf said, wavering on his legs, from one side to the other, balancing tentatively as he held the narrow blade of his cane aloft. “I welcome the opportunity to have a chance to gut you as you’ve gutted me.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Cyrus said, staring at him. “You can barely stand.”

  “I will surprise you with my strength,” Hoygraf said. “My resolve is not to be questioned, nor is my prowess—”

  “Much like the idea of you living to rule this puppet kingdom you’ve set up,” Cyrus said, “the idea of you lasting more than a second in a sword fight with me is simply delusion.”

  “Puppet kingdom?” Hoygraf spat. “I will have you know that this moment is the culmination of a lifetime of planning, of waiting for so rich an opportunity. This land is mine, now, and no Arkarian filth is going to ruin my moment. I will finish you, and then my men and I will end this scourge that you and yours couldn’t find the balls to deal with. This is the beginning of a thousand year reign for my house!”

  Cyrus looked at him blankly then blinked his eyes, twice. “When you called me impotent, earlier, you were really talking about yourself, weren’t you?”

  Hoygraf’s hand made a swift gesture, waving at him. “Come at me, fool. Let us see what sort of power you have against a God-King. This is my destiny. This is the moment I was born for—” With a sudden choking noise, he looked down, then sideways.

  “I agree,” Cattrine said, her hand on his shoulder, the other behind his back. “You were born for this very moment. You’ve lived your whole life leading up to it, and now you’re here. It is a culmination, husband of mine, a reaping of all the seeds of discord you’ve sown throughout the great and small moments along the way.” Her other hand came from behind his back, now, and a long, bloodstained dagger was clenched in it, and she rested it on his throat. “Enjoy the reaping, dear.” She ran it across his neck, opening his throat to a gasping noise as he collapsed. “Enjoy your moment.” He fell to the ground and blood washed out onto the blue carpet, his mouth still open in shock as his eyes went from her to Cyrus, then his face grew still.

  “You all right?” Cyrus asked, staring at Cattrine. Her blue gown was stained with crimson she stared at the knife in her hands with empty, hollow eyes. “Cattrine?”

  She looked up and found him again. “I didn’t dare to hope you’d come. I dreamed it, at night, when I hoped he wouldn’t hear me thinking it. I thought of you in the worst of moments, the darkest of them. I thought of you.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked again, and closed the distance between them with two long steps. He took hold of her arms, gently, and watched the shock on her face dissolve as she leaned into him, kissed him, on the lips, and he could taste the spattered blood on her as she did it, smelled the court perfumes. His free hand ran across her back, gently, his gauntlet feeling the soft flesh beneath, and he wondered how many new scars she had now, how many he had let her acquire by abandoning her …

  Cyrus broke away from her as Aisling cleared her throat. He turned and looked at the dark elf, who was back to her normal appearance, white hair and all. Her face was only slightly less inscrutable than of old, but he knew betrayal when he saw it. “We have to get out of here,” he said, and heard Windrider whinny in agreement.

  “The city is surrounded?” Cattrine asked. Cyrus nodded. “There is a small dock in the bottom of the castle, there is a spiral ramp just outside the throne room—”

  “The city is going to be destroyed unless we do something,” Cyrus said. “The scourge will consume it whole. We need to save these people.”

  “Whatever we do,” J’anda said, his hands still waving vaguely in the motions of a seamstress spinning a tapestry, “may I suggest we do quickly? I grow weary of this, and I suspect these soldiers will not be happy that we are standing here in the midst of a floor covered in their anointed King’s blood.”

  “Easily fixed,” Aisling said, and turned to the nearest guard, running a dagger ac
ross his throat. A spray of blood caused Cyrus to blanch, and by then she had killed three more the same way. “What?” she gave a caustic look over her shoulder at the silence as she killed another. “They would have happily done the same to us and still will when they awaken if we’re here and unwilling to fight them.”

  Cyrus exchanged a look with Cattrine, who gave him the faintest nod of approval. He started toward the line of soldiers that was in front of the balcony, but Martaina ran swiftly and cut all their throats in seconds. Cyrus blinked at her. “I guess Terian was right about that one thing …” She gave him a frown, and he shrugged.

  “In terms of a plan?” J’anda asked, grabbing the reins of his horse and turning it around toward the large bronze doors they had entered through. They were open, and braziers lit the antechamber outside, though the door beyond had been shut, the one that led to the main hall’s chamber.

  “We rally the people of Caenalys,” Cyrus said, taking Windrider’s reins purposefully and striding forward. He looked back and took Cattrine’s hand with his other after sheathing Praelior. “With luck, the scourge will still be outside the city walls—”

  There came the loudest of noises, a shattering that nearly defied explanation, as the doors to the main hall broke open off their hinges and skittered across the floor of the antechamber to the throne room. The floor shook as they landed, twelve-foot tall pieces of lumber that had been carved with intricate patterns that reminded Cyrus of fish and seas.

  Replacing them was Drettanden, a beast that took up the entirety of the doorframe, from marbled floor to crown-moulded ceiling, breathing at them, flooding the antechamber with the smell of rotting flesh so rancid it made Cyrus nearly gag, infesting his very sense of taste and hanging on his tongue as though he had kissed a rotted corpse. A steady breathing filled the air like a starving dog panting for food, and there came a drop of sweat that rolled down his back, so acute he felt it, like the gentle kiss of a lover.