“Yeah,” Cyrus said, and followed Belkan’s eyes to Larana, who stood quietly just behind him. “It’s like … like a gloom that goes beyond the night.”
“The shaman that died here cast a curse darker than almost anything I’ve ever seen, save one,” Belkan said. He straightened, adjusting his plate armor, pulling at his belt. “Left a gruesome mess, and then that business a few years later took place here as well, gave the entire area a sense of utter desperation.” He let out a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “Here we are, though.”
“Where?” Cyrus asked and cast his gaze around the clearing.
Belkan stepped aside and gestured to reveal a simple rock cairn. Time and weather had worn it to the point that it looked like nothing more than a mound of stones. Cyrus took a step closer and stared as though he could see something in the gaps between the rocks. There were many, and they varied from the size of a melon to no bigger than his fist.
“We built it in haste, of course,” Belkan said. “After a battle. Didn’t have time to dig into the dirt for a proper grave, and by the time we got back here a few years later, after the war was done and Gren had fallen, the swamps had done their worst and there wasn’t anything left to bury.”
Cyrus stood over the stone monument, trying to see into its depths, wondering if there was anything left of his father down there—
“Nothing remains,” Belkan said quietly, reading the question in Cyrus’s thoughts. Cyrus tilted his head to look at the armorer. “You’re wearing all that he left behind.” He paused. “Well, you’re wearing it, and you are it.”
Cyrus cleared his throat, felt it scratch as he tried to compel speech from it. “I guess I expected … I don’t know. Something.” There was a curious pressure down there, a lump that had settled around his Adam’s apple. “A grand headstone, maybe? A giant sign to mark his passing here?” He laughed, but it was a rueful and mirthless sound. “I don’t know what I expected. Something that showed that he was even here.”
“He was here, lad,” Belkan said. “Be assured of that. The trolls certainly knew he was, when he fought them.”
“I don’t really remember him,” Cyrus said, staring at the mound. “I guess I just figured he’d leave more behind than an empty grave.” He shook his head. “Stupid to expect, I suppose, when all I remember of what he left me before was an empty house.”
“That’s not fair to him,” Belkan said darkly.
“Life isn’t fair,” Cyrus said and turned away, giving the crumbled grave one last glance. “Let’s be on our way back. I have an army to move.”
“All right,” Belkan said, and Cyrus could hear the hints of some defiant reply itching to burst out, but the old soldier kept whatever it was to himself. “This way, then.” He surged past Cyrus with a will, his legs carrying him with strength and fury that was obvious in his movement.
“Don’t think ill of him,” Larana said, voice near a whisper. “You know as well as anyone else that this is what warriors do—go to war for years at a time.” She lifted a thin finger and pointed at Belkan’s back, almost as an afterthought. “It’s what he did as well. And it’s what you did last year.” She turned, wordlessly, and followed her father back down the trail, the sound of branches moving before them carrying off down the slope of the hummock.
Cyrus stood there a moment longer, then knelt, for just a moment, at the foot of the stones. He stared into them in the darkness one final time, and this time he would have sworn he saw something—just a hint of substance, really—in the cracks between them.
Chapter 40
Cyrus followed behind Belkan and Larana at a distance, a dark mood swirling around him. The gravesite had been unexpected, a surprise when he’d sussed out what Belkan had woken him for. He’d felt a thrill of something in the dark of the night when he’d realized where they were, and it had been unexpectedly dashed by the reality of the grave.
What were you expecting? he asked himself as he kept walking. He could hear the faint crunch of Larana’s steps less than a hundred feet ahead of him, heard Belkan splash into a low channel of swamp water just in front of her. Him to jump out of the grave to greet you with a great bear hug and an “I’m proud of you, son”? He gritted his teeth together as he missed a step and felt his ankle give slightly in pain. He held it in, though, and kept from cursing out loud or making any sound to indicate the slight trough in the path he was following.
He’s dead. He’s been dead for as long as you can remember. Like Belkan said, you’re wearing his only legacy. You just don’t want to feel like you’re alone—
We are none of us alone.
Cyrus froze as the sound of a soft curse hit his ears from directly behind along with the sound of a missed step and the clank of armor. He whirled and saw a hint of gleaming in the darkness. His heart raced and his hand fell to Praelior’s grip, then he felt himself relax as he realized who was following him.
“I always thought you were a creature of extreme grace,” he said, calling into the darkness. “But I guess even you make missteps like the rest of us.”
“Yes,” Vara said, emerging from the brush whisper-quiet. “Even I have been known to set my foot in a dip in the path unexpectedly, especially when the clomping bear I’m following behind gives no indication that there is a rut the size of a mountain pass in the trail.”
Cyrus smiled. “I hit it myself, but I used it as an exercise in self-discipline to keep myself from crying out or giving a hint of the pain.”
“I suppose that comes in handy in the Society of Arms, where they give you nothing but a sword and wish you the best of luck in your endeavors of war.”
“It doesn’t beat having a healing spell at hand,” Cyrus agreed, still feeling that faint smile upon his lips, “but it’s what I’ve got.” He stood there for a moment as she drew up to within arm’s reach. “You were following me?”
“Yes, well,” she said, and he caught the slight hint of blush on her cheeks, “forgive me for being more than a little inquisitive about where the General of Sanctuary, leader of our assault, was sneaking off to in the middle of the night.” She let her face fall into a more prim expression. “You should be more circumspect about your personal security.”
“Surprised you didn’t just assume I was sneaking off to a rendezvous with my dark elven harlot,” Cyrus said.
She blinked. “I’m a little surprised you would refer to her in such terms.”
“I was mimicking you,” Cyrus said, turning away. “I don’t hold the low opinion of her that you do.”
“Clearly,” Vara said, falling into step behind him. He could hear the footfalls now that she made no effort to hide them. “Or at least one would hope.”
“You’re acting a bit strange lately,” Cyrus said, pushing aside a branch with his gauntlet.
“Just lately?” she asked with a hint of levity.
“You’ve been mercurial,” Cyrus said, listening to the soft whistle of a bird in the distance.
“That is no great stretch.”
“Even for you, I mean,” Cyrus said. There was only the faintest hint of light on the horizon as they broke into an open space. Cyrus stared onto the long body of water that stretched to his east and looked at the sky. With the aid of the spell upon his eyes, he could see the faint hints of coloration that marked the place where—eventually—the sun would rise.
“I don’t care for your course of action of late,” she said simply. “As well you know. I see no reason to retread this ground.”
“Do you have feelings for me still?” Cyrus asked, carefully measuring her response.
“Other than annoyance?” Vara asked, cocking a thin, blond eyebrow at him.
“Do you still care for me?” he asked.
He heard her gait miss a step, and it was a long moment before she answered. “I care for you as a friend, a guildmate and a pigheaded nuisance who has occasionally done me a good turn.”
“Any more than that?” Cyrus asked.
“What if I didn’t?” Cyrus asked.
“Then you would be exhibiting considerably better judgment in that area than I have previously assumed you capable of.” Her footsteps crunched in the path behind her, but it was a delicate sound compared to that made by his heavy metal boots.
“I made a mistake,” Cyrus said. “In the dark of the night on the eve of my return to Sanctuary—”
“I need hear no more of this,” Vara said, cutting him off. “Whatever might have happened in the past, you have made your choice. I need not know of how you slipped your blade into some unwitting subject to—bloody hell, that’s a terrible metaphor. The harm is done,” she said. “Whatever you might have meant to happen, it doesn’t take away from what you did, from the choice you made—”
“But it was the wrong choice,” Cyrus said, stopping in the path to turn and face her. “Haven’t you ever made one you wished you could take back?”
She stopped, flushing as he blocked her way. “More than a few, but once they were made, they were made. You cannot simply take back a choice once it is done. And furthermore, as a leader you should know that decisiveness in action is crucial to your ability to stand before an army or a guild and carry them to victory.”
“I’m a man,” Cyrus said.
“I am dimly aware of that fact.”
“I make mistakes,” he said. “And one of them—”
“Stop, just stop,” she said, holding up a hand. “I will not have this conversation with you.”
“I made a mistake—”
She snorted. “You made a sequence of mistakes, if you wish to claim them as such, and that sequence has yet to reach its end by my reckoning.” She sniffed. “Even over the swamp I can smell your most recent liaison upon you.”
“You can smell that? Gods, it’s not just the ears with you, then—”
She rolled her eyes. “Not literally. It was a metaphor to indicate that whatever your protestations about ‘making a mistake,’ you continue to engage in evening frolics with the thief. I can jab you with my sword once or twice, General, and call it a mistake, but if I do it repeatedly, you know what they call that?”
“Murder?”
She made a noise of frustration that originated deep in her throat and blossomed forth from her mouth to fill the air around them. “Not a mistake, that’s for certain. Even the greatest idiot cannot willingly err as much as you have, if indeed you consider your continuing evening horizontal rendezvous with her to be, indeed, a ‘mistake.’” She paused. “And I would not use that wording with her, were I you, at least not if you wish to keep the thing with which you err connected to your body.”
Cyrus blinked at her. “You think that’s really a danger?”
She did not deign to look at him, casting her gaze out into the swamp instead. “Can we continue back to camp now?”
“I want to know the truth,” Cyrus said. “You and I, we’re the only ones here—”
“Save for Belkan and Larana, who lurk and listen even now.”
“—is there any possibility for you and I?” Cyrus asked. “Is there a chance for you to put aside your anger and—”
“No,” she said abruptly, and stared at him for a long moment. “Our decisions have carried us in different enough directions, I think. Mine let you slip away once, and the man who returned from Luukessia is quite a different one than the one I lo—” She stopped. “… than the one I knew before he left.”
Cyrus stared at her, at her unblinking facade. She had always been hard to read, but now she was as stone-faced as ever she had been. “Very well, then,” he said, and stepped to the side of the path. “Why don’t you go first and I’ll follow?”
She hesitated, opening her mouth only a hint as if she wished to say something more but held it back instead. She took a step forward, even and strong, and then another, her usual gait unaffected by their conversation in any visible way.
Chapter 41
The road to Gren was long and arduous. By the time the last day dawned, Cyrus was sick to death of conjured bread and even more sick of rain. He had been drawn and irritable after the visit to his father’s grave. The weather turned worse in subsequent days, slowing the army’s advance to a crawl as a chill, torrential rain came down around them for a full day and a half.
The road began to wash away after the first day, and the night had been filled with a torrential downpour that had forced them to move camp in the middle of the night. It had been a mess, and a disorganized one at that, as they tried to form ranks standing in an inch and rising of water.
It had scarcely gotten better the next day, fording high water in the swamps that reached halfway to the waist of most of the members of the army. Cyrus had it slightly easier, but every crossing that high required the removal of plated boots among the warriors as well as the rolling of pants among the rangers.
“Just be grateful it’s still and not moving water,” Andren said as they took another ford. “That much water in a river would sweep away half the army.” Cyrus had managed a grunt of acknowledgment as he slipped his wet feet back into his boots.
Affliction with leeches became a common occurrence, and a half-dozen people caught some form of swamp malady and were teleported out. When the last morning dawned and Cyrus took his conjured bread, he had well and truly had enough.
“The army is in a mood,” Curatio observed as the Council stood in a rough circle.
“Morale is low?” Nyad asked.
“It is better described as ‘annoyed,’” Vara said.
“You would know, being somewhat of an expert in annoyance,” Vaste said.
“They have been feasting on conjured bread for several days, they have been rained upon, and this swamp is damnably unpleasant,” Vara said. “The army is irritable.” She straightened, her silver breastplate not bearing a single smudge from the crossings. “I should think that would make them better at fighting when the moment comes.”
“It might make them better at pillaging, were that our goal,” Cyrus said from his place in the circle. “Vaste, what can we expect here?”
“I already told you, goat buggery,” Vaste said, looking a little sullen. “And slavery.”
“What do they have to fight us with?” Cyrus asked, holding his patience. “We’re less than two hours march from Gren, and I need to start considering how we’re going to do this.”
“I have no idea,” Vaste said. “You won’t need to worry about magic unless there are dark elves, so my recommendation would be to put your eagle-eyed elf out front and have her fill to the brimming any non-troll she sees that’s not one of ours. Use your wizards to drive my people back, because they’re afraid of magic here in the homeland. Some nice fire would likely send them to running.” He shrugged. “Anyone who fights, cut them into sausage meat. Anyone who runs, let them live in fear. There, now you have a plan.”
“Not quite what I was looking for,” Cyrus said. “But it’s a start.”
“I don’t know much more than that,” Vaste said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and I was only in town for a few hours last time before I was beaten to death. Suffice to say, my knowledge of Gren is rather limited at this point.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “We’ll … plan as we go, I guess.”
“There’s a place near the city,” Vaste said. “An overlook. There’s a watch post. It only had three guards manning it when last I was here, and there are probably fewer now. If we can kill them, we’ll have a fine view to plan your assault.” The troll sounded strangely detached, the usual sense of irony gone from everything he said.
“Okay,” Cyrus said. “We’ll find this watch post and use it as our rally point.” He nod
ded once at the officers. “We move.”
They marched deeper into the swamp, the flies thick as the sun came out once more. It was the slow buzzing that began to drive Cyrus mad, his irritation rising to anger, and the anger giving way to rage as the day and the march dragged on. He found himself consciously avoiding giving orders where possible, letting others take the responsibility upon themselves so as to avoid snapping at those who spoke to him.
He slapped a fly that had landed in his matted hair, and when he withdrew his gauntlet, the sensation of the metallic impact on his skull remained, making his ears ring slightly. He hissed air out slowly in a ragged breath then glanced at the palm of his hand. The remains of the fly were stunningly large, almost the size of the tip of his smallest finger.
“Everything is grossly large out here,” Vaste said, appearing next to him. “It’s almost as bad as the Gradsden Savanna in that regard, except here it’s largely restricted to the insects.”
He looked over at the massive troll, who ambled along with a little more starch in his step than usual. “You’re antsy,” Cyrus said, and to his own ears he sounded like he was accusing the healer of something.
“You should talk,” Vaste said, not looking at him. His head jerked slightly as he tracked a black fly orbiting his own head. “I hate this place. I want to destroy it and be done, and go back to my nice comfortable bed in Sanctuary and my lovely running water that I can cool or warm myself with, however I need it. I don’t care for this swamp, I don’t care for its occupants, and I truly despise the acts that they commit which sully the name of my entire race.”
“That much is obvious,” Cyrus said and let a silence lapse briefly. “Are you certain there’s nothing else you can tell me before we attack?”
“They will fight you tooth and nail,” Vaste said, and he flashed something that crossed between a grin and a grimace that bared his teeth, then brought his fingers up to show the hardened yellow nails that protruded from each of his digits. They were solid and long, each as big as two of Cyrus’s fingers held close together. “And with trolls, that means something.”
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