Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  “They’ll be back,” Alaric said, appearing behind them from within a fog, coalescing into his shape of armor and man, the expression on his face grim and unsatisfied. “Now that the Sovereign has an eye fixed on Sanctuary, he’ll send more, make no mistake. They’ll withdraw to a safe distance, interdict our new applicants, and bottle us up until their next hammerblow falls.”

  “Where are the rest of your number?” Vara asked, turning back to Ryin. “With them, we could make an attack, drive the enemy back. They could increase our ranks by a third again, and all blooded veterans now, yes?”

  “Yes,” Ryin said, “they’ve certainly seen battle. But … they sent me to tell you what happened.”

  “Did you not go to aid Longwell’s father?” Vara jumped in before Alaric could ask a question.

  “We did,” Ryin said, “and we succeeded in defeating his enemies-well, of a sort, anyway-”

  “By all the gods, get on with it man,” Vara said, drawing a look of severe irritation from Ryin. “What happened? Did you beat the army that was invading them or not?”

  “We did,” Ryin said with a sort of haunted quiet. He looked out over the wreckage of the battlefield and Vara’s gaze followed his over the ramparts. There were bodies, countless, armored, cloth-clad, and filling the ground for several hundred yards away from the wall. “We fought a battle at a place called Harrow’s Crossing, and we crushed the armies that were at the throats of Longwell’s people.”

  “Very good,” Vara said brusquely, “and yet I see no army here, save for you, so I must ask again-what … happened?”

  “Perhaps if you remained silent and let him explain,” Alaric said, drawing Vara’s searing irritation to her Guildmaster in the form of a glare.

  I want to know where he is. Vara scowled. The man’s been gone for months, and when he finally sends a messenger, we get the bloody slowest of druids, a man who can’t seem to form a non-contrarian thought to save his unblessed soul. “Fine,” she said. “I’m waiting, though. You beat them at this place … this … Harrow’s Crossing? Defeated their enemies? Sent them scattering in utmost defeat?”

  “We did,” Ryin said, and the smell of the fires began to waft in off the battlefield, causing Vara to cough quite unexpectedly. “It was masterful. Cyrus came up with a brilliant strategy to defeat the superior odds that were waiting for us in ambush.”

  The druid smiled, and Vara wanted to slap him, to grasp him by the shoulders and shake him until the words she wanted to hear finally came out-That he’s alive and well. That they’ll be teleporting in later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, hardened, veteran, ready to help us get about the business of throwing back this siege.

  “But there was a problem after that,” Ryin said, interrupting her thoughts. “They won’t be back for quite a while.”

  Vara felt the sudden pain, felt it where she least wanted to, and knew it affected her the way she didn’t care for it to, could tell in the sag of her face that she was exposing undesired emotion. I won’t ask about him. I won’t. I’ll wait, and he’ll tell us, tell us all, and I won’t have to ask. Because, after all, the general is with his troops, he couldn’t leave without them, of course, he wouldn’t … She tried to straighten her expression, tried to change it, but she was sure it ended up as a cringe.

  Ryin went on, apparently oblivious to everything she knew was written over every inch of her face. “We ran into … well …” He hesitated. “We ran into a bit of a snag.”

  “A snag?” Alaric spoke in the nick of time, halting the inevitable and fast approaching scream that Vara felt building, the pressure ready to cause her to explode. “Perhaps you could be more specific, brother.”

  Ryin’s head bowed slightly. “All right. Well. The thing is, we beat the Kingdom of Syloreas in the battle. But there was another problem after that.”

  “Oh for the gods’ sakes, man!” Vara blurted out, drawing every eye on the battlements around them and causing Ryin to take a step back. “Will you stop bloody stalling and get right the hell on with it? Is he all right? Did Cyrus die?”

  “Yes,” Ryin said. “He died at Harrow’s Crossing, but he’s been resurrected from that.” Vara felt some of the tightness in her chest subside, only to be replaced by a deeper, more painful sensation only a moment later as Ryin went on. “But to answer your other question …” Ayend’s face drew tight again, seemingly unready to part with the information, as though it pained him to do so. “… He is most certainly not all right.”

  Chapter 20

  Cyrus

  4 Months Earlier

  “Get up,” Cyrus heard the sound of joy in the voice as he stirred back to life. “We’ve won.” He blinked his eyes, and there was a thin sheen of smoke and haze before them. Acrid burning smells filled his nostrils, and he choked on the sharp, sour taste of blood in his mouth. Nausea overcame him and he leaned over, vomiting up everything he had ever eaten, the acid and bile leaving him gagging, lying on one shoulder, face half-buried in the mud and vomit.

  “It’s not quite that easy to shake off,” Cyrus heard but couldn’t turn to look. The nausea returned and he tried to throw up again, but only spittle and base liquid came out, and he rested his cheek again in the mud. “Coming back to life isn’t as easy as walking across a village street; it’s death, and there’s a price to be paid in vitality and body when you come back this way. It is not a cheap price, either.” Cyrus recognized Curatio’s voice as the one speaking; he was lost as to who the other might be.

  “We’ve won a great victory here.” The other speaker was talking again. The voice was damnably familiar, and Cyrus struggled to roll to his back so he could look up. “All thanks to you lot. Excellent strategy, and you did it perfectly, held them in place for us to hit them.” Cyrus’s vision cleared, and he recognized Count Ranson standing above him, smiling for the first time since they’d met. “He should be up and celebrating with us; we’ve routed the Sylorean army and sent them running north in disarray, their mercenaries gone.”

  “Give me a minute,” Cyrus said, his voice hoarse.

  “Take your time,” Curatio said. “That was no gentle blow you took; Partus crushed your head before he went running off.”

  “Partus?” Cyrus asked. “That dwarf, that was his name, wasn’t it?” Cyrus waited until Curatio nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  The healer pursed his lips, his expression guarded. “Because he was the Guildmaster of the Daring once upon a time. He took their most experienced members and fled to Goliath around the time you joined us.”

  “Partus,” Cyrus said. “I’ve heard Erith curse his name.”

  “As well she should,” Terian’s voice came from above him, and the dark elf’s face appeared in view next to Ranson. “He’s a strong paladin; maybe the most powerful I’ve ever met, save for Alaric.”

  “I could have used your help back there,” Cyrus rasped, looking at the dark knight. “I called out to you.”

  “Sorry about that,” Terian said. “I was about to be overrun by the Sylorean army, so I was watching my back because I knew the flames were about to die. Sure enough, they did.” He ran a hand through his long, stringy black hair. “When I looked up again, he’d already killed you and escaped.”

  “Dammit.” Cyrus tried to sit up and felt all his stomach muscles involuntarily contract, causing him to heave again. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on his gauntlet, feeling the mud from his hand stick to his face. “He got away?”

  “He did,” Curatio said. “We were badly disorganized after his first spell, the one that knocked half of us out of the fight. I managed to get our spellcasters in place to contain the armies, but there was no one left to stop him. He bounded off like a rabbit after he killed you, slipped over the bridge in the chaos.”

  “Did any of the Sylorean army get away?” Cyrus took Ranson and Curatio’s proffered hands and let them pull him to his feet.

  “Perhaps a quarter of them,” Ranson s
aid with the same smile. “I’ve got my army in pursuit, and messengers have already come back to tell me we’ve dispatched a good many of them. They’ve no horses, no provisions, and we managed to kill their generals.” The count folded his arms in front of him. “I expect fewer than one man in ten who entered this battle on their side will ever see his homeland again.”

  “I suppose that’s some sort of worthy accomplishment,” Cyrus said without any enthusiasm. “Kingdom defended, mission accomplished.” He felt the heart go out of his joy. “Now we can go home, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to leave,” Curatio said. “Partus is still out there and he can be one devilish nuisance if he were to rejoin the Syloreans.” The healer looked to the Count. “Do they still have a functioning army up in the north?”

  The count shrugged. “Aye, they do. I’ll grant you, I still fear that half-man, but without an army at his back he stands much less chance of causing us ulcers.”

  “Dammit,” Cyrus said. “Let’s get a tracking party together. Does he have a horse?”

  “I didn’t see him take one,” Terian said with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t get one later, but I think he went over the bridge on foot.”

  “He won’t have made it far on those stubby legs,” Cyrus said. “We can run him down on horseback.” He looked around. “Where’s Windrider?” The horse appeared out of a cluster of mares a few feet away with a whinny, prompting Cyrus to smile. “Never far, that’s for certain.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Terian said, sliding his blade out of his scabbard. “Should be easier to bring down a white knight if you’ve got a black knight alongside you.”

  “All right,” Cyrus said with a nod. “Next time when I call for help, you’ll be there, though, right?”

  Terian rolled his eyes. “No. I’m going to let you die, purposefully and horribly, just like this time. What do you think?”

  Cyrus stared at him blankly. “Well … okay, then. Where’s Longwell?”

  “Over here,” came a weak voice, and Cyrus turned to see the dragoon sitting with his head between his legs a few feet away, also covered in mud. Longwell’s head came up, also caked in mud, and he looked pale as a cloud. “Count me among those hit by that bastard’s spell; I went flying and my horse landed on top of me with all the force of a tree falling on a mushroom.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Ugh. Shouldn’t have mentioned food.”

  “And Martaina?” Cyrus asked. “We’ll need a tracker.” A hand went up a few feet away from Longwell, and Cyrus barely recognized the elven woman; her garb was normally predisposed to blending in with the dirt and greenery of nature, but now it was caked in mud, along with her face and hair. “Did a horse land on you, too?”

  “Not a horse,” Martaina said. “I’m pretty sure it was an elephant. At least that’s what it felt like when it hit me, after a nice, long, lazy end-over-end flight through the air.” She shook her head and looked at Curatio pityingly. “Did you resurrect my horse?”

  “I did,” Curatio said, “but you’ll likely not want to be riding her for a bit. Keep in mind she probably feels as bad or worse than you do.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Martaina said, “but I don’t know how well I’ll be able to track at the moment. It’s delicate, sensitive work, filled with subtlety and nuance.” She hung her head. “Right now I feel like I just want to fill a bucket with everything I’ve ever eaten in my thousands of years of life.” She retched. “Which would take quite a bit of force, and I feel it coming on.”

  “I’ll go with you,” came a soft voice from behind Cyrus. He turned to see a shapely leg, clad in smooth leather, make its way in front of him. He raised his head to see Aisling, her arms folded across her belly, as though she were trying to push up her small breasts. “I’m a fair tracker; not as good as Martaina at her best, but good enough to sift out some dwarf from a running army of men.”

  “You sure?” Cyrus asked as he hoisted himself up into the saddle. “I don’t want there to be any tension-”

  “What tension?” she asked with a forced smile.

  “I recommend you wait a little longer,” Curatio said, looking up at Cyrus on horseback. “Some of you are going to be feeling poorly for a while yet.”

  “I can feel poorly sitting here on the ground doing nothing,” Cyrus said, “or on a horse, tracking down the miniaturized bastard who killed me. I pick the latter, if only because it dispels that ugly sensation that sitting on one’s backside brings when there’s unpleasant work to be done.”

  It took a few more minutes to get a hunting party saddled and ready to ride. Cyrus looked around the battlefield, beheld the smoke and carnage. The dragoons had hit the Sylorean lines hard. With their retreat cut off by the spellcasters’ fire magic, the horsed riders had cut the unhorsed and lightly armored infantry to pieces. Even the men-at-war, wearing armor considerably heavier than Cyrus’s (and much more constrictive, judging by its somewhat primitive design) had been struck down by the dragoons, who had used their lances to knock over the poorly balanced warriors and finished the job later or let the mud do it for them.

  The hunting party rode out across the bridge, Cyrus noting how badly muddied the grasslands had become. Horse hooves had ripped the soil, leaving dark marks where greenery had been only hours before. The smell of upturned earth had a rich, deep aroma that reminded Cyrus of the gardens at Sanctuary. The sky held a grey tinge, clouds masking the sun from shining down. It seemed appropriate to Cyrus that the sun shouldn’t shine down brightly, that the sky shouldn’t be blue; after all, thousands of men had died only an hour earlier. Nature could not find much cause for glory and celebration in that.

  “So this is it?”

  It was Terian who spoke, jarring Cyrus out of his daze. He turned to see the dark elf keeping pace next to him. Martaina and Aisling rode in front, the former still looking as green as her usual clothing and the latter keeping a close watch on the muddy ground ahead of them. “We go home after this?”

  “I suppose,” Cyrus said. “So long as we get this dwarf, then the Kingdom is saved. And we’re back to whiling away the days in the Plains of Perdamun, trying to find new targets to hit and places to explore for our own edification and whatever treasures we can pillory.” He shrugged. “Or I suppose we could get involved in the war again, though I doubt there’s much edification or gold to be had from walking that road.”

  “I doubt we’ll avoid it,” Terian said. “The Sovereign is doubtless upset with us, to make no mention of the fact that you killed countless of his soldiers while defending Termina. It seems likely that my people will seek revenge if they know who inflicted those losses upon them.”

  “I didn’t invade their territory looking for a fight,” Cyrus said. “The elves didn’t even invade their lands. The dark elves decided to start a war of conquest against their neighbors, and I happened to be standing in the way. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have been on that bridge with me, trying to keep your people from raping and pillaging the town.”

  Terian looked at him, hard, a strange burning in his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was broken. “No. I can’t say I wouldn’t have been with you. After all, we are … friends. Comrades at arms.”

  “And you wouldn’t have done it yourself, even if I hadn’t been there?” Cyrus didn’t look at the dark elf. “You wouldn’t have tried to protect those people yourself, just because it was the right thing to do?”

  “I …” Terian choked down whatever he was about to say, and Cyrus turned to look at the dark knight, who was strangely animated; his mouth opened and it looked as though he were trying to speak, but nothing came forth at first. When it did, it was low, hoarse, and barely understandable. Cyrus had to concentrate to hear him, tuning out the sound of hoof beats, of laughter from Ryin somewhere behind him, of someone else heaving from atop their horse. “Dark knights aren’t quite as fond of hopeless causes or helping the defenseless as you are. I don’t … I mean, they were elves, and my people are en
emies of the elves-”

  “You work with elves every day,” Cyrus cut him off. “You’ve saved their lives. You’ve fought for them. You’re a member of Sanctuary, Terian. If you wanted solely to enrich yourself, the big three would gladly take you on. Hells, man, you could even make a fortune plundering in the dark elven army, like some others do.” Cyrus noted Terian’s face become stricken, but he went on. “But you’re here with us. You could be anywhere, but you’re with us. Not where you could become the wealthiest, not where you could seek the most power, but here in Sanctuary. Can you tell me why you’d voluntarily come back if not to ‘help the defenseless’ and fight for ‘hopeless causes’?”

  The dark knight’s mouth opened and closed again several times, but no discernible noise came out that Cyrus heard. Terian’s eyes blinked repeatedly, and he finally stopped trying, closing his mouth, turning to look straight ahead. After a long silence he finally said. “That’s really an excellent question.”

  Cyrus waited for him to elaborate and when he did not, the warrior shrugged and continued riding. The dwarf’s trail carried them over plains, lightly rolling hills that began to trend further and further downward, until they finally came to the edge of a swamp.

  “Gods, it smells like troll town in there,” Terian said, holding his nose.

  “That’s not very nice,” Nyad scolded him. Her red cloak was stained with mud, and her usually relaxed expression was gone, replaced by one that was quite cross.

  “Not nice but accurate,” the dark knight said. “Have you ever been to Gren? No? Then shut up.”