Crusader s-4

by Robert J. Crane

  His face darkened, and he stared at the tree as the rains washed over it. The air was clear now and fresh, the smell of all else washed away and replaced with the scent of good mud and earth. There was a flash of lightning on the horizon, and then a solid crack of thunder followed a few seconds later. She did not have to strain to hear him but only just. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice fading as he spoke. “Perhaps you will indeed. But the day may come when you do … that you wish you had not.” He was stoic, still, and looking at the wall before them and all that it held back, the army on the other side. “For not all secrets are prizes to be revealed, celebrated and reveled in. Some are dark, and dangerous, and when the door is open to them,” he pointed to the gate in the wall, sealed against the predations of the dark elves, “they wreak nothing but destruction on everyone-everyone-that they touch.”

  Chapter 101

  Cyrus

  It was a slaughter, Cyrus knew, as night fell. The dragoons had filled the air with the smell of horses, of manure, so thick that he could scarcely breathe it without thinking of stables and wet hay. The sky had been clear, and when the sun set, the first fires to the east had been easy to see, the sight of spellcasters burning ground to slow the scourge’s advance and cover a rally. They had come an hour or so after that, the army on a march. He had seen them from a distance, faint heads and bodies blending into the outlines that were illuminated by the fires behind them, but the number was few enough. It was an army of thousands, and now it is half or less what it was when last I saw it. Actaluere, Galbadien, Syloreas and Sanctuary combined. It was hard to see detail, silhouettes against the only light source; when the moon came up the picture became clearer-but no less disheartening.

  The sound of the horses was heavy too, hoofbeats, rallying, the soldiers burning off nervous energy as they waited. The trouble was coming, it was close at hand. The dragoons formed up, and the horses snorted in the still, warm night, the first Cyrus could recall in what seemed like years. How many have we lost of Sanctuary? How many have we left? He felt the pull of worry at his innards. How many have I lost? They are mine to command, after all, even if I have abdicated that responsibility a great deal of late. The touch of the warm night air on his skin was palpable, a reminder that winter had subsided and spring was roaring through with intent to carry summer with it.

  When the armies drew closer, it was near to midnight, and the full moon gave them a clearer idea still. “Were there so many missing when last you saw them?” Cyrus asked Longwell, who was alongside him on his horse.

  “Aye,” Longwell said. “The flanking action was terrible, and the Actaluereans were caught on the march by the scourge when they swept through from the west. They were separated from us and the Sanctuary army by too wide a distance; they had to flee without fire spells to cover them and lost three-quarters of their men before they met up with us.” He shook his head. “Your Baron Hoygraf’s ambitions cost a great many lives, it seems.”

  My failure to kill him, you mean. But Cyrus did not voice the thought, true as it was. What good can I do here when all I seem to be able to achieve are failures that embolden the enemy and turn every silly mistake of mine into another thousand or hundred thousand dead? How many must die before I stop giving these things more room to kill us?

  There was movement at the back line of the retreating army, the leading edge of a few wagons and men carrying the supplies. They came out of the darkness, speaking little to the dragoons as they passed, trying to edge around the army on horseback. He saw tired faces, downturned, going about their labor. Some seemed more familiar than others, and he knew they had been part of the wagon train at Enrant Monge and perhaps earlier, at Filsharron. One of them came out of the dark on a pony and approached him, face cracking into a smile. It was a young man who looked vaguely familiar. “It’s you,” the lad said. “I knew you’d be back.”

  “Oh?” Cyrus looked at him until something clicked in his mind. “You tended the horses at Enrant Monge.”

  “Aye, I did,” the young man said. “Been doing it for the army since, taking care of the ones that haul the wagons. The Brothers had me leave before the castle fell.” He shook his head. “Never thought it would happen. They’ve taken it all, haven’t they? The whole land?”

  “Aye,” Cyrus said with greatest reluctance, “they have.”

  The boy seemed to absorb that. “It’s all right. You’ll save us.”

  There was such a moment of absurd intensity that Cyrus felt almost compelled to laugh. “I haven’t exactly done a bang-up job of that so far, kid.”

  The boy shrugged as if to say no matter. “I believe in you. You’re him, after all. You’re him, returned, like me mum used to talk about.”

  Cyrus quelled a deep sigh. “Kid, I’m not your ‘Baron Darrick,’ or whatever his name is.”

  “Lord Garrick?” Longwell said from next to Cyrus, raising an eyebrow at the warrior. “You speak of the legend of Garrick’s return?”

  “Aye,” the boy said with a hint of pride. “It’s him, I tell you. He’s the one. He’ll save us.”

  Longwell gave Cyrus a pitying look of understanding then a nod of surrender. “If ever there was a man who could find a way where there was no way, this would be the man.”

  Cyrus frowned. “You cannot be serious.”

  Longwell shrugged. “No, I believe it. You’ve done impossible things in the past. You’re a human man who brought down the Dragonlord-”

  “Through luck,” Cyrus said.

  “-you led a nearly untested army into the Trials of Purgatory and came out a victor-”

  “Through some good fortune and the skill of my comrades.”

  “-you broke the Goblin Imperium and threw one of the most prestigious guilds in Arkaria into shame-”

  “Thanks to a sword forged by a god.”

  Longwell shrugged. “Held a bridge against an army of a hundred thousand.”

  “With your help. And … Vara’s.”

  “Killed a god,” Longwell said. “Something that hasn’t been done in living memory.” He paused. “Except Curatio’s.”

  “Because of Alaric,” Cyrus said, annoyed. “And also the cause of all our current problems.”

  Longwell locked eyes with the stableboy, ignoring Cyrus. “You’ve got a good eye, lad. If ever there was a man born today who embodied Garrick’s dauntlessness, his fighting ability, his indomitable spirit, this is the one.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” the stableboy said, and bowed so low he nearly fell off his horse.

  “Run along now,” Longwell said. “Take care of yourself, and stay clear of the fighting. You get to that bridge and stay well out in front of everyone else, do you hear?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the boy said again, and started his horse forward, looking back with awstruck eyes at Cyrus and Longwell.

  Cyrus waited until he was out of earshot before turning on the King of Galbadien. “You didn’t have to feed his delusion.”

  Longwell let out a mirthless guffaw. “Delusion, nothing. All I did was recount a piece of your legend.” He waved in the direction of the stableboy’s retreating back. “Tell me what harm it does to give that lad a hope in a land that has nearly had it struck out of it. We’re about to surrender our last foothold here. I would have him believe as we do so that we’re not retreating just so we can die on the other side of the sea. I would have him believe he can have a future free of these things. I would rather surrender our last square of land here a thousand times over, to feel the pain of that loss, than surrender our hope. Hope is a powerful thing. Belief is a powerful thing, too. It hurts him little to believe that you are the legend of Lord Garrick returned to us.” Longwell’s face darkened. “And it certainly is our darkest hour, when it was said he would return. We all could use a little hope right now.”

  Cyrus took a long glance at Longwell, the King. “As you wish,” he said simply. The last of the suppliers had passed now, and it was down to the army, clumped ahead of them, lines of
fire on either side.”

  “Would you like to argue it further?” Longwell said with an impish smile as he started his horse forward.

  Cyrus drew Praelior as he watched Longwell heft his lance. “Not at present,” Cyrus said. “But I expect you’ll be whistling quite a different tune when we’re on the other side of the sea.”

  “I dearly hope not,” Longwell said as the army before them opened ranks to channel the horses through as they fell back. Cyrus rode past the Actaluerean army, through its midst, three short rows before he hit the scourge, coming forward in the darkness, advancing into the last hundred miles of Luukessia that was left.

  Chapter 102

  “Well, that was effective,” Terian said beside the fire as the sun was rising nearby. Martaina was there, as well as Curatio and Nyad, who was sacked out already. Calene Raverle and Scuddar In’shara shared the fire with them, the desert man strangely quiet-though not strangely for him, Cyrus reflected. The battle had lasted most of the night. “I’ve never seen that many scourge die so quickly.”

  “Yet, we still find ourselves a mile back from where we started the night,” Curatio said, studying a book draped across his lap. “Tens of thousands of the enemy dead but ultimately irrelevant. Even with the effectiveness of the dragoons, we’ll be seeing the Endless Bridge inside of a week.”

  Cyrus sat staring at the fire in front of them. “That means we’ll see the end of the bridge in a week or so after that. And after that …” He let his words trail off. “There’s no holding them back at that point. They can flank us in the jungle and we’ll have a hell of a time doing much other than forming a line on the beach and fighting with our backs to the waves.” A thought occurred to him. “Actually … we might try that here, on the shores of Luukessia.”

  “Not a bad idea,” came a voice from behind him, and Longwell trudged up, lance in hand, his helm under the other arm. He threw down his weapon, careful not to hit anyone. The smell of activity came with him, the strong scent of sweat. Cyrus knew it well, having smelled it on himself earlier, but it had faded away now, blended into the background behind the smell of the logs burning. The crack and pop of them owned the air while they waited for Longwell to speak again. “A last stand against the shores of the sea might just produce some killing results.”

  “For the day or so you lasted,” Curatio agreed, “yes. Then, when you became too tired to fight any longer, you’d likely be up to your chest in water already, and left with no options save one: drown.”

  “Perhaps,” Longwell said. “But to take as many of those things down with you as possible before the end, to have them keep coming and to refuse to yield, to not leave Luukessia’s shores and lay down your life for the country?” He gave a subtle nod as he fixed on the fire. “I could think of worse ways to go. Besides, if those things do make the choice to crawl over the bridge,” he waved a hand behind them in the direction of the Endless Bridge, “our days are over soon enough anyhow. I don’t expect drowning would be much worse than being devoured by one of them.”

  Curatio looked up from his book with a raised eyebrow. “Drowning is agony.”

  “And being ripped apart and crushed in the jaws of one of those creatures is a fun and easy way to leave this life?” Calene Raverle asked, looking at the healer.

  “Point,” Curatio said. “The only thing I was suggesting was that of all the ways I could pick to go out, drowning is not a good one. You struggle for breath for agonizing minutes, fighting to get air, and it lasts what seems like forever.”

  “Drowned to death once or twice in your life, have you Curatio?” Terian asked.

  “Just the once,” Curatio said. “I wouldn’t do it again.”

  “I’m now taking recommendations for ways to die,” Calene said. “I will say that hanging wasn’t terrible,” she shuddered, “though what came before it was a bit … much.”

  “Do you remember it?” Martaina asked. The ranger’s eyes were on her counterpart, and Calene Raverle seemed to focus on a distant point behind them.

  “Sort of,” Raverle said. “I mean, yes. But it’s almost as though it happened to someone else. It feels … very long ago, very far away.”

  Cyrus did not say anything; he just kept his head down and watched the fire.

  “I believe it’s time for me to sleep,” Terian said as he stood, and his spiked profile receded into the darkness.

  “Not staying by the fire?” Martaina teased as she stood, disappearing into the black as well.

  “Gods, no,” Terian replied. “Too hot.”

  “I kind of figured that out for myself,” Martaina said with a roll of her eyes.

  “I mean I’m too hot,” Terian said with a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t want any of the rest of you to get-”

  “All right, that’s enough for me,” Curatio said as he stood, and then walked off in the other direction.

  “It seems likely we’ll be awakened in the middle of the night,” Longwell said, and grabbed his lance, using it to push himself to his feet. “To move back or come to the front. The advance is harsh, and the dragoons are doing great damage, but not nearly enough, I think.”

  “How much more flat ground do they have to fight on?” Cyrus asked.

  “A day’s worth, perhaps,” Longwell said with a shrug. “After that, the land becomes swampy, the grasses hide water and soft ground, and we’ll need to withdraw. “We’ll do as much damage as we can for as long as we can, but in another day, we might as well be infantry for all the good we’ll do.”

  “Your day will come again,” Cyrus said. “On the other side of the bridge, I think. We’ll need to move you out to flat ground if we’re to carry on. Perhaps use a wizard to teleport your men to Taymor or one of the portals northwest of there. You can assemble on the flatlands north of the Inculta desert and make another defense there as these things come north.”

  “I don’t love the turn of inevitability this conversation has taken,” Calene said from across the fire.

  “Nor do I,” Scuddar said quietly from behind his cowl.

  Cyrus stared at the two of them; though he had shared a fire with both of them on numerous occasions, he could hardly say he knew them well. “I’m sorry. But this is not going well, and I think we have to conclude that we need a plan to deal with what’s about to happen.”

  “And what’s that?” Calene asked. Scuddar’s eyes watched as well, silently accusing.

  “We’re going to get pushed back to the bridge,” Cyrus said. “And once we’re on the bridge, we’ll be pushed back all the way to Arkaria.”

  “Why?” Scuddar was the one who asked this time.

  “Because,” Cyrus said, feeling as though he were explaining the concept to children, “there are more of them than there are of us. Because the viciousness of their attack inevitably requires us to give ground.”

  “Why?” Scuddar asked.

  Now I really am explaining to a child. “You’ve fought them,” Cyrus said. “They come at you, they lunge, you kill one, you parry another, the next comes, you have to take a step back to avoid getting hit. There’s push. It’s a natural part of the battle.”

  “It’s a natural part of losing a battle, seems to me,” Calene said quietly, avoiding Cyrus’s eyes.

  “Which makes sense,” Cyrus said with as much patience as he could find, “since we are losing this battle. This war, really. As much as I’d like to rail against the inevitability of loss, I can’t find an example to point to of when we’ve ever pushed them back. We’ve only seen the opposite happen.”

  “It would seem we lack only belief and hope,” Scuddar said quietly.

  Cyrus tried to avoid rolling his eyes but only succeeded in looking to Longwell, who shrugged in some agreement. “Really?” he asked the King.

  “He makes a point,” Longwell said. “We retreat because we accept the inevitability of their advance. We don’t fight to push them back because we believe they’re going to keep coming long past the point when we’re willing to
stand and die to push them back. Because that’s what it would take-a full-blooded, mystic-bladed warrior with the conviction that they could singlehandedly cut the enemy down if they advance one step further.” He shrugged. “You put someone like that in front of the scourge-on a bridge, no less, where all their myriad numbers count for less-I believe they’ll buckle before the warrior.”

  Cyrus hid a foolish grin, a patronizing one, behind his hand. You cannot be serious. “I don’t know where you’d find this warrior-”

  “It’s you,” Calene said without hesitation, causing Cyrus to freeze in place. “It’s always been you.”

  He pursed his lips and felt the guilt well up. “I appreciate that, really I do, more than you know. But that’s a vote of confidence I don’t think I deserve. If anyone on this expedition should be skeptical of me and my ability to command effectively it should be you, after what you went through-”

  “After what I went through?” She bristled. “I got captured by the enemy, a cruel, vicious and subhuman one. He did some nasty things, things that made me feel like less than a person.” She leaned forward. “But you weren’t him. And you didn’t let him get away with it, either. You came for me, and you didn’t have to. Anyone else would have left us behind, or struggled to get us back. You saved me. You saved the others-”

  “But not until after-”

  “After what happened had already happened,” she said, and Cyrus heard the razored steel in her voice. “You saved us. Led us out and made him suffer.” She sat back and looked at him coolly. “I believe in you.”

  Cyrus put a hand against his face. “Everyone keeps saying that. I’m not even sure I know what it means anymore.”