Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (102 page)

The boat crew launched off a few minutes later, leaving Cyrus, Aisling, Cattrine, J’anda and Martaina along with their horses on the shore. The sand was packed tightly beneath Cyrus’s boots, and every step yielded a little, reminding him of walking on shallow snow.

“We have four horses and five people,” J’anda said, turning his blue face into the wind and to Cattrine. “Why don’t you ride with Aisling, since she’s the smallest of us?” The enchanter turned to give the ranger a wicked smile and found her expressionless, though her eyes did tack toward Cyrus, hard and pointed. “I kid. I’m not that heavy, you can ride with me unless you’d prefer to strain his horse,” he chucked a thumb at Cyrus.

“That’s a very kind invitation,” Cattrine said with a bow of her head. “I accept, though perhaps after a while I will switch, just to spare your horses from such a heavy burden all day long.”

Cyrus left Aisling’s sidewards glare behind and climbed the berm at the edge of the beach, where a field of heavy, tall grass blocked the sight of the other side. Below was an easy spread, flatlands with sparse short grass interspersed with fields of longer grass and hummocks of trees. There appeared to be a coastal swamp in the distance to the left and almost out of sight, Cyrus could see a road ahead, at the edge of his vision. There was movement on it, a steady line of refugees trudging, their darker clothes and human shapes separating them from the horizon line. They stretched from one side of his vision to the other, trailing off, a sad line with only the occasional horse to differentiate from the stooped-back figures.

“It would appear that the evacuation of Luukessia is well underway,” J’anda said from next to him.

They climbed onto their horses, Cyrus leading the way as they galloped toward the road. Cyrus could smell the people as they got close; some of them looked to have been walking for a considerable distance. Cyrus passed a child who looked no older than eight, a ragged waif whose shoes were worn to holes. The animal skins he wore were from a mountain goat, as was the horn strapped to his back.
Sylorean. Gods, how far has he walked?

There was a stir in the line as they approached, and fingers pointed toward J’anda as a whisper went through the crowd. Smiles appeared, and gasps of relief were heard. “Never seen a group of humans so glad to see a dark elf,” J’anda said as his hands began to glow, spells already being cast.

“I have,” Aisling said sardonically, “but it was at a brothel.” She kept a straight face. “It was pretty much exactly like this.”

“I’ll try not to be too insulted by that since these people are starving,” J’anda said, handing off a loaf of conjured bread to a family who held it up, crying with happiness. Cyrus saw the woman he handed it to immediately break it to pieces and begin to pass it around to a large group of children. He saw one of the boys in a ragged old surcoat with the livery of Galbadien upon it.
This whole land, emptying.

There was a rising cry, and J’anda waved to Cyrus. “I think I’m going to be here for a while.”

“You,” Cyrus said to a man nearby, a swarthy fellow with dark hair and skin. “Have you seen any armies about?”

“Yes, m’lord,” he said with a bow to Cyrus as J’anda gave the man a loaf of bread. “The dragoons of Galbadien are just up the road a piece, perhaps a day’s ride. They were waiting on a flat stretch of land to hit those monsters that are destroying everything.”

“Who was leading them?” Cyrus asked, focusing in on the man.

“The King of Galbadien,” the man said with a bow of his head. “Saw him with my own eyes, the new one, the young one. They say the western army is farther out with the Syloreans and the rest of our Actaluerean army, fighting to hold the things back while we escape. The man shook his head. “I heard tell from a Sylorean that the monsters are all the way up to the neck of the peninsula and still coming.”

Cyrus felt a chill. “How far to the bridge?”

“Straight ahead, another day, sir,” the man said. “I’ve been there before, a couple times.”

Cyrus shot a look at his party. “We need to go.”

“I’m going to stay with these people,” J’anda said. “I’m of no use to you with those things anyway. I will walk to the bridge with these folk, keep them fed and try to do some good along the way.”

Cyrus looked at him evenly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll go with him,” Cattrine said, and Cyrus heard the man he had been talking to whisper, “Lady Hoygraf,” to the crowd. “I can be of little aid to you,” she said, “but of much trouble were I to get in the way.”

“Get to the bridge,” Cyrus said. “If the dragoons are only a day away and the rest of the army only a bit past that, it’s not going to be more than a week before we’ve fallen back all the way.” He felt his jaw tighten. “If that.”

“Aye,” J’anda said. “Here.” He tossed them each a loaf of bread and looked at Cyrus seriously, the wind stirring his hair. “Take care up there. We’ll be waiting for you at the bridge.”

“Understood,” Cyrus said and urged Windrider forward, riding along the side of the road and listening to the crowds shout their joy at the sight of J’anda on his horse.

“I’m going to stay with them,” Aisling said, halting her horse just a few paces along. Cyrus pulled Windrider to a stop and came around to face her. “I’m not much use on the battlefield, not against those things. It’s a fight for proper swords and I’m really more of a daggers and sneaking kind of girl.”

“You’ve been doing pretty well so far,” Cyrus said, watching the dark elf’s eyes. She was cagey, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ve been lucky and good in equal measure,” she said. “But these things notice me more than most people, and I’m tired of pressing my luck. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“All right,” Cyrus said with a slow nod. “We’ll see you at the bridge, then.”

“Yeah,” she said, and her horse moved forward alongside him. “We will.”

He stared at her for a moment, at her hard, flinty gaze, inscrutable as she was. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She didn’t seem to react, just kept watching him. “I know.”

He started to look away but didn’t, keeping his eye on the purple irises that reminded him so much of a storm. “I don’t know … what I would have done without you on this expedition.”

“Died,” she said quickly. “That’s the short answer.” She let the slyest hint of a smile show through her grim facade.

“True enough. But I meant besides that.” He held out a hand to her, but she made no move to take it. “I meant … in all the other ways you’ve carried me through this time of trial. All the things you’ve—”

She leaned over and kissed him, maintaining her perfect grip on the horse. It was rough and heavy, a press with enough weight and feral savagery behind it that he wondered if she were about to bite him too. She broke from him and balanced back on her horse. “Don’t ever forget what I can be to you, then. Remember it while you’re mulling through … whatever you’re mulling.”

He gave her a slow nod of acknowledgment. “I will. Be safe.” He flicked a look toward J’anda and Cattrine, mobbed by the crowd, whose upthrust hands were gently clawing at them, waiting for bread. “Take care of them, will you?”

“J’anda I can promise I’ll take care of.” A dark look flickered over her. “The other … I’ll try.” She said it so grudgingly, it sounded as though she’d been turned upside down and had it shaken out.

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Try. For me.”

There was a sigh of near-disgust and Aisling turned her horse around. “The things I do for you …”

Windrider began to move again without any action from Cyrus, and the warrior looked down in surprise. “Well, all right then.”

“You think they’ll be okay?” Martaina asked, coming alongside him as they rode, the wind coming from the north now, and carrying that faintest hint of the breath of Drettanden, that smell of death.

“We’re the ones who are riding toward the scourge, not away from it,” Cyrus said. “I’d be more worried about us, frankly.”

“I’m always worried about us,” Martaina said as the horses broke into a gallop, the line of refugees in front of them a thick column of filthy clothes and dirty faces. “I just figured I’d add a little variety.”

“You’re always worried about us?” Cyrus asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking over at her. “That feels like a commentary on my leadership in some way.”

“Your leadership is just fine, sir,” Martaina said. “But it does seem to point us in the direction of trouble more often than not. You’re like a bloodhound for trouble; you can’t stay away from it. I believe you might even thrive on it in some small way.”

He looked back to the horizon, at the downtrodden, the people without a home or hearth to call their own, fleeing their land and trying to escape death itself. “I think I’ve had quite enough of trouble for the sake of trouble after this excursion,” Cyrus said. “But I can’t deny that it seems to follow me about.” He looked back and could just barely see the shapes of Aisling in the distance, along with Cattrine and J’anda, still in the midst of the crowd. “In every possible way.”

It was less than a day later when they reached the dragoons. Flat plains of sparse grass broken by lowlands and patches of swamp grass with hummocks of trees gave way to a large stretch of open ground. It was there that they found the horses and men, tens of thousands of them, enough that the camp was a sight in and of itself. The smell of food was in the air, real food, bread, even some meat. The wagons were just being reloaded when they arrived, tents being broken down. Refugees were being turned away, but there was only a trickle of them now, and Cyrus felt a grim discomfort at the thought of what that meant.
That is the last of them, then. The rest have been taken by these things, by the last gasp of the God of Death.
He watched the stragglers go, lingering as though they hoped to draw protection from the army of horsemen that remained in the fields and saw the supplymen shoo them away after tossing them odds and ends to eat, directing them toward the bridge.
The last of the Luukessians.

When he asked a soldier, he was directed toward a cluster of men in the distance. The surcoats were familiar, of course, the majority of them being Galbadien soldiers. A few were men of Actaluere and Syloreas but very few.
Galbadien was the Kingdom of the horsed cavalry. Now it’s an empty land, I suppose, desolate and filled with those … things, grazing on the remains of the dead, like crows.
Cyrus pictured the scene of the loping fields of Galbadien in his head, tilled ground, green grass, the smell of death in the air, bodies choking the rivers and streams, and the scourge feeding on all of it. The sound of their screeches filled his ears as he imagined it, and he nearly choked at the thought.

They rode up to a small circle, and Longwell was there with Ranson, and both rose to meet them. “General,” Samwen Longwell said as Cyrus dismounted and took the proffered hand of the King of Galbadien—
the Garden of Death, now.
“We’d heard Caenalys was cut off,” Longwell said, “Actaluere’s army barely met up with our main force in time to save them from being shredded. We thought you dead,” he said with barely disguised relief.

“You know it takes more than a few of these scourge to kill me,” Cyrus said. “They came wide around Enrant Monge, didn’t they? Ended up flanking our holding action?”

Longwell nodded. “Two days after you left. They sent another army even wider around, through Galbadien, and it tore through the Kingdom. We had no warning to speak of.” Longwell shook his head, disgust etched on his face. “We saw the fall of Enrant Monge as we rode out of the unity gate. Those things … they climb walls as though they were—”

“I know,” Cyrus said. “We saw it at Caenalys. We had just gotten into the city when they hit, barely made it out via boat.”

There was a flicker of concern from Longwell. “The Baroness?”

“She’s safe. She, J’anda and Aisling stayed along the route to give bread to the refugees.” Cyrus let his hand fall on Praelior’s hilt. “We, on the other hand, figured we’d give whatever aid we could here. How far away are they?”

“Hours,” Ranson said, speaking up now. “We’re looking to use our horsed cavalry for the first time against them. With the snows around Enrant Monge and the rapid fallback over mostly wooded land, the flanking actions—we haven’t really had a chance to have a go at them. It’s our hope that the increased mobility of our horsemen will start to turn the tide of this war.” He caught the skepticism from Cyrus. “All right, well, we don’t think the tide will turn, but we’re hoping to do as much damage as possible before we reach the bridge.” His expression hardened. “I’d certainly like to pay these things back for the loss of my homeland.”

“You and countless others, I’m sure,” Cyrus said. “We’ll wait here with you, then, try and relieve the foot army when they arrive. I expect the melee will turn interesting fast, depending on how these things react to horsemen. The best we can hope for is to give the last of the refugees time to start across the bridge. If the scourge don’t decide to turn back, at least we’ve got an easily defended corridor.”

Longwell looked at him carefully. “You mean to orchestrate another bridge defense. Like Termina.”

“I mean to,” Cyrus said. “I mean to make it the last stand. I want to take so many of those things with us, cause so much havoc and destruction that by the time we reach the other side they’ve got a wall of their own corpses so high to crawl over that they’ll never make it without sliding into the sea.”

There was a pause and silence for a moment. “Lofty goal,” Ranson said.

“The alternative,” Cyrus said, “is letting them start to visit the same destruction on Arkaria as they’ve wrought here in Luukessia.” He felt a tired weight land upon him. “I cannot let that happen. There is nothing but broken ground between the Endless Bridge and the settlements of southeastern Arkaria. They can surely cross the Inculta Desert without great difficulty, and we’d be at a disadvantage fighting on the beaches, the forests, the sands and the mountains. Everything but flat plains, the scourge has mobility to beat anything we have for them.” He waved a hand at a densely clustered group of horsemen nearby. “Our only hope right now is that your dragoons can run over them like cavalry over infantry. Otherwise, we’re going to get driven back to a bridge that’s likely crammed so full of people it’ll be a slaughter, a shoving match where people get tossed over the edge without regard as panic sets in and they begin to stampede to get away.”