Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (5 page)

“Just one?” He looked back at her. “Then what? You’ll ride back into the line and trouble me no more?”

“For today, yes.” The hunger on her face grew, an insatiable curiosity. “I make no promises about tomorrow.”

“Ask your question, then.” He felt his hands on the reins, on the leather, felt them squeeze tightly against the dry material that lined the inside of his gauntlets, felt the hint of perspiration on his palms. “Ask and then be gone.”

“Is it true …” She started and then stopped, but the desire had grown in her eyes. “Is it true that you and Vara …?” She didn’t finish, as though she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. “I mean, in Termina you were together, but I heard … it was rumored …”

“It’s true,” he said, bowing his head, feeling the despair overwhelm his desire to snap back at her, to growl, to tell her to ride off the edge of the bridge. “It’s all true.” He twisted his neck to look at her. “Now say it and be done.” He spoke with no acrimony, his voice was dry and hollow.

“Say what?” She looked at him, and all the emotion he had seen writ upon her face was gone, replaced by a slight furrowing of the lines of her brow, a puckering of her full, purple lips.

“Whatever racy suggestion you’re going to throw my way,” Cyrus said, still wary. “Just say it. Get it over with.”

There was a subtle flicker in her eyes, and the curiosity washed from her face, replaced by something else—
genuine regret
, Cyrus thought. “I’m sorry,” Aisling said. “I can’t think of anything like that right now. All I have to say is …” Her lips curved with just a hint of wistfulness, “… I’m sorry for you that it didn’t work out.” She nodded at him and slowed her horse, falling back into the line with the others that followed behind him.

Cyrus rode on. The bridge stretched before him as far as he could see—and so did his pain.

The days ran together, one upon another, until all Cyrus could remember was the bridge, the endless grey stone that went on infinitely into the distance. On either side the waters were blue, and a cool breeze ran through the cracks in his armor, keeping the heat of the sun at bay. By the end of the third day, Cyrus imagined throwing himself over the side into the water below, letting his armor drag him down, down to the bottom of the sea, letting his boots sink into the sand, the water rush into his lungs, drowning all his despair along with him …

The conjured bread grew old by the fourth day, and Cyrus was sick of chewing it, the light airy flavor turning to nothing but mush in his mouth. The conjured water was even worse, less satisfying somehow. Without wood to burn, they slept without fires at night. The only flame available to them was that conjured by wizard and druid, and there were only five of those. Three times a day, long lines were cast over the edge of the bridge and fish were caught, but it was a paltry amount, enough to feed but a few and as flavorless as the bread.

The others steered clear of Cyrus, as though they could sense his foul mood, save for Aisling and Curatio, each of whom made at least one attempt per day to speak with him. Curatio’s efforts were squarely in the realm of morale, of worry about the army’s waning enthusiasm as the journey across the bridge dragged on. Cyrus spoke in a perfunctory manner, and at the beginning and end of each day attempted to deliver a somewhat motivational speech urging them onward, mentioning that green lands and fresh meat were somewhere over the horizon.

His conversations with Aisling, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. The dark elf had taken to speaking with him in a cheery manner. Cyrus kept the acidity of his responses low, usually not deigning to answer rather than say something that might drive Aisling away. In something of an odd move for her, Aisling had steered well clear of any innuendo in speaking with him—a fact that by the fourth day was not lost on Cyrus.

“So you were born and raised in the Society of Arms in Reikonos?” she asked him.

Cyrus gripped Windrider’s reins tighter. He could feel the horse tense under him, and he ran his gauntlet along the side of the horse’s neck gently. “No. I was dropped off there at age six, after my mother died.”

“Oh,” she said. “Did you know your father at all?”

He thought back, thought about memories from so long ago that they swirled together. “Not well. He died when I was very young, and he was away in the war off and on for a year or two before that.” Cyrus tried to remember his mother’s face and failed, only a blurry haze where it once had been, the only distinguishing feature being bright eyes, as green as the summer grasses in the plains outside Sanctuary. “I don’t really remember my mother either, come to that.”

“That’s a shame,” Aisling said. “What do you remember? About your childhood, I mean?”

Cyrus thought about it, trying to stir some memory in his brain. He felt his nostrils flare and the salt air of the sea loomed large in his mind again. “Meat pies,” he said softly, almost too low to be heard. “My mother used to make them. Big, hearty ones, with beef and pork and chicken all crammed into a doughy crust.” He could almost smell them, taste them, even though it had been more than two decades since last he had tasted the ones his mother made. “Every time Larana makes them, it brings me back to sitting at the wooden table in our house, eating dinner.” He squinted his eyes and the horizon grew fuzzy, blurring. “I can almost picture her when I think of eating meat pies.” He remembered brown hair framing the green eyes, and the soft touch of a hand along his face to wipe off dirt or grime. “What about you?” He looked to her and caught a faint blush of darker blue on her cheeks.

“Another time, perhaps,” she said, a coy smile covering her embarrassment. Drops of rain splashed upon her head, the first signs that the dark skies above them were preparing to loose their fury. She steered her horse away from him as he watched her go, suddenly regretful at her departure.

He called a halt to their travel as the downpour became so heavy that they could scarcely see the bridge in front of them. Cyrus sat against a pillar as the rain washed down, gathering in puddles that became nothing but rippling rivers running over the sides of the stone bridge in great waterfalls. He looked back at the outline of shapes behind him. He felt a pang and knew that when the rain let up, he’d need to check with the other officers to make certain someone hadn’t wandered to the edge of the bridge to relieve themselves during the storm and been swept off by the deluge.

As the rain poured down, rattling his helm, he sat in the shadow of the pillar, Windrider next to him. He looked up at the horse, which whinnied. “Soon,” Cyrus said. “You’ll have fresh dirt under your hooves soon. Another day at most.”

The snort of reply caused Cyrus to crack a smile. “Well, if this rain lets up, anyway. What’s wrong, you don’t like conjured oats?”

Cyrus could swear he heard a slight growl in the horse’s whinny as Windrider answered him, and he looked into the shapes to his side, shrouded in the rain. “I don’t like it either. But we’ll be there in a few weeks … and after that, we’ll be home … sometime. A couple months, maybe.”

Cyrus could almost hear the thoughts of the horse as he whinnied. He shook his head, wondering how pitiful he must be to think he was talking to a horse. He looked up at the beast, white coat and mane looking grey in the rain. “Then what? I don’t know.” Cyrus’s eyes settled again on the horizon, the darkness ahead where the bridge disappeared into the pouring rain only a hundred feet in front of him. “I don’t know what happens when we get home.”

The end of the bridge came into sight by midday next. The storm had passed, giving way to blue skies and intermittent clouds, white, puffy and without a trace of the dark greys that had blackened their crossing on the day before. The sight of green shores sent a murmur through the army at Cyrus’s back, enlivening them with energy that had been absent in the last few days. When he reached the end of the grey stone bridge, Cyrus dismounted and walked onto soft ground once more, the cheers of his fellows bringing the ghost of a smile to his face. With a wave of his hand he beckoned them forward as he moved out of the way and the army surged onto the shore as the sun began to set behind them.

The shores were white and sandy, with a beach laid out in either direction to the north and south, curving inland before it reached the horizon. Cyrus could see the red disk of the sun, settling in a half-circle over the water, turning the sapphire surface red. Behind him, he heard his army moving in jubilation, the noise of boots on stone fading as they streamed off the bridge and began to make camp. He had sent Longwell and a few others ahead on horseback to scout above the berm that ended at the inland edge of the beach. He had no desire to be caught under the attack of a hostile force while the Sanctuary army recuperated from their march.

“It’s been a long week,” Curatio said, appearing at his shoulder.

“Aye.” Cyrus stared at the sun, now only a slight edge showing above the waves.

“Perhaps a day of rest might be in order for tomorrow?” Curatio’s tone held the air of suggestion only. Cyrus turned and raised an eyebrow; the healer outranked him on the Sanctuary Council, being the lone occupant of the station of Elder, an honorific one step below Guildmaster. Still, Curatio had presented his idea as mere recommendation. “To give our new recruits a chance to enjoy themselves, to give their feet a rest before we head into hostile territory for the next month or so?”

Cyrus watched the waves crash over the shore. He felt a tug inwardly, the strange and insatiable desire to march onward, to keep going until they reached the castle of Longwell’s father, to smite anything in his path. Yet somewhere beyond that was an overwhelming urge to linger, to remain away from Sanctuary and all the inherent problems that would greet him upon their return.

Cyrus rolled his helm between the metal joints of his fingers, listening to the steel scratch against its equal. “We’ve found fresh water nearby?”

“Aye,” Curatio said. “And tracks just inside the woods ahead suggest that there are wild boars in the area. A day of rest could allow for a hunting party to track them—”

“Then we feast upon roast pig and fresh fish?” Cyrus drew a deep breath, and it was almost as though he could feel sundown approach the way an old friend would come to visit. “It’ll be good for our morale, I suppose. And as you point out, we are likely to be under stress of worry from potential attack over the coming weeks. Very well. A day of rest is ordered.”

Curatio’s hair was speckled with silver, but never had his age been more evident than when he smiled, very slightly, back at Cyrus, and the warrior knew he had been maneuvered most expertly. “Duly noted. I’ll take care of it.” With a slight bow, Curatio turned and began to walk away.

“What would you have said if I’d ordered us to march on?” Cyrus didn’t watch the healer, but he heard Curatio’s leather shoes stop, the sound of the sand they kicked up on each step coming to a halt.

“I would have tried to convince you, of course.” The healer’s answer was crisp, serious, and muffled because Curatio had not turned to face him as he gave his answer. The footsteps in the sand resumed, and Cyrus heard the elf move away, back to the sound of camps being set up and fire being started. He pondered Curatio’s answer again, and listened once more in his mind to the inflection. It had been very cleverly given, Cyrus thought.

It was also, Cyrus knew, a blatant lie.

Thanks to the efforts of Martaina and a few of the more experienced rangers, there was indeed wild boar meat waiting for them the next day at breakfast. The smell of the roasting flesh awoke Cyrus, and he sat up to look at the fires along the beach. Many of them bore spits, and recruits talked while circled around them, their voices loud, with much merriment being made. Cyrus could see even at a distance that there were bottles being passed around, spirits of varying kinds that had made the trip from Sanctuary.

Cyrus pulled himself up next to his fire, a small one down the beach from the others. Someone had added logs to it during the night and done so quietly enough that Cyrus hadn’t awakened. “Aisling,” he said in a low whisper. The next nearest fire was a hundred feet away, and he could see Terian’s shadow next to it in the pre-dawn light, his sword once more across his lap. Curatio and Longwell lay around their fire, still sleeping; he could tell them by their garb.

He looked down the beach in the opposite direction. The angle of the curves on either side told him that they were on a peninsula. He snuck a look back at the joviality around the fires, at the silent stone bridge that watched over them, and began to walk, his boots kicking up sand. He looked again behind him; no one seemed to take any notice as his footsteps carried him away from his army.

His hand fell to the scabbard and the hilt of his sword as though he were looking for reassurance. His blade, Praelior, was still there, ever-present and ready to be drawn. He felt the urge to pull it loose and practice with it.
Later. When we’re out of sight of the camp, perhaps.

Tall grasses reached out from the treeline on the berm above the beach, a deep patch of grass that looked as though it would stretch to Cyrus’s waist. The chirp of crickets from within was loud, and the trees hanging over the patch of grass waved in the wind, their branches rustling. Somewhere behind them, Cyrus knew the sun was beginning to rise, even though he couldn’t see it yet.

“You’re not supposed to wander away from the army.” He turned to find Aisling standing behind him, a few feet from the grass, a thistle in her hair.

Cyrus let his hand drift away from the hilt of Praelior, where it had come to rest when she had spoken to him. “You don’t think we can make an exception for the general who leads said army?”

“Mmmm,” she seemed to purr as she considered it, her face pensive. “I think we’re in a foreign land with enemies an uncertain distance away.” He caught a glint of light in her eyes. “It would probably be better to play safe than be sorry.”

He felt his face set in hard lines, an unamused smile only barely there. “You don’t think I could take on an entire non-magical army by myself?”