Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (54 page)

“It would seem that the distance to shore is a problem,” J’anda said, indifferent. “It is quite far from the portal on the Island of Mortus to Arkaria, several hours sail by boat.”

Nyad frowned and looked around the room. “Where’s Terian? Shouldn’t he be here?”

This time the silence was pained, and Cyrus felt a particularly sharp dagger in his heart. “We’ll need to mobilize the army to get them ready to march north. I’ll ride out and give orders to Odellan while the rest of you …” Cyrus ground his teeth slightly, “explain what’s become of our illustrious dark knight. I doubt I could come up with anything that would make sense at this point. After that, one of you,” he pointed a finger between Nyad and Ryin, “needs to return to Sanctuary and deliver the news of our predicament—and to ask for aid.” He looked them all over once, then went for the door, and shut it behind him as he heard the quiet tones of Curatio explaining something matter-of-factly, too low for Cyrus to hear.

“HE DID WHAT?” Nyad’s voice was loud enough to be heard in the hallway as Cyrus descended the ramp, down to the bottom of the tower.

The air was warm as he walked out, across the courtyard. The nearby stable was open to the air, a single line of stalls under a cover that afforded only a little protection from the elements. Windrider waited, standing above a spread of oats lying on the ground next to a watering trough. He gave Cyrus a steady gaze as the warrior approached, and Cyrus pulled his gauntlet off to stroke the horse’s face as he took hold of the reins. “You’ve done well,” Cyrus said in a breath, and caught motion from his side, a stableboy moving in his peripheral vision. He patted Windrider as the stableboy, a red-haired, freckled lad no older than twelve edged closer, staring at Cyrus.

“Are you him?” the boy asked.

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider, “this is my horse.”

“No,” the boy replied, edging slightly closer to Cyrus. “Are you … him? Lord Garrick?”

Cyrus paused, uncertain of what to say. “I am Cyrus Davidon, of Sanctuary,” he answered after a moment. “I know not this Lord Garrick of whom you speak.”

The stableboy was quiet, his eyes staring out of the shade cast by the barn’s flimsy straw roof. “He’s legend, Lord Garrick of Enrant Monge. He was of the last generation of rulers of the castle before the fall and the fracture of Luukessia. He’s our greatest ancestor, watches over us from above.” The boy eased closer and ran a careful hand, stroking Windrider’s flank. “They say he keeps his eyes on us, here in Luukessia, from above, from the halls of all our ancestors in the land of Gredenyde.” The boy’s eyes blinked at Cyrus innocently. “They say he’ll come back to us—to save us—in our darkest hour of need.”

Cyrus’s hand paused on Windrider’s neck, and he froze, his blood running cold. “I’m not your Lord Garrick, believe that. And I wouldn’t put much stock in prophecy if I were you.”

There was a pause as the boy studied him. “Are you sure?

Cyrus took the reins and started to lead Windrider out of the cover under the barn, felt the warm sunlight stream down on him as he stepped from under the cover of the stables. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He slung the saddle over the horse and bound it, then slipped a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself up. “But I will do my best to save your land from what’s coming.”

The stableboy followed him out, covering his eyes with a freckled hand, that of a lad who had been working long hours in the sun. “I’ve heard the rumors, since the pigeons came. They say Scylax has fallen. They say something is coming from the mountains of the north, something terrible, something that wants to devour the souls of every man in Luukessia.” Cyrus didn’t say anything as he steadied himself in the saddle. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is it true that they’re coming, these things, to kill us all?”

“Aye,” Cyrus answered finally.

“But you’re going to stop them?” The boy looked uncertain, and Cyrus tried not to look too hard on him; he knew there were boys only a couple years older in the Sanctuary army.
Only a couple years older physically but worlds older in maturity, having seen blood, and bile and battle.
“Then that makes you Lord Garrick, doesn’t it? Come to save us?”

“It’s not your darkest hour yet, kid,” Cyrus said, and started Windrider forward. “Save some fear and legends to pass on to your grandkids.” The clip-clop of the horseshoes on the stone echoed as Cyrus steered his horse out the eastern gate and into the second courtyard, across it, then out of Enrant Monge and down the road.

The world opened up before him when he left the second gate, the forests a mile or so in the distance smoking with pillars of wafting black coming from the fires of his army, his and Galbadien’s. The road crooked into a forest path as Windrider went along, the branches cut high enough that even though they formed a thick canopy over him, reducing the sunlight, none of them threatened his face as he rode.

The breeze was soft, even as Windrider galloped along, at a higher speed than normal. “Just a little farther,” he whispered to the horse. The warm sun tried to peek through the boughs overhead, but the shade was cooling, late summer’s wrath spent on the trees overhead, long before it got to him. He could smell the fresh air, the same air he’d been breathing for months, the pine almost blended behind everything else, the tinge of the horse’s smell, though it wasn’t as heavy now as when he was stationary.
Terian. The latest in a long line of people to betray me, to harm me. What is it about them? About me?
His eyes fell downward.
Vara … why did you—

The arrow hit him in the shoulder, glancing off his armor but causing him to jerk in surprise. Windrider whinnied and shied involuntarily, trying to compensate for Cyrus’s abrupt change of balance. Cyrus gripped the reins and tensed his abdomen, trying to right himself on the horse. The second arrow, however, hit him in the neck, putting to sunder any idea of maintaining his grip. The shock of the arrow caused Cyrus’s fingers to loosen, and he felt himself fall, the heavy impact of his body and all that armor hitting the ground caused his head to wash, as though he were floating on an ocean all his own. His fingers came up without thought, found the round shaft of the arrow protruding just above his gorget, tracing it back to the place where it was lodged in his neck.

“Isn’t this fortunate?” A low voice scratched into his consciousness. Cyrus turned his head and saw a man in a dark cloak hobbling in the midst of a party of other men. Cyrus’s vision was blurred, his head felt heavy, but he knew that voice. Clarity struck his eyes, and the man came into focus for a moment: black beard that was thin, very thin and patchy, his pale skin even paler. “Now I can thank you properly for crippling me,” Grand Duke Hoygraf said, and Cyrus saw figures all around, beginning to circle him.

Praelior
. Cyrus’s hand moved to his sword, felt the rush of strength it gave him. He drew the blade and pulled to his feet, still feeling as though he were moving underwater. The men around him seemed to move at regular speed, and Cyrus blocked one of them who came at him with a polearm, cutting the man’s head from his shoulders, covering his blue livery and surcoat with blood.

“Well, look at you,” Hoygraf said, maintaining his distance from Cyrus, watching him with a spiteful smile. “I suppose I’m not the only one of my wife’s lovers who refuses to die on command.” Hoygraf’s face twisted into spite. “The difference is, you’ll stay dead when I kill you.”

“Didn’t … kill you,” Cyrus said, and felt blood bubbling out of his mouth as he spoke, the sour taste coating his tongue. “Stabbed you … bad enough you wished you were dead. Planning to do it … again … in a few minutes, but now I’ll do it so many times you’ll have to die when I’m done.”

“You’re bleeding like a cow with a cut throat,” Hoygraf said with a sneer. “I don’t think you’ll last a minute the way you’re going now.”

Cyrus felt a slow smile spread across his bloody lips. “I’ll only need thirty seconds.” Cyrus flung himself backward, sword first, sensing the presence of Hoygraf’s men behind him. He hit the first with a hard stroke between the eyes, the blade running down the man’s forehead and stopping after cutting out the mouth. The man dropped as Cyrus freed his blade and brought it around to the next attacker, catching him across the chest and cutting through the breastplate of his armor. The bottom of the man’s blue surcoat fluttered to the ground and Cyrus watched as he stepped on it, as he finished his stroke and blood spattered across the dirt and the surcoat.
Two left,
he thought,
and they’re right over—

The arrow hit him in the lower back and cut through the chainmail where he’d exposed it while in his attack. Cyrus felt a curious punching sensation and force, each in twine, arcing along his spine as he fell. Even the might of Praelior was unable to mask the pain or give him enough strength to fight off his knees. He sat there, wobbling, as a man with a sword shuffled, hesitant, over to him. Cyrus jammed Praelior upward with all the speed and strength he had left, and saw the sword enter the bottom of the man’s jaw as his mouth opened in surprise, and watched it flash through the man’s tongue, visible through his gaping maw, blood running down the blade it.

A sharp pain in the back of his neck threw Cyrus facedown in the dirt, and he felt something hit him on the sword hand, hard. The world faded as Praelior was knocked away and Cyrus felt his body rolled onto his back. The branches above him were swaying, whether from the breeze of the late summer’s day or the swimming of his head from the wounding, he could not be sure. He tried to draw a breath but struggled, his chest heavy, every attempt so labored that it felt as though he were trying to lift a mountain to even partially fill his lungs.

Grand Duke Hoygraf appeared at the edge of his vision, filling his eyes, another man next to him with a bow and arrow, a nameless, armored man in the Grand Duke’s livery. “You killed my men,” Hoygraf said flatly. Cyrus tried to reply but felt only the bubbling of blood on his lips. “You had your way with my wife,” the Grand Duke went on, “destroyed my home, left me an invalid, unable to walk straight.” The Grand Duke’s cane came down on Cyrus’s face, and another dull pain made its way through Cyrus’s consciousness.

Curatio. He’ll find me. Aisling will help him. Martaina will …

“You think you’ve hurt me,” Hoygraf said, kneeling in front of Cyrus’s face. “You think you’ve beaten me? Humiliated me? Did you think I would let that stand unanswered?” He spat, and curiously Cyrus could feel the warm spittle make its way down his cheek, and he tried to move a hand, go for the Grand Duke’s throat, just as he’d been taught—

“No,” Hoygraf said, and Cyrus saw a dagger in his hand, saw Hoygraf catch his arm and rip the gauntlet off, throwing it away. Cyrus watched as Hoygraf lifted the exposed arm and stabbed the dagger through Cyrus’s wrist. The sharp pain was there, in the background, but Cyrus barely felt it. “Did you think I would simply let you have my wife, wreck my keep, leave me to die and merely forget about you? Let it pass?”

J’anda. Mendicant. Odellan. Longwell. I need … help.
The names ran through his mind one by one as though by thought he could appeal to them directly to come to him. Weariness settled upon him like a heavy blanket, dulling the pain.

“I know your western magic,” Hoygraf said, and twirled the dagger in his fingers. “If I leave you here, as you are, they’ll find you. They’ll bring you back to life.” Hoygraf’s lips pursed and he shook his head. “I can’t have that. I need everyone—everyone—to know that you don’t trifle with me, not this way. And I’ll make sure … that you won’t come back.”

Alaric …
Cyrus’s thoughts were drifting now. Was Alaric even around?

The knife flashed in front of Cyrus’s eyes, and then he felt a sharp pain in his neck, the blade’s edge against his flesh, sawing down.

“They’ll have a hard time reviving you, I’d wager,” he heard the Baron’s voice say, “without a head.”

The last thought through Cyrus’s mind before the flash was uncontrolled, unanswerable, and unexpected.

Vara …

Vara

The Council Chambers seemed to briefly twist around her, the torches a blur of light in her peripheral vision as she honed in on the druid’s face as he spoke, a dull, tanned mass of flat nose and pale lips that she wanted to hit with the palm of her hand as she would slap an overripe melon to get it to crack open. Instead she pressed her armored fingers into the table and pushed, hearing a splintering sound that caused her to draw back her hand self-consciously. She looked up and saw Vaste staring at her with his pointy-toothed grin, and she gave him venom in return.

“… so, of course, he’s keeping the army in Luukessia and marching them north, to meet and battle the scourge as it continues to come south,” Ryin Ayend finished with a nod of his head, perched atop that implausibly thin neck.

“Oh, of course,” Vara said, letting sarcasm drip from every syllable. “Because the problems of another continent are so much larger than the enemies storming down our own gates.”

Ryin’s jaw worked open and then shut, a quick motion that caused his lips to purse. “Of course we didn’t know over there what you were experiencing here, else we might have come back a bit quicker. However—”

“This scourge,” Alaric said, interrupting. “You have mentioned the danger they pose, but you did not speak to the origin of these creatures.”

Ayend’s face went ashen. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, that’s the other part of the problem and the reason Cyrus sent me back. He wants you to send reinforcements—”

“Then he’s just as daft as ever he’s been,” Vara said, and she felt the twitch and contraction of the muscles at the corners of her eyes. “Unsurprising, given that he’s been operating out of contact for so long, but the idea that the war here would just run a pleasing and gentle course is ridiculous, and a supposed ‘master strategist’ such as Cyrus Davidon should damned well have known that the Sovereign of Saekaj wouldn’t be sitting idly by while he grew fat in his black armor, feasting beyond the eastern sea.”