Crusader

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.