Crusader

NOW
Epilogue

The noise was subtle but there. Cyrus heard it, out of the archives, on the staircase, the scrape of a shoe against stone. He put the journals aside and pulled a blade. Letting it point in front of him, he felt the strength surge through him from it. There was an odor blowing through now from the darkened plains outside. It smelled of decay, of rot-out of the east, no doubt.

He took a step forward, letting his armored boot land on the floor as quietly as he could make it. There was no fear in him, now, only caution. He could feel the weight of the sword in his grasp, the strength it gave him-and the slightest twinge of hunger from his stomach, protesting loudly at having not eaten for hours. It sent a swell of dryness to his mouth, and reminded him to take a drink of water at his next convenience-a strange thought for a man who has just heard an intruder in a dead place. He stepped out of the archive into the Council Chambers, letting his eyes ease around the room. The fire was going in the hearth, the torches were all lit, and he waited, trying not to even breathe, listening for the sound outside the half-opened door, which was hanging partially off its hinges. He was at an angle where it was not possible to see the stairs, though he knew that whoever was climbing them-or had already done so-would have to enter his field of vision in moments.

Cyrus tensed, bringing his sword back for a swing. The weight of it was solid in his hand, and he held it straight back, ready. He let his breath out slowly then took another as quietly as he could.

“You know,” came the voice through the open door, “if you’re going to invite someone to a place, it’s not really very sporting to sit just inside the door, waiting to ambush them.”

Cyrus felt his breath all come out in a rush. “You.”

“Me,” the voice came again from the room outside. “Would you mind lowering your sword so I can come in without fear of being filleted?”

Cyrus chuckled darkly and lowered the blade, putting it back into the scabbard that waited for it on the right side of his belt. “Come in.”

“About time,” came the voice again, and the man who said it was only a moment behind it, stepping in past the broken doors, avoiding hitting his head on the low-hanging arch of the trim. “Place looks like hell,” the man said-though I wouldn’t always have called him a man, Cyrus thought. Troll, in fact, would have been the preferred insult for quite some time.

“Vaste,” Cyrus said with a nod. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thanks,” Vaste replied. “I get the feeling you don’t say that much anymore.”

Cyrus shrugged, turning his back to the troll and walking toward the window. “Perhaps I might out of politeness. But meaning it? No. Not since …” he cast a hesitant, regretful look back. “Well. You know.”

“I know.” There was a pause. “You left poor Windrider meandering about outside. I felt bad for him. He looked lonely.”

“He knows the way to the stables,” Cyrus said idly, staring out into the dark.

“Because there’s so much for a living horse to do in there,” Vaste quipped. He eyed his old chair at the table and bent over, picking it up and setting it upright again. “What are the odds that this old thing will still hold my-” He pulled his hand away from it and it promptly broke in half along a split at the back, then the bottom collapsed under its own weight. “Well, damn.”

“There’s a chair in the other room if you’re of a mind to sit,” Cyrus said, waving at the archive.

“I don’t really want to sit, but my body would appreciate it after a few days of unpleasant travel. Hard to find a ride down here nowadays.”

“Do you blame ’em?” Cyrus asked, looking over his shoulder dully at the troll.

Vaste pursed his lips. “No. Not particularly. Not after what happened. Still, made it damned inconvenient to get here.” He stood in the middle of the room and looked around. “So … before I go get that chair … you were serious, weren’t you?”

“About what?”

“In your letter.”

Cyrus waved vaguely at the walls around them. “Clearly.”

“But, I mean … the other-”

“Yes,” Cyrus said quietly. “Yes, I meant it.” He waited for Vaste to say something, something light and funny, something to redeem the darkness of the moment that felt as though it had seeped in from outside unchecked by the candles. “It really is good to see you, by the way.” He looked and caught the troll staring back at him. “I meant it when I said it to you. I wasn’t just being polite this time. It’s … good to see another one of us around.”

“One of us?” Vaste said mockingly. “You mean … one of the handsome? The debonair?”

There was that lightness I was looking for. Cyrus looked around the wrecked Council Chambers, felt the pervading sense of grief and loss that came with the memories of this place. It didn’t have quite the effect I was looking for, he decided, looking back out the window. It never does anymore. “No,” he said, and his eyes took in the world outside-darker than it had been a few years ago-and with … so much less to believe in. “That’s not what I meant. I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Vaste said. Cyrus felt the troll’s tall presence next to him, and they looked out into the darkness together. Just like we always have. “I know what you meant. You meant …” The troll’s scarred face grimaced, and his onyx eyes flicked toward Cyrus, the light dancing off them.

“Survivors.”