Crusader

Chapter 14

They had nearly reached the castle by midday next, when the sun was hot overhead and the feeling of spring had subsided and been replaced by the sensation of early summer. Cyrus felt the rays of the sun heating his armor and him within it, causing him to sweat, and wondered if this were what pottery in a kiln felt like. The smell of horses was especially heavy, and the conversation from the ranks of the army behind him was louder, more boisterous, now that the months of travel had come to a close and their destination was in sight.

The last taste of the conjured bread was still with him as Cyrus felt a crumb fall out of his beard. Perhaps I should get rid of the whiskers, he thought. Or at least shave and let them grow out again. They don’t seem to be doing me any favors by getting this long.

The castle Vernadam was close on the horizon, and Cyrus could tell it was bigger than any castle he could recall ever seeing. Though perhaps not as tall as the Citadel in Reikonos, it was quite large, easily larger than the sprawling monstrosity of a palace in the elven capital of Pharesia. The castle itself was built on a steep hill, using the mound it was on to boost it to exceptional heights. An array of towers sprung out of a central keep, a circular one that twisted and rose, almost like a spiral rising into the sky. The tallest towers were high above the rest of the castle, one ranging far above the other, the two of them clinging together for support, like a child leaning upon a parent to walk. The whole thing seemed like an unnatural mountain, rising alone above a flat earth.

The city that lay in the shadow of Vernadam was visible by that time; a town that had sprung up around the foot of the hill, with no tall buildings, only three-story shops and dwellings clustered around a central square and tightly packed streets. Cyrus estimated that no more than a hundred thousand might live there, perhaps more if they were not particular about the amount of space each family had.

Cyrus rode at the front of their procession, with Longwell at his side. They passed all manner of people, horses and carts, all moving aside so the army of Sanctuary could pass.

It was a mile outside of town that a rider on the back of a stallion approached them. His navy armor was almost a perfect match for Longwell’s, down to the surcoat with the Lion insignia, though he was considerably wider than the dragoon in both shoulder and belly. A wide smile broke out on the man’s face as he got close enough for them to see. “Hail, Sir Samwen Longwell,” he said in a deep voice as he approached.

“Hail, Sir Odau Genner,” Longwell said, lips curling into a smile. “What news from Vernadam?”

Sir Odau Genner brought his horse into the formation alongside Longwell’s. “We sent Teodir to find you months ago. We’d begun to worry he was lost along the way.”

“He is with us,” Longwell said. “I came as soon as word reached me, and I have brought …” Longwell raised an arm and gestured to the army behind him, “… a few friends with me to heed my father’s call.”

“Indeed you have,” Odau said with a broad grin. “We had heard you were coming with a force weeks ago from our spies afield, that you had crossed the border with western magicians and knights and footmen, but I scarce believed it until I saw it with my own eyes through the spyglass atop the tower only an hour ago. Your timing could not be more fortuitous.”

“It goes poorly, then, the fight against Syloreas?” Longwell’s face drew up, muscles contracting.

“We are but days from defeat, total and wretched, like the conquests of old-though the Kingdom does not know it yet.” Odau Genner pointed north, and Cyrus looked in the direction indicated. “The army of Syloreas is encamped a day’s ride from here. We will meet them in battle the day after tomorrow, in a final defense.” Odau looked at Longwell with undisguised relief. “Our defeat was virtually assured before your arrival. They have a knight with them, a westerner, and his power is fearsome. He and his compatriots have won every battle for Syloreas, their mere presence sends our dragoons and footmen onto edge and they retreat far more easily than they should given their numbers.”

“This is poor news,” Longwell said. “Odau, this is my general, Cyrus Davidon. It was through his offer of assistance I came to be joined by all these souls willing to traverse the divide between our lands. Cyrus, this is Odau Genner, a dear friend and knight of my father’s.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Odau,” Cyrus said. “How can we help? Do you need us at the front?”

“I am pleased to meet you as well,” Odau said with a nod to Cyrus. “You are not needed at the front at this moment. It is essentially agreed between King Longwell and Briyce Unger that we will meet in battle on the day after tomorrow in the fields north of the Forest of Waigh. When we sighted you from the watchtower,” Odau said with a smile, “your father gave immediate orders for a feast to be put on, with a banquet in the town for your men after their long journey. Your high officers are invited to break bread with the King in the castle, to discuss the battle, if you are amenable, and to be well taken care of after your long journey. He offers his full hospitality to both you and your army.”

“A generous offer,” Longwell said. “My father’s full hospitality comes rarely, and I suspect his current predicament accounts for much of it. Lose the battle and his Kingdom is lost, so why not open the coffers and wine cellars wide in hopes that we can turn the tides of fortune back to his favor, eh?”

“I think that might have been his intention,” Odau said with a grin. “He said something about ‘showing your men such a time that they’ll want to fight harder for this Kingdom than our own will.’”

“Goodness. Well, that should keep the doxies well paid,” Longwell said. “Are you to ride back with us or are you here only to deliver his message?”

“I’ll only need signal him to give your assent,” Odau said, “and then I can guide you into town. Your men will be billeted in the village, each a bed of his own-”

“We have some women in our ranks as well,” Cyrus interrupted, causing Odau to start. “I trust they’ll be provided for as well.”

“Uh … ah …” Odau stammered. “If they’re of your army, I trust we can find a place for them as well, though obviously that is not our custom and it perhaps will take a bit of adjustment-”

“We’ll try to make it easy on you,” Cyrus said. “But if you could make sure they receive the same good treatment, that would be very helpful.”

Cyrus could see the tension on Odau’s face. “We will … make every effort to accommodate them. I’m certain that we’ll find them lodgings to their satisfaction. If you gentlemen will follow me …”

They rode onto the city’s main street to find cheering crowds on the corners. Curious children and adults pushed each other aside (more the adults pushing each other and the children trying to squeeze their way to the front for a better view) to get a look at the army of Sanctuary. Cyrus looked at the attire of the peasantry and found it much the same as he would have seen in Reikonos, though of different fabrics and styles.

They came to the main square of the city and halted, Odau holding up a hand to stop them. “This is where we leave your army. Our men are already working to clear accommodations for them, and they’ll be working at it for some time. However, the lodgings for your officers are ready at the castle, and we have food and drink waiting for you. If you’d care to join me-”

“Give me a moment,” Cyrus said and turned Windrider around. “Odellan,” Cyrus said, and the elf made his way through the horse ranks to him. “You’ll see to the army and make certain everyone gets food and lodging?”

“Aye, sir,” Odellan said. “You can count on me; I’ll not rest until they’re taken care of, every one.”

“Tell them to have fun,” Cyrus said, “but make certain they understand that they’ll need to keep themselves in line. I have no problems with them enjoying whatever sort of recreation they can find-honorably, of course-but I want no angry complaints from the local populace. That means keep the drinking to a manageable level, and make sure they’re all in bed at a reasonable hour. We’ll likely be marching by midday tomorrow, so let them know that.”

Odellan hesitated, the slightest grimace on his face. “You don’t wish to address the troops yourself, sir?”

Cyrus looked around the square; the noise was already overwhelming, and the army was strung out along the narrow boulevard halfway back to the town limits. “This isn’t the best place for a speech, and I doubt they’d hear much of it anyway. Make sure they understand. I’m going to talk with the King and see if we can hammer out a strategy to beat this army that’s coming.”

“Aye, sir,” Odellan said. “It will be as you say.”

“I never doubted it for a minute,” Cyrus said, bringing his horse around and looking to Odau. “How many of my officers does your King expect for this feast?”

“We could house several hundred comfortably,” Odau said with a pleasant smile. “However, his Grace expects you would have twenty or so officers to lead your troops.”

“I’m going to define officer a little more broadly then.” He turned to look at the force on horseback behind him. “Ryin, Nyad, Curatio, Terian, J’anda-Longwell, of course-I’ll also have the Baroness, Martaina and Aisling come with us.” He glanced through their ranks and saw Mendicant sitting on his small pony next to the massive desert man, Scuddar In’shara. “Mendicant and Scuddar, too.”

Mendicant, only about four feet tall, pointed a clawed finger at himself, and Cyrus saw his mouth open, sharp teeth visible within, though he only saw the goblin mouth the word, “Me?”

Aisling guided her horse from behind Odellan. “Why me?”

Cyrus shrugged, but his eyes never left hers. “I have my reasons. For all of you.” He looked around. “All here?” He tossed a glance back to Odau. “Lead on.”

There was a short road to the gates of the castle. The curtain wall took advantage of the steep slopes around the hill it was built upon-Cyrus estimated that a siege would be well nigh impossible by traditional means, as the only easy approach was up the winding path to the main gate. “It seems to me,” he said to Odau, “your King could simply close up his wall and wait for this Briyce Unger to get bored of standing at the bottom of his hill, trying to rally forces to crash his gate. He’d never have to surrender if he didn’t care to.”

“Aye,” Odau Genner said with a slow nod, “and the King might do that, yet. But his Kingdom would be lost, nonetheless, as with no one to defend the smallfolk, Briyce Unger could control every city without ever taking Vernadam.” Odau smiled, but it was a bitter one. “If one controls all of a Kingdom but for the castle that governed it, has one not conquered that Kingdom?”

They made their way up the twisted path and Cyrus noted the curves and at least one unnecessary switchback in its construction-undoubtedly designed to make siege more difficult. He looked up at the stone behemoth that stretched into the sky above him and marveled at the single-minded effort it must have taken to construct such a gargantuan fortress. How many slaves worked how many years to do this? Or was it simple workmen? Either way, this is nothing short of astounding; it’s a wonder.

Smooth walls gave way to ramparts that jutted out over the hillside below like an uneven lip sticks out from a face. From the ramparts they can shower boiling oil or arrows onto anyone who tries to climb the hill. The stone was all grey, dull, with some blocks taller than he and wider than three men laid end to end. Where did they quarry all that stone? And how did they get it here?

“Why did you pick me to come?” Cyrus looked over in surprise to see Aisling looking at him. He had not heard her ride up, so busy had he been staring at the castle. “I’m hardly an officer-or even one of your favorite people, of late.” She frowned. “Or ever.”

“I have no quarrel with you, Aisling,” he said. “You have a unique perspective, and I’d be a fool to ignore it.”

He watched her deflate slightly. “If my point of view is what you seek from me, then I will do my best not to fail you in that regard.”

“Perhaps it’s not all I seek,” Cyrus said, smiling, then urged Windrider forward, “but it’s all I have time for at the moment.” He looked back to see her looking at him cautiously but with slight wonderment.

The path straightened as they reached the gate, guiding their horses under the portcullis to follow Odau Genner. Once through it, Cyrus found himself in a massive courtyard, twice the size of the entire castle at Green Hill. He could smell the stables to one side, saw the activity bustling ahead in the entrance to the keep, where a procession was already making its way down the steps to greet them.

Guards stood at attention in columns down either side of the steps, arranged to face the stairway. The procession came down, and at the head stood a man with the same build as Longwell-muscular, tall, dark haired, though grey was present, frosted in a patch on the top of his head. Cyrus saw no crown, though the cloak he wore was of finest velvet. He was flanked by ten men, all in armor like Longwell’s, every one of them wearing the surcoat with the black lion on the front.

Cyrus followed Odau Genner across the courtyard, and he felt the Baroness brush against his side. He glanced at her and saw her look back, a nervous smile flitting across her face. “It’ll be all right,” he said. “You’re here as part of my army.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I have no ability with sword or shield or bow, nor any of the magical powers that many in your army possess.” She looked down at herself and then back at him. “I look nothing like the women of your army.”

“And yet you are, nonetheless,” he said cheerfully. “So worry not.”

“Why have you asked me to come along with you to the castle, rather than being lodged in town with the rest of your people?” Her voice betrayed the worry that her face concealed, along with something else, something more hopeful.

“You know the people of Luukessia,” Cyrus said, whispering to her as they followed Genner toward the steps. “You have been the enemy of Galbadien for all your years. I’d be a fool to have you along and not ask your opinion of these men.”

“Don’t you trust these total strangers?” she asked, almost mocking.

“As a rule, I trust no strangers.”

“But isn’t this King the father of your man Longwell?” She regarded him carefully. “You trust him, do you not?”

“I do,” Cyrus said. “Samwen Longwell is a man of honor. But he left this Kingdom for good reason, and he has yet to tell me what it is … so I keep my suspicions, and I keep watch.”

“A sound plan,” she whispered back. “But if I may be so bold as to make an observation …” she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes, waiting for him to give her a subtle nod before she continued. “I am nearly a stranger to you. Do you trust me?”

“Mmmm,” Cyrus let out a deep, guttural sound that reminded him of a purr. In his head, it was a simple stalling tactic, as he tried to find a way to phrase his reply so as not to offend her. “Not entirely,” he said at last, drawing a small smile of response from her. “But neither do I distrust you.”

The smile was cool, but her green eyes danced and gave life to it. “When it comes to the confidences of ‘Cyrus the Unbroken,’ I suppose I shall take what I can get, when I can get it.” They arrived at the King before Cyrus could make his reply. “If you introduce me, remember to call me Cattrine,” the Baroness said in a last whisper, drawing a smile. “Better not to tell them from whence I come.”

“Your accent is rather distinctive,” Cyrus mumbled as Odau Genner filled the air with a formal and lengthy announcement of the arrival of the Sanctuary officers.

“I can fix that,” the Baroness said, sotto voce, her words now carrying the smooth, flat cadences of a Reikonosian born.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “How did you do that?”

She kept her eyes forward, on the King. “I’ve been listening to you.”

“May I introduce Cyrus Davidon,” Odau Genner said, “General of the army of Sanctuary.”

Cyrus bowed low to the King, who, upon closer inspection, was thinner and more gaunt than Longwell. His eyes were slightly sunken and his flesh had settled oddly upon his bones, as though his build had once been powerful and was now diminished, the excess skin loose and ill at ease on his frame. The only exception was his belly, which was distended and paunchy, hanging over his belt.

“My cherished son,” the King said, opening his arms wide to Longwell, who followed a pace behind Cyrus. The King’s gaunt features lifted in a smile. “You have returned to us in Galbadien’s darkest hour, and at the head of your own army from the west. This is more than I could have imagined was possible when last we parted.”

Cyrus looked back to Longwell, who stood stock still, a pained smile pasted on his features. “Father,” he said before making his way forward to embrace the man.

Cyrus watched, noting the dragoon’s slow movement, the uncomfortable shuffle as he went to hug his father, as they fumbled to place hands, and a thought ran across the warrior’s mind-Do they even know each other? After a moment, father and son parted, and as they withdrew, Cyrus noted the awkward space between them that lingered, even as the King put his hand upon his son’s shoulder and tried to draw him close. Samwen went along with it, but the dragoon remained tensed.

“Greetings to all of you,” the King said with the same, wide smile. “I welcome you as friends of my son and thank you for coming to the service of our Kingdom in this hour of need.” His arms were spread in welcome, but his right hand remained on his son’s shoulder, resting there, drawing Cyrus’s attention from the King’s words to his face. “If my son trusts you as allies and compatriots, you must surely be of the finest quality, and I look forward to getting to know you as we break bread together.” He extended the hand that wasn’t on Longwell’s shoulder and gestured to the stairs and the open doors above them. “Come, my friends, and let us welcome you to the halls of Vernadam.”

The King turned and began to make his way up the stairs, adjusting his hands so that he could wrap an arm around his son’s shoulder and pull him close. Cyrus watched the King whisper to Samwen, unmistakable pride and emotion on the elder man’s face.

“Does something seem a little odd there?” Cattrine asked him quietly.

“I didn’t want to be the first to say it, but yes,” Cyrus said, keeping his voice to a whisper. “We should probably wait to talk about it until later.”

Cyrus followed, leading his party up the stairs. The door to the keep was an arched portal fifteen feet tall with wide, solid wooden doors, which were opened by the guards. They swung inward in a wide arc, and as Cyrus passed through them with the Baroness at his side, he caught a glimpse of others behind them, helping to pull them open. A grand hall lay ahead, with another staircase that led to a large landing that split in twain; the steps then veered left and right, to a balcony that wrapped around the entry foyer.

Cyrus paused on the marble tiles. They were checkered in black and white squares, with a craftsmanship that he hadn’t seen outside of the Elven Kingdom. He looked at the Baroness but she remained cool; the palatial appearance of the keep was deeply at odds with Green Hill or any of the other keeps he had seen in all his days.

The King continued onward to a room to their left. Double doors, smaller than the entry, swung open at the hands of a servant and Cyrus found himself in a formal dining room. The checkered marble floor gave way entirely to white tiles, and a long dining table stretched the length of the room, culminating in a chair that was taller and more ornate than any of the others. “I’ll bet you a gold coin that’s where the King sits,” he whispered to the Baroness.

“Not only is that a poor bet, but since someone sacked my home, I find I have no coins with which to gamble.”

“Did I hear a note of complaint?” Cyrus asked as his eyes roamed the room.

“About losing my husband? Never,” she said. “I do, however, wish I had been allowed to keep his fortune.” She sighed. “It was hardly worth the trade, but if I could have had his money and been rid of him, I believe I might have been able to find some measure of happiness.” She frowned. “Damn this land and their thorough dislike of women with any strength at all.”

“I agree,” Cyrus said. “You should find somewhere that they can appreciate you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me?”

“In this case, no.” His eyes tracked around the room. “I might later, though, so be on your guard.”

The balcony from the foyer extended into the dining hall, and a hearth sat behind the King’s chair, though it was not in use. Paintings of knights, ladies, scenes from nature, and of castles dominated the decor. The walls were comprised of a faint white plaster, apparently spackled over the natural stone walls of the keep. The whole thing gave the room a more comfortable look to Cyrus’s eyes, reminding him of the houses in Reikonos, wood structures, rather than the rock and stone that made some keeps feel like dim caves.

The smell of fresh-baked dough filled the room, along with other scents that he couldn’t quite place. He thought he caught a hint of fish cooking, but it mingled with the smell of other meats and perhaps some vegetables as well. He heard a clatter in the next room and realized that it must be the kitchens. A door swung open and then closed again, confirming his suspicion as a line of servants walked into the room in perfect step, snaking their way around the table, each standing behind a chair. Cyrus lingered in the doorway as he watched the King make his way to the head seat and point his son to the chair to his right. The King stopped before sitting down and beckoned to Cyrus to come sit on his left. Cyrus exchanged a short look with the Baroness and came forward, placing himself in the seat that the King had indicated.

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, General Davidon,” the King said as Cyrus took his place and stood in front of his chair. He waited as his other officers filtered in, each guided to their place at the table by one of the members of the King’s armored procession.

“And I am pleased to be here and able to help, your Grace.” He followed the King’s example and sat after noting the other members of the King’s procession beginning to do the same. Cyrus felt the servant standing behind his chair scoot it closer to the table as he did so and he nodded in thanks to the silent steward behind him, who did not so much as look at him. “May I ask some questions so that we can begin to formulate a strategy for the coming battle?”

The King waved his hand. “The battle is not until the day after tomorrow, and I feel confident that with your help, we can easily vanquish Briyce Unger’s army and his mercenaries.” The King’s gaunt face tightened as he plucked a grape from his plate and put it into his mouth. He continued to speak, even as he chewed, causing the Baroness to cough lightly next to Cyrus. “Only a handful of these western mercenaries, that’s all Unger has, but the demon one, the half-man, he carries power that is truly fearsome, to hear my generals tell of it.”

“Half-man?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes,” the King said, taking a bite from a plum and letting the juice run uninterrupted down his face. “He stands not more than half the height of a man, stout of build and bearded like a mountain man of Syloreas-”

“A dwarf,” Cyrus said, locking eyes with Longwell, who nodded. “You say this dwarf casts spells?”

“He possesses western magic of a sort,” the King said, his mouth turning down as his eyes grew narrower still. “The power to knock an entire legion to the ground, to send men from their feet without warning or ability to stop it. His prowess with a hammer has become the stuff of nightmares, the tales young recruits are told in the barracks to scare them at night when they learn the trade of war and battle.”

“A paladin?” Cyrus asked. “That sounds like a paladin.”

“I trust that won’t present a problem for you?” The Baroness murmured in his ear as servants set a bowl of soup in front of him, a heavy one with rice and mushooms.

The smell of cream in the soup was heavy in Cyrus’s nose. “For me alone, perhaps,” Cyrus said, trying to decide which spoon to use out of the dozen implements arranged around his place setting. “For our army, no.”

“This half-man has been a dagger in our side during the whole campaign,” The King said, his voice high in complaint. “His mercenaries get stabbed through the chest, fall to the ground, and minutes later they’re whole again, back up and fighting.”

“Sounds like they have a healer, too,” Cyrus said. “We can fix that.”

The King waved his hand in frustration. “Enough of this talk. Count Ranson can tell you more about this drudgery later.” He brightened. “Let us move on to more gladsome topics.” He turned to Longwell. “How was your journey, my son?”

“Long,” the dragoon replied. “I had forgotten the distance between here and the bridge since last I trod the path.”

“I see,” the King said, slurping his soup, the broth dripping down his weathered and bony chin. “Did you have problems with those bandits from Actaluere?”

The Baroness was seized by a sudden fit of coughing, causing Cyrus to look at her in alarm. She stopped after a moment, hand in front of her mouth. “Terribly sorry,” she croaked as the King and the others at their end of the table stared at her.

Cyrus felt the presence of eyes upon him, like prey in the night, being watched by a beast. He looked up and found a man across the table, seated next to Longwell, staring at him. The man’s hair was light, his face ruddy and his eyes dark. His armor carried the same blue sheen in the steel as Longwell’s, though his surcoat was different, a tiger on a white background. His eyes met Cyrus’s and there was an instant jolt of hostility between the two men. The man was middle-aged, older than Cyrus by at least fifteen years, but with only a few signs of grey in his platinum hair to show it. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Cyrus said, feeling slightly annoyed by the man’s gaze, “but can I help you?”

The man stiffened in his seat, as though he had been insulted. “No,” he said, his voice low and scratchy. “You cannot help me.” His accent lilted in the same way as Longwell’s and the King’s, the end of his statement rising in pitch.

“Forgive me,” Longwell said, “for not making introductions. General Cyrus Davidon, this is Count Ewen Ranson, of the castle Ridgeland to the southeast. He is the marshal of my father’s armies.”

“Ah, so it’s you I’ll be coordinating with,” Cyrus said, letting the icy calm within take over his outward persona, frosting over the internal desire to scorch the man for his rudeness. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ewen.”

“You’ll call me count or marshal,” Ranson snapped, his pinched face causing him to look especially snotty.

“Very well,” Cyrus said. “My full title is Lord Davidon of Perdamun, Warden of the Southern Plains and General of Sanctuary. You can go ahead and call me that. Every single time you address me, that is-and don’t leave out the ‘Warden’ bit as it’s very important.”

Ranson’s ruddy complexion went blood red. “What foolishness is this?”

“Why, Count Ranson,” Cyrus said, his icy reserve melting quickly, “it’s called custom and protocol, and it’s the very thing you just threw in my face, so you should recognize it.”

“What I recognize,” Ranson said, still flushed scarlet, “is that sitting before me is the same sort of scum that’s helping our enemies trounce us in battle after battle. The same cheeky bastards from a foreign land, come to lord it over us with your magics and fancy ways-well, I’ll have none of it. You don’t fool me-you’re all the same.”

Cyrus stared across the table at the count then looked to the King, who sipped another spoonful of soup with a slight smile, waiting to see what happened next. Cyrus turned his gaze back to the Count. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” Ranson said, unmoving.

“I see,” Cyrus said, feeling particularly wry. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from a treacherous Luukessian. After all, you’re an easterner, the same as Baron Hoygraf of Actaluere, beaters and oppressors of women, rapists and-”

There was a crash of furniture as the chair that Count Ranson was sitting in fell back, splintering on the floor. The count’s sword was in his hand and a look of purest rage was on his face. “You take that back, you filthy bastard, I’ve never laid a hand in anger on a woman in my life, let alone beaten and whipped them like that scum-”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, mock-offended, “perhaps I shouldn’t have unfairly grouped all you easterners into the same lot.” He picked up one of the six spoons gathered around his plate and dipped it in the soup, bringing it up to his mouth slowly and taking a long sip with one hand while keeping the other rested on Praelior under the table and well out of sight.

“Well said, sir,” the King guffawed. “Count Ranson, surely you can tell that there are differences between our guests and these mercenaries. After all, I see no half-men here among our guests.”

“We left our dwarves back at the village,” Cyrus said. “But let’s be plain,” he looked to Count Ranson, who had resumed his seat with the aide of the servant lingering behind him, “there are several nations and powers in the west, just as there are here. To confuse the peoples of different nations and guilds with each other is as insulting to us, in some cases, as it would be for me to make the comparison here that I just did.”

“I had said before that we should move to more felicitous topics of conversation,” the King said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can do so now.” With that, he picked up the remainder of his bowl and brought it to his lips, slurping the rest of his soup.

Cyrus sent a furtive look to the Baroness next to him. She was cringing even though she was trying to keep her eyes on her own soup, which she took dainty spoonfuls of. Past her were Ryin and Nyad, seated side by side and conversing pleasantly with Odau Genner. The rest of the Sanctuary members were sprinkled around the table, talking with their counterparts from Galbadien’s army.

The only two notable exceptions were Martaina and Aisling, each of whom was only a few seats down from the Baroness, on the other side of Odau Genner. Martaina’s hand was on her bow, which leaned against her chair, while she used the other to feed herself. Her eyes were slitted, watching the table coolly for any sign of trouble; if Cyrus had to guess, he would have bet that her bow had in fact been nocked with an arrow only moments before, when Count Ranson had been out of his chair.

Aisling sat a little further down than Martaina, a quiet spot in the gathering. The dark elf seemed to be watching everything with a furtive eye, and Cyrus noticed her turning her ears toward certain conversations under the guise of adjusting her hair. All the while, she was nursing her bowl of soup but had scarcely eaten any of it.

“What do you think of our predicament, General Davidon?” The stiff words drew Cyrus’s attention back to Count Ranson, who was looking at him with eyes that were hard like stone, dark circles glaring at him out of the candlelit dim.

“I think we should march out tomorrow and meet your enemies,” Cyrus said, taking another spoonful of the soup. It was rich and flavorful, and he found himself enjoying it much more than anything he’d had in months.

“The battle is set for the day after tomorrow,” the King said from the head of the table as a loaf of bread was placed before him. He reached for it with both hands and tore off the end, handing it to a servant who slathered it with butter. “I see no reason why we should hurry into it recklessly, especially now that we have forces at our disposal with which to surprise Briyce Unger.” The King’s smile was broad and full as he took the bread from the servant and bit into it, crumbs falling upon his deep blue blouse.

“Sire,” Count Ranson said, “we have danced to Unger’s tune throughout this entire war and look what it has gotten us.”

“I’m inclined to agree with the count,” Cyrus said, drawing the King’s attention. A very brief flash of ire was visible in the King’s eyes but disappeared quickly. “Obviously, I have no idea what your strategy has been from the outset, but I know that in battle, if an enemy expects attack in two days, I prefer to hit him the day before, when he doesn’t expect it.”

“That sounds like base chicanery,” the King said, lowering his head and biting deep into the bread in his hands. “Like something that would come from the Kingdom of Actaluere and not our own halls.”

Cyrus heard another cough from the Baroness and saw her begin to open her mouth. He reached over and tried to drop a hand on hers and missed, sending his gauntlet to her thigh instead. He looked at her with chagrin and saw her mouth drop slightly open and her eyes widen in amusement. He began to stutter an apology, but the count started to speak again, drawing the Baroness’s attention-and his own-back to the table.

“They have yet to treat us with the honor you speak of, Your Highness,” Count Ranson said in measured tones. “They struck without warning, have burned and pillaged our lands, used outsiders with power that we could not match, and now stand at our gates, ready to send us into ignominious defeat. If your enemy strikes at you from behind, does it not make sense to do the same to him?”

The King chewed his bread thoughtfully. “Let them have their dishonor. We shall hold our heads high and defeat them nonetheless.”

Cyrus could see the Count lock his jaw and lower his head, turning away from his liege. “Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, “I understand your wish for your army to maintain their honor. However,” he continued, feeling the tension rise in the room, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to march with my army on the morrow.”

The King’s face became slack, a grim mask at the defiance being aired in his hall. “You would do this without my leave?”

“I apologize, Your Highness,” Cyrus said. “I intend no disrespect, nor do I wish to challenge the high standards with which you govern your realm and conduct your affairs. However, I led my army to this land with the intent of bringing every last one of them home again, and I will live up to that promise to the best of my ability. That means if I’m going to pit them against superior numbers and a force that contains spellcasters, I’m going to need every advantage I can get, even ones I make for myself. Which includes the element of surprise, something which has won more battles than any wizard.”

The King watched him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth downturned. “I find your intransigence … disconcerting. But I cannot find fault in your desire to protect your people.” A lamb leg was placed in front of the King, and he picked it up. He took an enormous bite, chewing as he responded, words coming between movements of his jaw. “Very well, then. Let it be upon your honor. You will be at the head of our army and in nominal command of the battle. If anyone should ask, I will put the dishonor of surprise attacks upon you, not our Count Ranson.” Ranson stiffened at that, but nodded his head somewhat reluctantly. “Would you be amenable to that, Lord Davidon?”

“Amenable to taking over your army?” Cyrus smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

“To clarify,” the King went on, “you will lead the battle, but Count Ranson will have full control over the movements of our army. If you wish for him to do something, you will have to convince him yourself.”

Cyrus felt his hands clench and heard a sharp intake of breath from his left. He looked over to realize his gauntlet was still on the Baroness’ thigh and hastily removed it, earning a pitying look from her. “Very well,” Cyrus said.

The King’s eyebrow rose. “Very good, then. Let us speak of these dull matters no more, and turn our attention instead to the entertainments of the evening.” He lifted his hands as if to clap them, but before he could, a door opened at the far end of the room and a quartet of musicians with instruments came forth, situating themselves in the corner far to Cyrus’s left, where the King could see them best. The lead musician was a singer, and his voice rang out over the room, a smooth, dulcet sound that echoed beautifully from the walls as heads turned to watch.

Cyrus looked from the singer to the Baroness as the rest of the members of the group began to play stringed instruments. The Baroness looked back at him with deep amusement, a sly smile on her face.

Cyrus leaned close to her ear. “I was reaching for your hand, earlier, to try and calm you down after what was said.”

She pulled back to look at him, and her eyebrow raised, her smile widened before turning coy. “And you think taking my hand would calm me? Apparently we should change your nickname from Cyrus the Unbroken to Cyrus the Oblivious-to take into account the effects you have on women that you don’t even notice.”

Cyrus hemmed then hawed. “I doubt that my taking your hand would be cause for all that much excitement.”

“Mmmm,” the Baroness seemed to ponder his reply as she let out a humming sound that harmonized with the music. “I don’t know. I think you might be underestimating your charisma and legendary reputation as a leader who keeps very strictly to himself-including his hands and all else.”

“Ha ha,” Cyrus said with a fake, low-key laugh. “I prefer to channel all my efforts into battle. It’s less dangerous.”

“Well, now,” the Baroness said, “I suspect that has more to do with the women you’ve courted. Perhaps if you tried one who didn’t carry a sword …”

“Perhaps one who carried a dagger, instead?”

She put her hand on her chest in mock outrage, drawing his attention to her shirt, which had a high collar but reminded him for a beat of the low-cut dress she had worn when first they met and how it had displayed her ample bosoms. “That a lady would carry a weapon is such an outrageous proposition.” Her feigned shock disappeared as she tossed a shoulder casually, then smiled. “However, when in the company of Arkarians, one can never be too well armed, especially if one is a woman.”

Cyrus reached for his wine glass and took a deep drink as he pondered his reply. “And when in the company of beautiful women, regardless of origin, I find that blades are the least painful way that they can hurt you.”

The Baroness reached for her wine glass and held it before her. “I’ll drink to that truth, Lord Davidon, if you’ll drink to mine-when it comes to men, being outmatched by them physically is quite a bit more painful and likely to happen than being outmatched by them mentally.” She smiled broadly as she noted his pained reaction. “Present company excepted, perhaps.”

“I’m not likely to do either if I keep drinking this excellent wine,” Cyrus said, setting down his cup and watching the servant behind him rush forward to refill the glass.

“Oh my,” the Baroness said in a quiet voice as the singer trilled in the corner. “Lord Cyrus Davidon, physically and mentally vulnerable? Quickly, grab for my hand-I may become very excitable.”

He chuckled under his breath as she leaned in closer to him. “You’re different than the women I’ve known, Cattrine.” He stared at her and she stared back, her green eyes glinting at him.

“Have you met many Baronesses?” She said it with the amusement that she seemed to layer over everything, and he found himself chuckling again.

“No. But I doubt that’s why I find you so intriguing.”

“Oh?” He caught a glimmer of interest in her eyes, but the sound of chairs scraping against the marble floor drew his gaze back to the King’s seat, where the King himself was now standing.

“If you’ll all excuse me,” the King said as the music died in the room, the last squeals of bows drawn across instruments ending abruptly. The entire table rose belatedly to pay him homage, but he walked from the room toward a nondescript door, three servants and two armored guards in tow, before they had all gotten to their feet.

“Did I just miss the end of the party?” Cyrus asked as they sat back down.

“You’ll have to excuse the King,” Odau Genner leaned over the table from several seats away to address him. “He’s not feeling quite well right now-understandable, given what he’s faced with at the moment.”

“Lord Davidon,” came the voice of Count Ranson across the table from him. “My army can be ready to leave by sunrise tomorrow. Would that be sufficiently early for you?”

“I’d like a chance to review maps of this area, if you have them,” Cyrus said, watching the Count as the man nodded. “I don’t want to leave and march off to battle without some hint of strategy.” He smiled. “I’d like to catch them while they’re sleeping tomorrow night, if we can.”

“That should be possible,” Ranson said, a hand on his clean-shaven chin. “They’ll be camped in the northern reaches of the Fields of Gareme. It is half a day’s march. It is a flat land, and if we can deal adequately with their scouts, we should be able to approach them without being seen.” The count’s face twisted into a half-grin. “Which is better than meeting them in the middle of the fields in broad daylight.”

“Aye,” Cyrus said and glanced at the leg of lamb waiting upon his plate. “Why don’t we meet first thing in the morning with our officers to discuss the strategy? We can come to some agreement before we leave.”

“Very well,” Count Ranson nodded and stood, executing a short bow. “I will go and make preparations.” The older man grimaced slightly. “If you would be willing to hear suggestions, I am very familiar with those lands and could likely help you to come up with a battle plan.”

“I am eager to hear suggestions, Count,” Cyrus said with a tight smile, “as I have no knowledge of these plains you speak of, nor of the Kingdom of Syloreas’s army.”

“Very good, Lord Davidon,” the count said with a curt nod. “I’ll have one of my men send for you at sunrise and we’ll discuss preparations then.” The count let a half-smile of obvious relief flood his face, then turned and walked around the table and from the room, through the double doors into the foyer.

The singer commenced with his song again shortly thereafter, and Cyrus had some more wine. He saw Samwen Longwell sitting across from him, but the younger man did not meet his gaze, picking at his food instead. Did something happen between father and son when I wasn’t paying attention? He looked down the table, noted the others engaged in conversation and discussion save for Aisling, who seemed to almost disappear between two Galbadien men in armor, and Martaina, who was no longer seated but had instead removed herself to lean against the wall. Cyrus had to almost turn around in his chair to find her, but when he did, she nodded at him.

He shook his head and turned back to find the Baroness delicately picking at the meat on her plate with a fork and knife. “How do you do that?” he asked.

She glanced at him and went back to sawing off a small cut of meat no larger than Cyrus’s pinky knuckle. She then delicately speared it with her fork and placed it into her mouth, chewing slowly and with a smile on her face the entire time. When she swallowed it, her smile grew more enigmatic. “It’s called patience, Lord Davidon, and it’s required when you’re eating like a lady, else you might become exasperated with the miniscule bites that manners require you to take and try to gnaw the meat directly from the bone.”

Cyrus held the leg bone in his hand, pondering the meat on it, then the five different forks and three knives that were set around his plate. “I hope you won’t be offended if I don’t subscribe to your dainty eating habits.”

She chuckled. “I think I should be more offended if you did. I am eating like a lady, after all. If you did the same, I might wonder about you, to think that perhaps the reason that you’re rumored to have gone so long without female companionship in your bed is something more basic than poor luck and good consideration.”

He looked at her, stunned. “Wait. How did you know it’s been …?” He sighed as the answer occurred to him. “Rumors.”

“All flattering to your character, I assure you.” She patted him on the arm. “A true gentleman and a man of strong discipline, one who has been in love for a long time and held himself in check during that period.” She took another bite and her smile faded. “A man for whom rash intemperance is not even a consideration. I admire that about you, if what they say is true.”

Cyrus managed a tight smile. “It’s true enough, but I haven’t felt like it was a mark of prestige, exactly.”

“Be proud, Lord Davidon,” the Baroness said. “You are very unlike the men I have known. And in my case, this is a very good thing, possibly the highest compliment I can pay.”

Cyrus grasped for his cup and took a long drink of wine. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome-I think.”

The Baroness became caught up in a conversation with Ryin and Nyad only moments later, and Cyrus was left to finish the last of his leg of lamb before a succulent slice of chocolate cake was placed in front of him. Feeling slight disquiet in his stomach from the richness of the food, he took a deep inhalation from the cake, then two small bites and decided that stopping was the wisest course. With a last look around the table, he stood, and the servant behind him quickly helped him move his chair.

The Baroness turned her head. “Calling it a night already?”

“I think so,” he said. “I’m not quite sure what time it is, but I’m tired and I have an early morning meeting tomorrow.”

“I should probably turn in as well,” she said, aided by the servant behind her who darted in and helped her move the heavy wooden seat so that she could stand. The Baroness turned to Ryin and Nyad. “Good night, you two.”

Cyrus didn’t hear their replies, as he was already looking toward the door. Martaina waited beside it, and as Cyrus offered his arm to the Baroness out of politeness and she took it, he saw the elven woman’s face crease with a smile that she hid by turning away and looking at the musicians at the other end of the room.

“Something funny, Martaina?” he asked her as he passed through the door.

“Not a thing, sir,” she said, still amused when she turned back. “There’s a steward in the foyer providing us escort to our rooms,” she said. “I’m told the one that they have for you is quite palatial, fitting with your numerous and august titles.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

Martaina smiled. “Not at all, sir. Shall I come get you at sunrise for your meeting?”

“The count said he’d send someone,” Cyrus said and turned back to the Baroness. “Get some rest.”

Cyrus walked into the foyer, the Baroness’s arm tucked through his. A man waited in the middle of the room, with two others behind him. “Sir and Madam,” the man said with a little bow, his silk crimson shirt moving delicately as he dipped low. He looked first to Cyrus. “I have a room for you, General. Will your companion be needing a room of her own?”

Cyrus felt a brief awkwardness before he looked at the Baroness, a slight smile on his face as he felt the rush of the wine, causing his head to swim. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you?”

She tilted her head in surprise and looked back at him. “I don’t know. Do I?”

Cyrus felt the moment slow down around him, looked at her, her green eyes locked on his. The smell of the lamp oil filled the hall and gave off an oddly intoxicating scent. Cyrus could feel his head swimming in a fog, the wine mixing with the fatigue to make him smile more than he should have. He saw the faintest hint of a flush on the Baroness’s cheeks, and he smiled, the weight of other things on his mind gone, blown away in a carefree breeze for the first time in months. “No,” he said. “Tonight, I don’t think you do.”

She smiled at him, then looked to the steward. “I won’t be needing my own accommodations,” she said. “But thank you for asking.”

“Very well,” the steward said, bowing again. “If you’ll follow me.” He led them up stairs, through corridors, winding around passages. The steward kept up a steady stream of commentary throughout, but Cyrus did not listen; his eyes and attention were fixed upon the Baroness, who had scarcely taken hers off of him. He could see the levity within her expression, mixed with more than a little amusement but tempered with the slightest bit of concern.

“Here we are,” the steward said, ushering them through a set of double doors off a long, torchlit corridor with lamps hanging overhead for good measure.

As they entered the room, Cyrus stopped in mild surprise. It was indeed palatial; white marble floors filled the cavernous entry. Stuffed chairs and a long sofa made of cowhide and stuffed with down made up a sitting area in front of a fireplace. A luscious bearskin rug was in front of the hearth, where a fire blazed quietly. The walls were the same sort of plaster that had been present in the dining room, but the ceiling was far, far above them and three different chandeliers cast their light down upon the room.

Cyrus walked, the Baroness on his arm, to the center of the room. “Your bedroom is in there, sir,” the steward said. “There is a garderobe-a toileting room-in a separate closet on the other side of it. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Cyrus looked at the Baroness, who shook her head. “You may leave,” she said. “Thank you.” The steward nodded his head, bowed, and made his exit, leaving Cyrus alone with her, a growing unease in his belly, a nervous sort of tension that caused him to taste bitterness in his mouth. “What’s wrong?” she asked, hovering closer to him, close enough that he could feel her, feel his body ache for her to come closer.

Cyrus swallowed heavily. “Why are you doing this?”

She stepped closer, pressed against his armor, her cloth riding blouse giving him the strangest urge to run his hand across the fabric. She took hold of his gauntlet and pulled it slowly off; Cyrus felt his palms sweaty, sticky, and wished he could wipe them somewhere. He felt a tinge of embarrassment as she took his hand in hers and placed it on her back. “Because I want to,” she breathed, whispered in his ear. She pulled back and looked at him, locked eyes, stared him down, and the animal urge within consumed him and he kissed her, deeply and heavily, breathing hard as he broke from her. “Because although it may have been a long time for you since your last lover, for me …” her hand stroked his cheek, “I have never been with a man I have freely chosen.”

She pressed her lips against him, again, and he felt the rising tide of his desire. His fingers went to the straps on his pauldrons and loosened them, then he lifted them over his head and dropped them to the floor where they landed with a fearsome clatter. His breastplate and backplate went next, along with the gorget that protected his neck, his lips firm against hers the whole time. He heard his remaining gauntlet hit the floor then the vambraces from his arms and bracers from his forearms, each making a clank of its own.

“I didn’t know that it would be so easy to get you to agree to take off your armor,” she said, breaking away from him, “but so hard to actually get it all off” She dived back in at him again, pressing her lips against his neck, kissing, suckling, causing a little thrill of sensation to run through him.

Her lips met his again and he thrust his tongue into her mouth, swirling it against hers as he kicked off each of his boots, one at a time. His greaves fell off next, and she helped him slide the chainmail that undergirded it all over his head, leaving him in only his cloth underclothes. She stepped back from him for a moment, her eyes on his, and he could feel all the heat between them as he pulled off his undershirt.

He reached for her, his fingers caressing the collar of her shirt, and he unlaced the front of it, starting to slip it over her head. Her hand came up quickly and found his, stopping him. “Please,” she said, and he could hear a hint of pleading in her voice, “not out here.” She turned her head toward the bedroom. “In there. In the dark.”

“All right.” He reached for her and lifted her up, and she squealed in pleasure as he cradled her in his arms and kissed her again. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her upon the bed, extinguishing the lamps, plunging the room into semi-darkness. He could see her face in the narrow shaft of light coming from the main room, saw her eyes as they flicked toward the door. He got up and drew it nearly closed, so that only a crack remained, shedding a narrow band of the luminescence as he returned to the bed-and to her embrace.