Crusader

Chapter 16

“General Davidon,” Count Ranson said brusquely as Cyrus walked into his war room an hour later. The Count stood behind a table in the center of the room, some of the other Sanctuary officers-Longwell, Curatio, Terian and J’anda-as well a few of the Count’s lieutenants were scattered around him. “I hope you don’t mind, but we did start without you.” Cyrus noted just a hint of contrition in the Count’s pronouncement.

“I don’t mind at all,” Cyrus said. “I apologize for my tardiness, but it has been a rather long … uh … journey.” He shot a look at Martaina, who snickered behind him. “Anyway, why don’t we get to it?” Cyrus walked to the massive table, a circular one that had a diameter greater than the height of a man and looked down at it. Painted on the surface was a map of the Kingdom of Galbadien, along with parts of Actaluere and Syloreas. The map ended at the beginning of the peninsula that contained the Endless Bridge back to Arkaria and also cut off the land of Syloreas above a mountain range. “Very impressive,” Cyrus said. “I bet it would also be good for setting up a dollhouse in the middle and then playing-”

“If I may,” the Count said tightly, bringing a long stick out to point to the open plains above Vernadam, which was marked on the map with a small, carved stone castle roughly three inches tall. It was a remarkable approximation for the size, even sitting on a small, green-painted rise on the table. “They are encamped approximately here. They will meet us in battle tomorrow, as it has been arranged,” he swept the stick down an inch, “here. The whole of the plains is relatively flat ground, as such things go-some sloping hills but nothing too disagreeable for fighting.”

“What kind of tactics have the Syloreans been using?” Longwell asked, his eyes focused on the map table.

“Less of the usual,” Ranson said. “They haven’t been engaging us on horseback nearly as much as they have in the past, preferring to use their footmen-infantry, I believe I heard your men call them,” he said with a nod to Cyrus, “and leading with their bloody magical mercenaries.”

“How has that played against our dragoons?” Longwell asked, the fingers of his right hand resting on his chin, deep in thought.

“Not well,” Ranson went on, “thanks to that bloody half-man. He holds his hand out when the dragoons charge and half our number are blasted from the backs of their horses, and their animals tend to go into a rage, spooked into stomping their own riders when they recover.”

“Sounds like a paladin, all right,” Curatio said. He leaned both hands on the table. “We’ll be needing to take him out of circulation first-him and their healer.”

“Let’s hope they don’t get the same idea about you, yes?” J’anda smirked at Curatio, who shrugged in return. “I know,” the dark elf went on, “we have more than one healer, but still-why tempt fate?”

“It’s not fate I’m worried about,” Cyrus said, staring down at the table, willing it to give him more information, a closer look at the battlefield. “It’s those mercenaries. We don’t know for sure how many there are or if they have more spellcasters in reserve. I don’t care much for surprises, and we certainly seem to be facing our share of them.”

“If we could catch them while they’re sleeping,” Ranson said, “with our dragoons on a full charge and your army dealing with the mercenaries, I feel confident the battle could be won easily.”

“You’re telling me that you can defeat the Sylorean army if we just take care of their mercenaries?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow at the count. “All right, but we’re not going to plan on that. I will focus my army one hundred percent on dispatching the mercenaries, and then we’ll rally and break the Syloreans. Are they mostly on horseback or footmen?”

“Footmen,” Ranson said. “But they have a healthy contingent of mounted cavalry as well.” The count drew himself up, swelling with pride. “They do decently well on horseback, but they’re not as well trained as our dragoons.”

“Let’s plan to hit them in the night and catch them by surprise,” Cyrus said, “preferably when they’re sleeping. No reason to make things harder on ourselves. If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to improvise based on the ground we’re on when the fight unfolds. No matter what, my army will target the mercenaries until we’ve removed that threat. Then we’ll join you in breaking the rest of the Sylorean army.”

“That seems to be as much as we can plan without knowing the landscape of where we’ll be fighting,” Ranson said. “When will you be ready to march?”

“Within the hour,” Cyrus said then looked around at his officers. “We’ll ride back to the village in fifteen minutes, so gather your things and meet in the courtyard.” He heard Martaina clear her throat, and when he looked at her questioningly, she widened her eyes and stared him down, as though he were forgetting something. “Oh. Make that … uh … twenty minutes, I think.” He caught a few stares and a raised eyebrow from Terian then nodded at them all and left, Martaina trailing behind him. “What?” he asked her when they had turned a corner.

“I just wanted to suggest you might allow enough time to say a farewell to the Baroness,” she said, now walking alongside him again. “And I wasn’t sure how much time you wanted to allot for that.”

“I don’t think I have enough energy for a long goodbye,” he said, almost under his breath, drawing a chuckle from her. “But better to not rush it, right?”

“If you care about her?” She looked at him, waited for the slight nod, and went on. “Probably best not to rush it, no, sir.”

“Right you are,” he said, turning a corner. He thought of something then stopped in the corridor. Martaina’s reflexes allowed her to stop with him, without missing so much as a step. She looked at him questioningly and he gave voice to his thought. “Do you have any more spare ventra’maq? I doubt very much that they have anything like it in this land, given their lack of magic.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed. “I do need some for myself, you know.”

“When?” Cyrus asked, amused. “Do you have someone that comes to join you at my door at night? Is it one of the guards, perhaps? The wall in the hallway-is it comfortable when your back is thrust against it?”

“Ha ha,” Martaina said without humor. She reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew a small vial of dark liquid, roughly the color of blood. “Warn her about the poor taste or she’ll likely be quite upset with you afterward.”

Cyrus held up the vial between his thumb and forefinger and stared at the liquid within. “How could I get more?” He caught a glare from her. “You know, if I needed it.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “If you keep up the same pace you’ve been going at, you’ll need it. I can gather the herbs that go into the solution, but only an enchanter can add the mystical component to make it work.”

Cyrus stared at her. “Can J’anda …?”

“He’s always done it for me.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Your diligent service does not go unnoticed, I hope you realize that.”

“And I hope you realize,” she said, somewhat irritably, “that that’s a week’s worth of protection-tell her to drink the whole thing, and she’ll be safe from unintended quickening of your seed,” she leered at him with a raised eyebrow, “or anyone else’s, for that matter-for seven days. After that, she’ll need another dose, even on the days when her month’s blood is with her-I have heard of women becoming with child while thinking they were safely immune during those times.”

“Noted,” Cyrus said as they continued down the hallway. After a few seconds, he asked his next question. “Who else do you think she’ll be getting seed from?”

Martaina sighed. “Her? I doubt anyone, but it’s impossible to tell, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Cyrus said. “For example, I knew this woman who was married, presumably happily, yet there were hints that she might not be and might indeed find need for ventra’maq when she was far, far from her husband.”

“Talking about anyone in particular?” Martaina’s voice had gone cold, frosted even, enough to chill the hallway.

“I tend not to pass judgment,” Cyrus said, keeping his tone even. “But it does make a body curious, especially someone who’s-perhaps not a close friend, but more than an acquaintance, since this person tends to stand watch outside my room whenever I bed down in a strange keep.”

“I also keep watch when you’re by a campfire on your own, at the edge of the encampment.” The bitter tinge in Martaina’s voice was gone, replaced instead by something else, something with a mournful quality to it. “And when you ride toward the edge of the army, away from the others. Or when you steal away, hoping no one will see you, so you can be by yourself. I watch out for you then, too.”

“Elven eyesight,” Cyrus said under his breath.

“I put it to good use.” Martaina’s leather glove creaked as her hand reached behind her and ran down the length of her bow. “But I watch out for you because Thad asked me to, before we left. I would have anyway, though perhaps not as zealously.”

There was a moment of quiet as they rounded a corner, and Cyrus spoke. “You keep his command faithfully, if he asked you to watch out for me.”

She stopped. “But not the other, is that what you’re saying?” Cyrus, not so quick as Martaina, stopped a step later and turned back, saw her statuesque face show strain, her eyes slightly glazed. “I keep faithful to the request he made of me to watch out for you, but not faithful to-” She choked back the words, fighting against emotion. “Damn it,” she said at a whisper.

“I told you,” Cyrus said. “I’m not judgmental. I won’t say anything, but-”

“It’s me.” Martaina held her hand up in front of her, pointing her index finger into the leather armor that covered her chest. “It’s me. I know who I am. I am a master archer, and an expert tracker, and a brilliant swordfighter, one of the very best rangers at hunting through woods and chasing down prey over any land, but when it comes to keeping a husband …” She let her voice trail off. “We can’t all be good at everything, can we?”

“No,” Cyrus said. “No one is perfect. Not at everything.”

“Then how can I be so good at everything else,” she said, calm running over her, “but not … I can follow your orders. I can be a good soldier. But when it comes to being a … a faithful wife, or doing what … what society says I should … I come up short on every occasion. I can hunt down any prey on land, but I can’t keep myself out of another man’s arms when I’m away from my husband.”

“That’s uh …” Cyrus blanched, unsure of what to say. “… I … I don’t know what’s happened between you and Thad-”

“Nothing,” she said, the emotion gone again. “Everything was … fine … when we left. We get along well. When we’re together, everything seems to work, but the minute I knew I was coming on this expedition and he wasn’t …” She shrugged and another crack came through her facade, her face crumpled. “Why am I telling you this? This isn’t your concern. You’re about to lead an army into war … I don’t know,” Martaina shook her head, “we’ve got a battle to attend to, though.” She forced a weak smile. “My problems have been with me for a thousand years; I doubt they’re going anywhere in the next few days while we save this Kingdom.”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, rubbing his face, running his hair back over his ears. “They do seem to be in a spot of bother, don’t they? I’d be less concerned about this fight if we knew how many of these Arkarian mercenaries are going to be in it.”

“No predicting that until we’re in it,” she said. “But however many there are, we still have them outnumbered.”

“True,” Cyrus said, and continued the walk. “But do we have them overpowered? Knocking entire swaths of men and horses flat to the ground with a single spell? That sounds like something Alaric could do, but not many other paladins I’ve heard of.”

“That is a mite puzzling,” Martaina said, in step with him. “If this paladin is so powerful, he’d be wanted in every guild in Arkaria. So why come over here?”

Cyrus smiled, faintly. “Why would anyone from Arkaria come here?” he asked, a trace of irony in his voice as they reached the door to his chambers. “Running from something, I’d expect.” His smile evaporated, replaced by a pensive expression. “The question is-what is he running from?”

Martaina did not answer, and Cyrus opened the door to the chambers, stepping inside to find the Baroness on a chair by the fire, a blanket covering her lower body, her riding clothes back on. “Hello,” he said. When he reached her side he leaned down and kissed her, full and long, and when they broke he could see the wistful smile on her face. “Good morning.”

She reached up and stroked his beard. “You already said a fine good morning to me before you left, but I’ll take another, if you feel up to it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t at present,” Cyrus said with genuine regret. “I have to leave.”

“I see.” Her fingers ran between the long hairs on this jaw. “Perhaps when you get back, if you’ve any energy left.”

“It’ll be a couple days,” Cyrus said with a grin, “I suspect I’ll be ready to repeat what we did last night by then. You may spoil me, getting me too used to this.”

She kissed him, gently but quickly. “I could become quite used to it, though perhaps at a slower pace than last night.”

He shrugged. “I have some lost time to make up for.”

She withdrew her hand. “Perhaps when you get back, you’ll let me shave your face?” She blushed when she saw him look down. “Not that I don’t enjoy the beard, but I like your face. I should like to see more of it, to feel your cheek against mine.”

“Perhaps you’d like to cut my hair as well?” He ran a hand through his long hair, to where it fell on his shoulders. “I’ve been letting it grow for near a year now, and I think I’ve grown quite tired of it being this long.”

“No, I love your hair,” she said, running her fingers through it. “Leave it as it is.”

“As you wish,” he said. She kissed him again, and he returned it, but it was different than those from last night-more affectionate, less passionate, as though they both were acutely aware of the little time they had. “I should go,” he said once he broke from her.

“You don’t want me to come with you, I take it?” No accusation, only acknowledgment.

“It’s not very safe for a non-combatant on the battlefield,” Cyrus said. “While I have no doubt you could be quite the fighter if you ever decided to dedicate yourself to the arts of war, I don’t believe this is a time for teaching. It’s a place where mistakes can have unforgiving consequences.”

“Then I will stay here.” She folded her hands on her lap, a look of peaceful contemplation serene on her face. “And await your return.”

“Are you all right with that?” He stood, looking down on her with as much tenderness as he had.

“It is the way of the women of Luukessia,” she said. “We wait for the men when they go off to war. I may not be in this land much longer, but for now, this is still my way. I cannot go with you, for all you say is true, so I will wait, and bide my time, and stay here until you return-on the day after tomorrow,” she said pointedly, looking him in the eyes.

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Be safe,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t think I could bear the thought of you dying.”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself with it overmuch; it’s never stopped me before.” Cyrus walked to the door and started to open it, then turned back to her. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He slipped his hand beneath his armor and pulled out the vial. “Do you know what this is?”

She stared at it, an amused smile on her face. “Poison?”

“Ah, no,” Cyrus said. “It’s called ventra’maq.”

Clouds drew in around her eyes and she adopted a wounded tone. “You mean after only one night with me, you don’t want me to bear your children?” She broke into a smile, her shoulders shaking from silent laughter.

“I’d like to keep practicing,” Cyrus said as she got up and joined him at the door, slipping the vial out of his hand as she kissed him. “As often as possible.”

“You’ll probably need quite a bit more of this, then.” She popped the cork on the vial and drank it down. “Ugh.” She made a face, her eyes closed and lips puckered. “Ugh, ugh, yuck. On second thought, perhaps bearing your offspring would be a preferable alternative.” She opened her eyes but they remained squinted and she dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. “That is vile.”

He stared at her blankly. “All the women take it. How bad can it be?”

“Bad enough that I’m pondering whether it might be better to simply remain celibate, as you have these last years-”

“Bah!” Cyrus said, and leaned in and kissed her one last time before stepping out the door.

“Keep me in mind, while you’re away?” She looked at him through the open door, serenity still hanging over her, a faint glow of contentment Cyrus hadn’t seen from her before.

“Indeed I shall,” he said, “and I’ll be counting the hours until my return.”

“You mean you’ll be counting the hours until next we’re in bed together?” She gave him a sly look.

“I also enjoy our conversations.”

“Really? Perhaps we could have a long, enduring one the moment you get back, the kind that lasts all night, and that doesn’t involve any touching at all.” She smiled innocently. “How does that sound?”

“Painful,” he said, drawing a laugh from her. “Can’t we do both?”

“I think,” she said as she took his hand and kissed the knuckle of his gauntlet, “that that is indeed what lovers do.”

“I have to go,” he said, bending in and kissing her again. “Truly, this time.”

“Then go,” she said, still wearing the same smile, “with my blessing, and my thoughts, and all else I have to give you.”

Cyrus shut the door, slowly, watching her as he did so, letting the handle roll in his hand, the metal squeaking against metal. He turned and found Martaina standing there, looking quite put out. “Are you finished now? Truly finished?”

“I could go back in for a few more minutes if you’d prefer …”

Martaina whirled, letting her traveling cloak billow outward in an even circle as she did so. She started walking down the hall, and Cyrus took two quick running steps to catch up to her. “I take it you don’t like the long goodbyes?” He saw her look daggers at him. “That’d be a no.”

“I don’t mind a long goodbye, but, ugh,” she said. “Young love is so filled with sap and sweetness, it makes me ill.”

“I could go for a little sap and sweetness right now,” Cyrus said. “I wonder if they can make flapjacks down in the kitchen?”

“Your orders stipulate that we leave immediately, General.”

“I’m feeling a little peckish,” he said. “I think I might have worked up an appetite, you know-” Before he could finish his sentence, Martaina soft-tossed him an apple and he caught it, fumbling it a little but recovering before it slipped away. “That’ll do for now, I suppose. But I do wonder if the kitchen could send something with us-”

They traipsed downstairs, Cyrus thinking about food the whole way. As he passed through the foyer, one of the servants bowed and handed him a small package wrapped in canvas, with a string tied around it. “Provisions for your journey,” the servant said and bowed again.

“What is with all this bowing?” Cyrus whispered as they walked out the front doors of Vernadam and descended the stairs. “You’d think there were gods wandering the halls around here.”

“I’ve seen a god,” Martaina said, taking the reins of her horse from the servant who waited below. “None of us looks much like him.”

“Don’t know how much bowing I’d do to him, anyway,” Cyrus said as he put his foot in a stirrup on Windrider’s saddle and hoisted himself up. “He was the ugliest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen.”

Martaina raised an eyebrow at him as she righted herself in the saddle. “And Bellarum is a handsome fellow by comparison? Am I remembering perhaps a different God of War than you?”

“He’s not as ugly as Mortus was,” Cyrus said. “At least, he didn’t look that ugly when I saw him.”

“When you saw him?” Martaina’s face contorted in consternation. “When did you see the God of War?”

Cyrus urged Windrider toward the gate, Martaina a few paces behind him. He ignored her question as Terian came alongside him. “Davidon,” the dark knight said. “It’s a fine day for battle, is it not?”

“The battle’s going to be tonight,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the Sanctuary members gathered at the gate to follow him. “We’re meeting the count and his men in the village?” Cyrus waited until Longwell nodded at him, then started out of the gate and turned back to Terian, who was on one side of him while Martaina had taken up the other flank. “And, yes, it will be fine,” he said, catching a glimpse of Aisling riding close to Mendicant, as far away from him as possible while remaining in the knot of Sanctuary forces. “I’m particularly looking forward to swinging my sword around; it’s been a while.”

Martaina snickered and looked at him, amusement on her features. “Interesting choice of words. I’m surprised you have enough energy to swing a sword after all the time you spent … wagon racing with the Baroness on your bed last night.”

Terian straightened. “Wagon racing? Is that supposed to mean something?” His brow furrowed. “Did you rut with her last night, Cyrus?”

Cyrus felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “A gentleman never tells.”

“That’d maybe be of concern to me if I’d asked a gentleman, but instead I asked you. Did she bring the dagger to bed? Because after Vara, I can see that being the sort of thing you’d be into, pain and whatnot.”

“I didn’t hear a dagger come into play,” Martaina said. “Although it may have on the fourth time; there was so much squealing it sounded like they were having a livestock auction in there.”

“Aren’t you bound by an oath of silence or something?” Cyrus asked.

“My gods, Cyrus,” Terian said. “I knew you’d been deprived of female company all these years, but-four times? Have you not been taking matters into your own hands?” He looked down. “I suppose the gauntlets make it somewhat colder, but-” Terian shifted his gaze to look at Martaina, “Four times? You’re not exaggerating?”

The elven ranger smirked and held up her hand, the four fingers extended, and she nodded.

“I guess it’s too much, asking an elven woman to be quiet,” Cyrus said, glaring at Martaina.

“I didn’t say it,” Martaina replied, her eyebrow raised. “And it sounds like you might be picking up some local color, sir-like their attitude toward women.”

“Not true,” Cyrus said. “I made sure my partner crossed the finish line each time. I even let her ride on top of the wagon once.”

Terian smirked at him. “So is this the end of the dour and sour Cyrus? Have we finally banished the thoughts of Queen Frostheart to the nether realms of Mortus’s tower?” Terian’s smirk turned into a frown. “Or wherever that giant oddity went when he died.”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said soberly, the thoughts of the blond-haired elf returning for the first time that day, “but I think we’re on our way.”

“Good,” Terian said, “because you were really insufferable-boring and whatnot-for the last couple months.” The dark knight smiled, but there was a malicious edge in his voice. “I felt bad for you. Honestly, it made me a little sick inside. I almost felt like if you died, it’d be a mercy killing.”

“It might have been,” Cyrus said. “But we’re moving past that now. And this is no time to think about … her.” He blinked. “Actually, either of them, for now. I need to focus on this battle. After that … I guess we’ll see.”

“What happens after that?” Martaina asked.

“If we crush the Sylorean army, I suppose we go home,” Cyrus said. “If we just splinter them, we’ll probably have to pursue them north for a while, help break them so this doesn’t happen again in the near future.”

“And if we lose?” Terian’s smirk had returned.

“Then I suspect we’ll have bigger problems to worry about than whether I’m over Vara,” Cyrus said with a smile of his own.

“Dealing with the odd smell that hangs on my chainmail is a bigger concern to me than whether you’ve embraced sanity and returned to the realm of normal womenfolk,” Terian said. “But all the same, you were one sour bastard after she twisted on you.”

“Look out there,” Martaina said, pointing her finger down the hill, past the town. The army of Sanctuary was assembled in the streets, already facing in the direction they were set to march. Beyond them, out in the fields, another army waited. On one side of the pasture were thousands of men on foot, at least five-fold what Sanctuary had. Across the field, and not nearly so well ordered, were thousands more on horseback; so many that Cyrus could not hope to reasonably count them all.

“Where the hell were those guys when we came into town yesterday?” Terian asked.

“I’m guessing they were set up to the north,” Cyrus said. “Probably positioned between where the enemy is coming from and Vernadam.”

Curatio rode up as they started around the switchback, heading down the path. The sky overhead had taken on some clouds, and the sun seemed to be trying to shine through them, but dimly. Cyrus caught a hint of dust as the wind blew across his face, the dry, earthy smell of dirt that came off the hill behind them.

“You ready?” Curatio said as he slowed his horse to ride next to Terian. “Head clear? Prepared for battle?”

“Quite so,” Cyrus said.

“And was the Baroness still aglow when you left her?” Curatio’s usual infectious smile had been curiously absent of late, but Cyrus saw the tug of it on the elf’s mouth, even as he looked straight ahead, giving Cyrus only a view of the healer’s profile.

“Been doing a little eavesdropping, Curatio?” Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at him.

“It wouldn’t take much eavesdropping to hear your conversation about ‘wagon rides,’ even if I hadn’t been quartered next door to you last night.”

They rode into the village. The army of Sanctuary was already assembled in formation, neatly ordered rows beginning at the square and leading all the way down the main avenue out of town. “I’ll need to talk with Odellan and Longwell as we’re riding,” Cyrus said as he rode down the street, the musk of animals filling the air around them, the hooves clopping. “No need to delay our departure, especially since it appears Count Ranson is already waiting for us.”

Cyrus rode down the line, the others falling in behind him, leading the procession past the rows of his army. He heard hundreds of greetings and acknowledgments of his presence, and smiled, trying to wave at as many of them as he could.

“You might want to cool it off with the excess enthusiasm,” Martaina stage whispered behind him. “You’re so damned happy this morning, they’re bound to wonder where their real general has gone.”

“I prefer going to war under the command of a testy general,” Terian said as Longwell and Odellan fell in behind them. “There’s something unseemly about storming into a fray of swords and arrows, blood and bile, with a guy who looks so damned happy.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and rode on, past the villagers lined up on both sides of the streets. I wonder if they know how close their Kingdom is to defeat? I wonder if it matters? His thoughts were dark as he rode to the end of the line and the edge of the village. Where else could they go?

The steady sound of hoofbeats carried him forward as Cyrus led the procession out of town; ahead, Count Ranson waited on horseback with Odau Genner and a few of the other familiar faces he’d seen back at the castle.

“Good day, Lord Davidon,” Ranson said as they closed. “My army is assembled and ready to move.”

“Well, then,” Cyrus said, “let us not hesitate any longer.”

“As you are the leader of this force,” Ranson said, “you’ll be proceeding ahead of us, I trust?”

“Aye,” Cyrus said, and felt a stray droplet of rain splatter off his armor, touching his cheek as it splashed. “I trust Sir Longwell can guide us.”

“I’ll be accompanying you as well,” Odau Genner said with a nod, “if that’s all right with you, General.”

“Always room at the front of battle, less so at the rear,” Cyrus said, grinning at Genner in a manner that was not returned. He turned to the army following behind him. “All right, Sanctuary, let’s move out!”