Crusader

Chapter 17

The ride was long, and by sundown Cyrus was weary of the journey again. They passed into woods called the Forest of Waigh, and the ground become uneven around them as they followed a road north. The trees were bunched close together, moss hanging from the branches, blotting out the sky at the highest levels of the boughs. Raindrops still made their way through, however, and a steady drizzle kept the expedition cool as they made their march.

After the sun went down, the rain seemed to come in torrents, wave after wave of water sluicing down on them, reminding Cyrus of the time he’d been caught in a riverboat during a storm.

“Ha ha,” Terian crowed as Cyrus passed him after inspecting the wet and weary column. “Not quite so happy now, are you, Mr. I-Just-Experienced-The-Long-Forgotten-Thrill-Of-My-Crotch-Last-Night-And-Can’t-Wait-For-More!”

Cyrus ignored him and they plodded on through the gathering darkness. The storm went on into the night, a driving rain that threw sheets of water onto Cyrus’s armor, the heaviest downpour that they had experienced since arriving in Luukessia.

“Our pace has slowed,” Longwell said as he and Odellan rode next to Cyrus. “Unless the rain lets up soon, we won’t be on the Fields of Gareme until long after midnight.” The dragoon looked at Cyrus, almost cringing from the fury of the rain pounding his helm. “And we won’t be in a position to hit their army until after sunrise.”

Cyrus cursed. “I guess we should have left last night.”

“I’m certain they’ll have scouts, sir,” Longwell said. “They’ll see us long before we see them; we need lanterns to travel in this dark, but a single scout doesn’t.”

“We have pickets out as well,” Cyrus said. “If we’re lucky, perhaps they’ll catch any enemy scouts before they get close enough to spot us.”

“Doubtful, sir,” Odellan said, raising his voice over the pouring rain battering their armor. “A scout could pass within yards of us without us noticing, but they’re not likely to miss an entire army tromping by.”

“I feel obligated to warn you in advance, sir,” Longwell said, “the dragoons will not be nearly as effective fighting on the plains after this weather.”

“What?” Cyrus stared at Longwell, questioning.

“The rain will turn the fields into mud,” Longwell said. “The dragoons will be at poor advantage if the army of Syloreas holds true to their usual tactics and carries spears. In a full out charge, dragoons can break through lines of spears, though with some difficulty.” He grimaced, his eyes hidden in the shadow his helm cast over them. “In this, it becomes unlikely they will be able to.”

“Damn,” Cyrus said. “What about bowmen? Surely they must have some.”

“Bows are not nearly so well loved here as you’d find in Arkaria,” Longwell said with regret. “They are neither as accurate nor as useful at range, and as such we have archers, but you’d be in a much better position relying on the Sanctuary rangers to fulfill any role you’d have in mind for my father’s bowmen.”

“That’s to both our advantage and detriment, then,” Cyrus said. “At least we won’t have to advance under volleys of arrows, but it would be awfully nice to be able to shower them with a hail of them.”

“With the accuracy of our rangers,” Odellan said, “we could use our archers to target their officers, perhaps? And these magic-wielding mercenaries that are of such concern?”

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “And we’ll be turning loose some spellcasters of our own. I doubt that they have a wizard.” He smiled grimly. “That bodes ill for them.”

They rode on through the wet and the night, the rain coming down around them with all the fury of a sky’s rage turned loose upon the earth. The ground turned to mud, the sky became black, and the lamps that were carried by the army forced Cyrus and the others on horseback to ride alongside the column, straining to see in the dark as the water that fell through the trees above continued ever on.

“The troops are cold,” Odellan said, forcing Cyrus to turn around and look for the elf. He was a horse-length behind Cyrus, trying futilely to turn his face from the rain. “They could use a rest and they won’t be of much use to us in a fight if they arrive fatigued.”

Cyrus nodded. “Column, halt!” he called out, and heard his cry taken up by others down the stream of endless soldiers that vanished into the black behind him. Curatio and J’anda appeared out of the darkness on the other side of their troops, riding their horses to join Cyrus and Odellan.

“Can’t see a thing,” J’anda said, his hair soaked and his deep blue skin fading into the night. “The rain has cut our visibility to nothing.”

“Remember that time in the Realm of Darkness,” Cyrus said with a smile, “when Curatio lit up the sky?”

“I could do that here, I suppose,” the healer said with a wry smile, “but we’d be giving away our position to anyone with eyes; and I can’t be sure over the rain, but I suspect there’s enemies about.”

“There are,” Martaina said, riding up with Terian behind her. Cyrus saw something in her hands, a rope, and she tugged on it as her horse slowed, and Cyrus saw it trail to something dragged behind her, something cutting a wake through the mud on the path. “I caught this one hiding in the trees.”

Cyrus looked at the object at the end of the rope. It moaned, a low, plaintive cry, and he realized it was a muddy human, a man bound by the hands, stretched prone across the ground. He raised his face from where it had come to rest in the mud and groaned. Cyrus could see some blood dripping in the low light, mixing with the sopping wet dirt that coated him.

“Is he capable of speaking?” Cyrus asked.

“I can fix what ails him, if you’d like,” Curatio said.

“Please,” the man croaked. “Please … it hurts, so much.”

“Oh,” Martaina said and dismounted. She bent over the man and reached down. He screamed, a long, agonized howl, and she came back up with an arrow. “Almost forgot about this. I had to hobble him so he wouldn’t get away.” She scowled. “Tracking is a real bitch with all this rain washing away footprints.”

Cyrus guided Windrider over to the man, and peered down at his dirty face from horseback. It was impossible to see any detail of the man, only mud that covered his face and long hair. He appeared to be wearing a tattered cloak, and if his shirt and breeches had been new before Martaina dragged him along, it was now impossible to tell. “My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said. “Answer my questions and my healer will soothe all your pains.”

“I … I won’t,” the man breathed. “Torture me all you want, I’ll never tell you a thing.”

“I believe you wouldn’t,” Cyrus said, staring into the man’s eyes; they were wide, but defiant. “You’ve got a good-sized hole in you, you’ve just been dragged a considerable ways, and you’re still so full of spit and whiskey that you’d tell me to go to the hells eighteen times over, even if I cut off your leg. I admire your spirit. Curatio, heal this man.”

“Uh …” The healer sputtered. “All right.” He muttered under his breath and Cyrus saw the glow of a healing spell encompass the wounded captive.

“Is that better?” Cyrus asked, soothing.

“Yes,” the captive said, momentarily losing his defiant tone. “But I still won’t talk.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Cyrus said. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t bleed to death while my enchanter cracks your mind open like a ripe gourd. J’anda?” Cyrus turned and looked at the dark elf, who nodded. “Take him.”

J’anda closed his eyes and stretched his hand out at the man, who recoiled and turned from where he’d been sitting upright, and scrambled to crawl away. He made it almost a foot before a blue light swirled around his head and he went slack, on all fours in the mud. He swayed, then put a hand on the stirrup of Martaina’s horse and pulled to his feet, turning to face Cyrus, a dazed look in his eyes.

“What’s the word, J’anda?” Cyrus looked at the enchanter then to the captive, who stood stonefaced, staring straight ahead.

“He’s a scout from their army, all right,” J’anda said, his eyes closed. “Bad news. They’ve encamped at the edge of the forest. They’ve traversed the entire plains to be ready …” The dark elf sighed. “They had planned to ambush us when we arrived tomorrow. They’re already set up to hit us with a charge the moment we emerge from the forest.”

“Dammit,” Cyrus said. “The trees are too thick to allow us to move off the path in any numbers.”

“That was the plan,” J’anda said. “If they could lock down the army, keep it from getting mobile on the plains, the dragoons would lose their advantage.” He shook his head sheepishly. “Hard to do much with an army of horseman all trapped in a line.”

“Excellent strategy on their part,” Odellan said. “It does rather complicate things for us.”

“Ask him how many mercenaries they have and what types,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider on the side of his neck. The horse’s mane was soaked.

J’anda stared into the man’s eyes, as though he were trying to sift the truth out. “Two warriors, two rangers … a healer … and a paladin.” The dark elf turned back to Cyrus. “I had to pull that out of his memories; he didn’t know what they were by name, but he’s seen what they can do.”

“Should be simple if we can get the healer first,” Terian said, lingering behind Martaina. “He goes down and the paladin is vulnerable. Wiping out the rest of their army will be as easy as making a new recruit cry if we can sift out those two bastards first.”

“I don’t think we should discount the effectiveness of their trap,” Odellan said. “They can pincer us, surrounding our forces as we emerge from the woods, making our numbers count for nearly nothing.” He looked to Cyrus. “I believe you’re somewhat familiar with the technique.”

“I’ve always called it a choke point,” Cyrus said. “Like when we employed it on the bridge in Termina, you’re grabbing your enemy around the throat and slowing the flow of blood-their troops, in this case-until they falter.”

“And falter we may,” Odellan said, “unless we can break through their ambush.”

“Could be tough in the rain,” Longwell conceded. “Poor maneuverability, the numbers against us, our visibility cut to nothing and we’re fighting on unfamiliar terrain. Perhaps we should wait until morning.”

“I think not,” Cyrus said, a grin on his face. “By then, they’ll be up and waiting for us.”

J’anda raised an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me when I told you what I learned from this scout’s mind-they are already waiting for us, and the minute we appear from the forest, they’ll spring on us from three sides.”

“I heard you,” Cyrus said. “Which is why they’ll be totally caught by surprise when our army marches into their rear flank at dawn.”

There was silence save for the rain, which showed no sign of tapering, large droplets of water hammering down in the puddles all around them. “All right, General,” Terian said, sarcasm dripping over Cyrus’s title, “how do you propose to maneuver 2,000 dragoons, 5,000 footmen, 1,000 of our soldiers and fifty of our horsed veterans in a long, wide arc through the muddy woods so that we can flank them? Oh, and do it all in the next … what, four hours? Five? Before dawn.”

Cyrus didn’t answer them, even though every last one of them was watching him. He only smiled.