Crusader

Chapter 20

Cyrus

4 Months Earlier

“Get up,” Cyrus heard the sound of joy in the voice as he stirred back to life. “We’ve won.” He blinked his eyes, and there was a thin sheen of smoke and haze before them. Acrid burning smells filled his nostrils, and he choked on the sharp, sour taste of blood in his mouth. Nausea overcame him and he leaned over, vomiting up everything he had ever eaten, the acid and bile leaving him gagging, lying on one shoulder, face half-buried in the mud and vomit.

“It’s not quite that easy to shake off,” Cyrus heard but couldn’t turn to look. The nausea returned and he tried to throw up again, but only spittle and base liquid came out, and he rested his cheek again in the mud. “Coming back to life isn’t as easy as walking across a village street; it’s death, and there’s a price to be paid in vitality and body when you come back this way. It is not a cheap price, either.” Cyrus recognized Curatio’s voice as the one speaking; he was lost as to who the other might be.

“We’ve won a great victory here.” The other speaker was talking again. The voice was damnably familiar, and Cyrus struggled to roll to his back so he could look up. “All thanks to you lot. Excellent strategy, and you did it perfectly, held them in place for us to hit them.” Cyrus’s vision cleared, and he recognized Count Ranson standing above him, smiling for the first time since they’d met. “He should be up and celebrating with us; we’ve routed the Sylorean army and sent them running north in disarray, their mercenaries gone.”

“Give me a minute,” Cyrus said, his voice hoarse.

“Take your time,” Curatio said. “That was no gentle blow you took; Partus crushed your head before he went running off.”

“Partus?” Cyrus asked. “That dwarf, that was his name, wasn’t it?” Cyrus waited until Curatio nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

The healer pursed his lips, his expression guarded. “Because he was the Guildmaster of the Daring once upon a time. He took their most experienced members and fled to Goliath around the time you joined us.”

“Partus,” Cyrus said. “I’ve heard Erith curse his name.”

“As well she should,” Terian’s voice came from above him, and the dark elf’s face appeared in view next to Ranson. “He’s a strong paladin; maybe the most powerful I’ve ever met, save for Alaric.”

“I could have used your help back there,” Cyrus rasped, looking at the dark knight. “I called out to you.”

“Sorry about that,” Terian said. “I was about to be overrun by the Sylorean army, so I was watching my back because I knew the flames were about to die. Sure enough, they did.” He ran a hand through his long, stringy black hair. “When I looked up again, he’d already killed you and escaped.”

“Dammit.” Cyrus tried to sit up and felt all his stomach muscles involuntarily contract, causing him to heave again. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on his gauntlet, feeling the mud from his hand stick to his face. “He got away?”

“He did,” Curatio said. “We were badly disorganized after his first spell, the one that knocked half of us out of the fight. I managed to get our spellcasters in place to contain the armies, but there was no one left to stop him. He bounded off like a rabbit after he killed you, slipped over the bridge in the chaos.”

“Did any of the Sylorean army get away?” Cyrus took Ranson and Curatio’s proffered hands and let them pull him to his feet.

“Perhaps a quarter of them,” Ranson said with the same smile. “I’ve got my army in pursuit, and messengers have already come back to tell me we’ve dispatched a good many of them. They’ve no horses, no provisions, and we managed to kill their generals.” The count folded his arms in front of him. “I expect fewer than one man in ten who entered this battle on their side will ever see his homeland again.”

“I suppose that’s some sort of worthy accomplishment,” Cyrus said without any enthusiasm. “Kingdom defended, mission accomplished.” He felt the heart go out of his joy. “Now we can go home, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to leave,” Curatio said. “Partus is still out there and he can be one devilish nuisance if he were to rejoin the Syloreans.” The healer looked to the Count. “Do they still have a functioning army up in the north?”

The count shrugged. “Aye, they do. I’ll grant you, I still fear that half-man, but without an army at his back he stands much less chance of causing us ulcers.”

“Dammit,” Cyrus said. “Let’s get a tracking party together. Does he have a horse?”

“I didn’t see him take one,” Terian said with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t get one later, but I think he went over the bridge on foot.”

“He won’t have made it far on those stubby legs,” Cyrus said. “We can run him down on horseback.” He looked around. “Where’s Windrider?” The horse appeared out of a cluster of mares a few feet away with a whinny, prompting Cyrus to smile. “Never far, that’s for certain.”

“I’ll go with you,” Terian said, sliding his blade out of his scabbard. “Should be easier to bring down a white knight if you’ve got a black knight alongside you.”

“All right,” Cyrus said with a nod. “Next time when I call for help, you’ll be there, though, right?”

Terian rolled his eyes. “No. I’m going to let you die, purposefully and horribly, just like this time. What do you think?”

Cyrus stared at him blankly. “Well … okay, then. Where’s Longwell?”

“Over here,” came a weak voice, and Cyrus turned to see the dragoon sitting with his head between his legs a few feet away, also covered in mud. Longwell’s head came up, also caked in mud, and he looked pale as a cloud. “Count me among those hit by that bastard’s spell; I went flying and my horse landed on top of me with all the force of a tree falling on a mushroom.” He put his hand over his mouth. “Ugh. Shouldn’t have mentioned food.”

“And Martaina?” Cyrus asked. “We’ll need a tracker.” A hand went up a few feet away from Longwell, and Cyrus barely recognized the elven woman; her garb was normally predisposed to blending in with the dirt and greenery of nature, but now it was caked in mud, along with her face and hair. “Did a horse land on you, too?”

“Not a horse,” Martaina said. “I’m pretty sure it was an elephant. At least that’s what it felt like when it hit me, after a nice, long, lazy end-over-end flight through the air.” She shook her head and looked at Curatio pityingly. “Did you resurrect my horse?”

“I did,” Curatio said, “but you’ll likely not want to be riding her for a bit. Keep in mind she probably feels as bad or worse than you do.”

“I’ll go with you,” Martaina said, “but I don’t know how well I’ll be able to track at the moment. It’s delicate, sensitive work, filled with subtlety and nuance.” She hung her head. “Right now I feel like I just want to fill a bucket with everything I’ve ever eaten in my thousands of years of life.” She retched. “Which would take quite a bit of force, and I feel it coming on.”

“I’ll go with you,” came a soft voice from behind Cyrus. He turned to see a shapely leg, clad in smooth leather, make its way in front of him. He raised his head to see Aisling, her arms folded across her belly, as though she were trying to push up her small breasts. “I’m a fair tracker; not as good as Martaina at her best, but good enough to sift out some dwarf from a running army of men.”

“You sure?” Cyrus asked as he hoisted himself up into the saddle. “I don’t want there to be any tension-”

“What tension?” she asked with a forced smile.

“I recommend you wait a little longer,” Curatio said, looking up at Cyrus on horseback. “Some of you are going to be feeling poorly for a while yet.”

“I can feel poorly sitting here on the ground doing nothing,” Cyrus said, “or on a horse, tracking down the miniaturized bastard who killed me. I pick the latter, if only because it dispels that ugly sensation that sitting on one’s backside brings when there’s unpleasant work to be done.”

It took a few more minutes to get a hunting party saddled and ready to ride. Cyrus looked around the battlefield, beheld the smoke and carnage. The dragoons had hit the Sylorean lines hard. With their retreat cut off by the spellcasters’ fire magic, the horsed riders had cut the unhorsed and lightly armored infantry to pieces. Even the men-at-war, wearing armor considerably heavier than Cyrus’s (and much more constrictive, judging by its somewhat primitive design) had been struck down by the dragoons, who had used their lances to knock over the poorly balanced warriors and finished the job later or let the mud do it for them.

The hunting party rode out across the bridge, Cyrus noting how badly muddied the grasslands had become. Horse hooves had ripped the soil, leaving dark marks where greenery had been only hours before. The smell of upturned earth had a rich, deep aroma that reminded Cyrus of the gardens at Sanctuary. The sky held a grey tinge, clouds masking the sun from shining down. It seemed appropriate to Cyrus that the sun shouldn’t shine down brightly, that the sky shouldn’t be blue; after all, thousands of men had died only an hour earlier. Nature could not find much cause for glory and celebration in that.

“So this is it?”

It was Terian who spoke, jarring Cyrus out of his daze. He turned to see the dark elf keeping pace next to him. Martaina and Aisling rode in front, the former still looking as green as her usual clothing and the latter keeping a close watch on the muddy ground ahead of them. “We go home after this?”

“I suppose,” Cyrus said. “So long as we get this dwarf, then the Kingdom is saved. And we’re back to whiling away the days in the Plains of Perdamun, trying to find new targets to hit and places to explore for our own edification and whatever treasures we can pillory.” He shrugged. “Or I suppose we could get involved in the war again, though I doubt there’s much edification or gold to be had from walking that road.”

“I doubt we’ll avoid it,” Terian said. “The Sovereign is doubtless upset with us, to make no mention of the fact that you killed countless of his soldiers while defending Termina. It seems likely that my people will seek revenge if they know who inflicted those losses upon them.”

“I didn’t invade their territory looking for a fight,” Cyrus said. “The elves didn’t even invade their lands. The dark elves decided to start a war of conquest against their neighbors, and I happened to be standing in the way. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have been on that bridge with me, trying to keep your people from raping and pillaging the town.”

Terian looked at him, hard, a strange burning in his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was broken. “No. I can’t say I wouldn’t have been with you. After all, we are … friends. Comrades at arms.”

“And you wouldn’t have done it yourself, even if I hadn’t been there?” Cyrus didn’t look at the dark elf. “You wouldn’t have tried to protect those people yourself, just because it was the right thing to do?”

“I …” Terian choked down whatever he was about to say, and Cyrus turned to look at the dark knight, who was strangely animated; his mouth opened and it looked as though he were trying to speak, but nothing came forth at first. When it did, it was low, hoarse, and barely understandable. Cyrus had to concentrate to hear him, tuning out the sound of hoof beats, of laughter from Ryin somewhere behind him, of someone else heaving from atop their horse. “Dark knights aren’t quite as fond of hopeless causes or helping the defenseless as you are. I don’t … I mean, they were elves, and my people are enemies of the elves-”

“You work with elves every day,” Cyrus cut him off. “You’ve saved their lives. You’ve fought for them. You’re a member of Sanctuary, Terian. If you wanted solely to enrich yourself, the big three would gladly take you on. Hells, man, you could even make a fortune plundering in the dark elven army, like some others do.” Cyrus noted Terian’s face become stricken, but he went on. “But you’re here with us. You could be anywhere, but you’re with us. Not where you could become the wealthiest, not where you could seek the most power, but here in Sanctuary. Can you tell me why you’d voluntarily come back if not to ‘help the defenseless’ and fight for ‘hopeless causes’?”

The dark knight’s mouth opened and closed again several times, but no discernible noise came out that Cyrus heard. Terian’s eyes blinked repeatedly, and he finally stopped trying, closing his mouth, turning to look straight ahead. After a long silence he finally said. “That’s really an excellent question.”

Cyrus waited for him to elaborate and when he did not, the warrior shrugged and continued riding. The dwarf’s trail carried them over plains, lightly rolling hills that began to trend further and further downward, until they finally came to the edge of a swamp.

“Gods, it smells like troll town in there,” Terian said, holding his nose.

“That’s not very nice,” Nyad scolded him. Her red cloak was stained with mud, and her usually relaxed expression was gone, replaced by one that was quite cross.

“Not nice but accurate,” the dark knight said. “Have you ever been to Gren? No? Then shut up.”

“Curb your tongue, dark knight,” Ryin said darkly. “There’s no cause for rudeness.”

“There’s no use in your bedchamber wench being offended for the whole troll race and snapping at me either, but she did.” Terian pulled back on the reins of his horse, turning it around to face the druid. “Keep your bitch on her leash; even Vaste wouldn’t have taken umbrage at such a simple observation.”

“All of you-shut up.” Aisling’s voice cut through the argument, silencing all three officers at once. Cyrus raised an eyebrow as the dark elf dismounted her horse and crouched by the edge of the water. The swamp’s edge was murky water, brown and shallow, a pool the size of the Sanctuary foyer, broken by small hummocks of trees and land that broke out of the mire. She stood and looked up to Martaina. “How long would you say?”

“Fifteen minutes at most,” the ranger answered. “Probably more like ten. The water looks shallow enough that I may be able to keep up with his footprints.” She straightened in her saddle. “Doubt the rest of you will be able to see them, though.”

“I don’t need to see them so long as you can,” Cyrus said. “Let’s keep going.”

Their progress was slowed as Martaina stared into the muck. They went along at a slower pace, the elf squinting into the water, pausing every few minutes, trying to decipher the dwarf’s path. “He’s leaving heavy impressions in the mud beneath the surface. He’s not running anymore, but he’s still … jogging, I would say. Walking fast. He’s also limping a little now, maybe from an injury or a cramp.”

“That’s amazing,” Terian said, holding his horse back at a distance with the others while Martaina and Aisling tried to decipher the trail. “Can you tell what he had for breakfast this morning, too?”

“If we follow him long enough, we’ll find some evidence of that,” Martaina said, not breaking away from her staring contest with the water. “This way.”

The water dried up ahead, and a set of tracks led them forward, cypress trees sticking out of the sodden ground around them. “It would appear we’re experiencing a drought,” Longwell said from behind Cyrus. “This swamp is usually considerably farther underwater, near impassable on horseback.”

“Too bad for us,” Mendicant said. “If the water were any higher, it might have stopped him from passing this way.”

“Yeah, you short folk don’t tend to like to get wet, do you?” Terian asked.

“It doesn’t take much for us to get in over our heads,” the goblin replied. “Rather like this fellow.”

The ground got higher for a spell, and the brush around them got thicker as bushes sprang out of the wet ground, the undergrowth and trees slowing their progress. In some cases they were forced to go around; in most, Cyrus felt at least a few low-hanging boughs and branches clatter on his armor and felt a moment’s pity for those not wearing any.

“I hear him,” Martaina said a few moments later, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “He’s not far ahead now, and I don’t think he knows we’re here. He’s slogging along, maybe a thousand feet ahead.” She angled her horse slightly to the left. “This way.” She pulled her bow out and notched an arrow.

They rode across a small patch of level ground, and when they crested a small hill, Martaina froze, holding up her hand to halt them. She listened intently as the rest of them remained quiet. “Do you hear that?” she asked, a look of intense concentration upon her face.

“I do,” Curatio said. “Something in the underbrush ahead, in addition to our dwarven friend.”

“What, he’s got company?” Terian asked. “Or is there an animal nearby?”

Martaina continued to listen, and cocked her head, befuddlement showing through the mud and dirt on her face. “That doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard.”

Curatio shook his head. “Nor I. But he’s not far, we should be able to overtake him now.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Cyrus said. “I’d prefer to bring him down before he can throw out one of those spells that sends men and horses flying like kites in the wind. Rangers, ready your bows. Nyad, Mendicant,” he turned to acknowledge the two of them, “I want you to cast a cessation spell on him, shut down his ability to cast spells. J’anda,” he turned to the enchanter, “mesmerize or charm him if you can. Let’s not take any chances on this. It’s the last task we have before us, then we can go back to Vernadam to …” he cleared his throat, “… celebrate.”

Mild snickers filled the air from those around him, which Cyrus ignored. “Good for you, sweetie,” Nyad said. “I think it’s a very healthy thing you’re doing with Cattrine, and you can ignore these naysayers. They’re just jealous because they’re all going to back to lonely beds.” J’anda shot her a withering look. “Well, some of them are, anyway.”

Cyrus turned back to the path and caught Aisling staring at him. She looked away and spurred her horse forward. He followed along with the rest over a hummock that rose to a small hill. When he reached the top, he started to jerk back on Windrider’s reins; Martaina and Aisling had both stopped abruptly, trying to avoid sliding down the slope. “What?” Cyrus asked. “The slope’s not that bad.”

“What is that?” Martaina asked, pointing ahead. The ground before them dropped down to another patch of flat ground. Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to motion ahead, where something was struggling, and another figure was on top of it, wrestling in the high grass.

“Looks like our dwarf got tangled up with the local wildlife,” Cyrus said, urging Windrider ahead. The horse obeyed his gentle command and galloped down the hill.

As they drew closer to the battle, Cyrus caught glimpses of Partus struggling, flashes of the dwarf’s face, panicked, as something rode his back and dragged him down again and again. The thing was bizarrely shaped, like a man crossed with a four-legged beast; its skin was pale, wet, and slick. Clawed hands grasped at Partus, seizing him, jerking him back down to the ground behind the high grass, and a face appeared, something Cyrus caught only a glimpse of before it was gone.

He jerked on Windrider’s reins about twenty feet from the disturbance and the horse reared back, coming to a fast stop within a few steps. Cyrus dismounted and ran; as he drew closer, the thrashing between dwarf and the creature was more pronounced.

“Help me!” Partus screamed. He was lifted aloft, and the creature’s face was on his neck, buried, blood streaming down the white flesh. “HELP!”

Cyrus lunged forward the last few feet. His sword was in his hand, and he took care not to hit the dwarf as the writhing mass twisted on the ground. Cyrus brought his sword down on one of the creature’s forelegs and Praelior bit deep into the ghost-white flesh, severing it. The creature halted, unbalanced, Partus still clutched in its mouth, the dwarf screaming, the beast’s face hidden by the dwarf’s body. It dropped Partus slightly, exposing the upper part of its face; white-grey skin thinly layered over a hairless, dome-like head, roughly human-shaped, but peering above the dwarf’s figure were two eyes, black all the way to the edges, and protruding from the skull as though the creature had been choked.

“What the hell is that?” Cyrus heard Terian dismount behind him. Two arrows hit home in the creature’s backside, the only part of its body that Partus wasn’t shielding with his.

“GET IT OFF ME!” Partus shouted as it dangled him in its teeth, the dwarf hanging from its mouth.

Cyrus strode forward, feinting toward the creature as more arrows landed in its posterior. He took a swipe at it and it retreated. Cyrus took two more steps forward and lunged at the monster, trying to bury his sword in it. He missed the flank and fell, Praelior coming down with him. He hit his knees, catching himself with his palms, and he watched as the creature dropped Partus immediately and used its remaining three limbs to leap at him.

The teeth caught him on the armor, clamping firmly down upon his breastplate and backplate. He saw the creature’s mouth, a wide, gaping void, countless teeth, the lips bending outward almost like a beak. Cyrus rolled, sending it writhing through the grass. He kept his grip on his sword, which he brought around in a wide arc and used to lop off the beast’s hind leg. It struggled, biting down on him. His armor did not flex at its bite, the steel failing to yield to savage teeth even as the creature jerked its head back and forth on him. The weight of it pushed Cyrus to the ground, and he pulled it down with him.

Cyrus could feel the weight of the thing atop him as he pushed against it on the soft, muddy ground. His left arm was wrapped around the neck of the creature and his right was clutching Praelior. He pushed his blade up, into the stout body of the thing, felt the give as he pushed it through the skin. He felt the monster buck and squirm as it fought his hold, the desperate thrashing growing more maniacal.

After a few seconds, Cyrus felt an impact, and then the body went limp. He rolled it off and sat up, tossing the body aside, the putrid smell of rot in his nose. His hand came up and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“You all right?” Martaina was at his side, her bow in her hand.

“I’m fine,” Cyrus said. He looked to his left to see Longwell, spear in hand, the pointy end still buried in the creature’s fat neck. It lay next to him, pressed to the ground. “What the hell was that?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Longwell said, wriggling the tip of his weapon in the creature’s neck. “As far as I know it’s not native to these parts.”

It was upright, its skull and eyes staring blindly up at them. The eyes were still black but unmoving now, and lifeless as well. Cyrus leaned over and stared into them, and something prickled in the back of his mind. “This thing is …” he shuddered. “There’s something very disturbing about this creature.” He blinked. And familiar, he thought. Something very familiar about it. “Anyone ever seen anything like this before?”

“Not that I can recall,” Curatio said, on his horse a few feet away. “But it seems … I don’t know, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on, but it seems like something I’ve run across at some point before.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Longwell said, peering at it. “But I didn’t want to say it, because I know damned well I’ve never fought one of them.” He poked at it again, causing the body to wriggle with the motion. “I wonder if there are more?”

“It was a nasty bastard,” Cyrus said, standing. “But pretty weak overall. If it hadn’t gotten me off my feet, I don’t think it would have been a huge challenge.” He stooped and picked up his helm. “Speaking of challenges …” He turned his head and saw Partus a few feet away, Terian standing next to him with a sword across the dwarf’s neck. “There you are, my half-sized, bearded nemesis.”

“Here I am,” Partus said, his eyes still staring at the creature. “Not planning on going much of anywhere, either. I don’t care what you say, that thing damned near got me, and if there’s any more, I’m not looking to face them alone, though I might have made a better show of it if your wizards hadn’t cessated my damned spells. Anyhow,” the dwarf said, hands up, “I suppose I’ll be coming with you.” He looked up at Terian. “Unless you’re planning on being done with it right here and taking my head off.”

“So very tempting,” Terian said, and let the blade drift into Partus’s neck.

“I think not,” Cyrus said. “We’re not executioners.”

“Well, then,” Partus began to stand, and Terian kicked the dwarf’s legs out from under him, causing him to fall. He lay on his back, staring up. “Oh, so that’s how it is, eh? Are you quite finished?”

“I could stand to do it a few more times,” Terian said.

“I’ll just bet you could, you blue-skinned sadist. Not a great surprise to me that a dark knight feels the need to poke at me when I’m unarmed and surrendering; it’s not as though you’d stand a chance when I have my weapon in my hand,” Partus said.

“I’m more than a match for you, Partus,” Terian said coolly. “I just never did like you is all, so I’m taking this opportunity to get a few digs in for all the joy you gave me back when we were Alliance officers together.”

“I hear a lot of talk from you, Lepos,” Partus said, his ruddy complexion dark, “but I’m without my hammer, your sword’s at my throat and your wizard’s got a spell preventing me from sending you back to Arkaria in one good jump. Why don’t you just be a good lad and hand me my weapon and I’ll empty your head with it, just like I did your friend there.” He pointed to Cyrus, his small eyes fixed on Terian.

“Enough,” Cyrus said. “Bind him, gag him, and put a rock in there first so he can’t move his tongue around. We don’t need him hitting us with a spell if he can cast sublingually.” Cyrus smiled. “Better still, strap his hands around his neck; if he wants to cast a spell he can take his own head off and solve our problem of what to do with him.”

“What about this thing?” Aisling was on her hands and knees in the grass, next to the creature. Cyrus blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed her there.

“What about it?”

“Maybe we should bring it with us?” She ran a finger along the flesh of its arm. “I know there are some strange and fanciful creatures in the world, but this is unlike anything I’ve seen. Might be worth taking a closer look at with a dagger. Especially,” her eyes flashed, “if there are any more of them out there.”

“I don’t see reason to concern ourselves overmuch,” Cyrus said, “but better to be overprepared than under, I reckon. Bind it, too, just in case, and bring it along on the back of your horse.”

“My horse?” Aisling said, looking at him with equal parts disbelief and offense. “Why mine?”

“Because as the brilliant originator of the plan,” Cyrus said with a smile, “you get to carry it out.” He sniffed. “Also? That thing smells.”

“Great,” Aisling muttered under her breath. “Because I need more reasons to help you find me unappealing.”

Cyrus ignored her, whistling instead to Windrider, who came to a halt beside him. He patted the horse and climbed up in the saddle. “Mendicant,” Cyrus said, and waited for the goblin to appear out of the clump of the Sanctuary party, which had gathered behind him, between where they stood and the hill that he had charged down, “do you think your horse can bear the weight of you and our prisoner?”

“If we don’t run him too hard,” the goblin warned. “It’s been a long day, though, and we’ll be needing to rest the horses soon.”

“It’s an hour or so back to the edge of the swamp and a little farther to the crossing,” Cyrus said. “Let’s make camp once we’ve met up with the rest of our army, give our horses a night of rest.” He frowned, adjusting himself in the saddle and feeling a dozen aches and pains. “And ourselves as well. We’ll make our way back to Vernadam tomorrow.”

They took a few minutes to get situated and give the horses ample time to drink from a small stream of fresh water, and then started back. The journey took hours, and seemed slower than the trip in, the party mostly quiet from the fatigue of traveling through the night on the evening before.

Cyrus found himself riding next to Aisling and Martaina at one point, as the two trackers attempted to steer them clearly back toward the plains. “I never did get a chance to ask you,” Cyrus said to Aisling, startling the dark elf, “what was your impression of the Galbadien rulers when we were at Vernadam?”

Her eyes became snakelike as she studied him. “I came to make my report and found you … otherwise occupied.”

“You say that like it’s a curse,” Cyrus said mildly. “You’ve been badgering me for two years to loosen up, and now I have. Perhaps it’s a sour taste in your mouth, some envy that springs from deep within.”

Aisling let out a sharp exhalation of breath, almost like a hiss, and rolled her eyes. “You presume too much. Just because I’ve been honest about my interest in you, don’t assume that I’m so petty and insecure that I can’t handle even the thought of you pleasuring yourself with another woman.” She held her head high as she spoke to him. “I’ve offered in the past to bed you and another woman at the same time, though something tells me that the Baroness wouldn’t be much interested in that.”

“Fair assumption,” Cyrus said. “But still, I point out, your reaction to this turn of events is rather …” He thought about it, trying to find a diplomatic turn of phrase, “… sharp. Less than pleasant.”

“I beg your pardon, my Lord of Perdamun,” Aisling said, bending at the waist in a graceful bow that saw her nearly fold double yet not lose her balance on horseback. “My intention was not to be acute in my response to you. If I was, I apologize. Perhaps I was merely dismayed that after so many times offered, it seemed that you might finally be coming around-and you did, but with someone else.” Her eyes flashed again as she stared at him, and he caught a flippant toss of her white hair. “Forgive me for not quickly adapting to the new state of things.” Some of the acid was leeched out of her words, but enough remained that Cyrus felt the burn of it.

“I … can’t say I feel nothing for you. I am warming to you, but …” he pulled back, not wanting to finish his sentence.

“You felt more for her?” Aisling did not bother to hide the bitterness; she wore it plainly. “I can’t fault you for that; it’s not as though you can control the direction of your feelings. But it does hurt.”

“I have to ask,” Cyrus said, feeling the pull of a question within. “What is it about me that draws you so? You tried to seduce me, even though you knew I was in love with Vara. Now I’m with another woman, and still …” She blanched and he stopped speaking.

There was a pregnant pause before she spoke. “You asked, and in your question you have your answer.”

He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re guileless,” she said with a sigh. “There’s no deception within you when it comes to personal matters. In battle you’re cunning when need be, but you’re straightforward in all else-you go right at what you want, no treachery, no trickery.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow at her. “What about Vara? I danced around her for ages.”

“Not exactly.” She steadied herself on the horse. “That wasn’t guile, that was a form of cowardice.”

“I don’t know whether I should be offended by that or not.”

Aisling shrugged. “You didn’t think you had a real chance with her. When it became obvious she’d warmed enough to you, you tried. Good effort, but it would appear she needed more time. That’s not on you, that’s on her. You threw yourself into the path of a god, ready to die for her. It’s hardly your fault that she became fixated more on what she’d do after she lost you than what she’d get from being with you.”

“That … was sweetly poetic,” Cyrus said. “But I think you give me too much credit.”

“Nope,” she said, voice flat. “Unless you didn’t jump in front of Mortus’s hand, the credit is yours. You were willing to die for her; she was unwilling to live past your death. Kind of a peculiar irony, but there it is. Not all that surprising, though; human and elven ideas about death are dramatically different. Probably has something to do with your lifespan.”

“Not for me it doesn’t,” Cyrus said. “For me it’s training and doctrine. The God of War doesn’t suffer cowardice-at least, not on the battlefield,” he said, face flushing at the recall of Aisling’s earlier mention of his cowardice. “That means committing to the fight, above all else, including one’s life.”

“I don’t hear you talk much about your religion,” Aisling said, matter-of-factly. “One might conclude you’re either not terribly faithful or you’re just not much of an evangelist.”

“Following the path of the God of War is who I am,” Cyrus said, a little miffed. “I don’t evangelize because no one wants to hear about the glory of battle, the sacrifice of blood on the altar of combat. Most Arkarians consider that savage behavior.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing about it sometime,” Aisling said, “but I doubt you’ll get me to change my lacksadaisical worship of Terrgenden to a lacksadaisical worship of Bellarum.”

Cyrus chuckled. “Now who’s the unfaithful one?”

She smiled. “I never said I was faithful. But I would say I’m worth it.”

He laughed again. “Well, I’m not sure I am.”

“From what I heard the other night, you are,” Aisling said, a little regretfully. “And what girl wouldn’t want a man who’s willing to die for them? What you did that day in the Realm of Death confirmed everything I’d felt about you from the beginning. Vara is more the fool for letting you slip away.”

“It’s kind of you to say.” Cyrus steered Windrider out of the swamp as they reached the edge of the plain. The horse whinnied in gratitude when they reached dry land and Cyrus patted him on the back of the neck. “Soon, old boy. You’ll get unsaddled and brushed out, and we’ll get you taken care of. Just a little farther back to the crossing.”

“Sir.” Longwell drifted toward Cyrus, Partus trussed up and gagged on the back of his horse. “Now that we’ve won the battle, my father will want us to stay for a spell, to enjoy at least a moon of feasting and celebration for winning the war.”

“Winning the war?” Cyrus looked at him in askance. “We broke one of Syloreas’s armies, but surely they must have more manpower somewhere. This army was hardly the be-all, end-all.”

“I suspect they do have more, yes,” Longwell said. “It was a weak offering, and uncharacteristic of Unger not to have led the battle himself from the front. For him not to be present at all is simply bizarre.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I can’t imagine he thought that was wise strategy, sending only that many and no more. Unless perhaps Actaluere drew him away with an attack, I would have thought he’d throw everything he had at this fight; after all, he was inches from defeating your Kingdom. That’s hardly the moment to pull back and be cautious.” Cyrus thought about it. “Is it possible he brought another army around wide and flanked us, attacking Vernadam?”

Longwell thought about if for a moment and then shrugged. “I can’t see what good it would do him. He might conquer the town, but in order to take the castle, he’d need time, which he wouldn’t get if we beat his other army in the field. He’d get flanked while trying to mount a siege of the most impregnable fortress in the land.” Longwell shrugged again. “Not the wisest course, and Briyce Unger is no fool. No, more likely he’s into something else, though I can’t imagine what.”

A fearful wind was whipping across the plains now and it brushed through Cyrus’s hair with all the enthusiasm of a cat at play with yarn. The green grasses came up to the knee of his horse, and the smell of the animals, wet with the travel through the swamp, followed them. He could hear the chatter behind him and the rustling of the grass in the breeze, as well as the occasional whinny. The plains lay uneven all the way to the horizon, and Cyrus could see the river ahead.

A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Longwell. “Your father greeted you with great enthusiasm when we arrived the day before yesterday.”

Longwell’s jaw tightened under his helm. “Aye. I expect he was quite pleased that I returned, especially seeing how I was at the head of an army that could save his realm. Even as … distracted … as he is nowadays, it had not escaped my father’s notice that Syloreas was about to conquer his Kingdom.”

“But you left,” Cyrus said. “You’re the heir to the throne, aren’t you? But you went far, far away. You must have gone for a reason.”

“I did,” Longwell said. “My father and I had a great disagreement. My mother has been gone for many years, and she and I always got on better than my father and I did.” The dragoon’s tension was obvious even through his armor. “My father thought I’d come under unsavory influences.”

“What?” Cyrus did a double take. “You’ve never acted with anything but honor for as long as I’ve known you.”

Longwell gave Cyrus a slow, subtle nod of acknowledgment. “I’ve always tried to; but it led me to defiance of my father’s will. In his eyes, there is no greater sin. It led me out of his house, out of his Kingdom, and out of this land, as I couldn’t see myself fighting for Actaluere or Syloreas.” He puckered his lips in distaste. “That much a traitor I am not. Now, in his hour of need, I return. Let us hope that buys me back into his good graces for longer than a fortnight.” The dragoon shook his head as if to clear it. “It matters not. We shall find ourselves in good company and my father will throw an impressive feast.”

“I could use some time to rest after this journey,” Cyrus said. “Two months to get here, a nasty battle along the way, one big fight, and a little hunt for a dwarf,” he waved toward Partus, whose wide-hipped rump was facing Cyrus off the back of Mendicant’s horse, “and we’re done. Some feasting and celebrating doesn’t seem out of line. Our people have earned it-especially given how far they’ve walked,” he said with a smile. Windrider whinnied. “And horses, too, of course.”

The river appeared before them, broad and dark in the falling light, and within an hour they were crossing the bridge, the Galbadien army already encamped on the other side. Tents had been set up, large ones, and there was some manner of dinner being served from the fires. A wagon train had come with the army, giving them more sustenance than conjured bread and water. Cyrus saw Sanctuary army members, looking far different than the Galbadiens in their distinctive livery.

They rode into the camp in the gathering twilight, cheers from the men, cups hoisted into the air in their honor. The men of the Galbadien army, dragoons and footmen all, came forth to see the dwarven mercenary who had caused them such fear paraded along on the back of their prince’s horse. That thought crackled across Cyrus’s mind as they walked in a procession toward the area where it appeared Sanctuary’s army had concentrated.

“You’re the prince of this land, aren’t you?” Cyrus asked Longwell, who was waving obligingly to the troops they passed, and receiving a great many toasts of hoisted mugs and shouted promises to buy him ale when they returned to town.

“Yes,” the dragoon said bitterly. “Why do you ask?”

“It just occurred to me, that’s all.” Cyrus steadied himself as the crowd closed in on them, cheering louder. “I’d never thought of you as a prince before, and I didn’t know if someday you were going to be ruler here, or if you had siblings.”

“No siblings,” he said glumly. “Just me. But as for ruling the Kingdom … that remains to be seen. Blood will out, but my father designates his heir as he sees fit. I don’t know that I want the crown,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“I’d say you’re favored for it right now.” Cyrus took in the steady chant around them, a low but rising one of Longwell’s last name. “Just going by the words of the fighting men.”

Longwell let a smile slip through his glumness. “It’s their respect I wanted all along; my father would have had me be a court lackey.” He grasped the lance that stuck vertically out of the holder on the back of his saddle. “It was I who wanted to be on the battlefield. Just as he was, once.”

They paraded about, on a slow path to where Cyrus saw Odellan in his distinctive armor. The elf waited for them, arms crossed, a smile upon his face as they approached. Count Ranson waited with him, along with Odau Genner and a few of the other members of the Galbadien war council Cyrus had seen at the dinner and strategy meeting. Cyrus dismounted and grabbed the gagged and bound Partus, lifting him off Mendicant’s horse and setting him upon the ground. The dwarf’s legs were tied together, allowing only shuffling steps. Cyrus nudged him to move foward toward Count Ranson.

“Well done,” the Count said, delivering a slow but sincere clap that was picked up by the Sanctuary and Galbadien soldiers that surrounded them. Large tents were stationed in a rough circle around them, the biggest of them open to the air, with only a roof to cover the insides from the elements. A few tables were within, along with the remains of some dinner that reached Cyrus’s nose; the smell of meat was unmistakable and made his mouth water after two days of salted pork and insubstantial bread. “Truly, you’ve done wonders here. Defeated the mercenaries, helped us break the Sylorean army in a crushing defeat. Wondrous,” the count smiled. “Truly wondrous.”

“And this was all their army?” Cyrus pushed Partus forward again.

“No,” the count said. “They had another one that was moving south, a host more than double the size of this one, but according to our scouts and messengers, it’s turned north, back to Syloreas.” The count scratched his cheek. “We received word by carrier pigeon that they crossed back over their own border last night and that the royal convoy with Briyce Unger and his generals was riding hard to catch up. They’ve started to abandon some of the southernmost keeps that they’d taken in our territory.” He shook his head. “They could have put up a much nastier fight here if they’d shown up with everything, but it seems something else is going on; it’s not like Briyce Unger to stop fighting in the middle of a war.”

“Sounds worrisome,” Cyrus said. “I’d suggest you ask this one,” he pointed to Partus, who leered at him out of the corner of his eyes, “but I don’t know that he’d spill it.”

“He’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Terian said, striding forward off his horse and clapping Partus on the back with such force that the dwarf was nearly knocked onto his face. “He’s a mercenary now. All you have to do is pay him a fat sack of gold, and he’ll do whatever you want, including betraying his former masters.” Terian unslung his sword and rested it, edge down, on Partus’s armor, the blade only inches from the side of his neck. “Or maybe just the thought of saving his skin will be enough to get the old dwarf talking.”

“Terian,” Cyrus said. “We’ll be handing the prisoner over to Count Ranson. It’ll be up to him how he wants to handle him.”

“As I understand it,” Ranson said, a look of concern upon his weathered features, “you’ll need magic to contain this one.” He waited for Cyrus to nod, then shook his head. “No, it won’t do. You can keep him. Just get him off our shores; kill him or take him back with you, it makes no mind to me. If you mean to leave him, then let’s kill him and be done with it now.”

“Tempting,” Terian said with a wide grin, looking down at Partus, whose eyes were slightly wider but spiteful, and who wasn’t saying a word. “Very tempting. I could find myself enjoying an execution.”

“Not today,” Cyrus said. “Let’s have a talk first. Nyad,” he looked back to find the wizard behind him. “I’ll need a cessation spell, if you could, please.”

She nodded, and began to cast the spell. Her eyes rolled back in her head, a light green glow seemed to emanate from around her body, giving her red robe a peculiar aura. She nodded once at Cyrus and continued to speak low words under her breath, keeping the spell in effect.

Cyrus pulled the gag out of Partus’s mouth, and the dwarf spat the last of the oversized rag out with a choked noise that turned into a cough. When he was finished, he glared at Terian. “After all we’ve been through, dark knight, I’d have expected a little more kindness from you when you stuffed that in.”

“After all we’ve been through,” Terian looked at the dwarf with a raised eyebrow, “you should have been grateful I didn’t slit your throat before putting you on the horse.”

“Enough niceties,” Cyrus said, pushing Partus’s shoulder enough to cause the dwarf to look up at him with a smoldering rage in his eyes. “Where’s the rest of the Sylorean army heading?”

“North,” Partus said, his eyes flicked down in uncaring. “What, you didn’t hear him a minute ago?” He jerked his head toward the count. “Might wanna clean your ears out.”

Terian lifted a knee and hit the dwarf perfectly in the back. Partus’s armor had been removed before they had bound him, and the dwarf let out a sharp cry and fell to his knees; Terian’s hit had perfectly landed on the tender spot above Partus’s kidney. The dwarf sucked air in through gritted teeth, his hands still bound behind him.

“Terian, enough,” Cyrus said, placing a hand on the dark elf’s breastplate, barely touching him but prepared to hold him back. “He’s a smartass; it’s not as though we haven’t dealt with those every day of our lives.”

“He’s a Goliath smartass,” Terian seethed, “and you’d do well to remember it. They’re treacherous, traitorous blighters who have no issue with sticking a blade in your exposed back the moment it’s turned. If he sold out his own guild to Goliath for a few pieces of silver, you can imagine what he’d do to the likes of us for much less.”

“I didn’t sell out my own guild,” Partus said, wrenching himself off his knees and back to his feet. “Time came that the Daring was too set against moving forward, I moved on. Hardly my fault others followed with me. It’s not as though they came with me when I left Goliath, did they? Save for the few you lot just left rotting on the battlefield here.”

“I can see you’re real broken up about their deaths,” Terian said, now leaning against Cyrus’s placed hand. “If we left you to your overwhelming grief for just a few more years, we might even see a single tear.”

“I’m not the excessively sentimental kind,” Partus said sullenly. “Unlike some people I know, I deal in the real world; and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes in our line of work, things take an occasional wrong turn down a bad alley. Those blokes knew what they were into when we signed up for this. So did I. If you mean to take my head off for what we’ve done, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d get to it and spare me, please, this sanctimonious, holier-than-thou sermon from the dark knight.” He straightened. “I think I’ve had quite enough of being lectured on virtue by you, Terian Lepos.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terian asked, and Cyrus felt the very slight pressure against his hand from Terian’s breastplate slacken.

“It means Aurastra,” Partus said with a sneer.

Cyrus watched as Terian’s pupils seemed to dilate before his eyes, like pinpricks of color lost in the light. He felt the subtle shift in the dark knight’s footing through the plate armor, sensed something was amiss before it happened, and a shudder ran through his arm as Terian drew his sword and let out a shout, pulling the blade over his head.

Before the dark elf had a chance to get his balance, Cyrus lunged, kicking Terian’s legs from underneath him. They landed with a clatter of armor as Cyrus seized the dark knight’s sword hand by the wrist, holding it up as he crashed to the ground on top of Terian. Cyrus shoved down with his weight and strength, pinning the dark knight into place. “Enough! You’re not killing him.”

“Oh yes, I am,” Terian said, not even bothering to strain against Cyrus. The dark knight glared at Cyrus with frosty eyes. “It may not happen today, or tomorrow, or even this month or year, but something you need to realize, Davidon-it will happen. If I mean to kill a man, he will die.” Terian jerked his hand away from Cyrus, and slowly slid his sword back into the scabbard as Cyrus stood up and proffered a hand to help Terian up. “Nothing stops that. It’s just a matter of timing, that’s all. But you’re right,” Terian said, hauling himself back to his feet. “It’s not today.”

Cyrus watched Terian out of the corner of his eye but also saw the smug Partus send Terian a little wave. The dark knight didn’t react, at least not visibly, though Cyrus could swear he felt Terian’s glare burning a hole into his back. “I’m not even going to ask you what Aurastra means,” Cyrus said, his attention back on Partus.

“You should, it’s an interesting tale,” the dwarf said.

“I want to know about the Sylorean army.” Cyrus kept his gaze trained on the dwarf, though he spared a glance at Count Ranson, who watched the proceedings with cool disinterest mingled with a certain disdain. He’s not impressed with the discipline of my army right now, that’s for sure. Neither am I, when you come to it. I just had a man try and slay a prisoner in front of me and I had to take him down myself. Not a great sign; at least I got the result they were looking for.

“Yeah, it went north,” Partus said. “We split far up the countryside from here. They were supposed to hit country towns, plunder and pillage and the like, lay siege to some keeps and then meet us at Harrow’s Crossing for the battle with you lot, but a couple nights ago the King-Unger, the bloke who hired me-gets a messenger from his capital. Something happened up there, something bad. We’re in the middle of dining on some spoils from a keep we’d broken down the night earlier, and he takes his officers and loads up and buggers off in the middle of a meal.” Partus spat on the ground. “Left one of his lessers in charge, didn’t say much of what it was about. Didn’t much matter, neither, rolling over Vernadam was supposed to be a foregone conclusion, that we were going to crush your army at Harrow’s Crossing even with our reduced numbers and waltz right in or blockade the place if necessary. War over.” Partus let out a rough snort. “Promises not worth the warm air they’re breathed into.”

“So what was it about?” Cyrus spoke and Partus turned to look at him; previously the dwarf had been addressing his comments to the Count.

“Told you, I don’t know.” The dwarf shrugged his shoulders.

“You said he ‘didn’t say much of what it was about,’” Cyrus repeated. “Word for word.”

The dwarf let a half-smile curl his lips, a snide one, as though he knew he’d been caught. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, he didn’t say much, and what he did say didn’t make a bit of sense, really, not to me at least. Then he and his band buggered off before he went and explained it.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Enough drama. What did he say?”

Partus met Cyrus’s eyeroll with one of his own. “He said, ‘they’re coming.’” The dwarf held his bound hands in front of him. “That’s it. And then he got on a horse and scampered off to the north with his little wagon train in tow, as though Mortus himself was following behind him.”

Cyrus concentrated, looking at Count Ranson. “That mean anything to you?”

Ranson shrugged. “Nothing. I’m left with the obvious question of who ‘they’ are. Actaluere’s army, possibly?”

“I doubt it,” Partus said, with a slight snicker. “Because you see, you’re missing it. It doesn’t matter, the bit he said. Because that’s not the news. It’s how he said it that matters. That and what he did afterwards.”

Count Ranson sighed heavily. “Very well. How did Briyce Unger say it, then?”

“Scared.” Partus let it slip matter-of-factly, like he was letting loose something precious indeed. “He was scared, I’d stake my life on it.”

Ranson’s mouth opened slightly at the dwarf’s words, as though he were weighing them in his mind, trying to calculate the value of them. “That is … interesting. And, if true … greatly disturbing.”

“Disturbing?” Cyrus looked around at the officers behind him, and the men surrounding him, and found one face in particular-Longwell. The dragoon’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wider than usual. “Longwell?” Cyrus asked. “What does it mean? Why does it matter?”

Longwell stepped forward, brushing past Terian to stand next to Cyrus. “Briyce Unger, the King of Syloreas, has led every single battle he’s fought from the vanguard. He fights like a madman in personal combat; it’s said no man can take him down. He carries a mace with a ball the size of a man’s head, and the spikes on it are as long as my forearm. He’s huge, taller maybe even than you,” Longwell acknowledged Cyrus’s height with a nod. He is one of the mountain men of Syloreas, rocky and inhospitable. They don’t fear many things. Briyce Unger is the most fearless of them all.”

Longwell looked at the circle around Partus, and the dwarf looked at him and nodded. “So for this man-dwarf-whatever he is, to say that Briyce Unger took this news and was scared …” The dragoon swallowed hard. “It doesn’t sound terribly good for him.”

Cyrus watched Longwell carefully then shifted his attention to the still-chuckling Partus. “Let me give you a helpful hint, mercenary,” he said, stripping the smug look from the dwarf’s face. “When the fearless man is afraid, it’s not just bad for him, as a rule.” Cyrus stared north, as though he could sense something was ahead of them, over the horizon. “It’s bad for all of us.”