Crusader

Chapter 31

The ride got harder as the mountains rose before them. They cut across winding trails, over rough ground, and their pace slowed. Cyrus was thankful for Windrider’s sure footing, especially after one of his own warriors went plummeting over an embankment by accident two days from Scylax. With the aid of the druid spell Falcon’s Essence, the body was retrieved and revived, but extra care was taken from then on. The fall drew the scorn of the experienced Syloreans, until a small rockslide sent two of their own to death, and Briyce Unger admitted, while Cyrus and he retrieved the bodies, that many a visitor to their city fell victim to the mountain roads.

“It’s a good defense,” Unger said. “Scylax has never been laid siege to, not in the six thousand years it’s stood.” He and Cyrus each carried a body over their shoulders, walking on air back up a steep embankment to where their party waited above. “But it’s rubbish for travel. My father’s grandfather had walked this path a thousand times but died to a rockslide on a summer day without even seeing it coming. Got him and his whole hunting party in a good slide, carried his corpse halfway down a mountain. They found the horses sticking out by their feet.”

“Not a good death,” Cyrus said, letting the curious sensation of his feet on solid ground carry him up, even though he knew his feet were neither on something solid, nor strictly speaking, were they on the ground at all.

“Not for a warrior like him,” Unger agreed. “A death in battle, that’s the way we go in Syloreas. An axe to the face, a chop to the neck, a greatsword through the belly, a dagger to the throat, all fine ways to go. A landslide? In your bed with a cough?” The big man spit, as they began to crest the edge of the road. “I’d sooner die of my heart collapsing in my old age, a woman rocking atop me.” The King seemed to consider that one for a long moment. “Actually, that one doesn’t sound too bad.”

They both laughed, and Cyrus gently put down the body on the ground before Curatio. The expedition was spread out along the road, a few of the Syloreans already working to push the fallen rocks from the slide over the edge of the mountain. Cyrus watched them roll, one by one, stirring a few more and then looked up. Snow capped peaks were above him some great distance, too far for him to fairly judge. The white was striking against the blue skies, almost looking like clouds that crowned the mountain, merging with the sky where the two kissed.

Cyrus caught sight of Aisling leaning against one of the rocks, giving it a hearty shove. He could see the sinews of her arm muscles straining, displayed by her sleeveless shirt, to push as a few of the Sylorean warriors stood back and watched, seemingly in awe of the blue-skinned girl who was less than half their mass and at least two feet shorter than they rolling a boulder by herself, albeit somewhat slowly. He watched her boots dig into the path as she put her bare shoulder to the rock and pushed. He saw her pants tighten as she bent to give it all her strength and he felt the heat within him and turned away as she launched it over the edge to a muted cheer of those observing. He turned away not quite in time, though, as she looked over, flushed with the triumph of her efforts, her skin a darker hue, and caught him looking for just a beat before he managed to turn away. Her look only changed a little, cooling slightly when she locked eyes with him, as though she knew the very thoughts within him and wished she didn’t.

He felt the scarlet of embarrassment on his face and grabbed his helm off Windrider, snugging it onto his head, letting the metal hide part of his cheeks as they blushed. The road was cleared moments later, and after the two dead were raised, he climbed back into the saddle, trying to focus his thoughts on the ride, on the road, on the perils of mountain travel.

After an hour of reflecting on the way the dark elven woman looked when exerting herself, moaning as she pushed the rock over the edge, he had to concede that somewhere, deep inside, Terian may have had something of a point. It was as though the Baroness had introduced a poison into his system. Fever and delirium were following it, a heat under his skin that Cyrus could scarcely control as it overran his thoughts and drove them from Vara to Cattrine to the nearest woman at hand. Aisling is pleasant enough to the eyes. And fit, gods know. Dexterous, agile, and amusing in her way … He shook his head again, rattling it inside his helm. And has lusted after you for nearly two years, only to turn cold in the last months. You could have had her freely any time, yet you have desire for her now, when she is the only woman of interest in view, and after being spurned and betrayed by two other women. This is petty lust, the basest of emotions, and unworthy of her, as a true and skilled guildmate who has saved your life more than once.

Yet thoughts of her lingered, interspersed once more with Vara and Cattrine, tormenting him, robbing him of sleep, causing him agonizing bouts that did not subside quickly or without pain. By the time the gates of Scylax were in sight he was grateful and deeply considering Terian’s advice, wondering if by a simple exchange of coins he could somehow purge the poison from his system, even if only for a few days or a week, and be done with it, clear-headed once more and ready for battle. I don’t remember it being this bad after Imina. But then, Imina never did anything quite like what Cattrine did, and certainly not with as much enthusiasm … nor as often …

They came around a bend in the road to see Scylax laid out before them. It was carved into the mountainside like villages he had seen when visiting the Dwarven Alliance but larger in scale than anything he could imagine dwarves building and less reliant on caves. There were multiple streets built into the mountain, some fifteen or twenty levels that were joined by stair-like rises in place of cross streets. It was as though someone had laid out a city map into the side of a mountain and turned the houses and notched the buildings into the mountain’s side. Cyrus could see houses exposed to the elements out front, on the face of the cliff, but they were carved into the rock toward the back of each level. There was even some greenery on the streets, from trees that could weather dry, frigid winters. Farther around the sheer surface of the mountain were paddocks for animals, huge numbers of them, and granaries carved into place on one of the levels.

Above it all, toward the peak, was the castle Scylax, squat and constructed on the edge of a plateau that looked down upon the city and up to the mountain behind it. It lacked the towering spires of Vernadam, instead using rounded construction for the masonry, bending with the curves of the cliff, the half dozen or so structures within the massive curtain wall being broad and circular, reminding Cyrus just slightly of a temple he had visited years earlier in the bandit land southeast of the Endless Bridge, back in Arkaria.

“You got something against building on level ground?” Terian asked Briyce Unger as they took in the city.

“Too easy to attack on flat ground, as our ancestors discovered,” Unger said with a wide grin. “When we Syloreans make an enemy, we tend to make it a good one. This town and castle can be defended by our women and children while the men are away, if need be, and can be held against a siege of ten thousand by only a few hundred.”

“Great, so why are we here to help you again?” Terian asked with a smirk. “Get all your people together, crowd them inside the damned castle and keep killing these creatures until they stop coming.”

“Doesn’t work that way,” Unger said with a shake of the head. “We could hold off a siege here for a few years, maybe, if need be, but not with the whole city in our gates. If it were men at our gates, I would consider it. Men can be beaten back, they weary, they fall to death and eventually wisen to the notion that holding a siege in a place like this is a poor idea. It’s not as though there’s an abundance of food or water to feed an army just lying about in the hills, especially not over a long period. But these things …” He shook his head. “I don’t know that they need food and water, they don’t seem to weary or fatigue, they just keep coming-relentless-when you kill them by the hundred. Lock ourselves in tight, even if we lasted five years, I think they’d still be waiting when we came back out. They’re beasts, not men.”

The road straightened along the cliff’s edge until they eventually reached the gates of the city. The path led them through into the middle of the town, where they were greeted by curious children, clapping at the approach of their King, and joined by washerwomen and men with pickaxes, covered in dust. Cyrus watched the men, and realized that whatever they were doing must involve digging into the mountain, as they were, every one of them, caked in earth.

“Miners,” Partus said, drawing Cyrus’s startled attention to the dwarf, whom he had not realized was by his side. “I didn’t know you humans had it in you before I came here.”

“There aren’t a lot of men who do it, that’s for certain,” Cyrus agreed. “Not many have a taste for rooting about in the guts of the earth the way dwarves do.”

“Not me,” Partus proclaimed. “I left Fertiss when I came of age, happy to get out of the dark. Never would have liked to go back to anything like it, if I could have avoided it.”

“What brought you here?” Cyrus asked. “To Scylax? Your hammer is more powerful than almost any I’ve fought, able to stand up to my blade. You know how to fight, at least well enough to get into one of the big three. So why Luukessia?”

“Because I didn’t want to be in Arkaria anymore,” Partus said with a grim shrug. “Shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. After all, you loaded up your horses and traveled for months on a roundabout course to get here-why wouldn’t somebody else do the same? And for money, no less, rather than the simple nobility you preach.”

“There were plenty of places to make money in Arkaria,” Cyrus said. “A dwarf with your skills could have had a place in any army-the Elven Kingdom, the Human Confederation, the Dark Elven Sovereignty, even your people in the Dwarven Alliance would have fallen over themselves to add your power to their cause, and they would have paid, too.” Cyrus waved vaguely toward Briyce Unger. “More than you’d know you were getting out of Unger, wandering blindly over here.”

“Who said anything about blindly or wandering?” Partus asked with a scowl. “One of my associates, one of the ones your lot killed, he was from here originally, came to Arkaria on a trading expedition a few years ago. He knew that Unger would pay good gold for help from Western mercenaries, so I came.”

“Mercenaries,” Cyrus said. “You used to be the leader of the Daring. They had ideals, beliefs, at least the ones of them I knew-Erith, Cass, Elisabeth-you’re telling me you wanted to give that up for mercenary work in another land?” Cyrus shook his head. “Smells like bullshit to me, Partus. What happened with you and Goliath that sent you scrambling? Did you get caught up in the exile?”

“I was gone long before that,” he said with a shake of his craggy head. “I heard about it, though. I was in the Gnomish Dominions, gathering moss on a garrison detail that had gotten quite a bit easier once your crew,” he waved at the Sanctuary force around them, “wiped out the Goblin Imperium. My busy guard duty, escorting convoys and whatnot, got pretty simple after that.” The dwarf seemed almost upset about it. “Only got to kill a few highwaymen, and that got old quickly.”

“So why leave Goliath?” Cyrus watched the dwarf for his reaction.

Partus played it cool, returning Cyrus a grin. “I had something of a … personality conflict with Malpravus and another of his officers. Caused us to go our separate ways not long after that clash in the Mountains of Nartanis with the Dragonlord.”

“You were there for that?” Cyrus asked.

“Hah! I was, but I’m not surprised you didn’t see me, covered as you were in the glory of the kill. I was there the day you killed Kalam, too, and the day you went into the Realm of Death with the allies and we all got caught up by the skeleton.” Partus smirked. “Course you wouldn’t notice, would you? I’m not exactly of a height that’d catch your eye. Besides,” he said, slightly surly, “I’m told all my people look alike to you tallfolk. Same gripe the gnomes got.”

“My best friend was a dwarf,” Cyrus said. “I’ve got no problem telling one dwarf from another. Besides, you’re bald, kind of fat, and you’ve got a braided beard.” He shrugged. “Hard to miss.”

“You had a friend who was a dwarf?” Partus watched him. “All right, I’ll bite. Who was it?”

“What, do all you dwarves know each other?”

“Yeah, we’re all members of the same club,” Partus snapped. “What was his name?”

Cyrus looked back to the road, watching the townsfolk watch him as they rode past. “His name was Narstron.”

“Oh, him,” Partus said with a nod. “Yeah, I knew him.”

“What?” Cyrus cast a look at him, and the way he said it was almost mocking. “You did not. There are millions of dwarves, and you’re telling me you know Narstron? Don’t lie.”

“No, it’s true,” Partus said. “I didn’t know him well, but I knew him in passing. He was my mother’s youngest sister’s fourth son. Went to the Society of Arms in Fertiss, and he died down in the depths of Enterra.”

“I didn’t see you at his funeral,” Cyrus said coldly.

“I’ve got a lot of cousins,” Partus said with a shrug. “One hundred and twelve, I think? A hundred and twenty by now, for all I know. I said I knew him in passing. It’s not like we were best of friends. I could pick him out of a crowd and he could likely do the same for me. I remember when he died, and you’re right, I didn’t go to the funeral. I thought, ‘what a shame for his mother,’ and then I went on living my life.” He shrugged again. “No reason to get all fussed about a near-stranger shuffling off; if I did, I’d spend all my days in mourning, because I know a lot of strangers that got kicked loose just a month ago as your army rode right through them-”

“Yeah, all right,” Cyrus said, “so you don’t have to get broken up by every person you’ve ever met that’s died. Still, he’s your blood, you might have shown a little compassion.”

“Perhaps you missed that number,” Partus said. “One hundred and twelve first cousins. Ten brothers and sisters. ’Course they’re all still living back home, but me, I’m out. If I was to worry about attending funerals for people just one generation back from me and those related to me like your friend, I’d be forever going to funerals.” The dwarf straightened in his saddle. “And get damn near nothing else done, like folk back home do.”

“Wow,” Cyrus said. “You’re a real wellspring of humanity.”

“I sense your sarcasm,” Partus said with unconcern, “but you should hardly be surprised. After all,” the dwarf said with a glint in his eyes, “I’m not human at all.”

They came to a crossroad. To Cyrus’s right, the cliff’s edge loomed. When Cyrus looked over it he saw the next level down carved into the mountain, only fifty or so feet below, and the next below that. It looks much steeper from this perspective than it did on the approach. Cyrus followed Briyce Unger’s lead as the road sloped steeply, and a herd of goats was moved out of their way by a shepherd who drove them down a side street. The road rose at a steep grade, and Cyrus worried he would fall out of the saddle, or worse still, that his horse would buck slightly and they would both tumble end over end off the mountain, but somehow he hung on, as did Windrider.

“Unforgiving avenue,” Mendicant said from somewhere behind him. “What happens if someone slips on this?”

“They fall,” Terian said. “All the way down.”

“All the way?” Mendicant looked over his shoulder, and his green scales seemed to dim in color. “Oh.”

They made their way up the hill to the front gates of the castle Scylax, and Briyce Unger waved them forward. “We’ll stay here for the night, enjoy my hospitality, and tomorrow we’ll be on our way north again.”

“How far are we going?” Cyrus asked.

Unger’s smile faded slightly. “Not as far as I’d like. It seems that this scourge has moved south rather quickly. They’re only a week north now. Seem to have stopped their forward movement for a bit, for whatever reason.”

“Consolidating power?” Longwell asked, looking around from horseback down the hill. “Awaiting reinforcements of some kind?”

“Hard to know if they’re awaiting reinforcements when we don’t have a bloody clue where these things are coming from,” Unger said with a shrug. “Perhaps if we can drive them back, far enough north, we’ll find the source of their numbers.”

“How far north does your territory stretch?” Cyrus asked.

“A good ways,” Unger said. “All the way until the land gets too inhospitable, where the weather is bitter cold, even in the summertime. Our farthest town north used to be a village called Mountaintop, nestled in the last valley before a terribly tall peak with sheer slopes. There were trails where you could go farther from there, but between the wolves and all else, if you struck out to go farther your odds of coming back became exceedingly poor.”

“So the real wonder,” Cyrus said, “is if these creatures came from north of there.”

They followed Unger up to the castle Scylax, which was even more impressive upon Cyrus’s inspection. A steward offered a tour, taking them through the grand entry (which was not so grand as Vernadam’s) and around. The curtain wall extended around the cliff’s edge, providing a fine look off the side of the mountain below. The only direction one could assault the castle from, Cyrus conceded, was the town of Scylax below, and even that would be a disastrous feat to attempt for any army. Any assault up a steep road would come under an approach covered by bowmen as the gates to the castle were surrounded on both sides by two long protrusions of the wall. The last fifty yards in particular were totally exposed to arrow fire from both sides of the approach.

Within the keep Cyrus found the towers to his liking. They were more wood than stone, and furs were used for decoration far more than cloth. Instead of blankets on Cyrus’s bed, he found a bearskin, big, shaggy, and comfortable. Wood floors, wood furnishings and a chest decorated the room. He sat on the bed after being showed to his quarters and reflected that although it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the one at Vernadam, it was good and somehow reminded him of the Society of Arms.

Dinner was a raucous affair, with mead and ale flowing far more generously than they ever had at any of the other, more formal meals that Cyrus had taken. The Syloreans laughed and bellowed, all activity in the room stopping when a fight broke out. Briyce Unger presided over two young men as they proceeded to punch the snot out of each other to the cheers of the crowd. When one of them finally stayed down from a blow that made Cyrus’s jaw hurt to watch it, Unger raised the young man’s hand in victory to the cheers of the crowd.

Terian had left, Cyrus knew, after dinner, disappearing out of the room, heading toward the town, he suspected, and the brothel somewhere below. A raw, aching sensation bothered Cyrus, something unsettled about Terian, about women, about everything, but he ignored it by taking frequent drinks from his flagon of mead, which was constantly refilled by a serving woman, a middle-aged one who began to look better and better as the drinking continued. Which was to say she was passable by the time Cyrus found the motivation to get back to his bedchamber-alone.

Cyrus drifted off that night under the influence of too much mead, too much ale, and too many thoughts of Cattrine and Vara. They became some sort of demonic swirl in his head, the two of them, and were joined by a third before he finally fell asleep, the vision of the three women in his mind spinning with the room around him.