Crusader

Chapter 3

Sunrise found Cyrus staring out across the water, watching as the red disc rose over the horizon. The chatter of the young warriors and rangers had died down only a few hours earlier, and he had been left alone with his thoughts, staring across the Sea of Carmas as the first members of his army began to rise. Cyrus heard the sound of footsteps in the sand behind him and turned to see Curatio, his pointed elven ears catching the light and casting shadows on the side of his head.

“You’re up early,” Curatio said, making his way over to the fire next to Cyrus, a small loaf of bread in his hands. “Or perhaps late.” The elf broke the bread and offered Cyrus a half, which he took. “Terian said he was talking to you when he cut his hand last night.” Curatio wore the scarf of a healer, a long, rectangular cloth sash that remained untied, wrapped around his shoulders and hanging loose, the ends reaching to his waist. Runes were stitched into it in dark lettering, but the white color told all who saw that he was a healer, a spellcaster with the ability to mend wounds and restore life. “You haven’t been up since then, have you?”

Cyrus gnawed on the loaf, which was fresh, still warm. He looked up at the healer in surprise and drew a smile from Curatio. “Magically conjured bread. It’ll be down to the spellcasters to keep us in bread and water as we march onward, especially for the next few days as we traverse the bridge.”

Cyrus picked a large piece out of the doughy center and ate it, shifting it around in his mouth, enjoying the soft flour taste. He grasped a piece of the crusty exterior. It broke between his fingers and he popped it in his mouth, listening to the crunch between his teeth. He looked south and saw the Endless Bridge, something he had seen only once before. It was stone and sloped up to a hundred feet over the water, with enormous supports that reached above the span every few hundred feet, symmetrically placed pillars of stone lining its avenue. It extended into the distance, beyond the horizon, and the stone seemed to glitter in the light of the sunrise.

Cyrus smacked his lips, stopping before he took another bite. “Leaves me feeling a bit … empty inside.”

Curatio’s smile cooled. “The bread? Or something else?”

“Leaves me feeling weak,” Cyrus said, lowering the bread. “And the last thing I want to be when I’m marching into an unknown country is weak.” He turned and looked into the distance where the horses were tied to trees at the edge of the beach. “How are the horses?”

“They’ve been curried, their feet have been picked out, and Martaina is saddling them now,” Curatio said, his eyes following Cyrus’s. “She’s quite the wonder with animals, that one. She’s got a few others helping her, but she seems to be taking excellent care of them.”

“Good,” Cyrus said without emotion. “The more we have delegated to good people, the more we can focus on what’s coming.”

The elf’s face lost its smile gradually, fading as the lines slackened and Curatio turned serious. “And what might that be?”

Cyrus took another bite, a heavier one, and chewed, answering only after he’d swallowed about half of it. “Battle. Longwell says we’ll be passing through an unfriendly Kingdom on the other side of the bridge. Says they’ll have pickets out, riders, you know. They may throw trouble our way to keep us from passing.”

Curatio’s eyebrow rose, sending his ageless face into a very slight display of amusement. “Pickets? Outriders? A scouting party of what? A dozen men on horseback? Versus our fifty on horse and thousand afoot?” A light chuckle came from the healer. “I wish them the best of luck.”

Cyrus didn’t join the laughter. “They’ll present themselves, they’ll threaten, but Longwell says the outriders won’t make much fuss. This Kingdom, it’s the one by the sea-Actaluere, Longwell called it-it has holdfasts between the bridge and Longwell’s father’s lands. They may send armies out to halt us once they know we’re here.”

Curatio’s eyebrow twitched slightly higher. “Do you think they’ll succeed, General?”

The elf’s odd formality stirred Cyrus’s irritation. “Not if we’re careful, they won’t. But even a hundred men with no magic could wipe out an army ten times their size if they were to catch us sleeping.” Cyrus clutched the bread tighter. “We have a journey of several weeks across their territory. That’s a long while that they could cause us problems, and a very long time to maintain an all-hours watch, especially after a hard march every day.”

“Good practice,” Curatio said, taking a bite of the thick, hard crust of his bread. “After all, we are here to season our young and inexperienced recruits.”

“A march of several weeks, with the threat of attack hanging over us every hour of the day?” Cyrus looked at the bread in his hands and was suddenly no longer hungry. “That will season them, all right.” He stood, and looked over the stirring army. “I’d rather have peace from them, though, and stay at their inns, buy fresh food from their people, spread our gold around their realm on our march than seed their lands with sword and fire.” The sergeants of the army were shouting now, yelling their displeasure at the recruits, stirring them out of their stupors as the sound echoed down the shore.

“Aye,” Curatio said softly behind him as the the noise of the rousing army carried on, “always better to have peace than war. But in my experience, it’s not always a luxury we are afforded.”

It took another hour to get everyone fed and formed up to move. They reached the bridge after another hour’s walk, and took a break in the shade by the span. The stone bridge was wide enough to accommodate ten columns of their troops walking side by side. After the army was formed up again, Cyrus began the procession to lead them over. He kept his horse, Windrider, in front of the army, a few yards ahead of the rest of the mounted members of Sanctuary. The steady clip-clop of hooves against the stone of the bridge lulled him.

It will not work, Cyrus. It can never be, you and I. For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow. We will not, cannot be. Not ever. Vara’s words echoed over and over in his mind as the gentle wash of the water lapping against the supports of the bridge beat a steady rhythm in his consciousness. The sun shone down from overhead, but the salt air and sea breeze kept him cool, even in his black armor. Not ever.

The sound of someone next to him jarred Cyrus, causing him to look up. As soon as he saw who it was, he relaxed. “You,” he said with a sigh.

“Me,” Aisling said. Her hair was white, flush against the navy skin it framed on her face and an exaggerated amount of cleavage was on display under her traveling cloak, which was open. Her usual leather armor was gone, replaced by a cloth garment of deepest red that hugged her belly and her upper body.

Cyrus stared at her, his expression in near-disbelief. “Are you wearing a bustier?”

Her eyebrows danced up and her lips pursed in a smile. “I’m surprised you know what that is.”

He looked away, shaking his head in annoyance. He hadn’t intended to give her any sort of encouragement. “My wife used to wear them.” He looked back, slightly uncomfortable. “From time to time.”

“Oh?” Her voice trilled in interest. “You were married?”

“A long time ago.” He turned his head to look at her, a little too much frost in his voice, even to him. “Try not to pretend you didn’t know.”

She shrugged expressively, exaggeratedly, and as though every bit of chill in his words had melted somewhere between the two of them. “I was just being polite. Of course I’ve heard the rumors about you being married. I’ve heard a great many rumors about you. But then, I’ve heard a few about myself as well and not always true, so I prefer to glean the fact of them directly from the source before I go believing something I hear in passing, no matter how good it sounds.”

Cyrus felt the breeze off the sea stir the hair under his helm and reached up to take the metal contraption off, securing it to a hook on his saddle. With that done, he ran his hand through his hair, felt the slight sweat that had developed on his forehead, and wiped it onto the sleeve that stuck out of his gauntlet. Once done, he looked back to Aisling, who still rode next to him, watching him, almost expectantly. “And what rumors would you have me dispel?”

“Just one,” she said, but the slyness and her smile were gone, replaced by something else: an almost primal hunger, as though she were thirsty and waiting for a single drop of water to fall upon her tongue.

“Just one?” He looked back at her. “Then what? You’ll ride back into the line and trouble me no more?”

“For today, yes.” The hunger on her face grew, an insatiable curiosity. “I make no promises about tomorrow.”

“Ask your question, then.” He felt his hands on the reins, on the leather, felt them squeeze tightly against the dry material that lined the inside of his gauntlets, felt the hint of perspiration on his palms. “Ask and then be gone.”

“Is it true …” She started and then stopped, but the desire had grown in her eyes. “Is it true that you and Vara …?” She didn’t finish, as though she couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. “I mean, in Termina you were together, but I heard … it was rumored …”

“It’s true,” he said, bowing his head, feeling the despair overwhelm his desire to snap back at her, to growl, to tell her to ride off the edge of the bridge. “It’s all true.” He twisted his neck to look at her. “Now say it and be done.” He spoke with no acrimony, his voice was dry and hollow.

“Say what?” She looked at him, and all the emotion he had seen writ upon her face was gone, replaced by a slight furrowing of the lines of her brow, a puckering of her full, purple lips.

“Whatever racy suggestion you’re going to throw my way,” Cyrus said, still wary. “Just say it. Get it over with.”

There was a subtle flicker in her eyes, and the curiosity washed from her face, replaced by something else-genuine regret, Cyrus thought. “I’m sorry,” Aisling said. “I can’t think of anything like that right now. All I have to say is …” Her lips curved with just a hint of wistfulness, “… I’m sorry for you that it didn’t work out.” She nodded at him and slowed her horse, falling back into the line with the others that followed behind him.

Cyrus rode on. The bridge stretched before him as far as he could see-and so did his pain.