Crusader

Chapter 98

They made landfall a few days later. Because the peninsula that Caenalys was built on and the one that connected the Endless Bridge to Arkaria were close together, they made an easy transit of the shortest distance between the two, and came ashore on a beach that was overgrown with long, green swamp grass. Cyrus waded in and helped Cattrine onto the sulphur-smelling shore, where rotting seaweed lay upon the beach. It festooned the sands, a curious red and green tinge to it. The wind whipped along, carrying only the faintest bite of the winter that had picked at him for months; it was clearly spring, and in a southern locale. Now at least we don’t have to fight in the snow.

The boat crew launched off a few minutes later, leaving Cyrus, Aisling, Cattrine, J’anda and Martaina along with their horses on the shore. The sand was packed tightly beneath Cyrus’s boots, and every step yielded a little, reminding him of walking on shallow snow.

“We have four horses and five people,” J’anda said, turning his blue face into the wind and to Cattrine. “Why don’t you ride with Aisling, since she’s the smallest of us?” The enchanter turned to give the ranger a wicked smile and found her expressionless, though her eyes did tack toward Cyrus, hard and pointed. “I kid. I’m not that heavy, you can ride with me unless you’d prefer to strain his horse,” he chucked a thumb at Cyrus.

“That’s a very kind invitation,” Cattrine said with a bow of her head. “I accept, though perhaps after a while I will switch, just to spare your horses from such a heavy burden all day long.”

Cyrus left Aisling’s sidewards glare behind and climbed the berm at the edge of the beach, where a field of heavy, tall grass blocked the sight of the other side. Below was an easy spread, flatlands with sparse short grass interspersed with fields of longer grass and hummocks of trees. There appeared to be a coastal swamp in the distance to the left and almost out of sight, Cyrus could see a road ahead, at the edge of his vision. There was movement on it, a steady line of refugees trudging, their darker clothes and human shapes separating them from the horizon line. They stretched from one side of his vision to the other, trailing off, a sad line with only the occasional horse to differentiate from the stooped-back figures.

“It would appear that the evacuation of Luukessia is well underway,” J’anda said from next to him.

They climbed onto their horses, Cyrus leading the way as they galloped toward the road. Cyrus could smell the people as they got close; some of them looked to have been walking for a considerable distance. Cyrus passed a child who looked no older than eight, a ragged waif whose shoes were worn to holes. The animal skins he wore were from a mountain goat, as was the horn strapped to his back. Sylorean. Gods, how far has he walked?

There was a stir in the line as they approached, and fingers pointed toward J’anda as a whisper went through the crowd. Smiles appeared, and gasps of relief were heard. “Never seen a group of humans so glad to see a dark elf,” J’anda said as his hands began to glow, spells already being cast.

“I have,” Aisling said sardonically, “but it was at a brothel.” She kept a straight face. “It was pretty much exactly like this.”

“I’ll try not to be too insulted by that since these people are starving,” J’anda said, handing off a loaf of conjured bread to a family who held it up, crying with happiness. Cyrus saw the woman he handed it to immediately break it to pieces and begin to pass it around to a large group of children. He saw one of the boys in a ragged old surcoat with the livery of Galbadien upon it. This whole land, emptying.

There was a rising cry, and J’anda waved to Cyrus. “I think I’m going to be here for a while.”

“You,” Cyrus said to a man nearby, a swarthy fellow with dark hair and skin. “Have you seen any armies about?”

“Yes, m’lord,” he said with a bow to Cyrus as J’anda gave the man a loaf of bread. “The dragoons of Galbadien are just up the road a piece, perhaps a day’s ride. They were waiting on a flat stretch of land to hit those monsters that are destroying everything.”

“Who was leading them?” Cyrus asked, focusing in on the man.

“The King of Galbadien,” the man said with a bow of his head. “Saw him with my own eyes, the new one, the young one. They say the western army is farther out with the Syloreans and the rest of our Actaluerean army, fighting to hold the things back while we escape. The man shook his head. “I heard tell from a Sylorean that the monsters are all the way up to the neck of the peninsula and still coming.”

Cyrus felt a chill. “How far to the bridge?”

“Straight ahead, another day, sir,” the man said. “I’ve been there before, a couple times.”

Cyrus shot a look at his party. “We need to go.”

“I’m going to stay with these people,” J’anda said. “I’m of no use to you with those things anyway. I will walk to the bridge with these folk, keep them fed and try to do some good along the way.”

Cyrus looked at him evenly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll go with him,” Cattrine said, and Cyrus heard the man he had been talking to whisper, “Lady Hoygraf,” to the crowd. “I can be of little aid to you,” she said, “but of much trouble were I to get in the way.”

“Get to the bridge,” Cyrus said. “If the dragoons are only a day away and the rest of the army only a bit past that, it’s not going to be more than a week before we’ve fallen back all the way.” He felt his jaw tighten. “If that.”

“Aye,” J’anda said. “Here.” He tossed them each a loaf of bread and looked at Cyrus seriously, the wind stirring his hair. “Take care up there. We’ll be waiting for you at the bridge.”

“Understood,” Cyrus said and urged Windrider forward, riding along the side of the road and listening to the crowds shout their joy at the sight of J’anda on his horse.

“I’m going to stay with them,” Aisling said, halting her horse just a few paces along. Cyrus pulled Windrider to a stop and came around to face her. “I’m not much use on the battlefield, not against those things. It’s a fight for proper swords and I’m really more of a daggers and sneaking kind of girl.”

“You’ve been doing pretty well so far,” Cyrus said, watching the dark elf’s eyes. She was cagey, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ve been lucky and good in equal measure,” she said. “But these things notice me more than most people, and I’m tired of pressing my luck. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“All right,” Cyrus said with a slow nod. “We’ll see you at the bridge, then.”

“Yeah,” she said, and her horse moved forward alongside him. “We will.”

He stared at her for a moment, at her hard, flinty gaze, inscrutable as she was. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She didn’t seem to react, just kept watching him. “I know.”

He started to look away but didn’t, keeping his eye on the purple irises that reminded him so much of a storm. “I don’t know … what I would have done without you on this expedition.”

“Died,” she said quickly. “That’s the short answer.” She let the slyest hint of a smile show through her grim facade.

“True enough. But I meant besides that.” He held out a hand to her, but she made no move to take it. “I meant … in all the other ways you’ve carried me through this time of trial. All the things you’ve-”

She leaned over and kissed him, maintaining her perfect grip on the horse. It was rough and heavy, a press with enough weight and feral savagery behind it that he wondered if she were about to bite him too. She broke from him and balanced back on her horse. “Don’t ever forget what I can be to you, then. Remember it while you’re mulling through … whatever you’re mulling.”

He gave her a slow nod of acknowledgment. “I will. Be safe.” He flicked a look toward J’anda and Cattrine, mobbed by the crowd, whose upthrust hands were gently clawing at them, waiting for bread. “Take care of them, will you?”

“J’anda I can promise I’ll take care of.” A dark look flickered over her. “The other … I’ll try.” She said it so grudgingly, it sounded as though she’d been turned upside down and had it shaken out.

“Yes,” Cyrus said. “Try. For me.”

There was a sigh of near-disgust and Aisling turned her horse around. “The things I do for you …”

Windrider began to move again without any action from Cyrus, and the warrior looked down in surprise. “Well, all right then.”

“You think they’ll be okay?” Martaina asked, coming alongside him as they rode, the wind coming from the north now, and carrying that faintest hint of the breath of Drettanden, that smell of death.

“We’re the ones who are riding toward the scourge, not away from it,” Cyrus said. “I’d be more worried about us, frankly.”

“I’m always worried about us,” Martaina said as the horses broke into a gallop, the line of refugees in front of them a thick column of filthy clothes and dirty faces. “I just figured I’d add a little variety.”

“You’re always worried about us?” Cyrus asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking over at her. “That feels like a commentary on my leadership in some way.”

“Your leadership is just fine, sir,” Martaina said. “But it does seem to point us in the direction of trouble more often than not. You’re like a bloodhound for trouble; you can’t stay away from it. I believe you might even thrive on it in some small way.”

He looked back to the horizon, at the downtrodden, the people without a home or hearth to call their own, fleeing their land and trying to escape death itself. “I think I’ve had quite enough of trouble for the sake of trouble after this excursion,” Cyrus said. “But I can’t deny that it seems to follow me about.” He looked back and could just barely see the shapes of Aisling in the distance, along with Cattrine and J’anda, still in the midst of the crowd. “In every possible way.”