Cyrus turned his eyes toward the berm and the trees beyond. “They’re out there, somewhere, and we need to march out of here tomorrow as though they know we’re already here and that they’re waiting for us in ambush. We need to carry that feeling, without fatigue, for the next two months.” He looked back at the Council, at all of them, saw the disinterest in Ayend’s eyes contrasted with the rapt attention from Odellan. “Because the only threat to us now is that we don’t-and then they’ll overwhelm us when we least expect it.”
Chapter 9
They marched out the next day, over the berm and along a path that carried them inland. By the end of the day they had passed through coastal swamps and long grasses at the side of the path and had grown tired of palm trees and algae-covered ponds. A week passed as they followed the same routine: breaking camp as the sun rose, marching for two hours then taking a short break, followed by another two-hour walk at which point lunch was served (meat from whatever could be hunted, foraged berries and plants supplemented with conjured bread and water). In the afternoon there came another two or three more marches before they ended their day finding a suitable campsite.
Some days they would make camp earlier or later depending on what the scouts told Cyrus. Good ground was critically important, and Cyrus planned their final stop of the night around finding defensible positions on level ground. Edible plants and game were plentiful, providing the army with sustenance and keeping the grumbling to a minimum. From time to time they stayed in inns, buying local animals from farms for slaughter, and ale from the tavern keepers, who seemed pleased at the amount of gold that came to them in exchange for what they gave. Complaints about the length of marches were more frequent, though after the second week only the most disgruntled even bothered any longer. Most took the long days in stride, accepting of the direction they were heading.
“What do we do about the ones who want to go home?” Ryin had voiced the thought after only a day’s march past the bridge.
“Tell them that the bridge is back that way,” Terian pointed behind them, “and invite them to be on with it.”
As the second week died, Cyrus could feel the tension that had surrounded them upon leaving the beach dissolve, the quiet marches giving way to laughter and joviality, the evening campfires going from being solemn events where all were watchful to festive occasions.
“I’m trying to decide if I like them better like this or worse,” Cyrus said to Curatio one night in the second week as they sat by the fire, Cyrus chewing on a roasted haunch from a herd of goats that Martaina’s rangers had bought from a local farm.
“So long as the outriders and the watch take their duties seriously, we’ll be fine,” the elder elf told him. “This journey will be hard enough on their spirits and their bodies without driving constant fear into them. They wake early and go to bed early, and live their lives on their feet in all moments between. Remind the watchmen of their duty with all the fury you’d waste on the ranks of the army, and spare the others the misery.” Curatio took a sip from a skin of wine from the last village they had visited. “Their feet give them enough of that, I suspect-I’ve healed enough blisters in the last two weeks to know that much.”
They passed a moment in silence, Cyrus chewing on a piece of meat. “Alaric sent more than half the Council on this expedition.”
Curatio grunted in acknowledgment, and when Cyrus said nothing in response, the healer spoke. “Is there a question to go along with that observation?”
Cyrus continued to stare into the fire that crackled and popped in front of them as it caught hold of a branch that had slipped to the edge of the fire. “He knew what happened between Vara and I, didn’t he? He thought I wouldn’t be up to the task of commanding the expedition on my own.”
“Alaric and I did not part on the best of terms, so I wouldn’t feel qualified to tell you what he might have been thinking when we left,” Curatio said. “But I will tell you that the officers that are here volunteered to be here- in fact, every officer volunteered to come.” Curatio hesitated. “Save one, of course.”
“Of course. She was hardly in a fit state to go on a long pilgrimage, after all.” Cyrus felt his lips become a grim line. “Nor do I think she would have wanted to be burdened by the company she’d have had to keep while on this jaunt.”
“Alaric knows people,” Curatio said. “That’s his gift, really, to know people, to see into their hearts. It’s not some magical power, just a keen insight into the soul. If he sent more officers than was strictly necessary, it is not because he didn’t trust you. It’s because he sought to aid you in a time when he knew you would be going through great difficulty.”
He looked at Curatio, who remained stoic, staring into the fire. “You’ve lived for 23,000 years. Any advice on getting through this …” He blanched as he felt the pain rising within, “‘great difficulty’?”
Curatio did not move, did not stir, did not even seem to breathe. When he broke his silence, his voice sounded like a whisper caught on the wind. “Did you love her? Well and truly, more than anyone you’d loved before?”
Cyrus heard the quiet scrape of the fingers of his gauntlet as he ran them across his greaves, heard the sound of the breeze coursing over him and stirring the leaves of the forest that surrounded them, smelled the meat on the fire. “Yes. More than anyone. More than the woman I married.”
“Then no.” Curatio moved at last, reaching for a piece of dried wood behind him and tossing it upon the fire. “I don’t have any advice that will help you.”
Over the next seven days they marched into more populated areas. The coastal swamps gave way to green fields, orchards with citrus trees as far as the eye could see, fields of sugar cane and countless other farms. The army began to pass people on the road, horse-drawn carts, small children playing, all of whom moved aside to gawk at the army of Sanctuary as they went past in neat formation. Eyes widened at the sight of dark elves; Cyrus saw a small child run in terror upon seeing the handful of goblins who marched with them.
As Cyrus rode past the onlookers, he felt someone slip into formation next to him, at the head of the army. He blinked when he realized it was Martaina, her usual carefree happiness gone, replaced by a taut expression, the lines of her face all angled, her eyes darting in all directions.
“What is it?” Cyrus asked.
“I’ve been seeing watchers,” she said, turning to give him all her attention. “In the woods, in the trees. At distance, to be sure, but they’re there. We’ve got shadows, and they’re following us about the countryside.”
Cyrus looked around, trying to spy to the horizon, across the fields, but all he saw were groves of trees on one side, long grass on the other, and a road that wended its way into the distance. “If you say you saw them, I believe you. Human eyesight is can’t compare to yours.”
“They’re out there.” She chewed her lip. “Not many, not yet. Maybe a dozen or two, it’s hard to tell. I think they have spyglasses, because I see the shine of light off them from time to time. They’re definitely watching and waiting but hard to say what for.”
“Scouting party, maybe. Longwell!” Cyrus called behind him, and the dragoon dutifully trotted up to join he and Martaina. “Our rangers have sighted watchers keeping an eye on us.”
Longwell’s serious face grew more drawn. “Should have figured. We’re only a day’s ride from Green Hill, which is Baron Hoygraf’s keep. One of Luukessia’s most singularly humorless chaps. If there was to be a fight for us on this side of Actaluere, it would be from him.”
“This would have been good to know,” Cyrus said. “You think this Baron Hoygraf will try something?”
Longwell gave a broad, expansive shrug. “Only a little more than any other titled defender of the realm of Actaluere whose game we’re picking off. The animals we eat are his property by the laws of the land. None of them will take kindly to our treading across their roads either, especially with an army. I’m certain word has reached their capital, Caenalys, by now. Hoygraf would be his leading edge if their King means to move against us. He’ll be operating independently of King Tiernan for now, which should be a cause for concern.” Longwell dipped his shoulder, almost contritely, apologizing for the news he was delivering. “Like I said, he’s a humorless bastard.”
“How many men does he have at his command?” Cyrus asked.
