“A half-thousand, perhaps, at his hold. Maybe a few score more but not many.” Longwell’s hand pointed to the horizon. “He’ll be able to secure reinforcements if he calls for his bannermen from nearby holdfasts, but it’ll take a few days.”
“He won’t be a serious threat in a direct battle until then,” Cyrus said. “But we’ll still need to keep careful watch. Unless the people of Luukessia have no use for treachery?”
“Oh, they have many uses for it,” Longwell said with a half-smile. “Many.”
They rode without incident for the rest of the day and camped that evening on a grassy plain, a thousand stars lighting the skies above them. Cyrus fell asleep with his mind on a blond elf, her words fading in his ears, and awoke when Odellan shook him shortly after midnight.
Cyrus sat up and looked into the face of the elf, whose helm was hiding his fair hair. “What happened?”
Odellan’s mouth was a thin line. “We lost a scouting party.”
“Lost?” Cyrus got to his feet. “I presume they were too experienced to get ‘lost’ if they were a scouting party.”
“One veteran ranger named Mikal, a human,” Odellan said. “Had a couple new warriors and rangers with him. They were sent to the north during the night to reconnoiter the farms above us, see if there was any sign of trouble. They didn’t report in when they were supposed to.”
Cyrus rubbed his eyes. “How overdue are they?”
Odellan’s grimace became worse. “Six hours.”
“All right,” Cyrus said, his hands feeling at the hilt of Praelior at his side. The rush of strength from it gave him a jolt, helping him wake. “I don’t want to become too alarmed yet. They may have had good cause to detour around something, or perhaps found something that they’re taking a closer look at. We’ll wait, for now. We’ll give them until sunrise, then go looking for them.”
“You don’t want to send searchers after them now?” Odellan looked concerned.
“Purely at a gut level, yes,” Cyrus said. “But six hours could be reasonable caution on their part, taking care to get back to us without getting themselves into trouble. There are a host of possibilities, and I don’t want to get overexcited when we have no idea what’s happened to them.”
“So we send a search party at dawn?” Odellan’s body was frozen in a hesitant state, stiff and formal.
“No,” Cyrus said, causing the elf to blink. “Then we go looking for them. All of us-the whole army. If something caused one scouting party to disappear, I’m not taking a chance on sending another into the same trap. We go in force.”
Odellan cracked a smile. “Aye, sir.”
The night lasted long, and Cyrus never returned to the ever-elusive sleep he had found before. Instead he stared at the campfire, watched the flames dance, the hues of orange at the top, the whitish heat at the base of it, and he saw a shade that seemed familiar. The fire swayed in the wind, and he saw the yellow at the heart of it, the same color as her hair, and it moved, like the swishing of her ponytail …
The sun came up as it always did and brought with it a surprise. A rider with a flag of truce was brought to Cyrus at dawn, Longwell and Odellan escorting him. The man was stout, red of hair and beard, both of which were long and reached to the middle of his chest and back. He approached Cyrus’s fire, with Longwell and Odellan flanking him. Neither looked particularly happy to Cyrus’s eyes, and the warrior felt a chill inside as the man approached, his face freckled and aged, his chin held high.
“My name is Cyrus Davidon,” he said upon greeting the envoy, “of the army of Sanctuary.”
“My name is Olivere. I bring the compliments of Baron Hoygraf,” the envoy began, “who speaks in the voice of Milos Tiernan, King of Actaluere.” Olivere wore darkened steel armor with a blue surcoat that had a shark upon it, leaping out of a field of water.
“I accept his compliments,” Cyrus said, “and wonder what would possess the good Baron and the King to be sending an emissary to me.”
The envoy smiled, a cunning smile that caused Cyrus’s concerns to congeal inside him like old blood. “You march an army through their lands without their leave to do so and kill game from their fields, fish from their streams. You’re fortunate that you’ve received an emissary and not darker tidings.”
“Come now,” Cyrus said, in as friendly of a tone as he could manage, “we’ve made no hostile movements against your King or your Baron. We’re passing through on our way to Galbadien to aid in their war against Syloreas. I have no quarrel with your King or Baron and will even pay them a toll for using their roads or killing their game if they would so like.”
“I’m afraid that’s unacceptable,” the man said. “Having an army, hostile or no, traveling through the heart of the peaceful Kingdom of Actaluere, is not something that Baron Hoygraf will permit. It is considered an act of war. However,” the envoy said, his smile becoming more genial, “should you turn your force around and take them back the way you came, we will grant you safe passage back to the bridge, so that you may return to your foreign homeland and inform them of the graciousness of Baron Hoygraf of Actaluere and our primacy over the spiteful Kingdoms of Galbadien and Syloreas.”
“Hmmm,” Cyrus said. “I had a feeling we might come to this particular sticking point.”
“Oh?” The man cocked his head, and his red beard shifted with him, lying flat against his dark armor. “You don’t wish to turn around, I take it?”
“Wishing has little enough to do with it.” Cyrus turned his back on the envoy. “I’ve committed our force to act on the behalf of the King of Galbadien, and I keep my word.” He turned to the envoy. “That’s something you should tell your Baron about me-about us, I should say, the army of Sanctuary and myself. We keep our word and our commitments.”
“I see,” Olivere said. “And I take it that my peaceful words shan’t change your mind?”
“Doubtful,” Cyrus said. “So try making your threat, instead.”
“Very well.” Olivere smiled, a smarmy, disingenuous smile this time that made Cyrus want to bury his sword in the man’s face. “You realize that you’re missing a war party, I take it?”
“I realize that you’ve taken our scouting party,” Cyrus said, eyes narrowed. “Are they dead or alive?”
“They live, for now,” Olivere said. “Had you been reasonable and agreed to go back to the bridge, they would have been released immediately. As it is, if you turn back, we’ll return them to you there before you cross. If you don’t turn back, we’ll kill them, one per day, until you either return to the bridge or we’re forced to bring our army against yours.” He leaned forward to Cyrus, and the smile got wider. “And their deaths won’t be quick nor will they be painless.”
Cyrus stared into Olivere’s eyes, saw the twisted pleasure, the taunt within, and Cyrus felt something grow very cold within him, a chill that seemed to ice his skin and bones like the frost on winter mornings in the Northlands. He looked behind Olivere to Longwell. “How far away is Green Hill?”
“A few hours ride,” Longwell said, concentrating. “Why?”
“Get the army moving,” Cyrus said. He looked back to Olivere. “Carry this message back to your liege. I will be at his gates with my army within hours. If my people are not safely delivered to me upon our arrival, I will burn his keep and kill all his men. And it will not be quick,” Cyrus said with malice, “nor will it be painless, especially in his own case.”
Olivere’s eyes flickered, and the man withdrew his head from where it had been leaning forward, the wicked light in his eyes smothered. “Green Hill is a fortress. You’ll spend months trying to lay siege to us-months you don’t have. The Army of Actaluere is already in motion and will fall on you sooner than you expect. We have watchers in the hills by the bridge, and we were informed of your arrival the day you set foot on our shores. We’ve been watching you since you camped by the bridge, indulging in your pitiful excess by lounging for an entire day after your journey.” Olivere’s lips turned up in a cruel smile. “The King of Actaluere rides with an army of ten thousand men, ready to meet you on the field of battle. Your pitiful force stands no chance.”
Cyrus leaned toward Olivere and beckoned that the envoy should lean closer to him. “Last month,” Cyrus whispered, “I went up against an army of one hundred thousand with only a few hundred.” He pulled back, a coarse, soulless grin on his face. “Do you think your ten thousand scares me?” Cyrus looked to Odellan and ignored the slightly stricken look on Olivere’s face. “See him safely back to his horse.” He focused on Olivere, stared the man straight in the eyes. “Warn your liege. I have more at my command than you can possibly weather.”
Cyrus watched the envoy be led away as Ryin Ayend joined him, still yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What was that all about?” the druid asked.
