“The Baron who’s in charge of the nearby holdfast captured one of our scouting parties during the night and is threatening to kill them unless we leave these shores,” Cyrus said.
Ryin froze midway through stretching an arm over his head. His tanned face became hard lines in a moment, mouth slightly open. “I take it that you bypassed calm reflection of peaceful remedies to this situation? You mean to show him the error of his ways by burning his home to the ground, yes?”
“Is that going to be a problem for you?” Cyrus gave the druid have an icy glare.
“Not necessarily,” Ayend said. “But I do think we should consider options that might result in less conflict before rushing headlong into battle.”
“I asked him to release our people,” Cyrus said.
“Did you ‘ask’ politely or was there some component of a threat attached to it?”
“Now, Ryin,” Cyrus said, all too patronizingly, “you’ve known me long enough to recognize that when someone threatens me, or any of my people, they’re not going to get much in the way of politeness in return.”
“Aye,” the druid said, voice cracking, “that’s what I was afraid of.”
The news spread through the camp as the army was awakened, and Cyrus found himself surrounded by the other officers. The last embers of the fire had begun to die down, and Cyrus ignored the last few logs that he could throw upon it. Curatio was pensive, as was J’anda. Longwell and Odellan spoke in hushed tones at the edge of the knot of officers. Ryin and Nyad huddled close together, as if for warmth, but no words were exchanged between the two of them. It was Terian who watched Cyrus with a certain intensity, who finally broke the morning quiet.
“So we break down the walls, take our people back and drag our enemies’ entrails from their still-writhing bodies?” The dark knight’s face was twisted, spiteful.
“I’m not opposed to that if it comes to it-save for perhaps the grisly entrail removal portion of it,” Ryin said. “But are we certain there is no other way?”
“They could give our people up peacefully before we get there,” Terian said, “and then we walk inside and drag their entrails out of-”
“They’re in a keep,” Ryin said, shaking his head. “Are we really prepared for a siege? This could take weeks or months.”
“No, it won’t,” Cyrus said, cutting across the words of argument that came from J’anda and Terian before they could begin. “In Arkaria, it might take that long. But this is Luukessia, a land that has never known magic, yes?” He looked to Longwell, who nodded in confirmation. “This will take less than an hour.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to discount the power of spellcasters since I am one,” Ryin said, staring at Cyrus with a sort of scornful distaste, “but I don’t think they add as much to sieging a castle as you might think.”
“Ever laid siege to a castle?” Terian asked, looking at Ryin.
“Yes, once,” Ryin said, his arm wrapping more tightly around Nyad, almost defensive. “In the Northlands, when I was with my old guild. A group of bandits had taken it by subterfuge and we were employed by the Confederation to help lay siege to it. It took close to a month. We magic users had little to nothing to do during the time, just sat back and waited.”
“The other side had magic users as well?” Cyrus said. “To put up defensive spells on the ramparts to block invasion, and such? Because that would be the only reason they wouldn’t have used you in the siege, assuming your leader was competent.”
“You mean … oh, I see,” Ryin said, nodding his head. “Oh. Oh, my.”
“Yes,” Cyrus said with a thin smile. “The possibilities are near-endless. Rally the army. We march as soon as they’re ready.”
Campfires were doused, packs were gathered, blades were hoisted, and the army was moving minutes later. Cyrus was at the fore, with the officers and Odellan riding in a tight-knit group around him. “This will be a two-pronged attack,” Cyrus said. “The first prong is the army at the gates. The other is a smaller group of veterans.” He turned to Odellan. “You’re on gate duty.”
Odellan’s eyebrows raised. “Where will you be?”
“With the other prong, cutting into their delicate entrails.”
The day was sunny and bright, an absolute contrast to Cyrus’s mood. It was as though all the darkness he had carried with him had been given shape, the mournfulness turned to rage and now pointed at a target which he could feel good about spearing with his blade. They crossed over hills and through valleys, until at the crest of a ridge a castle appeared in the middle of a green, grassy valley below.
It was surrounded by a moat, with a curtain wall almost thirty feet high the entire way around. There was a drawbridge that began to rise as they drew closer, with a little village less than a mile away from the walls. Cyrus saw a stream of people in the village square, a hubbub of activity, as though they were evacuating, heading south in a cluster.
“Do they think we’re going to attack their town?” J’anda asked. “We’ve been so nice to their countrymen.” The sun was high overhead, beating down upon them.
“The smallfolk who are left unprotected in villages tend to bear the brunt of any war in Luukessia,” Longwell said. “They likely believe we will act as every other invading force would and start by sacking the village.”
“Keep our people clear of the village,” Cyrus said, measured neutrality in his tone. “It seems to me those folks had nothing to do with their Baron’s decision to commit suicide, so we’ll have no part in wrecking their lives.” He looked back at them. “Pass the word. I don’t expect we’d need to worry about it with a seasoned Sanctuary army, but these people are new, some of them may be from armies where that was permissible and I want them to understand-anyone sacking, looting, burning or raping will be killed and left to rot in this land-that sort of behavior is simply not tolerated in Sanctuary.”
“But we can sack, loot, and burn the castle, right?” Terian looked around. “Right?”
“That depends on how the Baron responds to our arrival,” Cyrus said.
They followed the road outside the village. The cool mid-morning air still bore the chill of the pre-dawn even though the sun shone down on them now, casting shadows through the pines that were scattered along the path. The smell of the trees filled his nose, the sharp scent as present as the crunch of the needles under the hooves of their horses. The army marched behind Cyrus, and he looked up at the white stone curtain wall, shining in the sunlight, and saw heads peeking from behind the ramparts. The castle had towers at each corner, and across the battlements Cyrus saw spears poking up.
Blocks were set a few feet apart, creating teeth on the battlements, parapets in a line for archers to fire down at approaching armies from behind cover. Cyrus watched them coldly, analytically, trying to decide how best to approach. The curtain wall was square and went all the way around, a thirty-foot ascent no matter which direction they approached from. Though he couldn’t see it, he suspected that the Baron’s chambers would be toward the back of the castle, past the courtyard-a bailey, he had heard them called-and it would be a guess whether the prisoners would be kept in quarters there or in the dungeons.
“One hour,” he said under his breath as he brought Windrider to a halt. “One hour,” he said more loudly, to the officers behind him, and he heard the words passed back to the army on foot behind them.
A slight breeze stirred his hair under his helm. He looked up at the battlements, heard hushed voices from behind them. The drawbridge was up, a mighty wooden brace separating him from the walls by a moat filled with brown, grimy water. It stank from stagnation and the castle’s waste. He saw slick walls next to holes in the edge of the battlements, and knew he wanted to go nowhere near the water nor the front gate, either.
“Pass the word for Martaina and Aisling to come forward,” Cyrus said, and he heard the murmur of voices behind him. Martaina appeared at his side almost instantly, her horse edging past Longwell’s to stand next to him. Aisling was slower to appear, taking her time, showing up almost a minute later, her traveling cloak hiding her features in the light shadow created by the cowl. “Ah, good, there you are.”
“You summoned us, oh great and mighty General,” Aisling said, each word coming out as a curse. Her bustier was gone, and she was clad in the familiar leather armor that he had always known her to wear.
“Shelve your issues with me until later,” Cyrus said. “We’ve got people being held hostage in that castle. Do you have your bow?” He turned to look at Aisling, and she stared back, defiant, before reaching under her cloak and pulling out a bow with a fox carved near the grip. “Good.” He took a breath. “You’ll need it, I suspect.”
“Hail,” came a voice from above them. Cyrus looked up to see Olivere staring down, his red hair and beard
