Crusader

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They traipsed downstairs, Cyrus thinking about food the whole way. As he passed through the foyer, one of the servants bowed and handed him a small package wrapped in canvas, with a string tied around it. “Provisions for your journey,” the servant said and bowed again.

“What is with all this bowing?” Cyrus whispered as they walked out the front doors of Vernadam and descended the stairs. “You’d think there were gods wandering the halls around here.”

“I’ve seen a god,” Martaina said, taking the reins of her horse from the servant who waited below. “None of us looks much like him.”

“Don’t know how much bowing I’d do to him, anyway,” Cyrus said as he put his foot in a stirrup on Windrider’s saddle and hoisted himself up. “He was the ugliest sonofabitch I’ve ever seen.”

Martaina raised an eyebrow at him as she righted herself in the saddle. “And Bellarum is a handsome fellow by comparison? Am I remembering perhaps a different God of War than you?”

“He’s not as ugly as Mortus was,” Cyrus said. “At least, he didn’t look that ugly when I saw him.”

“When you saw him?” Martaina’s face contorted in consternation. “When did you see the God of War?”

Cyrus urged Windrider toward the gate, Martaina a few paces behind him. He ignored her question as Terian came alongside him. “Davidon,” the dark knight said. “It’s a fine day for battle, is it not?”

“The battle’s going to be tonight,” Cyrus said, gesturing to the Sanctuary members gathered at the gate to follow him. “We’re meeting the count and his men in the village?” Cyrus waited until Longwell nodded at him, then started out of the gate and turned back to Terian, who was on one side of him while Martaina had taken up the other flank. “And, yes, it will be fine,” he said, catching a glimpse of Aisling riding close to Mendicant, as far away from him as possible while remaining in the knot of Sanctuary forces. “I’m particularly looking forward to swinging my sword around; it’s been a while.”

Martaina snickered and looked at him, amusement on her features. “Interesting choice of words. I’m surprised you have enough energy to swing a sword after all the time you spent … wagon racing with the Baroness on your bed last night.”

Terian straightened. “Wagon racing? Is that supposed to mean something?” His brow furrowed. “Did you rut with her last night, Cyrus?”

Cyrus felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “A gentleman never tells.”

“That’d maybe be of concern to me if I’d asked a gentleman, but instead I asked you. Did she bring the dagger to bed? Because after Vara, I can see that being the sort of thing you’d be into, pain and whatnot.”

“I didn’t hear a dagger come into play,” Martaina said. “Although it may have on the fourth time; there was so much squealing it sounded like they were having a livestock auction in there.”

“Aren’t you bound by an oath of silence or something?” Cyrus asked.

“My gods, Cyrus,” Terian said. “I knew you’d been deprived of female company all these years, but-four times? Have you not been taking matters into your own hands?” He looked down. “I suppose the gauntlets make it somewhat colder, but-” Terian shifted his gaze to look at Martaina, “Four times? You’re not exaggerating?”

The elven ranger smirked and held up her hand, the four fingers extended, and she nodded.

“I guess it’s too much, asking an elven woman to be quiet,” Cyrus said, glaring at Martaina.

“I didn’t say it,” Martaina replied, her eyebrow raised. “And it sounds like you might be picking up some local color, sir-like their attitude toward women.”

“Not true,” Cyrus said. “I made sure my partner crossed the finish line each time. I even let her ride on top of the wagon once.”

Terian smirked at him. “So is this the end of the dour and sour Cyrus? Have we finally banished the thoughts of Queen Frostheart to the nether realms of Mortus’s tower?” Terian’s smirk turned into a frown. “Or wherever that giant oddity went when he died.”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus said soberly, the thoughts of the blond-haired elf returning for the first time that day, “but I think we’re on our way.”

“Good,” Terian said, “because you were really insufferable-boring and whatnot-for the last couple months.” The dark knight smiled, but there was a malicious edge in his voice. “I felt bad for you. Honestly, it made me a little sick inside. I almost felt like if you died, it’d be a mercy killing.”

“It might have been,” Cyrus said. “But we’re moving past that now. And this is no time to think about … her.” He blinked. “Actually, either of them, for now. I need to focus on this battle. After that … I guess we’ll see.”

“What happens after that?” Martaina asked.

“If we crush the Sylorean army, I suppose we go home,” Cyrus said. “If we just splinter them, we’ll probably have to pursue them north for a while, help break them so this doesn’t happen again in the near future.”

“And if we lose?” Terian’s smirk had returned.

“Then I suspect we’ll have bigger problems to worry about than whether I’m over Vara,” Cyrus said with a smile of his own.

“Dealing with the odd smell that hangs on my chainmail is a bigger concern to me than whether you’ve embraced sanity and returned to the realm of normal womenfolk,” Terian said. “But all the same, you were one sour bastard after she twisted on you.”

“Look out there,” Martaina said, pointing her finger down the hill, past the town. The army of Sanctuary was assembled in the streets, already facing in the direction they were set to march. Beyond them, out in the fields, another army waited. On one side of the pasture were thousands of men on foot, at least five-fold what Sanctuary had. Across the field, and not nearly so well ordered, were thousands more on horseback; so many that Cyrus could not hope to reasonably count them all.

“Where the hell were those guys when we came into town yesterday?” Terian asked.

“I’m guessing they were set up to the north,” Cyrus said. “Probably positioned between where the enemy is coming from and Vernadam.”

Curatio rode up as they started around the switchback, heading down the path. The sky overhead had taken on some clouds, and the sun seemed to be trying to shine through them, but dimly. Cyrus caught a hint of dust as the wind blew across his face, the dry, earthy smell of dirt that came off the hill behind them.

“You ready?” Curatio said as he slowed his horse to ride next to Terian. “Head clear? Prepared for battle?”

“Quite so,” Cyrus said.

“And was the Baroness still aglow when you left her?” Curatio’s usual infectious smile had been curiously absent of late, but Cyrus saw the tug of it on the elf’s mouth, even as he looked straight ahead, giving Cyrus only a view of the healer’s profile.

“Been doing a little eavesdropping, Curatio?” Cyrus cocked an eyebrow at him.

“It wouldn’t take much eavesdropping to hear your conversation about ‘wagon rides,’ even if I hadn’t been quartered next door to you last night.”

They rode into the village. The army of Sanctuary was already assembled in formation, neatly ordered rows beginning at the square and leading all the way down the main avenue out of town. “I’ll need to talk with Odellan and Longwell as we’re riding,” Cyrus said as he rode down the street, the musk of animals filling the air around them, the hooves clopping. “No need to delay our departure, especially since it appears Count Ranson is already waiting for us.”

Cyrus rode down the line, the others falling in behind him, leading the procession past the rows of his army. He heard hundreds of greetings and acknowledgments of his presence, and smiled, trying to wave at as many of them as he could.

“You might want to cool it off with the excess enthusiasm,” Martaina stage whispered behind him. “You’re so damned happy this morning, they’re bound to wonder where their real general has gone.”

“I prefer going to war under the command of a testy general,” Terian said as Longwell and Odellan fell in behind them. “There’s something unseemly about storming into a fray of swords and arrows, blood and bile, with a guy who looks so damned happy.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes and rode on, past the villagers lined up on both sides of the streets. I wonder if they know how close their Kingdom is to defeat? I wonder if it matters? His thoughts were dark as he rode to the end of the line and the edge of the village. Where else could they go?