Crusader

The dark knight didn’t react, at least not visibly, though Cyrus could swear he felt Terian’s glare burning a hole into his back. “I’m not even going to ask you what Aurastra means,” Cyrus said, his attention back on Partus.

“You should, it’s an interesting tale,” the dwarf said.

“I want to know about the Sylorean army.” Cyrus kept his gaze trained on the dwarf, though he spared a glance at Count Ranson, who watched the proceedings with cool disinterest mingled with a certain disdain. He’s not impressed with the discipline of my army right now, that’s for sure. Neither am I, when you come to it. I just had a man try and slay a prisoner in front of me and I had to take him down myself. Not a great sign; at least I got the result they were looking for.

“Yeah, it went north,” Partus said. “We split far up the countryside from here. They were supposed to hit country towns, plunder and pillage and the like, lay siege to some keeps and then meet us at Harrow’s Crossing for the battle with you lot, but a couple nights ago the King-Unger, the bloke who hired me-gets a messenger from his capital. Something happened up there, something bad. We’re in the middle of dining on some spoils from a keep we’d broken down the night earlier, and he takes his officers and loads up and buggers off in the middle of a meal.” Partus spat on the ground. “Left one of his lessers in charge, didn’t say much of what it was about. Didn’t much matter, neither, rolling over Vernadam was supposed to be a foregone conclusion, that we were going to crush your army at Harrow’s Crossing even with our reduced numbers and waltz right in or blockade the place if necessary. War over.” Partus let out a rough snort. “Promises not worth the warm air they’re breathed into.”

“So what was it about?” Cyrus spoke and Partus turned to look at him; previously the dwarf had been addressing his comments to the Count.

“Told you, I don’t know.” The dwarf shrugged his shoulders.

“You said he ‘didn’t say much of what it was about,’” Cyrus repeated. “Word for word.”

The dwarf let a half-smile curl his lips, a snide one, as though he knew he’d been caught. “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, he didn’t say much, and what he did say didn’t make a bit of sense, really, not to me at least. Then he and his band buggered off before he went and explained it.”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Enough drama. What did he say?”

Partus met Cyrus’s eyeroll with one of his own. “He said, ‘they’re coming.’” The dwarf held his bound hands in front of him. “That’s it. And then he got on a horse and scampered off to the north with his little wagon train in tow, as though Mortus himself was following behind him.”

Cyrus concentrated, looking at Count Ranson. “That mean anything to you?”

Ranson shrugged. “Nothing. I’m left with the obvious question of who ‘they’ are. Actaluere’s army, possibly?”

“I doubt it,” Partus said, with a slight snicker. “Because you see, you’re missing it. It doesn’t matter, the bit he said. Because that’s not the news. It’s how he said it that matters. That and what he did afterwards.”

Count Ranson sighed heavily. “Very well. How did Briyce Unger say it, then?”

“Scared.” Partus let it slip matter-of-factly, like he was letting loose something precious indeed. “He was scared, I’d stake my life on it.”

Ranson’s mouth opened slightly at the dwarf’s words, as though he were weighing them in his mind, trying to calculate the value of them. “That is … interesting. And, if true … greatly disturbing.”

“Disturbing?” Cyrus looked around at the officers behind him, and the men surrounding him, and found one face in particular-Longwell. The dragoon’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wider than usual. “Longwell?” Cyrus asked. “What does it mean? Why does it matter?”

Longwell stepped forward, brushing past Terian to stand next to Cyrus. “Briyce Unger, the King of Syloreas, has led every single battle he’s fought from the vanguard. He fights like a madman in personal combat; it’s said no man can take him down. He carries a mace with a ball the size of a man’s head, and the spikes on it are as long as my forearm. He’s huge, taller maybe even than you,” Longwell acknowledged Cyrus’s height with a nod. He is one of the mountain men of Syloreas, rocky and inhospitable. They don’t fear many things. Briyce Unger is the most fearless of them all.”

Longwell looked at the circle around Partus, and the dwarf looked at him and nodded. “So for this man- dwarf-whatever he is, to say that Briyce Unger took this news and was scared …” The dragoon swallowed hard. “It doesn’t sound terribly good for him.”

Cyrus watched Longwell carefully then shifted his attention to the still-chuckling Partus. “Let me give you a helpful hint, mercenary,” he said, stripping the smug look from the dwarf’s face. “When the fearless man is afraid, it’s not just bad for him, as a rule.” Cyrus stared north, as though he could sense something was ahead of them, over the horizon. “It’s bad for all of us.”

Chapter 21

The rest of night was subdued; conversations hashed over and over again. Partus was gagged once more and bound hand and foot, tied to a cot and put under guard. He was allowed water before he went to sleep, but only with a cessation spell over him, then he was strapped down and left quiet with two guards and Mendicant to watch over him. The goblin was ordered by Cyrus to thoroughly cover the dwarf with a fire spell should he attempt to escape, a fact which was not lost on the wide-eyed Partus.

Cyrus sat in a circle around a fire with his officers, but the conversations lost his attention after only a short while. They discussed what Partus had talked about, but it meandered in circles. Terian was silent, almost as though he were pouting or lost in his own thoughts. After their conflict, Cyrus had not bothered to approach the dark knight. Better to let him stew on it and talk with him in the morning. He’s sore that I had to remonstrate with him in a public forum. He frowned. Well, he shouldn’t have tried to kill the prisoner.

Longwell contributed little to the conversation, only reiterating that Briyce Unger had little use for cowards, so the thought of him terrified was disquieting, at least. Ryin weighed in with his own observations, after which Nyad proceeded to dissect at length (interminably, to Cyrus’s mind) every bit of what was said about the Sylorean army, Briyce Unger, and all other minutia. Shortly before midnight, Cyrus gave up and retreated to a tent that Ranson had indicated was for him.

Within, he found a wooden cot with a roll of furs to use as a mattress. Cyrus lay upon it, resting his head, hearing the sounds of the thousands of soldiers encamped around him. Though he knew the latrines were far from his tent, the smell of the battlefield was still present; the first hints of souring flesh, the real or perceived scent of blood on the air. He buried his face in the furs, sniffing at the clean, just-washed smell of them, the barest remains of soap still on them. He thought of the Baroness, of the morrow, and of how he would feel her against him again, and he slept.

The next day came similarly gloomy, and he woke to the sounds of the camp stirring. After stretching, Cyrus stepped outside the tent. Rain was in the air again, the heavy, humid feeling of a storm, ready to break. The clouds were grey and wended their way to both ends of the sky without break or interruption. Some patches were darker than others, but it was all a dark sky, and all a worrisome thing to have hanging over one’s head, ready to break loose at any moment.

After a brief conversation with Count Ranson, who urged Cyrus to begin the journey back to Vernadam, which awaited them for celebrations, Cyrus rallied the Sanctuary army. They made their way out of the camp, the column being led once more by the riders on horseback. They had left behind their own wagons at Vernadam, and so made their way onto the rough road leading into the Forest of Waigh before the morning had entirely left.

The sky remained gloomy but did not deliver on the promised rain until nearing midday, when it came in short, staccato bursts. For ten minutes the skies would pour buckets and then stop, the clouds finally breaking to reveal sunlight. A few minutes later, another cloud would cover the sun, drench the army of Sanctuary as it tried to hide under the boughs of the forest, and then be onward in the sky, letting the sun shine down again. After the fourth rainstorm, Cyrus lost count, not worrying, already soaked and near uncaring about the chill. Although he felt bad for the soldiers in the column, he knew the only thing for them was to finish the march, which would take another six hours or so before they’d reach Vernadam.

Cyrus spent his time quiet, thinking of the Baroness, of her touch. He found to his surprise that even in the