What do you think they’ll do?”
J’anda was slow to respond. “I have already told the others this. I suspect they will go in the direction of flesh. If there is no prey north or east or west, then they will come south. They can sense life at a great distance and desire to extinguish it. It is a predatory need for them, a relentless hunger, a jealousy that crosses to obsession. They will keep coming as long as there is life in front of them.” J’anda became withdrawn, his voice quiet, hollow, and he stared past Cyrus as he spoke. “Until there is no more life left.”
Chapter 40
The ride back to Enrant Monge took a month, a month during which the expedition was quiet. Cyrus spoke at length with Count Ranson on the day after his return, and with the envoy from Actaluere; all were agreed that the scourge was serious, and a threat to every Kingdom in Luukessia.
“Those creatures are beasts,” the envoy from Actaluere, a pompous snot named Reygner, sniffed, “and their numbers are vast, but there is a very clear danger in what they can do to us, to our land. I intend to press my King to send immediate aid north. There will be plenty of time to make war amongst ourselves after these foreign creatures are expelled from Luukessia.” Cyrus did not bother to dispel the man’s perception of the scourge’s intellect.
Ranson had been less forthcoming. “I intend to tell the King what I have seen,” the count told Cyrus later, away from the rest of expedition, “but I do not expect he will listen. I mean-ancestors, man! We saw an army of Syloreas torn to pieces, a host of these beasts, but not so many that a firm defense wouldn’t sway them or cause them to go down in defeat.” He shook his head in frustration. “I will urge him to action, especially as you say there are numerous more of these things, but I expect he’ll take my counsel and pick out only the parts that appeal to him.”
“Oh?” Cyrus asked. “What parts are those?”
Ranson hesitated before answering. “Sylorean Army, torn to pieces.”
“What will you do, Count?”
“I will do nothing I am not ordered to,” Ranson snapped. “To do otherwise is treason of the highest order, and I have no desire to oppose my Sovereign and sign my own death order when I could avoid it.”
“And if your treason could save your people?” Cyrus watched Ranson, whose face fell.
“I doubt it could,” Ranson said. “We have not seen the full force of these things, in any case. You say there are more, but I ask you how you know this? Yes, yes,” he waved off Cyrus, “I have heard your explanation, of gods and tormented souls released, but such thoughts seem ridiculous to me, just as they will to any other in Luukessia that you tell. Ancestor worship is our philosophy, not mythical gods or all-powerful beings.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said, “then call them your tormented ancestors, returning to visit their pain and anguish upon you for all their sins past.”
“Ancestors!” Ranson cursed. “It makes it sound all the more ridiculous when you say it that way.”
After Ranson had ridden away, off to the other side of the procession, Curatio brought his horse alongside Cyrus. “It does sound ridiculous, you know.”
“That an army of tormented dead that we unleashed is visiting all manner of hell upon the northern reaches of a land most of us had never even heard of until a few months ago?” Cyrus looked at Curatio, and found a certain irony that allowed him to smile rather than weep. “I can’t imagine why any part of that statement would strain the credibility of the person who spoke it and professed to believe it.”
“Nor can I,” Curatio said, with only a little irony of his own. “Yet all levity aside, this is the truth that we are faced with. We are culpable for whatever happens here, because we were the ones who killed Mortus.”
“I don’t want to think about it that way,” Cyrus said, and looked away from the healer abruptly.
“You may not want to,” Curatio said, “but I suspect that your wants are unlikely to stop your mind from wandering in that direction.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said in a whisper, “there has indeed been some wandering. But it’s not all that is on my mind.”
“Hmmm,” Curatio said, “betrayal, backstabbing, deception, abandonment, duels to the death, arguments with women, deeply conflicted feelings, and an army unlike any we’ve ever seen on the march toward the civilizations of this land. I can’t imagine what else you might be thinking about.” After a moment’s pause, the healer said something else, more conciliatory. “Try not to let it all weigh you down.” Without another word, he urged his horse forward and left Cyrus riding alone.
But he was not alone that night, later, when he found a spring in the woods near the site of their camp. When his clothes and armor came off, the sound in the brush made him reach for his sword. His fingers dangled on the hilt when a single twig snapping turned him in the direction of the presence.
Aisling stepped out of the shadows, and wordlessly removed her clothing, slipping into the spring with him. There was more passion in her kisses than usual, and Cyrus returned them, every one, with just as much, craving her, wanting to feel the sweet bliss of forgetfulness. He found he wanted the tender moments of peace that only she could give him, where everything else was by the wayside.
When they were done, they did not exchange a word, but she aided him in washing himself and he did the same for her. She quietly stole off toward the camp by herself. He followed moments later. She had not come to his bedroll at night, not since they had returned to the expedition, but along the trail she would find him sometimes in an unguarded moment, against a tree, or in a soft patch of grass, and he would be able to ease his mind, to forget about all else for just a few precious minutes.
They passed Scylax without stopping for more than a few hours, allowing the horses to rest and for fresh provisions. They entered through the gates, were entertained on the main avenue, and rode out through the gate down the mountain only a few hours later. Some of the Syloreans changed horses; Cyrus did not have the luxury, and Windrider seemed to bear it better than the other animals anyhow. Occasional days of rest were required, or more often, half-days. They moved as quickly as the animals allowed, not giving much thought to the pains of the men, which were healed by Curatio whenever they asked.
Only a week south of Scylax they found themselves loping over open plains again, the mountains receding far behind them, distant, cloudy, with a darkness hanging over them, a wintery gloom that was nothing like the summer suns still kissing the plains around them. It was late summer, in fact, Cyrus realized, and some of the wild flowers had begun to turn brown where they had been purple, blue and yellow only weeks before when they passed through. A cool day manifested unexpectedly; the sky was dull grey like in the mountains, and the wind had the slightest kiss of bitterness to it.
The last night they camped on a grassy, windblown plain, and Briyce Unger called together Cyrus and his officers with Count Ranson and the envoy from Actaluere. They’d had plenty of discussions along the road, but this was to be their last. Cyrus listened, somewhat dully, as Unger confirmed for the hundredth time what the others would tell their respective leaders. Cyrus stayed silent; he had nothing to contribute, and Ranson was still skeptical of how his King would react while the Actaluere envoy was unrelenting in his belief that Milos Tiernan would immediately see reason. Cyrus, for his part, was not so sure.
“What do you think their next move will be?” Briyce Unger had asked Cyrus, after he had confirmed what he wanted to hear from the envoys. Cyrus blinked at him, in a daze. “The Scourge,” he said, as they had taken to calling the damned souls given flesh, “what will their next move be?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “J’anda says they’ll come south, looking for flesh and blood, eager to destroy life. When that will happen, I don’t know. Maybe it already has.”
“They’ll butt up hard against Scylax,” Unger said. “I’ve already ordered an army to reinforce the town, and they’ll evacuate the townsfolk into the keep if it gets especially ugly. Fighting in the pass will be a nasty business, though, if we get Longwell and Tiernan to send armies. We may have to draw them out in order to crush them.”
“The best thing we could do is march back into the valley where Pinrade is and destroy the portal,” Cyrus said. “But that’s going to be a hell of an undertaking.”
“Could you destroy it?” Unger asked. “Could your people with their spells and whatnot knock it down?”
“Maybe,” Cyrus said. “The only wizard I have with me is somewhat unexperienced in such matters.”
