“Yes,” he answered, barely above a whisper himself.
“I need to know the truth of what you’ve seen.” She held her distance, a few feet from him. “I need to know about these things. Are they truly as bad as Briyce Unger says they are?” She hesitated. “Do you believe that they will cover our land in a darkness?”
He hesitated, staring into her green eyes before blinking away. “I believe they will cover Luukessia in death, yes. Absolute, total death to everything they come across. They will sweep from the mountains to the seas and leave only blood and decay behind them,” Cyrus said, letting the fervency of his thoughts seep out of him, mingling with the undercurrent of feeling he experienced from seeing her, hearing her speak. “I believe they will be the end of Luukessia to the last person here, that they won’t quit coming until that happens.” He closed his eyes, just for a moment. “And I believe that without help, that’s doomed to be the fate of this land, regardless of how much blood those of us who will fight are willing to shed.”
She looked in his eyes, stared into them, and Cyrus was reminded of nights and days at Vernadam, but he did not look away. “I believe you,” she said simply and turned, walking in the opposite direction of the tower.
Cyrus opened the door to his room back at the tower and put his armor back on while the other officers trailed in behind him over the next few minutes. “I love what you’ve done with the place,” Ryin said as he shut the door behind him, the last to enter. Nyad sat on the bed, where Ryin joined her. Cyrus looked out the window, and far below he could see over the wall into the Garden of Serenity, empty, the trees and plants around the edges a marked contrast to the stone benches and amphitheater at its center. He turned to face the room and found J’anda and Curatio each occupying one of the chairs, while Samwen Longwell leaned against the wall. Longwell looked as though he were relying more on his armor than his strength to keep him upright. He had looked like that quite a bit lately, Cyrus reflected, though he had no motivation to ask the dragoon what weighed on him.
“We found out where this scourge comes from,” Cyrus said, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
“Yes, we surmised as much since it was stated in the assembly,” Ryin said, unconcerned. “From where do they hail? The far north of this country?”
“You’re a little off,” J’anda answered. “Try the Realm of Death.”
Silence gripped Ryin and Nyad. Cyrus watched the slow tick of emotions run over both of their faces- confusion, disbelief-Nyad turned scarlet after a moment, and Ryin grew still. “From where?” Nyad asked.
“The Realm of Death,” Cyrus said, subdued. “They’re the reconstituted spirits of the souls Mortus had imprisoned, given flesh by the journey through the portal from his realm.” Nyad sat openmouthed, and Ryin did not speak, merely shook his head slowly. Cyrus looked at him, and gave him a slow smile after catching his gaze. “This would probably be a fine time to say, ‘I told you so.’”
Ryin looked at him almost perplexed, lips slightly parted. “What?”
“You were the only one who argued against invading Mortus’s realm before we ended up killing him,” Cyrus said. “You were the sole voice that suggested against going.”
“I voted for it in the end,” Ryin said. “I was only opposed to the concern of heresy being committed in the process. I had not considered any … other consequences.” He rubbed his eyes. “Certainly nothing like this. Does this …” He halted, and a look like guilt weathered the human, turning his visage from that of a young man to a much older one in a second’s time, “… this means we’re responsible, doesn’t it?”
Cyrus let the silence endure for almost a minute. “Yes. It does.”
It became uncomfortable after that, a low, drudging toil of quiet, as though everyone were fighting hard not to say anything. Ryin spoke at last. “We can’t just leave them to it, then.”
“It was never my intention to leave them to it,” Cyrus said, “even before I knew we were the cause of this particular calamity.” He looked at the druid. “I suppose I am a little surprised not to hear you argue against it, though. I mean, you haven’t been renowned for wanting to get involved in other peoples’ wars.”
“I’m a bit of a contrarian, but this isn’t their war,” Ryin said, “it’s ours, spilled over here. If what you say is true, then the only thing that has spared Arkaria from the fate of these creatures falling on us is that our portal is in the middle of the Bay of Lost Souls.” He frowned. “These things can’t swim, then?”
“It would seem that the distance to shore is a problem,” J’anda said, indifferent. “It is quite far from the portal on the Island of Mortus to Arkaria, several hours sail by boat.”
Nyad frowned and looked around the room. “Where’s Terian? Shouldn’t he be here?”
This time the silence was pained, and Cyrus felt a particularly sharp dagger in his heart. “We’ll need to mobilize the army to get them ready to march north. I’ll ride out and give orders to Odellan while the rest of you …” Cyrus ground his teeth slightly, “explain what’s become of our illustrious dark knight. I doubt I could come up with anything that would make sense at this point. After that, one of you,” he pointed a finger between Nyad and Ryin, “needs to return to Sanctuary and deliver the news of our predicament-and to ask for aid.” He looked them all over once, then went for the door, and shut it behind him as he heard the quiet tones of Curatio explaining something matter-of-factly, too low for Cyrus to hear.
“HE DID WHAT?” Nyad’s voice was loud enough to be heard in the hallway as Cyrus descended the ramp, down to the bottom of the tower.
The air was warm as he walked out, across the courtyard. The nearby stable was open to the air, a single line of stalls under a cover that afforded only a little protection from the elements. Windrider waited, standing above a spread of oats lying on the ground next to a watering trough. He gave Cyrus a steady gaze as the warrior approached, and Cyrus pulled his gauntlet off to stroke the horse’s face as he took hold of the reins. “You’ve done well,” Cyrus said in a breath, and caught motion from his side, a stableboy moving in his peripheral vision. He patted Windrider as the stableboy, a red-haired, freckled lad no older than twelve edged closer, staring at Cyrus.
“Are you him?” the boy asked.
“Yeah,” Cyrus said, patting Windrider, “this is my horse.”
“No,” the boy replied, edging slightly closer to Cyrus. “Are you … him? Lord Garrick?”
Cyrus paused, uncertain of what to say. “I am Cyrus Davidon, of Sanctuary,” he answered after a moment. “I know not this Lord Garrick of whom you speak.”
The stableboy was quiet, his eyes staring out of the shade cast by the barn’s flimsy straw roof. “He’s legend, Lord Garrick of Enrant Monge. He was of the last generation of rulers of the castle before the fall and the fracture of Luukessia. He’s our greatest ancestor, watches over us from above.” The boy eased closer and ran a careful hand, stroking Windrider’s flank. “They say he keeps his eyes on us, here in Luukessia, from above, from the halls of all our ancestors in the land of Gredenyde.” The boy’s eyes blinked at Cyrus innocently. “They say he’ll come back to us-to save us-in our darkest hour of need.”
Cyrus’s hand paused on Windrider’s neck, and he froze, his blood running cold. “I’m not your Lord Garrick, believe that. And I wouldn’t put much stock in prophecy if I were you.”
There was a pause as the boy studied him. “Are you sure?
Cyrus took the reins and started to lead Windrider out of the cover under the barn, felt the warm sunlight stream down on him as he stepped from under the cover of the stables. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He slung the saddle over the horse and bound it, then slipped a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself up. “But I will do my best to save your land from what’s coming.”
The stableboy followed him out, covering his eyes with a freckled hand, that of a lad who had been working long hours in the sun. “I’ve heard the rumors, since the pigeons came. They say Scylax has fallen. They say something is coming from the mountains of the north, something terrible, something that wants to devour the souls of every man in Luukessia.” Cyrus didn’t say anything as he steadied himself in the saddle. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is it true that they’re coming, these things, to kill us all?”
“Aye,” Cyrus answered finally.
“But you’re going to stop them?” The boy looked uncertain, and Cyrus tried not to look too hard on him; he knew there were boys only a couple years older in the Sanctuary army.
“It’s not your darkest hour yet, kid,” Cyrus said, and started Windrider forward. “Save some fear and legends to pass on to your grandkids.” The clip-clop of the horseshoes on the stone echoed as Cyrus steered his horse out the eastern gate and into the second courtyard, across it, then out of Enrant Monge and down the road.
