Crusader: The Sanctuary Series, Volume Four (20 page)

“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, General Davidon,” the King said as Cyrus took his place and stood in front of his chair. He waited as his other officers filtered in, each guided to their place at the table by one of the members of the King’s armored procession.

“And I am pleased to be here and able to help, your Grace.” He followed the King’s example and sat after noting the other members of the King’s procession beginning to do the same. Cyrus felt the servant standing behind his chair scoot it closer to the table as he did so and he nodded in thanks to the silent steward behind him, who did not so much as look at him. “May I ask some questions so that we can begin to formulate a strategy for the coming battle?”

The King waved his hand. “The battle is not until the day after tomorrow, and I feel confident that with your help, we can easily vanquish Briyce Unger’s army and his mercenaries.” The King’s gaunt face tightened as he plucked a grape from his plate and put it into his mouth. He continued to speak, even as he chewed, causing the Baroness to cough lightly next to Cyrus. “Only a handful of these western mercenaries, that’s all Unger has, but the demon one, the half-man, he carries power that is truly fearsome, to hear my generals tell of it.”

“Half-man?” Cyrus asked.

“Yes,” the King said, taking a bite from a plum and letting the juice run uninterrupted down his face. “He stands not more than half the height of a man, stout of build and bearded like a mountain man of Syloreas—”

“A dwarf,” Cyrus said, locking eyes with Longwell, who nodded. “You say this dwarf casts spells?”

“He possesses western magic of a sort,” the King said, his mouth turning down as his eyes grew narrower still. “The power to knock an entire legion to the ground, to send men from their feet without warning or ability to stop it. His prowess with a hammer has become the stuff of nightmares, the tales young recruits are told in the barracks to scare them at night when they learn the trade of war and battle.”

“A paladin?” Cyrus asked. “That sounds like a paladin.”

“I trust that won’t present a problem for you?” The Baroness murmured in his ear as servants set a bowl of soup in front of him, a heavy one with rice and mushooms.

The smell of cream in the soup was heavy in Cyrus’s nose. “For me alone, perhaps,” Cyrus said, trying to decide which spoon to use out of the dozen implements arranged around his place setting. “For our army, no.”

“This half-man has been a dagger in our side during the whole campaign,” The King said, his voice high in complaint. “His mercenaries get stabbed through the chest, fall to the ground, and minutes later they’re whole again, back up and fighting.”

“Sounds like they have a healer, too,” Cyrus said. “We can fix that.”

The King waved his hand in frustration. “Enough of this talk. Count Ranson can tell you more about this drudgery later.” He brightened. “Let us move on to more gladsome topics.” He turned to Longwell. “How was your journey, my son?”

“Long,” the dragoon replied. “I had forgotten the distance between here and the bridge since last I trod the path.”

“I see,” the King said, slurping his soup, the broth dripping down his weathered and bony chin. “Did you have problems with those bandits from Actaluere?”

The Baroness was seized by a sudden fit of coughing, causing Cyrus to look at her in alarm. She stopped after a moment, hand in front of her mouth. “Terribly sorry,” she croaked as the King and the others at their end of the table stared at her.

Cyrus felt the presence of eyes upon him, like prey in the night, being watched by a beast. He looked up and found a man across the table, seated next to Longwell, staring at him. The man’s hair was light, his face ruddy and his eyes dark. His armor carried the same blue sheen in the steel as Longwell’s, though his surcoat was different, a tiger on a white background. His eyes met Cyrus’s and there was an instant jolt of hostility between the two men. The man was middle-aged, older than Cyrus by at least fifteen years, but with only a few signs of grey in his platinum hair to show it. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Cyrus said, feeling slightly annoyed by the man’s gaze, “but can I help you?”

The man stiffened in his seat, as though he had been insulted. “No,” he said, his voice low and scratchy. “You cannot help me.” His accent lilted in the same way as Longwell’s and the King’s, the end of his statement rising in pitch.

“Forgive me,” Longwell said, “for not making introductions. General Cyrus Davidon, this is Count Ewen Ranson, of the castle Ridgeland to the southeast. He is the marshal of my father’s armies.”

“Ah, so it’s you I’ll be coordinating with,” Cyrus said, letting the icy calm within take over his outward persona, frosting over the internal desire to scorch the man for his rudeness. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Ewen.”

“You’ll call me count or marshal,” Ranson snapped, his pinched face causing him to look especially snotty.

“Very well,” Cyrus said. “My full title is Lord Davidon of Perdamun, Warden of the Southern Plains and General of Sanctuary. You can go ahead and call me that. Every single time you address me, that is—and don’t leave out the ‘Warden’ bit as it’s very important.”

Ranson’s ruddy complexion went blood red. “What foolishness is this?”

“Why, Count Ranson,” Cyrus said, his icy reserve melting quickly, “it’s called custom and protocol, and it’s the very thing you just threw in my face, so you should recognize it.”

“What I recognize,” Ranson said, still flushed scarlet, “is that sitting before me is the same sort of scum that’s helping our enemies trounce us in battle after battle. The same cheeky bastards from a foreign land, come to lord it over us with your magics and fancy ways—well, I’ll have none of it. You don’t fool me—you’re all the same.”

Cyrus stared across the table at the count then looked to the King, who sipped another spoonful of soup with a slight smile, waiting to see what happened next. Cyrus turned his gaze back to the Count. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” Ranson said, unmoving.

“I see,” Cyrus said, feeling particularly wry. “I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less from a treacherous Luukessian. After all, you’re an easterner, the same as Baron Hoygraf of Actaluere, beaters and oppressors of women, rapists and—”

There was a crash of furniture as the chair that Count Ranson was sitting in fell back, splintering on the floor. The count’s sword was in his hand and a look of purest rage was on his face. “You take that back, you filthy bastard, I’ve never laid a hand in anger on a woman in my life, let alone beaten and whipped them like that scum—”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cyrus said, mock-offended, “perhaps I shouldn’t have unfairly grouped all you easterners into the same lot.” He picked up one of the six spoons gathered around his plate and dipped it in the soup, bringing it up to his mouth slowly and taking a long sip with one hand while keeping the other rested on Praelior under the table and well out of sight.

“Well said, sir,” the King guffawed. “Count Ranson, surely you can tell that there are differences between our guests and these mercenaries. After all, I see no half-men here among our guests.”

“We left our dwarves back at the village,” Cyrus said. “But let’s be plain,” he looked to Count Ranson, who had resumed his seat with the aide of the servant lingering behind him, “there are several nations and powers in the west, just as there are here. To confuse the peoples of different nations and guilds with each other is as insulting to us, in some cases, as it would be for me to make the comparison here that I just did.”

“I had said before that we should move to more felicitous topics of conversation,” the King said with a sigh. “Perhaps we can do so now.” With that, he picked up the remainder of his bowl and brought it to his lips, slurping the rest of his soup.

Cyrus sent a furtive look to the Baroness next to him. She was cringing even though she was trying to keep her eyes on her own soup, which she took dainty spoonfuls of. Past her were Ryin and Nyad, seated side by side and conversing pleasantly with Odau Genner. The rest of the Sanctuary members were sprinkled around the table, talking with their counterparts from Galbadien’s army.

The only two notable exceptions were Martaina and Aisling, each of whom was only a few seats down from the Baroness, on the other side of Odau Genner. Martaina’s hand was on her bow, which leaned against her chair, while she used the other to feed herself. Her eyes were slitted, watching the table coolly for any sign of trouble; if Cyrus had to guess, he would have bet that her bow had in fact been nocked with an arrow only moments before, when Count Ranson had been out of his chair.

Aisling sat a little further down than Martaina, a quiet spot in the gathering. The dark elf seemed to be watching everything with a furtive eye, and Cyrus noticed her turning her ears toward certain conversations under the guise of adjusting her hair. All the while, she was nursing her bowl of soup but had scarcely eaten any of it.

“What do you think of our predicament, General Davidon?” The stiff words drew Cyrus’s attention back to Count Ranson, who was looking at him with eyes that were hard like stone, dark circles glaring at him out of the candlelit dim.

“I think we should march out tomorrow and meet your enemies,” Cyrus said, taking another spoonful of the soup. It was rich and flavorful, and he found himself enjoying it much more than anything he’d had in months.

“The battle is set for the day after tomorrow,” the King said from the head of the table as a loaf of bread was placed before him. He reached for it with both hands and tore off the end, handing it to a servant who slathered it with butter. “I see no reason why we should hurry into it recklessly, especially now that we have forces at our disposal with which to surprise Briyce Unger.” The King’s smile was broad and full as he took the bread from the servant and bit into it, crumbs falling upon his deep blue blouse.

“Sire,” Count Ranson said, “we have danced to Unger’s tune throughout this entire war and look what it has gotten us.”

“I’m inclined to agree with the count,” Cyrus said, drawing the King’s attention. A very brief flash of ire was visible in the King’s eyes but disappeared quickly. “Obviously, I have no idea what your strategy has been from the outset, but I know that in battle, if an enemy expects attack in two days, I prefer to hit him the day before, when he doesn’t expect it.”

“That sounds like base chicanery,” the King said, lowering his head and biting deep into the bread in his hands. “Like something that would come from the Kingdom of Actaluere and not our own halls.”

Cyrus heard another cough from the Baroness and saw her begin to open her mouth. He reached over and tried to drop a hand on hers and missed, sending his gauntlet to her thigh instead. He looked at her with chagrin and saw her mouth drop slightly open and her eyes widen in amusement. He began to stutter an apology, but the count started to speak again, drawing the Baroness’s attention—and his own—back to the table.

“They have yet to treat us with the honor you speak of, Your Highness,” Count Ranson said in measured tones. “They struck without warning, have burned and pillaged our lands, used outsiders with power that we could not match, and now stand at our gates, ready to send us into ignominious defeat. If your enemy strikes at you from behind, does it not make sense to do the same to him?”

The King chewed his bread thoughtfully. “Let them have their dishonor. We shall hold our heads high and defeat them nonetheless.”

Cyrus could see the Count lock his jaw and lower his head, turning away from his liege. “Your Majesty,” Cyrus said, “I understand your wish for your army to maintain their honor. However,” he continued, feeling the tension rise in the room, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to march with my army on the morrow.”

The King’s face became slack, a grim mask at the defiance being aired in his hall. “You would do this without my leave?”

“I apologize, Your Highness,” Cyrus said. “I intend no disrespect, nor do I wish to challenge the high standards with which you govern your realm and conduct your affairs. However, I led my army to this land with the intent of bringing every last one of them home again, and I will live up to that promise to the best of my ability. That means if I’m going to pit them against superior numbers and a force that contains spellcasters, I’m going to need every advantage I can get, even ones I make for myself. Which includes the element of surprise, something which has won more battles than any wizard.”

The King watched him through half-lidded eyes, his mouth downturned. “I find your intransigence … disconcerting. But I cannot find fault in your desire to protect your people.” A lamb leg was placed in front of the King, and he picked it up. He took an enormous bite, chewing as he responded, words coming between movements of his jaw. “Very well, then. Let it be upon your honor. You will be at the head of our army and in nominal command of the battle. If anyone should ask, I will put the dishonor of surprise attacks upon you, not our Count Ranson.” Ranson stiffened at that, but nodded his head somewhat reluctantly. “Would you be amenable to that, Lord Davidon?”

“Amenable to taking over your army?” Cyrus smiled. “I think I can manage that.”

“To clarify,” the King went on, “you will lead the battle, but Count Ranson will have full control over the movements of our army. If you wish for him to do something, you will have to convince him yourself.”

Cyrus felt his hands clench and heard a sharp intake of breath from his left. He looked over to realize his gauntlet was still on the Baroness’ thigh and hastily removed it, earning a pitying look from her. “Very well,” Cyrus said.

The King’s eyebrow rose. “Very good, then. Let us speak of these dull matters no more, and turn our attention instead to the entertainments of the evening.” He lifted his hands as if to clap them, but before he could, a door opened at the far end of the room and a quartet of musicians with instruments came forth, situating themselves in the corner far to Cyrus’s left, where the King could see them best. The lead musician was a singer, and his voice rang out over the room, a smooth, dulcet sound that echoed beautifully from the walls as heads turned to watch.