“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “In fact, Milos Tiernan has brought his army north with us.”
Cyrus felt himself stop, as though everything ceased moving all at once around him. “Tiernan did? He’s not attacking Galbadien?”
“No,” Martaina said, and Cyrus could see her face go masklike. The ranger was good, no doubt experienced at hiding herself; but he had known her long enough to see through it.
“What happened?” Cyrus asked and put enough of a commanding voice into the question that it cut through the rasp. Martaina’s eyes turned rearward over Cyrus’s head. “How long was I out?”
“Over a week,” she said at last, and her hand disturbed the flap of canvas enough to let some light in, which caused Cyrus to blanch and close his eyes. “Curatio kept you well-medicated with opiates from the local poppy fields during your … ailment. He had some difficulty reattaching your head because of the time that elapsed between when it was severed and when we received it. It was a very near thing, and your arrow wound and other injuries had to heal naturally because they missed the window to be cured through magical means.”
“What happened while I was recovering?” Cyrus asked and tried to sit up. Martaina’s boot landed upon his chest, keeping him down. His armor was absent, and he felt no desire to fight her attempt to keep him flat, letting his head sink back to the padded, moving floor of the wagon.
“Actaluere joined with Syloreas and sent the forces they had on hand at Enrant Monge north with us.” She kept a canny eye on him, but her reaction was still closely guarded, he knew. “They mean to help fight against the scourge and have sent for more forces to come north while the first army moves up with us.”
“Are we close to battle?” Cyrus asked. “If we’re only a week out of Enrant Monge? Have the scourge reached this far south already?”
“It would be best if you didn’t concern yourself overmuch,” she said calmly. “We’re holding at a line south of the mountains, here in Syloreas’s southern flatlands, waiting for one of Actaluere’s northern armies to meet up with us. After that, we’ve a week’s march north to the rallying place where we’ll be fighting them.”
“Flat plains,” Cyrus said, pondering. “Let them come at us?”
“That seems to be the consensus,” Martaina said, looking down at him once more. “With Actaluere joining the remainder of Syloreas’s armies, we have as many troops as we’ll be able to muster and can fight them on as near to even footing as possible. Besides, remember these creatures thrive on broken ground. They took Scylax without much effort, after all.”
“I haven’t forgotten that, either,” Cyrus said, “and apparently they scaled a mountain to do it. No, flat ground does work best for us, for our mounted cavalry. I find it a bit mystifying that Actaluere would choose to join with us, seeing as the Baroness was such a sticking point for them-” He stopped, having caught the waver in Martaina’s expression, the subtle move of the muscles around her right eye. “She was returned to them, wasn’t she? Back to the Grand Duke?”
“She went back to Actaluere, yes,” Martaina said carefully.
“They took her?” Cyrus asked, and started to sit up again, only to feel the strength of Martaina’s foot hold him down once more. “Took her back to him?”
“She went back to him voluntarily,” Martaina said.
There was a silence that filled Cyrus’s ears, as though the sounds of the horses and men outside had ceased. All talk and chatter and the smell of infirmity that filled the wagon was gone. “To save her people, then. To free the army of Actaluere to action against the scourge.” He felt himself relax, his body limp against the padding that separated him from the wood floor of the wagon, and the deep dissatisfaction grew within even as he tried to shut it up. “And they let her.” He said it with such casual disdain that it lit a fire in Martaina’s eyes.
“Let her? No,” the ranger said. “She argued forcefully to be allowed to. Forcefully enough that Curatio did not oppose it nor did any of the other officers.”
Cyrus was quiet for minutes, the wheels bumping him along every few seconds as the wagon hit ruts in the road it traveled. “I can’t decide whether I deem her incredibly brave or deeply stupid. Perhaps some combination of both.”
“She went into it knowing what she was doing to herself,” Martaina said, and he saw the restraint again, the mask, keeping her emotions in check. It was a mask made of thousands of years of experience at keeping others from her thoughts. “I don’t believe you could ascribe stupidity to any part of her judgment process save one, perhaps.” Her eyes narrowed at the last.
“And that part would be?”
“I decline to say.” Martaina’s head swiveled again to the back of the wagon, to the flap, and remained fixed there as they bumped along in silence.
Chapter 54
Vara
The horn sounded in the early morning hours as Vara lay in her quarters, the fire going low across from the foot of her bed, the crackle not disturbing the sleep she wasn’t getting anyway. Her thoughts were far away, as usual, which was why she wasn’t sleeping. The soft pops from the fire were soothing in their way, and when the horn reached her ears it took a moment to realize that it wasn’t that far off-from the wall, it seemed, though she was dazed enough that she believed at first that it came from over the plains.
When it was sounded again, this time inside the halls of Sanctuary with the guards taking up the call of alarm, it was enough to stir her from her reverie.
Her bare feet hit the cold floor as she disentangled herself from the blankets that covered her bed. Damn, she thought, the urgency rising in her with the cacophony of horns and voices outside, I would not have believed they would move against us again so soon. I assumed they would at least wait for the reinforcements to get here ….
Her footcovers and underclothes went on first, followed by the armor, which took a while to strap on. The last thing she placed was her helm, which she detested and usually preferred not to wear. It was a shiny thing, like the rest of her ensemble, and covered the top of her head, leaving only part of her face exposed. It strapped tightly under her chin, and carried a movable crossbar that folded down over her nose for use during battle. She folded it down now after tucking her ponytail out the back, and made certain that the metal girding the strap was properly placed to defend against glancing blows under her chin. It met up with the gorget that protected her throat, and left only the space from her chin to her eyes unprotected.
She swung open the door and almost collided with the bulk of Vaste as she did so. The troll stopped himself in mid-stride, and Vara threw out an arm to his ribs, smacking him with her mailed palm as she tried to come to a stop before running into him. She looked up to his face and found him looking down at her. “Watch where you’re going, troll.”
“I was,” Vaste said, “which was why I stopped when you threw yourself into my path. You, on the other hand, I wonder about. Can you even see with that monstrosity fastened to your head?” He waved a hand in front of her face, as though she were blind.
Vara felt a surge of irritation. “I have always possessed a helm to go with my armor, you rancid goat bladder.”
“Perhaps,” Vaste said without umbrage, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you wear it before. You typically go hatless, the better to allow your flowing golden locks to distract your enemies, I presumed. Much the same reason your breastplate is molded to be aptly named-another way to keep them focused on-”
“Ye gods! Will you ever cease your damnable vexing of me?” She didn’t wait for a response, instead turning to head for the stairs, back in full flight as her feet tramped along the stones, issuing a loud clang with every step.