Longwell thought about if for a moment and then shrugged. “I can’t see what good it would do him. He might conquer the town, but in order to take the castle, he’d need time, which he wouldn’t get if we beat his other army in the field. He’d get flanked while trying to mount a siege of the most impregnable fortress in the land.” Longwell shrugged again. “Not the wisest course, and Briyce Unger is no fool. No, more likely he’s into something else, though I can’t imagine what.”
A fearful wind was whipping across the plains now and it brushed through Cyrus’s hair with all the enthusiasm of a cat at play with yarn. The green grasses came up to the knee of his horse, and the smell of the animals, wet with the travel through the swamp, followed them. He could hear the chatter behind him and the rustling of the grass in the breeze, as well as the occasional whinny. The plains lay uneven all the way to the horizon, and Cyrus could see the river ahead.
A thought occurred to him and he turned back to Longwell. “Your father greeted you with great enthusiasm when we arrived the day before yesterday.”
Longwell’s jaw tightened under his helm. “Aye. I expect he was quite pleased that I returned, especially seeing how I was at the head of an army that could save his realm. Even as … distracted … as he is nowadays, it had not escaped my father’s notice that Syloreas was about to conquer his Kingdom.”
“But you left,” Cyrus said. “You’re the heir to the throne, aren’t you? But you went far, far away. You must have gone for a reason.”
“I did,” Longwell said. “My father and I had a great disagreement. My mother has been gone for many years, and she and I always got on better than my father and I did.” The dragoon’s tension was obvious even through his armor. “My father thought I’d come under unsavory influences.”
“What?” Cyrus did a double take. “You’ve never acted with anything but honor for as long as I’ve known you.”
Longwell gave Cyrus a slow, subtle nod of acknowledgment. “I’ve always tried to; but it led me to defiance of my father’s will. In his eyes, there is no greater sin. It led me out of his house, out of his Kingdom, and out of this land, as I couldn’t see myself fighting for Actaluere or Syloreas.” He puckered his lips in distaste. “That much a traitor I am not. Now, in his hour of need, I return. Let us hope that buys me back into his good graces for longer than a fortnight.” The dragoon shook his head as if to clear it. “It matters not. We shall find ourselves in good company and my father will throw an impressive feast.”
“I could use some time to rest after this journey,” Cyrus said. “Two months to get here, a nasty battle along the way, one big fight, and a little hunt for a dwarf,” he waved toward Partus, whose wide-hipped rump was facing Cyrus off the back of Mendicant’s horse, “and we’re done. Some feasting and celebrating doesn’t seem out of line. Our people have earned it-especially given how far they’ve walked,” he said with a smile. Windrider whinnied. “And horses, too, of course.”
The river appeared before them, broad and dark in the falling light, and within an hour they were crossing the bridge, the Galbadien army already encamped on the other side. Tents had been set up, large ones, and there was some manner of dinner being served from the fires. A wagon train had come with the army, giving them more sustenance than conjured bread and water. Cyrus saw Sanctuary army members, looking far different than the Galbadiens in their distinctive livery.
They rode into the camp in the gathering twilight, cheers from the men, cups hoisted into the air in their honor. The men of the Galbadien army, dragoons and footmen all, came forth to see the dwarven mercenary who had caused them such fear paraded along on the back of their prince’s horse. That thought crackled across Cyrus’s mind as they walked in a procession toward the area where it appeared Sanctuary’s army had concentrated.
“You’re the prince of this land, aren’t you?” Cyrus asked Longwell, who was waving obligingly to the troops they passed, and receiving a great many toasts of hoisted mugs and shouted promises to buy him ale when they returned to town.
“Yes,” the dragoon said bitterly. “Why do you ask?”
“It just occurred to me, that’s all.” Cyrus steadied himself as the crowd closed in on them, cheering louder. “I’d never thought of you as a prince before, and I didn’t know if someday you were going to be ruler here, or if you had siblings.”
“No siblings,” he said glumly. “Just me. But as for ruling the Kingdom … that remains to be seen. Blood will out, but my father designates his heir as he sees fit. I don’t know that I want the crown,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I’d say you’re favored for it right now.” Cyrus took in the steady chant around them, a low but rising one of Longwell’s last name. “Just going by the words of the fighting men.”
Longwell let a smile slip through his glumness. “It’s their respect I wanted all along; my father would have had me be a court lackey.” He grasped the lance that stuck vertically out of the holder on the back of his saddle. “It was I who wanted to be on the battlefield. Just as he was, once.”
They paraded about, on a slow path to where Cyrus saw Odellan in his distinctive armor. The elf waited for them, arms crossed, a smile upon his face as they approached. Count Ranson waited with him, along with Odau Genner and a few of the other members of the Galbadien war council Cyrus had seen at the dinner and strategy meeting. Cyrus dismounted and grabbed the gagged and bound Partus, lifting him off Mendicant’s horse and setting him upon the ground. The dwarf’s legs were tied together, allowing only shuffling steps. Cyrus nudged him to move foward toward Count Ranson.
“Well done,” the Count said, delivering a slow but sincere clap that was picked up by the Sanctuary and Galbadien soldiers that surrounded them. Large tents were stationed in a rough circle around them, the biggest of them open to the air, with only a roof to cover the insides from the elements. A few tables were within, along with the remains of some dinner that reached Cyrus’s nose; the smell of meat was unmistakable and made his mouth water after two days of salted pork and insubstantial bread. “Truly, you’ve done wonders here. Defeated the mercenaries, helped us break the Sylorean army in a crushing defeat. Wondrous,” the count smiled. “Truly wondrous.”
“And this was all their army?” Cyrus pushed Partus forward again.
“No,” the count said. “They had another one that was moving south, a host more than double the size of this one, but according to our scouts and messengers, it’s turned north, back to Syloreas.” The count scratched his cheek. “We received word by carrier pigeon that they crossed back over their own border last night and that the royal convoy with Briyce Unger and his generals was riding hard to catch up. They’ve started to abandon some of the southernmost keeps that they’d taken in our territory.” He shook his head. “They could have put up a much nastier fight here if they’d shown up with everything, but it seems something else is going on; it’s not like Briyce Unger to stop fighting in the middle of a war.”
“Sounds worrisome,” Cyrus said. “I’d suggest you ask this one,” he pointed to Partus, who leered at him out of the corner of his eyes, “but I don’t know that he’d spill it.”
“He’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Terian said, striding forward off his horse and clapping Partus on the back with such force that the dwarf was nearly knocked onto his face. “He’s a mercenary now. All you have to do is pay him a fat sack of gold, and he’ll do whatever you want, including betraying his former masters.” Terian unslung his sword and rested it, edge down, on Partus’s armor, the blade only inches from the side of his neck. “Or maybe just the thought of saving his skin will be enough to get the old dwarf talking.”
“Terian,” Cyrus said. “We’ll be handing the prisoner over to Count Ranson. It’ll be up to him how he wants to handle him.”
“As I understand it,” Ranson said, a look of concern upon his weathered features, “you’ll need magic to contain this one.” He waited for Cyrus to nod, then shook his head. “No, it won’t do. You can keep him. Just get him off our shores; kill him or take him back with you, it makes no mind to me. If you mean to leave him, then let’s kill him and be done with it now.”