Cyrus concentrated, looking at Count Ranson. “That mean anything to you?”
Ranson shrugged. “Nothing. I’m left with the obvious question of who ‘they’ are. Actaluere’s army, possibly?”
“I doubt it,” Partus said, with a slight snicker. “Because you see, you’re missing it. It doesn’t matter, the bit he said. Because that’s not the news. It’s how he said it that matters. That and what he did afterwards.”
Count Ranson sighed heavily. “Very well. How did Briyce Unger say it, then?”
“Scared.” Partus let it slip matter-of-factly, like he was letting loose something precious indeed. “He was scared, I’d stake my life on it.”
Ranson’s mouth opened slightly at the dwarf’s words, as though he were weighing them in his mind, trying to calculate the value of them. “That is … interesting. And, if true … greatly disturbing.”
“Disturbing?” Cyrus looked around at the officers behind him, and the men surrounding him, and found one face in particular-Longwell. The dragoon’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wider than usual. “Longwell?” Cyrus asked. “What does it mean? Why does it matter?”
Longwell stepped forward, brushing past Terian to stand next to Cyrus. “Briyce Unger, the King of Syloreas, has led every single battle he’s fought from the vanguard. He fights like a madman in personal combat; it’s said no man can take him down. He carries a mace with a ball the size of a man’s head, and the spikes on it are as long as my forearm. He’s huge, taller maybe even than you,” Longwell acknowledged Cyrus’s height with a nod. He is one of the mountain men of Syloreas, rocky and inhospitable. They don’t fear many things. Briyce Unger is the most fearless of them all.”
Longwell looked at the circle around Partus, and the dwarf looked at him and nodded. “So for this man-dwarf-whatever he is, to say that Briyce Unger took this news and was scared …” The dragoon swallowed hard. “It doesn’t sound terribly good for him.”
Cyrus watched Longwell carefully then shifted his attention to the still-chuckling Partus. “Let me give you a helpful hint, mercenary,” he said, stripping the smug look from the dwarf’s face. “When the fearless man is afraid, it’s not just bad for him, as a rule.” Cyrus stared north, as though he could sense something was ahead of them, over the horizon. “It’s bad for all of us.”
Chapter 21
The rest of night was subdued; conversations hashed over and over again. Partus was gagged once more and bound hand and foot, tied to a cot and put under guard. He was allowed water before he went to sleep, but only with a cessation spell over him, then he was strapped down and left quiet with two guards and Mendicant to watch over him. The goblin was ordered by Cyrus to thoroughly cover the dwarf with a fire spell should he attempt to escape, a fact which was not lost on the wide-eyed Partus.
Cyrus sat in a circle around a fire with his officers, but the conversations lost his attention after only a short while. They discussed what Partus had talked about, but it meandered in circles. Terian was silent, almost as though he were pouting or lost in his own thoughts. After their conflict, Cyrus had not bothered to approach the dark knight. Better to let him stew on it and talk with him in the morning. He’s sore that I had to remonstrate with him in a public forum. He frowned. Well, he shouldn’t have tried to kill the prisoner.
Longwell contributed little to the conversation, only reiterating that Briyce Unger had little use for cowards, so the thought of him terrified was disquieting, at least. Ryin weighed in with his own observations, after which Nyad proceeded to dissect at length (interminably, to Cyrus’s mind) every bit of what was said about the Sylorean army, Briyce Unger, and all other minutia. Shortly before midnight, Cyrus gave up and retreated to a tent that Ranson had indicated was for him.
Within, he found a wooden cot with a roll of furs to use as a mattress. Cyrus lay upon it, resting his head, hearing the sounds of the thousands of soldiers encamped around him. Though he knew the latrines were far from his tent, the smell of the battlefield was still present; the first hints of souring flesh, the real or perceived scent of blood on the air. He buried his face in the furs, sniffing at the clean, just-washed smell of them, the barest remains of soap still on them. He thought of the Baroness, of the morrow, and of how he would feel her against him again, and he slept.
The next day came similarly gloomy, and he woke to the sounds of the camp stirring. After stretching, Cyrus stepped outside the tent. Rain was in the air again, the heavy, humid feeling of a storm, ready to break. The clouds were grey and wended their way to both ends of the sky without break or interruption. Some patches were darker than others, but it was all a dark sky, and all a worrisome thing to have hanging over one’s head, ready to break loose at any moment.
After a brief conversation with Count Ranson, who urged Cyrus to begin the journey back to Vernadam, which awaited them for celebrations, Cyrus rallied the Sanctuary army. They made their way out of the camp, the column being led once more by the riders on horseback. They had left behind their own wagons at Vernadam, and so made their way onto the rough road leading into the Forest of Waigh before the morning had entirely left.
The sky remained gloomy but did not deliver on the promised rain until nearing midday, when it came in short, staccato bursts. For ten minutes the skies would pour buckets and then stop, the clouds finally breaking to reveal sunlight. A few minutes later, another cloud would cover the sun, drench the army of Sanctuary as it tried to hide under the boughs of the forest, and then be onward in the sky, letting the sun shine down again. After the fourth rainstorm, Cyrus lost count, not worrying, already soaked and near uncaring about the chill. Although he felt bad for the soldiers in the column, he knew the only thing for them was to finish the march, which would take another six hours or so before they’d reach Vernadam.
Cyrus spent his time quiet, thinking of the Baroness, of her touch. He found to his surprise that even in the short time he’d been gone, he’d missed having her travel with them, that he’d wanted to comment on something to her. Madness. That was fast. He imagined her face, her smile, and lapsed once again into thinking of the night before he’d left, and felt his own anticipation for their arrival.
The journey passed quickly, especially after the rain, and the Forest of Waigh ended when they had only three hours of marching left to their destination. From the moment they left behind the tree-covered skies, Vernadam was visible in the distance, the towering top spire sticking above all else, a faintly shadowed pillar on the horizon that grew and grew as they marched closer. Sundown cast it in a shadow against the purple sky, a black outline of the tallest castle Cyrus had ever seen.
They reached the city not long after sundown to much jubilance and celebration in the street. Women leapt from the crowds and kissed the men in the column (some to great joy, some to great dismay) and Cyrus found himself pelted with flowers and the recipient of countless offered bottles, most of which he declined.
They halted in the square to cheers and adulation. The environment around them was stunning, excitement was rampant, and Cyrus could feel himself sucked into it, a heady feeling of being a part of something grand, once-in-a-lifetime. He dodged a group of Galbadien boys who chanted his name, “CY-RUS, CY-RUS, CY-RUS,” and thought quietly that they looked to be of an age with some of the newest recruits in his army. The village was entirely turned out, and the smell of strong wine was already pervasive in the street, along with good ale and some urine as he rode past an alley or two.
He shouted to Odellan. “Keep them in line,” he said, and saw the elf nod at him. Cyrus gestured to his officers to proceed, and they did, to muted cheers and a widening chant of Cyrus’s name that seemed to grow even louder as they exited the square and the village, ringing out even as they made their way up the path to Vernadam.