“Fine,” Cyrus said, “then call them your tormented ancestors, returning to visit their pain and anguish upon you for all their sins past.”
“Ancestors!” Ranson cursed. “It makes it sound all the more ridiculous when you say it that way.”
After Ranson had ridden away, off to the other side of the procession, Curatio brought his horse alongside Cyrus. “It does sound ridiculous, you know.”
“That an army of tormented dead that we unleashed is visiting all manner of hell upon the northern reaches of a land most of us had never even heard of until a few months ago?” Cyrus looked at Curatio, and found a certain irony that allowed him to smile rather than weep. “I can’t imagine why any part of that statement would strain the credibility of the person who spoke it and professed to believe it.”
“Nor can I,” Curatio said, with only a little irony of his own. “Yet all levity aside, this is the truth that we are faced with. We are culpable for whatever happens here, because we were the ones who killed Mortus.”
“I don’t want to think about it that way,” Cyrus said, and looked away from the healer abruptly.
“You may not want to,” Curatio said, “but I suspect that your wants are unlikely to stop your mind from wandering in that direction.”
“Aye,” Cyrus said in a whisper, “there has indeed been some wandering. But it’s not all that is on my mind.”
“Hmmm,” Curatio said, “betrayal, backstabbing, deception, abandonment, duels to the death, arguments with women, deeply conflicted feelings, and an army unlike any we’ve ever seen on the march toward the civilizations of this land. I can’t imagine what else you might be thinking about.” After a moment’s pause, the healer said something else, more conciliatory. “Try not to let it all weigh you down.” Without another word, he urged his horse forward and left Cyrus riding alone.
But he was not alone that night, later, when he found a spring in the woods near the site of their camp. When his clothes and armor came off, the sound in the brush made him reach for his sword. His fingers dangled on the hilt when a single twig snapping turned him in the direction of the presence.
Aisling stepped out of the shadows, and wordlessly removed her clothing, slipping into the spring with him. There was more passion in her kisses than usual, and Cyrus returned them, every one, with just as much, craving her, wanting to feel the sweet bliss of forgetfulness. He found he wanted the tender moments of peace that only she could give him, where everything else was by the wayside.
When they were done, they did not exchange a word, but she aided him in washing himself and he did the same for her. She quietly stole off toward the camp by herself. He followed moments later. She had not come to his bedroll at night, not since they had returned to the expedition, but along the trail she would find him sometimes in an unguarded moment, against a tree, or in a soft patch of grass, and he would be able to ease his mind, to forget about all else for just a few precious minutes.
They passed Scylax without stopping for more than a few hours, allowing the horses to rest and for fresh provisions. They entered through the gates, were entertained on the main avenue, and rode out through the gate down the mountain only a few hours later. Some of the Syloreans changed horses; Cyrus did not have the luxury, and Windrider seemed to bear it better than the other animals anyhow. Occasional days of rest were required, or more often, half-days. They moved as quickly as the animals allowed, not giving much thought to the pains of the men, which were healed by Curatio whenever they asked.
Only a week south of Scylax they found themselves loping over open plains again, the mountains receding far behind them, distant, cloudy, with a darkness hanging over them, a wintery gloom that was nothing like the summer suns still kissing the plains around them. It was late summer, in fact, Cyrus realized, and some of the wild flowers had begun to turn brown where they had been purple, blue and yellow only weeks before when they passed through. A cool day manifested unexpectedly; the sky was dull grey like in the mountains, and the wind had the slightest kiss of bitterness to it.
The last night they camped on a grassy, windblown plain, and Briyce Unger called together Cyrus and his officers with Count Ranson and the envoy from Actaluere. They’d had plenty of discussions along the road, but this was to be their last. Cyrus listened, somewhat dully, as Unger confirmed for the hundredth time what the others would tell their respective leaders. Cyrus stayed silent; he had nothing to contribute, and Ranson was still skeptical of how his King would react while the Actaluere envoy was unrelenting in his belief that Milos Tiernan would immediately see reason. Cyrus, for his part, was not so sure.
“What do you think their next move will be?” Briyce Unger had asked Cyrus, after he had confirmed what he wanted to hear from the envoys. Cyrus blinked at him, in a daze. “The Scourge,” he said, as they had taken to calling the damned souls given flesh, “what will their next move be?”
“I don’t know,” Cyrus said. “J’anda says they’ll come south, looking for flesh and blood, eager to destroy life. When that will happen, I don’t know. Maybe it already has.”
“They’ll butt up hard against Scylax,” Unger said. “I’ve already ordered an army to reinforce the town, and they’ll evacuate the townsfolk into the keep if it gets especially ugly. Fighting in the pass will be a nasty business, though, if we get Longwell and Tiernan to send armies. We may have to draw them out in order to crush them.”
“The best thing we could do is march back into the valley where Pinrade is and destroy the portal,” Cyrus said. “But that’s going to be a hell of an undertaking.”
“Could you destroy it?” Unger asked. “Could your people with their spells and whatnot knock it down?”
“Maybe,” Cyrus said. “The only wizard I have with me is somewhat unexperienced in such matters.”
“It can be done,” Curatio said, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started. “But it will be neither easy nor a short process. More spellcasters would be better, and I’ll need to uh …” He looked around, but J’anda and Longwell were the only other Sanctuary officers present. “Let’s just say that we’ll have to do more than a little heresy in order to get it done. Which I don’t have a problem with, but I’ve been around since before such things were considered heretical.”
J’anda blinked. “Wait … what?”
“It can be done,” Curatio said, “and that’s the important part. But I’ll have to be there for some time, preferably not interrupted, in order to strip the enchantments off the portal. After that, you should be able to use enchanted weapons to break it to pieces and guarantee it never re-opens.”
“There’s something else we need to be concerned about,” Cyrus said. “If these things come from the Realm of Death, then there’s another portal that opens onto the Island of Mortus. J’anda, you said their efforts there have been fruitless but we don’t know what that means. They could be massing there right now, ready to swim the miles to shore in order to stage an invasion of Arkaria like they’re doing to Luukessia.”
J’anda cursed and ran a hand over his smooth face. “We’ll need to send a messenger to Sanctuary.”
“Yeah,” Cyrus said. “We’ll wait until we’re at Enrant Monge tomorrow and we’ve met with the other Sanctuary officers, then we’ll figure out who we can send. We need help if we’re going to make a push for that portal. I doubt the thousand we have is going to get the job done.” Cyrus looked to Briyce Unger. “No offense to your people, but we’re talking about using a coordinated army to thrust through the enemy rather than fighting toe to toe with them while they try and bleed us to death and vice versa.”