Cyrus’s hand paused on Windrider’s neck, and he froze, his blood running cold. “I’m not your Lord Garrick, believe that. And I wouldn’t put much stock in prophecy if I were you.”
There was a pause as the boy studied him. “Are you sure?
Cyrus took the reins and started to lead Windrider out of the cover under the barn, felt the warm sunlight stream down on him as he stepped from under the cover of the stables. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He slung the saddle over the horse and bound it, then slipped a foot in a stirrup and heaved himself up. “But I will do my best to save your land from what’s coming.”
The stableboy followed him out, covering his eyes with a freckled hand, that of a lad who had been working long hours in the sun. “I’ve heard the rumors, since the pigeons came. They say Scylax has fallen. They say something is coming from the mountains of the north, something terrible, something that wants to devour the souls of every man in Luukessia.” Cyrus didn’t say anything as he steadied himself in the saddle. “Is it true?” the boy asked. “Is it true that they’re coming, these things, to kill us all?”
“Aye,” Cyrus answered finally.
“But you’re going to stop them?” The boy looked uncertain, and Cyrus tried not to look too hard on him; he knew there were boys only a couple years older in the Sanctuary army. Only a couple years older physically but worlds older in maturity, having seen blood, and bile and battle. “Then that makes you Lord Garrick, doesn’t it? Come to save us?”
“It’s not your darkest hour yet, kid,” Cyrus said, and started Windrider forward. “Save some fear and legends to pass on to your grandkids.” The clip-clop of the horseshoes on the stone echoed as Cyrus steered his horse out the eastern gate and into the second courtyard, across it, then out of Enrant Monge and down the road.
The world opened up before him when he left the second gate, the forests a mile or so in the distance smoking with pillars of wafting black coming from the fires of his army, his and Galbadien’s. The road crooked into a forest path as Windrider went along, the branches cut high enough that even though they formed a thick canopy over him, reducing the sunlight, none of them threatened his face as he rode.
The breeze was soft, even as Windrider galloped along, at a higher speed than normal. “Just a little farther,” he whispered to the horse. The warm sun tried to peek through the boughs overhead, but the shade was cooling, late summer’s wrath spent on the trees overhead, long before it got to him. He could smell the fresh air, the same air he’d been breathing for months, the pine almost blended behind everything else, the tinge of the horse’s smell, though it wasn’t as heavy now as when he was stationary. Terian. The latest in a long line of people to betray me, to harm me. What is it about them? About me? His eyes fell downward. Vara … why did you-
The arrow hit him in the shoulder, glancing off his armor but causing him to jerk in surprise. Windrider whinnied and shied involuntarily, trying to compensate for Cyrus’s abrupt change of balance. Cyrus gripped the reins and tensed his abdomen, trying to right himself on the horse. The second arrow, however, hit him in the neck, putting to sunder any idea of maintaining his grip. The shock of the arrow caused Cyrus’s fingers to loosen, and he felt himself fall, the heavy impact of his body and all that armor hitting the ground caused his head to wash, as though he were floating on an ocean all his own. His fingers came up without thought, found the round shaft of the arrow protruding just above his gorget, tracing it back to the place where it was lodged in his neck.
“Isn’t this fortunate?” A low voice scratched into his consciousness. Cyrus turned his head and saw a man in a dark cloak hobbling in the midst of a party of other men. Cyrus’s vision was blurred, his head felt heavy, but he knew that voice. Clarity struck his eyes, and the man came into focus for a moment: black beard that was thin, very thin and patchy, his pale skin even paler. “Now I can thank you properly for crippling me,” Grand Duke Hoygraf said, and Cyrus saw figures all around, beginning to circle him.
Praelior. Cyrus’s hand moved to his sword, felt the rush of strength it gave him. He drew the blade and pulled to his feet, still feeling as though he were moving underwater. The men around him seemed to move at regular speed, and Cyrus blocked one of them who came at him with a polearm, cutting the man’s head from his shoulders, covering his blue livery and surcoat with blood.
“Well, look at you,” Hoygraf said, maintaining his distance from Cyrus, watching him with a spiteful smile. “I suppose I’m not the only one of my wife’s lovers who refuses to die on command.” Hoygraf’s face twisted into spite. “The difference is, you’ll stay dead when I kill you.”
“Didn’t … kill you,” Cyrus said, and felt blood bubbling out of his mouth as he spoke, the sour taste coating his tongue. “Stabbed you … bad enough you wished you were dead. Planning to do it … again … in a few minutes, but now I’ll do it so many times you’ll have to die when I’m done.”
“You’re bleeding like a cow with a cut throat,” Hoygraf said with a sneer. “I don’t think you’ll last a minute the way you’re going now.”
Cyrus felt a slow smile spread across his bloody lips. “I’ll only need thirty seconds.” Cyrus flung himself backward, sword first, sensing the presence of Hoygraf’s men behind him. He hit the first with a hard stroke between the eyes, the blade running down the man’s forehead and stopping after cutting out the mouth. The man dropped as Cyrus freed his blade and brought it around to the next attacker, catching him across the chest and cutting through the breastplate of his armor. The bottom of the man’s blue surcoat fluttered to the ground and Cyrus watched as he stepped on it, as he finished his stroke and blood spattered across the dirt and the surcoat. Two left, he thought, and they’re right over-
The arrow hit him in the lower back and cut through the chainmail where he’d exposed it while in his attack. Cyrus felt a curious punching sensation and force, each in twine, arcing along his spine as he fell. Even the might of Praelior was unable to mask the pain or give him enough strength to fight off his knees. He sat there, wobbling, as a man with a sword shuffled, hesitant, over to him. Cyrus jammed Praelior upward with all the speed and strength he had left, and saw the sword enter the bottom of the man’s jaw as his mouth opened in surprise, and watched it flash through the man’s tongue, visible through his gaping maw, blood running down the blade it.
A sharp pain in the back of his neck threw Cyrus facedown in the dirt, and he felt something hit him on the sword hand, hard. The world faded as Praelior was knocked away and Cyrus felt his body rolled onto his back. The branches above him were swaying, whether from the breeze of the late summer’s day or the swimming of his head from the wounding, he could not be sure. He tried to draw a breath but struggled, his chest heavy, every attempt so labored that it felt as though he were trying to lift a mountain to even partially fill his lungs.
Grand Duke Hoygraf appeared at the edge of his vision, filling his eyes, another man next to him with a bow and arrow, a nameless, armored man in the Grand Duke’s livery. “You killed my men,” Hoygraf said flatly. Cyrus tried to reply but felt only the bubbling of blood on his lips. “You had your way with my wife,” the Grand Duke went on, “destroyed my home, left me an invalid, unable to walk straight.” The Grand Duke’s cane came down on Cyrus’s face, and another dull pain made its way through Cyrus’s consciousness.
Curatio. He’ll find me. Aisling will help him. Martaina will …
“You think you’ve hurt me,” Hoygraf said, kneeling in front of Cyrus’s face. “You think you’ve beaten me? Humiliated me? Did you think I would let that stand unanswered?” He spat, and curiously Cyrus could feel the warm spittle make its way down his cheek, and he tried to move a hand, go for the Grand Duke’s throat, just as he’d been taught-