Master (Book 5) (33 page)

“I don’t care for your course of action of late,” she said simply. “As well you know. I see no reason to retread this ground.”

“Do you have feelings for me still?” Cyrus asked, carefully measuring her response.

“Other than annoyance?” Vara asked, cocking a thin, blond eyebrow at him.

“Do you still care for me?” he asked.

He heard her gait miss a step, and it was a long moment before she answered. “I care for you as a friend, a guildmate and a pigheaded nuisance who has occasionally done me a good turn.”

“Any more than that?” Cyrus asked.

“There is no more than that to be had,” she said simply. “Seeing as you are attached at the crotch with the thief.” She paused, let out an abrupt exhale, and turned to face him. “You have a … a … hells, a dark elven concubine, let us say. All else is beside the point.”

“What if I didn’t?” Cyrus asked.

“Then you would be exhibiting considerably better judgment in that area than I have previously assumed you capable of.” Her footsteps crunched in the path behind her, but it was a delicate sound compared to that made by his heavy metal boots.

“I made a mistake,” Cyrus said. “In the dark of the night on the eve of my return to Sanctuary—”

“I need hear no more of this,” Vara said, cutting him off. “Whatever might have happened in the past, you have made your choice. I need not know of how you slipped your blade into some unwitting subject to—bloody hell, that’s a terrible metaphor. The harm is done,” she said. “Whatever you might have meant to happen, it doesn’t take away from what you did, from the choice you made—”

“But it was the wrong choice,” Cyrus said, stopping in the path to turn and face her. “Haven’t you ever made one you wished you could take back?”

She stopped, flushing as he blocked her way. “More than a few, but once they were made, they were made. You cannot simply take back a choice once it is done. And furthermore, as a leader you should know that decisiveness in action is crucial to your ability to stand before an army or a guild and carry them to victory.”

“I’m a man,” Cyrus said.

“I am dimly aware of that fact.”

“I make mistakes,” he said. “And one of them—”

“Stop, just stop,” she said, holding up a hand. “I will not have this conversation with you.”

“I made a mistake—”

She snorted. “You made a sequence of mistakes, if you wish to claim them as such, and that sequence has yet to reach its end by my reckoning.” She sniffed. “Even over the swamp I can smell your most recent liaison upon you.”

“You can smell that? Gods, it’s not just the ears with you, then—”

She rolled her eyes. “Not literally. It was a metaphor to indicate that whatever your protestations about ‘making a mistake,’ you continue to engage in evening frolics with the thief. I can jab you with my sword once or twice, General, and call it a mistake, but if I do it repeatedly, you know what they call that?”

“Murder?”

She made a noise of frustration that originated deep in her throat and blossomed forth from her mouth to fill the air around them. “Not a
mistake
, that’s for certain. Even the greatest idiot cannot willingly err as much as you have, if indeed you consider your continuing evening horizontal rendezvous with her to be, indeed, a ‘mistake.’” She paused. “And I would not use that wording with her, were I you, at least not if you wish to keep the thing with which you err connected to your body.”

Cyrus blinked at her. “You think that’s really a danger?”

She did not deign to look at him, casting her gaze out into the swamp instead. “Can we continue back to camp now?”

“I want to know the truth,” Cyrus said. “You and I, we’re the only ones here—”

“Save for Belkan and Larana, who lurk and listen even now.”

“—is there any possibility for you and I?” Cyrus asked. “Is there a chance for you to put aside your anger and—”

“No,” she said abruptly, and stared at him for a long moment. “Our decisions have carried us in different enough directions, I think. Mine let you slip away once, and the man who returned from Luukessia is quite a different one than the one I lo—” She stopped. “… than the one I knew before he left.”

Cyrus stared at her, at her unblinking facade. She had always been hard to read, but now she was as stone-faced as ever she had been. “Very well, then,” he said, and stepped to the side of the path. “Why don’t you go first and I’ll follow?”

She hesitated, opening her mouth only a hint as if she wished to say something more but held it back instead. She took a step forward, even and strong, and then another, her usual gait unaffected by their conversation in any visible way.

The road to Gren was long and arduous. By the time the last day dawned, Cyrus was sick to death of conjured bread and even more sick of rain. He had been drawn and irritable after the visit to his father’s grave. The weather turned worse in subsequent days, slowing the army’s advance to a crawl as a chill, torrential rain came down around them for a full day and a half.

The road began to wash away after the first day, and the night had been filled with a torrential downpour that had forced them to move camp in the middle of the night. It had been a mess, and a disorganized one at that, as they tried to form ranks standing in an inch and rising of water.

It had scarcely gotten better the next day, fording high water in the swamps that reached halfway to the waist of most of the members of the army. Cyrus had it slightly easier, but every crossing that high required the removal of plated boots among the warriors as well as the rolling of pants among the rangers.

“Just be grateful it’s still and not moving water,” Andren said as they took another ford. “That much water in a river would sweep away half the army.” Cyrus had managed a grunt of acknowledgment as he slipped his wet feet back into his boots.

Affliction with leeches became a common occurrence, and a half-dozen people caught some form of swamp malady and were teleported out. When the last morning dawned and Cyrus took his conjured bread, he had well and truly had enough.

“The army is in a mood,” Curatio observed as the Council stood in a rough circle.

“Morale is low?” Nyad asked.

“It is better described as ‘annoyed,’” Vara said.

“You would know, being somewhat of an expert in annoyance,” Vaste said.

“They have been feasting on conjured bread for several days, they have been rained upon, and this swamp is damnably unpleasant,” Vara said. “The army is irritable.” She straightened, her silver breastplate not bearing a single smudge from the crossings. “I should think that would make them better at fighting when the moment comes.”

“It might make them better at pillaging, were that our goal,” Cyrus said from his place in the circle. “Vaste, what can we expect here?”

“I already told you, goat buggery,” Vaste said, looking a little sullen. “And slavery.”

“What do they have to fight us with?” Cyrus asked, holding his patience. “We’re less than two hours march from Gren, and I need to start considering how we’re going to do this.”

“I have no idea,” Vaste said. “You won’t need to worry about magic unless there are dark elves, so my recommendation would be to put your eagle-eyed elf out front and have her fill to the brimming any non-troll she sees that’s not one of ours. Use your wizards to drive my people back, because they’re afraid of magic here in the homeland. Some nice fire would likely send them to running.” He shrugged. “Anyone who fights, cut them into sausage meat. Anyone who runs, let them live in fear. There, now you have a plan.”

“Not quite what I was looking for,” Cyrus said. “But it’s a start.”

“I don’t know much more than that,” Vaste said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and I was only in town for a few hours last time before I was beaten to death. Suffice to say, my knowledge of Gren is rather limited at this point.”

“Fine,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “We’ll … plan as we go, I guess.”

“There’s a place near the city,” Vaste said. “An overlook. There’s a watch post. It only had three guards manning it when last I was here, and there are probably fewer now. If we can kill them, we’ll have a fine view to plan your assault.” The troll sounded strangely detached, the usual sense of irony gone from everything he said.

“Okay,” Cyrus said. “We’ll find this watch post and use it as our rally point.” He nodded once at the officers. “We move.”

They marched deeper into the swamp, the flies thick as the sun came out once more. It was the slow buzzing that began to drive Cyrus mad, his irritation rising to anger, and the anger giving way to rage as the day and the march dragged on. He found himself consciously avoiding giving orders where possible, letting others take the responsibility upon themselves so as to avoid snapping at those who spoke to him.

He slapped a fly that had landed in his matted hair, and when he withdrew his gauntlet, the sensation of the metallic impact on his skull remained, making his ears ring slightly. He hissed air out slowly in a ragged breath then glanced at the palm of his hand. The remains of the fly were stunningly large, almost the size of the tip of his smallest finger.

“Everything is grossly large out here,” Vaste said, appearing next to him. “It’s almost as bad as the Gradsden Savanna in that regard, except here it’s largely restricted to the insects.”

He looked over at the massive troll, who ambled along with a little more starch in his step than usual. “You’re antsy,” Cyrus said, and to his own ears he sounded like he was accusing the healer of something.

“You should talk,” Vaste said, not looking at him. His head jerked slightly as he tracked a black fly orbiting his own head. “I hate this place. I want to destroy it and be done, and go back to my nice comfortable bed in Sanctuary and my lovely running water that I can cool or warm myself with, however I need it. I don’t care for this swamp, I don’t care for its occupants, and I truly despise the acts that they commit which sully the name of my entire race.”

“That much is obvious,” Cyrus said and let a silence lapse briefly. “Are you certain there’s nothing else you can tell me before we attack?”

“They will fight you tooth and nail,” Vaste said, and he flashed something that crossed between a grin and a grimace that bared his teeth, then brought his fingers up to show the hardened yellow nails that protruded from each of his digits. They were solid and long, each as big as two of Cyrus’s fingers held close together. “And with trolls, that means something.”

“How are their weapons?” Cyrus asked, the uneven road causing him to adjust his gait accordingly. The ruts here were spectacular, he had to admit, and he wondered only briefly how the trolls got wagons through before remembering that, indeed, they almost certainly did not.

“Piss poor when last I was here,” Vaste said. “Almost certainly better if the dark elves are in alliance with them.”

Cyrus felt his eyes squint. “I wish I knew what kind of fight we were in for. What sort of resistance your people truly have to offer, outside of vague suggestion. What I want to know is how many fighters there are in the city, whether they’ll run when we knock them back—”

“I doubt it,” Vaste said darkly. “Trolls don’t typically run. It’s why we lost the last war. It takes a mighty fear to drive us back.”

They settled back into silence, and Cyrus did not press the issue any further, though a thought tickled the back of his mind:
Quinneria made them run
. The swamp began to lighten as the road gradually wove its way to higher ground.

They came to a break in the twisted trees, and Cyrus held up a hand to halt the army’s advance. There was a sulfuric smell in the air, that swampy aroma that had lingered for days. It seemed fainter here, mixed with other strong, earthy aromas of moss and peat that hung from the branches of the trees. Cyrus made his advance along the road slowly, boots making quiet noises against the loose-packed sand.

He squinted his eyes over the slight rise ahead as Vaste hunched next to him, slinking closer. “Watch post,” the troll murmured.

“How many guards?” Cyrus asked.

“Two or three,” Vaste replied. “Ill-disciplined. Possibly sleeping.”

Cyrus felt his eyebrows rise. “Sleeping?”

Vaste’s mighty shoulders rolled in a shrug. “Who would be mad enough to attack Gren?”

Cyrus nodded sagely and noticed Vara at his side. He had not even heard her approach. “Pass the word to the army that we’re nearly here. In case our newer guests are unaware, pillaging is not the Sanctuary way, and any of our people found to be taking advantage of the locals through plundering or other bestial acts will be cut loose from the guild—and their life.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You think any of our guildmates would try to press a troll into the service of their fleshly desires?”

“You think any of the trolls would willingly let them?” Vaste replied. “They’d die first, and probably take a dozen of our own with them. They’re a feisty people.”

“Plainly,” Cyrus said. “I want the word passed nonetheless. I will not have a stain on our honor because some new recruit hasn’t received the message that we don’t operate like the dark elves in this army.”

“I will make your wishes known,” Vara said simply. “What is your plan?”

“Kill the guards,” Cyrus said. “Dance on their corpses.” He shot a sidelong glance at Vaste, who frowned at him. “I was answering that like I thought you would.”

“I wouldn’t suggest dancing on their corpses,” Vaste said. “Trolls are not big believers in baths, and when they do bathe, well … let’s face it, this is a swamp.”

“I’ll go deliver your orders and leave the both of you to your corpse dancing,” Vara said. “Though that does sound just a bit like what you’re prohibiting your troops from doing.”

“I think I’ll stick to dark elves for now,” Cyrus muttered.

Vara made an exasperated sound and disappeared behind him.

“Right then,” Vaste said. “These first ones. If they sound the alarm—”

“Yeah, I know,” Cyrus said. “Let’s make sure they don’t.” He looked back at the army and saw Martaina waiting in the front ranks, staring at him in anticipation. He beckoned her forward and she came to his side in moments, picking her way across the dusty road as though she had not a care. “Martaina—”