Cyrus slid Praelior back into the scabbar, and managed to get his breathing under control. “Walking the beach is hardly disturbing me, Odellan. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
Odellan nodded, inclining his head to the side. “I’m impressed you heard my approach with your back turned and the waves crashing as they are. Your hearing must be near-elvish in its efficacy.”
Cyrus pulled a gauntlet from his hand and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “I take it you’re out for a walk?”
“No, actually,” Odellan said. “Sorry to interrupt you, but I had a purpose. Longwell was looking for you, wanted to discuss the course for tomorrow.”
“I’ll find him shortly,” Cyrus said, sniffing. “Is there still an abundance of boar? I find myself more hungry than I thought.”
Odellan allowed a smile, an oddity on the face of most elves Cyrus had met in his life. Only in the last few years, in Sanctuary, had he gotten to know them more closely and seen behind the somewhat straitlaced facade typical of their race’s conduct with offlanders-non-elves. “I can’t imagine why-days of insubstantial bread and water supplemented by bony fish not quite to the taste of your palate?”
Cyrus felt a quiet chuckle escape him. “I suppose not.” He felt a rumble in his stomach. “I’m going to get something to eat. Are you going to keep walking down the beach?”
“No,” Odellan said, falling into step beside Cyrus as the warrior began to make his way toward the encampment. “I’ll accompany you, if that’s all right.”
Cyrus shot Odellan a sly look. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Odellan’s returned expression was near-inscrutable. “I’d heard you were feeling decidedly unsociable of late.”
“I see,” Cyrus said. “Doubtless the rumor mill supplied you with reason enough for my desire to remain … isolated.”
“Indeed,” Odellan said with a nod. “Even a newcomer such as myself can’t help but be exposed to discussions among the rank and file of why our revered General-a man they refer to in hushed tones as ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’-has gone from a charismatic brawler with a decidedly outspoken persona to a black hole of despair, the very image our elven artists look to when trying to capture the mood of our society this last millenia.”
Cyrus halted and Odellan walked another pace before stopping. Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the elf. “Some of that was funny, and I can’t decide how I feel about that.”
Odellan raised an eyebrow. “Only some of it? I was trying to keep a playful tone throughout.”
“The ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’ bit was a tad grim; otherwise you succeeded.”
“Ah, that,” Odellan said, looking back at him. “It seems there’s a story that goes along with it, though I’ve yet to hear it told the same way twice.”
“And the rumors about the reason I’m as black in the mood as an elvish artisan? Are those told the same twice, or do the details vary with the telling?”
Odellan cast his eyes down. “Those seem to be almost the same every time. A dashing young warrior, a rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, casts his eyes upon an elven paladin of legend, spills the secrets of his soul to her, and receives naught but anguish for his reward.” Odellan tilted his head, his expression pained. “It would be hard for even the most accomplished embellisher of stories to mistake a tale so plain as that one.”
“That’s never stopped rumormongers from trying.”
“As you can tell, the broad strokes of that one convey all the important bits,” Odellan said. “Whether anything else happened, we all get the gist.” Cyrus caught a flicker of something behind the elf’s eyes, some pain within. “Heartbreak is no great joy for any of us, but no one will disturb you if you don’t wish to talk about it-”
“I don’t,” Cyrus said, resuming his walk. “It’s nothing personal, but my … adversities are my own.”
“Well, that would make it personal, wouldn’t it? Still, I understand completely.” The elf gave Cyrus a curt nod. “And I shan’t bring it up again.” Odellan hesitated. “Save but to say that if ever a day comes when you wish to discuss it … I am the soul of discretion.”
Cyrus felt the muscles in his body tense and then relax, the full effect of Odellan’s offer running through his mind. “It’s kind of you, Odellan. I doubt that day will come, but I appreciate the offer.”
“A kindness I fear is all too small a repayment for those you’ve done for me.” Odellan’s silver boots had begun to collect small clumps of wet sand, and the shine on the top of his metal-encased feet was not nearly so polished as his breastplate. “After all, you saved my life and the lives of countless of my people in Termina and then brought me from exile to a place where I can do some small good, I hope.”
“More than small, I would think,” Cyrus said as they passed the embers of the fire he had slept beside. The sun had risen in the western sky and was hanging high above the sea, day in full and glorious bloom.
The smell of roasted pig was in the air, and Cyrus could see Martaina Proelius next to a boar that looked to be fairly intact, and the ranger gave him a smile as he approached. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Indeed I am,” he said, his voice suddenly scratchy. “How’s the boar?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” she said, taking a knife from her belt and carving a slice from the haunch. “But tasty. It’s nice to see you seeking the company of others again, sir, even if it is only for a meal.”
“Well … not only for a meal,” he said, eliciting a wider grin from the ranger. He took a bite of the meat she had given him. “That is good.” He shifted the meat around on his tongue, tasted the curious flavor of something beyond meat and fat. “There are spices in this.”
Martaina grinned with obvious pleasure. “I found some familiar plants over the berm; it made seasoning these beasts all the sweeter.”
“Well done,” Cyrus told her, beginning to turn away. “Well done indeed.”
“General,” she said, causing him to turn back. “Remember that you’re among friends here.”
He gave her a wan smile and turned back toward the officer’s fire, Odellan at his side. “Even if I forgot, there seems to be no shortage of reminders.”
“These people love you, General.” Odellan said it with quiet certitude. “The veterans, the ones who came to help you train the newest, they have been through fire and death with you and have followed you off the very map.” He shook his head. “I wish I had commanded such loyalty when I was in charge of the Termina Guard.”
“I daresay you commanded more in your last battle,” Cyrus said. “My people have a very good chance of resurrection if they should fall. Your men knew that the fight for Termina would cost many of them their lives and they stood with you anyway.”
“They fought for King and country and for their homes, for the lives of their brethren,” Odellan said with a quiet shake of his head. “That is a powerful motivator, and one that is lacking in guilds such as Sanctuary. At first blush, I should think guild life would be the purest sort of mercenary company, a people banded together for mutual gain, undertaking adventure, exploration and battle in the farthest and most dangerous reaches of the world for the wealth and riches they can reap. Yet it is not so.”
Odellan’s mailed fingers rested on his helm, his eyes seeming to trace the lines of the carving upon it. “I watched Sanctuary stand against the God of Death-a god! Something not seen by living eyes in generations of your people! Yet it was not Sanctuary that broke but Mortus. Of those who stood with you, only one of them shouted in fear, and none of them lost command of themselves or ran. I should imagine that any mercenary company would have trembled when he descended from the air above us. I would think that even the Termina Guard, who held against the certain death that the dark elves levied against us, would have quailed at the sight of a god, of death, of the endless sleep.