First Lord's Fury

CHAPTER 7

Valiar Marcus entered the command tent and saluted. Octavian glanced back and nodded at him, beckoning Marcus to come in. The captain looked weary and ragged after the effort he’d expended to send forth the watercrafting he’d used to address all of Alera, but he had not slept since then. He’d spent the night in the command tent, reading reports and poring over maps and sand tables. A small pool, crafted into existence by Legion engineers, occupied one corner of the tent.

The Princeps stood before the little pool, looking down at a shrunken image of Tribune Antillus Crassus, which stood upon the water’s surface. “How many holders did you get out of there?”

“Eighty-three,” Crassus replied. His voice was very distant and dim, as if coming down a long tunnel. “All of them, sire—and their beasts and livestock, too.”

The captain barked out a short laugh. “You had fliers enough for that?”

“It seemed a good statement to make to the enemy, sire,” Crassus replied, one corner of his mouth turning up in a small smirk. “We had to drop them off within a few hours, but at least they won’t go to feeding the croach anytime soon.”

Tavi nodded. “Casualties?”

Crassus’s expression sobered. “Two so far.”

Marcus saw steely tension stiffen Octavian’s shoulders. “So far?”

“You were right. The vord had defensive measures in place—this kind of hornet thing. They came flying up out of the croach like balest bolts when your image appeared in the pool.” Crassus’s expression remained calm, but his voice sounded ragged. “They had stingers that could drive right through leather or mail. We were able to stiffen the plates of the lorica with battlecrafting, enough to keep the little bastards from punching through. If we hadn’t been able to prepare for it… crows, sire, I don’t want to think about it. We did well enough, but their stingers were poisoned, and wherever they hit flesh instead of steel, our folk got hurt. I lost two men last night, and another dozen who were hit are getting sicker.”

“Have you tried watercrafting?”

Crassus shook his head. “Hasn’t been time. We had a sky full of vordknights to worry about. I’m nearly certain that some of the windcrafters the vord turned are spooking around on our back trail. We had to stay ahead of them.”

Octavian frowned. “You’re out of occupied territory?”

“For now.”

“Do you have time to make the attempt at a healing?”

Crassus shook his head. “I doubt it. The vord are still trying to find us. I think the best chance for the wounded is to get them back to the Legion healers.”

Marcus saw the captain debating with himself. A commander was always tempted to involve himself too much in whatever mission was under way. But to lead, one had to maintain a rational perspective. Octavian couldn’t assess the men’s condition himself or the disposition or skills of the enemy. Yet he did not want more of his men’s lives to be needlessly lost. The temptation to override the judgment of a field commander had to have been very strong.

The captain sighed. “I’ll have the healers ready for you the moment you land.”

Crassus’s image nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

“That much pursuit,” the captain mused. “The vord Queen was upset?”

Crassus shuddered. “Sir… we were at least ten miles away from her hive, and we heard her screaming. Believe me, I didn’t have any trouble convincing the men to fly all night without resting.”

“She has handles, then,” the captain mused. “We can make that work for us. I’m sure of it.” He frowned at the Tribune. “What is your plan?”

“I’m going to give the men a couple of hours rest, then we’ll start again. We’ll cross two more bands of croach before we get back. I’m expecting more vordknights to be in position to intercept us.”

“Don’t let them.”

“No, sir,” Crassus said.

The captain nodded. “Good work, Tribune.”

Crassus’s eyes flashed at the compliment, and he slammed a fist to his heart in a sharp salute. The captain returned it, then passed his hand over the image. Within seconds, the water from which it had formed returned smoothly and silently to the pool.

The captain sank onto a camp stool and pressed the heels of both hands against his forehead.

“Sir,” Marcus said. “You should rest.”

“Presently,” the captain replied wearily. “Presently.”

“Sir,” Marcus began, “with all due respect you sound just like—” He barely caught himself in time to avoid betraying himself. Just like your grandfather. Valiar Marcus hadn’t been a close professional colleague of Gaius Sextus. He couldn’t know what the First Lord had been like in private. “Just like a new recruit trying to tell me he’ll be able to finish the march just fine, even though the soles of his feet are one big blister, and he’s got a broken ankle.”

A faint smile touched the captain’s mouth. “Right after we’re done, then.”

“Very good, sir. How may I help you?”

The captain lowered his hands and eyed Marcus. “What do you know about Marat courtship customs?”

Marcus blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Courtship among the Marat,” Octavian said wearily. “What do you know about it?”

“I’m sure Magnus would know more than me, sir.”

The captain waved an irritated hand. “I asked him already. He said once he’d learned about how they would occasionally devour their enemies, he knew all he needed to want nothing to do with them.”

Marcus snorted. “Certain amount of sense in that, sir. The Marat can be dangerous.”

The captain scowled. “Tell me about it. After you tell me what you know about their courtship.”

“You figuring on keeping the Ambassador, then?”

“It’s not that simple,” the captain replied.

“Should say not. Lot of Citizens aren’t going to like that idea.”

“The crows can have them,” the captain replied. “The only people making this decision are me and Kitai.”

Marcus grunted. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Like what?”

Marcus shrugged. “The usual. That they mate with their beasts. That they participate in blood rites and orgies before battle.” He suppressed a shudder. He’d seen that last with his own eyes, and it was the material of nightmare, not fantasy. “That their females are beaten until they submit to the will of a husband.”

The captain let out a loud snort at this last.

Marcus nodded soberly. “Aye. If the Ambassador is any indication, that last one is just so much dandelion fluff.”

“Anything else?”

Marcus pursed his lips and debated with himself. Valiar Marcus couldn’t be expected to know much of the Marat or their customs. On the other hand, a well-connected, respected northern soldier knew a lot of folk. Some of them would travel. Some of them would return with stories. And…

And, Marcus realized, he wanted to help the captain.

“I served with a fellow who became the chief of armsmen for a fairly large merchant family,” he said finally. “He told me something about a contest.”

The captain frowned and leaned forward intently. “Contest?”

Marcus grunted in the affirmative. “Apparently a Marat woman has the right to demand a trial by contest of her prospective groom. Or maybe it was a trial by combat. He wasn’t real clear on the point.”

Octavian arched a raven black eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

The First Spear shrugged. “All I know.” That much was true. Even the Cursors had known little apart from the barbarians’ military capabilities. Information on Marat society was fairly scanty. The two peoples had, for the most part, practiced avoiding one another. It had been sufficient to know the threat that they represented, so that the Legions could counter them effectively.

Certainly, no one had ever ordered a Cursor to find out how to propose to a Marat woman.

“Trial by combat,” Octavian muttered darkly under his breath. Marcus thought he might have said, “Perfect.”

Marcus kept a straight face. “Love is a wonderful thing, sir.”

Octavian gave him a sour look. “Did you get the reports from Vanorius?”

Marcus opened up a leather case on his belt and passed a roll of papers to the captain. “Thanks to Magnus, yes, sir.”

The captain took the papers, leaned his hip against a sand table, and started reading. “You’ve read them?”

“Aye.”

“Your thoughts?”

Marcus pursed his lips. “The vord exist in overwhelming numbers, but they don’t appear to be all that bright without a queen to guide them. There’s always some fighting at the city sieges, but the besieged High Lords’ problems and solutions more closely resemble being trapped in a heavy blizzard than waging war.”

Octavian flipped a page, his green eyes rapidly scanning the next. “Go on.”

“The enemy has a large force on the move, toward Riva. They should have gotten there already, but Aquitaine burned all the ground between Riva and the old capital right down to the bloody dirt. It appears to have slowed them down.”

The captain grimaced and shook his head. “How long before they engage Aquitaine?”

“Tough to say. Assuming their pace remains as slow as it is now, another twelve to fourteen days.” Marcus frowned, and said, “Even if they assault the Legions and lose, they could strike us a death blow unless we’ve taken out the Queen. If she tells them to, they’ll fight to the last wax spider. They’ll take the lion’s share of our strength with them.”

“And she’ll simply make more,” Octavian said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d say our best option is to be there in twelve to fourteen days, then. Wouldn’t you?”

Marcus felt his eyebrows try to climb up to his hairline. “That isn’t going to happen. We don’t have causeways. We’ll never cover that distance in time to join the battle. We don’t have enough fliers to shuttle in a viable number of ground troops.”

Octavian’s eyes glittered, and he smiled. The expression transformed the features of the normally serious young man. It was the grin of a boy with a good prank in mind. “Did you know,” he said, “that Alera reached a peace agreement with the Icemen?”

“Sir? I heard something about it, but you hear a lot of things in a Legion rumor mill.”

Tavi nodded. “You know Lord Vanorius?”

“Aye, somewhat. We spoke regularly when I was serving Antillus. Always on Legion business.”

“Go to him,” Tavi said. “We need woodcrafters. I want every Knight Flora, every Citizen with woodcrafting, and every professional woodworker in Antillus to report to this camp by dawn.”

“Sir?” Marcus said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Really?” Octavian said, that smile flickering to life again, if briefly. “Because I’m quite certain that you don’t.”

“Woodcrafters.”

“Yes,” said the captain.

Marcus lifted an eyebrow warily as his fist rose to his heart in salute. “What do you want me to tell Vanorius when he asks why you need them?”

“Operational security,” the captain said. “And if that doesn’t work, inform him that disobeying a lawful order of the Crown in time of war is considered treason.” His eyes hardened. “I am not making a request.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

Outside the tent, a sentry called a challenge, and a rumbling basso voice replied in snarling tones. A second later, one of the sentries leaned into the tent, and said, “Pair of messengers from the Canim, Captain.”

Octavian nodded and beckoned with one hand. “Show them in, please.”

Marcus wasn’t familiar with the two Canim who entered the tent a moment later, stooping slightly to keep their ears from brushing the ceiling. One, a dark-furred brute, was dressed in battered old warrior-caste armor that was missing two or three pieces. The other, a lean and golden-furred individual with beady eyes, wore the riveted-steel jacket that had become the main armor for the now-veteran Canim militia.

Marcus felt a little shock of realization go through him. Varg would never send a warrior on courier duty at all, much less one who presented such a slip-shod appearance as this one. And the golden-furred Cane was, most likely, a Shuaran, the only Canim any Aleran had ever seen with that shade of fur. The Shuaran Canim had not come to Alera with Sarl’s invasion force. They had never left Canea. They could therefore never have become members of Nasaug’s war-trained militia—and it would have been as good as asking to be torn to pieces for a nonmilitia Cane to falsely claim membership in those ranks. Canim pride was ferocious, jealous, and bloodily decisive.

Perhaps a shoddily armored warrior could have been sent on a message run. Perhaps the golden-furred Cane had been in the ranks all along, and Alerans had simply never noted his presence. Either of those things was remotely possible.

But both of them?

Marcus scratched at his nose with a fingertip, and when he lowered his hand again, it came to rest within an inch of his sword’s hilt. He flicked a glance at Octavian, hoping to warn him.

There was no need. The captain had evidently reached the same conclusions as Marcus, and though he remained outwardly calm, he surreptitiously hooked a thumb through his belt, which placed it in close proximity to the handle of the dagger sheathed at the small of his back.

“Good morning,” Octavian said politely, tilting his head very slightly to one side in a salute of superior to subordinate. “Did you gentlemen have something for me?”

The armored Cane shuffled forward a few steps, reaching into a pouch at his side.

His paw-hand emerged clenching a stone knife. The armored Cane roared, in Canish, “One people!”

And slashed at the captain’s throat.

Marcus felt his heart leap into his mouth. The captain was a capable opponent when he employed his metalcrafting, but that ability would do him no good against a stone weapon. Without the forewarning of his metalcrafting of the weapon’s approach, he would be forced to pit his raw physical ability against the Cane’s—and without furycraft to aid them, no Aleran could match the power of a Cane, and only the fastest could match their speed.

Octavian jerked his head back and the slash missed by a hair. He dropped back, taking a pair of spinning steps as he drew the dagger from his belt and flung it. The weapon tumbled one and a half times and sank into an unarmored portion of the Cane’s thigh. The Cane howled in sudden pain, stumbling.

“Sir!” Marcus shouted, drawing and lofting his gladius in a single motion. He didn’t stop to see if Octavian caught it. He charged the second Cane, who had produced a slender wooden tube. As Marcus approached, the Cane lifted the tube to his mouth and exhaled, and a little flash of color and steel flew out the end. Marcus ducked his head and felt the missile ping against the good Aleran steel of his helmet. Then he called out to his earth fury as he barreled into the would-be assassin.

The Cane was viciously strong, but inexperienced. The two of them went to the ground hard, and instead of immediately attempting to escape, the Cane started thrashing his limbs in a useless attempt to sink claws or fangs into Marcus. There was no time to capture the opponent. He had to remove the gold-furred Cane from the fight and go to Octavian’s aid. Marcus seized one of the Cane’s wrists in a bone-pulverizing grip, then slammed his other fist down onto the Cane’s head, shattering his foe’s skull with the power of the fury-enhanced strike.

Marcus looked back up to see the captain break the Cane’s crude stone blade with a swift move of his gladius and go on to deliver four lightning-fast slashes to the armored Cane. Any two of them would probably have been fatal, but the captain was nothing if not thorough. He struck until he was sure the attacker was completely incapacitated, and whirled toward Marcus and the second Cane, sword lifted in his hand to strike.

The two men faced one another as the armored Cane toppled slowly and limply to the ground behind the captain, and Marcus had a startling realization: Octavian’s reasoning had been identical to his own. He had struck to dispatch his opponent swiftly and immediately so that he could go to the other man’s aid.

Octavian’s eyes scanned Marcus and the Cane with the broken head. Then he turned back to his own dead opponent, scowling. “Crows,” he growled. “Bloody crows.”

The sentries burst in. Without hesitation, they both plunged swords into the Cane Marcus had downed. Like captain, like legionare, Marcus supposed. When they approached the second downed Cane, the captain waved a hand at them. “Finished.” He looked up. “Marcus. Are you hurt?”

“I’ll manage,” Marcus said, panting. He was in shape enough to keep pace with the Legion, but he had been on a ship for months, and there had been no real way to remain in proper Legion condition.

And face it. You’re getting old.

Octavian wiped Marcus’s gladius clean of blood on the dark fur of the dead Cane, then offered the weapon back to him, hilt first. Marcus nodded his thanks, inspected the weapon for stains or damage, found it serviceable, and slid it back into its sheath.

Octavian glanced at Marcus, and said, simply, “Thank you.” Then he strode from the tent, rigid with anger, or perhaps in simple reaction to the attempt on his life.

The three legionares stared after him. “What happened?” asked one of the sentries. “I thought we were supposed to be allies.”

Marcus grunted and sent them on their way to follow the captain with a slap on an armored shoulder. “So did I, soldier. So did I.”