First Lord's Fury

CHAPTER 18

For Amara, the next several hours were a desperate blur.

She came down square in the middle of the Crown Legion, whose legionares had been stationed at Alera Imperia for years, and many of whom would recognize her on sight. She nearly skewered herself on a spear, and the startled legionare she’d half landed on nearly gave her a killing stroke with his gladius. Only the swift intervention of the legionare beside him kept him from plunging the wickedly sharp steel into Amara’s throat.

After that, it was a matter of convincing the men that only their centurion could deal with her, and that centurion’s Tribune would need to do the same, and so on, all the way up to the captain of the Crown Legion.

Captain Miles was a more formal-looking version of his older brother, Araris Valerian. He had the same innocuous height, the same solid, leanly muscled build. His hair was a few shades lighter than Araris’s, but then both of them were showing enough threads of silver to make the distinction a fine one these days. Sir Miles limped over to her, moving briskly, every inch the model of a Legion captain, his face darkening with wrath. No surprise, that. Amara couldn’t imagine a captain worth his salt who would be thrilled to have some kind of administrative matter thrust into his hands now, when the battle was freshly under way.

Miles gave Amara one look, and his face went absolutely pale.

“Bloody crows,” he said. “How bad is it?”

“Very,” Amara said.

Miles gestured curtly for the legionares holding Amara’s arms to release her. “I wish I could say it was good to see you again, Countess, but you’ve been a harbinger for confusion and danger a little too often for my taste. How can I help you?”

“How can you get rid of me, you mean,” Amara said, grinning. “I need to see Aqui—Gaius Attis. Now. Sooner if possible.”

Miles’s eyes narrowed, then a small, hard grin touched his mouth. “This should be interesting. If you will follow me, Countess Calderon.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Amara said.

He paused, and said, “Countess. I take it that you aren’t going to attempt anything, ah, ill-advised.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Would you care to take my weapons, Sir Miles?”

He huffed out an annoyed breath and shook his head. Then he beckoned for Amara to follow him.

She walked through the blazing light of Legion standards, passing from the Crown Legion proper into a space opened between the single surviving Imperian Legion and the First Legion of Aquitaine. The space between them was filled with cavalry, including, it would seem, the command group around Gaius Attis.

As Amara approached, half a dozen men with long dueling blades—Aquitaine’s singulares, presumably—drew their weapons and immediately nudged their horses to stand between Amara and Lord Aquitaine.

“Relax, boys,” growled Miles. He turned to Amara, and said, “Wait here, Countess. I’ll speak to him.”

Amara nodded stiffly, and Miles pressed through the singulares and disappeared. She did not look at the bodyguards and stood with her weight far back on her heels, her hands in plain view. The very gentle slope of the land let her look down over the heads of the legionares between herself and the actual battle line, and she paused for a moment to watch the battle.

From far enough away, she thought, it looked nothing like a brutal struggle. The legionares looked like laborers in a field, all spread out in a line, their weapons rising and falling while trumpets blew and drums pounded. The shouts of battle blended into a single vast roaring noise, like wind or surf, individual cries swallowed up and made insignificant against the aggregate sound.

Amara murmured to Cirrus for a farseeing, then swept her gaze up and down the lines.

Last year, almost all of the enemy infantry had appeared as low-slung, swift-moving imitations of the vicious lizards of the Kalaran swamps called “garim.” Most of the rest had looked almost like nightmarish renditions of armored Alerans, their arms transformed into stabbing, chopping scythes, while great wings like those of beetles or perhaps dragonflies lifted them into aerial combat.

The vord had taken new forms.

Most of them, Amara saw, looked like some kind of enormous praying mantis, though squatter, more powerful-looking. They rushed across the ground on four legs, while the two lengthy forelimbs ended in more curving scythe blades. The reason for the change became apparent within seconds, when Amara saw one of those huge scythe-claws flash up, then down, at the end of the vord’s unnaturally long limb. Its point swept over the shieldwall of legionares of the Crown Legion, and plunged down with inhuman power, slamming through the top and rear of a luckless legionare’s helmet, slaying him instantly.

The vord did not stop there. The creature dragged the legionare’s body forth from the line, swinging it left and right as it did so, battering the legionares on either side of the dead man. Other vord rushed toward the disruption in the lines, and more men died as the creatures stabbed down with their blades, or hooked a legionare’s shield with them, to drag another man out of the defensive advantage of the line.

The vord had developed new tactics along with their new forms, it would seem.

But then, so had Aquitaine.

Within seconds of the vord assault, a pair of men stepped out of the rear ranks wielding great mauls of preposterous size—Knights Terra. Drawing their power from the earth beneath them, they stepped forward with the heavy weaponry, shattering chitin and slaying vord with every swing. Within seconds, they had killed or driven back the vord nearby, after which they returned to their original positions. As they did, a centurion, bellowing until his face was purple, kicked his men into a semblance of order and re-formed the line.

Amara looked up and down the lines, counting heavy weaponry. She was shocked at how many Knights Terra she could see, waiting in supporting positions in the third or fourth rank of each Legion, ready to step forward and steady any weak points in the shield line. Standard tactical doctrine insisted that the power represented by Knights Terra should be concentrated in one place, hammered into a deadly spearpoint that could thrust through any foe.

Then she realized—in the current situation, standard tactical doctrine had been superseded by the desperation of the Realm’s defenders. Standard doctrine was based upon the assumption that the furycrafting talent of a Knight would be in short supply, for the excellent reason that they nearly always were. But here, now, the Citizens standing to battle outnumbered the Legions’ Knights by an order of magnitude. They could afford to place the normally rare assets into supporting positions in the line. There would be plenty of furypower left over.

The medicos labored feverishly, dragging the wounded and dead back from the line, where they would be sorted into three categories. First came the most severely wounded, who would need the attentions of a healing tub merely to survive. Next priority went to those men most lightly wounded—a visit to a healing tub and a comparatively minor effort from a watercrafter would put them back into the lines in an hour.

And then came… everyone else. Men with their bellies ripped open could not hope to return to the fight, but neither were they in danger of expiring from their injury within the day. Men with shattered ribs, their wind too short to permit them to scream, lay there in agony, their faces twisted with pain. They were worse off than those who had lost limbs and managed to stop the bleeding with bandages and tourniquets. A man whose eyes were a bloody, pulped ruin sat on the ground moaning and rocking back and forth. Scarlet tears streamed down his cheeks in a gruesome mask.

The dead, Amara thought morbidly, were better off than all of them: They could feel no pain.

“Countess!” Miles called.

Amara looked up to see that Aquitaine’s bodyguards had opened a way between them, though they didn’t look happy about it. Miles was standing in the newly created aisle, beckoning her, and Amara hurried to join him.

Miles walked her over to where Aquitaine sat on his horse beside a dozen of his furycrafting peers—High Lord Antillus, High Lord Phrygia and his son, High Lord and Lady Placida, High Lord Cereus, and a collection of Lords who, through talent or discipline, had established themselves as some of the most formidable furycrafters in the Realm.

“Countess,” Aquitaine said politely. “Today’s schedule is somewhat demanding. I am pressed for time.”

“It’s about to get worse,” Amara said. After a beat, she added, “Your Highness.”

Aquitaine gave her a razor-thin smile. “Elaborate.”

She informed him, in short, terse sentences, of the horde of feral furies. “And they’re moving fast. You’ve got maybe half an hour before they reach your lines.”

Aquitaine regarded her steadily, then dismounted, stepped a bit apart from the horses, and took to the air to see for himself. He returned within a pair of minutes and remounted, his expression closed and hard.

Silence spread around the little circle as the mounted Citizens traded uneasy looks.

“A furybinding?” Lady Placida said, finally. “On that scale? Is it even possi—” She paused to glance at her husband, who was giving her a wry look. She shook her head and continued. “Yes, as it is in fact happening at this very moment, of course it is possible.”

“Bloody crows,” Antillus finally spat. He was a brawny man, rough-hewn, and had a face that looked as if it had been beaten with clubs in his youth. “Furies will go right through the lines. Or under them, or over them. And they’ll head straight for Riva, too.”

Aquitaine shook his head. “Those are entirely uncontrolled furies. Once they’re set loose, there’s no telling which direction they’ll go.”

“Naturally,” Amara said in a dry tone. “It would be impossible for the vord to be able to give them a direction.”

Aquitaine looked at her, sighed, and waved an irritated gesture of acceptance.

“If there are that many wild furies, the vord don’t need to aim them,” the silver-haired, aged Cereus said quietly. “Even if they could only bring the furies close and let them spread out randomly, some of them are bound to hit the city. It wouldn’t take many to cause a panic. And as crowded as the streets are…”

“It would clog the streets and trap everyone inside,” Aquitaine said calmly. “Panic in those circumstances would be little different from riots. It will force the Legions to maneuver all the way around the city walls instead of marching through. Force us to divide our strength, sending troops back to restore order. Cause enough confusion to let the vord slip agents and takers inside.” He frowned, bemused. “We haven’t seen any vordknights yet, in this battle.” He looked back over his shoulder. “They’re north and west of us, spread out in a line, like hunters. Ready to snap up refugees as they flee the city in disorder.”

Amara got a sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t thought all the way through the chain of logic in the vord Queen’s gambit, but what Aquitaine said made perfect sense. Though the vord were deadly enough in a purely physical sense, the weapon that might truly unmake Alera this day was terror. In her mind’s eye, she could see panicked refugees and freemen being slaughtered by wild furies, could see them taking to the streets with all they could carry, shepherding their children along with them, seeking a way out of the death trap the walls of Riva had become. Some would manage to escape the city—only to find themselves the prey of an airborne foe. And while the rest of the city’s residents were trapped and embroiled in chaos, the Legions were effectively pinned in place. They could not retreat without leaving the people of Riva to be butchered.

The great city, its people, and its defending Legions would all die together within days.

“I think we’d better stop those furies,” Antillus rumbled.

“Yes, thank you, Raucus,” Lord Phrygia said in an acidic tone. “What would you suggest?”

Antillus scowled and said nothing.

Aquitaine actually seemed to smile for an instant, something that surprised Amara with its genuine warmth. It faded rapidly, and his features shifted back into his cool mask again. “We have two choices—retreat or fight.”

“A retreat?” Raucus said. “With this mob? We’d never coordinate it in the face of the enemy. Whichever Legions were the last out would be torn to shreds.”

“More to the point,” Lord Placida said quietly, “I think it’s a good bet that they’ll be expecting it. I think you’re right about their circling their aerial troops into position behind us.”

“Even more to the point,” Aquitaine said, “we have nowhere left to go. No position that will be any stronger than this one. That being the case—”

“Your Highness,” Amara interrupted smoothly. “In point of fact, that is not entirely true.”

Amara felt every eye there lock upon her.

“The Calderon Valley has been prepared,” she said calmly. “My lord husband spent years trying to warn the Realm that this day was coming. When no one listened, he did the only thing he could do. He readied his home to receive refugees and fortified it heavily.”

Aquitaine tilted his head. “How heavily could he possibly have strengthened it on a Count’s income?”

Amara reached into her belt pouch, drew out a folded piece of paper, and opened a map of the Calderon Valley. “Here is the western entrance, along the causeway. Half-height siege walls have been built across the entire five-mile stretch of land, from the flint escarpments to the Sea of Ice, with standard Legion camp-style fortresses every half mile. A second regulation siege wall belts the valley at its midway point, with fortresses and gates each mile. At the eastern end of the valley, Garrison itself has been surrounded by more double-sized siege walls, enclosing a citadel built to about a quarter of the scale of the one in Alera Imperia.”

Aquitaine stared at her. He blinked once. Slowly.

Lady Placida dropped her head back and let out a peal of sudden laughter. She pressed her hands to her stomach, though she couldn’t have felt it through her armor, and continued laughing. “Oh. Oh, I never thought I’d get to see the look on your face when you found out, Attis…”

Aquitaine eyed the merry High Lady and turned to Amara. “One wonders why the good Count has not seen fit to inform High Lord Riva or the Crown of his new architectural ambitions.”

“Does one?” Amara asked.

Aquitaine opened his mouth. “Ah. Of course. So that Octavian would have a stronghold should he need to use one against me.” His eyes shifted to Lady Placida. “I assume that the Count has enjoyed the benefit of some support from Placida.”

Lord Placida was eyeing his wife with a rather alarmed expression. “I would like to think you would have, ah, informed me if that was the case, dear.”

“Not Placida,” she said calmly. “The Dianic League. After Invidia’s defection, most of us felt foolish enough to take steps to correct our misplaced trust in her leadership.”

“Ah,” her husband said, and nodded, pacified. “The League, quite. None of my business, then.”

Amara cleared her throat. “The point, Your Highness, is that there is indeed one more place where we might make a stand—a better place than here, it could be argued. The geography there will favor a defender heavily.”

Aquitaine closed his eyes for a moment. He was very still. Then he opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and nodded. His eyes flicked open, burning with sudden energy. “Very well,” he said. “We are about to be assaulted by furies of considerable strength and variety. The fact that they happen to be feral is really rather immaterial. We have neither the time nor the resources to pacify or destroy them. We’ll bait them instead. Keep them focused on the Legions instead of upon the Rivan populace.” He considered the gathered group pensively. “We’ll divide the labor by city, I think. High Lord and Lady Placida, if you would, please summon your liegemen and divide yourselves among both Placidan Legions. Make sure the Legions maintain their integrity.”

Aria nodded sharply, once, then she and her husband dismounted and launched themselves skyward.

“Raucus,” Aquitaine continued, “you’ll take your Citizens to the Antillan Legions, and Phrygius will cover his own troops—and yes, I know the two of you have the most Legions in the field at the moment and that your furycrafters will be spread thin. Lord Cereus, if you would, please gather together the Citizens from Ceres, Forcia, Kalare, and Alera Imperia and divide them to assist the northern Legions.”

Phrygius and Antillus both nodded and turned their horses, kicking them into a run as they raced in separate directions, toward their own Legions. Cereus gave Amara a grim nod and launched himself skyward.

Aquitaine gave a series of calm, specific instructions to the Lords remaining, and the men departed in rapid succession.

“Captain Miles,” he said, at the last.

“Sir,” Miles said.

Sir, Amara noted. Not sire.

“The Crown Legion will proceed to the northeast gates of Riva to escort and safeguard the civilians,” Aquitaine said.

“We’re ready to continue the fight, sir.”

“No, Captain. After last year, your Legion was down to four-fifths of its strength before today’s battle was joined. You have your orders.”

Sir Miles grimaced but saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“And you, Countess Calderon.” Aquitaine sighed. “Please be so kind as to carry word to your own liege, Lord Rivus, that it will be his responsibility to shield the population of Riva as he evacuates them to the Calderon Valley. Have him coordinate with your husband to make sure this happens as quickly as possible.”

Amara frowned and inclined her head. “And you, Your Highness?”

Aquitaine shrugged languidly. “I would have preferred to drive straight for the Queen as soon as she revealed herself. But given what’s happening, she has no need to put in an appearance.”

Amara began to ask another question.

“Neither does my ex-wife,” Aquitaine said smoothly.

Amara frowned at him. “The Legions. You’re asking them to fight wild furies and the vord alike. Fight them while a horde of refugees staggers away. Fight them while they themselves retreat.”

“Yes,” Aquitaine said.

“They’ll be ground to dust.”

“You exaggerate the danger, Countess,” Aquitaine replied. “Fine sand.” Amara just stared at the man. “Was… was that a joke?”

“Apparently not,” Aquitaine replied. He turned his face toward the lines again.

His eyes were calm, and veiled…

… and haunted.

Amara followed his gaze and realized that he was staring at the screaming casualties on the ground, the men whose proportion of agony to mortality had run too high to rate immediate attention. She shivered and averted her eyes.

Aquitaine did not.

Amara looked back to the battle itself. The legionares were holding the enemy tide at bay—for now.

“Yes,” Aquitaine said quietly. “The Legions will pay a terrible price so that the residents of Riva can flee. But if they do not, the city will fall into chaos, and the civilians will die.” He shook his head. “This way, perhaps half of the legionares will survive the retreat. Even odds. If we are forced to defend the city to our last man, they will all die, Countess. For nothing. And they know it.” He nodded. “They’ll fight.”

“And you?” Amara asked, careful to keep her tone completely neutral. “Will you fight?”

“If I reveal my position and identity, the enemy will do everything in their power to kill me in order to disrupt Aleran leadership. I will take the field against the Queen. Or Invidia. For them, it would be worth the risk. Until then… I will be patient.”

“That’s probably best, Your Highness,” Ehren said quietly, stepping forward from his unobtrusive position in the Princeps’ background. “You aren’t replaceable. If you were seen in action in these circumstances, it’s all but certain that Invidia, or the Queen, would appear and make every effort to remove you.”

Amara drew in a slow breath and looked past Aquitaine to where Sir Ehren hovered in attendance. The little man’s expression was entirely opaque, but he had to realize Aquitaine’s situation. His recent storm of new orders had, effectively, stripped him completely of the support of his peers in furycrafted power. The others as strong as he had been dispatched to protect their Legions.

Leaving Aquitaine to stand against his ex-wife or the vord Queen—should they appear—alone.

One gloved fingertip tapped on the hilt of his sword. It was the only thing about him that might have been vaguely construed as a nervous reaction.

“Either one of them is at least a match for you,” Amara said quietly. “If they come together, you won’t have a chance.”

“Not if, Countess,” Aquitaine said, thoughtfully. He slid his finger over the hilt of the sword in an unconscious caress. “I believe I’ve had my fill of ‘if ’s. When. And we’ll see about that. I’ve never been bested yet.” He pursed his lips, staring at the battle, then gave himself a little shake, and said, “Take word to Riva. Then return to me here. I will have more work for you.”

Amara arched an eyebrow at him. “You’d trust me enough for that?”

“Trust,” he said. “No. Say instead that I have insufficient distrust of you to make me willing to waste your skills.” He smiled that razor-thin smile again, and waved a hand vaguely toward the battle lines. “Frankly, I find you a far-less-terrifying enemy than our guests. Now go.”

Amara considered the man for the space of a breath. Then she nodded to him, somewhat more deeply than she needed to. “Very well,” she said, “Your Highness.”