First Lord's Fury

CHAPTER 30

Amara eyed the Knight standing guard outside the Princeps’ command tent, and said, “I don’t understand why you can’t at least go in and ask.”

The young man stared coldly over Amara’s head at the Marat clan-head, and said, “No barbarians.”

Amara fought down her irritation and remained expressionless, neutral. Doroga, for his part, returned the young man’s stare steadily, leaning one elbow on the head of his cudgel. The massively muscled Marat showed no reaction at all to the half dozen very interested legionares commanded by the young Knight. He exuded a sense of patient confidence and let Amara do the talking—thank goodness.

“Was that your specific order, Sir…”

“Ceregus,” the young Knight spat.

“Sir Ceregus,” Amara said politely. “I must inquire if you are acting on a specific order from your lawful superiors.”

The young Knight smiled woodenly. “If you recall what happened to the last Princeps who came into the presence of the barbarians in this valley, Countess, you’ll find all the reason you need.”

Doroga grunted. “Gave him a ride on a gargant and saved him and his people from being eaten by the Herdbane. Then your First Lord, old Sextus, gave me this shirt.” Doroga plucked at the fine but worn old Aleran tunic, with its radical alterations to fit his frame.

Ceregus narrowed his eyes and began to speak.

“The good clan-head forgets to mention the retreat from Riva,” Amara cut in, interrupting the young Knight. “At which time, Doroga and the other members of his clan saved the lives of tens of thousands of fleeing civilians and prevented a division of forces, which might have killed hundreds or thousands of legionares.”

“You dare to suggest that the Legions—” the young Knight began.

“I suggest, Sir Ceregus, that you are going to be sorely disappointed in your officers’ reactions to your decision, and I advise you to seek their advice before you find yourself in an unpleasant situation.”

“Woman, I don’t know who you think you are, but I do not take kindly to threats.”

“I am Calderonus Amara, whose husband’s walls you are currently sheltering behind,” she replied.

Sir Ceregus narrowed his eyes. “And I am Rivus Ceregus, whose uncle, High Lord Rivus, gave your husband his title.”

Amara smiled sweetly at him. “No, boy. That was Gaius Sextus, if you’ll recall.”

Ceregus’s cheeks gained spots of color. “The matter is closed. The barbarian doesn’t go inside.”

Amara looked steadily at him for a moment. The nephew of a High Lord could potentially have a great deal of clout, depending upon how favored he was by Lord Rivus. It might be worth it to give way for the time being and gain specific orders to admit Doroga next time around.

But there really wasn’t time for that kind of foolishness. The vord had not assaulted the first wall as yet, but it wouldn’t be long before they did. Already, their scouts, skirmishers, vordknights, and takers were haunting the western edge of the Valley.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Senator Valerius, along with a pair of civilian-clothed bodyguards, approached the tent. He beamed at Ceregus, and said, “Good evening, Sir Knight. Would you be so kind?”

Ceregus inclined his head to the Senator, smiling in reply. He jerked his head to his fellow sentries to tell them to move aside, and waved the Senator and his men by without so much as taking note of the group’s sidearms. Valerius glanced over his shoulder, just before disappearing into his tent, and gave Amara a smug and venomous glance as he did.

Ah. So that’s how things stand.

Amara took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and calmed her mind. Then she opened them again, and said, “I believe I have had enough of this sort of partisan idiocy. It’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“You are welcome to the Princeps’ Council, Countess,” Ceregus said, his voice cold. He pointed a finger at Doroga. “But that creature goes nowhere near the Princeps.”

When she spoke, her voice was very calm, and perfectly polite. “Are you sure that’s how you want to do this?”

“Did all that skulking around murdering people damage your hearing, Countess?” His eyes blazed. “Kalarus Brencis Minoris was my friend. And you killed him. So that is exactly how this is going to happen.”

“I won’t go into the details about how many deaths we can confidently lay at that young maniac’s feet, Sir Ceregus. There isn’t time.” Amara met his eyes. “Lives are at stake, and we need the Marat. That means Doroga needs to be a part of our planning. So if you don’t get out of my way, Sir Knight, I am going to move you. You will not find it a pleasant experience. Stand aside.”

Ceregus lifted his chin and sneered down at her. “Is that a thr—”

Amara called upon Cirrus, surged toward the young Knight with all the violent speed her fury could lend her, and slammed the heel of her left hand across the idiot’s jaw.

Rivus Ceregus went down like a poleaxed ox.

The legionares on sentry duty all stared in silence at the unconscious man, their eyes wide and stunned.

Doroga burst into a full-bellied laugh. He smothered it a second later and bowed his head as if pretending to unravel a loose thread from his tunic—but his shoulders quivered and jerked with his muffled amusement.

Amara would have been tempted to join him if her left wrist hadn’t felt as though she had broken it. Human hands weren’t meant to deliver blows with that kind of speed and force. She clenched the fingers of her right hand into a tight fist to channel the pain elsewhere, made a mental note to stop abusing her limbs like that, then turned a calm gaze on the sentries and nodded at the youngest. “You. Go into the command tent. Find a senior officer and ask whether or not the clan-head is welcome to attend.”

The legionare threw her a sketchy, hasty salute, and hurried into the tent. “You,” Amara said, nodding at another one. “Fetch the nearest healer for the idiot.”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” the legionare said. He hurried away, too.

“I apologize for the delay,” Amara said to Doroga. “I’m sure we’ll have things cleared up in a moment.”

“No hurry,” Doroga said, a wide grin on his ugly face.

Bernard emerged from the bustle of the camp, threading his way between several sets of smith’s apprentices, pairs of whom were carrying multiple suits of newly made Legion lorica on stout poles. Bernard nodded to Doroga and clasped forearms with the Marat, then turned to Amara.

His jaw hadn’t been pulverized to powder by Invidia’s blow, but it had apparently broken into half a dozen shards. The healers had only just been able to fuse the bones back together, including replacement teeth for the ones that had been knocked out, but there was still considerable swelling. It would take multiple sessions and simple time to repair his jaw entirely, and in the face of the battle at hand, the healers had neither to spare. When Bernard spoke, the words came from between clenched teeth, slightly misshapen. “Doroga. My lady. Have they started yet?”

“I’ve no idea,” Amara said. “One of Valerius’s dogs was in charge of the sentries and barred Doroga. We’re working things out.”

Bernard looked gravely down at the unconscious man. “My wife. The diplomat.”

“Don’t start,” Amara said.

Within a minute, the legionare returned from the command tent, nodding to Amara. “Countess, the Princeps sends his compliments and extends his gratitude to the clan-head for coming to us in our hour of need. He is by all means welcome to attend.”

She glanced at her husband and rolled her eyes. “Thank you, legionare. Doroga, if you please?”

Doroga joined Bernard in looking down at the unconscious man and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “Maybe even if I didn’t.”

They proceeded inside and found Gaius Attis waiting for them. He was seated at a chair on a small platform overlooking a sand table configured to represent the Calderon Valley. A heavy blanket covered his legs, and he looked pale. Sir Ehren stood in attendance at his side and a bit behind him, and Placida Aria stood in a similar position opposite Ehren.

Gathered in the tent were most of the highest-ranking Citizens of the Realm, a group of tired, bloodied, travel-stained men and women with proud bearing and grim expressions. Every surviving High Lord was present, along with most of the High Ladies. The captains of the Legions were also there, along with representatives from the Senate—who, Amara felt sure, were there mostly in a ceremonial function. All things considered, the tent was quite crowded.

Amara spotted Lady Veradis standing beside her father, the silver-haired Lord Cereus.

“Amara,” Veradis said, and hurried over, her expression concerned. “What happened?”

“Oh, I bumped my hand into something obstinate,” Amara replied.

Veradis took her by the left arm and lifted Amara’s hand in tandem with her own eyebrow. “This is broken.”

“In a good cause. I’ll have someone see to it when we’re finished.”

Veradis made a clucking sound with her mouth, and said, “Oh, you’re impossible. Just give it to me.”

“There’s no need to—”

Veradis lifted her left hand and quite calmly snapped her stiffened fingers and thumb together, as if in the motion of a closing mouth, then cradled Amara’s wrist gently and murmured something to herself. The pain eased over the next several seconds, and Amara let out a breath of relief.

“That’s him, huh?” Doroga asked Bernard.

“Yes.”

Doroga shook his head, studying Gaius Attis. Then he said, “Be right back.”

The broad-shouldered barbarian calmly approached the Princeps. As he got close, both Ehren and Lady Placida seemed to grow tenser. Lady Placida slid half a step forward, to place herself between Doroga and Attis.

“Take it easy, woman,” Doroga drawled. “Just want to talk to the man.”

“Your weapon, sir,” Aria said stiffly.

Doroga blinked, then seemed to remember his cudgel. He offered it to Lady Placida by its handle, and released it as soon as she had it. The cudgel fell with a heavy thump, and Lady Placida grunted. She had to make a visible effort of furycraft to lift the weapon again and set it calmly aside.

Doroga nodded, then stepped up onto the platform to stand over Attis, staring down at him, his hands on his hips.

“You would be the Clan-Head Doroga?” Attis asked politely.

“Yes,” Doroga said. “You are the man whose people convinced Atsurak to lead thousands of my people to a bloody death.”

Attis stared at Doroga, then swept his gaze around the room. Finally, he looked down at his own blanket-covered lap and smiled, rather bitterly. “It wasn’t difficult.”

The buzz of conversation in the room simply stopped. Everyone stared at Attis, Amara included. Oh, certainly, everyone had known who was behind the events preceding Second Calderon, but there was what everyone knew, then what they could prove. Lord and Lady Aquitaine had gotten away with it without leaving any concrete proof to connect them to the Marat invasion. No one had spoken of it openly—such a charge, made without proof, would have been instant and undeniable reason for the Aquitaines to call the speaker to the juris macto.

And yet, Attis had just admitted to his part in the plot, in front of the most powerful Citizens of the Realm.

Doroga grunted, nodding, evidently unaware of what he had just done. “Lot of people died. Yours and mine.”

“Yes,” Attis said.

“If there was time,” Doroga said, “you and I might have an argument about that.”

“Time is something of which I am in short supply,” Attis replied.

Doroga nodded. “It is done. Dealing with the vord is more important. But I will have your promise not to do any such thing in the future.”

Attis looked bemused. “Yes. You have it.”

Doroga nodded and extended his hand. Attis reached out, and the two traded grips of one another’s forearms.

“Thank you for your help today,” Attis said. “You saved the lives of many of my people.”

“That is what good neighbors do,” Doroga said. “Maybe no one ever taught you Alerans about that.”

“Entirely possible,” Attis said, a smile still touching his lips. “I must ask you if any more of your people might be willing to help us.”

Doroga grunted. “I have called. We will see who answers. But I and my Clanmates are here. We will stand with you.”

The Princeps nodded. “I welcome you.”

“Be a fool not to,” Doroga said. “After this is done, you and I will talk about balancing scales.”

“I would be pleased to discuss it,” Attis said.

Doroga grunted, faint surprise plain on his features. “Right. Good.”

“We should begin, I think,” the Princeps said.

Doroga folded his arms on his chest, nodded to Attis, and ambled back over to Amara and Bernard.

“Citizens, Senators, Captains,” Attis said, raising his voice. “If you would give me your attention, please. We will discuss the defense of the Valley. Our host, the rather farsighted Count Calderon, will describe his defensive structures to you.”

Bernard looked at Amara and gestured in irritation at his jaw.

“Ah,” she said. “Your Highness, my husband has injured his jaw and will have difficulty speaking. With your permission, I will brief everyone about our defenses.”

“By all means,” said the Princeps.

Amara stepped forward and up onto the platform with the sand table. Everyone gathered around to look. “As you can see,” Amara said, “the Calderon Valley is divided into three separate sections by the new walls. We are currently just behind the westernmost wall. It is by far the longest and the lowest, running approximately five miles, from the escarpments to the shores of the Sea of Ice and standing at an average height of ten feet. The second wall is approximately twenty miles from here. It is just over three miles long and runs from this salient of the escarpments to the sea. It is of standard construction at twenty feet, with gates flanked by towers every half mile. The final defensive wall is situated here, at the far end of the valley, protecting the town of Garrison and the refugee camps of those who have already arrived.”

“I’m curious,” interrupted Senator Valerius, “how a Count of the Realm managed to fund all of this construction—and then to conceal its presence, as well.”

“With a great deal of support, sir,” Amara replied calmly. “The sections of wall within sight of the causeway were raised only a few days ago. The rest went unobserved thanks to the generous use of camouflage to hide them from the view of fliers and the fact that few visitors to the Valley stray far from the causeway.”

“It seems odd to me,” Valerius said. “That’s all. Such a project must have cost you hundreds of thousands of golden eagles.”

Amara eyed Valerius calmly. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“I find myself reluctant to trust your word, Countess—or the word of the Count who built these unauthorized and illegal fortifications—”

“Oh bloody crows, man!” Antillus Raucus abruptly snarled. “What the crows does it matter where they came from as long as we have them at hand when we need them?”

“I merely point out that this is a legal matter that can hardly be ignored once the current crisis is abated. If we are to entrust the security of the Realm to the loyalties of this… questionable pair of individuals…”

Lord Placida didn’t speak. He simply turned to Valerius, grabbed the man’s tunic, and with a grunt flung him out of the tent to sprawl in the mud outside. The motion was so sudden that Valerius’s bodyguards were caught frozen. Placida turned to face them with narrowed eyes, then pointed at the door.

They went.

“Ass,” muttered Raucus.

“Thank you, Placida,” the Princeps murmured in a dry voice. “Countess, please continue.”

Amara smiled at Lord Placida, nodded to the Princeps, and returned to her narrative. “We have been studying the potential defenses of the Valley for some time,” she said. “This is the plan we believe will best accomplish the goals the Princeps has specified…”