Princeps' Fury
Chapter 23~24
Chapter 23
"There's frozen ground back in Alera, too, soldier," Valiar Marcus barked. "Without a palisade, we'll be easy meat for the first gang of Shuarans to come along. So put your back into it and dig, or I'll have you at a whipping post until your balls freeze and drop off."
The startled legionare, one of the Free Aleran troopers, started up from where he sat, his face showing chagrin that quickly turned to sullen anger. The spear of legionares working on that section of the palisade wall turned darkening faces toward him.
Bloody crows, Marcus thought. It was perhaps unwise to threaten a fanatical former slave with a lashing. He had no desire to fight eight men by himself, but neither could the First Spear back down from any show of open insubordination.
Marcus turned to square his shoulders and face the men, keeping them all within his field of vision. "You know how the Legions maintain discipline, legionare, or ought to."
The recalcitrant legionare, perhaps bolstered by the support of his fellows, drawled, "And maybe it's time that changed, centurion."
Marcus took one step forward, called up strength from the earth, and struck the man with a backhanded blow. The legionare was flung from his feet and crashed into the stack of loose poles that the Legions had brought with them from Alera. The man and the material spilled into a disorderly sprawl. The legionare moaned once and lay in a senseless puddle.
Marcus regarded the man distantly for a moment, and said, "I disagree." He turned his gaze to the other legionares, who stood stunned and staring, and said in a quiet voice, "You'll have to work a bit harder to get your section put up in time, gentlemen."
A tall, wiry man in the helmet of a centurion from the Free Aleran came striding down the line of men erecting the camp's palisade and paused, glowering at the men in front of Marcus. His eyes swept back and forth across them, and fastened on the man on the ground. He grunted, turned to Marcus, and gave him a nod. "First Spear."
"Centurion," Marcus replied.
"Problem with these men?"
"I've been giving them a motivational talk," Marcus said.
The Free Aleran centurion glanced at the unconscious man. He didn't quite smile. "You men are lucky. I'd have had you all at the whipping post."
"But-" protested one of the ex-slaves.
"And I'd have been right to do it," the centurion snapped. "We told you when you signed on that the Free Aleran Legion was not about taking vengeance. We told you that you would be held to the standards of behavior of every other Legion, dealt with in the same way as any free soldier. Now get your lazy asses to work before I decide that the First Spear was too lenient on you, interpret your actions as refusal to obey a direct order while the Legion is in enemy territory, and have you all hanged."
The men were shocked from their stasis by the centurion's words, perhaps. In any case, they leapt back to the work with a will.
Marcus faced off with the centurion and nodded to him. "Thank you," he said in a quieter tone.
"Bugger off, you crowbitten piece of Citizen bootlicking trash, sir," the centurion responded in a voice just as quiet as Marcus's. "You don't know these men, or what they've seen. If you have a problem with our legionares-even idiots like Bartillus, there-you deal with it through our officers. Sir."
"There is no our, here, centurion," Marcus replied, narrowing his eyes. "We're all Alerans here. We'll all die together if it comes to a fight with the Shuarans."
The centurion glared at Marcus a moment longer. Then he grunted, a tone of vague assent, and turned to start back down the line of laboring men. He barked orders for a pair of them to carry the unconscious Bartillus to the healers.
Marcus watched him go and shook his head. Bloody crows, he must be going senile not to have realized how sharp the division between the former slaves and the First Aleran had been. In the wrong situation, they would be as eager to fight the First Aleran as they would the Canim.
And besides that, he admitted to himself, the Free Aleran centurion had a point. Had the men he'd been passing been members of the Crown Legion, or of the First Imperian, he would most likely have spoken to the centurion in charge of the men, though he was technically within his rights to brace the men directly for such an obvious breach of discipline.
Within his rights, but unwise. And it sent the wrong message to the men of both Legions-that the command of the expedition did not trust the Free Aleran's officers. He would avoid a repetition of such foolishness in the future.
"First Spear!" Marcus looked up from his thoughts to spot one of Magnus's runners charging toward him. The young man came to a panting halt and saluted him. "Sir!"
Marcus restrained a sigh, and declined to tell the valet that "sir" was used to address officers, not centurions. "What is it, son?"
"Sir, Sir Magnus's compliments, and a message from the Princeps has arrived, sir. He said you would wish to be informed immediately."
Marcus nodded once, sharply. "Take me to the messenger."
Marcus watched Foss and his best men struggle to save Antillus Crassus's life. The young Knight Tribune, wounded in a dozen places, lay almost completely still in the healing tub, his breathing barely disturbing the water. His skin showed fresh, pink patches where he must have, in desperation, closed a dozen more such wounds as the ones he still sported. Given that he had likely done it while flying-and likely while fighting as well-it was a wonder the boy was alive at all.
He had flown into the Legion's camp, barely conscious, and collapsed two of the Legion's white canvas tents as he crashed to earth. He had been taken from the wreckage directly to the healers, and had not yet woken to give any message.
"Foss?" Magnus asked again. The old Cursor Callidus stood at the healer's right hand, intently focused upon the wounded man.
Foss shook his wide shoulders in irritation and growled under his breath. The big man's black hair and beard were too long for the letter of the regulations, but the Tribune Medica was, frankly, too good at his job to be called to task for them. "I'm trying to stack up grains of sand, here, Magnus, and you keep bumping my bloody arm. Go to the bloody crows and let me work."
Marcus turned and hurried from the tent, crossing the open stretch of ground that lay between the tents of the First Aleran's healers and those of the Legion of ex-slaves. He strode into the tent and looked around.
The Tribune Medica rose from where he sat at a small table, writing in a ledger. He frowned at Marcus warily. "First Spear."
"Sir," Marcus said, saluting the man. "We have word from the Princeps, but his messenger is gravely wounded. I had hoped that you would lend us Dorotea."
"I would," the other man said. "But she's busy. It seems one of our legionares was rather badly injured by some overzealous centurion."
Marcus looked past the Tribune to see the hapless Bartillus lying senseless in a healing tub, his lower face bruised and swollen all along his jawline. Kneeling behind him, her fingers resting lightly on his temples, was a woman in a plain grey homespun gown. She was lean, dark-haired, and exquisitely beautiful. She wore no jewelry or adornment, save for the slender, sinister metal band of a discipline collar at her throat.
Even as Marcus watched, he saw the wounded man's jaw shift weirdly beneath his skin. Seconds later, the swelling began to subside and the bruises began to lighten.
"This is a minor and routine injury, sir," Marcus said. "And the messenger's life might depend on securing the most skilled healer in the camp. Our Tribune Medica is pressing hard at his limits."
The Free Aleran Tribune grunted. "I'll send her over presently."
"With respect, sir," Marcus said, "Antillus Crassus is dying now."
The woman's eyes opened instantly, and she met Marcus's gaze with her own. Her stare was penetrating. She removed her hands from Bartillus's head and rose to approach the Tribune Medica.
"I've knitted the bone and controlled the swelling, sir," she said in a soft voice, her eyes downcast. "I'd be happy to help Tribune Antillus."
The Tribune frowned at her, then at Marcus. Then he waved his hand in a vague gesture, and said, "Don't be gone any longer than you need to be."
"Yes, sir," Dorotea answered. She looked up at Marcus briefly. "I'm ready, First Spear."
Marcus nodded to her, and they hurried to cross the field back toward the First Aleran's healers.
"The Princeps told you who I am," the woman observed.
"Aye, Your Grace."
She shook her head wearily. "No, no, no. I am no longer that woman."
"Because of that collar," Marcus said. "There must be some way to remove it."
"I don't want to remove it," she said calmly. "To be honest, I like the person I am now a great deal more than who I once was."
"That's the collar talking," Marcus said quietly.
Dorotea, the former High Lady of Antillus, walked for several steps before she admitted, "Possibly. However, the fact is that there is no future for High Lady Antillus, whereas Dorotea has saved lives, helped people, and done more good in the past three years than she had in her entire previous life."
"But you're trapped there," Marcus said. "Bound to obey the commands of others. Forbidden to do harm, even to defend yourself."
"And liking it that way, First Spear." She looked ahead to the healer's tent. "How severe are my son's injuries?"
"I'm no healer," Marcus replied. "But I've seen Foss handle very serious injuries. Some of them were my own. If he's struggling..."
Dorotea nodded once, her expression serene. "Then we shall see what we shall see." She glanced obliquely at Marcus. "Does my son know?"
Marcus shook his head.
She nodded. "I should prefer to keep it that way. It's better for everyone."
"Of course."
"I thank you." Dorotea's eyes flickered with uncertainty and fear, and her footsteps increased in speed as they drew near the tent. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, I can... He's in so much pain."
Marcus did not follow her. A few seconds after Dorotea entered the tent, Magnus pushed the flap aside and walked up to Marcus, his eyes hard.
"What in the name of the great furies do you think you're doing?" he hissed at Marcus. "You know who she is."
"Yes," Marcus said placidly.
"And it never occurred to you that she might well hold a grudge against the Crown for the way her brother and his resources were destroyed? That she might resent her current status intensely enough to strike out at the Crown in vengeance?"
"She's bound to do no harm," Marcus pointed out.
"And she'll not need to do any harm to kill the Princeps, if he is in trouble. All she'll have to do is fail to save the messenger. Given her limits, how often in a lifetime of waiting could such an opportunity for vengeance present itself?"
"If the messenger was anyone else, I'd agree with you," Marcus said calmly. "She won't allow her child to die to satisfy her vengeance-presuming that she wants such a thing."
The Cursor stared steadily at Marcus for a long moment. Then he said, softly, "And if you're wrong?"
"I'm not."
The old Cursor's eyes narrowed. "You've given it much more thought than I would have expected from a career soldier."
Tension made an iron bar of the First Spear's neck, but he forced himself not to allow it to spread to his shoulders and back, where Magnus would have no trouble observing it. "Wasn't a hard batch of thinking," Marcus said, keeping his tone even and confident. "I was there when the two of them came down to join the First Aleran. Saw them together. She doted on that boy."
Magnus made a noise that seemed to be a grudging agreement. His worried eyes shifted from Marcus to the healer's tent. "I'd best be inside, in case Crassus wakes."
"Go ahead," Marcus said. He glanced across the open ground to the walls of the city of Molvar, barely half a mile away. "There's plenty of work to be done on the palisade, still, and we want it in place before we move the stores up from the ships."
Magnus nodded. "What of the Narashans?"
"They're making camp on the plain on the opposite side of the city," Marcus said. "I'm making arrangements to establish runners between our camps."
Magnus arched an eyebrow in silent question.
"They're the closest thing we have to an ally," Marcus said.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" the Cursor asked.
"The enemy of my enemy is just that," Marcus replied. "It's foolish to assume anything more. But we share a common interest that is threatened by a larger foe. If Narashan relations with the Shuarans fall to bits, Nasaug is practical enough to take any help he can get."
"And if our relations with the Shuarans fall out, there is a bond between Nasaug and the Free Aleran," Magnus murmured. "Enough of one to convince them to assist us?"
"No knowing," the First Spear replied. "Can't hurt to keep talking to them."
"Agreed," Magnus said. "I'll send someone as soon as we know something. Meanwhile, let the Knights Aeris know that they may be needed to fly at a moment's notice."
"Aye."
The elderly Cursor nodded and turned to head back into the healer's tent.
Marcus watched him go, then raised a hand to rub at the wooden muscles on the back of his neck. Crows take it, what is the matter with me today? Magnus was right to be suspicious. Valiar Marcus might be a consummate soldier, a stalwart veteran, but such men did not tend to make such delicate and dangerous wagers with the safety of someone like the Princeps-or if they did make them, they put their money on the conservative side of the bet. What in the world had prompted him to fetch Lady Antillus to assist Crassus without first conceiving a convincing explanation as to why Marcus would bring her?
The First Spear turned on a heel and marched back out toward the palisades, taking a route that would let him walk past the barracks area of the Legion's Knights.
There was plenty of work to occupy his mind-which was likely the problem.
Crassus survived.
Marcus strode into the healer's tent three hours later, to find the young Tribune lying on a cot, covered by a blanket. Lady Antillus was nowhere to be seen, but Magnus was sitting on a camp stool beside the cot, a simple wooden framework with a sheet of canvas serving as the bed. Foss hovered nearby and seemed to be busy cleaning out a tub-but Marcus could all but feel the man itching to tell them to leave his patient to recover in peace.
Magnus nodded to the First Spear as he entered. "He's dozing," he said quietly. "But I wanted you here when I asked him to speak."
"Certainly." Marcus came to stand beside Magnus, frowning down at the young man. Crassus was pale, but whole. Where there had been three or four wounds on his shoulders and head, there was only the pink skin of freshly healed flesh. The wounds were all punctures-lines no more than two inches wide that had gaped like open mouths over deep wounds. Marcus would have thought them to be dagger wounds, had it happened to the boy on the streets of an Aleran city.
But what the crows had given the boy such wounds in the skies over Canea?
"Crassus," Magnus said quietly, touching the boy's shoulder. "Tribune. Report."
Crassus opened his eyes, and took a moment to focus them, first on the roof of the tent, and then upon Magnus. "The Princeps. He's imprisoned on the roof of a tower. Sent me to let you know what was going on, and to lead the Knights Aeris back to be ready to extract him if need be."
Magnus spluttered, "If need be? He's been imprisoned. What more need does he need?"
The First Spear firmly stopped himself from beginning his next sentence with the word "obviously." "Could be that he thinks there might be some advantage to be gained if he stays where he is," Marcus said.
Crassus looked up at him and nodded. In short, simple sentences, he described their journey to the fortified city of Shuar, what they had learned about the events of the past three years in Canea, and of their encounter with its master.
"He's after information," Magnus said. "Whatever the Shuarans know about the Vord. Crows take his arrogant eyes, that boy will be the death of me. He should never expose himself to such danger. This is why there are Cursors in the first place!"
"He's the Princeps," Marcus said firmly. "Crassus, what are his orders?"
"To bring the Knights Aeris back with me to Shuar," Crassus replied. "But he doesn't know everything."
"At least someone realizes it," Magnus muttered darkly.
The First Spear restrained himself from shaking the Cursor. "What did you see on the way back?"
"Survivors," Crassus said. "Narashan survivors. Twenty, maybe thirty thousand. They're being held in a camp about ten miles from Shuar. Lararl's ritualists are draining their blood to fuel their sorcery."
"Bloody crows," Marcus breathed. "If Nasaug hears that..."
"His entire force will march within the hour," the Cursor said grimly. "Is that where you got hurt, son?"
"No, sir," Crassus replied. "I was attacked when I was about halfway back here."
Marcus clenched his jaw and kept quiet.
"The Vord," Crassus said. "Lararl has his entire force at Shuar, defending the fortifications. But they've tunneled their way beneath them, into the center of the plateau. They're pouring up out of the ground like ants." He grimaced. "And some of them fly. They dropped on me when I was off my guard, trying to get a good look at the forces on the ground."
Dead silence filled the tent.
Magnus began to speak, then paused, swallowed, licked his lips, and rasped, "How many?"
"I can't be certain. My best guess is that there are eighty, maybe ninety thousand of them. They're marching toward Shuar. They'll be there in a day, two at most."
"Bloody crows," Foss breathed. Marcus turned to see the healer staring at Crassus, his expression stunned.
"Well," Magnus said, his voice a monotone. "Well, well, well. First Spear?"
Marcus blew out a breath. "I'd say this just turned from a diplomatic mission into a retreat. We need to get the Princeps back here and take him back to Alera before the Vord overrun Shuar and come for us. We should send the Knights Aeris to get the Princeps and his companions. We'll expedite repairs and get off this frozen rock."
Crassus pushed himself up, and swung his legs down off the cot.
"Hey," Foss snapped. "You can't do that. Lie down before you tear those wounds open again."
Crassus shook his head. "I've got to go with them."
"The crows you do," Foss replied. "Lie down. That's an order."
Magnus lifted a hand to forestall the healer. "Crassus is right, Foss. Our Knights Aeris have only a vague idea of where the city is, much less where the Princeps is located within it. And I daresay, they cannot fly as well concealed as the boy was. They'll need to take a route that leads them around the Vord in the interior."
Crassus nodded to Foss. "If they go without me, there's no guarantee that they'll even reach the Princeps, much less find him and get him out in one piece."
Foss shook his head. "If you go haring off right now, flying and fighting like you haven't a care in the world, you're going to rip open those wounds." The big healer moved to the side of the cot, put a hand on Crassus's shoulder, and looked the young man in the eyes. "Do you hear me? If you don't rest now, you are likely going to die."
"Yes," Crassus said, his voice calm and utterly weary. "Where is my armor?"
Chapter 24
Tavi sat with his feet dangling over the edge of Lararl's tower and watched the ongoing battle below. Farther along the tower's roof, Varg and Durias sat together, also watching, speaking quietly to one another. The next day had dawned cold but clear, and without the constant chill of the rain and sleet, the rooftop was bearable, given short breaks inside the warmth offered by the earthcrafted shelter.
Tavi could only admire the effectiveness and efficiency of the Shuarans' defense against the Vord, against an enemy so vast that he literally could not readily number them, despite a clear day and hours of trying. A few hours ago, it had occurred to him that it was more like watching the sea surge forward than observing an enemy army in action. The Shuarans stood defiantly against that tide, and wave after wave broke upon the granite of their determination.
Tavi shivered. It had not been a pleasant realization.
Though the mountain might stand for a while, the sea would eventually wear it away.
In the end, the sea always won.
Maximus approached, his bootsteps distinctive on the stone roof. Tavi glanced back and saw Max's shadow puddled against his feet. Noon.
"Two days. He should have been back by yesterday evening," Max said quietly. "We should have heard from him or seen something."
"There's no need to panic yet," Tavi said calmly. "There might have been a delay on the other end, something that required his help. Or he might be out there, waiting for nightfall before making the run in."
"He'd have found a spot in line of sight, and windcrafted his voice to you," Max disagreed.
Privately, Tavi had begun to think along the same lines, but there was no point in deepening Maximus's concern for his brother by agreeing with him. Besides which, it was not as though they had a great many options, short of attempting to smash their way clear of Shuar. That wouldn't go well, at least not for long. It was a simple question of numbers.
"Be patient, Max," Tavi said. "I know it's difficult for you when there's nothing around to smash or flirt with, but I'd take it as a favor."
Max grunted and set one of his boots lightly against the back of Tavi's armor and mimed a faint push. "Would you care for a flying lesson, Your Highness? Though in all fairness, I should warn you that it might give the lie to your honorific."
Tavi looked back over his shoulder and grinned at his friend. Max settled down on the edge of the roof with him and watched the fight.
"They can't win this," Max said quietly.
"I know that," Tavi said. "They know it, too. A lot of them won't admit it to themselves, but they know."
"The Vord aren't going to stop here," Max said. "Are they?"
"No," Tavi said. "Alera was fortunate and decisive enough to smash them when they were weakest. We established ourselves as the primary threat to them. So they came here to where they would have more opportunity to spread and reproduce. They won't make the same mistake twice."
"Bloody crows," Max sighed. "I thought you would say something like that." He jerked his chin at the vast force of nightmarish Vord. "We couldn't stop that. Not with all the Legions in Alera, and every crafter to boot."
"Not with standard tactics, no," Tavi said.
Max grunted. "You have something in mind?"
Tavi smiled slightly. It was a better answer than "I have no idea how we'll survive this," without actually crossing the line into speaking a falsehood to his friend.
Max eyed him for a moment, then nodded, his big frame relaxing visibly. "Fine," he said. "Be that way."
"Thank you," Tavi replied. "I will."
Max was quiet for a moment more, watching the battle. "Seems a shame. Great furies, the Canim have guts."
"That wasn't exactly unexpected. Not after what the Narashans did to us."
Max waved a hand. "Even so."
Tavi nodded. "I know what you mean."
"Is there anything that can be done for them?"
Tavi shook his head. "I don't think so. Not given their attitude toward us. Lararl is determined to hold out, and enough of his people believe it's possible to enable him to keep his position of authority."
"I suppose," Max answered. "I'm not sure our people would act any differently. Most of the High Lords would die fighting rather than be driven from their lands."
"We'll see. And before too long."
The words had a sobering effect upon Tavi's friend. He was quiet for several more moments.
"What do we do about Crassus?" Max asked.
"We wait," Tavi replied. "For now. If he hasn't made contact by this evening, we'll consider our alternatives."
"He's all right," Max said. "He's faster than a hungry crow, and bloody near impossible to see while he's flying. He's fine."
Of course, if that was true, where was Crassus? Again, Tavi refrained from speaking his mind. "I haven't seen anything here that could present a real threat to him."
Max nodded, then sighed. "Maybe old Magnus is up to something. Holding him back for some reason."
"Maybe."
Max growled and rose to his feet, pacing restlessly. "I just can't stomach waiting around and doing nothing."
Tavi reached into one of the leather pouches on his belt and produced a stick of charcoal and several folded pieces of parchment. "Here," he said. "Take these and draw a map of the city. Every building you can see from up here. It might come in handy if we need to walk out for some reason."
Max took the paper and charcoal. "You aren't going to last long as First Lord if you go around handing your singulares compulsory homework, my lord."
"I know. But if I'm forced to spend my time listening to all their complaining, I'll knife myself and save the assassins the bother."
Max snorted and ambled away, surveying the Canim city and beginning to draw on the topmost sheet of paper.
Kitai emerged from the shelter and settled down beside Tavi, watching the battle with mild disinterest. "That was kind of you."
"Hmm?"
"Giving Max something to occupy his mind."
"Oh, that," Tavi said. "He's quite a bit brighter than he lets on. He kept passing marks at the Academy for two years, despite the fact that he debauched himself practically every night. If I didn't give him something to do, he'd drive us all insane."
"A pity there is not more privacy," Kitai murmured. "I could certainly use something to occupy my... mind." She smiled and found Tavi's hand with hers. "Walk with me?"
Tavi gave her a bemused smile. "That won't take long."
Kitai jerked her chin toward the carnage at the fortifications. "I'm tired of looking at that. You should be, too."
Tavi gave the battle one last glance and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, but..." They rose and began pacing the edge of the roof. When they were the farthest they could get from the others on the roof, Tavi asked, "What's on your mind?"
"We should have heard from Crassus by now," she said.
"Yes."
"And so you do nothing?"
"I am waiting."
Kitai absorbed that for a moment, her expression serious. "Since I have known you, I have learned the single greatest activity at which you have little skill-sitting patiently." Her green eyes searched his. "Especially not in the face of so massive a threat, chala."
Tavi gave her half of a smile. "You're worried that I've given in to despair."
She opened her hand, palm up, and shrugged. "It is one possibility. But I am mostly worried because you are not acting like yourself. I expected you to have formulated half a dozen overly complicated escape plans by now."
Tavi shook his head. "No."
Kitai nodded. "Why not?"
"Because we need to wait," Tavi said. He turned his gaze to the city below. "The air's full of it. Nothing we do will accomplish anything-yet. We need to wait."
"For what?"
Tavi shrugged. "Honestly? I'm not sure. It's just..." He searched for words and found none. He shrugged at her again.
"Instinct," Kitai said.
"Yes," he said.
"You've had them before."
"Yes."
Kitai studied his eyes, then nodded, and said, "Reason enough."
Horns suddenly brayed in the streets below the tower.
Tavi had to take several steps to be able to see their source, on the street at the tower's base. Half a dozen taurga came down the street at full speed, lungs heaving loudly, bellowing their complaints. Canim of the city scattered before them, and one of the mounted Canim sent up another warning blast on his horn. The party of blue-armored warriors thundered to a halt at the base of the tower, and the leader of the column dismounted without bothering to secure his beast, and hurried inside.
The Canim left outside to care for the mounts looked exhausted. Their armor was battered, and minor wounds were in evidence on most of them. They'd obviously seen combat recently.
Tavi frowned. All the fighting was at the western edge of the city. These riders had entered from the east. Which raised the singular question: Whom had that patrol been fighting?
The Shuarans wouldn't be fighting one another-not in the face of a threat like the Vord. Only three other parties could possibly be responsible. There was no way the taurga could have outrun Aleran Knights Aeris, and after two years of fighting Nasaug back in the Amaranth Vale, Tavi knew well how difficult it was to get the drop on the Canim commander. If Nasaug had gone on the offensive, Tavi thought it unlikely that so many riders would have escaped an attack.
Which left only one likely suspect...
Tavi felt his heartbeat begin to quicken and a trembling sensation low in his belly.
"There," he told Kitai. "That's it."
Anag and a contingent of guards came to take them to Lararl within the hour.
"No," Tavi told them calmly. "We're not going anywhere. Tell Lararl that we've come to see him once already. If he wants to speak to us again, he can come up here."
Anag stared at him for a moment. Then he said, "This is Lararl's tower. Here, you do what he says."
Tavi showed Anag his teeth as he folded his arms. "Apparently not."
Anag growled and put his paw-hand to his sword.
Tavi sensed it when Maximus and Kitai, standing close behind him, tensed up. He did not move himself. He simply stared steadily at Anag.
Varg stepped forward in the precise instant that Anag's anger began to waver. He stopped beside Tavi, and said, "Lararl has shamed himself enough without you adding to it, Anag."
The younger Cane hesitated, his eyes flicking from Tavi to Varg.
Varg didn't reach for his weapon. He strode forward to stand within range of Anag's as-yet-undrawn blade without a flicker of apprehension. "You will go to Lararl," Varg said. "You will tell him that we await him here." Varg moved his arm then, slowly putting his hand to his weapon in a display made quietly deadly by the utter stillness in the rest of his body. "You will tell him that I am disinclined to be moved anywhere by any will but my own."
Anag was still for a few seconds more, then leaned his head to one side in acknowledgment and vanished from the rooftop, taking the other guards with him.
Max let out an explosive breath. "Bloody crows, Tavi."
Varg turned his head slightly to stare at Tavi. He had not, Tavi noted, taken his hand from his weapon. His voice came out in a deep, threatening basso growl. "Why?"
Tavi met Varg's gaze as he answered. "Because circumstances have changed. Lararl needs us, or he would have left us to rot up here."
Varg let out a rumbling growl, and Tavi found himself centering his balance, in case he needed to avoid a sudden strike-but the sound proved to be more pensive than angered, and Varg lowered his paw-hand from his sword's hilt.
"Besides," Tavi said, "Lararl abused your people's sense of honor and obligation. I find myself unconcerned with protecting his pride."
Varg made another thoughtful rumbling sound. "Have a care, Tavar. Lararl is not swift to forgive. And he never forgets."
"I am not one of his subordinates," Tavi replied.
Varg flicked his ears in acknowledgment. "No. You have declared your intention to replace him as a leader."
"In a manner of speaking," Tavi said, showing Varg his teeth in another smile, "that is precisely what I intend to do."
Lararl came to the rooftop alone.
Anag and several other apprehensive-looking Canim stood by while Lararl shut the door in their faces and turned to Varg. "My guards may be going deaf," the golden-furred Warmaster snarled. "Because only a fool or a madman would have spoken the words they brought to me."
Varg faced Lararl without any kind of movement.
Lararl stepped forward to stand directly in front of Varg, and the two Canim put their hands to their swords in precisely the same instant.
Silence reigned on the rooftop for a full minute, the sounds of the battle below rising and falling with the breeze, like some enormous, gruesome surf pounding upon a seashore.
"Give me one reason," Lararl snarled, "not to kill you here and now."
"I will give you three," Varg answered, and inclined the tip of his nose slightly toward the stone shelter the Alerans had crafted.
There was a vague sense of movement in the darkness within, then a slender-looking Cane clad in soft grey-and-black cloth glided silently out of the darkness. Immediately after, two more similarly clad, younger Canim flowed out behind the first, taking up a silent, passive stance on either side of the first.
Behind Tavi, Max hissed in a breath of surprise, and he did not need to look to see that Max's hand had gone to the hilt of his sword. "Bloody crows. Hunters."
Tavi suppressed his own startled reaction. He recognized the gear of the three Canim. The trio that had nearly gutted him during the war against Nasaug had been dressed identically.
Beside him, Kitai narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and Tavi felt the surge of surprise and... annoyance, he thought, as she spoke. "When did they slip in there?" She paused, and something faintly impressed entered her whisper. "How did they get up here at all?"
"They can't have been in there more than half an hour," Tavi murmured. "That was the last time one of us went inside to warm up."
"I saw and heard nothing." Kitai's eyes glittered, and her teeth showed in a quick smile. "That was well done."
Lararl eyed the three Hunters for a moment, then turned his attention back to Varg.
"Since the battle with your enemy seems to have clouded your vision," Varg said, "I will explain matters to you. It is possible for you to kill me. But you cannot be sure of stopping my Hunters from carrying word of such an act to Nasaug. Even if you do, Nasaug is my wisest student. He will very likely assume that you have killed me and react accordingly.
"If you can count, you will see that the Alerans are missing a member of their party. Doubtless, he has already returned to their Legions to report what you have done so far. It is my belief that they remain imprisoned largely as a matter of respect-which they have given, even when it has not been given to them." Varg showed his teeth. "Finally, it is possible that I kill you, in which case your people are left without a Warmaster.
"Nothing you do with that weapon," Varg concluded, "will help your people. It will leave them without a Warmaster-or it will create more enemies. Is that what you want for them, Lararl?"
The other Cane shivered, and Tavi could all but see the rage rolling off him.
Then Lararl let out an explosive snarl and turned to stalk several paces away.
Varg released the hilt of his weapon and glanced at Tavi.
Tavi raised his voice. "Your defenses are the most impressive I have ever seen, Warmaster," he said to Lararl.
The Canim glanced back at Tavi, his eyes angry, wary.
"But impressive or not, they are still fortifications. You can't move them, adjust them-and they are all positioned to prevent an enemy from entering your range at all. The highest wall in the world is useless if the enemy can march around it." Tavi took a slow breath. If he'd guessed correctly, his next words would show it. If he hadn't... well. At least he was armed. "How did the Vord bypass your defenses?"
Lararl's eyes narrowed still farther. "I did not say the Vord had done so."
"Those soldiers who arrived earlier were wounded by something," Tavi said. "If they'd been fighting my people, they never would have escaped on taurga. If they'd been fighting Varg's warriors, you would have sent someone to execute him or just let him rot on this rooftop. Instead, you sent Anag, whom we have reason to trust and respect. It was not a gesture of anger or retaliation." Tavi nodded out toward the battle. "The enemy are many. Once behind your defenses, it would take only a fraction of the forces out there to devastate your range."
Lararl said nothing. Tavi's mouth felt dry.
"Warmaster," Tavi said, "it seems clear to me that if you wish to protect your people, you need our help to do it."
Lararl bared his fangs. They were impressive. Tavi forced himself to keep his expression steady and blank. Then the golden Cane looked away. His ears twitched, almost imperceptibly, in assent.
Tavi let out a slow breath. It was harder to keep the relief from his face than it had been to disguise his apprehension.
After a stilted pause, Lararl spoke, biting off the words savagely. "My forces are stationed at the entry points to the range. The Vord tunneled under them. A large force is now among the estates and markets of the makers. Killing."
Varg rumbled, a sound of unmistakable hatred.
"More of them pour in by the hour," Lararl continued. "It will not be long before we are outnumbered in the rear areas as well as at the fortifications. Then..." He spread his hands and closed them together, as if squeezing the juice from a fruit.
"You need our help," Tavi said quietly.
"Help?" Lararl said. An almost-hysterical edge of frustration entered his voice. "Help? What could you do?" He drew his sword and jabbed it at the horde spreading over the plains below. "What could anyone do against that? We will fight. But there can be no victory. This is the end."
"That depends upon your definition of victory, Warmaster," Tavi said quietly.
"Shuar cannot be held," Lararl snarled.
"Is Shuar the land?" Tavi asked. "Is it the hills and stones and trees? Is Shuar the rivers, the walls, the towers?"
Lararl had turned to stare at Tavi intently.
"Or is it the people?" Tavi said quietly. "Your people, Warmaster."
Lararl's ears shivered in reaction, a portion of Canim body language Tavi had never seen.
"What," Lararl growled, "do you mean?"
"It's possible that your people could be saved, sir. Some of them, in any case."
"How?"
Tavi spread his hands. "I'm not yet sure," he said. "I need more information."
"What information?"
"Everything you have regarding the war with the Vord, in every range. All of it."
Varg was also staring hard at Tavi. "What do you expect to learn?"
"I cannot tell you that."
"For what reason?" Varg demanded.
"Because among the enemy is at least one queen. The Vord queens are able to sense the thoughts of others if they can get close enough. Your Hunters have proven that it is possible to approach closely to Lararl's command by means of stealth. It is entirely possible, even likely, that the queens have been gathering information directly from the thoughts of the Shuaran officers-possibly even from your own thoughts, Warmaster Lararl."
Lararl growled in his throat, the sound pensive. "You know this enemy."
"I would not presume to say that," Tavi said. "But I know them better than you. And, for now, whatever secrets your intelligence on them might reveal is best kept safe by being locked in one location." He tapped his temple with one finger. "I believe that it may be possible to help you and your people, Warmaster. If you will extend me a measure of trust."
Lararl stared steadily at Tavi, but remained silent.
"It is obvious that simple force of arms is insufficient. We must outthink them, outmaneuver them." Tavi glanced at Varg and inclined his head slightly to one side. "As I did to Sarl in Alera."
Lararl's gaze moved to Varg. "Well?"
Varg nodded slowly to Tavi, the Aleran gesture peculiar on the Cane. "Lararl. You have said yourself that you have no way to defeat the foe. Were this range mine and these people my own, I would listen to him." He looked over at his Shuaran counterpart. "Tavar took a force of barely more than seven thousand and fought Sarl and fifty thousand conscripts, plus Nasaug's ten thousand warriors, to a two-year stalemate. Give him what he wants."
Lararl was silent for a moment more. Trumpets blew in the city, and a mounted force of several hundred Canim warriors rode their taurga toward the eastern gates of the city-an advance party for the larger infantry force that had to be preparing to march to the Shuaran interior.
The golden Cane shuddered again. Then he flicked his ears in a sharp gesture of assent, spun to face Tavi fully, and beckoned him with a curt gesture of his hand as he strode toward the door leading back into the tower. "Demon-" He paused and growled deep in his chest, baring his fangs. "Tavar. Come with me."
"Crows," Max breathed under his breath. The big Antillan took his hand from his sword. "How did you know about the Vord?"
"I guessed."
"You guessed?" Max hissed. He shook his head. "You take too many chances, Calderon."
"It was necessary," Tavi said. "Besides, I was right."
"One of these days, you're going to be wrong."
"Not today," Tavi said. "Stay here so that Crassus can make contact."
Max frowned at Tavi worriedly. Then he saluted. "Be careful."
Tavi put a hand on his friend's shoulder. Then he turned and strode down into the darkness of the tower, following Lararl.
"There's frozen ground back in Alera, too, soldier," Valiar Marcus barked. "Without a palisade, we'll be easy meat for the first gang of Shuarans to come along. So put your back into it and dig, or I'll have you at a whipping post until your balls freeze and drop off."
The startled legionare, one of the Free Aleran troopers, started up from where he sat, his face showing chagrin that quickly turned to sullen anger. The spear of legionares working on that section of the palisade wall turned darkening faces toward him.
Bloody crows, Marcus thought. It was perhaps unwise to threaten a fanatical former slave with a lashing. He had no desire to fight eight men by himself, but neither could the First Spear back down from any show of open insubordination.
Marcus turned to square his shoulders and face the men, keeping them all within his field of vision. "You know how the Legions maintain discipline, legionare, or ought to."
The recalcitrant legionare, perhaps bolstered by the support of his fellows, drawled, "And maybe it's time that changed, centurion."
Marcus took one step forward, called up strength from the earth, and struck the man with a backhanded blow. The legionare was flung from his feet and crashed into the stack of loose poles that the Legions had brought with them from Alera. The man and the material spilled into a disorderly sprawl. The legionare moaned once and lay in a senseless puddle.
Marcus regarded the man distantly for a moment, and said, "I disagree." He turned his gaze to the other legionares, who stood stunned and staring, and said in a quiet voice, "You'll have to work a bit harder to get your section put up in time, gentlemen."
A tall, wiry man in the helmet of a centurion from the Free Aleran came striding down the line of men erecting the camp's palisade and paused, glowering at the men in front of Marcus. His eyes swept back and forth across them, and fastened on the man on the ground. He grunted, turned to Marcus, and gave him a nod. "First Spear."
"Centurion," Marcus replied.
"Problem with these men?"
"I've been giving them a motivational talk," Marcus said.
The Free Aleran centurion glanced at the unconscious man. He didn't quite smile. "You men are lucky. I'd have had you all at the whipping post."
"But-" protested one of the ex-slaves.
"And I'd have been right to do it," the centurion snapped. "We told you when you signed on that the Free Aleran Legion was not about taking vengeance. We told you that you would be held to the standards of behavior of every other Legion, dealt with in the same way as any free soldier. Now get your lazy asses to work before I decide that the First Spear was too lenient on you, interpret your actions as refusal to obey a direct order while the Legion is in enemy territory, and have you all hanged."
The men were shocked from their stasis by the centurion's words, perhaps. In any case, they leapt back to the work with a will.
Marcus faced off with the centurion and nodded to him. "Thank you," he said in a quieter tone.
"Bugger off, you crowbitten piece of Citizen bootlicking trash, sir," the centurion responded in a voice just as quiet as Marcus's. "You don't know these men, or what they've seen. If you have a problem with our legionares-even idiots like Bartillus, there-you deal with it through our officers. Sir."
"There is no our, here, centurion," Marcus replied, narrowing his eyes. "We're all Alerans here. We'll all die together if it comes to a fight with the Shuarans."
The centurion glared at Marcus a moment longer. Then he grunted, a tone of vague assent, and turned to start back down the line of laboring men. He barked orders for a pair of them to carry the unconscious Bartillus to the healers.
Marcus watched him go and shook his head. Bloody crows, he must be going senile not to have realized how sharp the division between the former slaves and the First Aleran had been. In the wrong situation, they would be as eager to fight the First Aleran as they would the Canim.
And besides that, he admitted to himself, the Free Aleran centurion had a point. Had the men he'd been passing been members of the Crown Legion, or of the First Imperian, he would most likely have spoken to the centurion in charge of the men, though he was technically within his rights to brace the men directly for such an obvious breach of discipline.
Within his rights, but unwise. And it sent the wrong message to the men of both Legions-that the command of the expedition did not trust the Free Aleran's officers. He would avoid a repetition of such foolishness in the future.
"First Spear!" Marcus looked up from his thoughts to spot one of Magnus's runners charging toward him. The young man came to a panting halt and saluted him. "Sir!"
Marcus restrained a sigh, and declined to tell the valet that "sir" was used to address officers, not centurions. "What is it, son?"
"Sir, Sir Magnus's compliments, and a message from the Princeps has arrived, sir. He said you would wish to be informed immediately."
Marcus nodded once, sharply. "Take me to the messenger."
Marcus watched Foss and his best men struggle to save Antillus Crassus's life. The young Knight Tribune, wounded in a dozen places, lay almost completely still in the healing tub, his breathing barely disturbing the water. His skin showed fresh, pink patches where he must have, in desperation, closed a dozen more such wounds as the ones he still sported. Given that he had likely done it while flying-and likely while fighting as well-it was a wonder the boy was alive at all.
He had flown into the Legion's camp, barely conscious, and collapsed two of the Legion's white canvas tents as he crashed to earth. He had been taken from the wreckage directly to the healers, and had not yet woken to give any message.
"Foss?" Magnus asked again. The old Cursor Callidus stood at the healer's right hand, intently focused upon the wounded man.
Foss shook his wide shoulders in irritation and growled under his breath. The big man's black hair and beard were too long for the letter of the regulations, but the Tribune Medica was, frankly, too good at his job to be called to task for them. "I'm trying to stack up grains of sand, here, Magnus, and you keep bumping my bloody arm. Go to the bloody crows and let me work."
Marcus turned and hurried from the tent, crossing the open stretch of ground that lay between the tents of the First Aleran's healers and those of the Legion of ex-slaves. He strode into the tent and looked around.
The Tribune Medica rose from where he sat at a small table, writing in a ledger. He frowned at Marcus warily. "First Spear."
"Sir," Marcus said, saluting the man. "We have word from the Princeps, but his messenger is gravely wounded. I had hoped that you would lend us Dorotea."
"I would," the other man said. "But she's busy. It seems one of our legionares was rather badly injured by some overzealous centurion."
Marcus looked past the Tribune to see the hapless Bartillus lying senseless in a healing tub, his lower face bruised and swollen all along his jawline. Kneeling behind him, her fingers resting lightly on his temples, was a woman in a plain grey homespun gown. She was lean, dark-haired, and exquisitely beautiful. She wore no jewelry or adornment, save for the slender, sinister metal band of a discipline collar at her throat.
Even as Marcus watched, he saw the wounded man's jaw shift weirdly beneath his skin. Seconds later, the swelling began to subside and the bruises began to lighten.
"This is a minor and routine injury, sir," Marcus said. "And the messenger's life might depend on securing the most skilled healer in the camp. Our Tribune Medica is pressing hard at his limits."
The Free Aleran Tribune grunted. "I'll send her over presently."
"With respect, sir," Marcus said, "Antillus Crassus is dying now."
The woman's eyes opened instantly, and she met Marcus's gaze with her own. Her stare was penetrating. She removed her hands from Bartillus's head and rose to approach the Tribune Medica.
"I've knitted the bone and controlled the swelling, sir," she said in a soft voice, her eyes downcast. "I'd be happy to help Tribune Antillus."
The Tribune frowned at her, then at Marcus. Then he waved his hand in a vague gesture, and said, "Don't be gone any longer than you need to be."
"Yes, sir," Dorotea answered. She looked up at Marcus briefly. "I'm ready, First Spear."
Marcus nodded to her, and they hurried to cross the field back toward the First Aleran's healers.
"The Princeps told you who I am," the woman observed.
"Aye, Your Grace."
She shook her head wearily. "No, no, no. I am no longer that woman."
"Because of that collar," Marcus said. "There must be some way to remove it."
"I don't want to remove it," she said calmly. "To be honest, I like the person I am now a great deal more than who I once was."
"That's the collar talking," Marcus said quietly.
Dorotea, the former High Lady of Antillus, walked for several steps before she admitted, "Possibly. However, the fact is that there is no future for High Lady Antillus, whereas Dorotea has saved lives, helped people, and done more good in the past three years than she had in her entire previous life."
"But you're trapped there," Marcus said. "Bound to obey the commands of others. Forbidden to do harm, even to defend yourself."
"And liking it that way, First Spear." She looked ahead to the healer's tent. "How severe are my son's injuries?"
"I'm no healer," Marcus replied. "But I've seen Foss handle very serious injuries. Some of them were my own. If he's struggling..."
Dorotea nodded once, her expression serene. "Then we shall see what we shall see." She glanced obliquely at Marcus. "Does my son know?"
Marcus shook his head.
She nodded. "I should prefer to keep it that way. It's better for everyone."
"Of course."
"I thank you." Dorotea's eyes flickered with uncertainty and fear, and her footsteps increased in speed as they drew near the tent. "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, I can... He's in so much pain."
Marcus did not follow her. A few seconds after Dorotea entered the tent, Magnus pushed the flap aside and walked up to Marcus, his eyes hard.
"What in the name of the great furies do you think you're doing?" he hissed at Marcus. "You know who she is."
"Yes," Marcus said placidly.
"And it never occurred to you that she might well hold a grudge against the Crown for the way her brother and his resources were destroyed? That she might resent her current status intensely enough to strike out at the Crown in vengeance?"
"She's bound to do no harm," Marcus pointed out.
"And she'll not need to do any harm to kill the Princeps, if he is in trouble. All she'll have to do is fail to save the messenger. Given her limits, how often in a lifetime of waiting could such an opportunity for vengeance present itself?"
"If the messenger was anyone else, I'd agree with you," Marcus said calmly. "She won't allow her child to die to satisfy her vengeance-presuming that she wants such a thing."
The Cursor stared steadily at Marcus for a long moment. Then he said, softly, "And if you're wrong?"
"I'm not."
The old Cursor's eyes narrowed. "You've given it much more thought than I would have expected from a career soldier."
Tension made an iron bar of the First Spear's neck, but he forced himself not to allow it to spread to his shoulders and back, where Magnus would have no trouble observing it. "Wasn't a hard batch of thinking," Marcus said, keeping his tone even and confident. "I was there when the two of them came down to join the First Aleran. Saw them together. She doted on that boy."
Magnus made a noise that seemed to be a grudging agreement. His worried eyes shifted from Marcus to the healer's tent. "I'd best be inside, in case Crassus wakes."
"Go ahead," Marcus said. He glanced across the open ground to the walls of the city of Molvar, barely half a mile away. "There's plenty of work to be done on the palisade, still, and we want it in place before we move the stores up from the ships."
Magnus nodded. "What of the Narashans?"
"They're making camp on the plain on the opposite side of the city," Marcus said. "I'm making arrangements to establish runners between our camps."
Magnus arched an eyebrow in silent question.
"They're the closest thing we have to an ally," Marcus said.
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" the Cursor asked.
"The enemy of my enemy is just that," Marcus replied. "It's foolish to assume anything more. But we share a common interest that is threatened by a larger foe. If Narashan relations with the Shuarans fall to bits, Nasaug is practical enough to take any help he can get."
"And if our relations with the Shuarans fall out, there is a bond between Nasaug and the Free Aleran," Magnus murmured. "Enough of one to convince them to assist us?"
"No knowing," the First Spear replied. "Can't hurt to keep talking to them."
"Agreed," Magnus said. "I'll send someone as soon as we know something. Meanwhile, let the Knights Aeris know that they may be needed to fly at a moment's notice."
"Aye."
The elderly Cursor nodded and turned to head back into the healer's tent.
Marcus watched him go, then raised a hand to rub at the wooden muscles on the back of his neck. Crows take it, what is the matter with me today? Magnus was right to be suspicious. Valiar Marcus might be a consummate soldier, a stalwart veteran, but such men did not tend to make such delicate and dangerous wagers with the safety of someone like the Princeps-or if they did make them, they put their money on the conservative side of the bet. What in the world had prompted him to fetch Lady Antillus to assist Crassus without first conceiving a convincing explanation as to why Marcus would bring her?
The First Spear turned on a heel and marched back out toward the palisades, taking a route that would let him walk past the barracks area of the Legion's Knights.
There was plenty of work to occupy his mind-which was likely the problem.
Crassus survived.
Marcus strode into the healer's tent three hours later, to find the young Tribune lying on a cot, covered by a blanket. Lady Antillus was nowhere to be seen, but Magnus was sitting on a camp stool beside the cot, a simple wooden framework with a sheet of canvas serving as the bed. Foss hovered nearby and seemed to be busy cleaning out a tub-but Marcus could all but feel the man itching to tell them to leave his patient to recover in peace.
Magnus nodded to the First Spear as he entered. "He's dozing," he said quietly. "But I wanted you here when I asked him to speak."
"Certainly." Marcus came to stand beside Magnus, frowning down at the young man. Crassus was pale, but whole. Where there had been three or four wounds on his shoulders and head, there was only the pink skin of freshly healed flesh. The wounds were all punctures-lines no more than two inches wide that had gaped like open mouths over deep wounds. Marcus would have thought them to be dagger wounds, had it happened to the boy on the streets of an Aleran city.
But what the crows had given the boy such wounds in the skies over Canea?
"Crassus," Magnus said quietly, touching the boy's shoulder. "Tribune. Report."
Crassus opened his eyes, and took a moment to focus them, first on the roof of the tent, and then upon Magnus. "The Princeps. He's imprisoned on the roof of a tower. Sent me to let you know what was going on, and to lead the Knights Aeris back to be ready to extract him if need be."
Magnus spluttered, "If need be? He's been imprisoned. What more need does he need?"
The First Spear firmly stopped himself from beginning his next sentence with the word "obviously." "Could be that he thinks there might be some advantage to be gained if he stays where he is," Marcus said.
Crassus looked up at him and nodded. In short, simple sentences, he described their journey to the fortified city of Shuar, what they had learned about the events of the past three years in Canea, and of their encounter with its master.
"He's after information," Magnus said. "Whatever the Shuarans know about the Vord. Crows take his arrogant eyes, that boy will be the death of me. He should never expose himself to such danger. This is why there are Cursors in the first place!"
"He's the Princeps," Marcus said firmly. "Crassus, what are his orders?"
"To bring the Knights Aeris back with me to Shuar," Crassus replied. "But he doesn't know everything."
"At least someone realizes it," Magnus muttered darkly.
The First Spear restrained himself from shaking the Cursor. "What did you see on the way back?"
"Survivors," Crassus said. "Narashan survivors. Twenty, maybe thirty thousand. They're being held in a camp about ten miles from Shuar. Lararl's ritualists are draining their blood to fuel their sorcery."
"Bloody crows," Marcus breathed. "If Nasaug hears that..."
"His entire force will march within the hour," the Cursor said grimly. "Is that where you got hurt, son?"
"No, sir," Crassus replied. "I was attacked when I was about halfway back here."
Marcus clenched his jaw and kept quiet.
"The Vord," Crassus said. "Lararl has his entire force at Shuar, defending the fortifications. But they've tunneled their way beneath them, into the center of the plateau. They're pouring up out of the ground like ants." He grimaced. "And some of them fly. They dropped on me when I was off my guard, trying to get a good look at the forces on the ground."
Dead silence filled the tent.
Magnus began to speak, then paused, swallowed, licked his lips, and rasped, "How many?"
"I can't be certain. My best guess is that there are eighty, maybe ninety thousand of them. They're marching toward Shuar. They'll be there in a day, two at most."
"Bloody crows," Foss breathed. Marcus turned to see the healer staring at Crassus, his expression stunned.
"Well," Magnus said, his voice a monotone. "Well, well, well. First Spear?"
Marcus blew out a breath. "I'd say this just turned from a diplomatic mission into a retreat. We need to get the Princeps back here and take him back to Alera before the Vord overrun Shuar and come for us. We should send the Knights Aeris to get the Princeps and his companions. We'll expedite repairs and get off this frozen rock."
Crassus pushed himself up, and swung his legs down off the cot.
"Hey," Foss snapped. "You can't do that. Lie down before you tear those wounds open again."
Crassus shook his head. "I've got to go with them."
"The crows you do," Foss replied. "Lie down. That's an order."
Magnus lifted a hand to forestall the healer. "Crassus is right, Foss. Our Knights Aeris have only a vague idea of where the city is, much less where the Princeps is located within it. And I daresay, they cannot fly as well concealed as the boy was. They'll need to take a route that leads them around the Vord in the interior."
Crassus nodded to Foss. "If they go without me, there's no guarantee that they'll even reach the Princeps, much less find him and get him out in one piece."
Foss shook his head. "If you go haring off right now, flying and fighting like you haven't a care in the world, you're going to rip open those wounds." The big healer moved to the side of the cot, put a hand on Crassus's shoulder, and looked the young man in the eyes. "Do you hear me? If you don't rest now, you are likely going to die."
"Yes," Crassus said, his voice calm and utterly weary. "Where is my armor?"
Chapter 24
Tavi sat with his feet dangling over the edge of Lararl's tower and watched the ongoing battle below. Farther along the tower's roof, Varg and Durias sat together, also watching, speaking quietly to one another. The next day had dawned cold but clear, and without the constant chill of the rain and sleet, the rooftop was bearable, given short breaks inside the warmth offered by the earthcrafted shelter.
Tavi could only admire the effectiveness and efficiency of the Shuarans' defense against the Vord, against an enemy so vast that he literally could not readily number them, despite a clear day and hours of trying. A few hours ago, it had occurred to him that it was more like watching the sea surge forward than observing an enemy army in action. The Shuarans stood defiantly against that tide, and wave after wave broke upon the granite of their determination.
Tavi shivered. It had not been a pleasant realization.
Though the mountain might stand for a while, the sea would eventually wear it away.
In the end, the sea always won.
Maximus approached, his bootsteps distinctive on the stone roof. Tavi glanced back and saw Max's shadow puddled against his feet. Noon.
"Two days. He should have been back by yesterday evening," Max said quietly. "We should have heard from him or seen something."
"There's no need to panic yet," Tavi said calmly. "There might have been a delay on the other end, something that required his help. Or he might be out there, waiting for nightfall before making the run in."
"He'd have found a spot in line of sight, and windcrafted his voice to you," Max disagreed.
Privately, Tavi had begun to think along the same lines, but there was no point in deepening Maximus's concern for his brother by agreeing with him. Besides which, it was not as though they had a great many options, short of attempting to smash their way clear of Shuar. That wouldn't go well, at least not for long. It was a simple question of numbers.
"Be patient, Max," Tavi said. "I know it's difficult for you when there's nothing around to smash or flirt with, but I'd take it as a favor."
Max grunted and set one of his boots lightly against the back of Tavi's armor and mimed a faint push. "Would you care for a flying lesson, Your Highness? Though in all fairness, I should warn you that it might give the lie to your honorific."
Tavi looked back over his shoulder and grinned at his friend. Max settled down on the edge of the roof with him and watched the fight.
"They can't win this," Max said quietly.
"I know that," Tavi said. "They know it, too. A lot of them won't admit it to themselves, but they know."
"The Vord aren't going to stop here," Max said. "Are they?"
"No," Tavi said. "Alera was fortunate and decisive enough to smash them when they were weakest. We established ourselves as the primary threat to them. So they came here to where they would have more opportunity to spread and reproduce. They won't make the same mistake twice."
"Bloody crows," Max sighed. "I thought you would say something like that." He jerked his chin at the vast force of nightmarish Vord. "We couldn't stop that. Not with all the Legions in Alera, and every crafter to boot."
"Not with standard tactics, no," Tavi said.
Max grunted. "You have something in mind?"
Tavi smiled slightly. It was a better answer than "I have no idea how we'll survive this," without actually crossing the line into speaking a falsehood to his friend.
Max eyed him for a moment, then nodded, his big frame relaxing visibly. "Fine," he said. "Be that way."
"Thank you," Tavi replied. "I will."
Max was quiet for a moment more, watching the battle. "Seems a shame. Great furies, the Canim have guts."
"That wasn't exactly unexpected. Not after what the Narashans did to us."
Max waved a hand. "Even so."
Tavi nodded. "I know what you mean."
"Is there anything that can be done for them?"
Tavi shook his head. "I don't think so. Not given their attitude toward us. Lararl is determined to hold out, and enough of his people believe it's possible to enable him to keep his position of authority."
"I suppose," Max answered. "I'm not sure our people would act any differently. Most of the High Lords would die fighting rather than be driven from their lands."
"We'll see. And before too long."
The words had a sobering effect upon Tavi's friend. He was quiet for several more moments.
"What do we do about Crassus?" Max asked.
"We wait," Tavi replied. "For now. If he hasn't made contact by this evening, we'll consider our alternatives."
"He's all right," Max said. "He's faster than a hungry crow, and bloody near impossible to see while he's flying. He's fine."
Of course, if that was true, where was Crassus? Again, Tavi refrained from speaking his mind. "I haven't seen anything here that could present a real threat to him."
Max nodded, then sighed. "Maybe old Magnus is up to something. Holding him back for some reason."
"Maybe."
Max growled and rose to his feet, pacing restlessly. "I just can't stomach waiting around and doing nothing."
Tavi reached into one of the leather pouches on his belt and produced a stick of charcoal and several folded pieces of parchment. "Here," he said. "Take these and draw a map of the city. Every building you can see from up here. It might come in handy if we need to walk out for some reason."
Max took the paper and charcoal. "You aren't going to last long as First Lord if you go around handing your singulares compulsory homework, my lord."
"I know. But if I'm forced to spend my time listening to all their complaining, I'll knife myself and save the assassins the bother."
Max snorted and ambled away, surveying the Canim city and beginning to draw on the topmost sheet of paper.
Kitai emerged from the shelter and settled down beside Tavi, watching the battle with mild disinterest. "That was kind of you."
"Hmm?"
"Giving Max something to occupy his mind."
"Oh, that," Tavi said. "He's quite a bit brighter than he lets on. He kept passing marks at the Academy for two years, despite the fact that he debauched himself practically every night. If I didn't give him something to do, he'd drive us all insane."
"A pity there is not more privacy," Kitai murmured. "I could certainly use something to occupy my... mind." She smiled and found Tavi's hand with hers. "Walk with me?"
Tavi gave her a bemused smile. "That won't take long."
Kitai jerked her chin toward the carnage at the fortifications. "I'm tired of looking at that. You should be, too."
Tavi gave the battle one last glance and shook his head. "Perhaps you're right, but..." They rose and began pacing the edge of the roof. When they were the farthest they could get from the others on the roof, Tavi asked, "What's on your mind?"
"We should have heard from Crassus by now," she said.
"Yes."
"And so you do nothing?"
"I am waiting."
Kitai absorbed that for a moment, her expression serious. "Since I have known you, I have learned the single greatest activity at which you have little skill-sitting patiently." Her green eyes searched his. "Especially not in the face of so massive a threat, chala."
Tavi gave her half of a smile. "You're worried that I've given in to despair."
She opened her hand, palm up, and shrugged. "It is one possibility. But I am mostly worried because you are not acting like yourself. I expected you to have formulated half a dozen overly complicated escape plans by now."
Tavi shook his head. "No."
Kitai nodded. "Why not?"
"Because we need to wait," Tavi said. He turned his gaze to the city below. "The air's full of it. Nothing we do will accomplish anything-yet. We need to wait."
"For what?"
Tavi shrugged. "Honestly? I'm not sure. It's just..." He searched for words and found none. He shrugged at her again.
"Instinct," Kitai said.
"Yes," he said.
"You've had them before."
"Yes."
Kitai studied his eyes, then nodded, and said, "Reason enough."
Horns suddenly brayed in the streets below the tower.
Tavi had to take several steps to be able to see their source, on the street at the tower's base. Half a dozen taurga came down the street at full speed, lungs heaving loudly, bellowing their complaints. Canim of the city scattered before them, and one of the mounted Canim sent up another warning blast on his horn. The party of blue-armored warriors thundered to a halt at the base of the tower, and the leader of the column dismounted without bothering to secure his beast, and hurried inside.
The Canim left outside to care for the mounts looked exhausted. Their armor was battered, and minor wounds were in evidence on most of them. They'd obviously seen combat recently.
Tavi frowned. All the fighting was at the western edge of the city. These riders had entered from the east. Which raised the singular question: Whom had that patrol been fighting?
The Shuarans wouldn't be fighting one another-not in the face of a threat like the Vord. Only three other parties could possibly be responsible. There was no way the taurga could have outrun Aleran Knights Aeris, and after two years of fighting Nasaug back in the Amaranth Vale, Tavi knew well how difficult it was to get the drop on the Canim commander. If Nasaug had gone on the offensive, Tavi thought it unlikely that so many riders would have escaped an attack.
Which left only one likely suspect...
Tavi felt his heartbeat begin to quicken and a trembling sensation low in his belly.
"There," he told Kitai. "That's it."
Anag and a contingent of guards came to take them to Lararl within the hour.
"No," Tavi told them calmly. "We're not going anywhere. Tell Lararl that we've come to see him once already. If he wants to speak to us again, he can come up here."
Anag stared at him for a moment. Then he said, "This is Lararl's tower. Here, you do what he says."
Tavi showed Anag his teeth as he folded his arms. "Apparently not."
Anag growled and put his paw-hand to his sword.
Tavi sensed it when Maximus and Kitai, standing close behind him, tensed up. He did not move himself. He simply stared steadily at Anag.
Varg stepped forward in the precise instant that Anag's anger began to waver. He stopped beside Tavi, and said, "Lararl has shamed himself enough without you adding to it, Anag."
The younger Cane hesitated, his eyes flicking from Tavi to Varg.
Varg didn't reach for his weapon. He strode forward to stand within range of Anag's as-yet-undrawn blade without a flicker of apprehension. "You will go to Lararl," Varg said. "You will tell him that we await him here." Varg moved his arm then, slowly putting his hand to his weapon in a display made quietly deadly by the utter stillness in the rest of his body. "You will tell him that I am disinclined to be moved anywhere by any will but my own."
Anag was still for a few seconds more, then leaned his head to one side in acknowledgment and vanished from the rooftop, taking the other guards with him.
Max let out an explosive breath. "Bloody crows, Tavi."
Varg turned his head slightly to stare at Tavi. He had not, Tavi noted, taken his hand from his weapon. His voice came out in a deep, threatening basso growl. "Why?"
Tavi met Varg's gaze as he answered. "Because circumstances have changed. Lararl needs us, or he would have left us to rot up here."
Varg let out a rumbling growl, and Tavi found himself centering his balance, in case he needed to avoid a sudden strike-but the sound proved to be more pensive than angered, and Varg lowered his paw-hand from his sword's hilt.
"Besides," Tavi said, "Lararl abused your people's sense of honor and obligation. I find myself unconcerned with protecting his pride."
Varg made another thoughtful rumbling sound. "Have a care, Tavar. Lararl is not swift to forgive. And he never forgets."
"I am not one of his subordinates," Tavi replied.
Varg flicked his ears in acknowledgment. "No. You have declared your intention to replace him as a leader."
"In a manner of speaking," Tavi said, showing Varg his teeth in another smile, "that is precisely what I intend to do."
Lararl came to the rooftop alone.
Anag and several other apprehensive-looking Canim stood by while Lararl shut the door in their faces and turned to Varg. "My guards may be going deaf," the golden-furred Warmaster snarled. "Because only a fool or a madman would have spoken the words they brought to me."
Varg faced Lararl without any kind of movement.
Lararl stepped forward to stand directly in front of Varg, and the two Canim put their hands to their swords in precisely the same instant.
Silence reigned on the rooftop for a full minute, the sounds of the battle below rising and falling with the breeze, like some enormous, gruesome surf pounding upon a seashore.
"Give me one reason," Lararl snarled, "not to kill you here and now."
"I will give you three," Varg answered, and inclined the tip of his nose slightly toward the stone shelter the Alerans had crafted.
There was a vague sense of movement in the darkness within, then a slender-looking Cane clad in soft grey-and-black cloth glided silently out of the darkness. Immediately after, two more similarly clad, younger Canim flowed out behind the first, taking up a silent, passive stance on either side of the first.
Behind Tavi, Max hissed in a breath of surprise, and he did not need to look to see that Max's hand had gone to the hilt of his sword. "Bloody crows. Hunters."
Tavi suppressed his own startled reaction. He recognized the gear of the three Canim. The trio that had nearly gutted him during the war against Nasaug had been dressed identically.
Beside him, Kitai narrowed her eyes in suspicion, and Tavi felt the surge of surprise and... annoyance, he thought, as she spoke. "When did they slip in there?" She paused, and something faintly impressed entered her whisper. "How did they get up here at all?"
"They can't have been in there more than half an hour," Tavi murmured. "That was the last time one of us went inside to warm up."
"I saw and heard nothing." Kitai's eyes glittered, and her teeth showed in a quick smile. "That was well done."
Lararl eyed the three Hunters for a moment, then turned his attention back to Varg.
"Since the battle with your enemy seems to have clouded your vision," Varg said, "I will explain matters to you. It is possible for you to kill me. But you cannot be sure of stopping my Hunters from carrying word of such an act to Nasaug. Even if you do, Nasaug is my wisest student. He will very likely assume that you have killed me and react accordingly.
"If you can count, you will see that the Alerans are missing a member of their party. Doubtless, he has already returned to their Legions to report what you have done so far. It is my belief that they remain imprisoned largely as a matter of respect-which they have given, even when it has not been given to them." Varg showed his teeth. "Finally, it is possible that I kill you, in which case your people are left without a Warmaster.
"Nothing you do with that weapon," Varg concluded, "will help your people. It will leave them without a Warmaster-or it will create more enemies. Is that what you want for them, Lararl?"
The other Cane shivered, and Tavi could all but see the rage rolling off him.
Then Lararl let out an explosive snarl and turned to stalk several paces away.
Varg released the hilt of his weapon and glanced at Tavi.
Tavi raised his voice. "Your defenses are the most impressive I have ever seen, Warmaster," he said to Lararl.
The Canim glanced back at Tavi, his eyes angry, wary.
"But impressive or not, they are still fortifications. You can't move them, adjust them-and they are all positioned to prevent an enemy from entering your range at all. The highest wall in the world is useless if the enemy can march around it." Tavi took a slow breath. If he'd guessed correctly, his next words would show it. If he hadn't... well. At least he was armed. "How did the Vord bypass your defenses?"
Lararl's eyes narrowed still farther. "I did not say the Vord had done so."
"Those soldiers who arrived earlier were wounded by something," Tavi said. "If they'd been fighting my people, they never would have escaped on taurga. If they'd been fighting Varg's warriors, you would have sent someone to execute him or just let him rot on this rooftop. Instead, you sent Anag, whom we have reason to trust and respect. It was not a gesture of anger or retaliation." Tavi nodded out toward the battle. "The enemy are many. Once behind your defenses, it would take only a fraction of the forces out there to devastate your range."
Lararl said nothing. Tavi's mouth felt dry.
"Warmaster," Tavi said, "it seems clear to me that if you wish to protect your people, you need our help to do it."
Lararl bared his fangs. They were impressive. Tavi forced himself to keep his expression steady and blank. Then the golden Cane looked away. His ears twitched, almost imperceptibly, in assent.
Tavi let out a slow breath. It was harder to keep the relief from his face than it had been to disguise his apprehension.
After a stilted pause, Lararl spoke, biting off the words savagely. "My forces are stationed at the entry points to the range. The Vord tunneled under them. A large force is now among the estates and markets of the makers. Killing."
Varg rumbled, a sound of unmistakable hatred.
"More of them pour in by the hour," Lararl continued. "It will not be long before we are outnumbered in the rear areas as well as at the fortifications. Then..." He spread his hands and closed them together, as if squeezing the juice from a fruit.
"You need our help," Tavi said quietly.
"Help?" Lararl said. An almost-hysterical edge of frustration entered his voice. "Help? What could you do?" He drew his sword and jabbed it at the horde spreading over the plains below. "What could anyone do against that? We will fight. But there can be no victory. This is the end."
"That depends upon your definition of victory, Warmaster," Tavi said quietly.
"Shuar cannot be held," Lararl snarled.
"Is Shuar the land?" Tavi asked. "Is it the hills and stones and trees? Is Shuar the rivers, the walls, the towers?"
Lararl had turned to stare at Tavi intently.
"Or is it the people?" Tavi said quietly. "Your people, Warmaster."
Lararl's ears shivered in reaction, a portion of Canim body language Tavi had never seen.
"What," Lararl growled, "do you mean?"
"It's possible that your people could be saved, sir. Some of them, in any case."
"How?"
Tavi spread his hands. "I'm not yet sure," he said. "I need more information."
"What information?"
"Everything you have regarding the war with the Vord, in every range. All of it."
Varg was also staring hard at Tavi. "What do you expect to learn?"
"I cannot tell you that."
"For what reason?" Varg demanded.
"Because among the enemy is at least one queen. The Vord queens are able to sense the thoughts of others if they can get close enough. Your Hunters have proven that it is possible to approach closely to Lararl's command by means of stealth. It is entirely possible, even likely, that the queens have been gathering information directly from the thoughts of the Shuaran officers-possibly even from your own thoughts, Warmaster Lararl."
Lararl growled in his throat, the sound pensive. "You know this enemy."
"I would not presume to say that," Tavi said. "But I know them better than you. And, for now, whatever secrets your intelligence on them might reveal is best kept safe by being locked in one location." He tapped his temple with one finger. "I believe that it may be possible to help you and your people, Warmaster. If you will extend me a measure of trust."
Lararl stared steadily at Tavi, but remained silent.
"It is obvious that simple force of arms is insufficient. We must outthink them, outmaneuver them." Tavi glanced at Varg and inclined his head slightly to one side. "As I did to Sarl in Alera."
Lararl's gaze moved to Varg. "Well?"
Varg nodded slowly to Tavi, the Aleran gesture peculiar on the Cane. "Lararl. You have said yourself that you have no way to defeat the foe. Were this range mine and these people my own, I would listen to him." He looked over at his Shuaran counterpart. "Tavar took a force of barely more than seven thousand and fought Sarl and fifty thousand conscripts, plus Nasaug's ten thousand warriors, to a two-year stalemate. Give him what he wants."
Lararl was silent for a moment more. Trumpets blew in the city, and a mounted force of several hundred Canim warriors rode their taurga toward the eastern gates of the city-an advance party for the larger infantry force that had to be preparing to march to the Shuaran interior.
The golden Cane shuddered again. Then he flicked his ears in a sharp gesture of assent, spun to face Tavi fully, and beckoned him with a curt gesture of his hand as he strode toward the door leading back into the tower. "Demon-" He paused and growled deep in his chest, baring his fangs. "Tavar. Come with me."
"Crows," Max breathed under his breath. The big Antillan took his hand from his sword. "How did you know about the Vord?"
"I guessed."
"You guessed?" Max hissed. He shook his head. "You take too many chances, Calderon."
"It was necessary," Tavi said. "Besides, I was right."
"One of these days, you're going to be wrong."
"Not today," Tavi said. "Stay here so that Crassus can make contact."
Max frowned at Tavi worriedly. Then he saluted. "Be careful."
Tavi put a hand on his friend's shoulder. Then he turned and strode down into the darkness of the tower, following Lararl.
