Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores)

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Hostus knows.

  Taking a deep breath, Marcus pulled aside the tent flaps and stepped inside.

  The brilliance of all the lamps stung his eyes, momentarily blinding him, so he didn’t see the blow come.

  Pain lanced up his side as Hostus’s fist connected just below his ribs. Gasping, Marcus staggered, but instead of blocking, he allowed the older legatus to strike him again and again.

  “You conniving little shit,” Hostus snarled. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out you were conspiring to take command? Did you think you could keep a secret from me in my own camp?”

  Marcus didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer, because opening his mouth risked screaming as the man’s fists rained fury down upon him. Just take it, he ordered himself. Take it, so the Thirty-Seventh won’t have to.

  “I made you what you are, you ungrateful child!” Hostus knocked him to the ground, kicking Marcus in the side. “And you think you can take command from me? That I’ll stand for you going behind my back? I’m going to cut out your fucking heart and I’m going to eat it!”

  Primal instinct sent terror flooding through him, his body demanding that he fight back. That he beg Hostus’s forgiveness for scheming against him. That he scream for help.

  Except help would never come.

  You can do this.

  Blow after blow, and Marcus kept silent, falling in on himself so that the pain seemed distant even as he felt his muscles bruise. His ribs crack. His wrist break.

  Then steel flashed, and his control snapped as red-hot pain lanced up his side. A scream tore from his throat.

  “There it is,” Hostus crooned. “A harder thing to exact from you than it used to be, but more rewarding as a result.”

  Dragging in ragged breaths, Marcus forced himself to meet Hostus’s eyes as the older man pinned him, the dagger in his hand glistening with blood.

  “You are my tool, my creature, my toy,” Hostus whispered. “And I will kill you before allowing you to believe otherwise.”

  Gasping in a breath of pain, Marcus stared him down. “If you kill me, you lose everything, Hostus. First and foremost, your life.”

  Laughing, Hostus licked the blade clean. “I doubt that, boy. It’s my men who surround us. No one is going to answer your screams.”

  “My men know I’m here.” It was a struggle to get the words out. “If you kill me, they’ll know it was you. And you’re a fool if you think they won’t come for vengeance.”

  Something flashed across Hostus’s eyes. Not fear, because he was devoid of it, but…wariness. “If they try, they’ll have a war on their hands.”

  “A war they’ll win.” Marcus forced himself to laugh. “While your men have been resting on their asses, my men have been training and working and fighting, and they are ready, Hostus. Ready, while half the Twenty-Ninth are drunk or in the beds of your followers, trying to find purpose because you’ve given them none. Will they rise to your call?” He grinned, tasting blood. “Are you willing to bet your rank, your power, and your prestige upon it?”

  “We’d slaughter you children and bathe in your blood!”

  “Really?” Forcing himself to relax back against the ground, Marcus added, “Let’s remember what happened the last time our men fought, Hostus. Let’s remember how your best fighting man was pummeled by a sixteen-year-old boy. And it will be that same boy who will lead the Thirty-Seventh against you if you go through with this.”

  It was all a bluff. The instructions he’d left behind with Amarin specifically said the legion was not to retaliate. But a man like Hostus could never imagine leaving behind such orders.

  “Or we could let this go, Hostus,” he said softly. “We can walk away, defeat Hydrilla tomorrow, and then part ways, my heart still beating and your power intact. What will it be?”

  A monster raged in the virulent emerald of Hostus’s eyes, wanting to maim, wanting to kill, wanting to consume. But also not wanting to give up anything to sate those desires.

  “Well done, little pet,” Hostus murmured. “You win.” Then he leaned down so that his breath was hot against Marcus’s ear. “This time. But my parting gift to you is a promise: one day, I’ll come for you and everything you care about. And I’ll make you watch them bleed before I take your heart.”

  “One day,” Marcus answered. “But not today. Now get off me.”

  And the older legatus obeyed. Watched with his reptilian eyes as Marcus dragged himself to his feet, as he pulled his cloak over his battered body, as he stepped out into the storm.

  He felt the shock that radiated across the Twenty-Ninth on guard, none of them having anticipated seeing him living again, but that was the least of his concerns. Blood poured down his side, soaking his clothes, dripping onto the snow.

  Don’t let them see you’re hurt.

  Every inch of him was in agony, but he forced his face to relax as he walked into the Thirty-Seventh’s half of the camp. Forced himself to nod at his men who saluted as he passed, hoping they didn’t notice the blood, because if they knew Hostus had hurt him, they might not wait for orders before picking a fight with the Twenty-Ninth. And he hadn’t just suffered through that for the legions to fall into war.

  Just walk. Just keep moving.

  Every step was an act of will, but he made it back to his tent. Then immediately collapsed, Amarin barely managing to catch him. “I’ll send for Racker,” he said, lowering Marcus to the ground. “And Felix.”

  “No,” Marcus gasped out, because if the Thirty-Seventh’s surgeon came, his guards would see. And if Felix saw him like this, he’d start a war. “Get. Agrippa. Hurry.”

  26

  Agrippa

  “I know we said we could use a bit of privacy, but don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far?”

  Agrippa looked up from his hands, which he’d been vigorously scrubbing in a basin in an attempt to remove the day’s grime. “Do you…do you miss me, Quintus? How sweet. Is that the reason why you were standing so close to me all day?”

  “Don’t worry, the sentiment has passed,” his friend grumbled. “Go spend your last night on Reath with the girl.”

  Agrippa made a tsking noise. “Please. I’m impossible to kill. Tonight is merely one night of many to come, but I’d rather spend it with a pretty girl than listening to you two whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Neither of you is the poet you think you are.”

  “Go.” Miki flung a vambrace across the tent, nearly hitting Agrippa in the face. “I’ve half a mind to run myself through before the Bardenese get a go just to spare myself your mockery.”

  “You love it.”

  “We hate it,” his friends responded, but both of them grinned, and Quintus said, “We’ll get you at dawn, right?”

  Before Agrippa could answer, Marcus’s servant, Amarin, ducked into the tent. “Legatus wants a word with you.”

  Agrippa opened his mouth to say that one, Marcus had spent the last few days filling his ears with words, so surely there was nothing to say, and two, he was off duty and had better plans in mind, but then he saw the smear of blood across Amarin’s cheek and the barely contained panic in his eyes. “Yeah, all right.”

  Rising, he pulled on his cloak, following Amarin through the swirl of snow. “Something wrong?” he asked softly.

  “Best we not speak where ears might hear,” the man answered, but Agrippa didn’t fail to notice that they were walking as fast as they could without breaking into a run, and his pulse began to roar.

  Nodding at those freezing their asses off guarding Marcus’s tent, he followed Amarin inside. And only the servant’s hand latching on his wrist kept him from sprinting back out in search of help. “We need Racker. A medic. Some—”

  “No.” Marcus’s voice was weak. “It’s not that bad. I just need some stitches.”

  Shaking his head, Agrippa crossed the tent and dropped next to him. “Amarin, get me a lamp.”

  A quick glance told him that Marcus’s left wrist was broken,
bone pushing up against the skin. But that wasn’t the source of the blood that Agrippa had inadvertently knelt in. Pulling out his knife, he sliced open Marcus’s clothing, grimacing as he peeled the fabric off the wound.

  The only reason he was alive was that the knife had bounced off a rib instead of going between them, but the blade had left a gash nearly as long as his hand, bone visible each time Marcus took a breath. “You need a surgeon.”

  “Stitch, Agrippa. That’s an order.”

  “You’ll be bossy until your dying breath,” Agrippa muttered, but accepted the medical supplies Amarin handed him. “Get him something to bite down on.”

  “I’m. Fine.”

  “You crack your teeth, I’m done,” Agrippa told him flatly. “You know I can’t deal with teeth.” And before Marcus could argue, he shoved a leather strap between his teeth.

  It took three tries to thread the needle, his stomach doing flips as he bent over the wound. “Hostus, I presume?”

  Marcus made a noise of affirmation that turned to a hiss of pain as Agrippa pushed the needle through muscle, and Amarin moved to hold Marcus steady.

  “He knows, I take it?”

  Marcus’s chin jerked up and down, and it was enough information for Agrippa to know exactly how events had transpired. And why Marcus didn’t want anyone to know. How many times, he silently asked, did you take beatings and hide them from everyone?

  Many times, he suspected was the answer. It made him respect Marcus more, which annoyed him, so he said, “I see all those pushups are starting to pay off, sir.” Pulling the catgut through, he paused to poke Marcus in a thick pectoral. “You’re looking quite fit. That must be why the girls that come to your tent look so pleased upon their departure, because I can’t imagine it’s because you’re a very good kisser.”

  He jabbed the needle through flesh again, his hands slick with blood. “No offense intended, of course, sir. It’s only that you have a fondness for expedience that I doubt serves the girls well.”

  “I hate you,” came the response muffled by leather and teeth and pain.

  “I think I detect a hint of jealousy, sir.” Agrippa hardly heard his own words, his eyes on the wound. On how Marcus’s golden skin was blanched and cold, his body shivering. “If you want, I can give you some tips. Once we’re done with Hydrilla, we can find you someone pretty to try them out on.”

  Marcus glared daggers at him, but that was good. That meant he was lucid. That meant he might not die on Agrippa’s watch. Glancing at Amarin, he said, “Don’t be cheap with the fuel, old boy. If I have to spend my night off with the top dog, I want to at least be warm.”

  Amarin moved to comply, and Agrippa continued stitching. And kept talking, because he was convinced if he didn’t, he might vomit. “The secret, sir, is to talk to them. Make them laugh. You probably get pretty far on good looks and your aura of brooding mystery, but nothing works better than making them laugh. You should try it sometime.”

  Marcus’s shivers were so violent now that Agrippa could barely keep a grip on the needle, his own heart racing as he debated whether to ignore Marcus’s orders for the sake of keeping him alive. Though he knew what he really didn’t want was to be the one who’d failed to save him.

  Marcus spit out the leather strap. “No.”

  “Why? Is it because you’re worried you aren’t funny? Because I could—”

  “No medics.” Marcus dragged in a breath, the way his face twisted with pain telling Agrippa ribs were bruised or broken. “I will live. Or I will die. If it is the latter, you will take command.”

  Once upon a time, that had been what he wanted more than anything. To be the one whose name the legion chanted when it was victorious. To be the one whose name senators demanded for their campaigns. To be the one whose name everyone in the Empire knew and feared. But now he’d seen what it was like and wanted none of it. The responsibility. The pressure. The isolation. It was a miserable existence that no amount of fame could compensate for. “But Felix…”

  Marcus shook his head. “You know he’s no good for it.”

  The perfect second. But never meant to lead.

  “You need to quit hiding behind the jokes and the foolery,” Marcus whispered, his eyes rolling back and then refocusing. “Everyone else might have forgotten what you’re capable of, but I haven’t.”

  Knotting off the final stitch, Agrippa set aside the needle and picked up a bandage. “You told me to never reach higher than the role you set me to.”

  “And if I die tonight, let my last order be to set you to command.”

  Agrippa squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, it was to find Marcus had slipped to unconsciousness.

  Swearing under his breath, Agrippa wrapped the bandages around him and straightened his wrist, Amarin silently supplying pencils to form a splint. Together, they dragged him to the rear and covered him with blankets, though Marcus’s skin remained cold as ice.

  “There isn’t anything else I can do,” Agrippa said as they finished, feeling sick with helplessness and terrified of what would come if Marcus didn’t wake. “Keep him warm. If he gets worse, forget his orders and get Racker.”

  Amarin met his gaze. “Are you ready?”

  Ready to assume the responsibility of thousands of lives. Ready to stand apart and alone for the rest of his life. Ready to give up being a man for the sake of a title.

  If I have to. “Not even a little bit, Amarin. So please do me a favor and don’t let him die.”

  Agrippa strode out of the tent, wind and snow slapping him in the face, but he hardly felt it. Barely heard the goodnights from the guards he passed as he circled the Thirty-Seventh’s half of the camp, hating the sickening feeling of helplessness that was falling over him. Wanting to do something to help Marcus. Wanting to do something to help himself. But there was nothing to do but wait wait wait.

  Do something, a voice screamed inside his head. Do anything!

  He meandered through the tents, his fingers numb and his breath fogging, his eyes fixing on Felix’s tent.

  He said don’t tell.

  Except whenever Agrippa had been hurt, there’d been no greater comfort, no greater strength, than having Yaro at his back. So he walked forward and unfastened the flaps, the gust of wind pulling Felix from sleep. He sat upright, blinking at Agrippa. “What’s wrong?”

  Dropping to one knee, he said, “Hostus knows. He kicked the shit out of him and sliced him open pretty good.”

  Felix was on his feet in a flash, reaching for clothes. “He’s in medical?”

  “In his tent. He asked me to stitch him up because he doesn’t want anyone to know.”

  “I’m going to gut Hostus stem to stern.” Felix’s hands were shaking. “I’m going to make him hurt.”

  “No, you will not.” Agrippa watched the Thirty-Seventh’s tribunus go still, then look at him. “You’re going to go where you need to be. And you’re going to stay there, by his side, until you are told otherwise. Understood?”

  Felix stared him down for a heartbeat before nodding. “Understood.” Then he disappeared into the snow.

  Go back to your tent.

  Get some rest.

  Prepare yourself for the day to come.

  The logical thoughts rose in his head, one after another, only to fall away. Because this might be the last night he spent on Reath. Might be the last night he spent as himself.

  And there was only one place he wanted to be.

  27

  Silvara

  The silence felt strange.

  After so many nights of listening to the legions shout and bang their weapons and stomp their feet, the howl of the storm felt soothing despite the fact that the cold would bring death as surely as any blade.

  She stared at the candle flame, watching it flicker and sway, casting shadows on the canvas of her tiny shelter. Cold crept up beneath the edges of the tent, stealing away the faint heat that rose from her tiny brazier and causing her to pull the blankets tighte
r around her shoulders.

  Where are you?

  Agrippa had said he’d come, and the spirits strike her down, but she wanted him here. Wanted to be wrapped in his arms, the heat of his body seeping into hers, the strength of his sword arm allowing her to relax enough to drift. To sleep. To dream about a world where things were different, where she wasn’t trying to steal dangerous information from his head and where he wasn’t set to slaughter her people. Of a life where they could live and love in full view of the world rather than hiding in the shadows.

  An impossible dream.

  Reaching for the candle, she blew it out, leaving her with nothing but the glowing coals that did little to drive away the chill sinking into her heart. He’s not coming.

  “Silvara?”

  She jumped, hearing Agrippa’s voice through the tent though she’d heard no footsteps. “I’m here.”

  A rustle of canvas, then a shadow stepped inside, and she moved to relight her candle as he said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. A…a friend was injured.”

  “Is he all right?” As soon as the words exited her lips, she saw that his clothes were stained with blood, his hands red with it. That there was a smear of it across his right cheek.

  Something must have shown on her face, because he looked down and cursed softly. “I’m sorry. I… I’m not thinking straight tonight.”

  There was a shake to his voice. A tremble to his hands. And not even when Yaro died had she seen him so…rattled.

  Sensing that he wouldn’t tell her if she asked what had occurred, Silvara instead filled her cracked basin with water and handed him a cloth. “It’s cold, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine.” He plunged his hands into the water, then stared at them as though he wasn’t certain where to begin. She could hear his breathing, quick little gasps of air that spoke to panic, not exertion, and worry flooded her chest. Because this was Agrippa. Unflappable and cracking jokes until the end.