Dark Shores

by Danielle L. Jensen

  When she translated his words, the crowd roared and surged against the line of legionnaires in front of the platform, arms reaching toward Marcus like he was some sort of god, and it was all Teriana could do not to step back in the face of their intensity. But he wasn’t through with them yet.

  “We have come from lands across the Endless Seas,” he continued. “From a place known as the Celendor Empire, where rulers are chosen by the vote of the people. Where all men and women, regardless of their station, are subject to the same laws. And the same punishments.”

  More cheers erupted from the crowd, but they were soon replaced with a sort of manic anticipation as Marcus strode toward the gallows. “These men have been charged with murder, rape, extortion, and theft. And after the testimony of dozens of your friends and family who were victims, they have been found guilty of their crimes. I, Legatus Marcus, supreme commander of the Thirty-Seventh and Forty-First Legions, under the laws of the Empire, do sentence you—” He listed their names from memory. “—to death by hanging.”

  Teriana watched the criminals as she translated their sentence. Most of them were weeping, and some had lost control of their bladders. Yet she felt no pity. Her only regret was that they wouldn’t suffer as much as their victims.

  You belong up there with them.

  The drum rolled, the beat accelerating, and Teriana’s heart followed suit. Faster and faster, sweat dribbling down the back of her neck, the parchment in her hand trembling in her grip. Then the drumroll stopped. One long beat, and Marcus nodded.

  As one the soldiers manning the gallows shoved the levers, and the trapdoors fell open with a thunderous clatter. The men dropped. Over the silence of the crowd echoed the snapping of ten necks.

  And the people who believed themselves liberated screamed their approval.

  Teriana stood still as Marcus walked back across the platform.

  “You all right?”

  Her body was still shaking from the adrenaline coursing through her veins, but she managed a nod.

  “It was justice,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “Men like that don’t deserve to live.”

  “I know.” But what power to be the one who made the decision. To determine who was guilty. Who lived and died.

  Marcus hesitated as though he wasn’t sure if he believed her, then let out a long breath. “Take some guards with you and arrange for the purchase of meat and libations for the men. Tonight, we celebrate.”

  “And here I didn’t think you knew how to have fun,” she said, the noise of the crowd fading into the background.

  He smiled and leaned down, his breath warm against her ear. “When will you stop thinking you know everything about me?”

  * * *

  “How old is this place?” Quintus asked as they walked through the narrow streets of Galinha, running his hand along the scarred and pitted stone of the buildings, which had gone green from the ceaseless humidity of Arinoquia.

  “Ancient,” Teriana answered. “Six or seven hundred years old.”

  And she could feel every year of it, the city so deeply steeped in history and blood, life and death, that it seemed almost sentient. As though even if it were devoid of people, it would still be alive. Would still be watching.

  “Don’t know why, but it reminds me of the redwood forests in Bardeen,” Miki said, casting his gaze up as he crouched to walk through a tunnel low enough that even Quintus and Teriana needed to duck their heads. “I swore those trees had eyes.”

  Quintus grunted in agreement, his hands shifting reflexively to the hilt of his gladius as he stepped out of the tunnel. Teriana gestured to go left, following the directions she’d been given to a distillery known for its passable rum. The streets were relatively quiet. Most of the citizens were still in the square containing the gallows, celebrating the execution of their tormenters. But some people were going about their business, ducking in and out what seemed almost comically small entrances. Galinha had been built by a people of shorter stature than those who currently resided in it.

  They didn’t fit.

  But it wasn’t just their size that made Teriana think that. This wasn’t the sort of place the Arinoquians would build: theirs were towns made of wood and glass, open and airy and somehow impermanent. Galinha was thick stone, tunnels and narrow buildings that made Teriana feel claustrophobic. The Arinoquians belonged here no more than she or the Cel soldiers did, all of them invaders in some capacity.

  “A word, Teriana.”

  Teriana jumped, almost as startled by the swiftness with which Quintus and Miki unsheathed their weapons as she was by Ereni’s sudden appearance.

  “Of course, Imperatrix,” she replied, trying to ignore the rapid patter of her heart. She hadn’t spoken to the woman alone since the death of the clan healer, and a cowardly part of her didn’t want to. Still, she nodded at the legionnaires to give them some space.

  Ereni eyed the two, then said in passable Mudamorian, “You need to explain yourself.”

  Teriana frowned at the choice of language, because it meant that whatever Ereni intended to say, she didn’t want the legionnaires to understand. Miki, in particular, had been a quick study of the Arinoquian language. “Explain what?”

  “Explain why you were the one who took our healer into their camp.”

  Biting the insides of her cheeks, Teriana didn’t answer.

  “You were the one who told us that his god mark needed to be kept secret from these men at all cost,” Ereni hissed. “You were the one who said they’d use it for their gain. And yet you do this?”

  “Everything all right, Teriana?” Quintus asked.

  It wasn’t. Not even a little bit. “It’s fine.”

  “It was their leader, wasn’t it?” Ereni asked, deliberately not using Marcus’s name. “I know it wasn’t him who commanded the battle—it was his second. These golden men are so used to following that they do not stop to question. But I do not follow.”

  “You do now.” The words slipped past Teriana’s lips before she could think them through. “Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it, Ereni? Not that your clan’s healer died to save his life, but that he is the one in control, not you.”

  Closing the space between them, Teriana stared the old warrior down. “I warned you. My crew member Bait warned you. But you decided the risk was worth ridding your people of Urcon, because how great a threat could these golden men be if they had no easy way to cross the Endless Seas? Well now you’ve seen. Now you know.”

  “Yet for all your talk, Teriana, still you saved their leader’s life.”

  “And I’d do it again, because in order to protect my people, I need him alive.”

  Ereni’s green eyes burned into hers, then she shook her head. “The gods will judge us both.”

  As if Teriana didn’t know that. As if she didn’t expect all the gods to turn their backs on her now. As if she didn’t know she deserved it.

  “Ereni! Teriana! Why the tense words on this joyous day?”

  Servius had appeared from around the corner, and he slung a casual arm around Teriana’s shoulder, tugging her back. “You both should be celebrating.”

  “Perhaps later,” Ereni replied in broken Cel. “I must visit the families of my warriors who lost their lives in battle. Good day to you.”

  Ereni strode away, a pair of her warriors appearing from the shadows to flank her. Servius exhaled a long breath. “Care to explain why my boys here were about ready to poke holes in our ally?”

  Turning, Teriana grimaced. Both Quintus and Miki had their blades in hand, gazes predatory.

  “It’s nothing,” she muttered. “Though you might want to mention to Marcus that the imperators are used to delivering their own justice and they aren’t best pleased about him doing the honors.”

  “Why she complaining to you about that and not him?”

  Teriana shrugged. “Guess she thinks he’s more likely to listen to me.”

  “Smart woman,” the big legio
nnaire said. “Now let’s get to walking. If I lift my nose to the wind, I can smell the rum from here.”

  Servius accompanied her to procure supplies for the celebration, handing over golden coins without argument after telling her that the amount of rum she’d negotiated for wasn’t enough.

  “Fighting is thirsty business,” he said. “And when we drink, we drink.”

  “I can respect that,” she said, her head already buzzing from sampling the wares in an attempt to drown her guilty thoughts. “Though it seems a bit reckless to let your army get sloshed when Urcon is only two days’ march from here and probably priming for a fight.”

  “A third.”

  “Pardon?” She motioned for the merchant to load the casks, then looked up at her friend.

  “Only a third get the night to celebrate and the morning to sleep it off. The rest will be at camp or here keeping the order and working on repairing what was damaged in the fight. It’s a rotation.”

  Of course it is. “You part of the celebrating third?”

  “Always.” He grinned and drained the rest of the cup of rum in his hand. “Though in all seriousness, I was supposed to be on duty, but Felix volunteered to take it.”

  “Why?”

  A slight frown crossed his face, but then he shrugged. “Wants to see this one through, I suppose.”

  Given he’d commanded the battle, albeit disguised as Marcus, she could understand the motivation. Except part of her believed it was something else, and that the something else was her. She knew the tribunus resented the amount of time she and Marcus spent alone together and it had nothing to do with her dubious loyalties. It was jealousy. She’d had her suspicions before, but seeing Felix’s reaction during Marcus’s attack had been confirmation that he was in love with his commander. And it was an affection to which Marcus appeared oblivious.

  She followed Servius onto the street, where carts laden with casks and sides of meat were already gathering. A slight flutter of nerves passed through her stomach as she asked, “What about Marcus? He part of the third?”

  Servius shouted at the men to get the carts moving, then turned back to her. “He doesn’t drink much.”

  That wasn’t a huge surprise. The legatus liked to be in control, and he hated making mistakes. Shrugging, Teriana followed the carts, but the massive legionnaire caught hold of her arm and hauled her back.

  “What?” she demanded, the unhappy set of his mouth both surprising and discomforting. “You got something you need to say?”

  Servius’s jaw worked back and forth; then he said, “Don’t do anything stupid, Teriana.”

  “Noted.” She jerked out of his grip, annoyed and embarrassed, although she wasn’t entirely sure why.

  They walked in silence toward the broken city gates, but as they rounded the bend a pair of brightly dressed and very pretty prostitutes leaned out of a doorway, smiling at the passing soldiers.

  Servius’s arm moved and Teriana caught the gleam of a golden coin flying through the air, which one of the girls caught and tucked away in a pocket. The legionnaire grinned at her, then inclined his head, and the girls both nodded and retreated inside.

  “Speaking of stupid,” Teriana said, “you know those girls are going to show up at camp tonight.”

  “Good,” he replied. “Let’s hope they bring their friends.”

  35

  TERIANA

  It was long after dark by the time Teriana squeezed into a spot next to the fire between Gibzen and another centurion whose name she couldn’t remember.

  “Cards?” the primus asked.

  She shrugged. “Eager to lose more of your coin?”

  “It was an unlucky streak,” he protested, digging into his belt pouch and extracting a deck. Most of the men had discarded their armor back at their tents, but a clutter of weapons lay around the fire in easy reach. The smell of rum and ale filled the air, but she strongly suspected that even three sheets to the wind, they’d be deadly.

  “Winning at cards isn’t luck. It’s skill,” she said, winking. “I’ve played in every port across Reath, against rich men and poor men, sailors, fishermen, and nobles. You want luck on your side, maybe we should stick to dice.”

  Gibzen handed her the deck. “You deal.”

  Teriana absently shuffled, but her eyes were circling the group as she wondered where Marcus was. There were dozens of similar circles scattered throughout the camp—men gambling, telling stories, and singing rude songs—but this fire, where the golden dragon standard glittered, was where he would be.

  Accepting a cup of rum, she dealt in several other players, eyed her cards and their tells, and folded.

  Gibzen snorted, but she ignored him, discreetly searching the darkness with one eye half on the play. Another hour passed and she amassed a sizeable pile of coins, but Marcus had still not shown his face. Where was he?

  “This is cruel,” she declared to Gibzen. “I can’t in good conscience take any more of your money. I’m out.”

  The men groaned and pleaded with her to let them win it back, but she shoved the coins into her pockets and moved to where Servius sat telling stories with the others. He silently filled her cup from the jug he was drinking from directly and continued to regale the group with the story behind the six-inch scar running up his thigh.

  She sipped her drink, and when he was finished she said, “Servius, you’re full of shit. Everyone knows you got that scar trying to shave your legs.”

  The group erupted into laughter, none louder than Servius, and then the conversation turned to everyone sharing the stories about their varying scars, the volume increasing as the rum disappeared down throats.

  “What about you, Teriana?” Servius asked. “Beautiful as you are, a pirate has to have a few scars with stories.”

  She flipped her braids over one shoulder and batted her eyelashes at him, then hauled off one of her boots to reveal a jagged scar running down the top of her foot. Everyone made sounds of appreciation, and she paused dramatically and took a big mouthful before beginning.

  If there was anything she and all Maarin were good at, it was spinning a yarn, and within moments she had them captivated with a tale of the crew of the Quincense battling a giant octopus in the Twisted Seas off the coast of Derin.

  Across the fire, a shadow approached, the firelight glinting off polished armor. She recognized his stride and faltered midsentence as Marcus stopped just outside the circle, a half smile on his face. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “Not much else to say,” she said. “It had me by the ankle and was dragging me across the deck toward its gaping maw. My foot broke through a shattered plank, slicing me open. But it was just the leverage I needed to reach the blade that had been knocked from my hand. It was a desperate throw, but the gods must’ve been guiding my hand, because it caught the beast straight in the eye. The noise the cursed creature made rendered the whole crew deaf for a week, but it let go of my leg and slipped back into the sea. Whether it lived or died I could not say, but of it we saw nothing more.”

  The men all clapped and whistled, and she inclined her head, barely noticing the rest of them with Marcus’s gaze fixed on her.

  “Entertaining story,” he said, sitting in the space his men made for him on the opposite side of the fire. “Except that’s not how you got that scar.”

  Her skin warmed, and it had nothing to do with the log Gibzen had tossed on the blaze. “Oh?”

  Accepting a cup, he shook his head.

  She slowly clapped her hands together. “Congratulations on your choice of commander, my friends. Apparently he’s not just a pretty face.”

  The noise was deafening with the shouts of “Truth! Truth! Give us the truth!”

  Grinning, she pulled her boot back on. “We were drinking and dicing in a port city in Gamdesh, and my crew picked a fight. We had to skedaddle quick, but on our way back to the ship I put a foot through a lobster trap and had to be carried the rest of the way.”

  “T
hat sounds more like it,” Marcus said. “Drunk?”

  “Obviously.” She grinned. “What about you, Legatus? Surely you have a few scars with stories.”

  “Nothing worth telling.”

  Several of the men snorted into their cups, and Servius’s cough sounded distinctly like “Bullshit,” as he scratched dramatically at one cheek.

  Marcus crossed his arms, and though it was hard to tell by the light of the fire, it appeared to Teriana that his cheeks had reddened.

  “Since our dear legatus appears to be lost for words, allow me,” Servius said, rising to his feet. “We were deep in the forests of Bardeen, part of a coordinated strike intended to finally bring the country under the Empire’s control. We were primed for battle when the infamous Thirty-Seventh was dealt a blow that was nearly our doom.” He paused, and the men groaned as if on cue. “Who can say whether it was the undercooked chicken, the vegetables of dubious quality, or the stream water rife with beaver shit, but over one thousand men were confined to the latrine pits while they exploded from both ends. And none were afflicted worse than our dear commander.”

  Teriana clapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh as Marcus buried his face in his hands. “I hate you, Servius,” he said, but the massive legionnaire only grinned.

  “Our camp was deep in enemy territory, our walls—as high as they were—little protection with trees soaring hundreds of feet into the sky.” He reached up high, then crouched low so the fire made shadows on his face. “Our fearsome commander was doing his best to fill the latrine holes we’d thought we’d dug so deep when out of the darkness came a flurry of arrows. One. Two. Three.” Servius danced around the fire ducking and dodging.

  “Alas, one of the enemy aimed well and”—he sliced a finger across his cheek—“Marcus the infallible, the untouchable, the invincible, was forever marked.”

  Laugher tore from Teriana’s lips, and when she could finally control it enough to speak she asked, “This true?”