The front-runners tried to pull up, but it was too late, their momentum too great. They smashed into the stakes, horses and men screaming and dying and then falling up against the wall of shields and spears his men had formed. The rest of the cavalry pulled up, the horses refusing to charge into the fray, eyes wild with terror as their riders tried to heel them into the melee.
There was hesitation in the flood of enemy on foot; and, eyeing the distance, Marcus nodded once. “Loose.”
The horn blew a trio of notes, and a second later the air whistled and turned dark with bolts flying overhead. They fell in a deadly rain, swaths of men dropping injured and dying even as he ordered volley after volley, one eye on his men who were decimating the enemy cavalry not twenty paces from him.
The enemy was going to break. He could see the hesitation in the ranks, the desire not to be the first, but certainly not to be the last, to turn tail and run.
“Flank them.”
His signalman’s horn was met by the call of two others, but for a time there was nothing to see.
Then the enemy broke.
Urcon’s mercenaries fled across the field, but as the front-runners neared the trees two thousand legionnaires stepped out to meet them. Some of the mercenaries pressed forward, throwing themselves against the wall of legionnaires and steel; others retreated to the middle of the field where they milled about in desperate confusion.
Eyeing the carnage before him, Marcus lifted one arm, and the rest of the Thirty-Seventh marched over the lip of the ridge, stepping over the corpses of the enemy cavalry. An unforgiving line of death that moved forward, crushing the enemy between two forces, much as Urcon had intended to do to Marcus’s men.
He watched until it was over, the enemy nothing more than the dead and the dying. Then, pulling the standard from the ground, he hooked the end in his stirrup and trotted to one of the centurions. “We’ve no need of prisoners,” he said, and when the man nodded and saluted he added, “Burn the dead.”
Marcus walked his horse back through the ranks of his men, and they began to chant. Not for the Empire. Not for the legion. Not even for victory. They chanted for him.
But he hardly heard them as he rode back to camp. And to her.
47
TERIANA
And there it was. Whatever had been between her and Marcus was over, silenced before it could cause more trouble than it already had. Though she barely felt the ministrations of the medic, she was content to let him believe the slow leak of tears down her cheeks was from the pain of the needle or the prodding of her ribs, which were declared bruised but not broken. She was given water and broth and told to rest. Rolling on her unbruised side, Teriana stared at the rows of cots and the young men setting up what they would need, those of the Thirty-Seventh working with calm efficiency, those of the Forty-First with tense anticipation.
Marcus was right. Whatever there was between them had no future. But knowing it was so did little to ease the ache in her chest.
It wasn’t fair.
She knew Yedda, and the rest of her crew, would slap her upside the head for even uttering those words, but that was the sum of it. To want something so badly knowing that it was a mistake.
Because no matter what they felt for each other, in the end they were enemies.
The Celendor Empire had already hurt her and hers in its pursuit of conquest, and it was set on dominating all of Reath. The Cel called the West the Dark Shores, but they were the black tide intent on washing the gods from this world. And Marcus and his men were the weapon they’d use to do it.
She wanted the Empire to fail, to fall. Yet she did not want these men to lose, because losing meant dying.
Screams cut the night, and Teriana jerked upright in time to see a pair of gore-splattered legionnaires come into the tent bearing another man who was twisting and screaming on the stretcher. She took in his injuries, her mind refusing to process the notion that so much could be done to a man and that he’d still live.
The medics fell upon them, transferring the injured man to a cot and dispatching the deliverers. White bandages turned red, clamps and needles and vials put to purpose with practiced hands. But it was all for naught, because moments later the injured soldier went still.
Teriana pressed a hand against a tent pole, not even certain when she’d stood. Her heart thundered in her chest like a drum, but she could not look away as one of the men turned the body and recorded the number on his back.
More came. And more and more. A tide of injuries, some minor, some unlike anything she’d seen before. Some of the men screamed, wordlessly or for a friend or for mercy, while others stared blankly, the shock numbing the pain. It was mostly those who caused the medics to shake their heads and direct the bearers to put them at the far end of the tent. Lost causes.
Blood, blood, and more blood. It was everywhere, but it was as though she watched from a great distance. Or as though it wasn’t her watching at all.
“Teriana?” Something caught at her wrist, and she snapped into the moment, the noise loud, the air thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and opened guts. The hand grasping hers belonged to a man passing on a stretcher, the face one she recognized.
“Avitius?” Then she saw the ruins that were his legs, took in the direction the stretcher-bearers were taking him, and she knew.
“They found you.” A faint smile crossed her gambling companion’s face. “Is it true the legatus went himself?”
“Aye.” She stumbled along next to the stretcher, unwilling to break the hold he had on her wrist. “But he’s back. Already resumed command.”
“That’s good.” He sighed, and his eyes rolled back before regaining focus. “Titus has no business commanding the Thirty-Seventh.” Then his fingers went limp, and he was gone. Dead, just like that.
“Take him outside,” said the grim-faced medic who’d patched her up. But before he could walk away, Teriana stepped into his path.
“I want to help,” she blurted out. “Tell me what to do.”
“You aren’t…,” he started to say, then paused. Reaching into the pouch at his waist, he extracted an opaque vial and dropper. “One drop per hour for pain,” he said. “Two drops to put them under. Five, if they want to be done. You understand?”
She swallowed down the thickness that formed in her throat. “Isn’t there something that can be done for them?”
He shook his head. “No. And even if there was, these aren’t injuries they’ll want to survive.”
Because if they couldn’t fight, couldn’t be of use to the legion, they wouldn’t want to live. It made her want to spit in the face of the Empire. It took away everything from them but the legion, their brothers, and the fight. “I understand.”
“No man wants to die alone.” He squeezed her arm as he passed. “I’m glad he got you back.”
So she spent the rest of the night moving from bedside to bedside, providing what comfort she could, all the while thinking that Lydia, traitor that she was, would’ve been better at the task, with her calm and pragmatic presence. Some of the men Teriana knew; some she didn’t. But all knew her, and she listened or spoke or was silent as they needed. Some joked, some cried, but all were afraid. None asked for more than two drops, and that was a mercy to her, because she wasn’t sure if she could’ve done it.
They were braver than she was.
Word that the city had been taken came in the night, but it was the horns calling the men to their new positions that made her hands turn to ice. Marcus redeploying his men to engage the army marching in from the north, another battle to be fought on the heels of the first.
Please let them win, she prayed, knowing that it bordered on blasphemy to ask for such a thing from the Six.
Then a series of horn blows echoed through the air, and everyone in the tent paused what they were doing to listen. “What does it mean?” she asked the man at whose bedside she sat.
“Retreat.”
Her heart skipped. “O
urs?”
His bloodstained lips drifted into a faint smile. “We do not fall back.”
It was the last thing he said.
* * *
Not long after, when she was closing the eyelids of yet another man, this one a boy from the Forty-First who barely looked old enough to shave, she felt a sense of attentiveness sweep the tent. Men, even the injured ones, straightened, and from behind she heard the thuds of fists hitting chests.
Her knees creaked as she stood, but Teriana did not move from the dead man’s side, watching instead as Marcus moved through the ranks of the injured. He was no longer dressed like a common legionnaire, once again wearing all the accoutrements of his rank. The dragon on his cloak gleamed, seeming to twist and dance as he moved. A symbol of the Empire mocking her, because it had won.
He went from bedside to bedside, helmet tucked under one arm, face still marked with blood and his throat purple with bruises. He spoke to each man and to the medics attending them, his brow furrowing with attentiveness and concern as he listened. Each man seemed to rally under his attention, and it made her think about what it took to earn that sort of respect.
And that he’d jeopardized it for her.
Just as she’d jeopardized the fate of the West for him.
The air abruptly felt too close, the smell too much. She needed to get outside, away from this. Away from him. Handing the glass vial to a passing medic, Teriana strode out of the opposite end of the tent. The sun was bright and hot overhead, and she did her best not to look at the bodies laid out in neat rows under the shade of some trees.
Instead, she headed up a gentle slope, following a path that had been trod down by countless men. Up and up she went until she reached a rocky point overlooking Aracam. The walls were collapsed and smoking in a dozen spots, and fires burned in other parts of the city, although they’d be doused in short order. In the distance, she could see the allied clan camp, which was where their injured warriors had been taken, no doubt to keep the Cel away from any marked healers they had in their midst. It was a secret she doubted they’d be able to keep much longer.
The wind blew in from the sea, the smell of salt clearing the stench of death that clung to her nostrils, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
“Teriana?”
Her heart leapt at the sound of his voice, and slowly, she turned. Marcus stood at the base of the rocks, helmet still held loosely in one hand, the breeze catching at his cloak. He was battered and filthy, but instead of detracting, it made him seem more like the leader that he was.
“You won.” And though she was a riot of emotion, her voice came out flat.
“Yes.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair, and she noticed it was longer than she’d ever seen it. “It went as planned. Very few casualties, though it might not seem that way to you, given where you spent the night.” He hesitated. “The men told me what you did. Thank you.”
“It was nothing; I only sat—”
“It wasn’t nothing. Not to them. Not to me.”
There was something in his voice that twisted at her heart, and she closed her eyes, afraid the color would betray her.
“We captured Urcon, who’s apparently so old he can barely walk, and dozens of his men, but Ashok”—his voiced soured at the name—“managed to escape. It appears he’s just as deadly as you claimed. The other army arrived just after dawn, but I’d already redeployed a dozen centuries and the enemy broke on their first charge. A few escaped, but they’re a problem for another day—”
“Marcus,” she interrupted. “Why are you here? Because it isn’t to give me an update.”
“I suppose it isn’t.” He stared out at the city he’d just conquered, but she didn’t think he was really seeing it. Then he lifted one hand, which was clenched in a fist, and opened it palm up, revealing a glint of gold. “I wanted to give this back to you. It was how we found the right trail. Without it…” His jaw tightened. “It’s yours.”
Curious, Teriana climbed off the rocks and approached. The gold was a tiny fish ornament, and her hand went instinctively to her hair, catching at locks she hadn’t even realized had come loose from their braid. “My mum gave that to me when I was ten,” she said, taking it from him, the brief contact of her fingers against his palm making her skin flash with heat and hurt. “I would’ve been sad to lose it. Thank you.”
He nodded, and then they were both silent. But the air was thick with the tension of much unsaid, and at once, they both blurted out, “I wanted to talk to you about—” and then broke off.
“Go ahead,” Marcus said, and she cowardly wished he’d spoken first.
“After that night, when we were…” She swallowed, feeling her cheeks warm. “Anyway, when I left the tent, Titus waylaid me, saying that he needed my help identifying temples within the city.” She carefully repeated the conversation as best she could remember. “When you came down to the beach, I was so angry, because I thought you hated Cassius. The idea that you’d willingly put the man who’d killed and hurt my people in power, and then slept with me was just so, so—” She broke off.
“Teriana…”
She shook her head, forestalling him. “But then Quintus told me the truth. That Cassius had blackmailed you, and the whole damned legion, into voting for him, and I understood why you did it, though I wish you’d told me.” She took a deep breath. “And I know Titus was manipulating me into believing you’re worse than you are—”
“Forget Titus,” Marcus interrupted. “He’s his father’s son. When I find some proof he’s a traitor, then I’ll not hesitate to hang him by a short rope, never mind what the Forty-First thinks about it. But…” He grimaced and shook his head, before meeting her gaze. “He didn’t lie, not really. Yes, Cassius threatened to ship us off to the middle of nowhere, among other things, if he didn’t win, but I could’ve fought that if I’d been willing to face the consequences of doing so. Instead I made sure to present the facts to my men in a way that would ensure they voted the way I needed them to. I knew what he was, that he wasn’t fit to be consul, and that the Empire would not prosper under his leadership, but I helped put him in power anyway. Because it benefited me and my men.”
Teriana stared at his chest, hearing what he was saying, this ever-shifting truth, but it wasn’t sinking in.
He gripped her arms, his hands dampening the fabric of her shirt. “I do hate him, Teriana. More than you can ever know. He has threatened and hurt everyone who has ever mattered to me, and his reach seems to extend across the Endless Seas. He’s made me do things that I’ll regret until the day I die, but the fact remains that I helped him win.” Marcus swallowed and winced as if it pained him, then said, “And I understand if you hate me for it.”
“How can I hate you for making the same choices as I’ve made?” she whispered.
“It’s not the same.” He carefully cupped her face, fingers barely grazing the bruises. “Please don’t try to give me absolution, Teriana, because I don’t want it. And I don’t deserve it. I have done horrible things in my life. I’ve killed people with my own hands, hanged dozens for disobeying laws the Empire forced on them, and slaughtered tens of thousands of those who fought against me. Hundreds of thousands have been forced into indentured servitude because of the decisions I’ve made. I’ve burned and pillaged, bent entire countries to the will of a group of pampered men who care not for them but for the taxes they’ll pay. And yes, you can say that I had no choice. That I’m motivated to protect the lives of my men, who are like a family to me. But that does not negate the damage that I’ve done.”
“I know.”
“And if we are to make this work in whatever way it might, you must see me for what I am, not as you might want me to be.”
Make this work. “What is this, Marcus?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was hoarse, and his hands trembled where they touched her face. “I have too much power, and you too little, but sometimes it feels like if you asked—” He broke off. “I ca
nnot set you free, at least, not in a way that would allow you to retrieve your mother and protect your people. The Senate will hold both of us to our word, and that means you stay until we have land passage to and from the Empire and the Dark Shores, and we are far from that.”
“I know,” she said, leaning into his touch, feeling an aching need drive deep into her core. “I signed the same document as you. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m here to win. And it won’t always be against tyrants the world is better off without.” One hand slipped around the back of her head, tangling in her braids. “At some point, I’m going to cross a line that you won’t be able to accept.”
“I know.” And then I’ll have to stop you.
“It will end badly.”
She nodded. One of us will lose.
“You deserve better than this.” He pulled her against him, her chest pressing against the hard steel of his armor. “Better than me. I am the property of the Senate and will be until I’m too old and bitter to care otherwise. I have nothing to give you but soldier’s rations, a tent, and a blanket on the ground.”
“And you?”
He hesitated. “A part of me, a large part, belongs to this legion. I don’t know if what’s left of me is worth anything, whether it is enough, but it’s yours.”
This was something stupid. This was a mistake. This was folly.
She was going to do it anyway. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Teriana rested her cheek against his and said, “It’s enough.”
GLOSSARY
Certain aspects of the Celendor Empire were inspired by the Roman Empire, and I have used several Latin terms common to that era. I have, however, taken liberties with the definitions of some of those terms, altering them to fit the world that I have created. To that end, those who possess a strong knowledge of Ancient Rome should not hold me to any level of historical accuracy, as Dark Shores is a work of fantasy fiction.
Amarin: Marcus’s manservant
Dark Shores Page 34