A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “It is our custom to remain on our guard regardless of where we happen to find ourselves, monseigneur comte.”

  “I’m told you have nearly five thousand armed men.” The comte laughed. “Who is going to attack you, mon cher général, our little friends, the birds?”

  A few of the men riding behind the comte joined in the laughter. They were supposed to be de Forbonnais’s honor guard, knights of one elaborately named order or another, but Marcus had seldom seen a less martial group of soldiers. They rode their giant horses well, that much he had to give them, but their shining armor and brightly painted shields were unmarred by scratches and it seemed unlikely that any of them had ever seen a battlefield, much less fought upon one. Their good humor irritated him, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from turning and biting their heads off.

  Marcus shook his head and reminded himself that youthful exuberance and inexperience didn’t mean their minds weren’t keen, or their eyes were less than observant. He, of all men, should be aware of that. De Forbonnais might affect to be careless, but if the royal spymaster had chosen him to be his eyes and ears in the legion, he was probably a capable young man, perhaps even a dangerous one.

  One of the guards on the hilltop vanished, presumably to alert Gaius Trebonius of their approach. The other one must have recognized Marcus, as he stood at rigid attention while he watched them pass below. Marcus nodded and casually tapped his fist to his chest; the legionary returned the salute forcefully enough for them to hear it, then relaxed his posture.

  “Seems Trebonius hasn’t let them go slack in your absence, sir.”

  Marcus glanced at Vitalis. The decurion was calm and reliable, which was one reason why Marcus had chosen him over some of the more senior officers for the embassy from which they were now returning. The other was that for some reason the man had never seen fit to explain to Marcus or anyone else, he spoke fluent Savonnais. His light grey eyes tended to suggest that one of his parents might have hailed from the kingdom, but if he did harbor any exotic ancestry, it was natural that, as an equestrian, he would be inclined to hold his tongue about it.

  “I never imagined he would.”

  Legio XVII might not be a veteran legion in terms of its battle experience, but the long underground march through the eternal night of the Dwarven mines under the mountains had tested them in ways that a dozen battles could not have. The northern sun had already restored the color to Marcus’s face, and the simple, but plentiful Savonderic fare had put flesh back on his bones, but like every other man in the legion, he would not soon forget those arduous weeks of darkness, fear, and hunger under the ground. The legion had bonded through its trial by the tunnels; no legion capable of accomplishing such a hitherto unknown feat could feel a need to prove itself any longer, not even a legion with a history measured only in months.

  After passing the hill and the trees that covered its backside like a thick green pelt, they turned toward the south and the castra soon came within sight. Marcus smiled grimly, pleased to hear the expostulations and surprised exclamations of the Savondese riders.

  “Sale bleu, do you intend to found a city here, Amorran?”

  “Did I not tell you it is our custom to remain on our guard?” He grinned at the discomfited de Forbonnais.

  For all that it lacked the stone walls of the Savondese towns, the legionary castra made for an impressive sight, even to Marcus’s experienced eyes. The castra covered a larger area than the town from which they’d ridden, to say nothing of the various villages they’d passed on the way. With weeks to deepen the trenches, build up the earthworks, and replace the palisade with logged trees, the legionary camp had been transformed into a veritable fort. Give the architecti another two months and access to a decent supply of stones, and it would become a permanent fortress, as defensible as any city in Savondir.

  But they didn’t have two months. Nor could he and his legion remain safely behind walls, be they made of earth, wood, or stone. As much as he desperately wanted to march Legio XVII back south in defense of an Amorr that was under assault from its own provinces and allies, he knew it wasn’t possible. There was more at stake than who would rule over the Senate and People with what appeared to be every orc east of the Grimmwalde marching on the lands of Men and Elves.

  “What is that?” Vitalis exclaimed, pointing to the east.

  For a moment, Marcus thought the decurion was surprised by the various wagons and shoddy wooden dwellings that had attached themselves to the eastern wall of the castra, looking for all the world like some sort of cancerous growth swelling from the lower half of the walls. But they were nothing more than the usual collection of merchants, swindlers, and whores who trailed after every legion and founded a temporary township outside the perimeter every time one made camp for more than a few days in succession. It was perhaps a little surprising that the Savonners had managed to find them so far from everything that passed for civilization in the north, but then, last year, had their provincial counterparts in Gorignia not shown themselves entirely willing to follow Legio XVII into goblin territory?

  Then he realized Vitalis was not looking at the whores’ town, but at a crude structure erected about a spear’s throw east of it. It took him a moment to grasp what he was looking at, and then he swore under his breath. It was a crucis and despite its distance from them, Marcus could see there was quite clearly a man hanging from it, his head slumped down onto his chest.

  Marcus resisted the urge to steal a glance at de Forbonnais and the rest of the Savondese party, hoping that perhaps the unfamiliar magnitude of the castra would prevent them from noticing the dying man, but a wry voice from behind him quickly dashed his hopes.

  “It would appear your man Trebonius is a bit of a disciplinarian.”

  “Amorr’s legions are well-known for their discipline, monseigneur.”

  “So I am told.” Fortunately, the comte sounded considerably more amused than horrified. Even so, Marcus was embarrassed, both for himself and for Trebonius. “And so I see.”

  There was nothing Marcus could do about his age, or the fact that he and Gaius Trebonius were both mere military tribunes elected in the last election but one. It was hardly his fault that he had only been born twenty-two years ago, or that House Severus’s assassins murdered the rest of the legion’s command staff. Marcus had managed to overcome whatever doubts the Savonderic king and his great lords harbored about his youth and callowness, otherwise, he and Vitalis would be returning alone to the legion instead in the company of a squadron of noble northern fops. But those doubts were bound to return sooner or later, and hearing that Marcus’s second-in-command had been forced to resort to executions so quickly was only going to strengthen the insidious voices that had opposed the granting of the royal charter he was carrying.

  “General Valerius, sir!”

  A cheerful call from a legionary carrying one end of a deer hanging suspended from a pole drew his attention, and the man’s cry was soon echoed by welcoming shouts and salutes from legionaries outside the camp as they approached the Porta Praetoria and the great scarlet banner that proclaimed the authority of the Senate and People of Amorr as well as the divided grey-and-scarlet banner of House Valerius.

  “The general’s back!”

  “The Valerian is back!”

  “Ave, Valerius!”

  “Ave, Clericus!”

  “Ave, Cavator!”

  The last name was new to him. After he heard it shouted in his direction several more times, including from a ballistarius standing behind one of the scorpios positioned over the open gate, he turned towards Vitalis. His saddle creaked.

  “Cavator?”

  The decurion grinned. “They mean it as a compliment, general. The men don’t think as they should be calling you a priest no more. And you did set us to an amount of marching down underground. Some was for calling you Talpa, others was saying Subter, but the centurions sorted them out soon enough.”

  Marcus nodded thou
ghtfully. Being compared to a mole would be a little too undignified for a legionary commander, even if the name was not inappropriate given the circumstances. “Digger” wasn’t the most glorious of agnomina, perhaps, but he had to admit that it did serve to commemorate two of the brighter accomplishments of his thus-far undistinguished military career. He might have no victories to his credit, but twice he had been able to preserve a trapped and outnumbered legion. That was more than some legates thrice his age could say.

  “As long as they salute when they address me with it, decurion, you can tell your fellow officers that I have no objections.”

  “They’ll be glad to hear it, general.”

  Legionaries saluted crisply at the sight of him, their fists slamming against their chest with either a thud or a clang depending on whether they were wearing their breastplates or not. Their faces were red and brown and bronze with color now; the ghostly pallor they had all shared when Marcus departed to meet with the king’s negotiators three weeks ago was gone. The northern sun of Savondir might not be quite as warm as the one that shone down on the imperial city, but clearly it had helped his men return to good health all the same. His father would have been pleased to know that, Marcus was sure. Corvus had always loved them as much as they loved him.

  Marcus hoped de Forbonnais was marking the way in which Legio XVII greeted its commander’s return as closely as he had noted whatever disciplinary lapse led to the wretch on the crucis outside. But Marcus was just passing through the gate when he heard an agonized cry from behind them. He couldn’t quite understand what was being said, and when he looked back, he saw that the noise was coming from the dying man. Then he realized what language the man was speaking and he closed his eyes, feeling as if he’d taken another hammer blow to the belly, the second that week.

  “La fin est proche, est proche,” the man was shouting. “La fin est proche se trouve à proximité!”

  He did not look back at de Forbonnais, though he could hardly dare to hope the king’s man failed to grasp the significance of what they had all heard. This time, the Savonder did not say anything, he continued to walk silently just to Marcus’s rear, on his right hand side. It was just as well de Forbonnais did not demand answers. Marcus knew he could not possibly supply them.

  Damn that Trebonius! What could possibly be the point of executing a peasant? They weren’t under legionary discipline! It seemed he would soon have the opportunity to find out, as ahead of him, he saw a group of centurions walking briskly towards them from the direction of the forum. In their midst of their bemedaled splendor, he saw a horsehair-plumed tribune’s helmet.

  Marcus reined in his horse and swung himself down from the saddle. Vitalis was quick to follow suit, and to bark orders at some of the legionaries watching nearby to come and hold the reins for the them and the rest of the mounted party. De Forbonnais and his Savondese companions dismounted, but after a burst of rapid Savonnaise amongst themselves, did not hand their horses over to the Amorrans. Instead, half the honor guard stayed with the horses while the comte, accompanied by the other ten men, came forward to stand with Marcus and await the approach of Trebonius and the other officers.

  If Trebonius was expecting Marcus to be unhappy with him, he showed no signs of it. His fellow tribune was practically beaming with delight, and against his will, Marcus could feel his anger beginning to abate. It pleased him even more to see that the senior officers, too, appeared to be glad at his return even if the hard-bitten centurions were less inclined to display their pleasure so openly. Titus Cassabus, the former ballistarius who was now praefectus castrorum, nodded at him, Caius Proculus, the primus pilus, lifted his unshaven chin, while Sentas Tertius merely lifted a skeptical eyebrow in the direction of the Savondese men. Marcus was beginning to understand his father’s lifelong love for his legionaries; there was something uniquely powerful about the connection between an army and their general. Theirs was a bond sealed in bloodshed, hardship, and battle.

  “Good to see you, sir!” Trebonius saluted, and the air resounded with the crash of fists on steel as the centurions and legionaries followed his lead.

  “Likewise.” Marcus touched his curled fingers to his chest and nodded to the senior officers. “Gentlemen, I have the honor to be accompanied by Seigneur Girart de Forbonnais, Comte de Ilyois, and our royal liaison by the order of our most gracious host, His Majesty, the king.”

  De Forbonnais made an elegant leg that Marcus knew would be completely lost on his officers; he was pleased to see their discipline hold as not one of them so much as coughed, although Tertius raised both eyebrows this time, even more skeptically than before. And not even the man’s Savonnaise-flavored Utruccan made any of them crack a smile.

  “My lords of Amorr, I deem it an unmitigated honor to make the acquaintance of the doughty men who led the now-legendary Deep March, of which the bards now sing! I pray you will not view my men and me as an intrusion amongst you, but rather, welcome us as your friends and allies against a fearsome foe that poses the greatest of dangers to both our peoples.”

  He made another leg, and without any signal that Marcus could see, his dismounted men did the same, in unison. They looked absurd, of course, but they performed the silly movement with sufficient snap and precision that he wondered, if, with the proper training, they might actually be of some use as an auxiliary horse. He’d have to speak to Senarius Arvandus, the senior decurion, to see if that could be arranged. But now that the introductions had been accomplished, he was eager to see the Savonders safely stowed away somewhere in the camp so Trebonius could bring him up to speed on how soon the legion would be ready to march east.

  “Monseigneur Comte, I’m sure you and your men will want to see to your horses. If you will follow Gnaeus Vitalis, he can show you where the stables are located; we will see that suitable accommodation near them is provided. I hope you will do me the honor of dining with me tonight.”

  “You are too kind, Monseigneur General.” The proud young man’s face hardened. “But while my men are establishing themselves, I must insist on speaking with you and your command staff. We have, I believe, certain matters of considerable import to discuss without delay.”

  Marcus sighed. De Forbonnais had been a charming companion on the ride south, but Marcus had no illusions that the Savonder was going to be anything but a thorn in his side from now on. And if monseigneur comte was not, like the last Savonderic comte who had been inflicted upon him, a royal battlemage, Marcus would eat the legionary standard. It wasn’t as if they had not any opportunity to speak throughout the ride; clearly de Forbonnais was eager to take the mettle of his staff.

  “Those matters will keep until this evening, monseigneur comte. My men will see to your accommodations, and if you require anything out of the ordinary, you have only to ask and the decurion will see to it.”

  De Forbonnais drew himself up haughtily, and for a moment Marcus thought the man was going to be foolish enough to stand his ground, but he merely sniffed reproachfully and bowed deeply while drawing one arm to his torso in what might have been a parody of an Amorran salute.

  “As you say, monseigneur general. We shall speak again anon.”

  Marcus nodded and watched as the Savonders remounted and followed Vitalis along the Via Principalis. A centurion whistled, waved his staff, and soon three decani were leading their contubernii in pursuit of the cloud of dust the Savonderic horses were kicking up behind them. Marcus doubted it was necessary to guard the Savonders inside the castra, but he didn’t countermand the order. With more than a thousand leagues now separating them from the northernmost borders of the empire, Legio XVII couldn’t be too careful.

  “The command tent,” Marcus said, his voice lowered so that only the senior officers nearby could hear him. “I’ve got bad news.”

  Marcus looked from face to face inside the large canvas tent. With one exception, the praefectus Cassabus, the five men facing him were shorter than him; they were all older. To a man, they were pl
ebs, and with the sole exception of Trebonius, they were all longtime veterans who had served under his father in one of the other two Valerian legions before helping Corvus and Marcus Saturnius build XVII. He had next to nothing in common with them; except for Senarius Arvandus, the equestrian, they were poor, uneducated, and vulgar. He was a consul’s son, censor’s grandson, and consul’s nephew educated as a scholar destined for the Church hierarchy.

  And yet, he had come to trust them more than he had ever trusted anyone. He knew them better than his own brother, he knew they were closer to his father than he had ever been, and he could not bring himself to lie to them. Not about something so important. Not about someone so close to their hearts. Not even though it would grieve them as deeply as it grieved him.

  He took a deep breath and looked away from their grim, suspicious expressions.

  “How bad is it?” Caius Proculus finally broke the silence. “Has the city fallen?”

  Marcus blinked, surprised. His news was bad. It wasn’t the literal end of the world.

  “No. It’s my father. The General. Corvus. He is dead. The Sanctified Father as well.”

  No one said anything. All five men were too shocked to speak, too astonished to even protest. But the silence that followed his revelation was qualitatively different than the silence of the moment before. To Marcus, it felt as if a great chasm had opened up before his feet, as if the speaking of those terrible words had unleashed an evil spell that altered the very fabric of the world.

  My father is dead. The Holy Father is dead.

  His eyes remained dry, but they burned in their sockets.

  Trebonius reached out to him and silently squeezed his shoulder. Cassabus was shaking his head back and forth in denial, while Proculus staggered back, fumbled blindly for a chair, and collapsed heavily onto it. Sintas Tertius buried his head in his hands, and a moment later, his shoulders began to convulse as he wept silently.