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

by Vox Day

“How do they fight at night?” Marcus ignored the primus pilus. “Do either of you know?”

  “They don’t,” answered de Forbonnais. “They’re scared of it. Too many run-ins with dwarves and elvenkind, I imagine.”

  “Pauvre pisse,” Renier said at almost the same time. He spat into the fire, which hissed momentarily, as if protesting. “The pillards will be more active after dark than the main body, because their wolves can see at night and don’t spook so easy. Them pigs, they are usually staked to the ground come nightfall.”

  “And they have no chain of command worth speaking of, from everything I’ve read,” Marcus mused aloud. “That alone would preclude any substantive maneuvers after dark.”

  “Their warleaders are usually the biggest, fiercest members of the chieftain’s clan. The warbands can range from ten or so up to several hundred.”

  “Not the smartest?”

  “Who can tell?” De Forbonnais shrugged. “Even if there was a proper general among them, the rabble are such that they would not be capable of understanding, much less complying with, any complicated orders. The warleaders have teams of overseers who whip the foot into place, usually the heavy cavalry as well. The light cavalry, the wolfriders, run freely as they see fit, mostly as scouts and skirmishers. They’re less tractable than our own peasant levies, and even our own foot isn’t capable of doing anything more at night than sleeping or running away.”

  Marcus nodded. A plan of attack was beginning to take form in his mind. He closed his mind, envisioning the map over which he’d been repeatedly poring the past few days. Darkness was the key. With each setting sun, darkness removed virtually all of the orcs’ advantages, while costing the legion little more than the ability of the spotters to identify targets for the ballistarii. He leaned forward, seeking to feel the heat from the fire against his face.

  It wasn’t enough to make them run. They already ran from the cavalry patrols that were active in the north. And despite the large size of the enemy force, it wasn’t a proper army, it was more like a massive band of raiders who would sooner flee than face a real fight, even one where the numbers were heavily in their favor. Chasing them back to the main body might relieve the pressure on a few besieged towns and villages, and it would certainly meet the objectives set him by the king’s men, but it would accomplish nothing. Within months, perhaps even weeks, the same troublesome pillards would be back, most likely marching in the van of a much larger and more dangerous army.

  What he needed was to find a way to apply the legion’s particular science. He thought back to what he now thought of as the last day of his boyhood, the final moments of his childhood innocence. His father had explained to him the abstract concept of Saturnius’s geometries, describing the way the movement of the legion’s elements over the course of the battle could be seen as lines and blocks, weapons that were moved into position in order to pierce the enemy units in a manner more deadly than any sword-thrust or crush them more finely than a millstone. It was dangerous, he realized, to apply the tactical concept too literally to strategic operations; to do so meant ignoring terrain, logistics, troop quality, and any number of other vital elements.

  But it could be done. And he couldn’t shake one of Frontinus’s examples from his mind. He pictured the terrified herd thundering down the hillside, blazing brands affixed to their horns, sending the surrounding enemy scattering into the night in every direction. How did it go, exactly? He closed his eyes, and with a little effort, was able to envision the text.

  “He tied torches to the horns of all the cattle he had in the camp (and there were many), and when night came he lighted the torches, extinguished all the camp fires, and commanded the strictest silence. Then he ordered the most courageous of his young men to drive the cattle up the rocky places between the enemy and the pass.”

  Ah, it seemed he didn’t remember it quite correctly. The flaming cattle had merely been a distraction, they had drawn the attention of the besieging enemy, they had not frightened him away. But there was a world of difference between well-trained, heavily armored Amorran infantry and a rabble of orc raiders. And then there was the fact that the cattle the legion presently possessed were required for purposes considerably more important than scaring orcs at night.

  Then again, one could tie a torch to a legionary as easily as a cow. He smiled, then reached into the fire and withdrew a newly added brand that had only caught fire on one end. As the flames guttered out, he marked three spots on the dirt in front of him, then drew three lines.

  “What’s on your mind, General?”

  Marcus ignored Proculus. Instead, he tossed the brand back onto the fire, then sat back and dusted off his hands. “Capitaine Renier, I wish to hire you this evening, for a single night’s ride. You will be well compensated. If Monseigneur de Forbonnais provides you with an escort, do you think you can arrange to locate the prince’s camp by morning?”

  The other four men sitting around the fire all stared at him for a moment. De Forbonnais was the first to find his tongue. “The hour is late. My men will have been drinking. Is it really a matter of such urgency, Lord Valerius?”

  The old mercenary took a long swig of the wineskin, then wiped his mouth and met Marcus’s eyes. There was no avid greed in his face, only a wary respect. He nodded slowly, then rubbed his finger against his thumb. “Ten deniers. Silver. Give me two knights for company and I’ll take the prince your message, garçon. I can hold my wine and neither the night nor the forest holds any fears for Saint Léopold.”

  “It will hold them for the déchets, Capitaine.” Marcus smiled grimly. “I will write out the scroll while Monseigneur prepares your escort. But you may tell the prince to keep his men ready for company the night after next. And tell him that as I intend to make a present of orcs to his Royal Highness, I shall expect a similarly handsome present of their ears in return.”

  Proculus laughed. “A night march and a night attack. Ave, Valerius! We’ll give the prince his glorious victory, and all he needs to do is sit tight and play anvil to our hammer.”

  “Are you mad?” demanded de Forbonnais. “Lord Valerius, there are twenty-five thousand orcs rampaging throughout the March! You cannot intend to attack them without first joining forces with His Royal Highness! You have barely five thousand men!”

  “Five thousand?” Marcus shrugged in the face of the noble’s disbelief. “I think two cohorts should be sufficient. And I’m not intending to attack them, Monseigneur. I intend to kill them. The larger part of them, I expect. If you will excuse a paraphrase of the Sacred Word of Our Lord, their slain will be thrown out, their dead bodies will stink, and the March will be soaked with their blood.”

  He reached for the wineskin and Capitaine Renier handed it to him. He squeezed a long stream into his mouth, swallowed it, and handed it back. “Their ears, on the other hand, will travel to Lutèce. I understand there is a handsome market for them there.”

  The men were visibly exhausted as they went about the various tasks necessary to construct the castra. Their movements were slow, and even the shouts of their centurions seemed a little subdued. The sun was already setting, as they had marched nearly ten more leagues than their usual twenty today, not stopping until they reached the borders of the massive forest in which the enemy army was known to be sheltering.

  “You’re taking a terrible risk, you know, Marcus.” Cassabus’s concerns were visible on his tanned face.

  “Most of which falls on your shoulders. I know. But an attack now will be much less dangerous than it looks.” Marcus sought to reassure Cassabus, who would be commanding the detached centuries. “Surprise is the key. They don’t know we’re here and they’re not looking for trouble to their rear. If for some reason they don’t run, if you meet any serious resistance, you’re to fall back here at once. Be sure the crews understand they are to leave their machines behind in the event of a retreat. If you’re forced to fall back and I see any crew has salvaged their machine, I’ll have them flogged.�
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  The praefectus winced, but nodded. It took time, but war machines could be replaced. This far north of Amorr, legionaries were considerably harder to come by.

  “At dawn, we’ll feed the men and push north as fast as we can. You’ll have a squadron of horse, plus four Savondese guides with mounts, so use them to stay in regular contact with us. You’ll only have to hold for a few hours after the sun rises. Keep the pressure on them so long as they look like running. Once you see any sign they’re starting to regroup, fall back to a defensible position. Everything I’ve read, everything the capitaine told us, indicates that they’re not likely to counterattack before we relieve you.”

  “I understand the plan, Marcus. And I understand your reasoning. It’s risky, it’s not crazy. But the fact is you’re sending me to attack five legions’ worth of orcs with only five centuries!”

  “I know that. And you know that. What matters is that they don’t know that. The scouts have found their camp, so as long as they don’t see you coming, and I don’t know how they possibly could once night falls, they won’t know if you’re hitting them with five centuries or ten legions.”

  “I wish I had ten legions. I wish I had two!”

  Now it was Marcus’s turn to wince. He knew Cassabus wasn’t trying to remind him of the legion he’d lost, the legion that abandoned him in favor of Magnus after the Battle of the Three Legions, but the reminder stung even so. “So do I.”

  “Why are you so sure we’ll be able to push them all the way out of the trees? It’s a long way from that big clearing in which they’ve settled to the edge of the forest.”

  “That’s where the villages are. That’s where the supplies they need are. Once you drive them from the camp and they’re forced to leave all the goods they’ve pillaged behind, they’ll have no choice but to emerge or starve.”

  “Or turn on each other.”

  “I don’t care who kills them, so long as someone does it in a manner that permits us to collect their ears.”

  Cassabus grinned despite himself. “You’ve turned outright barbarian, Marcus.”

  “Paying the men is only second to keeping them alive. If the Savondese would pay for their balls, I’d harvest them too.”

  “Now that I’d like to see!” Cassabus snorted.

  Marcus put both hands on the praefectus’s shoulders. It was far from normal procedure for the thirdmost senior officer of the legion, the camp commander, to lead such an attack, but Marcus had come to value the older man’s calm and patient detachment. Their officer corps was perilously thin; Trebonius was too inexperienced, Proculus too prone to risk-taking, and Tertius too hot-headed, but Marcus knew he could rely on Cassabus to extricate the men under his command before they were seriously imperiled. Killing the orcs and driving them towards the Savondese was the objective, but minimizing their own casualties was even more important.

  “I would lead the attack myself, Titus Cassabus, if I could. You know that. I trust you more than any other man in the legion and that is why I chose you over the others. And know this: I have no fears for you, Cassabus, none at all. Put them to the torch, put them to the sword, and they will flee before you. They have never faced the iron of Amorr. They will not stand before the valor of a Valerian legion!”

  Cassabus nodded, his face set like stone. “Well, if this goes well, at least I can hope to claim a cognomen of distinction. Aleator would be fitting, or perhaps Phreneticus.”

  “It only looks like rolling the dice or foolishness to those without the eyes to see. You cannot let the men see your doubts.”

  “Are you hiding yours from me?”

  “There is nothing to hide! Do you not trust me?”

  “I do, Marcus Valerius. But even the most trustworthy man fools himself from time to time. Are you sure you are not fooling yourself in your desire to strike the first blow against the orc?”

  Or in your desire to win a victory that will finally secure your place with the legion, were the words the older man left unsaid, words that Marcus could see in the other’s eyes. “I am certain. We can only surprise them once, Titus Cassabus. Once they know our quality, they will do their best to avoid meeting us directly again, and being more heavily armored, we cannot match their speed. This is our one and only opportunity to take them wholly unawares and prevent them from escaping us. And there is another factor.”

  “Such as?”

  “The money.” He smiled and held up two fingers, then crossed his fingers. “The two factors are intertwined. Do you think the crown will be so willing to promise us a silver an ear once they learn how effectively the legion butchers its foes? We can feed the men and keep them paid for months—months, Cassabus! And an opportunity such as this will not come again, not soon, at any rate.”

  “I see,” the praefactus said, nodding slowly. “It is still a gamble, Marcus, but I can see why you deem it a gamble worth taking. I only wish I were not the one sitting in the sling, being hurled at the foe!”

  “I can’t blame you.” Marcus slapped Cassabus on the shoulder. “Feed your men when they wake, with a double-ration of meat and a half-ration of wine, then see that they are confessed and blessed by Father Gennadius before you march. I will be at the gate with Trebonius to see you off.”

  The praefectus nodded, saluted, and went off in search of the five centurions who would be serving under him tonight. He would not sleep, Marcus knew, nor would the other officers. He could only hope that the lack of sleep would not overly hinder the men’s decision-making faculties. He should sleep himself, he knew, for tomorrow would be a long and brutal day, but he doubted he would be able to fall asleep no matter how badly he needed the rest. His mind was racing with all the possibilities, all the various outcomes, and far too many of them were bad.

  If, against his expectations, the orcs stood firm and somehow managed to encircle Cassabus and his five centuries, they would likely be wiped out. In their heavy armor, his legionaries could not outrun the orc raiders, still less the goblin wolf-riders. The legion would be literally decimated and Marcus would almost surely find himself facing an open revolt, from the men and the junior centurions at the very least, if not the senior officers themselves. For all that they had supported his decision to risk the attack, he knew that it was more his right to make the decision that they’d been supporting than the decision itself. He’d failed them once, and failed them badly. He knew his authority might not survive a second such failure, and not even a patrician nomen gentilicium from a much-storied House Martial would be sufficient to preserve it.

  Perhaps he should prepare for the possibility, set a few spies among the men, and imprison any likely troublemakers. His father had told him there were always a few instinctive rebels in any unit. Keeping them under watch, or even under guard, might dampen any ardor for insurrection. And yet, betraying mistrust of his men might spark the very unrest he sought to avoid, were it to become known.

  He watched the men of the eighth cohort raising the gate for the Porta Decumana. He could see Claudius Didius, their centurion, shouting instructions as the men pulled at the ropes that set the freshly cut beams into place. Although they were tired, Marcus could not see a single malingerer in their midst; no doubt every man in the cohort understood that with the enemy nearby, they were liable to be attacked at any moment. And while a few of them occasionally shot envious looks at the tents of the slumbering men excused from their usual duties, he guessed that most of them had enough experience to know that a wise man wouldn’t want to trade places with them.

  They were good men. Fine soldiers. He had gotten to know their true colors during the Deep March. How could he fail to trust them now? How could he expect them to trust him to lead them in the future if he failed to give them the benefit of the doubt now? It was one thing to hold his tongue about Corvus. That was a family matter, and no man would blame him for his silence. But to set spies upon them would be a violation of confidence from which he might never recover. Even if the men never found out, t
he senior centurions would know. And necessity or not, such a demonstration of weakness might well plant seeds of doubt in their own minds.

  The commander who expects to be obeyed must first show himself worthy of obedience, his father once told him. Was it not true, then, that the commander who expects to be trusted must first show himself worthy of trust? No, he decided. He would set no spies. It would be better to fall to a traitor’s blade in the night than sever the sacred bond between legate and legion.

  Of course, Marcus Saturnius may well have felt the same before being betrayed by his own centurions. It was a haunting thought for the dead man’s successor.

  Grant me wisdom, Father, he prayed, not for the first or the fiftieth time today. Lord give them, the servants of your Immaculate Son, victory in the dark night to come, in His most Clean and Perfect Name!

  He felt like finding Father Gennadius and confessing himself; being purified and blessed might lift some of the terrible burden he was now feeling descend upon him. But the priest would already be occupied with the men of Cassabus’s detachment, at least those who were too troubled by sin or fear to sleep. He could wait. He would have to wait.

  That should be one of the Iron Laws of the Legion, he thought. Thou shalt wait. Thou shalt wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, until finally, at long last, thou shalt know terror sufficient to turn thy bowels to water.

  Now that was enough, he told himself. There was too much to be done before tomorrow morning to permit himself the indulgence of useless worry. Cassabus was right to call himself Aleator. The die was cast, or at least the decision to cast it had been made.

  What would you do, father? Not for the first time, he desperately wished he was still simply one of the legion’s tribunes, carrying out orders rather than issuing them as its commander. What a perfect fool he had been to harbor ambitions of command! Had he known two years ago what he knew now, nothing, not even Corvus’s deepest disapproval, would have convinced him to abandon his studies and place his name before the assembled tribes.