by Vox Day
A text, it must be. But where to begin? One day Cassius Claudo had stared at a blank parchment and then written that first word from which had sprung the magnificent Summa Spiritus. Presumably Aestus had also done the same with his Ordo Selenus Sapiens. It was like planting a seed, only he did not know from whence the seed would come. Did one simply wait for inspiration to strike? That seemed insensible. After all, a man might wait all his life for inspiration to arrive of its own accord.
And why should he wait? There were few men who knew the elves well, and not since his grandfather’s grandfather’s day had man been permitted to enter the HighCity. Claudo’s masterpiece was based entirely on human sources. If on this journey Marcus might somehow be granted access to the works of great elven philosophers whose very existence was yet unknown to the scholars of the Empire, he might well hope to write something of interest, if not of note.
The elves must be his subject, then, and the elves alone. He would focus solely on them, a subject deemed well worthy of contemplation by the mere fact of the Sanctiff’s particular interest, in the place of the wider scope of the Summa Spiritus. It would be a second Summa, an Elvic Summa. A Summa Elvetica!
The Castrate’s method would not suffice. Marcus had no authority. His words bore no intellectual weight. He could not just proclaim a thing and expect men to hold it to be true. Perhaps his Summa could be in the form of a dialogue. No, too pretentious by far. Only an arrogant and supercilious soul like Depotapolis with his bent for mendacious manipulation would think that his carefully orchestrated playing of the two sides toward an inevitable, if not necessarily logical, end was a conclusive form of argument.
Marcus could rely upon neither reputation nor authority. Therefore he required a more systemic and methodical approach to the matter. Yes, that was the way. A systematic consideration of the issue would force him to begin at the most natural place to begin, namely, the beginning.
Does an elf have a soul? No, that was taking it too far at the start. In the beginning was God, who made man in His image. God also made the animals, albeit not in His image. God also made the elves, but were they then more properly akin to man or to the animals? He already inclined toward the former, but upon reflection, there were significant points to be made on either side. What really was needed was a—
“You have an interesting servant there.”
Marcus jumped in his saddle, coming only reluctantly out of his contemplations. He turned to see who had spoken to him. It was one of the younger Michaeline priests. He rode up alongside Marcus and indicated the dwarf.
“Hmm? Oh, yes.”
Marcus searched his memory for the Michaeline’s name. He’d been introduced to them all but it was hard to remember which of the twenty names belonged to this particular priest.Nehemin? No. Zephanus, that was it. He blinked, realizing that the priest was still talking.
“You don’t think the elves will object?”
“About what?”
“Why, about your dwarf, of course.” Zephanus flushed as the sorcerer-elf, seemingly far enough ahead of them in the train to be out of earshot, suddenly turned around and glanced at him. Then the sorcerer shrugged and turned back to his conversation with his elven companion.
“Apparently not,” Marcus said, stifling a smile. Marcipor was riding ahead, engaged in an animated conversation with three of the Michaelines and gesturing in a lordly manner.
“Well, what do you know?” Zephanus said. “Those long ears really do serve a purpose after all!”
“All things serve a purpose, brother,” Marcus said. “Our inability to discern that purpose does not indicate its absence, only our shortcomings.”
Zephanus eyed him speculatively. “Ah, a philosopher. So, I assume you’re the Valerian. The Valerian who does not prefer war. Do forgive me. I thought it was the other lad up there.”
“You’re not the first to make that mistake. My man Marcipor hasn’t quite mastered the art of servility.”
“I suspect your dwarf hasn’t either,” the priest commented dryly, glancing at the taciturn Lodi, who had yet to utter more than a grunt to Marcus or anyone else throughout the morning. “I should have known you’d be less grandiose. Your father isn’t one to throw his weight around, either. It’s probably just as well. I imagine one Magnus in the family is enough.”
“You know my father?”
“Yes,” Zephanus said. “I served under General Valerius last fall in the GarmaghalRiver campaign. He brought two of his legions across the river—Seventh and Ninth, I believe—and the Abbott-General sent him three squads of Michaelines as reinforcements. I remember he wasn’t very pleased to see us when we arrived. He’d asked for four. But happily, as it turned out, we didn’t have to do much more than suppress their shamans and so forth. Their infantry didn’t show much stomach for a fight once we crossed and smashed their center. I doubt we lost more than fifty or sixty men, all told.”
Marcus nodded, remembering his father’s letter that had, he’d said, been dictated as the first legion crossed the river, supposedly while under fire from goblin archers and artillery.
For all that he was an undemonstrative man, his father did seem to have somewhat of a flair for the dramatic when it came to writing letters. Nearly half of the letters Marcus had received from Lucius Valerius were allegedly written during the course of battle. Marcus wasn’t sure if it was because the proximity of danger caused his father to think of his family or if he merely sought an easily impressed audience to appreciate his casual heroics.
“They had an illusionist, did they not?”
Zephanus laughed. “They did indeed! The wretched little beast conjured up a vision of a terrible flash flood just as the first Century reached the far bank and scared half the VIIth to death. We probably lost as many fools to drowning as fell to any of their quarrels that day. It could have been real trouble. Had they counterattacked at that moment it would have hit us hard, but fortunately, by the grace of God, they held their ground.”
Marcus frowned. He didn’t like to hear that his father had apparently come so near to failure, especially in such a minor action. The victory at Garmaghal had barely registered in Amorr. Had his father’s legions not been involved, he probably wouldn’t have known about it himself. His displeasure must have been evident, because Zephanus stopped laughing and raised a finger.
“No, lad, it was hardly the general’s fault. He’d warned us to watch for mischief with the waters. But we were looking for elementals and the like. We weren’t expecting goblins to have an illusionist. There’s not so many vauders among the gobbos, you see, it being mostly mortal men who go in for the more abstract sorceries.” He glanced forward at their alien companions, shaking his head. “Or elves. Especially elves.”
“I don’t know that I understand the distinction,” Marcus said. “My tutor, Father Aurelius, isn’t enthusiastic about us learning about magic of any kind, not even the battle magics. I’ve picked a few things up from my father’s tales or from a few historical accounts of the classic engagements, but I’m not even sure what the difference between an illusionist and a shaman is.”
“No, I can’t imagine your tutor would be,” Zephanus said with a smile. “Not if he’s ordained. He’s right about that, with regard to most students. Your average priestling has no need of such information. It would serve no purpose to dangle the evils of a fallen world in front of young minds being honed for the higher purpose. But you, on the other hand, on this journey are going to be surrounded by enchanters, illusionists, sorcerers, and even archmages in a matter of weeks. So before you offend the wrong elf, it might behoove you to have some idea of which ones are capable of turning you into a turnip and which ones aren’t.”
“Don’t concern yourself on my account.” Marcus grinned and pointed at Marcipor. “Now he, on the other hand, could likely use your instruction. Without it, we can safely assume he will be in turnip form before nightfall on the day of our arrival.”
“Is it possible he migh
t be more useful as a turnip?”
“I’d say probable,” Marcus responded.
They both laughed, and for the first time since he had mounted his horse that morning, Marcus began to feel that perhaps the embassy might not end in death and debacle. He found himself rather liking the young Michaeline, whose mien was not at all as holy or as grim as he’d expected of a warrior-priest sworn to celibacy and slaughter.
“What did you think of my father?”
“The general?” Zephanus said. “Well, I can’t say that I saw very much of him. This may surprise you, but generals seldom make a habit of consulting with their fideleists. They tell the Michaeline captain where the enemy magic is and what we’re to do, then the captain tells us. Still, it wasn’t hard to see that your father had a lot of experience and that he was a good commander of men. He’s intelligent, he’s straightforward, he knows how to use what he’s got, and he knows how to fight. The legions seek that in a general above all else. Now, perhaps he’s more respected by his men than he is loved, but I imagine he prefers it that way.”
“Yes, I imagine he does,” murmured Marcus.
The comment drew a raised eyebrow from Zephanus, but the young priest continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “General Valerius doesn’t give a lot of speeches or try to inspire the troops with words, like some generals do. My first campaign, we were serving under Nonius Messius. Now there was a man who was well-enamored with the sound of his own voice. He didn’t talk: he orated! He even had a scribe following him around, writing down all of his interminable speeches for posterity.”
“Were they any good?”
“Certainly, if you wanted your soldiers well rested. I can’t say they weren’t effective, either. Listening to Messius was how I learned to sleep on my feet. If you can find a scroll of his speeches when we return to the city, I do recommend you buy one. You’ll find them more effective than warm milk and honey on a sleepless night. After Messius, your father’s notion of an inspiring pre-battle talk came as a real surprise.”
“And what was that? His style of speech, that is.”
“Succint. And pertinent. At Garmaghal, he rode in front of the Centuries in the vanguard, drew his sword, and pointed at the far bank of the river. ‘You can see that they’re over there,’ he said. ‘Go kill them.’ There were no cheers. The drummers didn’t even start in. No one realized he was done! But as it turned out, that was all he needed to say. We certainly killed enough of them that day.”
Marcus smiled, thinking about his father’s characteristic laconism. Marcus had argued with him before his father had left to take command of the legions two years ago. General Valerius had intended to bring him along as a staff aide in order to season him and expose him to battle for the first time, but Marcus had been fixated upon the idea of a career as a Church scholar. Fortunately for him, his mother, Father Aurelius, and Magnus himself were all of the opinion that Valerians had shed enough blood for Amorr and that Marcus was destined for something other than battlefields and bloodshed.
At the time, Marcus had felt almost disdainful of his father’s brutal profession. But now, having come to understand both the need for such men and the high regard in which they were held by others he respected, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had missed a unique opportunity.
“How does one…” He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase his request. “How do you balance the demands of your ordinate with the requirements of your profession?”
Zephanus smiled at him and shook his head as he answered the thought that lurked behind the question rather than the question itself. There was a flicker of what might have been pity in his eyes. “No, Marcus Valerius, our brotherhood is not for you. Should St. Michael ever call you to his banner, you will know that call for what it is and you will have no such questions.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Of course you don’t. Have you ever seen purple whorls of sorcery spinning in the air as an archmage gathers his evil magic together? Have you seen the sky darken under a cloud of imps, sprites, and demons as an army of ahomum shake their spears and chant their guttural thick-tongued summonings? Can you see the aura of green, black, and gold that surrounds yonder elf?” Zephanus pointed to the shorter elf, the one wearing the sorcerer’s robes.
“No, I’ve never seen anything like that. Can you really see such things?”
“I see them, whether I will or no. I can no more not see them than I can avoid seeing you.” Zephanus grinned as Marcus glanced back and forth between him and the elf, obviously trying to see what was not apparent to his eyes. “I don’t jest, young Valerius. The Fifth Eye is how the saint calls us to his service.”
“The Fifth Eye? That sounds … esoteric.”
“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s merely a turn of phrase in honor of Saint Oculatus, whose birth name was Quintus Tullius. He was the first to be given the gift of the holy vision. His men were being slaughtered by elven archers hidden behind an invisibility spell, and when he cried out to God his prayer was answered and he was given the eyes to see behind the accursed veil. Haven’t you heard stories of some lad or other accused of witchcraft because he saw what his elders could not? Fortunately, the brotherhood keeps watch for such promising young men, and they usually manage to intervene before any harm is done.”
“Usually?”
“To be honest, I’ve never heard of anyone blessed with the Fifth Eye being burned. Saint Michael does protect his own. But then, one can’t be sure of what one doesn’t know.”
“No, that’s true. Is it only boys, then, who are called by the saint?”
“To date it’s only been men and boys. I don’t know what we would do should a lass be given the gift. Or what purpose that would serve—a woman can’t ride to war, after all.”
“Elvesses fight,” a gruff voice, redolent with gravel, spoke behind them.
Both Marcus and Zephanus craned their necks to stare at the dwarf, who stared back at them, expressionless, from the swaying back of his fat mule.
“Yes, they do, don’t they, sir dwarf? I beg your pardon. I fear I have forgotten your name.”
Lodi shrugged. “‘Dwarf’ will serve. We’re not likely to encounter many of my kin on the way to the Elflands.”
“His name is Lodi,” Marcus said. “He’s supposed to be the less useless half of my bodyguard, but he’s still recovering from a wound he received at the Colosseo.”
“Ah, a gladiator, then?”
Lodi shook his head.
“Not by choice,” Marcus added. “Nor of my doing. I bought him from the Reds.”
“Did you now? I am curious. How does a dwarf of sufficient martial talents to survive the arena find himself battling criminals and animals for the pleasure of the good people of Amorr in the first place?”
“Never you mind that, priestling,” Lodi muttered. “Sounds as if you’ve fought them too, though.”
“The elves?” Zephanus said. “No, I am too young to have had the honor. And may God and St. Michael grant that does not change throughout the course of this trip. Seeing as we have no eagles to spare, I’d prefer the High King didn’t take my head as a trophy.”
“What would the elf want with eagles?” Lodi asked. “They’re a mite small for his skyriders.”
Marcus laughed. “Not the birds, the legionary standards, Lodi. The elf king still has the two his father took at the battle of Aldus Wald. They’re the only ones Amorr has ever lost that we didn’t manage to take back. My uncle wanted the Sanctiff to trade them in return for the Church recognizing that they are ensoulled.”
Zephanus gave him a skeptical look. “And your uncle is?”
“Lucius Valerius, called Magnus.”
“Hmmm, I should have known. Well, that’s not a bad idea, actually.”
Marcus suppressed his first, indignant protest and contented himself with a mild observation. “It would appear Michaelines don’t go in for a lot of theology. Or philosophy.”
“I woul
dn’t say that,” Zephanus protested with a grin. “Why, sometimes our debates over who to kill first can last for hours!”
Marcus smiled. “Still, I wonder if anyone here actually know how to fight them. Elves, I mean. Not that we want to, but it seems to me that perhaps it might be useful to know something more than the year in which Saddranus fell to the orcs.”
Marcus glanced at Lodi, but the dwarf was staring off into the horizon with an expression that seemed to indicate he was done speaking for the nonce.
Zephanus, on the other hand, was rather more loquacious. “Happily we have with us someone who is said to have battled them on at least one occasion. Do excuse me for but a moment, noble sir and dwarf, and I shall return.”
The young warrior-priest urged his horse into a brief trot, until he reached the side of two of his fellow Michaelines, who were riding in companionable silence farther up the narrow column. Their party stretched out along the road as the sun rose toward its apex.
Zephanus returned, bearing in his wake an older Michaeline with a close-trimmed beard that was shot with grey. His receding hairline was lined with a white scar that nearly spanned his forehead, as if he’d been wearing a helmet so long that it had left a permanent mark upon him. Or, as was much more likely the case, some long-ago enemy had nearly removed the top of his head with a sword or axe on a battlefield that was now otherwise forgotten. His horse was a magnificent chestnut very nearly the equal of Barat, Marcus’s own mount.
“Marcus Valerius,” Zephanus said, “I present the Blessed Sir Cladius Serranus.”
Serranus nodded and Marcus returned the greeting, a bit more deeply. It wasn’t hard to remember to be properly respectful to a veteran soldier who looked as if he had breakfasted on raw orc legs earlier that morning.