by Vox Day
The comtesse laughed and tucked her wayward hair behind her left ear. “I said nothing of the kind, my dear prince of reavers. I am merely telling you that my weapons are not the sort you are likely to know, or perhaps even understand. Nor are the battles you are unwittingly asking me to wage on your behalf any less vicious for all that they are bloodless. Well, not entirely bloodless, I suppose. On occasion one can admittedly find the judicious use of the duel to be of some utility.”
Fjotra had no idea what the Savonnean woman was trying to tell them. “I no know.”
“No, my lovely girl, you most certainly do not.” She squeezed Fjotra’s hand, then patted it. “But you must understand this, my pets. We have two weeks. The Duchesse de Meridiony is giving a ball, and His Majesty is going to be there. So is the Red Prince, which may actually be more important. Naturally, I shall be there as well. I will bring you in the guise of one of my guards, Brynjolf. And you, lovely Fjotra, shall be my lady-in-waiting. How fortunate that the two of you are suitably handsome, which I doubt escaped the viscomte’s eye. And then, we shall arrange what we can arrange.
“But you must understand two things. Not everyone in Savonne will be as well-disposed toward you and your people as the viscomte and me. You reavers have harried our coasts and rivers for five hundred years and for some, the bitterness runs deep.”
“Some hate us, we know,” Brynjolf admitted. “But if you make them see danger to all Savoners, not just Dalarn, they need help!”
“Oh, I shall certainly be sure everyone who matters understands the danger, never fear,” the comtesse said, her green eyes sparkling with an emotion that Fjota could not read. But the smile she gave them this time was more fox than wolf. “Indeed, I imagine I shall have little difficulty in convincing certain grand personages to see something rather more important, which is to say, the opportunity this presents.”
MARCUS
The ride from the battlefield to the legionary camp was not a long one, only about five leagues. But after the long hours of tedium and terror had climaxed in a furious orgy of violence, it was exhausting, which made it feel more as if it were twenty leagues.
Marcus pitied the poor infantry, who had not only borne the brunt of the savage combat throughout the day, but who were now forced to march back to camp under their own power. On most days, Marcus and his fellow riders bristled at the way their horseless fellows taunted them as being lazy and effete, but today he found that he didn’t mind the occasional jibes from the infantry they rode past.
Their victory had been as complete and as glorious and as devoid of personal injury as any virgin soldier could hope his first battle to be. What he wouldn’t have given for Caitlys to see it—what a view she would have had soaring high over the battlefield on her hawk!
Fortex had not only been correct about the goblins being on the verge of running, but his timing had been absolutely magnificent. After driving the wolfriders from the field and killing more than one hundred of them in the process, the Second Knights had wheeled left and smashed into the goblin infantry, pinning them between the crashing charges of the cavalry and the inflexible line of the infantry’s steel shields.
The decurions estimated that more than twelve thousand goblins had been slain, pierced by swords and pila, crushed by stones, impaled by bolts, trampled by hooves and speared by lances. The Second lost only five dead—one to an arrow, two had fallen off their horses and been trampled in the initial charge, and two more had fallen to maddened wolves fighting on in the absence of their riders. Another fifteen had been wounded, including the decurion, Julianus, but only the two who suffered broken legs were seriously injured.
For the knights, the most dangerous part of the battle had not been fighting the enemy, but simply riding down the steep incline of the hill on which they’d been positioned.
It would have been a famous victory even without his cousin’s single combat with the goblin cavalry commander, which was already approaching mythic proportions. The legend of Fortex’s Duel was growing throughout the legion. Marcus had already heard a version of the tale from a man in the fourth cohort in which the skull-helmed goblin killed by his cousin was transformed into a fearsome mountain orc, and the big black wolf upon which it had ridden into a bear.
Finally, the familiar wooden walls of the legion’s camp came within view. They were more easily seen now than would normally have been the case, as the massive field of tents and wagons belonging to the female camp followers and the many small merchants who lived an itinerant life following the soldiers around was missing. The legion’s camp was usually a lively place akin to a moderately-sized, albeit movable city, but because the XIVth was more than ten days march from the nearest town or legionary fort, the general had ordered everything and everyone that was not essential to battle left behind at Berdicum. Most notably, the small army of women who lived off the lusts of the soldiery in one way or another.
A few foolish traders attempted to follow the legion when they’d marched out of the fortified town, but the burning of their wares on the first night, followed by a public flogging of the vendors, had been sufficient to prevent anyone else from imitating them.
The sentries on guard at the gate of the Via Praetoria saluted Marcus as he entered the camp. He was surprised to see Julianus, his arm neatly bandaged, standing near them. The decurion’s face was grim. He didn’t seem to be at all inclined to celebrate the day’s victory. He waved Marcus over.
“Come with me, Tribune Valerius. Take his horse to the stables, Jeron. What’s your lad’s name?”
“Ask for Deccus,” Marcus told the rider as he dismounted and handed the reins of the horse to him. “Is something wrong, Decurion?”
“Why did you let him to ride out to meet the goblin, Clericus? He was your cousin! You couldn’t stop him?
“Are you talking about Fortex?” Marcus had to walk faster to keep up with the bigger man.
“Do you have any other cousins here?”
“Of course I tried to stop him! I told him to ignore the gobbo’s challenge and to remember your orders, and I kept telling him that until he told me to shut up! You know Fortex. Since when does he listen to me? He isn’t in trouble, is he?”
The decurion shook his head and spat. “Worry about your own arse, Clericus. The men say it was you, not Fortex, who gave the order to advance, when we all knew damn well our orders were to stay on that hill. What in the seven dirty hells were you thinking? How hard was it to do what I damned well told you and just hold your filthy ground?”
“How could I? He ordered me to hold the legion until they looked like breaking, then ride in after him. What was I supposed to do? Anyhow, you saw what happened. He was right.”
The decurion shrugged and didn’t press him further. Marcus wondered how much trouble he was in. He had caused the Second Knights to disobey its orders, he couldn’t deny that. But he’d only done so in obedience to an order given by the Knights’ commander. But would Saturnius see it that way? For that matter, would his father? Of the two generals, he had the sneaking suspicion that the legate would be more inclined to be merciful than the stragister.
They walked past the rows of butterfly tents belonging to the officers, including the tent Marcus shared with Gaius Marcius. But instead of turning right on at the Forum, where those who had been wounded in the early part of the battle were being tended, the Decurion turned left.
Among those being treated, Marcus recognized Quince de Sorrengis, an ornery young legionary who hailed from a small village within the Valerian lands, arguing with the doctor trying to sew his wounded shoulder closed. He would have liked to stop and see how the Valerian liege man was faring, but it was not an option. Julianus didn’t so much as glance at the group of wounded soldiers but continued walking toward the large canvas tent in which the standards were kept.
“Decurion, where are we going?”
“The general’s quarters,” he snapped. “Your father wants to see you.”
A n
umber of officers were gathered in the huge open tent that served as the headquarters. They looked quizzically at Marcus and the decurion as the two of them passed by. They arrived at the regal, crimson-dyed leather tent that belonged to the legion’s general, Sextus Valerius Corvus, Propraetor, Count of Vallyria, and Senate-appointed Stragister Militum and Dux Ducis Bello for the Senate and People of Amorr’s campaign against the Chalonu, Vakhuyu, and Insobru tribes.
The guards saluted both Marcus and Julianus without expression and stood aside to let them enter.
His father was seated in an imposing wooden chair that served as a makeshift throne when it was deemed necessary to cow the enemies of Amorr who were summoned before it. By the looks of it, he was deep in conversation with the legion’s general and Caius Proculus, the senior centurion. All three of them were still wearing their battle armor. Proculus’s right arm was well stained with blood too dark to be his own. Marcus did his best to avoid looking directly at any of them, but instead focused on the chair.
The crows that had become his father’s sigil were carved into towering ears that rose from the back of the chair, while its legs were shaped into large talons to signify the eagles of the legions, one for each that Marcus’s father presently commanded. The other two were both many leagues away, and considering the apparent lack of pleasure with which all three officers greeted his entrance, Marcus found himself fervently wishing that he was serving with either of them right now instead of Legio XVII.
“I brought Tribune Valerius here immediately, General,” Julianus addressed his father. “I met him at the camp gate, as instructed.”
“Thank you, Decurion. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to learn that at least one officer in this legion is capable of following orders. I see you took a wound to your arm?”
Julianus glanced at the white bandage wrapped around his left arm and shrugged. “Just an arrow. It ain’t nothing, sir.”
“Decurion, were you there when my nephew and my son were overcome with what I can only conclude to have been a moment of sheer madness?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry to say I weren’t. After I took that arrow, I thought I’d have the medicus wrap it up since those howlers didn’t look like they was in any mood for a fight. Nothing had happened all day. So you might say it were my fault, General.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Marcus Saturnius broke in. “Valerius Fortex is neither green nor a child, and while he may not have as many years of experience as you do, he is your superior officer. As for Valerius Clericus here, this may be his first campaign, but given his scholarly training, he is perfectly capable of understanding an order as simple as the one he received today. You are no more to blame in this than the draconarius or any other knight who was on that hill.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Legate.”
“The disciplinary issue aside, Decurion,” Saturnius said, “I must commend you for the performance of your men today. I saw them rout the wolfriders on the enemy right. See that they receive a double wine ration tonight with my compliments.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. General. Proculus.” The decurion saluted crisply, bowed, and marched from the tent without once glancing at Marcus. The centurion saluted too and followed suit. After the two officers departed, Corvus leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together. He still looked weary, but for the first time since Marcus had entered the tent, he smiled at his son. He rose stiffly from his chair, then startled Marcus by walking over to him and embracing him. “It has been a long day, but I am pleased to see that you are unscathed, Tribune Valerius. How did you find your first battle?”
“I didn’t piss myself,” he answered truculently, looking from his father to the legate. “There was a considerable amount of noise. I discovered horses can slip on goblin blood, if there’s enough of it splashed about. Oh, and one more thing. Even when the enemy is running away instead of standing his ground, your sword arm gets tired much faster than you would have thought.”
He wasn’t sure if he’d killed eight or nine goblins today, but he remembered exactly how heavy his sword felt by the time he’d leaned out of his saddle to chop down the last one. He was vaguely surprised he’d managed to hang onto it.
“How very fortunate for you that you were able to learn such lessons so early in your career.” Saturnius poured wine from a winesack into three crystal goblets. “After my first battle, the singular lesson learned by most of the men in my century was that neither a shield nor a breastplate will suffice to stop a dwarven battleaxe. Sadly, they were in no position to profit from the lesson afterward.”
Marcus winced. “Can I conclude from the fact that you are offering me wine instead of screaming at me that I am not in imminent danger of mortification?”
“Never fear, Marcus Valerius,” Saturnius said, glancing at him and chuckling. “Even when we are under the Modus Austeris, we are not inclined to punish inexperienced young tribunes every time they make foolish decisions or issue unaccountably stupid orders. If we were to make a habit of it, we would very soon find ourselves without any young tribunes at all.”
Marcus was almost embarrassed at the intensity of his relief. Not that he was actually worried that Saturnius would dare to have him flogged or broken, but he was fully aware that he had violated his orders to remain on the hilltop.
“As it stands,” Saturnius said, distributing the goblets, “I would not even go so far to say you made the wrong decision, considering the impossible position in which you were placed by your cousin.
Marcus froze, wondering if he was going to be put on the spot and queried about Fortex’s actions. But neither Saturnius nor Corvus seemed inclined to ask him further questions about the subject. He breathed a sigh of relief. If he wasn’t going to get in trouble over disobeying orders, he couldn’t imagine that the hero of the hour was going to, either.
His father, being the senior officer there, gave the toast. “To Amorr, to her Senate and People, and to her most recently victorious general, Marcus Saturnius!” They drank and Marcus was unsurprised to discover that, even deep within enemy territory, the wine served in the general’s quarters was a rather better quality than that which was provided to the junior officers.
“Thank you, Sextus Valerius,” Saturnius said. “But I should say it is more properly accounted as yet another famous victory for your most noble House.”
Corvus snorted. “I can’t blame you for not wanting to take any credit for it. Perhaps I should give Polycarpus free rein. I have little doubt that anyone who takes the sort of liberties with the truth that that ‘poet’ does would soon have this shabby little affair numbered among the most valiant triumphs our scribes have ever recorded.”
“Perhaps you should consider doing so.” Saturnius laughed. It was an infectious sound, so much so that it drew another half-smile from his father. “I imagine we’ll be fortunate if the Senate and People even manage to recall they are presently at war with the goblin tribes. These particular tribes, in any event. No doubt our letters will be the first that half of the Senate has heard of it.”
Corvus shook his head, but Marcus wasn’t listening anymore. Having escaped the prospect of punishment, he found that the nervousness and fear that had been keeping him going now that the battle was over were sustaining him no longer. He was finding it hard to even pretend to pay attention to the conversation.
At length, his father removed the goblet from his hand. “You’re dead on your feet, Marcus. Go now: Wash that goblin blood off you and get some sleep while you can. You’ll have an hour, perhaps two, before we summon the general assembly.”
Marcus nodded dutifully, saluted both Saturnius and his father as sharply as he could manage, then staggered out of the tent and down the Via Principalis in the direction of his tent. He decided the washing up could wait, but before he took a nap, he was determined to write down his impressions of the battle while they were still fresh in his mind.
He woke to the sound of horns, startled to discover that he was s
eated. He had fallen asleep at his camp desk in the midst of attempting to record his thoughts about the day’s earlier events. He wiped at his left cheek, which was slick with his own saliva, and squinted in the receding light at what he had written.
Small-boned and wiry creatures. Skin is green, but ranges from light yellow-green to dark grey-green. Faces sharp-featured and bestial, but not especially reminiscent of any specific animal. Their speech is said to be guttural, but war chants and cries during battle tend to mostly consist of high-pitched shrieking. Could not discern any coherent words. Armor is crude, consisting of either boiled leather reinforced with wood or various bits and pieces of metal or chainmail acquired from men and orcs over time. Do they even have their own metalworkers? LittleNo tactical imagination. Poorly disciplined as units but individually brave in some cases. The suddenness with which they collapsed into a routed mass almost like scaring up a flock of birds. The rear lines
Marcus desperately wanted to continue writing things down while he could still clearly recall the shape of the battle as well as the foe against whom it had been fought. But as his mind began to emerge from its sleepy fog, he realized that the horns were summoning the entire legion to the forum in the middle of the camp, as his father had told him earlier. Fortunately, except for his arm greaves and his helmet, he was still wearing his armor, so he was able to simply slide his helmet on his head, grab his greaves in one hand, and a moment later, he was on his way down the Via Praetoria.
As he approached the forum, he could see the great mass of the men gathering in orderly formation behind their standards. Four of his fellow five tribunes were already standing on the two sides of the raised wooden platform behind the legate and the laticlavius. He made his way past the rows of legionnairies and mounted the stand, still tightening his greaves.
Lucius Volusenus nodded to him in a friendly manner as Marcus, being junior to him, took his place to Volusenus’s left. Marcus imitated the others, and stood with his chin upraised and arms behind his back.