by Vox Day
Twelve black-furred aalvarg, bigger and less feral than their grey-furred counterparts, stalked onto the field of battle as if the Dalarn warriors weren’t even there. They were escorting two large timber wolves that were nearly three times the size of any Fjotra had seen before, as well as a powerful aalvarg with mottled fur who wore an iron breastplate as well as a longsword in a scabbard.
The warrior wasn’t quite as big as his black-furred guards, but his posture was more upright than the others, and he radiated a keen sense of intelligence. But he soon showed himself to be as grotesquely bestial as the rest. As he approached the half-eaten remains of the fallen Dalarn, he sniffed at them, then briefly went down to all fours and contemptuously raised his leg, releasing a large stream of urine over the bodies of the dead men. The aalvarg howled with what sounded like delight.
The dead men’s former companions howled too, but in rage.
“Damne salaud!” the elder battlemage cursed, expressing Fjotra’s own indignation.
“Fascinating,” Patrice commented, unmoved by the vulgar spectacle. “They must have a primitive aristocracy of sorts. Perhaps even a priesthood, I shouldn’t wonder. I imagine those two wolves he’s got with him could be some sort of religious iconology, perhaps even symbols of his authority. Why didn’t you say anything about this hiearchy of theirs, Lady Fjotra?”
“I know nothing of this. I never seen it before.”
But the young mage’s suggestion struck her as a sensible one. The dreadful beasts that she had seen before, against whom her father had been fighting for nearly his entire life, had never shown any signs of an formidable intelligence. Their ships were as primitive as their bows, the sharpened sticks they used as spears, and the rock-studded clubs they used as axes. They had always defeated the Dalarn with their ferocity and their sheer numbers. Perhaps only now, with the broken remnants of Fjotra’s people penned into their last redoubt, did their leaders dare to openly show themselves.
With a combination of slaps, snaps, and snarls, the big aalvarg and his bodyguard soon had the huge pack of wolf-people back into a loose form of battle array. One of the giant black-furred monsters claimed the pride of place in the center, while two more assumed positions at the head of the left and right wings.
But their tactics were still simple to the point of nonexistence, as after a series of what sounded like ritualistic barks and howls, the aalvarg commander threw back his head and emitted a long ululating howl that was echoed by his warriors as they lowered themselves to all fours and began to rush forward like the beasts they were.
A few, mostly those armed with scavenged Dalarn weapons, stayed upright as they ran. One forgot that he was carrying an iron-tipped spear, stepped on the butt end of it with his rear leg, and somehow managed to impale his lower jaw.
As Fjotra watched, holding her breath, the speedy grey mass of aalvarg smashed against the round iron shields of the waiting Dalarn warriors like the waves of a tempestuous sea crashing against a rocky island shore.
MARCUS
The legate of Legio XVII looked less than thrilled to see Marcus entering his command tent. Unlike his tribunes, Marcus Saturnius had clearly not bathed, and if the five piles of parchment and assorted scrolls that littered his table were any guide, he would not be visiting the baths of Gallidromum anytime soon. He looked exhausted and hollow-eyed, and he barely managed to lift a hand in response to Marcus’s salute.
“Your father sends his greetings, Clericus. He is well, and I expect you have heard he will be remaining in Amorr for the winter elections. Now, as you can see, I have no time for idle conversation, as it appears that Crescentius has somehow managed to avoid making a single decision of import in my absence.”
“Sir,” Marcus said, refusing to take the hint and leave.
“Still, I suppose I should be grateful that he managed to get the legion here in one piece without getting waylaid or accidentally starting a war with anyone. It would be a bit much to expect bureaucratic efficiency to accompany command competence.”
“Sir,” Marcus repeated.
Saturnius stared at him with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. “Very well, Tribune Valerius, what is it?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, sir. I have some reason to suspect there is already another legion in Cynothicus.”
Saturnius whipped his head up, but then he made a dismissive gesture. “That’s absurd! There isn’t another legion within fifty leagues of us, unless you’re talking about the remnants of the XIVth. But they retreated to Clusium after being thrashed by the Cynothii. The Legio Civitas is heading for their winter quarters, and the new legion Lucius Favronius raised will be training through the winter. I don’t expect to see Durus here until the spring.”
“Did they ever decide what number to give the new legion?” It wasn’t important, but Marcus was curious.
“Favronius wanted to call it XXIX, but since the Senate provided the funds for it, mostly out of new provincial taxes, it’s been named the Legio Provincia. They are an imaginative lot, are they not?” Saturnius waved his hand dismissively. “Why do you think there is another legion in the vicinity? Did you see it?”
“No, sir,” Marcus admitted. “But I spoke to a merchant from Medonis. He took us for soldiers belonging to the legion he’d sold his wares to the previous week. It was either wine or pigs, I don’t recall at the moment. Trebonius will remember. What struck me as significant was that he’d come from Cynothicum.”
The legate frowned. “I find it hard to imagine a Medonite unable to identify his customer, particularly one as large as a legion.”
“I believe it may be Legio III, legate. The merchant said he saw twin lightning symbols at the camp.” Saturnius’s eyes narrowed. As an officer who had spent his entire career in the Valerian legions, the legate understood the potential significance of the legionary icon as well as he did.
“Fulgetra. House Severus.”
“So it would appear, sir. I’m not saying that what the Medonite said was true, sir. But even if we admit the possibility of a strangely elaborate trap that depended upon men from this legion showing up at the baths while he was there, the most reasonable explanation is that he was simply telling us what he saw.”
“That isn’t completely beyond the realm of possibility. Once we arrived here, it was only a matter of time before someone went to the baths in Gallidromum. They’re rather well-known in these parts, and you and Trebonius were far from the first to take the waters there.”
“I agree. But what would be the purpose of convincing us that another legion was already in Cynothicus? To make us rush to their assistance and get ambushed? And why would anyone assume that a Valerian legion would go to the assistance of a Severan one without a formal request or Senatorial order?”
“They’re provincials,” Saturnius pointed out. “They wouldn’t necessarily know about the various Senatorial factions, much less the historical animosity between the two Houses Martial. For all we know, it’s the Cynothii behind this, hoping to draw us onto their ground before Durus arrives with the city legion. This is tremendously interesting information, Clericus, but we must know more before we can expect to proceed in an intelligent manner.”
“I concur, sir. Which is why I would like to volunteer to take a squadron in search of this legion and see if we can confirm the truth of what the merchant says.”
The legate frowned and shook his head. “The new consul suffect would have my head, and rightly so, if I permitted any of our officers to take part in a mission so dangerous. And unnecessary. I’ll not send you or anyone else into the waiting jaws of the Cynothii, or the Severans for that matter. There are much easier and less risky means of learning the truth of the matter.”
“Hiring provincials could be risky. How will you know if they stay bought?”
Saturnius shook his head. “Oh, we’ll send a few local spies out to the likely camp locations. I’ll just have to send the orders to the men we already have in place in Cyn
othicus. I’d be surprised if your father hasn’t got a few of his own there as well. It’s not as if we were ever going to march blind into a rebel province. But what I have in mind is to kill two birds with one stone. I’ll give you that squadron, but you’re not going to need to ride it into Cynothicus—you’re going to use it to catch their spies in our camp.”
“You think they have spies inside our legion?” Marcus was appalled. “We’re being spied on by our own men?”
Saturnius laughed. “Indubitably. For all that it’s been blooded, this is an infant legion, Clericus. It didn’t exist two years ago. And I can assure you, no sooner did the other Houses Martial hear that House Valerius was raising a third legion than they sent one or two likely young men to enlist in it. All of the common legionaries are potentially suspect, including those who come from Valerian lands, as are any officers who didn’t hail from VII or XV. It’s a sensible precaution on the part of the various Houses. I’m sure your father will be sure to place a few men inside the new city legion.”
“And you think that if the merchant was telling the truth and it is Fulgetra, any Severan spies in our camp would know about it.”
“I should think they must. In the event House Severus is up to something it shouldn’t be, their reports won’t be going back to Amorr. It would take too long to reach the legion. Someone, at some point, would have gotten them word.”
A guard entered the tent. “Legate, the Primus Pilus would speak to you about the rotation of the cohorts with regards to the patrol schedule.”
“Send him in.” The general glanced ruefully at the mass of paperwork on the table and spread his hands. “I doubt you’re susceptible, given your ancestry, but never let anyone convince you that there is any glory to be found in command, Marcus Valerius. It’s nothing but paperwork, making decisions for others who should have already made them, then procrastinating in the hopes that the problem will go away. And every once in a great while, your men will fight a battle. If you are fortunate and they happen to win four or five times, you will be celebrated for your military genius. But none of those blasted historians ever sees fit to mention all the damned paperwork.”
“Sir,” Marcus replied, stifling a smile. If ever he had dreamed of finding immortality in the legions, his first campaign had certainly taught him otherwise. “Have you any orders for me?”
“Select your eight best men from the knights. Men from Vallyrium who can hold their tongues. Hold yourself ready and be sure they are excused from all night duties. I shall have more orders for you later. Dismissed, Tribune.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” Marcus saluted as the senior centurion entered the tent behind him.
Already he was wondering what sort of orders he would be receiving. But one thing was certain: He had better start finding a way to take a nap in the afternoon if the legate was going to have him riding throughout the night.
It was three days later when he received his orders directly from the legate himself. Marcus was overseeing the Seventh cohort going through its sword drill in the forum when Marcus Saturnius strolled by along the Via Decumana. He was alone, and he waved Marcus off before Marcus could order the cohort to attention.
“Never mind, Tribune.” He waved to the men, about half of whom had paused in their drill. “Good work, men. Carry on.” He turned back to Marcus and dropped his voice considerably. “The seeds are planted. Are your men ready?”
“Yes, sir. Eight from Vallyrium. Good riders all, sir.”
“Any with loose tongues.”
“Not a one, sir.”
“Very good. Take them out on patrol after dinner, but don’t return. Ride out two leagues along the road to Gallidromum and watch for riders after dark. Those will be the messengers carrying word from the spies. I doubt there will be more than two.”
“Yes, sir. May I post two of my men to watch the camp? Six should be enough to take the rider, and there is the chance that whoever is spying on the legion will not be the messenger.”
“True, if there is a messenger, he’d be with the camp followers. And even if we catch him on the road and he’s inclined to talk, he may not be able to say who the spy is. Very well, Tribune, use your best judgment, and go with God.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He saluted formally. Marcus Saturnius acknowledged it with a casual wave of the hand. The legate walked off, looking remarkably unconcerned.
Marcus wondered how Saturnius intended to inspire the spy, if indeed there was one, to action. Well, that wasn’t his concern at the moment. It was more important to make sure that no one suspected anything unusual was going on between him and Saturnius. One of the words of advice given to him by his father when he joined the legion came to him: Whenever you find yourself in doubt, shout.
“Put up those swords and get back to it, you miserable slackers,” he shouted at a group of the men who had been doing more staring than stabbing, doing his best and deepest-voiced impression of the iron-lunged Proculus. “You’d better be on your knees and thanking God when you say your prayers tonight that I’m not a centurion, because more than a few of you would be feeling the vitis across your backs right now if I was! You’ve embarrassed the entire cohort in front of the bloody legate!”
He smiled to himself as the men of the cohort, chagrined, returned to their drill with a vengeance born of mortification and a furious contempt for young, noble, know-nothing officers. Their curses and grumbles were reassurance that no one had noticed anything out of the norm.
It was impossible to tell the time in the dark, but judging by the stiffness in his legs and the degree to which the autumn cold had penetrated to the depths of his being, Marcus estimated it was at least four hours after nightfall. He’d allowed the men to dismount. At least they were able to move around and stretch their legs a little.
There had been little evening traffic headed for Gallidromum. Marcus was trying to decide if it was more likely that Saturnius’s plan to frighten the Severan spies into action had failed or if the Severans had elected to ride across country. It was more likely, he imagined, that if they were cautious enough to avoid the obvious road and were riding a more circuitous route to Cynothicum. It would be faster than riding through unfamiliar countryside by night and a good deal less dangerous too.
Five times they had stopped solitary riders, twice more they had stopped a pair, but none of them were from the legion, showed any alarm at the unexpected sight of Marcus’s tribune’s helm or his men’s legionary armor, or appeared to be carrying messages to anyone.
It was always possible that they had failed to find the damning evidence on those riders, of course, but Marcus felt that even the calmest, most collected spy would show at least some sign of panic at being intercepted by a legionary patrol. Instead, the riders they’d stopped had looked openly relieved, which was not hard to understand given their initial fears that Marcus and his men were a bandit gang.
He allowed a pair of carts to pass unmolested, one carrying a merchant and another a small family of Narretines. Marcus was wondering if he should have stopped them and if perhaps the spy, or the messenger, had been concealed on one of them, but he consoled himself with the thought that at the speed the carts were travelling, the spy would have had to have left the Amorran camp before Marcus and his men had. That could have happened, but there was no reason it to have been the case.
It was the tedium that was getting to him, Marcus reminded himself as he stomped his feet and tried to stay warm. The mind tended to wander, and soon one found oneself contemplating absurdities as if they were certainties. He smiled, thinking about the times he’d been out riding at night, either on his family’s estates or through the hostile lands of the goblin tribes, and how every shadow had seemed to contain a potential monster or deadly ambush.
Now, he was the danger lurking in the dark, and he wondered if those imaginary threats of the past could possibly have ever felt as tired and uncomfortable and bored as he did now. He would have felt significantly less jumpy if
he’d ever stopped to think about it from the situation of those nonexistent foes as they watched him ride by.
As he thought back to the merchant’s cart and wondered if a man could have been concealed inside it, his horse suddenly raised its head and looked toward the road. A moment later, Marcus heard the distant drumming sound of hoofbeats. The rhythm was a quick one—whoever was riding was moving fast. And it was only one horse, not two.
“This could be him,” he told his men. “Claudius, we’ll do it the same as before. Take Orissis and Leporius with you; I want you three on the road now. Draw your blades and don’t let him pass. If he tries, grab his reins if you can, hurt him if you need to, but kill him only if you must. We’ll come in from behind once you stop him.”
Claudius and the other two riders saluted, mounted their horses, and trotted down to the nearby road. They spread themselves apart to block it entirely, and while a determined rider might try passing them if he was willing to take the risk, the chances were good that he would lose his head or an arm in the attempt. The three knights’ swords glinted silvery in the light of the three-quarters moon.
As the sound of the approaching hoofbeats grew louder, Marcus signaled for the others to mount, mounted his own horse, and walked it slowly through the tree-shadowed darkness above the road, followed by his remaining two riders. He hoped the unknown rider would simply surrender. He was too tired and cold to be in the mood for activity, let alone bloodshed.
The sound of the approaching horse grew louder, and soon the rider’s dark shape became visible upon the road. He was riding fast, but easily, and he did not appear to be wearing armor.
Marcus exhaled. That probably meant he was no false soldier. For some reason, it was a relief to know he would not be forced to confront a traitor to the legion tonight.
The man slowed suddenly when he saw the three cavalrymen blocking his path. He was nearly even with Marcus when he called out to the others.