Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “At once, your Highness.”

  “Are you satisfied, my lord mage?” The prince’s tone seemed to indicate that Patrice had damn well better be.

  “Entirely, your Highness. And at the risk of belaboring the obvious, I should like to point out that the wolf people appear to have considerably more magic at their disposal than we had previously believed.”

  “Yes, you know, I actually noticed as much when their warleader unexpectedly turned into a right proper wolf right in front of me.” The Red Prince removed one of his gauntlets and rubbed his eyes. “I nearly pissed myself. What the Hell was that? I suppose you’re going to tell me now that those two other wolves that ran off with the big bastard weren’t actually wolves either.”

  “That’s correct, your Highness. We believe they were the actual mages. We observed them preparing the spell that appeared to infuse the rank-and-file troops with so much courage and aggression. It was remarkable, actually. Their magic appears to be urine-based, at least with regards to the preparatory rituals. I was even thinking that—”

  The prince raised a hand. “I have no doubt it is entirely fascinating, Lord Patrice, but let us save this discussion of ulfin urinary habits for after you have interrogated your prisoners. I can’t imagine the men have finished butchering all of them as yet. Sieur de Platins is finding a pair for you, so why don’t you chase after him and see what sort of shape they’re in? I will see that Her Reaver Highness is returned to the castle immediately and with proper escort.”

  Patrice looked as if he wanted to protest, but he bowed obediently, then bowed again to Fjotra before striding off through the muck in the direction that the knight had ridden.

  No sooner had the battlemage departed when another man took his place. It was a face she knew well. Steinthor Strongbow was one of her father’s best and bravest fighters, and he was the man who had been commanding the Dalarn rearguard. Between his height and his long, waist-length blond braid, he had been easy to see from afar.

  “Well met. Captain Strongbow, isn’t it?” The prince looked genuinely pleased to see the bold warrior and clapped the taller man on his shoulder. “You and your men cut it a little closer than I’d anticipated, but then, you’ve been fighting these creatures for a long time, haven’t you?”

  Fjotra quickly translated the jist of his words to her father’s man.

  “Tell him to call me just ‘Steinthor,’” the big Dalarn told her, but he was grinning, and to Fjotra’s surprise, he even ducked his head respectfully. “And say the men asked me to thank him and his officers. We were holding strong, but they were pressing us hard, and we would have lost twice as many men if they hadn’t come so quickly.”

  Fjotra conveyed the message as precisely as she could manage and was gratified to see the prince smile even more broadly.

  “You and your men are damned fine fighters, and you can fight with me any time!” he declared.

  The victorious bonhomie was broken, however, by the sound of hoofbeats pounding toward them from the direction of Raknarborg. Fjotra could tell it was one of her father’s riders, as it didn’t sound like one of the heavy-boned southern horses capable of carrying a steel-armored man on its back.

  Sure enough, the rider rounded the curve of the hill to her right, and she could see long hair that was very nearly white trailing behind him. His clothing was the drab browns and greens of her people, not the bright hues favored by the Savonders. The rider initially made for the crowd of warriors clustered around Asmund Hairy-Arse, but upon seeing Steinthor and the Red Prince, he changed his course and very nearly rode all three of them down before reining his horse in, such was his haste.

  But the young man ignored the prince and the veteran warrior alike in favor of Fjotra.

  “There you are, Fjotra!” he cried, breathless.

  “Yes,” she nodded slowly. “Do you bring word from the Skullbreaker?

  “Your father told me to tell you that everyone must return to the fortress at once! All of you! Do not delay or the wolves may prevent your retreat!”

  Steinthor, hearing the urgency in the voice of the king’s messenger, stepped forward. “Retreat? Look around you, boy! We smashed them. The few that survived are still running through the woods with their tails between their legs!”

  The rider shook his head. Fjotra recognized him now, he was the cousin of her uncle’s second wife. His name, if she recalled correctly, was Neri.

  “The scouts have returned. Three more of their kings are marching toward Raknarborg.” He looked at the wolf bodies on the ground. “This was the smallest of the four armies. You must ride back now at once! The Skullbreaker demands it!” His eyes pleaded with Fjotra’s. “He told me that you must convince the Savonders to return or they will be trapped outside the walls.”

  She glanced at the Red Prince and saw he was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes and a suspicious expression on his face. Seeing that she was looking at him, he pointed to Neri and spread his hands.

  “There are more of them,” the prince said. “More wolves.”

  “Yes, how do you know?” She was amazed. Was he already learning her tongue?

  He seemed to read her mind, for he laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t understand a word that either of you said, but the only thing your father and I feared was that this camp might be a trap and we could be cut off if we rode out this far. What else could be so urgent? Do the wolves stand between us and the castle?”

  “No,” she said. “He come from my father. The Skullbreaker only say all must return, very fast. There are more, many more, who come.”

  The prince nodded, seemingly unconcerned. “The sooner we get the men out of this gruesome mire, the better. I think they have had enough for the day. What about your men, though? They have no horse, and their wounded are going to slow them down.”

  Fjotra turned to Steinthor and put the prince’s question to him.

  The big warrior shrugged. “We leave behind those who can’t march fast. Perhaps they make it. Some men will stay with them.”

  But there was a flash of anger on the prince’s face when she gave him Steinthor’s answer. “No,” he barked immediately. “How many wounded does he have? How many who cannot keep the pace?”

  Somewhere between fifteen and twenty was the response.

  The prince gestured at his big flag bearer and removed his other gauntlet. He was speaking too quickly for Fjotra to follow what he was saying, but she could see neither the flag bearer nor the two captains who were similarly summoned a few moments later were at all happy with his orders. But after a brief and furious exchange of words, which culminated in the prince hurling his gauntlet in the mud at Sieur de Platins’s feet, the two men rushed off and began gathering their men. The flag bearer, meanwhile, lifted the horn that was at his belt and blew four long notes.

  “I do not understand,” Fjotra told the prince. “Will you not come as my father say?”

  “Yes, yes, of course we will. But we’re not going to leave your wounded behind. Tell your captain here that we will put on our horses as many of them as cannot march, along with our armor, and lead them back to the castle. Now, where are those damned mages? I want you to leave now and ride ahead with them, your Highness.” He turned and looked about the battlefield, which was suddenly full of activity again, searching for the distinctive royal blue cloaks of the battlemages. “Blancas! De Foix! Get your sorcerous derrieres over here at once!”

  “Bring your wounded here, to the prince,” Fjotra ordered Steinthor, who had been quizzing Neri concerning the approaching aalvarg armies, apparently to little avail. “The Savonders will put them on their horses and march with you.”

  “They will?” the blond warrior’s bearded jaw dropped with astonishment. He turned toward Prince Karl, who was simultaneously arguing with the two mages while having his flag bearer help him out of his blood-red armor. “He would do that for us?”

  “He will if you bring your men here quickly, son of Halfgarm.” Fjo
tra snarled at him as ferociously as her father would. “Hurry! I’ll not have the Skullbreaker lose his best men and his only ally because you tarried!”

  Steinthor nodded and ran toward where the wounded Dalarn warriors were gathered, receiving whatever rudimentary care their fellows could provide.

  Fjotra whirled around and found Neri, wide-eyed by the chaotic response to the message he’d delivered. “Ride back to Raknarborg now,” she told him. “Tell my father the Savonders are riding to protect our men and they’ll be slowed by the wounded. Tell him he must come out in force and protect their line of retreat. And if need be, remind him that no Dalarn king is less brave than a southern prince.”

  “Fjotra, I can’t tell Skuli that!”

  “You’ll tell him exactly that!” she shouted at him. “Now go, damn you!”

  He turned his horse and kicked it into a full gallop.

  The prince was already free of the armor that covered his upper body. He grinned shamelessly at her as he slipped off the leather padding that had protected his pale skin from the steel. He was hairier than most of the men of her people. A moderate sprinkling of black hair, slick with sweat, covered his chest and made a line down over his belly. It both repelled and fascinated her, especially since underneath the dark hair he had the hard, rounded muscles of a true warrior.

  “Do forgive my informal attire, my lady reaver, but it is blasted hot under all that steel. I fear my lord mages are unhappy about leaving their prisoners behind, but it’s more important to get you back to your father. And them as well, seeing as the enemy appears to have their own magical resources.”

  Fjotra found it hard not to stare at him, especially since he was now unbuckling the metal skirt that guarded him from his waist down to his thighs. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was relieved or disappointed to see that he was wearing soft leather leggings underneath his armor.

  “I thank you for what you do,” she finally said. “Is very noble, when save my father’s men. I pray the gods you will be safe to Raknarborg.”

  “Noble?” He raised one black eyebrow quizzically. “Downright bloody regal, I should say. But your men earned it. And if what your rider said is true, we’ll need every one of them. Now, it’s sweet that you should pray for us, but never fear, I’ll dine with you and your father in the castle this evening. I’d just as soon not subject the men to a second battle today, nor lose any men I need not. Besides, I wouldn’t be worried even if there were five more of their armies on our heels.”

  He gestured toward the hundreds of wolfish bodies lying hacked apart and scattered throughout the field around them. The gesture spoke eloquently of his genuine lack of concern.

  “Now get you gone, my lady, and you have my thanks for your courage. I really must have a few of my men learn your damned northern tongue, but in the meantime, I could not ask for a lovelier translator.” To her surprise, he stepped forward, took her hand, and kissed it, just as he often did with the comtesse.

  The sensation, combined with the nearness of his half naked presence and his pleasant, musky scent that somehow drowned out the hellish stink of the incontinent dead, nearly caused her to swoon. She felt a strange warmth deep inside her that unsettled her even more than she could have imagined, and his grasp on her hand tightened as the world seemed to wheel about her.

  “De Foix!” she heard someone shouting, but very far away. “Take her and get her out of here now. Are your horses nearby?”

  “Close enough. We’ll keep an eye on her, your Highness.”

  “Do, or I’ll have your head.”

  “I’m fine,” she tried to protest, but no one was listening to her. Patrice had a strong grip on her arm, and he was already dragging her back in the direction of the hill from which they’d descended.

  When she looked back, she saw the Red Prince had turned his back on her and was issuing orders to his men as they began to help the first of the wounded Dalarn onto the backs of their war steeds turned pack horses. She could see that he truly wasn’t afraid. He was like a lion. No, he was actually more like a very powerful black bear before whom the wolves of the forest would tremble.

  And suddenly, to her surprise, she found herself again feeling more than a little envious of the comtesse.

  MARCUS

  Marcus grew sweatier and tenser the closer he came to the rostrum, but somehow, the murderous attack he feared never arrived. When he reached the wooden steps and the sun’s glare was no longer in his eyes, he saw that Honoratus was the only officer wearing his helmet. The four centurions were the primi ordines, the senior surviving officers of the legion behind himself, Trebonius, and the primus pilus.

  Marcus studied their faces as he approached. He saw anger, he saw fear, and he saw doubt that was almost certainly directed at his ability to lead the legion. But what he did not see was guilt or secrecy or shame. There was relief and something akin to joy in the face of Trebonius. If he knew his friend at all, Gaius Trebonius would have been all but wetting himself over the thought of having to take command of the headless legion. He wasn’t a Valerian, he wasn’t born to rule over Amorr, and he didn’t regard leadership as his natural birthright.

  But when he met the dark brown eyes of the primus pilus, he saw something he had not expected. The senior centurion was angry, just as Cassabus had told him, but it wasn’t the clean, honest wrath of a man whose beloved general had been treacherously murdered. Unless he missed his guess, it was the furious rage of a man whose plans had been thwarted.

  For just a moment, at the very moment he reached the direct line of sight from the men on the platform, Marcus had seen the senior centurion’s eyes widen with surprise. It must have been the decurion’s helm that had fooled the centurion about Marcus’s identity as he approached through the crushing mass of legionaries. You were not expecting to see me, Gnaeus Junius, he thought to himself. And you are not at all happy to see that I survived.

  Marcus leaned toward Barbatus and whispered into the decurion’s ear. “Slip off while we’re addressing the men and search the tent of the primus pilus. If you can’t find that wounded man or his body, search every tent of the first and second centuries.”

  The decurion didn’t blink or say anything. He merely continued to look straight ahead at the men on the rostrum. But he nodded once, firmly, and Marcus he would obey.

  When Marcus stepped upon the platform, Honoratus was the first to salute him, unhesitatingly thumping his fist against his chest. The rest of the primi ordines followed suit, as did Julianus and Trebonius. And if any of them wondered why he was surrounded by armored knights with their hands on their hilts, they did not ask.

  Marcus merely nodded in response, knowing that a refusal to return their salutes would irritate one or two of them, but it was more important to establish his authority over them right here, right now.

  “It’s good to see you alive and well, Gaius Trebonius. You too, Gnaeus Junius. Is there any word of Castorius yet?”

  “I sent seven of my men to search the pubs and brothels, Tribune.” The primus pilus was a big man. He wasn’t any taller than Marcus, but he was nearly twice his girth, and very little of it was fat. His arms were especially large, and although his torso was covered with much-bemedaled armor, the easy—uninjured—way he moved made it clear that he could not have been the night assassin even if Marcus had not seen him the night before. “They have not returned as yet.”

  Marcus nodded, but he was silently cursing his morning slumber. Sending men to look for Castorius was the first thing he should have done. But before he could reply, Julianus interrupted.

  “I sent two riders over not long after sunrise. They came back before the horn and reported that no one saw the praefectus last night.”

  “Very well.” Marcus cleared his throat. “In the absence of Sextus Castorius, it appears I am the senior officer surviving last night’s attack. Therefore, I will assume command of the legion until such time as he returns to us. I assume I can rely on the support of the senio
r centurions and decurions, as well as you, Tribune Trebonius?”

  “Of course, sir,” Trebonius replied. Julianus too was quick to assent. The five centurions also indicated their compliance, one by one, although both Honoratus and the pilus prior of the Third Cohort had visible reservations.

  “Then, gentlemen, I had better inform the men of the tragic events of last night. I would appreciate it if you would stand on my left, Gaius Trebonius. Gnaeus Junius, if you would do me the favor of standing on my right, I should appreciate your support.” As well as not stabbing me in the back, he added to himself. He could only hope that the centurion would not be so bold as to strike in front of everyone.

  The primus pilus grunted his agreement, but a faint flicker of a smile touched his lips. Gaius Trebonius, on the other hand, looked as if he was about to vomit, but he was still sufficiently aware to point to Marcus and tap at his own helmet.

  Ah, yes. Marcus removed the helm and tossed it to Julianus, who caught it easily. It would not do to appear as a decurion, and anyway, it might better serve his purposes to show his face and remind the men that, however young he might be, he was still a patrician and the son of a House Martial.

  He took a deep breath and prayed a short silent prayer for courage. Then he stepped forward to face the legion.

  Nearly five thousand men stood in front of him. He looked out over the sea of hardened, unshaved, sunburned faces, all staring up at him and waiting for him to speak. But he did not talk right away, instead he slowly scanned the crowd, wondering if this was how Corvus had felt the first time he’d addressed an entire legion.

  And in that moment, his nervousness disappeared. It was as if everything he had ever done, everything he ever was, had led him here. The thought that his father’s father and his father’s father had stood in exactly this position in a camp almost identical to this one filled him with a sense of tranquility and his fear seemed to slip away. He felt almost reluctant to break the spell that held so many brave and worthy men enrapt in such solemn silence, waiting upon his words.