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

by Vox Day

  Lodi raised his axe in salute to the watermen, who were far too occupied with their bloody repast to pay the dwarves the least attention. He shrugged and beckoned for Thorald to follow him. Lodi stopped as soon as they’d crossed the bridge and began tearing dead branches from a dying old tree not far from the river.

  “What are you doing?” Thorald asked. “Shouldn’t we be moving on before those orcs find their stones and start chasing us? They’ve seen the two of us, and they can’t be so stupid as to think the mer will come to our aid in the forest!”

  “We have two choices, lad: Run, and hope we can outrun them, which we can’t, or slow them down a bit. Quite a bit, considering how far south they’ll have to go to find the next bridge. They damn sure aren’t going to risk fording the river anywhere.”

  Thorald looked back at the deadly flowing water, and Lodi grinned to himself as the younger dwarf shivered. The blood was well downstream now and the mer had disappeared beneath the surface again, but he knew that Thorald would never look at the peaceful, undisturbed surface of a river again without wondering what lay beneath it.

  The pile of branches was growing rapidly and had nearly reached their belts when Thorald suddenly seemed to grasp what Lodi was intending. “We’re going to burn the bridge?”

  “Why not? It’s wood,” Lodi answered. “But you’ve got a different job to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  Lodi pointed to the thick wooden supports that held the bridge fixed into the ground, then to Thorald’s axe. “Unless you want to end up as stew, get chopping!”

  Despite his youth, Thorald was still moaning about his aching arms and back on the morning of the third day after they’d crossed the bridge and left it a burned shambles behind them. It had cost them almost the entire morning to destroy it, but the party of orcs that had showed up on the other river bank before Thorald had finished chopping through the wooden supports didn’t dare to try to put out the flames that were greedily eating away at the beams suspended over the water. They cursed and jeered, and even loosed a few arrows that didn’t even come close to hitting either Lodi or Thorald, but they stayed on the far bank.

  By the time the last remaining supports had finally snapped under the stress of holding the entire weight and the two-thirds of the structure collapsed, burning, into the rushing water, half of the orcs had already wandered away, and the rest had been gathered in a circle watching two of their fellows roll around on the ground, snarling and snapping at each other.

  The tactic appeared to have bought them the time they needed to make their escape, as they’d seen no sign of pursuit since they’d left the river behind them. Even so, Lodi kept them on the move from dawn until dusk, stopping to rest only when both of them were on the verge of collapsing. It was a brutal pace, and Lodi knew they couldn’t maintain it much longer. But he was determined that they would get word of the imminent invasion to someone civilized, be it dwarf, man, or elf, before he would permit himself to relax. But civilization was nowhere to be found in the great forest of the Greenwaste. It had died there long ago with the fall of Glaislael.

  “This is mad, Lodi. You’re killing us!”

  Thorald didn’t sound petulant, merely resigned.

  Lodi lay on his back next to the panting younger dwarf. His legs burned, and he dreaded the thought of looking at the bleeding mass that was the bottom of his feet. He hadn’t felt worse since the time he’d been lying in a similar manner on the sands of the great Amorran stadium with tens of thousands of men watching him bleed to death.

  “A little walking never hurt no one, lad.”

  Thorald snorted.

  And in fairness, Lodi didn’t believe his own words either.

  MARCUS

  The men were beginning to break down. It was three weeks since they’d marched underground to escape the besieged castra, and there had been three desertions yesterday. Another five, all from the same century, had vanished the day before. Nor was it merely their morale that was suffering. The wagons being drawn by the mule teams now contained more sick legionaries than supplies, which meant that they were not only going to have to find a way to restock before reaching the safety of Vallyrium but would probably also need to spend at least two days to allow the men to rest and recover their strength.

  If the scouts’ reports were correct, they would reach Solacte, the second-largest city of the Larinii, the day after tomorrow. Marcus toyed with the idea of pushing on until sunset and permitting an open camp, which in combination with an early start and a double-time march in the morning might allow them to reach it tomorrow evening, but after looking back at the long line of march, he resisted the foolish temptation. Too many men were already bowed and shuffling under the weight of their packs, and several centurions were shooting expectant looks at him, waiting for him to give the order to stop and begin constructing the castra in which they would spend the night.

  He surveyed their surroundings with grim resignation. There was a hill ahead that would serve well enough, with plenty of trees nearby to log for the palisade. No source of water, which was a pity, but their canteens and casks were full of fresh water from the river they’d crossed in the morning. If they were marching along the roads, there would be stone castra waiting for them at the end of every day’s march, but then, if he had been able to dare the roads, they would be nearly to Vallyrium by now.

  Fortunately, the Cynothii appeared to have given up the pursuit after three days of losing ground to the Amorran double-time. As far as his scouts could tell, the Severan legion simply had taken over the empty castra they’d left behind at Gallidronum and had settled in for the winter there.

  It was hard not to envy Falconius Buteo and his officers. They might be rebels and traitors, but while he was cold, lonely, and saddle-sore in the middle of nowhere, wondering how many men were thinking about deserting tonight, they were probably luxurating in the small but comfortable Gallidronum baths or debauching themselves in its bordellos. He snorted in self-contempt. One little three-week winter march, and suddenly the fires of Hell looked warm and inviting.

  “Centurion!” he waved the nearest officer over. “Do you see that hill? We’ll stop and make camp there for the night.”

  “As you say, sir,” the centurion said, his enthusiasm betraying his relief. No sooner had he bawled out the order than it was echoed down the cohorts, from century to century, and the line of weary men seemed to surge forward with the news.

  Marcus reined his horse in and watched as the legionaries marched past him. They were tired, clearly, but still carried themselves with some semblance of pride. They might be retreating, they might be skulking shamefully over rough ground through Amorran lands, but they had not actually been beaten in battle.

  As he expected, he soon heard the pounding of hoofbeats. He saw Gaius Trebonius and Lucius Dardanus, the former regentur that he’d promoted to tribune, riding toward him. Trebonius didn’t look happy.

  “What’s the trouble now,” Marcus asked.

  “I was out patrolling with a squadron of knights this morning,” Dardanus answered. “We went looking for the deserters and rode through three or four small villages as well as one reasonably sized village. I’m not sure what’s going on, but something is stirring in these parts.”

  “What do you mean?” Marcus frowned. It didn’t sound as if Dardanus was suggesting another legion was in the vicinity, but what else besides disease could threaten an Amorran legion, even weakened and low on supplies as XVII was?

  “I realized it wasn’t just the five men who deserted together that were from Larinum. The three yesterday, they were Larinii too!” Trebonius slapped his gloves against his horse’s neck.

  “What about it?” Marcus asked. “If men are going to desert, of course they’re going to desert when they’re near their homes and their people. That’s hardly unexpected.”

  “No, but what is unexpected is that so many people would refuse to help us. At all.” Dardanus looked as if he wanted
to ride back and decimate the villagers. “It wasn’t so much the refusal to help us find them, as the way they were looking at us. I’m telling you, Clericus, those shrieking goblins we faced up on the hill with Fortex looked sweet and loving by comparison. No matter where we rode, nearly every Larinii we saw seemed full of hatred for us. I know it sounds strange, but it was almost as if they were on the edge of revolt!”

  Marcus laughed. “The Larinii revolting against Amorr? No, that’s not possible. They’ve been a loyal ally for four centuries! And there isn’t even any cause for bad blood, not on either side. Perhaps another legion marched past here this fall, roughed up a few lads and raped a few ladies. They might have feared the same sort of treatment from us.”

  “It’s more serious than that, Clericus,” Trebonius said. “And no legion has been in these parts for the better part of five years, which is part of why you chose this route.”

  “True enough,” Marcus admitted. “But it’s one thing for a province like Cynothicum to take up arms—provincials always do that now and again. But the Larinii are Utruccans. They’ve been friends and allies of Amorr so long they’re practically Amorran. Who knows, maybe some cretin of a quastor enslaved one of their nobles and throw him into the games. Or maybe the Falconians raised their taxes too high.”

  “Come on, Clericus!” Trebonius shook his head. “Rustic people in backwater villages don’t give a damn what happens to their nobles. And when haven’t the allies been irritated about their taxes? Dardanus is a bright lad, and we should be more careful before we ride into some sort of trap when we reach Solacte.”

  “Lad? You’re only two years older than me!” Dardanus protested, but was ignored by both of the other tribunes.

  “We have no idea what could be waiting for us at Solacte,” Trebonius said. “Give him a squadron, or maybe two just to be safe, and he can ride for Vallyrium tonight. If anything out of the ordinary is going on, we should be able to find out easily enough, and then you can decide if you want to go around the city or not.”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice,” Marcus said. “We have to resupply and give the men a chance to rest. Solacte is our best alternative regardless of what is happening in Vallyrium.” Marcus pointed to the men marching past them. The winter-hardened ground had been torn up by the metal-studded sandals of the earlier centuries, making it even harder for those who followed to maintain their footing as they marched. They looked exhausted and miserable. “They’re in no state to fight at the moment. We can’t push them much farther.”

  “But even if you’re determined to go to Vallyrium, don’t you think we should see what we might find waiting for us there?” Trebonius protested.

  “I’m not arguing with you, Trebonius,” Marcus said. “It’s a good idea. Dardanus, take Gavrus and his squadron with you. Proculus would be better, but Gavrus has a decent nose for a game too. Give him a small purse to lose, and he’ll be able to tell you everything worth knowing inside a bell. Be careful and try to get back to me before noon the day after tomorrow. If there are even the smallest rumblings of rebellion, I want to hear about them.”

  “Aye, General,” Dardanus tapped his chest with two fingers in a faint mockery of a salute and rode off to find the decurion.

  Marcus and Trebonius watched him go, even as the first sound of axes began to ring in the direction of the hill upon which they would be staying tonight.

  “You’re too casual with us, Marcus Valerius,” Trebonius commented. “Not just Lucius Dardanus and me, but with the centurions and decurions too.”

  “I’m a bloody tribune, not a legate or a real general. You know that. I know that. And the men know it too. I don’t have any real authority from the Senate or even my uncle. All I have is my name. So they’ll listen to me as long as what I’m telling them to do makes sense to them. Getting us out of Gallidronum might have bought me a little credibility, but that’s gone now.

  “They’re cold, they’re exhausted, and now they are beginning to wonder if I’m just a boy running scared. It’s been too long. They’ve forgotten what a shock it was when Saturnius and the others were murdered and the Severans showed up in Cynothicum. All they know is that we should have been safely wintering a month ago, but instead they’re following a young lunatic through the wilds of Larinum. It’s more than they signed up for. We’re just fortunate they’re green enough that they don’t know any better. A veteran legion would have mutinied a week ago.”

  Trebonius nodded. “I suppose we’re lucky in that regard. Do you really think the Larinii might have rebelled against the Senate?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps House Falconius just levied them again and they’re sulking. But if Solacte hasn’t rebelled yet, they probably will once they learn I’m not going to pay them more than a tenth of what we’ll take to see us through the winter. I’ll give them a draft they can draw against my House.”

  “It’s not as if they’re going to protest when you’ve got six thousand swords at your back.” Trebonius grinned then looked skeptical. “We’re not running out of coin already, are we? That can’t possibly be right. What accounts have you been going over?”

  “No, Cassabus has been keeping an eye on our funds. He says we’ve still got most of what Saturnius brought back from Amorr. But if I pay it out to the Solactae, I won’t have enough to pay the men come spring. And if things back home are as unsettled as they appear to be, I don’t think we can count on more coin being delivered. We’re already pushing them hard enough, and we may have to push them a lot harder if the Utruccans have rebelled or if there are more rogue legions about. I’d rather not be forced to ask that of them when their pay is in arrears. My father always said that a legionary is never more loyal than when he’s got fresh gold in his pocket.”

  “We could always sack a town or two, if they’re truly in rebellion.”

  Marcus was surprised at his fellow tribune’s casual suggestion. “We’re not bandits, Gaius Trebonius! We’ll pay for what we take. They’ll just have to go to Amorr to get it.”

  Trebonius shrugged. “I’m just saying, if they’re going to rebel, perhaps they should be taught a lesson, that’s all. We are but the humble instruments of retribution.”

  “Whose, God’s or the Senate’s?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Marcus laughed. “I suppose not if you’re on the receiving end of it. The problem is that if Larinum is up in arms, they may not be the only ones. For all we know, we might be the closest legion to Amorr, in which case we’d have to march all the way home instead of staying to winter in Vallyrium.”

  “What if Vallyrium rises too?”

  Now there was an ugly thought. Marcus wished Trebonius hadn’t voiced it, but he was right. Marcus might flatter himself to think that the Vallyrii would never rebel against House Valerius, but Larinum’s ties to House Falconius were no less strong. He shrugged. They would find out soon enough when Dardanus returned. And besides, what were the chances of that with two legions wintering there?

  They waited until the wagons carrying the supplies, the sick, and the wounded rumbled past, then they fell in with the squadron of knights bringing up the rear.

  The decurion commanding the rearguard, an older knight named Arcadius, greeted them with the cheerful demeanor of a man who knew the end of the day’s journey was nigh.

  “Ho, tribunes! At last, we lay down our heavy burdens and rest?”

  “I can’t help but notice you’re riding your horse, Arcadius,” Marcus said. “He’s the one who should be complaining, not you.”

  “Complaining? The men grumble and the centurions curse, but we of the equestrian class are far too noble to complain of our lot in life.”

  “Too well-mounted, I should think,” Trebonius observed. “How many tried to fall behind?”

  “Today? Twenty-eight collapsed on the march. Nine were malingerers. I gave them a dose of the vitis, and praise the Lord, were they not healed? The other nineteen were set upon the wagons. Winter ague, I think,
not the flux.”

  Thank You, Immaculate Son, for small mercies, Marcus looked up at the sky. Were it the flux, he might as well set the men to digging graves as well as the ditches that were now being dug around what would be the perimeter of the night camp.

  Somehow, no matter how deeply he read, the martial histories never seemed to talk much about the diseases that killed far more men than the battlefield ever did. During his first weeks in the legion, he’d idly wondered if he had what it took to succeed as an officer and commander, and he’d looked at the challenge as an intellectual one. Would he be able to master and stay on top of all the details, to make the right decisions, to recognize the moment of truth on the battlefield and arrange his forces in just the right way? He’d never realized how much more important it was to focus on keeping the men warm, fed, and well away from their own shit.

  The true challenge was spiritual. Once, he had imagined there were right decisions and wrong decisions. Now that he was in command, he had been forced to accept the bitter truth that there were no right decisions—there were only consequences that were bad and consequences that were worse. It seemed that no matter what he decided, no matter what path he chose, men would die.

  Even something so obviously right as the decision to retreat rather than submit to Falconius Buteo came with a heavy price. When they’d left Gallidronum in the middle of the night, they hadn’t only left behind the merchants and whoremasters, who would be just as happy to serve Buteo’s legionaries as they had served XVII. They’d also abandoned several hundred camp wives and scores of children, none of whom had any idea where their legionary “husbands” and fathers were now. No doubt some of the wives would find new men in the Severan legion, but those with children would likely be rather less inclined and less able to do so. The fate of the legion’s camp followers was something he’d never given a thought to as a tribune, but in the last week alone more than twenty officers had raised the issue with him.