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

by Vox Day

  “You’re certain of this? You said ‘we’ were in the mountains. Who is we? And did you see them yourself, with your own eyes? What do you mean that you came across them?”

  “I saw them, lad.” The dwarf snorted. “Me. My own eyes. And ye knows I can count better’n ye. What I means by ‘coming across them’ is that I saw them and the demon altar they was summoning Gor Gor on. This ain’t a raid or the usual campaign, lad. They’s up to something, and it’s something big. I was with another dwarf—a young lad, but real smart. We split up so he could warn the king. If he made it, the elves already know.”

  “Well, this would appear to add an interesting complication to the situation,” Theuderic said brightly. The mage was obviously happy to no longer be the subject under discussion.

  “Shut up, Northman,” Marcus snapped. “I still might burn you.”

  “Marcus,” Caitlys said, “I think there is something you need to know about.”

  Marcus slammed his steel gauntlet against his desktop, disturbing two stacks of folios and startling everyone. “Oh, and what else have you been keeping from me? Do you know what—I don’t care! What’s next, you’re going to tell me that Lodi is actually your husband? That the mage here is really a toad? No! I don’t care! All of you can go to the bloody devil as far as I’m concerned!”

  He stomped out of the room and headed for the stairs that would lead him to the roof. He needed to get away from them, from the guards, from the men, from the centurions, from everyone who needed something from him, even if it was only a decision. Two guards who had been standing outside his chamber whirled around at the sound of his approach, but he waved them off, and they obediently returned to their stations.

  A mage? A mage! How could Caitlys have thought to hide that from him? What could she have been thinking? God, he’d known there was something off about Theuderic. He’d never liked the man, but he’d also never imagined that the irritating Savonner could be a sorcerer.

  The trapdoor opened easily, and he clambered up the ladder into the cold night air with more than a little relief. There seemed to be as many fires stretching out in the darkness of the castra below him as there were stars above him. So many fires. It seemed impossible to believe that he was looking out over a defeated army, over a legion that had no choice but to surrender.

  Caitlys’s betrayal hurt him, and the thought of surrendering to Magnus frightened him, but it was the knowledge of his failure that rankled at him. It was like a cancer in his stomach eating away at him, at his pride, at his very sense of himself.

  Pride. That was his problem. That was his sin. Wasn’t that what Father Gennadius had told him at Solacte? It was his pride that had been the source of his downfall. He’d wanted to prove himself better than Magnus, greater than the great. And why? For what purpose? He’d been seeking his own glory, not Amorr’s, not House Valerius’s, and most certainly not God’s.

  Magnus was in rebellion, to be sure, and the attempt to stamp out that rebellion had surely been Marcus’s duty. But if he were honest with himself, brutally honest, the real reason he’d been so eager to meet his uncle on the battlefield was to show him up. To show him who the better Valerian strategist was. He shook his head. It was nothing more or less than simple pride.

  He sighed and sat down on the edge of the flat roof and let his legs dangle over the side. He looked up at the sky. It was a clear night with nary a cloud obscuring the stars or either of the moons. Arbhadis was high in the sky to the north, large and luminous, while Ustruel lurked, low, red, and crescent-shaped to the southwest.

  “Forgive me, Heavenly Father.” He placed his face in his hands. “Forgive me my pride, my arrogance, and my forgetfulness. Please don’t forget me as I was forgetting You. Give me wisdom, give me knowledge. Show me the way, Dominus—tell me what I am to do! You saved me from the killers at Gallidronum. You saved me from the false priests in Elebrion. So You must have some purpose for me! I will do it, even if that means going to Magnus and to my death. Only show me what it is! Send me a sign! Send me an answer!”

  When he looked up again, the stars were still motionless, as indifferent to his fate as they had been before. The moons took no notice of him. They had their own troubles as they floated through the vast and mighty sea of darkness in the sky. No epiphany awaited him in the stars.

  Nor was there a divine message to be seen in the fires below. Circles of men surrounded them, men who were laughing, drinking, talking, joking, complaining, and doing all the things that men do—except for one. Not a single one of them was wrestling with his fate, come the morrow. That burden fell to him and to him alone, and he wondered if ambition was a curse or just a form of madness.

  “What are you doing?”

  Marcus jerked upright and very nearly fell from the rooftop. Two slender arms encircled his shoulders from behind, and he smelled the sweet, intoxicating scent of the elven sorceress as she pressed her cheek against his.

  For a moment, he let himself relax and sink back into Caitlys’s embrace, forgetting his anger, forgetting his desperation, forgetting his unanswered prayers. And for just a moment, he even allowed himself to forget about the thousands of men in his charge.

  He hoped she would not ask him to flee with her again, because he was not sure he could resist the temptation now.

  No, he told himself, he would not run. That was the easy path. To humble himself before Magnus, to sacrifice himself for his men if his uncle demanded it—that was the harder path. That was the right way.

  Gently, he removed her long, white fingers from about his wrist and kissed them before extricating himself from her arms. It would not do for them to be seen together in such intimacy. Already there had been far too many close calls with Trebonius, the senior centurions, and more than a few of his guards. But it was hard, so hard, to refrain from clasping her to him and crushing his lips against hers whenever they found themselves alone.

  “I should have told you about the Savonder,” she told him as he rose to his feet to face her. “I’m sorry. I thought he’d be gone immediately and it wouldn’t matter.”

  He nodded. It hardly seemed to matter even now. By this time tomorrow evening, the mage would be gone and Caitlys with him. When would he see her again? This might be their last night, their last chance. And yet, it could never be. No matter what they might feel for each other, they could never live and love as one. She would not give up her magic, nor would he pollute the sacred temple of his body by taking her unwed. And when he was dying of old age, she would still look like a maiden untouched.

  No, he told himself firmly, she would still be a maiden untouched. She was not for him. He sadly ran his finger over one pointed ear, then the other. It was an impossible dream. Even so, when she looked at him with her inhuman green eyes, he wanted nothing more than to ask her to call her hawk to them so they could fly off into the darkness together.

  Then an idea struck him. He stepped back from her and began to pace on the rooftop, causing her to stare at him, mystified.

  Darkness was an escape. Darkness. But the night sky was not the only darkness on the earth. The siege at Gallidronum. In the sky or in the earth, safety lay in darkness. He thought back to his readings of Longinus. It wasn’t merely the battlefield victors that the great strategist celebrated, but also those cunning generals who slipped their armies from the hangman’s noose, who saved them to fight another day.

  Example after example filled his mind. The bullocks with their flaming horns. The stranded gallies. The false reinforcements. The scattered gold. None of those brilliant strategems would help him now, but he didn’t need them—he had his own.

  Or at least he might, if he could make proper use of what the mage had dismissively labled his menagerie. But he would need them all, even the king’s mage, if what he had in mind was going to work. Still, there was a chance. He reminded himself that, if it was going to be victorious again, the first thing a defeated army had to do was to survive and remain intact.

&nb
sp; Suddenly filled with hope, even if it was one last roll with the bones loaded against him, he seized Caitlys and kissed her. She melted into him, and for a moment, it seemed as if nothing could ever stand between them. And then, it was over. He released her and stepped back, smiling at her sweetly confused expression.

  “I can’t come away with you, Lady Shadowsong. But if you will fly north with the mage, I think perhaps I may be able to arrange to meet you there.”

  She regarded him suspiciously. “What is your idea?”

  He laid it out for her, the plan becoming even more clear in the telling.

  Then, as awareness dawned on her face, Caitlys returned his smile. “I’d still rather you came away with me, but I think we should be able to convince all the necessary parties. Will you come down from the roof, or shall I fetch the dwarf to come up here?”

  “I will go down. But give me a little while to think on this more. There are still some details that demand consideration.”

  “Of course. I will find him. Your quarters?”

  Marcus nodded, and she came close, kissed him lightly on the lips, then turned to go below.

  He stared in mute appreciation at her slender back until she vanished from sight, then he turned back toward the sky. The two moons seemed to represent the two armies, his and Magnus’s. The dull red-horned beast was stalking the defenseless silver orb as it fled into the safety of the distant darkness. To the north. To the dark. To the deep.

  He bowed his head in grateful humility. He knew this inspiration was not his own—it was an answer to his prayers. It seemed that, even for the haughty, whom God hates, and even for the proud, whom He holds in His divine contempt, salvation might be found.

  AULAN

  “My bloody nephew should have gotten here by now!” Magnus slapped his desk, glaring at Aulan and two of the other tribunes he’d summoned to his office as he ate his lunch.

  The headquarters building at Aviglianus was a basic brick-and-mortar construction and far from the most luxurious that Aulan had ever seen, but it wasn’t a bad place to spend the winter. A roaring fire kept the room warm enough that all of three of them had taken off their heavy wool cloaks.

  “If he’s coming at all,” Magnus said. “Haven’t the patrols reported anything?”

  “I’m afraid not, General,” Tarrisinus Opilian said. He was the tribune commanding the Fourth Knights, which mostly consisted of the few surviving knights from the newly disloyal Legio XV.

  “Our patrols have been on the thin side,” Aulan said. “We don’t have enough horses or riders to cover much ground, and it’s been too cold this week to permit them to stay out overnight on wide patrol. We might well have missed a small party.”

  Magnus folded his arms, his heavy features clouded with suspicion. “This morning was the seventh day, was it not? I told him to be here in seven days, did I not? Aulus Severus, you were clear about my requirements?”

  “I was.” Aulan did not bother to remind Magnus that Magnus had spelled them out himself in his letter. The Duke of Vallyria, as Magnus preferred to style himself now that he was the unquestioned master of the region with three legions answering to him, was not at his most rational. “It is possible, Magnus, that your nephew met with ill fortune en route. It is winter, after all, and it’s not impossible that he could’ve been lost in that storm we had two days ago if it caught him on the road.”

  “I’m a lucky man, Aulus Severus, but I’m not that lucky,” Magnus said. “I can’t believe that little bastard is actually going to force me to march both legions north in the dead of winter and dig him out of Montmila. The Larinii probably have him invested already, but they have no engineers. When was the last time we heard from them?”

  “Three days ago, before the storm,” the third tribune, Cunctor, said. He was a big, stolid fellow and utterly devoid of imagination. “They were a day away, according to their consul.”

  “Their consul!” Magnus snorted. “They demand their freedom, and the first thing they do as free men is start aping their former masters. Well, I’m not going to uproot my men until I know it’s necessary. Maybe the sight of the Larinii will be enough to bring that priestling to his senses. He should have stayed a priest. He’ll wish he had by the time I’m done with him!”

  The other two tribunes laughed.

  Aulan didn’t. He knew personally that Magnus wasn’t speaking in jest. Magnus had already killed one nephew, and he obviously had no intention of leaving the other one alive. Aulan wondered if the task would fall to him again, and he shrugged. He’d rather not. But then, orders were orders. He had been with the legions too long to feel regret in carrying them out, no matter what they were. Best to get it over with as soon as possible. He cleared his throat.

  “What is it, Aulus Severus?”

  “Sir, the weather is clear enough now, and it doesn’t look like snowing again soon. With your leave, I’ll take a squadron and see if I can intercept either your nephew or any Larinii messengers. If not, I’ll ride to Montmila and see what’s causing the delay. Your nephew said that, if he didn’t arrive on the appointed day, we should speak with the other tribune, Trebonius.”

  Magnus nodded but made a sour face.

  “Yes, in light of the circumstances, that would be for the best. It’s just a pity it’s necessary. Keep an eye on the skies. I don’t have so many knights that I can afford to lose another squadron. Will Trebonius know you?”

  “Yes, we’ve met.”

  “Good, good.” Magnus looked halfway cheerful for the first time since the sun had risen with no sign of riders on the northern horizon. “Can you leave today?”

  “I hope to be out the gates before the next bell. It’s early enough to catch the men I want to take before they start drinking.” He saluted, and threw his cloak back around his shoulders, and left the headquarters.

  He stood for a moment out in the cold before going in search of Lucarus and his squadron. He grinned at the thought of the look that would cross the decurion’s face when Aulan told him he’d be spending the next few nights freezing his arse on the road instead of keeping warm in the plump arms of the centurion’s widow he’d been comforting since the internecine battle.

  That would teach the bastard not to clean him out of a month’s pay at dice again.

  The icy roads turned what should have been a three-day journey into four, but it was otherwise uneventful. Aulan had been somewhat warmed throughout the long days by Lucarus’s bitter complaints. The decurion was worried that the centurion’s widow would be married again by the time they returned next week. Life might be hard for the women who followed the legions, but a strong, good-natured woman who could sew and launder and keep a man warm at night seldom lacked a husband for long.

  They saw neither Larinii nor any sign of Legio XVII on the road, not even a messenger. Lucarus’s theory was that the storm had inspired everyone to sit tight for fear of another one, which was precisely what he felt they should have been doing themselves. But the weather held, and it was early afternoon on the fourth day since they’d departed when they caught their first sight of the thick stone walls of the castra off in the distance.

  But even so far away, both Aulan and Lucarus could tell that something was wrong. They reined in their horses and stared at the distant compound.

  For one thing, there was relatively little activity outside the fort. They hadn’t seen a single patrol throughout the morning, which was inexplicable since, even with its losses, Legio XVII still had more cavalry than the average legion. There was also not much in the way of a camp following. There were a score of wagons on the castra’s western side and a few small, ramshackle constructions, but it was more remniscent of a little crossroads village than the sort of movable city the legions inevitably attracted.

  But the smoke from hundreds of fires rose from inside the walls, so it was clear that the barracks were still inhabited.

  “Do you think maybe he took his horsemen and ran?” Aulan asked Lucarus. It made sens
e. Marcus Valerius couldn’t easily outmarch the Larinii armies with the entire legion, but it would have been simple for him to avoid them on horseback. And while twenty or so squadrons of knights might be an insignificant force in ordinary times, it would be more than enough for the tribune to set himself up as a warlord of substance in these more troubled circumstances.

  “Only one way to find out, sir.”

  Aulan nodded. The decurion was right. They continued riding toward the castra, and the men, seeing ahead of them the promise of warm billets and a roof over their heads, picked up their pace.

  They had nearly reached the gate when Aulan had his answer. There were two banners erected over what was the Porta Principalis Dextra on the east-facing fort. They were blue, not red, and they bore the he-goat sable passant of Larinum.

  “Do you see that, sir?” one of the knights pointed to the Larinii banners.

  He did. Aulan didn’t bother responding. He was too busy wondering, if their Larinii allies were camping here in Montmila, then where in the world was Legio XVII?

  A bell later, Aulan was considerably warmer though no better informed as to the whereabouts of the missing legion. He was seated in the legate’s quarters, sitting across the desk from Florus Siculo and Corippus Nolens, who commanded the two armies of Larinum.

  Nolens seemed to defer to the Solactean, even though, as far as Aulan could tell, the elderly man had no military experience at all. Neither of them appeared to be particularly inclined to be helpful. He wondered if he should have worn something less identifiably Amorran than his tribune’s cloak.

  A map and a sealed scroll lay on the desk. Aulan drew two lines on the former with his finger from Solacte and Fescennium to Montmila, indicating the twin Larinii lines of march.

  “So you arrived here a week ago, and they were gone? You didn’t even send out patrols to find them, or let us know they’d run away? They could be anywhere by now.”