Princeps' fury (34 page)

Even as Marcus watched, he saw the wounded man’s jaw shift weirdly beneath his skin. Seconds later, the swelling began to subside and the bruises began to lighten.

“This is a minor and routine injury, sir,” Marcus said. “And the messenger’s life might depend on securing the most skilled healer in the camp. Our Tribune Medica is pressing hard at his limits.”

The Free Aleran Tribune grunted. “I’ll send her over presently.”

“With respect, sir,” Marcus said, “Antillus Crassus is dying now.”

The woman’s eyes opened instantly, and she met Marcus’s gaze with her own. Her stare was penetrating. She removed her hands from Bartillus’s head and rose to approach the Tribune Medica.

“I’ve knitted the bone and controlled the swelling, sir,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes downcast. “I’d be happy to help Tribune Antillus.”

The Tribune frowned at her, then at Marcus. Then he waved his hand in a vague gesture, and said, “Don’t be gone any longer than you need to be.”

Dorotea, the former High Lady of Antillus, walked for several steps before she admitted, “Possibly. However, the fact is that there is no future for High Lady Antillus, whereas Dorotea has saved lives, helped people, and done more good in the past three years than she had in her entire previous life.”

“But you’re trapped there,” Marcus said. “Bound to obey the commands of others. Forbidden to do harm, even to defend yourself.”

“And liking it that way, First Spear.” She looked ahead to the healer’s tent. “How severe are my son’s injuries?”

“I’m no healer,” Marcus replied. “But I’ve seen Foss handle very serious injuries. Some of them were my own. If he’s struggling . . .”

Dorotea nodded once, her expression serene. “Then we shall see what we shall see.” She glanced obliquely at Marcus. “Does my son know?”

“I thank you.” Dorotea’s eyes flickered with uncertainty and fear, and her footsteps increased in speed as they drew near the tent. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, I can . . . He’s in so much
pain
.”

Marcus did not follow her. A few seconds after Dorotea entered the tent, Magnus pushed the flap aside and walked up to Marcus, his eyes hard.

“What in the name of the great furies do you think you’re doing?” he hissed at Marcus. “You know who she is.”

“Yes,” Marcus said placidly.

“And it never occurred to you that she might well hold a grudge against the Crown for the way her brother and his resources were destroyed? That she might resent her current status intensely enough to strike out at the Crown in vengeance?”

“She’s bound to do no harm,” Marcus pointed out.

“And she’ll not
need
to do any harm to kill the Princeps, if he is in trouble. All she’ll have to do is fail to save the messenger. Given her limits, how often in a
lifetime
of waiting could such an opportunity for vengeance present itself?”

“If the messenger was anyone else, I’d agree with you,” Marcus said calmly. “She won’t allow her child to die to satisfy her vengeance—presuming that she wants such a thing.”

Tension made an iron bar of the First Spear’s neck, but he forced himself not to allow it to spread to his shoulders and back, where Magnus would have no trouble observing it. “Wasn’t a hard batch of thinking,” Marcus said, keeping his tone even and confident. “I was there when the two of them came down to join the First Aleran. Saw them together. She doted on that boy.”

Magnus made a noise that seemed to be a grudging agreement. His worried eyes shifted from Marcus to the healer’s tent. “I’d best be inside, in case Crassus wakes.”

“Go ahead,” Marcus said. He glanced across the open ground to the walls of the city of Molvar, barely half a mile away. “There’s plenty of work to be done on the palisade, still, and we want it in place before we move the stores up from the ships.”

Magnus nodded. “What of the Narashans?”

“They’re making camp on the plain on the opposite side of the city,” Marcus said. “I’m making arrangements to establish runners between our camps.”

“The enemy of my enemy is just that,” Marcus replied. “It’s foolish to assume anything more. But we share a common interest that is threatened by a larger foe. If Narashan relations with the Shuarans fall to bits, Nasaug is practical enough to take any help he can get.”

“And if our relations with the Shuarans fall out, there is a bond between Nasaug and the Free Aleran,” Magnus murmured. “Enough of one to convince them to assist us?”

“No knowing,” the First Spear replied. “Can’t hurt to keep talking to them.”

“Agreed,” Magnus said. “I’ll send someone as soon as we know something. Meanwhile, let the Knights Aeris know that they may be needed to fly at a moment’s notice.”

“Aye.”

The elderly Cursor nodded and turned to head back into the healer’s tent.

Marcus watched him go, then raised a hand to rub at the wooden muscles on the back of his neck.
Crows take it, what is the matter with me today?
Magnus was right to be suspicious. Valiar Marcus might be a consummate soldier, a stalwart veteran, but such men did not tend to make such delicate and dangerous wagers with the safety of someone like the Princeps—or if they did make them, they put their money on the conservative side of the bet. What in the world had prompted him to fetch Lady Antillus to assist Crassus without first conceiving a convincing explanation as to why Marcus would bring her?

The First Spear turned on a heel and marched back out toward the palisades, taking a route that would let him walk past the barracks area of the Legion’s Knights.

There was plenty of work to occupy his mind—which was likely the problem.

Crassus survived.

Marcus strode into the healer’s tent three hours later, to find the young Tribune lying on a cot, covered by a blanket. Lady Antillus was nowhere to be seen, but Magnus was sitting on a camp stool beside the cot, a simple wooden framework with a sheet of canvas serving as the bed. Foss hovered nearby and seemed to be busy cleaning out a tub—but Marcus could all but feel the man itching to tell them to leave his patient to recover in peace.

Magnus nodded to the First Spear as he entered. “He’s dozing,” he said quietly. “But I wanted you here when I asked him to speak.”

“Certainly.” Marcus came to stand beside Magnus, frowning down at the young man. Crassus was pale, but whole. Where there had been three or four wounds on his shoulders and head, there was only the pink skin of freshly healed flesh. The wounds were all punctures—lines no more than two inches wide that had gaped like open mouths over deep wounds. Marcus would have thought them to be dagger wounds, had it happened to the boy on the streets of an Aleran city.

But what the crows had given the boy such wounds in the skies over Canea?

“Crassus,” Magnus said quietly, touching the boy’s shoulder. “Tribune. Report.”

Crassus opened his eyes, and took a moment to focus them, first on the roof of the tent, and then upon Magnus. “The Princeps. He’s imprisoned on the roof of a tower. Sent me to let you know what was going on, and to lead the Knights Aeris back to be ready to extract him if need be.”

Magnus spluttered, “If
need
be? He’s been imprisoned. What more need does he
need
?”

The First Spear firmly stopped himself from beginning his next sentence with the word “obviously.” “Could be that he thinks there might be some advantage to be gained if he stays where he is,” Marcus said.

Crassus looked up at him and nodded. In short, simple sentences, he described their journey to the fortified city of Shuar, what they had learned about the events of the past three years in Canea, and of their encounter with its master.

“He’s after information,” Magnus said. “Whatever the Shuarans know about the Vord. Crows take his arrogant eyes, that boy will be the death of me. He should never expose himself to such danger. This is why there
are
Cursors in the
first
place!”

“Survivors,” Crassus said. “Narashan survivors. Twenty, maybe thirty thousand. They’re being held in a camp about ten miles from Shuar. Lararl’s ritualists are draining their blood to fuel their sorcery.”

“The Vord,” Crassus said. “Lararl has his entire force at Shuar, defending the fortifications. But they’ve tunneled their way beneath them, into the center of the plateau. They’re pouring up out of the ground like ants.” He grimaced. “And some of them fly. They dropped on me when I was off my guard, trying to get a good look at the forces on the ground.”

Dead silence filled the tent.

Magnus began to speak, then paused, swallowed, licked his lips, and rasped, “How many?”

“I can’t be certain. My best guess is that there are eighty, maybe ninety thousand of them. They’re marching toward Shuar. They’ll be there in a day, two at most.”

“Bloody crows,” Foss breathed. Marcus turned to see the healer staring at Crassus, his expression stunned.

“Well,” Magnus said, his voice a monotone. “Well, well, well. First Spear?”

Marcus blew out a breath. “I’d say this just turned from a diplomatic mission into a retreat. We need to get the Princeps back here and take him back to Alera before the Vord overrun Shuar and come for us. We should send the Knights Aeris to get the Princeps and his companions. We’ll expedite repairs and get off this frozen rock.”

Magnus lifted a hand to forestall the healer. “Crassus is right, Foss. Our Knights Aeris have only a vague idea of where the city is, much less where the Princeps is located within it. And I daresay, they cannot fly as well concealed as the boy was. They’ll need to take a route that leads them around the Vord in the interior.”

Crassus nodded to Foss. “If they go without me, there’s no guarantee that they’ll even reach the Princeps, much less find him and get him out in one piece.”

Foss shook his head. “If you go haring off right now, flying and fighting like you haven’t a care in the world, you’re going to rip open those wounds.” The big healer moved to the side of the cot, put a hand on Crassus’s shoulder, and looked the young man in the eyes. “Do you hear me? If you don’t rest now, you are likely going to die.”

“Yes,” Crassus said, his voice calm and utterly weary. “Where is my armor?”