Fear rose in his chest, giving him strength, and he dragged himself down to the water, hand closing over a rock. He rolled, the icy water soaking his back, getting his arm up to strike—
To find a naked man standing where the tiger had been.
“Where…” The world was swimming out of focus, and his weapon slipped from his grasp. “Where am I?”
The man, who had dark skin and hair, frowned. Then, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, he stepped forward. Giving a slight shake of his head, the man caught Agrippa under the arms, ignoring his screams as he dragged him farther up the bank. Through the agony, Agrippa felt the man press the rock back into his palm, the words he spoke in a language Agrippa had never heard before.
He blinked, then watched a large tiger bound across the river and disappear into the brush.
41
Marcus
“They pushed into rebel territory,” Gibzen said. “Fell in with those who escaped Hydrilla, so I’ll need more men if you want me to pursue. The rebels are armed…”
“Such a shame they were allowed to escape,” Hostus murmured. “If only those guarding the cliffs had been ordered to kill those escaping, we might not have this problem.”
Marcus was freezing cold and yet sweat poured down him in rivulets, no amount of water quenching his thirst.
“This seems rather damning,” Grypus said from where he sat at the table, an enormous platter of breakfast in front of him. The smell of it made Marcus want to vomit. “Might be time to make the call, boy.”
Hostus strolled to one of the cabinets, unlocking it with a key from his belt pouch and pulling out a large ledger embossed with a 37, Celendor’s dragon curled around it. Circling the table, he set the book down and flipped through the pages of numbers, each representing a young man in the legion, before finally pausing on Agrippa’s number. “Afraid I can’t sign this for you anymore,” he said. “Only you can sentence your own, now. It is the law.”
Give him more time.
Allow him the chance to come back.
Trust him.
The thoughts twisted through his head, his breath coming far too fast, a familiar wheeze marking every inhalation. Every exhalation.
“Sir,” Gibzen said quietly. “Some don’t forget what came before the legions as well as others, and Agrippa is half Bardenese. Maybe having to fight his own people tonight pushed him over the edge.”
“The Thirty-Seventh are his people,” Marcus snapped, the comment hitting too close to home, because he’d never forgotten the family he’d been born to. Couldn’t forget them, for if anyone learned the truth of his birth, he’d hang alongside them in Celendrial’s Forum.
“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” Gibzen answered. “But it’s an easy thing for you to say given your blood is Cel through and through. Respectfully, ain’t no one asking you to fight your own, sir.”
And it had never even occurred to him that Agrippa might care. That he might hold some level of sentiment for the province he’d never seen until the Thirty-Seventh had marched in to quell the rebellion.
Pushing aside his plate, Grypus picked up the thick paper with the Senate’s seal that granted the Thirty-Seventh their status. Their freedom from Hostus and the Twenty-Ninth and all of this mess. Freedom so many had bled and died for. “Not everyone has the stomach to lead,” the proconsul said. “I thought you did, but if you aren’t willing to uphold the laws the legions live by, then perhaps I was wrong.”
His hands were tied. If he didn’t do this, the Thirty-Seventh would suffer. And he silently cursed Agrippa for being led astray by a girl. Cursed himself for not having seen the magnitude of the primus’s affections for her and for not intervening before it was too late. A mistake he’d never make again.
Guilt thick in his guts, Marcus took the pen Hostus held out to him and wrote deserter next to Agrippa’s name, then signed his own with the date. He stared at the ink, watching it dry, then closed the book.
“We’ll track him down for you,” Hostus purred. “And rest assured, we’ll send him to you alive and whole to receive legion justice.”
Sickness rose in Marcus’s throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing his face into blankness. “By your leave, Proconsul, we’ll be underway.”
“You have it,” Grypus said, handing Marcus the precious document. “Safe travels, Legatus. And good luck in Chersome.”
Tucking the ledger under one arm, Marcus strode out into the snow and cold, looking up at the walls of Hydrilla, illuminated by the setting sun. Conquered in an hour and yet he felt no pride in the victory. And never would.
“We’re ready,” Felix said. “Racker’s got a place in the wagons with the rest of the injured. You get some sleep, I’ll take care of the march.”
Marcus only shook his head. “Get me my horse. I need to ride out.”
The animal was led forward, all gleaming white and crimson caparisons, and Marcus clenched his teeth against the pain as he mounted, surveying the thousands of young men ready to march on his command. “Move out,” he shouted, then heeled his horse toward the camp gates, a column of men forming behind him and the Thirty-Seventh’s golden standard.
Felix trotted his horse next to him, their knees bumping together as they rode over the bridge, the waterfall roaring loud in the distance. “So,” his friend said. “Chersome. We take that island for the Senate and the Empire will control every stretch of land north and south. We’ll be famous. Though I wonder what the bastards will do with themselves when there is nowhere—and no one—left to conquer.”
“There is always something to conquer,” Marcus answered. And with drums and horns filling the air to accompany the sound of over five thousand men on the march, he led them toward the sea.
42
Agrippa
Whether minutes or hours or days passed, Agrippa couldn’t have said, for there was nothing but pain. Nothing but his own voice screaming inward, willing his lungs to keep drawing in air, for his heart to keep beating, for his body to live. Nothing but the accusation in her eyes, telling him that he deserved this.
Then a hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked, catching a sob with his teeth as he looked up into the naked man’s eyes. “I know it’s warm,” he said between ragged breaths. “But you should really get some clothes. Some of us are quite prudish.”
Then he focused beyond, seeing that the man wasn’t alone. A dozen men and women wearing armor made of leather and plate metal watched, all of them with weapons in hand.
“I’m flattered,” he whispered, “that you think so many were required to do me in. Sadly, I think another hour of bleeding should do it.”
The group exchanged frowning glances, speaking in low voices. Then a girl no older than Agrippa was himself nodded. The only two unarmed among them—man and woman—approached, one of them saying something to the naked man, which Agrippa was fairly certain meant hold him down because that was what he did.
The woman took hold of Agrippa’s left leg and jerked it straight, pulling a scream from his lips even as she did the same to the other.
Then the pain in his legs was gone.
“How…?” he gasped, but the rest of the words fell away as the pair moved from injury to injury, seeming to vanquish them with their touch.
And they aged as they did it.
Wrinkles creased their faces, strands of grey worked through their hair, and age spots rose on their skin. It was not possible. He was either dead or dreaming, because this was not possible.
Pulling a knife from her belt, the now middle-aged woman cut away his clothes, gave him a look that promised pain, and sliced him open.
He passed out.
And when he came to again, all the pain was gone. Not just the injuries from the river but those from the battle. Those from his fight with Carmo. All just…gone.
The pair who’d done it sat on the riverbank, ancient and grey and stooped, surrounded by all the warriors but one.
The girl sat next
to him, watching him with considering eyes. She wasn’t particularly attractive but there was a presence about her unlike anything he’d felt before. As though she were not entirely of this world.
“Where am I?” he asked, trying first in Cel and then moving through every language in the Empire, but the girl only frowned until, at last, he tried the Maarin tongue—one spoken by traders all across the Empire. “Where am I?”
“Oh, good,” she replied. “I was concerned you only spoke in gibberish. As to where you are, that depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you,” he said. “I’m an officer in the Thirty-Seventh Legion. You’ll be paid handsomely by the Senate for assisting me.” And he’d be paid handsomely by the Senate when he told them what these people could do. To have one of them in the medical tent… Racker might be forced to finally pick up a gladius and fight.
“And we are back to gibberish.” She tilted her head. “You are in the Uncharted Lands, near the border of what the usurpers now call Arinoquia.” His face must have been blank, because she patted his cheek. “On the eastern coast of the Southern Continent.”
Dread filled him, his eyes moving from her face to the sun, which was high in the sky. When he’d fallen in the river, it had been the middle of the night. Which meant…
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“The Celendor Empire,” he whispered, and then, because it had to be the truth, he added, “On the other side of Reath.”
Winds blew across the group, voices carrying on them that seemed as vast as the sky. As deep as the seas. All of them saying the same thing.
Welcome to the Dark Shores.
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TARNISHED EMPIRE takes place in the same world as Danielle L. Jensen's DARK SHORES series. If you want to continue
Marcus's journey (and embark on a steamy new romance!), make sure you pick up a copy of DARK SHORES. And don't worry, you haven't seen the last of Agrippa or Silvara...
Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from
DARK SHORES
Marcus stretched one leg in front of him and eyed the cards in his hand. He did not remember Celendrial being this hot. The Thirty-Seventh Legion had been back for little more than a week after seven years abroad, and he was ready to be gone again. Judging from the look of his friends, he wasn’t alone. It was only just past dawn and Servius and Felix were both stripped to the waist and sweating profusely.
Felix threw his cards on the table. “I’m out.”
“Me too.” Servius leaned back, staring up at the sun. “I never thought I’d miss the snow, but damned if I don’t.”
“Go for a swim,” Marcus told him, pulling the coins off the table into an already-bulging purse.
“Not a chance.” Servius grimaced. “Celendrial’s waters are full of beasties.”
“Just take a slower swimmer with you,” Marcus said, shifting again on his stool. This idleness was enough to drive him mad.
“No, I’ll have none of that. Would rather sweat.”
“Shame.” Felix waved a hand in front of his nose. “You stink. I’m surprised the combined stench of your sweat and farts hasn’t seared off my nose hairs.”
“You’d look better if they had, you golden-skinned shit,” Servius retorted, but Marcus had already tuned them out. His mind was for other things—namely, why the Senate called them back. It was true that Chersome had been subdued, yet their departure felt premature. The island contained more violence and unrest than all the other provinces combined. There was no better place for the Thirty-Seventh. And given that it was about as far away from Celendrial as one could get, there was no better place for him.
A small voice from behind him broke his reverie. “I’m looking for the Thirty-Seventh Legion.”
Marcus turned to find a young servant standing a few paces away. He held a rolled sheaf of parchment, his sandaled feet shifting nervously in the dirt.
“The Thirty-Seventh?” asked Servius. “What reason do you think to find them here?”
The boy’s gaze flicked anxiously between them, not hearing the sarcasm in Servius’s voice. The number was everywhere. Wrought in gold on the dragon standard wedged in the ground a few paces away. Emblazoned on countless banners flapping in the wind. Tattooed large and black on the chests of all the 4,118 young men lounging around the camp. The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again, the parchment shaking in his hands.
Servius laughed, the sound making the child cringe.
“Shut your mouth, Servius,” Marcus said. The boy wasn’t stupid; he was terrified. And rightly so. Judging from the curved blue tattoos across his forehead, he was from Chersome. The Thirty-Seventh had decimated his country and forced his countrymen into indentured servitude. Whoever had chosen him to deliver this message either was exceedingly ignorant or had a malicious sense of humor. “We are the Thirty-Seventh,” Marcus said, rising to his feet.
The boy took a step back.
“Who is your message for?”
The parchment crumpled under the servant’s grip. “Legatus Marcus. Legionnaire number one five one nine.”
“You’ve found him.” Marcus held out a hand for the message, but the boy clutched it to his chest.
“I’m supposed to ask for proof.” His chin trembled.
“You disrespectful little—” Servius was on his feet in an instant, reaching for the boy.
Marcus swung an arm, catching his friend in the face and knocking him back. “Sit. Down.”
Servius sat.
Taking hold of the neck of his tunic, Marcus tugged it down. Turning around to reveal the number tattooed across his back, he asked, “Is this satisfactory proof?”
The only response he got was stifled sobs. Sighing, he pulled the tunic back into place. Moving slowly toward the kneeling boy, he extracted the sweaty parchment from his grip. “Go tell your master that you’ve done your duty.”
The boy scrambled to his feet and bolted through the camp. “Rude little shit,” Servius mumbled through the rag he held to his face. “Marcus, I think you broke my nose.”
Marcus ignored him. Walking a few paces from his friends, he unrolled the parchment, taking in the few, precisely written lines.
“They going to let us into the city?” Felix asked.
“No.” Marcus reread the message, then tucked the parchment away. “They’ll not give this legion leave to enter Celendrial at will.”
“’S not fair,” Servius said through his rag. “They let the Forty- First in.”
“The Forty-First’s different,” Felix answered. “It’s like letting a legion of kittens loose in the streets.”
“I can purr.”
Marcus sidestepped the spray of blood and spit from Servius’s demonstration and made his way toward his tent. Inside, he stripped off his sweaty clothes and motioned for his man to bring him a clean tunic. Pulling the fabric over his head, he again cursed the heat of Celendrial as the wool glued to his back. Amarin, his Sibalese manservant, was strapping on Marcus’s armor when his friends decided to follow him in.
“Social call?” Felix asked, one eyebrow rising.
Marcus grunted a negative at his second-in-command. “Been summoned.”
“Senate?”
“No.” Picking up his gladius, he belted it on while his red cloak was fastened to his shoulders, the thread of the golden dragon emblazoned on it gleaming. “But by a senator.”
A slow smile worked its way onto Felix’s face. “Answers, then? A mission.”
“Maybe.”
“You got the itch?”
“I’ve always got the itch.” Servius laughed, scratching his ass.
They both ignored him.
Marcus did have the itch, as Felix called it. The feeling he got before a battle or a mission assignment. Or when
something meaningful was about to happen. Except something didn’t feel right. Why had they been recalled? Why, given their reputation, had the Senate left them to languish outside their precious capital? Why had he been called, not to stand before the Senate, but to meet with one man? And what did it say about this man that he would send a Chersomian to deliver his message? This was more than an itch; it was like trying to sleep in a hair shirt.
“You going to tell us who?”
“The man whose name is on everyone’s lips this morning.” Marcus picked up his red and gold crested helmet and shoved it on his head. “Lucius Cassius.”
A SAILOR WITH A WILL OF IRON... A SOLDIER WITH A SECRET... A DANGEROUS QUEST.
JOURNEY ACROSS THE ENDLESS SEAS IN
DARK SHORES
About the Author
Danielle L. Jensen is the USA Today bestselling author of The Malediction Novels, the Dark Shores series, and The Bridge Kingdom series. She lives in Calgary, Alberta with her family and guinea pigs.
Find her at www.danielleljensen.com
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 23
