by Jim Butcher
Tavi lifted his eyebrows, impressed. “Straight to business, eh?”
“Th-there’s f-food and wine waiting for you and your…” Cyricus paused and swallowed, glancing past Tavi to the hulking form of Varg, who had entered the courtyard last. “G-guests.”
“That is well,” Varg said. “I am hungry.”
Cyricus swallowed again. Then the boy lifted his chin and marched over to face Varg, meeting his gaze. “Y-you are w-welcomed as a guest, sir. B-but if you hurt anyone under my lord f-father’s p-protection, I will kill you myself.”
Varg’s ears quivered. He bowed from the waist to the youth. “It will be as you say in your house, young Master.” Then he glanced at Tavi, and rumbled, in Canish, “Does the pup remind you of anyone, Tavar?”
Tavi answered him in kind. “As I recall, I had a knife to your throat at the time.”
“It did give you a certain credibility,” Varg admitted.
Tavi carefully kept himself from smiling, and said, “Master Cyricus, I assure you that Warmaster Varg has had extensive experience as a guest of Aleran Citizens and that he has always displayed admirable courtesy.”
Varg’s ears twitched in amusement.
Cyricus inclined his head to Tavi. “V-very well, Y-your Highness. This way please.”
The young man and an escort of “honor guards,” all of whom stared warily at Varg, led them into a small reception hall within the citadel. A dozen men were waiting there around a large sand table, presumably the young seneschal’s staff and the commanders of the city’s defenses. As Tavi entered, they offered a crisp salute as a group. Tavi returned the gesture and nodded. “Gentlemen.”
Cyricus made introductions for his people and Tavi did likewise, leaving Fidelias entirely out of the matter. Then he said, “Let’s get an idea of the larger picture so far. Who can summarize the current position of our forces at Riva?”
Canto Cantus, a steely-haired man in Legion armor, glanced at Cyricus, as if for permission. The young man’s nod was barely perceptible but very much there. Cantus didn’t speak until after he’d gained approval. “The short version is that Riva has fallen. Completely. In a single night.”
Tavi stared at Cantus for long seconds, and his heart began pounding harder in his chest. He limited his reaction to digging his fingernails into the heel of his right hand, then forced himself to relax. “Survivors?”
“A great many,” Cantus said. “Princeps Attis realized what was happening in time to evacuate most of the civilians from Riva. But the Legions took a bloody beating covering the retreat of the refugees. They’re still sorting out what’s left.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Cantus gave a cold, concise summary of the tactics used by the vord.
“That isn’t much,” Tavi said.
Cantus shrugged. “Bear in mind that we’re putting this together from garbled watersendings and reports from refugees who were running for their lives and were not trained observers. The reports all seem to conflict with one another.”
Tavi frowned. “All right. They’re retreating. To where?”
“The C-calderon V-valley, Your Highness,” Cyricus said. “A-allow me.” The young man touched a finger to the sand table, and the smooth white grains shifted into ripples that settled into the shapes of mountains and valleys, displaying causeways as flat rectangular strips. A miniature walled city, representative of Riva, appeared and began crumbling almost immediately. Rippling motion along the causeway north and east of Riva showed the position of the refugees. Solid rectangular blocks following in their wake represented the Legions. A series of menacing triangles, representing the spread of the vord, followed after the Legions.
Tavi frowned down at the map for a long moment. “What do we know about enemy numbers?”
“There appear to be quite a few of them,” Cantus replied.
Tavi looked up from the table, arching an eyebrow.
Cantus shook his head. “It’s hard to get within sight of the horde during daylight, even for fliers. There is a constant battle for control of the air with those wasp-men they’ve got. I can spare only a handful of fliers to use for reconnaissance, and they’ve returned reports varying from three hundred thousand to ten times that number. So far, none of them have turned north for Phrygia. They seem to be intent on pursuing Princeps Attis.”
“They don’t dare do anything else,” Tavi said. “If the High Lords get a chance to catch their breath, they can still be very, very dangerous to the vord.”
Fidelias cleared his throat. He pointed a finger toward the far end of the northeastern causeway, the one that ended at Garrison. “Offhand, I’d say your pessimistic scout was the most likely to have been correct in his observations.”
“Why?”
“The geography,” Fidelias said. “Princeps Attis is seeking advantageous ground. Calderon may suit his purposes.”
“Why say that?” Varg rumbled.
Tavi began to ask Cyricus to expand the sand table’s view of the Calderon Valley, only to find that the stuttering young man was already in the process of doing it. Tavi made a mental note to himself: If he survived this war, he simply had to offer the young man a job. Initiative like that was uncommon.
“Ah, thank you, Master Cyricus,” Tavi said. “Princeps Attis is leading the vord into a funnel,” Tavi said. “Once they’ve passed the western escarpments and entered the Calderon Valley, they’re going to be forced to crowd in closer and closer. Sea on the north, impassable mountains in the south.”
“Neutralizing the advantage of numbers,” Varg growled.
“In part. But he’s also going there because my uncle has turned the place into a bloody fortress.”
Fidelias glanced up at Tavi, frowning.
“You saw the holders of the Calderon Valley throw up a siege wall in less than half an hour at Second Calderon,” Tavi said. “Now consider that my uncle’s had the next best thing to five years to prepare.”
The Cursor lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “Still. If the numerical disparity is that great, the Shieldwall itself might not be enough. And if he’s leading the vord into a trap, he’s going to be stuck in it as well. There won’t be any way for him to retreat any farther. There’s nowhere else he can go.”
“He knows that,” Tavi said, frowning. “And the vord know it, too. Which is why he did it.”
Cyricus frowned. “Y-your Highness? I d-don’t understand.”
“He isn’t so much leading them into a trap as he is playing the anvil to our hammer.” Tavi touched the sand table, made a minor effort of will, and added multiple rectangles to the landscape, representing his own forces. Then he began to shift the pieces as if they’d been part of a game of ludus.
As the Legions fell back into the Valley, the vord crowded in behind them. As they pushed back the Legions, bit by bit, the frontage of the horde continued to contract—and the pieces representing his forces and Varg’s came rushing up behind to pin them into the valley. “We hit them here.”
Varg grunted. “Few score thousand of us, and millions of them. And you want us to ambush them.”
Tavi bared his teeth when he smiled. “This isn’t about killing the vord host. This is about finding and killing the vord Queen. She’ll likely be somewhere at the rear of the horde, guiding them forward and coordinating their attack.”
Varg’s tail swished pensively, and his eyes narrowed. “Mmmm. A bold plan, Tavar. But if you do not find and kill her, our forces will be left facing the vord in the open field. They’ll swallow us whole.”
“We aren’t getting any stronger. If we don’t neutralize the vord Queen here, we might never have such an opportunity again. They’ll swallow us whole in any case.”
Varg growled low in his chest. “True enough. I have seen the end of my world. If I’d had the opportunity to make a choice like this one when they were ravaging my own land, I would not have hesitated.”
Tavi nodded. “Then I want boots on the causeway by midmorning. We’
ll have to move fast if we’re going to plug them into the bottle. Master Cyricus—”
“I’ve had logistics p-preparing p-provisions and supplies for your forces since Tribune Antillus arrived yesterday after-n-noon. They are w-waiting for you at the southern gate of the city, next to the causeway. It’s only a week’s w-worth, but it was the best we could do f-for the time being.”
“Oh my,” Kitai said in Canish, her eyes sparkling. “I may be in love.”
Tavi replied in the same tongue. “I saw him first.”
Varg’s ears quivered again.
Tavi turned to Cyricus, and said, “You may have noticed that we have a number of Canim with us. They aren’t able to use the causeways.”
Cyricus nodded rapidly. “Would supply wagons do, Your Highness?”
“Admirably,” Tavi said.
“I will requisition as m-many as can be f-found.”
Tavi met the young man’s eyes and nodded. “Thank you, Cyricus.”
Cyricus bowed again, and began giving stammering orders to Phrygia’s command staff. None of the men seemed to react adversely to Cyricus’s youth or to the confident manner in which he issued orders. The men obviously trusted the young Citizen’s competence, which suggested that he had given them good reason to do so. Tavi was even further impressed.
“Two days to Riva,” Kitai murmured, looking at the map. “Two more days up to Calderon. Four days total.” She looked up at him from across the sand table, green eyes intent. “You are going home, Aleran.”
Tavi shivered. He drew his knife from his belt and thrust it into the sand table at the western mouth of the Valley. That was where it would all be decided. That was where they would find the vord Queen; or else see his Realm and his people consigned to oblivion.
The dagger stuck there, quivering.
“Home,” Tavi said quietly. “It’s time to finish what we started.”
CHAPTER 26
Sir Ehren sat beside the driver of the supply wagon. Though the causeways were smooth, all in all, once enough speed and momentum had been gathered, he felt sure that every single divot and crack in the road’s surface would hammer directly through the wagon’s structure and into his rear end and lower back. Though the unseasonable chill of the past several days had ended, it had been replaced by steady, relentless rain.
He looked back over his shoulder at two hundred and fourteen wagons like the one he currently endured. Most of them were barely half-full, if not completely empty. Beyond the wagons trudged refugees from Riva, many of them taken sick because of the rain and the lack of food and shelter. Legions marched ahead of them and behind, though individually the legionares were little better off than the civilians.
Combat continued at the rear of the column, where Antillus Raucus had taken command of the defense. Great thumping bursts of basso sound marked Aleran firecraftings. Lightning frequently crackled down from the weeping skies, always to strike along their backtrail. The least-battered Legions took turns at breaking up the enemy’s momentum, supported by the weary cavalry. Wounded men were brought up from the rear and handed to overworked healers in their medical wagons. Several of the empty supply wagons had already been filled with the wounded who could not walk for themselves.
Ehren looked back ahead of them, to the Phrygian Legion marching in the vanguard. Just behind them came the command group of the highest-ranking Citizens, including the covered wagon bearing the wounded Princeps Attis. Technically, he supposed he could always go up to the Princeps and report in person on the status of the supplies. If that happened to get him out of the bloody rain for a few moments, it would be a happy coincidence.
Ehren sighed. It had been a perfectly fine rationalization, but his place was at the head of the supply column. Besides, it was better that Attis had as few reminders of Ehren ex Cursori as possible.
“How much farther, do you think?” Ehren asked the teamster beside him.
“Bit,” the man said laconically. He had a broad-brimmed hat that shed rain like the roof of a small building.
“A bit,” Ehren said.
The teamster nodded. He had a waterproofed cloak as well. “Bit. And a mite.”
Ehren eyed the man steadily for a moment, then sighed, and said, “Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Running horses approached, their hooves a drum of muffled thunder. Ehren looked back to see Count and Countess Calderon riding toward him. The Count had a bandage on his head, and one side of his face was so deeply bruised that it looked like a frenzied clothier had dyed his skin to complement a particularly virulent shade of purple. The Countess bore a number of smaller, lighter marks, souvenirs of the battle with the former High Lady of Aquitaine.
She and her husband reined in as their horses drew even with Ehren’s wagon. “Sir Ehren.”
“Countess.”
“You look like a drowned rat,” she said, giving him a faint grin.
“Drowned rat would be a step up,” Ehren said, and sneezed violently. “Feh. How can I help you?”
Amara frowned. “Have you heard anything about Isana?”
Ehren shook his head gravely. “I’m sorry. There’s been no word.”
Count Calderon’s expression turned bleak at this, and he looked away.
“Your Excellency,” Ehren said, “in my opinion, there is every reason to believe that she is still alive.”
Count Calderon frowned, without looking back. “Why?” He spoke between clenched teeth. Ehren winced in sympathy. The Count’s swollen jaw obviously made it painful for him to speak.
“Well… because she was abducted to begin with, sir. If the vord wanted her dead, there was no reason for them to go to the trouble to arrange a covert entry into a secured building. They would have killed her on the spot.”
Count Calderon grunted, frowned, and looked at Amara.
She nodded to him and passed along the question she could evidently see in his face. “Why would they want her alive, Sir Ehren?”
Ehren winced and shook his head. “We have no way to know that. But the vord went to a lot of trouble to secure her. We can hope that she is valuable enough to the enemy that they will not have harmed her. At least, not yet. There’s hope, sir.”
“I’ve seen what the vord do to those they take alive,” Calderon growled, the words angry and hardly intelligible. “Tell me that my sister is alive and in the hands of those things…”
Amara sighed. “Bernard, please.”
The Count looked back at her. He nodded once and pulled on his horse’s reins, guiding the beast a few paces away. He stood with his back to them.
Amara bit on her lower lip for a few seconds. Then she turned to Ehren, her composure regained. “Thank you, Sir Ehren,” she said, “for trying. We need to speak to Princeps Attis.”
Ehren chewed on his lower lip. “I’m not sure… he’s seeing any visitors.”
“He’s seeing us,” Bernard said roughly. “Now.”
Ehren arched an eyebrow. “Ah?”
“Before we arrive, we need to discuss in detail how best to employ the defenses of the Valley,” Amara said. “No one knows them better than we do.”
Ehren wiped rain out of his eyes and raked his hair back on his head. “That seems reasonable enough to me. I’ll ask him. I can’t promise anything.”
“Please,” Amara said.
Ehren nodded to her, then swung down from the wagon and ran ahead, toward the command group. It was not difficult. The entire group could travel no faster than its slowest members, and as a consequence they hadn’t been pushing half as fast as a Legion on the move. Half a dozen singulares recognized him on sight, and one of them waved him past the invisible barrier their presence represented.
Ehren knocked on the rear door to the covered wagon, still jogging to keep up. Lady Placida opened the door a moment later and offered Ehren her hand. He took it and clambered up into the wagon. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“It was no trouble, Sir Ehren.”
E
hren’s glanced past her, to where a nearly motionless form lay on a rough mattress beneath a wool blanket. “How is he?”
Lady Placida grimaced. “Not well. I was able to restore some of the proper blood flow, but… with cauterization like that, there are limits. He’s well beyond them.”
Ehren’s stomach twisted. “He’s dying.”
“He’s also lying right here, listening to you,” came Attis’s voice, weak and amused. “I’d ask you to quit speaking over my head, but in my current condition you have little choice.”
Ehren tried to smile. “Ah. Apologies, Your Highness.”
“What Aria means to tell you,” Attis said, “is that the backstabbing bitch filleted me. The lower half of my body has been sliced open from groin to ribs. My guts are an unholy mess and will doubtless begin to stink in short order. My heart is laboring too hard because apparently being bisected does terrible things to one’s blood pressure. The injuries are too severe and extensive to be healed.
“I can’t eat anything. Without all the proper tubes in my belly, the food would simply rot in any case. I can drink a little, which means that I will die of starvation a few weeks from now instead of from thirst a few days from now. Unless, of course, an infection takes me first, which seems likely.”
Ehren blinked several times at that. “Y-your Highness. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“There’s hardly a need for you to apologize, Cursor. Life ends. You can hardly blame yourself for that.”
Ehren regarded him for a moment, then lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. Are… are you in pain?”
Attis shook his head. “I am managing it for now.”
“Maybe you should rest.”
“I’ll have a vast surplus of rest, presently. For now, I have a duty to perform.”
“Your Highness,” Ehren protested. “You are in no condition—”
Attis waved a dismissive hand. “I am in no condition to fight. But in a conflict of this scale, I will contribute the most to our cause by coordinating the efforts of others and determining sound courses of action. I can do that very nearly as well from this wagon as I can from my horse.”
