First Lord's Fury ca-6

by Jim Butcher

  The chanting voices inside the tent stopped.

  “I am here regarding the matter of the dead makers at Antillus,” Varg called.

  There was a low murmur of voices. Then a dozen of them spoke in ragged concert. “Their blood cries out for justice.”

  “Agreed,” said Varg in a very hard voice. “What wisdom have the bloodspeakers to give such justice a shape?”

  Another swift and murmured conference followed. Then they answered together again. “Blood for blood, life for life, death for death.”

  Varg flicked his tail impatiently. “And if I do not do this?”

  This time they all answered at once. “Call to the makers, call to the warriors, call for strength to lead us.”

  “Then let Master Khral come forth to see it done!”

  There was a long silence from the tent.

  Tavi arched an eyebrow and glanced at Varg. The big Cane looked intent.

  “Master Khral speaks for the bloodspeakers, and for the makers! So he has assured me for many months! Let him come forth!”

  Again, silence.

  “Then let one of honor and experience come forth to witness it! Let Master Marok come forth!”

  Almost before Varg was finished speaking, the opening of the tent parted, and a tall, weathered old Cane emerged. He wore a mantle constructed from sections of vord chitin, and a misshapen warrior-form’s chitinous skull served as his hood. More plates of chitin armored his torso and legs. His fur was, like Varg’s, midnight black, though both of his forearms were so heavily laden with layer upon layer of scars that almost no fur grew there at all. He wore a sling bag across his chest. The band had been woven from what looked like the legs of many wax spiders. The bag, too, was a black chitin skull from some vord form Tavi had never seen—but instead of carrying blood, it held multiple scrolls and what might have been some sort of flute carved from bone. The old Cane also had a pair of daggers stored side by side on his belt. Their bone handles looked old and worn.

  “Master Marok,” Varg rumbled. He bared his throat very slightly, the Canim version of a bow. Marok returned the gesture only a shade more deeply, acknowledging Varg’s leadership without quite recognizing his superiority.

  “Varg,” Marok replied. “Has no one killed you yet?”

  “You are welcome to try your luck,” Varg replied. “The bloodspeakers allowed you to speak for them?”

  “They’re all afraid that if one of them steps up to the head of the pack, Khral will have them killed when he returns.”

  “Khral,” Varg said, amusement in his voice.

  “Or someone.” Marok eyed Tavi. “This is the demon Tavar?”

  Varg’s ears flicked affirmation. “Gadara, this is Marok. I respect him.”

  Tavi lifted his eyebrows and gave Marok a Canim bow, which was returned in precisely equal measure. The old Cane watched him through narrowed eyes.

  “You killed two of my people,” Marok said.

  “I’ve killed more than that,” Tavi replied. “But if you mean the two false messengers who attacked me in my tent, then yes. I killed one, and a soldier under my command killed another.”

  “The tent was the Tavar’s,” Varg said. “He did not seek the makers out for murder. They trespassed upon his range.”

  Marok growled. “The code calls for a blood answer when an outsider kills one of us, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “An outsider,” Varg growled. “He is gadara.”

  Marok stopped to eye Varg thoughtfully. In a much quieter, quite calm voice, he muttered, “That might work. If we can make it stick.”

  Tavi took his cue from Marok and lowered his voice as well. “Varg. If Lararl had done what I did, what would be the proper reply?”

  Varg growled. “My people on his range? Simple defense of his territory. They would be in the wrong, not Lararl. Though I would consider it clumsy and wasteful, under the circumstances, since Lararl could quite likely have rendered them helpless without killing either of them.”

  Tavi grimaced. “That wasn’t what I wanted. There were only two of us. Each of us was trying to dispose of his opponent so that he could help the other. I would much rather have had them alive and answering questions about who sent them.”

  Marok grunted. He looked at Varg. “You believe him?”

  “Gadara, Marok.”

  The old Cane tilted his head slightly to the side in acknowledgment. “Khral’s pack of scavengers are going to raise a whirlwind of howls if you give one of the demons status as a member of the people. Naming him gadara is a warrior concern, and your rightful prerogative. Establishing a demon as one of our people under the codes is another matter entirely.”

  Varg growled. “Without this demon, there would be no people for the codes to guide.”

  “A fact that does not escape me,” Marok replied. “But it does not alter the codes.”

  “Then there must be a blood answer,” Varg said.

  “Yes.”

  Varg flicked his ears in thoughtful agreement and turned to Tavi. “Would you be willing to trade two Aleran lives for those you took?”

  “Never,” Tavi said quietly.

  Marok made a rumble of approval in his chest.

  “The poor dead fools,” Varg growled. “This was a blade well sunk. Give Khral credit for that much.”

  “Blood,” Tavi said abruptly.

  The two Canim eyed him.

  “What if I pay a blood price for the two dead makers? Their weight of blood?”

  Marok narrowed his eyes again. “Interesting.”

  Varg grunted. “A Cane has twice the weight in blood of an Aleran, gadara. We could bleed you to a husk, and you would have paid back only a quarter.”

  “What if it were done slowly?” Tavi replied. “A little at a time? And the blood entrusted to, say, Master Marok here, to use for the protection and benefit of the families of the two dead makers?”

  “Interesting,” Marok said again.

  Varg mused for a moment. “I can think of nothing in the codes to hold against it.”

  “Nothing in the codes,” Marok said. “But it sets a dangerous precedent. Others might use it to kill as well and escape the consequences in this fashion.”

  Tavi showed his teeth. “Not if the party who has been wronged does the bloodletting.”

  Marok huffed out a harsh bark of Canim-style laughter.

  Varg’s jaws lolled open in a smile. “Aye. That would stand up to usage.” He tilted his head and eyed Tavi. “You would trust me with the blade, gadara?”

  “If anything happened to me, your people would be finished,” Tavi said soberly. “We would kill them all. Or the vord would kill them all. And there would never again be such an opportunity for us to build mutual respect.”

  Varg watched Marok as Tavi spoke. Then he spread one paw-hand open, as though he had just proved something to the older Cane.

  Marok nodded slowly. “As the observer sent by the bloodspeakers, I will consider this payment an offering of honor and restitution—and I will see to it that the makers know that it has been concluded according to the codes. Wait here.”

  Marok went back into the black tent. When he returned, he held what would be a rather small vial, for a Cane, made of some kind of ivory. To Tavi, it looked nearly the size of a canteen. Marok handed the container to Varg.

  Varg took it with another, deeper bow, this time reversing the roles of accorded respect with Marok. The old Cane said, “From the left arm.”

  Tavi steeled himself as he pushed the arm of his tunic up past his elbow and extended it to Varg.

  The Warmaster drew his dagger, an Aleran gladius that had once belonged to Tavi. Varg carried it for use when he needed a keen-edged knife. Moving with quick, sure motions, he laid a long, shallow cut across Tavi’s forearm, along a diagonal. Tavi gritted his teeth but made no other reaction to the pain of the injury. He lowered his arm to his side, and Varg bent to place the vial beneath his fingertips, catching the blood as it spilled. I
t slowly began to fill.

  The entrance to the black tent flew open again, and a burly Cane in a pale leather mantle strode out, his fangs bared, his ears laid back. “Marok,” the Cane snarled. “You will cease this trafficking with the enemy!”

  “Nhar,” Marok said. “Go back in the tent.”

  Nhar surged toward Marok, seething. “You cannot do this! You cannot so bind us to these creatures! You cannot so dishonor the lives of the fallen!”

  Marok eyed the other ritualist for a moment, and said, “What were their names, Nhar?”

  The other Cane drew up short. “What?”

  “Their names,” Marok said in that same, gentle voice. “Surely you know the names of these makers whose lives you defend so passionately.”

  Nhar stood there, gnashing his teeth. “You,” he sputtered. “You.”

  “Ahmark and Chag,” Master Marok said. And without warning one of his hands lashed out and delivered a backhanded blow to the end of Nhar’s muzzle. The other Cane recoiled in sheer surprise as much as pain, and fell to the ground. The blood in the pouch at his side sloshed back and forth, some of it splashing out.

  “Go back into the tent, Nhar,” Marok said gently.

  Nhar snarled and plunged one hand into the blood pouch.

  Marok moved even more quickly. One of the knives sprang off his belt into his hand and whipped across his own left forearm.

  Nhar screamed something, and a cloud of blue-grey mist formed in front of him, coalescing into some kind of solid shape in response. But before it could fully form, Marok flicked several drops of his own blood onto the other Cane. Then the old master closed his eyes and made a calm, beckoning gesture.

  Nhar convulsed. At first Tavi thought that the Cane was vomiting, but as more and more substance poured out of Nhar’s mouth, it only took a few seconds for Tavi to realize what was really happening.

  Nhar’s belly and guts had just been ejected from his body, as if an unseen hand had reached down his throat and pulled them out.

  Nhar made a number of hideous sounds, but within seconds he was silent and still.

  Marok eyed the tent, and said, “Brothers, would anyone else care to dispute my arbitration?”

  A Cane’s hand appeared from the black tent—but only long enough to pull the entrance flap closed again.

  Varg let out a chuckling growl.

  Marok reached into his own pouch and drew out a roll of fine cloth. He wrapped it around his arm with the ease of long, long practice, tearing it off with his teeth when he’d used enough. He then offered the roll of cloth to Tavi.

  Tavi inclined his head to the master ritualist and accepted the cloth. When Varg nodded to him, he bent his arm and began to wind the cloth over it, though he did not do it nearly so smoothly as Marok.

  Varg capped the vial and offered it back to Marok with another bow. Marok accepted the vial, and said, “This will continue when you are recovered, Tavar. I will keep the accounting. It will be accurate.”

  “It was an honor to meet you, sir,” Tavi replied.

  They exchanged parting bows, and Tavi and Varg continued their rounds of the camp. He stumbled twice, before Varg said, “You will return to your tent now.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Varg snorted. “You will return to your tent now, or I will take you there. Your mate expressed to me in very clear terms her strong desire to see you back safely.”

  Tavi smiled tiredly. “I do feel a bit less than myself, I suppose. Will this end our trouble with the ritualists?”

  “No,” Varg said. “They will embrace some new idiocy tomorrow. Or next week. Or next moon. But there is no escaping that.”

  “But for today, we’re quit of them?”

  Varg flicked his ears in assent. “Marok will keep them off-balance for months after today.”

  Tavi nodded. “I’m sorry. About the makers who died. I wish I hadn’t had to do that.”

  “I wish that, too,” Varg said. He looked at Tavi. “I respect you, Tavar. But my people are more important to me than you are. I have used you to help remove a deadly threat to them—Khral and his idiocy. Should you become a threat to them, I will deal with you.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Tavi said. “I will see you in the morning.”

  Varg growled assent. “Aye. And may all of our enemies be in front of us.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Tavi lay on his cot in the command tent while the Tribune Medica of the First Aleran, Foss, argued with everyone.

  “I don’t care if he can eat sand and crap gold!” Foss snarled, his black beard bristling. “He’s a crowbegotten Cane, and he’s bloodied up the captain!”

  “Is the captain in any danger?” Crassus asked, his voice calm.

  “Not at the moment,” Foss said. “But you can’t expect me to stand around and say nothing while those heathen dogs bleed our bloody First Lord to be!”

  “Sure he can,” Max growled. “Back off, Foss. Captain knows what he’s doing.”

  “Of course! We’re charging headlong into a fight where we’re outnumbered a bloody thousand to one, and he’s bleeding himself before the fighting! Presumably to save the enemy the bother!”

  “Necessary,” Tavi said tiredly. “Leave it alone, Foss.”

  “Yes, sir,” Foss responded, scowling. “Maybe you can answer me a question, then. Like why the crows the First Spear of the Legion is staying in a guarded tent, walking around in a civilian tunic, and not speaking to anyone.”

  Tavi inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Why do you think, Foss?”

  “Grapevine says he took sick. His heart gave out on him in that last fight. He’s near sixty, seems likely. Except that if that had been the case, I would know, because I would have been the man treating him.”

  Tavi sat up on his elbows carefully, and met Foss’s eyes. “Listen to me very carefully, Tribune,” he said. “You were the man who treated him. It is his heart. He’s still recovering and won’t be himself for a few days. You took him off active duty. The guard is there to make sure the stubborn old goat gets enough rest and that he doesn’t relapse.”

  The ire faded from Foss’s expression, replaced by incomprehension followed by deep concern. “But…”

  “Did you hear me, Tribune?” Tavi asked.

  Foss saluted at once. “Yes, sir.”

  Tavi nodded and sank back down onto the bunk. “I can’t explain it to you, Tribune. Not yet. I need you to trust me. Please.”

  Foss’s face sobered even more. He frowned, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Tavi said quietly. “Are you finished with me?”

  Foss nodded and seemed to gather himself, focusing on his job. His voice reclaimed its confidence and strength as he did. “I cleaned the wound and closed it. You’ll need to drink plenty of water and get plenty of food. Red meat is best. Get a good night’s rest. And I’d rather see you on a wagon than a horse tomorrow.”

  “We’ll see,” Tavi said.

  “Sir,” Foss said, “this time you need to trust me.”

  Tavi eyed him and found himself smiling. He waved a hand. “All right, all right. If it will stop you from nagging. Done.”

  Foss grunted in satisfaction, saluted, and departed the tent.

  “Crassus,” Tavi said, “we’re near enemy territory. Make sure the earth furies have been positioned to spot any takers. And get those Canim pickets out as far as you can. Their night vision is invaluable right now.”

  “I know,” Crassus said. “I know, Captain. Get some rest. We’ll make sure we survive until morning.”

  Tavi started to give Crassus another string of warnings and instructions but forced himself to close his mouth. He was tired enough to make it remarkably easy. He and Max and the rest of the Legion would do their jobs properly even without Tavi telling them all how to do it. After all, what was the point in all that training and discipline if they didn’t get the chance to display their capability once in a while?

  He sighed, and said, “Fin
e, fine. I can take the hint. Make sure I’m awake by first light.”

  Max and Crassus both saluted and departed the tent.

  Tavi sat up enough to drain the large mug of cold water from the stand beside the cot, but the thought of eating the meal beside it was revolting. He settled back down again and closed his eyes. A moment’s concentration, and he drew together a windcrafting to ensure private conversation. Steady rain drummed on the tent’s canvas roof. “How much of this is the loss of blood?” he asked the empty tent. “And how much of it is the result of holding that weathercrafting?”

  One moment the tent was empty, and in the next Alera stood over the sand table at its center post. She chuckled warmly. “It took Sextus more than a year to be able to recognize my presence. How is it that you have learned the trick of it so quickly?”

  “I’ve spent most of my life without any furycraft to help me,” Tavi said. “Perhaps that’s had something to do with it.”

  “Almost certainly,” Alera said. “Very few of your people realize how much furycraft happens without their knowledge.”

  “Really?” Tavi asked.

  “Certainly. How would they? Watercrafters, for example, gain a sensitivity to others that becomes a part of their very being. They have few, if any, memories of what it was like to exist without that sense. Nearly everyone in Alera has their senses expanded in some way, to some degree. If they suddenly lost access to their furies, for whatever reason, I expect that they would feel quite disoriented. I should think it would be something like losing an eye.”

  Tavi winced at the image. “I notice,” he said, “that you haven’t answered my question.”

  Alera smiled. “Haven’t I?”

  Tavi eyed her for a moment. Then he said, “You’re saying that I’m crafting without realizing it?”

  “Without feeling it,” Alera corrected. “You make clear to me what it is you wish to accomplish, and I set about ordering it, within my limitations. But the effort for it still comes from you, as with any other furycrafting. It’s a steady and gradual process, one you don’t feel happening. You only become aware of it when physical symptoms begin to trouble you.” She sighed. “It killed Sextus; not as much because he pushed too hard—though he did—as because it made him dismiss the symptoms of his poisoning, incorrectly, as part of this process.”