Give Way to Night

by Cass Morris

  Tilla angled away from Alhena and put out a hand. After a moment, a rabbit nosed its way from underneath a nearby shrub. Tentatively at first, then with lightning speed, the little creature darted across the grass and onto their blanket. “Go on,” Tilla said. “You can pet her. She won’t bite. Or run away. I’ve got her.”

  Tilla worked magic with such ease that a pang of envy struck Alhena. Her own gifts required such work, and some days seemed harder to lure than any rabbit.

  “This is what I’m good at,” Tilla said, “and I do flatter myself that I am very good at it.” Tilla’s words had a bittersweet edge to them, though, lacking some of her usual bluster and half-mad confidence.

  “You are,” Alhena agreed, running a finger between the rabbit’s ears. The gray-brown fur was coarser than she had expected. ‘Perhaps because she’s wild, not hutch-raised.’ She enjoyed how the rabbit’s nose twitched, its eyes looking trustingly up at Tilla.

  “It won’t save cities, but it’s my gift. All any of us can do is our best by what the gods give us.” With one brown finger, she lightly bopped the tip of the rabbit’s nose, then moved to scratch its ears. Her fingers brushed against Alhena’s, warm and swift. “So!” she said brightly, shrugging off the brief somber shadow. “If your sister thinks an army of hares or pigeons might help her quest, I am at her service!”

  “You never know,” Alhena said, leaning her shoulder lightly against Terentilla’s. “It might be just the thing. I—I mean, Latona will be very grateful.”

  Tilla’s head turned toward her. Her brown eyes were so big, and it made Alhena aware of how close they were sitting. “And you?”

  “And—and me.” Alhena ducked her head. “These fiends, they’ve been . . . I keep dreaming about them. Not proper prophecies, at least not often. But I hear them, some nights, and the things they say . . .” But she could not echo their words, not even under broad daylight, not even with ever-hardy Tilla beside her. It shook her soul to think of them.

  Tilla dropped her head onto Alhena’s shoulder, a comforting nuzzle. “Then whatever I can do, I shall.”

  They sat in pleasant silence a few moments longer, stroking the complaisant rabbit, until the sky darkened. The sun had dipped below the tree line. “I’d best be off home,” Tilla said. “I’m wanted for dinner somewhere-or-other tonight, my father said.” She withdrew her hand from the rabbit, and Alhena did the same. Alhena couldn’t see or feel Tilla release her magic, but she saw the effect: the rabbit sat up a bit, suddenly aware of its vulnerable position out in the open, then dashed for the nearest cover, a gray-brown streak across the grass, making for an oleander bush.

  Tilla leaned over and, quick as a darting rabbit, bussed a kiss onto Alhena’s cheek. A friendly kiss, Alhena thought—but Tilla’s fingers brushed through her hair, and her heart seemed to grow larger and louder in her chest.

  “See you at the Crispiniae’s dinner tomorrow?” Tilla asked. Alhena could only nod dumbly, not certain what sensation was swirling around inside her, unruly and tempestuous, wild as untended vines growing up a mountain cliff. “Good!” And then she was off, long-limbed and fleet-footed, leaving her attendant to scamper after her in a panic.

  Mus came over to give Alhena a hand up off the ground. “Is all well, Domina?”

  “Y-Yes.” Alhena blinked down the path, where Tilla had disappeared so fast that she might’ve been a nymph, turning herself into leaves and bark. “I think so.”

  XXXV

  Outside Toletum

  Fourteen thousand men had lined up the first time that Sempronius marched toward Toletum. Now there were scarcely nine. Nearly three thousand had died in the dark, falling beneath a mist of fiends and the heavy blows of Iberian blades, and two thousand more were too injured to fight. Only a third of the Fourteenth was still standing, and many of those were not at their heartiest.

  It had taken Hanath a few days to scrape up enough of the herbal concoction for all of her riders. Sempronius had weathered the delay with mounting anxiety, fearing every hour that they would hear the Tartessi were crossing the Tagus and would have the legions pinched between themselves and the Lusetani. As soon as Hanath had confirmed that all of her horsewomen had achieved the necessary particulars, Sempronius gave the order for the legions to form up. At last, he had an advantage he could press.

  The tattered remnants of the three legions pointed themselves not at Toletum’s walls, but toward the western curve of the Tagus River. If the splitting of the legions had achieved anything, it was better intelligence as to the lay of the land. Sempronius now knew where the Lusetani were encamped, and he knew what the best route there would be. Hanath’s female cavalry rode alongside the front lines on both flanks. At the first sighting of the magic-men, they would be off to dispatch the threat before it could fully manifest. The male cavalry remained at the rearguard, ready to reinforce when they would be in no danger of succumbing to the akdraugi.

  Marching through the woods remained a discomfort. After the attack outside of Segontia, Sempronius would never be at ease marching in such thin lines again. His attention was primed, waiting for another trap.

  The Lusetani had scouts of their own, of course, and so the legions were met by the magic-men before they reached the camp. Hanath needed no instructions; as soon as they were visible, she gave a sharp whistle to her girls, and they sprang into action.

  As Hanath and the other women thundered across the field, kicking up reddish dust, Sempronius kept his eyes fixed on the magic-men. He could make out no details of their appearances, just a blur of long-haired men wearing robes in shades of blue and green. But there were other figures with them—naked figures, Sempronius realized after a moment.

  Crimson suddenly burst onto the color palette at the far end of the field. Beside Sempronius, Felix cursed. He wasn’t alone in expressing horror at the sight of human sacrifice just a thousand strides away. Not many of the legionaries would be able to see over their shields, but those mounted on horses could. ‘All the better,’ Sempronius thought. ‘As if the akdraugi themselves weren’t bad enough, now our people know how the damn things are summoned.’ Abhorrence of such a foul practice would encourage even greater retributive ferocity from the Aventans.

  He wondered if his sister would have felt it, the rent that the Lusetani magic-men made in the world, at the moment they made it. He had so many questions. Was it the slitting of throats that opened the gate, the physical breach, or some accompanying ritual? Were the akdraugi called to the blood itself, or was it the act of death that they needed? Would any blood do, or only human, or only the blood of their enemies? If he was right, and the Lusetani blood magic had much in common with Fracture magic, then Vibia might have been able to tell him. For Sempronius, the magical sensation came along a moment later, the pull of the netherworld calling out to the Shadow in his blood.

  Only for a moment, though. Then Hanath’s spear found its first mark, deep in a magic-man’s chest.

  A few of the magic-men fled as soon as they could, dropping the corpses of their victims unceremoniously to the dust. Sempronius could feel the akdraugi rising, but no enervating mist appeared, and no harrowing keening split the air. ‘So there is some ongoing ritual which must be held. Something Hanath did not afford them the time to complete.’

  But Sempronius had to set aside the thaumaturgically analytical portion of his mind; it was the general, not the mage, who was wanted now, for the Lusetani warriors had assembled and were charging, with or without their akdraugi comrades.

  Nine thousand Aventan legionaries would have advantage enough against a similar number of undisciplined warriors with inferior armor and weaponry. Few things, though, made an Aventan legion fight so hard as the desire to defeat an enemy who had humiliated them. The legions pushed forward with vigor—a vigor that Sempronius hoped would take the Lusetani by surprise, if they had become accustomed to fighting foes already weakened by the presence of t
heir fiends.

  The ground seemed to shake as the first line of the Lusetani crashed into the wall of Aventan shields, so much more solid and unyielding than they had been two days earlier. At the far end of the field, Hanath and the cavalry wheeled about and started back toward the right flank of the infantry force, taking shots at the Lusetani warriors as they passed. Their charge was not without casualty; one horse went down to a Lusetani sword, and Sempronius did not imagine its rider would be permitted to escape. But the women rode hard and fierce, back to join the hundreds of male riders who had been held apart from that initial charge.

  A whistle from Sempronius echoed down the lines. The back half of the legionaries began to fan out, coming around on both sides of the main force. These were the freshest men, those of the Tenth who had suffered least in the previous battle. Their forces swung wide, then closed toward the Lusetani as though their entire lines were attached to the central vanguard by a massive hinge.

  Seeing themselves soon to be surrounded, the Lusetani broke. The battle swiftly turned into a rout, with the cavalry chasing down and spearing as many of the retreating Lusetani as they could. There were fewer of the enemy, though, than Sempronius had counted on.

  Once the battle was done, he found out why. The Lusetani had not sent their full forces out to meet the legions. The rest had taken what they could from their camp and fled across the river. Their war-king must have been among them, or else he had been among the first to break off the attack, for Sempronius could find no man matching his description among the Lusetani dead.

  “Cowards,” Felix grumbled.

  “Clever, though,” Sempronius said. “And it keeps us from enjoying too great a victory.” He grinned over at his young tribune. “But I say we enjoy what victory we’ve got for all it’s worth.”

  Dark moods never sat on Felix’s face for long, and he answered Sempronius’s grin. “Too true, General.” He nodded toward Toletum’s walls, off in the distance. “Let’s see what sort of a welcome Gaius Vitellius has prepared for us!”

  Sempronius spurred his horse on, giving orders to the tribunes and centurions to leave off looting the Lusetani camp for now. Time for that later. Once the legionaries were back in lines and the cavalry had returned from chasing down what straggling retreaters they could reach, Sempronius positioned himself at the head of the force. “Victory on the field is ours!” he bellowed, and the legions answered with a great cheer. “We have robbed these Lusetani devils of the men who summoned fiends and demons to fight alongside them! And you, my brave men—you survived! With the very forces of the underworld thrown at you, you have prevailed!” Another rousing cheer. “I think these Lusetani will think twice before again assuming that the men of Aven can be chased off by ghosts and spirits!” He pointed toward Hanath, sitting tall in her saddle. “And let us not forget the allies to whom we owe so much, who turned the tide against the Lusetani!”

  Sempronius elected not to draw too much attention to the fact that it was the auxiliary women to whom they owed their lives; much as he appreciated it, too many of the legionaries would little like the reminder. Most had no idea what the battle strategy had been, much less the biological imperative that made it possible. ‘But I will make certain that history remembers you and yours, Lady Hanath. You will have your due.’

  Sempronius whirled his horse around, his crimson cloak snapping with the swift motion. “Now—Let us go to the walls of Toletum and liberate our brothers!”

  * * *

  Tagus River

  Sakarbik shook Neitin awake. She had fallen asleep shortly after feeding Matigentis. “What’s wrong?” Neitin asked. “Mati—”

  “He’s fine,” Sakarbik said. “Playing with your sisters. But something has happened.” She put out an arm and hoisted Neitin to her feet. “I felt it, even here—the thread of that Bailar’s magic snapping. The men will be returning.”

  Neitin started out of her tent. “I should make the camp ready—” She halted. “But—”

  Sakarbik shook her head. “We do not yet know if they will need succor or if we will all need to flee.”

  “I can make myself ready to meet them, at least. Alert my sisters and my uncle. Bring Mati to me.” As Sakarbik slipped off to do Neitin’s bidding, Neitin changed into a clean shift, tied a bright blue belt around her waist, and jerked a comb through her hair. She slipped on her golden bracelets and rings, popped golden hoops through her ears, and at last bound the golden diadem Ekialde had given her around her brow. Whatever was about to happen, she would meet it as a queen, and give Bailar no cause to sneer at her.

  She stood at the edge of camp a long while, watching for signs of movement across the dark sky and rocky field, holding Matigentis to her chest. “One of you would know,” she said after a long silence, “if—that is to say, if my husband—”

  Otiger was standing to her right side, Sakarbik to her left. Both had, like Neitin, thrown on a few items of ceremonial clothing: for Otiger, a deerskin cloak, despite how warm the night air was; for Sakarbik, a beaded shawl, tied around her waist. Neitin felt them exchange a glance over her head. Otiger cleared his throat. “I cannot say for sure, beloved niece,” he admitted. “The stars have spelled no doom for him this night, that I have seen.”

  Neitin blew air out through her nose in dissatisfaction with that answer. “The damn tree . . .” She scuffed at the ground with one toe. “You magic-men gave his blood to a tree, when you made him erregerra. The tree will reflect it, if he thrives or suffers, but what good does that do us here?” A harder kick at the dirt. “Why not enchant a rock? Or a bird? Something we could bring with us?” Otiger did not reply. He hadn’t been at that ceremony and it was none of his doing, and Neitin hadn’t expected any sort of answer anyway, even if he had been there. The magic-men rarely saw fit to share their insights with the uninitiated.

  In the moonless night, they heard the stampede of footsteps before they saw the men following the river toward the camp. Their haste did not bolster Neitin’s confidence.

  Ekialde was not among them, she quickly realized. He would have been at the front, leading, and she could not see him as the men drew closer. Instead, his second-in-command, Angeru, strode purposefully toward the camp, bellowing orders to strike and pack as soon as he was within shouting range.

  Neitin rushed to meet him, frightened by the implications. “Angeru, where is my husband?”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her. “Alive, lady, fear not. But we are in danger. The Aventans somehow broke through the spells that Bailar was casting. We must retreat to a safer location until we can figure out how they did it, and how we may mount a defense.”

  Sakarbik was at her elbow. “Aventans do not use magic on the battlefield,” she said. “How could they have—”

  “No idea. Ladies, you should make ready.” His brusque tone softened a touch as he met Neitin’s eyes. “The erregerra will return soon. He led a feint against the Aventans to cover our retreat, but they will not have tarried long.”

  * * *

  Toletum

  The tribune who stood beyond the gates of Toletum was familiar, though Sempronius had not seen the young man in many years. But he had Aula Vitellia’s copper hair, Vitellia Latona’s pert nose, and Vitellia Alhena’s blue eyes, and thus he could only be Gaius Vitellius, the surviving son of Censor Aulus Vitellius. This beleaguered man had kept three cohorts alive in the middle of Iberia since the previous autumn. He could not be much above twenty-five, but the past few months had taken their toll. Like everyone in Toletum, he was thinner than he should be, and paler, despite the summer sun.

  What troubled Sempronius most, though, was the haze of Shadow hanging over him. Darkness inescapable, clinging to his shoulders like the promise of a shroud. It set a chill on Sempronius’s arms, thinking of what could cause a shade like that to haunt over youthful vitality.

  He had mustered the garrison into their
lines, though, and snapped a salute when Sempronius approached. “Tribune Vitellius of Legio Eight Gemina, turning over duty of my vexillation to the honored Praetor Sempronius Tarren.”

  “At ease.”

  Tribune Vitellius’s arm fell to his side. “Sir, if you would care to join me in the officers’ quarters? I believe we have much information to trade with each other.”

  “Of course, Tribune.” Sempronius turned to Felix. “Have our centurions relieve the garrison. Post our freshest men on the walls and send out scouts to make sure the Lusetani aren’t creeping back. I want intelligence on their direction before dawn.”

  “Sir.”

  “Once you’ve got the centurions in order, come join us.”

  XXXVI

  The officers’ quarters were in a squat building not far from the city’s central square. Despite how hot it had been that day, the room was not overly stuffy, perhaps due to the open windows near the high ceiling. Most of the room was taken up with a long table, currently almost obscured by piles of papers. Four cots were lined up against the walls, though only two showed signs of recent occupation.

  When Sempronius entered with Tribune Vitellius and General Onidius, the room’s only occupant was a short, lean man with dusty brown hair and a slightly overgrown beard that had a touch of red to it. Like Vitellius, he had a harried and wan look to him, though he seemed to have more energy in his blood than the weary tribune, and Sempronius marked no cast of Shadow looming over him. He rose, brown eyes taking in Sempronius’s and Onidius’s uniforms, then flicking to Vitellius for an explanation.