He pressed his hands against her ears as the prisoners struggled and begged, the distinct choking gurgle of slit throats filling the air. And then a shout, “North!”
Turning his head, Marcus nodded at his man to lower the knife pressed against the lone survivor’s throat. “How many?”
“Ashok did not say,” the prisoner wept. “Only that there were enough, and that they’d be here by dawn. I swear on the Six, I know nothing more.”
Marcus nodded. “Bind his wrists and ankles,” he ordered. Dropping his hands from Teriana’s ears, he extracted what little gold he had on him and shoved it in the man’s pockets. “Once you get free, I suggest you run fast and far. And wherever you go, I would have you tell them that you were shown mercy. That your comrades who died today did so for their crimes, and that their punishment dies with them. Their families will not suffer by my hand for that which they have done. Tell them to consider wisely who they would choose to fight for, and who against.”
He left Gibzen to deal with the rest, drawing Teriana away. “We’re going to have to move fast. The retreat was only a ruse, the siege already underway. If we make it back before dawn, I can get the men in position and…”
“I’ll keep up,” she said. “Marcus, there’s something else. Ashok got his information about … us, and where and when to ambush me, from one of your men.”
A traitor. “He could’ve been lying.” The idea of one of his men turning on him … turning on the legion, seemed impossible. They’d been together since they were children, had fought and bled together. Certainly there were personal grievances between men—between him and certain men—but this traitor had caused the deaths of the soldiers who’d been protecting Teriana and put all the rest at risk. And that was something else entirely.
“He wasn’t lying.” Her brow furrowed and she looked at Marcus’s feet. “There’s things he said that … implicated a particular individual.”
“Who?”
She shook her head. “This will be hard.”
“Who?” He barked out the word, because they did not have time for this and because he knew the name she was holding back and there could be no greater betrayal. “Spit it out, Teriana.”
“Felix.”
His name drove the air out of Marcus’s lungs as surely as a punch to the guts, and her voice sounded distant as she repeated the things this Ashok had told her.
“It’s not proof,” she said once she was through with what seemed like fairly damning evidence to the contrary. “I could be wrong. Maybe it was Titus.”
“Titus?” Gibzen and his men, who had finished tying up the prisoner and were waiting at the edge of the camp, shifted uneasily. They wanted to be gone. “Titus argued that we do what was needed to save you. It was Felix who wanted to let you die.”
“And you’re here saving me, while Titus leads the legions and the allied clans to their most significant victory on the Dark Shores. Think about it.”
He was thinking about it. About how Felix had disliked Teriana from the beginning, how blasted irrational he’d been lately, and, most of all, how quick he’d been to throw Teriana to the wolves. Yes, Titus had motive. But so, apparently, did Felix.
“Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Teriana said, the press of her hands against his forearms doing more than her words to pull him from his thoughts. “Wait until we have proof.”
He didn’t answer.
“If you act and you’re wrong, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
I can add it to my list of regrets. “We need to go.”
45
TERIANA
They had no choice but to use torches, despite the target it painted on their backs. The jungle canopy blocked the moonlight, and the last thing they needed was someone twisting an ankle or worse in the dark. And moving slowly wasn’t an option.
They’d been running for hours when Teriana’s sides cramped, nausea rising from her belly. She tried to ignore it, but then the torchlights began to pulse, and the next thing she knew, she was on her knees retching in the dirt.
Marcus was next to her, holding her hair back and pressing a waterskin to her hand. “When did you last eat?”
She couldn’t remember. Everything hurt.
“Did they feed you?”
She shook her head, knowing they didn’t have time for this. “Go. I can get back myself.”
A snort was the only response he gave; then he was lifting her, pulling her arm over his shoulder. “On your feet,” he said. “It’s not much farther.”
The world seemed to fade in and out, and all she wanted to do was lie down. Yet her feet kept moving, her weight half-suspended between Marcus and Gibzen until they reached the road and she reached her limit.
“I’ve got her.” Marcus’s voice, his breath warm against her ear as he lifted her up.
“Want me to send men ahead? Warn them?”
Whatever Marcus said she didn’t hear, the night slipping away. When she regained consciousness, it was to the sounds of voices and light. Blinking, she focused on the breastplate pressed against her cheek, and lifting her face, she was able to make out Marcus’s chin, the straight line of his jaw. He was carrying her, his breath ragged and strained. And beyond, the distant beat of drums and echo of horns. The battle.
“Put her here, sir.”
He lowered her, the soft press of the cot beneath her little comfort compared to his arms. All around, lanterns were burning bright, the tent canvas white above them. A familiar face leaned over her—a medic in the Thirty-Seventh. They were back.
“Exhausted, dehydrated, and she took a beating.” Marcus was standing over her, speaking to the medic. “Stitch her up, and then keep her here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Teriana struggled to sit. “I’m fine.”
“Give us a moment.” Marcus waited until the medic had moved off, then pressed her back against the cot with one hand, pulling his helmet off with the other. His face was covered with the blood of the man she’d killed, and his throat was already purple with bruises in the distinct shape of fingers.
“They’ll take care of you,” he said. “And then you’ll stay here where it’s safe.”
“I’m fine,” she argued, not wanting to let him out of her sight. He was angry, and she was desperately afraid that anger would cause him to make a mistake.
“Then you can help,” he said. Tilting his head, he listened to the horns before adding, “They’ll be bringing the injured here soon enough. I have to go.”
Even if she’d had the energy for it, there was no arguing with him. Catching his hand, Teriana squeezed it tight. “Promise me you won’t do anything until we have proof.”
His jaw clenched, the muscles standing out in the lamplight. “Fine.”
A small amount of relief filled her, because he would not break his word without cause. Though she knew he needed to go, needed to be on the field giving commands, she held tight. “Thank you.”
And she didn’t mean for the promise.
He stood still, his eyes searching hers. And Teriana wasn’t certain what she expected him to say or do, only that she felt like they were standing at a fork in a road. That he would acknowledge that there was something between them. Something more than lust. Something significant enough to move traitors and enemies to act, and to make both of them risk everything. Or he would not, and this would be where it ended.
Marcus squeezed her hand once, then carefully lowered it to the cot. “Be safe, Teriana.” Then he turned and walked away.
46
MARCUS
Leaving her there, battered and bruised and ill, had felt wrong, and if there’d been a way Marcus could have remained, he would’ve done so. Except already he’d lost the chance to see Titus’s and Felix’s reactions to the news of the incoming army from the north by choosing to send Gibzen ahead rather than going himself. Which meant he’d be resuming command with no confirmation of who the traitor was.
And it wasn�
��t what he should be thinking about anyway. His army was in danger, as were the hundreds of Arinoquian warriors led by the allied imperators, and he needed to put them in the best position to triumph no matter what came at them. Yet as he left the medical tent, heading toward the path leading to the hill he’d selected for its unencumbered view of the city, his mind refused to quit its obsession with the idea that one of his men was a traitor.
The legions knew that it was Titus in command, that Marcus had gone after Teriana instead of directing the largest battle since they’d arrived on the Dark Shores. And that would have consequences. If it went badly, he’d be blamed for abandoning them to an inexperienced commander, and if it went well, the credit for the win would go to Titus.
The conversation she’d repeated for Marcus twisted and turned through his thoughts. Titus or Felix. Titus or Felix. Though there were more consequences to it being Titus, he almost wished it was Cassius’s son, because the betrayal wouldn’t cut so deep. He’d known from the moment that Titus had dropped him onto that sinking ship that the man sought to replace him as commander, and given the blood running through his veins, it wouldn’t surprise him if Titus chose a circuitous plot to stab him in the back rather than to wield the knife himself.
But …
Felix had been unreliable for weeks now: bitter, angry, and not himself. Although perhaps that was wrong. Maybe he was more himself, certain truths Marcus had chosen to ignore pushed to the forefront by Teriana’s presence.
A series of horn blasts rippled through the air, and he listened to the signal. The walls had been breached some time ago, but now the enemy had begun to surrender. Not that that meant much. It would take time to root out the soldiers and pockets of resistance, especially given his orders to avoid civilian casualties. It would’ve been faster and easier to sack the whole city, but his orders had been explicit. He hoped it wouldn’t cost him everything.
“Stop where you are! State your rank, name, number, and purpose.”
He’d reached the end of the tree line, the hilltop overlooking the city bare and rocky. Its perimeter was guarded by one hundred men of the Forty-First, their spears practically shaking with excitement, and it ground his nerves that it wasn’t his men.
“Legatus Marcus, supreme commander of the Thirty-Seventh and Forty-First Legions, number one five one nine. And you bloody well know my purpose.”
The soldier gaped, then saluted. “Sir, I didn’t recognize you without … We didn’t think…”
“Move,” Marcus barked, shoving the soldier out of the way and striding to the hill’s summit.
It was a scene of organized chaos, messengers coming and going with information and orders, officers taking and sorting through the mess of it, three men with signal horns blasting messages over the valley, and Titus standing in command of it all.
Marcus forced down the swell of anger that made him want to jerk the command unceremoniously out from under the younger man’s feet. Until he knew for certain who had betrayed him, he needed to handle the situation carefully.
“Report.” They all turned, Titus stumbling as he did.
“You missed the party,” Servius replied, slapping Marcus on the back. He winced, his shoulders tender from the beating. “Though Gibzen told us you had one of your own.”
“Is Teriana all right?” It was Titus who asked with what appeared like genuine concern. “Gibzen said you were taking her to Medical.”
“Bruises. She’ll live.”
“Good.” He started to say more, but Felix interrupted.
“All has gone as you anticipated. Our ships blockaded the harbor, allowing the allied clans to take it from the water and the beaches while we took the city itself. The black powder was as effective against the walls as we were told it would be—absolutely a worthwhile addition to the arsenal. Fighting was tense at the points of breach, but the last holdout fell moments ago. They’re surrendering. We should have the city by dawn, which puts us in a good position to deal with this force Gibzen says is coming in our direction.”
“I think—” Titus said, but Felix wasn’t done.
“Neither our scouts nor Ereni’s have reported any sign of an army, but I’ve sent more out, north and west, instructing them to roam farther afield. On a chance this was a ruse, I’ve only redeployed our fourth, six, and eleventh centuries to hold the ridgeline, and our ninth, twenty-third, and thirty-sixth are holding their positions midground—”
“It’s not a ruse,” Marcus interrupted.
Felix lifted his face from the map he was holding and focused on Marcus’s face for the first time, the map falling from his hand as he closed the distance between them. “Are you hurt?”
Marcus stepped out of reach of his second’s hand. “I’m fine. It’s not my blood.” Turning to Titus, he said, “Well done. A night assault is no easy thing to command.”
Titus nodded, eyes unreadable.
“Sir! Look.”
Their heads all turned north in time to watch a scout’s signal flare burn out in the sky.
“Not a ruse,” Marcus repeated, estimating from the flare that they had an hour or two, tops. “Get the rest of those men up there. I want the high ground. Titus, continue as you were. Felix, stay with him. Servius, with me.”
“Where are you going?” Titus asked.
“On the field. Someone get me a horse.”
Amarin appeared out of nowhere, the rest of Marcus’s gear in hand. Without comment, he fastened the cloak to Marcus’s shoulders, exchanging the plain helmet he’d been wearing for that of a commander. “Your mount is the white one, sir,” he said, pointing to the gleaming horse picketed below. “I selected him myself.”
“I appreciate the foresight.” Walking down the slope, Marcus checked the girth out of habit, then motioned Servius over.
“There is a man named Ashok who may be in the city,” he said, providing the description Teriana had given. “He’s dangerous, but I want him alive.”
“I’ll spread the word, though rooting out a specific man might take time.” Servius held the horse’s bridle while Marcus mounted. “What’s so special about him that you dragged me down here to talk about it?”
He had no reason not to trust Servius, but caution told him to keep the information close. “He’s the one who roughed up Teriana.”
“Right.” Servius glanced up the slope to where Felix and Titus stood, their backs to them.
“Something you want to say?” Marcus demanded, the horse sidling sideways beneath him.
“Nope.”
“Have Titus and Felix keep the imperators and their warriors in the harbor. This fight is ours.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus dug his heels into the horse’s sides, riding down the trail to the fields below, where he broke into a swift canter toward the men he’d redeployed. It was rare that he took the field, but if there was ever a time it was now. The wind caught and tore at his cloak, sending it trailing out over the horse’s hindquarters. Men’s heads turned as he passed, his name rising on their lips as he fell into stride next to Gibzen. “I’ve another job for you.”
“Name it.”
Leaning out of the saddle, he gave the man his orders. “Show them no mercy.”
“Understood.”
His orders rippled through the ranks, but Marcus was already on the move, riding among his army, redeploying men by the hundreds, and when he heard the horns declaring the city was taken, by the thousands. His strategy formed in his mind as scouts and messengers brought him information on the incoming force. He would win, and it would be decisive, and they would remember why he was commander.
Dawn rose in the east.
Marcus sat on his horse, watching the cleared fields and the distant jungle beyond, his only company a signalman, who held the tool of his trade loosely in one hand, and the Thirty-Seventh’s standard, the golden dragon brilliant in the rising sun. On the ridgeline stood three hundred of his men. A pittance against what his scouts estimated as clo
se to ten thousand enemy.
A scout sprinted across the field toward him. “They’re coming!” he gasped, stopping next to Marcus’s horse.
“Any hesitation?”
“None.”
There wouldn’t be. Not when he’d let their scouts get close. To see his men with their backs turned and the allied clans busy in the harbor, all woefully unprepared for an attack from the rear.
Marcus nodded, and the signalman blew a long note on the horn. Marcus did not look back, knowing his men, trained in a way a mercenary army could never be, were now moving into position. Not the easy, unprepared target the enemy scouts thought them to be.
In the distance, he heard a faint roar. The sound of thousands of men running and screaming. He nodded again at the signalman, who blew two notes.
The roar grew louder. “Steady!” Marcus shouted.
Across the fields there was movement.
A second later, the enemy broke from the trees.
The front-runners were mounted, and the horses broke into a gallop the moment they hit the open space, perhaps five hundred total. Behind them came a horde of men, weapons gleaming in the light.
Marcus knew this sort of foe, and he knew it well. Mercenaries. Men, and sometimes women, who were often skilled warriors in their own right. Except they fought as individuals, an uncoordinated mass that barely deserved to be called an army.
Urcon’s mercenaries raged across the field, their eyes fixed on his three hundred men, and Marcus’s stomach tightened, because this was where he’d have his casualties. “Hold!” he shouted.
Wait.
Wait.
The horsemen were close enough now that he could see their faces, wild with bloodlust and the certainty of victory. Behind them, the footmen were deep into the field, the safety of the jungle lost to them.
Closer.
Closer.
“Now,” he said, and the signalman blew his battle cry.
His three hundred stepped back, revealing a line of sharpened stakes even as another thousand of his men stepped over the ridgeline, forming a wall of shields and bristling spears eight men deep.
Dark Shores Page 33
