by Jim Butcher
Varg’s nostrils twitched. “You are of the bloodline of the Red Rocks.”
“Anag,” the Cane said, flicking his ears in the affirmative. “You slew my grandsire, Torang, at Blackwater Fen.”
“Torang Two-Swords, that tricky old bastard,” Varg said, jaws dropping open in a grin. He gestured with a paw-hand at one line of white hairs among the black fur along his jaw, just above his throat. “He gave me this scar.” He gestured at his chest and belly. “And two more, here and here. I was under the healers for an entire moon after I fought him, and his pack stopped our advance cold.”
Anag lifted his head slightly in pride. “When I was young, he spoke well of you, Warmaster. He died in good company.”
Varg turned to Tarsh. “Fight the Aleran, Tarsh. I would rather deal with a true Cane than you.”
Tarsh’s huge chest bubbled with a growl, but he did not meet Varg’s gaze or show any teeth. “Warmaster,” he said after a moment, keeping most of the snarl out of his words. “I will make arrangements for your people.”
“And the Alerans,” Varg said. “I will speak to Lararl about them. Until then, I expect the same treatment of Tavar and his people that you give to me.”
Tarsh gave Tavi a look of flat hatred, but said, “It will be done.” He turned and stalked away, pausing only to stand over the wounded Anag and say, “See to it.” Then he walked off the dock and into the darkness of the city.
Tavi stepped over to Varg, and asked, quietly, “Tavar?”
“If you are to be here, you need a proper name,” the Cane said with a shrug—a gesture shared by both races. “It is close to your own, and has an appropriate meaning.”
Tavi tilted his head, waiting for him to continue, but Varg only parted his jaws in a small smile, then nodded to Anag. “Perhaps this is an opportunity.”
Tavi glanced at the wounded Cane, then nodded at Varg and turned to walk back toward the longboat. Maximus, his face somewhat flushed, said, “Bloody crows, Calderon. That was a near thing.” He tossed Tavi a cloth.
Tavi caught it and immediately began wiping the blood from his swords. “We were lucky Varg was on our side.”
“On our side?” Max demanded, barely keeping his voice down. “He just forced you into a position where you had to fight twenty Canim and take their leader prisoner to keep from being cut to ribbons.”
“It worked out,” Tavi said calmly, sheathing each weapon as he finished wiping it clean. “Now come on. I want you to heal Anag.”
“You want me to heal one of the Canim who tried to kill you,” Max said.
“The one who came closest, really,” Tavi replied. “Shouldn’t be too much work. I was careful not to hit anything delicate. Just stop the bleeding and get him back on his feet so he can make arrangements for the fleet.”
Max sighed and began climbing out of the boat. “I’m glad Magnus isn’t here.” Max gained the dock, and said, “You know, Tavi, it occurs to me that this might not work.”
“What might not?”
“Watercrafting,” Max said.
“You just crafted the boat all the way in,” Tavi replied.
“Through the sea,” Max said. “The same sea that touches the shores of Alera. But if we put this Cane into a tub of the local freshwater, I have no idea if it will work. There might not even be any furies in it.”
“I had no problem with metalcrafting, and a little windcraft, just now.”
“Metal from an Aleran sword,” Max said. “Wind from the same air that touches Alera.”
“I just used a bit of earthcrafting, too,” Tavi said. “Don’t tell me these stones are Aleran rock.”
Max frowned. “That doesn’t . . . everyone I’ve ever talked to, every paper I’ve ever read on the subject said that . . . Tavi, it just shouldn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Max said. “No one thinks it should. And I read up on it before we left, too, believe me.”
“What happened to accomplishing the impossible through ignorance?”
Max grimaced. “I suspended my usual policy on this subject. I wanted to . . . you know. Be sure that if you needed . . . that I’d be able to . . .”
“Protect me?”
“I didn’t say that,” Max said quickly.
“Max, my father had full command of his furycraft. By all reports, he was nearly as strong as the First Lord himself—even without inheriting Gaius’s furies. And someone murdered him.” Tavi shook his head. “I’m not going to get picky about my friends doing what they can to make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”
Max nodded, though his expression was undoubtedly relieved. “Glad you’re not being a fool about it.”
“Fortunately, I was fool enough not to know that furycrafting shouldn’t be possible here, when it clearly is,” Tavi said. “Now, as your Princeps and captain, I hereby order you to forget that nonsense you read and heal Anag so that he can get our people safely to shore.”
“Already forgotten, Your Royal Highness,” Max drawled, banging a fist to his armored chest in salute.
Tavi nodded, and the two of them walked forward, to rejoin Varg, who was crouched on his haunches, speaking quietly to the wounded Anag.
“What a bloody mess,” Max said, in Canish. The big Antillan leaned down to squint at Anag’s wounds. Max had learned his swearing from Gradash, and was fluent. “Did you have to carve his bloody thigh all the way to his cursed bone? Look, you slashed right through his fire-gnawed armor, and the bloody edges were hot enough to sear the wound partly shut, or he’d have been worm fodder by now.”
One of the other warrior Canim had stepped forward protectively behind Anag and had one paw-hand on the handle of his axe. He growled throatily at Max.
“Don’t draw that bloody axe, you puppy-mating furball,” Max growled back, without even looking up. “Unless you’ve decided you want to eat it.” He looked up at Anag. “I’m a healer. I’ve got to stop the bleeding before we move you to a tub and repair the muscle. So I need to touch your leg. All right?”
Anag looked steadily at Max, his eyes wary.
“Their sorcery is not like ours,” Varg rumbled. “It has saved my life once before. They made no claim on my blood thereafter.”
Anag glanced at Varg, then Tavi, and nodded once at Max.
Max laid his hand on the Cane’s blood-smeared leg and closed his eyes. There was a rippling sound, something like knuckles popping in rapid succession. Anag let out a short, surprised, growling sound. Then Max exhaled and drew his hand away. The gaping wound was closed, no more muscle visible beneath it, and no fresh blood leaked out onto the stones of the pier.
That drew a round of surprised mutters from the Canim, along with a great deal of interest. Twenty of the enormous wolf-warriors crowded around, noses quivering and sniffing as they eyed the wound, then Max. There wasn’t any overt hostility in them, but simply being amidst a crowd of eight-foot-tall armored, warrior Canim, muttering to one another in their growling, snarling tongue, was more than unsettling enough, even without a naked weapon in sight.
“It’s closed,” Max said, breathing a little heavily from the exertion of the crafting, “but it will tear open again if you try to use it. If we get the wound into a tub of clean water, so that the entire wounded limb is under the surface, I can repair the muscle, and it should be good as new by the time you wake up in the morning.”
That statement drew another round of interesting growl-mutters, and within a moment, two of the warriors had found a barrel, filled it with freshwater, and unceremoniously deposited their commanding officer in it.
Tavi had been correct in his assessment of the wound. It had incapacitated the Cane with pain and debilitating damage to major muscles, without destroying tendons or slicing open major blood vessels. The crafting used to repair such damages was not precisely easy, but it was fairly simple and straightforward, and Antillar Maximus excelled at such tasks. Within moments, he withdrew his hand from the water and chanted what eve
ry Legion healer did after he wrapped up work with a legionare on a comparatively minor injury, “Done. You’ll be hungry and tired tonight. That’s normal. Eat plenty of meat, drink plenty of liquid, sleep as much as you are able.”
The Canim began to help Anag out of the barrel, but he waved them out and climbed out on his own. He sprang down to the pier and landed on the leg that had been wounded, taking most of his weight on it. He let out a small growl of discomfort—Tavi knew from experience that the leg would ache like the devil for an hour or so yet—but he was able to use it.
The Canim warriors watched with ears forward and eyes bright as Anag practiced a pair of sword-practice footwork sequences including a long lunge, performing them smoothly. They flicked their ears in acknowledgment afterward. It was something along the same lines of cheers or applause from Aleran troops.
Anag approached Tavi and bared his throat. Tavi matched the gesture, but a little less deeply.
“The use of your healer’s skills is appreciated,” Anag growled.
“He is a warrior, and no true healer,” Tavi replied. “My healers would be mildly insulted at the comparison.”
“I meant no offense,” Anag said, perhaps a shade more quickly than he might have.
“None is perceived,” Tavi replied. “As I was responsible for your injuries, it seemed fitting to me to restore you.”
Anag tilted his head, his eyes searching. “You were responsible for sparing my life when you might have killed me. You owed me nothing.”
“You were doing your duty, protecting your pack leader—even one such as he,” Tavi replied. “I would not offer an insult to Lararl by depriving him of a valuable warrior’s service, even temporarily, when I had the means to make it otherwise.”
Anag nodded, then bared his throat again, a shade more deeply. “I will see to accommodating your people as well, Tavar of Alera. You have my word.”
“It is appreciated,” Tavi said gravely. “And I give you mine that my people will abide peaceably here and will not lift a weapon save to defend themselves from attack.”
“It is appreciated,” Anag replied. “Your weapons, please.”
Tavi arched an eyebrow.
Varg looked at him, then smoothly drew his sword and passed it over, hilt first, to Anag. “Aleran,” he prompted.
Tavi understood that the surrendering of weapons carried multiple levels of significance to the Canim, but he was unsure exactly what was contained within this particular gesture. Still, it wasn’t something worth jeopardizing their hosts’ willingness to grant them shelter over, not with the ships still at sea and bad weather on the way, so he slipped both baldrics from his shoulders and passed over the swords hilt first. “Why?”
“We have sought shelter and refuge from Lararl, a Warmaster of the Shuar,” Varg said. “The local pack leader has granted it, provisionally. Now we must go and speak to Lararl, and he will decide our fate.”
That sounded fairly ominous. “Meaning what?” Tavi asked.
Varg blinked at Tavi as if he had asked a rather foolish question. “Meaning that we have surrendered to the enemy, Aleran. You are a prisoner of war.”
CHAPTER 12
The air coach lurched wildly to one side and suddenly plummeted. If Ehren hadn’t been wearing the safety strap secured around his waist, he’d have slammed his head against the roof of the coach. As it was, his stomach lurched up into his throat, and his arms flew upward, seemingly of their own accord. The book he’d been holding flew up and smacked into the ceiling of the coach, bounced, then simply floated there, as the coach continued to fall, faster and faster.
The wind roared, but Ehren could hear the sounds of men screaming to one another over it.
“What’s happening?” Ehren shouted.
The First Lord, his expression calm, leaned over to look out the coach’s window. “It would seem that we’re under attack,” he called back, as the coach continued to dive.
“But we’re still miles from the Vord’s territory!” Ehren protested.
“Yes,” Gaius said. “Rather inconsiderate of them.”
Ehren snatched at his book. “What do we do?”
“The spin has stopped, which means we’re in a controlled dive,” Gaius replied, and settled back into his seat as if they were having an idle discussion while waiting for tea. “We let our Knights Aeris do their jobs.”
Ehren swallowed and clutched his book to his chest. A few seconds later, the floor of the coach suddenly pressed up hard against him, and he found himself almost doubled over by the abruptly enormous weight of his own body. The coach pitched to the left abruptly, then to the right. There was a scream of agony from one of the men outside.
Something slammed against the side of the coach, and blood-smeared fingers smashed through the window beside Ehren, clutching desperately to the window frame despite the jagged teeth of broken glass remaining. Ehren leaned over to see a young Knight Aeris, his face pale, one arm dangling uselessly, hanging on for his life.
Ehren tore off his straps and shoved open the wind coach’s door. The sudden drag made the cart slew toward the door side, creating a windbreak by the door. Ehren wrapped one safety strap around his wrist and leaned out the door of the coach, reaching for the wounded Knight.
He seized the man by the collar of his mail. The Knight let out a shriek at the sudden touch, then focused bleary, terrified eyes upon Ehren.
The Cursor gritted his teeth, let out a scream, and hauled with all of his strength, using his legs and back as well as his arm. It occurred to him that if the strap broke, he and the young Knight would doubtlessly fall to their deaths together—but there wasn’t time to spare for worrying about such things.
Fortunately, the young Knight wasn’t on the brawny or heavy side, and Ehren was able to drag him into the coach, all but throwing him to the floor.
“The door!” the First Lord called, helping to pull the wounded man the rest of the way in. “Close it! It’s slowing us down!”
Ehren staggered in the wildly swaying coach, trying not to step all over the wounded Knight, and leaned out to grasp at the door.
He had a short look at the outside. The coach was racing along at a dangerous pace, skimming thirty feet above the six-foot-long grass stalks of the central plains of the Amaranth Vale. The sun had all but set, and the sky was scarlet and midnight blue.
It was also full of Vord.
Ehren wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at. He recognized the shapes of the Knights Aeris readily enough, the familiar armored forms streaking by, supported by their furies’ windstreams. But there were more—many more—of the strange, black, glistening shapes with wings like dragonflies, greenly translucent.
An instinct made him look up in time to see one of the enemy plunging down toward him. He had a second, perhaps two, to get a look at it.
It almost looked human.
It had two arms, two legs, a head, with a face that was human in shape—but eerily featureless except for its segmented eyes. Dragonfly wings buzzed behind its shoulders, and its arms terminated not in hands, but in a single, gleaming, scythe-shaped talon a little less than two feet long—almost precisely the same length, Ehren realized, as a legionare’s gladius. Its armor, too, resembled a legionare’s lorica, though it melded seamlessly with its skin, all of it made from the same gleaming, dark chitin.
It looked, in fact, a great deal like a Knight Aeris.
And it was coming straight for him.
Ehren scrambled back, pulling the door shut, and flung his back against the rear wall of the coach. One of the vordknight’s vicious scythes slammed through the wood of the door where he’d been crouching an instant before. The eerie, featureless face appeared at the side window, not six inches from Ehren’s own, staring in at him through the glass.
Ehren was never sure precisely when he had drawn the knife, but in the same instant he saw that face, his right arm snapped forward, to shatter the window and bury his knife to the hilt in the vordknight�
�s glittering eye.
It screamed, a wailing shriek that sounded like tearing metal and the snarls of a wounded dog. Green-brown blood sputtered from the wound in a miniature fountain.
Ehren let go of the knife, braced his back, screamed for strength again, and lashed out with the heel of his boot, kicking at the scythe still transfixing the door. It snapped and broke cleanly, like the edge of a horse’s hoof, and the vordknight vanished from sight, falling away from the racing coach.
Gaius looked up from where he knelt over the wounded Knight and gave Ehren a sharp nod of approval.
And then he heard a piercing trumpet, a clarion call that carried even over the roar of wind and the shouts and cries of battle.
“Ah,” Gaius said, glancing up briefly. “Excellent.”
From outside the coach came a flash of light and a deafening racket of thunder—and another, and another. Interspaced within the head-rattling thunderclaps were smaller flashes of light, accompanied by hollow, heavy booms, and Ehren turned to see a vordknight, its wings burned completely away, its body twisted and cracked by fire, plummet past the coach’s window. The coach banked smoothly to the right and began to gain altitude again—smoothly, this time, instead of with the sharp panic of combat.
A moment later, there was a knock on the coach’s door. Ehren didn’t remember actually deciding to draw another knife, but he was just as glad that his fingers had preempted him.
“Stay your hand,” Gaius said calmly. “Let him in please, Sir Ehren.”
Ehren swallowed and opened the coach door, to find an elderly man dressed in very fine but rather outdated armor, riding a windstream parallel to the coach. He had shorn his head, but the stubble of his beard was mostly silver, and his eyes were sunken with fatigue—but shone with bitter rage.
“Your Grace,” Ehren stammered. He stepped back from the door, nodding to the High Lord Cereus to enter.
“Sire,” Cereus said with a nod, closing the door behind him.
“Your Grace,” Gaius replied. “A moment.” He closed his eyes briefly, then lifted his hand from the wounded Knight. The man lay there pale and still, but his chest was still moving, and he was no longer bleeding. “Thank you.”
