Princeps' Fury (Codex Alera)

by Jim Butcher

  Isana watched in horror, helpless and furious, searching desperately in her thoughts for some solution. But there was nothing there for the Icemen. Words and good intentions meant less than nothing in this harsh land of stone walls and steel men, covered in ice and . . .

  Snow.

  Isana tore off her glove and thrust her hand into the snow, calling upon Rill as she did. The snow was, after all, water. And she had learned, during the desperate battle at sea the previous year, that she was capable of far more than she had ever believed. There had never been, upon her steadholt, a cause to push her abilities to their limits, except in healing—and she had never failed. When she had needed a flood to save Tavi’s life, she had managed one, though at the time she had believed it merely the result of her familiarity with the local furies.

  But in the ocean, she had learned differently. The limits she had known before had never been imposed upon her by Alera. They had been assumptions within her own mind. Everyone knew that holders were never truly powerful, even in the wilds of a place like Calderon, and she had let that unconscious assumption shape her self-perception. There, immersed in the limitless immensity of the sea, she had found that she was capable of far more than she’d ever believed.

  Snow was water. Why not command it as she would any other wave?

  She was the First Lady of Alera, by the Great Furies, and she would not allow this to happen.

  Isana cried out, and the vast snowfield around the Icemen surged like a living sea, responding to her determination and will. She lifted her arm, feeling a phantom strain around her shoulders as the snow surged around the Icemen and piled up into a vast mound behind them. The lightning surged into that sea of snow, throwing out enormous billows of steam, its heat drowning before it could do harm.

  Isana felt it when the sky above them suddenly changed, lightning flowing in from everywhere, surging from over the horizon in every direction to center itself in the whirling eye of the vortex above, its color shifting, changing from blue-white to bright gold-green. The burning shaft thickened and intensified, and Isana felt the surge in power behind it as some other enormous will added its power to the strike.

  “Antillus,” she heard herself gasp.

  The weight settling on her pressed on her chest and drove her to one knee—but she did not yield. She cried out again, lifting her hand, and the snow and steam and ice that continued to shield the retreating Icemen washed and flowed into shape to mirror her fingers, her hand lifted in a gesture of defiant denial. The endless cold of the north clashed with the fire of the southern skies, and steam began to spread from the clash, blanketing the countryside.

  “Isana!” she heard Araris call. “Isana!”

  He shook her shoulders, and she looked around dazedly at him. She wasn’t sure how long she had upheld the defense against Antillus Raucus’s strike, but she couldn’t see the Knights Aeris. Araris’s voice sounded oddly distant.

  “Isana!” Araris called. “It’s all right. The Icemen are gone! They’re safe!”

  She lowered her hand, and heard an enormous whuffing rumble behind her. She turned to see fine powdery snow rising in a huge cloud, through the steam, as though settling after a sudden avalanche.

  Doroga regarded the steam and settling snow for a long and silent moment. Then he looked at Isana appraisingly.

  “I ever invade Calderon again,” he said, “it will be in the summer.”

  Isana stared wearily at him, and said, “I’d see to it that you never got those sweetbread cakes you like. Ever again.”

  Doroga gave her a wounded look, sniffed, and said to Walker, “Alerans don’t ever fight fair.”

  “Help me up,” Isana said to Araris. “He’ll be coming.”

  Araris did so at once. “Who?”

  “Just stay by me,” she said. She caught his eyes. “And trust me.”

  Araris lifted his eyebrows as he helped her up. Then instead of answering, he leaned forward and kissed her. After a moment, he drew back from her, and said, “With my life. Always.”

  She found his hand with hers and squeezed it very hard.

  Seconds later, wind roared, and two forms plummeted through the mist and powder. Antillus Raucus landed hard, sending up a cloud of powdery snow. Lady Placida came down beside him, and immediately put one hand on his arm in a gesture of restraint.

  “Raucus,” Aria said. “Crows take it, Raucus, wait!”

  The heavily armored High Lord shook off her arm and stalked straight toward Isana. “You little idiot!” he snarled. “That was our chance to throw them back, force them to reorganize enough to send some relief to the south! What do you think you were doing, you high-handed—”

  When he reached her, Isana drew back and smacked him coldly across the face. Hard.

  Raucus’s head rocked to one side, and when he looked back at her, his lower lip had been cut against one of his teeth and was bleeding slightly. The surprise in his eyes began to be replaced by more anger.

  “Antillus Raucus,” Isana said, in the instant of unbalance. “I accuse you of cowardice and treachery against the authority of the First Lord and the honor of the Realm. And here, in front of these witnesses, I formally challenge you to the juris macto.” She drew in a deep breath. “And may the crows feast on the unjust.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Ehren didn’t have the full military experience of a true Legion officer, but he knew enough to know that the retreat from Ceres had not gone well. The battered Legions had barely been able to stay ahead of the pursuing Vord, despite the advantage of the furycrafted causeways. The Vord simply outnumbered them too badly. A man could march for hours or for days when he had to, but sooner or later, he had to sleep—while the Vord simply kept coming.

  Though the Legions did everything they could to keep the civilians moving out ahead of them, they couldn’t help everyone. The Vord had spread through the countryside, and Ehren did not like to think of what would happen to the poor folk who were left behind each time the road was cut, ending any possibility of escape for the poor holders who had been fleeing toward the hope of safety the road had offered.

  Ehren paced in the hall outside the First Lord’s room, a suite in an inn in the town of . . . Ehren wasn’t sure. Uvarton had fallen after the Legions had taken barely a night’s rest. The vordknights had caught up to them and begun dropping takers behind the town’s walls. Ehren was still having nightmares about the fourteen-year-old girl, taken by the Vord, whom he’d seen rip the heavy wooden tongue from a wagon and beat half a dozen legionares to death with it before being cut down herself. That was only after she’d set half a dozen buildings on fire with a simple candle. Others had seen much worse, and the chaos wreaked by the takers had been severe enough to force the Legions to abandon the city before the Vord reached them.

  After Uvarton had come . . . Marsford, he thought, where the Vord had poisoned the wells, then Beros, where the Vord had brought up enough wind that, combined with the cold, the Legions had lost one in thirty men to frostbite, then Vadronus, where . . .

  Where the Vord had driven them back again. And again. He’d slept in spare moments, half an hour, here and there, for the past . . . some number of days. He wasn’t sure. The First Lord had taken even less than that—which was why he had collapsed.

  The door to Gaius’s room opened, and Sireos the healer emerged. As the personal physician to the First Lord, the thin, silver-templed Sireos was a familiar sight near the capital—which was less than a day’s hard ride on the causeway from there. Sireos exchanged nods with the guardsmen at the door and turned toward Ehren.

  “Sir Ehren,” Sireos said. He had a long, mournful face and a very deep, very resonant voice. “Could I speak to you privately, please?”

  He accompanied the physician to the end of the hallway and spoke in a quiet voice. “How is he?”

  “Dying,” Sireos said in a level tone. “I was able to stabilize him, but he’s got to get regular food and regular rest, or he won’t last the week.”


  “And if he does?” Ehren said.

  “Weeks,” Sireos said. “Months, if he’s lucky. He’s using furycraft to ignore the pain and strengthen himself, or he would know exactly how bad his condition is.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do?” Ehren asked.

  Sireos gave him a steady look, then sighed. “I’ve been working on him for years—and never mind what he’s been able to do for himself. He’s every bit as skilled as I am at watercraft, even though his education as a physician is incomplete. His organs are simply breaking down. His lungs are the most obvious among the symptoms—he had pneumonia several years ago, and they’ve never been right since then. His spleen, his liver, his pancreas, one of his kidneys—they’re all breaking down as well.”

  Ehren bowed his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Sireos said. “He’s a remarkable man.”

  Ehren nodded. “You’ve told him all of this?”

  “Of course. He insists that he has a duty. Even if it kills him.”

  “Have you seen what’s out there, sir?” Ehren asked.

  Sireos’s face turned even more mournful. “I’m under the impression that I will.”

  Ehren nodded. “It would seem so.”

  “The world can be a hard place. We all have to face it as best we can, son.” He put a hand on Ehren’s shoulder. “Good luck, Sir Ehren. I’ll be nearby.”

  “Thank you,” Ehren said quietly.

  He turned away to look out the inn’s window as the physician retreated.

  Retreat seemed to be in fashion.

  A muffled voice came from the First Lord’s room, and the guard opened the door. Gaius strode out, clean from his time in the healing tub, dressed in fresh clothing. He moved with brisk purpose, but Ehren fancied that he could see the frailty underneath the calm surface.

  “Sire,” Ehren said, as Gaius walked over to him. “You should be in bed.”

  Gaius regarded him steadily for a moment. “I would be better off. Alera would not.”

  Ehren bowed his head again. “Yes, sire. At least you should eat something.”

  “There’s no time for that, Cursor. I want you to collect the latest intelligence reports and—”

  “No,” Ehren said in a firm voice. “Sire.”

  The two guardsmen glanced at each other.

  Gaius arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “No, sire,” Ehren repeated. He planted his feet and looked up at the First Lord. “Not until you’ve eaten something.”

  Boots treaded on the stairs, and Captain Miles of the Crown Legion appeared. He was a stocky man of medium height and build, his plain steel lorica dented and nicked with use, and he wore a similarly unadorned, functional, and well-used sword at his side. He sized up the situation in the hallway as he came to a halt, and saluted sharply to Gaius.

  “Sire,” Miles said, “the defenses are prepared, and the Crown Legion stands ready to serve you.”

  “Good to see you, Captain,” Gaius said, his eyes never leaving Ehren’s. He smiled, very slightly, to the young Cursor and inclined his head to such a slight degree that Ehren thought he might have imagined it.

  Gaius turned to Miles. “I was just about to take some . . . breakfast?” He glanced at Ehren.

  “It’s more like lunchtime, sire,” Ehren supplied.

  “Lunch,” Gaius said firmly, nodding. “Join me, and we’ll discuss the defenses.”

  “Yes, sire,” Miles said firmly.

  Ehren bowed slightly to Gaius as the First Lord returned to his quarters with Captain Miles. Then he went to see to it that food was brought up to the room before Gaius changed his mind.

  It was only after he was several steps down the stairs that he realized the import of Gaius’s words, and realized what was happening. Ever since Ceres, Gaius had been retreating from the Vord—and for the last several days, Aleran forces had barely put up any resistance at all. But the Crown Legion was Gaius’s single most trusted and capable force, and would certainly be present in any decisive confrontation with the enemy. If the First Lord had sent the Crown Legion ahead to prepare Alera Imperia, it meant that Gaius never intended to prevent the Vord from reaching the Realm’s capital.

  Gaius wasn’t being driven back by the Vord.

  He was luring them forward.

  If the retreat had been such a terrible strain on Alera and her Legions, it had to be pushing the Vord’s resources, too. Savage and deadly as they might be, the Vord still had to eat, and they apparently needed their croach as food. By forcing them to stay on the move and in pursuit of the Aleran forces, Gaius was also keeping them ahead of their supply lines, advancing far faster than the croach could grow.

  Meanwhile, the Crown Legion was preparing Alera Imperia herself for battle.

  Gaius was drawing the Vord into the most vulnerable position he could arrange for them, tiring them with the campaign—only to prepare to turn upon them at the high point of his power, the heart of the Realm, Alera Imperia.

  It was the gamble of a desperate man, Ehren thought. If Gaius won, he would crush the Vord strength in the Realm. If he lost, the center of Aleran commerce, travel, and government would fall with him.

  Ehren hurried forward, to get the First Lord a solid meal.

  CHAPTER 30

  The taurga rolled east at their lumbering trot, crushing the miles beneath their cloven hooves.

  “I still don’t understand,” Kitai murmured, close to Tavi’s ear. She rode behind him on his taurg, her arms around his waist. Even carrying the two of them, their taurg was less burdened than any of those bearing one of the Canim, and led the group in fine spirits—which was to say, it tried to toss them off every mile or so. “Why do we keep traveling east when we know the queen we must destroy is to the south?”

  Tavi grinned and called back to her, “The best part about this plan is that I don’t have to explain anything to anybody.”

  She slipped a hand under his armor and pinched him hard on the flank. “Don’t make me hurt you, Aleran.”

  Tavi laughed. “All right, all right.” He glanced back down the line of taurga. “The Shuaran warriors are engaging the Vord to the south of us. We’re going to ride around the main area of engagement, come in from the side.”

  “And encounter less resistance from the Vord,” Kitai said.

  “Or interference from the Shuarans,” Tavi said. “It isn’t as though we can expect every officer in the field to know that a group of Narashan Canim and Alerans—”

  “And a Marat,” Kitai said.

  “And a Marat,” Tavi conceded, “are traveling on a special, secret mission with Lararl’s approval, even with Anag here to explain things. Simpler and faster if we avoid them.”

  She frowned. “Tell me something.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Has it ever struck you as strange that the Vord never seem to notice you and me when we are near them? How they simply accept our presence unless we directly oppose them?”

  “When we fought them in the tunnels beneath the capital, you mean,” Tavi said. “I thought it very strange, yes.”

  “Did you ever wonder why they did so?”

  “Oftener and oftener, the past few days,” he said.

  “I think it is because we were responsible for waking them,” Kitai said. There was gravity in her voice.

  “When we went down after the Blessing of Night, you mean,” Tavi said, his own tone growing more sober. “We had no way of knowing what was going to happen.”

  “No,” Kitai said. “But it does not change the fact that the first queen stirred after we stole the Blessing from the center of the Wax Forest. That it emerged and tried to kill us that very night.”

  “Until your father threw a big rock at it.”

  Kitai let out a low laugh. “I remember.”

  “In any case, it isn’t as though they all ignore us. The queen I fought under the Citadel certainly saw me, and was more than willing to fight.” Tavi chewed on his lip. “Though the lower-
intelligence Vord, the wax spiders and takers and so on, haven’t ever attacked me unless I attacked them first. It’s almost as though they think we’re other Vord, somehow, until we start getting rowdy.”

  “An advantage we could use.”

  “Possibly,” Tavi said, nodding.

  She rode in silence for a time, then said, the words rushed together, “I’m frightened, chala.”

  Tavi blinked and stared over his shoulder.

  She shrugged. “What fool would not be? What if I lose you? What if you lose me?” She swallowed. “Death is real. It could take either of us, or both. I cannot think of living without you. Or of you without me.”

  Tavi sighed and leaned back slightly against her. He felt her arms tighten around his waist.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” he told her. “It’s going to be all right”

  “Fool,” Kitai scoffed gently. “You do not know that.”

  “Sometimes you don’t know the most important things,” Tavi said. “You believe them.”

  “That is completely irrational.”

  “Yes,” Tavi agreed. “And true.”

  She shifted her position, and he felt her lay her head against his back. Her hair tickled the back of his neck. “My mad Aleran. Making promises he cannot keep.”

  Tavi sighed. “Whatever happens,” he told her, “we’ll be together. That much I can promise.”

  Her arms tightened again, enough to make him strain a little to draw in his next breath. “I will hold you to that, Aleran.”

  Tavi turned to her, awkward on the broad saddle, but enough to kiss her. She returned the kiss fiercely.

  Until the taurg bellowed, bucked, and threw them both twenty feet through the air and into an enormous puddle of shockingly cold sludge almost two feet deep. Then the enormous riding beast bellowed in victory and went charging off the road, tossing its horns and bucking all the way.

  The shock of the water was so cold that Tavi had trouble catching his breath as he struggled up out of it and onto his feet. He turned to find Kitai still in the muck, her green eyes narrowed as she regarded him.