Princeps' Fury (Codex Alera)

by Jim Butcher

  “We’ll take whoever disarms himself and wants to go,” Bernard said. “If there’s room.” He leaned down and kissed her swiftly, again, then growled, “When I get you out of here, Countess . . .”

  A thrill ran through her that had nothing to do with furycrafted collars. “Not until we’ve both bathed. Now, don’t make me punch you in the mouth, Your Excellency.”

  He winked at her, then turned, barking orders as the freed Aleran Citizens and Knights prepared to make good their escape.

  Half an hour later, dozens of makeshift wind coaches sailed up from the captured city, Vord shrieking useless protest behind him. Perhaps a score of vordknights attempted to stop the coaches, but were driven away by half a dozen firecrafters, and moments later the coaches were too high and moving too swiftly for any winged pursuit to catch up with them.

  Amara vaguely remembered working as hard as she could to help keep one of the coaches aloft, and bringing it in for a brutal but nonlethal landing an endless amount of time later, as the sun began to rise. Then someone put a stale piece of bread into her hand, which she ate ravenously. A moment later, there was a warm fire—a real fire, by the great furies, and its heat wrapped her in blessed warmth.

  Bernard pressed her head gently down onto a cloak he’d spread on the ground, and said, “Rest, my Countess. We’ll have to move again soon. I’ll keep watch.”

  Amara was going to protest that he needed rest, too, she honestly was, but the fire was beautiful and warm and . . .

  And for the first time in weeks, Amara felt safe.

  She slept.

  CHAPTER 43

  Tavi stood atop the earthworks and stared out across the rolling plain. His armor and helmet had been scoured clean and freshly polished by the First Aleran’s valets, and gleamed in the setting sun.

  Since they had arrived the night before, thousands more refugees had appeared, and the flow of Canim makers fleeing the Vord was only growing heavier. The crafters of the Legions had made sure that there was freshwater available, but food was in much shorter supply, and shelter was almost nonexistent.

  Heavy, purposeful footsteps marched up behind Tavi and stopped.

  “What is it, Marcus?” Tavi asked.

  “Your Highness,” Valiar Marcus replied. He stepped up beside Tavi and stood in a natural-looking parade rest. “Did you sleep?”

  “Not nearly enough,” Tavi said. “But that’s going around.” He nodded at the berm that was Molvar’s only defense. “You and your people must have worked without stopping.”

  “It was the Canim, sir,” Marcus replied, his voice serious. “The ground around here has got a lot more rock than earth in it. Thousands of them were out here, moving stones. I knew that some of their warriors were strong, but bloody crows.” He shook his head. “You should see what some of their makers can do. The ones who lift heavy things for a living, I mean.”

  “Impressive?”

  “Terrifying,” Marcus said. “This berm is as much rock as earth. Considering that Your Highness sent all of our engineers on a different mission, our men had to work like mad to keep up with the Canim.”

  Tavi nodded. “Well, it shouldn’t have surprised us. We saw evidence enough of what they could do at Mastings, and even more since we’ve gotten here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have the latest reports?”

  “Such as they are,” Marcus said. The faintest trace of reproach laced his voice. “We could do a lot better if our Knights Aeris were available, sir.”

  “They’re busy,” Tavi said. “How much time do we have?”

  “The Canim mounted packs have been encountering the Vord closer and closer to the port, sire. They’re steering refugees in this direction.”

  “What is the count on refugees?”

  “Just over sixty thousand, give or take.”

  Tavi grunted. “Has there been any contact with the main body of Lararl’s forces?”

  “No,” Marcus said quietly. “But on the positive side, no sightings of the Vord main body yet, either.”

  “I’d almost feel better if we had seen them,” Tavi said. “They have a way of turning up where they aren’t expected.”

  “Your Highness is becoming paranoid,” Marcus said. “I approve.”

  “Highness!” called another voice, and Magnus came puffing up the terraces to the top of the berm. The old Cursor’s hair was in disarray, as if from sleep, and he clutched a sealed letter in his hand. He came and passed it over to Tavi, still huffing. His eyes stayed steadily on Marcus. Marcus stolidly ignored him.

  Tavi took the letter, glancing between them. “Something I should know about, gentlemen?”

  “Not that I know of, sir,” Marcus said. He glanced at the old Maestro. “Magnus?”

  Magnus stared at the First Spear for a moment more before he turned to Tavi. “No, Your Highness.”

  Tavi eyed them both again, then opened the letter and read it. “Hah,” he said. “Crassus will be back sometime tonight. Marcus, do you remember those stairs we were talking about crafting into the cliff face when we first got here?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “Make it happen, three times, on the farthest outthrust promontories within the fortifications—near where I’ve had you stockpiling supplies.” Tavi frowned, thinking. “We’ll need some lamps or furylamps set up on the stairs, too, so that they can be seen from the sea. If we don’t have enough of our own, ask the Shuarans. They use a lantern that looks like it’s designed to handle mist and spray.”

  Marcus and Magnus both blinked at Tavi.

  “We’re going to need a means to load people and supplies onto the transports,” Tavi told them. “The wider the stairs, the better. Wake Maximus. He’s good with stone.”

  “Ah, sir?” Marcus asked carefully. “What transports?”

  “The ones Crassus is bringing.”

  The old Cursor frowned. “And the reason these transports cannot avail themselves of the Shuarans’ perfectly respectable port is . . . ?”

  Tavi found himself grinning at them. “They wouldn’t fit.”

  Both of the men frowned severely at him.

  “Meanwhile,” Tavi continued, “we should start getting all of our own noncombatants loaded up. Magnus, get that in motion, if you would, and make sure our captains are ready to set sail. After that, I want you to coordinate with the Tribune Logistica and work out the fastest way to get our men from the fortifications down to the ships and out to sea.”

  “Tavi,” Magnus blurted. “Slow down. Are you sure you wish to ask our men to engage the Vord when we have no watercrafters to tend the wounded and only a score of Knights to support the legionares.”

  “With luck, they won’t need to,” Tavi said. “And our crafters will be back before the night is out. If we’ve done it quickly enough, we might be able to slip away without taking on the second queen at all.” He turned his eyes to the lowering sun, frowning. “Time is the critical factor, here, gentlemen.”

  Marcus and Magnus struck their fists to the hearts and, after one last exchanged glance, they turned to be about their duties.

  “Captain!” Durias called. Tavi glanced down to see the stocky legionare waving frantically at him from the back of a puffing taurg at the base of the terraced wall. “They made it! They’re here!”

  Tavi turned and hurried down the berm. He took Durias’s offered hand and swung up onto the taurg behind the former slave. “Take me to Varg.”

  They found Varg walking the earthworks on the opposite side of the city from Tavi. Varg’s militia—though they could scarcely be called that anymore after nearly two years of training beside Varg’s warriors and conflict against the Aleran Legions—was spread around the fortifications, and the Canim Warmaster had placed blocks of heavily armored warriors at regular intervals around the wall. The militia would hold the line, and the warriors would be used as a reserve, ready to lend their tremendous power to the militia should the Vord breach the defense.

&nb
sp; “Varg!” Tavi called. “There is something you should see.”

  The big Cane looked down from the wall, and his ears twitched in mild amusement. “Is there?”

  “I do not know,” Nasaug said, the Cane’s resonant voice coming from where Nasaug sat upon his own taurg beside Durias’s mount, along with a spare beast for Varg. “He would tell me nothing.”

  Varg grunted. “Only a fool seeks a quarrel with a tavar.” He came down the terraces, slammed the open taurg on the snout when it tried to snap at him, and mounted.

  They rode to the single opening in the earthworks that bestrode the road leading out of Molvar. “When are the engineers going to close this up?” Durias asked him.

  “They aren’t,” Tavi said.

  Durias blinked. “Why build the wall if you’re only going to leave an enormous and obvious weakness in it?”

  “Because it means we know where the enemy will concentrate his strength,” Varg growled. “The defenses are thin. The enemy is many. If every spot was as good as any other, the Vord would simply attack at random, and we would have no way to predict where to concentrate our strength against them.”

  “Leave them a big, obvious opening to exploit,” Tavi said, “and we can be certain where their main thrust will fall. This is where the Legions will fight.”

  Durias nodded, looking around. “That’s why we’re putting up the lower berms inside, then, along the road. They can’t be seen from the outside. When the Vord come through, they’ll be walking into a death trap.”

  “It’ll be worse than that,” Tavi said. “You’ve never seen what firecrafters can do in an enclosed area.” He glanced up at Varg, and added, with very mild emphasis, “Neither have you, Warmaster.”

  Varg paused a moment, meeting Tavi’s gaze, before he replied just as mildly, “My ritualists will be there as well, gadara. It should be interesting.”

  Tavi carefully suppressed a quiver of unquiet at the thought of some of the things he’d seen the Canim ritualists do. He showed Varg his teeth, and said, “That’s for later. My scouts spotted something I think you’d want to know about.” He pointed across the rolling landscape outside the earthworks.

  Varg exchanged a look with his son, then the pair of them stood up in their stirrups and peered out across the land. They stared for a long, silent moment.

  Nasaug let out an explosive snarl, and lashed his startled taurg into a sudden, ground-shaking gallop that made the other two taurga bawl and rumble in complaint. Half a dozen Shuaran refugees who were just arriving had to throw themselves out of the way before the taurg flattened them. Durias and Varg brought their beasts under control again. Varg growled low in his throat, glanced at Tavi, then dismounted and tossed the reins of his beast to Durias.

  Tavi dismounted as well, dodged a sullen kick Durias’s taurg aimed at him, and hurried after Varg, who was striding up the terraces to the top of the earthworks beside the gateway. Tavi came to a stop beside him and watched Nasaug’s progress.

  Out on the plain outside the earthworks, a large group of refugees was moving together. Unlike the majority of the Shuarans, though, these Canim were all dark-furred. Among them moved, often with the aid of canes and crutches, warriors in red-and-black armor, and at the heart of the group, a long spear bearing a simple twin pennant of red-and-black cloth stood above the rest of the group.

  “My people,” Varg said, his voice very deep and very quiet. “Some of them survived.”

  “Ten thousand or so, according to my scouts,” Tavi agreed quietly. “I know that isn’t many.”

  Varg was silent for a moment before he growled, “It is everything, gadara. Some of our warriors live among them.” He arched one paw-hand, dark claws spreading fiercely. “We did not fail them entirely.” He turned his eyes to Tavi. “Where were they?”

  “Lararl had them near the fortress.”

  Varg turned pensively back toward the plain, then narrowed his eyes, a growl shaking his chest. “His ritualists needed blood.”

  Tavi said nothing.

  Nasaug reached the group a moment later, and all but broke his taurg’s neck hauling it to a halt. The mount snapped at his arm as Nasaug dismounted, but the Cane struck it between the eyes with one enormous fist, staggering the three-quarter-ton mount as easily as if it had been a drunk staying too late at a wine house.

  The arriving Narashans let out cries and howls as Nasaug reached them and began striding through them, toward the banner at the heart of the group.

  “That was what it meant, back in Lararl’s chambers,” Varg said. “When you told him that everyone was to leave.”

  Tavi said nothing.

  Varg turned to him, and said, “Lararl would not have given up a military resource in such a desperate situation without cause. You demanded it of him, Tavar.”

  “I couldn’t tell you they were near,” Tavi said quietly. “You would have gone to get them, and to crows with the circumstances.”

  Varg narrowed his eyes and growled deep in his considerable chest. It made Tavi acutely aware of exactly how large the Cane really was.

  Tavi took a steadying breath and turned to meet Varg’s eyes. He cocked an eyebrow at the Cane, daring him to deny the statement, and hoped that Varg’s intense passions on the subject weren’t about to express themselves at his expense.

  Varg looked back out at the plain and let his growl rumble away to nothing. After a long moment, he said, “You protected them.”

  “And the Shuarans,” Tavi said in a very soft, very nonchallenging voice. “And myself. We’re all standing in the same fire, Varg.”

  Varg rumbled out another growl, one containing a tone of agreement. Then he turned from Tavi, strode down the terraces, and out onto the plain, toward the oncoming group of Narashan survivors.

  Tavi watched them come. A moment later, Durias climbed the stairs beside him, and asked, “How’d he take it when he realized you didn’t tell him?”

  “He didn’t like it,” Tavi said. “He understood it.”

  “It’s a strength of their mind-set,” the young centurion said, nodding. “Working through the logic of others dispassionately.” Durias smiled. “Though if they’d come to harm because of it, it wouldn’t have stopped him from gutting you.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Tavi said. “But I didn’t have any good choices.”

  Durias squinted out at the Narashans for a second, then his eyes widened. “Bloody crows.”

  Tavi glanced at him. “What?”

  “That banner,” Durias said. “That isn’t a common symbol among them.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Warriors rarely use spears,” Durias said. “They gave the Free Aleran a hard time because our standards were mounted on them. They’re considered to be a female’s weapon.”

  Tavi lifted his eyebrows. “So?”

  “So the spear standard in the colors of the range means a matron of a high warrior bloodline,” the young centurion told him. “And I—”

  His voice was suddenly drowned out when ten thousand Canim throats erupted into wordless howls, and though the sounds were not human, Tavi could hear the emotions that drove it—raw celebration, sudden and unexpected joy. He traded a glance with Durias, and the two leaned forward, watching.

  As Varg approached, the small sea of singing Canim parted, and Nasaug appeared, walking beside a Canim female as tall and as dark-furred as he, their hands joined. Even as they walked, half a dozen young Canim, one of them scarcely larger than an Aleran child, came bounding out of the crowd and rushed Varg, baying in high-pitched tones. The Warmaster planted his feet, and was shortly inundated in delighted, furry children and wagging tails. A gang wrestling match ensued, in which Varg pinned each of the children to the earth with one hand and nipped at their throats and tummies, to squeals of protest and delight.

  “Bloody crows,” Durias breathed again. The young centurion turned to Tavi, and said, “Your Highness. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you just saved the lives of Varg’s
family. Nasaug’s mate, and their children. Furies, you practically brought them back from the dead.”

  Tavi stared out at the plain for a time, watching as the female caught up and dragged the pups from their grandsire, then exchanged deep bows of the head with Varg, showing him the deference of a confident subordinate to a much-respected superior. Then they embraced, after the Canim fashion, their muzzles touching, heads resting together, their eyes closed.

  “Maybe,” Tavi said. His throat felt a little tight. “None of us have survived this yet.”

  The night was clear, and when the scream of the windstreams of the Legions’ Knights Aeris drifted across the fortifications, Tavi emerged from the command tent and looked up to see the forms of his Knights speckling the face of the almost-full moon. The sentries were taking note of it at the same time, and horns rang through the camp, alerting officers of the return of the Aleran fliers.

  “Yes!” Tavi snarled, as Marcus came out of the tent behind him. “They’re here! Magnus!”

  The old Cursor was already hurrying toward the tent, from where he’d been resting briefly nearby, still tugging his tunic into place. “Your Highness!”

  “Get everyone who isn’t fighting into the ships, now! I don’t want to lose a minute.”

  “Very good, Your Highness.”

  “Gradash!”

  The grey-furred old Canim huntmaster came out of the tent on Marcus’s heels, squinting up at the sound of the incoming windcrafters. “I am here, Tavar.”

  “I think you should send word to your people now, and get them moving toward the piers as we discussed.”

  “Aye.” He turned to a pair of whippet-thin young Canim runners who had been waiting nearby, and began growling instructions.

  “Marcus,” Tavi continued. “I want you at the breach with the men. The minute you see the signal, fall back to Molvar and get to the ships.”

  “Sir,” Marcus said, banging a fist to his breastplate. The First Spear turned, barking orders, and was shortly mounted and riding out to the earthworks.