Codex Alera 01 - Furies of Calderon

by Jim Butcher

  Tavi swallowed. Though Brutus might eventually reach the pace of a running man and hold it for hours or days, he wouldn’t get there in time to help them escape. Bernard had no chance at all of evading another herdbane as he lay unconscious, and Brutus’s focus was all on bearing the pair of them back toward home.

  Which meant that the only way his uncle could escape was if the herdbanes went looking somewhere else. If someone led them off in another direction.

  Tavi took a deep breath, rolled off the earth-raft to one side of the trail, and lay completely still. If the herdbanes tracked movement, surely they would have more trouble with the wind rising and the trees and brush swaying in it. He would remain still for a while and then start making plenty of noise and motion, to draw the hunters away from their vulnerable prey.

  Thunder rumbled again, and Tavi felt a tiny, cold raindrop splash on his cheek. He looked up and saw vast and dark clouds growing around the mountain. Another cold raindrop fell on him, and he felt a rush of fear that nearly forced him to empty his stomach. Furystorms could be deadly to anyone caught out in the open. Without the solid protection of the steadholt’s walls or the protection of his own furies, he would be nearly helpless before the storm. Breathing fast and light, Tavi picked up several rocks that seemed a good size for throwing. Then he turned to the west and hurled the stone on the highest arch he could manage.

  The stone flew in silence and struck on a tree trunk, making a sharp sound. Tavi pressed against the base of the tree and held still.

  There was a whistle from the other side of the trail, and something moved through the brush, toward it. Tavi heard steps behind him, and then a great dark form flashed past him in near silence, a bound that took it across the rough trail Brutus’s passage had made. Another herdbane, this one darker, larger than the first. It ran on its toes, though its talons rattled against fallen pine needles and its feathers brushed through the limbs of the evergreens. It went toward the spot where the stone had landed, vanishing back into the brush.

  Tavi let out a breath. He threw another stone, farther away, back toward the clearing, rather than in the direction where Brutus was slowly bearing his uncle to safety. Then he crouched low and headed back toward the clearing himself, tossing a new stone every few paces. The wind kept rising, and more tiny, stinging droplets of near-frozen rain began to fall.

  Tavi labored to keep his breathing as silent as he could and crept back to the clearing, quiet as a cat, creeping the last few paces on his belly, under the overhanging branches of one of the evergreens. The sheep were nowhere to be seen.

  But the second herdbane was already there.

  So was the Marat.

  This herdbane stood at least a head taller than the first, and its feathers were darker, its eyes a browner shade of gold. It stood over the corpse of the bird Tavi had killed, one leg cocked up underneath its body, leaning its neck down to nuzzle its beak against its dead mate’s feathers.

  The Marat was the first Tavi had seen. He was tall, taller than anyone Tavi knew. He looked not unlike a man, but his shoulders were very broad, and his body heavy with flat, swift-looking muscle. He wore only a cloth around his hips, though that seemed mostly utilitarian, worn only to provide a belt to hang several pouches from, and from which depended something that looked like a dagger made of black glass. His hair was long and thick and looked sickly white in the dim grey light that shone through the rain clouds. He had tied dark feathers into his hair, here and there, and they lent him a savage aspect.

  The Marat moved to the herdbane’s body and knelt over it, reaching out to lay both wide, powerful-looking hands upon the beast. He let out a soft, keening sound, which was echoed by the male beside him, and both went still for a moment, bowing their heads.

  Then the man snarled, splitting his lips apart, and his head turned this way and that, looking around him, white teeth bared. His eyes, Tavi saw, were precisely the same shade of gold as the herdbane’s, inhuman and bright.

  Tavi remained where he was, hardly daring to breathe. The Marat’s features were not difficult to read. He was furious, and as the man turned his head in a slow circle around the clearing, Tavi saw that his teeth and his hands were stained with scarlet blood.

  The Marat stood and held a hand to his mouth. He took a breath and blew, a wailing whistle flying from his lips, loud enough to make Tavi wince. He blew a short sequence, the notes higher and lower, long and short. Then he fell silent.

  Tavi’s brow furrowed into a frown, and he dropped his jaw a little, half-closing his eyes, and listened.

  After a time, there came, half-mangled by the rising winds, a whistling answer. Tavi had no way of knowing what the answer said, but that there was an answer in itself was frightening enough. The whistling communication could mean only one thing: There were more than one of the barbarians here.

  The Marat had returned to Calderon Valley.

  Perhaps they were simply hunting, taking refuge from detection in the humanity-free area in the pine barrens around Garados. Or perhaps, Tavi’s panicked thoughts ran, they were the advance scouts for a horde. But that seemed mad. A horde hadn’t been seen in more than fifteen years— not since before Tavi was born, and while they had enjoyed a brief spate of victory, destroying the Crown Legion and slaying the Princeps Gaius, the Aleran Legions had crushed the horde only weeks later, dealing them such a deadly stroke that everyone had assumed that the Marat would never return.

  Tavi swallowed. But they had returned. And if they meant to return in force, the Marat in the valley were probably advance scouts. If they were, they would never let one rather skinny and undersized boy who had seen them escape to warn others of their presence.

  The Marat returned to glaring around the clearing. He seized several feathers and jerked them out of the dead herdbane, then reached up and tied them to strands of his hair. He made a whistling sound at the living herdbane, moving one hand in a gesture. The bird responded by moving in that direction in long, stalking steps, its eyes sweeping back and forth.

  The Marat, meanwhile, dropped down to all fours. He sniffed at the blood on the fallen herdbane’s claws and then, to Tavi’s disgust, leaned down and ran his tongue along it. Then he closed his mouth with his eyes narrowed, tasting the blood as though it were a wine. The Marat opened his eyes again, remained low, on all fours, and began casting around the floor of the clearing like a dog after a scent. He paused at the fallen sword and picked it up, staring down at the weapon stained with the herdbane’s blood. Then he lowered the blade to wipe it clean on the grass of the clearing and slipped it through his cloth-belt.

  The wind continued to rise and changed directions at every breath. Tavi felt it brush against his back. He froze in place, sure that if he moved he would be immediately seen.

  The Marat jerked his head up, abruptly turning to look directly at Tavi’s hiding place. The boy swallowed, tensing in fear. The Marat let out another whistle and made a hand signal. The herdbane stalked toward Tavi’s hiding place.

  Just like a chicken after a bug, Tavi thought. And I’m the bug.

  But a few steps later, the herdbane let out a shriek, turning to face south. The Marat followed the herdbane, golden eyes reading the signs of passage in the earth. He crouched down, nostrils flaring and looked up with a sudden, eager light in his eyes.

  The Marat rose and began to stalk southward after Tavi’s wounded uncle.

  “No!” Tavi shouted. He threw himself to his feet and out of his hiding place, hurling one of his remaining stones at the Marat. His aim proved true. The rock struck the Marat high on the cheek, and blood welled from the gash.

  The Marat stared at Tavi with those golden, bird-of-prey eyes and snarled something in a tongue Tavi could not understand. His intentions, though, were clear even before he drew the glass dagger from his belt. His eyes burned with anger.

  The Marat let out a whistle, and the herdbane whirled toward him. Then he pointed at Tavi and let out that same whistling teakettle battle cry the
dead bird had used.

  Tavi turned and ran.

  He had run from those larger and stronger than him for the whole of his young life. Most games at the steadholt involved chasing of one kind or another, and Tavi had learned how to make his small size and quickness work for him. He ran through the densest thickets of bracken he could find and slipped through mazes of thorns, windfalls, sinkholes, and young evergreens.

  The wind grew stronger, filling the air with fallen pine needles and dust. Tavi ran west to lead them away from his uncle. The eerie wailing of the herdbane and its master raced after him, but fear gave his feet wings.

  The boy’s heart pounded like a smith’s hammer, heavy and swift. He knew that he was alone, and that no one would come to help him. He had to rely on his own wits and experience, and should he falter or slow, the pursuing Marat and herdbane would have him. Sunset was drawing near, and the vast storm building over Garados had begun to spread over the Valley. Should the Marat, the storm, or the darkness catch him unprotected in the open, he would die.

  Tavi ran for his life.

  CHAPTER 6

  When twilight fell, Amara remained at liberty.

  Her body ached to her bones. The first swift rush of flight had taken the strength from her, and the second, steadier flight would have been impossible without a fortunate breeze blowing north and east, in the direction she fled. She was able to use the prevailing currents of wind to assist Cirrus, and thus to conserve much of her own energy.

  Amara kept low, at the tops of the trees almost, and although they swayed and danced at the passage of the miniature cyclone that kept her aloft, she was better off flying low, where the terrain might help hide her passage from the eyes of the Knights Aeris pursuing her.

  The last, rust-colored light of sunset showed her a sparkle of water, a winding ribbon running through the rolling, wooded hills: the river Gaul. It taxed her remaining reserves to guide Cirrus to bring her in for a gentle landing and took even more of an effort to remain on her feet after the tension of flight left her. She felt like crawling into a hollow tree and sleeping for a week.

  Instead, she reached down to her tattered dress, tore at the hem on one side, and from it withdrew a small disk of bright copper.

  “River Gaul,” she whispered, pushing whatever reserves she had left into the effort to speak to the water furies. “Know this coin, and hasten word to thy master.” She dropped the coin, giving it a slight spin, and the image of the First Lord’s profile spun and tumbled, alternating with the image of the sun in the bloody light.

  Amara slumped down then, by the water, reaching out to cup her hands in it. Long runs were not as draining as an hour of flight—even on a good day for it. She had been fortunate. If the winds had been different, she would not have been able to escape to the Gaul.

  She stared down at her faint reflection and shivered for a moment. She thought of the water writhing its way up her hands, down her nose and throat, and her heart thudded with sickly fear. She struggled to force it away, but it wouldn’t leave her. She could not make herself touch the water.

  The water witch could have killed her. Amara could have died, right there. She hadn’t. She had survived — but even so, it was all she could do to keep from cowering back on the bank.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to force the image of the woman’s laughter out of her head. The men who had been chasing her presented no special fear. If she was captured by them, she would be killed with bright steel, perhaps brutalized — but all of that, she had prepared herself for.

  She thought of the smile on Odiana’s face as her water fury had smothered Amara, drowning her on dry land. There had been an almost childish, unrestrained glee in the woman’s eyes.

  Amara shuddered. Nothing had prepared her for that.

  And yet she had to face that terror. She had to embrace it. Her duty required her to do no less.

  She thrust her hands into the cold water of the river.

  The young Cursor splashed water onto her face and made an abortive attempt to comb her hair with her fingers. Even though she wore it shorter than was customary, barely to her shoulders, and even though her hair was straight and fine, a tawny, brown-gold, still, a few hours in gale winds had tangled it into knots and made her look like a particularly shaggy mongrel dog.

  She eyed her reflection again. Thin, harsh features, she thought, though with the proper cosmetics, she could whittle them down to merely severe. Listless hair, cobwebby and delicate — and currently as tousled as a haystack. Her face and arms, beneath the grime, were tanned as dark as her hair, giving her a monochromatic look in the water, like a statue carved of pale wood and then lightly stained. Her simple clothes were tattered, frayed at the edges from hours in the wind, and thickly stained with mud and spatters of dark brown that must have been blood around the slice in her blouse where her arm throbbed with dull pain.

  The water stirred, and a furycrafted form rose out of it — but instead of the First Lord, a woman took shape. Gaius Caria, wife to Gaius Sextus, Alera’s First Lord, seemed young, hardly older than Amara herself. She wore a splendid high-waisted gown, her hair coiffed into an intricate series of braids with a few artful curls falling to frame her face. The woman was beautiful, but more than that, she carried with her a sense of serenity, of purpose, of grace—and of power.

  Amara abruptly felt like a gangling cow and dropped into a curtsey as best she could, hands taking the soiled skirts and holding to them. “Your Grace.”

  “Academ,” murmured the woman in reply. “Not twenty days have passed since my husband gave you his coin, and already you interrupt his supper. I believe that is a new record. Fidelias, I am told, did not see fit to drag him from his meal or his bed until at least a month had gone by.”

  Amara felt her face flush with heat. “Yes, Your Grace. I apologize for the necessity.”

  The First Lady gave her an arch look, up and down the grimy length of her body. Amara felt her blush deepen, and she fought not to squirm. “No apology is necessary,” Lady Caria said. “Though you might work on your timing in the future.”

  “Yes, Lady. Please, Your Grace. I need to speak to the First Lord.”

  Lady Caria shook her head. “Impossible,” she said, her tone one of finality. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to him later. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “But, Lady—”

  “He’s swamped,” the First Lady said, emphasizing each syllable. “If you feel the matter is an important one, Academ,then you may leave me a message and I will present it to him as soon as opportunity allows.”

  “Please forgive me, Lady, but I was told that if I ever used the coin, that the message was to be only for him.”

  “Mind your tongue, Academ,” Caria said, her brows arched. “Remember to whom you speak.”

  “I have the orders from the First Lord himself, Your Grace. I only attempt to obey them.”

  “Admirable. But the First Lord is not a favorite professor you can simply visit yourself upon whenever you wish, Academ.” She stressed the last word, very slightly. “And he has affairs of state to attend to.”

  Amara swallowed and said, “Your Grace, please. I will not be long in telling him. Let him judge if I am abusing the privilege. Please.”

  “No,” Caria said. The sculpted figure looked over its shoulder. “You have taken enough of my time, Academ Amara.” The First Lady’s voice gained a note of tension, hurry. “If that is all . . .”

  Amara licked her lips. If she could hold on a moment more, perhaps the First Lord would overhear the conversation. “Your Grace, before you go, may I give you a message to pass on to him?”

  “Be quick.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. If you would only tell him that —”

  Amara didn’t get any farther than that before the watery form of the First Lady grimaced and shot her a cool glance, her features becoming remote and hard.

  The water beside Lady Caria stirred, and a second furycrafted shape rose from it. Th
is one was a man, tall, with shoulders that had once been broad, but were now slumped with age. He carried himself with a casual pride and a confidence that showed in every line of his body. The waterfigure did not appear in liquid translucence, as did Lady Caria’s. It rose from the river in full color, and Amara thought, for just a moment, that the First Lord himself had somehow come, rather than sending a fury in his place. His hair was dark, streaked with silver-white strands, and his green eyes looked faded, weary, and confident.

  “Here now,” said the figure in a gentle, ringing bass. “What passes, my wife?” The figure of Gaius turned toward Amara, squinting. His features went completely still for a moment. Then he murmured, “Ah. I see. Greetings, Cursor.”

  Lady Caria shot her husband’s image a glance at the use of that title, and then her remote gaze returned to Amara. “This one wished to speak with you, but I had informed her that you had a state dinner to attend.”

  “Your Majesty,” Amara murmured, and curtseyed again.

  Gaius let out a sigh and waved a hand, vaguely. “You go ahead, my wife. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Lady Caria’s chin lifted, tilting with a sharp little motion. “Husband. There will be considerable consternation if we do not arrive together.”

  Gaius turned his face toward Lady Caria. “Then if it pleases you, wife, you may wait elsewhere for me.”

  The First Lady pressed her lips together, but gave a graceful, proper nod, before her image abruptly fell back into the water, creating a splash that drenched Amara to the waist. The girl let out a surprised cry, moving to wipe uselessly at her skirts. “Oh, my lord, please excuse me.”

  Gaius made a tsking sound and his image moved a hand. The water fled from the cloth of her skirts, simply pattered out onto the ground in a steady rain of orderly droplets that gathered into a small, muddy puddle and then flowed back down into the river, leaving her skirts, at least, quite clean.

  “Please excuse the First Lady,” Gaius murmured. “These last three years have not been kind to her.”