Marciano ordered the retreat horn be sounded, and finally took the opportunity to clean his sword. This proved difficult as there wasn't a square inch of his person that wasn't coated in ichor. He limped slightly into their own beach camp, a brilliantly planned maneuver done in the dead of night so no one could see them until they'd wedged themselves in. Despite it all, the Queen's scouts still caught them within days and an army suffering from seasickness and exhaustion was pulled into battle. It was a wonder any survived. And looking around, he finally faced how much damage an enemy fighting back for its lost home can do.
Nearly half of the beach was covered in men pulling upon the Raven Lady's feathers. Their handful of priests rushed about, trying to make them comfortable and in general get in the way of the competent army doctors who spent their lives patching these problems up. Marciano could already read the reports in his mind, at least half his men dead or down with severe wounds. It'd take weeks before they could move, and they'd probably already run out of bandages.
Sure enough, the humored Bishop waddled up to Marciano, an all too familiar relic in hand, "Praise Argur for this glorious day."
"There's nothing glorious about killing, Bishop," Marciano said tersely.
"Dying in the service of your God is a noble end," the Bishop argued back, his enjoyment at all the attention a mockery of those crying for last rites.
"I doubt very much that the gods give a shit how we meet our end," Marciano muttered as he tried to wipe off his hands. The red might come off, but he'd still feel the blood coating his fingers for days.
The General tossed his towel at the Bishop, who had its red splatter across the pristine ivory, leaving a crimson trail. Marciano smiled at that and began to walk away, his men needed him.
"He wishes to speak with you."
Marciano paused. There could only be one man who the Bishop would play messenger for. "You've got to be fucking kidding," he muttered to himself.
The Bishop smiled like a man watching another climb the gallows, "I wouldn't keep him waiting."
His face twisting as if he bit into a sour lemon, the General turned and walked away from the man of god. Over his shoulder he cried, "You have a bit of blood on you," as the Bishop tried to blot out the blood already seeping into his priestly robes.
Marciano gave strict orders that, under no circumstances, and for no reason, should the Emperor set a single one of his ornately baubled slippers upon the shore. This order lasted for exactly fifteen minutes before Vasska spied the perfect place to raise an Argur statue and sent his entire entourage to overtake what was to be the triage tent. A decision certain to cause even more of his men to lose either life or limb.
An exhausted man, broken and showing his age as the thrill of battle seeped out of his veins, pushed aside the tent's flaps and entered into the high court of Avari. Marciano blinked furiously, afraid he was hallucinating as a pair of monks sidled past, laying down a fresh carpet across the sand. An honest to Argur potted plant had been stationed near the entrance, a fig tree if Marciano wasn't mistaken. Small statues of the gods sat on podiums circling the tent and in the middle, nearly man sized, was Argur, who seemed to be having a bit of trouble keeping her dress on. Beneath her crouched a familiar bald head, a stream of consciousness slipping from his parched lips. Marciano was uncertain if he should say something or wait for Vasska to finish. A part of him wanted to walk out entirely and not come back.
But the man paused mid speaking in tongues and glanced back to the bloodied monster hovering in his doorway. Vasska flew to his feet and dashed to Marciano, his delicate, perfumed hand gripping the General's and shaking it violently.
"Excellent, excellent work," the Emperor babbled.
Exhaustion was quickly breaking down whatever necessary courtesy barriers Marciano built up. "Excellent? We were nearly wiped out by the rebel's army."
"But you stand here before me," Vasska said proudly, as if one man surviving was worth the loss of hundreds, "And there are whispers from Argur that the vile woman was destroyed."
"Wounded, uncertain if she survived or not," Marciano admitted. A part of him was almost hopeful to think she'd pull through.
Vasska waved his arms as if none of it; the rebel Queen, the battle, even the whole ten years of war, mattered. "I am close, so close to the truth. It burns my skin."
"That could be a rash, Sir. There was something awful going around that I think one of the men picked up from a who...a lady of the night," Marciano quickly edited for the religious man staring at him impishly.
Vasska patted the man towering above him on the cheek, as if the General were an errant school boy, "No, no, my boy. Do you not see, do you not feel? We are about to do the work of Argur."
"Bloody wonderful, Sir," Marciano muttered in a deadpan voice.
But the Emperor only heard what he wanted to and smiled wide, "Prepare your men."
Marciano's face fell; this babbling idiot couldn't be serious. "Prepare them for what, my Lord?"
"We take the Tower of Ashar," he held his hands aloft to the gods, his palms turned down as if Argur were about to stamp him for re-entry.
"That place is impregnable! Compagno tried with over a thousand men and he still could not break the walls."
Vasska turned upon his General and smiled the condescending grin of a man who knew he held the entire deck of cards. He patted Marciano on the shoulder and said, "My dear, you worry yourself far too much. I have a back path in. All shall reveal itself in the light of Argur."
Marciano grumbled under his breath but acquiesced. If his Emperor's plan boiled down to them standing at the front door and asking nicely to come in, he could always knock his Lord out and drag his ass back to Avari. Time would be good, at least. Time to rest.
"Go and tell your men to ready themselves, we march of the Tower by morning."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Marciano turned on his Lord.
But Vasska's hands clamped over his ears at the vulgarity coming from his commanding officer, "Vulgarity, false language, these are affronts in the eyes of the Lady. We mustn't hear them, mustn't think them. So let it be." He chanted the phrase over and over, forcing Marciano's momentum to peter out until he began to feel a bit awkward at the man caught in an existential crisis.
Finally, Vasska's hands dropped and he looked up into the General's bewildered eyes. "Now that that is settled, I believe you have business to attend."
But after this hellish ride on the wing and prayer of a goddess who couldn't figure out how to work the straps of her dress, Marciano was not about to let down his men, "There are wounded out there on that beach. Good men who need rest and time before they can move. At most we have 30 or 40 moveable soldiers and even they are clinging by the grace of the gods."
Vasska would not be persuaded, his reflective eyes turned on the General, "Then let those who cannot move linger and bring the rest."
"Unguarded and untended? They won't last a night from a rebel attack."
"Then they will be in the embrace of Argur," Vasska said it as if he announced they were all going to get ice cream.
"You're..." out of your fucking mind, Marciano wanted to say but the Emperor rounded on him, and brought his heavily ringed hand against the General's jaw.
"Gah!" Marciano cried, as one of the prongs dug deep into his cheek and another round stone bounced against his cheekbone.
Vasska steadied his shoulders and tried to wipe off some perceived speck on his robes. As a rule he hated violence, and only employed it when his own employees failed to. "I have given my orders, and you would do well to obey them," the voice was cold, lifeless, like a snake with the power of speech. It spoke of centuries of power, of men who would decimate entire families simply for the sport of it, of men who stabbed their own children in the night for daring to be born, of men whose reach would forever exceed their grasp.
Marciano gingerly rubbed his cheek as he glared at the mad man turning away from the very armed man he just backhanded. S
lowly, the General bowed his head and, afraid to take his eyes off the Emperor or the flock of priests who dashed away at any hint of violence, backed out of the tent.
"Marciano," Vasska called to the retreating General, as the Emperor dropped to his knees in prayer, "never disappoint me again."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A small flare of smoke puffed from the puny fire. Aldrin poked the minuscule pile of downed branches, most too green to catch, and sighed.
"You're doing it wrong," the witch's words cut less deep than she wanted as the boy prince merely nodded with her. It was rather obvious he was failing at fire starting 101.
"Then why don't you do it," he said, his first foray into delegating. He passed her the poking stick, and she was so caught off guard by the gesture she actually took it willingly. A slip of something that looked like paper but smelled of an alchemist's well-shielded trash bin appeared in her searching hand. The woman's pockets seemed to be almost bottomless.
Dropping to her freezing knees, Isa blew gently on the weak flame, trying to succor it to life. The fire danced away from her breath and coughed lightly. In exasperation, she blew her hair off her forehead and very gently placed the paper on the end of the poking stick. She rose to her feet, and with the precision and steady hand of a watchmaker, she slid the paper into the baby flame. Isa stepped back and folded her arms. "You might want to shield your eyes, boy king."
As Aldrin leaned in, the flame burst, shooting giant burning balls high into the air that landed back upon the wet wood. The boy king scampered back, his hand checking his eyebrows for any serious damage. Once he made certain all his bits weren't burned off, he glared at the witch.
Isa chuckled at the drippy boy staring her down, "I did warn you."
The witch continued to laugh as she walked away from the fire, leaving the boy king to tend to it. A well-traveled eye covered in a dark hood, turned up to her and said, "Flash paper."
Isa didn't bother to turn to the man sitting serenely on the ground, his legs crossed while he patiently whetted his blade, "And your point."
Taban's face rose to take her in, as if he saw the witch for the first time, "That is not seen in Arda."
"Then it must have been a very explosive hankie," she quipped, uneasy at the assassin's presence. It had been much simpler when he kept to his section of the forest and she to hers.
"My mistake," he said and bowed his head lightly. At her scowl, he smiled.
"Oh beautiful lady! I have returned!"
Isa cursed and spat on the ground. At that Taban actually broke into a laugh, a full belly one, almost unbecoming of a man who made his living slicing throats. An all too familiar shape came bounding over the hills, a pack of what he believed were posies in his hands. The blue robes were so shredded the lining gave way miles ago, giving a layered look to the ex-priest rushing towards the small camp.
Kynton bowed deeply, and held out his hand to the witch folding her arms. "If only these flowers could be as sweet as you."
Isa's trained eyes wandered over the knobby purple buds, their thick leaves a dead giveaway. "You do realize those are stinging nettle blossoms," she said smugly.
But Kynton grinned back at the bemused smiled in her white eyes, "Of course. They seemed perfect for you."
Taban's laugh cracked like thunder, as Isa's cheeks burned red. Fury, uncertain how to respond, snapped up the nettles and tossed them into Aldrin's fire. Her finger danced dangerously close to Kynton's nose, but the priest only smiled as if he wanted to be struck down by her.
He smiled as she fumed, and gazed down at her feet straining on their tips to reach him. "Oh, I am sorry, my lady." And he lowered to his knees so they were at equal heights.
Isa summoned all the power she could find, her hair slipping free from her moistened forehead and rising. A dangerous blue spark circled around her eyes, which Kynton watched in scientific curiosity before his eyes traveled back down her finger. But as soon as she'd grasped the threads, the magic scattered back into the wilds like a herd of minnows. Rage at the priest mocking her was replaced by rage at her own failings. Looking into the smirking steel eyes of the man suddenly shorter than her, she inched forward and flicked her finger against his nose.
"Ah!" Kynton cried as his hand rushed over the damaged appendage while Isa backed away and stalked off into the woods to try to invent and then summon a demon.
"Nü tài shî zhùle," followed her retreating form across the undulating snowy hills.
The priest rose, snow clinging to his knees, which he tried to brush off as much as he did anything else bad that happened in his life. A tent flap opened and the final member of their much reduced band poked her head out, "What did I miss?"
"Your ex-priest was trying to get himself killed by your witch."
Ciara's weary eyes scanned over the man who reverted back to his carefree self about a mile outside of Tumbler's End. He shrugged his shoulders as if he'd been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Everyone seemed surprised he planned to accompany Aldrin onto Casamir's burial site. But, as Kynton calmly pointed out, possible death beats out certain servitude every time. "Besides, I'd heard stories of that Solude. Not a single looker in the entire batch." He patched up the prisoner as best he could, tended to some of the Historian's burns, and gleefully trailed behind as they left the caravans that early morn.
Taban was a different story. He'd grumbled about their decision to keep the madman alive, "Like loosing a rabid wolf among a flock of sheep," but gave up his solitary ways, finally showing his face outside of shadows and darkness. He'd been surprisingly helpful, carrying the tents and hunting up as much of their meals he needed to and, unlike Kynton, kept his thoughts to himself.
Unless Ciara was around. "And your prince tried to burn his face asunder," Taban chuckled, restringing his bow to keep his fingers busy. He was adjusting to companions as much as they were to him.
Ciara glanced over at "her prince" stirring the logs with an expert precision, his eyes focused as he dropped various bits of forest droppings in, trying to calculate what would give off the best heat. She sighed and dropped onto the cleared ground beside Taban. He'd been the only one wise enough to carry a rug. A smart investment to keep ones backside out of the snow.
Still rubbing his nose like a witch apprentice, Kynton said, "If she does kill me, it would be quite a way to go."
Ciara's eyes briefly met Taban's, and he rolled them back. Bravado was the vice of a man who wouldn't see his thirtieth year. This strange desire of his to poke the pale bear was new to the assassin who'd seen much of the world but little of the people in it.
For Ciara; however, it was almost old hat. One of the Knights of Albrant, a small man with eyebrows like caterpillars would always run up behind the maids working the fires and pinch them. A woman holding a flaming poker was certain to do one thing to a man that just invaded her personal space. It was hopeful he'd learn his lesson after the first or second burn near his vitals, but after the sixth Ciara's mother began to catch on and had the stable boys working the fires from then on out.
She tried to ask her mother why he kept it up, but Bralda would only tell her to "mind her peas and cues" from the nobles. But behind a poorly soundproof screen her mother giggled with her husband about the knight who enjoyed pain, as did the more elder of the serving staff for months after. Perhaps it was best to leave Aldrin in charge of the fires as long as Kynton was around. Even if he was dangling a scrap of his own shirt over it at the moment, watching the flames rise.
Ciara shook her head to clear her thoughts, and Taban looked over at the priest picking through his pack. "Why not go see if she'll finish you off now, so we can save on supplies?"
Kynton rose slowly, a small nibble of bread still clinging to his hand. The man had the appetite of the teenager and the stomach capacity of a bull elephant. His eyes trailed over the assassin who carefully laid every single one of his elements of destruction in front and within quick reach. The priest swallowed down his bread
and any hint of anger that bubbled beneath him. A half a lifetime of repressing all emotion lest a superior go ape and actually show how to properly use a scalpel on your own leg trained him well when danger was evident. Kynton shrugged under the lion's gaze and said nonchalantly, "Why not?"
Spinning upon his freshly traded leather shoes, he marched after Isa, following her measured and tiny snow prints. For a moment, he wondered if it was wise to leave the dark girl in the company of the killer, but they seemed to get on best. Birds of a feather and all that.
As Kynton disappeared into the distance, his voice calling a "Coo-eee!" across the hills, Taban's blade cut through his excess bowstring. "The snow men are crazier than I feared, and twice as touched."
Ciara knew commiserating with a like when she saw it, she just never had the luxury of joining in. "My mother is one of those 'snow men,'" she said dangerously.
"And a brilliant and rare jewel of one she must be to choose an Adherent," Taban recovered effortlessly.
"You make them sound so noble," she muttered back, not wanting to think about her father.
"Noble..." Taban looked over at the princeling he'd been tasked with keeping in enough pieces he'd still be considered alive, "No. I have seen what passes for noble in this land, we approach nothing close to that."
"I can hear you, you know," Aldrin called back, even with his backed turned to them.
"And we know the decency of when to over power a conversation and when to hold our tongue," Taban volleyed. He preferred to think of the baby Ostero King as weak. It was what the child was supposed to be, and any evidence to the contrary displeased him.
Aldrin mumbled something inaudible and returned to his fire, but Taban still lowered his voice as he spoke to Ciara, "Adherents stand for the will of the Triad."
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