by Jim Butcher
“Bloody crows,” Antillus finally spat. He was a brawny man, rough-hewn, and had a face that looked as if it had been beaten with clubs in his youth. “Furies will go right through the lines. Or under them, or over them. And they’ll head straight for Riva, too.”
Aquitaine shook his head. “Those are entirely uncontrolled furies. Once they’re set loose, there’s no telling which direction they’ll go.”
“Naturally,” Amara said in a dry tone. “It would be impossible for the vord to be able to give them a direction.”
Aquitaine looked at her, sighed, and waved an irritated gesture of acceptance.
“If there are that many wild furies, the vord don’t need to aim them,” the silver-haired, aged Cereus said quietly. “Even if they could only bring the furies close and let them spread out randomly, some of them are bound to hit the city. It wouldn’t take many to cause a panic. And as crowded as the streets are . . .”
“It would clog the streets and trap everyone inside,” Aquitaine said calmly. “Panic in those circumstances would be little different from riots. It will force the Legions to maneuver all the way around the city walls instead of marching through. Force us to divide our strength, sending troops back to restore order. Cause enough confusion to let the vord slip agents and takers inside.” He frowned, bemused. “We haven’t seen any vordknights yet, in this battle.” He looked back over his shoulder. “They’re north and west of us, spread out in a line, like hunters. Ready to snap up refugees as they flee the city in disorder.”
Amara got a sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t thought all the way through the chain of logic in the vord Queen’s gambit, but what Aquitaine said made perfect sense. Though the vord were deadly enough in a purely physical sense, the weapon that might truly unmake Alera this day was terror. In her mind’s eye, she could see panicked refugees and freemen being slaughtered by wild furies, could see them taking to the streets with all they could carry, shepherding their children along with them, seeking a way out of the death trap the walls of Riva had become. Some would manage to escape the city—only to find themselves the prey of an airborne foe. And while the rest of the city’s residents were trapped and embroiled in chaos, the Legions were effectively pinned in place. They could not retreat without leaving the people of Riva to be butchered.
The great city, its people, and its defending Legions would all die together within days.
“I think we’d better stop those furies,” Antillus rumbled.
“Yes, thank you, Raucus,” Lord Phrygia said in an acidic tone. “What would you suggest?”
Antillus scowled and said nothing.
Aquitaine actually seemed to smile for an instant, something that surprised Amara with its genuine warmth. It faded rapidly, and his features shifted back into his cool mask again. “We have two choices—retreat or fight.”
“A retreat?” Raucus said. “With this mob? We’d never coordinate it in the face of the enemy. Whichever Legions were the last out would be torn to shreds.”
“More to the point,” Lord Placida said quietly, “I think it’s a good bet that they’ll be expecting it. I think you’re right about their circling their aerial troops into position behind us.”
“Even more to the point,” Aquitaine said, “we have nowhere left to go. No position that will be any stronger than this one. That being the case—”
“Your Highness,” Amara interrupted smoothly. “In point of fact, that is not entirely true.”
Amara felt every eye there lock upon her.
“The Calderon Valley has been prepared,” she said calmly. “My lord husband spent years trying to warn the Realm that this day was coming. When no one listened, he did the only thing he could do. He readied his home to receive refugees and fortified it heavily.”
Aquitaine tilted his head. “How heavily could he possibly have strengthened it on a Count’s income?”
Amara reached into her belt pouch, drew out a folded piece of paper, and opened a map of the Calderon Valley. “Here is the western entrance, along the causeway. Half-height siege walls have been built across the entire five-mile stretch of land, from the flint escarpments to the Sea of Ice, with standard Legion camp-style fortresses every half mile. A second regulation siege wall belts the valley at its midway point, with fortresses and gates each mile. At the eastern end of the valley, Garrison itself has been surrounded by more double-sized siege walls, enclosing a citadel built to about a quarter of the scale of the one in Alera Imperia.”
Aquitaine stared at her. He blinked once. Slowly.
Lady Placida dropped her head back and let out a peal of sudden laughter. She pressed her hands to her stomach, though she couldn’t have felt it through her armor, and continued laughing. “Oh. Oh, I never thought I’d get to see the look on your face when you found out, Attis . . .”
Aquitaine eyed the merry High Lady and turned to Amara. “One wonders why the good Count has not seen fit to inform High Lord Riva or the Crown of his new architectural ambitions.”
“Does one?” Amara asked.
Aquitaine opened his mouth. “Ah. Of course. So that Octavian would have a stronghold should he need to use one against me.” His eyes shifted to Lady Placida. “I assume that the Count has enjoyed the benefit of some support from Placida.”
Lord Placida was eyeing his wife with a rather alarmed expression. “I would like to think you would have, ah, informed me if that was the case, dear.”
“Not Placida,” she said calmly. “The Dianic League. After Invidia’s defection, most of us felt foolish enough to take steps to correct our misplaced trust in her leadership.”
“Ah,” her husband said, and nodded, pacified. “The League, quite. None of my business, then.”
Amara cleared her throat. “The point, Your Highness, is that there is indeed one more place where we might make a stand—a better place than here, it could be argued. The geography there will favor a defender heavily.”
Aquitaine closed his eyes for a moment. He was very still. Then he opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and nodded. His eyes flicked open, burning with sudden energy. “Very well,” he said. “We are about to be assaulted by furies of considerable strength and variety. The fact that they happen to be feral is really rather immaterial. We have neither the time nor the resources to pacify or destroy them. We’ll bait them instead. Keep them focused on the Legions instead of upon the Rivan populace.” He considered the gathered group pensively. “We’ll divide the labor by city, I think. High Lord and Lady Placida, if you would, please summon your liegemen and divide yourselves among both Placidan Legions. Make sure the Legions maintain their integrity.”
Aria nodded sharply, once, then she and her husband dismounted and launched themselves skyward.
“Raucus,” Aquitaine continued, “you’ll take your Citizens to the Antillan Legions, and Phrygius will cover his own troops—and yes, I know the two of you have the most Legions in the field at the moment and that your furycrafters will be spread thin. Lord Cereus, if you would, please gather together the Citizens from Ceres, Forcia, Kalare, and Alera Imperia and divide them to assist the northern Legions.”
Phrygius and Antillus both nodded and turned their horses, kicking them into a run as they raced in separate directions, toward their own Legions. Cereus gave Amara a grim nod and launched himself skyward.
Aquitaine gave a series of calm, specific instructions to the Lords remaining, and the men departed in rapid succession.
“Captain Miles,” he said, at the last.
“Sir,” Miles said.
Sir, Amara noted. Not sire.
“The Crown Legion will proceed to the northeast gates of Riva to escort and safeguard the civilians,” Aquitaine said.
“We’re ready to continue the fight, sir.”
“No, Captain. After last year, your Legion was down to four-fifths of its strength before today’s battle was joined. You have your orders.”
Sir Miles grimaced but saluted. “Yes, sir.�
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“And you, Countess Calderon.” Aquitaine sighed. “Please be so kind as to carry word to your own liege, Lord Rivus, that it will be his responsibility to shield the population of Riva as he evacuates them to the Calderon Valley. Have him coordinate with your husband to make sure this happens as quickly as possible.”
Amara frowned and inclined her head. “And you, Your Highness?”
Aquitaine shrugged languidly. “I would have preferred to drive straight for the Queen as soon as she revealed herself. But given what’s happening, she has no need to put in an appearance.”
Amara began to ask another question.
“Neither does my ex-wife,” Aquitaine said smoothly.
Amara frowned at him. “The Legions. You’re asking them to fight wild furies and the vord alike. Fight them while a horde of refugees staggers away. Fight them while they themselves retreat.”
“Yes,” Aquitaine said.
“They’ll be ground to dust.”
“You exaggerate the danger, Countess,” Aquitaine replied. “Fine sand.” Amara just stared at the man. “Was . . . was that a joke?”
“Apparently not,” Aquitaine replied. He turned his face toward the lines again.
His eyes were calm, and veiled . . .
. . . and haunted.
Amara followed his gaze and realized that he was staring at the screaming casualties on the ground, the men whose proportion of agony to mortality had run too high to rate immediate attention. She shivered and averted her eyes.
Aquitaine did not.
Amara looked back to the battle itself. The legionares were holding the enemy tide at bay—for now.
“Yes,” Aquitaine said quietly. “The Legions will pay a terrible price so that the residents of Riva can flee. But if they do not, the city will fall into chaos, and the civilians will die.” He shook his head. “This way, perhaps half of the legionares will survive the retreat. Even odds. If we are forced to defend the city to our last man, they will all die, Countess. For nothing. And they know it.” He nodded. “They’ll fight.”
“And you?” Amara asked, careful to keep her tone completely neutral. “Will you fight?”
“If I reveal my position and identity, the enemy will do everything in their power to kill me in order to disrupt Aleran leadership. I will take the field against the Queen. Or Invidia. For them, it would be worth the risk. Until then . . . I will be patient.”
“That’s probably best, Your Highness,” Ehren said quietly, stepping forward from his unobtrusive position in the Princeps’ background. “You aren’t replaceable. If you were seen in action in these circumstances, it’s all but certain that Invidia, or the Queen, would appear and make every effort to remove you.”
Amara drew in a slow breath and looked past Aquitaine to where Sir Ehren hovered in attendance. The little man’s expression was entirely opaque, but he had to realize Aquitaine’s situation. His recent storm of new orders had, effectively, stripped him completely of the support of his peers in furycrafted power. The others as strong as he had been dispatched to protect their Legions.
Leaving Aquitaine to stand against his ex-wife or the vord Queen—should they appear—alone.
One gloved fingertip tapped on the hilt of his sword. It was the only thing about him that might have been vaguely construed as a nervous reaction.
“Either one of them is at least a match for you,” Amara said quietly. “If they come together, you won’t have a chance.”
“Not if, Countess,” Aquitaine said, thoughtfully. He slid his finger over the hilt of the sword in an unconscious caress. “I believe I’ve had my fill of ‘if ’s. When. And we’ll see about that. I’ve never been bested yet.” He pursed his lips, staring at the battle, then gave himself a little shake, and said, “Take word to Riva. Then return to me here. I will have more work for you.”
Amara arched an eyebrow at him. “You’d trust me enough for that?”
“Trust,” he said. “No. Say instead that I have insufficient distrust of you to make me willing to waste your skills.” He smiled that razor-thin smile again, and waved a hand vaguely toward the battle lines. “Frankly, I find you a far-less-terrifying enemy than our guests. Now go.”
Amara considered the man for the space of a breath. Then she nodded to him, somewhat more deeply than she needed to. “Very well,” she said, “Your Highness.”
CHAPTER 19
In the hours that followed, Isana listened to the vord Queen assault and savage the collected military might of the Realm.
She never left the glowing green chamber beneath the earth. Instead, she simply stared upward, into the glowing light of the croach, and gave Isana a running commentary of the battle. In neutral, unhurried tones, the Queen reported the outcomes of maneuvers and attacks.
Isana had seen enough of the war with the vord to translate the words into images of pure horror in her thoughts. She stood beside Araris, checking every so often to be sure that his nose and mouth were still uncovered. His skin, beneath the surface of the croach, did not appear to be irritated or burned—yet. But it was hard to be certain. It was like looking at him through tinted and ill-shaped glass of particularly poor quality.
“I find it . . . I believe this is a form of anger, though not a particularly potent example,” said the vord Queen, after several moments of silence. “There is a word for it. I find the Aleran defense to be . . . irritating.”
“Irritating?” asked Isana.
“Yes,” the Queen said, staring upward. She pointed with one black-clawed finger. “There. The workers and noncombatants are fleeing the city. And yet I cannot, quite, reach them. Their destruction would all but assure the end of this war.”
“They are defenseless,” Isana said quietly.
The vord Queen sighed. “If only that were true. Assigning nearly half the population as expendable protectors is wastefully unnecessary. Most of the time. It won’t make a difference in the end, but for now . . .” She lifted a hand and let it fall again, a gesture that somehow contained her irritation, her passing annoyance, and the fate of Alera, all in the same imagined handful. “This world has been ferociously competitive since long before my wakening.”
“Those are women,” Isana said quietly. “The aged, the sick. Children. They are not a threat to you.”
The vord Queen’s eyes glinted oddly. “The women can produce more of you, and that cannot be tolerated. The aged and sick . . . there might be some merit in continuing to allow them to drain your people’s resources, but their experience and knowledge might tip a balance, which would prove costly.”
“And the children?” Isana said, her voice growing colder despite herself. “What harm could they possibly do you?”
The vord Queen’s lips spread in a slow, bitter smile. “Your children are indeed no threat. Today.” She turned her eyes from the ceiling and stared at Isana for a time. “You think me cruel.”
Isana looked from Araris’s slack, unconscious face to the vord Queen. “Yes,” she hissed.
“And yet, I have offered your people a choice,” the Queen said. “A chance to surrender, to accept defeat without losing their own lives—which is more than your people have ever offered me. You think me cruel for hunting your children, Grandmother, but your folk have hunted mine, and killed them in tens of thousands. Your folk and mine are the same, in the end. We survive, and we do so at the expense of others who seek nothing more than to do the same.”
Isana was silent for a long moment. Then she asked, very quietly, “Why do you call me that?”
The vord Queen was also quiet for a time. Then she answered, “It seems fitting, as I understand such things.”
“Why?” Isana pressed. “Why would you consider Tavi your father? Do you truly believe yourself his child?”
The vord Queen moved her shoulders in a shrug that did not look as though it came naturally to her. “Not in the sense that you mean. Although, like you, I did not choose those whose blood would merge to create mine.”
“Why would you care?” Isana asked. “Why should it matter to you whether or not you refer to me in a way that is appropriate to Alerans?”
The Queen tilted her head again, her expression abstracted. “It should not matter.” She blinked her eyes several times in rapid succession. “It should not. And yet it does.”
Isana took a deep breath, sensing something vital stirring beneath the vord’s cool, smooth surface. She wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the Queen as she murmured, “Why?”
The vord Queen folded her arms abruptly over her chest and turned away, a motion that appeared quite human. She looked up at the glowing ceiling above her, at the other walls of the room—anywhere but at Isana.
“Why?” Isana asked again. She took a step closer. “Does the answer to the question matter, to you?”
Frustration and a desperate, unfulfilled need flared through the chamber, bright and solid against Isana’s watercrafting senses. “Yes. It matters.”
“And finding the answer is important to you.”
“Yes. It is.”
Isana shook her head. “But if you destroy us, you might never know the answer.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” the vord Queen spat. Her eyes flared wide open as she bared her teeth in a snarl. “Don’t you think I understand? I sense as you do, Grandmother. I feel everything, everything my children feel. I feel their pain and fear. And through them, I feel your people as well. I feel them screaming and dying. I am so filled with it that I could almost split open down the middle.”
A calm, hard voice spoke into the chamber, causing Isana to flinch in surprised reaction. “Be cautious,” said Invidia Aquitaine. “You are being manipulated.” The former High Lady entered the chamber, attired in the formfitting black chitin-armor apparently worn by all of the Aleran Citizens who served the vord.
The vord Queen turned her head slightly, her only acknowledgment of Invidia’s words. She frowned, and swiveled her unsettling eyes back to Isana. Silence stretched for a time before she asked, “Is this true?”
