by Vox Day
“Why did they do that?” Corvus asked, curious despite himself. “That seems to make little more sense than a group of Church ecclesiasticals suddenly deciding to assume command of the legions! What would a group of mages and scholars know of war?”
“How to win them,” Silvertree answered simply. “The High King and his generals made the mistake of attempting to use natural means and natural tactics to defeat an enemy that was, at least in part, supernatural. The magisters had no interest in troop movements and battlefields. Instead, they struck directly at the heart of the Witchkings’s power, which is to say, at the demons that had been bound to them.”
“Sounds almost like a Michaeline approach,” Corvus mused aloud.
“It was very similar. To deny the enemy the core of his strength is the shortest path to victory. After forty years of vicious war and three defeats for every victory, in less than three years, the magisters completely defeated the armies of the Witchkings. And by completely, I mean just that. Using the power of their sorcery to augment the High King’s armies, they eliminated every man, woman, and child throughout the land of that abhorrent people. The few who escaped the initial slaughter were tracked down and killed over the next two decades. Selenoth has been rid of their cursed race for centuries.”
“Then why are you telling us all of this? You’re not saying that the murders of our churchmen were committed by the Witchkings, are you?” Corvus was surprised to see Torquatus looked genuinely alarmed. “If their defeat was as complete as you’re saying, that’s clearly impossible!”
“It is,” the elf admitted. “And I am not suggesting the Witchkings were responsible. What I am saying is that the murders appear to have been committed through the use of a magic very similar to theirs. Since the Witchkings are no more, I imagine you can understand that this poses somewhat of a puzzle.”
“Somewhat? I’d say either your precious Magisters missed a few of them, or you made a mistake about the magic involved.” Torquatus placed his empty glass on the table. He blinked with unvarnished astonishment as Silvertree refilled it with a flick of his finger. “That’s a useful trick.”
“They didn’t miss any of them. And I don’t make mistakes, my lord consul, not of that sort. Their magic was…very distinctive. In fact, I can tell you exactly what happened to your priests, and I can also tell you that you need not concern yourselves with any search for the goblin involved in the murders. By this time, the creature will be dead. I expect those who collect the refuse in the morning, or perhaps those who drag the river by night, will come across its body on the morrow.”
“You said ‘goblin,’” Corvus said. “As in only one. We were under the impression that there were several of them. I’ve fought goblins before. One couldn’t possibly have been so lethal as to have slaughtered the celestines like that, especially bare-handed. The men were old, admittedly, but there were six of them! At least one or two should survived an attack during daylight hours by just a single goblin. They had only to run outside the chapel—there were guards all over the palace.”
“A simple goblin , yes, but they could not have escaped one infused with demonic power. Especially one whose mind had been given over to the demon.” Silvertree folded his hands. “Forgive me, my lords consul, I realize you are both experienced men of war, but this is something far beyond simple battle magic or anything you have ever known. I confess it is even somewhat beyond my experience. I have never studied this form of magic, never practiced it, and what I witnessed of it as a young archer was mostly from a reasonable distance some five hundred years ago. But the reason I am certain it was Witchking magic is that the blood that was smeared in the ritual pattern was neither a summoning nor a banishment—it was an attempt to reverse the spell that had bound the demon with the goblin.”
“I don’t understand,” Torquatus said. “Who was attempting to reverse it?”
“The demon inside,” answered the elf. “I have seen elegant and stable forms of this spell. The Witchkings perfected it to the point that the spiritual bonding was transferred across generations, fragmenting the demon and infusing their descendants with substantial power that was entirely under their control. But this appears to have been a slapdash effort, though whether it was amateurish or simply careless, I could not say. The ritual was the demon’s attempt to break the bond and free itself before the goblin died as a result of the spell.”
“Why would it care about the goblin’s life?”
“Presumably, Consul, it was either bound to return to its summoner or to the plane from whence it was originally summoned upon the dissolution of its anchor, which in this case would have been the goblin. But it failed, and the careless nature of the original spell indicates what I said earlier: The goblin is most likely dead and the demon back where it belongs. Of course, this leads us to certain intriguing questions. Such as, who the demon’s binder was, why he used it to murder the princes of your Church, and, most of all, where he could have learned Witchking magic?”
Corvus shook his head. “How could anyone learn something that doesn’t exist anymore? Books, one presumes, but I assume you burned them back in the day, or you wouldn’t consider it a question.”
Silvertree nodded at Corvus. “Precisely. I asked myself that very question this afternoon. And I reached a conclusion, but it is one I suspect you are not going to like. I don’t like the implications myself. Now, you must understand that some of our ideas about the Witchkings have proven to be false.”
Torquatus sighed impatiently.
Corvus nodded to the ambassador. “Go on.”
“The magisters at the Collegium have long asserted that the Witchkings had been nothing more than normal men who, by virtue of sheer chance combined with steadfast devotion to their dark arts, had reached an unusual level of skill that has never been matched, before or since. But we now know this is not true, and that someone has been able to replicate their efforts. We know this because the Amorran embassy of last year was kind enough to gift the High King with one of the wolf creatures. It was the one that attacked your son, Lord Consul Valerius.”
“Ah, yes?” Torquatus glanced at Corvus. “You’ll have to tell me more about that one day, Sextus Valerius.”
“Why is that?” Corvus asked Silvertree. “How were you able to determine that?”
“Because the beasts are the product of the same demonic magic that once created the Witchkings. It is a sorcery akin to the one that made use of the goblin here in Amorr last night, albeit a more sophisticated one. This suggests to me that the Witchking magic wasn’t developed by the Witchkings any more than it was developed by wolves in the wild. While the Witchkings made use of the magic to great effect, I strongly suspect they were its product, rather than its author. Someone else, something else, used it to create them. Quite possibly the same being or beings responsible for creating the wolf creatures.”
“And the same that did whatever you said happened to the goblin?” Corvus asked.
“No, almost certainly not. The spell utilized there was too crude, too haphazard. So we are speaking of at least two, and quite possibly three, different sorcerers over the centuries. There is the creator of the Witchkings. There is the creator of the wolf-creatures. And then there is the murderer of your priests.”
Corvus rubbed his lip with his index finger. It was a lot to take in. “Could they all be the work of the same hand? I know it’s an awfully long time, but then, you elves are damn near immortal.”
“It is unlikely. The difference between the wolves and the goblin, to say nothing of the sophistication and subsequent mastery exhibited by the Witchkings, is profound. But as it happens, I have an idea about a certain group from whom the sorcerers responsible may very well have hailed.”
“What group is that?” Torquatus asked.
The elf smiled mysteriously. “We call them the Abandoned. But men, as well as orcs, goblins, and other breeds have usually called them by another name over the centuries. Your race, in particular, h
as been known to worship them as gods.”
MARCUS
There were few things more intimidating than an Amorran legion arrayed for battle, Marcus thought to himself. Perhaps only the steep mountainous approach to the elven city of Elebrion, with its silver-helmed hawk riders patrolling the blue skies overhead, was more impressive.
The heavily armored cohorts stood evenly in their black-armored lines, identified by their banners as well as the numbers painted on their shields. The crimson crests of the centurions made it easy to distinguish them from their men. There was one for every hundred infantry, and the veteran officers on the front lines looked as if they were encrusted in gold and silver, with their armor well nigh covered by the medals they had won in battle over the years. There were few battlefield prizes so rich as a fallen centurion. The scorpions and onagers were grouped in six locations, each manned by three ballistari, although none of them were loaded yet with the giant bolts and rocks they hurled to such devastating effect.
All that was missing was the cavalry wing. But the huge quantities of Cynothii auxiliaries positioned on either flank were more than an adequate substitute, since both flanks actually outnumbered the legionaries stationed in between them. Altogether, the legion made for an awe-inspiring sight, particularly when one found oneself standing in front of it, as Marcus now found himself doing.
“It would appear we made a mistake in failing to abandon the castrum when we had the opportunity,” Trebonius remarked, as they looked out over the Severan legion and its auxiliaries from the safety of the thick walls of the legion’s fortified camp.
“I don’t recall you advising a withdrawal.” Marcus replied mildly. “What you may recall is my desire to meet them in the field, while you and Julianus advised remaining here inside the walls. Now, I admit, I may have been too optimistic about the Cynothii returning home.”
“Better to meet them behind these walls than out there, Clericus. Three hundred horse can’t be expected to counter ten thousand foot. I recall Vellius Maccius to you: Foot-soldiers, if rightly handled, can hardly be beaten except by other soldiers fighting on foot.”
“I am perfectly aware that the geometry is not in our favor!” Marcus snapped.
“Geometry? I should say simple subtraction is sufficient to illustrate the challenge.”
Marcus closed his eyes and allowed himself to indulge in a momentary fantasy of strangling his fellow tribune and second-in-command. Was it ever like this for his father and Saturnius? No, probably not, he concluded. The two of them had won almost all their battles, whereas he and Trebonius bid fair to be defeated, if not wiped out to a man, in their very first command.
What would Corvus do in this situation? That was a useless question. His father would have avoided it in the first place by retreating when he still had the time. But Saturnius was the tactician, so what would he have done if he were facing a siege by an enemy that outnumbered him nearly three to one?
Marcus had absolutely no idea. He found himself wishing he’d paid more attention to Father Aurelius when his tutor had been lecturing on the Iamblichus and the Ychaian astrologers. He did his best to imagine what Saturnius would have done. Simplify the situation. Ignore the details and see the geometry. But try as he might, all he saw before him were three very large rectangles facing one rather thinner rectangle.
“I suppose we had better see if they’re amenable to a parley,” he told Trebonius. “We are all Amorrans, after all. I’ll go talk to Buteo and the cursed Cynothi who calls himself a king. Perhaps this is all one tremendous misunderstanding, and Secundus Falconius will join us in suppressing the provincials. He can’t be so mad as to want to start a civil war. I haven’t received a single message even hinting at any conflict in the city or the Senate!”
“Maybe one of the king’s grandsons is among the hostages we’re holding.” His fellow tribune shrugged. “Well, we can hope, anyhow. Good luck, Clericus. We’ll be praying for you.”
Marcus elected to ride over to the enemy lines with only a draconarius by his side to bear the white flag of truce under which he was riding. No spear was hurled at him and no iron bolt punched through his breastplate, but the contemptuous stare of hundreds of veteran legionaries, their faces bearded and weather-beaten, drove home to him how badly he had already been beaten without a battle.
He had better learn to be a superlative tactician, he told himself, because it appeared he was already a failure as a strategist. The maneuvers before the battle were as important—no, even more important, he understood now—than the fighting that eventually followed. And as he rode through the lines that had been parted for him, he could also see that the men of Fulgetra were battle-hardened in a way that Legio XVII was not yet. He began to think that, even if by some miracle he could convince the king of the Cynothii to withdraw from the field, he and his men would likely find themselves outmatched by the experience of the Severan legion anyhow.
Fulgetra’s legate received him in a canvas tent that was set up behind the legion’s right flank, accompanied by the provincial king and four of his tribunes, each of whom appeared to be a decade older than either him or Trebonius. Buteo was a big man, who, given the way his bulk strained against his well-worn armor, looked rather like a sausage. But Marcus didn’t smile. There was nothing amusing about the man. His pyramid-shaped head and small, predatory eyes gave him an intimidatingly brutal appearance. The Severan legate didn’t bother introducing his companions. He only grunted in what appeared to be a satisfied manner.
“Secundus Falconius,” Marcus nodded to him as if they’d encountered each other in the Forum. “How good it is to see a fellow countryman so far from home.”
Buteo wrinkled his lip in what could have been a sneer or a failed smile. “You should have run home to your daddy after Saturnius got himself killed, Valerian whelp.”
“That does sound like good advice at the moment. Are you going to let me?”
“Not now. You should have run when you had the chance. You’re too late.”
“Pity,” Marcus sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to kill you all, then.”
“Spare us the brave words, puppy. There’s naught to discuss. Surrender, and your men will live. Fight, and many of them will die. Either way, the XVIIth comes under my control. But if you surrender, I won’t kill you and I’ll even keep you out of Severan hands too.”
Marcus ignored Buteo’s offer and turned toward the newly crowned king of Cynothicum, a spare, balding man who looked more like a priest than a rebel king. “What is your interest in this internecine squabble, Your Royal Kingliness? Or am I to address you as ‘Your Majesty’?”
“Don’t answer the boy,” Buteo interrupted, and the Cynothi obediently closed his mouth. “You should thank me, Valerian. I’ve got no wish to kill you or your men. All you have to do is keep your nose out of affairs that are none of your concern and turn your legion over to me. If you don’t trust me to keep you safe, why then, you can just run along to Amorr. Or Vallyrium, if you prefer, it makes no difference to me. I’ll even give you a scroll with my stamp on it to make sure that arrogant Severan pup doesn’t kill you on the road if he finds you.”
“You are most generous, Secundus Falconius.” Marcus didn’t mean for that to come out quite as sarcastically as it sounded. Buteo’s offer was a fine one, and no doubt he had no more desire to risk his soldier’s lives against a trained Amorran legion than Marcus did. Buteo would win, to be sure, though he would pay a heavy price in blood. “But if you don’t mind, before I answer, please allow me to pose one question to your provincial friend here. You won’t find it objectionable.”
Buteo shrugged.
“Your Majesty,” Marcus said to the little king, “are you aware that I hold inside those walls ten young men of noble rank who are your loyal subjects? I mean them no harm, of course, but you will understand that I cannot guarantee their safety if an attack is made against the camp.”
“The captain you captured a few days ago told me as much.
” The king’s accent was thick, but he spoke clearly and was perfectly intelligible. “He also said you pledged not to harm them if I did not withdraw with him.”
Marcus mentally kicked himself for promising the Cynothi captain that he would not use his hostages in an attempt to compel the king’s acquiescence. But before he could point out that accidents were known to happen even with the best-intentioned gaolers, especially in the midst of a siege, the king continued.
“However, you may kill them if you like, General. As it happens, if you would cut their throats as soon as you return to your army, you would be doing me a service.”
Marcus blinked. He had not really expected the king to slink away in fear for the hostages, but the Cynothi’s cold-blooded willingness to see the young men dead took him by surprise.
Buteo laughed, seeing Marcus’s unsettlement. “What else would you expect, puppy? His throne is newly established. He’s the first of his line, and he was only crowned king six months ago. Killing a few young nobles, half of whom are potential claimants to his crown, is less a threat than a favor. I recommend you make him an offer before you surrender. I daresay you’ll profit nicely from it.”
Marcus looked from the Amorran legate to the Cynothi king. They were powerful men. Dangerous, even. But both were men without honor. Was this what he would have to become if he wished to survive and prosper in a fallen world?
“Just to be sure I understand you correctly, Secundus Falconius: You are advising that I first enrich myself by murdering the young men under my protection, then betray my House, my country, and my men by turning over Legio XVII to you.”
