by Vox Day
“You’re awake,” he commented blandly.
“Tea,” she mumbled. “Caitlys promised khairithal. Haven’t had it in years.”
“Is that what this is?” He examined the cup in his hands, which happened to be one of the two cups in Lady Shadowsong’s pack, then handed it to her.
Litriel sniffed at the steam trailing up from it, then inhaled deeply and held it in her hands as if it were some sort of steaming treasure.
“Oh, that’s tremendous,” she all but moaned. “I almost don’t want to drink it. Such a magical moment should never end.”
Theuderic laughed at her. It smelled like burning cat fur. “I’ll leave the two of you alone.” He turned his attention to the meat, which was very nearly seared to a sufficiency.
Lady Shadowsong contributed some biscuits from her pack before pouring her own tea, and soon the three of them were breaking their fast and discussing the day’s flight. It had been four days since leaving Amorr, and still there was no sign of the Valerian legion she was seeking. For that matter, there hadn’t been any sign of any legion.
“I think we’ve gone too far north and not enough west,” the high elfess declared. “We should fly due west today.”
“No, we haven’t flown far enough north,” Theuderic said. “Based on what you told us from his last letter, your Valerian was planning on staying just south of the mountains then approaching Amorr from the northwest. I think west-northwest is the furthest south we could possibly encounter him today. Amorrans never stray far from their roads.”
“He’s going to go through Vallyrium first, though, and you’re forgetting that is further to the east. There are roads there too, I’m sure.” Lady Shadowsong screwed up her face in a manner that would have looked ridiculous if he didn’t know she was deep in thought. “We can try west northwest, though. If we can’t find him today or tomorrow, I’m afraid we’re going to have to assume his plans were interrupted somehow.”
“It would take a hell of an interrruption to disrupt the plans of a man with six thousand Amorran legionaries behind him.”
“That’s what is beginning to concern me,” Lady Shadowsong said. “Lithriel, what do you think?”
“I think,” his lover said, proffering her empty cup, “that I shall have more tea.”
The sun had fully risen by the time they were in the air again, and Theuderic congratulated himself for the relative equanimity with which he had born this latest launch into the sky. What had previously been an endless period of mute and petrified terror was now little more than a few short moments of white-knuckled worry as the great bird fought the wind for altitude.
He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the dreadful, lurching sensation of falling during the up-stroke, when the hawk’s wings folded in and lifted in preparation for the next mighty thrust upward, but he was now able to endure the feeling without the need to close his eyes or do more than silently recite the occasional Rosarian mystery.
Whoever shall have a true devotion for the rosary shall not die without the sacraments of the Church. It was a comforting thought, even for so consistent a sinner as himself. He wasn’t even sure that a sorcerer could possess true devotion, especially one who lacked so much as an actual bead-chain, but he was confident that the company of a pair of pagan elfesses put him about as far from the Church sacraments as he could get without actually taking part in a cannibalistic goblin rite celebrating of one of their demon-gods.
They flew in silence for several hours. Theuderic, frozen nearly solid despite being wrapped in two heavy blankets, was just about to suggest they stop for food and some much-needed thawing, when Litriel called out.
“Look there.” Lithriel pointed at something on their right. “Look at that big square thing. It looks like a city, but I don’t think it is.”
“That’s the legion!” Lady Shadowsong said enthusiastically. “Marcus told me about their camps. They’re always built in squares like that.”
She didn’t seem to give Vengirasse any command, but a moment later the hawk banked its massive wings, and they inscribed a gentle curve in the sky that ended with them heading due north in the direction of the encampment that Theuderic still couldn’t see.
Soon, however, even his human eyes could make out what was clearly a fortified army camp. It was rigorously laid out in simple and straight lines, with two pathways bisecting the walled square. A large stream flowed past it to the east, while a chaotic collection of tents, carts, and temporary wooden structures seemed to grow out from it in a sort of architectural tumor to the west. Several moving rectangles on the west side proved to be formations of soldiers going through exercises, and while the legion’s camp was relatively peaceful, the area given over to the camp followers teemed with activity.
“Don’t go any lower,” Theuderic suddenly called out to Lady Shadowsong. “In fact, I strongly suggest we do not land here.”
Vengirasse dutifully changed the angle of his wings at his rider’s command and they began to climb toward the clouds again.
“What’s wrong?” Lithriel asked.
“Something isn’t right. Look at those walls, how thick they are. They’re made of either brick or stone. Caitlys told us her friend was on the march. That down there is an army that hasn’t been marching anywhere. That’s an army that’s been wintering there for weeks, perhaps even even months. And those two flags,” he said, pointing. “Does either of them look like an imperial flag to you?”
One flag was maroon and grey. The other was white with a large red V on it as well as some other detail he couldn’t make out. Neither was the familiar flag of Amorr: red with the three ubuitous letters, S P A, sewn in gold upon it.
“How many legions in this area can there be? And who else besides the empire has legions?” Lady Shadowsong scoffed at his concerns as they circled high above the camp. “Anyhow, the Amorrans have permanent camps like this constructed all across Utrucca, Falisca, and the provinces. I must have seen thirty empty ones along the way. They march from one to the next whenever they can. Two of the last three letters I received from Marcus were written from this sort of camp. They usually build them close to towns and cities when they can, so I’ll bet there is a good-sized village within a bell’s ride upstream from here.”
“All right, then look outside the camp.” Theuderic pointed out to the mass of human activity below. “How do you explain all of those people?”
“They’re called ‘camp followers’ for a reason, magus,” the elfess said disdainfully. “I shouldn’t think the concept was beyond you. But if you like, we can make a low pass before landing. That should attract sufficient attention for the guards to inform an officer or two.”
“That seems a reasonable precaution,” Theuderic said.
The elfess directed the warhawk on a descending path that would take them directly along the west wall.
Truth be told, Theuderic was more than ready to land, but he had the sneaking suspicion that landing in the middle of the legion’s camp would be a remarkably terrible idea for two elves and a royal battlemage. Even if there weren’t any of the cursed priests of Saint Michel about, he doubted Lady Shadowsong’s ability to hold off dozens of iron bolts shot by the huge crossbow-like machines he saw were mounted on the walls. He counted twenty of them, five on each wall section. Although only four of them were presently manned, he anticipated the rest of them could be in short order.
They were perhaps four hundred paces away and thirty paces above the top of the walls when one of the guards above the northern gate spotted them. Theuderic could see him calling another guard’s attention and pointing directly at them, following which the second guard drew a horn from his belt and blew five short notes.
This created a veritable upheaval within and without the camp, and it rather humorously reminded Theuderic of the frantic activity that usually follows the overturning of an anthill. But the sight of men in armor rushing toward the deadly bolt throwers reminded him that, even if these were the right A
morrans, they could not know the warhawk’s riders intended them no harm. So, despite the cold, he slid the blankets down and slipped off his cream-colored shirt. Vengirasse sailed past the southern end of the camp and began to flap his wings to gain altitude for a return pass, turning eastward in order to make it even closer to the western wall.
“What are you doing?” Lithriel sensed his activity and tried to turn and see why he was moving about the bird’s back.
“They don’t know who we are, so we need to tell them we want to parley. Tell Caitlys we can’t even think of landing if they don’t wave a white flag back at us.”
“What are those men with the upside-down horns on their heads?” Lady Shadowsong called back at him, ignoring his suggestion.
“Centurions. There’s an officer, right there!” Theuderic pointed to a large, thick-waisted man who had just come out of a large tent near the middle of the camp. Several centurions and men with plumed helmets gathered around him. “Is that your friend?”
“No, he’s much too old and fat. Marcus is younger, younger than you.”
“And he commands a legion?” Theuderic found that hard to believe.
“Maybe that’s not the commander,” Lithiel suggested, even as the large man pointed up at them, and the group of men around him abruptly dispersed, shouting orders and running for the wall. “Or maybe it is. Look out!”
Theuderic had learned enough about Lady Shadowsong’s approach to flying to grab the saddle horn with both hands and lean forward as far as he could into Lithriel. That cost him his shirt—it went fluttering away—but it kept him from testing the strength of the saddle straps again as Vengirasse tucked his wings, rolled left, and dove toward the ground.
Someone fired a bolt from the wall. It probably would have missed them anyhow, but the warhawk’s move caused it to pass well over and behind them. Vengirasse leveled out and beat its wings to pick up speed as it flashed over wide-eyed children, screaming horses, and open-mouthed women in the tent city below.
It was a cunning move on the high elf’s part, as the imperials on the wall couldn’t fire more bolts without putting their camp followers at risk. Unfortunately, the legionary commander was entirely willing to do just that, as four more bolts fired in near-chorus, one of which passed just over their heads.
Screams and shrieks erupted below them as the bolts landing unexpectedly in the midst of the camp followers set off panic in the civilian population. The artillerymen on the west wall were reloading their bolt-throwers, but it was the five on the northern wall that were the most threatening, and Theuderic could see they were already rotating their loaded machines toward Vengirasse’s flight path.
“Distract them!” Lady Shadowsong shouted. Her eyes were locked on the bolt-throwing crews, trying to anticipate the moment to slow Vengirasse. They were too near to the ground for diving and picking up speed to be an option. “Now, Magus!”
His training took over. Without thinking, Theuderic raised his arms, and two massive bolts of lightning arced instantly from his hands to the first bolt-thrower.
There was a deafening thunderclap, followed by screams and the sound of bodies and large pieces of wood and stone striking the ground within and without the wall. Two bolts flew well in front of them, loosed reflexively by their crews. The crew of the closest surviving bolt-thrower held their fire, but the noise of the explosion caused them to dive behind the wall’s low parapet.
“Straight on,” Theuderic shouted. “Straight on, and stay low! We’re clear to the north.” He cast a different spell, this one aimed more judiciously this time. A single fireball struck the second bolt-thrower and set it alight before its crew could man it again. The last bolt-thrower on the northern wall loosed its bolt in response, but it was too far to the east to be dangerous and amounted to little more than a last defiant gesture as the warhawk bore its riders safely away.
Lady Shadowsong looked back and said something in Elvish, then shook her head. They continued flying north, slowly rising higher, until even Lithriel’s keen eyes couldn’t see the legionary fortress anymore. Then the hawk curved to the east and flew that way until they passed over a series of well-forested hills and landed despite Theuderic’s protests that the imperial cavalry might already be riding in pursuit of them.
“Don’t be absurd, Magus.” Lady Shadowsong leaped down from the great bird and massaged her legs. “First, they’d ride due north because that’s the way we flew away. Second, they have no way of tracking us around to here. Third, they’re not about to chase what they must think to be elven magisters. And fourth, Magus, are you trying to start a war between Elebrion and the empire? What could you possibly have been thinking?”
“You said to stop them,” Theuderic found himself protesting.
“I said to distract them, not attack them!”
“Yes, well, that’s how a battlemage distracts people. Besides, I told you they might not be your boy’s legion!” he shouted back at her. “They had us bracketed! Those bolt-throwers are accurate enough to skewer a man at two hundred paces and that first volley nearly spitted your bird like a chicken! If I hadn’t done something, we’d all be dead!”
Lithriel put her hand on the high elf’s shoulder. “He’s right, Caitlys. But you needn’t worry. If Lord Silvertree is to be believed, the imperials have sufficient problems nearer to hand. Those will occupy them nicely. I hardly think they’re likely to go to all the trouble of trying to start another war with King Mael over the crew of a single war machine.”
The high elf made a face then shrugged. “Better them than us, I suppose. It will be interesting trying to explain this to Marcus. But if these people are so hostile and frightened of magic that they’ll attack a warhawk on sight, how am I supposed to reach him? For all we know, that was his legion, and now we’re flying away from them. I suppose I could go back. Land out of sight and walk to the camp. But that might be even more dangerous. Imagine if we had landed there….”
Lithriel looked to Theuderic as if expecting him to do something. What was he supposed to say? Of course it would have been disastrous to land in the middle of a bloody Amorran legion, but it wasn’t as if they’d been stupid enough to do it. Then he realized how sore and tired he was after only three days of flying—the Lady Shadowsong had been flying for more than three weeks.
“Don’t worry, my lady,” he told her. “If you happen to have something that might serve as a dart or an arrow, I think I can arrange to get a message directly to your friend without putting anyone at risk.”
“You can’t use magic, you know,” she cautioned him. “Marcus is most particular about that.”
“There is no need for even the smallest sorcery.” He smiled. “But I’m afraid it will require finding the legion first. The correct one, this time.”
CORVUS
The Sanctal palace cast long shadows over the great hill upon which it stood and onto the plaza below. Corvus and his fascitors strode into the crowds in the plaza, which were considerably more orderly than the mob surrounding the elven embassy had been, but they were very nearly as numerous. Monks from the various orders wandered about, awestruck to find themselves in the vicinity of the holy site. Priests closer to the bottom of the holy hierarchy than the top strolled about arm in arm, discussing theology. And the common people pushed and shoved to get closer to the fountain at the center of the square, the water from which was said to have been blessed by Sanctus Petrus and was known to possess miraculously curative powers.
But all of them, clerics and common citizens alike, hastened to get out of the way of Caius Vecellius and his axe bearers with unusual alacrity. Corvus wondered if it was possible that news of the impromptu execution of the Church guardsman had already reached the crowds here. It seemed unlikely. But then, it was said that bad news flew faster than the crows who bore it.
He had his answer soon enough, as the coldly glaring stares of the guards at the foot of the steps at the bottom of the hill told him they were still respectful of his o
ffice though clearly not of the man who held it. It was apparent that they knew very well what he had done, and they did not approve. Even so, they made no move to intercept his progress, which was a relief. The very last thing the city needed right now was a power struggle between the government authority and its religious counterpart.
“We may be wise to be a little circumspect in our actions,” Corvus said to Vecellius as they began to mount the marble steps that would lead them directly to the entrance. “One more beheading, and they’ll be calling me Carnifex instead of Corvus.”
“Men have borne worse,” the unflappable captain replied. “Any citizen who fails to respect consular imperium deserves to die. For stupidity, if nothing else. Are you well, my lord consul? Your breathing is a little labored.”
Corvus stifled a groan as they continued to mount the steps. One tended to forget how heavy one’s armor could be when one was accustomed to one’s mount doing most of the work of carting it about. He wasn’t merely breathing hard—his legs were downright burning by the time they reached the top of the stairs and the path to the palace’s great double-doors, which were standing open.
To Corvus, the opening looked more like a monstrous maw than an indication that they were welcome in the heart of the Church. Of course, only he knew the secret of what might be waiting for them inside. He still found the elf’s tale to be fantastical, but then, the Scriptures were full of wonders that no Amorran had ever seen. His own son had claimed to see things on his trip to Elebrion in which Corvus still couldn’t honestly say he believed. It was said that God worked in mysterious ways, so who was to say that men understood the works of the devil any better?
A bishop in gleaming white ecclesiastical attire greeted him at the head of a group of white-armored guards. “My lord consul, I am Father Sebastius. The Sanctified Father asked me to await your arrival. If you will be so kind as to accompany me, he will receive you in the Apostular.”
