Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  Sebastius simply raised its hand, and Valens collapsed, howling wordlessly like a burning animal, dropping the torch onto the carpet.

  Corvus bound forward to pick up his sword. He swung it with both hands like an axe at the immortal’s neck. It struck true. Not a clean decapitation but a deep gash. Sebastius screamed in pain and fell to all fours.

  Corvus hacked ruthlessly at it, ignoring the screams and the spattering blood. He struck again and again and again, until he finally beheaded the thing. The head rolled across the carpet like a distended ball. Without pausing, he did the same to its legs and its arms.

  Not until the creature was fully dismembered and silent, hewed into six separate pieces, did Corvus stop and wipe the blood from his face. He was out of breath, and his arms ached.

  Abruptly, the Sanctiff stopped screaming. Corvus was just stepping over one of the legs to see if Valens was still alive when he saw the eyes on the severed head open.

  Dammit, sooner than I expected.

  He could hear the pounding on the doors from outside the chambers. Vecellius and his men had surely heard the screams. It seemed the creature was still able to hold the doors shut with sorcery, and they were thick enough that his guards’ axes would take a little time to break through it. They would not arrive soon enough to help him.

  “You can’t kill me, you fool!”

  “I know.” Corvus reached down to feel the Sanctiff’s throat, then rapidly drew his hand away. The Sanctified Father was definitely dead, though his skin was literally burning hot. At least it had been fast, Corvus told himself. Requiscat, and all that.

  “Then why did you do that? You know what I’m going to do!” Its voice was high-pitched, as if the pain had driven it half-mad.

  “No, I don’t think you will.” Corvus reached over and picked up the torch, which had already set a bit of the carpet on fire, and touched it to the bloody cloth covering the two limbs he could reach. Despite the blood, the flames began to lick at the remnants of the robe almost immediately. “You said the moons are nearly in alignment and the gate will open soon. I have no doubt that you can recover from being burned to ashes, but I suspect you can’t do it soon enough to win over the Senate and drag the People to the slaughter before the gate shuts again.”

  “Do you think I will not kill you now?” the head spat, its face contorted with rage.

  “I had been hoping otherwise,” Corvus admitted as he methodically set the other two limbs and the torso alight. “But you will not enter the Shadowgate! You and I will burn here.”

  It screamed something in a wordless language.

  Corvus was ready for the pain. The ancient sorcery erupted inside him with what felt like the fury of a thousand suns. And yet Corvus smiled grimly as he pressed the flames against the screaming face of the immortal and saw the oil ignite and its hair begin to burn. He was the Consul Aquilae, the consul of the legions, he reminded himself. He was Valerius Victus.

  If this was his last battle, he would not lose it!

  Forgive me, Fortex, he thought as the sorcerous fire consumed his insides and agony dimmed his eyes. I love you, Romilia. Romilia. Romi….

  THEUDERIC

  The last vestiges of blue were about to disappear from the increasingly red-purple sky as Vengirasse circled over the encamped legion for the third time. This one was no permanent castra, Theuderic observed, because in the place of stone walls there was a simple wooden palisade. The earth inside the palisade was still covered with winter-brown grass that had not yet been worn away to dirt and dust.

  Furthermore, there were no camp followers at all, and the castra was full of the sort of activity that behooved an army that had only recently finished marching. Stablehands were feeding and brushing horses, there were hundreds of small fires over which men were huddled, obviously preparing food, and there were a number of small groups filling casks in a nearby stream or bringing deadwood back to the rudimentary fortress.

  “This must be it.” He withdrew the makeshift spear he’d made the previous day. “Are you finished yet?”

  “What do you think?” Caitlys asked Lithriel. “That hill over there? There is enough open space to land safely.

  “Yes,” his lover answered. “It’s nearly due south, and it’s not too far from the camp, so long as he rides.”

  Caitlys nodded and returned to her writing, which, judging by the elven cursing that accompanied it, was somewhat trickier a few hundred paces up in the air than it was on the ground. “Here,” she said finally, passing a scroll back to him. “Be sure to affix it tightly enough that it doesn’t fall off when you throw.”

  Theuderic focused on passing the strips of cloth he’d cut off one of the chemises Lord Silvertree had given him through the two holes he’d worked through the scroll with his knife. He tied it off with a moon knot, affixing it securely to the peeled, knobby shaft, then hefted it in his right arm. The wind of their flight didn’t tear the scroll away, so he assumed it would hold long enough for their purposes.

  “What if this doesn’t work?” Caitlys asked.

  “Of course it will work,” Lithriel said. “Even if it doesn’t, they don’t have any bolt-throwers assembled. So we can come back and try again, if need be.”

  “Just take us down and head for that big tent in the middle of the camp,” Theuderic ordered. Caitlys’s increasing moodiness was beginning to get on his nerves. The closer they got to finding her damned Amorran, the more strangely she behaved.

  The great warhawk stooped so gracefully that Theuderic didn’t even feel it in his belly this time. But the green mass of the trees below rapidly came to dominate his vision as they rushed toward the ground. The sensation of speed replaced the peaceful sense of soaring.

  He focused on the large tan square of the command tent, ignoring the shouts and cries and pointing fingers of the legionaries as they approached. When the tent loomed large, he hurled his crude spear directly toward the grassy ground in front of it, hoping to avoid hitting the two guards who were standing oblivious to their danger just outside the entrance.

  “Dammit!”

  “What?” cried both elfesses in unison.

  “It broke!” Theuderic looked back and saw that the speed with which they were flying, combined with the pull of the ground, had caused the uneven shaft to shatter. Where was the message cloth? He couldn’t see. But he could see five or six legionary archers rushing down the path between some smaller tents behind them. Two of them were already raising their bows.

  “Shall we circle around again?” Caitlys asked.

  “No!” he shouted. “And fly lower!”

  For the second time in three days, shafts flew over their heads. Fortunately, they were much smaller this time, and wooden, but they gave Theuderic shivers all the same. What was wrong with these Amorrans—and from whence sprang this damnable instinct to turn everything that flew over their heads into a pincushion?

  They landed on the hilltop, mercifully unpricked. Theuderic went through his now-accustomed routine of massaging his thighs and trying to walk some feeling back into his legs, then he tore down a few of the more dead-looking branches from the nearest tree and started a fire the easy way. The wood popped and steamed and gave off a bitter odor, but it was warm and after spending most of the day high in the sky being frozen by the winter winds, that was all that mattered.

  The two elves, with their long, sensitive ears, heard the horses long before he did. Seeing their reaction, Theuderic grabbed a pack full of dried meat with one hand, Lithriel’s arm with the other, and dragged her into the woods. If things went horribly wrong, perhaps he could ambush the unsuspecting Amorrans, or at least remain free to steal a pair of horses and continue their journey north. Lithriel protested instinctively, but she gave way when Caitlys saw what he was doing and nodded her approval. She would meet the soldiers alone.

  Three horsemen entered the clearing. The one in the middle, presumably Caitlys’s friend, wore a plumed helm. The horses were visibly nervous upon s
eeing the massive hawk on the hilltop. They snorted and struggled against their riders’ attempts to control them.

  The tall young officer didn’t hesitate to dismount and hand his reins to his companion on the left. He walked quickly toward Lady Shadowsong.

  She looked uncharacteristically unsure of herself, facing him with her arms folded and her chin lifted defiantly. She raised a hand in greeting.

  He ignored that completely. Instead, he strode forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her passionately.

  “Oh, look at them.” Lithriel sighed happily. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  Sweet or not, the sight made Theuderic happy too. He vastly preferred Amorrans who welcomed them with kisses to those who made concerted attempts to kill them. It made for a distinct improvement, in his considered opinion. “It is indeed. Of course, he might not be so enthusiastic once she tells him the tidings we bring.”

  While the other Amorran officers were markedly less pleased to be hosting two elves and a Savondese nobleman, they were most appreciative of the information concerning the legion they’d tangled with to the south. And several of them became downright friendly when Theuderic suggested how they might use Vengirasse to quickly and easily seize the castra and force the surrender of Legio XV’s disloyal general. It seemed that they were able to identify the legion’s commanding officer based on the description that Lithriel provided. He was, it turned out, a provincial from the Utruccan city of Silarea.

  Theuderic thought Caitlys’s friend—the young general, Valerius Clericus—was a little optimistic in assuming that the other legion’s soldiers would so readily transfer their loyalties to him on the basis of his family name, but then, he didn’t pretend to know much about Amorran politics or the rivalries of its Houses. He had far more confidence in the idea that the men of the rebel legion would rather surrender than be slaughtered in their tents by their fellows.

  Which was why he was now sailing through the darkness behind Caitlys with a improvised leather harness attached to the strap that held Vengirasse’s saddle as the only thing between him and a short but fatal fall to earth.

  Three centurions dangled alongside and behind him. They were tied in pairs with two on the left side of the giant bird and two on the other. They were, if possible, even unhappier than he was, as he could hear their pained grunts and stifled curses over the rush of the night wind. In addition to the helpless feeling of being hung down over the ground, the straps from the heavy packs on their backs pressed their armor uncomfortably hard against the shoulders. Theuderic, listening to them, was happy he was laden with neither armor nor pack, but only a large leather pouch containing torches and some flints and steel, which were entirely superflous for a battlemage.

  The Amorrans believed he was the Lady Shadowsong’s personal guard, hence the necessity of his involvement. They didn’t know he was a mage, but that didn’t prevent him from using his magesight. His night vision was not as keen as either of the two elves, but it was considerably better than the near-blindness of the Amorrans in the dark. Also, he had a feeling that his esoteric abilities might be useful in a pinch.

  Valerius Clericus had made it abundantly clear to Caitlys that she could not, even on pain of death, reveal her sorcerous talents unless she wanted to risk being immediately murdered by his men. But of course, the young general hadn’t said anything to Theuderic, not realizing that he too was a trained mage. So Theuderic was relatively confident that, in all the confusion and darkness, the ignorant Amorrans wouldn’t recognize anything short of explosive pyrotechnics as being magical in source.

  The basic concept was simple. Two cohorts were to take positions about two hundred paces from the north and south gates, respectively, of the permanent castra they had visited so briefly before. Once the pair of guards who walked a torchlit patrol on the battlements between the northeast corner of the wall and the north gate turned toward the gate, Caitlys would drop them down silently behind the guards, where Theuderic and the three centurions would ambush them, then take out the two guards and the guard captain at the gate. Everything depended upon this, so if they failed, the attack would be called off, and the waiting cohorts would melt away into the night.

  It was a low-risk, high-reward plan, and Theuderic would have thoroughly approved of it were he not one of the four men who would find themselves behind in the midst of a roused and vengeful Amorran legion if anything went awry.

  He felt himself swinging to one side as Vengirasse flew over the southern cohort and made a gentle, semicircular turn. The heavy whoosh-whoosh as the bird flapped its wings to pick up speed sounded almost deafening in his ears and he marveled that the guards on the wall couldn’t hear it. He looked down as the bird stopped beating its wings and began to make another turn and saw the northern cohort was in place as well. His heart began beating faster as the warhawk glided lower and lower in haunting silence toward the dark mass of the castra’s thick walls. Where were the guards? As he withdrew a knife from its scabbard on his belt, he picked out the torch, which was near the northeast corner. But which way was it moving?

  As the wall rushed toward him, he saw with some relief that the torch was moving back toward the center, toward the gate. One moment they were twenty paces above the ground, and the next they were right above the bricks of the battlements. There was a sudden pressure on his chest, and his legs swung forward as if he was on a swing as Vengirasse, on command, raised its wings and beat them backward, slowing itself to that it was nearly suspended.

  This was the moment! Theuderic slashed at the rope holding him aloft, once, twice. On the third attempt, he fell to the bricks, landing on his cloth-wrapped forearms and knees. That cushioned most of the blow, but it stung nevertheless. He heard a painful grunt as one of the centurions landed a moment later behind him.

  “One,” he heard Nebridius, the centurion in command, whisper. The other two responded in kind, followed by Theuderic. “Savonder, with me. Marinus, Lucilius, other side. No signal. Just take the second man when you hear me take the first.”

  Theuderic crouched low by the centurion’s side, watching as the guards turned liesurely around and the torch came closer. And closer.

  In a moment, the small circle of illumination would fall upon them where they crouched in the shadows of the crenelations, and they would have only a split second to silence the men before they could cry out. Unless, of course, fate happened to be on their side. And by fate, Theuderic meant himself.

  A small gesture loosed the spell he’d prepared earlier, and a sudden gust of wind blew the torch out. The two Amorrans stopped, afraid of a misstep in the darkness with their night eyes ruined by the flame.

  “What happened?” the second guard asked.

  “Damn thing blew out,” the one with the torch said.

  But that was all he said as Nebridius was quick to recognize the opportunity and take full advantage of it. He pounced in the darkness like an owl on a rat and killed the man, stabbing him in the throat and easing his body to the bricks without making a sound. The other two centurions were just a little louder, but nearly as quick in killing the other guard.

  “Get that damn thing lit!” Nebridius ordered.

  Theuderic fumbled for the torch, found it, then called fire to light the torch again, pretending to strike a nonexistent flint. Once lit, he stood up and began walking slowly away from the gate, as if he were the guard on patrol. By the time he reached the northeast corner, checked to confirm the presence of a bolt-thrower, and walked back to the gate, the three centurions had slain the two additional guards as well as their captain.

  Instead of opening the gate, however, they slipped off their packs and removed the weighted rope ladders inside. They anchored the ladders to the battlements and threw the ropes down the outside of the wall.

  “Walk down to the other corner and back,” Nebridius whispered to Theuderic. “Walk slow. Lucilius, go with him.”

  Theuderic nodded. Overhead, a large shadow briefly blocked out the s
tars as the warhawk ghosted silently over them and toward the waiting cohort. He couldn’t see Caitlys, but he waved to her all the same, knowing that her elven eyes would permit her to recognize him.

  Those giant hawks were remarkably useful for a broad range of applications, he mused, wondering if it might be worthwhile to try the binding spell on another species more amenable to magical influence than dragons. Or perhaps they could begin breeding their own warhawks.

  The century assigned to lead the assault was already clambering up the ladders when he and Lucilius returned to the gate, and they continued their slow, measured stroll as the armored legionaries, led by a conturbium of archers, passed them and quietly made their way along the wall toward the guards on the southern gate, taking possession of each mounted bolt thrower as they did so. To Theuderic’s surprise, the young Amorran commander climbed the rope ladder himself, and both Nebridius and Lucilius beamed with pride as he clapped them on the back in a quiet gesture of approval.

  A loud caw ripped across the sky and was followed by four short blasts on a horn. In answer, over one hundred torches were rapidly lit and held up by men standing upon the walls.

  Thousands of men began to emerge from their tents, nearly all of them naked or nearly so. As they did, a flaming arrow buried itself in the ground, and both the northern and southern gates burst open, revealing multiple columns of fully armored legionaries holding shields and pila at the ready. Along the battlements, the scorpios had been lifted from their emplacements, turned about, and pointed down into the camp.

  The young Amorran stood before two draconarii, one holding the black banner of Legio XVII, the other holding the red banner of Amorr. “In the name of House Valerius,” he shouted, “I call the legate Lucius Gerontius to answer for his treason against the Senate and People.”

  Gerontius, wearing no more than a wool tunic and pantalons, had stumbled out from the large wooden structure near the Forum that had been built in the location where the command tents were usually erected. He was a big man, with a quantity of fat layered over a considerable quantity of muscle. Even without any badge of office, he radiated power and authority.