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

by Vox Day

  “What madness is this?” Gerontius’s deep voice made that of the Valerian’s sound like a pubescent boy’s. “Who are you, Tribune, to call me to anything? Get down off my walls and explain what this is all about before I send my men up there to drag you down and give you a whipping!”

  “I am Marcus Valerius Clericus, and I am the senior commanding officer of Legio XVII! I see no banner bearing the SPA on these walls, legate. Are you still loyal to Amorr, Gerontius? Do you still honor your vows to serve my House?”

  The legate looked around at the centurions who had rushed to his side. They all stared at him expectantly, but none of them dared to speak. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Ah, Clericus. You are Corvus’s son, of course. Yes, you know well I honor my vows to your noble House!”

  “Excellent,” Clericus called down to him. “Then order your men back to their tents and turn yourself over to Centurion Proculus, at the Praetorian Gate, in the name of House Valerius!”

  The legate spread his hands. “Come now, Clericus, this must be a tremendous misunderstanding. It is a mistake! Come down from there and let us discuss this like civilized men, commander to commander. We should not bark at each other like dogs in front of our men.”

  Theuderic was standing close enough to the young Amorran to hear him swear under his breath. “I see that you did not answer my question about your loyalty to the Senate and People, Gerontius. Mark this. I do not discuss anything with traitors. Cassabus?”

  “Sir?” called back a voice from the darkness nearby.

  “If you please.”

  A deafening crack nearly sent Theuderic jumping off the wall. The noise was followed by a violent clattering sound as the bolt thrower hurled its bolt toward its target below. At such a close range, the war machine could hardly miss. The heavy bolt hit the legate squarely in the center of his chest, hurling him backward and pinning him to the ground with his arms and legs splayed. The spray of blood that erupted from his pulverized chest covered him from head to knees. It was obvious to everyone that he had been instantly killed.

  “So dies Gerontius the traitor and the enemy of Amorr!” the Valerian shouted. “Men of Legio XV, are you traitors too?”

  “No,” a few hundred men shouted.

  “Men of Legio XV, are you enemies of Amorr?”

  “No!” several thousand more answered this time.

  “Men of Legio XV, are you enemies of House Valerius?”

  “No!”

  “I am glad to hear it. Return to your tents now. Your centurions will have orders for you in the morning.” The young commander pointed to the center of the fortress, where the two roads that bisected it met. “In the meantime, I want the Primus Pilus and the senior centurions from each cohort to meet me and my officers in the Forum. Do you hear me, Legio XV?”

  “Ave!” nearly every single one of the six thousand men of Legio XV answered, followed by the meaty sound of hundreds of fists striking bare chests.

  As Valerius Clericus and his officers went down the stairs that led from the battlements to the ground, Theuderic saw the great warhawk landing in the darkness outside the walls, well beyond the limits of any man without magesight. Caitlys gestured at him—angrily, he thought—which mystified him in light of how everything seemed to have gone much better than planned. He too walked down the stairs, then past the century at the gate and out into the night.

  “What were you thinking, you idiot!” Caitlys snarled at him so ferociously he thought she was going to hit him. “I saw you snuff out that torch!”

  “What torch?” he feigned innocence. “I did nothing of the sort. I think it was the wind from your bird’s passing, actually. Most fortuitous.”

  She stared at him in the starlight, as if by sheer force of will she could lay bare his guilt. Then she shrugged and unfurled a rope ladder. “If you want to return to the encampment, get on. Unless, of course, you prefer a legion of Amorrans to the Lady Everbright.”

  He laughed and clambered atop the resting hawk. By now, he was able to find the saddle straps and tie himself on without even looking, although he still tested the leather with a few firm tugs before telling the elfess he was ready. She urged the giant beast into the night sky without so much as a word of warning to him, but for some reason he found the violent jerks to be a little less terrifying when it was hard to see exactly how high above the ground they were.

  Vengirasse had barely reached his cruising altitude when Caitlys leaned back toward him. “Magus?” she called.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you firmly secured?”

  “Yeah, of course….” An evil thought occurred to him. He felt about his waist and realized that somehow, all three straps had come undone. He grabbed tightly to the pommel, knowing it was futile if Vengirasse tilted too far to one side or the other, dropped suddenly, or even made a tight turn.

  “Is something wrong?” Caitlys laughed, a slightly lower version of Lithriel’s high-pitched elven cackle that made his skin crawl, and she caused the hawk to bank to the left.

  Theuderic could feel his body sliding slowly, oh so slowly, off the saddle, and he leaned the other way to compensate. “Well, now that you happen to ask…”

  “Do I have your attention?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” he avowed with utter conviction.

  “Good,” she said, and to his relief the bird leveled out its flight again. “Let us be clear about two things, little magus. First, if you ever insult me by attempting to hoodwink me in such a painfully transparent manner again, I will feed your liver and eyeballs to Vengirasse. They are a particular favorite of his. Second, if you ever disobey me or Marcus Valerius again, particularly with regards to the use of sorcery or sorcerous items, I will have Vengirasse take you in his claws and drop you from such heights that you will run out of breath with which to scream before you strike the ground. I will not find myself burning on a pyre because a stupid human magus can’t keep his magic under control!”

  Theuderic sat silent and motionless behind the high elfess. Then, in a very humble and respectful voice, he asked for her permission to retie the straps that held him to the saddle. She didn’t answer, but a moment later, the leather started moving rapidly of its own accord, like small constrictors seizing their prey. It was only then that he realized his pantalons were soaked with urine.

  THE CROWS

  Eyepopper followed twenty or thirty of his fellow crows as they rode the north wind and cawed excitedly back and forth.

  Death was in the air.

  It was in the scent left behind by the huge masses of men below. It was in the shape of the formations being formed on opposite sides of the valley. It was in the massive black murder of crows that was continuing to grow like a thundercloud in the skies over the armies. And it was in the cruelty of the ravens that swept back and forth over the coming battlefield like a giant demon’s hand enacting a curse upon the earthbound race of Man.

  Soon they would feast. Soon, but not yet.

  Eyepopper let out a loud, raucious caw, and with it, inadvertantly defecated without even realizing he had done so. He beat his wings to catch up with the others, heading south.

  Centurion Bauto was less than entirely pleased as he looked up the hill at the waiting enemy forces.

  Where had the younger Marcus Valerius come by a second legion? And how was it that Magnus hadn’t heard about it? Winter was no time to be campaigning. The only thing that had convinced Bauto and his fellow centurions that leaving the castra at Aviglianus and marching north was worthwhile was the wily old ex-consul’s assurance that they would surprise his nephew—and his one legion—if they did so. Bauto figured Magnus was right and a winter attack was the last thing the half-trained men of Legio XVII and their inexperienced commander would expect. So how was it that they’d been intercepted by not one, but two, legions three days south of Montmila, two legions that were now looking down on them, well rested, as Bauto and his men trudged up the snow-slick hill?

  As far as
he could tell, the younger Marcus Valerius had played the elder one by leading his uncle to believe their lines would meet halfway. Bauto’s century, the third of the fifth cohort, was at the front, between the fourth century on their right and the cavalry guarding the legion’s left flank, and they found themselves facing an alarmingly long uphill march into battle, now that the legions opposing them had suddenly come to a halt. Somehow, despite having two legions to his uncle’s one, the younger Valerian had stolen a march on them and reached the valley first in order to seize the higher ground to the east.

  Then, to top it all off, his draconarii had sounded the advance early this morning, triggering Legio VII’s own advance in response, as per the norm. But no sooner had they begun to move forward, expecting to meet their opposing numbers in the middle of the valley, than the two loyalist legions had unexpectedly halted in their tracks, holding their ground and forcing Bauto and the rest of Legio VII to come to them. It was a long and difficult slog uphill over ground that was slick and white with the morning frost, and with their position already fixed, the loyalist legions would be able to bring their war machines to bear on Legio X as they struggled toward the waiting enemy, while the Vallyrian rebels would have to move their scorpios and ballistae forward before being able to return what was sure to be a hailstorm of rocks and other missiles.

  This wasn’t right! It should be them up there on that hill, watching as the enemy exhausted themselves and waiting to kill them. One of the reasons he and the other officers had been supremely confident taking the field this morning despite being outnumbered was their uniform belief that Magnus was worth at least two legions on his own. But it had been years since he’d won his last battle. Was it possible the genius was gone? Or worse, had passed on to his brother’s son? The boy’s father, Corvus, until his return to Amorr and elevation to the consulate their stragister militum, had been no slouch as a general, and there had been tribunes with less impressive military lineages who had led their legions to victory in the past.

  Bauto shrugged. As far as he knew, this was all some trick Magnus was playing on his nephew. He’d lived through too many battles to worry about the outcome this early in the proceedings. And as a centurion, he had too much on his mind to worry about things that weren’t his responsibility. He didn’t have the luxury of fear, not with eighty men to keep in line.

  “Get a move on,” Bauto shouted at his grumbling, stumbling men, several of whom were dragging their feet and threatening to turn their orderly formation, ten wide and eight deep, into a ragged mess. They were all veterans, some with nearly twenty years to their name, and they saw the developing danger as readily as he did. “Form up, you worms. Keep the bloody line straight!”

  After an exhausting slog that, thanks to the poor footing, took longer than it should have, they were coming into range of the loyalist war machines. Bauto was taking a deep breath, just about to order his men to raise their shields and brace themselves for incoming fire, when the horns from the rear unexpectedly sounded a halt.

  He shouted at his signifer, who planted the century’s standard and fumbled for his horn before repeating the call, and the Third finally came to a stop, more or less in line with the rest of the cohort to their left. The cavalry was less precise, as usual, but the knights gradually got their horses reined in despite many a tossed tail or snorting protest.

  Now what in the frozen hells was going on now? He hoped to God they weren’t about to be ordered to retreat, as the enemy horse was looming to their left, and retreating would be an open invitation to ride right over them. Even the cavalry screening their flank wouldn’t be much use, as the loyalists had three times more horse than Legio VII did, and most of it seemed to be stationed right in front of them.

  “See if anyone in the Fourth knows what’s going on,” he told his optio, Sextus Phobus, who saluted and headed off toward the next century at a jog. Then he felt something strike his left shoulder with a dull, plopping sound. With the sour cynicism of the true veteran, Bauto looked down expecting to see an arrow sticking out or perhaps something even worse. But it was nothing, merely a dollop of white slime decorating his well-polished armor, and he looked up to see the culprits had already passed by well overhead. Bird shit, of all things.

  The men nearby laughed, but he knew better than to chastise them. One of the first things a centurion learned was that chickenshit was for the castra, not the battlefield.

  “Hey, that’s good luck, sir,” one of them called.

  “Come here, Leporius, and I’ll rub some of that luck off on you!” he called back, to the delight of the others nearby. His men were cold, wet, bored, and on edge, a potentially lethal combination. Fortunately, the aerial assault kept them amused for a while, and Phobus returned before their discipline began to crack.

  He told Bauto of the modified plan of attack.

  “Magnus saw they weren’t coming off the hill, so he wanted to give us a breather before we make the push. We’re to go at them fast and hard. As soon as the horns sound the charge, shields up and double-time.”

  Bauto nodded. He didn’t like it, as they’d have to climb more than two hundred paces under fire. But this rest should let them get there with enough energy to engage the enemy’s front lines. And then the battle would truly begin. He sent Phobus to spread the word down the line, then he gave the new instructions to the century’s signifer himself.

  His wind was coming back and his calves and lower back had ceased to burn, so he considered the rest to have negated the larger part of the younger Valerian’s discreditable tactic. But even if Magnus had swiftly countered the other’s move, Bauto knew he wasn’t the only centurion who found it worrisome that the other side’s young general had been able to get a leg up on the old fox twice.

  The horn sounded, and the Third’s signifer repeated it, blowing double-time before the last note had finished. They were on the move, quickly now, and as Bauto expected, they’d barely taken four steps before the enemy’s artillery loosed for the first time.

  “Shields!” he shouted even though the front line was already a wall of black steel. Not that steel would do much to protect the men against the big wooden bolts fired by the scorpios or the huge rocks flung by the ballistae. “Move it, move it! Keep it moving!”

  They were close enough that he could hear the creaking of wood and the snapping of the tormenta as the loyalist artillery fired over one hundred bolts into their lines. He winced as the unmistakable sound of the big wooden bolts slamming into metal, flesh, and bone was followed immediately by the screams of men in pain, but the screams were all to his right, and a quick glance along the line showed that none of his own men had been hit. Even so, their movement faltered.

  So he joined his voice to the chorus of centurions urging their centuries on.

  “Don’t stop! If you stop, you die! Forward! Faster, now, faster!”

  Now the ballistae loosed, but again, the enemy was targeting the centuries to their right, mostly those in the center of the advancing legion. Aware that they were unscathed, the men of the Third didn’t slow this time, and they began to edge in front of the rest of the legionary line. Bauto was just about to rein them in when he saw the archers slipping forward between the enemy principes and begin forming a screen in front of them. He waited until the archers were bringing up their bows, then shouted a reminder to his men.

  “Shields up! Keep moving! Shields up, damn you!”

  He raised his own shield just in time, as he felt a sharp blow, heard a dull thud, and then saw the shattered remnants of the arrow shaft under his feet. He heard someone curse behind him, but he didn’t spare them a look, as he could see that their tight formation had largely defeated the missile attack.

  The archers rained down five more volleys upon them as they continued to grimly march up the hill, until some unheard command was given, and the screen dissolved, the archers disappearing back into the enemy lines like water being drained from the bottom of a bowl. The Third gave out a ragge
d cheer, but it was short-lived as they saw the first row of the enemy infantry begin to raise their spears in preparation for the casting of the heavy pilum.

  They were close enough to the enemy lines now that Bauto could easily read the numbers of the cohort and century painted onto their shields. To his surprise, they were the first of the second cohort, by tradition one of the weaker cohorts. Better yet, they were the green youths of Legio XVII, soldiers of the new legion whose battle experience was scanty and most likely limited to a few minor encounters with goblins.

  The sight was an encouraging one, and he knew his hard-bitten veterans, most of whom bore scars from more than two dozen battles, would feel the same. But that didn’t mean the boys weren’t properly trained, and from their uphill position, they could throw their spears sooner and with more force than Bauto’s men could.

  The opposing centurion, his bright armor and transverse crest easily spotted, shouted, and the front two lines stepped forward, brought up their arms, and hurled their pila in one massive volley.

  Unlike the earlier attacks by the ballistarii and the archers, this one hammered directly into the Third, and the heavy spears drove through shields and armor alike. Of the ten men in the front of the line, four went down, and a fifth was left open and vulnerable as the pilum’s spearhead fouled his shield, forcing him to drop it.

  “Second rank, move up! Fill in the gaps!” Bauto was beginning to sweat now with his exertions, and the battle was heating up too. He’d felt the wind as one pilum in the first volley had passed just over his left shoulder and another one in the second had struck the ground right at his feet, nearly impaling his right foot. But now it was time to give the enemy century a taste of their own medicine. “Pila ready, throw on my command!”