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

by Vox Day

  I pray you will come to me soon, lest I be forced to come to you.

  M.V. Magnus

  At Aviglianus

  “Send in the tribune who brought the letter,” Marcus called out to the guards standing at the door of the chambers he’d taken in the luxurious praetorium.

  The blood that had stained the marble floors outside where its previous inhabitant had fallen was gone, and Marcus wondered how long it would be before his own was spilled if he did not submit to his uncle.

  They couldn’t hope to hold the fortress against the veteran engineers of the other legions, and they couldn’t retreat back into Larinum. And even if he could somehow manage to find a way past Magnus and his two legions, there was no chance that the Senate would permit him to retain the legion. It might not even allow him to turn its men over to his father. With Houses Martial turning against the Senate, the unthinkable had suddenly become reality. Everything was in a state of madness.

  If he could be certain that Corvus would be retained as consul aquilae and given command of the Senatorial forces, trying to slip past Magnus might be worth the risk. But it was just as likely that Magnus’s betrayal would cause the Senate to turn against his father and arrest him, perhaps even execute him. If what Magnus was saying about the allied league were true, the Senate would never permit his father to go into exile, for fear he would return at the head of an allied army.

  “Tribune Aulus Severus Aulan from Legio VII,” one of the two guards accompanying his uncle’s messenger announced.

  Marcus waved them off, and they left the two tribunes, one sitting, one standing, to examine the Severan tribune they’d escorted in. Marcus was thinking that, while the Severan was neither particularly tall nor handsome, he did carry himself well, with the self-confidence of an experienced decurion well-accustomed to victory.

  “I understand congratulations are in order, Tribune.” Marcus tapped the letter. “My uncle tells me that your sister is to marry my cousin.”

  “Yes, I stood with Sextus at the betrothal. They make a handsome pair. Unfortunately, it was a less than joyous occasion.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because my father was murdered immediately after the betrothal. By Cassianus Longinus.” The Severan smiled bitterly. “I imagine you can understand how that might have put a slight damper on the celebrations.”

  “Yes, of course!” Marcus was shocked. “Severus Patronus is dead? Are you certain it was Longinus?”

  “The entire city is certain it was Longinus. He was standing on the Comitium, holding up his blood-stained hands for all to see.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I am very sorry for your loss, Tribune. I knew nothing of this.”

  “No, I understand. And I, in turn, must offer condolences for yours. Your brother Corvinus is dead.”

  Marcus shook his head, not sure that he’d heard the other correctly. “What?”

  “He chose a bad time to visit the city. There has been considerable unrest there. Riots. It seems he was caught up in one.”

  “No,” Marcus protested. “That’s not possible. He is a farmer. He almost never visits Amorr! Are you certain it was Servius Valerius, the son of Corvus, and not some other Valerian?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m quite certain of it.”

  Everything seemed to flicker. For a moment, Marcus was too shocked to speak. Then he shook his head and firmly set the dreadful news aside. Of course Corvinus wasn’t dead. What would a Severan and a rebel know about his brother, anyhow? Surely Magnus would have mentioned it in the letter… No, he had no time to think about this now.

  “Be that as it may,” he said coldly, “I need you to tell me why you are here.”

  Severus Aulan pointed to the letter. “Magnus did not send me to be a bearer of bad tidings, Valerius Clericus. Your uncle knows you’ve been parading around the provinces for months. He is aware you don’t know anything about what’s been happening in the city. Everything has changed. Death stalks the city like the plague. No one is safe. The Sanctified Father is dead, celestines have been murdered in heart of the Sanctal palace, senators are slaughtered in public, and half the lords of the Houses Martial have abandoned the city to take command of their legions. It’s not so much a civil war as simple chaos. No one knows who will stand with the Senate and who will stand with the leagues.”

  “Leagues?”

  Marcus was still having trouble focusing on what the tribune was telling him. How could his big brother be dead? He was a farmer, for God’s sake! Farmers don’t die in city riots! It was absurd. He shook his head again. He’d think about it later. This was too important, he couldn’t afford to miss anything.

  “Yes, plural. The allied cities have formed two leagues, and they have made common cause against the Senate and People. Marruvium leads the north and east, Salventum the south and west.” He shrugged. “My father was trying to prevent all of this, but your father and the clausores first blocked him in the Senate, then killed him for fear he’d ultimately find a way succeed. They brought this on themselves.”

  “My father blocked him? But Magnus was the first man among the clausores, not my father.”

  “Your uncle had a change of heart. I expect you know why. Your father stepped in to replace him in the Senate upon his return to the city. His political skills were rather a surprise to everyone, especially my father.”

  Marcus thought about Fortex and the look of abject astonishment on his face when the unexpected death sentence had been pronounced. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I think I do know why.”

  The Severan nodded sympathetically. “Look, Valerian, you really don’t have a choice. You know Magnus will beat you again, whether you stay here or you come out to meet him. What you don’t know is that the two legions raised by the Larinii are on the march. They’ll be here within a week. They’re blocking your line of retreat, so running isn’t an option. Magnus doesn’t want you to throw away your men’s lives, and if you’re half the man Magnus is, you won’t do it.”

  “You sound almost as if you admire him. That sounds strange, coming from the mouth of a Severan.”

  Severus Aulan laughed, a little self-consciously. “Yes, well, I suppose you recall the cavalry that broke your right flank?”

  “I do.” He could hardly forget it. He saw it every night in his dreams.

  “I was leading it, but the plan was all Magnus’s. The false retreat, the hidden infantry, and the way Legio XV crumbled. Everything went exactly as he said it would. I’ve been in the legions for six years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. The only thing that surprised him was how you got there first and stole the high ground. How did you manage that, anyhow?

  Marcus wasn’t about to tell the Severan about his elven eyes in the sky.

  “You really expect me to surrender, don’t you?”

  “Magnus says you’re not entirely stupid.” The Severan shrugged. “So does Sextus. So I’m confused that you’re even hesitating. It seems to me you’d have to be entirely stupid to fail to see it’s your best option.”

  “Sextus Valerius, tribunus militum.” Marcus rolled his eyes. “God help the poor legate to whom he’s assigned.”

  “I like Sextus. He’s a good lad.”

  “You don’t know him like I do.” Marcus was still trying to picture his shamelessly hedonistic cousin in a tribune’s helm. “All right, Tribune. You’re correct that I have no choice. You may return to Magnus and tell him I will leave here in two days. If, for some reason I have not arrived in Montmila within the seven days he demands, then he may come here to take possession of the legion from my second-in-command, Gaius Trebonius, in person. Trebonius will have orders to give the command to him.”

  The Severan bowed in graceful acknowledgement of Marcus’s submission. “I will do so. It would be helpful if you would put that in writing, Commander.”

  Marcus smiled grimly. “Tribune will do. It appears my command pro tems is at an end. You are dismissed, Tribune.”

&
nbsp; The Severan started to turn around to depart, then hesitated, and turned back to face Marcus. “Look, Valerian, you cannot come to Aviglianus. Send the other tribune, what was his name, Trebonius? You’d better send him instead.”

  “Why?” Marcus frowned. “Won’t Magnus be less likely to fear a trap if I appear before him myself?”

  The Severan shook his head slowly. “No, Valerian, he doesn’t fear any trap. You cannot come, because if you do, your uncle will kill you.”

  Marcus stared at the other tribune. He saw no dissembling in the man’s aristocratic face, only a mild sort of pity in his eyes. And a cold fury began to rise in his own breast, as he thought he realized what the Severan was telling him without actually making the accusation explicit.

  It was Magnus who had killed Corvinus, no doubt in revenge for Fortex’s death. And Marcus knew Magnus well enough to be certain that merely trading a son for a son would not be enough for his vengeful uncle.

  “Come away with me,” Caitlys urged three days later.

  Night had fallen, she was finally back from her daily reconnaissance flight, and she was not pleased to hear of Marcus’s decision to surrender the legion to Magnus. She and Marcus stood in the command tent, along with the Savondese man, Theuderic, and the other elf, Lady Everbright.

  Caitlys demanded Marcus’s attention. “What is this war to you? You don’t even know what the sides are, still less which side you favor!”

  The Savondese man laughed. “Daddy on one side, uncle on the other, and little boy blue blood caught in the middle. Now there’s an argument for monarchy and hereditary rule!”

  “Shut up, Theuderic,” Marcus said sourly. He found the man’s nonchalant sarcasm irritating in the extreme. He wished he could spare Caitlys long enough to have her carry the man back to Savondir. “Was Severus Aulan telling the truth about the Larinii forces?”

  “He was,” Theuderic nodded and poured himself a liberal portion of the red Galabrian that the late commander had left behind. “Two armies, two camps, each about six days’ march from here. I’d say three thousand in the one, six thousand in the other.”

  The uneven division was potentially intriguing, offering as it did a very faint ray of hope. “How far away from each other are they?”

  “Not far enough,” Theuderic answered readily, dashing his hopes. He saluted Marcus with his brimming goblet. “The same thought occurred to me, but they’re too close together. Maybe three, four hours apart at most. And they’re in close contact. We saw riders passing back and forth between the two camps all afternoon.”

  “They wouldn’t have to hold us long before Magnus would be on our tail.”

  The Savondese laughed at the absurd notion of trying to attack the two Larinii armies with two enemy legions at his rear.

  Marcus growled under his breath. “Well, it wasn’t much of a chance, but it seems even that door is shut as well. Caitlys, you know I can’t simply fly off with you. How can I surrender my men to Magnus without surrendering myself as well?”

  “Why not?” the elfess demanded. “How do you know this uncle will not kill you? An elf would say anything, promise anything, to get you in his power. How do you know he does not seek your blood in payment for your cousin’s?”

  “Because Magnus isn’t an elf,” Marcus wearily lied. He hadn’t told her about Severus Aulan’s warning. “My blood won’t bring my cousin back to him. Look, I don’t want to take sides in this war anymore than you do, especially when I could easily find myself on the wrong one. But unless your bird can fly four thousand men and their supplies away from here in less than three days, I can’t think of any honorable alternative.”

  Caitlys, still clad in her flying leathers, glared at him unhappily. Lithriel was silent, as she had been throughout.

  Only Theuderic was in a conversational mood, wandering about the chamber as he sipped at his wine, admiring the thick carpets and bright mosaics that decorated the walls.

  “Given how you officers live, Clericus, I can’t see why you’re agonizing over this affair. Join your uncle, and then if you happen to find yourself on the wrong side, by which of course I mean the losing one, then what is to prevent you from switching yet again? There’s no newly converted adherent to the cause so welcome as the one who brings an army with him. At any rate, all of this is only a sideshow anyhow. We are but the playthings of the gods. And when those bastards war, kings and empires fall.”

  Marcus was still attempting to sort out Theuderic’s cynical meanderings when a guard entered the chamber and stood stiffly at attention. “What is it?”

  “A visitor seeks an audience with you, General. A dwarf, General.”

  The two elves looked at each other, then at Marcus.

  Theuderic laughed, a little too loudly. “Quite the menagerie you’re assembling here, General.”

  “Does this dwarf have an orange beard that is…” Marcus gestured at his chin. “Sort of short and not entirely dwarf-like?”

  “Indeed, General.” The guard’s face remained impassive, and yet somehow managed to convey his surprise. “Shall I send him in to you?”

  “Yes, yes, absolutely,” Marcus said. A moment later, he was on his feet, warmly greeting the dwarf who had briefly been his slave. “Lodi son of Dunmorin! What in the name of Iron Mountain brings you here?”

  The dwarf was wider than Marcus remembered, and he wore what would have passed for a respectable beard on a human face, but it was short enough to qualify as clean-shaven for a dwarf. He looked exhausted, and the lines on his face were deeper than the last time Marcus had seen him, almost two years ago. But those dark brown eyes still sparkled with pleasure.

  “I been hearing you got yesself an army, boy, but I didn’t believe it. Figured it were a different Valerius. They just hand these things out to yez Amorrans?”

  They embraced briefly but warmly, and Marcus couldn’t help but notice that the dwarf had not bathed in what must have been a very long time. He could also feel that, beneath the weather-stained cloak, Lodi was wearing heavy chain armor.

  “It suddenly strikes me that you may not be visiting for the sheer pleasure of seeing me.”

  “No, but I’m damn glad to see ye, lad. Damn glad!” The dwarf wrinkled his nose and glared at the elves. “I sees you picked up some bad habits in Elebrion.”

  “You’ve met the Princess Shadowsong, of course,” Marcus said, stifling a smile at the disdainful way both elfesses were looking down their elegant noses at the dwarf. “But allow me to present to you the Lady Lithriel Everbright of the Greenwood, and her companion—”

  “I knows the other elf and the mage. Ran into them in Malkan. The Golden Rose, as I recall. Killed a man there. What the hell is they doing here with ye?”

  Marcus stared at the dwarf, then looked over at Theuderic, who had turned white and was very uncharacteristically tongue-tied. The Savondese man looked to the ceiling and shook his head, then met his eyes and shrugged helplessly.

  “A mage? Is that true?” Marcus took a step toward the Savondese nobleman and put his hand to his sword hilt. “You’re not truly a mage, are you?”

  “Marcus!” Caitlys protested, but he waved her off, waiting to hear what Theuderic had to say.

  “I do indeed have the honor to be one of the King’s Own,” Theuderic admitted. “Truly. Though rest assured that no one has lied to you. As it happens, I am also the Comte de Merovech.”

  “Do you have any idea what would happen to you if anyone outside this room knew what you are, you cursed fool?” Marcus was nearly as frightened as he was furious. The senior centurions had already made it clear that neither they nor the men approved of his unorthodox auxiliaries. If they learned that Marcus had not only been relying upon elves but upon a Savondese mage as well, they might not merely mutiny, they very well might burn him with the magician.

  “I imagine much the same thing that would happen to me,” Caitlys answered, placing a slender hand on Marcus’s armored forearm. “Control yourself, my dear. He hasn
’t been doing anything he shouldn’t. Much of anything. I’ve kept a close watch on him.”

  “You knew, as well?”

  Caitlys rolled her eyes.

  “Of course I knew!”

  Marcus didn’t know if he felt more foolish or betrayed. “Why does everyone seem to know more about what is going on than I do? Why does even Lodi know him? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Marcus,” Lodi’s gruff voice broke in. “I knows the Savoner and the other elf because we was all in Malkan at the same time last winter.” The dwarf glanced at Theuderic, then back to Marcus. “Lad, there’s an army of orcs hereabouts. It’s real big, they got some otherworld muscle behind it, and it’s coming this way.”

  An army of orcs? Invading the lands of men? Marcus wouldn’t have thought it possible a moment ago. But Lodi was right: The news was perhaps the only thing that could have convinced him to put the question of the mage to the side, at least for the moment. “How big is ‘real big’?”

  “Real damn big. We counted roundabout two hunnert thousand. Me and one of the lads was hunting in the mountains out west, and we come across them on the way back. Don’t know if they’s intending to go after the elves or strike north toward Savonne, or even maybe hvae another go at Iron Mountain, but I thought someone in the Man lands better know. You was the only one I knowed would listen to me, so we comes and found ye. I tried telling a few folks, but they just looked at me like I had two heads.”

  No wonder. Two hundred thousand. They probably thought he was mad. Two hundred thousand orcs! Marcus struggled to grasp the concept. There had never been an army so large, not in all the histories he’d ever read. The largest army Amorr had ever put into the field at one time was fifty thousand strong—eight legions plus auxiliaries. With an army four times that size, the logistics would be absolutely impossible.