by Jim Butcher
"Easy," Fidelias murmured, putting a hand on his horse's neck. "Let's move forward. There's a clearing just ahead. Let's give ourselves some open space around us."
They eased the horses forward into a clearing, and though the mounts were under control, they still tossed their heads restlessly, eyes and ears flicking about for some sign of whatever enemy they had scented.
Fidelias led them to the center of the clearing, though it scarcely gave them thirty feet on any side. The shadows fell thick through the trees, the wan grey light creating pools of shifting, fluid dimness between branch and bough.
He scanned the edges of the clearing until he spotted the vague outline of Etan's form, the squirrel-like shape flickering around the edges of a patch of dimness. Then he nudged his horse forward a step and addressed it directly. "Show yourself. Come out to speak beneath the sun and the sky."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then a shape within that dimness resolved itself into the form of a Marat and stepped forward into the clearing. He stood tall and relaxed, his pale hair worn in a long braid across his scalp and down the nape of his neck. Dark, wiry feathers had been worked into the braid. His wore a buckskin belt and loincloth about his hips and nothing more. He bore a hook-shaped knife in his right hand, gleaming like dark glass.
At his side paced a herdbane, one of the tall predator birds of the plains beyond. It more than matched the Marat in height, though its neck and legs were so thickly built with muscle as to seem stumpy and clumsy. Fidelias knew that they were not. The bird's beak gleamed in tandem with the Marat's knife, and the terrible, raking claws upon its feet scratched through the bed of damp pine needles covering the forest floor and tore at the earth beneath.
"You are not Atsurak," Fidelias said. He kept his voice measured, clear, his speech almost rhythmic. "I seek him."
"You seek Atsurak, Cho-vin of the Herdbane Tribe," the Marat said, his own guttural voice in the same cadence. "I stand between you."
"You must stand elsewhere."
"That I will not do. You must go back."
Fidelias shook his head. "That I will not do."
"Then there will be blood," the Marat said. His knife twitched, and the herdbane beside him let out a low, whistling hiss.
From behind Fidelias, Odiana murmured, "Ware. He is not alone."
Fidelias followed Etan's flickering, unseen guidance. "To our left and right, at right angles," he murmured back to Aldrick.
"Aren't you going to talk?" Aldrick asked, his voice a lazy drawl.
Fidelias reached up a hand to scratch at his neck, squinting at the Marat. "These three evidently disagree with their Cho-vin. Their chief. They aren't interested in talking."
Odiana let out a breathy, "Oh, goodie."
The former Cursor gripped the hilt of the knife that hung at the back of his neck and whipped his arm forward and down. There was a flicker of grey light on steel, and then the spike-like throwing knife buried itself in the herdbane, its handle protruding from the bird's head, just where its beak met its
skull. The herdbane let out a scream and leapt into the air in a great spasm. It fell to the forest floor, screaming still, thrashing viciously in its agony.
From the left and right came a sudden shriek of sound, the war cries of the birds and their masters, one savage paired with a bird rushing the group from either side. Fidelias felt, more than saw, Aldrick slip to the ground and turn to face one pair, but he heard quite clearly the rasp of the man's sword being drawn. Odiana murmured something under her breath, a soft, cooing sound.
The lead Marat rushed to the fallen herdbane's side for a moment and then, with a decisive motion, ripped the hook-shaped knife over the bird's throat. The herdbane let out a final, weak whistle and then shuddered to stillness on the ground as its blood stained the earth. Then the Marat turned toward Fidelias with his face set in a flat, murderous rage and flung himself at the former Cursor.
Fidelias barked a command to Vamma and flicked his hand in his attacker's direction. The ground beneath the Marat bucked in response, throwing him to one side, sending him sprawling. Fidelias took the opportunity to dismount from his increasingly agitated horse and to draw the dagger from the sheath at his hip. The Marat regained its balance and rushed him, aiming to move past his opponent, raking the horrible knife along Fidelias's belly in passing, disemboweling him.
Fidelias was familiar with the technique and countered by facing the Marat squarely, meeting his rush with one boot abruptly thrust out at the Marat's knee. He felt his foot connect hard, and something snapped in the Marat's leg. The Marat let out a squall and fell, whipping its knife at Fidelias's thigh as it did. The Aleran pushed away from the Marat's body in the same motion, pulling his leg clear a finger's width ahead of the knife, then turned to face his opponent.
The Marat attempted to rise to his feet, only to have his knee buckle. He fell into the pine needles. Fidelias turned and walked toward the nearest tree, glancing back at the others as he did.
Aldrick stood at the edge of the clearing, facing out, his blade gripped and held parallel to the ground, his arm extended straight out to his side, an almost dancelike pose. Behind the swordsman lay a herdbane, its head missing, its body flopping and clawing wildly, evidently unaware of its own impending death. The Marat that had rushed Aldrick knelt on the forest floor, its head lowered and swaying, its hands pressing at its belly and stained with blood.
On the other side of the clearing, Odiana sat on her horse, humming quietly to herself. The ground in front of her had, it had seemed, quite abruptly transformed into bog. Neither Marat nor herdbane could be seen, but the silt and mud before her stirred vaguely, as though something thrashed unseen beneath its surface.
The water witch noticed him looking at her and commented, her tone warm, "I love the way the ground smells after a rain."
Fidelias didn't answer her. He reached up, instead, using his knife to make a deep cut, scoring a branch on the nearest tree. He broke it off and, as the others turned to watch him, put his knife away, took the heavy branch in both hands, and, from out of the lamed Marat's knife reach, methodically clubbed him to death.
"That's one way to do it," Aldrick commented. "If you don't mind spattering blood everywhere."
Fidelias tossed the branch down to one side. "You got blood everywhere," he pointed out.
Aldrick walked back to the clearing's center. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to fastidiously clean his blade. "But mine's in a pattern. It's aesthetically pleasing. You should have had me do it for you."
"Dead's dead," Fidelias said. "I can do my own chores." He glanced at Odiana and said, "Happy now?"
The water witch, still atop her horse, smiled at him, and let out a little sigh. "Do you think we shall have more rain?"
Fidelias shook his head and called out, "Atsurak. You saw what they intended." He had the satisfaction of seeing Aldrick tense and half-turn to one side, and even Odiana caught her breath in her throat. The former Cursor smiled and took up his horse's reins, laying a hand on the beast's neck and stroking it.
From the trees came a gravelly voice, a satisfied-sounding, "Hah." Then there was the sound of motion through the brush, and a fourth Marat appeared. This man had eyes of glittering, brilliant gold, a match for those of the sleek, swift-looking bird beside him. He wore his knife at his belt, rather than in his hand-and he also carried a sword, bound with a rawhide thong about its hilt and blade and slung over one shoulder. He had a half-dozen grass plaits bound over his limbs, and his face had been rawly abraded, bruised. The Marat stopped several paces from the trio and held up his hands, open, palms toward them.
Fidelias mirrored the gesture and stepped forward. "What I did was necessary."
Atsurak looked down, at the dead man only a few paces away, whose skull Fidelias had crushed. "It was necessary," the man agreed, his voice quiet. "But a waste. Had they met me openly, I would have killed only one." The Marat squinted at Odiana, staring at the woman with a silen
t, hawklike intensity, before turning an equally intent regard to Aldrick. "Deadlanders. They fight well."
"Time is pressing," Fidelias responded. "Is everything in readiness?"
"I am the Cho-vin of my tribe. They will follow me."
Fidelias nodded and turned to his horse. "Then we go."
"Wait," Atsurak said, lifting a hand. "There is a problem."
Fidelias paused and looked at the Marat chieftain.
"During the last sun, I hunted humans not far from this place."
"Impossible," Fidelias said. "No one goes here."
The Marat took the sword from his shoulder, and with a pair of casual motions, unbound the thong from the weapon. He flicked it forward, so that its point drove into the ground a pace ahead and to one side of Fidelias. "I hunted humans," Atsurak said, as though Fidelias hadn't spoken. "Two males, old and young. The old commanded a spirit of the earth. My chala, the mate to this one," he put his hand on the herdbane's feathered back, "was slain. Wounded the old one. I hunted them, but the young one was swift and led me from his trail."
Aldrick stepped forward and took up the sword from the ground. He used the same cloth he had cleaned his own weapon with to brush the mud from the blade. "Legion-issue," he reported, his eyes distant. "Design from a few years ago. Well cared for. The wrappings are worn smooth." He took off a glove and touched his skin to the blade, his eyes closing. "Someone with a measure of experience used this, Del. I think he's a Legion scout. Or was one.
Fidelias drew in a sharp breath. "Atsurak. These two you hunted. They are dead?"
Atsurak shrugged. "The old one's blood flowed like a stream. His spirit carried him away, but he was already pouring out into the earth. The young one ran well and was fortunate."
Fidelias spat a sudden, acid taste out of his mouth and clenched his jaw. "I understand."
"I have come to look at this valley. And I have seen. I have seen that the Deadlanders wait to fight. That they are strong and watch carefully."
Fidelias shook his head. "You were unfortunate, Atsurak, nothing more. The attack will be a victory for your people."
"I question your judgment. The Marat have come. Many tribes have come. But though they have no love for your people, they have little for me. They will follow me to a victory-but not to a slaughter."
"All is in readiness. Your people will sweep clean the valley of your fathers and mothers, and my lord will see to it that it is returned to you. So he has pledged."
Atsurak's lip curled into something like a sneer. "Your Cho-vin. Cho-vin of the Aquitaine. Do you bear his totem as bond?"
Fidelias nodded, once.
"I will see it."
Fidelias stepped back to his horse and opened one of the saddlebags. From it, he drew Aquaitaine's dagger, its hilt elaborately worked with gold and with the seal of the House of Aquitaine. He held it up, so that the savage could see the weapon. "Satisfied?"
Atsurak extended his hand.
Fidelias narrowed his eyes. "This was not a part of our agreement."
The Marat's eyes flashed with something hot, vicious. He said, in a very soft voice, "Nor was the death of my chala. Already, there is bad blood between your people and mine. Now there is more. You will give me your Cho-vin's totem as bond. And then I will fulfill my end of the bargain."
Fidelias frowned. And then he flicked the knife, still in its scabbard, to the Marat in an underhand throw. Atsurak caught it without looking, nodded, and turned to walk back into the woods. A few paces past the first branches, he and the stalking bird beside him vanished.
Aldrick stared after the savage chieftain for a moment and then at Fidelias. "I want to know what in the name of all the furies you think you are doing."
Fidelias glared at the man, then turned back to his mount and secured the saddlebags again. "You heard him. Something's got the Marat spooked. Without the dagger, he wasn't staying."
Aldrick's expression darkened. "That's a signet weapon. It can be traced back to Aquitaine. He's a Marat hordemaster. He's going to be fighting in the front of the bloody battle-"
Fidelias grated his teeth and spoke in a slow, patient tone. "Yes, Aldrick.
It can. Yes, Aldrick, he will. Thus, we had best be damned sure that the attack succeeds." Fidelias slapped the saddlebags back over the horse. "After the Valley has been taken, it won't matter what plunder the Marat have. Events will be in motion by then, and it will all fall into politics."
Aldrick gripped Fidelias by the shoulder and spun the smaller man to face him. The swordsman's eyes were hard. "If it doesn't, there's evidence. If it gets back to the Senate, they'll bring charges against him, Fidelias. Treason."
The former Cursor glanced down at Aldrick's hand, then up the length of the swordsman's arm to his face. He met his eyes in silence for several seconds, before saying, "You're a brilliant fighter, Aldrick. You could kill me, right here, and we both know it. But I've been playing the game for a long time. And we both know that you can't do it before I have a chance to react. You'll be less of a swordsman without your hand. Without your feet." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, and the ground shifted, very slightly, beneath the pair of them, as Vamma stirred through the earth. Fidelias let his voice drop to something quiet, cool. He used the same tone when ordering a man to dig his own grave. "Make up your mind. Dance or stand down."
Silence stretched between them.
The swordsman looked away first, his stance shifting back into his usual, relaxed slouch. He picked up the weapon the Marat had left and stood facing the other way for a moment.
Fidelias let out a slow, silent breath and waited for the too-quick pulse in his throat to slow down again. Then he turned and mounted his horse, folding his hands over the pommel to hide their trembling. "It's a necessary risk. We'll take precautions."
Aldrick nodded, his expression unhappy, resolved. "What precautions?"
Fidelias jerked his chin toward the sword. "We start with finding these two who have actually seen the Marat in the valley. If that belonged to a retired scout, he might work out what's going on."
Odiana nudged her horse over to Aldrick's, took the reins, and led the mount over to the man, her eyes on Fidelias, her expression pensive. The swordsman mounted and slipped the captured sword away, into a strap behind the saddle. "So we find them. Then what?"
Fidelias turned his horse and started riding out of the clearing, aiming their path in a gentle circle around the outside of the mountain, toward the causeway, where he was most likely to find the signs of anyone passing from
the mountain and toward the nearest steadhold. "We find out what they know."
Odiana asked, "And if they know too much?"
Fidelias glanced at his riding gloves and flicked a drying spot of blood from one of them. "We make sure they stay quiet."
Chapter 14
"And that's what happened," Tavi said. "It all started with that one little lie. And all I wanted to do was to get those sheep back. Show my uncle that I could handle things without anyone's help. That I was independent and responsible." He picked up a rind from one of the bright orange fruits and threw it back into the plants at the water's edge, scowling, his thoughts in a turmoil.
"You don't have any furies at all?" the slave repeated, her voice still stunned. "None?"
Tavi hunched his shoulders against her tone and gathered the scarlet cloak closer around him, as though the fabric might ward off the sensation of isolation her words brought him. His voice came out harsher than he'd meant it to, defensive. "That's right. So? I'm still a good herder. I'm the best apprentice in the Valley. Furies or not."
"Oh," Amara said quickly. "No, I didn't mean to-"
"No one means to," Tavi said. "But they all do. They look at me like… like I'm crippled. Even though I can run. Like I'm blind, even though I can see. It doesn't matter what I do, or how well I do it, everyone looks at me the same way." He shot her a glance and said, "Like you are, right now."
Amara frowned and rose,
her torn skirts and her appropriated cloak swaying about her ankles. "I'm sorry," she said. "Tavi it's… unusual, I know. I've never heard of anyone with that problem before. But you're also young. It's possible that you just haven't grown into it yet. I mean, you're what? Twelve? Thirteen?"
"Fifteen," Tavi mumbled. He rested his chin on his knees and sighed.
Amara winced. "I see. And you're worried about your service in the Legions."
"What service?" Tavi said. "I don't have any furies. What are the Legions going to do with me? I won't be able to send signals, like the aircrafters, hold the lines with the earthcrafters, or attack with the firecrafters. I won't be able to heal anyone with the watercrafters. I can't forge a sword, or wield one like a metalcrafter. I can't scout and hide, or shoot like a woodcrafter. And I'm small. I'm not even good for handing a spear and fighting in the ranks. What are they going to do with me?"
"No one will be able to question your courage, Tavi. You showed me that last night."
"Courage." Tavi sighed. "As near as I can figure it, all courage gets you is more of a beating than if you'd run away."
"Sometimes that's important," she pointed out.
"Taking a beating?"
"Not running away."
He frowned and said nothing. The slave remained silent for several moments, before she settled down beside him, wrapping the scarlet cloak around her. They listened to the rain outside for a few moments. When Amara spoke, her words took Tavi off guard. "What would you do, if you had a choice?"
"What?" Tavi quirked his head and looked up at her.
"If you could choose anything to do with your life. Anywhere to go," Amara said. "What would you do? Where would you go?"
"The Academy," he said, at once. "I'd go there. You don't have to be a crafter, there. You just have to be smart, and I am. I can read, and write, and do figures. My aunt taught me."
She lifted her brows. "The Academy?"
"It isn't just for Knights you know," Tavi said. "They train legates there, and architects, and engineers. Counselors, musicians, artists. You don't have to be a skilled crafter to design buildings or argue law."
