Furies of Calderon ca-1

by Jim Butcher

  "Your Ladyship," Giraldi said hesitantly. "I don't know if you understand. He and the rest of the Knights are abed already."

  "They're gambling and wenching you mean," Amara said. "I've seen it before, centurion. Take me to him."

  "I'll have the sword, Countess," Bernard rumbled.

  She looked back at him and flashed him a quick smile. "Thank you, Steadholder. Healer, perhaps the truthfinder needs a good bed."

  "I think he does, at that," agreed Harger cheerfully. He toted Pluvus into the cell and dumped him unceremoniously on the bare palette. "The closest bed possible."

  Amara had to stifle the laugh that leapt to her throat and struggled to keep her expression stern. "Centurion, lead on."

  "Come on, Bernard," Harger said. "I know where they put your stuff."

  Amara followed Centurion Giraldi up out of the basement of what turned out to be a storage building and into Garrison itself, laid out in the

  standard formation of a marching camp. "Mutiny," he muttered. "Assaulting a senior officer. Abducting a senior officer. Misrepresenting the orders of a senior officer."

  "What's that, centurion?"

  "I'm counting how many ways I'll be executed, Your Ladyship."

  "Look at it this way," Amara said. "If you live to be hanged, we'll all be very fortunate." She nodded toward the barracks that would customarily house the Knights of a camp. Lights still glowed inside, and she heard a piper and laughter from within. "This one?"

  "Yes, Lady," the centurion said.

  "Fine. Get to your men. Make sure they watch the signal towers. And ready any other available defense of the walls."

  The centurion drew in a breath and nodded. "All right. Do you think you'll convince him, Lady?"

  "The only question is whether or not he survives it," Amara said, and her voice sounded cool to her, very certain. "One way or another, those Knights will be ready to fight, by the Crown."

  Harger came panting up to them out of the dark, blowing like an old but spirited horse. He held the sword Amara had claimed from the Princeps Memorium in his hand and offered her the hilt. "There you go," the healer panted. "Hope you work quick, girlie. One of the guards thought he saw a light from the furthest tower, but it went out. Bernard took a horse out to see what's going on."

  Amara's heart skipped a beat. Bernard alone in that country. The Marat that close. "How far is the tower from here?"

  "Seven, eight miles," Harger said.

  "Centurion. How long to move troops that far?"

  "Without furycrafting? At night? That's rough country, Lady. Maybe they could be here in three hours or a little more, as a body. Light troops could do it a lot faster."

  "Crows," Amara breathed. "All right. Get the rest of the troops out of bed, centurion. Assemble them and tell them that the Knight Commander will address them in a few moments."

  "Uh, Lady? If he won't come-"

  "Leave that to me." She slipped the sword's scabbard through her belt, holding it at her hip with her left hand and stalked toward the Knight's barracks, her heart pounding in her throat. She stopped outside the doors and

  took a breath to stabilize herself and clear her mind. Then she put her hand on the door and shoved it open, hard, letting it rattle against its frame.

  The inside of the barracks was thick with the smell of wood smoke and wine. Furylamps burned in shades of gold and scarlet. Men played at draughts at one table, stacks of coins riding on the game, while groups threw dice at two others. Women, most of them of an age to speak of their status as camp women, draped on a man's arm here and there, carried wine, or sprawled on a sofa or in a chair, drinking or kissing. One girl, a lithe young thing in a slave's collar and little more, danced to the music of the piper before the fire, casting a slender, dark shadow there like some kind of exotic ornament.

  Amara took a breath and walked to the nearest table. "Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice cool, businesslike. "I'm looking for Commander Pirellus."

  One of the men at the table looked up at her with a leer. "He's already had his girls for tonight, lass. Though I'd be happy to fill your…" His eyes wandered suggestively. "… time."

  Amara faced the man and said, cooly, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Where is Commander Pirellus?"

  The man's face darkened with drunken anger, and he straightened, picking up a knife in his fist. "What? You saying I'm not good enough for you? You some kind of snob whore that only goes for rich boy Citizens?"

  Amara reached for Cirrus and borrowed of her fury's swiftness. Her arm blurred, drawing the short guardsman's blade from its scabbard at her hip. The sword leapt across the space between them before the startled soldier could react, and Amara leaned forward enough to let it dimple his throat. The room abruptly went dead silent, but for the crackle of the fire. "I am a Cursor of the First Lord himself. I'm here on business. And I have no tolerance for drunken fools. Drop the knife."

  The soldier made a strangled sound, holding up one hand to her, palm out. The other, he lowered to the table and set the knife down. Amara could feel the ugly stares of the men around him focusing on her like the tips of a dozen spears about to be driven home. Her throat grew tight with fear, but she allowed none of it to be seen on her face, leaving her expression cool, calm, and merciless as an icy sea.

  "Thank you," Amara said. "Now. Where is Pirellus?"

  Amara heard a door open behind her, and a calm, almost languid voice

  said, in a lazy Parcian drawl, "He's having his bath. But he's always at the disposal of a lady."

  Amara drew the sword from the throat of the soldier before her and with a glance of disdain, turned her back on him to face the speaker.

  He was a man, taller than most, his skin the dark golden brown of her own. His night-black hair, worn long against Legion regulations, spilled down in a damp tangle around his shoulders. He was lean with hard, flat muscle, and bore a slender, curved sword of metal blacker than mourning velvet in his hand. He faced Amara with an expression of bland, confident amusement on his face.

  He was also dripping wet and as naked as a babe.

  Amara felt her cheeks start to heat and firmly kept herself from giving away her embarrassment. 'You are Pirellus, Knight Commander of Garrison?"

  "A Parcian girl," Pirellus said, a wide, white smile coming over his mouth. "It has been a very long time since I have sat down and entertained a Parcian girl." He inclined his head, though his sword did not change its casually ready position at his side. "I am Pirellus.''

  Amara arched an eyebrow at him and looked him up and down. "I'd heard so much about you."

  Pirellus smiled, confident.

  "I thought you'd be," she coughed delicately, letting her gaze linger significantly. "Taller."

  The smile vanished. With it, Amara would hope, some of that arrogance.

  "Put on some clothes, Commander," Amara said. "Garrison is about to come under attack. You will arm and prepare your men and address the members of the Legions who are assembling outside even now."

  "Attack?" Pirellus drawled. "By whom, may I ask?"

  "The Marat. We believe they have the support of a company of Knights. Possibly more."

  "I see," he said, his tone unconcerned. "Now, let me see. I've seen you somewhere before. I'm trying to remember where."

  "The capital," Amara said. "I went to some of your matches two years ago and was in a class you lectured at the Academy."

  "That's right," Pirellus said, smiling. "Though you were dressed up like a woman at that time. Now I remember-you're that little windcrafter girl who saved those children in the fires on the east side of the city. That was bravely done."

  "Thank you," Amara said

  "Stupid, but brave What are you doing here, schoolgirP"

  "I'm a Cursor now, Pirellus I've come to warn you of an attack before you get buried in a Marat horde "

  "How thoughtful of you And you are speaking to me instead of the garrison commander, because…"

  "I am spe
aking to you because you are the ranking capable officer The Count is unconscious, Pluvus an idiotic politico, and the watch commander a centurion without the rank to order a general mobilization You will order it and send to Riva for reinforcements "

  Pirellus's brows shot up "On whose authority?"

  "On mine," Amara said "Countess Amara ex Cursori Patronus Gaius of Alera "

  Pirellus's expression changed again, to a scowl "You got yourself a title for that little display, and you think you can go where you please and order around who you like?"

  Amara abruptly reversed her grip on her sword and laid it, blade gleaming, on the table beside her Then she turned to face him and walked toward him, stopping less than an arm's length away "Pirellus,' she said, keeping her voice to a low murmur "I'd rather not be here And I'd rather not pull rank on you Don't force me to push this as far as I'm willing to "

  His eyes met hers, hard, stubborn "Don't threaten me, girl You've got nothing to do it with "

  In answer, Amara called upon Cirrus again and struck the man with her open hand across his cheek, a ringing blow that had landed and turned his head before he could avoid it Pirellus stepped back from her, blade coming up to rest pointing at her heart in pure reflex

  "Don't bother," Amara told him "If you will not do what needs to be done, I challenge you to juns macto here and now, for negligence of duty treasonous to the Realm " She turned from him and reclaimed the blade, turning back to face him "Blades I can begin when you are ready "

  The commander had stopped and was staring at her intently "You're kidding me," he said "You've got to be joking You could never beat me "

  "No," Amara said, 'but I'm enough of a blade to make you kill me to win You'd be killing a Cursor in the execution of her duties, Commander Whether I'm a man or woman, whether I'm right or wrong about the coming attack, you will be guilty of treason And we both know what will happen to

  you." She lifted her sword and saluted him. "So. If you are willing to throw your life away, please, call the duel and let us be about it. Or get dressed and make ready to defend Garrison. But one way or another, you will hurry, Commander, because I have no time to coddle your ego."

  She faced him across the space of a pair of long steps, her blade held up, and did not blink at him. Her heart raced in her throat, and she felt a drop of sweat slide down her jaw to her neck. Pirellus was a master metal-crafter, one of the finest swordsmen alive. If he chose to engage in the duel, he could kill her, and there would be little she could do to stop him. And yet it was necessary. Necessary to convince him of her sincerity, necessary for him to know that she was willing to die to get him to act, that she would sooner die than fail in her duty to Alera, to Gaius. She stared at his eyes and focused on the task before her and refused to give in to her fear or to let it make the sword tremble at all.

  Pirellus stared at her for a moment, his expression dark, pensive.

  Amara held her breath.

  The Knight straightened, slowly, from his casual slouch. He laid the flat of his blade across his forearm, holding it in one hand, and bowed to her, the motion graceful, angrily precise. "Countess," he said, "in the interests of preserving the safety of this garrison, I will do as you command me. But I will make a note of it in my report that I do so under protest."

  "So long as you do it," Amara said. Relief spun in her head, and she nearly sat down on the floor. "You'll see to the preparations, then?"

  "Yes, Your Ladyship," Pirellus said, his words exquisitely barbed and courteous. "I think I can take care of things. Otto, let's get something into the men besides tea. Wake everyone up. Camdon, lass, fetch me my clothes and armor." One of the men at the draughts table and the collared dancer went running.

  Amara withdrew from the room and out into the town again, sheathing her sword and taking deep breaths. It was only moments later that she heard a tightly focused roar of wind and looked up to see a pair of half-dressed Knights Aeris hurtle into the night sky on different headings, bound for Riva, she had no doubt.

  She had done it. Finally, Garrison was readying itself for battle. Troops started assembling in the square at the center of town. Furylights glowed. Centurians barked orders, and a drummer began playing fall in. Dogs barked, and wives and children appeared from some of the other buildings,

  even as other soldiers were dispatched to wake those in the outbuildings and to draw them into the protection of the town's walls.

  It was in the hands of the soldiers now, Amara thought. Her part was done. She had been the eyes of the Crown, its hands, giving warning to Alera's defenders. Surely that would be enough. She found a shadow against one of the heavy walls of the town and leaned back against it, letting her head fall back against the stone. Her body sagged with sudden exhaustion, relief hitting her like a hard liquor, making her feel heavy and tired. So very tired.

  She looked up at the stars, now and then visible through the pale clouds overhead, and found herself vaguely surprised that no tears fell. She was too tired to cry.

  Drums rolled, and trumpets sounded out orders, different brazen tones calling to separate centuries and maniples of the Legion. Men began to line the walls, while others drew water in preparation for fighting fires. Watercrafters, both Legion Healers, like Harger, and homeskilled wives and daughters of the legionares made their way to the covered shelters inside the walls, where tubs of water were filled and held in preparation to receive the wounded. Firecrafters tended to blazes on the walls, while windcrafters of the Knights at Garrison took to the air above, flying in patrol to warn and ward any surprise attack from the darkened night skies. Earthcrafters manned stations at the gates and walls, their weapons nearby, but their bare hands resting on the stone of the defenses, calling on their furies to imbue them with greater obdurate strength.

  The wind began to blow from the north, bringing to Amara the scent of the distant Sea of Ice and of men and of steel. For a time, as distant light began to brush against the eastern horizon, all was silent. Tense anticipation settled over those inside the walls. In one of the barracks buildings, emptied now of men and filled with the children from the outbuildings and the town, children sang a lullaby together, the sound of it sweet and gentle.

  Amara pushed away from her darkened patch of wall and paced forward, toward the gates that faced out into the Marat lands beyond Garrison. The guards at the base of the walls stopped her, but Centurion Giraldi saw her and waved her past them. She mounted a ladder that led up to the battlements above the gate, where archers and firecrafters had gathered the most thickly, prepared to rain death down on anyone attempting to storm the gates of the town.

  Giraldi stood beside Pirellus, now decked out in armor of gleaming steel. The Parcian swordsman glanced at her and then out at the darkness. "There's been no sign," he said. "No balefires lit by the watchtowers."

  Giraldi said quietly, "One of my men saw something earlier. A scout went to look."

  Amara swallowed. "Has he come back?"

  "Not yet, Lady," Giraldi said, his expression worried. "Not yet."

  "Quiet," said one of the legionares abruptly, a lanky young man with large ears. He leaned out, one hand lifting to his ear, and Cirrus stirred gently against Amara, telling her of the windcrafting the young man was working to listen.

  "A horse," he said. "A horseman."

  "Lights," said Pirellus, and the command echoed down the walls. One by one, furylamps, brilliant and blue and cold lit along the walls, casting a glare out onto the predawn darkness beyond.

  For a long moment, nothing moved on the snow. And then they could all hear it, the sound of galloping hoof beats. Seconds later, Bernard plunged into the light atop a hard-ridden grey, with foam on its withers and blood on its flanks, torn flaps of skin hanging from the terrified beast where something had raked at it. Even as Bernard rode closer, the horse bucked and screamed, and Amara could scarcely understand how the Steadholder kept his seat and kept the animal streaking toward Garrison.

  "Open the gates!" Ber
nard shouted. "Let me in!"

  Giraldi waited until the last possible moment before barking a command, and the gates were thrown open and then shut again behind the frantic horse, almost before it was through them. A groom came to take the animal, but it reared and screamed, panicked.

  Bernard slid off the horse and swiftly away, but the frenzied animal slipped on the icy stones of the courtyard and collapsed onto its side, bleeding, wheezing. Amara could see the long rents in the beast's flesh, where knives or claws had torn at it.

  "Get ready," Bernard panted, turning and swiftly mounting the ladder to the battlements above the gates. The Steadholder, his eyes wide, face pale said, "The Cursor was right. There's a horde out there. And about ten thousand of them are coming right behind me."

  Chapter 36

  Amara swept her gaze out over the ground before the walls, stark and white and cold in the blue-white furylights, and then looked back at Bernard. "Are you all right?"

  The big Steadholder held up a hand to her, his breathing still heavy, and addressed Giraldi and Pirellus. "I couldn't get close enough to tell much. Light troops, moving fast. A lot of them had bows, and I thought I saw some scaling poles."

  Giraldi grimaced and nodded once. "Which clans?"

  "Wolf, Herdbane," Bernard said. He leaned a shoulder against one of the battlements. Amara turned to a bucket of water hanging on a hook nearby and scooped out a drinking ladle, passing it to Bernard. He nodded to her and drank the ladle away. "Giraldi, I'll need a sword, mail, arrows if you've any to spare."

  "No," Pirellus said, stepping forward. "Giraldi, you shouldn't have given this civilian a horse, much less let him be on the walls when we're expecting an attack."

  Bernard squinted at the Knight Commander. "Young man, how long have you been in the Legions?"

  Pirellus faced Bernard squarely. "What matters is that I am in them now, sir. You are not. It is the purpose of the Legions to protect the people of the Realm. Now get off the wall and let us do our job."

  "He stays," Amara said, firmly. "Centurion, if there's any mail that might fit me, have it brought as well."