Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (21 page)

Screams erupted. It sounded as if someone had been hit. Fjotra could only hope that the prince was not the victim.

Then Brynjolf struck. He ran up behind the first assassin and shoved the unsuspecting man off the wall. The assassin fell down into the crowded courtyard below, his arms flailing uselessly about. The people screamed. Brynjolf didn’t pause even to watch the first man fall. He was already moving toward the second assassin.

But the second man was aware of him now, alerted by the screams, and whirled around to face Brynjolf’s approach. One moment, the assassin’s hands were empty, and the next, Fjotra saw he had a large, curved dagger in his hand.

Brynjolf fell upon the assassin just as the man lunged at him.

Fjotra saw the dagger plunge into her brother’s chest, causing him to stagger backward from the force behind the blow. She screamed.

Brynjolf cried out too, but he was the son of Skuli Skullbreaker, the Reaver Lord of Raknarborg and the last clan chief of the Wolf Isles. With a shout that was more rage than pain, he grabbed the assassin’s knife arm with his right hand before the man could withdraw the blade, stepped backward, and smashed his forearm against the other man’s locked elbow. The sound of the arm snapping was quickly drowned out by the assassin’s disbelieving shriek of agony, which was abruptly silenced by Brynjolf’s forehead slamming into his face.

“Don’t loose, don’t loose!” Theuderic shouted at the guards, two of whom were on one knee and aiming at the two combatants. “In the name of the king, I command you, do not loose! Capture them, you fools—don’t kill them!”

The battlemage was pushing through the panicked crowd of nobles and ladies, although Fjotra couldn’t tell if he was trying to reach the prince or the first assassin Brynjolf had pushed off the wall. She tried to run toward Brynjolf, but a long-fingered hand gripped her wrist and stopped her.

“Calm yourself, child, there is nothing you can do,” the Lady Everbright told her.

Fjotra tried to shake her arm to escape the other woman, but the slender elf was much stronger than she looked. She gave one last futile tug, then gave up, realizing that the elfess was right.

Up on the wall, the remaining assassin was staggering backward, his right arm hanging awkwardly from his side. Brynjolf, the dagger still sticking out of his chest, roared like a true berserker, then stepped forward and kicked the man in the chest, sparking another scream from the crowd below as the assassin plunged backward into their midst.

Only then did her brother withdraw the dagger from his chest. He raised it above his head and shouted in triumph. In the flickering light of the flames, standing high above all the frightened shrieks and cries from below, he looked like a pagan god of war accepting a bloody sacrifice.

“Your pet has sharper teeth than you thought, my lady,” Fjotra heard Lady Everbright tell the comtesse.

“What a magnificent young beast he is,” the comtesse said, her voice breathy. Then she gasped and Fjotra froze, her heart in her mouth.

Brynjolf, still holding the dagger, collapsed to his knees on the edge of the wall. The two nearest guards on the wall lowered their crossbows and rushed toward her brother, but he slumped slowly to one side, clutching at his wounded chest. Fjotra could do nothing but watch in helpless horror as Brynjolf, unable to catch himself, slipped from the blood-slicked bricks and fell toward the courtyard below.

CORVUS

The camp was quiet throughout the day as the legionairies were permitted to sleep late and recover from their excesses the night before. The butcher’s bill had been light: Only two more soldiers had died of their battle wounds during the night. Bacchus’s bill had been a bit higher, as there were twenty-seven soldiers who now faced castigation at the hands of their centurions because of fights and related mayhem. But Corvus knew his officers and was confident they would be laying on the strokes lightly this evening. The hangovers presently being suffered by the men awaiting discipline and hundreds of their fellows were arguably sufficient punishment for them.

Corvus stood in front of the flaming bier that had been constructed near the stables, watching as the flames burned away the last of his nephew’s flesh from his blackened bones. He could still see the astonishment on Gaius Valerius’s face, the young man’s incredulity at the word of his fate. Had he done wrong in sentencing Fortex to die? He didn’t see how. The law of the legions was perfectly clear. And yet his conscience condemned him.

The fire was hot, and he was relieved that the disturbingly appetizing smell of cooked meat had mostly dissipated. But soon, he would give orders for the blaze to be extinguished. Corvus did not have the heart to fully cremate the lad. The least he could do was to send Gaius Valerius’s bones back to Magnus for a proper funeral with the family.

No reply had arrived yet from the Vakhuyu, but the Chalonu and the Insobru were already indicating their intention to submit. Corvus found he could take little satisfaction in the knowledge that he had now fulfilled fully half of the charge laid upon him by the Senate and People. He kept seeing his nephew’s pale, angry face even though it was now nothing more than a charred skull.

He wondered how Magnus would react. Angrily, of course. He had no illusion that his brother would accept the execution of his second-youngest son with any of the stoicism of the old patricians whose standard he now proudly bore in the Senate. In time, though, Corvus knew Magnus would come to see the inevitability of his decision. After all, his brother was a general and had been forced to execute his own soldiers before. Gaius Valerius had possessed potential, there was no denying that. And bravery too. His nephew had more than merited the cognomen Fortex. But if there had been the seeds of greatness in the boy, there were even more that hinted at disaster.

One of his guards approached. “There’s a rider from Amorr waiting in your tent, General. Says he has a message for you.”

Corvus nodded. He pointed to the fire. “Get that put out and see that my nephew’s bones are cleaned and prepared for travel.”

“At once, General!”

Corvus turned his back on the flames and returned to his tent in the middle of the camp. He pushed past the hanging leather that served as the tent’s doors and saw a small, thin man wearing heavy leather trousers turn toward him as he entered.

Corvus recognized the man at once. He was Clodipor, Magnus’s most reliable messenger. For a moment, he felt unaccountably alarmed, almost frightened. Surely it wasn’t possible that Magnus already knew about his son’s death! No, of course not, it wasn’t possible. The news probably hadn’t even reached Berdicum yet.

“It’s good to see you again, Clodipor,” Corvus lied. “I assume you bear the latest from Magnus? Is there anything of interest happening in Amorr?”

Clodipor’s pock-marked face lit up at being recognized. “It is an honor to see you again, Lord Corvus. Or I suppose I should say ‘Lord Stragister Corvus,’ sir.”

“You may suppose whatever you like, but Corvus will do. This is a legionary camp, not a ballroom.” He took the sealed scroll that Clodipor was offering him.

The wax upon which the familiar Valerian seal was stamped was still intact, so Corvus broke it in half and began to unroll what was a rather lengthier message than he was expecting. He was relieved to see it was written in the familiar hand of Dompor, the more relaxed of Magnus’s two slave-scholars. Lazapor, by contrast, fancied himself more of a scholar-in-residence and permanent guest than secretarial slave. But even Lazapor’s hand was better than Magnus’s own writing, which was virtually illegible. Corvus glanced up and belatedly realized that Clodipor was still waiting on him. “Guard!” he called.

One of the legionaries stationed outside his tend entered immediately. “General?”

“Take this man, see that he is fed and that his horse is given priority with the grooms. They’ll be busy, but don’t let them put you off.” He beckoned the guard closer and whispered into his ear. “Stay by his side at all times, and be bloody well sure he does not speak to anyone else or hear about what happened to my nephew. He will be leaving within the hour. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, General!” The guard saluted and turned to Clodipor. “Sir, if you will come with me?”

“Lord Magister, will you have a return message for me?”

“Most certainly. One for Magnus, one for my wife, and one for the Senate. Come back after you’ve eaten. You’ll be able to make Berdicum well before sundown.”

“As you command, my lord.”

Magnus’s man bowed low and was escorted by the guard from the command tent.

Corvus closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief—at least the man hadn’t asked to see Fortex or deliver a letter to him. He began reading.

To S. Valerius Corvus, Dux Ducis (in Gorignia, somewhere near Berdicum, I presume)

Amorr (September)

My dear brother, if I chose to send letters as short as yours usually are, I should easily beat you and be much the more regular in writing. But, in fact, as it is only one more item in an immense and inconceivable amount of business, I will allow no letter to reach you from me without its containing some definite sketch of events in the Senate and the reactions arising from them. And in writing to you, as a lover of your city and your nation, my first subject will naturally be the state of the Republic; as our House is the next great object of your loyalty, I will also write about myself and our kin, and tell you what I think you will not be indisposed to know.

Well then, in public affairs, for the moment the chief subject of interest is the sudden and untimely death of the Sanctiff. It has been five days thus far, and five votes, but as yet we have no new Sanctified Father. Balbus and Noctua are said to be the two leading candidates, but obviously neither has a majority of the electors yet. I should prefer Noctua, but since neither he nor Balbus has ever shown any interest in interfering with the Senate, I cannot see that this is of any great relevance to our House. Do be sure to let our Clericus know—I suppose it was inevitable, wasn’t it?—as I believe he developed a personal attachment to the Sanctiff on the basis of his embassy experience.

Corvus laid the letter down on his desk. The Sanctiff was dead? How could that be? His Holiness was the only Sanctiff that Corvus could remember. Reading of his death—and it was so like his brother to only mention it in passing, as if the succession politics were the relevant aspect—was rather like reading that God had died.

How would he break the news to the legions? He would have to order a special mass tomorrow. The men would expect no less, and besides, the late Sanctified Father had merited it. For many of them, as for Corvus, the devout old man had been the living embodiment of their connection to the Almighty. He wiped at his eyes, which somehow had gone a little blurry, and returned to the letter.

The other matter of much discussion and rather more import to you is the disturbance in Cynothicus. The Consul Aquilae took Legio XIV to quell it after the uprising there, but he recently fought a losing battle and was slain by the Cynothii. Now the entire province is undoubtedly in arms and making raids upon Moenica and Rapulum. The senate has decreed that a consul suffectus shall be named to replace L. Andronicus Caudinus, that a levy for a new legion should be held, that all exemptions from service should be suspended, and that two legates with full powers should be sent to visit the neighboring provinces and ensure that they do not join the rebels. The legates are Q. Martellus Durus, L. Favronius, and the new Consul Suffectus Aquilae is—a case of “to whom much is given”—one S. Valerius Corvus, of the most highly regarded House in Amorr!

What? Corvus had to re-read the last line three times before its import hit home. He was to replace Caudinus? He was to be—in fact, he already was—the new consul of the legions? For a moment, fierce exultation filled his soul.

That was replaced a moment later by the devastating realization that the truculent goblin tribes were no longer his concern. He could no longer focus his attention on a single campaign and a single foe but was from this moment personally responsible for all of Amorr’s wars, especially the one against the rebel provincials in Cynothicus. Then he laughed to himself. How pleased Romilia would be. And it could have been worse. At least the Sacred College wasn’t going to name him Sanctiff Suffectus too.

And while on this subject I cannot omit mentioning that, when among the consulars my name was the first to come up in the ballot, a full meeting of the senate declared with one voice that I must be kept in the city. The same happened to Patronus after me; we two are to be kept at home as pledges of the safety of the Republic whilst you secure the safety of the Empire’s provinces as you have already secured its borders by your recent exploits in Gorignia. Why should I go seeking additional plaudits abroad when I get these compliments at home?

So, my dear brother, you are hereby charged by the Senate and People to return at once to appear before the Senate and receive your new commission from your consular colleagues. The city legion is to be at your disposal, along with the three Valerian legions, and you are to transfer your present commission as Stragister Militum to the legate of your choice. I imagine you will name Saturnius, although I know you would prefer to have him at your side when you march on Cynothicus. And not that it should factor into your decision, but I suggest our two young tribunes will be safer facing the tribes than the Cynothii now that the latter have tasted Amorran blood.