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Chapter 14:
Thread From a Golden Loom


I


Leaving the other centurions to settle the men into the barracks, Marius followed orders and headed to the baths.

He passed through the tiled chambers where men from other units paddled in the cold pools and others propped themselves against the walls of the hot ones. He finally arrived in a room with a single hot tub. Its colorful red and yellow titles depicted topless nymphs.

The air within was warm and soupy and thick, and reminded Marius of the lowlands of Icilia in the deep summer, which he remembered Caiax despising. He had been surprised that the general would extend an invitation to him for a meeting that was certain to lower the implied boundary between a patrician officer and a plebian centurion like himself. But then, he’d been surprised that the stiffly formal Caiax would be lounging in a tub in any case and wondered if the man had changed after his nearly mortal injury earlier in the year.

He should have guessed Caiax wouldn’t be relaxing in a bath. As he stepped inside he saw the general sat on a regulation bench in front of a trestle table positioned right of the open doorway. No attendants stood behind him or waited to record what he said; he merely sat, passively, garbed in a red tunic and sandals, a lean man with graying hair, hunched shoulders, and a large nose.

The older man was never inviting, but what passed for a smile of satisfaction upticked one side of his face. “Ah, Marius. Good of you to come.” He rose.

Marius saluted, then at Caiax’s sharp wave, relaxed and took in the surroundings, trying not to let his surprise show. Caiax understood.

“I know,” he said, almost as though he were amused by the change himself. “Ever since my injury, the moist air helps me breathe more easily. Maybe I’m going soft.”

“I doubt anyone would think that, General. From what I hear, the surgeons thought you had a mortal wound, and think it the work of the gods you managed to heal.”

“I have been blessed.” Caiax sounded uncharacteristically earnest. He eyed Marius directly and almost sounded pleased as he continued. “You made it a day earlier even than I had hoped.”

Marius waved the implied compliment away. “General Caiax sent for us, so the men marched as fast as they were able.”

“I knew I could count on the Seventh’s First Cohort.” Caiax bent low to retrieve a lidded rectangular box of dark wood behind his chair. He presented it to Marius, who took it without comment. “Have this ground to powder and mixed in with the men’s rations each morning.”

“Yes, sir. How far are we marching?”

“To the foot of the mountains.”

Marius hefted the small container. “This doesn’t look like it will last eight hundred men more than one small dose.”

“They need only a small amount. I will supply you with new content every day.”

“As you command, sir. What is the stuff?”

“Those are special mushrooms that aided my own recovery. With them, I’m healthier than I’ve ever been in my life. I want the men of the Seventh to benefit as well.”

“It’s very kind of you, sir.” Marius wasn’t about to object, even though he guessed this was just one of those remedies older men sometimes became convinced would help them hold to their youth. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are we after at the foot of the mountains?”

Caiax mouthed a one-word answer. “Hanuvar.”

Caiax never joked, but Marius could not help staring to ascertain whether the general had discovered a strange sense of humor along with his health interests. “The actual man?”

The general’s fist clenched, and his dark eyes burned with the familiar fire. “I saw him, Marius. One of his women gave me the wound.”

“Is he crossing the Ardenines with an army?”

“No. And before you ask how I know, and how I will find him, I will simply say that you must trust me.”

“Very well, sir. You know how to guide us to victory.”

“Your faith is refreshing. I’ve spent too much time among my fellow senators, and physicians and priests. Unlike those faithless cowards, you know I have never failed.”

“Indeed I do, sir.”

“Good. Honor and glory await us all.” Caiax returned to his chair and folded his hands on the table. “We leave at dawn. I will speak to the men, but I will not tell them of our objective until we’re nearer our goal. Say nothing to them yourself.”

“Of course, General.”

“Dismissed.”

Marius saluted but, before departing, added: “May I say, sir, that it is a pleasure to serve with you once again.”

Caiax permitted this with a slight inclination of his head. “Thank you, Marius.” As Marius turned to go, the general added: “Oh, make sure that you eat a little bit of those mushrooms as well.”

He paused by the door. “Of course, sir.”

Caiax lifted a finger in admonition. “A few days with them in your diet will change your entire perspective.”

“Very good, sir.” Box tucked under his arm, he left, patting it slightly and listening to the hollow echo from within. Mushrooms, eh? He planned to show them to the century’s surgeon, but provided that they weren’t poisonous he couldn’t imagine they’d do any harm. Probably there wouldn’t be much benefit, either, apart from humoring the general.



II


While they had left the snowfields of the high mountains, the chill clung to them as Antires led them down trail through the pines. He barely noted the temperature, though his lips were chapped and frost scored his cloaked shoulders. His attention was fully focused on the path and the ground to either side. While he had pretended to be a soldier in the past, he no longer had to imitate. Over the last months Hanuvar had taught him to scan not just for movement but the best points for ambush.

Every now and then he turned to check on the figure slumped in the saddle of the first of the horses behind him.

He had once imagined Hanuvar indomitable, but even the finest blade lost its edge when wielded too long. Racked by fever after a slice to his stomach, the great warrior had begun to fade in and out of consciousness. During a brief episode of clarity in the last hour he had ordered Antires to tie him to the saddle, and had Antires repeat what he’d been instructed to tell the Ceori. The nod of acceptance Hanuvar had given after Antires’ faithful recitation had been almost imperceptible.

Antires knew his orders by heart, for he had an actor’s retention for information.

Reassured that Hanuvar still breathed, Antires returned his attention to the trail. He suspected he had long since crossed into the territory of the powerful Ceori tribe known as the Isubre, though he had seen no settlements, nor sign of scouts. From time to time he had felt eyes upon him, but had spotted only the occasional bear, well distant, or a high-flying black eagle. Sometimes squirrels scolded him from the trees.

Hanuvar shifted in his creaking saddle. Antires glanced back at him, wondering if the man were trying to signal, then noticed the nearby birds had gone silent.

The Herrene halted and raised a hand, scanning the woods for the people he couldn’t see. He addressed them slowly, in Dervan. “We have come in peace. My companion is guest-brother to Rudicia.” He cleared his throat, discomfited by how dry it felt, and how much weaker it sounded than he would have liked.

He heard the crack of a stick behind them and turned, taking care to keep his hand from his sword hilt.

He saw nothing there, but when he looked to the front once more a trio of men had stepped onto the trail. They wore cloaks, and the checked, baggy pants typical of Ceori tribes. Thick torsos were clothed in long-sleeved shirts. Their faces were beardless, but heavy mustaches drooped from their upper lips. They at least were not a war party, for their hair wasn’t limed into spikes; woolen caps covered their heads.

They had surely heard his words, though they hardly appeared welcoming. Their spears were leveled. Others emerged from either side of the trail, and a blue-eyed man in the center of the trio called to the others in the ringing, lyrical language of the Ceori. To Antires it sounded as though much of it rhymed.

Antires repeated that they had come in peace, and that Hanuvar was a guest friend.

“We heard you the first time,” the blue-eyed man said in heavily accented Dervan. “But what is that to us? Who are you?”

“My friend is Rudicia’s friend, from the great war against the Dervans.” Antires indicated Hanuvar with a sweep of one hand. “His words, and his name, are only for her.”

The pair from the left advanced to the side of the horse. They peered at Hanuvar and shook his leg; he swayed in the saddle. They called up to the leader, who listened, then spoke again to Antires: “It looks like your friend’s words may soon be for the lord of the dark lands.”

That’s what Antires feared, but he put that comment to use. “If so, then you’d best get him to Rudicia fast. She will want to speak with him.”

The Isubre scouts talked among themselves in their own language until the leader silenced them with sharp words. To Antires he said: “We shall see,” and then relayed orders to his subordinates.

The escort closed in on either side and the leader commanded Antires to follow, starting forward without a backward glance.

He had expected a warmer welcome than this. He meant to exchange some level of communication with Hanuvar, but the general mumbled something Antires couldn’t catch, then closed his eyes.

The rest of the journey was interminable, and Antires could scarce stomach the delay, knowing that each moment his friend might be growing closer to death. He then realized that this was what Hanuvar must have felt every moment of every day, multiplied by almost a thousand, and wondered how the man could possibly have coped with the pressure and remained sane.

They passed over hills and through vales and stopped to confer with another patrol before reaching a high valley populated with round thatched huts from which smoke rose. A few dozen of the homes were arranged behind a central wooden stockade. Others stood beside wooden pens and cultivated plots of land. Someone must have run ahead, because a welcoming committee waited just beyond the open gate, four men and a middle-aged woman. He wondered if she was the famed Rudicia, and was somewhat disappointed that she was not the knife-sharp beauty described by the poets. But, then, if this was her, she was at least fifteen years older than she had been at the time of those compositions.

The leader of their scouting party drew the group to a halt and bowed his head to those beyond the gate, speaking rapidly in Ceori. Isubre, Antires corrected himself. Many of the Ceori tribes had their own distinct languages.

The woman strode forward, flanked by mustached warriors. A twisted torc of gold wrapped her throat. Though age seamed her face, Antires revised his assessment, deciding a wild and regal beauty still graced her. Her light, curled hair, pulled back from her forehead, had gone almost completely gray.

She stopped before Antires. “I do not know you.” Her accent was so thick it took him a moment to understand.

“You know him,” Antires said. “And he needs your help.”

Her bright blue eyes narrowed in a glare at him, and then she moved past, her bodyguard following. The woman’s chin lifted as she inspected Hanuvar. The color drained from her face, and her nostrils flared.

Fury wasn’t the sort of greeting Antires had expected, and he worried he had somehow delivered Hanuvar to the wrong place. But this was the territory of the Isubre, and Rudicia was the most powerful of the tribe’s women chiefs.

Whoever she was, she turned and shouted orders. Hanuvar was cut from his roan and carefully lowered, then carried toward another of the huts. The woman turned to Antires and questioned him sharply. “What has happened to him?”

“He’s been wounded in the stomach,” Antires said. “He needs your help.”

She gestured loosely at Antires as she gave more commands, then swept after Hanuvar.

The scout leader returned and beckoned to him. “Come, there will be food, and a fire.”

“I should stay with my friend.”

“The healer’s going to look at your friend. And unless you’re a fool, you’ll take the offer of guest friendship from the Isubre, and enter to eat.”

Antires reluctantly bowed his head, then followed the scout into another hut. Before long he was seated at a bench before a fire. Smoky lanterns hung low along the wall, well away from the thatched roof. He was grateful both for the warmth and the rabbit meat pie. They’d served him with a bowl and pitcher of the strong, infamously bitter Ceori beer. He’d heard the tribes had taken to Dervan wine, but none was offered him.

He finished the meat pie and wished there was another, but he forced some of the beer down. The door creaked behind him and he turned to find the assumed Rudicia, her expression grim. She was followed by another woman, and no bodyguard.

At first Antires thought the second lady younger, for she was slimmer and her skin smoother. But as both stopped before him he saw that her hair was entirely white, and guessed that they must be very close in age. So strong was the family resemblance that the two had to be sisters, although the second woman had finer, fairer features than the first, and had seen less sun. Antires could not help staring at an additional detail—the second woman’s eyes were of different colors. The left was blue, the right green.

Both studied Antires intently, although the second woman did so without the other’s scowl.

He climbed to his feet with a bow. “I thank you for this meal,” he said. “Are you Rudicia, the great Chieftain of the Isubre?”

The woman confirmed her identity with grave formality. “I am Rudicia, Chieftain of the Isubre, though I claim no greatness. This is my sister, Bricta, my—” She followed with a word Antires didn’t recognize or understand.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said with a formal head bow. “Can you save my friend?”

“Your friend is far along,” Rudicia said, “and may be done for. Where is his army?”

Antires hesitated only a moment. “He has no army.”

Rudicia’s wispy eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Why is he here then? My people cannot fight the Dervans alone. If that is what he wants—”

The door opened behind her and Rudicia fell silent. She half turned as a heavyset man entered the hut. Unlike the other men of the village, he had a short beard, all of gray. His receding hair, a mix of blond and silver, was pushed back from a high forehead. A swirling blue tattoo stood out on his left cheek and another spiraled along each of his powerful arms, bared to his shoulders. He bowed his head to Rudicia before speaking quickly in their own tongue.

They had a spirited exchange, several phrases passing back and forth between them. Bricta intruded calmly a time or two.

Finally Rudicia turned to Antires. The man waited grimly. She introduced him with a wave of her hand. “This is . . . what you would call a healer, though Velix is more than that. He feels the currents of the sky, and the beat of Mother Earth. He says Hanuvar is in a bad way. Only extraordinary measures can save him.”

“Then make them,” Antires said. “Or show me how.”

“Are you a healer?” Rudicia demanded. “Who are you, and what are you to him?”

“I am Antires Sosilos of Cylene. I am his friend.” He decided not to say that he was his chronicler, for he was not sure how that would translate. “I’m no healer, but I will aid him any way I can. Why do you hesitate?”

“Once, he came to my people.” Rudicia bared her teeth. “He led them to such glories that our youth became drunk with high tales from their few surviving elders. But it was all for naught. He used us, and he would use us again.”

Surely Hanuvar hadn’t expected this kind of a welcome. Though off guard, Antires countered quickly, deciding blunt truth must be met with truth. “I think you used one another. You wanted the lands the Dervans took, and he wanted his own protected, as did the others who leagued with him—the old Herrenic colonies to the south, the other Ceori tribes, the great cavalry of the Ruminia—all of them. The Dervans were coming for us. He knew we could not defeat them unless we stood together.”

“He was right,” Velix said quietly. He spoke better Dervan than his chieftain.

“But he came too late,” Rudicia continued bitterly. “If he had come in my grandfather’s time, then, well, then the Dervans would have been destroyed.”

“Men cannot choose the time of their birth,” Bricta said.

Rudicia looked at her as though surprised by her sister’s presence, then repeated her earlier statement. “He came too late. And now he is later still. What can he do, with no army? Why did his people not send him with one? He is the lord of a wealthy land.”

Antires corrected her. “He’s the lord of a shattered land. The Dervans destroyed Volanus.”

At sight of their puzzlement he wondered if he had said too much, and if they would turn on Hanuvar because he had no strength behind him.

“We heard rumors, but did not believe them because Dervans lie,” Velix said. “What is it he plans?”

“I don’t know the full extent of his plan, but he crossed a continent to get this far, and he means to go further. Monsters and dark gods and Dervan soldiers and revenants and spirits could not stop him. The Dervans fear him like they fear no other. They burned his city and razed its fields and dragged its survivors off to slavery and still they fear him, even when they think he has nothing. They will fear him even after he dies, but they will fear him more if he lives. I don’t understand why you delay.”

“You want him to live, to win more glory,” Rudicia said, triumphant, as though she understood Antires’ motivation. “This is what he wants, and you want to see it.”

“You think he wants glory?” Antires was stunned. “Either he’s changed, or you never knew him.”

Velix took a sharp breath, and Antires realized the challenge in his voice might be highly insulting to the honor-conscious Ceori. He explained: “There is no other general like him. He wants neither glory, nor land. He wanted to smash Dervan power only to save his people.”

Rudicia opened her mouth to speak, but Bricta interrupted. “Something marches with a legion cohort that closes upon our mountains.” Her voice was somber and quiet. “It is the seed of a terrible moment. And if Hanuvar does not wake to counter it, we will go down in death, and worse than death.”

Rudicia spun on her sister, raising a finger to silence her, but Bricta continued, unperturbed. “Tell her, Antires Sosilos, of the frightful goddess who dwells in darkness. The one Hanuvar thought to drown in flame. It now has rooted in the Dervan general he thought was dead.”

For a moment Antires fought confusion. And then he understood. “But he killed it!”

Bricta’s eyes gleamed in the shadow. “It marches beneath a banner with a boar’s head above the number of the legion.”

The banner of Caiax. Hanuvar had said that Jerissa had thrown a spear through him.

Bricta faced her sister: “The Dervan general marches with a small number, but they grow mighty under the warped blessing of his goddess. If they win against us, her seed will take root in our people so that we are nothing more than food for her children. We must act now, or Hanuvar will die, and then we will follow.”

Perhaps for the sake of guest politeness, Velix addressed his chieftain in Dervan. “Why don’t you allow this, Rudicia? It’s risky, but I can save him.”

“You’re like the others, you old fool. What my sister hasn’t told you is that you’ll die in the process. Are you so eager for death? Is my bed such a poor place for you?”

Though he looked momentarily startled, Velix absorbed this information with a pained smile. “Better to die for the success of my tribe then to live only for myself.”

Antires had believed Rudicia angry before. Now her eyes positively burned. She switched to her native language, snapping at her sister before turning her ire upon her husband.

Bricta moved toward the door, gesturing for Antires. He followed her from the hut. The moment he shut the door the healer and the chieftain launched into a heated debate.

The seeress stopped only a few paces beyond the building, watching him. A chill wind pimpled Antires’ flesh; he had forgotten to grab his cloak. Distantly a dog barked, and somewhere in the village an old man sang a quiet, mournful song.

He couldn’t tell if it was the woman’s different-colored eyes or merely the strength of her gaze that disturbed him.

Bricta did not address him, so he filled the silence. “The word your sister used to describe you—I didn’t know it. But you’re a magic worker, aren’t you. A seer.”

“A seer is close, I suppose.”

“How much of the future can you see?”

Her smile was pretty. “Precious little. Looking at it is like glimpsing a tapestry through a crack in the door. Sometimes the room with the tapestry is dim, but sometimes it’s brightly lit; always, when Hanuvar is near. It is that way when those with strong threads come close.”

That was an interesting way to talk about the future, and one he’d never heard from the fortune tellers scattered through the countryside, many of whom he had long guessed to be charlatans. He found her mention of tapestries of particular interest. “A god spoke through a priestess to him recently. She said Hanuvar’s thread had been removed from the loom of fate but hadn’t yet been cut. Almost as though the gods had forgotten about him.”

Bricta didn’t appear surprised, and pushed a lock of hair back from her ear, suddenly seeming younger. “The gods are fickle and change their minds. Their attentions wander to other tapestries.”

“Other tapestries?” Antires asked. She was proving most interesting.

She chuckled at him. “You think they’re only working on one? They fashion countless at the same time, some with only minor differences. Perhaps in one you have blond hair or land rises differently or events happen in changed ways. A bad seer can stare at the wrong tapestry and foretell things that will never be.”

“Are you sure of what you see? Do you know that you’re looking at the right tapestry?”

She smiled gently. “I see possibilities. And I think so, yes.”

“What have you seen?” He heard the desperation in his voice. “Can Hanuvar save his people? Will he live?”

“I know nothing of his people,” she admitted. “But if my brother-in-law acts, Hanuvar will live, and then we have a chance against the dark mother.”

“Will that kill Velix?”

She hesitated before her answer. “He will be in great danger. There are steps I may take to ward him. He must eat the black energy himself, and then fight it. If I aid him, he stands a chance. But he must act soon.”

Antires looked meaningfully at the door, but neither the healer nor the chieftain emerged. He turned back to Bricta, realizing she was rich with more than one kind of knowledge. “You knew Hanuvar when he was younger, didn’t you. What was he like?”

She smiled. “You are a myth maker, Antires Sosilos.”

It impressed him she had perceived his nature, but perhaps it was obvious to the astute. “I don’t want to make myths. I mean to be a truth teller.”

“It is the same thing, with such a man. Do you see him with your own eyes?”

“I try.”

“Can you see the truth of the sun?”

She was slipping into allegory, so he countered with something similar. “You can never gaze upon the sun, but you can glimpse it from the side.”

“And am I a way to glimpse him from the side?” She laughed warmly. “You ask what he was like? He was bold and brilliant, weighted with concerns beyond ordinary, and given strength of will and great charm. I named him blessed by the gods. How is he, now, when the gods have turned their backs upon him?”

“Bold and brilliant,” he repeated to her. “Bearing weights no man should carry, blessed still with strength of will. And charm.”

“Then he is the same, but his duty is greater yet. I would guess his wisdom has grown with time. Be warned, Antires Sosilos, that the company of one so bright may see you burned.”

In Hanuvar’s company he had faced monsters and madmen and drowning and freezing. His response was solemn. “I’ve seen.”

The door to the hut opened behind them and Rudicia emerged, shooting a dark look to her sister. The chieftain made room for Velix, who looked briefly at his wife, then strode for the large hut where Hanuvar had been carried.

Bricta, with a nod of farewell to Antires, walked after the healer.

“My husband goes to work the magics that well may kill him,” Rudicia said to Antires.

“I should be there.”

Her teeth shown. “And I should kill you, for bringing Hanuvar to us.”

Antires met her eyes without fear. “If that is what it takes.”

The chieftain said something in her language that sounded very much like a swear word. “He has worked his spell on you. All the young ones here will flock to him and follow where he points. Few will make it back. As before, so shall it be again.”

“Better to have tried and failed,” Antires began.

“Then not to have tried at all?” Rudicia finished quickly. “Do you think I will stay here, Herrene? No, I will march off with the rest of you fools, should he rise.”

Only then did Antires fully understand. Rudicia had believed in him once too. She wanted to believe in him again, and she hated Hanuvar for that. Wordless, Rudicia moved toward the larger hut. Since he had not been told to wait, Antires followed.

Inside, Hanuvar lay on a cot that had been set upon a long wooden table. It resembled a funeral bier too much for Antires’ comfort, so he was heartened to see the rise and fall of his friend’s chest. The Volani general wore only a loin clout, and Antires was startled once more by the number of scars in the muscular flesh, and alarmed by the bruising around the diagonal wound sewn along his stomach. Pus oozed out from the threads, and the scent of it lingered with the distinctive stink of feverish sweat, with a stringent smell of vinegar and incense laying across all.

Oil lamps burned at the table’s head and at Hanuvar’s feet. Women in gray dresses stood to every side, and the powerful, heavyset healer wiped sweat from Hanuvar’s brow with a dark cloth.

Velix moved thrust his hands into a bowl of liquid. Vinegar, from the sour reek that overwhelmed the incense burning in a nearby lantern. The healer thoroughly scrubbed his hands, then pressed them together and bowed his head, chanting solemnly in his own language to each of the cardinal directions.

Hanuvar’s limbs shook, stilled. The strange-eyed seer stepped to Hanuvar’s head, placed her hand to him and then spoke with urgency to Velix.

The chieftain listened and frowned, and turned her gaze upon Antires before addressing her husband venomously. “Yes, hurry, Velix,” she said. “Rush down the road to death.”

Velix ignored her, finishing his prayer before stepping to Hanuvar. At his upraised hand, the gray-clad women closed in, two at each side, one at Hanuvar’s head, one at his feet. They swayed in time to the syllables they began to chant. Velix spread his arms and shouted at the sky.

Antires joined Bricta, watching just to the left of Hanuvar’s head. While Velix continued to shout, the Herrene spoke softly to her ear. “What is he doing?”

He barely picked her words from the air. “He is challenging death for the man before him.”

To Antires this seemed melodramatic.

Velix shouted once more at the sky and beat his chest before stepping to Hanuvar and placing a hand over his heart. He repeated the sounds the women had been chanting.

Bricta swayed in time with the others. Her right eye reflected the light more brightly than the left.

The firelight dimmed, and Antires wondered how, because no one stood beside it. The lanterns, too, dimmed, and the hut grew chill.

As his neck hairs stiffened, Antires searched the darkness for a moving spectral shape, or glowing eyes, so certain was he that death had entered the room.

Still chanting, the healer placed both hands upon Hanuvar’s wound, rubbing a mixture of red and yellow paste over the bruised skin. Hanuvar shifted beneath his touch but did not open his eyes.

Velix’s head tipped back and he sucked in his breath. His right hand rose trembling before closing into a fist, as though he strained to crush something in his fingers. The women continued their slow, solemn phrases.

Bricta swooned and crumpled at the head of the table.

Antires caught her under the arms before her head struck the floor. The ceremony continued; Rudicia hurried to check Bricta’s breathing as Antires knelt with her. The chieftain put fingers to her neck.

“Her heart races,” she told Antires.

“What should I do with her?” Antires asked.

“Do not open the door,” Rudicia instructed. “Keep her head elevated.”

Antires stood, lifting her into his arms. She was lighter than he had guessed, and her hair smelled of sage.

Velix returned both hands to Hanuvar’s chest. While the women who ringed them continued to sway, their voices sank to a whisper. Finally Velix stepped away.

The women bowed their heads, turned three times in one coordinated movement, and took a single step back. On the instant, the lights brightened, and the fire blazed up.

Antires stared in surprise. Velix came to stand before his wife, bearing with him a green, medicinal scent. His chest and forehead were slick with sweat, and he breathed heavily. His hands dripped with red and yellow paste. As Rudicia barked a question in her language, Velix pressed the cleaner of his two hands to Bricta’s throat and pulled back her right eyelid.

Antires wanted to know about Hanuvar, but it seemed rude not to ask about the woman in his arms. “What’s happened to her?”

“She gave of herself, to help the spell. To help me,” Velix said, with a look to Rudicia. “When I was sorely pressed.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Antires asked.

“Maybe.”

Rudicia snorted and said something sharp in her own language to Velix. It would have been polite to wait, but Antires had waited long enough. “And what about Hanuvar? Is he going to live?”

Velix made a fluctuating gesture with his hands, suggesting an object that might lean either direction. “We have pulled the sickness from him. But he was far down the path to the restful lands. He may not wish to return. He may not be able to return.”

“He will return,” Antires said.

“You say that,” Velix said gently. “But you do not know how beguiling those lands are for those who have suffered.”

“And my sister?” Rudicia asked, then added more in her own language. Velix replied in Dervan, addressing only Antires. “They will take your friend to a warm room, and let him rest. Bring Bricta with me.”

Once again Antires was to be separated from Hanuvar. As he followed Velix, Rudicia saw him look over his shoulder.

“He will rise, or fall, on his own,” she told him.



III


The ship rocked on the ocean swells. She was a swift vessel with a deep draw, designed for long ocean journeys, and Hanuvar stood at the rail, watching the lookout.

Eledeva flickered into existence on the port side, a glimmer of gold scales long as the ship, sinuously riding the air with tiny flicks of her flashing tail and great bright wings. Ancient she might be, but she sported in the waves like a youngster, racing the wind and the ship. She was eager for the sights of home and the company of her sister, whom she had not seen since she had flown off to found the colony with Hanuvar three years previous.

Finally she could stand it no longer, and soared out and away, promising a speedy return.

In some obscure way Hanuvar knew he dreamed, and searched the sky in dread, knowing what came next.

There was nothing playful in Eledeva’s manner when she swooped back into sight, circling to call that the city was aflame and that Dervan ships surrounded her while great siege engines rose against her landward walls. Hanuvar ordered the ship to turn back for New Volanus and then asked Eledeva to carry him to the city.

In his dream that transpired in a blur. One moment the great serpent who had been his city’s friend flew beside the ship, the next he was seated upon her neck, an honor almost never granted by any asalda, no matter how profound their trust of humans. Again he heard her keening despair for her sister, and for the people of the city she loved. The long flight faded to nothing and they were suddenly above Volanus. There was the Dervan trireme with the black-cloaked sorcerers, its mast and decks aflame from Eledeva’s blazing golden breath. Burning figures staggered across the deck and threw themselves into the water, and as the orange flames engulfed the frantic mages he knew a brief moment of savage exaltation. Masses upon the walls of Volanus cheered, and he heard his name, as though he were the source of Eledeva’s power.

Then the great asalda’s body shook with the impact of the stone that struck her. In real life Hanuvar hadn’t seen the launch or fall of the specific hunk of rock, though the Dervans had been desperately flinging them through the sky. But in his dream he saw it drop away as he was thrown clear and plunged toward the water so far below. He twisted into a dive, thinking that might soften the blow but certain he would be dead regardless. Eledeva’s battered, bloody body fell beside him. She stirred. One of her great six-fingered claws snatched him and he knew dizziness as she twisted. He imagined seeing his daughter, her sea-gray eyes wide in horror as he plummeted with the ancient serpent.

Eledeva shielded him by striking the water with her back and then they were sinking, he still borne in her clutches. He lost all senses.

When he wakened at last he found himself once more astride the golden asalda, though she swam sinuously through the waves. Nothing but rolling whitecaps lay in every direction and when he asked where Volanus was, Eledeva gasped out that that it was nowhere but the grave. He demanded to return, and then she said she could not. He cursed at her.

“I’m badly wounded, Hanuvar,” she said, and then he knew shame, and all his anger ebbed, vanishing with the all-encompassing urge to throw his life away in a final, suicidal onslaught against the Dervan legions. Volanus was beyond his help, but his friend needed aid. He would help her find it.

There were healers on their ship and he asked if she swam for it. She confessed then that they should already have come upon it. “I fear I have missed it. I do not know the seas as well as the skies. But we must be close to land by now.”

In her pain and confusion she miscalculated, for Hanuvar later understood she had missed the Greater Lendine archipelago entirely. Eledeva swam through the night. Perhaps if clouds had not veiled the stars, they might have found their way, but they had to reckon without any navigational aids. Finally, in the predawn hours, she declared that she must rest. He thought she might die then, and he readied himself to die with her, but shortly before dawn she somehow found the strength to move, and with the sunrise they finally saw a distant spot of land. For a short while she swam with renewed vigor.

Then she breathed her last and helplessly he watched her vanish into the dark beneath him. It was already too terrible a blow to see his city fall, but to witness the passing of the winged serpent who had called Volanus home since time immemorial was one stroke too many upon the anvil of doom. Something deep within him broke. Weeping, he dove after her, screaming her name through the water.

The current shifted her once with a semblance of life and then she was gone, gone, and he knew he had to either sink with her or fight.

He kicked to the surface. He blinked salt water and tears from his eyes and finally found that shimmering blot upon the dark horizon. He snarled hatred at his weariness and began to swim.

In the dream he was on the island once more, fashioning the second raft, for the first had failed him, and somehow this time he reached Narata without that second impossible swim. This time it was Lalasa who met him at the shore, not soldiers, and she steered him to the clifftop and pointed out to sea.

“You have a battle to win,” she said, and as she faded, he smelled the rancid grease that Gisco had used to weatherproof his cloak, and he was standing beside the signalman overlooking the great battle at the foot of the Ardenines. Briefly he thought he was in a shadowy hut, with Antires at his side, but then the Herrene transformed into the hirsute Gisco, pointing to a long line of Dervan soldiers advancing into the cold wind. Hanuvar had harassed them with his mounted scouts until the entire legion had risen in the early hours, rushing off without breakfast. Now they stumbled out of line as they crossed the countless little rivulets in this broken terrain.

Waiting for them were the well-fed, well-rested lines of Hanuvar’s troops. The Dervans outnumbered but could not outflank them. The risky part was the two tribes of Ceori warriors he’d placed in the center—members of the Isubre and Cemoni tribes. They had set aside their ancient grudges for their deeper hatred of the Dervans, but they were uncertain allies. As the snowflakes swirled he saw that mass of spike-haired men and women, many shirtless, waving their weapons and shouting battle cries. Some were so eager for revenge they threw themselves across the Dervan line before he gave command.

But he had expected that, and watched the Dervans press against them a long moment before he told Gisco to sound the horn. From the ravine where they’d hidden overnight, his little brother Melgar emerged with a thousand foot soldiers and a thousand cavalry to hit the left rear flank of the enemy. At the same moment his skirmishers and main cavalry hit the right rear.

Though he knew he dreamed, he knew he had to win, and his hands were clenched. He ordered Gisco to signal the reserve to bolster the sagging center where the Ceori yielded to the press of the legion. He hadn’t known at the time young Ciprion was there at the battle, or even who he was, but he searched for him now, spotting him in that small band who had cut their way free amidst the confusion. In his dream, Hanuvar wondered what would have happened to his own future, to his city’s future, if a javelin had taken the young man down. Ciprion had grown to become the greatest Dervan general, and forced Hanuvar’s retreat from Tyvol. If Ciprion hadn’t won the second war, Volanus itself might yet stand.

But he could no more hate Ciprion than he could hate his brothers, and he wished the young man to safety.

“You’ve won.”

Gisco stood grinning at him through his dark beard, then faded to nothing as a lovely dark-haired woman walked through him to stand close. She was mature, in the full flower of her beauty, with great dark eyes and curling ringlets of hair. A trio of necklaces hung about her graceful neck, each beaded with azure stones, and her wrists were heavy with jeweled bracelets. Her brief blouse was scarlet and sleeveless with a low neckline and she wore a flounced skirt favored by the women of Volanus. He was startled to note that there, above one slim sandaled foot, was the anklet he had presented his wife.

“You have won the battle, Hanuvar,” she said, her voice smoky with approval and invitation. “And now you must choose.”

This, Hanuvar knew, was no dream. All else had faded to insubstantiality, but the woman remained.

He bowed his head formally, mind racing with concerns. “Lady Neer.”

She gestured to right and left, where the army had been replaced by an immense number of milling figures. Under the bright summer sun they were wispy and ghostlike, beautiful men and women, and not a one of them heeded him or his companion, for they were lost in their own conversations. But they looked askance at a woman of gray shining eyes who pushed through their midst and padded up to Hanuvar on pretty bare feet.

Lady Neer frowned at her and extended her hands to him. “I have always waited for you. You may rest in my arms, and close your eyes to the world.”

He shook his head, backing away. “It’s not time.”

“You are very close. You have fought so hard, all of your life.”

“I am not ready.”

She smiled as though he were a child whose stubbornness amused her. “No one such as you ever is. Yet, come. You will find solace among your family, and your people. And Eledeva. They wait for you. I will lead you to them.”

He looked at her extended hand. He had been lonely for so very long. What would it be like to speak with his father and his sister again? And what about his mother? He imagined the joy of seeing her face, long lost to his memory.

The possibilities warmed his heart. In the cool of the evenings might he sit under a flowering myrtle with Harnil and listen to musicians strum their lyres, or even learn to play, as both had longed to do? Would he see Melgar restored not only physically, but to his inborn joy? And what of Adruvar? What would it be like to hear that giant’s laughter again?

Might he finally meet his lost sister, and his lost son? And what of Imilce, whom he had adored when young and come to adore again after long years absent? She had made space for him again in her own heart as well. And Ravella would be here—he supposed the two were likely friends by now. How he longed to see them both.

Lady Neer watched him, her eyes kind, and all knowing. All he had to do was reach forth.

He lifted his hands. He could see Eledeva and admire those shining scales and apologize again for cursing her, when she had saved his life three times over the course of a single, terrible day. Without her, he would have died on impact, or drowned. Without her, he would have perished in a useless welter of blood. Without her, he could never have reached that nameless island, and found his way to Narata.

He met the eyes of the goddess, and lowered his arms. Eledeva had preserved him so that he might live. So that he could find the remnants of their people, and bring them to the new home Eledeva had helped him found.

To surrender was to betray her. It was to betray his family, who had given their lives to protect his people. To surrender was to abandon the Volani now straining under the Dervan yoke. No one else was left to fight for them.

Lady Neer sensed his change in mood and addressed him once more. “Come, Hanuvar. No one would think less of you if you rested at last.”

“I would.”

“For once, take the easy way.”

He met those beguiling eyes. “You would have me turn my back on people who cannot help themselves, because it’s easy?”

She lowered her hand, and her smile faded. “Choose me or not, in the end you will still be mine. And I am not so terrible. I am the end to suffering, not the beginning. And haven’t you suffered enough?”

“It is my people’s suffering that concerns me at the moment.”

“And they too, in the end, will come to me. It shall not be so long a wait. It never is.”

There was some truth in that, for the long years of his fight felt as though they had happened in a finger snap. Yet they had not seemed to transpire quickly while he was experiencing them. And for those in distress, days would stretch like anguished years.

Either she lied to him, or from her distant vantage it was impossible to understand how time passed differently for mortals depending on their circumstance.

The other woman drew closer. “That’s right. Don’t submit to the lady’s charms. Come with me instead.” Though her dark skin possessed odd gray undertones, she was voluptuous and compelling in an earthy way. She looked familiar, though Hanuvar could not place her. “I will lead you back to life, and give you many children. And I will bestow vengeance over your enemies.”

Lady Neer favored him with a sympathetic smile. “Leave him be. He’s tired of the fight. Can’t you see?”

He spoke to the strange gray goddess. “What of my people? Can you help me free them?”

She smiled smugly. “They are lost already, and you know it. They will pass to Lady Neer, and their pain will ease. But your enemies will die in terror with the knowledge that you and I destroyed them!”

Hanuvar recognized her at last, even as she beckoned with her fingers. Her voice grew more strident. “Come—we will draw strength from the springs, where it is warm, and where our children will flourish. I have peered through Caiax’s memories and witnessed how people of dozens of lands yearned to follow you. He will weaken soon, but you will be strong.”

“I do not want your aid, or your children.” He faced the Lady Neer. “Is this my only choice? Life in thrall, or death?”

“Working for another’s purpose, or a well-earned rest.” Lady Neer’s dark eyes sparkled. “Lady Ariteen does not know you as well as I.”

“I don’t think you answered fully,” Hanuvar said. “There is another choice.”

She did not deny it.

Hanuvar bowed his head. “You’re right, Lady. Eventually, we shall all come to you. I thank you for your offer. But I must refuse for now.” He bypassed her and walked on toward the insubstantial figures.

“There is no other choice,” Ariteen cried, indignant. “Don’t look to them for help! They don’t care. I care!”

She cared only for her own desires. The ghosts or gods parted before him without acknowledging his presence. Ariteen padded after.

“I will have you,” she vowed. “You will come to love me!”

He ignored her, passing into a hazy twilight. Behind him, Lady Neer called, her voice heavy with amusement. “I will be waiting!”

“You must be patient, then,” he replied.

“I am ever so patient.”

He walked into a land and sky all of blue as Ariteen shouted indignantly and death laughed fondly at his foolishness. He moved on through the haze, and it lightened, showing him a winding path upon a flowered hillside. He climbed toward its summit. The scent of a warm broth struck his nostrils and a beam of sunlight resolved itself into a bright shaft shining into a dark room where he lay in furs. An older woman who reminded him of someone from his youth sat beside him. She squeezed his hand, whispering to him in a language he thought he knew, but couldn’t place. He smiled at her.



IV


The men of the First Century had outdone themselves. No matter the rain that had pattered down all afternoon, they had marched seven more miles even than Marius had hoped. And rather than complaining about sore feet, the men were laughing over their evening rations and hoping they’d get to the fight soon. He was proud to be leading such exemplary soldiers.

They had set camp near a roadside fort in upper Calenna, where the garrison was so small there hadn’t been room for the five double-strength centuries of the Seventh Legion’s First Cohort, well over eight hundred men once their support staff was included in the count. The garrison commander, a centurion of recent vintage, was obviously curious about their mission, but had not dared inquire of Marius what their orders were and relinquished his quarters to Caiax.

Marius ducked under the low door arch and sidled past the general’s body slave, leaving on some errand of his own, then came to attention before his commanding officer. A fire burned in the hearth; Caiax sat facing him at a small wooden desk, hunched in a shawl. A blank piece of paper sat before him and he looked up from it.

“Ah, Marius. At ease. Anything to report?”

“The men’s spirits are high, sir. I don’t think they minded the rain at all, even that last hour. By Jovren, I think they could have marched another ten.”

“I think you’re right,” Caiax said with a proud smile. “I told you the mushrooms would work wonders.”

“And you were right, sir.”

If Caiax heard the hesitation in his voice, it didn’t show in his own answer. “I’ll have their next ration ready soon.”

“Yes, sir. There’s one small matter. Probably of minor concern, but I thought I should bring it to your attention.”

“Yes?” Caiax asked impatiently.

“Some of the men have developed a minor infection. It’s not interfering with their health, but the surgeon is worried because it’s spreading and is resistant to treatment.”

Caiax notoriously hated to be involved with minutiae, and his face took on color as he listened. Marius explained quickly. “I thought you should be informed, sir, because the coloration of the fungal growths, on the back of the men’s knees and beneath their armpits, well, sir, they look like those from the mushroom supply.”

The general’s expression cleared, and he actually laughed, a sound Marius had only heard on a handful of occasions. “That’s nothing to be worried about, Centurion. That’s fine news. Ariteen has blessed the men.”

“Sir?”

The general stood. “Ariteen has blessed me, and she has blessed this venture.”

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with this Ariteen,” Marius explained, uncomfortable to admit so.

“Ah, don’t worry. I’d never heard of her myself, but, then, she’s a goddess of secrets, a harbinger of life and conquest. She blessed me when I lay dying.” The general’s eyes sought his own and burned with the peculiar fervor of the mad and the newly converted. “I healed, Marius, not because of surgeons, but in spite of them. They tried to remove her blessing, but it healed me.”

Marius cleared his throat. “Your pardon, sir. Do you mean that the infection is a blessing?”

“Exactly! You talked about the health of the men. You didn’t mention yourself, but look at you, still energized and ready to march even as the sun sets. That’s the power of Ariteen. You shouldn’t let a little thing like some mushrooms unsettle you. You’re made of sterner stuff.”

“Yes, sir,” Marius agreed.

This time Caiax heard the doubt in his voice. “You still don’t see. Ariteen has spared me so that I shall have the power to defeat all who stand in her way. She has made of me her chosen deliverer!”

After this astonishing declaration, Caiax tugged at his tunic. Marius could scarce believe what he sensed was about to happen—the general was lifting his clothing to expose his loincloth and lean thighs.

“Don’t be squeamish, Marius. Look!” As the tunic rose past the general’s undergarment, Marius’ eyes fastened upon a long red scar, or tried to, for it was mostly obscured by the profusion of small, blue-gray mushrooms growing in and around it, and up his chest, toward the pits of his arms, and down toward his loincloth.

They were identical to the mushrooms the general had been presenting him each evening.

“You see?” Caiax said, then lowered the tunic. “They’re all over me, and I’m in the peak of health.”

Marius swallowed his bile. “Yes, sir.”

“My slave has finished harvesting the ones from my back and will bring them to you just as soon as he’s done washing them. There should be enough for a double ration tomorrow.”



V


Antires watched the Ceori warriors queue up outside the hut that morning where Hanuvar waited. Most were grizzled middle-aged veterans, some with terrible scars. A few shepherded bright-eyed younger adults. Rudicia was speaking to them all, her expression somber, but her words could not dim the expectant eagerness on the faces of the warriors.

The Herrene sidled over to Bricta, watching with interest on the right. “What’s she saying?” he asked.

“That Hanuvar can see them now. A lot of these men and women served under him. They’ve brought their children and grandchildren and nephews.”

“None of them look angry.”

Bricta turned to him in surprise. “Why would they?”

“Your sister is angry.”

“Well, she sees further, doesn’t she? All these remember is a daring man who led them to victories. They brought back gold, and stories. They want more. And the youngsters want it for themselves. Rudicia wanted security for the Isubre, at the least, and revenge, and the lands the Dervans stole.”

“She got them, for a while.”

“But a while doesn’t count for much with someone like her, does it?”

“You don’t seem upset, yourself.”

“I know that if your happiness is dependent upon possession or achievement, your cup is always empty.”

She continued to impress him, for this statement sounded less like the mummery one might hear from a fortune teller and more like the words of a well-schooled philosopher.

“I’m a little surprised that the Dervans don’t have garrisons scattered through all these mountains.”

She laughed at him. “They have their forts, on the flatter land, but they leave the rest to us. They know that if they press us, we can hide in the mountains and return a deadly toll. Those were the terms we agreed to when the last war ended. We have little they want here.”

“And what do you want now?” he asked. “From Hanuvar, I mean.”

“I want him to turn aside the coming danger he’s attracted.”

“Caiax,” he said.

“The goddess behind him.”

“And what about your lands?”

“If we march into lands the Dervans stole, we could not hold them. Not yet. Later, perhaps.”

“Later, with Hanuvar?”

“Who knows what may transpire?” Bricta stepped away as Rudicia finished, and one of her bodyguards opened the hut.

The other Ceori were allowed in a few at a time. Rudicia and Bricta walked past them to stand at Hanuvar’s side and Antires went with them.

The general had been able to sit upright for the last three days, though this morning had been the first time he had managed it without assistance. He spoke to the small groups as they presented themselves, greeting them in what sounded like fluent Isubre. The general sat behind a table carved with ornate animal images Antires had assumed to be lizards until Hanuvar had told him they were Ceori hunting hounds, twisted out of all proportion.

Hanuvar had allowed his beard to grow, in part to hide the gauntness from a week’s sickness and little food, and in part because these men had known him with that beard and would better recognize him. His slate gray eyes were alight.

The visitors happily talked among themselves, gesturing to the general, and Antires could well guess they were pleased at how healthy he looked.

A huge man in early middle years walked up and Hanuvar stood, clasped his arm and laughed in pleasure. The Ceori was delighted.

“He remembers all their names,” Bricta told Antires, both pleasure and pride in her voice.

This news astonished him. How could Hanuvar retain these names after so many years, when these warriors were only a small number of those who had marched with him? Could he truly have kept tens of thousands of names at call from his memory? Or was it that these were the most prominent of his veterans?

Though it seemed impossible, Antires strongly suspected the former.

Hanuvar remained on his feet as a mass of younger men and a number of women were introduced, and he addressed them in their own language while gesturing to the older warriors and generating a few belly laughs from them all. Antires watched, only learning later what had been said, though he guessed its gist. Hanuvar told them he was glad to be hosted among good friends and great warriors and that he would give a select few of them instructions soon, if they wished to follow to glory.

Afterward, the crowd dispersed, and Rudicia, Bricta, and a select few warriors joined Hanuvar at the table in the chiefain’s hut. Antires sat at Bricta’s side and liberally applied himself to the meat pies, wetting his mouth with the bitter beer only when truly thirsty. The seer translated for him without being prompted, for which Antires was grateful.

Ceori scouts had watched the approach of a small force of legionaries, not quite a thousand men. They marched under Caiax’s boar-head banner.

“They are coming for you,” Bricta said. “But the goddess means to have us all.”

“Why does this goddess want us?” Rudicia asked. “Is this for vengeance?”

“No,” Bricta answered. “This is no Dervan god. She seeks dominion for her children.”

One of the warriors asked why the goddess was favoring the Dervans, and Bricta answered.

“She is using them like a hunter uses dogs to drive game her way. Were the greater gods interested in our fates, they would already have stopped her.” Bricta made a fluent gesture toward the mountains beyond the chieftain’s walls. “The mountain spirits are aware of her and sense what she would do to them. They are with us, if only because their own holdings will be destroyed should she take root here. They warn me that these men are more than men, that they are cold with the life of the goddess. They may not live long, but while they do, they will be greater than men.”

“How so?” Hanuvar asked.

“They are more resilient. Harder to kill.”

“These are the forces of Ariteen,” Hanuvar told them. “She likes warmth, and moisture, and darkness. There are hot vents in one of the nearby valleys, correct?”

Rudicia confirmed that there were. “But the Dervans will come for us here. Bricta foretold it.”

“I can lure Caiax where we want him,” Hanuvar promised.

Rudicia demanded an explanation curtly. “How?”

Hanuvar then shared his plans. Antires nodded in admiration as Bricta relayed the general’s words to him.

“I will lose warriors with this,” Rudicia said.

“Yes.”

“We will win many arms,” one of her advisors pointed out. “And strike a memorable blow against the Dervans.”

Rudicia stared hard at Hanuvar, and Antires wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps she debated reminding him that none of this would have happened if he had not come to her.

But the Ceori were a fatalistic people and thought that all were born with certain dooms, so she might have been thinking something else entirely. Antires would have liked to have asked her but dared not. In the end Rudicia sat back. “We will follow Hanuvar’s plan, and we will smash these Dervans who dare test us. Make ready.”



VI


When Marius told the chief physician about the mushroom’s source, he expected his fellow officer to be as disgusted as himself. But Rutilius was far more fascinated by their effect than their point of origin. He questioned closely about amounts, and times, and performance measures. And when Marius pressed about potential dangers, Rutilius posited that the benefits appeared to far outweigh the cosmetic drawback of a minor gray exudate that didn’t even induce local inflammation. He enthusiastically speculated whether this small change in diet would double the effectiveness of Dervan legions, rescue those near death, and decrease the infirmity of age, likely imagining acclaim for introducing the mushrooms to the rest of their society, for he intimated he’d write a treatise about their healthful impact. Marius left feeling foolish and unresolved.

As a veteran of long standing, it went against all of Marius’ instincts to discuss a superior officer’s decisions with underlings, but finding no aid from the nominally independent physician, he turned to the cohort’s lower-ranked centurions.

Here, too, any concerns fell on deaf ears. When Marius told his fellow officers about Caiax’s condition and compared it to their own, they somehow saw the general’s sacrifice as noble. They were impressed that their leader let himself go untreated for their betterment. Young Hortalus even said that he found the ground mushrooms a delicious addition to their normal fare, wishing he could get more, and his sentiment was echoed by others, who mocked Marius for being a worried old woman. Wasn’t the legion otherwise healthy? Weren’t the men in excellent spirits and fighting trim?

They would hear no more criticism of Caiax, and insinuated that Marius’ questioning was dangerously close to treason. Marius realized with a depressing jolt that any later judgment tribunal would be drawn from these officers, since no others were stationed nearby. He had to reluctantly agree with his old friend Tertius, who pointed out the general’s strategic decisions certainly didn’t seem to be suffering.

None of them knew whether this foe they marched for actually existed, but Marius didn’t mention that, and he pretended to find their arguments persuasive. He had served almost a quarter century in the legion, and reminded himself that this wouldn’t be the first time a superior’s orders had put him in a difficult spot. He had come out just fine before, and he resolved to do so again. In the end, all he could do was scrape the infection from himself each evening, and eat from his own emergency reserves.

Only two evenings after Caiax revealed his terrible secret they arrived in the foothills of the Ardenines. Scouts found numerous Ceori tracks. Even if Hanuvar was not involved, the tribes apparently were on the move.

In the hours before dawn, two of the camp sentries were struck by spears. The optio on watch shouted for alert as more spears showered out of the darkness and the legionaries scrambled to grab shields. The assault ended as suddenly as it had begun, though the retreating Ceori shouted rude taunts.

Marius ran to the general’s tent, astonished to find Caiax leaning over his map table. He had apparently ignored the call to arms.

“General?”

“Yes, Marius?” Caiax continued to study the map of the foothills spread before him, leaning on one mottled hand. “We’ve made contact with the enemy, have we?”

“Yes, sir. Skirmishers attacked us. They threw spears at our sentries.” He wanted to say that they should have built a fortified camp, as was standard legion practice. He did not; Caiax had insisted upon marching them into the twilight, and there had not been time.

“It’s almost disappointing that Hanuvar has proven so predictable.”

“We must ready the men to counter the attack.”

Caiax looked at him at last. Even in the dim lighting conditions it was obvious the whites of his eyes had taken on a gray pallor. “No, that’s what Hanuvar wants us to do. That’s how he’s tricked us before. His men will be well rested. They’ll lure us to wherever he wants us to go so he can spring a trap. Hanuvar thinks he can lead us into danger, but I know his tricks. Make sure the men are fed. I’ve sent Glabius out with their rations already.”

“I’ll see that the men are fed,” Marius promised. He said nothing about the mushrooms.

Caiax remained beside his map table, his head nodding back and forth like a wind-blown bloom on the end of a long stalk. “Good. Report to me when they’re ready. And silence those horns.”

Repressing a shudder, Marius left. An optio ran up to report and Marius put his concerns for the future aside to care for the present.

Over the rest of the night the Ceori continued their harassment, but Dervan scouts reported the enemy always withdrew toward the same northeasterly direction. The maps showed that this led to a wide valley crowded with brush-covered hillocks up to the point where some plowed fields lay, and it took no great military scholar to judge it a fine battle site.

In the hour just before dawn, Marius was summoned to the headquarters tent, where Caiax still studied the map. Marius wondered if the general had actually moved since their last interaction. After a moment he spotted a still form lying in the shadowy tent corner. He recognized the plain beige tunic as that worn by Caiax’s body slave. At first he thought the man’s legs were wrapped in rags, then, under further scrutiny understood that they were coated in gray fungal threads.

He suppressed an oath and shifted his attention back to his commanding officer. “General?”

By the light of the two lanterns, subcutaneous bumps on the general’s face were rendered starkly. Marius gulped to suppress his alarm at the thought that fungus might be growing beneath his own skin and repressed an urge to feel his face.

“Ah, Marius.” Caiax’s fingers fell to the map, one valley over. “There are springs here.”

“Yes, sir.” He wondered how Caiax knew that, because they weren’t on the map. Probably the scouts had mentioned it to him.

“Hot springs are of tremendous use to us. It will enable our power to grow. We will send the skirmishers and one full century to follow the Ceori, as though we have fallen for Hanuvar’s trap. They’re to make a great deal of noise. I want Hanuvar to think they are a larger force. Our cavalrymen will follow at a distance, and disturb as much ground as they can, to raise dust.”

He was certainly acting like the old Caiax. Seemingly of its own volition, Marius’ gaze shifted to the slave’s body. He forced his attention back to the general.

“Rather than taking the route Hanuvar wants, we will advance double time through this valley.” He tapped the one with the hot springs. “Then we will cross into the one where Hanuvar has chosen for us to be at this pass, and hit him. At that point, our cavalry will advance and the enemy will be closed in from both sides.”

The hand slipping across the map was gray and terrible, but the mind that guided it remained sharp.

“I like it, sir, although I do worry about separating such a small force.”

“The scouts report we’re fighting a small force. No more than a few hundred fighters.”

“How will our men stay in contact if they’re divided between the valleys?”

“Send scouts up on the foothills between the valleys to relay messages via flags. Come, Marius, you know how this sort of thing works.”

“Yes, sir. But don’t you think someone as astute as Hanuvar will see the flags, and have sentries placed at the cross points?”

“I’m sure he will have the latter, which is why we’ll kill them. Now are there any other foolish questions, or do you mean to waste the early morning mist?”

“No, sir. It’s all clear.”

“Good. Then let’s be on with it.”

“Sir!”

Caiax’s head bobbed as he shifted, then he pushed out through the tent with the same inflexible confidence to which Marius was accustomed.

He followed and almost bumped into Caiax when the general pivoted just beyond the tent flap.

The sentry waited only three steps beyond, his helmet brim outlined in the predawn gloom.

“A final order, Centurion. Hanuvar is to be captured alive.”

Marius saluted. “We shall do our best, sir.”

“It is not about best,” Caiax said testily. “He is to be captured alive. At all costs. Is that clear?”

In the midst of battle any number of accidents might happen. If Hanuvar were fighting on the line, as he had been known to do, or if he happened to be near the troops during a javelin cast, or part of a mob running from a cavalry charge, there could be no guaranteeing his safety. Caiax was well aware of these dangers, for prior to breaching the walls of Volanus he had followed up his orders for capturing the city’s seven councilors with an addendum, saying that while it was preferable to take them alive, their deaths might be unavoidable.

This morning Caiax had a different outlook. There was steel in his voice as he asked his next question. “Is that clear, First Spear15?”

“Yes, sir. I will pass the word.”

“Very good. He is vital to our ongoing plans.”

“Yes, sir.”

Marius wanted to ask who the “our” referred to, because the only ongoing plan the empire would have for Hanuvar was a painful death before as many thousands as could be assembled to witness it.

But Marius passed along the commands, then organized the men into lines of march, ensuring that those who reacted to the next assault of the Ceori skirmishers would do so as if they were barely under control of their officers. Hanuvar’s scouts would no doubt report that to him.

He then tried to report the men’s readiness to Caiax. The general’s tent sentry wasn’t on duty, and when Marius pushed the flap open he discovered the sentry and Rutilius crouched in the dirt beside the body of the general’s slave. A basket sat on the trestle table, half full of mushrooms plucked from Glabius’ corpse. Neither the sentry nor the physician was harvesting now, though, for they were busily lifting fungus from the man’s skin and popping it straight into their mouths, their faces contorted in ecstasy. They paused in their chewing as their heads swung to take in the cohort’s senior centurion.

The sentry at least should immediately have shot to his feet and come to attention, and both should have reddened with shame, like men caught drinking on duty. But their looks were inscrutable, and Marius was overcome with the sense that he was the one who should apologize for intruding upon such a private matter.

He found his mouth starting to twist, to shape the curse words to get these men up and moving. But then he caught the scent rising from the fungus. At one level it was sickly; at another it beguiled like the most fragrant wine, or the aroma of warm, succulent roast pig. His mouth watered, and he took a single step forward.

He caught a look at the dead slave’s face entirely distorted by the growth, then forced the air from his lungs, hoping the scent would be expelled with it. He retreated from the tent before he dared to breathe. Shuddering in disgust, he looked back at the canvas. His first thought was to call both men out. His second thought was to run both of them through. He was afraid if he faced them again the scent of the mushrooms would overrun his reason and he’d be unable to resist joining their feast. Shaken, he convinced himself he would decide what to do about discipline, and the terrible mushrooms, after the victory.

He found Caiax near the men readying their advance into the secondary valley, and decided to say nothing to him about the horrific scene he’d just witnessed, for fear of how the general might respond. Caiax quietly told him to initiate their plan the next time Hanuvar’s skirmishers renewed their attack. More spears flew within the next quarter hour and Marius promptly ordered the century to give staggered chase. He then sent the rest of the cohort at double time into the parallel valley Caiax had pointed out.

If the men of the Seventh had always found Caiax cold, they had never found him cowardly, and today he marched with them rather than riding, rectangular shield in one hand, javelins at the ready. The sun had not yet risen, and the moon hung half hidden by a distant peak, painting the lands before them in shades of black and gray. No one looked tired. To the rear someone swore a personal battle cry, so eager was he for the fight. A centurion promised a week’s latrine duty to the next soldier who made a sound.

Before long the horizon lightened, but Marius was not worried yet, for with the dawn came a mist, the better to conceal their movements. He scanned the heights for sign of their scouts. He saw none, which pleased him, for he’d told them to lay low until it became necessary to signal.

One of their own skirmishers sprinted back to report the first of the hot springs was close, and before long they were wending their way past the fissures from which steam rose over the rocky, cratered landscape. To right and left the valley narrowed, and word passed back that the advance party had killed a band of Ceori scouts and secured their line of march.

The sky lightened fully, but the valley floor remained in gloom because the sun had not risen over the shoulder of the mountains. Mist flowed about their knees. Energy coursed through Marius’ system, and he saw excitement reflected in the expressions of those around him.

Caiax’s bumpy face was spread with a wide smile. “These grounds will be perfect for us,” he said. “It is a good growing place. For the children.”

“Children, sir?” Marius asked.

“For the children of Ariteen. For my legacy. Soon, Hanuvar and I will spread her love through all the lands of the empire. Two great generals, marching beneath a single, victorious banner.”

Marius looked to the legionaries striding to the right of them, hoping they hadn’t heard. “Sir,” he said quickly, “Hanuvar is our enemy.”

“For now,” Caiax said. “Soon he will work with us in service to the goddess. That is what she wishes.”

From behind came a loud rumble of rock on rock. Some of their soldiers screamed in pain.

Marius whirled. A cascade of boulders rattled down the left hillside, pursued by a plume of dust. High on the right slope a bank of Ceori spearmen and slingers had risen from where there had been nothing but rocks moments before. The small band of Dervan skirmishers sent into the heights had utterly vanished.

Arrows, spears, sling stones, and rocks were hurled in profusion, and took deadly toll. Legionaries fell with bloody skulls and splintered legs. Soldiers dropped, impaled upon spears, dead or crying out for aid. Boulders ground scores of men into smears of blood and bone.

Caiax should have been shouting orders. He only turned, blinking in surprise at the slopes, as if he were coming upon a peculiar novelty. Marius shouted for his men to find their standards and form into testudos.16 Progress would slow, but at least the men would be protected from the arrows, sling stones, and spears.

Unfortunately, those formations couldn’t be held well while they moved over rough ground, for the pathway before them was cut by fissures and steam vents. Spears and stones rang off the shields, but more boulders smashed men flat, spraying their fellows with gore. Of what use was their greater strength and endurance against rock?

Finally, step by bloody step, a pitiful remnant climbed free of the mist and on toward a grassy summit. Here the Ceori waited en masse, and charged them.

They fought with the reckless abandon of their kind, men and women swirling into battle wearing little but checkered pants, their chests and faces painted in woad spirals. Their hair was limed to stand back in points. Their undisciplined charge would have broken against a proper legion line. But the soldiers had been scattered by the bombardments and were reluctant to form in large groups, when huge rocks might rain down upon them.

Marius’ arm was not weary—the mushrooms, at least, had given him stamina. But it did not matter. No matter how many Ceori he cut down, more took their place, and man by man his legionaries were whittled down.

He punched his gladius through a Ceori’s ribs. The weapon made a sucking sound as he pulled it clear. And then he breathed heavily and took in the view to right and left. At last, no more Ceori lay before him. But only a few dozen of his men were anywhere close.

The ground was littered with the dead and the grievously injured, a line of broken bodies stretching back to the deeper mist.

Somehow Caiax remained beside him. His helmet had an immense divot along the right side, but the wound had not felled the general, who appeared untroubled by the blue gray ooze that trickled down the side of his face from his nostril. His jaw was dislocated and twisted to one side, and he mouthed noises Marius could not understand.

A mass of Ceori spearmen waited on the slope above. A somber woman in helmet and corselet, bearing a bloodstained sword, stood at their head.

“Legionaries,” she called in heavily accented Dervan. “Lay down your arms!”

His men fell silent. Caiax continued to gibber, and as he turned his head, gesticulating to Marius, the centurion saw that the eye on the flattened side of the general’s head bulged from his skull. More gray fluid leaked from his mouth.

Marius could take no more horrors. He took his commander’s head with a single slice. It proved simple, as though he had cut a flower stalk.

The head fell away, but there was no flow of blood. The brackish sludge leaking from the wound repulsed him, and the next thing Marius knew he was slicing and hacking until he rose, panting, from the still form that had once been the famed Dervan general. Inside the body he’d discovered bone, but no blood, and vast amounts of goo in various stages of solidity knit together with fungal threads.

The Ceori had watched it all. Marius threw his sword down beside the ghastly body. Somewhere behind him he heard one of the optios trying to get the men to form up. Probably to arrest him.

“Optio,” Marius called. “Stand down.”

Confused, the optio barked for his men to hold their positions. Marius looked up at the Ceori woman, only then seeing the armored, bearded figure standing to her right. Hanuvar. It had to be. He bore Ceori arms, but held himself like a chieftain. A Herrene stood beside him.

“The general is dead,” Marius shouted up. “My congratulations. You lured him, didn’t you?”

Hanuvar’s answer was a slight inclination of his head. It had always been the Volani’s way to know the weaknesses of his enemy leaders.

“How many more follow you?” the woman called down, her accent thick. “Why did the emperor send you with your nightmare god?”

“I will tell you, lady warrior,” Marius said. “We numbered only 856. The general planned to capture Hanuvar and march with him through all the lands, spreading the disease we carried. If I’d understood sooner, I would have stopped him sooner.”

The woman laughed in derision. “You think you have earned our gratitude?”

He answered grimly. “No. You cannot let us live.”

Behind him one of the men cried out, “No!”

“Silence!” Marius shouted. He then raised his voice higher, both so that the Ceori warrior woman might hear, and so that his own men understood the truth. “Caiax fed us the mushrooms. Many of us already show signs of infection, but all of us carry it. You can’t just kill us. You have to burn us. You have to burn our clothes. You have to burn the lands where we walked, where the fungus might have taken root. You should be careful not to touch us, and to cover your faces with cloth so you don’t breathe it in.”

“Why do you tell us this?” the woman asked. “Is this another Dervan trick?”

Marius laughed without humor. It would be ironic if this moment of final truth were not trusted. He sought to explain it clearly, both for their sakes, and for the sake of Derva. “I care nothing for you. But what is in us cannot spread. Do you understand? If it lays hold of you, then you will take it to my people, and everyone you come into contact with. You must hunt down the cavalry and the century that advanced into your valley.”

“They’ve already been dealt with,” the woman said. “And as for your counsel, Dervan, I hear and believe you.”

That, at least, was good to know. “Hanuvar,” Marius said. “Why have you returned? Do you mean to march on Derva?”

“I honor your bravery,” the great Volani called down to him. “But you ask for plans even my friends have never heard.”

“I wish we could have met on a better battlefield,” Marius called. “As true soldiers, not minions of a dark goddess.”

“Had I my way, we would never have battled at all,” Hanuvar said wearily. That sounded little like something the great trickster of war would say.

“Is there more you would tell us?” the warrior woman asked.

“Let us make ready for our gods,” Marius said.

“Any warrior should always be ready for that,” she said, but waved him to proceed.

He turned to the men behind him. “Throw down your shields, so they can make this quick. Do you understand? Throw—”

But he never finished the sentence. The Ceori had already launched their last attack. Spears, sling stones, and even arrows found their targets and the soldiers screamed in their dying agony. Marius was turning when something struck him in the face. It stung terribly until a sling stone smashed into his chest and hurt so much he almost didn’t feel the spear. He staggered, clasping its haft with both hands, then fell. He struck his head upon a stone and knew nothing more.



VII


While Hanuvar had managed the strength to direct the battle’s course, it sapped his energy, and Bricta insisted he rest for a full two weeks before he dared to travel. He did rest, though he exercised each day, slowly extending the sessions and the length of his walks.

Over the course of his stay, the Ceori took elaborate care of the lands where the Dervans had fallen. Their bodies had been burned along with all of their food supplies and their cloth; the very grass was razed wherever they fell. The best of their weapons were wiped thoroughly with vinegar and left under observation for a month; the land itself was to be carefully monitored for a generation. A misty valley had been transformed into a burned, rocky landscape, barren of life. That, Hanuvar thought, was the glory of war. He turned from his overlook and walked through the narrow pass where the Isubre village lay, then spotted Antires winding toward him.

“Well met, Hanuvar,” his friend said as he neared. “Bricta tells me that you’ve been cleared for travel.”

“Reluctantly.”

The Herrene stopped before him. “She’s worried about you. She told me that she thinks the gods have noticed you again.”

“There’s no point worrying about things you cannot change.”

“She wants you to stay, doesn’t she? There’s a history there.”

“We’re old friends.”

“Friends, eh?”

Hanuvar thought then of the first time he’d seen her, as she and Rudicia were introduced by their aged father. Rudicia was her father’s chosen successor, and Bricta his seer. Hanuvar had nodded politely to both, finding them attractive in the way a man might admire a sunset, lovely but beyond his reach and not germane to his daily concerns. And then, over the banquet, he had been seated to Bricta’s side. During a lull in conversation, she turned to speak to her father and one of her slim hands had brushed her tidy curls behind an ear. It was an unconscious, graceful, distinctly feminine gesture. Seeing it he felt as though a mule had kicked him in the chest.

The playwright’s eyes had fastened on him, and Hanuvar gave him a gentle warning. “If you write your play or chronicle you can’t have every woman I meet falling in love with me. No one will believe it.”

“Even if you were in love?”

“Just because two people once found each other attractive—”

“—and still do—“

“—doesn’t mean they slept together. Besides, Ceori women are private about such things.”

“Really?” Antires sounded skeptical.

“Come. You want secrets, I will share one with you.” He slapped him on the shoulder and guided him onto a trail through the hills between two valleys. His wound throbbed as they started up.

“Where are we going?” Antires asked.

“You’ll see.”

In a few moments more they arrived at a promontory where they could look out through a gap between larger peaks to the lowlands of the Tyvolian peninsula, green and lovely and sparkling with morning dew, as if diamonds awaited in abundance. Hanuvar gestured to it.

“When our army crossed, after struggling through the peaks, we reached a high plateau. The whole peninsula was below us, much like this but we had an even better view.”

“And that’s when you gave a rousing speech,” Antires guessed.

“Of course. You can probably write that kind of thing in your sleep.”

“What did you say?”

He shrugged, a gesture of the Ceori. “I told the men that the worst was behind us, that the Dervans would never believe that we could have made that crossing, and that the enemy had no idea what was in store for them. There was more, too, but I didn’t bring you up here to reminisce.” He pointed through the gap. “Do you see there, where the river turns to the left?”

Antires answered in the affirmative.

“That’s the Sarn, and it flows into a deep-watered bay. That’s where we’re going.”

“There? Not Derva?”

“There. To a little northern town named Selanto.”

He explained that much of his objective, but it was not until we came down from the mountains and crossed the Sarn and followed it to a pretty bay fringed with pines and backed by snow-draped peaks and their tree-girt foothills that I thoroughly grasped the next phase of his plans.

Hanuvar straightaway rented a small building at the little harbor overlooking the docks and within a few hours laborers had arrived with desks and chairs and shelving. He returned in late afternoon as the movers departed, bearing with him a delightful feast of mussels and cod and fresh-baked bread and seared onions. He’d even splurged and located us two bottles of Fadurian, one of the most consistently sweet-flavored wines in all of Tyvol. With the door closed, he quietly raised a toast to the four corners of the world—which I gathered was part of a Volani tradition he had once alluded to—and then toasted me for my part in the venture.

We sat on stools, dining at the empty desk lighted from slatted shutters high in the wall. After so long with other fare, the seafood proved a delight, and I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to cross my lips with fine wine after subsisting on that wretched Ceori beer for long weeks. Some, it is said, grow so accustomed to its taste that they crave it, though I scarce believe this.

I knew Hanuvar had something in mind apart from recognition of our crossing, and hoped it would be a final explanation of his plans. Having waited so long, I found myself strangely reluctant to hear the truth, for I sensed a change in the air, and I could not guess where it would take us.

He raised his mug and encompassed the surrounding walls with a broad gesture. “I would like you to run this business.”

“Me?” I couldn’t have been more startled if Hanuvar had told me I was to grow a tail. “I’m no businessman.”

He drank and set down the mug on the desktop with a conclusive thud. “I need someone I can trust. And they are in short supply.”

“You wish me to, what, pretend to run a cover business?”

“No. We’re to manage a shipbuilding firm. Over the next few days I’ll buy the land south of here, and get to expanding, and then I’ll see about finding you the help you need.”

“I don’t know anything about shipbuilding,” I said. “And won’t it take too long to build ships? Shouldn’t we just buy them?”

“We need deep oceangoing vessels, not these coast huggers the Dervans use.”

That immediately made sense, for I knew that New Volanus lay far across the ocean. But I was still confused about why he was wanting me to be in charge of the matter. “What are you going to be doing?”

“The Dervans have a list of all the slaves, and where they were sold. I’m going to procure that list. And I’m going to buy them, or free them. And then they’re going to sail to New Volanus. On these ships.”

It seemed to me that he had overlooked any number of potential challenges. “That sounds like a tall order,” I said.

He chewed and swallowed another bit of cod, then replied. “Yes.”

I gave voice to the most obvious of my worries. “Won’t the Dervans get suspicious if you keep buying up only Volani slaves? And you can’t possibly have enough money to buy land, and build ships, and hire shipbuilders, and purchase everyone’s freedom.”

“There are many challenges yet,” Hanuvar agreed. “But my old intelligence network was still active as of four years ago, before I sailed out to found New Volanus. There’s a chance that many of the agents are still alive. In which case not all of the slaves need to be purchased by the same person.”

It had simply never occurred to me that he had an entire chain of allies already in place, and I suppose this is one of the crucial things he had meant to keep hidden from the Dervans. For all that, his plan still offered difficulties. Probably he had anticipated them, but I felt duty bound to point them out. Besides which, I was curious about how he planned to solve them. “Some of the Volani will be old, or infirm. Some owners will find their slaves too valuable to part with, or might even be fond of them. And some might not even want to leave.”

“Problems abound,” Hanuvar agreed. I would have liked him to have said more, but he did not, and I gathered he meant to solve each problem as it presented itself.

I pointed out another challenge. “There’s the matter of you walking around the land of Tyvol. Won’t you be recognized?”

“You’ve given me some practice with acting.”

I chuckled. “Some. You could stand to vary your roles. And you could stand more practice.”

“You have a few days to hone me before I leave,” Hanuvar said.

While I had understood he would be leaving, it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that he meant to depart so soon, or that he might well be gone for long stretches of time. Perhaps it was apparent to you reading that he had meant this very thing from his first words, but I hadn’t understood. I suppose I had been too startled by the idea of me managing anything apart from a theatrical enterprise. “Wait a moment. How am I supposed to record your travels if you’re out wandering the countryside and I’m managing a shipyard?”

“You can ask the Volani all about their stories when they get sent to you. And I’m sure I’ll need your special expertise from time to time.”

That wouldn’t do, and I told him so, vehemently.

“You wanted to help me, Antires,” he reminded me. His gaze was searching. “This will help. More than any play. And I can’t always be seen in your company, can I? The revenants were already looking for an older man travelling with a Herrene.”

That was very true, much as it pained me to admit.

“And there’s one more thing you need to recall,” Hanuvar added.

“What’s that?”

His gray eyes leveled my own. “This story isn’t about me. It’s about my people. Without them, I’m nothing.”

“I suppose there’s some truth to that,” I said glumly. “But their story is your story. If they didn’t have you, they’d have no hope at all.”

“One man’s mad dream, a doomed quest, something like that?” Hanuvar smiled mordantly. “Try to keep the poetry out of it. I’m just a man too stubborn to quit. Besides, once I procure the list, the vast majority of the time middlemen should be able to manage the transfer of ownership. From here on out things should be a little simpler.”

The future would prove this a vain hope, as you may be aware.

Though disappointed, I felt a measure of honor to be so valued by this man and tried to make light of my feelings. “And so he would not turn away,” I said. “Though challenge lay at every hand, he raised his noble head and journeyed forth to walk the land where all his enemies had laired.”

Hanuvar gave me a pained smile. “You can stop now.”

But that only encouraged me. “He clenched his mighty hands with the sorrow he could never fully vent, and boldly eyed the road ahead.”

“Mighty hands?” he repeated. “Boldly eyed? By the Gods, man, if you keep talking like that, they’ll laugh you off the stage.”

“How about striding on mighty thews?” I asked.

He groaned. “That’s terrible. It occurs to me I’ve never actually read one of your plays. Maybe I ought to do that before I permit you to write anything down.”

“Permit me?” I asked with mock outrage.

“Yes. I really ought to make sure that you’re up to the task.”

“You have no idea how many words I can rhyme with thews, do you?” I asked him.

He laughed long and well.

So we passed that meal in good fellowship. But while we dined, on and further on beyond that little harbor town, long days of travel distant, beyond the fields and the stores and the workplaces where the tiny remnant of Volani labored under the Dervan lash, behind the walls of Derva and within his vast palace, the emperor rose from his marble throne and leaned over the ornate wooden table in his council room. He demanded again of his chamberlain, of his praetorian captain, of the dreaded legate of the revenants and the chief of his spies why Hanuvar had not yet been found, and when they would finally have him in their hands.

Each promised with a single word. “Soon.”

—Sosilos, Book Six




15 The senior centurion of a legion is known as the First Spear.

Silenus


16 The testudo, or turtle, is a close formation where the shields are carried by soldiers on the edge of the formation as a wall on every side, and soldiers deployed to the center raise shields overhead. It is extraordinarily effective for protecting a unit from spear and arrow fire.

Silenus


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