Chapter 2:
The People of the Marsh
I
Hanuvar had closed his eyes, still wondering about the woman, when the whistling began. It was a plaintive, lonely sound somewhere between the forlorn wind of the icy mountain heights and a drowning man’s gurgle. Most of the campfire chatter had already died when the merchants and their families and slaves bedded down for the evening. Now it silenced completely and the camp strained its collective senses toward the unearthly sound emanating from somewhere to the northeast of their fragile refuge.
The horses, picketed nearby, neighed fearfully to one another, but no other creature, even the normally incessant droning insects, made a sound.
After a long while the whistling passed on to the north, fading gradually with distance, and despite the frightened, low-voiced talk about bog folk Hanuvar weighed the likelihood that the cry originated with some native owl or nocturnal mammal. Then long instilled habits took over with the return of normal night noises, and he fell quickly to sleep.
He roused the instant Tullus woke him with a touch to the shoulder, and the grizzled Dervan veteran sat back in surprise.
“Jovren’s blaze,” Tullus said under his breath. “You’re quick to get that blade up!”
Hanuvar had risen with knife in hand. He grinned sheepishly, as though he were an embarrassed youth, and Tullus eventually chuckled. “Skittish, are you, Flavius?”
Hanuvar had adopted the name of a centurion he’d respected for this leg of the journey. He could barely make the guard captain out in the gloom, for the moon was down and the flicker of perimeter torches spoiled greater accommodation to the starlight, but from the shape it was the same thick-set fellow with heavy brow and graying hair he’d signed on with a few days previous. And judging by Tullus’ relative calm, Hanuvar was being wakened for nothing more than the middle shift of the night watch.
“You don’t need to worry,” Tullus said. “The bog folk don’t ever wander to the heights. They’re mostly after foolish berry pickers who come into the marshes.”
“Berries?”
“You really are new around here, aren’t you. Come on, get your ass moving.”
Hanuvar threw off the covers and sat up, astonished at how simple it was. Remembering how much more forgiving a younger man’s frame was to changes in position proved very different from experiencing that flexibility first hand. He looked up at Tullus. “If the bog folk don’t come up here, why do we light all the torches?”
“Mostly to make us feel better. It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”
“I guess,” Hanuvar said, pulling on his sandals.
“Right. Now what you do is keep an eye on things to the east side of camp. Quintus has the west side. Most bandits would wet themselves if they went this deep in the Coreven Marshes, but you never know. Keep moving so you don’t get sleepy, or I’ll have your head. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Hanuvar climbed to his feet, buckling on his sword belt.
“And keep your hands off the women, right?”
Hanuvar emitted an embarrassed gasp he was sure Antires would have approved. “Of course, sir.”
Tullus sighed. “You keep those torches lit. You get nervous, you say something to Quintus before you bother me or anyone else. Got that? You rouse me and it turns out an owl made you jump I won’t be happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tullus frowned at him, then stomped away to his own bedroll.
Hanuvar headed for the perimeter, intent on the land beyond, though his eyes occasionally strayed for Izivar’s covered wagon. He’d heard her voice, but he’d yet to see her, for her wagon had pulled in to the caravan shortly before departure, and she’d never poked her head outside of it, at least not when he’d been watching. She’d surely climbed down to freshen up and eat with her maid and wagon driver, but as the most recent recruit, he’d been on the far side of camp, caring for the horses, for most of the meal hour.
He had little idea why Izivar Lenereva would be on this road, apart from it being one of the primary routes through northern Tyvol. Most wealthy folk would already have headed south before winter roared down from the Ardenines.
It was best not to speculate.
A half hour into his shift one of the torches began to sputter. Hanuvar pretended anxiety as he consulted Quintus, a surly red-haired guard who looked half Ceori. Quintus spoke to him exactly as he would if Hanuvar were a young man asking questions with obvious answers, then added more oil and resumed his duties.
While it was warmer here than it had been just south of the Ardenines, the night was cool. The full moon peered out through a break in the clouds and mist roiled at ankle level on the ground below the ridge. Sometimes it thinned enough to reveal the old black road threading through the highest parts of the land. Owls hooted and frogs croaked and crickets chirruped until the terrible whistling resumed. Once again, all natural sounds stopped on the instant.
This time the noise rose from the trees just beyond the road, and it was more plaintive, as though generated by something painfully alone and eager for company. Hanuvar’s neck hairs stood at attention and his pulse rose.
He strode to the ridge’s edge, away from the torch so his night vision would improve, and peered toward the source. This brought him closer to Izivar’s wagon.
He heard the creak of the base as she shifted, the frightened whisper of her female attendant, and a calmer answer, and then the curtain parted behind him.
Izivar Lenereva spoke Dervan, betraying her Volani origins in the way she stretched the vowels and hung on hard consonants. Had he wished it, he could have spoken with the same accent, although he felt a far stronger pull to address her in their shared tongue. What would it be like to feel the words of his own people in his mouth and hear them from another being in response? Once, he had taken such simple pleasures for granted.
“Warrior, is that sound really made by someone dead?” she asked. Her voice was a pleasant alto. “I have heard tales, but thought them exaggerations. What is the truth?”
He ignored the impulse to answer her question with one of his own: how did it feel to have survived the massacre of your people by siding with the enemy? But then she herself was unlikely to have directed that course, for it was her father Tannis who led their family, and their shipping empire, relocated to Dervan lands. That hardly exonerated her, though, for as an adult, under Volani law and custom she had the right and the responsibility to choose her own course.
So long did Hanuvar delay the answer to Izivar’s question that she called again to him. “Warrior?” She was only a vague shape, her face a slightly lighter oval than the hair that framed her, and the darkness of the wagon that surrounded her.
A figure shifted on his sleeping roll beneath a nearby open wagon and answered in a low voice. “He don’t answer because he hasn’t heard it before, milady. And yes, it’s the bog folk. And yes they’ve been dead a long, long time.”
“I do not understand,” Izivar said.
“My father used to pass this way when he was trading,” the man continued. “He harkened to stories about them, but only heard them himself a few times. Back then they’d only turn up when the water was very high and the moon was at its brightest.”
“What do they want?”
The merchant’s voice dropped lower still. “They want company, milady. In the old days, if you tried to cross a ford at high water, they’d turn up and drag you in, and the next night, you’d be out there, drowned and hooting your own self.”
A woman gasped; Hanuvar guessed from the sound it was Izivar’s maid.
“Why are they out now?” Hanuvar asked. “The moon’s not yet full.”
It wasn’t the merchant who answered, but Quintus, walking quietly up from the left. He gave Hanuvar a hard stare, then spat into the weeds. “The bog folk can’t do anything to us so long as we stay out of the lowlands.”
“Can you kill them with a sword?” Hanuvar asked, partly because he expected the person he pretended to be would ask it, and partly because he wanted to prepare for any eventualities.
“Can you kill what’s already dead?” Quintus shook his head. “I’ve no mind to find out. They can keep their soggy land. Now the rest of you’d best get back to sleep and let me and Flavius keep watch. The bog folk won’t come up here.” He curiously repeated the last bit as if he could make it true through repetition.
Izivar closed the curtain to her wagon and Hanuvar moved away. The thing keened beyond the camp for another hour then fell silent shortly before Hanuvar was relieved by the third shift and retreated to his bedroll. He fell immediately to sleep and did not rouse until dawn’s light struck his eyelids.
Shortly after breakfast the caravan was back on the old dark road. Sometimes the black stones stretched straight on through the marsh and sometimes the wetlands receded and the terrain was dry and ordinary, flat enough to farm. At one point they appeared to have left the marshes entirely, but by mid-morning the road was passing through the thick of them again.
Hanuvar had been positioned at the rear of the column and was near enough to hear occasional snatches of conversation in Volani from within Izivar’s covered wagon. The maid complained about the bumpiness of the roadway. Izivar replied that they could thank her brother when they finally saw him.
So far as Hanuvar knew, Izivar had only one brother, and Hanuvar had last seen him within the tomb of the Cabera family, one living Volani among so many dead ones. Almost certainly Indar had been among the first sources of rumors about Hanuvar’s return, and Hanuvar had long wondered about the wisdom of sparing him.
That decision, though, had been made.
Eventually the maid asked for and received permission to ride the sturdy brown mare tied to the back of the Lenereva wagon. She was tall and fair and only a little older than Hanuvar appeared. She wore her auburn hair in a loose woven braid hanging down her back, as had been popular in Volanus when traveling or engaging in sport, but was otherwise dressed like a Dervan woman, with an off-white stola and simple sandals. She eyed Hanuvar dismissively and then enlisted the help of Quintus to secure the saddle. She mounted with the ease of an experienced horsewoman, then trotted joyfully up to the front of the column to chat with a pair of youths accompanying their father in the foremost wagon.
While he had chosen this route in part to examine its security, Hanuvar’s most important objective had been to reach Adrumentum, where his former adversary Ciprion pledged to leave the sales records of Volani slaves for him. With that lure ahead, he chafed more at delays than the merchants eager to reach their markets. Hanuvar hoped come evening to finally possess the vital information, and then, at long last, launch the next phase of his plans.
But he had no way of knowing if Ciprion had succeeded. While the Dervan general was a man of integrity and intelligence, his research into the fate of Volani might well have been for naught, or worse, noted by men with different designs. Some agent of the revenants might be lying in wait even now to see who turned up in Adrumentum to retrieve the information.
There was no use worrying about the possibilities. If his plans required adjustments, Hanuvar would make them. He had no better alternatives.
By late morning the road was lower in the marshes once more. The vine-wrapped bushes and trees loomed heavily over the barely raised track, deepening the shadows in which they travelled, and water frequently lay to either side. They passed occasional clearings that might have been inviting were the sun shining, for weedy flowers bloomed there in profusion. In one field they glimpsed bushes heavy with small blood red berries. A couple in the wagon ahead exclaimed in surprise; the woman driver halted and the man climbed down from his wagon, then held back as Tullus cantered up, cursing. He threatened the man with a whip.
Startled, the merchant retreated to his wagon, casting a dark look after the head guard.
“No one leaves the road!” Tullus snarled. “You keep moving! All of you!”
Tullus waited on his horse at the verge of the field until the single riders and six caravan wagons and all the baggage animals filed past. He swung in beside Hanuvar, who was bringing up the rear.
“What’s that all about?” Hanuvar asked.
“They were after the bog berries,” Tullus said sourly. “The bog folk grow them to lure folks in.”
“Really?” If he were not playing a role, Hanuvar would have asked a similar question.
“If you leave the road, it’s hard to find your way back. It’s easy to get turned around when you’re calf deep in water among long grasses. And there’s things back there apart from the bog folk. Things that might want to eat you.”
“Why does anyone want those red berries, anyway?”
“They’re supposed to taste like the nectar of the gods and give you visions. Folk pay well for them.” He eyed Hanuvar. “And you may think, oh, I’ll just nip back there and get some of those berries, but I’ve seen better men than you head out for a harvest. Big parties of seasoned men with all sort of clever plans on how to keep track of where they’re going. Most of them don’t come back. The bog people can kill or cripple with a touch.”
“Why don’t the legions do something about this road, if it’s so dangerous?”
“Most of the legions are out on the borders right now, what with some of the Herrenes in revolt and the Cerdians threatening war and the damned Hadirans rioting about who’s their rightful queen.”
“Someone should do something.” Hanuvar thought he struck just the right note of youthful determination. “About the roads, I mean.”
“Then someone important needs to die up here. A senator, or a senator’s wife, or a rich man. Or maybe the emperor’s nephew. He’s here, you know.”
Hanuvar hadn’t known that at all. Once, his intelligence network had been the envy of Derva and he had been well appraised as to the whereabouts, political leanings, dispositions and personalities of the empire’s key military and political leaders. Now something as simple as the location of their likely heir was news to him.
“Here in the swamps?”
“No, dummy, in Adrumentum. Taking the spas. But he’s really here for the berries, and a lot of people are saying that’s what’s got the bog folk stirred up.”
“You said taking the berries was dangerous.”
Tullus began his answer before Hanuvar had finished. “Which is why he has a platoon of slaves under guard harvesting them. The people of Adrumentum are in love with all the money he’s brought to the village, but they’re also frightened to death of what might be the result.”
“And I guess asking him to stop is out of the question?”
Tullus snorted. “How many rich people have you known? He’ll do what he wants. Sooner or later berry season will be through, but who knows? It might be that the bog folk are going to be a lot more active from now on. They get angry whenever a few berries get eaten, and he and his cronies have collected thousands.”
Hanuvar didn’t like that news at all. His challenge wasn’t simply to free his people from their current owners, it was to arrange transport for them to his shipyard and thence to New Volanus. Only a few good roads traversed northern Tyvol, and he couldn’t afford to have one of them too hazardous to use.
A quarter mile beyond the berry field the clouds opened with streamers of rainy mist. Were the weather warmer, the experience might have been a pleasure. But the soft cold rain deepened the chill, like a spectral hand that leached through garments and skin and numbed to the bones.
Tullus ordered Hanuvar forward with him. The captain liked to vary the placement of his guards so they wouldn’t get complacent or chatty with the people they rode near. Hanuvar couldn’t help noticing Tullus peering intently forward. Before, he’d swept his gaze from right to left at regular intervals.
“Are you expecting a problem?” Hanuvar asked.
He shot Hanuvar an irritated look, but explained anyway. “Part of the road’s too low. It can get muddy but it usually isn’t much deeper than a boot, and no more than twelve paces wide.”
Hanuvar had heard the other guards talking about the spot as a landmark that morning. “And after that, we’re out of the marshes?”
“Once we’re past that, we have maybe a half hour of steady riding.”
What he didn’t say was that the low area would make an excellent ambush point, but Hanuvar understood. “Are the bog folk intelligent?”
Tullus searched his face, looking for signs of a keener intellect than Hanuvar had previously demonstrated. Hanuvar kept his expression guileless.
The guard captain didn’t answer his question. “Eyes sharp. We’re nearly there.”
Only a short time later the ridge and its road dipped into a stream, and the rotted remains of an old bridge lay washed up against the trees to the south. The rain pattered drearily down from charcoal skies while frogs croaked.
The guard captain ordered Hanuvar forward to assist, then splashed to the head on his gray. The water climbed over the horse’s fetlocks and finally just below the steady animal’s belly for a few strides, but then the depth reversed itself and Tullus was on the far bank of the stream, scanning the foliage to either side. He waved the wagons forward.
Hanuvar waited on the near side, scanning with eyes and ears. The low spot was an even finer ambush spot than he had imagined. The crossing provided both distraction and obstacle, while a thick screen of vegetation concealed potential attackers to north and south. The entire line of march was hemmed in by trees.
Five of the six wagons, all of the walkers and all but three of the riders were across when the frogs abruptly stilled. The two merchants on horseback seemed oblivious to the change, but Izivar’s maid scanned the brush to either side and then looked back at Izivar’s wagon just before she crossed into the deepest water.
It was then the sinister keening of the bog people filled the air.
A pair of figures shambled forth from trees beside the stream, man-shaped things dark as cured meat, their flat stringy hair plastered to the tops of their heads and the sides of their faces. They had no eyes, only sunken pits of darkness. Hanuvar had no chance to observe greater detail, for even his well-trained horse whinnied in fright and tried to bolt. He fought it, struggling against his own instinctive fear.
The two mounted merchants shouted in alarm and one was dumped by his rearing horse into the water. He came up flailing and splashed forward at a diagonal, away from the terrible bog folk.
Quintus forced his horse back toward the water, spear ready, but then his mount refused to advance further, and the veteran’s curses filled the air.
The driver of Izivar’s wagon wrestled for control over the pair of frightened horses pulling him forward. In their alarm they veered right and the cartwheels slewed into a submerged rock. The sudden shock tilted the wagon seat and threw the driver into the reaching arms of one of the bog people. The thing immediately bent with him into the water, and his scream evolved into gurgles.
The other thing grasped the wagon’s rear rail. Izivar’s maid servant rode on, clinging desperately to the reins and shouting Izivar’s name as the horse bolted up the bank out of her control.
Hanuvar had finally mastered his horse and kicked it close to the wagon opposite the moving dead man. “Izivar!” he shouted.
A woman in a light blue stola with curling black hair scrambled out from the wagon’s front, across the driver’s seat, eyes huge with fear. The bog man had crawled through the wagon and up onto the seat after her as she reached for Hanuvar.
His horse splashed its forelegs anxiously, but he forced it still and leaned for the woman as she fell against his side, feet hanging into the water. She clutched at his shirt and grasped his shoulder.
He urged the horse forward, steadying her against him.
The bog thing that had drowned the driver rose from the water before them, whistling and waving its emaciated arms. While Hanuvar had worked long with his animal, it still wasn’t a true war mount, which he could have commanded to rear and strike. The gelding dodged left. Izivar gasped and her clutching fingers slid. Hanuvar grabbed over his shoulder and more by chance than design snagged her wrist.
Her weight almost pulled him out of the saddle. The mount whipsawed left and right then splashed out of the stream. Hanuvar pulled hard and Izivar somehow righted herself, found a seat behind him, and wrapped her arms about him.
The other bank was chaos, with two wagons driving ahead and another on its side. A merchant and his pair of slaves had abandoned it and were sprinting for their lives in the wake of four other riders, and Quintus was cutting their horses free. Tullus shouted at Hanuvar to hurry.
Hanuvar thought that a sensible order and joined the guards and the bolting horses in the general retreat. The horses pulling Izivar’s ruined wagon managed to haul it devoid of all but one wheel onto the bank far to their right and looked unwilling to stop for the soggy unhorsed merchant in their path.
Hanuvar didn’t look back until the attack site lay fifty paces to their rear, where the road rose and the marsh receded. The only trees along the west were stately oaks.
Behind them, the bog folk and their victim had vanished. One wagon lay abandoned on its side, its barrels and boxes strewn across the roadway. Izivar’s horses had been cut loose by another guard now attempting to calm them, for they still danced frantically in their traces.
The rest of the caravan waited a quarter mile on. As Hanuvar and his companions reined in, the drizzle finally stopped. Ahead of them the clouds opened. A sunbeam illuminated a pine on a distant hill.
The flustered caravan master was pretending calm and insisting those newly on foot be given space in the wagons. Izivar’s maid threw herself off her mount, her face tear streaked, arms stretched up for her mistress. Hanuvar eased Izivar gently down into the other woman’s care.
Izivar was older than her maid, likely in her late thirties, with dark brows and a slim hooked nose and full lips. Her age showed in lines about her eyes and mouth. He could not help admiring her thick, curling dark hair, shoulder length and loose.
He loved hearing the flow of Volani words between the two women as they consoled one another. Izivar addressed the maid not like a stern Dervan slaveholder, but as a companion, and the maid was mortified she’d been unable to control her horse and help her. Izivar reassured her that she understood, and that even the brave warrior who’d saved her had barely mastered his horse. She turned and faced him. She spoke to him kindly in her accented Dervan. “What is your name?”
“I am called Flavius, milady,” he answered.
She bowed her head respectfully. “I am grateful to you, Flavius. You were very brave.”
“So were you.”
She favored him with an amused smile then looked at the other survivors. The wagon folk had realized their relative safety now, and it had made them bold enough to complain about the caravan’s terrible protection. The owner of the fallen cart was pointing back down the road and arguing that his goods should be recovered.
The maid looked up at Hanuvar, brazenly, and spoke in their native tongue to Izivar: “He is rather handsome and not at all awkward for a boy his age.”
“He could almost be Volani,” Izivar mused, and she studied Hanuvar’s eyes. He returned her gaze as if in idle curiosity. For a moment Hanuvar wondered if he’d given away that he understood them.
“You look familiar to me, Flavius,” Izivar said in Dervan. “Is it possible that we’ve met? Or that I might know your family?”
“It might be possible, milady.”
She smiled. “You called me Izivar, earlier.”
“Yes, milady. I just wanted to make sure I got your attention.”
“You’re very quick thinking.”
“Thank you. Was your driver also from Volanus? It was terrible, how he died.”
“No, he was a Dervan man my father hired. He was very conscientious.”
“Is it true that your father . . . ” He hesitated as though he were deciding how to phrase the question. “...left Volanus because he liked Derva better?”
His question drolly amused her. “My father could not convince the government of Volanus to change their course to save the city, but he did what he could to help those under his protection—ship builders, craftsmen, and their families.”
“You give your father credit?” the maid asked of her mistress, speaking Volani once more.
Izivar shot her a look to quiet her. “It is not his business,” she replied sharply in the same language. The maid looked down, and Izivar addressed Hanuvar in Dervan, her anger ebbing. “I mean no insult, but these are private matters. I hope you will understand.”
“Of course. I apologize if I was forward.”
“It is of no consequence. I am in your debt, Flavius. Once we reach Adrumentum I’ll see that you’re properly rewarded.”
“That’s not necessary, milady.”
“Nonsense. A young man like yourself might do well with a sponsor, and I could introduce you to a powerful one.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
Izivar glanced down at a rip in her blouse near her waistline and probed it with her fingers.
“Perhaps,” the maid said slyly in Volani, “I could give him a reward.” Even if Hanuvar hadn’t understood Volani he saw the inviting look in her eyes, though he looked only blankly back.
“You’re incorrigible.” Izivar’s hands probed the rent in her garment more surely. She shifted unsteadily.
“Milady?” The maid sounded concerned.
Izivar had turned from Hanuvar so that she would not reveal any of her flesh and pried the rent apart so that she could peer at the skin. “It’s just a scratch,” she said, but her legs seemed to have trouble holding her upright.
“One of the creatures struck you?” Hanuvar demanded, his voice sharp.
“Hold still, milady,” the maid was saying in Volani. “It’s not deep.”
“Tullus,” Hanuvar shouted. Then, when he saw Tullus still in the midst of a debate with two of the merchants, he called to him more forcefully. “The lady’s been wounded!”
Tullus broke away from the conversation and trotted over, tripping over a raised black road brick, then came to a halt, his expression grave. “From the bog folk? Let me see.”
Izivar looked as though she meant to brush off his concern, but the arm she raised to object flopped loosely.
“It’s here,” the maid said.
Hanuvar guided his animal closer and observed a slim gash along Izivar’s side, no worse than a kitten scratch. But Tullus’ expression looked grave.
“What can we do?” Hanuvar asked.
“There’s a healer only about forty minutes south, just past the gate. I hear she’s saved some people poisoned by the bog folk.”
“Forty minutes walking?” Hanuvar asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll get her there faster. Milady?”
She seemed to have trouble focusing, but stretched her hands to him. Tullus hesitated only a moment, then boosted her up.
Hanuvar wrapped his arms around her before him and told her to stay awake. She sleepily vowed to do so.
The maid shouted that she wouldn’t be left behind and hurried to her horse.
Tullus spoke quickly to Hanuvar. “There’s a legion gate. Tell them I sent you and tell them it’s Sullius’ caravan.”
“Yes, sir.” Hanuvar pulled Izivar tight with one arm, grasped the reins with his right hand, and kicked the mount into a canter. The maid had managed to clamber onto her own horse and raced after.
“You’ll be alright,” she called in Volani, partially, it seemed, to reassure herself.
Izivar remained upright but she did not reply. Hanuvar thought she was trying to speak several times during the ride, but over the clatter of the horse’s progress on the paving bricks he couldn’t make out what she was saying. After a time, she began to slump.
“Stay awake,” he urged her, more than once. “Just hold on and stay awake.” Each time she roused.
They passed other dirt tracks. Three were smaller walking paths and cart trails to outlying residences, and two were full-fledged roads. Just as Hanuvar’s horse was starting to foam he spotted a gate stretched across the road, so new that the wood was bright, as it was yet to be weathered. Unhelmed legionaries, alerted by his approach, lifted spears and shields and lined up behind it.
Hanuvar slowed. He heard the maid, whose own animal had fallen behind, still in pursuit.
He trotted forward even as a helmeted man behind the gate urged him to halt and identify himself.
“I’m Flavius, with Sullius’ caravan. This woman’s wounded and needs medical help!”
A surly solder with pock marked cheeks pushed to the front of the men. “What does that matter to me?” he asked. The leather pteruges dangling from his armored shoulders were white, the rank marking of an optio. “Have you got your papers?”
“Tullus told me to tell you to let me through,” Hanuvar insisted. “There’s a chance we can save her if we get her to the healer immediately!”
Most of the soldiers looked to their sour leader, as if silently urging him to unbend.
While the homely young officer frowned, the maid arrived on her wheezing horse. She spoke, breathing nearly as heavily as her animal. “What are you men waiting for? Let milady through! She’s a friend to Enarius!”
Mention of the emperor’s nephew decided the matter for the optio at last, and at his signal the men quickly shoved the gate to one side. A freckled soldier pointed to a small wood building no more than fifty feet beyond the gate, on the outskirts of a sprawling unwalled village. He said the healer was there.
Hanuvar held the swaying Izivar tight to him as he urged the horse forward. The freckled soldier, seeing his difficulty, trotted after. He helped further by receiving Izivar as Hanuvar eased her from the horse. Hanuvar thanked him, lifted her into his arms, and hurried up the short flight of steps.
The wide porch displayed a variety of wide-brimmed hats and sandals and walking sticks, their prices chalked on a nearby board. Inside the building proved a combination trade post and tavern. One wall shelved cloaks and wineskins and belts and other gear. Thrust out from the other was a counter behind which a woman poured drinks for a band of middle-aged men. At a nearby table sat a plump centurion in the ivory white armor and tunic of the Praetorian Guard, drinking beside a sullenly handsome young praetorian optio, his own uniform pteruges golden. Both looked up as Hanuvar made for a second counter at the store’s rear.
Hanuvar drew to a stop before the older woman stationed there. “I’m looking for a healer. This woman’s been wounded by one of the bog folk.”
The wrinkles about the woman’s mouth deepened as she frowned. Her voice was high and soft. “I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for her, if it was really bog folk.”
“Is that Izivar Lenereva?” a male voice asked of Hanuvar’s back. He turned his head to find that the centurion and his optio had stumped up behind him. He didn’t have time to answer, but Izivar’s maid, bustling past them, replied breathlessly in the affirmative.
“Please,” the maid said pressing herself to the counter. “Help her.”
“I don’t know,” the woman behind the counter said, glaring at Hanuvar. “It’s you Dervans who have the bog folk on the hunt, anyway.”
In Hanuvar’s experience, those living beyond the borders of the empire thought the Dervans a great, faceless mass with one vision and one purpose, sweeping forth like an ant horde to carry goods back to their nest. But within the Tyvolian peninsula itself many regions remained proud of their heritage and also thought themselves distinct, even if some young men from their lands marched under the empire’s eagles. To Hanuvar’s eyes the woman before him was almost indistinguishable from the people in Derva proper to the south, but he understood she did not consider herself so. To her, this community and probably those in the region surrounding were a distinct people, with different traditions and customs, and the Dervans were foreign interlopers. So had he known before his invasion of Tyvol and had thus found many allies among the Dervan territories, although not so many as he had hoped.
“She is not Dervan,” Hanuvar said. “She is Volani.”
“Please, help,” the maid added in her accented Dervan. “Hundreds of people depend upon her. They truly need her.”
The centurion now blustered that the healer would help if she knew what was good for her, but she didn’t acknowledge him. The pair of praetorians must have been invested in Izivar’s welfare because they were aware of her purported connection to Enarius.
“Bring her through and we’ll see what can be done.” The woman stepped to the break in the counter and motioned Hanuvar forward. Both the maid and the centurion followed, the latter demanding of the maid what had happened and how bad the wound was.
A small, orderly apartment lay beyond a curtained doorway, redolent with candlewax, cooking oils, and unfamiliar herbs. A dining area held two couches and the woman motioned Hanuvar to lay Izivar upon the closest while she hurried through another curtain. The instant he had placed her, the maid pushed past and knelt, clutching her mistress’s hands.
The praetorian centurion considered Hanuvar coldly, as though he personally blamed Hanuvar for any inconvenience Izivar’s injury might bring him. He was Hanuvar’s height, with a long straight nose and bright blue eyes. He radiated the sense of superiority typical of the almost wealthy, and Hanuvar noted his citizen’s ring held an amber stone. His flesh sagged on his powerful frame, like an athlete gone to seed.
He shouted into Hanuvar’s face. “The woman should have been brought to the villa and presented to Enarius’ healer. I’ll have you up on charges.”
“This healer was closer,” Hanuvar countered calmly. “And is supposed to know about the bog poisons. Does your healer?”
Those points momentarily froze the centurion. He scowled, then turned to the young optio, waiting in the apartment doorway. “Metellus, go get the medic. Run! And bring back troops with you.”
Metellus saluted and departed swiftly.
The centurion sneered at Hanuvar. “What’s your name, boy?”
The maid turned her head. “His name is Flavius.” She wiped one tear-streaked cheek. “And he already saved her life once. Don’t you be mean to him. He’s only been trying to help.”
The centurion fumed but before he found a retort, the healer returned with a basket of herbs and oils. She lifted her face toward Hanuvar and the praetorian. “You two get out.”
“Is she going to live?” Hanuvar asked.
“She might. Now clear out. There’s nothing you can do and I have to cut more of her clothing. I don’t need you in the way gawking.”
“But you do think she’ll live?” the centurion asked.
“Her chances are fair, if the boy brought her to me within the hour.”
“I have.”
“Good. Now both of you go.”
Seeing that there was nothing more he could do, Hanuvar departed. The centurion grumbled at him as they left the back room, demanding more specifics. When he found out the caravan had been attacked, he declared he’d lead some men out to escort it the rest of the way in. Had the officer been under Hanuvar’s command he would have told him that was a waste of time, but he was glad to see the centurion’s wide back.
He retreated to his horse and walked the weary mount to a stable down a side street. Normally he’d have rubbed him down himself, but he paid a stable boy to pamper the animal and headed deeper into the resort village, saddlebag draped over his shoulder.
He pretended to be a wide-eyed youth goggling at the inns and gambling halls and brothels and, naturally, the famed bathhouses and spas. In actuality he was alert for hidden troops or the presence of revenants. He thought to see them only if Ciprion’s aims had been discovered and the Dervans had learned Hanuvar planned to visit the settlement. But seeing none failed to reassure him.
While off-duty soldiers lounged in the bars and a few strolled the streets, he discovered from a fellow tavern goer that the legion presence here was relatively small. A century of praetorians was posted nearby, thanks to the presence of Enarius, the emperor’s favorite nephew, but no one had seen any revenants, even though they naturally suspected spies or informants for the notorious group in the settlement.
In the midst of inquiring about the presence of troops over a meal, the subject of Hanuvar unexpectedly came up at a nearby table. Some thought the notion that Hanuvar lived was absurd while others believed just the opposite, though they laughed at the idea Hanuvar could be stopped by a few soldiers at a wooden gate. A short man of middle age expertly posited Hanuvar would obviously sneak through the wilds at night if he were alone, and if he was returning with an army, that gate was woefully undermanned. Opinion differed as to whether his army would be composed of Ceori and Ruminians and Herrenes or simply ghosts.
Hanuvar turned to listen with a slack jaw, as if overwhelmed by the wonder of it all. He privately agreed all three viewpoints held merit, including the absurdity of Hanuvar’s survival in the first place.
After his late lunch he walked toward the most prosperous inn in the city, one displaying a brightly painted image of a smiling man with closed eyes reclining on a bed. Once past the gaudy, faux-gold leaf doorway he approached the well-groomed clerk at the desk and asked if there were any messages for Anex of Cylene.
The clerk said he wasn’t sure but that he would check, which was to be expected, regardless if he were speaking truth or if he was running off to alert some soldiers. While Hanuvar didn’t detect anything in the clerk’s demeanor that suggested nervousness, he watched the exits and the curtained doorway through which the man disappeared.
During that short, tense wait, boisterous laughter rang from the common room through a nearby doorway, a sobering reminder of his own insignificance. No matter how vital he thought his actions, they were as meaningless to the greater swell of humanity as foam upon the tide. The daily and nightly activities of this tavern would continue as they had for generations, whether he were to walk free, or die in bloody ambush.
He did not have long to stand in somber rumination, for the clerk returned bearing a sealed scroll tube. His eyes were searching. “There’s one here. But I really can’t hand this over unless you know the code word—”
“Etulius.”
The clerk’s eyebrows rose minutely. “Very well.” He placed the scroll tube upon the counter, and Hanuvar slid over a single small coin for the man’s trouble, glancing at the scroll tube as if it were only of minor interest to him. He left the inn without a backward glance.
Within the tube might well be the future of his remaining people, but he handled the object nonchalantly, heading to the cheaper inn across the street and a cubicle on the upper floor he rented for himself, absent of all furnishing apart from a low bed. He peered once more through the window and down onto the street, alert for spies. No one appeared to have paid him the slightest notice.
He slid the lock bar on the door, then, at last, broke the seal on the scroll tube. He shook out a bundle of tightly rolled parchment paper and sat down on the bed.
The parchment itself was also sealed with wax, but Ciprion wisely hadn’t applied his own seal to the contents, choosing an elephant instead, which raised a brief, wry smile. Hanuvar then broke the yellow wax and took the top paper in both hands so it would not curl in upon itself.
Ciprion had written him in Herrenic, hardly a fool-proof means of keeping communication secret, but one that entailed an extra hurdle for casual snoopers.
My Dear Friend,
I hope this information reaches you in a timely fashion, and that your own travels were without incident.
He hoped in vain, Hanuvar thought, and continued reading.
Our mutual acquaintance has been having a difficult time of it, as you may have learned, and I believe he will wisely keep from such overt steps against that family in the near future.
Here Ciprion must be referring to Aminius, who had plotted to kill Ciprion and whose agent had poisoned Ciprion’s grandson. Hanuvar wished Ciprion could somehow have been more forthcoming with his plans on that front, as he worried for him, but Ciprion immediately shifted subjects, maintaining a slightly indefinite focus out of necessity.
The papers enclosed are a record of all of the slaves matching your qualifications that were sold to Dervan masters. You will find the name of the slave, the slave’s age, and profession, if known, the amount paid, and the purchaser. Most were acquired by landowners, and I’ve provided information about them, their business representatives, and their dwelling places, in the hope that this will save you time.
Indeed it would. He wondered what challenges Ciprion had overcome to obtain the information, remembering how he’d said Hanuvar wasn’t the only one who could work miracles.
Some were purchased directly by the government, and information on their whereabouts has been more challenging to obtain. Several dozen were sold to foreigners, and that specific information is stored separately under layers of bureaucracy that has proved difficult to penetrate. I haven’t given up yet.
Hanuvar doubted that he would; persistence was one of their shared attributes.
I have confirmed that the woman you asked about survived with minor injuries.
He took a deep breath and breathed out slowly. His daughter Narisia lived. Here was the written proof, in his hands.
She and three friends managed to break free, although one died during the escape. She and her remaining companions disappeared into the Turian hills, and a rainstorm came on their heels, rendering tracking impossible. As you doubtless know, everyone’s superstitious about travelling the Turian hills by night.
And some said that was with good reason. But he guessed that three armed Eltyr would probably manage well enough in most environments. The province of Turia was just south of Derva itself. From there she might have fled further to Utria or some of the former Herrenic colonies. But while they had once played host to the Volani forces, they were now firmly under Dervan control. Where might she have ended up?
The escape is a closely kept secret. Those few who are aware of it have been assured the haunts of the Turian hills found them. Another group continues to hunt them.
Revenants, this meant.
You know how to have your agents find me. I will continue to seek the rest of the information you’re after.
Ciprion hadn’t affixed his signature, naturally. Hanuvar let that page roll in upon itself and held it in his fist, a tight grip that did not crush it. Soon, he would burn it, but he took a moment to appreciate the great risks that had been taken upon his behalf, and to be thankful so honorable a man was his friend.
The rest of the papers consisted of Ciprion’s promised information, cramped lists of tiny writing that he did not yet scrutinize in detail. For to do so would be not only to learn the names of those who lived, but by extrapolation the names of many more who had died. It was an irrational thought, but he could not help feeling that to read the parchment beside him was to seal the dooms of tens of thousands.
A philosopher would tell him he erred in making himself central to his understanding of the world. Hanuvar would have responded that he was aware of that, but that this was one of those rare moments where both knowing and not were painful. While some absent from these papers might yet live under the control of the government or in foreign hands, the odds were staggeringly high that any not contained herein were almost certainly dead.
Against his own wishes, both hands tightened, crushing Ciprion’s letter. His pulse was a drum at his temples. Enemies and allies alike had called him calm, but he could feel rage, and it swept unchecked through him. His hands shook, his teeth bared. His neck muscles stood in relief as he silently screamed for the dead strewn beyond the borders of the papers beside him.
Silently he had screamed, and silently he wept. Had he been granted divine powers at that moment he would have crumbled the walls of Derva, thrown lightning against its temples, and sent fire coursing down its streets. Women, children, the elderly, slaves, servants, foreigners . . . he would not have cared, not at that moment. He would have jeered to see flames engulf the city.
Even the best of men know pain, and hate, and perhaps no other man had greater cause to dream such things, however briefly.[1]
He gave himself that moment of grief, then put Ciprion’s letter aside, gently smoothing his hand across it as if in apology. After a moment to gather himself, he spread out the parchment papers he had crossed a continent to obtain.
There they were, the names, slightly more than a thousand. Knowing that only one in two hundred people survived did not diminish his joy in discovering this because he had once been told less than a thousand had been dragged away in chains. Now he learned a few hundred more were alive, at least as of a half year ago.
If he had not already reflected upon the pain and indignities those people had suffered, he might have needed to pause for further reflection. But he squandered no more time and set to studying the list. As he had assumed, most of the survivors had not been soldiers, and almost all were old or young, but here they were. Many had been sold in lots, which ought to make their reacquisition simpler.
Most surprising was just how many names he recognized. Here was a man who had tended the gardens at the Assembly Hall. There was a stablemaster he’d interacted with. He’d eaten the excellent cakes of a woman known as a champion baker.
Fourteen of those listed as ship builders had been sold to Lenereva T. Tannis. Scattered here and there were dozens more purchased by a Lenereva, I. Indar or Izivar?
Hanuvar had met both and could guess what must have happened. The ever-cautious Tannis Lenereva had purchased a few men who might be of service to his interests, thinking he could explain away any suspicion that the emperor or his cronies might have of a Volani buying others of his kind.
And Izivar had spent her own money buying more. One was listed as Serliva, occupation hand maid. Likely these others were related to people already working with the Lenereva family, or related to the slaves Tannis had bought; anyone whom Izivar could possibly justify purchasing. And judging from the maid’s reaction when Izivar had spoken in defense of her father, Hanuvar deduced her own actions had drawn Tannis’ ire. Otherwise Serliva would not have been so incensed that Izivar had given him credit for their freedom.
Hanuvar rolled the list of names tightly together and placed them once more in the waterproof cylinder. This he then slipped into his saddlebag, into which were sewn the gems that would be the first step toward buying the freedom of those names. He was far shy of the capital to do so for all.
That one of the carefully politic Lenereva had dared to buy up Volani surprised him upon multiple levels. Tannis and his father and uncle before him had stymied the efforts of Himli Cabera in the first war and Hanuvar himself in the second, always concerned the Cabera family meant to leverage its power as the Lenereva would have. Thus had they ensured few reinforcements ever reached Hanuvar, and that funds were sent to other fronts in the war. Only when all hope was lost at the conclusion of the second war had they cried out that the time had come to fight, under better management. Lenereva management.
Such an absurd declaration had won them near universal condemnation, but they had clawed their way back into popular regard, arguing always that Volanus should work harder to appease the Dervan Empire. And then Tannis and his faction had accused Hanuvar of conspiring with the enemies of Derva. Their actions, and their traitorous alliance with Catius and his political faction, had led to Hanuvar’s own flight from Volanus.
What then to make of Izivar? He remembered her from previous years as a polite background figure at a handful of state functions. She had been married to a loud-mouthed demagogue at the time, one who’d eventually died after a prolonged illness. Hanuvar’s brother Melgar had opined that the fellow had choked to death on his own bile.
Hanuvar’s impression of her today had been more positive. She had been forthright, grateful, and intelligent. She had wished to keep her family issues private. Then there had been her egalitarian interactions with her maid, and the telling quality that Serliva seemed not only to like Izivar, but to wish to make clear to others she was different from her father.
Why was Izivar even here? Assuming she lived, how safe might it be to approach her? Just because she had demonstrated empathy to her own people did not mean she would dare greater risks, or side with a man her father had planned to turn over to the Dervans.
But if the Lenereva could be persuaded to assist, Hanuvar would gain immediate access to a small fleet of ships useful for moving his people north. Some of those vessels might even be ocean worthy. The Lenereva would have access to workmen, wealth, contacts, and uncounted other benefits.
He nodded slowly to himself. For the sake of their people, he would seek her again, and this time, he would risk speaking a portion of the truth.
II
Metellus didn’t at all mind being separated from the centurion. He’d been instructed to run, but he instead requisitioned a horse from an irate merchant. Before long he’d pulled the praetorian physician from his wine imbibing and returned to the street outside the general store where the healer lived, accompanied by the doctor and a half dozen praetorian soldiers.
By then Adrumentum was in an uproar because the caravan had arrived and rumors flew about attacks of the bog folk.
Metellus found the entire situation amusing. He extracted Centurion Corvus from the middle of the street, where he was heatedly questioning the caravan master, and then Corvus lifted his heavy chin, told the doc and the soldiers to follow, and marched straight into the store.
Corvus immediately threw his weight around, as Metellus could have predicted. The Volani woman was alive and apparently going to survive, though it didn’t win the healer any favors, for she and the physician immediately fell into a war over treatment methods.
In the end Izivar Lenereva was carried away upon a cot borne by four ordinary legionaries. Corvus wasn’t about to sully the Praetorian Guard with any unnecessary manual labor.
Given that Enarius thought so highly of the woman, Metellus had been disappointed to find her rather ordinary looking, and older than he had assumed.
He was tasked with overseeing her return to the villa. For some reason, Corvus insisted he was still working to get the truth about what had really happened out in the marsh, and said he’d be along when he had it. Metellus was happy to remain apart from him.
Back at the villa Metellus let the phyician take care of the woman and report anything important to Enarius, because he really didn’t care. He would have headed straight for the bath, except that the century’s wiry adjutant was waiting for him and came to attention the moment Metellus wearily noted him “Am I about to hear bad news?” he asked.
“Sorry sir,” the adjutant said.
“What’s happened this time? Enarius fall down a well? The cook leave a toenail in the stew?”
“Senator Aminius is here. He wants a briefing from you or the centurion.”
Metellus stared in surprise.
“He seems quite agitated, sir. He says he finds the security situation here appalling.”
“Does he. Where may our illustrious senator be found?”
“He’s waiting in the centurion’s office.”
Any other aristocrat would just be chumming with Enarius, but the emperor’s heir and Aminius weren’t especially close, the more so because Aminius thought Enarius a rival. Enarius was too stupid to notice.
“Naturally he would be,” Metellus said. “Well, carry on. I’ll go handle it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Metellus knew what Aminius really wanted, although his arrival astounded him on several levels. Someone as clever as Aminius thought himself should have stayed well clear of both assassins and their quarry. As the adjutant started away, Metellus asked a final question. “Did he happen to say why he was here in the first place? Surely he didn’t ride all the way north from Derva to pester me about security issues.”
The adjutant halted and faced him. “He said nothing to me, sir, but I’ve heard he was up here speculating on some property.”
Aminius was well known to have sunk a vast amount of his personal fortune into real estate. The properties continued to reap benefits for him, but in Metellus’ limited association with the senator it seemed clear none of the wealth brought him happiness. And that was strange, because if Metellus possessed a tenth the money Aminius was reputed to have locked away, he could make himself very happy indeed.
He found Aminius tilted in Corvus’ low-backed office chair, feet on the desk. The senator held a scroll so the window light in the little room fell directly on the text. Judging from the label on the scroll case on the table beside him, it was one of the silly Herrenic adventure novels Enarius carried around with him.
Aminius glanced at him as Metellus closed the door, then returned his attention to the scroll. The senator was a portly, light-skinned man of middle age with thick, curly hair. Gossip had it he was fanatical about wrestling, and his heavy upper arms and pectoral muscles suggested he had once been in fighting trim. Probably he thought he remained so.
“Enjoying the book?” Metellus asked.
“I keep waiting for the Hadiran girl to lose her dress. The stupid writer keeps implying something will happen. It never does.” Aminius tossed the scroll on the desk.
“Is that a veiled reference to some other topic?”
“It’s not veiled at all.” Aminius returned the front legs of the chair to the ground. “Where’s your centurion, Metellus?”
“Out learning about an ambush on a caravan.”
“Is that really his lookout?”
Metellus snorted and took a chair across from the senator. “You could argue that any nearby security threat was reason to obtain information, except that you know he shouldn’t really care. I think Corvus just likes to feel needed.”
“And you?”
“I just like to feel money.”
“It’s funny you should mention that. I like to feel I’m getting results for my money. And I’m not. I hear you and Corvus have spent each afternoon for the last three days waiting for the Volani woman.”
“Not my idea,” Metellus said, more gruffly than he intended. That he had been dispatched to await Izivar’s arrival for the last three days had rankled him as well, until he realized he could relax in the comfortable interior of the general store while doing so. He strove to sound more at ease. “Considering Enarius’ ongoing fascination, I expected her to be a raving beauty.”
“Either she’s aged poorly or you’re too young to appreciate her.”
Metellus shrugged; he was uninterested in a discussion about beauty standards and wished Aminius would get to his obvious point.
He did so immediately. “I can’t help noticing his illustriousness is still alive and sucking down berry juices with his slack-jawed friends.”
“You asked us to be discreet.”
“Yes, I did. I might also wait for old age to take him, which is incredibly discreet and decidedly less expensive. What are you waiting for?”
“Corvus believes that if our future careers are to be more secure, we need to cover our steps.”
“Corvus believes. What do you believe about his steps?”
“I would have preferred a more direct approach, to be sure. Not this elaborate plan he’s cooked up.”
“Oh?”
Metellus did not permit the smile he felt building. “You sound as though you wish to hear it. At our previous meeting you made clear you did not.”
“That was before I began to wonder whether I’d spent my money wisely.”
“I wonder if timing might be an issue as well. Rumor has it the emperor may soon formally adopt Enarius as his very own son. I seem to recall some rumors a few years ago that he was going to do the same with you.”
The senator’s face slid easily into hard lines. “I’m not sure why you’re trying to pull my chain, boy. When this dog comes out of the kennel, he’s ready to kill.”
“You misunderstand me, Senator. I just mean to say that when things need to be done more quickly, you should come to me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Are you offering to do things more quickly now? For a higher fee, say?”
He ignored the senator’s obvious attempt to test him. “No, I think we should let Corvus’ plan play out. It should take place tonight, during Enarius’ berry feast. The events early today will actually make his sudden death that much more plausible.”
“Now you absolutely must tell me what’s planned.”
Metellus shrugged, as if the matter was of little consequence. “According to the sages, the best time to pick the bog berries is under the full moon, and if you mean to drink their juices, the best time is within an hour or two of when they’re gathered.”
“They only grow in the bogs, though. Even I know that much.”
“Which is why Enarius’ slaves have located a nice raised campsite about half hour’s walk into the marshes beyond the villa. They’re erecting tents as we speak, for an overnight stay. There will be lanterns and guards—praetorians, mind you—to keep out the terrible bog folk.”
“Who apparently attacked Izivar Lenereva.”
“Yes. One did. What will happen tonight is about a dozen of them will erupt out of the dark, right after Enarius and his friends have drunk deep. They’ll actually be some of our men, dressed to look like the bog people. The slaves will scatter in fear, a few praetorians who’ve always been useless troublemakers will get killed in the defense . . . ” He decided not to say what Enarius’ final fate would be, but to imply it. “ . . . and your problem will get solved.”
“I suppose that could work,” Aminius said grudgingly. “It is complicated. And you had to pay these men to let them into the plan.”
Metellus conceded that by turning up his hand. “It’s not my plan.”
“I’m beginning to think Corvus isn’t entirely clever.”
“I would have assumed you’d noticed that before now.”
“Well, one works with what one has. If I’d known you better to start with, I might not even have bothered with him in the first place.”
That was nice to hear, but wasn’t worth responding to.
“So here’s a proposition,” the senator said. “How would you like a bonus?”
“Go on.”
“In the midst of things, make sure Corvus dies in the defense of the emperor’s nephew. It will make his widow proud. Probably the emperor will give her some compensation.”
“It’s so courteous of you to keep her in your thoughts,” Metellus said with feigned sympathy.
“Do we have a deal?”
“You haven’t mentioned amounts.” Metellus had planned on ensuring Corvus’ death in any case.
“Five hundred sesterces.”
Not an astronomical figure, but hardly a small one. Metellus decided against haggling. “Consider it done.”
“The primary goal is achieving the first matter.”
“Believe me, I understand. I’m even looking forward to it.”
III
Izivar wasn’t sure where she was when she woke, but she heard the chirrup of crickets and smelled incense. As she blinked she discovered she lay in a brown canvas tent lit by a bright lantern with glazed glass, so that the golden light was warm rather than glaring. She had no idea of the time, but something in the atmosphere suggested late evening.
As she groggily propped herself up on her left arm, her brother Indar said her name and then knelt at her side, his face uncharacteristically open in relief. A hint of boyish charm still touched his features, but his eyes were tired and careworn, as though five or ten years had passed rather than one since she’d been in his presence. Even his hair was poorly tended and a little wild, though he had not abandoned his sense of style, for he wore an exquisitely cut amber shaded tunic, and his hand glittered with rings.
Serliva drew up behind him with a cup.
“Where am I?” Izivar asked. Her voice was husky with fatigue.
“You don’t remember?” Indar sounded concerned.
If she’d remembered she wouldn’t have asked. She shook her head, no.
“You were conscious a few hours ago and we talked. Don’t you recall?”
“I don’t remember anything after . . . my goodness.” She looked down at her injured side, but was unable to view it because she wore a long white under tunic. Serliva instructed her not to sit up but she ignored her and did so, fighting a wave of dizziness, then hiked up the side of the shift to inspect her injury. The thin scratch was faded to a dull brown and covered with a sticky yellow substance that bore a faint citrus scent when she brought it to her nose.
Serliva swiftly filled her in, telling her how Flavius had galloped so swiftly she hadn’t been able to keep up, how there’d nearly been a fight at the gate when the Dervans hadn’t wanted Flavius to come past, and how she and Flavius had to demand help from the healer at the trading post. After that, Izivar had been given a poultice and a drink and then the healer had argued with a praetorian physician about how to treat her condition. Serliva would have breathlessly continued to supply details in this manner if Izivar hadn’t raised a hand to stop her.
“It seems I owe you and the healer my thanks, as well as quick-acting young Flavius. Where is he?”
Indar answered. “I sent a messenger to him, once we were certain you would be alright, and Enarius himself wants to thank him. Flavius sent word that he had to collect his pay from the caravan, but that he might come this evening. The messenger said he didn’t look very excited about the prospect. Seemed to think he’s embarrassed. Serliva said he didn’t seem very prosperous, so I sent a slave to him with some money for a bath and clothing.”
“Indar!” Izivar exclaimed. “That probably just embarrassed him further.”
“It’s the Dervan thing to do,” Indar countered, as though Dervan conduct was the standard to emulate. He lifted a red glazed goblet to his lips and sipped delicately.
“What time is it, and where am I?”
“It’s nearly sundown,” he answered. “And you’re in a camp outside Enarius’ villa.”
“A camp? Where?”
“We’re out in the marshes.”
“In the marshes? Don’t you know I was just attacked by one of the bog people?”
Indar waved her concern away. “We’re surrounded by an army of praetorians and slaves. You’ll be safe.”
There was rarely any way to get through to her brother, but such blind dismissal infuriated her. She couldn’t help checking with Serliva. Out of sight behind Indar, she rolled her eyes.
Izivar stretched out a hand for him and he took it. She squeezed his fingers and spoke softly, determined to forge a connection with him. “Indar, what are you doing here? Father needs you to come home.”
“Father wants to tell me how much I need to pay attention to him, and now you want me to do the same.”
She sought his eyes. “He’s getting old and needs to get his affairs in order.”
“His affairs are in order, if he hands them off to you.” He released her fingers and drank.
“He may not have much longer.”
“He’s been pretending that for at least ten years. I’ll believe it when he’s buried.”
“Indar, I think it’s true this time. I’ve been north to consult the Molitan oracle, and his time draws close. The family needs to come together.”
Indar looked down into his shiny red goblet as if he expected to find answers there. Apparently he wanted to share them. “Here.” He extended it toward her.
She started to say that she wasn’t thirsty, but a heavenly sweet scent reached her.
“It will strengthen you,” Indar promised. “Enarius’ healer puts great stock in it. And it’s better than Fadurian wine.”
She licked her dry lips and took it, wondering why Serliva was shooting her brother a dark look. “Is it watered?”
He laughed. “It’s juice, not wine.”
She sipped, and it was delicious, sweet with a hint of blueberry tartness but possessing a delicious full-bodied flavor. It seemed to cut right to her core and set her glowing, as though she imbibed the purest moonlight. She drank deeply.
Indar chuckled good-naturedly. “Careful, sister.” He gently eased the goblet from her grasp. “You don’t want to down too much of the bog berry juice all at once.”
“Nelgart and Tasarte!” She swore by the names of both gods to call attention to his folly. “You handed me the bog berry juice?”
Either the criticism in her tone swept right past him, or he was too well practiced at ignoring it. “Now do you see why we’re here? Isn’t the taste amazing? It’s best at exactly this time of year, when the moon’s high, at night, and consumed shortly after picking. You probably shouldn’t have drunk so much though,” he added.
Serliva could no longer contain herself. “You should have warned her,” she said caustically, then, while he gaped at her daring, she turned to Izivar. “Or I should have stopped him. Are you alright, milady? I thought you knew what he was doing.”
She hadn’t been thinking as clearly as she thought, or she’d have been more suspicious. She glared at her brother, her outrage confused by a dizzying ebullience that swept out from her belly to crown and sole. “I feel . . . strange,” she murmured.
“Are you seeing the city yet?” Indar asked excitedly. “The city with the golden walkways?”
She wanted to shout at him, but couldn’t find her voice. It was so typical of him to slyly trick her into something she’d not normally have done. She tried to look at him so she could speak her mind, but he and the tent were a mere shadow across a high walled city of gleaming white stone, its sidewalks ornamented with shining golden pavers. Slim conical buildings swathed in spiraling glyphs towered above a circular forum. A smiling crowd of tanned men and women with blond hair were gathered, dressed in bright garments thin as gauze that did less to cover them than the decorative baubles hung about their necks and waists. Most held red clay cups. Others queued up to receive them from red robed priests and priestesses.
One of the young women smiled at her, took her hands, and led her into a dance. She laughed with joy even as she fought her growing fear.
She waved her hands and the city shifted places with the tent, so that it was the superimposed image. The change dizzied her, and she grasped the side of the cot to keep from plunging from it.
Her brother was oblivious to her distress. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” His smile was briefly less clear than that of a pretty young woman whose face was painted with small jagged triangles. “The joy you feel?”
He was almost right, but as usual, Indar failed to look with any depth. Even though the crowd was jubilant, fear lurked in their eyes. It was as though they hoped to blind themselves with the cups of sloshing juice being handed out. A robed man presented himself to her, pushing the drink into her hands. “We shall join with the earth,” he promised.
“Get away,” she said, speaking both to Indar and the stranger.
“They won’t hurt you,” Indar assured her. “They’re not real. Not anymore. But their memories are, and their last memory is of that grand festival. They were going to be invaded or something, and instead of fighting they went out in one last extravaganza!”[2]
She strained to see him clearly. “I mean you!” Still clutching the mattress with one hand she shoved at him with the other. “Get out! Get away!”
Serliva steadied her and lay a hand to one shoulder. With that close contact the strange people and their city faded to a faint haze. Her idiot brother goggled at her. She pointed to the tent entrance, through which light spilled where the canvas gapped. “Out!”
The shout required nearly all the energy she had left, and she gasped.
Indar retreated, sulking. “You’re always like this,” he said. “You never want to try anything new. No wonder you look so old and dried up.” With that he turned and pushed from the tent.
She sat trembling, furious and emotionally spent. The men and women danced all about her.
“You don’t look old and dried up.” Serliva squeezed her shoulder. “Just tired. He’s terrible.”
That close contact again reduced the images to phantoms superimposed across the real world.
Izivar worried that she did look rather aged, no matter Serliva’s reassuring words. She nodded late agreement that Indar was capable of being terrible. Though grown, he remained a petulant child, spoiled by a mother doting on her only son.
“You should lie down,” Serliva suggested, but Izivar shook her head, no. If she lay down again, she’d see nothing but that imaginary city and its frightened people.
“Food,” she said.
There happened to be food in abundance, though she noted no details beyond them being pastries and hardboiled eggs and various fish dishes. All her attention was centered on chewing and anchoring herself in the here and now. She hoped that the food would soak up the berry juice the way it absorbed wine. She insisted on drinking only water, despite Serliva questioning her choice three times. The last thing she wanted was to have the wine distorting her perceptions as well.
The younger woman tended her, apologizing again and again for not interceding, then drifting into grievances about Indar, and how he didn’t deserve Izivar’s attention. It had been a long detour here after their visit with the oracle in the northwest. Serliva asked why Izivar hadn’t told Indar more specifically what the oracle had said about their father’s health.
“Because he wasn’t listening, and it wouldn’t have mattered,” Izivar replied weakly.
Finally, after what seemed like an entire pitcher full of water, the visions ebbed until they were less than mist across her eyes. The noise they made was the buzz of a fly in a distant room. She thought she might still see them if she closed her eyes, or if the tent got dark, so she resolved to remain awake and in well-lit places.
It was then that Enarius entered.
Well-groomed, his slim body was draped in an ankle-length off-white tunic with curling red edging. She hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but he remained essentially unchanged; boyishly handsome, with wavy hair that always ended up slightly mussed, even after attention from his slaves. His eyes were a bright blue, and his smile, though full lipped, was open and friendly. Her father had described it as a winning smile, and while Tannis Lenereva was given to hyperbole, it was an apt assessment.
Seeing him, she couldn’t help smiling in turn, for she was genuinely fond of the young man. Then she remembered she wore only a light shift. She saw him note that and keep his eyes solely upon her face, emulating the conduct of a gentleman.
Izivar pushed her hair back from her face and drew up the blanket to cover herself. She expected she looked haggard, which might be a good thing in this instance, for it would emphasize the fifteen years between them.
Enarius bade her welcome and nodded politely to Serliva as well. He was famously pleasant to slave, freedman, and senator alike.
“Indar told me you were awake and annoyed with him,” Enarius said as he came forward. “Then he told me he had you drink some of the juices. I nearly threw him into the bogs. Are you alright?”
“I’m tired. And please don’t throw him in. I may push him myself later, though,” she added.
Enarius chuckled. “And you’ve recovered from the infection?”
“I have. Enarius, the bogs are dangerous. Why are we here?”
He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, as though he, one of the most powerful men in the world, were powerless to affect change in their circumstance. “I’ve been promising your brother and our friends this for weeks. I couldn’t very well let them down. Not when tonight’s the night of the full moon, when the berries are at their sweetest. After this, we can leave.”
“And you couldn’t tell them no? All this for that drink?”
Serliva had looked flustered at first, apparently waiting for a signal from her mistress to send Enarius away, and finally decided she would simply make Izivar’s guest comfortable. She vacated the stool she’d been occupying and presented it to him, though she shifted it two feet further out.
Enarius thanked her with a nod and took it before answering Izivar. “It seemed like a fine idea at first. Do you know, I arranged the whole expedition for your brother? He hasn’t been himself since he came back from the Isles of the Dead.”
“He hasn’t been himself since the war.”
“I know that was a challenging time for your entire family. More challenging, I’m sure, than I can possibly imagine.”
That was an understatement, but like so much of what Enarius said, she listened to his meaning rather than any unintended implications. He was young. “We will forever be grateful to you for your help in shielding us.”
His smile was warm. “You have been such fine friends to me that it was the least I could do. Especially since your family has never tried to use me for their own ends.”
This statement was so outrageous she couldn’t keep from laughing.
“Oh, I know your father’s transparent. I mean you and your brother. Indar couldn’t really care who I was, just that I like boxing as much as he does. And you—you were downright cool to me for the longest while.”
“I didn’t know how kind you truly were.”
“Uncle says I’m too kind, and it makes me weak. And maybe he’s right.”
Izivar wasn’t about to tell him she agreed with the emperor. It seemed to her a little kindness in the emperor’s likely successor was just what the Dervan empire needed.
He continued: “One thing led to another, and suddenly I find myself out here under the moonlight watching my friends get drunk on the memories of a forgotten people.”
“Who were they?” she asked. “And how does drinking the berries gives us their memories?”
“One of the locals—claims he’s not a druid, of course,—says that in ancient days there was a city here, and that some Ceori were sweeping through nearby settlements and putting them to the torch. The people of the city decided that rather than fighting they would join their lives with that of the wilds around them and live on forever. It didn’t quite work how they intended.”
“Is that why the bog people are here?” Izivar asked.
“Apparently. But then the people around here also tell you to stay clear of the berries, and that’s where the most potent memories are stored.”
He said the last with such undisguised relish it surprised her. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
“It didn’t feel right. Not when I couldn’t be sure about you.”
She was touched by his regard. “It didn’t bother my brother.”
“Your brother isn’t himself.”
“Or maybe he’s more himself than ever. He wants to lose his identity. Just like the people who drank the berries.” It wasn’t until she said this that she felt the essential truth of her words.
“He wasn’t always like this,” Enarius said, sadly. “Ever since he met Hanuvar, or Hanuvar’s ghost, he’s been frightened of his own shadow.”
“He’s been frightened of Father’s shadow long before that,” she reminded him. “He’s been trying to live up to him, or running from what he thought our father wanted, for most of his life.”
“Those are harsh words. You’re always direct, but I’ve never heard you so blunt.”
“I nearly died on the way to see my brother. And then he drugged me.”
“In his defense, I think he was trying to help, since it’s what he uses to dull his own pain.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “But then I’m right too.”
Enarius’ sorrow touched his eyes, now. “That may be so.”
“Why do you want to drink, Enarius? You’re stronger than that. You don’t need to lose yourself.”
“You always see more strength in me than I really have.”
“The strength is real,” she assured him, hoping she was right.
As if suddenly growing aware of her company, Enarius glanced at Serliva. “Would you excuse us a moment, my dear?”
Serliva bowed her head formally, but her look was searching. “Shouldn’t you let milady get fully dressed, your highness? You could continue this conversation after.”
Enarius’ brow furrowed, but then he looked to Izivar, hidden under a blanket, and his cheeks flushed. He bowed his head to Serliva. “You’re quite right.” He turned back to Izivar. “I’m sorry, Izivar. This was terribly rude of me.”
“No, no.” She raised a calming hand. “Nursing me to health and keeping me in luxurious surroundings? That’s not at all rude. You’re the soul of kindness, Enarius.”
“There’s that word again.”
“You should embrace it. A ruler can be kind, can’t he?”
He sighed in pretend annoyance, then promised to have a slave arrive with more refreshments, thanking Serliva again on the way out for reminding him of his manners.
He called for a slave the moment after the tent flap fell behind him.
Serliva advanced, speaking softly in Volani. “I honestly don’t see why you don’t let him court you. He’s obviously in love with you.”
“Because of so many reasons, as you should know.”
“Do you mean your age? You can hold onto your beauty if you take certain measures. Stay out of the sun, exercise well and watch your diet.”
“I will not change my life for him,” she said with quiet resolve. “More importantly, romance between us would jeopardize our fragile relationship with the Dervans.” She pushed herself to her feet, delighted to be steady upon them. “Is there anything for me to wear?”
“I’ve a selection of stolas,” Serliva said, though from where they had come Izivar could not guess. Probably Enarius had planned to gift them to her.
Serliva opened a chest near the refreshment table and lifted one in each hand. “I think you’re wrong. If you marry him, then our people will be secure.”
She wasn’t thinking clearly. “No, the emperor will see us as a threat. There’s no political advantage to the empire for an alliance with the family of a . . . defeated city state.” She forced the thought of Volanus from her mind. “The blue one, I think. I need to clean up first, however.”
Shortly, Izivar had washed up and a slave arrived with main courses that smelled delicious, though Izivar’s appetite had ebbed. Serliva fitted her into the stola and was combing through her hair, still talking, unable to see how dangerous the emperor would be if he discovered even a hint of a relationship between his nephew and Izivar.
“There’s also the matter of Enarius growing tired of me,” Izivar said.
“Tired of you? He hangs upon your every word.”
“I would be like his mother. Constantly objecting to the things he wants to do. He uses me as his conscience, knowing I am right but ignoring me a good deal of the time. He means well, but he still has bad ideas. Like this one of taking people into the marshes to be drunk on these juices. He will mature eventually, but it could take years.”
“You can guide him.”
“I’ve done that once already and frankly I don’t feel like doing it again.”
Serliva sighed in frustration.
From outside the tent came a clear, confident voice. “Milady Izivar, the master says to inform you that your guest has arrived.”
Weary and startled out of the line of conversation, Izivar was momentarily confused. Then she realized who the herald must mean. “Do you mean Flavius?”
“Yes,” the herald answered. “That is the young man’s name. Master Enarius wonders if you wish to greet him in the main tent with the others, but says that if you are feeling weak you might wish to greet him in your own tent instead, assuming that you are properly prepared to receive him.”
“The main tent,” Serliva whispered to Izivar in Volani. “Your hair is almost finished and you look lovely.”
“Please have him brought here,” Izivar said, and received another of Serliva’s exasperated eye rolls.
The herald said that he would and departed. Izivar then asked for her sandals and discovered some clever slave had not only cleaned them but repaired the heel of the left one. She sat on the couch edge while Serliva fussed with Izivar’s hair, pushing it upright, and then the herald’s voice resumed: “Lady Izivar, I have arrived with the young man. Are you prepared to receive him?”
“I am,” she answered, suddenly conscious she wasn’t at all sure what she meant to say, except her thanks.
Even as the tent flap lifted Serliva continued to arrange her hair, only stepping to one side and concealing the brush behind her when Flavius ducked his head to pass through.
He looked different than Izivar recalled. In her mind he had been older. He was so pink cheeked and young he made Enarius look like a veteran, which obscurely disappointed her. He was more muscular than typical for his age, as though he had filled out early, without being weighed down with a layer of fat like a professional boxer or gladiator. He’d had a fresh trim of hair and was clean shaven with a sharp razor. He wore a white tunic so new it practically gleamed. He looked every inch the Dervan citizen so that any illusion he was some lost Volani seemed to have faded with the sinking sun. Izivar realized that must have been some strange wishful thinking on her part—although, to be honest, there was still something of Melgar Cabera in the hooked nose and jawline.
“Milady.” Flavius bowed his head, then inclined it to Serliva as well. “Thank you for having me. I . . . should have come sooner, I guess. I just . . . I’m not used to being around such fine people.” He had trouble meeting her eyes.
“Clothes do not make the man,” Izivar reassured him. “I’ve met many a rich man who would not have dared what you did for me twice this day. I am in your debt.”
“Clothes might well make the lady,” Serliva said quietly in Volani.
Izivar ignored her. “Anything in my power to grant, I will. I can promise you a position on my brother Indar’s staff, or my own, or even in the household of Enarius himself, I should think. You’ve saved my life, and I mean to help you with yours.”
He shifted nervously.
Izivar gestured to the stool formerly occupied by Enarius. “Please, Flavius. Have a seat.”
He did so, still looking utterly ill at ease as he placed his hands awkwardly on his knees. “I couldn’t leave a lady to die,” he explained.
There was nothing studied in his nature. He was honest and bold and forthright and she found herself wishing she’d known a man like him when she was younger.
“Would you care for some refreshments? Enarius had some brought for me but I’m afraid my appetite hasn’t fully recovered.”
“Not after you gorged yourself,” Serliva said quietly in Volani.
Izivar shot her a warning look.
Flavius ignored their interplay. “You are most gracious, milady. As to that boon, I wonder if I might have a few moments for a private word.”
Serliva tensed. Flavius addressed her. “I hope you know I can mean no harm to her ladyship. But this is a private matter, and I’d really prefer no one else to hear.”
Under any other circumstance, with any other stranger, Izivar would not have entertained the request. But Flavius had saved her life twice, and he was in the midst of an armed camp where a single shout from her would bring armed guards running.
“It’s fine, Serliva,” she said. “You may go.”
“Milady?” Serliva asked.
“I’ll call for you if I need you.” She then said, in Volani, “Give the man some space, if he feels it’s that important.”
“You really don’t want me to listen in?” she asked, also in Volani.
“We owe him that, don’t we? I think we can trust him with my life.”
“What will Enarius say?”
“I don’t know. Please, give us a few moments. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Serliva frowned. Earlier she had half-seriously joked about Flavius as a romantic partner, but being worthy of unguarded time with Serliva’s mistress apparently merited a more careful accounting. Izivar was both amused and touched by her friend’s devotion. Serliva gave Flavius a warning look, then departed.
He watched the tent flap swing to, then listened for the sound of Serliva’s retreating footsteps. When they had subsided and all they could hear was the muted sound of drunken singing, he gave Izivar his full attention.
“How can I help you, Flavius?” she asked.
Any hint of his anxiety had vanished utterly, supplanted by a startling intensity in manner. “I need to know how serious you are about helping the Volani people.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she demurred. She watched closely, cautious of the change in him and suddenly alarmed at the thought this young man might be a revenant spy.
“You’re about to hold my life in your hands. A word of what I’m going to say will doom not only me, but a thousand Volani.”
“I have no idea what you might be referring to.”
He shifted so smoothly into fluent, accentless Volani that for a moment she didn’t fully register his words. “I have traveled a long way to help our people and did not think I would find an ally when I arrived. And yet you’ve devoted a good sum of your personal fortune to rescuing them yourself.”
“Who are you?” she asked softly. “How do you know that, and what are you really doing here?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. I’ve already told you why I’m here. I need aid to help the rest of our people.”
“You are one of the Caberas, aren’t you? You look a little like Melgar. But I didn’t think there were any young men in his immediate family . . . are you a cousin?”
The question seemed to exasperate him. “That’s not what I’d like to focus on at the moment,” he repeated.
The presence of an unknown Volani was strangely invigorating. “But how did you get away? Were you already out of the city? Are you an escaped slave?”
“I was there when it fell.” The young man spoke with such grim sobriety there was no questioning the truth of the statement. “As for how I got away, you would not believe me, and that too is beside the point. Can I rely upon you to help what little remains of Volanus?”
“Yes. But how? We can do nothing overt. My father was furious I had dared to purchase so many.”
“Because he feared it would anger the Dervans, who are already suspicious of us.”
She nodded, then thought of those same suspicions. “Please tell me you mean nothing rash. That you aren’t going to try to raise a rebellion or something crazy like that.”
He shook his head, no.
“Who sent you? One of the Caberas survived, didn’t they? What are you planning to do?”
“Now isn’t the time or place for specifics. But I would like to call upon you later. Where are you based?”
“All over, really,” she said, then realized how foolish that sounded. “You can find me in Ostra hence forth.” Particularly since it seemed more and more certain she would have to manage the Lenereva holdings without her brother’s aid as her father sickened. She scanned him more closely. “Did you know Indar and I would be here? Was this all some elaborate ploy to meet me?”
“No, milady, that was a stroke of luck. I was merely travelling south. After so many bad turns, it seems as though I’ve had a small run of good ones.”
His manner was that of a much more mature man.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
She found that even more startling than his seriousness. “You look a few years older.”
“Do I?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“I wish you would tell me more about what you’re planning. No one’s listening.”
He permitted a brief, sad smile. “And I wish that I could say more. But my being here is already a terrible risk.”
She realized then that it was. Surely the citizen’s ring upon his hand was a counterfeit, and that alone was punishable by death. And if he were some lost member of the Cabera family, any Dervan military leader would be thrilled to capture him for a spy and parade him through the streets. She understood just how much this young man had trusted her, and why he remained so cautious.
“I will always aid Volanus,” she vowed, “but not if I must risk the safety of the people I have already freed in sake of some foolish plan. And,” she added, “you may find this strange, but I am beholden to Enarius for safety. I will not countenance harm coming to him. Or his family,” she added, hating herself for saying it, for the emperor had permitted the virtual elimination of her people.
“What we plan will not be heedless,” the young man said. “And will not deliberately target any Dervans. I have friends among them myself. But in the end, there may be risks for all of us.”
“I will have to hear more.”
“I will share more, when we talk again.”
“What shall I call you?”
“Flavius.”
Almost, she asked him what his Volani name was, but knew if he’d wished to share it, he would have done so. “I will call you Flavius, then. And someday you can share your true name.”
Flavius looked oddly reluctant about that idea. “Perhaps.”
IV
Metellus would never have proposed the plan, but now, as the pieces were in play and he was fortuitously set to profit doubly from his part, he was pleased enough to be humming as he walked into the night toward the sentries.
The moon hung high and full, a pale mottled disc shadowed in dark blue. Hazy clouds drifted across its face, just as the fog rolled across the moors. If he were a bog man, he supposed he would have thought it a fine day for seeking vengeance, or whatever it was the bog folk were said to do when people came after their forbidden fruit.
So far Enarius hadn’t yet surrendered himself to the berries, though the patrician’s main guests had done so. Metellus supposed that was the important thing. If any of them happened to survive they would tell everyone about the bog people. Metellus had decided he’d have to save some of them or he’d end up looking completely ineffective and so had made careful note of which were wealthiest.
He advanced along the camp’s western perimeter and came to the first pair of sentries, posted at the edge of the upland. He sent them on their way, claiming that he’d heard something to the north and wanted them on hand if anything should break through. He headed further south on the camp’s west border, sharing the same alert as he ordered another pair of guards away, and finally reached a lantern burning on a pole at the corner of the south and west perimeter. He expected to find two more men posted there and was startled to discover three. One was Corvus, who would have been distinctive in the spread of his shoulders even without the centurion’s transverse horsehair crest on his helmet. The officer turned, and Metellus came to attention. The other two praetorians smote their breastplates in salute. He answered with his own at the same time as Corvus. The centurion stood spear-straight, left hand behind his back.
“Ah, Metellus,” Corvus said, as though he hadn’t expected him to be on rounds. The centurion apparently was set on continuing the charade even though they were well beyond the tents, slaves, and aristocrats. “I was just pointing these men over to the north, where I thought I’d seen something questionable and wanted them to look.”
“Yes,” Metellus said, agreeing with exaggerated concern. “I had noticed the same thing. You two run along – the centurian and I will keep an eye out here.”
The men gave them a funny look, then trudged off.
Corvus slipped both hands behind his back once more and planted his feet steadily. “Things seem to be going nicely. The men are playing along.”
“Yes,” Metellus agreed. He hated pointless conversations. “I thought I was to handle things along this perimeter and you were going to handle the pair of men to the south.”
“Oh, I did. I just thought we should talk before things got messy.”
Corvus certainly liked to talk. That was fine; having him out here alone would make the delivery of his final moment much simpler.
“The lads should be here soon,” Corvus continued, and glanced off to the left, then stared. “What is that?” He even pointed.
Metellus automatically looked. He saw nothing but the mist below the hill, drifting just under the height of the broad-leafed bushes heavy with berries. Wondering what Corvus was on about, he turned back to him.
The centurion revealed his left hand at last, stuffed into a metal clawed glove swinging at Metellus’ head.
Though he moved fast, Metellus couldn’t entirely avoid the strike. The impact left a trail of searing pain along the side of his face. He cried out, one hand rising instinctively to the wound. Off balance from the blow, he misplaced his foot and sprawled backward.
Corvus came after, glove lifted. Metellus saw his own blood gleaming on three blades.
The centurion’s meaty face was bared in a grimace. “Aminius promised a bonus,” he said.
Metellus scrambled backward, thought it too hard to pull his sword at this angle, and fumbled with his knife.
Corvus stalked after, still talking. He always talked too much. “A sword would have been cleaner, but we’ve got to have you look like you were taken out by one of the creatures. Hold still, and I’ll finish this fast.”
As Corvus drew his hand back for another swipe, Metellus threw himself forward and buried his knife in the centurion’s calf.
The heavier man squealed, then rocked back in pain. Metellus pushed to his feet, bloody knife ready. And then he spotted a figure behind Corvus. More than that, he felt it, for the thing exuded a clammy chill that lifted every hair along his arms and neck. His heart was already pounding from exertion and fear of death, but the presence of the being set it leaping faster still.
Corvus sensed it too and looked over his shoulder even as leathery hands closed around his throat. The centurion was hardly a small man, but he was dragged down with stunning ease. The gaunt man in rotting garments with empty black holes for eyes rode him to the earth, choking the life from him.
Another stalked up from the left, and a third limped out from the right, a long dead woman with scraggly gray hair. Her withered hands, time or sun or silt browned, twitched hungrily. He spotted a dim red glow in the back of her eye sockets.
He wished to see nothing more of her. Metellus whirled and fled back toward the tents. The bog things lurched after with inexorable determination, their emaciated hands thrust out before them. More climbed from the very region from which he had pulled sentries. Dozens and dozens of them. Skin damp and leathered. Eyes burning with dim red fire.
His face still flamed in agony, but his fear gave him speed. He shouted a call to stations and raced for the main tent of Enarius. Aminius had betrayed him? Well, he would betray Aminius, and see Enarius to safety. The little fool would be grateful. He tossed his knife away and pulled his sword.
A signalman had heard his shouts and sounded a horn; closer at hand a woman screamed, and he worried it was from the large tent. Slaves gazed in blank-eyed confusion at him as he ran up with his sword, hand pressed to his face, teeth gritted against the pain. From somewhere nearby horses whinnied.
A praetorian who should have stood sentry before Enarius’ tent lay face down in a pool of his own blood. Metellus pushed through the entrance to find three sword wielding figures advancing on what was left of the aristocrats. Lantern light revealed the bloody figures lying motionless upon the couches and carpeted floor.
One of the figures turned. Having seen the actual bog folk this imitation one was laughable—a muscular man in grubby clothes, his face painted darkly. Metellus didn’t recognize the disguised praetorian, though he’d probably seen him in passing. He ran him through before hurrying to aid Enarius, backing from another assailant, knife out, shielded by a vacant-eyed Indar, crouched with his own knife. Metellus was honestly surprised to see the Volani putting up any resistance. He was nearly always drunk.
Indar’s attacker drove his sword through his chest and raised the bladed glove on his other hand, probably to better disguise the attack, then turned as Metellus launched into him with a savage blow that hacked deep into his chest. Blood sprayed into Metellus’ eyes as he swung the blade half through the man’s face. The dying assassin spasmed as he fell sideways.
A third faux bog man looked up from where he was finishing one of the two brothers whose humor Enarius so valued; Metellus swung with such savagery he nearly took his head from his body. The assassin’s grisly body slipped across the corpse of the man he’d just slain.
Only then did Metellus turn back to the emperor’s nephew, kneeling at the Volani’s side.
“Enarius,” Metellus said, “we have to go.” It hurt to speak.
Tears streaked Enarius’ face. He fruitlessly strove to staunch Indar’s wound with the Volani’s bunched up tunic. The dying man still breathed and his eyes blinked, but he lay white and pale and stinking.
“He’s done for,” Metellus said. “And we’ve got to get you out.”
Indar said much the same thing, but so quietly it was hard for Metellus to understand. The Volani whispered something about his sister.
“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Enarius pledged, adding, “You may depend upon it.”
Enarius clutched the dying fool’s hand, even as Metellus grabbed his shoulder. “Come! Hurry!”
“He’s dead,” Enarius said softly, and slowly lay the hand aside.
“So will we be. Hurry, man!”
Only then did the emperor’s nephew take a closer look at Metellus. His eyes widened in horror and Metellus wondered just how bad his wound really was.
“What happened to you?”
What he wanted to say was that Aminius was behind it all, but extricating himself from the entire story would be complicated, so he kept it simpler. “Corvus was a traitor. He tried to kill me. And it’s worse. It’s not just assassins. It’s real bog folk, too. We’ve got to get out of here.”
More screams filled the air, both of men and women, and he pushed Enarius forward even as the idiot demanded details. There was no time. It might be too late already. But Enarius was adamant on one thing—they had to see to Indar’s sister. Her tent happened to be up one lane and a little to the left. They stopped in, only to find it empty, apart from another dead assassin lying on his side. Looking right, Metellus spotted a trio of figures lurching stiffly at the end of another lane of tents, and he pulled the emperor’s nephew toward the whinny of frightened horses.
V
When the cries began Hanuvar stepped immediately to the tent exit, just in time to intercept a man painted in brown mud, wearing rags. The disguise would have been amusing save that his bared short sword was sheathed in blood. He came in with blade leading, a glove with clawlike blades pressed tight to his side. Hanuvar slammed the sword aside with a pitcher, then repeatedly plunged his knife into the man’s torso. The attacker folded at the knees and dropped sideways, and Hanuvar stepped close, waiting only a moment to ensure the man was dead before taking possession of his sword. He switched his knife to his off hand.
He called Izivar to him and she came, swiftly. He liked that she didn’t ask stupid questions, and he liked better that she knelt to take the attacker’s knife from his belt.
The canvas was thrust violently open and Hanuvar looked up, sword ready. But it was Serliva, eyes wide and white. “Izivar!” she cried. Her eyes flicked uncertainly to him.
“He stopped the assassin,” Izivar explained.
“Assassin?” the maid repeated, then looked down at the body. “There are bog people out here! A lot of them!”
At the same moment a male scream of pain and fear rang through the night.
“We’ve got to help my brother,” Izivar said. “He’s with Enarius.”
“Then he’s with the biggest target,” Hanuvar said. “And must stand or fall with the praetorians.”
“He’s my brother,” she repeated.
“I understand. But he would want you safe and clear.”
Her voice rose sharply. “And what about what I want?”
“Do you want to throw your life away?”
Scowling, she pushed past him and started the wrong direction. Serliva, looking both confused and alarmed, went after. Cursing silently, Hanuvar followed, only to hear screams, male and female, and even some from horses. A trumpeter sounded a call to arms. In the shadows to their right a thing plodded on dark legs, its hands stretched out and fingers writhing, as though they longed to wrap about a throat. From deep in its eye sockets a red fire glowed. It turned their direction. Another pair of the things shuffled along from the left.
“The bog folk are here,” Hanuvar said.
Serliva grabbed Izivar’s arm, pleading. “We’ve got to go!”
He saw the anguish on Izivar’s features and felt a tinge of regret. It was not so hard to imagine what it was like to fear for a sibling’s life. After a moment’s hesitation she relented and came with them.
They mingled with a band of fleeing slaves, then diverted toward the horse pen, where they discovered most of the mounts remained, milling in agitation. The slaves didn’t stop, hurrying along the long, torchlit path stretching through the mist and on for the villa. There were gaps along that way, as though someone or something had toppled them.
Rather than forming up, a quartet of the praetorians were riding horses toward safety. Further downhill a band of the bog folk dragged screaming, helmetless soldiers into the mists.
A praetorian with wild eyes was even now leading Hanuvar’s horse from the pen.
Hanuvar followed. “That’s my horse.”
The man turned, whipping his sword free. “Get back, boy!”
Hanuvar whistled. The horse reared and the soldier spun to pull it down. Hanuvar didn’t have time to argue; he drove his sword deep beneath the Dervan’s armpit. Beside him, Serliva screamed. The soldier sank to the ground, eyes glazing. Hanuvar took possession of his animal, making soothing sounds while the praetorian bled out. More slaves hurried past.
And then Enarius himself rounded a tent corner, a praetorian officer at his side. At first Hanuvar didn’t recognize the optio, for the man’s left cheek was a red and pink mess and his eyes were wild. The praetorian caught sight of Hanuvar, Izivar, Serliva, and the horse, and stalked forward. The bared sword in his hand dripped blood. “The animal is ours,” he said hoarsely.
“It’s for the women,” Hanuvar countered.
Enarius cried out Izivar’s name, gladly, then shouted at the optio. “Metellus! Stand down! There are more horses.”
The praetorian growled, but halted. He glared at Hanuvar, then stalked toward the horse pen. Out in the marshes someone’s plea for help ended in a gurgle.
“Where’s Indar?” Izivar demanded.
At Enarius’ look her expression fell. Enarius said only: “He died protecting me. A better friend I never had.”
Izivar choked back a sob.
Hanuvar wiped his bloody knife in the grass, dropped the sword, and lifted Izivar bodily onto the horse even as Metellus hurried forward with two white mounts, bridled but saddleless. Enarius helped Serliva onto one of them as Hanuvar snatched an abandoned javelin and climbed up behind Izivar. The optio’s horse snorted, catching scents it didn’t care for, and it shifted restlessly. Hanuvar’s own roan whinnied in answer, eyes rolling, ears shifting.
Two dozen bog folk came limping from between the staggered line of tents.
Enarius struggled into the saddle behind the maid, and Metellus shouted at him. “Hurry, you fool!” Teeth gritted, he assisted Enarius to a better seat on his nervous mount. Serliva maintained a tight grip on the reins as their horse pivoted to point away from approaching danger.
“What about you?” Enarius asked the praetorian.
But Metellus wasn’t about to be left behind. He leapt onto the remaining animal, and soon all three horses were racing forward.
Hanuvar’s gelding was better trained and more certain on the hill; he passed Metellus and the emperor’s nephew.
When they reached the bog, the mist rolled along at his horse’s knees. The trail of lanterns stretched ahead, a feeble ward against the darkness. Scattered groups of slaves and praetorians dashed along it for their lives. A thousand paces on one of the bog folk pulled a running slave into the water. Hanuvar tightened his grip on the javelin, the reins in his off hand, guiding mostly with his knees, and noted Izivar clasping the saddle’s pommel with white hands. “Don’t let go for anything,” he said.
She sounded tired and resolute. “I won’t.” She looked back toward Enarius and her maid.
Hanuvar cantered the faithful animal forward, not wishing to push too fast over ground he couldn’t see.
As with his journey to the camp, the footing was mostly firm, but there was no knowing if he might be urging the horse into a hole or some other hazard. It flagged, tired still from its strained run earlier in the day.
At the sound of muddy hoofbeats he turned to find Enarius and Serliva riding to his left, Metellus on his right. A lone bog man stood just beyond a lantern’s light, twenty paces on, the dead thing’s shadows thrown onto the mist rolling before it. Hanuvar scanned right and saw a trio moving through the darkness.
“They’re trying to scare us off the path,” he said. “Stay in the light!” And he bore forward, the javelin ready. Izivar clung to the saddle.
The bog man raised its leathery hands and let out a croaking cry. Hanuvar’s mount shifted beneath him and he swore at it in Dervan, hand tight on the reins. He understood its balking, for he revolted at the thought of coming anywhere close to the dead thing. But he had trained the animal to trust him, and he had to hope it would as he kicked it to gallop. He readied his javelin and pressed Izivar, who obligingly bent close to the gelding’s neck. As the dead man lurched into his path, he drove the point through one glowing eye and tore through its face and skull with a squelching sound, as though he’d punched through a rotten gourd. The impact knocked it spinning. The horse snorted in something that might have been relief, and then they were past. Serliva with Enarius and the optio followed close on his heels.
A band of slaves had advanced halfway down slope from the villa, lanterns in hand, helping their fellows up. A dozen wide-eyed praetorians brandished spears nearby. They moved toward Hanuvar and Izivar as if they meant to help, but he kicked his mount further up slope and stopped just at the villa doors. He cast down the javelin, then slid off and helped Izivar down.
“I’ve got to be moving,” he said. He kept to Dervan, though longed to return to Volani.
“I should go with you.” Izivar mimicked his language switch.
At that he shook his head. “I’ve drawn too much attention to myself already.” He looked back to the edge of the hill. The others had dismounted. Serliva was looking uncertainly toward them, but remained beside Enarius, kneeling and shouting for a healer. The slumped form beside him must be the optio.
Izivar’s dark eyes searched his own. “Who really sent you, Flavius?”
“Now’s not the time. I’m sorry about your brother. We’ve lost so many already. If I could, I would bear you far from this land of horrors, but you must play your part, and I must play mine, and I will speak with you again in the coming months.”
She seemed to understand. She nodded deeply, then offered her hand formally. “Thank you,” she said.
He clasped her arm, felt the touch of her cool fingertips against his flesh, then nodded once to her and released his grasp. He climbed onto his horse and hurried away before Enarius thought to favor him in some way.
No one stopped him as he rode around the side of the building or out into the causeway or down the long lane back to the inn.
There he changed into one of the clean tunics he’d purchased, retrieved his saddlebag from the clerk, then walked his horse into the night. If he remained even to daybreak he might be found and honored, and he dared not chance that. He had taken too many risks already.
But he had found an ally, and his people had another benefactor with greater means to set his plans in motion. Most importantly of all, he knew where many of his people had been sent.
Soon, very soon, he would acquire their freedom.
***
So much would have been different if Metellus had perished of his wounds. But, thinking the praetorian was a loyal retainer who had risked his life to protect him, Enarius instructed his healers to work their every miracle. The praetorian recovered soon enough and was left forever after with three long scars. He was also promoted to centurion and received a posting as young Enarius’ personal bodyguard.
It is said women swooned at the sight of him, seeing those wounds as a badge of honor, and Metellus himself put out the word that his men called him Bravescar, which is how he was known among the admiring aristocrats. The soldiers under his command were less impressed, and called him Clawface, though they were careful never to do so while he was there. By any name, he was a viper, and would rise to become a great threat to Hanuvar and everything he held dear.
But that lay in the future. During those days we had no more inkling of his danger than Enarius himself.
I labored in the north, overseeing the renovation and construction of warehouses, docks, workshops and even modest new homes on the land just south of the village we had purchased. Hanuvar, meanwhile, rode south and further south, though that first night he led his poor, tired horse only a few miles before taking shelter at a small road-side inn. Something Izivar had said continued to trouble him, for it had aligned with minor observations he himself had made. After personally seeing to the care of his horse, Hanuvar paid for a private bath, then studied both his reflection in the water, and in the long bronze mirror.
He carried a small mirror that he used for shaving, but it is difficult to gather an entire picture of a situation when you can perceive only a small portion of it, as demonstrated by that famous fable of the three blind men trying to describe an elephant.
What Hanuvar discovered was that Izivar was right. He did look like a young man in his early twenties. Only a few weeks before, he had resembled someone in his late teens. His shaving mirror had suggested a slight change, but Hanuvar had wondered if he were simply haggard from the road.
The magic, then, was less than the priest had believed. The youthful spell appeared to be fading.
When I saw Hanuvar again, the change was even more obvious. I asked him what he had been thinking at this moment, when he first realized his gift would not last. He had disliked his changed appearance from the start, so he was not so much disappointed as irritated about an additional complication. There was nothing he could do to alter his situation, of course, so he spent no time in lamentation. His only option was to move forward with his plans and hope that the aging would not accelerate too quickly.
After another week of travel, he arrived at last at the city of marble and blood, there to seek another ally.
—Sosilos, Book Seven
Footnotes
1) Those readers unfamiliar with the original edition of my ancestor’s work will not recognize this passage, for he excised it in the multiple editions that followed. One wonders if this is because he invented the scene, because it is difficult to believe Hanuvar would share so personal a reaction with him, although it is not beyond the bounds of credulity. Certainly Hanuvar must have experienced something profound at this moment.
I have retained the scene both because I thought that the emotions seemed like something the man himself might have felt, and because of a fundamental truth it explores. While Hanuvar was not a deity, given all of the miracles he managed to accomplish through sheer willpower, fortitude, and his intellect, it is not at all impossible to imagine the kind of vengeance he might have delivered against Derva and its empire, had he wished to do so. The Dervans do not seem to realize how grateful they should be that he focused his energy upon the welfare of his people and not the terrible blood price the Dervans themselves assumed he planned to collect from them. That he did not act as they anticipated speaks to a strength of character that I cannot begin to pretend some other man might emulate.
—Andronikos Sosilos
2) Antires does not name the culture, but they are referred to by the locals as Danari, a nation of small city-states that flourished in the centuries immediately prior to the foundation of Derva itself. Their ruined fortresses are still to be seen in north and central Tyvol. Local tradition claims that their fascination with otherworldly matters brought their doom, although the Isubre tribe of the Ceori boast that work was theirs.
—Silenus, Commentaries