Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (113 page)

Corvus nodded. It seemed he had found the chapel killer. But was this its true body, or was it a spirit possessing the body of the real Sebastius? “Why?” he asked. “Why Amorr? Why use the Church, the Senate, or the allied cities?”

“Because the moons and the stars are coming into alignment, and when the Gate of Shadows opens, I must be the one to control it!”

“What is this gate?”

“Everything! It is the only way out of this dreadful shadow! I was foolish and afraid, and I stayed behind. But it was a mistake, a mistake for which I have been paying for aeons! You cannot imagine, Corvus. Suppose everyone you knew left you, abandoned you, and you knew there was only one way to see them again. Would you not sacrifice the world, would you not sacrifice a thousand worlds, to see them again?”

Corvus nodded pensively. He could understand, perhaps even sympathize a little. What would he not give to have Corvinus back? What would he not give to see his son again, as a boy or as a man, to put his arms around Corvinus’s shoulders and embrace him? Anything. Anything at all…except for Valeria, Valerilla, Marcus, Romilia, or the grandchildren.

Or his honor.

Or his God.

“Why were you afraid? Weren’t you more afraid to be alone?”

The creature looked pensive. “I don’t know,” it admitted. “Even ageless ones fear the unknown, maybe more than most. I thought the others were fools. I thought it was like jumping off a cliff without looking down to see if there was water or rocks below.”

“And now?”

“There were always rumors about the Gate of Shadows opening every once in a great while, rumors that someone came back. That was when the wars started. Some of those who stayed behind said they’d promised to keep it shut. Others of us wanted to use it to leave here. Then, when something else came through, something that didn’t come from here, we all knew there were other shadows, other worlds.”

“Something else?”

Sebastius gestured to indicate the great chamber surrounding them.

“You don’t mean…the Immaculate?”

“I don’t know if he was what he claimed or not. I myself have been worshipped as a god more times than I can count. I didn’t even hear about him until a century after his death. But I heard enough to know that he wasn’t one of us and he wasn’t one of you. That was when I knew that it was safe to go through the Gate, that there is water, not rocks, waiting below.”

For the first time, Corvus truly felt in awe of the creature that stood before him. To think it had been walking the earth at the same time as the Son of God! And there were others of its kind, perhaps even others who had seen the Immaculate, had spoken to Him! Still, Corvus was almost tempted to agree to its wishes, if only to have the chance to inquire of its fellows.

It seemed to sense this, because it spread its hands and implored him.

“Will you not help me, Corvus? I don’t ask more than you can give. It is only one campaign, one glorious campaign. When it is over and I am gone through the Shadowgate, Amorr will be master of all Selenoth. And you will be the master of the world! Serve me in this, only for a little while, and I will give you everything you’ve ever dreamed, everything you’ve ever wanted!”

Corvus thought for a moment. It could give him many things, that much was true. It could give him victory, power, and glory. But not everything. It could not give him what he wanted most. No one could.

“No.” He said it with an amount of regret, but he said it firmly nonetheless.

A look of confusion crossed the immortal’s incongruously young face. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean this.” Corvus drew his sword and lunged.

The thing didn’t have time to react. Before it had even begun to raise its arms to defend itself, Corvus’s sword was buried to the hilt in its chest.

It staggered backward, and Corvus let go of his weapon. So the elves were wrong, and he was right: Immortal didn’t necessarily mean unkillable.

He was bitterly disappointed when the creature regained its balance and stared reproachfully at him, with its hands on its hips and his sword sticking out of its chest. It shook its head, more in sadness than anger. It placed a hand on either side of the hilt and pushed the sword out of its chest with a loud sucking sound. The bloody sword dropped to the floor, though the carpet masked the noise when it struck.

“What did you do that for?”

Corvus shrugged. “I had to try.”

“No, you didn’t! You stupid, foolish worm, that hurt! Why?”

“I serve the Almighty God. I serve Amorr. I don’t serve you. I won’t serve you.”

He faced the ancient thing calmly despite the fear that clutched at his heart. Now he didn’t even have his sword. He would not die less courageously than Fortex had, of that he was determined. He only wished that he’d been able to kiss Romilia one last time, to give Valerilla one last hug, to give Marcus one final piece of advice. But then, Corvinus was waiting. He had no fears of what lay on the other side.

To his surprise, Sebastius didn’t strike him down. “You must serve me, Corvus. I require your service. I can force you to bend the knee, you must know that!”

“How? By killing everyone I love? By slaying my entire House?”

“Do you think I can’t?”

Corvus could still see the wound from which the blood had spilled, though no more blood was seeping out of it. It was a strangely fascinating sight.

“No, I think you don’t know House Valerius. Do you think any of us would choose to save ourselves at the cost of tens of thousands, no, more like hundreds of thousands, of Amorran lives?” He reconsidered. “Well, Magnus might.”

It pointed its finger at Corvus and fairly shrieked at him. “Death will avail you nothing, Sextus Valerius Corvus! If you will not serve me, I will flay you with fire from inside your bowels. I will rape your wife. I will slaughter and devour your children. And then I will go to Manlius Torquatus and make him the same offer I made you. The world, or blood, death, and fire. And if he refuses me, I will go to your brother. Either Amorr will serve me or Amorr will die such a death that it will make kings and emperors shudder on their thrones for a thousand years!”

Corvus took a deep breath and prepared to die. But there was movement from behind the creature, and he heard someone—the Sanctiff!—shouting out something that sounded far too aggressive to be a blessing or a prayer.

The creature whipped its head around, and they both stared at the unexpected sight of Valens stumbling toward them with a torch in one hand and a small bowl in the other.

Exorcizamus te!”
he cried. “
Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Immaculati!
” The Sanctiff hurled the contents of the bowl at the thing in the bloody bishop’s robes.

It was oil, presumably holy oil, but it had precisely no effect at all. Nor did the exorcism, as there was no demon here to exorcise.

Sebastius simply raised its hand, and Valens collapsed, howling wordlessly like a burning animal, dropping the torch onto the carpet.

Corvus bound forward to pick up his sword. He swung it with both hands like an axe at the immortal’s neck. It struck true. Not a clean decapitation but a deep gash. Sebastius screamed in pain and fell to all fours.

Corvus hacked ruthlessly at it, ignoring the screams and the spattering blood. He struck again and again and again, until he finally beheaded the thing. The head rolled across the carpet like a distended ball. Without pausing, he did the same to its legs and its arms.

Not until the creature was fully dismembered and silent, hewed into six separate pieces, did Corvus stop and wipe the blood from his face. He was out of breath, and his arms ached.

Abruptly, the Sanctiff stopped screaming. Corvus was just stepping over one of the legs to see if Valens was still alive when he saw the eyes on the severed head open.

Dammit, sooner than I expected.

He could hear the pounding on the doors from outside the chambers. Vecellius and his men had surely heard the screams. It seemed the creature was still able to hold the doors shut with sorcery, and they were thick enough that his guards’ axes would take a little time to break through it. They would not arrive soon enough to help him.

“You can’t kill me, you fool!”

“I know.” Corvus reached down to feel the Sanctiff’s throat, then rapidly drew his hand away. The Sanctified Father was definitely dead, though his skin was literally burning hot. At least it had been fast, Corvus told himself. Requiscat, and all that.

“Then why did you do that? You know what I’m going to do!” Its voice was high-pitched, as if the pain had driven it half-mad.

“No, I don’t think you will.” Corvus reached over and picked up the torch, which had already set a bit of the carpet on fire, and touched it to the bloody cloth covering the two limbs he could reach. Despite the blood, the flames began to lick at the remnants of the robe almost immediately. “You said the moons are nearly in alignment and the gate will open soon. I have no doubt that you can recover from being burned to ashes, but I suspect you can’t do it soon enough to win over the Senate and drag the People to the slaughter before the gate shuts again.”

“Do you think I will not kill you now?” the head spat, its face contorted with rage.

“I had been hoping otherwise,” Corvus admitted as he methodically set the other two limbs and the torso alight. “But you will not enter the Shadowgate! You and I will burn here.”

It screamed something in a wordless language.

Corvus was ready for the pain. The ancient sorcery erupted inside him with what felt like the fury of a thousand suns. And yet Corvus smiled grimly as he pressed the flames against the screaming face of the immortal and saw the oil ignite and its hair begin to burn. He was the Consul Aquilae, the consul of the legions, he reminded himself. He was Valerius Victus.

If this was his last battle, he would not lose it!

Forgive me, Fortex, he thought as the sorcerous fire consumed his insides and agony dimmed his eyes. I love you, Romilia. Romilia. Romi….

THEUDERIC

The last vestiges of blue were about to disappear from the increasingly red-purple sky as Vengirasse circled over the encamped legion for the third time. This one was no permanent castra, Theuderic observed, because in the place of stone walls there was a simple wooden palisade. The earth inside the palisade was still covered with winter-brown grass that had not yet been worn away to dirt and dust.

Furthermore, there were no camp followers at all, and the castra was full of the sort of activity that behooved an army that had only recently finished marching. Stablehands were feeding and brushing horses, there were hundreds of small fires over which men were huddled, obviously preparing food, and there were a number of small groups filling casks in a nearby stream or bringing deadwood back to the rudimentary fortress.

“This must be it.” He withdrew the makeshift spear he’d made the previous day. “Are you finished yet?”

“What do you think?” Caitlys asked Lithriel. “That hill over there? There is enough open space to land safely.

“Yes,” his lover answered. “It’s nearly due south, and it’s not too far from the camp, so long as he rides.”

Caitlys nodded and returned to her writing, which, judging by the elven cursing that accompanied it, was somewhat trickier a few hundred paces up in the air than it was on the ground. “Here,” she said finally, passing a scroll back to him. “Be sure to affix it tightly enough that it doesn’t fall off when you throw.”

Theuderic focused on passing the strips of cloth he’d cut off one of the chemises Lord Silvertree had given him through the two holes he’d worked through the scroll with his knife. He tied it off with a moon knot, affixing it securely to the peeled, knobby shaft, then hefted it in his right arm. The wind of their flight didn’t tear the scroll away, so he assumed it would hold long enough for their purposes.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Caitlys asked.

“Of course it will work,” Lithriel said. “Even if it doesn’t, they don’t have any bolt-throwers assembled. So we can come back and try again, if need be.”

“Just take us down and head for that big tent in the middle of the camp,” Theuderic ordered. Caitlys’s increasing moodiness was beginning to get on his nerves. The closer they got to finding her damned Amorran, the more strangely she behaved.

The great warhawk stooped so gracefully that Theuderic didn’t even feel it in his belly this time. But the green mass of the trees below rapidly came to dominate his vision as they rushed toward the ground. The sensation of speed replaced the peaceful sense of soaring.

He focused on the large tan square of the command tent, ignoring the shouts and cries and pointing fingers of the legionaries as they approached. When the tent loomed large, he hurled his crude spear directly toward the grassy ground in front of it, hoping to avoid hitting the two guards who were standing oblivious to their danger just outside the entrance.

“Dammit!”

“What?” cried both elfesses in unison.

“It broke!” Theuderic looked back and saw that the speed with which they were flying, combined with the pull of the ground, had caused the uneven shaft to shatter. Where was the message cloth? He couldn’t see. But he could see five or six legionary archers rushing down the path between some smaller tents behind them. Two of them were already raising their bows.