Cursor's Fury (38 page)
“We’re fighting already?” Tavi asked. He shook his head, hoping to slosh some of the sleep from it.
“Make a path!” called a woman’s voice, louder than humanly possible, and Lady Antillus’s large white horse thundered down the road, forcing legionares to
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scamper out of its path and other horses to dance nervously in place. She went by within a few feet of Tavi, her harness and coin purse jingling.
“Come on,” Foss growled. “Nothing wrong with your arms, sir.”
He motioned Tavi to help him, and the two of them wrangled a pair of full-body tubs from the wagon and to the ground. It hurt his leg abominably, sore muscles clenching into burning knots, but Tavi ground his teeth and did his best to ignore it. He and Foss dragged the tubs to the side of the causeway as Lady Antillus hauled her steed to a sliding halt and leapt down from the horse’s back with an odd melding of poise and athleticism.
“Water,” Foss grunted. Tavi pulled himself back into the wagon and began wrangling the heavy jugs to the end of the wagon. Wind rose to a thunderous roar, and Commander Fantus and Crassus shot down the road not ten feet above the ground, each man bearing an unmoving form over one shoulder. Lady Antillus, Foss, and four other healers met them, taking the wounded men from the Knights Aeris. They stripped the injured of armor with practiced efficiency and got both men into the tub.
Tavi observed from the bed of the wagon and kept his mouth shut. The men’s injuries were . . . odd. Both were smeared with blood, and both thrashed wildly, letting out breathless cries of pain. Long strips of the skin on their legs were simply gone, in bands perhaps an inch wide, as though they’d been lashed with red-hot chains.
Once they were in the tubs, Lady Antillus stepped forward and seized one of the wounded Knight’s head. He struggled for a moment more, then eased slowly down into the tub, panting but not screaming, his eyes glazed. She did the same for the second man, then gestured to the healers and settled down to examine the men and confer.
More thundering hoofbeats approached, though this time they were well to the side of the road, away from the danger of spooking a nervous horse or trampling an unlucky legionare. Captain Cyril and the First Spear drew up to the healers. The captain dismounted, followed by Valiar Marcus, and looked around until he spotted Knight Tribune Fantus. “Tribune? Report.”
Fantus grimaced at the two young men in the tub, then saluted Cyril. “We were attacked, sir.”
“Attacked?” Cyril demanded. “By who?”
“By
what
,” Fantus corrected. “Something up at the edge of that cloud cover. Whatever it was, I didn’t get a good look at it.” He gestured to Crassus. “He did.”
Crassus just stared at the two wounded men, his face entirely bloodless, his
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expression nauseated. Tavi felt a spike of sympathy for the young man, despite his enmity for Maximus. Crassus had seen his first blood spilled, and he looked too young to be dealing with such a thing, even to Tavi.
“Sir Crassus,” Cyril said, his voice purposefully pitched loudly enough to shock the young Knight from his motionless stare.
“Sir?” Crassus said. He saluted a beat late, as if just then remembering protocol.
Cyril glanced at the boy, grimaced, and said in a quieter voice, “What happened up there, son?”
Crassus licked his lips, eyes focused into the distance. “I was point man on the air patrol, sir. Bardis and Adrian, there, were my flankers. I wanted to take advantage of the cover, hide us in the edges where we could still watch the ground ahead. I led them up there.”
He shuddered and closed his eyes.
“Go on,” Cyril said, his voice quiet and unyielding.
Crassus blinked his eyes several times. “Something came out of the cloud. Scarlet things. Shapes.”
“Windmanes?”
“No, sir. Definitely not. They were solid, but . . . amorphous, I think, is the word. They didn’t have a fixed profile. And they had all these legs. Or maybe tentacles. They came out of nowhere and grabbed us with them.”
Cyril frowned. “What happened?”
“They started choking us. Pulling at us. More of them kept coming.” Crassus took a deep breath. “I burned off the one that had me, and tried to help them. I cut at them, and it seemed to hurt them—but it didn’t slow them down. So I started chopping at those leg things until Bardis was free. I think Adrian had an arm free and struck, too. But neither of them could keep themselves up, so I had to catch them before they fell. Sir Fantus helped, or I would have lost one of them.”
Cyril pursed his lips, brows furrowed in consternation. “Lady Antillus? How fare the men?”
The High Lady glanced up from her work. “They’ve been burned. Some sort of acid, I believe. It is potent—it is still dissolving flesh.”
“Will they live?”
“Too soon to tell,” she said, and turned back to the tubs.
Cyril grunted, rubbed at his jaw, and asked Fantus, “Did you get a feel for the crafting behind this overcast?”
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“No,” Fantus said. “It isn’t furycrafted.”
More thunder rumbled. Scarlet lightning danced behind veils of clouds. “It’s natural?”
Fantus stared up. “Obviously not. But it isn’t furycraft.”
“What else could it be?” Cyril murmured. He glanced at the wounded Knights. “Acid burns. Never heard of a fury that could do that.”
Fantus squinted up at the overcast sky, and asked, “What else could it be?”
Cyril’s eyes followed the Knight Tribune’s gaze. “Well. If life was simple and predictable, imagine how bored we’d all get.”
“Bored is good,” Fantus said. “I like bored.”
“So do I. But it would appear that fate did not consult with either one of us.” Cyril rubbed at his forehead with one thumb, his face distant, pensive. “We need to know more. Take your best fliers up and be on your guard. Get another look at them if you can. We need to know if they’re going to stay up there in the cover or if they’ll come down here for dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” Fantus said.
“Meanwhile, I want one tier of the air patrol to keep a relatively low ceiling. Say, halfway up. Then a second tier, above them, keeping an eye on the clouds. If there’s trouble, the first tier can come up to help.”
Fantus frowned. “That near the ground it’s going to be tiring on the first tier, Captain. The men will have to take it in shifts. It will severely reduce the number of eyes we’ve got looking out for trouble.”
“We aren’t in hostile territory. Better that than to lose more of our Knights Aeris to these things. We’re spread thin enough as it is. Do it.”
Fantus nodded and saluted again. Then he went to Crassus and stood beside the young Knight, staring down at the men in the tubs.
Tavi glanced back at the tubs and nearly threw up.
One of the men was dead, horribly dead, his body shrunken and wrinkled like a rotten grape, gaping holes burned into the body. The other Knight was breathing in frenzied gasps, his eyes wide and bulging, while the healers worked frantically to save him.
“It would seem that someone is attempting to impede our progress,” the captain said to the First Spear.
“Doesn’t make much sense. The way we’re marching, we’re getting out of Kalarus’s way. Totally out of the theater of this war. He should be happy to see us on the road.”
“Yes,” Cyril said. “But it would seem that someone wants us slow and blind.”
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The First Spear grunted. “Which means you want to move fast and find out what the crows is going on out here. Just to spite him.”
Cyril’s teeth flashed in a swift smile. “Take half a glass for the men and the animals to get some water. Then we’re on the march again.”
The First Spear saluted the captain and marched off, beckoning runners and delivering orders.
Cyril stared at the survivor of the attack. He was slowly easing down from his agonized thrashing. He stepped up to stand beside Crassus. The young Knight hadn’t moved. His gaze remained on the sad, withered body of the dead man.
“Sir Crassus,” Cyril said.
“Sir?”
The captain took the young man by his shoulders and gently forced his entire body to turn away from the corpse, and toward the captain. “Sir Crassus, you can do nothing for him. Your brother Knights need your eyes and thoughts to be upon your duty. They are who you should focus upon.”
Crassus shook his head. “If I’d—”
“Sir Crassus,” Cyril said, his tone quiet but hard. “Writhing in recrimination and self-doubt is a game your men cannot afford you to play. You are a Knight of the Realm, and you will comport yourself as such.”
Crassus stiffened to attention, swallowed, and threw the captain a steady salute.
Cyril nodded. “Better. You’ve done all you can for them. Return to your duties, Sir Crassus.”
“Sir, “ Max’s half brother said. He began to look over his shoulder but arrested the movement with a visible effort, then donned his helmet and strode back toward the front of the column.
Cyril watched Crassus for a moment, then the healers began to back away from the second tub, with the air of men whose work had been completed. The young Knight in the tub, though pale as death, was breathing steadily while Lady Antillus continued to kneel beside the tub, her head bowed, her hands on the injured Knight’s head.
Cyril nodded, and his gaze fell on Tavi. “Scipio?” he asked. “What happened to you?”
“Accident with a cart, sir,” Tavi replied.
“Broke his leg,” Foss provided with a grunt, as he returned to the wagon.
Cyril arched a brow and glanced at Foss. “How bad?”
“Lower leg, clean break. I mended it. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
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Cyril stared at Tavi for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he nodded.
Lady Antillus rose from the healing tub, smoothed her skirts, and walked sedately to the captain. She saluted him.
“Tribune,” Cyril greeted her. “How is he?”
“I believe he is stable,” Lady Antillus replied, her voice cool, calm. “Barring complications, he should survive. The acid ate away most of the muscle on his left thigh and his right forearm. He’ll never serve again.”
“There’s more to serving a Legion than fighting,” Cyril said quietly.
“Yes, sir,” Lady Antillus said, her neutral tone speaking clearly as to her disagreement.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Cyril said. “For his life.”
Lady Antillus’s expression became remote and unreadable, and she inclined her head very slightly.
Cyril returned the nod, then turned to his horse, mounted, and headed back up the column.
Lady Antillus turned to Tavi after the captain left. “Scipio.”
“Tribune,” Tavi said, saluting her.
“Hop down from the wagon,” she said firmly. “Let’s see your leg.”
“Excuse me?”
Lady Antillus arched a brow. “I am the Tribune Medica of this Legion. You are one of my charges. Now hop down,
Subtribune
.”
Tavi nodded and eased himself down slowly, careful to put as little weight as he could on his wounded leg.
Lady Antillus knelt and touched the wounded leg for a moment, then rose and rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Foss healed it,” Tavi said.
“It is a minor injury,” she said. “Surely, Scipio, someone with even your modest skills of metalcrafting could ignore any discomfort it might cause and march.”
Tavi glanced back at Foss, but the healer was supervising the loading of the wounded Knight into the bed of the wagon and studiously kept his eyes away. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace,” Tavi improvised, regarding her thoughtfully. “It’s still fairly tender, and I don’t want to slow the Legion.”
Clearly, he hadn’t fooled Lady Antillus by starting that fire. It was depressingly probable that she knew or at least strongly suspected his identity, and she was out to expose him. Given how badly he’d beaten her nephew, Kalarus Brencis Minoris, back at that fiasco during Wintersend, he wasn’t surprised at her animosity. Even so, he couldn’t allow her to prove to everyone in sight who he was.
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Which meant that he had to act.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Tavi said. “But I can’t put any weight on it yet.”
“I see,” Lady Antillus said. Then she reached out and firmly pushed on Tavi’s shoulder, forcing his weight to the injured leg.
Tavi felt a flash of pain that shot from his right heel to his right collarbone. The leg buckled and he fell, pitching forward into Lady Antillus, almost knocking her down.
The High Lady let Tavi fall and recovered her balance. Then she shook her head, and said, “I’ve seen little girls in Antillus bear more than that.” Her eyes fell on Foss. “I don’t care to waste my time dealing with obvious shirkers. Watch the leg. Get him back on his feet the moment you deem him fit. Meanwhile, he can play nurse for the casualty.”
Foss saluted. “Yes, Tribune.”
Lady Antillus glared down at Tavi. Then she tossed her dark hair back over one shoulder, mounted her horse again, and kicked it into a run toward the front of the column.
After she was gone, Foss snickered. “You’ve got a nose for trouble, sir.”
“Sometimes,” Tavi agreed. “Foss. Assuming I can get some cash, how much are we talking, to ride in the wagon.”