Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands (15 page)

Marcus looked at Pelonius, who shrugged. “Karan has obviously survived more wounds and knows more about these beasts than any of us. I suggest we do as he says.”

“I’ll leave that in your hands, then,” Marcus said. “And Pelonius—”

“The messages are already written,” Pelonius told him. Reaching into his tunic, he withdrew two tightly wound scrolls, both bearing the wax seal of the Emperor. “This one,” he handed the first to Marcus, “is for the Emperor himself. And this is for the garrison at Augusta Viromanduorum.”
 

“Wrote those during a little break in the butchery, did you?” Septimus asked with a wry smile.

“I just wanted to be prepared,” the scribe huffed.

When Paulus came running back leading six men, Marcus handed the scrolls to the senior soldier, an optio. From the expressions on the men’s faces, none were eager to ride through the forest at night, but with the dark wolves having moved on, Marcus saw no reason to delay. “Move as fast as you dare back to the garrison to deliver their orders, then get the other message to the Emperor by the fastest means possible.” He gripped the messenger’s shoulder. “Every day may count against us.”

“I understand, centurion,” the soldier said. “It will be done.”

“Here,” Septimus said, handing the man a large canvas sack stained crimson at the bottom. “Take this with you.”

“What is it?” the optio asked uncertainly.

“It’s the head from one of these beasts,” Septimus told him. He looked at Pelonius, who nodded with approval. “I thought it might provide them a bit of conversation.”

“Good thinking,” Marcus agreed. Then, to the optio, he said, “You have your orders. Away with you.”

As one, the six men mounted the horses and rode off into the darkness, following the stars that would lead them back to the rest of the legion, and from there on to Rome.

CHAPTER TEN

Despite Valeria’s exhaustion, Karan’s return had rekindled her excitement, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Not yet. The others gathered around the fire also were looking at the Ghost, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring into the flames as he ate a piece of roasted meat. A palpable sense of anticipation hung in the air, as if Karan were an oracle from whose lips the future would be foretold. Finally, she could take no more. “Karan,” she said, ignoring the veiled smiles on the faces of the men, who’d probably taken wagers on how long she could restrain herself from barraging the young man with questions, “I’m curious about so many things, of course. But one that puzzled me from the time you first spoke was how you came to know our language. Two months, especially living in isolation as you must have, would not have been nearly enough time to learn our tongue.”

Karan shrugged. “It is the language spoken by all who live beyond the waters that you call the Haunted Sea. For us, it is the Dead Sea.”

Pelonius frowned. “How is it that they would be speaking the same language as do we?”

“It is the language of Rome.”

They laughed. “We know that,” Valeria said with a smile. “But how did it come to be the language spoken in your land?”

“I do not know,” Karan told her. “It has always been so, since the time the skies fell. I heard that once there were other tongues, but now there is only one.”

Valeria shook her head, wondering, before she looked at Pelonius. “Perhaps his kind are another group of Survivors from Old Rome?”

The old scribe shrugged. “That is certainly possible. Or perhaps a group that split away from the Survivors before the bridge submerged.”

“That’s all ancient history,” Marcus interjected, “and about as much use to us as a blunt sword.” To Karan, he said, “Would your Masters attack us if they could use the bridge you crossed?”

“Yes,” Karan said without hesitation. “They will come.”

“You sound awfully sure about that,” Marcus said in a low voice.
 

“My disappearance might go unremarked,” Karan told him, “but the disappearance of a hunting pack will not. The Masters are no fools. And they know that civilization thrives here from the boats and bodies that have washed up on their shores over the ages. Long have they looked with envious eyes across the sea.”

“What can you tell us about them, the Masters?” Valeria asked.

Karan seemed to withdraw into himself, as if mentally recoiling from the question. “They are like us in some ways, but in other ways, not.”

Valeria shook her head, confused. “I do not understand.”

“They are…” He glanced at the sleeping form of Hercules. “They are to us as the god Hercules is to four legged tigers.”

“What are you saying?” Marcus said, frowning. “That they’re bigger than we are?”

Karan nodded. “We are but children to their eyes.”

“So, they’re giants, is what you’re saying,” Septimus clarified in a wry voice. “That’s just lovely.”

“Giants, yes, but other things are different, as well,” Karan told him. “They are hairless, their skin thick and tough as leather, puckered and twisted as if they were covered with deep scars from birth.” He held up his hands. “We have four fingers and a thumb on each hand. They have four fingers and two thumbs. And their faces…their faces…” He had to pause for a moment, considering his words. “If you mixed two eyes, a mouth, and a nose into a bowl and poured them out upon the front of a skull, you would have a Master’s face. And each of their faces is different, no two quite the same. Many are born dead and are given to the animals of the hunt in sacrifice.”
 

Pelonius sat back, his eyes wide, and Valeria looked at him, her mouth gaping open with surprise. “So, the stories are true, then,” Pelonius breathed.

“What do you mean?” Paulus asked, confused. “What stories?”

“The stories about bodies of monstrous looking men being found along the shores of the Haunted Sea,” Valeria told him.
 

“Such stories are recorded in the Imperial Library back to the time of the First Spring,” Pelonius added. “We always assumed that they had been men from our own shores upon whom the gods inflicted their wrath before sending the bodies home. No one ever contemplated that such creations might have been born that way.”

“Have you ever seen one?” Marcus asked.

Pelonius nodded absently. “Well, the skull of one.” Turning to look at Karan, he said, “Karan’s description of the face was apt. And if the size of the body matched the skull in the classical proportions…” He stopped. “Well, suffice it to say that one on one our soldiers would be a bit outmatched.”

Septimus spat.

“I know this is an obvious question,” Marcus said to Karan, “but are they skilled in the ways of war?”

“All who once stood against the Masters were destroyed long ago, years beyond counting. Only we, their slaves, as you would call us, remain from the peoples of that time.” He paused. “Since then, the Masters have sometimes fought one another for power. So yes, they are skilled in making war.”

“What about man to man?” Septimus asked. “Could you defeat a master in a fight?”

Even in the firelight, Karan visibly paled. “To even think of raising a hand to a Master is forbidden.”

“As it is for slaves in the Empire, as well,” Pelonius said quietly. “But you are no longer bound to the Masters, nor need you fear them while among us. And by decree of the princess, you are now a free man to do and say as you please within the bounds of Roman law, which I will later explain to you.”

Karan looked at Valeria. “What would you have me do?”

“Take Pelonius’s words to heart,” she reassured him. “You may answer our questions or not, as it please you. But I would have you answer, for we very much need your counsel.”

After a moment, Karan nodded. “I, who stand the First among Swords, could perhaps defeat a Master in single combat with my sword or bow,” he said with great reluctance, “but it would be no easy thing. Armored and mounted upon their elephants or war horses…” He shook his head slowly.

Septimus whispered a doubly venomous oath under his breath.

“Do they fight in formations as we do,” Marcus persisted, “or as a group of individuals?”

“They fight much as you do,” Karan replied. “The inner walls of the Great Arena, where I have fought many times, are painted with scenes of ancient times. Some of those paintings show many Masters in great ranks not unlike how your men fight, destroying the host of an enemy. And I have seen soldiers among the Masters, even helped train some of them, but have not seen a great army with my own eyes.” He could see the disappointment in the faces of the others and bowed his head. “I wish I could tell you all that you wish to know, but my world was limited to the quarters where we were kept, the training arenas, and wherever the Masters chose for us to fight. The Masters give only commands to my kind, and the only words we returned were those of obedience. The only time I was ever free, even for so short a time, was during the Great Hunt, when I expected to die.” He paused. “That is one reason all of the Swords hope to be chosen for it, for it is our final release, our only chance to escape the lash.”

“Apologies, centurion,” a soldier said, emerging from the darkness, “but we found one of the supply wagons, its cargo of wine still intact.” He held up a pair of amphorae and grinned.

“Finally, some good news!” Septimus exclaimed as he stepped forward and eagerly took the fired clay containers. Pulling the stopper from one, he sniffed, then lifted it to his lips. After taking a brief taste, he waited a moment before handing it to Valeria. “No fast acting poison, anyway.”

“My gratitude,” Valeria said with a tired smile as she took it from him. Septimus gave the second amphora to Paulus after first taking a generous swig himself.

Marcus grunted. “Give every man a full day’s ration, but no more. They deserve that much after a day like this. But any man found drunk before we march tomorrow will have his head mounted on a spike. Make sure those words reach every ear.”

“Yes, centurion!” The man bowed his head and retreated into the darkness.

Valeria put the amphora to her lips and took a swallow of wine, but misjudged her handling of the container. Wine sloshed into her mouth, and she choked, spewing wine from her nose. Nearly dropping the amphora, she coughed, waving away the concern of the others as the gagging turned to a fit of laughter. “I’ve never had wine from anything but a proper cup,” she rasped.
 

“Your mother will be so appalled when I tell her,” Paulus said with a sly smile, and the others, save for Karan, laughed.

“Don’t you dare!” She handed the amphora to Karan. “Here, have some wine. You’ve earned it as much as any man of the legion.”

Karan took the clay container with reverent hands. “Only Masters have such things,” he said quietly. He took a sniff, then carefully took a small drink. Scrunching up his face, he handed it back. “This tastes good upon your tongue?”

The others laughed again. “It is what we call an acquired taste,” Paulus told him.

“So you don’t drink wine, do you?” Septimus asked, appalled.

“Swords are not given such things,” Karan told him. “Only Masters enjoy the fruit of the grape, and only the greatest among the Masters drink the fruit of the honey bee.”

“What kind of drink is that?” Paulus asked.

“Mead,” Pelonius said. “It has been with us since before wine, and is made with honey rather than grapes.”

Valeria frowned. “Why do only these ‘greatest’ Masters drink it?”
 

“Because honey is rare to find, and deadly to gather. Many of my kind perish in the taking of it.”

“I’ve been stung,” Paulus said, shooting Valeria an accusing look. “It’s painful, but not that bad.”

“And there are ways of managing bees with relative safety,” Pelonius said, “with smoke, for instance.”

Karan pulled up the sleeve of his left arm. Amid the scars that crisscrossed the flesh was a deep circular crater as big across as his thumb was long. “The bees of these lands, perhaps, but not mine. When I was very young, I was among those chosen to gather honey and was stung. I returned with the honeycomb, but nearly died for my efforts.”
 

“By all the gods,” Pelonius whispered as he leaned closer to examine the wound.

“Rarely does one survive even a single sting,” Karan went on. “Because I lived, it was seen as a good omen and I was chosen as a Sword.”

“Forget the mead, then,” Septimus said with a grimace.

“You keep saying that you’re a Sword,” Paulus said. “Is that a caste or group? Are there other such groups of your people?”

Karan nodded. “My kind serves the Masters in different ways. Swords are trained for combat, for the sport and entertainment of the Masters, and as scouts in battle, but there has not been one in living memory. We are…privileged, given clean water and plenty of food that we may have strength to train and fight. Those of the other castes do not enjoy such things. Most suffer hard labor, and few live beyond twenty summers.”

That came as no surprise to anyone, for it was much the same for many Roman slaves. House slaves and, in some instances, slave gladiators, enjoyed certain privileges, even status. But most, particularly those consigned to working in the Empire’s mines, enjoyed brief, brutal lives.

“Did you know your mother and father?” Valeria asked.

“No child knows his parents. Most females are kept as breeders, shackled in cages except for mating with males chosen by the Masters. Once the young are weaned from the mother’s breast, they are given to a training caste that molds them like clay into the forms chosen by the Masters.”

“Even our slaves do not suffer so,” Valeria said in an agonized voice.

“The civilization of the Masters is almost like looking into a distorted reflection of our own,” Pelonius said in a thoughtful voice.
 

Paulus cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

Pelonius saw that Marcus was getting impatient with the course of the discussion, and raised his hand in a gesture of patience. “If we are to defeat this new enemy, we must first understand them. That is more important than tactics and formations.” Marcus granted him a reluctant nod, and Pelonius went on. “Let us consider Princess Valeria’s earlier supposition, that a second group of Survivors lived through Vulcan’s Fury and the Long Winter that followed it. Might they not have rebuilt their civilization along similar lines as our own?”