Captain's Fury

Chapter 37



Isana looked up as daylight briefly flooded the hold through the open hatch above. Demos and Fade came down the stepladder into the hold and approached at once. Demos's presence was muted to her senses, as usual, but what she could feel of him told her that he was at least mildly anxious.



"What's the problem?" Demos asked. "They've started combing the docks and searching ships. We don't have much time."



"Already?" Isana asked. "That was fast."



"They start with the places someone might use to leave town in a hurry," Demos said.



"We should leave," Araris murmured. "Set sail right now."



"Ships have been ordered to remain at dock," Demos said.



"Then we should have left last night."



"Which would have told them exactly where to look for the prisoner," Demos said. "No. We stay in dock until they clear us, then when we leave, we aren't looking astern the whole trip." He turned to Isana. "Now what's the problem?"



Isana gestured at Varg. The Cane was far too large to fit into any of the healing tubs on the Slive, so instead he lay in the shallow pool in the hold where the witchmen usually stood their station. "It's the Cane. He's badly hurt, and he won't let anyone touch him. He nearly took my hand off when I tried to heal him."



"He's got to be moved," Demos said. "We have fifteen minutes, give or take."



"He isn't going to let us move him," Isana said. "And if he starts thrashing around, it could kill him."



"If he isn't moved," Demos said, "it could kill all of us." He touched the hilt of his sword. "One way or the other, he's in the river in fifteen minutes." The captain went back up on deck.



Isana exchanged a long look with Araris. Then she said, "Get him."



"Are you sure?" Araris asked. "He still looks like he's in bad shape."



"He is," Isana said. "He'd want you to do it."



Araris grimaced, then departed. He returned a moment later, half-carrying Tavi. The young man nearly fell coming down the stepladder, and he had to lean on Araris to walk the short distance to the pool. Isana's heart ached to see how pale her son's face remained, his eyes so sunken that they looked bruised. He'd looked worse last night, when she'd had to heal dozens of small wounds, three fractured bones, muscles that had all but torn themselves apart with strain, burns on his mouth, his throat, and in his lungs from breathing fury-heated air, and the hideous damage to the flesh of his hands.



Restoring a body that had suffered so much punishment was hideously draining upon the victim. He shouldn't have been conscious, much less standing more or less on his own, but his green eyes, though sunken and weary, were alert.



"What is it?" Tavi asked quietly. His voice was still raw, rough-sounding. Even with watercrafting, there was only so much one could do for burns.



"Varg," she said. "I've been trying to heal him, but he won't let me touch him. We have to move him in the next few minutes, before they search the ship."



Tavi blinked slowly once, and for a second, she wondered if he'd even heard her. "Ah," he said, finally. "All right. Try again."



Isana frowned. "I've tried, several times, to-"



Tavi shook his head. He splashed wearily down into the pool, and sat down on the floorboards, not far from the Cane's head, his feet in the water, his shoulders slumped. He gestured wearily for Isana to proceed.



Isana stepped down into the water again, reached out for Rill, and stepped closer to Varg. She reached one hand toward his chest warily, watching the enormous, dark-furred body for movement. Her fingers got to within perhaps an inch of the Cane's fur before Varg let out a growl. His half-opened eyes never focused, but his lips peeled back away from white fangs, and his jaws opened slightly.



Tavi moved with sudden and shocking speed, for the Cane's head. Before



Isana could react, her son seized one of the Cane's upright ears hard with one hand, squeezing and twisting, and clamped Varg's muzzle shut with the fingers of his other hand, shoving the Cane's head back at an almost brutal angle.



Then, to Isana's utter shock, her son went for the Cane's throat with his teeth.



Varg's entire, enormous body stiffened, and his clawed paw-hands half rose from the water-but before they could reach for Tavi, they froze in place, and a low growl bubbled in Varg's throat.



She heard her son, then. Tavi, his teeth still closed over the Cane's throat, snarled like a beast. The sound rose, deepened again, then repeated. Isana realized with a shock that he was speaking to the Cane.



Varg's bloody eyes seemed to focus for a second or two, and then the Cane let out a low growl and lowered his claws back into the water again.



Tavi opened his mouth slowly, and straightened. He released the hard grip on the Cane's ear, his hand dropping to grip the fur at the nape of Varg's neck. With the other hand, he kept on holding the Cane's muzzle closed.



He turned his head to one side and spat and snorted, apparently to get fur out of his mouth. "Go ahead," he said quietly, then. "He'll be still now."



Isana stared at him for a moment. "How in the world...?"



He gave her a weary smile. "Just have to know how to talk to them."



Isana shook her head, and glanced at Araris. She hadn't noticed when the singulare had stepped up close to Tavi, naked sword in hand.



"Ten minutes," Araris said quietly.



Isana nodded once, called upon Rill, and then laid her bare hand on Varg's chest.



His chest shook with one more growl, but the barely conscious Cane did not move.



Isana closed her eyes and sent her focus down into Rill, and into the water surrounding the Cane. She was immediately startled by how much water surrounded Varg. She had seen the Cane's size, of course, but if she hadn't occasionally been called upon to heal wounded livestock, she would never have even contemplated healing a creature so large.



Granted, she had never healed a Cane before. At first, she feared that the wolflike creature would be too different to benefit from the kind of healing she knew, but she rapidly saw that the fear had been groundless. Pain was universal.



She sensed the injuries in Varg as she might have in anyone else. She sent Rill coursing into the Cane's body, closing his wounds, aligning broken bones, easing inflammation and pain. None of the injuries were especially complex or difficult to repair: It was a question of volume. The Cane simply bore so many various hurts that she was shocked he had survived so long without any help.



Then there was a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently, and Isana drew her awareness back into her own body. She looked up, blinking, to find Demos standing over her. "Lady," he said quietly. "We're out of time."



"Oh," she mumbled. "Yes, of course."



Demos regarded Tavi and his grip on Varg for a moment. Then the captain said, "We would have restrained him. If we'd had any chains."



Tavi gave Demos a sour look.



Demos nodded to Araris, then at the pool. "In, all of you." He went to the side of the pool and drew a rope from his belt. He secured one end to a ring on the near side of the pool, the other to a similar ring on the far side. "Everyone get hold of that."



Isana told Tavi, "Varg is unconscious now. I had to do a lot. He'll need help."



Tavi nodded once and glanced at Araris. The singulare put his sword away. Each of them went to one side of Varg, dragging one of the Cane's huge arms over their shoulders.



"The rope," Demos said quietly, and Isana shook herself into motion, grabbing on to the rope with both hands. Demos nodded his approval, and said, quietly, "Shouldn't be long."



He closed his eyes and made a gesture with one hand. The hull of the ship, beneath her, suddenly shifted, weirdly fluid, and then simply dropped away, lowering them up to their chins into the waters of the river. As Isana watched, the hull of the ship shifted and then closed over them, leaving a bubble of air trapped against the dome-shaped indentation in the ship's hull.



Then, there was little to do but hold on to the rope in near-total darkness. And wait.



"Tavi," Isana said quietly. "How long have you known?"



There was a moment of silence. To Tavi's credit, he didn't attempt any evasions, even one so minor as asking her what she was talking about. "Almost two years now."



"Why didn't you tell me?"



"At first," he said quietly, "because I thought there were things you weren't telling me. It seemed... an appealing bit of symmetry."



Isana felt a stab of anger that came along with the hurt, but she could hardly throw stones at him for keeping secrets. Besides, to a certain degree, he was right. In some ways, she'd had such treatment coming.



"What about later?" she asked quietly.



"I suppose I'd gotten used to it," he said. "I didn't even tell Araris."



"Didn't have to," Araris said quietly.



"What?" Tavi asked. "But until last night I never..."



"Asked me to turn out the furylamp in your room," Araris said. "Never missed a day out alone, practicing with Kitai." He chuckled. "You didn't think you could actually work out against me, using some of your metalcraft, and I wouldn't notice?"



"Oh," Tavi said quietly.



Isana frowned. "Araris? You knew? And you didn't tell me?"



"It wasn't mine to tell," he said quietly.



"I see," Isana said.



"Quiet," Tavi hissed.



They fell silent. Heavy boots, too heavy to be any sailor's wear, thumped on the hull above them. Hollow voices, strangely muffled, vibrated through the floorboards. There were shouts, calls, the sounds of things being moved. After several minutes of this, the sounds retreated.



Not long after, the wooden hull of the ship twitched, then parted again, and Isana idly noted the subtle, steady watercrafting worked into the hull that prevented water from rushing in, the work of Demos's witchmen, presumably.



The boards of the hull reached down around them and closed beneath them, lifting them up, until they stood in the witchmen's shallow pool again. Demos stood nearby.



"That went fairly well," he said quietly. "You'll all need to stay here in theshold until we get moving again. They might come back, and if they do, you'll have to get wet again."



"Are you sure they didn't find anything?" Tavi asked quietly.



Demos shook his head. "That would have been suspicious. They found two hidden compartments holding several ounces of aphrodin, a crate of wine bottles that hadn't been marked by the excisemen, and a bolt of silk cloth from Kalare that's supposed to be embargoed."



Isana blinked. "And you weren't arrested?"



"I had cash." He turned to go. "I'll have something hot sent down to you. Once the other two members of your party arrive, and we're cleared to depart, we'll get moving again. Probably sometime tomorrow morning."



Tavi nodded. "Thank you, Demos."



"It's the job," he said, and left.



Tavi pulled himself out of the pool and sank down against the nearest bulkhead, his feet pulled up, knees against his chest. He lowered his head and was asleep again.



Isana looked at the battered young man and sighed. Then she said, "Am I wrong to be worried, about his furies?"



"There's something wrong with his crafting," Araris said. "I'm not sure what. But I've never seen him actually manifest a fury. Not even last night."



"If he could have," Isana began.



"He would have," Araris finished, nodding. He wrinkled up his nose and glanced at Varg, before positioning the Cane to lie with his head out of the pool. "Smells like wet dog in here."



She smiled faintly. "I should resume tending to him. There's quite a bit more to do."



Araris nodded and stepped out of the pool. "How's your arm?" he asked.



"It hurts," Isana said. "But I'm not in danger. Once I've seen to these two, I'll mend it."



He didn't look happy about that, but he nodded. "All right." He began to turn away, but paused. "Shouldn't one of us tell him about... us?"



She felt her cheeks color again. "I... what would we tell him?"



"That we love each other," Araris said in a quiet, firm tone. "That once things are more... settled, that we want to be together."



She looked up at him, and swallowed. "Is... is that what you want?"



Araris glanced at her and then gave her a gentle grin. "You know just as well as I do, my lady."



She smiled at him, and despite the cool water all around her, she felt very warm.



Araris settled down beside her son to guard the boy's sleep, while Isana turned her attention back to the wounded Cane.



Chapter 38



Valiar Marcus stared down at the spear in his guts in total shock.



The Canim javelin had slipped through a tiny opening between Marcus's shield and that of the legionare beside him, thrown with such force that its black metallic head slammed cleanly through his armor.



Marcus realized, then, that he was standing in the second rank. He didn't remember taking a step back. The impact of the javelin must have knocked him there. That was probably why only about ten inches of steel was in his guts. Javelins hurled by a warrior Cane typically transfixed their targets entirely.



And this was the weapon of a warrior Cane, he knew, which meant that the Prime Cohort was engaging some of the foe's elites. They would have to alter their formation and advance, now, because the Canim typically flung their spears immediately before a charge. Marcus managed to take a deep breath, and bellow, "Close formation! Shields up! Second and third ranks to spears!"



Spear leaders began repeating the orders, shouting together, and the ranks of the Prime Cohort shifted and compressed. The legionares in the second and third ranks put away their swords and readied the five-foot spears strapped to the back of their tower shields. Those spearheads rose in a thicket of deadly steel thorns, just as the Canim warrior caste exploded from the rain-shrouded shadows and struck the lines.



Marcus sheathed his sword and pulled hard on the spear, but it was pinned in the steel grip of his punctured armor, and he couldn't get it free. Battling legionares



on the front rank jostled the spear's shaft, shoving it left and right, and Marcus felt it as a horribly invasive, quivering tremor in his belly, and his breath was suddenly gone.



He dropped to one knee, and got his shield up in time to deflect a hastily aimed blow from a black-armored Cane. The legionares around him drove the Cane back with spears and brutally stabbing swords.



Someone stepped on the spear shaft, and pain that redefined his concept of the word burned Marcus to his core.



He fell, onto his back, and rain poured into his face. He reached to wipe water from his eyes, and Foss said, "Easy there, Marcus. Try not to move just yet."



Marcus blinked. He opened his eyes and looked blearily around him.



He was in the healer's tents.



And it was morning.



He'd been moving the cohort to secure that shaky flank near the woods, and then the spear had hit him.



And now he was in the healer's tents. He'd been injured, and injuries could be disorienting. Someone must have dragged him from the fight.



It was such an immense effort to move his head that after the first couple of twitches, he didn't bother.



He lay in a healing tub, naked, and the water was stained dark with blood. Foss sat at the head of the tub, his head bowed, his hands resting on Marcus's shoulders.



Marcus's eyes tracked down to his belly and found a gaping wound there, as long as his hand was broad. The wound gaped at the edges, and he could see... whichever parts of his guts were beneath the wound, he supposed.



"Balls," he whispered.



"Try not to talk," Foss growled. "You have to tighten your stomach muscles to do it, and I don't need you bumping my elbow while I work."



"C-cohort," Marcus said. He tried to look around him, but reclined as he was, he could see little more than that the First Aleran's Tribune Medica and his staff had no shortage of work. Battlefield infirmaries were always like this. Men groaned and screamed and wept. Quiet, determined healers fought their own battle with Death himself, to what Marcus was sure would be the usual mixed results.



"Hold still and shut up, or I'll knock you out," Foss said. "That column that hit you out of that ravine was one of three. The other two went right through the Guard and hit us in the flanks. If the Prime Cohort hadn't held, the Canim would have cut us up but good."



Marcus turned his eyes back up to Foss.



The healer glanced at him and frowned. "It isn't pretty in here. Thirty-four of the Prime dead. Twice that many wounded." Foss scowled. "Now shut up and hold still, before you're number thirty-five."



It was too much effort to nod. Marcus closed his eyes. The sobs of the wounded and the murmur of quiet, determined voices continued, until he found himself sitting up in bed, wolfing down a steaming bowl of mashed meal, bland but filling.



He blinked several times at the bowl and looked up and around him. He was back in his tent, and it was morning again-a different morning, he thought. The sun was out. He felt weak as a puppy and twice as hungry.



He moved his blankets and looked at the scar on his abdomen. It hadn't closed neatly-though it would hardly be the first time that had happened to him. The scar marking the injury was as thick as his little finger, raised from his skin-the hallmark of a vicious injury attended to by an overworked and exhausted Legion watercrafter, worn to the point of collapse from saving men's lives as swiftly and as certainly as possible.



The past two days were little but mist in his memory, a few solid points, with many hours of nothingness in between. That happened, sometimes, when a particularly extensive injury required particularly extensive watercrafting to rectify. He'd been close to gone, then.



He turned his attention back to the simple mash and ate until the bowl was empty.



"Good morning," said a voice outside. Crassus. "Are you up?"



"Not dressed yet," Marcus said. "Just a moment, sir."



"Don't," Crassus said, alarmed. The young man came into the tent. "Healer's orders. You're to stay in bed all of today."



That sounded good to Marcus, but he wasn't about to let the young officer know it. "I'm fine, sir. I'll go talk to Foss about it."



"Captain's orders," Crassus said. "Stay in bed."



Marcus grunted. "Sir." He rubbed a hand over his head. "How'd yesterday go?"



"The short version? Nasaug hit us with better than three thousand of his elites spearheading twenty thousand raiders. They tore through both Guard Legions and threw them into confusion. If you and your men hadn't held, they might have routed us completely."



Marcus grunted and gestured at himself. "I didn't do much of that."



Crassus lifted his eyebrows. "I've had a number of men report that you hacked the shaft off that javelin in your belly and kept giving orders for more than an hour. It wasn't until we started pushing them back that you let them take you to the healers."



Marcus blinked. He remembered nothing of that. "Well. That wasn't real bright of me."



"Under the circumstances, I'll forgive it," Crassus said. "You held. We got everyone rallied up on First Aleran's flanks, and started pushing them back- but it was bloody close." He shook his head. "They left quickly once the tide began to turn. We actually took more casualties than the Guard-the Canim let them run once they'd been broken up and came after us. We got hit hard, but we hurt the Canim as badly as they hurt us."



"Then we're losing," Marcus said quietly. "There's more of them."



"Yes there are," Crassus said. "But we're close to Mastings now. Twenty miles from here to the ruins, and we can see Mastings from there."



Marcus grunted. "They aren't going to give us the ruins cheap. It used to be a fortress. They'll have rebuilt portions, fortified it. We should move on it now."



Crassus nodded. "Arnos is holding us here for two days. Raiding parties have been hitting our supply trains behind us. We're going to run short on food if we don't hold here for the wagons that managed to get through."



Marcus growled. "They can get an awful lot of work done in two days."



"I know," Crassus said. "But I have my orders, and you have yours." He nodded at the bowl. "I'll have some more brought in. You're to eat it and get some more sleep." His voice sobered. "I'm going to need you."



Marcus put his fist to his heart and bowed his head.



Crassus returned the salute and left the tent. "Excuse me," he said to someone outside. "Could you bring him some more, please? And don't let him go wandering around."



"Of course, my lord," answered a woman's voice.



"Captain, is just fine, ma'am," Crassus said. "And thank you."



Lady Aquitaine came into the tent in her washerwoman disguise, bearing a covered tray. She gave Marcus an elaborate curtsey, and he shook his head at her.



"Captain will do, indeed," she said, casting a narrow glance over her shoulder in the direction of the retreating Crassus. She settled the tray on Marcus's lap and removed the lid. The aroma of fresh, hot food threatened to rob him of his sanity.



"Where on earth did you get fresh eggs out here?" he demanded. "And ham?"



"I'm a woman of means," Lady Aquitaine said. "Eat. I'll talk."



Marcus's stomach howled more than growled, and he fell to with a will.



"Our young Crassus is too modest," Lady Aquitaine said. "He's all but totally responsible for rallying the entire First Senatorial. And Captain Nalus is swearing up and down that the Second would never have survived the battle without Crassus's steadiness and that fool Antillar's cavalry."



"The Senator's less than thrilled with that," Marcus said.



Lady Aquitaine waved one hand. "As am I. Crassus has something young Scipio didn't."



"A title," Marcus said. "Legitimacy."



"Precisely. The son of Antillus Raucus." She shook her head. "I've worked hard to set up Arnos to receive the political profit from this campaign-and in a broader sense, my husband hardly needs more rivals."



'You can't really think Crassus could threaten him," Marcus said.



"No. Not now. But ten years from now, with the credit for a successful campaign behind him..." She shrugged. "The wise gardener plucks weeds when they are small rather than waiting for them to take root."



Marcus stopped chewing.



"We'll use him to take the ruins," Lady Aquitaine said. "We'll let him help us secure the city. When we march on the city..." She shrugged. "Take care of it, my Fidelias."



"Crassus," he said.



"Yes," she replied.



"That could prove difficult. And if his death is traced to me-to any Aleran, for that matter-it will cast a shadow on the Senator. To say nothing of Rau-cus's response."



"Which is why I have taken the liberty of procuring one of those Canim balests for you, my spy." She poured him a mug of spiced tea from a pitcher. "It's beneath your bunk. He'll die at the hands of the foes he so bravely confronted, a hero of the Realm."



Marcus nodded and forced himself to continue eating.



"I know you've been injured, and you need rest." She calmly picked up the tray, tugged aside the blankets, and studied his wound. "Goodness, someone made a botch of this." She laid her hand over it, and her eyes went a bit distant. "But it's closed solidly enough, I suppose." She restored his blankets and returned the tray. "Do this for me, Fidelias, and you can finally get out of this place. It hardly suits you, you know." Her eyes glittered. "The next year or so will be very exciting. I'll want you at my side."



He nodded back. "I'll take care of it."



"Excellent," she said, her eyes glittering. "Eat. Rest."



She departed the tent.



Marcus sat quietly for a moment.



Kill Crassus.



Or refuse her orders. Kill himself.



Marcus set the question aside and ate everything left on the tray. He drank the tea and settled down to sleep. He would think things through more clearly after food and rest.



He would need his strength.



Regardless of what he did with it.