Beyond the Bulwarks Page 35

  “Welcome back to the Empire, Master Severnus. I only hope you have not returned in time to see its dismemberment....”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Watch on the Lydirian

  Spring advanced in a hot, yellow-red shimmer, swept away winter’s last, brittle wheeze with balmy gusts from the south that darkened the sky, growled occasionally with thunder, but brought only fitful squalls that hardly wetted the dust of the Legion roads. Grass greened in uneven patches, shot through with wildflowers. A punishing sun gave them hardly any purchase in gritty soil, baked them mercilessly into browned tangles.

  A pall of heat and dust mingled with hearth smoke over Estpont, below the walls of Terminus, weighty like a fever. The folk of the frontier town labored with curses and sweat in the little harbor to drag skiffs and boats free of sandbars, the water line having retreated from piers until their piles showed like bones stripped bare. Barges out of Hadron had begun beaching further south to unload their wares, rather than risk stranding themselves further on. Patches of weeds burst from the murk where once the Lydirian had swirled and fishermen were forced to dare taking their craft out into the middle of the river to ply their trade.

  From the eastern bank of the Lydirian came the thock-thock-thock of axes on trees. The woods that had once crowded to the water line had receded, stripped away as first dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of Vhurrs materialized over the weeks on the opposite shore. By day, camp smoke grayed the lower Bulwarks, thickening and twisting about a veritable city of wagons and crude huts. By night, the surface of the Lydirian dazzled with the reflection of those countless blazes.

  Standing atop the battlements of Terminus, Anzo wiped sweat from a brow crinkling under a midday sun and grimaced. The bastard was right. He could practically hear Theregond’s wicked chuckle. Drought. And soon, they will be coming.

  The craft of the fisher folk of Estpont swirled across the Lydirian. They had competition now from Vhurr-built canoes. There had been few incidents of note, yet, the rival fleets sidling around each other, once and a while intermixing, like the light cavalry skirmishes that precede a main engagement. Even now, Anzo could see an argument brewing between an Aurid skiff crew and a pair of Vhurrs on one of their tree-trunk boats. Vhurrian steel glinted cool in hot sun. Anzo tensed. The Estponters, outnumbering the barbarians five-to-three, howled and brandished hatchets and river poles, emboldened by the swift approach of fellow fishers. But the Vhurrs were isolated, had wandered too far out on their own, and gave up the debate. The boats parted ways with howls and threats only.

  This time.

  “The heat bothering you?” Enu Mbawa strolled along the rampart to join Anzo, his bare, ebon skull beaded with sweat but his smile easy and comfortable.

  “I’ve been too long in those mountains.” Anzo wiped hair back from his eyes. “It’s no afternoon in Kharzul, though, with the sun shimmering off the Dome of the Archon and the sand blowing in off the wastes.”

  Enu grinned with memory. “No, it’s not, at that. I used to jump into the River Orfidus as a boy on days like this. The water was blue-black, like bathing in liquid night.” His expression slipped as his gaze passed over the low Lydirian. “You know, I hate the rain, but I’ve been tempted to offer my father’s gods, Bhaalok and Astreom, an offering if Aeydon is too busy to give us a thunderstorm.”

  Anzo grunted in agreement. His gaze slipped across the river, to the high, rocky spot directly opposite Terminus where the Vhurrian camps had yet dared to sprawl. He could see piers there, a handful of Legion-built landers, and bare-chested men laboring to raise palisades higher. “You reinforced the fortified landing.”

  “We doubled the garrison.” Enu folded his arms as his eyes crinkled on the distant site. “My men, my decision. Maricius wasn’t certain, but we can’t show them our backs yet. Even that thorn in their side might give them a little pause.”

  “Have you had much trouble?”

  The Tribune shrugged. “Threats, sometimes rocks or torches thrown over the palisade at night...sometimes a severed head. There have been riders all around the perimeter, taunting my lads. White-haired dogs with whiter skin.”

  “Arriaks,” Anzo said with a shiver. “The Legate may have had the right of it, you know. If the river continues to fall, you’ll have a difficult time keeping those men provisioned.”

  “I know.” Enu bit his lip. “But not yet.” He clenched a fist and smote the wall. “Who the hell do these vermin think they are?”

  Anzo smiled and put a comforting hand on the Kharzulan’s shoulder. He noted the scimitar glimmering at the other man’s hip and sighed. “You know, I owe you this.” He put his hands to his belt, began unbuckling the Legion cavalry sword. “It gave good service and I thank you.” He held it out.

  The frustration left Enu’s face as he accepted the weapon. “Thanks. I’ll make sure get you yours.” He ran the blade out a couple inches then re-sheathed it. “To be honest, I’m glad to have it back. My native steel—for all that it means to me—was never quite as keen or lucky as a good, fabricae-issue edge.” He cradled the weapon under his left arm. “I have a feeling luck’s going to mean more in the coming days.”

  A flutter of movement from the northeastern tower of the fort drew Anzo’s gaze. Legionnaires were stiffening to attention and offering the upraised palm of salute as Maricius emerged into the daylight. The Legate saw him and Enu and strode across the walls towards them, his lips pinched into a bloodless line.

  Enu frowned. “Uh-oh.”

  “Has any word come from our lords of Auriddium?” Anzo tried to make his tone light and failed, the words sounding closer to desperate.

  The Legate shook his iron-gray head. “Too soon.” He met Anzo’s gaze. “How about the Initiate? Word might travel more rapidly by her way.”

  Anzo shook his head. “She’s said nothing. But I will ask.”

  “There has been some word, though, hasn’t there?” Enu eyed his superior.

  Maricius grinned angrily. “Of course. I had asked the Comes Dynirium if he might consider freeing up another three cohorts from the Fifteenth.” He shook his head. “The good lord protests that he needs the troops to ward off pirates from the Midnight Sea.”

  “Pirates...” Enu snorted. “Does he have any idea what is happening down here?”

  “Certainly, he knows. That is why the three cohorts remain where they are, protecting his villas and baths.” Maricius gnawed a thumbnail, his eyes drilling across the river to the Vhurrian camps. He turned to Anzo. “Master Severnus, in your time amongst those...people, did you uncover anything that might suggest them plotting with elements on this side of the river?”

  Anzo shook his head. “Getting the Marovians out of the way had been their main aim, that and churning up anarchy on the eastern side. Theregond wanted to clear resistance before his main thrust to the Lydirian, once he’d united the tribes.” He frowned. “You’re worried over the Auxiliaries.”

  Maricius shrugged. “I’m worried over everything.”

  “I’ve said it before,” Enu put in, “and I’ll say it again: those men are ours. Many of them are second generation in the service of the Empire. And they’ve given a good accounting of themselves since we’ve been here.”

  “In skirmishes, yes, Enu, I know.” The Legate glowered at his subordinate. “But they’ve never seen a pitched battle. And this horde is comprised of the people of their ancestors. They’ll be men facing their own blood.”

  “There’s more to a soldier than blood, Lord,” Anzo said softly, earning a nod of thanks from Enu.

  “Oh, I know.” Maricius sighed. “But the news gets worse. In addition to the dispatches from Dynium, I’ve received a summons to Trebactunum for a meeting with the local landowners.” A deeper sigh. “I’ve already heard rumors they intend to petition me for more troops drawn out of the line. It seems they worry their own field hands plot to turn on them.”

  Enu shook his head and spat over the wall. “The Salient Line is manned by
nothing more than a skeleton crew, at this point. What more can they demand?”

  Maricius’ smile softened, took on a mischievous light. “Well...they’ll be demanding my head when I tell them I’m pulling the regulars back to their line positions.”

  Enu’s mouth gaped. “You’re serious?”

  “What choice do we have?” Maricius waved to the masses on the opposite shore. “They’ll write up charges, of course, demand my arrest. But that will have to be taken at least to Hadron for judgment, maybe as far as Aurid.” Maricius squared his shoulders, jutted out his jaw. “One does not just dismiss a Legate of the Emperor. And then word will have to come all the way back with whatever orders are written.” The commander scowled. “Judging by the level of Lydirian, we’ll be eye-deep in hairy barbarian asses long before that.”

  “It’s a stroke of luck, then, this drought,” Anzo said with a chuckle.

  The Legate and the Tribune looked at him incredulously.

  Anzo grinned lopsidedly in return. “The Vhurrs will be allowed to cross and save us from ourselves.”

  The three’s laughter was no less heartfelt for its hopelessness.

  ***

  The small shrine to Thoth that Varya’s predecessor had occupied had been repaired on the outcropping of rock outside the walls of Terminus. It was a humble, wooden-beamed affair with a rude, crumbled stone foundation, little better than a shack. A placard dangled above the narrow door, painted with some Legionnaire’s artistic flair with the open book symbol of Thoth, Father of Knowledge.

  With dusk approaching, Anzo strode to the shrine. White candles had been lit, flanking the entrance in sconces. More light, soft and faintly tinged with purple, leaked through a part in the curtains drawn across the opening. Anzo paused outside, a fist poised to rap the doorframe. Soft humming came from within, interspersed with the strange language of a world Beyond. Despite his knowledge otherwise, Anzo’s skin crawled at the arcane phrases.

  The humming cut out. “Yes?”

  Anzo cleared his throat. “It’s me.”

  “Come in,” Varya beckoned cheerfully.

  Drawing aside the curtain, Anzo stepped through. Within, candles clustered around a tiny, open book glowed on a small altar. Varya, who’d been kneeling, stood and turned to face him, smile peaceful, eyes vaguely dreamy. To Anzo’s surprise, she had her hair down, gentle illumination picking auburn highlights from its thick waves.

  “This is nice.” He smiled.

  “Isn’t it?” Varya circled the altar, blowing out one candle at a time. “I have Enu to thank. He had some of his men help me with rebuilding it.” The candles snuffed, she shut the little book. “This was Kendu’s. Enu had recovered it after he...” Her expression darkened momentarily. She shook herself. “The Book of Spheres, a cherished item to any Initiate. It’s given me comfort.” She glanced about. “And it’s quiet here. I can almost hear Thoth’s whisper.”

  “You’re looking better.”

  “So are you.” She blinked and looked away shyly. “How are things with our Imperial commanders?”

  Anzo blew out a breath. “The Legate wants to know if you’ve had any word through your powers from Aurid.”

  “No.” She looked down at the little tome. “It’s worse than it was before. The blot of Arshann clouds everything. It’s no wonder the Eyes of Thoth in Aurid could sense nothing. They will not hear one lone voice in all of this.”

  Anzo frowned. “Eyes of Thoth?”

  “The Seers of the Temple,” she explained, “those pledged to mastery of the First Circle, alone, mastery of Sight. Their inability to see into this part of the Barbaricum was the first sign of things going amiss.”

  “I see.”

  She offered him a grin that told him she knew he didn’t. “Was the Legate’s worrying the reason for your visit?”

  Anzo mirrored the smile with his lopsided version. Heathen’s prodding echoed in his mind. You can tell her yourself... “I need a reason to see you?”

  She blushed again, but didn’t try to hide it this time. “No. I was actually finishing up here.”

  “Good. Then I can walk you back to your quarters.”

  They paused at the doorway for Varya to extinguish the candles there. Side by side, they wandered the rocky face overlooking the Lydirian towards where it merged with Fort Terminus. Bored-sounding calls passed along the battlements above them. Torches were flaring to life, light white on stone, golden on helms and armor as Legionnaires prowled the walls. Across the river, a starscape of campfires glimmered menacingly.

  “Something’s troubling you,” Varya hazarded quietly.

  “Nothing, really,” Anzo drawled, “other than the forty thousand murderers across the river from us.”

  “You can worry about that anytime.” She touched his arm. “There’s something else.”

  Anzo sighed. “I was thinking of Heathen.”

  “Yes.” The quiet of her voice echoed the hurt still fresh and sore in his chest.

  “I was wondering...” Anzo turned to her, stopped her. “How did you—the two of you—know that when I returned to Caerigoth with Theregond I wouldn’t be—” he waved across the river “—with them?”

  She stepped close, could nearly be in his arms. “I know you.”

  “You think so?” Anzo snorted.

  “I know you were tempted,” she said. “But I remembered, too, what you told me in the beginning, about when you and your mother fled into the Barbaricum. You said you didn’t find what she thought you’d find.”

  Anzo grimaced. “When I said that, I meant that she died instead of finding a new life.”

  “It’s not completely what you meant.” She shook her head, auburn hair loose with its faint ginger scent. “You’re not like them, Anzo Severnus. You don’t believe the world can be a place of kill or be killed. You believe in civilization.”

  “You’d be wrong to take that bet, lady.”

  “I wasn’t.” She smiled brilliantly and put a hand on his chest. “And you’re here with me now.”

  Heathen’s prodding returned from memory. Tell her yourself. The smell of her, the closeness of her felt like the home he’d never had. But Anzo looked away. “I’ve spent enough of my life now propping up this sick, old Empire to learn that civilization is the aberration. Chaos is the norm, like nature.”

  Her smile didn’t falter. “Nature has order.”

  “Things fall apart in nature. That’s what’s happening here, Varya. We’re losing.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Maybe not here and now.” He dared to look her in the eye again. “Maybe we win this fight, and the next one and the one after that. But eventually, it will all be swept under the great bloody tide and everything will tumble into the Long Dark. Maybe, years after, someone will begin to put it all back together again. But not even our bones will be here to see it.”

  “Then why go on, Anzo?” She shook her head, still smiling, wasn’t accepting it. “Why bother?”

  “I don’t know,” he growled. “Maybe it’s just me and my damned stubbornness.”

  “Then, at the least, you believe in yourself.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “What then?”

  Anzo half-started a sarcastic answer but cut it off. He looked into her hazel eyes. “I believe in you.”

  Her hand drifted up from his chest to clasp the side of his face. The other gripped his arm. She was holding him now, wasn’t going to let go. He didn’t want her to.

  “That’s why I knew you’d come back to us, Anzo Severnus.”

  A shout echoed from above, followed by the rattle of men rushing across the battlements. Anzo stiffened, pulled away from Varya. Above, the signal fire atop the northeastern wall of the fort flared to life.

  Varya gripped his sleeve. “What’s happening?”

  Distant shouts and the hoarse cry of horns cooled Anzo’s blood, set him to whirling. To the northwest, along the bend of the Lydirian, one of the way forts was silhouet
ted in fiery glare as a catapult snapped a firepot loose, sent it streaking at a shallow angle into the river. The surface of the water flashed momentarily as bright as day, picked out objects beetling across. The firepot struck one of them squarely, upended it in a gout of water and flames. Tiny figures spilled free with screams.

  “Damn it.” Anzo seized Varya’s hand. “Come on!”

  They reached one of the side portals just as soldiers were beginning to draw it closed. Inside Terminus, activity boiled, businesslike as men took up positions, quiet and serious, faces drawn as weapons and armor were checked and officers growled orders. Anzo spied Maricius on the north wall, hands on the crenels, nodding sharply as an aide pointed something out in the distance. On the far side of the courtyard, at the stables, grooms were leading horses out as cavalrymen checked bits and bridles, tightened armor and gear, and leapt into the saddles. Enu was amongst them, already mounted and slapping an impeccably-burnished conical helm onto his skull.

  “The fools are attempting to cross now!” Anzo called to the Kharzulan.

  “It’s not a full attack, we don’t think,” Enu replied calmly. “Signal fires from Way Fort Four and from the nearest watch towers indicate a couple dozen boats, maybe a probe of some sort. We can see it from here. I’m taking the whole First Cohort, in case it gets serious.”

  “We’re coming,” Anzo said. At a headshake from Enu, he pressed, “I need to see. It might tell me something about what they’re up to.”

  “Dying is the only thing they’ll be up to.” He flashed a pearly smile.

  Anzo returned it. “I’ll steal a horse if you don’t give me one.”

  Enu laughed. “Oh, I bet you would at that.” He half grimaced. “Fine. But hang back. I’ve seen you ride, Severnus. No need taking casualties we don’t have to.”

  Anzo accepted the barb with a good-natured head shake, accepted a mount from a groom a few moments later. The First Cohort was surging for the main gate in a storm of dust, metallic rattle, and spirited shouts, at least a hundred strong, shock cavalry in mail, helmets, shields and heavy spears, with occasional men retrieving recurved bows from cases at their hips. Anzo sprang into the saddle, skin prickling as he caught the thrill of the other men, grinning, most of the pain of his recovery past now.