S. Turney - Ironroot

“Do you know the story of your prefect and the defence of Saravis Fork, soldier?”

Salonius nodded respectfully. “I know the story, sir. And Petrus?”

“Was my cousin,” Varro stated in a flat voice.

Salonius turned and blinked in surprise as the captain faced him and continued.

“My cousin, and the senior sergeant in Cristus’ cohort. We were the same age and both served under the marshal when Velutio ruled, along with Corda. But by the time Cristus pulled back from Saravis Fork, he’d lost three quarters of his men. Petrus had died in the siege.”

Sabian turned his gaze to the young soldier by Varro’s side.

“Your captain came to see me on Cristus’ return. He requested permission to take a scouting party out to the mountains to look for survivors; to look for Petrus, I suppose. I turned down his request. Cristus was already being commissioned to lead a punitive campaign.”

He coughed and reached out his hand towards Varro.

“I assume you have no objection to me reading this note.”

“Of course not, marshal. There’s not actually much to it, but… well I gather you’ve heard my news?”

Sabian let his hand fall to the table, and patted the rough wood reflectively.

“I have. I was intending to come and see you this afternoon to talk about it, but events seem to have run away with us.”

“Well, sir” Varro continued, “I’m fairly sure someone within the fortress is behind this and, given that, I’m doing my best to keep anything that might be remotely relevant under wraps.”

The marshal leaned back.

“You fear you have been poisoned by one of our own men?”

“I have reason to believe so, sir. I’m not sure of how all this ties in yet, sir, but I’m pretty sure it does. I was wounded in battle, as you know, but the wound was inflicted using a fine imperial blade coated with poison, albeit wielded by a barbarian. The sword seems to have vanished like a morning mist, but I intend to find it. It’s the only connection I had to my enemy… until this morning.”

Sabian nodded. “You think someone tried to kill you to prevent you receiving this?”

“Yes sir.”

Varro reached out and placed the package on the table.

“Have a look, and I think you’ll agree.”

Sabian leaned forward again and slowly unwrapped the thong, opening the wallet and smoothing out the paper flat on the wooden surface. He scanned down the brief missive. Scrawled in an almost childlike script were the words:

Varro.

I realise this will come as a shock to you, and you will find it hard to believe this is me, but it is true. I am alive. And I am safe. But the same is not true for you.

I urge you. I beg you to meet with me as I have the most dangerous information to share with you. I am at the civilian settlement outside the Saravis Fork fort, in a back room of the inn.

Tell no one, but hurry. It is vital that I see you.

Petrus.

Sabian looked up at Varro.

“I see your point. I assume you intend to go?”

The captain nodded.

“Then I’d best send an escort” the marshal said. “Dangerous territory up there. It may be Imperial land, but far too close to the border for comfort.”

Varro shook his head.

“No, sir. Considering what’s happening, I’m considerably safer on my own than with anyone from the military. Salonius here can ride with me.”

Sabian sat back for a moment and then nodded his agreement.

“I suppose so. I assume you intend to leave quickly and quietly?”

“Yes sir. I thought tonight, while it’s dark. We’ll need time to get supplies together, and I’ll have to go see Scortius and get some more medication. It’s three days to Saravis even at the fastest pace we can hope for, and I’m on a finite timescale.”

He turned to Salonius.

“I trust you’ll come along?”

“Of course sir,” the young man straightened slightly. Varro faced the marshal again, tapping his finger on his lower lip.

“I’ll need to speak to Corda about the sword too.”

Sabian stood and waved his hand gently.

“You concentrate on getting ready for the journey. I’ll speak to Corda and we’ll find your mysterious sword, Varro. And I want updates whenever something happens.”

He bent to one side and reached into a heavily bound chest, withdrawing a small bag, which he cast onto the table. It landed with a clink and sagged to one side. Varro raised an eyebrow.

“Around forty corona. Use it wisely. It should buy an awful lot of loyalty from the commoners en route and you can hire some couriers to apprise me of any changes or anything you think I need to know.”

Varro reached out and grasped the heavy bag of coins, tying it to his belt for safety.

“I am grateful for your support in this, marshal. It makes a great deal of difference having someone I trust here; there are so few at the moment.”

Sabian smiled. “We’ve known each other a very long time Varro. You know I value good men. Now get going and sort things out. And bear in mind that I want you back here in one piece. I shall be making it absolutely clear to Scortius that he’s not to give up on you. Just because no one knows of a cure doesn’t mean there isn’t one there somewhere.”

With a bow, Varro turned and strode from the room, with Salonius at his heel. Catilina watched them go and then turned to her father to find him looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She felt involuntary tears well up.

“What is it, father?”

The marshal smiled and gripped her arm reassuringly.

“He’ll be back, my dear. And if there is a cure, be certain Scortius will find it. I shall make sure of that.”

She smiled weakly.

“It all sounds like a conspiracy. Murders and poisonings and messages from dead people. Not trusting your own men. That’s how you used to describe the civil war…”

The marshal nodded sadly and stared past her at some invisible point in the air.

“Strangely, that’s how it feels. Makes me wish Caerdin was still around to sort it out. He had that kind of corkscrew mind. I think in too straight lines for intrigue. Fortunately, Varro’s clever and resourceful and he remembers the old days too.”

Scortius tapped his fingers absentmindedly on his forearm as he stared at his dispensary cabinet with its shelves and compartments stuffed with strange herbs and extractions.

Varro sat impatiently on the bench with Salonius at his side. Glancing round the doctor’s office that occupied but a small part of the fort’s hospital block, he took in the low, wooden beams, the plain whitewashed walls with a strained hint of pink, the utilitarian wooden floor and the scrolls and charts pinned to most of the open surfaces depicting strange and unpleasant visceral body parts with informative labels. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but Scortius waved a hand irritably without turning and made ‘tsk’ sounds. Finally the doctor found what he was looking for and withdrew a small muslin bag. Tipping a small quantity of powder into the mortar, he ground it into the existing mixture.

The two visitors waited, the captain tapping his fingers on his knee irritably. Scortius returned silently to his shelves and began to peruse them once more. After what felt to Varro like an hour, the doctor located a small bottle of something oily. He held it at an angle above the bowl and watched one of the viscous seeds slide down the glass and drop into the mixture.

“Right,” he said as he began to grind once more. “This is your last-ditch mixture.”

With a satisfied air, he tipped the mixture in a waterproof bag and carefully tied the top off. Turning back to his visitors, he marked the bag ‘III’ with an inked stylus.