Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Two things stood out clear.

The brand on his face, which looked as hideous and sharp as ever.

The mostly dried blood beneath his nostrils, and the accompanying flecks of ugly, dark scarlet on his lips.

“You remember what Ladv Veradis said,” Giraldi told her. “It’s over.”

Isana stared at the blood and remembered what it meant. She didn’t have strength enough to shake her head, but she managed to murmur, “No.”

Giraldi turned her face back to his. “Crows take it, Isana,” he said, his voice frustrated. “Some fights can’t be won.”

Fire-thunder erupted nearby outside, rattling the room’s furniture and sending ripples across the glassy surface of the water in the healing tub.

Giraldi looked at the window, then back to Isana. “It’s time, Steadholder. You haven’t slept in days. You tried. Great furies know you tried. But he’s going to die. Soon. If you don’t withdraw, you’ll die with him.”

“No,” Isana said again. She heard the unsteady quaver of her voice as she did.

“Bloody crows,” Giraldi said, his tone at once gentle and anguished. “Stead-holder. Isana. Crows and ashes, girl. Fade wouldn’t want you to throw your life away for no reason.”

“The decision is mine.” So many words took a noticeable effort, and she felt short of breath. “I will not leave him.”

“You will ” Giraldi said, his voice heavy and hard. “I promised Bernard I’d watch over you. If it comes to that, Isana, I’ll cut you loose of him and drag you out of this room.”

A quiet and very distant surge of defiance whispered through Isana’s thoughts, and it gave her voice a barely audible growl of determination. “Bernard would never abandon one of his own.” She took a breath. “You know that. Fade is mine. I will not leave him.”

Giraldi said nothing. Then he shook his head and drew the knife from his belt. He reached for the rope that kept her hand in contact with Fade’s.

The defiance returned, stronger, and Isana caught the centurion’s wrist in her fingers. Joints crackled with tension. Her knuckles turned white. Then she lifted her head and glared into the centurion’s eyes. “Touch us,” she said, “and I’ll kill you. Or die trying.”

Giraldi’s head rocked back-not from the grip of Isana’s weakened fingers, she knew, and not from the feebly voiced threat. It had been her eyes.

“Crows,” he whispered. “You mean it.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he demanded. “Why, Isana? Don’t tell me Fade is just a simpleton slave that took a liking to following your nephew around. Who is he?”

Isana struggled to think clearly, to remember who knew and who was supposed to know and who absolutely could not know. But she was so tired, and there had been so many years-and so many lies. She was sick to death of the lies and the secrets.

“Araris,” she whispered. “Araris Valerian.”

Giraldi mouthed the word to himself, his eyes visibly widening. Then he looked from the wounded man to Isana and back, and his face went absolutely white. The old soldier bit his lip and looked away. His features sagged visibly, as if he’d suddenly aged another ten years. “Well,” he said, his voice shaking. “A few things make more sense.”

Isana released his wrist.

He looked down at the knife for a moment, then returned it to its sheath on his belt. “If I can’t stop you… I may as well help you. What do you need, my lady?”

Isana’s eyes widened suddenly as she stared at Giraldi, and she suddenly saw how to get through to Fade. Her heart labored, sudden hope spreading through her exhausted mind in a wave of sudden, tingling heat.

“That’s it,” she said.

The old soldier blinked and looked behind him. “It is? What is it?”

“Giraldi, bring me tea. Something strong. And find me his sword.”

It was a long and weary march back to the horses, and an even wearier ride all the way back to the Legion fortifications at the Elinarch. Tavi arrived in the coldest, heaviest hours of the night. It still seemed odd to him that despite the blazing heat of late summer in the southwest of the Realm, the night managed to be just as uncomfortably cool as in the Calderon Valley.

They were challenged by mounted pickets in two lines as they approached, and as they crossed the final open ground to the town, Tavi took note of silent shapes in the tree lines-local archers and woodsmen, most likely, always moving west with steady caution. The First Spear must have sent them out to watch and harass the incoming Canim army, and to attempt to take the foe’s scouts as they advanced. It was a measure Tavi should have thought of himself-but then, that’s why he’d left Valiar Marcus in charge of the defenses.

Tavi and Kitai rode into the half of the town on the southern end of the Eli-narch, then across the great bridge, their footsteps ringing on the stone. The water-mud-fish scent of the great Tiber River rose up to them. They were better than a hundred feet off the water, at the top of the bridge’s arch, and Tavi closed his weary eyes and enjoyed the cool breeze that flowed over him.

Word of his return went ahead of him, called from one sentry to the next. Magnus, as the captain’s senior valet, was there to meet him and accompanied them to the command tent-a general-issue Legion tent now instead of Cyril’s larger model. Several people entered and left as they approached, all moving at a brisk trot. They had to dance around each other as they did.

All in all, that tent looked grossly undersized and inadequate, in the center of the circle of lightning-blasted earth. That was appropriate, Tavi supposed. He was feeling somewhat undersized and inadequate himself.

“No, crows take it,” snarled Valiar Marcus’s voice from within the tent. “If our food supplies are on the south bank, and the dogs take it, we’ll be eating our boots when we fall back to the north.”

“But I just had my whole century toting supplies over there like pack mules,” protested a second voice.

“Good,” Marcus snapped. “They’ll know the exact route to return them.”

“Marcus, those storage houses are on the docks, not behind the city walls. We can’t leave them unsecured, and our own storage buildings haven’t been completed. “

“Then dump them somewhere. Or commandeer a house.”

Tavi slid off his horse, stiffened muscles complaining. He beckoned Kitai, and she leaned down toward him. Tavi muttered a quiet request, and she nodded before turning her horse and kicking it into a run toward the followers’ camp.

Magnus watched her go, frowning. The darkness and her hood would have hidden her features from the old Cursor, but she was still obviously a woman. “Who is that, sir?” he asked Tavi.

“Later,” Tavi said. He flicked his eyes at the tent. Magnus frowned, but then nodded.

Tavi took a moment to order his thoughts, tried to project all the authority he could fabricate, and entered the tent. “Don’t commandeer a house,” he said, “ask for a volunteer. You won’t have any trouble finding residents willing to sacrifice for the good of the only thing standing between them and a horde of Canim.”

The tent bore two tables made of empty water barrels and planks. Paper, much of it half-consumed by flame, lay scattered in complete disarray over all of them. Two fish sat at each table, attempting to sort out the surviving papers in the light of a single furylamp.

The First Spear and the argumentative centurion snapped to attention and saluted. “Sir,” Marcus said.

The fish were a beat behind the centurions, and began to rise. Tavi felt certain that if they did, they’d knock the crude tables over and undo whatever they had accomplished.