Jim Butcher - First Lord's Fury

“Neutralizing the advantage of numbers,” Varg growled.

“In part. But he’s also going there because my uncle has turned the place into a bloody fortress.”

Fidelias glanced up at Tavi, frowning.

“You saw the holders of the Calderon Valley throw up a siege wall in less than half an hour at Second Calderon,” Tavi said. “Now consider that my uncle’s had the next best thing to five years to prepare.”

The Cursor lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “Still. If the numerical disparity is that great, the Shieldwall itself might not be enough. And if he’s leading the vord into a trap, he’s going to be stuck in it as well. There won’t be any way for him to retreat any farther. There’s nowhere else he can go.”

“He knows that,” Tavi said, frowning. “And the vord know it, too. Which is why he did it.”

Cyricus frowned. “Y-your Highness? I d-don’t understand.”

“He isn’t so much leading them into a trap as he is playing the anvil to our hammer.” Tavi touched the sand table, made a minor effort of will, and added multiple rectangles to the landscape, representing his own forces. Then he began to shift the pieces as if they’d been part of a game of ludus .

As the Legions fell back into the Valley, the vord crowded in behind them. As they pushed back the Legions, bit by bit, the frontage of the horde continued to contract—and the pieces representing his forces and Varg’s came rushing up behind to pin them into the valley. “We hit them here.”

Varg grunted. “Few score thousand of us, and millions of them. And you want us to ambush them.”

Tavi bared his teeth when he smiled. “This isn’t about killing the vord host. This is about finding and killing the vord Queen. She’ll likely be somewhere at the rear of the horde, guiding them forward and coordinating their attack.”

Varg’s tail swished pensively, and his eyes narrowed. “Mmmm. A bold plan, Tavar. But if you do not find and kill her, our forces will be left facing the vord in the open field. They’ll swallow us whole.”

“We aren’t getting any stronger. If we don’t neutralize the vord Queen here, we might never have such an opportunity again. They’ll swallow us whole in any case.”

Varg growled low in his chest. “True enough. I have seen the end of my world. If I’d had the opportunity to make a choice like this one when they were ravaging my own land, I would not have hesitated.”

Tavi nodded. “Then I want boots on the causeway by midmorning. We’ll have to move fast if we’re going to plug them into the bottle. Master Cyricus—”

“I’ve had logistics p-preparing p-provisions and supplies for your forces since Tribune Antillus arrived yesterday after-n-noon. They are w-waiting for you at the southern gate of the city, next to the causeway. It’s only a week’s w-worth, but it was the best we could do f-for the time being.”

“Oh my,” Kitai said in Canish, her eyes sparkling. “I may be in love.”

Tavi replied in the same tongue. “I saw him first.”

Varg’s ears quivered again.

Tavi turned to Cyricus, and said, “You may have noticed that we have a number of Canim with us. They aren’t able to use the causeways.”

Cyricus nodded rapidly. “Would supply wagons do, Your Highness?”

“Admirably,” Tavi said.

“I will requisition as m-many as can be f-found.”

Tavi met the young man’s eyes and nodded. “Thank you, Cyricus.”

Cyricus bowed again, and began giving stammering orders to Phrygia’s command staff. None of the men seemed to react adversely to Cyricus’s youth or to the confident manner in which he issued orders. The men obviously trusted the young Citizen’s competence, which suggested that he had given them good reason to do so. Tavi was even further impressed.

“Two days to Riva,” Kitai murmured, looking at the map. “Two more days up to Calderon. Four days total.” She looked up at him from across the sand table, green eyes intent. “You are going home, Aleran.”

Tavi shivered. He drew his knife from his belt and thrust it into the sand table at the western mouth of the Valley. That was where it would all be decided. That was where they would find the vord Queen; or else see his Realm and his people consigned to oblivion.

The dagger stuck there, quivering.

“Home,” Tavi said quietly. “It’s time to finish what we started.”

Sir Ehren sat beside the driver of the supply wagon. Though the causeways were smooth, all in all, once enough speed and momentum had been gathered, he felt sure that every single divot and crack in the road’s surface would hammer directly through the wagon’s structure and into his rear end and lower back. Though the unseasonable chill of the past several days had ended, it had been replaced by steady, relentless rain.

He looked back over his shoulder at two hundred and fourteen wagons like the one he currently endured. Most of them were barely half-full, if not completely empty. Beyond the wagons trudged refugees from Riva, many of them taken sick because of the rain and the lack of food and shelter. Legions marched ahead of them and behind, though individually the legionares were little better off than the civilians.

Combat continued at the rear of the column, where Antillus Raucus had taken command of the defense. Great thumping bursts of basso sound marked Aleran firecraftings. Lightning frequently crackled down from the weeping skies, always to strike along their backtrail. The least-battered Legions took turns at breaking up the enemy’s momentum, supported by the weary cavalry. Wounded men were brought up from the rear and handed to overworked healers in their medical wagons. Several of the empty supply wagons had already been filled with the wounded who could not walk for themselves.

Ehren looked back ahead of them, to the Phrygian Legion marching in the vanguard. Just behind them came the command group of the highest-ranking Citizens, including the covered wagon bearing the wounded Princeps Attis. Technically, he supposed he could always go up to the Princeps and report in person on the status of the supplies. If that happened to get him out of the bloody rain for a few moments, it would be a happy coincidence.

Ehren sighed. It had been a perfectly fine rationalization, but his place was at the head of the supply column. Besides, it was better that Attis had as few reminders of Ehren ex Cursori as possible.

“How much farther, do you think?” Ehren asked the teamster beside him.

“Bit,” the man said laconically. He had a broad-brimmed hat that shed rain like the roof of a small building.

“A bit,” Ehren said.

The teamster nodded. He had a waterproofed cloak as well. “Bit. And a mite.”

Ehren eyed the man steadily for a moment, then sighed, and said, “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

Running horses approached, their hooves a drum of muffled thunder. Ehren looked back to see Count and Countess Calderon riding toward him. The Count had a bandage on his head, and one side of his face was so deeply bruised that it looked like a frenzied clothier had dyed his skin to complement a particularly virulent shade of purple. The Countess bore a number of smaller, lighter marks, souvenirs of the battle with the former High Lady of Aquitaine.

She and her husband reined in as their horses drew even with Ehren’s wagon. “Sir Ehren.”

“Countess.”

“You look like a drowned rat,” she said, giving him a faint grin.

“Drowned rat would be a step up,” Ehren said, and sneezed violently. “Feh. How can I help you?”

Amara frowned. “Have you heard anything about Isana?”

Ehren shook his head gravely. “I’m sorry. There’s been no word.”