Jim Butcher - Captain's Fury

"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.