Captain's Fury (Page 71)

Isana felt the horror in those around them-and the sympathy. She realized that these men, though pirates and scoundrels, though struggling to say alive against a foe who would surely have killed them, had just witnessed one of their own nightmares. None of them desired to see another sailor die the way the men of the Mactis had.

Isana shook her head, struggling to separate her senses from those around her. It was too much, and her head had begun to pound again.

"All right," growled a voice whose tone brooked no dissent. Her son, she thought dully. "Show’s over. Ehren, get the cabin door. Kitai."

Isana looked up dully as Kitai, still shirtless, calmly picked her up as she might carry a child. The Marat girl gave Isana a small, encouraging smile, while Tavi picked up Araris.

"It was well-done," Kitai murmured to Isana quietly. "We’re back safe. Time to rest now."

Isana began to protest. She’d closed the worst of the wound, but Araris would need more attention-and she didn’t even know if any of the others had been injured. She began to tell Kitai to put her down and fetch a healing tub.

But somewhere between drawing a breath and using it to speak, she lost the will to keep going and embraced the promise of silence and peace in her exhaustion.

Chapter 27

"Bloody crows," snarled Antillar Maximus. "Right now, the captain’s taking it easy, sleeping in his bunk in a nice, comfortable cell back at the fort at the Eli-narch, while we’re getting soaked to the skin."

Valiar Marcus stepped down from the block that let him peer over the First Aleran’s palisade and view the enemy position at the ford of the river Aepon. The Canim had employed the talents of the Free Aleran Legions. Their earthcrafters weren’t the equals of a Legion engineering corps, and the positions they’d erected weren’t made of the multilayered stone of a battlecrafted siege wall, but the heavy earthworks they had raised on the far side of the shallow ford were massive enough to provide a formidable defensive position.

"Bet he’s eating hot breakfast cakes right now," Maximus continued. The young Tribune glowered up at the steady rain. "Maybe a morning cup of tea. Probably borrowed one of Cyril’s books. Cyril’s the sort to have a lot of books."

Antillus Crassus stepped down from his own block and glowered at Max. "I’m certain you never complained this much to Captain Scipio."

"Yes he did," Marcus murmured. "Just never in front of anyone. Except me."

Crassus gave Maximus a very direct look. "Tribune, I hereby order you to stop whining."

"That never worked for Scipio," Marcus noted.

"It’s a sacred right," Max said. He chinned himself up on the palisade briefly, then dropped back to the ground again. "Looks like they’re getting ready to change the guard."

"Signal the engineers," Crassus said.

Marcus turned and flashed a hand signal at the nearest Marat horseman- in this case, horsewoman, he supposed. She nodded, turned, and galloped to the top of the low hill behind them, and repeated the gesture in broader strokes.

"It isn’t going to buy us much time, hitting them during their shift change," Max said.

"It doesn’t need to," Marcus replied. "They’re expecting a shooting match. A few seconds will make the difference." He turned and nodded to the file leaders of the Prime Cohort. They saluted, and murmured orders went down the ranks. The veterans drew their swords in slithering whispers of steel.

Crassus turned and beckoned a runner. The young man hurried over. "Please inform the Honorable Senator that our initial assault is about to begin."

The runner saluted and pelted away.

Marcus stepped up onto the block again and watched the river.

At first, he couldn’t see it happening. The change was too slight. His ears, though, picked up on a change in the constant, almost-silent murmur of the water sliding between the banks. The pitch rose, and Marcus leaned forward, watching intently.

The ford was about three feet deep under normal circumstances-slightly deeper, given the steady rain they’d had during the past week. It was not too deep for infantry to ford, but it was more than deep and swift enough to take a man from his feet if he wasn’t careful. Trying to cross the ford in the face of the enemy’s defenses would be a slow and bloody business, where the balests and bows of the combined Canim and ex-slave forces would be able to take a terrible toll. It would be possible to grind resistance down, eventually, but a conventional assault would require a hefty price in blood.

Which was, Marcus reflected, probably why Amos had given the First Aleran the dubious distinction of leading the attack.

Marcus wasn’t sure if the captain would have run the battle the same way, but he was certain that he would have approved of Crassus’s immediate response to such a bloody scenario-to change the scenario.

"Sir," Marcus growled.

Crassus drew his blade and nodded to Maximus. The big Antillan gave his half brother a grin, and, with a murmur to the Knights Pisces, drew his sword. They immediately readied their own weapons.

Marcus kept his eyes on the river, struggling to see through the almost-lightless evening and the steady rain. The reeds the scouts had placed earlier that day had been stripped to pure, white wood that would be more easily seen in the dark, but even so, Marcus began to wonder whether or not it would do him any good.

Then he saw a gleam of fresh white on the river. And a second. A moment later, a third.

"That’s it," he hissed. "Three rods. The river is running less than a foot deep."

"Now," Crassus snapped.

Marcus jerked hard on the rope beside him, stepped down from the block, drew back his leg, and kicked at the palisade. Though it seemed a standard Legion defensive wall from the other side, the engineers had altered a two-hundred-foot section of the fence, and when Marcus kicked down the section immediately in front of him, the others fell as well in a sudden wave, crashing to the earth on the far side.

Cries went up in the other camp, but they were immediately drowned out as Crassus lifted his sword, let out a howling battle cry, and the knights and veterans around him responded in kind. Crassus dropped his blade forward, and the Prime Cohort and Knights Pisces surged forward, with Marcus, Crassus, and Maximus in the first rank.

The First Aleran hit the now-shallow water of the ford and surged toward the opposite bank. Arrows began to fly from the earthworks. In the dark and confusion and splashing water, Marcus knew that only a very skilled or very lucky shot from any Aleran bow would have a chance of downing one of the heavily armored legionares. Most arrows skimmed off of the steel helmets, or slammed harmlessly into the steel-lined wooden shields of the Legion.