First Lord's Fury (Page 114)

"I’ll think of something," he said gently. "Take off the armor."

She hesitated.

"It’s all right," he said. "Take it off."

She did, very slowly. Tavi helped her unbuckle the vest. He slid it from her. Then he grasped the hem of her shirt and lifted it slowly. With his hands, he guided her lovingly down onto the bedroll again.

Then, very gently, as if he might shatter her to so many chips of ice if he moved without utmost caution, he laid his hand over her belly, spreading his fingertips over her pale skin until his palm rested against her. The child was too small yet to show to the eye. But he closed his eyes and once more could feel the small, contented presence there, within Kitai’s own quiet, controlled terror.

"Can you feel? Have you tried?" he asked her.

"I can’t," she said, her voice quietly miserable. "I overheard some midwives talking. They said that you can’t sense the baby with furycraft when it’s in your own body. It’s too much like you. And the child is too little to have moved in me yet."

"Give me your hand."

Tavi took Kitai’s hand and intertwined her fingers with his. He focused, and his sense of her presence suddenly leapt into something far more vibrant and detailed than simple proximity could accomplish alone. He concentrated on her, then upon the little presence, sharing its warmth and peace with Kitai.

Her green eyes went very wide. "Oh," she said. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, chala." She suddenly broke into a smile, still weeping, and let out a quiet little laugh. "Oh, that’s beautiful."

Tavi smiled at her and leaned down to kiss her very gently.

The three of them stayed like that, in the quiet, just for a little longer, treasuring that moment. Neither of them said it, but they both knew. Such moments were swiftly growing rarer and rarer.

And, in the next few days, they might even become extinct.

Chapter 39~40

Chapter 39

Bernard rode into the command center a few yards ahead of Amara and stopped to look slowly around him. Amara rode up beside her husband, and said nothing.

"Technically," he said, "the old place is still Isanaholt. Elder Frederic hasn’t taken his oath yet."

Amara smiled at him. "I still think of it as Bernardholt."

Her husband shook his head. "I wasn’t ever really comfortable with that name. Me-holt. Sounded ridiculous."

The steadholt around them was laid out like virtually every other steadholt in the Realm – with a large hall at its center, surrounded by an enormous barn and a number of workshops, homes, and other outbuildings. Unlike most of the Realm, which until recently had enjoyed a much less dangerous climate, every building was made of solid stone, proof against the frequent furystorms that plagued the Valley. It was also surrounded by a defensive wall – not a fortress wall, by any means, and it didn’t feature battlements, but it was thick, solid granite and showed no signs of weathering or decay.

Now, the hall, the workshops, and even the barn were all changed. The holders and their stock had long since been evacuated, just as had the seven smaller, newer steadholts that had been founded to the west of them, in what was (or shortly would be) vord-occupied territory. It was instead filled with armed and often armored men and women, legionares, Citizens, and volunteers. There were perhaps forty or fifty Marat in and about the steadholt as well. A gargant bellowed from the vast barn, where several of the wounded beasts had been quartered out of the weather, to be tended by their Marat handlers and by a trio of old farmhands from the Valley with a gift for husbandry.

Multiple broad staircases were new additions, and ran from the ground up to the steadholt’s walls. From there, a number of stone walkways led from the steadholt to the wall proper, a crenellated Legion-standard defensive structure twenty feet high.

Already, legionares were pouring up onto the wall, readying the second line of defense. Their march to the wall had been a difficult one. The cohorts stationed nearest the causeway had been able to move rapidly down the Valley, outstripping the pace of their pursuers, who moved in a slow, enormous block that was being steadily compressed by the terrain. Those poor souls who had been on the northern or southern lengths of the wall had been forced to march overland the hard way, without any sort of furycraft to help them, until they had reached the causeway as well. Then they had raced ahead of the pursuing enemy, and they were slogging back out to their positions again. It couldn’t have been an easy task for them, to make such a march after spending half of a furious hour in hand-to-hand combat.

But they were Legion. All in a day’s work.

"Giraldi," Bernard said as he dismounted. "How much longer before our men are all in position?"

The old centurion saluted. "Within the next few moments, sir."

Bernard nodded. "Everything is prepared?"

"Yes, sir. Except…"

"What?" Bernard asked.

"The civilians, sir," Giraldi said, his voice softening. "A lot of them are too old or too young to make use of the causeway. There are a lot of sick and wounded. A lot of confusion. Crows, my lord, there’s just a lot of people. We haven’t been able to get them out of this section of the Valley and behind the last wall yet."

Amara spat a curse and got off her horse, passing the reins to the same valet who had come to take Bernard’s. "How long before they’re clear?"

"If it happens before midnight, it’ll be a miracle."

"It’s going to be one long afternoon and evening." Bernard spat. "That tears it. We can’t go with the plan if we’ve got to hold the walls that long." He looked out to the west as if picturing the oncoming foe. "I need to talk to Doroga. Love, please inform the Princeps and ask if he has any suggestions."

From the north, a bright green signal arrow burned as it rose, then fell slowly through the air. A moment later, more of them fell, both in the north and to the south.

"They’re here," Amara breathed.

Bernard grunted. "Get moving. Giraldi, sound assembly, let’s make sure we’re ready to deal with these things. Send runners to the firing lines and spread the word – load the mules."

Giraldi’s fist rapped his armor, and he marched away, bawling orders in a voice that could be heard for a mile.

Bernard and Amara touched hands briefly, then each of them turned to their tasks.

Amara hurried to the command post in the great hall. Its doors were heavily guarded, albeit by an entirely different group of men. One of the men challenged her, and she answered him somewhat curtly. The vord’s takers were deadly in their fashion, but they could not make the bodies they occupied emit intelligible speech. Amara was high enough in the councils of Aleran command that the challenge was essentially a formality, to ensure she hadn’t been taken.