First Lord's Fury (Page 91)

Nhar’s belly and guts had just been ejected from his body, as if an unseen hand had reached down his throat and pulled them out.

Nhar made a number of hideous sounds, but within seconds he was silent and still.

Marok eyed the tent, and said, "Brothers, would anyone else care to dispute my arbitration?"

A Cane’s hand appeared from the black tent – but only long enough to pull the entrance flap closed again.

Varg let out a chuckling growl.

Marok reached into his own pouch and drew out a roll of fine cloth. He wrapped it around his arm with the ease of long, long practice, tearing it off with his teeth when he’d used enough. He then offered the roll of cloth to Tavi.

Tavi inclined his head to the master ritualist and accepted the cloth. When Varg nodded to him, he bent his arm and began to wind the cloth over it, though he did not do it nearly so smoothly as Marok.

Varg capped the vial and offered it back to Marok with another bow. Marok accepted the vial, and said, "This will continue when you are recovered, Tavar. I will keep the accounting. It will be accurate."

"It was an honor to meet you, sir," Tavi replied.

They exchanged parting bows, and Tavi and Varg continued their rounds of the camp. He stumbled twice, before Varg said, "You will return to your tent now."

"I’m fine."

Varg snorted. "You will return to your tent now, or I will take you there. Your mate expressed to me in very clear terms her strong desire to see you back safely."

Tavi smiled tiredly. "I do feel a bit less than myself, I suppose. Will this end our trouble with the ritualists?"

"No," Varg said. "They will embrace some new idiocy tomorrow. Or next week. Or next moon. But there is no escaping that."

"But for today, we’re quit of them?"

Varg flicked his ears in assent. "Marok will keep them off-balance for months after today."

Tavi nodded. "I’m sorry. About the makers who died. I wish I hadn’t had to do that."

"I wish that, too," Varg said. He looked at Tavi. "I respect you, Tavar. But my people are more important to me than you are. I have used you to help remove a deadly threat to them – Khral and his idiocy. Should you become a threat to them, I will deal with you."

"I would expect nothing less," Tavi said. "I will see you in the morning."

Varg growled assent. "Aye. And may all of our enemies be in front of us."

Chapter 29~30

Chapter 29

Tavi lay on his cot in the command tent while the Tribune Medica of the First Aleran, Foss, argued with everyone.

"I don’t care if he can eat sand and crap gold!" Foss snarled, his black beard bristling. "He’s a crowbegotten Cane, and he’s bloodied up the captain!"

"Is the captain in any danger?" Crassus asked, his voice calm.

"Not at the moment," Foss said. "But you can’t expect me to stand around and say nothing while those heathen dogs bleed our bloody First Lord to be!"

"Sure he can," Max growled. "Back off, Foss. Captain knows what he’s doing."

"Of course! We’re charging headlong into a fight where we’re outnumbered a bloody thousand to one, and he’s bleeding himself before the fighting! Presumably to save the enemy the bother!"

"Necessary," Tavi said tiredly. "Leave it alone, Foss."

"Yes, sir," Foss responded, scowling. "Maybe you can answer me a question, then. Like why the crows the First Spear of the Legion is staying in a guarded tent, walking around in a civilian tunic, and not speaking to anyone."

Tavi inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Why do you think, Foss?"

"Grapevine says he took sick. His heart gave out on him in that last fight. He’s near sixty, seems likely. Except that if that had been the case, I would know, because I would have been the man treating him."

Tavi sat up on his elbows carefully, and met Foss’s eyes. "Listen to me very carefully, Tribune," he said. "You were the man who treated him. It is his heart. He’s still recovering and won’t be himself for a few days. You took him off active duty. The guard is there to make sure the stubborn old goat gets enough rest and that he doesn’t relapse."

The ire faded from Foss’s expression, replaced by incomprehension followed by deep concern. "But…"

"Did you hear me, Tribune?" Tavi asked.

Foss saluted at once. "Yes, sir."

Tavi nodded and sank back down onto the bunk. "I can’t explain it to you, Tribune. Not yet. I need you to trust me. Please."

Foss’s face sobered even more. He frowned, and said, "Yes, sir."

"Thank you," Tavi said quietly. "Are you finished with me?"

Foss nodded and seemed to gather himself, focusing on his job. His voice reclaimed its confidence and strength as he did. "I cleaned the wound and closed it. You’ll need to drink plenty of water and get plenty of food. Red meat is best. Get a good night’s rest. And I’d rather see you on a wagon than a horse tomorrow."

"We’ll see," Tavi said.

"Sir," Foss said, "this time you need to trust me."

Tavi eyed him and found himself smiling. He waved a hand. "All right, all right. If it will stop you from nagging. Done."

Foss grunted in satisfaction, saluted, and departed the tent.

"Crassus," Tavi said, "we’re near enemy territory. Make sure the earth furies have been positioned to spot any takers. And get those Canim pickets out as far as you can. Their night vision is invaluable right now."

"I know," Crassus said. "I know, Captain. Get some rest. We’ll make sure we survive until morning."

Tavi started to give Crassus another string of warnings and instructions but forced himself to close his mouth. He was tired enough to make it remarkably easy. He and Max and the rest of the Legion would do their jobs properly even without Tavi telling them all how to do it. After all, what was the point in all that training and discipline if they didn’t get the chance to display their capability once in a while?

He sighed, and said, "Fine, fine. I can take the hint. Make sure I’m awake by first light."

Max and Crassus both saluted and departed the tent.

Tavi sat up enough to drain the large mug of cold water from the stand beside the cot, but the thought of eating the meal beside it was revolting. He settled back down again and closed his eyes. A moment’s concentration, and he drew together a windcrafting to ensure private conversation. Steady rain drummed on the tent’s canvas roof. "How much of this is the loss of blood?" he asked the empty tent. "And how much of it is the result of holding that weathercrafting?"