Chapter 38
Valiar Marcus stared down at the spear in his guts in total shock.
The Canim javelin had slipped through a tiny opening between Marcus's shield and that of the legionare beside him, thrown with such force that its black metallic head slammed cleanly through his armor.
Marcus realized, then, that he was standing in the second rank. He didn't remember taking a step back. The impact of the javelin must have knocked him there. That was probably why only about ten inches of steel was in his guts. Javelins hurled by a warrior Cane typically transfixed their targets entirely.
And this was the weapon of a warrior Cane, he knew, which meant that the Prime Cohort was engaging some of the foe's elites. They would have to alter their formation and advance, now, because the Canim typically flung their spears immediately before a charge. Marcus managed to take a deep breath, and bellow, "Close formation! Shields up! Second and third ranks to spears!"
Spear leaders began repeating the orders, shouting together, and the ranks of the Prime Cohort shifted and compressed. The legionares in the second and third ranks put away their swords and readied the five-foot spears strapped to the back of their tower shields. Those spearheads rose in a thicket of deadly steel thorns, just as the Canim warrior caste exploded from the rain-shrouded shadows and struck the lines.
Marcus sheathed his sword and pulled hard on the spear, but it was pinned in the steel grip of his punctured armor, and he couldn't get it free. Battling legionares
on the front rank jostled the spear's shaft, shoving it left and right, and Marcus felt it as a horribly invasive, quivering tremor in his belly, and his breath was suddenly gone.
He dropped to one knee, and got his shield up in time to deflect a hastily aimed blow from a black-armored Cane. The legionares around him drove the Cane back with spears and brutally stabbing swords.
Someone stepped on the spear shaft, and pain that redefined his concept of the word burned Marcus to his core.
He fell, onto his back, and rain poured into his face. He reached to wipe water from his eyes, and Foss said, "Easy there, Marcus. Try not to move just yet."
Marcus blinked. He opened his eyes and looked blearily around him.
He was in the healer's tents.
And it was morning.
He'd been moving the cohort to secure that shaky flank near the woods, and then the spear had hit him.
And now he was in the healer's tents. He'd been injured, and injuries could be disorienting. Someone must have dragged him from the fight.
It was such an immense effort to move his head that after the first couple of twitches, he didn't bother.
He lay in a healing tub, naked, and the water was stained dark with blood. Foss sat at the head of the tub, his head bowed, his hands resting on Marcus's shoulders.
Marcus's eyes tracked down to his belly and found a gaping wound there, as long as his hand was broad. The wound gaped at the edges, and he could see… whichever parts of his guts were beneath the wound, he supposed.
"Balls," he whispered.
"Try not to talk," Foss growled. "You have to tighten your stomach muscles to do it, and I don't need you bumping my elbow while I work."
"C-cohort," Marcus said. He tried to look around him, but reclined as he was, he could see little more than that the First Aleran's Tribune Medica and his staff had no shortage of work. Battlefield infirmaries were always like this. Men groaned and screamed and wept. Quiet, determined healers fought their own battle with Death himself, to what Marcus was sure would be the usual mixed results.
"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."