“Crows,” Tavi said, calmly. “I… Max, I think you have a point.”
Max spread his hands. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“All right,” Tavi said. “Then… I suppose that while I’m finding a way to get the rest of Alera to accept the Canim’s help, and figuring out how to defeat the vord, and coming up with enough support to actually be the First Lord, I’ll have to work an epic romance into the schedule.”
“That’s why you’re the Princeps, and I’m just a humble Tribune,” Max said.
“I… I don’t really know much about being romantic,” Tavi said.
“Neither do I,” Max said cheerfully. “But look at it this way. It won’t need to be much to improve on what’s gone before.”
Tavi made a growling sound and reached for his empty mug.
Max opened the door and saluted, banging his right fist against his armored chest, grinning openly at Tavi. “I’ll see to the incoming boats, Your Highness, and make sure everyone finds his way to your cabin.”
Tavi held on to the mug. It wouldn’t do to throw it at Max in plain view of everyone on deck. He put the mug down, gave Max a look that promised eventual repayment, and said, “Thank you, Tribune. Shut the door on your way out, please.”
Max departed and shut the door, and Tavi sank tiredly back onto his chair. He looked at the maps spread out on his desk—and drew out the one he hadn’t shown the others. Alera had helped him with it. It showed the spread of the vord croach over the face of Alera, like gangrene oozing into the body from an infected wound.
The vord had to number in the hundreds of thousands by now, perhaps even in the millions.
Tavi shook his head ruefully. It said something about the world, he thought, that the vord threat was arguably the second most perplexing problem he had. He wasn’t sure what, but it definitely said something.
CHAPTER 2
“Gentlemen, Warmaster,” Tavi said. “Thank you for coming.” He looked around his cabin at the gathering of what he’d come to think of as his campaign council. “In the next few hours, your troops will be learning what I’m about to tell you. You’ll need to know it first.”
He paused to take a steadying breath and to make sure that his expression and body language were calm. It wouldn’t do to let them see him nervous, given the gravity of what he was about to explain. And it wouldn’t do to let the Canim see him nervous under any circumstances.
“The vord have already attacked Alera,” Tavi said. “The first assault was beaten back, but not broken. Ceres has fallen. As has Alera Imperia. In the time we’ve been sailing home, other cities may have fallen as well.”
Dead silence settled on the ship’s cabin.
Nasaug turned his dark-furred head to Varg. The Canim Warmaster twitched an ear and kept his blood-colored eyes on Tavi.
“What’s more,” Tavi continued, “the First Lord, my grandfather, Gaius Sextus, was slain while fighting a holding action to give the folk of the capital a chance to escape.”
No one spoke, but an almost-silent chorus of moans of shocked disbelief went up from the Alerans present. Tavi didn’t want to keep his tone brisk and businesslike. He wanted to scream his outrage and grief that the vord had taken his grandfather from him before he’d had a chance to get to know Sextus better. But his anger, no matter how hot it burned, wouldn’t change anything.
Tavi forged ahead into the silence. “The Amaranth Vale is completely lost. The vord have somehow suborned Alerans into their service, and now furycraft meets furycraft in battle. In addition, most of the causeways have been cut, to prevent the vord from making use of them, so they cannot be factored into our planning.” He turned to a map of Alera that was tacked up on the back of the cabin door. The spread of the croach was marked in pips of green ink. “As you can see, the vord have filled the valley and stretched out their croach along the causeways—even if rendered inert of furycraft, they still are, after all, passable roads. They hold most of the coastline of the continent, and they have laid siege to most of the cities of the Realm.
“But their hold is far from complete. These stretches of countryside between the lines of the causeways and the cities are as yet unoccupied, probably because the vord deem them lower-priority areas. Our people, though, are cut off. Anyone isolated behind the lines of the croach is trapped. Our best estimates say that they have, at the most, another eight or ten months before the croach fills in the empty areas.”
He turned to them with a cold little smile. “So. We have that long to destroy the vord threat.”
“Bloody crows,” Max breathed. “As long as it isn’t too difficult a chore or anything.”
“Our work is cut out for us,” Tavi acknowledged.
Crassus raised a hand. Max’s younger half brother bore a resemblance to Max, but everywhere Max was rough, the more slender young man was refined. Crassus was an inch shorter and thirty pounds of muscle lighter than his brother, and he had the noble profile of a Citizen of the blood that could have leapt straight from any number of old statues, paintings, or coins. “If the First Lo—If Sextus perished during a holding action, that implies that there was still organized resistance, and that it might still be there. What do we know of the Legions and their strength?”
“That Aquitainus Attis, who had been serving as Gaius’s battle captain, at the First Lord’s request, has been legally adopted into the House of Gaius—as my younger brother.”
Max let out a snort. “He’s thirty years older than you.”
Tavi smiled slightly. “Not according to Gaius Sextus. It seems that he knew that his death was coming for him. He didn’t know if I would be returning, and someone had to lead the Realm in my absence. He selected the man most fit for the duty.” Tavi put the tips of his first and second fingers on Riva and Aquitaine, separately. “Depending on the state of our troops during his withdrawal, he will have retreated either to Aquitaine or Riva with the Legions, and will presumably be gathering more to him.” He moved his finger two thousand miles to the west and rested it on Antillus. “As you can see, Antillus is free of the croach for now. Our mission will be to land here, make contact with Aquitaine, if possible, then join him.”
Valiar Marcus, the grizzled First Spear of the First Aleran Legion, rubbed at his jaw with one hand. The blocky old centurion squinted at the map. “Two thousand miles. On no supplies but some dried leviathan meat. And no causeways to use. That could take us all spring and half the summer.”
“I think we can arrange something somewhat more timely than that,” Tavi said. “In fact, unless I miss my guess, we’ll need to.”
Varg growled. “The vord Queen.”
Tavi nodded. “Exactly. She’ll almost certainly be overseeing the next conflict between the vord and the Aleran main body. She is our primary target, gentlemen.”
Valiar Marcus shook his head. “One bug. In all that.”
Tavi showed his teeth. “If it were easy, we wouldn’t need Legions to get things done. If possible, we’re going to slide in behind the vord and catch them between our forces and Aquitaine’s. We’ll make sure that the Queen doesn’t go scampering out the back door.”
“Bold and stupid aren’t the same thing,” Marcus said. “But sometimes they’re pretty close, sir.” Marcus frowned. “Sorry. Sire.”
Tavi waved his hand. “I haven’t been recognized by the Senate and the Citizenry yet. Until we’ve solved our problems, let’s just keep on the way we have been.”
“Tavar,” Varg growled, “your huntmaster makes a good point. Two thousand miles is a fair walk. If it is to be done at speed, there must be food. Armies can’t move like that when they’re hungry.”