“Why didn’t the warriors simply act against them?”
Sha looked shocked at the very suggestion. “Because they are the servants of the makers, as we are, demon.”
“Apparently not,” Marcus said.
Sha waved a hand. “The code forbids it, unless they are guilty of the grossest excesses. Many bloodspeakers did not embrace the New Way. They remained faithful to their calling, their limits. The followers of the Old Way continued to serve the makers and do great good. They worked to convince their brothers of the integrity of their point of view.”
“I take it that didn’t go well,” Marcus said drily.
“A bloodspeaker remaining faithful to his calling has little time left to spend upon politics, especially in these days,” Sha replied. He leaned forward slightly. “Those who scorn the Old Way have all the time they need to scheme and plot and speak half-truths to the makers to gain their support.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “I take it that one of these followers of the New Way is behind the attack on Octavian.”
“Likely,” Sha said. “Two makers were convinced to make the attempt.” His lips peeled away from his fangs in what looked to Marcus like revulsion and anger. “It is an inexcusable offense.”
Marcus shucked out of his armor, stacking the four shell-like pieces of it upon one another and tucking it under his cot. “But Varg cannot act on it?”
“Not while honoring the code,” Sha replied. “There are still followers of the Old Way among the bloodspeakers, worthy of respect. But they are few, and do not have the power necessary to call their own to task—assuming the person in question would stand for what he has done instead of denying it.”
“If this person died, what would result?” asked Marcus.
“If his killer were known, it would cause outrage among the makers, who do not clearly see how he has betrayed them. One of his lickspittles would likely take his place.”
Marcus grunted. “Interchangeable corruption is the worst kind of problem of any office. We know that here, as well.” He thought on it for a moment. “What does Varg wish of Octavian?”
“My lord does not wish anything of his enemy,” Sha said, stiffly.
Marcus smiled. “Please excuse my unfortunate phrasing. What would be an ideal reaction, for someone like Varg, from someone like Octavian in this situation?”
Sha inclined his head in acknowledgment. “For now, to ignore it. To carry on as if the threat was of no particular concern. More demon-slain Canim, no matter how guilty or well deserved, would only give the bloodspeakers more wood for their fires.”
“Hmmmm,” Marcus mused. “By doing nothing, he helps to undermine this bloodspeaker’s influence while Varg looks for an internal solution.”
Sha inclined his head again and stepped off the cot. The enormous Cane moved in perfect silence. “It is good to speak with those who are perceptive and competent.”
Marcus found himself smiling at the compliment without any apparent source or object and decided to return it in kind. “It is good to have enemies with integrity.”
Sha’s ears flicked in amusement again. Then the Hunter raised the hood of his dark grey cloak to cover his head and glided out of the tent. Marcus felt no need to make sure that he had a safe route out of the First Aleran’s camp. Sha had gotten in easily enough—which was, in its own way, proof that Varg had not been behind the attempt on Octavian’s life. Had Hunters managed to get that close to Octavian, their past performance suggested that he would not have survived the experience, despite all the furycraft he’d managed to master in the past year. Odds were excellent that Marcus wouldn’t have survived it, either.
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. He’d been looking forward to a relatively lengthy night’s sleep, as compared to what he’d been getting lately. Sha’s visit had neatly assassinated that possibility, if nothing else.
He muttered to himself and donned his armor again, something a great deal more easily done with help than alone. But he managed. As he dressed, the weather shifted with abrupt intensity, a cold wind that came howling down out of the north. It set the canvas of his tent to popping, and when Marcus emerged from it, the wind felt as if it had come straight down the slope of a glacier.
He frowned. Unseasonal, for this late in the year, even in the chilly north. The wind even smelled of winter. It promised snow. But it was far too late in the year for such a thing to happen. Unless…
Unless Octavian had, somehow, inherited Gaius Sextus’s talents in full measure. It was impossible. The captain had not had time to train, nor a teacher to instruct him in whatever deep secrets of furycraft had allowed Gaius Sextus to readily, frequently, and casually exceed the gifts of any other High Lord by an order of magnitude.
Furycraft was all well and good—but no one man could turn spring into bloody winter. It simply was not possible.
Pellets of stinging sleet began to strike Marcus’s face. They whispered against his armor like thousands of tiny, impotent arrowheads. And the temperature of the air continued to drop. Within a few moments, frost had begun to form upon the grass and upon the steel of Marcus’s armor. It simply could not be happening—but it was.
Octavian had never been an able student where impossibilities were concerned.
But in the name of the great furies, why would he do such a thing?
As he turned onto the avenue that would lead to the Legion’s command tent, he met up with Octavian and his guards, walking briskly toward the command tent.
“First Spear,” the captain said. “Ah, good. Time to roust the men. We’re leaving for the staging area in an hour.”
“Very good, sir,” Marcus replied, saluting. “I need to bend your ear for a moment, sir, privately.”
Octavian arched an eyebrow. “Very well. I can spare a moment, but after that I want you focused on getting the First Aleran to our departure point.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus responded. “Which is where, sir?”
“I’ve marked a map for you. North.”
Marcus frowned. “Sir? North of here there’s nothing but the Shieldwall and Iceman territory.”
“More or less,” Octavian said. “But we’ve made a few changes.”
By noon the next day, the entire First Aleran, together with the Free Aleran Legion and the Canim warriors, had reached the Shieldwall, which lay ten miles to the north of the city of Antillus. Snow lay on the ground, already three inches deep, and the steady fall of white flakes had begun to thicken. If it had been the midst of winter, they would have promised a long, steady, seasonal snowfall.
But that single impossibility had evidently not been enough for the captain.
Marcus had served in the Antillan Legions for years. He stared in mindless, instinctive horror at the sight before him.
The Shieldwall had been broken.
A gap a quarter of a mile wide had been opened in the ancient, furycrafted fortification. The enormous siege wall, fifty feet high and twice as thick, had stood as unchangeable as mountains for centuries. But now, the opening in the wall gaped like a wound. In years gone by, the sight would have raised a wild alarm, and the shaggy white Icemen would already have been pouring into it by the thousands.