Ehren stared at them for a second, unable to believe his own eyes. “Those,” he heard himself say through a dry mouth, “are quite large.”
Giraldi spat. “Bloody crows. But those things can’t attack us from up there, can they?”
“They don’t have to attack us,” Bernard replied. “They just have to walk up and fall on us.”
“Oh, dear,” Ehren said.
“We have to hold them off,” Bernard breathed. “Slow them down. If we can slow them down…” He gave himself a shake. “Giraldi. Tell Cereus to concentrate his forces on the northern bluff. Set the trees on fire, create spines of stone to wound their feet—whatever he can think of. Kill them if he can, but he is to slow that bulk down.”
“Yes, sir!” Giraldi snapped, and went about carrying out Bernard’s orders.
“Slow them down?” Ehren said, bewildered. “Not kill them?”
“It’ll be worse if they arrive simultaneously. And they’re so heavily armored—and just so crowbegotten big—that I’m not sure if we can kill them,” he replied. “But I think we just have to hold a little longer.”
“Why?” Ehren asked, blinking. “What difference is it going to make if they’re here in half an hour instead of ten minutes?”
“Because, Sir Ehren,” Calderon said, “like your own demise, not everything here is as it seems.”
CHAPTER 49
Gaius Octavian’s host dismounted at the mouth of the Calderon Valley, much to the relief of riders and mounts alike. Fidelias watched the entire process, bemused. How different would the role of cavalry be if horses could talk?
And draw swords.
And eat their riders.
He thought there might be a great deal less running about.
Fidelias shook his head and struggled to focus on the task at hand. Such wandering thoughts might perhaps be natural in the face of exhaustion and near-certain death, but they wouldn’t help accomplish the mission.
The captain came riding in from a nearby patch of woods on his big black, his singulares trailing at a slight distance. Though the trees had been a quarter mile away, he had insisted. It would never do, after all, for the Legions to see their Princeps beholden to the call of nature just as they were.
Fidelias swung down from his own horse and walked over to join the captain.
“… know you aren’t used to performing in this role,” Octavian was saying to two young men—a cavalry centurion named Quartus and Sir Callum of the First Aleran’s Knights. Both were the right arms of Maximus and Crassus, respectively, within the First Aleran. “But you’ve been trained well,” Octavian continued. “You’ll do fine.”
Both young man replied in the affirmative and, Fidelias thought, tried to look more confident than they felt. But then, the captain was doing the exact same thing. He was just a lot better at it than the other two. It also said something about him that, even here, at the last, the captain had arranged matters so that he could have a moment to bolster their spirits before the rest of the commanders of the host arrived.
It took only moments for the command staff of both Legions to reach them, along with Varg, Nasaug, and Master Marok in his vord-chitin mantle. To Fidelias’s surprise, Sha was there as well, clad in Hunter grey, pacing along in Varg’s shadow.
“Gentlemen,” Octavian said. There were no murmurs to be quieted—everyone was tired, though only the Cane didn’t look it. Their fur simply seemed a bit limper than was usual. “Let’s get right to it. There are two and a half million enemy troops packed into the next fifty miles or so. There are about forty thousand of us. So there are plenty of vord to share. Let’s not be stingy.”
A rumble of laughter went around the group. Nasaug looked amused, though Varg didn’t. Varg looked patient.
“Garrison is about fifty miles from here, on the causeway. They’ve still got almost a hundred and fifty thousand legionares and support from another hundred thousand Marat.”
“That isn’t enough to face the vord directly,” Nasaug said, his deep voice resonant.
“No,” Octavian said. “It isn’t. Somewhere between here and Garrison is the vord Queen. Once we kill her, we aren’t facing an army anymore. We kill her, we have a chance.”
Sir Callum lifted his hand. “Sir…? Um, how are we going to find her?”
Octavian gave him a wolfish smile. “Well, Sir Callum. It appears that some blackhearted villains destroyed the vord’s food storehouse at Riva, then proceeded to burn out the croach that was supposed to be their supply line.”
Another rumble of laughter went around the group.
“As a result, there are more than a million vord thirty miles east of here, at the site of an old steadholt called Aricholt. They’re completely motionless—asleep, in some kind of hibernation.”
“How do you know this?” Varg asked.
“Sorcery.”
Varg eyed Octavian, an expression far more intimidating on a Cane’s face than an Aleran’s, then flicked his ears in acknowledgment.
Marok let out a thoughtful growl. “Some of my monastic brethren once pursued similar disciplines. If the vord can do that, they will not need as much food to survive.”
Octavian nodded. “I think they must be the vord reserves. And I think the vord Queen will be nearby.” He looked around the circle. “Gentlemen, we are going to come down on them in force and annihilate them.”
Silence fell on the circle.
“Sir,” Sir Callum said slowly. “Attack a million with… sir, that’s… the odds are…”
“Twenty-five to one,” Varg said quietly.
“Shall we wait for them to wake up and come to us?” Octavian asked, his mouth spread in a wide, confident grin. “No, Sir Callum. The time for being cautious is long past.”
“What if they wake up?” Callum asked.
“What if they don’t?” Octavian countered. “What if the vord never need them? What if we do nothing while the vord at Garrision overwhelm the Legions?”
Callum frowned and bowed his head. Then he nodded.
“We’re going to hit them as fast and as hard as we can,” Octavian continued. “And we’re going to inflict a crowbegotten lot of harm on them. While that’s happening, I will lead a strike team after the Queen. As the most experienced Aleran present, Valiar Marcus will be in command once I am gone.”
Fidelias felt his stomach drop out. He began to say something, but Octavian shot him a level look, and he subsided.
“Varg will be his second,” Octavian continued. “Our objective is to eliminate the vord reserves at Aricholt, then fortify our position. Questions?”
No one spoke.
“All right, then, gentlemen,” Octavian said, smiling. “Let’s get to work. Oh, Master Marok. Would you be willing to speak with me privately for a moment? Thank you.”
Fidelias watched the assembly break up as the captain moved over to one side, speaking quietly with Marok. The Cane listened and made short replies. He nodded once, then he and the captain exchanged bows.
The captain strode over to him after speaking to Marok. “Marcus,” he said.
“That’s me.”
Octavian’s mouth tugged up at the corner. “With any luck,” he said, “I’ll be busy elsewhere once the music starts.”
“I heard,” Fidelias said.
“I’m not going to ask you if you can handle it. I’m telling you that you bloody well will handle it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Octavian nodded, and said, “We’re going all out. Maximum damage to the enemy. Everyone, everyone, including me, is to be considered expendable.” He looked back down the column. Hundreds of men and Canim were visible even within the ritualists’ concealing mist. There was pain in his eyes. “We can’t let the Queen escape us. And we can’t allow those reserves to be used against Garrison. No matter the cost.”
“I understand, Captain,” Fidelias said quietly. “I’ll get it done.”