The medicos labored feverishly, dragging the wounded and dead back from the line, where they would be sorted into three categories. First came the most severely wounded, who would need the attentions of a healing tub merely to survive. Next priority went to those men most lightly wounded—a visit to a healing tub and a comparatively minor effort from a watercrafter would put them back into the lines in an hour.
And then came . . . everyone else. Men with their bellies ripped open could not hope to return to the fight, but neither were they in danger of expiring from their injury within the day. Men with shattered ribs, their wind too short to permit them to scream, lay there in agony, their faces twisted with pain. They were worse off than those who had lost limbs and managed to stop the bleeding with bandages and tourniquets. A man whose eyes were a bloody, pulped ruin sat on the ground moaning and rocking back and forth. Scarlet tears streamed down his cheeks in a gruesome mask.
The dead, Amara thought morbidly, were better off than all of them: They could feel no pain.
“Countess!” Miles called.
Amara looked up to see that Aquitaine’s bodyguards had opened a way between them, though they didn’t look happy about it. Miles was standing in the newly created aisle, beckoning her, and Amara hurried to join him.
Miles walked her over to where Aquitaine sat on his horse beside a dozen of his furycrafting peers—High Lord Antillus, High Lord Phrygia and his son, High Lord and Lady Placida, High Lord Cereus, and a collection of Lords who, through talent or discipline, had established themselves as some of the most formidable furycrafters in the Realm.
“Countess,” Aquitaine said politely. “Today’s schedule is somewhat demanding. I am pressed for time.”
“It’s about to get worse,” Amara said. After a beat, she added, “Your Highness.”
Aquitaine gave her a razor-thin smile. “Elaborate.”
She informed him, in short, terse sentences, of the horde of feral furies. “And they’re moving fast. You’ve got maybe half an hour before they reach your lines.”
Aquitaine regarded her steadily, then dismounted, stepped a bit apart from the horses, and took to the air to see for himself. He returned within a pair of minutes and remounted, his expression closed and hard.
Silence spread around the little circle as the mounted Citizens traded uneasy looks.
“A furybinding?” Lady Placida said, finally. “On
that
scale? Is it even possi—” She paused to glance at her husband, who was giving her a wry look. She shook her head and continued. “Yes, as it is in fact happening at this very moment, of course it is possible.”
“Bloody crows,” Antillus finally spat. He was a brawny man, rough-hewn, and had a face that looked as if it had been beaten with clubs in his youth. “Furies will go right through the lines. Or under them, or over them. And they’ll head straight for Riva, too.”
Aquitaine shook his head. “Those are entirely uncontrolled furies. Once they’re set loose, there’s no telling
which
direction they’ll go.”
“Naturally,” Amara said in a dry tone. “It would be impossible for the vord to be able to give them a direction.”
Aquitaine looked at her, sighed, and waved an irritated gesture of acceptance.
“If there are that many wild furies, the vord don’t need to aim them,” the silver-haired, aged Cereus said quietly. “Even if they could only bring the furies close and let them spread out randomly, some of them are bound to hit the city. It wouldn’t take many to cause a panic. And as crowded as the streets are . . .”
“It would clog the streets and trap everyone inside,” Aquitaine said calmly. “Panic in those circumstances would be little different from riots. It will force the Legions to maneuver all the way around the city walls instead of marching through. Force us to divide our strength, sending troops back to restore order. Cause enough confusion to let the vord slip agents and takers inside.” He frowned, bemused. “We haven’t seen any vordknights yet, in this battle.” He looked back over his shoulder. “They’re north and west of us, spread out in a line, like hunters. Ready to snap up refugees as they flee the city in disorder.”
Amara got a sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t thought all the way through the chain of logic in the vord Queen’s gambit, but what Aquitaine said made perfect sense. Though the vord were deadly enough in a purely physical sense, the weapon that might truly unmake Alera this day was terror. In her mind’s eye, she could see panicked refugees and freemen being slaughtered by wild furies, could see them taking to the streets with all they could carry, shepherding their children along with them, seeking a way out of the death trap the walls of Riva had become. Some would manage to escape the city—only to find themselves the prey of an airborne foe. And while the rest of the city’s residents were trapped and embroiled in chaos, the Legions were effectively pinned in place. They could not retreat without leaving the people of Riva to be butchered.
The great city, its people, and its defending Legions would all die together within days.
“I think we’d better stop those furies,” Antillus rumbled.
“Yes, thank you, Raucus,” Lord Phrygia said in an acidic tone. “What would you suggest?”
Antillus scowled and said nothing.
Aquitaine actually seemed to smile for an instant, something that surprised Amara with its genuine warmth. It faded rapidly, and his features shifted back into his cool mask again. “We have two choices—retreat or fight.”
“A
retreat
?” Raucus said. “With this mob? We’d never coordinate it in the face of the enemy. Whichever Legions were the last out would be torn to shreds.”
“More to the point,” Lord Placida said quietly, “I think it’s a good bet that they’ll be expecting it. I think you’re right about their circling their aerial troops into position behind us.”
“Even more to the point,” Aquitaine said, “we have nowhere left to go. No position that will be any stronger than this one. That being the case—”
“Your Highness,” Amara interrupted smoothly. “In point of fact, that is not entirely true.”
Amara felt every eye there lock upon her.
“The Calderon Valley has been prepared,” she said calmly. “My lord husband spent years trying to warn the Realm that this day was coming. When no one listened, he did the only thing he could do. He readied his home to receive refugees and fortified it heavily.”
Aquitaine tilted his head. “How heavily could he possibly have strengthened it on a Count’s income?”
Amara reached into her belt pouch, drew out a folded piece of paper, and opened a map of the Calderon Valley. “Here is the western entrance, along the causeway. Half-height siege walls have been built across the entire five-mile stretch of land, from the flint escarpments to the Sea of Ice, with standard Legion camp-style fortresses every half mile. A second regulation siege wall belts the valley at its midway point, with fortresses and gates each mile. At the eastern end of the valley, Garrison itself has been surrounded by more double-sized siege walls, enclosing a citadel built to about a quarter of the scale of the one in Alera Imperia.”
Aquitaine stared at her. He blinked once. Slowly.
Lady Placida dropped her head back and let out a peal of sudden laughter. She pressed her hands to her stomach, though she couldn’t have felt it through her armor, and continued laughing. “Oh. Oh, I never thought I’d get to
see
the look on your face when you found out, Attis . . .”
Aquitaine eyed the merry High Lady and turned to Amara. “One wonders why the good Count has not seen fit to inform High Lord Riva or the Crown of his new architectural ambitions.”
“Does one?” Amara asked.
Aquitaine opened his mouth. “Ah. Of course. So that Octavian would have a stronghold should he need to use one against me.” His eyes shifted to Lady Placida. “I assume that the Count has enjoyed the benefit of some support from Placida.”
Lord Placida was eyeing his wife with a rather alarmed expression. “I would like to think you would have, ah, informed me if that was the case, dear.”
“Not Placida,” she said calmly. “The Dianic League. After Invidia’s defection, most of us felt foolish enough to take steps to correct our misplaced trust in her leadership.”
“Ah,” her husband said, and nodded, pacified. “The League, quite. None of my business, then.”
Amara cleared her throat. “The point, Your Highness, is that there is indeed one more place where we might make a stand—a better place than here, it could be argued. The geography there will favor a defender heavily.”
Aquitaine closed his eyes for a moment. He was very still. Then he opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and nodded. His eyes flicked open, burning with sudden energy. “Very well,” he said. “We are about to be assaulted by furies of considerable strength and variety. The fact that they happen to be feral is really rather immaterial. We have neither the time nor the resources to pacify or destroy them. We’ll bait them instead. Keep them focused on the Legions instead of upon the Rivan populace.” He considered the gathered group pensively. “We’ll divide the labor by city, I think. High Lord and Lady Placida, if you would, please summon your liegemen and divide yourselves among both Placidan Legions. Make sure the Legions maintain their integrity.”
Aria nodded sharply, once, then she and her husband dismounted and launched themselves skyward.
“Raucus,” Aquitaine continued, “you’ll take your Citizens to the Antillan Legions, and Phrygius will cover his own troops—and yes, I know the two of you have the most Legions in the field at the moment and that your furycrafters will be spread thin. Lord Cereus, if you would, please gather together the Citizens from Ceres, Forcia, Kalare, and Alera Imperia and divide them to assist the northern Legions.”
Phrygius and Antillus both nodded and turned their horses, kicking them into a run as they raced in separate directions, toward their own Legions. Cereus gave Amara a grim nod and launched himself skyward.
Aquitaine gave a series of calm, specific instructions to the Lords remaining, and the men departed in rapid succession.
“Captain Miles,” he said, at the last.
“Sir,” Miles said.
Sir,
Amara noted.
Not sire.
“The Crown Legion will proceed to the northeast gates of Riva to escort and safeguard the civilians,” Aquitaine said.
“We’re ready to continue the fight, sir.”
“No, Captain. After last year, your Legion was down to four-fifths of its strength before today’s battle was joined. You have your orders.”
Sir Miles grimaced but saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“And you, Countess Calderon.” Aquitaine sighed. “Please be so kind as to carry word to your own liege, Lord Rivus, that it will be his responsibility to shield the population of Riva as he evacuates them to the Calderon Valley. Have him coordinate with your husband to make sure this happens as quickly as possible.”
Amara frowned and inclined her head. “And you, Your Highness?”
Aquitaine shrugged languidly. “I would have preferred to drive straight for the Queen as soon as she revealed herself. But given what’s happening, she has no need to put in an appearance.”
Amara began to ask another question.
“Neither does my ex-wife,” Aquitaine said smoothly.
Amara frowned at him. “The Legions. You’re asking them to fight wild furies and the vord alike. Fight them while a horde of refugees staggers away. Fight them while they themselves retreat.”
“Yes,” Aquitaine said.
“They’ll be ground to dust.”
“You exaggerate the danger, Countess,” Aquitaine replied. “Fine sand.” Amara just stared at the man. “Was . . . was that a joke?”
“Apparently not,” Aquitaine replied. He turned his face toward the lines again.
His eyes were calm, and veiled . . .
. . . and haunted.
Amara followed his gaze and realized that he was staring at the screaming casualties on the ground, the men whose proportion of agony to mortality had run too high to rate immediate attention. She shivered and averted her eyes.
Aquitaine did not.
Amara looked back to the battle itself. The
legionares
were holding the enemy tide at bay—for now.
“Yes,” Aquitaine said quietly. “The Legions will pay a terrible price so that the residents of Riva can flee. But if they do not, the city will fall into chaos, and the civilians will die.” He shook his head. “This way, perhaps half of the
legionares
will survive the retreat. Even odds. If we are forced to defend the city to our last man, they will
all
die, Countess. For nothing. And they know it.” He nodded. “They’ll fight.”
“And you?” Amara asked, careful to keep her tone completely neutral. “Will you fight?”
“If I reveal my position and identity, the enemy will do everything in their power to kill me in order to disrupt Aleran leadership. I will take the field against the Queen. Or Invidia. For them, it would be worth the risk. Until then . . . I will be patient.”
“That’s probably best, Your Highness,” Ehren said quietly, stepping forward from his unobtrusive position in the Princeps’ background. “You aren’t replaceable. If you were seen in action in these circumstances, it’s all but certain that Invidia, or the Queen, would appear and make every effort to remove you.”
Amara drew in a slow breath and looked past Aquitaine to where Sir Ehren hovered in attendance. The little man’s expression was entirely opaque, but he had to realize Aquitaine’s situation. His recent storm of new orders had, effectively, stripped him completely of the support of his peers in furycrafted power. The others as strong as he had been dispatched to protect their Legions.
Leaving Aquitaine to stand against his ex-wife or the vord Queen—should they appear—alone.
One gloved fingertip tapped on the hilt of his sword. It was the only thing about him that might have been vaguely construed as a nervous reaction.