Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones Read online

  “Marcus,” Corvus answered with a smile. “Son, not nephew.” He wasn’t keen on the name the men had given his son. But it was much better that Marcus was nicknamed Clericus—priest—than actually sworn to holy vows.

  “At once, General!” The man rode off down the hill at such speed that for a moment, Corvus feared his horse would stumble and its rider break his neck.

  They were so young, these knights, and so desperate to impress everyone around them, especially the command staff. They would be difficult to keep in check when they met the enemy, which, if he read the two scouts’ actions correctly, would be sooner rather than later.

  It would be a relief to finally bring the wretched goblin tribes to battle after one long autumn march after another. The sun was growing shorter each day, and lately the morning dew was frost as often as not. He glanced at the rapidly lengthening shadows on the slope below him. If he couldn’t bring the goblins to grips soon, he would have to march his legions back to imperial lands and decide where he was going to winter them.

  Sudden motion from outside the camp disturbed his internal debate over where he might station the three legions under his command at the end of the campaign. Four horses were riding toward him. He could not help smiling at the sight of the crested tribune’s helm among them. Marcus. How easily the helmet could have been a bishop’s mitre!

  Beside his son rode the commander of the legion, Marcus Saturnius. Saturnius was a short man, given to softness rather than actual plumpness, and beneath the round, pleasant face of a well-fed butcher lay concealed a keenly tactical mind. The legate fought his battles like a butcher too, moving his cohorts in decisive slashes through the enemy formations, consistently carving a bloody and devastating path through their midst. This goblin campaign was their eighth together, and just as Corvus had learned to place implicit trust in his legate’s tactical instincts, so Saturnius was content to follow Corvus’s strategic lead.

  Though they shared a name, his son had little in common with his subordinate. Marcus Valerius was a true Valerian—he was more than a head taller than the legate. And where Saturnius was round-faced and cheerful, Marcus appeared reserved, even haughty. The men might call him Clericus, but Corvus was certain that one day his son would merit a more warlike cognomen.

  “How many are they?” Corvus called as the four riders approached the summit and reined in their horses. He could see from their slightly disheveled armor that Saturnius had wisely brought both newly returned scouts with him, although the two men were both mounted now on fresh horses.

  “Eighteen thousand foot and two thousand wolves,” Saturnius answered, confirming his assumption. “Only two tribes. And, judging by the state of the two encampments, the Vakhuyu have been there for several days, perhaps even a week. The Chalonu look to have arrived last night. They’re both about five leagues due west.”

  “No sign of the Insobru?”

  “None at all. Looks like Proculus will win his bet.”

  Corvus wasn’t terribly surprised. He had fought the Insobru twice before, and both times the goblins had panicked and routed at the first legionary charge. They were a cowardly tribe, even by goblin standards, and they took their cue from their yellow-livered chieftain. He wasn’t the only one who had fought them before. Proculus, Legio XVII’s senior centurion of the second cohort, had done so as well.

  “He usually does,” Corvus nodded. He turned to the two scouts. “Were you seen?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  One of the two, a stout man with a long—and recent—red scratch across his left cheek, sat up in his saddle. “Not as such, General. After we caught scent o’ their fires, we dismounted. We couldn’t get too close even on foot, but we found a hill in the woods nearby so we could see almost everything. The two tribes was camped separate, and you could see the Vakhyi’d been there for a while, because it stunk something fierce.”

  “So, did you cut yourself shaving, then?” Corvus asked pointedly.

  “Well, I was just going to say that when we was riding back about a league, we run into a foot patrol. We killed all three o’ them, but one nearly got my eye with his pigsticker. They didn’t scream or nothing, and we drug the bodies back into the woods afore we came back, so I doubt they has any idea the legion is about.”

  “I think they was Chaloni,” the other scout added. He looked alarmingly young to Corvus, even younger than his son. Corvus couldn’t recall the boy’s name precisely, but he thought it might be Faberus. “The patrol we killed, I mean. The others, the Vakhii, has always been out in fours, not threes. And there was something different about the way their hair was tied—it was kind o’ twisted.”

  Corvus nodded approvingly at the detail in the younger scout’s observations. He suspected Faberus, if that was indeed the lad’s name, would have been the one to smell the campfires first. He cast about for the older scout’s name. Was it Lacunus? No, that wasn’t it. Labeculus.

  “Very well done, both of you. Now Labeculus, back to camp if you please and straight to the medicus. Get that scratch cleaned at once. I’m not saying you’re pretty now, but you’ll be a damn sight less pretty if the rot sets in and they have to cut off half your face. Those gobbos don’t keep their spears clean, and I’m sure Faberus will be able to lead us back to them. Tell your decurion that Third Squadron is to receive double rations of meat and wine tonight.”

  Labeculus looked as if he wanted to protest being left behind, but he acknowledged the order with a sharp salute and a crisp bow. “At once, General. Thank you, General.”

  As the wounded scout turned his horse back toward the camp, his young companion gaped, seemingly astonished that Corvus knew their names.

  Corvus was amused, and he hoped Marcus was paying attention. It might be the oldest trick in the commander’s bag, but calling a soldier by name was still the most effective way to begin forging those intimate bands of iron that distinguished a disciplined fighting force from an armed mob.

  He turned toward his son, who was sitting on his horse, his expression neutral, quite properly pretending to not have noticed that his commanding officer had said or done anything at all. “Well, Tribune Valerius, as it seems our scouts have located the enemy, it now falls to us to decide precisely where we shall meet him. I assume you are prepared to assist the legate and me in this task?”

  “Yes, sir, General. I am prepared, sir.”

  Corvus smiled at his son’s steadfast refusal to meet his eyes. He was adhering firmly to junior officer etiquette, and appeared to be staring intently at something over Corvus’s left shoulder. “At your ease, Tribune Clericus. Marcus, you’re coming with me in your filial capacity, not because Saturnius has any need of his most junior tribune to help him determine what would be the most advantageous terrain.”

  “With all due respect, General,” Saturnius said, “Valerius Clericus is not my most junior tribune. That would be Trebonius.”

  “Is that so? Well, be that as it may, it appears we find ourselves on the eve of Legio XVII’s first proper battle, and I am naturally concerned about the readiness of the right wing, which will be under the command of Fortex, seconded by you, Marcus. That is enough to strike terror into any man’s heart, even if not the enemy’s, if he had known the two of you as boys. And since the shadows are not so long that we cannot ride ten leagues before sunset, I thought it might be useful for you to put some of that reading you’ve been doing in practice.”

  “I am at the stragister’s command, sir.” Marcus nodded impassively, but he couldn’t quite hide a faint smile of delight cracking his formal reserve. “Thank you, General.”

  “What a touching display of paternal affection,” Saturnius snorted derisively at their formality. He turned to the scout. “Faberus, what do you think of this formality between father and son?”

  The young man squirmed in his saddle. “I wouldn’t presume to have no opinion, Legate.”

  Saturnius guffawed. “Well said, lad! All right then, Corvus, let’s b
e on our way and see if we can find a place suited to kill some goblins. Tribune Clericus, until we return to the camp, you will address the stragister militum as ‘Father.’ That is an order, Tribune!”

  “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

  “Patricians!” The little legate laughed. “Heads of wood and hearts of ice. It’s a wonder the Houses Martial didn’t die off centuries ago. Faberus, go round up four knights and meet us at the bottom of the hill. There must be some reasonable ground lying between us and them.”

  The sun had reddened like blood, as if an omen for the morrow, when Marcus Saturnius finally pronounced his satisfaction with the ground that lay before him. Corvus breathed a sigh of relief. It was the third location presented by the young scout, but it was easily the most to Saturnius’s liking. An open meadow spread out from the woods and culminated in a large hill that was higher on one side, lending itself to an oblique line of battle. The knights were already off their mounts and dicing with Marcus and Faberus while Corvus and Saturnius stood together in the middle of the field, looking up at the hill.

  Corvus frowned. “We’re farther south than I’d like.”

  “I know,” Saturnius said, patting his horse’s nose after tying its reins to a bush. “But the goblin army’s natural line of march will push them southward. No goblin wants to cross deep water, and that stream about a league to the north will turn them here. There being no roads out here, they will naturally gravitate toward the open field—here—rather than through those forests we passed earlier. Too much brush.” The legate pointed. “I’ll position cohorts one, six, and eight, there, there, and there.”

  Corvus nodded in approval. Those three were the XVII’s best cohorts, although since the entire legion was greener than a spring apple, he couldn’t put as much faith in them as he would have in another, more experienced legion.

  The three sides of the meadow around them were lined with crimson and gold, festooned with leaves fallen from the trees. Their horses grazed placidly on the browning autumn grass, unperturbed by the talk of the violence to come.

  Corvus picked up a golden leaf and twisted it in his hand. It seemed almost a travesty to stand in the midst of all this natural beauty for the express purpose of slaughtering hundreds, more likely thousands, of God’s creatures. He hoped the scholars of the Church were correct about the goblins being without souls, even if he had doubts that they were outright creatures of pure evil. It would make tomorrow’s slaughter easier on his mind.

  Not that it mattered. For better or for worse, he was a soldier, and slaughter was his true vocation. And right now, turning the young men of Legio XVII into one vast killing machine was his most sacred responsibility.

  “We can establish the bulk of the mules and scorpions on the heights there,” Saturnius said, “behind the second cohort on what will be the right wing. Put the cavalry on the left flank, up against the forest there, and another cohort behind them to deal with any infiltration from the trees. We’ll have room for five cohorts across the front, so we’ll keep two in reserve and leave one to guard the camp.”

  Corvus shook his head and overruled him. “No. Don’t put all the horse on the left wing, I only want eight squadrons of the First Knights there. We’ll put the Second Knights in front of the artillery, and we’ll stand with the remaining eight behind the center. The incline is gentle there, but it’s enough to provide sight of the whole field, and that will free up an additional cohort. We won’t be quite as high, but if we put our staff on the hill, we’ll lose sight of the right flank because of how the treeline curves.”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking hard. “It’s going to be a little tight for the men with that many goblins in their faces. We’ll need enough space to rotate the men on the front lines, so we’ll keep the extra cohort in reserve.”

  “I like the additional reserve, but why split the cavalry?” Saturnius asked. “They may have seven wolves to every horse, but their riders aren’t disciplined enough to bring their numbers to bear. And I doubt they’ll stand for more than two charges.”

  “Because I want to keep them out of it if I can.”

  “By ‘them’ I sincerely hope you are speaking of their cavalry and not our own,” Saturnius said carefully. He was very pointedly not looking at Marcus.

  A surge of anger flashed through Corvus, which he restrained with some difficulty. He couldn’t deny the thought of keeping Marcus and Fortex out of harm’s way had crossed his mind several times during the afternoon, but that wasn’t his primary motivation for stationing the cavalry on the heights. Of course, Saturnius couldn’t know that and Corvus was certain that his old friend intended no insult. He took a deep breath to calm himself before explaining his reasoning.

  “Saturnius, recall that we’ll have at least two full squadrons detached to serve as messengers and so forth, here and at the camp. That leaves three hundred knights between the two wings, and if whoever is commanding the other side sees only three hundred lined up against two thousand on our left flank, he’ll be tempted to engage immediately. The goblin commander will probably suspect he can’t break through our knights, given their armor, but he’ll have to try. We’d probably see three or four waves of them before he gives up. We’d lose dozens of horses to the wolves, perhaps a squadron or two of knights, and for what? To hold our ground? To pin down their cavalry?

  “On the other hand, we can’t simply keep our horse in reserve, because those damn wolves kick up such a hellish ruckus that infantry as green as ours will be pissing themselves if we throw them out there without support.” He pointed at the hill. “If we hold the right with a full wing, and mix the rest of the horse in with a cohort on the left, they’ll be forced to split their wolves. Same odds, of course, but a thousand wolves isn’t going to inspire any foolhardy charges when they’re facing a mixed force on the one flank and a bloody steep slope on the other.”

  “And if they don’t split them?”

  “Then we hit their flank, and they hit ours. Who do you think breaks first, our foot or theirs?”

  Saturnius shrugged by way of concession. They both knew there wasn’t any doubt as to whose infantry would stand against the other’s cavalry and whose would run. “All right. So we take their wolves out of the equation, most likely without loss to either side, and let the infantry slug it out. Yes, I take your point. We’ll split the horse. However, the ballistae should be in the center. They can’t loose over the horses and down the slope. The onagers can stay there if you want, though. And I have one more suggestion.”

  “We might as well put half the onagers behind the left wing,” Corvus said. “It really doesn’t matter where they are since they can hammer the rear from either side. But what else are you thinking?”

  “The Balerans. We didn’t have enough men to fill up the complement for the ninth cohort, so I swore in some auxiliaries from Legio XXV after their contract expired. They’re trained as proper infantry now, but they still have their slings.”

  “I do recall. I wasn’t enthusiastic about them. How many did you swear in?”

  “Mmmm, around two centuries.”

  “Two hundred Balerans?” Corvus nearly swallowed his tongue. “Dammit, man, I thought you were talking about ten or twelve of them! ‘A few good men with experience,’ you said. I thought, well, we could take on a few provincials so long as they’re veterans.”

  “They’ve had the same training now that every other legionary has—and considerably more combat experience besides. My concern is that if the goblin cavalry isn’t going to come to us, eventually one of their captains might get the bright idea to bring ours to them since they’ve got the numbers. Maybe it will be artillery, maybe a shaman or two, or maybe some of those piss-poor bastards that are supposed to pass for archers.

  “My thought is that if we second twenty or thirty Balerans to both wings, that should be enough to keep them from peppering the cavalry and inciting some hotheaded decurion—or tribune—into doing something rash that will
get his whole wing cut off and killed. And speaking of somebody doing something rash, I’m going to order the knights to refuse all challenges. Win or lose, if we’re trying to keep the cavalry out of it, single combats are asking for trouble either way.

  Corvus nodded. Inspiring the men to glorious deeds of solitary heroism was the very last thing they would need against the more numerous but inferior enemy. There were times when tactical brilliance and battlefield heroics were needed, but tomorrow’s battle—assuming the enemy stirred from its camp—should be a relatively straightforward affair. Freeze their cavalry in place, funnel their lightly armored foot against the heavy infantry holding the center, then slaughter them until they break and attempt to withdraw.

  Only then would he unleash his knights, who would sweep aside the wolfriders trying to screen the enemy retreat, who would kill and kill and kill until nightfall. The infantry might be green, but more than a few of its centurions were veterans with decades in the ranks. He wouldn’t want to test them against the mountain orcs of Zoth Ommog yet, but against goblins, they would hold.

  The only real question in his mind was if the goblin commander had sufficient control of his forces to attempt an orderly retreat or if the chieftains would simply flee and leave their desperate troops to rout as best they could. Most likely the latter, he guessed, especially given that two rival tribes were involved.

  A thought struck him. “It occurs to me that if we want to keep their cavalry sitting, the ballistarii should be instructed to leave them alone.”

  Saturnius agreed. “I will see that Cassabus understands and instructs his men accordingly. Now, if you will excuse me, Corvus, I’m going to take Faberus and the guards to see how we can best encourage the gobbos to join us here for our little gathering tomorrow. Do you want your boy?”

  Corvus appreciated his old friend’s perceptiveness. “Yes, but don’t be long about it. It would be best if we got back to camp before sundown.”