Page 40 of Scorched Earth

All the world fell away as Marcus took in Teriana, her black braids swaying as she moved, her eyes turbid seas of distress. His chest filled with every emotion, the swirling storm inside him making him want to be sick.

No.

She can’t be here.

She can’t. Be. Here.

“Fifty-First Legion of the Celendorian Empire reporting to duty, sir.” Austornic gave Marcus a smart salute with no regard to the fact that Marcus was in civilian clothes and on his knees in the mud.“We bring new orders from Consul Lucius Cassius and the Senate, as well as an update on information that has changed since you met with them last week in Celendrial.”

The entire camp went still, the only sound the faint whisper of Austornic’s words being repeated through the Thirty-Seventh.

Marcus barely noticed, his eyes all for Teriana and the same questions repeating in his head.How is she here? Why is she here?Her lips parted as though to answer his unvoiced questions, then she shook her head and remained fixed at Austornic’s elbow.

Felix’s hand closed on his wrist. A knife sliced through the ropes binding him. His knees screamed as he eased to his feet, muddy water dripping from the clothes he wore. Marcus ignored the discomfort and cleared his throat before shouting, “Show the Fifty-First an appropriate welcome!”

Silence.

Then Felix slammed his fist to his chest and bellowed, “Hail the Fifty-First!”

The Thirty-Seventh seemed to take a collective breath, then unleashed a deafening roar of, “Hail the Fifty-First!”

Austornic inclined his head. “Hail Thirty-Seventh. It is our privilege to join you on this historic mission.”

From behind him, more than five thousand young voices screamed, “Hail Thirty-Seventh! Hail Forty-First!”

His legs were shaking beneath him, but Marcus looked to Servius. “See to it that the Fifty-First are well accommodated. It is the Senate’s wish that we complete their training, and they are to be treated with respect.” Motioning to Austornic, he added, “I’ll take your report in the privacy of command.”

Marcus turned toward the fortress at the center of the camp and started walking.

No one acknowledged that he’d been a hairsbreadth from being stoned to death by his own legion. No one said so much as a word. As his eyes fixed on Titus, who stood encircled by his men, Zaide at his side, Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Coming, Titus?”

“Yes, sir.” Though Titus’s voice was emotionless, he radiated frustration and trepidation.

“Let me kill him.” Felix spoke so softly that only Marcus heard, and it was a struggle not to say yes. A struggle not to take the knife belted at Felix’s waist and embed it in Titus’s face over and over until he was unrecognizable.

But that would be a mistake.

The Forty-First was loyal to their commander. If he killed Titus out of turn, they would retaliate, and he’d have a fight on his hands. Though he knew that Titus was guilty, Marcus had no concrete proof. To take down Cassius’s son, he needed his accusations to be ironclad. Yet Marcus couldn’t help but murmur, “Soon enough.”

Felix led Marcus inside the stone fortress. As they passed the guards on duty, all Thirty-Seventh, he said, “Officers only. No exceptions. No interruptions.”

“Yes, sir.” They both saluted sharply, though their faces were pale beneath their helmets. Rattled. With his legs barely holding him up, Marcus knew how they felt.

Just as he knew the only person that his men would actually prevent from entering was Teriana. His heart gave a few unsteady beats as they blocked her path, Austornic ordering his men to keep guard over her, but Marcus didn’t look back. Couldn’t look back.

“Welcome home,” Felix said, the doors embossed with the Cel dragon swinging open in front of them.

Created using Cel-style construction, the interior was blissfully cool and dry, the architecture the familiar blend of beauty and function. “Rastag did good work,” he said, recognizing the hand of the Thirty-Seventh’s engineer.

Felix grunted an affirmative. “We were able to use the same quarry that was used for Aracam. Good stone, he says. The camp’s drainage system is also well underway.”

“That should please Racker. The damp breeds disease.”

“Nothing pleases Racker.”

“Truer words never spoken.”

It was such a bland conversation given what had just happened, and though it was his tongue that was doing the speaking and his ears the listening, it felt as though he were watching from a distance. A sense of surreality struck him because he was alive, he was in the Thirty-Seventh’s camp, he was back in command of a mission to conquer the western half of the world.