Page 13 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

“Protocol would have demanded they ensure the safety of all who might travel through,” an engineer had grumbled, to which Teriana had laughed. “We won’t be in the Empire anymore, my friend, so be wary of leaning on protocol. We’re just as likely to find a bed of spikes as scaffolding.”

The boys had all shifted uneasily, then turned to the discussion of mitigation.

She’d suggested they shove a wagon-load of pillows through the stem to cushion the potential hard landing, and while they’d dismissed her suggestion as lunacy, she had heard some muttering about her idea after her back was turned.

Now the moment to take the step through was upon them.

“This is not how it’s done,” Pullo groused. “Paid path-hunters are supposed to go back and forth several times to ensure the terminus is safe and secure before legion transport.”

“You know as well as I do that such a thing is not yet possible,” Nic said. “Until the lake in Atlia is drained, the only mapped path back suitable for human travel has a terminus in Sibern, and it’s the dead of winter.”

For all the path from Arinoquia to Atlia was stymied by a large body of water, Teriana’s skin still crawled with the certainty that it was not a matter of if but when that the Empire would make it viable.

Even if such a thing were not possible, it was still a route of communication. For the Empire, information was power.

Nic continued, “You think the Senate is going to allow us to sit on our laurels while we wait for certainty that this path is safe? No. We’ll be back under Hostus’s command, and I, for one, would rather dive headfirst into the unknown than salute that prick.”

Teriana could hardly blame him, for the memory of her last conversation with Hostus made her shiver.

“This isn’t over, little girl,” he’d said to her before she’d left to go with the Fifty-First. “There is no place in the world that I can’t find you—remind your lover of that when you see him, if he’s still alive.

I have a new dining set that I had made specifically for serving him up rare. ”

She’d been so bloody terrified that she’d nearly thrown up on his feet, but had managed, “I’ll pass on the message,” before scuttling into Nic’s care, his face as green around the gills over Hostus’s words as her own.

But now Hostus was a distant fear, whereas the very real threat of an uncertain xenthier loomed right in front of her. There was no turning back, though. She’d made a deal with the enemy, and if she backed out of it, there were still five hundred of her people locked in his prison to pay the price.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked Nic, just to say something, because Teriana knew the plan.

Had watched how they’d methodically gone through the first path on their journey.

Knew that Pullo, as primus, would go through first with a dozen of his men, secure the ground; then the rest of the legion would slowly filter through, along with their supplies.

All very regulated and orderly and so very, very Cel.

“I could be leading them to their deaths.” Nic pulled off his helmet to wipe sweat from his brow. “We’ve no certainty of what is on the other side. None.”

“Marcus is there, now,” she reminded him. “If nothing else, it will have motivated them to ensure the terminus is fit to receive travelers.”

“Right.” Nic strode forward and closed his hand over the xenthier, winking out of sight.

“Shit!” Teriana shouted, the sentiment echoed by his bodyguard. Not thinking, she raced after him, grasping hold of the cold crystal.

Everything turned white, her mind feeling as though it disconnected from her body, and then she was gasping in a mouthful of warm, humid air. She stumbled, her feet thudding against stone, and then a hand closed on her arm to steady her.

Nic.

They stood together on a stone platform, but Teriana took nothing in because she was too busy screeching, “That was not the—”

Her words cut off with a muffled ooof as someone slammed into her back, knocking her forward. Then another and another, Nic’s bodyguard coming through the xenthier to land in a tangled dogpile on top of the platform. Which wasn’t very Cel-like at all.

“Stand down!” Nic barked as she disentangled herself from the boys, grumbling that a better order would have been to stand up. But then she heard the distinct sound of a gladius being drawn, then another and another.

Nic had his weapon in hand, as did Pullo and the others, their bodies tight with tension.

And that was when the smell hit her.

Rot.

Shaking her head to clear the lingering dizziness, Teriana tried to climb to her feet but Pullo’s hand forced her down with surprising strength. “Stay low,” he hissed. “The terminus isn’t secure.”

Fear thrummed through her veins as Teriana peered through their legs, her breath catching as her eyes fixed on the body of a legionnaire sprawled across the ground, flies buzzing above his still form. “No.”

A scream tore from her lips, and Teriana shoved between the boys, stumbling down the ramp to the ground and falling to her knees next to the body. It was bloated and grey, the stink beyond words, and with shaking hands, Teriana rolled him over.

The legionnaire’s face was ruined beyond recognition, but the 41 embossed on his breastplate was clear as day.

It wasn’t Marcus.

But there were other bodies. A dozen corpses sprawled within eyesight. Once the Fifty-First saw them, their remaining innocence would be destroyed. “Stop!”

The boys all froze, and Teriana scrambled between them and the corpses. “Stay back! Don’t look!”

Pullo frowned at her, then muttered something to his men, who pressed onward, ignoring the bodies in favor of establishing a perimeter. They were nervous, a hint of fear on their faces, but none of them hesitated.

Nic caught hold of her arm. “We’ve another twenty minutes before the rest of the legion will begin coming through,” he murmured. “Twenty minutes on our own.”

What if she’d brought them into a death trap?

Teriana’s hands turned to ice as she surveyed the jungle around them, which was too quiet, like the animals and insects were all holding their breath. “What do we do?”

Bending down, Nic picked up one of the fallen Forty-First’s shields, handing it to her. “We hold our position until we are reinforced. Pullo knows his business, so we keep our mouths shut.”

The grip was covered in dried blood, but Teriana closed her hand around it and held up the shield to cover her torso as Nic tugged her back toward the xenthier’s scaffolding.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I brought you here.”

“By virtue of being born second, this was always in our cards.” His brown eyes skipped over the fallen men. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“You’re just children.” Children who had now seen the reality of the future they faced in mangled corpses being consumed by rot and flies. “This is no place for children.”

“Tell that to the Senate next time you meet with them,” he answered. “But for now, keep quiet.”

Teriana obeyed, staying crouched behind the shield, the only sound the drone of flies and the thunder of her heart.

Her eyes jumped from corpse to corpse, part of her still terrified that Marcus was among them, but it was impossible to tell.

It seemed like an eternity before Pullo backed toward them, face blanched but hands steady as he crouched next to his legatus.

“The attack didn’t come from the xenthier,” he said.

“Looks like their camp was hit first. The guards are all dead at their posts and there are signs of where they tried to form up before being overrun. Eighteen dead, all Forty-First, and if they took down any of the enemy, the bodies were removed. No signs of life, ours or otherwise. Should I scout farther afield?”

“No,” Nic responded. “Hold.”

Pullo lifted his hand and made a series of gestures that Teriana knew were orders, then he said, “No arrows, all blade work and fists, looks like. But some of the bodies… They’re wearing Forty-First gear but they’re old men. You know anything about the Forty-First recruiting, Teriana?”

All the blood drained from her face, terror rising in her heart as she realized what had happened here. “It was one of the corrupted who did this, Nic.”

She’d told the boy about the corrupted during their journey from Celendor to Bardeen, and though he’d heard her out, Teriana had known he hadn’t believed her.

If his beliefs had changed upon seeing this carnage, the young legatus didn’t show it.

“Hold positions. All that matters is keeping this ground secure for reinforcements.”

Every second felt like a lifetime as they waited, Teriana’s skin crawling whenever a fly landed upon her, because she knew what the wretched things had been feasting upon.

Then footsteps thudded on the scaffolding, and Pullo was on the move.

Running up the ramp, he barked orders at the arrivals, and though their hearts must have filled with fear, the Fifty-First obeyed with no hesitation.

Hundreds, then thousands of legionnaires exited the path, the area around the terminus swiftly deemed secure enough that she and Nic were able to move about.

Teriana forced herself to look at each of the bodies to make sure they weren’t Marcus as Pullo led her and Nic to the Forty-First’s camp, which was torn apart and splashed with blood and gore.

For all the Fifty-First had been trained for this, more than a few of the boys vomited at the sight, the stink and horror and adrenaline more than they could bear.

“Here’s one.” Pullo pulled the cloak covering the face of the corpse down to reveal a wrinkled face splattered with blood, the eyebrows above his unseeing eyes as white as snow.

Even so, Teriana recognized him because of the tattoo of a bird on one of his biceps. “His name is Florius. Absolute shit at cards. He’s… eighteen.”

“Eighty seems more accurate.” Pullo covered the corpse again. “Are you suggesting one man did this, Teriana? Took down eighteen trained legionnaires without injury?”

“Injury means little to the corrupted. They just steal life,” she said. “They use it to heal themselves.”

“Fuck me,” the young primus muttered, and she had to curb the urge to tell him to watch his language.

“They’ve been dead for some time, judging from the decay.” Nic surveyed their surroundings. “Any sign of Marcus?”

“No, sir. But the timing of this couldn’t be coincidence.”

“Logbook?”

“Still looking, sir.”

Numb, Teriana moved about the camp, seeing that they’d been in the midst of cooking dinner when they’d been attacked, the pot of food overturned and rotting into the mud. Where are you? she silently asked. Are you safe?

A foolish question, because how could he be?

“Sir! We found it!” One of the boys ran up, handing Nic a leather-bound book smeared with blood. As he opened it, a letter fell free to land on the ground. Bending to pick it up, Teriana read the contents. “It’s signed by the Commandant,” she whispered. “Marcus was here.”

Nic was reading the last record, his expression grim.

“Marcus arrived but was unconscious. The centurion sent a messenger to Aracam requesting medical aid from the Thirty-Seventh, as well as reinforcements. He noted his intent to transport Marcus to Aracam on the heels of the messenger. That’s the last record. ”

Tears burned in her eyes. “Where is he? Did the corrupted take him?”

Had the corrupted been Ashok?

The Thirty-Seventh had hunted the corrupted who’d kidnapped her but never found a trace of him. Except not for a heartbeat did she think he’d abandoned Arinoquia, and there was no doubt in her mind that if Ashok had been given the opportunity to take revenge against Marcus, he’d do so.

“The attack may have come after Marcus left with the escort charged with transporting him,” Pullo said. “It’s rained since, so any tracks on the trail leading east were washed away.”

“What do we do?” It was a struggle to breathe, because this was all so much worse than Teriana could have predicted. Marcus not just sick, but potentially in the hands of one of the corrupted.

“We know the Thirty-Seventh is in Aracam.” Nic snapped the ledger shut. “We bury the dead, then we march to meet them.”