Page 3 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

MARCUS

“What’s wrong with him? Why is he getting worse?”

Titus’s voice cut through the haze, but Marcus kept his eyes squeezed shut.

The fog thickening his thoughts refused to clear, made worse by a throbbing ache in his skull that made Marcus want to curl in on himself.

Made him want to hide from light and sound, because they made the pain so much worse.

He had only vague memories of what had occurred since he’d woken in Titus’s camp without his armor, the letter Wex had given him, or any of the other proof that he’d been in Celendrial.

He’d faded in and out of consciousness, but the same dream repeated, of Titus leaning over him and whispering, I might not be able to stop the Thirty-Seventh from having their revenge on you.

They’re angry, Marcus. And they’re not the same legion as when you left.

Every time he regained consciousness, his first thought was, What has happened to them?

He hadn’t been moved from the floor of Titus’s tent, and he vaguely heard the sounds of legionnaires breaking camp, the air smelling of wet ash as they doused cook fires. Marcus’s name was mentioned often, but not half as often as another word.

Deserter.

“It has to be a head injury, sir. From when he was beaten.”

“You said his skull wasn’t cracked!”

“It’s not, but he’s got a black eye, so we know he was hit. Head injuries can be unpredictable like that.”

“No,” Marcus tried to say, but it only came out as unintelligible noise.

“Fix him!” Titus snarled. “You’re a fucking surgeon—do something!”

“There’s nothing to be done, Titus! Not even Racker could fix what’s wrong with him. He’s a dead man, sure and true.”

A dead man.

The weight of that pierced through the haze, the burden of failure making Marcus want to scream.

“Shit!” Titus raged. “Shit shit shit! If he dies, the Thirty-Seventh will blame us!”

“Why? They’d have killed him anyway.”

“Because it’s different!” Titus’s voice was like knives in Marcus’s brain. “They need to be the ones to kill him. It has to be them. Don’t you see?”

Merciful silence.

“How you choose to manage the complexities of this situation is up to you,” the surgeon eventually replied. “But he’s not going to survive the journey to Aracam. By your leave, I’ve other patients to see to who I can actually treat.”

“Go!”

The surgeon saluted and departed.

“There’s irony to this, you know,” Titus said.

Marcus first thought the comment was directed at him, but then it struck him that the language Titus spoke wasn’t Cel but Arinoquian.

“All the times I’ve tried to kill him and now I need him alive, so he’ll die to spite me.

Felix won’t believe that I just happened upon him.

He’ll think I’ve had him locked up somewhere all this time, and instead of cheering me for delivering their piece-of-shit deserter, they’ll come for my blood. ”

“Better to dispose of him then?” asked a vaguely familiar voice. “Burn the body?”

“Too many of my men know he’s here. I’ll never keep it a secret.” Titus’s footfalls were like thunder as he stomped around Marcus. “Why does everything go wrong?”

Marcus forced himself to crack open one eye. An old man with the mahogany skin of a Gamdeshian stood with Titus. The same one who’d been present when Marcus had first woken in Titus’s tent. But the pain forced him to close his eyelid again to hold back the stabbing light.

“He may yet live.” The Gamdeshian’s voice was soothing. “Do not give up on all you have gained, young master. You are the commander of a great army, and soon you will be the one to lead the Empire to victory over these lands.”

“You’re only interested in the reward you’ll get for aiding me,” Titus replied sourly. “But know this: if I go down, so do you. Get some water in him and keep him alive.” Commands given, Titus spun on his heel and marched away.

Hands grasped Marcus’s body, rolling him, and then fingers peeled back his eyelids.

Light and pain stabbed them, everything a blur.

When his eyes focused, it was to find the Gamdeshian kneeling before him.

He was old, skin heavy with wrinkles and brown hair heavily laced with white.

His left ear sagged beneath the weight of the silver rings piercing it, and his dark brown eyes gleamed with intelligence.

“I am Zaide,” the Gamdeshian said, pressing his hand to his chest. “Advisor to the legatus.”

Why does Titus have a Gamdeshian as an advisor? Where is Ereni? “How did I get here?” Marcus’s words were slurred.

Zaide’s head tilted, eyes scrutinizing Marcus’s face. “You’ve no memory?”

His vision split into two. Then three, and Marcus shook his head to focus it, only for knives of pain to stab him in the skull. “No.”

“You were found a few miles from here,” Zaide said. “In civilian clothing.”

That… that wasn’t right. Wasn’t possible. “You’re lying. You stole my armor. My possessions.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Zaide’s frown was confused but his eyes gleamed far too bright. “I didn’t even know who you were until the legatus’s men recognized you. The Cel all look the same to me.”

“Liar.” Marcus tried to make his voice clear, but it was so slurred he could barely understand himself. “Who are you?”

“It is you who are the liar,” Zaide replied. “All the legatus’s men agree on it. Liar. Traitor. Deserter. They’ve been saying it since you disappeared.” He cupped a hand behind the silver rings of his ear. “Listen.”

Deserter.

Deserter.

Deserter.

His head felt on the verge of exploding, each thud of his heart like thunder, the pain so bad that tears ran down Marcus’s cheeks.

Yet even through the fog, it was clear to him that he was being framed.

That when he’d stumbled out of the xenthier and fallen unconscious, it had been the Forty-First who’d found him.

And when no one had come through the xenthier to provide Marcus a witness to his story, Titus had decided to take advantage.

This man Zaide was nothing but a creature Titus had paid to give credence to the story when it was presented to the Thirty-Seventh.

When it was presented to Felix, who had every reason to believe that Marcus had deserted to be with Teriana.

The risk to Titus was next to nothing, because when the truth came out that Marcus hadn’t deserted, it wouldn’t be Titus’s hands that were bloody from Marcus’s execution.

It would be the Thirty-Seventh’s.

“They say the girl you abandoned them for was a beauty beyond measure.” Zaide patted Marcus on the cheek, each impact a hammer against his skull.

“It is known that love turns even the cleverest of men into fools. Perhaps the Thirty-Seventh will take pity upon you for your weakness. Perhaps its legatus will forgive you for your mistakes. Perhaps in the time it will take us to reach Aracam, you’ll find a way to talk yourself back into power. But then again, perhaps not.”

“It won’t matter if I’m dead.” The words came out as incomprehensible noise.

Zaide gave him a pitying look that didn’t reach his dark eyes. “Death will come for you, legatus, but there is enough life left in you to survive a while yet. You’ve fought death too long and hard to surrender to it easily, and I think suffering is an old bedfellow.”

Marcus tried to answer, but his mouth couldn’t seem to form words.

Shouts of alarm abruptly filled the air of the camp, and then horns bellowed.

Attack. The camp was coming under attack.

Zaide leapt to his feet, a growl of anger that made Marcus’s skin crawl pouring from his lips. His eyes snapped to Marcus, and it was like staring into the darkest depths of night.

“Keep breathing, legatus,” he commanded. “He has purpose for you yet.”

Then without another word, Zaide raced out of the tent, leaving Marcus to sink down into darkness, his last thoughts for Teriana.

I’m sorry.