Page 74 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)
MARCUS
He lingered only long enough to allow Rastag the manpower he needed to modify his bridge to allow the river to flow beneath.
The floodwaters drained swiftly out of the Gamdeshian fortress of Rita, though getting rid of the mud would more than occupy the small force he left behind for the days to come.
Then Marcus ordered his army to march.
It felt peculiar marching without Felix at his side, though Austornic was eager to take up Felix’s usual duties, which meant he never left Marcus’s shadow.
The boy desired to endlessly rehash the mechanics of the battle on the Orinok, picking Marcus’s brain over how he’d coordinated each step, how he’d kept the trebuchet a secret, and how Rastag had determined distances.
Though Marcus’s focus was the strategy to come, he forced himself to answer the endless variations of the same questions, knowing he’d been equally inquisitive at that age.
It wasn’t until Hostus had gained authority over him that he’d stopped asking questions, because firstly, the legatus of the Twenty-Ninth had little to offer, and secondly, Hostus had had a tendency to answer questions with violence.
The strain of the journey didn’t seem to touch the boy.
Whether it was because Nic was physically eight years Marcus’s junior or because he didn’t carry the mental weight of those eight years, Marcus couldn’t have said, only that as day after day passed, Nic happily took on a greater workload, managing hours of administration, often from the saddle of his horse, while Marcus slipped deeper into grim silence as he contemplated what lay before him.
And behind.
Neither were allowing him any peace.
What Marcus needed above all else was sleep.
The schedule of the hard march didn’t allow him the ability to use narcotics to pull him out of the reach of nightmares.
Nightmares that had only grown worse since the battle to cross the Orinok.
Night after night, he was plagued with visions of Teriana being torn apart by the enormous hawk.
Of Gamdeshians and Maarin cursing her name.
Of an ocean of dead men and women, all with their mouths open to scream one word.
Traitor.
Astara’s choice to attack Teriana instead of him was the first sign his greatest fear was coming to pass.
Gamdesh didn’t blame him for invading.
They blamed Teriana.
You should kill them for threatening her, a dark voice demanded from the recesses of his mind. The shifter first and foremost.
Marcus shoved away the thought, then swayed in the saddle as a sudden wave of exhaustion poured over him.
Why hadn’t she stayed in Celendrial? Why hadn’t she gone to join the Quincense ? The questions repeated in his head, and he knew that he was piling blame on Teriana for a decision he’d been unable to make.
And now her life was on the line because of it. She’d been named a traitor because of it.
Shifting his weight in the saddle, Marcus glowered at the ranks of marching men ahead of him, sick with rage at himself. For not being able to turn off sentiment as had always been so easy for him in the past. For not making logical decisions.
For not making himself stop loving her.
His love was poison to her, even if Teriana didn’t realize it. Better for her to hate him. Better for her to think the absolute worst of him. Because even if all this worked exactly as he intended, there would come a day when Cassius revealed to her the truth of what Marcus had done to Lydia.
Yet for every step he took to drive her away, he took two closer. Unwilling to let himself have her. Unwilling to give her up.
Teriana had his heart and there was no force on earth that would put it back in his chest. The only release for both of them would be the inevitable moment that she’d choose to crush it beyond repair.
You murdered her best friend.
You murdered her best friend.
You murdered her best friend.
Marcus shook his head sharply to clear the refrain, then caught sight of smoke in the distance.
The land here was tropical, but great swathes of forest had been cleared to make space for farmland, allowing one to see a fair stretch in either direction.
Miles and miles of black ground, the stink of wet ash heavy in the air, for the skies had unleashed heavy rains the night prior.
A scout approached. “There’s another small town ahead, sir. The civilians have already fled, but they burned what they had to leave behind.”
They’d passed many villages and towns on the road that had been burned, but Marcus still found he couldn’t tear his eyes from the column of smoke as they drew closer.
It wasn’t long until his eyes picked out the smoldering buildings, little left but the stone encircling wells that had undoubtedly been poisoned or fouled.
And one small black column.
Guiding his snorting mare into the ruins, Marcus stopped before the monument to the Seventh god, which stood no higher than the average man. Around it were the toppled remains of six more columns. “Did the Gamdeshians pull them down?”
The scout shifted in his saddle. “No, sir. We did.”
He hadn’t given the order for this, but Marcus held his tongue. Word of this would reach Kaira, and it would serve his purpose well. Besides, these small shrines were easily replaced. Nothing more than piles of stone. Meaningless, really.
Tear them all down, the voice ordered.
Marcus froze, abruptly realizing that he’d dismounted his horse and now stood with one hand pressed against the black column of stone, though he had no memory of doing so.
Shaking his head, he stepped away. “We don’t have time to waste on this sort of destruction. Speed is of the essence.”
“Yes, sir.” The scout dug in his heels and galloped ahead to relay the message to the advance force.
Mounting his mare, Marcus headed back to the road where Austornic waited and fell in alongside the boy.
“Sir?”
Marcus twitched, looking sideways at Nic. Realizing the boy had asked him a question, possibly more than once, he said, “Pardon?”
“I can lead your horse if you want to get some rest.”
It was something Felix would have done, the two of them trading off wakefulness during a hard march, but something in Marcus recoiled from the idea of showing any weakness to the thousands of men marching around him. “I’m fine.”
Nic shrugged. “As long as you know that I can do more, if you want me to. Since Felix isn’t here.”
“Nothing to do but ride and hear reports.”
“I can take the reports, sir.”
“I need to hear them, unfiltered.” To soften the rejection, he added, “I’d tell Felix the same.”
Silence stretched, the only sound the steady thump of marching feet.
“I know you’re keeping your plans close, sir,” Nic said. “But I’m curious as to the central motivator behind your choices given that overly complicated plans invite error. Particularly in circumstances such as these, where we are…” He hesitated. “Flying in the dark.”
“My central motivator is the desire to win.” Yet as Nic fell silent, Marcus was reminded of his speech to the Thirty-Seventh. These boys were his responsibility, his younger brothers to teach and protect.
Clearing his throat, he said, “You know how to play the game. What you still need to learn is how to play your opponent, which in this case is Kaira. We not only know her to be a warrior nearly without equal but also that she’s been granted some level of supernatural intuition by the grace of the god Tremon. ”
Nic wrinkled his nose, not having been in the Dark Shores long enough to overcome his Cel prejudice against paganism, and Marcus gave him a half smile.
“Believe what you will, but trust that her intuition will sense that we…” His exhausted brain struggled for words.
“… are up to something. Which of course we are.”
“I can accept that,” Nic said.
“The key to achieving victory with minimal loss of life is not an application of our force of numbers, but an application of cleverness and guile. Of using the strengths that are, if not unique to Celendor’s legions, at least unequaled, to facilitate our trickery.
Except one such as Kaira will suspect a trick, which she most certainly did upon learning our entire force was sailing north.
That is why Astara came in search of us, arriving in time to witness us use yet another trick with Rastag’s bridge.
Astara will report that I have three legions with me on the northern bank, my intent to march on Emrant.
Kaira will suspect that this is only the first of my gambits and Astara will once again be sent to spy.
A quick survey will show that the Forty-First is not marching with us, and she’ll track them down.
Will watch them travel by boat down the river to load onto the waiting ships, which will sail north with Zimo’s Thirty-First, suggesting we are reverting, at least in part, to what is perceived as my original plan. ”
“Not the final trick, I take it.”
“Of course not.” Reining his mare around a pile of rocks, Marcus said, “Kaira’s instincts will again be warning her that what I appear to be doing is not my end game.
Except how many times has she redeployed her soldiers to face my perceived shift in tactics?
Soldiers who haven’t trained as we have to switch strategy on the spin of a copper.
Who haven’t been drilled to endure hard marches on thin rations, as we have.
Who haven’t the discipline of a lifetime of training, as we have.
Not only are they likely to be tired and frustrated, they may well be spread thin covering the multiple fronts where we might attack. ”
“The Gamdeshian army is said to be extremely well trained.”
“There is well trained,” Marcus said, “and there is indentured to the Empire at age seven to become weapons.”