First Lord's Fury (Codex Alera 6) - Page 83/172

He looked back over his shoulder at two hundred and fourteen wagons like the one he currently endured. Most of them were barely half-full, if not completely empty. Beyond the wagons trudged refugees from Riva, many of them taken sick because of the rain and the lack of food and shelter. Legions marched ahead of them and behind, though individually the legionares were little better off than the civilians.

Combat continued at the rear of the column, where Antillus Raucus had taken command of the defense. Great thumping bursts of basso sound marked Aleran firecraftings. Lightning frequently crackled down from the weeping skies, always to strike along their backtrail. The least-battered Legions took turns at breaking up the enemy's momentum, supported by the weary cavalry. Wounded men were brought up from the rear and handed to overworked healers in their medical wagons. Several of the empty supply wagons had already been filled with the wounded who could not walk for themselves.

Ehren looked back ahead of them, to the Phrygian Legion marching in the vanguard. Just behind them came the command group of the highest-ranking Citizens, including the covered wagon bearing the wounded Princeps Attis. Technically, he supposed he could always go up to the Princeps and report in person on the status of the supplies. If that happened to get him out of the bloody rain for a few moments, it would be a happy coincidence.

Ehren sighed. It had been a perfectly fine rationalization, but his place was at the head of the supply column. Besides, it was better that Attis had as few reminders of Ehren ex Cursori as possible.

"How much farther, do you think?" Ehren asked the teamster beside him.

"Bit," the man said laconically. He had a broad-brimmed hat that shed rain like the roof of a small building.

"A bit," Ehren said.

The teamster nodded. He had a waterproofed cloak as well. "Bit. And a mite."

Ehren eyed the man steadily for a moment, then sighed, and said, "Thank you."

"Welcome."

Running horses approached, their hooves a drum of muffled thunder. Ehren looked back to see Count and Countess Calderon riding toward him. The Count had a bandage on his head, and one side of his face was so deeply bruised that it looked like a frenzied clothier had dyed his skin to complement a particularly virulent shade of purple. The Countess bore a number of smaller, lighter marks, souvenirs of the battle with the former High Lady of Aquitaine.

She and her husband reined in as their horses drew even with Ehren's wagon. "Sir Ehren."

"Countess."

"You look like a drowned rat," she said, giving him a faint grin.

"Drowned rat would be a step up," Ehren said, and sneezed violently. "Feh. How can I help you?"

Amara frowned. "Have you heard anything about Isana?"

Ehren shook his head gravely. "I'm sorry. There's been no word."

Count Calderon's expression turned bleak at this, and he looked away.

"Your Excellency," Ehren said, "in my opinion, there is every reason to believe that she is still alive."

Count Calderon frowned, without looking back. "Why?" He spoke between clenched teeth. Ehren winced in sympathy. The Count's swollen jaw obviously made it painful for him to speak.

"Well... because she was abducted to begin with, sir. If the vord wanted her dead, there was no reason for them to go to the trouble to arrange a covert entry into a secured building. They would have killed her on the spot."

Count Calderon grunted, frowned, and looked at Amara.

She nodded to him and passed along the question she could evidently see in his face. "Why would they want her alive, Sir Ehren?"

Ehren winced and shook his head. "We have no way to know that. But the vord went to a lot of trouble to secure her. We can hope that she is valuable enough to the enemy that they will not have harmed her. At least, not yet. There's hope, sir."

"I've seen what the vord do to those they take alive," Calderon growled, the words angry and hardly intelligible. "Tell me that my sister is alive and in the hands of those things..."

Amara sighed. "Bernard, please."

The Count looked back at her. He nodded once and pulled on his horse's reins, guiding the beast a few paces away. He stood with his back to them.

Amara bit on her lower lip for a few seconds. Then she turned to Ehren, her composure regained. "Thank you, Sir Ehren," she said, "for trying. We need to speak to Princeps Attis."

Ehren chewed on his lower lip. "I'm not sure... he's seeing any visitors."

"He's seeing us," Bernard said roughly. "Now."

Ehren arched an eyebrow. "Ah?"

"Before we arrive, we need to discuss in detail how best to employ the defenses of the Valley," Amara said. "No one knows them better than we do."

Ehren wiped rain out of his eyes and raked his hair back on his head. "That seems reasonable enough to me. I'll ask him. I can't promise anything."

"Please," Amara said.

Ehren nodded to her, then swung down from the wagon and ran ahead, toward the command group. It was not difficult. The entire group could travel no faster than its slowest members, and as a consequence they hadn't been pushing half as fast as a Legion on the move. Half a dozen singulares recognized him on sight, and one of them waved him past the invisible barrier their presence represented.

Ehren knocked on the rear door to the covered wagon, still jogging to keep up. Lady Placida opened the door a moment later and offered Ehren her hand. He took it and clambered up into the wagon. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"It was no trouble, Sir Ehren."

Ehren's glanced past her, to where a nearly motionless form lay on a rough mattress beneath a wool blanket. "How is he?"

Lady Placida grimaced. "Not well. I was able to restore some of the proper blood flow, but... with cauterization like that, there are limits. He's well beyond them."

Ehren's stomach twisted. "He's dying."

"He's also lying right here, listening to you," came Attis's voice, weak and amused. "I'd ask you to quit speaking over my head, but in my current condition you have little choice."

Ehren tried to smile. "Ah. Apologies, Your Highness."

"What Aria means to tell you," Attis said, "is that the backstabbing bitch filleted me. The lower half of my body has been sliced open from groin to ribs. My guts are an unholy mess and will doubtless begin to stink in short order. My heart is laboring too hard because apparently being bisected does terrible things to one's blood pressure. The injuries are too severe and extensive to be healed.