Princeps' Fury (Codex Alera 5)

Max nodded, though his expression was undoubtedly relieved. "Glad you're not being a fool about it."

"Fortunately, I was fool enough not to know that furycrafting shouldn't be possible here, when it clearly is," Tavi said. "Now, as your Princeps and captain, I hereby order you to forget that nonsense you read and heal Anag so that he can get our people safely to shore."

"Already forgotten, Your Royal Highness," Max drawled, banging a fist to his armored chest in salute.

Tavi nodded, and the two of them walked forward, to rejoin Varg, who was crouched on his haunches, speaking quietly to the wounded Anag.

"What a bloody mess," Max said, in Canish. The big Antillan leaned down to squint at Anag's wounds. Max had learned his swearing from Gradash, and was fluent. "Did you have to carve his bloody thigh all the way to his cursed bone? Look, you slashed right through his fire-gnawed armor, and the bloody edges were hot enough to sear the wound partly shut, or he'd have been worm fodder by now."

One of the other warrior Canim had stepped forward protectively behind Anag and had one paw-hand on the handle of his axe. He growled throatily at Max.

"Don't draw that bloody axe, you puppy-mating furball," Max growled back, without even looking up. "Unless you've decided you want to eat it." He looked up at Anag. "I'm a healer. I've got to stop the bleeding before we move you to a tub and repair the muscle. So I need to touch your leg. All right?"

Anag looked steadily at Max, his eyes wary.

"Their sorcery is not like ours," Varg rumbled. "It has saved my life once before. They made no claim on my blood thereafter."

Anag glanced at Varg, then Tavi, and nodded once at Max.

Max laid his hand on the Cane's blood-smeared leg and closed his eyes. There was a rippling sound, something like knuckles popping in rapid succession. Anag let out a short, surprised, growling sound. Then Max exhaled and drew his hand away. The gaping wound was closed, no more muscle visible beneath it, and no fresh blood leaked out onto the stones of the pier.

That drew a round of surprised mutters from the Canim, along with a great deal of interest. Twenty of the enormous wolf-warriors crowded around, noses quivering and sniffing as they eyed the wound, then Max. There wasn't any overt hostility in them, but simply being amidst a crowd of eight-foot-tall armored, warrior Canim, muttering to one another in their growling, snarling tongue, was more than unsettling enough, even without a naked weapon in sight.

"It's closed," Max said, breathing a little heavily from the exertion of the crafting, "but it will tear open again if you try to use it. If we get the wound into a tub of clean water, so that the entire wounded limb is under the surface, I can repair the muscle, and it should be good as new by the time you wake up in the morning."

That statement drew another round of interesting growl-mutters, and within a moment, two of the warriors had found a barrel, filled it with freshwater, and unceremoniously deposited their commanding officer in it.

Tavi had been correct in his assessment of the wound. It had incapacitated the Cane with pain and debilitating damage to major muscles, without destroying tendons or slicing open major blood vessels. The crafting used to repair such damages was not precisely easy, but it was fairly simple and straightforward, and Antillar Maximus excelled at such tasks. Within moments, he withdrew his hand from the water and chanted what every Legion healer did after he wrapped up work with a legionare on a comparatively minor injury, "Done. You'll be hungry and tired tonight. That's normal. Eat plenty of meat, drink plenty of liquid, sleep as much as you are able."

The Canim began to help Anag out of the barrel, but he waved them out and climbed out on his own. He sprang down to the pier and landed on the leg that had been wounded, taking most of his weight on it. He let out a small growl of discomfort-Tavi knew from experience that the leg would ache like the devil for an hour or so yet-but he was able to use it.

The Canim warriors watched with ears forward and eyes bright as Anag practiced a pair of sword-practice footwork sequences including a long lunge, performing them smoothly. They flicked their ears in acknowledgment afterward. It was something along the same lines of cheers or applause from Aleran troops.

Anag approached Tavi and bared his throat. Tavi matched the gesture, but a little less deeply.

"The use of your healer's skills is appreciated," Anag growled.

"He is a warrior, and no true healer," Tavi replied. "My healers would be mildly insulted at the comparison."

"I meant no offense," Anag said, perhaps a shade more quickly than he might have.

"None is perceived," Tavi replied. "As I was responsible for your injuries, it seemed fitting to me to restore you."

Anag tilted his head, his eyes searching. "You were responsible for sparing my life when you might have killed me. You owed me nothing."

"You were doing your duty, protecting your pack leader-even one such as he," Tavi replied. "I would not offer an insult to Lararl by depriving him of a valuable warrior's service, even temporarily, when I had the means to make it otherwise."

Anag nodded, then bared his throat again, a shade more deeply. "I will see to accommodating your people as well, Tavar of Alera. You have my word."

"It is appreciated," Tavi said gravely. "And I give you mine that my people will abide peaceably here and will not lift a weapon save to defend themselves from attack."

"It is appreciated," Anag replied. "Your weapons, please."

Tavi arched an eyebrow.

Varg looked at him, then smoothly drew his sword and passed it over, hilt first, to Anag. "Aleran," he prompted.

Tavi understood that the surrendering of weapons carried multiple levels of significance to the Canim, but he was unsure exactly what was contained within this particular gesture. Still, it wasn't something worth jeopardizing their hosts' willingness to grant them shelter over, not with the ships still at sea and bad weather on the way, so he slipped both baldrics from his shoulders and passed over the swords hilt first. "Why?"

"We have sought shelter and refuge from Lararl, a Warmaster of the Shuar," Varg said. "The local pack leader has granted it, provisionally. Now we must go and speak to Lararl, and he will decide our fate."

That sounded fairly ominous. "Meaning what?" Tavi asked.

Varg blinked at Tavi as if he had asked a rather foolish question. "Meaning that we have surrendered to the enemy, Aleran. You are a prisoner of war."