Captain's Fury (Codex Alera 4)

Demos shook his head. "That would have been suspicious. They found two hidden compartments holding several ounces of aphrodin, a crate of wine bottles that hadn't been marked by the excisemen, and a bolt of silk cloth from Kalare that's supposed to be embargoed."

Isana blinked. "And you weren't arrested?"

"I had cash." He turned to go. "I'll have something hot sent down to you. Once the other two members of your party arrive, and we're cleared to depart, we'll get moving again. Probably sometime tomorrow morning."

Tavi nodded. "Thank you, Demos."

"It's the job," he said, and left.

Tavi pulled himself out of the pool and sank down against the nearest bulkhead, his feet pulled up, knees against his chest. He lowered his head and was asleep again.

Isana looked at the battered young man and sighed. Then she said, "Am I wrong to be worried, about his furies?"

"There's something wrong with his crafting," Araris said. "I'm not sure what. But I've never seen him actually manifest a fury. Not even last night."

"If he could have," Isana began.

"He would have," Araris finished, nodding. He wrinkled up his nose and glanced at Varg, before positioning the Cane to lie with his head out of the pool. "Smells like wet dog in here."

She smiled faintly. "I should resume tending to him. There's quite a bit more to do."

Araris nodded and stepped out of the pool. "How's your arm?" he asked.

"It hurts," Isana said. "But I'm not in danger. Once I've seen to these two, I'll mend it."

He didn't look happy about that, but he nodded. "All right." He began to turn away, but paused. "Shouldn't one of us tell him about... us?"

She felt her cheeks color again. "I... what would we tell him?"

"That we love each other," Araris said in a quiet, firm tone. "That once things are more... settled, that we want to be together."

She looked up at him, and swallowed. "Is... is that what you want?"

Araris glanced at her and then gave her a gentle grin. "You know just as well as I do, my lady."

She smiled at him, and despite the cool water all around her, she felt very warm.

Araris settled down beside her son to guard the boy's sleep, while Isana turned her attention back to the wounded Cane.

Chapter 38

Valiar Marcus stared down at the spear in his guts in total shock.

The Canim javelin had slipped through a tiny opening between Marcus's shield and that of the legionare beside him, thrown with such force that its black metallic head slammed cleanly through his armor.

Marcus realized, then, that he was standing in the second rank. He didn't remember taking a step back. The impact of the javelin must have knocked him there. That was probably why only about ten inches of steel was in his guts. Javelins hurled by a warrior Cane typically transfixed their targets entirely.

And this was the weapon of a warrior Cane, he knew, which meant that the Prime Cohort was engaging some of the foe's elites. They would have to alter their formation and advance, now, because the Canim typically flung their spears immediately before a charge. Marcus managed to take a deep breath, and bellow, "Close formation! Shields up! Second and third ranks to spears!"

Spear leaders began repeating the orders, shouting together, and the ranks of the Prime Cohort shifted and compressed. The legionares in the second and third ranks put away their swords and readied the five-foot spears strapped to the back of their tower shields. Those spearheads rose in a thicket of deadly steel thorns, just as the Canim warrior caste exploded from the rain-shrouded shadows and struck the lines.

Marcus sheathed his sword and pulled hard on the spear, but it was pinned in the steel grip of his punctured armor, and he couldn't get it free. Battling legionares

on the front rank jostled the spear's shaft, shoving it left and right, and Marcus felt it as a horribly invasive, quivering tremor in his belly, and his breath was suddenly gone.

He dropped to one knee, and got his shield up in time to deflect a hastily aimed blow from a black-armored Cane. The legionares around him drove the Cane back with spears and brutally stabbing swords.

Someone stepped on the spear shaft, and pain that redefined his concept of the word burned Marcus to his core.

He fell, onto his back, and rain poured into his face. He reached to wipe water from his eyes, and Foss said, "Easy there, Marcus. Try not to move just yet."

Marcus blinked. He opened his eyes and looked blearily around him.

He was in the healer's tents.

And it was morning.

He'd been moving the cohort to secure that shaky flank near the woods, and then the spear had hit him.

And now he was in the healer's tents. He'd been injured, and injuries could be disorienting. Someone must have dragged him from the fight.

It was such an immense effort to move his head that after the first couple of twitches, he didn't bother.

He lay in a healing tub, naked, and the water was stained dark with blood. Foss sat at the head of the tub, his head bowed, his hands resting on Marcus's shoulders.

Marcus's eyes tracked down to his belly and found a gaping wound there, as long as his hand was broad. The wound gaped at the edges, and he could see... whichever parts of his guts were beneath the wound, he supposed.

"Balls," he whispered.

"Try not to talk," Foss growled. "You have to tighten your stomach muscles to do it, and I don't need you bumping my elbow while I work."

"C-cohort," Marcus said. He tried to look around him, but reclined as he was, he could see little more than that the First Aleran's Tribune Medica and his staff had no shortage of work. Battlefield infirmaries were always like this. Men groaned and screamed and wept. Quiet, determined healers fought their own battle with Death himself, to what Marcus was sure would be the usual mixed results.

"Hold still and shut up, or I'll knock you out," Foss said. "That column that hit you out of that ravine was one of three. The other two went right through the Guard and hit us in the flanks. If the Prime Cohort hadn't held, the Canim would have cut us up but good."

Marcus turned his eyes back up to Foss.

The healer glanced at him and frowned. "It isn't pretty in here. Thirty-four of the Prime dead. Twice that many wounded." Foss scowled. "Now shut up and hold still, before you're number thirty-five."

It was too much effort to nod. Marcus closed his eyes. The sobs of the wounded and the murmur of quiet, determined voices continued, until he found himself sitting up in bed, wolfing down a steaming bowl of mashed meal, bland but filling.