Princeps’ Fury

Tarsh gave Tavi a look of flat hatred, but said, “It will be done.” He turned and stalked away, pausing only to stand over the wounded Anag and say, “See to it.” Then he walked off the dock and into the darkness of the city.

Tavi stepped over to Varg, and asked, quietly, “Tavar?”

“If you are to be here, you need a proper name,” the Cane said with a shrug-a gesture shared by both races. “It is close to your own, and has an appropriate meaning.”

Tavi tilted his head, waiting for him to continue, but Varg only parted his jaws in a small smile, then nodded to Anag. “Perhaps this is an opportunity.”

Tavi glanced at the wounded Cane, then nodded at Varg and turned to walk back toward the longboat. Maximus, his face somewhat flushed, said, “Bloody crows, Calderon. That was a near thing.” He tossed Tavi a cloth.

Tavi caught it and immediately began wiping the blood from his swords. “We were lucky Varg was on our side.”

“On our side?” Max demanded, barely keeping his voice down. “He just forced you into a position where you had to fight twenty Canim and take their leader prisoner to keep from being cut to ribbons.”

“It worked out,” Tavi said calmly, sheathing each weapon as he finished wiping it clean. “Now come on. I want you to heal Anag.”

“You want me to heal one of the Canim who tried to kill you,” Max said.

“The one who came closest, really,” Tavi replied. “Shouldn’t be too much work. I was careful not to hit anything delicate. Just stop the bleeding and get him back on his feet so he can make arrangements for the fleet.”

Max sighed and began climbing out of the boat. “I’m glad Magnus isn’t here.” Max gained the dock, and said, “You know, Tavi, it occurs to me that this might not work.”

“What might not?”

“Watercrafting,” Max said.

“You just crafted the boat all the way in,” Tavi replied.

“Through the sea,” Max said. “The same sea that touches the shores of Alera. But if we put this Cane into a tub of the local freshwater, I have no idea if it will work. There might not even be any furies in it.”

“I had no problem with metalcrafting, and a little windcraft, just now.”

“Metal from an Aleran sword,” Max said. “Wind from the same air that touches Alera.”

“I just used a bit of earthcrafting, too,” Tavi said. “Don’t tell me these stones are Aleran rock.”

Max frowned. “That doesn’t… everyone I’ve ever talked to, every paper I’ve ever read on the subject said that… Tavi, it just shouldn’t work like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Max said. “No one thinks it should. And I read up on it before we left, too, believe me.”

“What happened to accomplishing the impossible through ignorance?”

Max grimaced. “I suspended my usual policy on this subject. I wanted to… you know. Be sure that if you needed… that I’d be able to…”

“Protect me?”

“I didn’t say that,” Max said quickly.

“Max, my father had full command of his furycraft. By all reports, he was nearly as strong as the First Lord himself-even without inheriting Gaius’s furies. And someone murdered him.” Tavi shook his head. “I’m not going to get picky about my friends doing what they can to make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”

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.