it.”
Lararl grunted, then gestured at the sand map of Shuar. “If I divert enough warriors to crush the queen in our interior and safeguard my people, the Vord at the fortifications will surely overwhelm the defenses.”
“We aren’t going to send your warriors against the queen,” Tavi said.
Varg growled. “Your Legions and my forces do not have sufficient supplies to carry out such a campaign, Tavar.”
“We aren’t going to send them out to kill the queen, either,” Tavi said. “We’re going to do it ourselves.”
“Oh,” Kitai said abruptly, her eyes glittering with sudden understanding. “Interesting.”
“Ourselves?” Varg asked.
Tavi nodded. “My people here, and yours, together with any Hunters you can find, are going to hunt and kill the queen. Once that is done, and the Vord lose cohesion, all the civilians in Shuar”-Tavi turned to stare hard at Lararl-“every one of them,” he said with emphasis, “should have a fighting chance to reach the coast.”
Lararl returned Tavi’s stare. Then he tilted his head fractionally to one side. “Yes. All of them.”
Varg looked back and forth between the other two, and growled thoughtfully. “The queen is in the midst of her horde, Tavar. She will be difficult to reach.”
“Let me worry about that, too,” Tavi said.
Lararl let out a brief, exasperated growl. “If only you know the details of the operation, how can we cooperate effectively?”
Varg gestured with one paw-hand. “Agreed. Your plan would limit us just as it does the Vord.”
Tavi bared his teeth in a smile. “Ah. But we have something the Vord do not have.”
Varg tilted his head to one side. “What is that?”
“Ink.”
CHAPTER 26
The First Spear strode into the command tent and found Magnus glaring silently at Sir Carleus, the youngest, gangliest, largest-eared of the Knights Aeris in service to the First Aleran. Marcus nodded to the elderly Cursor and returned the young Knight’s immediate salute.
“Magnus,” the First Spear said, “what’s going on?”
“Wait a moment,” Magnus said, his clenched jaws making the word tight with tension. “I don’t want to have to explain it twice.”
“Ah.”
Magnus grimaced. “Bloody crows, I don’t want to have to explain it at
Just then the tent flap opened and admitted a tall, gangly man; Perennius, the senior Tribune and acting captain of the Free Legion. He saluted the room generally. “Marcus, sir Knight, Maestro. I came as quickly as I could.” He paused, then added, mildly, “Why?”
“Please, Captain,” Magnus said. “If you will be patient for a moment more, I will explain.”
Perennius glanced at the First Spear, who shrugged.
A moment later, there was something of an anticommotion outside; the sudden absence of the camp’s usual background noises. Marcus went to the tent flap and peered out, only to see a dozen heavily armored warrior Canim striding through the First Aleran’s camp, their paw-hands resting upon their weapons.
From the markings on their armor-though Marcus was hardly an expert on the intricate customs that infused the Canim practice-it would appear that the soldiers were among the best in the horde that had returned from Alera, their black armor heavily decorated in bands and whorls of scarlet.
Leading them was Nasaug, his own armor nearly solid red across its entire surface. Beside him walked Gradash, the grizzled Cane that Marcus had come to think of as his opposite number among the Canim.
With no discernible signal whatsoever, the escort of Canim warriors came to a halt on the same stride, perhaps thirty feet from the command tent. Nasaug and Gradash continued on, Nasaug tipping an Aleran-style nod to Marcus.
Marcus returned it with the Canim motion, dipping his head slightly to one side, and said, “Good afternoon. Please come in.”
“First Spear,” Nasaug said. “Word has come from my sire?”
Marcus made a growling sound in his chest. “That isn’t entirely clear yet.”
Gradash’s muzzle wrinkled in distaste. “Secrets. Pah. Hunter-games, is it?”
“Smells like it,” Marcus confirmed, and went back inside with the two Canim.
Perennius threw Nasaug a smart salute as he entered, and Nasaug returned the gesture with a slight tilt of his head. “Ah!” the Free Legion’s captain said. “Now I see. Word from the expedition inland.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the old Maestro said. “Wait for the Knight to secure the conversation, if you would.”
Sir Carleus sighed, frowned in concentration, then lifted his hand. Marcus recognized the signs of a man strained almost beyond his crafting limits. The young Knight was exhausted-but the windcrafting that snapped up around them and put a brief pressure on his ears was solid enough, and should serve to completely silence the conversation to the world outside the tent.
“Thank you,” Magnus told the Knight. He turned to the others and held up a letter, written on the overlarge pages of Canim vellum. “This letter bears the signature and seal of both the Princeps and of Warmaster Varg. According to its text, I was to summon the current company to the tent, ward it from observation, and turn the briefing over to Sir Carleus. Tribune Foss has already worked a truthfinding on Sir Carleus, and found no reason to doubt his claim. Can we agree that the signatures and seals are genuine?”
He passed the letter over, and Marcus scanned over them, finding what he knew the Cursor had already learned. The letter was in Octavian’s handwriting, and both seal and signature looked genuine. Granted, the average soldier wouldn’t have known the signs of a forgery, so Marcus-perhaps he hadn’t completely forgotten intrigue craft, after all-replied, “It seems to be the Princeps’ hand to me.”
Nasaug took the letter. His ears quivered as he read the Canim script aloud to Gradash. “The tavar is clever. Heed him. Varg.”
Magnus winced at the words and muttered something less than gracious beneath his breath. “… begotten jackass, thinks that, of course, anyone who disagrees with him must be a drooling old moron-”
The First Spear cleared his throat pointedly.
Magnus flipped his hand at him in an irritated wave, and said, “Sir Knight, your report, please.”
Carleus bobbed his head toward the group in general in a brief bow. “My lo… uh, sirs. The Princeps wishes you to know that the province of Shuar is the last Canim range that has not been overrun by the Vord. He further advises you that it cannot remain standing for much longer. He and the Shuaran command estimate that the Vord will have engulfed the range entirely within the next three weeks.”
The tent was deathly silent. Marcus glanced at the two Canim but could read nothing in their body language.
“His Highness warns you that Vord queens are operating in the area. Their operating patterns and their success thus far suggest that they may be gathering intelligence directly from the minds of their opponents.”
Perennius let out a low whistle. “They can do that?”
“Yes, yes,” Magnus said, waving a hand at the Free Legion’s acting captain in a suppressing gesture. “It was in the documents sent to you at the beginning of the trip.”
“Ah,” Perennius said, smiling at Magnus rather wolfishly. “Must have missed that detail. I did find something useful to do with the paper, though.”
“Perennius,” Nasaug rumbled, the faintest hint of a rebuke in his tone.
Carleus coughed quietly. “In an effort to conceal his intentions from the enemy, the Princeps has issued written orders for each of you. The orders are sealed closed, and it is his command that you open them one at a
