Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones Read Free

hesitated and turned back. “Ah, which Tribune Valerius do you want, General? Fortex or Clericus?”
    “Marcus,” Corvus answered with a smile. “Son, not nephew.” He wasn’t keen on the name the men had given his son. But it was much better that Marcus was nicknamed Clericus—priest—than actually sworn to holy vows.
    “At once, General!” The man rode off down the hill at such speed that for a moment, Corvus feared his horse would stumble and its rider break his neck.
    They were so young, these knights, and so desperate to impress everyone around them, especially the command staff. They would be difficult to keep in check when they met the enemy, which, if he read the two scouts’ actions correctly, would be sooner rather than later.
    It would be a relief to finally bring the wretched goblin tribes to battle after one long autumn march after another. The sun was growing shorter each day, and lately the morning dew was frost as often as not. He glanced at the rapidly lengthening shadows on the slope below him. If he couldn’t bring the goblins to grips soon, he would have to march his legions back to imperial lands and decide where he was going to winter them.
    Sudden motion from outside the camp disturbed his internal debate over where he might station the three legions under his command at the end of the campaign. Four horses were riding toward him. He could not help smiling at the sight of the crested tribune’s helm among them. Marcus. How easily the helmet could have been a bishop’s mitre!
    Beside his son rode the commander of the legion, Marcus Saturnius. Saturnius was a short man, given to softness rather than actual plumpness, and beneath the round, pleasant face of a well-fed butcher lay concealed a keenly tactical mind. The legate fought his battles like a butcher too, moving his cohorts in decisive slashes through the enemy formations, consistently carving a bloody and devastating path through their midst. This goblin campaign was their eighth together, and just as Corvus had learned to place implicit trust in his legate’s tactical instincts, so Saturnius was content to follow Corvus’s strategic lead.
    Though they shared a name, his son had little in common with his subordinate. Marcus Valerius was a true Valerian—he was more than a head taller than the legate. And where Saturnius was round-faced and cheerful, Marcus appeared reserved, even haughty. The men might call him Clericus, but Corvus was certain that one day his son would merit a more warlike cognomen.
    “How many are they?” Corvus called as the four riders approached the summit and reined in their horses. He could see from their slightly disheveled armor that Saturnius had wisely brought both newly returned scouts with him, although the two men were both mounted now on fresh horses.
    “Eighteen thousand foot and two thousand wolves,” Saturnius answered, confirming his assumption. “Only two tribes. And, judging by the state of the two encampments, the Vakhuyu have been there for several days, perhaps even a week. The Chalonu look to have arrived last night. They’re both about five leagues due west.”
    “No sign of the Insobru?”
    “None at all. Looks like Proculus will win his bet.”
    Corvus wasn’t terribly surprised. He had fought the Insobru twice before, and both times the goblins had panicked and routed at the first legionary charge. They were a cowardly tribe, even by goblin standards, and they took their cue from their yellow-livered chieftain. He wasn’t the only one who had fought them before. Proculus, Legio XVII’s senior centurion of the second cohort, had done so as well.
    “He usually does,” Corvus nodded. He turned to the two scouts. “Were you seen?”
    Both men shook their heads.
    One of the two, a stout man with a long—and recent—red scratch across his left cheek, sat up in his saddle. “Not as such, General. After we caught scent o’ their fires, we dismounted. We couldn’t get too close