Tavi arched an eyebrow. "Knights? Don't we have a full complement, sir?"
Cyril's armor rasped as he shrugged a shoulder. "We have Knights, but you know what a valuable commodity that kind of talent can be. Every High Lord in the Realm wants all the Knights he can beg, buy, borrow, or steal. Especially given the tensions lately. Our Knights are largely, ah... how to phrase this."
"Fish, sir?" Tavi suggested. "Knights Pisces?"
The captain snorted. "Close enough. Though I would have said young and clumsy. We've only got one Knight Ignus, and he's currently being treated for burn wounds." Cyril shook his head. "A batch of a dozen or so Terra and Flora aren't bad, but they've got a lot of work to do, and there aren't nearly enough of them. We've got no Knights Ferrous at all. And all the rest, sixty of them, are Knights Aeris."
Tavi lifted his eyebrows. "Most Legions would kill to have that many Knights Aeris, sir."
"Yes." Cyril sighed. "If they could fly."
"They can't?" Tavi asked. "I thought that was what you had to be able to do to be one of those, sir."
"Oh, they can get into the air, for the most part. Getting down again in one piece has proven something of a problem. If Tribune Fantus and young Antillus hadn't been there to lessen the impacts, and Lady Antillus hadn't come down with her son, we'd have had fatalities already."
Tavi frowned, then said, "Perhaps Maximus could help them out? Instructing them, I mean."
The captain broke out into a single bark of laughter. "It would be inappropriate. And I need him where he is. But even if I didn't, I wouldn't let him anywhere near the Knights Pisces. Have you seen him^y?"
Tavi frowned for a moment and thought about it. "No, sir."
"He doesn't fly so much as make these great, bounding hops. He can land on his feet sometimes. Other times, he hits something. We pulled him out of a peat bog once. I can't tell you how many times he's broken his legs."
Tavi frowned. "That... hardly sounds like Max, sir."
"I would imagine he doesn't talk about it much. He never got it down, but I didn't think he'd ever give up trying. Then I saw him ride in here. Damn shame. But it happens like that sometimes."
"Yes, sir," Tavi said, unsure what to say.
"Scipio," the captain went on. "I haven't asked you for your oath to the Legion yet."
"No, sir. I figured that's what this was about."
"It is," Cyril said. He narrowed his eyes. "I'm no fool, lad. A lot of men are here for their own reasons. And some are here for someone else's reasons."
Tavi looked out over the practice field and remained silent, unsure what to say.
"I'll only ask you this one question. Can you swear your loyalty to this Legion, to these men, and mean it beyond any doubt, any question?"
"Sir..." Tavi began.
"It's important," the captain said. "We all need to know that we can rely upon one another. That we will serve the Crown and the Realm regardless of the hazard or difficulty. That we will not leave a brother behind, nor hesitate to give our lives for one another. Otherwise, this is no Legion. Just a mob of men with weapons." He faced Tavi, and said, "Can you look me in the eyes and swear that, young man?"
Tavi looked up and met Cyril's eyes. "I am here to serve the Crown, sir. Yes."
"Then I have your oath?"
"You do."
The captain stared at Tavi for a moment, then nodded once, sharply, and offered his hand. Tavi blinked for a second and traded grips with Cyril. "I work my people hard, Subtribune. But I suspect we'll get along. Dismissed."
Tavi saluted, and the captain returned it. Tavi turned to the ladder, but paused when a wave of shouts rose up from below. He looked up to see a small mob of recruits in their brown tunics rushing for the infirmary, bearing an injured man. Blood stained them, and the grass behind them as they passed.
"Help!" one of them shouted, voice high with panic. "Healer!"
They grew closer, and Tavi could see more blood, pale flesh, and a sopping, bloody cloth pressed against the throat of a limp man whose skin was a shade of grey. A healer appeared from one of the large tents, and Tavi saw the man's expression flash with alarm. He started barking orders at once.
The recruits shifted their grip on him to let the healer get close, and the injured man's head lolled limply toward Tavi, eyes glassy and sightless.
Tavi's heart stopped in his chest.
It was Max.
Amara frowned down from her seat in the gallery of one of the large lecture halls of the Collegia Tactica, one of the great prides of the city of Ceres and the largest military academy in Alera. She was one of only a handful of women present in the hall, among perhaps five hundred men, most of them wearing Legion tunics and armor. The gallery above the floor seats had been filled to overflowing with curious young nobles and other students of the Collegia, and she sat between a pair of young men who seemed uncertain of how to address a young woman who bore a faint dueling scar on one cheek and a sword upon her hip.
The hall's presentation platform was the size of a small theater stage, and was also crowded with people. A half circle of chairs lined the back of the platform. Several older men sat in the chairs, most of them experienced military commanders, retired and now serving as Maestros for the Collegia. In the next to last chair sat Centurion Giraldi, arguably the most heavily decorated noncommissioned officer in Alera, now that he bore not simply one but double scarlet stripes of the Order of the Lion down the outside seams of his uniform trousers. The grizzled, stocky old soldier had walked with a limp ever since sustaining injuries in battle with the monstrous creatures called the "vord." Giraldi's grey hair was cut in a legionare's short brush, his armor bore the nicks and dents of a lifetime of battle, and he looked intensely uncomfortable sitting before such a large audience.
Beside Giraldi sat Senator Guntus Arnos, Consul General of the Collegia. He was a short man, barely more than five feet tall, dressed in the formal, deep blue robes of the Senate. His grey hair was oiled and drawn back into a tail, his hands were steepled in front of his face, and he wore an expression of sober, somber judgment. He probably practiced it in front of a mirror, Amara thought.
Bernard wore his colors of green and brown, his sturdy and sensible tunic a marked contrast to Senator Arnos's rich robes. He stood at the podium at the platform's center, facing those present in the hall with a demeanor of calm, competent composure.
"In short," he said, "I believe that these vord are far and away the deadliest threat this Realm has ever known." His voice carried clearly through the hall thanks to the windcraftings built into the place to make sure speakers could be clearly heard. The windcrafted acoustics were necessary. The hall was filled with a continual low buzz of whispers and quiet speech.
"That single vord queen entered my holdings," Bernard continued. "Within a month, the vord had become a force that destroyed two-thirds of my command, including a half century of Knights, and the entire population of a frontier steadholt. Their use of tactical judgment, as Centurion Giraldi and I have enumerated it to you today, proves that these creatures are more than mere beasts. They are an intelligent, coordinated threat to all of mankind. If we do not exercise the highest levels of caution, immediately stamping out an infestation, that threat may well grow too swiftly to be stopped." Bernard exhaled, and Amara could see a bit of relief on her husband's face, though few others would have. Bernard was glad to be finished. "At this time, I will open the floor to questions."
Several dozen hands went up at once, but then faltered and lowered again as Senator Arnos calmly raised his own hand.
Bernard frowned at the hall for a moment, until Giraldi nudged Bernard's leg with his cane. Bernard glanced at him, then to Arnos.
"Of course, Senator," he said. "Please."
Arnos rose and faced the hall. "Count Bernard," he said. "I have heard several tales of what happened out in Calderon, and each seemed less plausible than the last. I confess that, upon the surface, your own tale sounds more fantastical than the others."
A low, rumbling round of chuckles rolled through the hall.
Bernard's eyes narrowed a bit, and Amara recognized the first sign of his irritation. "Be that as it may, honored Senator," he replied, "I fear that I have nothing to offer you except the truth."
"The truth," Arnos said, nodding. "Of course. But I think we all know how... amorphous, shall we say, the truth can be."
"Forgive me," Bernard said. "I did not mean to confuse you, Senator. I must amend my statement. I have nothing to offer you except fact."
"Fact," Arnos said, nodding again. "Excellent. I have questions about some of the facts you have presented today."
Amara got a sickly little feeling in her belly.
"By all means," Bernard said.
"Do I understand you correctly that you learned of these creatures' presence from a barbarian Marat. "
"From Doroga of the Sabot-Ha," Bernard said. "The most powerful and influential of their chieftains."
"But..." Arnos shrugged a shoulder. "A Marat."
"Yes," Bernard said.
"That is how you know that they are called the vord?"
"Yes."
"In fact," Arnos continued, "no Aleran had ever heard of this creature before the barbarian told you of it."
"Given the kind of danger the vord represent, I suspect that by the time one learns of them, it may already be too late to fight them. Without Doroga's warning, we might already have lost half the Realm."
"And you believe that?" Arnos asked.
"Yes," Bernard said.
"And yet, according to the barbarian, his own unlettered, tribal, pauper-folk, without a civilization, without furycrafting, somehow managed to defeat them in the past."
Bernard paused for a moment before speaking. Amara recognized the gesture: it was the same one he got on his face before rebuking a particularly foolish subordinate. "They did not defeat the vord, Senator," Bernard said. "The refugees of their civilization managed to flee and survive."
"Ah," Arnos said, skepticism flavoring the sound. "Come now, Count. What surety can you give that the entire situation was not some kind of ploy on behalf of the Marat? There are many dangerous creatures in the world. It seems to me that we had nothing to fear from these vord before the Marat spoke to you about them."
Bernard's jawline twitched. "Doroga very nearly gave his life in defense of me and mine, when we fought the vord together. He lost nearly two thousand of his own people fighting them before they came to Calderon."
Arnos waved a vague hand. "Come now, Your Excellency. The Collegia contains a thousand years of military history, hundreds of battles faithfully recorded, large and small. The morale of a military force in the field breaks well before it sustains fifty percent casualties. Are we really to take the barbarian's word that his people fought on after losing ninety percent of their force?"
"If Doroga says so. I believe him."
The Senator permitted himself a small, sly smile. "I see. It would appear, then, that your struggle together against these creatures the barbarian knew all about has engendered within you a sense of trust." He paused, then added lightly, "Or credulity."
Bernard stared levelly at Arnos for a long moment. Then he drew in a breath, and said in a patient tone, "Senator, disregarding any evidence I did not see with my own eyes, the vord are still clearly an intelligent, resourceful, ruthless foe who will not discriminate between armed forces and noncombatants. They clearly possess the wherewithal to inflict tremendous damage upon anyone unfortunate enough to be near them."
Arnos shrugged a shoulder, still wearing the faint smile. "Perhaps. But their most vaunted, feared trait seems to be their ability to reproduce at such a fantastic rate. That if even one of them remains, they could repopulate themselves at tremendous speed." He tilted his head, and said, "Yet, it has been three years since you fought them, Count, and they have not been seen again. I cannot help but wonder whether or not it might have been a lie, told to you by the Marat in order to heighten your sense of danger, and therefore the amount of trust you would place in them after successfully overcoming it."
"Do you mean to say that Doroga lied to me?"
"He is a barbarian, after all, Count."
Bernard gave the Senator a tight smile. "The Marat's tribal tongues had no word for 'lie' until they met us, Senator. The very idea of speaking falsehood was introduced to them only a few generations ago, and it never picked up much of a following. For one Marat to call another a liar is a challenge to a fight to the death, and one that is never refused. Doroga is no liar."
"I see no way to be sure of that."
"I do, Senator," Bernard said. "I believe him. I am a Count, a Citizen of the Realm, a veteran of the Legions who has shed and spilled blood in defense of Alera. I will vouch for his word with my own."
"I'm sure you would," Arnos said, his tone that of the kindly grandfather speaking to a foolish youth. "I have never questioned your sincerity. But I suspect that the Marat has manipulated you."
Bernard stared at the Senator and rolled his shoulder in a gesture Amara had seen him use when preparing to shoot his war bow. Bernard's voice suddenly rang out sharp and clear, though still perfectly polite in tone. "Senator. If you call my friend a liar one more time, I will take it badly."