Furies of Calderon (Codex Alera #1)

Furies of Calderon (Codex Alera #1) Page 27

Fidelias stopped, panting, as he and Aldrick emerged from the heavily forested regions northeast of Bernardholt and reached the causeway that led down the Valley and ultimately to Garrison. His feet, though he had wrapped them in strips of his cloak and urged his furies to ease his way, had worsened. The pain alone was nearly enough to stop him, even without the fatigue from too long spent walking, casting back and forth in a fruitless effort to catch the wily Steadholder.

Fidelias sank onto a flat stone beside the causeway, while the swordsman paced restlessly out onto the road. "I don't get it," he said. "Why don't you just zoom us along like before?"

"Because we haven't been on a road," Fidelias said from between clenched teeth. "Riding an earthwave along a road is simple. Using one in the open countryside, without intimate knowledge of the local furies is suicide."

"So he can do it, but you can't."

Fidelias suppressed a sharp comment. "Yes, Aldrick."

"We're crowbait."

Fidelias shook his head. "We're not going to catch him at this rate. He left a half-dozen false trails behind him and waited until we bought one of them before he raised his wave and went."

"If we had the horses-"

"We don't," Fidelias said bluntly. He lifted his foot and unwrapped some of the cloth.

Aldrick paced over to him. He stared down at his feet and swore. "Crows, old man. Can you feel them?"

"Yes."

Aldrick knelt and unwrapped a bit more of the cloth, assessing the injuries. "Getting worse. There's more swelling. If you let this go, you're going to lose them."

Fidelias grunted. "There's still time. We need to-" Fidelias looked up to see Etan dancing frantically in the nearest tree. He cast his eyes down the road west of them. "Aldrick," Fidelias said, keeping his voice low. "Two men on the road coming toward us. Legion haircuts, both armed."

Aldrick drew in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "All right. Legionares?"

"No uniforms."

"Age?"

"Young." Fidelias touched the stones of the road with one foot, reaching out for Vamma. "Using the road to help them run. Moving fast. They've got some training in warcrafting."

"How do we do it?"

"Wait for me to say," Fidelias said. "Let's find out whatever we can first." He watched the pair of young men come running toward them along the road and managed a pained smile as they approached and slowed their pace. "Morning, boys," he called. "Have you got a minute to help a couple of travelers?"

The young men slowed, and Fidelias took in the details as they came closer. Young, both of them-less than a score of years of age. Both were slender, though one was tall and already seemed to be losing his hair to a receding hairline. They shared similar long, lean features-brothers, perhaps. Both were panting, though not heavily, from their run along the road. Fidelias tried to smile again and offered them his water flask.

"Sir," panted the taller of the young men, accepting the flask. "Much obliged."

"You hurt?" asked the shorter. He leaned a bit closer, peering at Fidelias's feet. "Crows. You've really gotten them torn up."

"The storm forced us off the road last night," Fidelias said. "There was a flood, and I had to kick my shoes off to swim. Been walking without them all morning, but I had to stop."

The young man winced. "I'll bet." He accepted the flask from his brother with a nod, took a quick drink, and offered it back to Fidelias. "Sir," he said, "maybe you'd better get off the road. I'm not sure it's safe here."

Fidelias glanced at Aldrick, who nodded and made himself look busy redressing Fidelias's injured foot. "Why do you say that, son?"

The taller of the pair answered. "There's been problems in the Valley, sir. Last night there was a big uprising of furies-local furies from holders,

that is. And my youngest brother spotted what he swears was a Marat scout by our steadholt-that would be Warnerholt, sir."

"A Marat?" Fidelias gave the young man a skeptical smile. "Surely your brother was having some fun at your expense."

The Warnerholter shook his head. "Regardless, there's been trouble in the Valley, sir. Me and my brothers came home to help my father with a local matter, and it got out of hand. There was a fight, almost some killings. And we saw smoke coming from out east, near Aldoholt. Put together with last night, and this sighting, we decided it would be best to put the word out."

Fidelias blinked. "My. So you're off to warn Garrison of trouble'?"

The young man nodded, grimly. "Head back down the road the way we came a piece, and look for a trail to the south. It will take you to Bernardholt. We'd best not stay here, if you'll pardon us, sir. Sorry we can't help you."

"That's all right," Fidelias assured him. "We all have a duty to do, son." He frowned, staring at the younger of the two for a moment.

"Sir?" the young man asked.

"You're about my height, aren't you?"

Aldrick wiped the blood from his blade and said, "You could at least wait until he's dead."

Fidelias pulled the second boot from the shorter of the two men and sat down to pull them over his battered feet. "I don't have time."

"I'm not sure that was necessary, Fidelias," Aldrick said. "If word is out, it's out. Doesn't seem to be much sense in killing them."

"I didn't think you'd mind," Fidelias said.

"I'm good at killing. Doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"Every man enjoys doing what he's good at." Fidelias tightened the laces as much as he could, wincing in pain. "It was necessary. We have to stop anyone else from getting word to Garrison, or out the other end of the Valley, either."

"But that Steadholder has already got through."

"He's only one man, one report. The local Count won't want to commit everything based on that. It will buy us time. If we can keep anything else from getting through, we'll make sure that Garrison is off guard. Is he dead?"

Aldrick stooped over the barefooted boy for a moment. "He's gone. You want me to signal the men?"

'Yes." Fidelias stood up, testing his weight on his feet. They hurt, they hurt abominably, but the boots were a tolerable fit. They'd hold together long enough. "And we'll have to get in touch with Atsurak again. Things are falling apart. We can't afford to wait any longer."

Fidelias stepped over the bodies of the young men of Warnerholt and glanced over his shoulder at the swordsman. "I'm starting the attack now."