Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (7 page)

Marcus smiled, thinking about his father’s characteristic laconism. Marcus had argued with him before his father had left to take command of the legions two years ago. General Valerius had intended to bring him along as a staff aide in order to season him and expose him to battle for the first time, but Marcus had been fixated upon the idea of a career as a Church scholar. Fortunately for him, his mother, Father Aurelius, and Magnus himself were all of the opinion that Valerians had shed enough blood for Amorr and that Marcus was destined for something other than battlefields and bloodshed.

At the time, Marcus had felt almost disdainful of his father’s brutal profession. But now, having come to understand both the need for such men and the high regard in which they were held by others he respected, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had missed a unique opportunity.

“How does one…” He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase his request. “How do you balance the demands of your ordinate with the requirements of your profession?”

Zephanus smiled at him and shook his head as he answered the thought that lurked behind the question rather than the question itself. There was a flicker of what might have been pity in his eyes. “No, Marcus Valerius, our brotherhood is not for you. Should St. Michael ever call you to his banner, you will know that call for what it is and you will have no such questions.”

“I don’t understand!”

“Of course you don’t. Have you ever seen purple whorls of sorcery spinning in the air as an archmage gathers his evil magic together? Have you seen the sky darken under a cloud of imps, sprites, and demons as an army of ahomum shake their spears and chant their guttural thick-tongued summonings? Can you see the aura of green, black, and gold that surrounds yonder elf?” Zephanus pointed to the shorter elf, the one wearing the sorcerer’s robes.

“No, I’ve never seen anything like that. Can you really see such things?”

“I see them, whether I will or no. I can no more not see them than I can avoid seeing you.” Zephanus grinned as Marcus glanced back and forth between him and the elf, obviously trying to see what was not apparent to his eyes. “I don’t jest, young Valerius. The Fifth Eye is how the saint calls us to his service.”

“The Fifth Eye? That sounds … esoteric.”

“It’s nothing of the sort. It’s merely a turn of phrase in honor of Saint Oculatus, whose birth name was Quintus Tullius. He was the first to be given the gift of the holy vision. His men were being slaughtered by elven archers hidden behind an invisibility spell, and when he cried out to God his prayer was answered and he was given the eyes to see behind the accursed veil. Haven’t you heard stories of some lad or other accused of witchcraft because he saw what his elders could not? Fortunately, the brotherhood keeps watch for such promising young men, and they usually manage to intervene before any harm is done.”

“Usually?”

“To be honest, I’ve never heard of anyone blessed with the Fifth Eye being burned. Saint Michael does protect his own. But then, one can’t be sure of what one doesn’t know.”

“No, that’s true. Is it only boys, then, who are called by the saint?”

“To date it’s only been men and boys. I don’t know what we would do should a lass be given the gift. Or what purpose that would serve—a woman can’t ride to war, after all.”

“Elvesses fight,” a gruff voice, redolent with gravel, spoke behind them.

Both Marcus and Zephanus craned their necks to stare at the dwarf, who stared back at them, expressionless, from the swaying back of his fat mule.

“Yes, they do, don’t they, sir dwarf? I beg your pardon. I fear I have forgotten your name.”

Lodi shrugged. “‘Dwarf’ will serve. We’re not likely to encounter many of my kin on the way to the Elflands.”

“His name is Lodi,” Marcus said. “He’s supposed to be the less useless half of my bodyguard, but he’s still recovering from a wound he received at the Colosseo.”

“Ah, a gladiator, then?”

Lodi shook his head.

“Not by choice,” Marcus added. “Nor of my doing. I bought him from the Reds.”

“Did you now? I am curious. How does a dwarf of sufficient martial talents to survive the arena find himself battling criminals and animals for the pleasure of the good people of Amorr in the first place?”

“Never you mind that, priestling,” Lodi muttered. “Sounds as if you’ve fought them too, though.”

“The elves?” Zephanus said. “No, I am too young to have had the honor. And may God and St. Michael grant that does not change throughout the course of this trip. Seeing as we have no eagles to spare, I’d prefer the High King didn’t take my head as a trophy.”

“What would the elf want with eagles?” Lodi asked. “They’re a mite small for his skyriders.”

Marcus laughed. “Not the birds, the legionary standards, Lodi. The elf king still has the two his father took at the battle of Aldus Wald. They’re the only ones Amorr has ever lost that we didn’t manage to take back. My uncle wanted the Sanctiff to trade them in return for the Church recognizing that they are ensoulled.”

Zephanus gave him a skeptical look. “And your uncle is?”

“Lucius Valerius, called Magnus.”

“Hmmm, I should have known. Well, that’s not a bad idea, actually.”

Marcus suppressed his first, indignant protest and contented himself with a mild observation. “It would appear Michaelines don’t go in for a lot of theology. Or philosophy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Zephanus protested with a grin. “Why, sometimes our debates over who to kill first can last for hours!”

Marcus smiled. “Still, I wonder if anyone here actually know how to fight them. Elves, I mean. Not that we want to, but it seems to me that perhaps it might be useful to know something more than the year in which Saddranus fell to the orcs.”

Marcus glanced at Lodi, but the dwarf was staring off into the horizon with an expression that seemed to indicate he was done speaking for the nonce.

Zephanus, on the other hand, was rather more loquacious. “Happily we have with us someone who is said to have battled them on at least one occasion. Do excuse me for but a moment, noble sir and dwarf, and I shall return.”

The young warrior-priest urged his horse into a brief trot, until he reached the side of two of his fellow Michaelines, who were riding in companionable silence farther up the narrow column. Their party stretched out along the road as the sun rose toward its apex.

Zephanus returned, bearing in his wake an older Michaeline with a close-trimmed beard that was shot with grey. His receding hairline was lined with a white scar that nearly spanned his forehead, as if he’d been wearing a helmet so long that it had left a permanent mark upon him. Or, as was much more likely the case, some long-ago enemy had nearly removed the top of his head with a sword or axe on a battlefield that was now otherwise forgotten. His horse was a magnificent chestnut very nearly the equal of Barat, Marcus’s own mount.

“Marcus Valerius,” Zephanus said, “I present the Blessed Sir Cladius Serranus.”

Serranus nodded and Marcus returned the greeting, a bit more deeply. It wasn’t hard to remember to be properly respectful to a veteran soldier who looked as if he had breakfasted on raw orc legs earlier that morning.

“An honor, Blessed Sir.”

The scarred Michaeline flashed his teeth momentarily. “Call me Serranus. That, or ‘Brother Serranus’ will do. Heard you were a courteous young pup. Perhaps you won’t forget to curtsey to King Caerwyn or such and get us all killed, eh?”

“I shouldn’t like to displease the Sanctiff, Brother Serranus.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s fear of his displeasure that will make your bowels clench and the acid burn in the back of your throat when we reach the heights. Or when you stand in the place where the mountain meets the sky, darkness falls, and you hear the cries of the High King’s warhawks soaring unseen somewhere high above you.”

“Are you so certain that I shall need to wait until then? I don’t think it’s the lack of breakfast that seems to have soured my stomach.”

Serranus smiled, a more genuine smile this time. “It takes a brave lad to admit that he’s afraid. I think you’ll do well, Valerius, should it come to swords and elvish sorcery. It won’t make a difference, mind you, but at least you won’t shame your name. Probably.”

“I’m confident I shall sleep better for the knowledge.”

“Brother, Marcus here was eager to know more about how the elves make war,” Zephanus said. “And since I’m told you have some experience with that, I thought perhaps you might further his education.”

Claudius Serranus waved his arm, his gesture taking in the road disappearing into the horizon before them. “I don’t seem to have anything better to do,” he said. “This is a dry and dusty business. Give me a skin to wet my whistle and we shall see if the stories of an old war dog can while away a mile or three.”

Marcus dutifully produced a wineskin, which the old warrior-priest took.

He opened it and expertly sprayed a stream of Valerian Primus into his mouth without wasting a single drop or further soiling the sweat-stained tunic that he wore open down to his chest. His greying brows rose with surprise. “That’s a good vintage you’ve got there, lad. Yours, I’m thinking.”

“It’s of the House, yes.” Marcus nodded in respectful acknowledgment. “Please keep it, Blessed Sir, as a small measure of the regard House Valerius bears for the noble Order of St. Michael.”

“‘The Order,’ the man said,” Zephanus pointed out as he leaned over his horse’s neck with a hand extended. “That means me too. Let me try it!”

“I couldn’t allow that, little brother, not in good conscience. It’s far too early in the day to risk sun and grape addling such a young pate as yours.” He saluted Marcus with the skin, gave it one more healthy squeeze, then twisted the carved spout closed and slung it off the horn of his saddle. “Now, as to your question, can either of you tell me the defining characteristic of an elven army?”

“Archery,” Zephanus answered. He didn’t seem inclined to complain about being denied a taste of House Valerius’s best. “Their archers have far greater range with their longbows than we can match with our slings and spears, which makes it hard to come to grips with them.”

“That’s true, to be sure, but it’s something more basic than that.”

Marcus racked his brain, trying to think of every military history he’d ever read that mentioned the elves. The
Taktika of Leus
contained several accounts of famous battles with them, including Ardus Wald, Bremulon, and Tarphoris, but elven involvement aside, there wasn’t a single similarity between the three battles that he could think of. An ambush, a battlefield, and a city defense.

As Zephanus had said, it was the superiority of their deadly longbows that sprang first to Marcus’s mind. The historical accounts were no doubt exaggerated, but there had to be an element of metaphorical truth, at least, in the descriptions of how their arrows could darken the sky.

If it wasn’t the archers, what could it be? Their dark magic was superlative, but even the men of Savonderum used magecraft in battle, the peril to their souls notwitstanding. Would an experienced veteran like Serranus find it worthy of such particular note?

Then another thought occurred to him as he happened to glance in the dwarf’s direction. It struck him that the two old warriors might be evenly matched for who bore more scars.

“Is it that they have no infantry?” he suggested.

“Of course they have infantry,” Zephanus said dismissively. “Most of their archers are on foot, and even their light cavalry usually dismount when they fight at range.”

“No, I mean they don’t have any heavy infantry. We do, the Savonders do, the dwarves do, the orcs do, even the goblins do, if you think of how the orcs use them as auxiliaries on the wings when they’re not mounted. The Troll King doesn’t have anything but heavy infantry. But the only elves that wear proper armor are their lancers, and they’re mounted.”

“Aye, General Valerius!” Serranus barked in response. The grizzled warrior thumped his chest in what was obviously a sardonic salute, but his eyes were sparkling with good humor. “The young scholar has it in one, little brother, for all that he’s never blooded a sword. And that, my dear young novices, tells you very nearly all you might possibly need to know about the elves—their cowardly tactics, their pernicious culture, their spiritual enervation, and their ultimate fate. More importantly, it also tells you how to kill them.”

“It does?” Marcus looked at Zephanus, but the younger Michaeline clearly had no idea what Serranus was telling them either. If the two elves riding far ahead of them could hear their conversation, they weren’t letting on.

“Aye, it most certainly does. Didn’t your tutors ever force you to think, young Valerius, or did they merely set you to memorizing Psalms, catechisms, and philosopher’s speeches? Here, let me give you a hint: who has the most heavy infantry?”

“The orcs,” Zephanus answered immediately.

“The orc tribes,” Marcus echoed just a moment later.

“Quick on the draw, brother,” Serranus said approvingly to Zephanus. “There are scores of famous orc heavy foot regiments: the Black Orcs, the Red Hand Slayers, the Ghinghis Mountain Bhoys. Now, why do they spend that infantry with such profligacy? Their tactics, such as they are, are essentially minor variants on the straightforward charge.”

“Because they’re orcs,” Zephanus said. “They’re stupid.”

“No,” Marcus objected. “Well, I mean it’s true that they’re not very intelligent, in comparison with man, dwarf, or elf. But mainly they’re wasteful of their infantry because they can afford to be. Orclings breed and grow to maturity so quickly that no chieftain of the tribes cares much if he loses half his warriors—so long as enough survive to bring him victory that day. In fact, he probably hopes they’ll kill themselves off by fighting external enemies before they get caught up in internecine strife. That’s why the tribes are always at war, either raiding human lands or fighting amongst themselves. Just too many orcs running around.”

“And that’s why they’re always invading dwarven territory,” Zephanus said slyly, but Lodi failed to rise to the bait and continued to ignore the conversation.