Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (8 page)

“Now,” Serranus said, “with that in mind, what can you conclude about the elven lack of infantry, Marcus Valerius?”

“The opposite. They value their lives too dearly to dare risking them in melee combat.”

“Precisely! That’s why they fear to meet the legions at close quarters: they can’t match our numbers and our discipline. That’s why they will always run before the heavy horses of Savonderum, and why even the spears of the peasant levy present them with a problem.

“The orcs’ heavy infantry haven’t discipline and their armor is shoddy, but their speed, strength, and numbers make up for that and make them dangerous in close combat. As for the dwarves, well, there isn’t an infantry in the world that is their equal, one for one, except the mountain trolls. So, it is fear of losing their precious long lives that dictates the elves’ approach to warfare. This not only reveals a tactical weakness that can be exploited, but is also a cultural sign that speaks volumes about the state of their race.”

“I bet they aren’t afraid of goblin infantry,” Zephanus commented.

“No one is afraid of goblin infantry,” Serranus said with a snort. “Nor should anyone be, unless they happen to outnumber you fifty to one. Fortunately, that doesn’t happen very often since the little rats take every chance they get to desert whatever orc chieftain has rounded them up to serve as front line fodder. So, Marcus Valerius, what does this tell you about Elebrion?”

“I’m not sure. They fear death, they will only fight from afar, they have only three kingdoms where there were once seven…” The realization struck him suddenly. “Oh! I should think their society is probably highly decadent then, that they’ve likely become amoral pleasure seekers like the men and women of whom Flavius Mundus wrote in the tales of the plague days. Do you think they are in decline?”

“No, it’s more than that,” Serranus said. “I believe they are waiting to die. Fear has a specific object—not unlike hope, usually. But the object of hope is a future good. A difficult one, perhaps, but always something that is possible to obtain. The object of fear, on the other hand, is a future evil, an evil that irresistible only because it is desired.”

Even in the heat of the near-midday sun, Serranus’s ominous words struck Marcus with chilling effect. Waiting to die? Fear of death that was born of an irresistible desire for extinction? Although he knew that war between Amorr and Elebrion was a real possibility, it had never occurred to Marcus that it might be the elves, not men, who were wishing for it.

“Truly?”

“Should the Sanctiff in his wisdom decide that they are creatures unfit to serve Our Immaculate Lord,” Serranus said, “I suggest it will be a mercy to put their cities to the torch and the remnants of their race to the sword. The High King will not lift his hand against us—not because he fears us, but because he desires what we can give him and his people in the same way that a mortally wounded soldier welcomes the last kiss of steel.”

Marcus rode in stunned silence, the hoof-falls of the troop and the creaking of the wooden wagons the only sounds. The road had begun a slight incline and the horses were breathing harder than they had before. Fortunately, there were dark lines running parallel to the road in the distance that promised the possibility of shade once they crested the rise.

Zephanus chuckled. “And here I’d always thought you won that pretty face fighting them in the borderlands, Claudius Serranus. I had no idea that they did nothing but bare their throats to your blade. If the elves are so ready to die, how did you get that scar on your face, then? Were you foolish enough to let Caulus Phillipus shave you?” Zephanus laughed at Marcus’s expression and held up a right hand with two fingers folded down. “Phillipus lost half his hand to an orc’s axe at Goxlims. Don’t let him shave you.”

But Marcus wasn’t thinking about how Serranus had been scarred. He was more curious about where he’d been when he had been scarred.

“Amorr doesn’t border on Merithaim, much less Elebrion,” he pointed out. “And the elves haven’t raided Imperial territory for one hundred years. So, either you are much older than would seem possible, Claudius Serranus, or you are telling us tall tales. Or … you were fighting on behalf of someone other than the Senate and People of Amorr.”

Serranus laughed. But before he could reply, the horses at the front of the column abruptly pulled up. Marcus rose in the saddle to see over the bishop’s wagon. The lead horses had halted at a stone bridge passing over a shallow stream. In a booming voice that carried all the way back to their rearguard, Sir Hezekius announced that they would halt long enough to refresh themselves and water their horses.

Normally it would be a slave’s job to help Marcus from Barat’s back. But although Marcipor was already cantering back toward him, Marcus didn’t wait for his help to dismount. With a groan he lifted his right leg over the saddle and dropped awkwardly to the ground. Lodi grunted and followed his example. The two of them locked eyes for a moment, then the dwarf grimaced and rubbed at his thick thighs. Marcus shook his head. It was going to be a long, long ride to Elebrion.

Praeterea, homo in Die Sexto creatus sunt. In ordine naturae qui in narratione Creationis descriptus, perfectius praestat. Ergo homo est perfectior quam aelvi. Tum, perfectissima res animae estseparatio ab corpore, quod in illa re similior Dei angelorumque, et purior, quod separatur ab ulla aliena substantia. Quandoquidem non aeque perfecti atque homines, aelvi ulterius quam homines ab perfectissima re animae. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter sibi unita.

THEIR REPRIEVE FROM the road was far too short, but at least his stomach was full of bread, meat, and cheese now, Marcus thought. More importantly, his parched throat was well wetted by the cool waters of the stream. The brook flowed down from hills that were just beginning to become visible on the horizon.

They wouldn’t reach them by nightfall, but everyone was looking forward to reaching them all the same, even though the incline would slow their progress. Somewhere on this side of those hills was a monastery where they hoped to spend one night not sleeping on the ground. And on the other side of the hills … the mountains of the elven kingdom.

“Douse your head in the water before we ride on,” a dripping Zephanus suggested before mounting his horse and joining his brethren.

When the stentorian roar of the Michaeline captain ordered the party to their mounts, both Marcus and Marcipor were quick to follow Zephanus’s advice.

“Do you think this will help with the insects?” asked Marcipor, pushing his water-darkened hair out of his eyes as he urged his horse to a walk. Throughout their repast, he had complained of the small cloud of gnats that had pestered him since mid-morning.

“Yes, certainly. Until you dry off and start to sweat again.”

“I’ll try not to, then.” Marce nodded toward Zephanus, who was riding a distance ahead of them now. “You like that priest?”

“I suppose so. With whom were you riding?”

“Ecclesiastus and Habbakus. They’re both of Tedes descent, like me.”

“Is that so? Which one has the red hair, Habbakus?”

“No, he’s the other one. And actually, Ecclesiastus is only Tedes on his mother’s side. His father is an Amorran citizen.”

“He doesn’t look very Amorran to me.”

“I said he was a citizen, not that he was of the city. Ecclesiastus said he was from Elkos, I think.” Marcipor glanced back at the dwarf. “How is our old billy goat bearing up?”

“As well as I am, I think. His idle chatter is lifting all our spirits. I say, are your legs beginning to chafe? My thighs are rubbed nearly raw. It’s been too long since I’ve ridden so much as an ora.”

Marcipor grinned mischievously. “That’s just as well. Father Aurelius tends to frown on his pupils spending time in ora-houses.”

Even Lodi groaned at the weak pun. Thankfully, before Marce could attempt to surpass himself, they saw Zephanus and Serranus riding back toward them. At their approach, much to Marcus’s surprise, Marcipor fell respectfully silent.

“I see you followed my advice,” Zephanus noted approvingly. His own dark hair was still damp from the stream.

Serranus leaned over, extending an unexpectedly full wineskin to Marcus. “The Order of Saint Michael wishes to express its gratitude to House Valerius for its meritorious service on behalf of this humble priest.” He handed the wineskin to Marcus. “Don’t marvel, boy, there’s no miracle—it’s just water in there.”

“Oh,” Marcus said, feeling embarrassed. “I trust you found it satisfactory?”

“Very much so,” Serranus answered, slapping Zephanus on the back. “Excellent stuff.Didn’t you think so?”

“I might have if you’d spared me more than a mouthful, old miser.”

“Wisdom and wine are wasted on the young, little brother. Now, Marcus Valerius, I believe you were interested in hearing more of the elves and their way of warfare, were you not?”

“Indeed, Claudius Serranus. If you would be so kind.”

Marcipor stifled a yawn.

“Bored already, laddy?” Serranus said to him. “You needn’t listen if you don’t want.”

“Please ignore my bodyguard. He’s much more fierce than he looks. It’s just that he’s slain so many scores of sottum that he finds such tales most tedious.”

“Indeed?” Claudius Serranus dismissed Marcipor with an audible snort and turned his attention to Marcus. “Well then, as you correctly surmised, in my youth I did not march with the legions. I marched under the banner of the King of Savonderum. In the summer of my fifteenth year, my father died and my elder brother inherited our little farm. He wished to marry, and I wished both to see the world and avoid living under my brother’s patriarchy, so it seemed a propitious time to depart.

“I quickly learned that I had no skills that commanded more than a pittance, since the only work available was the sort of work I’d thought to leave behind at the farm. But I was a big lad, and on the third day after I’d left the ancestral village I met a man in a pub who was recruiting for a company of wardogs.

“He said the Red Prince was planning a campaign to teach the cursed elves a lesson. It was something to do with the
Collegium Occludum
, if I recall correctly, but I wasn’t listening closely since my only interest was in the notion of a monthly wage. Plus, I’d wanted to see the world, and marching through it with a sword in my hand accompanied by a band of armed men seemed to be a reasonable way to do it.

“So, I made my
X
on what the recruiter told me was a contract that ran only through the harvest, and thought myself rather clever for it when he generously agreed to pay for the next two rounds.” He grinned at Marcus. “Not the wisest move I’ve ever made.”

Marcus feigned surprise. “An illiterate young farmer signing a contract he can’t read? Or rather, marking it. In all the tales I’ve read, such things usually turn out splendidly!”

“Precisely. As it happens, the contract was actually an indenture in which I had sold my body to become the deeded property of one Captain Hilderus, who owned the Bloody Crows. It was a small consortium, only forty-five men, more than half of whom barely knew which end of the sword to hold. Or rather, spear. Although what I was given was little more than a long, pointed stick.

“The Savonders make war in the strangest fashion. Their king doesn’t want the expense of a standing army, but he doesn’t want to become too dependent upon the great lords, either. So while he provides the engineers, the mages, and perhaps a third of the heavy cavalry, the nobles provide the other two thirds.

“The infantry is a haphazard collection of royal levies taken from wherever the king chooses, land levies taken from the estates of the great and lesser lords, and the ‘auxiliaries,’ which are simply whatever mercenary companies happen to hear that the king wants men. So,there’s a fair number of captains who make a living turning foolish young farm boys into corpses every summer.

“Only two weeks later I found myself marching with the rest of the Crows under the banner of a baron from the other side of Savondum. The baron—his name was Gourgaud, if I recall correctly—was charged with capturing a group of elven raiders that had been burning farms near Voyence.

“We were one hundred horse and six hundred foot, and there were only supposed to be sixty or seventy raiders. Therefore the baron and Captain Hilderous were far more worried about being able to find the enemy and run them down once we did find them than they were about what those sixty elves might be able to do to us. But, you recall what I told you about them before we stopped today?”

“They prefer to keep their distance?” Marcus said.

“Just so. After five days of sighting them and chasing them all over the hills, our outriders ran into their scouts on the edge of an old forest near the western border. In retrospect, I realize they had been leading us around by our noses just to keep us occupied while their commander prepared the ambush. When we finally encountered it, it proved to be as well prepared as any ambush I’ve seen since.

“The baron thought we’d have the advantage in the hills since they wouldn’t find it as easy to use their archers at long range. I’m not sure what he was thinking when we finally brought them to bear with their backs to the forest. My best guess is that he thought they were afraid to run since they were all afoot and outnumbered by our horse. They formed their line with their backs to the trees. It was a double line, but it didn’t look very impressive since they were so badly outnumbered and they didn’t have much in the way of armor.”

Serannus chuckled without amusement and patted the armor packed behind his saddle. “Not that I did, either. I was standing in the third rank with my stick in my hand and nothing but a smelly old red tunic with a shapeless black thing sewn onto the front. It had two big tears in it. Suddenly, and as I watched that small group of elves raise their bows toward us, it occurred to me that I was probably wearing a dead man’s shirt. The tears were probably arrow holes. Maybe it was even a shirt that had been worn by two men dead before me.”