Gilded Serpent Danielle Jensen (i can read with my eyes shut .TXT) 📖

descended into the dream, her imagination delivering where reality had failed, going further and further until a gasp tore from her lips and she rolled onto her back, finally allowing the fantasy to slip away.

And then sleep took her.

Along with the nightmare.

She was running through the sewers, her bare feet splashing in the frigid filth, the sounds of pursuit echoing through the tunnels. Her chest was tight, her side cramping, but no matter how she twisted and turned through the maze, the steps of her pursuer only drew closer.

Racing around a corner, she slid to a stop, a bricked wall barring her way. Blight oozed between the cracks of the crumbling mortar like tar, dripping down to form a stream, its rank stench assaulting her nostrils. She stared at the blight, some trick of her eye making it appear to be flowing in two directions, though that was impossible.

Then she heard the scuff of a boot against stone, and a laugh filled the air, hauntingly familiar.

Heart in her throat, Lydia turned, her gaze captured by a set of eyes that appeared like black pits rimmed with flame. But that wasn’t what sent terror rippling through her.

It was that the face staring back at her was her own.

 25MARCUS

Mud splashed up his legs as he walked through camp to where Servius had gathered the men involved in the brawl, all of them stripped down to their undergarments in preparation for the inevitable punishment. At the sight of him, they straightened their line and saluted.

“I take it no one has offered an explanation.”

“No, sir.” Servius glowered at the men, who all had their eyes fixed on the mud. Blackened eyes, broken noses, bruised sides, and split knuckles all abounded, and three of them had arms in splints, which meant they had at least six weeks before they could rejoin their lines. Motioning to one of the men in his escort, he murmured, loud enough for the men to hear, “Tell Racker I have need of him.”

The brawlers all shifted uneasily, no doubt wondering what he had in store for them if the surgeon was required. It was three lashes for brawling. Refusing to answer a superior increased the punishment to five lashes. But all of them knew that, so threatening them with it was unlikely to yield results. That they were being so deeply reticent meant that whatever had caused the fight was something that they really didn’t want him to know.

Which meant he needed to use a more creative method to get the information out of them.

“I was deeply disappointed to hear of the events that transpired at the mess tent yesterday,” he said, circling the group. “The Empire holds its legions to a standard of conduct, with laws and protocols which must be abided to ensure strength and unity and order. Yet it is no secret that I hold our legion to a higher standard still, because we are the Thirty-Seventh!” He shouted the last, and all the men slammed their fists to their chests in salute, hollering, “Yes, sir!”

Rounding on one of them, he said, “Is the Thirty-Seventh middling?”

“No, sir!”

To another, he asked, “Does the Thirty-Seventh aim to only meet expectations?”

“No, sir! We exceed them, sir!”

Stepping back so as to encompass them all in his next statement, he said, “Is the Thirty-Seventh following in the footsteps of the Twenty-Ninth?”

Their spines collectively stiffened, the barb one that would be effective against any man under his command. The Twenty-Ninth was the legion they’d been assigned to for the completion of their training in the field. Which had been well and good when Dareios was legatus, but the man, as well as his second and third in command, had been murdered not long after the Thirty-Seventh had joined them in the field. The then primus, Hostus, had risen to command, and the Thirty-Seventh’s circumstances took an abrupt turn for the worse. The remaining years of their training bordered on torture. If gods existed, then demons must, too, and Hostus was surely one of them. And after how they’d parted ways in Bardeen, Marcus hoped he’d never find himself alone with the older legatus again.

“No, sir!” they all shouted, and as he’d hoped, their eyes were filled with shame.

He stared at them for a long moment, allowing the tension to build. “Then perhaps one of you might offer sufficient justification for why you were acting like them?”

More shifting feet, but no one answered. What is this bloody well about? he wondered. What don’t they want me to know?

“This had better be good, Marcus.” Racker’s voice filtered up from behind him. “I was about to step into surgery.”

It was a struggle not to wince. Turning to the surgeon, he asked, “Can you give me a cost for the medical supplies used to treat these men’s injuries?”

The surgeon’s eyes flicked over the group, then he shrugged. “Insignificant, for the most part. But most availed themselves of narcotics. In Celendor, the cost would amount to perhaps a gold dragon. But—”

Interrupting, Marcus said to Servius, “Garnish the cost from their wages,” his words drawing visible glowers from the men.

“If you’d let me finish,” Racker snapped. “Given we have no access to the source here in the Dark Shores and I’ve been unable to find a suitable alternative, our remaining narcotics are priceless.”

“And it was wasted on brawlers.” Marcus watched the glowers fade back into shame. “The reason for your actions had better be good. And one of you had better spit it out now. That is an order.”

Silence.

And Marcus felt his stomach drop, because in all his years of command, he’d never had men refuse one of his orders. Never.

What was this about? What didn’t they want him to know?

Who were they protecting?

He couldn’t concede on the matter without looking weak and inviting this to happen again. But neither did he want to follow the protocols of the Empire and accuse them of treason for refusing to obey an order, because that meant he’d have to hang them.