Free Cursor's Fury by Jim Butcher Page B

had a belly that also spoke of little exercise and much beer. “What’s this? Some young Citizen’s puppy thinks he’s better than us enlisted men cause he’s taken one turn around the rose garden with a Legion that never marched out of sight of his city?”

    “That’s always the way,” drawled the first man. He sneered at Tavi. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you ask me something? Because if you did, something more important bumped it clean out of my head.”

    Without a word, Max hopped down off of his horse, seized a short, heavy rod from his saddlebag, and laid it across the bridge of the first sentry’s nose with a blow that knocked the large man from his feet and slammed his back onto the dirt.

    The second sentry fumbled at his spear, the tip of the weapon dipping toward the unarmored Max. The young man seized it in one hand, locking it in place as immovably as if within stone, and swung the smaller sentry into the wooden palisade with such force that the entire section rocked and wobbled. The sentry bounced off and hit the ground, and before he could rise, Max thrust the end of his wooden baton beneath the man’s chin and pushed. The smaller sentry let out a choking sound and froze in place on his back.

    “Sir,” Max drawled lazily to Tavi. “You’ll have to forgive Nonus,” a thrust of the stick made the smaller man let out a croaking squeak, “and Bortus, here.” Max’s boot nudged the first sentry’s ribs. The man didn’t even twitch. “They managed to buy their way out of being cashiered out of Third Antillan a few years back, and I guess they just weren’t smart enough to remember that a lack of proper respect for officers was what got them into trouble in the first place.”

    “Antillar,” choked the smaller man.

    “I’m not speaking to you yet, Nonus,” Max said, poking his centurion’s baton into the underside of the legionare’s chin. “But I’m glad you recognize me. Makes it convenient to tell you that I’m serving as centurion here, and I’ll be in charge of weapons training. You and Bortus just volunteered to be the target dummies for my first batch of fish.” His voice hardened. “Who is your centurion?”

    “Valiar Marcus,” the man gasped.

    “Marcus! Could have sworn he retired. I’ll have a word with him about it.” He leaned down, and said, “Assuming that’s all right with Subtribune Scipio. He’s within his rights to go straight to lashes if he’d like it.”

    “But I didn’t . . .” Nonus sputtered. “ Bortus was the one who—”

    Max leaned on the baton a little harder, and Nonus stopped talking with a p. 48 little, squealing hiccup of sound. The big Antillan looked over his shoulder at Tavi and winked. “What’s your pleasure, sir?”

    Tavi shook his head, and it was an effort to keep the smile from his face. “No point in lashes yet, centurion. We won’t have anything to build up to, later.” He leaned over and peered at the larger, unconscious legionare. The man was breathing, but his nose was swelling and obviously broken. Both of his eyes had already been ringed with magnificent, dark purple bruises. He turned to the man Max had left conscious. “Legionare Nonus, is it? When your relief arrives, take your friend to the physician. When he wakes up, remind him what happened, hmmm? And suggest to him that at least while on sentry duty, greeting arriving officers with proper decorum should perhaps be considered of somewhat more importance than taunting puppies raised in rose gardens. All right?”

    Max jabbed the baton into Nonus again. The legionare nodded frantically.

    “Good man,” Tavi said, then clucked to his horse, riding on without so much as looking over his shoulder.

    He only got to hear Magnus descend from his own mount, fuss for a moment over the state of his saddlebags, then present his papers to the prostrate sentry. He cleared his throat, and sniffed. “Magnus. Senior valet to the captain and his staff. I cant abide