Another flash of light, then another, and another, until Conlan lost count. The enemy attack halted completely, leaving the legionaries encircled but virtually forgotten.
The barbarians slowed their rush east. A warrior, clutching his blood-soaked arm, stumbled, wide-eyed, towards the west, and more of his countrymen, many badly injured, followed.
A man, clad in blood-splattered white armour, shining pearlescent in the sunlight, a black bear’s head emblazoned on the breastplate, appeared out of the crush to the east. Conlan drew a sharp breath at the sight of him. He moved with fluid grace and seemed aware of everything around him simultaneously, blocking and killing on both sides as if his arms were controlled by the swords themselves. He danced, flowing through the enemy like water, leaving bloody death in his wake.
Another, man appeared. Where the first was large but lithe, this one was simply huge. Bearing a bull’s head motif on his breastplate, he wielded two short-handled, double-headed axes with incredible force. In stark contrast to the other, this man was a blunt instrument of death: he bludgeoned his way through the enemy, leaving body parts in his wake whilst breaking bones with his fists. One man attacking with club raised was thrown aside, catapulted backwards over his fellows as if weightless.
Conlan watched in awed silence as the pair dispatched ten men in as many seconds. It was Jonas who broke the silence, letting out a joyful whoop of encouragement as the first white knight beheaded a man with a single backward chop, so quickly Conlan doubted the unfortunate man even knew he was dead.
More knights in iridescent armour drifted in and out of view as the battle surged. Every time an enemy tried to bring one of them down, he was dispatched with cold precision or simply shaken off, thrown aside. One lucky savage managed to grab the first knight’s arm, but before even he could respond a smaller knight, with long, blood-red hair, stepped out of the crush and sliced through the back of his neck. For a moment, the red-haired warrior turned in the direction of the legionaries, as if scanning for something, eyes briefly alighting on Conlan, who realised with a jolt that it was a woman, strikingly attractive with fine aquiline features.
Unable to rip his gaze from her, Conlan’s eyes followed the knight until with her comrades she disappeared from sight, obscured again by the mass of the horde.
“Jonas, prepare the men. We need to advance and assist them,” Conlan said. They could not let her fight alone.
Jonas raised his brows. “Do they look like they need our help, boss?”
Conlan hesitated. “They have a woman with them; we have to protect her.”
“Oh, well in that case…” Jonas grinned and barked an order to advance from the hill and maintain formation, remaining in circle to present no weakness to the enemy.
The standard felt heavy in Conlan’s grip. He ached to hand it to someone else, to move forward to the front line and fight with the men. But the standard was the legion – it had to be preserved. Holding it aloft for all to see, Conlan maintained his position at the centre of the formation. As the legionaries moved, the enemy, seemingly remembering them, redoubled their attack, and the circle of men around Conlan began shrinking again.
Conlan knew it was suicide to attack in these conditions; every fibre of his training railed against the move. But the result was foregone in any case. They would all die. There was no hope.
Feeling a vibration through his feet, Conlan thought for a moment it was an earth tremor, but he quickly recognised the vibration for what it was – the rolling beat of many hoofs, coming from the north.
“Hold position!” Conlan bellowed, hearing shouts, the screams of men and horses.
The barbarians, already unsettled by the white knights, broke with the arrival of the cavalry force on their flank. The savages fled. First a trickle and then a rising flood south. Some bunched together for defence; others abandoned their weapons and ran for whatever shelter they might find.
The horsemen rode through them all, dealing death by sword and hoof in equal measure.
The rout passed quickly. It was, Conlan thought, as if they were an island and the barbarians a wave, leaving bodies, weapons and armour behind like so much flotsam and jetsam.
A deep baritone voice shouted encouragement. “That’s it, boys! Ride the bastards down. Show them some Imperial steel!”
Two horsemen, wheeling away from the fray, approached Conlan’s group. He recognised one as General Felix Martius - who continued to shout encouragement to his troops as he cantered toward Conlan and the remnants of his men.
“Well, boys, looks like you might be all that’s left of the Third,” said General Martius, his stern face softening. “Who commands here?”
Conlan hesitated. “I do, sir.” As he spoke, Jonas turned and regarded him, eyes impenetrable.
Martius raised an eyebrow. “You look a little young to be a legion father…”
Conlan wondered how the man remained so calm when faced with the horror of battle. “Conlan Danson, sir. Centre branch leader, Ninth cohort, Third legion, sir.”
Martius nodded to the man beside him. “Make a note of that name, Villius.” Then glancing across the ragged group of legionaries, and smiled broadly. “Well done, boys; I think we just saved the Empire.” And with that he turned his horse and raced after the fleeing enemy.
MARTIUS WAS, AS ALWAYS, mildly irritated by the man before him.
“Uncle, why not admit that my communication system saved the day?”
Martius sighed, “The legions saved the day, Metrotis. Not your flags.”
“But I have it on good authority that the flags worked perfectly, Uncle. Without them you would not have been able to manoeuvre the troops and win the day.” Metrotis chopped the air with his hand as if to underline the perfection of his logic.
Martius slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep down he knew that the boy was right. He could never have gathered the cavalry nor moved the legions on the field as quickly as he did without the damned flags. Yet, knowing he was wrong, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Martius rarely allowed his emotions to rule, but somehow Metrotis always brought out the worst in him. “Metrotis you were not there. If you had any military experience you would understand –“
“But Villius says that the –“
“Villius?” Martius hadn’t realised Metrotis and Villius were well acquainted. He made a mental note to have a quiet word with his young proctor. “He is as green as you are, boy.” Martius shook his head slowly.
Two weeks
.
Two weeks and he still won’t be quiet about it. Anyone would think he won the victory at Sothlind valley by himself.
“How is your mother?” Martius realised he had asked the same question the day before in an effort to change the conversation.
“She’s fine, Uncle. You saw her this morning.” Metrotis raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Remember?”
Martius wondered if he was being mocked. “Hmmm, yes of course. Forgot entirely. How is your other work going?”
Metrotis sat up straight, eyes beaming. “Well, I think the catapults might just work if we can just get special ropes made to take the tension…”
Martius relaxed. Metrotis loved talking about his work almost as much as he loved talking about himself. Pretending to listen, Martius used the time to assess his nephew - remembering to nod and grunt occasionally, feigning interest. He had to admit Metrotis’s physical resemblance to himself was remarkable; but the Felix line had ever been thus. Metrotis was thinner; his skin was sallow and pale, the result of too much time studying indoors.
A healthy body, Martius had learned, lead to a healthy mind. No stranger to study himself, he balanced this with regular exercise and military drill.
Martius had little doubt that Metrotis had one of the keenest minds in the Empire. It was just that he didn’t balance his activities. Metrotis had dedicated himself so completely to study and research that he left no time for anything else. Martius considered Metrotis an immense waste of potential talent, and that was, perhaps, what irked him the most.
Sensing a change in Metrotis’s tone, Martius focused his attention back on the conversation.
“… And I think that I have the feathering and weighting of the ballistae bolts almost perfect now. You should see how far they can travel, Uncle.”
“Indeed,” Martius replied. “But how many can you fire in a minute, and how many men need to attend them? What if they are attacked? Can they be ordered to move in the heat of battle?”
“That’s it!” Metrotis’s eyes widened. “Of course! We can put them on wheels…” He tilted his head to one side. “But obviously I would have to install a braking and bracing system… What a great idea, Uncle!”
Martius rolled his eyes. “Of course, nephew. Speak to the quartermaster at the academy. I am sure he will be able to sort something out for you.”
Metrotis grinned broadly. “Yes, yes. This opens up so many possibilities; I really can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”
Martius raised his right hand to his brow, resting it on his forehead. “And how are our… guests at the moment?”
“Oh.” Metrotis shifted in his chair, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Well, ah, I am making some progress on the language for one of them. I think his name is Wulf, or VVulf as he pronounces it. Interesting, really – the language seems to bear some relationship to the southern fisherfolk of the Basking islands.”
“And the other?” Martius leaned forward impatiently. “What of him?”
Metrotis paused. “Much the same really; he eats, he sleeps. I think he may have damaged his brain in the battle. Might be improving though. He glanced at me this morning, but he’s still mute. It really is not an easy job you have given me, Uncle.”
“You have to keep trying, Metrotis. I don’t know anyone better for the job.”
“I know, I know. He’s a hero of the Empire and we need to help him recover. Maybe I could try some of the herbs I’ve been experimenting with. Some of them have, erm… interesting properties.” Tilting his head again, Metrotis fixed Martius with an earnest gaze. “He
is
safe to be around though, isn’t he, Uncle? It’s just… when he looked at me this morning, well, my legs went quite weak. It’s not so bad with Wulf – he’s chained up, so what could he do? I mean he is big but…”
“He’s no threat, Metrotis,” Martius said.
“Which one? Wulf or the other?”
“The other.” Martius opened both arms wide as if in obeisance to the gods. “He’s just an injured soldier.”
“Yes, yes, of course; he seems a gentle soul really.”
Martius leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead absently. “Yes, a gentle soul…”
THE LEGION BAR WAS full. For once, the soldiers were relishing life rather than courting death. It was a dark and musty building, built, as were all legion bars, to a standard imperial template. The troops had a phrase for the design: ‘no expense spent’, and it seemed fitting to Conlan as he looked around the vast square hall. Low rafters did nothing for the ambiance, leaving the building feeling claustrophobic rather than cosy.
Scattered around the room were the trophies of the Third: shields, armour and other objects captured over centuries of battle. The walls were adorned with paintings and tapestries depicting the illustrious history of the legion, clearly marking the generic building out as different from all the other legion bars scattered throughout the military quarter of Adarna. It belonged to the Third.
A woodsmoke haze filled the top half of the room, making it preferable to sit down in the clearer air below. In every corner voices were raised in alcohol induced merriment – laughing, jeering, shouting and cheering in equal measure.
Conlan had always been a little horrified by how quickly his comrades could forget. It seemed so easy for them to put the terror of battle aside and get on with their lives. They had all lost brothers in the legion – comrades at arms; yet they were able to continue as if nothing of note had happened.
What was the point of it all? Conlan wondered. He had suffered a sense of great loss since his return to the capital. Fitful nights filled with nightmares left him exhausted each morning. The image of the crimson-haired warrior in white armour haunted him, her eyes boring into his mind each night as he lay in his bed. Barely able to function, Conlan had thrown himself into distraction, perfecting indolence by tortuous practice. He sat on a rough-hewn bench, arms resting on a simple trestle table, relishing his anonymity and his beer.
Looking up from his ale, Conlan saw his sword brothers approaching. Lucus - young and brash - grinned like a loon at everyone he passed; Jonas had a telltale bounce in his stride, the confidence of a survivor – no, a hero of the great battle.
How do they disassociate themselves from it all?
Or are they just putting on an act, hiding their own inner demons?
“Ho, Lucus. Tell us your tale,” an old legionary called from a corner.
Lucus smiled amiably, and swerved toward the old veteran, whispering something to Jonas and smiling conspiratorially before they parted company. Lucus was welcomed with a hearty slap on the back by the veteran, a man named Salla, and immediately absorbed in conversation.
Reaching the table alone, Jonas placed a large tankard before Conlan. “There you go, boss. Pint o’ the best.”
“I didn’t realise there was a choice.” Conlan drained the dregs of his last tankard.
“Well, technically there isn’t, but I reckon this was a fresh keg.”
Stifling a grin, Conlan took a sip. “Tastes a lot like the last one.”
“Yeah, I know. Kinda nutty.”
Conlan raised his tankard. “The noble dead.”
“The noble dead,” Jonas returned the toast.