Jason K. Lewis

Phoenix Rising

We see many who are struggling against

adversity who are happy, and more although

abounding in wealth, who are wretched.

Tacitus

Admit to weakness, if not always to others,

then always to yourself. This is true strength.

Felix Martius

What fate the man who conquers all?

What fate the man who cannot fall?

For no one, truly, can escape death’s pall.

Xandar the Great

CHAPTER ONE

Martius

The heavy oak doors slammed shut. They muffled the sounds of the massed citizens in Empire Square but they could not mask the shame that burned in Martius’s heart.

He walked, shoulders back, head held high, as befitted the primus general, but inside he squirmed at the thought of what he had just witnessed and the terrible consequences it might have for the future of the Empire.

The Twelfth legion was no more, and the blame rested with him alone.

You should have stopped it. You could have stopped it. His subconscious railed against him. It was not true though. He could never have stopped it, and a small part of him at least knew the truth of it — that path was too dangerous.

Revolution.

Why not? There were many in the Empire that would support him. There were many who would positively encourage it. But it was not the Felix way. His house had ever been loyal to the Emperor; his soul knew no other option.

The soul had won in the end, or perhaps he believed his own teachings too much.

To be a good leader, one must know when to follow.

They were his own words, drilled into every candidate at the academy. The legions were a great power in the Empire, but their function was to serve.

The alternative was a military coup and dictatorship, and every particle of Martius’s being denied that path.

The massed death of the Twelfth legion — their appalling decimation — would mar the history of the Empire for eternity. Nevertheless, it would also send a message to the army. Emperor Mucinas Ravenas was their master; and when they disappointed their master, they would pay a heavy price.

“This is not how it should be.” He said the words aloud, yet he had not intended to. They felt right though, as they spilled from his mouth. They felt like release. “It should not have happened.”

“There’s nothing you could have done about it, lad,” Turbis said quietly, forgetting as he often did, perhaps, that Martius was a grown man.

Martius looked at his old mentor. Never reply in anger, he reminded himself. Turbis, in his own way, was surely trying to help. “It doesn’t make it any easier.” He clenched his jaw shut to ensure he did not say something he might regret.

“I know that, Martius, I know that.” Turbis laid the stump of his arm on Martius’s shoulder. The tip of the hook hovered dangerously close to his eye. “This is not the place to discuss it, eh?” Turbis whispered so that only Martius could hear.

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, like legions marching to a dull and hollow beat.

He slowed his pace. There was plenty of time to reach the council chamber. The Emperor could wait. Besides, Turbis was right. It would not do to be overheard.

They gradually fell behind the group ahead, the so-called great and good of the Empire, who had just stood and watched as the men who had defended them from annihilation were put to death.

Eventually, when he was certain that they would not be overheard, Martius vented his anger. “They didn’t need to die, damn it!” He waved his arm towards the retreating backs of the officers and politicians ahead. “I said it in the council chamber this morning and I’ll say it again.”

“No you won’t. You can’t.” Turbis stared at him, eyes gleaming with anger or regret. “It is done. I’ve heard you say it yourself a thousand times. What’s the analogy you use? Something to do with ‘catch the king’, can’t bloody remember — ”

Martius shook his head. “You have to play the long game.” You have to wait until your opponent overextends himself before you can catch his king. Before you can win the game.

He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the cool, perfumed air of the palace corridor. Turbis was right; it would not do to test the patience of the Emperor any further. This morning he had come close to the line and it had been clear in the eyes of Mucinas Ravenas — bright as they were with malice and glee — that this challenge to the Emperor’s authority would not be quickly forgotten.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter.” Turbis waved his hook dismissively. “Never liked the bloody game anyway. The point is you need to be careful, eh?” He put his good hand on Martius’s shoulder and brought him to a stop, fixing him with eyes that had, despite the ravages of gluttony and the gods knew what else that his body had endured, never lost their strength, their iron core. “Eh?” He shook Martius’s shoulder gently.

Turbis still had some muscle left beneath the layers of fat, that much was clear from the strength of his grip.

“Don’t worry, old man.” Martius smiled to take the sting out of his words. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Make sure you don’t, Martius. Think about Ella and the children… Make sure you don’t.” Turbis grunted and released his grip. “Now, let’s see what the little Emperor has to say for himself, eh?”

“You may enter.” The skinny young servant sniffed disdainfully as he ushered them into the council chamber, apparently careless of the fact he spoke to two of the most powerful men in the Empire.

Martius fumed. Another imperial lackey. His stomach ached with the sickening certainty of his own responsibility in it all. A small part of him counselled logic, urging him to place the blame where it truly lay — with the Emperor — but the image of his legionary brothers lying lifeless on the stones of Empire Square forbade any denial.

The expression on Praetorus Kourtes’s face as he had watched the sickening spectacle painted a picture of the Empire for Martius, and it was a ruinous image that he could not erase. Kourtes had appeared to enjoy the blatant horror of the decimation, and Martius wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk from the nobleman’s face.

There were many men now who considered themselves untouchable as part of the Emperor’s increasingly fetid inner circle.

The old Emperor — father to the current sovereign — had always encouraged challenge around him, ruling the Empire as the first amongst equals, adhering to the traditions laid down centuries ago by the great Xandar himself… At least that was how it had felt to Martius all those years ago.

He wondered if Turbis — silent now, perhaps lost in his own thoughts — would share the same recollection. Turbis, after all, had been the old Emperor’s favourite at court. Back then, Turbis had been vibrant and energetic, always willing to trade jokes with others, quick to anger but also to forgive. The court had seemed like a bastion of enlightenment shining in the vast dark of the world, as the old emperor and his subjects worked to improve the lot of the citizen and the slave alike, and re-order the Empire after generations of excess and neglect.

Martius himself had thrived in the tolerant and progressive atmosphere that pervaded the court at the time, and his meteoric rise really began there. First, as proctor to Turbis, Martius had been educated in life at court and imperial politics.

Then five years later, he had returned from a rotation in the Legions that saw him rise to become the youngest Legion father in recorded history. In addition, having just published his treatise on increasing the efficiency of the army, Martius was hailed on his return by the old emperor as a force for progress, and his changes were adopted wholeheartedly across the army.

He had been privileged to enjoy the sponsorship of the great General Antius Turbis and the grace of the old emperor. The introduction of stricter training regimes and standardised equipment and tactics had helped the Empire to regain all of its former glory, and to stand again as the preeminent force in the world.

Where did it all go wrong? Martius wondered. The old systems for governing the army and the Empire had made it wane and weaken. The corruption and debauchery at court had almost extinguished the light of civilisation. Now it seemed like those old traditions were being revived. The doom of the Empire was, perhaps, already written.

Decimation. Martius shuddered at the thought of it.

The barbaric practice was banned by him, under his ‘Martian’ reforms. Many had poured scorn on his ideas of tolerance and rehabilitation but with the support of the old emperor, along with Turbis and a few others, they had been implemented. Martius had empowered the common legionary soldiers to vote their leaders into position. What better way to choose a good leader than to ask the rest of the troops who they thought would be best at keeping them alive? At every level from sub-branch leader to Legion father, every leader was elected by a majority of their troops. He was proud of this meritocratic approach, but he knew that it had generated a lot of bad feeling amongst the upper classes, who had traditionally supplied the officer corps.

The inherited power of the upper classes was pure idiocy. If a soldier wished to progress as a leader of men, that soldier now knew that if he completed officer training at the academy, he would be eligible to stand for election in the legion. Only after serving as a legionary for at least a year would he be allowed to stand, and even then he was unlikely to be voted in until he was much more experienced.

Looking up from his reverie, Martius was surprised to find they had already approached the familiar semi-circular table that flared around the imperial throne, which was itself raised on a small dais in the centre so that the Emperor could survey his subjects from a respectable — but by no means imposing — height.

The council chamber was full. Many senators were in attendance, along with members of the extended royal family. Come to see the show, thought Martius. Some — the most senior — were seated, but the rest were forced to stand, peering over others as they craned to get a view of their emperor.

As commander-in-chief of the legions, Martius took his permanent seat at the table — almost directly facing the throne. He deliberately avoided acknowledging any other members of the court. The primus general of the Empire did not curry favour with anyone.

Turbis, rosy faced and puffing slightly following the long walk from the palace balcony, stood behind his right shoulder until a kindly senator — Martius recalled his name was Gravo — beckoned the old general over and relinquished his seat to him. Turbis sat with a long sigh, and then mopped sweat from his brow with a cloth-of-gold handkerchief.

Martius noted that dozens of the Emperor’s own Golden Legion lined the walls, fully armed and standing to attention. More than he had ever seen in attendance before.

The leader of the court stepped into the room through a door directly behind the throne. He was dressed, as tradition dictated, in black from head to foot. Still mourning the death of the great Xandar, founder of the Empire, on behalf of its people. Frighteningly frail, the Leader appeared to stand only by grasping hold of his ceremonial silver-tipped staff. The staff itself was so thick that his hands could barely wrap around it.

The Leader stood in silence. Gradually, people noticed him, and the room became hushed.

The Leader’s arms shook as he lifted the staff and smashed its tip into the stone floor three times. “All stand for the Emperor, Mucinas Ravenas!” he proclaimed, his voice a dry husk.

The seated dignitaries stood and the long wait began. This emperor liked to keep his subjects waiting. Martius thought it was probably a power game, but why the most powerful man in the known world needed to play power games was beyond him.

He is not his father’s son, he thought, not for the first time. He had started to question the wisdom of hereditary leaders at about the same time he had developed his concept for elections in the Legions. It was an obvious leap to think that a leader chosen by the people might be better at running the Empire than a man who held the position purely through an accident of birth. The problem with his burgeoning theory was that the old emperor, who had also gained his position by an accident of birth, had somehow reached a level of enlightenment through which he became an excellent leader.

Martius kept his theories to himself; to discuss them was high treason. Yet despite this silence, somehow rumours had grown that he wished for a republic. Even Turbis cajoled him in private about his ‘lunatic’ ideas. He considered it ironic that the harder he denied the rumours and swore allegiance to the throne the stronger they became.

Dangerous rumours, they will be the death of you.

Emperor Mucinas Ravenas appeared through a door behind the throne. He had taken to wearing high shoes, no doubt to hide his diminutive stature. He sat on the plain stone throne, and a slave placed a stool under his feet as he made himself comfortable.

After a brief pause, Ravenas nodded, smiling in the general direction of the waiting throng. “Please, be seated.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and nodded again, the very image of innocence.

“My General Martius,” the Emperor said, examining his fingernails. “I trust you carried out my orders to the letter?”

“Yes, sire.” Martius replied.

“They are decimated then?” The Emperor looked up to meet Martius’s eyes, lips tight, small eyes gleaming in his cherubic face. “Purified of their shame?”

“It is done, sire.”

“The Twelfth have been disbanded?”

“Yes, sire.” Martius’s skin prickled and began to itch.

“Their standard has been broken and burned?” The Emperor tilted his head coquettishly.

“Yes, sire.” Martius chewed the inside of his cheek. He felt a sharp sting as he drew blood, his mouth registering the metallic tang of it.

“Hah. Good, good. That’ll teach the cowards, won’t it? That’ll teach them to abandon their posts!” Ravenas stroked a finger over the arm of the throne.

Martius fought to remain calm. He seeks a reaction; give him none. Silence filled the chamber.

“My dear Martius.” The Emperor’s voice trembled slightly, a red tide riding up his neck as his face flushed. “I said, That… will… teach… the… cowards… Won’t it?”

Martius met the Emperor’s gaze. “Yes, sire.” Play the long game. Just play the long game.

“Yes.” The Emperor produced a thin-lipped smile. “We don’t need that kind of soldier in the army. We need proper soldiers. This is what happens when you let common men take command. I would think so, yes. This is what happens when you allow a man to rise above his station.” Ravenas leaned forward in his throne. “Not a commoner yourself are you, Martius?”

Martius shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Sire, I am ashamed to have to remind you that I am of your blood on your father’s side. I believe we are distant cousins. I could have the priests consult the genealogy but, as you probably know, house Felix has a long and illustrious history. Like you, sire, we trace our ancestry back to the great Xandar himself.” Be cautious; your pride always gets you into trouble. He lowered his gaze slightly, taking in the golden brocaded shirt the Emperor wore. It probably cost more than a legionary earned in a year.

“Yes, yes of course.” The Emperor shifted back in his seat and crossed his legs. “Forgive me… cousin. Let us talk of other business. The mighty Third will be rebuilt?”

“Yes, sire.” Martius forced a smile though it pained him. “The phoenix will rise.” Except maybe the boy. Conlan must be disciplined. The boy really had left him no choice.

“Good, good.” The Emperor nodded approval. “They did well. They saved the day. I hear they are almost as good as my Golds.”

“Almost as good as your six thousand, yes, sire.” The Golden legion had grown to double strength over the last ten years, perhaps, in Martius’s opinion, weakening them, diluting their mythos whilst mirroring the growing insecurity of their emperor. Three thousand had marched with Xandar when he first set out from Goya — three thousand golden men whose legend echoed triumphantly through the centuries.

The Emperor looked around the room. “My boys are the best, Martius.” He gestured at a stocky man in his fifties, who stood unobtrusively towards the back of the throne room. The man wore a golden cuirass on his chest: Xandar, depicted riding to victory in gleaming relief on the front. He held a legion father’s helmet under one arm. “Isn’t that right, Janus?”

Janus shifted his weight, his brows drawing together fractionally. “That’s correct, sire,” he said in a low voice.

“That’s right, yes, yes of course. My boys are the best. If we’d been there we would have won easily. Hah, maybe we should have come along? That’s it! I should have led the defence myself with my golden boys; I should have come to command the battle myself. Martius, why didn’t you ask me to come? You should have sent for me.” The Emperor’s right shoulder jerked up. His head twitched to the right.

“Sire,” Martius spread his hands wide again, “I feared that we would not have anyone left to defend the Empire. Forgive me, but I thought you would be best placed to protect the people… as always.” He risked alienating the other generals in the room with his comment, but he hoped he could count on their loyalty; he had, after all, sponsored many of them into their positions himself.

“My Emperor,” Turbis coughed gently, twisting his cloth-of-gold handkerchief in his hands. “Who better than you to defend the Empire, eh?”

Thank you old friend, thought Martius. You have not changed so much after all.

The Emperor paused for a moment, his gaze turning quickly from one general to the next. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “with the great General Turbis gone as well, who would have defended my Empire?” He smiled mischievously and glanced at Martius. “And if you had not been there, my good General Turbis, we might have lost the battle!”

He grows worse each day. Martius smiled broadly. The man is sick with power. He had always been a quiet boy, so painfully shy that he could barely speak. How does power do this to men? Why are some twisted so badly?

“As you say, sire,” said Turbis. He glanced apologetically at Martius.

“Yes, yes, that’s right.” The Emperor stood quickly and began to pace back and forth on the dais. “My thoughts are troubled though. Where is it, do you think, that these people came from? Why did they attack me? My Empire? What do you say, General Turbis?”

Turbis looked from the Emperor to Martius and back again. “Sire, I feel General Martius may have more intelligence on the matter than I — ”

“Hah!” the Emperor barked. “You are getting old, good General; perhaps you are correct.” He produced an unctuous smile. “Perhaps Martius does have more… intelligence. Would you agree Martius?”

“I would agree that I probably have more knowledge of the possible cause of the migration, yes, sire. Although it is mostly conjecture,” Martius replied.

“Well then, cousin, perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Martius formed his hands into a steeple with his elbows on the table; his eyes followed the Emperor as he continued to pace his little steps before the throne. “We know that they come from the south, beyond the borders of the Empire — ”

“Yes, yes, Martius.” The Emperor waved a hand impatiently. “I believe we could all have fathomed that.”

“They appear to share some kinship with the fisher folk of the Basking islands, such that they have some common language.”

“And where in the Empire are the Basking islands?”

Martius raised an eyebrow. “They are not in the Empire, sire.”

“Then where in blazes are they?”

Martius allowed himself a small shrug. “They are in the south, sire…” A chorus of sniggers arose from the room. “Well beyond Selesia. It is likely that the barbarians, who call themselves ‘Wicklanders’, were travelling for months before they reached our borders.”

The Emperor stopped pacing and surveyed the room, perhaps seeking the source of the derisive noises. “So why did they attack us?” His voice quivered slightly.

“I do not believe that they set out with the intention of attacking anyone, sire. As far as I can tell from the prisoners that have been questioned, they were fleeing north.”

The Emperor plonked himself sharply back onto his throne. “Fleeing from what?”

“That is difficult to determine.” Martius sensed he had the full attention of the room now; many craned over others to get a view of proceedings. “It would appear that they fled from what they describe ‘the ‘enemy’.

Ravenas leaned forward; his hands grasped the arms of the throne. “And who is this enemy?”

“We are not sure at this time, sire. I think it possible that the nomads of the southern steppes have united beneath one banner as they did many generations ago.” Six hundred years ago the nomads had ravaged the continent, almost reaching Adarna itself before their leader died mysteriously and they melted back into the vast tundra from which they emerged. “They have to be the prime suspects.”

Many men around the room nodded, whispering to each other, suspecting perhaps, as Martius did, that a new khan had arisen in the south.

The Emperor seemed to gain focus. “We need to know, I think.”

“I agree. I think we also need to know what happened to the remainder of the Wicklander people. We killed many men, but it is my belief that the majority of their people have fled back south. There have been reports from Selesia. They probably still pose a formidable threat to the Empire.”

The Emperor leaned forward. His eyes gleamed accusation. “But I thought you said they were beaten!”

“Perhaps they are, sire.” Martius spread his hands wide again. “We have no way of knowing how many remain. I would suggest that we send an expedition in force to investigate and neutralise the threat.”

Turbis coughed loudly. “I have to agree, sire. We need to know where they are, eh? Need to remove the threat. They could be rampaging through Selesia as we speak. We could muster twenty legions in little over a month.”

“I would also recommend that we send men south to fortify the cities and reinforce the garrisons,” Martius added. “It would be prudent, not just because of the Wicklanders themselves, to prepare in case their ‘enemy’, nomad or not, seeks to move north against us.”

The Emperor looked at his feet for a long moment. “Good, good.” He looked up and his eyes narrowed. “I thank you gentlemen for your advice. I have much to consider.” With that, he leapt from his seat and made to walk behind the throne.

The council leader, caught by surprise at the Emperor’s move to exit, slammed his staff into the floor twice, almost overbalancing as he did so.

“But, sire.” Martius stood, entreating return. We need to plan now, we should move now.

But the Emperor did not look back, his tiny strides carrying him quickly from the chamber.

CHAPTER TWO

Conlan

The hole was not pleasant. It wasn’t dirty. It didn’t smell. Light percolated down from the small window high above in the stone ceiling. Conlan thought it a very civilised hell.

The Martian reforms of the military — named after the man who introduced them — had resulted in the removal of the majority of capital punishments in the armed forces. The legions had still required a form of discipline though, to deal with those in need of it, without damaging them physically. They were, after all, precious commodities.

Where once it had taken six months to train a legionnaire, it now took three years. Every man was expected to study the new science of ballistics, along with carpentry, metalwork, leatherwork, fortification theory, formation theory and psychology to name but a few, the idea being that in the field, if the need arose, any man could step up and lead. The army, post reform, was rightly hailed as the most sophisticated and feared in the world.

I should feel lucky, Conlan brooded, that they consider me too costly to replace. Too precious to damage permanently. Everyone knew the stories of the hangings and floggings that were rampant in the legions that men like Turbis and Martius had inherited.

It was said that many of the soldiers in the old days — all citizens of the Empire — had baulked at wearing heavy armour and carrying extensive field kits; the result had been an army that was hopelessly prepared for attack or defence. The sand wars and the later rising of the hill tribes had demonstrated very effectively that the legions were no longer up to the task of defending the Empire. Some generals had taken to training and kitting out their own legions at this time. The result could so easily — if history were to be believed — have been civil war and chaos. However, one of them, by lucky chance, was Antius Turbis, who led his men to defeat the desert tribes and later rose to be the preeminent power in the Empire. After the Emperor, of course.

The lesson had been learned: the legions reorganised and the army completely restructured, thanks to Felix Martius. Under Martius, there would be no more hanging, no more flogging; men would be treated with respect and they would treat others in kind. No appalling physical punishments for the men in the new regime.

This was how the Hole had been conceived. A psychological punishment that caused no physical harm. It was a bare brick room, four yards square with one small, high window and one iron bound door. A hole in the floor, beneath which — a long way down — water ran, serving as the latrine. There was no bed or seat, just a hard-packed dirt floor, whilst food and water was pushed through a small port at the bottom of the door twice a day. Half ration, of course; it was a punishment, after all… and short-term hunger would do no permanent harm.

The trick of the Hole lay in sensory deprivation. No sound reached the prisoner, no stimulus; nothing was left in the cell that would keep the mind occupied. The food plate and water cup were secured to chains and withdrawn within minutes, forcing eating and drinking to become a frantic exercise.

The first day dragged; the second spanned a lifetime; the third seemed aeons. On the fourth, Conlan almost lost himself to the abyss…

He knew he had been without stimulus for ten days now because, with nothing else to occupy him, he had focused on this one task. Ten long days remembered that merged into one but separated into what seemed like individual lifetimes. He had a lot of time to think; time to brood over recent events.

Conlan had been indoctrinated in the legion to believe the legend of Felix Martius — the great war cat, people called him, in reference to his house. The great cat that changed it all. The great beast that ordered the Twelfth legion decimated and erased from existence.

“No!” Conlan had shouted with all the strength of his horror as he stood on the balcony overlooking Empire Square.

Martius had turned to look at him with murderous intent in his eyes; his answer to the challenge a nonchalant flick of the wrist, barely pausing whilst Villius, acting on this barely perceptible order, his eyes red rimmed — perhaps also mourning the Twelfth — had stepped in front of Conlan.

“You must be silent,” Villius had whispered, putting his hands on Conlan’s shoulders. It was a move that would have ended in disaster if General Turbis had not appeared at his side, eyes wide and intense.

“That’s enough, boy,” Turbis had said, his voice curiously gentle. “You are a legionary. Be strong. Stay silent.” The last words were delivered through lips drawn tight. Beads of sweat clung to the old general’s ruddy face.

Conlan had found himself nodding slowly as shock set in. He knew then that he had crossed a line. The malaise that had been afflicting him since the battle at Sothlind had finally led to a directly insubordinate and destructive action. This was the new legionary army, yes, but tolerance did not stretch to insurrection.

And so Conlan had stood, dumb and impassive, Villius holding his right arm, Turbis his left, and watched fifty-one men die in agony.

The priests of the dark god had seemed to take an age to make their slow procession from the temple. As they approached, the gathered crowd appeared to draw back as if in fear of their power. The power of the priests of the Sender. Representatives of the one god that all men would eventually meet. The god who chose to send the immortal soul to live with the gods in eternal summer or scream with the damned in the demon pits of the underworld. There had been fifty priests in all, and they had approached in two morbid columns. Conlan had marvelled at their number. They rarely appeared in public and were rumoured to be a small sect, but clearly this was not the case.

Martius had stood, his hands fixed to the balustrade, his attention fixed on the procession for the most part, his eyes flitting occasionally to the Twelfth, his expression unreadable.

You cold-hearted bastard, Conlan had thought. To show no emotion at this monstrous act. Are we not supposed to be the civilised? Are you not the man who saved the Empire? The great cat, they called him, fierce but fair, they said. How little they knew.

The priests had formed in front of the Twelfth. They flowed like wraiths into the ranks, until they stood, evenly spaced, between the rows of men.

Conlan had known what was coming and the knowledge made it all the more difficult to bear. He could only guess — as he stared down at them from the balcony — at the terror the men of the Twelfth must be experiencing.

But none of the doomed legion had tried to move or run — although some appeared to be straining at their bonds — and none made a sound. Most stood stock still, as if at attention on the parade ground, maybe imagining a better reality, or perhaps locking themselves away from what was to come.

The priests were silent as death throughout. Then, as a bell tolled in the temple they had issued from, they had begun their grisly task. The dark god would decide who should be taken. The decision was made by poison.

Conlan knew from his time in the academy — where military history was a key component of officer training — that each priest would carry many vials. The dark elixir, they called it; and rumour was that it played some part in the initiation of the priests themselves. On this occasion, it had another purpose.

With practised moves, as if they performed the ritual every day of their lives, the priests opened vials and offered them to one legionary at a time. To begin with, the soldiers complied with little fuss, some shook their heads, but then as if under some kind of trance, swallowed the draught the priest held to their lips. They would have known, or hoped as Conlan did, that only one in ten of the vials contained poison.

Decimation. The execution of one tenth of a legion as an example to the remainder. Who would dare to run from battle if they risked such punishment?

The atmosphere of sullen acceptance had evaporated when the first man died. It was not a swift and painless death. The legionary emitted a piercing scream as his body arched upward at an unnatural angle, arms rigid behind his back. Standing on tiptoe, he spewed black vomit over the cloak of the man in front of him, then jerked forward and span as he fell, hitting the men around him, his body heaving in spasms as he emitted harrowing mewls of pain.

It must have taken two minutes for the man to die. The priests continued, unperturbed, whilst the legionaries became ever less submissive. Some backed away and shook their heads, whilst others clamped their mouths shut and refused to swallow.

As the death toll mounted, the crowd, initially silent, had begun to buzz, first as people pushed for a better view, and then as polarisation occurred.

Some seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, even calling out encouragement.

“Good riddance, you bloody cowards!” someone shouted.

“Ye spineless pricks!” another screamed at the hapless Legionaries.

Others looked appalled, and some of these pulled away. They left the square in disgust, covering their children’s faces as they did to shield them from the macabre spectacle.

In others, these emotions turned to anger. Fights erupted as arguments broke out in the crowd. The scene in the square soon regressed into chaos and the militiamen moved to quell a potential riot.

Meanwhile, the other legions stood by in shocked silence, impotent despite all their power to intervene. Shackled by nothing more than rigid discipline and loyalty.

They could have stopped it. That was the pity of it all, Conlan thought. If only they could have thrown off the mental shackles that bound them, they could have saved their brothers and taken the Empire for themselves, claiming it back from vile despots like Martius and the Emperor. Taking it for the people.

As the sun progressed through the heavens, the priests delivered their dark elixir to every member of the forlorn Twelfth Legion. In many cases, towards the end, by clamping their hands over mouths and forcing a gagging swallow.

When the pitiful mewling finally ceased, fifty-one hideously contorted bodies lay on the hard stone slabs of Empire Square.

Conlan wished he could forget the scene, erase it from his memory and from history. It had joined his other nightmares now, so that every night — as if deprived of stimulus, his mind had nothing better to do than to relive past horrors — he returned to experience it over and over again.

He sighed and allowed his body to fold slowly to the floor until he was sitting, legs crossed.

He stared at the door, as he was in the habit of doing at about this time every day. His stomach ached urgently as his thoughts drifted to food. Any minute now, it would arrive and he would force the meagre portion down. Then he would meditate; then exercise; then sleep, if that was what it could be called, returning again to the maelstrom of his subconscious. Most nights he would drift on the edge of sleep for hours, trapped between dream and reality. Often he returned to consciousness with a start, his heart thumping in his chest, cold sweat cooling his body.

Syke. She was the only relief he would get. But even the memory of her would twist and the goddess’s crimson hair would become blood. Blood that flowed to cover her white armour at the battle of Sothlind, drowning her exquisite features in gore as it coated and transformed her face so that she became something hideous and unnatural, a true creature of nightmare, more gorgon than god.

The door rattled.

Conlan shifted his weight minutely, barely able to hold his anticipation. His stomach growled now at the thought of food.

It opened wide. Shocking brilliant light surrounded the silhouette of a man in the doorway, a silhouette that slowly resolved into the form of the proctor, Danus Villius.

Villius looked down on Conlan, his expression seemingly a mixture of guilt and empathy. “Cohort Commander.” Villius’s tone, in contrast to his expression, was strictly formal, brusque even. “General Martius will see you now.”

CHAPTER THREE

Martius

The sun drifted low in the west, the sky reddening as the afternoon transitioned to evening. Martius sat on a plain veranda overlooking the ornamental pool in the central courtyard of his townhouse.

His wife, Ellasand, and his two sons, Ursus and Accipiter, sat upstairs on the balcony of the east wing. Ellasand looked to be reading, happily absorbed in her favourite pastime. The boys were fixated on a game board in front of them, no doubt playing ‘steal the king’ as usual, obsessively dedicated to besting each other, as ever.

With the exception his southern estate and villa, the courtyard of the town house in Adarna was Martius’s favourite spot on earth. So many good memories permeated the house that they blended into one long continuum of contentment and safety.

Directly in front of him, down three steps from the veranda, the ground down to the pool was split into vegetable patches and small stands of dwarf fruit trees. He was proud of this place. There was, of course, no need for a man in his position to do any gardening, but he did it for the sheer relaxation. There was something hypnotic and medicinal, he found, in getting his hands dirty and nurturing plants to bear fruit or yield sustenance. For most of his life, he had studied the arts of death but in this place he repaid the earth for his sins, often spending hours pruning tomatoes or setting seeds. It was a tranquil penance, one he longed for often when out on campaign.

The other side of the garden belonged to Ellasand. It stood awash with colour, the result of her dedication to the blooming flowers and shrubs she nurtured. Truth be told, Ellasand believed more in delegation and often enlisted the aid of servants or freedmen in completing the grand design for her half of the courtyard. A design which, Martius found, constantly morphed and refreshed. Barely a month went by in Ellasand’s garden without a major change being instigated.

Horticulture had become a form of friendly competition over the years, as if Ellasand was trying to outdo Martius’s efforts, to eclipse his garden with the beauty of her own.

Hearing footsteps approach, Martius turned to see his servant, Darcus, escorting Turbis, Villius and the troubled young officer, Conlan, towards his table.

The boy looks nervous, he noted, although at twenty-five he doubted many would call Conlan a boy. He has much to learn about life, but there is iron in him; he may have potential if he can control his recklessness.

Martius doubted that Conlan knew how close he had come to execution for his protestations during the decimation. If the Emperor — who grew keener every day on martial punishment — had been present, Conlan would probably be dead.

He recalled seeing Conlan on the battlefield for the first time. Standing, exhausted, the young officer had clutched the standard of the Third like a magical talisman. The men Conlan had fought with — the men he had led on the battlefield — reported he had shown outstanding courage and bravery, leading the group after his legion father, Yovas, had perished.

Conlan’s actions had probably delayed the Wicklanders’ attack on the rest of the army. That, along with the presence of the ‘others’ — the mysterious knights in white armour — had been enough to allow time for the cavalry to be gathered. He may have as much to do with winning the battle as you did, Martius reminded himself.

Conlan did not attempt to hide his contempt as he approached. His lips quivered, face crimson with rage. He even reached down with his right hand for a sword that was not there.

Martius chided himself for meeting this unpredictable man in his home, but it was the only place he could think of where it would be safe to speak openly. A quick survey of the area revealed several garden implements — all potential weapons — a few paces away in the vegetable garden. He had no fear for himself, but Conlan was a hardened soldier in his prime, a danger to any man. He looked up again at the balcony overlooking them. Ella caught his eye and waved lazily. He waved back in response and observed whilst he did that his boys were still engrossed in their competition, fixated on the board between them.

Good. Stay where you are, stay safe.

“Turbis, Villius.” He stood slowly, and motioned for the men to be seated at the table, one either side of him. It would be best if Conlan sat opposite. “Please, come, sit. I have pomegranate juice, fresh from the orchard, Cohort Commander.” He looked Conlan in the eyes, sensing confusion and maybe a tinge of fear. “Forgive me; your given name is Conlan, yes?” If his name was anything to go by, Conlan was a descendant of the northern hill tribes, who, completely at odds with Adarnan traditions, rarely used their family or clan name.

Conlan stood stiffly beside the table for a long moment before sitting at last, but only after his seniors had settled. “Yes, sir,” his voice cracked as he spoke. “Conlan Danson, sir.”

“You are of the hill tribes, yes?”

“My father was a legionary, his father was a clansman from the hills, and my mother was a baker’s daughter from Adarna.” His tone was terse.

Martius smiled to put the man at ease. “It is often the way these days. The Empire has absorbed so many nations.” Be careful; you must sound like a pompous snob to him. “And so many different peoples have intertwined. We are all citizens though. That is the great thing about our nation. Our equality.” He cringed inwardly as he spoke. You’re out of touch; it’s been a long time since you could pretend to be one of the people — if you ever could at all.

Conlan leaned forward. “Actually, sir…” His eyes blazed with intensity. “I was wondering. If there is so much equality in the Empire, why are the majority of the senate and senior officers of pure Adarnan blood?”

Thankfully, Darcus chose the moment to interrupt gently; his giant frame moved to stand beside Conlan, perhaps to remind the man that he was outflanked. “Will you require anything else, sir?” he asked, his voice low and sonorous.

“Well, Darcus, I have to say that I think the vegetable patch needs tending. Would you be so kind as to get a couple of lads and clear up?” Martius replied.

Darcus paused momentarily, then, with a sideways look at Conlan, he nodded gently. “Of course, sir.” He raised an arm and two more housemen, both bearing legion tattoos on their biceps, appeared from the shadows of a nearby room. All three moved into the garden and stood, tools in hand, staring towards Martius. None made any effort to tend the vegetables.

Darcus my old friend, you’d already prepared for trouble. Darcus had always been faithful, even as a legionary; always ready as ever to defend the house of Felix. But not a very good gardener, by the looks of it.

Martius sipped his pomegranate juice. It had been a good year for the orchards; the juice was sweet yet mildly astringent. “You are right to question the order of the Empire,” he said, viewing Conlan over his goblet. “There is much in what you say that is true. Myself and Villius here are both from noble houses.”

Villius nodded earnestly and looked around the table. “Yes, it’s true.”

“But General Turbis,” Martius gestured with his goblet, “is no more a blue blood than you are.”

“And proud of it.” Turbis puffed his chest out and cast an amiable wink towards Conlan. “I came up through the ranks. Never knew my father, died when I was young. Mother was a bloody good seamstress. Nothing wrong with being common is there, boy?”

“No, sir, there isn’t,” Conlan said respectfully. “But he,” as he said the words he nodded towards Martius without making eye contact, “just murdered fifty-one of my good… and common brothers.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Villius replied, voice firm and defensive. “It wasn’t General Martius.”

“Then who was it?” Conlan snapped. “It looked like he ordered it from where I was standing.”

Martius took another sip from his goblet, then swilled the contents slowly around. The juice was particularly bright and red this year. “It was ordered by the Emperor. I had no choice.” This boy has no sense of self-preservation. He is released from the Hole, has no idea of his fate, and yet he is happy to argue with his superiors.

Conlan sat back in his chair. “But you still gave the order.”

“Had no choice, boy,” Turbis grumbled. “He couldn’t disobey the Emperor. No one can.”

“But…”

“Conlan.” Martius put his drink aside, and fixed Conlan with a stare. “I had no choice. I did not agree with the decision. I argued as much as I dared with him, but he would not be moved. Believe me, no one wanted to save the Twelfth more than I did.”

“Why would you care about the Twelfth?” Conlan shook his head. “Why would you care about any of us?”

Martius dropped his gaze. He cursed himself for showing weakness but he would not take the blame for the destruction of the Twelfth. “I cared about them because they were mine.”

Conlan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For Martius the pain was too fresh. Villius broke the silence. “General Martius began his career with the Twelfth,” he said. “He was legion father to them in the end.”

Conlan appeared to deflate. The fire extinguished from his eyes, his ire with it. He raised his right hand to his ear and tugged absently at the lobe. “The Emperor made you decimate your own legion? He made you destroy their standard? They will never march again!” Conlan’s voice trembled. “For the gods’ sake, why would he do that?”

He is reckless and seems to be set on suicide through lack of self-awareness, but he has a strong will. Perhaps strong enough to question anything he felt was wrong. If he could learn some discipline, Conlan might become a useful ally.

“We live in a complicated world,” replied Martius. “We are only human, and as such we are ruled by our own emotions, fickle and thoughtless just like the gods in whose image we are made.”

“Martius is a threat and the Emperor wants to hurt him,” Turbis interjected. “The Emperor doesn’t like him.”

Martius stifled a smile. “Well, that is another way of putting it my friend, yes.”

Conlan reached forward, grasped the jug in the centre of the table and slowly poured himself a drink. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

He seemed to have found his nerve. Either that or he did not care about his fate.

“I thought you’d brought me here to sentence me, or demote me, or have me flogged or… shamed out of the service. What am I doing here?”

“Well,” Martius said. “I always like to get acquainted with a new legion father.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Conlan

Conlan reeled. LEGION FATHER? The words echoed through his mind, and he doubted the events of the last few weeks, doubted his very sanity. Am I still in the Hole? Or have I been driven mad by the isolation? He looked at Martius, sitting calm and relaxed across the table. The man had a thin-lipped smile on his face, his eyes glinting onyx in the sunlight, aloof and unreadable.

“Well,” said Martius. “Are you going to say anything?”

“Legion father?” Conlan croaked, his throat resisting reality as much as his mind.

Martius’s smile broadened and he raised an eyebrow. “You were voted in by the men three days ago. It was a landslide victory.”

“How?” Conlan replied. The words slowly sank in. Voted in? He had not long been centre branch leader, never mind his promotion to cohort commander, a post that he had undertaken, for the most part, in the Hole.

Turbis snorted loudly. “It’s a vote boy, eh?” He reached over and patted Conlan’s shoulder.

Conlan had expected, at the very least, to be dishonourably discharged, to face the prospect of seeking civilian work, or worse, joining a mercenary band in some far flung state, the Farisian Empire, perhaps. But this? Surely it was a joke. He did not know what to think of Felix Martius. He wondered if the general was truly an honourable man, or if this was just an elaborate game, such as he had heard the nobility were wont to play with the lower classes.

Martius reached forward, picked up the jug from the middle of the table and topped up everyone’s drinks in silence. The sound of the liquid echoed like laughter in Conlan’s ears. The gods were fickle, he had heard. If so, they must be laughing at his fate.

He nodded his thanks and took a sip of the pomegranate juice. After the campaign rations and water he had consumed for the last ten days, it tasted like nectar. His stomach grumbled loudly, an insistent reminder that he had not eaten for many hours.

Martius smiled at him, face open and unguarded for the first time. “Darcus, lads.” He gestured to the three servants who still stood in the vegetable patch. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to get us some food? I believe our guest must be famished.”

Darcus, a huge gangly man with a badly mangled nose and crooked teeth looked questioningly at his master. “Sir?” he replied, voice deep and sonorous.

“It’s alright, Darcus. We are in no danger.” Martius gestured again with his hand. The big man nodded and led the others in the direction of the largest chimney in the house, which looked to Conlan, to be attached to the kitchen.

“So I am to be the father of the Third, then?” Conlan said, absently watching the servants’ backs as they departed. He thought it strange that had not seen any slaves in the house.

“You are.” Martius nodded. “The Phoenix Third is yours. The remaining nine hundred have been joined by the remnant of the disbanded Twelfth. Your legion is just under half strength, but the men are strong and we are already filling the ranks with new recruits.” He paused, looking into the middle distance over Conlan’s head. “The boys from the Twelfth really swung it for you, I think. Rumour has it they all voted for you… Your outburst may have gotten you into trouble, but it also bought you many friends. That and the fact you were the only cohort commander in the Third they knew anything of.” Martius fixed Conlan with a stare. “You will look after those boys, Father Conlan, the Twelfth have a long and illustrious history and I will not see it completely destroyed. There is a reason I had them protect the right flank at Sothlind. They are fine soldiers. Treat them well and they will follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

Conlan nodded. His outburst should have cost him his career, and possibly his life, but instead it had bought him a legion of his own. A pang of guilt tugged at him for distrusting the primus general. There was true compassion in Martius’s voice as he spoke of the Twelfth. Conlan could only guess at the depth of his loss.

“I will do my best to honour their loyalty, sir.”

“Good. Make sure you do,” Martius replied. “I like you, Conlan, but you need to know that you cannot be so blatant in challenging authority. Your outburst left me no choice but to punish you. You do not know how lucky you are to be alive. If the Emperor had been present… You will find that I value constructive criticism in those I command, but you must not challenge me in public. I am always happy to be questioned privately. Do you think you can work with this arrangement?”

Conlan flushed. He had doubted — no hated — a man who clearly did not deserve it. “I understand, General. It will not happen again. I am yours to command.”

The three servants returned, laden with bread, cold meat, cheese and fruit.

“Good,” said Felix Martius. “We have much to discuss, I have a special task for you. Villius will fill you in on the details while we eat.”

“Do we have wine, Martius?” Turbis asked. “All this juice is unsettling my stomach.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Conlan

After two days, it still had not sunk in. Legion father. The ultimate accolade for any rank and file legionary; and now it was his. The Third Legion, his beloved Third, dropped into his lap like a child’s gift on Empire Day, with General Martius playing the part of indulgent father.

Conlan still could not reconcile himself with the thought of being one of the most senior frontline officers in the Empire. Legion fathers were undoubtedly those most respected by the rank and file; in many respects, the whole legionary system revolved around loyalty to them above all else but the Empire itself.

“You are certainly quiet.” Martius’s voice was soft. “I will give you that.”

Conlan turned towards the general, not knowing whether to idolise or hate the man beside him. “I am sorry, sir.” He took a deep breath. The air in Veteran’s Park was the clearest in the city, benefiting from a steady, reliable, breeze that blew up the Harlax River which bisected Adarna. To the east lay the bustling hub of the city proper; to the west, on the other side of the river lay the richer suburbs that had sprung up as the city grew. “I am still in shock, I think.” Two days ago, I was in the Hole. Two days ago, I hated you for what I thought you had done. The decimation had been on the orders of the despotic Emperor, Mucinas Ravenas, but he still, to some small degree, begrudged Martius his forgiveness, and wondered if the general could have done more to stop the horror of the decimation.

Martius laid a hand on Conlan’s shoulder; his grip was firm and friendly. “I know. It is quite understandable. You have gone through much in the last few weeks.” He swept a hand to encompass the whole area. “The Empire has been through much over the last few weeks. It is not surprising that you are… a little worse for wear.” He released his grip and patted Conlan gently on the back. “For my part, I am sorry for what you have had to endure.”

Conlan thought back to his time in the Hole. Perhaps the worst torture he could have imagined: no pain inflicted but an overwhelming absence of sensory input — that had been the hardest thing — whilst he had tried to keep himself occupied, he doubted that his mind would have survived prolonged exposure to the Hole. No one was strong enough for their mind to survive for long. It struck him that in trying to avoid the barbaric capital punishments of the past, Martius might actually have developed a far more sinister penance.

Keen to change the subject, Conlan made an effort to take in his surroundings. Veteran’s Park was the largest public area in the city. It occupied a large swathe of land within the loop of the river that had served in ancient times to protect the city from attack. “I always wondered, how is it that a park was built within the loop of the river? Isn’t that a waste of land? I mean, couldn’t they have built houses of something here?”

Martius’s obsidian eyes bored into him for a moment, as if assessing the state of his soul, carefully measuring how to respond. Eventually, Martius seemed to shrug lightly. “The park has existed since the time of Xandar. Most scholars agree that he dedicated it to his veterans, those who accompanied him on the march from what we now call Xandaria. It was his way of recognising the dedication and commitment of his troops, I think.”

Conlan nodded, glancing behind to where Martius’s three servants, Darcus, Andiss and Dexus, followed at a distance that was far enough to be respectful and close enough that they could react quickly to protect their general if a problem arose. Are they here to protect him from the population in general, or are they a precaution in case I cannot be trusted? “It was quite a gesture; the park must take up about a tenth of the city. He must have been quite a man… I wish I could have known him.”

Martius nodded. “A sentiment most soldiers of the Empire would share, Conlan. He was a great man indeed. The park is a fair portion of the old city, that which lay within the loop of the Harlax before its course was diverted.” Martius looked towards the river, a small smile playing across his lips. “It was a great gesture, that much is certain. A gesture made somewhat easier by the fact that the park is low down in comparison to the rest of the city.”

“Low down?”

Martius’s smile broadened. “As in, liable to flooding…” he turned towards Conlan and raised an eyebrow.

Conlan smiled for what felt like the first time in an age. Somehow, he could not help but warm to Martius. The man’s charm was infectious, although he had no doubt now that this was just another weapon in the primus general’s armoury.

“Why are we here, sir?”

Martius smiled again. “That’s really a rather difficult question to answer, Father Conlan.” He raised an eyebrow again. “I rather think it is better targeted at a priest. Although I am sure my nephew would have a few ideas he would love to share with us…”

“You know what I mean, sir.”

Martius’s eyebrow drooped back down. His expression became serious and he looked straight ahead for a long moment.

Perhaps I have been too familiar, perhaps I misjudged him. He may be no different to the others of the elite. Conlan waited anxiously for an answer.

Eventually, Martius took a deep breath. “We are here to get to know each other, and perhaps to allow me to expunge some of the guilt I feel.”

“Guilt at the decimation?” Relief flooded through Conlan. For some reason he found himself desperate not to offend the general.

“Guilt at all of it. If I had better predicted the course of the battle, the Twelfth might not have been put under such pressure and broken. Your Phoenix Third might be stronger.” Martius’s eyes were distant as he spoke, as if reliving the events of the battle.

“No one could have predicted what happened, sir.” A part of Conlan could not believe that he was forgiving the man. It screamed at him to remember Dylon and the rest of his brothers. But he knew the truth was simple. No one could have predicted the battle. The Twelfth were a mature legion at full strength; they were simply overwhelmed by the weight of barbarian numbers. “You didn’t have enough men to hold the valley. It’s a miracle we won.” It’s a miracle we had help from the heavens.

Martius blinked slowly and exhaled. “I know,” he said softly. “But you will learn as a leader that the assurance you could not have done better is no consolation for the guilt that you feel at the loss of your men. I am responsible for the death of thousands of men, Conlan… over the years; a fair share of them were our own.”

“Sir.” Conlan nodded gravely, shocked at the passion in the general’s voice, lost for any other words.

Martius was silent for some time, clearly lost again in his own thoughts. “I see in you something that is rare, Conlan,” he said eventually. “You have a spirit that is difficult to smother, a questioning mind. But you are young and that leads you to be brash… Perhaps I should start by telling you a little of life. My understanding of life, that is.”

“Your understanding of life?” Conlan’s mind reeled. Young and brash. Somehow he knew that Martius was right. Perhaps a smarter man would play a smarter game. Was Martius intending to educate him in soldiering? He did not know; but he knew that a year ago, before it all changed, he would have given anything just to talk to the living legend that now walked beside him.

Martius nodded. “Bear with me. Indulge me if you will. It has taken me many years to form my views. Years that you do not have. Age is both an advantage and a curse, Conlan. Of that I am certain. With age comes wisdom; not always, but usually.” He gave a half smile. “It is all relative, you understand. A man who is not very smart will remain so — he can only work with the lot that he has been given — there is no magical transformation for those who are not blessed with a modicum of talent or intellect.”

“So if you’re stupid you stay stupid?”

“You have a way with words, Conlan; you and some others of your generation. Perhaps it is always the way with youth. You challenge us by your very existence, and remind us that mortality has a purpose, perhaps. Maybe we need to make way for you.” Martius waved a hand dismissively as if banishing the thought. “You are right, of course. The stupid stay stupid. But you must remember that you have no right to look down upon those who are not as gifted as you are — much as you would hope that the many who are more gifted than yourself would not look down on you.”

Conlan flushed. “I didn’t mean — ”

“It’s fine. I understand. Just remember that there are always people out there who are better at some things… better at many things than you are.” Martius took a deep breath. “I never have been very good at imparting wisdom, even with my own children. To the point, Conlan. Let me tell you my thoughts on life.”

Conlan pursed his lips. Clearly the general was in a strange frame of mind, but perhaps this was his way with coping with the grief of his loss. “Yes?”

“I do not know if there are any gods, Conlan. Even with all I have recently seen. A logical man questions everything until he has proof before him. The priests tell us that every man has to do certain things in a certain way in order to get to paradise. I deny this. Instead, I have found my own simple enlightenment.”

Thinking of enlightenment, Conlan found himself looking at the sky, as if the firmament would grant him the knowledge he needed to ascend to a higher plane of consciousness, and, perhaps, match the general.

“What is your enlightenment?” he asked when the sky offered no answer.

“It does not matter if there is a judgement made on you from above. If there are no gods, then there is no afterlife. If there is no afterlife, then we are nought but dust and bones in the end and oblivion is all that awaits us.”

Conlan nodded. Oblivion is the most logical answer; more so than gods in white armour coming to Earth, in any case.

“The point is, Conlan, that it really doesn’t matter. There shouldn’t be a need to be good because you have to be. You should realise that the enlightened path is to do the best that you can and be as good as you can because you are constantly judging yourself. If you are dust in the end, then you should make an impression. A positive impression, whilst you have the time.”

They approached a statue. It was one of many in the park that had been donated over the years by various members of the Adarnan aristocracy. It depicted the God Toruss as a bull-headed man, roaring at the sky with fists clenched and held skyward.

On the plinth below the statue, someone had painted: ‘THEY HAVE COME’ in red, with the initials ‘M.T.’ underneath.

“Marek Tyll,” Conlan whispered. The mad preacher might still be at large.

“The preacher?” Martius stopped and examined the plinth. “I have heard of him. They say he is a deserter, but no one has been able to catch him so far. He has surrounded himself with so many zealots that I fear there would be riots if we attempted arrest. His movement grows.”

“I saw him once. A few weeks ago. The day before the… the decimation.” Conlan looked at the red initials. A chill ran down his spine. The paint had dripped so that it looked much like blood flowing from a wound.

A look of mild revulsion crossed Martius’s face. “And do you think that he is doing the best he can for his fellow man? Do you think that he is using his time productively?”

“I think he may be a dangerous man for the Empire.” Conlan glanced around; he had the strangest feeling that there were eyes looking upon him.

Two men stood by a tree nearby, dressed in plain brown leggings and tunics, alike to those worn by thousands of others in the capital. Their hands thrust deeply into their pockets.

“They have the look of killers,” Martius said, his tone remaining steady and conversational. “I fear they may have been following us for some time.” His eyes narrowed. “There are two more behind us, on a stone bench by the pond.”

“Who do you think they are?” How long have you known?

Martius grinned. “I have no idea. Zealots of this mad preacher perhaps. Or maybe just veterans wanting a look at the great general. We are safe, I feel, as long as we have Darcus and the boys with us.” Martius raised a hand and waved at the men by the tree. “Ho! Gentlemen, would you like to join us? I was just discussing idealism and enlightenment with Father Conlan here.”

Both men dropped their heads, turned and walked quickly away.

Conlan glanced around. The men who had been sat on the bench walked briskly away down the path towards the river.

“Oh yes,” said Martius. “I forgot to mention one other thing in my rambling little lecture.”

“What’s that, sir?” Conlan could not see any other watchers.

Martius patted him on the shoulder. “The other thing about life, Father Conlan, is that you have to watch your back. There really are enemies everywhere.” He sighed, then a small smile played across his lips. “Now, why don’t we find out who is so interested in us?” he quickly jogged off up the path in the direction of the first two men.

Conlan stood rooted to the spot. He turned to Darcus, who stood some distance behind with Andiss and Dexus.

Darcus returned his gaze and then glanced towards the general. He shrugged — as if accustomed to this level of spontaneity from his master — and set off in pursuit with the others.

What man purposefully seeks out danger? Conlan’s legs nevertheless carried him after the general. Soldiers should follow orders, after all. Most of the time.

Within a minute, beads of sweat formed on his brow. His weeks of confinement in the Hole had taken a toll on him, but as his legs pumped he found his body responded eagerly to the exertion.

Martius halted at the top of a nearby hill and shielded his eyes with a hand.

Conlan drew up alongside him. The sun sat low and bright.

They peered down on a host of market stalls that spread out over several acres in a large hollow at the edge of the park that bordered the city. The Farisian spice market, hosted weekly on this spot, was famous throughout the Empire.

Darcus, Andiss and Dexus waited at Martius’s left shoulder. They looked tense with anticipation. Darcus rested his hand on the pommel of the short sword scabbarded at his side. His legion tattoos detailed a long and varied career in the forces. In pride of place, on his left bicep, sat the sigil of the Twelfth. Andiss and Dexus bore the same mark, but clearer and fresher, not yet blurred by the marching of the years.

I should have known. He surrounds himself with trusted veterans. Conlan wasn’t sure if it was ironic or simply sad that their legion was no more. It reassured him to have brothers at his side though.

“There!” Martius pointed down into the market. “Look. They are taking the central road, heading straight through…”

Conlan squinted into the distance. Two men dressed in brown walked briskly down the central highway. They ploughed a clear furrow through the milling citizenry. They did not seem to fear pursuit either, as they appeared to make no effort to disguise themselves.

As he watched, others coming in from the east joined the two. Conlan couldn’t be sure but they looked like the men who had been sat on the bench earlier. The second team of observers. A thought and a fear tickled the back of his mind. This was no group of admirers seeking to catch sight of the famous general. They were far too organised. And all the more suspicious for it.

“Sir,” Conlan said more firmly than he had intended. “Perhaps we should withdraw. It doesn’t seem wise to continue the pursuit. There may be others.”

Martius chuckled. His eyes sparkled as Conlan had seen them once before, on the battlefield at Sothlind when the general sat astride his horse and addressed the tattered remnants of the Third after routing the horde. “You may be right, Father Conlan, but I will be damned before I let a mystery like this go unsolved.” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, I am sure we can deal with anything that might come up.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Darcus?”

“Never been a problem before, sir,” Darcus replied, his baritone voice confident and strong.

Without another word, Martius set off down the shallow slope towards the market.

It wasn’t long before they were caught up in the hubbub of the shoppers and stalls that seemed to fill every conceivable inch of space. Others might have been disoriented, but Martius quickly led them to the central path.

As they neared the farthest edge of the market, which almost touched upon the city itself — the buildings of Adarna rising high over the market stalls — Conlan spotted their quarry.

Four men, dressed in the plain brown homespun of the common man, walked purposefully towards a large white building that perched at the edge of the park. Outside the building, several rows of trestle tables were set on the grass, occupied by a fair crowd of citizens, no doubt enjoying a hard-earned drink after hours of haggling in the market.

A large portion of one whitewashed wall displayed a mural that identified the building: the inn on the green. One of the oldest taverns in the Empire, if the legends were true.

Conlan and his friends had occasionally frequented it in his youth, much to the chagrin of the owner, who had chased them from the bar when he discovered their true age. ‘Come back when ye are men!’ he had scolded as he brandished a broom in their direction, a murderous look upon his face.

Conlan had enlisted not long after and thus never returned. It seemed strangely appropriate that he would come back now as a man. Just doing as I was ordered, like any good soldier would.

Their quarry entered the tavern through the main entrance: a pair of iron bound oak doors that would not have looked out of place in a castle wall.

Martius halted and turned to face Conlan. A small smile played across his lips. “What do you think?”

It could be a trap. The whole place might be full of people that want to kill you. It’s only a matter of time before someone recognises you out here. Conlan resorted to what he knew best — and what Martius might relate to — his military training. “It makes no tactical sense to enter, sir. We don’t know what, or who, awaits us inside. We should have watchers posted on the tavern day and night and try to find out what’s going on here — ”

“Ah, yes, the long game.” Martius nodded his approval. “I like your thinking, Conlan. I often play the long game myself. It tends to be a very reliable strategy.”

Conlan sighed in relief. “I’m glad you agree, sir. I can have some men from the Third posted to — ”

“But…” Martius turned the full force of his attention to the tavern; it was as if he might see through the outer wall and determine what danger might lie inside. “Sometimes the element of surprise can give one an advantage. They do not know that we have followed them, and so we have the advantage.”

Is this a test? Perhaps a rite of passage designed by the general to assess leadership skills? But if it was a test, what path to take? A memory from his days in the academy surfaced. ‘A good leader should know when to follow.’ Weren’t they the words of the great general Martius himself?

Conlan stood to attention. “What are your orders?”

Martius smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They still burned with energy, and possibly ire.

This is not a test.

Martius nodded as if to himself. His decision clearly made. “Follow me, lads.”

The interior of the tavern was light and airier than the legion bars that Conlan had become so accustomed to over the last decade.

A great window, its small glass pieces held in place by a fretwork of lead, adorned the western wall. Through it, sunlight poured into the interior. The ceiling, meanwhile, was high enough to accommodate a mezzanine floor, and off the balcony there were many doors to the residents’ accommodation.

The tavern had changed little since his youth, but Conlan noticed that some of the plain glass pieces in the huge window had been replaced with coloured ones, so that the opposite wall and the bar itself were illuminated with rainbow spots of shimmering colour.

Martius approached the bar, his stride confident. The general made no effort to hide his presence. But somehow this served to enhance his anonymity, and no one turned to look in his direction.

Their quarry stood at a large circular table to the right of the main entrance, in the far corner of the building. They had their backs to the bar and appeared to be conversing with several others who sat, largely obscured from view.

Outnumbered two to one at least. Conlan shook his head. He loosened his sword in its scabbard as subtly as he could. Life with Felix Martius was turning out to be interesting, if a little unpredictable.

They reached the bar and Martius lay his hands on the smooth oak surface. A portly barman with a long, drooping moustache moved to stand before him.

“What can I get ya?” the barman asked.

“A flagon of mead and five cups should do the trick,” Martius replied with a broad smile.

The barman turned and busied himself collecting the order.

Martius said, “I see nine so far,” his tone light and conversational.

Conlan nodded. “Me too. The four we followed and five at the table.”

“There may be more, sir,” said Darcus, his voice so deep that it was almost lost in the background chatter that echoed to the rafters. Market day looked to be very lucrative for the inn on the green.

“Maybe so, Darcus, my old friend. Most pressingly though,” Martius turned to his servant and raised an eyebrow, “you did bring some money out, I hope?”

Is that self-mockery or just a hangover from his aristocratic roots? Conlan couldn’t begin to imagine the level of privilege that meant a man didn’t need to carry money. He is still one of them, no matter how enlightened, he reminded himself. Could a man ever really leave behind the traditional prejudices of his class and upbringing? Or is that just a reflection of your own prejudice?

Darcus grinned and revealed huge, crooked teeth. He reached into a purse at his waist and produced a small silver coin. “This should be enough, sir.”

Martius took the coin. “Thank you, Darcus. I knew I could rely on you!”

Is he enjoying himself? It struck Conlan as absurd, but Martius showed no sign of stress and, from the beginning of the chase, had become positively jovial. It’s like he thrives on danger.

Martius gripped the coin between his forefinger and thumb. “Do you think we have enough to buy another flagon?” he asked Conlan. “I am a little out of touch on these things I am afraid.”

A silver penny is enough to buy at least five flagons of mead. Conlan took a moment, and then swallowed his first reply. “I believe so, sir.”

Martius nodded. “Good.”

The barkeep returned with a large clay flagon and five goblets. “Will that be all, sir?” He turned his head to one side as if studying Martius for a moment.

“Yes, but…” Martius leaned across the bar, his manner conspiratorial, “you see the table in the far corner there?” He pointed back over his shoulder. “Do you know any of them?”

The barkeep’s head turned from Martius to the table and back again. “Aye, I know them, General Martius. Same as I know you.”

Martius rocked back from the bar. It was a subtle move, but enough that it might give him traction if he needed it.

I knew he’d be recognised. Conlan took a small step forward.

“And how is it that you know me?” Martius’s tone remained calm.

The barman lifted his sleeve. A legion tattoo adorned his bicep. “I served with you against the hill tribes, sir. We fought together on the front line at Vindum.”

Martius’s shoulders dropped slightly. He leaned forward again, raised a hand and clapped the barman on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother… Now tell me, what do you know of those men?”

“That’s Jhan Guttel and his gang. They’re a bunch of lowlife scum, but they pays for their drink, so…” The barman shrugged.

Conlan turned towards the table. With a name like Jhan, the leader had to be at least part Farisian. Sure enough, a dark-skinned man with a black beard sat between four others. It wasn’t unusual for foreigners to frequent Adarna, especially Farisians. Guttel was about as nondescript as they came, his skin tone the only indication he might not be local.

“Would you do me a favour, brother?” Martius enquired of the barman.

“Name it, General.”

Martius leaned forward and whispered something to the man.

Conlan strained to listen but could not hear the exchange.

“… and keep the change.” Martius winked conspiratorially at the barman, then turned to face Conlan and the others.

“They haven’t spotted us yet,” Darcus reported to his master.

“What are you planning to do?” Conlan asked. Since leaving the Hole, or maybe since Sothlind, his life seemed to have spun out of control. He stroked the round brass pommel of his sword, drawing reassurance from the promise of protection it offered.

Martius grinned. “Grab your drinks and follow me.” His expression became stern for a moment. “No one is to draw steel unless they draw first. We do not want to cause a scene.” Holding a tankard in one hand and the half-empty flagon in the other, he set off towards the table.

Conlan followed. He didn’t know what else to do. Instinctively, he stuck close to the general. This won’t end well. A small part of him, nonetheless, had to know what Jhan Guttel and his men were up to.

The men at the table, engrossed in conversation, did not notice as Martius and the others approached.

Martius reached the table and thumped his flagon of mead down in the centre.

The men at the table all looked up at Martius. Shock registered quickly as they realised who it was that had disturbed their talk.

Jhan Guttel shot to his feet, horror painted clear on his face. “But…” he spluttered.

Within seconds, all nine men were standing.

By all the gods, I hope he knows what he’s doing.

Martius held both hands up, palms outward, and stepped back from the table. “Gentlemen, please. There is no need to stand for me. We are all friends here, really. I just want to talk.”

The men all turned to their leader. Guttel seemed to inspire loyalty, if nothing else. Some of them reached their hands under cloaks and tunics.

A wave of crimson fury spread up Guttel’s neck and covered his face. However, he remained silent.

“Now… Jhan Guttel, isn’t it?” Martius smiled pleasantly. “I just want to have a chat. Please, don’t do anything rash. Do you mind if I call you Jhan? You are Farisian, if I am not mistaken?”

Guttel moved slowly around the table until he faced Martius. He left a good distance — more than a full arm span — between them. Guttel’s men spread out either side of him, hemming Martius and the others into the corner of the room.

He fears our swords. Guttel’s men did not appear heavily armed and Conlan doubted that they would have much hope against trained, albeit mostly retired, legionaries.

As if reading Conlan’s thoughts, Guttel turned to one of his men and whispered a command. The man nodded and ran to the exit.

“What do you want?” Guttel asked in perfect Adarnan.

Martius shrugged. “I told you, Jhan, we just want to talk. I apologise for my error. You must be half Farisian, am I right? Born in the traders’ quarter, unless I am mistaken.”

Guttel scowled. “My father was a spice merchant. My mother is Adarnan. What is it to you?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just trying to make conversation…” Martius raised an eyebrow. “I was wondering though, as we are exchanging pleasantries, aren’t you going to ask who I am?”

Around the bar, people began to notice the altercation. Some stood and gawped, clearly enjoying the spectacle, but a large number made their way to the exits.

Guttel must have a reputation around here. The man he sent off must have gone for reinforcements. Conlan’s sword hand inched towards his weapon. Remember the general’s orders, his conscience chided. Stay calm.

Guttel snorted. “I know who you are, General Martius.”

“Ah, that is a shame. I was rather hoping you did not, and that your men were following me because they mistook me for someone else.”

Guttel’s bottom lip quivered. His eyes darted left and right and as if in answer, his men fanned out even further.

Conlan counted time with his heartbeat as it thrummed in his ears. Each beat a little faster than the last. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Orders or no orders, I may need to be quick.

Martius seemed content to wait for a reply. He clasped his hands behind his back as if to prove to Guttel that he was not threatened, or perhaps to prove that he was no threat himself.

Conlan’s heart pounded an urgent rhythm as the silence grew.

Guttel’s man sprinted back into the tavern, his footsteps reverberating on the wooden floor. His face was ruddy. His chest heaved with exertion.

“Well?” Guttel called over his shoulder. He didn’t take his eyes off Martius for a moment.

The man nodded. “He’s coming, Jhan!”

Marek Tyll marched into the tavern. Two huge men, who each bore wooden clubs the size of a man’s arm, flanked him. At least a dozen more, all armed, followed behind. He was dressed in the same tattered clothing that he'd worn when he preached to the crowd near Bezel Square. It looked even more threadbare and worn than it had. The man’s beard had grown long and scraggly. He looked every bit the prophet of the gods that he claimed to be.

“General!” Conlan grasped Martius’s shoulder. “That’s Marek Tyll!” As he spoke, he searched Tyll’s face. Did I fight alongside you at Sothlind? Were you a sword brother like poor, dead, Jon Gyren? Like Dylon? But the man remained a stranger, just as before.

The inn erupted into chaos.

Those customers that remained, either recognising Tyll or spotting the weapons that his followers bore, scrambled towards the back door, climbing over tables and each other in their eagerness to escape.

A lack of movement amongst the chaos drew Conlan’s attention to a pair of cloaked and hooded drinkers. They sat at a small table in the opposite corner of the room. Their eyes gleamed at him from under their deep cowls. The smaller of the two stood, as she did, her hood slipped and revealed her hair-blood red, the colour of death.

Syke!

The sight of her shook Conlan like a blow. “Syke!” The shout ripped from his lungs and echoed across the tavern.

She glanced towards him and their eyes locked for one sweet moment. He lost sight of her as a crush of patrons sought the exit. When they had passed, she was gone, like a phantom conjured from the depths of his subconscious to taunt him. Just as she had in his dreams since Sothlind.

Jhan Guttel raised his chin and thrust his shoulders back. His eyes gleamed dangerously. “My men were following you, General, but only because goodman Marek Tyll here paid me, and — ”

“Where is my god?” Marek Tyll thundered at Martius as he approached. “You will tell me now, for I am his voice on Earth!”

Conlan thought he spotted a glimmer of indecision in Martius’s eyes.

“You saw them!” Tyll continued. “You saw them too… Why have you not spoken out? Tell me. Tell me now!” Then more quietly, plaintively almost. “Do you know where they are?”

Jhan Guttel slowly backed away. He shrugged his shoulders as if absolving himself of any involvement. He smiled, but he could not hide the relief in his eyes. “Master Tyll,” he addressed the ragged prophet, “my men and I have business elsewhere…”

“Aye, begone.” Tyll waved a hand in casual dismissal.

“No hard feelings I hope, General?” Jhan Guttel smirked, then turned and quickly departed with his men.

The tavern stood all but deserted beyond the ragged half-circle of zealots.

Conlan counted twenty-one men with Marek Tyll. Four against one. Not odds that they were likely to beat, even with swords. He was glad of Jhan Guttel’s departure though; his nine would have turned a difficult task impossible. There will be time to track that one down… If we survive.

Martius cocked his head to one side and glared at Tyll, his eyes unblinking. After a long moment he spoke. “Are you a deserter?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.

Tyll did not seem to notice. He pointed a crooked finger at Martius. “You have seen the gods. They have returned.” His face turned crimson. “Why would you deny them?”

Martius pursed his lips. “I asked you a question.” His voice was pitched low now, but commanding nonetheless. “Are you a deserter?”

“Sir?” Conlan touched Martius’s arm. What in all the hells is he doing? Marek Tyll was clearly beyond reason. Trapped, perhaps, in some warped world of his own making. A deserter, maybe, but he might have been driven mad by the bloody insanity of battle itself.

Conlan glanced towards the corner of the room to where Syke — or the phantom of her — had appeared, but there was no trace of the crimson goddess. The hawk had flown.

Marek Tyll’s eyes took on a lucid cast; just for a moment, they shone bright with the light of understanding. “Pah!” he spat. “Heretic!” Then he turned and walked away, flanked by his two giant bodyguards.

The rest of Tyll’s men charged in a mad scramble to reach the heretics before them. In his eagerness, one man tripped bringing two more down with him.

Martius drew his sword. “Back to back!” he barked.

Conlan needed no further instruction. His blade squeaked against the wood of his scabbard as he drew it. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it had jammed, then it pulled free.

A man swiped a meat cleaver at Conlan’s head. He ducked the blow and sliced his blade into the man’s groin. It was an automatic riposte, drilled into him through years of training. Martius had said that he did not want unnecessary death, but Conlan’s body was trained to slaughter. Now, after weeks of frustration, it jumped eagerly to its task. The man screamed and fell to the floor, his life pumping away onto the dusty planks.

“We cannot hold, sir.” Conlan kicked an attacker’s kneecap; the man howled and leaned forward. Conlan brained him with the pommel of his sword. He, at least, may survive.

“We don’t seem…” Martius dodged a knife blade and ripped his short-sword up in a tight arc. The blade sliced through the attacker’s shoulder and he fell back with a scream. “… to have much choice.” He stabbed forward, his eyes shining with fury or joy and another zealot fell back.

Is he still enjoying it? How can he smile at a time like this?

Conlan barely blocked a club. It grazed his shoulder and glanced off the site of his injury from Sothlind. The old wound twinged. A shock of pain coursed down his arm. For a moment, the vista before him morphed and he was back in the valley battling the horde once more.

However, this rabble of zealots were no warriors. They were not heedless of their own safety as the Wicklanders had been.

A flash of silver caught his eye. A wickedly curved knife aimed at his left side. He turned instinctively, but he knew he could not stop it.

An image of Syke flashed through his mind, her eyes blazing with power and death. He wondered if he would meet her in the afterlife.

A short sword slammed down into the knife wielder, the hand and knife sheared clean off. Darcus didn’t pause. He swept his blade up and severed the zealot’s carotid, dispatching him with cold precision.

Six men lay dead or wounded on the floor. The rabble held back. Some picked up Marek Tyll’s last word and shouted it like a war chant. “Heretic!” They sought to find a gap in the legionaries’ defences.

“It seems this man Tyll is more of a threat than we suspected,” Martius said.

“A fair assessment, sir.” Conlan replied. He turned briefly to Darcus and nodded his thanks. I owe you my life, he wanted to say.

Darcus simply shrugged and returned his attention to the zealots.

“Sir, do you have a plan?” Are we going to die here? It seemed ironic, perhaps, to die in a bar brawl after surviving the horror of Sothlind.

“Always, Father Conlan. A good leader always has a plan.”

“Is the plan for us to die in ignominy?” The words came out before he could stop them. He is your commanding officer! the legionary in him chided.

Martius laughed. “I certainly hope not.”

A whistle blew. The sound of running feet smothered the insane chanting of the zealots.

Conlan saw a red plumed helmet first as dozens of city militiamen poured into the tavern.

“Lay down your weapons!” the captain of the militia shouted over the heads of the rabble. “You are surrounded.”

“Ah,” Martius said. “The reinforcements have arrived.”

Grudgingly, one by one at first, and then en masse, the zealots dropped their weapons.

The innkeeper, who had entered the tavern with the militia, saluted Martius from across the room.

Martius returned the salute. “My thanks to you, brother!”

The innkeeper snapped to attention, revealing something of the soldier that he had once been. His face beamed with pride. “As you command, General.”

“You planned this?” Conlan gasped for breath, sweat dripped from his forehead and down his back. I am out of condition… weak. Daily drill would begin again tomorrow. You need to be prepared for anything. A walk in the park had reminded him of that today.

Martius raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps not so much planned as adapted.”

“You mean you made it up as you went along?” You really should think before you speak. A door to a new world of possibilities had opened for Conlan at Sothlind, but the Hole had served as a painful reminder that, in the Empire, free speech was not always the best course of action.

Martius turned to face him, his eyes black and unfathomable, like the very pits of the netherworld. He did not speak for a long time; finally he said, “A fair assessment, Father Conlan… Such a shame Marek Tyll escaped…”

CHAPTER SIX

Metrotis

Metrotis stared hard at the figure before him. The man was just over six feet tall; lithe but muscular, his glossy black hair was cropped close, thick and lustrous like fur. His eyes were golden brown, a dark ring around the outside giving an illusion of depth that really was quite disconcerting.

You could lose his soul in those eyes, Metrotis thought.

The man did not have a single blemish on his skin: no spot, scar, freckle or bump marred his features. Metrotis knew that beneath the plain white smock the man wore, the same was true of his entire body. He bore no sign of imperfection. He was perfectly proportioned, as if he had been sculpted rather than born, every muscle clearly defined. Outwardly, he appeared to be about thirty years of age; the only clue to this was in the masculinity of his features and the maturity of his physique. It was clear to anyone who looked that he was not fresh from adolescence, but a man in the prime of his life.

Metrotis had observed the man before him in this manner for weeks, and remained deeply frustrated by his lack of progress with the subject. Whereas the barbarian, Wulf — held captive just down the corridor — was now verbose to the point of irritation, through his translator. Metrotis considered that if he had to hear of Wulf’s prowess in battle — or indeed the bedroom — one more time, his head would split.

In stark contrast to Wulf, this prisoner often did not even appear to be present in the true sense of the word. He ate; he slept, although very little. He urinated and defecated where he was supposed to, once he had been shown what to do, and he was capable of following simple directions and gestures. Other than that, the image of masculine perfection seemed an empty and barren husk.

It was a puzzle to Metrotis. He had always loved solving puzzles. At first, he had believed his uncle Martius’s assertion that the man was a soldier who had received a blow to the head during the battle at Sothlind, but the man showed no obvious signs of trauma.

In consternation, Metrotis had consulted the physicians at the healer’s temple: they told him it was not unheard of for a man to lose his memory at times of great trauma or stress, even without a severe head wound. Metrotis considered that a battlefield must be really quite stressful, and so had resolved that this man had suffered a head trauma of sorts, just one that couldn’t be seen, a mental trauma so severe that it rendered him into an almost childlike state.

Metrotis stood up and began to pace up and down the room. He found this helped him to think and distracted from the bottomless brown eyes that had taken to following him everywhere he walked.

He heard a rustle and turned to see the man had stood too, not for the first time mimicking the actions of his gaoler. Metrotis looked down at his arms and saw his hairs were standing on end. It was a reaction he was becoming accustomed to when sharing a room with the strange and perfect man.

He shivered despite the warmth of the room and looked again at the immaculate man whose eyes were curiously lifeless, but chilling nonetheless.

He remembered the first time the man had looked at him. For days, he had shown no sign of life, no sign that he understood or even witnessed events in the world, just staring into space as if locked within his own mind. It was a day like every other, where Metrotis had paced and sat and spoken and observed. He had been frustrated as usual right up until, with no provocation, in a moment of calm and silence, he turned to see those eyes looking back at him. There was something predatory in the gaze that had sparked an ancestral fear within Metrotis, so that his bowels turned to water. There was something in the look, he thought. Such as a lion gives its prey just before it pounces to make the kill.

His uncle Martius had put his mind to rest that evening. “Nothing to worry about,” he had said. “This is good news, he must be recovering some of his faculties. Keep trying.”

Then Metrotis had asked the obvious question. “Uncle, why, if he is a war hero, is he chained to a wall and locked in a room in your town house?”

The general had given him a curious look before sighing deeply. “You are right, nephew, you are right. It is not fair to keep a hero in this manner. Truth be told, I was concerned for you… You do not know how to fight, and if he had truly lost his mind… Yes, I know I assured you he was not harmful. I will leave the decision to you. If you wish, you can have the chains removed.”

Metrotis was left unsure if his uncle meant him harm or was concerned for his safety. From that moment on, two housemen, clearly legionary veterans by their tattoos, stood guard outside the door to the man’s cell at all times.

A week later Metrotis had asked the guards to remove the man’s chains.

Metrotis had looked into his unfathomable eyes as he was unshackled. “Don’t be afraid,” he had said. “We are not going to hurt you.”

Afterwards, Metrotis reflected that whilst the barbarian, Wulf, still wore his chains, he had made the decision to release the man that he felt in his soul was the more dangerous of the two. Despite the oddity of the man, Metrotis had a sense that he was, in some bizarre way, an innocent; there was a quality to him that might lull the unwary into a false sense of security. Metrotis did not want to be the unwary.

The man took a step towards him, eyes blank and emotionless but fixed on his own regardless.

Metrotis waved a hand absently towards the low cot that stood against the wall. “Go, sit down Optuss.” His Uncle Martius had refused to share the man’s name and so Metrotis had taken to using the name of a long dead pet dog, with sleek black fur, that he had as a child.

Optuss promptly turned and sat on the cot, returning his gaze to Metrotis’s face, his expression blank and seemingly uncomprehending.

A polite knock at the door interrupted Metrotis’s thoughts. People could be so rude sometimes; he wondered why they couldn’t leave him to think in peace.

“Sorry to disturb you, Master Metrotis.” It was the ever-formal proctor, Villius. “The general has asked that we come and see our guest.”

“Yes, yes!” Metrotis snapped. He had become quite territorial when it came to Optuss. “Who is ‘we’?”

Villius stepped into the room followed by a man in the uniform of a cohort commander.

Metrotis prided himself on knowing the insignia of rank and the uniforms of the men in his uncle’s precious army.

Metrotis said, “Well, what can I help you with?”

The unknown man stood like a statue, eyes wide and fixed on Optuss.

“The general wanted to know if Father Conlan remembered our guest,” Villius replied. His gaze drifted from the man called Conlan to Optuss and back again.

“Father Conlan?” Metrotis frowned. He’s far too young to be a legion father. “But I think you must be mistaken, Villius… This man is wearing a cohort commander’s uniform. Really, I mean you should know being a proctor and — ”

The newcomer, Conlan, raised his hand towards him, palm outward in a gesture of silence. Metrotis made a mental note that the man really was exceptionally rude.

“It’s a long story,” said Conlan.

Villius gestured towards Optuss. “Well?”

Metrotis allowed his frown to deepen; he did not enjoy being ignored and enjoyed his ignorance even less. “What is this all about?” His voice sounded tense to his own ears.

“I remember him. He was one of them. I am sure of it. He wore the image of a bear on his breastplate. We showed him to the general at Sothlind after he fell. I saw him kill at least a dozen of them in less than a minute. The gods only know how many he killed in the end.”

The father, Conlan, looked apprehensive as he turned his gaze back to Optuss.

“What is he doing here? I wondered what the general had done with him, but why keep him in his own house? You should have him restrained; you wouldn’t believe how fast they can move.”

Metrotis puffed his chest out slightly, and stood to his full height. He was pleasantly surprised to see he was slightly taller than the imposing young legion father. “Optuss is under my care. I can assure you I have performed many tests and he does not represent a danger to anyone.” I wish I could truly believe that. “I arranged for him to be unchained myself and he is perfectly biddable. You see, his mind has been injured by the trauma of war.”

Conlan laughed lightly. “If this is the same man I saw, and I am certain it is, he could kill you in a second.”

“That may be so and time will tell,” Metrotis conceded, feeling the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end again. “But believe me, at the moment he is not capable of harm.” He turned to Optuss and waved a hand. “Lie down, Optuss.”

He was delighted to see his subject obey without hesitation, gaze still firmly fixed on Metrotis.

“It’s true, Father Conlan,” said Villius.

Metrotis wondered to himself what it must be like for Villius to have to show such respect to one his own age.

“The man does exactly as he is told,” Villius continued. “He has developed some kind of bond with Master Metrotis here; he is biddable as a dog. I do not think he is a threat.”

Conlan shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I am telling you, you didn’t see it. The man is a killer.”

Villius shrugged. “I will take your word for it, sir.” He turned to Metrotis. “The general also wants Father Conlan to meet our other guest while he is here, if you please, Master Metrotis.”

Metrotis wondered if his subjects were going to become exhibits to be shown to all and sundry. “Oh, very well. Optuss, stay.” He led the men out of the room, leaving Optuss lying on the cot. The housemen closed and bolted the door behind them.

Some ten paces down the hall he stopped outside the room occupied by Wulf. “You will find this one not half as pleasant, I am afraid.” He opened the door and ushered the men in. “Don’t step over the line on the floor. We are not quite sure if he is house trained yet.”

Conlan stopped dead as they entered the room, well short of the safety line, his face a sudden mask of rage.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me…” Metrotis gave a small smirk. “You know Wulf as well?”

Wulf looked up, a feral grin on his face. “Hallo Metrotis,” he said in a thick, guttural accent. He looked curiously at the newcomers.

A long silence followed. Villius broke the quiet.

“Father Conlan? How do you know this man?”

Conlan seemed to force the words from unwilling lungs. “That’s the whore-son that killed Father Yovas.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ellasand

Felix Ellasand ran a brush slowly through her hair and stared at herself in the mirror. It was a routine that she had followed since she was a child and she found it, in many ways, the most relaxing part of any day.

Her reflection revealed the years had been kind. At fifty, she could still pass for much younger. Only the occasional grey hair marred the illusion. Martius had always maintained that she was the most beautiful woman in the Empire. Ellasand wondered if that was ever the case.

She tutted at her own vanity and turned away from the mirror in disgust. In truth, her moon bleed had started to stutter, just as her mother had told her it would. Ellasand found her temper frayed more as she got older. Only the other day, Elissa had almost driven her to despair with her incessant talk of a young noble she had met at court.

“What has happened to me?” she muttered to herself, a habit she was becoming acquainted with as the years passed and one that Martius found particularly amusing.

She stood, moved to her bed and perched on its edge. The book she had been reading lay on the sheets. She picked it up now and absently thumbed through to the page she had marked by folding the corner. Books and learning had increasingly become her escape over the years. To a certain extent, it had always been so. Now, even as her ageing eyes began to betray her, she found she was rarely without one.

It was a good book, Ellasand judged. A short treatise on the role of ballistic weapons in the modern legionary army by Martius’s brilliant young nephew, Metrotis. He made a good argument for the mechanical monstrosities being the future of modern warfare and showed, through the use of diagrams and pictures in his own clear and artistic hand, how these could be built to be more effective.

She read for some time, fascinated by the young scientist’s understanding of engineering. Metrotis seemed such a gentle soul and she wondered if he really comprehended the destructive horror of the machines he had developed. Finally, as the candles in the room began to burn low, Ellasand sighed, put the tome down and returned her gaze to the mirror.

The sound of song drifted up from below. Glacis, the cook, was singing as she often did in the evening. Tonight she chose an ancient hymn, ‘the choice of Terran’. Her rich, melodic tones penetrated the creeping dusk, keeping the night at bay, it seemed, for a moment longer.

Martius loved her, of that Ellasand was sure, but she wondered how long that love would last when her beauty faded as Glacis’s song soon would.

They had met late in life. She a wealthy merchant’s daughter whose father would not allow her to marry for fear of a huge dowry; he a hero of the Empire, freshly returned from the Xandarian hedge wars — which were really just a series of squabbles between the free states — and veteran of the pacification of the hill tribes. At thirty-five years of age, he had been in his prime, and as the oldest son of one of the ancient noble houses of the Empire, he could have had any woman he wished. Instead, after one chance meeting at the theatre, Martius had chased her with the single-minded abandon of a teenager. Finally, her father — realising that, as his daughter’s suitor was staggeringly wealthy he need not fear for his savings — had agreed wholeheartedly to the alliance.

“Will you still love me when I am a grey?” she said to her reflection, but the beautiful hawk-eyed woman looking back at her gave no reply. Increasingly, Martius would stay up late, working on his ‘plans’ and meeting with his staff and aides even more than was usual… even for a workaholic like him.

“A wind of change is rising in the Empire,” he had told her as they lay in each other’s arms just two nights before. “There will come a time when all men will be judged on their merits alone and will be able to reach their true potential. What if the legions were just the start, Ella? What if the men speak to their families, their friends, planting seeds of change…? What if the message spreads like forest fire in summer?”

“You must be careful.” she had replied, her heart thumping in her chest. “You cannot be associated with the republican movement; it is too dangerous — even for you.”

He had just smiled his confident little smile. “They know I am not part of it, my love. You must not worry. I believe in freedom and free thought, but I love the Empire, and the Emperor.”

“You loved the old emperor,” She had replied in a tone she immediately regretted. “Do not be fooled; his son is not cast from the same mould.”

Arguing voices and loud footsteps from the veranda dragged Ellasand from her reverie.

“I am telling you it was a valid move!” said a young and vibrant male voice, already deepened by the change.

“Uncle Metrotis says that he couldn’t find a reference to it anywhere and he looked in Goodlan’s almanac!” said another, very similar voice, just as vibrant but a touch slower, deeper and less clipped.

“I would listen to him, Accipiter,” said a female, her tone clean and crisp. “Don’t forget what Mama says about Uncle Metrotis: he’s probably a genius; and either way he’s definitely smarter than you are.”

Ellasand smiled thoughtfully as her children entered the room — without knocking as usual — through the ironbound door that led onto the upper veranda.

Ursus did not look at all happy. She thought it likely he had lost a game of steal the king, which was always deeply frustrating to him. She often wondered what it must be like for her twins, almost identical in every way physically, but so clearly different in so many others. They were equally matched in most things, but Accipiter, who constantly reminded Ursus that he was the elder by ‘at least two minutes’, did seem to have gained the upper hand recently when playing their favourite board game.

“Mama,” said Elissa, at eighteen a woman grown and three years the boys’ senior, “will you please sort these two out? It’s getting dark outside, and do you know what the little clowns were proposing to do?”

“Ah, shut up, Lissa!” snapped Accipiter.

“They,” Elissa raised her left hand and pointed at the pair, finger dancing from one to the other, “were proposing to have a duel with real swords, in the dark.”

Ellasand glowered her disapproval at the boys. “I certainly hope that isn’t true, you two.”

“We were just joking around, Mama,” Ursus said sullenly, elbowing his brother gently in the ribs. “We wouldn’t really have had a duel.”

“If that’s the case, do you mind me asking you both why you are wearing your swords?” Ellasand flicked a finger towards the sword belts they both wore.

The boys exchanged a look and then turned back to their mother, identical expressions of regret — that Ellasand had little doubt were contrived — on their handsome young faces.

“Forgot we had them on,” they replied in perfect synchrony.

Ellasand sighed. They are still so young, still as they were when they were children in so many ways. “You will report to Darcus at once and have him return your swords to the armoury. I will not have you carrying dangerous weapons around the house unsupervised.”

“Sorry Mama,” said Accipiter. “But we were just with Darcus, and Andiss, and Dexus at sword practice.” He smiled winningly. “We just forgot to hand them back… honest.”

Ellasand frowned. “I don’t want to hear any more. I will be speaking to Darcus about this in the morning and we will know the truth of it. Just do as you are told.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Go on now.”

The boys exchanged dejected looks and turned towards the door. A dark shadow flitted across them.

Ellasand looked up; she expected it was Martius, or perhaps Darcus looking for the boys. Come to chastise them, perhaps.

The man in the doorway was a stranger. And he held a drawn sword.

Elissa let out a piercing scream.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Martius

Martius sat at the desk in his study reviewing troop manifests. It was a thankless task, but a necessity. He paused to rest his eyes and looked out through the open window in front of him. The garden was in its full glory on both sides, the prize going to Ellasand’s ornamental beds, where her roses were stealing the limelight once again.

At the opposite end of the enclosed courtyard stood the kitchen. Outside its door, the cook, Glacis, sat on the steps, taking her turn at the butter churn as she chatted to the freed slave, Sissa. Glacis began to sing as she often would, in the evening as the sun began to set, her voice high pitched and melodic. She recited an ancient hymn to Terran, high god above them all.

Glacis and Sissa often sat in the same spot of an evening, and it cheered Martius on occasion to stop work and watch them at their duties. His household was a happy one — which was by no means the norm in the Empire — and it gave him a huge sense of satisfaction to see it.

He regularly sat at his desk these days, poring over figures and reports from all over the Empire, gathering intelligence from hundreds of disparate sources. It was the job of the primus general, and since the shock of the decimation, Martius had taken extra care to ensure that he knew what was happening throughout the Empire.

He heaved a weary sigh and dropped the report he had been reading. It told of yet more unrest in the Xandarian free states. This time it was Bodrus — birthplace of Xandar the great himself — jostling with its smaller neighbours for control of the lucrative gold trade from the Peonian hills. The city-state of Bodrus had dispatched cavalry to harry the wagon trains from Peonia, and there were reports of hijackings and merchants killed for the ore they transported. It would be a small matter, Martius thought, to dispatch the Forty-second auxiliary, stationed on the nearby desert border with Farisia, as both a show of force and not too subtle reminder that the free states were free in name only. Their independence a mirage stemming from empty promises made by Xandar himself over a thousand years ago, before he set off on his frenzied quest to forge an Empire.

If creating an empire is actually what Xandar meant to do, Martius reflected. He may just have wanted to keep on conquering until he reached the edge of the world. The great king may have had no thought for what he left in his wake.

He smiled as he spotted Ursus, Accipiter, and Elissa moving across the garden — clearly arguing as usual — Elissa threw her arms up in frustration at some comment, he guessed it came from Accipiter, sharp tongued as ever.

He had hoped to join them for weapons practice tonight but, with everything that was happening, there had been no time. Besides, Metrotis had insisted on demonstrating his progress with the mysterious silent warrior he called ‘Optuss’ that they held prisoner in the guest wing.

He furrowed his brow at the thought of the stranger in the cell nearby, something, for once, overriding his frustrations with Metrotis. There was much that could be learnt, he was sure, from the mysterious dark-haired ‘Optuss’ with his hypnotic gaze.

Martius recalled his first sight of Optuss, lying face down in the mud of the battlefield, clad in exotic armour the like of which Martius had never seen: creamy white with an iridescent pearly sheen. The stranger had been surrounded by the remnants of the Third Legion. The men seemingly afraid, mostly standing well back from the prone body. All except Conlan, who stood over him, an unfathomable look adorning his face.

“What do we have here?” Martius had shouted, his blood still soaring after his army’s triumph, his heart pounding a victory beat in his chest.

Conlan had looked up, frowning as if annoyed or confused at being disturbed. “Don’t know, sir. But there was more than one of them and they fought like demons…”

Martius had laughed. “This one clearly didn’t fight well enough, Branch Leader. It looks like you got him in the end.”

“Wasn’t us sir, we just found him like this. Wouldn’t have tried to take him in any case… just glad he didn’t fight for them.” Conlan pointed with his sword at the barbarian bodies lying all around.

Martius raised an eyebrow. “He fought for us? He doesn’t look like any legionary I have ever seen.” He remembered the strange disturbances they saw in the air as the cavalry charge began. But, not wanting to appear foolish in front of the men, he decided not to mention it. At the time, Martius dismissed a link between the lights in the sky and the strangely clad soldier lying in the mud. It was an opinion he had since changed.

Conlan had shrugged noncommittally in reply. “Not sure they were fighting for us, sir.” He paused, eyes flitting from side to side, as if searching for something, trying to remember a word. “Not sure they even really noticed us. It was like they didn’t even care that we were here.”

Martius shook his head. “Shame he’s dead. I would like to have had a talk with him.

A soldier with piercing blue eyes had stepped forward and knelt down next to the body, lifting the warriors head roughly out of the mud by the hair. “S’not dead boss, eyes are wide open,” he said.

“What was that?” His horse whinnying and shivering lightly had temporarily distracted Martius.

“Jonas said he’s not dead, sir.” Conlan had replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sword hand. “Looks like he’s been brained though, eyes aren’t focused, but he’s still breathing.”

Martius still did not truly understand why he had taken the decision to keep the presence of the strangely armoured man a secret. A secret, he reflected, that was known to more than a few legionaries, almost his entire household and his command staff. In retrospect, it had been a foolish move. All had been sworn to secrecy but he knew that word would eventually leak out.

It was too late to reveal the stranger to the Emperor, no explanation could hide the fact that he had conspired to cover up the man’s existence. He cursed himself for an idiot, but the deed was done. Every day the strange man remained locked in Martius’s own home, increased the risk of discovery or betrayal.

He had pondered for weeks over what, or who, the stranger was. He hoped in vain that Metrotis — whose intellect was exceptional despite all his annoying habits — would make a breakthrough. Perhaps I should have taken Metrotis into my confidence. However, Metrotis had a habit of letting his mouth run away with him, and from that perspective at least, he could not be trusted.

The stories collected from the legionaries at Sothlind had all been remarkably consistent. Unlike Martius and many of his cavalry group, they had not seen a strange disturbance in the air. What they had witnessed was mastery of the art of death. The strange warriors had carved through the barbarian horde with what was variously described as either joy or nonchalance. Some claimed that one of the strange warriors was smiling as he fought. All described laughter, but none saw where it originated. Not one person had seen the white armoured knights arrive or leave. They had noticed that one had fallen nearby after the routing horde fled south, his white armour a stark contrast to the carnage around him.

Optuss. The man sent shivers down his spine. Another name entered his mind. Marek Tyll. Martius curled his lip in disgust. Marek Tyll troubled him greatly. You let him get away. He cursed himself for allowing it to happen. For one heart stopping moment, when the self proclaimed prophet had confronted him at the Inn on the Green, Martius had thought the man knew his secret. ‘Where is my God?’ Tyll’s question had seemed like an accusation, as if he knew Optuss was held captive in the town house and sought to free him. But Tyll did not know the truth of it, of that Martius was certain. The man just wanted you to convert. But if that was the case, why had Tyll paid Jhan Tuttel to have him followed? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Marek Tyll would have to be dealt with, but for now there were bigger issues. The prophet could wait.

Martius stood and walked to a large oak cupboard set against the wall. He took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. He didn’t dare to look up for a second in case it had all been a dream. On a stand in the cupboard stood the pearlescent white armour that Optuss had worn. It was similar in style to the ancient Xandarian template, but where Xandarian armour was richly and ornately decorated, this was plain. On the chest plate the head of a bear, all in black, was depicted looking outwards, mouth slightly agape, vicious teeth bared. The bear’s head was the only adornment the armour bore. It was barely marked, just a few tiny scratches blemishing its iridescent purity.

He reached out and gingerly stroked the face of the bear, marvelling at the warmth and smoothness of the material as he always did. He wished again that he had taken Metrotis into his confidence; he would have loved to see the young man’s face as he viewed the armour for the first time.

“What are you?” he lifted one of the swords from its scabbard. The handle was made of the same material as the armour, smooth and curiously warm to his touch. The blade, clearly metal, was unnaturally light yet perfectly balanced. It was also razor sharp — a weapon to be wary of. “Perhaps Conlan is right,” he whispered to the blade. “Perhaps you are Lord Terran incarnate.”

A piercing scream echoed in the night and tore Martius’s attention from the blade. He turned to the window; it had come from upstairs.

It sounded like Elissa.

A floorboard creaked. Martius spun around. A man clad entirely in grey, his face hidden in the shadows of a hood, stood in the doorway. The man carried a short sword and a wickedly thin fencing dagger, like he knew how to use them.

Years of training kicked in. Martius knew he had to steal the initiative. He charged straight at the man. Other men might have shouted in rage, but he conserved his energy.

The hooded man sidestepped Martius’s charge. He was fast, very fast. He held his dagger defensively and swung his sword at Martius’s head.

Martius ducked and sliced his lightweight blade towards the man’s inner thigh.

The hooded man grunted in surprise and pain. His dagger, perfectly placed to block the blow, snapped in two. Martius’s blade hit home, biting into the man’s flesh with a soft thump. The broken end of the dagger clattered to the ground.

Martius yanked the blade out, twisting it as he did. Even a grievously injured man could still be a threat. This was no time for mercy.

Blood plumed across the room as the hooded man’s heart pumped his life away. He slumped to the ground, his back against the doorjamb and let out a moan. Then his eyes glazed as the dark god called his soul for judgement.

Martius pelted on through the door. He ran on instinct and panic, every fibre of his being screaming to reach his children and Ellasand.

Three men — dressed identically to the first — barred his way on the terrace. He saw others moving stealthily around the house on both levels.

The men spread out, no doubt seeking to flank him. He heard the sound of struggles around the house now. Another scream echoed through the courtyard.

Darcus rushed from the kitchen across the courtyard and buried a butcher’s knife in the back of an assassin. He did not see the man who stepped from the shadows and swung a sword at his head. Darcus slumped to the ground like a lifeless doll. His head lolled at an impossible angle, almost decapitated by the blow.

“Assassins!” Martius shouted at the top of his lungs. In his mind, he screamed Darcus! “We are under attack!”

An assassin rushed in from the right. Martius ducked, spun, and disembowelled him with one clean slice.

His blade swept free. He had known it would be easy to wield, but its sublime perfection was such that it felt like an extension of his body. For a moment he believed it might, truly, be the sword of a god.

He moved quickly back to the doorway, to ensure he could not be flanked, knowing that the corridor behind was clear.

Two more assailants joined the others. “This is him,” said one, his voice muffled by a cloth bound over his mouth. His eyes glinted malevolently as he looked from his disembowelled comrade to Martius. “We send you to the Dark God tonight, General.”

Martius smiled. Death held no fear for him; his thoughts were only of Ellasand and the children. He spun the blade of Optuss in his hand; it almost seemed to tremble in his grip, begging for battle. “COME ON THEN!”

CHAPTER NINE

Wulf

Wulf wondered when the little man would shut up. For days now, Metrotis and Sigurd the fisherman had interrogated him. They sat for hours going over the same issues again and again, repeating the same questions over and over. These people have too much time, Wulf thought. Either that or all the vegetables they ate had turned their minds to pigswill.

He had decided that the best way to get what he wanted was to withhold information, to drip feed titbits and occasional lies to pique his captor’s interest.

Initially he had performed for food, forgetting his pride and acting like the good little dog Metrotis seemed determined he would become. Give me some beef and I will bark three times, give me mutton and I will yip for joy, give me pork and I will howl with pleasure. The irony was not lost on him, but he had grown so desperate for good food that he was willing to compromise on his pride and honour. He had to stay strong, and the best way he knew to do that was meat.

He shook his head and wondered if Metrotis thought he had actually won, whether, perhaps, the little man thought his will had broken in the early days. If that was the case, then he knew his plan was working and Metrotis was deluding himself.

Every day he played the game. He listened to the translator, Sigurd, and learned words in the language of the iron men. He had never tried to understand another language. He was surprised to discover that it came to him with relative ease; it was just a case of remembering the sounds, really.

He hoarded the words, using his coveted knowledge occasionally to impress Metrotis, but he never revealed that for every word he pronounced accurately, he understood five more.

It was simple, really: listen to what Metrotis said, then listen to Sigurd relay the information, and then follow the return journey of his own words to Metrotis. Some of the words in his own language were even similar in some way to the language of the iron men, or the Adarnans, as he had learned they called themselves.

The second aspect of Wulf’s game revolved around information. For every piece of information given away, whether true or imagined, he gleaned at least a dozen for himself. He knew now that the Empire of the Adarnans spread all the way from south of the valley of death — where so many of Wulf’s people had died — to the frozen north, where Metrotis said there lived men who ate fish and hunted seals, much as some of his own people did in the far south.

When he had first grasped the size of this empire Wulf was appalled. One nation, which Metrotis informed him actually consisted of many nations, all living in harmony across an area that it would take a man months to cross on foot. The breadth of the Empire was far greater than the distance Wulf’s people had travelled to escape the enemy. With his new knowledge, he did not believe his people had ever truly had a hope of defeating the Adarnans.

Perhaps one day he will cross the boundary, Wulf mused, letting his eyes drift to the line on the stone floor that marked the limit of his manacled reach. Perhaps Metrotis will grow to trust me and I will kill him and escape this cursed place. Perhaps he would enjoy crushing the life out of the whining little wretch. Then escape, and feel the sun on his back. Run and hunt and wrestle again.

“Wulf,” said Metrotis, his tone even more petulant than usual. “Concentrate!”

Wulf grinned. He fully understood the words, yet he still made a point of turning to Sigurd, ensuring his expression was inquisitive.

Sigurd coughed gently into his hand; he looked mildly embarrassed. Wulf suspected the fisherman knew that games were being played.

“Master Metrotis would like you to concentrate please, Wulf.” Sigurd’s eyes assumed a pleading aspect. “Our session is almost done for the day and the sooner he is satisfied, the sooner we will be able to go home.” Perhaps realising the impact of his words, Sigurd raised a placating hand. “Forgive me, Wulf; you know what I mean.”

Wulf’s grin grew wider. He liked Sigurd, the man stank of fish — although thankfully, each day the odour lessened — but that was nothing to hold against him; Wulf had smelt a lot worse. The fisherman understood something of the honour and traditions of his people. Sigurd’s folk even worshipped the gods of sky, wood and earth, except that they had the tempestuous god of the sea, Sessus, at the head of their pantheon rather than the true King, Alarus, god of the sky and bringer of thunder. He was sure that there must be kinship between Sigurd’s fisher people and his own people of Wickland.

“It is no problem, my friend. My home is far behind me and forgotten by the world. This is my home now.” Wulf grabbed his chains in his fists and rattled them gently. “This is a comfortable home.” He shrugged half-heartedly.

Metrotis began to speak again rapidly. He repeated the same words as he spoke as if to reassure himself.

Wulf concentrated hard to understand. He would be asked about the reason for his people’s migration again, the reason they had come north.

“He wants to know who the enemy is,” Sigurd relayed. “He says that he does not believe that the enemy are fire giants riding aurox and wielding whips. He says that he knows you are playing with him and that he is tired of the children’s stories that you are feeding him.” Sigurd paused and motioned gently towards Metrotis. “He says there are no such things as giants and you know it. His uncle is growing impatient for progress and if there is a threat to his people he must know what it is.”

Sigurd paused, a dejected look on his face. “Wulf, please. I have a wife and three children living in this city. I know you do not love the Adarnans and I do not blame you. But I am not Adarnan, my children are not Adarnan.” He glanced nervously at Metrotis, perhaps wondering if the man knew what he was saying. “If the nomads have united and are moving north, please tell me. I give you my word I will not tell this man. If my family are in danger, I need to know. Perhaps I can get them out of the city, go back to the Basking islands, go back to my home. I know the nomads will not cross water; we will be safe.” He paused again and looked at Metrotis, who was clearly growing impatient. “I cannot leave my business unless it is serious. Please, Wulf. Our people are kin — you know this…”

Metrotis interrupted. He seemed to be questioning Sigurd on what he was saying, but Sigurd just shrugged and pointed to Wulf, perhaps making an excuse. Wulf couldn’t be sure though — the exchange was too quick to keep track of.

Wulf let his head drop and looked at his hands. They were calloused and worn from their constant battle with the chains that bound him. He wondered how he would feel if his own family was in Sigurd’s position, then realised that they were in the same position, if not dead already.

“Sigurd!” Wulf snapped his head up. He had not meant to speak sharply but his frustration was rising. “Take your family home. Get back to your islands, but I cannot say they will not come to you there.”

Sigurd turned sharply to look at him, ignoring Metrotis completely for the moment. “They?”

“If they come for this empire of Adarnans, then it is done. Take your family and leave, my friend — whilst you can.”

A shout echoed from the corridor outside — it sounded like one of the gaolers — followed by a clash of blades and a heavy thud.

Metrotis’s mouth dropped open and he looked at Wulf and Sigurd, his eyes wide with fear and surprise.

There was silence from the corridor.

Wulf stood slowly. This could be your chance. Hope was dangerous, yet he allowed himself to think there might be a realistic prospect of escape. Perhaps the remnant of his people had come north in force to take the city, perhaps they had not run and hidden as Metrotis had always maintained.

Sigurd turned to Wulf and nodded slowly, his eyes darted nervously towards the corridor. The fisherman moved gingerly to the door and stretched out his hand for the latch.

The door burst open.

A dark figure materialised beyond Sigurd and rushed towards him. Sigurd raised his hands reflexively for protection. It was to no avail; the tip of a sword burst through his back, and sprayed a fine mist of blood across Wulf’s face.

Wulf’s body responded on instinct, his arms shot up and he rushed forward. Pain erupted in his wrists as the chains binding him snapped taut. He strained against them, fire burned in his shoulders, but the iron did not yield.

Metrotis let out a yelp and scampered away from the carnage towards Wulf. He crossed the line on the floor — and the safety it represented.

As Metrotis retreated, the attacker — a hooded man dressed in grey — withdrew his sword from Sigurd’s twitching body and stepped into full view. Sigurd hit the floor with a thud, his head cracking on the slabs as his body juddered feebly, his life quickly fading away.

A second, shorter man dressed the same as the first, long blond hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, entered the cell. Sigurd’s killer turned and whispered something to his comrade, and the second man moved back into the corridor and disappeared from view.

A woman’s scream pierced the air, distant and muffled but long and forlorn. Wulf guessed there must be more attackers nearby. Disappointment flooded his body as he realised his people had not come to find him. This was an attack on the Adarnans. His own involvement was an accident.

Metrotis stood frozen to the spot in front of Wulf, staring at the assailant, his arms outstretched in supplication. “No!” he shouted. “No, no, please.”

Wulf reached out, grabbed Metrotis and dragged him backwards so fast that he lost his balance and landed in a heap on the cot. He looked at Wulf and raised his hands defensively before his face, abject terror shining in his eyes.

“Metrotis,” Wulf snarled. “Stay.” He had often heard Metrotis using this command with the man — who Wulf was certain was also a captive — in what he assumed must be another cell nearby.

He turned towards the hooded killer, bared his teeth and smashed his fists into his chest three times. The frenzied rattling of chains echoed in the cell. “Come. Come to Wulf!”

The man moved forward cautiously. He drew a small, wickedly pointed knife with his left hand. He gave his sword two practice swings as he approached, loosening his arm for the fight to come.

From the man’s movements, Wulf felt certain that he knew how to fight.

He stepped back, letting the chains hang loose to the floor. The killer would make his move — a straight, sword-led charge or a quick lunge and retreat. His sword was short in the fashion of the Adarnan men and Wulf thanked the gods for this: his reach would not be long.

Heart pumping, blood coursing through his body, Wulf tried to force himself to relax. The battle rage rose. Grasping tendrils of berserker fury fought for control of his body, pleading with him for release, but he forced them back down into the pit of his stomach. This was no time for rage; he needed his wits about him.

When the hooded man made his move, it was fast. He feinted right. Wulf’s body reacted without thought, responding even as he realised it was a trick, a feint. He cursed himself for the miscalculation.

The attacker switched his footing with practised speed, aiming a stab with his knife, directly at the heart.

Wulf twisted to avoid the blow. He whipped the slack in his chains forwards, they were not long enough to reach the hooded man’s face, but his head flinched backwards instinctively nonetheless.

It was all the distraction Wulf needed. He grabbed the man’s sword arm below the wrist, then twisted him around with all his strength and clutched him by the throat from behind. With a great heave, he drove the man’s own sword through his back, up under the ribcage. The man let out a gurgling scream as the blade clove his heart, and then slumped, heavy and lifeless in his arms.

Wulf dropped the corpse in disgust and turned to Metrotis. He twitched his arms so that the chains rattled again. “Free,” he said. “Metrotis… free… Wulf.”

Metrotis was shaking, but he managed to nod his head in understanding as he gasped for breath. He stood, reached into a pocket and produced an iron key, then fumbled — almost dropping it — as he unlocked Wulf’s wrist shackles with trembling hands.

Wulf smiled and rubbed his wrists. Somehow, the pain felt good, it felt like freedom.

Freedom.

If he could get out of the building, he might have a hope of leaving the Adarnans behind, of finding his people.

He looked down at the body of Sigurd. His friend looked peaceful in death. A large pool of blood grew slowly around him from the gaping wound in his chest. The fisherman’s palms had been sliced open, probably when trying to grab the blade of the sword that killed him.

Sigurd was a distant kinsman, dead by the hand of an unknown and cowardly enemy. Those who attacked unarmed men had no place in this world, it went against all the laws that Alarus — great god of the sky — had laid down when he created the world. Such men should be consigned, screaming, to hell, where they would burn for eternity. He forced his gaze away from Sigurd. Somehow the man became the echo of every fallen kinsman, the shadow of past pain. He could not allow his people to suffer more pain.

Metrotis looked into his eyes. The man was afraid, his eyes flicking from the bodies in the room to the open cell door. “Wulf, you must help… us.” The words were slow, deliberate, and spoken in heavily accented Wicklandish.

A shout echoed through the building, distorted by distance, a death cry perhaps. He frowned as he registered the strangeness of Metrotis’s words “You learned my language?” he replied in Wicklandish.

Metrotis nodded quickly. “Yes, a little, yes. You learn Adarnan. I guess that already.” He drew a breath, hesitated. “…I learn Wicklandish… a little.”

Wulf laughed as he had not laughed since leaving his homeland, sudden mirth erasing — temporarily at least — thoughts of his people. He clapped Metrotis on the shoulder with such force that he winced. “You learned Wicklandish…” He shook his head at the sheer wonder of it. “Wulf likes you. You are tricky.”

In that moment, he decided that the little man would live. For now at least.

Metrotis shrugged. His eyes darted to the blood-soaked sword buried in the back of the hooded attacker. “Yes, well, yes… Tricky.” He paused and eyed the body again. “Like you though, Wulf. Like you.” Another scream echoed through the corridor outside. Metrotis flinched. “Wulf, I get help… Will you help? I free you…”

Wulf nodded. He needed to move. He needed to run with the sun on his body and the wind in his face. First though, above all things, he needed to vent his pent-up rage. “Yes, Wulf is free…”

He knelt down and pulled the sword from the corpse at his feet. His companion winced at the noise the blade made as the suction was released. He retrieved the dagger and handed it to Metrotis, who looked at it with a puzzled expression.

I am free, he thought. I should kill this fool and run. What do I owe this man? But he knew that he wouldn’t, he knew that he couldn’t. The strong did not prey on the weak and pitiful, who could not defend themselves. There was no sport in such work. There was no honour.

“Come,” he said, and beckoned towards the door. There were women in danger somewhere in the night. One had screamed only moments ago. He could not allow the weak and the feeble to go unprotected; he had sworn to himself in the south — in his beloved Wickland — that he would never again stand aside whilst those unable to protect themselves died needlessly. The screams of his people, as they were hunted on their way north, haunted him still; they had been swept away but their pleas for help still echoed in the night.

Without another word to Metrotis, he left the cell. An open door at the end of a corridor led to what looked like open space beyond. He moved quickly towards the door, his back against the wall, alert for the sound of other attackers. There was at least one more — the man with blond hair — and there could be others. He hefted the short sword in his hand; it felt more like a toy, a long knife, than a real weapon.

“Wait!” Metrotis shouted from behind.

He froze. The man is an idiot. Perhaps Metrotis did not wish to live after all. He turned his head quickly and beckoned the little man to follow.

Metrotis shook his head, eyes wide. “No.” He pointed in the opposite direction towards an open door further down the corridor. “Wulf, come.” Metrotis scampered down the corridor and disappeared within the room.

Every fibre of Wulf’s being urged him to abandon the fool and escape to freedom, but just as he committed to do exactly that, a strangled gasp from Metrotis stopped him. He found his legs carrying him towards the door, following inexorably in Metrotis’s footsteps.

He entered the room alert, his sword held ready, expecting to find Metrotis a bloody mess on the floor.

He was greeted by carnage.

Two grey-clad bodies lay on the floor, their limbs contorted at impossible angles. One stared, vacant eyed towards the door over his own shoulder blades, his blond hair straggling across the floor.

Metrotis stood inside the room on the left. He held both hands to his mouth. A green tinge coloured his sallow skin.

In the centre of the room, towering over the tangled corpses stood a man without a soul. His expression was blank, but his body suggested murder. It was as if his eyes focused on some object in the space between him and Wulf.

Although the man wore no chains, Wulf guessed that this was the other prisoner he had heard Metrotis speaking to.

“Who this?” Wulf said, and pointed his sword at the man. There was something disturbing about his eyes. Eyes like that did not, could not, belong to any normal man.

This man would be a challenge to beat in battle, a part of him thought. A challenge many would sing of. A challenge to build a legend that might be retold for aeons.

“This is Optuss.” Metrotis spoke softly, a slight tremor in his voice. “I think he killed these men.”

Wulf grunted. Do you think so? “Kill men, good.” For the time being there would be no profit in challenge. A man who could cause such havoc might be useful; the future could wait. He moved towards Optuss and picked up one of the fallen assassin’s swords. “You know fight?” he asked the man.

“He doesn’t speak,” said Metrotis. “Careful, he’s not supposed to be dangerous.” Metrotis’s eyes were wide. “But I think he killed these men; yes, I think he killed these men.”

Wulf glanced at Metrotis. The little man was developing a talent for stating the obvious, and he was beginning to slip into the fear after battle that many tribesmen suffered from. Men who would run screaming — heedless of death — into battle, would later sit shivering, shaking, sometimes crying out for no reason. Wulf could not understand why this happened, but Metrotis would be no help in a fight.

He reached out and presented the sword to the black haired prisoner. “You take.” The man’s arms glistened in the lantern light, smooth as marble.

Metrotis tutted. “Optuss won’t follow your orders. I don’t think he’s even here with us, in any real sense.”

It took Wulf a second to translate the sentiment. He tutted in return. The man has no soul, he translated. “He kill men. He know.”

He presented the sword hilt to Optuss again. The man’s eyes seemed bottomless, like the very pits of hell.

Optuss continued to stare into the middle distance. But, slowly, his hand rose and he grasped the sword hilt.

The man’s hand touched his own and Wulf shivered. No soul. Then he turned and stalked rapidly from the room. He didn’t look back — the image of Optuss seared through his mind — but he heard movement from behind. Something, a memory perhaps, rattled the door of his consciousness — seeking desperately for a way in, for recollection and acknowledgement — but then faded as quickly as it had arisen.

“Optuss, come,” said Metrotis.

Wulf smiled. Somewhere outside there were men to fight, men who had a chance of fighting back, men who would present a challenge. Wulf and Optuss are good dogs for Metrotis.

But sometimes dogs would bite, tear and rend.

They reached the end of the corridor; it opened onto an enclosed space that was two stories high on all sides.

More figures, dressed like the others, were attacking an older man. Wulf recognised the man who had come into his cell almost every day, in the beginning, and stared at him with unblinking black eyes. The man looked like Metrotis, Wulf guessed they were kin.

The black eyed man could fight, that much was clear from the body that already lay at his feet, but Wulf doubted he could overcome the three that remained. He paused momentarily and considered running to the man’s aid. Another piercing scream echoed from a room on the second level. The man had a sword; his fate was with the gods.

Wulf ran to the nearest staircase. He mounted the steps three at a time. At the top, he risked a glance back. Optuss stood immediately behind him, impassive as a rock, his breathing steady and slow.

Below, in the quadrangle, Metrotis advanced fearfully towards the old man engaged in battle, his dagger held before him like a shield. The assassins had not seen him but it was likely that, when they did, he would be killed quickly.

There is no shame to die like a warrior, with a weapon in your hand. Perhaps Metrotis would die with honour after all and be welcomed into the halls of Alarus.

Wulf quickly turned away and moved along the upper balcony towards the sounds of struggle that emanated from an open door.

He rushed inside. Two men wrestled with a girl who shouted and kicked viciously in a vain effort to push them away. Another, older woman, lay motionless on a bed, a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth.

Two boys stood, swords raised, facing off against a pair of assassins who feinted and retreated, looking for a weakness in the boys’ defence. One lad had a wicked gash in his left forearm that bled freely, his blood trickling to the floor.

Wulf let out a great shout and rushed at the men attacking the girl. He slashed through the neck of one as the man turned — a shocked expression on his face — and cannoned into the other, sending him sprawling to the floor; a sickening crunch followed as the second man’s head smacked into the wall.

Two down.

He turned quickly. More grey-clad men rushed into the room and fanned out.

The newcomers paused as they spotted him.

Optuss, who must have followed him into the room, stood next to the girl. She knelt on the floor, her hair hanging around her face, gasping for breath.

He glared at Optuss. Support would be useful: there were too many to defeat alone, he would not be able to fend off all of their blows. He would not be able to stop them from overwhelming him through weight of numbers. Optuss’s expression had not changed; he held his sword loosely at his side and appeared blissfully unaware of the danger, not even facing the enemy.

The newcomers, appearing to judge Wulf and Optuss the greatest threat, ignored the others, who continued to harry the boys, and rushed forward.

Alarus, Wulf prayed in preparation for death. He stepped towards the attackers, his little sword ready. There would be no return to the people for him, but at least he would be with his ancestors, feasting in the halls of the great god for eternity.

The first man lunged. Wulf grabbed his sword arm and pulled him off balance, then butted him in the face, and swept his own sword in a tight arc as the man stumbled back. He missed the man’s throat but sliced up through his chin. The sword mashed into the attacker’s palate and stuck fast.

Wulf yanked the blade hard to withdraw it but the man came with it, and fell into him. His right foot slipped in blood and he stumbled back and fell, slamming into the floor. The attacker twitched as his weight fell on the sword buried in his face, driving it into his brain.

Wulf tried to push the corpse away but slipped again, his feet unable to find purchase. His head cracked back into the wooden planks of the floor. As if in a dream, he caught sight of Optuss moving away, fast.

Somewhere in the distance, angry shouts of alarm sounded.

He twisted and scrambled but the floor, coated in blood, had become like ice.

A hooded man loomed over him, arm raised back, sword ready to strike the killing blow.

Wulf rolled instinctively, his arms scrabbled for purchase. He tensed for the killing blow that was sure to come.

Do not let me die with my back to the enemy, do not let me die without a weapon in my hand.

He gained traction and tried to rise and turn, determined not to die a coward’s death.

A concussive thump sounded behind him.

He felt a blow to his shoulder and wondered why the assassin had not aimed for his head… for the certain kill.

There was no pain, but he knew that it would come — fierce blazing pain would come — if he lived long enough to feel it.

Something fell to his left, caressing his arm as it passed.

He looked down into the open eyes of an assassin, whose lips moved with no sound whilst his eyes blinked rapidly. Below the man’s chin was a clean cut — it was as if a butcher had removed the head — the spine glinted white through the exposed meat of the neck, then blood seeped out and dyed it red.

“Secure the room!” A man bellowed commandingly. “Andiss, through the window. Get to the street. Alert the militia. No. Wait. Get to the Third; tell Father Conlan we are in need of his assistance. He is to come with a cohort at once. Then alert the militia. Go, now.”

“Yes, General,” said another, breathing heavily.

Wulf looked around, a man stood over him, the old man with black eyes, a white pommelled sword grasped in his hand.

Another man ran to the back wall, opened the window and lowered himself out, his hands releasing the frame as he dropped to whatever lay below.

Metrotis sat on the floor just inside the door. He clutched the dagger Wulf had given him in his right hand. His left hand pressed against a gash in his leg that oozed thick, dark, blood. Two other men stood facing the door, swords drawn and ready.

The man they called General looked down at Wulf briefly. He inclined his head in recognition, his dark eyes shone in the candlelight. Then he moved quickly to the woman lying prone on the bed. “Ella,” he cried, his voice breaking, “Ellasand!”

He shook her gently, then held his ear to her chest before withdrawing, a grim look on his face. “Metrotis,” he said, his voice calmer than before, and perhaps more commanding for it. “If you can walk, your aunt needs your attention.”

Wulf shook his head, still in a daze. Two more bodies lay at the foot of the bed. Optuss stood over them, he held his sword loosely at his side, blood dripped slowly from its tip.

The two boys stood in front of Optuss. Twins, Wulf realised. They looked shocked and exhausted but defiant. Their chests heaved with the aftermath of their exertion.

The black-eyed man called ‘General’ turned to face him “You are called Wulf?” he said, one eyebrow raised.

Wulf stood slowly. Blood dripped from a wound in his shoulder. Stinging pain surfaced in his consciousness and he welcomed it. Pain meant life. “I am Wulf.”

The man paused, seeming to consider something carefully. “I am Martius,” he said. “You saved my family. I am in your debt.”

Wulf gazed around. The room was as bloody as a charnel house. His eyes came to rest on the decapitated head at his feet. It blinked its eyes slowly as if to confirm his thoughts.

You are in a dream, his subconscious concluded. This is the shadow land that follows death.

But it couldn’t be true. It felt too real. The pain in his shoulder flared as if to confirm it. He looked at Martius. The man’s eyes bored into him as if they sought his soul. “I owe you life also, Martius.”

Content

Jason K. Lewis
Phoenix Rising

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE