As they neared the Golden Light, Auctor gasped. The differences in Aurelian were less subtle than Lumen had suggested. Aurelian had legs! And he was standing on them!
Lumen nudged his charge and whispered, “Did I not mention about the legs? Oh, sorry. I forgot. He has legs. As you can see.”
Aurelian’s attention was fixed on the formations of warriors maneuvering across the Palm Yard. He turned to the Or standing to his left and said, “Very good, Consilium. As always, your legion is an example to the others.”
“Thank you, Bright Lord. I am fortunate to oversee at your behest a legion of veteran troops. Instilling discipline in newer legions drawn from newcomers fresh from the maturation tubes is a far greater challenge.”
“True, but the Second Legion is still the benchmark to which all others must aspire. Tell me this, Consilium. If I created an Eleventh Legion and made you its commander, could you raise it to the standard of the Second?”
Consilium’s face tensed. “I would try, Bright Lord.”
“Then I will place the Eleventh Legion in your care.”
Consilium’s spasm of displeasure warped into a smile.
“Know this, Consilium,” Aurelian continued. “The challenge you face is far greater than you imagine. The time of the Ors’ testing nears. This fetal age is about to pass, and a new, heroic age will rise in its stead. The legionaries of the Eleventh will need your wisdom and leadership if they are to survive the coming of days.”
For a time, Aurelian and Consilium discussed the merits of the latter’s lieutenants and settled on his successor as Legate of the Second. Aurelian’s attention turned to Lumen and his charge. The Minister of Initiates bowed and encouraged Auctor to follow his example.
“Welcome, Auctor,” Aurelian said. “Will you serve me now as I nurtured you in the maturation tubes?”
“Yes,” Auctor murmured. Lumen’s prompting made him add, “Bright Lord.”
“Will you put your trust in me as I put my trust in you?”
“Yes, Bright Lord.”
“Will you love me as I love you?”
“Yes, Bright Lord.”
“Always remember, your soul is part of me. My light courses through your veins, sustains your body, fires your mind. I would no more cast one of you aside than cut off my hand. Remember that, and it will nourish your faith in difficult times, for your faith will be tested both here and beyond.”
Auctor swore silently that he would never fail his god. How could any Or be so wicked as to doubt the Golden Light?
Aurelian continued. “This fair land is an oasis hewn from the desolation of Gules. In its parched deserts of rock and dust dwell my rivals and their vile spawn, who seek to usurp my authority over all things. With the first dawn, we shall march out to meet my foes and impel them to concede the fealty rightfully mine.
“We shall transform the deserts of Gules into gardens. The ravenous dunes shall still their creeping and bleed water. The gnawing winds of dust shall be beaten down by the gentle tears of a joyful sky. The rain shall make the very rocks crack open like seeds, and the earth will blossom with life. This we shall do with the coming of days. And the Citadel of Eternal Noon shall be the capital of this greater paradise. It shall attest to the valor of the Ors. Its halls shall sing of their deeds.”
The Golden Light’s words rapped on Auctor’s heart.
“That is our destiny, Auctor. Will you play your part?”
“Yes, Bright Lord.”
“Lumen will show you to your quarters and assign your duties. Heed the words of Lumen, and the other ministers and legates, as if they spring from my lips. Farewell for now, Auctor.”
And with those words, Aurelian’s attention returned to the drilling troops.
“Bright Lord,” Auctor summoned the courage to say. Lumen’s grasp prevented him from nearing his deity.
Aurelian turned his gaze on him again. “Yes, Auctor?”
“May I stay here with you?” Auctor asked, his voice faltering.
Aurelian smiled. “When Gules is conquered, there will be time for such things. But for now, you must go with Lumen.”
Lumen took Auctor’s hand and gently led him away. Auctor did not resist but he gazed back at Aurelian for as long as his straining neck permitted. Losing Aurelian’s radiance was like becoming blind.
In a blink, his dream transported him to another momentous day.
It was the day they went to war.
Regret teased Auctor as the cylindrical gnomon lifted its golden hand high above the Palm Yard. He was more than a match for the twelve Ors who formed a wide circle around the pockmarked column.
The participants’ legions were identified by large, dark red numerals on the front of their saffron tunics. Each Or’s meager panoply comprised two elliptic shields on his forearms and a brace of batonaxes racked on his back. They had nothing else. Even their feet were bare.
Aurelian rose from his seat, his pate of flames radiating a golden nimbus about his head. At his thunderous command, the Faith Melee commenced. Each legion roared on its entrant as the contestants bolted toward the pillar, the heads of their batonaxes flashing as they swung them from their racks. Whoever reached its apex first won a supreme tactical advantage. However, the quick start of the two foremost competitors proved their undoing. Batonaxes flung by slower rivals cut them down. When another contestant stumbled, his nearest opponent, Atriensis of the Ninth, seized the opportunity to drive a spike through his temple. While the victims’ legions booed such underhand tactics, Auctor mourned the dead gallantry of the early Faith Melees.
Natator of the First and Cyathus of the Second joined in single combat. Their batonaxes whirled and lunged in a succession of classic attacks and counter-attacks. As the likelihood of a quick outcome waned and their rivals extended their lead, their tactics became more desperate. Cyathus hooked one of his batonaxes with the other and flicked them like a chain at his opponent’s head. Natator dodged the strike, hooked the leading batonaxe with one of his own, and tried to wrest it from his foe. Cyathus lunged, liberating the batonaxe in his hand, and drove one of its spikes into Natator’s chest. A rain of steel fell around Cyathus as batonaxes clanged against the pavement.
The Second cheered and taunted the First, but Cyathus wasted no time savoring his victory. Snatching up his dropped batonaxe, he raced after his rivals, who were already scrambling up the gnomon.
Two of the combatants on the far side of the gnomon were hidden from Auctor’s view. Atriensis of the Ninth led the others, but Direptor of the Eleventh was so close behind that he might be able to seize the other Or’s ankles at any moment.
“Direptor! Direptor!” Auctor chanted with the rest of the Eleventh, willing him on.
Atriensis paused to deliver a kick to his rival’s head, but Direptor stabbed at the descending foot with a batonaxe. Atriensis screamed as the weapon punctured his leg. He flung a batonaxe at his assailant. Direptor deflected it with one of his weapons. It slid down the gnomon, struck one of the combatants farther down, and sent him crashing into the warrior below him. Both smashed into the ground.
As Direptor skirted around the wounded Atriensis and headed for the summit, Auctor and the Eleventh cheered and banged their arm-shields. If Direptor won, it would be the Eleventh’s first triumph in the Faith Melees. Every Or in the legion would share a little of the glory.
Around Auctor, some were already talking confidently of victory, but he wasn’t so sure. What was happening on the other side of that column?
As Direptor used his batonaxes to hook the top of the gnomon and heave himself up, another Or suddenly loomed above him.
Warning cries turned to groans as the Eleventh watched Gerulus of the Fifth behead their hero.
As Direptor’s headless body fell, it struck Atriensis, and he, too, plunged to his death.
Auctor pressed his hands to his temples and shook his head. Direptor was dead, and all hope lost. If Auctor had been in his place, Gerulus would not have caught him so e
asily.
A corpse-like silence struck the Eleventh. The cheers of the other legions for the remaining contestants taunted it.
And then, the Eleventh recovered its voice. Auctor and his comrades roared again, not for victory but for vengeance, their cheers directed at Gerulus’s opponents.
Gerulus circled the golden hand on the summit, waiting for his remaining foes. As though by unspoken agreement, Cyathus and Insignis of the Fourth paused beyond the reach of his batonaxes. Pugnus of the Sixth edged into view. He drew level with the others. Tackling Gerulus alone was certain death. His three challengers had to coordinate their attack to have any chance of defeating him.
At Cyathus’s signal, the three Ors started to climb; unknown to his fellow conspirators, Pugnus paused before he reached the top. Gerulus dispatched Cyathus with a single strike, but Insignis managed to scramble onto the summit.
While they fought, Pugnus scurried atop the column and charged the duelists. As Insignis sank his weapons into Gerulus, Pugnus pushed both of them off the gnomon. They tumbled down the side of the column and hammered into the Palm Yard.
Gerulus was dead. Direptor had been avenged. A grim victory of sorts.
It was over.
No. Wait. From the carnage below, a bloody Or rose on unsteady feet. Gore obscured his face and his legionary emblem. He placed two batonaxes in the rack across his shoulders. He began climbing the column.
A lone handclap started. Another joined it. The claps multiplied into applause, and the applause coalesced into a steady beat, urging the anonymous hero onward.
His foe at the summit hurled down discarded batonaxes at him. Some sailed past the gnomon. Others glanced against the pillar and skipped harmlessly by him.
The legions cheered as each failed to strike. Their encouragement swelled with every new hold he reached. Some whispered that this was fate. This Or was destined to win. Nothing could stop him.
A collective groan followed him down the gnomon when he slipped and fell. Everyone divined from the sickening smack when he struck the ground that the contest was over.
The Or on the summit cried, “I am Pugnus of the Sixth Legion! I have won the Faith Melee. I have defeated all other challengers, and I beg our Bright Lord to receive me into his cadre of sentinels.”
The pillar slowly sank into the Palm Yard till its summit was level with the floor. The Golden Light inducted Pugnus as a sentinel, while the broken remnants of his rivals were cleaned away.
“I could have beaten them all. I could have won,” Auctor murmured under his breath. His instincts whispered otherwise.
Aurelian addressed the legions. “The final Faith Melee is over. My twelfth sentinel is chosen, and my bodyguard is complete.” He gestured toward the sentinels standing behind him in their ponderous gold armor.
“Before me twelve legions stand,” he continued as he raised his spread hands above his head. “Every Or in their ranks is my creation, my friend, my pride. I called you all out of myself, and I love you. You are extensions of my will, as much a part of me as my fingers and thumbs.”
The legions cheered.
“We have long enjoyed this paradise wrought of gold and blossom. Yet, this is but a single grain of light glimmering in the famished soil of a sleeping universe. The time has come for that seed to germinate, for its golden rays to set that universe afire. The coming of days is upon us. The first dawn approaches. It shall open the gates of this citadel like the petals of a waking flower, and we shall march forth to confront our enemies. Here, you were the hands of my artistry.” Aurelian closed his hands. “In the wailing deserts of Gules, you shall be the fists of my justice.”
Everyone roared and clapped and stamped their feet and struck their arm-shields. Aurelian waved his hands to calm the tumult.
“In the wastes of Gules, you shall be tested. Mighty foes await you. False Lights shall attempt to steal your hope while their monstrous progeny try to take your lives. Even the desert shall persecute you. It shall choke you and blind you and burn you. But you shall triumph, because of your faith in me and your faith in each other. Victory is your destiny.”
The ordered ranks of the legions melted into a crowd, and the crowd boiled over in adulation.
Auctor dissolved into this euphoria. Love for his god outshone all thoughts of self.
Aurelian made no effort this time to quell the riotous veneration. He stood there, his hands stretched open by his sides, as if soaking it in. Only after the legates and other officers had recovered their wits was a sense of decorum restored.
“Is the speech over?” someone asked as everyone hurried back to where they should be.
“What more need the Golden Light say?” Auctor replied.
The Golden Light parlayed with the legates. All eyes were on the legates as they returned to their legions. Everyone cheered and clapped as Aurelian’s crown of flames spilled down his person, forming a veil of aureate radiance, behind which his corporeal form transmuted into a column of living fire.
“Forward!” Consilium roared, his order echoed by centurions down the line.
The Eleventh advanced. As it paraded by each legion, the Eleventh’s centurions encouraged their troops to yell and beat their arm-shields. The other legions saluted in kind, but their response sounded hollow. The Eleventh had bested them.
“Quiet by the Second,” passed down the line. The centuries behind Auctor were still taunting legions long passed by the vanguard.
Consilium strode before the Second Legion. He saluted its legate and then the troops he had once commanded.
“Consilium, Consilium, Consilium,” the Second chanted. The Second’s legate patted his predecessor’s shoulder with heartfelt magnanimity. Not to be outdone, the Eleventh took up the cry. It had as much to be thankful to Consilium for as the Second. Consilium was being rewarded for his loyal service to the Golden Light with the honor of leading the army out of the citadel’s gates, and the Eleventh was privileged to share it.
Consilium quivered before the adulation as though a blow had struck him. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, shook the hands of the Second’s legate, bowed in the direction of the Golden Light, and returned to the vanguard of the Eleventh.
“Full voice for the First,” roared the centurions.
The Eleventh held nothing back as it passed the hated First, the haughty legion of bureaucrats under Lumen’s command. It was damned to guard the vacated Citadel, while the other legions surpassed it in glory. The Eleventh heaped on the First all the scorn a butterfly might have for the chrysalis that once had caged it.
Onward the Eleventh marched, toward the Citadel’s gates. No Or had witnessed the great portal open. None had seen what lay beyond it. With a thunderous groan, the massive doors yawned wide, and the Citadel inhaled the desert’s dusty breath. The writhing gust lashed the legionaries, but the allure of the scarlet light reaching through the portal enticed them forward. Auctor watched the silhouettes of Consilium and the vanguard appear to catch fire, and then melt into the confounding brilliance. Suppressing his apprehension, he followed them across the blazing threshold. History was about to begin.
The light resolved into desert and rusty sky as, once more, his dream shifted.
A saffron cloth, tattered and bloodied, danced on the wind across the sands. Auctor advanced with both batonaxes at the ready. There was a corpse close by, but it was not that of an Or. Swaddled in purple was a stinking mound of flesh. The color of its uniform marked it as a minion of the Purple Light. The stench of putrefaction emanated from the cadaver, but the rivulets of dark ichor seeping into the dust indicated the creature’s demise was recent.
Auctor used a batonaxe to lift its lolling head from between its bulbous shoulders. The ashen face was so tortured, so ugly. The broken stump of a twisted horn pointed downward from the center of its protruding forehead. The huge eyes with cold white pupils and the gaping jaw, bristling with incisors, leered defiantly.
Ors had slain it, but it had been no easy advers
ary. Three arrows were embedded in its hide, and the fragments of a batonaxe lay nearby. From under the carcass, a lifeless hand protruded. A flaxen hand with two thumbs. A dead Or, probably the warrior who had finally felled the beast, lay beneath the Purpure.
Auctor found more slain Ors as he persevered toward the camp. The corpses were isolated at first, then appeared in growing clusters till they smothered the desert in all directions, and everywhere there were smashed faces, headless corpses, splayed ribcages, jumbles of limbs partially degloved of flesh.
As he wandered though this bewildering carnage, a landscape of torn tents and ruined baggage, an invisible hand squeezed his throat. Something more than the fetor of stale blood choked him. It was his first taste of humiliation. The sporadic carrion of Purpures did not obscure the completeness of the Twelfth’s devastation. Here, at least, the unthinkable had happened. The undefeatable had been defeated. The immortal lay dead around him. The Twelfth had been the weakest of the legions, the runt of the litter. Its ranks were, for the most part, fresh from the tubes. They must have forgotten what little training they had and panicked when the Purpures struck. Surely, such one-sided slaughter would not be replicated if the Purpures attacked the Eleventh or the Second.
But the Golden Light had been with the Twelfth. Auctor had come here to report enemy troop movements to him. Where was Aurelian? Why had he not saved his children from this massacre?
A yellow gleam demanded AscendantSun’s attention. A sentinel’s gold cuirass winked at him amid the butchery. It lay at the feet of a naked Or slumped against a blood-spattered boulder. Around him lay the other accoutrements of a sentinel: a golden suit of mail almost consumed by the sands, a golden helmet shorn of its crest, a fragment of a winged arm-shield.
As Auctor lifted up the cuirass to examine it, the other Or raised his head. The dust rouging his cheeks was etched with parched tear tracks. He stared through Auctor with eyes so dead that the Or’s motion seemed hallucinatory. It was the sentinel, Pugnus.
“Where is Aurelian?” Auctor demanded.
A Bright Power Rising Page 9