“Get out of our land!” a Varalkian soldier fidgeted nervously with his rusted lance, pulling the reins of his horse, trying to keep himself in check.
“This is the last time, give us the prisoners,” Florianus said. “Your leaders promised me they’d be back in half an hour, we’ve been waiting for long.”
Then, Florianus saw the fat leader running and trying to catch his breath, his hands reaching to his knees, looking up at Florianus from a distance.
“Sir, I beg your pardon, please. I had intended on bringing the prisoners . . .”
“Where are they?” Florianus asked.
“I have brought five of them, the others have . . . Some of them escaped.”
“Escaped?” Florianus spurred furiously, trotting toward the Varalkian leader, who fell on his knees, dropped on his own sides and curled his body like a baby. He held his head between his hands.
“I’ll bring them to you, please,” the leader bowed meekly, and turned around. Florianus raised his hand, to keep his men formed. In the meantime, the Varalkian cavalry assembled more soldiers around him, holding onto their lances, aiming them at Florianus. Their rusty cheap lances with poles that could be broken in seconds. Florianus coughed. Five soldiers emerged from a tent, surrounding chained men and women. The ones he was looking for. He trotted toward them, and identified six women and the mute boy. The half-blood traitor, the black haired woman and the pregnant one were missing.
“The three most important ones are missing,” he said, looking up at Ghabas.
“We will find them,” Ghabas cried. “You may take these seven prisoners while we look for the other ones.”
Florianus took a deep breath.
“Very well,” he said, and he pulled the reins, he pushed his horse to raise on two legs, when suddenly he heard a thud and felt something fly close to his temple. his head tilted forward involuntarily. Then, he felt warm pain surging in the cartilage of his ear. He reached his hand and felt the warm liquid pouring from his side.
He turned in his horse. Julius and the soldiers around him stared in shock.
Florianus held on to his spear.
“Who did that?” he cried, feeling his heart pump up and his anger surge like an erupting volcano. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
As he put on his helmet again, another thud busted by. He felt vibration, and glanced at the arrow bouncing off his segmented armour.
Another one hit Julianus in the neck. Florianus turned, as the centurion’s head bounced like an accordion, the red crest of his helmet shaking. He fell on the side, falling off his horse, his foot still attached to the stirrups of his saddle.
“Sir?” Ghabas said, in shock, his face had become as pale as hemp paper.
Florianus lifted his lance.
“Look for that bastard!” he commanded. “Whoever shot that arrow, bring him to me.”
For an instant, he felt fear creep up his spine. Fear was his friend. He had to use it wisely.
“It was not our men!” the Varalkian leader cried. The defence line of the Varalkian cavalry stared at each other and murmured in confusion.
But his men feared more than him. Florianus knew what was coming, he saw the fear in their eyes, the furtive glances around. And his eyes also looked around the yurts, but the night enveloped them like a beast stalking its prey.
“I want the man who did that to come out, if he doesn’t want a bloodbath,” Florianus said. “I want him to yield himself in one . . .”
It was time.
He raised his arm, in an unmistakable figure, and spurred on.
The Itruschian cavalry barrier assembled quickly in a close formation, Florianus raised his spear, keeping his triceps parallel to the floor, and threw it as a javelin. The recipient saw it, and tried to spur it to move away, but it was too late, as it penetrated the Varalkian soldier’s solar plexus, and his momentum pushed him back, the horse kept running, but its rider fell down with the spear through his thin armour.
The Varalkian men held onto the reins, their faces white in terror when staring at their dead comrade.
Another arrow flew by, this one hitting Florianus’ horse. It rose in two legs, under control.
What had they done to that poor horse? Who was firing those shots?
Those people were savages.
Florianus’ uncovered ear was bleeding, the pain was growing, but it only made him more angry.
Florianus had enough.
In that moment, as they rode through the tents, Varalkians charged against them. They had short range, little space to gather speed, but they screamed like banshees, angry for the death of their comrade.
Florianus’ horse was out of control. The arrow had hit the horse precisely in the skull, but who? Who was hiding in the dark? Where? As his horse collapsed on the side and he jumped holding his shield high, he looked in the dark, through the yurts. There, he saw movement behind the curtains of a tent. From the faint light of a lantern within, he recognized the shadow of a recurve bow projected from inside its walls.
Above him, the two groups had already clashed, the victory of the Itruschians was immediate.
“We surrender!” cried the tribal leader, raising his hands, his pale in an expression of pure cowardice.
But Florianus had something else in mind. He scrambled to the side, on foot, his shield and sword now in hand. He heard murmurs behind the curtains and panels, he saw his men scramble out of the main battle, through the spaces between the tents. He rushed and knelt behind the tent in question and pushed through the curtains. Inside, he saw a decrepit old man holding his wife and young daughter. Where was the fighting spirit of the Gadalians? Had they become too sick to continue fighting? To continue living?
He drew his sword, its noise of metal and leather seemed to instill fear in the child.
“Damn you!” said a voice, and when Florianus turned, an old man lunged at him brandishing a sharp butcher’s knife. Florianus’ blood boiled. He stepped back, parrying the knife, aiming at the man’s hands, but the man was quick to evade, he passed the knife to his left, closed the distance with a quick step, and tried to stab Florianus on the side.
Florianus was not quick enough to use his shield, he felt a push in his cuirass, but the armour prevailed. He turned, wielding the sword on his left, and swung at the man’s head. The old man ducked, passing the knife again with surprising mastery.
Then, Florianus felt blunt pain on the back of his head, his helmet absorbing part of the blow, but his head rattled inside.
Pieces of clay dropped to the floor, he ducked and turned, and saw the woman of the house. The grotesque vision of a fighting woman almost made him snicker.
Florianus stepped to the side, waving his sword in his hand, then pressing forward. He still had the advantage. He feinted an attack at the man’s head. He recoiled, then thrust the sword into the man’s belly. The daughter’s screams pierced the air behind him.
The woman, now wielding an old rusty sword in two hands, attacked him. Florianus blocked with his shield. She swung her blade again, and Florianus parried. With a quick whirl, Florianus cut the woman’s head with one blow, as the child’s screams became louder.
He took a last look at the little girl. Her dress was cyan, now stained with her mother’s blood, the whole outer panel of the yurt stained in crimson. Then, in the girl’s green eyes, he saw the rage being born again. It would start over, it was the children, the children would do it all again.
A little girl was innocent enough, but it was necessary. A necessary evil.
He was more sure than ever, he walked to the side and pushed the encased lantern, the flame spread, licking the panels, the blankets and curtains, and he walked out.
Outside, the soldiers now patrolled, checking inside every yurt, from there, he could see the prisoners kneeling next to three mounted soldiers.
“Men of Itruschia!”
“Hail, Florianus!” they said, raising the
ir swords.
“Listen to me, for Ares, for your people, please listen to my words. They will fight on, until the last man is gone. So kill them, kill them all, leave no child alive, leave no yurt untouched. Only our prisoners, we will take.”
The soldiers said aye.
“No!” He heard a voice behind him, like a she-tiger’s roar, and there stood a woman with a recurve bow and arrows, the same black arrows that had sliced through his ears, and bounced off his cuirass. The little girl hid behind her back, and the woman’s ruddy skin seemed to sparkle like bronze beside the fuery tent. Her eyes were dark and slanted, her hair long, unkempt by the prison and pain. Her clothes were partly torn, only chainmail covering her, a sensual body, muscular and scarred. She dropped the bow, and unsheathed a long sword she carried in her belt.
She was one of them, she had seen her in Larius’ prison, but now, although not even in her former warring glory, he could see her warrior spirit. That was a daughter of Ares, of the seed he had to eradicate.
“Leave her to me!” he screamed at a soldier who was just aiming his javelin at her. Before catching his breath after his words, she was already three feet from him, whirling her sword. Her first attack was noteworthy, he knew, as a left-handed warrior, his defence was perfect on the right side, and he was good at parrying with his left. But she leapt to his right side, lounged like a dancer and went for his knees. Florianus stepped back, his shin barely missing the blow.
In the blink of an eye, she was behind him. Florianus twisted quickly, catching her sword with his shield, then she was on his left, thrusting her blade too close for him to parry.
And yet, his cuirass absorbed the blow. He waved his shield inside, trying to punch her, but missed her like a hare dodging an arrow.
She thrust her sword forward, in different directions, at different heights. It was too hard to let it continue.
He raised his hand, that was the sign.
As she was facing him, she collapsed on one knee, the javelin now went through her thigh.
She still raised her sword and threw it at him, he blocked with his shield as she grimaced in pain.
The soldiers advanced and shackled her hands behind her back.
Chapter XXIII - Footsteps
Alana spent the night behind the wall, back inside the Empire. The soldiers did not bother her much, but she slept with her sword under her pillow. She awoke with the first sun rays coming from beyond the wall, and she timidly opened her eyes and moved to the opposite side, resting her body, with her eyes closed, but her mind remained active. She wanted to sleep more, and regain the energy spent riding and worrying. She covered her face with her hair and arms, as if it helped.
“Hey, madam!” she heard a voice behind her call. She sighed in frustration. She would not be able to sleep again. She turned around and saw a soldier in segmented armour, but with no helmet, approaching with a small vase of clay in hand.
She turned her head curiously. The man knelt on one knee in front of her.
“A bit of pottage from the army kitchen,” he said with a dry smile.
“Oh, thank you,” Alana muttered, receiving it with one hand. On the other hand, he offered her a small wooden spoon. She tried the broth, she was thankful for the food, but she did not really enjoy peas. At least, it was warm and had enough salt to mask the beany flavour.
“We are heating water for you, if you'd like to bathe,” he said.
“Thank you, but it will not be necessary. Are all of your comrades so kind or is it just you?"
“Well, they don't really care, but it seems like you've been travelling for a long time. What were you doing outside the walls? If I may ask.”
“It's a long story. Are you new here, by the way?"
“Fresh out of the training,” he said shyly. “Well, a few months, I guess I'm lucky to be here, the barbarians don't come near. Anyway, I asked you first.”
“I'm from Tharcia, and I'm looking for a legion up north, it's supposed to be guarding the wall. well, they were a few months ago, as far as I know. They're from our province.”
The soldier raised an eyebrow.
“Are they Gadalian by any chance?"
Alana nodded.
The soldier looked back.
“Please don't say that to anyone else,” he muttered. “Now . . . You said your husband is a citizen, right?”
Alana swallowed again. Could it be that she was wanted so far north in the Empire? Could it be that there was still a big reward over their heads? In that case, Realizing she was still in enemy territory made her lose her appetite.
“What?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, pretending there was nothing wrong.
“You look as if you've seen a ghost,” he said. “I'm not going to report you, but please don't talk about that.”
“Oh, thank you, for a moment I thought I was dead,” she said. “Yes, but . . . I'm surprised. Why? Why would they do that?"
“They told us . . . Not to let anyone through to the north.”
“Why would that be?"
“Because . . . I don't know, but . . .” He lowered his voice. “They gave us an order—to execute anyone who tries to contact them, any messenger, anything.”
“Oh,” Alana swallowed. “Sorry.”
“Because . . . Please just don't say that, you look like a good girl,” he said.
“Yes, but . . . that is strange, why would that be?"
“And I'd say you better go back. There's something up north, something bad. I think that's why they don't want anyone to go. It's really bad. Maybe that's why.”
“Why, is there like a war that's raging, or something like a big mess-up somebody made?"
He cleared his throat.
“I said enough.”
Alana blinked. Aside from the fact that the legionaries in question were Gadalian, and they had to be kept away from the knowledge of what happened in their village, the boy knew something else. She was almost sure what it was, she heard it from Avlix.
“Couldn't it be, by any chance, giants?”
The soldier gasped.
“What did you say?”
“I mean, we had . . . Uh, better not talk about that.”
“What is it, you mentioned giants.”
“Yes, we saw them move northward, I've been following their tracks, wanted to warn our people,” she said.
“Warn them?" He looked down, as if it was already too late.
“Why are you making that face?"
“Please, don't tell them I told you, but . . . If you still plan to go up north, you’ll find out.”
Alana nodded. “Thank you for your help . . .”
“Marius,” the soldier said with a wide smile.
“Marius? Like general Marius?"
“Yes, exactly like him,” he said. “Is he a relative of yours? I heard he lived in Adachia and married a—”
Alana cleared her throat. “No, not really, he's just, you know, very famous and he lives down there so . . .” She giggled.
“Yes, we had him posted close to here a few months ago.”
“A few months ago? Is he not here any more?"
“Here? No! They sent him East.”
“East?"
“Far east, southeast, rather, close to the Land of the Three Rivers.”
“Parzia . . .” Alana said.
“A little more to the south.”
“Well,” Alana said with a smile. “Thank you, Marius, but I've got to get going.”
She gave the half empty vase back to Marius and winked an eye at him. He shook his head.
“What do you mean you have to go? Are you going to take a bath or not?”
“No, thank you, Marius. I will just go back,” she said. “If you're so kind to show me where they put my horse to rest.”
“Ah, that's . . . At the barn, it's right in front of you.”
“Thank you, Marius, you're a kind man, and I wish your service
is fruitful.”
As she walked into the barn, she heard comments from other soldiers behind her back, talking to Marius.
“You always scare the girls away, Marius, what do you tell them?"
***
Alana rode north, along the border wall and the river that crossed nearby. She saw huge Suevian towns and passed through them, the inhabitants gazing bewildered at the lone girl who rode in full armour. The men were tall and proud, unlike the bandits she encountered the day before. Their hair was coloured like bronze and gold, they wore togas, wool capes and colourful belts, thick and embroidered with spiral patterns. Around the towns, there were wide fields where they grew crops, and large herds of cattle.
The noblemen wore a bun on the side of their heads, and their beards were braided. The women also wore braids, their hair arranged neatly and tight, and brooches of silver hanging from their necks, dresses of linen and wool. Both the men and women were sturdier than the Gadalians, although similar in appearance. Alana thought it was due to their diet of meat and bread.
The town surrounded a small grove, on which men and women with pointed hats and white clothes visited. Alana realised it had to be a shrine of some sort, as it was surrounded by arches and pillars. Alana dismounted there and approached a man who was standing next to the pillars.
“Excuse me, sir, do you speak the Imperial tongue?” she asked.
“I do,” the tall man responded in a thick accent. “I am from Tharcia. Have you heard of a Gadalian legion?”
“I do not talk to the soldiers.”
“Then I suppose you have heard of the giants?
The man’s face turned pale.
“Giants?”
“Yes, I am looking for the legion that dealt with them.”
The man shook his head.
“By the Thunderer . . . Be careful, young woman, we do not want to rekindle their ire.”
“Please tell me where they were.”
“North, north, just ride north, you cannot miss it.”
Chapter XXIV - Ghost Town
Iron and Flame Page 16