by Sandell Wall
The insect from the quarry! Those armor and swords look exactly like the carapace and mandibles of the fossil.
For the ancient insectoid horror from Burtick to be linked with these strange soldiers was surreal. The implications hit Remus like a hammer: those monsters still existed, and the Ethari must kill them.
A commanding voice rang out, shouting one word, “Akat!”
In response, the assembled soldiers snapped to attention, four armored men in formation in front of each cage. After a heartbeat, and with perfect timing, they all turned to face the village. The only sound was the clink of weapons and armor from the coordinated motion. Remus could feel the tension rising in the wooden cell.
“These blighters ain’t human,” a man behind him whispered.
Somewhere out of sight a single drum started to beat out a slow tempo. With great ceremony five Ethari men exited the settlement, walking in time with the drumbeat. The men were naked except for a loincloth tied tight around the waist. They walked unhurriedly towards the captives, each man stopping in the center of one of the giant circles scratched in the dirt in front of the prisons. Remus’s rough estimate was that there were ten enclosures each containing ten captives. Five sparring circles meant two cages per ring. He recognized Dour Face standing in the center of the ring in front of his wooden pen.
Lean and hard, the grey soldier looked like he had been chiseled from stone. Hundreds of white scars crisscrossed his muscular body. A head of shaved black hair did nothing to hide the absence of ears, giving his face a skull-like appearance. Dour Face nodded to the soldiers in front of Remus’s cage.
Without speaking, the guards opened the gate and gestured for the closest prisoner to exit. That prisoner happened to be Remus. Unsure, he turned to scan the faces of the other captives. He saw a mixture of fear, anger, and confusion. His gaze lingered on Omen, whose eyes were hard and unreadable.
“Go on,” Omen said. “It’s not like we have a choice.”
When he stepped through the door the four armored guards backed off, forming a corridor to the weapons rack that rested on the edge of the ring. Remus had no idea what they expected of him. Dour Face seemed to sense this and raised a hand, beckoning once for Remus to enter the circle.
He glanced to his left and then to his right. Formidable and inhuman, the armored Ethari stood like sentinels, hands on the hilts of their swords. They faced him, but did not look at him. He suspected challenging them would bring a quick death. With the pen closed behind him he had no other options. He stepped forward. The weapons on the rack were basic, but they looked to be in good condition. He had expected rusted rejects, so he was surprised when he hefted a sword in his hand and felt its quality.
Remus stopped at the edge of the ring, his heart hammering in his chest. He had watched Dour Face slaughter a man in the woods, but the enigmatic soldier did not seem evil. If Brax was right, the Ethari were not cruel, just desperate. He did not think Dour Face would kill him.
His fear receded into the background. The excitement he had felt in the forest returned. Fate had brought him here, and in the burning core of his soul he believed that all he had to do was reach out and take hold of greatness. Ambition surged through him. It felt tangible. He was more alive in this instant than he ever had been as an apprentice smith in Delgrath. In his right hand the weight of the sword felt like a blacksmith hammer, the only difference was the coarse leather grip in place of a smooth wooden handle. He tested it with a swing and felt muscles conditioned for the forge whip the weapon through the familiar motion. Air whistled past the blade with the force of his cut. He was the first prisoner to be released; no other cages had been opened. There was no sound, no movement; every eye was on the center ring where Dour Face waited for him to approach. Remus stepped across the line scratched in the dirt.
Dour Face did not react, so Remus took another step, and then another. When he was ten paces away, Dour Face finally broke the silence.
“Kneel,” Dour Face said in the tongue of the empire.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Remus thought he should be shocked, but he was becoming numb to the wonders of the wilds. Dour Face commanded submission with his voice, but the Ethari’s eyes said fight. He studied Remus with the same calculated gaze he had used in the forest. It felt to Remus like Holmgrim testing him in the forge, telling him to do something, when the correct action was to do the opposite.
“No,” Remus said.
Being ordered to submit strengthened the steel in his spine. He attacked. In four running strides he closed the distance between them. Sword in his right hand, he sliced at Dour Face with an overhead chop.
He’s naked. Use the length of the blade to stay out of his reach.
Dour Face did not move as Remus advanced, did not even twitch as he lunged to strike, but when the steel edge started its plunge downward toward naked flesh, the grey soldier’s left hand flashed out and deflected the sword away, back of the palm to the flat of the blade. Remus’s arm swung away with the diverted blade. He felt like he was watching it happen in slow motion.
Faster than a striking snake, Dour Face’s right palm slammed into Remus’s exposed solar plexus. Remus hit the dirt, hard. It felt like his sternum had been punched into his backbone. On his back, he gasped for air, trying and failing to regain his feet. When he managed to flip over, he got on his hands and knees and crawled to where his sword lay. He closed his fist around the hilt and stood, left hand clutching his throbbing chest.
“Kneel,” Dour Face said again, this time emphasizing the command by pointing at the ground.
“Make me,” Remus said, trying to sneer but grimacing instead. Remus knew he stood no chance, but he would die before kneeling in front of a hundred watching Legion soldiers. He attacked again, managing only to stagger towards his opponent. Dour Face did not wait this time. The grey soldier lunged at Remus, parried his feeble swing, and placed a deft foot behind Remus’s right heel. Before Remus could react, he was slammed into the dirt a second time. His head rebounded off the hard earth. He felt his body go weak. He did not want to fight anymore—he did not want to even stand up.
Remus groaned. The sky seemed too blue, and the light made him want to vomit. Dour Face stood over him, no concern on his face, only calm, calculated judgment. Remus closed his eyes, embarrassed by his weakness.
He heard Dour Face call out a command, and an instant later strong hands took ahold of his feet and dragged him to the side. When he opened his eyes, he was looking into the face of Tethana. She held a clay pot in her hand; it looked like it was full of blue dye. Ignoring his gaze, she dipped an index finger into the dye and traced a symbol on Remus’s forehead. He was too groggy to be sure, but the shape she drew felt like a circle. She moved away before he could react.
Black armored hands gripped him under the armpits and jerked him to his feet. In front of him the ceremony continued. All of the cages were open now, one prisoner at a time being ushered into the dirt rings. The five naked Ethari took apart any man that dared raise a weapon against them. Remus watched them stand motionless as each wary captive advanced, and then at the last possible instant, strike out with fist or foot to drop their attacker like a sack of stones. They moved so fast that if he blinked, he missed it.
Omen was the third man from Remus’s cell to be beckoned forward. He was ready. As soon as the gate was open, Omen sprinted towards the ring. Not missing a step, he grabbed an axe off of the rack and hurtled towards Dour Face. Five paces from the grey soldier, Omen hurled the axe at the naked Ethari’s chest. He chased the spinning weapon. Dour Face would have no choice but to dodge and open himself up to attack. Or so Omen must have thought.
Dour Face didn’t budge. Looking unconcerned, he snatched the spinning axe out of the air like it was a toy. Pivoting on his left foot, the Ethari soldier lashed out with a roundhouse kick. The blow struck Omen’s face with an audible crunch. Clotheslined by the kick, Omen went horizontal to the ground. His momentum carried him past Dour Fa
ce, but he twisted in the air and landed on all fours. He was already moving when he hit the earth, launching himself like a sprinter straight at Dour Face. In his hand was Remus’s discarded sword.
Omen lunged with the sword, attacking with a flurry of stabs, each lightning quick jab trying to skewer Dour Face’s bare stomach. With the grace of a dancer, the Ethari soldier evaded the attacks with ease. Dour Face looked like he never moved his feet, but the blade could not touch him. Omen screamed in rage and frustration. His careful stabs turned into wild swings. Dour Face stepped inside his opponent’s reach, right hand latching onto Omen’s throat, left hand grabbing the sword arm. Omen jerked and struggled against the grip, but Dour Face’s powerful arms stopped him in his tracks. Remus saw strong grey fingers dig into Omen’s wrist, and the sword dropped to the ground.
“Kneel,” Dour Face said when Omen had stopped resisting.
“Prong yourself,” Omen spat through his smashed face.
Dour Face struck Omen in the stomach with his left hand so hard that the man coughed blood.
“Kneel,” Dour Face repeated.
“Never,” Omen said.
Dour Face unleashed a flurry of blows with his left hand, still holding Omen by the throat with his right. He started at the pelvic area, and worked his way up the torso, ending with brutal strikes to Omen’s rib cage. Remus winced, starting to feel sick.
Dour Face is going to kill him!
“Kneel,” Dour Face said a third time. There was no response. He released Omen’s throat. The battered man slumped to the ground, catching himself on his knees before he toppled face first into the dirt. From the cages it must have looked like Omen had knelt in submission, but Remus knew better. Dour Face had beaten the man senseless. Dour Face gestured with a disgusted wave, and Omen was dragged from the ring. Next to Remus, Tethana knelt over Omen and traced a blue circle on his forehead.
After Omen, very few of the prisoners had the guts to fight. Any man who knelt without attacking, or refused to even pick up a weapon, was branded with a blue cross instead of a circle. Several hours later, Remus stood with those that had fought and received a circle mark. Out of the hundred captives it was only ten men.
When the last prisoner had been tested, the drum spoke out again in the same methodical tempo. As calmly as they had arrived, the five naked Ethari soldiers departed. The remaining Ethari ushered the prisoners back into the cages. But where before it had been random, there was now a system to how the cells were filled. Each wooden pen would now house nine men who had received a cross and one man who had been branded with a circle.
Omen stood beside Remus. He was furious. When Omen had recovered enough to stand, he started raving and did not stop. “I’ll kill them. All of them,” he said. “Don’t sleep, don’t turn your back, don’t even blink, you filthy monochrome maggots. I want to see the color of your blood.”
The other eight men marked with a circle treated Omen like the leader. His tenacity in the ring had earned their respect; they were in awe of him. Remus stood apart, not comfortable with the insane fury he heard in Omen’s voice, and not finding it in himself to be angry at the Ethari.
Soon enough Remus was split from the group and led to a cage. Inside were nine men who had submitted without fighting. The gate clicked shut behind him. He stood in front of it, taking stock of his new cellmates. Most were pitiful cowards hiding at the back of the pen, but two of them stood in the middle with their arms crossed, not too scared to be curious.
“I think I know what’s happening here,” he said, hoping he sounded more courageous than he felt. “They need us to fight, so they’re forming us into ten-man units. I guess I’m your leader.”
“A reasonable guess,” one of the standing men said. “But it may be simpler than that. A shield-wall needs men to anchor it. You can’t have thirty cowards in a line, they won’t hold. Now our captors won’t run that risk.”
Remus nodded. He was not sure which was worse, being given nine men to lead into battle, or being expected to anchor a shield-wall. This was not how he had expected this day to go.
“Whatever comes next,” Remus said, “I don’t intend to die out here. You were trained to fight in the Legion, so you know how to kill. This is no different. If you can’t get over your fear, you’re useless to me.”
The two standing men nodded, and he saw a change come over them. Given a task and direction they were ready to follow Remus’s lead.
Just like Axid. Poor fool never wanted to step out on his own, but would do anything I told him to.
The cowards at the back of the cage would come around, or they would not. He would deal with them when the time came.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me what a shield-wall is and how it works.”
Chapter 20
AVENTINE KNELT ON THE floor of the casting room, shielding her eyes from the searing light of Dranzen’s rune-stamped armor. He would not shut up, but she was not listening. Instead, she was waiting for her eyes to adjust, opening and closing them behind her hands until she was satisfied that she could see. She knew fighting was hopeless. Empowered with the might of a hundred runes, Dranzen could probably take on an entire army and win. But maybe she could outsmart him.
When her vision cleared she stood slowly, drawing her pilfered sword. In the runelight the blade had a sickly sheen, like it was covered in oil.
Probably a cheap replica. That’s what I get for stealing a dead man’s weapon.
Dranzen cackled. “No metal can withstand the hungry flames of Fury’s Lust!” he said while flourishing his flaming sword. Aventine heard a whooshing sound as the rune-flames burned the very air. “It will devour your pathetic sword, and then your soul.” He lashed out with the fiery blade, slicing through one of the platforms scattered around the room. Unseated, the runestone it had supported crashed to the floor, and the platform fell apart in neatly severed sections. Melted in an instant, the burned edges of the wood flowed like lava.
“You talk too much,” Aventine said.
A petulant look flashed across Dranzen’s face. He attacked, not bothering with a fighting stance and charging straight at her. “You’re going to suffer for what you did to me,” he snarled as he came.
Aventine met the attack, knowing her only hope was to get past Dranzen and through the door. If she could trip or distract him, she could try to run for it. She surprised him by going on the offensive. He barely got his fiery sword up in time to block her blow. She put all of her strength behind the swing, trying to make it count. Her sword might not survive contact with Dranzen’s rune blade.
As the blade descended, she covered her face with one gauntleted hand, half-expecting the sword to shatter into a thousand pieces. But to her shock, she felt a crushing impact jump through the blade and into her arm. She had to grab the hilt with both hands to prevent the weapon from leaping out of her grip. Dranzen’s sword let out a horrible sound. It sounded alive, and in pain. When their blades clashed, his screamed.
What in the name of the emperor?
“Impossible!” Dranzen said, backing away from her. “What witchery is this?” His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets.
She pressed the advantage, driving Dranzen back with quick strikes and feints. He stopped his retreat when his back hit the far wall. Aventine lunged, trying to puncture the mail on his abdomen with a sharp stab. The point of her blade slid away from the armor like it was water.
No way to hurt him, just get away!
Dranzen started to fight back after seeing his scalemail deflect her assault. She caught his attack on her sword and they locked blades, each pressing their full weight against the other.
“There’s nowhere to run, little girl,” he said. “Put down your unholy blade and maybe I’ll spare your life.”
Aventine did not reply. For a count of two heartbeats she stared into his sweating face and repulsive eyes. Radiant light from his runes made Dranzen look feverish and insane. She twisted her sword in her grip, parrying his down an
d towards the floor. He stumbled, unprepared and off balance. Her gauntleted fist rose to smash into his face. Dranzen crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from the ruins of his nose.
Angry now, Aventine whirled to face the doorway, sword held two-handed in front of her. Dranzen’s casters were oblivious to their master’s plight, cowled heads bent towards the pulsing runestones in their hands. Two of them blocked the doorway, and she could see a third in the hall.
With three furious steps she closed the distance to the first two, sword swinging wide in preparation for a deadly crosscut. Her hands shifted on the hilt as she attacked, propelling the tip of the blade into a murderous figure eight that carved bleeding chunks from the unarmored casters. They fell screaming, cut down like chaff before the harvest scythe. Concentration broken, the caster in the hall raised his head and the stone in his hand dimmed. When he saw Aventine striding towards him, bloody sword in hand, the color drained from his face and he fled.
Behind her Dranzen’s shrill voice rang out, “Stop her! Kill her!”
In the hall now, Aventine could see down to the first floor. Dranzen’s warriors were pounding up the stairs, runes on armor and weapons flaring into life.
Damn.
To her right, at the end of a long hallway, was a single four-paned window. Outside she could see the roof of a neighboring building. There was no time to think. She sprinted for the window. Shouts rang out behind her. She felt the wood planks beneath her feet vibrate with the weight of her pursuers. Something whizzed past her head—a dagger quivered in the wall next to the window. She put on a burst of speed. Crossing her arms over her head, and making sure her sword was pointed down and away from her body, she dove headfirst through the window.