by Mike Morris
Rane nodded. "Must admit I could do with something myself."
Myri gave him a look that said how likely she thought was going to be.
Rane didn't blame her for thinking that way. "I'll talk to the Lord General, see if I can get anything extra sent out to everyone. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."
Myri stiffened, looked over his shoulder. "No time like the present."
Rane turned. The Lord General of the Legion, Sir Henry Jefferson, was on the wall and walking towards them. His uniform was perfect as ever, his white beard neatly trimmed. Seeing him galvanised all the troops into action. They jumped to their feet and saluted as Jefferson walked past, the slouch of defeat disappearing as military pride came back. No one wanted to look bad in front of the Lord General — they all owed him too much.
Jefferson stopped and talked to the odd one here and there, leaving them with smiles — genuine smiles — on their faces as he moved on. The old man always had that effect on people.
Myri and Rane snapped to attention when he reached them.
"At ease, soldiers," said Jefferson. "How goes the watch?"
"Quiet, sir," said Myri. "The Rastaks seem happy to wait till morning."
"No sign of any riders?" asked the old man.
Myri shook her head. "None. Are we expecting any?"
The Lord General leaned against the parapet as he scrutinised the Rastaks’ camp. He'd never been a young man, but the last few days seemed to have aged him by decades. There was still some fire in his eyes but it pained Rane to see how frail he’d become. But then the war had affected them all.
Jefferson rubbed the white fuzz of hair on his head and sighed. "They've made some assault platforms, I see." Four wooden towers stood outside of cannon range, illuminated by dozens of fires surrounding them.
"We've managed to stop all the attacks so far when they've scaled the walls with ladders, sir. The towers will be just as unsuccessful," said Myri. "Once they're in range of the cannon, they'll make good target practice for my crews."
"We're lucky the Rastaks don't believe in using guns or cannon. Apparently they think it cheapens the kill. They like to look into the eyes of who ever they send to Heras. Bloody savages." Jefferson sniffed the air and grimaced. Burning flesh from the pyres tainted the night. "And how are you, Nathaniel?"
"Tired. Hungry. The same as everyone else," replied Rane. "But always ready, sir."
"Such is a Legionnaire's lot."
"It is, sir."
"Do you remember when I first met you, Nathaniel?" asked Jefferson.
"Like yesterday. I'd just finished my training at the camp just outside of Napolin. You told me I could change the world."
"You probably should’ve told me I was a fool and walked away," said Jefferson.
"And missed all the fun we've had over the years, sir? Never." Rane laughed. "You made me the man I am, more so than my own father. I'd follow you to the heart of Mogai's kingdom if you asked." And he knew he'd do it without a moment's hesitation.
“I may do that, Nathaniel. I may well do that. Only the Gods know what we’d find on the other side of that mountain range of theirs though. I can’t imagine they have too much in the way of art and architecture. Probably just mud huts and human sacrifices.” Jefferson looked him in the eye, all humour gone. "We must stop them here. If we can do that, we can start forcing them off our lands and away from our homes.”
“Do you think we can?” asked Myri.
Jefferson smiled. “These are dark days we find ourselves in. If the Rastaks take Candra, then what’s left of the rest of the continent will follow soon after. Life as we know it will be gone forever. Hundreds of thousands of people will die. This is our last stand, and even though common sense tells us to give up and run away, we must fight on. Discover the way through the obstacles that would make others curl up and die. Mankind stands on the precipice and it is only the Legion that can stop its fall."
"You have our swords, my Lord General," said Rane, bowing. "And our lives."
"There is nothing I value more," replied Jefferson. "Know that as we face the end of days ahead."
"Captain!" Thomaz cried out, pointing to the East. "Riders!"
Rane and Myri rushed over and looked out across the expanse. Riders were coming in hard from the north-east, heading for the main gate. They’d not gone unnoticed by the enemy, and the Rastaks were in pursuit.
Rane removed his telescope from a pouch on his belt and extended it for a better view. Magnified through the lens, he could see the riders clearly. The lead rider was Marcus Shaw, his oldest friend, and the fear on his face reflected how dire his situation was.
"Four riders," he told the others. "Three of ours. Don't recognise the fourth man."
"Get ready to give covering fire," screamed Myri and the men and women on the wall scrambled into life. "And get some more archers up here. I want hell raining down on anything that isn't ours."
"I'm going down to the gate," said Rane. "They're not going to make it without some help."
"May the Gods look after you, Nathaniel," said Jefferson, but Rane was already moving, trying not to think of what he actually had to do, trying not to let the fear take hold. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly knocking an unsuspecting soldier flying on the way down. Once in the courtyard, he looked for anyone to help.
"Hedin!" A giant of a Legionnaire looked up. Rane was tall, but Hedin of the Axe had a good five inches on him. He was famed for the double-edged blade that never left his side, and always happy for a fight. "Some of our lads are coming in with the whole Rastak army on their tail," shouted Rane without breaking stride.
"Shit," replied Hedin, looking to the gates, as if he could see the danger on the other said. May the Gods bless the man because he still stood up, weapon in hand. "We're with you, Nathaniel." Five others followed, each one calling out to others to join the group.
Overhead, the first cannon boomed into life, shaking the air and ringing their ears. Despite their tiredness, Myri would have her gunners working hard to help.
By the time Rane reached the gate, he had a fighting force of twenty soldiers, all willing to sacrifice their lives for their brothers in trouble. If there were better men and women in the world, he had yet to meet them. He drew his sword and found his voice. "We have a team of four riders approaching the gate. They're being pursued by Rastaks on horse and foot. Our only objective is to get them inside quickly so do what you need to do to make that happen. No more, no less. No unnecessary heroics. If a demon comes at you, shoot the bastard. If you can't, just get out of their way so someone else can. Don't try and fight them one on one. Stick close together, don't get separated. I don't want to lead another rescue party to get you. Got it?"
The others grunted their acknowledgement, all wide-eyed, working themselves up for the fight. Rane's mouth was dry as the blood roared through him. By the Gods, he could’ve done with a drink of water and a piss. He could’ve done with being a million miles away from where he was right then, as scared as a man could be, and most likely dead in five minutes time. He wished he’d time to get his armour, his helmet, or even just his bloody shield.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. The cannons roared, a steady beat, drowning out their racing hearts and smothering the war cries of their enemies. The zip of arrows filled the space in-between shots, each one a rain drop trying to hold back the tsunami of Rastaks racing towards the main gates.
"Open the gates!" came the call from above.
Fear gripped Rane, but he pushed the feeling down as best he could, and concentrated on the weapon in his hand. He would survive this. It wasn't his day to die. Not yet. “Come on, let’s go hurt the bastards!”
Swords and axes, knives and guns were readied as the portcullis groaned into motion. The wooden beam that held the gates in place was manhandled out of the way and the doors pushed open. Rane could see Marcus, two other Legionnaires and a bearded man riding for their lives with what looked like the whole Rastak army in pursuit.
By the Gods, they’d no hope. Not knowing what else to do, Rane screamed and charged out to meet them. His men followed.
His feet pounded the ground as his heart hammered away in his chest. Time slowed as they closed on the enemy. A canon ball blasted a cluster of Rastaks into the air and blood and guts rained down on them all, mixed with rock and rubble. Another wave of arrows fell, brushing a dozen soldiers off their feet — but there were so many of the bastards still coming at them.
A Rastak, dressed in mismatched leather armour and a demon skull helmet, ran alongside Marcus's horse, trying to snatch him from the saddle. The Legionnaire hacked down with his sword, slicing the man through the jaw. The Rastak went down but another took his place. Rane crashed into him, allowing Marcus to ride past.
The Rastak rolled back onto his feet, a short sword in one hand and an axe in the other. Rane didn't wait for the bastard to try anything with either of them and shot him in the head.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement and ducked just as another axe flew past. He slashed out with his sword, catching a Rastak in the guts. His arm shook with the impact but he still managed to twist the blade as he pulled it free, doing his best to open the man up. The Rastak screamed in pain and rage, face contorted, spitting, swearing. Rane thrust his sword up into the man's heart and silenced him for good.
Another Rastak soldier came at him, swinging a badly notched sword straight at hiss head. He stepped aside, felt the blade brush pass his shoulder and slashed the Rastak’s throat open. A red mist blew past Rane’s face as he looked around, breath ragged. It was chaos as his small force battled with the oncoming wave of Rastaks. The cannons fired and the arrows fell, keeping the worst of the enemy away but even so, his troops were on the verge of being overwhelmed.
Hedin was nearby, swinging his axe from one foe to another. He was mowing them down as soon as they came near him, bodies piling high, until a spear nicked him in the thigh and he stumbled. Rane lunged in before another Rastak could bring a sword down on Hedin's head, skewering the bastard.
Suddenly a shadow fell over Rane. A Jotnar, ten feet tall, towered over him. The demon roared, filling Rane's vision with its razor-sharp teeth, as spit flew over his face. Fear gripped Rane, feeling so small before the monstrosity. Shell covered most of its body like armour, leaving few vulnerable parts to attack. Spurs jutted out from the elbows, forearms and knees, sharp enough to gut any man foolish enough to get close. And Rane was far too close.
The survival rate for one-on-one combat with a Jotnar was zero. Rane had lost count of the good men and women who he'd personally seen fall before them. Some were ripped a part, others pulped under giant fists or hacked in two with their giant weapons.
Rane barely saw the creature move as its fist battered his head from left to right. White light exploded in his eyes as he hit the ground hard, some how finding the sense to roll out of the way of a foot stomp that would have crushed his chest.
Before the Jotnar could attack again, another Legionnaire, Simone, joined the fight. Her sword bit into the creature's arm, cracking its shell, but no more than that. The Jotnar sent her flying as it shook the weapon free.
Others rushed to their aid — Hedin, axe swinging, along with two conscripts armed with pole and pike. With a roar, the Jotnar turned to deal with the Nortlunder, offering Rane its back.
Rane forced himself to move. He staggered to his feet and attacked once more. He hacked at the back of the creature's legs. Black blood traced the blade's path as it bit deep, slicing hamstrings. The demon crashed to its knees, no longer able to stand. Rane darted back as a conscript thrust his pike into the demon's heart. The Jotnar's death squeal was cut short as Simone, mouth bleeding and one eye swollen shut, separated its head from its shoulders.
"Pull back!" Rane ordered at the top of his voice. "Pull back! Pull back!"
His words reached the ears of his men over the roar of blood and the clash of steel. More arrows struck the enemy around them, forcing the Rastaks back, buying them space and time.
Rane and his men only had a hundred yards to run but Hedin went down as an Rastak tackled him around the knees. Three more soldiers from the gate rushed out to help. Blades flashed left and right as Hedin was hauled to his feet. Rane took him under the arm and they ran the last few yards through the gates and into the darkness of the castle.
The doors slammed shut and the portcullis dropped back into place. Rane fell to his knees, sucking in air as quick as he could, hands shaking. He thanked all the Gods for keeping him alive one more time, not quite believing he'd actually survived. His stomach lurched and he vomited over the ground. The bile burned his throat but Rane didn’t care. He was alive.
Marcus and the others were helped off their horses. One of the Legionnaires didn't have long left in the world — both he and his horse were covered in far too much blood – but Marcus looked relatively unscathed.
The fourth man stood to one side, watching the commotion with a look of amusement on his face, as if he’d just had a leisurely ride through the countryside. Tall and thin, his bald head accentuating his deathly white skin. A hint of teeth sneaked through a beard closely cropped around his chin. He carried no weapon that Rane could see and his robes resembled a priest's — though of what religion Rane knew not. But it was his eyes that made him stand out; a darkness fell over them as if they were in permanent shadow. Rane could feel the intensity emanating from them, the danger. Who ever he was, Rane didn’t like him. There was something was wrong with the man.
"Nathaniel! Thank the Gods you came to help," said Marcus, offering a hand to help him up from the ground.
Rane accepted the assistance, noting his friend's lined and worn face. "You look like you've been through the gates of hell, brother."
"Nothing a month of good food and sleep couldn't fix," replied Marcus.
Rane indicated the stranger with a tilt of his head. "Who were you escorting?"
Before Marcus could answer, four members of the Lord General's personal guard rushed over from the great hall. "Mr Shaw. You're required to come with me," said the lead guard.
Marcus nodded. "I'll see you on the wall, Nathaniel. May the Gods keep you safe."
"And you, my friend." He watched them go, the stranger with them.
"Nice," said Hedin, standing next to Rane. "Not even a thanks for nearly getting us killed."
Rane smiled. "You have my gratitude at least. Did we lose anyone out there?"
Hedin shrugged. "One of the kids. Brave lad, but when it’s your time, what can you do? Other than that, a few scratches here and there but nothing serious. Well... apart from Diavan. He won't fight again."
Rane looked down at the man's leg; a nasty gash ran from one end of his thigh to the other. "You better get that seen to."
"It's nothing." Hedin laughed and beat his chest with his fist. "I'm a Nortlunder and proud of it. A few stitches and this thing will be forgotten. It won't stop me in the morning from killing more of those Rastak scum."
"Well, there's more than enough to keep you busy." Rane wiped the black blood off his sword before he slipped back into his scabbard.
"Aye. It'll be wet work tomorrow."
"Then it'll be the same as every other day," replied Rane.
More of the Lord General's personal guard appeared and quickly dispersed out into the streets. One came over to speak to Hedin and Rane. "The Lord General wants all the Legion gathered in the barracks."
"Now?" asked Rane.
"Now."
"But what about my men? If the Rastaks attack..."
"Then the alarms will ring and you'll run like hell to get back to your posts. I'm sure he has a good reason for calling you in. No doubt he'll tell you when we get there."
Rane looked to Hedin, who shrugged once more. "I do as I'm told anyway."
"Then we go to the barracks."
The Sword Tower was only a short walk from the wall and the main gates but for Rane's tired body, it might as well been a million mile
s away. Each step hurt as he wondered why they had all been summoned. The barracks, home to the men and women of the Legion, stabbed the skyline ahead, a curved column of stone with no concession for aesthetics, just brutal function, reflecting the Legionnaires' way of life perfectly.
More Legionnaires joined Rane and Hedin as they got closer. Apart from the odd nod of recognition from people happy to see old friends and comrades still alive, no one spoke. Talking took energy and no one had that to spare. Judging by the haunted eyes around Rane, hope was in short supply too. They trudged along together, each one lost in their own thoughts and fears, wondering why the Lord General had summoned them one last time.
Stepping through the doors of the barracks brought some relief. It was cooler inside the building, and almost tranquil. It was good to leave the war outside, even if it was for a short while. Rane nearly laughed at the thought that perhaps a good meal and a comfortable bed waited for them — he knew they'd not be that lucky.
Rane and Hedin marched down a long corridor and joined the other Legionnaires already gathered in the great hall. Four hundred and fifty men and women, all with the same battle weary look about them. Rane felt immense pride standing alongside them — they were the best of the best. It was no idle boast to say mankind's forces would have fallen long ago if not for the Legion.
Jefferson watched them intently from the dais. Next to him was the stranger Marcus had brought, looking very comfortable, but Rane's unease about the man grew. Even though he stood still, the man seemed to slip in and out of the shadows of the room, making it hard to look at him. All Rane's instincts told him this was a dangerous man, someone not to be trusted, but he had no real reason to think that. He was just tired, Rane told himself. The lack of sleep was making him paranoid. If the Lord General was happy to have the man with him, that should be enough for Rane.
Satisfied all the Legion were present, Jefferson raised his hand, and the doors to the great hall were closed. The chunk of the locks sliding into place echoed across the room. Thick beams secured the doors. Everyone, all four hundred and fifty men and women of the Legion of Swords, was focused on what the Lord General had to say. The only sounds were the shuffling of feet and the odd cough.