Black Legion - The First Trilogy

by Michael G. Thomas

  “To the Emperor!” called out Proxenus. He was drowned out by the shouting and screams of hundreds of Medes and Terran soldiers.

  Xenophon and his companions stayed closer to Xenias, having greater faith in their old commander’s skills, as well as his instincts. He instantly identified the weakest part of the horde, and with his carbine held low, he charged through. Any enemy troops coming too close were shot to pieces or hacked down by a dozen of his personal guards. Glaucon followed, blasting apart every enemy soldier he could identify. Roxana, Artemas and Xenophon concentrated on blade combat. Their experience, training and skill with these weapons were vastly superior to the Medes, and it took just three minutes for them to cut a swathe through to a raised piece of ground. Xenias stopped upon reaching it, moving only to pick off the odd automaton that moved into his path.

  “Where is Cyrus?”

  Proxenus was nowhere to be seen, nor were the other Dukas. He looked back and noted that less than a hundred Terrans had penetrated this far. The rest were engaged in a massed melee to the flank. He looked back and could see the Emperor, now stood and sheltering behind dozens of golden armoured warriors. They appeared agitated, and some rushed off to the right. He turned his head slightly and picked out the standard of Cyrus, along with the spatharii of Meno and a handful of his Anusiyans that still lived. Xenophon took aim, cutting down a group of automatons trying to block their path to assist in the final fight. They were an equal distance from the Emperor and the rest of their men.

  “This is it, Dukas. We have to help him!” shouted Xenophon.

  Xenias hesitated, fearful that by pushing forward, he would trap his small band right in the heart of the enemy army. Rather than wait, Xenophon jumped forward with his companions following. They hacked and blasted away as they continued forward. Xenias, never the man to stand by and watch, took aim and chased after them. Almost as soon as they started, they seemed to arrive at the side of the enemy leader. His guards surrounded him. At seeing a number of Terrans arriving on their flank, a group of the guards turned and jumped down to intercept them. They were armed with deadly looking glaives and others carried rifles. Xenophon, Artemas and Xenias crashed into them. Glaucon took careful aim at the Emperor. He lifted the weapon slightly, aiming at the leader’s head. Dozens more Terrans rushed past him to engage those trying to stop Xenophon. His friend looked back and saw Glaucon.

  “Do it!” he screamed.

  Glaucon breathed out slowly and pulled the trigger. The weapon slammed back into his body, and a burst of large calibre pulse rounds launched at the Emperor. He saw the figure move and then vanish in the maelstrom of the battle. Three of the guards fired back, so he was forced to duck down. He then lifted himself back up and took aim once more, finally seeing the commander being helped up.

  You must have some amazing gear! Glaucon thought.

  He lined up for another shot, but it was too late. Cyrus and more than forty Medes soldiers, Terrans and even three Taochi warriors cut their way through the Anusiyan guards; right up to Artaxerxes himself. At the same time, Xenophon and Artemas managed to reach the platform to hit the Emperor from the left. Cyrus made it first and charged directly at his half-brother. Artaxerxes drew a firearm from inside his gloriously detailed cloak and took aim. Three of Meno’s spatharii locked position around their commander, their body shields placed directly in front of Cyrus. Even so, the look on Cyrus’ face transformed as he realised the weapon was not a pistol, but in fact a thermal grenade. With a bright blue flash, the powerful explosion obliterated the Emperor and his immediate bodyguard. The spatharii protecting Cyrus were thrown back into the battle where they were instantly cut down. Cyrus was blasted onto his back, the superheated weapon leaving shards of burning hot metal and plasma stuck in his armour and body. Zacynthians guards, who proceeded to try and finish him off, quickly surrounded him. One stabbed down and embedded his bayoneted rifle into Cyrus’ shoulder, and another tried to cut at his face. A nearby automaton bravely leapt ahead and took the impact instead. Cyrus cried out in pain, and as quickly as the battle hard started, it began to lose its impetus.

  “Get back!” Xenias called out at seeing the fallen Cyrus.

  Some of the Terrans obeyed, but most of them were fired up and their bloodlust had to be satiated. Xenophon and his friends refused to give up, and they pushed ahead to their commander. Artemas took the head off the Anusiyan holding him down. Xenophon cut down two more with his Asgeirr-Carbines. Glaucon dropped his weapon and helped drag Cyrus back down the steps. The other Terrans did their best to close up their ranks and fight off the Medes that were so keen to end his life. Xenophon stabbed at another Medes soldier and checked on Cyrus. The multiple wounds on his chest and his torn armour told him the Medes noble had minutes, perhaps seconds to live. The burning plasma meant that he couldn’t even try and help remove the armour that was slowly killing him.

  We can still make it back to the wall! He thought.

  He stepped directly in front of the fallen Cyrus and around him the other spatharii stood like a Laconian army of old. They each had their body shield activated and provided a wall of energy and armour. Xenias and the rest joined them and metre-by-metre the army of Cyrus gave ground. More gunfire ripped into the army of Cyrus as the promised reinforcements arrived at the wall. They were too late to save the battle, but they were able to push forward and create a shielded wall from behind which the army could move back slowly. Once they’d withdrawn almost fifty metres, Xenophon left the front rank and knelt down next to Cyrus. Artemas was already holding his hand and sobbing. He looked to the face of Cyrus, the kind-hearted, if power-hungry Median. The plasma had burned through his armour, and his face was white. Blood ran from his mouth, and a trail of blood ran from where they’d dragged him. Xenias saw what was happening and moved over, keeping his left arm raised to provide protection from the continuous gunfire hitting their army.

  “He’s gone, Xenophon. This battle is over. Cyrus is dead.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Strategos Clearchus and Topoteretes Kleandridas marched past the waiting automaton and Black Legion forces inside the Citadel. Both wore their blood spattered Laconian armour with pride, their weapons held in both arms, and their crimson cloaks flowing behind them. It looked like the arrival of the conquering heroes, but the reality was far from clear. Ariaeus had apparently halted the battle in the Citadel, and Clearchus was determined to find out with his own eyes what was happening. He continued forward and through a gap created between two blocks of Terran spatharii. Every single warrior stood in silence, and the only obvious movement to his eyes were the myriad of medics dragging the wounded or the dead from the open ground inside the inner ward of the Citadel. He shook his heady angrily at the scene of Cyrus’ foolish final gambit, and for the difficult situation he had place the Legion in. Directly behind him marched over a hundred of his elite Epilektoi, led by the equally tired and bloodied Komes Artemis.

  You fool Cyrus. You complete fool.

  He marched directly to the front ranks of the army and stopped. At the centre stood most of the Dukas of the Legion as well as Ariaeus. The Medes commander was the only one lacking either dirt or blood on his armour. Clearchus did nothing to hide his contempt as he approached the group.

  “Where is he?”

  Dukas Xenias nodded to his commander, pointing to his left where Lady Artemas and her companions led by Dekarchos Xenophon were stood. On the ground, on a cloak taken from an Arcadian Komes lay the battered and broken body of Lord Cyrus, paymaster of the Legion, and their only reason for being in the Empire. Clearchus stepped closer and bent down to examine the figure. He looked at his armour, his skin and the expression on his face. Cyrus’ hand was still clamped around his sword, and even Clearchus felt sympathy for the fallen figure. He lifted himself up and glanced of those nearby. He locked his eyes on Xenophon.

  “Dekarchos, you saw what happened?”

  He nodded in reply.

  “Yes, Strategos. The Emper
or leading the battle was a double, a plant to draw in Cyrus. He managed to get close enough to attack Artaxerxes, only for the imposter to detonate a thermal plasma weapon. He was mortally wounded by the blast.”

  “I see,” Clearchus replied slowly. He looked to the others for more information. “Dukas Xenias. Where is Artaxerxes?”

  The Dukas turned and pointed ahead to a large group of Anusiyans. What caught his eye was that a small contingent of Terrans was stood with them. They wore Terran armour but Medes uniforms and weapons. One man in particular looked very familiar. As he watched, a delegation of Medes and Terran warriors marched forwards to the Terran line. Clearchus clenched his fist, tempted for the briefest of moments to launch into a bloody assault upon them.

  Stay calm you fool; you have an army to protect.

  Instead, he looked to the Terran commanders on his own side.

  “Proxenus, Xenias and you, yes, Lady Artemas, come with me.”

  He took one step and looked over to Ariaeus, the Medes General and until recently, the deputy commander of Cyrus’ Median contingent.

  “You as well.”

  He marched out, and alongside him marched the other commanders. Xenophon moved with them, standing to the side of Artemas. The four Terrans and two Medes marched out in front of their army, and to the blood soaked open ground. The Medes contingent was triple the size, but only a few moved at the front. As they reached a short distance apart, he recognised the form of Tissaphernes, the median noble whose troops he had just defeated. The others were new to him, apart from a man with the armour of the Zacynthians. They stopped and Tissaphernes stepped forwards.

  “Strategos Clearchus, it is good to meet with you once more.”

  Clearchus shook his head and did his best to stay civil.

  “I see you managed to escape the rout of your own army.”

  Tissaphernes smiled in return.

  “And you managed to miss the battle; shame for Cyrus. If you had been here, perhaps Cyrus might have survived. Anyway, that is not why I am here.”

  Clearchus interrupted him before he could say more.

  “Who is this wretch?” he demanded, pointing directly at the Zacynthian.

  The Terran nodded to Clearchus, showing a degree of respect to his fellow Terran.

  “I am Arkeisios, second-in-command to Dukas Phalinus, the trainer of Artaxerxes conscripts.”

  Clearchus allowed himself a low smile.

  “Dukas Phalinus? Where is he now?”

  Arkeisios said nothing, but Clearchus was well aware that his commander was still engaged in the massive space battle that continued above them, in orbit around Cunaxa. He’d been out of contact since arriving at the Citadel, but the news had been good so far. Pleistoanax had established a strong cordon around the world and was fighting off any surviving Median ships that tried to break the blockade. Though the main battle was over, a number of small vessels had tried to break past the Terran cordon and could be seen falling like shooting stars through Cunaxa’s atmosphere.

  “Strategos, my master wishes to negotiate directly with you and your senior commanders. He asked me to express to you his admiration in this minor battle and that his respect for your martial skills is great.”

  “Respect?” spat Dukas Xenias, evidently not in the mood for platitudes and niceties.

  “Why doesn’t he give the order and let us end this, once and for all?”

  Clearchus lifted his hand, instantly silencing the Dukas. Tissaphernes smiled, pleased that he both had the attention of Clearchus, and also that the Terran had just given him all the information he needed.

  “The Great King himself has no interest in fighting you or your mighty Legion. I have already explained to him that you are mercenaries, adventurers and not invaders. What use would you have for a despoiled world such as this? The Great King can muster an army like this one before you a hundred times over.”

  Clearchus was now becoming impatient. He looked to Proxenus and Xenophon, neither of whom had yet said a word. Even Ariaeus was subdued. Tissaphernes spoke directly to him, but none of the Terrans understood the fast language. It didn’t take long before Ariaeus bowed and stepped forward to Tissaphernes’ side and turned to face Clearchus. He lifted his hand and spoke no more than a dozen words into his military communication node. Almost as one, the Median troops alongside the Black Legion dropped their weapons and lay down prostrate on the ground. Only the few hundred surviving mercenary Taochi and the thousands of Terrans remained, each poised for what they expected to be a bloody last stand.

  “The Great King has issued a full pardon for all Medes involved in the revolt. I have given up my command of these forces and am joining Tissaphernes, as ordered by the Emperor.”

  He then spoke directly to Artemas, and a bitter exchange followed. She spat at his feet, turned to Xenophon and then to Clearchus.

  “He says I am the only Medes that will not be pardoned. I must stay, on account of my crimes and support for my uncle. If I attempt to leave, Tissaphernes will order his fleet to reengage our ships.”

  Xenias and Proxenus both took a step forward, but again Clearchus held them back.

  Tissaphernes tilted his head slightly, looking curiously at Clearchus.

  “I see it is only you that can hold back your Terrans. Cyrus chose you well.”

  The two Dukas kept their calm and instead turned to Clearchus. Xenias moved closer, speaking as quietly as he could.

  “What is the plan?”

  Clearchus took a deep, slow breath before answering.

  “To live, old friend. I intend for the Legion to go on living.”

  Tissaphernes indicated with his hand towards the Royal buildings in the Citadel.

  “The Emperor wishes to discuss terms with your commanders. There are tasks throughout the Empire for which your warriors are eminently suited.”

  Clearchus shook his head.

  “I have no interest in travelling through the Empire running errands. Either we will leave this place, peacefully and with our wounded and honour intact, or...”

  He took a step closer to the right-hand of Artaxerxes.

  “I will order the Legion to sack this place. Every Medes warrior here will die, your civilians will be enslaved, and we will strip the city of everything of value.”

  Tissaphernes’ expression altered just a fraction, and Clearchus sensed the enemy commander was starting to feel unsafe. He tried to remain calm and collected, but his eyes told a different story. They darted about desperately, probably looking for friends and allies nearby in case Clearchus carried through his threat.

  “That is not necessary,” he said finally. He then beckoned to the top of the steps where dozens of civilian automatons appeared, carrying heavy containers.

  “I have been ordered to provide you and your soldiers food, water and provisions for your voyage home. It will be a long journey, but I’m sure we can negotiate a safe and mutually agreeable path for your fleet to follow. The Great King has also promised to pay your troops the rewards offered by the usurper, in way of compensation for your troubles.”

  The civilians moved past them, and Xenophon noted they were carrying fruit, meat and vegetables. There were even a number of medics with the equipment of their trade. However, Tissaphernes moved back and proceeded to walk up the steps to the Royal Quarters of the Citadel. Halfway up he stopped and turned back.

  “Bring your senior commanders and meet me in the Royal Chamber,” he explained and then pointed to one of the spire structures.

  “We will arrange your compensation and journey. In the meantime, we have grounded our air operations. You may commence your withdrawal procedures immediately. Perhaps while your forces pack up, you might come inside and give the Great King’s offer some consideration, as well? Please make sure you bring the niece of the traitor with you. She belongs to us now.”

  He then bowed down low with both arms extended out to the side. Xenophon reached out and placed his hand on Artemas’ side. She felt
his hand immediately and knew her friend would not let her go without a violent struggle.

  “You are under no obligation, of course,” he finished with a smile.

  Tissaphernes then turned his back on the Terrans and marched up the steps. His entourage followed, leaving the Terran senior officers and commanders out in the open and away from their men. The silence within the confines of the fortified Citadel was choking, and Xenophon looked back to see his comrades waiting patiently in the front rank of the newly arrived Laconian spatharii. Clearchus took a single step back and looked to his commanders.

  “Well?”

  Proxenus shook his head angrily.

  “I don’t like any of this. Until we are back in space, our ground troops are vulnerable. Our supplies are low, and the route home is treacherous. I say we pack and leave immediately, before the Emperor changes his mind. Sophaenetus and Kratez nodded in agreement, leaving just Meno and Xenias.

  “I disagree,” Meno stated firmly. “We cannot be beaten in a stand-up fight, and Tissaphernes knows this. We can assault and capture this place in less than an hour.”

  He turned and looked to the Terrans.

  “Look at them. Have you ever seen such a sight before? Terran warriors from a dozen worlds, many enemies and yet all are here, to fight under your command. It is something that has not happened in our lifetimes.”

  Clearchus was surprised at this attitude. He had little, if any respect for Meno, yet his suggestion had some sense to it.