The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3

by Jason K. Lewis

  “Wulf,” Martius called. He pointed to the burial mount. “Your people lie under that hillock. We buried them with honour. We will wait if you wish to pay your respects.” There were mutters amongst the legionaries nearby. Although many had come to respect – if not like – the barbarian, many still, understandably, could not yet bring themselves to forgive.

  Wulf nodded, his expression unreadable. He limped towards the mound and brusquely brushed Metrotis aside as he offered aid.

  “You stay, Metrotis,” Wulf muttered.

  It looked a slow and arduous walk to the base of the mound for Wulf. When he reached his destination, the grave towered above him. Martius was surprised to realise the full scale of it. Disguised as it was by the distance, it rose to several times Wulf’s great height at the centre.

  The giant barbarian halted, seemingly satisfied, then lowered himself to rest on his knees in the loose packed earth.

  Wulf slowly and deliberately gathered a handful of earth and rubbed it into his hair, then moved down to his face, shoulders and arms. His ritual completed, he dropped his head. Martius thought he might be quietly sobbing.

  Silence stretched on for minutes.

  Then Wulf raised his arms skyward as if in supplication and howled as a true wolf might howl at the moon. He beat his chest three times, the sound booming so loud it travelled across the valley floor, seeming to echo off the surrounding hills.

  Wulf repeated the ritual twice more; each time his howl more plaintive and mournful.

  At the end, the whole legion looked on in hushed silence, each man lost in his own thoughts or remembrances.

  Finally, after a long minute of quiet, Metrotis crossed the distance to the still and silent mourning warrior. He delicately touched Wulf’s shoulder, as if he was afraid to disturb him, and beckoned him to rise. Metrotis lead the great Wicklander away, holding his arm gently at the elbow as one might an elderly relative.

  After their brief stop at the memorial, the rest of the afternoon’s journey seemed overshadowed by thoughts of the two barrows on the road. The whole legion was sullen, as if mired in a fugue.

  Martius attempted to engage Conlan in conversation but found him oddly reticent, as he had been since they broke camp that morning. In the end Martius gave up, comfortable to spend the afternoon’s march in silent mourning for the dead of both sides. It seemed the fitting and respectful thing to do.

  That evening the legion quickly set up camp. It was the first night that they would fortify, raising earthen banks to protect the men as they slept. The legionaries seemed to be rushing, but Martius did not know to what end.

  He had his tent, as usual, pitched next to that of Conlan, at the exact centre of the camp. The camp itself was laid out in standard legionary fashion, divided into four quarters, split by two wide avenues that formed a crossroads at the centre.

  Martius enjoyed this aspect of soldiering. He watched the men busying themselves and bustling through the crossroads as they sought the latrine, or friends to share a story or a meal with. He surprised himself at evening parade by proclaiming – to a great cheer from the troops – that they would be allowed a ration of wine with which to toast their fallen comrades that night. The scouts reported the road ahead was clear for twenty miles at least; the men needed to relax, they needed time to mourn.

  Especially the remnants of the Twelfth, they have two reasons to grieve. It pained Martius to think about it. The loss of their comrades and the loss of their honour.

  In the early evening, an air of relaxation set in around the camp. Those not allocated to guard duty stayed up late around braziers and fires, forgetting the hardships of tomorrow, trading them for the chance to bond with brothers, to discuss tales of heroism and the daring deeds of comrades alive or dead.

  The night wore on and many eventually succumbed to the exhaustion of the march, remembering tomorrow, perhaps, and the long hard march ahead.

  Some small groups held out in defiance of common sense. One of these was outside the tent of the legion father. Conlan’s spirit seemed to have rallied, at least for the night. As Martius approached, he spotted the young leader sat before a large, low brazier, accompanied by Metrotis, Optuss and Wulf. Even Villius seemed to be joining in with the camaraderie. Usually so aloof and serious, Villius seemed, finally, to have relaxed.

  Two others sat with the group. Martius recognised one, ever present at Conlan’s side, the cohort commander. Martius sought for a name, not finding it as easy as he once had. Jonas. The other, who was the youth of the gathering by some years, he did not recognise.

  “May I join you?” Martius asked as he approached. He noted, as expected, that some were nervous of his presence.

  “Uncle!” Martius almost winced as Metrotis jumped up. “Of course, of course, please come and sit with us!”

  Martius forced a polite smile. His nephew was growing on him, certainly, but he still had an uncanny knack for irritation. He pulled up a canvas chair, nodding affably to all as he sat. They are so young. He felt the call of his bed, but sometimes morale building was more important. There are hard times ahead.

  Seeming to remember that he should be leading the proceedings, Conlan stood quickly. “Welcome, General, would you care for some wine?”

  “That is very kind of you, Father Conlan, but I fear it would disturb my sleep. Best I keep a clear head.”

  Martius looked at the youngest man in the group, who flushed red and refused to meet his gaze, his eyes sliding, as if seeking reassurance, towards Jonas who sat at his side.

  “I do not believe we have met, young man?” Martius recalled the first time he had met a general. Stressful indeed.

  The boy appeared sheepish, embarrassed. “My name is Lucus, sir. I serve with Commander Jonas in his cohort, sir.”

  “And he served with us all at Sothlind,” Jonas added, patting Lucus affectionately on the shoulder. “Proper hero this one.”

  Lucus shrugged, his face reddened further.

  “Well, it is a pleasure to meet one of the many heroes of this legion,” Martius replied with an easy smile. “You can relax, boys, we are all soldiers here tonight.” It will do them good to see their general is just a man like them.

  They did not relax immediately, but this was to be expected in the presence of a general. The primus general at that. Sometimes Martius forgot his position; the heights he had attained always struck him as absurd. You were born lucky, that is all.

  After some time, the conversation began to flow more easily and the men’s discomfort seemed to ease.

  Even Wulf chipped in occasionally in roughly accented Adarnan. He appeared to have recovered much of his strength, as if the rite of mourning at the burial mound of his people had purged his injuries. The barbarian’s face and hair looked cleaner than usual; Martius suspected that Metrotis had educated him in the pleasures of cleanliness.

  Optuss simply sat, apparently oblivious to the world around him, but for an occasional dull-eyed glance at the fire. Metrotis had spoken of the man’s ‘progress’, convinced that he was making headway, certain that he was starting to tap into the strange creature’s hidden consciousness.

  Conlan was quiet but attentive, rarely commenting but clearly enjoying the company, recovered from whatever ailment had plagued him through the day. Perhaps you mourn your brothers, Martius wondered.

  A strange group, he reflected, a strange group in strange circumstances, but good men all – except, perhaps, for Optuss. Optuss had helped to save Martius’s family but then almost killed Wulf at the villa, not that Wulf, who had recovered at astonishing speed, seemed to mind in the least. The Wicklander did not appear to hold a grudge, but then he had provoked Optuss. Optuss is an unknown, Martius reminded himself. It would be foolish to trust him.

  The evening passed in polite conversation, more familiar – as was ever the case – as the wine began to flow more freely. Martius relaxed and whiled away the time reminiscing over his days in the front line during the war with the hill tribes
.

  “They were formidable foes, the hill-men,” Martius said at the last, turning to Conlan. “Your cousins caused some consternation in the Empire. They almost had us at Vindum.”

  Conlan smiled wanly. “Strange. I never really thought about it that way. My father fought at Vindum, but his father was a northern hill-man.” He shook his head and eyed the fire. “One generation later and the son fought his father’s distant kin. It’s a strange world we live in, General.”

  He is a deep thinker this one, but seems prone to melancholy. “Strange indeed,” Martius agreed. It was amazing how quickly the concept of empire, the concept of state; of belonging, could change someone’s perception and their underlying loyalties. Perhaps a nation is an artificial construct. Perhaps it creates differences that do not actually exist. Human nature led men to abhor those who were different, unfamiliar. When it comes down to it, we are all the same.

  “What’s that noise?” Lucus abruptly asked. His face bore a distant look, as if concentrating hard. He tilted his head to one side, then opened and closed his mouth. Finally, he put his fingers in his ears and wiggled them.

  “Uh oh, looks like the lad’s had too much, better stop him drinkin’ now,” Jonas teased, his own words slurring slightly, to the amusement of the rest.

  “No, no, can’t you hear it?” Lucus protested. “Gods it’s annoying, never heard nothing like it.” He scrunched his face up. “What is that? S’like a bloody mosquito or somethin’.”

  Martius viewed Lucus carefully. He did not appear drunk, at least no more than any other, and they had not had much wine between them to begin with. Some men just cannot hold their drink, he concluded.

  The young soldier shook his head repeatedly, as if trying to dislodge something from his ears.

  Martius exchanged a puzzled look with the others around the brazier; most looked equally confused.

  All except Wulf, who leaned forward, his face intent as if deep in concentration, ignoring everything around him.

  Lucus sighed and opened his eyes wide. “Thank the gods! Uh, it’s gone now. Must be somethin’ wrong with me ears.”

  Something in Lucus’s actions put Martius on edge, his words were too clear. He is not drunk.

  Wulf shot to his feet. “Rise! Iron men, rise!” His eyes were wide. Spittle flew from his mouth. “Rise!”

  Metrotis reached out an arm as if to pull Wulf back whilst the others looked on in shocked bemusement. Villius snickered into his goblet.

  Slowly and deliberately, Optuss stood. His head turned left then right, as if seeking something, eyes unfocused… then he stopped and returned to his normal, passive stance. He remained on his feet, but otherwise acted as if nothing had happened.

  “Rise, fools!” Wulf exhorted. He threw his arms into the air repeatedly, as if willing them to comply. “Rise!”

  The hairs on the back of Martius’s neck rose. He stood without thought. His muscles tightened. Energy flowed through his limbs as primal instinct forced a reaction. “Weapons!” he shouted. “Wake the camp. Sound the alarm, now!”

  But it was too late.

  Out of the shadows, from behind the command tent, six figures stepped into the firelight. They attacked without a sound.

  One struck Martius in the chest. He sprawled to the ground and gasped for breath, heavily winded. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword – a sword of Optuss – its white pommel glimmered in the firelight. The smooth white handle felt warm to his touch despite the chill of evening. His vision narrowed yet somehow his senses heightened.

  In the centre, near the fire, the giant Wulf stood silhouetted against the blaze as he wrestled with an assassin. To Martius’s shock, the Wicklander fell as if he were no more than a child. The attacker turned to Optuss and paused for an instant before lashing out at him with an empty fist. Optuss made no effort to dodge the blow and staggered back from the force of it.

  What has the strength to knock Wulf from his feet? The speed to land a blow on Optuss? It seemed impossible. Move, you idiot! Martius raced at the nearest attacker, who was looming over the prone form of Metrotis, and slashed at the back of his head. The man turned lightning fast, raising an arm as if to ward off the blow. Martius’s sword sliced through the arm and it tumbled away into the night, spraying blood in a wide arc. It was a wound that should have stopped the man in his tracks – fatal within minutes – but the man showed no sign of pain; instead, he grabbed Martius’s sword arm with his other hand.

  At the attacker’s touch Martius’s shoulder erupted in spasms of pain. Lights flashed before his eyes. An almighty crack sounded in his ears. A flash like lightning crossed his sight. He fell to the ground, his sword slipping, forgotten, from his hand. His teeth clenched as his body quivered, racked by sharp, vivid pain.

  The attacker stepped towards Martius, blood no longer gushed from the stump of his arm, the flow impossibly halted.

  Martius scrambled back, desperately trying to control the spasms that wracked his body. You are going to die. It was inevitable. There was no hope, no way to prevail against such strength.

  The light of the fire lit his attacker’s face. His eyes are red. It could not be true, surely just a trick of the light. Then the light of the fire glimmered across the man’s face once more. Blood red. There was no white to the eyes; the orbs seemed painted crimson, the colour of death. Martius steeled himself for the end. His back arched as another agonising spasm struck him like an aftershock. Out of control, his heels dug furrows into the soft grass.

  The red-eyed attacker leapt, snarling, upon Martius’s chest and drew back a fist for the killing blow, his eyes gleaming vermilion doom.

  A sword blade sliced through the attacker’s head below the ears, abruptly ending the snarl, leaving the bottom jaw perfect and intact, still attached to the neck as the rest fell away. The decapitated body fell on Martius. Blood poured onto his shoulder, coating him in gore. Conlan stood over him, the sword of Optuss gripped tightly in his hand, a look of rage and shock adorning his face. Blood dripped from the blade, the blood of a demon, perhaps.

  Martius fought to rise but tremors still shook his body; his muscles would not obey, stubbornly flaccid and weak.

  Another attacker sprinted towards Conlan.

  Conlan is not fast enough. Even with a sword of Optuss, Martius doubted that Conlan could resist. Every fibre of his being fought to stand, to aid his young saviour, but he simply flopped back to the earth, his body wracked by fresh spasms.

  Conlan turned to face the attacker, his movements smooth and graceful, a practiced soldier of the Empire. For a split second, he seemed to pause, an imponderable look upon his face. Then he threw the sword of Optuss away.

  “Optuss, come!” Conlan shouted, and the power of his voice, infused with fear and desperation, echoed through the night.

  Time slowed for Martius, as if he observed events from afar, unable to interfere, unable to influence.

  The sword of Optuss arced ponderously through the air, its potent blade shimmering in the firelight.

  A demon tackled Conlan to the ground, he was lost from Martius’s sight.

  Martius focused on the sword as it span through the air. Nothing else seemed important now. Conlan might be dead. The world might have ended. But the sword flew on as if it could defy the inexorable pull of the earth, as if it could defy anything.

  It will not reach. Realisation struck; the sheer audacity of what Conlan had attempted. Gods, he has sacrificed himself! Given up his life in an attempt to wake the sleeping fury within Optuss.

  “Optuss.” Martius intended to shout but it emerged as a creaking groan.

  Optuss stood by the fire, implacable as marble, apparently immune, seemingly indifferent, to the chaos around him.

  The sword span through the air. If Optuss did not react it might hit him; surely it could cut his flesh as easily as it might any other man? Martius recalled seeing Optuss lying face down in the mud after the battle at Sothlind. He was preternaturally fast, supremely st
rong, but vulnerable nonetheless.

  “Optu-” Another spasm rocked Martius, but, somehow, he managed to keep his eyes fixed on the blade and the immutable man beyond.

  At the last instant, Optuss’s head flicked towards the sword. Martius thought he saw an expression – was it a frown? – cross the flawless features.

  Apparently without effort, Optuss smoothly caught the sword and, using its impetus, completed a swing which sliced through the neck of the nearest assassin. Moving with effortless speed he dispatched another with a bone-crunching blow to the base of the spine, then danced away to stab another, that wrestled with Wulf by the fire, through the heart.

  Martius could only gaze on, in awe and growing horror.

  Within a few heartbeats, the enemy all lay dead and Optuss stood, placid as ever by the fire, like a sculpture cast from the mould of a god. His sword finally returned to his hand, Optuss stood, his face blank. The flickering firelight glinting across his immaculate features.

  Martius heard shouts, the sound of running feet; help was coming. The world began to blur. No… He knew what was happening but he was powerless to resist, his body refused denial. As he lost his grip on consciousness, his final view was of Optuss, towering and sublime in the firelight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Conlan

  CONLAN ROLLED GINGERLY TO his feet. His chest heaved with exertion and stress. I’m alive, how am I still alive?

  The answer stood before him, firelight from the brazier reflected in his face. Only the splattered blood that coated Optuss marred his perfection; it also served to bolster his glory.