Iron and Flame

by Alex Morgenstern

  “Are you feeling better?” Elkas asked, approaching her with a smile.

  “Hey! You're finally awake!” said another soldier. He had piercing green eyes, a round face with a triangular chin. His hair was orange like a pumpkin. It was Raxana’s brother.

  “Ira is asking if you want to eat,” Elkas said.

  “Sure,” Alana muttered, and a creak came out of her mouth instead of her usual voice.

  Elkas approached and extended a hand. Alana grasped his, and he pulled her gently up.

  “So,” the redheaded soldier said. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you. Tell me about my sister.”

  “Raxana?” Alana answered with a long whisper. “She’s fine. She’s at Varalkia now.”

  “Good,” the boy said. “She did not get hurt in battle?”

  “No, she’s perfect. She is a great warrior.”

  “It’s in the blood,” he said proudly.

  “Excuse me one moment,” she said to him, with her head low. Her blonde hair covered her eyes and face. She looked slightly up. Her stomach roared and she felt nauseated.

  Ira signalled her to come. She had a wide smile on her face. Alana blinked and advanced, squinting an eye, with one hand pressed against her bandaged wound.

  Ira offered her grilled cheese. Alana took it with a smile and nibbled it hungrily.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Ira whispered.

  “I’m fine,” Alana muttered with her mouth full.

  “Good, stay like that. It was hard to get that arrow out. The arrowhead popped out of the stick. Please take care.”

  “I'll be fine. I’ve been through worse.”

  “Take care. Now we have to stay together. I explained the story to the boys and it's good that they all know what’s going on. They believe you. They’ll be with us. Along with the bandits, we have forty-six people. All of them great warriors.”

  “That’s good to know,” Alana said, holding on to Ira’s hand.

  “Does it hurt?"

  “Of course it does . . . I . . . I'm still bleeding.”

  “That's fine, it will stop.”

  “Alright, I'll let you rest for a while.” Ira stood up.

  “I’ve rested plenty. Ira, listen,” Alana said.

  “What’s wrong?"

  “Can you come closer?"

  Ira knelt beside her. Alana sighed and shut her eyes for an instant.

  “I think I'm fine,” she declared. “It's just something that's been bothering me for a while. Since it happened I sometimes feel dizzy.”

  “What is it?"

  She lowered her voice. “You know, we girls bleed every so once a month. You know what I'm talking about, right?"

  Ira nodded.

  “Well, it’s stopped for me for a few months. I . . . I mean, it's weird that it stopped. Do you think that's normal? I mean, Zita told me it was just normal to bleed every . . . Ira?”

  Ira's eyes opened wide, and her jaw dropped.

  Chapter XXIX – Under the Heel of the Giants

  A week of travel had taken its toll on the troops. The prisoners were fed the leftovers of the army food, and were starting to show muscle degradation. Soon, they were at the gates of the village. The borders had been reinforced with troops that had been stationed in the small nearby villages before. Residents of those villages were ordered to burn their crops and evacuate to the provincial capital.

  The days went by, and Florianus prepared his stronghold, assembling the battle troops. He would wait at Adachia, but expected the soldiers at the border to defend and capture the foreign invaders, especially the leader of the revolutions.

  After six days of preparation, a messenger came, riding in haste through the forest and hills.

  “Sir, they broke through the borders, our forces retreated!”

  “How many?" he asked. “How many barbarians!”

  “Thirty thousand.”

  “We'll be waiting for them,” Florianus said, sure of his victory.

  Most of the province had been mobilized in that time, bringing Thrachian cavalry, twenty thousand strong. He posted them over the hills and in the forests, creating a big contention camp after the river, making sure they had no access to it. A watchtower now towered over the village's smith shop. A curfew was set, violation of which resulted in imprisonment, in a different cell than the one where the prisoners languished. And Florianus waited.

  Florianus did not care for inhumane conditions for his prisoners. He had commanded the construction of a proper prison. Human suffering was not his thing; death was, however, sometimes necessary.

  The prisoners were housed in small cells beneath the ground of the old chieftain's dining hall. There, they rested and were fed leftovers from the army, again.

  Their sight was pitiful, but Florianus was proud that they had finally been captured. He had to deal with disgruntled widows asking how they were doing. The old woman who was friends with Cladius begged to see her daughter from the beginning. Florianus refused.

  In those days, he studied the books he took from the rebels. He procured a translation from the Hellenian text and the young boy’s writings. The language of the Gadalians was similar to Parzian, with which he was familiar. In the writings of the boy, he found nothing but squabblings of a man learning to read and write, and later, some mediocre pieces of poetry dedicated to the blonde woman.

  But the other book was intriguing. The one containing the Seal of the Protector. A hexagram encased in a circle, with spiral arms and angles around it. He took the time to study it, although his reading of Hellenian was a bit rusty. Its title, according to the Hellenian book, was Seal of Containment. It said the God Mars had used it against the Dragon of the Sky. Yes, that had to be it. The rebels had intended to use its magical powers against him. Not if he used its righteous powers against them. After all, they were the true heirs of the Dragon, and that was how they called themselves.

  He thought the circle was used to summon spiritual energy and curse their adversaries. He would have to keep it away, hoping they could not recreate it.

  A knock echoed behind him.

  “Sir, a message from the watchtower. The armies have been spotted west of the river. They'll be here shortly.”

  Florianus scoffed; it was time.

  “Come in!” he shouted, the door opened timidly, and a young soldier leaned in. “Get the prisoners,” Florianus said. “Chain them in the neck and arms, march them under an iron yoke, to the top of the hill. There, I shall negotiate with the barbarians.”

  “Sire, but how do we—”

  “Go, do not question me. This is the way we will deal with it.”

  “I understand.” He nodded, and disappeared through the door. Cladius was left once again with the silence of his quarters.

  That day, blood would be spilled. He assembled his equipment, he looked at the necklace with the Winged Disk, the sign of the triumph of order and righteousness. That night, righteousness had to win. He walked to his wooden stand and donned the bronze cuirass armour of his grandfather. The shape of a muscular torso forged into it, golden straps dangling from beneath, covering the skirts of his toga.

  Last, he removed his battle helmet from the stand, and cupped it in his arms. He marched out of his office.

  The city was deserted, except for the soldiers that guarded every street, making sure the women did not come out. A strangely fierce wind blew, ragging the purple and orange clouds at sunset, lifting up fallen leaves and howling with the trees.

  Two rows of prisoners stood outside. Their bodies beaten, their clothes partly ripped. Their necks tied and supported an iron yoke, with chains on the sides that were handled by two strong soldiers.

  Florianus walked toward them, inspecting the downtrodden eyes and fiery countenances.

  “They're coming. And we’ll welcome them with iron and flame,” he said.

  “I knew she would come!” Kassara shouted, gladly staring at the setting
sun, where the first glimpses of the vast Barbarian army peeked at the edge of the horizon. Florianus looked at her.

  “I did not address you.”

  “Whoever you are,” Kassara muttered, looking up at him and fixing him with her dark eyes. “They will take this town. The gods are with us, they have been since the beginning. Their power is superior, their numbers are superior, and their skill is unmatched. You shall lose, so better yield yourself first.”

  Florianus spat on the floor.

  “I know those men. I know the sons of Hunaz. All they are looking for is gold that they will not have. Some of you, I shall give as an offering, but not you, nor the mute, nor the boy. The others may go.”

  Some of them sighed, including the pregnant mother. He walked up to her and glanced with the corner of his eye.

  “Your child will be raised by me,” he said. “He shall be raised in civilization and discipline. You should be thankful.”

  “You monster!” the woman cried with all the energy she had left in her frail body.

  “Monster? A monster would have killed it.”

  “You don’t even know who you are!” the woman yelled. “You talk about civilization and barbarism, what is more barbaric than slaughtering an entire village. Taking my son away.”

  “What do you know about civilization? Now . . . understand, in case, only in case they were to penetrate our lines, only then you shall be killed. If not, the plan is still the same. I shall send you to be executed. Either way, you die for your crimes.”

  No one answered.

  “Silence? Are those your final words to the man who captured you?"

  “What do you want? Do you want us to thank you?" the tall traitorous boy muttered.

  Florianus strode towards him. He stepped forward, looking at him in his weary eyes, now bulgy and sunken. He stepped back, as he reeked like a dead man.

  He contained his breath.

  “You are the lowest being on this planet. You were raised and fed by an honourable man. I cannot imagine how he feels.”

  “Where is my grandfather?" Kassius asked.

  “The old sorcerer? What do you care?"

  “Tell me how he is. That’s all I need to know.”

  “And my mother!” Irema shouted.

  Florianus scoffed and turned his back on them, he ordered the soldiers to take them. They nodded and grasped the heavy chains.

  “Tell us!” Kassius shouted. “I just want to know if he’s . . .”

  And Florianus walked away, breathing deeply. His servants had his horse ready, black in colour, short and sturdy, good for short range battle, unlike the huge stallions the barbarians raised. Its head and body were shielded by plate armour. Florianus held his lance in hand and spurred. The troops were ready. He rode downhill, passing by the sanctuary where the old man, the boy’s grandfather was under strict surveillance. He could not deny he felt a bit of pity for the young man. But he could not waste time on that. His troops were waiting, many forming around the village. He rode through the forest trail. From every angle, he could see the vast army that gathered against them. A foreign army of strange and frightening customs. A barbaric lifestyle and low honour and morality. Savage men.

  He rode to the forefront, Julius and other officers standing tall in their horses, next to them. The Eagle next to their formations. To the left, a vast line of infantrymen and mounted elite cavalry. Behind, a line of archers, the best in the province, some of Kaltanian extraction, some of the old Thrachian, already assimilated into the customs of the Empire, all ready to fight.

  The barbarians came, the first lines all of mounted archers. As always, incapable of coming up with other ideas or strategies. Their skills were developed to perfection, but incapable of innovation.

  He had his hand raised, and advanced by himself. The enemy army stopped, their steps and the sound of the hooves did no more echo in the vast lands. Their generals advanced, followed by heralds, all holding the same triangular flag, and each with the flag of their unit.

  They rode on, and gathered in the front of the battlefield. Florianus and Julius advanced, until they met. Four barbarian generals, as if they all represented different generations. Or maybe they were the same family, as they all looked similar. All dark and swarthy, all broad faced, their eyes with the same attractive but unfamiliar slant. Their beards all sparse and weak.

  “Men of Hunaz. I am Florianus, descendant of the house of Jove, and Overseer of this Province’s defence.”

  “Are you the best they could find?” the youngest general asked, of regular stature and no facial hair. “I do not mean to disrespect, but we expected a better welcome. Your border troops did not even hold us for one day. What do you think, Gharkan?”

  “Yes,” another young general said, this one short and swarthy. “They’re less than amateurs. I’m frankly quite disappointed. Is this the most powerful Empire on Earth? Well, it looks like it’s a bit emaciated lately. What do you say, old man?”

  “Well, the standards have frankly decreased,” said another general about Florianus’ age.

  Florianus took a deep breath, not to lose his cool. They were bluffing, nothing more.

  “How many men did we lose on the border?” said the one called Gharkan. “Did you count?”

  “Oh, yes, we lost like forty people. They were all slaves, so they don’t count.”

  Florianus chuckled.

  “I believe we have nothing to discuss,” Florianus said. “I was intending to let you march in peace. I just needed the blonde girl. I could give you three of the prisoners and let you go. See? They’re at the top of the hill.”

  “We don’t care for prisoners,” Gharkan said with a grin. “Us? Go away? Do you mean we came all the way here for nothing? No way!”

  Florianus cleared his throat.

  “Where is the blonde?”

  “The blonde? You’re going to have to try harder,” said Gharkan. “A forty-year-old man going crazy for a sixteen-year-old girl. What is this? Aren’t there more girls in this Empire of yours?”

  “Stop bluffing and tell me, are you willing to negotiate.”

  “Negotiate? That’s for sissies.”

  “So be it, I will sew your mouths after we’re done.”

  “Well, make the trip worth it, flower man!” cried the young Gharkan. Florianus clenched his teeth and fists as he rode back to the camp.

  “Sir, they’re only bluffing!” Julius said.

  “I know, but I’ll make them swallow their words,” Florianus said, teeth clenched.

  Florianus could not be intimidated. He had better weapons and more men. No, he had not lost a battle in a decade, and he had earned his position out of good strategy. He could not lose. Quietly, he returned to his post, raising his hand and making a gesture. At the same time, the enemy raised their bows up, about to let go.

  Florianus’ commanders were quicker. Their equipment was quicker.

  They released; great rocks and balls of cast iron fell through the sky, from Florianus’ catapults, they flew like falling stars and crushed barbarians like forest cockroaches.

  The enemy arrows were released, and Florianus shielded his head and his horse’s under his shield. The defensive phalanxes had already been formed, preserving many from the attack.

  A line of archers hid behind the first mounted section, strategically waiting for a sign. The commanders delivered the sign, and fiery arrows flew from the hills, like fiery rain from the gods, destined to punish the enemy. The arrows pierced through their padded shoulders, lighting their capes and tunics ablaze, setting carriages on fire. Soon after, the barbarians loosed their wicked arrows, aiming the volley above the second line of soldiers.

  Florianus knew their strategy well, they knew where to hit to penetrate the second line. Florianus held his shield high, along with the cavalry who also formed to defend. The hammering of dozens of arrows fell on his shield.

  “Again,” he said, lowering
his shield once more. And the archers prepared again. Another volley of arrows was loosed from the hills. Florianus smiled when he saw dozens of barbarians falling to the ground, or riding with their breastplates on fire, others rolling down, and horses collapsing.

  Once again, he heard the thundering rumble of the catapult, and balls of fire fall over the fleeting horsemen, crushing groups of them to the ground.

  And yet, the barbarians kept riding forward. The first row, Florianus could distinguish, were lancers and javelin throwers. On the side, the way up the hill, he saw mounted archers.

  Their archers shot for a third time, aiming for the front row, and another handful of barbarians fell, their bodies crashing down from their horses, their beasts collapsing to the sides.

  But the barbarian cavalry advanced, riding on, almost ready to clash against the first row of Itruschian defenders. He waited from behind the first section, knowing it was time to use different strategies.

  “Tortoise!” Florianus shouted. The infantrymen on the sides got ready, rushing to stand ahead of the cavalrymen, shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, holding the pila as spears between them. Every second soldier held the shield over their heads, to defend himself and his comrades from projectiles. Waiting for the enemy.

  “Throw!” he shouted.

  The soldiers holding the shield horizontally lowered their left hands and threw their short javelins at the incoming barbarian. Florianus could not see how many had fallen, but he was confident in the strategy. The barbarians started to shoot their arrows from there. Florianus saw how some of his men in the first line succumbed, being replaced by the ones holding their shields up. Soon after, the barbarian horde clashed against their shields, when now the first line of defence threw their javelins at the riders. The real battle had begun. A barbarian pushed his spear through one of the soldier's skulls, it came out the other way, dripping blood. He retrieved his spear and rode triumphantly through the defending Legionaries. He had been the first to break through. But the second line of legionaries was waiting, and a brave soldier threw his spear, piercing the savage's neck.