One of the flags of the enemy legions bore the image of a brown, broad claw, a black, ursine silhouette behind it. “Bear Claw Legion,” a former hekturion identified it. “General Gularius’s likely still the commander. Sets a strong, sturdy defense while deploying a powerful, methodical attack.”
Faros’s ears straightened. “Methodical? Or inventive?”
“I’d not use the latter term, my lord.”
The second legion, the one nearest, sported a red ruby on a field of diagonal, golden slashes. None of the former soldiers could recall such a symbol on a banner and even Botanos, who had served long time in the military, could make no sense of it.
“Maybe it’s some new grouping,” the captain suggested.
Faros nodded. “The symbol strikes me as more appropriate for the temple.”
“We’ve heard talk of legions formed under Protector control, some composed entirely of the faithful. This could be such a one.”
“Hmmm, their training and experience will be inferior to the older legions.” To the scouts, Faros asked, “Where is this Ruby Legion?” When they had shown him, scratching out the positions on the ground, he looked to Botanos. “What do you think?”
“Aye, if there’s a weak point, it’ll be them … but that’s a huge ‘if,’ my lord.”
The rebel leader looked again to the riders. “Show me where the catapults and ballistae are.”
They pointed out what they had seen and hazarded a guess as to what was concealed. “Gather those who have worked together on either type of machine. This is what I want of them …”
Two hours later, the rebels were on the move, guided by the scouts. Faros couldn’t shake his thoughts from the fleeing messenger bird. Then they sighted the legion. The first signs were smoke then the noises of the encampment. Faros and Botanos crept up to a rise and peered at the sight, studying the enemy. The soldiers moved about with little apparent concern, further indication they were not well-trained, seasoned legionaries.
“Protectors in command, I’ll bet,” Captain Botanos muttered hopefully. “Overconfident.”
Faros already had his sword drawn. “We don’t dare hesitate.” He turned back to a subordinate. “Give the signal.”
A rebel waved a pair of green and white flags. The silent signal was passed on from one section of the army to the next. When the signal returned that all were ready, Faros rose and waved his sword. With a collective roar, the rebels charged.
They were already halfway to the outer perimeter before the warning horns sounded. Armored figures scurried into position. To their credit, the enemy began to swiftly form a defense.
“The left!” shouted Botanos, his veteran’s eye spotting a glaring weakness. “The left flank’s disorganized!”
“What about the Bear Claws?” asked a rebel keeping pace with them. The second legion was not in sight, but surely they would hasten to the rescue.
“If we overcome these quickly, we’ll be ready for them!” said Faros.
“That’s another huge ‘if’!” the mariner scoffed, following Faros as he plunged ahead.
A menacing shadow briefly swept over them. Something came hurtling through the air. It landed with a heavy thud far to the north, missing the rebels’ outer flank by a good distance. Faros grinned as he ran and shouted orders. A well-honed, well-practiced catapult crew would have never fired so haphazardly.
Ahead, lines continued to form. Officers on horseback shouted orders. Lancers moved into position and archers notched their bows.
Faros looked for the signal horn. “Fire! Have them fire!”
The rebel blew the signal horn. Many among the ragtag army paused, aimed, and fired bows. They knew how to fire on the run. A thousand arrows dropped among the legionaries. Many bounced off shields and armor. Others landed harmlessly on the flattened soil, but a good number struck their targets. Soldiers keeled over. Others clutched wounded limbs. Bodies had to be dragged with haste from the lines.
The legion fired back. Many among the first attackers fell. Those behind them leaped over their bodies and kept charging. The stricken fighters’ best hope lay in victory by their comrades. The enemy’s left flank now showed some cohesion. Ballistae crews had some of the machines nearly turned and ready for firing.
Faros waved his sword. The horns blew again. A second volley fell upon the legion’s left flank. Many more soldiers died, then all Faros could see were the grim faces of the soldiers directly ahead. He focused on one and met that legionary’s gaze.
A heartbeat later, the two armies met.
With tremendous confidence Maritia departed Nethosak to take command on the field. She recalled the chaos with which the slaves had struggled to fight in Vyrox. Numbers had been on their side then, but they had been beaten and the best of their leaders perished there. That Chot’s nephew was spared was an oversight.
Unlike some of her officers, Maritia had not been quick to believe Faros’s entire force was on Mito. No, he had intelligence, she grudgingly admitted, and he might try a feint. Ardnor had been surprisingly willing to let her dictate the positions of the main forces. In the short time since the news arrived of Faros’s movements, she had planned for every contingency.
Vast elements of sea power patrolled the coastline, save where Argon’s Chain crowded the shore. Maritia did not have her mother’s supernatural gifts, but riders constantly streamed back and forth from the various legions while the trained messenger birds gave her some notion as to what was happening with the ships.
As she watched Warhorse prepare to deploy, a rider from the west brought her a missive. “My Lady Maritia! This just came!”
Reading it, her heart leapt. Several rebel ships had been sighted to the west. One had been tentatively identified as the Dragon’s Crest, the most elusive vessel in all the rebel fleet. She hoped to capture that one intact and display the prize in the capital. Maritia had no doubt Faros had somehow managed to drop his followers somewhere in the north or northwest, perhaps near Varga.
“Send a bird to Varga. Ask for an immediate response.”
“Aye, my lady!”
Hotak’s daughter looked around. “Where’s the liaison from Onyx Legion?” That was one of the newer legions; Maritia had trouble keeping their names straight. To her, the new names lacked the grandeur of the Wyverns or the Flying Gryphons. “I want verification of their position!” She peered into the distance. “Why is General Domo’s legion veering toward the east? They’ll leave a gap the Blood Sea could pour through!”
Maritia’s aides rushed to deal with these matters. One of her bodyguards stood in the saddle. “Rider from the north, my lady.”
It was the courier from Onyx Legion. Never mind his shorn mane and wide-eyed stare, he proved a highly-competent messenger, exceptionally describing the position of his command. Maritia’s tension lessened as the report filled in gaps in her knowledge.
“It’s coming together, Father,” she muttered distractedly.
“Beg pardon, my lady?” the messenger asked, puzzled.
“Nothing.”
Looking past the Onyx Legion messenger, Maritia saw that General Domo’s forces were heading out at last. As they marched off to their appointed position, Maritia breathed a sign of relief. Everyone and everything was nearly in place. The fleet was stalking the rebel ships. They were closing in on Faros. The rebel leader had acted just as Maritia had predicted. She almost felt some disappointment at what would be an easy victory.
Overhead, a bedraggled messenger bird flying from the east announced its arrival with a weary screech. Maritia watched impatiently as it descended to handlers. Who was sending her a message from the east? Only two legions were there; it was hardly a strategic position.
“From the outpost near Tagla, my lady,” reported the soldier who brought the sealed note. “The bird’s injured,” he added grimly.
“Tagla.” Maritia’s ears flattened as she read the markings on the case. “This bird was supposed to keep on to the capital. The harsh winds around the
mountains must’ve worn it out and it decided to alight at the first familiar-looking roost.”
The seal bore the black warhorse. The note was short and simple … and too astonishing to credit.
Rebels swarming out of mountains! A large army! Two miles south of Vyrox, heading—
Heading in the direction of Nethosak.
Nostrils flaring, Maritia read the message again. Three days ago. The badly-injured bird had gotten very lost indeed.
Maritia looked to the east, knowing her defenses were thin there. “A map!” she shouted to a guard. “Get me a map of Argon’s Chain!”
Finding Tagla on the map and verifying the obscure route through the mountains told her she had missed a vital possibility in all her planning. Now, unbelievably, Faros Es-Kalin was behind most of her lines and nearly on top of the capital.
“The hour has come, my lord,” the high priestess whispered from her chair below the icons, “the end of the age of Sargonnas and the beginning of the era of the great Morgion.”
Nephera looked forward to displaying the rebels’ bodies, especially that of the Kalin spawn. Each rebel death would strengthen her god, make it a certainty that the Lord of the Bronze Tower would reign supreme among the gods.
She shuddered as she felt the first clash on Tagla between the insurrectionists and the legions. The deaths fueled her pleasure, for each dead one immediately became another servant of hers, adding to her power.
Thanks to her ghosts, Nephera had been aware for some time that the rebels were penetrating from the east, but she had chosen not to alert Maritia. It was good that her daughter be tested. Besides, the high priestess wished to stoke the overconfidence of Chot’s nephew, lead him like the proverbial lamb to the slaughter … and Faros was obliging her quite nicely.
“With your permission, my lord,” she asked of the glowing symbols. Shutting her eyes, the high priestess envisioned her son. She saw Ardnor impatiently waiting her orders, surrounded by a sea of dark figures.
“Ardnor, my dear son, it is time.”
In her vision, Lady Nephera saw her firstborn grin. With a laugh, he adjusted his helm. She could sense the powers bestowed upon him by their lord stirring to unholy life.
Nephera dismissed the vision and returned her senses to the battle. All was happening according to her will.
Through the streets of Nethosak, they marched in perfect unison. A grim horde of fanatic fighters with but a single purpose—they would obey the will of their lord. From windows and doorways, the citizens of the imperial capital watched uneasily. All minotaurs appreciated the lust for war, the devotion to battle, but the Protectors inspired dread. The black wave poured toward the city gates, radiating a dark aura that made even veteran warriors edge back into the security of their homes.
At the monstrous force’s head rode the great emperor. Ardnor silently stared at the path before him as if his mind was focused elsewhere. His teeth were bared in a fearsome, unvarying smile, and the hand nearest his slung mace twitched in anticipation.
Above the endless march of Protectors, a new banner flew strong. Most did not pay much attention to it, the sight of the emperor and his elite an arresting enough vision. Those who noticed, if they were old enough and had good memories, might have discovered something familiar about their ruler’s chosen symbol.
A down-turned axe.
Maritia had sent word to the eastern legions as soon as she could, only to hear the horns sound from that direction just minutes later. She laughed grimly then focused on a rapid redeployment. Faros had outwitted her, but only for the moment.
She had to admire his determination. How he had dragged his followers through the mountains—and so swiftly—was a feat worthy of an imperial general, yet no trained legion officer would have attempted such a perilous journey, not with so much on the line. Still, in the end such derring-do would not save him. General Gularius and General Domo should be closing on the rebels even now, and Onyx was moving to take over her own position. In the northwest, the Gryphons had been ordered to spread their lines thin to make up for the other legion’s departure. Maritia had quickly sent a message to the legions near Varga to return immediately—just in case the battle should drag on over days.
“Everyone ready?” she asked.
Seeing only nods, she mounted her own steed then gave the signal. A trumpeter sounded the call. Warhorse Legion marched to battle.
Maritia had shrewdly kept the Warhorse in reserve. Here was an opportunity for a rout of the rebels. True, using the Warhorse army would, for a short time, leave only the Imperial and State Guards as defenders of the capital, and both their ranks had been sorely depleted, but once Onyx arrived, that danger would pass.
Glancing back over her troops, Maritia saw with pride the most honored fighting force in all the imperium massing to meet the rebels. She murmured, “Guide our arms, Father … make our axes sharp and our swords swift … and I promise you that I will personally slay Chot’s nephew in your name—”
Daughter …
Maritia’s ears went taut. For a moment, she thought that her father had actually answered her prayers, then she realized that it was another familiar voice summoning her. “Mother?”
Ardnor commands you march further north, whispered Nephera in her mind. To the edge of the hills, then turn east.
Startled by the directive, Maritia recovered quickly. The power of her mother never ceased to amaze her, but she couldn’t follow such orders blindly. “The hills? That’ll take precious time!”
This is an imperial command. Would you, a loyal legionary, disobey your brother, your emperor?
Maritia had no ready reply. In her mind, veering to the south and then heading directly to battle worked better. The Warhorse would not only reach Faros faster but outflank him.
But … as her mother said, this was an imperial command.
Turning to an officer, Maritia shouted, “Summon riders! New orders! Alert all that we head north to the first rise, then east!”
The other minotaur eyed her curiously for a moment, no doubt also wondering at this elaborate detour.
As the word spread, Maritia felt better. She gripped the reins tight. She had no idea what her brother planned, but she had to believe that he had something special in mind for the rebels—something that would crush Faros utterly.
The left flank finally yielded. Faros’s warriors poured through, forcing the soldiers to scatter and fight on several fronts at once. Hekturions and other officers shouted commands, but the novice legionaries reacted slowly and with confusion.
Faros cut through the chest of one soldier then fended off the axe of another. Ahead lay the enemy’s catapults and ballistae. The former were in the process of being hurriedly moved to avoid being seized, but the latter were trained on the attackers.
One ballista fired. Screams arose as the lances flew into the mass of fighters. In their haste to fire, though, the crew not only killed rebels but also more than a few of their own comrades. The clash of metal echoed violently. Minotaurs stood muzzle to muzzle. A legionary’s axe ripped out the throat of rebel. Two other rebels lanced a dekarian, their spears tossing the body up and away, so that it landed back among the imperial soldiers.
A mounted treverian materialized from out of the blue, striking at Faros with a mace. The heavy head of the weapon caught Faros’s arm, ripping his skin and smashing the bone. He deflected a second blow from the officer. Fanatical eyes glared at him, as the helmed figure swung the mace again.
“Heretic!” the treverian suddenly spouted. “Criminal!”
Ducking below the mace, Faros brought his fist up. The punch shoved the legionary’s muzzle straight up, causing his helmet to slip to the side, revealing his shorn mane. Shaking off the attack, the officer thrust. The long point nearly skewered Faros’s throat.
Faros seized the weapon’s handle and tugged. The treverian fell forward. He let out a gurgling sound as Faros’s upturned blade ran him through. Shoving aside the body, Faros took a s
wift glance around. The way to the war machines was opening wide. Botanos, leading a pack of fighters, headed toward one catapult. Another band headed for the ballistae.
Faros and his party met the crew of another catapult. A legionary swatted at him with his axe. The rebel leader dispatched his foe with a single thrust then jumped atop the machine. Near the back, another crew member worked to set off the huge weapon’s missile. Faros kicked at a soldier then dove past.
Another rebel came around to fight the legionary. The soldier parried her attack then jammed the top of his axe in her stomach. As she fell, he raised the blade for one last, hard slash at the rope that would unleash the catapult’s missile. That was when Faros’s sword cut through the soldier’s left arm, burying itself to the bone. The soldier roared in pain, and while he attempted to keep his grip on the axe, Faros cut across his throat.
As the rebels swarmed the machine, two other members of the crew surrendered. Faros had his own experienced catapult operators take over the machine.
“Their right flank! Hit it!”
With both machines now being wheeled into a position against the empire, Faros looked to the ballistae. Two were still under legion control, but the rest within sight were instruments of the revolt. Seizing a rebel, Faros pointed and shouted orders.
Screams arose from one of the rebel crews as a legion ballista fired on one of its captured counterparts, tearing through those manning it. The new legion’s ballistae were a different type than those aboard ships or used by previous imperial forces. They carried smaller shafts but three to four times as many in number. It was as if a small but incredibly swift flight of arrows had been hurled at body level, with devastating effect.
“Get those two!” Faros ordered a group of warriors. “Come around their left.”
The captured ballistae now fired back, raking the rear of the legion. Many imperial soldiers fell, including mounted officers.
A catapult manned by the rebels went off. The heavy rock dropped among the defenders, the earth exploding and bodies flying. The huge boulder left a crater in the midst of the enemy. With that, the legion was all but defeated. A sweating but jubilant Captain Botanos rode up beside Faros.
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