"A decision that will be your last!" Lord Virinus shouted. "Your career in the Legion is over! By this time next week, you will be swinging at the end of a hangman's noose."
Captain Lingram raised his head. "Then I will accept my fate, as I always have, knowing I died doing as your father taught me to: the right thing."
Lord Virinus' face turned white, and a look of mixed outrage and shame burned in his eyes.
Duvain tensed, hand on his sword hilt. The mercenaries behind Lord Virinus had already half-drawn their swords. Squad Three had the odds on their side, but once blood was spilled, there was no going back.
He glanced up at Endyn. His brother's eyes were firmly fixed on the mercenaries, his massive jaw set. He knew what he had to do.
A blood-curdling scream shattered the tense silence.
Chapter Ten
Duvain whirled toward the sound. It had come from the east gate!
Another scream, followed by the clash of steel. A moment later, the trumpeting blare of Squad Five's cornum echoed in the night.
"We're under attack!" Rold cried.
Awr's was already sprinting toward the gate, sword in hand, with Owen, Weasel, and Rold a step behind him.
Duvain's feet refused to move.
"Let's go!" Endyn shouted.
Duvain stared up at his brother. His mind screamed at him to move, but his body failed to cooperate.
Captain Lingram's voice pierced the buzzing in his head. "Get to the east gate, now, and send reinforcements to the west gate to cover our rear!"
"Aye, Captain!" shouted one of the other off-duty Legionnaires.
A strong hand gripped Duvain's arm and dragged him after the rest of his company. After a moment, he found his own feet and ran without Endyn's help. Somehow, in the confusion, he'd managed to retain his grip on his sword.
Chaos reigned at the east gate. Four Legionnaires fought two dark, hulking figures, while a fifth Legionnaire raced toward the two huge men struggling to lift the gate's locking bar. The Legionnaire cut one down, only to be crushed by the huge bar, swung by the second fur-clad barbarian. The man howled and yanked the gate open. A heartbeat too late, a thrown hand axe silenced his cries.
Dark figures spilled from the shadows, rushing toward the open gate without a sound. Somehow, the absence of noise was even more ominous. The foremost figures burst through the gate and engaged the Legionnaires rushing to meet them. They were huge—nearly as tall and broad as Endyn—wearing huge pelts slung over their back. One of the Legionnaires hacked at the back of one enemy, only for his sword to bounce off the pelt. The barbarian whirled, swinging his huge axe, and the Legionnaire's head rolled free.
Two of the gate guards had fallen, but the alarm had been raised. Dozens more Legionnaires rushed from their patrols, streaming toward the skirmish before the open gates.
Awr reached the battle well ahead of them. A furious cry burst from his lips as he hacked at the nearest barbarian. The shaggy-haired man turned the blow aside with his axe, but Awr followed it up with a chop that nearly took off the man's leg. Awr's sword took the fallen savage in the throat.
"Form up!" he shouted. His rasping voice echoed even above the din of battle. "Form ranks now!"
Duvain's training kicked in. He raced toward the shield wall forming just inside the gate. He took his place in the third rank, just next to Endyn.
Horror raced through him as he realized he'd left his shield in his quarters. Captain Lingram had insisted on the Legionnaires wearing full armor at all times, but he'd left his heavy shield and long spear behind for the celebration. He had only his short sword to face the onrushing threat.
"Forward, march! Double time." At the corporal's command, the line began a steady jog toward the enemy. The foremost two ranks had their shields, and the rest of Squad Four joined the third rank. Their swords would only serve if an enemy broke through the line.
The barbarians saw them coming, and raised their voices in an animal howl. Shaking their massive weapons—axes, spears, and spiked wooden clubs—they charged.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn!" Someone in the line was cursing at a steady volume. Duvain realized it was him. A fist of iron clenched his heart, and panic tugged at the back of his mind. He had no time to think before the wave of barbarians crashed into their shield wall.
The impact drove the foremost ranks a step backward. The man before him slammed into him, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. Sergeant Brash's training asserted itself and Duvain caught the man and shoved him forward. The shield wall held.
The barbarians swung their massive weapons in powerful arcs, but they clanged off the iron rims or crunched into the wooden faces of the Legion shields. Men cried out beneath the impact. One Legionnaire dropped his shield, and a barbarian spear disemboweled him.
But the Legion had teeth of its own. The short swords of the foremost rank struck low, aiming for legs and abdomens. The stabbing, slicing blades made quick work of the huge figures pressing against the shield wall. At the corporal's shouted command—Duvain's mind hardly registered the words, but his body reacted—the ranks shoved forward, driving the barbarians back. They stumbled from the impact, only to recover and hurl themselves at the shield wall again.
The clash of battle and the screams of dying men filled Duvain's world. The stink of blood, mud, and loosening bowels flooded his nostrils, accompanied by the reek of his own terrified sweat. A hand on his back kept him moving forward, pressing him toward the enemy no matter how much his mind shrieked at him to flee. Endyn's presence at his side was the only thing keeping him grounded in the midst of such chaos and terror.
Suddenly, there was silence. The last barbarian fell beneath a stabbing short sword, and a heavy boot crushed his throat. The pounding of Duvain's pulse in his ears drowned out everything.
"Meat?" A hand shook his arm. "Meat, you hurt?"
Rold's face hovered in his vision. Duvain blinked and tried to speak. His mouth refused to form words.
Rold slapped his face; the pain barely registered. "Snap out of it! You've got to move."
"Duvain." The rumbling voice—Endyn's, a dim part of his mind registered—drew him back to reality. "Duvain."
He drew in a shuddering breath, gasping, and staggered. Blinking hard, he wiped the torrent of sweat from his eyes.
"Welcome back, meat." Rold said. The harsh anger had gone, replaced by a congeniality terribly at odds with the corporal's usual demeanor. "You survived your first shield wall. We'll celebrate later—there's work to do. Find a shield and spear and arm up."
Duvain scanned the area. Bodies lay on the ground—close to a dozen Legionnaires and at least as many of the white fur-clad barbarians. Blood, so much blood, turned the earth to mud. The metallic tang rose into his nostrils. He wanted to retch, wanted to empty his stomach at the scene of carnage, but Rold's insistent voice kept him moving. "Now, meat! There may be more of them."
He turned to stumble back to his quarters, but Rold snagged his arm and shoved him toward the corpses. "Get one of theirs. Keeper knows they won't need it!"
Duvain stooped and fumbled for a fallen spear. Blood stained its edge and soaked into the wooden haft. When he lifted it, he found himself with two cracked halves. He stared down at the fallen soldier—the same axe that shattered the spear had split open his skull.
He tugged the shield free of the soldier's lifeless fingers. The fallen Legionnaire gave up his protection without a protest. Duvain turned and stumbled over another prone figure. This body had once been a barbarian. His flesh was stained an odd blue color—similar in shade to the festive robes of the Fehlan—but he had the same long, blond hair, strong features, and heavy beard of the villagers of Saerheim. Yet there was an oddly bestial quality to his features. Even in death, he appeared more monster than man.
"Watcher's twisted taint!" Weasel's voice echoed from a short distance away. The rat-faced Legionnaire was crouched over a fallen body, knife in one hand and the corpse's ear in the other. "It's the b
leedin' Eirdkilrs, ain't it?"
The word turned Duvain's blood to ice.
Awr, standing over him, nodded. "Damned right it is." His face twisted into a frown. "What the bloody hell are they doing all the way over here?" He lifted his eyes to the east. "Front lines are a long way off. Raiding party, maybe?"
With a savage cut, Weasel sliced the barbarian's ear free. "Judgin’ by the number, has to be." His voice held a note of desperation—he truly wanted to believe it.
"Corporal Awr, report!" Captain Lingram's voice sounded cool, confident even amidst the carnage.
Awr snapped a salute. "Four dead, Captain. Eight wounded, two seriously."
"Get the wounded to the main longhouse for Eira to tend to them. Haul the dead off to the side—Eirdkilrs in one pile, ours in another."
"So they are the Eirdkilrs, Captain?" Owen asked. He'd come up behind Weasel on Captain Lingram's heels. Blood trickled from a wound in his forehead. He looked queasy, and vomit stained the corners of his mouth, but he'd gotten his hands on a spear and shield.
"Much as I hate to say it, that's them, no doubt about it." Captain Lingram crouched over the body. "Their size alone would be a dead giveaway. Add to that the war paint and these furs—they come from a Wasteland ice bear—and there's only one clan they could be."
"Keeper's horny elbows!" Awr breathed.
"Where are my scouts?" Captain Lingram demanded of Sergeant Brash, who stood a short distance away tending to a wounded soldier.
Sergeant Brash shook his head. "They went out earlier, haven't gotten back." He pressed a cloth against the Legionnaire's shoulder, trying to stanch the flow of blood from a deep gash.
"Damn!" Captain Lingram's forehead furrowed—the first sign of worry Duvain had seen. He pondered a moment before speaking. "All companies, arm up and get to the gates. Double the watches, and keep patrols along those lines. If there are more of them out there, I want to know before they hit us. Got it?"
"Aye, Captain!" Sergeant Brash said.
Squad One, already clad in full armor, rushed toward the gate, which someone—in all the confusion, Duvain didn't know who—had had the good sense to close. The Legionnaires mounted the parapets and stared out into the darkness. There was no mistaking the sudden nervous tension that permeated the entire village.
"Squad Three, grab your weapons and get back here. Double time." Sergeant Brash ordered.
"Sir!" Weasel saluted—every trace of his usual mockery gone, all professional soldier now—and sprinted toward their quarters in the main longhouse. Duvain, Endyn, and the rest of the company followed. Duvain's legs felt leaden, his feet numb. But the sight of Endyn stumbling ahead of him forced him to keep up. He couldn't let his brother face this threat alone.
Entering the longhouse felt like stepping into a hell of blood and pain. The eight wounded had been dragged here to be tended by Eira. The old woman knelt over one soldier, using a needle and thread to stitch up a gaping tear in his shoulder. She barked out commands in Fehlan, and two young women rushed to obey her orders.
"I bet Lord Virinus sure is glad he didn't have her executed now," Weasel muttered.
The cries and groans of the wounded men followed Duvain through the longhouse. His shield and spear remained where he'd left them resting against the wall. Seizing them, he rushed back toward the exit. He couldn't help glancing down at the still, pale figure lying on the ground. The man had succumbed to the gaping wound in his abdomen, where an Eirdkilr axe had hacked through his mail shirt, just below his breastplate. He'd died a painful death.
The night seemed suddenly chilly when Duvain emerged from the longhouse. He sprinted to catch up with Endyn and Weasel, who raced toward the gate at full speed. The clanking of their armor sounded oddly quiet beneath the hum of the village. Most of the people remained gathered in the main square, talking in low voices. Their faces were grim. They knew why the Eirdkilrs had come.
Of Lord Virinus, there was no sign. His four mercenaries stood at the entrance to their little hut, swords drawn and faces serious. If they were afraid, they showed no sign.
Duvain could only imagine what his face looked like. He was terrified, no doubt about it. Only the shouted orders of Rold, Awr, and Sergeant Brash kept him moving.
The tension among the men around the gate had grown so thick it almost stifled him. They felt just as he did, as unprepared and fearful as he. Only the few Legionnaires who had served under Captain Lingram showed no sign of fear.
"Orders, Captain?" Sergeant Brash was asking.
"Gates fortified, patrols moving?" Captain Lingram asked.
"Aye." The sergeant nodded. "No one's getting within pissing range of us before we see them."
Captain Lingram rubbed his chin. "If we had scouts, we might be able to get a better view of what's going on out there. But I don't want to risk anyone else getting lost or caught by surprise."
"So what do you suggest?" the sergeant asked.
Captain Lingram ground his teeth. "We hold. Get the villagers buttoned up in the longhouses, and keep a sharp eye on the surrounding forest, lakeside, and farms. Any movement, you sound the alarm."
"Aye, Captain!" Sergeant Brash saluted.
"Captain Lingram!" A nasal, pompous voice sounded from behind the captain.
The captain's jaw worked, but his voice was calm as he turned. "Yes, Lord Virinus?"
"I demand a situation report at once." The words were spoken in the petulant tone of a toddler.
"Eirdkilr raiders, a small detachment, by all appearances. The scouts haven't returned, so there's no way of knowing what's out there."
"And what do you intend to do, Captain?" the nobleman demanded.
Captain Lingram replied. "Sit tight. Keep watch. If there are more of them, prepare ourselves for a fight."
The nobleman crouched over a dead barbarian. "What in the Keeper's name are the Eirdkilrs doing this far from the front lines?"
Captain Lingram shrugged. "My guess is that this party managed to skirt the main force. They either stumbled across the village and decided to raid, or…" He trailed off.
"Or what, Captain?" Lord Virinus insisted.
"Or somehow they knew you were here." The words were spoken so quietly Duvain nearly missed them.
Lord Virinus' eyebrows shot up. "Impossible! Our mission was kept absolutely confidential. Only the highest-ranked members of the Icespire court knew of the Duke's task."
"But there's a chance someone from the Fjall camp leaked the information, isn't there?" Captain Lingram asked.
After a moment, Lord Virinus inclined his head. "The possibility does exist."
"Then we have to assume the Eirdkilrs know why you're here, and that they're coming for the girl." The captain pointed to Lord Virinus’ hut. "We also have to assume there are more out there—how many, I don't know, but the Eirdkilrs wouldn't send such a small detachment for such an important task. Which means you have to make plans to depart immediately."
Lord Virinus shook his head. "Absolutely not! We have no idea if the way to Icespire is safe, or if there are more lying in wait to ambush us."
Captain Lingram's jaw clenched. "At this point, my lord, I believe there is a greater risk in your staying here. The Eirdkilrs know you're here, so here is where they'll be coming. My men can hold them off, give you a chance to cover some serious ground."
"Branda is in no condition to travel," Lord Virinus said, crossing his arms. "Her fever hasn't broken, and she hasn't eaten in days. Such a hasty flight would kill her."
"And so will the Eirdkilrs. At least if you flee, there's a chance she'll live long enough to recover." Captain Lingram spoke in a firm voice. "I strongly suggest you heed my advice and prepare to depart."
Lord Virinus gave a dismissive wave. "I will take your advice under consideration, Captain, but for now we stay put."
Captain Lingram drew a deep breath through his nostrils, but nodded. "Of course, my lord. Now, if you will excuse me—"
"Rider from the southeast!" t
he cry cut off his words.
Captain Lingram whirled. The cry had come from one of the Legionnaires on the wall. He raced toward the gate and rushed onto the rampart. "Where?"
The soldier pointed off into the distance. "There!"
From his position in the line, Duvain couldn't see the rider. His gut tensed. Were they about to be under attack again? He tightened his grip on his spear and wiped his sweaty shield hand on his pants.
The pounding of hooves grew louder, and a shout echoed from beyond the walls.
"Open the gates!" Captain Lingram commanded.
Two soldiers rushed to the gate, lifted the bar, and swung one of the doors open. A rider pounded through the opening. His horse’s hooves kicked up crimson mud as he drew to a halt in the courtyard.
"Where's the commanding officer?" the man shouted. It wasn't one of the two scouts that had gone out earlier.
"Here!" Captain Lingram shouted. Lord Virinus' echoed "I am!" came a moment later.
The rider glanced between the two men, then strode toward Captain Lingram. "Captain Lingram, sir, I've a message for you from the front line."
"Hand it over." The captain held out a hand.
The messenger drew a parchment from his satchel and pressed it into the captain’s hand. "I'm sorry I couldn’t bring better news." He suddenly deflated, as if relieved of an enormous weight. He staggered and would have fallen if not for Sergeant Brash's strong arm.
Captain Lingram unfolded the parchment and scanned its contents. His face grew ashen. The sight of their unflappable captain afraid filled Duvain with a gut-twisting dread.
"Thank you, soldier," Captain Lingram said in a quiet voice. "Get yourself to the longhouse for some food and rest."
"Aye, sir." The rider saluted. "Been riding hard since yesterday afternoon. It'd be good to get some warm food in me."
"Go," the captain told him. "But if this message is true, we'll have need of you soon."
With a salute, the messenger strode toward the main longhouse.
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