The War of the Great Loch Clans

[POMC S117]

Chapter One

The sun set behind the mountains surrounding the garrison, bathing the area in a purple glow. The mountains, giant spires of rock and stone, spread out in all directions, a huge entity, a single network of rock and stone. Carving through the mountains, like a scar in the land, was Khâzâk Pass, a gateway from the civilised and secure land of Mithraleen, the home of the Mithraleenean Empire, to the untamed and violent land of Mithraleeth. The black backdrop of Crusada, illuminated by hundreds of lights, cast a large shadow on the land and could be seen from the mountains despite its distance. As the last glimmers of light, a blotched sea of red, purple and orange, faded beyond the horizon, the region was suddenly plunged into darkness and an icy mist descended on the mountains. The only lights were coming from flickering torches, bolted onto the sides of a large garrison sprawled between two mountains, blocking the pass at a key area. The fort was of typical imperial design. A thick, crenellated wall guarded the courtyard. In the centre of the courtyard, beside the well, was a circular, stone tower. Flowing from the walls, made from wool dyed the deepest red, were legion banners, rippling in the wind. Emblazoned across the front of them was the Imperial insignia. Allowing entry and exit into the fort was a wooden gate, more like a giant slab of wood masquerading as a door than an entrance.

The spell of silence that had blanketed the entire area was broken as the trampling sound of many heavy boots echoed throughout the area. The guards on the ramparts, clad in leather armour with bronze helmets protecting their heads, could see a column of torches dancing in the distance as an army approached.

"Halt! As a representative of His Greatness, the Emperor of Mithraleen, I demand to know who goes there!" called the apparent leader of the fort.

The crunching of feet on gravel stopped as the soldiers halted their march, as if one entity. A man, wearing segmented, plate armour, rode to the front on a brown horse. In one hand he had a gladius, in the other he bore a standard. On the tip of the gold pole were two sheets of red fabric. Each of them had a picture of a golden lion on them. Under the beast, in writing, were the words:

"Mightus ad Strength"

He stopped and shouted. "I am, by Imperial appointment, General Quintius Cato, leader of the Second Legion!"

The guard went stiff and saluted. "Sir! If I had known that you were arriving so ea-"

The general cut him off. "If you had known then others might have been able to procure the information of my arrival. Now, are you going to let us in or not?"

The captain stuttered. "Y-Yes, sir! You two, open the gate!"

Two guards ran down the ramp into the courtyard and began to push open the heavy gate. With a groaning sound, the door slowly opened. The legionaries marched in, thankful to get out of the freezing, exposed mountain pass and into the refuge of the fort. The general, escorted by Legate Vinius Septimus, trotted in last. He beckoned for some sentries to take his horse away as he dismounted it. He called for the captain to come down.

"What's your name, lad?" asked Cato.

"Captain Marcus Verilius, at your service, sir!" he saluted quickly.

"I didn't ask for your rank, Verilius. Now, can you have your guards escort my soldiers to the barracks, it's been a long march from Stormfront." snapped the general.

"Sorry, sir. Certainly, sir." apologised the captain as he relayed the orders to his men.

"Now, is there anywhere private where I can retire to?" questioned General Cato.

"Of course, sir! This way." stated Marcus, pointing at the tower. "Do you mind telling me why you brought all these men here?"

"Do you mind if I cut out your tongue for being a prying so-and-so?" barked the legate vemonously, who had been silent until this point.

The legate was a surprisingly young man for such a detailed rank. He had a short growth of stubble on his chin. His nose was bent, twisted from an injury he had received in the field of battle. He had broad shoulders. A pinkish line, a scar, a reminder of a victorious battle, cut through the middle of his beard. By comparison, the general was clean shaven. His body, though still strong, was less built up. He had many scars on his face, more so than the legate. Both of them had a slight tan which they had picked up from being outside for a long time. By comparison, the captain's features were unblemished and his skin was soft and pale. He led them into the tower. In the first room was a large, stone fireplace. Flames roared, devouring their dinner of wood. A red rug lay in front of the fire. A few wooden tables lay across the room, filled with the remenants of a meal. The general picked up a piece of Mithraleethean vegetable and bit into it.

"You haven't been eating much." muttered the legate sarcastically. "You seem to have the entire foodstore of the empire at this fort."

The captain made a nervous noise. He directed them out of the Main Hall. "This way, this way."

They arrived at a small chamber. Stone stairs wound around inside it. Some boxes were stored under the dusty steps. Cobwebs hung from the roof. The captain led them upstairs. At the top of the tower there was a door. Marcus pushed it open. Inside was a small corridor. At the far side of the hall were two doors. They led into some small rooms.

"There are beds inside. If you need anything, I will be downstairs." said the guard captain, still looking nervous as he left the corridor.

The legate walked over to Cato. "Damn pup looked jumpy. What do you think was wrong with him?" he asked.

"I think he was just nervous that a high ranking officer has visited his fort. With over 4000 soldiers. He must think it's an inspection."

"Is it that simple? I'm not so sure, sir."

"What are you suggesting, Legate?" asked Cato.

Septimus let out an exasperated, resigning sigh. "Nothing, sir."

"Good. Now leave me. I want a rest after a long day." said Cato, standing near the bed.

The legate nodded and exited the room, leaving Cato alone. Cato took in his surroundings. There was little in the room, other than the four-poster bed, a table and some ancient tapestries on the walls. There were a few archer's loops on each side of the room. Cato unbuckled his armour and rested it on the table. He sat down on the bed and took off his boots, discarding them on the floor. He reclined backwards and let sleep take him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A small ridge led down the side of the mountain. It was small enough to allow to men to walk abreast and no more. The sides of the ridge bore scars of erosion and each time a boot landed on the stone, some dust trickled into the black chasm below. Roots clung to the edge of the mountain, fighting for survival. A small group of soldiers crept down the mountain, gripping onto the tough roots to prevent themselves from falling. They wore a mixture of leather and metal with a dark grey overcoat and had axes or clubs hanging from their belts. A small leather buckler was clamped around their elbow. They waited inside a small crevice for the light to entirely disappear behind the horizon before continuing. The shelf gradually got lower and lower, eventually connecting into a canyon. The men stayed near the sides of the basin, crawling through the thick bushes that struggled to survive in the harsh environment. The warriors shivered as the cold, glacial grip of ice took hold on them. The ground was now covered in a thin film of frozen water, making it dangerous to walk.

"How much further?" barked Captain Kodlak to his guide.

"Not far. Not far at all. My brother saw it when he was out looking for his goats. He has a small hou-"

"We didn't invite you here to tell us about your life. Men, get up and start moving!"

There was a general murmur of disent but the troops put away their pig skin canteens and started moving again, at a slower pace than last time.

"Hurry up! Faster." snapped the captain. "And if I see any of you so much as pause for a second for air I will skin the hide of yer arses."

After a few more hours of marching and sneaking, as the sky got increasingly darker and darker, the torches of a fort came into view. The captain raised his hand, indicating that they were to stop. They were on a small ravine. There was a steep slop leading down onto a pass. At the foot of the fort, waiting anxiously, was a guard. Kodlak whistled. The man jumped and looked around. He began to walk in Kodlak's direction. He spotted the sheen of one of the soldier's axes, dangling from the leather strap that circled his waist. The guard began to scramble up the incline, using his hands to grab onto some rocks and pull himself up. When he saw Kodlak's grey eyes staring back at him, he let out a gasp of surprise.

"Go back!" he warned Kodlak.

Kodlak spat on the ground. "Not backing out on the deal, are we Verilius?"

Marcus shook his head quickly. "No, but something has come up. They arrived earlier than expected and in larger numbers."

Kodlak cursed and grabbed Verilius by the neck. "I think you're a lying, little Iberius, Captain."

"No! I'm not! Believe me! They arrived before midnight!" he shouted.

"Shut up!" shouted Kodlak, slapping Verilius across the face. "Hamish, bind him and, if he speaks again, cut out his tongue!"

A large brute of a man, standing at about 6ft, grabbed Marcus by the wrists, beginning to tie some rope around him tightly. The rough fibres rubbed against the exposed skin. Marcus was about to speak out, horrified by his treatment but the threat still lingered in the air. Without even being ordered, the guerrilla warriors slowly, carefully descended. Verilius was being dragged down it forcefully, a collar on his neck. The guide was dismissed. He ran back up the ridge and away home. The warriors sneaked behind some jagged rocks that were beside the slope. Kodlak cut Marcus' binds and took off the collar.

"I want you to go in there and open the gate." he ordered. "If you try to run or warn them of us, we will make you wish you had never been born. Move!"

Verillius was shoved out of the cover of the rocks. He looked frightened, a shocked look on his face. A sentry spotted him and shouted over to him. Verilius struggled to speak, the terror making him almost mute. He gargled. Kodlak drew a bow, knocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring, applying tension to it. If Verilius tried to say anything that would criminalise them, he would shoot him. Verilius seemed to be aware of this too for he finally conjured the strength to speak.

"It's getting cold and late, Marco! Let me in!" he demanded, try to remain calm.

His façade of confidence worked. Marco nodded and went down to push open the gate. As soon as he had opened the great gate with much groaning and complaining about how heavy it was, Kodlak released the arrow. The arrow, feather streaming from the back, smashed into Marco's neck. There was a small spurt of blood as Marco gurgled soundlessly and collapsed. One of Kodlak's soldiers ran out to grab the body. He dragged it behind the rocks and stripped the dead guard. He swapped his leather attire for the guard's armour. Once he was kitted in the armour of his fallen foe, he entered the fort, hoping that his disguise would work. Verilius followed him in. The pretend guard ran up the ramp, onto the ramparts. He patrolled the perimeter, following a guard's routine perfectly. When he approached a "fellow" guard, he walked past him. Once he was sure that that guard wasn't looking, Kodlak's warrior grabbed him by the throat and covered his mouth. Silently, the Iberius tried to resist but he slowly choked. His heart stopped. The soldier threw him over the side of the wall. Kodlak went to catch the body. Once he too was disguised as a member of the Imperial Army, he entered the fort.

The air was suddenly filled with war cries as the warriors charged out from behind the rocks, screaming and shouting, axes and clubs in their hands, swinging wildly. The guards rushed to the battlements. As they passed, Kodlak surprised them by throwing off his helmet and revealing his true indentity. He lunged at a passing soldier with his sword. The blade was blocked by the soldier's large, square shield. Kodlak jumped backwards, ready for a counter attack. The soldier ran forward, his sword moving towards Kodlak. Kodlak dodged the weapon and capitalised on the opening that the guard had made. He plunged his sword into the Iberius' neck. The guard's face rapidly turned pale and collapsed backwards, landing on the stone walls with a thud. The blood escaped from the thin incision on his neck, forming a dark red puddle on the ground.

The axemen and clubmen charged into the barracks, taking advantage of the waking legionaries' groggy state. With a hail of blows, the legionaries nearest to the door fell dead or injured. The imperial troops struggled to fight unarmoured. They were armed with only their knives and daggers. Despite this, they put up a fierce fight, felling many enemies. Decanus Julius Bararus was one of the first to react. He had always been a light-sleeper. He had woken instantly when he had heard the charging advesaries. Tired, he rubbed his eyes as screams and shouts filled the air. He glanced around the room. There were large rows of single beds and bedrolls, some positioned directly adjacent to each other, almost lying on top of each other. Julius drew his knife, slipping it out from under his bedroll. When the first enemy charged through the door, smashing it down with his club, Julius sprinted at him, thrusting his wrist forward. The dagger punched through the leather armour easily. A spurt of blood flew onto Julius' nightshirt as the Mithraleethean warrior gasped. Five of his squadmates followed in after him. One of them smashed their club down on Julius, aiming for his head. At the last moment, Julius edged out of the way. The wooden baton struck his shoulder instead. Julius' eyes exploded with brightness as he reeled from the strike. He stumbled backwards, into the arms of his comrades, who were now alert and awake. The four dozen Hardeteeleans were now tasting the blades of the many members of the Second Legion. Surprised by their vast numbers, a call for retreat was made. Kodlak could be heard.

"Don't fall back, ye cowards!" the leader yelled. "Fight and die like real men!"

A few of the older soldiers, the ones that had endured years of intense training and fighting heeded his call, regrouping around him, however most of the attacking force was composed of young boys, about sixteen, taken from villages on the outskirts of the land, forced into war with minimal training and only a vague idea of fighting and killing. The legionaries rushed into the armoury to pick up their armour. They began to hastily and expertly fasten their chest plate and shove their helmets onto their heads. They grabbed their gladiuses and shields and began to file out into the courtyard. Shoulder aching but otherwise recovered, Julius went after his companions. The confusion of battle, the whir of bows and the clinking of swords striking axes, distracted Julius. He searched around for enemies. Out of the corner of his eye, Julius spotted a large man, face red with anger, an overwhelming fury, and streaked with the blood of others, stampeding towards him.

[Imp]

Is the second group of people with the same people as the first group?

[POMC S117]

Yes. The first part happens first. The second part happens a few hours later.

[Imp]

Oh, okay. I somehow managed to read it differently. Now it makes sense.

[POMC S117]

Chapter 2

Red in the face and streaming sweat, Verilius hastily ransacked through Cato's room. He could hear the sound of the warriors losing to the supreme fighting skills of the legionaries. He was a dead man if the Empire ever caught on to the fact that he assisted the enemy. He would be branded a traitor and would be treated as the enemy. He would be chained up and taken back to Crusada, the capital, where he would be paraded and mocked. Effigies of him would be burned in a huge pyre, the pyre that would become his own. He imagined that cruel fate, screaming and struggling as the flames licked at his feet. He thoguth that any torture would be preferable to it. He also grew increasingly aware that Clan Mordach, the Clan that had contracted him to become a turncoat and betray his homeland for a very large sum of money, would do the same if he came back empty-handed. He planned not to.

After rummaging through several drawers, discarding their contents on the floor, he finally found his bargaining chip, his lifeline. If he could take this back to the rulers in Mordach, he wouldn't be slain as an enemy of the state. In fact, he'd be hailed as a hero, a saviour. He unravelled the scroll, making sure that it was the right one. He was looking at a detailed map. The names of villages, forts, towns and cities were etched onto the map in black ink. Arrows, drawn in red, were coming from the forts, directed at the settlements. Dates sat above the arrows. He could easily see the position of his fort, Fort Khâzâk, marked onto the map, hidden in a sea of brown that clearly depicted mountains. He rolled up the scroll and ran out of the room, leaving it in its messy, ravaged way. Suddenly, he heard shouting coming from the stairs. Shadows of soldiers running towards the corridor in which Marcus was were being cast onto the walls. Verilius looked for a hiding place. He saw none. Then, his eye spotted the window. The window, more of a hole as it had no glass covering, was thin and tall. Verilius thought that if he forced hard enough, he could slip through. He ran over to the window, putting one foot on the bottom of it. Looking over the edge, staring down at the vast drop into some bushes, he immediately regretted ever coming up with the decision as a sick feeling of hopelessness was passed around his body and began to turn back.

"Stop!" yelled one of the legionaries, sprinting into the hall, sword waving dangerously.

Marcus didn't hesitate. He launched himself from the window, trying to make his body as compact as possible to fit through the gap. Arms flailing as he fell from the tower, his mouth was open wide, screaming and praying to the gods. Those few seconds were the longest of his life. He landed sorely on his side but his fall was cushioned by the clump of dry foilage. His angle bruised and aching but thankfully he was alive, Verilius hobbled determinedly out of the fort, using the sounds and movement of battle to shroud his presence. The scroll was safely tucked under his arm. Despite all that had happened today, despite his earlier fears, he smiled happily. By the end of the week, he thought, I'll be a very rich man.

***

Tired and with his heart-pounding, sitting on the dirty, muddy ground, Julius let out a sigh. The body of Kodlak, a look of snarling rage etched onto his face, lay behind him. Julius remembered how difficult it had been to slay the hulking beast of a man. It had taken four legionaries to kill him. Only two of them had survived, Julius included. The thought made him giddy. How could one man be so strong, how could one man fight so ferociously, even with the odds stacked against them? Concluding that Kodlak must have been an animal incarcerated in a man's body, the legionary stood up. The sun was rising in the distance, the huge orb of light sprayed its rays in all directions. As the effects of adreneline that had been pumping through his body wore off, the pain in his shoulder returned, a frenzied agony. He let out a shocked gasp and grimaced. He instinctively grabbed his shoulder.

"Decanus." barked the Legate, exiting the tower. "The general wants to see you. He's in the highest floor."

Julius jumped to attention, saluting his superior. "Immediately, sir."

Julius, still nursing his shoulder, entered the tower. The main room had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Injured, groaning soldiers from both sides lay on blood-soaked bedrolls as healers went around doing the best they could to treat them. The stench of blood and sweat made Julius feel ill. For a second, his vision faded and went blurry before he recovered. Quickly, he left the room and began to climb up the stairs. On reaching the pinnacle of the spiral, he saw the General sitting on a box.

"Ahh... Julius, just who I wanted to see. I need your assistance." he stated, motioning to show that he was allowing Julius to ask questions.

"Anything, sir!" Julius shouted obediently, giving Cato a brief salute. "What do you need?"

"Decanus, do you know who Marcus Verilius is?" asked the General.

"He's the captain of this fort, sir."

"Former-Captain." he corrected, stressing the word "former". "While the rest of us were out fighting and serving our great empire, Verilius took the liberty of raiding my room. He took but one thing. That thing is of great importance to the Mithraleenean Empire. It must not fall into enemy hands. It must not." Quintius repeated.

"What can I do to help, sir?" questioned Julius.

"Good lad, straight to the point. You will make a good leader one day." said Cato. "I need you to take your squad and track down Verilius. Eorf and Viet saw the ex-Captain jump out of the window. No doubt he will be taking the document to Mordach."

"And if I catch him, what course of action should I follow?"

"When you catch him, I want you to take him back to me so he can face justice. Failing that, you have permission to kill him. I trust you will know what to do when the time comes."

"Where will I meet up with you, General?"

"The Second Legion is moving onto Tiberius. I will be at Fort Timorium. I want you to bring him there. In the unlikely case that we are held back, our allies in Tiberius will be more than capable of holding him until such a time when we can retrieve him."

"One last question, sir. When do I leave?"

"Right now." came the simple reply.

***

Half an hour later, the decanus had assembled his small force of men. Including Julius, there were twelve of them; ten legionaries and two slaves who cooked and carried the supplies and tents. They were lined up outside the fort, already dressed in their armour.

"Soldiers." started Julius, addressing his men. "We are being sent on a mission. The others are moving to Tiberius but we are hunting someone down. They stole some very important plans while we were fighting."

"Who is this person? Is it a Mithraleethean spy?" asked Brulus, a darkly-tanned man with cropped hair.

"No. It was none other than Captain Marcus Verilius. Ex-Captain, according to the General." answered Julius, expecting a reaction.

If his soldiers were shocked they didn't show it. They kept their faces calm and relaxed. Julius beckoned them to move. They did so. Groaning at the weight, the slaves picked up their heavy bags and followed after the troops. Julius looked ahead. The pass was about ten metres wide. The ground was rocky, uneven, hard. On each side there were paths leading into the heart of the hard-to-navigate mountains. Julius stared up in awe at the largest mountain. Menol Râkun easily dwarfed the other mountains. A thick mist clung to the edges of the mountain, hiding the summit of the giant hunk of rock. A thin lining of snow blanketed the mountain. At the lower levels, trees tenaciously grew, making the mountain look that it had sprouted a growth of leaves. Julius glanced at the two passages. He remembered the dark grey armour of the soldiers that had assaulted the fort. They were definitely from Mordach. Mordach was one of the seven main Great Loch Clans of Mithraleeth. It was also among the oldest and strongest organisations in Eusiac, the continent in which Mithraleen and Mithraleeth resided. Unlike Tiberius, it had been hostile to the Empire since it had expressed wishes to expand into Mithraleeth. Desparate to retain sovereignty, Mordach had rallied the other Clans against the Empire, openly attacking and raiding caravans and troops both in and outside imperial lands. Verilius would be heading to Mordach, that was for sure. It was inevitable. A man wanted for treason in the empire was always welocme in Mordach, especially with any material that could assist the clansmen against their fight for survival against the empire. With this in mind, Julius went west, taking the road that led to Mordach.

They began to ascend the path, boots kicking away loose bracken and stone. More than once, Julius' foot snaged on some dark green moss. The road cut into the hills, slicing a way through. It ended hundreds of miles in the distance, inside Mordach lands. Julius knew that they would have to capture Verilius before he escaped the mountains otherwise they would have to battle with more than just the harsh, unforgiving terrain.

“Men, faster! Double your pace!” he ordered authoritavely.

As the day passed, the sun climbed higher and higher, scaling further up the blue sphere that was the sky. The heat was now beating down on them, unhindered by the thick clump of clouds that usually guarded the air above the mountain range. Julius wiped his swear glistened brow. He looked around at his men. They all looked as tired and as worn out as he was. The slaves had blisters appearing on their feet and groaned in discomfort as they walked.

“Okay, we can stop now for some breath. Take two sips from your canteens and no more. We'll need it later. This is just the beginning of the journey.”

There was a sigh of relief as the legionaries stopped walking and sat down. The slaves gratefully put down their heavy rucksacks and took out their pigskin canteens. Thankfully, they took two large gulps from the water containers and let out a sign of content as the relatively cold liquid ran down their throat, soothing their burning, raging lungs. The soldiers screwed the caps back on and stored the canteens in their bags.

Julius gave a brief clap and the legionaries and slaves jumped to attention. “You've had your break. We need to catch up on Marcus before he gets out of the mountains.”

The squad of soldiers carried on like this for several hours, trudging tiredly in the sun for long stretches and pausing for short, short breaks. This continued even as the sun slowly lowered behind mountains far away and the nocturnal moon crept out from its haven. At first, the soldiers sang songs about the empire and all its greatness to keep their hopes up, with Julius joining in, however, as the day progressed, not even songs and merriment could help ebb the wave of fatigue passing over them or the strong of yawns that followed. With the sun now gone, a bitter, icy wind attacked the group, stabbing at their face with hundreds of tiny, frozen daggers. The slaves were in a worse position. The straps on the weighted bag that they were carrying dug into their skin through their linen vests, giving them blisters and sores. Midnight had come and past when Julius stopped them.

“That's enough for today, men. You've earned a rest. Brulus, you can start on the fire. Laras, Hessel,” he addressed the slaves, “Get started on the tents. I'll take the first watch.”

If they had any energy left in them, the legionaries would have cheered jubilantly. The slaves busied themselves with erecting the tent and Brulus got out his tinderbox and was trying to light some dried bushes with some flint and sticks. Spluttering lazily an hour later, the small fire sat in the middle of the quickly constructed camp, surroundedby six small tents. Julius went outside of the camp's perimeter, scouting the nearby area as the wind whipped his face. A small path curved around two mountains. Hundreds of tiny crevices and caves lined the small, rocky road. Julius tried to check to see if Verilius had taken refuge inside a cavern but he was forced to deduce that only a child or a Khârg could fit through the small gaps in the mountainside. He halted abruptly and looked around as he heard a noise. He glanced at some rocks. A tiny, black bird flew from behind them and Julius dismissed the noise. The path winded further into the sierra. At some points, large boulders that had rolled down the hill or been thrown by beasts blocked the road and Julius was only allowed to pass them by climbing up indignantly on his hands and knees. Arriving back at the camp, he had added a few more scars and bruises to his collection. While he waited for his shift to end, Julius stoked the fire to keep himself active and to fend off tiredness. He took a quick bite out of an apple from his bag and a short drink from his satchel. Looking at the hostile conditions around him, he wondered how desperate Marcus must be to take this dangerous and unmapped route to safety and how important his errand must be.

***

Verilius had no comforts such as a nice fire or some relatively cozy tents. He was hidden from sight behind an outcropping of rocks. Suddenly, the wind blew so fiercely, so coldy, its evil gaze drawing towards him, that he awoke with a gasp. He scarmbled around, looking for his scroll. He breathed calmly when he saw that it was still safe under his shoulder. He padded around for his sword, finding it resting in his sheath. He relaxed and fumbled lazily for his canteen of cool water. Disappointed, he found it nearly empty. He drained the last few drops, soothing his growling thirst.

He was surprised when he heard footsteps crunch on the stone near him. Slowly and summoning all his restraint to keep himself quiet, he edged over the rocks and peered around. His heart began to beat faster when his eyes rested on the back of a legionary. He gripped his sword. The legionary wheeled around, looking at the rocks near Verilius. Verilius knew that hte game was up but he was saved when a small bird fluttered away from him, distracting the legionary. The legionary began to walk away. Verilius didn't crawl out until he knew that the soldier was long gone. Despite the knowledge that he was safe, Marcus kept looking behind him as he ran up the hills and mountains, expecting to see someone running at him, ready to bring him to justice. Sprinting and only half-looking in front of him, Verilius didn't stop running until the sun was beginning to rise and exhaustion took hold of him.

[POMC S117]

Chapter 3

At the crack of dawn, as soon as the haze of light appeared of the mountains, shattering and spreading colour in all directions, Julius beckoned for his men to awaken. With much groaning and yawning, they cleared away the tent and covered the ashes from the fire with leaves and grass, making sure that it appeared as if the area had been as untouched as it had been when they had first arrived. They had a small, quick meal of bread and water before beginning to push on. Julius looked up as an ominous shadow passed over him. The clouds had came at last, breaking the sun's reign of heat. They were grey and dark in colour, swelling with water, ready to burst and release their cool, refreshing arsenal upon the mountain range.

The clouds provided some reprive from the unrelenting sun that had tormented them yesterday. After a few hours, the clouds broke, volleying rain down upon the group. Their scaled armour soon stuck to their skin, making it uncomfortable. There was an explosion as a beam of yellow energy smashed into a mountain beside them. A lightning storm had arrived, swirling above their heads like an evil flock of birds. The hostile conditions made Julius contemplate whether to continue or go back but he knew that he would have to continue. The fate of the Second Legion was dependent on his success. He muttered a few words of encouragement to his men but the sounds carried little emotion and motivation. Julius fumbled with the straps of his helmet to peel it off of his skin. There was a chorus of grumbling stomachs and Julius stopped his group. He spotted a cave a few metres in the distance. It looked big enough to house them. They marched into the cave. The decanus ordered Brulus to begin making a fire.

After a few minutes had passed, Julius turned to Brulus. “Brulus, you're from these parts, aren't you.”

The tall, burly legionary nodded. “I'm from Clan Wyrspyrn.”

“Can you remember all the paths? What about dangers?”

“There's not much I can remember. The empire's my home now.” said Brulus. “As for dangers... The clansmen normally keep this area safe but these remote mountains are havens for trolls and giants.”

“Then let's hope that Lokve shines down on us.” laughed Julius. “I do not want to get involved in a fight with a troll.”

Suddenly, there was a commotion coming from outside the cave. Yarris, a legionary that the decanus had sent out to scout ahead for any trouble, was sprinting towards them.

“Clansmen... a whole group of them... coming close to us...” Yarris panted, sweating, face red.

Julius cursed under his breath and lowered his hand to his sheath. He looked at Brulus.

“Take some men to the back of the cave. If we run into any trouble, I want you to help us out.” he instructed. “Yarris, go back out there and tell me when they approach the cave. Keep hidden. Do not engage. Hopefully, they'll walk right by us.”

Yarris nodded and left the safety of the cave at a run. Once he was outside, the rain battering down heavily on him, Yarris sneaked behind a small stone square with a flag pole on top, a guidestone, bordering the small mountain pass. A small formation of soldiers marched into view. Yarris wiped the rain out of his eyes and craned his neck to get a better view. There were about twenty of them, armed with greatswords and long, crude spears. Their armour was tough, a mixture of metal and leather. Yarris instinctively grippped tighter on his sword hilt. For a few seconds, there was silence, other than the heavy crunching of metal boots on wet gravel.

The spell of silence was fractured when there came a shout. In a fluid motion, a clansman held up his spear and threw it at the guidestone. There was a small thud as the tip struck the stone. Yarris cried out in surprise. He ducked down lower as another projectile came his way. This one struck the dirt behind him, missing the back of his foot by inches.

Julius heard the yell and charged out of the cave, followed by four legionaries. “Shields up!”

The soldiers obeyed, raising their heavy, square shields. A volley of javelins flew over their heads, studding the ground behind them. They met the force of Mithraleetheans head on, smashing into their formation, shields first, swords slashing. The Mithraleetheans were stronger and more numerous than the legionaries but the charge had knocked down the front line. Yarris ran out from cover, attacking the warriors from the flank. He drew back his gladius and thrust forward, his blade smashing into the shoulder of a clansman, through armour, flesh, muscle and then bone. The man screamed in pain and then fell onto all fours, heaving heavily. One of his comrades responded by beheading Yarris with a clean swipe to his neck. Julius yelled as Yarris' lifeless body fell to the floor. The decanus made a diagonal swipe at the murderer, a heavily bearded brigand. The sword made a slice down the leather chest piece of the warrior. He grunted and raised his axe, ready to bring it down on Julius. The Iberius raised his shield at the right moment, blocking the axe. Out of the corner of his eye, vision slightly obscured by the rain whipping his face, Julius could see the clansmen coming around to flank them.
“Fall back!” ordered Julius, quickly glancing around at his men.

Yarris was gone, killed instantly, and another was injured badly. The other two with him made a hasty retreat. They went past the cave, hoping to allow the others a chance of escape. A few spears were thrown after the retreating legionaries but they all landed off target.

A few metres away, down a small hill, was a thin stream. Some bushes grew happily beside it. The stream was adjacent to the wall of an abrupt cliff. Small crevices, just large enough for some people to fit in, were cut into the side of the cliff. The decanus made a bee-line for the gaps, hoping to get there before their enemies spotted them.The clansmen didn't seem to be pursuing them, however. After an hour had passed, it felt longer, much longer, to the decanus, Julius and his two remaining legionaries crept out of hiding. Slowly, vigilantly, they made their way back to the cave. Brulus, the two slaves and another two legionaries were still there.

“Are they gone? What happened?” Brulus assaulted Julius with a barrage of questions.

“Alright, alright. One question at a time.”

“Sorry, sir.” grunted the soldier.

“It's fine. And yes, they are gone. They killed Yarris and they've taken Varro.” breathed the decanus, taking some water from his canteen.

“Any idea where they've taken him to, sir?” asked John, one of the slaves.

“I don't even know who they are, never mind where they've taken him to. Anyway, it would be suicidal to try and get him back. We've lost two of our number, we can't afford to lose more. We'll wait here until morning and then we'll move out.”

***

The Second Legion left the fort two days after the failed attack by the soldiers of Clan Mordach. A generous supply of soldiers had been left at the garrison, to ward off any further attacks that might ensue. A few rows of horsemen guarded the flanks, protecting the cohorts of legionaries from any further attack. They circled the formations, patrolling the nearby areas. The pass was almost deserted. News of the legion's arrival had spread. Not even a single goat herder or merchant could be seen on the deserted road.

After several days, the legion exited the path, coming out of the mountains near the village of Fotsar. A few times, the legionaries could see scouts, too distant to be identified by their faction, standing on hills. As they continued on their journey, the geoghrapy gradually changed. The desolate paths slowly turned to dirt roads, inhabited by a few travellers and merchants; the rough, craggy landscape began to change into a more tame and gentle environment; the clumps of farmsteads and cottages, few and far between, morphed into busy towns and villages. Some people approached the men, trying to barter with them and trade with them. The road led into a forest. Trees were lined on either side of the road. At night, the woods were filled with noises of wolves howling and small animals scuttering. Silhouettes appeared to be dancing inbetween the trees.

Six days after leaving the pass, the Second Legion entered the lands of Clan Vettach, one of the most hostile clans in Mithraleeth and sworn enemy of Clan Tiberius, one of the Mithraleenean Empire's few allies. In the distance a bugle could be heard, no doubt coming from Vettach, one of the main hubs of the clan. A squadron of thirty horsemen under the command of Adrian Attal were send to investigate. They rode further down the path. On one side, the forest slowly disappeared, having been cut down many years ago. On the other, Vettach Forest's many pine trees, towering above the road, grew plentifully.

Charging up a hill, the horsemen could see the town from a safe distance. A small, grey wall surrounded the town. The dirt road split into two sections, one heading towards the town's single, lone gate. In the middle of the settlement was the Keep of Kamrug, a large fortress with many spires and a black-slated roof. The town looked picturesque from a distance.

After some time, the gates slowly crawled open and a long column of footsoldiers, escorted by some cavalry, exited the town. Adrian nodded to his comrades and they turned their horses around and began to gallop back towards the legion.

The Legate saw them coming and went out to investigate. “What have you found? Are we near the town?”

“Yes we are, sir. And I bring bad news. A large force of enemies are inbound. I couldn't get their exact num-” replied Adrian before the legate cut him off.

“In that case, I want you to go back and scout them out. I want a rough estimation of their numbers and what type of warriors they have. I will report your findings to the general.”

Adrian nodded and pulled on his reins. “Men, with me!” he called, his horse running off in the direction of the enemy.

By the time they reached the hill, the Vettachian soldiers had made considerable progress. They had split into two groups. The largest one carried on towards the Second Legion; the smallest one was heading into the forest, ready to flank the soldiers. Adrian gestured for some horsemen to head back to the Legate. The rest of the cantered near their adversaries, trying to survey them, trying to gleam information.

The soldiers were arranged into blocks of people, blocks of roughly 500, 6 blocks of 500. Two blocks were made up of spearman, three had swordsmen. Only one had archers. There were 120 cavalry on each side. The cavalry were sent after Adran's mounted troops. They were armed with bows and clubs.

“Time to move!” bellowed Attal, kicking his horse into motion.

His soldiers followed, racing back towards the legion. The Mithraleethean horses were faster and stronger. They quickly closed the distance between themselves and Attal's group. An arrow flew over Adrian's head. A cry told Adrian that one of his men had been hit on the neck with an arrow. He tumbled off his horse, tripping up another horseman. A club swept past Adrian's head, drawing up air. Adrian lashed out with the side of his foot. His boot caught the side of the horse, making it buck wildly. The rider was thrown off of it, landing on his neck. All around him, his horsemen were being shot by arrows or having their head cleaved open by clubs. A lightning bolt, so large, so powerful that it could not be natural, landed beside Adran, hitting a Mithraleethean rider with precision. The Imperial Mages had prepared their spells at last. More bouts of electricity fell from the sky, the clear blue sky with not a cloud in sight. The enemy riders broke off their assault, retreating to the safety of the army.

With a triuphant smile, Attal lifted his arm, encouraging his men. His smile faded when he remembered those that they had lost. His horsemen arrived back at the Second Legion. Adrian dismounted and ran to the Legate and the General.

“Decurion! What news do you bring? Hurry! Speak!” commanded the Legate.

“Quiet, Septimus, give the lad a chance to get his breath back.” barked the General.

“Thanks, sir.” panted the decurion. “I spotted about... 3000 troops. It was hard to tell at the speed I was going. They must have had about one thousand spearmen and more swordsmen than that. They also have some cavalry. They are also sending some troops round to flank up”

“3000?” repeated Cato. “Alright, Legate, get the men to set up fortifications. I want the front entrance guarded. Protect the flanks as well. I want the horsemen to circle us. If the clansmen want to fight us, we'll show them the true might of the Empire!”

[POMC S117]

Chapter 4

Decanus Julius opened his eyes. A thin haze of yellow light flooded into the cave. He blinked as his eyes watered. He groaned, remembering his failure. Two men lost, barely a few days into their mission. How many more would perish before it was finally completed, if it were to be completed. Julius hoped Thos, the patron of warriors, would look down on him and protect him. He took a small sip from his canteen. It was almost empty. Remarking that it had to be filled soon, Julius called for his men to wake up.
With much groaning and protest, the men got sleepily ot their feet. Julius ordered the slaves to pass food around. Their breakfast was a meal of thick porridge and stale bread.

***

After days of arduous marching and physical extersion, the group finally made it out of the mountains. The valley of Mordach stretched before them, a far-reaching, picturesque image of green, rolling hills, thick forests and fields of grass. Loch Mordach, a huge inland sea, dominated the landscape. Its bright blue water shimmered in the sunny glare. Large ships could be seen sailing in it. At the far end of the loch, sprawled across its shoreline, was Mordach, the clan-capital. Its dock lay across one whole side of the loch. Its many white, brick buildings were like tiny dots in the distance, piled on the large mound on which the muncipality was situated on.

Closer to home, on a nearby hill, was a large dust cloud. Riding down the road, extremely fast and on horseback, was a Mordach patrol. Julius quickly scanned around. There were some rocks bordering the dirt road on which the patrol was travelling. The rocks were large, oddly-shaped and covered in a thick blanket of green and yellow moss.

“Quick!” snapped Julius. “Behind that rock, before they see us!”

The decanus, slaves and soldiers in tow, sprinted behind the rocks. Some bushes were clumped protectively around the stones. Julius crouched down low.

“Let them pass.” he whispered. “Do not make a sound.”

A deathly, unnatural silence infected the ground as they held their breath. The clattering of hooves on ground grew louder and louder and closer and closer before changing and shrinking, quieter and quieter and further and further until the noise disappeared. The spell of silence remained, the taboo broken only by birds fluttering in the air. Finally, Julius spoke.

“Good, they're gone. Everyone, move out. Be careful, be vigilant.”

“What if they come back?” asked Brulus.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.” smirked the decanus.

“Where are we heading, sir? We don't know where that b*stard Verilius went to.” wondered Hendral, an legionary from Carthinhex.

Julius thought for a minute. He scanned the area. “We'll check the nearby villages. We'll split into two. Meet back here after midnight. Anyway, we need to buy some more food and some clothes so that we aren't walking around like the enemy we are. Brulus, you take the two slaves and Hagard, Vitus and Valoral and go that way.” Julius ordered, pointing towards the loch. “Don't go too near to the loch and stay away from any big towns or patrols. The rest of you, with me!”

The group split. They went their seperate ways, promising to meet up later. Julius' group arrived at the small village of Gredbol about an hour later. Gredbol was bare. It had very few buildings. One inn and a shop provided all income. A farm lay outside the village boundaries. One entering the settlement, Julius and the legionaries were met with hostile stares. The men gripped their concealed weapons tightly.

“Hendral, go into the shop and get some supplies. Ask the shopkeeper if he's seen anything. If he doesn't give you a reply, hand him some of these.” Julius muttered, handing the soldier a large bag of local currency. “Mattis, Kallum, go to the farm and ask the workers the same question. I'll question the people here.”

They nodded in reply. Hendral walked over to the shop and entered. The two legionaries, who happened to be twins, moseyed over to the farm and began to interrogate the farmhands. Julius marched over to a group of men standing outside the inn. All three of them were imposingly tall and threatening Hardeteels. Clubs hung from their belts.

“Sorry to interrupt what I'm sure was a lovely conversation but have you, by any chance, seen a man pass through here, maybe dressed in the same armour or similar armour as I am wearing?” smiled Julius, trying to appear friendly.

“Go away, legionary scum. We don't like imperial dogs snooping around here.” growled one of the people.

“What's it to you, anyway? We never lynched him, did we.” barked another.

“Bob, ye old fool! You just told him that there was another one of his kind here!” yelled his other friend.

Bob looked angry, at himself and at his two friends. “No, I didn't. Anyway, even if I did, the man's only asking if we-”

Julius interrupted him. “When did he pass through here and what did he want? Did he say where he was going?” at the same time, he took a small coinpurse. “For persuasion.”

The men looked at each other before Bob began to speak. “Ehh... He came here about... two days ago. Left at dawn, was in a hurry. Said he was heading for Mordach. If he took my advice he should be going to Dorthmire Inn.” he said.

Julius tipped a generous amount of coins into Bob's hand. “Which way is it to the inn?”

Bob pointed east. “That way. It's about a day's walk away.”

“Thanks for our assistance, sirs.” said Julius, walking to the middle of the town.

He waited for his soldiers to return. Hendral returned first, after buying a large amount of food, enough for them to rendevous with the Second Legion, and some plain clothes. Julius began to explain the situation once they had all arrived.

“Verilius is heading for Dorthmire Inn. It will be his last stop before he arrives in Mordach, we need to catch him before then. First, we need to change into some civilian clothes.” the decanus ordered, pointing at the items in Hendral's hands. After they were in lighter clothes, he continued with his plans. “Mattis, Kallum, I want you to go back to the rock and wait for the others to get back. Once they do, set out for the inn immediately. Hendral, we're leaving for hte inn now. We're going to try to intercept him on route.”

Hendral nodded as the two twins started the march back to the rock. Julius and his follower exited the village, following the road going east. The dusty path was bordered on all sides by fields growing wheat and other produce. Growing ever closer was the beautiful city. Julius could make out the rough shape of the giant palace, the seat of power in the clan, home of the Caduses, the traditional leaders of Mordach. The current Cadus was called Ramsay Brock, said by some to be a great leader, rivalling Emperor Vier in some ways. Julius could almost agree with them. Despite the pressure from the empire, despite the attacks, the Cadus had prevented the empire from gaining ground in Mithraleeth, spearheading the defence.

The two travellers looked normal, out of their armour which they had concealed in their rucksacks. The passing patrols, most on horseback, left them alone. They passed an ancient castle that lay crumbling near the road. Its walls were covered in slowly crawling beds of moss.
Exhausted, they eventually arrived at the inn. The sun was descending in the distance. The inn was small and of a design typical to most roadside inns. A small stables was attatched to the side of the main building, supply merchants and travellers a place to rest and shelter their horses.

***

The Vettachian general, Gramochl the Undoing, had ordered his soldiers to set up camp near the forest. The small town of tents was quickly and professionally erected. Large, deadly-looking spikes formed a perimeter around the camp. The bodies of the riders that had been captured earlier were hung on large, heavy crosses. Tall, muscular warriors guarded the area outside of the stake's protection. Rain lashed down on the tents. The gentle tap, tap of water striking animal hide was loud. The earth was wet, turning the narrow paths between tents into muddy mush. Coupled with the trudging of boots, the ground was transformed into a quagmire.

At the main tent, the one in which Gramochl and his advisers were huddled around a map discussing battle plans, a messenger arrived. He was on horseback. He quickly dismounted and entered the tent.

“Sir, they say that they only wish to pass through our lands. They don't want to fight us.”

Gramochl stared hard at the map. “For too long have I watched my people suffer, for too long have I seen my culture disappear, for too long has the empire been able to force their imperialism onto us. We attack at nightfall, as soon as the sun goes over the horizon. Send word to the men! I want them watered and fed and their sword arm ready.”

The messenger nodded, spurned on by the speech and eager to please. He ran outside and began to shout and relay the message. There was a general murmur of excitement as the warriors prepared for battle. Since birth, they had been drilled into thinking that the Mithraleenean Empire was evil and that their soldiers were the enemies of Lokanus, carrying out the bidding of Rattus. They wanted to lay waste to the legion. They wanted revenge.

Gramochl marched into his own personal armoury. On wooden racks were the strongest, finely made and tempered armour and weapons. He soon stood, clad in steel and wielding a large sword in one hand and an axe in the other. The leader fitted a horned helmet onto his head and then went outside, into the rain to meet his soldiers.

Once they stood in an orderly line, he addressed them. “Soldiers, warriors of Vettach, defended of the people, now is the time to raise up arms against our enemies! As we speak, the empire plan to march on our great town to slaughter and pillage! So I say to you, protectors of our lands, stand and fight, stand and fight and may every stab, may every hack, may every arrow and every spear count as a blow against our enemies! Bring down your axes, bring down your swords! Bring them down on the enemy! CHARGE!” as his speech reached the climax, the soldier cheered as the feeling of hope erupted in a stream.

A trumpet sounded and they began a frenzied run towards the forest, towards the road, towards the legion. The legion's scouts spotted the advancing army and quickly reported the news back to the leaders.

“Sir!” yelled a scout, a recruit in the legion, recently trained and sent to join the invasion a few weeks ago. “The clansmen... They... They...” he panted. “They're moving out!”

“Then it is time.” the general said simply. “Get the soldiers ready. It's stupid to engage the enemy when they're in the cover of the trees. We'll have to wait until they get out and hopefully we can funnel them and thin their numbers. I want a cohort to go down the road and flank them, attack them from behind. The horsemen should go with them.” he finished calling out orders.

The horsemen saddled their mounts and then vaulted onto the backs of the horses. They picked up spears from the armoury and prepared to move out. Quickly scrambling for their weapons of war, the cohort was soon ready. Making haste, they went further down the road, trailing behind the cavalry. When they reached a point that the forest spread out and the trees became younger, they moved east, into the plain on which the clansmen were hurriedly running towards the forest. The horsemen forced their steeds to run faster, tapping them with the side of their feet. The agile, powerful beasts began to charge forth. The riders readied their spears and ran right into the side of the columns of clansmen.

Once they had cut some wat into the formation, Adran signalled for his force to pull back. “Out, men! Back out for another strike!”

Some of the riders were dragged from their saddles and beaten with axes and clubs, others had their horses killed but most of them managed to escape from the enemy. They circled in the same position before returning for another, decisive attack. The Vettachians spread out, to reduce casualties, but the horsemen killed many and injured more.

The company of horseriders with the forces of Vettach were quickly deployed. They raised across the muddy expanse of grassland, spewing dirt behind them in a large trail, almost like a thick, brown mist. The Imperial horsemen pulled back again and went to meet the Vettachian cavalry. The spears had a longer reach than the clubs that the mounted clansmen were carrying but at close quarters, they were more effective.

The cohort, which had been marching along the plain at a steady pace, threw their javelins at the Vettachian footsoldiers. The hail of weapons flew into the groups. Cries went up as men were hit by the javelins. Only three or four soldiers were hit in critical areas, however many of the soldiers were rendered unable to fight, their arms of legs being damaged to such an extent that they were useless. Some of the Vettachians were ordered to occupy the cohort and divert their attention, unwittingly falling into the general's trap. Two centuries were called to hold off against the diversionary force while the rest of the cohort continued towards the main body.

The first of the clansmen arrived in the forest. Weaving through the trees, quietly, they took out their bows and fired onto the road, which was just visible through the thick wall of trees. Their arrows sailed into the air, reaching their pinnacle before dropping back down to earth. The vast majority of arrows studded into the ground but a small amount found their targets, winding through the mass of shields and armour to find flesh and bone.

The legionaries quickly formed into their signature formation: the testudo formation. Speedily, they converged into blocks of men. The front rows held their shields straight but the other rows raised their shields heavenwards, preventing missiles from hitting them.

More of the Vettachians arrived in the forest. The archers paused, conserving their ammunition. The swordsmen filed out of the forest. They saw the blocks of shields standing strongly in position. They were under orders to stay into position and make the enemy come into the road. The clansmen used this to their advantage. They began to chop down the trees that lay near the road. Some of the legionaries smirked and relax. The clansmen rolled the logs to the edge of the forest and pushed them. The wood tumbled down the road, towards the legionaries. Reacting too slowly, the soldiers coudl do nothing but stare in surprise as the log crashed into them. The formations broken, the men injured and confused, the Vettachians surged down the hill. A new set of arrows were loosed at the legionaries. The first clansmen met their enemy, stabbing with their swords and lunging with the spears. Groans and cries went up. Some of the legionaries scrambled to their feet and mounted a dizzy counter attack. The other cohorts moved in to assist their fallen comrades, creating gaps in the flanks which the clansmen quickly began to exploit.

Compact, organised, the legionaries were finding it hard to combat such quick and loosely formed foes. The clansmen deliberately picked out weaker targets, wheedling down the numbers. Nonetheless, the horsemen and the cohort attacking from behind had taken its toll on clansmen, diverting men and attention away from the rest of the legion. Attal now had but fifty horsemen left. He withdrew them from the plains, exhausted but successful. They moved back onto the road, coming to help the main component of the legion.

[Nova]

You're doing great POMC, this is really good.

[POMC S117]

Thanks, Nova. I've finished another chapter.

Chapter 5

Julius and Hendral were ushered into the inn by a burly and very menacing guard. On entry, he demanded a twelve coin fee. Seeing as the guard was clearly drunk and naturally aggressive, Julius parted with his money with little hesitation.

The interior of the inn was filled with an atmosphere of insobriety. A the air was thick and foggy, not helped by the smoke drifting lazily from the fire in the middle of the room. Patrons, sober and not so sober, were sat on chairs around the edge of the room. There was a feeling of merriment and contentment in the building, except from one man who was sitting nervously at a table at the back of the inn. His face was red, and not from the tankard of ale that he had not yet got round to finishing, despite having it in his possession for well over an hour.

When Julius and Hendral had walked into the view of the barman, he called them over happily. “Greetings, there. Come in! Come in! What can I do fer ye?”

“Two tankards of your finest mead!” Julius replied.

The barkeep nodded and began to fill up two large vessels. He passed them to Julius and Hendral and the two legionaries sat down, two tables away from Verilius. Slowly, Julius took a sip of ale, smiling as the sweet taste passed over his body. Despite the feelings of guilt he had from breaking a law that forbade soldiers from indulging themselves with alcohol while on duty, Julius couldn't help but feel happy. With a quick glance, careful not to be noticed, Julius swept his eyes over Verilius.

“How are we going to get him?” Hendral whispered quietly in Julius' ear.

Julius struggled to hear Hendral over the gentle crackling over the fire, even though Hendral was directly beside him. “Wait until he goes up to his room. We'll knock him out.”

“What about the guard at the entrance?” came Hendral's answer.

“We'll go out the back door.” said Julius, making sure that Verilius was not looking at him.

Hendral gave a curt nod, showing his agreement. They waited several hours until Verilius had finally finished his drink and retired to his rented room. Julius motioned to Hendral. The legionary got to his feet and followed Verilius upstairs.

“Hey, who are yo-” came a muffled shout from upstairs before it was interupted.

Julius looked around to see if anyone had noticed. No one batted an eyelid. Stage one had worked. Julius finished the last bits of his drink before standing up. He marched past the bar and began to stomp up the stairs. Hendral was holding a subdued, unconscious body who Julius recognised as being Verilius. The decanus smiled. The mission had been a success. Then he remembered Yarris and Varro, two brave legionaries who had fallen to serve their country. He swore that he would see to it that the brave men were remembered as heroes of the empire.

“Now, to Tiberius.” said Julius.

The two men slowly creaked open the back exit. Some wooden steps led down to ground level. Keeping a catious eye on both the door and the road ahead, Julius and Hendral, carrying the limp body of Verilius between them, went down the stairs.

Suddenly, there was a sound coming from the stables. Julius flourished his sword towards the direction of the noise.

“Only a horse.” he whispered, sighing.

“I think not.” came a reply.

Julius and Hendral froze. Julius handed the rest of Verilius' body over to Hendral and got into a stance. Coming out of the stables, taking big, confident strides, boots kicking off the gravel, was a Mordachian soldier. He had an axe, blunt and rusted by age, in one hand; a small, leather shield in the other. Even in the darkness, Julius could make out the light grey trace of his armour. Julius was uncomfortably aware that his armour was still locked away in his rucksack and that one hit could kill him.

The clansman charged at the legionary, feigning right before changing the course of his sword and going to the left. The decanus managed to parry the blow, but only just. The impact of the axe on sword sent shivers up his arm and then down his spine. He stumbled backwards slightly before steadying himself and preparing for the next attack. The enemy soldier waited. He was patient. He allowed Julius to make the first move. The legionary lunged at the clansman, his gladius driving towards his chest. The man moved his shield to block the blow and at the last second Julius inched his blade up slightly and sent the steel into the upper body of the man, getting him between the ribs.

The leather absorbed most of the attack but a large, deep gash appeared on the clansman's front. He groaned in agony and brought his axe down on Julius. Julius only just managed to pull his arm away in time. His enemy had over-extended himself, his attack going wild and causing him to lose balance. Taking advantage of the situation, Julius beat the man over the head with his elbow. A spray of red liquid jettisoned from his nose as it burst. Letting out a strangled cry, the man, enraged, charged into Julius, knocking both of them over. Julius scrambled out from under the man and got to his feet. While Julius was recovering, his enemy was allowed the chance to get to his feet. He wiped the blood from his nose, the streak of red appearing on the back of his hand, and raised his axe. In doing this, the clansman had created a large, gaping hole in his defence which Julius exploted. He pulled his sword back and then thrust forward. There was a squench as the sword entered the man. After a few seconds of silent struggle, the man went limp.

Then, a shout rang out from the door of the inn. Someone had watched the fight unfold. “Murderer! Murderer!”

Julius swore and turned on his heels. He ran off in the direction of Hendral, who was dragging Verilius through a field some few hundred metres away. The decanus rushed after him as the cries from the inn echoed in the night. It was only a matter of time until the soldiers found out and hundreds of clansmen would be out, searching the hills and wilderness for Julius, Hendral and their hostage.

***

Julius' prediction was true. By the time Brulus and the rest of the squad of legionaries had reached the inn only to be told that Julius and Hendral had left after midnight, the whole of Mordach was swarming with guards, horsemen, scouts and soldiers, searching for the decanus and his high-value prisoner.

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, Julius?” muttered Brulus, after leaving the inn.

Two riders, armed with throwing spears, rode past the inn on their way down the road. In their hurry, they did not notice the large group of travellers standing near the inn. If they did, they didn't find them suspicious enough to warrant pausing their journey just to interrogate some people. Brulus had to restrain himself from attacking them. As acting-decanus of the remaining legionaries and slaves of the squad, Brulus had to set an example.

“What do we do now, Brulus?” asked one of the legionaries.

“Hmm.... We must make our way to Tiberius and hope that we meet our friends on the way. We'll change into our armour when we're away from the road.” replied Brulus.

“And if we don't find them?”

“Then we will know that they have reached Tiberius before us.” said Brulus, trying to remain optimistic despite the fact that it was very unlikely that Julius and Hendral would be able to make the journey on their own.

Brulus knew the geography of Mithraleeth like the back of his hand. If
Julius was smart, he would have stayed off the road, meaning that he would have to march through Straboan and Brumese lands to make it to Tiberius. Clans Bruma and Strabo were both regarded as hostile by the Empire and that they felt the same way towards the Empire. Julius would be lucky if he didn't fall into a trap, for the soldiers of Clan Bruma were skilled in catching enemies. They could lie in wait for hours, their presence hidden by tree and snow. Then, when an unsuspecting Julius would walk by them, they would strike. Brulus prayed that this would not happen. The fate of the conquest would rely on Julius and Hendral escorting their package safely.

Brulus ordered his squad to start moving. They walked around the other side of the inn, to the back. They marched away from the main road, towards the trees in the distance. Once they had arrived at the safety of the tree-line, they got their armour out of their rucksacks and pulled it over their plain clothes. After a quick meal consisting of a single apple, some gulps of cool water and a small slice of stale bread, they slowly made their way through the forest.

The trees were gnarled and ancient. Roots stretched between trees like long, sinewy fingers. Branches stood above, like wooden archers, casting shadow on the ground. The forest floor was scattered with decaying leaves, rotten pine cones and generous amounts of green moss. Twigs littered the deer tracks that were plentiful in the forest. A thin, cold mist hugged the bottoms of the trees.

“Who walks in our forest?” came a voice near Brulus.

A shiver ran down Brulus' spine as he became aware that they were being watched. The legionaries and slaves behind him halted in their tracks. Brulus made for his sword. In a flash, an arrow sped from behind a tree, striking Brulus' sword and sending it flying out of his hand. It landed with a dull thud on the mud.

“We mean no harm!” shouted Brulus. “We're only passing through.”

“We'll be the judge of that.” the voice revealed itself. A man, he looked like a man only he was taller and had pale golden skin. His hair was black and long and trailed down to his shoulders. He was robed in an immaculate white dress. “Are you from the empire?”

Brulus nodded. “Yes. We're on an urgent mission. We request permission to pass through your lands.”

“What is this mission?” asked the robed person, coming closer to Brulus.

“It's imperial business. I can't tell you.” deflected Brulus simply.

The person sighed. “I am Assarothë, the King of the Ael'nonuvah in Cer-Anumidia. I am a noble ally to Emperor Vier and one of his distant cousins.”

Brulus bowed quickly, as did the rest of the legionaries and slaves. “M... My apologies. I... I did not know.”

The Al'nonuvah smiled faintly. “It is fine. Please, come with me. We can discuss your mission over dinner.”

The acting-decanus replied. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid we are in a hurry. We can't stay. We need to move out.”

Assarothë was persistent. “I can supply you with horses, but first you must come with me.”

At the mention of horses, Brulus nodded and turned to his men. With a brief gesture, he told them to start moving. They followed Assarothë for several minutes. The trees gradually thinned out, revealing lights twinkling in the distance. The lights became more apparent as they drew closer. There was a small ring of large, well-made tents in a clearing. In all, there were roughly two hundred tents, each housing a family. Around the edges were the utility tents, were the people cooked and washed their closes. A few guards, each of them taller than Assarothë by several inches, patrolled the perimeter of the camp. They were clad in bronze armour that shimmered gold. On their heads rested ornate helmets, each decorated with a majestic, golden crest. They got down on one knee when their king approached.

“Regalos, aviha ruvastara returnido.” one of them said. In his tongue, it meant King, you are back.

“Ay, e aliha ruvastara tallérast visétori iynd preperastara o greändar meäl” replied the king. Yes, and I have brought visitors so prepare a great meal.

The guard bowed and quickly, gracefully walked away to call the cooks to begin to make a banquet. The king and his entourage of legionaries and slaves proceeded towards the king's tent. Significantly larger and nicer than the other tents, the king's tent stood in the middle of the camp. Four soldiers, carrying golden halberds, stood outside, staring attentively at their surroundings. They gave a curt, respectful nod when they saw their leader and parted to allow him entry. They reformed as soon as he and his group of followers were inside.

The king's tent was spacious. It had few furnishings. A small, plain bed lay at one corner of the tent, a table lay in the centre of the tent. On the table, there was an old, colourful map. The landmarks and places were named in a foreign language, Ael'nonuvahian, the tongue of the Ael'nonuvah, closely related to Ael'uvahian, the language of the Ael'uvah of Gil-Galad. Gil-Galad was a small island that was located near mainland Eusiac.

Brulus stared at the plain surroundings. “You are a king yet you have the house of a commoner.” he commented before he could realise the disrespectful tone in which he was speaking.

The king was not angry. In fact, he laughed. “I may be a king but I must sacrifice my standards for the good of my people. We are a nomadic people, we cannot waste space and people on transporting expensive furniture. Now, permiälë aeliha continuerast. Let us continue. What is your mission?”

And so Brulus began to explain the details of the mission. He told Assarothë about all that had happened, starting from the attack on the fort. He recounted how the group had travelled through the mountains, losing two men during the difficult journey, the journey that was still fresh in his mind. He then informed the king on how they had arrived at the inn to find that their companions had gone. He then continued to say how they had arrived here.

“And do you know what this package was?” asked Assarothë, who was listening intently.

Brulus shook his head. “No. We were only told that it was important to the Emperor.”

“I wonder what it could be.” muttered the king. “You were looking for your leader, your decanus, you say? And there were others with him? Some of my scouts spotted two legionaries carrying a prisoner a few hours ago.”

“Julius!” shouted Brulus happily.

Someone entered with a tray of food. The food was unlike anything Brulus had ever seen. The other legionaries hadn't seen anything like the food either. Obviously, the food was completely alien to the slaves. Some of the items looked like roots, brown and shrivelled. Other pieces looked more colourful, bright reds and blues. There were a few mushrooms here and there. The king took a root and peeled off the outside before shoving the rest of it into his mouth. Crunch. He bit down on it and smiled.

“Eat.” he gestured to Brulus and the others.

Warily, Brulus took a bright fruit. He bit into it. A sweet, juicy taste filled his mouth. He ate more of it.

“This is lovely. What's it called, sir?”

“That fruit is called vitre. The thing that I am eating is the root from the boseria tree.” answered the king.

They ate happily for several minutes. The slaves were devouring much of the food. They were eating noisily, their chewing audible.

“Eat quietly or not at all.” growled Brulus.

“I'll strike a deal.” sighed Assarothë. “You release the slaves and I'll provide two of my soldiers to help you.”

“That's a bargain.” smiled Brulus. “I accept.” he turned to the slaves. “You heard the man, elf, thing, whatever, you're free.”

As the slaves rejoiced, the king continued. “I'll also give you horses to carry your load.”

“Thank you. Please tell us when all the things are ready.”

“They are ready, legionary. While you were eating, I took the liberty to make the arrangements.” smiled Assarothë faintly.

“Excellent. Thank you for your hospitality, king of the Ael'nonuvah. May Lokve watch over you and bless your lands.”

“I'm sure he will. I have some gifts for you.” said the king, reaching for some bags. “These satchels contain water, food and potions. I hope they will help you one your mission.”

“How can we ever repay you?” asked Brulus, accepting the presents.

“All I give, I give freely. I expect no payment.”

Brulus and the legionaries got up. The former-slaves stayed, finishing their meal. “Thank you again, king.”

With that said, Brulus and his squad left the tent and went outside.

[Gandalf]

This... is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

[POMC S117]

Thank you.

[POMC S117]

Chapter 6

Julius had went east, just as Brulus had expected him to. Making sure that Verilius had the scrolls and hadn't handed them into the authorities in Mordach, Julius and Hendral had marched across the country-side, hastily, knowing that they were being pursued by enemies. They barely stopped, only to rest and to allow themselves to take conservative amounts of water.

Julius heard Verilius grunt and regain consiousness. He stopped Hendral. “Tie some rope around his mouth. Quickly.”

Hendral did as he was bade. Verilius gave a muffled grunt. Hendral retorted by slapping him across the face with a quick but strong blow. Julius recoiled as the palm connected with Verilius' cheek.

“Come on. Let's get moving.” said Julius, beginning to run again.

While he was running, Julius scanned the horizon. They were in a wide, grassy plain. There was no cover for miles. In the distance, the sun was rising, bringing with it heat and a new day, a new beginning. The fact that they were so exposed, so vulnerable, frightened Julius. They had to get out of the open. He spotted the start of a hilly, rugged valley a few miles away. The untamed landscape, covered in thick tussocks of grass and ferns, would provide the perfect cover that Julius and Hendral desperately needed.

“See those hills over there?” asked Julius.

Hendral grunted in reply. “Aye.”

“We need to try and get to them. I hate being out in the open, too exposed. We'll be easily sighted. I wouldn't be surprised if we've already been spotted by a scout.”

They continued on their journey. Worn out from the run, they finally arrived in the valley, filled with yawning hills and ditches and winding, confusing deer tracks. Some hills were speckled with small tents, remnants of a time when the region was rich in material and coal and iron were plentiful. Despite the fact that they showed signs that they had obviously been abandoned for some time, Julius made sure to keep away from the tents, in case someone or something lived in them.

Navigating the valley had proved tough for the armoured men. The fact that Hendral had been carrying Verilius, who had grown fat and heavy from indulging himself at the fort, didn't help matters. The ex-captain, in a futile attempt to escape, tried to struggle free but Hendral kept a grip on him, preventing him from running away. The day progressed, slowly phasing into night, the land becoming dark and dangerous.

Julius and Hendral (and Verilius) slept rough. Julius wouldn't allow himself to make a camp in case they left a trail. A small, stupid mistake like that could spell failure for them. Earlier in their journey, Julius had taken the scroll from Verilius, making sure that it was safe. Soon, however, his curiosity, which had been growing and growing since the start of the mission, forced him to open the scroll. Immediately, he could identify what was so important about the scroll. It was a map, a map of Mithraleeth, detailing all the planned assaults of the clans. Mordach and Vettach had the most arrows directed at them, as they were the clans that posed the most threat to the Empire. Julius looked up suddenly as he heard a noise. Quickly, he put the scroll in hsi rucksack and drew his sword, only to find that it was Hendral, coming up the hill.

“Hendral, you almost scared me to death. What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?” whispered Julius.

Hendral gave a small laugh. “Just checking your reactions.”

“Yes, well do it some other time.” snapped Julius quietly. Then he also had a brief chuckle. “I'm paranoid.”

Hendral nodded and sat beside Julius. After a while, he noticed the tip of the scroll poking out of Julius' rucksack. “Have you seen the scroll yet? What was inside it? How important is it?”

“Very.” Julius said, before elaborating. “It's the war plans. For the upcoming conflict.”

“Which we'll be fighting in, no doubt.” Hendral spat grimly. “Hopefully.”

“Hmm... Never thought I'd see you angry at getting a chance to knock some heads together.” chuckled the decanus.

“I'm not... It's just that... This Empire business, all this young blood lost for our gain, for some land, for more power.”

“Yes, but think of the good we'll be bringing. The customs, the advancements. We'll be helping these barbarian natives.” Julius said proudly.

“Do you really think that? If these “barbarians” were as stupid as you'd have me believe, then how come they managed to get a traitor inside our ranks, how come they have resisted us thus so far? These people, they're fighting for their livelihoods, their families and we're just going to come in and take that away. Yes, maybe we'll be bringing wonderful things but at what cost, Julius? At what cost?”

Julius began to stab his blade absent-mindedly into the dirt. What Hendral was saying was true. But what was the cost? Hundreds, thousands of men dead, villages and towns destroyed, farms razed, ports bombarded, cities besieged. Julius regretted ever joining the legions. Why hadn't he taken up guard duty or mercenary work or become a marine in the navy. Better yet, eh could have followed his father's footsteps and went into politics. At the end of the day, he supposed that he would prefer this to any other occupation, despite the flaws. He let out a long sigh.

“But it's not our fault. We're just the footmen, slaves to our leaders. We have to do the dirty work. General Cato is probably the only general in the conflict and not sat on his arse in some manor, dining lavishly with servants at his feet.” muttered Hendral darkly.

Julius nodded his head. “I wonder if the Second Legion has arrived at Tiberius yet.”

“Most likely. Not much is going to stop an entire legion.” said Hendral.

They were silent for some time. Verilius grunts interrupted the quiet. He was trying to scramble away. Hendral, laughing, got up and prodded the ex-captain in the ribs.

“Feed him.” the decanus ordered simply.

“What?” asked Hendral, surprised.

“You heard. I don't want him starving to death before we reach the legion.”

Verilius nodded. He was hungry. Hendral groaned, angry that they were wasting food by feeding the traitorous rat. Reluctantly, cursing loudly, he got some bread out of his rucksack and tore a small piece off. He quickly tore off Verilius' gag and shoved the food down the man's throat. Verilius almost choked as the bread stuck in his throat. Hendral slapped him painfully on the back as the coughing gradually subsided. Once Verilius was finished chewing, Hendral gave him a few drips of rusty water before returning the gag to its original position.

“So, how are we gettting to Tiberius?” wondered Hendral on his return.

“I'm not sure. I think we're in the Mord Valley, near the border of Strabo. We could go through the northern part of Strabo, crossing the river and into Tiberius. We could avoid Vettach that way.”

“We'd still have to watch out for patrols, though. The western part of Strabo is a contested area. There will be Mordach soldiers there as well.”

“We can decide in the morning.” yawned Julius.

***

The dead lay scattered on the ground, bodies broken, bloodied, lifeless. There were equal numbers of legionaries and clansmen, equal numbers of veterans and recruits, equal numbers of Mithraleeneans and Mithraleetheans. Small fires spluttered and spat, testaments to the destruction that the battle had caused. The Second Legion had won the fight but only just. They were now down to half their capacity, many men being injured or dead.

General Cato stared at the blade protuding from his chest. It was about one metre long and made of steel. Only the middle and end part of the blade were visible; the other part was wedged deep inside his abdomen, piercing his stomach. It was also soaked in blood, his blood. He could barely feel the pain but he knew that the damage was killing himself, his health slowly deteriorating, his energy slowly draining, growing weaker and weaker as his lifeforce poured out of the wound. He would retire, he had told himself, settle down with his wife and children in Dwidoria, in a nice manor on the coast, after this war was won. Only a few more months, but that dream was shattered by the sword in his body. He hadn't even noticed his attacker as he was so small, like one of the Khârg from Khâzaduru, and had taken the general by surprise. His opponent wasn't even a man, probably a boy from a farm, taken from his home and bred to fight. Taken to fight because of me, thought the general bitterly. The boy that had almost killed Cato lay beside him, a victim of a stray javelin. Despite all the pain and injury the boy had caused, the general felt sorry for him. He laughed, a dark, dark laugh. He had lived for fifty years and had fought for over thirty of them. He had sustained hundreds of wounds but none so serious. He could feel Death's icy grip all around him, growing closer and closer. Soon, he would depart from this world. No, he forced himself to keep positive. You can do it, old man. You can make it. You have two kids at home and a wife.

A shout came from near-by as two legionaries rushed over. They were carrying a make-shift stretcher with them. They lifted Cato up and went to put him on the stretcher but the man waved them off.

“I can... I can still stand.” he muttered weakly, wanting to show strength and courage in front of his men.

He barely managed a few steps before stumbling. The legionaries quickly caught him.

“I'm sorry, sir. I have to insist that we carry you. You're badly injured.”

“It's... It's not that... bad.” Cato murmured.

His face was pale, very pale, almost white. He was convulsing. He was dying. Slowly, slowly dying. The general thought that he must have blacked out a few times for when he regained his vision he was in a tent, lying on a mat. Swirling like a hazy matrix of different colours and hues, the world span uncontrollably. Greens and reds and whites and blacks all blended together into one sickly colour. He lapsed out of consiousness again.

***

The Ael'nouvahian guides, who happened to be brothers, supplied to Brulus by Assarothë proved useful. They had a knowledge of the land unrivalled by anyone that Brulus knew. They could tell one deer track from the next and their orienteering skills were superb. Furthermore, Brulus found that they were sociable and talkative, willing to part with lore and information. They were also keen to learn about the ways of the legionaries.

“A short life you people have.” commented Siädre, the tallest and most intelligent of the two. “We elves live for over one thousand years. Your race seems incredibly fast to us.”

“Well, we get by well enough. So, tell me about your ancestral home, Gil-Galad.” said Brulus.

“Gil-Galad? I assume you mean Cerum Originalë. I would not want to dirty my tongue by using an Ael'uvahian expression.” spat Siöré, his voice tone suddenly becoming dark.

“Now, now,” tutted Siädre. “Go easy on the boy.”

Boy? thought Brulus, taken aback. I'm no boy.

Siöré grunted an apology before answering. “Well, Gil-Galad,” he began, forcing himself to utter the syllables. “Was once our home, very many years ago. Long before I was born, which was a long time ago. But we were forced out. In the beginning, we were treated okay. We were given our own island, Fomír, but it couldn't last. Secretly, we were assailed. Those that weren't killed fled in boats. My ancestors landed in Mithraleen, about ten thousand years ago.”

“Why were you forced out?” wondered Brulus.

“Because of our beliefs.” replied Siädre. “We believed that pride can lead only to eternal damnation and that humility is a virtue. The upper echelons of Ael'uvahian society disagreed with this and branded us heretics.”

“That's terrible.” commented Brulus. “Are you allowed back in Cerum Originalë, now?”

Siöré gave a grim laugh and it was not because Brulus had pronounced the name incorrectly. “No, it is even worse now. The Ael'uvah are even more snotty and snobbish than they were thousands of years. If that is possible.” he added.

The conversation soon turned into a discussion about the Ael'uvah and elves in general. Brulus discovered many things that he had never known prior to meeting the elves. The spoke long through the day, far into the night. The sun set just as the small group arrived the Mord Valley. The elven guides wandered off into the night to survey the area. The legionaries set up camp.

“Can we trust them?” asked Hagard, breaking the dull silence with his loud voice.

“They are allies of the Empire. Of course we can trust them.” said Brulus.

“But they're elves.” continued Hagard. “You can't trust an elf.”

Brulus spat on the ground. “I'll have no racism in this squad. Get a fire going!”

Hagard grumbled an apology. Suddenly, there was a shout as the two Ael'nonuvah ran into the camp, bows out, looking flustered and ready for battle. Siöré fired into the darkness and a cry was heard.

“Enemies inbound! Thirteen soldiers. Straboan in origin!” Siädre informed Brulus.

The legionaries hurriedly struggled to find their weapons and looked into the night. The moon was covered by clouds and provided no light. Brulus couldn't see anything but he was sure the elves could. Another arrow was fired by Siöré.

“Make that twelve!” he called, much to the cheer of the legionaries.

Hooves could be heard. A great horse, ridden by a tall, muscular man, rode into the camp. It reared up and kicked at Brulus, who rolled out of the way. The rider threw a spear at Valoral. The missile hit his shield, scraping along it. Valoral was thrown back by the force but was otherwise okay. Siädre drew his sword, which glittered gold in the firelight, and charged at the rider. His hands found purchase around the leg of the clansman and the elf dragged him to the ground. With a quick swipe, the man died. Saying a quick prayer, Siädre awaited for the next enemy to arrive.

Siöré killed another rider before he could arrive at the camp and cause any damage. The Al'nonuvah cried out as an axe bit down on his shoulder. He clutched the injured area and headbutted his attacker. The soldier went down instantly. Brulus heard Siöré's scream and sprinted to his side. A clubman ran beside the legionary and Brulus lunged at him with his gladius. The blade dug itself into the clubman's chest and he fell silent, dropping his heavy, crude weapon immediately.

“Are you alright?” questioned Brulus, turning to the elf.

“I'm fine. It's him you need to worry about.” laughed Siöré, pointing at the man he had knocked out.

A yell declared the arrival of yet another horseman. He was armed with an axe. He rode past Brulus and Siöré and into the camp. A scream rang out as Hagard was hit in the back by the axe. Siädre pulled back his sword and thrust at the rider as he passed. His elven blade cut cleanly through the man's light armour. He wasn't dead but was badly injured. Moaning in agony, he steered his mount out of the camp.

“Retreat!” yelled the Straboan captain. “Retreat.”

As the enemy fled, the legionaries gathered around Hagard, forming a protective circle around him, defending him. Siädre was at Hagard's side, inspecting the wound.

“Hold still.” he said. “You'll be okay.” he turned to Brulus. “I need something from my satchel. Cleevé leaves. Bring my bag over.”

Brulus did as he was ordered without hesitation. He tracked down their horses, which had fled during the fight, to a nearby stream and escorted them back to the camp. Quickly, he threw a bag down to the ground. Siädre attacked the bag mercilessly, deftly diving his hand into it and revealing a pouch of green leaves that smelled faintly of mint. He ground them into a paste using his mortar and pestle and spread the finished product over the wound. Magnificently, like a miracle, the wound began to close over. Hagard attempted to stand but Siädre stopped him.

“Rest. And that goes for all of you. We need our sleep. We must leave early tomorrow, before a larger force returns.”

[POMC S117]

Chapter 7

Julius and Hendral woke up early. Unbeknownst to them, Brulus and his ragtag squad of the remaining legionaries and their elven guides were just a few miles away, recovering from a heated skirmish with some soldiers. They removed the rope that bound Verilius' legs, threatening that they would kill him if he attempted to flee. Thankfully, he made no such endeavour, accepting his fate as a prisoner of the Empire.

They exited the Mord Valley before the afternoon, after a struggle with thick growths of grass and fern. They followed a meandering stream, knowing that it would lead to the River Brum, in the right direction. Julius filled up his water satchel and scanned the area. This part of the journey was covered on all sides by forest and bushes. The decanus felt safe in the knowledge that they could not be seen unless his pursuers happened to be out in the open. After a quick glance around, Julius came to the conclusion that there were no pursuers after him and Hendral. Nevertheless, he barked at Hendral and Verilius to continue, wanting to get as far as he could today.

Their adventure took them further north, into the snowy highlands of Clan Bruma. Pine trees grew frequently in these parts, many of them ancient and far-reaching. The decanus had knowledge of these areas, having read about the exploits and the ways of the Brumese soldiers. He understood that the Brumese clansmen would hide in bushes or in trees and set up traps for incoming enemies and trespassers. Luckily, Julius had seen no evidence of these traps.

About six days since leaving the Mord Valley, Julius and Hendral found that they were almost out of food, having been forced to supply Verilius with sustenance also. Hendral, who was good at such things, estimated that they only had a few days' worth of food left... if they rationed it. The decanus' plan was to stick as far from any main roads as possible but, he was forced into the conclusion that they would have to find a village or a roadside inn of sorts in which they could purchase food.

“Julius, sir, I understand your dilemma but we can't continue like this.” said Hendral. “We'll run out of food within days and then we'll starve to death. I was out searching for berries last night and I couldn't find any. Nothing grows here. It's too cold.”

Julius sighed. His eyes wandered over to Verilius, who was lying, face down in the snow, after tripping over a stone that had been carefully concealed by a thick blanket of snow. “Do you know of any villages around these parts?”

“Check your map.” stated Hendral. “That should have the names of villages on it.

Julius was about to hit himself. He had forgotten about the map, the map that was hidden in his rucksack. It his efforts to protect it, he hadn't taken it out of his bag yet. He should have used it sooner. He dropped his rucksack onto the ground. It landed with a vague thud. He opened it, giving a quick look around to make sure no one was around, and took out the map. Carefully holding it with both hands, he opened it. His fingers had been numbed by the cold but he clung on to the paper tightly as he examined it. He located their rough location on the map and found that they were near a border town called Brassul. The town lay where Clan Bruma met Clan Tiberius. Judging by the distance, they were only about a day away from the town. He stowed the map back inside his back and relayed this information to Hendral and Verilius, who was still attempting to get up from his position on the ground.

“We must leave immediately. Hopefully, we can get there before midnight!” shouted Julius, beginning to jog.

Hendral followed him, almost forgetting Verilius. He doubled back, helped him to his feet and cursed his name. Julius was already a good distance away and Hendral struggled to catch up, having to drag along the ex-Captain, who appeared to have lost the use of his leg due to the cold. Hendral noticed that he too was getting frozen. His metal armour and his leather undercoat had protected himself from the worst of the Brumese weather but Verilius had no such defence. He shouldn't have turned traitor, Hendral thought to himself.

That night, a cruel, icy storm descended on the lands of Clan Bruma, rapturously spreading its sub-glacial haze of wind and snow. The swirling, white maelstrom battered down on Julius, Hendral and the traitor as they trudged through inches of snow.

“We need to stop now, sir!” yelled Hendral, fighting his way in the storm, struggling to be heard over the wild shrieks of the wind.

Julius paused and repositioned his helmet to provide maximum cover from the snow. “Can you see any shelter!”

Julius' voice was barely audible when it reached Hendral. The legionary looked around, searching for trees. A mixture of darkness and snow prevented him from finding any. “I... I can't see any, sir!”

Verilius slowly and shakily raised his hands, pointing to shapes in the distance. They were tall, like trees. Julius could not help but smile. They were about to be saved by their prisoner. Summoning their last reserves of energy, the trio hobbled towards the outline of the forest. As if it knew their destination, the wind changed course so that the snow was whipping their faces with its cold cruelty, as if it were trying to prevent them from reaching the forest. Relieved, the decanus burst through the trees, followed closely by Hendral and a worse-for-wear Verilius. Immediately, Julius could feel a change in environment as the trees acted as a barrier against the storm.

With icy fingers, Hendral got out his tinderbox and attempted to make a fire. He set the charcloth on the ground and began to strike some flint off of the steel. Many times, his fingers slipped and he either dropped the piece of steel or the flint cut into his fingers. Finally, a small fire began to splutter. It went out for a few moments but Hendral managed to expertly coax it back to life. Verilius was drawn closer to the dancing collective of flames and tried to warm himself up. Hendral bound his legs to prevent him from fleeing in the night but somehow, he knew that the ex-Captain would make no attempt to flee. Soon, the smoke from the fire made them feel drowsy and they slowly let the blackness of sleep take them.

***

Recovering after losing many men at the battle, the Second Legion quickly moved out of the enclosed road and made haste towards Tiberius. At every corner, bandits and clansmen were still a threat so the legionaries moved cautiously. Escorted by a handful of guards was the general, being carried on a stretcher. Despite the graveness of his wound, the Healer had managed to heal most of the damage using a mixture of skill, prayer and sheer good luck. The general was still being put under close watch, his progress carefully monitored.

The legion carried on through the night, only stopping for food and water. The centurions had to beat their soldiers with sticks to get them moving again at some points in the journey. As always, Adran was sent to scout out the area ahead. He made sure to stay roughly half a mile in front of the legion, so that he could see any and all dangers and warn the troops quickly. Finally, the legate, currently acting as general, allowed the soldiers to set up camp after a few hours of steady marching. By the time the soldiers had settled down to sleep, the sun was beginning to rise, its glimmering yellow light spreading warmth throughout the region.

The legionaries had barely slept a few hours before they were moving again. The tents were removed and packed away so efficiently that it appeared as if there never had been an army of thousands of heavy, armour-clad soldiers there. Decurion Adran was this time sent to guard the right flank. On the left, the legionaries were defended by a giant cliff that dominated the landscape. Tír Munroë do Nirni, as it was called by those of Clan Vettach, the Cliff of Greatness. However, on the right, the legion was beset by a great valley, miles of grass converging towards a great body of water, tír Estuä do Venrik, the Lake of the Wolf. Cavalry were always sent to guard the flanks, or used as scouts, in the Mithraleenean military. Adran glanced back at the legionaries he was defending. All of them were grim-faced and drizzled with sweat. He didn't envy their position. Even though the job of a horsemen carried many risks, at least Adran didn't have to carry a large, heavy rucksack, as well as several kilograms of steel and iron.

“Poor souls,” commented Tiber, one of Adran's men. “I wonder how many of them will leave before we reach wherever we are supposed to. If we even reach it. This is a suicide mission. Hundreds dead before we've even begun our campaign.

Adran spat. It was true. How many more men would they lose? “It'll be okay in the end. Just keep your eyes out for trouble. Don't give those clansmen a chance to sneak up on us.”

“Aye, sir.” Tiber gave a salute before steering his horse, heading a few hundred metres further up the road.

***

Julius and his followers arrived at the town before the afternoon. The storm had subsided, for now at least. The cold wind no longer battered against their face. Actually, the sun had come out in force, unleashing its much need barrage of heat on the snowy land. Pockets of snow still remained in places but, as a whole, the land had been transformed into a battleground of green, fighting and winning a war against the last reserves of snow left in the territory.

The town was unremarkable. It had very few buildings; a shop was amongst them. The buildings were relatively modern, made of wood and with thatched roofs. Some of the villagers were attempting repairs on one of the houses badly damaged by the storm. One side of the house had warped inwards and the roof had collapsed due to the weight of the snow. They didn't notice two legionaries march uninvited into their town, followed by a man with a vacant, mildly-amused look on his face. It appeared as if Verilius had come to terms with his fate. Julius trusted him enough to unbind him but the threat in the form of a blade to the spine was enough to keep Verilius pacified.

Julius strode into the shop, searching for the owner. The shop was small and empty. Apart from a few bits and bobs, it had nothing of worth. He hoped that the shopkeeper had a storage area where he kept stuff out of sight for Julius could see no food, other than a small basket of berries that didn't even look ripe.

The owner, a bearded man with a wrinkled face, entered from a small room. He greeted Julius with a big smile, looking as if he hadn't noticed that Julius happened to be wearing the attire of the enemy.

“Isù yù her tí burro stùf?” he addressed Julius.

Julius had a blank expression. “Pardon?”

“Ahh... You not from 'round these parts?” asked the shopkeeper, speaking in a language in which Julius could understand.

“No.” said Julius, not bothering to explain; his armour said it all.

“So, as I said, are you here to buy stuff?”

“Yes. I need some food. I'm almost out of it. Do you have any?”

“Of course, of course. I'll get some from the other room.” the man disappeared through a door.

He returned a few minutes later, supporting a box of food with his hands. Setting it on the counter, he ripped open the lid, revealing a collection of meats, stale breads, mouldy cheeses and some bruised fruit.

“Ai hasí beörn hass trùbel sh- Excuse me, a habit of mine. I've been having trouble selling this.”

Julius could see why. “Err... How much?”

“I'll give you it at a discounted price. We'll settle it at... twelve drukas.” smiled the man, revealing his stained teeth.

“Drukas... How much would that be in Mithraleenean currency?”

“About three naplas.” beamed the shopkeeper.

The smile was beginning to put Julius off so he quickly paid the correct amount, not even bothering to attempt to reduce the price. When he finally had all of the food in his bag, he was happy to get outside, into the fresh afternoon air.

“Stop. Right. There.” came a voice, one that made Julius' blood freeze, upon leaving the shop.

In front of him, brandishing pitchforks and axes, was a small band of soldiers. Hendral was standing with them, bleeding from a small wound on his cheek. Verilius was nowhere to be seen. Undoubtedly, he had fled at the first sign of trouble. Once a traitor, always a traitor. It didn't matter, all they needed was to get away with the scroll. But how could they? They were trapped. If Julius made any attempt to fight or to evade capture, he would be slain instantly. At least if he went along, he may have a chance to escape.

Julius was surprised at how soon help came. Before he was even put in shackles, a shout came out from outside the town. The clansmen scanned the area, looking for a source of the disturbance. Another yell rent the air, accompanied by an arrow. The arrow sliced through the air beside Julius. He could almost feel it as it whizzed past him and into the chest of an unsuspecting warrior. Julius punched the clansman next to him. With one fluid movement, he drew his sword, shaking it threateningly. The next arrow came from the other direction, slamming into the neck of an unfortunate Brumese soldier.

“We're under attack! Warriors! To battle.” cried the captain in charge.

In the confusion that followed, as more arrows continued to fly, Julius forced himself to act. He was consciously aware of the fact that one step in the wrong direction would lead to him being speared by an arrow, much in the same way that the downed enemies all around him already had been. He narrowly managed to avoid the blade of a scythe, that had creatively been used as a weapon, chopping his head off. He ducked to dodge the second attack. When his aggressor had expended all of his energy, Julius pushed his sword forward. His sword glanced off the rib of the man, causing him much agony and distress. Even though he hadn't been killed, Julius was experienced enough to know that you didn't have to meet death to be rendered unable to fight. Julius was disturbed when a large figure, tall and sleek with golden hair that stretched behind his figure like a shining stream of hay, came charging into the fray, yelling and stabbing. His sword shone like what Julius could only describe as fire, working an intricate pattern of cuts and lacerations on whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end of it. Julius quickly cut Hendral's bonds, handing him the nearest weapon he could find.

Hendral struck a soldier down with his new weapon, a club. Julius winced as he heard a neck break under the force of a chunk of wood. When he fought, Hendral was much like an animal, only smarter and all the more savage for it. The decanus was surprised when he saw Brulus running to fight, gladius drawn, ready to taste blood and flesh. To add more to Julius' shock, he saw the rest of the squad, with the exception of the slaves and, obviously, Yarris and Varro. There was also a new addition to the squad, an elf. Julius guessed that the other elf, who was already in the thick of it, had also joined their group. If Julius was astonished, then the clansmen were terrified. Outnumbered and lacking the advantage brought by having enlisted the assistance of elves, they quickly lost morale and fled. Siöré half-heartedly pursued them, shouting insults. When he had finished with his enjoyment, he returned to the legionaries and his brother who were standing in the middle of the village.

The townspeople stared in horror as the battle unfolded. Once it had stopped, they quickly went back to work, hoping that the legionaries wouldn't notice them. Siädre turned to Julius.

“So, you must be the decanus. We were looking for you. I am Siädre Iyyùtr and this is my brother, Siöré.” he said, gesturing to the al'nonuvah beside him.

Julius looked at Brulus and laughed. “So while me and Hendral were out risking our lives, you went for a casual stroll through a forest with some elves. How did you find us, anyway?”

The legionaries parted to reveal Verilius, hands in shackles. “We found him outside the town. He told us what had happened.” replied Brulus.

Siöré grew tired of the idle conversation and snapped. “Are we just going to stand around here like a bunch of old al'uvah or are we going to get out of here before a larger force arrives?”

The group left the village immediately afterwards, vaguely aware that, somewhere, soldiers were beginning to pursue them. Julius was satisfied that this would be the last leg of the journey, however he was also nervous for he knew, somehow, that this part would be even more dangerous than the last. It would require every last bit of strength, endurance and intelligence from him and his squad.

***

Julius was correct. In Castle Bruma, a few hours later, someone was cursing Julius' existence as the news that their plan to kill or capture him and retrieve the scroll had failed. The herald, a timid boy of about fifteen, hid behind a column as the Brumarus, for that was the name of the ancient kings of Clan Bruma, used every expletive he knew, making up some swear words to accompany them. His veins, already clearly visible under his pale skin, throbbed in anger as his skin tone increased in several shades of red.

“How is it that three, three, legionaries defeat an entire squad of soldiers? How is that?” barked the Brumarus, his rage making him look like an animal or an evil spirit contained inside a human body.

One of the clansmen brought before the Brumarus shivered in fear. “There... there were more of them. And two elves.”

The king froze. “Elves, you say? As in ael'nonuvah?” he asked, terrified of the answer.

The guard nodded slowly and chose his words carefully. “Yes. Two of them, as I said. It wasn't our fault. The elves must be working with the Empire. We have another enemy now, my king.” he spoke in a persuasive if nervous tone. “Yes, another. The clans must unite. We must drive the elves out, along with the Empire.”

The Brumarus pondered these words carefully. He stroked his beard, curling it several times around his fingers. He didn't want to be embroiled in a war with the ael'nonuvah. They were generally a peaceful race and famed for their skill. But, if they were working with the enemy, it would only be a matter of time until their role took a more physical approach. They would have to be stopped. They would have to be prevented from helping the Empire. A pre-emptive strike was the only solution.

“Soldier! You are free to go, but do not fail me again!” snapped the Brumarus, before calling for a scribe. He took the time out to write a letter before ordering his scribe to duplicate it multiple times. “I want the letter to be given to all the leaders of any Clans loyal to our cause. Forget Clan Tiberius. They are allied with our enemies.”

[POMC S117]

Chapter 8

Within days, Julius and the group of legionaries and elves had arrived at Timorium, a well-defended town named after the fort which overlooked it. The sprawling town was surrounded by a large, grey stone wall. Guards marched around on top of the wall. There were four roads leading into the town. Huge, wooden gates prevented entry. They were staffed by their own contingent of soldiers and people were only permitted to enter once they had been searched and identified as safe by the soldiers. The Tiberius clansmen were thoroughly surprised and glad to see the legionaries walking towards them. Help had arrived at last.

“OPEN THE GATE!” bellowed the gate-captain, striding over to greet Julius. “Finally, help has arrived. Are you the scouts?”

“The others haven't arrived yet?” asked Julius with a questioning stare.

“No. The legion was supposed to arrive yesterday. They must have been delayed. I desperately need to speak with your leader. Something has come up.” the captain looked worried.

“They'll be here soon enough. In the meantime, I'll need to arrange accommodation. Also, I have something that must be guarded with the utmost care.” said Julius, retrieving the scroll from his rucksack.

“There are always beds at the barracks, however, if you, like me, prefer your beds to be more than just slabs of stone with sheets on them, you should go to the inn.”

The fact that the men of Clan Tiberius were lazy and out of shape was an open secret within the legion. In fact, one of the jobs of the legion was to train up the clansmen, so that they could assist the Empire in the best way possible.

Julius smiled but declined the offer, saying that he needed to set a good example for the soldiers. They entered the town. They were barely over the threshold when the smell of animal waste, and human waste, met them. Siöré looked as if he were going to vomit, not being accustomed to the smells of urban life. The citizens stopped what they were doing as the procession of legionaries and elves marched down the road. They began to clap. Julius instinctively went red and gave a brief wave to the civilians. After handing Verilius and the scrolls into the correct authorities, they continued through the township, exiting through the gate at the far side. The imposing fort, one of the largest in Clan Tiberius, stood proudly on a large hill. The dirt road wound up the mound and stopped outside the fortification. The fort was a large, four storey tower with a small wall. The fort didn't possess a barracks as it was located inside the town. The fort, in times of great need, could house as many as 1000 soldiers at a time.

The sun beat down on Julius and his unit as they made their way up the steep hill. Beads of sweat sprung over his face, rolling down his cheeks. The straps of his helmet began to stick to his face, forcing him to painfully peel them off. When they arrived outside the garrison, they were greeted by Commander Tybril, a warrior known even to the legionaries. He was famed for assisting the Empire in their conquest in Clan Frod. He was a furious, beastly warrior and had a hulking, imposing figure. He greeted Julius in a gruff voice.

“You one of the legionaries?” he demanded to know.

Julius nodded, frightened in case the beast suddenly became blood-thirsty and decided to attack them. “Yes. I am.”

Tybril's attention turned to the elves. He spat is disgust. “Who are these hippies?”

Siöré glared at Tybril. “I am Siöré, of a family greater and more extensive than your tiny, pig brain could ever comprehend. On that note, I would like to express how much you smell. Have you heard of water, we call it eya. It's a liquid. You would probably describe it as “the thing that flows” or whatever apish term you would decide to describe it with.”

Tybril stared at Siöré. Julius flinched as the verbal attack flew from the elf's mouth. He prepared for a fight. Then, Tybril softened his expression and laughed, a great, roaring laugh. He slapped Siöré on the back. “Come on now, I was only joking. I have some elf friends. My brother-in-law, he's an elf. A bit less snobbish than you but an elf nonetheless. Come on in, welcome to my fort. Want a drink? Of course you do! Oi! Thùl! Get the ale out!”

Siöré grimaced, expressing his distaste. “I... I don't like ale. I'll stick with water.”

“I don't think you will. It tastes of [&@%!] and I'm sure it is [&@%!].” boomed Tybril with a large laugh that sounded like a roar.

Siöré elected to not offer a reply. They all sat at a table which was standing in the middle of the tower. Hendral took his place beside Julius. Siädre and Brulus were also on his side of the table. A large ceramic vessel carrying ale was taken to them, along with a dozen or so tankards. Tybril filled up his tankard and drained his alcohol, finishing with a large belch. He wrapped an arm around Siöré, acting as if they were best friends. Siöré looked uncomfortable, wearing the expression that one does when being bear hugged by a giant, armour clad soldier.

Siöré drank at a lower pace, his dislike blatantly visible on his face. The others drank at a steadier, more enjoyable speed. Tybril, as expected, was on his fourth tankard by the time Julius had finished his first.

“So, when will more of those puny legionaries arrive?” yelled Tybril, slurring his words slightly.

“Hopefully quite soon. So, Tybril te-” Julius was interrupted.

“Please, call me Tybr. Everyone does. Except from those who aren't me, of course.” he slapped Siöré's knee, chortling deafeningly.

“Oh, okay.” mumbled Julius. “Tybr, tell me about your exploits. You're the Great Crusher of Frod, are you not.”

“Ahh... That was a good war. A lot of drink and a lot of wenches! Those were the days! And now, I'm a guard commander! Oh! The shame!” he cried.

Siöré looked uncomfortable at seeing the man cry beside him. He tried to move away but Tybril began crying on his shoulder, preventing him from moving. His wails got louder and louder.

Julius straightened his helmet awkwardly. “There's nothing wrong with being a guard commander! Actually, it's better than being out in the front, risking your life everyday. Being attacked by bandits, soldiers, the occasional troll or goblin army. I can't tell you how many friends I've lost in the army.”

Just then, a soldier ran in, looking frantic. “Commander! It looks as if you may be getting that action you want after all! Come, quickly! To the town gate! There's a messenger!”

***

Warlord Willus crumpled the letter in his hand.

Dear enemy,

I demand that you break all ties with your precious ally, the Mithraleenean Empire. If you do so now, the Clan Council will be merciful. Failure to respond to our orders will result in death and destruction for your clan and its people. I trust you will know what is right. If you do not, then I am surprised at how you have managed to survive as ruler for this long.
On another note, I request that you relinquish any and all ties with the evil, interfering elves. They seek only to challenge our sovereignty. They would have us as their slaves. If you instead side with them, then you will bring damnation to you and your subjects. You should also expel all elves from their homes if they are in your territory.

Yours sincerely,
the Most Gracious,
Vettachius Vamoras Vetta

Legate Vinius Septimus was standing in the room, having arrived late in the evening. Decanus Julius stood behind him, feeling out of place. They were in a small room, in the largest and grandest house in Timorium, which had been turned into a temporary place of residence for the leader of Clan Tiberius. An expensive, ebony and oak table was in the middle of the room. The Warlord was sat on an ornate chair. The others stood, wilting in the heat cast by the fireplace burning greedily and by the look on Willus' face. A tense atmosphere had descended on them, making them anxious, making them jump at every unexpected sound.

“Well, what have you got to say, Legate?” spat the Warlord, gesturing wildly with his hands, discarding the letter on the desk.

“All I can say is that war has come, sooner than expected. You cannot accept their demands. Once they are finished with us, they will attack you. Don't fall for their lies. Don't be misled. You would inspire a war with the elves, something which you do not want to do. I have seen them in battle. On their own, they are superb fighters; as an army, they are an unstoppable wave. You must not and cannot fulfil their demands.” the legate replied coolly.

Some of the others nodded. Julius found himself agreeing with the legate, naturally. As the legate was the commanding officer, Julius was expected to agree with him in every way, even if he didn't believe in it.

“Who are you to say what I can and cannot do? This is my land. You are the invaders. You have brought this upon us!”

“Can you hear yourself? Do you not remember why we were introduced to this fight? Was it not you who sent us the letter asking for help when the soldiers of Clan Vettach were on your doorstep?” retorted Septimus, relaxed and calm.

The Warlord blushed in embarrassment as he recalled the letter. It appeared that some of his advisers had no knowledge of this letter as they found it hard to believe that their great leader would stoop so low as to ask for assistance. They had always prided themselves on the fact that Clan Tiberius could hold out against anything. In fact, the clan would have been destroyed long ago if it had not been for the Empire supplying bandits with the money and weaponry needed to terrorise Clan Vettach, forcing the clan to withdraw troops away from the main battles. The legion was only another part of the deal. In return, the Empire would be allowed to swoop into Mithraleeth and snatch whatever pieces of land they wanted.

“I... I see...” muttered Willus, sweating in the heat. “Then, what will we do? From the way in which the letter was written, I can only guess that the other clans have united against us. A large army will be marching upon us soon. We have less than two weeks to prepare, I assume. Even with that estimation, I think I am being optimistic. We must ready the defences. Who can we call on for help?”

“The ael'nonuvah.” Julius spoke, his voice sounding young and out of place in the room of hardened veterans.

Septimus smiled. “Excellent idea. No doubt, our elven friends will want to know. You should send envoys to them, request their aid.”

“No leader of Clan Tiberius will ever employ the aid of elves!” screamed Darrus, one of the chief advisers.

“Darrus, quiet! You were always blinded by hate. We need allies, now more than ever! If you cannot tolerate who I ally with then leave!” roared Willus, his voice filling the room, making some people like Julius flinch.

Darrus trembled, undecided as to whether he should leave or stay. “I apologise, sir. I do not know what came over me. But surely there must be other options...”

“There are no other options!” with one last glare, Warlord Willus turned away. “Anyone else disagree with me?”

There was no reply. Someone raised their hand. The Warlord bowed his head slightly, as if to tell him to begin speaking. “What if the elves do not come to our aid?”

Willus looked at the legate for support. “They will have to, otherwise they will be killed. After we are finished with, the clans will sally forth and burn down their forests and their plains. We must stand together and fight. There can be no other way. We will send envoys as of now, to Assarothë. He will answer our call. This much I know. In the meantime, return home. Ready your armies. We will converge our forces here, for this is where they will attack. And pray to Lokanus. May he deliver us in this time of hardship and evil. Darrus, how many soldiers can you prepare on such short notice.”

Darrus shrugged. “I suppose I could get about one thousand. If I had a few days longer, I could get more.”

“I'm afraid one thousand clansmen will have to do.” sighed Willus. “Legate, how many legionaries do you have left?”

“I have just over three thousand fit and ready to fight. One thousand are injured.” came the answer.

The Warlord slowly went around, asking his lords how many people each of them could rally up. The final tally came to around six thousand troops and guards. “That is not enough. Our enemy, if they are united, will have at least ten thousand able-bodied men.”

“It may not be enough,” began Septimus. “But it will have to do.”

It seemed that everyone in the room shared this sentiment, for they all gave a slow nod, murmuring and repeating the phrase, as if they could make it be true. Julius knew that the legionaries were equal to about two clansmen, but even so, the numerical advantage that the clans possessed would even this out.

“Lords, ladies, generals,” Willus addressed those gathered there, “Will you remain here another night or race back home?”

The general consensus was that they remained inside the manor, but many, Darrus included, decided to hurry back to raise an army. After a few minutes, only Julius, Septimus and the Warlord remained. Julius was too scared to ask for permission to leave and stood there, as silent and as still as possible. Then, Willus and Septimus turned to face him.

“The legate tells me you were on an important mission.” smirked the man. “You did good. Not many could be expected to execute such a dangerous task so successfully.”

“We almost lost Verilius many times. There were points when I could have failed. I made many mistakes, sir.” said Julius humbly.

“Yes, that may be, but you arrived here, with both the plans and the prisoner. And for that, I am promoting you to acting-Centurion of the Fifth Century of the Third Cohort, until Centurion Aventius gets better.” announced the legate.

The recently proclaimed acting-Centurion stiffened his body and saluted. “Thank you, sir! It is an honour, to serve the Empire! I shall not fail. I shall be the Emperor's sword, I shall be the Emperor's shield, for the Empire, for the Emperor, for the People! I shall serve to the best of my ability or die trying!” shouted Julius, reciting the legion's anthem.

“Make sure you do, Centurion Bararus.” dismissing Julius. “And tell your squad that they are to be given the next days off. They will be moved to your century. I also believe that Brulus should be made Optio, replacing Janus, who unfortunately passed away.”

With a bow and one final salute, an act of respect, Julius walked out of the door, leaving the room. The legate and the warlord remained behind, speaking in low, grave tones.

[POMC S117]

I apologise for how short this chapter is. The others will be larger.

Chapter 9

Julius and his century were posted at Fort Tellectum, a frontier fortification on the Tiberius-Vettach border. A large group of newly-recruited clansmen supported them, or rather, were being supported by the legionaries. Despite only recently ascending to the post of centurion, Julius knew that the clansmen were terrible, little more than common rabble recruited from the streets. They had no previous combat experience and the only battles they had been in were drunken bar-room brawls or the occasional skirmish with some goblins. On top of this, they were arrogant, eager to prove themselves as warriors, going as far as to disobey the centurion. Optio Brulus was brutal, ready to come down hard on the recruits. He had reduced a particularly sensitive soldier to tears after one of his terrible, verbal barrages.

Centurion Julius was, nevertheless, pleased that he had managed to get a group of relatively competent clansmen that he thought were up to the job after the second week. The first week had by far been the most difficult. The sun had come out in force, like an unstoppable army of heat and light. The centurion had exercised the troops quite thoroughly, taking them on large marches through rocky terrain. He didn't bow to pressure and continued long after the clansmen had begun to complain. As a result, he had seen many drop-outs as the clansmen were slowly and painfully filtered out. The second week proved more fruitful and he had finally made some progress. He had taken a liking to some of the men as well, no longer seeing them as spoilt, lazy brats and rather as enthusiastic soldiers. The progress encouraged Julius and the legate was pleased by the centurion's report. It appeared that many of the other centurions had had similar problems.

Between the eighty legionaries, assisted by the twenty non-combatants, and the hundred or so clansmen, Centurion Julius felt that he had a good enough force. On that day, they began repairing the fort. The fort had been badly damaged by the war between Clan Tiberius and Clan Vettach and much of the masonry was damaged. Julius had ordered the men to repair the fortification, feeling that it would give them experience in construction as well as help with their teamwork, in which they were severely lacking. The centurion stood with the clansmen, co-ordinating them. He listened to their conversations, picking up pieces of chat.

The clansmen spoke a dialect of Brae, a language not too different to Iberius, the de facto tongue of the Mithraleenean Empire. Julius was amazed by the similarities between the languages. He recalled the days when he had attended school, paid for by his rich father, and vaguely remembered being told about how all the “Fjorrian” languages were related.

By the end of the week, the fort had been repaired. In fact, the clansmen and the legionaries had improved on much of the existing stonework, replacing the weaker, older stones with sturdier rocks. They used a recent invention known as cement to secure the bricks to each other. It was better in many ways than the methods used by the original masons. Julius took the decision to allow the soldiers to have the next day off, a break from the arduous, tiring and stressful work. They would need it as the centurion planned to take them on the longest and most challenging march they had ever been on. The exercise would test their resolve and endurance but Julius hoped that his men would be strong enough to tolerate it.

Two days later, the centurion had the men assembled. He awarded command to the six clansmen he found most promising and divided the force into six sections. That way, Julius felt that the force would be improved. He had given instructions to the captains to encourage their men if they got sloppy and to beat them if they began to protest. He hoped that none of them would be forced down that course of action, however, hoping that he had instilled a good work ethic in the men.

The march began easy enough. The soldiers were amassed just outside the fort and the walk commenced. At first, they were relaxed, talking to each other, not minding the heavy rucksacks clinging onto their backs. They progressed down a dirt road at a steady pace. The sun was hidden behind clouds, most of its heat repelled by the cloudy shield. After about three hours, Centurion Julius called out for his men to halt and take a break. The soldiers sighed in unison, relieved that they were finally giving their legs a rest. Julius too felt that his legs were like weights, muscles throbbing because of the effort. The centurion sat beside his optio and scanned over the troops.

“So, how are your men doing? Are they complaining?” asked Julius.

“Not much. Just a few grumbles here and there. Most of them are capable of handling it.” responded Brulus, taking a sip from his canteen.

Julius did the same as Brulus, unscrewing the stopper and taking a gulp. The cool water felt glorious, a cold medicine that soothed his burning throat. “Soon, we'll have a fit fighting force.”

A few minutes passed. The clouds cleared, allowing the sun's rays passage. Julius cursed under his breath.

“I think the soldiers are getting to relaxed.” muttered Brulus.

The centurion nodded. “Get them up.”

The optio relayed this command to the captains and one-by-one they started to get their troops up and marching again. A few of the clansmen, tired-out by the march, grumbled their disagreement. Their resistance faltered when the captains menacingly showed their canes, waving them threateningly.

The beams of energy pelted down on the soldiers. The legionaries, dressed in metal, could feel the armour cooking their skin. The clansmen were offered some respite as they were only wearing leather. The terrain also became increasingly difficult, the road slowly disappearing, giving way to drumlins that were hard to navigate through. The grass, yellowing and starved because of the recent heat wave, was tough, tearing at the soldier's boots as they made their way across the land. The fort was distant, making up the backdrop far behind them. The area was clear and devoid of life, excluding the occasional stray goat or horse. There were no trees or bushes or plants to disrupt the dull monotony of the crags and rifts. The soldiers grew tired, tired of seeing the endless hills stretched out in front of them. Mumbles and moans were constant, with some of the captains joining in. Brulus was quick to put them in their place but he could not deny that he was sharing their sentiments. Julius finally addressed them when they entered a ridge that scarred the valley.

“We'll turn back when we reach the end of this ravine!” he called out.

Some of the clansmen and legionaries gave hoots of approval but most resigned themselves to silence, dreading the journey back. The canyon was smooth, unlike the rest of the region that it inhabited. It once formed a part of a river, long gone, a victim of time. There were two paths clutching onto the wall of the ravine and a large basin that curved with the canyon. Caves clustered the walls, making sections look like honeycombs.

All of a sudden, Brulus called out, covering his eyebrows with his hand to block out any unwanted light.

“Something wrong?” asked Julius.

“I can see something. Something big. An army.”

[POMC S117]

Chapter 10

At the mention of this, the troops suddenly sprang into action, preparing for a fight. Despite their prolonged activity, the adrenaline burned through their system, giving them energy.

“How far? How fast?” inquired Julius, desperation rising in his voice.

“Twelve miles!” came the quick reply. “They're jogging. They'll be on us in a few hours. Have we got enough time to get back to the fort?”

“We'll have to try.”

Julius already knew the answer. They were about six miles from the fort but the men were weak. He could only push them so far, spur them on before they broke. The centurion himself was drained of energy and he had been with the legion for over a year. He could only imagine how the younger, less able clansmen felt, limbs burning with pain, running on low energy, heart pounding, mouth dry. He shouted a few words of encouragement but they were lost to his men. They were no longer running because they were ordered; they were running to survive, on instinct. They were burning up their last stockpile of energy just to keep themselves moving. As they ran, the soldiers took their canteens and drained them, the water temporarily holding back the pain pulsing from their throats, lungs and hearts. However, eventually the tide of pain and dryness returned with a vengeance, antagonising the soldiers as they made their way across the landscape. Julius gave a quick glance back at column progressing behind them, a large clump of black in the distance. The centurion had only covered a distance of about a mile; the enemy had advanced halfway to the canyon. Julius calculated what this meant. The enemy would catch up on them long before they reached the fort. Despite this knowledge, Julius still endeavoured to do the inevitable. Pouring all his willpower, all of his emotion into his words, he rallied his troops, pleading with them to hurry. His words choked in his parched mouth, his tongue swollen but he managed to get it out eventually. For a while, his soldiers were encouraged by ideas of gold and women when they arrived home as war heroes but they eventually fell back into a dismal mood, seemingly resigning themselves to their fates, barely jogging.

By now, Julius estimated that their foe was just entering the canyon, leaving roughly two miles between them. Galvanised by the thin idea of hope, the centurion pressed on forward. Looking around briefly, he saw that many of the legionaries had discarded their helmets and rucksacks, hoping to speed themselves up. The fort was now clearly in view of the soldiers, its presence a welcoming, hope-bringing sight. Some of the clansmen relaxed into a light march, thinking themselves out of danger. A quick verbal assault by Brulus got them running again. Julius was now completely drenched in sweat, the sticky fluid streaming down his face. He tasted the salty liquid, doing anything to soothe his monstrous thirst.

Dismay coursed around his body, creating a lump in his throat when he turned around to see the enemy less than a mile away. He could make out some details of the formation. After a quick count, Julius could see that there were well over one thousand enemies. No-one could hold out against those odds. The jeers were heard coming from the enemy, however, instead of crushing the last pieces of resolve the clansmen had, it propelled them forth, the insults acting like the snapping jaws of an enemy, forcing the bodies of the soldiers to divert more power to the lungs, heart and leg muscles. Julius was almost about to give up. His heart was rattling against his rib cage, the beats rapid, furious, like a machine, punching back and forward, pushing oxygen and blood around the body. But he had to continue. Someone had to get back to Timorium, warn the legion. It was his duty. He knew that much. Driven on by this realisation, the centurion barely noticed that he had arrived back at the fort. His soldiers followed him and quickly began to shut the gate. They collapsed on the ground, too tired to move, shivering as their bodies tried to cool down. Half-heartedly, Brulus tried to get them back up, anticipating the enemy horde in the next few minutes. The soldiers that had not been entirely overwhelmed struggled to move whatever they could find in front of the gate defending the fort. Some were handed bows and sent up to the battlements, ready to defend.

Julius walked over to Brulus, feeling weak. “Brulus. Take one of the horses. Ride back to Timorium. You must... You must tell the legate, warn him.”

Brulus was furious. He wanted to stay and fight. Despite leaving Mithraleeth when he was a child, it appeared as if the natural love of fighting possessed by the inhabitants had remained in him. “Sir, I will be better here. Fighting. You can send one of the other men.

Julius sighed. He was too weak to argue. “Please, Brulus, my friend. You are the only one I trust.”

Brulus stopped, recognising how tired his commanding officer was. He nodded slowly. “I will return as soon as I can.”

“No. Stay in Timorium. I will hold the fort for as long as I can. If I can, I will retreat with as many men as I can but it is not a priority. Now go, optio!”

Brulus flashed a smile, seeing Julius return to his former self briefly. He picked one of the horses, the largest one, the one built for endurance, and saddled it. He vaulted on top of the horse, kicking it gently on the sides, ordering it to go forward. For a few moments, the back gate was opened to allow Brulus out before it was shut again.

The exhausted clansmen and legionaries, too tired, too sluggish to fight, were shepherded into the tower of the fort, ready to be the last line of defence. Those who could fight were sent to the front of the gate or went to join the archers on the wall. Julius slowly trudged up to the wall and glanced at the opposing force in front of him. Only about half a mile away, the enemy were casually walking towards them. He could make out the ugly features of the leading line of warriors. Some of them were carrying gruesome decorations in the form of skulls on sticks, screaming insults. They lacked archers, making Julius think that their intention was to meet up with another army ahead. Obviously, they hadn't expected to meet any resistance at this fort, thinking it empty. Judging by the excited expressions on the warriors faces, they were clearly happy and ready for a fight, bored after a long day of marching. They didn't seem to possess any battering rams or siege weapons but Julius was certain that the door would only hold out for so long against a savage, frenzied opponent.

Julius held up his hand and one-by-one, in a quick, fluid motion, the archers raised their bows and drew back the strings, training their sights on the enemy in front of them. Some of the legionaries and clansmen were grimacing, trying to get as much power into their shots. Keeping a stern face, Julius dropped his hand and felt air whoosh past him. Arrows, speedy and accurate, slammed into the first row of warriors, punching through their leather armour and into their flesh. Grunts of pain could be heard as the missiles found their marks. Most of the men on the foremost line were badly injured, with one or two killed. The arrows weren't designed to kill instantly, only to render the injured person unable to fight.

The archers quickly reloaded, picking up an arrow each from the pile that had been scattered on the battlements. The centurion bent down, grabbing a bow. Wrapping his fingers around the wood, he readied his arrow, pulling back the string. He fired. Julius watched as his arrow made its way across the air, arcing, soaring, diving. He flinched as it struck a Vettachian soldier on the shoulder. All legionaries were given basic training with bows and arrows but Julius hadn't expected that his shot would be this good. He also didn't anticipate that the clansmen would be as good with bows as they were. People can do amazing feats when their life depends on it, he thought. A third volley was fired. Unfortunately, many of the arrows missed, landing too quickly, studding the dirty ground at the enemies' feet.

On the fourth volley, the warriors surged forward, driven on by their captain, a grotesque specimen known for his courage. A small group remained behind, drawing slings and searching around for rocks. The archers fired at the charging people, releasing volley after volley of arrows at them. Already, a substantial amount of bodies had littered the road, a testament to the until-recently undiscovered skill of the legionaries and soldiers.

Julius dropped his bow and quickly made towards the ramp, going to join the soldiers guarding the gate. The wooden door vibrated as it was beaten and hacked at by a collection of swords, axes and hammers. It had held for now, the surprisingly strong wood withstanding even the most powerful of blows. Finally, a section of the door succumbed to pressure as a sword was driven through it, bursting out of the other end. A splinter flew past Julius' head. The centurion grabbed a long, pointy piece of wood and pushed it through the hole, satisfied when he heard a yell of pain issuing from the other side. Content, he discarded the wood and drew his gladius, expecting the door to break any minute now. As the moments passed, the damage sustained by the gate grew as the holes widened. A face appeared but it was promptly dealt with by a legionary, thrusting his sword at it. The screams still echoed moments afterwards, until they were drowned out by the door snapping, sending splinters flying. The legionaries that had had the foresight to find and retrieve their shields held them up, blocking the shrapnel as it flew, lacerating any piece of flesh it could find. Julius screamed, getting his blood pumping, his adrenaline flowing as he charged at the oncoming enemies. The archers, having no targets, quickly came to their colleagues aid, dumping their bows on the battlements, drawing their weapons.

The centurion came face to face with the captain. From here, he could see the captain's hideous face clearly. The face was pockmarked, dotted and scarred with holes, spots and cuts. The captain smiled, revealing yellowing teeth. Julius drove forward with a powerful stab but the captain, surprisingly graceful, leapt backwards to avoid the attack. He retorted with a swipe towards Julius' head which the centurion quickly and smartly blocked with his blade. Julius ducked down, going in for an under-waist stab, which the captain avoided, jumping to safety. Julius was consciously aware of the battle raging around him. He wasn't sure who was winning but he knew that, luckily, there had been no deaths on his side. He had seen an injured clansmen but that was it. The captain had disappeared for now, being lost in the heat of battle. Julius scanned around for another prey.

He found a warrior, standing idle, club in one hand, axe in the other. Julius ran at him, jumping forward, releasing a hail of slashes on him. The man barely managed to block the first strike, the second and the third tearing into him. The centurion quickly and remorselessly finished the injured man off, pushing his blade into the man's neck. There was a gurgle as a bloody froth appeared at his mouth but he made little noise.

The captain resurfaced, having just slain one of the Tiberius clansmen. He grinned at the centurion, gesturing towards the dead soldier. Julius knew that the man was trying to provoke Julius into responding in a wild and furious manner, hoping that in his fury, the centurion would make a mistake, allowing the captain to slay him. Centurion Julius remained calm, taunting the enemy, not wanting to be the one to open the combat. After a minute of circling each other warily, the captain lunged forward, sword missing Julius, stabbing vainly in the air. Julius felt sick. An inch closer and the blade would have plunged into his rib cage, causing severe damage. Julius quickly picked a thrown-away shield, providing him extra cover. The shield was large and cumbersome but the centurion knew how to use it. The warrior offered the shield a quick jab, testing its strength. The metal, square shield deflected the blow, the blade bouncing off it. The captain lithely ran around Julius, aiming a stab at his side, which thankfully missed. Julius dropped his shield, feeling a weight leave him as he did so. He pushed forward, jumping at the captain, stabbing quickly, strongly, hoping to put the soldier off guard, but to no avail. Skilled was the captain. He had thought many legionaries. He knew how they behaved, how they fought. He was ready for Julius, blocking every blow. Julius jumped back to safety. The opposing captain capitalised on this, sprinting forward, like an enraged bull. At the last moment, Julius rolled out of the way, the blade hitting the air above his head. The centurion could almost feel the blade as he slowly rose his body up to full size, ready to unleash a devastating counter-attack. He sallied forward, yelling, trying to put the captain off. With an intricate series of whirls and twists, he brought himself to bear on the Hardeteelean captain. The captain grunted as the blade made a small incision on his shoulder, piercing the skin. He turned his pain into rage, pushing Julius back. Julius had to think fast, using skill, luck and instinct to defend himself against the attack. The captain had depleted his energy, allowing Julius to take him on. With a quick, short lunge it was over. The captain sank to his knees, holding his stomach. He then slumped to the side, dead. Julius scanned around. His men had taken a beating. Over half of his force outside was dead or injured.

Unexpectedly, a large stone landed beside Julius, missing his knee by inches. He looked up in horror as he saw lots of stones flying in the air, launched into the sky by slings. They clattered into the legionaries armour. Julius heard a snap as one of the legionaries' neck was broken as a stone struck it. The centurion almost vomited. He wondered why the slingers were still attacking, despite the fact that there was a huge risk that they would strike their own men. Surely enough, an enemy warrior had fallen dead, a victim of friendly fire. After a few seconds, the slingshot users had ran out of ammunition and the deadly barrage had stopped. Julius rallied his men, forming them up into one group. Once they had regrouped, he launched an attack on the five hundred or so enemies still inside the walls of the fort. He called out for those resting inside the tower to come out and help. About fifty clansmen and legionaries answered his call, running out of the door that guarded the tower. They attacked their foe, charging into the battle. Julius was involved in a duel with two young soldiers. They looked like they had recently enlisted, recruited for this very purpose, the invasion of Clan Tiberius. It wasn't long before their resolve broke and they fled, out of the fort, going to join the small amount of routing warriors, slowly trickling away.

Julius scrutinised the battlefield. His men seem to have tipped the balance. They may win this yet. He lurched towards a passing warrior, forcing his blade into the man's heart. He wiped the sword on his armour, clearing away the blood before returning to the fighting. Now, most of the enemy had been demoralised, having lost their leader. They were confused, uncoordinated, unsure of what action to follow. A small group remained. They were elite warriors. Armed with swords the size of children. They were naked, apart from a loincloth that protected their manhood. Intricate swirls decorated their muscular figures. Julius went after the nearest one. His enemy was a giant, towering over the centurion. Julius stabbed at his attacker, missing by centimetres. The man responded by swinging his claymore wildly, aiming for Julius. Julius only just managed to escape the attack but found himself backed up against a wall. He looked around. No escape. His attacker grinned and raised his sword, knowing that Julius' end was near. Julius did the only thing he could do. Clutching his privates, the man fell backwards after taking an iron boot to his manhood. Julius didn't spare him, making sure his enemy was slain.

“That was easy.” he muttered, dusting himself off.

“You wish!” replied Hendral, laughing. “I saw you fight him. He almost killed you.”

“I let him!” argued Julius, smiling.

“Aye, sure! You were getting your ars-” suddenly, Hendral froze.

A steel tip, obviously from a blade, appeared above his heart. The man's face went pale, the colours flushing out, along with the blood. He coughed and spasmed. He went still. Julius stared, open-eyed, as his friend died. Suddenly, he was overcome by anger. He screamed, as if he were being possessed by an animal. In his rage, he flew across the battleground, towards the murderer of his squadmate. After a hail of slashes and stabs, only then did Julius stop. But that was not the end of his rage. In anger, he went around the fort, slaying any and all enemies that stood in his way. They fled, shouting about an animal in human form. Only once the opponents had fled from the area did Julius return to normal. He ran over to Hendral, cradling his friend's body. It appeared that Hendral was made of tougher stuff than most. When Julius reached him, he was still clinging onto life by a thread, staving off the forces of Death for a few more minutes. He was gurgling, muttering incoherently.

“Julius... Sir... I have failed you.” mumbled the dying legionary.

“No, no, no! Hendral! Don't say that! You've... You've not failed me! You can live! You can live! Stay with me! Come on, friend! Stay with me!” shouted Julius, tugging at his friend desparately, shouting a prayer to Lokve, to Thos, to every god he knew, to the gods of Mithraleeth, to the gods of Donton.

“No... I am weak. I can see... I can see home. The valleys... The valleys of the Carth. Remember... Remember when we were young, Julius? When we used to... to play... When we were innocent... When we were free... My blade has the blood of many on it. It is only right... It is only right that I meet my fate at the point of a blade...” the light in his eyes died and his soul left the body with the breath of the wind, drifting away, away home, away to those fields far away, in a valley, in a meadow untainted by blood, untainted by corruption, were only love and caring are known and peace is eternal.

Julius felt his arms go limp. He lips trembled as he fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him and flood out of him, like a river breaking its banks. Julius lifted up his sword and cursed, making an oath that he would fulfil, or die trying. He swore that he would slay every last soldier of Clan Vettach that dare strayed into his path and that every kill would be offered up to Hendral, his friend, his loyal companion. As Hendral lay on Julius lap, the centurion remembered Hendral, from when they were young boys at home, to when they both enrolled at the barracks, to training in the Carth Valley. He remembered their life in the Second Legion, their first battle against bandit raiders. His memory recalled the moments when he was promoted to decanus and this whole journey began, starting in Stormfront. Hendral had stayed with Julius to the very end. They had been brought up together, as friends, almost as brothers. It was cruel irony that they had not died together, for Julius could not die then, not while his body forced himself to live, not while his mind screamed for revenge.

[unokitsune]

Why did you kill Hendral He carried the jerk traitor all the way there pretty much and he was funny. No healers?

I like the story though, I read it all and forgot to work on the premise, I'm crying too.

[Justice knight]

HENDRAL NOOOOO!
His death honestly brought a tear to my eye.

[POMC S117]

Oh. Didn't know his death would cause that much of a reaction.

No healers, I'm afraid.

[POMC S117]

I am on page 100!

[POMC S117]

A quick, little chapter but the next one will be huge, hopefully.

Chapter 11

Hendral was escorted back to Timorium in a coffin. There was no time for an elaborate casket to be built so Hendral's final home on Cerceres would have to be a plain coffin, an ungratifying thing for such a brave and honourable man. As the decision to abandon the fort was made, Hendral's coffin was guarded by about forty legionaries and over one hundred clansmen. Behind the procession was Julius, wearing a sombre expression, his eyes lifeless, staring eternally into the distance, towards their destination. The road was dusty and dirty, starved of water. Crevices cut through it where the earth had cracked under the heat. This made the journey difficult. The people holding the coffin almost dropped it but they managed to restore order. They were watched by the sun, drifting downwards in the distance, protecting the soldiers as it made its way to the other half of the world. No wolf attacked them, no stray bandit assailed them, no Vettachian, Mordachian assaulted them, as if all of them were being repulsed by the centurion, fearing his death glare and his lust for vengeance. About twenty miles down the road, long after the sun had disappeared over the horizon and its sister, the moon, a bright light in a pristine, purple sky devoid of stars, had come out from its refuge, they were met by a squadron of horsemen, sent from Timorium. They were surprised to see the coffin; military protocol was that the dead were to be left where they died to be buried later. Julius had disagreed. A hero of the Empire should not be condemned to an anonymous grave in a field of the unnamed and the unwanted. A hero should be buried in honour, basking in glory for one final time as the casket is lowered into the ground forever.

“What happened?” asked the leader of the riders.

Julius offered no reply, leaving one of the captains to relay the message. The centurion listened as the man explained how the fort was assaulted, how they had used superhuman strength and endurance to race their way back to the fort, how they had fought a valiant battle and, against all odds, won. No, they hadn't just won. They had destroyed their enemy. Despite the great losses the legionaries and Clan Tiberius had suffered, they had shattered an army, devastating their morale. The passing, casual mention of Hendral disgusting Julius, who felt bile rising in his throat. He swallowed as he remembered that he wasn't the only one to have lost a friend. Undoubtedly, the captain had lost someone close to him during the battle. The centurion was being selfish. Hendral may have been a hero, but he wasn't the only one. Everyone who had given their life, sacrificed it so that others may live, they were the heroes. They all deserved elaborate graves.

“We have abandoned the fort.” said Julius, clearing his throat. “As he said, we were attacked. No doubt, you already now this. I suspect that my optio has arrived in Timorium.”

“Yes, Optio Brulus, I recall. We were sent to help you. We feared that you would be dead by the time we arrived. It isn't just here that has witnessed warfare. The enemy are pouring in from all sides. It seems that Vettach has recruit mercenaries from Donton and a few warriors from Khamol-Sultra.”

Julius shivered. The warriors of Khamol-Sultra, the Khârg, were among the greatest fighters in the world. They were by far more skilled and hardy than the legionaries of Mithraleen, if that were possible. Even a small band of ten of these rogues could defeat an army. The centurion wondered how much money Clan Vettach had spent just to recruit a handful of these tiny but unbelievable strong, bearded warriors.

“Hurry. We will guard your flanks. All the other soldiers have been recalled to Timorium. The enemy are converging on the town. They know that it holds all our military.”

“Any word from Assarothë and the Ael'nonuvah?” asked Julius, expecting good news.

The decurion gave him a thin smile. “I'm afraid your elven friends have not arrived.”

“They will.” muttered Julius, as if in saying this they would appear.

“I certainly hope so. I fear that we will not hold out against this threat.”

The march continued, at a faster pace. The horsemen did as they had promised, following the group, defending the sides, scouting, circling. They didn't have to do this, however. No enemy came. Far away, over the hills behind them, Julius knew that he could see the twinkling and flashing of torches as an army advanced, making its way towards Timorium. Above them flocked carrion crows, driven by the inevitable prospect of blood and flesh. A battle was coming, one of many, one that would inspire men to fight, one that would destroy nations and rise them up.

The sun was beginning its slow crawl up into the sky by the time they arrived back at Timorium. Hendral was taken to a safe area, to be preserved so that he could be buried in his native Mithraleen. The centurion was called to the legate along with the other leaders. The general had still not recovered, despite being intensively cared for by a tiny armour of surgeons and healers. The legate, acting on behalf of General Cato, had taken up residence in one of the few manors in Timorium. Unlike the Warlord, the legate had decided to use a substantially larger room for his machinations of war. A quick register of those present was given before the plans of battle began.

Julius and his men were praised for their valour in battle and had unwittingly prevented the enemy from fully surrounding the town. Julius smiled, reflecting on the battle. They may have lost many courageous souls on that day but at least they had gained a victory, however small. This was probably the only good news that had come to fruition. It quickly became clear to Julius that Clan Tiberius was in a dire state. All the clans had united against them, their troops pouring in from across the country. They had spearmen, swordsmen, archers, chariots, horsemen and siege engines and enough food and drink to last for over six months. They had vastly more men than the legate and the Warlord combined. To add to this, the ael'nonuvah had been having difficulties readying their soldiers for battle, being a nomadic and scattered civilisation, constantly moving and marching, not remaining in the one place for very long.

“Centurion Atille, you will take your century, along with the other centuries in the first cohort, and oversee the archers in the defence of the walls. The rest of you will be placed at the doors. Julius, you appear to excel at defending forts against vastly superior forcing. You will go with Centurion Thangorim and hold Fort Vabrum.”

Julius nodded. Fort Vabrum was the place in which he had met Commander Tybril. The two centurions and the commander could probably defend the fort against their enemies for a long time. He two centurions returned quickly to their forces, hasty to get to the fort before the enemy were upon the town. The gatekeeper was hesitant to open the gate but after Centurion Atille had explained the mission, he was more than happy to open the gate. The centurions and their forces had barely even left the town when he began to close it.

About three miles away, marching down a large hill, chanting, was a massive Braeburnian army. Braeburn had once been the greatest clan in Mithraleeth. It rivalled even the Mithraleenean Empire in both wealth and influence. However, it had dwindled in power in recent years, a mixture of bad rule and a war with the Lyncanthropes of the Shrine were the causes of this. Despite this, they were still a force to be reckoned with, capable of causing great damage to an unprepared foe. As the warriors bounded down the hill, torches waving wildly as they ran, Julius called on his men to hurry. After a few minutes, they had arrived at the summit of the hill. Commander Tybril charged out of the fort when he heard them, warhammer ready.

“I'm ready, ye ba- Oh, it's you, Julius! I thought you were the enemy. Well, hurry up and get inside. They'll be upon us any minute now. I sent some scouts out half an hour ago. They've spotted the Khârgi mercenaries. There are about sixty of them, all clad in anydantium. Cheating so-and-so's. Any news from Siöré?”

“I'm afraid the elves haven't arrived yet. They've been delayed, unfortunately. We'll have to hold out alone.” Julius informed him.

“I've had my soldiers out putting up stakes and stockades. They'll provide us with cover. I have a handful of archers so it'll mostly be a close quarters battle. Orders are to hold this position to buy some time for our forces inside and to hopefully take down as many of the enemy as we can.”

“Then, we'll do just that. Men! Behind the palisades! Defend this fort with your lives. We have less than ten minutes! Say your prayers and hope that Lokve will give you safe passage to his home. For the Empire!” roared Julius, raising his sword from its scabbard.

His spine tingled as there was a clattering of swords. The commander and Centurion Atille joined in, shouting words of encouragement, trying to assuage their soldiers' fears. Julius didn't feel afraid. He was eager, his body burning with enthusiasm. He was ready to avenge his friend. He could hear the trudging of boots as the Braeburnian forces approached. The end was near, the end of what Julius did not know. He only knew that there would be a great battle and many men would die. Julius did not care if he fell to a blade or if he would live. His mind only wanted revenge and it provided him with a powerful desire to fight, to spill blood. He shook himself. He knew the stories, of days ancient, the Tale of Thrandùr, driven insane after the death of his friend, not knowing who was his enemy, killing all in his path. Thrandùr had been a soldier like Julius and he too had lost a friend. It was only logical that if Thrandùr had lost his mind then Julius could too. He could not let the desire for revenge to overpower him. He had to retain his sanity. That much he knew. If he could triumph over an enemy far superior to his own then he could win a battle over his primal emotions. An arrow flew overheard, streaming through the blackened sky. There was a cry as it hit its target and then Julius knew that the battle had begun and his soldiers surged forth.

[unokitsune]

You better not be killing Siöré or his brother. Siöré is funny! Rude but funny and blunt!
And I hope Julius survives both in mind and body. You should let Brulus live too!
Poor Hendral

[POMC S117]

Chapter 12

Julius took cover behind a palisade, waiting for someone to run past him. The wood of the palisade was chipped on one side, having just survived a barrage of arrows. There were two other people with him at the fence, both of them legionaries from his century. The centurion heard someone approach, someone heavy, someone strong, their feet encased inside steel boots. With a roar, Julius charged out from his cover, launching an attack on an unsuspecting Braeburnian. The man yelled, taken by surprise. Julius thrust his sword forward, disappointed when his blade only found the side of his opponent. The Braeburnian soldier gasped in pain, clutching his side. Recovering quickly, the man chopped at the legionary with his axe, the metal head narrowly missing Julius' helmet. More enemies rushed by Julius and he was conscious of the fact that his ambush had worked somewhat as many Braeburnians lay dead or wounded. Julius slashed down on the man, his gladius arcing downwards, smashing into the handle, snapping it. The man, now weapon-less, threw his stick away and fled, scrambling down the hill on all fours. Julius picked up the part that had the axehead, tossing it at the retreating enemy. The metal span in the air, implanting itself deeply into the back of the soldier's head.

Suddenly, Julius was rammed into by a figure with short, stubby feet. The air was blasted out of the centurion's mouth and he grunted in pain. He saw a flash of red as a Khârg, beard neatly braided with a golden clasp, stood up above him, holding his fearsome sword with two hands. He raised it up above his head, shouting something in his own language. He dropped it, bringing it down at Julius. At the last second, just as the silvery steel of the blade slammed into the mud, Julius rolled out of the way. While the dwarf struggled with the ground for his sword, Julius jumped to his feet, wrapping his fingers around his sword tightly. He slashed sidewards at the dwarf and was shocked as his blade, forged by the Imperial blacksmiths in Crusada, broke into hundreds of sharp shards of metal, glimmering like glass as they fell. The centurion was only saved when an iron-tipped dart, fired by a Tiberius archer, struck the Khârg in the neck, one of the very few areas that weren't being protected by the dwarf's legendary anydantium armour. Julius nodded his thanks to the archer and then scrambled around on the dirt, looking for the dwarf's weapon. Julius then saw that it wasn't a typical sword. He raised it up and it shone with a bright light, scattering its energy on the battlefield. Rejuvenated, Julius looked for another foe, calling on his men to fight.

The battle so far was evenly-matched. The Braeburn army outnumbered the legionaries and the clansmen but, with the exception of the dwarves, Julius' force was superior. The first ring of stakes that surrounded the tower had been captured by the Braeburnian infantry, directed by the Khârgi bandits. The legionaries and soldiers of Clan Tiberius had fallen back to the second ring, the last ring before the fort. Julius could see Commander Tybril, charging at the Braeburnian soldiers. He watched as he swept an unlucky soldier off of his feet, beating him down brutally with his weapon. The centurion momentarily covered his eyes as the soldier was mercilessly and grotesquely dealt with.

So far, only five dwarves had been slain, a testament to their skill in warfare. Julius watched in wonder as a Khârgi soldier fought with four clansmen. For such a rotund figure, the dwarf was agile, jumping and rolling out of the way. The stabs and blows glanced off of his armour, absorbing any and all damage. The dwarves were like unstoppable machines, marching continuously, not caring that they were being attacked by as many as five opponents at once. Bringing Julius to his senses, a lean Braeburnian scout ran by him, on a suicidal path to the tower. Julius put his foot out, sending the scout sprawling onto the grass. With a quick slash to the spine, the man was dead. Julius had no time to rest for, within seconds, a new enemy was upon him. His enemy resembled the Vettachian commander he had dealt with not so long ago. There was a quick, desperate duel but Julius persevered, driving his newly-found blade into the man's face.

“To me, soldiers! To me!” called Tybril, holding his warhammer up high for all to see.

Julius and the other men ran towards the Tiberius commander. Julius spotted his optio, Brulus, fighting off a Khârgi warrior. The centurion thought, for a second, that the dwarf had plunged his axe into the optio but it was only a trick of the light. The axe had missed. Brulus retaliated, his gladius finding the small sliver of flesh at the dwarf's neck. Brulus pushed the dead dwarf away and sprinted up the hill, towards Tybril.

“How are your men doing, centurion?” asked the commander, doing a quick head count.

“We're taking heavy casualties. The other century has been decimated. Centurion Atille's been slain.” replied Julius, bouncing on the balls of his feet, prepared for a fight.

Tybril spat on the grass, angry. “Get the soldiers into the tower. We'll have a better chance inside.”

Julius nodded. Officially, the centurion was of a higher rank than Tybril but, in a real fight, protocol was of little importance. The centurion respected and accepted the fact that Tybril was better than him, both at leading and at fighting.

“Brulus! Get everyone in the fort! Now!” ordered Julius, throwing open the great slabs of wood that defended the only entrance to the fort.

“Right away, sir!” replied Brulus obediently, communicating the command to the rest of the legionaries and clansmen.

The attack seemed to have stopped for a few minutes, allowing the legionaries and clansmen of Tiberius to flee to the safety of the tower. While they did this, the Braeburnian soldiers and the Khârgi freelancers regrouped, reinvigorated and prepared for a new assault.

The inside of the fort was plain and lacking in any comfort. The table that had sat there a few weeks ago was now gone, shifted to secure the door. Only about two hundred legionaries and clansmen had made it inside the fort. The cries of those who had been unlucky enough to be left outside were heard. Julius closed his ears, not wanting to hear the dying screams of the soldiers he had been forced to abandon. He told himself, persuaded himself that it was the right way, that his actions had been just. If they had kept the doors open for even a moment longer, the enemy would have flooded into the fort, massacring all that stood in their path. The centurion ripped a tapestry from the wall and threw it at the door. It was not, as it had appeared to the legionaries around Julius, an act of anger, rather it was him readying for the time when the door would be penetrated and they would be forced to burn down the fort. It may be suicide but at least they would take down their opponents with them.

Julius was interrupted from his plotting when Brulus called across the room. “I'm taking some archers up to the roof, sir. We'll try to kill as many as we can.”

Julius nodded and followed Brulus upstairs. Immediately after scaling the stairs to the roof, his eyes were introduced to the image of Commander Tybril, brandishing some furniture. His weapon was the leg of a chair that had been cannibalised for this purpose.

He tossed the chair leg at the enemy horde below. “Take that, ye bast*rds! Symon, get off the ground! We need more chair legs!”

Brulus pointed to the pile of bows on the ground and Julius bend down to pick one up. The bow was sub-standard, barely any better than the weapon he had used in Fort Tellectum. After readying an arrow, he stared at the enemy below. There were hundreds of them, swarming at the steps of the door. Barging it with their shoulders, hitting it with their weapons. The carpenters who had been contracted to make the doors over a hundred years ago had known what they were doing when they had constructed it for it had not yet yielded despite the enemies' best efforts. Julius aimed downwards and then released the tension. The arrow rushed forward, eager to please its master, driven forward by the prayers Julius were whispering. It pierced a soldier's shoulder, driving downwards, through his flesh, through muscle, through bone. The centurion satisfied himself with the screams of pain. That's for my friend.

Julius fired another arrow and then another, relishing in the relief taken for each man he smote, savouring the experience. Had he lost? Had he already succumbed to insanity? Julius did not know the answer, all that he knew was that his friend had to be avenged and that he would not rest until he had slain those he viewed responsible. Brulus and the bowmen joined in, assisting him, taking down many enemies. The bashing got louder and louder, as the hinges began to shake wildly. They would not last. Julius took the liberty to gaze around at the surrounding hills. This could be his last night on this world. He wanted to enjoy it. He was sure he saw a shimmer of gold in the distance. Maybe the rising sun, maybe something more sinister. He could see torches far away, a sure sign of the armies converging on Timorium. A distant rumble told him that the town was now under siege. They had succeeded in some twisted way. Julius and his men had prevented another group of infantry from reaching the town. Maybe their sacrifice, the offering of their lives would win the siege. Julius could smell Death, he could smell the repugnant, repulsive breath, he could feel the ice cold grip, he could see the black veil, he could feel the presence, overhanging him like carrion birds. Was it for him or someone else? The sun had respectfully stayed down, in mourning of those who had died and those that were die. Above the fort, crows flocked, waiting for the battle to finish. Once it had, they would descend, preying on the dead, looted the deceased of their flesh, stripping the meat from their cold, lifeless bodies. All that would be left was their armour and weapons and a skeleton, picked clean. In some way, this fort was an elephants' graveyard, where the doomed came to die. Was Julius among the condemned. He did not know. He shook himself, returning his concentration to the enemies at his feet. The door would fall in minutes and then a bloody skirmish would commence.

“Julius!” barked the commander. “We're out of arrows. Come downstairs. We must await our fate!”

Julius stared at Tybril darkly. “Is it really our destiny, Tybril. Were we sent here to die. Have the gods abandoned us.”

Tybril did not reply. He had disappeared, along with some of the others, leaving Julius with three archers to reflect on his life. Suddenly, there was movement beside him, not caused by any of the archers who were concentrating on using their last reserves of arrows to maximum effect. For a second, he thought he saw Hendral. Yes. He had seen the face. He blinked and the figure was gone.

“What cruel apparition is this? Lokve! Have you sent him back to haunt me! To taunt me! To elaborate on my failure! Why do you mock me with the shadows of the deceased?”

The marksmen looked at the centurion, who had clearly lost his mind. They muttered about his mental condition before returning to more important matters. Julius spat in disgust. Even those doomed to die mocked him but there Julius knew that he would not die, not while Hendral watched over him, guarding his friend even in death. Loyal to the end, the end of both of them, the bonds of friendship, tethered forever. The centurion stormed down the stairs to join his damned companions. The legionaries and clansmen jostled with the door as it shook, trying to hold it together. They were losing. The door was marked for death, also. The legionaries stopped their battle, helping to drag a bookcase to the door, buying themselves time.

“Is this all you can do? Buy time! Why not just die now? Why not embrace the inevitable and die all the quicker and braver for it!” screamed the insane centurion. “I have seen your fate! You all shall perish while I live! I shall live for I readily embrace my destiny!”

Brulus raised his eyebrow, unnerved by his commanding officer's state of being. Normally, Julius was calm and relaxed. Something was wrong. The death of Hendral had affected him badly. His mind was fragile.

“We fight because what can a man do but try to survive, but try to prolong his life! Julius, sir! What has gotten into you! Can you not see that we are all prepared to fight to the end! We are not lesser men! We are strong, in both mind and body! We can survive! I shall not submit to the ruminations of an insane man.” shouted Brulus.

“Insane? Insane or all-powerful, all-knowing. I know your fates! Your destinies! I am the judge! The jury! The executioner!” shrieked the centurion, lost to his madness.

“Stand down, sir!” pleaded Brulus. “You are mad! Hendral's passing has clearly rendered you incapable of leading! We will guard you!”

“I do not need guarding! The spirit of Hendral is with me! My friend!” Julius screeched, face contorted in rage.

The optio was stopped from responding when the door warped inwards, bending, breaking. There was a small explosion as shards and splinters of wood flew around. The bookcase was now the last defence. The legionaries and clansmen backed away, ready for one last charge. Commander Tybril was at the head, beside him was Optio Brulus, now a centurion, having wrenched the title from Julius due to his mental state. Julius crackled with laughter, taking pleasure in seeing this last stand. The ghost of Hendral stood beside him, shaking its head. Do not do this, it seemed to say, though its voice was but a whisper in the wind, made inaudible in the shouting and yelling as the soldiers steeled themselves, ready to meet Death and fight him. At that moment, and only then, did Julius regain his sanity. His mind, fragmented just seconds ago, repaired itself. He could see and think clearly now, the tidal wave that was insanity passing, leaving him, fleeing away. Julius fingered with his scabbard, gripping the pommel of his blade. He pulled it from its holder, revealing the shining steel once more, growing ever brighter in this act of courage. With a yell, Julius stormed to the front of the group, sword raised high.

“On me, everyone! I know what I said but what I said was wrong! We are not doomed to die! Not yet! Not while we still breath, not while we long for life! With me, brave soldiers! To victory! To safety! For Tiberius, for the Empire!”

Then came a shout, a shout of joy, a shout of hope, coming from the roof. “Sirs! Up here! There is something coming!”

Tybril, Julius and Brulus ran up the stairs, to the three archers standing on the roof. They were pointing far away, towards a formation of shining gold. At first, Julius dismissed it as the fires from yet more torches but then he realised what its true nature was.

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Tybril, raising his warhammer above his head. “Look who it is, Julius! It seems your elven friends have arrived!”

[unokitsune]

I hope Julius doesn't go insane! Hendral you need to come back

[POMC S117]

Julius has regained his sanity... for now.

The tale is nearing its end. I have a few plans for a sequel. I have:

The Carthian Rebellions
More Fighting in Mithraleeth
THe Imperial Conquests of Arctictas