The street grew busier as they climbed, and as they reached the top, which opened onto a small square with an old war memorial at its centre, they heard scattered shouting and jeers originating from a small crowd that had gathered around the memorial.
Villius slowed his pace to a crawl. “We had best be careful, gentlemen. There have been rumours of dissent in the capital. Not everyone loves the legions… or the Emperor.” As he spoke, he rested his right hand on his sword pommel, subtly loosening the weapon in its scabbard. “We have to get through to the other side – Bezel square lies about a hundred metres down the road.”
Jonas nudged Conlan in the ribs. “What did I tell you?” he whispered. “Bezel square!”
Conlan loosened his own sword as they moved through the crowd. There was a strange atmosphere in the square that set his nerves on edge. One moment fervent, the next dismissive. It felt as if the crowd was at odds with itself, an argument ebbing and flowing through it.
“I tell you they have come!” someone shouted. “They have come amongst us and they are angry!”
A man, dressed in dirty brown tunic and leggings, jumped up to wrap an arm around the memorial, his feet on the plinth below, raising him head and shoulders above the throng. He scanned the crowd, his footing precarious as his head flicked left and right. He had a short dark beard and hair, which although unkempt and dishevelled had clearly once been neatly trimmed. “I can tell you this because I saw it,” the man said, his eyes unnaturally wide, the whites clearly visible. “I was there, at the battle of Sothlind when they came to Earth.”
“Codswallop!” shouted a man from the crowd, “you’re off your head, you are.”
“I do not lie to you,” said the man with the wild eyes, raising an arm and pointing at the heckler. “I was there and I saw it with my own eyes. Lady Syke and Lord Toruss – I saw them with my own eyes.”
“Bah!” The heckler, an old man with a bald pate and straggly white hair, waved his arm dismissively and turned to leave. As he did so, Conlan noticed a legion tattoo on his bicep. He disappeared back into the crowd, many people giving him disapproving looks as he did.
“See!” shouted the man on the plinth. “See how the non-believer cannot stand in the face of reason! I, Marek Tyll, have seen the gods. I have seen the great Lord Terran with my own eyes, and I tell you now, he is the image of wrath and glory personified. He saved us from the barbarian horde. On the field of Sothlind, he saved us.”
There were gasps from the crowd. Some looked angry, but many seemed to Conlan to be enamoured of Marek Tyll.
He has a way of speaking
, Conlan thought as he gradually inched his way through the crowd behind Villius.
There is something in the cadence of his voice, the way he gestures. It’s like an enchantment
. Marek Tyll knew of the visitors at Sothlind, he too had seen the bear, bull and hawk along with the others as they danced their way through the horde.
Villius stopped and turned to Conlan and Jonas with anger in his eyes, his cheeks flushed as he turned to look at Marek Tyll, who continued haranguing the crowd from his perch atop the memorial. “Deserter,” he whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. “And he dares to stand on a war memorial.”
Conlan turned from Villius to Marek Tyll and back again. The preacher had to be a deserter; either that or he knew someone who had been on the field of battle.
Did he fight with us in the circle?
Conlan examined the minutiae of the man’s features.
Was he a sword brother, even for a little while?
Marek Tyll did not look familiar, but Conlan doubted that he would remember most of the men who had joined the remnant of his cohort to protect the standard of the Third.
“You recognise him?” Conlan asked Jonas.
Jonas shook his head. “Don’t reckon he’s from the Third. Deserter scum.”
Villius, his face set in anger, took a step towards the memorial. Realising the danger Conlan, quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back. “No, Proctor.”
Villius turned and looked at Conlan’s hand on his arm, his lips pursed, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Villius, think.” Conlan felt a flash of fear as Marek Tyll’s gaze swept across them, but his eyes did not linger, even though they stood out like sore thumbs in their blue legionary cloaks. Conlan gripped Villius’s arm tighter. “Proctor, this is not the time. This is not what we are here for.”
Villius stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. They resumed their slow progression through the crowd.
“The Lord Terran has spoken to me!” Marek Tyll shouted, his voice loud even as they distanced themselves from his fervour. “This world is in need of cleansing, and I am his instrument. Join me, for we are the chosen! On the day of purging those who follow the way will be spared to begin the world anew. As he has proclaimed to me, so shall it be!”
The man is mad
, Conlan thought, looking back to see Marek Tyll receive a shout of adulation from the crowd. He glanced at Jonas and wondered if his devout friend was drawn to Tyll’s manic preaching. The look of disgust on Jonas’s face told Conlan everything he needed to know. Jonas might believe that the gods had visited them in battle, but clearly he was not driven to a similar frenzy by his faith.
As they cleared the crowd, Conlan saw the grey-haired veteran who had heckled Marek Tyll earlier crouched on all fours close to the street they were heading for, a puddle of vomit on the cobbles before him.
Villius rushed to help the man to his feet and Conlan quickly followed suit.
“Are you alright, citizen?” Villius asked, his voice full of concern.
The man looked at them, pausing briefly to observe their badges of rank. “I’m fine, brothers,” he said, voice trembling and weak. “Nothing I can’t deal with.”
“What happened?” Conlan asked, noting the blood that trickled from a small cut above the man’s right eye.
The old man sighed. “A couple of the bastards jumped me,” he waved a hand into the crowd. “That madman has followers and they don’t take kindly to people like me criticising him an’ his preachings. Should have expected it really.”
“Would you like us to fetch a doctore?” Villius asked, brushing dust from the old man’s cloak.
The man took in a deep breath and winced. “No, no, I’ll be fine, brothers. I had much worse back in the day.” He eyed Conlan and Jonas. “The Third always were a damn fine unit. We marched with them across the desert. We followed that wily fox Turbis right up into Farisia, we did. Them were glory days... You’ve never imagined hell till you’ve marched across a desert, boys. I can tell you that much.”
A glimmer of light caught Conlan’s eye. He was vaguely aware of Jonas joining the discussion, no doubt exchanging war stories. Conlan turned towards the light and saw two figures, cloaked and cowled in grey, standing by the entrance to an alley about halfway around the square. Something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. One was huge, towering over the other, and stood back slightly as if to guard his fellow, who seemed small and lithe, even with their body mostly hidden in a loose-fitting cloak. As Conlan looked on, the smaller figure turned sharply in his direction, the cowl of the hood catching for a second to reveal a flash of crimson.
Syke!
Conlan’s subconscious screamed, and if the smaller was Syke, then the larger could only be Toruss, the great bull god of war. Conlan blinked slowly, turning to his companions, but they were engrossed in assisting the old veteran, oblivious to the visitors’ presence. He turned back, sure his eyes had deceived him, wondering whether, perhaps, he was becoming as mad as the zealot Marek Tyll, who still preached to the crowd.
Without conscious thought, he began to walk towards the figures, slowly at first. He quickly picked up pace, it was as if they exerted a pull on his soul that he could not deny. His thoughts flashed back to the battlefield, the feral grace and speed of the knights in white as they decimated the barbarian horde. A part of his subconscious begged him to stay back, warned him his reward would be death. But he did not care so long as he gazed upon her flawless beauty again before the end.
Conlan strode across the cobbles now, his gaze unwavering. He imagined that he could see her ardent blue eyes staring back at him, but then the one that might have been Toruss laid a huge hand on his diminutive companion’s shoulder and they both turned and walked back into the alley.
Conlan ran, ignoring curious stares from the gathered crowd. As he reached the alley, his heart pounded in his chest, his pulse beat a ragged rhythm in his throat. The alley stretched on to a dead end almost a hundred yards ahead; it was completely deserted. They were gone – just a mirage to torture the desert of his soul.
ANGER FLOWED THROUGH WULF in familiar waves. He, son of the great chieftain Rendal, descendant of the almighty sky god and leader of the clan pack, held captive by the iron men, trapped in one of the stone shells of their making, where they hid like frightened children whilst true warriors went out to fight, reave, and paint their legend in history.
What honour do these iron men have?
he wondered.
They do not dare to fight like warriors. They cower behind their shields, too scared to face true men.
The iron men did not stare death in the face and laugh, they did not dedicate their victories to the gods of sky, wood and earth.
As sword and axe and club rend flesh,
Wulf swore,
I will rip the flesh from the enemy with my teeth!
But first he had to find the chance… If only he could free himself from the iron cuffs - linked by chains to the wall - that bound his wrists and ankles, holding him in furious bondage.
Wulf’s shoulders ached from repeated attempts to free himself, his wrists scabbed over and sore where they had bled from the scrape of iron on flesh.
The cowards had hidden behind their shields and tried to turn his people back. But Wulf could not let his people die; he could not abandon them. The iron men had not let his people pass, when all they wanted was a new home. Wulf had thought that maybe the country of these weak men, who lived in their cities of stone, worshipping false gods and lethargy, might be a suitable place for his people to rest, but the cowards had come out of their cities, to hide behind shield walls of iron and block the passage north. Some at least of these weak men - the ones they called ‘legion’ - could fight, even if they did lack honour.
Wulf had lost track of the days he’d been held captive. At first, he had counted faithfully. Each morning the sun rose, he counted… day five, day six, day seven… By day nine, he’d started to be unsure of his count.
Maybe sixteen now
. But he could not be certain.
He was visited by the guards, clad in their iron shells, at least three times a day. They brought him food, and he ate. They emptied the bucket he pissed and shat in. He dreamed of meat but they gave him vegetables, bread and fruit. Some days he ate fish. Twice he had chicken. But no beef, no pork, no mutton.
That is what makes them weak
.
They eat no red meat.
Wulf remembered his manhood ceremony. After he killed his first mountain lion, there had been a great feast and all the tribe had gathered to watch as the chief’s eldest son came of age. He had eaten the heart of the lion that day, his father roaring with pride, ‘My son is a lion! My son is a lion!’ as he staggered around the fire-pit telling the tale of the kill. Wulf’s mouth watered at the thought of the mountain lion’s heart, though his jaw muscles had ached for days after.
Tugging again at his chains, Wulf’s shoulders bulged with corded muscle, but as usual the chains did not budge. He feared he grew weaker with each day. He heaved a sigh and sat on the plain wooden cot, staring out of the opening set high in the wall of his room. He saw the sky, wispy clouds hanging overhead.
A bird
, he thought.
A hawk, perhaps
. It circled high above, watching for prey.
How many of the people lie dead?
he wondered. The iron men were tough despite their cowardice. Their shells were difficult to crack. His people had defeated the first army they encountered only after losing twice their number. The iron men called ‘legion’ had hidden behind their shields and armoured shells, refusing to answer the call to fight as champions, as heroes, man against man - to be judged by the gods.
They had died like men though, rarely begging or screaming for mercy, even those that had been captured in the south and forced to fight man to man against the champions of the people. Some of them had even won for a while, killing the worthless dogs they fought against. But all had died in the end.
After the first battle in the south with the iron men, they had hidden, whimpering behind their walls, impossible to breach, impossible to reach. The people had learnt they would be given food to go away if they surrounded a city, and so they had moved north, pillaging, stealing and extorting provisions, seeking the freedom and safety that had been promised. Seeking salvation.
It had all gone well until they came up against the wall of iron in the valley of death. Many chiefs had met in council, urging the people to go back, to find a different route north. ‘Think how many died facing their little army,’ they had said. ‘Think how many warriors we will lose.’ Wulf had cursed them all for cowards. Eventually, the snivelling dogs were shouted down and courage won through. The people had to move north. Wulf himself had led the warriors of his tribe against the wall, rending a hole in the iron that his people poured through.
A sound from the corridor outside caught Wulf’s attention. It was the whiny voice of the flaccid man, the one with black stained hands. Putting his face in both hands, Wulf took a deep, calming breath. He hoped that this time the man would forget; that this time he would step over the rough white line on the floor that marked the limit of Wulfs’ reach.
Maybe today I will send you to hell. Maybe then you will stop babbling at me.