The Lord of the Fingers had been leading the right flank during the battle of the two eagles, under the direct orders of his uncle, taking command of the majority of the first wave of attack against the enemy’s bulwark.
It had been reported that the Imperator’s Specials had achieved great success against the enemy’s right flank, routing a force nearly five tis their size. They had fully expected the enemy’s whole line to break, with them having the honor of acting as the force that was to deliver the hamr blow to sha’s center.
What they had ahead of them was instead eight hundred n. Willios had three tis their numbers, and yet the enemy fought as if each of them were five n, their defense a sudden, impossible spike of resistance that they had never expected.
There, through the haze of battle, he had sighted two enemy banners: one was the black and white of Yarzat, Alpheo’s personal colors, and the other was a rising sun held aloft by the very monsters he was fighting now.
He was srized even then by the way they fought, their movents quick and brutal, carrying no fear for death, cutting down any man stupid enough to challenge that thought. They had managed to stall Willios’s massive attack long enough for the enemy to rally their lost flank and salvage a battle that should have been lost entirely.
It was still hard to accept, the bitter, cold fact that they had failed.
There had just been so many variables on their side!Superior numbers, better position, and the elent of surprise with the Imperator’s specials. And yet, miracle after miracle had occurred for the enemy.
History books would report of sha’s victory, but everyone with a functioning brain knew this was more accurately Alpheo’s victory.
Despite everything,especially with the new, fresh legion currently charging forth against his forces, cutting down everyone in their path, Willios would have genuinely liked to et the man. But he knew he would not.
This fortress was to be his grave, and Alpheo was probably too smart to dirty his boots in a place already reserved for corpses.
He, after all had n for that.Just like the one coming his way.
The lord of the Fingers raised his sword, issuing a final, exhausted shout, his foot stepping over the still-warm back of the Voghondai he had just killed. The tribesn weren’t many in number, but their presence had been hard enough. Now, with a fully disciplined legion supporting the assault, Willios knew things had turned from dirt to deep, sucking mud.
The enemy legionnaires, crested the pontoon bridge with a practiced roar. Their feet landed solidly on the small, precarious safe space that the fifty hulking Voghondai had managed to carve out for them on the final wooden barricade.
They landed unchallenged.
They wasted no ti. These were not the conscripts. They were soldiers of a different cut: lean, fast, and arrogant.
They dropped their heavy, oval shields, using them not for defense but for shoving aside the bodies that clogged their path. Their axes and maces were smaller than the Voghondai’s, designed for precision rather than brute force.
They didn’t swing widely; they jabbed, they ripped, they cut tendons, broke bone and throat arteries with the minimal effort required.
Sotis, the legionnaires would go out of their way to wound a man, preferring to cut the Achilles tendons with his axe and step back just to watch the defender writhing upon the blood-slicked ground.
They didn’t even finish the kill, but instead looked over their victims like a cat would regard a mouse it had crippled, toying with it before deciding whether to finally consu it. They watched as the wounded whimpered, as they cried, and as they inadvertently tripped their own already chaotic formations.
It did not take long for the defenders’ line to curve inward into a desperate U-shape,with the enemy centre pushing in like a first in a stomach.
Everywhere Willios cast his eye, he saw the sa horrifying sight: the Yarzat legionnaires dealing with the Fingers’ defenders with such a blatant, terrifying ease that the Marshal did not even feel anger or despair.
He felt only pity toward his own n. What a wasted, useless feeling for a general in the final monts of his war, and yet pity it was all the sa; pity that these n would spend their last breaths looking into the cold, indifferent eyes of warriors who had made destruction their highest vocation.
I will join them soon enough.
He reasoned, using the thought like a fragile shield to fight off the overwhelming despair, as he took those last, fleeting monts to look at the sky one final ti. It was an ugly, smoke-choked sky, the color of ash and old bruises. And yet, the last he would ever see.
As if giving him consent for his wish, a sudden, fierce shout rallied his ear forward, dragging him back to the plains of mortals.
"Calidum et ignis!"
He turned his head to witness a boyhood dream, or perhaps a nightmare, co true. Like one of the ancient heroes of the old, glorious stories, a man strode upon the field as if it were a park, welcoming all challengers to himself.
He reaped heads and bodies with his sword like a scythe cutting ripe grain, the bodies falling in neat, horrific rows. After each kill, he would batter his bloodied weapon against his chest plate, leaving fresh streaks of crimson across his armor like a proud, savage show of his true calling.
He was heeding for any brave soul foolish enough to put himself forward, while effortlessly cutting down those who did not but were simply unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Like a star, he magnetically attracted people to himself. The monsters who had surged from the nightmare of the breach appeared to find a guiding light in him, following him and heeding his sharp cries after each kill.
Either for genuine admiration of the warrior’s art or simply because wherever he went, violence was guaranteed to follow.
Despite knowing the man was his absolute enemy, Willios could not help but admire the sheer, magnificent flamboyance. Who could not be fascinated by a man who behaved as if the battlefield were his own pocket theater?
He was not a common man, perhaps not of high breeding but most certainly of high ttle.
And recent events had shown that the latter was more worthy of respect.
The unmistakable streak of crimson plus atop his helm and the intricate, high-quality steel of his armor instantly revealed his position. A Legate.
A special rank within the South.
One of the Southern Prince’s dogs sent his way....
His face was iron-bound, yet the scarlet-plud helt and the banner held proudly behind him, fluttering as if claiming the world for the Fourth, revealed him completely.
When Willios had first heard the pretentious nas of the Southern Prince’s military positions, Legions, Cohorts, he had deed Alpheo arrogant and low, attempting to steal the glory of old, of n like Vrivrius the Red, from an age when a man’s worth was skill, not how well he could lie and con.
He had long been battered from that comforting lie. The Rolians may have lost the glory of old, but that did not an others could not attain it.
The Legate made a casual show of looking around, the blood still flowing thickly down his helm and breastplate, his sword resting lazily on his shoulder, his feet planted firmly onto the mud-soaked ground. It wasn’t long before his hidden eyes set definitively on Willios. And even though the face was a blank sheet of steel, Willios could well imagine the expression beneath.
Under the weight of that concentrated gaze, despite having reasoned himself ready for death, a tremor of sha ran through Willios and he took a step back.
A rough and surprisingly young voice yielded out of the iron helt. "Do not step back like a frightened child. I see you all the sa. There isn’t a single place in this field where I’ll not find you."
A second tremor, like the one he had felt facing the Voghondai he had felled, passed through his spine.
The man brought his sword to his helm, giving it a light tip as if it were a hand mimicking a pensive expression.
"Servant of the King of Cunts, where’s your master?" the Legate demanded. "I don’t see either him or his banner in this field. He is wanted, as I am sure you know.The fourth is on him, there is no way he can live through this battle...unless he is a coward." The sword ca down from his shoulder, and his feet began moving Willios’s way. "Just as your life is," he added, almost as an afterthought, his pace slow, as he closed the distance as if giving ti for Willios to answer before his death. "You have caused us quite the trouble. Respect for that."
He lowered his shoulder and executed a small, sharp bow. Willios would have deed it a jest, but the cold, focused intensity in the air proved it was sincere, a warrior’s acknowledgnt. "But I need to ask again. Where is your master? He has a blood debt with all of us. It will not end until the last breath he takes falls on the shoulder of any of us."
Willios took a deep breath.
"He’s not here," Willios answered laconically.
"LIARRR!" One of the hulking Voghondai that followed the Legate shouted, its voice a raw, angry gravel.
The Legate put a steadying hand over the monster’s shoulder, his gaze never leaving Willios. "You speak true?"
Willios gave a firm nod. He felt the Southern man’s stare for a long, heavy mont, as if the Legate were trying to feel the texture of the lie through the iron of his teeth. Except it was not.
The souther legate then shook his head, accepting the truth, and lifted the iron muzzle slightly, spitting a thick gob of bloody phlegm onto the ground.
"How unseemingly of a coward to claim dominion and then flee the defense of his own life.Is that the ttle of your sovereigns? Your master has deserted you, then. You are alone, man of Rolia. Will you surrender? Do so, and your life shall be spared."
It was Willios’s ti to shake his head. A small, negative motion that knew had just sealed his fate.Well...actually not really, he knew this would be his grave after all.
The Legate gave a deep sigh, sohow sounded genuinely saddened by the response. "You are a brave man, that I can admit. I shall ask as a boon to my prince for your body to be buried in your own soil.That is all I can do for you.
Think of ho, Lordling. Soon you shall be sent there."
With that, he brought his hound-like visor and dropped his stance, becoming a coiled, lethal spring ready to pounce forward.
Willios followed, raising his sword and shield, sohow knowing this final, desperate duel would be the most important mont of his life.
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