The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (16 page)

‘
You must not let him fall into their hands...
’ The silken voice of Syke whispered in his mind. But she had been a dream; surely nothing more than an apparition.

“Two swords!” Conlan spoke so loudly that men all around turned to look at him. “Metrotis, where's the other sword that Optuss carried?”

Metrotis looked at him for a long moment, his eyes dull with incomprehension and possibly shock. “Two?” Metrotis frowned, then a spark of understanding flashed across his face. “Yes, yes, two swords. The other is in my uncle’s tent, he keeps it in a trunk along with the–”

Conlan pointed to the tent, as he did so a scream cut through the night as if to punctuate the gesture. “Fetch it!”

Metrotis nodded, turned on his heel and ran to the command tent.

Optuss, if not for him they would probably all be dead already, the man was a machine of death, but the words of Syke still rumbled through the vault of his mind.
Are they here to take him? Should I hand him over to the night to save the men?
He knew even as he thought it that he could not.
Is the legion more important than this one?
No. There had been an underlying truth in the words of Syke – even if it had just been a bizarre dream; even if she did have her own agenda. The greater good would not be served if he allowed Optuss to fall into enemy hands... Of that much he was certain.

Conlan turned his gaze to Wulf. The man had barely recovered from his run-in with Optuss at the Deakin, but where others might have died he had recovered quickly, at least on the surface. An unquenchable fire burned in the man, the like of which Conlan had never seen. His memory lit with the image of the first sight he had of Wulf, as the barbarian drove his great war-hammer into the head of the horse that carried Father Yovas at Sothlind.
I should hate you
. Now he thought he understood what had driven the Wicklanders to attack the Empire at Sothlind, what had forced them from their homeland. Who would not risk all to escape these red-eyed demons?

“How do we fight them?” Conlan enquired of the hulking barbarian. “Wulf, what can we do?”

Wulf shrugged his shoulders and flexed his huge muscles as he did so. “They die like us, just harder kill.” He held his hand out as if in supplication, the light of hatred – Conlan hoped it was for the enemy – burned bright in his eyes. “Give Wulf sword. He show you.”

Conlan gazed at the outstretched hand for a moment. A part of him questioned the wisdom of trusting the Wicklander. Nevertheless, a leader needed to make difficult decisions. He pointed towards Optuss. “Take that one.” Optuss could not be used in this fight; the risk that he might fall into the hands of the enemy was too great. It seemed logical to put the weapon in the hands of the next strongest.

Wulf seemed to hesitate. He glanced side on at Optuss. “You joke? Wulf not ready to try take
him
again.” He looked Optuss up and down, then flashed a feral grin. “Yet.”

Conlan did not know whether to admire the barbarian’s tenacity and self-belief or question his sanity. No man could bring down Optuss on his own, he was certain.
 

At that moment, Metrotis trotted forward. He held the second sword of Optuss cautiously, as if afraid that it would bite him.

Wulf pointed at Metrotis. “Wulf take.” He flashed another smile and moved towards Metrotis, clearly not intending to ask for permission.

Perhaps it’s just bravado.
Wulf had almost died the last time he went near Optuss.
He must fear a repeat of his defeat.

“Metrotis, give Wulf the sword.” Conlan ordered. He moved towards Optuss himself until the vessel stood before him, eyes fixed and staring into the middle distance.

His eyes are strange
. Conlan had noticed something before but had never been close enough to observe them properly. Optuss’s eyes were dark brown; ringed with a gold-tinged halo. The effect was unnerving, like staring into a glittering abyss. His heart pounded in his chest at the thought of what might happen. Images of Wulf lying, shattered, on the flagstones of the courtyard at the Deakin flashed through his mind. But his resolve was fixed. He had no other choice. “Optuss.” His voice was steady and firm, it did not sound like his own. “Optuss, I need the sword. I need you to give me your sword.”

An agonised scream punctuated the night; it sounded close.
 

The men in the front row of the gathered square instinctively braced for impact, though none came.

“Optuss.” Conlan reached his hand forward and laid it on Optuss’s own, so that they both now gripped the sword. Optuss’s skin was surprisingly soft to the touch. Conlan braced himself for the impact that was sure to come. “I need you to give me the sword. Please, people are dying out there.”

Optuss’s eyes swivelled slowly to meet his own. Conlan’s chest tightened in fear. He tensed for the killing blow. After two ragged, stress-filled breaths, it still had not come.
 

Optuss’s gaze was hypnotic, similar to Syke’s but somehow less potent, as if the power to overcome lay buried deep.
He will kill me now
. There was no doubt.
He will kill me now.

Instead, Optuss slowly released his grip on the sword. It started to slither down through Conlan’s fingers, its smooth hilt slippery against his sweating palm, but he managed to grab it by the pommel.

Conlan slowly stepped back, Optuss’s eyes lost their focus. He looked lost to the world once more.

The pommel of the sword felt warm to Conlan’s touch. It was light, so light that he had difficulty believing it was forged of steel. The sword was of the same basic design as the short blade carried by all of the legionary infantry. A form nicknamed the ‘Xandus’, having purportedly been invented by Xandar himself. The balance was exquisite, a thing of wonder, he had not had time to register the sublime beauty of it earlier, before he threw it to Optuss in his desperate gambit. He had handled weapons for many years, but he had never felt or seen its like before.

Conlan turned to Wulf and raised the sword in a warrior’s salute, the handle held over his heart, blade pointing skyward before his face. A strange sense of elation washed over him; it was as if all the worries of the last few months had been lifted by the need for action.
We stand and fight or die this day.
 

“Are you ready to fight?” Conlan asked the massive barbarian.
Perhaps the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Wulf grunted and swung his sword before him in a rapid figure of eight as if testing its weight. “Wulf fight.” His brows drew down and he peered at Conlan, his gaze intense. “We probably die, iron man,” he said with a tight-lipped smile.

What would Martius do?
The question teased Conlan, and then he knew. He forced a grin, hoping to mimic some of the fearless bravado he had seen in the great general. “But at least it will be a glorious death.” He turned away from the Wicklander and pointed his sword at Jonas’s chest. “Jonas, gather the Ninth cohort, those that you can, we will take the fight to these…” he pointed the blade towards the corpse of a red-eyed demon by Optuss’s feet, “these beasts. I’m not going to cower behind the shield wall and wait for them.”
I will not wait for death like a frightened child.

Jonas’s brows drew together. “Conlan…” he said, then paused, seemingly seeking other words, his mouth slightly agape.

“Sir,” Villius interjected, “I do not believe that you should go beyond the shield wall.” A shout from the north ended in a howl of pain. “You are the legion father; who will command if you–”

Conlan said. “Thank you, Proctor Villius, I accept your offer. I am sure you are more than capable in my absence.”
You served on the borderlands.
Villius was a capable soldier, he had to be, otherwise Martius would not have selected him.
You’re not flushed with fear of battle; you just don’t like speaking out.
There was steel in Villius, Conlan felt, steel and determination, probably more than he possessed himself. And a good deal more discipline. If anyone could see the legion survive until morning – until they could get a sense of what they faced – it was probably Villius.

“But sir,” Villius raised a hand as if in supplication, “custom and practice dictates–”

Conlan raised his own hand, palm out, in reply. He could not afford further delay. “I’m sorry, Villius, but custom and practice be damned. I’m leaving, and you are to command the defence.”

Villius’s shoulders dropped slightly, but his visage hardened as if he accepted the task and meant to do it well. “Yes, sir.”

“Your priority is to protect the general, Villius.” Conlan pointed towards Optuss. “And make sure
he
doesn’t fall into enemy hands.”
 

Perhaps the urgency of the situation precluded it, or perhaps, on some level, Villius understood the importance of Optuss. For whatever reason, he did not question Conlan on the point.

A shout from the south told Conlan the men had engaged the enemy. It was time to move. “Jonas?” He turned towards his friend.

Jonas seemed to be struggling with some internal debate, his eyes flicking from Conlan to Villius and back again, eventually settling on Conlan. “Yes boss?” He spoke slowly, his eyes squinting at Conlan under furrowed brows.

Conlan sensed Jonas was a hair’s breadth away from disobedience; he had to move fast before the dissent grew. “Call the Ninth cohort to order. Let’s go!”

The Ninth cohort slipped through the lines to the south in fighting column, four abreast, shields held at the ready.

The chaos was settling now. Conlan could sense that the men were slipping into military drill – into learned, indoctrinated behaviour – that effect the scholars at the academy knew could stop a man from running through the sheer weight of mundane and repetitive tasks that were part of the legionary’s daily training routine. The men of the legions were trained beyond cowardice, able to quell their basic, animal fears, to override the urge to flee. Years of training were required to become a legionary soldier and only the toughest stuck it out. It was not uncommon for men to die on the drill ground before they ever saw service, such was the intensity of their training.

That hard-won training paid dividends now. The other men of the legion stood by, unquestioning, as their legion father departed. For all they knew he could have been fleeing the attack, but such was their discipline that they did not question, did not grumble, as the Ninth cohort marched away into the night.

“What was all the shouting about?” Conlan asked a branch leader as they passed through the lines. He remembered to smile – as Martius would – as if he did not have a worry in the world.

The branch leader, who bore a nasty burn to his right bicep, hawked and spat on the body of a fallen attacker at his feet. “Five of these bastards tried to jump us, sir.”

The space in front of the lines lay cluttered with bodies. At least a dozen legionaries lay dead. Most showed no sign of injury; but at least two bore terrible burns, whilst another had his arms twisted at an impossible angle, as if someone had attempted to pull them off from behind, breaking every muscle and sinew the poor unfortunate soldier possessed in the process. A smaller number of the enemy lay on the ground, blood still oozed from the sword wounds that covered their bodies. Conlan, used to the frenzy of battle, had never seen bodies attacked with such savagery, covered with so many marks of hatred and fury. He guessed that his own men had continued to hack into the demons long after they were dead, such was the fear that they engendered; such was the need to ensure they were truly dead.

Conlan smothered a wince at the sight. “Well done, lads.” He was pleased that his voice remained calm, his tone even. “Looks like you gave them a beating.”

The ragged branch leader’s eyes lit with passion, but he remained silent for a moment, looking at the bodies of his men. Then he raised his sword in salute and nodded. “For the Empire, sir.” His voice sounded tired, drained of life, drained of hope. “For the Empire.”

“Hold the line.” Conlan returned the salute. “No matter what.” He did not recognise the man and guessed, because he was too old to be one of the replacements, that he must be from the disbanded Twelfth. “What’s your name, brother?”

“Hatherus, sir. Aitus Hatherus.”

“Well met, Aitus Hatherus.”

Hatherus nodded once more and returned to his position, his eyes flitting to the fallen comrades at his feet.

Conlan knew what he was thinking. Aitus Hatherus’s friends, his brothers, lay before him; every fibre of his being must have screamed to have their bodies attended to. To have them laid properly to rest and cleaned with the traditional funerary rights, as befitted their status as heroes. Instead, they would have to lie in ignominy until, for better or worse, this battle was done; to try to recover them behind the lines now would weaken the formation, put the whole legion at risk.

Conlan pointed at the fallen legionaries with his sword as his small cohort passed them by. He looked back towards Aitus Hatherus and his men, ensuring he still had their attention; he did. “Your brothers travel now to the dark god.” He wondered if there even was such a thing; then wondered whether Syke knew the nameless one. Perhaps they exchanged pleasantries in the halls of the gods, the nameless dark god and she of two faces. “And they will be blessed with eternity in paradise for their sacrifice. We fight for them now, lads, we fight for our brothers – here and gone.” It was a hollow speech to Conlan’s own ears, but Martius would have said something to inspire the men. He had to try, at least, to emulate the great general.

Hatherus raised his sword in silent salute. This time others joined him all along the line. “For the Empire,” he said, his eyes reddening. Then louder. “
For the Empire!
” The chant was repeated down the line. It grew with the rumbling inevitability of an approaching earth tremor, until the troopers all along the line screamed it at the top of their lungs as if challenging the heavens to battle.

So much for going unnoticed
. Conlan cast caution to the wind and raised his own sword high above his head, so that the brilliant blade of Optuss glimmered in the reflected firelight of the camp. “For the Empire!” he roared in reply, and the men in his column picked up the chant. They repeated it twice more.
Three times for luck
.