The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (7 page)

Behind Ellasand’s carriage was a larger supply transport, pulled by four military mules. This carriage had been converted into a mobile prison of sorts. Optuss travelled in this moveable cell, not chained to the wall or restrained in any way, but not free to leave, either. Only Martius’s trusted corps of housemen and his nephew Metrotis were ever allowed to visit. The wagon was a source of much gossip and discussion around the campfires of an evening. Martius knew it was never a good idea to keep things from the men – it lowered morale – but he dared not risk revealing Optuss until they were well clear of the capital.
 

Satisfied that his charges were safe and secure for the time being, he allowed his mind to wonder. Rolling wooded hills stood in the distance as far as the eye could see. Green and verdant fields lined either side of the road. The heart of the Empire had been occupied for so long that there was barely a spot that did not show some sign of human activity. Dry stone walls bracketed the road and spread in a lazy checkerboard across the broad landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see. Here and there, hamlets and farmsteads rose, blending into their surroundings. Some had stood for a thousand years or more, tended lovingly by successive generations.
 

Soon, the Phoenix legion would enter the precinct of Osslind, less heavily populated than the north and all the more beautiful for it. Osslind was home to the ancient summer villa of house Felix, the place of Martius’s birth and home to his fondest memories. The peaches would be coming into season soon, he had reminded Ellasand the night before as she lay in the carriage – her breathing slow and shallow – whispering “I will pick you the sweetest, my love,” as he stroked her hair.

A hawk circled lazily above, seeking prey, perhaps, or just enjoying the fresh morning thermals.
The hawk
, thought Martius.
The hawk, the bull and the bear
. These three had been seen on the battlefield of Sothlind; many of the soldiers said they had glimpsed others, but not clearly, swirling through the battle.

Martius roused himself from his reverie and turned in his saddle. “So you do not believe your friends’ stories, Father Conlan?”
 

It took Conlan a moment to reply, as if he also was lost in a world of his own. “I would say that, yes, sir,” he finally replied. “Jonas has been devout as long as I have known him. Comes from a long line of Sacreuns. I think his thoughts are blurred by his faith.”

“Yes, I see, that would make sense.” Martius said.
Faith can blind the best on occasion. Or maybe blind faith is not what is needed to understand the puzzle of the hawk and of her brethren. Of Optuss.

“Bunch of fanatics, don’t you think?” Turbis, who rode on Martius’s left, interjected. He looked saddle sore and weary already, even though it was early in the day.

“You know my mother was raised in the Sacreun faith, old friend,” said Martius. He glanced sideways and smiled.
 

“Oh… well, must have forgotten, Martius, no insult intended. Just, they have some strange ideas, eh?” Turbis straightened in his saddle.

A polite cough sounded from behind Martius. “If I might interrupt, sirs?” said Villius

“By all means, Villius,” Martius replied, glancing over his shoulder and beckoning with his right hand. He had discovered a newfound respect for his young proctor since their night at the house of the thief, Jhan Guttel. Villius, in return, had maintained a stoical detachment, as if he hid behind the formality of rank and tradition. It served as a silent reproof to Martius, even if it was not intended to do so.
I almost lost myself. You pulled me back from the edge.
He would be grateful to Villius for the rest of his days.
You will have your own legion to command one day, Villius. I owe you that much at least.

Villius drew his horse abreast of the others. “I hope you don’t mind me being forward, sirs, but I am Sacreun. I don’t think someone’s denomination should necessarily influence their thoughts. I don’t think there is any way that Father Conlan’s friend…” He turned to Conlan with a look of consternation on his face.

“Cohort Commander Jonas,” said Conlan.

“Cohort Commander Jonas. I don’t think there is any way he can be right. These armoured warriors are men, sirs, that much is clear. This Optuss…” Villius cast a nervous look towards the lumbering carriage behind. “This Optuss is a man just like us. I have watched him. He breathes; he eats; he defecates. He is just like us.”

“Just very strange?” said Martius, raising an eyebrow. S
trange is something of an understatement
though
.

“He is very strange, sir,” Villius acknowledged. “But being very strange doesn’t make him a god.”

“Agree!” said Turbis with a snort. “Load of nonsense, the lot of it. A bear, a bull and a hawk, it’s just what they had painted on their armour is all. It’s just a coincidence.”

“I think you are probably right,” said Martius. “Nevertheless it would not be a bad idea to hear the theory in full.”
The key has to be there to find, why else would they armour themselves in such a manner?
“Perhaps you could fill us in on the details, Father Conlan.”

Conlan looked almost sheepish for a moment. “I don’t think I’m the best to tell, sir. As you know, I’m not religious myself. Never really believed in anything. All I know is what Jonas has told me about the scriptures.”

Martius nodded in understanding.
The boy has no religion
,
a little odd, perhaps, but not unheard of in the modern world
. It intrigued him to wonder what had happened to drive Conlan away from faith. “I understand,” he said. “In that case, may I ask Proctor Villius?” Martius turned to his young assistant. “Villius, I know that the animal totems are associated with each god in your faith?”

Villius straightened in his saddle. “Yes, sir, that’s true, but it is also true of the more… the more mainstream denominations; I believe all branches of the faith dress as animals to celebrate All Gods’ Eve?”

Martius allowed himself a teasing smile. There were bridges to build with Villius, and it felt very much like they had to be constructed over deep canyons. “Well, Villius, you certainly know your scriptures.”

Villius looked a little self-conscious, or perhaps he doubted himself. “It, it seems that Father Conlan’s friend thinks that the man we found on the battlefield is the living incarnation of the Lord Terran.” As he said the name, Villius placed his right hand over his heart and lowered his head in the manner traditional amongst the devout when they discussed the king of the gods. “That would make the other man that was seen, the man with the bull device on his armour, the god of war, Toruss, and the hawk woman the goddess Syke, she of two faces.”

“So we had Lord Terran and his two children?” Martius knew the theory already; had agonised over it for hours. However, it never hurt to go over old ground again. You never knew when you might find something new, something previously hidden.

Villius’s eyes rolled slightly. “His first two children, sir, those he had with Afeus before she was lost outside of the world.”

“I know the story, Villius,” Martius nodded. “Lord Terran closed the world to save us all from the demons, for they had become jealous of his creation. But he did not know that his wife, the Lady Afeus, had secretly travelled to entreat with them and ask that they cease their fury.”

Villius’s eyes widened. “Sir, you know your scriptures; you are very close to the word of the books.”

Martius shrugged lightly. “As I said, my mother was brought up in the Sacreun faith.” She had read stories to him as a child every night; he recalled an image of her as she once was – stern and powerful – it filled his mind. “I would have to say that the man we have with us does not seem omniscient or all powerful.” His mother’s image evaporated, replaced by Optuss, looming over his twin sons, blood dripping from the sword held limply in his hand. “He is, or was, a very powerful man though.” Martius fought back a shiver.

“You have no idea,” said Conlan, his voice sharp and decisive. “I’ve never seen people
move
like they did. The man I saw at Sothlind was virtually invincible and he was
fully
aware of his surroundings. More so than any man I’ve ever seen. He seemed to know what was going to happen before it did.” Conlan raised his right hand to his earlobe and stroked it absently. It was a habit Martius had seen repeated many times. “I swear I saw him block a blow that he could not have seen. He had his back to the man at the time.”

“A lot of things get confused in battle, eh?” said Turbis. “Easy to get confused, my boy.”

Conlan frowned. “No, sir. I know it’s difficult to believe. I question myself every day. Every night. General Martius, you questioned us all, you must know that I did not imagine what I saw.”

Martius raised a placating hand. “I do not doubt the story, Father Conlan. I have heard similar tales from all of the men. Some have told of fires burning in the warriors’ eyes, of strange magic.

 
I have no doubt that there is truth to the story, but some may have...”
lied
,
or at the very least
,
fantasised
, “embellished the truth; and this detracts from the facts.”

He fixed Conlan with a steady gaze.
It is possible that stress was a factor in what you saw? It can do strange things to a man.
However, that did not explain why they had all seen something. “If they are not gods, Conlan, what would you say that they are?”

Conlan appeared uncomfortable at the challenge. Still new to his position, he seemed to be struggling in the company of his superior officers, unwilling to object, perhaps. “I don’t know what the issue is here. They are not gods. They are men, but I swear they are capable of things that no man I’ve ever heard of can do –”

“Sir!” Villius’s words snapped through the air. He raised his right arm and pointed to the south. “There is a dust cloud on the horizon.”

“I see it.” Martius squinted into the sunlight. A dust cloud, in his experience, normally meant one thing. And it usually was not good.

Conlan stood up in his stirrups and peered into the distance. “Many men, marching.”

The words tolled doom in Martius’s mind.
We may be too late.

Turbis raised an arm to shield his eyes, appearing to forget the hook that adorned the end. “An army, eh?”

“SURELY NOT THIS DEEP into the Empire?” Martius’s voice was low, urgent. “The last I heard, the remnants of the Wicklander horde were camped in north-eastern Selesia.”

Conlan’s heart drummed in his chest. His horse raised its head, ears pricked forward. “General.” He sat straight, eyes fixed ahead, scanning the horizon.
Not the horde. Not this far north.
If he had but believed, he would have prayed. “We barely have two thousand men. It can’t be the Wicklander horde, surely?” Doubt crept into his soul, its oily tendrils caressing him.
We cannot hope to hold them.
If the Wicklanders had returned, there was nothing to stop them reaching the very heart of the Empire, the gleaming jewel that was the city of Adarna.

Martius pursed his lips. “We cannot take the chance. There are no troop movements planned in the area as far as I am aware. Villius, did I miss something?”

Villius shook his head, eyes fixed on the rising dust cloud. “No, sir, I’m not aware of any scheduled movements or drills.”

Martius nodded curtly. “They were weakened but still represent a very real threat. I do not know how they could have gotten past the garrison at Sothlind. If they did bypass the garrison somehow, there is still Maran Kultis and the Fourteenth at Sissia,”

“Good man, Kultis,” said Turbis. His eyes flicked from side to side across the horizon, his remaining hand whitening as he gripped his horse’s reins.

“He is,” Martius replied. “He would have sent word north if he could.” He exhaled slowly, a protracted sigh, then turned to Conlan.

Conlan felt the weight of the general’s eyes boring into him. Martius’s face revealed an intensity that Conlan had not seen since their encounter on the field at Sothlind, the obsidian orbs glinted wildly in the light.
 

“Order scouts forward,” Martius ordered, turning on his horse and rapidly scanning the vicinity. “We will form up there.” He pointed to a small field with a stream at its northern end; the other sides of the field were bracketed, as was common practice amongst the farms of the region, by ragged dry stone walls about four feet in height. “That is our fortress. Villius, you will lead the cavalry guard to the west. If it
is
the enemy, you will send two riders to Adarna and warn the lands to the north, they are to take my children with them. You will stay and harry the enemy with the rest. When they attack us, strike hard and retreat if you can, but do not throw your lives away.”

Villius nodded, sweat had begun to bead his brow. “Yes, sir.” He paused and seemed to search the general’s face for something, a plaintive look on his face. As if he had something that he could not say. Something important. But he simply said, “Good luck, sir.” And with that he turned his horse and galloped to the rear.

“Father Conlan.” Martius’s voice was low and calm. “Please have the man, Wulf, brought to the front. I would have him close, and unarmed.” He smiled broadly, his face lighting up with life. “Looks like we might get to see how the Phoenix fights!”
 

Turbis shook his head, his expression wry. “We cannot win here Martius, only hope to delay.” His voice was low and urgent; perhaps he did not want it to carry. He hesitated before shaking his head again, a frown forming on his mottled brow. “We should consider retreat. Marna is half a day’s march away; it has no walls but it would be easier to defend...”

Conlan teetered on the edge of doubt. Turbis had a point; it would be the safer option to retreat before the advancing army. He sat, buffeted by indecision, unable to force his body into action.
You will lose your new legion
. A whispered prophecy echoed through his mind.
The Phoenix will fall.