The morning dawned cold and crisp. Orjin’s breath plumed in the air as he exited the cottage and paused there, setting a booted foot on to a rock to adjust the cloth wrappings he wore up his legs against the cold, and tighten the bronze greave over the top. He lowered the set of his sword-belt round his long mail coat, and, a touch self-consciously, adjusted the new bear-fur cloak at his shoulders, affixed by a large round clasp over his left breast. He then crossed to a fire to warm his hands. The Dal Hon shaman Yune was there in his ratty cloak, which made him look like a shabby crow. The shaman gave him a hard eye, then nodded. ‘Suits you.’
Orjin sent him a questioning look. ‘Anything?’
The fellow shook his head. ‘Nothing important.’ Orjin grunted his satisfaction. Yune extended a steaming glass. ‘Tea?’
‘Thanks.’ Prevost Jeral walked up, fully caparisoned, helmet lowered and strapped. Orjin asked, ‘Our friends still with us?’
She nodded. ‘Waiting for us.’
‘They must think they can break us.’
‘They have reason.’
Orjin scanned the south. ‘Not this time. I will lead the attack.’
The Purge officer actually stiffened. ‘Is that wise?’
‘It’s necessary. No one will retreat so long as I’m fighting.’
‘And if you should fall?’
Orjin raised a brow at that, but laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. ‘Then avenge me!’
Prevost Jeral wasn’t assured, but she did note how all the troops nearby smiled in response to Orjin’s loud and confident laugh. He knows what he is doing, this one.
We just have to keep him alive, then.
‘Set the horns to call order, prevost,’ he told her, and started walking.
The Talians had chosen their ground as well as they could, given the flat domesticated countryside of fields and orchards. They occupied a crossroads – the stout Talian military roads being built up above the surrounding fields. Concentric circles of shieldwalls faced Orjin and his troops as they closed in.
He drew his longsword, its grip manufactured with enough extension for a hand and a half. He eschewed a shield, blocking instead with the sword, when necessary.
The Quon Talian infantry stood their ground. Their bronze shield-edges scraped as they adjusted their footing. Somewhere within that rough circle waited its core – men and women in the black tabard of the Iron Legion. Personally, Orjin was not all that impressed; he didn’t think this new corps would in any way be as formidable or hard-bitten as the old imperial force.
He picked up his pace as he closed, sword rising. He now kicked through the stiff brittle stalks of a harvested field, barley or rye. A war-shout was growing deep within his chest, both to intimidate his opponents, and to stoke his own fighting rage.
To his right, Orhan loosed his own shattering war-bellow; he had set aside his tall poleaxe for a mace in each hand, while on Orjin’s left Arkady had out two long-knives for thrusting in the chest-to-chest brawl that was to come.
They struck with a bone-jarring crash and all planning or consciousness of the larger engagement fled Orjin’s mind as he gave himself over to the animal ferocity of killing. Enemy faces screamed at him over shields, some eyes slit, others wide. Teeth were bared in grimaces of rage, or of agony.
Through it all he swung and bashed, exultant at the very fact of still being alive, until the troops to either side of him rebounded suddenly as if from a stone barrier; they faced now a solid wall of blackened rectangular shields emblazoned with a simple circle, or crown, of silver. Above the shields cool eyes regarded them, the gaze of those long inured to battle.
This pause allowed Orjin to raise his head and study the battle, and he saw that despite his hopes of allowing an opening to the rear of the enemy for them to retreat or break, his troops had washed round the much smaller force completely. He raised a fist for a halt, and Orhan lent his war-bellow to the order, ringing out, ‘Cease!’
The two forces eyed one another across the short gap of a few paces, one a tiny dot of black surrounded by thousands. Breathing heavily, Orjin cleaned his blade, sheathed it, and approached. A fellow in a black tabard over a long mail coat slipped out of the shieldwall to meet him.
Calm now, Orjin could see that every face belonged to a lined and seamed veteran. Some were clean-shaven, others carried grey beards braided in the decades-old style. All were calm, some even smiling.
The legionnaire who met him was a compact fellow no taller than Orjin’s shoulder; his thin hair was brush-cut to a grey stubble, his face sun- and wind-darkened to a deep umber brown, and his eyes, like those of Orjin, a bright glacial blue. His tabard was threadbare, yet clean and much mended – stored reverently for decades, no doubt.
Orjin inclined his head to the veteran. ‘You’ve made your point, oldster. There’s no need to continue. You may quit the field with pride.’
‘It is you who should quit the field, lad. Go back north, or we will break you.’
‘No. Not this time, I think. Stand down, please.’
The oldster shook his head. ‘No. There is no standing down. You don’t understand.’
Orjin raised his face to the sun and wind, let out a long breath. ‘Yes. I do understand. Once more you’ve answered the call. Once more you’ve set down your shovels and hoes and you feel the weight of armour at your shoulders, the heft of your weapon at your hip. But most important – once more you stand together as in the old days, shoulder to shoulder.’
The veteran had started nodding as Orjin spoke, and now he eyed him narrowly. ‘You do understand. Then you know what must be done?’
Orjin gave one slow nod of assent. ‘Yes – though I wish it were not so.’
The oldster saluted him and slipped back into the ranks of the shieldwall.
Orjin returned to his troops. Orhan sent him a questioning look he would not meet. He peered down the curved line of massed troops, right and left, then raised his sword, held it poised, then dropped it forward.
His force charged bellowing their war-cries, converging to meet the eerily silent black-clad veterans. Orjin, however, did not advance. He watched and waited, sword ready if necessary. The Iron Legionnaires fought efficiently, silently, and they held out for far longer than he could have imagined. Yet outnumbered so vastly they eventually fell, first one by one, then more swiftly as the shieldwall crumbled, until finally the last few fought back to back to fall amid their brothers and sisters. None threw down their weapons or yielded. They perished to a man and a woman.
With victory came great whoops and cheers from Orjin’s force, and they hugged and clapped one another, but Orjin did not join in. He slammed his weapon home and headed off to a nearby cobblestone hut.
Prevost Jeral came jogging up to him, saluted. ‘Congratulations, commander.’
Orjin raised his face to the clean wind once more. ‘Think you so?’
The officer seemed to understand his tone; she lost her smile. ‘The troops needed this. They’ll pull together now.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. That is true at least.’
‘I’ll start the burial detail,’ she said, and headed off.
‘Captain!’ he called after her, and she turned. ‘Leave them be. Do not disturb them.’
‘Really, sir? But don’t you think – that is, it would be disrespectful not to give them the proper rites.’
‘I am giving them their proper rites, captain. Leave them to lie together, shoulder to shoulder. It’s what they marched out here for.’
The Nom officer tilted her head at this, a touch confused, but bowed. ‘As you order, sir.’
That evening the troops celebrated their victory over the storied Iron Legionnaires. Out came long-hidden flasks and wine skins, and campfires roared high through the night.
Orjin sat staring into his fire before the hut he’d taken as the field command. With him sat Yune and Terath. He held his tea-glass in his fingertips, idly swirling the dregs and watching the firelight glint from the glass.