As legionnaires poured up the slope, Donar was thankful to hear the Second's musicians ringing out the "Halt pursuit" call; Rhantis was more concerned with keeping his legion intact that catching his fleeing enemies.
Blood streaming from a cut across the bridge of his nose, Lutaan fell to his knees just in front of Donar, panting heavily, his shield gouged and split in one hand, the legion icon in the other. Donar helped his nephew to his feet.
"Come on, let's get out of here." The First Captain knew it was a bit pointless, but called out for the horns to sound the general retreat, for appearance's sake if nothing else.
He pulled Lutaan's useless shield from his arm and tossed it away, putting his shoulder under the man's arm to help him along. Between gasps, Lutaan laughed fitfully. He looked at Donar, his hand tightening reassuringly on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Uncle, don't listen to me again. This was a shit plan!"
Donar stared in wonder at Lutaan, and at the thousands fleeing up the slope. Despite the defeat that this had turned out to be, he guessed he'd only lost a fifth of his men — so far. More would turn up missing before the legion came together at Denerii, but it was far from being a disaster.
"All things considered," he said to his nephew, "I have to agree with you."
Parmia
Winter, 210th Year of Askh
I
Using a trick he had learnt from his fellow legionnaires, Gelthius thrust his hands down the front of his kilt and used the heat of his groin to warm his numb fingers. His shield was leant against the parapet of the wooden tower, his spear held in the crook of his arm as he wiggled his fingers to get some feeling back into them. The bell had just rung two hours after Noonwatch, but still Gelthius's breath came in clouds of mist.
"Is it always this cold?" he asked Geddiban, the squat Ersuan standing sentry the regulation five paces to his right.
"Not this time of the year," the legionnaire replied. "Rain, there's always plenty of that, but it ain't usually this cold."
"I overheard the captain saying they even had a night frost down in Maasra," added Jirril to the left. "Imagine that. Ice in Maasra."
"It's queer, sure enough," said Gelthius. "Listen to that wind!"
The ten men in the tower did as Gelthius suggested. There seemed to be voices on the wind, long whispers of words Gelthius could not understand, but he detected malice in their tone.
"Just a trick of the mind," said Jirril.
Gelthius had his own opinions, but knew better than to share them. He had been humiliated before when talking about the spirits, mocked by the others in his company for having such superstitions. It didn't matter to them that their grandfathers had made sacrifices to the same spirits that Gelthius talked about; the Brotherhood had done its work well, convincing them that men alone controlled their fate.
Stamping his feet to distract himself from the strange hisses in his ears, Gelthius looked out across the snow-dusted fields. The early winter did not bode well. It was an omen of the spirits' displeasure, he was sure of it.
The other men always complained about standing watch, but the cold aside, Gelthius quite enjoyed it. He had grown used to monotony in the bowels of the landship, and at least guard duty didn't take the bone-aching toll that was the lot of every cranksman. Standing in a tower or pacing along the camp walls gave Gelthius time to ponder the world, something there had been precious little of since he had been drafted into the Thirteenth.
When he had been a turnsman he had idled away the long days with thoughts of what he would do when he had paid off his debt. He would picture his wife and children, the village in duskward Salphoria where they lived, helping on the farms in the warm seasons, picking berries and herding swine through the woods during the winter. He could never have imagined how differently things would turn out. On the very day he should have had his freedom, he had been entangled in all this rebel business, and just as he was getting used to that idea the general had turned up.
He'd travelled all over the world since becoming one of the Thirteenth, up to Ersua and Enair and all the way hotwards into Okhar and Maasra. He'd rooted out hiding Brothers in Askhira and patrolled the streets of the harbour town enforcing the curfew. He'd sailed on a bireme on the Greenwater and peed in the gardens of Nemtun's palace in Geria.
For all that he had done, he had not yet seen a battle, not a proper one. He had talked to legionnaires from the Fifth after they met the Thirteenth duskwards of Narun and heard them talk about the blood and sweat, the fear of not knowing what was happening and the cold trickle of dread they had experienced when they realised they had lost the battle.
It had come as quite a shock to Gelthius. Never in his life had he heard of an Askhan legion defeated. He supposed that when legion fought legion, one of them would have to lose. It was all fine when they were cutting down the scattered warbands of the tribes, but when they matched against each other something had to give, and that something was their reputation for invincibility.
"Do you reckon we could beat another legion?" he asked, putting the question out to everyone on the tower roof.
"We're the Thirteenth," said Geddiban. "There's not another legion can match us. You're a lucky fella, Gelthius, to join us."
"Not even the First?" said Gelthius. "I hear they're pretty handy."
There were chuckles around him.
"What's so funny about that?" Gelthius looked at his companions, who regarded him with a mix of tolerant humour and patronising stares of pity. "Tell me!"
"Well, there's a couple of things to remember about the First," explained the watch captain, Huuril. "They're only led by the king himself, and since he's well into his seventies I can't see that happening. And they're all pure-born Askhans, which means they're all short-arses."
"I still don't understand," said Gelthius. "If Ullsaard wants to be king, that means we'll end up in Askh one way or other. And if we're in Askh, the First ain't gonna sit around and just let us wander into the city. And what does it matter if the First are shorter? Their pikes are just as long."
"Maybe you're right on that first one, but size matters in a fight," said Huuril. "They've got spindly little arms and legs, no meat to them at all. One good shove will send them running."
"But the Askhans came up with the idea of the legions… That's what makes them better than everyone else."
"Maybe against your lot, whooping their heads off and running at a spearwall, but against another legion, those Askhans will be on the shitty end of the stick."
Removing his now warmed hands, Gelthius was about to continue his argument when he hesitated, his ears catching a change in the wind. The voices were still there, harsh and cold, but they had grown more strident.
"You must be able to hear that," he said. "That's not just a trick of the mind."
The others were looking around with concern and did not reply. The voices, though no louder, were speaking rapidly, the cadence of their words increasing in tempo. They throbbed in Gelthius's ears, growing in insistence, worming their way into his mind. His heart beat faster, keeping pace with the awful voices as the rhythm continued to speed up. Through the hissing he could hear disturbance in the camp below; shouts of alarm, the sound of running feet, the pause in the hammering at the armouries.
An eerie quiet settled, not a sound made by any of the thousands of men, only the wind and its disturbing voices could be heard within the camp walls.
"That's jus-" began Arsiil, but he choked. Dropping his spear and shield, he clutched his hands to his throat, eyes bulging.
The legionnaire fell to his knees with a crack, gasping. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips, and he looked at his comrades in terror. Geddiban took a step towards him and suddenly fell, convulsing as he vomited blood across the planks of the tower.