The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (8 page)

Martius looked back at the legion. He was not smiling any more. “Normally I might agree with you, old friend,” he addressed Turbis, his tone casual. “But the carriages cannot move at the speed we would need to travel. We cannot leave them behind.”

“We could put the passengers on horses.” Turbis waved his hook towards Martius as he spoke, slashing the air gently with each word. “They could be safely away before us.”
 

“And what of Ellasand?” Martius’s expression grew pained. “She cannot ride.”

Turbis’s eyes moistened. His cheeks flushed. “Martius, it’s been weeks… She’s not going to–”

“No.” Martius shook his head. He looked from Turbis to Conlan, perhaps seeking support. “I would not ask you to throw your lives away for Ella.” He lowered his head. “She is not the most important thing here.” He said the words with deliberate force, as if, perhaps, he did not truly believe them. “If the enemy have come, we must do our duty: delay them and allow for evacuation and preparation. We will make our stand here.” He gazed at Turbis for a long moment as if to underline his iron resolve, his eyes steady. Then he turned to Conlan. “You have your orders, General Turbis. You too, Father Conlan.”

It did not take Conlan long to relay Martius’s orders to the legion. Within moments, the task was done and the men began to hustle to occupy their new ‘fortress’.
 

A fortress for sheep, perhaps.
If the Wicklanders were upon them then it was all over.
A fortress for cabbages.
 

On the whole, the men reacted well to the order, and a flush of pride swept through Conlan as he watched them prepare for a hopeless last stand with the rugged determination of the career soldier. He forced himself to appear calm and unperturbed. There were new recruits in the legion, many of them; and it would not go well if they spooked. He felt a moment of pity for the novices and wondered if they grasped the reality of the situation.
Your first engagement could be your last.

A disturbance a small distance to the rear caught his attention. He turned to see Villius reach down, attempting to grab the reigns of a horse. Conlan’s heart skipped a beat. He feared the worst: panic and rout. Then he identified the figure astride the mount.

Felix Elissa appeared to be in a heated discussion with Proctor Villius, and it looked clear to Conlan that she had the better of it.

“Excuse me, sirs.” Conlan called over his shoulder to Martius and Turbis, but the two generals were too engrossed in discussion to notice. He kicked his mount into a gentle canter and headed back through the deploying troops. It would not do for the general’s daughter to be in danger.
 

Conlan had first noticed Felix Elissa at the townhouse in Adarna. As he walked into the bedroom of the lady Ellasand on the night of the attack, he had encountered a charnel house scene more suited to a battlefield. In the middle of it all, supporting herself on a pillar, standing next to the barbarian, Wulf, was Elissa. It was the look on her face that had surprised Conlan – not cowed or beaten, but angry, her eyes blazing with the light and power of it. There was steel, as the saying went, in Felix Elissa; much of her father seemed to have been channelled into her soul.

Riding towards her now, Conlan noted her regal posture as she sat astride her mount, eyes burning with rage.

“I said no!” she protested. Her gaze fixed firmly on Villius, she reached down and tried to wrench the reigns from his hand to no effect. “You cannot just order me about like this.”

Just behind her, her twin brothers bore identical smirks on their faces; they exchanged glances and rolled their eyes derisively.
 

Conlan had learnt quite quickly to tell the Felix twins apart. They were very similar, but Ursus seemed broader and carried a little more weight than his elder brother, and his movements were slower somehow, more measured.

“Come on, Sis,” Accipiter called.

“Yes,” Ursus echoed, looking towards the Southern horizon. “This is serious business, Lissa. We can’t mess about here.”

“Oh shut up, the pair of you!” she snapped in reply.

“Is there a problem here, my lady?” Conlan called over as he trotted his horse towards them.

Elissa’s head snapped around, her eyes alight. When she noticed Conlan her back straightened and her head dropped. He thought, perhaps, that her cheeks flushed.

“Father Conlan,” she said, her tone mild. “Proctor Villius tells me that I must go with the cavalry... that we must withdraw.”

“Those are your father’s orders, miss,” Villius answered, tugging gently on the reigns of her horse.
 

“I told you to stop that!” Elissa snapped, her eyes lighting up again.

Conlan looked towards the south; they had precious little time for delays.
There is no time for his.
He sought for a solution. Every fibre of his being wanted to grab the reigns of her horse and drag her from danger.
It is not safe for you to stay,
he wanted to shout at her. Then a thought struck him.
What would Martius do?
“Proctor Villius,” he said, amazed by how calm his voice sounded, how controlled. “Can you please escort Accipiter and Ursus to the rear? I would like to have a chat with the lady Elissa.”

Accipiter snorted aloud, a huge grin splitting his face. Beside him, Ursus smirked and raised an eyebrow in a passable impression of his father.

Villius gave Conlan a look of profound relief and released the reigns of Elissa’s horse. “Gentlemen,” he addressed the twins. “If you would be so good as to follow me, please?”

The three trotted away. Accipiter glanced back over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eyes, but said nothing.

Conlan brought his horse up beside Elissa’s. He forced down the urge to do as Villius had done, to grab the reigns and force obedience. He knew this would only lead to conflict. “Elissa,” he pitched his voice low, deliberately dropping any attempt at formality, conscious as he did that this was the first time he had really spoken to her. “We are in significant danger.” They were an island of tranquillity amongst the roiling waves that flowed around them as the legion moved to battle readiness. “Your father has ordered that you should go with the cavalry.”

Elissa looked up at him. Her eyes were moist, her cheeks red, but her face remained stern.

Conlan took a breath and waited for a reply; none came. “You will be safe at the rear. We think the Wicklander horde may be approaching. They do not have cavalry as we do–”

“I will not abandon my mother!” she snapped.

Conlan rocked back in his saddle, the force of her words buffeting him like a gale.

“I will not stand by whilst she is in danger.” Elissa glared, wide eyed.

“My lady.” He leaned towards her, pity and understanding rising. “We will look after–”

“I can fight! Why can’t I stay?” She gestured around at the soldiers scurrying by. “Not one of you is as good with a bow as I am, not one!”

Conlan raised his right hand and gently patted her horse’s neck. Perhaps if the beast was calm the girl would follow. “That may be so, my lady, but your father has given his orders. They must be obeyed.”

She stared into his eyes and he returned her gaze, determined not to be the first to break. Just as he thought she would beat him, her eyelids dropped and her shoulders slumped.

“I should not be sent away like a piece of baggage,” she said softly, all signs of her previous ire evaporating like the morning dew. “Who will look after my mother?”

Conlan continued stroking her horse’s neck. He did not know what to say, the words eluded him. He noticed the curve of her thigh against the saddle for the first time; her narrow waist. He flung the thought from his mind, buried it under layers of duty, honour... and a little guilt. “I will protect your mother with my life, you have my word. Andiss and Dexus are with her too, they can fight.” Conlan had no doubt that Martius’s veteran housemen were the match of any man in the legion.

“I thought you...” She shook her head slowly, then sat straight in her saddle, once more the haughty princess. Her face became fixed and stern, the fires rekindled in her eyes. “Make sure you do,” she chided, then pulled on her reigns and kicked her horse into a gallop. She sped away after Villius and her brothers.

It took surprisingly little time for the legion to form up in the field that became their bastion. They stood, three deep, around the entire length of the wall. Conlan ordered the carts brought in through the only entrance, which he then had blocked with a fallen tree and as many branches and rocks as could be found.

The legion waited as the sun rose high over their heads. It reached its zenith and seemed to hang in the firmament too long before beginning its slow precession back to the earth.
 

The wind dropped to nothing, not even a breeze disrupting the heat of the afternoon. Conlan sweated profusely in his armour, his undershirt clinging uncomfortably to his back.
 

Martius spent the entire time outwardly relaxed. He walked amongst the men, chatting and exchanging pleasantries, swapping the odd joke; he even helped to repair a broken section of the wall. Conlan marvelled at the man’s spirit and fought to emulate his actions, but felt he could not get the men to relax as Martius did; the man’s confidence was infectious.
 

As the day wore on, and the dust cloud in the south grew ever larger, even Martius ceased his efforts, but not before addressing the legion.
 

“Men of the Phoenix!” Martius roared. “Today you will prove your mettle. Many of you are young. Some of you have never known battle.” There were jeers and catcalls as some of the older veterans teased the new recruits. “But you come from a long line of heroes.” He scanned the gathered troops. “The Twelfth fought with me at Vindum. Do you remember it, boys?” Shouts of affirmation rose from the ranks as remnants of the shattered Twelfth remembered some of their former pride. “Brave days and brave men. We won the day then and we will win it now if need be.” Martius raised a hand and pointed to Conlan. “Men of the Phoenix Third. For that is what you are now and will always be. Even should you stand before the dark god himself, your rejuvenated fire will shine bright. You are heroes all. Your father, Conlan, fought with you at Sothlind. He, more than any other, helped to save you so that the Phoenix could rise from the flames.” Martius jabbed a finger towards Conlan again. “Will you fight for him?”
 

“Yes!” The cry repeated through the lines.

“Will you fight for me?” Martius’s eyes were wide, his smile broad and confident.

“Yes!” The reply was louder. Some legionaries cheered and raised their swords.
 

“Will you fight for Adarna?”

“YES!” The troops erupted into cheers; many drummed the pommels of their swords on their shields

If the enemy did not know we were here,
Conlan considered,
then they probably know now.
The soaring tumult of the cheering legion must have travelled for miles. He felt a brief stab of shame that he had not thought to rouse the troops with a speech, but then that was, probably, the job of the ranking officer, and he knew he could not have done better.

After the speech, the wait seemed like forever. The initial buzz that followed Martius’s words soon died down and as the early afternoon heat grew, so did the tension and the men became silent once more. All eyes fixed, whenever possible, to the south.

Then, finally, a lone horseman appeared on the road, approaching at a leisurely canter. Heat haze obscured the rider until he was within a bowshot of the legion. His shimmering silhouette gradually resolved into a legionary scout, one of their own, that rode before the main force.
 

The scout cantered up to the field entrance. Conlan moved his mount forward. “Report!” he growled in a parade ground voice, the knot in his stomach beginning to loosen. The scout seemed calm and unconcerned.
Maybe they haven’t come for you. You may yet live another day.
But the thought of the horde made the old wound on his head begin to ache, a dull reminder of his escape from the dark god’s clutches.

The scout removed his blue plumed helmet. Sweat dripped freely from his forehead. “It’s not the enemy, sir.” A palpable sigh arose from the legion. The tension evaporated as the news passed from man to man along the lines. “It’s our boys; it’s the garrison as was left at Sothlind, sir.”

The Wicklander barbarian, Wulf, who stood between two legionaries nearby let out a roaring laugh and beat his chest with a fist. “You live, General, you live!” he called to Martius with a playful glint in his eye.

The corners of Martius’ lips turned up and he nodded agreement, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “All three legions, trooper?” he asked.

The scout nodded and glanced back down the road. “All three, yes sir. All three.”

THE NIGHT WAS DAMP and chill. Low cloud cover had drifted in towards the end of the day along with a north-easterly wind, and the heat that had been so debilitating in the afternoon quickly dissipated.
 

Conlan sat alone in his command tent, his desk cluttered with papers and reports. He found his eyes straining to focus in the light of the candles that were dotted around, each cast dancing shadows that only served to mesmerise and distract. He rose and stretched his arms high in the air, almost touching the blue-stained canvas above, then walked to the brazier in the centre of the tent to warm his hands. It had been a long day.
 

After encountering the legions moving north, General Martius had quickened the pace. They had covered twenty miles today, not a huge distance in legionary terms – a forced march could easily cover thirty – but the soldiers found themselves hampered by bottlenecks on the road. One small bridge, crossing a river that marked the western boundary of the vast Felix estate – the ancestral home of Martius’s family – had caused a long delay as the engineers judged it in need of reinforcement prior to crossing. Conlan wondered at the appropriateness of the army repairing private property – the bridge appeared sound to him – but Martius had been insistent once the issue was broached, ordering the engineers to retrofit the bridge for rapid destruction, as if he still feared attack.
Either that,
Conlan speculated,
or he wants to make his personal fiefdom more easily defensible.