Edward Kann@StoryART
First Post
A potter's field is where we found ourselves.
A mere two hundred of us.
Barely more than a handful compared to the old days.
The Legion Standard, the proud golden hawk of the Emperor was covered in a thick glaze of clay. Nothing more common than that grey green muck. Nothing more capable of sucking the warmth right out of a man and we were covered in it too.
Smoke from the direction of the docks rose into the air. The docks had been our destination and our salvation until that smoke had appeared. It signaled that the commoners had overwhelmed our last ship which had held in place at anchor, valiently holding out to carry us away. Carry us off of the moonlet of Sarpa and home to the Imperial capital. The column of thick oily black rose upwards, towering like a collosus in the air; the final exclamation point at the end of nine hundred years of unbroken Imperial rule.
"THE LEGION WILL HALT!"
Our Officer, likely the last Officer, and a young one at that; barked the command and strode down the line like an old hand.
"DRESS THE LINE!"
We turned to face them at last. Five thousand of the victorious rabble which had followed along behind us half the afternoon; organized themselves with pike in the front ranks and an assortment of common soldiers armed with everything from spears and swords to farming impliments in the back ranks.
How far we had fallen. To face common soldiers who would dare face us in leather and brandishing pitchforks.
The smoking ruin of the walls surrounding Sarpa provided us with a scenic backdrop from where we stood in the midst of that field not worth a handful of silver.
Before our orderly withdrawal towards the docks to the last of the ships we'd provided the victors with a final courtesy in setting a blaze in the center of the city. Our Sorcerer had left behind a present or two of his own.
They would not be forgetting us any time soon in Sarpa.
Time passed.
The occasional bolt from a rebel crossbow or bullet from a rebel musket whistled by or found its mark. Rarely did they penetrate armor to marry themselves into flesh.
I remembered to breath, relax a little. To notice the little things.
The few spots where the green grass growing long and fine had not been trodden into the clay.
The passing of a flight of birds.
I thought about my son. Nearly six years old now in the Imperial city and what a fine man he would grow to become. Grow without me there to guide him.
"PREPARE!"
I had fought in battles before, of course. Killed before, but never received -the- order.
It was of course, the ultimate duty of every sworn brother in the Legion.
There were many who had come through the issue of the final order and had survived and yet for every single one that survived there was something missing. Something was absent behind their eyes.
It was not a moment that I had looked forward to and I had even hoped to finish my ten year in the Seventh without ever drawing the final order.
Yet here; inevitably, the time had come. The likelyhood that I would survive; that I would pass through it to hold my son again was more than remote.
Yet I would not dishonor him by failing in my duty.
I held the ensorcelled gladius, the symbol of our oath in my right hand and my long spear in my left. I could see our foemen through the narrow visor of my helm. The throng surged forward and backward like the beating of waves against rocks. They rebel was caught between the desire to rush at us and stop us from our intended act and fleeing the field.
Fleeing would have been the wiser choice. Many chose unwisely.
"THE ORDER IS GIVEN!"
Time slowed down for me.
I pressed the sharp blade of the gladius into a joint in the side of my armor and felt warmth running down inside, down my leg. Warmth and pain like a cutting cramp. Some men fell to a knee in the act, I managed to stand.
As I stood I felt the ensorcelled blade take my last life's breath, draining every ounce of worldly warmth from my flesh...and I knew...
I knew the secret of the power of the Legion.
"the DREAD legion...shall advansssssss...."
Witnesses reported that at noon the young Imperial Officer gave the final command for the last of the Seventh Dread Legion to advance meeting the valiant freedom fighters of our beloved Sarpa head on.
The battle raged for almost four hours and at the end all of the remaining Imperial troops were destroyed. Three thousand heroes would join them in the clay of the potters field.
From that day forth it was named The Field of Sorrow and it became a shunned and a haunted, lonely place where few dared to wander after dark.
This is the end of the tale of the Seventh Dread Legion and the beginning of the Tale of Timus the son of Varis the Legionaire.
A mere two hundred of us.
Barely more than a handful compared to the old days.
The Legion Standard, the proud golden hawk of the Emperor was covered in a thick glaze of clay. Nothing more common than that grey green muck. Nothing more capable of sucking the warmth right out of a man and we were covered in it too.
Smoke from the direction of the docks rose into the air. The docks had been our destination and our salvation until that smoke had appeared. It signaled that the commoners had overwhelmed our last ship which had held in place at anchor, valiently holding out to carry us away. Carry us off of the moonlet of Sarpa and home to the Imperial capital. The column of thick oily black rose upwards, towering like a collosus in the air; the final exclamation point at the end of nine hundred years of unbroken Imperial rule.
"THE LEGION WILL HALT!"
Our Officer, likely the last Officer, and a young one at that; barked the command and strode down the line like an old hand.
"DRESS THE LINE!"
We turned to face them at last. Five thousand of the victorious rabble which had followed along behind us half the afternoon; organized themselves with pike in the front ranks and an assortment of common soldiers armed with everything from spears and swords to farming impliments in the back ranks.
How far we had fallen. To face common soldiers who would dare face us in leather and brandishing pitchforks.
The smoking ruin of the walls surrounding Sarpa provided us with a scenic backdrop from where we stood in the midst of that field not worth a handful of silver.
Before our orderly withdrawal towards the docks to the last of the ships we'd provided the victors with a final courtesy in setting a blaze in the center of the city. Our Sorcerer had left behind a present or two of his own.
They would not be forgetting us any time soon in Sarpa.
Time passed.
The occasional bolt from a rebel crossbow or bullet from a rebel musket whistled by or found its mark. Rarely did they penetrate armor to marry themselves into flesh.
I remembered to breath, relax a little. To notice the little things.
The few spots where the green grass growing long and fine had not been trodden into the clay.
The passing of a flight of birds.
I thought about my son. Nearly six years old now in the Imperial city and what a fine man he would grow to become. Grow without me there to guide him.
"PREPARE!"
I had fought in battles before, of course. Killed before, but never received -the- order.
It was of course, the ultimate duty of every sworn brother in the Legion.
There were many who had come through the issue of the final order and had survived and yet for every single one that survived there was something missing. Something was absent behind their eyes.
It was not a moment that I had looked forward to and I had even hoped to finish my ten year in the Seventh without ever drawing the final order.
Yet here; inevitably, the time had come. The likelyhood that I would survive; that I would pass through it to hold my son again was more than remote.
Yet I would not dishonor him by failing in my duty.
I held the ensorcelled gladius, the symbol of our oath in my right hand and my long spear in my left. I could see our foemen through the narrow visor of my helm. The throng surged forward and backward like the beating of waves against rocks. They rebel was caught between the desire to rush at us and stop us from our intended act and fleeing the field.
Fleeing would have been the wiser choice. Many chose unwisely.
"THE ORDER IS GIVEN!"
Time slowed down for me.
I pressed the sharp blade of the gladius into a joint in the side of my armor and felt warmth running down inside, down my leg. Warmth and pain like a cutting cramp. Some men fell to a knee in the act, I managed to stand.
As I stood I felt the ensorcelled blade take my last life's breath, draining every ounce of worldly warmth from my flesh...and I knew...
I knew the secret of the power of the Legion.
"the DREAD legion...shall advansssssss...."
Witnesses reported that at noon the young Imperial Officer gave the final command for the last of the Seventh Dread Legion to advance meeting the valiant freedom fighters of our beloved Sarpa head on.
The battle raged for almost four hours and at the end all of the remaining Imperial troops were destroyed. Three thousand heroes would join them in the clay of the potters field.
From that day forth it was named The Field of Sorrow and it became a shunned and a haunted, lonely place where few dared to wander after dark.
This is the end of the tale of the Seventh Dread Legion and the beginning of the Tale of Timus the son of Varis the Legionaire.
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