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The Doomed Bastards: Reckoning (story complete)
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<blockquote data-quote="Lazybones" data-source="post: 3859602" data-attributes="member: 143"><p>Thanks for the praise, thelettuceman. I appreciate you unlurking to post. </p><p></p><p>* * * * * </p><p></p><p>Chapter 282</p><p></p><p>A RUDE AWAKENING</p><p></p><p></p><p>Velan Tiros, Tribune of Camar, woke suddenly. </p><p></p><p>The former marshal had picked up the habits of a light sleeper in his first campaign. Those instincts had been dulled just a bit, perhaps, by the recent months sleeping in comfortable quarters in the Ducal Palace. With consciousness came awareness of the myriad physical aches that had become constant companions of late. Tiros pushed them aside ruthlessly. Old age was a real bitch, but one had to make an accommodation with her. </p><p></p><p>“What is it?” Tiros asked, before realizing that his adjutant hadn’t woken him; he was alone in his tent. </p><p></p><p>The Tribune pulled back his coverlet and rose, shivering slightly in the cold air. Through the thin gap in the opening of his tent he could see that it was still dark, likely that deep, quiet time that came just before the dawn. </p><p></p><p>He did not remember what had woken him, but he felt an odd tingle, a sense of anticipation that he’d learned not to question. Then he heard it; a faint noise, distant, but likely still within the borders of the camp. The stockade walls served to keep in sounds, he knew from his days with the legions. One learned to tune out the background noises, which were a constant feature of an occupied camp, even in the depths of night. He wasn’t familiar with the distinctive noises of Trajaran yet, but they weren’t far off from those of every other camp he’d spent time in during his life as a soldier. </p><p></p><p>But this was something different. And then a noise he knew all too well; a scream, thick with fear and agony. </p><p></p><p>When his adjutant finally burst into the tent, the marshal was already buckling on his armor. “Status!” he barked, reaching for his sword. The weapon was magical, a prize taken from Rappan Athuk. It was not <em>Valor</em>, but it nevertheless bore a potent enchantment. Talen had given it to him...</p><p></p><p>He thrust that thought violently aside as the adjutant tried to make sense of chaos. “There’s an attack... something, in the camp, it seems to be localized in one place, cohorts are rallying...”</p><p></p><p>Tiros yanked the swordbelt tight around his torso, and cinched the buckle. “Come on,” he said, clapping the young man hard on the shoulder. </p><p></p><p>Once outside the tent, Tiros could better discern the situation in the camp from the layered noises that filled the area within the stockade wall. Men were all around, the yells of sergeants and centurions trying to bring order out of the chaos. The men of the Second were veterans, and the situation was not complete anarchy, although it would have taken a keen eye to recognize the difference. </p><p></p><p>Over it all, Tiros was drawn to the noises coming from one part of the camp, near the rear wall of the stockade. His adjutant had to hurry to keep up with him as he rushed in that direction. Another man rushed up, bringing his horse, but Tiros ignored him; the camp wasn’t <em>that</em> big, and he didn’t want to risk trampling someone in the dark. A pair of men bearing torches appeared, joining the small coterie that had formed in the Tribune’s wake. </p><p></p><p>By the time he reached the source of the disturbance, just over a minute later, his followers had grown to a loosely organized mob of just over a hundred men. The noises had come from within a knot of old barracks, most of which hadn’t yet been rehabilitated for safe occupancy. With the rickety old structures unsuitable for use, the unit assigned to this location had set up its tents in the open space between the long, low buildings. There was a fairly large gathering of men there already, about forty men, armed and armored, facing inward. Tiros could taste the fear in the air. </p><p></p><p>A terrible cry rose from within the circle of men, a noise of torment and longing. Tiros thrust himself forward, and as those on the outer edge of the ring heard his approach, they parted and gave him access. Tiros could see that the camp was in disarray, with several of the tents lying collapsed, and the weapons that should have been gathered in neat arrays were scattered about. The light was poor, but he saw something lying half out of a tent that might have been a body. The command tent for the century, a heavy structure the size of a small cottage, had been erected against one of the barracks on the far side of the clearing. </p><p></p><p>“What in the name of all the gods...”</p><p></p><p>“Sir, watch out!”</p><p></p><p>Several things happened all at once. There was a loud crash that came from within the command tent, followed by a sick cracking noise that sent a cold chill down the former marshal’s spine. But even as the soldier shouted his warning, Tiros stepped forward into a wave of pain. </p><p></p><p>The wracking needles of agony made his muscle aches feel trivial by comparison. It was as if someone had thrust a hot knife into his body in a dozen places. Fire clenched in his gut, and he was barely able to keep the bile from exploding out of his throat. </p><p></p><p>Several men rushed forward and grabbed him, and pulled him back. As they retreated, the pains eased. </p><p></p><p>Tiros scanned the crowd, and finally settled on a man wearing the shoulder boards of a non-commissioned officer. There were no men of higher rank present, as far as he could see, but many of those present were not in uniform, clad in bits of armor or the plain tunics worn by members of the legion when off-duty. “What is going on here, sergeant?”</p><p></p><p>The sergeant’s uniform bore the markings of a veteran campaigner, but his face was pale and his hands shook as he spoke. “There’s something... in the tent, sir... we can’t approach, the pain... It’s coming from inside... We heard... sir, it was terrible...”</p><p></p><p>“Cordon off the area!” Tiros shouted, directing the order to the men behind him. He glanced back at the command tent, gauged the distance at about fifty feet. The tent was dark, so he could not see what was inside, not even the shadows of movement. “Set torches around the perimeter!” </p><p></p><p>“Sir!” The shout was accompanied by a palpable surge of dismay from the crowd. </p><p></p><p>Tiros turned in time to see the thing that emerged from the tent. </p><p></p><p>Only subtle hints remained to indicate that it had once been a man. The remnants of a legion tunic clung to its hips, and the markings of what might have been a legion tattoo covered one shoulder. It was difficult to tell; its flesh was gray and bloated, its body gruesomely obese. Its face was an abomination, dominated by huge jaws that were covered with blood. It carried a bloody mess of a carcass, and as the legionaries watched in horror, it lifted its prize to its mouth, and thrust huge gobs of still-warm human meat down its massive gullet. </p><p></p><p>The soldiers of Camar cried out and retreated as the monster’s aura of pain washed over them with its approach. </p><p></p><p>All save one. </p><p></p><p>Tiros stood there, his face tight with the effort of withstanding the waves of agony that radiated from the creature. He drew his sword. </p><p></p><p>“SLAY THAT MONSTER, FOR CAMAR!” he shouted, his voice echoing loudly throughout the camp, like a beacon lifted in the darkness.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lazybones, post: 3859602, member: 143"] Thanks for the praise, thelettuceman. I appreciate you unlurking to post. * * * * * Chapter 282 A RUDE AWAKENING Velan Tiros, Tribune of Camar, woke suddenly. The former marshal had picked up the habits of a light sleeper in his first campaign. Those instincts had been dulled just a bit, perhaps, by the recent months sleeping in comfortable quarters in the Ducal Palace. With consciousness came awareness of the myriad physical aches that had become constant companions of late. Tiros pushed them aside ruthlessly. Old age was a real bitch, but one had to make an accommodation with her. “What is it?” Tiros asked, before realizing that his adjutant hadn’t woken him; he was alone in his tent. The Tribune pulled back his coverlet and rose, shivering slightly in the cold air. Through the thin gap in the opening of his tent he could see that it was still dark, likely that deep, quiet time that came just before the dawn. He did not remember what had woken him, but he felt an odd tingle, a sense of anticipation that he’d learned not to question. Then he heard it; a faint noise, distant, but likely still within the borders of the camp. The stockade walls served to keep in sounds, he knew from his days with the legions. One learned to tune out the background noises, which were a constant feature of an occupied camp, even in the depths of night. He wasn’t familiar with the distinctive noises of Trajaran yet, but they weren’t far off from those of every other camp he’d spent time in during his life as a soldier. But this was something different. And then a noise he knew all too well; a scream, thick with fear and agony. When his adjutant finally burst into the tent, the marshal was already buckling on his armor. “Status!” he barked, reaching for his sword. The weapon was magical, a prize taken from Rappan Athuk. It was not [i]Valor[/i], but it nevertheless bore a potent enchantment. Talen had given it to him... He thrust that thought violently aside as the adjutant tried to make sense of chaos. “There’s an attack... something, in the camp, it seems to be localized in one place, cohorts are rallying...” Tiros yanked the swordbelt tight around his torso, and cinched the buckle. “Come on,” he said, clapping the young man hard on the shoulder. Once outside the tent, Tiros could better discern the situation in the camp from the layered noises that filled the area within the stockade wall. Men were all around, the yells of sergeants and centurions trying to bring order out of the chaos. The men of the Second were veterans, and the situation was not complete anarchy, although it would have taken a keen eye to recognize the difference. Over it all, Tiros was drawn to the noises coming from one part of the camp, near the rear wall of the stockade. His adjutant had to hurry to keep up with him as he rushed in that direction. Another man rushed up, bringing his horse, but Tiros ignored him; the camp wasn’t [i]that[/i] big, and he didn’t want to risk trampling someone in the dark. A pair of men bearing torches appeared, joining the small coterie that had formed in the Tribune’s wake. By the time he reached the source of the disturbance, just over a minute later, his followers had grown to a loosely organized mob of just over a hundred men. The noises had come from within a knot of old barracks, most of which hadn’t yet been rehabilitated for safe occupancy. With the rickety old structures unsuitable for use, the unit assigned to this location had set up its tents in the open space between the long, low buildings. There was a fairly large gathering of men there already, about forty men, armed and armored, facing inward. Tiros could taste the fear in the air. A terrible cry rose from within the circle of men, a noise of torment and longing. Tiros thrust himself forward, and as those on the outer edge of the ring heard his approach, they parted and gave him access. Tiros could see that the camp was in disarray, with several of the tents lying collapsed, and the weapons that should have been gathered in neat arrays were scattered about. The light was poor, but he saw something lying half out of a tent that might have been a body. The command tent for the century, a heavy structure the size of a small cottage, had been erected against one of the barracks on the far side of the clearing. “What in the name of all the gods...” “Sir, watch out!” Several things happened all at once. There was a loud crash that came from within the command tent, followed by a sick cracking noise that sent a cold chill down the former marshal’s spine. But even as the soldier shouted his warning, Tiros stepped forward into a wave of pain. The wracking needles of agony made his muscle aches feel trivial by comparison. It was as if someone had thrust a hot knife into his body in a dozen places. Fire clenched in his gut, and he was barely able to keep the bile from exploding out of his throat. Several men rushed forward and grabbed him, and pulled him back. As they retreated, the pains eased. Tiros scanned the crowd, and finally settled on a man wearing the shoulder boards of a non-commissioned officer. There were no men of higher rank present, as far as he could see, but many of those present were not in uniform, clad in bits of armor or the plain tunics worn by members of the legion when off-duty. “What is going on here, sergeant?” The sergeant’s uniform bore the markings of a veteran campaigner, but his face was pale and his hands shook as he spoke. “There’s something... in the tent, sir... we can’t approach, the pain... It’s coming from inside... We heard... sir, it was terrible...” “Cordon off the area!” Tiros shouted, directing the order to the men behind him. He glanced back at the command tent, gauged the distance at about fifty feet. The tent was dark, so he could not see what was inside, not even the shadows of movement. “Set torches around the perimeter!” “Sir!” The shout was accompanied by a palpable surge of dismay from the crowd. Tiros turned in time to see the thing that emerged from the tent. Only subtle hints remained to indicate that it had once been a man. The remnants of a legion tunic clung to its hips, and the markings of what might have been a legion tattoo covered one shoulder. It was difficult to tell; its flesh was gray and bloated, its body gruesomely obese. Its face was an abomination, dominated by huge jaws that were covered with blood. It carried a bloody mess of a carcass, and as the legionaries watched in horror, it lifted its prize to its mouth, and thrust huge gobs of still-warm human meat down its massive gullet. The soldiers of Camar cried out and retreated as the monster’s aura of pain washed over them with its approach. All save one. Tiros stood there, his face tight with the effort of withstanding the waves of agony that radiated from the creature. He drew his sword. “SLAY THAT MONSTER, FOR CAMAR!” he shouted, his voice echoing loudly throughout the camp, like a beacon lifted in the darkness. [/QUOTE]
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