Fight or die.
The words echoed in Vandal's mind as true fear gripped him. Fear few have ever known. It was the fear that coated him in foul smelling sweat, switched the knees to jelly and barely held him up, that turned his bowels to ice water.
'No,' he whispered, 'Marcus, you can't be serious about this!'
Marcus answered with nothing more that a swift nod of the head. Behind Vandal, the men shoved viciously, eager to enter the fray. Jackson staggered but did not fall, held up by his javelin. His eyes turned to it, the tip transformed to molten silver in the new Moon's light. He continued to swing his head back and forth, sweeping the land for a semblance of sanity.
To Vandal's way of thinking, he did not find it. Around him the 12th Legion continued to advance on the so-called Legion of the Damned. Their leader, Aediphus, sat on a massive war-horse. Unlike his soldiers and officers, he wore no armour. Instead he was draped in cloaks and robes of soft black velvet. His hood hid his features, hanging low over his face. In his hand dangled a gladius in a decidedly non-chalant fashion, as though he was bored with the entire affair. He gave every indication that he would be the first to meet the Roman soldiers.
Tears welled up in Vandal's eyes, blurring his vision, 'How can this be? Where the hell am I?' His voice rose to a scream, 'Where the hell AM I?'
Marcus grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back, 'Jackson, listen to me. Follow my lead and you will not be hurt. You have to do this, you are a Roman soldier now.'
'No!' Vandal yelled, his face turned red from the strain, 'Fuck you! Fuck you Marcus! You may be crazy enough to die, but not me! Screw you!' An image swam into his head, of the cartoon South Park. He was Cartman saying to his friends, 'Screw you guys, I'm going home.' He had to stifle a giggle. Realizing the absurdity of it all, Vandal wondered if perhaps he was losing his mind.
Vandal's delirious and panicky wondering were interrupted by the sound of the two armies meeting. Cries of the men screaming for blood and screaming from their wounds cut the still air. Vandal's groups surged forward, shoving and jostling him as he fought against Marcus. Images of the field flashed into his head, of the Romans pushing against him, of the two armies colliding, their respective colours of red and black mixing briefly into one. Here and there, showers of blood shot up and fell back onto the men like a grim rain. Centurion Glaceius's voice cut through the din and demanded that they firm their formation up. They were supposed to be moving along the line and provide the men support where it was needed. However, Vandal stopped them.
'Jackson,' Marcus ordered, 'return to the line.'
'No,' Vandal yelled like a petulant three year old, 'No. NO!'
Glaceius swore under his breath and turned toward his command. That fool newcomer, the soft, fat one had held the line up. Already breaks were beginning to form. He cast a quick look back at the battle. Horror broke over the Centurion as he saw Aediphus cut into the Romans like a knife through butter. His mighty horse lay on the ground, victim of a dozen javelins, but Aediphus paid it no heed. He tore through the defending soldiers as though they were made of paper.
Glaceius dug his heels into his mounts side and charged towards his men. He had no more time to spare for cowards. Expertly, he brought his mount to a dead halt in front of Vandal and lashed out with his scepter. Vandal's head snapped around from the blow and he fell to the ground. Had it not been for the helmet he wore and his quick reflexes, his head would have been split in two.
Marcus stared down at his fallen comrade, a mixture of disgust and compassion painted across his face. Glaceius' order to advance brought him out of his reverie and he raised his javelin to the stars. His battle cry blending with the screams.
Vandal gradually regained consciousness. The sounds of the battle grew from a faint, far-off sound to a loud crash into his temples. He groaned and began to sit up when blackness over-took him. He stomach heaved from the motion. Groaning, he clutched his head. The helmet he wore barely covered to the huge bump that had grown where Glaceius had struck him. He tried to shake off the nausea. His head was swimming, making it hard for him to think straight. He remembered being in a Roman Legion, but that could not be. He remembered the men around him hell-bent on killing themselves and dragging him with them. He wondered briefly if he had finally managed to drink himself into oblivion, but surely the after-life would not hurt this much.
Vandal risked opening his eyes. His head hurt far worse than any hangover he had ever had. Luckily, it was night and not day or his head would have exploded in pain once more. His vision swam and blurred in front of him, the land seeming to be covered in wet lumps all around him. Reaching out, he realized it was people. Terrified, he knew the nightmare was far from over.
The battle still raged around him but was quieter now. Vandal tried to stand but fell back into the blood soaked earth. Soldiers were splayed out all around him, hacked into horrible twisted remnants of the men they once were. Weeping, Vandal began to crawl away but could not find a path through the bodies. So covered in blood were they he could not tell which side they had fought for - their life-blood had turned all their uniforms to a chilling black. The coppery smell invaded Vandal and stuck in the back of his throat. He coughed and hacked but could not escape it.
A booted foot stomped down in front of his face, black robes wet with red liquid sweeping down around them. Vandal gasped and looked into the face of Aediphus, leader of the Legion of the Damned.
Aediphus stared down and through Jackson - only seeing another soldier to kill. His arm was wet up to the elbow from his defeated enemies, his sword completely covered in the red stuff. Where the flesh was not covered, it shone in the moonlight the purest colour of white. His hair hung long and limply, his eyes were bottomless black wells. Aediphus began to laugh, enjoying the horror twisting across Vandal's features as a scream of dismay and loathing was about to issue forth. Aediphus raised his arm and slashed down with his sword.
A flash of silver broke through Vandal's vision. The sound of metal on metal echoed in the night. Marcus was suddenly in front of Vandal and fighting a desperate battle against the enemy leader. Vandal again tried to get to his feet but his injury would not allow it. He collapsed, groaning. Marcus fought hard, his gladius flashing in the night. He had a natural skill coupled with training from the finest Centurion in the Legions. He parried and lashed out at his enemy, only to find his opponent carrying strength he had never seen, a speed unlike any opponent he had ever faced. He could barely keep track of the movements of Aediphus; only his training and instinct bore him through the fight. Their swords clashed time and again, the reverberations numbing Marcus's arm. Marcus began to doubt whether he could defeat Aediphus when his enemy slipped on the slick ground, momentarily distracting him. With all his strength and one desperate cry ripping out of his throat, he drove his gladius into the torso of his nemesis.
Aediphus staggered backwards from the force of the blow, his robes billowing out from behind him as the gladius burst through his back. Vandal let loose a cry of victory that was echoed by a smile across Marcus' face. The smile faded as a black, foul smelling substance gushed from the wound, covering Marcus's hands and arms. He looked at it questioningly, then into the face of his enemy, who should be quite dead.
Aediphus laughed, his mouth opening impossible wide, moonlight flashing on his extended canines. Reaching down he tore the offending blade from his chest and returned the favour. Vandal screamed from behind him, as he witnessed Marcus's deathblow.
Marcus was lifted clear off his feet as Aediphus plunged his weapon into him. First came the crunching sound of his armour being punched through, and then came the snapping of bone and sinew. The point of the blade erupted from his back like a newly formed volcano. A look of pain and shock flew over Marcus' features.
'Jackson,' he yelled, his breath frothy with blood, 'Save yourself...run...' His voice faded away.
Aediphus grunted savagely, twisting and jerking the blade further and further up Marcus's torso. Then, like a child bored of a new toy, he flung the man aside as one throws a pillow off a bed. Marcus landed with a hollow thump next to Vandal. He looked into the dead eyes of his friend, muttering a prayer for the first time in his life. Blackness overcame him. Vandal slipped away, not fighting it in the least.
Vandal again awoke, even more surprised to find himself alive. His head pounded a little less, the nausea almost gone. He glanced down and saw why he had been left alone. With his obvious head injury, blood splattered clothes and chalk-white features, it was no wonder anyone looking at him would think him quite dead. He turned and observed the body of Marcus next to him.
Seeing the body of his friend, Vandal choked back a cry of sorrow. Reaching out, he brushed aside the young man's stray hair and was repelled by the feeling. Cold and hard, it was like touching a wax dummy. Vandal could not help but cry. He cradled the dead Roman's head against his shoulder.
'Marcus, I'm sorry. So very sorry.'
Vandal covered his face and began to cry in great heaving gulps. The kind of weeping that tore into the body and racked its sides. Marcus was as close to a friend as Vandal had had in a very long time. The man had shown patience and understanding unlike any other he had ever known. Vandal had returned the man's favour by letting him die. Anger came over him, mixing with his grief like water and sand on a beach. Vandal accepted where he was for the first time. He did not know how or why but he knew the voice in his head whispered the truth. For some reason, he was in a Roman Legion. His refusal to accept his situation had led to the death of the only good person he would ever know. Vandal railed at the fates for it.
Far off, he heard the distinct sound of metal on metal. Vandal had come to know that sound quite well the last few hours. Cautiously he raised himself to his knees, aware of his head injury and the continued ringing in his ears. This time, however, he did not faint.
In the distance he saw Glaceius defending against three of the black-garbed soldiers. He favoured one leg over the other, a river of blood running down and pooling around his sandled foot. Glaceius was good but everyone had his limits. Without help, he would soon discover his. Vandal quickly took in the scene around him, eager to find another friendly Roman.
There was only the dead. The horizon began to turn a fierce orange heralding the coming dawn. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning sprang into his mind. He did not bother to wonder where such thoughts came from. Without them he presumed, he would go mad. They're all dead, he thought the black eyed monster killed them all!
The anger that was growing in him became a full-on inferno. Vandal rose to his feet and turned back towards the fight a distance away. Glaceius had fallen back, the three slowly advancing towards him. They were taking their time, not overly eager to confront the veteran but knowing there was only one way it could end.
Wrong, Vandal thought viciously, this day is not done yet.
Vandal reached down and lifted up a smooth round stone. It was about the size of a baseball. He knew that on the battlefield his abilities where far inferior to these experienced warriors but he had other talents to draw on. Vandal had been the best damn pitcher in the minors and would have made the big time if not for his loud mouth and thirst for drink. Probably cured of that; I'm not thirsty at all. Who would've thought that? I should want to be pissy drunk right now.
Vandal took a pitchers pose and released the rock straight at one of the enemy's head. The rock was easily surpassing a hundred miles an hour when it connected square in the forehead. There was a dull thunk, the man's eyes losing their light and his helmet deforming from the blow. He flew back a few feet and remained very still.
Vandal did not wait for his companion to recover from the shock of seeing his friend collapse. Vandal charged at him, running full tilt. He drew out his gladius and for the first time, recognized how it felt like a bat in his hands. The man was bent over his friend, momentarily confused when he saw Vandal's charge. Turning towards his attacker, he dropped his javelin and tried to draw his sword for close combat when Vandal swung for the fences.
The flat of the blade connected solidly with the man's head, snapping it around and dropping him. He fell to the ground, bounced once and then was as still as his friend. Vandal was breathing hard, his hand clenched around the bone handle of his weapon when he heard a grunt behind him. Whirling around, he was just in time to see Glaceius dispatch the third attacker. Their eyes met.
'I see you have found your backbone,' Glaceius said through gritted teeth.
'Lucky for you,' Vandal retorted.