A Good Warrior

He couldn't see. He couldn't see, and the other man was coming for him. He couldn't feel the blows anymore, he staggered back and forth, he held his hands up and when the blur of the other man came into his tunneled sight he swung but he could barely feel if his hits connected or not. There was blood on his face, blood on his knuckles, blood in his boots.

It started almost as soon as they established camp in the Twin Mothers basin. Decanus Cassiel began with snide remarks, suggesting loudly that the Dead Souls should be kept not with the other contubernias but in the animal pen. Mortuus ignored him, all of his men were used to similar treatment by their peers. Typically the jeers and insults would cease after the other Legionaries saw them in battle, but Twin Mothers was a different battlefield. The Dead Souls were a different contubernia.

It used to be they were the first into the fray and the last out. No centurion wanted authority of the loathsome Dead Souls and it became almost a game to see who could kill them. If it was an insane risk with no chance of survival the Dead Souls were sent to do it.

Eventually, though, a funny thing happened. The Dead Souls kept coming back. They survived, they grew tougher and meaner, they stopped being such expendable assets. Centurions began to hold them back from the front lines. They were valuable Legionaries, if only just. It took much longer for their veteran statuses to be recognized than it did for other Legionaries, but it happened. The Dead Souls were too valuable to waste as cannon fodder for the guns of a few security robots.

They didn't participate in the early battle and by the time they were assaulted by a fresh platoon of security robots there were too many Legionaries for the Dead Souls to distinguish themselves. They all just sat and looked ugly and invited slurs and hatred in the Twin Mothers basin Legion Camp. Leading the harassment was Veteran Decanus Cassiel.

In the beginning Cassiel's campaign was limited to loudly making rude comments, or casually insulting Mortuus and his men. Nothing the Dead Souls hadn't heard before, even as the volume steadily increased. As the days wore on the other contubernias began throwing trash at Mortuus' ghouls, or anyone seen with the ghouls. They destroyed the Dead Soul's tents, again and again, defacing them with filth and garbage. All this and the Dead Souls would've been fine, if it weren't for the whispers.

When they first made camp after burning the Twin Mothers crops they began to hear her, although no-one knew what was happening at first. The whispers filled everyone's heads, but everyone refused to acknowledge the whispers for fear that they were the only one. It seemed as though a beautiful woman's voice was talking to them.

"Turn back," was the first message, a soft whisper so quiet it was almost silent yet so insistent it could not be ignored.

"There is nothing for you here," she continued.

"You have nothing to gain."

The Legate made an official announcement, explaining that there was actually a woman whispering to the whole camp. He told the Legionaries her whispers were lies, and should be ignored. That it was a simple trick of the Twin Mothers, and was no threat to the Legion's might. All they had to do was ignore the voice, and soon it would stop, and the Twin Mothers would fall.

But it didn't stop. It grew more aggressive the longer they camped in the basin. She whispered to them every day, scathing insults and repeated discouragements meant to break their spirits.

"You are a tool, a weak puppet being manipulated by those who don't care whether you live or die. You are a simple tool, a blunt instrument with no thoughts of your own, no reason or creativity. You are not a man, you might as well be dead!"

Most Legionaries just shrugged it off at first, of course they were being used by men who didn't care whether they lived or died, that was central to the Legion's philosophy. No man was given the right to live, it was earned through conquest. Yet as she repeated it, again and again, the men began to falter. Some fled, only to be brought back and executed. After fleeing proved to be futile the men simply started killing themselves outright. The Malpais and his centurions began to make speeches everyday, boasting of the greatness of the Legion and the strength and abilities of its Legionaries. Morale-boosting became the number one concern of the elites, and contests of strength were organized, the winners rewarded handsomely with food and women. They kept their losses to about a man a day.

No-one got it worse than the Dead Souls, who were on the receiving end of discouragement and insults from the whispers and their peers. The tension grew, and one day Reave broke. They sat down to eat cold rations from the previous meal and the whispering began. It was never clear if the whispers were consistent for all Legionaries or if each man heard their own.

"You are a simple tool, a blunt instrument wielded by scarred and blighted hands. All you sow is death and all you shall reap is death. There are no great rewards for the tools of a blighted hand," was what Mortuus heard. He turned to Reave, who was ashen-faced. Reave looked at Mortuus directly in the eyes as he pulled out a pistol and shot himself through the head.

Decanus Cassiel was not as physically imposing as Mortuus Anima, possibly some deeply disguised insecurity stemming from such motivated his zealous animosity. He was certainly not a small man, though, it was just compared to Mortuus Anima that most Legionaries looked smaller. In any case he was the only Legionary willing to accept Mortuus' challenge in the arena. He was also the first to be challenged by Mortuus, who did not follow protocol by walking into Cassiel's tent and punching him in the face.

They donned their gladiator gear for the fight. It was the biggest crowd the camp had seen since establishment. Both men opted to fight without machetes. Although Cassiel was smaller and not as tough as Mortuus he was faster, and they were evenly matched. For every blow Mortuus struck against Cassiel, Cassiel struck two blows against Mortuus. Every grapple Mortuus trapped Cassiel in, Cassiel wormed his way out. The battle continued on longer than any fight Mortuus had engaged in since turning seventeen.

They were both bloody and beaten. Each man staggered on his feet, breathing hard, no longer feeling the blows. No longer caring. It all ended in a single blow. Cassiel retreated to the edge of the fighting pit, close to where he could hear the jeers and calls of the watching Legionaries distantly through his cauliflower-ed ears. He gathered all his strength, staring furiously at the hulking black figure in front of him and charged. Mortuus could barely see him, but with the shaky agility of a man without any energy left jumped back, grabbed Cassiel's arm and snapped it, pushing Cassiel to the ground. The fight was over. Cassiel lay bruised and broken, his crimson blood slowly pooling around him. But he was alive.

"Finish him," the Legate ordered Mortuus. Mortuus, unsteady on his feet and trying to wipe his own blood out of his eyes looked at the Legate, and with all the defiance he could muster said one word.

"No."

It was unprecedented. No Legionary defied their superior, much less the Legate himself. Mortuus might as well have defied Caesar. The crowd around the fighting arena was stunned. Where there had once been raucous noise that could be heard all the way up the cliff-face there was now silence. Everyone wondered what the Legate would do.

"It is the law of the Legion. You have bested this Legionary in the arena, you must kill him," the Legate said, calmly but firmly.

"He's a good warrior. I don't want to kill a good warrior," Mortuus told his commander. During their battle Mortuus had developed a grudging respect for Cassiel that he could not deny, even in the face of Legion authority.

"He is not fit to be a Legionary. If you disobey, you are not fit to be a Legionary, and you both shall die," The Legate did not raise his voice, he did not reprimand Mortuus. He simply reminded Mortuus Anima the way of Caesar's Legion. There was no arguing.

Mortuus sighed and limped over to Cassiel's prone body. He picked up the fallen decanus, and twisted the man's neck until it snapped. The spectators cheered, except for the Legate, who merely watched. Watched and contemplated.