Hello, brave readers! The party is divided, and each of them must now forge their own path, through a new land. First up is our own Lord Commander, hot on the trail of the abductees from beyond the skyrakers.
As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy...
The Oath Of Mars, Part 4: Crusade
Marius was in quite a lot of pain. How many times had he awoken from some trauma induced slumber to such a sensation?
Far too many times, he decided.
His leg felt strange. Was it broken?
No. Just tangled in something. His senses were returning to him. His body half rested on the cold, wet ground and half hung by one foot.
He opened his eyes.
"...lamri..."
The warhorse towered above him, drinking from a stream. His foot was caught in one stirrup.
"...Lamri...Sit!"
Crying out weakly, he manages to catch Lamri's ear. Laying down, she gives him the slack he needs to disengage his metalclad foot from the troublesome strap.
He looks around. they were in a small clearing, with a stream of snowmelt running through it. Behind him was a gouge in the underbrush, where something large had crashed through. Lamri, with his senseless form lashed behind, no doubt. Thankfully, his armor seems to have protected him from the worst of the dragging. But, as he shifted one shoulder, he found it had not preserved him entirely from harm, as a white-hot lance of pain shot through it.
Gasping, he looked to his left. Through one shoulderplate was a spear with a wooden shaft and a long iron head. A pilum, though Marius would have no way of knowing it's name. It hurt, badly. Had his shoulder been ran through?
His knowledge of field medicine came to him as he analyzed the lodged weapon. He didn't feel any blood on his person, nor a foreign object within his flesh. The spear had merely pierced his armor, not his skin. Carefully removing the weapon from his pauldron, his prognosis proved true. It was clean of blood, and the pyramidal tip lacked a point. His armor must have blunted the tip before it reached his gambeson. The spear still had it's weight, however; his shoulder must have been knocked from the joint by the impact. A simple dislocation. Easily, if not pleasantly, fixed. But he had to get his armor off, first. He dragged himself up against a nearby tree, and set to work.
He realized, as he began the slow, agonizing task of removing a plate cuirass unassisted with one arm, that he doesn't even remember why he's like this. What in the hell happened?
Looking at the spear, discarded in the snow at his side, he began to remember. That woman...
"Take him breathing, my sons!"
The Imperials charged at the word of their master, and Marius charged in turn.
Lamri, cloaked in layers of silver-gilt steel plates, merely bowled through the hastily made first line, front legs kicking and trampling all in front of her. Swinging his halberd at her flanks, Marius struck down those at their sides.
Turning on a dime as they passed the collection of soldiers, he bid her run once more, halberd tucked under one arm, spearpoint leveled at their leader.
"This ferocity! Surely, to send so fine a warrior into our hands is a good omen!"
Gradivus squared himself, ready for the lance. Holding still as a statue, he imagined he was fighting the bull of Crete, as Hercules once did. He would dive to the side, and wrench the silvery warrior down from his perch by his strange axe-spear's shaft. On galloping hooves, his enemy came steadily closer...
But the blow never came.
With a clang of metal on metal and a cry of agony, the commander fell from his mount, a pilum in his shoulder. Crashing to the ground, his head came down upon a rock, and his body went still as his panicked steed dragged him away by one leg. He contemplated sending men after it, but it would be for naught. Landing on his scalp like that, he can't imagine he survived. Turning around, he lays eyes on the one responsible. The one he had expected to see. The third of his fellow aspects, and the most troublesome of their number.
"Mars Quirinus. Fond of cutting the knot, as always."
Little of her golden-brown skin was visible under her armor, a full body suit of lorica segmentata, but she bore no helmet, allowing him to see the distaste in her eyes with the greatest of ease. Though born under the Empire's rule, she was one of the conquered peoples, hailing originally from Misr.
"We have no time for your games, Gradivus. We have what you need for the tournament. Let us return."
"Tournament? No. Not a tournament. A ritual. The hostia. We will weed out the strongest among them, and offer the last up to Mars. In so doing, we will curry his favor for the coming campaign. I know you are not a believer, but can you at least do what I ask of you?"
"I do. The hostia will not be stopped for the lack of one man."
"True. But Mars frowns today. This displeases me. Remember that, Quirinus."
Without another word, he turns heel and walks away. The third aspect doesn't need to turn her head to feel Ultor, the ever-loyal lapdog, burning his gaze into her.
He was struck down. By a dark-skinned woman. And just before he had the chance to take their leader down, too. Damn.
Tossing his breastplate to the side with a clatter, he prepares to reset his shoulder.
The first step was to relax. Tense muscles made reducing the joint all but impossible. Breathing deeply, in and out, he looked to Lamri. She seemed to pity him.
"...At least you don't have to kill me when my limbs fail me."
Lamri stares on. Obliviously.
Alright. Step two. He eased himself down, until he was lying on his back. Then, he reached his dislocated arm- slowly, very slowly, stopping whenever the pain flares- to his side, then above his head.
Step three. He reached his hand, once again very slowly, behind his head, till his palm was hovering over the back of his neck. He took another deep breath, being sure to remain calm.
Step four. He steadily stretched his hand for the opposite shoulder, the undamaged shoulder, until...
...It was not an audible pop, nor a sickly crack. In truth, it wasn't much of anything at all. Just a sudden shifting within himself. But the pain was gone. His arm was fixed. Somewhat sore, mind you, but functional. Working his shoulder to check for a pinched vein or nerve, he found nothing unusual. Sighing deeply, he looked to his steed.
"And that, dear Lamri, is how it's done. Shame it'll never apply to you."
He attempts to stand- only, doing it perhaps a bit too suddenly, he stumbles, only barely catching himself against the tree. Dammit. Of course. He must have landed head first after he fell. A concussion. The only real way to 'treat' a concussion was rest. But he couldn't afford to rest. His people needed him.
He looked around. Needless to say, his halberd, the Rose, was gone, dropped in his impromptu flight from the camp. But he still had the falcatta through his belt.
Redonning his armor, he mounted his steed.
Just how long had he been out? Night was falling. Had it been mere hours, or a day? It was impossible to tell.
He had discarded his armor in a bush as he approached the camp. Too loud. He was no Peacekeeper, mind you, but Elizabeth had taught him the basics of moving quietly. He remembers Garth laughing. He was 'big bloke in a metal casket', when would he ever need to sneak around?
Well, there's a first time for everything. It seems that most of them were gone. Only a skeleton crew remained to keep the camp. The rest must have returned to wherever they came. But where would that be?
Creeping along the outskirts of the camp, he hears voices from the tent closest to him. Latin.
"A strange land, Mars has given us. Their warlords wear silver and pink?"
"Strange, yes. But ferocious. He slew seven men before Lady Quirinus struck him down."
"I know. That bastard Helvius owed me a dozen coppers."
"And what of this glaive? It is unalike anything I've seen yet."
"It is not too strange, is it? It is just a spear with an axe on the side."
"Or is it an axe with a spear on top?"
The Rose! They have it! He needs to get it back. He's better with a poleaxe than a sword, and he's grown used to her weight in his hands. On the other side of the tent, he hears rustling as a flap opens.
"It doesn't matter what it is, you asses, just get it cleaned. Mars Gradivus himself wants it for a trophy."
"Yes, my decanus!"
The two legionaries shut up and got to work. Damn. He didn't want to take them both on without his armor, but if he put it on, he'd surely alert their cohorts. What to do...?
Someone saw him. For someone his size, he was remarkably quiet. It's odd, how similar these southerners look to his own people. He had thought that blonde hair was a trait unique to the empire. This was the part where he, a loyal soldier of Mars, would raise the alarm and rouse his brothers for combat.
But he didn't.
Instead, he walked calmly for the tent the southerner seemed so intent on.
He was waiting for something. Why not give it to him?
Another voice came from the tent.
"Hey, you two!"
"Yes, decanus Alexander?"
"Come with me! I need some help sifting through the holocaustus. You'll each get a third of what we find."
"B-but, sir, Julius ordered us to clean this trophy for Lord Gradivus..."
"Come on! It can wait! I hear these savages crown their teeth with gold. You want some of that, don't you?"
"G-gold?! But..."
"Come on, Nerius, we can hold off on the cleaning for a while, right? Gold!"
"...Fine. If our decanus gets mad, you'll tell him you ordered us to come, won't you?"
"Of course! Of course..."
The voices fade as the three soldiers go off to sit through some ashes.
That... was convenient.
Ah, to hell with it, he won't question luck. Cutting through the back of the tent, he steps inside.
There it is. An elegant shaft of red and pink, capped with a ruby carved in the shape of a rose, from which two pink and gold blades sprouted. In between the two blades, one larger than the other, was a long, slender spike.
The Rose. A master-crafted poleaxe, of the very finest make, gifted unto him by the Grand Master of the order of the Lawbringers himself. A weapon that was, to him, without equal.
...And the reason he had to run around in pink all the time, but that hardly mattered. All that mattered was that it was back. Splattered in mud and Imperial blood, but in his hands once more.
Retreating back through the hole he made, halberd in hand, he made for his armor, and Lamri.
The dents were hammered, his standards rinsed of dirt. The Rose shined in the moonlight. His steed healthy and rested. He was still feeling the effects of his concussion, but he could fight through.
He had to.
The legionaries left stationed at the mouth of Mars' Path were tired. As the moon glowed softly above, they readied themselves for sleep. But they'd receive one more shock today.
The rattling of metal. The clopping of hooves. Someone was coming.
As the first of the soldiers stepped out into the night, they let out cries of surprise. The man in silver, the knight of roses, had returned, back from the dead. They were quiet, for a long time, cautious without Gradivus' inspiring presence.
The first to gather their bravery stepped forward, drew his Gladius, and shouted.
"Hold there! Surrender yourself to us, outsider! We have defeated you once already!"
Marius tugged on the reins, bidding Lamri to stop. In latin, he replies, voice calm and hard.
"In greater numbers, and with a lucky strike. Do you think you will again? Let me pass, and I will go without violence."
The Centurion laughs defiantly, restoring the spirits of his subordinates.
"You ask us to let you pass into the holy land, defile Mar's Path with the footfalls of a heretic, unchallenged?! To look away, sheath our swords, and act the coward?! We would rather die!"
He shouts back, sternly, showing no weakness. He wasn't sure if he could take them all, in the state he was in. If he could avoid this fight, he would.
"Would you?! Do not speak for your compeers! Why die today?!"
"Look at us! We stand before you, ready for war! You are but one man! We have the upper hand! The only one who will die today... is you!"
He looks as if he is about to charge, and the initial wave of surprise had faded, his allies ready to fight with him. Marius tightens his grip on the Rose.
Then, a voice cries out. A voice he's heard once already tonight.
"Hold! Did you not see him fall?!"
A Centurion in a gilded cuirass steps out from between two tents. The helmet he bore was unlike the rest; most had masks in the shape of a face, but his was smooth and featureless, save for four rows of holes cut in it to see through.
"His brain split on that rock! Quirinus' bolt struck true and killed him! And yet he walks before us!"
The other decanus turns to his fellow squad leader, hissing angrily.
"Quit speaking nonsense, Alexander! How can a dead man stand in front of our eyes?!"
Ignoring the decanus, he instead sweeps his gaze over the less experienced, more superstitious legionaries he commands.
"This is no man at all! He is a lemure! You know it as well as I! A man who dies shamefully, without rites or honor, returns to ask recompense! Unkillable and everlasting!"
Marius stares on in utter confusion as the centurion orates to the frightened young men all around him.
"To try to stop it would be madness, an invitation upon ourselves and our families for the most vile of curses! All we can do is let it through, and pray we can find the corpse and offer it the holy rights it deserves before it reaches the homeland! Should he go north, and step beyond Mars' Path, he will surely come for our master! Were he to interrupt the ritual at Aquilus, all would be lost!"
His fellow Centurion stammers for words, but finds none before Marius interrupts him. In a ghostly tone, voice muffled and deepened by the great bulk of his helmet, he moans.
"He speaks truth. For so disgraceful a death, vengeance is the only response! If thou wouldst bring me peace and restore my honor, I would spare you of thy punishment! My flesh has been lost to man's ken, alongside my steeds. Look to the brightest star of the northern sky. Travel for it at a march 'til dawn rises, and thou shalt find a shattered banner bearing my colors. Burn it, in my name, and I shall be appeased. I am Marius Gaius Flavius, knight of roses, and that is my decree... Now... STEP ASIDE!"
Rearing back and whinnying ferociously, Lamri breaks into a gallop for the collection of terrified soldiers. With screamed prayers and howling curses, the group parts around him like the sea around a Viking prow, and he is home free. Sneaking a look back, he locks eyes with this man named 'Alexander'. One look says it all; he did not truly think him a ghost, or a lemure, or whatever in god's name he called it. That soldier knew as well as he that he was just a knight on a mission. Somehow, he had a friend in that strange man.
Mars' Path? Whatever it was, it was to the north.
Past it, he would find this place called Aquilus.
He would find the 'master' his mysterious ally, Alexander, spoke of.
He would find his people.