Chapter Nineteen: First Step
Osman, King of Centralia, wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose, waiting with a limited measure of patience for the man standing on the oration platform to quiet down. The man had reacted rather unfavorably to the King's conscription order. Normally, the Legions comprised solely of volunteers, but the King's order was requiring the Provinces to supply a certain amount of men, aged fourteen through fifty, for conscription into the military. It was the first time a draft had been instituted in the Empire for over three centuries, and the Proconsuls were not taking it lying down.
Gaius Mercatus Ausonius, Proconsul of the Mons Tulliae Province of the far west, was the name of the man on the oration platform. He was not the first proconsul to make an appearance in Tethys, and King Osman feared he would not be the last… Still, even if every single official from the provinces made their audience here, protesting the draft, King Osman's stance would not change. The conscription order was here to stay.
Once Lord Mercato's seemingly endless river of rhetoric paused for a moment, King Osman raised his hand, calling for silence, to which the Tulliaean—now there's a mouthful—Proconsul grudgingly obliged. "Lord Mercato, your arguments fall not on deaf ears, but you have not in any way been singled out. All the other provinces are subject to the same draft requirements as you, under Imperial authority."
"With respect, Your Majesty, many of our young men have already volunteered for service in the Legions; binding us with conscriptions such as these will end up-"
"With respect, Proconsul," King Osman laid an emphasis on the older man's title, "the Legions need all the healthy men they can get. The Menaphites are defeated. The Icyene are defeated. The Dark One's attention is fixed upon this very city," he stabbed his finger down onto the armrest of his chair, leaning forward so that he was sitting on the edge. "If the Provinces do not contribute, if the Legions are understrength, you will be a Proconsul no longer, for your lands and your peoples will cease to exist. The order of conscription is not going away."
The Proconsul of Mons Tulliae had nothing more to say. Well, no, that was not entirely accurate; King Osman could plainly see that Lord Mercato had plenty more that he wanted to say…but uttering it would probably have resulted in him losing his head. They were things best spoken in the privacy of his own halls; not in the Forum of Tethys. And so, Lord Mercato ceased his argument. The Proconsul gave a quick bow and stepped off the platform. "I will take my leave, then. Ave!" he clasped his fist to his heart and bowed, turned on his heel, strode out of the assembly chamber, leaving Osman alone in the Forum, save for the pair of Old Guardsmen who stood at constant attention behind him.
The King exhaled through his nose, massaging his temples for a short while. Before the Proconsul had received his audience, Osman had presided over a convention of the Forum, and dealing with a chamber full of consuls was one of the most exhausting trappings of royalty. King Lionel, his late father, had been quite adept at dealing with the consuls, and Osman had no idea how he had managed it. Even after his father's death, King Osman had presided over them with a great deal of assistance from Iulus Fernandos, the King's appointed Praetor.
But Lord Fernando was no longer here. Osman had sent him east, to the Empire Where the Sun Rises, to secure the aid of the Ainu. That had been nearly three months ago, in the summer. Now, it was well into the autumn, but the King had received no word from the East. He was beginning to fear that some misfortune had befallen the Praetor, but he had no way of finding out. But if he ordered Fleetmaster Straume to send another ship to the far east, at this time of the year, it would be would be taken by the winter storms. He would have to be patient—one of those kingly virtues that he had not quite mastered, yet.
The King supposed it was about time he started getting used to performing his duties on his own. When King Lionel had died, three years ago, Osman had ascended to the throne at only fifteen years of age. Ever since then, the overwhelming task of running an empire had been a burden shared between him and his closest advisors. Lord Fernando had rarely left his side, and the Warmaster had always made himself readily available. But ever since that fateful day, back in the Spring, when Athellenas had returned to the capital with news of the destruction of Ephyrn… He had to release his two closest advisors. He was more alone than he had ever been before.
Finally, the King stood up. "Macros, Laertes," he nodded to the two Old Guardsmen, who saluted him as he brushed past and strode through the door set behind his chair. They then followed him out into the corridor, which eventually led to the entrance chamber. Osman exchanged nods and other pleasantries with the remaining consuls, making his way out across the greens to the Citadel. Macros and Laertes accompanied him into the entrance hall, but no further, as was their instructions.
Osman proceeded through the large double doors at the far end of the hall, which opened up into the throne room. His private study was situated behind his throne—most people never even knew of its existence, and only a handful of those who did had ever set foot in the room. It was one of Osman's islands of calm and order in a sea of chaos and politics.
If a person were to get a glimpse of the study, they would not think it belonged to a king. It was a simple room—the walls were all lined with shelves of books and scrolls. There was a mahogany desk towards the back of the study with an oil lamp on the side, as well as a quill and ink well, a pile of books, and several sheaves of paper. Behind the desk was the study's only window, which provided illumination during the day.
A young, black-haired, green-eyed woman sat behind the desk, reading the King's copy of Ex Nihilo, which was an anthology of the journals of Pendragon, the founder and first king of Centralia. She wore her black hair in a braid, entwined with thin silver cord. Her name was Aurelia, niece of Volesus Gellius Cinna. Lord Gellio was Proconsul of Karamja, and he had sent his niece several years ago to live in the capital, believing it best she grew accustomed to living on the mainland—after all, when she got married, she would not be living on Karamja.
Osman had met Lady Aurelia over a year ago on his way to the Plaza. She had miscalculated the amount of money needed to buy a basket of apples from one of the vendors and ended up short. The King had then stepped in and paid for the fruit himself, after calming the vendor—who nearly fainted. After encountering her several more times in the Plaza, the King instructed the Old Guard to grant her access to the Royal Palace, and he had been enjoying frequent, regular visits from her ever since. He had a couple ways of taking his mind off the pressures of politics and war, but Aurelia was his only living distraction.
The green-eyed woman glanced up from the book, arching a questioning eyebrow at the King as he entered the room. "That seemed to take longer than expected," she remarked. Then her eyes widened slightly, as if she'd just remembered something of extreme import, and she sprang out of her chair, adding, "Oh, gracious me, where are my manners? Your Majesty," she bent down in an elaborate, overdramatic bow.
Most individuals could not get away with pulling a stunt like that without getting flogged. Then again, most individuals would not even dare express sarcasm in front of the King. Athellenas and Lord Fernando were probably the only other two people who could speak like that to Osman, but neither of them ever did. He simply did not have that kind of playful relationship with those older men.
The King's face flushed a moderate shade of red as he closed the door. "You need not bow like that every time I enter the room…" he muttered, removing the heavy black overcoat that he wore over his indoor clothes. "That is for formal affairs in the public, which this is clearly not. Come, you'll restrict your breathing, bowing in a dress like that."
"I confess, I have reasons twofold for doing so today. First, out of respect for your great-great-great—etcetera, etcetera—grandfather, Pendragon the Unifier, whose journals are proving to be quite a remarkable read," she nodded down to the copy of Ex Nihilo, the corners of her mouth curving in a wry grin. "And second…well, how many other people get to see the great King of Centralia flush redder than a cherry in the company of a woman? The answer would be no one, which makes it a privilege. And I enjoy being privileged."
Osman hesitated as he draped his coat behind his chair. For a moment, he tried picturing Lady Aurelia in the robes of a Queen, but he quickly banished the image from his mind before his face could redden any further. "You are impossible," he declared, sitting down behind his desk, gesturing for Lady Aurelia to do the same. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few seconds, trying to allow himself to relax the tensions still brimming in his muscles from his time spent in the assembly chamber. When his eyes opened, they did so with a faint gleam, and he gave a light grin of his own. "Perhaps I should simply send you to deal with the consuls… I believe they would find themselves quite incapable of matching you."
"You do not give yourself enough credit," Lady Aurelia said. "Could a weakling have managed to make the Provinces comply with a conscription order for the first time in centuries?"
"I am lucky that they have," Osman sighed. "Had any of them outright refused to cooperate… I cannot afford to send troops to tame rebellious proconsuls, not with Zamorak's hordes pressing down on us from the east. They have more power over me than they realize. Nay, the key to keeping order in times like these is to maintain the appearance of power…" The King's voice trailed off, and he shook his head once, forcing another smile. "Listen to me, prattling on and on like an old man. I do not wish to bore you with talk of politics."
"My King, nothing you say could bore me," Lady Aurelia hummed with muted laughter, taking Osman's hand with her own. "Politics least of all."
The King's smile did not physically move, but now it seemed to reach his eyes. He and Aurelia gazed at each other for a few moments, Osman suddenly at a loss for what to say. He gave a mental shrug; after all, the two of them did not always need spoken words to have a conversation. But there was something different in his friend's look, today. Almost like she was daring him to make a move.
As if on cue, the two of them started leaning towards one another at the exact same time…and then the silence was suddenly shattered by a series of sharp knocks on the door. Lady Aurelia shot the door a dirty look, and the King swore under his breath, rising to his feet and telling the visitor to enter.
The door opened to reveal Vasello, the keeper of the messenger ravens. He held a tightly-folded square of parchment in his grasp. "Message for you, Sire, milady," the keeper bowed his head to the King, and then to Lady Aurelia as he noticed her presence, then stepped forward, held out the parchment. "Rushed it here straightaway, Sire, soon as it came, as Saradomin's my witness."
"Thank you, Vasello, that will be all," the King accepted the message, dismissing the other man. Vasello bowed once again, turned, took his leave. Once the door closed, Osman unfolded the parchment and read the message within, murmuring the words quietly to himself. "Crossed River Salve, Icyene virtually wiped out, Hallowlands lost…"
Osman lay the message flat on his desk, leaning back into his chair. These were bad tidings, indeed… Earlier, in the assembly chamber, when the King had declared to Lord Mercato that the Icyene were defeated, he had not known for sure if he spoke the truth. He had a good feeling in his gut that the winged folk who were so favored by Saradomin were no more, due to the sudden loss of contact not only from Ascertes and Efaritay, their monarchs, but also from their ambassadors, and every other member of their species whom the King had regular association with. But he'd had no proof to back up such a claim.
Now, that proof lay before him. The Icyene were defeated, Hallowvale sacked, the Hallowlands lost. That was yet another ally of Centralia, knocked off the game board by Zamorak. Not for the first time, the King started to have an acute feeling of the sheer pressure that was beginning to constrict around him and his nation. The Icyene and the Menaphites had both been removed from the equation almost simultaneously. The Elves, Dwarves, the Gnomes… They had all retreated from this world, gone away to their distant, faraway realms, obviously intending to ride out the storm. Let the Humans fight it out, as it were. They would be of no help, even if Osman knew how to contact them.
The only other player left in this game of war, on Centralia's side, was the Ainu. Their isolation was turning out to be their salvation…even if it was only a temporary one. If Centralia fell to Zamorak, it would only be a matter of time until he turned his attention across the Eastern Sea. And even if Osman won the assistance of the Ainu, there was still no guarantee that Centralia would survive the coming storm…but the odds would not be stacked quite as heavily against them.
Yet again, King Osman offered up a silent prayer to Saradomin for the well-being of his Praetor.
But, though the message bore fell tidings, perhaps there was at least one good thing that could be excised from it.
"Good news? Bad news?" Lady Aurelia asked, craning her neck to see the dispatch. "It had better be important news…"
"Bad news, with a silver lining," Osman said, reading through the message one more time. "The Hallowlands have been lost to the Dark One… But our First Element seems to have just crossed the River Salve. The Warmaster has returned to us."
Athellenas Imperator, Warmaster of the Centralian Legions, could not shake the feeling that he was currently in a place where he did not belong. Of course, he did not believe a commander should command from the rear of a column—he had personally led his fair share of assaults more times than he cared to count—but what he was doing right now was quite different from leading an assault.
Deep reconnaissance was probably the best way to describe it. This was the far northeast of Centralia—the Stellantae Province, to be precise. It was one of the least populated regions of the Empire, right along with the provinces that bordered the Wilderness. This whole entire stretch of lightly-populated woodlands bordering the Wilderness and the River Salve was called the Scutum Arborium, which meant 'Shield of Trees' in Commonspeak, named for the dense forests of these regions.
There were virtually no cities in this part of the Empire. Even the capital of Stellantae, the great city of Saranthium, was more a monument than it was an actual city—not many people lived there. The only reason it had been built in the first place was to bury the ruins of Senntisten, the capital city of the Empire of the Second Age, the greatest empire Gielinor has ever known. It had been ruled by Zaros, the Empty Lord, but Saradomin and his followers were always doing their utmost to cover up or destroy evidence of his existence. Most business in the Stellantae Province was conducted from the smaller city of Avarrocka, further to the northwest.
The point of all this was that there were not very many civilians that had to be evacuated from the area. And this was a good thing; the presence of civilians always tended to throw a wrench in any sound military strategy. Unfortunately, the absence of walled towns prevented Athellenas from establishing strongpoints in his lines…but the dense forest somewhat made up for that. If one were to strip the northeast of its forests, it would be a region of rolling hills. As it was, it was still a region of rolling hills—they were simply harder to see because they were completely covered with trees.
The important part about the topography of the region was the fact that in several key locations, the hills were high enough and close enough together to form a ridge. This occurred several times throughout the northeast—each ridge a bit further west than the last. Athellenas was establishing his lines of defense along these ridges. That was going to be the best way to make a stand against Zamorak's hordes—the Legions reigned supreme on open ground, but the Scutum Aborium was anything but. The Centralians would have to make the environment fight for them just as much as their swords and spears.
Athellenas had been delighted to discover that, during his campaign through the desert and subsequent retreat through what had used to be the Hallowlands, the King had managed to somehow subvert consular authority and mobilize the whole of the Centralian Army. Twenty-five legions total, long overdue for a fight. And not only that, but King Osman had also issued an order of conscription, which would swell the ranks of the Legions. They would also replenish the losses sustained by the I, IV, and X Legions during the past six months. A king had not ordered a draft for nearly four hundred years; Athellenas was certain that the King had taken heat from the proconsuls for that. But the order had not been rescinded, so perhaps Osman was beginning to learn the ropes of dealing with the nobles.
So at this moment, the soldiers of Legio Nona Flavia Pacis were nearly three leagues behind Athellenas's current location, hard at work preparing their portion of Mattinse Ridge for the coming storm. Further to the north and to the south, respectively, Legio Quarta Mortifers and Legio Tertiadecima Regis Felix were doing the exact same thing, along with all the other legions spread out along the escarpment. And even while this was happening, the legions not currently stationed on Mattinse Ridge were building up fortifications on Silvosii Ridge, which was roughly eight leagues west of Mattinse. Athellenas knew that Mattinse Ridge would inevitably fall—as all first lines of defense usually fall—so he was simply preparing ahead of time for when the legions on Mattinse would have to fall back.
With everything moving smoothly for the moment, Athellenas had joined Sir Horatio on a reconnaissance run in order to see for his own eyes the size of the force that they would soon be fighting against. Sir Horatio, a nobleman from the northern province of Collivento—also a part of the Scutum Arborium—was himself an experienced woodsman and tracker, quite accomplished in the arts of stealth. He was subordinate to General Sinclair, the legatus of the IV Legion. He did not possess an official command, however—the sheer amount of time he spent on recon missions would have made it impossible for him to effectively command a centuria or a cohort.
Athellenas wore a heavy cloak that was mottled green and brown in lieu of his armor, which would have made too much noise. And making noise was somewhat detrimental to a reconnaissance mission…especially when you were close enough to your enemy to see them with the naked eye. The Warmaster was concealed in a clump of bushes on top of a knoll that was overlooking the River Salve. He was peering through a spyglass, observing the forces arrayed on the eastern shore of the river.
The Warmaster saw countless scores of undead—some simply animated skeletons, others more…fresh. He saw what seemed to be vampyres and werewolves—unusual to see those two species within proximity of one another without bloodshed. The Warmaster continued to sweep his gaze over the horde on the other side of the River Salve, his scowl deepening more and more as he did so. He spotted Zamorackian Monks—pretty much the Chaos equivalent of a Paladin of the Church—who seemed to form the magical backbone of their force. He could also see a few demons down there, who had to be acting as lieutenants to the Mahjarrat Zemouregal, who Athellenas had learned was commanding the entire force. They would prove difficult to handle.
"You have seen the demons?" a voice whispered from the bush adjacent to the Warmaster's. Sir Horatio had not been there a minute ago, and Athellenas had not heard him crawl up onto the knoll…but then, if the Warmaster had heard the northerner creeping up on him, he would have been disappointed.
"Aye, I've seen them," Athellenas murmured in response. "Every time I see another one, I thank the Gods that we have artillery. Without the Icyene to fight alongside us, gunpowder is going to be our best defense against those beasts…"
"And what of the Mahjarrat?" Sir Horatio asked, looking back through his own spyglass. "What if he decides to attack?"
Athellenas hesitated. He already knew the answer to the veteran scout's question, but he refused to utter it. "Zemouregal had plenty of opportunity to attack us directly during our retreat, but he has thus far refrained from doing so. I think Zamorak's Mahjarrat focus most of their time and energy on fighting those of their kind who still pledge allegiance to the Empty Lord. We are but an annoyance to his ilk."
"You have my agreement, there…" Sir Horatio muttered. Again, Horatio was part of the IV Legion, which had fought in the Desert Campaign. He had seen what had happened when the Mahjarrat Azzanadra had been unleashed on Thammaron's hordes, at the ruins of Uzer. He had witnessed firsthand what Mahjarrat were capable of. He knew that the Legions, in all their might and glory, would not be able to do very much to hurt Zemouregal if he attacked, not without the assistance of the Icyene, who were all gone, now; dead, or enslaved by Drakan, the lord of vampyres.
Even in the beginning of the Third Age, before the birth of Pendragon the Unifier, the forces of Saradomin and Zamorak had occasionally worked in concert with one another to destroy the remnants of Zaros's empire, only to turn on each other afterwards—such was the power of the followers of the Empty Lord. And Azzanadra was not the only Zarosian Mahjarrat out there—Athellenas knew of others who might be motivated to harry the followers of the one who had overthrown their master, had even met a couple of them during his travels with Jerrod the Lightbringer. One of them had even attempted to turn both of them into his personal wights—Athellenas did his best not to think about that particular occasion. But he had to admit that, were it not for the existence of the Zarosian Loyalists, the Zamorackian Mahjarrat would have burned Centralia to ashes centuries ago.
No, Zemouregal may be in command of the invasion force, but he would not be focusing on fighting Humans; that was beneath him. He would be hunting Zarosians. His subordinates were more than capable of carrying the fight to the Legions; they did not require the presence of a central commander nearly as much as the Centralians did.
"They do not seem to be making any effort to cross the river," Athellenas observed.
"They're buildin' up their strength, sir," another voice whispered, this time coming from the bush on the other side of the Warmaster.
Athellenas gave a start, swearing under his breath as he turned in the direction of the second voice. Another man in a forest camouflage cloak lay in the shrubs to his left. His face was painted brown, streaked with varying shades of green and grey, making him blend even more into his surroundings. Had he not spoken, Athellenas was sure the scout could have remained next to him indefinitely, and not be noticed.
"Apologies, Imperator," the camouflaged man touched his thumb to his brow in an informal salute.
"None of that, now," Athellenas grunted. "I won't have a man apologizing for doing his job well. You were saying?"
"Uh…what I was sayin', yes, sir," the man pointed northward with his index finger. "I was up on that tall hill to the north, I was, an' I could see more monsters arrivin' from the east. Undead, mostly…a group of death knights, a whole column of goblins…"
"Goblins?" Sir Horatio arched a questioning eyebrow. "I thought they belonged to Bandos. What are they doing here?"
"The followers of Bandos are not exactly strong-minded creatures," Athellenas said to the knight. "It is not uncommon for Zamorak to bend them to his will. That is, after all, how he originally gained dominion over the vampyres and werewolves. And what is the mind of a goblin, compared to that of a werewolf?"
"Point taken," Sir Horatio gave a single nod. "Go on, Achrysis."
"Milord," the camouflage-faced man touched his thumb to his brow again, "As I was sayin', I saw these reinforcements joinin' the main host, an' I could see more on the horizon. Whoever's in charge of that mob over there, he's waitin' to get his full strength before crossin' the river."
"Zemouregal is his name," Athellenas interjected. "A long-winded fellow, if memory serves… If he waits to amass his full strength before crossing the Salve, he probably intends to send a massive first wave. Drown us in the blood of his own minions, as it were."
"Good thing we have the high ground, then," Sir Horatio remarked. "Can't drown in blood if it keeps flowing downhill."
Athellenas allowed himself a quiet chuckle. "Indeed… I believe I have seen all there is to see. Mattinse Ridge demands my return," the Warmaster lowered his spyglass and compacted it, slipping it onto his belt, turning to face the knight. "Sir Horatio, I want you and your men to fall back, as well. Leave one man on Achrysis's hill, however, and give him orders to ride back to Mattinse and inform me when the enemy begins crossing the Salve."
"I'll do the deed myself," Sir Horatio replied.
"As you wish," the Warmaster nodded, slowly easing himself out of the bushes. Once he was free, he turned to the knight and clasped his fist to his heart in a salute. "Saradomin protect you, Sir Horatio."
Sir Horatio returned the salute, bidding farewell to the Warmaster. "Athellenas Imperator."
After exchanging a brief parting nod with Achrysis, Athellenas absconded. The Warmaster took his time, moving slowly down the hillside. Even though there was no way for him to be spotted by the enemy while behind the hill, the Warmaster did not tempt fate. Not until he was deep into the forest did Athellenas pick up the pace, hurrying to the glade where he had left Onyx.
The white and gray dappled charger whinnied as it spotted its master, pawing the ground impatiently.
Athellenas rubbed Onyx's nose tenderly. "I'm sorry I had to leave you behind, old friend," the Warmaster murmured, untying the horse from the rope that bound it to a nearby tree. "Where I went, you could not follow."
The white-gray charger tossed his head, exhaling sharply through his nostrils in a loud snort.
"You're right, you do deserve a little compensation," Athellenas nodded in agreement. The older man reached into one of the saddlebags and produced Onyx's favorite treat; a speckled blue Karamja apple. He circled back around to the horse's front, offering up the treat.
Onyx regarded the old man for a moment before quickly snatching the apple out of his grasp with his teeth. As Onyx chewed, Athellenas swung himself up into the saddle. He leaned forward, rubbing the charger's mane. "Better now?" he asked.
The horse continued to chew, giving no other reply.
"That's what I thought," the Warmaster chuckled, taking up the reins. "Time to move, old friend. Hyah!" Athellenas dug his heels into Onyx's sides, prompting the charger to set off at a full gallop. The trees whipped by, their branches always threatening to catch Athellenas off-guard and send him flying off the saddle. As the clouds gathered overhead, the absence of proper sunlight served to make it just that much darker under the forest canopy, which lived in constant shade.
Thunder growled in the east. The storm had been building for over a day, now, but it had always been some ominous, distant threat. Now, it was nearly on top of Athellenas and his army. The Warmaster knew that this fact, tied with the fact that the enemy had arrived at the Salve, was no coincidence. That storm was not natural.
Athellenas rode through the better part of the morning until the crags of Mattinse Ridge came into view. The Warmaster ascended the tall series of hills, making his way past the earthworks and trenches. The soldiers stationed at these works all livened up and cheered Athellenas as he rode past with cries of, "Athellenas Imperator!"
Sometimes the Warmaster wished they would not call him that. 'Imperator' was a title that was supposed to be reserved for military commanders who have accomplished great victories. So far, the two campaigns Athellenas had commanded had ended in tactical failure…but perhaps the soldiers considered the fact that their Warmaster was able to bring most of them back home through a hostile forest-turned-swamp was a great victory in of itself.
The Warmaster met with the majority of the legion generals under his command at the central camp, during which time he shared with them everything he had seen across the River Salve, urging them to speed up the process of fortifications as much as they could. Time, after all, was not their friend.
Nearly three days later, Athellenas was rising from his slumber not long before dawn. He yawned and stretched, doing his best to do away with the weariness lingering in his bones. Sir Derren was overseeing the progress on Silvosii Ridge, so the command center was currently being headed up by Lord Varo, Athellenas's Praefectum. In the command staff, the Prefect served as third in overall command, after the Auspex—Sir Derren—and the Warmaster himself.
Athellenas had just slipped into his armor when he heard the commotion coming from the direction of the command tent. Within half a minute, a soldier appeared outside Athellenas's tent, saluting the Warmaster. "Imperator," he bowed his head in respect to his superior, "Your presence is requested by the Praefectum."
"Gratitude," Athellenas returned the salute. He buckled his sword belt around his waist and slid his dagger into its sheath, which he had secured to his left thigh. Now that he was fully dressed and prepared for whatever today had to throw at him, the Warmaster ducked out of his tent and into the chilly, pre-dawn morning air. The central camp was dimly illuminated by a network of suspended oil lamps, so Athellenas had no trouble making his way to the command tent.
In the center of the tent was a table with a map of the Northeast tacked to the surface. There were golden clay eagle figurines placed at various points of the map, each one representing a different legion. Surrounding these eagle figurines were smaller clay pieces—simple circles of clay, each one inscribed with a numeral—which represented the subordinate cohorts of each legion. The silver-hued, horse-shaped figurines represented the numerous cavalry units under the command of Sir Havarell. And lastly, the bronze-colored figurines that bore the shape of a cannon served to represent the artillery batteries—all of which Athellenas had placed under the command of Sir Brezhnov, the Fremennik-born bear of a man who had proved his ability to organize and utilize artillery throughout the Desert Campaign and the Fall of the Hallowlands. He had earned his Warmaster's trust.
The far 'wall' of the tent was lined with basins, all of which were filled with water. During battle, mages would use them to scry upon what was happening at the front lines. If a unit was destroyed, fell back, or advanced, they would then alter the map—removing pieces, moving them back, or moving them forward, depending.
Lord Varo was poring over the map when Athellenas entered the tent, facing away from the entrance flap. Sensing the Warmaster's arrival, he straightened up and turned around, offering Athellenas a nod of greeting. "Imperator. Apologies for the early summons, but Sir Horatio has just arrived in camp. He informed me that the enemy is no longer receiving reinforcements and has begun crossing the River Salve."
Athellenas showed no emotion on his face. He had not been looking forward to this moment, but he had not been dreading it, either. It was something that some part of his mind, deep inside, had accepted long ago…that it was inevitable that he would have to fight Zamorak's hordes inside Centralia, that this terrible war would touch his home. That moment had now come. Zamorak was taking his first step into the empire, and it would now take a nigh-unimaginable amount of effort in order to make him leave.
"Send dispatches to every legion," Athellenas ordered. "Where is Sir Horatio now?"
"I ordered him straight to the mess tent," the Prefect replied. "The poor man looked half-starved. I also instructed him not to leave camp until he briefed you in person, so he should be there still."
"Very good," Athellenas pulled back the entrance flap, wincing at the sudden blast of cold air as he stepped outside. "Send those dispatches. Saradomin protect us."
The Warmaster walked with a renewed vigor in his stride. He had spent too long retreating from the enemy in the former Hallowlands; now, he and his men would finally be able to plant their feet firmly and make a stand. Perhaps Zamorak's hordes would succeed in driving the Legions away from Mattinse Ridge…but the Warmaster vowed to make them pay a steep price for doing so.
Zamorak did not intend to leave, but neither did Athellenas.
Author's Note
Hello readers! Been a little while, hasn't it?
So, I'm sure some of you remember me saying, way back when, that because I finished my huge Halo story that I would be able to devote more time to this one. Well, I was not lying; I did have more time to devote to this story... Only problem was that I came down with a bad (and I mean bad) case of writer's block, which lasted for about four or so months. This was for several reasons; I was having trouble establishing the whole 'Roman' atmosphere, I was at a loss for how to continue Avis's training, I was having some issues with resolving the Ainu story arc, and, ultimately, the story simply did not seem to be getting very much attention back then, so I was not as motivated to put as much effort into it as I was for my other stories. But a breakthrough came earlier in the week, so hopefully I can start getting back on track. I'm in college, now, so the updates will not be as frequent as I would like...but I really don't intend to take any more four-month hiatuses like that.
Something reviewers seem to have been commenting on lately is the lack of action, but you all seem to understand why that is (building up the plot). But still, after a wait like that, you guys deserve something big. I know this chapter did not really have much action, either, but I can, without giving away spoilers, tell you that there will be some in the next one. And there will be a fuckload in the one after that.
If all goes according to plan, that is.
But anyway, if you're reading this, you haven't completely forgotten about this story, for which I thank you. My writing, especially on this site, is only as good as those who read it.
-TheAmateur