Blood and Bonds

An empire built on chains. A rebellion forged in fire. A legacy written in blood. Twenty years after the massacre of the Fourth Legion, the Rhodin Republic's ruthless dominion begins to crumble as the radical chieftain Ashkher unites the long-feuding northern tribes beneath a banner of grief and vengeance. Trapped at the frontier, Primus Casterion Maxerion must navigate a deadly web of politics and high-society scheming. As shattering secrets are discovered, the lines between right and wrong become blurred and choices must be made to survive the frontier's descent into blood and chaos. Hold on to morality or become the very monster you sought to destroy?

1. The Fourth “Sound the horns, Bernicus,” Vanicus sighed, as he fastened the helmet strap under his chin. He looked around at the tattered remnants of his once-glorious Fourth Legion. That same Legion had chased the Lugris back through the Bloodied Pass and hammered their raiders into submission. They had hunted the Coritani war-packs into the valleys, held out through a bleak winter of attacks, and been the first Legion to breach the Beornu borders. They had conquered new land and brought the rule of the Rhodin Republic to the scattered tribes. Now, after twelve years of painting his men in honour, they were bloodied, broken, and stranded. “We charge, General?” the enormous Praxillion quizzed, glancing back at the battered Legionnaires staggered along the Blackway, a muddy, brown ribbon of road draped across the slopes beneath the Blackwood’s dense canopy. “There can’t be more than five hundred of us left.” “We charge,” Vanicus confirmed solemnly. “There’s not much else we can do now. Listen.” “I hear nothing, Sir,” Bernicus replied, pausing the attempt to straighten his scarred leather cuirass. “Neither do I,” Vanicus grimaced. “Not a fox, a deer… a rabbit. Nothing. No wildlife.” “They’ve all fled,” Bernicus realized slowly, “From a threat they don’t usually see.” “We’re surrounded. They followed us into the forest,” Vanicus told him, as a flock of birds darted from the trees further along the roadway. “And that will be the road cut. There’s no way out now. It’s charge or stand here and wait for it. We’re fucked either way, old friend. Personally, I would rather go out with a good fight.” “Fucking savages!” Bernicus cursed. “Was it not enough to butcher four and a half thousand of our boys at the Skyrock? Blood-thirsty bastards had to run us down and finish the job?” “Bernie,” Vanicus tutted, “they’re not all that different from us. And it’s our own fault. We’ve hammered them for years and when they finally fall, we’re sent back in to piss on them with tribute demands. What would you do, in their position? What would I?” “Sorry, General. I know it in my bones,” Bernicus agreed. “I just wish we had got these lads back home. The old fuckers, like us, knew what they were in for, but half of them are green-as-grass kids on their mandatory. It’s the first time some of them have even passed our borders. They didn’t ask for this.” “I know,” Vanicus replied sadly, watching a young archer struggling to re-string his recurve bow. The weapon snapped under the strain, its composite layers splintering across the damp mud. “But be careful who you call an ‘old fucker.’ I’m only forty-six, not quite ready for my gold laurels yet.” “No worries there, General,” Bernicus said with a small chuckle. “You lost all the tribute wagons at Skyrock. They’d never hand your laurels over now.” “Divines help us,” Vanicus mocked. “What will the Silks do without their silver and spices?” “Mustn’t forget the wine.” Bernicus laughed, smacking his lips. “I’d give my armour for a cup of that Coritani red.” “Agreed.” The General nodded, looking at his own black steel cuirass, spotting the green tunic through the gap between bent segments at his waist. “Alas, blood will have to do today. Let’s make them pay for it.” “Do we tell the lads?” Bernicus asked, looking back at a large blood-willow. Its twisted roots wound up from the eastern embankment, merging at head height into a thick white trunk with red tendril-leaves hanging over the road. A group of young officers sat drinking their last drops of water beneath the branches, the dirt at their feet tinted red by the thick sap that oozed through the bark in the heat of summer, affording the tree its eerie name. A Spirax was wiping the blood from his polished steel pauldron, winding a torn piece of his tunic around the wound on his arm. A Hellax was struggling in vain to fix the broken strap at his back, his last javelin swinging awkwardly against his thighs. Blood matted his hair from the missing half of his ear, which he hadn’t even bothered to bandage. “Yes,” Vanicus sighed again. “Tell them we’re surrounded, and that we need to punch a hole through. Let them hope.” The General looked out through the trees down the gentle western slope. A handful of scattered rays punched through the thick canopy, pooling on the cold, wet moss. The forest seemed quiet and empty, a heavy silence looming over even the tired, beaten Legionnaires. No glint of armour or blade could be seen, but he knew they were out there, hiding beyond sight in the darkness of the early morning. The silence was telling. “It’s time, Bernie. They won’t wait much longer. Best to get on with it.” Bernicus waved his arm at the officers, gathering their attention before gesturing several times with his hand. The forest track suddenly bustled as five hundred soldiers rose and made for the road’s edge. Steel clinked, leather creaked and sandals slapped on the leaf-strewn mud as they formed their lines overlooking the slope. The last of the Fourth Legion prepared themselves for the charge. Spirax lancers made up the first two lines, their heavy steel scratched and dented from the previous day's battle. Hellax skirmishers assembled behind in a third line, tightening straps on their lighter leather. The few remaining Carallax riders and Missinax archers gathered in small clusters at the wings, unable to line up on the narrow path. Vanicus couldn't help but crack one last smile as he watched Bernicus mount. Standing a head taller than most, and much broader than Vanicus' athletic frame, the man already looked out of place next to other Legionnaires. On horseback, and with a thick brush of black plumage protruding from his Praxillion helmet, he towered over everyone. Vanicus wondered how the stallion didn't buckle under the sheer mass of his last mountainous bodyguard. Stepping to his own horse, Interritus, ‘Fearless’, Vanicus noticed a deep gouge in the saddle over the empty space where one of his three polished silver campaign stars once sat. He thumbed over the scarred leather, noting how close the missing star must have sat to his own thigh. “A close one, lad,” he whispered, gently patting the beast's hindquarters. He clambered wearily into his saddle, looking forlornly at the veterans he had bonded with and the young boys he knew would never see home again. To his right, staring back at him from the green of Bernicus’s round shield, was the proud silver lightning and helmet insignia of the Praxillion, ominously, forebodingly smeared with dried blood. “It has been my great privilege, Bernicus,” he said, gripping the ornate pearl handle of his gladius sword. “I have shared wine and blood with General Vanicus Lucacius Maxerion, the Republic's most revered son,” Bernicus replied, with an air of mock pomp that quickly faded to a more genuine tone. “And my most revered friend. The privilege has been mine, Sir.” “We could have made a politician of you yet, it seems,” Vanicus jested, laughing at the unusually formal tone of his grizzled friend. “You fucking cock,” Bernicus broke, unable to hold his laughter. “Oh, perhaps not,” Vanicus laughed, joining the last moment of light before the storm. Steadying his humour, Vanicus slowly drew his sword, the steel appearing a dull grey in the bleak, sunless woods. “Once more, old man?” he muttered to Bernicus. “Aye, Sir,” Bernicus replied with a steady nod. “One last time.” Bernicus drew his own gladius and pointed it out to the trees. “Legion!” he called loudly. “On your commander!” Taking a last deep breath, Vanicus bellowed his lie into the darkness. “Brothers! To Victory!” He spurred Interritus forward a step as a dozen horns rang out a note in unison, echoing through the thick forest and calling out again from behind them. The Fourth surged forward, charging down the slope, filtering between the trees and yelling to the Divines in anger and fear. Feet thundered on the moss and leaves, cloaks billowed behind riders and steel armour clattered and groaned. A hundred yards into the charge, with heartbeats pounding, the battle began. Arrows and spears whipped through the air, hitting shields, armour, and flesh. Several Legionnaires stumbled and fell from the lines as figures began to appear from behind the trunks. Shouts and singing bowstrings sounded out from behind; the Fourth’s archers were already engaging pursuers at the rear. “Wedge!” Vanicus roared to his officers. In a sudden, synchronized motion, the Spirax folded their lines into a ‘V’ formation, raising their long, oval shields and slamming the iron butt-spike into the earth, anchoring themselves into position. With eight-foot lances protruding through notches, they became a bristling wall of death. The lances met with flesh as a Coritani war-pack came racing out of the mist, howling wildly, their long hair and coloured kilts blowing behind them as they ran. Another shout called out from the ranks, prompting the Hellax in the center of the formation to raise their short wooden javelins and hurl them over the heads of the lancers. Warriors still charging forward collided with the flying javelins, crying out and falling silent. More and more poured onto the wall, undeterred by their own dead. Some were caught on the lances as the leaf-headed blades thrust back and forth; others skipped between the steel or pushed them aside with short swords and axes. The wall of shields held strong against the tide as the Hellax tightened up behind, drawing swords after depleting their javelins. With the skirmishers ready, the Legion's most ruthlessly efficient tactic began. A Hellax would call out to two of the squatting lancers. The lancers would pivot their shield inwards, creating an opening for an enemy to stumble through. The waiting Hellax would cut him down mid-stumble as the opening closed up and reappeared somewhere else down the line. Open, stab, close. It was a repeating gamble that the Legionnaires were smoother, faster and better trained. The gamble was mostly won, but the overwhelming mass of bodies meant the wall slowly began to shorten. Vanicus had taken Bernicus and his Carallax wide as the shield wall formed, intent on biting into as many approaching enemies as they could. They rode over or cleaved all they could reach, but the mud and dense trees slowed the horses down too much for an effective charge. Riders began to fall. One swayed in his saddle as the group pushed back toward the fray, a large gouge in his thigh seeping through his riding trousers and dripping down his saddle with the beat of his heart. He slid sideways from his mount and hit the floor with a heavy thud. Another fell as his horse’s back hooves slipped in the mud and the beast buckled. He was set upon by the charging Coritani before Vanicus could help him. “Forward!” Vanicus called, reaching the rear of the wedge. “Drive through them.” The horns called again, and the Spirax hoisted their shields. Two long thrusts, stabbing out and slicing back, were followed by two steps forward, aided by the Hellax who pushed from behind. For every man the wedge lost, they would push forward harder, deeper into the crowd of tribesmen. On and on they pushed, further into the woods, splitting to skirt the trees and then tightening back up. Vanicus and his remaining riders hung at the rear, trying to keep up enough momentum in the mud to cut down enemies that circled around the wedge. More shouts were erupting from the east, back toward the pathway. Vanicus wheeled his Carallax around and pushed hard to reinforce his rear archers. He was too late. Instead of his own men, he charged his cavalry headlong into a crowd of Beornu. Several were mowed down in the impact, but being much larger and sturdier than the Coritani, the Beornu absorbed the charge and quickly moved to surround the Legionnaires. A monstrous figure lunged forward, blood drops and sweat smeared together across his shaved head. He swung a massive club with both hands, knocking a rider right out his saddle and the breath right out of his lungs. He stood over the cowering, gasping Legionnaire. Cracking a broad, toothless grin, he brought his club down again, its stone head collapsing the rider's helmet with a sickening, metallic crunch. This is it, Vanicus thought, attempting to turn his cavalry back for a last dash towards his men. The wall had broken down completely when he arrived back, giving way to a screaming, chaotic brawl. Legionnaires and tribesmen were now intermingled, fighting man-to-man. The bodies of both were strewn across the forest floor, face down in the dirt or slumped against trees and large roots. The Beornu were hot on their heels. Interritus reared suddenly, emitting an agonising scream. Vanicus rolled back out of the saddle and hit the ground hard. He watched from the cold, damp dirt as his stallion buckled and collapsed next to him, snapping the large spear that had caught him. He reached out a hand, touching Interritus’ black mane, his fingers trembling in grief and anger. “Sorry, lad,” he whispered, briefly bowing his head. “I’ll be right behind you.” With weapons clashing and men screaming all around him, he rolled sideways to reach his sword and dragged himself upright. The Beornu had reached the chaos now. Vanicus rushed towards a young officer fighting fiercely with two Coritani, their bare chests smeared with blue handprints. The lad parried a spear thrust and slashed across one warrior's chest with the backswing. The tribesman screeched as he stumbled backwards. “Good lad,” Vanicus muttered through gritted teeth, just before a red-bearded Beornu sunk a vicious axe swing into the young Legionnaire's back. Revenge came quickly; Vanicus returned the favour and ran the man through. The second Coritani swung his notched blade, which Vanicus parried. After glancing the attack off to his right side, he swept his own blade down and under the warrior's outstretched arm, catching the foe in the abdomen just above the belt. Stepping past his opponent, he dragged the blade with him through the man’s flank. Seeing the battle drawing to its inevitable close, Vanicus caught a glimpse of Bernicus and decided to fight his way to his old friend. As he began carving a path toward the Praxillion, the shouts of battle seemed to fade away, and all he could hear was his helmet rattling and his own heart hammering in his ears.