Jason Lewis - Phoenix Rising

Glacis and Sissa often sat in the same spot of an evening, and it cheered Martius on occasion to stop work and watch them at their duties. His household was a happy one — which was by no means the norm in the Empire — and it gave him a huge sense of satisfaction to see it.

He regularly sat at his desk these days, poring over figures and reports from all over the Empire, gathering intelligence from hundreds of disparate sources. It was the job of the primus general, and since the shock of the decimation, Martius had taken extra care to ensure that he knew what was happening throughout the Empire.

He heaved a weary sigh and dropped the report he had been reading. It told of yet more unrest in the Xandarian free states. This time it was Bodrus — birthplace of Xandar the great himself — jostling with its smaller neighbours for control of the lucrative gold trade from the Peonian hills. The city-state of Bodrus had dispatched cavalry to harry the wagon trains from Peonia, and there were reports of hijackings and merchants killed for the ore they transported. It would be a small matter, Martius thought, to dispatch the Forty-second auxiliary, stationed on the nearby desert border with Farisia, as both a show of force and not too subtle reminder that the free states were free in name only. Their independence a mirage stemming from empty promises made by Xandar himself over a thousand years ago, before he set off on his frenzied quest to forge an Empire.

If creating an empire is actually what Xandar meant to do, Martius reflected. He may just have wanted to keep on conquering until he reached the edge of the world. The great king may have had no thought for what he left in his wake.

He smiled as he spotted Ursus, Accipiter, and Elissa moving across the garden — clearly arguing as usual — Elissa threw her arms up in frustration at some comment, he guessed it came from Accipiter, sharp tongued as ever.

He had hoped to join them for weapons practice tonight but, with everything that was happening, there had been no time. Besides, Metrotis had insisted on demonstrating his progress with the mysterious silent warrior he called ‘Optuss’ that they held prisoner in the guest wing.

He furrowed his brow at the thought of the stranger in the cell nearby, something, for once, overriding his frustrations with Metrotis. There was much that could be learnt, he was sure, from the mysterious dark-haired ‘Optuss’ with his hypnotic gaze.

Martius recalled his first sight of Optuss, lying face down in the mud of the battlefield, clad in exotic armour the like of which Martius had never seen: creamy white with an iridescent pearly sheen. The stranger had been surrounded by the remnants of the Third Legion. The men seemingly afraid, mostly standing well back from the prone body. All except Conlan, who stood over him, an unfathomable look adorning his face.

“What do we have here?” Martius had shouted, his blood still soaring after his army’s triumph, his heart pounding a victory beat in his chest.

Conlan had looked up, frowning as if annoyed or confused at being disturbed. “Don’t know, sir. But there was more than one of them and they fought like demons…”

Martius had laughed. “This one clearly didn’t fight well enough, Branch Leader. It looks like you got him in the end.”

“Wasn’t us sir, we just found him like this. Wouldn’t have tried to take him in any case… just glad he didn’t fight for them .” Conlan pointed with his sword at the barbarian bodies lying all around.

Martius raised an eyebrow. “He fought for us? He doesn’t look like any legionary I have ever seen.” He remembered the strange disturbances they saw in the air as the cavalry charge began. But, not wanting to appear foolish in front of the men, he decided not to mention it. At the time, Martius dismissed a link between the lights in the sky and the strangely clad soldier lying in the mud. It was an opinion he had since changed.

Conlan had shrugged noncommittally in reply. “Not sure they were fighting for us, sir.” He paused, eyes flitting from side to side, as if searching for something, trying to remember a word. “Not sure they even really noticed us. It was like they didn’t even care that we were here.”

Martius shook his head. “Shame he’s dead. I would like to have had a talk with him.

A soldier with piercing blue eyes had stepped forward and knelt down next to the body, lifting the warriors head roughly out of the mud by the hair. “S’not dead boss, eyes are wide open,” he said.

“What was that?” His horse whinnying and shivering lightly had temporarily distracted Martius.

“Jonas said he’s not dead, sir.” Conlan had replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sword hand. “Looks like he’s been brained though, eyes aren’t focused, but he’s still breathing.”

Martius still did not truly understand why he had taken the decision to keep the presence of the strangely armoured man a secret. A secret, he reflected, that was known to more than a few legionaries, almost his entire household and his command staff. In retrospect, it had been a foolish move. All had been sworn to secrecy but he knew that word would eventually leak out.

It was too late to reveal the stranger to the Emperor, no explanation could hide the fact that he had conspired to cover up the man’s existence. He cursed himself for an idiot, but the deed was done. Every day the strange man remained locked in Martius’s own home, increased the risk of discovery or betrayal.

He had pondered for weeks over what, or who, the stranger was. He hoped in vain that Metrotis — whose intellect was exceptional despite all his annoying habits — would make a breakthrough. Perhaps I should have taken Metrotis into my confidence. However, Metrotis had a habit of letting his mouth run away with him, and from that perspective at least, he could not be trusted.

The stories collected from the legionaries at Sothlind had all been remarkably consistent. Unlike Martius and many of his cavalry group, they had not seen a strange disturbance in the air. What they had witnessed was mastery of the art of death. The strange warriors had carved through the barbarian horde with what was variously described as either joy or nonchalance. Some claimed that one of the strange warriors was smiling as he fought. All described laughter, but none saw where it originated. Not one person had seen the white armoured knights arrive or leave. They had noticed that one had fallen nearby after the routing horde fled south, his white armour a stark contrast to the carnage around him.

Optuss. The man sent shivers down his spine. Another name entered his mind. Marek Tyll. Martius curled his lip in disgust. Marek Tyll troubled him greatly. You let him get away. He cursed himself for allowing it to happen. For one heart stopping moment, when the self proclaimed prophet had confronted him at the Inn on the Green, Martius had thought the man knew his secret. ‘Where is my God?’ Tyll’s question had seemed like an accusation, as if he knew Optuss was held captive in the town house and sought to free him. But Tyll did not know the truth of it, of that Martius was certain. The man just wanted you to convert. But if that was the case, why had Tyll paid Jhan Tuttel to have him followed? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Marek Tyll would have to be dealt with, but for now there were bigger issues. The prophet could wait.

Martius stood and walked to a large oak cupboard set against the wall. He took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. He didn’t dare to look up for a second in case it had all been a dream. On a stand in the cupboard stood the pearlescent white armour that Optuss had worn. It was similar in style to the ancient Xandarian template, but where Xandarian armour was richly and ornately decorated, this was plain. On the chest plate the head of a bear, all in black, was depicted looking outwards, mouth slightly agape, vicious teeth bared. The bear’s head was the only adornment the armour bore. It was barely marked, just a few tiny scratches blemishing its iridescent purity.