The Stronger Mettle

"A known traitor in our midst, and the entire legion watches her speak!" the legate roared.

"The only traitor here is you!" Eleanor retorted. "How many lie dead because you commanded us into the east? All for your vanity!"

"We are fighting a war!" Varus bellowed. "Now seize this deserter!"

From her perch, Eleanor looked at him with disdain. "Always others must do your dirty work! Your men bleed for you and die, or if they live, you discard them like vermin!"

"Silence! Will someone kill this deserter?"

"How many soldiers of the Tenth live on the streets of our cities, lame or mutilated, begging for scraps? Is that the future they promised you?" She shouted the last question at the soldiers. "Is that what you deserve? Death, mutilation, life as a beggar?"

Angry, near incomprehensible replies were shouted back. Eleanor's arguments, whether appealing to reason or emotion, began to take root.

"Where is your treasonous companion? You argue sedition on his behalf, but I bet he is dead, rotting in a ditch like he deserves!"

"Sir Martel is with the Khivans as a gesture of our intentions," Eleanor replied. "Yield your sword, 'sir'! Nobody will fight for a man who never fights for himself."

The legate drew his sword. "Your father is a coward, and you are a traitor," he spoke through gritted teeth. "You will die like the dog you are!"

Eleanor's answer was to draw her own steel, and she leapt down to face Varus while tossing the scroll case for Lara to hold. "Your command is at an end, 'legate'!"

***

Defensive spells covered both combatants as they crossed blades. Despite age and many years spent in soft manner rather than on the battlefield, Titus Varus remained a mageknight, and his spellcraft had lost none of its potency.

In comparison, Eleanor did not have as many years of experience, but she had been through the crucible. She had fought more battles in a year than most soldiers would through a lifetime of service. She was a protector unlike any Aster had seen, and a mageknight of the purest mettle.

Nobody spoke as the steel sang. The legionaries pulled back, nobody wishing to be caught by the whirling blades. Every prefect of the legion had arrived by now, watching the duel with bated breath. None of them seemed inclined to interfere, whether for or against their commanding officer.

It became apparent that Eleanor was the better warrior. She moved faster, always gone when the legate's sword made an attack while finding her own opening to strike a blow. But the magical shield of a mageknight could not be easily broken, and she could not strike her opponent through his spells.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Changing tactics, Eleanor fell to one knee while drawing her dagger with her left hand. She raised her sword to parry the legate's attack while stabbing his boot with her smaller blade. Once again, his shield held, and she barely scratched the leather. He quickly seized the opportunity and kicked her off balance to fall backwards.

With a triumphant roar, Varus made a great swing to cut her down. As before, she moved faster. Dropping the dagger, her now empty hand shot up and grasped his blade. The spells lay like steel and armour, protecting her hand from being cut open. Clenching his sword, using her own empowered strength to hold fast, she rose to her feet and struck forward with her own weapon. With no other choice, the legate used his own empty hand to grab her edge, likewise holding it back.

They stood, locked in a contest of pure spellcraft. Eleanor did not flinch. She pressed her sword forward while holding the legate's weapon in an iron grip.

His defences failed first. Suddenly, her sword slid through his hand, and he released his grip with a pained shout. Immediately, she drove her steel into his throat, and he died, choking on his own blood. As he fell to the ground, his blade sliced her hand open.

***

Silence reigned for several breaths as every spectator came to terms with what they had seen. The legate's body lay on the ground, unquestionably dead. Eleanor let her eyes sweep over the crowd until they rested on the legion prefect. "Do you want peace?" she shouted.

It took a moment. "Yes!"

"You shall have it. Our war with Khiva is over. They will not attack us, and we shall not attack them." Eleanor planted her sword in the ground. "The war is over!"

Cries of joy erupted from the throng. Soldiers laughed and cried, some embraced; others pulled away from the crowd, showing no emotions, and disappeared into the camp.

The legion prefect approached Eleanor, who gave her a wary look. "Proclamations are all well and good, as is this." Lara shook the scroll case in her hand. "But we both know there will be an answer to this. The men may celebrate today, but tomorrow, they will finally grasp what we have done." She spoke with a quiet voice, barely audible against the clamour of jubilant voices. "We are now mutineers."

"You include yourself in our number?"

Lara took a deep breath. "Sir Avery was – she and I were – she is dead because Legate Varus thought himself a great strategist and sent her on a fool's campaign." She looked down at the corpse. "If I was not a coward, I would have done this myself."

"Nobody would ever accuse you of cowardice."

The legion prefect glanced away. "Of all those I served with when I first came to this legion, almost none remain. Dead or grievously wounded, the lot of them. I am tired of fighting for an Empire that never fights for us." She looked straight at Eleanor. "Yes, I am with you."

"Good. In my absence, your voice will sway those who are less convinced. I must fetch Martel without delay."

"You cannot leave," Lara impressed on her. "These soldiers were convinced by you. If you are gone, they will think you have abandoned them right after convincing them of mutiny." She looked down. "Also, your hand is bleeding."

Eleanor glanced at her injured hand and pressed it against her surcoat. "Very well. I suppose whether I or another deliver the message is immaterial. I will find a trustworthy messenger from the fifth or sixth cohort – they should be keen."

"Meanwhile, we must ensure all the prefects are with us," Lara considered. "And that no word of this escapes Esmouth until we are ready. The gates and the harbour of the town must be closed. You should take a centuria now to see it done while I gather the prefects." She looked down at the corpse of the legate. "And get him buried."

Eleanor nodded in agreement. "To work."