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Legatus Nonus Sula
The Maiden’s Wedding
Part III
-Oras signs & a feast of gore-
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Martha grabbed his left arm above the vambrace with a gasp, hard nails digging into Sula’s triceps and Janos’ shuddering on the table across from him, the rattling sound macabre. The High Baron’s face planted amidst the broken plates and a gory piece of iron that was the tip of his fork protruding out of the back of his skull. The blood spraying those sitting next to him coming out of the wound.
Sula’s eyes scanned the room, from the numb Issir lords across from them, to the gawking horrified Lord Van Calcar sitting with his bride at the centrally located wedding table. The Lord of Pascor’s dark skin had turned a pale grey. What in allgods is going on here? Sula thought in the second that followed Janos suiciding himself and caught the tail end of Lord Mikel collapsing on the stone tiles in front of him, top part of his head cracking and then exploding outwards, the Baron’s gory brains splashing his boots under the table. A moment later a gurgling Lauke dropped backwards gutted, her innards emptied out in a pile on the floor.
The hall erupted in anger.
Revulsion, dismay.
Prefect Valens who was sitting in front of them twisted around in alarm, just as a numb and unsure of what was happening Sula jumped on his feet, feeling Martha’s clenched grip cutting three bloody lines at the back of his arm.
“Murder!” Someone yelled from across the hall, several lords and knights jumping to their feet from both sides in an attempt to reach the ‘dance floor’ between the tables. Nobody really knowing what had really happened, but very quickly reality setting in. Two lords were dead, along with Janos’ pregnant wife and Sir Daan Hoff’s little sister, the latter crying like a wounded animal seeing Lauke’s horrifically disemboweled body. All sense of logic lost in less than half a minute.
“What’s this horror?” Duke Albert asked in disbelief encapsulating the happenings perfectly.
“Filthy animals!” Sir Daan roared sword in hand, several angry knights coalescing behind him.
“She did it,” Dumont hissed in his ear, Sula in the process of helping Martha up.
“Who?” Sula grunted and eyed the pale-faced Sir Gatrell. “Get my wife out of here!” he barked at the stupefied Sovya knight snapping him out of his lethargy.
“Lord Ton’s sister,” Dumont said, just as Lord Morit and Sir Daan rushed the panicky running away ladies, going after the coolly standing over the dead bodies Lady Thea. From Pascor’s table armed men were coming that way also, but the lords of Tollor reached a blood covered Thea first, their table almost empty from guests but for the elderly Duke of Riverdor.
Sula slid his leg over the table to go over it tossing plates, cups, utensils and foodstuff every which way, Declan Valens jumping to his feet as well, along with his younger brother Optio Rufius Valens and the LID officer Hugh Bolton of Kadrek, the latter armed with a custom-made long cleaver.
A breath and Sula’s boots touched the gory tiles, everything around him a confused haze of strange figures dancing in the fog, death and otherworldly screams. Where in Tyeus’ spear had the blasted fog come from?
Sir Daan downed his longsword at the creepy waiting for them Thea, blade whistling and Sir Blenk who was the nearest of Pascor’s men approaching let out a cry of fear seeing his wife in grave danger. Sula, who was two meters behind Thea in his desperate attempt to stop a bloodbath from occurring for reasons unknown to him, saw the blade cutting through the frozen Issir woman, the sharp steel blasting out of her left shoulder and travelling diagonally through her lungs towards her kidneys.
Thea’s turned back splintering in a thousand tiny sheer glassy pieces that melted in the air with a hissing sound and was no more. Lord Ton’s sister gone, the heavy distinct smell of incense clogging a stunned Sula’s throat. Sir Daan’s sword clanking on the stone tiles and bouncing back almost taking his eye out, the knight stumbling almost on a moving away Sula.
Roasted turds! He cursed unable to process what was going on.
“THE HAG!” Lord Ton bellowed dread in his voice and still firmly rooted to his spot at the table despite most of his entourage up and at arms. Sula glanced his way but saw out of the corner of his left eye Sir Daan raising his sword again, eyes black with hatred. He twisted away, the blade’s tip cutting through his armour and carving a three-finger long wound on his chest.
Fuck.
“Legatus!” Prefect Valens yelled seeing him faltering, the sword spraying blood in Sula’s eyes.
The Legatus groaned and reached for his blade, Valens shoving him away to parry Sir Daan’s return swing with his drawn weapon. The swords clanked and Valens cut the knight across his arm, before he’d the time to pull away. Daan Hoff grunted irate and twisted aside, Lord Morit stabbing a long dagger in the Prefect’s sides, right between the ribs and the bindings.
Motherfucker!
“Argh!” Valens gasped blood in his mouth and dropped on a knee. Dumont rushed Lord Morit, with Optio Rufius right behind him and the Issir snarled manically afore jumping away leaving his bloody dagger in.
“Declan!” Rufius yelled, cries and sounds of heavy melee coming from all sides inside the hall. Everyone fighting for their lives, but no one really certain on who the enemy was. So they fought against anyone not their own much as people do.
“Out!” Morit barked at the seething Sir Daan who’d lost his mind clearly and dragged him away, the distraught Optio stooped over his badly injured brother. Sula snapped his head to the exit, spotted Sir Gatrell, the knight’s longsword drawn, bodying Martha outside and into the thick misty soup.
“Dumont get to Montaus!” Sula ordered hoarsely, his wound burning and blood sipping down his undershirt. “Alert the Century and make sure Martha makes it out of the city!”
“Nonus you need to get out,” Dumont protested, but he stopped him abruptly.
“Leave, now!” He growled and saw the elderly Duke Albert walking towards them on shaky legs, a butter knife sticking out of the side of his wrinkled neck. The blood spraying out of the wound in thick rubicund gushes.
“Wicked girl,” the old Duke mumbled before collapsing on his knees and dying upright.
“Lord Ton!” Sula barked and grabbed Optio Valens elbow to get him off his fainting brother. The Legatus had no time to think, or process the Prefect’s probable loss. Not with the events still unfolding.
He walked towards the covered in fog table, hearing the fight moving outside to the yard. A lot of armed and inebriated soldiers that barely liked each other duking it out.
“Lord Ton!” Sula growled irate and the Lord of Pascor appeared at last followed by his Shield, Sir Blenk. Both men looking sick to their core.
“Legatus this isn’t my doing,” Ton said hoarsely. “The Hag of the Fenlands is here!”
“Shut yer mouth!” Sula barked in his face not caring for his excuses and anxious to get near Martha. “Give word to yer guards to break the fight, else we’ll have a feast of gore after the wedding and I ain’t letting me n’ mine get slain! I’ll burn yer motherfucking city to the ground first!”
“Legatus—”
“DO IT!”
“The Duke of Riverdor has been murdered,” Blenk told him gravely. “Best to keep this contained. What’s done is done.”
What?
“The fuck are you talking about?” Sula grunted not believing his ears. He eyed the gloomy-faced Lord of Pascor. “Where is Sir Dolf?”
> At some point during the lovely evening ceremony -by Issir and Pascor’s standards- a nasty misunderstanding occurred. A lord insulted Lord Janos’ pregnant young bride during a dance and Lord Mikel Van Durren took offense. The insults turned to rage and during the exchange someone attacked Lord Janos, or the Duke of Riverdor with a utensil. Upon seeing the Duke gravely injured his entourage and the men from Tollor present turned on their host Lord Ton Van Calcar laying the blame on his feet. Whether the ill-reputed ‘Woffish’ was responsible or not, several Lords and prominent knights came to blows and a lot of noble scions got slain in the bloody furor. The latter was reported to a disconcerted Lord Anker by Sir Jan Van Durren, new Baron of Riverdor’s Castle and late Lord Mikel’s son, a month later. There are at least two more versions of the story of the now infamous ‘Feast of gore’ as maiden’s wedding came to be known today.
>
> The first is locked away in the army’s classified archives inside the Military School of Kas and can be read only by a Legatus of the Legions. The other is a rumor circulating out of Sovya attributed to the Baron of Yepehir who was present in the event and was given to the Duke of Sovya. The latter confessing it on his deathbed some years after the Maiden’s War giving the creepy story credence. ‘The Hag of the Fenlands,’ Duke Redmond admitted ‘came to the feast thirsty for blood, but seeing all we have suffered her black heart relented and spared Martha out of all the ladies present, along with my house.’
>
> Whatever the case may be the fight spilled into Grime Citadel’s yard where the many lords’ present armed escorts were feasting. Lord Morit and the firstborn of Lord Hoff made it outside and roused the soldiers to avenge the slain. The Hoff and Van Durren armed escorts attempted to enter Van Calcar’s hall, but Centurion’s Lars Montaus Second Century of the First Cohort that was also present in the yard moved to stop them as the Legatus pregnant wife, Lady Martha Redmond was in their way. The clash was brutal, fought under heavy fog and under torchlight, but the arrival of Pascor’s alarmed night patrols and Sir Emil Blenk’s city guards turned the tide.
>
>
Sula rushed to the yard followed by his staff, Lord Ton’s bodyguards and his Shield Roger Blenk. The bells rang eerily at the distant unseen Uher’s Temple, the sound reverberating on Citadel’s gloomy inner walls and the remnants of the old ramparts. Decanus Badi Littera of the Second Century had taken control of the main hall’s doors to ensure the Legatus could depart safely, Montaus blocking Hoff’s men from reaching them.
The ground was littered with slain soldiers. Sula’s boots stepped on pools of dark blood, the smell of it everywhere, mixed with that of humid earth, rot and human excrement.
“Martha,” Sula grunted angrily and the Decanus pointed at Sir Gatrell slowly making his way towards the well-lit narrow path between the south inner walls of the Citadel (the side facing the Fenlands) and the garden heading for the Kitchens. He had a bloody sword in his good hand, the other protectively around a flushed Martha.
Sula breathed out relieved then clenched his jaw and turned to head towards the clashing men. More and more soldiers pouring in the yard coming from the massive Guardtower at the River Gates, the lit corner tower adjoining the Citadel and the Duke of Pascor’s own guards led by Sir Dolf his brother, Captain Menneken and Baron Darvot who had also vanished during the chaos inside to take Aafke to safety.
Ah, Sula thought rattled by the savagery he’d witnessed. He wasn’t an easily spooked man, but it had taken him by surprise. Colossal fuckup this, he mused pressing a hand on the bleeding cut. And it’s not even the army’s. Or is it?
“Sir Daan Hoff!” He barked approaching the clashing soldiers, squinting his eyes to make out friend from foe, the legionaries easier to spot. The Second had created a slanted shieldwall and was slowly shoving the Issirs back step by step. The blades clanging on armour and garbs, finding swords and flesh. Banging, cutting and piercing. Gore spraying out and painting the once fine white gravel Lord Ton had used to pave his yard a black red.
“Halt!” Sula barked and slapped Montaus helm to get his attention.
“Legatus!” The sturdy Nord growled, square jaw protruding under his legion helmet.
“Halt the men Centurion!” Sula roared under the morbid sounds of heavy butchering. The tightly packed terrain perfect for the Century to massacre the unprepared for such activities mostly drunk Issirs. Montaus was heavily inebriated himself probably, but the Centurion preached he’d formed a natural immunity to alcohol. Now whether the boast was true or not, Sula himself had never seen the Centurion affected by it and he knew the man since Krakenfort.
“Century Halt! Pull back! Decanus Dakar that’s enough! ARE YE DEAF?” Montaus boomed dark veins forming on his thick neck and the sound of clanging blades subsided, not that Sula could see more than three meters beyond his nose, the fog as thick as lard soup and tasting much worse.
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“Damn you Legion thugs!” Lord Morit Hoff grunted, a bleeding cut marring his fine doublet, the mail worn over it torn at the sleeve and hanging loose. “Fucking murderers!”
“Ye did the murdering,” Hugh Bolton reminded him, bloody cleaver in hand dripping. “This is the butcher’s bill.”
“He sent his sister to murder Lauke!” Sir Daan groaned, bleeding from several cuts himself, the cornered Issir soldiers gathered in a tight group near the ruined part of the inner walls by the Second Century and Dolf’s guards from the Citadel’s side, Emil Blenk’s Pascor soldiers from the side leading to the river. No one was guarding the sinister path heading towards the Fenlands.
“That wasn’t Thea!” Lord Ton countered hoarsely standing next to Sula.
What? Sula frowned, the matter of Lord Ton’s sister confusing to him.
“I’ve cut the bitch down myself,” Daan snarled, bloody spittle covering his chin.
“No ye didn’t,” Ton retorted and Sula remembered Thea exploding like a glass bottle and dissolving into thin air. He stood back with a grimace, Emil Blenk walking towards the Issirs with a determined look on his face. “Give up Sir Daan,” Lord Ton offered unconvincingly, his brother standing across from them unsheathing a curved dagger with his left hand, the right armed with a longsword. “You can’t win this.”
“You miserable cunt,” Daan spat angrily, his eyes narrowing. “Ungodly, wicked ugly pig. You’re no fucking lord!”
“Surrender your blade Sir Daan,” Emil cautioned him. “You’ll walk out of here with your life. I give you my word of honor.”
Daan glared at him furious. “You’ve got no honor,” he spat and swung with his sword upwards, the blade arching and catching the unprepared Emil right under the jaw. The steel splitting the bone, mauling his jaw and splitting the young knight’s face from mouth to forehead.
“GODS NO!” His father cried out shocked and rushed the Issirs, Sula extending an arm out to stop him at the last moment.
“Enough!” He barked hoarsely, as Emil’s body hit the gravel with a loud thud. “Lord Morit put some sense into his thick skull,” Sula grunted scrunching his mouth with distaste, since the Legatus hadn’t forgotten Morit gravely injuring Prefect Valens earlier that night. “Don’t force my hand!”
Lord Morit spat down a mean expression in his eyes. “You’ve sided with murderers and life’s scum Legatus. We’re not walking out of this hellhole,” he said gravely. “But you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
“Don’t be an idiot Baron!” Sula barked irate, his eyes ogling stressed.
“Just look at them,” Lord Morit retorted bitterly and wiped the sweat off his forehead, white hair soaked and disheveled. “They smelled blood in the water. We are already dead.”
Dolf’s lips had split in a toothy smirk in response and Sula hang his head.
“Sir?” Montaus queried anxiously, eyes gleaming under his polished helm waiting for his order. By the time Sula gave it Lord Morit’s words had come true.
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Hours later the bells finally stopped. The sun hadn’t found its way on the dark skies as if it was hesitant to shine its light on the gloomy city and the mist that had sneaked inside Lord Ton’s Hall had retreated into the bogs again. The butchered dead were piled up in the flattened yard in front of Grime Citadel. The weary ‘victors’ of the engagement were standing to watch emotionlessly a group of sinister locals that had appeared out of the dark alleys strip the corpses of valuables, afore transporting them into the silent bogs for disposal.
Sula had his aide Dumont working at his wound, his mouth crooked in a grimace and his eyes on the slain. A bitterness in his mouth, as if he had gotten poisoned, the foul air not helping him, or the sounds of hammers, cleavers and saws.
“They work for the Mayor, Floris Van Dam,” Dumont explained, pulling at the thread with his teeth to tie the knot and cut it. “Pascor has only one sentence for those breaking the law.”
Sula looked at his longtime friend. “You can’t be serious.”
“Ayup,” Dumont replied and carefully cleaned the edges of Sula’s wound with a clean cloth. The stitches hurting and feeling tight there. “They’ll toss the remains in the bogs for lack of a proper sea.”
Sula got up frustrated. “I’ll talk with him.”
“Sir Dolf said the First Cohort went through the ‘Fish Market’ Gates and are marching here,” Dumont countered. “It’ll be better to ask what he’ll do about the Crabs coming answer to this travesty.”
“You fear the Crabs more? What about the Van Durren?”
“The Van Durren have a succession on their hands,” Dumont reminded him and Sula nodded. “Lord Hoff just lost his firstborn and youngest daughter. A cousin. He won’t wait.”
Sula didn’t believe the Van Durren would wait also and there is nothing better to solidify your place at the top by avenging your liege’s murder. What had happened to Lord Albert and the others was murder, the Legatus had no delusions about it. With the exception of Lord Morit, who had gotten what he deserved.
He put his hand on Dumont’s armoured shoulder and gave him another sober nod, then walked stiffly through the bloody yard. The Mayor’s men still working on the corpses. It needed a very strong stomach to be a witness to this and the majority of the weary legionnaires stood aside near their officers. Sula entered Lord Ton’s Hall, the signs of carnage not as heavy in there, until you looked towards the side walls. Optio Valens was mourning over the body of the Prefect, with Hugh Bolton the LID officer watching in silence and the Legatus paused near them.
“We’ll bury Declan in the Castrum,” Sula told the young scion with a grimace. “Along those that had fallen outside. I’ll talk with Lord Ton about it, pay it out of my purse.”
Rufius wiped his eyes and stood up slowly. “I’ll see to it myself Legatus,” he replied firmly. “Declan liked things put in proper order and hated not paying for his own business.”
Sula pressed his lips tight, but then let out a weary sigh. “You’re darn right Optio,” he relented. “Tell Montaus I’ve given my blessing and to see to it posthaste. I don’t want the locals near our people.”
“Lord Wolffish is back there,” Bolton informed him, hard eyes staring at the peaceful face of the deceased Prefect of the Fourth Legion.
“Thank you mister Bolton,” Sula replied and went to talk with the Lord of Pascor.
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The freshly married Lord Ton was resting his back on the wedding table, arms crossed on his chest and as unhappy as any groom the Legatus had ever seen in his life. Make that twice that, he thought and stopped near the small group of men surrounding the Duke.
“Lord Ton,” Sula started sternly. “I need an explanation.”
Ton Van Calcar scrunched his face this way and that, eyes set on the gore-covered floor.
“The Hag wanted this,” he finally said hoarsely. “Nothing we can do about it.”
“That was your sister,” Sula grunted. “I was with her for days.”
“Thea is gone,” a distraught Sir Blenk replied. “Emil too. Sweet boy, didn’t deserve this.”
Sula stared at him intensely, until his face relaxed. “My condolences for yer loss Sir Blenk, but what happened here I can’t explain. Where it would lead to though, is something I have a pretty good idea.”
“Henk Van Durren will bring the First Foot here,” Lord Ton said soberly. “Duke Hoff will talk him into it. He’ll speak and the man will listen. Pascor can’t fight Riverdor. We can’t fight Riverdor and Badum along with Tollor,” he grimaced in frustration. “Witch’s tits, we were given no choice!”
“How much time do you have?” Sula asked.
“If Assen and his raiders manage to deal with the ships in the port perhaps a month before they move,” Ton replied. “Mere weeks if the word gets out.”
“You expect word not to… wait, what ships?” Sula grunted glaring at him.
Lord Ton returned it without blinking. “We can’t let them leave the port,” he said simply.
“Lord Ton you can’t keep on killing people!” Sula blasted him, but the Lord of Pascor set his jaw stubbornly.
“No way around it Legatus,” he retorted. “I tried for peace, but I failed through no fault of my own. Nobody will want to hear my side of the story, afore they kill me. Kill us all. Only chance we have is to kill them all first.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Sula growled and Menneken standing next to Sir Dolf frowned.
“Nasty… business this,” the Captain said in his creepy manner.
“I’m well aware,” Sula retorted. “We can’t behave like animals though.”
“You can’t avoid what’s coming Legatus,” Dolf told him and Sula eyed him frustrated.
“I could, if I took the legion out of the city,” Sula reminded him. “But I understand you have an agreement with the Praetor.”
Lord Ton’s expression turned even sourer. “I’m under duress Sula,” he hissed angry. “It’s not noble to negotiate with a blade on one’s neck.”
“Lord Ton,” Sula replied in the same vein. “I’m under duress as well and under orders,” he replied. “Had I not been, then I would have sided with the Van Durren and the old Duke. They were your guests in yer blasted feast sir and ye fucking killed them!”
Lord Ton licked his mauve lips thoughtfully, a tick on his left eye so severe it teared up and he had to wipe it with a gloved finger. “I find myself unable to refuse your Praetor. This isn’t a bargain, but outright and vile blackmail,” he finally crumbled hoarsely. “Why, I’d rather cut off a couple of me own fingers than relent at such an outrage, but at this time I don’t believe that would be enough.”
“Good,” Sula retorted without pity. “Where’s her body?”
Lord Ton stared at him raptly, left eye bloodshot small cracks covering the white of it.
“There’s nothing left,” he finally said with a guttural grunt. “She wasn’t there when Sir Daan swung at her. It was a plaguing illusion!”
Sula stood back in disbelief. “How do you know?”
Lord Ton sighed and shook his head wearily. Then he glanced at the grim-faced Sir Blenk his Shield, the older man mourning a son and wife in the same evening and swallowed with another grimace, as if bile had gone down his gullet.
“She told me,” he croaked bitterly. “It’s how I know. Oras signs in the night and witch’s words out of the fog. I’ve known the cursed Hag for all my life Sula. She took my brother. She took Thea. It was her.”
Ton paused unsure, as if he’d remembered something important.
“We should deal with her,” Sula grunted and Lord Ton started laughing his manner a bit crazy.
“If you go in the Fenlands looking for her Legatus,” he cautioned him sobering up. “You’ll regret it whether you live, or die. Stay away from her, if you love yer family. We’ve enough in our plate to open this can of worms.”
“You don’t wish to avenge yer sister?”
Lord Ton showed him his hall. “Look at all this Sula. I wanted peace, but she wanted war. I’m the victim here, but I know when to stop and take a step back.”
Sula frowned not understanding his reaction, but the Lord of Pascor was right also. They had a war coming at them and Lucius had ordered him to keep the Issirs busy. Whether he’d foreseen this, or not, Lucius had used it to buy Pascor’s favor and secure his northern flank.
In a sense, he thought a shiver creeping down his spine. It is as if the god-darn Hag was working for the Praetor. Whatever that creature was, she hadn’t touched their side of the table.
They will rule, the fake Thea had told Martha during the feast.
The whites…
The ports of salt and ice.
> Almost two-hundred and fifty people were killed the night of Ton Van Calcar’s wedding to Lady Aafke Van Durren. Perhaps a bit more than that as one can only guess their number adding up the guests, lords and ladies, their escorts and the sailors of the four ships Captain Assen’s raiders butchered in Pascor’s nearby docks afore taking them over. More lords had died that day than any other single day of the war until that point, or in as a brief a span.
>
> The list of those that had perished staggering.
>
> The venerable Grand Duke of Riverdor, the High King’s Shield Albert Van Durren. His step-brother Baron Mikel, of Riverdor Castle. High Baron Janos Van Durren of Badum and his pregnant wife young Lauke Hoff, ‘the young bride’. Baron Morit Hoff of Edgefort. Sir Daan Hoff, the second, the Duke of Tollor’s firstborn and commander of his fleet. Sir Emil Blenk, commander of Pascor’s guards. Lady Thea Van Calcar, Lord Ton’s sister. Prefect Declan Valens, the High Baron of Cartaport’s second son.
>
> The repercussions of the massacre in Grime Citadel felt immediately on that side of the Canlita Sea, as Maiden’s War started not two weeks later with First Foot’s sacking of the Clay Mine, the vast workers town on the disputed side of Serene River. It was followed by the now famed prolonged battle, a naval engagement and even a daring landing in the months that followed, but almost everyone agrees that the war had started that fateful night.
>
>
> Lord Sirio Veturius
>
> The Fall of Heroes
>
> Chapter XXX
>
> (Legatus Nonus Sula,
>
> -also known as-
>
> Lord of Salt, ‘Solid Nonus’
>
> Lucius’ Southern campaigns,
>
> Fourth Year
>
> Volume II, III
>
> -Maiden’s War-
>
> Section subtitle
>
> A stand at Serene
>
> -Feast of gore-
>
> Starting with Maiden’s Wedding and ending with the carnage in the Fenlands
>
>
>
> Late summer 192 to Winter 192-193 NC)
>
>
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