Chapter 49

At dawn, the sky blazed with the colours of raised flags, marking the alignment and strength of a single side. John stood with his contubernium atop one of the many forts encircling the campsite.

The crisp morning air was filled with anticipation and the faint rustling of the flags in the breeze. On one side, John gazed at the white flag bearing Baron Uril’s family insignia—a delicate aster flower encapsulated by a shield, symbolizing resilience and nobility.

Alongside it flew the red flag of the Dracir Empire, adorned with a majestic four-legged golden dragon embellished with intricate filigree, representing power and grandeur.

These flags were strategically raised atop the campsite, serving as beacons to welcome the approaching reinforcements.

John’s keen eyesight allowed him to see far into the distance, where a Centuria of soldiers, approximately eighty to one hundred strong, marched steadily towards their location. Leading the formation was a standard bearer, holding another set of flags.

The foremost was a red flag with a white double-headed hound, an emblem of the Faelius Hounds, that had been described in the book given to him by Santino. Below this flew the same Dracir flag, reinforcing their allegiance to the empire.

John's thoughts wandered as he took in the sight.

“Flags...Huh.”

He couldn't recall ever seeing such emblems within the Order. The concept of displaying loyalty or heritage through pieces of cloth was foreign to him.

“Well, I wouldn’t know”, he mused, in fact, the Order had its own ways of instilling identity, none of which involved fluttering flags.

From his position, John observed the disciplined march of the Centuria, their armour glinting in the early morning sun and their steps synchronized with military precision.

Hawk, standing nearby, nudged Barnes. "I think that’s him over there," he pointed out.

Barnes squinted, trying to make out the figure Hawk indicated. "Who?"

"Marcus Cornelius," Hawk replied with a hint of interest. "the local hero," he added sarcastically.

Rook gave a dry chuckle. "Give me a damn break, Hawk. He's just a lucky son of a bitch."

Barnes grunted, clearly unimpressed. "If luck was all it took, we'd all be heroes. Keep your wits about you."

Hawk inferred with a lazy grin. "Well, it's good to see some fresh faces. Maybe they'll take some of the heat off us."

As the Centuria drew closer, the sound of their synchronized footsteps grew louder, echoing across the campsite. The standard bearer halted their advance, planting the flags firmly into the ground as a sign of their arrival.

Leading the formation was a distinguished officer in elaborate armour, his presence commanding a degree of respect and authority. Beside him were all sorts of attendants at the ready.

"That’s definitely him," Hawk confirmed, his eyes trained. "I wonder how true the rumours about him are."

Hearing this, Sarge shook his head, keeping his focus on the proceedings below. "Hero or not, we’ll see how much of that reputation holds up."

At the gates, John watched as Marcus and his men approached the waiting Baron Uril and Principe Oswin. The three leaders shook hands and exchanged formalities, their expressions seemingly a mix of stern professionalism and cautious optimism.

Even as the initial excitement settled, Barnes turned to his men with a knowing look. "Eyes sharp, everyone," he reminded them. "Maybe we'll get promoted this time around."

“Bullshit,” Hawk let out a dry laugh, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "And maybe pigs will fly. Promotions in this hellhole? That's a pipe dream if I've ever heard one."

Rook, always ready to join in on the banter, chimed in with a grin. "Don't kill the man's dreams, Hawk. Let him have his fantasies. Keeps morale up, you know?"

Sarge shook his head, clearly unmoved with the lightheartedness. "Dreams won't keep us alive out here. Maybe if you shut your trap a little, we’ll get through this with our skins intact."

Hawk shrugged, unbothered by Sarge's sternness. "Just calling it like I see it. We've been stuck at the bottom rung for too long. What? Do you really think the higher-ups give a rat’s ass about us?"

Barnes sighed at the comment, but his eyes still held a glimmer of hope. "There’s nothing wrong with trying, Hawk. That’s all we can control. If a promotion comes, it comes. If not, we survive and keep fighting.”

Hawk smirked and pointed a thumb at Sarge. "If promotions were easy to come by, then Sarge here would be a general by now. Look at him—age, experience, been through more battles than we've had hot meals. And yet, here he is, stuck with us at the bottom of the barrel."

Sarge’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t argue. "The legion’s not about fairness. It's about survival and doing what needs to be done. You’d do well to remember that."

Hawk rolled his eyes but didn't push further. "Alright, alright. You can all keep your hopes up. Just don't come crying to me when reality shits on you."

Barnes let Hawk’s snide comments slide as he glanced over at the settling Centuria with a look of ambition nestling in his eyes, whispering silently, "Maybe this time will be different," he said, almost to himself.

..

Inside the commander's tent, the air was thick with tension. Baron Uril, his once formidable presence now diminished by age and loss, sat at the head of the table. Beside him, Kizinger, stood quietly, acting as his support. Opposite them was Principe Oswin, his armour gleaming and pristine, projecting an air of smug confidence.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The tent flap rustled, drawing everyone's attention as Centurion Marcus entered with another person behind him, his entry commanded immediate respect. Marcus scanned the room, his sharp eyes taking in the assembly before offering a crisp salute.

"Baron Uril, Principe Oswin, Lord Kizinger," Marcus greeted each man with a nod. "I understand the situation here is dire."

Baron Uril, his voice tinged with the weariness of his years, replied, "Indeed, Centurion Marcus. We are grateful for your timely arrival. The situation is complex." Uril paused, eyeing the individual behind Marcus.

“This person is?”

Marcus turned his head, gesturing towards the elderly man, “A mere scribe, worry not, Baron.”

“I see…” Uril said with a court nod towards the scribe, though his tone was slightly displeased.

Oswin, eager to establish his presence, stepped forward. "Centurion Marcus, allow me to brief you on our current predicament." He unfurled a map on the table, pointing to various marked locations.

"The Byzantine forces have been launching targeted attacks. We've suffered significant casualties overtime.”

Marcus's expression darkened. "How many have we lost?"

Oswin's tone was grave. "Over a hundred men are dead, and several more are missing. The Byzantines strike with precision, causing maximum damage before retreating."

Uril added, his voice steady, "I suspect these attacks are meant to destabilize us, to sow fear and confusion. We must not let them succeed lest we fail to support the main offensive in the region. I fear this location has already been compromised for far too long."

Marcus nodded, absorbing the information. "What measures have been taken to secure the camp and prevent further losses?"

Oswin gestured to the map. "We've fortified our defences and increased patrols, but our resources are stretched thin. The men are weary, and morale is low. The most recent attack, the massacre of the recruits, was a blatant attempt to intimidate us."

Marcus's eyes narrowed, detecting an oddity in the report. "Recruits, you say? Slaughtered right outside the camp?"

Oswin's eyes flicked toward Uril, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "Yes, they were caught off guard. A regrettable decision, one that falls under the Baron’s command."

Marcus's gaze sharpened, noting the brief exchange. "It's unusual for recruits to be stationed outside the camp, especially in such vulnerable positions. Why were they there?"

Baron Uril, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, spoke up. "It was an unfortunate oversight. We were in the midst of reorganizing our ranks."

Oswin seized the opportunity, his tone pointed. "An oversight, indeed. One that could have been avoided with proper leadership."

Marcus glanced at Oswin, sensing the hostility. "An oversight during such perilous times?"

Oswin's smugness increased. "We are short on experienced soldiers. The recruits were placed there temporarily, a decision that I had initially disagreed with. But alas, Centurion, the Baron's decisions have led us to this precarious state."

Kizinger, observing the tension, interjected, "Regardless of the circumstances, we need to address the current threat. Our focus must be on fortifying our defenses, boosting morale and ensuring a successful counterattack."

Marcus nodded, though his eyes remained on Uril. "We will need a coordinated effort. I will deploy my men to assist with patrols and fortifications. We will also conduct thorough investigations to identify and neutralize any threats within our ranks."

Baron Uril sighed with relief. "Thank you, Centurion Marcus. Your support is invaluable."

Oswin, seizing his moment, added, "Centurion, we need a leader who can make decisive and safe decisions, especially during such critical times, perhaps you can temporarily take command?"

"Temporarily take command?" Uril repeated sharply, his voice laced with incredulity. "Principe Oswin, your suggestion borders on treason. I am the appointed ruler of this region, entrusted with its defence and governance."

Oswin met Uril's glare with a calm demeanor, though his eyes flickered with underlying resolve. "Baron Uril, I speak only out of concern for the safety of our men," Oswin countered smoothly, though the edge in his tone suggested he was not easily swayed.

"Recent events demand decisive leadership, especially in light of the tragic loss of our recruits", he added with a faint smile.

Baron Uril's fists clenched involuntarily, his voice lowering to a dangerous intensity. "Your concern is noted, Principe Oswin," he retorted, each word measured with barely restrained fury. "But do not mistake audacity for wisdom. My decisions are guided by years of experience and loyalty to this land."

Marcus, observing the exchange with a keen eye, sensed the escalating tension between the two leaders. "Principe Oswin," he interjected calmly, stepping into the fray with a voice of reason.

"I’m sure Baron Uril's leadership has steered this land through many years of hardships. Before we consider any changes, let us focus on fortifying our defences and honoring the fallen."

Oswin inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his gaze remained steely. "Of course, Centurion," he conceded, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. "The safety of our camp remains paramount."

Baron Uril, visibly composed but simmering with suppressed fury, nodded curtly. "Indeed," he agreed tersely.

As the settled into a momentary lull, Marcus, his brow furrowed with concern, redirected the conversation to the matter of the poisoned soldiers.

"I've read the initial report regarding the poisoned soldiers," Marcus began, his voice steady but with an undertone of urgency. "Baron Uril, Principe Oswin, what is the current situation regarding this matter?"

Baron Uril exchanged a cautious glance with Oswin before responding. "It's a troubling development, Centurion," Uril admitted, his weariness evident in his voice. "We have tried to alleviate the symptoms caused by the poison, but our medical team has yet to procure results."

Oswin, seizing an opportunity, interjected smoothly. "Centurion Marcus, rest assured, under my command I have followed protocol and isolated affected soldiers whilst securing our supply lines."

Marcus nodded thoughtfully, his mind already calculating the next steps. "Good, I’m familiar with the Byzantine’s bizarre strategies," he revealed, reaching into a satchel beside him and withdrawing a set of parchment scrolls. "And as such, I've brought in poison experts and experienced alchemists to assist in the recovery. They've dealt with similar incidents in our recent campaigns."

The mention of experts piqued Baron Uril's interest, momentarily diverting his attention from the tension with Oswin. "Your foresight is commendable, Centurion," he acknowledged with a nod, his demeanor softening slightly. "We will cooperate fully in the endeavour."

Oswin, though outwardly agreeable, couldn't conceal a hint of frustration at Marcus's preparedness. "Indeed, Centurion," he echoed with forced congeniality, masking his unease.

"Whatsmore," Marcus began, his tone measured yet curious. "I couldn't help but notice the presence of a captured goblin outside. What is the meaning behind this?"

Baron Uril, who had nearly forgotten about the goblin amidst the pressing matters at hand, cleared his throat and addressed Marcus with a hint of complication. "Ah, yes," he started, his brow furrowing in thought. "A patrol contubernium captured it during their routine patrol. We suspect there may be a goblin settlement nearby."

He paused, contemplating his next words carefully. "However, given the recent Byzantine attacks and the delicate state of our defences, I've hesitated to send a detachment to track and clear out their hideout. It could risk alerting the Byzantines to our movements, leading to further ambushes."

Marcus nodded thoughtfully, understanding the dilemma. "I see the predicament," he acknowledged, his voice steady. "However, I believe addressing potential threats within our vicinity is crucial for our long-term security."

Turning to the experts he had brought with him, Marcus continued. "I am willing to contribute a portion of my troops to destroy that settlement."

Oswin, ever calculating, spoke up cautiously. "Centurion Marcus, while your expertise is invaluable, we must still proceed with caution," he advised, his gaze thoughtful. "Any unnecessary movement could indeed provoke further hostilities from the Byzantines."

"I understand that," Marcus replied evenly. "However, I am also willing to take personal responsibility for this matter. With your support, we can approach this strategically, minimizing the risk of detection."

Baron Uril, though hesitant at first, recognized the merit in Marcus's proposal. "Very well, Centurion," he acquiesced, his voice tinged with resignation. “I shall lend you the contubernium that had captured the goblin, they should be of use to you.”