Chapter 6 – Awakenings

Darkness spreads at the suns’ retreat,

Creeping, reaching hands; an eternal defeat.

People fail to stop the night, they fail to find the light,

This ceaseless night, the darkness, an endless plight.

A single child, the instrument that will overcome

Born of fire and flame, a weapon that cannot be undone.

-Translated from Jylian into Filian

Ignisia awoke in a cold sweat. She sat upright, feeling the stiffness in her back. Beneath her, a thin grey bedroll was laid over bare rock. Her slender hand reached unbidden upward, unconsciously rubbing the brand on her neck. She quickly dawned a set of grey robes and parted the tattered tent flap to reveal a gleaming red sky. The budding sunrise was a beautiful array of reds, golds, and yellows. Marching hastily to a towering red tent, she slowly peeled back the golden curtain, trying not to let the sunlight inside. She tiptoed to the wash cupboard, grabbing a nearby carafe. All the while, she peered out of the corner of her eyes at the mound of red blankets and pillows in the back of the room. Atop the splendid fineries laid her mistress, Lady Vale. Her placid white skin was marked with little red specks, freckles they called them here. It was a sign of nobility.

Ignisia was careful to slide back outside and find the nearby water cart. She weaved in between the maze of tents, finding herself amid hues of crimson, garnet, and ruby reds. Every day, the tents formed a slightly new path. The vanguard kept a relatively tidy camp, but the terrain made keeping neat and orderly rows difficult. Ignisia had been on the road with Lady Vale and the vanguard for nearly a fortnight now. Each day they shifted camp by a few miles, changing their position along the border.

Ignisia’s long ears were tucked carefully under the gray spun wool of her hood. The Filians despised the sight of elf ears. Once, her hood had fallen in public. She had been fetching herbs for Lady Vale’s teas in a market. The shop hand was a bent and hobbled orc with a matching brand on his neck. Orcs can’t really hide their olive-green faces in any practical way, so they are permitted to work hoodless. Mostly, orcs serve the Filus doing hard manual labor, while elves fill more… delicate roles. As Ignisia’s hood caught the wind, exposing her sharp ears, the orc shop-hand struck her. She was sent sprawling as passing Filians spit on her. Even slaves mumbled and cursed as they strode by her.

The laws were hazy at times. No one slave had any superiority over the next. There was an unspoken pecking order though. The more renowned a slave’s master or position, the higher the unofficial position. But this only really applied when the nobles were around. Without her Lady Vale nearby, she was vulnerable to the vagaries of both Filians and slaves alike. Unlike the blurred laws and rules, the roots of prejudice were solid as a century’s old oak tree.

Ignisia brushed away the delicate memory. As a slave, she supposed that she was fortunate. She didn’t have many memories like that since serving under Lady Vale these past two decades. Maybe the occasional berating or harsh remark, but rarely did someone accost her after learning that she served Sirilia Vale.

The carafe was filled now, and Ignisia dodged quickly between tents, enjoying the silence of morning. She didn’t see anyone stirring yet, not even slaves had risen for the day. Ignisia was used to quiet mornings, as Lady Vale was always early to rise. Ignisia saw the golden red tent of her lady, peering above the neat rows ahead of her. It stood central to the officers’ quarters, which spiraled out in a sunburst from the center.

Quietly peeling back a golden canvas flap, Ignisia slid inside. As she turned to secure the flap, a sharp voice startled her from behind.

“Come now, fill the wash basin and get a fire started in the hearth.” Lady Vale was sitting upright in her bed now, a stack of papers laid out neatly in front of her. Ignisia blushed, crimson filling her white cheeks as she turned away sheepishly. “Sadly, not all of us can just wander about camp aimlessly in the mornings, can we?” Lady Vale said smoothly without looking up.

“No my lady, of course not.” Ignisia whispered back a shameful reply.

“When you’re done here, go and fetch some breakfast. It will be a long day today I think. Grab a big portion from the cook. And don’t be shy about it.” Sirilia continued shuffling through her papers as she spoke, never lifting her gaze. It was likely that Lady Vale would be preoccupied, sorting reports and figures until she had her daily meeting with the Tribunae officers.

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Twelve days in a row now, the same routine. Ignisia would rise just before dawn and tend to Lady Sirilia’s needs. Later, she would sit by patiently listening into the Tribunal as the officers provided input, squabbling over the when and where they would cross the border. Occasionally, one of the tribunae officers would bark at her to fetch something. The men would clamber around the folding table with their boiled leather tunics, red sashes hanging from waists and shoulders marking their rank. Ignisia would quietly return with water and sometimes wine, moving like an unseen ghost, weaving about the living.

Sometimes after the reports and meetings, Lady Vale would raise the flags. Yesterday, a white pennant with three red slashes flew lazily in the wind. Within hours of hoisting the colors, the entire vanguard camp had been meticulously broken down and readied to move.

Ignisia had quickly broken down her small lean-to, stashing her meager bed roll and woolen blanket into small pack. After a few minutes, she headed to Lady Vale’s tent. There, she scurried about the room, rushing to neatly fold gowns and leggings into large trunks. With Sirilia gone for the moment, the young slave caressed the silky sheets. She wrapped up a white fur blanket, running her fingers through the plush lining. For a moment, she wrapped the soft blanket over her shoulders, wishing that she could steal away at least one more blanket for the hovel she slept in every night. Ignisia shook away the thought, stacking the blankets into another chest.

When she finished, Ignisia directed several legion bond-orcs to break down Lady Vale’s larger tent. Within an hour, the large tent and all its fineries were shrunk down into one rambling cart. Surveying the camp, Ignisia watched as orcs pulled down hundreds of tent poles. The sea of rose and crimson had been reduced to a slate gray, the landscape of the harsh mountains revealing itself again.

Keeping an entire legion of 800 soldiers and their support retinue moving was no small feat, but Lady Vale had managed it. She had mandated that no soldier below the Tribunae and herself would have their own quarters. Even Centurions shared the long barracks tents now; allowed only their folding cots, their armor, and one personal bag each.

There were grumblings about the strict conditions in the field, but there hadn’t been a single infraction amongst the troops or slaves in over a fortnight. Lady Vale selected only the finest commanders to complete this legion, trimming any unnecessary redundancies and wasted equipment. Sirilia Vale’s Third Legion ran consistently and smoothly, like a well-crafted clock.

Today, Lady Sirilia stood quietly as several men pointed fingers across the sprawling maps in front of her. The slender woman wore a crimson, high collared blouse that tapered down into short dress. Underneath, white leggings met with tall leather riding boots. With the boots and her fiery red hair tied neatly atop her head, she appeared taller than most of the men gathered at the table.

Across from her, a lean look man was resting his hands on the table, staring intently at the maps. Hard, sinewy lines ran up his exposed arms. The red plumed galea atop his head neatly framed a square, clean jaw. Grey lines of tidy, cropped hair peaked from beneath the brim of the helm. The deep furrow in his brow caught Lady Sirilia’s attention.

“Prefectus Jarrod. You seem concerned with something? Has the Third Legion taken a misstep here?” The tall woman tilted her head, awaiting a response.

“Legatus Vale, if I may.” The grizzled man waited expectantly before continuing.

“I did ask you didn’t I?” Sirilia responded coolly.

“Of course, Legatus. This is all looking too, familiar… Decades ago, we combed these same lines looking for a stronghold to cross into Marlathon. We never found a viable spot along the Brashus Reach. I suspect that in these last two decades, little has changed.” Jarrod exhaled quietly, his brow relaxing somewhat.

Lady Vale looked around the huddled officers, eyeing each man in turn. “Nothing has changed you say? Since the Great Fall, we have screened and tested twice the number of cases than the previous council. We have extended our tendrils far and wide across the three continents, reaching far beyond the dawdling grasp of the last regime. In twenty years, we have ten times the number of legions than before the fall. Those withered fools did not have the clairvoyance, the fortitude, or the wit to see it done. We will find the reborn, and I will not suffer those that cannot summon the courage to do what must be done.” Lady Vale stood taller. Her confidence building, the grace and poise oozing from her every word. She towered over the men at the table now, looking down at them with sharpened eyes.

Ignisia sat quietly in the corner, unconsciously rubbing at the brand on her neck. Her thoughts flitted back to the war, two decades ago. Ignisia was a child then. She remembered her mother being ripped out of her grasp as they tried to embrace each other one last time. As the soldiers tugged the woman away, a delicate hand rested on the girl’s shoulder. Tears were streaming down her face and sobs wracked her body. The crying girl looked up to see a burst of fiery red hair, whipping against the wind. The pale white face above her was marked with tiny red flecks. Ignisia continued to sob as the young woman stood over her, pulling her tightly into her bosom to and comforting the weeping girl.

Ignisia glanced over her shoulder reluctantly, watching men in crimson robes tie her mother to a charred spire. The words they chanted were foreign to the small girl. Two of the figures kneeled in front of Ignisia’s mother. Her wrists were bound above her head and the elf’s wide eyes sought out her daughter’s stare. Ignisia locked eyes with her mother, fighting to see through blurry tears. She could see her mother’s green eyes, pleading and frightened. In a flash, the deep, forest green of her eyes was masked with a scorching red. Fire engulfed the woman as a violent torrent of flames climbed the spire. Ignisia screamed. A young Sirilia Vale drew Ignisia in closer, arms clinging to the small girl.

Ignisia could feel beads of sweat now as she ran her fingers over the ragged lines on her neck. She realized she was watching Sirilia address the Tribunae. Her hand moved quickly back to her lap; her shaking palms folded together.

Lady Vale lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes. “You say nothing has changed? No. Everything… has changed.”