There was a cacophony of sound as the soldiers began to stir. The mass of bodies around Marius began to shuffle towards their command structure where orders and assignments would be doled out by their company commander.
The locus was the center of the immense camp that the Seventeenth operated out of. The sign above the front gate read “Hearthguard,” so named due to its proximity to the capital of Torva, Hearthage. It should have been beautiful - with the classic Talissian architecture with its strong white marble pillars and ornate facades overlooking the pristine waters of the Medici Bay, and the gentle climate, it had the makings of a paradise. The gods must have been in a jovial mood when they carved the lands and seas in what would become Torva and the Capital Steppes. Alas, Marius thought, it was hard to find paradise in Ionus’ kiln.
Marius let himself listlessly be carried by the sea of soldiers towards The Peak. He knew Eonaro was talking but the words were muted, a silent backdrop as Marius fell into his thoughts again. Marius couldn’t shake the vision from his head; a baby with startling shimmering prismatic eyes, staring up at him. His mother wailed a cry that rattled his core and sickened his soul. He couldn’t stop his arm from swinging, the glimmering blade of the Talissian gladius coming down to cleave through the body of a squirming whimpering babe. He tried to turn away. To shift his eyes. Anything to stop the devastating reality of his duty. Instead, all he could see was his stoic expression through gore spattered gladius. That was the expectation of Scalde. An iron wrought soldier, devoid of everything but discipline and obedience.
He could still hear the screams of the fictitious woman conjured from his imagination when he came to a stop. A line of idle soldiers slowly milled forward into the building they simply called “The Panopticon.” It was an eyesore, a garish mixture of macabre Osterweiher construction and sleek Junian thaumatech. Osterweiher was incorporated into the Imperium centuries ago. They were most famous for their skills in brewing. Few things hit the spot on a hot day in Rymerian like an Osterwheihern ale. However, aside from their beer they were also known for their architecture - dark buildings reminiscent of the Karnovian’s an ocean away. Their buildings were towering, heavy, and imposing. They cared little for symmetry and most recognizable for their buttressing towers and adorning the facades of their work with highly ornate gargoyles modeled after the Great Beasts of Kardas.
The initial frame of the Panopticon was Osterweiher in nature. It was composed of dark stone bricks the size of a man’s torso held together with mortar. Towering over 200 meters in height at the peak of Hearthguard, it gave a perfect view of the Medici Bay and the Inlet which led to the Sea of Phoenixes. A decade ago the top of the tower had been pulled down and replaced with an abomination of clockwork gears and vulgar mechanics. Atop of the whirring spire sat a marvel of thaumatech; of magic and technology blended until it was impossible to separate the two. As a crown the tower now wore a swirling mass of sickly green energy contained within a sphere of some glass like material that Marius did not know the name for. It was erected atop the tower as a sign of peace and trust during the last ceasefire with nations of the Commonwealth. The Merchant Kings themselves commissioned its construction and spent two years taking apart the once beautiful tower to replace it. Of course, Emperor Cassius ended the ceasefire a mere half a decade later when he embroiled the Empire in the current quagmire of the southern wars. They had managed to retake Parthus, but progress beyond that had been nothing short of abysmal.
The building was primarily used as a lookout. Marius had heard that the sphere at the top of the tower was used for scrying by some of the Magus who were stationed at Hearthguard. However, the lowest level of the tower was utilized as his companies’ gathering chamber.
“Over morning meal Milo told me that for Merchant’s Day next month they’ll be bringing in some smiths from the capital. It’ll be nice to finally replace some of my gear,” Eo said, giving a longing look at the pilum he was leaning on as a makeshift walking stick. “He would know. He has been working under Quartermaster Forma.” Marius heard the words but they didn’t register. It was white noise. Eo blathered on, something about second yearers being able to procure their own equipment.
“Marius.”
“Marius.”
“Marius. Mate, head up!”
Marius snapped back to reality as Caranir gently shook his shoulder. They were approaching the portcullis into the Panopticon.
“Let Scalde get to you, eh?” Eo chimed in. “Ironlung is full of wind. He talks a big game, but I guarantee you that nothing is going to happen. We’ll probably be on patrol duty anyway. The worst thing that’ll happen is bashing a few goblin skulls in, and that’s just fun sport.” Marius grimaced at the thought.
“But what if we don’t? What if they send us to a home and we actually find a child? I don’t think I can do that…” Marius voice trailed off.
“Well, that is what we have Eo for,” Caranir said. It was meant to be humorous, but Marius found little humor in their situation.
“I suppose if you are too craven, I can do the deed.” Eo had also seemed to miss the comedy in Caranir’s words. “You’ll likely get a demerit for it, but I’ve always had a stronger stomach than the two of you lilies.”
“No. I don’t know,” Marius felt flustered as he spoke. He couldn’t help but think of the disappointment his father would assuredly feel. Marius’ father was a dux, and a former tactician who had graduated with honors from the Imperial Academy of Warfare and Engineering. Atticus DeSilva was every bit the distinguished Talissian noble and devout nationalist. A perfect graduate, really. To disobey the will of the Empire in their home was to disobey the word of his father. He was well aware that should word reach his father that he failed an order given by his superior of such gravitas, he would likely be sent on a Mission of Atonement before the eyes of Verenia, goddess of honor, when he returned home.
Marius recalled his Uncle Ajax regaling him of stories of his own grueling atonement and the treacherous voyage across the sea to a desert land. He had trained under the famous Va’Alem where he learned discipline and obedience. Stories suggested they were everything from cruel monks who worshiped a great sand serpent to an order of ruthless assassins that moved like a desert wind, unseen, unheard until you felt the bite of their poisoned steel against your throat. Ajax was notoriously tight-lipped about what or who the organization truly was, and limited his stories to personal anecdotes such as being forced to travel five days through the desert without provisions in an area known for Shrifters.
Marius had learned of the beasts from a tutor from the Balgasian Desert’ his father had hired to train him with curved blades. His name had been Devak Bashad and Marius most remembered his colorfully dyed beard against his crimson hued skin. Devak had described Shrifters as massive cockroach-like beasts which created traps beneath the sands. One step over their domain would result in the creatures erupting up and using their sweeping scythes to drag you to a foul fate. Marius hadn’t been nearly as interested in deserts after that tale.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“No, I’ll do it if I need to. It is what the Emperor expects,” Marius felt himself doubting the words even as they left his mouth.
“That’s a good legionnaire. Besides, you only have one more year of this shithole before you pack your bags and apply for the academy,” Eo responded, a grin on his face. The fact that his friend was so nonchalant about the entire affair sat poorly with Marius. Eo had been the one who had set him on the right course when he first arrived at the camp. His first month had been a nightmare, but Eo took him under his wing and taught him how to survive Scalde and the expectations of the Seventeenth. It shouldn’t have been shocking that he treated this like any other duty, but still, he couldn’t shake the feeling.
The dimming light of the autumn sky faded as they entered the damp corridor of The Panopticon. Evertorches kept the inside of the structure illuminated at all times. Marius couldn’t help but recall Master Forcinius’ lecture on the torches. He was meticulous in his instruction and went over every little detail about the incantations and materials used in their creation. Marius would have fallen asleep during that particular lesson if it weren’t for the threat of his father’s disappointment. The low hum of quiet conversation reverberated off the cold stone walls. Soldiers who had already received their orders shuffled past them on the right, a few ducking into chambers on either side of the hall to grab equipment or speak with a logistics officer. Though the chambers were filled with soldiers, each one looked like a prison cell that they were originally designed to be.
After a few more minutes of inane conversation they entered the command room. The sconces in this room burned with a dark intensity as wizened men sat like question marks over an intricate map inked to display the country which they occupied. They spoke in hoarse whispers as they pushed figures carved from elm or cherry wood, shuffled through reference sheets thicker than most novels Marius had ever read, and accusingly pointed at one another. They argued over the fates of men and women whom they did not know, and did not care to know. To them they were the same as the figures on the map, and they reminded Marius of his father. How many times had he seen him enacting the same arguments, looking at the same maps, or thumbing through identical ledgers to fight a war he himself would never see? These were Scalde’s advisors who likely trained at the very same academy which Marius’ father had attended, that his brother attended now, and that he himself would attend in just a year. Standing amongst them like a lion amongst house cats was Levy Von Berenger, the Chief Centurion of the Torvanian Howlers; Marius’ company.
Levy was often referred to as “Scalde’s warhound”. It was a moniker that fit him in more ways than one. Hell, it was common knowledge that he raised Ostenweiher Mastiffs as a hobby. He was a man of some age with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair cut in the traditional legion style though he had long since aged past the point where that edict applied to him. His hollow cheeks hid dark shadows, colored by stubble he refused to tame. He was tall, broad shouldered, and seemed to constantly wear a scowl. He was the kind of man that you wouldn’t notice from any other if you were to cross his path… that is, until he took an interest in you. There was an aura to Berenger that demanded respect. His eyes were the gray of the sky just before it split open and rained in hammering waves. To fall under his gaze was to stand before the storm without cover. The first time Marius had met his centurion he felt as if his knees would buckle as the man spent thirty minutes expressing his distaste for him and his family. Marius had kept his mouth shut and took the abuse like a good little legionnaire. What other options did he have?
His armor was unique; again a privilege given to soldiers who had served in the name of the Emperor for at least ten years. Though it retained its brass trimming common with the standard armor worn by most legionnaires, the plating of it was primarily the color of stone dappled with moss green and frosty white. It was a regional proclamation; a clear indicator of his lineage from the Wyrlands. Embossed on the center of his chest plate was the sigil of his noble family; a severed boar's head grasping a disembodied hand beneath its massive tusks. The tapestries neatly affixed to the wall depicted in alternating patterns the beheaded boar of the Von Berenger family, and the double headed phoenix of the Tiberian royal crown.
When Scalde had a problem he would sic Levy after it. The man was as ruthless as he was efficient. When a quartet of men had left their duty and took up a life of brigandry, it was Levy who had been sent to deal with them. Caranir had been amongst the men who had accompanied Levy on the excursion. The green had faded from his cheeks when he had returned and did not return to its usual jade for days. Wide eyed and hysterical, he had explained over mess that Levy had used a hooked blade to eviscerate the brigands. They begged for their mothers, their brothers, their wives. Levy had made it slow. Caranira noted with horror that he personally knelt over them as he watched the light leave their eyes and enter the hands of The Reaper. Their bodies were hung by their entrails at the front gate of Hearthguard for several weeks as a warning to anyone who crossed Ionus Scalde.
“Intente,” he spoke. His voice was sharp as he commanded them. Each of the three stood at attention, backs straight, head forward, eyes on their commanding officer. Marius recalled the hot sting of Levy’s open palm the first time he had failed to meet his expectations for a proper stance. He hadn’t made that mistake twice. He glanced up from the stack of parchment he had been examining, and immediately, Marius could feel the overpowering distaste the man felt for him. It wasn’t so much an expression he wore, as much as it was just something that was tangible in the way his eyes fell on Marius. “Eonaro Cantano, you take responsibility for these cadets?” His eyes slowly shifted away from Marius and settled on Eo. Marius felt the air lighten around him.
“Yessir,” Eo’s response was curt. It was best to be quick when dealing with Levy.
“As always,” Levy stood to his full height and approached Eo. Even Eo was rattled when the centurion stood over him, consuming him in his shadow. “A poor taste in comrades, Cantano. Falsetto men with boyish faces and no stomach for war.” Eo’s face tightened but he said nothing in return. This was not the first time Levy had mocked Eo for his company. Marius knew that Eo was from a military family - the men and women of his family often made a career of their service and dedication to the Imperium. A far cry from the high halls of Talim where Marius grew up or the Sylvish communes where Caranir hailed from.
“And you, DeSilva,” his eyes once again came to focus on Marius. “Your cowardice is so palpable that I can damn near see you pissing your pants. Are you a legionnaire of the Emperor?” His words stung.
“Yes, Centurion Von Berenger,” Marius replied. He tried to sound confident. He tried to will himself to speak like a soldier, and not like the child he still felt like before his leader.
“Your voice quavers. Your last name holds weight, boy, but you yourself have not the strength to carry it.”
“Yessir,” Marius heard himself say, trying to numb himself to the abuse. It wasn’t the first time Levy had said such words. Levy produced an envelope stamped with the same sigil as on his armor which now seemed to be staring uncomfortably into Marius’ eyes. He handled the orders with about as much care one would pay to a discarded wrapper. With too much force he pushed the envelope into Marius’ chest, forcing him to break stance in order to keep from falling.
“Poor form,” his teeth showed when he spoke. “The instructions inside are simple. You are on patrol tonight. Something you can’t fuck up,” Levy said turning away. “Dismissed.”
The entire exchange lasted maybe two minutes, but it felt far longer. It felt easier to breathe the second they escaped his withering stare. His deriding remarks played over in Marius' head. He had spent his entire life trying to live up to the standards of his father. To escape the shadow of his brother. To be belittled and called unworthy of their family name was a favorite way of Levy to truly get under his skin.
Even Eo looked annoyed. His skin had become the ruddy red color that was common when he was just moments from exploding in anger. Only Caranir had escaped verbal ridicule, not that Levy had any love for the Sylvan.
“Pit?” Eo mouthed as they stepped back into the sunlight. It took a moment for Marius' eyes to adjust.
“Pit.”