Free Legionary by Gordon Doherty Page A

roar echoed over the howling blizzard as it kicked into full gear again, and Gallus closed his eyes as he saw the big Thracian fall limply to the rocks below. Another brother fallen.
    ‘Sir, we’ve got him cornered,’ Avitus cried out.
    Gallus shook the confusion from his head. He nodded, drew his sword, and pointed his fingers in a V. He stalked out to the left of the dark figure, and Avitus took the right.
    ‘Drop your weapons, you’re surrounded!’ The figure spun round in a half-crouch, coiled like a spring, sword in hand. Gallus stalked forward, his spatha raised and trained on the man. The stranger’s stony expression was gradually unveiled in the murky light. Curtained by long black hair, he bore the distinctive features of the riders from the forest: skin both dark and buttery, face flat and almost square, with almond eyes, a small, squat, distinctly un-Roman nose and a thread-like moustache hanging around his lips, upon which the driving snow began to settle. But it was the angry triple welt of scars on each cheek that stilled the breath in Gallus’ lungs.
    A cluster of legionaries, led by Felix, shuffled up around them.
    ‘Felix? The prisoners?’ Gallus howled over the blizzard.
    ‘Sir, we saw Zosimus fall!’ Felix gestured to the foot of the hill, his face grim. ‘There are fifteen guarding the prisoners, but we thought you might need some extra muscle?’
    ‘There’s only one of them, Felix, but I don’t see his horse — there must be more of them around. Stay alert.’ Gallus then turned to the stranger. ‘Drop your weapon, or you’ll be dead before your next breath,’ he barked.
    The man’s glance darted at the men encircling him, his eyes growing and his toothy grimace widening. He backed off pace by pace until his heel kicked snow from the verge onto the rocks below. With a grunt the stranger buckled, dropped to his knees and cursed in a jagged foreign tongue.
    Gallus stepped over to him, lifting his sword to his throat. ‘Who are you?’
    The stranger looked up to his captor, rage welling in his eyes.
    ‘I have failed, honour is lost!’ He rasped in a broken Greek.
    ‘Who are you, and who are your people?’ Gallus pressed, forcing his sword point to mark a white crease against the man’s skin.
    ‘I am the first of the storm; my kin will destroy your people like a plague.
Tengri
the sky god watches from above, and he wills your end. You will be swept away like kindling,’ he spat.
    ‘Who is your leader and where are your people?’ Gallus pressed on. ‘I warn you, I want answers, not threats!’
    At this, the stranger’s eyes sparkled, and his weak rasping grew into a bellowing laugh as the blizzard picked up fiercely. Gallus held steady as a chill ran through him. Suddenly, the laughter stopped and the stranger bore a bold grimace.
    ‘Your people will destroy themselves.
Already
they plot their own destruction yet they don’t even see it…and…they want us to help!’
    Gallus’ brow furrowed. ‘Enough of this game playing, you will talk! If you don’t want…’ Gallus recoiled as, fast as a striking cobra, the stranger whipped a dagger from his boot and thrust it into his own jugular. A torrent of dark blood spouted from the wound, and the life drained from his body in seconds. The legionaries stood in silence as his body toppled forward into the scarlet snow. Then a chorus of screams rang out from below. The legionaries scrambled to the edge of the hilltop. Gallus punched a fist into his palm; the Gothic prisoners lay in a splatter of blood along with the fifteen legionaries left to guard them and the crippled soldier, Proteus. Arrows still quivered in their chests and necks. A clutch of the mysterious horsemen sped away, swords stained red.
    ‘Felix, take ten down there and check for survivors.’ His optio’s face was grim. Clearly, all below were dead. ‘And proceed with caution.’
    Gallus looked around as his men muttered in fear. Before it could swell into