Free Black Legion: 04 - Last Stand by Michael G. Thomas Page A

tradition, the Legion will elect new Dukas and Komes for the contingents we came with. I stand for election to the command of my Laconian brothers!”
    A wild cheer roared through the hall as the Laconians howled their approval. Even the idea of a vote seemed something of a joke inside their own warship. The noise continued for almost a minute before he spoke again.
    “All senior commanders will then be given the chance to choose a single man to lead us. If I am selected as Strategos, I will turn this fleet back around and send us to the heart of the Medes territory!”
    The noise this time was deafening, and Xenophon might have even joined in if he hadn’t been acutely aware of how fragile their situation was. They might be a powerful force, but they still numbered less than ten thousand warriors with just sixty-one ships to their name. The God King Artaxerxes commanded scores of regional Satraps, each one of whom commanded an army the equal of every Terran world combined.
    This had better just be a bold boast, Chirisophus. If he wins, this could end us.
    Xenophon had missed the next part of his speech due to the noise in the hall, but he could make out the others closer to him as men shouted out names of candidates. It was the Boeotian contingent off to the side that made the most noise. They were armoured much like the others with their helms and cuirass, but every one of them bore a newly painted device on their chests. Some wore helmets taken from the fallen warriors from the other factions, and apart from the club symbols might easily have been mistaken for any of the other groups. Tamara looked at them with a bemused expression.
    “The club looks stupid,” she said too loudly.
    One of the Atticans off to her flank heard and laughed to himself, but luckily none of the Boeotians unit heard her. Xenophon leaned in closer to her.
    “The club is the ancient symbol of Herakles. Proxenus was a pureblood Boeotian, and Herakles is his planet’s patron. Show some respect.”
    Tamara shrugged, but the look on her face still showed amusement.
    “All of our officers are dead, and our Dukas is gone. We have warriors from the Laconian League as well as some from the Terran Alliance. We need a leader, a warrior.”
    Another man shouted out with an accent similar to Xenophon’s, instantly marking him out as a man from Attica. He bore the same device as the Boeotians, even though they were historically rivals, and was positioned a short distance from the others. He pointed at them furiously.
    “We all signed up to fight for Proxenus, not to fight for the Boeotians. They have voted for one of their own, and we will not be led by a Boeotian noble.”
    More of them started shouting, and several of the Attican contingent ripped off their breastplates with the club insignia and cast them to the ground. A blow was struck, and in seconds, a dozen of the spatharii were fighting with hands and feet right in the middle of the great hall.
    “Not again,” Xenophon muttered. He looked to his friends nearby. The force commanded by Proxenus had been one of the most reliable. Unfortunately, they came from multiple colonies and worlds, and the Terrans were never more embittered than when in combat with their rivals. Proxenus had been the kind of man that could maintain discipline through their mutual respect. With him gone, there was nothing to stop the old tribal loyalties and grudges coming to the front.
    “With me.”
    Tamara followed right behind, as Xenophon worked his way through the mass of warriors. Tamara’s blue hair made her stand out more than anybody else there. At first glance, she might have been mistaken for a child; if it were not for the black leather garments and Terran armour she wore. They only made it halfway through the morass when the sirens started to blast out through the great hall. Dukas Xenias and the few remaining senior officers shouted out for silence. It took a few seconds before the only sound that could be