Free The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 by Jason K. Lewis Page B

and the men became silent once more. All eyes fixed, whenever possible, to the south.
    Then, finally, a lone horseman appeared on the road, approaching at a leisurely canter. Heat haze obscured the rider until he was within a bowshot of the legion. His shimmering silhouette gradually resolved into a legionary scout, one of their own, that rode before the main force.  
    The scout cantered up to the field entrance. Conlan moved his mount forward. “Report!” he growled in a parade ground voice, the knot in his stomach beginning to loosen. The scout seemed calm and unconcerned. Maybe they haven’t come for you. You may yet live another day. But the thought of the horde made the old wound on his head begin to ache, a dull reminder of his escape from the dark god’s clutches.
    The scout removed his blue plumed helmet. Sweat dripped freely from his forehead. “It’s not the enemy, sir.” A palpable sigh arose from the legion. The tension evaporated as the news passed from man to man along the lines. “It’s our boys; it’s the garrison as was left at Sothlind, sir.”
    The Wicklander barbarian, Wulf, who stood between two legionaries nearby let out a roaring laugh and beat his chest with a fist. “You live, General, you live!” he called to Martius with a playful glint in his eye.
    The corners of Martius’ lips turned up and he nodded agreement, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “All three legions, trooper?” he asked.
    The scout nodded and glanced back down the road. “All three, yes sir. All three.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
Conlan

    THE NIGHT WAS DAMP and chill. Low cloud cover had drifted in towards the end of the day along with a north-easterly wind, and the heat that had been so debilitating in the afternoon quickly dissipated.  
    Conlan sat alone in his command tent, his desk cluttered with papers and reports. He found his eyes straining to focus in the light of the candles that were dotted around, each cast dancing shadows that only served to mesmerise and distract. He rose and stretched his arms high in the air, almost touching the blue-stained canvas above, then walked to the brazier in the centre of the tent to warm his hands. It had been a long day.  
    After encountering the legions moving north, General Martius had quickened the pace. They had covered twenty miles today, not a huge distance in legionary terms – a forced march could easily cover thirty – but the soldiers found themselves hampered by bottlenecks on the road. One small bridge, crossing a river that marked the western boundary of the vast Felix estate – the ancestral home of Martius’s family – had caused a long delay as the engineers judged it in need of reinforcement prior to crossing. Conlan wondered at the appropriateness of the army repairing private property – the bridge appeared sound to him – but Martius had been insistent once the issue was broached, ordering the engineers to retrofit the bridge for rapid destruction, as if he still feared attack. Either that, Conlan speculated, or he wants to make his personal fiefdom more easily defensible.
    Conlan stretched once more, this time reaching low to let his hands touch the patterned woollen rug at his feet, newly embroidered with a yellow phoenix rising angrily from coarsely woven orange flames. Having spent years in the basic canvas of the rank and file soldier, a carpeted tent was luxury beyond imagination. Earlier he had hosted his cohort commanders, detailing orders and listening to updates. The Phoenix seemed sound.
    Jonas had stayed behind after the others were dismissed, seating himself on the cot bed, nonchalant and relaxed as ever.
    “Can’t get over how the other half live, boss,” Jonas said, hands idly brushing the soft cotton sheets. “You must feel like a pig in shit.”
    Conlan had given up on trying to enforce any kind of distance from his friend, the effort was too great and Jonas seemed to have a cutting riposte to all his attempts. Besides , he