Free Empire Under Siege by Jason K. Lewis Page A

with.”
    “What happened?” Conlan asked, noting the blood that trickled from a small cut above the man’s right eye.
    The old man sighed. “A couple of the bastards jumped me,” he waved a hand into the crowd. “That madman has followers and they don’t take kindly to people like me criticising him an’ his preachings. Should have expected it really.”
    “Would you like us to fetch a doctore?” Villius asked, brushing dust from the old man’s cloak.
    The man took in a deep breath and winced. “No, no, I’ll be fine, brothers. I had much worse back in the day.” He eyed Conlan and Jonas. “The Third always were a damn fine unit. We marched with them across the desert. We followed that wily fox Turbis right up into Farisia, we did. Them were glory days... You’ve never imagined hell till you’ve marched across a desert, boys. I can tell you that much.”
    A glimmer of light caught Conlan’s eye. He was vaguely aware of Jonas joining the discussion, no doubt exchanging war stories. Conlan turned towards the light and saw two figures, cloaked and cowled in grey, standing by the entrance to an alley about halfway around the square. Something about them made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. One was huge, towering over the other, and stood back slightly as if to guard his fellow, who seemed small and lithe, even with their body mostly hidden in a loose-fitting cloak. As Conlan looked on, the smaller figure turned sharply in his direction, the cowl of the hood catching for a second to reveal a flash of crimson.
    Syke! Conlan’s subconscious screamed, and if the smaller was Syke, then the larger could only be Toruss, the great bull god of war. Conlan blinked slowly, turning to his companions, but they were engrossed in assisting the old veteran, oblivious to the visitors’ presence. He turned back, sure his eyes had deceived him, wondering whether, perhaps, he was becoming as mad as the zealot Marek Tyll, who still preached to the crowd.
    Without conscious thought, he began to walk towards the figures, slowly at first. He quickly picked up pace, it was as if they exerted a pull on his soul that he could not deny. His thoughts flashed back to the battlefield, the feral grace and speed of the knights in white as they decimated the barbarian horde. A part of his subconscious begged him to stay back, warned him his reward would be death. But he did not care so long as he gazed upon her flawless beauty again before the end.
    Conlan strode across the cobbles now, his gaze unwavering. He imagined that he could see her ardent blue eyes staring back at him, but then the one that might have been Toruss laid a huge hand on his diminutive companion’s shoulder and they both turned and walked back into the alley.
    Conlan ran, ignoring curious stares from the gathered crowd. As he reached the alley, his heart pounded in his chest, his pulse beat a ragged rhythm in his throat. The alley stretched on to a dead end almost a hundred yards ahead; it was completely deserted. They were gone – just a mirage to torture the desert of his soul.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wulf

    ANGER FLOWED THROUGH WULF in familiar waves. He, son of the great chieftain Rendal, descendant of the almighty sky god and leader of the clan pack, held captive by the iron men, trapped in one of the stone shells of their making, where they hid like frightened children whilst true warriors went out to fight, reave, and paint their legend in history.  
    What honour do these iron men have? he wondered. They do not dare to fight like warriors. They cower behind their shields, too scared to face true men.
    The iron men did not stare death in the face and laugh, they did not dedicate their victories to the gods of sky, wood and earth. As sword and axe and club rend flesh, Wulf swore, I will rip the flesh from the enemy with my teeth!
    But first he had to find the chance… If only he could free himself from the iron cuffs - linked by chains to the wall - that