Free Empire Under Siege by Jason K. Lewis Page B

bound his wrists and ankles, holding him in furious bondage.  
    Wulf’s shoulders ached from repeated attempts to free himself, his wrists scabbed over and sore where they had bled from the scrape of iron on flesh.
    The cowards had hidden behind their shields and tried to turn his people back. But Wulf could not let his people die; he could not abandon them. The iron men had not let his people pass, when all they wanted was a new home. Wulf had thought that maybe the country of these weak men, who lived in their cities of stone, worshipping false gods and lethargy, might be a suitable place for his people to rest, but the cowards had come out of their cities, to hide behind shield walls of iron and block the passage north. Some at least of these weak men - the ones they called ‘legion’ - could fight, even if they did lack honour.
    Wulf had lost track of the days he’d been held captive. At first, he had counted faithfully. Each morning the sun rose, he counted… day five, day six, day seven… By day nine, he’d started to be unsure of his count. Maybe sixteen now . But he could not be certain.  
    He was visited by the guards, clad in their iron shells, at least three times a day. They brought him food, and he ate. They emptied the bucket he pissed and shat in. He dreamed of meat but they gave him vegetables, bread and fruit. Some days he ate fish. Twice he had chicken. But no beef, no pork, no mutton.  
    That is what makes them weak . They eat no red meat.
    Wulf remembered his manhood ceremony. After he killed his first mountain lion, there had been a great feast and all the tribe had gathered to watch as the chief’s eldest son came of age. He had eaten the heart of the lion that day, his father roaring with pride, ‘My son is a lion! My son is a lion!’ as he staggered around the fire-pit telling the tale of the kill. Wulf’s mouth watered at the thought of the mountain lion’s heart, though his jaw muscles had ached for days after.  
    Tugging again at his chains, Wulf’s shoulders bulged with corded muscle, but as usual the chains did not budge. He feared he grew weaker with each day. He heaved a sigh and sat on the plain wooden cot, staring out of the opening set high in the wall of his room. He saw the sky, wispy clouds hanging overhead. A bird , he thought. A hawk, perhaps . It circled high above, watching for prey.
    How many of the people lie dead? he wondered. The iron men were tough despite their cowardice. Their shells were difficult to crack. His people had defeated the first army they encountered only after losing twice their number. The iron men called ‘legion’ had hidden behind their shields and armoured shells, refusing to answer the call to fight as champions, as heroes, man against man - to be judged by the gods.  
    They had died like men though, rarely begging or screaming for mercy, even those that had been captured in the south and forced to fight man to man against the champions of the people. Some of them had even won for a while, killing the worthless dogs they fought against. But all had died in the end.
    After the first battle in the south with the iron men, they had hidden, whimpering behind their walls, impossible to breach, impossible to reach. The people had learnt they would be given food to go away if they surrounded a city, and so they had moved north, pillaging, stealing and extorting provisions, seeking the freedom and safety that had been promised. Seeking salvation.
    It had all gone well until they came up against the wall of iron in the valley of death. Many chiefs had met in council, urging the people to go back, to find a different route north. ‘Think how many died facing their little army,’ they had said. ‘Think how many warriors we will lose.’ Wulf had cursed them all for cowards. Eventually, the snivelling dogs were shouted down and courage won through. The people had to move north. Wulf himself had led the warriors of his tribe against the wall, rending