Never, Ever, Kneel

Maximo Vindictus watched the men assembling in formations before him. Up on high, the sun shone on the field that was soon to be covered with blood. Bellow him, his horse was uneasy, sensing the battle coming. A soft wind blew, bringing the smell of the abandoned campfires as they grew cold. His armor was shiny and clean, polished by his slaves, and as the Legion formed before him in the field, he seemed to reflect partially the sun above, like if he was somehow chosen by Mitra.

Down at his left, Centurion Solostaran was speaking. He was on his knees, and looking to the floor, as was appropriate when speaking with the General.

-Sir, the reports point out that the Picts assembled are three times as numerous as our own men. We have to retreat, Sir, this is a lost battle!-

From his right, his eldest son, Octavio Vindictus came with his horse close to him. He was a young man, strong and bright. With a raven hair and proud eyes that showed he would lead the Vindictus House well, once his father had left.

-Father, if we retreat back to Tarantia with half a Legion alive and the enemy victorious... we will be the laugh of King Conan's Court. Our pride and power will be swept away with the tide. Instead, if we return after fighting to the last man, we can become war heroes, with a tragic defeat instead of cowardice on their names.-

-We are no cowards, and we won't be defeated!- Maximus yelled, not clearly to anyone in particular- Centurion, make the men assemble, and start marching forward. We will fight the Picts here today. And may Mitra watch over our victory on this field! For Aquilonia and House Vindictus!-

The Centurion grimly nodded and left to join his men. Around the General, the House's elite unit gathered, ready to defend him from any danger. But he wasn't too willing to get in harms way, in any case. So he saw the units gather in once-perfect boxes, but now there were too many losses for formations to be clear cut and perfectly shaped. Here and there, the irregular numbers were worked out the best possible, but not necessarily with great success.

In front, on the other side of the valley, the mass of Picts started to race towards them. They were unorganized and without formations as usual, but their fearsome strength and numbers were overwhelming. The Legions pressed on at the sign of the trumpet, and the Aquilonian flags marched forward with them. Proud, stubborn and afraid, the VIIIth walked to its death.

Behind it, Vindictus watched the battle from his horse. Two trumpeteers signaled the orders for the army before him to follow, and he saw the outcome. Like a game of chess. But deep inside he knew he was on the losing side this time. The Picts started to surround the Legion, attacking from all sides at the same time, and slowly, one after the other, the banners were brought down. Men ran, screamed, killed, died and fled in the chaos of the conflict, and the trumpet's orders stopped being followed as everyone was too concentrated in keeping their lifes.

Vindictus raged deeply. He had a gran strategy in mind, but if the warriors didn't follow his orders, how was he to be victorious? He couldn't guide such a mass of cowards! And he certainly would not die for it. Only a couple banners were still high when he turned and started riding back to Tarantia. His elite guards and son closed lines behind him, and followed his guide, leaving the battlefield to the crows.

If they hadn't stopped obeying he would have been able to return as a victorious general! But he'd make himself a hero anyway, carefully played politics did that. And even if they all were dead, he'd make sure to get the favors that were owed to him now, and use them for the better of his House. The Vindictus name would go on rising, until they were seconds only to Conan... and maybe, then, they would teach him no Cimmerian can expect to remain seated for long in the Aquilonian throne.

But first... first he'd have to make sure that whoever assembled and trained such a Legion of cowards for him was appropriately punished for his failure.

Kilovarax watched his Tribe around him, victorious and feasting on the spoils of war. He was covered in blood, and some bandages in his arm kept a branch in place so his bones wouldn't break completely. But he was satisfied. They had defeated the Aquilonian scum, and now they had tons of villages ready for pillage.

-Chieftain Kilovarax, ye k'now we'r ready. Boys have start'd gatherin' the loot from this camp, an' gott'n themselv's good weapons from the de'd. Ye know, them boys are happy toni't. Good spoils of war. And much to plund'r.-

-Ye'r right Verocitrax, we'v kill'd those filthy scums finally. They be damn'd and their God as well- the Chieftain spit on the ground with a wild grin.

-We should gath'r the wound'd and take them as slav's. May be worth some money from some snak's.-

-No!- the Chieftain looked at his friend with fire in his eyes- They fo'ght bravely. They deserv' to b' left alone. Let them die or recov'r. We will take our slaves from the villag's. Nice women for all, as well- he grinned, thinking about the raping and sacking to come- Now, let's join with t' rest. We too should g't some of the fun!-

And so, they left the field and wandered with the rest into the abandoned Aquilonian encampment, where only a few cooks, priests, servers and slaves hadn't ran. And, against what all of they believed, the Picts didn't cause them any harm and, instead, left them alone once they had taken all they wished from the camp.

As night fell, soon those few could start wandering into the field and tending to the wounded. The many many wounded, among the even more numerous dead.

But after one night comes a day. And no matter how terrible that day may have been, a night follows afterwards. Such is the desire of the Gods. And under their watchful eyes, three persons gathered around a camp fire that fourth night to speak.

-So, Cytheris, report on today's losses?- Centurion Calev spoke with a dark, grave voice. He was covered in bandages, and sounded weak and weary, depressed and, still, strong and protective. His men were his to take care of, even if those above had left them behind.

-We've lost six today, including Centurion Solostaran. He was too weak for our cares- the woman was weary and tired, her once clean priestess' robes were now covered with the blood of their companions, and her broken fingernails had traces of the ashes from all those she had to burn to send to Mitra-. Millias and Anarouk are showing some signs of recovery, but it is too early to tell.-

-And how is Thanatoss?- Sepherim asked eagerly, with more passion that seemed possible in such a fragile frame. He had gotten up only that morning, and still needed some help to walk around sometimes, and his broken nose clearly would never fully heal.

-Your friend is grave, very grave. His wounds were deep before, and all this hasn't served him any good. He still lives, though, hanging himself to life with all his might. But I'm afraid it is all up to Mitra now.-

Sepherim nodded. Too many dead, too many... and all for the cowardice and ambition of one noble Aquilonian, who's only desire was power and glory.

-We shall never again kneel to anyone- the ranger said, softly, with rage in his voice.

-What did you say, boy?- Calev asked, as he hadn't heard his words due to the bandages in his head.

-I said- spoke the ranger again, higher, more determined- that we shall never ever kneel before anyone. We paid for our freedom with our blood and death. With our friend's lifes. We are our own now, never again under the guide of anyone but ourselves. This I swear on the name of my mother!-

The other two looked at him surprised. Sepherim was shy, not usually given to loud and strong speeches. But the rage inside him had made him speak, and had given him a new determination they hadn't seen before.

-Aye, lad, that we will never do- Calev nodded.- We are our own masters now, like a family.-

-All united, under the watchful eyes of Mitra- Cytheris finished.

The three exchanged looks, sensing that something important had just taken place. Like the passing of the wind, something invisible, and yet that can change the shape of the world. Their world, at least.