Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
The impossible became undeniable.
The tide of war had turned.
By sunset, the banners of the enemy lay in the mud.
The cries of victory echoed across the field while the dying still clung to life.
Men searched for friends among the fallen. Others gathered the wounded, carrying them toward hastily raised tents where healers worked without pause.
The dead remained where they had fallen, crows already circling overhead.
Beyond the battlefield, fires burned bright. Barrels of ale had been rolled into the center of camp. Laughter rose above the clash of tankards, musicians found their tunes, and women who followed victorious armies drifted among the warriors with welcoming smiles.
Life and death had always shared the same battlefield.
Legion walked past the celebration without a glance.
Near the edge of camp stood a rain barrel beside a supply wagon. He removed his leather gauntlets, set aside his sword, and plunged both hands into the cool water before lowering his head beneath the surface.
The water washed away sweat and blood, but it washed away neither memory nor death.
He straightened, water streaming from his dark hair. For a long moment he simply stood, drawing slow breaths into weary lungs.
It wasn't long before footsteps approached. They always did.
Victory drew women as surely as it drew songs and overflowing tankards.
The first had offered him a smile. The second had promised to make him forget the bloodshed. He had sent them both away with the same quiet refusal.
The third moved with practiced confidence, her dark hair tumbling over one bare shoulder, her gown revealing enough to leave little to the imagination.
She stopped close enough to catch the scent of rainwater on his skin.
“You've caused quite a stir,” she said, her gaze traveling over him. “The men are saying you're the reason they won.”
Legion said nothing.
Her smile deepened. “Perhaps you should let someone reward you for it.”
There had been a time when he would have welcomed the challenging invitation. When victory tasted sweet. When a warm embrace chased away the memories of battle for a few fleeting hours.
That time had long since passed.
Legion gently caught her hand before it reached his chest and lowered it.
"My thanks," he said quietly, "but nay."
She searched his face, expecting him to change his mind.
He never did.
With an understanding smile, she gave a small shrug and drifted back toward the celebration, already setting her sights on another victorious warrior.
Legion watched her go.
Beauty had become as common to him as battle. Pleasure as fleeting as the cheers that followed every victory. Neither stirred him any longer.
Legion watched the last light fade beyond the hills.
Another battle won. Another field of fathers, sons, brothers, and friends left to the silence.
Victory had long since lost its taste.
He had walked battlefields for longer than most men lived.
Once, he had believed there would come a final war. Now he knew better. War would always find him.
Until the day it no longer could.
Chapter Three
Legion
The moon had climbed high before Legion reached home.
Nestled in the forest surrounded by ancient oaks, stood a weathered stone cottage much like other cottages. It had stood for centuries. Few knew who had built it. Fewer still knew the man who lived there.
Legion removed the saddle from his black stallion and brushed the horse until its dark coat shone in the moonlight.
“You earned your rest, Falcon”"
The stallion nudged his shoulder.
A faint smile touched Legion's lips.
He filled the water trough, spread fresh hay, then gathered his few belongings before climbing the worn stone steps.
The familiar groan of the heavy oak door welcomed him.
Silence followed.
It was a welcome sound.
Inside, the cottage was as unpretentious as the man who occupied it. A stone hearth dominated the large room. A sturdy table stood near the fire with several plain chairs. Shelves held well-used books and rolled maps. Along one wall rested carefully tended weapons collected over a lifetime that had seen too many battles.
Everything had its place here. Unlike war that was complete chaos.
He was where he found peace and he was glad to be home.
Dawn came quietly and Legion welcomed it.
He pushed open the weathered shutters, cool mountain air rushing into the keep. Wisps of mist drifted through the valley below, clinging to the pines before slowly surrendering to the rising sun.
The silence pleased him. There was no clash of steel or cries of the dying, only birds’ songs greeting a new day.
He drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Peace.
It had become more precious than victory.
After a breakfast of dried meat and quail eggs, he grabbed his fishing pole and headed to the stream.
Legion stood knee-deep in the water that flowed clear and cold over smooth stones. He cast his fishing line into a quiet pool where trout often gathered. There was no urgency. If he caught one, he would eat well. If not, there was always smoked meat in the cottage, and he would make bread when he returned.