Ironbound, p.30
Ironbound, page 30
I stagger forward between them. My shield’s leather strap dangles uselessly from my left arm, the only piece still intact. I bend low as I race, scooping up a dropped gladius from the ground and turning to face my two friends. Their shields were isolated and remain whole, but for the moment, they are disarmed. Quick Felix is the first to realize that I have found a new blade. Both of their heads turn, desperately scanning for a spare sword. I don’t give them the time to look.
With a roar, I throw myself at Felix, blade flashing. He still has his shield, which can be a weapon in its own right, but it is most effective in the line, not in a duel. I dance around him, not even bothering to use the Iron Symbol as I hack at him. I feint high, forcing him to raise his scutum to block his vision. With a quick flick of my wrist, I slice downward, striking at his exposed thigh.
The tall boy lets out a grunt of pain as my blunted blade bounces off his leg. My second blow slams into his ribs, and he collapses with an irritated grimace. A thrill surges in my chest as I turn, searching for Marcus. I can do this.
All my life, I wished to be worthy of a Heart and to earn my place among the electii. I failed, and that has sent me down a hard road. But today, I finally feel worthy of being Primus of the cohort. The elation in my chest chills as I see Marcus taking a sword from one of his fallen blue squadmates. The “dead” boy is only too happy to let go of it. I let out a groan of frustration. I took too long finishing off Felix.
My massive friend looks up to see me watching him. He tosses me a grin, saluting with his intact scutum and gladius. No matter how much more essence I have than him, I know I won’t last more than a few heartbeats with only a single blade. I glance at the still forms of the cohort, debating trying to steal another shield, but I know it will take too long to undo the leather strap.
I spy another gladius lying next to a fallen recruit’s hand, and with a shrug, I snatch it up in my left hand. I’ve never used a sword in this hand before, but it’s better than nothing. Awareness of the second blade flows into me as it becomes an extension of me.
“How rebellious of you,” Marcus calls, striding over the prone forms of a dozen of our peers to come toward me. He’s confident, and he should be. His shield gives him an incredible advantage in this fight, and we both know it. The big boy strikes a pose, shooting me a broad grin. For a moment, he looks every inch the hero he has always wanted to be.
“You know me,” I call back, striding to meet him. “I like to think outside the box.”
“Ever since we were children.”
I sprint toward him, relying on the fact that I’m carrying less weight to give me an advantage. I have no massive shield to hide behind, so I try to use aggression to my advantage. I slash at my friend’s scutum with both blades one after the other, keeping up a fierce flurry of blows, trying to overcome his defenses.
Break.
Part.
Succumb.
Give in.
Every strike carries more of my commands as I try to tear his shield to shreds. If I can destroy it, finishing him off with two swords should be easy. Marcus’s own will repulses me with a constant incoherent roar of defiance. I don’t know how he does that; I’ve never experienced anything like it. Even the relic felt like it had a sense of coherent thought behind its attacks.
The dark-skinned recruit gives ground, holding his shield up to block my attacks, and I follow him through his retreat, not letting him get any space to strike back at me. The training field is silent except for the peal of iron ringing on iron as I beat his scutum like a drum. I can feel my essence beginning to wane as I keep up my assault. I’m carrying less total metal to draw more from now. I won’t be able to keep this up forever.
But at the same time, I can feel the mighty wall of his will beginning to fade too. The roar is quieter in my mind every time our iron connects. If I can just keep it up a little longer, I think I can wear him down. Suddenly, Marcus changes direction, charging me with his shield like a boar. I’m caught off guard by his move, and his scutum slams into me hard enough to send me staggering back a half dozen paces. More hands grab at my ankles as I stumble by, but I kick them off and keep my feet.
He keeps up the chase, shield forward, blade shooting out in little stabs, trying to catch my undefended chest. I block his sword with my right one, parrying it wide. He shoves his scutum at me again, forcing me to retreat.
I gnash my teeth in frustration as I fall back. He’s laughing at me from over the top of his shield. He has the upper hand, and he’s loving it in a way only one sibling can appreciate beating another. I’m dimly aware that this is the happiest I’ve seen him since the night our parents were killed. It delights me to see him smile once more. It doesn’t make me willing to lose, but I am glad to see my friend look like himself again.
I can’t beat him, not like this. He’s bigger, stronger, and better equipped. But none of those things have ever been my gift. Old Vellum often accused me of being too clever for my own good. That was how I became Sextus in the collegium. That is how I can stay Primus in the training field.
I stop retreating, meeting Marcus in the middle and going blow for blow with him. He uses his shield like a weapon, swinging it at me with almost inhuman strength. I hammer at it with the gladius in my right hand. With the one in my left, I turn the thrusts of his sword. Already the second blade is already beginning to feel natural in my hand.
We circle each other, blades flashing as we attack, searching for a crack in each other’s defense. The bigger boy uses his shield menacingly, forcing me to dodge. It’s not something that our instructors ever taught us—it’s not how the Iron Legions fight—but as we dance, I begin to find the steps.
My mind races as I duck another shield strike, trying to solve the puzzle in front of me. Marcus is not afraid of me; he’s known me his whole life. He’s not going to panic and make some easy mistake that I can capitalize on. As long as he has that shield and enough essence to hold it together, getting a killing blow will be almost impossible. Which means that if I’m going to win, I’ll have to cheat.
An idea begins to take root in the back of my mind as I consider the two swords in my hands. There’s a freedom to no longer being weighed down by a large shield. I just need to take advantage of it. Cautiously, I reach out with my will into the gladius in my right hand, commanding it to change.
It does so begrudgingly, resisting my commands with every fiber of its being. When it was forged, the smiths who made it poured a purpose—an instruction—into it with every peal of their hammers. It is straight. It is strong. Now, I ask it to betray one of those tenets. I grit my teeth as I split my focus between matching Marcus’s tempo and forcing the sword to change.
Clang. Clang. Clang. The field is silent except for the sound of our weapons ringing against each other. It takes several moments, but eventually, it shifts. The tip of my right gladius begins to curl, forming a rudimentary hook. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, and I feel my Heart drawing on the last scraps of essence in my Copper veins. This had better work, or it was all for nothing.
Satisfied that my modification is as good as it’s going to get, I change my pattern, lunging forward with my right blade angled toward Marcus’s eyes. My friend raises his shield, and I lean into my momentum, driving the sword upward over the lip of his scutum.
I feel the gladius crest the top and twist my wrist before bringing it down, catching the hook on the edge of his shield. I pull with all my might, forcing his arm to come down, leaving his chest exposed. Using that leverage, I lunge forward, stabbing with my left blade through the gap that I created.
The tip of my blunted sword slams into his chest, and Marcus stumbles backward, dropping to his knees with a shocked expression on his face. The field is silent as he crumples, leaving me the last one standing.
I have won.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aroar begins to build as the watching legionnaires recover from their shock and shout their approval or disappointment. All around the field, the “dead” recruits begin to return to life, sitting up out of the dust and shaking themselves off. Marcus laughs from where he lies at my feet, and numbly, I hold out an arm to pull him to his feet. Together, we begin to walk off the field.
“I swear you’re a descendant of Mercury,” he says with a chuckle. There’s no trace of anger in his eyes as he claps me on the shoulder. “How else could you be so tricky? How did you do that?”
“I just made it bend.” I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. In the middle of our sparring, it had seemed like the only logical thing to do, but the long glances from other recruits tell a different story.
“Just made it bend,” Marcus repeats half-reverently, half-mockingly. “That’s all. Why didn’t I think of that? Felix! He just made the sword bend!”
“I saw.” Our tall friend joins the triangle, a slight frown on his face as he studies me. “Can I look at that?” He motions at the gladius in my right hand, still curved into a hook. Wordlessly, I pass it to him, and I watch his eyes narrow as he probes it with his will.
“There he is!” I shout, recognizing the slight form of Macer, who is climbing to his feet, wincing from some bruise hidden under his tunic. “Thank you for the rescue, my friend.” I place my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze.
“You’re welcome, Dom—”
“No!” I snap, cutting him off and giving him another pat. “I said ‘friend’.” The smile that begins to grow at the corners of his mouth is brilliant and somehow feels better than winning did.
“It’s the least I could do after you… you know.”
“The way I see it, we’re even now.” His eyes widen in shock. This is not a concept he is used to. The boy with the thief brands on his hands has grown up in a world that does not watch out for each other or forgive debts. But today, he is free. We leave him standing on the sands, looking stunned as we keep walking.
“Remarkable,” Felix murmurs after a moment. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the bent sword or Macer.
“What?” I ask hotly, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up the base of my neck. I miss the cooling presence of the Iron Symbol but don’t reach for it, as tempting as it is. A silence descends upon the field, making its way to us like an arrow.
“Later,” Felix promises, passing the sword back to me as Tribune Gaius marches into view. The red cape of his office trails behind him as he approaches. His face is grim, but it always is. Yet something in his eyes tells me that he is not pleased. I have plenty to answer for, from tactics to shattering several pieces of Legion equipment.
Durus appears at his right hand and begins bellowing out orders to the milling recruits. “If your band isn’t black, form up for running! Stack your swords and shields at the armory. You all got a nice little nap. Now back to work!”
Groans echo from the other squads, but they move toward the front of the field, following the centurion’s command. Felix and Marcus shoot me sympathetic glances as they leave, but not too sympathetic. I might be in trouble, but at least I don’t have to run around Agogia. They depart, leaving me alone with the Silver electus. He stares at me for a moment, brow furrowing into a frown as he studies the two blades in my hands.
“You need to be careful,” he says at last.
“Careful of what, Dominus?”
“Of the eyes that you are drawing.”
“You told me to become unforgettable.” I can’t keep the accusation out of my tone.
“And now I am telling you to be careful,” he hisses, taking a step closer to me. “I need you to excel, not shatter their expectations. My mother already seeks to block your Ascension. When she hears about what you did here, it will not be hard for her to find allies in her mission.”
“What did I do here that will cause such a problem?”
“You shattered two shields and a sword into a thousand pieces.” The tribune kicks a chunk of iron at our feet. “That’s not something a Copper recruit should be able to do. That’s something that those veterans watching can’t do.”
“I didn’t really do it myself,” I protest. “I used their own—”
“I know what you did.” Gaius cuts me off effortlessly, gesturing at the argentum veins in his own arms. “I am the only one here who could feel it.” A shiver of jealousy runs down my spine at the thought of being able to sense iron that I could not touch. “It doesn’t matter how you did it, only that you did it. After today, your reputation will grow.”
“Why is that a problem? I know you said that the magisters do not like to make soldiers from the Bottom Quadrant into the Fidelia, but—”
“Think, boy!” Gaius snaps, finally seeming frustrated. “I’ve already told you that they don’t want the dregs of society to have power. What you did today will make them fear you now.”
I pause, truly listening to his words. There’s danger lurking here. It feels the same as what followed in Atticus’s wake. Goosebumps prick my flesh as a chill deeper than Iron’s runs down my spine. I’m caught in another game; I will never escape them.
“I understand,” I manage weakly. Gaius must see some of my emotions warp across my face, but he doesn’t push. He holds me in his commander’s glare for a few heartbeats, then nods once before turning away, leaving me in the dust of the training field.
As the tribune departs, I feel a new presence settle the back of my head like a pair of weights. It’s lighter than Gaius’s glare, but equally impossible to ignore. I turn to find Durus staring at me pointedly from the other side of the field.
The other black bands are lounging around, chuckling to one another at the fate of the rest of the recruits streaming out of the Twelfth’s sector to run their laps. My gaze flicks back to the centurion, who raises a single finger and mouths one word: Primus. I feel my shoulders sag under the yoke of responsibility.
I know what the officer wants me to do.
I know what my father would do.
Leaders don’t sit in the dirt while their comrades work, even if they’ve earned it. They run with their people every step of the way. A cohort is made up of a series of decades, but to truly function, it must be one cohesive unit. I can’t help but chuckle as I take my first step, springing into a light jog. I spent my whole life wanting to be a Primus, but it is turning out to be a lot more work than I ever thought. I should have let Marcus have it.
The low buzz of conversation among my squadmates cuts out as I trot through them. I don’t turn to look at them, although part of me thinks I should. It’s only fair that they be shamed the way that Durus is shaming me. But despite the temptation, I resist. It doesn't feel like my place to do that to them. Even if I am Primus, I am not an officer. We are equals.
The First Spear gives me a slight nod of respect as I jog past him. I roll my eyes but lean into my pace, stretching my legs longer to eat up the distance between me and the rest of the recruits. I hear crunching in the sand as some of my fellow black bands begrudgingly get to their feet. A wry grin twists my face as I run faster. I’m not sure if I’m running from the recruits behind me or chasing the ones in front of me.
I feel lighter than I have in months, and despite my exhaustion from the skirmish, I let out a laugh of joy as I burst from the Twelfth Sector and into the main thoroughfare of Agogia. I spy the dusty white training uniforms of the rest of the century ahead, and I lower my head as I break into a sprint, trying to catch them.
I’m flying as I close in on the back of the pack, weaving my way around a marching column from the Seventh and dodging a wagon train heading to the blacksmiths. Shouts of outrage follow me as I blaze past the other recruits, and the entire formation lunges like a hound as they catch sight of me shooting past them.
“Oh, come on!” Marcus bellows in indignation as he spots me. “I didn’t mean that you should start running like Mercury too!” Some of the recruits from Segesta laugh. They welcome my rise. Others do not. Felix says nothing, only runs faster. I let out a whoop and add as much speed as I can, trying to catch my longer-legged friend.
We’re still racing when we enter the space between the First and Second Quadrants, the home of the elite legions. Angry shouts follow the horde of Twelvies as we cut around marching units, but we do not stop. I spy a group of Praetorian recruits, clad in purple, who sneer as we rush past. Brennus, the blond boy who threatened us with a tellus knife, is among them. He glares at me, but I am moving too fast for his irritation to reach me.
The guards at the front don’t even bother to try stopping us; instead, the centurion steps aside and waves us through, confident that we are on assignment. I hook to the right as I exit, following the leaders of the group as we begin the long marathon around Agogia.
The wheeled city is massive—it will take us at least two hours to return to our original gate. There is no road circling the massive walls, but a path has been beaten into the dry ground by a hundred thousand legionnaires before us. We run on the tracks of our ancestors, following the course they charted. Yet another thing that makes me feel like a part of a mighty and noble tradition.
Now that we are out of the city, we settle into a more sustainable pace. The journey is long. Only those with patience make it to the end without collapsing. Felix falls in step with me, and we jog in companionable silence as I try to catch my breath from the sprint.
“There’s something wrong with your Heart,” my friend remarks after some time. Surprised, I shoot him a glare, but none of the other recruits around us seem to be paying attention. “Well, maybe not wrong,” he amends after a moment, “but not normal.”
“It doesn’t seem that weird to me.” I keep my voice low enough to be covered by the crunching of our sandals.
“You mean aside from the sheer volume of essence you seem to be able to absorb?”
“Maybe a little unusual, but I wouldn’t say it’s a cause for alarm,” I protest. “I’m still only a Copper. I’m bound to the same restrictions as anyone else here.”
