Heir of the Gods

Ch. 49: Witch Hunters

Calix heard them before he saw them. The clash of swords rang brilliant through the thin air, followed closely by hoarse shouts, swearing and the occasional laugh. Tarquin caught his eye and grinned, likely thinking of all the time they had spent doing the exact same thing. When they finally rounded the last line of tents and saw what was waiting for them, Calix's breath caught a little.

His eyes were overwhelmed by the organized chaos around him. He blinked and turned his head, scanning between the men sparring in groups and pairs in an attempt to find Martialis. It was soon given up as a bad job and he gestured for the other two men to follow him. 

The red cloak he wore parted the crowd easily enough. Both Tarquin and Tullus got steadily closer to him the deeper they went into the melee. Calix was too busy observing the fighting to care.

So far, he was mightily impressed with his centurions. The men they had picked looked strong, fit, agile. Many of them fought sloppily, but with great energy and focus. Calix could work with that.

A hand on his arm stopped him. He looked curiously at Tarquin, who just pointed to their right. Calix raised an eyebrow, but turned in the direction indicated. At first, he didn't realize what he was supposed to be looking at, his attention once more trying to divide itself between several things at once.

"That's an auxiliary," Tullus suddenly said, also pointing. "What's he doing here?"

Finally, Calix understood what had caught Tarquin's eye. 

A lean young man stood facing what Calix might have mistaken for a bear if it weren't for the fact that he was wearing clothes. They stood in a small pocket of calm, a few of the other sparring pairs having broken off their matches to watch what seemed about to unfold. The lookers-on were shouting and catcalling, most of their energies seemingly directed at the auxiliary.

"I didn't know you'd made this an open invitation," Tarquin said, speaking into his ear as they watched the men circle.

"I didn't." Calix frowned. He thought he had been specific about the fact that men should only be selected from his legion. So what was an auxiliary soldier doing here? 

He was obviously full-blooded Sorveti, leaner than Tarquin and paler, with his black hair worn half-up, the loose strands falling past his shoulders. The sword he held was slightly curved with a single edge, a little over two feet long with a double-handed hilt. Though the metal bore a beautiful, undulating pattern, the weapon was plain an un-ornamented. A practical weapon.

As Calix watched, the bear charged, sword held aloft. The Sorveti didn't bother parrying, likely knowing that he was no match for the other's power. Instead, he waited until his opponent had committed to a long, downward stroke. Then he moved like water, flowing around and past the other man, ducking under the man's beefy arm until the Sorveti was behind him, then lashing out a lightning-fast foot that drove into the back of the bear's knee. He rapped the flat of his blade lightly across the nape of the man's neck.

"Kill," he said triumphantly, the word drawn out by a heavy Sorvetian accent.

The surrounding crowd muttered and booed, several of them gripping their weapons and stepping forward, making Calix frown. The bigger man lumbered to his feet, scowling and exchanging glances with a couple of bruisers at the very edge of the crowd who looked like brothers.

Sensing trouble, Calix started toward them, but Tarquin stopped him. A smirk played on his brother's mouth. "Just watch."

Calix bit at the inside of his cheek, but didn't interfere. There was a brief moment of hesitation before one of the bruisers drew his sword and leapt forward. There was a flurry of clashes before the Sorveti disengaged, skipping back a step or two. The other bruiser began to circle around to the Sorveti's left side.