Heir of the Gods

Ch. 24: Smoke and Steel

Calix let the men spend the majority of the day after the scouting mission resting. They would need it, but he had no such luxury. In groups of twenty, he ran the entire century through the plan to take the city. Some looked at him with thinly veiled anger, others appeared awed. Most simply nodded, their faces grim. 

It was audacious, he knew. But he'd backed himself into a corner in Levitum. The king wanted to prove a point, so Calix would prove a point. It was audacious. Wild.

Perhaps even foolish.

He grinned to himself. Sometimes the art of war called for a little foolishness. If properly executed, a little foolishness might just save a couple lives.

That thought brought him immediately back to grim reality. The day had passed more quickly than he'd wanted. He could only hope the men, but most especially the non-commissioned officers, remembered everything.

Granted, the plan was simple. Elegant in its simplicity, if he said so himself. But plans were destined to fail in some capacity. The few sergeants he had spoken to directly seemed like reliable men—men who could think on their feet and in the heat of battle.

But he wouldn't know that for sure until the arrows were falling down and blood was being spilled.

"The men are ready, sir."

Calix looked up at Vargus' quiet voice. Nox snorted and flattened his ears, making the centurion give the horse a wary grimace. Calix stood from where he had been dozing among the roots of a massive pine, brushing the dirt and lichen from his pants and cloak.

"Good," he finally returned. His gaze drifted toward the west, where Antelium sat in waiting. "Good."

"Do you really think the prince is still alive, sir?" Vargus asked, lowering his voice even more as Calix stepped away from Nox.

Instinctively, Calix's eyes flickered around, checking to see if any of the men were nearby. He gestured for the centurion to walk with him, and they moved deeper into the trees, away from any who might overhear.

"If anyone has managed to stay alive, it's the prince." Calix sighed. "What he lacks in diplomacy he makes up for in a certain..." He trailed off. As much as he might want to, he couldn't trust any of these men. Calix took a breath. "There were only fifteen crosses. We can assume that he's either managed to hide within the city, or is being held prisoner."

Calix felt more than saw the sideways look he received, but that was all he cared to say on the subject. So he changed tack. "Your sergeants, how long have you served with them?"

Non-commissioned officers were the backbone of the army. They were the officers closest to the men; the ones who the men knew and trusted more than any other. A good sergeant was worth twenty generals in Calix's estimation.

"None less than five years, sir," Vargus answered promptly. "All battle-tested, all good at their jobs."

"Picked by you?"

"Some." Vargus scowled, ducking a low branch. "But they're all men who will stand and fight, General."

That was really all he could ask for. Silence fell between the two, only interrupted by the hiss of several dozen whetstones and the occasional snore as each man settled in for the night and prepared in his own way for what the morning would bring.

"There'll be fresh sentries at dawn," Vargus ventured.

"Yes, there will," Calix said, keeping his voice level. His tone neither rebuked nor encouraged more questions. 

Vargus stopped walking and faced Calix squarely. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

The centurion looked startled by the immediate acquiescence. When he recovered, he shifted almost nervously from foot to foot. He blurted, "A mid-morning attack would be more regular, sir. We don't often fight in the dark, sir."