Chapter 29: 29. Fort Frostwarden

A dozen acolytes marched through the snow, split into two rows. As they marched, they flanked a horseman who rode several paces ahead.

Mark watched his feral commoners gather as the procession of Imperials passed through the outer gate.

His acolyte wall watch had only spotted them fifteen minutes prior when they noticed movement through the forest.

What now? I can already tell this is going to be trouble.

“Orders, Imperator?”

“Open the inner gates,” Mark waved and made his way down. Refusing entry to other subjects of the Imperium likely wasn’t a good idea. Not only might it suggest to others that he is a deserter—in the sense that he wasn’t following Imperial mandate—but it would likely piss off every Imperial working for him. And he certainly didn’t want to see how Henric would respond.

Mark made it down to the gates as the outsiders reached them. The horseman dismounted as the acolytes came to a halt just outside the gate.

Brushing himself off, the gruff man dressed in studded leathers and a steel breastplate approached. “Imperator,” he saluted. A dark beard traveled halfway down his chest, and deep creases lined his eyes. “Afrig Culler, Master-At-Arm of Fort Frostwarden,” came a rehearsed bark.

“Greetings, Arms-Master,” Mark saluted. “Fort Frostwarden is quite a distance away. Perhaps you need something to warm your bones.”

“I’d appreciate it if you fed and warmed my acolytes, but I can wait. I’ve come for your ear—if you would do me the pleasure?”

“You heard him,” Mark snapped his fingers. “Make sure the good Arms-Master’s acolytes are well fed and stoke the eating hall’s fire well. Now, shall we talk in my cabin?”

Afrig nodded. “It would be my pleasure, Imperator.”

The man made Mark feel uneasy. He had been constantly eyeing the ferals on his way in, and the way he looked around the fort seemed as if he was weighing the place up.

“So, what brings you all the way to Fort Winterclaw?” Mark said as they took opposite seats at his desk. He had seen Fort Frostwarden and the two dozen other Imperial forts dotted across the Frontier when he studied the maps left behind by Atlas. And the forts were a good fifty miles apart.

“Rumors,” Afrig said, straightening the coat beneath his cuirass.

“Rumors? Care to elaborate?” Mark said as he poured tea for the both of them.

“I’m fine,” Afrig waved. “I’ll drink something later.”

“As you wish,” Mark stopped just before pouring the Arms-Master’s cup and put the pot aside. “So, these rumors?”

“With all due respect, Imperator—do I need to elaborate? People are calling you the Feral Imperator. And it’s obvious why. Inviting those people into your fort?” he said with disdain as a scowl bent his face in disgust. “You live with them now. Do you not have any respect for yourself?”

“What do you mean, Arms-Master? They’re out there, and we’re in here,” Mark said, pointing toward the outer wall and then to the ground.

“Don’t play dumb, Imperator. It’s beneath you. And more importantly, it’s beneath your station. Now, come on, you built those walls. It’s plain as day to see what you’re doing. People are even saying you trade with them. Even fight alongside them,” he snarled.

“I wouldn’t be the first.”

“You speak heresy! It is one thing to send ferals charging your enemy as fodder for their blades, but you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the scum!” Exhaling, Afrig tried to calm himself. “Pardon me, Imperator. I lost my calm. I respect your hierarchy,” he pressed an army across his chest and bowed. “But I have been sent here by my Imperator. He accuses you of heresy for consorting with ferals in a way unbefitting of a servant of the Imperium. But Imperator Eamon is a flexible man. He extends an olive branch to you. Hand yourself over. Allow him to arrest you, and he will plead your case to the Legate. He will ask that you are not dealt with too harshly. Perhaps even banishment to an Imperial island is still within reach for you if you make the right decision now.”

To arrest a heretical Imperator would be an honor, from what I understand. Maybe even enough for this Imperator Eamon to have his posting changed to within the Imperium. Mark knew there was no way he would get lenient treatment either. Atlas had already been sent to the Frontier. He would be lucky to survive the ordeal if he were found guilty of treason.

“And how exactly have I broken the law by doing what you accuse me of? The ferals do not live with us here within the fort. All the forts of the Frontier trade with the locals when necessary. And using them to win a battle to save this fort and the lives of the acolytes I’ve been entrusted with is hardly heretical.”

“Don’t play dumb, Imperator. You even made the barbarians tribunes, according to my informants. I give you one last chance to hand yourself in. Fail, and Imperator Eamon will drag you to the legate himself,” Afrig hissed.

“We seem to be at an impasse. You see, I've studied Imperium law as well as anybody,” Mark bluffed. “And the way I see it, I haven't broken any laws. For example, the power and station of tribune lies outside of the Law of Hierarchy, and therefore, no law has been broken by bestowing it upon the barbarians.”

“You might think you’re smart. But let's see how cocky you are when the legate comes asking questions. See how quickly your acolytes and masters turn on you.”

“I thought Imperator Eamon was going to take me in?”

“Bah!” Afrig snorted. “You know what I meant.”

“Do I? Your ramblings sound like that of a madman.”

Afrig clenched his fists.

Go on, try it. If you attack me, I'm well within my rights to strike you down.

“If you refuse to see reason, then I suppose we're done here. But know that you will regret this.”

“Understood, Arms-Master Afrig. Your acolytes should be waiting for you in the eating hall,” Mark waved.

Maybe I should just strike him down and say he attacked me. Then again, that could bring this Eamon guy down on me faster. Not only did the risk of being accused of murder seem too great, but Mark wasn't sure he wanted to kill a man in cold blood. Not yet, at least. He would not let someone get in the way of his mission for Fort Winterclaw, not after everything. Thanks to his decisions, kids had gone through hell, and he would see them through. If these Imperials from Fort Frostwarden forced his hand, he would strike.

“Imperator,” Afrig scowled as he saluted. No matter how much he had annoyed and probably even insulted the man, he wouldn’t break formality.

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Mark watched the man leave. This wasn’t good, but Imperator Eamon, regardless of how determined he was to be responsible for Mark’s capture, was subject to the terrain of the Frontier as much as anybody else. And marching to Fort Winterclaw was no easy task.

What do I do now? A smile crept across Mark’s face as he thought. He certainly didn’t want to get his new followers zapped, but perhaps they could set an ambush if Eamon decided to march on him. As long as it wasn’t too close to the fort and conducted by the ferals, it could be blamed on vagrant barbarians. Of course, rumors of his involvement would follow after this encounter, but that would happen if Eamon died by any means.

Unfortunately, Fort Winterclaw didn’t have the manpower to have a force big enough to ambush the Imperator, just lying in wait. To pull this off, he would need scouts to spy the roads. It reminded him of the current limitations imposed on the fort in its current situation. The gates needed to be open, and his influence needed to spread beyond the walls.

At least this makes what I need to accomplish painfully obvious.

***

The procession from Fort Frostwarden didn’t stay much longer. Afrig had been visibly agitated the entire time, fidgeting and unable to stay still as he waited for his acolytes to ready themselves. But it was clear that the acolytes were not too happy about it. Marching forty miles through thick snow and blizzards was no easy task, and this was likely the first time they had a roof over their heads since leaving their fort.

“They're leaving in a hurry. What did you talk about?” Henric said as they watched them leave from the wall.

“It’s complicated. Suffice to say, Imperator Eamon doesn't like me.” Mark said. He didn’t have to say that but wanted to gauge his second’s reaction.

“Oh?” Henric’s brow rose. “It’s not related to them, is it?” he added, thrusting his chin toward the outer walls.

“And what if it is? I’ve broken no laws and kept my people safe. Isn’t that what I should be doing?”

“I don’t have to tell you how Imperials will see your actions, Imperator.”

“And what about you? How do you see my actions?”

Henric exhaled. “I’m confused. I won’t go against the legate, know that. But I can’t lie, you’ve surprised me. Maybe you haven’t broken the law, but I don’t doubt for a second that you’ve gone against holy scripture. Maybe not directly, but the God-Lord himself can be quoted as condemning the use of loopholes. However, I can’t argue that it has worked. Those ferals—they’re surprisingly loyal to you. If even ten percent of their stories are true, then I can’t see any other solution… any other way to survive what lies ahead for us. And our watch here—it’s as sacred as anything else. Keeping the walls of this fort standing has been entrusted to us by the College of Legates itself. And the law dictates that no measure is too great to save the lives of the acolytes we educate. So, I—” Henric stammered.

“You trust me then?”

Henric turned to Mark. “Don’t break any laws. Don’t make me pick between my Imperium and you. And don’t make me pick between my god and you.”

“I won’t,” Mark shook his head. He wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep, but it would do for now.

“Then you have my loyalty. Keep our walls standing and the kids alive, for the sake of the God-Lord. Do that, and you can trust me to follow your orders.”

“I have every intention to,” Mark nodded.

**Venjimin**

Bookcases had been hurriedly put together and lined up in the would-be log cabin that Mark had built for the priest to use as a library. It wasn’t much, essentially just an extra room attached to Venjimin’s own cabin, but at least they had somewhere to store knowledge.

Mark promised the old man that once he was able, he would provide paper, but for now, he was still etching everything down on stone tablets.

Paper was just too rare. What little they did have was saved for use within the inner walls.

A couple of ferals—or rather commoners—copied from tablets on a table at the center of the room. It would be a long time before they were comparable to the students he had back in the temple, but it was a start.

Venjimin mused at the delight of Mark’s statement during the festival. He believed changing the name the Imperials used to refer to the ferals was an important stepping stone to bring the two communities together.

Barbarians generally thought of each other as whatever clan they belonged to. If they had no clan—such as ferals—they were clanless; that was it. The priests separated them into three major groups based on language and tradition, but none of the people cared for such terminology.

None of the commoners could see it, but Venjimin could. What the Imperator was doing was creating a new identity for these people, something to replace what had been taken from them when they were expelled from their clans. And once it settled in, it would be a force to be reckoned with.

Clans were the blood of the people from the Frontier. It was why being expelled was such a dishonor. People died for their clans. And for many, it was more important than their own families.

This is the start of something great; I can feel it, the old man hummed as he ran a hand across his newly minted tablets.

Excitement welled within as he realized he would get a front seat as this page of history was written.

It was barely a little over a year ago that he thought his life was over. And now it was blooming again. A family, a beautiful young wife, and a place within what he believed would grow into something great. He just needed to make sure the others stayed in line now. He needed to help them see the bigger picture for all of their sakes.

He needed them to realize they were living through a monumental change and pivotal point in history, just as he did.

**Callum**

“Hey, move it. Who do you think you are?” Radic barked as he pushed past a small girl.

The girl flinched, almost falling backward as he barged by.

“Take it easy, Radic. That's the feral girl the Imperator saved.”

“Oh, so that's what I smelled,” Radic said, stepping closer to tower over the girl.

The girl had been allowed to stay in the inner walls since she had nowhere to go, and her parents never came looking for her. Not that Mark would have trusted handing her over if they had. Because of that, she was dressed in a robe similar to the acolytes. Save it had been dyed with a streak of red down its middle to differentiate them.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“N-no, sorry—for being in your way.”

“Not good enough, feral. You see, you inconvenienced me. That kinda thing requires punish—"

“Hey, Radic. Leave the girl alone.”

“Huh?” The oversized acolyte turned to see Callum. “Didn't I beat you badly enough last time, heretic? Or have you come for another session?”

“It was hardly a fair fight. Besides, how's your nose?”

“What was that?” Radic growled and stepped closer. A hint of bruising was still visible, and his nose had felt stuffy and clogged ever since.

“Not out here, Radic. The masters could see, or worse, the Imperator,” the boy beside him said, pulling on his robe.

Radic swung around to the sound of footsteps in time to catch the girl’s back as she rounded the nearest cabin.

“Damn it. Always sticking up for them, aren't you?” Radic spat. “You're a disgrace. You're just lucky we have witnesses,” he added, glancing up at an acolyte watching from the wall. “You won’t be so lucky next time. Trust me. Come on then, let's go. Don't want to be infected by whatever this one has,” Radic glared at Callum as he gestured for the other boy to follow.

“Yeah, yeah,” Callum said under his breath as he watched them leave. "Any time."

***

As midday came, the acolytes gathered in the fort's courtyard for another lesson and stood in a line waiting for their Imperator.

Thanks to Mark's orienteering days, he had been teaching them how to read a map properly and some first aid basics. For the first time, he was glad that he had been selected as his old office’s first aid officer. It was just basic stuff: how to use a tourniquet, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and so on. Nonetheless, these were skills the kids could use. And while the Star Maiden no doubt had healing skills, they weren't a mirror of Earth's techniques.

Although useful, it was clear which acolytes preferred what. The judo and jiu-jitsu sessions were everyone's favorites. Not that Mark had any problem with that. Defending the fort was their most urgent requirement. If anything, he was desperate to come up with more ideas for their defense.

As Mark arrived, the acolytes stiffened into a salute. He eyed them as he walked down the formation, catching Callum's gaze.

The boy had missed a few lessons, but he knew that he was training in his own time. He even went as far as to get other acolytes to show them what he missed in other lessons. There was no doubt the boy was determined. He had been practicing anything and everything he could get his hands on. Even without seeing his Imperator's instructions firsthand, he was regularly beating his peers when they tried to trip one another.

The boy didn't just have talent. He was determined. And Mark knew that it would be a shame to waste. He was confident that it would pay off if he could get his hands on anything to help him.

He noticed Acolyte Radic's bent glare focused on Callum. His fists were clenched, and he looked ready to hit the boy. Under any other circumstances, he would keep them apart. But this was an opportunity with their training session.

Not only would raw emotions help these boys get a more real fight—which would be good experience. But Mark had a feeling who would win, and he felt it was his job to let the boy get a little revenge after the beating he had received.