B4 Chapter 15: Windblade
B4 Chapter 15: Windblade
With runners sent to retrieve Quintus’s would-be opponents, the colosseum administrator shifted again, lowering his voice so that only Quintus could hear. “Sir… Again, I do not wish to cast doubt upon your judgement. But is it wise to air this grievance so publicly?”
He considered the suggestion. It was a fair one. If Quintus won, no matter how close the bout then public opinion may well see the Third Legion as weak for being unable to fell such a small group of foes. If the more numerous century won, unlikely as it was, then it would still cast Quintus himself as a weakling. Neither was a particularly desirable outcome.
It was a slight oversight. In the heat of the moment, he’d considered only the implications for himself and his men, not for how those results would color public opinion.
“...Agreed.” Quintus admitted. He was not so proud as to ignore his own mistakes. “Then we will make it a private bout. Please ensure only Legionnaires are able to spectate.”
The administrator cringed. “That… but tickets have already been purchased—”
“I will refund them personally if need be.” Quintus reassured the man. At his pained expression, he relented. “If it is more practical for both you and the arena, we can delay the bout for an hour.”
The man nodded vigorously and immediately began barking orders. He called to passing colosseum staff and immediately put them to work in turning Quintus’s requests into reality. Meanwhile, Quintus turned to one of his own men.
“Since this will be a private affair, I see no reason not to invite the rest of our men. Though a skeleton crew will be necessary at the camp. I believe the fresh blood will benefit most from the display.”
“Indeed, sir.” The messenger saluted and went still, closing his eyes as he began coordinating things on his end. Despite the circumstances leading up to it, Quintus honestly found himself anticipating the bout more than a little bit. It should be a good challenge at least. If the men represented themselves so poorly as to be an embarrassment, then both they and Quintus deserved to be embarrassed. But despite the Third Legion’s obvious shortcomings, he had more faith in most of the men than he did in these three. Especially their loudmouth “leader.”
He and his retinue would take on the Third Legion’s century and show the difference between freshly minted Legionnaires and experienced ones. Then he would have Ham whipped for insubordination. It was one thing to raise a concern or question, but to do so without the appropriate respect? In public no less, where such defiance could be overheard? That was not something he or any other Legatus would ever abide.
Once things were organized, Quintus and his men descended to the arena armory to equip themselves. Walls lined with neat rows of identical spears, swords, armguards, and every other variety of weapon he could imagine greeted them. Barrels containing even more weaponry sat beneath, as well as implements that Quintus honestly found himself wondering at the use of.
From what Gareth had explained, this hoard was not just for Legion use exclusively. Most bouts were conducted using standard equipment, both as a way to level the playing field and to ensure that victories were borne of skill rather than one being able to afford a more impressive weapon. It also made for fewer variables with betting odds and improved the rewards granted by the arena itself. However, that wasn’t to say that all of the equipment here was available for anyone to use.
The administrator led Quintus and his contubernium of men deeper into the armory, unlocking a rather sturdy door at the end of one long hall. They stepped inside to find even more equipment. These practically glowed with power and enchantments, their designs far less uniform than those above.
He stepped toward a rack of short metal tubes fitted with stubby handles. The size was far more compact than the almost man-length tubes that the Third Legion had used against the dragon, with the rings of enchantments crammed so tightly along the barrel that he had to squint to make them out.
“Those are the latest model from the Master Blacksmith’s apprentices,” the colosseum administrator—whose name was Drusus, apparently—explained. “I’m told they pack less of a punch than the larger models, but make up for it in portability and convenience. They’ve also made significant improvements regarding firing speed and capacity. There are other, larger versions that take those last improvements further but…” Drusus hesitated. “...After a few very successful trials, we have suspended their use in the colosseum.”
Quintus raised an eyebrow at the man. “You are quite well informed.”
Drusus smiled. “I make it my business to know what goes on in my colosseum. Understanding the capabilities and limitations of each weapon allows me to communicate them to the commentators and further improve audience enjoyment of the bouts.”
The Legatus nodded and examined the firearm again. The versions they had used against the dragon were far larger and specialized in concentrated volleys of fire. What they lacked in accuracy was made up for in their users’ skills and the sheer volume of lead projectiles they would send forth all at once. This, however, seemed as though it would work best under different circumstances.
Another one of the Legionnaires with Quintus stepped up to handle one of the weapons. “Mind if I try one out, sir? I’ve been itching to give these things a go for weeks.”
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“There’s a reason we keep them away from you, Brutus,” one of the men chirped. “I’ve seen you shoot a bow. You’ve never hit anything smaller than a house without a dozen shots, and that’s targets that stand still.”
“Good thing we won’t be wanting for targets then, eh?” The man grinned. “I’m sure some of the fresh meat won’t mind taking one for the team.”
Quintus ignored the banter and eyed the weapon. “Go ahead. In fact, all of you, take one.”
“Are you certain, sir?” his aquilifer asked. “Most of us don’t have skills that will synergize with such a weapon.”
“Very certain. Considering their size, it will not be a significant burden to carry them.” Even if his contubernium of guards lacked skills to use with the weapons, they were made to render such shortcomings less impactful than they would be otherwise. And he had a feeling they could come in handy in a pinch. If they could fire more than one shot a minute, that would put them well above their larger counterparts—and put the weaponry well on its way to replacing the sling.
The men continued on, replacing their battle-worn gladii and black shields with standard colosseum equipment. It was all practically identical to what they normally carried, albeit more brightly colored and polished for the audience’s benefit. The colosseum scutums were painted the familiar red that Quintus had carried for most of his life, their appearance evoking a wave of nostalgia as he looked at them. Though they were by no means simple. A variety of structural changes and enchantments overlaying each made sure of that.
In addition to their standard loadout, he insisted that each man pick out at least a pair of other items that they could test out during the fight. Though he wasn’t overly concerned about their chances of victory, he didn’t necessarily expect it to be an easy fight. Being outnumbered ten to one by men he himself had trained shouldn’t be easy. Underestimating them was the worst thing they could do. As such, he felt that having a few tricks up their sleeves wouldn’t hurt.
A couple of men picked up other firearms from around the armory and shields that could create bursts of force when struck. A couple grabbed repeating crossbows, though they were only able to carry enough ammunition for a few sporadic bursts. Drusus had to explain to another one of the Legionnaires that there was also a moratorium on explosives in the colosseum, a revelation that saved Quintus from having to intervene personally. Instead, he simply picked up a collection of strange metal caltrops from one of the barrels and stored them in pouches at his waist.
Quintus himself focused on the swords hung in neat rows along the wall. He let his hand drift across them, inspecting each carefully as he searched for… something. He wasn’t entirely sure what. Most were outfitted with some sort of magical effect, like being able to burst into flame or return to the wielder’s hand if lost. Others were of particularly fine construction.
He continued inspecting each weapon until one in particular spoke to him. Quintus stopped, a wooden pommel down from the rack. It was roughly the same size as the one on his own gladius, albeit without a blade attached.
“Drusus.” Quintus called over his shoulder. “Where is the blade for this sword?”
The man cut short his conversation with the aquilifer and bustled over. The colosseum administrator peered at the pommel, then at the spot where it came from. “Ah, that. That is a windblade. A concept inspired by elvish work, or so I’m told. Its blade only manifests when striking.”
Quintus frowned. “Then it’s useless for blocking.”
“...More or less,” Drusus admitted. “It’s fairly difficult to use because of its… unique properties. But it is more flexible than a standard sword and doesn’t lose its edge. Give it a try.”
The man took quite a few steps back as he finished speaking. Quintus shrugged, turning to face an open area. He took up an offensive stance and gave the pommel an experimental swing, feeling a little silly as he did so.
The air before him rippled. For a second, it looked as though nothing had happened. But he could feel it. A blade formed out of solid wind, slicing through the empty space like a localized tornado. It materialized instantly, registering in his senses like an extension of himself.
He made another few test swings, finding that he could adjust the length and shape of the blade somewhat, then looked around. The other men had hardly noticed anything more than a slight breeze. And yet…
Quintus slid the pommel into a loop on his belt alongside a more standard blade. This was something that he could use. He suppressed a smile at the ideas already forming in his head.
“Are you prepared?” Drusus asked. Despite his polite tone, Quintus could tell the man was trying very hard to hide his impatience. “Good. Then I will escort you to the arena.”
The nine men strode into the arena , their caligae crunching against the layer of pale sand coating its floor. The stands above were once again filled, most of them with armored figures and elves that Quintus recognized. He saluted his comrades where they watched. He would make sure to do them proud.
Across the way stood the second century of the fourth cohort. A century comprised mostly of former Novarans from the capital and other places around the countryside, rather than veterans or Habersville conscripts. Even their centurion was the son of a noble who had honestly impressed Quintus with his mettle.
Unlike the trio of men who had inspired this bout, most of their compatriots seemed to much better comprehend the gravity of the current situation. Their faces bore traces of fear and concern at the current situation, and Quintus felt a hundred and twenty pairs of eyes snap to him to evaluate his own feelings on the matter. He simply gave them a predatorial smile that sent some shivering. To their credit, however, that fear was quickly masked by looks of grim determination.
Perhaps this demonstration wasn’t entirely necessary to establish a healthy respect for their Legatus. Well, it was too late now. It would still reinforce that feeling and prove plenty useful in other ways.
“Today we have a special bout! The newly created Third Legion will test its mettle against its own Legatus Quintus! Century and contubernium, veteran and new blood, will face off in a battle of quality versus quantity! Who will emerge victorious?”
Instantly the Third Legion began to form up into a [Coordinated Bulwark], falling back on basic tactics. Quintus saw a couple of small chinks borne of an improper grip or weak stance, cataloguing them in his mind as opportunities to exploit. He readied himself as his eight other men formed up around him.
“Ready… Fight!”
The match began.