Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire by James Gawley Page A

through this area in force," he said. "Based on their spoor, it looks like they were a very large band. Add to that the smoke, and it's a good bet the camp has been attacked."
    Primus nodded. "Thank you," he managed.
    "An attack doesn't necessarily mean disaster, Primus. The Woade don't seem to like coming close to the citadel, but raids on the mining camp are not unheard of. Your father is well prepared."
    "How many were there?"
    It was a moment before Lucan answered. "Hundreds."
    Primus said nothing to that. They both knew that the garrison at Silvermine was now a single cohort, the Luckless. Their brothers the White Wolves had been sent south–Primus was not privy to the reason. They continued on at their steady pace; the legate informed Primus that to hurry now would invite disaster, since it was impossible to tell whether the Woade were still in the area. "Discipline is crucial," Lucan warned him. "Sometimes the Woade try to draw us out by leaving a few of our comrades alive. If we become swept away in the rescue, we expose our backs to the enemy."
    Warmed by that thought, Primus watched the forest give way to a field of snowy stumps. The forest had been cleared for perhaps half a mile around the mining camp, so that the enemy must cross that space exposed to slings and arrows from the camp before he could assault its walls. The camp's fortifications were built of stone up to the height of a man; a palisade of sharpened, fire-hardened stakes crowned the wall. Two gatehouse towers, broader and taller than those of the citadel, were manned by men in red cloaks. Primus' relief was curdled by disgust, as he saw the crosses lined up outside those gates.
    There were twelve of them, nailed up by wrist and foot. Someone had added the pedal-peg that allowed victims to stand up on the cross, so long as they could take the pain of it. Standing meant getting a breath of air–for hanging by the wrists made it difficult to breathe–and a pedal-pegged victim could live for weeks upon the cross, if his will was strong. If they brought him water to prolong his suffering. Of the twelve men lined up before the gates, three were already dead. All were bearded, long haired, and filthy, with blood caked to the fur hides about their shoulders and the rawhide breeches that clad their legs. As he crossed the open field, Primus could hear them weeping. From their perches, they could look down on their dead brothers.
    Barbarian corpses were stacked like cordwood beside the road, hardening in the weather. A crew of ten men in grey tunics with the eagle on their chests were digging a mass grave. The Woade did not practice cremation, and the legion respected the customs of its enemies. Alive, a barbarian was theirs to torture. Dead, he belonged to his gods.  
    At the gates they received the ritual challenge, and Lucan announced himself and his company. He included Primus in his formal declaration, an apparent honor. Privately Primus wondered if this would be the first news his father received of his journey to the camp. The gates creaked open and the scouts rode two by two between the towers.
    Silvermine was part military installation and part slave labor camp; the roads within were laid out on an orderly grid, with the ancient highway forming the main thoroughfare. The slave barracks were long, low structures of wood, built directly on the frozen ground.   A single door was covered by a bear skin or deer hide, and every door was guarded. There were dozens of slave-barracks. The smoke they'd seen rose from one of these, and the stench of burned meat and human excrement assaulted Primus nose. The shale roof had collapsed, and one wall had tumbled outward into the yard. Primus glimpsed white bones among the ash, and looked away.
    The commander met them at the center of camp, where stood a handful of stone buildings. He rode in from the opposite gate at a gallop, drawing rein just a few paces in front of Primus and Lucan. Marcus Seneca was a man of