New Lyre, now there was an easy conquest. The Legions took the city by surprise, it’s defenders barely had time to put up a fight. If only they were all that easy. Now, a year later, the Legions have consolidated their control of everything south of the Orsh River, as far east as Lake Orshan, up to the walls of Morn. Even Meech, at the confluence of the Highwater and the Orsh, was under the thumb of the Imperium.
The 7th and 12th Legions had left the siege to the 4th, marching off to confront another group of Azerk Harn’s troops, said to be mustering to the south of Argent Falls. The elite 4th Legion, Rackam’s Raiders, can handle the siege by themselves, it was believed. High Marshal Karalt and the rest of the 5th Army Command had faith in Stallari Auralius Rackam and his Legion.
The camp fires of the 4th Legion shone like fireflies on a summer night against the dark hills surrounding Morn. Huddled around their fires, the soldiers of the 9th Company, the Ghost Wolves, complained as only veteran soldiers could. When was the siege gonna end, eh? Why did the the 4th get stuck holding the siege? Shouldn’t they be at the vanguard of the army, striking into the heart of Aerne? Who made this sodding slop they’re mucking out of the mess tent?
Arranged by squads through out the camps, the chain of command wasn’t nearly as fast as word of mouth. So it was that before the official runner from the messenger corps could find them, the soldiers of the 9th squad had already heard of the Stallari’s plans to make a speech that night, to the whole damned legion. Mawks, a soldier from 2nd Company, had walked by their tents, saluted them with his pewter cup, full of something illicit (both he and his cup, that is), and shouted.
“Hey wolfies! Ya hear that Rackam hisself is gonna be hav’n a word with us all? One hour, command tent, see ya there. Ta!”
Looking at each other, the soldiers of the 9th squad shared an unspoken thought. Maybe something was about to go down. Maybe there would finally be some action.