gate.
***
As Marik approached the wide street that led through the gates, the streets suddenly became more crowded. There were pockets of pedestrians just standing around, clumped together talking and looking around nervously. Marik slowed down and started looking around himself. Something was amiss, but it was not obvious.
As soon as he turned onto the main street that would take him out of the city, he came to a much larger crowd. There was more than just milling around, there was an excited, even angry, buzz about the crowd. The gates to the city were closed, and centurions, armed with crossbows, were standing on the wall above the gate, their weapons not turned out against an invader, but towards the crowd.
Marik found himself next to an empty cart being led by an ox that was standing perfectly still. A man stood next to the ox, chatting with a group of five other men. They were speaking in Commoner, a language that he could understand, so he approached them.
“Hello!” Marik called out as friendly as he could.
The group of six men looked at him warily.
“What is going on?” Marik asked.
The man with the ox and cart replied with an obviously irritated tone, “We do not know. The gates were closed some time ago. I still have a long walk home, and I certainly do not want to be on the roads after dark. Too many bandits roam the nights.”
“Is there any other way out?” Marik asked.
“All the gates are closed,” another man replied.
A commotion from down the street caused them all to turn. There was some shouting and yelling, but the rest of the crowd settled down and became quiet. A single voice could be heard shouting to clear a path, and the crowd did so, moving aside.
Marik fought against the wave of the crowd as he tried to move towards the shouting. Even before he saw them, he knew it was a company of soldiers, marching towards the gate. The centurions stomped their feet, marking time. Their marching was drilled into them so well that they did not need anyone calling cadence. Mark counted thirty-four centurions. Three rows of eleven with a commander marching in front of them. They were all fully armed with short swords at their sides, long, square shields on the left arms, and a spear in their right hands. Their heads were all capped with a plumed helm that had nose and cheek guards. Marik was close enough to see their eyes, focused straight ahead. None were young men, but were all older, likely veterans of many battles. Something serious was happening, as it was not young and green soldiers called to duty; it was the best and most experienced.
As soon as they passed, the crowd closed in behind them. Marik joined others that followed only a few paces behind, marching all the way to the gates.
Just before they reached the enormous iron gate, the lead centurion began shouting out commands in Taran and his men followed with a precision move. Each of the outside columns peeled off to either side, while the center column began marching in place. At the next command, the centurions in the center column began turning in place, their legs still pumping up and down. As soon as the outside columns were far enough away, the lead centurion gave another command and every other centurion in the middle column went in the opposite direction. Once the last command was given, all thirty-three centurions were stretched across the gate, their spears lowered and pointed out towards the crowd.
The leader was armored just like his men, but he did not carry a spear or a shield. His short sword swung from his hip as he stepped forward.
“ Tenshun!” the man called out. “Attention!” he repeated in Commoner. “Emperor Hargon, our beloved leader has been slain.” He paused to let the murmur of the crowd settle down. “The gates will remain closed, and none shall pass into, or out of the city until the killer has been found and executed.
***
As Marik approached the wide street that led through the gates, the streets suddenly became more crowded. There were pockets of pedestrians just standing around, clumped together talking and looking around nervously. Marik slowed down and started looking around himself. Something was amiss, but it was not obvious.
As soon as he turned onto the main street that would take him out of the city, he came to a much larger crowd. There was more than just milling around, there was an excited, even angry, buzz about the crowd. The gates to the city were closed, and centurions, armed with crossbows, were standing on the wall above the gate, their weapons not turned out against an invader, but towards the crowd.
Marik found himself next to an empty cart being led by an ox that was standing perfectly still. A man stood next to the ox, chatting with a group of five other men. They were speaking in Commoner, a language that he could understand, so he approached them.
“Hello!” Marik called out as friendly as he could.
The group of six men looked at him warily.
“What is going on?” Marik asked.
The man with the ox and cart replied with an obviously irritated tone, “We do not know. The gates were closed some time ago. I still have a long walk home, and I certainly do not want to be on the roads after dark. Too many bandits roam the nights.”
“Is there any other way out?” Marik asked.
“All the gates are closed,” another man replied.
A commotion from down the street caused them all to turn. There was some shouting and yelling, but the rest of the crowd settled down and became quiet. A single voice could be heard shouting to clear a path, and the crowd did so, moving aside.
Marik fought against the wave of the crowd as he tried to move towards the shouting. Even before he saw them, he knew it was a company of soldiers, marching towards the gate. The centurions stomped their feet, marking time. Their marching was drilled into them so well that they did not need anyone calling cadence. Mark counted thirty-four centurions. Three rows of eleven with a commander marching in front of them. They were all fully armed with short swords at their sides, long, square shields on the left arms, and a spear in their right hands. Their heads were all capped with a plumed helm that had nose and cheek guards. Marik was close enough to see their eyes, focused straight ahead. None were young men, but were all older, likely veterans of many battles. Something serious was happening, as it was not young and green soldiers called to duty; it was the best and most experienced.
As soon as they passed, the crowd closed in behind them. Marik joined others that followed only a few paces behind, marching all the way to the gates.
Just before they reached the enormous iron gate, the lead centurion began shouting out commands in Taran and his men followed with a precision move. Each of the outside columns peeled off to either side, while the center column began marching in place. At the next command, the centurions in the center column began turning in place, their legs still pumping up and down. As soon as the outside columns were far enough away, the lead centurion gave another command and every other centurion in the middle column went in the opposite direction. Once the last command was given, all thirty-three centurions were stretched across the gate, their spears lowered and pointed out towards the crowd.
The leader was armored just like his men, but he did not carry a spear or a shield. His short sword swung from his hip as he stepped forward.
“ Tenshun!” the man called out. “Attention!” he repeated in Commoner. “Emperor Hargon, our beloved leader has been slain.” He paused to let the murmur of the crowd settle down. “The gates will remain closed, and none shall pass into, or out of the city until the killer has been found and executed.
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