Praetor Lucius Alden

The gathering storm

Part II

-The ‘missing’ Cohort-

Regia circa 194

Young Roderick stood upright the moment Lucius entered his personal quarters in the Castrum, splash of crimson-black hair over his cyan-colored eyes, darker blue spots dotting the irises. The tiny boy cast a daring stare on his towering father, young fists clenched tight. Just behind him on the edge of the bed the woman Roderick was ‘protecting’, a braiding her long red hair healthy-looking Faye, chuckled freely. Then she stooped and pointed a finger at Lucius, whilst the Praetor removed his legion officer’s helm and placed it on a weapon stand by the wall.

“Yer father,” his northern wife said to their son in that heavy accent. “See?”

“Fah,” Roderick puffed out relaxing and then went back to dragging logs piled next to the fireplace all the way to the middle of the room, little pale buttocks and wobbly knees red from constantly tripping over and falling down.

“Did he just cursed?” Lucius asked Faye kissing her.

“Nah,” Faye replied tasting of wine. “But if he did then it’s yer fault for having him living in a camp at this young age.”

“He lives inside a fine building,” Lucius protested and stooped to pick the baby from the floor, kicking the log back towards the fireplace. “Why is he naked? It’s chilly. Also what in Allgods mercy is he doing?”

“He’s fine. Plenty of the North in him to fear a bit of cold,” Faye retorted and took the heavy boy from his arms to clean some of the bruises. “I think he was fixing on making a fire in the middle of the room.”

“We can’t have my son walking about with his cock out,” Lucius griped and Roderick wiped his face on Faye’s bust and turned around to look at him. “It’s not considered civil son. Be a man of culture,” Lucius advised and Roderick slotted a small dirty fist in his mouth without a reply.

“His teeth are bothering him,” Faye chortled getting the dirty hand out and wiping the drool with her finger and a towel. “Kept biting me nipples afore and now ye chew on other stuff hmm?” she told the boy, making a face as if to scold him.

“Kek,” Roderick replied with a burp and then started twisting about to free himself from her embrace.

“Mountain spirits!” Faye gasped fighting to keep him still.

“We’ll enter Regia on the morrow,” Lucius told her finding a chair to sit down and remove his gloves. “Hopefully we get a bit of sun, instead of another downpour.”

“You want to talk about the weather Alden?” Faye asked placing the kicking and twisting boy down.

Lucius rapped his fingers on the table anxiously. “If Lord Holt yields to pressure from the court, we might be left without a play here,” he admitted.

“We could still go back to Kas. You are like a Jarl now. Less land than Jarl David, but probably with as many warriors,” Faye replied her eyes on their playing about son. “I could live there happy. He would, but not Lucius.”

“Faye,” Lucius started rubbing his face tiredly, but she stopped him. Faye got up and came to stand in front of a sitting Lucius, then knelt and grabbed his hands to kiss them.

“Apologies,” his troubled wife murmured and Lucius quickly helped her up on her feet again. “I’m fearful for the future, but I shouldn’t have said that.”

Lucius made room for her in his lap, but she pointed at Roderick bringing another log from the pile towards the center of the room.

“Roderick,” Lucius said sternly and the boy stopped moving. “Come right here. Leave the darn log behind.”

“Wow,” Faye gasped giving a slap at his thigh. “What was that?”

“My father,” Lucius replied.

“What was he like?” Faye asked.

Lucius thought of King Alistair, something of his father in Roderick’s scowl as he approached them.

“Intense.”

“What was his stance on Northern women?” She asked casually.

Lucius cleared his throat, right hand pushing tiny Roderick’s mess of a hair back to show his face. He didn’t want to lie to her and Alistair’s reasons had nothing to do with Faye, but more with Martha’s twin sister. Another time, another peoples and despite Lucius feelings for the bride, more a treaty than a marriage.

“Alistair wasn’t as… sensitive, or patient. The king was a product of an older generation,” he finally said.

“Pfft. As if men changed. You are the only different… decent man, I know.” Faye told him. “Nobody else thinks like you.”

“You are wrong wife. There are many decent men out there. Knights, but also simple people making ends meet away from our scrutiny,” Lucius grimaced seeing her raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Let me work on it,” he assured her, going back to their previous subject. “I’ll think of something.”

“You can always go through Lord Holt,” Faye offered playing with his hair. His wife was slowly losing the weight she’d gained, turning soft skin into muscle again. Lucius wasn’t going to allow her to fight again though. For all his open-mindedness Lucius agreed with his father in this. You don’t send women to war. Not unless you are prepared to witness your mother, sister, or wife get hacked in the face and have their limbs chopped off.

“Not the preferred option,” he murmured talking with difficulty, answering both queries.

“Uhm. What about the Fourth? What am I missing here, other than to keep them guessing?”

“Lord Holt has troops stationed to guard his northern borders against a Van Calcar excursion. The Fourth Legion being within Pascor’s borders keeps the Lakerlord busy and away from Lord Holt’s lands.”

“So he can turn his full attention on Jeremy,” Faye said and Lucius nodded. “What about Anorum?”

“Anorum is a problem,” Lucius admitted, not that having Valens cut off over there wasn’t, but he believed the Lord of Pascor would prefer to keep the trade route to Eaglesnest and Kas open, than risk attacking Valens. Especially if he knew Lucius was still loose in Asturia to come and pay him an angry visit.

Could there be another reason? There is always something else, he thought. You can never be sure. Valens should retreat, or stall until Sula reaches him. Everyday Lucius kept Sula around to bolster the Third’s chances of success, was putting the Fourth at risk.

I need to solve this, Lucius mused with a grimace. “Lord Holt considers it part of his domain and while the old man can be appeased, his interest more in the Legion’s matters, a heritor won’t be as ready to give up a potential title, especially if he’s not first in line for the big ones.”

“What does that mean?” Faye asked and touched his face softly. “What difference does it make if the king has a subject, or a duke? The baron is under both of them.”

“It makes a difference,” Lucius countered. “More loved is the king that holds fewer titles by himself,” he added with a tired sigh.

“By the people?” Faye asked sounding perturbed on why it was important and the Praetor had replied with a chuckle.

“His lords.”

There was no more snow on the fields. The ice had melted by the constant rain and the warmer weather had cleaned up the rest. It left fertile soft ground behind, the earth covered in greenery and flowers and the forest on both sides of the cobblestone road blooming. Oaks and pines, clusters of fir trees with strikingly bright red fleshy sanguineas sprouting on their roots, what people strangely called the snow flower.

The long –also red- legionnaires’ columns marching in three per row on the road and on either side of it. The supply train following already hours behind per usual, staying on the harder surface. Their singing covering the thudding of hobnailed boots just barely, thousands of them keeping up the marching rhythm with the colorful standards of each Cohort bobbing lively at every verse.

THE UNIT MARCHES MORNING-NOON AN’ REST O’ DAY!

“Well?” Lucius asked on top of Stormbolt, the loyal warhorse a gift from his father the day he was knighted, fifteen distant years in the past.

A WAY’S AWAY!

A WAYS AWAAY!

“That’s Anorum,” the old Tribune agreed giving the spyglass back to Gripa.

“We stop for the day and march early on the morrow, or risk another five kilometers of marching?” Lucius clarified his query. “I’m aware that’s Anorum Tribune.”

“Let’s hear Kaeso first,” Galio replied.

“Call for the First Cohort to open the pace,” Lucius ordered, looking at the sun coming out of the clouds above their heads. “Tell Gata, I’m giving him three hours to keep up with the horses. Else I’ll walk up to the gates myself Tribune.”

“I’ll notify the Primus Pilus,” Prefect Trupo said and turned his horse around. “Should I send for Long’s riders Praetor?” he added hesitating.

Lucius nodded his eyes on the open road and the walls of Anorum.

“Looks much bigger,” Galio commented.

“Everything is bigger henceforth Tribune,” Lucius retorted and turned to his aide that was scanning the terrain with the spyglass. “Is that a rider approaching mister Gripa?” He asked.

“It is milord,” Gripa replied monotonously. “A red cloth tied to the end of the javelin.”

Kaeso’s man sent ahead of the main group.

“The Centurion is monitoring their advance sir,” the legion ranger told them, hardened leather cuirass painted a darker red, the strap carrying his quiver black, alike his harness.

“They are advancing though,” Galio pointed out the worrying part.

“Rounded the walls of the city,” the young Northman continued. “They came from the Legion camp. Paused for a bit there and then marched on the road.”

“They stopped,” Gripa informed him still looking through the spyglass from atop his horse. Lucius glanced behind at the rows of legionnaires standing still. A sense of apprehension in the air since the order to stop was given, but not followed by an order to prepare for battle.

“Probably thinking the same thing we are. Sun is up, let it cake the ground a bit,” the old Tribune commented through his teeth. “Plenty of mud in the field. That ten meters of gravel on the road would be a highly coveted spot.”

“Numbers?” Lucius asked Gripa.

“Well over a thousand soldiers,” his aide replied. “Pretty fancy gear milord. Nicely polished helms.”

“Do you see Kaeso?”

“He’s keeping his distance,” Gripa replied. “They are waiting for cavalry you think milord?”

“The news have reached the city,” Lucius decided, shading his eyes from the sun. He could feel it strong on his helm, but Lucius knew this was a chilly late spring noon. The men though are probably boiling in their armours. Feet and backs on fire by now, he thought with a grimace.

“Three hours for the supply train to catch up to us,” Galio informed him.

“Decurion Long?” Lucius asked loudly to be heard over the noise of the many horses of his entourage.

“Over here Praetor,” the cavalry officer responded and Lucius turned on the saddle to spot him.

“Are your men decent Decurion?” Lucius asked.

“Everything above the saddle is clean sir,” Long replied, perhaps the better ‘reformed’ Northern officer in the legion.

“Keep those helms on Decurion,” Lucius said and returned his eyes on the road ahead of them afore adding. “You’re coming along.”

“Maximus, you shouldn’t lead a probe,” Galio grunted unhappy. “Long can do it, clean legs or not.”

“Good grief Tribune,” Lucius retorted, raising his hand. “How am I to talk to them then?”

“Milord?”

“Is that the cavalry I see approaching Kaeso’s lads, mister Gripa?” Lucius asked not replying.

“Aye Praetor,” Gripa replied and offered him the spyglass.

“Keep it,” Lucius replied and waved his arm. “Decurion, Tribune, Gripa with me. Trupo inform the Legatus he has command of the Legions, but he is ordered to stay put. Emphasize the latter Prefect. Tell Sula I don’t want a fight.”

“I shall sire,” Trupo replied with a nod and turned his horse around.

“Lead the way Decurion,” Lucius ordered Kent ‘Thin knees’ Long and the officer left to call on his riders to follow after them.

Five minutes later, now a hundred meters from the gathered group of rangers and legion cavalry, Lucius ordered Decurion Long to halt their large host so he could approach ahead of them.

“Praetor Lucius,” Galio rumpled with a scowl. “Is this wise?”

“Tribune Galio,” Lucius retorted with a tense smile, half hidden under his helm. “Do you see them poised for a fight?”

The large squares of legionnaires still stood half a kilometer from the walls of Anorum, about two hundred meters from the riders. Kaeso’s rangers and the Lorian medium cavalry that had approached them ahead of the infantry. Several legion officers in that group, a Prefect, two centurions and a Decurion Seniores, a rank not given in the field.

Lucius took a big breath as Stormbolt trotted leisurely to approach within a couple of meters from the waiting officers and Kaeso.

“Praetor,” Kaeso said, a direwolf’s hide over his armour. “This is Prefect Vibius Draco, commander of the Fourth Cohort and the Legion’s camp.”

The ‘training’ Cohort of Anorum.

“Praetor,” Draco, a well-put together officer said in a clear voice. “Would you state your intentions?”

“Do you know who I am Prefect?” Lucius asked in turn, staring him intently.

“Lord Lucius Alden,” the Lorian officer replied with a small hesitation, his eyes on the blacktiger heads adorning Lucius armour. The Prefect’s family ruling over Whitetiger Castle itself and the approach to Asturia. Lord Draco, Vibius father, was Lord Holt’s Shield and an old wartime friend of King Alistair.

“Then you know why I am here,” Lucius said evenly.

“The Fourth Cohort is tasked with protecting the camp and the city my Lord,” Draco replied with a small grimace of discomfort. “It shall do that.”

“The Fourth Cohort of Anorum,” Lucius said loud enough to be heard by everyone present, whilst looking each officer in the eyes. “Is an orphan. Behind me stands the Third Legion. After it the Fourth Legion follows. Now the Fourth is missing a Cohort Prefect as luck would have it. I see two roads here,” Lucius continued in a confident voice. “We either remedy this problem like an intelligent person would that is by putting the pieces neatly together, or…” he paused and set his jaw looking at the Prefect. “You know why I am here Draco,” Lucius continued all serious. “And you know I can’t turn back.”

“I should inform Lord Pryor,” Draco started, but Lucius waved him off impatiently.

“This is a Legion matter. Who leads the Legions Prefect? It’s in the book. I assume you know it by heart.”

“That would be the king, or the Lord Commander,” Draco yielded through his teeth.

“Obviously you don’t recognize the king being still here instead of Alden,” Lucius retorted. “The Lord Commander was killed and the new one is illegitimate, what does the book say then? Is the Army to wander leaderless alike a headless chicken?”

“Legatus Augustus assumes command,” the Prefect yielded.

Lucius stared meaningfully at the officer and Draco gulped down, glanced at the two sturdy Centurions, afore asking in a professional tone.

“A Legatus pro Praetore is present Centurion Gratian?”

“As far as I can tell sire,” Gratian replied casually.

“Centurion Vulas?” Draco probed to cross his t’s and dot the I’s.

“Clear as day Prefect,” Vulas agreed.

“Decurion Narses?” Prefect Draco was nothing if not thorough.

“Eh, damn it Draco,” Narses protested with a grimace, sweating under his helm. “What do you expect me to say? I ain’t blind.”

Draco breathed out and then turned on the saddle to face the waiting Lucius. The Praetor didn’t know in advance whether he would’ve succeeded in talking to them, but the fact they were there still in defiance to the King’s orders had reinforced his decision to use persuasion.

Outnumbering them heavily with two legions –Lucius had bloated the Fourth Legion’s small presence on purpose- also played its role of course.

“What are your orders Praetor?” Draco asked and Lucius sighed deeply, guard-cheeks drenched in sweat and burning his face, afore he replied quickly.

“Get us out of the cursed heat Prefect, or we’ll start losing men even without fighting.”

Lucius had forgotten how a proper sunny noon felt in Regia.

Lucius watched from the large open window of the Lord Commander’s office as Signifer ‘big’ Brim Solomon, black beard sprouting down his legion’s helm brought Panthera Tigris on the elevated podium-like stone stand in the middle of the square camp and slotted it there.

The detail of legionnaires from the III Legio banging swords on their shields to drive off evil spirits and notify the gods of the unit’s arrival. Lucius turned around, the large office coming with a conference table, maps and the Commander’s sturdy cedar-wood office lacquered a dark brown, to face the men that had followed him into the Castrum.

Prefect Draco was waiting his signal forcing the officers to stand unsure behind him and Lucius obliged him pointing at the conference table and solving the bottleneck at the door. Trupo closed it behind him being the last to enter.

“Sit down Mister Draco, everyone,” he ordered and found the seat at the top of the table to rest his back himself. “Is Legatus Sula coming?”

“The Fourth is standing outside the camp Praetor,” Galio reported and glared at Gripa talking with the headquarters’ aides at the other side of the large room. More a meeting hall than an office really. Lord Holt had refurbished it when he served as the Legion’s commander more than a decade ago. “He’ll be here shortly,” the veteran Tribune had added. Galio was well into his fourth decade already, in what was his third ‘unofficial’ commission with the Legion. Lucius wasn’t sure if the experienced officer could go the full twenty years, but he wasn’t about to bring the matter up.

So the matter was left vague between them.

“Lord Pryor?” Lucius asked Draco.

“We found his wife my lord Praetor,” the Prefect replied. “The Baron had been called to inspect the sewers. He’ll be here shortly as well.”

Ruinal went through Anorum with a diverting premade stone canal, but the rainy seasons after winter tended to double the narrow but long running river in size and flood its crests.

“Any damages?” he asked evenly turning his eyes on the old but detailed military maps adorning the walls.

“Cabbage merchants took a hit in the nearby market,” Draco replied nonchalantly but to the point and with examples. “Some fish went back in the river and unless the mud is cleared off the streets we’ll grow potatoes there this summer.”

Trupo drowned a chortle, his mustache dancing comically on his upper lip, much more prominent than his beard.

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” Lucius commented. “I want you joining the Third Legion’s staff Prefect.”

“Praetor, I’m a commissioned officer,” Draco replied unsure. “Tasked with leading the camp and train units.”

“This is your seventh year,” Lucius replied reading the roster parchment nailed on a blackboard, next to a detailed architectural drawing of the Legion’s camp and the position of its buildings. “You are to be reassigned to the third legion Prefect. Congratulations, it is a promotion.”

Draco nodded and glanced at the solemn face of Galio Veturius sitting across from him. The old man’s stare cautionary.

“Who will… take over training?” Draco asked with a grimace.

“Gratian I want with the Fourth Legion,” Lucius replied having thought about it on the way to the camp. “So that would be Vulas. I have enough loud mouths in the unit.”

“His father is a farmer out of Islandport,” Draco protested.

“He’ll be proud, I’m sure,” Lucius responded with the hint of a smile. “Ah, Sula,” he said seeing the Legatus of the Fourth Legion coming through the door. The soldier that had opened it made to announce the Legatus, but Sula stopped him with an abrupt wave of his arm.

“Close the door lad. They are expecting me,” Sula ordered the guard. “Praetor,” Sula saluted once turning around and added, “Gents. Quite the gathering,” afore removing his helm and following Lucius nod found the empty seat at the opposite side to sit down.

“Sula it appears you’ve found your missing Cohort,” Lucius started without delay. “Centurion Gratian will lead it, but you’ll use the additional men how you see fit. I advise strengthening your First Cohort.”

“How many men Praetor Maximus?” Sula asked narrowing his eyes. He looked tired, or worried. Perhaps it’s both.

“A thousand and two hundred,” Draco replied. “Plus three hundred of newer recruits I started training when the first bunch didn’t rotate… after the king’s death.”

That is enough training, Lucius thought.

Lucius smacked his lips. “Sula you’ll get the Fourth Cohort of Anorum into the Fourth Legion,” he said with finality. “The rest of the recruits I need to replenish the Third and forward the plan.”

“As you command Praetor,” Sula replied with a nod. “Am I to move towards Picker’s River?”

Lucius sighed at his persistence, but he was also right. The Fourth needed him back.

“Indeed. Keep me posted Legatus and don’t start a war, if I wouldn’t,” Lucius told him and Sula sprung to his feet keenly. “I bid Luthos guides you in the pending struggles,” he added soberly knowing no plan could account for every peril, or shield one from danger.

“And you Praetor,” Sula replied in the same vein and bowed his head once. “I’ll strive to bring the Legion home as soon as possible.”

An hour later all officers had left the headquarters. Lord Pryor had agreed to a meeting in his court, with his wife Lady Anne wanting to be present as well. He had also released the Herald Hostus Clarus, which meant a bird was already flying for Asturia. More than one and to multiple recipients. One for Lord Holt and his entourage, another for his Heir Lord Rupert. One for the Duchy’s Steward Bernard, another to Regia and his brother’s court.

“Decanus Kato’s Maniple plus a hundred legionnaires from Anorum, Kaeso’s Rangers and Optio Durio’s Engineers with a thousand labor force are ready to march towards Top Peak and then down Uher’s Passage milord,” Galio informed him. The supply train had arrived, a lot of moving parts needed to be placed into position as time was of the essence. Pick the right terrain, or shape it if it isn’t in your favor, he thought. “Sula has already left. If he marches them at this tempo lots of men won’t make it to Picker’s River,” the Tribune finished.

“He’ll use the road,” Lucius replied thoughtfully. “Van Calcar fears an attack is coming.”

Galio stood back on his chair alarmed. “From us?”

“Nay, but he wants to use the Legion as a deterrent. Whatever grievances the Lakelords have, this is ripe opportunity to act on them.”

“What grievances? Over that girl…?” Galio argued.

“The Nords lost a battle over a woman’s death Galio, but here it’s an excuse to take advantage of the absence of a king.”

“Does Sula know that?”

“He doesn’t,” he very much suspects it probably. Lucius replied and pushed an inkpot towards Pascor’s borders. “Lord Holt would never agree to a deal with Lord Van Calcar, so the details were kept on a need to know basis. Sula will learn about it in time and ask for clarification.”

“Would milord agree to a deal with the Lakerlord?”

Thus angering Lord Holt was his meaning.

“Not at this point, but events might take the decision off my hands. Lord Holt understands you can’t force a commander in the field to act how you want at all times. Sometimes you have to allow him the wiggle room to do what’s right for the men under his command and even salvage the army. Holt has a soft spot for the legion.”

“Would his sons see it thus?”

“It’s Lord Holt’s decision. Your words Tribune,” Lucius reminded him.

“Even so you’ll need something to keep the old man happy. Family is important as well milord,” Galio noted with a frown. “He can be stubborn and difficult to agree on changes. Anorum is already too big an ask milord.”

“Lord Pryor might refuse us,” Lucius pointed out and the Tribune snorted.

“Even his guards have connections to the Legion milord. Why keep Draco?” Galio asked.

“To show his father I remember him,” Lucius replied. “Plus we were missing a Prefect. Trupo can’t just do everything.”

“He has a dozen aides, milord,” Galio griped. “That’s a lot of scribes.”

“I’m aware Tribune,” Lucius retorted. “Didn’t you assure me the man is reformed?”

Galio sighed.

“I was trying to help him,” he admitted. “He’s still a wayward cunt from Flauegran. They think they are cleverer than everyone else, but I’ve seen worrying signs. If he asks for a leave of absence, we should lock him up.”

Good grief.

“Is this because of the mustache? Don’t tell me that works on the ladies,” Lucius smiled looking at his crumpled shaven face. “We can’t be sticklers with the minutiae in such a long campaign Galio. If it’s any consolation Draco is and Trupo with all his ‘faults’ is really a by the book officer.”

Galio grunted. “What will you offer Lord Holt? I assume you want to keep his family on our side.”

Lucius looked at the map of Regia’s northern borders, from Sabertooth in Alden Gulf to Anorum up to Ruinal’s sources and the unpassable Beast’s Mouth Forest.

“Canlita Sea. Its south coast,” he finally replied, what it had taken him all winter to decide. “Aldenfort,” Lucius added seeing the elder Veturius’ expression.

The Tribune thought it was too much, but Lucius instinct was telling him it might not be enough.

“Your father will turn in his grave. It was your sister’s dowry for the Prince,” the officer noted guardedly. “And he rather liked the old Lord more than Antoon.”

“My father had the rest of the kingdom backing him,” Lucius said simply. “I don’t.”

On the first month of summer, the year of the New Calendar 192, Praetor Maximus Lucius Alden shockingly –as the reports had him coming down from Eaglesnest- arrived at the old Lorian Legion’s camp and the nearby city of Anorum. The easternmost city and region of Regia. Also one of the Northernmost. He’d come down the Howling Pass with the Third Legion, Legatus Sula’s still rebuilding Fourth already camping hundreds of kilometers away and in another Duchy and Kingdom near Calcar’s Hunting Forest.

Lucius secured Lord Pryor’s of Anorum support in his cause, but he yet to meet with Lord Holt as the latter was busy preparing for King’s Jeremy’s reaction and wasn’t in Asturia. A force was sent down Uher’s Passage, the engineers repairing the small road there and working on a plan to widen it. The passage hugged the Hammer Mounts cutting through dense forest all the way to Shaft Peak and the unpassable River Groin, where two of the mighty Framtond’s tributaries joined into a single river again. Optio Durio had strict orders to find a way to build a bridge across there.

Whatever the cost.

It wasn’t a new plan, as the skillful engineer had old plans prepared that had marked this spot as a target for the distant new Legion road coming from Cartagen. The valley between Framtond’s legs perhaps the most fertile land in all of Regia.

Sula marched hard north, from Northpaw Forest to Wolf’s Spine Mountain’s base and then the imposing Pikerwoods named after the ancient explorer. Half a day before the bridge a force send from Bisonville, the large town had access to Pascor through the river, intercepted his two Cohorts.

In less than a month, or thereabouts, all of Jelin knew Lucius had returned.

Lord Sirio Veturius

The Fall of Heroes

Chapter II

(Lord Lucius Alden,

-also addressed-

Legatus Augustus, Praetor Maximus

Southern campaigns,

Third & Fourth Year

Volume VII-VIII-IX

Section subtitle

Tigers at the River Groin

-Lost Cohort of Anorum-

VIII starting with ‘The Maiden’s War’ and the prelude to the ‘Mayhem at Serene River’.

IX following with the long battle at ‘Storm’s Rest’ that kick-started the ‘Eighteen Months’.

Spring 192 to Winter 192-193 NC)