"01 - The Cutting Edge 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

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The standard was a pig of a thing, almost too heavy for Ylo's spent muscles to
manage, but it was life. As long as he clung to that pole, the whole Imperial
Army was going to fight to the death to defend him. He clung.
Battle screamed around him and he ignored it, concentrating on holding the
standard vertical and avoiding being knocked down by his own countrymen in the
scrimmage.
He had saved a standard. He might be going to survive this. This wasn't the XXth
Legion, though. He glanced up and registered that he had just transferred to the
XIIth.
The XIIth! One of the crack outfits!
A man who saved a standard won the right to bear it till his dying day-assuming
that day was not this day. No more filthy ditch-digging . . . no more
mind-destroying weapons drill.
He was a signifer, a standard-bearer. Attaboy, Ylo!
Signifers wore wolfskin capes over their armor, with a hood made from the wolf's
head. Barbaric? Romantic! He could guess how girls would react to that. Women
would be free again. Signifers had the nearest thing to a soft job the army ever
offered. Even those twenty-three years might not seem too bad as a signifer-not
much danger, and lots of respect. Perks! Yea, Ylo!
Then he took another look. This was no mean run-of-the-mill standard he'd
rescued, emblem of maniple or cohort. At its top was the Imperial star and below
that the lion symbol of the XIIth. Red bunting floated from the crosspiece, and
the rest of the shaft was laden with battle honors in silver and bronze. This
was the legionary standard itself.
Signifer for the XIIth Legion? Hey, Ylo!
You are going to eat meat again, Ylo!
The war had gone away. Order was being restored. Bugles were sounding in the
distance.
Suddenly officers were beckoning, and he led where they pointed. They followed
him to the crest of a small hillock, the only high ground in sight. A voice
beside him barked, "Pitch camp!" and his shredded wits were just operational
enough to realize that it was addressing him. He swung the standard in the
proper signal, barely registering protests from his battered muscles. Distant
bugles picked up the call.
Signifer!
And of course the speaker had been the legate himself, with a green-crested
helmet and gold-inlaid breastplate. Of course. Where else would the legate be
but beside the standard? Legates were not supposed to have blood on their
swords, but this one did. He was dirty and sweaty, and his dark eyes blazed
below the brim of his helmet as he appraised Ylo. He held a canteen in his left
hand.
"Well done, soldier! I saw."
Ylo muttered, "Sir!" but his mind was on that canteen. With the bottle almost at
his lips, the legate paused, and his mouth showed that he was frowning. "What
outfit?"
Ylo had lost his shield; his mail shirt was totally coated in mud and blood,
although none of that seemed to be his. He was anonymous. "The XXth, sir."
"God of Battles!" the legate said. "All night? Here, you need this more than I
do." And he handed over the canteen. That was Ylo's first inkling.