The figure approached Mortarion, its skeletal hand resting at its side while the shadows of the chamber seemed to move with it.
“I come as Death’s envoy,” the figure said.
Its voice was cold, each word leaving its mouth like winter air.
“He is pleased with what you have accomplished.
You have established a house, claimed the beginnings of a realm and won your first battle.
For your first few months in this world, you have been busy.”
Mortarion looked at the figure with open annoyance.
His hand remained around the hilt of Dreaded Deliverance, ready to draw the Valyrian steel blade if the envoy moved against him.
“So you have travelled from the underworld to do what?” Mortarion asked.
“Praise me?
I have no need for it.”
The figure cackled.
The sound was dry and unpleasant, resembling bones grinding together beneath the earth.
“You dare believe our lord sent me merely to praise you?
How insolent.
Death has decided to reward you for the progress you have made.”
Mortarion paused, uncertain whether the creature before him could be trusted.
It claimed to serve Death, but that alone did not mean its intentions were harmless.
He had learned long ago that servants frequently pursued their own desires beneath the names of greater masters.
“What kind of reward?” Mortarion asked.
“Why would I be rewarded for such menial accomplishments?”
“You are being rewarded so that you remain upon the proper course,” the envoy replied.
“Death’s mission must be followed.
Consider this an incentive.
Continue making progress and Death may reward you again.
Deviate from the path, however, and he will make you suffer.”
Mortarion studied the figure’s concealed face.
Beneath its hood, two hollow eyes stared back at him, surrounded by an aura cold enough to make the lamp flame bend away.
Its expression offered no sign of whether the threat was exaggerated.
“What kind of suffering?”
The figure burst into laughter.
“No words could properly describe the pain awaiting you for disobedience.
Allow me to assure you personally that abandoning your mission, or contributing to the greater slaughter you were sent here to prevent, will see you plucked from this world more quickly than you were brought into it.”
The envoy leaned slightly closer.
“Death did not return you to life because he desired another conqueror who would drown kingdoms in blood.
He required someone who could act according to his will.”
Mortarion did not look away.
He recognised no lie in the figure’s words.
Death had given him a purpose, and every gift granted since his arrival could presumably be taken away just as easily.
Anaxion, the Unsullied, his weapons and the territory he had claimed might all disappear if Death judged him to have betrayed the mission.
Death might take far more than that.
“Fair enough,” Mortarion said.
“Then what is my reward?”
The envoy extended one skeletal hand.
A wooden medallion rested upon its palm.
The object appeared ordinary at first glance, carved from dark, aged timber and worn around its edge.
At its centre was the coat of arms of the Aurellian Empire: a wreath encircling a human skull.
Mortarion’s violet eyes flashed at the sight.
The symbol belonged to another life.
It had flown above armies, fortresses and cities conquered in the empire’s name.
He had seen it carved into armour, stamped upon orders and carried upon the standards of soldiers who had followed him into places from which few expected to return.
“You may call forth one of your former legions to follow you again in this life.
Their personalities will remain, as will their physical appearances and abilities.”
Mortarion stared at the medallion.
“What of their memories?”
“They will remember the battles and campaigns they fought beneath your command,” the figure explained.
“However, the world from which those memories came will be erased.
They will believe those battles took place somewhere within this world, in distant lands whose names and locations they can no longer recall.”
The envoy curled its fingers slightly around the token.
“They will remember you.
They will remember their officers, their comrades and the discipline that bound them together.
They will remember victories, defeats and the blood they shed.
They will not remember the Aurellian Empire as it truly existed.”
Mortarion, who rarely smiled, allowed the faintest expression of satisfaction to cross his face.
He would command his soldiers again.
These were not men purchased from Astapor or created with empty memories of training.
They were battle-hardened warriors who had marched beneath his banners for years.
They had bled for Mortarion, followed him through impossible campaigns and learned to recognise his intentions before orders were fully spoken.
Their skill had been without equal in his former world.
Their coordination could rival that of the Unsullied, though it had been built through shared experience rather than the destruction of individuality.
Each legion possessed its own traditions, officers and particular strengths.
A single legion would significantly strengthen Mortarion’s position within the Disputed Lands.
More importantly, it would return part of his former army to him.
“Is this true?” Mortarion asked.
“I may choose one of my legions and command it again?”
The figure appeared irritated.
“Did I stutter?”
Mortarion did not appreciate the envoy’s attitude, though he decided against commenting.
Antagonising a servant of Death over wounded pride would achieve nothing.
He had been given a choice that required careful consideration.
More than twenty legions had served beneath his command during his previous life.
Each contained warriors shaped for war, men whose service to the empire had earned honours, land and wealth beyond what ordinary soldiers could hope to possess.
Not all legions were equal.
Some specialised in sieges.
Others excelled in rapid advances, mountain warfare or fighting across broken ground.
A few had suffered too heavily during later campaigns to remain as formidable as they had once been.
Three possibilities immediately rose above the others.
The first was the Seventh Legion, known as the Basilisk Legion.
It had been the first legion Mortarion commanded personally, the force from which he had risen to become High Marshal.
Its soldiers had fought beside him before his name inspired fear across the empire, when every victory still had to be earned through blood and calculation.
The legion had taken its title from the fell beast known as the Basilisk.
Its name honoured the Seventh’s defensive resilience after it withstood an enemy army five times its own size.
For days, the soldiers had held a narrow valley against repeated assaults, surrendering ground only when ordered and retaking each lost position before the enemy could strengthen it.
By the end, the field had been covered so thickly with corpses that the surviving enemy commanders refused to launch another attack.
The Seventh Legion had become famous for remaining unbroken beneath impossible pressure.
Summoning it would provide Mortarion with experienced heavy infantry capable of holding fortifications and defending his growing territory.
Its soldiers would understand him better than almost any others, having served beneath him during the earliest years of his command.
The second possibility was the First Legion, known as the Artemis Legion.
It was one of the oldest and most honoured military formations in the Aurellian Empire.
Its name came from Artemis, the legendary commander who had led it from its creation and transformed it into the standard by which every later legion was judged.
The Artemis Legion possessed a balance few others could match.
Its infantry was disciplined, its officers experienced, and its supporting units capable of adapting to almost any battlefield.
It had fought in deserts, forests, cities and open plains without losing its identity or effectiveness.
It was versatility.
The final choice was the Fifteenth Legion, the Quodux Legion.
Its name came from the borderland where the legion had first been raised.
Quodux had once been a hostile frontier, filled with fortified towns and warriors who offered fierce resistance to the empire’s expansion.
The Fifteenth had played the decisive role in breaking that kingdom.
Its soldiers specialised in aggressive campaigning across contested territory.
They knew how to seize roads, isolate fortresses and turn temporary occupations into lasting control.
Engineers and scouts travelled within its ranks, allowing the legion to advance without relying entirely upon established supply lines.
The Quodux Legion had been created upon a border.
The Disputed Lands were little more than a border claimed by three rival powers.
Mortarion looked down at the medallion still resting in the envoy’s hand.
Every choice offered something valuable.
The Basilisk Legion would strengthen his defences and return the soldiers who had known him longest.
The Artemis Legion would provide flexibility and experienced officers capable of addressing weaknesses within his current army.
The Quodux Legion had the skills most directly suited to expanding and securing a realm surrounded by hostile territory.
“How do I summon the legion?” Mortarion asked.
The envoy extended the token and placed it into Mortarion’s hand.
The wooden medallion felt unnaturally cold.
For a moment, Mortarion heard distant sounds through it: thousands of boots striking earth, armour shifting in formation and legionary standards snapping above marching soldiers.
“Use it as you did the token that summoned the Unsullied,” the figure said.
“Hold the medallion and speak the name of the legion you wish to call to your side.”
“Where will they appear?”
“Close enough that you will find them.”
“That answer is deliberately useless.”
“It is the only answer you will receive.”
Mortarion tightened his hand around the token.
“How many soldiers will return?
The legions were not all equal in strength when I last commanded them.”
“They will return as they were at the height of their service beneath you.
Their officers, equipment and supporting personnel will accompany them.”
The answer made the decision even more significant.
Mortarion had other questions.
He wanted to know whether the soldiers would recognise the strange lands around them, what language they would speak and how their memories would adjust when confronted by the contradictions of this world.
Before he could ask, the envoy began fading.
Black mist rose from the edges of its cloak, spreading across its skeletal hand and concealed face.
The darkness surrounding it pulled inward as though the room itself were reclaiming the figure.
“Wait,” Mortarion ordered.
The envoy continued disappearing.
“Do not disobey Death,” it whispered.
“If you stray from the mission, he will drag you back into the abyss.”
The last of the shadow dissolved.
The cold left with it.
Mortarion remained standing within the damaged chamber, Dreaded Deliverance still partly drawn and the wooden medallion clenched in his other hand.
The lamp flame slowly straightened.
Silence returned.
The envoy had left as abruptly as it arrived, giving Mortarion the means to summon thousands of his former soldiers without allowing him to question the consequences fully.
He opened his hand and studied the imperial symbol.
The skull within the wreath stared back at him.
Mortarion now possessed the power to return one of his finest legions to his command.
He could strengthen his realm, replace part of the army lost at Narra and bring experienced soldiers into a world that had never faced their style of warfare.
Yet the choice could be made only once.
For the first time since awakening within this world, Mortarion held a piece of the Aurellian Empire in his hand.
Before he summoned anyone, he would decide which legion this new realm needed most.