The next morning, Mortarion walked out of the city without guards, attendants or Anaxion.
He moved alone across the dew-drenched plains, searching for a suitable place to call forth the legion.
Mortarion had spent most of the night debating which legion would best suit his cause.
The Quodux and Artemis Legions had been the final two he considered.
Both would contribute greatly to what Mortarion had in store, and both had served the Aurellian Empire with distinction in his previous life.
Upon the open plain, Mortarion grasped the medallion in his hand and extended it away from his body.
“Come forth, the Artemis Legion.
May the men of the First serve me once again.”
The sky began to darken, and the ground shivered beneath a rising wind.
Rain started to fall from the heavens as though the world itself had drawn a sharp breath.
Then the underworld’s door opened.
A black portal split the air before him, and from within came the beat of drums.
Trumpets followed, rising above the rhythm in long, clear notes that seemed to call across worlds.
Mortarion stood still and watched.
The portal widened slowly, its edges rippling like torn cloth caught in a storm.
Darkness churned within it, but the music grew clearer with every passing second.
Drums kept the marching pace.
Trumpets answered.
Then came another sound, one that made Mortarion’s grip tighten around the medallion.
Voices.
Men were singing.
It was not a joyful song.
It was a marching song, simple and stern, the sort sung by soldiers who knew that war would never end and had accepted that truth long ago.
The words emerged from the portal in deep, steady unison.
“Steel in the dawn and death in the rain,
We march for the banner through glory and pain.
First to the breach and last from the field,
Artemis guide us, we never shall yield.”
Mortarion closed his hand around the medallion as the first figures appeared.
They marched from the black portal in perfect order, their boots striking the wet earth in time with the drums.
Dark steel armour covered them from shoulder to shin, the metal blackened rather than bright, with green cloth hanging from beneath plate and mail.
Long dark-green cloaks flowed behind them, heavy with rain.
Leather belts crossed their chests, and their armour carried the same disciplined, war-forged practicality Mortarion remembered.
These were not parade soldiers or noble retainers dressed for admiration.
They were legionaries, shaped for campaign and battle.
The first ranks were infantry.
Six companies, one after another, marched from the portal carrying long shields and disciplined expressions.
Each company numbered five hundred men, and each moved with the precision Mortarion expected from the First Legion.
Spears, swords and dark shields formed a vast black-and-green wall as they took their place upon the plain.
Behind them came the archers.
Three companies in total, each five hundred strong, emerged with bows unstrung across their backs, quivers full and sidearms secured at their waists.
Their armour was slightly lighter, though still dark steel trimmed with green.
They marched in the same unbroken cadence as the infantry, neither hurried nor loose.
Then came the cavalry.
Two companies of mounted soldiers rode out last, each numbering five hundred.
Their horses were lean, disciplined beasts, dark-coated and well accustomed to armour, noise and war.
The riders wore the same blackened steel and green cloaks as the infantry, though their movement carried the sharper edge of men accustomed to speed and flanking blows.
By the time the last rider emerged, the plain before Mortarion had filled with five thousand five hundred soldiers.
The portal remained open behind them for several moments more, long enough for the final echoes of the drums and song to fade into the morning air.
Then, without warning, it collapsed inward.
The black wound in the world sealed itself, leaving behind only the rain, the field and the assembled legion.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the legion moved as one.
Five thousand five hundred soldiers struck their fists against their chests.
The sound rolled across the plain in one heavy beat.
A mounted figure at the head of the cavalry dismounted and strode forward.
He was a tall man, broad through the shoulders, with a weathered face and dark hair that had begun to grey at the temples.
A short trimmed beard framed a mouth set into a natural line of stern restraint.
His armour was finer than that of the men behind him, though not extravagantly so.
It remained practical, the steel blackened like the rest, its edges lined with dark green.
A heavy cloak hung from his shoulders, and at his hip rested a longsword worn by long years of service rather than ceremony.
He stopped before Mortarion and dropped to one knee.
“High Marshal,” the man said.
Mortarion studied him for a long moment before replying.
“Rise, Corvus Harkonen.”
Commander Corvus Harkonen lifted his head.
There was recognition in his eyes, but also the faintest trace of confusion, as though part of him understood that something had changed while another part refused to dwell on it.
Mortarion expected that.
The envoy had said their memories would remain, though their old world would not.
Corvus rose to his feet.
“It is good to stand before you again, my lord,” he said.
“The First Legion answers your call.”
Mortarion allowed himself a faint nod.
“You remain its commander?”
“I do.
Unless you have chosen to replace me.”
“If I wished you replaced, you would not be standing here.”
That earned the slightest hint of approval from Corvus.
The commander glanced over his shoulder at the waiting ranks.
“The legion came through in full strength.
Eleven companies, five hundred men in each.
Six companies of infantry, three of archers, and two of cavalry.
Officers, quartermasters, surgeons and armourers are all present as well.”
Mortarion looked over the assembled soldiers.
“They know enough, though not everything.” Corvus paused briefly before continuing.
“They remember serving you.
They remember the campaigns and battles of the legion.
However, when they try to place older memories, the details become uncertain.
Places exist in the mind, but not clearly.
It feels as though we have marched a long road through fog.”
Mortarion found that answer unsurprising.
“And does that trouble you?”
Corvus was silent for a moment before answering.
“It troubles some more than others.
Yet the men are soldiers first.
They know their commander, they know their legion, and they know their duty.
That is enough for now.”
It was a sensible answer, one Mortarion would have expected from the commander of the First.
Corvus Harkonen had not become legion commander through noble birth or favour.
He had earned it through steadiness, competence and a gift for command that did not rely on theatrics.
Mortarion remembered him as a man who rarely spoke more than necessary, though when he did, his words tended to matter.
He had been one of the finest commanders beneath Mortarion’s banner.
Mortarion looked past Corvus to the infantry companies standing in ordered lines.
Rain ran over blackened armour and green cloth, yet not a single formation wavered.
These were men shaped by long service, not newly raised recruits or purchased soldiers still learning the price of discipline.
The Unsullied were unbreakable in their way, but they were uniform by design.
The Artemis Legion was something different.
Each company possessed an identity.
Officers were remembered by name.
Men understood the soldiers to their left and right because they had marched and bled beside them.
Their coordination came not only from training, but from history.
The First Legion had always excelled because it could adapt.
It did not rely on a single style of warfare.
It could hold like a shield wall, strike like a professional field army and move like a campaign force that had crossed hostile kingdoms without losing its structure.
That was why Mortarion had chosen it.
The Disputed Lands needed more than one quality.
He turned his attention back to Corvus.
“You called me High Marshal.”
Corvus straightened.
“You are not?”
“Not in this world.”
That answer caused the first visible reaction from the commander.
“This world?”
Mortarion did not immediately reply.
He instead stepped closer and lowered his voice, though the rain and distance already kept them private.
“You and your men have been brought somewhere new.
You will receive the full truth in time, but for now, understand only what is necessary.
I command a growing realm in lands known as the Disputed Lands.
I have established House Baraeris, claimed three settlements and won my first battle against a Tyroshi host.”
Corvus listened without interruption.
“The realm is young,” Mortarion continued.
“The army I already possess is strong, but limited in diversity.
I required experienced soldiers I could trust.
That is why you are here.”
Corvus absorbed the explanation with the same stillness he brought to battle briefings.
“And your title now?” he asked.
“Lord Mortarion Baraeris.
Lord of Daetosh and Freerider Gate, Protector of Corsair’s Bay.”
The commander inclined his head.
“Then that is how I will address you.” He considered the new name only briefly before asking the question that mattered most to a soldier.
“Are we at war?”
Mortarion almost smiled.
It was exactly the response he expected.
“Yes,” he said.
“And we will remain so for the foreseeable future.”
That answer seemed to settle whatever unease remained in Corvus.
War, at least, was familiar ground.
“The legion is ready, my lord.”
Mortarion looked again over the companies.
“Have the men form by type.
Infantry in the centre, archers to the rear, cavalry on the wings.”
Corvus turned and began issuing orders at once.
His voice carried across the plain, sharp and controlled.
The legion responded instantly.
The six infantry companies shifted with seamless precision, their blackened armour moving like a dark tide across the wet field.
The three archer companies formed behind them, each line clean and even.
The two cavalry companies split and took position on either flank, their horses adjusting without panic despite the scent of portal magic still lingering in the air.
Mortarion watched the reorganisation carefully.
The First Legion still moved as it always had.
No hesitation, no uncertainty, no wasted motion.
Its discipline had survived death, whatever false memories had been laid upon it and even the crossing between worlds.
When the formation was complete, Corvus returned.
“The legion awaits your orders.”
Mortarion looked across the wide field once more.
“They will not remain here long.
There is a town a few hours east called Daetosh.
The men will march there in good order.”
Corvus glanced towards the horizon.
“What resistance should be expected?”
“None on the road if fortune holds.
The greater questions will come when the legion enters my realm, and the men see a dragon.”
Corvus’s face remained still, though one brow shifted slightly.
“A dragon.”
“Yes.”
“A real one?”
“I do not know what would qualify as an unreal dragon, Commander.”
Corvus actually allowed himself the faintest trace of dry amusement.
“Then I look forward to seeing it.”
“Do not look forward too eagerly.
He is called Anaxion, and he is not a creature for fools.”
That sobered the commander again.
Mortarion began walking along the front of the assembled infantry, and Corvus followed half a step behind.
“These men will not serve as replacements for the Unsullied,” Mortarion said.
“They will supplement them.
My current army is disciplined, but overly narrow in its structure.
The First Legion brings variety.
Your archers will be valuable, and your cavalry more so.
We currently lack both in strong numbers.”
Corvus nodded.
“Then the legion fills the holes in your line.”
“It does more than that.
It brings men who understand initiative.
The Unsullied obey perfectly, but they are a weapon designed by others.
Your soldiers were shaped through campaigns.
They can think.”
Corvus accepted the compliment without vanity.
“If you have another army already in the field, how will the legion fit within its command?”
“You answer to me directly.
Coordination with the Unsullied will be necessary, but there will be no confusion over command.
Their commander is Blue Bat.
He is competent and disciplined.
You will respect him.”
“And he will respect us?”
“If he values victory, he will.”
Mortarion stopped and turned towards the entire legion.
Rain still fell, though lighter now.
It misted across the black steel and green cloth, giving the assembled force a darker, almost spectral quality.
They looked less like newly arrived men and more like soldiers who had risen from some old battlefield to take their place beneath his command again.
He raised his voice.
“Men of the First Legion.
You have answered my call once more, and for that I give you my word that you have not been brought here to wither in idleness.
This is a new world, but it remains a world shaped by war, ambition and weak men who believe strength belongs only to those born into power.”
The soldiers stood silent, listening.
“I have claimed a beginning here.
A house.
A realm.
A name that will be remembered.
Yet it stands upon uncertain ground, surrounded by enemies and watched by powers that would rather see it strangled in infancy.”
Mortarion let the words settle.
“I did not summon you merely to add numbers to my banners.
I summoned you because the First Legion has always been more than numbers.
You are discipline, adaptability and resolve.
You are soldiers who have marched through kingdoms and left them broken behind you.”
Several veterans in the front ranks lifted their chins slightly.
“In this world, you serve House Baraeris.
You serve under my command as you once did before.
Those who stand against us will learn your name.
Those who fight beside you will learn your worth.”
He drew Dreaded Deliverance and pointed it towards the west.
“March with me again, and together we will carve something new from these lands.”
For the first time since their arrival, the legion answered not with silence, but with its voice.
The song began again, this time fuller, stronger, carried by five thousand five hundred throats across the rain-swept plain.
“Steel in the dawn and death in the rain,
We march for the banner through glory and pain.
First to the breach and last from the field,
Artemis guide us, we never shall yield.”
The sound rolled over the wet grass and out towards the distant walls of the city.
Mortarion listened in silence.
He had summoned soldiers before.
He had called armies to campaign and marched with legions so numerous that the earth shook beneath their advance.
Yet hearing that old rhythm again, in a world that should never have known it, stirred something colder and deeper than simple satisfaction.
A part of his old life had returned.
Not the empire.
Not the banners.
But the men.
Corvus Harkonen stepped beside him once more as the song faded.
“The legion is ready to march, my lord.”
Mortarion looked east, towards Daetosh, Narra, Freerider Gate and the small realm now waiting to absorb five thousand five hundred new soldiers into its ranks.
“Then we march,” he said.
And beneath the blackened steel and dark green, the First Legion began moving towards its new war.