Chapter 47: The First Legion
Vark stood in front of thirty-four soldiers and felt the weight of a number that wasn’t there.
Five hundred.
The training yard behind the Chapel had been expanded twice since the settlement’s founding — packed earth, drainage channels to keep the swamp from reclaiming it, wooden targets for spear work. It was built for thirty men. It needed to hold ten times that, and the men who would fill it didn’t exist yet.
"Show me what you have," he said.
What he had: twelve Lizardmen — veteran enforcers, the original core, the ones who’d been here before there was a wall or a name for this place. Eight Humans — converts from the refugee waves, mixed quality, some former soldiers and some former farmers who held a spear like it owed them money. Six Gnolls — fast, aggressive, undisciplined in formation but lethal in small groups. Four Kobolds — small, quick, useless in a shield line but dangerous in confined spaces. Three Goblins who’d been assigned to the enforcers because nobody knew where else to put them. And Dorin, the sergeant, who was the only person in the yard who understood what a proper army actually looked like.
"It’s not enough," Vark said to Krug afterward, in the command post. The clay tablet with the Voice’s blueprint sat between them like a map to somewhere they couldn’t see. "Infantry, scouts, archers, sappers, cavalry. Five divisions. I can barely staff one."
"You’re not building it today," Krug said. "You’re building the frame. The people will come."
"And if they don’t?"
Krug looked at him with the steady patience of a Lizardman who’d carried a god’s whisper across a swamp on faith alone. "They came for me. They came for Harsk. They came for Dorin and the Sylvari and every other godless wanderer who showed up at our gate because the alternatives were starvation or nothing. They’ll come. Our job is to be ready when they do."
Vark picked up the tablet. Five divisions. He started with the one he understood: infantry. The Ironscale Infantry. Named for the Lizardmen who’d be its spine — the scales they were born with and the stonesteel they’d fight in.
Dorin became his first squad leader by end of day. Not because he was the best fighter — three of the Lizardmen could take him in close quarters. Because he understood rotation. How to cycle fresh soldiers into a line without breaking formation. How to hold ground without advancing or retreating. The boring mechanics that kept armies alive when the fighting got ugly.
Thaelen handled the archers. The Greenbow Archers — named by Krug, who had a poet’s instinct for words that sounded better than they had any right to. Four Sylvari core, three Human converts with natural draw strength, two Goblins on crossbows. Nine total. Nine against a target of eighty.
"We start with nine," Thaelen said when Vark questioned the math. "We train them properly. When the next group arrives, nine becomes eighteen. Then thirty-six. Competence multiplies faster than headcount if the foundation is sound."
The Shadowfang Scouts were easiest. Runt already ran them — he’d been running intelligence operations since before anyone called it that. Four Gnolls and two Kobolds who could move through swamp terrain without leaving tracks, who could track a deer through rain or follow a patrol route until they’d memorized its timing. Runt had named them himself. He didn’t clear it with anyone. Nobody argued.
The sappers existed in theory. Nix selected six Kobolds with tunnel-digging experience — every Kobold had tunnel-digging experience, it was practically genetic — and started training them on controlled demolition. How to weaken a support beam. How to collapse a ceiling in a specific direction. How to dig under a wall without being heard. The Kobolds took to it the way fish took to water, because undermining things was essentially what they’d been doing their entire lives, only now someone was calling it a military specialty.
The cavalry didn’t exist at all. Not yet.
***
On Day 287, Runt’s scouts brought back a report that changed that.
"Thirty kilometers north," Runt said, crouched in the command post, drawing in the dirt with a claw — maps weren’t his style. "Deep swamp. Past the dead-zone where the cinnaite mines are. There’s a colony."
"Colony of what?" Vark asked.
Runt described them carefully, because he’d never seen anything like them and he’d grown up in swamps where large reptiles were common. Big. Quadruped. Low to the ground. Armored backs — ridged, like a spine made of stone. They moved through water like crocodiles and across land like something between a lizard and a large cat. Fast in short bursts. Silent. Cold-blooded.
Through the bond, the description hit Zephyr like a trigger.
He knew exactly what Runt was describing. In Theos Online, they were called **Ridgeback Drakes** — a Tier 2 mount option that most players ignored because horses existed and horses were easier to acquire. The drakes were better in almost every measurable way: faster over short distances, quieter, naturally armored, capable of traversing terrain that would kill a horse. But they required a specific taming protocol that the game’s tooltip described in exactly three unhelpful sentences, and most players didn’t have the patience.
Zephyr had tamed four hundred of them over three years of competitive play. He knew the protocol the way a chef knows salt.
The instructions came through the bond to Krug in a compressed burst: *The drakes imprint during their third growth phase — roughly eight weeks after hatching. Feed them raw red meat, hand-delivered, during that window. The first creature they associate with feeding becomes their rider. Only cold-blooded handlers. Warm-blooded races trigger a territorial response. Lizardmen only.*
Krug relayed this to Vark. Vark relayed it to a Lizardman named Sythek — quiet, patient, the kind of soldier who followed orders with zero questions and absolute precision. The opposite of leadership material and exactly the type you wanted for a job that required sitting in a swamp for two months hand-feeding a juvenile reptile.
Sythek took three volunteers and disappeared into the northern swamp within the week.
***
Months passed. The settlement grew.
By Day 310, the population counter read 214. Believers trickled in — ones and twos, occasionally a family. A Gnoll pack of seven from the western hills, fleeing territory that Demeterra’s expansion had made inhospitable. A Human blacksmith’s apprentice named **Corvin** who’d heard about Ashenveil’s forge from a trader two settlements over and walked ninety kilometers to see if the rumors about stonesteel were true. They were. He converted the same day. Nix gained his first proper assistant, and the forge output doubled within a month.
The Ironscale Infantry grew to forty-eight. Still short of two hundred, but the quality was improving faster than the quantity. Dorin ran drills six days a week — shield walls, spear rotations, formation shifts. The Lizardmen provided the core strength. The Humans provided the discipline. The unlikely combination produced soldiers who could hold a line against anything their weight class and several things above it.
The bottleneck wasn’t bodies. It was equipment.
Nix’s forge ran from dawn to midnight. Corvin handled the routine work — nails, hinges, tools, the unglamorous backbone of a growing settlement. That freed Nix to focus on weapons and armor. Stonesteel spearheads. Stonesteel shield plates. Stonesteel arrowheads for Thaelen’s archers. Each piece took hours, and each soldier needed a full kit. At current production rates, it would take four months to equip just the infantry.
They talked about building a second forge. Aldric drew the plans. The problem wasn’t the forge itself — it was the cinnaite. Stonesteel required cinnaite, and the mine had a limited output. Zephyr watched the supply numbers through divine sense and did the math. The math said they’d have enough. Barely.
Thaelen’s archers reached twenty-two. He’d lowered his standards slightly — not everyone needed to shoot like a Sylvari. Some just needed to put arrows in the general direction of a target at combat range. The crossbow contingent was growing faster than the longbow division, which Thaelen accepted with the quiet resignation of a purist watching practicality win.
And then Sythek came back.
He walked through the gate on Day 318, sunburned, insect-bitten, and carrying a leather satchel against his chest with the careful tenderness of someone transporting something fragile and alive. He set the satchel on the command post table and opened it.
Inside: three eggs. Dark grey, leathery, warm. Each one the size of a human fist.
"The colony had a nesting ground," Sythek reported. "Twelve active nests. I marked the location. These three were from an abandoned clutch — the mother was killed by something larger. They’re viable."
Through the bond, Zephyr confirmed. He could sense the life in them — faint, cold-blooded, patient. Waiting.
"Keep them warm," Krug relayed. "Not hot — warm. Swamp temperature. And when they hatch, only Lizardmen handle them. No exceptions."
The first egg cracked nine days later.
The thing that crawled out was ugly in the specific way that all predators are ugly when they’re too young to be dangerous — oversized head, stubby legs, a ridge of soft cartilage along its back that would harden into the armor plating that gave the species its name. It was the size of a large cat. It blinked at Sythek with vertical-slit pupils and made a sound that was half-hiss, half-chirp.
Sythek fed it a strip of raw boar meat from his hand. The drake ate it, looked up, and made the sound again.
Imprinting. Phase one.
In the training yard, Vark watched from a distance. A cavalry mount. For a settlement that had been fighting with clubs and desperation eight months ago.
"Five divisions," he muttered. Shook his head. Started walking back to the infantry drills.
Four down. One growing in an egg.