"You always run ahead," the construct said, in the captain's voice. "Always the rearguard. Never the one carried home."
Helm's jaw tightened. Old habit. In the legion, his soldiers were numbers on a casualty sheet. Here, they had names. Stories. Children waiting. That was the difference, wasn't it? He had never feared his own death. He feared their deaths, written into his ledger.
The dust had not yet settled on the Corridor of Broken Spears. "You always run ahead," the construct said, in
Helm leaned against the crumbling archway, his breath ragged strips of heat in the cold cavern air. Behind him, the tunnel collapsed in a slow, final roar — sealing the manticore brood and two-thirds of the Crimson Horde on the other side. His plan had worked. The rear guard had done its duty.
"I had the terrain. And you left me caltrops." Old habit
"Chapter 52," he finally said. "That's what they'll call this part of the tale. 'The Rearguard's Final Stand.'"
He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. "Forty-four. I counted." Stories
"Good," Helm muttered. "Dying would have been inefficient."
"Three hours," she whispered. "You held them for three hours alone after the retreat signal."
