The Legionnaires did not stir at the word's of their enemy. It would be naive to say however, that they weren't shaken by the thousand smouldering corpses decorating the blackened grass ahead of them. A few whisperers of dissent leaked from some of the ranks, but the stalwart Centurions put those responsible to the sword with brutal efficiency. There would be no turn-coats today, it seemed. 

"T'was a grand speech," smirked Erich, "I'm sure it'd work fantasticly on goat herds." 

"He's playing for time; he needs to rest," spat Antonius, walking forwards with the gnarled wood his staff held firmly in his hands. "I urge you press the attack, Consul."

"Finnaly!" Shouted Erich, clapping his hands together, "you're speaking my language." He turned to the Signal's Master. "A general advance; we meet the barbarians as equals." 

"Aye sir," nodded the Signal's Master. 

The tempo of the band increased, and the drummer who had until now remained silent, beat a heavy rhythm. The disciplined squares of Imperial troops marched forwards in two distinct lines. Erich and Antonius stayed well behind the second, surrounded by sixty praetorian guards. The Consul was not a front-line warrior, not like he used to be, it would be folly to show such heroics at the age of seventy. 

The barbarians thundered across the planes. Their jeers and battle cries drowning out the fierce shouts of the Centurions, as they battled to keep the ranks of their centuries in fine order. The gap closed between the two forces, and for a moment, every difference between the fighting styles of the Imperial Military Doctrine and the savageman's horde-mentality was highlighted. A great mass of black skinned men, each standing feet tall than their enemy, flailing their arms and shouting. The neat squares of the Imperials, silent and unwavering, marching in synchronised pace. 

As the forces came within fifty feet, the Centurions gave a command. Javelins became thick in the air, descending on the bare chested savages with devastating effect. Their front ranks were obliterated, and those behind stumbled over the dead; the savageman's momentum was broken. 

The Legionnaires rushed forwards, bringing their shields to bear against maces, clubs and axes. With practised efficiency, they withdrew, lunged, held, lunged, pressed. Slowly, the 16th Legion pushed its way through the masses, leaving behind a dense carpet of bodies. Centurions ran this way and that, blowing whistles whenever they felt the front ranks of their men were growing tired. When this happened, the third and fourth ranks would part, allowing their comrades to retreat through the gaps. This way, the legion would not lose its breath, not for a good many hours. 

Antonius scanned the crowd of barbarians eagerly; seeking his target. He knew he had been right - Rinack would have struck by now. The Emperor's Bane was weak, if the Imperial Wizard could locate him, then he could enter his mind and explode his skull. Rather than track the Warlock's energy force, he searched for a void in the masses of life, and it wasn't long before he found it. 

Pointing his staff towards the barbarians, he lent the entirety of his power to the attack. 

"Feeling tired, are we? Traitor!" His voice thundered toward the weakened mental defences of his enemy.