Empire Under Siege

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One - Conlan

  Chapter Two - Martius

  Chapter Three - Conlan

  Chapter Four - Martius

  Chapter Five - Turbis

  Chapter Six - Conlan

  Chapter Seven - Martius

  Chapter Eight - Conlan

  Chapter Nine - Martius

  Chapter Ten - Conlan

  Chapter Eleven - Wulf

  Chapter Twelve - Conlan

  Afterword

  Phoenix rising

  THE

  ADARNA CHRONICLES

  BOOK ONE

  EMPIRE

  UNDER SIEGE

  Jason K. Lewis

  Copyright © 2014 by Jason K. Lewis

  The rights of Jason K. Lewis to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in reviews or articles.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locations or organisations is entirely coincidental.

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  Published by Oldhaven Publishing

  United Kingdom

  For my beautiful wife and son.

  To plunder, to slaughter, to steal, these

  things they misname empire; and where

  they make a wilderness, they call it peace.

  Tacitus

  ***

  To know that you are fallible is strength. To

  accept your fallibility without struggle is

  weakness.

  Felix Martius

  ***

  Do not seek death, but should it find you,

  face it like a man.

  Xandar the Great

  CHAPTER ONE

  Conlan

  “THERE IS NO HOPE!” the shout carried on the wind, ragged, high pitched and broken.

  Conlan glanced toward the noise, his concentration interrupted. He saw the world in perfect focus - a world filled with madness, blood and death. There is no hope. Conlan’s stomach churned as thoughts of death and defeat overtook him. A shadow, a jarring crunch, and his vision blurred, vertigo and darkness overwhelming him, enfolding him in a velvet embrace.

  Hearing returned first, clashing iron, the cracking thump of clubs on shields, the rhythmic chant of the legion; fight, fight for the Empire! Screams, jagged and terrible… grunting and groaning intermingled with the choking gasps of the dying.

  Conlan envisaged the scene as he lay in darkness - men, shields locked on the front line to hold back the horde, short swords stabbing and hacking rhythmically, perfectly drilled, the finest soldiers in the world. It seemed a distant and terrifying dream.

  “Conlan!” someone shouted.

  He opened his eyes, squinting into the bright afternoon sun until a silhouetted figure blocked the light.

  “Conlan, you have to get up.”

  Conlan struggled to stand as hands grasped his arms, dragging him up in grips of iron. His legs wobbled unsteadily as the world snapped into focus.

  “Conlan, look at me.” It was Jonas, his shield brother, blue eyes earnest and bright. “Can you speak?”

  “What happened?” His voice did not sound like his own, the words caught painfully in his throat, tongue rasping in a parchment dry mouth.

  “You dropped your guard, one of the bastards caught you hard, thought you were dead.”

  “But…?” dizziness threatened to overwhelm Conlan, crashing in waves against his consciousness.

  Jonas grunted. “He overbalanced. Lucus gutted him, then fat Tev took his throat out.”

  Conlan looked towards the front. The battle line was five deep, spread too thin to contain the horde - already starting to bulge inward. The fate of the Empire stood on a knife edge.

  He knew his cohort must have pulled back, dragging the wounded with them for field surgery, himself amongst them, but he could not recall it. Nausea overwhelmed him, a surging wave that crested. Conlan turned and vomited into the grass, bile scorching the back of his throat.

  Jonas didn’t flinch, nor did he release his steadying grip.

  A medic appeared out of the throng of men that waited to form up and take the line again; he was young - as were many in the medical corps - and easily identified by his white armband.

  The medic glanced nervously toward Conlan. “Are you fit to fight, branch leader?”

  “I’ll live; there are plenty of others who need you.” Conlan fought to stand straight as his stomach fell silent. He spat acid from his mouth.

  “Yes, sir.” Without pausing the medic turned his attention away, looking to help another, and was soon lost in the throng.

  “Jonas.” Raising a hand to his temple, Conlan felt warm, sticky blood coat his fingers. “Report.”

  “We’ve been ordered to re-group as fast as we can. These bastards are tough boss, strong; they fight like animals.”

  Conlan grimaced. “We have to hold. How long till we rotate?”

  “Reckon we have about five minutes. Look at the line though; we may have to advance early – the ranks are thinning too fast.” Jonas was a hardened fighter, a veteran of many battles, but there was a hint of fear in his voice.

  “They fight like animals, they’ll die like animals.” Conlan fought to steady himself, gripping Jonas’ shoulder hard.

  “That’s right, sir,” said another. “They’re no match for us.”

  Conlan turned to see Lucus standing behind him, eager as ever to prove himself. The boy is full of the bravado of youth, Conlan thought, and wondered how long it would last if they survived the battle.

  “Damn right, Lucus. No one can take the Third.” Conlan forced a smile. He might die today; he doesn’t need to know the truth.

  A high-pitched whistle sounded three times - the signal to reform and prepare to move forward.

  We’re going early, Conlan thought, as all along the line men began to fall in. Conlan’s cohort, the Ninth, would gradually work their way forward to take their turn on the front line again, as the foremost cohorts retired to rest.

  Conlan placed himself at the centre of his branch, looking left and right to check the ranks were properly dressed.

  The branch leaders of cohort Six raised their sword arms in perfect synchrony. The move forward began.

  They marched twenty yards in perfect order, then the remnants of the Fifth Cohort began to filter through the lines, some wounded, limping, bleeding; others tall and proud. A few aided the badly wounded, dragging them screaming through the mud.

  “You know I love walking through my own piss.” Jonas was breathing hard.

  “Standard tactics,” said Conlan, “and at least you’re not covered in it… We must have advanced at the start, wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to let them come to us.” The enemy should have faltered in the mud before reaching the legion; unbalanced, they would have been easy meat for the grinder.

  “Yeah, but the first two were too damned keen,” Jonas spat into the mud.

  “Young and hot headed. They’ll learn.” Conlan shook his head; the more experienced men were always in the rear cohorts. The First and Second, just like the Sixth and Seventh were mostly un-blooded.
Conlan doubted the wisdom of the tradition: in the heat of battle the inexperienced were more likely to break.

  Dylon, branch leader in the Eighth cohort, stood directly before Conlan, his shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. He was a giant of a man and Conlan struggled to see past his great, but somewhat reassuring, bulk.

  Dylon turned, as Conlan knew he would, for there was an unspoken tradition between them. A wry smile adorned his freckled face. “Ha! Thought we lost ya, brother; have a little nap did ya?”

  “Got bored, truth be told.” Conlan shrugged noncommittally, barely masking the pain that erupted in his neck and shoulders. “Need more action. These barbarians… no challenge at all.” He hoped he looked nonchalant. It felt so easy to slip into the drill yard bravado, to hide behind it. “Make sure you don’t kill ‘em all before we get our turn.”

  “Yeah, leave some of the buggers for us!” Lucus said, full of anticipation for the fight ahead.

  Dylon knocked his sword pommel on his shield and inclined his head in mock salute “Ya still want more after your first rotation d’ya, lad? No rush now, little brother. There’s plenty to go round.”

  Two whistle pips repeated along the formation. Dylon’s cohort would be the next to relieve the front line as the Seventh retired. Conlan always dreaded this moment. Even in training the manoeuvre had been known to go catastrophically wrong: one line clashing into another as the front cohorts, exhausted from fighting, rapidly withdrew. It all hinged on the push and turn: each legionnaire slamming his shield forward - the whole line in perfect unison - pushing the enemy off balance, then pirouetting left as his replacement moved up on the right to shield his retreat. When executed properly, it dismayed the enemy, giving them a new, freshly rested cohort to fight. When executed poorly, the entire line might collapse, spelling doom for the army.

  An almost imperceptible shudder ran through the ranks, the barest whisper of doom. Conlan tensed and faltered for a split second.

  “What was that, sir?” Lucus shouted to be heard over the noise of the battle.

  Conlan glanced around. Some aspect of the noise, the mayhem of battle, had changed; that much was clear. It was not where he expected – the bulge in the centre of the line held fast. Instead, the line collapsed on the right flank and Conlan could not wrench his gaze away as the legionaries in the distance lost cohesion and closed in on each other, their formation compromised no space to fight, many on the front line turned to take flight.

  Years of training took hold. Conlan saw the battle with piercing clarity. Action or death, these were now the only options. Dylon must have seen it too, for he turned his massive frame toward Conlan again, this time grim, face fixed. There were no words; he simply nodded his head before turning his attention back to the Southern front.

  “Ninth, wheel right, form on me!” Conlan ordered, abandoning the southern front to Dylon and the rest of the Legion

  “Ninth, wheel right, form on centre branch leader!” Jonas and Lucus echoed in stentorian tones, and others repeated the message so that it rolled along the line from cohort branch to branch.

  The Tenth cohort followed suit without hesitation, years of drill leading to instant action. Conlan didn’t even turn to recognise their support, secure in the knowledge they would follow.

  Anchoring himself to the line behind Dylon, Conlan faced the new threat from the west. They would hold the corner and form a new bulwark against the horde, to take the brunt of the fighting. Men streamed along behind to form on Conlan’s right.

  “Sound vigilance!” Conlan shouted. He could only hope that this would be enough to attract the attention of the troops that were now isolated, fighting for their lives beyond his new front, and show them their path to salvation.

  The westerly sun was bright and low - the advantage would belong to the enemy, with its light at their backs. Through a sea of running blue and silver legionaries a gap in the crumbling wall of steel had opened wide. The enemy were advancing - the army’s flank was turned. Conlan prayed the remnants of the broken Twelfth legion might have a hope of retreating in good order to rejoin the rest of the army before panic took hold.

  “Where’s Commander Gyren?” Conlan fixed his gaze forward, unable to tear it aside as the enemy cut his brothers down, barely twenty paces away. He battled the urge to run to their aid. Some would make it, others would die. But if his line fell, the entire army would be outflanked.

  “Don’t know, boss,” Jonas replied, no trace now of fear in his voice. “Reckon you’re in charge now.”

  The enemy approached rapidly, a terrifying mass of fur and steel. Conlan cursed his luck and Jon Gyren too. A cohort commander should be with his men, “Lucus?”

  “Sir?”

  “I need you to get to father Yovas. Tell him his legion is being overrun. The Twelfth are broken; we need reinforcements. He needs to send word to the general. Go, now.”

  “But sir.”

  “Now.”

  “Sir.” Lucus turned and pushed through the lines behind, his place quickly filled by another.

  The horde hit the line like a storm. Snarling, spitting, pounding. A roar rose up from their ranks as they sensed victory.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Martius

  FELIX MARTIUS’S KNUCKLES WHITENED, his hands tightening around his horse’s reins. Ten legions, he thought, thirty thousand fighting men, against an army of what? Scouts had estimated a million. How many in reality? One hundred thousand? Two hundred? Reports suggested the legions did not face an army, but an entire nation on the move.

  Looking down on the seething horde below, Martius did not doubt it. He wondered if it would have been wiser to hold back from a pitched battle, harrying the invaders instead – cutting off their food supply, starving them into submission. The barbarians were too close to the heart of the Empire. One precinct had already been overrun. They could not be allowed access to the heartlands. Too many cities to the north had no real defences, no walls or ditches. Who, after all, could challenge the power of the Empire? If the enemy got through, Martius knew, there would be slaughter.

  Nine legions spread out below in a line, blocking the valley of Sothlind. Martius held another, freshly raised and untested, in reserve. There was no other passage for the horde through the Dardane Mountains, no other route into the Empire. Martius’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the front line, satisfied that the plan was sound. There is no alternative.

  “Villius?” said Martius, turning to the young officer at his side.

  “Yes, General?”

  “The first cohorts appear to be advancing. That is not the plan.”

  “No, sir, it is not.”

  Martius considered Villius a good proctor, but the man seemed to lack emotion, and he was not sure what to make of the trait. “Send word to the legion fathers. Hold the line. They will mire in their own mud if they are not careful.”

  “At once, sir,” Villius replied.

  Seconds later, ten riders galloped towards the battle. Martius heard flags flapping in the wind behind him, as soldiers frenetically raised and lowered them. “I don’t trust those bloody flags, Villius. Who in the heat of battle pays attention to flags?”

  “Of course, sir.” Villius fixed his attention on the front lines.

  “It’s that damned Metrotis with his ridiculous inventions. Boy thinks he knows everything, Villius.”

  “Of course, sir,” Villius shifted awkwardly in his saddle “He’s your nephew, sir?”

  Martius smiled wryly. “That he is, Villius, that he is. Takes after my sister… in many ways”

  “Yes, sir; of course, sir.”

  Banishing thoughts of his nephew, Martius turned his attention back to the battle. The line still held fast. “There are a lot of them, but they lack discipline!” He raised his voice so that all around would hear. “They fight as individuals, for individual glory; and that will be their downfall, just like the hill tribes thirty years ago.”

  “Meat for the grind
er,” said Turbis, a staunch soldier and veteran of many battles. Turbis was legendary amongst the legions for rising through the ranks over forty years of service. Once, he had been commander-in-chief of the armies of the Empire, the primus general. Now in retirement, he was Martius’s most trusted advisor.

  Martius nodded. “Meat for the grinder.” He wondered if his old friend was truly confident or simply playing the game as well.

  “The emperor wants them all dead, Martius. Their insubordination cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”

  Martius flashed an icy look at the speaker. “They will not go unpunished, Praetorus Kourtes. I believe the punishment has already begun.” He wondered at how detached Kourtes was from reality. “An entire precinct has been overrun, untold thousands of our citizens are dead, cities and towns put to the torch. Insubordination is perhaps an understatement.”

  Kourtes sniffed disdainfully. “Dead, Martius. All of them. You have your orders.”

  Martius turned in his saddle. “Yes, Praetorus. I would remind you that I take my orders directly from the emperor. As I said, they will be punished.” He fought to control the rising contempt in his voice. “And that is what will happen.” Politicians were always distasteful creatures in Martius’s experience. Kourtes, dressed in the high fashion of the year, his body wrapped in patterned silks from beyond Farisia, looked the very epitome of the species.

  “General,” Turbis’s gravelly tones cut through the air. “Right flank pressure. The line is curving. Looks like they’re throwing most of their weight at the Third and the Twelfth.”

  Martius glanced down the line of battle. He was loath to admit that his eyesight was not what it had been, but the pressure on the right was obvious. Martius had seen legions defeated, but never broken. That said, he had never seen them face an enemy as numerous as the horde. “Villius, signal the centre to begin to withdraw - nice and slow. Let’s pull them in, should relieve the pressure on the right.”