Empire Under Siege Page 4

  Conlan stood erect, peering into the east as the chaos approached. He sought in vain for a legionary standard or the telltale flash of blue cloaks, but caught only a glimpse of white, brilliant in the sunlight. Further east, much further, he could see a legionary standard swaying. He took comfort in the thought that other legions still fought on.

  No succour would come from the west, he knew, and to the north he spied only a hazy cloud, but whether that represented reinforcements or routing brothers was unimportant now. Conlan made the only choice he could. The men, exhausted as they were, would break quickly if the enemy redoubled their attack. Conlan chose to make a stand, to live a little longer and ensure the standard did not fall for a few more precious moments.

  Another flash of light, then another, and another, until Conlan lost count. The enemy attack halted completely, leaving the legionaries encircled but virtually forgotten.

  The barbarians slowed their rush east. A warrior, clutching his blood-soaked arm, stumbled, wide-eyed, towards the west, and more of his countrymen, many badly injured, followed.

  A man, clad in blood-splattered white armour, shining pearlescent in the sunlight, a black bear’s head emblazoned on the breastplate, appeared out of the crush to the east. Conlan drew a sharp breath at the sight of him. He moved with fluid grace and seemed aware of everything around him simultaneously, blocking and killing on both sides as if his arms were controlled by the swords themselves. He danced, flowing through the enemy like water, leaving bloody death in his wake.

  Another, man appeared. Where the first was large but lithe, this one was simply huge. Bearing a bull’s head motif on his breastplate, he wielded two short-handled, double-headed axes with incredible force. In stark contrast to the other, this man was a blunt instrument of death: he bludgeoned his way through the enemy, leaving body parts in his wake whilst breaking bones with his fists. One man attacking with club raised was thrown aside, catapulted backwards over his fellows as if weightless.

  Conlan watched in awed silence as the pair dispatched ten men in as many seconds. It was Jonas who broke the silence, letting out a joyful whoop of encouragement as the first white knight beheaded a man with a single backward chop, so quickly Conlan doubted the unfortunate man even knew he was dead.

  More knights in iridescent armour drifted in and out of view as the battle surged. Every time an enemy tried to bring one of them down, he was dispatched with cold precision or simply shaken off, thrown aside. One lucky savage managed to grab the first knight’s arm, but before even he could respond a smaller knight, with long, blood-red hair, stepped out of the crush and sliced through the back of his neck. For a moment, the red-haired warrior turned in the direction of the legionaries, as if scanning for something, eyes briefly alighting on Conlan, who realised with a jolt that it was a woman, strikingly attractive with fine aquiline features.

  Unable to rip his gaze from her, Conlan’s eyes followed the knight until with her comrades she disappeared from sight, obscured again by the mass of the horde.

  “Jonas, prepare the men. We need to advance and assist them,” Conlan said. They could not let her fight alone.

  Jonas raised his brows. “Do they look like they need our help, boss?”

  Conlan hesitated. “They have a woman with them; we have to protect her.”

  “Oh, well in that case…” Jonas grinned and barked an order to advance from the hill and maintain formation, remaining in circle to present no weakness to the enemy.

  The standard felt heavy in Conlan’s grip. He ached to hand it to someone else, to move forward to the front line and fight with the men. But the standard was the legion – it had to be preserved. Holding it aloft for all to see, Conlan maintained his position at the centre of the formation. As the legionaries moved, the enemy, seemingly remembering them, redoubled their attack, and the circle of men around Conlan began shrinking again.

  Conlan knew it was suicide to attack in these conditions; every fibre of his training railed against the move. But the result was foregone in any case. They would all die. There was no hope.

  Feeling a vibration through his feet, Conlan thought for a moment it was an earth tremor, but he quickly recognised the vibration for what it was – the rolling beat of many hoofs, coming from the north.

  “Hold position!” Conlan bellowed, hearing shouts, the screams of men and horses.

  The barbarians, already unsettled by the white knights, broke with the arrival of the cavalry force on their flank. The savages fled. First a trickle and then a rising flood south. Some bunched together for defence; others abandoned their weapons and ran for whatever shelter they might find.

  The horsemen rode through them all, dealing death by sword and hoof in equal measure.

  The rout passed quickly. It was, Conlan thought, as if they were an island and the barbarians a wave, leaving bodies, weapons and armour behind like so much flotsam and jetsam.

  A deep baritone voice shouted encouragement. “That’s it, boys! Ride the bastards down. Show them some Imperial steel!”

  Two horsemen, wheeling away from the fray, approached Conlan’s group. He recognised one as General Felix Martius - who continued to shout encouragement to his troops as he cantered toward Conlan and the remnants of his men.

  “Well, boys, looks like you might be all that’s left of the Third,” said General Martius, his stern face softening. “Who commands here?”

  Conlan hesitated. “I do, sir.” As he spoke, Jonas turned and regarded him, eyes impenetrable.

  Martius raised an eyebrow. “You look a little young to be a legion father…”

  Conlan wondered how the man remained so calm when faced with the horror of battle. “Conlan Danson, sir. Centre branch leader, Ninth cohort, Third legion, sir.”

  Martius nodded to the man beside him. “Make a note of that name, Villius.” Then glancing across the ragged group of legionaries, and smiled broadly. “Well done, boys; I think we just saved the Empire.” And with that he turned his horse and raced after the fleeing enemy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Martius

  MARTIUS WAS, AS ALWAYS, mildly irritated by the man before him.

  “Uncle, why not admit that my communication system saved the day?”

  Martius sighed, “The legions saved the day, Metrotis. Not your flags.”

  “But I have it on good authority that the flags worked perfectly, Uncle. Without them you would not have been able to manoeuvre the troops and win the day.” Metrotis chopped the air with his hand as if to underline the perfection of his logic.

  Martius slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep down he knew that the boy was right. He could never have gathered the cavalry nor moved the legions on the field as quickly as he did without the damned flags. Yet, knowing he was wrong, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Martius rarely allowed his emotions to rule, but somehow Metrotis always brought out the worst in him. “Metrotis you were not there. If you had any military experience you would understand –“

  “But Villius says that the –“

  “Villius?” Martius hadn’t realised Metrotis and Villius were well acquainted. He made a mental note to have a quiet word with his young proctor. “He is as green as you are, boy.” Martius shook his head slowly. Two weeks. Two weeks and he still won’t be quiet about it. Anyone would think he won the victory at Sothlind valley by himself. “How is your mother?” Martius realised he had asked the same question the day before in an effort to change the conversation.

  “She’s fine, Uncle. You saw her this morning.” Metrotis raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Remember?”

  Martius wondered if he was being mocked. “Hmmm, yes of course. Forgot entirely. How is your other work going?”

  Metrotis sat up straight, eyes beaming. “Well, I think the catapults might just work if we can just get special ropes made to take the tension…”

  Martius relaxed. Metrotis loved talking about his work almost as much as he loved talking about himse
lf. Pretending to listen, Martius used the time to assess his nephew - remembering to nod and grunt occasionally, feigning interest. He had to admit Metrotis’s physical resemblance to himself was remarkable; but the Felix line had ever been thus. Metrotis was thinner; his skin was sallow and pale, the result of too much time studying indoors.

  A healthy body, Martius had learned, lead to a healthy mind. No stranger to study himself, he balanced this with regular exercise and military drill.

  Martius had little doubt that Metrotis had one of the keenest minds in the Empire. It was just that he didn’t balance his activities. Metrotis had dedicated himself so completely to study and research that he left no time for anything else. Martius considered Metrotis an immense waste of potential talent, and that was, perhaps, what irked him the most.

  Sensing a change in Metrotis’s tone, Martius focused his attention back on the conversation.

  “… And I think that I have the feathering and weighting of the ballistae bolts almost perfect now. You should see how far they can travel, Uncle.”

  “Indeed,” Martius replied. “But how many can you fire in a minute, and how many men need to attend them? What if they are attacked? Can they be ordered to move in the heat of battle?”

  “That’s it!” Metrotis’s eyes widened. “Of course! We can put them on wheels…” He tilted his head to one side. “But obviously I would have to install a braking and bracing system… What a great idea, Uncle!”

  Martius rolled his eyes. “Of course, nephew. Speak to the quartermaster at the academy. I am sure he will be able to sort something out for you.”

  Metrotis grinned broadly. “Yes, yes. This opens up so many possibilities; I really can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Martius raised his right hand to his brow, resting it on his forehead. “And how are our… guests at the moment?”

  “Oh.” Metrotis shifted in his chair, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Well, ah, I am making some progress on the language for one of them. I think his name is Wulf, or VVulf as he pronounces it. Interesting, really – the language seems to bear some relationship to the southern fisherfolk of the Basking islands.”

  “And the other?” Martius leaned forward impatiently. “What of him?”

  Metrotis paused. “Much the same really; he eats, he sleeps. I think he may have damaged his brain in the battle. Might be improving though. He glanced at me this morning, but he’s still mute. It really is not an easy job you have given me, Uncle.”

  “You have to keep trying, Metrotis. I don’t know anyone better for the job.”

  “I know, I know. He’s a hero of the Empire and we need to help him recover. Maybe I could try some of the herbs I’ve been experimenting with. Some of them have, erm… interesting properties.” Tilting his head again, Metrotis fixed Martius with an earnest gaze. “He is safe to be around though, isn’t he, Uncle? It’s just… when he looked at me this morning, well, my legs went quite weak. It’s not so bad with Wulf – he’s chained up, so what could he do? I mean he is big but…”

  “He’s no threat, Metrotis,” Martius said.

  “Which one? Wulf or the other?”

  “The other.” Martius opened both arms wide as if in obeisance to the gods. “He’s just an injured soldier.”

  “Yes, yes, of course; he seems a gentle soul really.”

  Martius leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead absently. “Yes, a gentle soul…”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Conlan

  THE LEGION BAR WAS full. For once, the soldiers were relishing life rather than courting death. It was a dark and musty building, built, as were all legion bars, to a standard imperial template. The troops had a phrase for the design: ‘no expense spent’, and it seemed fitting to Conlan as he looked around the vast square hall. Low rafters did nothing for the ambiance, leaving the building feeling claustrophobic rather than cosy.

  Scattered around the room were the trophies of the Third: shields, armour and other objects captured over centuries of battle. The walls were adorned with paintings and tapestries depicting the illustrious history of the legion, clearly marking the generic building out as different from all the other legion bars scattered throughout the military quarter of Adarna. It belonged to the Third.

  A woodsmoke haze filled the top half of the room, making it preferable to sit down in the clearer air below. In every corner voices were raised in alcohol induced merriment – laughing, jeering, shouting and cheering in equal measure.

  Conlan had always been a little horrified by how quickly his comrades could forget. It seemed so easy for them to put the terror of battle aside and get on with their lives. They had all lost brothers in the legion – comrades at arms; yet they were able to continue as if nothing of note had happened.

  What was the point of it all? Conlan wondered. He had suffered a sense of great loss since his return to the capital. Fitful nights filled with nightmares left him exhausted each morning. The image of the crimson-haired warrior in white armour haunted him, her eyes boring into his mind each night as he lay in his bed. Barely able to function, Conlan had thrown himself into distraction, perfecting indolence by tortuous practice. He sat on a rough-hewn bench, arms resting on a simple trestle table, relishing his anonymity and his beer.

  Looking up from his ale, Conlan saw his sword brothers approaching. Lucus - young and brash - grinned like a loon at everyone he passed; Jonas had a telltale bounce in his stride, the confidence of a survivor – no, a hero of the great battle.

  How do they disassociate themselves from it all? Or are they just putting on an act, hiding their own inner demons?

  “Ho, Lucus. Tell us your tale,” an old legionary called from a corner.

  Lucus smiled amiably, and swerved toward the old veteran, whispering something to Jonas and smiling conspiratorially before they parted company. Lucus was welcomed with a hearty slap on the back by the veteran, a man named Salla, and immediately absorbed in conversation.

  Reaching the table alone, Jonas placed a large tankard before Conlan. “There you go, boss. Pint o’ the best.”

  “I didn’t realise there was a choice.” Conlan drained the dregs of his last tankard.

  “Well, technically there isn’t, but I reckon this was a fresh keg.”

  Stifling a grin, Conlan took a sip. “Tastes a lot like the last one.”

  “Yeah, I know. Kinda nutty.”

  Conlan raised his tankard. “The noble dead.”

  “The noble dead,” Jonas returned the toast.

  Conlan’s mind drifted. The noble dead… just a ritualised way to justify loss. Dylon had been noble, in his own way. And in the end, he had paid the ultimate sacrifice for that nobility, as had Jon Gyren and all the rest. But was it worth it? Was the world so much better with the barbarian threat neutralised?

  “You alright?” Jonas fixed him with that look.

  “Fine, fine, just daydreaming.” It was so difficult to concentrate of late; nothing seemed real anymore, nothing important.

  “You know you’ve been doing that a lot recently,” said Jonas. “I reckon that knock to your head did something to you. Been getting any more headaches?”

  Conlan shook his head. “No, but I’m still not sleeping well.”

  “It’ll get better. You’ve seen it before. Gods, Conlan, you know we all get the jitters sometimes. Shit, I mean, we lost so many brothers. But we have to go on, boss. The only other way is madness.”

  “I know.” Conlan didn’t like appearing weak in front of his men, even Jonas. “Concussion can take a long time to heal. That bastard hit me hard.” Conlan wasn’t convinced he had concussion, though. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel physical. It felt like a door in his mind had opened. And the new world through the door was not at all comforting.

  Jonas cleared his throat. “You know I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

  “What?”

  “On the battlefield, when the horn blew.”

  Conlan sighed. “What ab
out it?”

  “What were you going to do? Y’know. I thought you’d frozen. I thought you’d lost it.” Jonas faltered, clearing his throat again. “What the hell happened, Conlan?”

  “I had a moment… A moment when I thought Yovas had made a mistake.”

  “And?” Jonas raised his brows.

  Conlan had hoped Jonas wouldn’t remember, so much had happened on the battlefield. Just one tiny hesitation. Or was it a moment of clarity? Conlan knew that something had changed in him in that moment. What would Jonas think if he told the truth? Best not to find out. “I wanted to wait to confirm the order. Things get confused in a battle – one mistake and it all goes wrong.”

  Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “You mean things didn’t go wrong?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I think so. So you wouldn’t have disobeyed? For a moment I thought you’d… run.”

  Conlan pursed his lips. “You know I wouldn’t run, Jonas.”

  “I know, I know.” Jonas shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “I wouldn’t have run, Jonas, I wouldn’t have broken. It was just hesitation. I had just taken a blow to the head.” Conlan wondered how Jonas would react if he knew the truth, that he would have tried to take command of the legion. In the end there had been no need, because Yovas had not retreated. Conlan knew that if it had come to it, he would have mutinied on the field to prevent a retreat. The blow to his head had opened a door and when that door opened, years of legionary conditioning had broken.

  Jonas nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I know, boss, I know.”

  A great cheer went up nearby as Lucus stumbled on his way back to the bar. He smiled sheepishly over his shoulder as he continued on his way, raising an arm in a drunken wave.