“He’s done what?” Turbis’s heart had pounded a dread beat, “The damned fool!”
Within five years of the incident, and with no lack of support from Turbis, Martius had risen to command his own legion and gone on to defeat a rebellion of the hill tribes that had threatened to engulf the Empire in civil war. Ten years later he published his first book on military tactics and within a few short years of his seminal work, Martius, with the assistance of Turbis, had transformed the imperial army into the greatest military force on earth.
It had not all been plain sailing, Turbis remembered, but Martius had an uncanny ability for getting out of difficult situations. He had once heard a senator state that Martius could fall into a sewer and come out smelling of roses. The senator didn’t know the half of it. Turbis was convinced Martius led a charmed life.
Seeing Martius now, racing ahead to battle, Turbis wondered what would have happened that fateful day if he had not hesitated. Would the Empire even exist if Martius had not survived?
They had made good time across the field. No longer on high ground, it was difficult to determine the state of the battle, but Turbis was certain that the legions had not all broken. It looked as if the new eastern front had formed, with pockets of resistance from the three legions that were cut off diverting the invaders’ attention. It seemed even the savages knew they could not leave an enemy at their rear.
The eastern front could only have formed if the flag system had worked. A miracle of modern science. It amused Turbis that Martius did not seem to approve; so unlike him not to embrace progress, but Turbis wondered if Martius’s feelings for his nephew had clouded his judgement. Turbis smiled - Martius did not realise how similar he and Metrotis were.
The legion cavalry group had gathered as ordered, some distance behind the Eastern front. As the command group neared the cavalry, Martius stood in his stirrups, arms raised in a masterful display of horsemanship, his horse still cantering forward. “We ride north-east! Then south, single line and charge the bastards. Do you remember how it’s done my boys?” His voice projected over the din of battle.
Many men exchanged glances, others nodded. “Yes, sir!” a few called.
Martius reined his horse in, turning in a tight circle.
We are not prepared for battle
, Turbis thought as he struggled to bring his own steed to a halt.
We are boys and old men
. The legion bodyguards before him, on the other hand, looked magnificent soldiers, but they had not been drilled in large scale cavalry manoeuvres since they were at the academy. The charge could end in disaster, but what other option? Turbis prayed to the gods that Martius’s luck held one more time.
Martius scowled, standing in his stirrups again. Lifting his sword from its scabbard, he pointed it at the cavalry group. “DO YOU REMEMBER HOW TO FIGHT?” His roar was so loud that many horses, trained for battle as they were, shied away.
“Yes,” came a lonely reply. But many nodded, whilst others straightened in their saddles as if remembering who addressed them. A few even glanced at Turbis, who, assuming what he hoped was a confident demeanour, nodded solemnly in their direction.
One man, barely into adulthood, sweat glistening on his brow above eyes that were unnaturally intense, leaned forward in his saddle “Yes, sir!”
Martius wheeled his mount north-east. Looking over his shoulder, he fixed his gaze on the boy. “Good! I’ll take the centre. Follow me!” And with that he kicked his horse into a gallop, clods of earth flying up in his wake.
Turbis followed suit, feeling the strain on his thighs as he tried to keep up. Behind, the cavalry followed at speed, but with no semblance of order, many whooping and braying for the battle to come. Turbis was momentarily irritated by the lack of discipline but realised that, in the end, it didn’t matter. The charge was a forlorn hope; the most they could do was buy time for the legions to combine, form square and make a fighting retreat. Even then, surrounded by the horde, the army could not last.
Soon Turbis was wheeling south with Martius. The General slowed the pace to a canter as horsemen jostled left and right to form into a ragged line.
Turbis saw the enemy ahead. Less than a quarter of a mile away the barbarians had spotted the cavalry and started to stream towards the new threat. They rushed towards the horsemen like leaves blown before an autumn storm. Here and there, caught in the roiling mass of battle, Turbis saw pockets of legionaries stranded beyond the lines, fighting for their lives. To the right a lone standard waved, awash in a sea of enemy warriors.
Turbis squinted toward the standard but was not sure what he saw. Surely a whole legion could not have survived? The Twelfth? The Third? Then, a light flashed through the heavens. Glancing toward it, Turbis saw another; it descended like a lightning flash from the sky, but it was like no lightning Turbis had ever seen. Another flash, then another and another in quick succession, white against the yellow sun.
Martius looked toward the lights too, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head and acknowledged Turbis’s quizzical look with a minute shrug of his shoulders before, with a quick glance left and right, he leaned forward, sword pointed at the enemy. “Charge!”
SEEING YOVAS’S CHARGE STRUCK any doubt, any uncertainty, from Conlan’s mind. He knew what had to be done.
Jonas ran at his left side. His blue eyes fixed on Conlan, an unasked question in his gaze.
Somehow shedding the exhaustion of battle, Conlan increased his pace. He could see where the double line of the shield wall ended ahead. Yovas and his cavalry bodyguard were already bogged down. Their initial impetus, which had carried them twenty yards into the enemy ranks, had left them marooned.
Just as Jonas predicted, the enemy
had
turned the Northern flank. Clearly, Father Yovas, seeing the ruin of his legion at hand, had rolled the dice and risked an audacious charge. Perhaps he hoped that he would buy the legion time to adapt, to change formation. Maybe the old father had acted on instinct alone, Conlan neither knew nor cared; one task only stood ahead of him – he had to reach Yovas.
Father Yovas sat atop his steed, wielding his long cavalry sword like a man possessed, his teeth clenched in a rictus grin of battle fury, eyes flashing white in the sunlight. Blood flew from the blade as he beat down on the heads of his foes. The first group of infantry had reached him now, driving like an arrow into the crush around the father and his bodyguard. Incredibly, Yovas’s charge had been sufficient to halt the enemy advance. For the moment.
A freakishly thin barbarian wielding a meat cleaver and bearing a small wooden shield stood ahead of Conlan, his back turned, pushing with his brothers to get forward to attack Yovas and the cavalry. Perhaps hearing the rolling thunder of the running cohorts, the barbarian turned, and faltered as he saw Conlan and his men charging forward. Before the savage could react, a javelin, thrown on the run from within Dylon’s advancing wedge, smacked through the back of his neck, catapulting him to the ground.
Conlan led his wedge in at full pelt, no thought for his own safety as he hurdled the fallen man. The speed and ferocity of his charge took the tribesmen by surprise. The flow of the battle around Conlan shifted as the upper hand returned to the legion.
Conlan and Dylon’s cohorts battled their way towards Yovas and his men, who had taken up position on a small hillock. Conlan marvelled at Yovas’s strength – almost sixty years old, he fought like a man possessed.
For one glorious moment, Conlan thought the battle might turn, but then a massive blonde warrior stepped forward. He towered over all nearby, mail vested, he wore a bearskin over his shoulders. His huge bare arms, twisted with muscle, glistened with blood and sweat. Unlike his countrymen, he did not scream, or shout, but let out a single roar of challenge, as if possessed by the bearskin he wore. The giant raised a massive war hammer in one hand and brought it smashing down on Yovas’s horse’s head. The animal dropped like a stone, pole-axed, throwing a stunned Yovas to the ground in the process.
Through the crush, Conlan saw Yovas raise both hands to shield himself as a sea of jubilant warriors engulfed him. Weapons rising and falling in a crazed orgy of glee.
“No!” Conlan shouted, fighting to get to Yovas’s body. But it was too late.
The bearskin-clad barbarian turned slowly towards Conlan. The giant had taken no part in Yovas’s killing, standing aside as his filth-ridden brothers did the work. On seeing Conlan and the advancing legionaries, he smiled broadly, eyes twinkling with glee and - letting out another ferocious roar - charged directly at them.
His countrymen seemed to hang back, as if making space to allow the blonde giant to attack. Conlan, moved to meet the giant, hoping that the rest of his cohort would follow. The barbarian moved freakishly fast for someone his size and quickly covered the ground between them, war hammer raised high for a crushing blow. Conlan lifted his shield in reply, steeled himself for the shock of the blow. But before it could land, a rock the size of a man’s fist flew into the savage’s temple, and he dropped to the mud at Conlan’s feet.
“Need a little help, did ya?” Dylon yelled.
Conlan glanced round to see his friend grinning broadly. “Glad you didn’t miss!”
Their champion dispatched, the tribesmen seemed to pause for a moment, then they pressed their attack with renewed fury. Conlan led his men to join ranks with the legionaries that remained around the standard.
The standard bearer fell a few moments later as a throwing axe glanced off his helmet and sliced down into his neck, opening the jugular.
Dylon stepped forward, scooping the standard out of the bearer’s hand before it could tumble to the earth. “For the Empire!” he roared “We are
Legion
, do ya hear me, you shit covered heathen pigs?
We... are... LEGION!!
” Dylon shook the standard in his fist as if taunting the horde, and, somehow, the men responded. Shoulder to shoulder around the hillock the legionaries fought on.
Time began to lose all meaning for Conlan. It seemed like he had been fighting for years, for the entirety of his existence. He blocked, stabbed, parried and ducked reflexively now, his body relying on instincts honed by years of hard training. He had lost count of the men he had dispatched, their faces a mad blur before him.
“Can’t. See the Third. Think they’ve. Broken,” said Jonas, fighting with ruthless efficiency; he spoke in rapid staccato, the only indication that he was tiring.
“
We
are the Third! We have the standard.”
Conlan’s sword was dashed from his hand as he blocked a savage blow. Instantly, Jonas stepped forward to cover him and dispatched the enemy with a slice that sounded like tearing silk.
Conlan retreated behind the shield wall, desperately seeking a sword amongst the fallen. The circle of men was barely twenty feet wide now. Each fallen comrade shrank the formation, bringing their inevitable doom ever closer.
A shadow passed overhead, drawing Conlan’s eyes toward Dylon. The huge man was on his knees, head bowed, as if in prayer, both hands wrapped tightly around the standard, holding it upright, forehead pressed against its obsidian shaft. Conlan reached out and touched the standard, and as he did so Dylon’s body slumped to the earth, revealing a huge blood soaked gash in the chainmail on his right side.
Conlan, fighting to catch his breath, leaned his weight on the staff for support and looked down at the body of his friend. Dylon looked peaceful in death and younger than he had in life, softer somehow.
Conlan felt certain he would join his friend in the halls of the dark god before the day was over. Dylon had died as he had lived, maintaining the honour of the legion. Conlan breathed a silent prayer to Lord Terran that someone would survive to tell the tale of their valour.
A crackling sound echoed across the valley from the east, then a bright flash. A strong gust of wind buffeted legionary and barbarian alike. Conlan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Laughter boomed across the field of battle, quickly followed by shouts, many shouts, coming from the east. Conlan strained to listen… heard a word carried on the wind, repeated again and again: “Covashi.”
The word was alien to Conlan’s ears. From his vantage point atop the hillock, he saw the enemy ranks thinning out around his beleaguered little group.
Where formerly the enemy had bayed for blood, attacking with abandon, many men now began to rush east, where a great tumult was rising to drown out the laughter. The shield wall was still surrounded, but the frenzy of the attack was reduced, as if the riotous consciousness of the horde was distracted.
Attacks against the shield wall became sporadic, the enemy inexplicably shifting to a defensive stance, taunting the legionaries, many dashed forward to attack, then rapidly retreated. Others looked to the east. They seemed torn between destroying the remnants of the legion and investigating the approaching clamour. There were men in the horde now that looked unsettled, uncertain.
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.