Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  Dubgetious went to a knee and lifted his spear. The horsemen were almost upon him and he wanted to die quickly rather than be flayed alive. A group of the riders came at him, their lips twisted with hatred and intent.

  The trio of Masulians swooped past them, shrieking like shades released from the lands of death, raining spears into the riders. Men screamed and fell. Spears flew between the two groups and a Masulian took a broad-bladed spear in his forehead. He dropped amongst the flashing hooves without a sound. Dubgetious snarled as an Oretani rider emerged from the melee, his eyes on the Masulians who rode rings around them. A light throwing spear bounced and quivered from his shoulder. Dubgetious surged forward from the ground, shoving his spear up into the distracted warrior’s body and lifting him from the horse. Releasing the spear, Dubgetious snatched for the reins and missed. The horse, maddened by the panic of its now dead rider, the coppery stink of blood and the screams of its fellows, spun away from Dubgetious and launched a kick at his head. He ducked under the flailing hoofs and dived, landing beside the dangling reins. Grasping, his fist closed around the coarse leather reins and he allowed the mount to pull him to his feet. In a heartbeat, he was astride, pressing his knees hard into its shoulders, he held tight as it turned in a close circle, neighing and snapping at him. Then he flicked the reins and let it run.

  Chapter 20

  Lyda and the remnants of the small Bastetani force, stole through the chaotic camp. Seeking the densest smoke, always avoiding ravaging bands of Oretani warriors or hard fighting Libyans and Turdetani. Of the Gauls, there seemed to be no sign.

  “The Gaul’s lines were near here I think.” Tucsux growled, sniffing the air and pointing to a cluster of burning wagons. “I recognise those three wagons. They were damaged and to be repaired.”

  “Which way from here?” Lyda scanned about her warily. The battle was moving their way and groups of warriors were running in every direction, some feverishly seeking loot, others to merely survive.

  Tucsux said nothing, but moved forward purposefully. Lyda nodded after him and the rest followed, eyes darting everywhere, knuckles white. Cenos brought up the rear, face pale and brow sweat soaked. Lyda took her arm and helped her forward.

  “Be good to see that bloody Herb Queen.” Cenos croaked, through her panting.

  “Keep your breath for walking. She will be close.”

  The Gauls, when they appeared, were moving fast. They came from the north, bloodied and missing many of their number, but they moved with purpose. Lyda saw them first and whistled the alarm. At once, the Bastetani warriors folded themselves behind any available cover. Lyda dragged Cenos behind a butchered mule, crouching in the bloody mud and leaning close to the creatures stinking belly.

  The Gauls, silent for once, padded on, unaware of the Bastetani. Tucsux raised a hand and Lyda and the rest rose to follow. A murmur caught Lyda’s attention. It had sounded as though a shade had called her name. The hair on her arms stood and an icy shiver swept down her spine. It came again, more clearly in a fortuitous lull in the sounds of battle. With a soft whistle to alert Tucsux, she turned to the sound.

  The Herb Queen lay beneath an overturned wagon, her face bruised and swollen, eyes almost shut with blood that had streamed from the vicious cut to her head. Lyda gasped at the sight and dropped to her knees to hold the young woman’s hand.

  “What has happened?” She asked softly.

  The Herb Queen grinned through split lips showing blood between her teeth. “War.” She hawked and spat a glob of blood weakly from her mouth. “Water if you have.”

  Cenos uncapped her waterskin and held it to the woman’s lips. “And I was hoping you would be mending me.” Her voice was gentle.

  The Herb Queen drank, choked and pushed the skin away. “Get this cursed wagon off my leg and I would.” She grinned again and Lyda saw a spark in her eye.

  “You are not dying?” Her relief was overwhelming.

  “Not today. Horsemen did this as I ran.” She touched her wounded head gingerly. “The wagon turned and fell on me after, saving me from worse.” Her grin flashed again. “Your son passed. Riding like he had a fire burning in his sack.” She grabbed at Lyda’s wrist. “Lyda, he was following the Barca. You should think about what that means.”

  Lyda’s exultant expression faltered and crimson blooms grew on her cheeks. The warrior woman visibly shuddered and lifted her face to the heavens from which rained soot and burning embers.

  “I will do what needs doing.” She ground out.

  Tucsux and four more Bastetani cursed and strained to heave the wagon up. Lyda and Cenos grabbed the Herb Queen beneath her arms and hauled her from under the wagon when it lifted. She writhed silently for a heartbeat as blood gushed back into her leg, her fingers clutching her knee.

  “Broken?”

  “The gods have other plans. It will be fine.” She grimaced and cursed as a cramp seized the muscles of her leg. Catching her breath, she went on. “You can still find him, Lyda. He went past not long before you showed.” She pointed. “Ride towards the bald rock on the face of that hill.”

  Lyda stood and squinted, seeing the rock in the distance. She also saw the horsemen. Just two of them, tiny as fleas, riding swiftly across the face of the hill.

  “We have no mounts!” She cursed.

  “Their own will be winded. If we follow we will catch up to them.” Cenos grunted, standing resolutely.

  Tucsux nodded, eyes fixed on Lyda. She smiled then, a hard smile.

  Dubgetious beat down a warrior hauling at his leg, smashing his blade against the man’s iron helmet and splitting it. Another thrust a spear at his belly, forcing him to jerk his knee into the shaft, deflecting the blade. He lashed a backhanded blow across that man’s face, slicing him from ear to ear. Then he was free, the last of the Oretani warriors behind him. Ahead, rode Hamilcar. The General clung to his horse as it laboured up a hillside.

  Dubgetious’ own mount was breathing hard, its coat lathered white, but he urged it on remorselessly. He could not let Hamilcar die. The man was responsible for what had happened to his clan, to Beratza, but Dubgetious knew that if Hamilcar died and Hasdrubal came seeking revenge, the hills would be drenched in the blood of his people. He had also seen the sophistication of the Carthaginians and knew that nothing would be the same for the Bastetani, Turdetani or any of the people of his land. Hamilcar and Carthage offered a new world for them all.

  Hamilcar pitched from his mount and tumbled through the wiry brush that coated the hillside, arms flopping loosely.

  When Dubgetious reached him, the general was pulling himself up, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He leapt from his mount which promptly skittered away, determined to run free.

  “We are lost. How did this happen?” Hamilcar was staring at the valley below. The Oretani held the greatest swath. They had overrun the entire camp where they howled and looted still. Thousands of Hamilcar’s warriors were retreating south, abandoning the field to the enemy. The rest lay mauled and dead where they had been killed fighting or slain as they tried to flee.

  “The gods willed it. Your army is still strong. We just need to reach it.”

  “My sons. Hannibal. He must live.” With these words, Hamilcar rallied and his eyes lost the blank look of despair. He clutched Dubgetious’ shoulder and rose ponderously.

  Dubgetious helped him stand, seeing only now the fletching of an arrow standing proud in the Carthaginian’s lower back. It looked to be a deep wound. The kind that would kill in a day.

  He lifted Hamilcar’s arm over his shoulder and pulled him up the hillside. Even with his broad shoulders and the strength of his youth, he was gasping by the time he reached the crest of the hill.

  “Lower me. I must drink.” Hamilcar muttered through his bedraggled beard.

  Gratefully, Dubgetious set him down. As he did so, he saw a line of warriors loping towards the foot of the hill. His heart missed a beat and he cursed. The Oretani would run all night to capture
Hamilcar.

  “They are hunting us. We cannot stay here.”

  Hamilcar had seen the enemy as well and spat. “Bastards. I do not even have so much as an eating knife.”

  A second group of warriors was now racing towards the hill. It would soon be swarming with enemy blades.

  “The hill slopes down to the river beyond. There will be places to conceal ourselves.” Dubgetious lifted Hamilcar once again, the sweat from the ascent still not dried.

  They lurched over the hill and began the painful path down. Thorn bushes lashed at their legs and arms, rocks and roots caught their ankles and mud set them sliding painfully across rough rocks. Pace by shuffling pace, the two managed to worm their way deeper into the dense growth above the river. Dubgetious could already hear the calls of the hunters from the top of the hill. They had no hounds, but the trail would be easy enough to find.

  They stumbled from beneath a dense growth of bushes onto a rocky promontory overlooking the river raging below them. The rains had filled it from bank to bank with a torrent of mud-brown water.

  “The gods are not done with us yet, it seems.” Hamilcar coughed a fine spray of red from his lips, groaned and slid to the ground.

  Dubgetious paced nervously and peered through the thick foliage back the way they had come. He could hear nothing over the roaring waters and his heart sank when he spied a shadowy form moving through the dense growth. Another followed and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom beneath the canopy of trees and brush, he saw still more.

  “They have found us.” He whispered, dragging his sword from its sheath.

  The Carthaginian nodded, his eyes flicking between the blade and him. “It is over for me then. It would be a favour if you would allow me to use that blade to deny them taking me captive.”

  Dubgetious’ chin dipped. “If it comes to that I will.” His smile, made crooked by his nerves, lifted his lips. “They are not so many yet.”

  Hamilcar grinned and looked away. “I was young and brave too once.” He turned back, his face sorrowful. “I release you from your oath. Go now before they kill you too.”

  Dubgetious frowned, uncertain. “It would be wrong.”

  Hamilcar struggled to his feet, his face grim. “Enough of honour and bravery! Take this chance to live!” He reached out his hand, fingers dark with blood and dirt, for the sword Dubgetious held and then his eyes flicked beyond Dubgetious.

  Whirling on his heel, sword lifted to strike, Dubgetious growled and then gaped at the warriors breaking from the cover of the bush to stand before him.

  “Mother?” His eyes grew wide, his chin trembled, as though a boy again.

  “Son.” Voice thick with tender emotion, her face a pattern of dirt and blood, Lyda stepped out of the shadows.

  At her back were Tucsux and Cenos. Another figure lingered in the gloom and Dubgetious guessed it was Eppa.

  Lyda’s lips twisted as she glared at the Carthaginian standing stooped and bloody a pace behind Dubgetious. “The Barca?”

  Dubgetious held his sword stiffly at his side. “Hamilcar of Carthage.”

  Lyda stepped forward, her intent clear in narrowed eyes and clenched jaw.

  Dubgetious blocked her. “I swore an oath to Hamilcar. Do not force me to break it or…” He pushed weakly with his left hand at Lyda’s chest.

  His mother leaned against his outstretched hand, her spear held cocked at her shoulder.

  “He slaughtered our people. Took you as a slave!” Veins swelled at her throat.

  “You were not there, Mother!” His eyes went to Tucsux standing at Lyda’s shoulder. “We fought and lost. All our clan would have perished if I had not given my oath. You would have surely done the same?”

  Tucsux moved fast, his hand a blur, slamming his spear down across Dubgetious’ wrist. Dubgetious saw the old warrior’s move coming and caught the blow with his blade with an ear-splitting ring of iron on iron. Tucsux’ spear head snapped, a wicked edge spinning away into the river.

  Dubgetious snarled and struck, shearing the shaft of the spear just above Tucsux hand. Lyda swept out a foot and kicked his knee, folding his leg under him. In a heartbeat, she was standing over him, nostrils flared in fury.

  “Do you know how many of my companions have died searching for you? Yet here you are defending him.” She choked, gasping as tears welled in her eyes. “I killed Venza for allowing you to be taken.”

  “You killed my father?” He gasped.

  “He was not…” Lyda snapped a look over her shoulder at a sudden scream from within the trees.

  “I honour my oath.” Dubgetious took the opportunity to twist and draw his short knife, ready to strike.

  “I offered to free him of his oath. Your son is a good man.” Hamilcar tried to stand straight, but his legs tottered. “Curses. I am a dead man, anyway. Kill me and take your son home.”

  The thumping impact of a spear strike silenced them all for a heartbeat. A heavy spear was lodged deep in the chest of the veteran Bastetani warrior. Tucsux glared down at the shaft for a dying heartbeat before looking up at Lyda.

  “The truth. He deserves it, Lyda.” The warrior toppled to the ground, his shade already free of his dead body.

  The scene erupted into a frenzied rush of warriors and blades. Wild war cries shrilled from the trees and another spear hurtled into the clearing, narrowly missing both Dubgetious and a stricken Lyda.

  “Mother! I will fight them! Take Hamilcar down the river.” He caught her arm and turned her away from the lifeless body of her long-time shield brother.

  Cenos growled a war cry and hacked at the first of the enemy to spring from the trees, taking him above the knee. He shrieked and folded onto the rocks at her feet, hands clutching the splintered limb. With a grunt, Cenos shoved him into the roaring river below them.

  Dubgetious shook his mother who lifted her arms, loosening his grip on her. She slapped him across the cheek and then embraced him for a fleeting moment, savouring the life of her only child deeply.

  “I must stay. The world now belongs to those like you who can build new bridges.”

  The trees shook as unseen warriors leaped down the hill to reach them on the promontory.

  Cenos backed up, sweat blinding her eyes, shoulders hunched. Dubgetious made to protest, but Cenos cursed him. “You deaf, pup? Your mother and I are dead. Take your king and go build us a bloody great pyre. Do it now!” She ducked as three warriors leaped from the trees. Her spear a flash of motion that opened a man’s thigh from knee to groin and drenched her in his blood.

  Dubgetious was shoved back by his mother who leaped at their attackers. Her war cry as piercing as flint, her sword bit sharp and claimed another.

  Cenos spun away from a blow that opened her throat, her eyes boring into Dubgetious’ own. Blood flowing in a sheet from the wound, she raised a hand and pointed Dubgetious to the far bank. An Oretani warrior drove his spear into Cenos’ back before she had bled dry, its wicked blade opening her chest, splitting her tunic and mutilating a breast.

  Lyda flew at the warrior, only to be beaten back by two more who appeared from among the trees. A club slammed into her elbow and bones snapped like dried twigs.

  Hamilcar placed heavy hands on Dubgetious’ shoulders, holding him back though it cost him deeply. “Do not watch, boy.”

  “Go Dubgetious!” Lyda screamed as her blade lashed out, cutting through the clubman’s ankle.

  Dubgetious saw another figure materialise from the shadows. The warrior from Sucro. He was bloody and soiled, chest sucking in great bellows of air as he shouldered through the ever-growing numbers of Oretani warriors. Dubgetious knew him as a man of his mother’s people to the east. The Greek saw Lyda at the feet of her killers and his face turned the colour of winter cloud. He looked past her bloodied body and straight at Dubgetious. The warrior from Sucro reached out a hand to him and at that moment, Hamilcar dragged him from the rock and into a void.

  Epilogue

  Clouds the colour of newl
y forged iron helmets grew thick, blotting out the sun and a cold wind gusted through the valley, whipping rust coloured foam from the river into thick drifts between boulders and bleached timber. The scent of river, rock and rain was thick and the roar of the cataracts was shadowed by the rush of wind through forests that reached down to the river.

  Dubgetious worked his hand into a crevasse and bunched it into a fist. He felt the pressure on his knuckles when he pulled, but no pain. With his other hand, he gripped tight the thick wool of the general’s tunic where it bulged from his armour.

  With a long deep growl, he heaved and pulled himself higher, feeling the wind whipping his legs now as they came clear of the river’s icy grip.

  He lay his head down and breathed deeply until the white clouds passed from his vision and he could see straight once more. It took him a long while to drag himself and the motionless general from the ever-rushing water and when at last he rolled onto a moss-covered rock above the water’s edge; he had all the strength of a newly hatched duckling. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a weariness that fed on his mind like a malign shade. He dared not sleep though. His flesh had turned the colour of the clouds above and he shook violently. He would never wake if he slept.

  Crawling to his feet against a boulder, he looked to the dark forest, first for danger and then for shelter. He dragged the general into the tree line and then used the last of his strength to strike a spark which he fed the shredded inside of tree bark.

  As the flames grew, Dubgetious risked adding branches more green than seasoned. The wind would whip the smoke away into the forest where no man would know its source. He was wrong.

  He slept beyond where dreams catch the spirit. There in the deepest dark where no sound or scent floats.

  He came awake when the first blow landed, snapping his head to the side and splitting the skin above his eye so that he was blinded by blood.

  “Tie him I ordered! Not kill him.” The voice cracked through the clouds that obscured Dubgetious’ vision. He shook his head and snarled as knees dropped onto his arms and thighs, pinning him. Calloused hands tightened their hold. The hands of old warriors.