by Ellis Knox
He now had a look at the attacker. It was not a man but some sort of beast. He saw clearly a long face, almost wolf-like but with close-set eyes and two rows of teeth jutting from the lower jaw. The small eyes glittered, then rolled up and the creature fell to the ground. Behind it a trooper pulled his blade from its back. The man was spattered with blood and he shouted, “pick up your sword!” and then ran off. There was a bitter, foul smell in the air.
Julian looked around, and saw his sword lying a few feet away on the ground. He snatched it up, grateful that he’d not lost it in the fog. All around him he saw incredible shapes. Some turned out to be trees, some turned out to be men or horses. And some turned out to be creatures. They were everywhere and nowhere, leaping in great bounds, coming up out of the fog and falling back into it. Some shouts and a scream sounded nearby, to his right, so he ran in that direction, desperately hoping that something would soon start making sense. Two creatures bounded across his path but were gone before he could reach them. What were these things? Lions? Apes? Harpies? Nothing he was seeing matched anything he knew. The barbarian word floated through his brain: cobbel, cobbel.
Another ran past him, bounding like a rabbit, using its hind legs. It looked at him and took a step. It was followed closely by a rider on horseback who rode it down and cut its arm off with a single blow. It twisted and leaped in agony, then fell, twitching and gushing blood. The rider was a woman. This meant something, but he did not have time to wonder about it. In the next moment another creature came through the fog, leaping as high as the woman’s head. In a flash she swung her sword and split the beast in two. Blood spurted everywhere, drenching rider and horse. She wheeled and was lost again in the fog.
He was angry. He wanted to kill something but nothing would hold still long enough. His men were dying all around him. It was intolerable that he should be standing here, untouched. He started moving again.
He caught glimpses of unbelievable things. He saw a creature leap upon the shoulders of a legionary and rip his head off. An instant later, the beast was itself consumed in fire, even before the soldier’s body had crumpled to the ground. Elsewhere, he saw a javelin fly through the air and become three javelins before disappearing into the fog again. He saw a barbarian dressed in sable, turning slowly, arms outstretched, oblivious to everything, with the fog seeming to gather around her in heavy coils. He saw so many unbelievable things that he stopped disbelieving.
He stopped thinking about any of it. None of it mattered. Attack the enemy. The thought steadied him.
After running a little way, he saw a familiar figure. The fog was lessening, and he saw Captain Ennius fighting three of the creatures. A fourth lay dead on the ground, along with two troopers. Glad to be able to fight at last, Julian charged. He stabbed the nearest one in the neck. He held onto his sword as the beast whirled violently, flinging him into the air. Another creature swung at him. It hit him on the back with what felt like an entire wall, but he managed to wrench the sword from the neck of the first beast as he fell. He hit the ground and rolled, then scrambled to his feet again. He heard a shout from Ennius, part battle cry and part cry of pain. Julian looked and saw the Captain back on his heels as two creatures clawed at him.
Julian charged again and plunged his sword into the side of one of them. He was close enough to see Ennius covered with blood. The two men locked eyes for a moment, then Ennius went down under flailing arms and talons. Julian snarled, and leaped, driving one beast to the ground, slashing at it. It writhed madly and one of its claws dug into Julian’s thigh. He rolled free and got up ready to attack, but his attacker was already dead.
The other creature stood over Ennius, who was lying face down across a fallen log, not moving. Julian shouted and the creature turned and looked at him over its shoulder. It raised an arm and he saw long talons, dripping blood. It opened its mouth and a purplish tongue slid out, lizard-like, over a double row of sharp teeth. It bent its legs slightly. Julian grasped his sword. It leaped.
Julian saw the blow come toward him. His vision narrowed to the single arm swinging at him. He saw red blood streaking the clawed hand. He felt the talons tear at him.
With eerie precision he saw his own skin open under the talons, exposing the flesh which was pale and bloodless. He saw the white of bone. For a single instant he had the image of a plow cutting a furrow in the earth.
Then his left arm, rising too late, struck the creature’s arm, deflecting it away. In all these few instants he had felt no pain, but when his arm struck, he felt fire burn across his chest. He staggered. He brought his sword forward and stabbed savagely, pulled back, stabbed again.
The creature fell forward, into him.
Pain enveloped Julian. Every wound screamed at him, robbing him of strength. The dying creature bore him down. When he hit the ground it felt like a hammer had struck him. A jolt ran down his spine. He tried to move, but a second hammer now struck from above, and he was pinned beneath bodies. He opened his mouth, but a vile liquid choked him. The monster above him was bleeding onto his face. His arm was trapped. His legs would not move.
He couldn’t get any sort of leverage. His right arm felt numb and his head was swirling. The blood of the creature smelled like burning metal. He heard long, shrill screams, whether of horse or human he could not tell. Then came trumpets sounding, and men’s voices shouting.
It was the Legion. Thoughts swirled like the fog: Marcus was bringing the Legion to the rescue. But who were the others? Were they survivors of the battle? How could one javelin become three? How could a woman cut a creature in half? And what was a woman doing here in the first place? He was bleeding. The weight of bodies nearly crushed the breath from him. He needed to get up. Give orders. It was important. But the bleeding was important, too.
Gradually he realized that he heard voices, but no longer did he hear fighting.
Then he heard “Here! Over here!” and someone shouted “The Captain’s hurt!”
He heard men all around, but the weight of the dead monsters still pressed down upon him. He tried to move again, but something like lightning shot through his shoulder. He groaned.
“There’s someone alive under there,” a voice said. “You tend to the Captain. You and you, help me pull these things away.”
The weight was worse as the bodies pulled at him, then suddenly the weight was gone and Julian saw trees and sky, and the faces of Roman soldiers.
“It’s the General!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Healers
Marcus Salvius toiled through the fog with the rest of the Legion, panting hard. Sounds of fighting came down the hill, but the fog made it impossible for him to be sure of the direction. Stay in formation, he told himself, reciting one of the most fundamental lessons a soldier learns. Trumpets somewhere sounded a charge. From off to the left? He put his head down and kept moving.
When he looked up again, he was at the battlefield. The fog was much less here, and there were no more sounds of fighting. He pulled up and called halt. He looked around, blinking as if he had just walked into sunlight from a dark room.
The hillside was less steep here, and the trees less thick. The ground was torn up, the way a battlefield always is, with the brush trampled and the earth gouged. He saw Roman wounded and dead; his experienced eye took note of the injuries—long, slashing wounds not made by any sword. The Legion looked like it had been torn at by some mad beast.
Among the Romans were strangers, Thervings by the look of them. Not many, only two here and three over there, one tending to a fallen comrade. He had little time to wonder about them, for another sight grabbed his attention—strange bodies, unlike anything he had ever seen, lying dead.
The animals—they could not be men—were marked by bizarre wounds. One had all its hide burned away and stank of cooked flesh. Another had been sliced in two as if by a giant butcher. A third was twisted, its head swiveled almost completely around. Over a fourth stood a man, a barbarian in skins and furs, pu
lling long arrows from the body. Marcus noted that; the Thervings had been allies in the fight.
Some Romans were gathering the casualties. Other soldiers hurried across the battlefield intent on some errand. A few already had their shovels out to set up a camp. Many merely stood and stared. With a start, Marcus realized he was one of them.
Two soldiers approached him, both looking pale. Their faces triggered something inside of him and he returned to action. He shook his head like a bull does, then spoke sharply.
“Soldier, take ten men to the edge of this clearing, over that way, the way we came. Hai, Lucius Plautus!” he called.
“Marcus Salvius! Have you seen the General?”
“No, nor Ennius. I need you to take your Second. Secure the uphill flank.”
“Aye to that, First. Here’s hoping there’s no more of these beasts.”
“Vere,” Marcus said.
He spotted a shield, propped up against a tree as if left there intentionally. It belonged to the Third Cohort and had its bearer’s name inscribed in one corner. Nearby lay a body on stained ground. It lacked a head. The neck ended in a mangle of bone and innards. He had known this man.
“First Tribune?”
Another soldier was at his side. Marcus roused himself.
“Post sentries, Anacletus. Tell the Second to see to it. I want a vallum up as quick as you can. Pass the word I need to hear from each of my tribunes. Go!” They weren’t his tribunes, he knew that. They belonged to General Metellus. But where was he?
The soldier darted away, already calling out. As he ran, he shied away from something on the ground. Marcus walked over to it and for the first time truly looked at the dead creatures.
His brain performed contortions as it tried to make sense of what he saw. Pig? Lizard? Bear? Nothing fit.
He bent to take a closer look. The thing had arms and legs, but also a thick tail about three feet long. Its legs were bulky and powerful, like the hind legs of a bear; the thing could walk upright. Its arms were longer than a bear’s, human-like, except that the fingers on its hands ended in heavy, talon-like nails, which curved like those of a bird of prey.
Its long, flat head had a snout, above which sat small, close-set eyes; he thought of a wolf, but thought too of a lizard. He pried open the mouth with a stick. Inside were two rows of small, sharp teeth. They reminded him of the pike common in the River Ister.
It had hide rather than skin. He ran his hand across the skull, then along one arm. The flesh was cold to the touch, slick like snake skin, with almost no fat beneath, only corded rows of muscles.
This was no animal. It was a monster.
He seized on the word. But this monster had attacked Romans, and it could be killed, so he chose another word.
Enemy.
“Sir, we found the Captain.”
Marcus turned. It was a new recruit, unknown to him. He rarely knew all the Fourths. This one had big, round eyes, and was still in his first beard.
“Alive?”
The youth nodded. “But he’s hurt, sir.”
“Take me there. Hai, Vatia Symmachus!” he called out as he spotted another man. “Put the Third on our south flank!”
The other nodded and started calling out orders. It would be enough. The soldiers might not know what to make of the fight or of the enemy, but they knew how to set up a fortified position.
“Let’s go.”
He followed the soldier to the north side of the clearing. Along the way he saw more bodies: four more Romans and several more monsters.
Enemy, he corrected himself. They are the enemy.
He soon arrived at a knot of men standing near a fallen log; Captain Ennius lay on the ground, unmoving. His armor was torn and dark with blood.
“He won’t wake up, First,” one of the soldiers said, his voice sounding puzzled and child-like.
Marcus knelt down to examine the cavalry captain more closely. A number of gashes on Ennius’ chest and forearms oozed blood. His helmet lay nearby, badly dented.
“Over here,” a voice called. Marcus looked in that direction. Four men were near a pile of enemy corpses, pulling at them.
“It’s the General!”
Marcus hurried over. At the bottom lay Julian. His eyes were open and he was moaning.
“The General killed all them cobbels,” one of the men said, gesturing at the bodies. “He saved the Captain.”
“Took them on single-handed,” said another. “And with no shield.”
“Fetch the surgeon,” Marcus said to no one and everyone. “Whatever he’s doing, bring him here at once.”
He fixed his eye on two of the soldiers.
“We can’t leave the General lying in the middle of these creatures,” he said. He glanced around, then pointed. “Carry him—carefully!—to that tree over there. Fetch water. And if you come across that slave of his, bring the man to him.”
The other soldiers darted away as if glad to be gone. Not long after, Pheidon arrived.
The young surgeon glanced at Julian, then at Ennius.
“Which,” he said.
“Both,” Marcus growled.
The surgeon shrugged and went to examine Ennius. Marcus suppressed the urge to lash out at the man. All surgeons were like this, he reminded himself. Their patients were simply problems to be solved, as quickly as possible.
A soldier came running up, took in the scene, and pulled up short. He took a step, took it back again, raised a hand but did not speak. Marcus finally noticed him.
“Well?”
“Salve, First Tribune,” the man said, still out of breath. “Rufus Panneus, Tribune of the Fourth, sends his regards.”
“I know the Tribunes’ names, soldier.” Marcus barely glanced at him. He was preoccupied with the surgeon, who was carefully but swiftly removing Ennius’ shredded armor. Marcus grimaced at the sight.
“Sorry, First. Rufus Panneus requests orders. With apologies, he has not heard from the commander.”
The man stopped as other soldiers looked meaningfully toward the tree where Julian was being propped up.
“Is he …?”
“The General lives,” Marcus said. “Tell Rufus to secure the damned field then report to the Second. I’ll be along once, …” he looked at Ennius, and faltered. “Once … I …” He waved one hand helplessly.
The soldier nodded smartly. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
Marcus was uncomfortably aware everyone was looking at him while making a show of not looking at him.
“Surgeon, how is he?” he said, not troubling to keep the concern from his voice.
Pheidon looked up. His eyes told the story.
“I find a dozen wounds,” Pheidon said, “and I have yet to turn him over. The Captain will not live.”
Marcus nodded once.
“Do what you can.”
He turned away, but found himself facing soldiers. He looked down, but had nowhere to hide his tears.
“Perhaps we can help.”
He looked up to see a group of barbarians approaching, with a woman at their head.
She wore deerskin leggings and shirt, with a brown robe over them. A belted sash crossed her front and the hilt of a sword showed just above her shoulder. She had long black hair which she wore in double braids. Her eyes were sea green. Her face was strong in the brow and jaw, softened a little by full lips. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, even more beautiful than the grand ladies of the Court.
Pheidon rose as the barbarians drew near. He stood over Ennius, one hand out as if to stop them. “Who are you?”
“Are you the Roman General?” she asked.
“No,” Marcus said, quickly, motioning for Pheidon to be quiet. “The General is over there.”
She frowned a little, then nodded. “And this one?”
“He is Gaius Herennius Actius Pulcher, Captain of the Cavalry.” He didn’t know why he bothered giving the title. “My name is Marcus Salvius, First Tribune of the Legio XII H
eraclea. That,” he pointed, “is Lucius Julianus Metellus, General of the Legion.”
Inglena blinked. She looked very confused.
“What is your name?” Marcus asked.
“Inglena,” she said.
A young man just behind her scowled at this, and spoke up.
“Princess Inglena,” he said, jutting out his jaw as if daring Marcus to say otherwise.
The woman made a small wave of her hand. “Inglena is my name,” she said, “that is enough.”
“Inglena,” Marcus repeated. “Call me Marcus.”
She nodded. “Fetch Peraxis,” she said to one of her men. A lean, hard-eyed man took off at a run.
“Peraxis is a healer,” she explained to Marcus. “I do not know if your people can do …” she seemed to grope for a right word, “… occulto? Cantator?”
“Sorcery!” Pheidon said, shocked.
“Peraxis can help when herbs and bandages are not enough,” she said.
“And what will your man do,” Pheidon said, “pray to the gods?”
“No,” Inglena said, “the gods do not heal men.”
The surgeon harrumphed then looked to Marcus.
“Can you save him?” Marcus asked the surgeon.
“No one can save him,” Pheidon said emphatically. “His wounds are fatal.”
Marcus winced. “Then tend to the General. Inglena, if your man can help Ennius, I’ll be grateful.”
Pheidon started to protest, but merely bowed his head when he saw the determined look on Marcus’ face. He gathered his bags and pouches, then stomped away with a final contemptuous glare at the newcomers.
Marcus turned to Inglena.
“Who are you people?”
Before she could answer, a barbarian dressed in a brown robe, and a fine fur hat, approached. Inglena spoke quietly to him.
“Yennsa?” she said.
The man only shook his head. The woman’s lips tightened but she said nothing further. The man knelt beside Ennius and placed his hands, already bloody, on the Captain’s chest.
