Ironroot tote-2

by S. J. A. Turney

  Salonius bridled at the slight condescension implied by the phrase ‘the lad’ but kept his tongue. This was not the time for argument.

  Varro shaded his eyes and peered back up the valley.

  “He’s right. There’s more than those dozen outriders. Half the damn cohort’s coming!”

  They followed his pointed finger and squinted into the sun. The two small groups of riders were pushing their mounts hard and were close behind. Given the quality of their cavalry steeds against the four stolen horses, they would easily pass them over the next two miles. But the sight that chilled Salonius’ blood was the rising cloud of dust further up the valley; the sort of dust cloud that could only be kicked up by a sizeable cavalry unit travelling at speed.

  Varro grunted.

  “We’re going to have to deal with this lot at the bridge pretty quickly.”

  Petrus glanced at Salonius and raised an eyebrow provocatively. The younger man ignored him and frowned.

  “That cavalry won’t take long to catch us. If we survive that, we’re going to have to find a way to block the bridge and slow them down.”

  “I’ll block it with bodies!” rumbled Petrus. Varro smiled.

  “Salonius’ll figure it out. You just concentrate on the fight ahead.”

  The four of them kicked their horses and raced off toward the village. As they travelled, throwing up clouds of dust, Varro and his companions kept an eye on their pursuers. The outriders, realising they’d been seen, had given up any hope of subterfuge and were racing along the sides of the valley. Quickly it became apparent that their horses were of far superior quality to the civilian steeds the four fugitives had taken from Saravis Fork. In little over a mile, the ambushers were already level with their prey. They would have ample time to position themselves at the bridge.

  As they rode, Varro drew his heavy Imperial blade from the sheath by his saddle. A moment later Petrus and Salonius followed suit. As Catilina moved to draw a sword from her pack, however, Varro shook his head.

  “Not you!”

  Catilina, her hair streaming behind her dramatically, flashed an angry look at him and drew the sword defiantly.

  “Your father will kill me anyway if I get you harmed. Put it away!”

  “No!” She gritted her teeth. “I need to be able to defend myself anyway, you cretin!”

  Varro blinked in surprise and then let out a short laugh.

  “Then stay as out of the way as you can, my love!”

  Salonius smiled to himself. It was the first time he’d heard Varro refer to the relationship that was clearly blossoming once more between them. He’d have to pray to the Gods that Scortius could find some sort of cure for this incurable poison.

  Brandishing their swords, the four rode on, bearing down on the village.

  “I’ll take the right side” shouted Petrus over the drumming of their hooves. “Peripheral vision problems!”

  Varro nodded. “You take the left!” he shouted at Salonius, before turning to Catilina. “And you stay at the back and watch that lot behind us.”

  Salonius frowned and allowed his horse, currently out front by a neck, to drop back a little until he rode alongside the defiant-looking lady with her blade held low.

  “My lady?”

  She turned to look at him and raised her eyebrows.

  “How’s your aim?” he enquired.

  The eyebrow dropped into a frown.

  “Good. Why?”

  Salonius grinned.

  “Because I have a sling and a pouch of shot in my bag. For hunting coneys.”

  She returned his smile.

  “Never used a proper slingshot, but I’ve had plenty of practise with home-made slings and catapults.”

  Clutching his reins with his sword hand and keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Salonius reached round into a saddle bag and rummaged among its contents. Concentrating, he dug deep through his travelling gear until he finally found what he was looking for and his fingers closed on a leather strap. Hauling it out, the heavy bag of shot came with it, tied to one loose end. Extending his arm, he proffered the weapon to Catilina, who gave it an appraising glance and then sheathed her sword before taking it.

  “Heavy stones,” she said. “They’ll hurt.”

  “They’re not stones,” Salonius replied. “That’s the proper lead shot that gets issued to all engineers. You can kill quite easily with a well placed blow. But be really careful with where you aim.”

  “Oh I shall.” She replied with a smile, and began to untangle the strap from the fastening on the pouch as she rode. “Believe me, I shall.”

  As they passed the first houses of the village, it was clear that the population had dispersed the moment they saw trouble approaching. The open space at the centre of the settlement was empty and, Salonius noted, there was no sign remaining of the gruesome mess they had left a few days ago. Even the wooden rail had gone from between the trees. His attention was drawn back to the bridge ahead.

  A group of Imperial soldiers from the Saravis Fork garrison blocked the far end of the bridge, four of them standing in front of that same wooden rail that had now been placed across the thoroughfare and wedged in at both ends where the men had bashed out chunks of mortar between the stones. With a smile, Salonius filed that thought away. The other men were gathered behind them, some at the bridge end, the rest to one side, on the top of the steep bank.

  “Stop!” a voice called from the bridge, laden with authority. “I’m under orders to take you four to the captain.”

  Varro reined in his mount, having ruled out the possibility of attacking or evading on horseback. Riding them down would have been a dangerous option at best, but in close combat in such a confined area being mounted would present too many vulnerable spots to the enemy and so many additional risks for the rider. And, of course, the horses would be too tired after travelling speedily through the night to even attempt to jump such a large crowd of people. He nodded at his companions and handed his reins to Catilina. She took them and tied them to her own before reaching out and gesturing to the others.

  Salonius and Petrus dismounted and handed over their reins, hefting their swords. Petrus gave his a practise swing, clutching his shoulder where the muscles were not used to such exertion these days.

  “Put down the swords and we’ll not harm you” the leader of the soldiers called from the bridge.

  Varro smiled at Petrus, shrugged, and the two broke into a run, Petrus’ slight limp not hampering him at all, and becoming unnoticeable at speed. Salonius gave a startled squawk and then raced after them, veering off to the left as planned.

  The dramatic effect of the sudden charge was visible on the faces of the enemy as the running men drew closer. Clearly they had expected this to end without a fight. Some hadn’t even unsheathed their weapons yet.

  The front line of defenders prepared themselves for a charge in the traditional manner; shields locked in front, four abreast and with the wooden rail supporting them behind. Had they been facing an ordinary foe in a normal military situation, it would have stood them in good stead. Their attackers, however, were far from an ordinary foe.

  As they reached the bridge itself, Salonius hefted his sword again, and then noticed with surprise that Varro and Petrus had flipped their swords around so that they were pointing out behind and had turned their bodies slightly to the left so that they were both almost facing him.

  Varro winked.

  A flash of understanding burst across Salonius’ face and he almost laughed as he followed suit, flipping his sword around and turning his body just in time as the three of them, at full speed, ploughed into the shield wall. The sheer force of the blow snapped the rail in the middle, along with the backs and ribs of the two central defenders, who fell away, broken and flailing on top of the men behind, who were widely spaced, not expecting a breach so easily.

  The soldier on the right showed a deal more foresight as he ducked out of the way at the last minute and pressed
himself against the wall of the bridge. His relief was only momentary, as Petrus’ sword, angled perfectly as his charging weight pulled him forward and down, sliced out and caught the man in the narrow gap between his upper body plates and the heavy armoured leather strops that covered his pelvis. He clutched at his middle and gasped as glistening purple tubes started to slide out of his torso. The defender on the left, however, took the full brunt of Salonius’ massive and powerful shoulder. The blow lifted his feet from the ground and, as the young man barged him out of the way, he scrabbled desperately at the stone parapet for a moment before disappearing over the side and into the foamy torrent with a diminishing scream.

  Two of the men behind the front row immediately collapsed under the falling weight of their fellow soldiers, and a space opened up before the three panting renegades as they turned in unison to face their enemy, changing their grip on their swords menacingly.

  Varro surveyed the scene. Four dead and two down had already halved the effective resistance and they were now almost at a ratio of one to one. He smiled the particularly unpleasant smile that Corda used to refer to as his ‘tiger smile’. The nearest defenders backed away nervously.

  “Ok you bunch of treacherous, cowardly bastards!” he shouted. “Who wants to go shake the Gods’ hands first?”

  The two downed men began to pick themselves up from the floor, pulling themselves back from this crazy man as fast as they could. The wounded soldier, still trying to hold his innards together, and gasping with horror, fell silent as Petrus reached out with his twitching free hand and pushed him over the parapet and into the churning water.

  The enemy soldiers edged forward together, brandishing their swords and began to slowly advance on the renegades, keeping their eyes locked on them.

  There was a sudden ‘crack’ and the rear-most soldier, standing by the steep bank of the river, collapsed like a sack full of rocks and rolled down the slope into the water. Salonius smiled as he heard the telltale ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of the sling readying for a second shot. Catilina was right; she was a good shot.

  The advancing men faltered momentarily and Varro and Petrus shared a look. The captain turned to Salonius, who nodded soberly.

  “The fat one’s mine” grinned Petrus, and the faltering soldiers stopped altogether as their attackers stepped slowly forward, Petrus’ limp becoming pronounced once more at this inexorable and deliberately slow speed. The whooping noise from behind stopped, and the enemy soldier on the far bank furthest from the combat ducked desperately, barely avoiding a skull-shattering lead missile. As he stood straight again with relief, Catilina’s third shot caught him on the chin, breaking his jaw and throwing him back to the ground with a ‘crump’.

  Petrus stepped around the two groaning broken men lying on the bridge amid the shattered remains of the wooden rail, pausing briefly to allow his blade to drop heavily into the throat of the nearest wounded man, granting him release from his pain. Varro displayed less compassion, walking across the other man and treading heavily on his throat, crushing the life from him with hobnailed boots.

  Salonius glanced over the side of the parapet with interest as he stepped forward to fall in line with the other two. The three walked steadily forward, leaving the two dying men behind them silent.

  As they neared the remaining five men who, Varro thought, were doing well to retain a disciplined front in the face of such a brutal onslaught, the single man behind his four compatriots called out.

  “We still have you outnumbered. You can still surrender.”

  Salonius sneered, remembering his own cohort in battle. When the Second went into combat, Varro stood in the front line and Corda only a row or two back. That was how to motivate men, he thought. Lead by example, not like this idiot, cowering behind his men. He almost bit off his tongue as a lead bullet whizzed through the air between him and Varro, so close he felt the faint vibration on his ear.

  The enemy commander opened his mouth to make another fatuous demand and disappeared instantly from view with a ‘crack’. Salonius grinned as he heard Catilina fumbling in the bag for another lead shot. Varro’s eyes were wide with shock, the bullet having almost clipped him and Salonius, and having been aimed exquisitely between the helmets of two men in the front line. A shot like that would make a professional hunter green with jealousy.

  The four men, again to their credit, set their shoulders and brandished their swords. Varro, Petrus and Salonius fell on them like a tide of bloody fury. The defenders’ blades lashed out desperately from between their large shields but the three attackers, unencumbered by heavy armour and large shields, easily avoided the flashing blades. Salonius bent to his left, parried two blows from the end soldier and one from the man next to him, and ducked back out of the way for a second. As the innermost of the two men became distracted once more by Varro’s furious onslaught, the end man momentarily looked away. Taking advantage of the pause, Salonius dropped his sword and leapt at the man, diving onto him, far too close for the man to use his sword. As the man’s eyes widened and he struggled to stay upright under the weight of the bulky young man, Salonius grasped the man’s neck defender with one hand and chin strap with the other and twisted with all his might.

  The crunch was audible even over the sounds of steel on steel and, increasingly often, steel on bone. Varro glanced across in surprise, almost falling foul of a well-placed blow, and saw the helmet wobble backwards as the neck broke inside and Salonius and his victim disappeared to the ground with a crash and a cloud of dust.

  Moments later, as Salonius stood once more, brushing down his tunic, and went to collect his sword, Varro and Petrus delivered the final blows to the only remaining combatant and turned to survey the scene.

  Catilina had tied the slingshot and pouch back together and was leading the horses towards the bridge with a disturbing grin.

  The captain gestured wearily at Salonius and the young man wandered over to him.

  “We need to do something with this bridge.”

  Salonius nodded sagely, watching with unhappy fascination as Petrus, in the background, went about the grisly business of dispatching the wounded enemies. Trying to ignore the unpleasant sounds and the death rattles, he tapped the parapet where the wooden rail had been inserted with his forefinger.

  “This bridge has been here a long time.”

  “Solid, then” remarked Varro with a sigh.

  “Yes and no” replied Salonius with a thoughtful look. “It was pretty solidly constructed a few hundred years ago, probably by the army when that outpost at the top of the valley was built, but it’s not been maintained by the military and I’d assume the locals either don’t know what to do or don’t care.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well“, Salonius continued in a tutorial manner, “this was built with mortar and not cement or concrete and it’s a fairly basic arch bridge with a keystone.”

  “And?” Varro sounded frustrated.

  “Mortar is not as strong as cement or concrete. That’s why we use them now. And with an arch and keystone, all the weight of the bridge rests on the keystones. The more weight, the better the arch, in fact. But the weather up here in the mountains has eroded a lot of the mortar. That’s how they could wedge the wood across the bridge, you see? The mortar’s so old, you can pull it out with your fingers.”

  Varro bit his lip. “So you’re saying we can loosen the keystones and collapse the bridge?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible.”

  “But it could be dangerous. How long will it take, if we can do it?” Varro scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  ”I honestly have no idea.”

  “The rest of the garrison are about ten minutes behind us at most, Salonius. Can we do it?”

  The young engineer shook his head.

  “No. Not enough time.”

  “Then mount up. We’ve got to go. You can see their dust through the trees now. “

  Salonius blinked.

  �
��Come on!” Varro barked, turning and making for Catilina and the horses.

  Salonius jogged along behind him, slowly raising his eyes and catching up as the captain left the bridge.

  “Rope.”

  “What?” Varro grumbled? “What rope?”

  “Get lots of rope. We can bring this beech down on the bridge.”

  Varro sighed and pointed up at the branches.

  “It’s a young tree; not very heavy. It won’t collapse the bridge, Salonius!”

  “No,” the young man replied, “but it’ll block it completely; and it’s small enough that four horses should be able to pull it over.”

  Varro blinked and a slow smile crept over him.

  “That’d stop them alright. And the valley’s too steep and covered in scree here to get a horse up. They’ll have to go back a few miles to get round. Hang on… what’s to stop them pulling it back out of the way?”

  Salonius smiled. “Firstly, they’ll only have access to the delicate, easily breakable branches at the top of the tree. And secondly, we’ll drag it at an angle and wedge it.”

  Varro narrowed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Petrus!” he shouted at the disfigured veteran, limping toward them from the bridge.

  “What?”

  “Ropes! We’re pulling the tree over.”

  “Good idea.”

  As Varro unhooked a length of rope that had been with the saddle when he stole it, and began to unwind it, fastening it to his horse, he frowned.

  “Enough here for me, but that’s the only rope we have.”

  Petrus pointed along the river to a solid looking building on the edge of the village.

  “That’s a mill. Mills have rope,” the scarred veteran shouted.

  As Varro ran over toward the mill with him, Salonius unhooked a leather roll on his horse’s flank and turned to yell after the others “Just get one. One’ll be enough!”

  Varro gave him a questioning look for a moment, but shrugged, turned and ran on. Salonius was the engineer, after all.

  As the leather roll unfurled, Catilina saw an array of tools; military engineer’s tools.