Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  Although the fight was brief, it had destroyed the secrecy of the operation. His cover blown, the commanding tribune of the 7th and 9th Cohorts ordered his men forward, determined to reach the wall before losing the fog cover.

  From far off, Corbus heard the short clash of metal, the yelling, then silence. He knelt and looked down the cobblestone street, his brown cloak settling onto the damp paving stones around him as his troop waited, armed and armored, behind him. Bracing himself with one hand, he leaned far forward and turned his head to press a cheek against the wet cobbles. Closing his eyes, he focused deep inside himself, then stretched his senses out to the narrow streets and dilapidated tenements around him.

  Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump ...

  “What do you hear, My Lord?” asked his second in command, Xersia. He had moved up to stand next to his oddly situated leader. The fog had settled as condensation on his flat-brimmed steel helmet, and it dripped onto the collar of his blue cloak.

  Corbus leaned back and turned to look at Xersia. His reflection stared back at him from the man’s burnished breastplate. “We’re about to have company. Warm up the engines, but keep them at low power. Let’s prepare a warm reception for our visitors. Quietly—I don’t want them to be prepared for our little surprise party.”

  Xersia nodded and turned, directing squads to the prepared defenses with little more than a grunt and a wave of his wicked serrated dagger.

  Corbus rose and stretched his arms and legs with controlled, precise movements. He slid a set of double swords from their sheaths on his back. His men assigned to their stations, Xersia pulled out an apple and bit into it, then made a face and spit out the chunk. He examined the apple. “Rotten,” he muttered.

  Without stopping his warm-up, Corbus said, “Thought someone as rotten as you would like rotten apples.”

  Grinning, Xersia chucked the rotten apple at his commander.

  Swish, then swack—a flurry of motion—swish. The apple, now sliced into six pieces, fell to the street.

  Xersia grunted and nodded approvingly. “Good.”

  Corbus eyed him.

  “Swords make things too fancy.” Xersia pulled a massive chain-axe over his shoulder. Holding it one-handed, an impressive feat of strength, he placed it against the largest piece of apple remaining on the ground. A calloused thumb clicked the activator. The minute engine inside the axe whined to life, and the small, serrated teeth started moving, making applesauce of the apple core. He grinned at Corbus.

  The assassin smiled back. “Have I mentioned how happy I am that we’re working together on this mission?”

  A few minutes later, the hapless 7th and 9th Cohorts from the XIII Germania appeared through the fog, individual legionnaires solidifying from ghostlike shapes into detailed men as they approached the rebels’ ambush position.

  A massive construct lumbered out of a mist-shrouded side street, dew glinting on long steel tusks and an articulated trunk. The retrofitted mechaniphant seemed to shake off the condensation as it approached. Fustus, the gangleader in command, put his wrists together and twined his thumbs, then turned the hand signal elbows-up in an inverted sign of the Aquila, indicating “death of the empire.” A surprisingly realistic imitation of an elephant’s trumpet erupted from the mechaniphant’s mechanical speakers as it bowled appalled legionnaires over like pins. Corbus joined in the cheer from his men as they fell upon the hapless cohorts.

  The slaughter commenced.

  ~ * * * ~

  Squinting down at his map, Constantine remembered, for about the tenth time, that he needed to go to the speculafabricor for a new pair of specs. Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he stared around at the all-encompassing fog, then checked his chromation. Almost eight o’clock! The fog should be burning off soon. No sooner had that thought popped into his head than he felt the first gust of a sea breeze pushing its way through the fog. It whistled down the alleys and side streets, bringing the sounds of battle to his ears. Constantine cocked his head, listening. Should he try to divert his men from their path to assist their comrades? Or should they push on? He stood between the two columns of men, pondering, when a legionnaire ran up to him, and his choice was suddenly made for him.

  “Sir, we’ve reached the wall. It appears ... well, it appears empty, sir. May Zeus strike me down, but I’d swear there were no defenders!” The soldier appeared as surprised with this good turn of events as Constantine was.

  There was no stopping the advance now. If his men could take the wall unopposed, they could take their objective and go to the aid of their compatriots.

  Constantine jogged forward to the front of the line. Men were gathering around the scaffolding, while several scouts moved up the haphazard construction. Looking up at the incredibly high wall, Constantine wondered what they would find once they reached the top.

  Centurion Hoagar, from the 11th Cohort, waved a greeting as he worked his way through his idle men, bellowing, “Make way there, I say, make way! You, you, and you—detail some men to watch our flanks and rear. Don’t want to be ambushed while climbing a ruddy great staircase!” Squad leaders gave orders and several files of men marched to the rear.

  Julius approached. “Sir, what are your orders? Do you want us to push ahead? Scouts indicate that the way is clear.”

  The tribune tilted his head and gave this several minutes’ thought. The centurion wet his lips, preparing to probe for a response, but Constantine spoke first. “The 13th will take the lead. The 11th will remain here in support. Once the 13th has secured the battlement, we’ll signal the go-ahead,” He pointed to a large cargo elevator hidden behind an iron framework. “We’ll use that to bring up the 11th faster. But we’re going to have to take the stairs. Prepare the men for a hike.”

  As Julius saluted and marched away, a messenger ran up. “We’re ready to move, sir. Eleventh Cohort has taken defensive positions and the scouts have pushed ahead. We’re just awaiting your Go order.”

  Constantine nodded, and followed the messenger back to the main body of men. He ordered them forward, into the dense maze of wood and steel scaffolding. It was like moving through tunnels—heavy cloth was draped on the city side to prevent men or material from falling through; opposite lay the slick steel wall, pitted here and there with rust that was constantly being cleaned out and painted over with rust-resistant paint. The scaffolding zigged and zagged; at the end of each level, they would ascend to the next via a steep ramp. As the men scrabbled up each level, their pace slowed. Even Constantine found the climbing tedious and repetitive: wall on the left, canvas on the right; wall on the right, canvas on the left.

  He paused for a moment to push aside the heavy canvas covering for a view of the city. The fog was almost gone, and he could clearly see the once beautiful city now marred by fire, smoke, and destruction. He called the column to a halt. “Take five minutes, rehydrate and check your equipment,” he ordered. “Centurion and squad leaders, on me.”

  All along the column, tired men sat, leaning against walls and taking long drinks from canteens. The officers of the 13th Cohort assembled in a half-circle around their leader as he sketched out his plan.

  “When we hit that battlement, I want half our men going in each direction. Julius, you take first through fifth squads left, pushing and holding south.” Julius nodded, as those squad leaders looked at him, Gwendyrn among them. “I’ll take the rest of the cohort north, along with the scout auxilia squad. Secure the landing area on the wall if you can, prevent the enemy from using it if you can’t. We’ll take the northern tower. Questions?”

  Silence from the officers, accompanied by several shaken heads. Then a raised hand. “Sir, what if the other cohorts don’t show up to reinforce?” asked the taciturn head of third squad, Gravus.

  Constantine narrowed his eyes in thought. “We’ll just have to do the work ourselves. Audeamus to take our objectives without the support we were promised. General Minnicus will grind his teeth at that one.” At several quizzical looks, Co
nstantine sighed. “‘Let us dare!’ Do none of you men speak High Latin?”

  The officers looked at each other. Julius piped up. “I would hazard to say that our High Latin is a bit rusty, sir. Public schooling doesn’t instill much High Latin. Unless you’re recitin’ a prayer, we won’t be able to understand it.”

  Constantine frowned. “Very well, alea iacta est. Gather the men; they’ve had enough break time. It’s time to crush some rebel scum.” He paused as he saw the look of confusion on their faces again. Exasperated, he explained, “The dice have been cast, men; don’t any of you remember Julius Caesar?” The men all turned to look at their centurion. Shaking his head, Constantine pulled off his helmet and rubbed his short-cropped hair. “The Emperor, Savior of the Republic and my ancestor, you idiots. Come on, now.” He pushed past them, hearing a few snickers from those nearby.

  “The die’s been cast?” he overheard Gwendyrn muttering to Centurion Caesar . “Didn’t know the tribune was a betting man. Hopefully he won’t go spouting off any more of that High Latin garbage in battle. Won’t be any time for a translation.”

  “Well, Gweny,” the centurion responded, “I think that there is more to that man than meets the eye, even if he is a high-up muckety-muck.” Julius’s gauntleted hand clanked against the other man’s helmet. “Time to get to work.”

  Up and up the cohort climbed, until finally they arrived at the top. Looking left and right along the wall, Constantine saw only a few guards, but a mass of equipment and heavy artillery. Farther north, several crews were using heavy ballistae and scorpions to rain artillery fire down into the city. A medium-sized trebuchet was also in action, its arm whipping up with a clang and a low whoosh to hurl several explosive canisters out over the war-torn city. Their target appeared to be close to the wall farther south, where the sounds of fighting were more evident now.

  Constantine looked at his men and met fierce, predatory faces looking back at him. “They aren’t expecting us. Take them quickly, take them quietly. Remember, our goal is the tower. Soon enough it will be us raining fire down on them!” he said confidently, though it hid an inner nervousness. “Alright, men, divide up—move, move, move!”

  Gathering the men, Centurion Caesar and Tribune Appius quickly divvied up their forces. Julius saluted Constantine.

  “See you on the other side, Centurion,” Constantine said.

  “Don’t make us come save your behind now, sir,” the centurion chided.

  ~ * * * ~

  Julius led his squads to the left. Almost immediately, several rebel guards noticed their approach. With a yell, Julius charged, his men on his heels. To the rebels, they looked like a wave of red, moving straight at them. Several of them panicked, threw down their weapons, and ran for their lives. Those few souls foolhardy enough to remain and fight were quickly dispatched. No Imperials were injured during the brief skirmish. Julius quickly set his men to work disposing of the bodies by tossing them over the wall into the sea, and securing the heavy weapons.

  “Gods curse them,” Julius muttered as the large gears on the cargo elevator stopped turning and the iron grills opened, disgorging several dozen heavily armed and armored brown-coated rebels farther down the walkway. The fleeing men had located reinforcements. “Shields up!” he shouted.

  Scrambling into position, his men formed a human roadblock five men wide across the walkway. A few men threw together a barricade behind the line, creating a makeshift wall upon the wall.

  The foe approached at a jog, led by a huge, screaming man wielding a massive axe. Really? Julius thought sardonically. They still make barbarians in that mold?

  The two sides clashed as if two trains had hit each other at full speed. Shields shattered. Men tumbled backward. The giant was already through the first rank of men and into the second. Behind him, his men fought with the dazed remnants of the first line, fighting back to back now against the onslaught.

  “Crossbows! Take them from behind!” Julius shouted at his rearmost men.

  Some men climbed atop the parapet, trying to gain a higher vantage point from which to take shots at the enemy. Bolts whistled through the air, and two brown forms crumpled to the walkway. The enemy pressed forward, fighting to get out of the line of fire. Several hurled throwing axes in response, and one crossbowman fell from the battlements with a scream of pain. The Imperial line began to waver.

  “Push them! Shields low and press them!” Julius shouted. “C’mon boys, push them forward! Remember your training! Stab and block, stab and block!” He shoved his way through the ranks to the front. Wide-eyed men glanced back at him as they struggled to hold off the unrelenting assault. Julius planned his next move carefully. “Fourth rank forward, third rank, retire!” he shouted, and the men before him fell back, trying to make room for their relief.

  At the same moment, the giant Nortlander launched a new attack. A mighty swing of his axe shattered a man’s shield. Pieces of steel-reinforced wood flew in all directions, mixed with gore. The unfortunate legionnaire collapsed, cradling the stump of his arm. With a cry of victory, the barbarian twirled his axe back into position, readying for the killing stroke.

  Julius lowered his head and charged into the fray, taking the barbarian completely by surprise. Knocked off balance, the giant lost momentum, and Julius seized the advantage, bending low and pushing into the large man, thrusting his sword forward in short, lightning fast jabs. Parrying, the Nortlander chieftain fell back several feet. The two men eyed each other, shuffling this way and that, watching for an opening.

  Legionnaires had dragged their injured comrade to safety behind the line. Fresh ranks moved up to cover their leader. The rebels formed their own line just a few yards away. Their leader turned and continued to exult his men in their harsh, Nordic language. Julius looked at his soldiers, gave an exaggerated nod, and abruptly charged.

  The sudden assault shook their enemy, but they refused to break. These are not rebels who happen to have a Nortland leader, Julius realized. They must all be Nortland raiders. Shouts and yells washed over him as his men charged again. Shield to shield, sword to axe, the Imperials forced their opponents back toward the elevator and landing platform.

  Julius stabbed again and again. His arm burned with fatigue and his shield arm tingled under the multitude of blows raining down upon it. Small cuts and nicks burned up and down his arms and he tasted blood in his mouth. Sword dripping blood, he backed out and let a fresh man take his place.

  Farther down the line, a man collapsed with an axe through his galea, the steel helmet shattered by the force of the blow. Another legionnaire stepped up to take his place. The discipline of his men was beginning to tell. Their opponents were frustrated, unable to break through the now solid Imperial line.

  With an ear-shattering bellow, the Nortland chieftain waded into the fray again. This time, the young centurion was ready for him. Watching the massive axe swing by, even as he felt the wind of its passing, Julius stabbed down at the Nortlander’s unguarded left leg. His sword bit deep, penetrating chain mail and flesh before Julius twisted his sword and withdrew it.

  The burly man stumbled, looked at his leg then, strangely unaffected by the hideous wound streaming blood, he turned toward Julius and flicked something on his axe. With a teeth-gritting screech, the edge of the axe began to move, speeding up until it was a steady blur.

  “Watch out, he’s got a chain-axe!” cried Calis, who had been guarding Julius’s flank. While he stood frozen, amazed at the fortitude of the adversary before him, Calis was holding off two attackers moving in tandem, stretching the young legionnaire’s skills. He barely avoided one blow, and blocked another. Another legionnaire ran up to help the beleaguered duo, and Julius advanced to meet the seemingly invincible giant for a third time.

  The Nortlander leered at him. “Come, puny Roman, let us see what you’ve got. My axe thirsts for blood. Your blood!” he shouted in heavily accented Low Latin. Axe whirling, he advanced on the smaller man.

  Julius
gritted his teeth and, shield held across his body, circled his opponent, grasping for any way of avoiding a punishing hit from the weighted chain-axe. It would go through my shield like a saw at a sawmill. If I can waste time, that wound of his will drain him of blood.

  While their men grappled on the battlements, the two leaders continued to jostle for position.

  A wounded man’s hand reached out and grasped Julius’s ankle. He tugged and pulled, but the man wouldn’t let go. With a wordless growl, Julius swung his sword, amputating the man’s hand. In that critical second of distraction, the chieftain barreled into him, sending him flying against the stone and steel bulwark. Julius’s vision clouded for a second. When it cleared, he saw his men throwing themselves at the oversized Nortlander, straining to keep themselves between their leader and his attacker. The axe killed, wounded, or forced them away one by one. Julius fumbled with his shield, using it to prop himself up against the parapet. His legs were shaking and his stomach wanted to empty itself.

  “I hope you are ready, little Roman, to meet those gods you love so much.” The colossus was right before him, gloating. With lightning speed, he swung his axe. Julius ducked just in time, feeling the weapon’s passage like a heavy wind grabbing at his cloak. The base of the weapon connected with Julius’s back, knocking the wind out of him again, while the strange keening sound became more and more muffled. His fingers grasped at his throat. His cloak was choking him! He moved his hands to work desperately at the clasp.

  Finally the clasp sprang free, the cloak whisked away, and Julius straightened, wheezing. The chieftain still stood before him, now staring in angry confusion at his weapon. The deadly chain-axe mewled in fits and spurts, its teeth fouled up by the thick woolen cloak, which was now tightly wrapped around it.

  Gripping his sword with both hands, Julius advanced. The Nortlander dropped the useless weapon and pulled out daggers, long brown hair waving wildly in the wind as he faced Julius. Out of nowhere, two steel bolts slammed into the man’s chest, punching through his burnished breastplate. He staggered and nearly fell. Julius swung his sword up and brought it down with as much force as he could muster. The barbarian’s head, sliced clean from his shoulders, tumbled to the ground. His body followed, landing with a crash that shook the parapet.