Brass Legionnaire (The Steam Empire Chronicles)

by Ottalini, Daniel

  A brief pause followed as both sides stopped their conflict to gape at the fallen giant. Julius coughed. “Finish them off!” he ordered, struggling to push his voice above the sounds of battle.

  Those remaining of the enemy fought on, powered by revenge and anger, but they were no match for superior Roman numbers and discipline. The last few threw down their swords, trying to surrender, but the Romans were in the grip of battle rage. There were no survivors.

  The weary centurion turned to look at his savior, standing just a few feet away. Squad Leader Gwendyrn smiled, looking abashedly down at a pair of still quivering repeater crossbows. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to fire two of these at the same time.”

  Chapter 14

  The gears of the elevator squeaked and squealed as the engine pulled the cargo elevator slowly up the steep side of the curtain wall. Within, the last remaining members of the rebellion, along with their Nortland allies, prepared for battle. Word had come that the Imperial forces had surged up from a hidden access route along the wall, fighting their way toward the rebels’ last remaining lifeline to the outside world. A company had already been sent ahead to deal with the attackers. The remaining forces had neatly eviscerated the first Roman assault with a well-placed ambush down below, and had now fallen back to eliminate this second assault.

  Tucked into a corner of the elevator, Corbus and his mother held a brief conference. “I’ve contacted the Nortlanders, and they have their airship on the way. It should be close, but I figure we can hold off the Imperials for a while. We’ll meet up with some more of our compatriots on the wall, and kick those Romans so hard they’ll have wished they never crossed the Rhine!” Amalia finished with a wicked grin.

  Corbus nodded, listening to his mother’s plan while running a whetstone across his twin bluesteel blades. The quadruple-folded layers of rare metal created an impossibly sharp edge as well as incredible toughness. The weapon could bend and flex without developing weak spots or becoming brittle. Polishing and sharpening it was one of Corbus’s pre-battle rituals.

  Amalia looked at him and smiled. ”Soon the day will come when the Romans lie dying in the streets, and we will lead the Germans back from the trashcan of history to trample and crush them,” she said quietly, proudly. Then she closed her eyes. A strange keening rose from her throat as she started working herself into a battle trance, gripping the carved staff of her double-ended spear so tightly that her knuckles went white. Her facial muscles twitched with the barely contained battle madness, and she opened and closed her eyes without registering what she saw.

  Corbus scooted away a bit, unnerved by the pseudo-mysticism component of her warrior side, and raised his voice. “Friends, let us prepare ourselves. We have companions awaiting us on the wall, ready to help us reach safety. Each one of you is an asset to the cause. Do not waste your life needlessly. I will take the lead. Remember our goal above all else. Get to the transport. We are the seed of the future. If we die, our children, and their children, forever and beyond, will be shackled to the wheel of industry and corruption that is Rome.” The men nodded, knowing the challenge that awaited them.

  The elevator hissed as it reached the top level, releasing small wisps of steam that the wind from the bay tugged along with it. Corbus grasped the handles of the wicker door and slid it aside. His men poured out, quickly finding cover from which to assess the situation.

  Corbus watched from his vantage point as the last few survivors of the first company were slaughtered at the hands of the victorious Romans. He cursed under his breath.

  Amalia appeared next to him. “By the furies, how did they reach here so fast?” she asked.

  Boots pounded across the concrete behind him—the last of his men had arrived from a hatchway. “Did you activate Operation Vindicator?” she inquired of their leader. The file leader nodded nervously.

  Corbus pulled out his pocket chromation and studied the hands behind the fogged glass for a moment before showing it to his mother. “We don’t have much time to waste, then.”

  “We have plenty of time to dispatch these enemies of freedom,” Amalia hissed.

  Nodding, Corbus turned to his men. “Volley fire, crossbows, on my order.”

  Up and down the wall, his men were loading and cocking their weapons, aiming at the Romans now reforming farther along the wall toward the northern tower. An alert soldier pointed at the motley assortment of guerillas and mercenaries and shouted a warning just as they finished loading their weapons.

  Corbus’s sword flicked out. “Shoot!” he yelled, sweeping the sword down. The miniature storm of bolts flashed toward the Romans, catching them unawares. Without time to form a decent shield wall, the volley devastated them. A dozen men fell writhing in pain, while others stood motionless. The officer in charge tried frantically to regain control over his surprised men, and they stumbled into formation, placing their large scuta in front of them. The sun broke through the departing fog and clouds to reflect off the central metal bosses of their shields.

  “Corbus, you get the men out, I’ll keep them at bay!” Amalia shouted as the remaining Romans began to advance on their position, shield wall preventing the rebel missiles from doing any more damage. Corbus felt rather than saw his mother move past him, her warrior essence nearly flowing into battle. Spear angled low, she charged the Roman line with a piercing wail that drove shards of ice into his soul and made his hands move involuntarily to cover his ears. The Romans nearly broke right there, but for the opposing officer waving his sword frantically and shouting encouraging words to his men. Corbus could just hear the faint exultations over his mother’s blood-curdling shrieks. A peppering of plumbatae flew past her as she dodged even the best throws.

  His men looked questioningly at him. “What are you waiting for? We can’t let her kill them all!” he yelled at them. Shouting as one, his men left cover and ran at their opponents.

  Corbus watched Amalia launch herself into the wavering shield wall. Mother, what are you doing? he wondered as he ran after his men. The dark red scuta shook with the force of her blows as her spear twirled and twisted in seemingly unnatural ways. Several men went down, their comrades dragging them out of the line of battle. Do you have a death wish?

  ~ * * * ~

  The sudden arrival of a second enemy force threw the somewhat jubilant post-battle celebrations into chaos as Julius bellowed, “Form shield wall!” He turned, pushing men toward the opponents. “Remember your training! Keep your body low and lock your shields together!”

  No sooner had he given the order than a flight of crossbow bolts neatly eviscerated a chunk of his own force. One bounced off of Julius’s helmet. Stars floated before his eyes before he shook them off. We must get into formation, or we will all die! part of his brain screamed at him as he fought furiously to work some moisture into his dry mouth.

  Julius drew his sword. Their training had engraved in every legionnaire’s mind that it was not smart or proper to go about waving your sword over your head in a combat situation. That was not the Roman style. Screw the Roman style. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He leapt atop a crenellation; whirling his sword in the air and calling for his men to rally, rally to me! For a few brief moments, the line steadied, men moving shoulder to shoulder, ranks forming as they should behind them. The roughly thirty remaining men of his command clumped together across the walkway.

  Julius spotted Legionnaire Faustus crouched to one side, cursing as he attempted to tie a strip of cloth around his bleeding shield arm. “Faustus! Get back and find the tribune. Tell him we need assistance immediately! The rebels are making a break for it!” The man gave a sketchy salute and sprinted along the walkway, hand gripping the cloth over his bleeding forearm.

  A thin, piercing howl reached his ears and worked its way down his spine into his belly. Knees trembling, he covered his ears with his hands and felt a wetness against his palms. His men were doing the same, several falling to their knees, dropping their shields and
plumbatae in the effort to escape the ear-rending noise. “Keep together, men!” Julius tried to cry out, but it came out as a mere croak.

  A woman was moving rapidly toward their line, and the sound seemed to move in response to her movements. His mind garbled frantically at him, as his spirit fought to remain strong against the overwhelming horror of the shrieking, It’s like one of the furies come to life. He noticed her weapon: a long, dark metallic shaft capped on either end with a wicked-looking sickle-shaped blade. That’s something out of a bad theater production, only I bet that blade isn’t made of scrap metal.

  He screamed, trying to overwhelm her punishing, unceasing psychological attack. Putting every ounce of command authority he had into his voice, Julius dug deep down into his soul and cried out one last time, trying desperately to gather his soldiers. “Hold, fellow Romans, HOLD THE LINE!”

  He straightened, and began grabbing cloaks and collars, pulling at his men with a strength born from the fires of desperation and fear. He shoved a few into the weak battle line, and the men gained strength from their companions. Gwendyrn, blood dripping down his mustache and onto his beard from his nose and ears, grabbed two men with his meaty hands and heaved them to their feet. He roughly shoved discarded weapons at them. The men turned toward the front line, Gwendyrn close behind, forming an unstoppable bulwark against terror.

  The fury-like creature rushing their thin, red line choose that moment to strike. Julius’s mouth dropped open as she leapt three ranks of men, landing behind the shield wall, in the midst of the shaken defenses. Her spear sliced out, wounding and incapacitating men. Julius turned toward another yell from beyond the wall to see the remaining rebel fighters charging. The demi-cohort was trapped between a mob of attackers on one side, and a crazed death-dealer on the other.

  Mind racing, Julius considered his options. He could try to push past the crazed Amazon behind them, or charge the rebels in front of them. On one side we lose to ferocity and skill, on the other we lose to numbers. Julius did the only thing he could think of. “Form square!” he ordered.

  His men moved into position, forming a tight square with the crenellated wall as the fourth side of the formation. The sides formed by the men were spiked with plumbatae and swords. Stragglers crawled toward them, while others limped into position just before the shields closed over them. Julius listened to the heavy panting of his men as they struggled to catch their breath before the inevitable onslaught, and heard Gwendyrn whispering prayers to Jupiter above to save them. “Didn’t know you were a praying man,” he quipped.

  Gwendyrn paused and looked down at him. “I just figure now’s as good a time as any to start.”

  Julius considered this, then partially closed his eyes and muttered an abbreviated prayer to Minerva, his patron goddess. Please, let us get rescued; I don’t want to die. It might have been selfish, it might have been self-serving, but he didn’t want to die on this black steel wall at the age of twenty. Somebody help us!

  ~ * * * ~

  Seeing the remaining legionnaires forming a square flush with the wall at their backs, Corbus ordered his men to halt their charge and form ranks. His mother paced back and forth, occasionally letting loose another heart-tearing scream. Corbus coolly analyzed the situation. Although shaken, the Roman remnants would not go down easily. Those big shields and their tight training would translate to many casualties among his more lightly armored men.

  He was still seeking a competent decision when the faint whir of an airship’s engines reached him. He cocked his head, trying to drown out the sounds of the wounded and dying men nearby, and the sea far below. A gust of wind pushed the clouds farther out, unveiling the prow of a gray airship, slicing through the last clouds toward the platform.

  “Remain here; keep those sheep penned in,” he called to Fustus, his newly-appointed subordinate.

  The man’s lips curled in a tight smile and he sent the men to spread out facing the beleaguered remnants of the Roman cohort and pepper the formation with heavy repeater darts, trying to find a weak spot in the formation.

  Corbus’s boots crunched over the film of dried sea salt and sand that had built up along the wall top. Years of salt and rain had done surprisingly little damage to the wall, but with the recent conflict, the maintenance men hadn’t reached this stretch to clean it and reseal it. He peered up at the floating ship as it grew larger and larger. Finally able to make out the engine design, he smiled. It was the Midgard Flyer. He waved at the cockpit and someone on the bridge waved in return. The airship continued its ponderous progress, rising slightly as it came over the low lip of the landing pad. Already he could see a hatch opening along its gray-painted side, revealing a dark but nonetheless inviting interior.

  Turning, Corbus called out to his men, “Fall back to the landing pad. It’s high time we left this den of corruption! Let our retribution be felt for an age.” He sneered at the Romans cowering within their shielded formation. It won’t matter how protected they think they are. Soon this whole city shall deal with the wrath of our movement, our peoples. Deus Ex Mortalitas!

  “But why do I have to come with you?” came a whine from the small huddle of civilians the rebels had brought with them. Chalbys had been among that lucky group. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to remain here, providing you with information and passing instructions to our followers?”

  Corbus frowned. He disliked the monocle-eyed, sniveling, luxury-loving spymaster, and everything he represented. “My mother seems to believe that the cause would be better served by having you join us.” He waved a hand toward the remaining rebels, now cautiously backing away toward the ship. “Besides, every truly loyal rebel is here with us, now. We just staged an insurrection, and if those loyalists have any brains, which this commander does, they will be looking for anyone with a connection to the rebellion. So it would really be foolish to leave a valuable person like you behind.” He smiled condescendingly. You cowardly wimp. Seemingly resigned to his fate, Chalbys sighed, and trudged toward the airship with the rest of the civilians.

  With a soft crunch and bump, the Midgard Flyer touched down behind them. Several air marines stepped out, slim crossbows and short swords held at the ready. They fanned out to cover the remaining rebels as they retreated toward the ship. Corbus smiled. They were getting out of this forsaken place. There was nothing here for them anymore. And soon, there would be nothing left here for anyone, anymore.

  Many of his men were boarding the airship when disaster struck.

  A battle cry rose beyond the isolated Roman detachment, heralding the entrance of a new opponent: a new batch of Roman legionnaires, racing along the wall, weapons at the ready.

  Amalia had not retreated toward the ship when the call had come, remaining instead at her position on the wall. She stood rooted by surprise for a moment, then lifted her weapon, and the dance of death began in earnest.

  Chalbys and Fustus cried out in alarm at the legionnaires’ arrival. The situation had rapidly changed from one of playfully toying with the surrounded Roman detachment to being suddenly outnumbered. With most of their men embarked, there were few men left to help their leader. The air marines’ cordon was shrinking as they hastily converged on their only escape, leaving the three ringleaders out in the open.

  Chalbys glanced at Fustus. “All is lost, but we cannot allow her to fall,” Chalbys offered. Fustus looked worried, his face etched with lines of concentration. They looked at Corbus.

  Hard pressed to hold back the overwhelming tide of the legionary force, Amalia was a blur whose touch left injury and death. Then, mobbed by at least ten different legionnaires, she went down. Those on the landing platform about fifty yards away heard her cry out. With an involuntary gasp, Corbus stepped forward, only to see his mother’s opponents flying in all directions. One hurtled off the wall into open space, plummeting toward the city below. She fought to stand again, heavily favoring her right side.

  Corbus pulled his swords out, but both of the other m
en were one step ahead of him. For the first time in his life, Corbus felt himself being manhandled, each man grasping an arm as they fought to prevent him from the suicide of charging into the enemy ranks. Despite Chalbys’s weak appearance, his grip was like an iron vise.

  “We ... can’t ... lose ... you ... too. We’d have lost everything for no gain!” gasped Fustus as they wrestled the frantic assassin toward the safety of the ship.

  As he fought to go to the aid of his mother, Corbus saw the remnants of the original Roman detachment finally regain their nerve and advance on the airship, moving in good order. The last few air marines stood nearby, one firing his crossbow at the legionnaires who had managed to

  get around Amalia’s human blockade. The man let out a scream as he fell, attracting more attention to the grounded ship. The Romans were getting closer, their feet pounding on the parapet.

  “We can’t stay here, sir! You’ll just die like your mother,” Fustus growled.

  Over the man’s shoulder, Corbus watched Amalia fighting like a cornered tiger. His face felt wet, and he realized he was crying. His so-called allies were dragging him away from helping his mother, the only family member he had even known. “Come on, Mother!” he screamed, trying desperately to get her to leave with them.

  Amalia turned to look at him. For a moment, their eyes connected, and Corbus felt as though a huge weight had been transferred to his shoulders. Her eyes were full of love and zeal, full of anger and protectiveness. With that last glance, she turned to continue her defense, backing slowly toward the landing pad while keeping as many Imperials as busy as possible.