Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5)

by S. J. A. Turney

  Stab. Hack. Barge. Hack. Stab. Stamp. Push. Stab.

  He felt white fire in his flesh as something scored a line across his knuckles, and ignored it as he fought on. Suddenly he was falling forward. The pressure of the enemy’s counter-push had faltered. Staggering, Convocus straightened and tried to take everything in.

  The enemy were milling now, rather than pushing with concerted effort. Tyron was gone, his familiar form on the ground, trampled and torn. But the imperial soldiers were fighting back, the enemy press less strong all the time.

  ‘Reform the wedge,’ Convocus bellowed, grabbing those men not directly engaged and pushing them into position. More soldiers were struggling forward from the ranks back on the causeway. Slowly, the imperial formation strengthened once more and, just through gaps ahead, Convocus could see imperial soldiers on the far side, hacking at the rear of the native force.

  ‘Break through. Save your brothers!’

  Little encouragement was needed. With a roar, the new wedge surged forward again. This time, the defenders were not meeting it with the same level of resistance. Half their number had turned and were fighting the new enemy behind them. It took mere moments. The force of the soldiers, with renewed strength and vim, punched through and knocked aside the panicked Ibelli warriors.

  Convocus’ men were shouting greetings at those of Tribune Gallus, who were already quite depleted in numbers, and together they were turning. Having neatly divided the native force in two, they turned to the flanks and started to push out, widening the gap formed by the wedge so that more and more soldiers arrived from the causeway and added their numbers to the fight. More spilled around the far end under a quick-thinking junior officer and ran out onto the island, seeking to put down the troublesome archers.

  All was chaos, but it was now the ordered chaos of imperial battle. Convocus took a couple of opportunistic lunges at any native he saw and was suddenly face to face with Gallus, who was grinning like a school boy.

  ‘That felt good,’ the other tribune said with a laugh.

  ‘We’ve got them on the run now. We’ll have taken between a hundred and two hundred casualties, I reckon, but at least half of those will be minor injuries. Good job, Gallus. Just in time. We were about to get pulverised.’

  ‘Couldn’t let you have it too easy, sir,’ laughed the other officer.

  ‘Right. As soon as this is all over, we dispose of the survivors and move on at speed.’

  Gallus frowned. ‘Are we not taking them as slaves, sir?’

  ‘Haven’t the time to rope them and march them back to Venta, and we certainly can’t take them with us. I did give thought to just letting them flee.’

  ‘But an enemy behind you is never a good thing,’ agreed Gallus. ‘Alright, sir. Another quarter hour and this island will be nothing but corpses and flies. Then we press on.’

  Because they had a legion to save.

  Part Three

  Hawk Legion

  One general of low cunning, determined to be the man to conquer my island, burned through his own hubris and incompetence and his legion now commanded by a child of destiny. Another general who had engineered disasters and wars to rebuild his own tattered reputation, dead by the assassin’s rope and with his legion in the hands of one of the empire’s most noble soldiers. But what of Cantex and his commander? General Quietus and his Hawk Legion bore north, heedless of the chaos to either side. Moving into the heart of the island’s strongest tribes, unaware that assassins were coming for them and that conspiratorial natives moved to attack his army, General Quietus marched proud.

  Chapter 12

  The Hawk Legion had marched across the south in three days, declining the offers of hospitality from various nervous small tribes who wished to ingratiate themselves with this powerful intruder on their shores. Despite Cantex’s urging to the contrary, the general had insisted on speed at the expense of all else, as though late for some critical event.

  Already, by the end of the second day, the bulk of their supplies had been half a day behind with its own escort, and the supply line would be the headache of the captain who had been assigned to do his best and bring everything up in the army’s wake as fast as he could.

  Speed.

  Even the protection of the legion was forfeit. At the end of each night of marching on a campaign, the imperial army constructed a marching camp, digging a surrounding ditch and raising a low turf rampart that would be surmounted by either a wattle fence or a chain of sharpened timber obstacles to protect the ordered rows of tents.

  Not so, the Hawk Legion’s northward progress. The general had demanded that the army use the two hours they would usually spend at the end of each day’s march setting up their camp to push on ever further. Where a legion would usually cover perhaps fourteen miles in a day, or even ten with slow artillery, the Hawk Legion was currently averaging over twenty miles in a day.

  Two thirds of the legion’s cavalry were dismounted, marching alongside the infantry while their steeds, as well as the spare horses of both cavalry and teamsters, were added to the artillery wagons, allowing them to move at a faster pace than normal.

  One of the cavalry officers had vouchsafed to Cantex that the fodder they carried for the animals would run out in a further seven days – ten to twelve if they stretched it thin – and then they would have to acquire some from parts unknown, since the supply wagons would clearly be many days to the south at that point.

  At dusk on the third day, the army reached the great southern river of which the generals had spoken in awe at the initial briefings. Rather than be held up by the painfully slow ferries they knew to exist to the east, the general had aimed for a site he claimed to remember further upstream where the flow could be forded in any but the worst weather.

  The morning of day four had dawned misty and chilly though dry. The legion began to move, already weary, but now with cloaks huddled tight around them, the dew of the dawn steaming off men and land both. For an hour they slogged along the right bank of the river as Cantex, a man given to natural optimism, found his attitude increasingly challenged.

  The river supposedly cut most of this island in half on an east to west line. Yet, as they followed the great torrent in search of this elusive crossing of the general’s, he was a little taken aback to realise that the meandering river had swung around so that it now marched north to south and they pushed up the west bank. Still, since they were north bound anyway, he’d not raised concerns.

  Finally, a little before that fourth day’s noon, they arrived at the general’s goal. Cantex failed to heave a sigh of relief.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for saying, General, but my understanding of fords is that they are less than a person deep and generally a little higher than the rest of the river bed.’

  General Quietus, a man to whose face a smile was utterly alien, turned his sour expression on the tribune by his side.

  ‘The ford is formed of tree trunks sunk into the river bed. If you care to observe properly, you will note the ford’s ascent on the far bank. It would appear that the years have not been kind and the near approach has been swept away or otherwise damaged. The river bed here is rather silty, so the logs form a solid path beneath the feet, and the water is made opaque by iron working among the tribes upstream of this place. It is not as deep as the dark hue suggests.’

  Cantex nodded thoughtfully and blinked as the general swung from his horse and dropped to the turf. ‘However,’ the older man said, ‘I would not wish to distress the men. Perhaps my crossing it first will give them heart.’

  Cantex was shaking his head and moving in front of the general in a heartbeat. ‘With respect, sir, that’s a job for a junior. I’m not saying you’re wrong, sir, but if you happened to be mistaken and were somehow swept away, the army would lose its general, and that would be a blow from which it might not recover. Allow me. I haven’t had a bath in seven days, anyway.’ He grinned. ‘Anyone have a face cloth or a sponge?’

 
As the captains around him chuckled, the general fixed him with an unreadable stony face and then nodded. ‘You speak sense, Cantex. Some of the time, anyway.’

  The tribune laughed and trotted down the slope to the river, the fact that he was almost a head shorter than his commander only occurring to him as he reached the water’s edge. What would be neck-deep for Quietus would drown his second-in-command

  Still, he would do this and do it with a smile on his face for the good of the men watching, who would be having similar doubts to his own.

  Taking a deep breath as though he were about to submerge, he paced out into the river. Only a few paces out, he encountered the general’s ‘silty’ river bed as his boots sank into the soft murk. Lifting them with difficulty and a forceful suck of mud, he forged forward and soon found a solid surface of slimy timber beneath his feet, partially coated with the silty mess and slimy plant-life.

  His pace was no faster now that he had escaped the sucking murk, as one slip on that weed-covered wood would take him under the water. That would do no good, since most of the army was armoured, and tired, and a plunge beneath the water would likely be a permanent thing. As he progressed, he lifted his sword up to head height to prevent it getting wet.

  The general was right about the depth and the colour, though. The dark brown tint to the water made it look deceptively deep, and though he moved slowly, the current was sluggish and the surface only at chest height. A short while later, he was climbing the far bank, where he turned and essayed a flourishing bow to the army.

  ‘Come on in. The water’s lovely.’

  As the army began to move to the ford under the general’s supervision, Cantex scanned the eastern side. The ground sloped up into the distance, though so gently it was barely discernible and could almost be considered flat land. Trees existed in small copses and patches of woodland, and native farms were in evidence not by structures or movement but by the crops growing abundantly.

  Smiling, grateful that this land appeared to be less forbidding, swampy and full of magical monsters than he’d heard, he strolled to a tree on a low mound and sat with a squelch, watching as the army crossed.

  First came the scouts on their horses, who immediately scattered and rode off to check the terrain ahead. Then came a unit of cavalry, their steeds churning the water ever more so that it thickened in deep brown hue. Then the general’s bodyguard, and then Quietus and his staff, followed by the lead elements of the infantry, each group moving slowly and carefully, but the whole thing far faster than any ferry could possibly be. It appeared that the general had been correct in his strategy.

  Cantex had been relieved and slightly surprised at the lack of resistance he had met slipping into the role of the general’s second. The three friends had shared their concerns back before the crossing of the sea, when it had immediately become clear that each legion was cliquey and fiercely loyal to their commanders, and a new man coming in at the top would undoubtedly be viewed with extreme suspicion. More than that, though, Cantex was sure he’d been saddled with the worst of the bunch.

  General Volentius had seemed to be an easy-going commander with a love of the vine, while General Crito had been all smiles and positivity. General Quietus, on the other hand, had been absent on the day the gods had handed out senses of humour, his face so brittle and stony he couldn’t crack a smile if his life depended upon it.

  Moreover, he seemed utterly baffled by Cantex’s humour, and treated him a little like an unfunny jester one had to keep around because the children liked him.

  And yet, despite the newness of the command in a very cliquey world and a clash of personality on an epic scale, the general had immediately drawn Cantex into his staff and the tribune had taken part in all planning and decisions. Oh, his recommendations were not always followed, by a long shot, but some were, and at least he was listened to. It could easily have been worse.

  Gradually, over the next three hours as the army crossed, Cantex dried out, was brought a platter of bread and butter and a cup of water by a helpful soldier, and contemplated the land around him as he toyed with his favourite dice – the ones that always came down exactly as you held them.

  He would approach the general and suggest making camp here by the river. The general would say no, of course, as he would want to push north with all speed. But if there was even a chance, then Cantex should push for it. The legion could do with the rest, particularly after forging across the river. They would all be wet, and the opportunity to dry out would be welcome. Moreover, the terrain was perfect, with half the flat ground protected by the curve of the river, the torrent providing fresh water and latrine facilities, as long as the two were placed carefully, and the surrounding countryside provided an excellent field of view against…

  Cantex was standing a moment later.

  A small unit of scouts was racing towards them, and scouts riding as though the hounds of the underworld were nipping at their heels was never a good thing. The general had not yet seen them as he was standing with two captains, watching the army cross the water and deep in discussion. The tribune broke into a run, heading for the riders, as did the pickets at the edge of the army’s assembly ground.

  Then he saw them.

  Natives.

  They were initially surprisingly hard to spot, running through the fields of winter wheat that had burst into fresh life a month ago and were already growing like weeds in this fertile, arable soil. Cantex concentrated, trying to estimate their numbers. Not enough to be a threat to the legion, he decided, though clearly they posed a threat to the three horsemen racing ahead of them and bearing down on the army.

  ‘General!’ he shouted to call Quietus’ attention to the problem, then turned and bellowed ‘fall in,’ to the soggy soldiers standing dripping on the turf. Despite their cold, sodden condition, the men reacted like the professional military they were, the captains and their lesser officers bellowing commands, whistles and horns sounding in a cacophonic salute as the army moved into position.

  Cantex raced over to join them, the riders hurtling past the forming lines and then reining in safely behind their steel-clad ranks. Shield walls were being formed, and the soldiers settling into place six men deep. The tribune turned to a wild-eyed scout as the general hurried across with his cronies.

  ‘Were you ambushed?’ Cantex asked the man.

  ‘No, sir. We came across a hill fort about a mile east of here and decided to do a circuit of the place to get the lay of the land and its defences, but it seems the locals took a dislike to us. Fortunately they don’t seem to have cavalry, but they don’t half run bloody fast, sir.’

  Cantex nodded. ‘Just an opportunistic few who didn’t like the look of you, then.’

  He turned back to the enemy, who were slowing now, approaching more cautiously.

  The general huffed. ‘Most of that lot will have been sucking at their mother’s tit the last time we were here. They probably have no idea who we even are.’

  ‘Whether they do or not, they certainly aren’t afraid of us,’ Cantex noted, as less than a hundred poorly-armed and armoured natives goaded each other on with barbed comments and wicked laughter until they howled like wounded wolves and then charged a disciplined shield wall four times their number.

  ‘They are flies around a bull’s rump,’ the general replied, dismissively.

  ‘Agreed, sir, and while I don’t mind being compared to a bovine anus, we’ve no idea how many there are in the fort.’ Cantex turned a questioning expression to the scouts, who shared a look and then shrugged.

  ‘It’s not big, and not particularly well defended, sir,’ one of the men replied. ‘Just a single ditch and mound and two gateways with wicker fencing. From the size of the place and the number of structures, I’d say between one and two thousand occupants. And knowing these tribes, probably half that number will be fieldable as warriors.’

  Beside them the fight began. It was thoroughly one-sided, the soldiers of the Hawk Legion using the
ir large, protective shields to shelter themselves from the enemy’s blows and periodically lancing out with their short blades in gaps, ripping into native flesh. It was over in a matter of moments as half the attackers fell easily and the rest, whooping, broke off and raced away across the fields.

  ‘I believe the problem has resolved itself,’ the general said with satisfaction, then turned to a captain. ‘How long before the entire legion is across?’

  ‘Another hour, I think, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then we will still have half a day’s march available. Have the scouts range ten miles to the north and find us an appropriate camp site.’

  The captain saluted and turned, beckoning to the weary scouts. Cantex coughed and addressed the general. ‘Sir, we’ll not make ten miles.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  The tribune gestured towards the site of the recent fight with an outstretched arm. ‘Even assuming that the hill fort is as easy as the scout believes, it will take a good two to three hours to neutralise it, minimum. And the men are soaked, sir, and both marching and fighting in sodden kit is a heavy, tiring job. This ground is perfect. We could make camp here with the half of the legion currently crossing and take the driest half that crossed first to reduce the fort. Then everyone would be fresh to move on tomorrow morning. Besides, once we’ve taken the fort, we’d have time for five miles at best, if that.’

  ‘What in the name of the seven swords of Gemellae makes you think I intend to waste time with a native fort?’

  Cantex blinked. ‘Rudimentary military strategy, sir. Never leave an effective enemy behind you. We know they’re not friendly from that little fracas in the field.’

  ‘They were just chasing off trespassers, Tribune. I am not willing to sacrifice the speed and efficiency of this legion just to chastise some tiny tribe. We’ve lost half a dozen men. I can live with that.’