The Fire Islands

by Gilbert M. Stack

  “On command, we will break from column and order ourselves for battle. The green band will take the lead as per regulations.” The green band was made up of new recruits who had seen no or little fighting. They were young, strong, and often bursting with idealistic vigor. “They will align themselves four men across.” That was a compact formation for a hand on its own, but the arroyo was going to stretch wide and then contract and stretch wide again, and he didn’t want to have to constantly alter his formation. “Janus, I want you to be ready to pull your men back into rows facing the left if we have to form square.”

  The young vigil nodded with excitement, dreaming of glory with no idea that the Praetor was hoping Kekipi would kill them.

  “Acteon,” Marcus turned to his Red Vigil, commander of his blooded troops—men usually ranging from twenty-one to forty years of age. These were solid men in the prime of life who combined solid combat experience with the steady strength of the mature male. “You will form your band six paces behind the greens in four rows, with the back two ranks ready to form square on the right if need be.”

  “Tribune!” Acteon acknowledged. He was a steady man and Marcus had full confidence in him.

  “Severus,” Marcus continued, “you will form the black band in two rows six paces behind the red band. You’re responsible for the rear. Don’t let anyone sneak up on us.” The blacks were composed of true veterans. Men forty years or older who had the crushing experience gleaned from a life in arms. They were solid, but no longer had the endurance of the younger legionnaires, yet they often had the experience that made the difference in a protracted battle.

  Severus nodded. Marcus had told him everything that he suspected was happening and more than any other man in the legion, he knew he could count on the Black Vigil. He’d been in Marcus’ hand since his first assignment as Green Vigil in the phalanx of Great Tribune Titus Virtus. Marcus had learned more of practical use from Severus than from all his years in the lycee and he had taken him with him to Mokupani when he’d been promoted to Lesser Tribune and given a new command. Severus would never let him down.

  Marcus released the three men to rejoin their legionnaires and gave the order to form up. With parade ground polish, the legionnaires flowed out of the marching column and into the battle formation he had just outlined. He glanced over his shoulder to gauge Festus’ reaction and found, to his displeasure, that Great Tribune Xanthus Aurelius was walking beside Marcus’ Tribune. Why was the commander of the entire phalanx joining Festus on this advance?

  Bones were becoming increasingly common as they entered the arroyo. Forty years ago, legionnaires had fought for every foot of this space—destroying both undead armies and the native defenders of the Rule of Twenty. Daylight and the legion magi had kept the skeletal forces from reconstituting and the grim determination of the legionnaires had kept pushing back the Rule’s minions until they finally reached the cave networks and rooted out the leaders of the dark reign.

  When the path turned west and took them out of sight of the rest of their cohort, Marcus decided to do what he could to change the game.

  “Severus?” he called out to his Black Vigil.

  “Tribune?”

  “What do you think the chances are that Kekipi—if he’s actually here—doesn’t know we’re coming?” Marcus asked making no effort whatsoever to keep his voice from carrying to his men. They were not fools. They knew they were on the sharp end of this mission.

  “Slim to none, Tribune!” Severus growled his answer in the same loud voice.

  “And what do you think the chances are that our brother legionnaires will be in a position to support us when we need them?” Marcus asked him.

  Severus raised an eyebrow even as he forced a bark of laughter. “You meaning those whining babies who’ve been crying over how much their feet hurt?”

  Marcus grinned even as the men laughed uneasily. “My thoughts exactly, Black Vigil. So if we can’t expect real support, let’s see what we can do to restore a measure of surprise.”

  “Excellent idea, Tribune! What do you have in mind?”

  “Quick march, Severus! If the rebels are here, they’ve been watching the legion limp forward for days. Let’s finish the journey faster than they think is possible.”

  Severus gave him a sharp confident nod. “Excellent idea, Tribune! Hand quick march on a count of twenty. Now!”

  In perfect unison, the legionnaires ran twenty paces forward at roughly two-and-a-half times their normal marching speed.

  “And march!” Severus ordered.

  The entire hand dropped back to their normal marching pace for twenty steps.

  “And quick step!” Severus commanded.

  The legionnaires increased their speed again. This time Severus didn’t have to tell them when to cut back to a march. They could count. And if need be they could maintain the quick march for hours.

  Not that they would need it. The arroyos were only a couple of miles long.

  Chapter Ten

  They Are All Within My Trap

  Kekipi, lone survivor of the mighty Rule of Twenty, pulled himself out of his trance wondering who had dared to disturb his meditation. The news without could not be more fortuitous. The invaders who had humbled him forty years before were late but not so late that all his preparations had been wasted. They were in place. Doom was coming to all the foreigners in Mokupani.

  Kekipi stroked the amulet on his chest—an eight pointed star that rested precisely above the scar that an Aquilan warrior had given him all those years ago. The wound would be avenged today five hundred fold. The children of the invaders were not strong like their fathers. The representative of the strange yellow peoples far to the north had been as correct in his assessments of these pathetic warriors as he had been generous in his gifts of silver and power. The fevers of Mokupani had burned away the strength of Aquila—whittling down their numbers and leaving only the weak to contest with him. Long had he watched them in his spirit form—their kahuna too weak to even detect his presence. They cared for nothing save their own comforts. Even now with the crisis upon them, the warriors plopped to the ground and panted like dogs when they should be pressing forward, desperate to come to blows with him before he raised their deaths out of the earth to kill all on the Aquila-infested islands.

  After taking three days to cover a distance a strong man could walk in one, the men from Aquila staggered like drunken fools ready to pass out from the heat. He would not even need his army of the dead to destroy them except that without his army his human followers might make the mistake of thinking it was they and not he that had brought pathetic Aquila to its knees.

  He slowly grounded his senses fully within his body. He sat cross-legged before the totem of mighty Keahi—he for whom the fire mountain was named. It was carved from the black rock of the mountain and deep within its great maw burned the orange glow of the living molten rock, the only source of light for this cavernous room.

  Kekipi nodded gravely to his god and turned to face the rest of the room, noting in passing his skeleton guards; the treasure of pearls, gold and foreign silver he had offered to Keahi; the mob of apprentices who foolishly thought they would steal enough of his secrets to join him in a new Rule of Twenty; the Kanakan chiefs who had remembered the ancient terror with which the Rule governed as well as the daughters of those chiefs who thought they could ignore his commands; and finally the messenger groveling face down on the floor waiting for him to acknowledge his presence.

  Enjoying the fact that the man knew nothing Kekipi himself had not already seen, he gestured for the messenger to report.

  “Mighty Kekipi, the pale-skinned invaders have arrived at the foot of Mount Keahi and stumble around in exhaustion and confusion as they try to find this sacred chamber.”

  “I know,” Kekipi informed them. “They are all within my trap in Iwi Iwilei. Soon their bones will join those of the other invaders, ready to do as I command!”

  Shouts of affirmation ros
e up from the assembled chiefs swelling Kekipi’s heart with pride.

  He stroked the amulet where it lay against his chest. The power within this artifact from far off Qing would soon allow him to wipe the invaders from his land.

  He rose smoothly to his feet. “Observe the power of Kekipi. Now I will wake the mountain!”

  “Mighty is Kekipi!” the acolytes all chanted.

  “Now I will raise the dead!”

  “Powerful is Kekipi!” the acolytes intoned.

  “Now I will drive—”

  “The foreigners are in the Killing Basin and fighting toward the sacred caves,” a new messenger shouted as he emerged into the cavern.

  “What?” Kekipi shouted. How could the foreigners already be upon him? It took time to wake the mountain—sacrifices to raise the dead.

  “They flew through the arroyos!” the messenger screamed. “Their skin is like iron and their shields cannot be broken!”

  Pandemonium broke out at his words and more men began to appear behind the messenger—men who had obviously fled the battle in the Killing Basin.

  Rage overpowered Kekipi’s brief moment of fear. “Enough!” he shouted and a withering cold penetrated the heat of the cavern bringing all eyes back to him. “You chiefs!” he pointed at the worthless lot of them, “rally your warriors and drive back the invaders.” He turned to his skeleton guard. “You creatures, kill all the foreigners you can find.” They immediately strode forward to do his bidding, so Kekipi pushed them out of his mind and twisted toward his acolytes. “You! Bring the women for sacrifice, but first bring me this worthless cur!” He kicked the original messenger where he continued to grovel on the floor. “If his eyes are of no use to me, then I can still find some other value in his life.”

  “No!” the messenger screamed even as acolytes grabbed him by both arms and carried him to the maw of the statue of Keahi.

  Kekipi drew a sharp knife and stalked up beside the messenger. He grabbed his hair and yanked his head back exposing his throat.

  Then he noticed that none of the chiefs had yet moved. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted.

  With one mind, the chiefs turned and fled up the tunnel toward the surface, quickly passing Kekipi’s skeletal warriors.

  The lone survivor of the Rule of Twenty turned back to the messenger and quickly slit his throat, holding the head in place so that the life’s blood of the sacrifice sprayed into Keahi’s maw and turned to steam on the molten stone within it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Swords!

  Marcus caught sight of the first Kanakan warriors as he and the green band rounded the final sloping curve which forged the path of the arroyo. There were at least thirty, but not more than fifty, natives lounging indolently in the slight shadow formed by the sides of the chasm and if his own green legionnaires staggered a step in surprise when they caught sight of them, these warriors froze in disbelief and shock.

  “Double time!” Marcus commanded and without conscious thought his well-disciplined men broke into a loping run. Ahead of them, less than one hundred yards away, several of the natives began to scramble upright, but most lost a few more precious moments continuing to stare at the certain death Marcus led toward them.

  “Swords out!” Marcus ordered and in one beautifully synchronized motion, every men of his band drew three feet of sharp steel.

  More of their opponents found their feet.

  Behind Marcus, Red Vigil Acteon ordered his men to double time.

  Marcus decided on the instant to leave most the warriors ahead of them to the red band. “Shields forward! Bowl them over, boys!”

  The large wooden shields that his men had carried so far swung forward three steps before the green band hit the enemy…well, it wasn’t a line, but they knocked the Kakanan warriors over as if they were playing ten pins. Swords hacked when the opportunity struck, but the green band understood their orders. They were to knock the enemy down and get past them to find and eliminate other threats before they organized against them. Marcus, himself, swung on only one opponent, cleaving deep enough into his shoulder blade that he’d prove no threat to anyone coming after.

  Screams broke the stifling stillness of the heat and then the green band was out of the arroyo and into the Killing Basin where round tunnels opened up in the base of Keahi leading, Marcus hoped, to Kekipi and his fellow rebels.

  Men stationed on the slopes of the mountain above the mouths of the caves leapt to their feet and grabbed up their spears. In the reports he had read there had been hundreds on that slope when the legions first fought here forty years ago. Now there were perhaps forty and Marcus had no great fear of them. The warriors spilling from the arroyos to the left and right of the one he had traversed worried him more.

  “Sheath swords, ready pilum!” he shouted.

  The men nearly bounced with excitement and nervous energy, but the months of drill guided their actions. Swords rammed home in their sheathes and the four foot javelins used by the legions were extracted from the slings which held them on their backs.

  A spear hit the black rock of the ground in front of them and broke in half.

  “Shields up! Pilum Ready! Advance!” Marcus shouted.

  Marcus had taken the gold medal for pilum in each of his four years at the lycee. He knew the strengths and weaknesses of the weapon extremely well. Aquila built their miniature spears like no one else in the world. A small joint of lead connected the blade to the wooden shaft so that if the weapon missed and hit the ground the blade would bend making the weapon useless for throwing back at them.

  He also knew that he had to be closer to these spear throwers to make up for the advantage their height gave them.

  A second scatter shot of spears landed in front of them, with one kicking off the ground to bounce against the shin-protecting grieves of one of Marcus’ men, but his green band marched on without breaking stride. The third volley—closer to a full volley now, clashed mostly against their shields showing Marcus that they had little to fear from these men on the mountainside and even less so as their store of spears depleted.

  Behind them, the last screams of the dying suddenly ended and Marcus glanced back to see the red band reassembling their formation at the mouth of the arroyo.

  “Red takes the north!” Marcus ordered as he pointed with his javelin.

  “Black takes the south!”

  Native reinforcements had begun to appear, running hard to catch the legionnaires before they reached the mouth of the central cave.

  All the better! Running hard, the fastest had outpaced their slower comrades which meant they would hit his shields in a long string rather than a mass of bodies and spears.

  Another volley launched from the mountainside and the green band legionnaires raised their shields to successfully fend it off.

  “Individual targets and throw!” Marcus shouted. If they had been facing a shield wall, they would have simply thrown straight ahead to disrupt the enemy lines. What they were doing now was harder and Marcus expected little reward for the effort, but the pilum were out and if they killed a few it would encourage the Kanaka on the mountain to come down within range of their swords.

  He threw his own pilum with practiced ease and knew the moment it left his fingers that it would fly true. A scream rewarded his efforts a few moments later and a man slid down the steep slope clutching at the javelin piercing his bare chest.

  Three others among the enemy warriors also cried out. Two at least would die from their wounds. Confusion raged for a few moments on the slope as many of the warriors greeted the challenge and proof of their vulnerability by charging down the mountainside with their remaining spears.

  Most of the others soon followed.

  “Swords!” Marcus commanded.

  For the second time blades sprang from the Aquilan scabbards. A few moments later, the first lone spearman charged against them, his obsidian blade bouncing off the hard legion shields before a moment later sharp swords eage
rly cut him down.

  The Kanaka could not be playing more fully into Marcus’ hands. They were fighting more as individuals than even as a confused and disorderly group and the discipline of his bands made short work of them.

  To the north, Acteon’s red band cut to pieces the Kanakan mob charging against it. To the south, the black band—smaller in numbers but so much more experienced—efficiently took the lives from the men who crashed against it.

  The green band staggered as a group of some fifteen warriors finally got their act sufficiently together to attack in a crowd. For a moment their numbers pushed the front line of his men back into their fellow, but Marcus had stacked them four deep and the rear elements pushed hard against their brothers in front of them and in moments the warriors were stumbling backward as swords thrust around legion shields to injure and kill them.

  Only a couple of dozen warriors still charging off the side of the mountain stood between Marcus and the mouth to the central cave. He would not wait there as he had been ordered giving Kekipi time to mobilize the rest of his men to come against him—assuming of course that he had a rest of his men. They had already taken some two hundred warriors without losing a man. And they had no hard intelligence on just how many men the Kanakan witchdoctor really had.

  New warriors spilled from the mouth of the cave with bones woven into their braids in the manner of Kanakan chieftains. Behind them came a mob of other warriors, spilling out to do battle with the Aquilan hand and they’d caught Marcus with his men separated dealing with the three distinct threats previously confronting them. Had Praetor Castor not been a vengeance-seeking fool and shown even the limited competence of oxen plowing a field, this battle would be basically over. With the full phalanx—even in its depleted condition—running up the arroyos as Marcus’ hand had done, they would already be pressing into the strangely rounded caves where superior Aquila discipline and tactics would all but assure them victory.