The Legacy of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic

by Robert Kroese

  Tsao’s group was a few meters farther inland than Jason’s; the first line of Romans had now closed with thirty paces. If Jason waited too long to give the order to fire, his men would be caught in the crossfire, but if they fired too soon, the Romans would manage an orderly retreat without breaking formation. To his left, Jason heard the shaky breathing of Ensign Pirelli, one of the youngest members of the crew. All the men were nervous, guns at the ready. Jason wouldn’t be surprised if one of them started shooting before he had a chance to give the order. Then all hell would break loose.

  But the men waited as the Romans closed within twenty paces of Tsao’s position. Fifteen. Ten. Five.

  “Fire!” Jason shouted, and squeezed the trigger of his rifle.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  The rifle recoiled against his shoulder as a staccato burst of bullets left the gun. To his left, another half-dozen bursts sounded, and more gunshots rang out from farther away, from Nichols’s group to his left and Tsao’s group to the right. The dull tink! of bullets striking metal reached him between the bursts. The Romans began to fall, sometimes with a yelp or grunt, but more often without a sound. The Romans’ breastplates were meant to repel stones and arrows, not bullets traveling at a thousand meters per second. Ten, twenty, thirty men pitched forward into the sand. A few, hit in an arm or leg, scrambled out of the way as the juggernaut continued to advance.

  Such was the discipline of the Roman soldiers that, although their comrades were falling by the dozen to mysterious, deadly weapons that roared with the sound of thunder, their advance did not slow. The commander, near the front ranks shouted something and pointed directly toward the rocks behind which Tsao’s group were hidden. A group of perhaps twenty men broke off from the main formation and hurried to the far side of the rocks. Jason directed a burst of fire toward them, but only managed to drop two before the rest were behind cover. Meanwhile, the main group continued to advance.

  Jason cursed to himself. This was exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid: the front of the cohort was now between Tsao’s group and the other two groups, forcing the defenders into a crossfire. Worse, Tsao’s group would soon be facing attack on two flanks: the main group on its left and the eighteen or so coming around the rocks to their right.

  The evacuation had stalled, the fishermen standing beside their boats and looking as if they were trying to decide whether to flee by boat or on foot. Creed signaled to Jason, and Jason gave him a nod. Creed ran off toward the fishermen, gun in hand.

  The men in Jason’s squad, along with Nichol’s squad, continued to fire bursts more-or-less at random into the main group. It was like shooting fish in a barrel, but there were too damn many fish in too big a barrel. Ideally they’d have directed their fire at the front lines, trying to push the formation back, but that would put Tsao’s group at risk of taking friendly fire, and in any case it was too late: the first ranks—what was left of them, anyway—had already gotten past them.

  The cohort’s commander fell to a lucky shot—Jason couldn’t say for certain whose it was—and this probably saved them. There was a moment of confusion during which the Romans continued to advance straight toward the water when they might better have pressed the attack against Jason’s group. The cohort’s right flank was exposed, and Jason’s group made the most of the opportunity, dropping men by the score. Jason and two of the others ran out of ammo at almost the same moment, and the defenders’ barrage relented for a few seconds while they replaced magazines, but by this time the cohort had already been sliced in two: one group, of perhaps forty men, had made it almost to the water, while the bulk of the cohort remained some thirty paces back. The frontal assault having ceased for the moment, Tsao’s group were able to direct their fire toward the group rounding the rocks. The attackers fell, gladii in hand, so close that the defenders were sprayed with blood and sand.

  A new commander had arisen among the group that had made it to the water, and he managed to get his men into a wedge that was now advancing toward Jason’s position. The rear of Jason’s group was now exposed, and several of the men turned to face the smaller group of attackers. Jason pointed ahead, screaming to be heard over the gunfire, “Face front! Push them back!” The main group was on the verge of rallying, and if they pressed the attack, the defenders were finished. The men in Jason’s group reluctantly did as instructed, letting loose another barrage at the main group. Another dozen Romans fell.

  A volley of javelins hurtled toward Jason’s group. Most of them clattered against the rocks, but two of the men cried out as they were hit. Jason, intent on pushing back the main attack, didn’t turn to look. His group and Nichols’s group rained bullets on the group in front of them. A centurion took charge of the cohort, urging the soldiers forward, but he fell before his order could be followed. A few men hesitantly advanced and were cut down. The cohort, now numbering less than three hundred, retreated.

  Jason spun around, expecting to be set upon by the group behind them, but he saw that nearly half of them were already down. Tsao’s men, not having a good view of the main cohort, had directed their fire at the smaller group. Jason fired at the nearest man, puncturing his breastplate half a dozen times before he finally staggered and fell, his sword piercing the sand not half a meter from Jason’s feet. The others in Jason’s group had now turned as well, and were directing their fire at the remaining twenty or so men behind them. Several more attackers fell before the last of them finally scattered, running toward the water and then heading north or south along the shoreline. Gunshots continued to ring out, and two men fell into the surf before Jason’s shouts of “Cease fire!” were obeyed.

  Turning again toward the ridge, Jason saw what he had feared: the rest of the legion was making its way down the hillside toward them. The bulk of the cohort that had attacked was retreating toward their companions; the defenders would soon face almost an entire legion. They had killed perhaps a hundred men, out of nearly five thousand.

  Turning, Jason saw that Creed had had some luck rallying the fishermen. At present, he was helping women onto the last boat still on the beach. A few of the boats seemed to be lingering some distance from shore, but two had embarked with a full load of refugees, and at least three more were on their way back. Perhaps fifty women remained on the shore. Jason wondered if they knew how to swim.

  “Check your weapons!” Jason shouted. “Anybody hurt?”

  There were a few minor injuries, mostly bruises and contusions from javelins. One man had twisted his ankle in the sand. None of the Romans had gotten close enough to strike with their swords.

  Jason set one man atop the rock as a lookout, while the others rested. The remainder of the cohort showed no sign of continuing the attack; they marched straight toward the foot of the ridge and then halted, waiting for the rest of the legion to reach them. Unless the legion’s commander took his time—or decided the refugees weren’t worth the trouble—the defenders would be facing the entire legion in about fifteen minutes. If their first engagement was any indication, the battle would be over very quickly.

  “Schwartz, you there?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “How’s the shooting?”

  “I took a few shots, but frankly I’m a little out of practice and was afraid of hitting someone by accident.”

  “At this point, we’re going to have to take that risk. I need all those boats dawdling offshore to haul ass back to the beach. Wing a few fishermen if you have to. If those boats don’t get back here soon, a lot of these women are going to face worse at the hands of the Romans.”

  “Copy that, sir. I’ll take some practice shots at seagulls while we’re waiting for them.”

  “Captain out.”

  *****

  Between Creed threatening and cajoling the fishermen and Schwartz backing up the threats by putting small holes in their boats from a thousand meters, they managed to get most of the boats back to shore for one more load of refugees ahead of the legion’s arrival. By th
e time the Romans were in rifle range, only twenty women remained on the shore.

  This time, the defenders wouldn’t wait for the attackers to close. The Romans now knew what the spacemen’s weapons could do, and the defenders had no hope of forcing an entire legion to panic and rout. The best they could hope for was to hold them off long enough for the rest of the women to escape.

  Having reached the foot of the ridge, the legion assembled into a square formation eighty men wide and began to march toward the defenders’ position. When they were two hundred meters out, Jason ordered his men to fire. At this range, burst fire would be ineffective, but they might be able to take out a few men by aiming carefully. Fortunately, the beach had a bit of a slope, so a shot that went over one man’s head had a good chance of hitting the man behind him. Jason allowed himself a modicum of hope as several soldiers fell to the sand. If the Romans held their tight formation and advanced slowly and methodically—

  The hope vanished as the men in the first several lines spread out into a loose formation, leaving some three meters between them, and then broke into a run. “Switch to automatic fire!” Jason shouted, flipping the switch on his own rifle. He leveled it at the oncoming men and fired a burst. Then another. And another. Bursts of fire erupted from the men around him and farther up and down the beach. His rifle clicked empty, and he swapped out the magazine for another. Glancing behind him, he saw that another boat was on its way to Freedom, and two more had reached shore. Creed and the fishermen were helping the women into the boats. Another couple of minutes and they would be safely away. Jason saw no more boats near the shore, however: the fishermen were taking their chances dodging fire from Schwartz’s rifle rather than face a Roman legion. Jason’s men would either have to swim for Freedom or die on the beach.

  The vanguard of the legion was now less than fifty meters from them and advancing quickly. Jason’s men had killed nearly half of them already and another man fell with almost every burst of gunfire. “Incoming!” shouted one of the men to his left, and Jason became aware of a flicker of movement overhead. He had just enough time to put his head down before a rain of javelins came down all around them. Some thudded into the sand, some skittered against the rocks, and some, judging by the grunts and yelps from his men, reached their targets. One struck Jason’s helmet, knocking him to the ground. He lay there dazed, unable to get his limbs to respond, for what must have been only a few seconds but seemed much longer. He got to his knees and, leaning on the rock in front of him, pulled himself to his feet. The sand was littered with dead and wounded Roman soldiers; his men had broken the vanguard.

  Jason’s mind barely had time to register this news when he saw movement in the distance to his right: a group of Romans was coming around the rocks to flank Tsao’s men. Jason called out, but his warning was lost in the gunfire. Another group was undoubtedly in the process of flanking Nichols’s squad to his left, but Jason didn’t have time to look before a new barrage of javelins came down around them. Again most of the javelins missed, but they were effective in distracting Jason’s men and throwing off their aim. One man, struck in the shoulder, fired several bursts wildly as he staggered and fell, prompting Jason and the other three men nearby to fall prone to the sand. When Jason got up, he saw another detachment of several hundred men sprinting across the sand between his men and Tsao’s. Jason’s squad managed to drop maybe a dozen of them before the Romans passed between the two squads. The group split as it passed the rocks, some turning to advance toward Jason’s squad, some continuing to the sea.

  Creed, standing alone, up to his waist in the water, was all that was standing between the Romans and the two boats bearing the last of the refugees, which had embarked only seconds earlier. Jason was close enough to see the fear on the young man’s face. Creed raised his weapon to his shoulder, firing burst after burst, dropping a Roman soldier with each squeeze of the trigger. Bodies fell on the sand and then in the surf, the juggernaut rolling inexorably forward. Soon a score of Romans were only a few paces away, splashing toward him, gladii drawn. Their advance was slowed by the water, and it looked for a moment like Creed would be victorious. Then his gun ran empty and the soldiers pressed so close that Jason lost sight of him.

  Meanwhile, Jason and the rest of his squad continued to fire at the men pouring around the rocks toward their position. Corpses piled two or three high on the sand before them, and men continued to fall almost as quickly as they could clear the rocks. At last there was a pause in the onslaught, and Jason glanced back toward Creed, who was miraculously still standing. Three men were nearly on him, their swords drawn, and another four waded toward him through the surf. Jason took aim and dropped three of the men before his ammo ran out. While he swapped magazines, Creed discarded his rifle and drew his side arm, dispatching three men in quick succession. But two more had flanked him, one on each side. He turned to fire a shot into the chest of the man on his right, and the man on his left thrust with his gladius. Creed fell, disappearing into the water. Jason fired several bursts, killing the rest of the soldiers in the water, but Creed did not resurface. The nearest boat was now some thirty meters away and moving quickly out to sea. Creed had done it: the refugees were safe.

  Jason ran to the water and splashed toward the place where Creed had fallen. “Creed!” he shouted. The corpses of several Roman soldiers floated in the surf, but there was no sign of Creed. He waded toward one of the bodies and pushed it aside, thinking one of the men might have fallen on top of him. “Creed!” He reached another corpse, still saw no sign of his communications officer. “Creed!”

  A wave of guilt and despair washed over him. It had been a mistake to leave Creed by himself to manage the evacuation. If he’d assigned two men to the task, they might still be alive. Jason wasn’t a ground tactician; he’d been improvising as well as he knew how. And because of that, Creed would never get a chance to take care of his beloved sheep aboard Freedom. Jason’s father wouldn’t have made this mistake. He heard the Admiral’s voice in his head: It’s your own fault for not being prepared to face a Roman legion with twelve men!

  Jason scanned the waves one last time for any sign of Creed. If this were the movies, he’d come upon Creed’s body just before he breathed his last breath. Creed would say something selfless and life-affirming, and Jason would grimly carry on.

  But this wasn’t the movies, and there were ten men on the beach who still had a slim hope of getting out of this alive. What’s done is done, said his father’s voice in his head. “Shut the fuck up, Dad,” Jason muttered. He turned and made his way back to his men.

  Jason’s squad had taken advantage of the reprieve to distribute their remaining ammo. They each had, at most, a single magazine left. As Jason rejoined them, the watchman shouted that several hundred men were advancing rapidly toward their position. Jason’s men moved to take up their positions behind the rocks, but a hail of javelins drove them back. A moment later, Roman war cries indicated another group of soldiers had cut them off from Nichols’s squad. Yet another cohort began to pour through the passage to their south, rounding the rocks to swarm toward Jason’s squad and Tsao’s squad to the south. Jason took out four of them before his gun ran empty. “I’m out!” cried Bachman, to his left. One by one, their guns fell silent. Those with side arms drew them and did what they could, but they couldn’t fire fast enough to halt the Roman advance. Jason fired until his gun clicked empty and then drew his knife. He had no intention of being taken alive. He knew what the Romans did to prisoners of war, and he had a feeling he and his men would be singled out for special treatment: the Emperor would be quite interested in learning where he could get his hands on more automatic weapons, and he would be unlikely to accept that the technology wouldn’t be available for nearly two millennia. Bachman cried out as a gladius pierced his body armor. Pirelli fell with a scream as the flat of a blade stuck his outstretch forearm, shattering the bone. As the Romans surrounded his squad, Jason raised his knife to his own throat, just abov
e his armor and below the strap of his helmet. One clean cut across the jugular and that was it. He’d done his best. He couldn’t save the human race, but at least he’d rescued two hundred women from the hands of the Romans. At this point, there was nothing more he could do. He hesitated just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough: something hard hit him across the back, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling onto the sand. The knife blade scraped across his throat, drawing blood but missing the vein. He fell awkwardly on his elbow, and before he could reposition the knife, a boot came down on his wrist, weakening his grip. A leathery hand tore the knife from his hand. He felt the strap of his helmet come loose, and something hard hit him in the temple.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “Captain. Captain, are you there?”

  The voice came to Jason like a faint memory through his earpiece. He was lying on his back, sans helmet and body armor. Something tickled his neck. He tried to brush it away, but found he could not move his hands. His fingers were numb, tied tightly behind his back. He opened his eyes but the effort was met with pain. He saw only a bright yellow blur. For some time, he did nothing but blink in the sunlight, tears pouring down his cheek as the sand gradually cleared. Sand was everywhere. In his mouth, his nose, his ears. He tried to roll over, failed, was content to spit, cough and blink until enough of the sand in his membranes and the fog in his head were gone that he could focus on where he was.

  “Captain. This is Commander Olson. Do you read me? Please respond.”

  “Mmm,” Jason managed. Looking to his right and left, he saw three of his men, lying on the sand, stripped and bound as he was. Their eyes were closed, but presumably they were alive. Were they the only ones left? He tried to sit up, but thought better of it when he saw group of soldiers standing a little farther down the beach. Better for them to think he was unconscious for now. Some distance away stood a standard bearer holding a flag depicting a golden eagle, under which was the numeral IX.