Rise and Fall

by Michael Whitehead

  Legion Of The Undead

  Book Two

  Rise And Fall

  Rise and Fall

  Michael Whitehead

  By Michael Whitehead

  Legion Of The Undead – Series

  Book one - Legion Of The Undead

  Book Two - Rise And Fall

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or undead is purely coincidental.

  Cover by George Whitehead.

  Copyright 2017 by Michael Whitehead All Rights Reserved

  For Michelle

  You make me want to make you proud. I love you.

  Thanks to everyone who has had the patience to help me with this book,

  You know who you are.

  I really appreciate everything you’ve done.

  Special Thanks to Tamra Crow.

  Doing what you do, makes what I do better.

  Chapter One

  The quadriremes came in hard, and their hulls scraped the seabed as they beached themselves on the sand. The ports up and down the coast had been destroyed by the Risen and the only option left to the fleet was to land as an invading force. The journey from Greece had been as uneventful as any captain could pray for. The sea had been calm and the winds steady and predictable.

  Makeshift bridges were dropped to the sand and legionaries poured onto the beach. As they dropped to the sand the timbers of the ships creaked and twisted against the seabed.

  First onto the sand were the centurions, all along the beach they rushed from the ships and began to bellow out orders to their centuries. Men recovered their land legs quickly and formed into ranks and files. Shields were handed down from storage and gladiī were loosened in their scabbards.

  Scouts had signaled from the land and a large swarm of Risen was known to be heading down onto the beach. The whole Eastern coast of Italy had become a wasteland since the fall of Mutina, weeks earlier. By the grace of the Gods the undead swarm had moved, not toward Rome but East across the country to the sea, as it had left the dead city. Smaller hordes of the dead were moving elsewhere in Italy but the Eastern coast suffered greatly. On reaching the sea, the swarm had moved South and had destroyed everything in its path. Towns and cities had stood for mere minutes in some cases and hours in others. Bringing hundreds of years of history to an untimely end. Always, the result was the same, the people were destroyed and the swarm was bigger when it left than when it arrived. More people became undead and the numbers of the hunters grew.

  Troops had not come. The people had hoped and prayed but in the end they had been left to die, or worse. Uncountable dead monsters had torn them from their homes and then torn the flesh from their bodies.

  Now, from Greece, the legions of Titus had arrived but not to bring relief from the invading monsters. There were more pressing matters than the fate of fishermen and farmers. Matters of state took precedence over the doom of villages and towns. Above all else revenge took the highest priority of all.

  Titus was not with his legions. Instead he had spent the last weeks in hiding, heating his anger until it was a boiling fury. He had watched Otho occupy the throne that he had stolen from Vespasian, Titus’ father. He had endured Otho’s attempts to hunt him down and destroy him. It was only by the grace of men who had loved his father that Titus had eluded Otho’s hounds for as long as he had. Now his legions were in Italy once more and he could take the fight to Otho.

  In preparation for the battles to come, Otho had looked ever inward. He had barricaded himself in the city of Rome and made himself a fortress. Never once had he sent men out to fight the Risen. His gaze had never strayed outside his domain and so he had not watched the Empire begin to burn. City after city was being ravaged by the undead and still his hand rested on the arm of the throne. Had he lifted it and pointed his finger in command, his men could have made a difference. Highly trained and experienced, they could have at least slowed the monsters' advance but it was not to be. So the Empire was burning.

  On the beach, the ranks disembarked and formed up on the warm sand. The sea behind them was no more than a gentle rustle and the footfall of the legionaries made little sound on the dry sand. So it was that the noiseless enemy came into sight and the silent ranks stood and watched them come with dry mouths and few words. It was so far removed from the noise and excitement that normally preceded a battle that it grated against the men’s nerves.

  Hundreds of them came, maybe thousands, it was nearly impossible to tell. They did not shout or bang swords against shields. There was no flight of arrows and no heavy weapons were fired by the enemy. They came in silent, jerking waves over the crest of the sand dunes. Flesh was rotting on their bones. Many carried injuries with no sign of pain. Limbs were gone and more than one dragged themselves along using their arms because they were missing their legs. They flowed like boiling water toward the legions and the men watched them come.

  Centurions called out orders, steadying their men. Shields were locked together and the second rank lifted a second row over the heads of the first. They formed a barrier between the two armies that would protect them from the leaping attack they knew to expect. A third rank stood ready with long spears, a final barrier against the lunging attack of the enemy. No man on the beach had yet faced a Risen. Greece was thankfully free of the plague. They had, however, been warned of the danger they presented.

  There was a large gap behind the front three ranks. This meant that any undead that made it over the top would fall into open space and not the massed ranks of the legions. Much thought had gone into this new formation and a lot rode on its success.

  Despite all of these precautions, the sight of the Risen pouring over the rise turned many hearts cold and many bowels to water. Even seasoned veterans had to be reminded not to throw their pilums too early. Fear robbed men of their composure and sapped the will to stand and wait. Centurions shouted constant orders, making themselves the focus of the men’s minds. Taking their fear and turning it into a hard edge with which to destroy the monsters that came for them.

  At the distance of twenty five steps the centurions gave the order to ready the iron tipped javelins. When the Risen closed to fifteen steps the order was given to loose the weapon that had broken hundreds of armies as they charged into the fight. For a moment the sky above the first ranks was tattooed with hundreds of black streaks and then the enemy was crashing to the ground.

  Many of the pilum found heads and the Risen went down and stayed on the ground, their brief unnatural afterlife ended. Many more were pierced or knocked from their feet by the heavy weapons. They stumbled and fell to the ground, spoiling the charge of the following creatures. The charge that had turned into a run was brought to a stuttering halt. Orders were shouted to the front ranks to advance in an attempt to rob the undead of their ability to leap into the Roman lines. In the time it took for the shield wall to move forward, while keeping the shields locked, the Risen were regaining their feet.

  A second wave of pilums crashed into the ranks of the creatures but it lacked the impact of the first, as the targets were stationary. Within seconds the two forces came together. The Risen managed to attack from above despite the broken charge. The overhead shield took the brunt of the weight, as bodies crashed down onto them. The third rank used their spears to attack the exposed heads of the creatures if they could, otherwise they pushed at the monsters to break up the attack.

  In front, men used their gladius swords to stab and hack at the creatures as they tried to force their way through the shield wall. The reduced front ranks were being forced back by the sheer weight of the opposing force and soon the well laid out formation was closing in on the main force behind it.

  Risen fell in their dozens with spear
wounds to their heads or fought on after losing limbs. The injuries they endured would have ended another enemy but did little to even slow the Risen. Men fought, hacking and stabbing at such a rate that they soon began to tire. Orders were passed forward to refresh the ranks with new reserves. Shields were taken by new hands and the battle continued unabated.

  Men fell along the line. Shields that were protecting the front ranks collapsed under the weight of the attackers that leapt onto them. The shield wall broke in places and men strode forward to take the place of fallen comrades. The most unfortunate men were those who had their hands and arms grabbed as they stabbed through the shield wall. More than once men disappeared, screaming, into the seething mass of undead creatures.

  Those that fell on the Roman side of the lines were quickly checked for bite marks, if they were still alive. In some cases their injuries were the usual battle injuries caused by contact with the mass of metal that made up the Roman lines. Many times the men were bitten and were quickly dragged back through the ranks by teams who had been given this unenviable job.

  Every man in the ranks knew what was to happen to those unfortunate enough to be bitten. It had been discussed at length while on the ships. The general and his staff were making no secret of what must be done. Behind the ranks, men were quickly being put to death with honour, a sharp blade up through the base of the skull as they knelt and their lives were ended. Priests were walking amongst the teams of executioners saying prayers to the Gods for the men’s souls.

  Those that fell and seemed to be dead had many blades driven into their skulls. No man wanted to be fighting, only to be attacked from below as a man came back from the dead.

  Tribune Decius Crispus Fabius, general of this battle and second in command only to Titus himself, watched the horror of the enemy and tried to remain impassive. He, like the men, was witnessing the Risen for the first time. He had read the messages and dispatches that had been sent from Rome. Titus himself had sent word of what he should expect when he came into contact with the undead. The reality was always going to be overwhelmingly different. A scroll could never hope to relay the detail of the things they now faced. Even from a distance, the smell of the rotting flesh and the dead look in their eyes was horrifying.

  He turned to an aide and made a reasonably successful attempt to keep his emotions out of his voice.

  “The new tactics seem to be holding up well, don’t you think?”

  The aide looked up to the general's angular face and smiled. “We seem to be losing many less men than even we had estimated, sir. The space between the ranks is giving the men behind the chance to defend those in front. I have to say I think you’ve worked a stroke of genius, sir.”

  Tribune Fabius’ horse jigged beneath him, apparently nervous at the closeness of the dead.

  “I hardly think of it as genius, we have simply taken what we know of the enemy and adapted.”

  He watched as a break in the line occurred. First one man and then more, were dragged from their place in the shield wall and that part of the formation turned into a free fight. The ranks behind stepped forward to hold the breach but the break in the line had left a vulnerable spot. The Risen started to pour into and over the men there. He looked along the line. The numbers of the enemy were thinning nicely. This battle would normally be over. Very rarely did two armies meet and fight until all the warriors of one side or another were all dead. Most of the time the losing side had the wit to run or surrender, Fabius knew this was not going to happen this time. Never would the legions break this enemy. However, he also had the advantage of knowing that the enemy was not holding troops back for surprise attacks. The Risen had one tactic, attack, and that was all they had. There would never be an unexpected attack to the flanks or a cavalry charge from behind a hill. It was as refreshing as it was intimidating.

  “Are the Equites ready yet?” Fabius asked.

  “Sir, the horses are still shaky from the voyage but they are saddled and ready to go if you need them,” replied the aide. Fabius wished he could remember the man’s name but, a little like the man himself, it just didn’t seem important enough to commit to memory.

  “Good, I want them round the back of that breach and harassing the rear of the Risen. They are not to go crashing in but pick their targets.” The aide saluted and turned to pass the orders to a messenger. The boy ran off toward the right flank of the legions, kicking up sand as he went.

  Men were dying. The formation had failed as a Risen had reached under a shield and pulled a man to the ground. It took the blink of an eye for the gap to be filled with rotting, snarling faces. The man behind him went down almost instantly and the ranks rushed in to stop the flood of undead.

  The weak place was widened as the men to either side were dragged down. The disadvantage of a shield wall was that one breach could bring the formation to the ground.

  Without the overhead shields the men became vulnerable to the leaping attacks of the Risen and the men began to feel the crush of the ranks as they tried to get their weapons up above their heads. More than one man was injured by his fellow legionaries as they used their swords in this unaccustomed way.

  Risen fell into the crowd and were hacked to pieces by those who could use their blades. Many men had taken to using knives instead of their gladius, the shortened blade making it easier to maneuver. Men fell to the Risen, dragged away screaming into the breach. All advantage of the new formation was lost to that part of the line and the problem was widening.

  The Equites drove their mounts around the flank of the Roman line and behind the Risen. The largest concentration of enemy was near the center of the Roman formation. The undead had been slow to spread themselves into a wider front. No tactics drove them, just a desire to get to the living flesh beyond the line of shields and spears. The dull drumming of hooves on sand did little to draw the attention of the Risen away from the army in front of them.

  Such a manoeuvre in the midst of battle would normally be impossible. To attack the rear of the fighting lines would require the cavalry to brave the archers and reserves of the enemy army. Those things did not exist when fighting the Risen. It was unnerving to experienced men, who were seeing everything they knew about battle changed.

  At first they drove along the rear of the line swinging their swords as they went. Each man hacking at a Risen’s head and galloping on. In this way, they thinned the line without engaging the enemy long enough for the creatures to respond. The officers at the front set the pace and the men followed their lead.

  They took three sweeps at the rear lines of the Risen before they turned to engage the Risen near the breach in the Roman line. The Risen were being drawn to the spot as they became aware that the killing was easier there. The Equites drove hard at the spot, hitting the rear of the Risen at an angle, not wanting to force their way too far in.

  The undead did not react as men would, they did not panic at being charged from behind by horses. Their hunger was directed at the hundreds of men who waited for them just a few arm's-lengths away. The Equites took the fight to the Risen and made short work of the killing. Dozens of Risen dropped in seconds, blades swung from above could hardly miss their targets.

  Slow as they were to react, the Risen did eventually turn to face the new danger. By then a lot of the damage had been done but the attention of the undead panicked the horses. Many were as seasoned as the men that rode them. Trained from birth to be warhorses, they had seen battle fields across the empire. Swords and artillery had not broken these mounts but as the Risen turned their gazes on the, the horses began to falter.

  Riders found themselves thrown about in the saddle as the horses beneath them tried to turn in the crush and run from this unnatural enemy that faced them. Some became so violent that their riders were thrown to the ground and dragged into the undead horde. Those that could not escape began to kick out wildly, damaging the legs of the mounts behind them. What had been easy killing was turning into a massacre.


  Fabius stared in horror at the disaster that was unfolding before him. His cavalry was being destroyed before his eyes. Men with decades of experience and horses with years of training were being dragged down and massacred. He sat in helpless rage at the scene.

  “Sound the cavalry retreat!” he shouted. It was a pointless gesture, those men that could were forcing their mounts out of the turmoil. More men were being dragged, screaming, from their saddles by the second. The wild screeching of the horses could be heard above every noise on the battle field.

  The men in the line felt the momentum and movement of the enemy change. Slowly at first and then the weight of the crushing horde was gone almost altogether. Something was happening behind the Risen that the men on the ground could not see. From being at the point of annihilation, the legionaries now found themselves with an almost helpless enemy in front of them. Their attention had been diverted away from the men in front of them and in a lot of cases, the creatures had even turned their backs on the men they had been trying to kill only seconds before.

  The centurions took their chance to order their men forward, the lines reacted without question. Men stepped forward, swinging blades into the backs of the heads that now presented themselves to them. The tide of the battle turned instantly, dozens and then hundreds of the undead dropped in the first few seconds. Up ahead, the infantry started to see what had turned the Risen away from the fight. The Equites were being massacred, dragged from their horses and sucked into a boiling mass of teeth and rotting flesh.