by Gav Thorpe
"By the right!" Lutaan bellowed.
As one, the leftmost men in the phalanx stepped back a pace while those on the right flank heaved forwards, pushed into the enemy by eleven more ranks behind them. Though the movement was slight in the wider scheme of things, this slight change of angle caught the enemy unawares; they stumbled into the space created, allowing Donar's legionnaires to thrust their pikes into the gaps opened. Men of the Second fell, armour pierced, bodies streaming with blood.
These casualties, though relatively few in number, were enough to disrupt the momentum of the enemy phalanx. Donar and those around him in the front rank broke their shield wall and charged, smashing their shoulders into the shields of their foes to force them back a few more steps.
The company closed ranks again, the whole advance taking only a few heartbeats. The momentum continued to shift as the legionnaires of the Second were forced to step back to redress their ranks, but were given no time as Donar's company pushed them further and further down the slope towards the road, using their advantage of the higher ground.
"Beware to the left!" came a cry from behind Donar.
He could see nothing of what was happening, but guessed an opposing phalanx had broken the line and was about to charge. His phalanx stopped to receive this new threat. The men on that side turned their shields outwards, while the back ranks swung their pikes over the heads of those in front and angled them towards the oncoming enemies.
The force of the fresh impact shuddered though the tightly packed men and Donar felt the legionnaire behind him stumble. There were laughs as the man was dragged back to his feet by his companions. The inevitable push came, forcing Donar and the others to step to their right to compensate, as inexorably they were herded along the line of the slope. Ahead, the first company of the Second had rallied somewhat during the diversion and thrust forward with renewed vigour.
"Get at them!" Donar shouted, swinging his sword towards a helmeted head, the blade crashing along the top of a raised shield.
Another deafening crash rang in Donar's ears as the enemy to his left were in turn counter-charged and suddenly his formation was surging into the space vacated by their retreat. This sudden movement turned the enemy in front even further, and Donar could hear the shouts of his men as his legion's third company drove into the enemy from his right.
Step by excruciating step, the first company of the Fifth advanced down the slope, battering and heaving at their counterparts in the Second. The advance gathered pace until the legionnaires in front could no longer contain the pressure. Some lost their balance and tripped down the slope, others turned full around to run away, sensing that this engagement had been lost. With a hoarse shout, Donar urged his men after them, running down the slope, hacking at their backs with his sword.
A horn note, long and deep, cut through the blood pounding in Donar's ears. It was the general order to hold advance. Wondering what his captains were thinking, he ducked back through the lines of men behind, pushing through the ranks until he exited through the back of the phalanx.
The slope and road was littered with bodies from both sides, but it was the formations of men advancing through the right flank of his army that drew his attention. Three of his companies had made it all the way to the road, but had been met by a company from the Second held in reserve, while half a dozen companies from the Second had pushed their way up the hill around them, turning in an arc towards the rear of the line's centre. The first company and those around it were hideously compromised.
"Sound the rally!" Donar shouted, dashing up the slope towards the gaggle of second captains at the crest. "Bring the phalanxes back to the line!"
The captains could not hear him over the din of the battle, and sounded the command for "Halt advance" again. Neither pushing into the enemy to force a retreat nor falling back to mount a fresh attack, the companies of the Fifth were scattered across the hillside, only the centre forming a cohesive line. Screaming with anger, Donar sprinted up the hill, lungs bursting.
"Sound the fucking rally!" he bellowed over and over until he was within earshot of the hornblowers. Three short notes followed swiftly, but as he turned back towards the road, Donar could see it was too late.
Their formation disjointed, the Fifth were being enveloped on their left, where the enemy now had the advantage of the better ground. Those companies on the right could already see what was happening, and were breaking from the line, retreating coldwards towards the Greenwater. For the phalanxes in the centre, there was no escape. Assailed from both sides, their shield walls were quickly broken and a stream of men ran back up the hill as the rear ranks fled from the brutal fighting.
Donar watched in horror as the first company broke ranks and fell back. For a moment the icon of Askhos disappeared and Donar's heart sank, only for the golden icon to emerge from the mass of bodies, held aloft by his nephew.
As legionnaires poured up the slope, Donar was thankful to hear the Second's musicians ringing out the "Halt pursuit" call; Rhantis was more concerned with keeping his legion intact that catching his fleeing enemies.
Blood streaming from a cut across the bridge of his nose, Lutaan fell to his knees just in front of Donar, panting heavily, his shield gouged and split in one hand, the legion icon in the other. Donar helped his nephew to his feet.
"Come on, let's get out of here." The First Captain knew it was a bit pointless, but called out for the horns to sound the general retreat, for appearance's sake if nothing else.
He pulled Lutaan's useless shield from his arm and tossed it away, putting his shoulder under the man's arm to help him along. Between gasps, Lutaan laughed fitfully. He looked at Donar, his hand tightening reassuringly on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Uncle, don't listen to me again. This was a shit plan!"
Donar stared in wonder at Lutaan, and at the thousands fleeing up the slope. Despite the defeat that this had turned out to be, he guessed he'd only lost a fifth of his men – so far. More would turn up missing before the legion came together at Denerii, but it was far from being a disaster.
"All things considered," he said to his nephew, "I have to agree with you."
PARMIA
Winter, 210th Year of Askh
I
Using a trick he had learnt from his fellow legionnaires, Gelthius thrust his hands down the front of his kilt and used the heat of his groin to warm his numb fingers. His shield was leant against the parapet of the wooden tower, his spear held in the crook of his arm as he wiggled his fingers to get some feeling back into them. The bell had just rung two hours after Noonwatch, but still Gelthius's breath came in clouds of mist.
"Is it always this cold?" he asked Geddiban, the squat Ersuan standing sentry the regulation five paces to his right.
"Not this time of the year," the legionnaire replied. "Rain, there's always plenty of that, but it ain't usually this cold."
"I overheard the captain saying they even had a night frost down in Maasra," added Jirril to the left. "Imagine that. Ice in Maasra."
"It's queer, sure enough," said Gelthius. "Listen to that wind!"
The ten men in the tower did as Gelthius suggested. There seemed to be voices on the wind, long whispers of words Gelthius could not understand, but he detected malice in their tone.
"Just a trick of the mind," said Jirril.
Gelthius had his own opinions, but knew better than to share them. He had been humiliated before when talking about the spirits, mocked by the others in his company for having such superstitions. It didn't matter to them that their grandfathers had made sacrifices to the same spirits that Gelthius talked about; the Brotherhood had done its work well, convincing them that men alone controlled their fate.
Stamping his feet to distract himself from the strange hisses in his ears, Gelthius looked out across the snow-dusted fields. The early winter did not bode well. It was an omen of the spirits' displeasure, he was sure of it.
The other men always complained about stand
ing watch, but the cold aside, Gelthius quite enjoyed it. He had grown used to monotony in the bowels of the landship, and at least guard duty didn't take the bone-aching toll that was the lot of every cranksman. Standing in a tower or pacing along the camp walls gave Gelthius time to ponder the world, something there had been precious little of since he had been drafted into the Thirteenth.
When he had been a turnsman he had idled away the long days with thoughts of what he would do when he had paid off his debt. He would picture his wife and children, the village in duskward Salphoria where they lived, helping on the farms in the warm seasons, picking berries and herding swine through the woods during the winter. He could never have imagined how differently things would turn out. On the very day he should have had his freedom, he had been entangled in all this rebel business, and just as he was getting used to that idea the general had turned up.
He'd travelled all over the world since becoming one of the Thirteenth, up to Ersua and Enair and all the way hotwards into Okhar and Maasra. He'd rooted out hiding Brothers in Askhira and patrolled the streets of the harbour town enforcing the curfew. He'd sailed on a bireme on the Greenwater and peed in the gardens of Nemtun's palace in Geria.
For all that he had done, he had not yet seen a battle, not a proper one. He had talked to legionnaires from the Fifth after they met the Thirteenth duskwards of Narun and heard them talk about the blood and sweat, the fear of not knowing what was happening and the cold trickle of dread they had experienced when they realised they had lost the battle.
It had come as quite a shock to Gelthius. Never in his life had he heard of an Askhan legion defeated. He supposed that when legion fought legion, one of them would have to lose. It was all fine when they were cutting down the scattered warbands of the tribes, but when they matched against each other something had to give, and that something was their reputation for invincibility.
"Do you reckon we could beat another legion?" he asked, putting the question out to everyone on the tower roof.
"We're the Thirteenth," said Geddiban. "There's not another legion can match us. You're a lucky fella, Gelthius, to join us."
"Not even the First?" said Gelthius. "I hear they're pretty handy."
There were chuckles around him.
"What's so funny about that?" Gelthius looked at his companions, who regarded him with a mix of tolerant humour and patronising stares of pity. "Tell me!"
"Well, there's a couple of things to remember about the First," explained the watch captain, Huuril. "They're only led by the king himself, and since he's well into his seventies I can't see that happening. And they're all pure-born Askhans, which means they're all short-arses."
"I still don't understand," said Gelthius. "If Ullsaard wants to be king, that means we'll end up in Askh one way or other. And if we're in Askh, the First ain't gonna sit around and just let us wander into the city. And what does it matter if the First are shorter? Their pikes are just as long."
"Maybe you're right on that first one, but size matters in a fight," said Huuril. "They've got spindly little arms and legs, no meat to them at all. One good shove will send them running."
"But the Askhans came up with the idea of the legions… That's what makes them better than everyone else."
"Maybe against your lot, whooping their heads off and running at a spearwall, but against another legion, those Askhans will be on the shitty end of the stick."
Removing his now warmed hands, Gelthius was about to continue his argument when he hesitated, his ears catching a change in the wind. The voices were still there, harsh and cold, but they had grown more strident.
"You must be able to hear that," he said. "That's not just a trick of the mind."
The others were looking around with concern and did not reply. The voices, though no louder, were speaking rapidly, the cadence of their words increasing in tempo. They throbbed in Gelthius's ears, growing in insistence, worming their way into his mind. His heart beat faster, keeping pace with the awful voices as the rhythm continued to speed up. Through the hissing he could hear disturbance in the camp below; shouts of alarm, the sound of running feet, the pause in the hammering at the armouries.
An eerie quiet settled, not a sound made by any of the thousands of men, only the wind and its disturbing voices could be heard within the camp walls.
"That's jus–" began Arsiil, but he choked. Dropping his spear and shield, he clutched his hands to his throat, eyes bulging.
The legionnaire fell to his knees with a crack, gasping. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his lips, and he looked at his comrades in terror. Geddiban took a step towards him and suddenly fell, convulsing as he vomited blood across the planks of the tower.
"The spirits of plague!" hissed Gelthius, backing away from the afflicted men.
He saw more men falling along the walls and on other towers. He watched one legionnaire stagger backwards, arms flailing, until he toppled over the rampart into the stake-lined ditch outside. Looking down into the camp, Gelthius saw other casualties stumbling between the tents. Some blundered blindly into fires, hoarse screams coming from bloodstained lips. Many were on their hands and knees or crawling on their bellies, leaving crimson trails in the frost-rimed mud.
The voices stopped.
The wind continued to blow, but now screams and groans and agonised shouts were carried on the breeze. Gelthius heard officers bellowing orders, but did not understand the words. His ears still burned and his stomach was a knot of pain. He dabbed a finger to his lips, fearing to see blood, but there was none. Keeping his distance from the bodies of the men on the tower, he made his way to the ladder and hastily climbed down, only to find a contorted corpse at the bottom. Fingers spasmed into claws, legs and arms bent awkwardly, the dead legionnaire stared up at Gelthius with wide eyes, bubbles of red froth still bursting through his gritted teeth.
"You, get away from there!" a second captain called out. "If you're not ill, muster at your drill square."
Gelthius nodded dumbly and staggered through the camp, every turn revealing more dead and dying. He heard something scraping at the canvas inside a nearby tent and broke into a run, dashing for the safety of open ground.
II
"Seven hundred and thirty-eight dead," Anasind announced grimly. "Another seventy or so that won't survive the night, and hundred and six more that will probably live but can barely breathe or walk."
Ullsaard took this news without comment. He rubbed his bristled chin and looked at his First Captain. The prevailing wisdom was illness, but Ullsaard was not so sure. It was not the number infected that shocked him, but the sudden speed of the affliction's onset. And though he had said nothing, like everyone else he had heard those sinister voices in the air. He had been feeding Blackfang and thought it was just the guards outside the corral tent whispering to each other. Then the panic had started.
"How many desertions?" he asked quietly.
"Not too bad," said Anasind. "At last muster, less than two hundred men accounted for, and half a dozen officers. It's not a rout."
"I think they've been poisoned," the general said.
"Poison? How?" replied Anasind. "It's affected men from companies across all three legions here. If it was the food, it wouldn't be so widespread."
"Something in the air, maybe," said Ullsaard. He shook his head angrily. "I don't know how, but it's an attack. Plague doesn't strike in winter. Check all of the food stores, and double the number of men accompanying the caravans. If you find anything suspicious, anything the slightest bit odd, burn it. We can't take any chances."
"Nobody has had access to the food except the men," said Anasind. "And no man in the camp would poison the supplies, because he'd be just as likely to die himself."
"What else would you have me do?" Ullsaard asked, slamming a hand on the arm of his campaign chair. "Stop the men from breathing? While you're at it, send patrols up the rivers, make sure the water isn't being tainted. And check the storage butts too. Something cau
sed this, and we have to stop it happening again."
III
The gruesome episodes did not stop. Despite every precaution that Ullsaard and his officers could take, there were sporadic outbursts of death and disease. Sometimes the bloody vomiting returned; other times, men were struck blind and deaf, or their bones became brittle so that they snapped with the slightest pressure.
The winter closed in fiercely, colder than anything any man in the legions could remember, even the Enairians. Though the snow came thick and fast for days on end, Ullsaard began to welcome the blizzards; when the snow was thick, he could not hear the voices on the wind, there were no strange episodes and men were unwilling to risk their lives in the wilds by deserting.
