– |The sun was swallowed by cloud, and the sky darkened. Heavy gray overcast pressed against the earth. Snowflakes drifted down, melting on the stones of the Wall. His breath white in the air, Nicholas made his way down the wooden staircase behind the gate. He had waited on the Wall for three hours, slowly getting colder and colder, watching the distant line of trees. It had been quiet, and then the falling snow had obscured the Avar camps. The noise of the fighting down the Wall, at the great Golden Gate, had slowly risen in intensity as the day progressed. The tower at the Number Two Gate blocked a direct view of the looming redoubt that anchored the southern end of the city wall, but the sound of crashing metal on metal and the high-pitched snap of siege engines firing filtered through the cold air. At the bottom of the stairs a band of knights-no, he reminded himself, an alae of equites-were gathering in the space behind the gatehouse.
Nicholas jumped down from the next to last landing on the wooden scaffold, landing lightly in a space just off the gate. Horsemen armored in silvery bands of iron were preparing to go out into the snowy fields. Steam rose from the horses' flanks, and the high arch of the gate rang with voices and the rattle of metal. The knights were checking the straps of their low-cantled saddles, and long straight swords hung to their knees. Many had wooden bowcases strapped behind them, the tops thick with gray goose feathers. Nicholas scratched the back of his head and turned toward the gate. A grinding sound echoing off the barrel vault of the passage drew his attention upward. The long iron bars that secured the gate were being drawn, slowly, up into the ceiling of the passage. The rumble of great hidden wheels echoed through the stout brick walls. Each iron bar was a foot wide, and the width of man's hand thick. Nicholas counted heads: there were thirty or forty men in the entryway-most of them the lead horsemen. He began scanning their faces, comparing them to a half-heard description.
A thin man, half Slav and half Greek, with a pleasant and smiling face. A spy and a traitor to the city.
"A sortie," a voice said from behind him. Nicholas turned, his face casual. It was the blond centurion from the tower. "Going out to burn a tower or two. Teach the barbs not to get sloppy about their flanks."
"You want to teach them to win?" Nicholas regretted opening his mouth as soon as the words had escaped. The centurion glared at him for a moment, then pushed past him through the throng of horses. Nicholas bit his lip in regret and considered going after the man, but there was little time left. The legionnaires by the gate itself were preparing to push it open. The equites in the first rank were trying to form a double line with something like proper spacing. The horses jostled in the confined space, and Nicholas was forced back against the Wall. Bricks ground into his back. Without conscious thought, his right hand reached up and tugged the wire loop that secured his sword in its sheath off the hilt. Behind him, out in the military street behind the Wall, a trumpet pealed and there was shouting.
The gate swung open. Nicholas cursed and pushed forward along the Wall toward the edge of the opening hinge. Five men were there, putting their shoulders into the rough planks of the gate. It was heavy, and the hinges squealed in protest at the movement. As Nicholas tried to make his way though the throng of horses and other men standing by the Wall, a dim gray light spilled in. Cold air followed, and the horses whinnied and milled a little before their riders stilled them. The snowy field was revealed, a foot at a time, as the soldiers continued to push the gate open.
Nicholas jumped up, trying to see over the bulk of the horsemen. Legionnaires pushed at his back, trying to move up to the gate. He turned back and began trying to swim against their flow. There was a shout, and the horsemen began to move out of the gate passage. A flash of something catching the light caught Nick's eye and he stared through a forest of horse legs at the other side of the passage. A bared sword blade flickered in the light from outside.
Nicholas snarled a curse and swung up on a man's shoulder, planting his boot against the courses of bricks on the Wall.
The soldier, startled, shouted at him. "Bastard! Get off me!"
The extra two feet of height was enough. Nicholas cursed aloud himself. The man he was hunting was across the passage, only fifteen feet away, screened by the knights who were filing through the gateway. He dropped down and absently blocked the legionnaire's halfhearted punch with a raised hand. The slithering sound of his sword coming into his hand stilled the soldier's protest. Nicholas glanced right, seeing the gate come fully open, then left, counting the remaining numbers of horsemen waiting to ride out. The column was halfway out the gate. He tensed, preparing to dash through the horses cantering past.
A tremendous, high-pitched, wailing scream suddenly filled the world. Nicholas ducked down, hearing the hissing passage of hundreds of arrows fill the air. Men started shouting and screaming. There was a rippling sound of heavy blows striking meat. Nicholas scrambled away to the Wall, under the falling body of the soldier. A black-feathered bow shaft had transfixed the man, spilling bright blood out of his back and mouth. Nicholas grabbed the man's arm and hauled the body over his own as a shield. A horse hoof, driven by pain-maddened rage, smashed into the soldier's breastplate, cracking the metal, and Nicholas grimaced, turning his head away as the body jerked in his hands. More blood spattered on the side of his face. He wedged himself into the corner of the Wall. Now there was a wailing war cry from beyond the gate.
Nicholas could hear the company of knights, caught half in and half out of the gate, being slaughtered by arrow fire. Shafts continued to whip through the open gate, into the mass of dying men and horses in the passage. Behind the gate was loud confusion as men milled about-some trying to get into the passage, others to get away. The bull-voiced shouts of centurions rallying their men and raising the alarm rang in the air. Too, there was fighting outside, in the space before the Wall. The war cries of Avars echoed off the high vault of the gate. A horse, rearing, was struck down by two black arrows and fell across the body of the man that partially covered Nick. He twisted away from the impact, but felt it like a titan's slap against his back.
Outside, horses galloped away, neighing in fear. The whistling of arrows faltered and then stopped. There was a rush of running feet and Nicholas grimaced, pushing the leaden body away from him with all his strength. The dead legionnaire, his eyes still round with surprise, fell away, and Nicholas scrambled up. His right hand, slimy with sticky red mud, dragged the length of his longsword out of the gore covering the floor of the passage. Dark figures filled the gateway, rushing forward with axes and long spears in hand. Nicholas sprang up onto the unsteady welter of corpses-both man and horse-and bright sparks rang from his sword as he parried the first stroke of an Avar axe.
The Avar noble was broad in the shoulder and clad in heavy capes of ermine and fox. Scale mail glinted under the fur and rose up to his neck, circled by a thick torc of gold, and down to his biceps. His eyes were slanted over high cheekbones, and his nose was broad and flat. The axe whipped around again, driven by dark-skinned arms thick with matted hair, muscle, and a thin sheen of sweat. Nicholas stumbled aside, his foot slipping on the flank of a fallen horse. The iron wedge carved air where his arm had been. Nicholas dropped his shoulder and bulled into the Avar, crashing iron rings against scale. A hand with long dirty nails clawed at his face, cutting his cheek. He grappled, pinning the nomad's free hand between their bodies. Stiff fingers stabbed at the barbarian's eye. The Avar fell backward, clouting Nicholas on the side of the head. Nicholas pushed into the fall and drove his left knee into the inside of the Avar's thigh. The man gasped in pain, feeling his leg go numb. Nicholas lashed down with his right elbow, catching the man on the neck. The torc deformed-soft gold twisting under the blow-but it prevented the barbarian's larynx from being crushed.
More Avars swarmed past through the gateway. As they ran forward they fired short but heavy bows with an odd, long, top stave into the milling crowd of legionnaires who had fallen back into the street. Men staggered and fell as the heavy arrows punched thro
ugh their leather and chain-mail armor. Behind the Avar veterans, a great crowd of Slavs was pushing forward, their red and blond hair standing stiff with grease, their shields bright with geometric patterns in black and red and blue. A forest of spear points danced over their heads. They were running forward, raising their voices in a great shout when they saw the gate standing wide.
The noble squirmed under Nicholas like a Danube eel and threw him to one side. Nicholas slipped and skidded away on the gore-smeared floor. Another Roman corpse stopped him. His sword was gone, lost among the still-dying horses. The Avar sprang up, his right hand already filled with the mirror brightness of a long knife. Nicholas felt a chill, seeing that he was cut off from the rest of the defenders. He rolled backward and then came up, stripping the remains of his shirtsleeve from his left arm. The Avar dodged in, making short, controlled stabs with the knife. Nicholas skipped back again, over the body of a bay horse, and flexed his left fist outward from his arm, pulling the exposed wire-ring with his thumb.
There was a sharp metallic twang, and a six-inch steel bolt punched through the Avar's right eye and rang off the inside of his conical helmet. Blood and white flakes of bone smeared the right side of the nobleman's face as he crumpled soundlessly back into the welter of other bodies.
Nicholas half saw a blurring shape in the air and threw himself forward. One of the long arrows whickered over his head and glanced off the inner gate post with a shrill tang. He crawled hurriedly, searching among the bodies for his sword. More arrows flicked past, hunting him. He bellied down behind one of the dead horses and scuttled forward.
Behind him, in the street, was a confused melee. More Avars and Slavs poured through the gateway and piled into the Romans trying to hold the boulevard against them. Legionnaires atop the wall were throwing javelins and stones down into the mass of men struggling on the pavement. The masons and engineers who had been working behind the Wall rushed up, spears and great hammers in their hands. Nicholas heard the bellowing voice of the blond centurion ringing above the din of steel and iron, rallying his men to him.
Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief; Brunhilde's engraved hilt was barely visible, jutting from under the carcass of a sandy-colored mare. The grooved leather binding on the hilt met his fingers like a well-loved friend. The four-foot length of rune-carved Scandian steel stuck for a moment, but then slid free with a greasy popping sound. He ducked aside from another arrow, but the Avar archers were now occupied exchanging missile fire with the Romans on the Wall and on the battlements. Nicholas sprinted across the killing ground to the foot of the nearest wooden stair tower.
Taking the plank steps two and three at a time, he leapt to the second level of the tower, fifteen feet above the battle raging in the street. Two Avars had also climbed up before him and were firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the Romans fighting below. Nicholas shifted one hand back on Brunhilde's long hilt and, taking her two-handed, ended his rush with a hard horizontal chop that bit deep into the neck of the Avar on the right, sending his body sprawling into the other archer. Bright arterial blood gushed out, spraying down on the men below, and the Avar's head lolled at an obscene angle. The other Avar staggered up in time for Nicholas to shatter his outthrust kneecap with a sharp kick. The man was still howling in pain as Nicholas heaved his body over the railing.
Arrows thrummed through the air, spiking into the pillars of the tower. He dodged again, this time up the stairs to the next platform. The tower shook with the weight of more Avars swarming up the steps. Nicholas skidded back on the undressed planks of the third platform, swinging Brunhilde into guard position. Four Avars in glistening iron-scale tunics, their furs cast aside, showing long mustaches and lank black hair, stormed up the stairs. Luckily, they blocked the view of the archers behind them for a moment.
The first Avar rushed onto the platform, his axe a blur of short cuts at Nick's midriff. The Roman slid aside, falling back a step, and then feinted overhand with the longsword. The Avar parried up with the head of the axe, and Nicholas reversed his stroke, catching the nomad on the outside of his left arm. Brunhilde bit deep, cleaving the muscle and tendon. The Avar cursed and fell back, switching the axe to his off-hand. Nicholas rushed in, keeping the wounded man between himself and the others at the top of the stairs. The axeman tried to block with the haft of his weapon, but Nicholas was inside his guard and jerked his blade upward, punching the triangular tip through the bottom of the Avar's jaw. There was a gelid sound and then a tinny ringing as the point ground on the inside of the man's helmet.
Another Avar stabbed over the first dead man's shoulder with a long spear, catching Nicholas squarely in the left side of his chest. The spear point, a rusty iron wedge with a poorly forged brace running down the middle, ground at the center of one of the links of chain, sending a burst of cold through his chest. Nicholas rotated left, slipping the spear off, though there was a tearing sensation as he whipped Brunhilde back out of the dead axeman. The second Avar slid his spear back and jumped up onto the platform from the steps below.
Nicholas ducked low, feeling the point slash across his head, and lunged, extending Brunhilde like a spear herself. The Avar tried to dance aside, but more men were pushing up the stairs, and the Nordic longsword punched through the stiff leather armor under his left armpit, blue-black blood gurgling up around the blade. Nicholas rushed again, shoving the dying man back down the stairs onto his fellows.
Cries of rage rose up as the first rank of Avars tumbled backward, arms and legs flailing. For a moment, the stairway was clogged with bodies and Nicholas shook his hair out of his eyes and fell back, sliding his boots across the rough floor, searching for good footing. The sword felt light in his hand and the air danced with tiny points of light. Even the air was warm, almost hot, against his skin. An Avar on the lower platform hurled a small axe overhand at him, but it seemed to hang in the air and Nicholas stepped easily aside, bringing Brunhilde up in guard again. The falx hissed past, the delicate interlocking carving of dragons and deer spinning head over heels.
Two of the spearmen separated themselves from the mass of bodies on the stairs and scrambled up at him, crouching low and apart, keeping to the railings. The spearheads flickered like snake tongues in the air at him, bright points of iron. Nicholas lunged at the man on the left, near the outer railing, and cut sharply at the head of the spear with Brunhilde. A veteran, the man slipped his spear back and slashed at Nick's head. At the same time, the other man rushed in, stabbing low at Nick's thigh. The Roman watched them come, like clockworks advancing in slow motion. Cold burned in his veins, powering his muscles and thought. He leaned back, weaving away from the spear slash and turned right, spinning into the attack coming low. Brunhilde brushed the lunging spear point aside, tip arrowing at the floor. Inside the spear's length, Nicholas spun back the other way, the longsword flicking up to intersect with the haft of the spear, shearing it in half, and then into the spearman's shoulder, gouging through light mail and a shirt of leather. The man's mouth opened in a snarl of surprise.
Tiny links of mail ornamented with perfect ruby droplets scattered through the air, whirling like tiny stars.
Nick's hard-muscled shoulder powered the blade through the rest of the arc, plunging into the chest of the first spearman. The man sucked air for a moment, then choked on the blue bubbles filling his throat. Nicholas pushed him off of the blade with his boot, cracking the railing with his weight. The spearman toppled back, hanging for a moment in the air before he slammed into the paving stones below. The other Avar was still gasping at the pain in his shoulder and the ruin of his spear when Nicholas spun back to face him.
The sound of running men rattled the stairs above the third platform, and Nicholas spared a glance upward, catching sight of billowing red cloaks and hobnailed boots pounding on the upper steps. Shouting rose from below, and he turned back in time to see a cloud of arrows hurtling toward him. A cry of rage caught in his throat as he threw himself backward.
–
|Sparks from a burning timber flew up, tracing a slow, whirling dance against the dark sky. Nicholas lay with his back against a stone wall, vision blurry with exhaustion. He could barely lift his left arm but, with a grunt, he stripped the leather bracing of the spring gun off his forearm. Snow was falling again, but the heat from the bonfire kept melting it before it could stick to the paving stones of the street. Legionnaires moved about in the darkness, briefly illuminated by the bonfire or resin torches in the gateway. A cart rumbled past, its high wooden wheels turning slowly over. A thicket of bruised-looking arms and legs jutted from the back of the wagon, and a seep of blood pattered on the street as it passed. They were the bodies of the dead, going to feed the fires that burned in the street the length of the Wall. A sickly sweet odor permeated the air, fueled by sizzling fat.
Clenching his teeth against the pain, Nicholas leaned slowly forward and stripped off the heavy shirt of iron rings. It was fouled with the thoracomachus beneath it where the rings had been driven through the thick felt padding by the force of Avar blows. The shirt next to his body had almost disintegrated into a pudding of blood, silk, and sweat. Cold air bit at his exposed flesh, and he hissed in pain as the layers of armor and padding peeled away from his skin.
The left side of his chest and most of his torso was already turning blue-purple. Dozens of cuts where the iron rings had ground into his skin were already clotted. He prodded the longest cut, just under his left shoulder. Clear fluid oozed out of the jagged red gash.
"Huh, you look fine. Another winning mission for you, I see."
Nicholas looked up; in his exhausted state, he couldn't quite place the voice. A stout man stood over him, a deep red cloak rippling on his shoulders. The fellow wore a burnished breastplate over a shirt of fine chainmail links and carried a full helm under one arm. He was clean shaven, though a beard would have improved his pox-scarred face by hiding old wounds. The officer's hair was shaved very close to the scalp, almost bald.
The Gate of fire ooe-2 Page 2
