The Plutarchs did not allow rain in Panchaea. The new troops were terrified. Pindar and others had spread a rumor that men could drown standing up if the rain fell thick enough. When the perpetrators were seen laughing in the downpour, however, fear turned to interest. A childlike exuberance set in. Meric removed his helmet to feel the cold patter on his skin. The Wildlands held endless surprises.
The next one wasn’t so pleasing.
“Lost two men. Injured a third. Poor bastards,” Gnost told Meric after talking to a grim group of returning legionnaires. Thrace’s legion had re-crossed the river on a northeastern heading, and small recon groups had been ranging ahead of the main force, watching for savages. One such group came back dragging a man between them.
“They were crawling up on a camp of savages. A woman dropped out of the trees and stabbed one in the back with an atomblade. Cut another before she fled into the trees,” Gnost said.
“Did they catch her?” Horus asked.
Gnost spat.
“Nope. Decurion thought it was a trap and gave up pursuit. Probably right. A second man disappeared somewhere in the middle of things. Got took by savages. Some of ‘em are as quiet as shadows.”
“Demon’s blood,” Pindar said.
“You and the demons,” Gnost muttered.
It was easy for the newer soldiers to think of the campaign as little more than an elaborate training exercise. The death of the first legionnaire was a forceful reminder of their deeper purpose. The recon groups began to spot savages with increasing frequency. Reports trickled through the column. They were deep in barbarian territory. Meric felt the gaze of hidden, hostile eyes. Not that he was afraid. Nervous–but eager too. The casualties were a fluke. Against two full centuries, the savages could naught but flee or die–and once they reunited with Vitruvio’s force, their numbers would be sheer overkill.
Meric was ready to prove his worth to the Plutarchs.
*
“We’re on the tail of a big group. At least a hundred savages. Seems our approach drove them out of smaller encampments. They’ve banded together. It’s possible they hope to call on Trajan for help.”
So spoke Uvigoth, one of Thrace’s two Centurions. He’d gathered his five Decurions during a midday halt. Meric and Avigon were among them. The countryside was swarming with signs of human habitation–footprints, sightings, bits of food and waste, sprung traps, distant calls. A day earlier, Gnost had showed Meric the chewed stalk of a strange plant.
Demongrass. The savages chew it before battle, he’d said. There was another broken stalk at Meric’s feet where the Decurions were gathered. He picked it up, twisting it between his fingers.
“How close are we, patruus?” he asked Uvigoth.
“Nearly on them. Thrace sent four pentas ahead from First Century. They’ve been harassing the enemy, cutting off passages into the mountains. The enemy has been driven into a ravine. They’re hemmed in. But stay sharp. They may have another force in the area. Keep your helmets on and your eyes open.”
The long columns were reorganized into battle formations. Meric walked at the head of his pentacrus, hyper-alert. The legion trekked over low hills. Creeks and small rivers snaked through the area, marked by ancient stone bridges. They ran across buildings still standing from before the Smiting; dark, moss-covered windows stared like empty eye-sockets. The trees thinned. Ahead, a steep rocky slope rose a hundred meters to a vertical cliff-face.
The cliff lay at the base of a mountain. Nearing the slope, Thrace brought the legion to a halt. The Centurions and Decurions were called together. The four from the returning pentas were in green-black recon armor. Thrace and Hadric stood out in silver. Meric’s pride swelled to be included in such company, though another part of him thought it was only natural, an expected step in that destiny which was his to fulfill.
“Listen up, Plebians. See that crack in the cliff-face ahead? To the right of the slope, thirty meters up–it’s the entrance to a small ravine. Between eighty and a hundred savages are holed up inside,” Thrace said, looking at each of them in turn.
“Is there another way in or out, patruus?” asked Jotun, an older, black-bearded Decurion.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Thrace said.
“That’s a murder-hole. Dumb bastards. How’d they let themselves get stuck in there?” Hadric grumbled.
“Wasn’t no ‘let’ about it. We lost six men and more than a dozen wounded keeping them from breaking west,” said Frost, one of the four in green-black recon armor. Gnost and others had told stories about him. He was as quiet as a savage, as deadly as a demon.
“We go in that crack, we’re likely to lose a good deal more,” Jotun said. “I understand you lost men, Frost, but the savages are no cowards, and they must’ve known that ravine would be their end. Why didn’t they make a stand against four pentas instead of waiting for all ten?”
“Jotun’s right,” Thrace said. “It’s safe to say Trajan knows we’re in the area. The fact that they holed up instead of fighting means reinforcements are on their way. We need to end this before they arrive.”
“That crack is a bottleneck, patruus. Going in will cost us big,” Jotun said.
“Not if they come out. We’ll put men on the cliffs–two pentas above the ravine. The rest of us will form up outside the entrance. The pentas on the cliffs will hit them with skinnyguns. If there’s cover in the ravine, the savages will be pinned down, and we’ll rush in. If there’s no cover, they’ll be forced out, and we’ll take them as they come. Frost, find me a way onto that cliff.”
Frost’s wounded were moved back into the forest, hidden with the Priests and the steamcars. Another ten men were sent to guard them, leaving roughly one hundred-and-seventy legionnaires to assault the savages. Frost took forty soldiers to look for a way up the cliff. The remaining force settled into a tight semi-circle along the base of the rocky slope. Avigon’s pentacrus formed up on Meric’s right. Thirty meters up the slope, a face flashed in the narrow ravine.
They know we’re coming.
Training and fantasizing were fine, but how would Meric react when the real fight came? Thrace conferred with his Centurions. Uvigoth came down the line, stopping at each Decurion.
“That slope looks rough,” he told Meric. “Bad footing, loose rocks. If we have to go in, file up the ground on the right. Tread carefully and keep your shield up.”
The waiting was intolerable. Anticipation put a tremble into Meric’s hands. Thrace was looking through a far-scope. Frost stood twenty meters up the slope further along the cliff, flashing a hand-signal.
He’s found a way up.
Thrace put a palm forward and made a sweeping motion.
“Lateral shield wall,” Meric shouted, echoing the other Decurions. The legionnaires organized into a long line three men deep, a wall of matte gray punctuated by the two silver Champions. Meric almost felt sorry for the savages.
Invinci–
The explosion was like nothing he’d ever heard. The sound hit the baby-blue sky like an angry god, reverberating with chest-shaking force. The ground rumbled. Fire and smoke and rock and dust spewed from the cliff-top left of the ravine. With deceptive slowness, a mass of overhanging rock began to drop down the cliff-face. An enormous sheet was suspended within. It seemed to hover, to fall with reluctance, until it smashed into the rocky slope with a second thunder, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and noise. The smoke billowed outward, growing, enveloping, and suddenly a gray river was speeding toward the line of soldiers.
Meric stared at the river, bewildered. Where had that muddy water come from? His jaw worked soundlessly. It rippled and flowed almost exactly like liquid. But it couldn’t be … it couldn’t be…
Gravel.
A horn blew–two long notes. The signal for retreat. Thrace’s bellow echoed the order. The crumbling cliff-face had seemed almost gentle in the first few seconds; upon approach, it morphed into a crushing mass of astonishing speed and power. A handful of trees were
scattered across the slope, clinging tenaciously to life. The landslide snapped them like twigs. Legionnaires fled. It made no difference. The river of stone swallowed them whole. Entire pentas vanished. The legs of the century were being kicked out from under it. Not just the legs–the body, the head, the beast entire. Thrace’s silver armor disappeared in a wall of gray.
Meric turned and ran. Something caught his ankles. He lurched forward and hit the ground. Gravel clattered over his armor. He was being buried.
Swan…
He’d never even said goodbye.
The cacophony died. Stillness. Meric could still move. He’d only been partially enveloped. The greater part of the landslide had missed his end of the line, though the area was covered in dust and pebbles. The gray haze was oddly reminiscent of the Fog. Getting to his feet, he struggled for a cohesive thought. Soldiers meandered through the dust. Screams penetrated the dust. But the wounded were not the only ones yelling…
Savages.
Meric tried to yell to his penta. He couldn’t. His brain had hit a wall. It couldn’t have happened–he couldn’t have seen Thrace disappear like that. Maybe the Legate was okay. Maybe–
Out of the haze leapt a screaming phantom covered in a patchwork of tattoos and plate armor, eyes bright and furious, armor strung together by leather strips, a black-tipped spear held high in his left hand. Meric parried the thrust with a sweep of his shield and cleaved through the barbarian’s neck. The body collapsed against him, heart pumping blood all over his armor, head rolling in the dust. It happened that fast–no thought or feeling, just reaction. He stared, blinking. Thank the Plutarchs he hadn’t frozen up. Strange that so significant a moment could pass so quickly. The tip of the man’s spear looked like a skinnygun bolt.
More screams, closer.
“Hedgehog!” Meric shouted, finding his voice.
A savage came at his side, missed a thrust and grappled with his descending sword-arm. Avigon emerged and stabbed the man from behind. A wad of green mush was ejected from the enemy’s mouth, splattering Meric’s faceplate.
Demongrass.
He wiped it away, leaving a streaky mess. Plebians stumbled into view. A dozen men. They fell into place around Meric and Avigon, forming a square that bristled with atomblades. Horus was among them, twice as broad anyone else. Savages came roaring out of the dust, some armored, some almost naked, carrying spears and skinnyguns and crooked blades. Meric and his brothers closed ranks, blocked, and thrust. Atomblades sheered through lesser armor. Horus bellowed the first notes of an old farmer’s ballad, muffled by his helmet. Bodies collapsed at their feet. Attacking the hedgehog alone was suicide, yet the enemy was undeterred.
The sun has driven them mad.
Wounded savages moaned and cursed and grabbed at them from the ground, dying slow and messy. A man had one hand on Meric’s ankle, thrusting a spear upward with the other, jabbing ineffectually at his ribs. Fogplate was nearly impenetrable. It was weakest where it curved and bent, but even there it would turn away almost anything but an atomblade. Meric stabbed the man and kicked his hand away. He could barely see for the dust, blood, and demongrass smeared across his visor. He took off his helmet and dropped it in the dust.
Bolts whistled through the haze, finding weak points, penetrating.
Atomic edges.
No man could craft an atomic edge. The savages must’ve looted the weapons in previous battles. Horus’s song cut out as he took a bolt above the collar-bone. He dropped to his knees, a hand pressed to the wound. His friends pulled him to his feet.
Behind Meric, a man fell with Avigon’s blade in his chest, pulling the weapon with him. Avigon bent forward to retrieve it–and a massive spiked hammer smashed him in the side of the head. The Decurion launched sideways. His attacker was enormous. Smeared in dark warpaint, corded muscles like tree-trunks, face an exhibition of scars–the man was terrifying. An atomblade went for his ribs, but he shifted and it only grazed him. The giant grabbed the owner’s sword-arm and yanked him out of formation, sending him sprawling. He laid into Meric’s penta with thunderous hammer-blows, seemingly impervious to the blades that sought his flesh. Horus charged him like an angry mammoth, the bolt still close to his collar, rushing in too close for the hammer. The titans locked together.
Avigon staggered to his feet, saved by his helmet but dazed and disarmed. Five more savages rushed out of the dust, two of them women. Just like that, the hedgehog broke. Meric staggered against a press of shifting bodies. He fell, came up in a tangle of limbs, saw Avigon’s helmet come off and a spear go through his eye. The wiry dueler fell. All his skill, all his practice, his long upbringing, his serious demeanor, his unspoken thoughts–cut off like a poem in mid-rhyme. There was no time to process the loss. A savage bowled over another legionnaire, and Meric went down again beneath the pair. There was a confusion of grappling, choking, stabbing. He thrust at a legionnaire by mistake. He dropped his sword and knocked a man’s head against a rock.
When he stood up, shaking, his pentacrus had dispersed. They were fighting alone, dying alone. One dropped his shield and bolted. The two women ran after him. The giant with the spiked hammer limped into the dust. Horus was on the ground, eyes blank. The skinnygun bolt had been ripped out of his collar and put back in his throat. He would sing no more songs.
Alone with the dead and the dying, Meric stared at Horus’s body. Someone was moaning horribly–soldier or savage, the wounded all sounded the same. Shadows passed him, screaming.
Two centuries … Two full centuries…
No force could overcome them. They were invincible. They were being slaughtered.
A voice rang through the haze.
“Drop your weapons.”
Meric stopped in his tracks.
Trajan.
Who else could it be? Some demonic power had brought down the mountain. Who but the savage-king could’ve called it into existence?
“To me! Rally to me!” Hadric bellowed.
Meric’s heart leapt. He ran toward the Champion’s voice. The First Bladesman emerged from the haze, more red than silver, meat and metal heaped all around. The dust had begun to settle, and Meric could see further: to men and women locked in combat, to a man holding his own severed leg, to an armored hand jutting from a mound of debris.
The survivors were coming to Hadric–but so was the enemy. Thirty Plebians coalesced from the dust. They were set upon by hordes of armed combatants; far more than the hundred from the ravine. A fierce melee sprang up. Meric’s blade whirled and stabbed in a ferocious dance. A wild spirit took him–Ogdun Kumun, the war-demon. It had taken Hadric too. The First Bladesman was a roaring lion, a laughing demon, an unstoppable fiend. When his sword was torn away, when his shield was knocked aside, he crushed men with his gauntleted hands and brutal strength.
Yet still the Plebians fell. Helmets were ripped off, heads bludgeoned by throngs of raging savages. Bolts sailed past, zinging off Meric’s thigh and arms, piercing Hadric’s shoulders and left hip. Savages leapt on the Champion. He hurled them bodily through the air. Meric pulled his blade from a fallen savage, ready for the next…
But there were no more. He was surrounded by savages, yet the enemy held back. A space had opened up around him. He could count the surviving legionnaires on his fingers. The fight was over. All that was left was the execution. Meric remembered the mangled captive, Aureus.
This man was one of you, Thrace had said.
Thrace, who hadn’t even had a chance to fight.
“Throw down your weapons. You will be shown mercy.”
The speaker was a gray-blonde bear of a man, perhaps fifty, face tan and bearded. Tall and broad, shoulders square, spine straight. Mirrored shades hid his eyes. Authority was in his bearing.
Hadric pulled off his silver helmet. Sweat dripped from his brow. Three long black rods protruded from weak spots in the Champion’s armor. He pulled one out almost casually.
“Trajan?” Hadric asked, scowling.
The man gave the barest nod.
Skin as red as blood. Teeth like black daggers.
“Trajan is a demon. You’re just a man,” Hadric said.
“Men can be demons too. Just ask your masters,” Trajan said.
Hadric threw his head back and laughed.
“This–this is the ghost we’ve been chasing? This nothing? This man?” he asked, turning to Meric.
“Do you yield?” Trajan asked.
Hadric let his helmet fall with a sigh. He lifted his head above the settling dust and breathed deep, as if he would inhale the sky. When he opened his eyes, his gaze was flat and dead.
“Did I say ‘man?’ I meant woman. A bearded bitch. I see it now. Didn’t I have you in a pillowhouse once?” Hadric asked.
“There’s no need to die here,” Trajan said. His voice was quiet, almost sad.
Hadric snorted.
“Is that what you call begging?” he asked.
The Champion launched himself at the savage-king. Darts hissed and rang off his armor. Men leapt to block his way. Spears and atomblades struck. A black bolt whistled past his cheek. Three men clung to his neck–and still he came within a meter of Trajan. The savage-king’s feet were planted. His face was absent expression. In his hand was an ancient weapon.
It shoots a small, rounded projectile, Boson had said.
There was sharp crack and a flash of light. Blood and bone burst through the back of Hadric’s head. The First Bladesman collapsed with men still clinging to him. Trajan stared at the body, face unreadable, the gun smoking in his hand.
It was a nightmare. Meric would’ve given anything to be back in Panchaea. The other legionnaires were ending things. Some took suicide runs at the throng. Some made the Sign of Fealty and crunched their false teeth. They dropped in the dirt and writhed and convulsed and went still. Meric tongued his own tooth.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Yet a piece of him, with colossal arrogance or just dumb denial, couldn’t admit it was over. He would activate the poison only in the last moment. Life had betrayed him; this was not his destiny. No glory, no rewards, just blood in the dust. He breathed the gritty air, turning in a slow circle. Trajan said something about giving up. Meric barely heard him. Skinnyguns were raised throughout the throng. He’d practiced with the atomblade non-stop for most of his life. In the minutes before the onslaught had stopped, he’d been an unkillable whirlwind. Now he stood in a circle of bodies, armor drenched in gore like some demon from the deeper wilds. He would shame them with his death, at least–if savages could know shame. Meric swallowed in a dry throat and found his voice. He called out challenges. He taunted them. He cursed them. He barely knew what he was saying. He waited for the bolts to strike…
The Last Plutarch Page 7
