“Fire! Fire on deck!” someone shouted as thick smoke billowed from several locations. The ship, still reeling from the bombardment that had just hit it, continued to fight back, but the artillery deck’s weapons must have been heavily damaged-only a few bolts or canisters flew at the enemy ship, denting and notching the sides, but doing little damage otherwise.
Julius cursed as he picked himself up off the deck. Several of his men were missing, and others sprawled on the deck; blood spattered the sides of the ship. His effective fighting force had been hit hard.
“Medico! Medico!” The shouts seemed to come from all corners. Corpsmen from the infirmary were already up on deck, dragging the wounded to makeshift triage centers.
“Alert! This is the captain. Enemy airship is closing to board. All hands to repel boarders. All hands to repel-” The loudspeaker cut off with a shriek as another wave of enemy fire struck the ship.
Julius felt part of the deck buckle as several large rocks sheared through railings, war machines, and men. Windows blew out and heavy pieces of machinery were tossed across the deck like children’s playthings. Julius went head over heels to slam onto the deck. Several airmen and legionnaires were tossed overboard, toward a fate Julius didn’t want to comprehend.
When the ship had finally stopped jolting, Julius and his men began to pick themselves up. “Men, form battle lines!” Julius shouted out, suppressing a hacking cough as he struggled to his feet, lungs and eyes burning from the sulfur and smoke.
“Gwendyrn! Go secure the other end of the line!” Julius ordered as he grasped the hand of a downed legionnaire and hauled him to his feet. Hearing no response, he craned his head around looking for his subordinate. A medico eased the concussed soldier from Julius’s shoulder, freeing him to look around for his subordinate.
“Gwendyrn?” he called again, hesitantly. He heard something over the sounds of the battle engulfing the airships. Supporting himself on the torn railing, Julius walked toward the ragged edge of the hole in the Scioparto’s hull. He shouted Gwendyrn’s name again, his voice cracking.
“Down here!” Gwendyrn’s voice shouted back. The under-officer was clinging to a long piece of piping that swung precariously out into space and then back toward the hull as the airship struggled for its life. He was only about ten feet down, but the pipe’s supports could give way at any moment.
“Stay right there! I’ll grab you a rope!” Julius called down.
“Could ya hurry up? I have a date with solid ground that I’d like to skip,” Gwendyrn yelled back, his sarcasm tinged with fear.
Julius searched frantically for a rope in the confusion on deck, ever conscious of the passage of time. Come on, come on. .!
He finally came back with a reasonable substitute, snagging a few other legionnaires to help him get the larger man up on deck. “Grab the hose!” he shouted, dropping one end into the hole.
One of the pipe supports had broken, sending Gwendyrn slipping lower down the contorted pipe. The hose flailed in the wind, tossing this way and back, at one point striking the centurion and knocking his steel galea off his head. The plumed helmet dropped through the clouds and disappeared. Curses floated up to the legionnaires’ ears. Finally, Gwendyrn grabbed hold of the fire hose and clutched it for dear life as the men hauled him up toward the deck.
The hose was slippery and the men’s arms shook as they pulled, inch over inch. Remembering how his father and other workers had formed a rigging crew to free a metalworker trapped under a load of boxes at the factory, Julius got the men chanting a pattern and, now moving in unison, they lifted their own heavy load, safely and quickly.
With Gwendyrn back on deck, Julius turned to survey the situation. His men were in loose battle lines, their special air legionnaire scuta shields cranked open and locked into place. The first row of legionnaires had drawn their spathas; behind them, other legionnaires stood with their plumbata ready to throw. Along the railing, legionnaires crouched in pairs, one holding their scuta while the other aimed his repeater crossbow from under their cover. Despite the casualties from the initial bombardment and subsequent artillery barrages, his lines looked steady. Julius shouted encouragement here, a quick order there, as he took his place in the first rank, preparing himself mentally for close combat.
Julius tried to block out all emotion, to strip all care from his voice. He envisioned himself becoming like the steel in his sword and shield, as his drill instructors had taught him. He wanted to lead his men with honor, dignity, power, and skill. But mostly, he didn’t want to screw up like the last time he had been given command. That incident had ended with the loss of most of his men to a half-crazed barbarian chieftess.
It was only at that moment that Julius’s brain finally made several critical connections. Casualties were consistently very high in Rome’s first rapid response force aerial deployment cohort. So it was now more, not less, likely that he would be dead soon, at the rate they were going.
Opposite them, the enemy airship’s artillery continued to duel with the smaller Roman warship’s weaponry. But the Nortland vessel had already closed in, and grappling hooks shot out from shielded enemy positions. Some bounced off the smooth sides of the ship, while others struck shields, knocking gaps in the Roman lines. More than a few dug into the wooden deck planking, and at a shout from their centurion, legionnaires leapt upon the hooks and long, trailing wires. They hacked away at the tough ropes, crying in dismay at the iron wrapping that protected the first five feet of the hooks.
Those Nortlanders are no idiots, and they’ve got years of pirate boarding experience to draw on. Julius fought panic as the enemy ship winched itself closer.
Suddenly, Julius saw Nortlander soldiers on the railing opposite his men. “Repeaters! Target and fire!” he ordered. The pairs of legionnaires went to work, one man plastering the enemy troops with short, wicked repeater bolts about as long as a man’s forearm while the shield man swung his shield up to cover his partner when he switched weapons, then reloaded the spent repeater, readying it for the shooter. The ships were less than twenty paces away from each other now, and the bolts’ barbed tips struck home amongst the enemy.
“’Ware, boarders!” called out one of the few remaining airmen on deck, drawing Julius’s attention to several figures moving along the grappling hook cables at breakneck speed. The remaining airmen had pulled off to one side, and were busy arming themselves from the ship’s arms locker.
“Looks like we aren’t the only ones with sliders,” Gwendyrn shouted down at his commanding officer. Julius nodded back, filing that fact away for future use. He ordered the men trying to cut the ropes back, realizing that they would be out of position and vulnerable to the larger, more aggressive lone wolves who were rapidly narrowing the gap between them and the Scioparto deck.
“Here they come!”
The boarders slid onto the deck, simply releasing their sliders instead of unbuckling them in the Roman fashion. Lightly armored, they rolled into combat against the thin, armored line of legionnaires, their shorter and heavier axes clashing with the Roman swords as the Nortlanders chopped at exposed arms and legs. At first, the legionnaires used their weapons’ reach to their advantage, striking down boarders before they could close with the battle line, the tough steel of their spatha facing little resistance from hide bucklers and leather shoulder pads.
Julius found himself facing one of the larger boarders wielding two of their wicked-looking knives at once. He sparred with Julius for a few moments, trying to break the Roman shield wall that was holding tight against the individual rushes of the boarders. Then the man charged, yelling, feinting high with his weapons then slashing low, attempting to kneecap the centurion. Julius saw the man’s feint and deflected it with his scutum, throwing the man off balance. His spatha stabbed out, biting deep into the Nortlander’s bowels as he was trying to recover. Blood sprayed, and the man collapsed.