He stepped out into the hallway, and came face to face with a Nortlander. Bellowing, the man swung his fist at Julius’s head. Julius managed to twist aside, taking the blow on the overlapping steal plates of armor on his left arm. Limited by the tight confines of the hallway, he charged toward the bigger man, and head-butted him. The iron tang of blood filled the air as Julius felt, rather than heard, the man’s nose crack under his assault.
Roaring, the man fought back, pummeling Julius’s smaller frame under a wild flurry of blows. The Roman’s sword was knocked from his hands and skittered into the darkness. Julius could feel the heat of the fire growing behind him as they struggled. His fingers curled around the dagger at his belt and he pulled it free to stab his opponent in the chest. The Nortland soldier shrugged it off and tackled Julius, bearing him to the floor. The man’s hands circled his neck, choking the life from him. Julius stabbed again and again, then kneed the man in the groin, finally breaking the man’s grip.
Julius rolled the man off him. Though the lifeblood was finally seeping from the man, Julius could still almost feel the hands around his throat. Panting, trying to restore his focus, he stood shakily, staggering as the enemy ship shook suddenly. The fire was building behind him. Leaving his sword behind, Julius ran.
With virtually no one on the lower levels, the fire was spreading uninhibited. Flames blocked hallways, almost moving faster than Julius could run. Choking on the thick black smoke, Julius located the appropriate hatch and scrambled up the ladder, emerging into a desperate scene. The Roman squads now numbered barely a dozen men. Their dead lay at their feet as the Nortlanders assaulted them.
“Sir! We can’t hold much longer!” Squad Leader Regulis called, fending off two of the blond foe.
Julius picked up a brutal-looking chain-axe from the deck and flicked the activator switch. The axe hummed to life. Now armed, Julius fell upon the attackers while ordering his men to fall back to the Scioparto. The men enacted a fighting retreat. The Nortlanders pressed them with heedless abandon, careless of the casualties they suffered. Legionnaires fell as the retreat became more and more desperate. They were only a few feet from the ramp when a new batch of Nortlanders swarmed up from another hatchway. Fire welled up behind them as flames and smoke became more evident.
“Hurry up, sir!” shouted Gwendyrn. “We’re gonna drop the bridge!” He waited with the legionnaires lined across the ramp on the Scioparto’s side.
Julius’s small party was almost surrounded. “Run for it!” he ordered, and his men ran for the bridge. Twenty paces, then ten. At the foot of the bridge Julius turned, picked up a dead legionnaire’s shield, and prepared to cover his men. The last few survivors raced past him. Repeater bolts flew in the other direction, chopping down Nortland airmen and soldiers. Julius hacked down a Nortland airman, his light leather tunic no match for the Roman’s borrowed chain-axe.
“Come on, sir! Don’t play the hero!” Gwendyrn shouted at him.
Julius turned to run as the last few Nortland soldiers closed in on him. Feeling a rippling sensation below his feet, he turned to Gwendyrn, a look of horror on his face. The fire must have reached the central magazine!
The deck exploded beneath his feet, launching Julius into the air. He managed to grab hold of a rope as the enemy airship shredded itself. He clung desperately to the rope as the gasbag too caught fire. But as the Scioparto lifted up and away, Julius realized too late that the rope he had grabbed was not attached to the Scioparto.
Screaming, Julius fell to earth with the remains of the Hamdar.
Chapter 8
Corbus
Silent as a ghost, assassin and self-described freedom fighter Corbus moved through the dense forest. He led a team of Nortland scouts dressed in dark leathers and woodland cloaks. Corbus’s thoughts were dark, replaying the train of events that had led him to this armpit of civilization, serving a barbarian king and trying to figure out what to do next.
After the death of his mother on the walls of Brittenburg, Corbus, along with his two advisors, had been forced to accept the hospitality of the Nortland king, who had graciously welcomed them to his palace with open arms. More like his giant cave, Corbus fumed.
Although only eighteen, Corbus had been trained in the arts of war since his fifth nameday; his mother Amalia had taken much pride in the skills of her only child, now the last heir of a lost Germanic tribe. If only the Romans had the typical political commander at the battle of Teutenberg forest, I’d never be in this mess. Then again, he had learned through one of his spies that a political general headed the current Roman expedition to Nortland.
There were definitely some opportunities to be had here. He was learning to channel his smoldering rage into more. . useful pursuits.
Behind him marched an army of about two thousand men, drawn from the feudal levies and men-at-arms of various local chiefs and bigwigs. Corbus was just happy that they, at least, had a competent lord in charge of this portion of the army.
Warlord of the East, Lord of the Seven Glaciers, Duke Nikulas Laufas rode atop his mecha-wolf as the motley army moved as quickly as possible over the back country roads. Corbus knew that the man was both a competent officer and a competent lord. Unfortunately, he was also utterly loyal to the Copper Throne. So while Corbus could respect the man and honor his tactical and strategic skills, he also knew that one day, Laufas would have to die.
At one point, Corbus and his advisors had considered how best to deal with their. . arrangement. . with the Nortlanders. Eventually, they decided to hunt for sympathetic ears for their cause. Their first patron had been the supporter of the raid on Brittenburg. However, the king had been furious with the local lord who allowed his ships to be used in the raid on Brittenburg, and had demonstrated his fury in the usual way.
The man had been taken to the front of a glacier, where a small hole had been hollowed out. The traitorous man was chained inside, and they proceeded to seal the hole by packing snow around it. If the man didn’t freeze to death, exposure to the elements or starvation was a handy second opportunity to give your life to the glacier gods. Not a pretty way to go; I saw what he looked like four months later.
Now, Corbus was fortunate enough to have found a new patron, one who was capable, malleable, and also very, very well placed to secure the kind of support Corbus needed to wrest the northern provinces of Imperial Rome from their denarii-pinching hands. Plus, should that fall through, word had reached him that his advisors had made additional headway in Rome itself in gaining support for his cause.
The sounds of battle drew Corbus briefly from his musings. He closed his eyes and stretched out his senses. The warrior could feel the slight vibrations of explosions on his skin, could taste hints of gunpowder and smoke on the wind. Whistling to his companions, who converged on his position, he sent one back to tell the duke that the air battle had probably begun.
Leaving his scouts behind, Corbus climbed a large tree to get above the thick canopy. His boots gripped the rugged bark and he pulled himself up the tree with his arms, corded with lean muscle, at breakneck speed. I needed that, he thought as, heart pounding, muscles screaming, he arrived at the highest branch that he felt confident would bear his weight. Securing himself against the tree’s ponderous shifts in the light breeze, Corbus looked out on an amazing view.