The tree stood on the sloping side of a mountain, and Corbus could see the entire bowl-like valley that led toward the port of Sundsvall, site of the Roman invasion. Overhead, majestic airships glided and maneuvered this way and that, blasting each other with artillery fire. The Roman ships flew in a diamond formation, but as he watched, the formation broke as Nortland airships fought their way through gaps and tried to board several vessels. A smile tugged at his face as a Roman airship shattered under the direct bombardment of several Nortland airships. He could almost hear the screams of his enemies as they fell to their deaths.
He watched the two sides slugging it out above for a few more minutes, then climbed back down the tree.
Duke Laufas had joined his scouts in Corbus’s absence, and Corbus made a rough half bow. “My Lord, your air forces have engaged the Romans in the valley. It appears that the airfleets will be tied up for a while,” he reported in Latin.
The duke nodded, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he thought through the strategic implications of this development, made harder still by the necessity to translate the message into Norse. “Without their airfleet for cover, the Romans will not have some of their traditional battlefield advantages. Could you tell if our forces were the northern fleet or the southern fleet?”
“I’m not sure about the differences between the two fleets, although this one seemed to have more Emperor-class-sized vessels. They were equal in size, if not larger, than most of the Roman fleet.”
“Ah.” The duke nodded again. “That would be our southern fleet, then. We continue to hope that Roman intelligence in this region is old. In fact, I sent some men out to make our airbase fleet at Ragunda look active but empty. They’ll never know we’ve actually built our fleet beyond their expectations. I bet they never even bothered to scout much more north or west.”
Corbus nodded, filing away this information for later. “What would you have me do now, My Lord?” he said. Laufas is craftier than he appears at first. I suppose that’s why his enemies call him Mist-he is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Plus, you can’t grab mist.
Laufas looked thoughtful for a moment, then pulled out a map. He unrolled the beige parchment and scanned the terrain as best he could. “You say the air battle is to our east, then?” Corbus nodded. “Double the scout screen in that direction. It’s unlikely, but possible, that their airfleet was covering a ground movement.” Though phrased more like a polite request, there was no doubt that it was an order, delivered with the iron weight of determination and the solid power of certainty.
Laufas must know something I don’t. I haven’t picked up any signs of Roman troop movement, but he seems certain that there is. I cannot underestimate him.
With a brief nod to acknowledge the orders, Corbus sent a messenger back to the main force to requisition more scouts and quickly ordered his men into a far longer picket line. Armed with antique-looking longbows, the scouts appeared to be more hunters than soldiers. Some of them probably are hunters, marshaled into the duke’s forces, but at least they know their stuff. There had been only a small amount of grumbling in the beginning about being placed under the command of such a “youngling,” but Corbus had pinned the lead complainer’s hood to a tree trunk at thirty paces with a thrown dagger. After that, there were no more whispers.
Advancing toward the battle, Corbus relied more on his ears than his eyes. The thick boreal canopy blocked his line of sight more often than not, and he quickly tired of climbing tree after tree to get a heading.
So when an airship fell out of the sky in front of him, Corbus was less than prepared. The sounds of battle had become more intense, but the young assassin had simply chalked it up to closing in on the conflict area.
A massive wall of iron, canvas, wood, and fire raced toward him as the blast from the crashing airship flattened trees and anything else in its path. Corbus turned to run, only to dive immediately into a small root depression in the ground as the pressure wave overtook him. When the shaking had subsided and the rain of twigs and rocks had dwindled to a mere trickle, Corbus poked his head up to observe the flattened expanse of forest. Steel girders poked upright from the matchstick scatter of trunks and branches, and torn sheets of canvas waved like dirty laundry on a wash line. He couldn’t make out if it was a Nortland vessel or a Roman vessel, so he chose to investigate further.
Picking his way gingerly through pockets of flame and wreckage, Corbus ducked under girders and deftly leapt furrows gouged in the earth by the harsh impact. He checked some of the bodies he found, most clothed in the brownish furs and clothes of Nortland air sailors, a few garbed in the red tunics and layered armor of the Roman legions. He found a conscious crewmember, his breathing shallow as he lay with his back against a shattered bulkhead. Blood pooled around him as his life leeched from numerous gashes.
“Water,” the injured man gasped, his voice almost too soft to hear. Corbus knelt beside the man and opened his canteen, pouring water into his hand and gently offering it to his mouth. The man slurped noisily, then sighed, his lungs rattling as he breathed.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Corbus asked, keeping his impatience out of his voice.
“Boarded. . Romans. . explosives. . fire. . they’re all dead, all dead!” The man whimpered for a moment, then was still.
Corbus stood and looked around. Maybe one of those Romans failed to escape this explosion. Corbus gave a whistle and heard answering whistles floating back to him over the crackling death throes of the downed airship. Soon help would be arriving.
Adjusting his gear, he rolled up his cloak so that it wouldn’t catch on any of the protruding bits and pieces of wreckage. By the time his scouts arrived, Corbus had already begun a methodical search pattern. Quickly revealing what he was looking for, he ordered his men into action.
Only a short time later, Corbus’s persistence paid off. “Sir! We’ve got an injured Roman here,” a scout reported. “We didn’t even rough him up, but he’s out like a light; must have hit his head. Otherwise, he’s not in too bad shape.”
Corbus viewed the now trussed up Roman and wrung his hands together in slow glee. Oh, I’m very excited to meet you. We’re going to have so much fun together. He couldn’t understand why his men were inching away from him, but then again, he couldn’t see the glint of evil pleasure in his own eyes.
Kneeling, Corbus splashed water in the prisoner’s face. The cold water instantly brought the man out of his stupor, his body jerking and thrashing in startlement that shifted to panic as he realized he was tied hands and feet to a metal stake in the ground. Wide eyes scanned Corbus’s scouts, leaning on their bows and watching him nonchalantly.
“Yes, yes, you’re a prisoner. Congrats on surviving that fall, by the way; I would never have thought it possible. You won the lottery, I suppose, but you know that old saying, out of the frying pan and into the fire?” Corbus was in an upbeat mood. This capture would gain him some intelligence, some small amount of respect, and even better, a chance to take out a small measure of vengeance on this unfortunate Roman.
“Name, soldier? At least that way we can have a nice civilized conversation.” Corbus spoke in low Latin, the common trade language of the Imperial Empire. Not to be confused with High Latin, which was used exclusively on festival days and in boring religious ceremonies. To his Nortland allies, the softer southern language stood in contrast to their harsher, choppy Norse, the common tongue of Nortland. A soft language for a soft people, Corbus mused, distracted for a moment.
The Roman considered, then replied, “You tell me your name, I’ll tell you my own.”