His accent was familiar, and Corbus’s brain instantly began to mull over origin. He’d heard it before, but where? And there was surely no harm in sharing his name with this prisoner. It wasn’t like he was going to escape or anything. “My name is Corbus, son of Amalia, the victor of Brittenburg and general menace of the Imperial Empire. And you are?”
The soldier laughed. “Do you practice that in front of the mirror? That’s an awful lot of titles for one so young. How old are you, nineteen; twenty?” He chuckled.
“You’re pretty brave, for a prisoner. It matters little how old I am, only that I am old enough to fight you and make your life very, very painful, should I need to. Now, once again, what is your name?” This time he placed the tip of his knife on the man’s throat. A droplet of blood appeared at the end of the dagger and trickled down the razor-sharp steel.
The man gulped, then spat out his name.
“Julius? See, now we’re getting somewhere. We’re on a first name basis!” Corbus’s voice was condescending and full of false cheeriness; he enjoyed the cat and mouse game of interrogation. And he was also very, very good at it.
“Now Julius, I want to give you some of my background. You see, I was born into a very. . traditional family. It was all about the family value of resistance, you see. As a matter of fact, I’ve made it my personal goal to see the Roman Empire ground into a million pieces and forgotten for eternity before I die.” Corbus smiled.
The Roman looked indifferent, although Corbus could already detect the telltale tightening of the man’s eyes and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Now I want you to tell me about your background-oh, say, what legion you’re in, what’s happening in the Roman camp, how many soldiers there are-you know, the typical need-to-know type stuff.” Corbus gave Julius his best fake smile.
Julius looked incredulously at him. “If you seriously think I’m going to tell you that, then you’re most certainly not fit for command, even in the Nortland army.” Corbus frowned as the prisoner looked around at his ragtag scouting party. “Not that I’d call this an army.”
Corbus struck, his arm dealing a harsh blow across the man’s jaw. “Have it your way, Brittenburgian.” Julius’s eyebrows rose. “Oh yes, see? I placed your accent. I have a special place in my heart for that corrupt, disgusting, pestilent city.” Sneering, Corbus socked the legionnaire again, and the man collapsed back to the ground.
“Send a message to the duke,” he ordered. “We’ve got a prisoner.”
Laufas rode in about an hour later. He reined in his laboring horse, his various adjutants, assistants, and bodyguards forming a loose semicircle behind him. Corbus walked over and gave the duke a half bow. Laufas’s head may have nodded slightly in response, or it could have been the movement of his horse. Corbus wasn’t sure.
“What have you learned?”
“My Lord, the prisoner says that the Romans have indeed encamped at Sundsvall, but that their general seems to be moving cautiously. He refused to name those legions present, but I was able to piece together that there are between four and six legions in the invasion force.” Corbus felt pleased with himself. He had worked the hapless Roman over rather hard, but the man refused to be broken. Which delighted Corbus.
“Did he say anything about war machines? Dispositions? Airship strengths?” Corbus shook his head. Laufas sighed. “And I suppose you’ve already beaten him senseless?”
Corbus felt his face burn as he fought to hold back an angry retort. Laufas chuckled and said something in Norse to his retainers; Corbus just barely caught “southern” and “barbarian” in the Nortland language
“No need to worry, Corbus. I’ll be taking that prisoner off your hands so that you won’t need to ‘extract’ any more information from him.”
His Latin is almost as smooth and natural as mine, Corbus thought. I wonder how much he had to pay to get a tutor up this far.
Laufas signaled and two of his men dismounted and walked to the tent where Corbus had been interrogating his prisoner. They emerged a few moments later, dragging the unconscious man between them.
Scowling at the Roman legionary, Laufas asked a question in Norse. One of his men placed his fingers in front of the prisoner’s mouth, then nodded and spat out a flurry of rough words, too fast for Corbus to grasp. I’ve got to learn more of this stupid language.
Laufas sighed and addressed him in Latin. “Couldn’t you have left him at least able to ride a horse?”
“I figured you could claim the credit for disabling him singlehandedly when you bring him before the king. If one of the other generals doesn’t take credit first,” Corbus retorted, knowing full-well the duke refused to play the court games that preoccupied so many other petty nobles in this frozen land.
The duke’s men hefted the prisoner onto a horse borrowed from Corbus’s scouting party.
“We need you back with the main column. We’ll attack later tonight.”
And with that, Laufas was gone, only the clattering of hooves and small flashes of light reflected from his entourage’s armor belying the speed of their passage.
He is far too competent to leave in a position of authority. But how to remove him?
“Gather up the men,” Corbus called to his subordinate. “We’re moving out.”
Chapter 9
Octavia
For the second time in the last few weeks, Sundsvall was burning. From her vantage point aboard the ocean transport Tiber, Octavia had a panoramic view of the harborfront, which was once again being steadily destroyed by a wave of fire.
The night attack had at first merited little response from the fortified Roman legions, who had assumed it to be a probing raid. But as fireballs dropped into the Roman camp and multiple constructs that had quickly earned the nickname mecha-wolves had leapt the temporary palisade wall surrounding the sprawling camp, the legions were forced to scramble to defensive positions.
Those poor men, Octavia thought as she watched groups of legionnaires using simple pumps and hoses to try to bring the fire under control. There were even groups forming bucket brigades closer to the water. Their labor was compounded by the fact that there were still a few northerners hiding in the smoke and flames, which meant that the work crews had to be guarded. The Nortlanders were not giving up their country without a fight.
The senetora had just returned from a meeting with General Minnicus and his staff. The general had been. . apoplectic, alternating between screaming at his staff officers to attack and cursing them for not mounting an effective enough defense. He had practically threatened every single officer there, and it was only with the arrival of the airfleet and Air-Admiral Polentio that the situation had calmed somewhat.
The appearance of the battle-damaged but still dangerous looking warships overhead had been the final blow to the Nortlanders’ counterattack. Spitting warheads directly onto the enemy positions inside and outside the walls, the fleet had quickly ended the last attack.
With the threat negated, most of the airships had descended farther to the west, dropping off hordes of injured and dead crew and legionnaires from their own hard-fought encounters with the Nortland fleet. The Roman medical camps were swamped with wounded from both attacks, and every person with medical training had been pressed into service. Octavia herself had watched the ship’s doctor and a few other “able” crewmen leave the ship to assist.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the scene in the command center. The general had been grilling several under-officers from various legions, including one with an arm in a sling and another with nasty burns across his face. And then he walked in. . Octavia smiled at the thought of Tribune Constantine Appius, now acting commanding officer of the XIII Germania. He was so calm and collected, deflecting the general’s tirade and returning the room to sanity.