Blocking his foe’s next swing, Constantine stabbed his dagger up and into the man’s neck. Blood spurted, and the man collapsed to the ground, hands trying to staunch the bleeding. Constantine turned, alert for any other aggressors.
The battle was essentially over, the last few Nortlanders dead or surrendering. Only the king and the duke battled on, the king with his unique gauntlet weapons and armor resplendent in gold and copper filigree, the duke, stripped of his armor when captured, wielding a stolen chain-axe that must have malfunctioned. Nevertheless, the duke drove the king up the steps, one hard-fought level at a time.
Constantine’s legionnaires formed a circle around the combatants, cheering as the duke advanced on the beleaguered king. The duke managed to land a strike on the king’s arm, shattering armor and sheering off much of the decorative detailing. The king stepped back, cursing at the duke in Norse.
Though awed by the single combat being fought before him, Constantine knew there was more to be done. He muscled his way through the crowd until he found Centurion Gwendyrn. “Centurion! Lead men through that doorway and pursue that assassin. I want him dead or alive, you understand me? And for the gods’ sake, bring the senatora back in one piece.”
Gwendyrn saluted and hurried off, dragging men away from the contest and beckoning them to follow him. Constantine watched until shouts and cries of alarm pulled his attention back to the fight.
The duke had slipped on the bloody steps and his axe had fallen from his grasp. The king was quick to charge in on the weaponless duke, who struggled to fend off several near misses. He took several light wounds, including a cut just above the eye, before he ducked low, tackled the king, and slammed him down onto the floor. He brought up his knee and slammed it into the king’s groin. The watching legionnaires groaned in sympathy.
The king flailed at the duke’s unprotected back before finally getting his two legs under himself and throwing the duke off. Stumbling back, the duke wiped blood out of his eye with his sleeve, then slammed his foot on the floor. That’s an odd thing to do, Constantine thought as he debated getting a weapon to the duke.
A stream of war cries preceded the entrance of more Nortland troopers. The legionnaires spun, preparing to receive them, but the Nortlanders stopped and their leader stepped forward. “Let us through, Roman,” the gray-bearded man demanded.
Constantine motioned to his men, and they parted. The royal duel in the center of the throne room had paused. The king made a demand in a high-pitched voice, one that the duke seemed to immediately counter.
Constantine grabbed one of his legionnaires who understood more Norse than he. “What is going on?”
“As near as I can tell, sir, the king wants the new officer-he’s Gunther Therodi, Western March Lord, by the way-well, the king wants him to execute the duke. But I don’t think that lord is on the king’s side. Now he’s saying something about letting the duel decide the fate of the kingdom.” The man frowned in concentration for a moment, then shook his head, but Constantine didn’t complain. The conversation was moving so fast that he thought even some of the lord’s own troops, who seemed somewhat shocked at the turn of events, weren’t understanding everything.
“Well done, soldier.”
“By the way, sir, that lord let something slip. He said the southern walls had fallen to the Romans as well, and that the leaders had to do something immediately.”
Constantine pulled off his helm, sighing as cool air stroked his sweat-dampened head, and allowed a faint smile at the success of his plan. Making up his mind, he approached the men on the dais.
“This is a matter for us, Roman. I shall speak with you after,” the duke said in a clear voice.
Constantine nodded, gave a slight bow, and stepped back into his line. If they want to do it their way, more power to them. “Legionnaires, form block,” he ordered. The legionnaires quickly moved to form a solid block of troops before the throne. The lord’s men moved to form their own ring around the throne.
The king, obviously fed up with this exchange and his lack of perceived power, charged at the duke. The duke assumed a strange pose, planting his left leg forward and his right leg back. As the king closed the last few feet, the duke pushed off with his left foot, propelling himself into the air as he swung his right foot up in a ferocious kick. The boot drove into the king’s chest and the taller man doubled over with an oomph. Laufas had to yank his boot clear of the king’s chest. The king crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from a narrow hole in his cuirass.
Ah! He had a hidden blade! Impressed, Constantine sheathed his spatha, waiting to see what would happen next.
The duke bent and plucked the copper crown from the head of the deceased king. “King Lokus is dead. The royal line is done. As the Warden of the East, I claim the throne,” he declared in ringing tones, first in Norse, then in Latin. The West March Lord, Therodi, knelt and bowed his head.
As a Roman, Constantine would kneel to no man but the emperor, but he went to full parade ground attention, his assembled men following suit. The duke ascended to the throne, then sat wearily upon the massive seat.
The Nortlanders stood, and Constantine lowered his salute. King Laufas stared at Constantine with his stern eyes. He spoke in a soft voice that demanded respect and authority, underscoring his newfound power. “We have not been properly introduced. I am King Nikulas Laufas, crowned king of the Nortland Empire. And you are?”
“Commander Constantine Tiberius Appius, XIII Germania Legion, commanding officer, Nortland Expeditionary Force.”
Constantine thought he saw a twinkle in Laufas’ eyes, something that was confirmed when the man smiled. “Ah, so the emperor sends his only son to confirm the legitimacy of my throne? What a kind gesture on behalf of our southern neighbor,” he stated, offering an unspoken opportunity.
Constantine, moderately well versed in the world of politics, understood immediately. Then again, being raised in Rome, international hotbed of intrigue and political doubletalk, probably makes me look for double entendres everywhere. “Of course, Your Highness. We were on a mission to bring the traitors in your ranks to justice, and they succeeded in clouding even your exceptionally strong judgment with their lies and falsehoods. Alas, we were too late to save King Bismark from their treachery, perpetrated by none other than the assassin Corbus, the same villain who led the assault on Brittenburg.” Yes, I know that most of this is stretching the truth just a tad, but you want an excuse for our presence, you’ve got it.
Laufas sat on his throne, nodding as the Roman spoke his piece. Regardless, Constantine began to feel a strong urge to get out of there. There were too many things to do, from chasing Corbus to stopping the assault on Midgard by his other two legions. “Your Honor, if I may, I have men pursuing the assassin. We must continue the chase. I shall send messengers to my men attacking the walls, telling them to fall back to our camp-provided your men do not stop them from going.”
Laufas agreed, turning to speak to the other Nortlanders. Lord Therodi seemed to argue with him. After several terse minutes where it appeared they would come to blows, Therodi pacing and gesturing wildly while Laufas continued to speak in calm, measured tones, Therodi threw up his hands in surrender and fell silent.
All the while, Constantine was feeling more and more concerned. There was just a feeling in his gut that something was wrong. Finally, he could bear it no longer. “Your Highness?” Both men turned to look at him. Therodi, face ruddy with passion, stared down at him; Laufas’ face was unreadable, a mask of serenity.
“Let me guess, Commander Appius: you are eager to be off and chasing that assassin. I shall not delay you. In fact, I will send Lord Therodi, here, with you. Fear not, he speaks fluent Latin, he just chooses to be a traditionalist and not talk directly with you.” The king gave a wan smile.