“Quite the entrance, boy,” Hostus said softly, stepping out from under the pavilion where he waited with Grypus, who was grinning like a madman.
“About the only thing I learned from you, Hostus.”
The man’s eyes flashed in the torchlight, promising murder. “Aren’t we bold.” Then he bent closer. “And yet I can smell the vomit on your breath.”
And Marcus could still taste it, the bitter sourness of nerves that he was doing his best to keep hidden.
“Are we ready?” Grypus, wearing his armor and a small fortune’s worth of fur, stepped out from the shelter of the pavilion, a steaming cup of mulled wine in one hand. “What are you waiting for?”
“You’ve a lot riding on twenty men,” Hostus said. “You’re going to look a fool if they fail.”
Marcus didn’t answer, his eyes on the fortress.
“Even if they do fail, you’re attacking,” Grypus snapped. “I’ll have this fortress tonight, one way or another. I don’t care if every last one of you has to die to do it.”
“Be at ease, Proconsul,” Marcus answered. “Before dawn, you’ll be sipping wine in your new fortress, having claimed Hydrilla in the name of the Empire.”
“Agrippa’s ready,” Felix said softly at his left.
“But for now, Proconsul, I’d ask that you remain silent for the duration.” Stepping away from them, Marcus nodded at the signalman. “Begin.”
32
Agrippa
It was cold and wet and dark, but worst of all was the press of rocky earth on all sides, making Agrippa feel as though the air was too close.
Like he couldn’t breathe.
The tunnel was wide for the first fifty feet, then he and his men dropped into a narrow shaft that ran beneath where dozens of men had choked and died on acrid smoke in the previous assault.
And would again if he and his men didn’t get this done.
Lanterns burned low every dozen paces, illuminating their path, and he noted the spot Rastag had marked beneath the barricade. The engineer had rigged the tunnel above to collapse when the team of draft horses pulled the beams free, dropping the rocks and debris into the space that had been dug underneath. It would allow the rest of the Thirty-Seventh clear passage into the fortress.
But would also cut off his line of retreat.
After they passed that point, it got tighter, Agrippa forced to turn sideways and pull his shield along with him, the only sound the scrape of their armor and weapons against rocks.
Sweat trickled down his face, down his back, his palms slick with it, but he forced himself to whisper, “Isn’t this fun, boys? Aren’t you glad you volunteered?”
“For glory,” someone whispered.
“For honor.”
“For the Empire.”
Then Quintus muttered, “Who keeps farting?”
“Sorry,” Agrippa replied. “I think I had a few too many of Grypus’s olives.”
Chuckles filtered up through the tunnel, and Agrippa allowed the banter for another minute because it was better than them thinking about what was to come. Better than thinking about how many of them wouldn’t make it out alive. Only when they were under the city did he whisper, “Serious faces now, boys. And send the signal for the rest of our friends to provide us a bit of cover.”
The message rippled back through the tunnel, and right as Agrippa reached the end and looked up at the bottom of a floor, the flagstones braced with beams of wood, the thunder began.
The sound of close to ten thousand legionnaires slamming weapons against shields and screaming for blood, and he smiled, because every soul in Hydrilla would be staring outward at that nightmare.
Not beneath, where the true danger lurked.
“Let’s get to work,” he said, then stepped back to allow Gibzen to reach up to brace the flagstone while he pulled free the beam. As silently as possible, they chipped away the rest of the mortar holding the stone in place, Gibzen breathing heavily as he lowered it down and set it at their feet.
Fresh air washed down over them, smelling of dust and old straw and, faintly, of manure, though Agrippa doubted any livestock had lived in here for weeks. Linking his fingers, he boosted Gibzen upward into the blackness.
And promptly heard a scuffle.
Silently cursing, Agrippa jumped to grab the edge of the floor, feeling someone shove his feet to get him up.
Gibzen had his weapon out and was moving on two young boys huddled in the straw, their eyes wide with terror.
Catching Gibzen’s arm, Agrippa hauled him back, then dropped to his knees and pressed a finger to his lips. “Keep silent and you’ll live,” he said to them in Bardenese. “Understood?”
Their chins jerked up and down, gaunt faces already streaked with tears, shoulders shaking with stifled sobs. Not that anyone would hear them over the roar of the legions outside the walls.
“Just kill them,” Gibzen muttered. “You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Ignoring him, Agrippa tore strips from their clothes, one ear for the rest of his men climbing into the stable. He swiftly bound and gagged the boys, deliberately leaving their wrists loose enough that they’d be able to work their way free. Then he dropped to one knee, looking the terrified children in the eye. “This fortress is about to fall,” he said to them. “Anyone who wants to live through the night needs to go to the north wall and climb down the cliffs.”
“Marcus didn’t say shit about that,” Gibzen hissed. “How do you know it’s not being watched?”
“It is being watched,” Agrippa answered. “But I know Marcus. Those doing the watching have orders to allow civilians to escape. He always leaves a backdoor for those who’d rather live than fight.”
Gibzen made a noise of disgust. “You’re both a pair of rutting bleeding hearts.”
Agrippa ignored him. “As soon as we go, you boys get yourselves loose and run,” he said. “Spread the word to get out. Understand?”
Both nodded and, knowing that there was every chance they wouldn’t survive the night, Agrippa turned back to his men, moving through them to the stable doors. He eased one open and peered out into the courtyard, his eyes immediately going to the countless Bardenese standing on the walls, ready to fight. Torches illuminated their forms, and he saw not just men, but women and children, their backs straight though he could smell the stink of sweat and terror.
Dropping his gaze, he focused on those guarding the opening to the tunnel under the wall. A bonfire already burned, and to one side, he saw jars of some sort of powder, which must be what turned the smoke to poison. Those manning it all had weapons in hand, but they were staring into the tunnel. And he’d no doubt there were more of them inside the tunnel at the barricade, listening for any sound indicating the legion was attempting to move it.
Over the roar of the screaming legions, Agrippa heard the familiar crack of catapults deploying but falling short of the walls. Rastag testing his range. Listening for another crack, he counted the men they’d need to kill. He lifted his hand and moved his fingers to signal his plan.
Then he willfully turned off whatever it was inside him that grieved for what was about to occur, that felt sorrow for the lives that would be lost, that wept for the hurt they endured before they breathed their last. And when he refocused, all he saw was the enemy.
He opened the door.
They moved in a silent rush across the courtyard. Agrippa’s blade caught a man in the back of the neck, slicing through his spine. Blood sprayed him in the face as he passed the falling corpse. All around, he saw Bardenese dropping to the ground, choking on their blood as his men dispatched them in rapid succession with no one the wiser.
Then a dying man screamed, “They’re inside the walls!”
Quintus shoved his blade through the man’s throat.
But it was too late.
Agrippa felt the wave of panic wash through the people on the walls as they turned and found carnage at their backs. And realized what it meant.
“Hold the tunnel,” one of them screamed, and the rest surged, racing down the stairs to the courtyard.
“Get the fires out,” Agrippa shouted, killing two more men and tasting blood in his mouth. An arrow bounced off his armor, another against his shield, and he hissed in pain as one sliced across his thigh. “Get the powder!”
Miki threw sand on the fires while Quintus guarded his back, and with Gibzen at his side, Agrippa raced to where the jars sat. A man lunged at him, blade swinging, but he slid underneath it, hearing the meaty thunk of gladius striking flesh as Gibzen dispatched the man.
But they kept coming.
He crossed blades with a man, then slammed him in the face with his shield, but the bastard caught hold of it, pulling them both over.
They rolled, crashing into the table holding the powder and sending the jars smashing against the flagstones.
Dropping his gladius, Agrippa grabbed the man’s head and smashed the brim of his helmet into his face, hearing bone crack, and when the man pulled back, he shoved a knife between his ribs.
He dove forward to hamstring a man going after Gibzen, who caught hold of a rain barrel. The contents flooded over the ground, washing away the powder.
Arrows rained down around them, glancing off armor and shields, but some struck true. Agrippa heard the screams. Saw his men drop.
And felt nothing.
“Pull back to the tunnel,” he shouted at the twelve who remained, and all of them reacted instantly to the order.
Shields up, they backed against the tunnel, forming a wall of steel and blades around the opening.
“Come on, Marcus,” he hissed, “this is the moment.”
The Bardenese hurled themselves against his line, men and women dropping and dying, but they didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop, because they knew what was coming.
Hands of the fallen clawed at his legs, trying to drag him down, and he shoved his blade into the mass of bodies at his feet, screams filling his ears. Making his skull ache.
Come on!
Next to him, Quintus gasped in pain, and Agrippa instinctively moved sideways, elbowing his friend backward even as he saw another of his men fall. “Tighten the line!”
His men moved inward, stepping back to close the gap. But there were only eleven of them now against hundreds.
Another of his men dropped. Then another, forcing them to step back, abandoning the fallen to the screaming masses of the enemy. And they wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
Now, Marcus!
A loud roar echoed up from the tunnel, and a heartbeat later, a cloud of dust rushed over Agrippa’s head.
The enemy froze, then seemed to understand what was happening and flung themselves at Agrippa and his men.
A screaming woman impaled herself on his gladius, wrenching it from his grip. It was a wall of faces and flesh pressing against them. Reaching through the gaps in their shields to claw at them.
“Hold!” he shouted. “Don’t you ugly bastards even think about breaking!”
His feet slid backward under the force, his injured leg trembling.
“Hold the line!”
Then he felt movement behind him, a shield clanking into place behind his and Gibzen’s, and Uther shouted, “Can we join the party?”
Agrippa laughed wildly as more and more of his men poured from the tunnel, shields sliding into place without hesitation. “Step!” he shouted, the line moving outward in unison, weapons sliding through gaps to drive the Bardenese back.
More abandoned their place on the wall to attack, their eyes full of desperation, and a heartbeat later, Agrippa heard the deafening crash of rock striking wood. Pieces of the splintered catapult on the wall rained down, bouncing off the shields over his head but murdering the enemy they struck.
Another crash, and the other catapult was torn from its mount. It fell to smash those it had been intended to protect, the rock that had destroyed it continuing through the wall of a building.
“They’re coming for the walls!” he heard a woman scream. “They’re coming!”
He felt the teeming mass before him waver. And then they broke, racing into the city and abandoning those still fighting above.
“Clear the walls,” he shouted, sending groups racing up the stairs, where they carved into those who still remained. Those who still fought.
But it was over.
They’d won.
33
Marcus
He watched in silence as the siege towers slammed against the walls and his men flowed up them and into the fortress, more still moving in through the tunnel. The orange glow of fire illuminated Hydrilla, smoke blotting out the stars in the sky, the sounds of screams crossing the distance to fill his ears.
Felix stood an arm’s length away, taking report after report as the Thirty-Seventh pushed through the city, killing any who fought back, but driving them toward the north wall where those who wanted to live could escape down the cliffs and into the ravine below.
Seeing Felix’s nod of confirmation, Marcus turned to Grypus. “Hydrilla has fallen, Proconsul. Congratulations.”
Grypus clapped his hands together in delight. “I knew you had it in you, my boy. All of Celendrial—no, all of the Empire will soon have your name on their lips for this masterful bit of work.”
He pounded Marcus on the back, forcing him to clench his teeth as agony rolled through him. “I knew bringing you here was the right choice. You are every bit the weapon we’d hoped for and more, and rest assured, my boy, we will turn you and yours on anyone who dares to challenge the Empire’s might. You have written your name in blood. Yours and the Thirty-Seventh’s.”
Marcus inclined his head. “The Bardenese are beginning to surrender. May I have your permission to order my men to accept?”
Grypus’s eyes turned feral. “No.”
“But—”
“They had their chance, Legatus,” Grypus interrupted. “They chose defiance. And now all of Bardeen will bear witness to what happens to those who defy the dragon.” He turned to Hostus. “As promised, you can send your men in. They can take what they want but tell them to leave the finest house alone. I have no interest in sleeping in a tent tonight.”
Marcus bit the insides of his cheeks hard enough to draw blood, because this had not been part of their arrangement. Wasn’t something he’d ever have agreed to. Which Grypus bloody well knew, which was why he was sending the Twenty-Ninth in. And Marcus didn’t have the authority to countermand a proconsul. “At least allow the children…”
“No. They had their chance and chose not to take it.”
“Their parents chose—”
“Enough!” Grypus snapped. “They’ve rebellious blood in their veins and allowed to grow up, they’ll only return to their base nature. I want every rebel in Hydrilla dead before dawn.”
“With pleasure, Proconsul.” Pulling his blade, Hostus moved down into the ranks of his men, and Marcus knew the gutters of Hydrilla would run with blood tonight.
Horns blew as the Twenty-Ninth moved forward in a steady tide, ranks dividing to climb towers and to press through the gate, which the Thirty-Seventh had unbarricaded. Marcus had opened the doors, which meant every single one of the dead or dying could be laid at his feet. And it was all he could do not to vomit.
“Men like Hostus serve a purpose, Legatus.” Grypus sipped at his wine. “But to keep them loyal, they need to be fed.”
“At what cost?” Marcus knew he should say nothing, that he should abide, but the words slipped from his lips. “Showing mercy might lead the other rebels to surrender. But this? Hydrilla will stand as a martyr for Bardeen for a generation.”
“It might be you are right. But mercy is often seen as a sign of weakness and Bardeen is but one province of many. And when it comes to rule, it is a far better thing to be feared than loved.” Grypus gave him a considering stare. “You’ve won a great victory tonight on many levels, Marcus. You’ve rid yourself of Hostus and set y
ourself and the Thirty-Seventh on the path to a glorious future. Don’t throw that away for the sake of the lives of strangers who’d gladly stab you in the back if given the chance.”
He felt sick, his stomach in ropes because there was a massacre going on behind him and he had the power to stop it. Except to do so would mean bringing the wrath of the Empire down on not just his head, but on the heads of his men. So for their sake, he’d bear this guilt. “As you say, Proconsul.”
“Good boy.” Grypus slung an arm around his shoulders, and the waves of repulsion that surged through Marcus drowned out the pain. This man was a different breed of monster than Hostus, but a monster nonetheless, and Bardeen would suffer under his governorship. The urge to pull a weapon and slit the man’s throat reared up in his mind, but what would that change? He’d only be replaced by another of his ilk and Marcus would be hanged in the Forum as a traitor to the Empire.
“At dawn, you will move your legion back to the coast,” Grypus said, interrupting his thoughts. “The Senate has its eyes on Chersome, and come spring, I want you ready to bring that defiant little island into the Empire’s fold. Do it, and your name will forever be tied to Celendor’s achievement of dominion of every land from north to south.”
Was that the legacy he wanted? To be the commander who defeated the last free people in the name of men like Grypus?
Grypus took hold of his shoulders, staring him in the eyes, his breath strong with the scent of wine. “There’s a spark of something in you that I don’t like, boy. Something that stinks like defiance.” The proconsul leaned closer and Marcus struggled not to recoil. “Remember that the Senate owns you. Do our bidding and you will be rewarded handsomely. Cross us, and we will feed your corpse to the dogs. Am I understood?”
Marcus stared down at the man, hatred rising in his gut. For Grypus. And for the fact that what the man said was the truth. “Yes, Proconsul.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I find myself famished.”
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 20