by Ellis Knox
He studied the goblins for a long time, feeling a bit like an egg cooking on a rock. Why didn't they attack? They should have attacked while the legions were still assembling. It made no sense, but little these creatures did made sense, whether you thought of them as human or as beast. But it wasn't their behavior that bothered him, either; it was something else.
He squinted, shading his eyes, surveying the whole of the goblin camp.
“Soldier, how many of the enemy do you make?”
Ilthiates looked sidelong at his General.
“Sir?”
“It's not a test, Ilthiates, don't worry. Just tell me your best estimate: how many of those devils are there?”
The Pergamene studied the field carefully. He said nothing for a long time, started to speak, then studied some more. Because he was idle, Julian could feel the heat building up inside his armor, like water seeping into a sinking boat. He drank from his wineskin and reminded himself to remind the men to drink as well.
“A hundred thousand, sir,” Ilthiates announced confidently. Then he faltered, “or perhaps less.”
“No, a hundred thousand will do. It's about what I make, too. And Ilthiates, how many did we estimate were at the Great River?”
Ilthiates’ eyes grew large. “Twice that, sir.”
That was it. That's what had been troubling him.
“Agreed,” Julian said aloud. Then, more to himself than to anyone, he added, “so where are the rest of them?”
Inglena sat atop a dappled gray stallion, looking toward the hills to the east. The horse was a new mount, chosen when her beloved bay came up lame crossing the mountains. She sighed. Into battle on an untried horse. She hadn’t even given him a name yet.
A few miles away, in the deep hemlock and pine forests of the Haemus Mountains, the rest of the Thervings were camped. Children, old men and those with no magic, the flocks. It would be worse, she thought, to be one of them. To only sit and wait, wondering if death was coming for them. If she were there, she knew she would startle at every sound, scream at the rustle of a leaf. Even if she were one of them, a tribeswoman with no battle skill, she would not stay there. She would come down to the Roman camp to die among the warriors.
Inglena turned the gray around and rode back along the line of her troops—the Therving warriors first. They had arranged themselves by tribe, or what was left of the tribes—Five Rivers, the Taifali, Greuthungs (few of these, survivor’s of Grimbeard’s Doom), and the Sons of Jand. Thrasimund was with these last, sitting erect on his big roan, dressed in supple leather, his blond hair bound in black string. He nodded as she passed but did not speak. The warriors on their horses sat grim and silent, or spoke to each other in low voices.
Between the Thervings and the Roman lines stood the rixen. No Roman would recognize it as a formation at all, seeing only scattered clumps or even individuals standing alone, some wielding staffs or swords or bows, while others held nothing at all. With their brown shifts and their wolfskin cloaks, they looked more like civilian stragglers than any sort of military force. Each was positioned so as not to interfere with the magic of any other individual or group, and their separation from the cavalry was deliberate as well. There were no wielders of fire or sound close enough to spook the horses.
The gray ducked his head and whinnied, and she stroked his neck to calm him. The horse deserved a name, she thought, if it was about to die. But Stavanos was there and he spoke before she could think of anything.
“Our people are ready, Queen Inglena,” he said. His voice piped with excitement. “I have reports from all the chiefs.”
She nodded but did not reply.
“Why do we not attack?” Stavanos demanded. “This is ridiculous. The Horde is right there.” He pointed, as if she could not see the goblins for herself.
The dark shape of the Horde stretched across the valley, filling it like some dark water. Her heart shuddered within her. How could they defeat so many? For a moment, her courage fell away and she was one person facing a thousand deaths and everything she had done was folly. She had led her people to their destruction! She ought to have followed King Fritigern. Always the People had fled before a Horde, and always the People had survived.
Leuva’s arguments swirled in her head, cackling with vindication. Inglena’s hands fell away from the reins and she felt her throat tighten. Her right hand fell against the hilt of her sword. Its cool, hard touch steadied her. She pulled the sword from its sheath almost without thinking and clutched it to her, then swung it violently. Her horse danced sideways and she took up the reins in her left hand. Strength returned, and resolve with it. As for courage … she would have to find that as best she could.
The enemy is before us, she told herself. It doesn’t matter how we got here because there is nowhere else to go. The People are shattered. One remnant hides in the hills, if it survives at all, and the other stands here. With the Romans.
“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated aloud to no one but the horse. A smile came to her lips, empty of mirth. “I was doomed from the day I was exiled.”
Bugles sounded in the distance. Movement rippled along the Roman lines, and the Therving cavalry let out a battle cry. From the dark mass of the Horde, bands of goblins streamed forward. They moved unnaturally fast. Like spiders, she thought. She would stomp on a few. Her hand closed on the hilt of her sword.
From the Roman lines came the sound of bugles again, their notes rising and falling like the call of some strange animal. Metal glittered, and ten thousand Romans moved forward as one, then ten thousand more. The arm of Rome stretched out to strike the goblin Horde.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hills of Dead
Quintus Murena stood at his post in the XV Legion under the unrelenting sun. He had stood so for nearly an hour, and the signal had not come.
“Mithra’s horns but it’s hot. Do you have any wine left?”
The question came from Theophractus.
“Take what’s left, brother,” Quintus said.
“You sure?”
Quintus shrugged. From in front, Berian growled, “we wait any longer, they’ll be bringing us supper.”
When the trumpets sounded Advance, a few moments later, the men of the XV let out a ragged cheer. Anything was preferable to roasting in one’s own armor.
Quintus cheered along with them. It was damned late to be starting a battle and his stomach was complaining. Still, an enemy with no discipline and no weapons was not likely to hold out against legions for long. His stomach hoped for a swift victory.
He snatched up his helmet. The metal was almost too hot to touch, but he jammed it over his head and secured it anyway, cursing as he did so. He picked up his shield, fitting his arm through it. At a shout, the XV drew swords. More shouts from the officers, then the trumpets sounded again.
Cinna, with his deep baritone, started the war chant. The rest of the First Cohort took it up and soon the whole legion, and then the entire army joined in. The ascending roar was like a wave rising from the ocean’s depths, rushing toward an enemy shore.
The goblins seemed to notice. The swirling mass began to spin outward, moving toward the legions. The thousand yards separating them became five hundred, then two hundred. Quintus swallowed in a dry mouth. The creatures looked like fiends from some mad Oriental tale. They swirled at the Romans as if driven by storm winds—never in a solid line, as relentless as winter rain.
The goblins were resolving into individual creatures now. Thousands of them, closing fast. The ground under their feet vibrated with a continuous thunder. Quintus strode steadily, in close step with the ranks. His sword was ready, eyes locked on the enemy, and his ears heard only the bugles, sounding and re-sounding.
The first goblin leaped completely over him. So did a second. The sudden stench of goblin blood told him the enemy was suffering its first losses. Berian took the brunt of the attack, but now and again a claw or head appeared in front or, unnervingly, above him, and he stabbed
at it. The dust roiled up from the ground and soon he was fighting in a kind of brown fog. A trumpet sounded the signal to switch; Berian stepped away, and Quintus became the front. A goblin slammed hard into his shield, bouncing away again before he could strike. Another clawed at him, and he caught a brief glimpse of tiny eyes and a long mouth. Then the sword took care of that one. After that, time blurred. He became a spoke in the Legion’s wheel of death, and there was only sword and shield and muscle.
After some time, a heavy hand took his shoulder: it was time to rotate out. He stepped to the side then, in a quick motion, fell back a rank. Another move and he was in the third rank, and then the fourth. Only then did he realize he was tired. He gave a grim little smile. Roman discipline protected you even when you didn’t know you needed it.
The gray proved itself steady in battle. Inglena more than once had to ride out to protect a rixen whose magic had faltered, and the horse responded well every time, allowing her to reach the fighter before the enemy did. So far, no casualties and few injuries. If the whole battle went this way, she would give a feast of thanks to the war gods.
Stavanos rode with her. She did not want him here. She did not want to have to worry about anyone but herself, but could not force him to stay behind without humiliating him. The fact annoyed her, and she made a point of not waiting for him when she charged. But he always kept up, and he fought well.
Shouts to her right caught her attention. She squinted through the haze and saw a large band of goblins charging. Only Merip, and Ferus with his two archers were out that way.
Her heart lurched. They were too distant. She could not reach them in time. Even so, she dug her heels into the horse’s sides and the gray leaped forward. Its hooves thundered against the ground, but she would be too late. She had almost decided to turn back, when a mass of riders emerged from the haze.
A hundred Thervings struck the goblin band from the side, their right wing curling around behind. At their head, Thrasimund rode down the lead goblin with his lance. With astonishing speed he wheeled, retrieved the lance, and struck another goblin. After that, it was sword work.
Inglena arrived not far behind. She killed several goblins. One of the two archers went down. She got Ferus behind her, but stopped when she saw Merip.
The woman was running, trying to escape. She was waving her right arm in a peculiar motion that Inglena recognized—she was trying to summon one of her flaming javelins, but nothing was happening. Four goblins pursued her.
She shouted Merip’s name. She pulled her sword and charged, not thinking about armies or tactics, but only about the young woman running for her life. Inglena kicked wildly at her horse. The gray shot forward. Too late, too late. The goblins crashed into Merip, driving her to the ground. In an instant, blood flew.
Inglena charged among them moments later. Four times the white sword fell, and all four goblins died. The gray whinnied wildly and it took all she could do to bring it back under control. She looked down.
She did not dismount to recover her fallen magician. The red ruin on the ground was no longer Merip, but only a bloody mess, a butcher’s site. Inglena turned to look at the Horde, mostly lost in the dust, daring more goblins to come out. Hoping they would. When none did, she started back, but did not put away her sword.
Sometimes, the magic does not work. She had said those words to Julian. In the forests of Dacia, when one failed, the magician hid with the others covered. But here in these Roman battles, there was nowhere to hide.
She glanced behind her in time to see Thrasimund dip his lance in a salute.
Merip. She groaned aloud.
“My queen, are you hurt?” asked Stavanos, as he rode up.
She looked into his anxious young face.
“No, Stavanos,” she said, “nothing that will not heal.”
Lupicinus scratched one hand with the other, at an itch that would not go away. Now that his command post was at the foot of the ridge, he could no longer see the battle. No trees stood in his way, but the terrible dust cloud obscured everything, reddening the sun, and all he could make out were indistinct shapes. From the ridge top, he could have seen everything. If Valens had bothered to reply, he would already be at the front.
He could hear the fighting, though. It came out from the brown dust as a steady din, like a storm in the desert, punctuated by the shouts of men, the shriek of horses, and the quick cries of trumpets. The sounds called out to him, mocking.
“Centurion!”
He looked around him as if his men were trying to hide from him. He spoke to the first man who had the misfortune to be looking at him.
“Where is the messenger?”
“Sir, he has not returned, General, sir.”
Why did Valens not reply? The answer was obvious: he was snubbing him. Insufferable. It has to be personal, Lupicinus thought, though he would not say this aloud.
Of course it was personal. An insult, really. That arrogant little bandy-legged man had strode into Europa like Nero entering a theater. He was come to rescue everything and everyone. The provincial troops counted for nothing with Emperor Potbelly! Valens would get all the credit for today. Again.
He stoked his anger and fed it with fretting. Valens' temper was legendary and frightful, so no hint of dissatisfaction could be let out. He raged endlessly inside and could vent none of it, lest someone hear it and report him. He paced violently, weaving his way between little piles of arms and supplies, dumped here because he couldn’t be bothered to say where they were to go.
A crescendo in the fighting tugged at him. He could feel his chance slipping away, like his own blood draining from his body.
Valens needed him. The battle was not going well; he was sure of it. He scratched and cursed. The messenger would return—any moment now!—with orders to advance. The XXIII would strike the enemy lines in the flank, rolling him up with great slaughter.
When the imperial orders came, Lupicinus thought, the XXIII would already be in position, quicker than anyone thought possible. His foresight in the heat of battle would become legendary.
He scratched at his forearm again. Had he been bitten by some insect? His skin was raw around the wrist.
Soon, he thought. Any moment now.
An orderly approached.
“Your messenger has returned, sir.”
Lupicinus’ heart gave a little jump.
“Well, report!” Lupicinus shouted, sounding more shrill than he'd intended. A young soldier appeared from behind the orderly.
“Emperor Valens’ compliments, sir.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The Divine Valens thanks the General—meaning you, sir,” the boy said, reciting the message in a high voice. “The General is to hold position and to report any movement by the enemy. If the enemy comes to the left flank, the XXIII is to hold at all costs. In the name of Rome and the Divine Valens.”
The youth shifted uncomfortably, took a breath and looked at his own feet.
“The Emperor says further, sir. He asks the General to send no more messengers. He says,” the boy gulped, “that he is very busy.”
Lupicinus was unable to speak, knowing that any sound he might make would open a torrent of rage and abuse. He clamped his jaws tight and kept his fingers spread wide, so they did not curl into fists. A thousand ants crawled upon his skin.
Julian rode behind the lines, accompanied by Captain Ennius and the Roman cavalry. He pulled up near where the men of the III fought next to the XII. Both legions dealt death in equal measure, the III was taking far worse in damage. The close formation of their lines meant injury or death with every goblin leap.
Goblin bodies piled along a wide front, covering a space of twenty yards or more. These lay as if a great wave had broken against a Roman shore, with hills of dead several feet deep, shoals between, and a few stretches of bare ground. Among them lay red-cloaked Roman soldiers as well. Beyond this broken wave was open space over which packs of monsters roved, charging toward the
Romans but breaking off again, as they had done earlier.
Avitus, who had not left Julian’s side since morning, pointed and said, “What’s that?”
A band of goblins separated itself from the Horde, stopping about two hundred yards away. From them now came a weird drumming sound.
“Hobs,” Julian muttered.
As if in answer, something black and red flung up and outward from the goblin band. It whirled through the air, making a liquid, evil sound, looking like a ten-foot snake hurled by a giant. But this snake glowed orange, and it trailed dark smoke.
“Shields up!” Julian yelled. The goblinfire swept toward them like a dark viper, hissing as it came. Ribbons of black smoke trailed from each writhing tendril. Most of the tendrils arced toward the III Legion.
The goblinfire crashed full onto the front lines, driving many to the ground. Even where the troops kept their feet, the fire sat upon their shields and burned. It heated metal quickly and soon came sounds of shouting and then screaming in pain. Shields caught fire and men tried to cast them aside, but the shields cracked and disintegrated, and burning oily stuff dripped through onto human flesh. Black smoke carried the stench of charred flesh into the air and infernos raged among the legions. Men pulled away from twitching bodies that only moments before had been comrades.
The not-drumming continued to sound. Julian called out slingers and archers to help the III. They took terrible chances to get as close as possible, and paid a terrible price. But they killed goblins, so he kept sending them. He saw that the III was sending its own archers as well.
More arcs of red-black rose up, and this time the Roman lines twisted and broke as men tried to get away. Even as scores shrieked in agony, officers were realizing that there were only three sources of this madness, and so they ordered a full out assault. It was a desperate measure, for they could not keep a solid Roman line, but the gamble paid off. The goblins would not break off their weird dance to defend, and Roman swords did heavy work for a time. After several minutes of pure slaughter the stamping broke up and the goblins fled. Where the legions advanced they overran the goblins and killed the hob at its center. No one had time to inspect it, though, for the goblin Horde attacked again. The Roman lines re-formed, the goblin tide crested again, and the killing went on.