Goblins at the Gates

by Ellis Knox

  Julian wiped the sweat from his face. He looked at the decimated III Legion, at his own XII, and at the Horde, barely visible as a dark mass through the dusty haze. He knew the XII could withstand the goblin attacks, especially if they could keep the hobs out of effective range. He turned to Ennius. The cavalry captain managed somehow to be the only one who did not look miserably hot.

  “Captain,” Julian said, “we need to launch an attack.”

  “Finally!” Ennius said. “Begging your pardon, General, but just give the word. My boys want some of the day’s work.”

  “They’ll have that and more,” Julian said. “We’re going to kill the Gniva.”

  “Master!” Avitus cried out.

  “Not now, Avi,” Julian said impatiently, without turning his attention from Ennius. “We’ll take our cavalry around the right flank of the Legion and pick up the Thervings there. The Legion will stand its ground and the magicians will continue to guard the flank. This attack depends on speed.”

  He turned to his staff. “Ursinus,” he said to the big man, “take a position with the First Cohort. Give my instructions to Marcus Salvius. I’ll be looking for our standard when I come back.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ursinus said with a firm salute, but his eyes were huge.

  “Come, Captain,” Julian said, trying to sound as confident as he could. “We drive for the center; we’ll drive a lance through the heart of these monsters.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  How Romans Die

  Lupicinus ordered his men a hundred paces further, closer to glory. He did not yet dare to move them close enough to be noticed by Valens, but he sidled like a child in a hallway creeping toward a room of adults.

  The red and white fox standard of the XXIII still stood at the top of the ridge, though now it rose over a mere handful of men. Lupicinus paid them no attention. His mind bent only toward the sound of battle. For this reason, he quite missed it when the fox-skin standard wavered, then disappeared.

  A runner approached minutes later, gasping, calling out even as he ran.

  “General, sir! The First Tribune …” he gulped for air, “… cobbel cobbel … sir!”

  Lupicinus smiled. Any enemy contact would provide the pretext he needed to commit the Legion. But what was the idiot pointing at?

  “What?” Lupicinus said sternly. “The creatures? Where?” He turned in a full circle, unable to comprehend where to look.

  “The ridge,” the runner said, pointing with wild jabs.

  He turned to look back up the ridge, to see dark shapes along its top. He recalled Valens’ orders. His blood suddenly felt weak in his veins.

  “Flank turn, Tribune,” he ordered, ignoring the fact that there were no tribunes present. “We're getting back up that ridge.”

  The man took off at a run, shouting, “First! First Tribune!” It took less than a minute and Lupicinus could hear trumpets sound and see his legion begin to execute its maneuver. Good thing he'd kept the men in ranks all this time! He wiped sweat from his brow and felt another drop run down his spine, trailing ants.

  But the monsters were already descending. The legion had barely started up the hill. They would have to fight at a disadvantage, but that could not be helped now. The ridge was already black with the monsters. They flowed down it like a river.

  How could there be so many? Had they somehow broken from the main battle to come after him? They were halfway down the slope now, covering it entirely with still more behind. Worse, they were extending well beyond his left flank. How could Valens expect him to fight all these alone, with a single legion?

  The answer came to him: he didn't. The Emperor was deliberately sacrificing the XXIII, throwing the legion into the maw of the enemy so Valens could execute some brilliant maneuver and become again the shining hero. Lupicinus slapped awkwardly but furiously at his back. What to do now? Retreat, surely. Or shift positions to join with the IV and together throw back these dogs. He tried to feel resolve form within himself, but could only feel something cold twist in his belly.

  Men were running past him, men who should have been in the ranks. It took him several moments to understand what was happening. The legion was dissolving before his very eyes. The creatures now covered most of the ridge in black patches. They were like locusts, bounding and leaping everywhere, chewing away at his XXIII as if it were a field of ripe grain. Here and there units stood their ground and killed with Roman efficiency. Let a single opening appear, though, and that unit was quickly torn apart.

  Lupicinus was immobilized by the sight. It offended him, like watching an obscenity. It was infuriating. Nothing should be so indecent as to shred an entire legion as if it were paper. He wanted to yell at someone, punish them, inflict his sweaty, crawling skin upon them. But there was no one. He stood alone, sword in hand, mad with heat and terror.

  Then came an interval of peace. Not long; just long enough to realize all was lost. Overwhelmed by overwhelming numbers—he savored the phrase a moment. One more brave Roman commander spent in defense of his country. He readied his sword, for he could see the monsters leaping toward him. Creature's from a harpy's nightmare. He had just enough time to be glad the itching had stopped, when a goblin struck him from the side, and snapped his neck.

  Quintus Murena had been fighting all day. Fighting his whole life, it felt like. Since the world began. He took on his shield one more blow in an infinity of blows, killed one more monster in a world filled with them. The universe had compressed into a simple rhythm: shield, stab, shield, stab. He had long since progressed beyond exhaustion. He had become the blood brother of Sisyphus, endlessly pushing the stone of death.

  For this was assuredly Hell. He could tell all the philosophers the news: Hell was not cold, not an everlasting darkness. Hell was hot, and red-orange. The heat was a fist pressed against his brow, filled with dust that plugged the nose, caked the mouth, then crawled down the throat to suffocate the lungs. Death would be a relief, but death had arrived long ago and was now only harvesting. Quintus awaited his turn.

  He killed another monster and then another. At every blow he was sure the sword would fall from the hand he could no longer feel. He could bear any and all of it, he thought, if only the heat would relent.

  Someone grabbed him by the shoulder. A voice spoke at his ear.

  “Step back, brother. Let another have his turn.”

  The words made no sense, but years of training helped his body remember their meaning, and his limbs obeyed. He rotated out of the front line, then back, then back again. The sound of desperate battle reached him: grunts, moans, curses. When it goes on long enough, a battle becomes fought in monosyllables.

  The sounds now seemed to come from every side. The dust that hung in the air had become a burning fog. The sun sat at the edge of the world, red as blood, the eye of a devil god. He himself was covered with a layer of sweat and blood that had mixed with the powdery dust to make a mask of his own face. He had become a demon in a world of monsters.

  His eyes burned. Every blink was painful. Grit rattled his teeth. It had found its way inside his armor and under his linens. Every movement dragged his skin over gravel.

  A hand pulled him back yet further, and he began to be aware of his surroundings. In a rush, his soldier’s sensibilities returned and he knew what he was seeing. Men running, other men standing, some wailing like children

  Defeat.

  “Quintus!”

  A demon appeared through the crimson fog and called him by name. He stared at it.

  “Quintus Murena. Brother!”

  “Proclus?” The demon transformed into Martinus Proclus Avenus. “Is that you?”

  “Of course it is. Come! We have a job to do.”

  “Job.” Quintus was having trouble emerging from Hell.

  “The army is surrounded. Whole mess of those beasts got behind us. We’re going to cut a path through for the Emperor.”

  “Cut a path?”

  “Gods, Quintus, grab h
old of yourself, will you? You’re in the damned imperial guard, unless you want to stand here and die!”

  A red sun hung low in a red sky. The air itself was orange and filled with grit, making every breath a labor. Everywhere, the screams of panic mingled with the sounds of dying. Julian saw only disaster, heard only his own voice accusing him of failure. It sounded much like his father’s voice.

  The attack on the Gniva had failed, had barely got started before it broke under black-orange fire snaking out of the sky. Captain Ennius had led the charge in an attempt to open a line of retreat, but he had vanished. Goblins were all around now, behind and in front.

  He blinked gritty sweat from his eyes—rubbing them only made it worse—and tried to make himself think. He was left with his command guard, a dozen men, plus Avitus. Ursinus still held the Legion’s standard, but the imagifer had disappeared during the last attack. The buglers sounded Retreat as best they could, but their lungs were dust-coated and they coughed spasmodically in the middle of notes.

  Julian barely had time to turn before goblins were on them again. He slashed as best he could, but Avitus kept coming in so close it was hard to maneuver.

  “Get off, Avi!” he shouted, pulling away. A goblin struck his horse shrieked in pain, then broke into a furious gallop. Julian had his sword in one hand and had dropped the rein to flail at Avitus. All he could do was grab hold of the mane and try to keep from falling. For a time, all he could see was ground and horse neck.

  Then, abruptly, the horse stopped. Julian snatched up the reins and looked around. Avitus was close by, but everyone else was gone, even the goblins. He sat, gasping and coughing. Bodies were everywhere, a few still moving. He turned his horse in a slow circle. Through the haze he could see the fighting on all sides, but the chance of battle had, for a moment, created this little island of devastated calm.

  Then he saw the Gniva.

  He could not mistake that crimson hide, the tall form. It was surrounded by goblins, but no hobs were in sight. He spoke to Avitus without taking his eyes off the Gniva.

  “Avi, get out of here. Find the Legion.”

  “Master, no.” Julian heard him draw closer. “Come away now,” Avitus said, as if speaking to a child.

  “Do as I say. No time to argue.” Julian gathered himself. A hundred goblins, no more. Bad odds, but behind him the odds were worse.

  “Please,” Avitus said, putting a hand on his arm. “I can protect you. Just wait a moment.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Julian snatched his arm away. There was no time. Anger welled, mixed with desperation. “Go, or follow,” he snarled, “but do shut up and let go.”

  He jammed his heels into his horse, who responded with a fury. They charged toward the Gniva and its bodyguard. All is lost, all is lost, a voice repeated in his head, and he embraced it.

  The horse beneath him felt as strong as a thunderbolt. A wonderful clarity descended as he rode. He saw each of the goblins individually. In an instant he had identified the best angle of attack, knew exactly what strength was left in his horse, knew precisely how he would kill the monster. He could even see the Gniva spot him, turn toward him, though he was a hundred yards away.

  Other goblins saw him as well, and they turned, as if extensions of the Gniva. Julian had forgotten about Avitus, the Legion, the battle itself. Only this charge mattered. He knew for a certainty he would crash into the goblins. His charge would hurtle him through. His horse would fall, but he would leap free, land on his feet, dodge beneath the black claws, drive his sword into the belly and up, into the heart. He saw all this with perfect clarity, as a single movement, in the space between heartbeats.

  The Gniva turned away, and Julian’s clear vision wavered like a mirage. His horse took three more strides before he was hit from the side by two goblins, one at the hindquarter, the other at the forelocks. Rider and horse crashed at full speed to the ground.

  Julian was thrown free as his horse tumbled heavily, his neck broken. Julian scrambled to his feet and found his sword was gone. The Gniva and its bodyguard was still far away. Another pack of goblins had struck from the side, charging past him, though three halted to tear at the horse. Outraged and helpless, Julian ran at them, shouting, even as other goblins went tearing past. One, almost casually, reached out as it ran. A single talon jabbed into Julian’s back, knocking him to the ground.

  He hit hard, rolling. Something landed on him and he cursed with pain. He remembered bodies falling on him far away on a hill in Dacia. Then voices.

  “Master.”

  It was Avitus.

  “Julian. Not a sound. Do not move.”

  Julian felt Avitus take his left hand and grip it tightly. His voice was at his ear, whispering.

  “Whatever you do, do not let go.”

  Roman bugles sounded Retreat, but Inglena could see no avenue for a retreat. The goblins were moving behind the XII. The Roman Army was crumbling around her, and soon the calamity would reach her rixen.

  She turned to Stavanos.

  “You must find Thrasimund. Tell him to retreat to our camp. I will bring the rixen.” To herself she added, after I find Marcus.

  “Yes, my Queen,” he said, and turned away to the right.

  She let the gray advance at a trot, waiting for the right moment, preserving her horse’s wind. Somewhere ahead, Marcus would be slashing at goblins, taking their blows with his shield. Somewhere ahead, he would be alive.

  She was close to the front of her people. There was Petipor, with his fists of air, and Zura, hardly more than a child, tumbling goblins into one another before they could attack.

  No goblinfire scarred the red sky now. She called out to any rixen she saw to retreat, then urged the gray into a gallop. Her white sword came into her hand almost of its own volition.

  Ahead she could see shapes. Roman shapes. As she got closer, she recognized the banner of the First Cohort and yes, there he was. Marcus, just as she had pictured him, and just as hard-pressed. Her throat too raw for a battle cry, she charged silently into the goblin mass.

  The fight was brief. Whether because of a decision or because of pure chance, the goblins left off after her initial charge had killed a dozen of them, and she was able to return to the front line of the First Cohort.

  Marcus Salvius stood before her. Blood and dust had mixed to form a deep red paste that covered much of his body. His beard and hair were stiff with it. His armor hung in tatters, his shield was gone, and all was caked in the red mud. His voice grated when he spoke, sounding like stones grinding. Only his eyes showed any life.

  “Princess,” he said, “it’s time to go. Make your way into the hills. The Legion will guard your retreat.”

  “Where is the General?” Her own voice sounded dry and empty. Marcus sagged.

  “I had hoped you knew.”

  The sun was an ember dying in the western hills. The valley below had sunk into shadow, a wide sarcophagus covered over by a dusty lid. Shapes darker than shadow moved at the edge of sight.

  Inglena spoke to Marcus Salvius as they withdrew from the field. “The Horde will not sleep tonight. Neither can we. We must get as far away as we can.”

  “What about them?” Marcus nodded down the slope where two rixen were kneeling. They seemed to be talking to the ground.

  “They will follow,” she said. “They are making a wall.”

  She turned to a rider. “Any word from King Thrasimund?”

  “No,” he said. “They say he is fallen.”

  The word sank like iron into her stomach. Fallen. Julian, Thrasimund, Merip. Fallen was too small a word for what had happened. She turned away from the valley.

  “My queen,” the rider said, “when we get to the camps, what then? What are we to do?”

  “Constantinople,” she said firmly. “We will go to the City.” Marcus nodded in agreement.

  The day turned steadily darker as more and more dust rose into the air. The sky was a dirty brown, lit by a red-orange sun. The gr
ound was a darker brown. No trace of grass or plant remained. In places, so much blood was spilled a kind of black mud formed and men died merely because they had slipped.

  When the goblins had begun attacking from behind as well as in front, the legions formed themselves into defensive squares, but the enemy was everywhere, and soon the legions lost touch with each other in the noise and dust, and each square became isolated and surrounded.

  The soldiers slashed and cut as long as they could, but they were hungry and thirsty, and six hours of combat was beginning to take a worse toll than the enemy. The heart had gone out of them. They fought now not to win the battle, nor even to save their own lives, but simply to delay their deaths.

  The goblins drove in upon them. The officers could not see through the heavy dust. Many of the buglers had fallen, and what few calls were made were lost amid the screams. The goblins leaped and clawed their way into the cohorts, like a butcher cutting into meat.

  With every backward step the Romans became more tightly pressed together. Men shrank back from the slashing enemy that could no longer be fought. They became angry even at their own comrades, for getting in the way, for shoving, for tripping. Shields became entangled and useless. At the end, men found themselves pressed so tightly they could not even raise a sword but could only stand, wild-eyed and cursing, waiting their turn. Hundreds died standing up, helpless, heads slashed open.

  The sun, red as Roman blood, slid behind the western hills. The slaughter went on.