The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘Who goes there?’ asked the guard, his voice muffled through the grille of his helmet.

  ‘The last face you’ll ever see in this world unless you get out of my way,’ said Voratrix, too weary for such nonsense.

  The guard chuckled roughly.

  ‘You have come far little warlord, but you think too much of yourself,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Why do you leave our liege so soon? Tell me what is so much more important than your king?’

  ‘Alright I’ll tell you,’ said Voratrix, catching the man’s attention. He leant in close, a lie already forming on his lips. ‘Do you remember the town we razed on our way here?’

  The guard nodded.

  ‘Well as we speak its prefect’s daughter lies naked and chained to my bed and I would very much like to go and fuck her,’ said Voratrix. ‘But instead I am stuck here talking to the likes of you. So move aside and let me enjoy the spoils my service to our king has earned me.’

  The guard laughed and turned an armoured gauntlet against the leather flaps of the tent to open the way. Voratrix nodded in mock gratitude and exited.

  Outside the night had grown much darker than when he had entered for the victory feast hours before. Snow fell heavily upon his armour and his long, ivory hair writhed in the breeze. Even for one accustomed to the harshness of the icy north, Voratrix shivered in the cold. What little drink he had shared in that night offered little respite for his senses from the winter’s edge.

  Rubbing his hands together for feeling, Voratrix began the long walk back to his own clan’s side of the camp, suddenly with all the more reason to be there sooner.

  ***

  Tribune Bantius watched the misty outline of his legionnaires creep over the western barricades of the Evastii camp. A crude fortification of compacted ice and wooden stakes, the perimeter was completely undefended. The unruly tribesmen must only bother to patrol the more direct approaches along the southern slopes and ramparts, he figured. Even from where he stood, Bantius could see the barricade gradually reduce in both height and workmanship the further away from the slopes it went. They will pay dearly for their indiscipline, Bantius smiled.

  ‘Ready Tribune,’ said a nearby centurion softly. It was time to go over.

  Tribune Bantius nodded and approached the barricade.

  Even to his eye it was a poorly constructed thing, the palisade only reached up to half his height with no trenches or other obstacles.

  The centurion stood close and cupped his gloved hands for him to jump over. Bantius sheathed his sword and took a deep breath. Glory through leadership, he told himself before scaling the palisade.

  He landed awkwardly, hitting the ground hard with a loud thump that broke the silence. Bantius quickly steadied himself and moved into the shadows by the makeshift wall of a nearby shelter. On the other side of the wall he suddenly heard something stir. Bantius froze.

  He could hear an Evastii tribesmen stagger out of the shelter and mumble a string of curses in his barbaric language – probably for being woken.

  In the darkness Bantius slowly unsheathed his gladius. Still drowsy, the sentry stumbled out to the barricade he was supposed to be guarding. The man did not register another presence until it was too late. Arcemite steel flashed as Bantius brought down his sword, opening the tribesmen from the neckline and spraying the white snow red with blood. The man crumpled to the ground, dead instantly. Silence then returned to the night.

  Bantius stood panting in the dark, a wave of new and conflicting emotions surging through him. His heart was pounding in his ears and his hands were shaking. Staring at the slain Evastii at his feet he did not notice the faint noise of someone approaching behind.

  ‘Tribune?’ a voice whispered behind his shoulder. Bantius looked around: it was the centurion. Some of the legionaries were also beginning to form up around them.

  The centurion looked at the dead Evastii and nodded approvingly. Bantius straightened his back, regaining his composure in front of them all. It was his first kill and would be far from his last that night.

  ‘First blood is ours gentlemen,’ said the centurion to the assembling legionaries. The men shared excited grins. All the while, more and more were climbing over the barricade to join them.

  Bantius looked left and right, into the mist. All down the line, his cohorts would be repeating this scene – killing sentries and forming small bridgeheads into the Evastii camp. He knew this was the crucial moment with his cohorts split partially either side of the palisade. If the enemy were alerted now they would be in serious trouble.

  The minutes drew on as they waited with fraying nerves for the rest to gather. All the while the Evastii camp remained in slumber, completely unaware.

  Bantius looked down and kicked the barbarian corpse with a heavy boot, enjoying the feeling of righteous hatred returning to him.

  Finally, the last of the legionaries scaled the barricade. They were forming up into several spear tips aimed along the crooked rows of tents.

  Bantius joined the centurion in the centre of the formation and drew a gilded pistol from his belt. They would not have to remain silent for long. The tribune smiled. The barbarians would soon be waking with death on their doorsteps.

  Next to him the centurion raised a clenched fist signalling the advance. As one, the cohorts stalked off into the night and the maze of tents resting their unsuspecting foes.

  ***

  Making his way back to his own clan’s allotment, Voratrix wandered along the narrow alleyways between the inner barricades surrounding the king’s pavilion and the tents of his warriors. The walkways were deserted; everyone else being inside, already resting for the night or drunk from their victory that day. Through the mists he could make out the vocals of an old northern tune – Spirits of the Black Shores – slurred by two unseen drunkards. It was a song about the dawn of the north and its tribes. Voratrix shook his head at the abuse the two men were inflicting with such dreadful voices. Thankfully, as he continued to walk their awful sound was quickly lost. Soon the only thing to be heard was the constant crackle from the campfires as they smouldered.

  Burning low, the coals cast an eerie glow around the labyrinth of tents. Following the rough signposts and banners of the other clans Voratrix made his way through the winding paths. It was not long before he arrived at the familiar ground of his clan’s area. He had made good time to navigate back and the prospect of a warm bed had never been so appealing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Voratrix noticed a shadow move across the walls of his tent. Someone was coming.

  He paused, slowly reaching for his dagger.

  An Evastii warlord was never safe. Even in the king’s camp the knife of a rival chieftain or a dishonourable challenger may lie in wait for him. Of course they would have to be very stupid indeed to try such an attack with so many warriors of his clan camped around him.

  He could see the dark silhouette of a figure approaching.

  Voratrix sheathed his blade when he saw the ritually scarred face of his chief priest revealed from the shadows. The priest stopped before his warlord and bowed low.

  ‘Driskoll, what keeps you at this late hour?’ asked Voratrix.

  ‘My lord,’ said Driskoll before rising, ‘I performed the nightly augury as expected several hours ago and all was favourable-’

  ‘Speak your point priest,’ grumbled Voratrix, ‘I am weary and close to losing my patience.’

  ‘Just now my lord I was awakened by powerful visions and sought you immediately,’ said Driskoll quickly.

  ‘Visions, Driskoll?’

  Like all the great tribes of the north, the Evastii were devout to the words of their druids. At the hands of such men Voratrix had witnessed the awesome force of the gods for himself. He had seen men possessed tear warriors apart with their bare hands, and rivers run red with blood. To him, the power of Khronus was a very real thing. But believing did not make sharing leadership with such priests any easier. Traditionally, chiefs were duty
bound to heed their guidance but over the years many tribal priests had exceeded their status and become powerful warlords themselves.

  Voratrix knew he had to keep a close eye on this young priest to make sure he did not have any similar ambitions.

  ‘Yes visions, an omen I believe to be of great importance,’ said Driskoll. ‘I saw a raven my lord, a raven from the darkness, whose flight scattered a great herd of boar.’

  ‘I am no augur. Tell me, no riddles. What do the gods bid us know?’ laughed Voratrix, looking up to the misty sky. ‘What does this omen signify harbinger? A bird and a pack of...’

  Before Voratrix could finish, something caught his eye and he immediately knew the answer. At the end of the alleyway, high above his pavilion, Voratrix’s banner – The Wild Boar – an ancient symbol of the Evastii, fluttered in the night sky.

  ‘...boar.’

  ‘Grim tidings indeed, my lord,’ said Driskoll, following his warlord’s gaze. ‘If I may say so my chief, Khronus – praise His name – may have felt offended by the lack of blood spilt this day as we did not give chase and slaughter his enemies.’

  Voratrix sprung to alertness, instantly forgetting the tiredness that had plagued him just moments before.

  ‘Driskoll, what clan was assigned sentry duty this night?’

  ‘Chief Taurson, my lord.’

  ‘Curse of the gods!’ swore Voratrix. ‘Taurson’s mob is more likely to be dicing or asleep than on watch.’

  ‘What are your orders?’

  ‘Driskoll, summon my-’

  The warlord’s words were suddenly drowned out by the tremendous blast of an explosion. Voratrix looked up and saw a bright plume of fire light up the night sky. A chain of explosions quickly followed, shaking the very plateau itself with their force.

  As the heat of the blaze washed over him, Voratrix regained his thoughts. Judging from the locations of the flames he knew that the powder stores had gone off and that it had not been an accident. Over the screams and shouts of alarm Voratrix could hear a new sound – the sound of battle. They were under attack.

  The legions were inside the camp.

  ***

  It was then, from the dense mist, that Corvinus’ cohorts appeared on the northern side of the camp. The young general, smoke smeared and weary from the climb, had never felt more alive. Beneath his skin the metal of the Spolia Opima pulsed as if eager and adrenalin surged through his veins. Corvinus laughed, watching the panicked Evastii scramble against the flames only to be cut down by the legionaries following in its wake.

  There were no barricades protecting the northern approaches to the enemy camp and the cohorts had entered virtually unopposed. The Evastii, similar to most northern tribes, were not known to be the most disciplined in their ways of war and Corvinus had hoped this to be the case with their defences. As the gods would have it, he had been blessed.

  The initial moments of their charge had been a killing frenzy: several intense minutes full of surprise and blood-spattered tents as the legionaries slaughtered the Evastii in their beds with methodical efficiency. Behind them they left a trail of trampled shelters and enemy corpses. Hundreds had been killed in those opening moments.

  Despite moving as fast as they could, the momentum of the cohorts had waned the deeper they penetrated the enemy camp. Resistance had hardened as the Evastii troops, using their battle horns, roused the rest of the camp to action. With the alarm raised, Evastii warlords began to rally their warriors into a proper defence. That was until the first powder store had erupted in their midst.

  The explosions had been an impromptu decision. Against some hard fighting Valko and the First Cohort had pushed into the enemy line and discovered one of the Evastii stores. With the breeze blowing in just the right direction, the First Centurion had set them alight and hastily retreated. The resulting explosion had worked better than imagined. After breaking the mounting lines of opposition in the initial blast, the winds then fanned the flames right towards the heart of the camp. Even now, the blaze was already spreading across scores of Evastii tents and supply wagons.

  Corvinus grinned, pleased with his First Centurion’s initiative. Ash continued to rain down around him. Corvinus liked to imagine the shock to morale suffered by the tribesmen fighting Bantius’ cohorts to the west, to look back and suddenly see a firestorm behind them. They have nowhere to pull back, he thought, they will be surrounded inside a pincer and crushed. Nowhere is safe.

  From the raging inferno an Evastii tribesman charged Corvinus, his body completely aflame. Tightening his grip on the Corvus banner, the young general waited for the man to draw close. Then as his enemy raised his sword high to attack, Corvinus struck out. Using the pointed legion standard as a spear, he skewered the man through the throat.

  ‘Push forward!’ shouted Corvinus over the clamour, kicking the tribesman off his banner. ‘We have them shaken. Now force them back into the centre.’

  ***

  All across the western ramparts the Evastii camp lay in bloody ruins. The cohorts of the Third Legion under Tribune Bantius pressed ever deeper into the camp. So far they had sighted and overcome the banners of at least four clans camped in the area. Each of them now lay tattered and broken. Confronted by the legion’s pincer, they had fallen swiftly. Caught completely unprepared, initial resistance had been minimal. What was left of the garrisoned clans had either fled deeper into the camp or were left dead underfoot by the cohorts’ relentless advance.

  Now that the Evastii had realised the legions were inside their camp, the fighting was thickening. Though much of it had descended into a chaotic melee, the legions still held the advantage. Without apt warning or time to muster, the tribesmen sprung from their beds, weapon in hand – only to enter a maelstrom of violence. Even for these hardened northerners, the shock of facing an enemy literally on their doorstep sent a ripple of fear through their numbers. In the rush to defend themselves, the dreaded fighting strength of the Evastii was found to be greatly lacking. Many were completely unprepared; missing armour and proper clothing, they were quickly cut down once their adrenalin wore off and found their muscles to be freezing. If the cold did not claim them soon after, Arcemite steel did.

  Tribune Bantius stood amidst the wreckage and collapsed tents of the barbarian camp and used a nearby corpse to wipe the blood from his blade. He sported several minor cuts and the fur pelts on his armour were stained with blood and ash, but he did not care. He felt alive. Leading from the front with all the glory, Bantius envisioned himself a true aristocrat, epic like Romanus of old.

  The tribune found a thrill in commanding a battle that truly surpassed anything he had previously experienced. Even the great hunts on his family estate on which he had once prided himself seemed hollow in comparison. Of course when he thought about it this was not that different – the barbarians were closer to beasts than human after all.

  Bantius turned his attention from the fighting before him and looked across to where the Evastii camp lay in flames, watching the fiery glow carry across the horizon. In the distance he could hear the thunder of firearms. Somewhere to the north, Corvinus and his cohorts of the second spearhead would be battling through similar conditions towards the Evastii king.

  ‘Well played Corvinus,’ he whispered to himself.

  Gazing into the heat of the blaze, Bantius could feel the promise of victory at hand. He licked his lips, already embracing the thought of the promotions to come. House Furii would be proud indeed when he returned to Monarx, particularly if he was the one to bring the Senate the head of the troublesome Evastii king.

  Spurred on by glory, Bantius paced back to rejoin his cohorts in the fray.

  ‘Centurion, to me,’ he called. From the ranks of nearby legionaries a centurion emerged, splattered in gore. The man’s plumed helmet was battered and like the tribune, he was bleeding from several minor wounds. Despite the commotion of the battle’s front lines mere paces away, the centurion did not fail to salute.

  ‘Ye
s Tribune,’ said the centurion.

  ‘Rotate the front line again and let us push on towards the camp centre. Make for the king’s tent with all speed. I want the heart of these barbarians ripped out,’ said Bantius.

  ‘Sir,’ said the centurion, saluting again before turning towards the fighting. From a cord hung around his neck, the man raised a small whistle to his lips. A high-pitched screech sounded through the melee, signalling the rotation. Bantius watched as the front ranks of the Arcemite lines stepped back while those waiting behind moved forward to take their place. Panting and tired from the intense fighting, the men rotated to the back of the formation would have time to recover. It was a well-practiced manoeuvre that required a discipline only found in the Arcemite legions and was just another advantage they held over their enemies. Whereas other nations would send out their warriors in the frontline to fight until they tire and eventually succumb to an enemy blade, Arcem was able to constantly field relatively fresh troops in its line despite a battle raging for hours.

  Not far from his position, Bantius could see the large pavilion that could only be the Evastii king’s tent. Victory was near.

  Across the melee, Bantius sighted a tall tribesman shouting commands to the warriors around, trying to instil some order to the chaos. Bantius drew his pistol, levelling it at the chieftain. The gun kicked sharply against his grip as it fired. As he waved clear the smoke from its discharge Bantius smiled to see the barbarian was no longer standing.

  ‘No mercy,’ he said to the cheer of the legionaries around him, as he led a renewed charge against the inner defences of the Evastii camp.

  ***

  Warlord Voratrix marched behind his vanguard as they made haste for their king. Struggling against them, warriors from other clans tried to escape. They came out of the smoke, running in any direction away from the flames and the sounds of battle. Fear was in all of their eyes. In the narrow alleyways of the camp, the press of bodies made their journey like swimming against the current. Voratrix watched his clan’s march slow to a halt, cursing the obstruction of their path.