The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘Break through these cowards,’ he yelled over the panic.

  At the head of the vanguard Ursus – Voratrix’s personal champion – stepped forward. Standing taller than any man of his clan, the warrior towered above them. Strapped to his back, Ursus had the honour of carrying Voratrix’s personal banner, its height lending him all the more dominance. Fashioned into the snarl of a wild boar, the man’s helmet and thickset armour – scarred from a lifetime of war – made a fearsome sight to behold. More than a few of the runaways paused in their flight before the champion.

  ‘Stand aside traitors!’ Ursus bellowed, raising his battle axe high with two hands.

  Had such a challenge been given in any other circumstances, those present would have quivered in obedience. But the chaos had taken root in them and in the height of the panic that night, intimidation was not the answer to their fear. All around them the flames drew closer, leaping from tent to tent, scorching everything in their path. The intense heat singed the motley gathering of tribesmen, assailing them with increasing ferocity at every gust of wind. As the crackling roar of the flames grew louder it rekindled the fear of those fleeing. Those closest to the burning sides of the laneways pushed from the back, pressing their clansmen forward. As one, the tide of frightened men rushed against the vanguard in a panicked stampede, redoubling their urgency.

  ‘Kill them all!’ shouted Voratrix, cursing the cowards of these lesser clans. He did not have time for this.

  The broad steel axe head descended from his champion and cleaved one of the first deserters open from neck to groin. But the dead man did not have time to fall as the desperate momentum of the crowd carried him on for several steps, such was their hurry to escape.

  Ursus barely managed to dislodge his axe from the man’s shredded corpse before he was pushed back into the ranks of the vanguard.

  Voratrix was pleased to see his warriors did not yield against the onrush. Cool-headed, they instinctively locked their shields together and formed a wall against which the oncoming surge crashed.

  From amidst the ranks they began to chant.

  Like all Evastii war chants, it started slow. Shouted from amidst the front line, Ursus led the tune. Muffled by his helmet, there were no words to be understood. There was only the pounding of its rhythm as it grew in tempo and ferocity. The men of the vanguard rallied around their battle mantra, adding their own voices to the chant and stamping their feet to its beat as they advanced.

  As one they pressed forward. They ploughed through the human tide that retreated against them, their swords hacking and shields bashing all the way down the passageway.

  Around them the fires spread, adding to the frenzy. Those that were not cut down by the advancing shield wall were battered to the sides of the laneways and pushed into the flames of their burning tents. Voratrix paid their agonised screams no heed. They were cowards and not of his clan, as such they did not deserve his concern or even the right to be counted among the Evastii.

  We must hurry, he thought. The legions would be on the king’s doorstep and he could not allow them to take Ariogaisus. He needed the king to live through that night so that Voratrix could kill the old man himself when the time came.

  ‘Double pace,’ he said, stepping over the broken remains of the deserters. ‘Our king is in peril and I did not come to Arcem to be defeated. Forward, to battle!’

  ***

  First Centurion Valko back-stepped away from an Evastii long-sword, narrowly missing the edge of its blade. Before the tribesman could turn the heavy blade back for another swing, the First Centurion had stuck him with a quick thrust from his own gladius in a perfect lunge that pierced the man’s heart. Valko would have been proud of the move had he been able to remember it. As it was, the battle had descended into a blur of violence. Everything was reflex. His life had been reduced to a series of fierce struggles, each only lasting a few seconds. There was no time for thought.

  Valko pulled on his gladius, struggling to free the wedged blade from the tribesman’s breastplate. Gripping the hilt with two hands, Valko yanked hard. With an awful shriek of metal sliding against bone, the blade came free. Not that the First Centurion had time to notice it. As soon as the barbarian had fallen, another foe stepped up to take his place.

  In that fraction of a second, Valko glimpsed the spiked head of a war-hammer descending upon him in a wide swing. Helmet or not, it would shatter his skull if it connected. Instinctively the First Centurion went to raise his left arm and catch the blow on his shield, but he did not have one. General Corvinus had deemed the large rectangular legion shields too bulky for the climb.

  Improvising, Valko barely managed to bring up his gladius to defend himself. It was a terrible parry and failed to slow the hammer’s arc even slightly. The spiked head was however deflected away from the First Centurion’s helmet and onto his left pauldron. It struck with bone jarring power, cracking the armoured plates and shoulder beneath.

  A torrent of pain rolled through Valko’s body as the force of the strike sent him reeling to the ground.

  Valko looked up and had the first proper glance of his Evastii opponent. An armoured giant stood over him, the man’s bronze armour was studded with metal thorns and two devil horns protruded from the top of his helmet. On his back the tribesman carried a banner with a crowned skull emblem upon it. From his belt several polished skulls hung on chains as grizzly trophies, rattling as he walked. This foe was a warlord, Valko had no doubt.

  The barbarian stood above him, ready to add another skull to his collection. He raised his brutal hammer high to deliver the kill. Valko could see the eyes behind the man’s helmet leering down on his prey.

  As the war-hammer descended, Valko pushed away hard and rolled. He screamed, feeling the shattered bones of his shoulder grind at the movement. The hammer struck into the cold earth where Valko had lain just a second before. Its savage wielder roared beneath his helmet as the weapon stuck in the frozen ground.

  Valko looked up, his handgun raised. Returning his own shouted war cry, the First Centurion squeezed the gun’s triggers. The pistol barked twice as its two barrels fired in quick succession. The first shot struck the armoured helm of the war chief and was shrugged off in a bright spray of sparks. The second shot found its mark and pierced the gap between the helmet and breastplate.

  The Evastii brute crumpled to the ground with a low gurgling moan. The sound was quickly silenced as Valko found his sword and delivered the final blow.

  Struggling to his knees, Valko took a second to assess his surroundings. They were just before the inner barricades around the Evastii king’s tent and the fighting was the hardest yet that night. Around him the veterans of First Cohort were battling against the enemy’s desperate final stand. Some of the legionaries were trying to push the tribesmen back against the inner palisade and form a defensive ring around their fallen commander. For the brief moment of respite, Valko was thankful.

  ‘Having a little rest are we First Centurion?’ said a familiar voice. Valko looked up to see General Corvinus smiling down at him. His face was caked in ash and blood and his grand armour was similarly torn and dented. The young general looked nothing like the noble hero the stories would remember.

  Corvinus offered out his hand and Valko grabbed it, steadying himself to stand. His breath came in short gasps and his mind was throbbing. Valko nodded his thanks, too pained to speak.

  Spears and arrows rained down around them from behind the inner barricade but the young general stood completely untroubled by the chaos.

  ‘Are you fit to continue my friend?’ asked Corvinus, ‘I ask just one final push to break them. Tribune Bantius and his cohorts cannot be far.’

  Breathing deeply, Valko straightened.

  As the First Centurion lifted his whistle to his mouth and blew a short double note, those nearby gathered for another charge. Normally the legions of Arcem would assault such an obstacle with a disciplined wedge of overlapping shields; tonight however the
Third Legion would have to attack the enemy line head on and exposed.

  Valko noted some legionaries carrying the tribal shields of the Evastii, scavenged from the dead – a transgression he understandably overlooked.

  Smiling, Corvinus patted him on the back before making his way to the front of the formation. Raising the legion banner high the young general formed the tip of the spearhead.

  ‘To victory!’ Corvinus shouted, pointing his sword at the king’s tent over the palisade. Rallying behind their general’s war cry, the weary cohorts of Arcem crashed against the inner barricades.

  ***

  On the other side of his king’s pavilion, warlord Voratrix emerged from the inferno to witness his king’s peril. The legions had breached the inner defences and were doggedly making their way up the foothill to the king’s great tent, which was already dotted with flames.

  Voratrix instantly noticed there was something different to Arcem’s legions. They were not fighting in their traditional lines behind their shields and their usually gleaming armour was stained black and draped behind dark cloaks.

  Either way, they will die beneath my boot, thought Voratrix. Around him his warriors were forming up into battle lines, eager to enter the fray.

  Looking on through the smoke, something caught the warlord’s attention. Leading the charge up towards the king’s tent, he sighted the legion’s banner. Fluttering amidst the carnage, the emblazoned raven seemed to bulge within its depiction as its young carrier killed his way up the mound.

  The Arcemite seemed very young to be giving orders to those around him, Voratrix thought. A curious foe indeed, what should a warlord have to fear of this man? Voratrix glanced back at his own banner, and then to its bearer.

  ‘Ursus,’ he called.

  ‘My lord,’ said the champion, giving a slight bow which his heavy suit of armour just allowed. Ursus was a bear of a man and the weight of his armour alone could crush a person.

  ‘Bring me that banner’ said Voratrix pointing, ‘with the head of its bearer.’

  ‘Your will be done,’ said Ursus, his voice muffled by his helmet. Hefting his battle axe, the champion paced off in the direction of the young Arcemite.

  Voratrix looked to either side, making sure his warriors were ready. They were. Voratrix smiled at the triumph of his clan’s martial fortitude. He raised a clenched fist and bellowed the command.

  ‘Forward!’

  ***

  At the foothill of the Evastii king’s tent, Corvinus fought in the thickest of the storm. From his slight elevation of the inner defences, he could finally see Tribune Bantius and his cohorts on the other side. Morale had soared at the sight and the two columns had renewed their efforts to unite again.

  Having both successfully breached the camp defences, the two spearheads had the Evastii king trapped as planned. Corvinus’ opinion of the tribune immediately improved. Perhaps he can be trusted to command after all, he thought.

  Though completely surrounded and dwindling in number with every passing minute, the enemy resistance was far from thinning. The fighting was just as unrelenting as before, with the veterans of the king’s honour guard taking to the field. Carrying fearsome weapons of unique design, these great brutes of black iron armour devastated the Arcemite advance with their long-swords and battle axes. Every step towards the king’s sanctum required tremendous struggle and displays of courage from the exhausted legionaries. But despite the frantic efforts of the barbarian champions, they could not deny the two pincers of the Third Legion from uniting.

  In the midst of the carnage and gunfire, beneath the blazing roof of the king’s pavilion, Corvinus and Bantius met for the first time in hours. Both were filthy, panting and splattered in blood. Corvinus smirked at the aristocrat’s very unusual appearance, knowing that he must look just as ragged.

  Corvinus ran the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the sweat, only then realising that his helmet was missing. He could not recall how that had come to be. The night had been too frenzied to remember any specifics.

  ‘Well met, Tribune,’ said the young general to his second.

  ‘We have the bastards,’ replied Bantius with a mad smile.

  Corvinus grinned widely, sharing the tribune’s infectious temperament. It was true. Looking back to the melee raging mere paces in front of them, the Evastii king was in sight.

  Cornered against the tent wall, surrounded by the last few remaining champions, a figure clad in ornate silver and gold plate stood in desperate rage. The man’s armour was too magnificent for anyone but a king and the way the champions in black circled around him left no doubt of his identity.

  Corvinus was quite shocked to see how old Ariogaisus actually was. With long grey hair and gaunt cheeks, it was a wonder how he had stayed in power so long among such a ruthless people. But what struck Corvinus most were the king’s eyes. Behind his fury-contorted face and shouted commands was a pair of eyes that betrayed his sense of sheer defeat and disbelief.

  All around the Evastii king, legionaries from the two spearheads closed in, ready to claim their prize. Half a dozen of the king’s champions remained. The blades of their weapons were all that separated their liege from the mass of legionaries slowly filling the room.

  Outside the din of battle rose suddenly, as if starting afresh and new chanting could be heard, drawing the curious attention of all those inside.

  Before Corvinus or Bantius could move forward and claim their kill, one of the king’s guard heaved his blade with a loud roar and sliced a large gash into the tent wall beside them. The warrior then grabbed his master and pushed him to escape.

  ‘Do not let him get away!’ Corvinus shouted. Several surrounding legionaries immediately charged but were cut down as the king’s champions stood their ground.

  Ariogaisus bent towards the makeshift exit. Looking back, he held one last hateful glare at Corvinus before stepping through the hole and escaping into the night with two of his guards.

  In an act of self-sacrifice, the remaining champions fought to the last, covering the retreat of their king. They died fearlessly against the encircling legionaries and brought many Arcemites down with them before finally succumbing. Their lives had bought their master the precious moments needed to escape.

  ‘After him!’ yelled Corvinus to the dozen remaining legionnaires that stood panting amid the corpses of friend and foe alike.

  Exhausted and nearing the end of their endurance, the legionaries gave chase. One by one, they followed through the hole with their infuriated general close behind.

  Outside the situation had changed radically from when Corvinus first fought his way into the king’s tent. Around him, the Third Legion were now defending the inner barricades they had just fought to take against another clan that had arrived to defend their king. Green and gold banners with a wild boar emblem fluttered in the breeze above their ranks.

  Corvinus cursed as he watched their battleline enclose around Ariogaisus and his two surviving champions. He quickly lost sight of the Evastii king amid the ranks of this new force. Corvinus knew there would be no catching him now.

  ***

  ‘Voratrix!’ King Ariogaisus raged, pushing through the lines of clansmen to find him. Voratrix stepped forward before his king, fully conscious of his failure to bow.

  ‘Voratrix you are late,’ said the King, ‘Taurson and the other warlords are dead, slain in battle, while you are yet to be blooded. Where were you?!’

  ‘My king, we came with all haste,’ spat Voratrix, knowing it was the truth.

  Ariogaisus paid no attention to the response.

  ‘Fetch me a horse,’ he said, pushing past his warlord. ‘You will answer for this betrayal back in Caldinium.’

  Voratrix stood in silence. Next to him, one of his thralls carrying his greatsword leaned in close, discretely offering him its hilt. Voratrix considered the blade for a moment. The intention was clear and very tempting. At that moment he wanted nothing more than to unsh
eathe its fearsome length and run it through his king’s back.

  He waved the servant away. There were still rules to be followed when making a challenge and he would not promote himself by such a dishonourable strike. If he was to become king one day, Voratrix would do so properly, in a duel for all the other warlords to see.

  Instead of a blade, horses were brought from the rearguard. Ariogaisus and his two remaining champions mounted without delay. Looking disdainfully at the standing warlord they rode off without any further word.

  Galloping at speed across the smouldering remains of his once great camp, the Evastii king disappeared into the fog like all the others who had fled before him that night.

  Cowards, Voratrix thought.

  ***

  The legionnaires who had charged after the Evastii king skidded to a halt as they came before the battleline of this new enemy clan. Their pursuit cut short, the cohorts of the Third Legion formed up in ragged lines, waiting for the inevitable charge.

  Corvinus made his way through the ranks to the front. Looking at the tired and bleeding faces of his men, he knew it was over. They had fought valiantly, but the enemy were too many. They had pushed to their limits and triumphed, but facing the threat of this newly arrived clan was a step too far. We were close, he smiled. By the gods we were so close.

  Remembering his promise, Corvinus stepped in front of the ranks of legionaries. He still carried the legion standard in his grip, its fabric stained and torn from the fighting. With the Corvus banner above them, he would lead them to their fate.

  The enemy battleline drew near and its war chant began to peak. Corvinus tightened his grip on his gladius, bracing himself for the charge.

  It did not come.

  The shields of the enemy line opened and an Evastii tribesman – massive even by their standards – emerged before him.