The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  Corvinus watched the earth pound beneath the champion’s armoured boots and misted breath trail from the vents of his full-face helmet. Metal tusks protruded from its bestial snarl and fixed to the warrior’s back was the wild boar banner of his clan. Brandishing a double-headed battle axe in one hand, the champion paced straight for him.

  The legionaries beside the young general backed away as this fearsome opponent approached. There was no question as to who the warrior’s target was. Corvinus remained still.

  ‘Gods protect me,’ he whispered.

  In his other hand, the Evastii champion held a monstrously oversized pistol and levelled it at Corvinus.

  The shot rang out across the night like thunder as the gun fired and struck Corvinus beneath his right shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer. In an explosion of sparks and blood, he crashed to the icy ground. The legion banner fell from his grip and landed beside him in the dirt.

  The tribesmen watching cheered wildly for their champion, but their shouts were cut short when the fallen general began to stir.

  Amidst the gasps of those around him, Corvinus pushed himself up, cursing as pain flooded his mind. Panting heavily, he slowly recovered to his knees. His shaking hands searched the snows around him, finding the grip of the legion banner nearby. Clutching tightly, Corvinus used it to pull himself back up to his full height.

  Opposite him, the Evastii champion roared a feral challenge, not expecting his foe’s armour to hold against such a shot.

  In truth Corvinus’ armour had not protected him. The plates beneath his right pauldron were a mess of shredded steel where the bullet had penetrated. It had been the alien alloy of the Spolia Opima grafted into the flesh beneath that had somehow stopped the shot. Like a hundred shards of ice coursing through his blood, Corvinus felt its tiny silver veins thread the wound closed. Though the arcane power of the Spolia Opima quickly stopped the bleeding, the process was almost as painful as the bullet.

  Sensing his vision blur and grow dim, Corvinus desperately fought to stay conscious. The damage wrought already neared lethal, but the drain of whatever the Spolia Opima was doing inside his body threatened to push him over into darkness.

  Clutching to the memories of his legion training, Corvinus held onto the pain, mastering it with self-discipline and duty. I cannot fail, he told himself, I cannot fall. Refusing to let his mind surrender to the weakness of his body, he steadied himself and returned his focus to the fight at hand. Like a man possessed, his eyes burned for vengeance.

  With a grunt, Corvinus rallied his strength and tightened the hold on his gladius. ‘For Arcem!’ he shouted, venting the pain as he charged at the blurred silhouette of his enemy.

  Across the field the Evastii champion discarded his pistol, throwing it to the ground in anger. Gripping the haft of his axe with two hands, the warrior went to meet the challenge.

  Before the two battlelines, the duel began for the spectacle of all those around.

  With a rush of adrenalin, Corvinus suddenly felt fresh energy surge in his veins as the distance between them closed.

  Just as they were about to clash, he struck out with the spiked point of the legion banner, aimed at the champion’s head. The tribesman predicted the move and turning his grip, easily deflected the strike on the flat face of his axe.

  As the momentum of the block turned the warrior slightly side-on, Corvinus was then quick to slash his gladius at the Evastii champion’s exposed underarm. The movement was excruciating. Corvinus gasped, feeling his wound tear anew.

  The tribesman was quick to close the target and lowered his elbow in time to catch the blow. The blade struck with a dull clang as the heavy armour plate held firm. The enemy champion grunted loudly before backhanding Corvinus with his steel gauntlet, sending him reeling.

  The Evastii warrior moved with a speed that deceived his size as he brought his axe around in a sidewards swipe, aimed to carve the young general in two.

  Corvinus knew he could not parry such a weapon with his gladius. In the split second before it struck he dropped low, feeling the breeze of the axe as it sliced the air above his head.

  Corvinus hit the ground and rolled, his body moving with an instinct that was not from his legion training. Scrambling beneath the barbarian’s defence, Corvinus ran his gladius across the warrior’s calves. The blade sliced through the armour and into the flesh beneath as the Evastii champion howled in pain.

  The tribesmen brought his axe up preparing for a downwards thrust towards the young general at his feet, but before the blow could land, Corvinus braced his footing and shoulder-barged the warrior’s midriff. Unbalanced by his heavy armour, the champion’s unsteady legs gave out and sent him falling.

  The Evastii warrior landed hard, snapping his clan’s banner pole on impact.

  Corvinus staggered towards the fallen Evastii and kicked a heavy boot into the warrior’s helmeted head to keep him down. With a mighty cry, he raised the Corvus banner in triumph, before ramming its spiked butt through the fallen champion’s breastplate.

  The standard fluttered in the wind, to the deafening cheers of the Third Legion.

  The moment of victory was cut short by the blaring of Evastii horns. The enemy battlelines suddenly renewed their advance, chanting their hateful war cry.

  Corvinus quickly withdrew the banner as the Evastii lines marched closer. Wheezing violently, he stumbled back to his own ranks and collapsed. Legionaries rallied to protect their fallen general and braced themselves for the enemy.

  As the barbarian line crossed the halfway distance, something halted them. An Evastii voice called out across the field in its barbaric language. Despite the hatred evident on their faces, the Evastii tribesmen yielded to whatever order had been given. To the shock of the Arcemites, the enemy suddenly began to withdraw.

  ***

  Warlord Voratrix cast his gaze across the field to the Arcemite champion who had shamed him. Tall and slender, with the common short brown hair of his people and red-eyed from the smoke, the man was burnt into Voratrix’s memory.

  When Voratrix saw the Arcemite standing over his defeated champion, clutching the banner of a dark raven, the force of Driskoll’s prophecy struck home. This victor had already scattered his king’s army and defeated Voratrix’s best fighter. He would not break the remaining warriors of his clan just to prove the omen completely, nor would he waste them fighting for a king who had already fled.

  As much as he dreaded it, Voratrix ordered his clan to halt.

  For the first time in his life, the warlord did not know what to do next. The invasion was over, he knew. There was no point in the fight now. The great Evastii army was scattered and would flee north. Voratrix could not order his clan to return to the safety of their homelands like the rest of the tribe. Ariogaisus would see him butchered if he went near Caldinium and anywhere else would surely see the legions in pursuit.

  Voratrix cursed his enemies to the darkest hells of Khronus, and casting one last hateful glimpse at Arcem’s champion, ordered the withdrawal east.

  ***

  Tribune Bantius made his way through the ranks to where Corvinus lay wounded in the snow. The enthusiasm he felt watching the young general’s duel animated his step. Though he still had reserved feelings about the man, he could not deny he had looked on with an unexpected degree of admiration. After the many hours of fighting that night, Corvinus must have been as exhausted as the rest of the legion, but still he had met the Evastii champion bravely and proved Arcem’s superiority over the barbarian.

  Bantius wondered whether he himself could have done such a thing. The young general had audacity, he had to give him that much. In the final moment of victory, when the young general had raised the legion banner in triumph, Bantius had found himself shouting his lungs hoarse with the rest of the legion. The cheer had been infectious and he got caught up in the moment. Bantius cursed himself for that brief moment of unrestraint in his otherwise refined example. As a respected aristocrat and mil
itary tribune it was his nature and duty to be above the common ranks. He should have known better.

  ‘General, sir,’ said Bantius, marching past the ranks of legionaries around the young general. ‘The enemy is withdrawing. Shall we give chase?’

  ‘No,’ sighed Corvinus, as he slowly sat up to see for himself the retreating Evastii as they disappeared into the mist. ‘We have already won a great victory. It has been a long night. Fate has smiled upon us this night and I will not be greedy with her. The enemy has scattered to the winds, let the mountains break those who remain.’

  Bantius nodded, wanting to push the point further, but conceded to reality.

  ‘I wonder why they stopped their attack,’ said First Centurion Valko nearby. ‘Unlike their fellow tribesmen that last clan had obviously taken the time to arm for battle. They were disciplined and eager to finish us. Why didn’t they charge?’

  ‘Who knows what the barbarian thinks,’ said Bantius. ‘The brutes are densely superstitious from what I hear, particularly when it comes to single combat.’

  ‘But they were fresh to the field and clearly had the advantage of numbers. They could have butchered us if they wanted,’ said Valko.

  With the aid of a nearby legionnaire, Corvinus stood up.

  ‘Numbers alone convey no victory, First Centurion,’ he said weakly, ‘our actions tonight have proved that much already.’

  Valko smiled, clearly pleased at their achievement.

  ‘Well it is a pity their king managed to escape again,’ said Bantius, looking across the plateau. ‘It will only be a matter of time until he tries to invade again.’

  ‘Then tomorrow we shall hunt down Ariogaisus and ensure he never has that opportunity. We shall chase him all the way back to Caldinium if we have to and bring the wrath of Arcem to him,’ said Corvinus. ‘But tomorrow – today we have earned a rest. Send a runner to Prefect Castus and have him prepare hot meals and good wine for our return.’

  Bantius sighed, looking out across the smouldering ruins of the Evastii campsite. Plumes of smoke still trailed from small fires and all around the bodies of the slain littered the frozen ground.

  On the bloody battleground before the inner palisade, the tribune noticed that someone else had been lucky enough to escape that night. Among the broken corpses, the massive armoured form of the fallen Evastii champion was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing where his body should have been. The snow still showed the indentation of where the man’s bulk had fallen. But there was another groove; a bloodied trail led off into the distance where his kinsmen had seemingly dragged their fallen champion away.

  As the young general finally begin to catch his breath, the full reality of their victory began to dawn on them all.

  Filled with pride, Bantius watched the battered Corvinus walk on shaky legs up the mound where the burnt remains of Ariogaisus’ tent overlooked the plateau. There the young general rammed the Corvus banner into the cold earth for all to see.

  Watching on, the exhausted men of the Third Legion cheered once more. All around, they laughed and shouted. The sound of their celebrations carried out across the Gaur Mons as dawn pierced the horizon.

  VII

  ‘Crush your foes utterly so you need not fight again.'

  First Centurion Victor Kaeso, Fourth Legion.

  Beneath the shadow of his legion’s bronze-fist standard, General Rufus Horatius studied the scene before him with a bitter gaze. He stood in full battle plate, steadfast in the face of the strong mountain breeze that blew against him. Pinned to his shoulders, the general’s long crimson cloak snapped and fluttered behind him in the wind. Around Horatius the members of his legion staff regarded their surroundings with similarly reserved expressions.

  ‘Salve General,’ said Corvinus, raising his hand in greeting, consciously trying to conceal the pain of his injuries. ‘On behalf of my father as Consul, I welcome you to the field. We are honoured to have our illustrious brothers of the Tenth Legion join us against the enemies of Arcem.’

  Horatius grunted at this.

  Corvinus had heard it said that Horatius was a cold man, an unyielding if not heartless commander. But he had not expected the general to be so blatantly rude. In the spirit of unity though, Corvinus decided to ignore the man’s disinterest.

  ‘Let me introduce my military staff,’ Corvinus continued, ‘this is Tribune Bantius, Third Legion. Tribune Fulvio, Fourth Legion. First Centurion-’

  ‘Explain this,’ Horatius interrupted in a voice gruff from a lifetime of shouting orders in battle.

  Corvinus followed the man’s gaze to the buzz of activity behind them, where his legions were busy disposing of the dead in the aftermath of the night’s battle. All along the slopes of the mountain, massive funeral pyres burned, sending black trails of smoke up into the clear morning sky.

  ‘As of last night, the Evastii threat has been shattered,’ said Corvinus proudly. ‘What you see now are twenty thousand dead tribesmen – the result of a raid I led during the midnight hours.’

  ‘Twenty thousand?’ said a soldier from Horatius’ retinue with a thick foreign accent. Judging by the gold medals affixed to the man’s heavy armour plates, he was a First Centurion.

  ‘Be quiet Germanus,’ growled Horatius. The First Centurion bowed his head in obedience. ‘Ignore my man, he knows not when to hold his tongue.’

  ‘That is quite unnecessary,’ said Corvinus, unsure of how to respond. Next to him, Corvinus saw First Centurion Valko stiffen with unease at the general’s conduct. Tribunes Fulvio and Bantius however were unmoved and watched on in silence.

  ‘Twenty thousand?’ repeated Horatius, looking up at the pyres.

  ‘That is the initial count,’ said Corvinus, smiling, ‘the prefects are still going over the final tally but it is safe to say Arcem has won a great victory here.’

  ‘Tribune Fulvio,’ said General Horatius, disregarding Corvinus, ‘your name is known to me, tell me what has occurred here.’

  Fulvio glanced at Corvinus and paused before answering, clearly still resentful towards the whole situation.

  ‘It is as General Corvinus says,’ said the tribune bitterly, forcing the words out. ‘The enemy has been routed and though I have yet to speak with the Camp Prefect, the initial reports put their fallen at approximately twenty thousand men.’

  Horatius ran a hand through his short trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair and nodded, finally accepting this information.

  ‘I am surprised Tribune that it was not you that led the assault. I was under the impression command of the consul’s legion would fall to someone of your seniority.’

  Fulvio kept very quiet at this.

  ‘Very well, the enemy has been scattered,’ said Horatius. ‘What of their king? Where is the old wolf, Ariogaisus?’

  ‘Regretfully he managed to flee in the heat of the battle,’ said Corvinus.

  ‘Flee? How could you let the Evastii king escape?’

  ‘Ariogaisus sacrificed his entire honour guard in order to flee my legion,’ said Corvinus, annoyed. ‘I think you fail to appreciate just how hard the fighting was last night. Thirty thousand tribesmen were camped on the Gaur Mons-’

  ‘Which means the Evastii king still roams free in Arcem with over a third of his grand army, a force still large enough to lay waste to our northern settlements,’ said Horatius. ‘So tell me young general, exactly how it is you can claim a victory? The enemy may be severely shaken perhaps, but they are not defeated.’

  ‘Then what would you have us do?’ asked Corvinus.

  ‘End this,’ said Horatius. ‘Give chase to the Evastii and kill Ariogaisus.’

  ***

  Xaphia hissed softly beneath her mask as she ran the curved blade of her sword across her forearm, making a neat slice into her pale grey skin. She waited a moment, watching the thick black blood slowly ooze to the surface before moving on to find space for another cut. They were little bigger than an inch in length but already both her wrists and her entire left arm
were covered by her tally of scars. Some were recent, some ancient. Each of them held a memory. Xaphia smiled behind her bronze mask.

  On the floor in front of her, three Evastii helmets were laid out. Two of them had belonged to the tribe’s officer class, their bulky forms fashioned into snarling beasts with horns. Xaphia liked to keep them to remember how easy their owners had been to slay, despite all their rank and confidence. The third however was a simple bronze-bowl helmet, battered and lacking any embellishment other than a small spike at its top. It was the second-rate armour supplied to the common ranks of an army. Surprisingly its owner had been the only challenge to Xaphia last night. Not that he had actually posed much of a threat. The Evastii warrior still died without ever drawing his sword. Like the others, he had been on guard, watching the mountain slopes. But he had been the only one lucky enough – or sober enough – to realise something was not right. The tribesman’s realisation had been short lived as no sooner had he drawn breath to shout out the alarm, Xaphia had sliced open his throat.

  That had been a delicious kill. Danger had been so close and the utter fear she saw in the man’s eyes was exquisite.

  The others had died so quickly. They had fallen before they even knew they were struck. Xaphia had not even had the time to appreciate the kills as she had moved to slay the other sentries standing with them. But that last one, he had been perfect: alone, scared and surrounded by his dead comrades. Xaphia licked her lips at the memory. She should hunt more often, she decided.

  Xaphia raised her blade to a fresh patch of skin on her arm. Three kills, three marks. Of course she had killed many more last night, but they were not worth remembering.

  As she pressed the cutting edge into her skin, Xaphia sensed someone approaching the tent. She quickly sheathed her blade and covered her pale arms. She paused to listen more closely. Though dampened by her mask, her ears could still identify the unique weight and length between each footfall. Corvinus, she thought.

  Several seconds later the young general swept back the folds of the tent and entered. He did not look pleased.