Stiger ran everything through his mind again. He, with half of the company, would attack from one side of the camp, while Tiro, with the other half, would hit from the opposite side. They would meet somewhere in the middle. Two fire parties would strike as both assault forces pushed forward. With luck, Stiger hoped it would create a general panic as both prongs went in. Amidst the chaos, Stiger’s picked men would make away with the enemy’s mule train. Should things go poorly, both he and Tiro would break off the attack.
It was so simple, and yet Stiger knew that even the best of plans could go awry. Had he missed anything? He couldn’t see that he had.
Everything hinged on catching the enemy by surprise.
Then he heard a loud, discordant sound. It took Stiger a moment to realize it was snoring, coming from the tents ahead. Stiger and his assault force were less than ten feet from the nearest tent. They were so close that, even if someone sounded the alarm, it would be too late for the enemy.
Stiger said a quick prayer to the High Father, asking for the assault to be successful. Before he could finish, fire sprouted from a tent to his left, leaping up into the air with a suddenness that was shocking. Another tent to the right flared into brilliance, weatherproofing oil burning furiously. A third blazed, flames leaping hungrily up into the air, then a fourth, before the screams and cries of alarm began. Men, dressed only in their gray service tunics, began pouring out of the communal tents.
“Chaaarge!” Stiger shouted and broke into a run. The assault force behind him gave a great shout, and the sound of pounding feet followed as he ran the last few feet into the camp.
Stiger felt the intense heat of a burning tent as it flashed by, then he was amongst the confused enemy spilling forth from another tent that was nearly fully engulfed. Stiger bashed his shield into a startled man, his momentum knocking the man back and into the burning tent, which collapsed over him. Stiger jabbed outward, stabbing at another who, unarmed, had turned to run. Stiger felt his blade punch deeply into the lower back, sword grating against bone. Screaming, the man fell forward to the ground and off the blade. Stiger stabbed downward, striking his enemy in the back of the neck, ensuring he would stay down.
A fraction of a second later, legionaries were rushing by, mercilessly stabbing and jabbing at the confused enemy. Stiger straightened back up and looked around. It was pure chaos. Tents were burning; men were screaming, yelling, calling out oaths. The sweet, sickly smell of blood was on the air, mingling with smoke and the stench of an open latrine.
The man Stiger had bashed into the burning tent pulled himself to his feet, his tunic ablaze. Horrified, Stiger watched as he ran screaming into the darkness and out into the field, leaving a trail of burning wheat in his wake.
A massed shout came from the far side of the camp as the other half of the assault went in. The clash of sword on sword dragged Stiger’s attention to his left. A small group of men had emerged from a tent that had escaped the fire. Though not armored, they were armed. These were quickly set upon by Stiger’s legionaries. The group fought desperately. It was an unequal contest, as they were badly outnumbered. Stiger’s men used their shields to deflect as they advanced, steadily pushing the group back deeper into the camp.
Stiger stepped over the body of the man he had killed. The ground was slick with blood, and he almost slipped. Edging around to the side of the group of defenders, Stiger closed with the enemy, shield up.
A legionary to his left jabbed out and caught one of the enemy under an arm. It was a shallow strike, but all it took was two inches from a short sword to mortally wound. The man fell back, clutching his armpit. The legionary pressed forward.
Two more of the enemy joined the determined bunch, taking the wounded man’s position and striking back at the legionary. Stiger saw what he took to be a sergeant standing behind the defenders’ line, calling out orders in Rivan or perhaps even attempting to rally the enemy to him. Stiger did not speak their language but understood that he had to break this group before the enemy’s defense became more organized.
“Push!” Stiger shouted as loud as he could, and the legionaries with him shoved forward.
There was a loud thunk as Stiger’s shield boss was struck a powerful blow. He almost dropped the shield as the pain of the strike was communicated to his arm behind. Stiger’s fingers tingled numbly.
Reaching around his shield, Stiger jabbed forward, his sword sliding into the belly of an enemy soldier, even as his shield was struck again with a solid-sounding thump. It was all he could do to simply hang onto the shield. Yelling incoherently, Stiger bashed his shield forward, throwing his shoulder into it, and felt a solid hit as it connected with a body. Suddenly there was no more resistance, as the man he had hit crashed backwards to the ground. A legionary was on the stunned enemy in a flash, stabbing viciously downward.
“Push!” Stiger shouted. The men with him shoved forward, and under intense pressure, the defenders fell back farther.
Stiger took a step forward, intent upon advancing with his men. He tripped and staggered to a knee, almost falling. Badly off balance, he planted the bottom of his shield in the ground to keep from tumbling forward. By the time he regained his feet, the fight around him was over and the group of defenders broken. The legionaries who had been with him just moments before had pushed forward, leaving their lieutenant behind. Stiger glanced down and saw that he had tripped over a tent’s guide rope.
Chest heaving, Stiger took a moment to stop and check his surroundings. He remembered Tiro’s advice a few weeks before about officers needing to keep their heads. He surveyed the scene around him.
The confused fighting had made its way deeper into the enemy’s camp. Figures struggled in the darkness, broken only by the flickering sentry fire or the blazing of a tent. There were bodies seemingly everywhere, all wearing service tunics of the enemy and without armor. Most were still, but some writhed in agony. It was an astonishing sight. Stiger could see none of his legionaries down.
This wasn’t a battle.
It was a slaughter, pure and simple.
For a moment, Stiger felt sympathy for those who had fallen before the blades of the Seventh. Then he remembered the razed town and the civilians’ bodies out in the field, being feasted over by scavengers. His anger returned, and his heart hardened.
“Sir?”
Stiger turned to see Varus hustling into the firelight. He was securing his helmet one-handed. Stiger read concern in the corporal’s eyes.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I am.”
Stiger turned back toward the action and made his way deeper into the camp. The sounds of the fighting and chaos were steadily dying off, though he could still hear some fighting on the other side of the camp. A number of dark forms were running into the darkness, fleeing before the vengeful legionaries.
Toward the center of the camp, the sound of serious fighting erupted. Stiger quickened his pace. As he neared, he saw around fifteen of the enemy struggling against a greater number of legionaries, with more joining the fray every second. All of the enemy were unarmored. An officer, judging by his fine tunic, was directing the efforts of those who stood firm with him. Fighting alongside his men, the officer cut a brave and fearless figure. For a moment, Stiger admired the man’s courage.
There would be no escape for them, Stiger realized. They were nearly surrounded. Shields to the front, Stiger’s legionaries were pressing tightly in on the defenders. Stiger stood back and watched the action. The enemy’s defense was doomed. With each passing moment, their numbers dwindled as they fell to the unrelenting short swords that jabbed out from behind the protection of the shields. Then, under a flurry of strikes, the officer was brutally cut down.
“Hold,” Stiger shouted as the last of the defenders threw down their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. A legionary caught up in the moment plunged his sword deep into the belly of one attempting to give up. The man gave an agonized scream before falling to the groun
d. The legionary stabbed downward. The scream abruptly cut off.
“Hold.” Stiger shoved the legionary roughly with his shield to get the man’s attention. “I said bloody hold!”
“Sorry, sir,” the man said and stepped back.
“Corporal Varus,” Stiger called. “Varus, where are you?”
“Here, sir.” The corporal had been following.
“Secure those prisoners,” Stiger ordered. There were four still on their feet. “They may have intelligence. And spread word to accept any further surrenders.”
“Yes, sir.” Varus began shouting orders and several legionaries stepped forward, swords held at the ready, closing in on the prisoners. Another sheathed his sword and began gathering up discarded weapons.
Stiger wondered how the fighting on Tiro’s end of the camp was going, where the prisoners from the auxiliary cohort were being held. One of Tiro’s objectives was to free them.
A massed cheer in the direction of the far side of the camp snapped Stiger’s head around. He relaxed. The other prong of the assault had broken the last knot of resistance. A handful of the enemy were running into the darkness, just as fast as they could go. With that, all sounds of resistance ceased.
Stiger looked about him. At least ten tents were burning furiously enough that he could feel their heat from several yards away. The enemy’s camp was in complete shambles, bodies lying everywhere. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The assault from beginning to end had taken less than ten minutes. In the process, thanks to his enemy’s carelessness, he had wrecked an entire company, and with an inferior force. After days of being hotly pursued, it felt good to strike back. A grin snaked its way onto his face.
The enemy’s camp, including the supplies he badly needed, was his.
Chapter Four
“The fire is spreading.” There was a sour note to Tiro’s tone.
“I know.” Stiger rubbed his chin as he watched the fire in the field slowly spread outward, greedily eating away at the golden-brown wheat. The fire heated the cool night air, almost uncomfortably so. Nearly a quarter of the field to the west of the camp was burning.
Stiger mentally berated himself. If he had only killed that man, instead of letting him dash madly out into the wheat . . .
Why had he not finished him?
Stiger knew the answer to that. He had been horrified by what he had done. In a moment of pure shock, he had simply watched as the burning man ran out into the ready-to-harvest wheat.
“It was your idea to use fire,” Tiro said.
Stiger glanced over at the sergeant, deeply unhappy. “I don’t recall any objections on your part. In fact, at the time you seemed to think it was a marvelous idea.”
“With hindsight,” Tiro said heavily, “I wish we hadn’t decided to torch some of the tents.”
“Retrospection is a bitch,” Stiger said and turned back to his company. The men were hastily loading the mules with whatever supplies they could lay their hands on. They had formed several orderly lines and were handing food bags from one man to the next and up to the mules. There was an urgency to their work that spoke of the growing danger of being caught amidst the growing blaze.
“Sir,” Varus called, waving a hand to gain Stiger’s attention. The corporal was standing in front of a large tent. “You may want to see this.”
Curious, Stiger moved to join Varus. Tiro followed. The enemy camp was in shambles, with smoldering and collapsed tents breaking up the neatly ordered lines. Discarded equipment and debris lay everywhere amidst the bodies.
“What is it?”
“A map, sir,” Varus said and ducked into the tent. Stiger bent down and followed, with Tiro on his heels.
The tent clearly belonged to the Rivan captain. It smelled a little musty, but there was also the trace of scented oils on the air. Stiger ran a finger along the fabric of the wall. The tent was made of good material and about a quarter larger than Stiger’s own. An oil lamp hung from the central support pole, shedding its pale yellow light across the interior. A patterned rug covered the ground. Stiger studied it for a moment and judged it inferior to his own. There was no time to bring it with them as a prize, however. Loading of the food was the priority. Stiger worried that they might not even have the time needed to complete that.
He pulled his eyes from the rug and scanned the interior of the tent. There was a camp table, a cot, a small locked chest, and two large trunks. An empty wine bottle lay on the rug next to the cot. He reflected for a moment that the officer who had owned this tent lived not much differently than himself. And yet, the other was now fodder for worms. It was a sobering thought.
Legionary Asus was bent over a map that had been spread out on the camp table. Besides being the standard-bearer, he was one of the few who could read, and as such, Tiro and Varus regularly tapped him for special duties. Stiger stepped up to him as Varus moved aside.
“I found this map, sir,” Asus said proudly and took a slight step back for his officer.
The map was a large one, and clearly a camp scribe copy. It detailed the surrounding terrain for at least a hundred miles around. A series of notes had been made on the map using a charcoal pencil. Stiger could not read the Rivan script, but he could guess at its meaning. He looked over at Asus.
“Good work at finding this.”
“Thank you, sir,” Asus said, puffing up at the compliment. He moved aside so that Tiro could come up next to Stiger.
“This one appears to be Cora’Tol,” Stiger said, pointing at a circled town and fort. He shot Tiro a quick glance and pulled out his own map. Stiger laid it next to the one on the table. “See this road . . . ” Stiger swung his finger over a few inches to the west. “. . . and this river? I think we crossed it two days ago. The one we backtracked along to throw off our pursuers.”
“I think you are right, sir,” Tiro said, leaning over the table to get a better look. The sergeant traced a charcoal line with his finger. The line ended in an arrow point. Several other towns and the outlines of forts were circled along the line’s path. Tiro looked over at Stiger. “Do you think this is their plan of march?”
“I do,” Stiger said, meeting the sergeant’s eyes before turning back to the map. “I wish our map covered the area to the south. It would allow us to match up both and be sure of exactly where we are on the enemy’s map.”
“If this is their line of march . . . ” Tiro traced the line again. “It looks like the enemy is planning to plunge deep into the legion’s rear to strike at our communications. See how it follows this long valley road, paralleling this ridge, before turning west to this north-south road here? I could be wrong, but I believe this may be the one the legion marched north on.” Tiro paused and pointed along the same road where it intersected a river to the west and north of the arrow point. “I think this might be the crossing over the Hana, sir. Third Legion’s encampment would be here, just south of the river. The other three legions pushed north over the river weeks ago, pursuing the Rivan army. There is no telling how far north they’ve gone.”
Stiger felt an icy sensation run down his spine. He sucked in a deep breath as he considered what Tiro had just said.
“Don’t you think that’s a little far for a simple raid?” Stiger looked to Tiro and pointed to the arrow on the enemy’s map. The sergeant followed Stiger’s finger.
“Heavy infantry and cavalry is no simple raid, sir,” Tiro said, then paled and slowly looked over at Stiger. “What if . . .?”
“There are more,” Stiger finished as silence settled inside the tent.
Outside, the commotion of loading the mule train continued unabated. Stiger drummed his fingers on the table. He had no direct evidence other than the map, but it appeared to him that the enemy was perhaps coming in strength, diving far to the southeast, well around the imperial army to the west. If he was correctly judging the map, the Rivan intended to eventually turn west and strike far to the rear. Should they prove successful, they would cut off the legio
ns that were even now pushing northward toward the Rivan capital. It was a brilliant move, one that would see the legions’ supply line severed. Why else send heavy infantry so far from the front? It was the only explanation that made any sense to him.
“This could be the advance party of a more substantial force,” Stiger said.
“You may be right, sir,” Tiro said.
Varus spoke up, moving to the other side of the table. “Which could mean that we are in the path of whatever else is coming down the road intending to push south.”
Stiger glanced up at the corporal and chewed his lip. “How many prisoners did we take?”
“Twelve,” Varus said.
“Do any of them speak Common?”
“One that we know of,” Varus said. “He was begging for his life to be spared. The others just jabbered at us. Couldn’t make any sense of it.”
Stiger nodded, thinking rapidly. “How many of our men did we free?”
“Seven auxiliaries,” Tiro said unhappily. “The Rivan had taken more, but they were torturing our boys and then killing them off one at a time when they finished with their fun.”
“Then,” Stiger said slowly, “they were not taking prisoners for slaves?”
“It would seem not.” Tiro cleared his throat. “They must have been looking for information.”
“Right,” Stiger said, turning to Varus. “Question that prisoner and find out what he knows.”
“Yes, sir,” Varus said. “I will get right on it.”
The corporal ducked out of the tent, moving with a purpose. Stiger rubbed at his tired eyes, feeling a headache coming on.
“What else did you find, Asus?” Tiro asked.
“The company strongbox,” the legionary said, pointing at the small locked chest in a corner. It appeared quite sturdy. Asus handed a key to Tiro. “The officer’s purse is in that trunk, along with personal possessions and . . . ” He lifted a small canvas bag off the floor and handed it over to Tiro, a sour expression on his face, as if he were parting with gold. “I found this, Sergeant.”
Fort Covenant_Tales of the Seventh Page 3