At one point, Julius overheard orders being given in Latin, and the sounds of heavy fighting. There was little time to spare. He pushed onward and, finding a small closet, ripped the cords on two of his phosphorus flares, then tossed them inside, onto a pile of spare gasbag canvas. The phosphorus ignited in a harsh white light, illuminating the hallway. The canvas quickly caught fire. Julius left the door open just enough so that the fire could escape the confines of the narrow room.
He stepped out into the hallway, and came face to face with a Nortlander. Bellowing, the man swung his fist at Julius’s head. Julius managed to twist aside, taking the blow on the overlapping steal plates of armor on his left arm. Limited by the tight confines of the hallway, he charged toward the bigger man, and head-butted him. The iron tang of blood filled the air as Julius felt, rather than heard, the man’s nose crack under his assault.
Roaring, the man fought back, pummeling Julius’s smaller frame under a wild flurry of blows. The Roman’s sword was knocked from his hands and skittered into the darkness. Julius could feel the heat of the fire growing behind him as they struggled. His fingers curled around the dagger at his belt and he pulled it free to stab his opponent in the chest. The Nortland soldier shrugged it off and tackled Julius, bearing him to the floor. The man’s hands circled his neck, choking the life from him. Julius stabbed again and again, then kneed the man in the groin, finally breaking the man’s grip.
Julius rolled the man off him. Though the lifeblood was finally seeping from the man, Julius could still almost feel the hands around his throat. Panting, trying to restore his focus, he stood shakily, staggering as the enemy ship shook suddenly. The fire was building behind him. Leaving his sword behind, Julius ran.
With virtually no one on the lower levels, the fire was spreading uninhibited. Flames blocked hallways, almost moving faster than Julius could run. Choking on the thick black smoke, Julius located the appropriate hatch and scrambled up the ladder, emerging into a desperate scene. The Roman squads now numbered barely a dozen men. Their dead lay at their feet as the Nortlanders assaulted them.
“Sir! We can’t hold much longer!” Squad Leader Regulis called, fending off two of the blond foe.
Julius picked up a brutal-looking chain-axe from the deck and flicked the activator switch. The axe hummed to life. Now armed, Julius fell upon the attackers while ordering his men to fall back to the Scioparto. The men enacted a fighting retreat. The Nortlanders pressed them with heedless abandon, careless of the casualties they suffered. Legionnaires fell as the retreat became more and more desperate. They were only a few feet from the ramp when a new batch of Nortlanders swarmed up from another hatchway. Fire welled up behind them as flames and smoke became more evident.
“Hurry up, sir!” shouted Gwendyrn. “We’re gonna drop the bridge!” He waited with the legionnaires lined across the ramp on the Scioparto’s side.
Julius’s small party was almost surrounded. “Run for it!” he ordered, and his men ran for the bridge. Twenty paces, then ten. At the foot of the bridge Julius turned, picked up a dead legionnaire’s shield, and prepared to cover his men. The last few survivors raced past him. Repeater bolts flew in the other direction, chopping down Nortland airmen and soldiers. Julius hacked down a Nortland airman, his light leather tunic no match for the Roman’s borrowed chain-axe.
“Come on, sir! Don’t play the hero!” Gwendyrn shouted at him.
Julius turned to run as the last few Nortland soldiers closed in on him. Feeling a rippling sensation below his feet, he turned to Gwendyrn, a look of horror on his face. The fire must have reached the central magazine!
The deck exploded beneath his feet, launching Julius into the air. He managed to grab hold of a rope as the enemy airship shredded itself. He clung desperately to the rope as the gasbag too caught fire. But as the Scioparto lifted up and away, Julius realized too late that the rope he had grabbed was not attached to the Scioparto.
Screaming, Julius fell to earth with the remains of the Hamdar.
Chapter 8
Corbus
Silent as a ghost, assassin and self-described freedom fighter Corbus moved through the dense forest. He led a team of Nortland scouts dressed in dark leathers and woodland cloaks. Corbus’s thoughts were dark, replaying the train of events that had led him to this armpit of civilization, serving a barbarian king and trying to figure out what to do next.
After the death of his mother on the walls of Brittenburg, Corbus, along with his two advisors, had been forced to accept the hospitality of the Nortland king, who had graciously welcomed them to his palace with open arms. More like his giant cave, Corbus fumed.
Although only eighteen, Corbus had been trained in the arts of war since his fifth nameday; his mother Amalia had taken much pride in the skills of her only child, now the last heir of a lost Germanic tribe. If only the Romans had the typical political commander at the battle of Teutenberg forest, I’d never be in this mess. Then again, he had learned through one of his spies that a political general headed the current Roman expedition to Nortland.
There were definitely some opportunities to be had here. He was learning to channel his smoldering rage into more . . . useful pursuits.
Behind him marched an army of about two thousand men, drawn from the feudal levies and men-at-arms of various local chiefs and bigwigs. Corbus was just happy that they, at least, had a competent lord in charge of this portion of the army.
Warlord of the East, Lord of the Seven Glaciers, Duke Nikulas Laufas rode atop his mecha-wolf as the motley army moved as quickly as possible over the back country roads. Corbus knew that the man was both a competent officer and a competent lord. Unfortunately, he was also utterly loyal to the Copper Throne. So while Corbus could respect the man and honor his tactical and strategic skills, he also knew that one day, Laufas would have to die.
At one point, Corbus and his advisors had considered how best to deal with their . . . arrangement . . . with the Nortlanders. Eventually, they decided to hunt for sympathetic ears for their cause. Their first patron had been the supporter of the raid on Brittenburg. However, the king had been furious with the local lord who allowed his ships to be used in the raid on Brittenburg, and had demonstrated his fury in the usual way.
The man had been taken to the front of a glacier, where a small hole had been hollowed out. The traitorous man was chained inside, and they proceeded to seal the hole by packing snow around it. If the man didn’t freeze to death, exposure to the elements or starvation was a handy second opportunity to give your life to the glacier gods. Not a pretty way to go; I saw what he looked like four months later.
Now, Corbus was fortunate enough to have found a new patron, one who was capable, malleable, and also very, very well placed to secure the kind of support Corbus needed to wrest the northern provinces of Imperial Rome from their denarii-pinching hands. Plus, should that fall through, word had reached him that his advisors had made additional headway in Rome itself in gaining support for his cause.
The sounds of battle drew Corbus briefly from his musings. He closed his eyes and stretched out his senses. The warrior could feel the slight vibrations of explosions on his skin, could taste hints of gunpowder and smoke on the wind. Whistling to his companions, who converged on his position, he sent one back to tell the duke that the air battle had probably begun.
Leaving his scouts behind, Corbus climbed a large tree to get above the thick canopy. His boots gripped the rugged bark and he pulled himself up the tree with his arms, corded with lean muscle, at breakneck speed. I needed that, he thought as, heart pounding, muscles screaming, he arrived at the highest branch that he felt confident would bear his weight. Securing himself against the tree’s ponderous shifts in the light breeze, Corbus looked out on an amazing view.
The tree stood on the sloping side of a mountain, and Corbus could see the entire bowl-like valley that led
toward the port of Sundsvall, site of the Roman invasion. Overhead, majestic airships glided and maneuvered this way and that, blasting each other with artillery fire. The Roman ships flew in a diamond formation, but as he watched, the formation broke as Nortland airships fought their way through gaps and tried to board several vessels. A smile tugged at his face as a Roman airship shattered under the direct bombardment of several Nortland airships. He could almost hear the screams of his enemies as they fell to their deaths.
He watched the two sides slugging it out above for a few more minutes, then climbed back down the tree.
Duke Laufas had joined his scouts in Corbus’s absence, and Corbus made a rough half bow. “My Lord, your air forces have engaged the Romans in the valley. It appears that the airfleets will be tied up for a while,” he reported in Latin.
The duke nodded, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he thought through the strategic implications of this development, made harder still by the necessity to translate the message into Norse. “Without their airfleet for cover, the Romans will not have some of their traditional battlefield advantages. Could you tell if our forces were the northern fleet or the southern fleet?”
“I’m not sure about the differences between the two fleets, although this one seemed to have more Emperor-class-sized vessels. They were equal in size, if not larger, than most of the Roman fleet.”
“Ah.” The duke nodded again. “That would be our southern fleet, then. We continue to hope that Roman intelligence in this region is old. In fact, I sent some men out to make our airbase fleet at Ragunda look active but empty. They’ll never know we’ve actually built our fleet beyond their expectations. I bet they never even bothered to scout much more north or west.”
Corbus nodded, filing away this information for later. “What would you have me do now, My Lord?” he said. Laufas is craftier than he appears at first. I suppose that’s why his enemies call him Mist—he is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Plus, you can’t grab mist.
Laufas looked thoughtful for a moment, then pulled out a map. He unrolled the beige parchment and scanned the terrain as best he could. “You say the air battle is to our east, then?” Corbus nodded. “Double the scout screen in that direction. It’s unlikely, but possible, that their airfleet was covering a ground movement.” Though phrased more like a polite request, there was no doubt that it was an order, delivered with the iron weight of determination and the solid power of certainty.
Laufas must know something I don’t. I haven’t picked up any signs of Roman troop movement, but he seems certain that there is. I cannot underestimate him.
With a brief nod to acknowledge the orders, Corbus sent a messenger back to the main force to requisition more scouts and quickly ordered his men into a far longer picket line. Armed with antique-looking longbows, the scouts appeared to be more hunters than soldiers. Some of them probably are hunters, marshaled into the duke’s forces, but at least they know their stuff. There had been only a small amount of grumbling in the beginning about being placed under the command of such a “youngling,” but Corbus had pinned the lead complainer’s hood to a tree trunk at thirty paces with a thrown dagger. After that, there were no more whispers.
Advancing toward the battle, Corbus relied more on his ears than his eyes. The thick boreal canopy blocked his line of sight more often than not, and he quickly tired of climbing tree after tree to get a heading.
So when an airship fell out of the sky in front of him, Corbus was less than prepared. The sounds of battle had become more intense, but the young assassin had simply chalked it up to closing in on the conflict area.
A massive wall of iron, canvas, wood, and fire raced toward him as the blast from the crashing airship flattened trees and anything else in its path. Corbus turned to run, only to dive immediately into a small root depression in the ground as the pressure wave overtook him. When the shaking had subsided and the rain of twigs and rocks had dwindled to a mere trickle, Corbus poked his head up to observe the flattened expanse of forest. Steel girders poked upright from the matchstick scatter of trunks and branches, and torn sheets of canvas waved like dirty laundry on a wash line. He couldn’t make out if it was a Nortland vessel or a Roman vessel, so he chose to investigate further.
Picking his way gingerly through pockets of flame and wreckage, Corbus ducked under girders and deftly leapt furrows gouged in the earth by the harsh impact. He checked some of the bodies he found, most clothed in the brownish furs and clothes of Nortland air sailors, a few garbed in the red tunics and layered armor of the Roman legions. He found a conscious crewmember, his breathing shallow as he lay with his back against a shattered bulkhead. Blood pooled around him as his life leeched from numerous gashes.
“Water,” the injured man gasped, his voice almost too soft to hear. Corbus knelt beside the man and opened his canteen, pouring water into his hand and gently offering it to his mouth. The man slurped noisily, then sighed, his lungs rattling as he breathed.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Corbus asked, keeping his impatience out of his voice.
“Boarded . . . Romans . . . explosives . . . fire . . . . they’re all dead, all dead!” The man whimpered for a moment, then was still.
Corbus stood and looked around. Maybe one of those Romans failed to escape this explosion. Corbus gave a whistle and heard answering whistles floating back to him over the crackling death throes of the downed airship. Soon help would be arriving.
Adjusting his gear, he rolled up his cloak so that it wouldn’t catch on any of the protruding bits and pieces of wreckage. By the time his scouts arrived, Corbus had already begun a methodical search pattern. Quickly revealing what he was looking for, he ordered his men into action.
Only a short time later, Corbus’s persistence paid off. “Sir! We’ve got an injured Roman here,” a scout reported. “We didn’t even rough him up, but he’s out like a light; must have hit his head. Otherwise, he’s not in too bad shape.”
Corbus viewed the now trussed up Roman and wrung his hands together in slow glee. Oh, I’m very excited to meet you. We’re going to have so much fun together. He couldn’t understand why his men were inching away from him, but then again, he couldn’t see the glint of evil pleasure in his own eyes.
Kneeling, Corbus splashed water in the prisoner’s face. The cold water instantly brought the man out of his stupor, his body jerking and thrashing in startlement that shifted to panic as he realized he was tied hands and feet to a metal stake in the ground. Wide eyes scanned Corbus’s scouts, leaning on their bows and watching him nonchalantly.
“Yes, yes, you’re a prisoner. Congrats on surviving that fall, by the way; I would never have thought it possible. You won the lottery, I suppose, but you know that old saying, out of the frying pan and into the fire?” Corbus was in an upbeat mood. This capture would gain him some intelligence, some small amount of respect, and even better, a chance to take out a small measure of vengeance on this unfortunate Roman.
“Name, soldier? At least that way we can have a nice civilized conversation.” Corbus spoke in low Latin, the common trade language of the Imperial Empire. Not to be confused with High Latin, which was used exclusively on festival days and in boring religious ceremonies. To his Nortland allies, the softer southern language stood in contrast to their harsher, choppy Norse, the common tongue of Nortland. A soft language for a soft people, Corbus mused, distracted for a moment.
The Roman considered, then replied, “You tell me your name, I’ll tell you my own.”
His accent was familiar, and Corbus’s brain instantly began to mull over origin. He’d heard it before, but where? And there was surely no harm in sharing his name with this prisoner. It wasn’t like he was going to escape or anything. “My name is Corbus, son of Amalia, the victor of Brittenburg and general menace of the Imperial Empire. And you are?”
The soldier laughe
d. “Do you practice that in front of the mirror? That’s an awful lot of titles for one so young. How old are you, nineteen; twenty?” He chuckled.
“You’re pretty brave, for a prisoner. It matters little how old I am, only that I am old enough to fight you and make your life very, very painful, should I need to. Now, once again, what is your name?” This time he placed the tip of his knife on the man’s throat. A droplet of blood appeared at the end of the dagger and trickled down the razor-sharp steel.
The man gulped, then spat out his name.
“Julius? See, now we’re getting somewhere. We’re on a first name basis!” Corbus’s voice was condescending and full of false cheeriness; he enjoyed the cat and mouse game of interrogation. And he was also very, very good at it.
“Now Julius, I want to give you some of my background. You see, I was born into a very . . . traditional family. It was all about the family value of resistance, you see. As a matter of fact, I’ve made it my personal goal to see the Roman Empire ground into a million pieces and forgotten for eternity before I die.” Corbus smiled.
The Roman looked indifferent, although Corbus could already detect the telltale tightening of the man’s eyes and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Now I want you to tell me about your background—oh, say, what legion you’re in, what’s happening in the Roman camp, how many soldiers there are—you know, the typical need-to-know type stuff.” Corbus gave Julius his best fake smile.
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