The pause lasted only a few moments, until an under-officer shouted orders and legionnaires raced to catch the man. The fur-coated northerner turned to run, fear in his eyes. There’s no way the legionnaires will catch him, Octavia thought despondently as the scout rapidly lengthened the gap between him and his pursuers. He tried to scramble up a shallower part of the snow-covered bank, but slipped and fell again. With the legionnaires closing in, the scout turned and raced into the woods on the other side of the road. The legionnaires pursued, the sounds of crashing branches and yelling echoing back to the roadway for a few minutes. Then the noise trickled out.
A few minutes passed, and then the squad of legionnaires returned.
“Did you get him?” asked Orestis.
“Well, Fustus here thinks he winged him with his repeater,” the file leader said, shifting nervously. His men seemed anxious to be anywhere but under the death glare of their commanding officer.
“Is. He. Dead?” Orestis ground out the words one at a time. Even Octavia quailed inwardly at the sheer force of those words.
“We don’t know sir, he disappeared into the forest.”
Orestis turned away in frustration, hitting the pommel of his saddle in anger. “Column, prepare to march. And next time, men, don’t chase, just kill him,” Orestis said, his disgust at their failure to eliminate the scout very, very clear.
The column formed up and continued, this time at a pace quickened by fear and adrenaline. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the scout found some opportunistic Nortland leader with enough troops to pursue the small Roman force. Hopefully they won’t be able to catch us.
At another tight turn in the road, Orestis halted the column and turned to Octavia. “Ma’am, with your permission I’m going to leave a squad behind to try to ambush and slow any pursuers. They could buy us the time we need to get you to safety.”
Octavia nodded, knowing deep down that these men would probably die to save her. They hadn’t asked for it, she didn’t even pay them; they were doing it simply because it was their duty. Senatora or not, courage like that required gratitude. So before the party moved on, Octavia thanked each man in the ambush party, committing their names to memory so that she could honor them later.
The escort moved on. The commander of her bodyguard, the veteran file leader Melius Jonus, pulled out his map. “We should be only about two miles or so from the Imperial lines. If we can make it there, then we should be safe.” Heartened by this news, Orestis increased the pace. They soon left the ambush party behind, as they retreated toward the safety of their fellow Romans.
Then a whistling sound and a loud explosion cut through their gradually lightening mood. “That’s the ambush party’s signal. It means that they are either overwhelmed or have sighted enemy forces,” Orestis said.
“But we’ve got at least half an hour head start on them, and our men could still be fighting, Centurion,” Octavia answered. “Don’t we have enough of a lead?”
“Not if they’ve got those accursed mecha-wolves. And if they do, the ambush party won’t last more than a few minutes at most.”
“Then I guess we’d better get a move on.”
The next clearing they reached proved to be their last. As the party made a break across the field, they heard the unmistakable screech of metal upon metal behind them. Octavia turned, and saw death approaching.
Three mecha-wolves burst out of the woods. Clinging to them were a host of Nortland warriors. I never knew they’d use them as transports! That was Octavia’s last coherent thought before full panic wrapped her mind.
“Senatora! Run for the line! It’s just beyond those trees! We’ll hold them off!” Orestis called. He turned to deploy his men, forming a ragged line three men deep facing the charging Nortland vehicles.
Spurring her horse, Octavia fled, her bodyguard forming a wedge behind her. The horse’s hooves kicked up snow and old grass behind her, and the wind from her passage tore at her fur parka.
They were nearly into the forest when the first screams reached them. She turned and glimpsed the mecha-wolves blasting through the thin line of legionnaires, dropping Nortland raiders in their wake. Then, leaping gracefully and looking like their namesake predators chasing down prey, they closed in on the senatora’s party.
“We’re so close! We have to lose them in the forest!” cried Jonus as they entered the band of trees separating them from their hope of salvation. Octavia leaned forward, her head along her horse’s neck, urging it onward. Faster, faster! she cried inwardly as branches splintered and trees crashed behind her.
“They’re nearly upon us!” someone screamed.
Up ahead, daylight penetrated the thick boreal forest. We’re through! Octavia thought gleefully, just as her world spun. She lost all sense of direction as her body hurtled through the air.
Octavia landed in a heap. Her horse was screaming somewhere behind her. Dazed, she tried to pull herself up, her fingers scrabbling against the rough bark of a pine tree, seeking purchase. She succeeded in resting her back against the tree, and tried to come to terms with what had just happened.
Her bodyguard was scattered. The mecha-wolves had blasted a path through much of the forest in their pursuit of the senatora. They had not escaped unharmed, and Octavia felt a flicker of pleasure as she saw one vehicle collapse onto the ground, with what looked like half a tree trunk rammed through its innards. The other two mecha-wolves had killed at least four of her bodyguards; Octavia could see their mangled bodies. The rest of her men must have abandoned their horses, as she could count far more dead horses than men. One horse had even been tossed up into a tree, and now hung like some macabre trophy over a thick branch.
“Psst! Senatora!”
She saw Jonus, looking definitely the worse for wear but still on his feet, sword in hand. He knelt behind the tree, out of sight of both patrolling mecha-wolves. “Have you seen any of their infantry?”
“Not yet,” Octavia whispered back. She took a deep breath, and a sharp pain flared up her side. It took nearly all her willpower not to scream. Definitely something broken, she thought as her eyes watered.
“Can you move? We’ve got to get you out of here. Queris and Draxe will help you up.”
“But what will you do?” Octavia asked weakly.
“I’m going to go distract them a bit, and see if I can’t take down one of those machines,” Jonus whispered conspiratorially to her as the two legionnaires he’d named ghosted out from behind the same large tree. They gathered her up and immediately began snaking their way through the woods.
“What is he going to do? He can’t stop them with a sword,” Octavia mumbled to her rescuers, peering back.
The younger of the two men grinned fiercely. “Jonus is one of the craftiest men out there. He’s got access to some of the new toys the high command’s been handing out this mission, including some of those new igniculum. Those explosives are enough to take out one of those mecha-wolves, with luck.” He grunted slightly as they maneuvered the senatora over a particularly large root.
“Plus, Queris, you know that Victoria is Jonus’ patron saint. Although his grandmother would always say that it was Nike, not some Roman upstart goddess, who looked over her grandson,” the legionnaire who must have been Draxe responded. The man had gray in his hair and the scars to show many years of service.
“You know Jonus?” Octavia’s eyelids felt heavy. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she fought to retain consciousness. I will not pass out like some wimpy peasant girl, she scolded herself.
“Since we were small boys. He got me into the army, and I’ve been making his life a living Hades ever since!” the man joked.
Behind them, another loud explosion erupted, followed by much shouting and the clashing of swords.
“Sounds like they got one of the bas
—erm . . . bad guys,” Queris corrected, remembering the rank and respect due the person they carried between them.
They went another few yards, then stopped abruptly.
“Ahh, Senatora Pelia. Such a pleasure to finally meet you face to face. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Octavia lifted her head. Before her stood a rough-looking man clad in an odd cut of Nortland furs. It almost looked as though someone had tried to infuse Roman style into the Nortland material. “I’m sorry, we’ve never met,” Octavia managed. Her shell-shocked brain struggled for more awareness. One thing she could sense was that this man was dangerous.
The stranger slowly unsheathed his sword. The wicked-looking weapon was a good three or four feet long. He held it casually in one hand while running a whetstone over its edge. “Ahh, but I can soon rectify that. I am Corbus.” He waited a moment for Octavia to register this.
“The Butcher of Brittenburg? You’re way too young to claim that title, I think,” Octavia scoffed. She immediately regretted poking fun at the man, as his dark eyes lit with a cold fury.
“I see you need some convincing. Very well.” He tossed the whetstone aside and moved to attack.
Almost dropping Octavia to the ground, the legionnaires drew their standard issue spathas and moved to defend her. The men worked as a team, parrying the first few blows from Corbus.
Octavia had a hard time keeping track of what was happening as the weapons moved faster and faster, Corbus raining punishing blows down on both men. He was easily outstripping their abilities, obviously toying with them. Finally he sidestepped Queris’ tired parry and his sword cut neatly through the legionnaire’s right arm. The wounded legionnaire spun away.
Draxe tried to take advantage of Corbus’s exposed posture, stabbing straight for the gut. With a nasty scrrrrrinnnggg, his sword skittered off some hidden piece of armor. Corbus turned in a flash, bringing the sword up in a curving arc, decapitating Draxe. Blood fountained out onto the white patches of snow. The man’s head bounced away as his body collapsed to the forest floor.
Queris threw himself at Corbus, awkwardly wielding his belt dagger in his left hand. The two tussled briefly, until Corbus managed to roll on top of the wounded soldier. He raised his sword and struck at the legionnaire’s unprotected head. The fighting abruptly stopped.
Octavia felt tears trickling down her cheeks. It was simply too much. Too much to handle. So much death and loss. Corbus was busy cleaning his blade on Queris’ jacket. Octavia looked around desperately. Maybe she could make a run for it. She tried to crawl for the nearest large tree.
Her battered body had only moved a few feet when Corbus spoke. “Seriously, Senatora! I’m insulted that you think me dense enough not to notice your escape attempt. You’re very lucky that I consider you more useful alive. Now, it’s time you came with me.”
“Where are we going?” Octavia whimpered.
“To a place where not even your Roman gods can save you: Midgard, home of the cold, copper-crowned kings of the north. I hope you will . . . enjoy your stay.”
Chapter 15
Julius
“I suppose I should be thankful to be alive,” Julius said to no one in particular. “But then, I wouldn’t be in this frozen underworld now, would I?”
Julius wrapped himself tighter in the thin blanket his captors had provided him. He shivered again—really more of a supremely long shaking that had been going on for days now. Thank the gods that they let me keep my cape. He used the blood red centurion cape as a second blanket, the thicker wool helping to ward off the cold. Two layers are better than one.
He lay curled into a tight ball on his cot, his sprained ankle bandaged and splinted with whatever odds and ends he could find. At least the time in the cells had done him good in one way. He felt far steadier on his feet now that he’d had some time to recuperate.
With only the weak light from the hallway torch to light his cell, Julius lived in perpetual gloom. He had lost all track of day and night, and found himself sitting on his straw pallet for hours, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the water trickling down the walls. At first, the sound had driven him nearly mad. It brought him to tears, made him laugh. At one point, Julius even wondered if he was going crazy, like so many of the other occupants of the dungeon. Their ravings were only bearable because he couldn’t understand a word that they were saying.
It was only by the thinnest of margins that Julius had maintained his sanity. The seed of his newfound strength came from an offhand comment by one of his jailers: “This one won’t last as long as those others we brought in.” That from the jailer Julius had dubbed Redbeard.
His sniveling sycophant, Half-Face, so named for the huge burn that marred half his face, had readily agreed. “Yes, yes, I bet he won’t even last as long as those puny women and children they brought back—”
There were the sounds of a brief scuffle, then a whimper. “Do not speak of that around here,” Redbeard’s voice said.
Julius smiled grimly in his cell, willing himself back to sleep. Soon.
When Julius woke again, it was to the sound of slamming iron gates and screeching wheels. Rising, Julius walked unsteadily to the barred opening of the cell—a short tube hewn from the living bedrock of the mountain, with the rough granite comprising three sides and stout iron bars plugging the end. They slid aside to provide entrance. The barred gates could be operated by hand, and also by machinery, it seemed, as the gates had opened several times before the guards had appeared at the door.
Not that he left the room often. The only other place that he had seen was the inside of the so-called interrogation chamber. Call it anything but a torture chamber, and it still sounds ominous.
At first, the guards seemed to take pure pleasure in hurting him. Kicks when they delivered his meals, or even dumping his meals on the floor and having him eat off the rock surface. But his bruises were beginning to fade, and Julius could not figure out why.
Until today.
Sure enough, something was happening. Julius could hear the guards’ boots stomping on the rock floor, the sound echoing down the cellblock. Finally, the guards themselves turned the corner, a man hanging limply between them. His feet were dragging; the man was definitely unconscious. Julius moved close to the door, craning his head to get a good look.
They dumped the man unceremoniously on the floor. His body, the clothes disheveled, fell limply. Julius felt his heart leap into his throat. The man’s exposed leg bore a legion tattoo. Another legionnaire could give me information about what’s happening outside. Or help me escape.
The guards moved to open the door. “Back away, prisoner,” one of them said gruffly.
Julius shambled away to the corner of the cell.
One guard pulled his sword while the other slid open the iron door, the metal parts shrieking protest. Julius clapped his hands over his ears.
The guards dragged the man into the cell and tossed him, mercifully, onto the small cot. The guards turned and left without a word, slamming the gate shut with a loud crash.
With the guards gone, the cellblock returned to its usual gloomy atmosphere. Julius spent several hours torn between the urge to shake the man awake and ask him questions, and letting the man, who had obviously been bruised and battered on his way here, rest.
At last, Julius could wait no longer. He shook the man. The man awoke as though coming to from a deep coma, his body responding slowly. “Hgghh . . . water . . .”
Julius scrambled about the room, finding the tin cup left for him hours earlier and pushing it under the trickle of water that forever wound its way down the back wall of the cell. After a few minutes, enough water had accumulated that Julius was able to give the man a drink.
The man’s eyes flew open at the shock of the cold water hitting his system. He coughed and spluttered before final
ly resting his eyes on Julius. “Here, let me get you up,” Julius said kindly, guiding the legionnaire into a sitting position against the wall. “What’s your name, legionnaire?”
“Legionnaire Second Class Felix Scipio.”
“Well, Felix, it appears you’re in the same mess I am. I’m Julius Caesar, former centurion. Well, I guess I’m still a centurion,” Julius said wistfully.
The conversation paused as Scipio drank more water and Julius pulled up an overturned bucket to serve as a stool.
“So tell me, Felix, how on earth did you end up here in Midgard? At least, that’s where I assume we are.”
Scipio shared that his legion was part of the expeditionary force sent to invade Nortland. Julius was excited by this, and revealed that he was part of the expedition as well.
“The Thirteenth, eh? They were to our left during the battle. I heard some men saying at the end that the Thirteenth was coming to rescue us, but I guess they just couldn’t get there in time.” Scipio shrugged. “It was too fast, too overwhelming. They pulled my cohort out before the end, though. Sent us to cover some politician’s escape.”
Julius’s jaw dropped. “The senatora was on the flank? Why on earth would she stay out there?”
“I dunno, sir.” The man rubbed his forehead with both hands, leaving trails of blood and grime over his face. Julius handed him a slightly cleaner rag. “All I know is, we’re pulled out of line at the last second and told to get her to safety. There we are, marching double time through these woods, and I overheard our file leader say that we’re almost to the reserve and safety. Then some of those . . . those . . . things—the ones that could be spawn of Vulcan, for all we know . . . They look like wolves?” Scipio looked at Julius, who thought for a moment.
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