The battle was essentially over, the last few Nortlanders dead or surrendering. Only the king and the duke battled on, the king with his unique gauntlet weapons and armor resplendent in gold and copper filigree, the duke, stripped of his armor when captured, wielding a stolen chain-axe that must have malfunctioned. Nevertheless, the duke drove the king up the steps, one hard-fought level at a time.
Constantine’s legionnaires formed a circle around the combatants, cheering as the duke advanced on the beleaguered king. The duke managed to land a strike on the king’s arm, shattering armor and sheering off much of the decorative detailing. The king stepped back, cursing at the duke in Norse.
Though awed by the single combat being fought before him, Constantine knew there was more to be done. He muscled his way through the crowd until he found Centurion Gwendyrn. “Centurion! Lead men through that doorway and pursue that assassin. I want him dead or alive, you understand me? And for the gods’ sake, bring the senatora back in one piece.”
Gwendyrn saluted and hurried off, dragging men away from the contest and beckoning them to follow him. Constantine watched until shouts and cries of alarm pulled his attention back to the fight.
The duke had slipped on the bloody steps and his axe had fallen from his grasp. The king was quick to charge in on the weaponless duke, who struggled to fend off several near misses. He took several light wounds, including a cut just above the eye, before he ducked low, tackled the king, and slammed him down onto the floor. He brought up his knee and slammed it into the king’s groin. The watching legionnaires groaned in sympathy.
The king flailed at the duke’s unprotected back before finally getting his two legs under himself and throwing the duke off. Stumbling back, the duke wiped blood out of his eye with his sleeve, then slammed his foot on the floor. That’s an odd thing to do, Constantine thought as he debated getting a weapon to the duke.
A stream of war cries preceded the entrance of more Nortland troopers. The legionnaires spun, preparing to receive them, but the Nortlanders stopped and their leader stepped forward. “Let us through, Roman,” the gray-bearded man demanded.
Constantine motioned to his men, and they parted. The royal duel in the center of the throne room had paused. The king made a demand in a high-pitched voice, one that the duke seemed to immediately counter.
Constantine grabbed one of his legionnaires who understood more Norse than he. “What is going on?”
“As near as I can tell, sir, the king wants the new officer—he’s Gunther Therodi, Western March Lord, by the way—well, the king wants him to execute the duke. But I don’t think that lord is on the king’s side. Now he’s saying something about letting the duel decide the fate of the kingdom.” The man frowned in concentration for a moment, then shook his head, but Constantine didn’t complain. The conversation was moving so fast that he thought even some of the lord’s own troops, who seemed somewhat shocked at the turn of events, weren’t understanding everything.
“Well done, soldier.”
“By the way, sir, that lord let something slip. He said the southern walls had fallen to the Romans as well, and that the leaders had to do something immediately.”
Constantine pulled off his helm, sighing as cool air stroked his sweat-dampened head, and allowed a faint smile at the success of his plan. Making up his mind, he approached the men on the dais.
“This is a matter for us, Roman. I shall speak with you after,” the duke said in a clear voice.
Constantine nodded, gave a slight bow, and stepped back into his line. If they want to do it their way, more power to them. “Legionnaires, form block,” he ordered. The legionnaires quickly moved to form a solid block of troops before the throne. The lord’s men moved to form their own ring around the throne.
The king, obviously fed up with this exchange and his lack of perceived power, charged at the duke. The duke assumed a strange pose, planting his left leg forward and his right leg back. As the king closed the last few feet, the duke pushed off with his left foot, propelling himself into the air as he swung his right foot up in a ferocious kick. The boot drove into the king’s chest and the taller man doubled over with an oomph. Laufas had to yank his boot clear of the king’s chest. The king crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from a narrow hole in his cuirass.
Ah! He had a hidden blade! Impressed, Constantine sheathed his spatha, waiting to see what would happen next.
The duke bent and plucked the copper crown from the head of the deceased king. “King Lokus is dead. The royal line is done. As the Warden of the East, I claim the throne,” he declared in ringing tones, first in Norse, then in Latin. The West March Lord, Therodi, knelt and bowed his head.
As a Roman, Constantine would kneel to no man but the emperor, but he went to full parade ground attention, his assembled men following suit. The duke ascended to the throne, then sat wearily upon the massive seat.
The Nortlanders stood, and Constantine lowered his salute. King Laufas stared at Constantine with his stern eyes. He spoke in a soft voice that demanded respect and authority, underscoring his newfound power. “We have not been properly introduced. I am King Nikulas Laufas, crowned king of the Nortland Empire. And you are?”
“Commander Constantine Tiberius Appius, XIII Germania Legion, commanding officer, Nortland Expeditionary Force.”
Constantine thought he saw a twinkle in Laufas’ eyes, something that was confirmed when the man smiled. “Ah, so the emperor sends his only son to confirm the legitimacy of my throne? What a kind gesture on behalf of our southern neighbor,” he stated, offering an unspoken opportunity.
Constantine, moderately well versed in the world of politics, understood immediately. Then again, being raised in Rome, international hotbed of intrigue and political doubletalk, probably makes me look for double entendres everywhere. “Of course, Your Highness. We were on a mission to bring the traitors in your ranks to justice, and they succeeded in clouding even your exceptionally strong judgment with their lies and falsehoods. Alas, we were too late to save King Bismark from their treachery, perpetrated by none other than the assassin Corbus, the same villain who led the assault on Brittenburg.” Yes, I know that most of this is stretching the truth just a tad, but you want an excuse for our presence, you’ve got it.
Laufas sat on his throne, nodding as the Roman spoke his piece. Regardless, Constantine began to feel a strong urge to get out of there. There were too many things to do, from chasing Corbus to stopping the assault on Midgard by his other two legions. “Your Honor, if I may, I have men pursuing the assassin. We must continue the chase. I shall send messengers to my men attacking the walls, telling them to fall back to our camp—provided your men do not stop them from going.”
Laufas agreed, turning to speak to the other Nortlanders. Lord Therodi seemed to argue with him. After several terse minutes where it appeared they would come to blows, Therodi pacing and gesturing wildly while Laufas continued to speak in calm, measured tones, Therodi threw up his hands in surrender and fell silent.
All the while, Constantine was feeling more and more concerned. There was just a feeling in his gut that something was wrong. Finally, he could bear it no longer. “Your Highness?” Both men turned to look at him. Therodi, face ruddy with passion, stared down at him; Laufas’ face was unreadable, a mask of serenity.
“Let me guess, Commander Appius: you are eager to be off and chasing that assassin. I shall not delay you. In fact, I will send Lord Therodi, here, with you. Fear not, he speaks fluent Latin, he just chooses to be a traditionalist and not talk directly with you.” The king gave a wan smile.
“Oh, and Commander, if you could bring me the assassin back alive, I’d very much like to kill him myself.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Constantine saluted again, then jogged to the back of the room, following the path that Gwendyrn had taken just a short while bef
ore. His men clattered behind, following him in pursuit of the Roman Empire’s Most Wanted criminal.
Chapter 28
Octavia
“You wish, Centurion Caesar, that you could capture me.”
“I believe I have,” the centurion boasted from the floor. He advanced on the great machine Octavia and Corbus were seated upon, spear held in both hands.
In response, Corbus slammed his hand down on a button on the complicated control panel before him. The machine whirred loudly. Octavia, surprised by this sudden move, lost focus as the war engine came to life.
“Shoot him!” Centurion Caesar shouted at her as the machine reared up.
Octavia fired the first bolt, missing Corbus’s back and instead striking his bicep. Corbus turned and smacked her with his armored gauntlet as she tried to reload, knocking her off the war machine. She tumbled down its side, bouncing off the frame of the mecha-wolf several times before landing awkwardly on the floor. She heard a crunch and the repeater fell from her hands as pain lanced through her body. She watched Corbus bound down the workshop gallery on his mecha-wolf, its mass shaking the room with each giant leap.
The centurion ran to her side, his spear clattering onto the floor next to her. “Let’s go, Senatora!” He offered his hand, and she grasped it.
Her body screaming, Octavia ordered her legs to move. Gasping and lightheaded with pain, she fell back. “I can’t feel or move my legs, Centurion Caesar. Something is wrong.”
Caesar looked her over quickly. Evidently seeing nothing wrong, he looked at her in confusion. He gingerly placed his hands around her back, prodding around her spine while whispering to her, “Can you feel that? Or that?” His fingers finally moved high enough that their touch seemed to trigger all of Octavia’s nerves. She cried out in pain. The centurion uttered a hasty apology.
He looked around. “Domina, I’m going to move you to make sure that you’re safe.” He grasped her under her arms, cursing as he slipped on his spear. Stretching, Octavia managed to grab it, cutting her hand on the spear tip. She hissed as her blood dripped down her hand from the deep gash. The centurion stumbled backward, resting her upright against a support column.
At the end of the workshop, Corbus had stopped his mecha-wolf and sent it prowling back toward them, its metal claws sparking against the flooring with each footfall. When Corbus spoke, his voice was mechanically amplified by the beast’s loudspeaker. “There you go, little centurion. A nice present for your primus imperio. Somehow I doubt he’ll like a crippled woman!” he taunted. Octavia could practically feel his exuberance through his mechanical voice.
Grasping the spear with both hands, Centurion Caesar advanced on the assassin. Such boldness from a man so outsized by his enemy, she thought. For a moment he passed out of her range of vision, blocked by various mechanical components and tool chests. Mustering her strength, she crawled on her elbows along the floor, dragging her useless legs behind her, her bleeding hand leaving a bloody trail. She had just managed to move beyond a scrap heap when she heard Caesar’s voice.
“Surely you aren’t afraid to take out a single legionnaire. What would people say if you fled from me?”
He must be stalling, there’s no way he can take out that massive machine with just a spear.
The beast whined to life, launching a sheet of flame from its mouth. The flaming liquid splattered over the manufactoria’s floor, where it continued to burn with ferocious vigor. The centurion paced back and forth, trying to find a way around the flames. He cursed loudly, throwing buckets of water, metal scraps, anything on the flames, trying to snuff them out.
Corbus’s voice blasted from the loudspeakers again. “Sorry, boy, but that just won’t do. This is the king’s own mecha-wolf, and that is Greek fire. Would you believe they stole the recipe from you guys over fifty years ago? Incredible; here you are, thinking you are the apex of civilization, and yet you still can’t figure out how to douse this flame.”
A cacophony behind them announced the arrival of reinforcements. Latin voices shouted orders as legionnaires spread out.
“Oh look, you’ve brought friends. But it’s too late.” With that, Corbus turned the war machine around and threw it into top gear. With long, limber strides, it disappeared into the snowy world outside the workshop. The centurion threw his spear after it in disgust. Octavia heard his roar of frustration over the crackling flames.
Other legionnaires moved past her, one of the first ones kneeling next to her and shouting for the medicae. She felt woozy, and her vision swam, as one legionnaire became two fuzzy outlines. “Senatora Pelia? Stay with me, Senatora; the medicae are almost here.” She moved her bloody hand before her face to examine it. It didn’t hurt anymore.
In fact, nothing seemed to hurt anymore at all.
Her world faded to black.
“Senatora!”
Epilogue
Alexandros
The drone of the engines continued to rise as the winds outside buffeted the freshly repaired hull of H.M.A.S. Scioparto. Snowflakes hurtled past the windows, while icicles had formed on the exterior surfaces despite the crew’s efforts to de-ice the critical components of the airship.
Captain Tiveri Alexandros stood on the bridge, hands gripping the guardrail as he practically willed the ship through the storm clouds outside. Going against the advice of his officers, his superiors, and even ignoring direct orders, Alexandros had brought his ship back to Nortland, forging through the turbulent winter storms that frequently blanketed the county to search for any evidence of the primus imperio and his lost men.
When General Minnicus had returned with the pitiful few survivors of his expeditionary force, he had ordered Sundsvall burned for yet a third time as the fleet evacuated him and his men. At the first and only debriefing session, the general had described how Nortland mecha-wolf riders had outflanked his army and butchered every unit in their path, collapsing the right flank of his army. He tearfully shared how Commander Appius had used his XIII Germania as a rearguard, holding off the overwhelming hordes of barbarians so that his general could escape.
During this speech, Alexandros was suspicious about many of the details that Minnicus shared—or rather, what he refused to share. Why were most of his men not bearing the standard legion equipment or uniforms? Why couldn’t he explain how he had gained new “advisors” during the expedition?
Air-Admiral Polentio had shared his reservations privately with Alexandros later on and secretly authorized this mission, knowing that the captain and prince were somewhat close. In fact, Alexandros considered Tribune Appius to be a close friend. Even so, he had his doubts about the real reason he had accepted this mission.
Come now, are you still trying to get your family off of the military and political blacklists? Or are you seriously pretending that this is because you are a loyal subject of the emperor? Parts of his brain could be decidedly mocking and cynical at times, Alexandros decided.
A particularly hard gust of wind pushed the airship to starboard. The captain turned to his helmsman. “Two points to port, if you please.”
Groaning, the ship turned into the wind, the whine of her engines increasing yet another notch above the pitch of the wind.
“Get me the engine room,” he ordered. An ensign scrambled to respond.
Captain Alexandros turned and walked back across the deck, over the newly patched floor grates where bloodstains were still barely visible, to the command chair.
“Engine room is available, sir,” the bright-eyed ensign reported.
“Thank you, Ensign Polentio.” He nodded gravely to the grandson of the air-admiral. The old man has a stake in my mission, too, he thought as he picked up the brass speaking tube and placed it to his ear.
“Engine room.” The voice was not that of Chief Mechanic Tuderius, but rather one of his assistants.
&
nbsp; “This is the captain. Put the chief on.”
There was a pause. Then the clipped voice of his chief engineer greeted him with, “Sir, I’m awfully busy here.”
“Of course, Tuderius,” Alexandros replied. Even a small distraction like this could mean something going wrong. “But we need a bit more power.”
“I’m giving it all we’ve got, Captain. The ice is weighing her down, and if we keep going like this, the engines will burn out too, in a few hours. They’ve been in the red for the last three!”
“Just get me that power. I’ll get rid of the ice.” He closed the speaking tube, looking around at his bridge crew. Everyone but the helmsman had been paying rapt attention to the captain’s conversation. They quickly resumed their work.
“Mr. Travins, would you please order the de-icing crew up again?” His first officer nodded, passing the message through one of the many speaking tubes on the bridge as Alexandros, bundled in his long airman’s greatcoat, the officers’ version of the traditional leather flying jacket, moved to the observation bubble to watch his men out in the storm. Dangling from long lifelines and clinging to ropes, they worked with rubber mallets and de-icing spray, knocking off icicles and spraying the freezing portions of the gasbag with the saline solution to keep the airship afloat. He did not envy those poor men.
Travins moved to stand next to him. “How much longer do you think this storm will last, sir?”
He knew that Travins would probably be taken soon for one of the newer ships in the fleet, so he was truly savoring every moment of having a competent first officer on board. That, and it takes so damn long to break in a new one, he mused. “Perhaps an hour, perhaps a day. The tougher winds are on the outside, from my experience.”
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