‘Drop back!’
‘What?’ bellowed a prefect in reply.
‘Slow and drop back. That pirate’s coming for the general. He’s seen the flags. We’ll take him out. Keep the general safe.’
Despite their uncertainty, the need to protect the general drove the men on the Swift to instant action, and they banked sharp left out of the course of the Zephyr, back-watering with the oars as they did so.
Bellacon watched pensively as the lead ship dropped back, causing half the fleet to adjust, but a moment later the captain steered their own vessel back to a straight course. Bellacon took a deep breath. If the enemy had merely been chancing their arm and posed no real threat to the general, he could look quite foolish, but somehow, he didn’t think that was the case.
The pirate adjusted his course a couple of times trying to find a way to get past the Zephyr and engage the Swift, but seemingly decided in the end on taking a lesser vessel. Then again, Bellacon realised, his own ship was also bearing command flags since it carried the legion’s second-in-command. Maybe he was sufficient.
As the two ships converged at alarming speed, Bellacon urged on the small parties of men nearby who were steadying three bolt throwers, anchoring them to the deck, setting the torsion and producing and loading bolts. These were only the smaller versions, not the big artillery pieces used in sieges, but they were the best he could manage at short notice.
There was a distinctive twang from across the water.
‘Down!’ he bellowed, and dropped below the rail as an iron and wood bolt two feet long whipped across the prow and struck the anchor capstan. The wooden cylinder exploded into shards of timber and splintered shrapnel and the rope held by it slithered across the deck, the anchor dropping into the water. Fortunately the sea bed here would be far too deep for the anchor to catch and stop the ship.
Bellacon blinked. That bolt was from a big siege engine.
‘Evasion,’ he bellowed. ‘Sharp left. Port!’
The ship veered at his command, and his instinct paid off. That sized weapon could hole a ship’s hull. The second bolt had been aimed lower and plunged into the water mere feet from the prow, where the Zephyr had been just a moment earlier.
‘Loose your bolts!’ he yelled at the men in the prow. ‘Aim for anybody you see.’
The two ships swept on, closing, the captain swinging the prow about once more to fox the enemy artillery. Twice more the pirates’ bolts ploughed into the waves, narrowly missing the hull. Finally, the skilled imperial artillerists mastered the skill of firing from a rolling deck and secured their ranges, the three smaller machines, easy to load and quick to prepare, beginning to pick off bodies.
Only then did Bellacon realise that the enemy weren’t pulling to the side. They were too close. They would…
But they had no ram. It would be suicide! But if the Zephyr was even at three-quarter angle, she would suffer the lion’s share of any collision damage.
‘Turn us head on again!’
Knowing enough now to obey the tribune, the pilot did just that without argument or comment. Bellacon watched the enemy hurtling towards them, skipping across the brine to a now-inevitable collision. ‘Brace yourself,’ he bellowed, and threw himself down below the rail, gripping the timbers tight, horribly aware that he was braced at more or less the point of impact.
The world exploded.
* * *
When Bellacon awoke it was to the sound of distant, wheeling gulls and of legions settling into camp. He blinked and tried to sit up, only to find his head filling with flashing bright light and searing pain.
‘Settle down, sir,’ muttered a medic in a blood-stained leather smock as he hurried over and gently pushed the tribune back to the cot.
‘What… where am I? I hit…’
‘Your head took a serious blow when your ship collided with a pirates’ vessel. Cracked your skull, but we think there’ll be no permanent damage. You lost a lot of blood, and we wondered whether you’d be a goner for a while, but once you started to stir we rested easier.’
‘The ship?’
‘Yes, your ship survived the incident and limped to shore at the rear of the fleet. The pirates were lost entirely. From what I gather they deliberately drowned rather than be taken alive. And all their ship and goods went down with them.’
‘Lucky you didn’t,’ laughed a familiar voice.
‘Cantex?’
Slowly, so as not to black out, Bellacon turned his head. Cantex and Convocus were seated close by with a jar of wine between them, grinning.
‘Best get yourself better,’ Cantex said. ‘Your General Volentius is wanting to see you as soon as you’re up and about. Someone apparently informed him that he owes his life to your actions. Sounds like at least you are getting in with your commander. Ours will barely speak to us.’
‘Feel sick,’ was all Bellacon could come up with.
‘Well you’ve got two days to get better, then we’re all moving out, so you’ll need to be mobile by then. Still, I reckon the general will find a nice comfy cart for his lifesaver, eh? Travel in style.’
‘Two days?’
Convocus nodded. ‘We’re waiting for the last of the supplies to be shipped over, and the generals are currently in discussion with the local tribes, who seem eager to please. They’re supplying guides and information. But in two days, as soon as everything is settled, the legions are to separate. Quietus is taking Cantex and the Hawk Legion straight north, seeking some ford he apparently knows of across the main southern river. Crito and I are leading the Raven Legion to a hopefully-not-mythical crossing further east, then advancing up the east coast towards lands he reckons he knows quite well. And Volentius is taking you and his Vultures west to secure the hill tribes that way. With luck by autumn we’ll have the whole southern half of the island under control and maybe even head back across the sea.’
‘I need a drink,’ Bellacon murmured, eyeing the wine jug.
‘Not a chance,’ grinned Cantex. ‘The doctor says only water and plain food until you are on your feet at least.’
‘This is it then,’ Bellacon sighed, sagging back to the cot. ‘We’re invading Alba. I’d half expected it not to actually happen. What’s it like out there?’
‘Rolling grassy fields. Lots of chalky cliffs and small fishing and farming villages. Not a three headed giant or grey-robed ghost or flesh-eating magician in sight, though the men keep looking behind every tree just in case. It seems that the tribes in this corner of the island have been trading with the empire for over a century and they’re pretty civilised. It’s the north and the west where the real lunatics live, so you’ll be having a fun time soon enough.’
Bellacon found it relatively easy to let go of the tales of monsters and ghosts, but of witches? His mind furnished him with a perfect image of the general’s pet woman staring at him.
‘Not even magic, then?’ he asked earnestly.
‘Not unless you count wine that mysteriously disappears when left alone,’ snorted Convocus eyeing Cantex archly. ‘Interestingly, we’ve made enquiries about the pirates. No one around here seems to know much about them. They even raid this coast from time to time, but what little we do hear, is that they seem to come from further north, so you should be pirate-free where you’re going.’
‘The pirates.’ Bellacon frowned. ‘They were clever. Well equipped. Well informed, I think.’
Cantex shrugged. ‘They’re not all backwards. Some of the local tribes even make wine, though it bears more resemblance to furniture polish in truth.’
Bellacon nodded. No doubt things would become clearer as they moved through the island, but something about the pirates they had encountered had seemed off – unnatural in some way – and it nagged at him.
‘So in two days we’ll be going our separate ways for a while?’
‘We will.’
‘Then I’d best get on my feet damned quick so we can share whatever wine you’ve managed to steal from the supply
wagons before we leave.’
Chapter 2
Bellacon rubbed the back of his head gently. While the wound had sealed and was now little more than slightly tender to the touch, he couldn’t help but worry that any probing finger might slip straight through into his brain, or cause torrents of blood to gush from his head. Fanciful stuff, but when you’d spent eight days in a wagon bouncing around and constantly tended by medics, it was hard to escape the persona of ‘patient’. Yet now here he was on horseback once more, watching the Vulture Legion make camp.
He had missed three small engagements so far on their journey west. The first had been the overcoming of a resistant fort close to the south coast two days from the army’s landing site. Needless to say, still groggy with his wound and whatever they were using to medicate him, Bellacon had slept through the entire thing. It had been rather a walkover from what he understood, and the legion had apparently acquitted itself well.
Two days further west they had met a stronger army, with the clear implication that their first action had been little more than a delaying tactic by the local tribes, giving them time to gather a more formidable force with which to oppose the invader.
Bellacon, having been removed from the most stultifying of his medicines, had risen to take part at least in the command of the fight, aware that his ability to stand in the front line was still many days off, but also that his innate talent at command was as strong as his skill with a blade. He had been unprepared for the lack of strength in his legs, though, and had immediately collapsed like a jelly.
Four days of being numb in a cart had left him stiff and weak. Thus he missed the first proper fight, trembling in his cot.
Then, only yesterday, another tribe had taken offence at the imperial army crossing their lands and had drawn up their lines at a river. Bellacon had spent the intervening three days exercising as best he could, regaining some of his strength and easing the stiffness of days of enforced stillness from his muscles.
The doctor had removed the wrappings from his head and announced that, since the fracture had been a straightforward, neat and narrow crack, it was already knitting nicely and that unless he took to somersaults as a hobby, he would be fine. Armed with this diagnosis and partially-reinvigorated muscles, he had leapt up to arm himself, but the doctor had coughed and informed him that he would not be taking part in any major activity for at least another six or seven days.
Bellacon had resolutely ignored the medical orderlies and had been busy strapping on his sword when the message arrived from general Volentius that he was to remain in the care of the medics, and that this was a direct order from his commanding officer. Bellacon had watched, twitching and impotent, as the army swept aside the native force, taking a small, but significant, number of casualties. It irked him intensely that, had he been on the field, he would have changed the disposition of the cavalry, thickened the force at the left flank, and almost certainly saved many of those lives.
Still, in the grand scheme of things it had been a success. Better still, the fact that they had marched for days and met only defiant natives who bore a strong resemblance to those within the empire’s own borders had done much to quell the fears and superstitions of the men, who were more often joking about three headed giants than watching out for ghosts and witches.
And now, eight days from the landing site, the army was settling in and making camp on a low hill large enough to accommodate the entire force and with good enough visual range to give them plenty of warning of trouble.
The peripheral defences were up – a simple two foot earth bank topped by a fence of woven wicker – the supply wagons were now being escorted into their defensive compound, and the scouts and skirmishing cavalry were out in small units checking the surrounding land for danger or for anything of value or use. The bulk of the camp’s interior was still plain untouched turf. The soldiers would set up their tents last thing, then settle in to cook their meals. Two tents were up already, though: the great square command tent at the heart of the camp, and the general’s personal quarters close by. The other senior officers’ tents, including Bellacon’s own, lay close by, ready to go up next.
Bellacon scanned the camp and nodded in satisfaction. Vulture Legion seemed to be efficient and able to work without being constantly pushed and led by its commanders, which was a good sign for the rest of the campaign.
‘Begging your pardon, Tribune, sir, but the general has requested your presence in the command tent at your earliest convenience.’
Bellacon turned to see the messenger puffing and panting while standing at attention and saluting.
‘Good man. Thank you.’
Urging his horse, Elusa, the tribune rode down the bank of the small hillock from which he’d been observing the camp, trotted across the intervening turf, through the shallow stream where a dozen soldiers were now filling pots and buckets and skins, and up the long gentle slope to the camp. He was satisfied to be challenged by the guard on the half-formed gate despite the rider’s clear rank and identity.
Once admitted, he rode across the fresh grass of the summit to the headquarters, where he slid from the back of the horse, called over a legionary who was examining the tents and deciding which to put up next, and handed him Elusa’s reins.
The general’s huge tent was subdivided with internal leather walls, such that half of the space formed a headquarters room, one quarter a private office, and the other a shrine to the imperial gods.
By the time Bellacon arrived, the five captains of the legion and the two lesser tribunes who led the cavalry and the auxiliaries were all present, waiting expectantly, and General Volentius stood by his table, rapping his fingers rhythmically on the wood as he studied the large map hanging on the rear wall, worryingly devoid of detail.
A half-empty wine bottle stood close to the general’s side, with a solid, earthenware cup.
The witch woman sat in a low chair in the corner, stitching something in brightly-coloured fabric.
‘Ah good.’ Volentius nodded. ‘Bellacon. Now we’re all here, I can proceed.’
There seemed to be no reprimand in the general’s tone, though several of the lesser officers’ expressions suggested that he might try to be more punctual in future. Judiciously ignoring them, the tribune saluted and sank into the seat offered at the far side.
‘We have encountered only paltry resistance thus far,’ the general said, pouring himself another cup of wine and sucking the majority of it down noisily in one swig. ‘I have heard it said among the more junior officers that if this is all Alba has to offer against us, we will be masters of the island in a week. Quite true. We would. However, do not be fooled into believing that you have met the full might of the Alban tribes. Thus far we have been probed and tested a little. And even then only by the lesser tribes. So let me lay out the facts for you, gentlemen, and what I intend to do about them.’
The general used his stick to circle the entire region, and then smacked the tip against the vellum sheet somewhere fairly central.
‘This is where we camp tonight. In this south-western region there are more than twenty tribes of varying sizes, but only four of real strength and number. The rest are sub-groups. Three of those four strong tribes reside on the peninsula we are campaigning upon, which, as you can see, tapers gradually to the south-west where it ends in ship-killing cliffs. The fourth tribe lies across a wide tidal channel to the north, and thus we are not currently concerning ourselves with them.’
Stepping to the side, he gestured to the witch woman in her seat.
‘In addition to my own, not inconsiderable, experience of this island, and the intelligence we receive regularly from the native scouts, Lissa is a native of the island with a more detailed, clearer view of her people than most. It is her belief, and one to which I also subscribe, that this entire region can be pacified with one fight. The strongest tribe on the western peninsula are the Dunarii and while the others do not precisely answer to them, they control the
main trade routes in and out of the region and the best landing sites for foreign merchants, so they have something of an economic stranglehold on their peers.’
The general reached out and noisily slurped more wine from his cup before returning to his briefing.
‘If we can subdue the Dunarii, we will more or less have the whole south-west at our mercy. And the Dunarii’s strongest point is also their most crucial to trade: a great hill fortress that serves as their king’s palace, the home of their strongest army, their most sacred site and, best of all, sits at the main crossroads of their trade routes. We take this fortress and we control the region.’
The other officers in the room were nodding their approval and squinting at the map as General Volentius poured another cup, sank it, then sought the apparent site of this great fortress on the map and tapped it repeatedly as if in deep thought, his brow beetling.
Something led Bellacon’s eyes off to one side, and he realised that the witch – Lissa – had been stitching for some time with her eyes closed, her lips moving in a constant silent litany. He felt a shudder of the unseen otherworld, and experienced a moment of panic that she was weaving some kind of spell among them. No one else seemed to have noticed.
Something occurred to him suddenly, and he ripped his eyes from the strange woman, back to the general.
‘What of this fourth tribe, General? The one across the water.’
The general frowned uncertainly.
‘Your point, Bellacon?’
The tribune’s face remained locked on the general, though his eyes jerked to the corner at a subtle movement to see the witch now motionless, watching him with an arched eyebrow. He shivered.
‘This fourth tribe of whom you speak, General. You treat them as a south-western tribe, yet surely with such a wide stretch of water between them and the others, they will not be cowed by our controlling the Dunarii fortress?’
Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5) Page 4