Arrows of Fury: Empire Volume Two

by Riches, Anthony

  Antenoch dropped from the tree’s curved surface, saluting both officers.

  ‘Centurion Corvus, there are warriors climbing down the rocks, we can hear them.’

  Marcus turned to the other centurion.

  ‘We’ve got five minutes, no more, and there’ll be hundreds of them fighting us for this piece of riverbank. My archers can hold them off for a time, but we need to destroy these trees.’

  Appius’s men took guard around the tree’s impromptu bridge while the Hamians, the last men of the 8th Century still crossing, took their positions up and downstream, readying their bows to shoot. The first of the Votadini came across the bridge at something close to a run, the urgency of the situation telling in the speed with which the warriors crossed, one or two coming perilously close to falling into the Red. Martos, the last man across, walked across the impromptu bridge at a more dignified pace, pointing back across the river.

  ‘They’re close, I could hear them shouting to each other. They’ll be trying to cross in less than a minute, and nothing short of burning these trees out will keep them at bay, if that were even possible.’

  Appius snapped his fingers, turning to Marcus with a new light in his eyes.

  ‘Fire! That’s it! I know a man that keeps a ready supply. Keep them busy, eh, Two Knives? You’re in charge here until I get back!’

  Marcus caught his arm as he turned to go.

  ‘Take our Votadini allies with you, there’s no way they can stay here.’ He turned to Martos, offering the Votadini warrior his hand. ‘Thank you for staying back to lead us to safety, we would have been found and slaughtered without your guidance. Follow this officer and he will lead you to the main body. You’ll be better off there, safe from the risk that some idiot will take you for a Venico …’

  Martos nodded, taking the offered hand before beckoning his men to follow him, then ran north along the riverbank behind Appius, heading for the ford.

  Marcus called Qadir to his side.

  ‘Right, Chosen, I suggest that you get your men ready to start shooting. There are no friendlies left to cross the bridge. Aimed shots only and no volleys, we need to make every arrow count.’

  The shouts of the approaching Venicones were audible over the river’s babble now. Their excitement turned to anger as they encountered the bodies of their comrades. In the mist wreathing the Red’s far bank they milled around for a moment and then, goaded by their leaders, started their assault. Leaping on to the fallen tree with swords and spears ready to fight, they advanced along its length, hideously vulnerable targets for the waiting bows. The Hamian archers picked them off with lethal precision, dropping the warriors into the river’s fast-moving water with their blood spraying from two or three arrow wounds apiece.

  As the skirmish played out before him, Marcus was looking not to the barbarians his men were killing by the numbers, but to those on the bank behind them, their number swelling by the minute as more of the warband struggled down the outcrop and ran to join their comrades. Still calculating the odds, he staggered back as an arrow punched into the mail armour covering his chest, the missile dropping to the damp grass with its energy dissipated against the stout iron rings. Another arrow flicked off Morban’s helmet, and the standard-bearer ducked for cover behind the Hamian line with an unaccustomed agility.

  ‘Archers! Target the far bank with volleys.’

  He smiled grimly as the Hamians loosed a volley of arrows across the river which resulted in a chorus of groans and screams from the warriors milling about on the far bank, recognising the tactics being employed by whoever was in command on the far side. In an instant, whether deliberately or not, the game had been changed. Forced to fire en masse in order to kill or suppress the barbarian archers, the Hamians would run through their remaining arrows in minutes, rather than the much longer time possible if they were required only to pick off single targets.

  While the first volley tore into the mass of barbarians lining the far bank, sending most of them to earth, the second and third found far fewer targets as a result.

  ‘Cease volleys! Aimed shots only!’

  And probably a tenth of their stock of arrows were expended in less than half a minute. An astute leader on the far bank might reckon it worth the loss to throw his men back on to their feet to make the Romans run through their arrows, and remove the threat to their crossing at the cost of a few hundred lives. Without the threat of the archers, and with their bowmen to keep the defenders’ heads down, whoever was leading the men on the far bank would be able to mass twenty or thirty men on the trees’ broad trunks, ready to rush into their midst with hundreds more at their back. A few well-picked men with their feet on the western bank might occupy the defenders for long enough for their fellow warriors to reinforce them and secure the tiny bridgehead, allowing the trickle to become a flood. The warriors were on their feet again quickly enough once the iron rain no longer fell among them, barbarian arrows once more flicking through the ranks of the Hamian and Tungrian defenders.

  ‘Volleys!’

  Another three volleys were loosed to good effect, another tenth of their arrows gone. The situation was descending into a straight trade-off, bodies for arrows, and with sick certainty Marcus watched as the warriors rose again, some with more than one arrow wound.

  ‘Qadir!’

  The chosen man hurried across to him, keeping low as barbarian arrows resumed their irregular but potentially lethal hail.

  ‘How many arrows do we have left?’

  The big man grimaced.

  ‘Perhaps fifteen per man.’

  They had enough arrows for five more rounds of their deadly game, perhaps seven or eight if he restricted them to two shots each time. Ten minutes’ worth, and no more.

  ‘Aimed shots only. No more volleys. Tell your men I want no wasted arrows.’ He turned to the other century’s chosen man and watch officer, shaking his head in apology. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, your boys will have to take their chances with the barbarian archers. If I keep firing volleys to make them keep their heads down I’ll be out of arrows in less time than it’ll take for reinforcements to arrive.’

  An ugly thought occurred to him.

  ‘Could either of you throw a spear across the river?’

  The men looked at each other, then at the river, calculating the distance. The chosen man nodded slowly, his eyes still calculating the throw.

  ‘Not sure that I could, but I’ve got plenty of big strong boys that would make it easily …’

  Marcus motioned to Qadir, signalling a withdrawal.

  ‘Get them back ten paces, Qadir, we’re in spear range. I suggest you do the same, Cho …’

  The instruction died in his throat as he turned away from his men, the iron head and ash shaft of a Venico spear hissing past his face close enough that he felt the wind of its passing on his cheek. The other century’s chosen man jerked backwards a pace as the spear, having missed its target by the merest fraction, buried itself in his throat and took his life as compensation. Another half-dozen men were hit as they retreated from the river’s bank, two of them Hamians. While the first archer’s mail coat saved him from any harm worse than a severe bruise, the second man hit was less lucky, and went down with a spear through his back as his mail’s rings parted under the weapon’s impact. Qadir ran forward and grabbed the fallen Hamian by the collar of his ring mail, snatching up his shield and raising it against further attack as he dragged him back to safety. Marcus knelt by the man’s head and put a finger to his throat.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  The men of the 8th watched him lying motionless in the mud with what the young centurion momentarily took for numb detachment, until he realised that the dead man was the first casualty the century had suffered since his assumption of command. Marcus and Qadir stood behind their men, watching as the Hamians systematically shot down any man that set foot on the fallen tree trunks, steadily depleting their remaining arrows.

  ‘They’re manoeuvring us neatl
y into position to be mobbed once we’ve run out of arrows and shot back whatever they’ve shot at us. We can’t defend the bank, they’ll just shower us with spears and bleed us dry, and that means they can throw men across until they’ve built enough strength to roll us over. Make sure every arrow finds a target …’

  He stalked away, forcing himself to ignore the arrows aimed at his distinctive helmet as he approached the 2nd Cohort soldiers cowering behind their shields. With their chosen man dead the century was leaderless, at least until Appius returned from whatever task he had decided would provide an answer to the fallen trees’ threat.

  ‘Watch officer and standard-bearer, to me!’

  A pair of soldiers detached themselves from the century, using their shields for protection against the intermittent barbarian arrows. Marcus hefted the shield he had picked up from beside the dead chosen man, and ducked into its cover.

  ‘With your chosen man dead you’re the only leadership left for your men.’

  The two men regarded him unhappily. Content to enforce their officer’s discipline, and to organise the more mundane duties of the century, neither looked particularly eager to assume the burden of command. He stepped in closer to the pair, leaning to put his face only inches from theirs and to allow him to speak more quietly, but with an unmistakable edge to his voice.

  ‘I can see that you don’t like the idea, but you have no choice in the matter. Without your leadership these men will break and run once my archers run out of arrows, and the barbarians will come across that bridge with their tails up and looking for the revenge on us for all the men we’ve killed here. And if your men run, if you let that happen, they will be hacked to pieces inside five minutes. As will we all. Within half an hour every man in both cohorts will either be running for their lives or have their guts laid out for inspection. So, gentlemen, what will it be? Death, or glory?’ The two soldiers looked at each other, each of them seeing his own uncertainty mirrored in the other’s face. Marcus changed tack, reaching for humour where the plain facts weren’t succeeding. ‘You’re both scared shitless, right?’

  They nodded reluctantly, the standard-bearer cracking the thinnest of smiles as he spoke.

  ‘I’ll probably manage one good shit once those bastards are across the river.’

  Marcus sighed gently, thanking his gods for the soldier’s unfailing gift of humour in the darkest situations. He looked quickly to Qadir, who held up a hand with the five digits splayed out. Five arrows per man, perhaps three more minutes.

  ‘I’ll let you into a secret, then. I’ve just led these lads, all scared out of their wits by those headhunting bastards, through rain and mud and blood to get across the river in one piece. All that time, hiding up hills and in ditches, and I’ve been busting for a good long sit-down all that time.’ The two men goggled at him. An officer, and clearly a nicely brought-up boy too, telling them that he needed the latrine? ‘And if I can hold on to my arse all afternoon on the wrong side of the river with that lot running around, then I’m sure that you two can give me a few minutes of leadership for these poor buggers. So here’s the deal. You take four tent parties each, and you deploy them to either side of my lads, one left, one right ….’

  His plan explained, he hurried back to his century, drawing his cavalry sword and praying for both men to find their courage when the time came.

  ‘How many left?’

  ‘One or two arrows apiece.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Eighth Century, every man without any arrows remaining, raise your right hand.’

  Two dozen or so hands went up. When another dozen barbarians had been toppled from the tree trunks he shouted again.

  ‘If you’re out of arrows, right hand up and keep it up!’

  About sixty this time. Looking back into the mist he could see nothing, no sign of reinforcement. That they would have to fight hand to hand was now inevitable. That there was only one way that they could fight successfully, and even then only for a very limited time, seemed equally likely.

  ‘Eighth Century, those of you with arrows, keep shooting, but listen to me! When you run out of arrows put your arm in the air. When enough men have run out, I will give the order to draw swords. If you’re still shooting, put your bow down and air your blade. Pick your shield up and form a line, two men deep just as we trained you.’

  More hands went up in the air, until about ninety per cent of his men were no longer able to shoot at the attacking Venicones.

  ‘Draw your swords!’

  The remaining archers stood, and with the rasp of metal on metal the century drew their swords and jostled into something approaching the standard defensive formation, twenty paces or so from the riverbank. The Venicones were already crossing the trees in numbers, perhaps a dozen men now visible on the western bank. Marcus muttered under his breath, judging the right moment to commit his men.

  ‘Mithras forgive me sending these innocents to face those animals.’ He drew breath and bellowed in his best parade ground roar. ‘Eighth Century! At the walk! Advance!’

  For an awful moment nothing happened, as the archers struggled to digest the terrible novelty of their situation. From his place behind the century Qadir suddenly roared a command, his voice unrecognisable compared to his usual mannered speech.

  ‘FORWARD!’

  Where the formal command had failed to galvanise the Hamians, the sudden bellow from their rear set them moving. Crouching behind their shields like terrified recruits faced with their first practice battle perhaps, but nevertheless advancing on the baying tribesmen. Marcus shot a surprised look at Qadir, and was amazed at the fierce stare he received in return as his chosen man spoke, his voice an angry snarl.

  ‘They’re dead, whether they attack or simply stand and wait for it to happen. They might as well go to meet their goddess with their dignity intact.’

  Marcus nodded, stepping forward to stay close to the rear rank, pushing at their backs with the dead chosen man’s long wooden pole as Qadir followed suit with his own. The bellowing Venicones were less than ten paces away, hammering swords against their small shields to raise a din calculated to stand off the numerically superior Roman force while more men crossed the river behind them. Qadir’s voice boomed out over the tumult again.

  ‘Forward! Board and swords, gut the bastards!’

  The Hamians edged forward, their reluctance to take the fight to the wild-eyed warriors railing at them painfully obvious. The Venico tribesmen’s confidence visibly grew as they took in their opponents’ clear desire to be somewhere else, half a dozen of them stepping boldly across the slowly narrowing gap to hammer at the archers’ shields with their long swords. One of them, his confidence in the face of such poor opposition clearly sky high, angled his sword down over a shield in a powerful thrust, putting the blade’s tip through the throat of the man behind it. The dying Hamian convulsed with the wound’s shock, his struggles disrupting the century’s line of shields and encouraging another tribesman to step in and attempt a kill. The blade flashed down in a vicious arc, missing its intended target by a hair’s breadth but, more critically, scaring the wits out of the men to either side and suddenly, decisively, splitting the century into two distinct halves separated by a two-foot gap. Unless it was closed at once the tribesmen would be in there, hacking furiously to either side and in all likelihood shattering the 8th’s already fragile confidence completely. Marcus dropped the wooden pole, drawing his spatha with a flourish and reaching for the hilt of his gladius in readiness to throw himself into the gap, but as he pulled the short sword from its scabbard and steeled himself to fight he was elbowed aside by a bulky figure.

  ‘Syria!’

  Qadir had snatched up a shield and beaten him to it, leaving him standing impotently with both swords ready to fight, but without any means of getting at the Venicones hammering at the shield wall behind which he was trapped. Watching helplessly and aghast at his chosen man’s likely fate, he was amazed to see the previ
ously placid Hamian bury his sword deep in the closest tribesman’s guts, then kick him off the blade while parrying an attack from his left with an almost dismissive flick of his borrowed shield. He swung the blade, already running red with blood, backhanded, hacking into another man’s neck and almost severing his victim’s head from its shoulders with the force of the blow. A spray of hot blood showered the front rankers around him, its coppery stink filling the air.

  ‘Deasura!’

  The scream came not from the near-berserk Qadir, but from one of the archers standing close to him, and like the clap of thunder that presages the full fury of a gathering storm, it galvanised the Hamians to sudden, almost unbelievable action. In the space of a heartbeat their blood was up in a way that Marcus would never have predicted, most of the front rank screaming their defiance and, amazingly, gloriously, actually fighting back with their previously useless swords. Not all of their thrusts were anywhere near a target, but within the space of ten seconds there were half a dozen more dead and dying tribesmen at their feet for the loss of one man, who charged out of the line in the full grip of his newly discovered bloodlust, and died quickly and messily once separated from the protection of the century’s line of shields. The century had been transformed from hapless terror to clumsy but effective attack by Qadir’s sudden lunge into their front rank, and with their blood up the Hamians showed no sign of backing off their intended prey.

  Thinking quickly, Marcus abandoned his original plan and gestured to the 2nd Cohort watch officers to hold their ground, then ran to the end of the 8th’s line, bellowing down its length to get his men’s attention.

  ‘Eighth Century!’

  A brief, somehow unnatural quiet fell across the tiny battlefield, the remaining Venicones’ attention grabbed by his appearance at the end of the Roman line just as much as that of his own men.