Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands

by Michael R. Hicks

  Karan shouted to Paulus. “Keep them moving! I’ll catch up!”

  With a quick nod, Paulus did as Karan said, leading the women along behind him, with Hercules shadowing Valeria and Septimus bringing up the rear. Valeria threw him a frightened glance and mouthed what Karan took for a quiet prayer as she ran, disappearing past one of the buildings lining the street.

  “Think you can handle them, Karan?” Septimus shouted.

  Karan impatiently waved for him to continue on. His mind was already falling into the chasm of deep calm from which he drew his greatest fury in battle. He stood like a statue as the enemy ran for him. His sword, held to his right side, the tip pointing to the ground behind him, gleamed a flickering orange-red in the firelight.

  “It’s their Ghost!” one of the approaching soldiers shouted.

  “That’s just what he’ll be when I’m through with him…” gloated another, the first one to reach Karan. He cocked his sword arm back to make a thrust at Karan’s chest.

  He died as Karan suddenly lunged forward, using the leverage of his entire body to swing the blade upward in a blinding arc. Split clean in two from crotch to shoulder, the man’s two halves fell forward while Karan forced himself between the bleeding sides of meat.

  Several of the other soldiers cursed, but their curses turned into cries of surprise and brief agony as Karan’s sword continued its deadly work. Many times had he fought multiple opponents, and more often than not they tended to get in one another’s way, or could be manipulated into doing so. It was a skill that had come to him naturally, but that he had also honed over time in the bloody crucible that had been his training as a child. These men, while formidable on the battlefield as an integrated unit presenting a united front to an enemy, were now individual opponents crowding one another. Karan parried and blocked their thrusts and slashes, all the while moving, forever moving, his sword an extension of his body as it cut the life from theirs.

  Suddenly they were no more. Extracting the blade from the last to die, Karan whirled around at a roar from across the street. There stood Haakon the Barbarian, his back to one of the buildings. With a sword in each hand, he was fighting off at least a dozen attackers.

  While Karan knew he had to rejoin Valeria and the others without delay, he could not bring himself to leave Haakon to die.

  Sprinting across the Via Praetoria, he fell upon his prey. Like Haakon, Karan had been trained not just to kill, but to perform, to please the Masters. But he could also slaughter with ruthless efficiency. The long blade of his sword sliced across the back of the exposed necks of his unsuspecting opponents, severing flesh and spine. In but a few breaths he had killed two-thirds of them, and Haakon finished off the rest as they turned to face the silent killer that had come at them from behind.

  “I didn’t need your help!” Haakon protested hotly as he shoved one of his blades through the back of a man who was still moaning. Then he spit on the body as he yanked the sword free.

  “Set aside your pride, Haakon,” Karan chided. “Come with me. We can use your help to protect the princess and Empress.”

  “There will be more of these bastards to kill?”

  “I have no doubt.”

  The giant grinned, his teeth twinkling in the light. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  ***

  The men of Legio Hercules had been deceived, but they weren’t fools. Once they realized what was happening, every man began to fight his way toward the praetorium, for they knew that was where Caesar and Pelonius would be. Unfortunately, since most had been off duty and free to enjoy the feast, they wore only their tunics and were unarmed, unlike their murderous guests who had smuggled in daggers and swords, kept hidden under their clothing. But soldiers know how to fight with more than just their weapons, and so it was with the men of Hercules. With desperate determination, they grappled, punched, kicked, and strangled the enemy, cracked skulls with stones taken from the walkways, or shoved their attackers into the flames of the cooking fires. And from those they killed, they took steel in hand to kill more. Perhaps a fifth of Hercules’s soldiers succumbed to murder in the opening wave of the attack, and more died with every passing minute. But the survivors fought and clawed their way with desperate tenacity to their legatus and the Emperor.

  “Gods be good, we’re outnumbered three to one,” Pelonius said in a low voice after shouting commands to one of the surviving centurions, who in turn began to turn the disorganized mob near him into a semblance of an organized century as the enemy pressed their attack. “At least our men now know who opposes them.” While it had been overlooked in the initial shock of the attack, the men of the enemy legions wore strips of red cloth around their left arms to tell friend from foe. The men of Hercules no longer had to worry about whether they were accidentally killing their comrades.

  “Make that four to one,” Caesar spat as he caught sight of a lone figure on horseback riding slowly up the Via Praetoria toward them. “Invictus is with them.”

  Pelonius stared. “Sergius!” With a snarl, Pelonius snatched up a spear that one of his men had dropped when he was killed. Casting a well practiced eye upon Sergius, Pelonius cocked his throwing arm back before taking two long steps forward with an athletic grace that belied his age. Twisting his body at the last instant, putting every bit of strength he could behind the throw, he hurled the spear into the night.

  Several stragglers from Hercules emerged from between a pair of barracks buildings, blundering into Sergius and nearly driving his horse to the ground.

  Pelonius cursed as his spear plunged into the ground right where his target had been a moment before.

  Sergius kept his beast under control and drove off his attackers by having his horse whirl around and kick at them. Two of the men fell, while the others, seeing their fellows fighting in the square before the praetorium, began to fight in that direction through the mass of men from the opposing legions. None of them made it.

  Marcus could be heard above the bedlam as he moved about in the compact defensive square that was growing thicker by the minute, bellowing orders and encouragement to the men while he personally lent a hand here and there, killing any of the enemy who managed to leak through the struggling lines. Swords, shields, and spears had been taken from the fallen soldiers of the enemy while more had been brought from the barracks and armory. Hercules was looking more like the fearsome weapon it was meant to be, rather than a rabble of men desperate to avoid becoming victims of wanton slaughter.

  “Four to one,” Tiberius muttered. “We’ve fought and won against worse odds.”

  Pelonius threw him a glance. “Not often.”

  “True enough.” Both men dashed forward with the small group of soldiers attending them as a reserve to plug a hole that suddenly opened in the defensive wall. “Hold the line!” Tiberius shouted as he dodged a thrusting sword before sending his own blade into the attacker’s throat. Pelonius was grabbing men from a few feet farther on, where the line was still thick, moving them to cover the weak spot.

  That was when, above the clash of steel and screams of battle, they heard the call of the Dark Wolves.

  ***

  The alpha had led his pack along the trail left by the humans they had been shadowing. The wolves did not understand why the humans did what they did, nor did they care. But the alpha did not want to fight with them unless it was under favorable circumstances. He remembered the bloodletting the pack had suffered at the hands of other men such as these, and he was cunning enough to not wish to repeat the experience.

  They waited at the edge of the trees now, watching with glowing eyes as the humans fell upon one another in great numbers. The alpha growled as some of his pack made to feed upon the flesh of the human bodies that had been left here in the forest. Tails between their legs, they retreated. This near to the end of this long hunt, the pack would not feed until the alpha feasted on the prey’s flesh.

  Lifting his head high, the alpha sniffed the air. The scent of the
great predator was strong here: this was his territory, well marked. But he could also smell the prey’s much more subtle scent. He was close now, very close.

  The pack grew more and more agitated the longer the alpha waited. They were very hungry now, some trembling with a mix of fear of the alpha’s wrath and anticipation of at long last sinking their teeth into their prey. The air itself, flush with the overpowering aroma of fresh blood, was driving them mad.

  At last the alpha himself could no longer hold back. His hunger and bloodlust overrode his fear of the predator whose territory he was invading and the humans who sought to kill one another. Throwing his head back, he let loose a yip-yip-yipping cry that was instantly answered by hundreds of his brothers and sisters before they bolted from the trees to add their own carnage to the melee.

  ***

  Valeria ran beside her mother, their dresses fluttering behind them. Inspired by Octavia, who had snatched the dagger from the scabbard on her thigh, Valeria had grabbed a sword from a soldier who no longer needed it. Septimus ran beside Octavia, while Paulus ran beside Valeria. Behind them, Hercules moved with feral grace, his head whipping from side to side, his great eyes drawn by every noise.

  Fortunately, they had encountered only a handful of enemy soldiers on this side of the praetorium, all of whom had been quickly dispatched by Septimus and Paulus. The battle taking place at the center of the fort was drawing everyone, friend and foe alike, into a whirlpool of blood.

  “The sentries are gone!” Paulus shouted. The gate lay before them, the doors left wide open, the four men who normally stood guard absent.

  “Just keep going,” Septimus told him.

  They had nearly reached the gate when Valeria heard a sound that sent a chill down her spine: horses, lots of them, somewhere beyond the wall, drawing closer. Fast.

  “Oh, balls,” Septimus hissed as a detachment of cavalry thundered through the gate, the soldiers wearing red strips of cloth on one arm. He grabbed Octavia and pushed her behind him, and Paulus followed suit with Valeria. There wasn’t time to do anything else.

  With a laugh, the centurion leading the charge aimed straight for them, his sword raised high. “Take the women alive! Kill the others!”

  Septimus turned to look at Octavia, who held his gaze evenly.

  “You know what you must do,” she said.

  The centurion’s laugh turned to a high-pitched shriek as Hercules burst from the shadows behind Valeria with an ear-splitting roar. With a swipe of a forepaw, the hexatiger sent the horse sprawling as he snatched the centurion in his jaws. After giving the man a vicious shake while his jaws crushed his armored chest, Hercules flung him aside.

  The horses, the whites of their eyes gleaming, whinnied in terror and skidded to a stop. Dozens of riders were sent sailing into space before slamming into the hard street.

  Hercules waded into the cavalrymen, just as he had done against the dark wolves, but with even more lethal effect. The horses bolted back the way they had come, trampling some of the men on the ground before colliding with yet more riders who were trying to force their way through the gate. The men who managed to survive being flung from their horses did not long enjoy their good fortune as Hercules slashed, bit, and crushed them in an orgy of killing.

  “May the gods save us,” Octavia whispered as she stood in open-mouthed awe. She had never once in her life witnessed Hercules commit an act more violent than taking down a deer for food when he was a cub. But even then, Hercules had been almost gentle as he clamped his jaws on the deer’s neck to suffocate it before he dined.

  “One of them already is,” Karan answered from behind them, a blood-covered Haakon by his side. “You now see why he is the greatest of our gods.”

  Seeing Karan, Valeria almost wept with relief, and her smile warmed his heart.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Haakon growled as one of the thrown enemy soldiers rose to his feet and turned in their direction, sword in hand. A dagger whistled through the air, skewering him in the throat. Haakon went to retrieve his weapon, then gleefully stabbed the other men who’d been thrown, most of whom were only stunned, to make sure they would never again rise.

  Before them, Hercules continued to wreak havoc on the disorganized cavalry, his roars countering the screams of the men and the almost human-sounding screams of the horses.

  “I almost feel sorry for them,” Octavia said, wincing at the horrific noise.

  “Don’t,” Septimus told her. “Let the big cat gut the lot of them, the traitorous bastards.”

  After what seemed like forever, the surviving cavalrymen and riderless horses broke through the glut of horses pressing in behind them to flee. Those still beyond the gate, seeing what awaited them, reined their mounts around as fast as they could and retreated at a full run across the sandy beach in the direction from which they’d come.

  Hercules roared after them, then stood there panting. As he paused to lick some blood (not his own) from his forepaws, one of his victims raised a hand toward Valeria and the others and begged for mercy. With a growl, Hercules slammed the forepaw down, crushing the life from his squealing prey.

  With the way momentarily clear, Septimus ushered the women forward through the body strewn killing ground while he and the other men made quick work of the remaining survivors.

  Octavia reached down with her dagger to slit the throat of a man who was whispering for forgiveness. “Rot in the afterlife,” she hissed.

  Not to be outdone, Valeria found a man trying to rise to his knees. Much to her surprise, he was faking: as she drew close, he lunged at her, driving his sword toward her belly. Septimus’s training won through her surprise. She parried the man’s thrust and pivoted smoothly as he propelled himself forward, leaving himself off balance. Whirling around, she cut one of his calves, and with a cry of pain he collapsed to the ground.

  She was about to finish him off when Hercules pounced, his mouth clamping around the man’s head.

  “He was mine!” she shouted with what she knew must have sounded like childlike indignation as the man’s skull, even with the protection of his helmet, let go with a brittle crack.

  Hercules looked up at her, licked his chops, then leaned forward and snuffled at her.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, reaching out to scratch his blood-soaked muzzle. “Thank you, Hercules.”

  The big cat’s nose twitched, and suddenly he stiffened and let out a low growl, his eyes staring toward the screaming melee at the center of the fort.

  The others followed his gaze as the night was split by animal cries, hundreds of them.

  “Oh, no,” Valeria whispered, her eyes widening with fear.

  Octavia gripped her daughter’s hand. “What is it?”

  “The Dark Wolves.”

  Karan nodded. “At last have they come.” As a tide of terrified screams and animal snarls washed over the roar of battle at the fort’s center, Karan knelt before Hercules and offered his sword as his lips mouthed the words of a silent prayer. Getting to his feet, he gave Valeria a long, deep look. Shifting his gaze to Paulus, he said, “Keep her safe, my friend.”

  Then he turned and sprinted back toward the heart of the battle that had just become one between man and beast.

  Valeria tried to catch him. “Karan, no! Come back!” She struggled as Paulus took her in his arms. “Let me go!”

  “No, Valeria!” Paulus said. “Where he must go, you cannot follow.”

  “Come, my daughter,” Octavia said in the voice she used to calm Valeria when she had been an unruly child. “If you would honor Karan, you would do as he asked. Let us keep you safe.”

  “No,” Valeria whispered, feeling utterly helpless.

  “Come on,” Paulus said gently. He led her and Octavia toward the relative safety of The Wall. Hercules followed, stopping now and again to glance behind him and growl.

  Septimus and Haakon paused, listening to the bedlam into which Karan was plunging.

  “Bugger all,” Septimus whisp
ered, “what a gods-damned mess.”

  Haakon sighed. “I am missing out.” Then with a scheming grin, he looked at Septimus. “Twenty denarii says Karan lives to return to us.”

  Squinting up at the taller man as if he had gone completely mad, Septimus said, “What, you take me for an idiot? That’s a fool’s bet if there ever was one.” He snorted. “Come on, you big oaf, we’ve got a job to do.”

  ***

  Sergius fled down one of the alleyways between the outer wall and the first row of buildings of the castrum as the dark wolves poured through the main gate. He passed by several stacks of large amphora. After throwing a quick look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being pursued, he reined his horse to a halt. Leaping to the ground, he leaned over one of the big clay containers and caught the smell of pitch. An idea sparked in his mind.

  With a grim smile, he knocked it to the ground, then did the same to another. The dark, viscous liquid splashed out, covering the ground around the other amphorae and the base of the wall.

  Remounting his horse, he rode toward the gate on the eastern side of the fort where Legio Equistris was pressing its attack, knocking over more of the amphorae as he went. He needed to borrow a few of Decius’s men for what he planned to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marcus didn’t need to be told what to do when the dark wolves began to savage the rear of the enemy formation. “By rotation,” he bellowed, “retreat toward The Wall!”

  The men of Legio Hercules were now formed into a dense rectangle at the center of the square before the praetorium. Each side of the rectangle had a depth of several men, and when Marcus blew a whistle, the man at the front, holding his shield up to ward off the enemy while he thrust his sword at his opponents over the top of the shield, would sidestep to the right and pull back as the man behind him rotated forward. It was a standard battlefield tactic. Every man in the legion had performed the maneuver countless times during training, and the veterans had used it in nearly every battle they had fought.