The IX

by Andrew P. Weston

  The ground visibly shook, small stones dancing along the floor in defiance of gravity. Perplexed, it took Marcus a moment to realize another sound had intruded, lifting above the ethereal resonance surrounding them. Is that keening I hear? An alien rider flashed past. Uttering a strange, high pitched wail as he rode, the plaid apparition vanished in a blaze of sparks and metal. Men fell to the ground, bleeding or dying.

  “Riders!” someone shouted.

  Where did they come from?

  The stiffening breeze opened a path through the enveloping fog. Marcus’s blood ran cold. By the light of the full moon, he could see the hillside and mountains on either side of the river. Thousands of horsemen, all Iceni, now ringed their position. Some were already descending toward the units who had made it to the erroneous safety of the defile. Those squadrons of enemy cavalry already on this side of the glen were charging to intercept the command party.

  This isn’t a spur of the moment attack. Look how many of them there are. And when did they start mounting their warriors? He snorted at the irony of his question. As if knowing the answer will help us now.

  Marcus held his breath as a number of the colonel’s riders peeled off to engage the attacking vanguard. Despite the sound of battle about him, the clash of steel rang out as the two sides met. Several riders from both sides were unhorsed, and the melee quickly dissolved into a confused free-for-all. It was soon over. Letting out a huge sigh of relief, Marcus noted that most of his compatriots regained their saddles. But not all. Nearly a half dozen of his brave comrades now lay dead upon the floor, their remains already being desecrated by the berserkers. He watched, horrified, as a mob of barbarians lowered their heads to their victims. They remained there, ignoring the conflict around them, tearing and slavering at the flesh until forced to relinquish their feast by sheer weight of opposing numbers.

  They are cannibals then? That changes things. “Quicken the pace,” he screamed. “We’re almost within range of our archers, so we’ll have support soon. Keep going. Show no mercy. If you go down injured, you’re dead. Don’t let them take you. Use your teeth, stab with fingers, gouge with nails. Make them bleed.”

  It was a rousing speech, but Marcus needn’t have bothered. This was the first cohort. The cream of the legion. Before the night was over, the Iceni would fear them.

  The minutes dragged by; time devolved into one, long, grueling marathon of butchery. Every blow was met by a counter strike. Each attack by a riposte. Shouting and cursing, chopping and hacking, they fought on and on. Sweat bled into their eyes, exhaustion robbed them of the strength to simply lift their arms to wipe it away. In the end, it was often the first to make a mistake that died, their cries snatched away on the wings of the gale.

  Just when it felt like they would be overwhelmed by fatigue, it was over. One moment they were surrounded by a howling, baying mob of painted maniacs, and the next? A chorus of melodic yodels rang out about them, and the savages turned and ran. Within seconds, the night had claimed them. All that remained were the dead and the dying, and the shimmering vapors that cloaked the ravine and lower mountainside in a languid death shroud.

  Marcus couldn’t believe how sore he was. Groaning, he massaged his neck in an attempt to soothe away the pain. His arms were covered in a patchwork of cuts and grazes where weapons had gotten a little too close on too many occasions. Resting his hands on his thighs, he winced with pain. Ah! I’d forgotten about that.

  At one point during the battle, he’d been pulled from his mount by some kind of fishhook-style device the savages had employed to unhorse their opponents. Starblaze herself had come to his rescue. Crushing the tartan-clad killer beneath her hooves, she stomped their assailant unconscious until Marcus ended it with a knife to the heart.

  The wound’s still open and raw. I’ve got to get Cornelius to take a look at it. Those filthy bastards poison their weapons. It’ll fester if I don’t get it treated.

  Swaying, Marcus almost toppled from his saddle as a gust of wind caused Starblaze to shy. He nearly went down again when someone punched him in the arm and offered him a cup of water. “Thirsty, Colonel?” Drusus shouted above the gale.

  Turning to face him, Marcus could see his friend’s countenance had become a wilderness of grime and ugly bruises. One of his teeth was missing, giving him a lopsided grin. Stifling a snigger, Marcus was nevertheless confused. “What did you say?”

  “I asked you if you were thirsty . . . Colonel. You’re my acting second now. You’ll find me a great deal more approachable than our former commander.” He glanced about him as the tail end of the legion limped in. “Not that it will do us much good now with half an army left, and an indefensible position to hold.”

  “Why? How bad is it?”

  Drusus ran bloodied fingers through his hair, exposing a nasty cut on his scalp. “From reports so far, most of the first three cohorts, and some of the fourth, are intact. Fortunately, our most experienced soldiers were at the head of the column, and were able to take advantage of this position. We have Flavius to thank for that. His equitata gained the high ground without much in the way of opposition. He also saved half a cohort of sagittaria and used them to great effect, keeping the approaches clear . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “But?” Marcus knew the worst was to come.

  “We’ve heard nothing from the trailing cohorts.”

  “Nothing? But the lip of the valley is only half a mile from here. The eighth cohort was already over it before the fighting started. I was with the fifth myself as the battle got underway. It was their aquilifer who sounded the advance to arms. How could so many . . . just . . . ?” He gazed out into the all-enveloping fog. It moved about them like a living entity, swirling and sparkling sedately in defiance of the windstorm now hammering down on them. Every time he moved Marcus noted how the tendrils of vapor would follow, as if attracted in some arcane way to his essence. His skin seemed to be shining too, in imitation of the mist itself.

  The temperature abruptly dropped and the wind died to almost nothing. Marcus was appalled. “What is this stuff? It seems to be concentrated about this location as if, as if . . .”

  “It’s what’s keeping us alive, Marcus,” Drusus countered. “You can’t have failed to see we are surrounded. The Iceni knew we were coming, and waited for us with a superior force. Cavalry too, if you can believe it. If they hadn’t already been lurking in the mountains on this side of the river, I’d have said we had a fighting chance. Once we constructed a few fortifications, dug a few ditches, their cavalry wouldn’t have mattered. But there’s no time now. They’re not here to take prisoners . . .” he waved his fingers in the air, “. . . only this stuff is keeping them back. I for one am very glad it’s here, for I fear without it we’d already be dead.”

  “Ware the plain!”

  The sudden warning from one the sentries caused everyone to come alert.

  As if Mercury were keen to taunt them with his bag of tricks, the mists began to peel back a little. From out of the moonlit gloom, a stream of soldiers could be seen making their painful way toward salvation. Some jogged, more stumbled. Yet others struggled to carry injured comrades.

  The same voice announced, “It’s our brothers from the fifth and sixth cohorts.”

  “Over here,” someone yelled.

  “This way,” called another.

  Shapes materialized within the haze behind the fleeing men. The moon’s luminescence added a terrifying perspective to their size.

  “Run! You are pursued,” yelled the lookout.

  The intervening curtain closed momentarily, muting the cries of pain and anguish that suddenly rang from out of the darkness. A number of heads turned toward Drusus and Marcus, looking for direction. Demanding an answer. Drusus stared coldly back.

  Further shrieks of agony stabbed the night. They were joined by howls of delight from the inhumane savages gleefully inflicting their tortures on exhausted and helpless men.

  Drusus trotted along the line.
Using the unexpected calm to his advantage, he raised his voice and addressed the Ninth. “They’re testing our mettle. They know we are loath to leave our wounded in the field. Our brothers, brave, to the mercies of animals with the scruples of pigs. But if we are foolish enough to underestimate them again, it will be to our cost. We are already reduced. Anyone going to their aid will die a meaningless death. I will not lose more men in such a way tonight. We will live. We will survive. And we will make them rue the day they ever thought to cross the Ninth Legion of Rome.”

  Coming to a standstill directly in front of the massed ranks, he raised his sword and yelled, “We are the Ninth!”

  “The Ninth,” everyone responded, surging to their feet.

  “The glorious Ninth,” he repeated, punching his hand aloft once more.

  “The Ninth,” resounded the reply.

  “The Ni–”

  Choc!

  Those nearest Drusus caught their breaths as the new commander rocked forward in his seat. He tried to regain his composure, but started jerking in his saddle as if he were a puppet being tormented by a sadistic fiend. Even in the filtered moonlight, Marcus could see Drusus had turned a sickening white, as if suffering extreme shock. At that same moment, the hairs on Marcus’s arms stood on end. “Drusus?”

  Drusus stared back. His lips moved but he was unable to catch his breath. He glanced to one side, mesmerized by the ubiquitous mist that had closed about them to form a glittering, opaque wall. Eyes glazing, Drusus attempted to scrutinize his surroundings. Fascinated, he struggled to focus on the stones and small rocks littering the ravine that were lifting up from the floor in front of them. He finally seemed to remember where he was. His gaze intensified. Latching on to Marcus, he hunched forward and hissed, “Marcus. Look after them for me, will you?”

  As he spilled to the floor in a heap, everyone saw the war axe buried in the commander’s spine. Drusus Vergilius Cicero twitched once, then lay still.

  Howls erupted all about them.

  “I will, brother,” Marcus whispered. That’s the second promise I’ve made tonight.

  Rage coursed through his veins. His heart burning with fury, Marcus ignored the extraordinary events unfolding all around them and wheeled Starblaze about. “Sentries!” he roared, “light up the foreground. Archers! Kill every pale-faced, wide-eyed, naked bastard you see. Flavius! Take your equitata and scour the field clean of scum. Cohorts! Form up and prepare to fight. This night we–”

  Thunk!

  Marcus experienced the oddest of sensations. He felt both hot and cold at the same time. Lightheaded, but unbelievably weary. Invincible, and yet as fragile as an insect in the beak of a nightjar. For some reason, the world appeared lopsided and out of phase with reality. His perspective tilted and the ground rushed up to meet him. Impervious to the shock of landing, Marcus was more astonished by the spectacle of the arrow protruding from his chest than anything else.

  His skin tingled. Sounds began to echo and recede. The world went white. Spinning, he felt himself being lifted from the floor . . . and then the ice cold grip of death closed in on him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Last Stand

  Sword in hand, his scarf bound tightly across his face, Lex hunched as low as he dared across the neck of his horse and clung on for dear life.

  It was always dangerous, riding in such a manner. Not only couldn’t you see where you were going, but you wouldn’t have time to maneuver away from hidden dangers if they suddenly manifested. And that was at the best of times. On occasions like this, when visibility was seriously reduced by inclement weather, or with enemies lurking at every turn, it was near suicidal.

  Lex trusted his gelding, Samson, implicitly. The two had ridden together for three years now, and had formed a close bond. He’d always proved a sure-footed mount, and today was no exception. Samson had trampled at least a half dozen rebel warriors who had lain in wait in the long grass, leaving Lex only a handful to deal with directly.

  Lex hadn’t trusted everything to blind luck. Thank God I don’t have a stick up my ass, like the captain. Letting Stained-With-Blood lead the way is the best decision I’ve made in a long time. How the hell he can spot the safest route in conditions like this, I’ll never know. I bet Houston’s already dead. There were hundreds of . . . whoa!

  Something moved in the wildly dancing sward below him. Lunging upward at the last moment, the assassin attempted to skewer Lex with a spear. Reacting instinctively, he slashed down with his blade. A shock ran along his arm, and Samson shuddered slightly as whoever it was got bowled over. “Good boy!” Lex crooned.

  Soothing Samson’s neck, Lex strained to make sense of the confusing blur whipping by on both sides. He quickly gave up, concentrating instead on Stained-With-Blood’s back. As one born to such savage delights, the Native American forded the wilderness with consummate ease, and Lex couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

  Riding bareback, Stained-With-Blood looked completely at home. Tomahawk in hand, long flowing locks streaming behind him in the gale, the brave was a vision of the very land itself come to life. Power, vitality, unity. The stinging hail and driving wind didn’t bother him one bit. Unlike the rest of them.

  Crouched as he was, like a hunchbacked invalid across his horse, Lex felt like an old man and jokingly admitted, I hate him!

  The feeling was only reinforced by the sight of Quincy Shelby. The private had tried desperately to keep the colors flying during the first few miles of their flight. But in the end, the battering both he and the pennant had taken from the elements had forced Quincy to demount the guidon and stash it within his saddlebag.

  Not that Lex minded. Even though he had the use of both hands, Quincy was only just managing to hang on. And that isn’t surprising . . . considering.

  Glancing behind them, Lex realized that the Cree coalition weren’t the only ones pursuing them. The tornado-like formation that had appeared over the open plain seemed to be grinding straight for them. The billowing clouds had darkened and solidified into a churning vortex of power that filled the air with grit and small stones. All across the savanna, the long grasses were being whipped and thrashed about so mercilessly Lex thought they would surely be torn from the earth.

  This weather can’t be natural. The sooner we make it to Skull Canyon, the better. We’ll find some degree of shelter, and with properly placed rifles can start picking a few of them off . . . If we don’t get ripped off our horses first.

  Risking a peek toward Small Robes, his awe only increased. Despite her delicately small frame, she epitomized her uncle and sat high in the saddle, challenging the elements to bow before her. She looked glorious, and Lex couldn’t help but think what a fool Snow Blizzard was for spurning the proposed alliance.

  His heart skipped a beat as an anguished howl caught his attention. Craning around to his left, Lex saw another riderless horse keeping pace with the pack. Is that Chip’s gelding? Chip Walton? Damn! He was our newest recruit.

  Flapping reins and empty stirrups taunted him. Lex could feel the itch of impending death worming its way ever deeper between his shoulder blades. He dare not stop to scratch, not even for a second, lest an arrow take him or his fate leap up out of the ground to claim his life. He was only nineteen, and engaged to be married.

  Hunching further down, he ground his teeth in mounting frustration.

  From somewhere behind, several gunshots rang out in quick succession. The empty satisfaction of knowing Chip’s assailant was probably dead did nothing to stop the bile rising in his throat. Bastards! We’ve got to get out of here. Soon.

  The sound of gravel underfoot indicated they must be near a watercourse or an outcrop of some kind. Lex strained to look ahead again. Without warning, Stained-With-Blood leaned heavily over on one side of his mustang. Swinging savagely, the blade of his tomahawk bit home. Rising once more, it left a scarlet spray in the air. Flashing past, Lex only had an instant to recognize another skin-covered body spiraling to the floor, th
is one with a gaping wound across its face.

  How on earth are they managing to get so far ahead of us? he thought, concerned he was missing something important. Have they been here all along?

  He was about to call ahead to ask Stained-With-Blood’s advice, when the brave waved furiously toward their right flank. Changing direction, he charged off, shouting, “This way, quickly. Follow me.”

  Lex gave the signal to follow, and the platoon wheeled in pursuit.

  The wind dropped as they descended a stony track. The trail widened and the gradient became steeper, getting rockier with every step. Hanging back, Lex encouraged the stragglers to make haste and counted them off as they rode in. Peering back out toward the plain, he realized the depression would be totally hidden from view.

  Is this the entrance to the hidden canyon Captain Houston referred to? Already? We might just make it after . . .

  Lex gasped as he caught sight of the storm. It was only now, while he wasn’t running, that he was able to look at it properly. And feel it!

  A huge, anvil-shaped cloud formation spread out for miles in every direction. Turning from gray at the edges to midnight-blue at the center, it seethed as if some inner conflict were threatening to tear it apart. Unseen reverberations made Lex’s teeth and nasal cavity throb. He was reminded of the feeling he had once experienced as a boy, when his parents had taken him to see the Philharmonic Society of New York. He had been sitting in the front row and as the orchestra had prepared, the combined resonance produced by over a hundred tuning instruments had given Lex a headache. He was experiencing that exact same sensation now, but on a much grander scale. And the pit from which these vibrations issued was vast. It bit into the ground with a savagery that blotted out the horizon and made him gawp in wide-eyed horror. And it was altering course, to correspond with the new direction they were taking.