Felix called more men from his reserve forward as an orc clambered over the barricade and onto the wall, barely two feet from him, where a gap had formed. The orc made to bring his sword around to strike. Karus’s friend turned and, without missing a beat, lunged and stabbed his sword through the creature’s mouth.
It toppled backward over the barricade and down the way it had come. Then the men of the reserve were there, filling in the gaps and stabilizing the defense of the wall. Fourth Cohort was holding and would continue to hold for as long as needed. That was clear. Though Karus was only too aware that he was losing men he could ill afford to replace. He was buying time with the lives of his men and that was always an uncomfortable feeling.
“Sir.”
Karus turned to find a legionary standing behind him at attention. This wasn’t a messenger from headquarters. It was one of Felix’s men. His rank marked him as an optio. Though Karus recognized him, he did not know his name. He was injured and had received a fairly deep cut on the forearm. It was a fresh wound and bled freely, but not overly much. The blood dripped from his fingers onto the paving stones at his feet.
“The aid station is down the street, legionary,” Karus said, wondering if the man was confused. Perhaps he’d also taken a hit to the head, but Karus did not see any damage to his helmet. He pointed in the direction the optio should go. “That way, toward the palace district. Someone can help you there.”
“I am not here for that, sir,” the legionary said, glancing down at his arm. “I’ve had worse. My centurion sent me to report to Centurion Felix, but I saw you, sir. I hope you don’t mind. Centurion Felix seems a little busy, sir.”
“Not at all,” Karus said, wondering what bad news the man brought. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir,” the optio said. “The enemy has pushed up a side street off to the left about two hundred yards.” He pointed in the direction with his injured and bleeding arm. “My centurion said they will be able to flank behind this defensive position in less than a quarter hour. He has a section of men slowing them down, sir. It is his recommendation we pull back to the next line, as soon as possible. There are too many of the enemy, sir, moving along the side streets and alleys. And … there are simply too few of us, sir.”
Karus felt his stomach plummet at the news. So soon … too soon.
“What’s your centurion’s name?” Karus asked.
“Centurion Agguus, sir,” the optio said.
Karus knew Agguus. The man was reliable and not one prone to becoming overly excited. If he said Felix’s line was about to be turned, well then, it was.
“Very well,” Karus said. “Return to Agguus and tell him the Fourth will be pulling back promptly.”
“Yes, sir.” The legionary saluted and turned to go.
“And, Optio,” Karus said.
“Sir?”
“Get that wound seen to,” Karus said, “will you?”
“I will, sir.”
Karus moved over to the wall. Felix spotted him and Karus waved him over.
“Time to give up the line and fall back to the next one.” Karus hated the necessity of it, even as he said it. “The enemy is behind us on the left and will be flanking shortly. I’ll alert headquarters and get them moving too … You focus on getting your cohort and those centuries you’ve placed on your flanks to where they need to go.”
“Bah … just when we’re starting to really kill them in good numbers, we have to fall back again.” Felix frowned, looking disgusted. He turned and studied the fight for a long moment, clearly working through in his mind how he wanted to disengage from the enemy. A pullback and disengagement from a fight was always tricky, dangerous even. He turned his attention back to Karus. “I will get right on it, sir.”
“Good,” Karus said. “I will see you on the next line.”
“Yes, sir.” Felix saluted and moved off, shouting for his officers.
“Let’s go,” Karus said to Kol’Cara. “Time to fall back again.”
Chapter Twenty-One
It was shaping up to be yet another brutally hot day. As he gazed up at the near flawless sky overhead, Karus thought the god of fire, Vulcan, would be well pleased with the heat in this land. He saw nothing other than the brilliant blue of the sky and the two suns. There were no dragons anywhere in sight. They had yet to return. He had no idea if they ever would.
He was standing just before the gate that led into the palace district. The main body of the last cohort to pull back from the city, the Seventh, was marching past and through the gate. Almost like a mother hen watching her chicks closely, Karus was there to see the last of his boys retire behind the safety of the palace walls.
The legion’s surgeon, Ampelius, was working on his injured arm, fashioning a sling from a piece of white cloth. The arm and shoulder throbbed abominably from when the orc had tackled him the previous evening. To make matters worse, Karus was beat. He had not slept a wink. It had been a long, difficult, and frustrating night.
In truth, Karus was pissed. No, that was not correct. He was very angry, enraged even … not at his men, for this was not their fault. His ire was at the situation he found himself in and how quickly things had deteriorated.
None of the legion’s defenses had held up for as long as he’d hoped. They had held for a time, inflicted moderate casualties even, but in the end, the enemy had proven exceptionally adept at bypassing the legion’s defensive lines. It had compelled the defenders to prematurely pull back time and again. That was one of the most frustrating things. At times, they seemed to know the city almost better than his men.
Karus was not one to make excuses and he recognized it for what it was, yet another example of the enemy having a say in how a battle unfolded. No matter how hard you prepared, planned … nothing ever went exactly the way you expected. Sometimes, it went very badly, which is what had happened.
All through the night, combat injures had mounted. In the end, Karus had made the difficult decision to simply give up the last defensive line, rather than attempt to hold and weaken his strength further. He could not afford that … not when defending the last line would only buy him maybe an hour or two. For his purposes and the plans he had put into motion, the palace walls would be sufficient to check the enemy for the time he needed for everything to play out. At least, he hoped this once, things would go according to plan.
Karus gave a grunt as Ampelius tied the sling securely into place, knotting the end. The surgeon gave it a tug to make sure it would not come loose.
“You could be a little gentler,” Karus groused.
“I take it that hurt?” the surgeon asked, raising an eyebrow. Ampelius looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy with bags. Karus knew the man and his team of medics had been working through the night to treat the wounded as they came in. He wore a smock that was badly stained with dried blood, a testament to the wounded he had tended to.
“It’s manageable,” Karus said.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Ampelius asked as he surveyed his handiwork.
“The good news,” Karus said. “I’ve had enough bad news to last me a lifetime.”
“I am fairly confident your arm’s not broken,” Ampelius said. “But you bruised your shoulder something good.”
“What’s the bad news?” Karus asked.
“I thought you didn’t want bad news?” Ampelius said, then giving in, heaved a sigh. “It’s gonna hurt for a few days. Best not to use it, eh? Take it easy, sir.”
“You know what’s going to happen here.” Karus lowered his voice and pointed with his good hand to the stone wall behind them. “Soon enough the enemy will be trying to overcome these walls. Are you seriously telling me not to fight if it comes to it?”
“You are the camp prefect and in command of the legion,” Ampelius said. “I do not have the authority to order you around. Nor would I want to. As such, I can only give you my advice. And that advice is to take it easy for a few days. If you don�
�t … you may make your injury worse, to the point where it won’t heal right.”
Karus felt himself scowl at that.
“If you’d like, I can give you something for the pain,” Ampelius said.
“Will it dull my thinking?” Karus suspected it would.
“Yes,” the surgeon said simply.
“Then no,” Karus said. “I will take the pain.”
“I thought as much,” Ampelius said as he picked up his bag. “If the discomfort worsens, call on me immediately. That might be a sign that there are internal injuries, ones not readily apparent.”
“I will,” Karus said.
Ampelius looked through the gate and scowled slightly. His eyes went to Amarra, who was speaking with Kol’Cara and Si’Cara just a few feet off, before returning his gaze to Karus. “It’s a shame she can’t heal anymore, like she did with the sickness. That would fix you right up.”
“If she could, you’d be out of a job.”
“Now that,” Ampelius said, “would be a blessing.”
“Would it?” Karus asked. “Would it really?”
“Contrary to popular belief, sir, I don’t enjoy seeing good boys carved and cut up.” The surgeon glanced back through the gate. “Well … you’re all fixed up. I have other patients to see.”
“Thank you,” Karus said.
Ampelius gave him a nod and walked off through the gate.
Karus blew out a frustrated breath as he caught Amarra watching him. He shot her a wink. She gave him a small smile in return, her eyes flicking to his arm in the sling. When he had returned to the palace district, just before dawn, he had found her waiting by the gate with Si’Cara.
Thankfully, the elf had not allowed her out into the city during the confused and chaotic fighting of the night. Amarra had been immensely relieved to see him safe and, for the most part, sound. Despite being a sweaty, blood-soaked mess, she had given him a bear hug. The resulting discomfort had betrayed his injured shoulder and seen to the subsequent calling of Ampelius to examine the injury.
Even now, she watched him with suspicious concern that perhaps he had been more seriously injured than he had let on. Karus knew he looked dreadful. He probably smelled even worse. But by the gods, she was beautiful to his eyes. He felt refreshed by it, renewed even.
“Sir,” Felix said, drawing his attention away from Amarra. He had been speaking with Optio Divius off to the side. The optio was wearing a tunic that had been blackened with ash. The same treatment had been applied to his arms, legs, and face. “Divius is ready to head back, sir.”
“My men are in position and waiting, sir,” Divius said.
So much was riding on what the man and his team would do that he could scarcely believe he was putting the legion’s fate into the hands of just ten men. It seemed madness … but sometimes to win it took an unconventional approach—and a little madness.
“You have a fallback position?” Karus asked, for what the optio and his men were about to undertake was extremely dangerous. Divius’s mission was also one of the reasons he had given up the last defensive line. If the optio was successful, in the span of a handful of hours, the actions of a few might just change everything.
“Yes, sir,” Divius said. “We have a primary rally point and should be able to weather the storm there. If that is compromised, or the enemy catches on to us, each team has their own hidey hole.”
Karus did not feel good about sending Divius and the picked men on this mission. There was a high probability that none of them would make it back to the legion. However, he well understood if anyone was capable of pulling off what he needed done, it was Divius and the men under his command. And so, Karus had given the order that might see the death of ten good men and one outstanding officer with much promise … even if he was a bit roguish.
“The legion is counting on you.”
“I know, sir,” Divius said. “We won’t let you down.”
“I expect you won’t,” Karus said. “I will see you when this is all over. Make sure that I do.”
“Yes, sir.” Divius hesitated slightly, and Karus saw the truth in other man’s eyes, the recognition of what was likely to happen. It was clear he did not think he was coming back. Divius saluted crisply.
With his arm bound by the sling, Karus could not return the salute. Instead, he settled for a simple nod. Divius turned and jogged off toward one of the buildings that had a basement with access to the sewers. From there, he would make his way to where he needed to go.
“A heavy burden rests on that man’s shoulders,” Felix said.
“Yes,” Karus agreed quietly.
The sound of fighting drew their attention as the Seventh’s rearguard finally came into view, emerging from one of the main streets into the area that had been cleared before the palace district’s walls. It was now a no man’s land. Dozens of buildings had been knocked down and the debris completely removed. There had been several reasons to do this … one of which was to deny the enemy cover. Another was to open up a killing ground for the bolt throwers.
Varno’s rearguard consisted of fifty men formed into two ranks. The rest of the cohort, in a column two abreast, were still making their way by Karus and Felix, marching wearily through the gate. Behind them, four seriously injured men were being carried on litters.
At the moment, the rearguard’s security concerned him more than the cohort’s casualties, for it was being tightly pressed by a veritable mob of the enemy.
With their shields locked, the legionaries took four steps backward, then stood firm for several heartbeats, until Varno blew on a wooden whistle. Then the formation would take three more steps back, steadily closing in on safety.
In the confines of the streets, with buildings to either side, Karus knew the centurion would have varied it up a bit, even occasionally pushing and shoving back against the enemy to keep them off balance. Without the protection of the buildings to his flanks, the enemy had begun to spread out to the sides of the formation. Varno picked up the pace slightly to compensate for that lack of protection.
There were several hundred orcs pressing against his line and even more behind on the street. All were light infantry, and for the most part, they were a disorganized mass of individuals. Varno’s heavy infantry were more than holding their own. With every passing heartbeat, as the rearguard drew deeper into the no man’s land, more of the enemy were emerging from other streets.
The disorganization of the enemy worked to the centurion’s advantage in that there was no serious coordinated effort to break his line. The enemy fought as individuals, not as a cohesive team.
Varno snapped out a series of orders. The second rank spread out to either side, extending the first rank’s line. He then bent the ends of his line back and around to keep the enemy from moving around his flanks.
As the Seventh’s rearguard continued to fall back in good order, they left a trail of dead and injured orcs. Varno’s mastery was on full display for all those on the wall to see. And the walls were crowded with men and officers of the legion, watching the drama as it played out. The centurion was handling his men extremely well. Steadily, yard by yard, he drew nearer to safety … five hundred yards, then four hundred fifty … four hundred.
“What about the bolt throwers, sir?” Felix asked. “The enemy’s steadily working their way around his flanks. Our boys could use some covering fire to discourage that.”
“Not yet,” Karus said. “Varno will just have to deal with the enemy on his own for a bit more.”
“What do you mean, not yet?” Felix said as two men fell out of the line. Both had been injured but were still on their feet. Varno snapped something at them that Karus could not hear over the sound of the fight, then pointed toward the gate. His meaning was clear and both men began hastily staggering their way painfully to safety.
“The bolt thrower crews have their orders,” Karus said tersely.
Felix glanced up at the machines that had been mounted on the wall above
the gate. Each had been set several yards apart and their crews of six stood by, watching the drama before them unfold. They were waiting for the order to go to work. As he turned back to the fight, a muscle in his jaw flexed. Both men watched silently after that.
Dropping his sword and shield, another man fell out of the line. He staggered a couple of steps before falling to his knees. A moment later, he toppled over onto his side and fell still. Varno bent down at the man’s side, turned him over, and then shook his head.
The centurion straightened and blew his whistle once more. The formation backed up, right over the man who’d just fallen. A fourth man fell out of line, then ten heartbeats later, a fifth. The fighting raged on, and with each blow of the whistle, Seventh Cohort drew nearer the gate, until they were just one hundred fifty yards distant.
CRACK.
One of the bolt throwers released. The bolt, four feet long and as thick as a forearm, hissed by overhead. It hammered into the mass of orcs to the right side of the formation, ripping through four of the creatures before burying its iron head in the ground.
CRACK.
Another bolt thrower fired. An orc was literally torn in half by the missile, which hammered through his side and then drove into the ground between another’s feet.
CRACK.
More orcs were hit. Karus glanced up at the gatehouse. Four bolt throwers had been mounted above it, just for this purpose, to provide cover and to keep the enemy honest. Though Karus had no intention of being honest. In the entirety of the city of Carthum, they had found nothing comparable to a Roman bolt thrower. It was quite possible the enemy had no concept of their range.
Another bolt fired. The first machine had reloaded. It shot a deadly bolt outward at the enemy, killing and maiming several. Learning to operate the machines effectively was a time-consuming and detailed process. It took months of training and experience to become merely proficient and meet the legion’s exacting standards. To be superb with such a machine was something else. A crew needed to be able to not only reload rapidly, but also reliably hit what they aimed at. Some crews were so skilled they could hit a fly on a wall at one hundred paces.
The First Compact: The Karus Saga (The Karus Saga: Book Book 3) Page 33