Oathbreaker

by Adam Lofthouse

  ‘Axemen to the front!’ I bellowed, churning all the grit in my throat to that yell. My men responded in a heartbeat. A horde of battle-hardened veterans crouched low behind their shields, their axes held loosely in their right hands, ready to tear down the large rectangular Scuta of the enemy. I have often wondered just how a legionary manages to carry all that kit. Thirty miles a day they can trudge through whatever terrain or weather the gods throw at them. Their shields, or Scuta, are particularly ungainly. They stand almost as tall as the soldiers themselves, and when they plant the bronze rim in the earth and crouch behind them all you can see is the iron rim of their helmets and the slits of their eyes. My men had smaller, round shields that were lighter and more comfortable to transport when strapped to your back via a leather strap.

  At twenty paces I heard the call from the Roman line I had been dreading: ‘Ready pila!’ I watched on, helpless, as the men of the Fourteenth moved their shields to their sides and thrust back their right arms, the deadly throwing spears gripped tightly in their sweaty palms. ‘Shields up! Shields up!’ I bellowed in my finest battleground voice. The response from my men was instinctive, thanks to the months of training my captains put them through. Those of us in the front rank raised our shields to head height while the men in the second rank raised theirs above our heads so the shields overlapped, forming a solid wall of wood and metal. The men in the rear ranks raised theirs and locked them onto the shields in front of them. It was, in a way, our answer to the testudo formation the Romans used to such good effect. As I have said many times, I have no love for Rome or her cursed legionaries, but they do train the finest soldiers.

  At an order from what appeared to be a tribune the Roman spears launched into the sky and blotted out the sun. ‘Steady!’ I had time to call before death rained all around us. The pila used by the Fourteenth were long and heavy. Their leaf shaped iron points snapped through our shields and suddenly the air was full of the cries of the wounded. Another order from the Roman lines; more spears in the air. Our shields were growing heavy now, tired arms quivered under their weight. ‘Shields, shields!’ I yelled, desperately urging my men to hold fast. Again the snap of iron on metal, again the harrowing screams of the dying. The Valkyries would be busy today, I thought grimly. There would be many a warrior requiring passage to the Allfather’s hall, there to feast and drink and fight to the end of days.

  I lowered my shield after the second volley, seeing the Romans redressing their lines and preparing to advance. ‘Wounded to the rear,’ I said as I turned to Ruric. He was pale, was Ruric, paler than death. His eyes were red rimmed, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. ‘Ruric?’ I said as I lumbered to him, holding him by the waist to prevent him from falling.

  ‘Never… forget… lad. One day… you must answer… for your sins.’ He died in my arms. It was only as I held him, I realised my hands were slick with blood. High on the right side of his chest a Roman spear had bitten deep, penetrating his mail and driving deep in to his chest.

  I pulled him closer, bringing his face to mine. I prayed to every god I knew of to bring him back; how could I ever go on without faithful Ruric by my side. Arms grappled with me then, Baldo was screaming in my ear, I paid him no heed. Nameless hands took Ruric’s body and I watched him dragged through the ranks of his men, who waited with bated breath, ready to do their duty to him.

  For the second time in almost as many days I was struck with a profound feeling of loneliness. Surrounded by men, my men, although, for the first time I realised they were not really my own, never had been. We had segregated them into units of one hundred, years before when our numbers had swelled too much for us to function as a single unit. It was the captains who drilled them, the captains who paid them, ensured they were well fed and equipped. I had become nothing more than a figurehead. I was both feared and revered; a famous warrior that they would tell stories of round camp fires when they were grey and old. ‘I served under Alaric,’ they would say, and brag about their heroics in this battle or that. But it was not really me they served, wasn’t me who had their loyalty, it was the man they looked too to keep them alive. That man was not me.

  I was only dimly aware of the boom of thunder and spark of lightning that was the men of the Fourteenth crashing into my front line. They held, they must have done, for I stood just yards behind them in my confused daze.

  Baldo was screaming, I watched him as if from afar as he wrenched down a Roman shield and swiped his single headed axe into the mans exposed neck. My spearmen were pushing past me now, they jabbed under our axemen’s legs and over their shoulders. Groin or neck, groin or neck. They were lethal with those long spears, safely out of reach of the Roman short swords. ‘That’s it boys, push ‘em back!’ Baldo screamed, and I realised we were indeed pushing the enemy back. Step by bloody step we were gaining ground.

  My senses came back to me, slowly but surely. What was it I had said to Ruric when he had seen Gerulf hanging from that beam just a short time before? There is a time to grieve, but this is not it.

  I rasped my blade from its scabbard, relished in the feel the leathered hilt always gave me. My men on foot continued to push forwards; looking out to the flanks I saw Otto and his Hundred were doing their job well, fifty men on each flank harrying the enemy, making darting gallops and engaging swiftly before retreating to safety.

  I moved forwards with the men in the third rank. They were eager for combat, I saw, their blood was up and they howled at the retreating Romans, desperate for the call to rotate when they would be released into the fray. That call would be soon, I knew, for no man can fight for more than an hour without tiring. It was, yet again, another tip we had picked up from the legions. Baldo would give the signal and the front two ranks would turn side on, allowing the third and fourth ranks through to take their turn.

  No sooner had I thought it then the call was made and I moved forwards with the other men. I gripped my shield tight in my sweaty palm and sent my sword in a savage arc down on to the top of the helmet of the first Roman I saw. There was a mighty clang and the man dropped from behind his shield. His comrade behind him pushed him upright but it did him no good, as soon as I saw flesh above the rim of his shield I jabbed forwards and my blade burst through his eye. I bellowed a wordless challenge and threw myself into the small gap I had made. Heedless of the danger I slammed my shield forwards and followed up with a thrust to the groin. The Romans to my left and right were packed in too tightly and could not bring their blades to bare, neither could I turn to strike them – I just kept driving forwards.

  The next man was tall and broad. He slammed his shield into mine with such force I hopped backwards three paces, desperately trying to keep my feet. I rebounded off a Roman shoulder just in time to block a low cut with my own blade then immediately replied with a high swing aimed at the legionary’s neck. He stepped back and dodged it smartly, surprisingly quick on his feet for such a big man. He came at me again, feinting right sending a backhand cut designed to strike my head clean off. I got my shield up in time and followed up with a direct lunge at his midriff which rebounded off his segmented armour with a snap. The armour held, but the legionary lurched forwards in pain and I hammered my sword on to the top of his helmet, which fell uselessly to the ground.

  When he rose again I saw he had to have seen fifty summers at least. He had short, shaggy hair the colour of rust; a clean shaven face with a livid white scar just above his chin. His eyes were a pale green, but they were puffy and bloodshot. The hit to the head had him in a bad way. I knew then he was dead. I came in low, feinted right and flicked my blade over to his left. My eyes never left his and I saw how he struggled to keep pace with my blade. He stumbled and fell as he tried to make a desperate block, and without giving him the time to rise I drove my blade deep into his groin.

  Men seemed to be moving away from me. A small circle of space surrounded me. I turned back to my own men and with a feeling of utter despair saw they were a full fif
teen paces behind me. Their advance must have staggered against the overwhelming numbers we faced. We were just three hundred, and one hundred of those were still mounted. My two hundred on foot had been fighting hard against five hundred of the world’s finest soldiers for a good while now; I was just proud they were still standing.

  I turned to my front and watched as a giant burst through the ring of red shields. He stood a full head taller than me, and there were not many men I had encountered in my years who did that. His face was a mask of blood and entrails, but under all the gore I could make out a set of piercing blue eyes. His nose was short and round like a button and thin lips surrounded a mouth that looked too large for his face. His shoulders and bare arms were thick with hardened muscle, they were as taut as a bowstring as he thundered towards me with his short sword held high.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ the giant said as stopped just five paces from me. ‘Alaric Hengistson, we meet again.’

  I had not seen Silus this close for a very long time. In fact, I had made it my business not to. He was the primus pilus, or first spear centurion of the Fourteenth legion. The cohort my men were facing were the First, made up of some of the hardest, nastiest soldiers in the empire. They were crack troops, and Silus, I knew, was a crack centurion.

  Many times over the years we had crossed swords. I had given him a couple of nasty cuts on his sword arm once, but he had done far worse to me. Under my thick, dark hair there was a livid white scar that ran from the top of my head to the back of my neck, which he had given me nearly ten years before when I had been bareheaded in battle. I had another high on my right thigh from a blow that had very nearly killed me whilst fighting Silus on the Danube border with Areogaesus and his Quadi. The last had been just three years before, when Silus had speared me through my mail and caught me high on my left side. If that spear had bitten an inch deeper I certainly would have breathed my last on that battlefield.

  But, I had survived every encounter with this monster, I was determined I would survive this one. ‘Centurion Silus, what a pleasant surprise,’ I said with a small bow in my guttural Latin. ‘How is that lovely wife of yours?’

  ‘Shut it, dog!’ he spat. ‘Today you pay for your many crimes to the empire. Today you cease to be a threat to the peace between the tribes and Rome. Today, it ends.’

  He lunged without warning, his blade thrusting as true as a flying arrow and only my reactions saved me. I wrenched up my shield and the point of Silus’ blade burrowed through the wood and missed my hand by a whisker. He pulled the sword back and tried an overhand cut at my head but I met that with my own blade and stepped back to open some space between us.

  My left arm and shoulder burned from the block with the shield. I was dimly aware that all around us was silence as the battle drew to a halt. If Silus won this fight his men would crush mine and the Ravensworn would die here, in this inconsequential town. If I won, well, then there would probably be a similar ending, but at least I would take this whoreson with me.

  I rolled my left shoulder hoping to lessen the pain, but instead there was a loud crack as the bone jarred and I lost all feeling in the arm. My shield fell to the dirt with a clang and I slumped to my knees in a wave of agony.

  I heard Silus laugh and there was a loud cheer from the Romans. My men were groaning in dismay, Baldo was shouting for me to get up over the rising tumult. ‘Is that it Alaric?’ Silus asked. He leant in to me and put a heavy hand on my left shoulder. ‘Is that all you have? The mightiest warlord in all of Germania, finished with a single thrust that didn’t even pierce his armour! What has become of you, old friend? When did you become so craven?’

  I was about to get up. I was going to burst to my feet and cleave that piece of shit to death with my sword. My blood was boiling, I used the pain to heat my anger. I would not die on my knees, I would not let him finish me. My life would end in battle, that I have always known. But it would not be that battle.

  I was about to. But I didn’t.

  There was an eruption of noise and spraying blood to my right. The left flank of the Roman line was evaporating like morning dew. A hundred Romans died in three or four heartbeats as something savage and terrible ripped through them like a knife through butter. A wolf howled, and dark shadows darted past the bewildered red cloaks, killing at will with unbridled bloodlust. More howls, more blood, more shadows. But this was no wolf pack, I knew. Nor were those dark shadows draugr, come back to reap their revenge for past wrongs.

  They were the Harii. Ketill had come back to save me.

  FORTY-ONE

  For ten or fifteen heartbeats more I watched on in awe as Ketill and his savages carved a bloody path towards me. Ketill was a monster, a demon of war. He carried a sword in his right hand and a small single bladed axe in his left, and when he whirled them together they were nothing more than a blur of silver in the sunlight.

  Silus seemed momentarily dumbstruck. He stood over me still, his short sword pointed at my neck. ‘First cohort wheel left!’ he bellowed at his men. To give them credit, they responded as one, even though they must have been devoured by fear. I have seen it before in men, one moment you are winning a battle, your blood is up and you think of nothing more than slaughtering your next opponent. A moment later, you are running for your life.

  ‘Ravensworn to me! Rally to me!’ I roared, turning back to my own men, who suddenly did not seem as far away.

  ‘Forward!’ I heard Baldo cry though I could not see him, and then all was mayhem.

  This was no straight fight between two shield walls now, it was a melee. The Romans defended their left and their front with the frustrating efficiency one would expect from the eagles of the empire. Their shields locked together and formed that impenetrable wall that had been the undoing of so many warriors all around the Mediterranean Sea. I stumbled to my feet, fresh waves of agony tearing through me. Every step was torture as I fought my way through three ranks of legionaries to finally regroup with Baldo. I say fought, I more bounced and slipped my way past them, it was only the will of the gods that kept their swords at bay.

  Baldo was grinning like a madman, his blood soaked teeth making him look even more disturbing. ‘We lock shields, and aim for Ketill,’ I said to him, moving back through my men. I was hurting bad, my wounded shoulder getting worse with every step, I knew there was no way I could fight. Baldo led the Ravensworn, and led them well. My wall was solid as the men advanced at a steady pace, every step being called by Baldo. ‘Step, push! Step, push!’ Back and back the Romans retreated, I watched as their men began to look over their shoulders, eagerly seeking the eastern gate and freedom.

  I looked to my right and saw Otto had grouped his remaining men together on the Roman left and was forcing his way through to Ketill. My heart sank to see how few horsemen remained, for it could not have been more than twenty. But still, they fought like wild beasts. Even as I watched Otto stabbed down with a long spear, taking a Roman through the eye then slashing across another’s face, blinding the man and taking half his nose with a single blow.

  Ketill was near the Roman centre now, still slashing wildly with both axe and sword. I screamed at my men then, urging them to increase the pace and reach my friend. We were just fifteen paces from him, so close, and yet we may as well have been on the other side of the Danube.

  I watched Silus push through his men and deflect a blow from Ketill’s axe with his shield. I saw him dodge a swipe from the sword, and then I saw him jab forwards, the blade biting deep in Ketill’s throat. I could not hear if my old friend screamed or if he went to the Nailed One’s hall in blissful silence, I just know his journey was a short one.

  A short time later I stood over the body of Ketill. I knelt beside him, tears blurring my eyes. Still the battle raged around me, though I had long since ceased to care as to its outcome. First Gerulf, then Ruric, now Ketill. I had lost too much that day. With relief I saw that my friend’s hand still gripped his sword, I put my hand over his and tightened his hold on
the hilt. I could make my own journey to the Hall of Heroes in peace knowing he would be there to greet me.

  Howls of rage dominated the cacophony of battle now, as Ketill’s Harii saw their lord struck down. Emmerich swept past me in fury, screaming an incoherent war cry he charged Silus and was rewarded with his own quick death, as Silus used his opponent’s momentum and let him fall on his short sword. One by one the men of the Harii journeyed to join their chief, in their rage and grief they sold their lives cheaply. And then it was just the remnants of the Ravensworn.

  ‘Surrender to me Alaric, surrender to me and your men can walk from the place, go back to their families.’ It was Silus, of course, who spoke. The battle had ebbed again as both sides stopped to take breath. Slowly and painfully I got to my feet. My vision blurred and my mind swirled as I tried to stand upright. Hands on my shoulders and back steadied me. Baldo was at my shoulder, shouting in my ear, though what he said I could not make out.

  I staggered away from him; my sword still held loosely in my right hand. ‘I… surrender,’ I slurred, though no one heard the words but me.

  ‘Alaric! Surrender now! This is your final warning, your last chance to save your men’s lives!’

  ‘I surrender, I surrender,’ I muttered as I collapsed once more to the dirt.

  ‘Like fuck you do,’ A voice said above me. Otto reached down and gently pulled me to my feet. He cupped my face with his hands and looked deeply into my eyes. ‘No surrender chief, not to these curs.’