Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (10 page)

Securing his
galea,
he marched back toward his men. “We’ll take that ramp and hold it until I can destroy that vessel. Squads three and four, with me. One and two will hold the ramp.”

The panting men nodded their understanding as they continued to face off against the last few Nortlanders. Several had already fallen between the ships, their fates best left unknown. Others had leapt the gap, showing impressive athleticism. The press at the boarding ramp was heavy, and the Romans were beginning to slaughter the Nortlanders now as they panicked.
Incredibly tough, but also undisciplined and unorganized. A good commander can always use that against them
.

Finally, the Romans gained the ramp. Julius led the way, hacking down Nortlanders as they tried to flee. Another legionnaire began to say something but died as a repeater bolt entered his eye. He dropped like a stone. Julius screamed orders for his shield wall to reassemble. Enemy airmen were now involved in defending their ship, and their weapons were just as deadly as their Roman counterparts’.

“Repeaters! To the edge and suppress them!” Julius ordered. Only a few members of the repeater teams raced forward now, as most had been absorbed back into their parent squads. Julius sent another runner to tell the bridge that the A Deck boarding attempt had been repulsed and they were mopping up the survivors.

“Remember to tell them that we’re counter-boarding!” he shouted at the messenger. As the man raced off, Julius continued the assault. They overwhelmed the last few Nortland attackers, dispatching them in a flurry of sword strokes. The immediate area clear, the Romans pressed on.

Julius’s boots thudded over the wooden planks of the bridge, and he jumped onto the enemy vessel. The design startled him at first, since he had never had a good chance to closely examine enemy mechanical vessels. Whereas the Romans built up to the gasbag, the Nortlanders had an entirely open top deck, like the top of a sailing vessel. Many thick cables stretched down at intervals, connected to large rings around the gasbag.
Some sort of exposed frame?
Julius wondered for half a second, then ducked as several repeater bolts tore past him, eliciting screams behind him.
Get your head into the battle
! Julius berated himself.

He located a hatch on deck and had his men form a line in front of it. “Hold here while I set their ship aflame!”

The senior squad leader looked beyond him, at a new group advancing on the two squads that had invaded the deck. A Nortland noble must finally have located some more men, or steeled the spines of the fleeing barbarians. “We’ll hold them as long as we can, sir.”

Back on the
Scioparto
, seeing what his commander was up to, Gwendyrn shouted, “Sir, we’re cutting the boarding ramps behind you. We’ll hold as long as we can, but hurry up with your errand!”

“I’ll bring you a souvenir, you insubordinate farmer!” Julius called back. “Just make sure I can get home after this!”

He lifted the hatch and peered into the gloom within. He could hear the enemy charging the thin line of legionnaires behind him. Taking a deep breath, he descended the ladder, poised to meet whatever or whoever was waiting in the depths of the enemy airship.

After pausing to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior, he began wandering the maze of corridors, lit only by a few unevenly spaced lanterns, several of which had gone out. Julius wondered if the interiors of all Nortland vessels were this depressing. He crept past several weapons galleries, noting that the weapons they used were nearly identical to his Roman artillery pieces: large and small bolt throwers, large and small explosive throwers—although most of the Nortland pieces appeared to hurl rocks rather than the gunpowder-filled canisters that his countrymen used.

At one point, Julius overheard orders being given in Latin, and the sounds of heavy fighting. There was little time to spare. He pushed onward and, finding a small closet, ripped the cords on two of his phosphorus flares, then tossed them inside, onto a pile of spare gasbag canvas. The phosphorus ignited in a harsh white light, illuminating the hallway. The canvas quickly caught fire. Julius left the door open just enough so that the fire could escape the confines of the narrow room.

He stepped out into the hallway, and came face to face with a Nortlander. Bellowing, the man swung his fist at Julius’s head. Julius managed to twist aside, taking the blow on the overlapping steal plates of armor on his left arm. Limited by the tight confines of the hallway, he charged toward the bigger man, and head-butted him. The iron tang of blood filled the air as Julius felt, rather than heard, the man’s nose crack under his assault.

Roaring, the man fought back, pummeling Julius’s smaller frame under a wild flurry of blows. The Roman’s sword was knocked from his hands and skittered into the darkness. Julius could feel the heat of the fire growing behind him as they struggled. His fingers curled around the dagger at his belt and he pulled it free to stab his opponent in the chest. The Nortland soldier shrugged it off and tackled Julius, bearing him to the floor. The man’s hands circled his neck, choking the life from him. Julius stabbed again and again, then kneed the man in the groin, finally breaking the man’s grip.

Julius rolled the man off him. Though the lifeblood was finally seeping from the man, Julius could still almost feel the hands around his throat. Panting, trying to restore his focus, he stood shakily, staggering as the enemy ship shook suddenly. The fire was building behind him. Leaving his sword behind, Julius ran.

With virtually no one on the lower levels, the fire was spreading uninhibited. Flames blocked hallways, almost moving faster than Julius could run. Choking on the thick black smoke, Julius located the appropriate hatch and scrambled up the ladder, emerging into a desperate scene. The Roman squads now numbered barely a dozen men. Their dead lay at their feet as the Nortlanders assaulted them.

“Sir! We can’t hold much longer!” Squad Leader Regulis called, fending off two of the blond foe.

Julius picked up a brutal-looking chain-axe from the deck and flicked the activator switch. The axe hummed to life. Now armed, Julius fell upon the attackers while ordering his men to fall back to the
Scioparto
. The men enacted a fighting retreat. The Nortlanders pressed them with heedless abandon, careless of the casualties they suffered. Legionnaires fell as the retreat became more and more desperate. They were only a few feet from the ramp when a new batch of Nortlanders swarmed up from another hatchway. Fire welled up behind them as flames and smoke became more evident.

“Hurry up, sir!” shouted Gwendyrn. “We’re gonna drop the bridge!” He waited with the legionnaires lined across the ramp on the
Scioparto’s
side.

Julius’s small party was almost surrounded. “Run for it!” he ordered, and his men ran for the bridge. Twenty paces, then ten. At the foot of the bridge Julius turned, picked up a dead legionnaire’s shield, and prepared to cover his men. The last few survivors raced past him. Repeater bolts flew in the other direction, chopping down Nortland airmen and soldiers. Julius hacked down a Nortland airman, his light leather tunic no match for the Roman’s borrowed chain-axe.

“Come on, sir! Don’t play the hero!” Gwendyrn shouted at him.

Julius turned to run as the last few Nortland soldiers closed in on him. Feeling a rippling sensation below his feet, he turned to Gwendyrn, a look of horror on his face. The fire must have reached the central magazine!

The deck exploded beneath his feet, launching Julius into the air. He managed to grab hold of a rope as the enemy airship shredded itself. He clung desperately to the rope as the gasbag too caught fire. But as the
Scioparto
lifted up and away, Julius realized too late that the rope he had grabbed was not attached to the
Scioparto
.

Screaming, Julius fell to earth with the remains of the
Hamdar
.

Chapter 8

Corbus

S
ilent as a ghost, assassin
and self-described freedom fighter Corbus moved through the dense forest. He led a team of Nortland scouts dressed in dark leathers and woodland cloaks. Corbus’s thoughts were dark, replaying the train of events that had led him to this armpit of civilization, serving a barbarian king and trying to figure out what to do next.

After the death of his mother on the walls of Brittenburg, Corbus, along with his two advisors, had been forced to accept the hospitality of the Nortland king, who had graciously welcomed them to his palace with open arms.
More like his giant cave,
Corbus fumed.

Although only eighteen, Corbus had been trained in the arts of war since his fifth nameday; his mother Amalia had taken much pride in the skills of her only child, now the last heir of a lost Germanic tribe.
If only the Romans had the typical political commander at the battle of Teutenberg forest, I’d never be in this mess.
Then again, he had learned through one of his spies that a political general headed the current Roman expedition to Nortland.

There were definitely some opportunities to be had here. He was learning to channel his smoldering rage into more . . . useful pursuits.

Behind him marched an army of about two thousand men, drawn from the feudal levies and men-at-arms of various local chiefs and bigwigs. Corbus was just happy that they, at least, had a competent lord in charge of this portion of the army.

Warlord of the East, Lord of the Seven Glaciers, Duke Nikulas Laufas rode atop his
mecha-wolf
as the motley army moved as quickly as possible over the back country roads. Corbus knew that the man was both a competent officer and a competent lord. Unfortunately, he was also utterly loyal to the Copper Throne. So while Corbus could respect the man and honor his tactical and strategic skills, he also knew that one day, Laufas would have to die.

At one point, Corbus and his advisors had considered how best to deal with their . . . arrangement . . . with the Nortlanders. Eventually, they decided to hunt for sympathetic ears for their cause. Their first patron had been the supporter of the raid on Brittenburg. However, the king had been furious with the local lord who allowed his ships to be used in the raid on Brittenburg, and had demonstrated his fury in the usual way.

The man had been taken to the front of a glacier, where a small hole had been hollowed out. The traitorous man was chained inside, and they proceeded to seal the hole by packing snow around it. If the man didn’t freeze to death, exposure to the elements or starvation was a handy second opportunity to give your life to the glacier gods.
Not a pretty way to go; I saw what he looked like four months later
.

Now, Corbus was fortunate enough to have found a new patron, one who was capable, malleable, and also very, very well placed to secure the kind of support Corbus needed to wrest the northern provinces of Imperial Rome from their denarii-pinching hands. Plus, should that fall through, word had reached him that his advisors had made additional headway in Rome itself in gaining support for his cause.

The sounds of battle drew Corbus briefly from his musings. He closed his eyes and stretched out his senses. The warrior could feel the slight vibrations of explosions on his skin, could taste hints of gunpowder and smoke on the wind. Whistling to his companions, who converged on his position, he sent one back to tell the duke that the air battle had probably begun.

Leaving his scouts behind, Corbus climbed a large tree to get above the thick canopy. His boots gripped the rugged bark and he pulled himself up the tree with his arms, corded with lean muscle, at breakneck speed.
I needed that,
he thought as, heart pounding, muscles screaming, he arrived at the highest branch that he felt confident would bear his weight. Securing himself against the tree’s ponderous shifts in the light breeze, Corbus looked out on an amazing view.

The tree stood on the sloping side of a mountain, and Corbus could see the entire bowl-like valley that led toward the port of Sundsvall, site of the Roman invasion. Overhead, majestic airships glided and maneuvered this way and that, blasting each other with artillery fire. The Roman ships flew in a diamond formation, but as he watched, the formation broke as Nortland airships fought their way through gaps and tried to board several vessels. A smile tugged at his face as a Roman airship shattered under the direct bombardment of several Nortland airships. He could almost hear the screams of his enemies as they fell to their deaths.

He watched the two sides slugging it out above for a few more minutes, then climbed back down the tree.

Duke Laufas had joined his scouts in Corbus’s absence, and Corbus made a rough half bow. “My Lord, your air forces have engaged the Romans in the valley. It appears that the airfleets will be tied up for a while,” he reported in Latin.

The duke nodded, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he thought through the strategic implications of this development, made harder still by the necessity to translate the message into Norse. “Without their airfleet for cover, the Romans will not have some of their traditional battlefield advantages. Could you tell if our forces were the northern fleet or the southern fleet?”

“I’m not sure about the differences between the two fleets, although this one seemed to have more Emperor-class-sized vessels. They were equal in size, if not larger, than most of the Roman fleet.”

“Ah.” The duke nodded again. “That would be our southern fleet, then. We continue to hope that Roman intelligence in this region is old. In fact, I sent some men out to make our airbase fleet at Ragunda look active but empty. They’ll never know we’ve actually built our fleet beyond their expectations. I bet they never even bothered to scout much more north or west.”

Corbus nodded, filing away this information for later. “What would you have me do now, My Lord?” he said.
Laufas is craftier than he appears at first. I suppose that’s why his enemies call him Mist—he is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Plus, you can’t grab mist.

Laufas looked thoughtful for a moment, then pulled out a map. He unrolled the beige parchment and scanned the terrain as best he could. “You say the air battle is to our east, then?” Corbus nodded. “Double the scout screen in that direction. It’s unlikely, but possible, that their airfleet was covering a ground movement.” Though phrased more like a polite request, there was no doubt that it was an order, delivered with the iron weight of determination and the solid power of certainty.

Laufas must know something I don’t. I haven’t picked up any signs of Roman troop movement, but he seems certain that there is. I
cannot
underestimate him
.

With a brief nod to acknowledge the orders, Corbus sent a messenger back to the main force to requisition more scouts and quickly ordered his men into a far longer picket line. Armed with antique-looking longbows, the scouts appeared to be more hunters than soldiers.
Some of them probably are hunters, marshaled into the duke’s forces, but at least they know their stuff
. There had been only a small amount of grumbling in the beginning about being placed under the command of such a “youngling,” but Corbus had pinned the lead complainer’s hood to a tree trunk at thirty paces with a thrown dagger. After that, there were no more whispers.