Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands (29 page)

Even as he grappled with the impossible vision, his lungs sucked in a deep breath and blew out his orders as loud as any cornicen, following reflexes that had been ingrained over decades of living as a soldier. “Close the gates!
Close the gates!
”

The sentries, who were completely dumbstruck, leaped to their duty at the sound of his voice. The four men at the main gate leaned against the heavy doors, desperately trying to slam them shut before the attacking legionaries could reach them.

“Jupiter’s balls!” Septimus cursed as swords and daggers appeared in the hands of a group of ten or so revelers who had been having a good time just inside the gate. They fell upon the sentries in a frenzied attack, their blades rising and falling with professional fury.

As if that were a signal (which it probably was, Marcus thought grimly), other men — all of them “guests” from the other legions who had been attending the feast — throughout the castrum attacked their hosts. It was impossible to tell friend from foe in the fire-lit darkness, except for one thing: the men of
Legio Hercules
were doing most of the dying.

The door behind them flew open to reveal Tiberius, Octavia at his side.

“You’ve been betrayed, Caesar,” Pelonius told him.

Tiberius’s face reflected no fear, only grim determination.

“Septimus and Karan, get my daughter and wife to The Wall and do what you can to keep them safe.”
 

Karan, sword already in hand, nodded. Septimus’s face twisted into an unhappy grimace, but he forced a nod, as well.
 

“Paulus, go with them.” The young man opened his mouth to protest, but Tiberius gave him a withering glare. “Now. Go!”

Allowing himself no more than an agonized look at the two souls who were more precious to him than life itself, Tiberius bid his wife and daughter farewell. “I will see you soon.”

The two women hugged him fiercely, then turned and without a word followed Karan onto the Via Praetoria, the street that ran the length of the castrum between the Porta Praetoria’s gate now under attack, and the Porta Decumana, which opened onto the short stretch of beach that led to The Wall. With a deep growl, Hercules followed behind.

Paulus breathed, “Your will, Caesar.” Then he set off after the others.

Septimus made to follow, but Tiberius grabbed his arm. “You will not allow my wife or daughter to fall into the hands of our enemies,” he said in a voice cast with grim sorrow. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Septimus whispered.

“Then may the gods be with you.”

Then Septimus was gone into the night.

To Pelonius and Marcus, Tiberius said, “Rally the men. We have a battle to win.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Well, this is going rather better than I had expected,” Placus said, although it was clear to Sergius from the tone of his voice that he was saddened by the fact.

“Just remember my orders,” Sergius told him. “I want the girl.”

The two men sat astride their horses opposite the main gate, alone, while their men fought what had become a pitched battle at close quarters. Decius and Flavius were at the eastern and western gates, commanding the men of the two other legions who were mounting simultaneous attacks there.

Placus turned to look at him, a withering sneer on his face. “You’re in no position to make demands, Sergius.”

“Livius put me in command—”

“He did no such thing,” Placus snapped, cutting him off. “That was your interpretation, which I was content to let you believe to avoid unnecessary enmity. But I have no intention of being subordinate to the likes of you, and made that clear to Livius before I set off on this regrettable but necessary journey.” He turned back to the battle. “You’ll get the girl if she survives; I have no qualms with that. But I suspect you’ll be rather disappointed. Tiberius is no fool. He would never let her or Octavia be taken.”

“And once this is over?” Sergius grated, his anger flaring into rage every bit as bright as the palm tree that still burned beside them. “What then is to become of me?”

“That’s entirely up to Livius to decide once he rids us of that ridiculous Pleminius and is proclaimed Caesar. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll see fit to bestow a fitting reward upon you,” Placus added in a scornful voice, “but I wouldn’t go out and have a senatorial toga made up just yet.”

He laughed right up until the moment when the tip of Sergius’s sword, which he’d quietly drawn while Placus had been laughing, skewered the older man’s neck.

Placus gripped his throat with both hands as blood fountained from the severed veins and arteries, creating sprays of shimmering crimson. His mouth hung open and he made a gurgling sound, his wide eyes spearing Sergius with a look of disbelief.

“Give my regards to Pluto,” Sergius hissed as he kicked Placus from his horse and sent him sprawling to the ground. With a deft movement of his own horse’s reins and a swift kick with his heels, Sergius’s mount trampled Placus into the sandy ground.

***

“The women!
Get the women!
”

Karan’s head whipped around at the shout, which came from one amongst a group of soldiers elbow deep in blood as they drove their swords through the bellies of several men from
Hercules
. As one, the enemy soldiers put their few remaining victims to the sword before charging right at Karan.
 

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.