Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

Conlan and Dylon’s cohorts battled their way towards Yovas and his men, who had taken up position on a small hillock. Conlan marvelled at Yovas’s strength — almost sixty years old, he fought like a man possessed.

For one glorious moment, Conlan thought the battle might turn, but then a massive blonde warrior stepped forward. He towered over all nearby, mail vested, he wore a bearskin over his shoulders. His huge bare arms, twisted with muscle, glistened with blood and sweat. Unlike his countrymen, he did not scream, or shout, but let out a single roar of challenge, as if possessed by the bearskin he wore. The giant raised a massive war hammer in one hand and brought it smashing down on Yovas’s horse’s head. The animal dropped like a stone, pole-axed, throwing a stunned Yovas to the ground in the process.

Through the crush, Conlan saw Yovas raise both hands to shield himself as a sea of jubilant warriors engulfed him. Weapons rising and falling in a crazed orgy of glee.

“No!” Conlan shouted, fighting to get to Yovas’s body. But it was too late.

The bearskin-clad barbarian turned slowly towards Conlan. The giant had taken no part in Yovas’s killing, standing aside as his filth-ridden brothers did the work. On seeing Conlan and the advancing legionaries, he smiled broadly, eyes twinkling with glee and — letting out another ferocious roar — charged directly at them.

His countrymen seemed to hang back, as if making space to allow the blonde giant to attack. Conlan, moved to meet the giant, hoping that the rest of his cohort would follow. The barbarian moved freakishly fast for someone his size and quickly covered the ground between them, war hammer raised high for a crushing blow. Conlan lifted his shield in reply, steeled himself for the shock of the blow. But before it could land, a rock the size of a man’s fist flew into the savage’s temple, and he dropped to the mud at Conlan’s feet.

“Need a little help, did ya?” Dylon yelled.

Conlan glanced round to see his friend grinning broadly. “Glad you didn’t miss!”

Their champion dispatched, the tribesmen seemed to pause for a moment, then they pressed their attack with renewed fury. Conlan led his men to join ranks with the legionaries that remained around the standard.

The standard bearer fell a few moments later as a throwing axe glanced off his helmet and sliced down into his neck, opening the jugular.

Dylon stepped forward, scooping the standard out of the bearer’s hand before it could tumble to the earth. “For the Empire!” he roared “We are Legion , do ya hear me, you shit covered heathen pigs? We… are… LEGION!! ” Dylon shook the standard in his fist as if taunting the horde, and, somehow, the men responded. Shoulder to shoulder around the hillock the legionaries fought on.

Time began to lose all meaning for Conlan. It seemed like he had been fighting for years, for the entirety of his existence. He blocked, stabbed, parried and ducked reflexively now, his body relying on instincts honed by years of hard training. He had lost count of the men he had dispatched, their faces a mad blur before him.

“Can’t. See the Third. Think they’ve. Broken,” said Jonas, fighting with ruthless efficiency; he spoke in rapid staccato, the only indication that he was tiring.

“ We are the Third! We have the standard.”

Conlan’s sword was dashed from his hand as he blocked a savage blow. Instantly, Jonas stepped forward to cover him and dispatched the enemy with a slice that sounded like tearing silk.

Conlan retreated behind the shield wall, desperately seeking a sword amongst the fallen. The circle of men was barely twenty feet wide now. Each fallen comrade shrank the formation, bringing their inevitable doom ever closer.

A shadow passed overhead, drawing Conlan’s eyes toward Dylon. The huge man was on his knees, head bowed, as if in prayer, both hands wrapped tightly around the standard, holding it upright, forehead pressed against its obsidian shaft. Conlan reached out and touched the standard, and as he did so Dylon’s body slumped to the earth, revealing a huge blood soaked gash in the chainmail on his right side.

Conlan, fighting to catch his breath, leaned his weight on the staff for support and looked down at the body of his friend. Dylon looked peaceful in death and younger than he had in life, softer somehow.

Conlan felt certain he would join his friend in the halls of the dark god before the day was over. Dylon had died as he had lived, maintaining the honour of the legion. Conlan breathed a silent prayer to Lord Terran that someone would survive to tell the tale of their valour.

A crackling sound echoed across the valley from the east, then a bright flash. A strong gust of wind buffeted legionary and barbarian alike. Conlan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Laughter boomed across the field of battle, quickly followed by shouts, many shouts, coming from the east. Conlan strained to listen… heard a word carried on the wind, repeated again and again: “Covashi.”

The word was alien to Conlan’s ears. From his vantage point atop the hillock, he saw the enemy ranks thinning out around his beleaguered little group.

Where formerly the enemy had bayed for blood, attacking with abandon, many men now began to rush east, where a great tumult was rising to drown out the laughter. The shield wall was still surrounded, but the frenzy of the attack was reduced, as if the riotous consciousness of the horde was distracted.

Attacks against the shield wall became sporadic, the enemy inexplicably shifting to a defensive stance, taunting the legionaries, many dashed forward to attack, then rapidly retreated. Others looked to the east. They seemed torn between destroying the remnants of the legion and investigating the approaching clamour. There were men in the horde now that looked unsettled, uncertain.

Conlan stood erect, peering into the east as the chaos approached. He sought in vain for a legionary standard or the telltale flash of blue cloaks, but caught only a glimpse of white, brilliant in the sunlight. Further east, much further, he could see a legionary standard swaying. He took comfort in the thought that other legions still fought on.

No succour would come from the west, he knew, and to the north he spied only a hazy cloud, but whether that represented reinforcements or routing brothers was unimportant now. Conlan made the only choice he could. The men, exhausted as they were, would break quickly if the enemy redoubled their attack. Conlan chose to make a stand, to live a little longer and ensure the standard did not fall for a few more precious moments.

Another flash of light, then another, and another, until Conlan lost count. The enemy attack halted completely, leaving the legionaries encircled but virtually forgotten.

The barbarians slowed their rush east. A warrior, clutching his blood-soaked arm, stumbled, wide-eyed, towards the west, and more of his countrymen, many badly injured, followed.

A man, clad in blood-splattered white armour, shining pearlescent in the sunlight, a black bear’s head emblazoned on the breastplate, appeared out of the crush to the east. Conlan drew a sharp breath at the sight of him. He moved with fluid grace and seemed aware of everything around him simultaneously, blocking and killing on both sides as if his arms were controlled by the swords themselves. He danced, flowing through the enemy like water, leaving bloody death in his wake.

Another, man appeared. Where the first was large but lithe, this one was simply huge. Bearing a bull’s head motif on his breastplate, he wielded two short-handled, double-headed axes with incredible force. In stark contrast to the other, this man was a blunt instrument of death: he bludgeoned his way through the enemy, leaving body parts in his wake whilst breaking bones with his fists. One man attacking with club raised was thrown aside, catapulted backwards over his fellows as if weightless.