Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

Conlan watched in awed silence as the pair dispatched ten men in as many seconds. It was Jonas who broke the silence, letting out a joyful whoop of encouragement as the first white knight beheaded a man with a single backward chop, so quickly Conlan doubted the unfortunate man even knew he was dead.

More knights in iridescent armour drifted in and out of view as the battle surged. Every time an enemy tried to bring one of them down, he was dispatched with cold precision or simply shaken off, thrown aside. One lucky savage managed to grab the first knight’s arm, but before even he could respond a smaller knight, with long, blood-red hair, stepped out of the crush and sliced through the back of his neck. For a moment, the red-haired warrior turned in the direction of the legionaries, as if scanning for something, eyes briefly alighting on Conlan, who realised with a jolt that it was a woman, strikingly attractive with fine aquiline features.

Unable to rip his gaze from her, Conlan’s eyes followed the knight until with her comrades she disappeared from sight, obscured again by the mass of the horde.

“Jonas, prepare the men. We need to advance and assist them,” Conlan said. They could not let her fight alone.

Jonas raised his brows. “Do they look like they need our help, boss?”

Conlan hesitated. “They have a woman with them; we have to protect her.”

“Oh, well in that case…” Jonas grinned and barked an order to advance from the hill and maintain formation, remaining in circle to present no weakness to the enemy.

The standard felt heavy in Conlan’s grip. He ached to hand it to someone else, to move forward to the front line and fight with the men. But the standard was the legion — it had to be preserved. Holding it aloft for all to see, Conlan maintained his position at the centre of the formation. As the legionaries moved, the enemy, seemingly remembering them, redoubled their attack, and the circle of men around Conlan began shrinking again.

Conlan knew it was suicide to attack in these conditions; every fibre of his training railed against the move. But the result was foregone in any case. They would all die. There was no hope.

Feeling a vibration through his feet, Conlan thought for a moment it was an earth tremor, but he quickly recognised the vibration for what it was — the rolling beat of many hoofs, coming from the north.

“Hold position!” Conlan bellowed, hearing shouts, the screams of men and horses.

The barbarians, already unsettled by the white knights, broke with the arrival of the cavalry force on their flank. The savages fled. First a trickle and then a rising flood south. Some bunched together for defence; others abandoned their weapons and ran for whatever shelter they might find.

The horsemen rode through them all, dealing death by sword and hoof in equal measure.

The rout passed quickly. It was, Conlan thought, as if they were an island and the barbarians a wave, leaving bodies, weapons and armour behind like so much flotsam and jetsam.

A deep baritone voice shouted encouragement. “That’s it, boys! Ride the bastards down. Show them some Imperial steel!”

Two horsemen, wheeling away from the fray, approached Conlan’s group. He recognised one as General Felix Martius — who continued to shout encouragement to his troops as he cantered toward Conlan and the remnants of his men.

“Well, boys, looks like you might be all that’s left of the Third,” said General Martius, his stern face softening. “Who commands here?”

Conlan hesitated. “I do, sir.” As he spoke, Jonas turned and regarded him, eyes impenetrable.

Martius raised an eyebrow. “You look a little young to be a legion father…”

Conlan wondered how the man remained so calm when faced with the horror of battle. “Conlan Danson, sir. Centre branch leader, Ninth cohort, Third legion, sir.”

Martius nodded to the man beside him. “Make a note of that name, Villius.” Then glancing across the ragged group of legionaries, and smiled broadly. “Well done, boys; I think we just saved the Empire.” And with that he turned his horse and raced after the fleeing enemy.

Martius was, as always, mildly irritated by the man before him.

“Uncle, why not admit that my communication system saved the day?”

Martius sighed, “The legions saved the day, Metrotis. Not your flags.”

“But I have it on good authority that the flags worked perfectly, Uncle. Without them you would not have been able to manoeuvre the troops and win the day.” Metrotis chopped the air with his hand as if to underline the perfection of his logic.

Martius slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Deep down he knew that the boy was right. He could never have gathered the cavalry nor moved the legions on the field as quickly as he did without the damned flags. Yet, knowing he was wrong, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to admit it. Martius rarely allowed his emotions to rule, but somehow Metrotis always brought out the worst in him. “Metrotis you were not there. If you had any military experience you would understand — “

“But Villius says that the — “

“Villius?” Martius hadn’t realised Metrotis and Villius were well acquainted. He made a mental note to have a quiet word with his young proctor. “He is as green as you are, boy.” Martius shook his head slowly. Two weeks. Two weeks and he still won’t be quiet about it. Anyone would think he won the victory at Sothlind valley by himself. “How is your mother?” Martius realised he had asked the same question the day before in an effort to change the conversation.

“She’s fine, Uncle. You saw her this morning.” Metrotis raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Remember?”

Martius wondered if he was being mocked. “Hmmm, yes of course. Forgot entirely. How is your other work going?”

Metrotis sat up straight, eyes beaming. “Well, I think the catapults might just work if we can just get special ropes made to take the tension…”

Martius relaxed. Metrotis loved talking about his work almost as much as he loved talking about himself. Pretending to listen, Martius used the time to assess his nephew — remembering to nod and grunt occasionally, feigning interest. He had to admit Metrotis’s physical resemblance to himself was remarkable; but the Felix line had ever been thus. Metrotis was thinner; his skin was sallow and pale, the result of too much time studying indoors.

A healthy body, Martius had learned, lead to a healthy mind. No stranger to study himself, he balanced this with regular exercise and military drill.

Martius had little doubt that Metrotis had one of the keenest minds in the Empire. It was just that he didn’t balance his activities. Metrotis had dedicated himself so completely to study and research that he left no time for anything else. Martius considered Metrotis an immense waste of potential talent, and that was, perhaps, what irked him the most.

Sensing a change in Metrotis’s tone, Martius focused his attention back on the conversation.

“… And I think that I have the feathering and weighting of the ballistae bolts almost perfect now. You should see how far they can travel, Uncle.”

“Indeed,” Martius replied. “But how many can you fire in a minute, and how many men need to attend them? What if they are attacked? Can they be ordered to move in the heat of battle?”

“That’s it!” Metrotis’s eyes widened. “Of course! We can put them on wheels…” He tilted his head to one side. “But obviously I would have to install a braking and bracing system… What a great idea, Uncle!”

Martius rolled his eyes. “Of course, nephew. Speak to the quartermaster at the academy. I am sure he will be able to sort something out for you.”