Jason Lewis - Empire Under Siege

“There is no hope!” the shout carried on the wind, ragged, high pitched and broken.

Conlan glanced toward the noise, his concentration interrupted. He saw the world in perfect focus — a world filled with madness, blood and death. There is no hope . Conlan’s stomach churned as thoughts of death and defeat overtook him. A shadow, a jarring crunch, and his vision blurred, vertigo and darkness overwhelming him, enfolding him in a velvet embrace.

Hearing returned first, clashing iron, the cracking thump of clubs on shields, the rhythmic chant of the legion; fight, fight for the Empire! Screams, jagged and terrible… grunting and groaning intermingled with the choking gasps of the dying.

Conlan envisaged the scene as he lay in darkness — men, shields locked on the front line to hold back the horde, short swords stabbing and hacking rhythmically, perfectly drilled, the finest soldiers in the world. It seemed a distant and terrifying dream.

“Conlan!” someone shouted.

He opened his eyes, squinting into the bright afternoon sun until a silhouetted figure blocked the light.

“Conlan, you have to get up.”

Conlan struggled to stand as hands grasped his arms, dragging him up in grips of iron. His legs wobbled unsteadily as the world snapped into focus.

“Conlan, look at me.” It was Jonas, his shield brother, blue eyes earnest and bright. “Can you speak?”

“What happened?” His voice did not sound like his own, the words caught painfully in his throat, tongue rasping in a parchment dry mouth.

“You dropped your guard, one of the bastards caught you hard, thought you were dead.”

“But…?” dizziness threatened to overwhelm Conlan, crashing in waves against his consciousness.

Jonas grunted. “He overbalanced. Lucus gutted him, then fat Tev took his throat out.”

Conlan looked towards the front. The battle line was five deep, spread too thin to contain the horde — already starting to bulge inward. The fate of the Empire stood on a knife edge.

He knew his cohort must have pulled back, dragging the wounded with them for field surgery, himself amongst them, but he could not recall it. Nausea overwhelmed him, a surging wave that crested. Conlan turned and vomited into the grass, bile scorching the back of his throat.

Jonas didn’t flinch, nor did he release his steadying grip.

A medic appeared out of the throng of men that waited to form up and take the line again; he was young — as were many in the medical corps — and easily identified by his white armband.

The medic glanced nervously toward Conlan. “Are you fit to fight, branch leader?”

“I’ll live; there are plenty of others who need you.” Conlan fought to stand straight as his stomach fell silent. He spat acid from his mouth.

“Yes, sir.” Without pausing the medic turned his attention away, looking to help another, and was soon lost in the throng.

“Jonas.” Raising a hand to his temple, Conlan felt warm, sticky blood coat his fingers. “Report.”

“We’ve been ordered to re-group as fast as we can. These bastards are tough boss, strong; they fight like animals.”

Conlan grimaced. “We have to hold. How long till we rotate?”

“Reckon we have about five minutes. Look at the line though; we may have to advance early — the ranks are thinning too fast.” Jonas was a hardened fighter, a veteran of many battles, but there was a hint of fear in his voice.

“They fight like animals, they’ll die like animals.” Conlan fought to steady himself, gripping Jonas’ shoulder hard.

“That’s right, sir,” said another. “They’re no match for us.”

Conlan turned to see Lucus standing behind him, eager as ever to prove himself. The boy is full of the bravado of youth , Conlan thought, and wondered how long it would last if they survived the battle.

“Damn right, Lucus. No one can take the Third.” Conlan forced a smile. He might die today; he doesn’t need to know the truth.

A high-pitched whistle sounded three times — the signal to reform and prepare to move forward.

We’re going early , Conlan thought, as all along the line men began to fall in. Conlan’s cohort, the Ninth, would gradually work their way forward to take their turn on the front line again, as the foremost cohorts retired to rest.

Conlan placed himself at the centre of his branch, looking left and right to check the ranks were properly dressed.

The branch leaders of cohort Six raised their sword arms in perfect synchrony. The move forward began.

They marched twenty yards in perfect order, then the remnants of the Fifth Cohort began to filter through the lines, some wounded, limping, bleeding; others tall and proud. A few aided the badly wounded, dragging them screaming through the mud.

“You know I love walking through my own piss.” Jonas was breathing hard.

“Standard tactics,” said Conlan, “and at least you’re not covered in it… We must have advanced at the start, wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to let them come to us.” The enemy should have faltered in the mud before reaching the legion; unbalanced, they would have been easy meat for the grinder.

“Yeah, but the first two were too damned keen,” Jonas spat into the mud.

“Young and hot headed. They’ll learn.” Conlan shook his head; the more experienced men were always in the rear cohorts. The First and Second, just like the Sixth and Seventh were mostly un-blooded. Conlan doubted the wisdom of the tradition: in the heat of battle the inexperienced were more likely to break.

Dylon, branch leader in the Eighth cohort, stood directly before Conlan, his shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing. He was a giant of a man and Conlan struggled to see past his great, but somewhat reassuring, bulk.

Dylon turned, as Conlan knew he would, for there was an unspoken tradition between them. A wry smile adorned his freckled face. “Ha! Thought we lost ya, brother; have a little nap did ya?”

“Got bored, truth be told.” Conlan shrugged noncommittally, barely masking the pain that erupted in his neck and shoulders. “Need more action. These barbarians… no challenge at all.” He hoped he looked nonchalant. It felt so easy to slip into the drill yard bravado, to hide behind it. “Make sure you don’t kill ‘em all before we get our turn.”

“Yeah, leave some of the buggers for us!” Lucus said, full of anticipation for the fight ahead.

Dylon knocked his sword pommel on his shield and inclined his head in mock salute “Ya still want more after your first rotation d’ya, lad? No rush now, little brother. There’s plenty to go round.”

Two whistle pips repeated along the formation. Dylon’s cohort would be the next to relieve the front line as the Seventh retired. Conlan always dreaded this moment. Even in training the manoeuvre had been known to go catastrophically wrong: one line clashing into another as the front cohorts, exhausted from fighting, rapidly withdrew. It all hinged on the push and turn: each legionnaire slamming his shield forward — the whole line in perfect unison — pushing the enemy off balance, then pirouetting left as his replacement moved up on the right to shield his retreat. When executed properly, it dismayed the enemy, giving them a new, freshly rested cohort to fight. When executed poorly, the entire line might collapse, spelling doom for the army.