Gav Thorpe - The Crown of blood

Askhan fighting wasn't about skill, not for the greater part. It was about strength and stamina; grinding down the opposition until they could fight no more. This was the fourth melee he'd been involved in since the battle had begun a little before noon. Sweat soaked his tunic and his kilt chafed against his thighs. Fortunately his hands had been worn hard over years at the cranks, but some of the others around him had wrapped linen bandages around their palms because of tears and blisters. Similarly his back was strong, but his legs ached, despite the lean muscle brought on by miles of marching.

In front of him, Gebriun pulled up suddenly, dropping his spear to clutch at his calf.

"Fucking cramp!" the legionnaire snarled.

"Step up!" bellowed the rank sergeant, Muuril.

Gelthius pushed into Gebriun's place as the legionnaire hobbled towards the back of the phalanx. Passing his spear into his shield hand, he grabbed Gebriun's fallen weapon and passed it back after the retreating legionnaire.

"Lock!"

The order came from the front, probably third captain Lonnir. Gelthius slid his shield across that of the man to his left, while the man to his right did the same to Gelthius. Putting his left foot forward, Gelthius braced himself against the legionnaire in front and felt the pressure of the shield from the man behind along his back. Glancing up from under the brow of his helmet, Gelthius could see enemy pike heads swaying against the cloudy sky.

"Step!"

Gelthius gave a shout and pushed, bringing his right foot up to his left and forcing his left foot another pace. As one, the phalanx heaved the enemy backwards.

"Step!"

Again Gelthius urged himself on, feeling the weight of the rank behind on his shoulders, his right arm tiring from holding his spear above the heads of those in front.

"Step!"

"I'll fuckin' step on 'im when we're back in camp," muttered the man in front.

"Brace to the right!"

And so it carried on, a blur of shouts and aches and surging bodies. Gelthius felt a tap on his right shoulder and he turned to see Loordin, one of the ten-year veterans, who had taught Gelthius how to maintain his kit and stand sentry. His face was covered in blood from a gash just below the rim of his helmet. The legionnaire winked through the crimson mask.

"Welcome to the legions!" the man laughed.

"What's happening?" Gelthius said.

"We're winning," Loordin said with a grin.

"How can you tell?" Gelthius could see nothing of the rest of the battle, engulfed by the press of bodies around him.

"You're still alive, aren't you?" came the reply.

From a bluff overlooking the battle, Ullsaard was pleased with what he saw. I'll teach you to patronise me, you old fart, he thought. Nemtun had come running for Narun like a child chasing a ball; straight into Ullsaard's army waiting for him a day's march from the city. Donar and the Fifth had been given a chance to redeem themselves, making a forced march to coldwards before swinging in between Nemtun's army and the Wall, cutting off their retreat. Giving Nemtun no time to turn his legions against Donar, Ullsaard had ordered eight of his remaining legions on a full attack, keeping only one back in case of some disastrous turn of events. The kolubrid riders had pinned the enemy in place with their bellows-bows, their heavy arrows forcing the opposing companies to form into defensive circles, shields raised against the attack while the infantry closed for the kill.

There had been a couple of dubious moments. Nemtun's lavathowers and spear thowers had been gathered in one place for the march and once set up they had reaped a bloody and burning toll of the Twelfth on the right flank. Jutiil had pushed his men on into the storm of the war machine fire taking heavy casualties, but had eventually overrun the enemy position.

Nemtun had also feigned a retreat on his right, dragging the Thirteenth and Second Magilnadan ahead of the rest of the army, which allowed Nemtun to turn his centre to attack them. This exposed the legions in the centre of the enemy line, but if Nemtun had broken through he would have turned the whole flank. The Thirteenth had done Ullsaard proud, holding even after the raw men from Magilnada had started to fall back, giving Ullsaard time to move his own central phalanxes to relieve the pressure.

When this gambit had failed, Nemtun had pulled back his attacking regiments and was now resetting his line on a ridge to coldwards. One legion had been left a quarter of a mile ahead of the main army; Ullsaard felt sorry for the poor soldiers in that vanguard, sacrificed to buy time for the other legions to withdraw towards the Wall.

Nemtun's army started to turn away, heading dawnwards away from the battle. Ullsaard could see the covered wagons and ailur-riding officers of Nemtun's staff at the head of the retreating column. The king's brother would be on one of the carts, no doubt shouting at the drivers to whip the abada as fast as they could.

"Fuck that," said Ullsaard, turning to his messengers. "I'm not letting him get away. Send word to Jutiil. Full march to engage the enemy before they reach the road. Tell him to keep Nemtun busy until the rest of us catch up. Everyone else is to concentrate on the rearguard. I want them dead in half an hour. Remind my captains that every man that escapes will be fighting them again at the Wall. That should hurry them up."

As the messengers rode away, Ullsaard swung himself up into Blackfang's saddle. It was time to hammer home the advantage.

Nemtun's army had been broken and scattered. All but the Thirteenth had been let loose on general pursuit, and would chase after their fleeing foes until nightfall. Ullsaard had kept his legion with him, though Anasind had grumbled that the men wouldn't like being denied the spoils of victory.

"Don't worry, I'll give them some extra money," Ullsaard said as he marched the Thirteenth along the road towards the Wall. "And they'll get to see something they'll enjoy."

A quarter of a mile ahead a few hundred legionnaires escorted Nemtun's caravan. It was almost comical; abada plodding along the road, the legionnaires arranged to either side looking over their shoulders at the legion closing on them at a quick march.

The escort finally lost their nerve and bolted for the hills when Ullsaard was two hundred paces behind them. The wagons continued to rumble along the road even as drivers leapt from the boards and followed the legionnaires. Ullsaard urged Blackfang into a loping run and the companies of Thirteenth followed, charging along the road to catch the carts.

This is too easy, thought Ullsaard. He expected to find that Nemtun had sent the wagons away as a lure and was waddling to safety across the hills somewhere.

Catching up with the carts, the legionnaires leapt up onto them and pulled the abada to a stop. Ullsaard rode along the line of wagons and saw a legionnaire leaping down to the road a little way ahead, holding his hand to his side. Blood poured from a cut, no doubt inflicted by Nemtun. Ullsaard felt a moment of happiness he had not experienced except in Allenya's company. The Crown was the grand prize, but repaying the insult Nemtun had heaped upon Ullsaard was a worthy second place.

The general pulled his spear from behind his saddle and dismounted, leading his ailur by the reins until he came level with Nemtun's carriage. He tied Blackfang to the back of the cart and walked to the front, spear over his shoulder. There was nobody to be seen, the curtains at the front of the compartment closed.

"Don't make me poke you until you come out," Ullsaard called.

He waited as the carriage rocked from side to side on its axles. Nemtun appeared through the curtains, a bloodied sword in one hand. The former governor looked at the lines of legionnaires gathering around him and tossed down the weapon.