Robert Lyndon - Imperial Fire

A trooper put up a hand. ‘What about the horses, sir? Without them the enemy will mow us down.’

Vallon gauged distances. The leading war galley was less than a mile in arrears, its sister ship and the transports only just in sight. ‘We’ll have to fight without horses.’

Lucas spoke without thinking. ‘I’m not leaving Aster.’

Vallon pointed. ‘Put that man on a charge.’

Gorka elbowed Lucas. ‘You twonk.’

Vallon raised a hand. ‘Our situation’s not as bleak as you might think. From what Otia and the captain tell me, horses won’t be much use on that coast. It’s marsh and lake for miles inland, only a few narrow causeways leading across it. I don’t think the enemy will waste time getting the horses ashore. They’re not cavalrymen and they’ll be so keen to lay their hands on the gold that they’ll come after us like hounds after a doe. Don’t worry, though. I’m determined to get our horses and supplies back. Stand down. Get something to eat.’

Lucas dressed for battle in his cast-offs and watched the coast take on definition — a swampy littoral cut by sluggish creeks and lagoons, lush green hills beyond under a backdrop of cloud-swathed mountains, pockets of snow showing through rents in the overcast. South of the rivermouth a few small ships plied in and out of a port. The rest of the shoreline seemed to be empty.

‘Steer to the north of the estuary,’ Vallon ordered.

‘Why don’t we head for that port?’ Lucas asked Gorka.

‘Because the Georgians hate us. And even if they didn’t, running into a foreign harbour carrying treasure and with pirates nibbling our heels isn’t the brightest of moves.’

Josselin supervised the evacuation with his customary calm.

‘Form up by squad both sides of the bow.’

Lucas found himself almost in the rearmost rank, only the muleteers and grooms behind him. In his padded armour his body ran with sweat.

‘Enemy taking to their oars,’ someone yelled.

Lucas looked behind to see foam creaming from the blades, a wave building at the dromon’s bow.

‘Order your men to do the same,’ Vallon told Pelican ’s captain.

‘General, I’m not going to wreck my ship.’

‘You, your dromon and your crew serve at my will and disposal.’ When the captain hesitated, Vallon raised his voice. ‘Otia, take two squads below and keep the rowers hard at it until I give the word.’

Troopers sprinted below and Lucas felt Pelican spring forward as the oars bit. A glance behind showed that the effort wouldn’t be enough. The war galley was only half a mile astern and closing fast.

Vallon pointed at a huddle of shacks set back from a lagoon. ‘Make for that village.’

Lucas saw people fleeing from the settlement. The coast was no more than a quarter of a mile away and the sea had taken on the colour of thin ale.

‘Hold tight,’ said a trooper. ‘We’re going to hit smack-bang and wallop.’

‘Suits me,’ said another. ‘I can’t swim.’

Vallon swung his sword down. ‘Lower sails. Stop rowing.’

Oars crabbed and lifted. Before the sailors could reef sails, Pelican shoaled with a long skidding hiss, the deceleration sending Lucas lurching. Only fifty yards separated them from the shore.

‘Boats away,’ Otia shouted.

The two gigs splashed into the sea. ‘Bullion and prisoner squads.’

When the boats had pulled clear, the next two squads jumped into the sea, one on each side of the bow, and waded chest deep towards the shore, holding their weapons above their heads. The war galley was only a long bowshot behind Pelican , still bowling along under sail and oar.

‘Next two squads. Go! The rest move up.’

Lucas plucked at his mouth. ‘We’re not all going to get off in time.’

‘Shut it,’ Gorka snapped.

‘The bastards are going to ram us,’ said a trooper.

‘Prepare for boarders,’ someone shouted.

Lucas braced himself and watched the galley’s onrush. By now only four squads remained on board Pelican . Forty men against hundreds.

‘Next two squads. Go!’

The first men off had reached the shore and were running up into the village. Lucas concentrated on the oncoming galley. It was still committed to a collision course, soldiers massed on her foredeck and beating on their shields.

They toppled like skittles as the hull ploughed into the seabed and the ship ground to a stop within its own length, the masts groaning with the strain, stays twanging apart.

‘Enemy lowering boats.’

An arrow glanced off Lucas’s helmet and buried its head in the deck. He looked around in bemusement. Gorka tugged his arm. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on. We’re next.’

Lucas faced the shore, sucked in breaths and prepared to jump. Josselin held him back.

‘Not so hasty. We’ve already had a couple of accidents.’ He waited for what seemed an age before thumping Lucas’s back. ‘Off you go.’

Lucas hit the sea, went under and surfaced spitting brine. He ploughed through the water, grunting like a beast, and staggered ashore, tripping over the two javelins he carried. Gorka pulled him upright. ‘Who said you could take a rest?’

Weighed down by his weapons and waterlogged corselet, Lucas jogged through the hamlet onto a causeway elevated a couple of feet above the marsh.

‘What’s the plan?’ he gasped.

Gorka flashed him a look. ‘If I fucking knew, I’d be a general. Keep going.’

Lucas found his second wind. The wetlands stretched away to a mist-softened horizon. All around lay a waterworld of lakes, creeks, bogs, reedbeds and islands overgrown by stands of alder and willow, oak and ash. Beside him, Gorka grunted and clutched his ribcage.

‘Need a hand, boss? I’ll carry your shield if you want.’

Gorka’s glance would have curdled milk.

Lucas lifted his knees and increased pace. ‘Just say the word, boss.’

Half a mile up the causeway, Wayland and his dog stepped out from a patch of boggy woodland. He nodded them past. ‘Not far now.’

Where the causeway emerged from the wood, it made a sharp turn before crossing a wide and reedy lake. A furlong up the track, Vallon was organising two squads into a defensive formation. He held up his hand to halt Aimery’s squad.

‘How long have we got?’

Aimery bent over, hands on knees. ‘Not sure, sir. They hadn’t reached land when we left the coast.’

‘Form up behind the wall. Did you see Wayland?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There are three squads hidden in the trees each side of him. We draw the enemy onto this wall and block them.’ Vallon nodded towards a squad of Turkmen archers further along the causeway. ‘They’ll make your job easier. When you’ve halted the enemy attack, the squads in the wood will engage, cutting off the enemy’s retreat.’ He interlocked his fingers. ‘We’ll squeeze them between us.’

‘Understood, sir.’

Vallon noticed Lucas. ‘I didn’t expect you to face action so soon. Are you sure you’re up to it?’

‘I want to stay with my squad.’

‘Good lad. Acquit yourself bravely and I’ll forget your insubordination.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Go to it!’

The foremost ten-man squad arranged themselves in a foulkon , a defensive formation usually used by infantry against cavalry. The first rank of five knelt on bended knee with their shields resting on the ground in front of them, their spear butts planted in the earth and the points angled upwards to resist a charge. They completely blocked the narrow causeway. The second rank remained standing, their shields locked with those of their companions and their spears held at chest height. To an attacker, the shieldwall would be an intimidating sight, the men behind it invisible and apparently invulnerable. Lucas had practised the formation only once, kneeling in the subordinate position, and had found it intensely uncomfortable, the shields above snagging against his, leaving him no room to manoeuvre.