Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (11 page)

Advancing toward the battle, Corbus relied more on his ears than his eyes. The thick boreal canopy blocked his line of sight more often than not, and he quickly tired of climbing tree after tree to get a heading.

So when an airship fell out of the sky in front of him, Corbus was less than prepared. The sounds of battle had become more intense, but the young assassin had simply chalked it up to closing in on the conflict area.

A massive wall of iron, canvas, wood, and fire raced toward him as the blast from the crashing airship flattened trees and anything else in its path. Corbus turned to run, only to dive immediately into a small root depression in the ground as the pressure wave overtook him. When the shaking had subsided and the rain of twigs and rocks had dwindled to a mere trickle, Corbus poked his head up to observe the flattened expanse of forest. Steel girders poked upright from the matchstick scatter of trunks and branches, and torn sheets of canvas waved like dirty laundry on a wash line. He couldn’t make out if it was a Nortland vessel or a Roman vessel, so he chose to investigate further.

Picking his way gingerly through pockets of flame and wreckage, Corbus ducked under girders and deftly leapt furrows gouged in the earth by the harsh impact. He checked some of the bodies he found, most clothed in the brownish furs and clothes of Nortland air sailors, a few garbed in the red tunics and layered armor of the Roman legions. He found a conscious crewmember, his breathing shallow as he lay with his back against a shattered bulkhead. Blood pooled around him as his life leeched from numerous gashes.

“Water,” the injured man gasped, his voice almost too soft to hear. Corbus knelt beside the man and opened his canteen, pouring water into his hand and gently offering it to his mouth. The man slurped noisily, then sighed, his lungs rattling as he breathed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Corbus asked, keeping his impatience out of his voice.

“Boarded . . . Romans . . . explosives . . . fire . . . . they’re all dead, all dead!” The man whimpered for a moment, then was still.

Corbus stood and looked around.
Maybe one of those Romans failed to escape this explosion
. Corbus gave a whistle and heard answering whistles floating back to him over the crackling death throes of the downed airship. Soon help would be arriving.

Adjusting his gear, he rolled up his cloak so that it wouldn’t catch on any of the protruding bits and pieces of wreckage. By the time his scouts arrived, Corbus had already begun a methodical search pattern. Quickly revealing what he was looking for, he ordered his men into action.

Only a short time later, Corbus’s persistence paid off. “Sir! We’ve got an injured Roman here,” a scout reported. “We didn’t even rough him up, but he’s out like a light; must have hit his head. Otherwise, he’s not in too bad shape.”

Corbus viewed the now trussed up Roman and wrung his hands together in slow glee.
Oh, I’m very excited to meet you. We’re going to have so much fun together
. He couldn’t understand why his men were inching away from him, but then again, he couldn’t see the glint of evil pleasure in his own eyes.

Kneeling, Corbus splashed water in the prisoner’s face. The cold water instantly brought the man out of his stupor, his body jerking and thrashing in startlement that shifted to panic as he realized he was tied hands and feet to a metal stake in the ground. Wide eyes scanned Corbus’s scouts, leaning on their bows and watching him nonchalantly.

“Yes, yes, you’re a prisoner. Congrats on surviving that fall, by the way; I would never have thought it possible. You won the lottery, I suppose, but you know that old saying, out of the frying pan and into the fire?” Corbus was in an upbeat mood. This capture would gain him some intelligence, some small amount of respect, and even better, a chance to take out a small measure of vengeance on this unfortunate Roman.

“Name, soldier? At least that way we can have a nice civilized conversation.” Corbus spoke in low Latin, the common trade language of the Imperial Empire. Not to be confused with High Latin, which was used exclusively on festival days and in boring religious ceremonies. To his Nortland allies, the softer southern language stood in contrast to their harsher, choppy Norse, the common tongue of Nortland.
A soft language for a soft people,
Corbus mused, distracted for a moment.

The Roman considered, then replied, “You tell me your name, I’ll tell you my own.”

His accent was familiar, and Corbus’s brain instantly began to mull over origin. He’d heard it before, but where? And there was surely no harm in sharing his name with this prisoner. It wasn’t like he was going to escape or anything. “My name is Corbus, son of Amalia, the victor of Brittenburg and general menace of the Imperial Empire. And you are?”

The soldier laughed. “Do you practice that in front of the mirror? That’s an awful lot of titles for one so young. How old are you, nineteen; twenty?” He chuckled.

“You’re pretty brave, for a prisoner. It matters little how old I am, only that I am old enough to fight you and make your life very, very painful, should I need to. Now, once again, what is your name?” This time he placed the tip of his knife on the man’s throat. A droplet of blood appeared at the end of the dagger and trickled down the razor-sharp steel.

The man gulped, then spat out his name.

“Julius? See, now we’re getting somewhere. We’re on a first name basis!” Corbus’s voice was condescending and full of false cheeriness; he enjoyed the cat and mouse game of interrogation. And he was also very, very good at it.

“Now Julius, I want to give you some of my background. You see, I was born into a very . . . traditional family. It was all about the family value of resistance, you see. As a matter of fact, I’ve made it my personal goal to see the Roman Empire ground into a million pieces and forgotten for eternity before I die.” Corbus smiled.

The Roman looked indifferent, although Corbus could already detect the telltale tightening of the man’s eyes and the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Now I want you to tell me about your background—oh, say, what legion you’re in, what’s happening in the Roman camp, how many soldiers there are—you know, the typical need-to-know type stuff.” Corbus gave Julius his best fake smile.

Julius looked incredulously at him. “If you seriously think I’m going to tell you that, then you’re most certainly not fit for command, even in the Nortland army.” Corbus frowned as the prisoner looked around at his ragtag scouting party. “Not that I’d call this an army.”

Corbus struck, his arm dealing a harsh blow across the man’s jaw. “Have it your way, Brittenburgian.” Julius’s eyebrows rose. “Oh yes, see? I placed your accent. I have a special place in my heart for that corrupt, disgusting, pestilent city.” Sneering, Corbus socked the legionnaire again, and the man collapsed back to the ground.

“Send a message to the duke,” he ordered. “We’ve got a prisoner.”

Laufas rode in about an hour later. He reined in his laboring horse, his various adjutants, assistants, and bodyguards forming a loose semicircle behind him. Corbus walked over and gave the duke a half bow. Laufas’s head may have nodded slightly in response, or it could have been the movement of his horse. Corbus wasn’t sure.

“What have you learned?”

“My Lord, the prisoner says that the Romans have indeed encamped at Sundsvall, but that their general seems to be moving cautiously. He refused to name those legions present, but I was able to piece together that there are between four and six legions in the invasion force.” Corbus felt pleased with himself. He had worked the hapless Roman over rather hard, but the man refused to be broken. Which delighted Corbus.

“Did he say anything about war machines? Dispositions? Airship strengths?” Corbus shook his head. Laufas sighed. “And I suppose you’ve already beaten him senseless?”

Corbus felt his face burn as he fought to hold back an angry retort. Laufas chuckled and said something in Norse to his retainers; Corbus just barely caught “southern” and “barbarian” in the Nortland language

“No need to worry, Corbus. I’ll be taking that prisoner off your hands so that you won’t need to ‘extract’ any more information from him.”

His Latin is almost as smooth and natural as
mine,
Corbus thought.
I wonder how much he had to pay to get a tutor up this far.

Laufas signaled and two of his men dismounted and walked to the tent where Corbus had been interrogating his prisoner. They emerged a few moments later, dragging the unconscious man between them.

Scowling at the Roman legionary, Laufas asked a question in Norse. One of his men placed his fingers in front of the prisoner’s mouth, then nodded and spat out a flurry of rough words, too fast for Corbus to grasp.
I’ve got to learn more of this stupid language
.

Laufas sighed and addressed him in Latin. “Couldn’t you have left him at least able to ride a horse?”

“I figured you could claim the credit for disabling him singlehandedly when you bring him before the king. If one of the other generals doesn’t take credit first,” Corbus retorted, knowing full-well the duke refused to play the court games that preoccupied so many other petty nobles in this frozen land.

The duke’s men hefted the prisoner onto a horse borrowed from Corbus’s scouting party.

“We need you back with the main column. We’ll attack later tonight.”

And with that, Laufas was gone, only the clattering of hooves and small flashes of light reflected from his entourage’s armor belying the speed of their passage.

He is far too competent to leave in a position of authority. But how to remove him?

“Gather up the men,” Corbus called to his subordinate. “We’re moving out.”

Chapter 9

Octavia

F
or the second time in
the last few weeks, Sundsvall was burning. From her vantage point aboard the ocean transport
Tiber
, Octavia had a panoramic view of the harborfront, which was once again being steadily destroyed by a wave of fire.

The night attack had at first merited little response from the fortified Roman legions, who had assumed it to be a probing raid. But as fireballs dropped into the Roman camp and multiple constructs that had quickly earned the nickname mecha-wolves had leapt the temporary palisade wall surrounding the sprawling camp, the legions were forced to scramble to defensive positions.

Those poor men,
Octavia thought as she watched groups of legionnaires using simple pumps and hoses to try to bring the fire under control. There were even groups forming bucket brigades closer to the water. Their labor was compounded by the fact that there were still a few northerners hiding in the smoke and flames, which meant that the work crews had to be guarded. The Nortlanders were not giving up their country without a fight.

The senetora had just returned from a meeting with General Minnicus and his staff. The general had been . . . apoplectic, alternating between screaming at his staff officers to attack and cursing them for not mounting an effective enough defense. He had practically threatened every single officer there, and it was only with the arrival of the airfleet and Air-Admiral Polentio that the situation had calmed somewhat.

The appearance of the battle-damaged but still dangerous looking warships overhead had been the final blow to the Nortlanders’ counterattack. Spitting warheads directly onto the enemy positions inside and outside the walls, the fleet had quickly ended the last attack.

With the threat negated, most of the airships had descended farther to the west, dropping off hordes of injured and dead crew and legionnaires from their own hard-fought encounters with the Nortland fleet. The Roman medical camps were swamped with wounded from both attacks, and every person with medical training had been pressed into service. Octavia herself had watched the ship’s doctor and a few other “able” crewmen leave the ship to assist.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the scene in the command center. The general had been grilling several under-officers from various legions, including one with an arm in a sling and another with nasty burns across his face.
And then he walked in
. . . Octavia smiled at the thought of Tribune Constantine Appius, now acting commanding officer of the XIII Germania.
He was so calm and collected, deflecting the general’s tirade and returning the room to sanity.

Stop!
Octavia scolded herself, viciously squashing any happy fantasies.
You’re not a giggling schoolgirl with her first crush.
She drove her happiness mercilessly from her heart, then turned an imaginary key and locked it up.
For the Emperor and Empire,
she told herself sternly.

Although a Roman senator, Octavia had little experience with situations like this. She had never had a province in need of disaster relief, never been on the front lines of a battle or dealt with so many casualties, both injured and dead. She wrung her hands together; the desire to do something fighting with the nascent need to look, act, and carry herself as a senator.

Finally, she could wait no longer. “Captain, I require a boat. And I’ll need a crewman to row it.”

The captain looked at her in disbelief. Octavia could almost read his thoughts as he tried to figure out why she would want to leave the safety of the ship for the uncertainty and danger of the shore. After sputtering a flurry of unintelligible things she believed could be considered “salty language,” he got her a boat and crewperson.

On the short journey to the shore, Octavia struggled between her desire to order the ponytailed crewman to turn back to the ship, and her need to help. Only when the rowboat knocked against the stone pier did Octavia abandon that battle. “Ma’am? Here’s tha shore, if yar interst’d in gettin’ out,” the crewman said, offering her a leering, toothless smile. “Or it be back to the ship with yar.”

She stood carefully, aware of every dip and bump of the rowboat. The crewman offered her a hand, but Octavia haughtily ignored it.
That’s for your leer
. She carefully grasped the rusted iron ladder that clung precariously to the harbor wall.
Now or never
. She boosted herself up it.

Her haste caused a misstep, and with a gasp she grabbed for the rusty rungs as she slipped. Below her, the crewman cackled his amusement and put his hand on her behind, pushing her up until her feet finally found purchase. She scrambled the rest of the way up and hauled herself onto the quay, panting.

She briskly brushed her hands off, then rearranged her tunic to cover her embarrassment. When she finally turned to give the crewman a well-deserved tongue lashing, she found that he, and the rowboat, were already halfway across the harbor, virtually flying toward the
Tiber
.

Sighing, she looked around at the noisy chaos. Men ran to and fro; others simply sat, looking stunned, while others lay on the ground or around tents, somehow sleeping despite the noise. She walked through the canvas forest, soaking in the situation. Her clean tunic and face made men pause and stare at her as she walked past. More than one officer or legionnaire offered to escort her one way or another, warning her of the dangers of being alone in the city.