The Emperor Series Books 1-4. Conn Iggulden
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blocked another low cut into his stomach and stepped and punched forward into the blue body.
It was not there and he went sprawling on the hard ground. He got up quickly, noting the fact that the Krajka stood well back to let him. This was not to be a quick kill then. Marcus nodded to him, his jaw clenched. Feel no anger, he told himself, nor shame. He remembered Renius' words. It does not matter what happens in battle as long as the enemy lies at your feet at the end of it.
The Krajka skipped lightly forward to meet him. At the last second, the bronze sword flicked out and Marcus was forced to duck under it. This time he didn't follow through with a lunge under the blow and saw the man's readiness to reverse his sword into a downwards slash. He had fought Romans before! The thought flashed into Marcus' head. This man knew their style of fighting, perhaps he had even learned it with a few of the legionaries who had disappeared over previous months before killing them.
It was galling. Everything he had been taught came from Renius, a Roman-trained soldier and gladiator. He had no other style to fall back on. The Krajka was clearly a master of his art.
The bronze sword licked out and Marcus blocked it. He focused on the lightly pulsing blue throat and could still see the shifting arms and sinuous moves of the body. He let one blow slide by him and stepped away from another, judging the distance perfectly. In the space, he struck like a snake and scored a thin line of red in the Krajka's side.
The crowd fell suddenly silent, shocked. The Krajka looked puzzled and took two sliding steps away from Marcus. He frowned and Marcus saw he had not felt the scratch. He pressed his hand to the red line and looked at it, his face blank. Then he shrugged and danced in again, his bronze sword a blur in the light and shadows.
Marcus felt the rhythm of the movements and began working against the flowing style, breaking the smoothness, causing the Krajka to jump back from a sword held out rigidly and again when Marcus' hard sandals cracked against his toes.
Marcus advanced, knowing his opponent's confidence was wavering. Each step was accompanied by a blow that became another, a flowing pattern that mimicked the style the Krajka employed against him. The gladius became an extension of his arm, a thorn in his hand that required just a touch to kill. The Krajka let a throat cut pass a hair's-breadth from his skin, and Marcus could feel the hot gaze above his own. The man was angry that he had not won easily. Another blow was blocked and once again the bare feet were crunched under hard Roman sandals.
The Krajka gave out a strangled groan of pain and spun, leaping into the air like a spirit, as Marcus had seen the others do before. It was a move from the dance and the bronze sword whirled with him, coming out of the spin unseen and slicing Marcus' skin across the chest. The crowd roared and, as the man landed, Marcus reached up and caught the bronze blade with his bare left hand.
The Krajka looked in astonishment into Marcus' eyes and found for the first time in the whole battle that they were looking back at him, cold and black. He froze under that gaze and the hesitation killed him. He felt the iron gladius enter his throat from the front and the pouring wetness of blood that stole his strength. He would have liked to pull his blade back, cutting the fingers away like over-ripe stalks, but there was no strength left and he dropped into a boneless sprawl at Marcus' feet.
Marcus breathed slowly and picked up the bronze sword, noting the twisted and buckled edge where he had caught it. He could feel blood trickle over his knuckles from the cut on his palm, but was able to move the fingers stiffly. He waited then for the crowd to rush in and kill him.
They were silent for some time and in that silence the old blueskin's voice called out harsh-sounding commands. Marcus kept his eyes on the ground and the swords loose in his hands. He was aware of footsteps and turned as the old blueskin took his arm. The man's eyes were dark with astonishment and something else.
‘Come. I keep my word. You go back to friends. We come for you all in morning.’
Marcus nodded, scarcely daring to believe it was true. He looked for something to say.
‘He was a fine fighter, the Krajka. I have never fought better.’
‘Of course. He was my son.’ The man seemed older as he spoke, as if years were settling on his shoulders and weighing him down. He led Marcus outside the circle and into the open and pointed into the night.
‘Walk home now.’
He stayed silent as Marcus handed him the bronze blade and walked away into the dark.
The fort wall was black in the darkness as Marcus approached. While he was still some distance away, he whistled a tune so that the soldiers would hear him and not put a crossbow bolt into his chest as he drew close.
‘I'm alone! Peppis, throw that rope back down,’ he called into the silence.
There was scrambling inside as the others moved to peer over the edge.
A head appeared above him in the gloom and Marcus recognised the sour features of Peritas.
‘Marcus? Peppis said the 'skins had you.’
‘They did, but they let me go. Are you going to throw a rope down to me or not?’ Marcus snapped. It was colder away from the fires and he held his damaged hand in his armpit to keep the stiff fingers warm. He could hear whispered conversations above and cursed Peritas for his cautious ways. Why would the tribesmen set a trap when they could just wait for them all to die of thirst?
Finally, a rope came slithering over the wall and he pulled himself up it, his arms burning with tiredness. At the top, there were hands to help pull him onto the inner wall ledge and then he was almost knocked from his feet by Peppis, who threw his arms around him.
‘I thought they was going to eat you,’ the boy said. His dirty face was streaked where he had been crying and Marcus felt a pang of sorrow that he had brought the boy to this dismal place for his last night.
He reached out a hand and ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘No, lad. They said I was too stringy. They like them young and tender.’
Peppis gasped in horror and Peritas chuckled. ‘You have all night to tell us what happened. I don't think anyone will sleep. Are there many of them out there?’
Marcus looked at the older man and understood what couldn't be said openly in front of the boy.
‘There's enough,’ he replied, his voice low.
Peritas looked away and nodded to himself.
As dawn broke, Marcus and the others waited grimly for the assault, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. Every man of them stood on the walls, swinging their heads nervously at the slightest movement of a bird or hare down on the scrubland. The silence was frightening, but when a sword falling over interrupted it more than a few swore at the soldier who'd let it slip.
Then, in the distance, they heard the brassy horns of a Roman legion, echoing in the hills. Peritas jogged along the narrow walkway inside the walls and cheered as they watched three centuries of men come out of the mountain trails at a double-speed march.
It was only a few minutes before a voice sounded, ‘Approaching the fort,’ and the gates were thrown open.
The legion commanders had not been slow in sending out a strike force when the caravan was late returning. After the recent attacks, they wanted a show of strength and had marched through the dark hours over rough terrain, making twenty miles in the night.
‘Did you see any sign of the blueskins?’ Peritas asked, frowning. ‘There were hundreds around the fort when we arrived. We were expecting an attack.’
A centurion shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘We saw signs of them, smouldering campfires and rubbish. It looks like they all moved out in the night. There is no accounting for the way savages think, you know. One of their magic men probably saw an unlucky bird or some kind of omen.’
He looked around at the fort and caught the stench of the bodies.
‘Looks like we have work to do here. Orders are to man this place until relieved. I'll send a Fifty