Legionary

Chapter 30

A bitter galerampaged across the vast Bosporan plains, torturing the fresh snow, never allowing it to settle for longer than a brief instant before whipping it back up in a never-ending cycle of blinding, stinging white. This absurdly late snowfall had coated the land just two nights previous, blotting out the spring sun.

Amalric shivered violently, pulling his furs tight, swishing his blonde locks around his neck and gripping his thighs firmly into his mount to draw in even a fraction more heat from the beast. His face was so cold it almost obscured the blue stigma spiralling across his jaw. Allfather Wodin, the great god, had deserted them; so was this the end for the Greuthingi Goths of Bosporus? He eyed his King, Tudoric, mounted next to him; the proud man wore the cold expression of a defiant leader — what more could he offer in these bitter circumstances? Then he surveyed the hastily assembled blizzard of infantry lined up in ranks behind them; men of all ages clad in the best leather and iron armour that the Gothic communities of the region could gather. The finest swords, shields and bows were on display and every one of them stretched proudly to their full height, topknots billowing in the icy gale. This was it, end of the line. All or nothing; to go for broke against the massive shadow staining the other end of the plain, or sit here and die. These demonic horsemen had poured in through the narrow neck of the peninsula, massacring, pillaging and desecrating everything in their path. The Gothic people had been brushed westwards like litter. Here it came to a head; Amalric and his army were now trapped in this icy waste. Nowhere left to run. The flat-faced yellow predators circled their stricken prey.

The Gothic women and children stood to the rear, armed with clubs and daggers, shivering and sobbing. The Gothic fleet, sent to rescue them, had never turned up. Thus, their only option had been to turn around and face their dark pursuers. But their tormentors did not take the bait. For days, they waited, watched as the Goths froze and starved. Gradually, the defiant morale of Tudoric, Amalric and the army had ebbed.

Amalric knew that their number could not hope to win this battle, and the war drums played by the Goths took on a dirge-like quality. At the last count, seven thousand stood in waiting behind him for inevitable death against the estimated twenty thousand baying, lasso and spear wielding cavalry and spear infantry.

As he scoured the shadow of his enemy one more time for any hint of hope, he noticed what looked like a mirage in the snow; a tiny black shape rippling towards him thought the raging blizzard. His senses keened.

‘An emissary?’ Tudoric suggested to Amalric.

‘I implore you, my king — be wary of these dogs,’ Amalric replied, ‘they may not even know the meaning of the word emissary.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone less,’ Tudoric agreed, issuing a wry grin to his second-in-command. ‘Unfortunately we have no option but to parley. Train the best archers on our guest. Should I not return — you are king.’

With that, Tudoric spurred his horse into a canter towards the approaching horseman.

Amalric was stunned for a moment and then cursed silently; his king was brash, too brash at times. He raised an arm to the line of chosen archers, the men who could kill accurately from the horizon, the front line of the Gothic forces. In unison, they picked arrows and nocked their bows, before arching their chests and raising their weapons to meet the required trajectory to perforate the approaching horseman.

Turning back, Amalric’s heart thundered as Tudoric slowed to a trot, matching the actions of the Horseman. The pair circled each other tentatively, before settling to a standstill. Through stinging, driving snow, Amalric peered at the distinctive features of the rider — short in comparison with a Goth, but broad like a bull, and bearing three terrible, red, welted scars symmetrically on each cheek. Their reputation had started as raiders, but quickly word had spread of them as centaur-like demons such was their riding ability.

The rider nodded assertively as he spoke to Tudoric; the king sat with his back straight as usual, equanimity personified even at this; the darkest of hours. The conversation continued in a one-sided manner, and Amalric afforded a glance back along the Gothic lines. Towards the rear, where the families and the bulk of the army were formed up, Amalric grimaced at every spirit-sapping shuffle of a frozen kinsman falling, exposed and exhausted from the terrible conditions. Then he turned back to the meeting, Amalric felt his stomach turn over — a flash of steel glinted through the whipping winds.

The rider had somehow hooked his arm around King Tudoric’s neck, holding a hound’s-tooth dagger to his throat. Immediately, Amalric raised his hand to the chosen archers. At once, their taut bows slackened slightly. He knew that despite their extreme skill, the chance of killing their own leader was too great, especially with the turbulence of the blizzard.

An excruciating silence ensued, before the rider bellowed in an unknown jagged tongue. The aggressive rant rolled over the whistle of the blizzard until he finished his speech by drawing his dagger slowly across Tudoric’s throat, letting a wave of dark blood jet forth, soaking the king and his horse. The Gothic people at once erupted into a torrent of moans and laments, some falling to their knees as Tudoric tumbled from his horse into the scarlet snow.

Amalric stared in horror, his heart hammering. The end had begun, and now he was king. The word to loose arrows lodged in his throat as he turned to his archers, his eyes widening as an ethereal dark mass emerged from the snow on the Gothic flank. His jaw simply hung open at the sight; an unchecked horde of a thousand or more demonic cavalry was charging directly for the exposed flank of his ranks. A cold certainty gripped his soul. Amalric drew his sword.

‘Archers! Right flank, loose!’ He roared. The archers stumbled and cried out as they saw their fate haring in on them. They let fly with a swarm of arrows, accurate as usual, bringing down several of the onrushing cavalry, but not nearly enough.

Amalric roared as Tudoric’s killer trotted calmly back to his lines and the flanking riders poured into the side of the Gothic line. Up ahead, the full weight of the demon army now poured forward. The hiss of a thousand arrows filled the air, then a sharp pain ripped into his shoulder and his world was hurled upside down in chaos as the massacre began.