“Steady lads. They’re coming any moment now.”
Behind him and along the front line he heard the clink and rattle of his men settling into their stance, prepared for the force of a barbarian charge. Risking another glance away, he gazed far along to the right, past the infantry line, to the small cavalry force hidden behind a line of trees. If you knew they were there you could see movement, but the enemy had neither outriders nor scouts. They were blissfully unaware of the horsemen waiting for the opportunity to sweep behind them and cut them down from the rear.
There was a faltering in the cacophony up the slope and, returning his gaze once more, he saw weapons being raised by the more important looking warriors. The din fell to a low rumble and then rose once more into an ear-splitting crescendo as the line of filthy, hairy, leather-clad warriors began to pour down the slope.
“Lock shields!” he cried, as the men to his sides set themselves to receive the charge. His knuckles tensed again and he clenched his teeth in a snarl as the barbarian force flung themselves against the wall of Imperial iron. He was almost knocked from his feet with the initial impact, but held the line as the tribesmen began to swing wildly overhead, raining down blows upon the shield wall. As the line to both sides braced once more following the initial collision, the short swords of the second cohort began to lance out between the shields, carefully marking targets and delivering precise blows. The barbarians’ one great hope had been that a strong charge would break the line, but now they had failed and the Imperial force would hold for a moment and then begin their inexorable slow push forward. The front row of savages began to thin out almost immediately, their companions to the rear climbing over the fallen in their lust for Imperial blood. With an almost contemptuous flick, Varro thrust his blade through the narrow gap afforded in the shields and dug deep into the side of the man before him, who stiffened for a moment, his raised sword faltering and then falling loosely away. Withdrawing his blade for another thrust, the captain gritted his teeth and then called out along the line.
“Advance!”
The front line took one step forward slowly and carefully, navigating the fallen barbarians and various undulations of the ground instinctively. As the barbarians rallied and hit the line again, this time ragged and in small groups rather than one heavy charge, the men of the Fourth Army kept their shields close in a wall, stabbing purposefully with their short swords.
A series of crashes and screams rang out along the line as, with a steady and measured pace, the entire cohort took another pace forward, stabbing and slashing at their shabby opponents. Another step and more carnage, and the line had begun to falter. The advance was difficult over the corpses of their enemies and at irregular points along the line men of the Fourth had succumbed to the occasional well-aimed or lucky blow, the second line rushing forward to plug the gap. Still, Varro mused, as he drew his shoulder back and thrust the blade once more through the shield wall and bit deep into flesh, the enemy line had become a total shambles by now. With a glance over the heads of the opposition, he noted the cavalry wing now harrying the rear of the enemy force. This was the time. He drew a deep breath.
“Melee!” he cried over the sounds of steel and butchery.
Immediately the Imperial wall broke. Those men already engaged with a warrior continued to fight, while those with a clear field marked a target among the rabble and made for them, some lending aid to their more beleaguered companions as they surged forward. There was a note of panic in the unintelligible shouts of the enemy now. They were no longer advancing, but being forced backwards, while their rear ranks had turned as best they could to deal with the fast-paced cavalry. They were trapped.
Paying no heed to his men, who knew well enough how to proceed, Varro stepped forward, eyeing a short, yet heavy-built man clad in furs and leathers and a chainmail shirt. Nimbly stepping over the body of one of the fallen men, the captain raised his shield, staring out over the rim at his opponent. The man had clearly marked him. With a loud cry of challenge, the warrior strode forward, contemptuously knocking aside the blade of one of the Imperial soldiers and driving his own sword deep into the man’s ribs. The soldier collapsed with a shout, falling back among the melee and the barbarian let go of his hilt, allowing the blade to fall with the body. Smiling grimly, he drew a second sword from his belt and came on, sparing not a glance for his victim. With surprise, Varro noted that the new weapon was an Imperial blade of some quality. The hilt was bound in red leather and the pommel formed into the shape of the raven. This bastard had stripped an Imperial officer of his fine weapon in some previous engagement and the fact incensed Varro. With a growl, he stepped further forward from the now broken line and hefted his shield, changing his grip for comfort.
“Come on then, you son of a diseased dog!” he shouted at the stocky barbarian, momentarily loosening the grip on his sword hilt to beckon the man on with three fingers.
The man raised a small, round shield of bronze embossed with some bearded visage, presumably a depiction of one of their Gods Varro didn’t know, his own face fixed in a rictus of brutal lust. He closed the gap and leapt into the fray with agile enthusiasm.
Varro lifted his own shield a little and blocked the first blow, an over-arm thrust aimed above the shield, straight for his neck. The screech of the barbarian’s blade scraping along the shield’s bronze edging made Varro’s teeth vibrate and the weapon continued its descent to cut a large gash in the wood and leather. Varro reared back and retaliated with his own sword, jabbing sharply around his shield and aiming for the kidney, only to be blocked by the bronze shield in a surprisingly swift reaction, leaving a deep groove across the embossed face.
Again and again the two hammered at each other, their shields blocking every blow. The shriek of Varro’s sword against the bronze disc continued to grate on the captain as wood chips and scraps of leather showered away from his own rapidly-disintegrating shield.
And suddenly the barbarian was gone. One of the advancing infantry had lashed out with his shield as he passed and knocked the man from his feet. Varro glared at his underling irritably; even in the midst of battle there was a certain etiquette to be maintained. He didn’t have time to ponder however, as another barbarian leapt forward and faced off against him. The captain spared a brief glance at his erstwhile opponent who was trying to regain his feet as one of the Imperial soldiers battered against his bronze shield, trying to put him down for good. Returning his gaze to the new enemy before him clad in ragged furs, he raised his battered shield to ward off a sweeping blow from a long northern sword. With a crash the two met and began to hack and swipe at each other. This man was weaker and less prepared and, as the idiot swept his sword far too wide for a good strike, Varro flicked his blade out once, catching the man’s upper arm, just above the elbow. The warrior grunted, his sword falling away from suddenly spasming fingers, and Varro took advantage of his distraction, slamming his huge shield forward into the face of the surprised barbarian. The solid bronze hemispherical boss at the centre hit the man square in the face and filled the air with the sound of splintering bone. The man tried to scream but the sound came out a throaty gurgle as he gagged on his own blood.