Read Online Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gordon Doherty
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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missile to the cluster of Gothic riders who had raced into the valley, blonde locks billowing in their wake.
‘Ready yourselves,’ he batted a hand across Paulus’ chest, scowled along the forty who lined the ridge with him, then waved the other hand at those on the opposite ridge. He grappled at the felled spruce trunk that lay before them, his fingers blue and numb as he searched for purchase. Then, as he and his men took the weight of the timber, he hissed to them; ‘Push!’
The Gothic riders raced along the valley floor at pace, and the log seemed determined not to crest the ridge of the valley. He growled, his trunk-like arms shuddering and his boots gouging frozen earth from the ground until, finally, the weight of the log was gone. He and his men rushed onto the lip to see the logs from either edge hurtling down the valley sides, converging on the path of the rebel riders.
The Gothic riders noticed when they had only moments to react. Some leapt clear of the logs, some mounts reared up and their riders fell to the ground, others pulled up short and hurled their riders forward. Those caught in the path of the colliding logs were shattered like kindling; pained whinnying, screaming and the snapping of man and animal bones echoed through the valley.
Before they could reform, Zosimus swept his sword over his head, racing down the hillside at the head of his men.
‘Charge!’ He roared.
‘Yes . . . yes!’ Gallus growled, the bitter chill rushing past him as he sped forward at a gallop into the valley. His eyes were fixed on the form of Centurion Zosimus; the big Thracian was leading his century like a lion, silhouetted in the morning sun. The screaming of iron upon iron rang out and the stench of spilled guts was rife.
He flexed his fingers and gripped on his spatha hilt again and again, casting an eye back over his shoulder to see that the hundred and sixty of the first century were not far behind. The jaws of the trap were swinging shut. The truth lay within his grasp.
‘Bring them forward, in formation!’ Gallus bawled.
‘Aye, sir!’ Felix roared, dropping back to the right of the approaching line of legionaries. Then, when they were less than a hundred paces from the skirmish, he roared; ‘Plumbatae! Ready!’
At once the line rippled, each man presenting one of the three rapier-tipped darts clipped to the rear of their shields. ‘Loose!’ The pack of Gothic riders was shattered as the Roman hail streaked through the air and smashed into their midst.
‘That’s it! Break them!’ Gallus cried as a second and third volley were loosed. ‘Now, Felix, with me!’ He roared, heeling his mount into a charge to speed ahead of the rushing legionaries.
He and Felix raced into the flank of the pack of Gothic riders where two of them were hacking at one of Zosimus’ bloodied legionaries. The nearest of the riders, a fiery-bearded man, swept the legionary’s head clear of his shoulders, then turned, growling, just in time to parry Gallus’ strike. Gallus swivelled in his saddle and flicked his spatha up to grasp it overhand, then stabbed down through the Goth’s collarbone. Blood jetted from the wound and the Goth’s angry grimace melted into a grey, empty stare in moments as he slid from his mount like a sack of wet sand.
Then a longsword swept past Gallus’ face, scoring his cheek. His counter-swipe at the attacking Goth fell short due to his mount shuffling back from the fray. To Hades with this , he snorted, then slid from the saddle. This is where the legionary fights, he affirmed as his boots hit the ground. Then a familiar misty red veil descended over his vision as he slotted onto the end of the approaching legionary line, raising his shield.
‘At them!’ He bellowed.
The cold seemed to fall away as the legionary line smashed into the Gothic riders. He hacked, stabbed and parried. All around, he saw his comrades
‘Ready yourselves,’ he batted a hand across Paulus’ chest, scowled along the forty who lined the ridge with him, then waved the other hand at those on the opposite ridge. He grappled at the felled spruce trunk that lay before them, his fingers blue and numb as he searched for purchase. Then, as he and his men took the weight of the timber, he hissed to them; ‘Push!’
The Gothic riders raced along the valley floor at pace, and the log seemed determined not to crest the ridge of the valley. He growled, his trunk-like arms shuddering and his boots gouging frozen earth from the ground until, finally, the weight of the log was gone. He and his men rushed onto the lip to see the logs from either edge hurtling down the valley sides, converging on the path of the rebel riders.
The Gothic riders noticed when they had only moments to react. Some leapt clear of the logs, some mounts reared up and their riders fell to the ground, others pulled up short and hurled their riders forward. Those caught in the path of the colliding logs were shattered like kindling; pained whinnying, screaming and the snapping of man and animal bones echoed through the valley.
Before they could reform, Zosimus swept his sword over his head, racing down the hillside at the head of his men.
‘Charge!’ He roared.
‘Yes . . . yes!’ Gallus growled, the bitter chill rushing past him as he sped forward at a gallop into the valley. His eyes were fixed on the form of Centurion Zosimus; the big Thracian was leading his century like a lion, silhouetted in the morning sun. The screaming of iron upon iron rang out and the stench of spilled guts was rife.
He flexed his fingers and gripped on his spatha hilt again and again, casting an eye back over his shoulder to see that the hundred and sixty of the first century were not far behind. The jaws of the trap were swinging shut. The truth lay within his grasp.
‘Bring them forward, in formation!’ Gallus bawled.
‘Aye, sir!’ Felix roared, dropping back to the right of the approaching line of legionaries. Then, when they were less than a hundred paces from the skirmish, he roared; ‘Plumbatae! Ready!’
At once the line rippled, each man presenting one of the three rapier-tipped darts clipped to the rear of their shields. ‘Loose!’ The pack of Gothic riders was shattered as the Roman hail streaked through the air and smashed into their midst.
‘That’s it! Break them!’ Gallus cried as a second and third volley were loosed. ‘Now, Felix, with me!’ He roared, heeling his mount into a charge to speed ahead of the rushing legionaries.
He and Felix raced into the flank of the pack of Gothic riders where two of them were hacking at one of Zosimus’ bloodied legionaries. The nearest of the riders, a fiery-bearded man, swept the legionary’s head clear of his shoulders, then turned, growling, just in time to parry Gallus’ strike. Gallus swivelled in his saddle and flicked his spatha up to grasp it overhand, then stabbed down through the Goth’s collarbone. Blood jetted from the wound and the Goth’s angry grimace melted into a grey, empty stare in moments as he slid from his mount like a sack of wet sand.
Then a longsword swept past Gallus’ face, scoring his cheek. His counter-swipe at the attacking Goth fell short due to his mount shuffling back from the fray. To Hades with this , he snorted, then slid from the saddle. This is where the legionary fights, he affirmed as his boots hit the ground. Then a familiar misty red veil descended over his vision as he slotted onto the end of the approaching legionary line, raising his shield.
‘At them!’ He bellowed.
The cold seemed to fall away as the legionary line smashed into the Gothic riders. He hacked, stabbed and parried. All around, he saw his comrades
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