Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) (23 page)

“Yes,” replied Julius. “And I’m going to take him up on the offer. Anything to get out of here. Might as well die fighting. You in?”

The young legionnaire was about the same age as the centurion, but he deferred to his officer’s judgment. “If you feel it best, sir.”

Julius turned back to face the warrior and saluted him, legionnaire style, then replied in his best Norse. The man’s grin was fierce under his bushy brown beard, and after a few short whacks with his war hammer, the cell door groaned and submitted to being pulled open.

The freed Romans stood in the hallway, letting their eyes adjust to the less gloomy atmosphere.

“I feel better already,” murmured Scipio.

“Keep a sharp lookout. I’m still not sure what these guys are planning,” Julius murmured.

“What we are planning is regicide.” A man in more finely crafted armor strode through the assembled warriors. His armor glistened in the torchlight. Julius could make out copper filigree.
It would have been gold in Rome, but copper is the metal of honor and power here
.

“My name is Nikulas Laufas, Duke and Warlord of the Eastern Provinces, Lord of the Seven Glaciers, as well as a bunch of other places too small to name. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying my best to kill all of you. Now, I hope you take me at my word that I need your help.” The man’s tone was matter-of-fact, and Julius could detect no hint of deception.

“We have little help to give. Two soldiers will not make the difference between your success or failure,” Julius pointed out. Scipio hissed at him but Julius ignored the interruption. “How can we best assist?”

“You probably don’t know that this nation’s gone to Valhalla in a barrel. The king’s dead at the hand of his own son, the traitorous swine. If I’m going to eliminate that turd of a prince Lokus, I’ve got to have more men.” The man cursed and spat.

There could definitely be an advantage here if I play it right!

“Right now, I’ve got only my guards and a few others,” the duke continued. “I have feelers out to the other warbands, and I’m certain some will declare for me, but they won’t move until I can get to them. In order to get to them, I need a distraction.”

“And . . . we’re the distraction?” Scipio asked hesitantly.

“Yes. You need to create a diversion somehow. You will find me very generous and rewarding,” Laufas added. “See, here is a key to the jailor’s office. You’ll find your gear stored neatly there. And here is a key to one of Midgard’s armories. You’ll find all the weapons you need and more.” He handed over two archaic-looking metal keys with large looping handles. “Keep them safe. I’ll need them back.”

“This is all very sudden, Duke. Why us? Besides the distraction part.”

The duke turned to look at them. He motioned them closer. The Romans did as he bid. “There is a female Roman senator here. My men think you’re just out to be suicidal distractions for us, but I think you’ve got something in this too. She’s being held in the Outlander Corbus’s chambers in the second spire on the north side. Rescuing her alone would be a fantastic distraction to that shadowman. But you also have the right to free any slaves you see between here and there. Any you free, if they survive the battle, may leave with your army when I have overthrown Lokus. Besides . . . I believe I owe her my life, so it’s only just that I send someone to try to save hers.”

Julius shook his head. “Sir, I won’t leave any Roman behind. It’s just not fair. If we survive and you gain the throne, I propose a trade. You give me back all the slaves, and I talk to my commanding officer and get you the engineers you need to help fill the gap.”

Now it was Laufas’s turn to chuckle. “You don’t exactly have a very strong position to argue from, young man.” He sniffed, hand scratching at his rather long chin. His blue eyes squinted in the torchlight. Julius held his gaze, refusing to back down. “Fine. But only the Roman slaves. None from elsewhere. You’re Roman and have no claim on others.”

Julius struggled internally for a moment, then nodded in assent.

“Good. I’ll leave you a guide to get you up there and escort you around. Have the distraction started within the next three hours. You’ll hear the chimes signaling the change of hours up on the main cavern level. Three of those, and launch your attack.”

Julius saluted. “We won’t let you down.”

Laufas laughed. “I’m not your commanding officer, just a man offering you a perfect opportunity to be a hero. Now . . .” He tipped his head to the side, an odd twinkle in his eyes. “Are you up for it?”

A half-hour later, Scipio and Julius were garbed once more in their battle gear. Having lost his sword and shield in the air battle, Julius had dug up a replacement sword from the jail storeroom. He swung it around a few times, testing the balance. It would work, for now.

Scipio’s equipment was all there, captured in the field with him. Although the Nortlanders were traditionally very unorganized, the prisoner’s gear had indeed been neatly folded and placed in special metal baskets. Their guide explained that, per Nortland custom, a man should never be separated from his weapons. Although they might be prisoners, they were still warriors, and their keeping weapons nearby appeased their finicky and stern war god.

“You ready?” the man asked in his rough low Latin.

Julius could understand him, barely. He nodded. “Lead on.”

The journey upward through the mountain took them along what seemed like miles of tunnels, all brightly lit by torches, lanterns, or ingeniously designed skylights.

“How?” Julius gestured to a skylight as they took a short break in a deserted stretch of passageway.

Their guide, Halder, looked perplexed for a moment as he struggled to find the right words in Latin to explain the obviously mechanical concepts. “Shiny glass?” he replied.

Julius was confused, but Scipio picked up on it immediately. “Mirrors! You mean mirrors!”

Halder smiled and nodded. “Ja! Ja!”

Scipio looked at Julius. “Ingenious. They can get sunlight here without feeling the freezing cold temperatures!”

The small moment of wonder was quickly eclipsed when they found themselves in front of a set of massive double iron doors, the metal dark and worn with age and use. Julius stood on tiptoe, trying to see through the small, mesh-covered windows cut into their face, but they were too high. He rattled the door handles. They didn’t budge.

“No thing there,” Halder told him.

Julius sighed. “Is this a dead end?” he said, disgruntled.

“Wait.” Halder reached out and pulled on a ring attached to an iron chain.

“What does that do?” Scipio asked.

“Wait.”

Julius strained to hear any sound of movement on the other side of the door. “Is this an elevator?” Halder looked at him, stoic and silent. “I suppose I’ll just wait and see then,” he said petulantly, squatting on the smooth rock floor.

For the first time, Julius felt his adrenaline slowing, and realized that, although they were no longer trapped inside a cell, they were still prisoners in this giant citadel.
I wish Gwendyrn
were here. He’d open up his mouth and shoot off some horribly bad joke about Nortlanders’ taste in furniture, or not trusting their rickety machines or something of that sort.
Julius’s mouth cracked in a small smile, the first genuine one he’d had in a long time.

“Look!” Scipio’s rough shake grabbed his attention and brought him back to the present. He followed Scipio’s outstretched hand and saw light emanating from the door. The light shone through the windows and even spilled around the doorframe.

“Up. We move.” Halder pulled on the door handles and they slid open without protest. Beyond was a very strange sight. A wooden raft seemed to float in midair—no, Julius realized; it was held in place by four long chains that seemed to come down out of the darkness above and wrap around the vessel.

“What is it?” Scipio asked as Halder led them onto the open platform. It swayed side to side with their movements, and Julius gulped. It was worse than being on an airship.

“This is fløte,” Halder said, as if that explained everything.

“A float? A flot?” Scipio repeated, struggling to pronounce the word.

“It is a fløte, reise med flåte,” Halder stated flatly.

Scipio made a noise of disgust, then moved to the edge, where a rope stretched around waist-high poles formed a rudimentary railing on all but one side of the fløte.

Whatever this is, I hope it’s safe,
Julius thought
.

“Hold on.” Halder braced himself against a metal bar in the middle of the fløte. He turned and talked in Norse to the operator, whose presence Julius only now noticed. All around them was darkness, with just a few other lights in the distance. Far above, Julius thought he could make out other spots of light, but he wasn’t sure.

With a lurch, the raft moved. Julius made a grab at the rope barrier as his stomach dropped slightly. Scipio grabbed his collar and pulled him back.

“Thanks,” Julius said breathlessly.

“Least I could do, sir. You’re getting us out of here.” Scipio replied.

Halder laughed from behind them, shaking his head at the two Romans. He took off his helmet, revealing a disheveled mass of reddish-brown hair that fell below his ears.

“Can I see that?” Julius asked, pointing to the helmet. Halder tossed it over. The helmet was round like the Roman helm, but it was an assemblage of multiple pieces of metal banded together with rivets. The semicircular eye and nose guard was a thin strip of iron hammered nearly flat.
It must limit their peripheral vision. No wonder their berserkers go without helmets!
“Thanks,” he grunted in Norse. Halder chuckled at the Roman’s use of his native tongue.

The man at the control panel asked a question or two in Norse. When Halder’s answers obviously didn’t provide a satisfactory answer, the man got very agitated.

“Uh-oh,” Scipio said nervously. The fløte stopped in midair, sending Julius to one knee and Scipio into a box.

Julius hauled himself up. “This can’t be good.”

Halder strode over and casually picked the pilot up by his neck, lifting him several inches off the ground. The smaller man struggled for a minute, then nodded, crying out. Halder dropped him, then buffeted him about the head for good measure.

“What was that about?” Scipio asked quietly.

“Dunno, but hopefully we’ll get to our destination alive and in one piece.”

The shaken man retook the controls, and the vessel continued on its way without problem. They arrived at another set of iron doors. Halder strode up and pulled them open. He then turned and gestured to the pilot. The man walked nervously forward, one eye on the warrior. Halder gestured at the Romans, who flanked the pilot as he walked off the fløte onto the landing platform. The small party had arrived at their destination.

Almost immediately, they ran into resistance. A small knot of soldiers stood in the hallway, obviously arguing. Halder strode forward, unsheathing his large dirk. The guards split apart. Halder issued an obvious challenge. One man went beet red, and swung his spear at Halder in anger. Halder stopped the spear cold with one hand, stabbing his dirk into the man’s eye with the other. As the man flopped to the floor, his companions split up, one group fleeing from Halder, the other group chattering excitedly.

“Come, Romans. They join,” Halder told them as he pulled his dirk free and wiped it on the dead guard’s clothing.

“What about him?” Scipio pointed to the pilot.

Halder smiled. “He join too.”

Julius looked at Scipio. “Just remember, legionnaire. We’re not in Rome anymore.”

Chapter 20

Constantine

A
splash of cold water hit
Constantine in the face, waking him from a groggy, dreamless slumber. The icy liquid trickled down his face and hair, running into his eyes and mouth. Constantine could taste the saltiness and grime as the dirt and sweat from his body mingled with his evening shower. This was the second time he had been awakened in this manner.

He tried to adjust his aching arms, numb fingers fiddling with his bonds to no avail, the ropes were as tight as ever. Constantine’s arms were tied around a large tent pole in the middle of the canvas shelter. The wooden pole was substantial, unmoving in the face of Constantine’s many attempts to dislodge it. He slumped on the floor, legs splayed open, back against the pole.

His guards, evidently former street toughs by their actions, took glee in his discomfort. “Get up, get up!” one growled, prodding him with the butt of his spear. The iron was cooler than the water had been. Constantine struggled wearily to get to his feet. The other guard impatiently pulled on his arm, jerking him up. Constantine hissed in pain.

The guard, whom Constantine had dubbed Scarface for the ugly crescent scar that creased his forehead from eye to eye, untied his restraints, while Turtle, the other guard, pointed the steel-tipped
pilum
at him. The spear rested just inches from Constantine’s unprotected chest.

The
primus imperio
did his best to ignore the brutes, focusing on a point beyond Turtle while he concentrated on the feeling returning to his numb hands and toes. The pricks and pains of his body pulled him back into the real world.

“Out you go, Your Highness.” Scarface chuckled, pushing Constantine ahead of him and past Turtle.

They escorted him along the
via principalis
of the
castrum
. Legionnaires in the street stared at him as he walked along, ignoring the rough pushes from his guards. His breath caught as he thought he saw Gwendyrn, but it was just another large, bearded street tough playing at soldier. The winter sun threw long shadows on the ground as the sun set on his second day of capture.

He noted something interesting as he ambled along.
There seem to be a lot more “personal guards” and a lot fewer legionnaires. I wonder if Minnicus has convinced his men to switch sides, or if he’s been bringing them in somehow.

A covered wagon rumbled past and pulled into an open supply lot. The back flap was lifted and a group of armored men hopped out.
Wow. He’s simply shipping them in the supply wagons. So where are all the supplies?
Constantine wondered. He must have spoken aloud, for he received another sharp jab in the back from Turtle.

“Quit your yappin’.”

Constantine sighed as they guided him toward the main tent. Once again, he would have a chat with the general.
Just the thing to make my day, he thought as they entered
.

General Minnicus was seated at his campaign desk, licking the last bits of grease and juice from his midday meal off his fingers. Several aides were huddled over the command table, prodding the controls and whispering to each other. A servant handed Minnicus a towel.