Devan Chronicles Series: Books 1-3 (96 page)

He lay sleepless and unseeing upon his cot through that night, and when dawn came, he was no closer to a solution than he had been. Mortain—may he live forever—would never accept his failure. He had to find a way over the walls that left the legion intact and strong enough to take Calvados before year’s end.

“Sir? I’m sorry… I should have thought about what they would do when they saw us coming, but I didn’t. I was too caught up with the work.”

Navarien spoke without looking. “I command this legion not you. It was my decision to make, and I made it. Sergeants follow orders, Generals give them. Let that be an end to it.”

Silence.

He sat up expecting to find the sergeant gone, but he was still there. Turner was standing just inside the tent flap holding a shield in one hand, and what looked to be a jug of oil in the other.

“What have you there?”

“Oil. We use it for cooking.”

Trying for calm that was in short supply, Navarien rubbed his temples and took a calming breath. “I know what we use it for, man! Why is it in here?”

“I think I may have a way to stop them burning my…
your
other tower, Sir.”

That made him sit up straight. “Show me,” he said and followed Turner out of the tent and away from the camp. “Where are we going?”

“It’s not far, Sir.”

Their destination was a small hollow out of sight of the camp and its perimeter guards. Some of Turner’s maniple were loitering within the hollow and came to attention as he arrived. Navarien ordered them to stand easy, while he surveyed the scene. To one side, a campfire was burning. It had four wooden posts driven into the ground around it. Near the centre of the hollow, was a crude model of a tower. It didn’t have wheels or anything similar, but it was roughly the right shape. There were four legion shields attached to its sides, and when he looked through the opening in the top, he could see ropes tying them onto the wooden frame.

“Show me.”

Turner placed the shield he was carrying upon the posts over the fire. Navarien wandered over and crouched down to see underneath. The flames from the campfire were touching the shield. He expected to see it catch fire, but it didn’t.

Turner began counting time.

The inner surface of the shield was uppermost and it was starting to smoke. Turner reached six hundred before the flames burned completely through, but even then, the shield wasn’t actually burning. The men carefully removed it from the fire and cooled it with water.

“Do you see, sir?” Turner said tapping the burnt edges of the shield with a knuckle.

“Hmmm,” he murmured.

The leather seemed to have hardened and cracked before turning into something resembling charcoal. A slow count of six hundred was almost a quarter candlemark. If Turner covered the tower with legion shields, there should be enough time to get in position and onto the wall before the tower was destroyed.

“What about your little model?”

“If you’re ready, I made that to show you how long a shield will last when affixed to the tower. Laying flat as you saw, it lasts for a count of six hundred, but upright it will last all night for some reason—even when we use oil!”

He frowned. “Strange. Might as well show me, Turner, your men seem eager to burn it.”

Turner laughed and gave the order. Navarien watched as the oil was poured over the model then set alight. He counted along with Turner this time, but the sergeant was right. The oil burned completely away leaving hot undamaged shields. The heat
had
penetrated right through, but not enough to even burn his hand let alone set the wood alight. Somehow, the shields spread the heat out over their entire surface, they hadn’t allowed the flames to penetrate.

“How long?”

“I can have the remaining tower ready for you in a few days. If you want a second tow—”

“No,” he said abruptly. “One tower will have to do. We are far behind schedule. We still have to build the fort before the militia arrives. Calvados is waiting for us, and we have to be tucked away inside before winter descends. I can’t waste the tendays it would take to build another tower.”

“Right you are.”

Navarien made his way back to camp in better spirits. He was determined to lead the assault himself this time. The men would be understandably reluctant to use the tower after yesterday’s catastrophe, but he felt sure they would follow orders if he led them personally. Ordinarily, he would lead First Battalion on an assault such as this, but baring in mind recent events at Cantibria, he decided the Eighth would have the honour of leading the assault. Captain Tikva and his sergeants had done wonders in training the Bandarians to their fine standard, and Eighth Battalion was a veteran unit. It was infinitely better suited to the task than say… Third Battalion.

Come the day, Cragson was still arguing his decision. It was gratifying that Cragson was worried for him, but in the end he would still have to follow orders and lead First Battalion through the gates once Eighth Battalion had taken them.

“You all know the plan,” Navarien said to his Captains. He waited for their nods of assent then continued, “Tikva, you are my second for the actual assault on the walls, but as soon as we take the gates, the usual chain of command is back in force. Cragson, you will be in command of First Battalion, but I want you to leave the fight to the sergeants. You will have to oversee the thrust through the gate until I arrive. Any questions?”

“Sir, let me take the Eighth over the wall and you oversee the gates. I’m not happy with this—”

“Captain Cragson, thank you for your concern, but I’m
ordering
you to accept the plan as stated. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir!” Cragson said and saluted.

He slapped Cragson upon the shoulder then made his way to the tower with Tikva. The tower looked very military with its shell of legion shields. It had taken thousands of them to cover it. He wasn’t completely happy about some of his men not having their shields, but he couldn’t have everything. He felt that it wouldn’t matter too much on the wall, so he had redistributed the remaining shields to the men storming the streets through the gates. If all went well, the city would fall by evening. The men of Eighth Battalion cheered when they saw him coming to lead them. He hoped they would be cheering when they came within range of the walls.

Navarien noticed sergeant Meran standing with his maniple and beckoned him over. “I want your maniple with me at the top Meran.”

“Yes, Sir. I thought you might.”

Navarien laughed. “It’s not like that, Sergeant. I watched those big men of yours knocking sense into the Bandarians for tendays. I want your maniple to do the same to these bastards on the wall.” He turned grim, “They are really going to regret burning my men.”

“Oh my yes,” Tikva said equally grim-faced.

“Fine, Sir!” Meran grinned then turned toward his men. “You heard the General. Get your lazy arses up that tower! Yes… I do mean you as well, Lewin—and take your cursed sword with you this time!”

Navarien grinned. Meran’s men laughed and joked as they approached the tower. Lewin was pushed and shoved jokingly as he went by, but they quieted as they started climbing. As soon as the maniple was all in, Navarien swung onto the ladder and climbed up into the gloom. It was a long way up, and for a time all he knew was the man in front, and the friendly curses as men bumped each other.

He reached the lower gallery quickly, and then climbed the ladder to the next. Once at the top, he made his way to the door. It was closed now of course. The bridge acted as a door to safeguard anyone from falling out. The upper gallery was just big enough for four maniples packed shoulder to shoulder. Navarien positioned himself next to Meran, so he would be the first onto the bridge. Then they waited.

Candlemarks seemed to pass before the tower started moving. Everyone cursed, Navarien included, at the abruptness of the movement, but there wasn’t room to fall. He remembered watching the towers approaching the city just a few short days ago, and thinking how stable they looked. Well, it just went to show how very far appearances were from the truth. The tower, slow as it was, was lurching from side to side enough to make the men beside him a necessity. Without them, he doubted he could have kept his feet.

He watched the wall approaching through the peephole in the bridge. “Nearly there now, Meran. Get ready to drop the bridge.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first jugs of oil sailed toward him, and he offered a prayer to the God. Flames and smoke billowed up. The men cursed and shouted, but they didn’t panic. Turner had shown them his model tower, and they had seen for themselves that shields wouldn’t burn. It was hot though and becoming hotter. Battle or no battle, he would be glad to get into fresh air. Smoke had managed to get inside, but it wasn’t too bad yet. Besides, they were nearly there.

The tower lurched and crashed to a stop against the wall. Navarien didn’t need to give the order, Meran released the bridge the instant the tower stopped. Sunlight flooded in and the smoke with it. Navarien ignored everything but his footing as he ran across to the wall trying not to fall off the bridge. The ground looked a cursed long way down, but he was on the wall and cutting his first man down before he had time to be scared. Meran was beside him and another man—Lewin—was on his other side. More and more of his men boiled out of the tower to increase the foothold he had gained.

The city’s defenders attacked all out. They were almost berserk with rage. Navarien was struck a hard blow on his right side, but the armour stopped it from penetrating and Meran killed the culprit. Slowly he advanced to where he could see a stone stairway. Captain Tikva was advancing similarly in the opposite direction, and looked to have succeeded in holding his end of the wall.

With Meran by his side, Navarien gained the first step, and the next. He was wounded on the left leg, but it didn’t seem serious and he kept going. There simply wasn’t room on the steps for more than two people side by side, and after a few narrow escapes, they succeeded in reaching the ground. Then things became dicey. With more room, the defenders attacked harder than ever. Screams of fear and pain mixed with the roar of hate from the legionnaires. They were determined to visit their vengeance upon the city for burning their comrades, but determination wasn’t enough. They were in desperate danger of being overwhelmed.

The defenders threw themselves bodily upon legion swords dragging those blades down and spitting their dying breaths at their enemies. Meran’s maniple formed a square to hold them. Without shields, the square was less effective than otherwise would be the case and he was rapidly losing his ability to protect his General. Meran ordered his men to back slowly toward the gate, and they did so grimly holding to discipline. More men fell, and yet more, but finally they reached the gate to lift the locking bar clear.

Cragson was ready.

With a roar, seven battalions charged through and slaughtered the defenders in the immediate area to a man.

“Cragson!” Navarien roared above the screams of the dying.

“Sir!”

“I want a battalion on each of the three main roads and one to hold this gate. Get another up on the wall to relieve Tikva.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Navarien stood back to watch as his men moved to cover the entrances to the square. Meran and his men were checking the fallen for wounded. Perhaps half his maniple lay unmoving in pools of blood. Bodies lay in heaps at the base of the steps and all along their desperate route to the gate. Meran ordered his able-bodied men to carry the wounded back to camp, and the dead to be dragged from beneath the stinking heaps of Camorin corpses. They would be prepared for burial as soon as the city fell and it was safe to think of something other than survival.

The enemy attacked desperately down two of the main roads, but so far they had failed to breakthrough. An occasional man did fall of line, but another would run to take his place from the reserve without needing orders. This was the kind of fight legionaries were used to, and they were evidently relieved to get back to what they knew how to do. As far as they were concerned, building was a sideline and not proper work for the legions.

The shouts and screams of battle, the clang of sword upon sword seemed somehow unreal to Navarien from where he stood watching the scene. He grimaced at the pain in his leg and shifted his weight. The battle was real, and so were the deaths, as far too many bodies of his men could testify. He had sworn vengeance upon those who had burned his men, yet suddenly he was sick of death. The stench of it filled his nostrils and the screams filled his ears until he felt he must surely go mad from both.

“Sir?”

He turned to find Meran standing beside him. “Yes?”

“Orders sir?”

“None. Take care of your men, sergeant. That’s all I ask.”

“Aye sir, but… aye,” Meran sighed and left to join the remnants of his maniple.

Navarien turned back to watch the battle.

“Tikva owns the wall, Sir,” Cragson said dismissing a messenger. “The enemy has abandoned their positions.”

“Very good,” he said in satisfaction. No one liked arrows coming from above, but it seemed the enemy had decided to fight on the ground from now on. He called his captains together and gave his orders. “I want Sixth Battalion to hold here and First Battalion to continue up the main road to take the other gate.” He glanced to his right where Third Battalion was meeting heavy resistance. “Tenth Battalion under Bannan will reinforce Third on my right. Push them back for me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Bannan said.

“I’m leaving Tikva on the wall for now, he’s done enough for us today,” Navarien said and turned to Cragson. “You stay with what’s left of Fourth and Fifth Battalion on my left. They can’t take much pressure, but that side has been quiet.”

“We’ll hold, General.”

“I know you will.”

Fourth and Fifth Battalions had sustained heavy losses in the retreat and would need rebuilding. Captain Duer wouldn’t be fit for some time to come.

“You have your orders,” Navarien said. “Let’s be about it.”