Wounds of Honour: Empire I by Riches Anthony

Author:Riches, Anthony [Riches, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Hodder
Published: 2009-09-23T23:00:00+00:00

9

Marcus stared across the half-mile that separated the 9th from the forest’s dark bulk, watching the enemy irregular cavalry trot briskly from their hiding places under the trees’ canopy. Forming a rough line, the horsemen accelerated to a canter, starting up the gentle slope towards the century’s fragile square. He looked about him at his men, their attention focused on the oncoming cavalry, their faces fixed in disbelief at the cruel twist in their fortunes. Even Dubnus seemed diminished, leaning on his pole as if suddenly tired, and for a second the hope went out of the young officer. He stared beyond his men, at the smaller group of horsemen that had drawn away to wait a short distance upslope of their position, just short of the slope’s crest, close enough for them to see their mocking grins. Then, with an intensity that shocked him as much as the men he commanded, his temper ignited, firing a burning fury into his voice.

‘Ninth Century, spear drill!’

A few men turned to look at him, their faces numb with the shock of their ambush by the horsemen, stoking the fire of his fury.

‘Ninth Century, spear drill! Prepare to assault the horsemen to our rear!’

Dubnus came to life with a start, slapping the man next to him across the back.

‘You heard the fucking officer. Spear drill!’

The century seemed to shiver for a moment, as if a powerful wind was blowing through the thin ranks, then snapped to attention. Dubnus’s voice boomed again, stirring them with a fresh purpose.

‘On the command form line, form a double line facing the front. Ready ... Form line!’

The 9th moved quickly, months of drill practice taking over and dropping them into position without conscious thought. Within twenty seconds they were drawn up in line facing the still-distant oncoming horsemen, their spears held ready to throw. Marcus looked behind him, seeing that the smaller group of cavalry was still in place on the slope to their rear, watching curiously as their enemies apparently abandoned the small degree of safety given by their shields, but still not bothering to do any more than sit and watch. As the last men moved into their places, Marcus drew his sword, turned and pointed it up the slope.

‘About face. Charge!’

The tribesmen’s ponies reared in surprise as the line ran towards them, every man bellowing at the top of his voice. The more skilled horsemen among the Britons managed to wrestle their mounts out of place, and ride away up the slope, but the majority were too slow, struggling to control their beasts. As the soldiers’ battle cry died away, Marcus shouted the last command necessary to launch his attack.

‘Throw!’

The line of men threw almost simultaneously, exhaling a collective whoosh of breath as their spears flew from straining arms, a short vicious arc of wood and metal that slammed a rain of razor-sharp steel into the milling horsemen. Men and horses were impaled by the missiles, their screams blending into a cacophony of pain.

‘Swords!’

The 9th,

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