Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) by Daniel Ottalini Page A

low to hamstring and kneecap their Nortland attackers. The lightning-quick attacks left little room for retaliatory strikes. Howling, the blonde enemy battered his line as they rhythmically pushed their shields forward, driving their weight into the enemy press.
    One, two, three—“PUSH!”
    The men on his line drove forward in a focused, precise movement. Even exhausted from the intensity of shipboard combat, the well-trained legionnaires understood one simple fact: this would succeed here and now, or they would die slowly, piece by piece, later.
    Occasionally, a legionnaire would fall. Julius cringed as he watched Ulysses’ head cave in after a blow from a chain-axe, the weapon spraying blood spatter over his neighbors. The shield men to either side quickly and mutely dealt with the threat, swords penetrating the killer’s armor in multiple places, granting the second line a brief moment to fill the gap. Julius watched Faestes fill the hole, and the push continued.
    They were close to the enemy bridge now. Julius could see a few of the attackers beginning to flee over the bridge, back to the safety of their own vessel. “We’ve got them, lads. Keep going!”
    With a roar, his men fought on, swinging with renewed vigor, almost swaggering in their lockstep. Inside the press of bodies, Julius had neither the time nor sightline to check on the progress of his flanks. Extricating himself from the press of bodies, Julius stepped back a few paces to check his forward and aft ranks.
    Although Gwendyrn’s men had started first, Julius’s forces had caught up to them, and they now presented a strong, united front. Looking south, Julius’s gray eyes widened as he saw his right flank pushing forward unevenly, their coordination seemingly off. Damn it, just when we were so close to throwing them all off this vessel! Julius thought, briefly torn. Should he forge ahead and risk losing his flank? Or should he stop his push right when he had them on the run? If we don’t get to the enemy vessel, we won’t have another chance, the men are too tired .
    Julius chose to send a runner down to find out what the problem was. The man returned with troubling news. Hespinus was injured, and command of the flank had fallen to a new squad leader. Analyzing this new information, Julius quickly formatted a plan. He ordered the push again, and his men moved forward. They were almost to the bridge. At the same time, he detached two of the six squads at his command to shore up the weak right flank. As his men pushed the enemy off the ship and back onto their own vessel, the frontage would become narrower, and he wouldn’t need as many bodies to hold the line.
    He had taken his galea off briefly to examine the helmet. After he had gotten his head rung, he wanted to make sure it was still intact. Although battered and shorn of most of its red officer’s plume, his galea was still solid. As he placed the leather-lined helmet back onto his closely shaved head, his eyes fell upon a familiar face.
    Airman Souzetio lay on deck, hands covering a nasty gut wound. Blood soaked his shirt, and blank eyes stared out of his pale face. Julius felt anger stirring within him. He would grieve later. Right now, he had a job to do.
    Securing his galea, he marched back toward his men. “We’ll take that ramp and hold it until I can destroy that vessel. Squads three and four, with me. One and two will hold the ramp.”
    The panting men nodded their understanding as they continued to face off against the last few Nortlanders. Several had already fallen between the ships, their fates best left unknown. Others had leapt the gap, showing impressive athleticism. The press at the boarding ramp was heavy, and the Romans were beginning to slaughter the Nortlanders now as they panicked. Incredibly tough, but also undisciplined and unorganized. A good commander can always use that against them .
    Finally, the Romans gained the ramp. Julius led the way, hacking down