The Wald by Jason Born Page B

surely be dead in less than three heartbeats, if not by Adalbern, then by one of his men.  The man seemed surprisingly calm in the face of death, standing with his plumed helmet jutting above his shield, watching the horsemen approach.  The man was brave, thought Adalbern – brave but dead.
    All at once the soon-to-be dead man shouted a command and before he had even finished saying it, the men behind him split into three parallel lines in the direction of Adalbern’s advance.  Adalbern instantly found himself thundering between two tightly packed lines of men.  He heard some of his men hit the leading Romans in the lines, but the brutal force of his charge was allowed to sluice through the army like water between the rocks.
    Adalbern, who had kept his sword sheathed so that he could hold tightly to the reins, swore violently, “By Teiwaz!” as he found himself pounding out the other side of the Romans into the dark valley beyond.  He looked over his shoulder at the receding mass and saw that some of his men had been successful at crushing a few of the soldiers, but they now found themselves cut down with pierced torsos.
    When the nobleman was out of projectile range he pulled hard on the reins to beat to a stop.  All around him men did likewise until they sat in panting expectation for orders from their elected war leader.  Behind them, several men still clashed with the Romans – by choice or stuck fast when their horses were cut down – so that clattering and shouting rang into the night.
    “Count your men,” clipped Adalbern.  Within seconds the elders told him they had lost fifteen .  If all those weren’t yet dead, they would be in moments.
    “We did nothing but ride in one of the parades the Romans like so much!  Damn!” snorted Gundahar who had found his way to the front with Adalbern.  The leader looked at the ugly face with reeking anger so that the faithful man knew to say no more of the obvious.
    “We killed how many of them?  Ten?  Twenty?” asked Adalbern.
    Another nobleman who had ridden further back in the horde answered, “No, Adalbern.  If we killed five I would be surprised.  Their formation was perfect.”
    The battle on the path faded so that the only sounds were the rolling Latin words of the officers setting their men back into position.  They would form their shield wall again, deliberate and straight.  They would wait for sometime before they were sure no other attack came and then renew their march toward the river.
    . . .
    “They linger!” Marcus shouted over to Septimus.  The two most junior centurions had found themselves at the back of the marching cohort for each and every battle.  They and their centuries had weathered the brunt of every Sugambrian storm.
    “Yes, I hear them at the edge of their forest,” said Septimus in return as he slapped a legionary into line.  Others of his men lie dead or dying in the center of his square.
    The most senior centurion of the cohort rod e his horse to the rear of the column.  “What do they plot?” the man shouted to Septimus.
    “To attack us again, I suppose,” answered Septimus.  “It’s their last chance before the river and our reinforcements.  They’ll want more blood than what they just spilled.”
    “But they haven’t attacked us twice in a row yet – not as we drove them east, and not as we ran west,” said the senior man.
    “No, sir.  But they’re led by a bear of a man.  I’ve seen him many times now.  I don’t know what he says to them, but he inspires them into a lather.  I hear his voice over there now shouting in his tongue.  He wants us gone from these forests forever.  I think his boy wants us gone even more than the father.”  The senior centurion looked down at Septimus with surprise showing on his face.  Septimus added, “At least, that’s what I’d want if I were either of them.”
    The horseman nodded.  “Then we’ll wait in formation for them to attack us again.