Copper Centurion (The Steam Empire Chronicles) Page 19

  Lokus now called out in Norse, the guttural language almost abrasive on Octavia’s ears. It was too quick for Octavia to translate. Bismark bellowed in return, swinging his goblet around and cracking the traitorous armsman on the head. As the soldier dropped like a stone, the king grabbed his discarded spear, and faced down his son.

  The crown prince drew his massive chain-axe, the weapon humming ominously as the teeth began to move. Octavia was able to translate this time: “I should be king. I will lead our people to greatness, not leave us cowering here in these frozen mountains like pitiful sheep.”

  Lokus began to circle his father. Suddenly Lokus charged, axe teeth blasting through the meager defense offered by the king’s spear. The king fell back, blood welling from his hands, and Lokus punched him with his gauntleted hand. The king spun about and collapsed to the floor right before his throne. Octavia heard retching, and Lokus backed off for a moment. When the king turned back toward the feast table, Octavia saw black streaks running up and down the side of his face. What is happening? Is that from some kind of poison?

  “How are you feeling, Father? Do you like being punched?” Lokus taunted.

  The king dragged himself up the steps of the throne platform. No other guards were coming to help, and it appeared that none of the courtiers were willing to make a move. Octavia looked about, trying to find anyone willing to help. She had just gathered the nerve to stand when she felt two hands drop onto her shoulders. A voice in Latin made her freeze.

  “Now there, Senatora, leaving so soon? I think you’d really like to watch this. After all, this is an event months in the making.”

  “Corbus,” she hissed under her breath.

  “The one and only.” Octavia could practically feel the smirk on Corbus’s face.

  With her escape thwarted, Octavia had no choice but to watch Lokus slowly murder his father for the next several minutes. By the time the crown prince decided to end the king’s life, the honorable man who had welcomed the Roman emissary so far from home to his table was no more. Instead there was a shivering, pain-wracked man with no more control over his body.

  Somehow, Octavia found his eyes in the bleeding mess of his face. Bismark’s eyes held hers until the last glint of life was snuffed out. Octavia let out a small sob. The rest of the throne room was silent, save for the whirring motor of the chain-axe as it powered down.

  Lokus stooped and lifted his father’s crown from where it had rolled off the bald head of the deceased king. He took the dais steps two at a time, then dropped onto the Copper Throne and settled the band of metal onto his head. “The king is dead. Long live the king,” he proclaimed.

  His supporters took up the cry. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

  It’s rather telling when even the men paid to fawn upon the king aren’t doing so, Octavia thought as the men at the table sat, silent and stunned by the recent events.

  Another door slid open and a smaller party entered.

  “Why, Duke Laufas, how kind of you to join us,” Lokus called from the throne. “You’re just in time to congratulate me.”

  “Why are congratulations in order, Prince Lokus?” Laufas asked, walking closer to the throne. Various aides and supporters grouped behind him.

  The table and Lokus’ supporters were screening the dead king from the duke’s view, and Octavia watched as the traitorous guards in Lokus’ employ began to unobtrusively surround the duke’s party.

  Octavia made up her mind. “It’s a trap, Duke Laufas, he killed the king!” she shouted in Norse before Corbus practically lifted her up off the bench and hurled her behind him. She tumbled across the floor. As she slid to a halt, the senatora first thought her head was ringing, then realized it was actually the clash of swords as the duke’s guards and the new king’s men fought briefly. With shouts and screams, the sounds of battle quickly faded.

  Are they dead? Did they escape?

  Without warning, Octavia was roughly hauled to her feet. An open-handed slap made her see stars. “I knew I should have killed you earlier,” Corbus growled at her. “But don’t worry, we’ll take care of the duke and his pesky men. After all, it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide.” His laughter was echoed by several other conspirators in the throne room.

  Corbus turned to the dais. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ll take my leave. I need to escort the senatora to more . . . suitable . . . chambers.” The menace of those words hung on the air, and Octavia felt her throat tighten.

  King Lokus turned to look first at the senatora, then at Corbus. “Ah, I see. Well, please hurry back. We must catch the duke before he tries to gather a force to resist our rightful ascendance to the throne. Don’t let your . . . distraction . . . keep you for long. And be sure to clean up any mess. I’d hate to have to clean up after you.”

  Nodding, Corbus tossed Octavia over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. Octavia screamed and kicked, but the assassin’s rock-hard hand buffeted her about, then he set her down on the ground. The tip of his knife rested on her throat. “There’s no need for that,” he said.

  With her protests silenced, Octavia felt panic rising in her breast. Gods protect me.

  Chapter 19

  Julius

  While the clang and clash of fighting was familiar to Julius, the sudden appearance of fifteen fully armed and armored warriors in his cellblock both intrigued and terrified him.

  “What is it?” whispered Scipio.

  Their leader was obviously giving orders, and Julius heard the clanging of the cellblock door as it was slammed shut. Fists hammered on the door, echoing down the cold stone hallway.

  “They’re locking themselves in? Why?”

  “Dunno, legionnaire. Something must be happening. You remember that bell we heard earlier?” Julius asked.

  “Oh yeah. Escape attempt, perhaps? There must be other dungeons somewhere around here.” Scipio looked thoughtful. “Hopefully they aren’t looking for us.”

  The warriors were looking into each cell carefully. Finally, one Nortlander stepped up to their cell and held up a lantern. The light spilled into the cell, illuminating the two ragged Roman soldiers.

  “Ro . . . mans?” the man asked in heavily accented Latin. Constantine nodded. “You . . . fight?” he asked, obviously trying hard to come up with the right words.

  “Is he asking us what I think he is?” Scipio whispered.

  “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, revealin
g 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.