B3 Chapter 74: Into the Meat Grinder

Marcus watched the mountainside burst into motion like a kicked anthill. Legionnaires flooded out of the watchtowers and onto the aerial walkways, weapons glinting in the dull sunlight afforded by the overcast skies. Elves took up positions in carefully orchestrated patterns that took advantage of the height, doubtless to increase the effectiveness of their fire somehow. It was all a bit above Marcus's head. He was a storyteller, not a tactician.

The orcs began their mad charge up the pass. A moment later, the signal was given. The sky filled with a dense cloud of arrows as he’d grown so used to seeing over the past few days. The volley fell upon the orcs, each individual shaft bursting with thorns or light or some other skill-based effect as it hit. Swaths of orcs stumbled or fell altogether, only to be used as footholds for those behind, who were subsequently met with a volley of far thicker spears. Then boulders. Then arrows again.

The cycle continued on and on, each wave of attacks making way for the next as the enemy slowly trickled up the slope. But despite the size of the army below, Marcus sensed little urgency in the Legion’s defense. This was not some life-or-death battle, where every foot the orcs advanced meant another man dead. No, this was far more akin to the wars of attrition the Legion had found so useful against their barbaric foes. One that they’d had far more time to prepare for.

Perhaps an anthill wasn't a proper comparison. Rather, the odd layered honeycomb structures that now adorned the pass suggested a beehive. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Considering the slow advance toward the first wall, those preparations seemed to be paying off in spades. Explosions boomed in the distance as the heavier artillery up the mountain turned to assault the dense mass of orcs below. Little sprays of red barely visible to Marcus’s eye accompanied each projectile. With how far away those siege engines were from the orcs, it was clear they wouldn’t be dealt with anytime soon. Though the slight tremors of the mountain did give him some pause.

Shivering, Marcus turned away from the battle and quickly made his way down from the watchtower. He’d seen enough to know this would go on for quite some time. There was no sense in allowing his fingers to turn blue and black just to view such monotony. Not when there were cookfires calling his name.

Below, Marcus moved about the men and elves who were similarly taking advantage of this time to rest beyond the second gate. It was no wonder why. There was only so much room for defenders, after all, and at this rate the battle would go on for days or even weeks. They’d need fresh men to rotate out every once in a while. Even the automata-like Legionnaires needed sleep sometimes.

He relaxed slightly as the warmth of the fires made the environment slightly more tolerable. Then another gale of ice had him pulling his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. He eyed its threadbare edges with dismay. The once-rich purple cloth embroidered with gold had certainly seen better days. A rich garment such as this was hardly meant for travel, much less the level of excitement that he’d seen over the past few months.

It hadn’t gone completely unattended—occasional repairs and patches for the garment proved to be quite an amicable way for some Legionnaires to settle their gambling debts. Yet those repairs were the practical work of a soldier, akin to an ugly hunk of welded steel holding together two pieces of a fine sculpture. A comparison that he wouldn’t complain about too loudly, of course. Not when those patches were somehow managing to outlast the rest of the fabric.

He wondered briefly how long it would take for the cloak to become more patches than actual silk. Hopefully, he’d have a chance to replace it before then. He’d spent little time in the capital for obvious reasons, and though he’d accrued a surprising amount of wealth courtesy of the soldiers, he still didn’t benefit from any formal salary. Perhaps that was something to speak with Tiberius about. It had been a while since he had official patronage.

He ducked quickly toward an open spot by the fires before the wind could steal any more warmth from him. The Legionnaires huddled around and offered him nods.

“Hail, Marcus. Looking for some food?”

“That would be lovely.” He removed his instruments from his pack before sitting on it with a sigh, extending his frozen fingers toward the flames.”

“‘Lovely’, he says. He obviously has never tried Rom’s food.” One scoffed.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Rom? That name sounds rather unlike the others I’ve heard.”

A boyish Legionnaire grinned. “Short for Romulus. But considering his stature, shortening his name accordingly seems only appropriate.”

The one who had spoken had his head snap forward suddenly. Above him loomed a stocky man wielding a ladle and a bowl. “That’s rich coming from you, Ianus. Perhaps I should adjust your portions to match your own stature, hmm?”

Ianus rubbed the back of his head as the chef strode toward Marcus. He accepted the proffered bowl and a heel of bread gratefully as he studied the man. In all honesty, this Rom character hardly seemed much shorter than any other Legionnaire. Then again, they seemed to keep rather exacting height standards, so perhaps it was to be expected.

Marcus felt a new presence sneak up from behind. A puff of warm air ruffled the hair above his ear. Deciding to play along, he turned to look but saw nothing. Then he felt a quick tug as the bread disappeared from his grasp.

Turning back around, Marcus spotted the perpetrator. It was that damn horse again, his bread held fast between his teeth.

He gave the beast a patient smile. “Ah, it seems as though you’ve snuck up on me yet again. Now, if you wouldn’t mind returning my lunch…”

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Despite his outrageous charisma and use of [Magnetic Presence], the horse was unimpressed. It seemed to grin down at him before tossing its head back to snap up its ill-gotten gains in one fluid motion.

A flash of annoyance shot through Marcus as the food disappeared down the horse’s gullet, much to the amusement of the Legionnaires around the fire. Yet he simply sighed. “Is that truly necessary? I’ve seen how Abel feeds you. You can’t possibly be hungry still.”

The horse whinnied in satisfaction. A moment later, Abel jogged up from behind. “Gerald! There you are. How in the world did you disappear like that?”

Gerald turned toward his young groom, the beast’s ears perking up like those of an excited dog. Its formerly mischievous demeanor melted away as it played the part of a faithful steed, nuzzling the boy affectionately.

“How do you lose track of a horse that size, boy?” One of the men called over. “You need to get your eyes checked.”

Abel blushed, and Marcus could only shake his head. Normally, he would’ve agreed with the man. However, the horse had recently begun to show an alarming proclivity for stealth and thievery—not just with Marcus, either. Just the other night, he’d seen it sneak up behind a Legionnaire who’d been trying to teach him some complicated game called latrunculi. The damn beast had not only stolen the man’s flask off his belt, but somehow managed to uncork and drain the thing before replacing it, all leaving him none the wiser. It was absolutely nonsensical.

He hadn't thought that horses could even learn [Sleight of Hand] on account of them not having hands. Yet this one clearly had something along those lines. [Sleight of Hoof], perhaps.

Worse was that Marcus wasn’t entirely certain what to do about it. Manipulating an animal like this should be well within his abilities, and yet it not only resisted his efforts but seemed to actively enjoy thwarting them. Not to mention the fact that it had gained several levels over just the past few days.

It was clearly related to that blessing of Neptune. And it made Marcus wonder what exactly it had done. And whether calling a god’s attention to the boy and his horse really had been a good idea.

Abel stroked the little thief's neck and turned to Marcus. “Milord. If there's anything you need…”

He waved the boy off. “Of course, Abel. But there's no need to remain so on guard. Not right now. Save your energy for when it's needed.”

The boy nodded. To his credit, he looked significantly less put out than Marcus would have expected. Still, given the sounds of battle in the distance, it was no surprise that he felt a little antsy.

Luckily, Marcus himself had no duties to tend to this time. The route up the mountain was fairly straightforward, meaning there should be no need for a diversion of any kind. Which was perfectly fine with him. He could use a bit of boredom after his last “heroic” exploit.

“Not like we'd want you out there anyway,” one of the men spoke up. “You're good with the horse, I'll give you that. But this is no place for a mounted fighter.”

Abel frowned. “What do you mean?”

The Legionnaire threw an arm wide to indicate the terrain. “Look around. You've got no room to maneuver with the cliffs and walls. The way they've set up the path, there's no way to build up momentum between gates for a charge, either.”

The boy was already shaking his head. “A good [Cavalier] doesn't need that much room to start a good charge. And it would be better for clearing them, wouldn't it? Then you can push the orcs back down instead of just trying to slow them.”

“Sure, assuming you don't have plans to get back. As soon as you slow that charge, you'll be fucked. Not to mention if you get all the way down to the bottom.”

“Not if you have something like [Mounted Maneuvering] or [Fallback Plan]. Then you could pull back easily. And obviously you wouldn't want to go all the way put and get flanked.” Abel sounded a bit affronted at the implication. “And if anything, the walls are a good thing. They’d make sure you can’t get flanked, not unless the enemy scales them first.”

The Legionnaire he’d been arguing with grumbled. “Of course, there’s damn skills for that… What else do cavalry get over here? Some skill that lets their horses leap ten feet straight up?”

Abel brightened. “Actually—”

Marcus simply watched the exchange with a smile. Abel was no tactician, but he did prove quite knowledgeable about the various horsemanship skills a [Cavalier] could make use of. That was only to be expected, given his family’s history and his own previous vocation.

Of course, Marcus still wasn’t certain how useful such a group would be. He’d seen how Marquis Morozov’s cavalry fared against the Legion’s shield wall and was left rather unimpressed. Then again, such defenses weren’t exactly common. And though Redcliffe’s Roughnecks were certainly useful for many reasons… Well, again, he was no tactician.

"Take cover!" A cry came from the Legionnaires in the distance. Marcus furrowed his brow. That was strange. Were the Romans planning to deploy one of their more destructive weapons after all? Or…?

He wasn’t the only one confused by the development. Atop the second wall, he saw a few of the Legionnaires peer into the distance. One of them gave a whistle of appreciation. “Well, I’ll be damned. They’re using slings.”

“What?!”

The Legionnaires below scrambled to their feet to see for themselves, Marcus among them. Sure enough, the orcs were returning fire. Most of them simply threw stones at the Legionnaires above, but a few wore looks of intense concentration as they spun very rudimentary versions of the Legion’s own slings.

Something whizzed by Marcus’s ear. Next to him, a Legionnaire grunted in pain. “Son of a— How far can they throw those things?”

“Too far for my liking,” one of the centurions growled. “Their accuracy is shit, but I don’t want to be their target practice. Or an accidental casualty. You lot, off the walls! Scouts only, and keep your shields ready!”

The assembled crowd dispersed as quickly as it had appeared, though the event did send mutters through the men. It wasn’t hard to see why. Marcus had never heard of the orcs using anything more complex than axes and clubs. Sure, they threw those on occasion, but this was different.

It was a worrying development, to say the least. One made even more so by the effects it had on the Legionnaires. Hanging around the messengers and commanders, Marcus was able to learn that a number of Legionnaires had been struck in that initial volley. Even now, though injuries had lessened, the assault on the orcs had slowed somewhat as the men were forced to focus on both offense and defense.

Marcus frowned as the orcs began to push up the pass more quickly than before. These orcs were full of more surprises than he was comfortable with. Hopefully, this was the last of them. But somehow he doubted that would be the case.