Free Legionary: Viper of the North by Gordon Doherty

fighting, teeth bared, the whites of their eyes bulging. Then he saw one Gothic warrior, nearly as broad as he was tall, grinning like a demon as he drove his longsword through the throat of a legionary. Gallus growled and lunged for the man, sending a left hook smashing into the giant’s jaw. The big man turned to face Gallus, but stumbled on the severed leg of a legionary. Crunching back onto the gore-coated ground, the giant scrabbled backwards on his palms and Gallus stalked after him, spatha raised to strike.
     
    The big Goth brought his longsword up with a roar, parrying Gallus’ strike. Then he used the moment of respite to stand tall once more, and a terrible grin split his scarred features as he came at the tribunus. A sideswipe with the giant blade came within inches of hacking Gallus’ face off, and suddenly the tribunus was on the back foot.
     
    Gallus ducked another swipe of the blade, wincing at the crunch of bone as it took the top off a less fortunate legionary’s head. The big Goth stamped forward through the grey mush that toppled from the stricken soldier’s skull, then hefted his blade up with two hands and hammered it down at Gallus. The tribunus could only hold his spatha horizontal to deflect the blow, sparks showering and scorching his cheeks as he fell back. Prone, he could only watch as the Goth raised the longsword again for a death blow.
     
    Then, with a flash of iron, the Goth’s severed head thudded onto his chest. The giant’s body still stood, sword aloft in two hands, blood pumping from the stump that was his neck. A hand grasped the Goth’s shoulder and pulled the body back, where it toppled to the ground, legs and arms thrashing. Zosimus stood there, brushing his hands together. The roar of battle died all around him as the last few Goths were slain, and one was barged to the ground and disarmed.
     
    ‘Job done, sir,’ the big Thracian panted, offering Gallus a bloodied forearm.
     
    ‘Not yet,’ Gallus clasped a hand to the centurion’s forearm and hoisted himself to standing. The blood was still pounding in his ears and he could only hear his men’s victory cries as a dull ringing. Then he turned to see Felix cupping the last surviving Goth by the jaw, frowning. ‘But if Mithras is with us we’ll get to the bottom of this rebellion. Let’s hear what this cur has to say.’
     
    ‘Seems Mithras has played a cruel joke on us, sir,’ Felix said dryly. ‘This one won’t be talking.’
     
    Gallus frowned at Felix, then turned to scrutinise the Goth. The man was smiling, but his eyes burned like hot coals, and he clutched a rolled up piece of dark-green hide in his hand, shaking it as if in victory. Then his smile grew until hoarse laughter poured from his lips. Gallus recoiled at the sight of the blistered stump that remained of his tongue. ‘What in Hades?’ He shot a glance to Felix.
     
    Then, as quickly as the man had started laughing, his face fell into a grimace and he pulled the tip of a plumbata from the hide roll and then leapt for Gallus. Gallus jinked to one side, pulled his spatha from his scabbard once more and swept it up, across the Goth’s chest, smashing his rib cage. The man fell to the grass, greying, his eyes growing distant, but fixed on Gallus. Gallus looked to the man, then to each of his legionaries, then to the dark-green banner that unfurled on the ground before them to reveal an ancient Gothic banner.
     
    From the centre of the banner, an emblem of a writhing viper stared back at them.
     

     

     

     
    The orange of dawn cast long shadows across the marching camp, set upon a rise in the plains of Gutthiuda. Gallus eyed his men as they tucked into steaming bowls of millet porridge; uninspiring at any other time, the slop was going down like freshly baked pheasant now. But while his men filled their groaning bellies and warmed their blood, he hadn’t eaten properly for two days. An irksome voice insisted he sit and eat with his