Imperator: Resurrection of an Empire

The Francians surged again, and again.

The numbers reported to Julius were clearly understated, as the Francians had attack with 30,000 just the day previous, and now under attack by a reinforced Romanus, their numbers seemed endless, as more men were thrown into the abyss.

They came in waves—mud-splattered levies clutching whatever weapons they could find, grim-faced men-at-arms in mismatched mail, and, dotted among them, gleaming knights whose armor was dulled only by the grime of the battlefield.

The waves would have the legionaries fighting to exhaustion, until another wave came crashing down almost immediately when they thought they could rest.

This tactic was thought to be a stroke of genius by the Francian commanders, but against Romanus who rotated their front lines ever five minutes this brief respite helpt them to reform their lines and prepare for the next wave rather than simply give a chance to breath.

Their shouts were hoarse now, more animal than human, minds driven mad by the carnage of war seen before them, and driven by nothing but that stubborn refusal to yield.

Julius met them head-on, having after hours of fighting only bothered to take two five-minute breaks just to locate new weapons when the forefront ran out of suitable arms.

His first stroke shattered a levy's shield outright, the impact bending his sword like a strip of wet iron.

He didn't even glance at it—just tossed it aside, snatched up a fallen blade from the churned muck, and kept going.

The second swing took a man's arm off at the elbow, spraying blood into the rain.

His new sword bent too—his raw, over-amplified strength making a mockery of mortal iron.

A knight crashed into him, shield first, the impact rocking Julius back a half step.

The man's sword lashed for his side—but Julius caught the blade between both of his own, twisted, and wrenched it free.

Before the knight could react, Julius drove a boot into his breastplate with enough force to send him sprawling three bodies deep into his own line.

A raise of the hairs on the back of his neck signalled of danger to him.

Julius pivoted just in time to catch a spear on his guard.

The shaft splintered under his block, the jagged end snapping back into the wielder's face.

The man staggered, dazed—Julius finished him with a low, ripping slash.

The press of bodies thickened.

Hands clawed at his arms, trying to pull him down.

A half dozen Francians threw themselves at him in a suicidal attempt to smother his momentum.

One blade punched into his side but glanced off his cuirass; another struck his thigh plate and skidded away.

Julius roared and exploded outward, his swords cutting arcs through the rain, shearing flesh from bone.

His right-hand blade bent again.

He dropped it without hesitation and seized a spear from a dead Francian, spinning it like a quarterstaff before driving it into a man-at-arms so hard it punched through his backplate.

He left it there, grabbing yet another discarded sword to continue his slaughter.

Still they came.

Their fanatic chants rose over the thunder of the rain.

"For Saint Joan! For Francia!"

The words were ragged, desperate, but no less dangerous.

Julius's sheer presence in their camp should have broken them—but instead it seemed to draw them in like moths to flame.

A levy stumbled toward him with nothing but a woodcutter's axe.

Julius's backhand blow shattered the haft, the return stroke taking the man's head from his shoulders.

Another knight tried to flank him; Julius hurled his left sword like a javelin, the point driving through the visor and out the back of the man's helm.

The knight went down thrashing in the mud.

Sabellus and the praetorians kept tight around him, shields forming a moving fortress that advanced with him at its core.

Any Francian who got too close to Julius died within seconds—but there were always more to take their place.

The fight had shifted from a clash of armies to a grinding contest of attrition.

Julius could feel the battle's weight in his bones now.

His arms ached from the constant motion, his hands slick with a mix of rainwater, sweat, and blood.

The relentless weapon changes slowed him—not in speed, but in rhythm.

Every bent sword, every broken spear was another heartbeat the enemy could use to close in.

A Francian officer in blackened mail spotted the momentary lull and rallied a wedge.

They came howling toward Julius, shields up, spearpoints darting.

Julius braced, waiting until they were nearly on top of him—then stepped forward, both swords sweeping in a vicious cross-cut that smashed through two shields and the men behind them.

The wedge shattered.

Julius pressed in, cutting down the survivors one after another.

One man-at-arms tried to block high; Julius simply drove his knee into the man's gut, dropping him for a killing thrust.

Another swung wild—Julius sidestepped, caught his wrist, and twisted until the bone snapped, then opened his throat.

A new blade bent in his hands.

He let it drop, reached for a fallen knight's longsword, and swung it two-handed into the next foe's chest.

The impact folded the man in half, the steel crunching through mail and ribs alike.

They tried to smother him again, piling bodies into the narrow space before him.

Julius's world narrowed to motion and impact—the slam of blade on bone, the wrenching twist to free steel from flesh, the splash of blood mixing with the rain.

Somewhere behind him, a horn sounded—the Romanus cavalry making contact at the Francian rear.

He didn't need to look.

His only thought was to keep cutting, to keep pushing until the enemy's will snapped, or their numbers finally failed them.

A knight with a dented crest barreled in, shield low, sword high.

Julius caught the blow on his guard, stepped in, and smashed his forehead into the man's visor.

The knight reeled; Julius's follow-up stroke tore him from shoulder to hip.

His sword bent again in the process—toss, replace, continue.

Sabellus's voice came from the left.

"They're throwing everything at you, sire!"

"Good,"

Julius snarled, driving another man into the mud with a shoulder check.

"Means they're not hitting the rest of the line, nearly as hard!"

The Francian chants grew louder again, trying to drown out the fear gnawing at them.

Julius answered with his own roar, surging forward with renewed fury.

His blades blurred, his boots churned the mud, his very presence tearing holes in their cohesion.

But no matter how many he cut down, more came on.

The fanaticism in their eyes hadn't dimmed.

If anything, the blood soaking the ground only seemed to feed it.

Julius knew this battle wouldn't be decided here, not yet.

But he'd make sure the Francians remembered this day—remembered the sight of their lines buckling, their bravest falling, their steel bending before the wrath of a single man.

And when they finally broke—when the cavalry came crashing through and the rest of the legion poured in—he would be there at the tip of the spear.

Still cutting.

Still killing.

Still advancing.

Like work crazed loggers who keep hacking away at the trees before them making them fall.