The Black Stone Read Free Page A

pull it out.
    Sitting to his left was a tall, broad man wearing a fine metal chest plate. The wounded driver turned to him for help but the man did no more than glance at the soldiers then drop down onto the other side of the road.
    As Bradua and another legionary arrived, Ursus went for the lead horse on his side. With the column stationary, the beast had nowhere to go. Like the others, it was bucking against the reins, eyes rolling, mouth frothing. Ursus chopped four times into its throat. Chunks of flesh and hair and gouts of blood spilled noisily onto the stone. Mortally wounded, the horse fell to its knees.
    As the animal stench filled his nose, Ursus looked back along the road. The rest of his men were just behind him. One was trying to pull a rider out of his saddle. Another was felled by some unseen strike.
    As Ursus moved up to the cart, a spear clattered along the road, narrowly missing his feet. To his left, Apelles was flanked by Bradua and the other legionary, all three trading blows with the raiders. Ursus raised his blade, ready to cut the reins and disable the riding gear.
    But he faced an unexpected danger. The driver had managed to pull the dart out of his chest and was now clutching a dagger.
    As he flung himself off the bench, Ursus simply ducked. One of the driver’s boots caught his head but the rest of him crashed heavily onto the road. Ursus spun around, booted him in the side then drove his sword down into his unprotected heart. Pulling the blade free, he turned back towards the cart and peered at the closest wheel. It was as solid as any he’d seen, the wooden spokes two inches thick. His sword would barely scratch it.
    He looked up at the stone; it had been covered by a sheet. While he was trying to think of another way to disable the vehicle, another spear struck its side. He checked to the right again. More of the raiders were off their horses and engaging the Romans. Only two of his men were left on their feet. They – and he – had only moments.
    ‘Centurion!’
    Ursus turned back in time to see Bradua knocked to the ground, his head cracking against the road. His neck had almost been severed by a deep, dark wound. The other legionary was already down, lying next to the rear wheel of the cart.
    Apelles fought on alone. As Ursus went to help him, the Thracian’s shield suddenly flew high into the air, landing several yards up the bank. Towering over him was the tall man from the cart; head now encased in an angular helmet – bronze like his armour. Apelles swept at his foe but the blade bounced off the chest plate. The riposte was so quick that Ursus didn’t even see the tall warrior’s weapon. Apelles staggered, then fell, hand clutching his chest.
    Ursus snatched a last look down the road. The raiders were advancing, stepping over the bodies of his fallen men. As he turned back, he wondered about Agorix, though he knew he must be dead too. The odds never had been good but they’d fought well to a man.
    As the warrior came forward, the raiders behind him stayed where they were. He was a foot taller than most of them, and in his hands was an immense double-bladed axe, the wooden handle reinforced with bands of metal. Ursus now saw that while the others were from the eastern provinces, the tall warrior had the face of a man from the northern part of the world. His eyes were pale, and the few tufts of hair poking out below the rim of the helmet were fair.
    ‘Nice try, Roman. A commendable effort.’ His voice was a low rumble, the Latin impeccable.
    ‘My men,’ said Ursus. ‘You’ll leave them as they lie?’
    He wanted them to be found with their swords and – as importantly – the lead identity tablet each wore around his neck.
    ‘We will.’
    ‘The army will find you. And they’ll kill you.’
    ‘No more talk. You’ve delayed me long enough as it is.’
    Ursus took a deep breath. By the great and honoured gods he was going to hurt this big bastard if he could. A bit of