Crowqueen
Token forum woman
So, Sis - anything new?
Princes of the Universe, Part I
- Thread starter Sisiutil
- Start date
- Status
Sisiutil
All Leader Challenger
You mean besides the display cabinet my wife made me buy and put together tonight? Unfortunately, no. I'm going to try to finish this current story this weekend and start posting the chapters.
MotezumaMan
Warlord
Civfan333
full metal alchemist
yeah! hope to see the new chapter soon!
Chieron
Warlord
Great story - well apart from being dormant since 2 months, hopefully, there will be new updates soon.
In any case:
All hail Sisiutil, responsible for many a sleepless night. 
In any case:
All hail Sisiutil, responsible for many a sleepless night. Commodore Nate
Warlord
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2008
- Messages
- 204
Just picked this story up, and I must say it's like reading a novel!
Keep it up!
Keep it up!
quasarsphere
Chieftain
Sheep's right. We need them. We need them lots.
Sam_Yeager
Another Original Geezer
Even worse the pre-game thread for ALC 23 has started. 
If the update doesn't appear before S. starts ALC 23 then we're stuffed for another few months. 
If the update doesn't appear before S. starts ALC 23 then we're stuffed for another few months.
Sisiutil
All Leader Challenger
Shhh... it's a slow day at work, I'm working on the next installment right now. Don't tell my boss... 
Sisiutil
All Leader Challenger
Princes 15 - Scipio's Spy
Part 6
Darkness and pain.
That was what Scipio’s world consisted of at the moment. The cloth over his head cut out all light; he couldn’t see where he was going and constantly stumbled into his captors, or tripped over curbs or stairs. And when he did any of those things, the pain came: the men around him expressed their displeasure with his clumsiness by punching or kicking him.
The only other constant was movement. His captors kept him in motion, hence their surly impatience. Scipio speculated that they must be proceeding down city streets or alleys, in full view of the citizenry. In any Roman city, the sight of a group of thugs forcing a hooded and bound man down a street would have elicited comment if not intervention. But not here. No, based upon his limited and recent experience with people such as the intimidated and fearful barkeep, Scipio knew he could expect no help from the locals. But then again, he wasn’t expecting any.
His boot caught on something and then his shoulder bumped against a hard surface. Scipio grunted as someone punched his side; he instinctively flinched away and his opposite shoulder also hit something hard—a door frame? He took a couple of steps forward, and then the sound of a door closing behind him confirmed his assumption.
He was prodded through the house, or building, or whatever it was. Eventually the men guiding him came to a stop. The sharp kick of a boot at the back of his knees made him collapse. Scipio cursed as his knees painfully struck against the hardwood floor. With his hands tied behind his back, he would have fallen forward onto his face, but a beefy hand clasped his shoulder and kept him upright.
Then the hood was pulled from his head, and even in the dim light of the room in which he found himself, Scipio blinked as his eyes adjusted to something other than the darkness they’d endured for the last several minutes.
The Roman officer found himself in what must once have been a grand house that had fallen on hard times. The walls were covered by dark wooden panels that were worn and stained in places by water and mould. Two windows, one on either side of him, reluctantly allowed a sickly yellowish light to strain through the dust that had collected on them. The hardwood floor was worn, its varnish practically gone except directly beside the walls and in the corners where there was little foot traffic. The place smelled of mildew and neglect, and of sweat and human waste. It smelled of fear. And of something else, a scent Scipio knew, but couldn’t place just yet…
He turned his attention from his environment to the people within it. Standing directly before him, his arms crossed, was a burly Mongolian with a broad face and an unreadable expression. He recognized him instantly: Manlai, the local crime boss he’d confronted earlier. Scipio glanced briefly at the men who were standing on either side of him and recognized some of the bully-boys who’d been with Manlai at the teahouse. He frowned and instantly assumed the role of the disgruntled and slightly stupid Roman officer he’d played earlier. The anger came easily to him; Scipio didn’t like being manhandled, even when it had been part of his plan.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, spitting the words at Manlai. “I’m a Roman officer, you moon-faced Mongo bast…”
Scipio’s invective was cut off when the Mongolian standing to his right suddenly kicked his side. Scipio anticipated the move and twisted just enough to avoid having the man’s boot painfully strike his kidney, but he embellished his reaction to give them the impression that the blow was as painful as had been intended. He also stilled his tongue.
“You are not a Roman officer here,” Manlai told him calmly. “You are a stinking piece of dog turd that attached itself to my boot. I’m going to scrape you off and leave you to rot, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
Scipio’s only response to this was to glare at his captor—though he allowed a certain amount of fear to register in his expression. It wasn’t hard to summon it; his whole plan—indeed, his life—hung by the slenderest of threads. Instinctively, the fingers of one of his tied hands gingerly touched his boot heel. Yes, it was still there, Scipio noted with some relief…
“Bring the girl,” Manlai ordered one of his lieutenants.
They waited in silence, Scipio on his knees, his captors standing around him and glaring at him. Ever the soldier, Scipio did a quick assessment of the forces arrayed against him: six men, all told, including the one who’d left to get Larentia. The two men standing on either side of Scipio were strong and alert, as was Manlai. There were two others, standing behind their leader on either side of a door, each with a musket leaning against the wall behind them. They seemed bored. Scipio harboured a secret hope that they wouldn’t react quickly enough when the time came. He knew, or at least hoped that time was coming soon, so he surreptitiously pulled the item from his boot that he’d hidden there. His two guardians were standing beside him, with no one behind him, and that meant he could work undetected.
His ruminations were interrupted when the man who’d left came back into the room. Beside him was the slender Mongolian woman Scipio had met in the alley. That had occurred only two days before, but Larentia looked as though she’d aged ten years in the meantime. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were half-closed and looked around glassily; her raven-black hair was a lanky unkempt mess that hung about her face. One eye was blackened and swollen shut, her lower lip was split, and her normally-golden skin looked sallow now. Her captor had one hand under her armpit and another around her waist; she swayed unsteadily in his unsympathetic grip. She looked as though she’d collapse to the floor if he let her go. Her eyes drifted in Scipio’s direction, but he saw no sign of recognition there. She wore a long, formless shift that had probably been white at some time but was now a sickly grey colour. There were blood stains on the cloth, and they appear relatively fresh.
Scipio cursed silently, both in reaction to the rough treatment Larentia had apparently received, but also in response to her current state which would render her not just useless, but a burden. He’d hoped that she’d still have some fight left in her when he found her.
Then he remembered the role he was supposed to be playing and reacted accordingly.
“That’s her!” Scipio exclaimed. “That’s the doxie that ripped me off!” He looked her up and down and sneered. “Looks like you got what you deserved, girlie.” He turned back to Manlai. “What’s your beef with me, then? Look, if it’s the money, fine, I’ll write it off as one of life’s nasty little lessons. But…”
“What did she tell you?” Manlai asked him, as if Scipio hadn’t said a word.
“What?” Scipio replied, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”
“What did she say to you? She relayed a message of some type, yes?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about…” Scipio said, then cried out in pain as the man next to him kicked him in the side again.
“Do not lie to me,” Manlai said, his expression calm, but his voice taking on a cold, hard-edged tone. “Tell me exactly what she said to you.”
Scipio grimaced and shrugged. He gave the bonds around his wrists an experimental tug. Almost there…
“The usual,” Scipio insisted. “’Hey soldier, want a good time?’ You know the drill…”
“What else did she say?” Manlai demanded, his tone growing more insistent.
“I don’t bloody remember!” The man next to Scipio pulled his foot back again, but then Scipio frowned and said, “No, wait, wait… she did say something…”
“What?” Manlai snarled.
“I’m trying to bloody remember!” Scipio said. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. He was nearly out of time and he knew it. Where are those useless bastards…?
Suddenly there was a loud thump at the front door. The Mongolian’s heads, in unison, turned towards it. The men behind Manlai began to rouse themselves from their bored stupor and reached for the muskets they had leaning against the wall behind them.
About bloody time, Scipio thought. He felt the tension drain out of him, but only for a moment; it returned immediately as he prepared himself.
With a loud crash, the front door burst open and the Mongolian’s eyes opened wide as the huge, imposing figure of Sergeant Necalli stormed through it. Behind him came Silo and Lallena and, strangely, a Mongolian, except he wasn’t a Mongolian; it was Wei, still wearing the local street clothes he’d used so he could surreptitiously follow the men who had captured his commanding officer. All four Roman riflemen had their weapons at the ready, bayonets attached, and all were screaming bloody murder in their different native tongues.
The Mongolians instinctively took a step back. Their attention was fully focused on this new threat, not on the supposedly helpless Roman officer kneeling on the floor in their midst, and Scipio seized on that advantage. For perhaps the first and only time, he was thankful for the poor workmanship that had gone into his standard issue boots, for the right heel had come loose during the battle a few days before, and that allowed him to conceal a knife there—a small knife, granted, its blade no longer than a man’s thumbnail, but a knife nonetheless, and wickedly sharp at that. He’d used it to cut through his bonds, and now Scipio rose to his feet, yielding his meagre weapon.
He took no small amount of delight in using the blade to slice across the throat of the man who’d been kicking him. Scipio felt the familiar warm, wet gush of blood upon his hand and the sleeve of his coat. The burly Mongolian stumbled backwards, his eyes bulging as his hands went to his slashed throat. Scipio kept turning, following his leading right hand which still held the knife. He twisted his wrist and thrust the little knife into the right eye of man who’d been standing to his left. The man screamed, loud and high, and Scipio left the knife where it was.
Scipio then took two steps and launched himself at Larentia and the man who was holding her. He struck them both and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. The man tried to fight back against Scipio, but was hindered by Larentia, who had tapped into some reserve of strength, at least enough to grab the man’s genitals with one hand and squeeze them viciously. The man gasped loudly, and then Scipio pushed himself up on one arm began to punch him in the face repeatedly.
Even in the midst of this, Scipio has careful to keep his head down, because by taking himself, Larentia, and the other man to the floor, he’d cleared his Riflemen’s line of fire. The two Mongolians with Muskets had brought their weapons to bear; at this range they could barely miss, but they never got the chance. Silo and Lallena fired their rifles, and each ball struck home into a man’s chest.
Manlai, however, had cannily launched himself through the rear door as soon as the Riflemen had burst into the room. Nacalli fired a shot, but the ball hissed just above the ducking crime lord, who was shouting urgent commands in Mongolian. Already, Scipio could hear voices shouting in alarm and anger throughout the old house. The man beneath Scipio was now senseless; the Roman officer stopped beating him and rose to his feet. He reached down and gingerly helped Larentia stand up.
“You can let go of his balls, love,” Scipio said to her. “I don’t think he can feel it anymore.”
“Bastard,” Larentia said to the unconscious man, and spat on his face for emphasis.
She turned her attention to Scipio. He could see she was still unsteady and a little glassy-eyed, but she was exhibiting more strength than she had when she’d been brought into the room. Scipio could well imagine what sort of torture she had endured, but she still had some strength left, and the soldier in him admired that.
“I can’t believe the General ordered a rescue,” she muttered, her voice low and rough with fatigue.
“Eh, he didn’t, not exactly. We came of our own accord,” Scipio admitted.
Her slender brows rose in surprise, then she frowned and snorted in derision. “Idiot,” she said.
“I”ve been called worse,” Scipio said, then began to lead her towards the door. The shouting in the old house was growing louder, and getting closer. “Let’s get out of here…”
But Scipio’s words were cut off by the shouts of a handful of men out in the street, running towards the open door of the house. Some were carrying muskets.
“Bloody hell!” Necalli shouted.
“Reload!” Scipio shouted the order.
Wei, the only Roman still holding a loaded weapon, spun around, took aim, and fired his rifle out the door. A Mongolian took the ball in the chest and crumpled to the cobblestoned street, but a half-dozen other men were charging past him, screaming an angry challenge. Necalli stepped forward in two long strides and threw the door closed, just in time to hear a musket ball thump against it. While Silo, Lallena, and Wei reloaded their rifles, the big Aztec kept leaning against the door, which shuddered as men on the other side threw themselves against it.
“We can’t keep the bastards out forever!” the big Aztec told his commanding officer.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Scipio swore. He’d miscalculated; he hadn’t expected Manlai to have men outside, guarding the street around wherever they wound up taking him, but he should have known better. His self-recrimination, however, was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls within the house. To his right, a wooden staircase led upstairs, and he could hear angry voices shouting in Mongolian from above.
Scipio glanced around. There was an old, worn wardrobe against the opposite wall. He thrust Larentia as gently as time allowed into Wei’s arms, then ran towards the cabinet.
“Miguel!” he shouted as he ran. “Help me! Silo, cover the staircase!”
Together, the two riflemen dragged the wardrobe over to the front entrance, where Necalli joined them in bracing it against the door. A Mongolian began to descend the staircase, but Silo fired his rifle and convinced their upstairs adversaries to stay put, at least for the moment.
Scipio looked towards the door through which Manlai had vanished. It was the only way out of the room now.
“Follow me!” he shouted, and ran through the door, shouting an aggressive if foolhardy challenge to whoever was on the other side of it.
Scipio, his men, and Larentia found themselves in a hallway. Scipio looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go, when the option of deciding was taken away from them. From Scipio’s left, more Mongolians suddenly appeared, carrying muskets with bayonets, Manlai bringing up their rear. Scipio heard a shot, flinched, and felt a musket ruffle his hair as it narrowly missed him. He turned and ran down the hall to the right, his small party following him. There was one door at the end of the hallway; he ran towards it, seeking any shelter from the storm brewing behind him.
He reached the door and shoved it open, then stormed through it. He found himself moving into darkness, then he was falling, his boots thumping awkwardly on wooden stairs, his arms windmilling helplessly as he struggled to keep his balance. He fell forward, shouted an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and then he felt his knees and his shoulders painfully striking the stairs, and he tumbled down until he struck the ground at the bottom of the stairway and let out a grunt of pain.
Scipio forced himself to roll forward in case any of his riflemen also lost their footing and fell on top of him, but they had been alerted by his shout and had managed to remain upright. Necalli, bringing up the rear, pushed the door closed and leaned against it. He expected the Mongolians to fire at the door, or to try to force it open, but to his surprise, they did not. Instead, he could hear Manlai shouting at his men, evidently to stop their pursuit, which was sensible, since only two men could have charged through the door at a time, and with the enemy in darkness before them, the stairwell would have become a death trap.
Nevertheless, the Romans’ situation was far worse. Panting, sweating, the sour taste of burnt gunpowder in their mouths, the riflemen were in complete darkness, outnumbered by their enemy, their only protection taking the form of an old wooden door. The lack of light in the basement meant there were no windows, and probably no doors, either—meaning no escape. They were trapped.
Part 6
Darkness and pain.
That was what Scipio’s world consisted of at the moment. The cloth over his head cut out all light; he couldn’t see where he was going and constantly stumbled into his captors, or tripped over curbs or stairs. And when he did any of those things, the pain came: the men around him expressed their displeasure with his clumsiness by punching or kicking him.
The only other constant was movement. His captors kept him in motion, hence their surly impatience. Scipio speculated that they must be proceeding down city streets or alleys, in full view of the citizenry. In any Roman city, the sight of a group of thugs forcing a hooded and bound man down a street would have elicited comment if not intervention. But not here. No, based upon his limited and recent experience with people such as the intimidated and fearful barkeep, Scipio knew he could expect no help from the locals. But then again, he wasn’t expecting any.
His boot caught on something and then his shoulder bumped against a hard surface. Scipio grunted as someone punched his side; he instinctively flinched away and his opposite shoulder also hit something hard—a door frame? He took a couple of steps forward, and then the sound of a door closing behind him confirmed his assumption.
He was prodded through the house, or building, or whatever it was. Eventually the men guiding him came to a stop. The sharp kick of a boot at the back of his knees made him collapse. Scipio cursed as his knees painfully struck against the hardwood floor. With his hands tied behind his back, he would have fallen forward onto his face, but a beefy hand clasped his shoulder and kept him upright.
Then the hood was pulled from his head, and even in the dim light of the room in which he found himself, Scipio blinked as his eyes adjusted to something other than the darkness they’d endured for the last several minutes.
The Roman officer found himself in what must once have been a grand house that had fallen on hard times. The walls were covered by dark wooden panels that were worn and stained in places by water and mould. Two windows, one on either side of him, reluctantly allowed a sickly yellowish light to strain through the dust that had collected on them. The hardwood floor was worn, its varnish practically gone except directly beside the walls and in the corners where there was little foot traffic. The place smelled of mildew and neglect, and of sweat and human waste. It smelled of fear. And of something else, a scent Scipio knew, but couldn’t place just yet…
He turned his attention from his environment to the people within it. Standing directly before him, his arms crossed, was a burly Mongolian with a broad face and an unreadable expression. He recognized him instantly: Manlai, the local crime boss he’d confronted earlier. Scipio glanced briefly at the men who were standing on either side of him and recognized some of the bully-boys who’d been with Manlai at the teahouse. He frowned and instantly assumed the role of the disgruntled and slightly stupid Roman officer he’d played earlier. The anger came easily to him; Scipio didn’t like being manhandled, even when it had been part of his plan.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, spitting the words at Manlai. “I’m a Roman officer, you moon-faced Mongo bast…”
Scipio’s invective was cut off when the Mongolian standing to his right suddenly kicked his side. Scipio anticipated the move and twisted just enough to avoid having the man’s boot painfully strike his kidney, but he embellished his reaction to give them the impression that the blow was as painful as had been intended. He also stilled his tongue.
“You are not a Roman officer here,” Manlai told him calmly. “You are a stinking piece of dog turd that attached itself to my boot. I’m going to scrape you off and leave you to rot, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
Scipio’s only response to this was to glare at his captor—though he allowed a certain amount of fear to register in his expression. It wasn’t hard to summon it; his whole plan—indeed, his life—hung by the slenderest of threads. Instinctively, the fingers of one of his tied hands gingerly touched his boot heel. Yes, it was still there, Scipio noted with some relief…
“Bring the girl,” Manlai ordered one of his lieutenants.
They waited in silence, Scipio on his knees, his captors standing around him and glaring at him. Ever the soldier, Scipio did a quick assessment of the forces arrayed against him: six men, all told, including the one who’d left to get Larentia. The two men standing on either side of Scipio were strong and alert, as was Manlai. There were two others, standing behind their leader on either side of a door, each with a musket leaning against the wall behind them. They seemed bored. Scipio harboured a secret hope that they wouldn’t react quickly enough when the time came. He knew, or at least hoped that time was coming soon, so he surreptitiously pulled the item from his boot that he’d hidden there. His two guardians were standing beside him, with no one behind him, and that meant he could work undetected.
His ruminations were interrupted when the man who’d left came back into the room. Beside him was the slender Mongolian woman Scipio had met in the alley. That had occurred only two days before, but Larentia looked as though she’d aged ten years in the meantime. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were half-closed and looked around glassily; her raven-black hair was a lanky unkempt mess that hung about her face. One eye was blackened and swollen shut, her lower lip was split, and her normally-golden skin looked sallow now. Her captor had one hand under her armpit and another around her waist; she swayed unsteadily in his unsympathetic grip. She looked as though she’d collapse to the floor if he let her go. Her eyes drifted in Scipio’s direction, but he saw no sign of recognition there. She wore a long, formless shift that had probably been white at some time but was now a sickly grey colour. There were blood stains on the cloth, and they appear relatively fresh.
Scipio cursed silently, both in reaction to the rough treatment Larentia had apparently received, but also in response to her current state which would render her not just useless, but a burden. He’d hoped that she’d still have some fight left in her when he found her.
Then he remembered the role he was supposed to be playing and reacted accordingly.
“That’s her!” Scipio exclaimed. “That’s the doxie that ripped me off!” He looked her up and down and sneered. “Looks like you got what you deserved, girlie.” He turned back to Manlai. “What’s your beef with me, then? Look, if it’s the money, fine, I’ll write it off as one of life’s nasty little lessons. But…”
“What did she tell you?” Manlai asked him, as if Scipio hadn’t said a word.
“What?” Scipio replied, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”
“What did she say to you? She relayed a message of some type, yes?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about…” Scipio said, then cried out in pain as the man next to him kicked him in the side again.
“Do not lie to me,” Manlai said, his expression calm, but his voice taking on a cold, hard-edged tone. “Tell me exactly what she said to you.”
Scipio grimaced and shrugged. He gave the bonds around his wrists an experimental tug. Almost there…
“The usual,” Scipio insisted. “’Hey soldier, want a good time?’ You know the drill…”
“What else did she say?” Manlai demanded, his tone growing more insistent.
“I don’t bloody remember!” The man next to Scipio pulled his foot back again, but then Scipio frowned and said, “No, wait, wait… she did say something…”
“What?” Manlai snarled.
“I’m trying to bloody remember!” Scipio said. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. He was nearly out of time and he knew it. Where are those useless bastards…?
Suddenly there was a loud thump at the front door. The Mongolian’s heads, in unison, turned towards it. The men behind Manlai began to rouse themselves from their bored stupor and reached for the muskets they had leaning against the wall behind them.
About bloody time, Scipio thought. He felt the tension drain out of him, but only for a moment; it returned immediately as he prepared himself.
With a loud crash, the front door burst open and the Mongolian’s eyes opened wide as the huge, imposing figure of Sergeant Necalli stormed through it. Behind him came Silo and Lallena and, strangely, a Mongolian, except he wasn’t a Mongolian; it was Wei, still wearing the local street clothes he’d used so he could surreptitiously follow the men who had captured his commanding officer. All four Roman riflemen had their weapons at the ready, bayonets attached, and all were screaming bloody murder in their different native tongues.
The Mongolians instinctively took a step back. Their attention was fully focused on this new threat, not on the supposedly helpless Roman officer kneeling on the floor in their midst, and Scipio seized on that advantage. For perhaps the first and only time, he was thankful for the poor workmanship that had gone into his standard issue boots, for the right heel had come loose during the battle a few days before, and that allowed him to conceal a knife there—a small knife, granted, its blade no longer than a man’s thumbnail, but a knife nonetheless, and wickedly sharp at that. He’d used it to cut through his bonds, and now Scipio rose to his feet, yielding his meagre weapon.
He took no small amount of delight in using the blade to slice across the throat of the man who’d been kicking him. Scipio felt the familiar warm, wet gush of blood upon his hand and the sleeve of his coat. The burly Mongolian stumbled backwards, his eyes bulging as his hands went to his slashed throat. Scipio kept turning, following his leading right hand which still held the knife. He twisted his wrist and thrust the little knife into the right eye of man who’d been standing to his left. The man screamed, loud and high, and Scipio left the knife where it was.
Scipio then took two steps and launched himself at Larentia and the man who was holding her. He struck them both and they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs. The man tried to fight back against Scipio, but was hindered by Larentia, who had tapped into some reserve of strength, at least enough to grab the man’s genitals with one hand and squeeze them viciously. The man gasped loudly, and then Scipio pushed himself up on one arm began to punch him in the face repeatedly.
Even in the midst of this, Scipio has careful to keep his head down, because by taking himself, Larentia, and the other man to the floor, he’d cleared his Riflemen’s line of fire. The two Mongolians with Muskets had brought their weapons to bear; at this range they could barely miss, but they never got the chance. Silo and Lallena fired their rifles, and each ball struck home into a man’s chest.
Manlai, however, had cannily launched himself through the rear door as soon as the Riflemen had burst into the room. Nacalli fired a shot, but the ball hissed just above the ducking crime lord, who was shouting urgent commands in Mongolian. Already, Scipio could hear voices shouting in alarm and anger throughout the old house. The man beneath Scipio was now senseless; the Roman officer stopped beating him and rose to his feet. He reached down and gingerly helped Larentia stand up.
“You can let go of his balls, love,” Scipio said to her. “I don’t think he can feel it anymore.”
“Bastard,” Larentia said to the unconscious man, and spat on his face for emphasis.
She turned her attention to Scipio. He could see she was still unsteady and a little glassy-eyed, but she was exhibiting more strength than she had when she’d been brought into the room. Scipio could well imagine what sort of torture she had endured, but she still had some strength left, and the soldier in him admired that.
“I can’t believe the General ordered a rescue,” she muttered, her voice low and rough with fatigue.
“Eh, he didn’t, not exactly. We came of our own accord,” Scipio admitted.
Her slender brows rose in surprise, then she frowned and snorted in derision. “Idiot,” she said.
“I”ve been called worse,” Scipio said, then began to lead her towards the door. The shouting in the old house was growing louder, and getting closer. “Let’s get out of here…”
But Scipio’s words were cut off by the shouts of a handful of men out in the street, running towards the open door of the house. Some were carrying muskets.
“Bloody hell!” Necalli shouted.
“Reload!” Scipio shouted the order.
Wei, the only Roman still holding a loaded weapon, spun around, took aim, and fired his rifle out the door. A Mongolian took the ball in the chest and crumpled to the cobblestoned street, but a half-dozen other men were charging past him, screaming an angry challenge. Necalli stepped forward in two long strides and threw the door closed, just in time to hear a musket ball thump against it. While Silo, Lallena, and Wei reloaded their rifles, the big Aztec kept leaning against the door, which shuddered as men on the other side threw themselves against it.
“We can’t keep the bastards out forever!” the big Aztec told his commanding officer.
“Damn, damn, damn!” Scipio swore. He’d miscalculated; he hadn’t expected Manlai to have men outside, guarding the street around wherever they wound up taking him, but he should have known better. His self-recrimination, however, was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls within the house. To his right, a wooden staircase led upstairs, and he could hear angry voices shouting in Mongolian from above.
Scipio glanced around. There was an old, worn wardrobe against the opposite wall. He thrust Larentia as gently as time allowed into Wei’s arms, then ran towards the cabinet.
“Miguel!” he shouted as he ran. “Help me! Silo, cover the staircase!”
Together, the two riflemen dragged the wardrobe over to the front entrance, where Necalli joined them in bracing it against the door. A Mongolian began to descend the staircase, but Silo fired his rifle and convinced their upstairs adversaries to stay put, at least for the moment.
Scipio looked towards the door through which Manlai had vanished. It was the only way out of the room now.
“Follow me!” he shouted, and ran through the door, shouting an aggressive if foolhardy challenge to whoever was on the other side of it.
Scipio, his men, and Larentia found themselves in a hallway. Scipio looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go, when the option of deciding was taken away from them. From Scipio’s left, more Mongolians suddenly appeared, carrying muskets with bayonets, Manlai bringing up their rear. Scipio heard a shot, flinched, and felt a musket ruffle his hair as it narrowly missed him. He turned and ran down the hall to the right, his small party following him. There was one door at the end of the hallway; he ran towards it, seeking any shelter from the storm brewing behind him.
He reached the door and shoved it open, then stormed through it. He found himself moving into darkness, then he was falling, his boots thumping awkwardly on wooden stairs, his arms windmilling helplessly as he struggled to keep his balance. He fell forward, shouted an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and then he felt his knees and his shoulders painfully striking the stairs, and he tumbled down until he struck the ground at the bottom of the stairway and let out a grunt of pain.
Scipio forced himself to roll forward in case any of his riflemen also lost their footing and fell on top of him, but they had been alerted by his shout and had managed to remain upright. Necalli, bringing up the rear, pushed the door closed and leaned against it. He expected the Mongolians to fire at the door, or to try to force it open, but to his surprise, they did not. Instead, he could hear Manlai shouting at his men, evidently to stop their pursuit, which was sensible, since only two men could have charged through the door at a time, and with the enemy in darkness before them, the stairwell would have become a death trap.
Nevertheless, the Romans’ situation was far worse. Panting, sweating, the sour taste of burnt gunpowder in their mouths, the riflemen were in complete darkness, outnumbered by their enemy, their only protection taking the form of an old wooden door. The lack of light in the basement meant there were no windows, and probably no doors, either—meaning no escape. They were trapped.
carl corey
Deity
Yay, update! 
Going back to read.
Going back to read.
Sisiutil
All Leader Challenger
Wow, only two responses? I guess that's what I get for making everyone wait so long... 
This particular story has two more chapters to go; the next will go up sometime this weekend (I hope).
This particular story has two more chapters to go; the next will go up sometime this weekend (I hope).
Sam_Yeager
Another Original Geezer
Wow, only two responses? I guess that's what I get for making everyone wait so long...
I know I meant to leave a 
but it slipped my mind.This particular story has two more chapters to go; the next will go up sometime this weekend (I hope).
Especially since the ALC is due to start this weekend as well. Mind you the next few days will be taken up discussing where to explore and then where to settle. Scarredroman
Warlord
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2007
- Messages
- 274
Hey, it's just a hop, scipio and a jump to the end.
There's no way out. Scipio is nicely trapped. I hope the other members of first his the platoon and then the rest of the legion turn out to put down what looks like a city wide revolt.
There's no way out. Scipio is nicely trapped. I hope the other members of first his the platoon and then the rest of the legion turn out to put down what looks like a city wide revolt.
r_rolo1
King of myself
I'm already seeing it: Scipio trying a hopeless bayonet charge ( his caracther is clearly capable of that kind of bravado )and in the last moment help arrives...... 
)and in the last moment help arrives...... 
grandad1982
Deity
- Joined
- Dec 4, 2007
- Messages
- 2,552
..... or help doesn't arrive. Only time will tell. Thankfully not that much time.
- Status
