The Last cohort

THE SAXON LONGSHIP

The Britannic Cohort moved north with a purpose that etched sharp lines into the mud. The rolling green hills around Camelot gave way to a bleak, windswept landscape of heather and grey stone. The air grew colder, carrying a metallic tang that was not of rain, but of something fouler. They followed the decurion Gaius, whose haunted eyes and desperate pace were a constant reminder of the horror they marched towards.

The unity forged in the valley was tested with every mile. The land itself seemed to resist them. Streams they crossed ran with water that was oddly viscous and left a coppery taste on the tongue. The trees were skeletal, their branches twisted into claws against the sky. A deep, unnatural silence lay over everything, broken only by the moaning wind.

The interactivity of the march was one of shared hardship and burgeoning trust. Roman engineers found themselves consulting with Silure scouts on how to cross a peat bog that tried to suck a man down in seconds. Saxon sailors, used to reading the moods of the sea, now taught the Romans and Celts how to interpret the ominous shifts in the oppressive sky.

During a rest halt by one of the tainted streams, Marcus found Morganna staring into the murky water, her hand resting on the dragon circlet at her brow. The silver seemed to drink the feeble light.

“The land is in pain here,” she said softly, not looking at him. “It’s a different pain than the lake. Deeper. It feels… surgical. As if something is being carved out of it.”

Bran approached, his face grim. He did not need to touch the water. “The Decurion speaks true. They are not just building a gate. They are performing a vivisection on the world. They are cutting out its heart to make a door.”

It was then that the first true sign of the enemy’s work manifested. They crested a ridge and looked down upon a valley that was utterly dead. Not a blade of grass grew. The soil was black and cracked, and in the center, the bones of a great oak tree stood, not as grey, weathered timber, but as polished, gleaming white, as if dipped in liquid moonlight. From its branches hung what looked like tattered black flags, but which, as they drew closer, revealed themselves to be desiccated, human-like skins, flapping in the wind.

“A Soul Tree,” Bran whispered, his voice thick with revulsion. “They bind the spirits of the slain to a blighted place, using their stolen life to power their workings. This is an outpost, a beacon for the greater corruption ahead.”

A low growl rumbled from the Saxon line. Hrothgar hefted his axe, the dead flesh on his side seeming to pulse with a sympathetic cold. “A foul thing. It should be burned.”

“A direct assault would alert whatever guards it,” Valerius cautioned, his soldier’s mind assessing the tactical nightmare. The valley offered no cover.

“Then we do not assault it,” Marcus said, his gaze fixed on the grotesque tree. “We bypass it. But not before we give it a message.”

He looked at Morganna. “My Queen. The sword’s light is one of purity. Can you… speak to the spirits trapped there? Not to attack the tree, but to… release them?”

It was a use of power they had not yet attempted. Morganna’s expression was uncertain, but she nodded. She drew the Sword of Britannia. This time, its light was not a blazing sun, but a soft, gentle radiance, like the first hint of dawn. She closed her eyes, and the light flowed from the blade, not in a wave, but in delicate tendrils that snaked across the dead valley, avoiding the tree itself, and gently touching each of the flapping skins.

A sound began, faint at first, then growing—a sigh of profound relief. The trapped spirits, held in agonizing suspension, recognized the touch of their queen’s grace. One by one, the tattered skins dissolved into motes of silver light that rose into the air, swirling for a moment before winking out. They were free.

The moment the last spirit was released, the gleaming white bones of the Soul Tree turned a sickly grey and crumbled into dust. The beacon was extinguished.

A wave of palpable relief washed over the Cohort. The land, while still wounded, felt cleaner. The metallic tang in the air lessened.

Hrothgar grunted, a sound of deep approval. He looked at Marcus. “A good tactic. You use the light to cut a rope, not a throat. This is a new kind of war.”

Their progress, however, was soon halted by a barrier no amount of cunning could bypass. A wide, furious river, swollen by distant rains, barred their path. It was the River Tuvius, and on the maps Gaius carried, a Roman bridge was marked. When they reached its location, they found only shattered stone pillars jutting from the churning brown water. The Fomorii, or their Corrupted servants, had been here too.

“We cannot cross this,” Cynfor stated, staring at the torrent. “The current would smash us against the rocks. We would lose half the Cohort.”

“The fort is on the other side,” Gaius said, his voice desperate. “We are so close!”

Despair began to creep in. They were so near their goal, yet utterly stranded.

It was then that a familiar, deep-throated horn blast echoed from downriver. All eyes turned. Rounding a bend in the river, moving against the powerful current with impossible strength, came a single Saxon longship. Its sail was patched, its hull scarred from their previous battles, but it rode the water like a king. At its prow stood a handful of Hrothgar’s most loyal huscarls, the men he had left to guard the ships.

They maneuvered the sleek vessel to the bank where the Cohort stood. The lead huscarl, a man named Leif with a braided yellow beard, saluted Hrothgar.

“Ealdorman,” Leif called. “When the screaming started from the north, and the birds fell dead from the sky, we knew you would need a way across the poisoned waters. The sea-wolves do not wait for a bridge to be built.”

A genuine, weary smile broke through Hrothgar’s pain. “Your timing is good, Leif.”

The longship could not carry them all at once. It became a ferry, making dangerous, repeated trips across the raging Tuvius. It was a slow, nerve-wracking process. Romans, their discipline overcoming a deep-seated fear of the unstable vessel, held formation as they boarded. Silures helped pull the ship to the bank with ropes. The Saxons, in their element, manned the oars, their powerful strokes a defiant counter-rhythm to the river’s rage.

During one of these crossings, with Marcus, Morganna, and Bran aboard, the river revealed it was not entirely natural. As they reached the midpoint, the water around the longship began to boil. Pale, slimy hands with too many fingers clawed at the hull. Faces formed in the foam, mouths open in silent shrieks. The River Wraiths, lesser cousins to the Lake’s horror, were drawn to the concentration of living souls.

“They seek to drag us down!” the steersman yelled, fighting the current as the ship began to spin.

Morganna acted without hesitation. She did not unleash the sword’s full light, fearing it would blind the rowers. Instead, she touched the tip of the blade to the ship’s dragon-headed prow. A wave of calming, golden energy washed over the vessel, and where it touched the water, the Wraiths recoiled, hissing as if burned by purity itself. The river did not calm, but the supernatural threat was pushed back, allowing the Saxons to pull them to safety.

On the far bank, the final member of the Cohort was hauled ashore. They were across. Before them lay the last stretch of blighted land leading to the festering wound of Vindolanda.

Leif looked at Hrothgar. “The ship is yours, Ealdorman. We are with you.”

Hrothgar clasped his man’s arm. “Then let us go and see what manner of gate these demons are building. And let us be the hammer that shatters it.”

The Saxon longship, their unexpected salvation, was secured. The Britannic Cohort, tested by corrupted land and vengeful waters, stood united on the northern bank. The final march to the screaming fort had begun. The gateway of bone and shadow awaited, and the Queen who had learned to wield light as a scalpel now led her army to perform surgery on the world itself.