The Last cohort

THE PRINCESS OF THE HILLFORT

The path Caden led them on was not a road, but a secret artery of the land. It wound up through a narrow defile, hidden behind a waterfall that thundered with icy spray, and emerged onto a steep, grassy track that switchbacked up the mountainside. Every step was a burn in the legs, every glance down a dizzying view of the mist choked valley below. This was a place built for defense, every stone and slope a natural ally to its defenders.

Finally, they crested the rise, and the Hillfort of the Silures, Caer Arfon, lay before them.

It was not a city. It was a bristling, organic extension of the mountain itself. A massive, concentric series of earthwork ramparts and timber palisades crowned the summit, so high that clouds wreathed its peak. The scale was staggering, a testament to generations of labor and a people determined to never be subdued. The air smelled of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the sharp, clean scent of pine.

As they approached the main gate, a massive structure of oak and iron, they were met by a wall of silent, hostile faces. Warriors with long spears and brightly painted shields watched them, their expressions hard. Women and children stopped their work to stare, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hatred at the sight of the Roman armor. The sight of Bran and his wolf drew sharp intakes of breath and muttered oaths.

Caden, leaning heavily on his sword as a crutch, led them through the throng. "Make no sudden moves," he grunted. "Do not touch your weapons. My people have lost fathers and brothers to the eagle standard you no longer carry. Your presence here is a poison. We will see if your words are the antidote."

They were brought to the center of the fort, a great open yard dominated by a long, thatched feasting hall. Before its doors, seated on a carved wooden throne that was more a piece of art than furniture, was a man who could only be Chieftain Cynfor. He had Caden's fiery red hair, now shot through with silver, and a beard plaited with gold rings. His eyes were the color of flint, and they held a deep, weary intelligence. He did not look angry, only profoundly tired and wary.

But it was the young woman standing at his right hand who commanded Marcus's immediate attention. She was tall and slender, clothed in a dark green tunic and trousers practical for riding, but a cloak of fine blue wool, fastened with a silver brooch in the shape of a dragon, spoke of her status. Her hair was a cascade of night black, and her eyes, a piercing, clear grey, assessed them with an unnerving, direct intensity. This was Princess Morganna. She held a strung bow loosely in one hand, her posture radiating a coiled, ready strength that was both elegant and deadly.

Caden bowed his head. "Father. Sister. I return, by a strange road."

Cynfor's gaze swept over his wounded son, the two Romans, the exiled Druid, and the massive wolf. His expression did not change. "You bring strange guests, my son. An exile who traffics with dark powers, and the wolves of Rome, who now come to our door without their pack." His voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding deep in the earth.

It was Morganna who spoke first, her voice cool and sharp as a newly honed blade. "The wolf of Rome comes to us with empty hands and a tongue full of words. Where is your eagle, Roman? Where are your legions?" Her eyes locked with Marcus's, challenging him, dismissing him all at once.

Marcus took a single step forward, keeping his hands clear of his body. "The eagle is dust, my lady. Shattered against a power that cares nothing for Roman or Celt. The legions are gone. We are what remains. And we are here because the enemy that comes for you makes your quarrel with Rome seem like a children's squabble."

Bran stepped forward, drawing the Chieftain's flinty gaze. "Cynfor ap Llywelyn. The Corrupted that wounded your son are but the tip of the spear. The Fomorii are awakening. The Shadow in the Mist moves through the highlands. It seeks a weapon to unmake this world. It will not ask your tribe's name before it unmakes you."

A murmur rippled through the crowd of warriors and clanspeople who had gathered around.

Morganna's lip curled. "Convenient. Rome abandons its posts, and suddenly monsters from old wives' tales emerge from the mist to justify an alliance with them. You ask us to believe the stories of a known blood mage and the promises of a stranded, desperate soldier?"

"It is not about belief, Princess," Marcus said, his voice rising to carry over the murmur. "It is about tactics. You hold the high ground. You have the numbers. But what will your spears do against a foe that feels no pain? What will your courage avail you when despair itself freezes the blood in your veins? We faced it. We stood in its presence. And we are here to tell you that without a new kind of army, Caer Arfon will be a tomb perched on a mountain."

He pointed to Bran. "He has the knowledge to fight their magic." He gestured to himself and Septimus. "We have the discipline and the strategy to fight their numbers. You have the strength of this land and its people. Alone, each of us will be broken. Together, we can forge a shield that might hold."

Cynfor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You speak of a shield. But you, Roman, you have nothing to offer but your words. Your legion is gone. Your empire has cast you aside. You bring no soldiers to this alliance. Only a proposal."

"He brings a truth you refuse to see!" Bran's voice cut through, sharp and final. "He brings the warning you are too proud to hear! The Fomorii do not care about your pride, Chieftain! They are coming. And when they do, the only thing that will matter is the man standing next to you. Will he be a Silure warrior you have known all your life, or will he be a Roman soldier you were too stubborn to stand with?"

The silence that followed was heavier than any before. Morganna watched Marcus, her grey eyes calculating, no longer just dismissive. She was weighing his words, measuring the steel in his spine.

Cynfor looked from his wounded son to the determined face of the young Roman, to the fierce intensity of the Druid. He sighed, a sound of immense weight.

"You will have your audience," the Chieftain said finally. "But not here. We will speak in the council hall. You will tell your tale from the beginning. And you, Marcus Aquila of the Lost Ninth, will convince me why I should not toss you from these walls and let the crows have you." His eyes hardened. "But know this. If your words are false, if this is some ploy of a dying empire, your death will not be quick. You have entered the lion's den. Do not mistake its silence for welcome."

Marcus held the Chieftain's gaze and gave a single, firm nod. The gate was open. Now he had to walk through it and survive what lay on the other side.