The Last cohort

THE SAXON SHORE

The dome of energy held, but it was a shield, not a wall. The Fomorii host, a seething mass of Corrupted and worse things, did not try to cross the shimmering boundary. Instead, they surrounded the valley, a noose of claw and shadow tightening from the high tree lines. And they had brought siege engines of nightmare.

From the eastern ridge, where the Saxon camp lay directly below, massive, bipedal creatures of rock and tangled root shambled into view. They were Créachts, living constructs of corrupted earth, each the size of a small barn. With fists of stone, they began hurling boulders the size of ox skulls down the slope. The first projectile smashed through a Saxon longship, splintering the proud vessel. The second landed amidst a group of warriors, scattering bodies like twigs.

The war horn’s cry was a blade of pure panic. Hrothgar, his face a mask of fury and grief for his unconscious seer, roared commands in his own tongue. His Saxons, brave but exposed in their camp, scrambled for cover. Their round shields were useless against such artillery.

“They will be pulverized!” Marcus yelled to Valerius and Cynfor as they sprinted back from the stone circle. “The dome stops magic and mist, not physical projectiles!”

“The fort!” Valerius shouted. “We must get them inside the walls!”

But it was too late. The path between the Saxon camp and the fort’s gate was a killing zone, now under a constant rain of stone. A Créacht heaved another boulder, this one arcing high towards the Silures on the western slope. Morganna’s archers scattered, the impact sending shards of rock and earth flying.

“We cannot reach them, and they cannot reach us!” Cynfor growled, his strategic mind seeing the trap. “They mean to grind us apart!”

The interactivity was desperate. Hrothgar, seeing his band being systematically destroyed, made a decision born of sheer, stubborn defiance. “To the ships!” he bellowed, pointing to the few remaining longships beached on the small river that fed the valley. “We take to the water! It is our element!”

It was a retreat, but a tactical one. The Saxons began a fighting withdrawal towards the river, using the broken ground and their own shattered ships as cover from the falling stones.

“The river leads north, out of the valley,” Bran said, his eyes tracking the Saxons’ movement. “It flows to the coast. To the Saxon Shore.”

“If they flee, the alliance is broken,” Valerius stated, his voice cold. “We lose their strength.”

“They are not fleeing,” Marcus countered, a plan crystallizing in his mind with dizzying speed. “They are repositioning. Look!” He pointed. The Créachts, having pummeled the Saxon camp, were now turning their attention to the fort itself. A boulder slammed into the wooden palisade with a sound like a giant’s fist, splintering the timbers. “The Fomorii focus on us now. The Saxons on the river are ignored. They have become a mobile force.”

He turned to the leaders, his words coming in a rapid burst. “The Centurion is right. We need their strength. But not here, trapped in this valley. We need to take the fight to the Fomorii. The prophecy mentioned a lake and a sword. The Saxon Shore has lakes, inlets, marshes. That is our destination. The Saxons can get us there.”

Morganna’s eyes lit with understanding. “You propose we all break out? Abandon the fort?”

“The fort is a tomb now,” Marcus said grimly. “The ritual bought us time, not a permanent home. We use the Saxons’ retreat as our own. We fall back to the coast, regroup, and find this sword.”

It was a monstrous gamble. To leave a fortified position for open country, with a hostile army surrounding them.

Bran placed a hand on the fort’s trembling wall. “The protective dome will not last forever. The Créachts’ assault weakens the land’s energy. When it falls, the full force of the Shadow will pour in. We must be gone by then.”

The decision was made in seconds, a testament to the trust forged in fire. Valerius nodded to Cynfor. The Chieftain gave a sharp signal.

“Silures!” Morganna shouted, her voice carrying over the din. “To the river! Cover the Romans’ retreat!”

The plan unfolded with chaotic, brutal efficiency. The Silure warband, agile as mountain goats, began a controlled descent down the western slope, launching volleys of arrows at the Créachts to distract them. The stony behemoths turned their wrath towards the new attackers, buying precious moments.

Inside the fort, Valerius bellowed, “All cohorts! Abandon the fort! Form testudo and make for the river! Leave nothing for the enemy!”

The gates swung open. The Roman cohort, eighty-seven men strong, moved out not as individuals, but as a single, armored entity. The testudo formation advanced across the open ground, a tortoise of shields deflecting the few boulders that came their way.

On the river, Hrothgar saw the movement. He understood the audacious plan instantly. “Bring the ships closer!” he commanded his men. “Make for the bank! We are not leaving them!”

The remaining Saxon longships, sleek and deadly, were pushed into the deeper water and then rowed hard towards the shore where the Romans and Silures were converging.

The Créachts, enraged by the escaping prey, lurched down from the ridges, their massive feet shaking the ground. The protective dome above them flickered, a web of cracks appearing in the shimmering energy.

“The dome is failing!” Bran shouted. “Hurry!”

The Romans reached the riverbank first, their testudo dissolving as they began to wade into the cold, swift current. Saxon hands reached down from the longships, hauling the heavily armored soldiers aboard. It was a surreal sight: Romans being pulled into Saxon vessels by their former enemies.

The Silures, lighter and faster, swam or waded out, clambering over the sides. Morganna was one of the last to leave the shore, ensuring her people were safe before she herself was pulled aboard a ship by Marcus.

Bran stood on the bank as the last men embarked. The dome shattered with a sound like a million panes of glass breaking. The Fomorii host, held at bay until now, surged forward with a collective shriek of triumph. The Créachts reached the river’s edge, their stone fists raised to smash the final longship.

Bran slammed his staff into the water. “Fógraím an t-uisce!” he commanded. The river around the Créachts flash-froze into a solid block of ice, trapping the massive creatures up to their knees. They roared in frustration, trapped.

The Druid then waded out and was hauled aboard the last ship by Hrothgar himself. The Saxon chieftain looked at the trapped monsters, then at the Druid, and gave a grunt of approval.

The longships, now packed with a mixed crew of Saxons, Romans, and Celts, caught the current. They sped downriver, leaving the besieged valley and the roaring Fomorii behind. They were a single, desperate fleet, a fragment of three worlds lashed together on a river of hope. They had lost their fortress, but they had saved their army. Their course was set for the unknown dangers of the Saxon Shore, guided by a bleeding seer’s vision and the grim determination of those who had chosen to fight, not fall.