The Last cohort

AN UNLIKELY ALLIANCE

The river was their only road, and it was a treacherous one. The longships, designed for the open sea, wallowed dangerously low in the water, overloaded with the weight of three armies. Saxon oarsmen, their muscles corded with strain, fought the current while Roman soldiers, useless on the unfamiliar vessels, huddled in the bellies of the ships, their armor a dead weight. The Silures, more at home on water than the Romans but less so than the Saxons, manned the sides, their eyes scanning the thick forests on either bank for any sign of pursuit.

The air was thick with unspoken tension. In the lead ship, Marcus stood near the prow beside Hrothgar, who manned the steering oar. Morganna was amidships, her bow held ready. Centurion Valerius and Chieftain Cynfor sat near the mast, a map stretched between them, their silence louder than any argument.

“The river narrows ahead,” Hrothgar grunted, his eyes fixed on the water. “The current quickens. There are rocks. My men know this passage. Do not interfere.”

Valerius bristled at the command but held his tongue. This was the Saxon’s domain now.

The interactivity was a fragile, necessary thing. A Saxon oarsman shouted a warning in his guttural tongue. Hrothgar barked a command, heaving on the steering oar. The longship slewed violently to the right, narrowly avoiding a jagged black rock that broke the surface like a fang. Roman soldiers gripped the gunwales, their faces pale. They were passengers here, reliant on the skill of men they had been trained to kill.

“They are still with us,” Morganna called out, pointing a slender finger back upriver. Shapes moved through the trees on the banks, keeping pace with the fleet. Corrupted, loping with an unnatural endurance. And above, darker shadows flitted through the canopy—Gorestalkers.

“They will not try to cross the water,” Bran said, his voice weary. He sat near the stern, one hand trailing in the river, as if taking its pulse. “The running water disrupts their essence. But they will wait for us to land.”

“Then we do not land,” Marcus said.

Hrothgar shook his head. “The river meets the sea by the old Roman lighthouse. The waters there are treacherous, full of sandbars. We must go ashore before then to portage the ships to a safer inlet. It is the only way.”

“A predictable move,” Valerius noted grimly. “They will be waiting for us there.”

“Then we must be ready,” Cynfor stated, his hand resting on his sword.

The argument was cut short by a new threat. The river began to churn ahead, the smooth water breaking into white froth. The roar of rapids filled the air.

“The Devil’s Throat!” Hrothgar shouted. “All men, hold on! Oarsmen, keep us straight! A crooked spine means a broken ship!”

The longship plunged into the chaos. Icy water crashed over the bow, drenching everyone. The world shrank to the heaving deck, the scream of the water, and Hrothgar’s roared commands. Saxons leaned into their oars, their faces contorted with effort, fighting to keep the vessel from spinning into the rocks.

A Roman legionary, his footing lost on the wet, unfamiliar deck, slid towards the edge. A Saxon oarsman, without breaking rhythm, shot out a thick arm, grabbing the Roman’s harness and hauling him back to safety. The legionary nodded, his thanks wordless but genuine. It was a small moment, but it echoed through the ship.

They burst out of the rapids into a wider, calmer stretch, the other ships emerging behind them like battered seabirds. But their respite was brief.

From the left bank, a volley of dark projectiles arced through the air. Not arrows, but jagged shards of bone, hurled by the Corrupted. One shard struck a Saxon oarsman in the throat, and he toppled silently into the water. Another thudded into the shield of a Roman who had instinctively raised it.

“Return fire!” Morganna yelled.

Her Silure archers rose, their bows singing. Arrows peppered the bank, finding their marks in Corrupted flesh. But the things did not fall. They absorbed the damage and kept hurling their bone javelins.

“They are too numerous!” Gryff shouted, clutching a bleeding wound in his shoulder where a bone shard had grazed him.

Marcus saw the problem. They were a static target on the river, being whittled down from a fortified bank. They needed to fight back, but the Saxons couldn’t row and fight, and the Romans and Celts couldn’t reach the enemy.

Then Septimus, the grizzled Roman veteran, did something unexpected. He grabbed a heavy Roman pilum from the stack of salvaged weapons. He looked at Hrothgar and pointed at the bank. “Get us closer.”

Hrothgar, understanding the unspoken tactic, nodded. “Oars! Hard to port! Fifty strokes!”

The longship turned, driving towards the bank. The Corrupted, sensing easy prey, clustered at the water’s edge.

“Now!” Hrothgar bellowed.

As the ship closed to within twenty paces, Septimus and every other Roman who could stand, raised a pilum. These were not the light javelins of the Celts. These were the heavy, armor-piercing spears of the legions.

“Loose!” Valerius commanded, his voice finding its old authority.

A thick cloud of pila shot through the air. The effect was devastating. The heavy spears punched through the Corrupted with immense force, pinning them to the ground, the iron shanks bending on impact to prevent them from being thrown back. The barrage cleared a whole section of the bank.

A ragged cheer went up from the ship, a mix of Roman, Celtic, and Saxon voices.

But the victory was short-lived. From the deeper shadows of the trees, the pale, gaunt form of a Soul-Eater emerged. It raised its claws, and a wave of debilitating despair washed over the ship. Oars faltered. Men clutched their heads. The ship began to drift.

Morganna nocked an arrow, but her hands trembled. Bran tried to rise, but his strength was spent.

It was Hrothgar who reacted. Letting go of the steering oar, he snatched a massive war horn from the deck. He put it to his lips and blew a single, sustained, defiant note. It was not a magical sound, but a raw, physical one—the sound of a people who had faced the sea and the storm for generations and had never bowed. It was a sound of pure, undiluted will.

The note cut through the psychic assault like a physical blade. The Soul-Eater recoiled, its attack broken by the sheer, stubborn force of the Saxon’s spirit.

In that moment, the three forces were no longer just allies of convenience. They were a single weapon: the Celts’ sharp eyes and swift arrows, the Romans’ disciplined heavy throw, and the Saxons’ unbreakable will. They had covered each other’s weaknesses and amplified each other’s strengths.

The Soul-Eater faded back into the woods. The Corrupted on the bank fell back, their ambush broken.

Hrothgar retrieved his steering oar, his chest heaving. He looked at Valerius, then at Cynfor. “The portage point is just ahead. We will land. And whatever is waiting for us, we will face it together.”

The unlikely alliance, tested by water, rock, and shadow, had been tempered in the river’s forge. They were no longer three groups sharing a boat. They were a crew.