The Last cohort

THE SONG OF THE AXE AND THE GLADIUS

tThe portage point was a grim, narrow strip of gravel beach hemmed in by steep, wooded slopes. It was a perfect site for an ambush, and everyone knew it. As the longships ground onto the shore, the mixed force disembarked with a tense, watchful urgency. The silence from the forest was more threatening than any war cry.

They worked with a brutal, shared efficiency born of necessity. Saxons and Romans, their cultural disdain for one another set aside, strained together to haul the heavy vessels from the water. Silure scouts immediately melted into the tree line, establishing a protective perimeter. The air was thick with the grunts of effort and the constant, low rustle of men waiting for death to fall from the trees.

Marcus found himself shoulder to shoulder with Hrothgar, heaving against the stern of the lead longship. The Saxon’s massive strength was a tangible force, and for a moment, Marcus felt a flicker of what it must be like to face such a man in battle.

“Your men fight well from a distance, Roman,” Hrothgar grunted, not looking at him. “But a ship is a close quarters thing. It is good to see you do not faint at the sight of blood.”

“And your men are brave,” Marcus replied, his muscles burning. “But bravery without formation is a recipe for a s*******r. We saw that on the riverbank.”

It was not an insult, but a observation. Hrothgar considered it, giving a final, mighty shove that helped ground the ship fully. “A man cannot eat formation. But a good shield wall can make sure he lives to eat.” He looked at Marcus, his blue eyes sharp. “Perhaps we have things to teach each other.”

Before Marcus could respond, a single, sharp bird call echoed from the woods—a Silure warning. The scouts were falling back. Something was coming.

“Shield wall!” Valerius’s voice cut through the air, crisp and commanding. “Romans, to the front! Saxons, reinforce the flanks!”

The discipline of the legionaries was a marvel to behold. In seconds, a line of large scuta snapped into place, a wall of painted wood and steel facing the forest. The Saxons, with their smaller, round shields, filled the gaps on the sides, their long axes and swords bristling over the top. The Silures fell back behind the line, nocking arrows.

Morganna stood just behind the Roman center, her eyes narrowed. “They are close. I can feel them. A wrongness in the air.”

Bran, his face still pale, placed a hand on the ground. “Not Corrupted. Something… older. Something of the deep woods.”

The trees at the edge of the clearing began to tremble. Not from wind, but from a deep, resonant vibration that shook the very stones on the beach. Then, the creatures emerged.

They were not Fomorii. They were something else, something of the wild world the Fomorii had twisted. They stood on two legs like men, but were formed of gnarled, blackened wood and tangled thorn, with glowing embers for eyes. Six of them shambled forward, each the size of a bear. Where they walked, the grass beneath their feet withered and died. These were Thornsmen, ancient forest spirits driven mad by the blight.

One of them opened a maw of splintered wood and let out a sound that was like a falling tree. It raised a limb that ended in a cluster of spear-like thorns and hurled it at the shield wall.

The impact was tremendous. The Roman shield shuddered, the iron boss denting inward, and the legionary behind it was thrown back, his arm broken. The Thornman’s limb regrew in seconds.

“Pila will not work on these!” Septimus yelled.

“Aim for the core! The light in its chest!” Bran shouted, but his voice was strained. His nature magic was revolted by these corrupted kin.

The Thornsmen advanced, their heavy steps shaking the ground. Arrows from the Silures stuck in their wooden hides like pins, doing no real damage. A Saxon axe bit deep into a limb, but the wound sealed over with creeping, blackened bark.

The shield wall began to buckle under the sheer, relentless force.

Marcus saw the problem. They were fighting them like men, but these were forces of nature. He remembered the river. He remembered how different skills had combined.

“Hrothgar!” he shouted. “Your song! The one from the river!”

The Saxon chieftain, hewing at a Thornman’s leg with his great axe, looked at him as if he were mad.

“The war horn’s note! It has power! It disrupted the Soul-Eater! These things are made of vibration, of corrupted life! Disrupt them!”

Understanding dawned in Hrothgar’s eyes. He roared, not in anger, but in command. “Saxons! The Song of the Sea King! Now!”

He began it, a deep, guttural chant that was more rhythm than melody.