The Last cohort

THE MARCH BEGINS

Dawn arrived not with gentle light, but with the grim clatter of preparation. The hillfort of Caer Arfon, once a bastion of silent suspicion, now churned with a frantic, determined energy. The acceptance of the pact had transformed the air from hostile to electric with fearful purpose. Marcus stood with Bran and Septimus near the main gate, watching the Silures warband assemble. It was a sight to stir both awe and dread.

Three hundred warriors gathered, a sea of checked cloaks, gleaming spearheads, and painted shields bearing the snarling wolf of the Silures. They were not the disciplined lines of a Roman legion, but a raw, potent force of individual strength. The sound was a low thunder of nervous chatter, the clank of gear, and the sharp commands of their captains.

Cynfor, clad in a coat of fine chainmail, moved among them, his presence a steadying force. But it was Morganna who caught Marcus’s eye. She moved with a lethal grace through the throng, no longer the aloof princess in the council hall but a war leader in her element. She checked a man’s shield strap, pointed out a flaw in another’s sword edge, her voice clear and cutting through the din. She carried her strung bow over her shoulder, a quiver of grey-fletched arrows on her back, and a long, leaf-bladed sword at her hip. Her eyes, when they met Marcus’s, held no warmth, but a flicker of grim acknowledgment. The shield he had become against the Soul Eater had been noted.

“A motley crew,” Septimus grunted, his arms crossed over his chest as he eyed the Celts. “All fury and no formation. They’ll break at the first proper charge.”

“They have not broken for three hundred years against Rome,” Marcus replied quietly. “Do not underestimate them. Their fury is what we lack.”

Bran, his eyes closed and a hand resting on the timber of the gate, spoke without opening them. “The land is screaming. Can you not feel it? Every step we take towards the highlands is a step into a wound. The Fomorii corruption is a stain, spreading like ink in water.” He opened his eyes, their green hue seeming to glow in the morning mist. “The Shadow knows its threat has been united. It will not wait for us to be ready.”

Their journey began under a sky the color of bruised flesh. The Silures moved with a native swiftness, their scouts, like ghosts, flitting ahead and on the flanks. Marcus, Bran, and Septimus walked just behind Cynfor and Morganna, a tangible symbol of the fragile new alliance. The Romans’ rhythmic, marching step was a stark contrast to the Celts’ fluid, ground-eating lope.

The interactivity was immediate and constant. Morganna would point to a distant crag. “That is the Eye of the Chieftain. Our scouts will signal from there if the path is clear.” Moments later, a flash of reflected light from the summit confirmed her words.

Bran would suddenly halt, raising a fist. The entire column would freeze. He would kneel, placing his palm on the soil. “The earth is sick here. The Corrupted passed this way not two hours ago. A large pack. Twenty at least.” He would then look at Cynfor. “We swing east. The way is longer, but cleaner.”

Cynfor, the seasoned commander, would weigh the Druid’s word against his own knowledge of the land, then give a sharp nod. “Gryff! The eastern pass! Move!”

Marcus found himself walking beside Morganna for a stretch. The silence between them was heavy, filled with the unspoken words of generations of enmity.

“Your Centurion,” she said abruptly, not looking at him. “Valerius. Is he a pragmatic man, or a proud one?”

“He is a survivor,” Marcus answered. “The pride was beaten out of him on the German frontier. He will see the sense in this. The men… it will be harder for them.”

“My people are not celebrating this either, Roman,” she shot back, her gaze fixed ahead. “They follow my father because they trust him. They look at you and see the men who burned their farms and crucified their kin.”

“And what do you see?” Marcus asked.

She finally glanced at him, her grey eyes unreadable. “I see a tool. A sharp one. I hope you are worth the price of my people’s trust.”

Later, as they navigated a treacherous scree slope, it was Septimus who interacted, his Roman practicality clashing with Celtic methods. A young, hot-blooded Silure warrior named Aeron was mocking the Romans’ heavy armor, claiming it would slow them down.

“Speed is fine,” Septimus rumbled, not breaking his stride. “But when one of those Corrupted things is trying to chew your face off, you’ll wish you had a nice, solid piece of steel between your guts and its claws.” He tapped his lorica segmentata. “This isn’t for running. It’s for killing.”

Aeron sneered. “A shell for a turtle.”

Septimus stopped, turning to face the younger man. The column slowed around them. “You see that rock?” he pointed to a large boulder fifty paces away. “Your javelin. My pilum. Let’s see which one punches through.”

Eager to prove his point, Aeron hefted his light javelin, took a running start, and let fly. It struck the rock with a loud c***k and bounced off, clattering to the ground.

Without a word, Septimus took two steps, his entire body coiling like a spring, and launched his heavy pilum. It flew with a different sound—a deadly, whirring thrum. It struck the center of the boulder not with a c***k, but with a solid thunk, the iron shank bending on impact as it was designed to do, the point buried deep in a c***k in the stone. It was unmovable.

Septimus looked at Aeron. “Speed is fine,” he repeated. “But weight wins battles.” He turned and continued marching. A new, grudging respect flickered in the eyes of the surrounding Celts.

As dusk began to bleed into the sky, the lead scout came running back, his face pale. He spoke rapidly to Cynfor and Morganna, pointing ahead.

Morganna turned to the group, her expression grim. “The fort is just beyond that ridge. But the scout says there is a problem.”

“What problem?” Marcus asked, his heart sinking.

“He says your Centurion has not been idle. He has fortified the old ruin. And he has… guests.”

They crested the ridge, and the valley containing the Roman fort spread out below them. The sight that met their eyes was one none of them could have anticipated.

The fort was there, its wooden walls patched and reinforced. But arrayed before the gates, in a loose, hostile semicircle, was a war band of at least fifty Saxons. They were big men, clad in leather and ringmail, their round shields brightly painted. They were not attacking, but they were clearly besieging the fort, their posture aggressive and confident.

And standing between the Saxon line and the closed gates of the fort was a single, massive figure. He stood a full head taller than the men around him, his head shaved except for a long, braided Saxon scalp lock. In his hands, he held a colossal Dane-axe, its head a fearsome piece of sharpened iron. He was shouting up at the walls, his voice a deep, rolling challenge, though the words were lost at this distance.

Marcus stared, his mind reeling. This was the complication they did not need.

Bran’s voice was a low murmur. “The threads of fate twist in strange ways.”

Morganna nocked an arrow to her bowstring, her face a mask of cold fury. “Saxons. Here.”

Cynfor drew his long sword, the steel whispering from its sheath. The entire Silures warband rippled, a wave of ready violence.

Marcus looked from the besieged fort to the Saxon host, and then to his new allies. The pact of blood and steel was about to be tested in fire. The march was over. The next move was his.

“We are not the only hunters in these woods,” he said, his hand falling to the hilt of his gladius. “It seems our alliance must begin with a rescue.”