The Last cohort

THE PRICE OF BLOOD MAGIC

The Britannic Cohort fractured with purpose. Valerius and Cynfor, with the bulk of the army and the recovered Decurion Gaius as a guide, turned south and west to seek out the rumored Roman holdout at Deva and to rally the disparate Celtic tribes. Their mission was one of diplomacy and grim persuasion, to turn the last embers of resistance into a conflagration.

Marcus, Morganna, Bran, and Hrothgar, accompanied by a handpicked dozen of their most seasoned warriors—a mix of Roman, Celt, and Saxon—struck out north and east. Bran held the Ogham shard before him like a dowsing rod, its faint silver pulse their only compass. It pulled them towards the second shard, a destination that made the Druid’s face grow increasingly grim with each passing mile.

“It calls from the Whispering Plains,” Bran finally announced as they made camp in the lee of a rocky tor. The land around them was bleak, a vast expanse of yellowed grass that hissed constantly in the wind, living up to its name. “A place where a great battle was fought in the time of legends. So many souls were lost so quickly that the land never absorbed their passing. Their voices are… trapped. It is a place of potent, raw death. Perfect for a Fomorii anchor.”

Hrothgar poked their small campfire with a stick. “So we walk into a field of ghosts to find a magic rock before the soul eating monsters do. A fine day’s work.”

“The danger is not just the Fomorii,” Bran said, his voice low. “The Plains themselves are the guardian. The whispers can unravel a mind, convince a man his comrades are phantoms and his own hands are made of worms. My magic can shield us, but it will be a constant drain. I cannot also fight a significant Fomorii force while maintaining it.”

The interactivity of their small group was a well-oiled machine now. Marcus took first watch, his eyes scanning the sighing grasses, his Roman discipline a bulwark against the unsettling noise. Morganna sat with Bran, the silver light of her crown occasionally flaring as she helped him reinforce the protective wards around their camp. Hrothgar, his strength returning day by day, ensured the Saxon and Celtic warriors in their squad were integrated, sharing out sentry duties and breaking down the invisible walls that still sometimes formed between them.

The next day, they entered the Whispering Plains. The hiss of the wind resolved into words, a million overlapping murmurs.

“...the spear went through my brother’s eye...” “...I just wanted to go home...” “...the earth is drinking my blood...”

The voices were faint, but pervasive, seeping into the mind like poison. Bran walked at the front, his staff leaving a trail of green light in the air that formed a shimmering, translucent tunnel around them. The whispers faded to a bearable murmur within its confines, but Marcus could see the strain on the Druid’s face. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his knuckles were white on the staff.

The shard’s pull grew stronger, leading them to the center of the plains, where a single, gnarled hawthorn tree stood, its branches bare and black despite the season. And at its base, half-buried in the turf, was the second Ogham shard, pulsing with a malevolent silver light.

It was not unguarded.

Three figures awaited them. They were not Corrupted, nor were they Fomorii. They were Druids. Their robes were dark, their faces gaunt and marked with spirals of dried blood. In their hands they held staves of blackened wood, and their eyes held a fanatical, empty light.

“The Disciples of the Void,” Bran spat, his shield faltering for a moment, allowing a wave of whispering terror to wash over them. A Roman legionary cried out, swatting at invisible insects on his arms before Marcus gripped his shoulder, shaking him back to reality.

The lead Disciple, a man with a skeletal face and eyes like chips of obsidian, smiled. “Bran ap Gwynn. The Archdruid’s wayward hound. We felt the shard’s call. We have come to claim it for the new world.”

“You serve the Fomorii?” Morganna demanded, her sword flashing into her hand, its golden light a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom.

“We serve the inevitable,” the Disciple replied. “The old world is weak, dying. The Fomorii are not destroyers; they are midwives to a new, purer reality. We merely… expedite the birth.” His gaze fell upon Bran. “You could have joined us, Bran. Your power, your willingness to delve into f*******n arts… you were always one of us in spirit. You just lacked the courage to embrace the truth.”

“The truth is you have traded your souls for a sliver of borrowed power,” Bran shot back, but his voice wavered. The accusation had struck a chord.

The Disciples attacked. They did not move. They simply raised their staves, and the very whispers of the plains coalesced into physical forms. Spectral warriors, echoes of the long-dead battle, materialized from the hissing grass, their forms shifting and indistinct, but their weapons all too real.

“Hold the line!” Marcus yelled. The dozen warriors formed a tight circle, facing outward. Steel met ethereal spears and swords. It was a desperate fight. The phantoms could be disrupted, but not truly killed, reforming moments later from the endless whispers.

Hrothgar fought with brute force, his axe shearing through the spectral forms, each blow costing them precious seconds. “Bran! A little help would be welcome!”

Bran was locked in a different battle. The lead Disciple was attacking him psychically, a duel of wills that was invisible to the others but was causing the green protective tunnel to flicker and dim. The other two Disciples began a low, guttural chant, and the Ogham shard at the base of the tree began to glow brighter, rising slowly from the earth.

“They are attuning it to their master!” Bran gasped, deflecting a psychic blow that made his nose bleed. “I cannot stop them and hold the shield!”

Morganna knew what she had to do. She was the only one whose power was a direct counter to this corruption. But to reach the shard, she would have to leave the safety of Bran’s failing shield and cross a battlefield of phantoms.

“Marcus! With me!” she cried.

He understood instantly. He stopped fighting defensively and began to advance, his gladius a blur, creating a path. He was not trying to kill the phantoms, just to batter them aside, to create a corridor for his queen. Morganna followed in his wake, the golden light of her sword forcing the spectral forms to recoil, buying them fractions of a second.

They fought their way to the hawthorn tree. One of the chanting Disciples turned, his eyes burning with void energy, and raised a hand. A wave of force, cold and suffocating, slammed into Marcus. He grunted, his armor frosting over, but he held his ground, planting himself between the Disciple and Morganna.

“The shard!” he gritted out.

Morganna reached for it. But as her fingers neared the pulsating stone, the lead Disciple broke off his attack on Bran and focused on her.

“You will not take what is ours, little queen.”

A torrent of pure psychic malice, amplified by the sorrow of ten thousand dead, hammered into her mind. She cried out, stumbling back, the golden light of her sword sputtering. Visions of Camelot in ruins, of her father and Marcus lying dead at her feet, of the Britannic Cohort turning to dust, assaulted her. The Crown of the Covenant on her brow felt like a band of fire.

Bran saw her falter. He saw the Disciples about to claim the shard. He saw his friends being overwhelmed. A terrible resolve settled on his face.

“There is always a price,” he whispered.

He slammed his staff into the ground, not to strengthen his shield, but to shatter it. The green protective tunnel vanished. The full, horrifying weight of the plains’ whispers crashed down on everyone.

But Bran was not finished. He tore a dagger from his belt and dragged the blade across his palm, letting his blood drip onto the earth. He began to chant, not in the language of the Druids, but in something older, darker. The blood magic he had been exiled for.

The very air grew heavy and thick with the scent of ozone and copper. The spectral warriors, born of whispers, screamed and dissolved, unable to withstand the raw, visceral power he was unleashing. The two chanting Displies were thrown back from the shard, their own magic ruptured by the violent, sacrificial surge.

The lead Disciple stared, his fanatical certainty replaced by fear. “You fool! You tear at the fabric of your own soul!”

“A price I pay gladly!” Bran roared, his eyes now burning with the same green-black energy as the Fomorii gate. He was using their power against them, but he was channeling it through his own life’s blood.

He pointed a bleeding hand at the lead Disciple. A lance of corrupted green energy shot forth, striking the man in the chest. The Disciple did not cry out; he simply unraveled, his form dissolving into motes of darkness.

The cost was immediate. Bran aged before their eyes. His hair whitened, new lines carved themselves into his face, and he slumped to his knees, his breathing a ragged gasp.

The silence that fell was absolute. The whispers were gone. The blood magic had scorched the plains clean, for now.

Shaken, Morganna stumbled to the hawthorn tree and snatched the Ogham shard. It was cold and inert in her hand.

Marcus helped a trembling Bran to his feet. The Druid felt frighteningly frail.

“You should not have…” Marcus began.

“It was the only way,” Bran interrupted, his voice a dry rustle. “The balance… I have tipped it. I have used the enemy’s fire. I fear… I fear what I may have become to win this war.”

They had the second shard. But the price of blood magic had been paid, and the reckoning for that debt was yet to come. Bran had stared into the void, and to save them, he had let a piece of it stare back.