The Last cohort

THE WALLS OF CAER LEON

The silence that followed the barrow’s collapse was thick with recrimination. They had salvaged nothing but their lives and a deeper, more fractious distrust. Bran was a ghost haunting their march, walking several paces behind the main group, his head bowed. No one spoke to him. No one dared. The memory of the dissolving stone and his alien, layered voice was a fresh wound on the group’s spirit.

For three days, they traveled south, the land gradually shifting from the oppressive fens to rolling, wooded hills. The pull of the fourth Ogham shard was a faint, nagging thread in Bran’s mind, a sensation he now feared as much as he relied upon. He no longer offered guidance unless directly ordered, and his answers were terse, devoid of his former sharp wit.

It was Marcus who finally broke the silence, falling back to walk beside him. “We cannot continue like this, Bran. The enemy is out there, and we are fractured.”

Bran kept his eyes on the ground. “You saw what I am. What I become. You should have left me in the fen.”

“Hrothgar was right,” Marcus said, his voice low and firm. “A warrior does not abandon a wounded comrade. Your mind is wounded. We will find a way to bind it.”

“There is no bandage for a corrupted soul,” Bran replied, but there was a flicker of something in his voice—not hope, but a faint, desperate longing for the absolution Marcus was offering.

Their path was chosen for them by the distant sound of industry. It was the sound of an army—not marching, but building. The rhythmic thud of hammers, the shout of foremen, the groan of timber. They crested a final hill, and the sight that met their eyes stole their breath.

Caer Leon. But not the Caer Leon of old.

The great Silure hillfort was transformed. The ancient earthworks were now crowned with a palisade of sharpened logs, taller and thicker than any they had seen. New watchtowers of fresh-cut timber studded the walls. And outside the fort, spread across the valley below, was a sprawling, organized camp. The red cloaks of Roman legionaries moved in disciplined squads. The checked cloaks of Celtic warriors from a dozen different tribes clustered around their own campfires. And near the river, the distinct longships and rough hide tents of a significant Saxon host were pitched.

The Britannic Cohort had not just been recruiting. It had been multiplying.

“By all the gods,” Hrothgar grunted, a fierce pride in his eyes. “The sea wolves have answered.”

As they descended, they were met by a patrol—a mixed group of Roman cavalry and Silure scouts. The recognition was instant, and a cheer went up. They were escorted through the bustling camp, a place alive with a chaotic, potent energy. Romans drilled Celts in shield-wall tactics. Saxons demonstrated axe-work to fascinated legionaries. It was the alliance, writ large and made real.

They were brought to the great hall of Caer Leon. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and purpose. Centurion Valerius and Chieftain Cynfor stood over a large table strewn with maps, their faces etched with the fatigue and grim satisfaction of command. Dozens of other tribal leaders and Roman officers were present, their voices a low rumble of strategy and debate.

The room fell silent as Morganna entered, her crown and sword marking her as the sovereign they had all heard of but few had seen. She walked to the head of the table, her presence instantly commanding the room.

“You have done more than we dared hope,” she said, her voice clear and carrying.

“The stories of Vindolanda and the Pendragon’s return spread like wildfire,” Valerius reported. “Legates from two other surviving legions have pledged their men. Chieftains from the Brigantes and the Ordovices have sworn fealty. And more Saxons arrive with every tide.”

“The shards,” Cynfor said, his gaze shifting to Bran and Marcus. “You have more?”

Marcus stepped forward. “We have two. The third was… lost.” He did not elaborate, but the weight of the failure hung in the air. “The fourth calls from the south. A place the shard shows as the Sunken City of the Drowned God.”

A murmur went through the crowd. An old, grey-bearded Druid from the council, one of Gwynn’s followers, spoke up. “A myth. A city of an elder race, swallowed by the sea off the southern coast. It is a place of ill omen.”

“The Fomorii are drawn to such places,” Bran said, his voice a rasp. He did not look at anyone, his focus on the map. “The sorrow of a drowned civilization… it would be a potent anchor for a shard.”

The strategy session began in earnest. The location was remote, the dangers unknown. Sending the entire army was impractical.

“A small, fast group,” Marcus advised. “As before. The terrain will not support legions.”

“No.”

The word came from Archdruid Gwynn. He had entered the hall silently. His eyes, ancient and weary, were fixed on Bran. “The Exile will not go.”

A tense silence gripped the room. Bran finally looked up, meeting his former master’s gaze.

“His use of f*******n arts has been felt by the council,” Gwynn continued, his voice like stone. “The blood magic is a stain on the world, a beacon to the very darkness we fight. He is a liability. He will remain here, under watch, where his corruption can be contained.”

The interactivity in the hall was electric. The new allies watched, unsure. Valerius and Cynfor exchanged a troubled look. They knew Bran’s value, but they also knew the risk.

“He is one of us,” Marcus stated, his tone leaving no room for debate.

“He is a weapon that cannot be controlled,” Gwynn countered. “The barrow at the fens… you felt it. That was his doing. How long before that destruction is turned upon these walls? Upon this alliance?”

Morganna looked from Gwynn’s implacable face to Bran’s shamed one. She was the queen. The decision was hers.

“Bran ap Gwynn,” she said, her voice formal. “You have served this cause with courage and at great personal cost. But the Archdruid speaks truth. The power you wield is a threat to the unity we have built here.” She took a deep breath. “You will remain at Caer Leon. You will assist the Druidic council in any way they see fit, but you will not leave these walls.”

It was a verdict. A gentle one, but a verdict nonetheless. Bran’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He had been benched, declared too dangerous for the field.

But as the council turned back to the maps, planning the expedition to the Sunken City, a new threat announced itself.

From outside the hall came a sudden commotion—shouts of alarm, the blare of a war horn. A scout, his face smeared with soot and blood, burst into the room.

“My Queen! Lords! The western pickets are engaged! It’s not Fomorii! It’s men! The Demetae tribe! They’re attacking our supply lines!”

Cynfor’s face darkened with fury. “The Demetae? They are our kin! Why?”

The scout shook his head, terrified. “They fight like men possessed, my lord! Their eyes… their eyes are glazed. They feel no pain! They just keep coming!”

A cold dread settled in Marcus’s stomach. He looked at Bran, and in the Druid’s horrified eyes, he saw the same understanding.

“The Fomorii don’t just corrupt land and the dead,” Bran whispered, the professional analyst in him overriding his self-pity. “They can corrupt the living. They can turn tribe against tribe. They are sowing discord, breaking our alliances from within.”

The walls of Caer Leon, which had seemed so formidable moments before, now felt frighteningly vulnerable. The enemy was no longer just at the gate. The enemy was inside the room, a poison in the blood of their own potential allies. The quest for the next shard would have to wait. A more immediate fire needed to be put out. The traitor within was no longer just a metaphor; it was a plague, and it was knocking at their door.