The Last cohort

A SACRIFICE AT THE STANDING STONES

The victory against the Banshee was brittle, a thin crust over a sea of fear. The three camps did not celebrate. They licked their wounds, buried their dead, and watched each other with the wary eyes of caged wolves. The shared enemy had not made them friends, only temporary cellmates.

The next morning, under a sky the color of wet slate, Bran gathered the leaders at the central fire. His face was drawn, the energy he had expended the previous night evident in the shadows under his eyes.

“The land’s awakening was a warning and a gift,” the Druid began, his voice raspy. “But it is a fleeting strength. The Fomorii corruption is a poison in the soil. It weakens the old pacts. The standing stones will not answer our call again so readily. They require… renewal.”

Hrothgar grunted, sharpening his axe with a stone. “Speak plainly, spell-weaver. What must be done?”

“A ritual,” Bran said, his gaze sweeping over them. “At the heart of the stone circle in the valley. We must feed the land a counter to the poison. We must offer a sacrifice of power to strengthen the wards around this valley. It is the only way to buy time to plan our next move.”

The word ‘sacrifice’ hung in the air, heavy and ominous.

“What kind of sacrifice?” Cynfor asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Not blood,” Bran clarified, though his tone suggested that would have been simpler. “Power. Memory. A piece of your people’s soul. A token that represents what you are.”

The interactivity was immediate and charged. Valerius frowned. “A Legionary’s oath is his life. I will not sacrifice my men.”

“I do not ask for a man,” Bran said, turning to the Centurion. “I ask for the Eagle. What remains of it.”

A stunned silence fell. Marcus felt a cold knot in his stomach. The shattered eagle standard, its pieces gathered from the stone circle, was all that was left of the Ninth’s honor. To give it up was to finally, completely, sever ties with Rome.

Valerius’s face was a mask of conflict. “That standard is…”

“Is a broken symbol of a fallen power,” Morganna finished for him, her voice not unkind, but practical. “Will your pride protect us from the next night’s horror, Roman?”

Valerius looked at the faces around the fire—the grim Celt, the impatient Saxon, his own young officer who seemed to have crossed a bridge he could not follow. He closed his eyes for a moment, then gave a single, curt nod. “It will be done.”

“And the Silures?” Bran asked Cynfor.

The Chieftain looked at his daughter. “Our power is in our blood and our history. We will offer the Torc of Kings.” It was a sacred heirloom, worn by the first Silure chieftain. Gasps came from his warriors. Morganna’s eyes widened, but she did not protest. The gravity of the situation demanded nothing less.

Hrothgar scowled. “We Saxons have no baubles for your stones, Druid. Our power is in our strength and our will.”

“Then that is what you will offer,” Bran said, meeting his gaze. “Your seer, Sigrid, must cast the Runes of Wyrd upon the central altar. To read the threads of fate is to pull on them, to expend a piece of one’s own future. It is a sacrifice of sight, and it carries a great cost.”

Hrothgar looked at Sigrid. The old woman’s face was impassive, but she gave a slow, solemn nod. “The Wyrd demands payment, Hrothgar. For a future, we must give a future.”

As the sun reached its zenith, a solemn procession wound its way down into the Valley of the Gods. The leaders of the three peoples walked together: Valerius carrying the fragments of the eagle standard wrapped in a cloak, Cynfor holding the heavy gold torc, and Hrothgar accompanying Sigrid. Marcus, Morganna, and Bran walked with them, an honor guard for a funeral of the old world.

The stone circle hummed with a low, waiting energy. The air was still and thick. Bran directed them to the central altar.

“Now,” he commanded.

Valerius stepped forward first. He unwrapped the shattered eagle. The blackened, twisted metal seemed to suck the light from the air. He placed the fragments on the cold stone. “We give up the ghost of Rome,” he said, his voice thick. “Not for peace, but for the fight to come.”

As the metal touched the altar, a wisp of black smoke rose from it, the last of the Fomorii corruption burning away. Then, the fragments themselves seemed to dissolve, sinking into the stone. A pulse of dull, hard light, the color of aged bronze, spread through the circle. The ground felt more solid underfoot.

Next, Cynfor laid the magnificent gold torc upon the altar. “We give the pride of our ancestors. For the land they loved, and the future of our children.”

The torc glowed with a soft, warm, golden light. It did not sink, but rather seemed to be absorbed, its form melting into the stone. The golden light spread, merging with the bronze, and the humming of the stones grew louder, a resonant, healthy sound. The very grass at their feet seemed to green.

Finally, Sigrid stepped forward. Hrothgar stood behind her, his massive form tense. The seer produced a leather pouch and shook out a set of ancient, yellowed rune bones onto the altar. She closed her eyes, placing her gnarled hands over them.

“I weave the Wyrd,” she chanted in her own tongue. “I pay the price of sight.”

She began to tremble. A trickle of blood ran from her nose. She chanted faster, her voice rising to a crescendo. The runes on the bones glowed with a fierce, white light. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, but they were no longer seeing the present. They were pools of milky white.

“I see it!” she cried. “The sword… it sleeps in the lake of tears, under the dragon’s shadow… guarded by the one who remembers…” Her body convulsed. “The cost… the cost is a king’s blood! It must be offered willingly!”

With a final, shuddering gasp, she collapsed. Hrothgar caught her before she hit the ground. The rune bones on the altar turned to dust.

The sacrifice was complete.

The effect was instantaneous. A dome of shimmering, multi-hued energy—bronze, gold, and blinding white—erupted from the stone circle, arching high into the sky before settling into an invisible, protective canopy over the entire valley. The oppressive, sickening feeling of the Fomorii presence was pushed back, replaced by a clean, ancient strength.

But they had no time to marvel. As Sigrid’s prophecy echoed in their minds, a new sound reached them—the frantic blast of a Saxon war horn from the eastern camp.

Hrothgar, clutching the unconscious seer, looked up, his face a thundercloud. “We are attacked!”

The ritual had fortified the land, but it had also drawn attention. The Fomorii, feeling the strengthening of the ancient powers, had launched a desperate, daylight assault. The temporary peace was over. The war for the future, guided by a cryptic prophecy and paid for by their greatest treasures, had truly begun.