The Last cohort

THE DRUID IN THE MIST

The world shrank to the space between the trees. Rain dripped from the skeletal branches of the oaks, a steady, cold percussion on Marcus’s helmet. His horse, a sturdy chestnut mare, stamped a nervous hoof, its breath pluming in the frigid air. The mist, thick and grey as old wool, coiled around the trunks, limiting their vision to a few dozen paces.

Bran ap Gwynn stood before them, an unspoken challenge in his posture. He leaned on his staff, his eyes, that unsettling shade of green, cataloging each of them with a dismissive flicker. He looked at Septimus’s scarred scowl and saw predictable brutality. He looked at Felix’s wide eyed fear and saw a liability. His gaze finally settled on Marcus, and there it lingered, assessing the weight of the command on his young shoulders.

“The Corrupted,” Marcus repeated, his voice lower now, his gladius still held ready but not aimed directly at the Druid. “You know what they are.”

“I know what they are becoming,” Bran corrected, his tone that of a scholar discussing a mildly interesting text. “They were men. Saxons, Picts, even a few of your lost Romans. The shadow in the highlands takes them, empties them out, and fills them with a purpose that is not their own. They feel no pain, no fear. They are weapons, blunt and single minded.”

“Druid tricks,” Septimus spat, his hand tightening on his own sword’s hilt. “Phantoms to frighten children and weak willed soldiers.”

Bran’s smile was a thin, sharp thing. “Is young Flavius a phantom? The one whose body is currently being torn apart by the carrion crows a mile from your fort? His screams seemed very real.” His eyes never left Marcus. “You are Tesserarius Marcus Aquila of the Ninth. Your Centurion is Cassius Valerius, a man who has seen too much to dismiss the old world so readily. He sent you to beg safe passage from Cynfor of the Silures. A prudent, and utterly futile, plan.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the rain went down Marcus’s spine. How could he know all this? The names, the rank, their mission.

“The forest has ears,” Bran said, as if reading his thoughts. “And the mist has eyes. Your Centurion was wise in one thing. You do need me.”

“We need no witch,” Septimus growled.

“You need a guide who can keep you from having your souls scoured from your bodies,” Bran countered, his patience visibly thinning. “The Valley of the Gods is not just a path. It is a throat, and the darkness is swallowing it whole. The Silures themselves are pulling their outposts back to their main hillfort. The way you intend to go is a deathtrap.”

From the deep shadows of the trees behind Bran, another low, rumbling growl vibrated through the ground. This time, it was closer. Felix’s horse whinnied in terror, rearing back. Marcus fought to control his own mount, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“What is that?” Felix whispered, his voice cracking.

“That,” Bran said, his attention shifting to the mist shrouded woods, “is why you will listen. They have caught our scent.”

Marcus made a decision. It was not a comfortable one, but it was the only one that had not led to an immediate dead end. He could not trust this Druid, but he could not dismiss him either. The evidence of a threat was undeniable, and this man knew its nature.

“Stand down, Septimus,” Marcus commanded, sheathing his gladius with a definitive scrape of metal. The veteran stared at him, incredulous, but after a tense moment, he reluctantly lowered his blade.

“A wise choice,” Bran said, without a trace of gratitude. “Now, we move. There is a place of old power half a mile from here. The stones will offer some protection.”

“Protection from what?” Marcus asked, turning his horse to follow as Bran began to stride effortlessly through the dense undergrowth.

“The Gorestalkers,” Bran called over his shoulder. “The Corrupted are the infantry. The Gorestalkers are the hunters. They are faster, stronger, and they remember just enough of what they were to be cunning.”

They moved in a tense silence, broken only by the squelch of mud underfoot and the ragged breath of the horses. Bran set a punishing pace, his knowledge of the land absolute. He led them not along the game trail, but across a treacherous, moss covered slope and through a icy stream that numbed their feet, confusing their trail.

The forest grew darker, the ancient oaks giving way to a grove of yew trees, their branches twisted into agonized shapes. The air grew still and heavy, the constant drizzle abating. It was in this unnatural quiet that they heard it the first time. A rustle, too deliberate for an animal, off to their left. Then a similar sound from the right. They were being flanked.

“Do not stop,” Bran ordered, his voice low and urgent. “We are close.”

A figure burst from the mist between two yews. It was a man, or had been. He wore the tattered remains of a Saxon tunic, his beard matted with filth. His eyes were pools of spilled milk, vacant and horrifying. He moved with a jerky, unnatural speed, a rusted seax in his hand. He let out a sound that was not a battle cry, but a dry, rasping hiss.

“Corrupted!” Marcus yelled, drawing his sword again.

Before the thing could reach them, a shadow detached itself from the trees above and landed on it with a sickening crunch of bone. It was a wolf, but magnified to nightmare proportions, its fur the color of charcoal and its eyes burning with a faint orange ember. It was the source of the growl. It shook the Corrupted Saxon like a rag doll, then dropped the broken body and looked at Bran, its head c****d.

“My companion,” Bran said simply, not breaking stride. “He dislikes the tainted ones. Now, run!”

The sight of the giant wolf, apparently under the Druid’s command, broke the last of their hesitation. They kicked their horses into a gallop, following Bran as he sprinted ahead. The mist began to thin, and Marcus saw it a circle of standing stones atop a small hillock, silhouetted against the grey sky. A sense of age and power emanated from the place, a humming stillness that pushed back against the forest’s malevolence.

They were fifty paces from the base of the hill when the Gorestalkers found them.

They came from everywhere at once. There were three of them. One was a massive man, his form bulging with distorted muscle, wielding a notched wood axe. Another was slimmer, faster, darting between the trees with two short blades. The third hung back, and Marcus felt a wave of nausea just looking at it. It was pale and gaunt, its fingers elongated into claws, and its mouth was open in a silent shriek that seemed to pull the warmth from the very air.

“Into the circle!” Bran shouted, skidding to a halt and turning to face the pursuit. His staff began to glow with a faint, green light, the Ogham script shimmering as if written in embers.

The giant wolf launched itself at the axe wielding Gorestalker, meeting its charge with terrifying force.

Marcus saw the blade wielding one heading straight for Felix, who was fumbling with his bow. Without thinking, Marcus urged his horse forward, interposing himself between the youth and the creature. He caught a downward s***h on his shield, the impact jarring his entire arm. The force was immense. This was no mindless brute; it feinted low and came high, its blade scraping against Marcus’s lorica.

Beside him, Septimus bellowed a curse and engaged the massive Gorestalker, who was now grappling with the wolf. The veteran’s sword was a blur, finding a gap in the creature’s wild defense and sinking deep into its side. It roared, a sound of fury and pain, and backhanded Septimus, sending the soldier flying into the trunk of a yew tree with a sickening thud.

The pale, gaunt one raised its claws. The air around it shimmered, and Marcus felt a profound dizziness, a draining weakness sapping his strength. His vision swam.

“Your soul is not for you to take,” Bran’s voice cut through the malaise.

The Druid slammed the base of his staff into the earth. A wave of green energy erupted from the point of impact, rolling outwards like a ripple on a pond. It passed through Marcus, invigorating him, clearing his head. It struck the pale Gorestalker, which shrieked, a tangible, piercing sound this time, and recoiled as if burned.

“The circle, now!” Bran commanded, his face strained from the effort.

Marcus didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the reins of Felix’s terrified horse and dragged the stunned youth forward. He saw Septimus stagger to his feet, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, and stumble towards the hill. The giant wolf, bleeding from a gash on its flank, disengaged from the axe wielder and bounded after them.

They scrambled up the slope, their boots slipping on the wet grass. The Gorestalkers pursued, but as they crossed the invisible threshold marked by the outermost stones, they halted. The axe wielder snarled, pounding a fist against an unseen barrier. The air within the circle was still and warm, the chaotic sounds of the forest muffled into silence.

They were safe.

For now.

Marcus leaned on his knees, gasping for breath. Felix was vomiting from fear and exertion. Septimus wiped blood from his face, staring at Bran and the wolf with a new, wary respect.

The stone circle was older than Rome, older than any empire. The monoliths were twice the height of a man, covered in lichen and faint, weathered carvings. In the center, a flat, altar like stone sat, humming with a low, subsonic power.

Bran walked to the center and placed a hand on the altar stone, closing his eyes as if listening. The giant wolf padded to his side and lay down, l*****g its wound, its orange eyes fixed on the Romans.

“This place will hold them until dawn,” Bran said, his voice returning to its calm, analytical tone. “But no longer. The power here is old, but it is finite, and the shadow that hunts us is patient and hungry.”

Marcus straightened up, sheathing his sword. He looked at the Druid, then at the monstrous shapes prowling just beyond the stones, their milky eyes fixed on the circle with a hateful intensity.

“Then we talk,” Marcus said, his voice firm, the authority of his rank finally settling back upon him. “You know what hunts us. You know what we face. So tell me, Bran ap Gwynn. What is this shadow? And how do we kill it?”