The Last cohort

THE TRAITOR WITHIN

The silence of the scoured Whispering Plains was more unnerving than the whispers. It was the silence of a grave. Bran leaned heavily between Marcus and a Saxon warrior named Leif, his feet dragging, his breath a shallow rasp. The vibrant, sharp featured Druid was gone, replaced by a hollowed out old man. His hair, once dark, was now the color of ash, and his skin was parchment thin. The price of blood magic was etched upon him.

They made camp in the first copse of living trees they found, a small island of green on the edge of the dead plains. The mood was somber. The warriors kept their distance from Bran, their eyes a mixture of gratitude and fear. He had saved them, but the means had been… unholy.

Morganna sat beside him, her face etched with concern. She held the two Ogham shards. One from Vindolanda, cool and waiting. The one from the plains, now inert and heavy. “Bran,” she said softly. “What did you do?”

Bran’s eyes, still that piercing green but now clouded with pain, met hers. “I opened a door I swore I would never touch. The Disciples were right. The power is there, for those willing to burn their soul for fuel.” He held up his trembling, bandaged hand. “Every time I use it, a part of me is consumed. And a part of… it… remains.”

Marcus stood nearby, his arms crossed. His tactical mind was racing, calculating the new variable. “This power. Can you control it?”

“For now,” Bran whispered. “The hunger is the danger. It offers solutions. Quick, brutal, final solutions. It whispers, just like the plains, but it whispers of victory at any cost.” He looked at Marcus, his gaze intense. “You must promise me. If it ever seems I am losing myself… if I become a greater threat than the Fomorii… you must stop me.”

Hrothgar, who had been sharpening his axe, grunted. “Do not ask that of the boy, spell weaver. A warrior’s duty is to stand with his shield brothers, not to be their executioner.” He looked at Bran with a strange, grudging respect. “You fought. You bled. You are one of us now. We will watch your back, even from yourself.”

The interaction was a tense, unspoken pact. They would guard Bran, but they would also guard against him.

That night, the whispers returned. But they did not come from the land. They came from Bran’s dreams.

He thrashed in his sleep, his murmurs cutting through the camp’s quiet. “...so much power, just waiting… we could end it, now… burn their labyrinth to ash…”

Marcus, on watch, moved to wake him, but Morganna placed a hand on his arm. “Wait,” she murmured. “Listen.”

Bran’s whispers shifted, becoming clearer, more focused. They were no longer just nightmares. They were visions, fueled by the dark energy he had tapped into.

“The third shard…” he mumbled, his voice a dry leaf rustle. “It sleeps in the throat of the drowned god… where the river forgets its name… the Drowned Men’s Barrows…”

He fell into a fitful silence. The information was vital, a clear direction. But the source was tainted.

At dawn, Bran looked more haggard than ever, but his eyes were clear. He had heard his own words in his memory. “The Barrows,” he said, not meeting their eyes. “A flooded network of burial mounds where an ancient river tribe interred their kings. The Fomorii would be drawn to the sorrow of a lost culture.”

The journey towards the riverlands was tense. Bran was their compass, but he was also their greatest vulnerability. He would sometimes stop, staring at a perfectly normal thicket or stream, his head c****d as if listening to a voice only he could hear.

“What is it?” Marcus asked him on the third day, his hand resting on his gladius.

Bran shook his head, a flicker of the old irritation in his eyes. “Nothing. A shadow. A memory. This power… it leaves echoes.” But he was lying. Marcus could see the faint tremor in his hands, the sheen of sweat on his brow. The traitor was not just within Bran; it was the addiction to the very power that was consuming him.

They reached the fens of the forgotten river. The air was thick with the smell of stagnant water and decay. The land was a maze of sluggish channels and hummocks of earth crowned with ancient, moss covered burial mounds—the Barrows. The third Ogham shard pulsed from deep within the watery labyrinth.

They navigated the channels in a small, flat bottomed coracle they had fashioned, Bran’s magic gently pushing them through the reeds. The silence was broken by the plop of a diving frog or the distant, lonely cry of a waterbird. It was a place of profound peace, making the Fomorii’s corruption all the more obscene.

They found the entrance to the central barrow—a low, stone archway half submerged in the black water. The shard’s call was strong, emanating from the darkness within.

“They are here,” Morganna said, her voice low. She pointed to the water around the archway. Bubbles rose, not from gas, but from things moving just below the surface. Pale, bloated shapes with milky eyes. Drowned Men, like those from the lake, but older, their forms merged with the reeds and mud.

“They know we are here,” Marcus said. “They are waiting.”

Hrothgar hefted his axe. “Then let us not keep them.”

As they prepared to enter the barrow, Bran suddenly froze, his head snapping towards a nearby island. “There,” he hissed. “A Disciple. Only one. He is wounded. Isolated.”

Marcus followed his gaze. He saw nothing but reeds. “How do you know?”

“I can smell his magic,” Bran said, his voice taking on a predatory edge. “The blood magic calls to its own. He is weak. We can take him. Extract information. Learn their plans.”

It was a sound tactical opportunity. But the gleam in Bran’s eyes was not that of a strategist. It was hunger.

“No,” Morganna said firmly. “Our objective is the shard. We do not split up. We do not take unnecessary risks.”

“It is not a risk!” Bran insisted, a feverish intensity in his voice. “He is alone! I can break his mind, sift through his thoughts! I can give us everything! This is why I paid the price! To use this power!”

He took a step towards the coracle, towards the isolated Disciple.

Marcus moved to block his path. “Bran. The Queen gave an order.”

For a heartbeat, something alien looked out from Bran’s eyes. A flash of green black fury. His bandaged hand twitched, and Marcus felt a sudden, crushing pressure in his chest, as if an invisible fist had gripped his heart. It was not an attack, just a warning. A display of power.

“Do not stand in my way, Roman,” Bran whispered, his voice layered with a deeper, colder resonance.

Hrothgar stepped forward, his axe held loosely but ready. “The boy is right, Druid. We are a cohort. We stand together. Or we fall apart.”

The standoff lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The Drowned Men watched from the water, sensing the discord.

Bran’s shoulders slumped. The alien light faded from his eyes, replaced by a wave of shame and exhaustion. The pressure on Marcus’s chest vanished.

“Forgive me,” Bran mumbled, turning away. “The traitor… it speaks with my voice.”

They entered the barrow, leaving the potential intelligence behind. The choice had been made. They would secure the shard as a united front. But the incident had revealed the true nature of their enemy. The greatest threat to their quest was not just the Fomorii legions or their monstrous king. It was the seductive, corrupting power they needed to fight them, and the battle raging within the soul of the man who wielded it. The traitor within was now a more immediate danger than any phantom in the fen.