Howling Wolves
[Awooooo---] That wasn't the sound of a carnyx, the Celtic golden coronet pipe. Riding the night shadows came the long, genuine howl of a starving wolf. Just as one faded into the distance, another picked it up, their cries subtly varying in pitch as they howled toward the night sky. Clever beasts. They were hunting humans like sheep. Any straggler who fell behind our advancing army would be pounced on in an instant. Knowing this, Conall—the leader of the Nial forces marching toward the Hill of Kings—stared into the distant darkness from beneath the bright glow of torches, lost in thought.
"The Romans stir things up, and now the wolves are prowling too..."
The legend that their founder suckled from a she-wolf was famous. The people of Éire knew as much about Rome as Rome knew about this land, Éire. And when it came to Artorius, the kings of Éire knew far more than the Romans themselves imagined.
Currently, 1,500 men, plus about 800 reinforcements hastily raised from the north. But they'd boast of 3,000. The invaders from Romano-Britain numbered just shy of 1,000, with perhaps another 1,000 crossing over. So in reality, 2,300 Éireann warriors would face an enemy force of 1,800 or maybe 1,900. Could they win?
"Lóaire, did you tuck Crevan in properly?"
"Yes, brother."
Crevan, son of the fourth mother, had been sharp as a fox since childhood—earning the nickname that stuck like a true name. But he was still just a boy, succumbing early to sleep after the weary march and mounting tension.
Yogan, son of the second mother, was bolstering defenses against the Roman cavalry that had been appearing from the north for days now. Lóaire, son of the third mother, handled the movement plans for the rest of the army. And Conall led them all—the brothers, the vassal kings, the warriors—dispatching messengers north and south without rest, summoning every fighter he could muster.
With 2,300, they could hold against a similar Roman force here in Éire. Fight, retreat, wear them down bit by bit. But if the Roman commander was Artorius, that wouldn't work. Any fool king still believing he could beat Artorius head-on needed to be killed off quickly.
Storms weren't meant to be fought—they were dodged. So the one path Conall secretly envisioned didn't involve defying Artorius outright. He glanced at his half-brother Lóaire—closer than full blood—and spoke in a low voice.
[Awooooo---]
"Lóaire."
"Yes, brother."
"No matter how I think about it, there's no way I survive this war."
"Brother!?"
"Shh."
[Awooooo---] The endless wolf howls sounded almost like wailing dirges.
"There's no one in this land who can face the dragon of Britannia. You know what happened last summer on the eastern sea, don't you? Even Father couldn't fully control those stubborn coastal kings—they all died or bowed their heads, begging to serve under us. Not because of me, but because someone slaughtered their warriors."
"Brother..."
Artorius's shadow stretched deeper and farther than even he realized. It had to be that way. Just two years ago, Rome's coasts were playgrounds for Éire and Caledonia folk. Last year, it flipped overnight: Éire's eastern shores wiped out, Caledonia's southern tribes along the wall swept away. Killed or captured. Those sweet honey lands once claimed by the mightiest kings of Éire and Caledonia now lay empty—or worse, crawling with Roman forces. The shock rippled farther than anyone imagined.
In that reality, Conall—eldest son of the great king Niall—had agonized long and finally accepted the harsh truth today.
"For our brothers, our loyal kings, and their people to survive, we can't fight the dragon. We have to enter its embrace."
"..."
"But the kings can't see what I see. They've lived their lives in small villages or decent ones, measuring the world by their own size. The weight of Artorius I feel isn't what they perceive. If we bend the knee without a fight, the moment Rome shows weakness, they'll rebel."
It was in their nature. Did Father Niall take hostages out of fondness? Some kings still defied even after sending their sons. Stubborn fools who wouldn't yield until their skulls cracked. Father and Conall lacked the raw power to crush them, so they'd coaxed and placated. But Artorius would be utterly different from any king Éire had seen. One misstep, and they'd all die.
So Conall rolled the dice on the biggest gamble of his life.
"The kings heading north and south will gather as many as they can. They know this might be their last chance."
Such a host... Éire might never see its like again.
"At least 1,000 from the north, the same from the south—that's already 4,000."
With the second sons in Muwa adding their strength, it might've hit 6,000. But 4,000. Enough to eye all Éire, even to Conacht. Yet against Artorius, it still felt faintly inadequate.
"So I've staked my bet. Lóaire. Victory pushes Artorius back. Defeat..."
"We'll win for sure, brother. This is our land. The spirits of our ancestors in the earth, the gods watching from water, sea, and sky—they'll lead our warriors to triumph."
"...Thank you."
If I fail, you must lead the rest. The final words never left his lips.
Yogan, son of the second mother, was a fine warrior but no great leader. Lóaire, son of the third, might surpass even Conall himself. For his own honor as king and warrior. And for this boy's future. The war needed a clean, decisive clash. Ideally, as many kings as possible dead—except the brothers—and a battlefield clean enough not to breed grudges in Britannia's dragon. That meant open plains. And southwest of the Hill of Kings lay no major rivers or hills.
"Rome's riders are wearing us down on purpose. The kings who've gone north and south need time to regroup, so we'll play along. Advance slowly, with full pomp, to the Hill of Kings."
"Yes! Great king!"
[Awooooo--]
With grim resolve, I led the legion to pitch camp southwest of the Hill of Kings. In this land riddled with hills, marshes, streams, and rivers, it was surprisingly good terrain for a proper stand-up fight. The gentle ridge line sloped subtly toward the kings' slope, giving us a slight high-ground edge. Occupy the heights over your foe, and what happens? Anakin can't beat Obi-Wan. Stupid Skywalker.
Come to think of it, the actor who played Obi-Wan in my past life was Irish. And Ireland was Hibernia here. I'd figured the winter land of Hibernia—its name rooted in "winter"—would be all white and frozen. But it felt milder than Avalonia. Still winter, though: soldiers warmed hands and feet around blazing defensive camps.
Three storms had come and gone, as if exhausting the year's quota, vanishing like a lie. Occasional winter drizzle fell, but rain was just breakfast bread to Britannians—routine.
Palamedes, the nomadic Roman cavalryman from the east, had once called Britannia's weather unbelievably gloomy. In this life as a native, I half-agreed but couldn't hide a "Really? Nah..."
Maybe that's why people cling to birthplace and environment. Perhaps Rome's endless fractures owed much to its climate. Folks born under Britannia's skies saw the world differently from those under Rome's.
Lost in such idle thoughts, joking and snickering with Caius, Peredir, and Drustanus—who'd returned from his bold southern push—the days slipped by: ten, plus three more.
The enemy swelled, drawing nearer. At last, the long-awaited pipe sounded from the east.
[Baaaaaam-]
A stark contrast to the locals' golden coronet pipes—mechanical, mass-produced. With that nostalgic blare came Avalonia's standards: the kite-logos, and the Lake Goddess banner with its enlarged water drop, fluttering high as they appeared.
"You've arrived, Galbaginus."
We'd held the Hill of Kings for a month and a half. Wagon trains shuttling nonstop between Sheep Island, river garrisons, and here had dug ditches around simple dirt paths with engineers' help—turning them into decent roads. Not paved, but a solid base.
Thanks to that, Galbaginus and the 1st Auxiliary Legion arrived a day early.
[Thud-thud-thud-thud-]
Horse hooves—shod in iron soles wrapped in leather—thrummed across the damp grass. The charging cavalry exuded a pressure no mere infantry could match.
Welcome, my warriors. Rome's riders.
[Shing!]
"Galbaginus—! Hahaha—!"
Caius yanked Fidelis free, swinging it wildly overhead, his voice brimming with delight. In reply, Galbaginus drew his gleaming white blade—named Galatina, or Gloriana—and flashed it back with a shout.
[!!]
Couldn't make out the words, but the enthusiasm was clear.
[Clop-clop!][Snort! Whinny!][Clack-clack-clack-]
Horses surged up, snorting, champing bits, circling in place—venting pent-up fire. Galbaginus dismounted his red-trapped steed in haste, strode forward with his officers, and knelt as one.
"Dominus Invictus, Magister Militum! Knight Galbaginus and the 1st Auxiliary Legion, plus Marcellus and the heavy cavalry. All await your orders."
"Galbaginus. Been catching plays in Eboracum?"
"Heh-heh—"
Everyone—behind me, before me—chuckled, exchanging glances.
"Rise. The enemy's close. Warm up, grab a hot bowl of porridge—war's next. Everyone ready?"
Galbaginus, Wolfmaer, Hereward, Palamedes, Marcellus. Confident faces, a fine sight.
"Just give the word, Dominus Artorius."