Winter and the Crown. South of the Hill of Kings.
South of the Hill of Kings. The sky was moderately overcast, and the ground still damp from the rain three days prior.
[Hoooowoooo—]
[Fwooooosh—]
Sounds from carnyces—Celtic gold coronet horns mimicking wolves—echoed here and there, while beneath them warriors brandished shields and spears in disarray, hurling every obscenity and blasphemy they could muster. They invoked ancestors and gods, begging for strength. This primal, fervent prayer soon spiraled into collective hypnosis, into madness, priming them for the most foolish and insane act humanity could commit: war.
Lugh! Morrigan! Dagda! Tuatha Dé Danann! Great offspring of Mother Danu! The glorious names of the divine filled the battlefield without cease. As if they couldn't endure even a moment without shouting those mighty names, they bellowed with all their might, pounding shields with spear-gripping fists, flinging insults. Yet the Romans opposite them simply stared silently at the Hibernian warriors.
[Wooo—]
[Aooooh—]
[Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!]
The Hibernian warriors, their morale pumped by battlefield roars, clustered by tribe, advancing only to wheel back repeatedly. They resembled wolves hunting sheep—or waves surging in and receding. Like a swirling current in a drive hunt, they rippled and measured the distance. Their ceaseless howls and shouts aimed to shatter the enemies' minds before the fight even began. But strangely, the Romans didn't waver. They were like the murky sky itself—eyes uniformly somber, helmets pulled low to the brows, leaking only chilling glares.
These weren't sheep. These Hibernian men—seasoned shepherds and hunters—instinctively gauged the foe's caliber. More rationally, their instincts screamed to retreat. But here stood four thousand men bearing the name "warrior," no less. Porters from supply wagons, fired up by the sight, clutched crude blades and joined the roar from behind. The total eager for battle topped five thousand. Against them? Barely two thousand Romans, it seemed. Clearly surrounded at a glance.
Fear faded from the warriors' rippling eyes, replaced by confidence and madness. With this numerical edge...! Even with that impassable giant in the Roman center...! Besides, retreating here would make "warrior" a laughingstock. And in Hibernia, face was worth more than life. So the warriors and kings resolved to fight.
[Hoooowoooo—!]
"Offspring of the gods! Warriors nursed on Éire's milk! Today, any who leave unstained by blood will not escape!"
"Fulfill your oaths! There's something dearer than life! Guard your honor! Die fighting, or live through the fight!"
The kings' exhortations drowned in the wave of roars. The Hibernians, who had ebbed like the tide, now surged like a burst dam toward the Romans.
"Yaaah!"
"Euaaaah!"
With collective madness filling their heads, human speech lost all meaning. Only the gods' tongue remained in the warriors' minds—and sometimes it was indistinguishable from beasts'.
"Die!"
"Hrraap!"
Even in the vast field, the Hibernians' tribal, scattered movements hit the Roman flanks first. Arrows from the Romans already rained down as the warriors madly charged and hurled javelins.
Plip-plop— plip-plop— Like heavy raindrops, then the sounds of leather and cloth pierced, flesh and bone ruptured, filled the air.
[Thuk! Pshuk! Puk!]
"Kk—"
"U— uwaaaah!"
"Kkhueaaaah!"
Madness tricked mind and body only until the skirmish. Arrows forged from Britannia's fine iron pierced shields effortlessly, burrowing into flesh and bone. Like speared fish twitching or shot deer leaping, the warriors clutched wounds and crumpled in place. Blood poured, saliva drooled. Most Britannian crossbow bolts were short and thick. As they hesitated—pull or amputate?—the second volley fell.
Plip-plop— plop! Arrows fell like rain again; fallen warriors took more hits, those who retreated then advanced tumbled anew. Amid the stench of blood and filth, horrific screams rose, but the battlefield roar swallowed them all.
"Charge! Chaaarge!!"
"Prove yourselves to the gods, warriors!"
"Kill the Roman pigs!!"
Pigs, goats, dogs, chickens—they likened Romans to lowly beasts. Normally, bloodlust would target enemy kings, but no charging barbarian insulted Artorius by name. Too vivid: a presence defying perspective, towering alone. His greatsword, hands atop hilt, gleamed starkly. That blade—that giant sword—is the goddess's, the rumored one. The warrior blessed by the goddess! Caliburnus! Artorius Pendragon!! What a glorious fight! A truly great death!
"Gods! Witness this pla— gack!"
"Brothers! We'll become legends in death!"
"Attack! Like wolves! Like waves!"
For them, life's purpose was self-proof. Hibernian warriors prized honorable death over peaceful life—for they'd seen how the world honors the noble dead, in eternal songs of great heroes. Though flesh dies, soul lives on, passed mouth to mouth, beside the gods. Thus, the battlefield was the arena of proof.
"Die!"
"Kill!"
The Romans felt the same.
"Palamedes!"
[Baaaaam—]
For the first time under the gloomy sky, the Roman piper blared. Before barbarians breached crossbow range and closed with spears amid javelin exchanges, Artorius raised his massive right hand. Eastern standard-bearers surged from the left flank.
"Chase! Chase!"
"Whiii! Whiik!"
[Purok! Purrok!]
Hooves barely audible amid roars and chaos, but the path for Palamedes and his 300 cavalry gleamed clear.
[Pyuk! Pyupyuk! Pyuk!]
Bowstrings sang sharply; as Palamedes' riders passed the Roman line, they wheeled left, loosing nonstop. Speed over accuracy—three, four arrows gripped, bows drawn relentlessly. Some gloves tore from the strain. Javelins hurled at horse-speed targets thudded harmlessly behind the thundering cavalry.
"Flank as is!"
"Flank!"
[Baaaaam—]
After the front maneuver, commanders judged freely. Palamedes' role: draw out enemy horse. Sure enough, taller heads amid the rippling foe turned his way. Now he'd play tag with them.
"Daring cavalry against us? I'll make those barbarians regret it!"
"Arrrgh!"
"Haa! Ha!"
Veterans of Roman service, yet steppe warriors at core. Palamedes' fierce glare almost seemed rational as the 1st Auxiliary Legion's main cavalry—stowing bows, drawing lassos—bared white fangs and veered from the field. Hibernian light horse followed, and the perfectly formed crescent of warriors advanced on the Romans—like flocks filling the sky, seas of herring and sardines. Their schooled swarm suggested individual weakness crushed by numbers.
"Caius!"
Barbarians dropped by missiles; Romans fell too, like rain-soaked. Artorius, scanning the field, bellowed again as foes neared javelin range.
[Dudududugu—]
From the Roman rear—where no dust rose on wet ground—Wolfmaer’s 100 Angle cavalry and Marcellus’ 100 Romano-Briton mediums, circling to preserve horse heat and speed, charged right to left at the enemy wing.
[Chaeng!]
Leading: Caius, Fidelis raised high.
"Kill them all! Artorius Invictus! Britannia Invicta!!"
"Artorius Invictus!"
"Roma! Britannia Invicta!!"
More devoted to Artorius' charisma than any Roman unit, Angle barbarians and Marcellus' mediums gripped long spears two-handed like zealots, chanting the invincible name. Wet, muddy ground allowed no repeated charges. Eyes fixed on despairing foes, intent on shattering the wing outright. Before spear tips pierced chests, Caius' Fidelis flashed first.
[Seok! Seok! Chak! Puhwak—!]
Normal swords thud on shields or flesh. But not Caius' blade.
[Chak! Pshut! Seok!]
Weightless, from saddle it traced eerie arcs, obsessively lopping heads skyward.
"Yaaah!"
[Seok!]
Trails of crimson embroidered its path, black blade aglow red—uncannily sinister.
[Dududu— Boom!]
Mediums thundered into the breach Caius tore. Man, armor, horse, barding, downhill speed—humans flew literally.
[Kung! Kwarik! Kkang! Peoseok!]
Roars drowned screams. Madness extinguished; survivors fled wailing or charged to die. The melting wing was doomed. No pulling back—long past control. Kings like Conall pressed to break the Roman core.
"Forward! Forwaaaard!"
"Iyaaaaah!"
Hibernian warriors clashed fully with Roman heavy infantry. The right flank was now most vulnerable. Encircled, lives hung by threads. Even victory via cavalry might cost dearly there. Inferior gear and training or not, encirclement was peril.
"Kill! Kiiill!"
A red-eyed charging warrior felt a vast wind—
"Ki—"
Then no more thought. Body split top to bottom, no survival.
[Whoosh—]
The huge black blade outlonged a man, spear-long and oar-wide. Victims felt no death; onlookers scarce registered its pass. Speed unreal.
[Whoosh—]
One sweep: dozen cleaved; next: as many. Like scything weeds. Shields, spears, swords, armor, cloth, flesh—equally bisected cleanly. In moments, thirty, forty, fifty-plus slid dead. Only then did Hibernians encircling the right like wolves on sheep realize.
"Pendragon..."
"Artorius, Britannia's war god."
Awe preceded fear before such might. Warriors themselves, they knew best: Artorius' power defied comprehension. More like ancient gods than legendary heroes.
"Galbaginus!"
Artorius, stemming the wave personally, bellowed. The locked center parted; Galbaginus, drawing his white sword, charged forth.