A New Winter
“One, two, three.” [Clang! Clang! Clang!]
“One, two, three.” [Clang! Clang! Clang!]
In the early dawn, Caius rubbed his suddenly chilled nape with deliberate strokes as he warmed up. The sun set much earlier now, rising much later. Winter. The people of this land could sense instinctively that the season was drawing near. Perhaps snow had already fallen beyond the wall and farther still. And soon, snowflakes would settle on Avalonia’s sacred lake as well.
“Pick up the pace—again! One, two, three!” [Clang! Clang! Claaang-!]
Avalonia was where Artorius’s Warriors—the prototype of the Romano-British First Legion—had first taken root. Though repeated expansions had turned it into something akin to a small fortress, Artorius’s original home as Dominus had been a rough-hewn log cabin, slapped together just to have four walls and a roof. In front of it stood a massive round table where they’d eaten and drunk with the Dominus, and right beside it, they’d trained every dawn like this.
Now the house had grown, and the original warriors had scattered to lead centuries across the legions, utterly transforming Romano-Briton’s atmosphere. But these morning drills were closer to the raw process of hot-blooded, vigorous Briton men establishing their pecking order under Artorius himself. Without the Dominus, they’d have been a pack of roughnecks who could’ve turned to banditry anywhere without raising an eyebrow.
Yet, just as carnivores sense each other’s presence more keenly than herbivores ever could, those swaggering brutes from every corner—who’d all but shouted I’m a dangerous bastard!—had lined up without fail to swear fierce loyalty to the Dominus.
[You wanted to see me?]
[Take me in!]
No more words needed—just that one line, and their fierce eyes would soften in an instant as they strode to the lakeside to face Artorius. According to his master Beduerus, seasoned swordsmen gauged foes by their footsteps, shoulders, breaths. But the Dominus didn’t need to display any of that to reveal his prowess.
No matter how well I wielded a blade, it was only useful against fellow men. We weren’t unfolding swordplay against bears. And the Dominus was the man who’d massacred Britannia’s ferocious bears with a mere club—one that had since broken, replaced by that gigantic sword.
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
“Caliburnus...”
As the live-steel sparring quickened, matching the training’s rhythm, Caius nodded faintly, envisioning the massive greatsword. With it came the lake’s pure white light driving back the darkness, aimed straight at Dominus Artorius. Amid the black backdrop, countless stars in the high sky, the lake, and Artorius standing alone before it—that scene from that day would never fade. How could he describe it to anyone? Would they even believe it?
Nothing was certain. But those who’d been there would carry that exact image etched in their minds until death.
Then came the rock. The Dominus had meditated before it for five full days before finally claiming the sword. At Beduerus’s suggestion, they’d named it Caliburnus.
The very next day, with Caliburnus in hand, the Dominus had drawn core commanders like Caius—key officers of Romano-Briton’s forces—to gather at dawn by the great round table, diligently warming up. It was what shield-and-sword men did, but today’s mood was different. A battle-ready intensity filled their eyes, laced with resolve.
Because the Dominus would soon emerge with Caliburnus. He’d been busy with the wedding lately, but he never skipped training. And last night, watching the crowds slowly disperse by the lake, he’d declared he’d resume dawn drills today. Before commanders who’d been away returned to their posts, they’d all assembled without fail.
Of course, with winter at the door, there’d be no desperate raiders driven half-mad by hunger this year, no zealots gone insane, no warlike pagan chieftains itching for a fight. The borders were more secure than ever. Any barbarians showing even a hint of trouble had been slaughtered last summer or fled deeper into savage lands from their coasts.
Still, barbarians were unpredictable by nature, and with garrisons to oversee across the forts, the commanders who’d attended the wedding were due to depart soon.
With builders crossing from Manavia, the bridgehead on Hibernia’s coast should be shaping up nicely by now. Hope the century’s centenarius is handling it well. Gotta remind them to build proper insulation and keep watch...
[Clang! Clang! Clang!]
[Creaaak-]
Caius’s mind wandered to work, itching to check the fortress progress on Hibernia’s eastern coast, when the mansion’s great doors groaned open over the clash of practice blades. Instantly, every sword-clang, murmur, and warm-up grunt halted.
From the fully open doors emerged a giant with a pleased smile, striding slowly out.
“Good morning. Sleep well, everyone?”
Replies erupted here and there as people gathered. Caius stood at the forefront. In this brutal world, having someone you could trust was an immense strength. Everyone here understood that now.
“Looks like you all gathered this early to see this...”
“...”
“...”
“What do you think?”
So those mystical experiences of the past six days hadn’t been a dream. The vivid proof hung across the Dominus’s shoulder. As Beduerus had said, it was less a sword than a steel club. From the round pommel, the long hilt extended to a crossguard faithful only to joining hilt and blade—no hand protection. The blade widened massively right away, sharpening to a diagonal edge only at the tip. It seemed forged not for men, but for slaying legendary monsters.
No master smith in this land or empire could craft such a thing. The lake—its mysterious mistress—had shaped it for their Dominus.
[Thud!]
Just planting it from his shoulder to the soft ground elicited a heavy thud and vibration, like dropping cargo. What would happen if he swung it? Everyone here—Britons proud of their sword- and shield-work—surely wondered. What cry would Caliburnus unleash?
“Truth be told, this is my first time handling the big fellow, so I’ve no idea. But let’s give it a swing!”
Striding to his usual training spot, the Dominus eyed the sword and steadied his breath. Warriors crowded after him, eyes gleaming.
“Beduerus.”
“Here, Dominus.”
“What’s the best way to wield a monster like this?”
The space’s sole one-armed swordsman. Yet no one dismissed him. Aside from the Dominus hefting that behemoth effortlessly, Beduerus was the strongest.
“In the end, fighting—fist, spear, bow, blade—boils down to range, speed, power. When and how you strike or parry. How swiftly you read the foe’s rhythm and disrupt it? Without a shield hand, I had no choice but high-risk techniques if I couldn’t cleave in one stroke.”
Beduerus’s swordplay was unmistakable to any Romano-Briton soldier. Lightning overhead chops splitting barbarians in two—simple, yet impossibly hard and masterful the more you trained. Just that one downward strike. For a one-armed man without shield, on a life-or-death battlefield, what else was there?
Yet no savage Beduerus faced had ever blocked it—their shields, spears, arms, bodies sheared away. Sparring was the same. Neither Caius nor the mighty Galbaginus had ever fully parried it.
It wasn’t mere simplicity. Preceding footwork gauged distance; eyes read shoulders, waist, gaze. Then the blade arced down a half-beat, a full beat early. Hesitate to block or dodge, and you were done.
In real battle, they’d have been bisected and dead like the savages. Thus, Artorius’s Warriors—Avalonia’s originals—were all Beduerus’s pupils. He’d hammered predatory opportunism into them through brutal practice.
But one man was the exception.
“Unlike a one-armed cripple like me, basics don’t apply to you, Dominus. No measuring your power or speed means range from training holds no meaning. Breathing’s irrelevant when your blade strikes first. So my conclusion—similar yet utterly different—is you need but one path too.”
[Shing!]
Drawn and already descending.
[Whoosh-]
The flash preceded the sound—a realm Caius aspired to.
“Like this. Simple, but lethal.”
“...Beduerus. Always wondered—sure you don’t secretly cultivate some inner power or whatever?”
“Pardon? What do you... La gong? Lego?”
“Never mind. Forget it. So that’s the way of it.”
[Clack-]
Artorius gripped the sword two-handed, his gaze sharpening instantly.
“...”
“...”
A savage aura swept the hushed space—natural killer’s intent from his eyes. Any soldier who’d held spear and shield, stood on a field once, would feel it from afar. Even the Dominus’s houseguard—Marcelus and the surrendered men atop the walls—twitched.
No dullard could ignore that monstrous pressure; hackles rose on every arm.
[Grip-]
[Hwooom!]
The downswing was sudden. Humans need wind-ups—spread stance for thrust, chop, stab, shield bash. But Artorius ignored them all. It felt less like lifelong training and more like a mystic bear from a century-deep cave suddenly swinging.
Pure destruction. He’d felt the blade descend, air parting to tousle his hair. Yet up close, eyes wide, Caius couldn’t track arm, waist, or leg. Just lifted—then struck. Two disconnected frames.
Yes, like Caliburnus and the lake: mystery incarnate.
[Hwoom- Hwoom- Hwoom-]
Down again, long horizontal slash, spinning overhead arc. Upward cut, then down. How did that colossal frame and blade move so fluidly? Eyes couldn’t follow the speed—endless afterimages flickered everywhere.
Others gaped slack-jawed, drooling. Only Beduerus and Galbaginus tracked with darting eyes. What did they see?
Caius gathered his focus anew. The greatsword carved the lakeside air relentlessly, a mounting storm. By the round table, Artorius’s warriors watched in reverence.