Dawn Raid on the Frontier
The border legionnaires had marked the Sun Festival in simple but joyful fashion. No matter how fiercely they stoked their fires, the creeping chill tormented the sentries, seeping through layer upon layer of clothing regardless of how thickly they bundled up. Yet this winter carried laughter amid the cold. And the Britannian soldiers who had crossed the sea to Hibernia—to that mysterious isle of savagery shrouded in waves and mist—remembered all too well what the previous winter had been like. There had been no laughter then.
Ever since the Roman legions stationed near the Wall had up and followed that false emperor Constantinus across the water, laughter had been scarce on Romano-British soil. They said ruin crept in slowly, but those who lived through it knew better—it could crash down all at once with a thunderous roar, just as it had on Romano-Britannia. Everyone had learned that lesson vividly back then.
But not now.
[Click—shiiiing—]
Caius slowly drew the sword bestowed upon him as a centurion. Gazing into the blade of Fidelis, which gleamed faintly even under the gray sky, he caught his own reflection. Back by the sacred lake of Avalonia, there must surely have been grand feasts. He didn't know or care much about how things were in ancient times, but from as far back as Caius could remember, Britannia had never held a festival that set the whole island abuzz under the name of Sun Festival. They'd simply called it the winter festival until now, but once a theme was set, decorations mimicking the sun sprang up everywhere—from awkward sun-shaped loaves and biscuits baked with jagged rays to supply wagons that carried them all the way to this remote western frontier of Britannia.
How grateful could a man be? Last winter and this one were worlds apart. Why? No need to look far. The man who had granted Caius this holy sword had driven every change across Britannia.
"Fidelis."
Faith. Belief. One word missing from the list of knightly virtues that Dominus had written for him. Caius had inscribed it upon his own blade. Fully unsheathed, the sword was long. Yet it felt impossibly light compared to his old one.
[Ting. Ting.]
Flick it with a finger, and it sang with tremendous resilience. Special in every way—and to Caius, laden with meaning. The man who had saved him as a dying boy, fed and clothed and raised him, had now bestowed a sacred blade no amount of gold could buy. So the sword's name was Faith, and it would remain Belief forevermore.
The Sword of Faith. This long blade, etched with a deep, vivid red blood groove along its length, would believe eternally.
[Shiiiing—click!]
The straight edge of the blade undulated like waves toward the tip, so Fidelis's scabbard was designed wide at the end and tight around the hilt. The sound of drawing and sheathing had a strangely addictive rhythm.
[Click! Shiiiing—click! Shiiiing—click!]
Leaning against the cold wall of the watchtower, Caius toyed with Fidelis. Beyond the oddly rhythmic sounds lay a pristine white horizon—not a straight line, but a curve swollen with snow like beasts puffed up in thick fur. The sun had only just risen late, casting its timid light in the early dawn.
There was good reason Caius was out here so early, propped against the watchtower wall.
[Shiiiing—click!]
This fortress, a more southerly outpost, the midway isle of Manavia, and the rear cities of Deva Victrix and Isca Dumnoniorum formed a line now rotated among Caius, Drustanus, and Peredir—frontline duty followed by reserve rotations. A fortnightly cycle. A few days back, when Peredir had relieved him, he'd reported the area dead silent and a suspicious feeling from bold scouts beyond those hills. Peredir had withdrawn to Manavia, then rested and resupplied at Deva Victrix before swapping with Drustanus to the south. And from Drustanus himself came a letter days ago, warning of odd rumors and movements among the local barbarians—stay vigilant.
Manavia and the southern coastal bases seemed built on ancient native strongholds, sited on enduring ground that favored defense. But this spot—Britannia's most vulnerable foothold in Hibernia—was just a hasty palisade on firm soil by the water, topped with a watchtower and basic shelters. More a temporary camp than a true fortress.
So if those ill omens proved true, the barbarians' target could only be this outpost, held by Caius and his century.
At first, Caius had thought, Who fights in winter? But after a season shuttling to and from Manavia, he'd seen it wasn't impossible. The issue was skipping spring, summer, even autumn for winter—unless, as with those inland barbarians pushed back like fleeing rats, their kings' situations were anything but ordinary.
[Click!]
Dominus Artorius had personally crushed their ambitious summer raiding plans last year. Thousands of warriors drowned in the icy western Britannian sea before even glimpsing the coast—fish food or swept to distant oceans. The fallout lingered into autumn, letting Britannia reclaim Hibernia's east coast and the Wall.
Naturally, that enraged the barbarian kings. They'd gathered warriors to plunder in summer, only to lose them at sea and their coasts besides. Beards trembling with fury, they'd bide their time for revenge. Not their fault for coming to raid, but barbarians lacked Roman conscience or reason.
Sympathizing a touch with the kings, Caius pondered: With warriors and coasts lost, what remained? In their warrior societies, shattered prestige demanded recovery. Amid that eerily quiet autumn, the inland kings must have clashed—open fights or silent intrigues. And perhaps as a result, they'd decided to strike a seemingly vulnerable Roman outpost.
To Caius, imagining himself in a barbarian king's skin: If you must hit those vicious Romans, strike before spring—while they shivered behind frail palisades in winter! Perfect timing. Because when spring thawed, Britannia's Dragon King could move.
Pen Draig. Pen Draconis. Caput Draconis in pure Roman. All other names for Dominus Artorius. No barbarian could beat the Dragon King of the sea on freer land. Even fools could grasp that. So if attacking, winter—specifically now. Merchant and spy reports said Romano-Britannia was lax after grand Sun Festival revels.
"If they're coming, it'll be now."
[Click!]
Before drawing again, something pale flickered at the dark horizon's snowy edge.
"..."
[Click!]
Sheathing the half-drawn blade, Caius straightened from the wall, bracing with both hands and craning forward. Through his gloves, the hardened cement bit with cold. His furrowed eyes finally spotted movement.
"They're here."
[Boooom—!!!]
[Dong-dong-dong-dong-dong!]
Chaos erupted across the outpost. Dawn's crisp silence fled in shock; the dim sky hid behind clouds as torches blazed from all sides. Firelight exploded around the fortress like a descending sun. Shadows exposed in the glare flashed eyes and screamed in unison.
"Death to the Romans!!!"
"The gods demand it! Kill the Romans!!"
"Wicked ones! Cut the throats of the evil dragon's minions!!!"
"Aaaargh!"
Shaggy brutes with faces smeared in bizarre war paint howled like beasts. Some stripped bare in the cold, slathered in savage pigments. All bore spears, shields, massive axes; frontrunners in metal armor and helms, followers in rags, leather, or bare heads.
"Enemies!"
"Barbarians! Barbarians coming!"
"To the walls! To your posts! Battle stations! Hurry—to battle!!"
[Dong-dong-dong—]
The new bells rang soft if struck gently, deafening if frantic. Soldiers, roused from warm slumber by the maddening clamor, stumbled out and dashed to posts. Tension, irritation, rage, and hatred flooded their faces.
"Don't those stupid sheep-dog-pig barbarians sleep..."
"Hey! You spawn of every mongrel god! It's winter! WINTER!!"
A decurion yanked back a soldier too focused on cursing to mind the palisade. The rest he let vent. Oddly, bards seldom sang of war's curses—but Roman troops, especially Britannians, were infamous for foul mouths that vied for crudest.
You couldn't stop it anyway. Aimed at foes, it boosted morale—no need to interfere. Leaving centurions to herd their men, Caius eyed the closing enemy.
Roman forts boasted high ramparts and deep ditches, but this outpost lacked the former—time shortage. Instead, a drainage moat ringed a low palisade fence. Ravenous beasts with wild eyes hit the first barrier and firing line.
"Comes, enemies at the mark."
"How many arrows?"
"Enough to slaughter every last barbarian."
"Fire."
"Yes, Comes!"
[Clack! Clack-clack!]
[Clack-clack-clack!]
His aide at his side signaled below; the gesture rippled to ballista crews on palisades and towers. Triggers snapped.
[Thwump! Thwump-thwump! Thwump!]
"Gunners! Fire! Fire!"
"Loooose—!!!"
Less powerful than true ballistae but still deadly, bolts launched in volleys. Isca Dumnoniorum and Deva Victrix's armories had changed everything—dusty siege engines now in play.
[Whiiiish! Whish! Whiiiish!]
Watching the whistling harbingers of death, Caius figured he might not wield Fidelis's wavy tip today. But barbarians wouldn't yield easily—its first blood was near.
"Send to Manavia. Tell Peredir the enemy moves."
"Yes, Comes!"
War had come a season early.