Blood on the Ice: The Berserker's Charge
Moisture and muck were joined by something moist and warm. [Thwip! Whoosh!] If they came at us again, it would be the third time this winter already. Before the storm hit, the people sought to hold a blood festival once more, and the frozen white snowfields, mudfields, and the sodden earth along Hibernia's eastern coast eagerly drank in that heat. The pristine white ground gradually stained red and melted away.
"Urk!" "Gah!" "Gurgle—"
In Britannia, they called it the western fortress, but in Hibernia—especially among the Ulaid and Laigin who faced it directly—they prefixed it with words like "cursed," "wicked," or "dragon's." There were two such Roman forts along Hibernia's eastern coastline, one to the north and one to the south. The southern one had stood there since ancient times, perched on high ground that was hard to approach without getting bogged down in water, leaving the Laigin folk helpless against it. Unless this brutal winter drove the Romans out, they should have blocked them at sea from the start. Having failed that, there was truly nothing to be done now. Moreover, the Laigin now had to keep an eye on the Muwa encroaching from the west, rubbing up against Romano-Britannia.
All that remained was this spot: lonely wooden palisades standing on ground so cold it seeped through leather boots greased thick with animal fat and tallow to repel moisture. This was the Roman stockade facing the Ulaid, traditional powerhouses of northern Laigin and Hibernia's northeast. The kings great and small of the Ulaid and Laigin all agreed that they needed to launch some battle now, in winter, and show results. When they'd faced the second storm and offered grand sacrifices to claim victory, the mood had surely been high.
Yet slipping through the darkness like lightning, those braves and hunters of fierce clans dropped like hunted prey, pierced by arrows here and there, collapsing with splashes, spraying blood as they died. [Whoosh! Thwip!]
"Dog! Pig!"
Plague-like Romans! Corpse-crow bastards!
"Roman dogs! I'll hack off your heads and watch them sink to the swamp's depths to rot! Heads to the mire! Bodies to the fields to bloat your corpses! Crows to peck your hearts! Moss on your white bones! I'll see it all with my own eyes!"
A short arrow whistled over the head of the bellowing warrior, followed by the sound. [Thwip!]
"You bastard's arrow!"
Ducking hastily, the warrior soon felt his head grow cold in an instant and reached up to touch it. His helmet was gone. Fury rose from his sweat-soaked scalp like smoke. Blood trickled down over eyes as red as his flushed neck. His forehead must have torn a bit, but it meant nothing to a warrior. Today was riastrad! The battle's thrill boiled within him! Every Ulaid warrior's blood carried the madness of great Cú Chulainn! Goddess of battle-death and chaos! He felt Nemain's blade at his throat at last! The warrior's fight he'd longed for was near—he could feel it vividly!
"Cowards! Tucking your tails between your legs like mangy dogs!?"
Then I'll go! His blood-matted hair whipped in the dawn winds, fiercer now. And surely, the warrior saw it: beyond the sea mist, the goddess beckoning with her hand. Was today the day? The day he died? He'd sworn never to flee battle. He'd survived countless times under that oath, and this would be no different.
"Raaah!"
Tearing off his leather armor and shedding every inner layer, the warrior felt no chill at all. His mind fixed solely on the fight, that cursed battle-madness dyed his body red and turned his spirit beastly. Naked save for shield, spear, and a short sword at his waist, he charged madly. [Whoosh! Thwip!]
Knowing he wouldn't die, the incoming arrows seemed laughable. Ducking and weaving past those grazing his head, torso, and feet, he kept running.
"Raaah!" "Wooooh!" "Aaaah!" [Woooooh— Fwoooo—]
The carnyx's wail—piercing even through the storm—followed the warriors' war cries, spurring the death-defying charge like racehorses with blinders on, finally reaching the slightly frozen moat.
Foolish Romans. They must think this land's full of mud, swamps, and slime. But in winter, it all freezes. Until the storm dumps fresh slop and soddenness before departing, the ground stays frozen like this.
"Climb! Burn! Topple and slash! Kill!"
His red eyes, neck, and torso brimmed with red-hot rage, spilling out in red words. Midway, he'd already hurled his spear at the cowards peeking over the palisade. Tossing his shield aside too, he grabbed the stakes bare-handed and began to climb. The rough texture of frozen wood set his hands, feet, and body ablaze, but that was irrelevant. What mattered was scaling this damned wood, crossing over, and severing the necks of the filthy Roman mongrels beyond.
"Rejoice, Romans! I'll toss your heads into the foulest swamp!" [Whoosh! Thwip!]
The arrows now much closer were all the more menacing, comrades' screams rising as they fell everywhere, but it all felt dreamlike. At last, through his blood-red vision, the sky loomed close. The storm-laden heavens were gray; beyond, the Romans' wicked red banner flapped.
'Eagle... water drop.' That famed Britannian flag. The pole's head needed chopping too.
"Morere!"
"Raaah!" [Clang!]
A spear flew with unintelligible words; he barely deflected it with his drawn sword. Mustering all his strength, he finally vaulted the palisade. [Whoosh— Thud!]
And the Ulaid warrior saw it: beside a Roman grunt clutching a half-broken spear and backing away hastily, a Roman warrior with bloodshot eyes held a long sword at the ready.
"Comes!"
"Mane retro."
A high-ranking warrior? The deep helmet with red crest fluttering like a rooster leading the flock. Perfect.
"Die!"
Heat from his fevered body had long devoured his mind. Without further thought, he gripped his sword and lunged. Giving space to that long blade meant defeat. Close in with the other hand as bait, slip through, and thrust— [Whoosh—]
"!?"
This time, the sound came first. "Wha—" He barely spat a syllable before blood burst from his mouth. Then he floated up—spinning slowly, tumbling beyond the palisade.
'What...?'
That was the warrior's last thought. [Thud!]
A head dropped onto the bloodied white ground below. Soon, it sank slowly into the moat's broken ice beneath—a single Ulaid warrior's head.
-----
"Comes!"
"Fall back."
"Barbs!" [Slice!]
"Ghk—"
The barbarian's head spun away beyond the palisade along the upward diagonal slash of the sword.
'Mad barbarian. How'd he even climb up here?'
Caius was honestly impressed, but he wouldn't show it to the foe—even with the headless body slumping slowly before him. [Thump!]
Roaming naked in this cold. Even if he survived the battle by luck, frostbite would kill him soon enough. Well... charitably, fearless warriors; uncharitably, just dumb savages.
"Toss it beyond the palisade."
"Y-Yes, Comes!"
The body that had tried to paint his favorite spot in this fort—palisade nearby—red followed its departed head over the edge. Watching briefly, Caius scanned the barbarians dying and screaming all around below.
The pre-dawn assault had reached their third wave, but naturally, Britannian advantages held: relentless crossbow fire, enemies charging over frozen, snow-piled ground, and overlooking them from makeshift walls of earth and cement behind the seemingly flimsy palisade. They repelled the charges with ease.
The problem? The foes were far bolder, more tenacious—nay, braver—than he'd expected. [Woooooh—]
Staring piercingly toward the ghostly wail—like wailing ghosts or storm-beasts—the barbarians' pipe-sounds revealed faint shadows. Horsemen under tall banners. Likely the commanders.
They seemed to stare back at Caius too.
"I'm not retreating from here. What about you?"
They knew the storm neared—how long could they push this madness? Triple digits of barbarian warriors lay dead today alone. Of those deaths, only one reached the wall: the one whose neck Fidelis severed.
Sieges were like this, winter ones especially—unfair fights. [Woooooh— Fwoooo—]
The carnyx blared twice more; a fresh horde leaped from the snow-covered hill, howling as they charged the fort.
'Really wanna go all out, huh?'
No retreat now that they'd come this far? As Caius eyed the enemy intently, a wolfish, feral grin flashed briefly across his face, then vanished. He spun toward the fort's interior and bellowed.
"Warriors of Artorius! Those dumb barbarians challenge us again! What say you!? Ready to meet them!? Prepared to fight!?"
Furious voices roared back in fervor.
"Artorius! Artorius Invictus!!"
"Let 'em come, Comes! Lure the bastards closer!"
"We'll dump those filthy beasts at the moat's bottom!"
Nodding, Caius turned back to the foes. No fear in their mad dash—yet. [Thwock! Thwack! Thud!]
Arrows flew again; new bodies piled on the dead, twitching as they fell. But with each death, more barbarians clung to the palisade. Next wave, more climbers; after that, some might crest a section.
Caius felt no fear. Fighting for Artorius, dying for him—he'd do it gladly, over and over.
Why should madness belong only to barbarians? Romans. Britannians. Frothing and cursing as they clung and died; steadily slaying while spewing vitriol. Suddenly, Caius thought they weren't so different.