Withstand the Storm
“That was greed, trying to topple them in one blow.”
“Let’s see if they can hold against the storm.”
Romans had set foot on the land of Éire before, and these were far from the first. The most threatening had come centuries ago—Caesar himself, followed by the legions that poured in after. Like these Romano-Britons now, they had merely wetted their feet along Éire’s coasts before failing to hold and slinking back across the sea. No matter how mighty and grand the empire, they could not overcome this land’s harshness or the savage natural barrier of the waters between Éire and Britannia.
Mounted on their saddles, gazing toward the lonely Romano-Briton fortress in the distance, the kings great and small along Éire’s eastern coast shared the same thought. They’ll turn back in the end. How many times had invaders come in with such fanfare, only to crumble from internal strife? The kings of Éire knew the tales passed from distant kin who had crossed the northern seas to Caledonia. What was Rome’s strength? Fierce warriors hard to beat in open battle. And their weakness? Lure them in, force a prolonged fight, and they’d weary themselves into retreat.
They had seized last summer—the chance that wouldn’t come twice in this life—as the spark that led to all this humiliation. Yet the kings saw it not as a curse, but a blessing. True, many lives were lost, many vassals taken, and even the fertile coastal lands flowing with milk and honey had been yielded whole. But in retreating inland, the warriors and kings had coalesced, purging the cowards and leaving only the brave. Only the worthy. If they turned this crisis into a purge of the weak and held firm, the Romano-Britons would withdraw across the sea, just as their Roman forebears had.
To that end, the rival kings had finally united. When Éire was cleaved from north to south, the greatest powers on the east—Laigin and Ulaid—had joined forces. And more: distant kin from Caledonia had rekindled long-broken ties. Those holed up in the highlands proposed striking beyond the wall together. The kings, once humiliated, saw victory here.
“They fight well.”
“Which side? Our warriors, or the Romans?”
“The Romans, naturally. Our warriors swore oaths before the gods themselves—they have to fight well. But what oaths did those Romans swear to fight like that?”
“No good comes of praising the enemy.”
“Nor does pretending the obvious away help our cause.”
Even in alliance, the prideful kings—none second to any—didn’t hesitate to sharpen their tongues. And from their saddles, watching the fierce battle unfold in the distance, not one was wrong. For the first time in centuries since the original Romans, these Romano-Britons proved last summer’s devastation wasn’t mere luck. Three days of ceaseless skirmishes now. Ulaid warriors struck at night and dawn with cunning raids; Laigin’s pressed by day in orthodox assaults. Valiantly they advanced, but the palisade held.
“...Minions of the wicked dragon, is it?”
“...”
One name the bickering kings had consciously avoided hung unspoken.
[Rumble—]
Dark clouds gathering afar unleashed thunder just then, growling as if demanding they speak it. All the more reason to seal their lips. To utter the profane lightly invited calamity. But silence didn’t smooth the furrows etching their brows. Artorius Pendragon. That name endured.
“...Even if we don’t take the fortress this battle, it’s fine. This will awaken even the kings and warriors who’ve defied our will till now to the Romano-Briton invasion at our throats. Before the storm hits... shall we pull back?”
“Aye.”
“So be it.”
“The true war will come after winter passes.”
All the kings of Ulaid and Laigin now knew war with the Romano-Britons was inevitable. Inland, even westward clans had declared at the great assembly during the first storm that they wanted no part in facing them. But with these kings igniting war, conflict had come to their very doors. That was always how it was with Rome. Hesitate, and you couldn’t endure. The lukewarm rear-guard kings would have no choice now. If they held, those Muwa fools would face judgment before the Romans did.
“Let this storm pass at the Hill of Kings. We’ll gather the other kings and warriors slowly, then march on Muwa.”
“Best to excise the maggots eating us from within first.”
Besides, Muwa and theirs had lost elites sending warriors to Britannia under the old king, then more in the usurper’s purge of him. Weakened now, weren’t they? The cunning kings’ eyes fixed as one on the Britannic fortress.
-----
“Damn this storm to hell!”
Storms didn’t merely blow through. Those battering Britannia always whipped up savage waves. No wonder they warned against winter wars. Winter crippled every human endeavor. Only after this third storm of the season barely passed and the raging sea somewhat calmed could Peredir depart Manavia Isle—and his guts were black with fury.
“Faster! We must go faster!”
“Yes, Comes!”
Peredir knew Britannia’s loyal, valiant legionaries rowed with all they had. Yet his own heart raced, his oar strokes frantic, wasting strength on desperation.
We can’t be late! We can’t...!
Britannia held three footholds on Hibernia’s east coast. The northern pair: a seaside island fortress and an upriver garrison a bit inland, bound as one. Word of the garrison’s attack had robbed Peredir of sleep since.
He’d dispatched a herald straight to Avalonia, pigeons to Londinium with reports. Half the reserves on Manavia stood ready, lest Drustanus’s southern fortress fell too. Who then led the other half of Avalonica’s proud First Legion reserves to Caius’s aid? Peredir himself.
Son and heir to the kindly old Fisher King, Peredir knew these seas and winds like kin. On fields he yielded, but at sea? No savage from Britannia, Hibernia, or Caledonia could match him. So when Caius’s herald arrived amid the storm, Peredir hadn’t rushed blindly. He’d tended ships and men with patience. The moment the gale eased, he launched.
His timing perfect—the churning sea now mere ripples—yet his heart still burned. Hold on, Caius. You can’t die!
Not mere favoritism from the Magister Militum. Orphan Caius and Peredir—father slain unjustly, mother a faint childhood memory—had forged deep bonds swiftly. Add Drustanus, that head-addled married hunter(...) who’d tipped off Britannia’s greatest war this year, and the young promising commanders had welcomed him easily. Just days ago, he’d congratulated Caius on receiving a sword forged personally by the Magister Militum alongside Drustanus.
Who’d guessed these savages would strike midwinter, timing the storm? He’d sensed it, but not this madness...
Abandon it, Caius! We can retake it...!
His frantic thoughts lied. They hadn’t spurned a cozy island fort to paddle upriver and erect a palisade, watchtowers, and barracks mimicking a camp for nothing. That garrison was vital for any push into northern Hibernia, Ulaid’s heart. Caius wouldn’t yield it.
Three seasons’ acquaintance, but Peredir knew their similarities. In his shoes, he’d think twice, thrice the enemy worth dying for a gain. Caius wouldn’t retreat.
“Comes! There! The island fortress!”
“Raise the signal!”
“Aye, Comes!”
[BAAAAAM—]
[Flutter!]
The piercing pipe wailed; a crimson flag soared high atop the mast, tail streaming. Faintly, the distant island fortress answered.
[BAAAAAM—]
Following the lead ship, dozens surged in a grand fleet. Small unlike old Roman galleys, but sleek as a herring shoal.
[Creak—]
True to its name—Ewe Isle—faint bleats echoed as Peredir dropped oars and landed. Green isle turned white today.
[Snap!]
A legionary saluted, rushing up. Peredir gripped his shoulder, forgetting to return it.
“The riverside garrison! Any word? From Caius!?”
“Y-yes, Comes Peredir!”
“What!?”
The legionary flinched at Peredir’s urgency. Before he spoke, a teasing voice drifted from beyond.
“Don’t know if you heard, but I’ve got a woman promised to me? You’re a good friend, but a man doesn’t just—”
“Caius!”
Weary-eyed, shadowed sockets, faint blood-scent uncleaned. But whole, striding on two legs: Caius approached.
The knights closed fast, clasping shoulders fiercely. Then laughed.
“Thank the gods you’re alive, Caius!”
“We fought; you lot look the worse for it.”
“What? Haha!”
Sea-soaked, sweat-drenched, Peredir and disembarking legionaries reeked of fresh-caught fish. No matter. Caius slung an arm over Peredir’s shoulder, strolling toward the Ewe Fortress.
“Come in, warm up first. I’ll tell all by firelight.”