A Long Night on the Kings' Hills
“It looks like tonight will be a long one, Caius.”
“...I’ll make the preparations, Dominus.”
Dusk had already fallen over the Kings' Hills. The reddish fields stretched out in every direction, interrupted here and there by rounded mounds that curved like ridges, resembling white waves crashing in the wind. Some patches of ground were still frozen where the snow hadn't fully melted, while others revealed hints of green. At the very least, it was a place of striking beauty—and honestly speaking, I could see why the ancients had built all their tombs here on what were once mere hills. The sun felt endless, so in feng shui terms, wasn't this the perfect land for a royal burial ground?
Hibernia lacked the towering, rugged mountain ranges of the Korean Peninsula, but it made up for it with these low, rolling hills. Plenty of water, humid summers... Looking at it now, there were more similarities than I'd expected between my past life and this one—no, wait, maybe it wasn't similarities so much as realizing just how brutal the Korean climate really was. Even roughly recalling a globe, the latitude difference was massive, yet my memories told me Korea's winters were as harsh as this—or worse. That godforsaken land. No wonder it bred such tough people.
[Caw—caw-caw-caw—]
A migratory bird cried out against the cold, ruddy sky. It felt almost like a signal, so I stopped staring blankly at the horizon and scanned our closer surroundings instead.
With just 500 men, holding the 700 barbarian defenders we'd captured was a joke anyway, so I'd ordered them released and focused our efforts on fortifying our camp around the Kings' Hills. Naturally, the centurions were uneasy, but to those commanders, I explained that the anxiety they felt right now was exactly what I was hoping for. It sounded complicated, but simply put: I fully expected the barbarians to counterattack.
“Ancient ri of this land. How much blood must flow before your descendants acknowledge me?”
Wars erupt for all sorts of reasons. Our immediate pretext for invading Hibernia was the savage plundering by the barbarians last year—and the year before that. It had escalated straight into open war, and before we knew it, Hibernia's three greatest powers—Muwa, Laigin, and Ulaid—were all dragged into the Hibernian Great War. At this point, rational voices were fading one by one, drowned out by those chasing the immediate sights and emotions before their eyes.
Under the settled sky, a bubbling tension simmered from the hill villages surrounding the Kings' Hills. A defense force of 700 that had lost just one warrior without a single battle, intact. Add to that the villagers who'd watched our quiet advance. By sheer numbers alone, they might think they had a shot. Truth be told, marching 500 men straight into the enemy's heart was a flawed strategy to begin with. They'd bungled and surrendered the Kings' Hills, but the retribution from the local kings—great and small—would surely rain down on those villages and defenders sooner or later. So, to save face, these people had to come at us.
“We’ll strengthen the watch, Magister militum.”
“Better to let the men rest now. Even if they can't sleep, have them lie down anyway.”
“Understood.”
“Late evening, or dawn. That's when they'll hit, right?”
“That's what I'd do.”
“Same here.”
Thankfully, we had plenty of materials for palisades right at hand. The large timber building—likely used as a meeting hall by the kings—served as prime raw material, yielding obediently to our legionaries' axes and stacking up into fine Roman defenses.
On this round hill, our options were limited to sharpened stakes, palisades, and reflexively dug trenches. But that would be enough. The hill's steep slopes would serve as the finest obstacles.
“The tessera is night raven. Night raven.”
“I’ll relay it at once, Magister militum.”
[Caw—caw-caw-caw—caw—]
The distant migratory bird was a pitch-black crow.
[Domnal! Hear me, Domnal! For the kings, for the gods. We must save ourselves. Bringing in those Roman pigs and goat-fuckers is irreversible now. To wash away our sins, their blood must flow.]
Trembling eyes filled with unease, urgent voices laced with metallic grit, ragged breaths, flickering firelight, the stifling heat of crowded men in a tight space.
[We must kill the Romans.]
The Romans. Domnal knew well how his neighbors who'd sailed far across the sea last year had returned with great hauls. The Kings' Hills had stood here since time immemorial, a sacred place drawing many to live around it. The village elders had boasted of rare imports from Rome, laughing loudly, chattering, clinking cups together. But exactly two seasons ago—from this very summer—they'd begun vanishing one by one.
This year, too, those faces that had set off promising Roman riches, grinning boldly as they left the village edge, never came back. What returned instead were terrifying rumors. Rumors of a dragon.
A mad Roman who took a bear (artos) for his name was rampaging as a dragon. The sea no longer belonged to Ulaid or Laigin—it was ruled by the dragon of Britannia. The dragon was in Britannia.
He'd dismissed it as unbelievable gossip. After a summer of grief, crossing into an autumn of grim acceptance, fathers, sons, brothers, and neighbors—furious at the deaths—gathered before the sacred stone on the highest hill where the kings were buried. There they slit the throats of sacrificial beasts and swore oaths in blood. Vengeance upon Rome.
Domnal, who'd spent his life tilling fields around the Kings' Hills, had never witnessed such grandeur. Kings from the far northern coasts to the southern shores, and their countless warriors, united in one purpose. The blood-sworn warriors marched forth with high spirits and, he'd heard, even drove the dragon's minions from Ulaid's shores. Then the kings pressed on without rest to punish the Roman-collaborating whores and the treacherous Muwa scum.
They'd raised toasts, sensing victory near. Days dawned one after another—what they'd thought good omens turned out to be the direst of ill portents approaching from the distant east.
“...The draícg.”
The dragon. It was real. The thing he'd only heard in tales: a serpent's head, bear-like savage jaws with teeth like a fish's undulating body, twisting high on the wind. Beside it flew a red banner: an eagle laureled, with a blue teardrop falling above its head.
And beneath those two symbols of Rome, Romano-Britannia... there it was. A real dragon.
“Artorius...”
Facing such a thing in battle, survival would have been impossible. No doubt the villagers who'd left laughing last summer had all perished against it. Its size and presence defied human comprehension. Even those resolved to fight to the death froze solid.
No helmet plumes or decorations, just that massive sword slung across his shoulders... Could you even call it a sword? Its mere existence made further adornment unnecessary for the man. It was like beholding Rome incarnate. The legendary name from ancient tales—the one that spilled blood across this land, slaughtered neighbors beyond the sea, and drowned the world in gore beyond Britannia—had descended once more, pure and unadulterated, in the flesh of one man.
If that presence reeked of blood, would you believe it? Even now, steeling himself for death and advancing slowly, Domnal caught the faint metallic tang in his own quickened breath.
Could they succeed?
“...”
Deep winter, deep night. No chirping crickets, birds tucked away. Bears in hibernation, even savage beasts wary of stirring. Nothing visible but stars in the night sky and faint red Roman fires below.
The path ahead was clear. Whether they'd return alive... was not.
Did his brothers and uncles feel this too, laughing boldly as they left the village?
[Thud—]
“Domnal, ready?”
Someone gripped Domnal's shoulder as he crawled, oblivious to his elbow scraping raw. Startled, he swung his axe—only to see his neighbor uncle.
“Y-yes!”
“Shh, keep your voice down.”
“...”
Thankfully, no reaction from the much-closer Kings' Hills, where the Romans lurked. The uncle sighed in relief, only to draw glares from the others. As they resumed their slow crawl, he fixed his gaze on Domnal and spoke softly.
“Domnal. How old are you this year?”
“Uh—”
The question caught him off guard, but Domnal counted on his fingers in the dark-adapted gloom.
“Fourteen, maybe fifteen? Something like that.”
“I see.”
“Yes.”
“...”
With his long-dead father and two brothers who'd left last summer never to return, Domnal was the man of the house now, supporting his eldest brother. He hadn't told him, but his family didn't know he'd slipped out here. This was something he had to do. For family honor, if nothing else.
“...Huh? What's that over there?”
“Pardon?”
The uncle, who'd been staring silently, pointed into the opposite darkness.
A Roman!?
Domnal whipped his head around.
[Whack!]
He felt a dull thud and blacked out.
“...”
In the deep darkness of his dream, Domnal saw his father, second brother, third brother.
Father! Brothers!
Overjoyed, he reached out, tried to run—but his body wouldn't obey. Watching him, they nodded as if relieved, then turned and faded into the gloom.
Instinct screamed they mustn't go that way. He wailed silently, voiceless.
Then faint sounds filtered in.
[Ugh! Gah—urk—]
[Whoosh—crackle—]
Groans of agony... and that was the sound of something burning? Flames?
“Ugh...”
Pain shattered first—a splitting headache—then the stench assaulting his nose.
“Gah!”
The blood smell he'd caught faintly facing Britannia's dragon now choked him, thick and overwhelming. Burning flesh, flames devouring everything, acrid smoke—it all crushed his skull.
Clutching his head, unable to endure, Domnal staggered up.
And saw.
“...”
Darkness gone, crimson flames blooming across the southeast slopes of the Kings' Hills. Scattered everywhere weren't butchered beasts, but human bodies. Dead or dying, twitching.
Red-glinting Roman armor moved among them, spears mercifully ending the barely alive.
Stab. Groan. Stab. Gasp.
Like threshing grain, like farm work—cold, natural, indifferent...
The scene felt so unreal, Domnal stood frozen for a time.
“...”
[Stab!]
A nearby Roman speared a fallen man. And Domnal snapped.
“Raaagh!!”
Every ounce of strength into a sprint, headache worsening, axe vanished from his grip. Fist raised, he swung like brawling with his third brother!
“?”
[Crack!]
“Guhk!”
A gauntleted fist replaced the spear-tip, smashing his nose. Domnal blacked out again.