by Dirk Patton
At his nod, the legionnaires headed out, moving as fast as they were able. No one glanced back at the bulky shadow that slipped through the trees behind him, as if by ignoring the thing they could somehow deny it form and substance. There was no need to track its progress; the creature made no effort to hide. It simply stalked through the underbrush, snapping branches in its claws, the low rasp of its breath seeming to swallow up all other sounds.
Quintus moved to the rear of the group, bared blade in hand. He had done all he could. Their fates were in the gods' hands now.
* * *
“Execute these deserters.” Prefect Lucius Cedicius scowled down at Quintus. Lit by the braziers outside the garrison gate, the man bore little resemblance to his uncle, Varus – long-faced, with high eyebrows and a thin blade of a nose.
Quintus struggled to stand, but the two legionnaires holding him only tightened their grip on his shoulders. “Sir, you must get inside, one of those things—”
“Do not tell me what I must do, pleb.” The prefect shifted on his horse, causing the animal to sidestep. “You and these other fugitives come shambling out of the forest with tales of barbarian hordes and boogeymen and expect me to welcome you like conquering generals?”
“It’s true, prefect.” Otho’s voice came low and raspy, muffled by the mud. Like the rest of the squad he’d been shoved face-down on the field outside the garrison walls, the point of a spear resting just between his shoulder blades.
When they’d encountered the mounted Roman patrol, it had seemed like Fortuna’s wheel had finally turned but Quintus should’ve known better. The patrol’s commander assumed they were deserters and took them into custody. To be honest, based on Quintus and his companions’ ragged appearance, he couldn’t blame them.
“I know this sounds like madness, sir,” he tried again. “But Arminius—”
“Is a friend to the Empire.” The prefect scoffed. “And to me.”
“Kill me if you must,” Quintus said. “But please, call the men to arms.”
Cedicius’s scowl relaxed barely a fraction. “They are at arms. Three legions under my Uncle Varus, who is due back any day now.”
“They’re gone, sir,” Otho said. “All of them.”
“Maxentius,” the prefect glanced to one of the spear-wielding cavalrymen. “If that man opens his mouth again, I want you to take his tongue.” He turned back to Quintus. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard deserters spin lunacy to save their—” The prefect cocked his head, glancing toward mist-shrouded trees at the other end of the killing field outside the garrison. “What was that?”
“You have to get back inside.” Quintus winced. Already he could feel the damp, clinging chill that followed the creatures like a miasma. “One of those things has been stalking—”
The troll burst from the trees in a spray of scattered leaves, crossing the killing field with preternatural speed. Quintus barely had time to flinch before it was amongst the panicked cavalry. Men were torn from horses in a maelstrom of blood and shrieking steel. A cavalryman's scream ended in snapping bones as the thing snatched the man up and bit down on his head, the troll's jagged fangs crushing steel, skull, and flesh with equal ease.
To his credit, the prefect reacted quickly, wheeling his horse to charge the thing. “To arms, damn you! Romans are dying!”
He slashed at the troll, drawing a thin dark line across the creature’s shoulder. It spun to slap the prefect from his horse as easily as a man brushing away a fly. Cedicius hit the ground hard, rolling through the mud to lay still.
The soldiers holding Quintus released their grip to fumble at their blades. He stumbled to his feet, snatched up two swords from where the guards had piled the squad’s weapons beside the braziers, then turned to toss one to Otho.
The big man caught his blade with a savage grin, bending to retrieve his entrenching pick. “Another minute and we’d have been crow fodder.”
Ceorix scrambled over to snatch up his bow and quiver. “Is it wrong that I’m happy to see that thing?”
“Help Lamiskos.” Quintus nodded to the Gaul.
“I can take care of myself.” The Tarantine waved off Ceorix’s ministrations with an irritated scowl. “Just help me to my damned feet.”
“You,” Quintus shouted to the man Prefect Cedicius had called Maxentius. “Back to the garrison, bring help.”
The man’s gaze flicked to the downed prefect, lips pursed as if he were about to argue, then he gave a quick nod and wheeled his horse, galloping back to the garrison walls.
Quintus turned to the rest of their former captors. “Advance with us. And spread out, we want to surround it – formations are useless against this thing.”
As they stalked forward, weapons at the ready, the troll drove a clawed hand into the stomach of the last cavalryman. Tearing out a handful of slithering guts, it paused to regard the steaming innards like a child with a new toy.
The prefect’s guards were well-trained. They fanned out to surround the beast, which continued to maul the dying man, seemingly unconcerned.
Quintus nodded the advance, hand tight on the grip of his sword. It wasn’t an enchanted blade by any means, but he hoped good Roman steel would be enough.
He stabbed for the inside of the beast’s thigh, hoping there was an artery there to cut. The point of his gladius scraped across the troll’s flesh leaving barely a mark. It was as if he were back at the training field hammering at a post with a blunted blade.
The troll swung a hooked claw and Quintus had to throw himself to the ground to avoid the slash of the beast’s talons.
“Like a tree from the halls of Dis,” Otho shouted as his blade hacked a hunk of hard flesh from the thing’s hip. “Let’s fell this oak, lads!”
The others came charging in, hewing at the troll’s legs. Chips of hard flesh flew through the air like wood from a lumberman’s axe, and the creature stumbled. Huffing like a pregnant sow, the troll roared and tore the head from a nearby guard, then casually backhanded another a dozen paces. It caught another man, hooked claws perforating the guard's mail as if it were wet papyrus, then it simply folded him in half, the crack of the man's spine unaccountably loud amidst the shouts and clatter of arms.
Quintus scrambled to his feet, backpedaling to avoid a kick from one of the troll’s heavy feet. His blade licked out, scoring a thin slash along its calf. It charged after him, gnarled talons flexing, ready to crush and rend. Quintus tried to dodge, but the thing was simply too fast.
Ceorix’s arrow thudded into one of the troll’s wide, dark eyes. The shot seemed to enrage the thing, and it reeled back, shaking its head violently.
Quintus heard the beat of hooves behind him a moment before he was dragged off his feet and up onto a horse.
“That was close, ” Lamiskos shouted to be heard over the melee. He deftly maneuvered the horse away from the snarling troll, which was now slashing at the remaining guards.
“I didn’t know you could ride,” Quintus said.
“Better than I can walk.” Lamiskos gave a wild smile. “I’m from Tarantas, sir. We’re born to the saddle.”
The troll looked like a taproom table covered with scrapes and gouges, but barely a half-dozen Romans remained standing. Quintus was heartened to see his comrades among them. Otho and the remaining guards were bringing the thing down, but far too slowly. Even as Quintus watched, the beast tore the arm from a screaming guard, then hurled the limb into the face of another.
Shouts rose from inside the garrison, the clatter of armor and hobnailed sandals, but no soldiers had yet emerged from the gates. Quintus cast around the field for something, anything that could be of help.
His desperate gaze fell upon the crackling braziers outside the garrison gates. With a shout, he directed Lamiskos toward the fire. Leaping from the horse, Quintus tugged off the tattered remnants of his cloak. He wrapped the sodden fabric around his hands, then grasped the handles of the great bronze bowl, lifting it from its cradle.
The heat from the burning coals scorched Quintus’s exposed flesh, the air suddenly thick with the reek of burnt hair, but he ignored the pain. Stumbling toward the troll, Quintus hurled the bowl of coals at the beast.
Flames burst on its bark-like flesh. Skin blackened and burned, layer upon layer peeling back like the pages of a book. Still it fought on, dragging another man into the burning maelstrom and biting his head off.
With a shout, Otho skipped forward to bury his pick in the troll’s knee.
At last, the creature toppled, the few surviving guards backing away as the troll thrashed and screeched, flames rising like a bonfire at Vulcanalia.
Quintus watched horrified as the thing collapsed in on itself, its flesh like thick hide stretched over an armature of wooden bones. For a long moment, no one spoke, the field silent but for the hiss and crackle of the troll’s corpse.
“In Jupiter’s name.”
Quintus turned to see Prefect Cedicius sitting up, eyes like silver coins as he watched the creature burn. Groggily, he pushed to his feet, regarding Quintus with newfound respect. “Are there more of those things?”
“Dozens,” Quintus said.
“And the Germans?”
“Many, many more.”
“Is my uncle is truly dead?” the prefect asked.
“We didn’t see him fall,” Quintus replied. “But the legions are almost certainly gone.”
Cedicius stepped forward to prod the ashes with his spear. “Where did it come from?”
Quintus frowned. “Arminius has worked some manner of dark sorcery in the wood. He summons the beasts with sacrifices, somehow controlling them through offerings of blood.”
With a shout, Maxentius burst from the gate at the head of a phalanx of Roman soldiers. At the sight of the burning troll, they clattered to a halt.
“Stand down.” The prefect waved a tired hand. “Spread the word: the barbarians are coming.”
With a tight-lipped nod, Maxentius turned to the assembled troops, already shouting orders.
“We barely survived one of those beasts,” Quintus whispered. “With the Germans they’ll be almost invincible.”
The prefect swallowed. “I’ll have the onagers rigged with fire pots – we might get lucky.”
Quintus turned and regarded the smoldering corpse of the troll, then took a deep breath as an idea came to him. “We might not have to face them.”
The prefect raised an eyebrow.
“The sorcery, I think I know how to stop it,” Quintus said.
“I can’t spare many men.” The prefect gestured at the garrison. “But anything else you need…”
Instead of answering, Quintus turned to regard his squad, forcing humor into his voice. “Fancy another jaunt into the woods, lads?”
Otho snorted. “Just point me at them, sir.”
“If I can keep the horse,” Lamiskos said, patting the beast on the neck. “My leg’s a little sore.”
After a long moment, the Ceorix shrugged. “Can’t have you idiots stumbling into a bog now, can I?”
Quintus turned back to the prefect. “We’ll need a few hours rest, not to mention new weapons, equipment, oil, kindling, mounts—”
Otho cleared his throat loudly.
Quintus grinned. “And a hot meal.”
* * *
“So what gave you the idea, sir?” Ceorix asked, bow held low, an arrow nocked and ready.
“It was your tale, actually.” Quintus nodded. They’d managed to get some sleep while the garrison was mustering, and while not quite recovered, he wasn’t on the verge of collapse. “Our blades weren’t doing the trick, and we certainly didn’t have a mountain to drop on the thing. I figured fire might be worth a try.”
“It was satisfying to see that thing burn.” Otho grunted, patting his stomach. “Although not as satisfying as a bowl of stew and good hard bread.”
“You think the scaffold will burn, too?” Lamiskos asked. The young Tarantine seemed to have taken on new life on horseback, guiding his mount with a thoughtless ease Quintus couldn’t help but envy.
Quintus massaged the back of his neck, working out a kink. “When I stabbed the troll, my blade didn’t pierce, but it carved a piece off – just like at the scaffold.”
“You think they’re made of wood?” Maxentius asked. The prefect, still visibly shaken, had dispatched the cavalryman and a score of soldiers to assist Quintus and the others. A small group, traveling quickly and quietly, or so they hoped.
Otho gave a bitter laugh. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing we’ve seen in the last few days.”
The conversation lapsed, each man looking away, lost in their own thoughts. Quintus couldn’t blame them, memories of the slaughter loomed at the edges of his mind as well, lurking like a troll ready to leap from the brush and snatch his sanity away. They rode in silence for some time, the forest quiet but for the muffled thud of hooves on pine needles.
Ceorix’s hiss snapped Quintus from his painful rumination.
“We’re almost there.” The Gaul slipped from his horse, tying the beast to a nearby tree. “Best to continue on foot.”
At Quintus’s nod, the others dismounted and began to unpack their equipment. He laid a hand on Lamiskos’s shoulder. “I need you to stay back.”
The Tarantine’s glare could’ve etched copper. “Sir, I—”
“You’re our best rider.” Quintus held up a hand. “We may need your help later. If this goes very poorly, you’re to ride for Aliso and tell the prefect we’ve failed.”
Lamiskos gave a quick nod, not meeting Quintus’s gaze.
“Good.” He clapped the young man on the shoulder, then turned away. “The rest of you, load up on firepots. No armor, no helms, blades blackened – nothing to catch the eye.”
“And if they catch us?” Ceorix slung two of the cord-wrapped clay vessels over his shoulder.
Quintus returned a tight-lipped smile. “Then we burn them out.”
They stalked through the darkened pines, slipping from tree to tree. Quintus heard the scaffold before he saw it – the low droning of thousands of wings filled the forest like the buzz of some monstrous cicada. Figures stood silhouetted in the torchlight, the tall unnatural shadows of trolls as well as those of men. Many men.
Quintus let out a soft curse, pressing himself against a wide-boled pine. Arminius had returned, and he’d brought a small army with him.
Scores of German auxilia ringed the clearing, shields resting on the ground, their hands on the hilts of their blades. Perhaps a dozen trolls squatted like guard dogs near a crowd of German chieftains and their warriors, regarding the sullen barbarians with hungry eyes.
Arminius stood a few paces from the scaffold, arms raised, exhorting the thing. His chant seemed to blister the air, snaring Quintus’s thoughts with images of deep, dark places; of eyes and blood and shadow. Of things long buried.
“Sir,” Otho whispered, nodding at the far side of the scaffold.
Quintus shook his head to clear it, then followed the big man’s gaze.
Row upon row of captured Roman soldiers knelt before the structure, their hands tied behind their backs, sacks over their heads. More of Arminius’s guards stood among them, blades bared.
“There must be a few hundred, maybe more,” Maxentius whispered, his voice caught between awe and horror. “Poor bastards.”
Ceorix grunted. “Think of what’s going to come crawling out of that thing when Arminius finishes his little chant.”
The hair on Quintus’s arms prickled at the thought – a few dozen trolls had been enough to slaughter three legions. What would a hundred do to those Romans who remained?
He chewed his lip, eyeing the gathered horde. “Maxentius, give me your firepots. You and your men are going to slip around the other side and try to free as many captives as possible.”
“More blades in Roman hands could be helpful.” The cavalryman nodded. “What are the rest of you going to do?”
Quintus
gave a thin smile. “We’ll be causing a scene.”
They waited as Maxentius and the others slipped into the darkness, giving them a slow hundred count to edge around the clearing. Fortunately, everyone was focused on the ritual.
When the count had wound down, Quintus glanced at Otho and Ceorix. “I feel like I should say something profound.”
The big man grinned. “When we tell this story later, we’ll say you did.”
With a deep breath, Quintus pushed from the tree and padded towards the torch-lit clearing. A dozen paces from the edge he paused to light the fuses of the first firepots. The clay jars were meant to be hurled from an onager, but Quintus had fitted them with dangling cords, allowing them to swing the pots like hammer throwers. He was too far to hit the scaffold, but after a quick turn the pots tumbled through the air, arcing down to explode among the trolls.
The beasts ignited as if they had been soaked in oil. Flames spread, the trolls shrieking as they thrashed around the clearing. The German chieftains drew back in confusion, then, as the beasts began to topple, drew their weapons. Some fled back into the forest while others advanced on the startled guards.
Traitor auxilia snatched up their shields, slipping into a close formation to ward off more missiles, but pots were already in the air, and the tightly-packed mass proved an excellent target.
Men screamed as the pots exploded, spraying them with burning pitch and saltpeter. Arminius’s chant faltered. The traitor’s lips twisted into a vicious snarl as he gestured to the guards holding the prisoners, then he turned and continued his terrible invocation. The high, keening buzz rose above the shouts and screams, the shadowy innards of the scaffold twisting like a heat mirage.
Arminius’s guards hacked down at the bound and blinded Roman prisoners, bodies falling like cordwood. Quintus saw a barbarian raise his blade, then drop as one of Maxentius’s men stabbed him in the side. Beyond the spreading flames, freed Romans now surged to their feet to struggle with their captors.
A burning barbarian stumbled toward the scaffold, arms flailing, only to have Arminius run him through without breaking his chant. Although the flames licked around the edges of the structure, they did not catch as they had with the trolls.
