SNAFU: Hunters

Droch-fhola Brad C. Hodson

The bars of the cage rattled and knocked together as the cart rolled deeper into the forest. The construction was shoddy, hastily thrown together to carry slaves across the isle. He contemplated kicking it until the wooden bars shook loose, but that would make too much noise.

The two legionaries with him were still unconscious, each covered in crusted blood and swollen bruises. He was surprised they were even alive. This was his fault, no way to deny that.

Flurries of snow whipped through the cage and he hugged his knees to his chest, shivering against the cold and willing himself to stay awake. His fingers and the soles of his feet had already lost feeling. The bastards could have at least left them with their clothes. It would be difficult to sell slaves missing limbs from frostbite.

Shadows stretched over the forest as the sun died. They played tricks on his eyes and for a brief moment he thought he saw men crawling between the trees on their bellies.

One of the barbarians said something in their garbled tongue and the cart creaked to a halt. He maneuvered over the legionaries and pressed against the bars as they set up camp, hoping he would see some way out of his predicament. A fire soon raged, the smoke thick and sweet, and the men gathered around it. A wineskin was passed about as they erected some kind of wooden cabinet off to the side. He didn’t know what he had hoped to see, but whatever it was never appeared.

When they had finished piecing together the slabs of wood, one of the men went to another of their carts and removed a black stone. It was thin but large enough that he had to hug it to his chest to carry it. He placed it atop the cabinet and it shimmered in the firelight.

Three of them came to remove him, the others standing nearby with swords drawn in case he ran.

“Come, boy,” a one-eyed old man said, his Latin accented but clear.

They grabbed him with rough hands and jerked him from the cart. He fell face first into the snow and they laughed. The urge to sprint into the woods was strong but he fought against it, knowing that if they didn’t kill him the cold would.

One of the larger ones pulled him to his feet. This close, they smelled musty and sour. His stomach churned. The legionaries were carried from the cart next and he was brought with them over to the fire. Standing in front of the cabinet, he could see it clearly. Strange circular braids were carved into the wood. The doors were open and a wooden statue sat beneath the stone slab. It was of a skeletal figure with long arms crossed over its chest. The head was upturned and a wide, mangled mouth open. Dark stains covered the statue, and he finally understood they were not going to be sold.

He turned to dart from the campsite, but the one-eyed man kicked him hard in the stomach and he collapsed, tears in his eyes and the knowledge he’d piss blood tonight evident in each piercing breath.

If I live that long.

He couldn’t fight the tears that burned his eyes. The barbarians laughed at him as he curled on the frozen ground, his cheek already numb against the snow. What would his father have thought if he saw him like this? Silanus hadn’t even known a woman yet, and here he was crying in the face of death. He imagined the decorated Centurion would have spat on him and told him to stand up, that it would be better to die fighting like he had done. But Silanus was no soldier, merely a thirteen — year-old boy playing at being a man.

“I’m just a cook,” he said through the tears. “Please.”

His plea was translated and the barbarians laughed all the harder.

One of the legionaries was dragged to the cabinet and smacked in the face. The man groaned, coming to just as he was slammed chest-first onto the stone. Fighting to stand, he was too weak and easily held down.

Looking up, the legionary’s eyes were wide with fear. They focused on Silanus and then the cutting began. The man screamed as the knives peeled the flesh from his back in long strips, blood dripping from the slab and into the statue’s hungry maw.

One of the Ordovices, large and bearded, stepped up. Draped in furs, he looked more bear than man. In one hand he held a chisel. He placed it against the legionary’s back then swung a hammer. The hollow crack of the man’s ribs breaking away from his spine echoed through the woods.

Silanus could no longer watch. He stared at the ground, the smoke stinging his eyes and throat. The man’s screams did not last much longer.

This is the end. I never even got to see Rome.

A whistling sound cut through the air. Silanus looked up in time to see a pila slam into the hammer-wielder’s chest. The man staggered back, eyes wide, and crashed to the ground.

The other barbarians whirled and pulled their swords as more pilum struck their targets. Three more of them went down, two dead and one wheezing bloody foam onto his lips. A fourth had managed to raise a shield and catch the spear that came for him. The soft metal head bent from the weight of the shaft, just as it was designed to, and pulled the man’s shield down. He stomped on the pila but it held. Dark shapes erupted from the trees but his shield had been made useless.

Roman soldiers rushed in. Silanus almost cheered as they cut down his captors. The Ordovices were fierce and met their enemy head on, swinging their long swords and crashing against the Romans with abandon. They were met by sturdy shields when the legionaries crowded them, rendering their long swords useless as sharp gladii stabbed with almost mechanical precision.

Silanus scrambled over to a cart and away from the fight, searching for something he could defend himself with. He found another hammer but tossed it aside when he saw the hilt of a Roman short sword. Knowing it likely belonged to the soldier he’d seen sacrificed, he clutched it tight and crouched behind the cart.

The Romans made quick and vicious work of the Ordovices, blood steaming as it spattered the snow. Silanus could not place what legion the men were with; he’d never seen soldiers dressed in indigo and charcoal armor before, but he didn’t care. He would live because of them.

Bodies littered the small clearing, twitching and moaning. There had been over twenty barbarians when they had stopped here; now only the one-eyed old man and two of the younger ones lived. Scanning the Roman soldiers, Silanus was surprised to count eight of them. It had seemed a full legion descended upon the clearing. How could a single a contubernium take out so many? He hoped there weren’t other bands of Ordovices nearby.

The three survivors dropped their swords and fell to their knees, hands behind their heads, and begged in their tongue for what could only be mercy.

One of the Romans stepped forward, wiping his gladius clean on his thigh before sheathing it. His hair was gray and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He must have been the unit’s Decanus.

“I can only assume you’re begging for your lives,” he said. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”

Silanus didn’t understand what the soldier had said. Droch-fhola?

One of the barbarians spat on the ground and the other two glared.

The Decanus sighed. “Then you’re useless to me.” He turned to his men. “Open them.”

The soldiers stepped forward.

“Wait,” Silanus said and stood. They turned as he walked toward them, his voice trembling as much as his freezing muscles. “That one speaks Latin.”

The old man turned his one good eye to the boy. “You bastard.”

The Decanus pulled a thick cloak from one of the fallen barbarians. The dying man weakly clutched at the cloth, and the Roman brought his boot down onto the man’s face as he jerked the cloak away and tossed it to Silanus.

The commander nodded to his men and they went to work stabbing the bodies on the ground to make certain they had all been killed in the fighting. Most had.

Kneeling, the Decanus asked his question again. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”

“Killing more Romans,” the old man said, “if there is any justice in the world.”

Nodding as if he’d expected that answer, he grabbed the barbarian to the old man’s right and pressed a thumb into his eye. The barbarian squirmed and fought, but the Roman’s grip was iron and blood soon ran down the man’s face.

The other barbarian scampered to his feet and ran. He made to shove one of the soldiers out of his way but the soldier pivoted and brought the edge of his shield down onto the man’s knee. There was a loud snap and the barbarian fell to the ground squealing. Looking to his commander, the soldier received whatever confirmation he needed and brought the edge of his shield down again, this time on the barbarian’s throat. The squealing stopped.

“Please,” the old man said. The color had left his face. “I’m sorry. Please.”

The Decanus released the man, who fell to his side and held his face as he sucked sharp, trembling breaths.

“Have you seen the Droch-fhola?”

“Promise you will show us mercy.”

“As you have shown your prisoners?” He motioned to the legionary on the slab, his body limp and eyes empty.

The old man shook his head. “That was an offering. It’s not the same.”

“I’m not here to debate the merits of cruelty. You will die — you and your friend. Tell me what I want to know and it will be quick. Refuse and I’ll cut your tongues from your mouths and remove your feet and leave you here for the wolves.”

“All right,” the old man said, his voice weak. “I’ll tell you, then. It is in these very woods.”

“We know. Have you seen it?”

He nodded. “We spotted it last night. Only the sacrifices would have kept us safe.”

“And how does one kill the thing?”

The old man’s mouth twisted. “Kill it? How does one kill the wind?”

“I am not hunting the wind.”

Scratching the scar tissue where his left eye had once been, the old man said, “You Romans. There is no creature or spirit that you don’t think should roll over and bleed for you. I’ll tell you this thing, and it isn’t much, but is all I know. When I was a child and the Droch-fhola killed our sheep, my grandfather built a hut of yew and we slept there for seven days and seven nights.”

“That is all you know?”

“That is all.”

“Thank you.” The gladius flicked his wrist and opened the old man’s throat.

That one eye went wide and the barbarian fell forward, gurgling and sputtering until his twitching ceased. Another soldier did the same for the remaining barbarian.

The Decanus turned to Silanus. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Decimus Junius Silanus, sir.”

His brow furrowed. “The Younger?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your father was a Centurion?”

That took Silanus off guard. “You knew my father?”

He waved the question away. “That was a long time ago. I suggest you find some clothes and shoes.” He walked over to the remaining captive, the legionary that had not been sacrificed, and placed his fingers to the man’s throat. “Who were these men?”

Silanus hurried to him. “Soldiers from the Second Legion.”

“Augusta?”

He nodded. “I’m a cook in the legion, apprenticing to be a soldier.” He swallowed and thought quickly. “We were on leave, the three of us,” he lied. “In a village east of here. The Ordovices crept in at night and the villagers betrayed us.”

“If they were soldiers then we shall give them a proper funeral.” He stood. “Gather wood for the pyre.”

Silanus saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“But find your clothes and shoes first. Your feet may be frost-bitten by now.”

He did so, finding his things in the same cart that had held the gladius. He also found the soldier’s belt and sheath, wearing the weapon on his hip as he went to work gathering wood. The clothing and thick cloak helped warm him some but the cold had wormed its way deep into his bones and he couldn’t shake it.

The legionaries’ bodies were burned and prayers given. The soldiers searched the wagons for anything of value but there wasn’t much, barely two saddlebag’s worth, most of it taken from the soldiers they’d murdered. Silanus had not known either of the soldiers but still felt a twinge of sadness at the idea they’d been reduced to loot. Scanning the dark wood, he did not relish the trek ahead of him. The Second Augusta was scheduled to march east tomorrow at sunrise. It would be impossible for him to catch up with them, even had he wanted. Better to put as much distance between them and himself. And what if he were to come across other bands of Ordovices? His stomach twisted at the thought.

“Let’s be off, then,” the Decanus said.

Silanus approached him. “May I travel with you, sir?”

Cold eyes bored into him and he couldn’t tell if the man was going to agree or cut him down where he stood. Freezing, starving, his abdomen still throbbing from the kick he took, Silanus refused to look away.

“With that thing out there,” one of the other soldiers said, “the boy won’t last the night.”

Silanus didn’t know to what they referred but didn’t care. There were a thousand ways for him to die in this forest. What was one more?

“Keep pace with us,” the Decanus finally said. “If you fall behind, we will not wait for you to catch up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“At the next village, you’re on your own.” He turned to his men. “Move out!”

As one, they rushed into the forest, Silanus trailing behind.

They made camp an hour later inside a small cave on a hill side where two soldiers pulled brush in front of the entrance. The Ordovices had a hunk of cured boar in one of their carts and the men sliced ribbons from it and ate around the fire. They seemed uncomfortable with Silanus there and did not speak much.

The Decanus handed him a slice of meat. “Here. Eat.”

He took it and ripped a massive bite away. It was salty and tough as leather but he was glad for it. When he had finished, he asked what legion they were with. The men looked to one another. One of them grunted.

“The Hundredth,” their commander said.

Silanus laughed. “There’s no Hundredth Legion.”

“There is.” The older man handed him another ribbon of meat. “You won’t find it listed on the Senate rolls. But it exists.”

He couldn’t tell if the commander was playing him for a fool or not. He looked to the other men but they simply watched the exchange, no smiles or laughter among them.

“What’s the legion called, then?”

“Ex Nihilo,” the commander finally said.

“Now I know you’re having me on, sir. Why would anyone name a legion ‘The Nothing’?”

The Decanus stared at him and drummed his fingers on the owl emblem adorning his breastplate. “Do you know why you were to be sacrificed tonight?”

He nodded and swallowed another chunk of pork. “To appease their barbarian gods.”

“No. To appease the Droch-fhola.”

That word again. “I don’t know what that is, sir.”

Reaching into a pouch, the commander removed a small trinket. He tossed it to Silanus. It was smooth and a dingy white.

“Nine days ago, Senator Paulinus and his entire caravan were found butchered in the forest near the River Medway. Their backs had been opened and their lungs removed. The attacker had not left so much as a footprint in the snow.”

Examining the trinket, Silanus was certain it was made from bone. It was of the same figure the Ordovices had placed in their sacrificial cabinet. Long, spindly arms were folded over the chest and a jagged mouth turned upward.

“The attack matches one that occurred a month ago at a trading outpost. A dozen Romans were killed. A slave, an Ordovices woman everyone called ‘Mama’, was the only survivor. They found her in the stables. She had cut open a lamb there and painted sigils on herself with its blood. The governor’s men thought she had conspired with the attackers but, when tortured, she said it had been the Droch-fhola. She’d gone mad and kept raving about how the thing would kill us all and so they put her out of her misery.

“Upon consulting the records, we discovered that Romans had been killed in the same manner since Julius Caesar first landed here. The Ordovices and the Cornovii claim it has been stalking them every winter for centuries.”

Silanus looked at the men around the cave, hoping one would be laughing. None were. “You believe this thing is real and you’re what? Hunting it?” he asked.

“That’s what the Hundredth does, lad,” one of the other men said.

“We do the dirty work no one else is suited for,” the man beside him added.

The commander pointed to the trinket in Silanus’s hand. “To the average Roman, these things are superstitious myths and barbarian legend. But we’ve seen what the night spirits can do.” He tapped the scar on his face. “Seen them up close and personal. This thing is responsible for the deaths of nearly two hundred Roman citizens over the years and Orcus alone knows how many Britons. We’re here to put an end to it.”

Outside the cave, the cold wind howled.

The snow fell in heavy flurries from a sky the color of dead flesh. The morning had done little to brighten the forest and even less to dispel the cold. The soldiers kept a steady pace despite the biting wind, following some trail that only Crito seemed to recognize.

He had learned little of the men aside from their names. Crito, a short but stout Gaul with red hair and a nasally voice, had some kind of gift for tracking beasts like the Droch-fhola, and Decanus Marcellus had set him to the task at first light. Antonius, the tall African and only soldier who wore a beard, served as Marcellus’s second. He’d made Silanus into a kind of pack mule for the group. Weighed down with provisions, he struggled to keep pace with the unit. At least the sweat he worked up warmed him some.

There were horses, Antonius had explained, but the poor beasts refused to travel anywhere the Droch-fhola had been so they’d stabled them at a village several miles back. His breath quick and legs heavy, Silanus wished desperately they had the animals now.

Crito raised his hand and the unit stopped. The wood was silent aside from the roaring wind and they stood motionless, Silanus holding a hand over his mouth to muffle his breathing. He would have been thankful for the break but his sweat-soaked tunic quickly turned freezing. The scout eventually moved again and the unit followed.

They continued like this for most of the day, hurrying along until Crito raised his hand. They took a break around mid-day and Silanus fell asleep with his head on a saddlebag. Crispus, a handsome Roman who laughed like a horse when something struck him funny, woke Silanus by kicking him in the shin.

“Let’s get going,” Crito said. “The thing covered a lot of ground last night.”

Silanus threw the bags onto his shoulders. “How is he tracking it in this weather?”

“By its decay,” Crispus said.

“What?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself, but the way I understand it, these things corrupt what they touch in small ways,” Crispus said. “Rotted twigs, blackened pine needles, that sort of thing. Crito knows what to look for. He’s also able to smell the thing, who knows how. Says it smells like rot.”

Silanus took a deep breath but could smell nothing.

Crispus shoved a saddlebag into Silanus’s chest. “Now, get a move on.”

They continued on, following Crito until Silanus thought he would pass out from exhaustion.

As the sun set, they came across a farm. It was little more than a small house, a shed, and a fence. The structures cast long shadows onto snow red from the dying light.

The soldiers drew their weapons. Marcellus made a motion with his hand and the unit crouched low, fanning out around the fence. Crispus motioned Silanus toward a barren tree, its trunk stout and limbs reaching low like thieving hands. He hurried behind it and crouched, watching as the men approached the farm.

A man was slumped over the fence, blood frozen on his face and hanging in gruesome icicles from the wooden slats. Antonius made his way to the corpse. He took one look at its back and nodded to the rest of the men. One by one they hopped the fence, as silent as the night creeping in, and made their way toward the farmhouse. Silanus lost sight of them.

The falling night was still, the only sounds the wind and his heart hammering in his chest. He waited, sweat trickling down his spine despite the cold, and hoped they would hurry.

A twig snapped off to his right.

He turned, hoping to see Crispus coming to fetch him, but saw only snow and barren trees. Something waited in those trees. He wasn’t certain how he knew but he did. It waited, watching him with sinister hunger, and he thought he should run. But he couldn’t.

Wind shook the thin, gray limbs of the trees and then he saw it. It was tall but hunched over, head cocked to one side, stick-like arms brushing the ground. It seemed brittle from here, hidden perfectly among dead trees that looked so much like itself, and he again knew he should run.

It stepped from his view and he was again afraid to move.

Maybe it didn’t see me. He pressed against the tree and closed his eyes and prayed it would pass him by.

A sickly sweet smell hit him, faint but unmistakable. It was the smell of carrion left to rot.

Snow crunched a few feet from him and this time he did run, turning so quickly he tripped on a low lying branch, tumbling over it. His face smashed into another limb, stars exploding behind his eyes, and he rolled onto his side, the strap of a saddlebag catching on a bulbous knot. Panic flooding through him, he fought to a crouch and almost cried when he realized he was in a gnarled tangle of limbs and dry brush. Something hot ran down his face, stinging his eye, and he wiped it away, certain it was blood.

The thing paced around him, its quick changes of direction suggesting irritation.

Why aren’t I dead already?

Ducking its head low, Silanus caught sight of its face and cried out. Its sockets were empty — gaping holes as dark as graves. The skin was black and leathery, the mouth a jagged maw of blood-stained stones. It pulled away and scrambled to the other side of the tree on all fours.

A hand shot between two branches, long talons scraping through the snow-dusted earth as it reached for his foot. He kicked the hand and it jerked up just enough to scratch its thin forearm on a twig.

The scream that erupted was loud enough to send pain radiating through Silanus’s head. He covered his ears until the shrieking faded into the forest.

Another hand grabbed at him and he kicked it furiously.

“Boy,” Antonius said. “It’s us.”

He scrambled from the tangle, shoving the saddlebags off rather than fight with the straps, and fell to the snow. The Roman soldiers surrounded him, swords drawn, staring off into the night.

Marcellus took a knee and asked him what happened. He related his ordeal, ashamed at how the panic made his voice sound as high-pitched as a child’s. When he’d finished, the Decanus stared at the tree for a long while.

“I think you’ve found what we’ve been looking for,” Marcellus said as he stood.

“I saw an axe in the shed.” Crispus took off across the farm.

“I don’t understand,” Silanus said.

The Decanus grabbed a branch and shook it. Snow fell from it in clumps. “What tree is this?”

Standing, Silanus wracked his brain to identify it. When he did he couldn’t help but laugh. “Yew.”

Marcellus woke him at dawn. Silanus followed to the shed where they had stored the bodies. The children had been the worst and he had emptied his stomach when they were carried from the house.

“Our time for watch, sir?”

“Lepidus and Gaius still have half an hour or so,” the Decanus said.

They had used the blankets in the house to cover the family. The four bodies were pressed together on the floor, their shapes visible under the cloth. The little girl’s hand had slipped from beneath and lay pale against the dark earthen floor.

“What will we do with them?”

“Burn them,” the commander said. “But not yet.” He scratched his chin and the white stubble that had grown there. “I’m going to ask you something and I want the truth from you. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He glanced at the bodies and then back to Silanus. “The legionaries that were with you. They weren’t on leave, were they?”

His throat went dry; he tried to swallow, but it was difficult. “They were.”

Marcellus’s gaze was intense.

Silanus looked away. “No. No, they weren’t.”

“Why were they in that village?”

“To retrieve me.”

“You’re a deserter?”

He nodded and thought he was going to be sick. “When my father died, he left me to the legion. Wanted me to be a soldier like him. My mother had died in childbirth and we had no other family. The cook they placed me with, he… Well, he tried to do things with me. And so I ran. Those soldiers had been sent to drag me back. And now they’re dead because of me.”

“Yes. They are.” Marcellus leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What will you do with me, sir?”

“The punishment for desertion is crucifixion.”

Silanus lowered his head and nodded. After everything he had been through, it seemed wrong he would die this way. His knees trembled and he thought he might fall, but he didn’t. That was something, he supposed.

“I said I knew your father,” Marcellus said. “What I didn’t tell you was that we served together in Spain. He saved my life a dozen times over and I saved his nearly as many.”

Silanus looked up, hope suddenly within his reach.

“When we have killed this thing, you will take a day’s worth of rations and go into the wilderness. You may live out your life there. You may even marry some barbarian girl and have children. But if you ever set foot in a Roman settlement again, you will be crucified. Is that understood?”

Hope faded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go wake Crito and the two of you get started carving up the lumber we brought in.”

Dark clouds hid the moon and only the torches they had placed around the farm’s perimeter provided any light. They danced in the wind and Silanus thought for certain they’d blow out, but each one held. He was stationed inside the house, the door open and snow gathering on the floor. Pieces of yew had been carved into rough weapons, one end pointed and the other hacked into a grip — Silanus held tight to his. Marcellus had insisted he sit there in the dark; am I some kind of bait? If so, the position wasn’t undeserved.

The house creaked against the wind. Or was that Lepidus and Crispus shifting their weight on the roof, faces painted black with soot? He wasn’t sure.

The other soldiers were out there somewhere in whatever positions Marcellus had placed them. If he had to guess, he’d say there were two more men atop the shed. As to the other four, he couldn’t imagine where they might be hiding.

A tickle in his groin told him he would need to empty his bladder soon. Would the Decanus be angry if he stepped outside to do so? He could just go in here, he supposed. It’s not like anyone would be living in this room anytime soon.

One of the torches winked out.

Silanus blinked. Rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t been mistaken. Must have been the wind. The only light now visible was the orange flickering onto the snow from the next torch over.

That, too, went dark.

He crept to the door, fear flooding him as, one by one, the torches died.

Then he saw it.

A dozen yards away. Little more than shadow. It stood tall and stretched its arms high. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it a tree.

It vanished.

It was coming for him. He had hurt it and it came to pull his lungs from his back and drink his blood.

Knowing he shouldn’t but not caring, he slammed the door and ran to the corner of the house. Piss streamed down his leg as he pressed his back to the wall and gripped the yew tight. He trembled in complete darkness for several minutes, waiting for a thud against the door or a scratching on the walls. How disappointed his father would have been.

The rough scrape of bone against wood.

Silanus’s breath caught and he slid down onto the floor. It was in here. With him. How was that possible?

The noise came again, frenzied now. Something brushed his foot. He ran. Colliding with the door, he tumbled out onto the snow.

The clouds had parted and the moon shone brightly on the farm. He rolled onto his back and looked into the house. The Droch-fhola was pulling itself free from the wall as though it had always been a part of the wooden structure. Those empty sockets locked on Silanus as the thing’s feet snapped away from the house and came after him.

It was out the door before he could get to his feet. I’m going to die here.

A dark shape dropped onto its back. The Droch-fhola buckled but did not fall as Lepidus wrapped an arm around its throat. The soldier raised his yew dagger as the creature stood to its full height, thrashing and bucking like a rabid stallion.

Lepidus fell from its back.

It turned to him as Crispus slammed into its side. The two crashed to the ground, snow dusting the air, and the soldier brought his dagger down into the Droch-fhola’s thigh. It screamed that same awful scream and bent its head backward at an impossible angle, clamping its jaws onto Crispus’s face and rose.

Crispus punched it twice, two solid blows that sounded like an axe striking oak, and then it shook its head viciously from side to side. A loud snap and Crispus fell limp to the ground.

The snow exploded around Silanus as the others erupted from the ground. Crito and Antonius charged its flank as Marcellus and Gaius circled to its front. The two other soldiers, Titus and Lucius, charged toward its side, surrounding it. It crouched low, its head darting back and forth between the three groups. Crispus’s dagger was still sunk into its thigh but no blood flowed.

Lepidus leapt from where he was thrown and jabbed it with his dagger. His retreat wasn’t quick enough and the thing’s claws gashed his leg open. Antonius made use of the distraction and stabbed its ribs. It whirled to strike but Gaius had stabbed its other side. Neither wound was deep but something flowed from each and danced in the wind. Titus made a quick jab — missed. Crito, Marcellus, and Lucius repeated the maneuver and some of what escaped the Droch-Fhola landed in front of Silanus. He hesitated a moment before snatching some and rubbing it between his fingers. It wasn’t blood. It looked like dried, crumbled leaves.

Antonius stabbed it again but it spun as Gaius followed, slipping by him and rushing toward the house. Lepidus tried to roll out of its way but it hooked the back of the soldier’s armor and dragged him as though he weighed nothing.

“After it,” Marcellus shouted and the men rushed the house.

Silanus couldn’t make himself follow. A voice whispered in his head that he should run, that he owed these men nothing, and to stay here would be his death. It was a voice he had struggled with for a long time and he fought hard to ignore it.

Rushing to the door, he saw the thing toss Lepidus against the back wall hard enough to shake the entire house. The soldier crumpled to the floor. Whirling on the others as they entered, the creature was a blur of limbs. For a moment Silanus could only see the indigo armor of the Hundredth and then, one by one, they fell. He would be next.

He backed away from the melee.

It roared, a sound of victory that reverberated like thunder, and then Marcellus was tossed from the cabin. Blood covered his face and Silanus was sure he was dead.

The Droch-fhola ripped the door from the hinge as it stepped from the house. It roared again and leapt for Marcellus.

The Decanus squirmed onto his back and brought up his gladius. The Droc-fhola fell on it. The blade pierced its chest, but the monster didn’t seem to feel it. It pushed itself down the iron, dry leaves crumbling from its mouth and onto Marcellus’s face.

“Go on, then,” the Roman said. “Send me on my way, you bastard!”

It roared and jerked forward.

Without thought, Silanus rushed forward. He slammed his yew dagger into the Droc-fhola’s back. It shrieked as the wood sunk deep and Silanus pressed harder, pushing it in further. It thrashed but he would not let go.

Yes, he thought, ecstatic to bring it agony. Die you miserable thing!

It shrieked louder. Something like a thin branch whipped up into his face.

Everything went black.

When Silanus woke, the smell of smoke was thick in the air. He struggled to sit and almost threw up.

“Slow down,” Marcellus said and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Silanus lay back on the bed. They were still in the farmhouse.

“Did it get away?”

“No.” The Decanus leaned back in his chair by the bed. “You saw to that.”

He didn’t know how to respond. For a moment when he woke, he thought everything had been a nightmare. The knowledge it had been real should have driven him mad. Instead, pride rose within — he had been the one to kill the Droch-Fhola.

“We’ll be moving on soon. Likely tomorrow.”

Silanus nodded and tried to think on which way he should travel from here; of what life held for him now.

Antonius barked orders to the men outside as Marcellus watched them through the door. “You’re welcome to come with us. If you want.”

“As a prisoner?”

The older man laughed. It stretched the stitches in his face. “As an apprentice. Not every man can be a soldier in the Hundredth, boy.” Marcellus turned to him and slapped a hand onto his chest. “Not every man belongs to this life. There’s no shame in saying no. You’ve seen how we live.” He coughed once, a wet sound deep in his chest echoing it. “And seen how we die.”

Silanus struggled to sit again. The room spun but he willed himself to steady. That voice again whispered that he owed them nothing, that he should leave here and run far from them. The voice was much easier to ignore this time.