Together

"Take care of yourself and make sure that you come back," Gyptis ordered Cathbar. "I don’t want to be a widow before I become a bride." Then she kissed him.

On impulse the warrior put down his weapons and wrapped his arms around her. For a moment the two stood there staring into each other’s eyes, totally oblivious to the world around them. Then, he released her, re-shouldered his weapons ready to leave and joined the other warriors. As the war band left the village, he looked back to see her waving him good bye. He would have waved back, but you can not do that with a shield and spear in your hands.

Of course, Cathbar had been on a few cattle raids, but a full-scale battle was a whole new experience for the young warrior. There was none of the fluid skirmishing that he had seen before or heroes issuing challenges to foes to meet them in single combat. Instead, the Tribe formed a line many men deep, the infantry and the King in the center, mounted warriors on the flanks. In the distance Cathbar could see the enemy, dull gray in color because they wore iron armor. Every one of them less than men because they did not use magic to become more than men.

On the command of the King, the Tribe advanced upon the Roman line. Three hundred paces from it, the warriors halted whilst they drew power from groves and pools. As he cast his own spells Cathbar felt magic power begin to surge through him. Time slowed and subconsciously he knew that he was about to perform feats of prowess beyond those of normal men. Thoughts of Gyptis dimmed as earth magic took hold of him, body and soul. He became filled with the knowledge that death is nothing more than the door from one life to another, and if the Romans were to cut him down this day, he would return in a new carnation to love and be loved. When the clansmen in front of him charged, he joined them in their battle madness.

The warriors of the Tribe with the Kindred with the King at their head swept forward like a river in full flood surging downstream. Carynxes brayed for Roman blood and warriors called on the gods for victory. Their charge struck the enemy line with such force that it was driven back many paces. Many were cut down on each side, but the Romans did not break. By some unnatural, almost demonic, power, they halted the Tribe’s advance. Still, one seldom defeats evil in one swift move. So, the Tribe fell back to group, leaving the ground strewn with the bodies of warriors who would not see the Land again in this life.

Three times more the Tribe summoned power from the pools and groves and swept down on their enemy. On each occasion the Roman line stood like a gnarled old tree ridden by beetles and battered by the elements, but somehow survives against the odds. On each occasion, the weak and the unlucky fell to their enemy’s swords leaving their comrades like bronze that has been heated and hammered by the smith: stronger and hardier than before. But, to no avail. In spite of the losses that they had suffered the enemy stayed their ground. Moreover, soldiers from the rear ranks filled the gaps torn in front so from where Cathbar stood that it was as though none had fallen.

Finally, the sun touched the horizon. Both lines now stood apart; so drained with fatigue that they were barely able to stand let alone fight. Then, drawing on some inhuman reserve of energy, the Romans charged. Their steel wall crashed into the Tribe like an almighty hammer. For a moment, it’s men stood their ground. But the battle had been long and the warriors had sucked the pools and groves dry of power. Thus, there was none left for that final clash. Now merely human, they ran as their strength drained away like snow melting in bright sunlight.