The column marched in tense silence, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps and the creak of battered armor. Through the morning mist, Drusar advanced on foot, letting his loyal horse Hildr follow close behind without attempting to mount. It was not the custom of a renowned warrior to burden a wounded horse with his weight; Drusar preferred to carry the pain and fury on his own legs rather than exhaust the animal that had been his companion and friend through countless battles.
As he walked, his eyes scanned the demoralized procession of his wounded and sullen comrades. Their faces, marked by fatigue and disillusionment, told stories of past battles, of glory fading into the smoke of disaster. The column moved in uneven formation, and among this somber parade were the two remaining captains: on one side, Lord Hrodulf, whose gaze still burned with the determination of a warrior who had never known surrender; on the other, the Praefectus Marco, that small Latin whose valor in the fray had prevented the disaster from becoming complete—though Drusar despised him vehemently.
To Drusar, Marco was the symbol of a defeat masked by mediocrity: a man who, despite his brave intervention, could not escape the contempt of one who revered the ancient traditions of honor and strength. Yet, amid the chaos, he reluctantly acknowledged that Marco's courage had made the difference, preventing the ambush from becoming an even greater catastrophe.
Drusar lowered his gaze to Hildr, whose dark eyes reflected pain and helplessness. Gently, he touched the neck of the chestnut horse, trying to convey a calm he himself struggled to maintain. Their bond went beyond that of rider and steed; it was an alliance forged in battle and cold nights under forgotten stars, a loyalty that transcended mere utility in combat. Hildr was his silent refuge, the only one who understood the invisible scars carried by both him and his lineage.
The march continued, and in the dim glow of dawn, Drusar paused for a moment to observe his scattered comrades: warriors who had once proudly borne the banner now dragged their existence between stifled cries and vacant stares. But despite his contempt for Marco, the memory of the failed ambush—where the small prefect's iron intervention had averted greater ruin—drove him forward. His soul burned with the promise of vengeance and the inescapable need to restore the glory slipping through his fingers.
With the whisper of the wind and the relentless beat of his own heart, Drusar resumed his march, letting Hildr, despite pain and exhaustion, remain the silent witness to his oaths and the uncertain fate ahead.
—Blood or fame — he murmured under his breath, recalling the wolf amulet, his mother's sole legacy, like an echo of the loyalty they shared in a world where honor was measured by the strength to rise even in the darkest hours.
The column trudged heavily across open fields, retreating from disaster with slow steps and bowed heads. The sun still hung in the sky, warm but indifferent, and the air reeked of dried blood, sweat, and defeat. Drusar walked on foot, his scale lorica scraping his hip, his dark green cloak fluttering in tatters. Beside him, Hildr, his wounded chestnut, limped with difficulty, his breathing growing shallower. He couldn't bring himself to mount—he wouldn't burden him further. His loyalty deserved respect, not abuse.
Then Aldric approached, still mounted on his horse, one of the few left unscathed. He shot Drusar a frank look, a half-smirk on his sun-weathered, scarred face.
—Drusar — he said — You may not remember, but you saved my life yesterday. Right when one of those bastards was about to slit my throat from behind.
Drusar glanced at him sidelong, not breaking stride.
—I wasn't fighting for you — he replied curtly — I was fighting for myself.
Aldric chuckled low, shaking his head.
—Well, that sword stroke of yours ended up deflecting a spear meant for my throat. You saved me, whether you admit it or not.
Drusar didn't answer immediately. His gaze fixed on Hildr's bloodied back, and his fingers unconsciously sought the wolf amulet at his neck. The horse's breathing was labored, strained. He wouldn't last much longer.
—Your chestnut's at death's door — Aldric said gravely — A damned shame. When we reach Fortium, I swear I'll get you another. A strong one. Least I can do for walking out alive.
—It won't be Hildr — Drusar murmured, almost to himself. Then he clenched his jaw — But it'll be something.
They marched on together in an odd, shared silence. The column ahead and behind seemed to unravel slowly: men with poorly wrapped bandages, pallid faces, sunken eyes. The Praefectus Marco rode farther ahead, his gaze fixed forward. Drusar couldn't stand it. That small Latin, weak-looking, with his sharp command and air of virtue—and yet, he had to admit, grudgingly.
—His intervention saved us from worse disaster — he muttered, as if spitting stones.
Aldric nodded.
—Marco fought like a demon. Never thought he had it in him.
Drusar scoffed in disdain but didn't argue. His silence was confirmation enough.
—Still hard to believe we were beaten by peasants — he added — Peasants with long spears. Cowards. They didn't even have cavalry. If they had—
Aldric tensed, his expression hardening.
—If they had, we'd all be dead, and Fortium would just be a memory.
Drusar looked toward the horizon, where the land rose gently into soft hills. Fortium lay there, still a day's march away, maybe less. The smoke of the past still clung to his nostrils, and the thirst for glory—or vengeance—burned in his throat.
—Blood or fame — he murmured, thumbing the amulet.
Aldric said nothing more. Both continued their march, one mounted, the other on foot, as in so many other campaigns. But this time, something had shattered. And something else was about to be born.
As the column pressed on wearily across the field, skirting puddles of old blood and the stench of corpses still littering the path, Drusar and Aldric kept pace side by side, wrapped in the comfortable silence only those who've shared too many battles can sustain. But soon, the tension eased, and with it came murmurs, like a breeze stirring the ashes of defeat to reveal the embers of camaraderie.
—Remember Aquileia? — Aldric said, not looking at him — That tavern on the cliff, before they sent us against those Illyrian pirates.
Drusar snorted, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips.
—Aquileia? Of course I remember. I remember the girl at the port even more. The one with teeth as white as her thighs. What was her name?
—Aylna. Or Alina. Bah, doesn't matter. Always had a thing for pale skin, straight black hair, and tits that made your arms ache if you squeezed too hard.
Drusar let out a dry laugh.
—Men of simple tastes.
—And consistent. In every port, we ended up fighting over the same kind of woman.
—And drinking the same watered wine till one of us toppled over. Those were the days.
They both laughed, and for a moment, the weight of defeat seemed to dissolve in memory. Gradually, more Ostrogoth knights drifted closer, drawn by the muffled laughter, the murmurs of old pleasures and past glories. One of them, a barrel-chested man, carried his helmet hooked on his elbow, his brow furrowed.
—If only we had another Ingomer now... — he said, unprompted.
Aldric lifted his chin, suddenly serious.
—We've known none like him. When he led the Apennine campaign, remember? A hundred against five hundred, and we walked out like kings. They called him 'the Hammer of Shadows' for a reason.
Drusar nodded, and more men gathered—hardened Ostrogoths, some still bandaged across face or arm, others leaning on spears as if they were canes.
—Ingomer didn't just fight hard — another said — He had that gift—knew when to charge, when to feign retreat, when to stake his life. Twelve battles aren't won by luck.
The talk grew thicker, heavier with pride. But like an inevitable shadow, someone muttered under his breath:
—And yet... it was that Latin prefect who kept us from being slaughtered.
The words fell like a stone in a pond. All fell silent for a second.
Drusar clenched his jaw. Aldric shot him a quick glance, waiting for his reaction.
—I won't deny it — Drusar said at last — The damned Marco had guts. But that doesn't change what he is.
—A Latin — someone muttered.
—A man of faith — said another, as if spitting ash.
—One who talks more to his god than his sword — a third finished with contempt.
Aldric shrugged.
—Maybe. But not all praying men are cowards. We saw that yesterday. Hard as it is to say, if not for his horse and that 'shields!' cry of his, we'd all be in the ground.
The murmurs resumed, now edged with resentment more than mockery. No one wanted to admit that a levy of organized peasants, led by a sword-wielding priest, had taught them a lesson. It was easier to blame chance, betrayal, the terrain. Anything but their own arrogance.
Drusar spat on the ground.
—Next time, I won't underestimate the praying sort — he said, wiping sweat from his neck with his filthy cloak — But that doesn't mean I'll count them as equals.
The march continued, hooves pounding the earth monotonously, and the Ostrogoth brotherhood, pride wounded, smoldered like a banked fire. Bound by resentment, by blood, by memories of whores and mountains and pirates—but also, though none would say it aloud, by a humiliation they weren't ready to accept.
—And thank the gods they had no cavalry — one of the Ostrogoths said between dry laughs, lips still dust-stained, voice rough with bitterness.
Then the wind shifted.
A horn sounded from the north—long, guttural, like the howl of a beast waking from centuries of slumber. Another followed, then another, in a cascade, as if the hills themselves were spewing war. The entire column halted as if the ground had vanished beneath them. Drusar turned, his heart freezing.
From the hills, figures emerged: riders. Horse archers, wrapped in furs and dust, descending like a swarm. These were no peasants. Not this time.
The Ostrogoths, still dulled by wounded pride, stared in all directions with wide eyes but clouded judgment. Without Ingomer, without the hammer of command that united men's wills, they were paralyzed. No one moved. No one reacted. Until—
—SHIELDS! INFANTRY TO THE FRONT, CAVALRY TO THE REAR AND FLANKS! — The shout erupted like thunder.
It was Marco.
Mounted, his cloak billowing, his helmet loose, his small frame seemed insignificant—but his roar was a giant's. In his left hand, the horn blared again, a call to the living not to become carrion.
Only the Roman levy obeyed. Peasants armed with old swords and poorly painted shields, yet they answered the cry as if Julius Caesar himself commanded. The Ostrogoths, though, remained stubbornly incredulous. They stared at Marco like a servant daring to raise his voice at his lords' table.
—He's no Ingomer! — one snarled.
—He's got no right to give orders! — another spat.
Then Hrodulf reacted. He leapt from his horse and bellowed orders in their tongue, pointing to the flanks, rallying what remained of the cavalry. But it was too late.
Drusar barely had time to glance back at his comrades. A moment ago, they'd laughed with him, reminiscing about port whores and snow-capped peaks. The next, the sky turned black with arrows.
One bolt punched through Aldric's skull, his smile not yet faded. His body dropped like an empty sack.
Another tore open the throat of the barrel-chested Ostrogoth, who only managed a choked grunt before collapsing.
A third struck Aldric's horse in the neck, blood gushing as the aorta split like a slashed pouch. The beast reared, screaming like a child, then crashed down atop its dead rider.
Drusar saw it all. Felt the wind whip past his face, heard death's whistle, flesh tearing, bones breaking. He watched them all die. All of them. And he... nothing.
Not a scratch.
Not a single splash of blood.
Only the thick silence after slaughter.
Standing amid corpses, the wolf amulet hanging like lead against his chest, Drusar understood the cruel jest the gods had dealt him. He, who sought blood or fame... had been given solitude.
And the horns kept blowing.