Thunder boomed. The rain sheeted down, and lightning lit up the sky in vivid relief, before the night closed in once more. Trelius peered out into the night, stamping his feet where he stood, trying to keep warm. The rain poured all over him, and only his oiled cloak prevented him from being soaked all through his armour. His spear stood beside him on the ground, and his companion guard stood on the other side of the entrance to the tent, at least as uncomfortable as he was.

Lightning flashed again, and this time Trelius was able to see the person walking towards the tent more clearly. He was dressed in the armour of a legionnaire, but seemed to have an officer’s epaulets of rank on his shoulders. Trelius straightened as the officer approached, and when he made as if to enter the tent asked, "Who are you, sir, so that I may announce your presence?"

The officer replied "It is I, Marcus Brutus. I have been summoned to see Caesar. Tell him with haste, for ‘tis demons weather tonight."

Trelius bowed respectfully, and showed Brutus into Caesar’s tent. They greeted each other warmly, and then Trelius went back to his duties, out in the rain.

* * *

"Welcome, my friend," Caesar said in his deep, melodious voice, rising from his seat behind his desk. "Thank you for coming in such terrible weather."

"It is of no moment, Julius," Brutus replied, smiling. "What can I help you with tonight?"

Caesar rose, and walked across the tent to a sideboard, where he poured two goblets of wine, then handed one to Brutus. "As you are aware, my friend, we are about to make a preemptive strike against the Celtic tribes in Gaul, specifically the tribe of the Nervii, who have been extremely troublesome as of late." Brutus nodded. All of the soldiers knew that the First General would not have brought ten full legions, almost 60,000 men into this remote part of the Republic for a mere uprising.

"And what is the problem, Caesar? Surely the troops we have with us will prove enough to overwhelm the tribesmen."

"If only that were true. Scouts report that we will face forces in excess of 200,000 men once we cross the Alps. Our soldiers should be able to overcome them, true, but at what cost? I have summoned you here tonight so that we may devise a suitable strategy to destroy the southern tribes, and then the Nervii in the north. They are an incredible drain on our resources, but the People must not see that, lest they lose faith in us. We must return to Rome with most of our forces intact, so that we may show the citizens again how all-powerful the Legions are," he ended cynically. "If we succeed.... You should be granted a position in the Senate, and I...." he smiled. "I should see my fortunes increase quite dramatically."

Brutus looked at him, and then nodded his head. "Very well, Caesar. Let us make our plans."

* * *

Upon a hillside far to the north, a small log cabin stood against the drenching rain. Its owner, the only occupant, sat in a chair near the fire. He had been informed about the invasion that very day, and had received a personal appeal. His mind flickered back, to the last campaign of the Romans into Nervii lands, of the screams, the blood, the sweet taste of victory. He remembered the message that had been sent to him then, and uncrumpled it from his fist, and read it once again:


My old friend.

It is as we feared. The Legions could not allow the rebellion by us to go unrevenged, and are marching an army towards our southern border. They have an estimated 60,000 men, and will arrive on the march lands within a month. Our only hope is to hold the passes against them. We must reach them within the next two weeks, or they will have crossed, and will tear our army apart when on the plains. We are no match for the legions on a battlefield, you know this.

I am begging you, for the sake of our people, please come. You are our best fighter, and your presence will bring them hope. You are our only chance of survival, for even our forces cannot resist the legions without a leader.

As I write this, I am dying. I am unable to command myself, and soon my title will be contested, as I have only the one child, my daughter Talia. She is well suited to rule, but the tribes will not follow her. She will need your guidance and presence to sway them.

I await your presence.

Bladrath
Lord of the Nervii
Chief of the Clan Chiefs of the Southern Belgae


He folded the letter up once more, and stood, groaning as the muscles in his back complained about the activity. Lifting his gaze, he stared at the sword hanging on the wall. Made of the finest steel, and engraved with runes down it’s entire length, it was indeed a weapon to be feared. Named Lothræl in the language of the tribes in Britannia from whence it came, it’s name meant Blood Dancer. Never sheathed without blood drawn, never overcome, it had been clenched in his hands through a score of battles over many years. And now, he was being asked to use it again. He sighed, and looked out of the window into the rain. Many years had passed since he had last went to war. He was no longer the same man.

He crossed the room, and walked out of the door into the driving rain. He was instantly drenched, and raised his hand to shelter his face while he stared into the night. He peered as far as he could, but could not see through the sheeting rain, which blocked his view of the mountains far away. He turned, and walked back into the cabin.

The sword gleamed on the wall as he moved back to the fire. It seemed to speak to him, promising unearthly delights if he shed blood once more, felt the heat of battle, destroyed the seeds of renewal. Just like he had lived and breathed in the past. Just like when he had been a killer. He heard that familiar voice in the back of his skull, whispering to him. "One last time, my soul mate. One last dance before death."

He realised then that he had decided. He strode purposefully across the room, and took down the sword, and swished it through the air. The air itself seemed to part from that blade. Blessed by one of the Great Druids from Ynes Prydein, it had a spell of eternal sharpness on it. It would not break, and could not be blunted. Its weight felt right in his hand.

He held the blade up the the light, and spoke to the voice in his mind. "One last day, soul brother. One last glorious dance before the sun sets, and this dream ends." He pulled a long scabbard out of a cupboard near the fireplace, then packed a script of food swiftly. He sheathed the sword, shouldered his pack, and doused cold water onto the fire. It went out with a loud hiss, and he surveyed the cabin once more in the darkness. He thought of the happiness he had shared here, and stood still for a short while.

Then turning purposefully, he walked towards the door of the cabin, pushing it open. The rain seemed to come down even heavier. He stared out into it, and then, pulling on his leather cloak, strode out into the rain.

And Death walked with him, into the darkness.