(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)
The mist thickened until the world felt carved from smoke and bone. The barrow rose ahead a mound of earth older than the Chase itself, breathing cold air like a sleeping beast.
The dead advanced in silence. Rusted armour clinked. The scent of damp soil and iron filled the courtyard.
Thunorric stepped ahead, sword gleaming blue in the ghost-light. “Back to your rest,” he called. “You’ve no place among the living.”
The lead revenant paused. Half his face was gone, but the eyes still burned with reason. “And you, Stormwulf when did you last belong to the living?”
The words struck harder than any blade. Thunorric’s breath caught. He knew that voice.
“Gaius,” he whispered. “You died at my side on the walls of Pennocrucium.”
The ghost inclined his head. “Aye. I waited for the trumpet of Rome to call me home. It never came. Only thunder.”
Dægan moved to Thunorric’s flank, shield raised. “Then hear another command, Centurion stand down.”
The ghost turned, the faint echo of a smile beneath the ruin. “Still giving orders, Prefect? You never learnt when to stop.”
A low moan rippled through the barrow. As more shapes clawed through the mist hundreds now, the forgotten dead of every empire.
Leofric’s voice trembled as he lifted his staff. “They answer to no emperor. The earth itself commands them.”
Rægenwine’s shout came from the doorway. “Then we’d best make peace with the earth quick!”
The dead surged ahead. Blades met shadows; sparks hissed like fireflies. Thunorric swung through mist and memory, every strike landing with the weight of centuries.
Dægan fought beside him, his discipline holding the line. “Hold!” he roared. “By storm and steel!”
The words caught, spreading through the men living and dead alike. For a heartbeat, even the barrow stilled, listening.
Thunorric lowered his sword, chest heaving. “We buried you once,” he said softly. “Let me do it right this time.”
Gaius stepped close, the glow in his eyes dimming. “Then remember us, Stormwulf. That’s all we ever wanted.”
The ghost faded, one by one the others with him, until only the whisper of the wind remained.
Leofric fell to his knees, gripping his quill as if it were a blade. “The barrow’s hunger is sated for now.”
Thunorric wiped the blood from his sword, though none of it was human. “Then we write this night into the bones of the earth,” he murmured. “So it never wakes again.”
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
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