By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore
The dawn came slow and grey, dragging itself through the fog. As Taranis stood by the brook, cloak heavy with rain, listening to the groan of trees in the wind.
The men were stirring mud streaked, bone-tired, but still breathing.
Caedric coughed, spitting into the fire’s ash.
“Reckon we’ve outfoxed ‘em, lord. Romans don’t fancy these woods no more than wolves do.”
Taranis gave a crooked grin. “Aye, an’ I’ll keep it that way. Chase belongs to the storm, not the eagle.”
He slung his satchel, nodding north. “Pack up. We take the old path up past Wyrley Hill, through the firs. If the gods favour us, we’ll reach the ford ‘fore night.”
“An’ if they don’t?” muttered one of the younger lads.
Taranis looked over his shoulder, eyes pale as lightning. “Then we make ‘em.”
They set off through the trees, boots sucking at the mire, breath fogging in the cold. Above, the sky split in pale streaks of silver and white, like a scar the world hadn’t healed.
By midday, the Chase fell behind them and the road opened wide broken Roman stones, weeds clawing through the cracks.
Caedric slowed, squinting. “Watling Street, once. My da said it stretched all the way to the sea.”
Taranis ran a gloved hand over one of the stones. “Sea don’t matter. Storm reaches farther.”
He turned to the others. “Keep low. Scouts’ll be watchin’ the high ground.”
They crossed in silence, shadows sliding between the birch trunks. A crow cried overhead, sharp and lonely.
Then movement was seen over the ridge. A figure on the ridge, half-hidden by mist. A glint of bronze.
Caedric hissed, “Bloody Romans?”
Taranis lifted a hand, quieting him.
“Nah,” he said after a long look. “One man. Cloak’s too dark. Looks more like one o’ ours.”
The shape moved closer. A limp. Familiar.
“Taranis?” a voice called, rough as gravel. “By all that’s left o’ the gods, it is you.”
From the fog stepped an older warrior, scar cut deep across his jaw.
“Byrin,” Taranis breathed. “Didn’t think the storm’d spare you.”
Byrin laughed, short and hollow. “It near didn’t. Lost three good lads south o’ Salinae, an’ near my own arm with ‘em. But word spreadsfolk say you’re gatherin’ again. Stormborne, back from the grave.”
Taranis gave a small, weary smile. “Not the grave yet, though Rome keeps diggin’.”
He looked at his men mud-smeared faces, eyes bright with a spark that hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Then it’s true,” said Byrin, glancing north. “You mean to march again?”
Taranis nodded. “Not march. Rise. Rome’s road breaks here our land, our law. Time we made ‘em remember.”
He drew a small blade, slicing a mark into the nearest stone a spiral, storm’s sigil.
Caedric watched, grinning. “Yow think they’ll see that, lord?”
Taranis met his gaze, voice low as thunder.
“Aye. An’ when they do, they’ll know the storm’s still breathin’.”
The wind rose, carrying the scent of rain and ash.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered deep, slow, and close.
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© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
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If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
Author’s Note
The Black Country dialect woven through this story carries the sound of the land Taranis once called home old speech born from forge and field.
Where words still echo the rhythm of hammers, storms, and stories told by firelight.
Much of The Broken Road is inspired by the landscapes around Cannock Chase, Wyrley, and Watling Street places where the ancient and modern meet in the same mist.
In those quiet corners, the past never quite sleeps, and the storm still remembers its name.© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
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