(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)
“They say Daddy’s a savage,” James said, peering up at his older brothers and uncles clustered near the hearth.
“Yeah?” Rægenwine asked, turning from the counter with a half-grin. “So, kids what’s your names, then?”
The tallest boy straightened, shoulders square. “I’m Harold,” he said. “Mother was from the islands south. Said we had the sea in our blood.”
“Sea, eh?” Rægenwine nodded. “Explains the loud voices.”
A shorter lad stepped ahead, freckles bright against soot-streaked skin. “I’m Bram. Da says I take after him.”
“Then gods help us all,” Rægenwine muttered.
The youngest, barely more than a child, piped up from behind his brothers. “Name’s Wulfie. Da says I’m the fastest.”
Thunorric chuckled from his bench, voice rough but proud. “Fastest to eat, more like.”
The boys laughed; the sound eased something heavy in the room.
Leofric smiled faintly, setting his quill aside. “Stormwulf’s brood,” he said quietly. “Born from thunder, raised in mischief.”
“Aye,” Rægenwine said, pouring fresh ale for the older two. “Let’s just hope they grow wiser than their da.”
Thunorric’s grin widened. “No chance o’ that,” he said. “But they’ve never had to steal, or draw steel and that’s more than I had.”
Silence followed, soft but full. The fire cracked, throwing gold across their faces. Outside, the crows stirred in the trees and somewhere in the distance, a single horn blew low and long.
The laughter faded as the horn sounded again. This time closer this time deep, mournful, rolling through the mist like thunder that had lost its way.
Rægenwine’s hand froze halfway to his cup. “That weren’t no huntin’ horn.”
Leofric rose, eyes narrowing. “It’s Roman in pitch but the cadence… that’s Saxon.”
Dægan stepped toward the door, the old Roman discipline returning to his shoulders. “A warning, or a call.”
Thunorric pushed himself upright, steadying against the bench. “Either way, it’s for us.”
He looked toward his sons Harold, Bram, Wulfie, and James. But something ancient flickered in his eyes, pride, and fear in equal measure.
“Rægenwine,” he said. “Get the lads below. If it’s a fight, I’ll not have them caught in it.”
“Aye,” the innkeeper muttered, already herding them toward the cellar door. “Never peace long in this place.”
Outside, the horn sounded a third time shorter now, urgent. The rain began again, a thin hiss against the shutters.
Dægan lifted the bar and stepped into the courtyard. Mist rolled thick as smoke, curling between the trees. Shapes moved beyond the hedge slow, deliberate, too many to count.
Leofric joined him, clutching a staff instead of his quill. “I’ll not write this one,” he murmured. “I’ll live it.”
Thunorric followed, sword in hand, cloak dragging through the mud. “Then we stand as Storm-kin once more,” he said, the old fire rising in his voice. “Law, ink, and steel against whatever gods come knockin’.”
The horn fell silent. Only the rain answered.
A fourth sound rose from the woods not a horn this time,. But a long, low wail that carried no breath of man or beast. The rain faltered as if listening.
Leofric’s grip tightened on his staff. “That’s no war cry.”
Thunorric’s gaze swept the treeline. “Aye. That’s the sound of the barrow waking.”
Rægenwine froze halfway down the cellar steps. “Don’t jest, lad. Not tonight.”
But the air had changed. Smoke from the hearth drifted sideways, drawn toward the door, as though something outside was pulling it. The fire hissed then flared blue.
“Gods preserve us,” Leofric whispered. “The gate’s open.”
From the fog came shapes first shadows. Then clearer forms: figures in torn cloaks, faces pale as ash, eyes like dim embers. The dead soldiers of Pennocrucium men who’d died beneath Roman banners, left unburied when the empire fell.
Their armour rattled faintly, not in march but in memory.
Dægan stepped ahead, voice low but steady. “I buried you myself,” he said. “Why rise now?”
The lead figure halted, half his face gone to rot, the other still wearing the iron discipline of a centurion. “Because Rome forgot us,” the dead man rasped. “But the storm remembers.”
Thunorric’s sword gleamed in the blue firelight. “Then you’ve come home, brother,” he said. “And this time, you’ll find your peace.”
The dead looked at one another, uncertain as if the word peace was one they’d long forgotten.
Then the horn blew once more a sound from both worlds and the dead advanced.
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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