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.
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.
The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.
“Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”
Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”
The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.
“He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”
“To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.
“Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”
From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.
The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.
“Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.
Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”
But none of them truly did. Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.
“What if he’s caught out there commander?”
Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.
“If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”
The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”
Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”
The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.
Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”
Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.
“Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “…tell him the storm never left the island.”
The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.
The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north. And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.
Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back. He only smiled.
The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.
“Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”
His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields. The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.
He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.
Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
“Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”
Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.
He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.
When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.
“Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”
The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.
They marched him up the salt-hill at Dodderhill, where the Roman timber bites into the skyline like bad teeth. Below, Salinae steams. The brine pits cough a white breath across the roofs, and every back in the town goes still; men with salt-burned hands, women with brined wrists, children with their mouths parted. All of them looking up. All of them waiting to see a lesson.
Storm’s wrists are raw from the iron. His shirt is torn where they hauled it over his head, the air is cold on old scars and new. There is a cut across his ribs from the morning’s struggle and the dried salt in it stings like sand.
A centurion with a wine-scarred mouth calls the charge in a language that thinks it is the only one that matters.
“Rebel. Murderer. Enemy of Rome.” The words land like stones. Men with square shields drag the condemned in a line. Three farmers. A boy who threw a stone. Storm.
“Use the cross for the big one,” the centurion says. “Make them see.”
They set the upright in the earth, ramming it with a post-driver until the ground answers. The carpenter’s nails gleam in a little wooden tray, thick as a man’s thumb. The hammer is clean. The executioner’s eyes flick to Storm and away again as if he’s looked at the sun too long.
Storm keeps his chin up because he will not bend. He smells oak smoke from the town, the sour of men in mail, the resin of fresh-split palings. He tastes brine on his teeth. A gull wheels and screams once, the cry torn thin by the wind.
A voice from the crowd below: not words, just a keening. Another voice, hoarse, calls his name the way a prayer is called: “Shield!”
He does not look down. He looks at the sky. Cloud, thin and grey and harmless. For now.
“Hold him,” the centurion says.
Four soldiers pin his arms. The fifth takes Storm’s right hand and forces it open against the cross-beam. The leather strap bites his palm. The executioner lifts the first nail. It is cold when it kisses the crease of Storm’s wrist.
Storm hears the old world in the edges of the day. The ring he once wore feels like a phantom weight on his finger. He sees Nessa’s hair in the corner of his sight when the wind shifts. He hears Boldolph and Morrigan somewhere he can’t walk to anymore. Rayne’s voice is the whisper in the hinge of the jaw: brother, hold still and we will live. Brother, lie down.
The hammer rises.
Thunder is far off. Not here, not yet. A single pulse on the horizon like a heart behind a ribcage. The executioner breathes. The hammer falls.
It meets iron and the iron skids, glancing off the nail head. The blow dents the wood and slams into Storm’s bones. He grunts despite himself. Blood beads. The executioner squints, checks the nail, lifts again.
The second stroke strikes home. Iron bites meat. The sky pulls tight.
A woman cries out below. “Enough! He fought for us!”
“Silence,” the centurion barks, not looking down.
Storm tastes copper. His vision narrows, then widens until he can see each hair on the executioner’s wrist, each pore, each fleck of sawdust stuck to the hammer’s face. It is the old sight, the red edge. He could go there—into the roar where nothing hurts until after—but he does not. He holds on. He wants to watch.
“Left,” the centurion says.
They take his other hand. Fingers spread. The nail’s cold mouth finds the vein. The hammer rises
and the wind turns.
Not a gust. A pivot. The kind of turning that changes seasons. Smoke from the brine pans below folds back on itself. Sparrows flatten to the earth. The hairs along Storm’s arms lift.
The first crack of thunder lands atop the fort like an axe into a block. Every man jolts. A standard topples with a clatter of bronze. The executioner flinches, the nail slips, and instead of flesh he drives it through the softened knot of the beam.
The shock carries up his arm. He swears. The soldier holding Storm’s elbow looks at the sky. The sky looks back.
Cloud blooms fast from the western line, rolling in on a bruise-coloured belly. A wolf-long shape seems to run along its edge and is gone. Another crack. Closer.
“Finish it,” the centurion snaps. But there’s a catch in it now, and he makes a sign with his two fingers as if to pinch off something unseen.
The hammer lifts for the third time.
Lightning hits the palisade post a spear’s throw away. Wood screams. Splinters go like hail. Men duck behind shields by training, but training breaks when the sky speaks in a voice older than their gods. A mule rears and snaps its lead. The nail tray overturns; iron skitters like teeth on stone.
Storm moves then.
He lets the red edge take him for a heartbeat just enough. He wrenches, twisting his pinned right wrist so the cut tears long and clean instead of deep. The leather strap splits where sweat has rotted it.
He brings his head forward under the beam, drives his shoulder into the soldier’s throat, hears the wet cough, feels the grip loosen. He kicks back, heel to knee, and the man behind him falls with a scream.
There is always a moment in a fight when the world decides. This is it.
He drives the crown of his head into the executioner’s face; the man drops the hammer, hands going to his nose. Storm grabs the hammer with his left hand, blood slicking the haft, and swings the weight into the chain on his left wrist. Once. Twice. The chain holds. The third blow finds the link that was barely peened shut, and it parts with a sweet, bright sound.
“Hold him!” the centurion bellows, but half his men are looking at the burning post and the other half are looking at the sky.
Shapes break from the heather below the berm three, five, a dozen men with black-painted shields and hunters’ faces. Brianna’s braid is bound with leather; Cadan’s scar shows white through ash. They come without horns or shouts, all knife and certainty.
Brianna hits the left flank like a thrown stone, her knife opening a belly before the man knows his shield is gone. Cadan slides under a spear and cuts the hamstring clean, then is up again and laughing because sometimes that is the only way to keep breath inside you.
“Storm!” Brianna barks.
He throws the hammer. She catches it by the neck and brings it down on a helmet rim, bending iron into eyebrow and eye. She tosses it back and he takes the chain a second time and frees his right.
The centurion finds his voice at last and orders the archers, but the bowstrings are wet now, the fletchings torn sideways by the sideways rain that has arrived without crossing the ground between. Arrows go high and crooked. One finds a farmer’s boy in the line of the condemned. The boy sits down as if to rest and does not get up again.
Storm would carry that if he let himself. Later, he thinks, later, and steps toward the centurion.
“Stand,” the centurion says, not to him but to what moves in his bones.
“I do,” Storm says.
They meet as men meet: iron-toothed and close. The centurion is trained. Storm is made. The first cut is Storm’s forearm across the centurion’s sword-hand, breaking the rhythm, and the second is Storm’s head against the man’s nose—again, because men are made of the same mistakes and the third is Storm’s thumb to the centurion’s eye. The man goes down with a sound nothing like command.
“Back!” a junior officer yelps. “Back to the fort!”
They drag their wounded. They leave their dead. They do not look at the cross. The storm does what storms do it eats the edges of everything.
From the town below, the people cannot see the cut and the grapple, only the outline of men against rain and the lightning that makes ghosts of them. Then those ghosts are gone into the gorse and the broom, and the hill is left with a burning post and an empty beam and a rumour that begins to run faster than hooves.
They bind Storm’s wrist tight with a strip of his own shirt and the last clean linen any of them have. The bleeding slows. His hands shake after it stops. He sits with his back against a birch, watching steam lift off his skin.
“Could have died,” Cadan says, not accusing, not gentle.
“Didn’t,” Storm answers.
Brianna crouches and studies the wound. “You’ll have two scars for one story,” she says. “The tale-singers will thank you.”
Storm looks at the knot of linen. He thinks of a nail driven through the heel of a stranger in a land he will never see, of crosses on a hill where a different empire stakes its truth. He thinks of Nessa’s mouth and Rayne’s eyes and of wolves that do not answer. He feels the tremor in himself and wonders if it will ever stop.
“Was it you?” Cadan asks. “The sky?”
Storm chews that like gristle and spits it out. “No,” he says. “It was the sky.”
Brianna huffs once, almost a laugh. “Then the sky is with us.”
They move as the light fails, cutting north and a little west, keeping to hedges and the backs of fields, avoiding every lane the Romans know.
The storm rolls away toward the Severn; behind it, the wood drips and the undergrowth smells green and clean as if nothing dies.
By the time they reach the low, wet ground where the oaks thicken half a day’s walk from the salt town, close enough to smell wood-smoke when the wind is right night has set.
They choose a place where yew anchors a little rise and an old fallen oak makes a table the size of a man. Cadan lights a small fire that no one will see unless they are meant to. Brianna lays out bread and dried meat and a handful of early wild garlic leaves, because ritual has to start with something you can eat.
Storm stands, because oaths are made on feet.
“We were a ring,” he says. “We were a house. We were a promise to people who do not want us anymore. Today I was meant to die to teach them to fear, and I did not. I don’t know if that is luck or the gods or a debt that will come due later.”
He looks at each of them. There are eleven counting him. Some are men who fought with him when the wolves still ran the ridge. Some are women who learned a knife because no one else would come. One is a boy who was a boy yesterday and is not anymore.
“I’m done waiting for any man’s mercy,” Storm says. “If you stay with me now, you stay knowing there will be no pardon. No ring to call us home. We will be hunted by chiefs and by Rome and by the stories men tell when they are afraid. We will strike and vanish.
We will take food from those who hoard it and give it to those who starve. We will cut chains where we find them. We will keep the lanes dangerous for those who would make them safe for empire. We will be the shadow that says not yet.”
He sets his palm on the fallen oak. Blood from the bandage seeps fresh and red and bright against the old grey wood.
“I name us,” he says, and the words come easy because they are true before he speaks them. “The Black Shields. Not for hiding” he taps the painted face of Brianna’s board, dull black with ash and pitch “but for what we carry in front of us so the ones behind can live.”
Brianna puts her hand over his. “Black Shields,” she says.
Cadan’s hand stacks next. “Black Shields.”
One by one, the others follow, rough palms and finer, scarred knuckles and bitten nails, hands that have stolen and fed and fought and held.
When they step back, the tree holds their blood in a dark print that already looks like a sigil.
A wind runs through the oak leaves though nothing else stirs. Somewhere far off a fox barks and another answers. In the dip of silence after, Storm thinks he hears just for a breath the long, low note of a wolf.
He looks up into the black roof of the wood and does not ask for a sign. He has had enough signs for one day.
“Sleep,” he tells them. “We move before light. The salt road will wake angry.”
Brianna nods, already spreading a cloak for the boy who is not a boy. Cadan checks the edges of the camp, his knife out, his shoulders easy for the first time since the hill.
Storm sits again with his back to the birch. His wrist throbs in time with his heart. When he closes his eyes, the hammer falls, and falls, and falls, and does not find him.
Below, the town spreads the story because towns are made to spread stories. By morning it will have a name it did not have yesterday the Hill of Ashes. By night there will be new chalk marks cut into the backs of gateposts that mean leave bread, and others that mean soldiers, and others that mean the Black Shields have passed.
He lets sleep take him only when the fire dies to a patient red and the rain begins again, soft and fine, washing the last blood from the bark.
From this moment Taranis Stormborne became known as Storm among his men.
StormborneLore 