Aexodus

Something I wrote for a school thing many years ago, as the prologue to a longer story. Unfortunately, this is all I have left, as the full thing was written by hand in my old books we threw away, and I just found this sitting on my computer.

Seemed a shame not to share it, hope you enjoy it!

Britannia

Britannia

Tiny dust clouds floated on the air, disturbed only by the occasional javelin shaft and a pathetic cry of pain. Spear armed warriors covered in swirling symbols and ugly red smears plodded out of a light mist, stalking the living among the dead. The underfoot crunch of sickly autumn leaves accompanied this haphazard horror show.
As he lay in the damp, long grass beneath the body-strewn bank, a bloody legionary shivered slightly in the icy breeze. He had always suspected they had been followed from the coast landings. He had sensed the smoky smug of campfires on his tongue trailing nearer and nearer. Until one fateful day, when all he could taste was the bitter, dry air of this wretched isle. That was when the fireballs began…

Quickly and quietly, flickering torches floated along the mountainside like twinkling fireflies, occasionally illuminating a faraway figure or sparking a darting pair of eyes. One of those figures was a young Celtic Ambaxtoi, carefully rolling a massive bale of hay along the steep slope. He charily wheeled it into position, resting the base on a large rock before securing the vast bundle with a length of horsehair rope. He then received an oily jar of pitch, which he drizzled all over it, before handing it on to the next man, who subsequently knocked it against his own sword hilt, producing an eerie clang which rang through the still night. The entire ranks of the fierce 100-stong Durotriges war band stiffened. The warriors listened. The faint thump of the roman marching column could still be perceived. A harsh word was whispered from their Uiros Uiramos – war leader – Cynbel of Lydaw. Finally, every man dropped his torch to his bale, severed its restraint, and watched a fiery orb tumble away.

“Keep it moving! Don’t stop for anything!” hollered the red-plumed Aquilifier,herding along the weary, dirty, and dog-tired troops with his gleaming legionary eagle. The Centurion trudging beside him gave the half-Gallic standard-bearer a quick nudge.
“Come on, they’re only auxiliaries. They’ve probably never walked much further than the Alpes Cottinae.”
Tiberius glanced over at his comrade, and sullenly replied, “Ach, if they can drag their feet over the Alpines, they can take them up to Caledonia. You’re not gettin’ tired are ye Brutus?”
Brutus Scipio laughed at this banter the pair had shared for the last 12 years of campaigning, but his smirk was swiped off his face by the sight of dozens of fireballs rolling down the steep sides of the narrow valley. He barely had time to raise the animal-bone horn to his lips before a demonic bolide smashed into one of the packhorse wagons ahead of him, bursting into flames. Previously upright and proud soldiers fearfully clustered into small groups like sheep before a flash of fire obliterated them. Suddenly a great roar went up, and snarling Woad Warriors crashed through the undergrowth, stabbing at armourchinks and slashing at exposed necks. The Centurion and the Aquilifier drew their swords.