DETAIL – A DOMINIONS III VIGNETTE
Terens squinted through the early morning mist. Nothing. To either side, his fellow legionaries stood in neat ranks, banners listless in the doldrum calm. The chill, still air was a bad omen, and Terens spat to ward off Cold Harald’s cursed breath; Decurion Galba chuckled at his superstition, but like many legionaries Terens believed that this far from Ermor, the barbarian gods were strong.
That was when he saw them, dark antlered figures swamped in the tendrilled fog. For one panicked moment he thought that the Ulmii had somehow recruited beasts from his nightmares, but then the shapes grew distinct and he could make out a line of warriors clad in furs and animal skins marching through the trees. Nearer they came, and faster, then the barbarians were pounding across the ground toward Terens’ lines, too fast for the legionaries to throw their pilae. Galba barked an order and the maniple drew together for protection, shields braced for impact. The Ulmii axemen ploughed into them, and Terens was lost in the shield-wall’s insane violence, stabbing again and again, the legionaries’ shouts mingled with the Ulmii war chant and the screams of the wounded and dying.
Hour after weary hour they fought until the axe warriors, broken, fled for the safety of the trees. A breeze picked up, and the eagle banner first fluttered, then flew proudly, prompting cheers from the Ermorian lines. For a second, Terens breathed easily, but his sigh of relief caught in his throat when he saw the eagle standard flapping ever more wildly, the wooden banner now rimed with frost, until the fabric itself grew stiff and brittle, snapping with a tortured groan that sent a shiver down his spine. As snowflakes whirled around him and the air grew unnaturally chill, Terens finally saw with sinking heart the great white figure striding through the mist. It was eighteen, no, twenty feet tall, and as it came toward the legionaries it swung a greatsword longer than a man was high. An Ermorian Pontifex flung a spell at the giant figure, but it contemptuously swatted his magic aside and responded with a frosty bolt that left the unfortunate priest sheathed in an icy cocoon, his face twisted in anguish. Then it was on them. Galba screamed as the giant sliced him in two, and Terens turned to flee, discarding his own useless gladius, its smooth iron now latticed with ice. The triumphant UImii raised an ululating cry, punctuated by the shouted name of their God: “Harald! Harald! COLD HARALD!”
Terens’ last conscious sight was of the grinning axemen advancing towards him, but the sound of their chanting continued long after he had sunk into blackness.
Cold Harald
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