others as they challenged the barbarian. Atretes moved so agilely they crashed against one another. Laughing, Atretes kicked dust at them and spit. If he was to die, he would die scorning his enemies.
Astride his black stallion, Severus watched the young German fight. Though surrounded by soldiers, death assured, the dog mocked his attackers openly. As Severus looked on, the giant swung his weapon in a wide circle, laughing loudly as the Roman soldiers drew back. When another challenged him, he made swift work of him, using his long spear like a sword and club in one. Stepping over the fallen man, he held the weapon between two hands and grinned fiercely, taunting the others in that heathenish language only a German tribesman could understand. When yet another challenger came at him, he moved so swiftly that the soldier passed him altogether. The man tried to check himself, but it was too late. The barbarian slammed one end of the spear into the soldier’s helmet and, bringing the other end around, sliced mercilessly across the exposed neck.
“Enough of this!” Severus shouted, furious. “Do you plan to die one by one? Take him down!” When three entered the circle, intent upon the young German’s blood, he shouted again. “ I want him alive !”
Though Atretes didn’t understand the orders, he knew something was changing by the look on his attackers’ faces. They used their swords to block his blows, but not to return them. Perhaps they meant to keep him alive long enough to crucify him. Uttering an enraged scream, he lashed out with fury. If death were coming for him, he’d greet it with a framea in his hands.
More soldiers closed in on him, slamming him with their shields. The biggest caught hold of the spear, while another brought the flat of his sword against the side of his head. Crying out in fury to Tiwaz, Atretes brought his framea down and cracked his forehead hard against his adversary’s face. As the man dropped, Atretes lunged forward over two other men. He dodged a shield, but, before he could raise his weapon again, the flat of a sword hit and briefly stunned him. He brought his foot up hard into the groin of one attacker, but another blow to his back made his knees buckle. Another blow dropped him.
Instinctively, he rolled and attempted to regain his feet, but four men grabbed his arms and legs. They forced him down while another tried to bang the spear free of his clenched fist. Atretes kept up his savage yell, bucking and struggling. The Roman commander dismounted and stood over him. He gave a quiet order, and the butt of a sword was brought against Atretes’ temple. He gripped the framea until blackness overcame him.
Atretes awakened slowly. Disoriented, he didn’t know where he was. His vision was blurred and, instead of the clean scent of the forest, the smell of blood and urine filled his nostrils. His head throbbed and he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to rise and only managed a few inches before the sound of rattling chains sent stabs of pain through his temples and brought back the full realization of his defeat. Groaning, he sank back.
His mother’s prophecy mocked him. She’d said he would be undefeated by any foe, yet here he lay, chained on a slab of wood, awaiting an unknown fate. He had failed his people; he had failed himself.
“If we die, let us die free men!” his warriors had cried when he offered them the choice of moving the tribe north or continuing the fight against Roman dominion. How bitterly this pledge stuck in his throat now, for neither he nor they had ever once considered being taken captive. Unafraid of death, they had gone into battle intent on slaying as many of their enemy as they could. All men were fated to die. Atretes and his clansmen always believed their deaths would come in battle.
Now, chained down, Atretes knew the gut-wrenching humiliation of defeat. He struggled violently against his chains and blacked out. Rousing again moments later,
Astride his black stallion, Severus watched the young German fight. Though surrounded by soldiers, death assured, the dog mocked his attackers openly. As Severus looked on, the giant swung his weapon in a wide circle, laughing loudly as the Roman soldiers drew back. When another challenged him, he made swift work of him, using his long spear like a sword and club in one. Stepping over the fallen man, he held the weapon between two hands and grinned fiercely, taunting the others in that heathenish language only a German tribesman could understand. When yet another challenger came at him, he moved so swiftly that the soldier passed him altogether. The man tried to check himself, but it was too late. The barbarian slammed one end of the spear into the soldier’s helmet and, bringing the other end around, sliced mercilessly across the exposed neck.
“Enough of this!” Severus shouted, furious. “Do you plan to die one by one? Take him down!” When three entered the circle, intent upon the young German’s blood, he shouted again. “ I want him alive !”
Though Atretes didn’t understand the orders, he knew something was changing by the look on his attackers’ faces. They used their swords to block his blows, but not to return them. Perhaps they meant to keep him alive long enough to crucify him. Uttering an enraged scream, he lashed out with fury. If death were coming for him, he’d greet it with a framea in his hands.
More soldiers closed in on him, slamming him with their shields. The biggest caught hold of the spear, while another brought the flat of his sword against the side of his head. Crying out in fury to Tiwaz, Atretes brought his framea down and cracked his forehead hard against his adversary’s face. As the man dropped, Atretes lunged forward over two other men. He dodged a shield, but, before he could raise his weapon again, the flat of a sword hit and briefly stunned him. He brought his foot up hard into the groin of one attacker, but another blow to his back made his knees buckle. Another blow dropped him.
Instinctively, he rolled and attempted to regain his feet, but four men grabbed his arms and legs. They forced him down while another tried to bang the spear free of his clenched fist. Atretes kept up his savage yell, bucking and struggling. The Roman commander dismounted and stood over him. He gave a quiet order, and the butt of a sword was brought against Atretes’ temple. He gripped the framea until blackness overcame him.
Atretes awakened slowly. Disoriented, he didn’t know where he was. His vision was blurred and, instead of the clean scent of the forest, the smell of blood and urine filled his nostrils. His head throbbed and he tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to rise and only managed a few inches before the sound of rattling chains sent stabs of pain through his temples and brought back the full realization of his defeat. Groaning, he sank back.
His mother’s prophecy mocked him. She’d said he would be undefeated by any foe, yet here he lay, chained on a slab of wood, awaiting an unknown fate. He had failed his people; he had failed himself.
“If we die, let us die free men!” his warriors had cried when he offered them the choice of moving the tribe north or continuing the fight against Roman dominion. How bitterly this pledge stuck in his throat now, for neither he nor they had ever once considered being taken captive. Unafraid of death, they had gone into battle intent on slaying as many of their enemy as they could. All men were fated to die. Atretes and his clansmen always believed their deaths would come in battle.
Now, chained down, Atretes knew the gut-wrenching humiliation of defeat. He struggled violently against his chains and blacked out. Rousing again moments later,
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