Rain drummed steadily against the timber walls, washing the last of the blood from the mud-churned killing ground below the fort.
The smell still clung — copper and rot and smoke — drifting through the camp like a ghost no man could escape.
Julius stood in the watch tower, staring west toward the Francian lines.
Fires burned in the distance as the bodies they'd managed to claim were given funeral pyres rather than mass graves, the dull orange glow smudged by rain and mist.
Their enemy was not hiding.
The Francians never hid, to proud to fight a guerrilla war of survival.
Sabellus approached from behind, his armor newly polished but his face lined from sleepless nights.
"Reports from the scouts. They've pulled more men from the north. Another levy force is marching this way. Eight days at most until they arrive and try to run us over once more."
Julius didn't look away from the horizon.
"And we'll be ready for them."
"Ready to defend again,"
