290 A.D.

He almost missed them when they eventually turned up. Having lain in wait for two days and two nights, he had fallen asleep amid the branches of the big oak tree. It was the clang of their armor that woke him up just in time. Murmuring a short prayer of thanksgiving to Odin, Barkest hastily withdrew deeper into the dense foliage.
There were 10 of them, following the well-trodden path that connected the watchtowers of the limes. Involuntarily, Barkest shook his head. The fools! Although the Romans took the precaution of patrolling at irregular intervals, they always used the same path. Which made things very easy for him.
Barkest waited until the legionaries had passed the tree where he was hiding, then he nimbly climbed down the big trunk and followed the soldiers from a safe distance. Now it was only a question of time.
The young Teuton's patience was finally rewarded when one of the soldiers separated from the group. The short ones exchanged a few quips in their incomprehensible language. Then the patrol marched on while the soldier who had stayed behind stepped up to a tree, his intention clear.
This was Barkest's chance!
His spear raised, he sneaked up to the Roman soldier who was absent-mindedly whistling a tune while he was relieving himself. Barkest's steps made hardly a sound on the soft forest floor, which enabled him to get within a few meters of the legionary unseen.
It was now or never! Barkest suddenly realized that he had broken out in a sweat. He hesitated. Should he really...?
The Roman had finished his tune. Without turning around, he fumbled with his clothing, and Barkest knew that he was running out of time. Determined, he tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear and charged towards the soldier. At last, the legionary became aware of the danger he was in. He spun around and reached for the sword on his belt, but too late. The Teuton had reached the Roman now and penetrated his body with his spear.
So violent was the force of the impact that the tip of the weapon passed right through the legionary's writhing body and, with a muffled sound, bored into the wood of the tree behind him. Only then did the attacker involuntarily break into a roar of fear, mingled with unbridled savagery. Barkest just couldn't stop bawling out his pent-up feelings. Only when life had finally left the man he had impaled on the beech tree, when he heard the alarmed cries of the soldier's comrades hurrying back, did he come out of his paralyzed state.
Almost panicking now, he tore at his weapon, but it would not give. Barkest had no choice but to leave it behind. So he hastily pulled the dead man's helmet from his head, grabbed the Roman's pilum that he had stuck into the ground next to him, and fled into the forest where he would be safe.

The Romans hunted him until the sun went down, but Barkest was in familiar territory and escaped his pursuers almost without effort. Though they were hindering him in his flight, the young Teuton held on tight to his victim's helmet and weapon.
They were vital to him.
They were proof.
Proof that from now on, he would be a true warrior of his tribe. Even though he was only twelve summers old.

280 A.D.

The night was unusually warm. Legionary Musculus was sweating in his heavy armor. Didn't the moon look rather strange tonight? Far too big and far too bright, the full circle hung in the star-laden sky. It bathed the dense forest, through which the Roman patrol slowly forced its way, in a pale greenish light dappled by branches and leaves.

A Celtic conspiracy. That's what the Centurio had said. A Celtic conspiracy, directed against the new lords of Britannia. A kind of warrior cult using the memory of a long dead queen and army commander to stir up the nation against the Roman rule.

Finally, Musculus and his comrades reached the edge of the forest. In front of him he could see a few low hills, and behind the hills he could make out the dim orange glow of a big fire. The Centurio warned his men to be silent, and quietly led them up the next hill. Suddenly Musculus could hear muffled, many-voiced chanting from the valley beyond the hilltop.

Boudica. That had been the name of the rebel who had inflicted a few severe defeats against the Romans in her time. So when the Celtic clans began gathering in her name again, the Romans had every reason to put a swift end to these goings-on before the cult could become a real threat to them.

Lying on his stomach, Musculus inched forward to the crest of the hill to risk a glimpse at the other side. The first thing he noticed was a huge stone circle, an enormous fire blazing in its center. Numerous silhouettes were outlined against the flames, dancing and singing. Their song had accompanied the Roman soldiers on their way up here, and meanwhile Musculus had become captivated by the rhythm of the chants.
Now he realized that it was women dancing around the big fire. Almost – no, COMPLETELY naked women.
Musculus swallowed. With wide eyes he took in the activities at the bottom of the valley. Spell-bound, he watched the sensual, almost hypnotic movements of the steaming bodies in perfect harmony with the erotic song. He felt desire rise within him and reached for his pilum. Only a few more moments, and...

"Attack!" yelled the Centurio. His sword drawn, he stormed down the hill. The legionaries jumped up too. Raising their spears to their shoulders, they followed their leader, roaring, eager to teach those Celtic witches below who their lords and masters were. So great was their desire to sink their steel spears into the warm soft bodies of the Celtic women that they noticed far too late that the dancers had suddenly vanished.

Panting, the Roman soldiers reached the blazing fire. Legionary Musculus tried to penetrate the darkness beyond the stone circle with his eyes, but he was blinded by the bright flames. He thought he could discern shadowy movements. His suspicion became a terrible reality when they suddenly heard a many-voiced yell that marked the attack of the returning Celtic warriors. Panic-stricken, Musculus lifted his shield when he saw the slim figures approaching in elegant leaps. The women were still naked – but now they were holding dangerous-looking swords in each hand, and with terrible savagery they fell upon the Romans who had dared interrupt their ritualistic vows.

Legionary Tiberius Musculus was the sole survivor of that night's patrol. After he had reported to his superiors, he was discharged from the legion unfit for duty. On his return to Rome, he enjoyed a short but successful career as male soprano, before he was finally killed in a tavern brawl.

270 A.D.

Torgund tried not to betray his feelings as he stood on the top of the hill, taking in the scene of utter havoc below. It wouldn't do to further unnerve the warriors of the tribe of the Wolf Fangs. Being their leader, he had to show unshakeable confidence and an absolute lack of fear at all times. Torgund wouldn't dream of further undermining the already critical situation by showing womanish timidity.
Instead, he urged on his horse and rode town towards the burnt-down village. It was already the fourth destroyed settlement they had discovered on their travel east. Yet Torgund still did not know the identity of the mysterious attackers who came upon the inhabitants of this country with unimaginable ferocity.

Following the vow he and his three brothers had made, Torgund and his faithful warriors had gone east to seek out allies for their fight against the Romans. Once they had left the forests of Germania behind and had come into this barren region, however, they realized that the people living here were primitive and weak –unsuited to being powerful allies, or even worthy adversaries.
So Torgund and his warriors had continued their journey towards the rising sun, until they had happened upon the first destroyed village. Whoever had been responsible for slaughtering all the inhabitants of that settlement had the very qualities that the Teutonic tribe leader would appreciate in an ally against the Romans - great fighting strength and merciless brutality.
For the moment, however, the unknown warriors' identity remained a mystery, and Torgund decided to lead his warriors deeper into the strangers' land...

Upon reaching the large square in the center of the destroyed settlement, he reined in his steed. As in the other villages before, the carcasses of the inhabitants had been piled up into big heaps. Swarms of flies covered the decaying cadavers like a black shroud, and the stench was almost unbearable.
Torgund heard his men slowly approaching him. He didn't have to turn around to know that by now they were only following him with reluctance. Brutal massacres were not unknown to the Teutons, but the kind of savagery displayed here by the unknown nation was beyond the grasp of his warriors. And his own, as Torgund admitted to himself in secret.

"This is a place of death. We should move on quickly, don't you agree?!"
Miklar had come up to him and mustered the piles of corpses, not attempting to conceal his repugnance.
" I have explained it to you before", Torgund responded to his second-in-command's remark, "we need to learn what we can about the strange warriors before coming face to face with them for the first time. We just don't know enough about their customs and..."
Miklar interrupted his tribe leader with a contemptuous snort. "I know all I want to know about them, and I am not eager to face these... cannibals anymore!"
Torgund was about to answer when the buzzing of the vast swarm of flies was drowned out by a new sound – a dull, quickly swelling rumble, accompanied by shrill war cries.
A huge horde of horsemen appeared between the hills beyond the village, galloping towards the Teutons in full career. The Teutons quickly formed a defense block.
When Torgund saw the strangers close up for the first time, he realized moments before his demise that this attempts to find allies in this region had been doomed to failure from the start: No-one makes a pact with creatures from the spirit world!

260 AD.

It was a dark rainy night.
Ska rushed towards the tavern in which he was to meet the stranger. It was the first time he had been in a city – and he was afraid! It wasn't just the soldiers of the Roman empire who were everywhere here that secretly petrified the young Celt; no, just the vast numbers of huts, temples and palaces, the incredible crowds of people, the terrible noise and above all the awful smells made the young warrior wish he hadn't been so quick in raising his hand when the Clan nobleman asked for a volunteer for this extremely dangerous adventure.

Ska reached the entrance to the tavern with his heart beating double-time.
Inside he encountered deafening music and an air so thick that he couldn't have even cut through it with his long sword. The guests didn't look up at him. Even the innkeeper ignored the young clansman and turned away as Ska came to the bar.
The young warrior tugged impatiently at the torn shirt of the innkeeper from behind: “Hey – can you get one for me too?“
The look with which the old fat lump gazed at him, was full of mocking scorn. However shortly afterwards he slid a dirty cup towards Ska that was filled with an indefinable liquid. Whilst he brought it hesitatingly to his lips, his glanced over the guests gathered here in search of his contact person. There was not a single trustworthy person amongst them.
Ska received a shove in the back.
He turned round quickly – and stared directly into the grim face of a Pict, who murmured to him in their incomprehensible language. The Pict's friend, a crippled Celt with a face like a runny tallow candle, translated in a whining voice: “He doesn't like you!“
Ska glanced briefly at the obviously dangerous Pict and replied boldly: “Oh, yeah?! Then tell him I don't like him either!“
But tallow face didn't let off: “Just watch out!“ he hissed and gripped the young man's arm. “My friend here has the death sentence on him in twelve different provinces!“

Ska was surprised by the aggression obviously put on for show. “I’ll be careful, then!” he replied deliberately calmly, but tallow face kept on: “You'll be DEAD!“
In this instance Ska knew that blood would flow. But before he could reach his sword, things started happening a lot quicker than he had anticipated. He first saw the hand of the Pict which suddenly clasped a dangerous looking dagger. In the next moment a whistling noise cut through the air, light flashed onto sharpened iron followed by the noise of a muffled thud – then the severed hand of the Pict still holding the dagger fell onto the ground in front of Ska's feet. It was if the young Celt had been struck by lightening. The tavern was suddenly quiet - the Hun musicians had stopped playing and the guests stared at Ska, his opponent who was grasping his stump that was now the end of his arm and moaning and the tall figure of the warrior who was just returning his sword to its sheath with a mixture of revulsion and blood-thirstiness.
“ I am Hanunix.” the stranger introduced himself and thus also revealed his Gallic origins. “Let us leave here, boy. Before the imperial guards arrive!” The young Celt nodded somewhat confused and went straight in direction of the exit. The Gaul opened a small bag full of gold and threw it to the surprised innkeeper. “Sorry about the mess!”
In front of the tavern door from which the melodious music of the Huns resounded again, a third figure joined the odd pair– a giant, bearded Teuton, who just managed an inarticulate growl as a greeting. “This here is Cu’baka!” Hanunix introduced his companion.
“ Ska W’kr.” the young Celt answered automatically.
“ I know who you are boy!” The Gaul looked at Ska amused. “We had an appointment.”
Ska understood immediately.
“ You are the pirate!“ he exclaimed.
„ Nana!“ Hanunix twisted his mouth to an amused grin. “I would rather describe myself as a free trader, and my “Millet Alc” is of course a trading ship.”
Ska blushed. “Of course!”
“ And whilst we're on the subject” continued the Gaul in a business-like manner, “I have the ordered goods here. If you would just follow me ...!“

“And how do you want to get us out of the city?” Obi thundered.
“ By Lugh, the Romans are still searching for us!” added Wan, just as annoyed.
„ Nobleman Vad’r really does have a nerve sending us this ... boy to accompany us!” grumbled Kenobi.
Ska blushed down to the roots of his hair and turned helplessly towards to Hanunix, who just shrugged his shoulder and gave him a weak smile. Cu’baka let off an amused growl.
The three druids had taken part in a secret meeting of their tribe in the Kanuten woods, which lay in far-off Gaul on the other side of the big water. Hanunix had ensured the transportation of the three wise men back to Britain and Ska had been given the task of securing them safe passage on the last part of their return journey.
“ If you don't do everything yourself ...“ moaned Obi.
“ Come on brothers, let's get going!“ suggested Wan and opened the door of the wooden hideaway in which the three druids had kept themselves hidden.
“ Somebody get this big hairy walking carpet out of my way.” mumbled Kenobi and squeezed himself awkwardly past Cu’baka, in order to follow his friends.

The city gate proved itself to heavily guarded. Ska could see at least ten Roman legionnaires, who were keeping a watchful eye on the mornings busy traffic. He nervously fingered the grip of his sword and turned to the three druids who were waiting behind him. “They are checking the identifications!“
“ We're not blind young Celt!“ Obi reprimanded him.
“ Identifications, pah! These Romans with their new fads!“ added Wan scornfully.
“ Well, let's go!“ said Kenobi and just walked straight off.
„ Hey wait!“ Ska tried to stop the three of them, but the druids has already left the protection of the corner of the house and were heading purposefully towards the gate. Ska wished Hanunix was there but after he had collected the gold which he was owed as the wage for his work, the free trader parted with the traditional words “May the force be with you, young Ska W’kr!”.
As the four of them reached the city gate, Ska was extremely worried. “I have a bad feeling about this!” he murmured, and promptly earned a piercing glance from Obi. The leader of the legionnaires walked up to Ska.
„ Let me see your identification!“ the imperial guard demanded.
„ You don't need to see his identification!“ said Obi.
„ I don't need to see your identification!“ said the legionnaire
„ We aren’t the druids you’re looking for“ said Wan.
„ Those aren’t the druids we’re looking for!“
„ Move along!“ said Kenobi.
„ Move along.“
The Romans signaled them through the gate and Ska began to breath again.

250 AD.

The tall form of the old man quivered. But it wasn't the wind that blew with a hollow bluster over the cliffs and it also wasn't the vast numbers of ships that neared the shore with their sails filled proudly, that made him shiver.
No, the fact that made his entire body tremble was his remembrance that the old prophecies were now starting to come true, that his nation's next step to its unavoidable downfall was imminent.
But not without one last battle. He wouldn't allow the hated occupying forces to seal the fate of the free nations at this location. The Romans would be driven back. But then...
With one last look at the sea, the man turned around and hurried away quickly to the little settlement where the inhabitants were still sleeping peacefully. A single tear ran down his long, white beard as he thought that he would now lose this peace forever.

240 AD.

Brock was to die today. His proud gaze wandered over his tribes' warriors, who had gathered around him in a big clearing. It was a good life. Full of battles and fame, rich in bounty and mead, blessed by Odin who had only denied him one thing: his revenge.
With this thought in his mind, he turned instinctively to his sons who were waiting behind him. All four were now grown men and any one of them would be worthy to be his successor. But he had other plans for them. Plans which sometime in the future would bear the desired fruit and dam his hated enemy to destruction. Brock's mouth contorted involuntarily to a wolf-like grin which was answered immediately by his sons. They knew what was expected of them and each one of them had sworn an oath. The Roman empire will fall.
“They're coming!” a young horseman appeared at the edge of the clearing galloping at top speed towards to the group of Murderous Wolves. He didn't stop his frothing horse until he was just before his tribal chieftain, in order to report, gasping for breath. “The Romans ... a whole army ... down at the brown river !” Brock took a deep breath and nodded to the messenger. Well here it was, the long-expected punishment expedition of occupying forces. Borck had to laugh again. He could understand the Romans only too well. After his tribe had robbed the battle funds of an entire Legion and had only left behind the troughs filled with excrement, they wanted his head. For they knew exactly who was behind all these attacks and raids over the last few years - his wolves standard was now just as famous as it was feared by his enemies. Well then ...
Brock urged his horse on and separated himself from the group of the other Teutons. A few other gray-haired warriors of the Murderous Wolves headed out together with him, all old companions and experienced warriors. They set off in the direction which the young horseman had indicated without glancing behind them - Teutonic warriors on the way to their last battle, on the way to Valhalla.

After the old men had disappeared between the trees, Brock's four sons looked at each other in silence for a long time. None of them wanted to be the one who sealed their fate. Even the remaining men and women of the tribe waited silently until Barg, the oldest of the four, at last spoke: “So it be. Let us fulfill our father's testimony.” The brothers nodded to each other and rode away in different directions with saying another word.

Brock stretched out for a mighty blow and split the Legionnaire's skull who had speared his horse. He skillfully rolled off the falling animal and landed on his feet in order to be able to turn around and face his next opponent. His friends were dying around him. He also was bleeding from numerous wounds but he wasn't yet defeated. The short ones had him surrounded. There was no escaping for him now but escaping wasn't his goal. Brock could make out the Roman officer on horseback on the other side of the moving bodies around him who was very careful to keep a safe distance to the Teutonic Tribal chieftain. Brock expelled a contemptuous growl from his lips and attacked. He ploughed through the ranks of the fearful, retreating Legionnaires directly towards the officer with the battle cry of the murderous wolves. With strong blows to the left and right, he fought his way to the cowardly horseman in whose eyes he could now recognize sudden, rekindled fear. Then Brock was hit by a powerful blow, which nearly made him fall. Surprised he glanced down at the red spear tip which suddenly projected through the long beard on his breast. When he looked up he could see the riders triumph, a scornful grin which gave him strength again.
Shouting, he swung his mighty axe, which sliced off his murderer's head before it swung forward inexorably, left his hand and slowly rotated its way towards its final target.

230 AD

“The Teutons are no danger to the Empire!“ Centurion Quintus Erratus dismissed this statement with a wave of his hand and looked at his officers one by one. “This attack means nothing.” He saw the doubt in their eyes and hastily suppressed his own insecurity. The wild boars hadn't yet attacked such a big Roman settlement.

„If the river hadn't frozen over, the Barbarians wouldn't have had the chance of even getting close to the city. It is an especially cold Winter even for Germania and ...” the Centurion stopped as he heard the sound of hooves and loud voices outside in front of the tent. “I think he's here!“
He went towards the entrance together with the other officers. The salute of the Praetorian Guard sounded and then a large figure entered the tent.
„Ave, Tribune!“ Quintus Erratus greeted the newcomer who stopped a moment before approaching a charcoal burner to warm himself without returning the greeting. Although the Centurion had served under the Tribune for many years, he still couldn't stop himself from staring at the left arm of his commanding officer, which ended in a stump where his hand should have been. Silence abounded for several minutes until the Tribune finally turned round and looked at Quintus Erratus eye to eye.

“Which standard did they bear with them?“ he asked.

The Centurion attempted to retain his composure and answered straight out: “A wolf's head with bloody fangs, Tribune.” Upon receiving no reply from the older man, he added hastily: “I am sure this is not important. It is just pure coincidence that these Murderous wolves...”
“Nonsense!” the Tribune interrupted him abruptly. He stared at his subordinate until he lowered his eyes and than continued in a moderate tone: “Although you have served under me for four years, you still haven't realized what these Teutonic tribes are capable of. What drives them. Honor, Centurion! Pugnaciousness! And as far as I am concerned - revenge.”

The Tribune's voice suddenly sounded weak. He turned away and went back to the entrance of the tent. He swept the heavy cloth strips aside with a forceful movement of his remaining hand, so that the Roman officer could look directly onto the still burning town. He froze with his back to his men, a dark silhouette outlined in front of a sea of colors made up of red flames and black smoke.
Quintus Erratus neared his commander. “Tribune Liberius, I ...” He stopped.

Erratus realized what the old man was experiencing. It was twenty years ago leading a Roman patrol, that he had killed a nameless chieftain of the Wild boars in single combat. It was a victory that he had paid for dearly and which had cost him his hand. But this was not all - some time later the Teutonic tribe of the Murderous Wolves suddenly rose up and attacked Roman patrols and camps. Contrary to past uprisings, this Barbarian tribe proved unusually persistent- the raids and attacks on Roman establishments just didn't stop. Survivors finally reported back that the Teutons simply had just one target: a one-handed Roman officer whom they wanted to take vengeance on, because he had in turn killed the brother of the tribal chieftain.

And now Colonia Agrippina burned.

The Roman commander mumbled something in rough Germanian.

“What did you say, my Tribune?“ inquired Quintus Erratus. But Liberius remained silent.

220 AD

Brock galloped at top speed towards the Roman camp. The thundering hooves of his horse were drowned out by a wailing alarm horn that no doubt frightened the short ones there. “A greeting worthy of the leader of a pack of murderous wolves!” growled Brock through clenched teeth and drove his horse on even faster.
The small Roman patrol that tried to reach the safety of the barricaded wooden palisade now lost all traces of discipline. The legionnaires that had survived the slaughter at the bare mountain now fled in wild panic.

With an almost lazy swing of his double-headed battle axe, Brock sliced off the head of one of the slowest ones. He then rode on without hesitation through the horde of completely panicking Romans, overtook them and about-turned his protesting, whinnying horse in order to block the path of the fleeing Romans.

The desperate soldiers came to a halt. Only 300 paces separated them from the safety of their camp, but in the presence of this gigantic Teutonic chieftain who was blocking their way, safe refuge now seemed to be at an unreachable distance.

Brock recognized the look of pure desperation in the eyes of the cowering, silent soldiers who had roughly grouped themselves together for protection. But he only felt contempt for them. “You didn't give my father a chance either!” he spat at the Romans. “and by Odin - Grum would be proud of me. To the blood of revenge that I will spill in his honor - your blood!” He saw the blank look of incomprehension in the eyes of the short ones as they again did not understand a word. But their incomprehension changed first to surprise and then even to wild hope as they looked past him towards the camp. At this instant Brock heard the creaking with which the great gate of the camp opened. A horde of Romans would no doubt be sent out to hurry to the aid of their threatened comrades. But Brock didn't even turn round. Instead he threw his head back and began to laugh out loud.

The murderous wolves crept up to the camp of their arch enemy in the middle of the night. The Romans were withdrawing more and more troops lately. They had allowed high grass and even small bushes to grow in the areas they had originally cleared around their camp. This thus gave the murderous wolves the perfect opportunity.
After a large number of Roman soldiers had stormed out the camp in a relatively unordered fashion, the Teuton warriors broke the cover of their hiding places right next to the opened gate. Whilst one half attacked the completely surprised legionnaires and engaged them in savage hand-to-hand battle, the remaining warriors stormed the camp itself, setting off an orgy of violence and destruction.

Brock struck a mighty blow which cut straight through his opponent's armor slicing his body open. He registered the Centurion's death without sympathy . “And this is for my brother who you killed after you forced your way into our village. I will now take his place but it is his axe that takes your life. Stop moaning!“
Whilst the Roman drew his last breath in the dust of the camp grounds, Brock glanced around himself. The murderous wolves were victorious. The battle was over and his people had already begun plundering the camp. Brock turned his horse in order to secure his share of the bounty. But he then turned to look one last time at his enemies leader, whose lifeless eyes still gazed down onto his oozing entrails. “Ah yes!” he spoke to him, whereby he noticed, annoyed, that his enemy still had both hands, “Stryt Furis!”

210 AD

The Teuton village looked deserted, but Centurion Liberius was not to be fooled. For ten long years, he had been leading patrols in the rough wilderness of Germania, and in all that time he had learned to heed three rules: '"Never trust a Teuton - even if he belongs to you!", "Never enter the forests on your own - not even to have a piss!", and "This is war - even if your tribune claims the contrary!"

Having crossed a muddy meadow in the pouring rain, his legionaries reached the edge of the village. With a few curt orders, Liberius sent some men into the wretched huts right and left so as not to walk into the first trap the barbarians might have in store for him. Only when the primitive hovels turned out to be empty, did he slowly move on towards the main house, the biggest building these wild boars were able to erect. At the edge of the big forecourt, in the centre of which a rotting tribal sign had been planted, the centurion paused to take a closer look at the big wooden longhouse. The entrance gate was wide open, but the darkness inside was impenetrable. Even while he was trying to assess whether or not the building was full of Teutonic warriors ready for battle, a long-drawn-out, shrill cry rang out - behind him.

The centurion spun around just in time to watch a ragged figure leap out from between two huts with their spear lowered. Legionary Timidus didn't manage to lift his shield fast enough, so that the deadly spear tip shot through the mouth he had opened to cry out, and penetrated his skull. In a flash, the woman -as could now be made out - drew back her weapon and directed it towards legionary Marcellus, who, startled, withdrew behind his shield. The wench reached back and hurled the spear at Marcellus. He ducked it, and the weapon struck the helmet of legionary Barukus instead, who went down as though struck by lightning. Now, finally, the Roman soldiers awoke from their paralysed state, and when the Teutonic warrior bent down to pick up the pilum of Timidus, whose body was still writhing in spasms on the ground, she was pierced by the pilums of three legionaries at the same time.

Centurion Liberius had seen enough. "Defence formation!", he shouted in a voice accustomed to give orders, and drew his sword. Even while his men tried to form a square, they heard further shouts all around them - orders to attack, as the centurion knew only too well. All of a sudden, the village was swarming with armed Teutons, and a wild scuffle developed amongst the wooden houses of the settlement. Liberius crushed a curse between his teeth and tried to restore some kind of order in the chaos around him. But just when he had formed his troop into a more or less acceptable defence position and the wild boars had wisely begun their retreat from the now closed ranks of his legionaries, a loud and challenging "Oi!" rang out from the main house.

Unhurried, Centurion Liberius turned round to face the Teuton leader, who had now stepped into the door of the main house, accompanied by his bodyguard of slaughterers. An imposing figure, wrapped in furs, sitting on a fat horse and armed with a big, two-edged axe.

Liberius sighed and stepped out from between his men, sword and shield raised for battle. "And what is it you want from me, you wild-boar-in-chief, by Jupiter?!", he snarled, more to himself than to the chieftain.
A savage grin divided the barbarian's unkempt beard.
„Stryt Furis!“

200 AD

There they were - the foreign intruders. Grum had been warned about them when he and his clan had come to this area. The survivors of the village he had plundered spoke of mighty, heavily armoured warriors, looking totally alike, led by invincible horsemen. And now Grum saw them before him with his own eyes. For a fraction of a moment, he felt intimidated. But then he noticed that his warriors outnumbered the strangers, half of whom, moreover, were only equipped with bow and arrow – womanish weapons, suited for hunting at best. With a scornful snort he drove his horse from the undergrowth, where he had hidden.

The foreign warriors reacted immediately. The horseman in charge of the troop reined in his horse and lifted his left hand. Without a moment's hesitation, his men, who had been following in a strangely neat marching formation, fell into a kind of double line – the fighters with shields and spears in front, behind them the cowardly and obviously feeble archers. Maybe they were women indeed, it suddenly flashed through Grum's mind, while, half amused, half admiring, he watched the strangers' swift and precise change of formation. „Stryt Furis!“ Grum shouted the traditional words of challenge at the enemy leader. No response. Instead, the foreign soldiers lifted their spears and shields, practically forming a wall of warriors. Grum shook his head, annoyed. Was the foreign horseman a coward? Or did he not understand his language? "A fight between the chiefs, you horse's arse!", he finally added with a scornful smile. Still, no reaction. In order to show his opponent that, considering his weaker position, he had no choice but to accept the challenge, Grum lifted his mighty battle axe. At once he heard the rustling of bushes behind him. His warriors broke away from their cover and began to rally behind him in a loose band. He heard surprised murmurs and respectful curses once they, too, were able to observe the new enemy from close up, but an angry look over his shoulder commanded instant silence. With a sneer he turned to the enemy chieftain again. "Well, what's with you now, horseman? Will you accept my challenge, or must I watch you crap your horse with fear?" Behind him, his men broke out in a roar of laughter.

This time, the foreign commander responded. His hand, which he had held up motionless, sank down in a flash. At the same time, he uttered a rough, foreign sound – and his archers, protected by the spear fighters, lifted their bows! Grum hardly trusted his eyes. He wouldn't have thought his adversary to be such a coward, and so stupid. But before he could command his men to attack, a sudden, angry whizzing sound filled the air. Grum felt a heavy blow, closely followed by a second one, a third one … Sixteen arrows had pierced the chieftain of the Teutonic tribe, when he finally glided off his dying horse and fell to the ground, dead.