Chapter 8

Artoria

Marching through Scotland, I wondered if there was a song like that. I knew there was something similar from the American Civil War, but I couldn't recall the lyrics. )

"We need to hire a minstrel or something to compose something," I thought. It was one of the more common ways to keep stories alive as the generations went on. I had done my research well enough on that. Sure, there were ways of keeping stories around—writing books and such—but out here in the boonies, far from libraries, it wouldn't be safe. A lot of records could easily be destroyed by an unfortunate fire. The more permanent, but not long-lasting, way was to have minstrels compose songs and epics about your adventures. Sure, the songs might change a bit over the next hundred years, but they would carry the core details that might help the next generations figure out what happened. At least, that's what I suspected would happen once time had its way with things.

The world was always changing—meanings, expectations, and vocabulary all shifted as the years passed. There was no guarantee that, in a hundred years, everyone here would still be speaking British. It could be that they would be speaking Welsh or English if we failed to stop the English. Then again, considering the amount of colonization that must be going on in the south right now, it might already be too late to stop the Anglo-Saxons completely and the. Germans were, of course, flooding across the channel from what I'd heard. There was fighting going on on the continent—some horde that apparently rolled in off the steppes and was causing issues. At least, that's what the rumors were saying.

I wouldn't know for sure until we had control over the island and could send expeditions back to the continent to find out what was going on, but that would have to wait until after we defeated the Picts and resolved the current conflict. Once I had this island firmly under my control, I could turn my attention to the broader situation. For now, I needed to focus on what was ahead of me—and what was ahead of me was rumors of war and a war upon rumors.

We had managed to raise the experimental legion, based on the Romans' old style, and marched them to the border wall that separated Roman Britain from the Pictish lands. Most of them had been left behind, along with a few local units that had been mustered to train on the wall and ensure it was ready in case the enemy tried to cross it. As for me, I had crossed into Pictish territory and was making good time. We had some idea of where some of the more numerous Pictish encampments were. Most lived up in the mountains, but there were some in the lowlands. If we hit them hard and scattered their people, they would come for us—and then we could play a little game of chase with the mounted horsemen.

A game that the Picts can't win, I thought. They cannot win as long as they stick to the rules of the battlefield. As long as we stay out of the forest and don't go up onto the hills, we have a good advantage. The enemy could not hope to surmount our mounted warriors. Even if our armor wasn't the greatest—armor that would be created in a few centuries—it was still metal against flesh. As long as we didn't allow them to pin us in one position and kept hitting them where they least expected, things should go our way.

My thoughts were interrupted when a rider came back to where I was positioned near the center of the column, waving their hand in the air, trying to get my attention.

"Prince Arthur! Prince Arthur!" they called, trotting to a stop before me. "We're in range of the first enemy camp, and they have information we're on our way. We've got maybe 300 enemy Picts already massing in a defensive formation in front of their camp."

"300 Picts?" Well, then. I say the odds are in our favor. We've got 100 extra men!

There was a cheer as I rode up next to the man, telling him to take me to the front of the line. He nodded and led the way along the best side path, passing the horsemen who were all beginning to psych themselves up, various army songs beginning to be sung as the column of soldiers moved. Before long, I reached the top of a nearby hill where we were all starting to mass, and down below were the 300 Picts. They were already preparing themselves—chanting, banging their swords against their shields, readying themselves with war paint on their chests and faces.

Such a tight, compact line, I thought, wishing I had some sort of artillery to point at them. Shaking my head, I simply drew my sword and held it up, drawing people's attention to my position. Holding the sword up, I called, "Prepare, men! Prepare for battle! The enemy lies beneath us!"

There were cheers as men quickly folded the column into a line—400 riders, all ready to charge into a line of sword and spear men intermixed. They had fewer men than us, so we should technically win, but I wasn't the kind of person to run into a battle without plans within plans. The enemy was just standing there, waiting for us to charge. Shame that I had prepared ahead of time for such an operation. Sheathing my sword, I took the bow from my back, sending the signal to the other commanders to do the same.

Now, I admit, the cross-training I had forced the knights to take—so they'd be at least somewhat competent—had not been that successful. But as 400 bows pointed up into the air and loosed a wave of arrows down onto the enemy column, it didn't matter that probably half of them didn't hit. What mattered was the darkening of the sky and the terror of having arows raining down on you when you were expecting to be charged by cavalry.

At most, maybe fifty of them died instantly, while another 50 were injured. The other 200 were looking around in shock at their fallen comrades. Putting the bow back onto my back, I drew my sword up into the air again, signaling the men to switch weapons quickly. Lances were pulled from side satchels; those without lances drew their blades. Once I was sure everyone had their equipment together, I pointed my sword down, and lieutenants began to blow their bugles, making the formation as heavy as possible. Sure, there were a few people who seemed ready to charge right away, but the point was to show professionalism, to show a menacing force—and it was working. The 200 remaining Picts who hadn't been injured too badly to stand looked very unsteady. Their spears, which should have been digging into the dirt, were now pulled closer to them. The whole point was to break the line before we actually hit them.

And right now, it didn't look like it would take too much to break that line.

"For Britain!" I yelled, holding my blade up as high as possible before pointing it at the Pictish formation. This was the same old command I had drilled into every man on the line. And this was when the mass wave of horses would put their weight into it. What had been a slow tremble on the ground, which no doubt the enemy could feel, became a heavy thunder as the horses kicked into full gear, charging into the enemy with as much speed as possible. Some horses would die; some men would fall from their horses and die. That's what happens in charges. But most of the horses in the front line—I made sure they had the best armor. Of course, some men didn't have the best armor, but they were in the second line. Better to hit them with the weight of the armor in the first line and save as many men as possible.

Thankfully, our little show had the desired effect. Before we even reached them, about 75 of their line men ran, leaving only 120 behind, creating a lot of gaps. The horsemen aimed for those gaps, targeting the men near the edges of the formation. As we charged through the line, my blade sliced down through a man's head, leaving nothing but a smear in its wake. As we made it to the other side, I could have chosen not to attack the fleeing men, but the whole point of this was to cause as much damage to the Picts as possible. So, as I came up to a running man, my sword came down, striking him in the shoulder. These men didn't wear chest armor, and it didn't matter where I hit them. Blood splattered instantly. In a matter of moments, 300 banner men had been reduced to maybe 50 fully capable fighters, and they had failed in their attempt to form a square.

Before long, my riders were circling them in a slow formation until we had them completely surrounded.

Looking around, I took stock of the situation. There were many wounded and many dead, but not many of them were mine. If I had to estimate, maybe 10 of my men had sustained injuries—some possibly dead, others injured. Horses were more prone to death simply due to the risk of stepping into holes or other obstacles. No doubt that would be a more common issue as we moved further inland, as the enemy would start preparing for cavalry charges.

I sighed deeply, taking in the blood-strewn battlefield and the remnants of the 50 surviving warriors. I wondered what to do with them. The easiest thing would be to order another volley from the archers to clear them off the field, but perhaps they could serve some other purpose. There was no way they could be actual soldiers for me—I couldn't trust them, especially after I had just brutally defeated most of their forces. But maybe... maybe they could serve to strike fear into the enemy.

Sheathing my blade, I rode forward, with several men flanking me, including my brother, who was keeping a close watch on my back. I was happy to have him with me. As we approached the 50 surviving men, I cleared my throat and spoke in the best Pictish I had picked up over the last few months of training for this campaign. "Who is your leader?"

An older, balding man stepped forward. He had fiery red hair and looked healthy for a barbarian, with plenty of blue tattoos on his chest.

"I'll be the one you want to speak to, Southerner," he said.

I smiled at that and replied, "I'm willing to let those of you who survived this fight go. We are going to burn your fields, I'm afraid, but I'll give you time to gather as many of your people as you can and head toward anywhere you think is safe. But you have to give me three things."

The man looked at me, ready to spit, but then asked, "What are those three things?"

"The three clans you have the most trouble with," I said matter-of-factly. "You have to admit that what I've done to your men will most likely lead to the other clans in this area trying to take advantage and pull a victory from this, and seize your land for themselves. Wouldn't it be so nice if the same fate that befell you befell them, ensuring the power balance stays the same?"

The man looked thoughtful for a moment before replying, "I'll give you two. But is there any way we can talk you out of burning our fields? We're going to have a hell of a time bringing in any harvest with what men are alive after this. Most of these men will be too injured to take part."

I looked around at the 100 or so men who were severely wounded on the field. I nodded, then said, "That is fine," smiling inwardly as I had essentially pulled a fast one on them—a little bluff, to say the least.

Had they not given me any names, I would have burned their crops to the ground as I claimed, and their village wasn't that far away, made of plenty of thatch easily destroyed. This way, I was now seen as more lenient in their eyes, though I wasn't sure if it would work long-term. The key was to sow discontent and confusion in the enemy.

Turning my horse, I said, "Provide the names and locations to my brother, Sir Kay. We will leave you to rebuild as best you can."

The man nodded, saying, "Don't let the horseflies bite you on the way out," obviously hoping something bad would happen. But I laughed. This was the first step toward victory. How many towns would I have to reduce to the same state before we could guarantee the Picts' attack wouldn't proceed as planned?

Six more towns were burned, though you couldn't really call them towns—more like villages. Some people had been a little more loyal to the King of the Picts, leading their own people to turn over information. Each village had a similar number of men, ranging from 200 to 300, so at the very least, that 10,000-man army I had been worried about had been reduced to around 9,000 to 8,000. The more men I took off the field, the more likely we could pull this off. We'd gone from 2-to-1 odds to something better.

By some miracle, just keeping my men busy, things had not gone the worst possible route. We moved from town to town, burning as we went—targeting buildings and farmland, and killing the soldiers. By keeping my men busy, they didn't get a chance to do things soldiers loved to do, like looting and other barbaric behaviors.

I had to keep them busy to prevent that. There was no way they wouldn't fall into their base instincts as soldiers if I didn't. It's just how the world worked at this time. Sitting atop my horse, dressed in blue clothing with a fur cloak, I wondered: How long could I keep these men going before they became problematic? I couldn't exactly compare these men to anything from my first life; I was more familiar with firing men when they became problems.

Shaking my head, I had to wonder: Could I keep these men together and strong enough that they simply wanted to go home, or would I fall into the pattern of lesser-known warlords who were killed by their own men? I couldn't allow them the comforts they wanted. I had to be careful. These people could be a threat as well as an aid. So far, they'd been an aid, and they had held up through the most exhausting nights, but I did have to wonder...

My wondering was interrupted as I saw several men who had dismounted to burn the village surrounding a man. They were walking around him, blades drawn, making their way toward me. I pulled my horse to the side, waiting until the man was closer. I asked, "What's the meaning of this? Who's this man?"

The man didn't look like any of the Picts. For one, he was wearing Britton armor. His arms were tied behind him, and he looked as though he had been covered in tar. His white teeth were the only thing I could really make out through the tar.

"Just a local fairy hunter, my good Sir."

"Fairy hunting?" I asked, raising an eyebrow while looking down at the man.

"Aye, fairy hunting," he said matter-of-factly, adding, "Though sometimes I do a little witch hunting as well. The magicians of this country are chaotic evil, in my opinion, and it's been made my personal goal to cause them problems. The people of this country disagree," he said, looking down at himself and indicating the tar covering him. "I think they planned to sacrifice me to one of their gods."

I gave a half-smile, shaking my head. "Seems like a bad place to go hunting fairies if they're so disagreeable to your behaviors in this country."

The man shrugged. "Disagreeable in most countries on this island, my good Sir. But sometimes it's needed. You don't kill the monsters before they gain power, you end up a toy of those monsters." He looked off in the distance before saying, "I've lost brothers to the fairies. Not a fan of them."

I nodded, then looked to the men who had captured him. "Why are we holding him? He doesn't seem to be a member of the Picts. There's no reason to treat him like a prisoner."

"My Lord, fairy hunting is a crime in York and the northern territories. Judgment must be passed on him, or the gods will look badly on your reign."

I nodded, then looked at the man. "What's your name?"

"Balin, my good Sir," he said proudly. "And if I'm to die here, I'll go happily. I've killed three fairies—three less fairies in the world, as far as I'm concerned."

I smiled. "Then I shall grant you summary conscription."

He tilted his head in confusion. "Summary conscription?"

"You've killed fairies. That implies to me that you are a great warrior of some renown, as those creatures are magical in nature. I'm at war with men, but a man who can kill magical creatures is one worth having on my army. You will work off your crimes against the world fighting for me. And if we ever come across fairies that need killing because they are evil, you will have first crack at them, Sir Balin."

The man's face broke into one of the widest smiles I think I'd ever seen. "I mean, I'm not that good on a horse, but I'll figure it out."

"Good. Is there anything else I need to know?" I asked, looking around at the men. They shook their heads. I smiled. "Success. Then, on to the next village."

Three weeks of terror. I didn't think I'd be able to pull that off, but as my men rode further north, we burned most of the villages along the west coast of what would someday be called Scotland. There had to be a major economic response to this, and I hoped I had at least reduced the enemy numbers to around 5,000—well within the capabilities of my men back at the wall.

Now, there was the issue of casualties. We had lost men over the course of the campaign. Sure, we had gained new recruits, like Sir Balin, but we'd also lost at least fifty of the 400 men who had initially ridden out with me. Another twenty-five had been severely injured and sent back home via ship—a decision that, in hindsight, I considered one of my few smart moves. You couldn't keep a campaign like this going forever. You had to bring supplies along, but traveling through Pictish lands didn't make that easy. That's why we stuck to the coast, where supply ships came back and forth. We'd meet with them occasionally to replenish our supplies, send off the bodies of our dead, and change out horses—though there was only a limited amount of replacements. Each supply run could only bring about 10 or 12 new horses every three or four days. I hoped our ships would continue to see us along the coast.

Berlin had been somewhat helpful in this regard, providing us with a powder that turned fire green. All we had to do was throw it into a large fire at night, and the ships could see the signal.

That being said, the campaign was coming to an end. Reports had come in that the king of the Picts had gathered 5,000 men—a full legion—and was marching in our direction, possibly more. By the time he reached us, it could be 6,000. The problem was, how could we get out of here? We couldn't use the supply ships to evacuate, which meant we had to slip through the noose formed by our charge into their territory. and The noose was closing quickly.

It could've been a problem, but Sir Balin had proposed something ingenious, albeit annoying at the same time. There was a forest—yes, a forest. The very thing I had hoped to avoid during this campaign. It ran south for a bit, and if we cut through it, we could theoretically bypass the enemy army, since they would assume we'd be avoiding the forest as well. The only problem was that the enemy might avoid the forest for a different reason—there was supposedly a Pictish witch within it, a centuries-old evil. It was a risk I would have to take. After all, we couldn't fight a numerically superior army in a running battle.

So, we marched through the woods. I was at the front of the column for once because, if there was going to be trouble with the witch, I figured I should be the one to face it, given the blessings that seemed to favor me.

With my sword close at hand, I looked around, worried about what we might encounter. I could barely wait to get past Hadrian's Wall and finally wash off the blood that had stained my jerkin. My blue tunic had been stained black in places due to the blood I'd been exposed to during these weeks.

Suddenly, I heard giggling—female giggling. A lot of it. It echoed around us, growing louder as we moved forward. I looked around, confused, and so did my men. Some of them drew their blades, while others just stood there, baffled. I surveyed the area, trying to figure out what was going on when, to my astonishment, a woman stepped out from behind a tree. She was pretty, with blonde hair and brown eyes, tilting her head as she looked at us.

What caught my attention wasn't just her appearance, but her clothing—a bunny girl outfit, ears poking from the top of her head. Upon closer inspection, I realized the ears weren't some costume accessory—they were real, connected to the top of her head.

"What the hell?" I muttered, staring in disbelief as more bunny girls emerged from the trees. The giggling grew louder. There were at least several hundred of them, each in different styles of bunny girl outfits, with varying hair colors, eye colors, and even skin tones.

My men began to draw their blades, but I held up a hand. These women didn't seem threatening at first glance. I drew my own sword and called out, "Who are you people? Why are you here, and why do you block our path?"

For the most part, they continued to giggle, seeming to be simple creatures—possibly Fay, I thought. I'd never encountered Fay before, so it was hard to say for sure. Then, two of them quickly hopped up to my side, grabbing my free arm and pulling me from my saddle. They were surprisingly strong, and before I knew it, more of them were pulling my men from their horses and restraining them. We were quickly disarmed.

"You've trespassed on my territory," came a voice from behind the group in front of us. The line of bunny girls parted, revealing a Pictish witch. Her blue markings and staff were unmistakable, as was her lack of clothing—just a simple gown, obviously worn for warmth. She stepped forward, looking us over.

"You men should not have crossed into our territory," she said. "I've heard the stories of what you've done to my people. Murder, destruction, death. Such horrors you've brought upon my people, and now, you will pay for it with your lives."

The witch raised her staff, slamming it to the ground. A pulse of energy washed out across the clearing and down the line.

"What was that?" Sir Balin asked, confusion in his voice.

I looked at him, and to my horror, two bunny ears sprouted from the top of his head. I blinked, unsure if I was seeing things.

"I don't know," I muttered, but then I looked to my right, seeing sir kay undergoing a similar transformation—his face became more feminine, and ears sprouted from his head. His armor seemed to fight against this change, but it was futile.

I quickly checked myself, running a hand through my hair. Fortunately, there was no change in me.

A smile crept across my face as the realization dawned on me—this was some sort of charm or transformation spell. Since they hadn't secured me properly, I acted quickly. I grabbed the nearest bunny girl, swung her into a nearby tree, and drew my sword. It was time to deal with the witch.

The horde of bunny girls charged at me. I didn't care for them much, so I simply used my sword and armored limbs to bat them away. I kicked one hard enough that she flew against a tree, and a loud smacking noise echoed. I made my way halfway through the bunny girls before I looked back, wondering what the others were doing.

The transformation had nearly finished. What had been around 400 knights of Britain was now 400 bunny girls, all looking very confused. Some of them stared at me with terror as I made my way through the column of rabbit girls. I looked away, hoping that what I had managed to do here would reverse whatever this witch had done. With one final slash, I made it through the last of the meat shields she was using. She looked at me in confusion and terror.

"No man can resist my spells!" she cried, pointing at me as she struck her staff against the ground. A wave of energy washed past me, but I simply moved forward quickly, angling my sword to shove it through her gut. She looked down in surprise before looking at me.

"How…" she began, but I smiled.

"No man can resist your spells," I said, pulling the sword up and slashing through her chest. She sprayed blood before her, then simply vanished in a cloud of mist. Another wave of energy pulsed through the clearing.

I took a moment to gather myself as I cleaned my blade as best I could. Turning around, I expected to see my men returned to normal. Hopefully, if they were still bunnies, I was pretty much out of ideas. Thankfully, I saw 400-plus men standing there—400 of them probably British, the others two or three thousand looking very Roman. I blinked in confusion as the Roman legionaries looked around in confusion as well.

"We're free!" someone called. "We're finally free! Thank God!" The man fell to his knees and started kissing the ground, as others began cheering. I just stood there, completely flabbergasted, as a legionnaire captain moved through the group, pushing his way to me and holding out his hand.

"I want to shake the hand of the mant who defeated that fucking witch. Do you know how long we've been stuck as giggly fucking rabbit girls?"

I shrugged, having no idea, and held out my hand. He took it with a firm grasp and shook it. "Well, since Emperor Trajan… how long ago did he rule the empire? Could it have only been like 20 years?" he asked, looking at me with hope, raising an eyebrow.

I replied, "I think that was nearly 400 years ago, Sir."

The man looked shocked. "Does Rome still stand?" he asked, as if still holding on to the possibility that something from his life still existed.

I nodded. "Rome still stands, good Sir. She's retreated from this island to look to her own borders, but she still stands."

"That's good. That's good," he said, shaking himself. "Where are my manners? Commander Servius Petronius Ramirus of the 9th Hispania. Well, me and my men here, for the most part, are what's left of the 9th Hispania Legion. Oh, she had a lot of bunny girls, even when we entered these woods. I'm not sure all of us are from that legion—some of us might predate that in earlier attacks into this cursed land."

I nodded. "Well, it's an honor to free you." Tilting my head, I started to think before smiling and adding, "And it would be an honor to have you fight by our sides. These cursed men are going to be launching an attack on the civilized people left behind by the Empire on this island. My men and I are trying to rebuild stability here and form our own legion to maintain control and push these invaders back. It would be quite useful to have 3,000 or so legionnaires join us."

"I'm not sure about that, Sir," he said, looking at his men. "We'd like to go home to Rome."

I nodded. "Of course, of course. I'll gladly help you get home, but you must understand that southern England is not under my control. It's under the control of a new menace who plans to turn the entire land into a place much more cursed than the one you're currently in. I'll gladly help get whatever's left of your men back to the Empire, but the only safe path is through an enemy."

He nodded. " very well we will Help you secure this land, and you'll get us home. That's a bargain I'll put my hand down for." He said this as we shook hands again, signing a verbal agreement.