Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

: 24 FREE horror stories, including: �, ‘�, ‘�, ‘�, and ‘�.

: 31 horror stories, including ‘�, ‘�, �,� �,� �.�

9 AD, Teutoburg Forest, Germania

Flavius gasped, sucking in the putrid stench of stale blood and voided bowels. Darkness pressed close, heavy and suffocating. It took a moment for his swimming senses to register the texture against his face–rough wool, cold skin, tangled wet hair.

He was buried under his dead comrades.

Panic, hot and sharp, clawed its way up his throat. He tried to shift, and agony exploded in his right thigh. A spear wound. He remembered the blinding pain, the impact that threw him from the collapsing formation. He forced the memory down.

Got to get out.

Using his elbows and hands, ignoring the slick, yielding surfaces beneath him, he clambered upwards, wrestling through the corpses.

Rain, the miserable, endless drizzle common to these northern forests, found its way through the mound, plastering his hair to his skull, chilling him to the bone. It mixed with the gore, turning the pile into a treacherous, sucking slurry.

With a final, agonised heave, he broke through the surface, gulping the damp, cold air. It smelled only marginally better up here–wet earth, crushed pine needles, and the overwhelming metallic reek of spilled blood and exposed intestines. He lay half-sprawled atop a grotesque heap of legionaries, their limbs entangled in death's final, awkward embrace. Under his armour, his tunic was stiff with drying blood. To his relief, it was mostly not his own. Relentless pain throbbed in his leg, a sickening pulse against the frantic beat of his heart.

It was dusk. Or perhaps it had been dusk for days under the oppressive canopy of the Teutoburg Forest. Time bled together. Around him, stretching as far as his blurred vision could make out, lay the ruin of three legions. Seventeenth. Eighteenth. Nineteenth.

Gone.

Utterly destroyed.

Their familiar faces were pale masks, eyes staring sightlessly at the dripping leaves above, mouths open in final, silent screams. Amongst them, sometimes fused by drying blood, lay the victors, long-haired warriors of the Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi. At least they’d taken some of the bastards with them.

A groan sounded nearby. Flavius twisted, ignoring the fire in his thigh. Just yards away, another figure struggled weakly amidst the carnage. A Roman. Flavius recognised the man, despite the filth caking his face.

Decius.

That arrogant peacock.

Never his friend, always seeking favour, but now the sight of another survivor, any survivor, sparked a desperate joy. Decius was trying to pull his left arm free from beneath a dead Cherusci warrior.

The arm hung at an unnatural angle, clearly broken.

Flavius pushed himself off the mound, sliding and landing awkwardly, his injured leg buckling. He stifled a cry and crawled the short distance. "Decius?" he whispered, his voice a dry rasp.

Decius looked up, eyes sunken with pain and exhaustion. Recognition, then relief, flickered across his face. "Flavius. By the gods, you live."

"Quiet," Flavius hissed. "They could still be near." He offered Decius his hand. "We have to..."

Harsh laughter echoed through the trees, closer now. The guttural sounds of a Germanic tongue. Flavius gripped Decius’s good arm and pulled. Decius groaned with pain but scrambled up. "Quiet!" Flavius hissed again.

Peering through the tangle of corpses and ferns, they saw them. Three tribesmen, moving methodically through the dead, stripping armour, pulling rings from stiff fingers, occasionally dispatching a groaning Roman survivor with brutal efficiency. One warrior paused, scanning the area near them. Flavius froze, pressing himself flat against the cold earth.

Jupiter preserve us. Just keep walking.

A sudden cry sounded further off as another survivor was discovered. The warrior who had paused hefted his axe and loped towards the sound.

"Now," Flavius breathed. "Crawl. Stay low."

They moved like wounded animals, dragging themselves away from the main body of the slaughter, deeper into the tangled undergrowth. Every movement sent waves of fire through Flavius's thigh. Decius panted with the effort, cradling his shattered arm uselessly against his chest. The sounds of the looters faded behind them, replaced by the drip of rainwater and the sighing wind.

They found a small hollow, screened by thick bushes, and collapsed, shivering.

"Utter annihilation," Decius whispered, his gaze sweeping over the shadowed woods. "Varus... the eagles... They took the eagles." His voice cracked, heavy with the unspeakable shame.

"So what now? Head south in disgrace to Roman territory?" Flavius muttered, the words tasting like bile. "Wait for them to find us? Or for the cold to finish the job?"

"They’ll kill us for losing the standards. Decimation of any survivors, if we're fortunate. More likely execution of the pair of us." Decius shifted, grimacing. "No. We go south. Through the woods. Try to slip past the Rhine forts. Disappear."

"That's desertion, Decius."

"We are 'stragglers'," Decius said, the word a necessary lie. "Separated in the chaos. Making our way back to Roman lines. Who can prove otherwise, if we make it?"

Stragglers.

The word hung in the fetid air. Flavius stared into the encroaching darkness, feeling the last vestiges of legionary discipline, of belonging, leach away into the mud. Thirst clawed at his throat. Pain screamed from his leg. Death waited patiently in the shadows. He spat. "Fine. Stragglers it is. Better than waiting here for the crows."

They pushed on as true darkness fell, Flavius leaning heavily on a sturdy branch Decius found for him. The forest was an endless, suffocating maze. Roots snagged their feet, low branches whipped at their faces. At least the ceaseless rain meant finding puddles to drink from wasn’t difficult.

Just a little further. Then rest.

Hours later, near collapse, they heard a twig snap ahead. Both froze, hearts hammering. A figure emerged from the gloom between two massive oaks. Roman. Upright. Tall. A centurion. His armour dented and stained.

Flavius almost cried out in relief.

Tertius! From the Eighteenth! He survived!

"Centurion!" Flavius called, hobbling forward, Decius close behind. "Thank the gods! We thought..."

Tertius turned towards them slowly. His face was strangely blank in the dim light filtering through the canopy, his eyes unfocused. There was a dark stain matting the hair above his temple where his helmet was dented inwards, but he seemed otherwise unharmed, remarkably composed amidst the surrounding devastation. He did not react with surprise or relief. He simply watched them approach, his stillness unnerving.

"Centurion," Decius panted, clutching his broken arm. "The tribesmen are still about. We were heading south. Trying to reach the Rhine. Can you lead us? Do you know the way?"

Tertius remained silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, as if listening to something far away, something only he could hear. The wind sighed through the high branches. Then, his lips barely moving, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, he spoke a single word. A Germanic name only whispered among the auxiliaries, a god of frenzy, death, and dark knowledge.

"Wodanaz."

Flavius stared.

What?

Confusion warred with a rising unease.

Shock? Head injury?

"Centurion," Flavius tried again, urgency sharpening his tone. "We need to leave. Now. Before they find us."

Tertius said nothing more. He simply turned and began to walk. Not south, but deeper into the woods, north-east, further into the heart of the wilderness. His pace steady, unhurried, disciplined.

Flavius exchanged a bewildered look with Decius.

What is wrong with him?

"Centurion, wait!" Flavius called.

Tertius did not slow. He kept walking.

"We cannot stay here," Decius muttered, glancing nervously back into the darkness. "He's a Centurion. Maybe he knows a safer route." His desperation was plain.

Hesitantly, driven by the slim hope Tertius represented, they followed. Tertius walked ahead, a solid, disciplined figure seemingly oblivious to their presence. They struggled to keep up, Flavius's leg a constant agony, Decius hampered by his arm. The forest grew denser, the trees older, their branches interwoven like skeletal fingers against the bruised sky.

After a while, Flavius risked a glance back. No sign of pursuit. He looked ahead.

Tertius was perhaps thirty paces ahead, moving at that same deliberate walk. They pushed themselves, trying to close the distance, wanting the reassurance of a senior officer, despite his strange silence and that single, unsettling word. Flavius stumbled on a root, recovered, forced himself onward.

He looked up again. Tertius was still thirty paces ahead. Still walking the same, unhurried pace.

A cold knot tightened in Flavius's stomach. He forced more speed, ignoring the jolts in his thigh, half-hopping, half-dragging his leg. Decius kept pace beside him, breathing hard. They were practically jogging now, crashing through the undergrowth with reckless haste. Flavius dared another look forward.

Tertius was still there. Thirty paces ahead. Walking. Calmly. Deliberately. He had not sped up. Yet the distance remained exactly the same.

No. Impossible.

Terror, cold and primal, prickled Flavius's skin. This was wrong. Deeply wrong. He stopped, gasping for breath, leaning heavily on his makeshift crutch. Decius stopped beside him, his face pale and slick with rain and sweat.

"Why can't we reach him?" Decius’s voice trembled. "It's like... like running in a nightmare."

Flavius shook his head wordlessly, his throat tight. He looked ahead. Tertius continued his steady walk, moving deeper into the black woods, never varying his pace, never looking back. He seemed less like a man leading them, their frantic attempts to follow seemed irrelevant to him.

"Forget him," Flavius whispered, the words catching in his throat. "He's not right. That head wound... it’s driven him mad. We go south. Now. While we still can."

"No," Decius pleaded, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure. "We stay with the Centurion. He's our best chance. Think, Flavius! His word carries weight. If we're found with him, no one questions stragglers led by an officer. Alone? We look like deserters for sure."

Gods, he's desperate. Clinging to rank even now.

Flavius hesitated. Decius was right about how it would look, but every instinct screamed that something was wrong. Yet, turning back alone into that darkness felt equally perilous.

Tertius had stopped, still thirty paces ahead, waiting. Seeing them falter, he waited until they reluctantly began moving again, then turned and resumed his inexorable pace.

They pushed through the tangled darkness, following the walking Centurion. The forest seemed to watch them, ancient and aware. Eventually, utterly spent, they found themselves on the edge of a shallow granite ravine choked with the gnarled, ancient roots of unseen trees.

Exhaustion overwhelmed them. Decius, taking a step near the edge, simply pitched forward into the darkness without a cry. Flavius heard a dull thud, a rustle of disturbed roots far below. Panic flared anew.

No, not him too.

He lowered himself painfully into the ravine, sliding the last few feet, landing heavily beside his companion. Decius groaned, stirring.

Alive.

Relief washed over Flavius, he almost laughed with relief. He collapsed beside Decius, the last of his strength gone. He looked up. Tertius stood near a narrow fissure in the rock face, just wide enough for a man to slide through. He was standing ramrod straight almost at attention.

As Flavius watched, the Centurion turned his head fractionally towards the opening and grated, "Wodanaz."

A cave? He found shelter?

Hope, fragile but persistent, flickered again. "Decius! A cave!" Flavius levered himself up on protesting limbs and peered into the crack. It seemed to lead into darkness. He squeezed through the crevice.

Inside, the space opened into a surprisingly large cavern. As his eyes adjusted, he saw bronze braziers standing cold around the perimeter. At the back of the cave, a rough-hewn stone altar stood before a section of rock face engraved with a complex symbol, three interconnected triangles.

Decius slithered in behind him, collapsing near the entrance. "Shelter," he mumbled, shivering. "Dry shelter." Within moments, he was asleep, his breathing shallow.

Mars give me strength.

Flavius walked the perimeter of the cave, blade held ready. He found a place near the entrance where he could watch the fissure and the ravine outside. "Tertius?" he called softly. "Are you coming in–Tertius!" His voice echoed slightly. He strained his ears but heard only the drip of water somewhere deeper in the cave and Decius's breathing. The Centurion remained outside, a silent, still sentinel. Flavius sank down, leaning against the cold rock, fighting to stay awake.

Sleep dragged him under, but it wasn't restful. It was a feverish descent into nightmare, perhaps fuelled by the growing heat from his wounded leg. He felt the chill of the stone beneath him, yet dreamt of suffocating heat. He saw an immense, ancient tree dominating a landscape of mist and shadow. Not an oak or pine of the forest outside, but something older, vaster, its roots plunging into an earth that seemed to weep blood, its highest branches scraping a bruised sky boiling with storm clouds.

Impaled upon its trunk, hanging like a grim sacrifice, was a figure cloaked in grey. A spear pierced his side. Flavius saw with horror that one eye socket was empty, a void of utter blackness, while the other eye burned with a single point of piercing, blue-white light, a winter star.

Two great black ravens perched on the branches near the figure's head, their obsidian eyes gleaming, watching him.

Runes, angular and forbidding, seemed to carve themselves into the living bark around the hanging god, glowing with faint, cold energy. Flavius did not know the name of this deity, but he felt the crushing weight of its presence. An ancient, alien power, thriving on sacrifice and unimaginable pain, quite unlike the sunlit gods of Rome.

He felt the gaze of that single, burning eye fix upon him, cold and assessing.

The figure's lips moved, and a voice like the grinding of glaciers filled the dream. "Are you hunter, or are you prey?" It gestured towards the cave entrance.

Flavius looked back the way he had come in the dream, and saw the altar from the cave, stark against the swirling mist.

The voice repeated, resonating in his bones. "Are you hunter, or are you prey?"

"Who are you?" Flavius stammered, gripping his dream-sword. "By Jupiter, I serve Rome! I kneel to no barbarian god!"

The figure's lips curled into something that might have been a smile. "Prey, then..."

He woke with a gasp, shivering violently despite the enclosed space. Grey dawn filtered weakly through the cave entrance.

Just a dream. Fever from the wound.

But his heart hammered against his ribs. The vision clung to him, vivid and terrifying. He peered outside. The ravine was filled with damp mist, the struggling sunlight painting it in shades of ash.

Tertius remained standing where he had been, guarding the entrance, impossibly still.

Flavius looked up towards the lip of the ravine.

Perched on a thick, exposed root, a large raven watched him intently. Its head was cocked, its black eye glittering with unsettling intelligence. As their eyes met, it let out a single, harsh caw that echoed in the still air. Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, it launched itself upwards and vanished into the grey sky above the trees.

A shiver traced its way down Flavius’s spine, unrelated to the cold. He shifted, pain flaring in his leg. He needed to check the wound, clean it if he could. He looked at Tertius. "Centurion, you should rest. You stood guard all night."

Tertius ignored him. Flavius cautiously approached the entrance. "Tertius? Are you alright?"

The Centurion turned his head slowly, mechanically. "Wodanaz."

Flavius recoiled slightly.

Still fixated on that.

He turned to check on Decius. His companion was already awake, sitting upright, staring intently towards the altar. His face was pale, but his eyes held a strange light.

"I had a dream, Flavius," Decius said, his voice hushed, reverent. "A vision."

Flavius felt his blood run cold. "A nightmare," he corrected grimly. "I dreamt of a... a hanging god. A barbarian thing."

"Yes!" Decius's face grew animated. "Nailed to a great tree, with a spear in his side! He spoke to me, Flavius. He showed me... power."

"He asked if you were a hunter or prey?" Flavius finished, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

He saw it too?

"He did! It's a sign, don't you see?" Decius scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain from his arm. "The old gods are waking in this forest. They offer strength. Survival!" He gestured towards the altar. "This place... it's a gift."

"It's a curse," Flavius spat. "It's pagan filth. We need to leave. Now." He started towards the cave entrance, but Tertius shifted, blocking his path.

"Wodanaz."

Flavius looked closely at the Centurion in the thin morning light. He could see now, where the helmet was dented near the temple, the bone beneath was fractured, revealing a dark, glistening mass beneath. Gore caked his dented breastplate, dark, almost black, and congealed, despite the damp air. Where blood should have been weeping from the head wound and other minor cuts, there was only a dark, viscous ichor that seemed to glitter faintly with frost-like particles.

Yet, Tertius stood. Impossibly straight. His eyes, milky white like a cataract victim's, were wide open and fixed upon Flavius. He blinked, slow and deliberate, an awful parody of life.

Flavius stepped backwards, his good leg bumping into the cave wall. "Tertius... what in Pluto's name happened to you?"

Tertius's lips peeled back from his teeth. With a grating sound, like rocks grinding together, the word Flavius now dreaded escaped. "Wodanaz."

"A sign! He's blessed!" Decius breathed, his voice tight with a terrible awe. "The god protects his own."

Blessed? He looks like he crawled from a tomb!

"Decius, look at him! He's dead, or worse!"

Decius ignored him, approaching Tertius with a mixture of fear and reverence. "What do you want from us, Centurion? What does the god require?"

Tertius's jaw creaked open again. A wave of unnatural cold washed through the cave, carrying the scent of damp earth and the grave. Flavius gagged, pulling his cloak tighter. The dead Centurion's eyes shifted, focusing on the altar, then back to the two living men.

Then he spoke, his voice a dry rustle, echoing the words from the dream. Words that chilled Flavius far more than the Germanic morning air. "Hunter. Or prey."

Decius froze. His awe warred visibly with naked fear. He swallowed hard, then nodded slowly, as if accepting a dreadful, inevitable truth. "Hunter," he repeated softly. "Hunter."

Flavius heard the scrape of metal. He turned to see Decius lunging towards him, his sword drawn, wielded with his uninjured arm, desperation burning in his eyes. Flavius reacted instinctively, batting the blade aside with his forearm, the impact jarring him. His fist lashed out, connecting solidly with Decius’s jaw. "Have you lost your mind?" He scrambled back, drawing his own sword.

"Hunter," Decius spat blood onto the cave floor, "or prey. I'm sorry, Flavius. This is the only way. He offers power! A way out!"

"You fool! It's madness! Fever! Look at him!" Flavius parried a wild thrust. "You cannot turn your back on Rome, on our gods!"

"Our gods left us to die!" Decius snarled, attacking with renewed frenzy. The confined space filled with the clash of steel. Decius, despite his broken arm, fought with the strength of desperation. He hooked Flavius’s good leg, sending him stumbling back against the cave wall. Flavius stabbed desperately, forcing Decius back momentarily while he tried to regain his footing, his injured leg screaming.

He never got the chance. Decius surged forward again, his blade glinting. When Flavius’s wounded leg buckled under him, Decius’s sword point slid past his guard and sank into his shoulder. Pain seared through him. With a roar, Flavius gripped Decius’s armour and slammed his forehead into Decius’s nose, feeling cartilage crunch. As Decius staggered back, momentarily stunned, Flavius thrust upwards with all his might. The blade slid between Decius’s ribs and pierced his heart.

He ripped the blade free, gasping. "You stupid... foolish..."

Decius swayed, looked down at the fatal wound, then up at Flavius. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

Flavius stood panting, leaning against the wall, sword dripping. The silence in the cave was profound. He looked at Tertius, who hadn't moved, his milky eyes fixed on the scene.

Then, horribly, Decius stirred. He pushed himself up, slowly, stiffly. The gaping wound in his chest wasn't bleeding freely. Instead, the edges seemed dark, congealed, dusted with the same faint frost Flavius had seen on Tertius.

Flavius raised his blade warily, horror crawling up his spine.

"Wodanaz," Decius rasped, his voice distorted, empty. He retrieved his fallen sword, and walked with stiff, unnatural steps towards the cave entrance. Tertius moved aside, allowing him to pass. The two dead soldiers flanked the fissure, silent sentinels.

Flavius watched them, numb with shock and terror. He followed cautiously, keeping his distance, sword held ready. He squeezed through the narrow opening back into the ravine. Tertius and Decius stood there, waiting, their dead eyes fixed on him.

With immense effort, Flavius climbed out of the ravine, hauling his protesting leg after him.

South. I have to go south. Get away from them.

He glanced back. The two dead soldiers pulled themselves out of the ravine with unnatural ease, their movements stiff but certain. They fell into step behind him, their gait perfectly synchronised.

He whirled, pointing his sword at them. "Stay back! Don't follow me!"

They ignored him, simply stopping a few paces away, waiting.

"I mean it! Stay back, or I'll..." He looked at the ghastly wound in Decius’s chest, the milky eyes of Tertius.

Or you'll what? Kill them again?

Panic tightened its grip.

What do I do? What in Hades do I do?

He paced nervously before them. "Why are you following me?"

They both spoke in perfect, chilling unison, their voices devoid of inflection. "Hunter."

"You’re the hunter? Or... or am I?" Flavius asked, dread pooling in his gut.

"Hunter," they both replied.

Great.

That clarified nothing and everything. He was marked. Linked to them. Leading them? Or being led by them?

He turned, finding the weak sun through the oppressive grey sky, oriented himself south as best he could, and began to walk, leaning heavily on his branch. Flavius kept glancing nervously towards the canopy. No sign of German war parties, but a pair of large black birds, ravens, circled silently overhead, keeping pace. He muttered prayers under his breath.

Mercury, guide my steps. Mars, lend me strength. Jupiter, protect me.

The words felt hollow, useless in this ancient, brooding forest. His gods seemed very far away.

He heard the sound of running water and pushed towards it. A narrow stream, its water clear and achingly cold, gurgled through the trees. Flavius fell to his knees, drinking deeply, splashing water on his face. As he drank, he looked up. Tertius and Decius stood patiently on the bank a few paces away. They showed no sign of thirst, no needs of the living, waiting with the patience of the grave. The ravens continued their silent vigil overhead.

As dusk began to gather again, casting long, distorted shadows through the trees, Flavius found a shallow hollow sheltered beneath the sprawling roots of an ancient, gnarled oak. It offered minimal protection, but he was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to go further. Pain from his leg, now hot and swollen, radiated up his thigh.

Infection.

He collapsed into the hollow, his makeshift crutch falling beside him. Sleep claimed him quickly, a black, dreamless void this time, born of pure exhaustion.

He was jolted awake sometime later by a sound. A soft, rhythmic crunching. Footsteps on the damp leaf litter. Many footsteps. A sound that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He opened his eyes to near darkness, the moon hidden by thick clouds. Then he heard it again, closer. Thump... thump... thump... The sound of disciplined marching.

Flavius pushed himself up, peering out from the hollow, his heart pounding. Tertius and Decius weren't alone. Standing sentinel in a loose perimeter around his resting place were three more Roman corpses. He squinted, recognising the dented helmets, the torn segments of armour gleaming dully where faint starlight caught them. Dead men from the slaughtered legions, their faces slack, their eyes empty sockets or staring with the same unseeing intensity as Tertius's. They stood unnaturally still, weapons held loosely at their sides. One was missing an arm below the elbow, but held his shield strap gripped in his remaining hand, the stump raised slightly as if still expecting to hold a sword.

They found more.

Or perhaps... they were drawn here. To me.

A shout echoed through the night. Germanic voices, alert and hostile. A hunting party, drawn by noise or misfortune.

Instantly, the five dead legionaries moved. With terrifying speed and silence, they formed a tight shield line facing the direction of the shouts, Tertius instinctively taking the centre. It was a mocking parody of Roman discipline, executed by things that should be rotting in the earth.

The barbarians, maybe six or seven of them, burst through the trees, axes and spears ready. They crashed against the dead soldiers' shield wall with guttural war cries. The formation didn't budge an inch. Silent as the grave, the dead legionaries responded. Blades licked out, finding gaps in armour, puncturing flesh, tearing throats. The barbarians' screams of pain and terror contrasted starkly with the chilling silence of their opponents.

Flavius watched, frozen in the hollow, a new kind of fear gripping him. He should have felt relief at being saved, but watching the methodical, emotionless slaughter filled him only with horror.

I'm on the wrong side.

A giant warrior, with a wolfskin helmet, roaring in fury, swung a huge two-handed axe in a devastating arc, taking the head clean off one of the dead legionaries. The headless corpse didn't even falter. It stabbed forward blindly, impaling the giant through the neck. The headless legionary remained standing, sword held ready, until the fighting stopped.

Gods, they don't even need their heads.

Flavius felt sick. He had fought beside men like these, bled with them. Now... they were abominations. And they were his abominations, somehow.

As the last German died, gurgling on the forest floor, the dead Romans reformed their silent guard around Flavius's resting place. The headless one remained standing, eerily vigilant. Flavius stared at the butchered corpses of the tribesmen, then back at his unholy escort. He scrambled back further into the hollow.

Jupiter's teeth!

The German corpses were twitching. A faint, chilling blue mist seemed to rise from their wounds, coalescing in the gloom. The mist swirled, taking on vague, shifting shapes like great hounds, silent and menacing.

What was that? More magic?

Flavius shivered uncontrollably.

Madness. It must be madness.

Exhaustion, terror, grief, the fever from his leg. It was all conspiring to conjure phantoms. Decius lay dead in the cave. Tertius rotted somewhere behind him. These figures, the marching, the fight were tricks of the light, fever-dreams, survivor's guilt given form.

Yes. That must be it. I am mad.

He almost laughed, a hysterical giggle bubbling in his throat. Time seemed to warp. Had a whole day passed since the cave? Another night? The forest remained unchanging, a claustrophobic prison of towering trees and perpetual twilight. He tried to ignore the presence behind him as he forced himself to walk again, heading south once more. But it was impossible. It was the sound. The single, unified sound of their footfalls.

Thump� thump� thump�

Five sets of sandaled feet, hitting the damp earth at precisely the same instant. A relentless, perfectly synchronised rhythm that drilled into his skull. They moved in a grotesque parody of legionary discipline. Only when a thick tree trunk or an impassable boulder blocked their path did the formation momentarily break. Individuals flowed around the obstacle with eerie fluidity, immediately reforming their rank on the other side without pause, without command.

He found himself on a low, wooded ridge. Below lay another clearing, smaller than the first, another place where the fighting must have been fierce. Broken weapons, discarded shields, and the dark shapes of more corpses littered the ground both Roman and German alike. As Flavius watched in numb horror, three more Roman bodies stirred, pushed themselves upright with jerky movements, and shambled towards his silent escort, falling into rank. The German dead remained still. His escort now numbered eight. Eight dead men following him south.

He thought he saw the flicker of distant campfires through the trees on the far side of the ridge. A small encampment. Perhaps tribesmen lingering, guarding captured supplies, or simply resting. Driven by a desperate, irrational need for warmth, for life, he started down the slope towards it.

His escort moved with him. As they neared the camp, they surged forward, moving with that terrifying, silent speed. Screams erupted from the camp as surprise turning quickly to agony. The sickening sounds of slaughter drifted back up the ridge. Flavius closed his eyes, leaning heavily on his spear, but he couldn't shut out the noises. When silence fell again, his escort formed around him. He stumbled into the now-silent camp. Three dead Germans lay sprawled near a sputtering fire. A haunch of venison roasted on a makeshift spit above it. Ignoring the bodies, Flavius limped to the fire, drew his dagger, and hacked off chunks of the hot, greasy meat. He devoured it like a starving wolf, the warmth spreading through him, a fleeting comfort in the nightmare. He found a waterskin, nearly full, and drank deeply. Then he squatted by the fire, amidst the dead, letting the heat soak into his chilled bones, strangely content for a brief moment, the horror momentarily pushed back by primal needs.

Flavius woke stiff and cold beside the dead fire, surrounded by buzzing black flies feasting on the German corpses. He stretched aching limbs. His leg was worse, throbbing, the skin around the wound tight and angry red.

I need a medicus. Soon.

Or he would lose the leg, if he didn't lose his life to the spreading poison first.

He started walking south again, discarding his branch, he used a salvaged spear as a crutch. He made poor time, his fever rising, the world occasionally swimming before his eyes. Twice more they encountered small groups of Germans. Flavius barely registered them, stumbling onward in a haze of pain and fatigue. He heard the sounds of brief, one-sided combat behind him, the chilling silence of his escort's work. He didn't look back. If the Germans had food or water, his escort seemed to leave it untouched, and he helped himself numbly after they had passed. He found skins of rough barley beer at one site and drank heavily, seeking oblivion in the harsh brew.

His forehead burned. He stumbled drunkenly through the endless trees, the silent ranks of the dead marching inexorably behind him. How many were there now? Ten? Twelve? He’d lost count.

As evening approached again, the forest began to thin slightly. Through a gap in the trees, he saw smoke rising. Not a campfire this time, but the ordered smoke of chimneys. A settlement. He squinted. Wooden palisades, tiled roofs visible here and there. A Roman village, or perhaps a fortified farmstead, on the edge of the dark wood.

Hope, fierce and desperate, surged through him. Civilisation! Safety! A proper medicus! He could escape this nightmare, heal his wounds, the dead would finally leave him be�

As if sensing his intention, the majority of his undead legionaries moved. Without pause, without command, they moved into a compact formation, shields interlocked, and advanced purposefully towards the settlement. Only Tertius, Decius, and three others remained flanking Flavius.

"No!" Flavius cried, his voice raw. "No, stop! They're Romans! Civilians!"

He tried to push past his guards, to run ahead, to warn the village. But they moved with him, matching his pace effortlessly. He realised with horrifying clarity that his own desperate urge to reach safety was leading them straight to it. He stopped fighting it, watching in despair as the testudo reached the palisade. There was no attempt to parley, no demand for entry. They simply hacked methodically at the wooden gate with their swords, relentless and untiring. Faint, ghostly hound-shapes seemed to flicker around them, phasing through the wood, their passage marked by sudden screams from within.

The screams of the dying started properly then. Men, women, children. Roman screams.

It isn't madness. It's real. And I'm doing this. I'm leading them.

The realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow. He sank to his knees, weeping into his filthy hands.

"Why?" he screamed at Tertius, who stood impassively beside him. "Why are you doing this? Stop them!"

The dead Centurion didn't turn. His ruined voice rasped the same chilling word. "Hunter."

Hunter.

They followed the hunter. They obeyed the hunter. Or perhaps... they guarded the hunter? Why keep him alive? Why protect him? Unless...

It was a flicker, a desperate gamble born of utter despair.

Unless they need me alive.

Hope, twisted and terrible, perhaps? Or just pure, final instinct.

If I die... maybe they stop.

His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. The blade rasped from its sheath. With a strangled cry that was half prayer, half curse, he reversed the grip and plunged the familiar weight of Roman steel deep into his own chest, below the ribs, angling upwards.

Agony, white-hot and absolute, ripped through him. His vision blurred. Through a red haze, he saw the dead soldiers, all of them, those guarding him, those attacking the gate stop. They turned their heads, their blank eyes or empty sockets fixing on him as one.

Tertius took a step towards him. "Hunt�" he began, the sound grating, unfinished.

Then, something changed. The unnatural coldness that clung to them seemed to recede, like a tide going out. Tertius shuddered violently. His jaw dropped open, then detached entirely, clattering to the leaf litter. His flesh seemed to darken, wither, collapse inwards with impossible speed. Green shoots erupted from the ground beneath him, thorny vines wrapping around his legs, pulling him down. The earth itself seemed to ripple. Fissures opened, dark and hungry, swallowing the dead legionaries. Nature itself, ancient and implacable, reclaiming the unholy things that had defied its laws, pulling the animated corpses back into the soil they had wrongly left. Within moments, they were gone, leaving only disturbed earth and the lingering scent of decay.

Flavius lay on the damp ground, the sounds of the distant, dying village fading. His blood pooled beneath him, warm against the cold earth. He looked up at the oppressive canopy, the first weak light of true dawn filtering through the leaves.

Jupiter... I kept the faith...

The thought formed weakly, a final plea.

Let Ovid be wrong... Let there be fields... Elysium...

His breath hitched. His vision tunnelled. The ancient forest watched, silent and uncaring, as the last survivor of the Wild Hunt finally found his peace.

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, then consider reading the rest of my stories on , as , , or .

This collection of stories is designed for quick reads, whether over a coffee or during a commute. Either way, they promise to deliver exquisitely disturbing nightmares that gaze without flinching into the abyss—and linger in the mind long after.

FREE on

Available to order on .

Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.