The first line of Romanus cohorts began to advance.
Shields overlapped, painted shields giving off the image of a great red snake slithering in the pale light, each step measured and methodical — boots crushing frost, not with haste, but inevitability.
Below them, chaos blossomed.
The Francian vanguard, caught in the narrow throat of the valley, reeled from the shock of the ambush.
The second battalion, bloodied and disoriented, scrambled backward, crashing into the unengaged third and fourth in a panicked wave.
Officers shouted to reestablish order, whips cracked, standards were raised high — but it was too late for cohesion.
They were inside the mouth now.
And the jaw was closing.
From above, the Romanus archers loosed again — a steady cadence of death.
Arrows fell like sleet, biting into chainmail, piercing through plate, skimming across helms, finding eyes, throats, armpits.
They pierced flesh and panic in equal measure.
Then came the signal.
