Cold Retreat

Caemus grips tight his prize from the last battle. The cost though, was much too high. He hooks the Celtic war club, adorned with what the Celts call "Runes", on his belt with his gladius before turning from the ruined wall of his fort. For the life of him, Caemus cannot understand how the Celtic warrior was able to topple the wall with this same club.
Caemus' men have been reduced to a handful of Centurions. The elite Roman Soldiers, responsible for a wave of conquest rising up through Europe, being halted here, by barbarians.
A quick count makes Caemus sick. Fourteen men, including himself, that is what his regiment has been reduced to.
"Atticus!" The smallest of the men, spared from the battle by Caemus' order for him to be locked in Caemus' quarters. "Damnit! Come here now boy!"
Atticus appears next to Caemus quietly. "Yes sir?"
"Gather provisions. We need to flee quickly. It won't be long before those Celts return in greater number." Caemus sighs, "Should they catch up to us, you'll need to take up arms with us. Is that clear cousin?"
Atticus nods, "I'll find a gladius from the supplies sir."
Caemus takes a final look at the ruined wall before addressing the rest of the men. His words turn stern as he hears them complain, showing he has no room to debate the orders. Within the hour the small company takes its leave.

Caemus hears the Celtic battle horns sounding in the distance. With ease, what is sure to be a massive army could trample through the snow covered foothills and slaughter the Centurions.
Atticus is already moving, waking the rest of the men and dowsing the small campfire.
"The boy is keeping a good head in this time of distress. He'll make a great general some day." Caemus turns to his soldier Torrin. "I believe the same. Hurry, let's move before they draw any closer."
Caemus' order is easier given than followed. Having spent three winter nights sleeping in the snow, many of the men are too cold, too drained of their strength to march at a steady pace.
Caemus himself already notes the damage of winters fangs on his body. Small black specks adorn the tips of his fingers and toes. Though he isn't sure, Caemus believes the frostbite is steadily growing. He decides to make no mention of this to his men as they continue. Instead, he wraps his hand around the Celtic weapon, finding reassurance in gripping it.

Several days have passed with the sound of the horns growing closer. Caemus and his men are still two days out from their destination, the next closest fort under Roman occupancy. The morale of his three remaining Centurions is bleak. With each loss of their comrades, the men have lost hope. The worst blow to the men came when Atticus fell to his death. He had climbed a tree, searching for dryer branches to make a much needed campfire. The tree he was climbing hadn't cleared of the night's snow, so as he climbed, gently shaking the tree as he did so, the remaining snow on the upper branches came loose, falling upon him. His neck was broken on impact. Caemus cannot even hide his own plight from his men now. The grip of the cold holds fast to his hands and feet. Large splotches of his skin has begun to rot while still on his bones.
Still though, Caemus tries to rally his men forward, as they have reached the small mountain pass that sits above their destination. The pass is too small to allow the entire Celtic army to pursue them, assuring Caemus that his men can reach the fort, even before they succumb to the cold.
Caemus' hope is dashed as his company enters the mouth of the pass. A new horn blast from behind them comes louder, stronger. As Caemus turns to look, he sees dozens of Celts running up the foothills, heading straight for the same pass he and his men are entering.
"Run!" The men heed the order, running with all their strength. Caemus can see though that his men are too weak now.
"Don't stop!" Caemus' voice echoes through the pass as he himself comes to a stop at the midpoint. Caemus turns back to their pursuers, drawing his gladius, sunlight glinting off the short sword's blade. After a moment's thought, he also draws free the Celts own war club, the rune carvings catching the light of the setting sun, seemingly coming to life with fire.
Caemus unleashes a furious war cry as the first of the Celts enters the pass. The sound echoes up the stone walls, causing small patches of snow to fall around him.
Caemus meets the man, his gladius striking hard against his opponent's larger sword. The difference in length proves to be Caemus' saving grace, as he quickly recovers from the impact before stabbing out, the tip of his blade slicing through his enemy's throat, spraying blood before the man falls dead.
Caemus manages the same success several times over, dropping the bodies before himself to impede the remaining pursuers. The tactic comes to and end when one of his victims manages to tend his blade away from his grasp.
Caemus stands alone, armed only with the war club, as his enemies grow in number. Their mere footsteps cause the mountain walls to quiver, dropping more snow into the pass. Caemus looks down at the club, its crown seemingly aglow with the fire of the sun's light.
Before another of the Celts can attack, Caemus swings the war club into the side of the pass. Instantly there is a crashing rumble that echoes up the wall. Caemus repeats the strike on the opposing wall, shattering the club this time, just as the avalanche of snow buried him with his enemies.

Caemus' remaining Centurions watch in horror as their Captain gave his life for them.