The Tyrant's Tomb

your little area and forget the big picture. As Meg gave the last Khromanda a
haircut straight through the chest, I allowed myself to think that we were
winning!
Then I scanned our surroundings, and I realized we were surrounded by a
whole lot of not winning. Gargantuan ants trampled their way toward us,
spewing acid to clear the hillside of skirmishers. Several steaming bodies in
Roman armor sprawled in the underbrush, and I did not want to think about
who they might have been or how they had died.
Pandai in black Kevlar and helmets, almost invisible in the dusk, glided
around on their huge parasail ears, dropping onto any unsuspecting demigod
they could find. Higher up, giant eagles fought with giant ravens, their
wingtips glinting in the bloodred moonlight. Just a hundred yards to my left,
wolf-headed cynocephali howled as they bounded into battle, crashing into
the shields of the nearest cohort (the Third?), which looked small and alone
and critically undermanned in a sea of bad guys.
That was only on our hill. I could see fires burning across the whole
western front along the valley’s borders—maybe half a mile of patchwork
battles. Ballistae launched glowing spears from the summits. Catapults
hurled boulders that shattered on impact, spraying shards of Imperial gold
into the enemy lines. Flaming logs—always a fun Roman party game—
rolled down the hillsides, smashing through packs of Earthborn.
For all the legion’s efforts, the enemy kept advancing. On the empty
eastbound lanes of Highway 24, the emperors’ main columns marched
toward the Caldecott Tunnel, their gold-and-purple banners raised high.
Roman colors. Roman emperors bent on destroying the last true Roman
legion. This was how it ended, I thought bitterly. Not fighting threats from
the outside, but fighting against the ugliest side of our own history.
“TESTUDO!” A centurion’s shout brought my attention back to the
Third Cohort. They were struggling to form a protective turtle formation
with their shields as the cynocephali swarmed over them in a snarling wave
of fur and claws.
“Meg!” I yelled, pointing to the imperiled cohort.
She ran toward them, me at her heels. As we closed in, I scooped up an
abandoned quiver from the ground, trying not to think about why it had been
dropped there, and sent a fresh volley of arrows into the pack. Six fell dead.
Seven. Eight. But there were still too many. Meg screamed in fury and
launched herself at the nearest wolf-headed men. She was quickly