“We don’t fight them with men,” Erik told his council. “We fight them with animals .”
Erik, a Gaul chieftain of a crumbling village called Dustfall, learned this the hard way.
Erik had dammed the small river that bordered his village for three days. The water level dropped. Crocodiles—lazy, ancient, and massive—had sunned themselves on the exposed mudbanks, annoyed but still. Then Erik’s engineers broke the dam.
By dawn, the Roman vanguard was not marching. They were dancing —swatting at ankles, cursing as thousands of black-furred bodies swarmed their supply carts. One century lost two days and three wagons to fevered bites.
By evening, the great Roman legion was gone—scattered, drowned, or eaten. Dustfall hadn’t lost a single soldier.