Battle of the Teutoburg Forest (AD 9)

Three legions of Romans under Publius Quinctilius Varus were ambushed by Germanic tribes led by Arminius. Approximately 15,000 Roman soldiers were massacred.

Legends tell of the “ghost warriors”—Germanic fighters who appeared almost spirit-like in dark woods, striking terror into Roman ranks. Here is how the story should be told.

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I am Rian, last of the summoners. My beard is now white moss, my bones soaked in the peat of this old land, but I remember the day we opened, then dressed the wound in the world.

It began with the burning of the groves. The Romans—those gray-eyed invaders with their straight lines and holy arrogance—had begun their long march through the tribal lands of the west. With Varus at their head, they split the forest like a butcher splits flesh, laying down stone roads where once only deer had tread. Their gods rode with them, carved in ivory, names like Jupiter and Mars etched in voices that sneered at thunder.

The clans would have bent the knee. Some already had. But not us—not the forest, not the stones.

It was in the sacred circle at Nemeton, ringed with standing oaks older than Rome itself, that we held council. There were seven of us, druids of the inner ring, each bearing scars from several incarnations.

I remember Gildas, who had no tongue, but spoke in dreams.
I remember Ysfael, whose eyes had turned milky from seeing too far.
And I remember the child, Aeronwen, born with the mark of the moon across her brow, too young to bleed, too old to be truly mortal.

“We must call them,” she said simply. The fire crackled without smoke. It knew what we feared.

“You mean the Gaard,” Gildas said. His voice was ash.
“I mean the dead,” she answered. “The betrayed. The forgotten.”

That night, under a moon soon to be full, we laid the bones. We gathered skulls of the fallen from cairns hidden under moss and time—clan warriors, chieftains, even the hands of kings lost to southern blades. The rites had not been uttered in a thousand winters, but the stones remembered.

Aeronwen stood at the center, naked save for a crown of wolf teeth and crow feathers. Her small body shook, but her voice did not.

She sang.
Not a melody, but a keening—a sound like iron being torn from the earth. The air thickened, the soil cracked, and the circle hummed. We cut our palms and fed the ground our blood. Then the wind rose.

Spirits came like smoke. They had no form, only presence. Warriors fallen in battle, whose names had been spoken of only in sorrow, warriors whose eyes still burned with the sting of unfinished war. They howled through the glade until even the stars fled.

So we offered them vessels.
From the black forest beyond the stones came the wolves.

There were one hundred and eighty. Silent. Lean. Ancient in posture. They came in waves from the mist, padding into the circle as if summoned from the roots of the earth itself. They bowed not to man, but to memory.

And one by one, the spirits of the fallen poured into them—slipping into fur and fang like blades into scabbards. The wolves did not scream. They only stood taller.

It was the full moon three nights later when they struck.

Three Roman legions had camped in the Teutoburg Forest under a fine mist. I was there, disguised as a captured scout. They did not fear me. Old men with filthy cloaks rarely stir fear in generals. Varus barely glanced at me when I was led through his command tent. He spoke of order, of census, of tribute.

But the trees whispered different words.

That night, I was chained beside the eastern firepit. The Romans sang as they sharpened their weapons. They called out dice rolls and chased slave girls. Their sentries patrolled with lazy eyes.

Then the mist grew teeth.

The first wolf entered the camp without sound. I saw it pass a guard who never blinked. Then another. Then dozens. They moved like shadows cast by dying stars.

They did not tear indiscriminately. They went for the Centurions and let the common soldiers alone…at first.

Quintus reached for his sword as his throat was opened by a silver-gray minion.
Tribune Aulus next—found hanging from his tent pole, throat gnawed away.

It was not a slaughter. It was a ritual. A harvest.

By sunrise, the command structure had utterly collapsed. Orders were shouted but never followed. Varus was pale and frantic, surrounded by trembling bodyguards who could not name the enemy.

Then came the war horns—from the trees.

The clans, waiting, charged from the forest, bodies painted blue with purpose. Arminius, our false Roman, led them with fire in his eyes.

The Romans never formed ranks.
They were cut down like saplings in storm. Some tried to flee west—but the WolfGaard were there, always ahead. I saw one soldier fall on his knees, praying to Jupiter. A black wolf leapt from the underbrush and tore out his heart mid-plea.

In the chaos, I saw Varus break from his guard and stagger toward a tent set aside for wounded officers. He shouted for clarity, for reports, for gods—anything. When he pushed inside, he froze.

A single wolf stood within, its black fur matted with blood, eyes gleaming like the moon on frozen water. In its jaws hung the insignia of the Legio XVII.

“What are you?” Varus rasped, stepping back.

The wolf did not move.

Then it tilted its head—and spoke. Not with voice, but with memory.
Images flooded Varus’ mind: battlefields strewn with broken shields, women wailing over burned homes, warriors cut down defending trees older than his empire. Pain, rage, and sorrow—all at once.

Varus collapsed, clutching his temples. “No,” he whispered. “You’re not beasts. You’re punishment.”

The wolf turned and disappeared into the smoke. When his aides found him moments later, Varus’ hair had turned white. He died by his own hand before the second day.

The massacre lasted three days. Not a single Roman survived.

When it was done, the WolfGaard returned to the glade. Each wolf lay at the base of a stone and howled once, then trotted off to rejoin their pack.

Aeronwen walked among their pawprints, whispering thanks. She did not smile. The gods had been defended, but the price was dear.

I buried the bones of the Romans myself. Not for them—but to keep the forest clean.

…But not all the bones.

Some we left out—arranged in quiet stacks at the base of oaks, symbols burned into bark with blood and ash. The heads of all one hundred and eighty centurions were mounted high, staring east, so the next army would know what the forest remembers. Not as trophies, but warnings.

The rites called for sacrifice, and the earth drank deep. We gave back to the roots what had been taken in fire and cruelty. Each ritual marked a return to balance—not vengeance, but reckoning.

Rome remembers the trees with nailed heads, the bones gleaming in fog, the strange circles in the soil. They call it barbarity. They still call it treachery, saying Arminius betrayed Rome. But I know the truth.

It was not betrayal, It was remembrance.

Here is a list of names that didn’t make it. Checked against bandreg.com

Please Email me with any new ones….I will keep adding until we get a winner

Unused ones could be song names when we start working on originals. Hit the jump for the list.

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 Wolfgaard was started as a challenge to get back my bass chops after a hiatus of about 17 years. AJ von Wolfe approached me about doing some jamming so I called Gavin O’Hara and he was up for it. It was a good time but we never played out. We did covers and some originals. Continue reading →