The sun fell behind a blanket of grey clouds. Rain poured down on the tiled roof above their heads. It splashed into the bog's waters like a thousand stones slung from the heavens. The flies scattered and the cherubs took shelter. Skippii leaned out over the balcony, savouring the smell. He filled his lungs like quenching a thirst and mouthed a silent thank you.

"Ah, that is better," Tenoris said beside him, massaging his big hands. "The land needs the rains to grow and heal."

"Oh, that's better." Drusilla cupped his hands out of the window and sipped the water he collected. "No offence, Skip, but the stuff you boil has a right taste to it."

"It's the iron," Cur said. "And the grim in the tins he boils it in."

"I didn't hear any complaints when you were thirsty," Skippii said.

"It's dark now," Kaesii said. "The rains bring an early night. We could go now, strike them when they don't expect it."

"They don't expect anything," Drusilla scowled. "You're not making sense."

"I'm just saying, why the wait?" Kaesii said.

"That's the plan," Skippii said. "We go in the morning. Rest now. It's been a few days of labour."

"I am not tired."

"No, but the auxiliaries may be," Skippii said.

Stripping off, Drusilla stood on the balcony, bathing in the rain. "I'm in no rush."

"Have you forgotten what the old man warned?" Kaesii chided him. "One bite from those cherubs–"

"There's none about," he said, scrubbing his muscular arms with his fingernails. "Come here and scratch my back."

"I shan't," said Kaesii.

"Come on," Drusilla turned around. "Scratch me where I can't reach."

Kaesii grimaced and turned away. But Skippii laughed, and found himself admiring Drusilla's masculine physique–his hillock back and mountainous shoulders, conditioned in the renowned iron-weight gyms of Summitas. Drusilla strode to the balcony's edge and displayed his form to bog and the enemy beyond, like the primal challenge of a pack alpha. Spreading his arms wide, he lifted his face to the rain, his black hair slick wet.

His heart lightened, Skippii jumped on a sudden urge and stripped off his silver tunic and joined Drusilla on the rain. With a sonorous laugh, Tenoris did the same. The rain alighted his skin with a hundred fingertip-touches, making him shiver. The three laughed and put their arms over one another's shoulders companionably, boldly displaying their manhoods to the perils beyond.

"Come on, then!" Drusilla shouted. "Let's have it. This is what I've got. Show me yours."

Skippii laughed at the sheer crudeness of it. Meanwhile, Kaesii scowled from the confines of the villa. Behind him, a few auxiliaries watched curiously.

"Join us," Drusilla said.

"No, it's barbaric," Kaesii said. "You should not let the enemy see you like that."

"Hey-up." Three Brenti lads stripped off and joined them on the balcony, then more came, and soon the space was full of men laughing at the simple pleasure of clean rain on their flesh.

Shuffling back through the crowd, Skippii redressed and sat at the one small table which they had spared from the raft-making. A light-grey canvas covered the table, and Cliae was working it with a thick needle and thread. They glanced up from their task briefly. "Nearly done."

"Can I see it now?"

"No," they said. "Not until it's done."

"Can't you tell me what it is?"

Cliae heaped the canvas so that its design was hidden. "No."

The rhythmic wheft and pull of twine intermingled with the rainfall. After a while, Skippii lowered his head to shut his eyes for a moment, and awoke what must have been hours later. The room was full of men, and the balcony was empty now. Cliae was still weaving. Tenoris lay nearby in sleep. But Arius caught his eye. The hawkish man sat by the balcony, gazing out eastward. Skippii joined him and followed his gaze. There upon the horizon was an orange glow, so bright it stained the sky above.

"Has it dimmed?" Skippii asked.

"I do not think so," Arius said. "The pass is narrow. They must travel slow."

"I'm surprised more did not take the mountains," Skippii said. "There must be passes."

"The coast is the safest route. The mountains are barren and cold, and the legions have allowed them to flee. Perhaps, if they were in greater haste to reach Ikaros, more would take the mountains. But why risk death? Why go hungry?"

"They knew we wouldn't defend Ikaros."

"They knew we could not," Arius said. "No legion could pass the mountains."

"No legion," Skippii said. "But we could."

His statement hung delicately in the air.

"We could," Arius agreed. "If we had need."

"If we… If Ikaros had need."

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"Then we could." Arius turned his perceptive eyes on him. "Is that your desire?"

"It's my desire," Skippii said. "But whether I think it's a sound idea is another matter. Whether it would be safe for our men, for us… Whether we could make a difference in Ikaros…"

"If we do not," Arius said, "then all you see, is what will become of the city."

Skippii winced. "It feels like such a defeat, in the wake of victory, when we're so close to liberating all of Philoxenia."

Arius smiled sharply. "It sounds like your heart is already decided."

"It's not only my heart I have to think about. It's all of ours. And Thales, and Kylinissa, and all these men. And the Imperator's last will, and the legion. What's best for them? What's best for us all?"

"Who can know, until the end?" said Arius.

"It's finished." Cliae rose from the table and joined them at the balcony. "Want to see it?"

"Sure," Skippii said, shaking away his gloom.

"Okay." Cliae jaunted back over to the table and lifted the canvas, obscuring its emblem against their chest. "But… I haven't woven in a while, and I wasn't working with the most ideal threads."

"Okay," Skippii said.

"And the canvas itself isn't great. I took it from a home, but the home was abandoned. It was in a chest, sealed up, and it's the best fabric I could find in this town."

"That's fine," he said. "Just show me."

Scrunching up their lips, Claie pulled a nervous face, then quickly turned the canvas around. On it was woven the emblem of their companeight's sigil in stark red silk: a geometric rune with IV boldly at its centre; along the edges was a red trim, and at each corner was woven a red flame.

"Oh wow," Skippii said. "That's brilliant. Our own banner!"

Cliae smiled unabashedly. "You like it?"

"Yeah, it's brilliant," he said. "Do you have a pole for it?"

"I do," Cliae said excitedly, fetching a pole and threading it through the pole-pocket. "I thought, the Kronaians have a flag, why shouldn't we?"

Raising the standard, Cliae stood proudly as their sigil dawned over the room, and all its occupants turned to stare.

Cliae's lips moved, but they made no sound. A moment longer, they stammered, "I will need some armour though."

"Why?" Skippii said, dreading the answer.

"I want to join you," they said. "I want to raise the standard. I want to help."

"It's dangerous."

"It is for everyone."

"As my chronicler, I need you alive," he said.

"And I need to know that I'm doing my part," Cliae said. "I know I can do more."

Skippii pondered it, and found he could come up with no sound reason not to let Cliae join the assault that would spare their honour. With a sigh, he lowered his head. "Okay. Join us tomorrow, but stay close, and stay behind our shields."

Cliae beamed with delight.

***

Late in the night before the day broke, they lifted their rafts into the boggy waters on the hill's north side. Ten men took to each raft. Each legionnaire wore their cloaks high and hooded to avoid the muck, but it would not help them if the raft snagged and they were tipped overboard. Everyone in their companeight held their breath as, at last, Tenoris climbed on board, and the timbers creaked. The raft wobbled, sloshing bogwater onto their legs, and more leaked through the cracks, but it did not sink. Sitting tight in its centre, Kaesii and Drusilla used poles to navigate the congealed waters. At their rear, Cliae held their banner close to their chest.

The dark husks of abandoned buildings drifted by as they floated ever nearer to Thylon's fortress hilltop. Behind, following down the street were two teams of auxiliaries. More teams were out of sight, approaching down each flank, and on the far left were the Kronaian's force. The warriors had abandoned their pikes and taken up swords, but even still, only thirty were able to make the crossing.

Reeds bent beneath their bow, dragging against the bottom of their raft, and their pace slowed. Skippii dipped his hand into the dirty waters and lit a small flame. Atop the raft, he could not draw strength from the earth anymore. However, his capacity to contain thaugia was sufficient for most evocations, and he had spent three hours upon the shore gathering it into him. As the waters around them heated, he spread his thaugia further, and a mist formed about them.

"Stinks," Cur complained. "Who farted?"

"It's the evocation," Skippii said, trying to hide the grin from his voice. "It will obscure us from arrows."

Cur coughed and wrapped his cloak around his mouth. "I'd rather take an arrow."

"I'd rather not," Orsin said. "Just hold your breath."

The rain had moved on from overhead, and now poured down solely upon the fortified hilltop. It would dampen the sound of their approach. In time, Kylinissa had managed to craft her storm with finesse. Now, she remained at the villa, awaiting his signal to unleash the thunder and winds.

Slowly, as they went, the walls knelt low until only slate rooftops were visible, and large patches of reeds around rotting foundations. Skippii sent more of his thaugia forth and spread the Ashen Shroud out before them. As the way cleared, his flanking auxiliaries drifted closer, and seven rafts joined in their slow, bobbing approach.

"Did you see that?" Kaesii hissed. "In the waters."

"Where?" Skippii asked. But when Kaesii pointed to the spot, he saw nothing there.

"I thought…" he began. "A face?"

"Don't be like that," Drusilla said. "You're pulling my tail."

"No, I did."

Drusilla shook his head, but held his shield tighter, and scanned the waters. Skippii shut his eyes and focussed on his thaugia–on its passing through the bog. Unlike when he connected with the earth, he could sense very little of the bog's substance–of its body and heat. It was like tossing a candle into the dark of a cave, and squinting at its vast walls. However, if something was there beneath the waters, would it detect him?

Skippii looked into the dim light illuminating his submerged hand. The waters here in the valley's centre were deep–deeper than a house. If they were to fall overboard, he doubted he could evaporate the bog to save them. Glancing up, he made sure that his mists were still obscuring the fortified hilltop. And they were, all except the belltower which rose above all. However, there, Kylinissa's rains poured the hardest, a waterfall sheet that hid the world behind it.

Their raft rocked.

"There!" Kaesii shouted, and thrust his shield out. A shape emerged from the mists, but did not move.

"It's another house," Drusilla said.

"This deep?" Kaesii said. "No, that doesn't look like a house."

"A tower?" But as Drusilla spoke, the water gurgled. Fat bubbles popped on the surface as the bulbous shape slowly submerged.

Skippii's throat went tight. Slowly in disbelief, he withdrew his hand from the water. Beside him, Drusilla and Kaesii withdrew their poles and took up arms. All was silent. Ripples rocked their raft in minute waves. He looked around. His auxiliaries hadn't noticed the shift through the thick fog.

"Enemy," he hissed. "Alarm. Be alert."

Ten wide-eyed, fearful faces fixed eyes with him from the adjacent raft, then one among them had the sense to pass the message on.

"Where?" Tenoris said. "I do not see them."

Skippii held his breath. They floated and listened to the distant rain, and the sloshing bog, and a quiet suction sound that grew with each quickening heartbeat. There beyond his mists rose a dark shape, and with it, a stench beyond anything he had smelled so far. It filled his nostrils and mouth–a pounding, throbbing aroma of death.

"Javelines." Skippii turned and caught the quiver thrown by Cliae. He withdrew a slender javelin and empowered it with flames, then hurled a Blazing Comet at the shape.

His flames burned a tunnel through the fog and set ablaze upon the construct. The light revealed a horror.

As large as a funeral pyre and growing in size, it dripped with sludge and debris. The very bowels of the bog had risen to the surface, and in its clutches were the shapes of animals and people. They writhed like worms, flesh-bitten and infested with maggots. One human form clawed free from where his javelin burned and fell into the bog with a screech. A sickening splash later and she was silenced.

But the construct did not slow. It rose over their raft like a wave and came crashing down.

"Sheilds," Orsin shouted.

But Skippii did not take refuge. He stood before his men and came ablaze.

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