A cave-like rotunda rose around them, and at its centre, a dreadful spire. The spire was not made of brick or timber, but fused with bone and rotting flesh. Vague human shapes speckled its surface as it rose to the dark roof, and there pierced the stone out into the dim light of the morning.

About its length, many dark shapes scattered to see his firelight. Winged and plump of form, the cherubs fled to alcoves in the spire's viscus form.

The temple's dank walls were festooned with a seaweed-like infestation. Its furnishings rotted in decrepit fungus heaps. Few candles were lit, and they gave off a sickly yellowish-green light. The air did not move. It scratched at his throat as he inhaled and sat heavily in his lungs. Upon reflex, he brought fire to his flesh and boiled his blood. His power singed the very air, and for the first time in what may have been decades, a stiff breeze swept through the open doorway.

Before them, bent low, were dozens–maybe hundreds–of skeletal beings. They did not bear arms, nor look up as he and his company entered. They cowered in filth, not moving, not making a sound. The silence was palpable; it filled the room, echoing deafly off the walls.

"Careful," Arius warned. "Things move amongst them."

"Them cherubs," Drusilla said, lowering his spear. "Want to burn a path, Skip?"

"Are they alive?" Skippii knelt and brushed the hair of a cowering woman. She flinched and muttered to herself, burying her head in the chest of another. "Are they our enemy?"

"They could have daggers," Cur said. "It's a plot. Don't be fooled."

"But burn them?" Cliae objected.

Cur turned with a scowl. "Or would you like to clear the way, master scribe?"

"Move aside," Skippii shouted. The bodies about him flinched–definitely alive. He nudged one with his foot, the slight bite of a flame in his heel. The man squirmed and crawled out of range.

"They're servents," he said. "Not the priests. Not heretics. They're cattle."

"Doesn't make them docile," Orsin said. "It could be a trick."

"If they attack, we shall kill them," Skippii said. "But for now, make them move. We must reach the spire. I must burn it. Maybe that will free them. Free their minds, and they will run."

Kaesii strode forward like a slave driver, whipping the beleaguered spirits with the butt of his spear. Drusilla went beside him with a firm kick. Together, they forged a path towards the spire at the rotunda's centre. Here, the servants of Hjingolia gathered thickest, crawling over one another like maggots to reach the spiral's base.

Hesitantly, Skippii brightened his firelight, wary of what he might see. A crush of bodies rose above their heads. Those nearest the spire reached out of it. Their hands plunged below its oozing surface. Nearer still, their arms fused and heads submerged. Gradually, the distinction of human became vague as their forms were consumed by the spire, ever pulsating, ever weeping pustulant ichor.

"Oh Chrysat-" Orsin bent and vomited.

They were all shocked into silence.

"Burning them would be a mercy," Cur said.

"I have to…" Skippii's mind was dizzy to comprehend the scene. Humans, reduced to slugs. Their bodies–their blood and flesh–merely brick and mortar.

"Yes," he said finally. "But drag these off. Help me."

He stooped and grasped a woman by her collar bone, pulling her back. So frail was her body that she felt as light as a child. But as she fell onto her back, she kicked with a surprising viciousness and scrambled back to her position on the pile. Those ghouls about her snarled pushed her back, but she retained her perch above a child who was no longer moving, and there continued her inexorable crawl in silence.

"What in pits…" Cur said. "They're crazed."

"They are lost," Tenoris said.

"They are spellbound," said Arius. "They are slaves."

Orsin looked around uneasily. "They have strength yet. Could they be commanded to attack?"

"Phalanx," Skippii said, and his companions drew up in a shell-like formation. He held his firelight up the spire and gazed towards its peak. There was no obvious entryway or staircase. If he was to surmount it, he would have to stick his hands in and climb.

"The priests must be up there," he said.

"The heretic?" Drusilla said. "Then burn it."

"The whole temple will go up," Skippii said. "You'll have to leave."

"No," Tenoris said. "Not here, with so many enemy about."

"Tenoris, stay," Skippii said. "The rest of you, guard the exit. We may come at a run, if something goes wrong."

The path which they had cleared was slowly filling with bodies, like mud itself, flowing back into the groove. His companeight sped down its centre towards the entrance, while Tenoris remained at his side.

Skippii glanced at the silver necklace that barely fit around his board collar. "If it gets too hot-"

"Then I shall make some distance, but I shan't leave you alone."

"Alright."

Kneeling, he delved in his mind beneath the grime of the temple floor–beneath its buried mosaic and the cement foundations, and into the earth. There, a heat rose to him willingly. He gathered it without the constraints of an evocation. Simply, he brought magma to its foundations, and lava to his being, and flame to the open air. He built the pyre patiently, like arranging a campfire in wet weather.

Ribbons of steam rose about him with a hiss. A murmur followed. The ghoulish servants stirred. They looked at one another in confusion, then in fear as the ground beneath them became hot to touch and the air grew sharp with heat. Their eyes widened as if waking from a dream. Skippii half expected them to turn and flee the temple, but one by one, they rose with fervent desperation to grasp the spire. A frenzy erupted around him. A wash of bodies.

Tenoris jumped into action, planting himself at Skippii's back. Shield held firmly against his chest, its rim braced against his wide hips, he slammed and stabbed at any who came their way. But they were oblivious to him all. They clawed over one another, growling and moaning, questing for the spire's embrace. They threw themselves into its form and were immediately stuck, as a fly in a web, and began to be slowly absorbed.

Sealing his heart from their misery, Skippii built his pyre. A steam rose about them, then smoke, as the bodies beneath were dried and burned. Fires flickered in the shadows, and grew. The servants of Hjingolia screamed, but still, they waded on. Skippii looked back, and saw a mound of bodies before Tenoris. His power far outmatched that of the beleaguered, pox-ridden servants. About him, flames rose from the bodies of the dead. Then, finally, the spire set alight.

The base took up his flame and it quickly rose–hottest at its peak–melting the construct like wax. Screams of anguish filled the air. Bodies toppled, writhing in flames. Many fled. But many more looked on him in a rage. They drove towards him, fingernails like claws, black teeth bared.

Skippii stood and brought a Blazing Armour to his flesh, and with quick lunges, dispatched any who came near. A single blow to the sternum was enough to crush their ribs and end their lives. He danced in the smoke and flames as a hatred crept upon his heart–not for these men and women, but for their masters who had reduced them to such filth and degradation.

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Above, the pyre roared. It was unstoppable now. The heat was so oppressive that it bowed any who remained in the temple, save for he and Tenoris. The servants of Hjingolia quailed, covering their faces from the flames. Few strayed towards the spire, and as the pain of heat conquered their desire, they fled towards the exit and into the open air.

"Come," Skippii said, and followed after the herd. Outside, the rain graced his skin. He took a deep, cleansing breath and joined his companeight. The legionnaires were gathered against the temple walls, beneath an archway held aloft by two great pillars.

"Kronaians arrived," Orsin said, pointing with his spear. "They're keeping the defenders busy at the walls."

"About time," Drusilla said.

"Once Thylon sees their temple burning, they'll lay down their arms," Skippii said. "It happened in Nerithon. Misery or fear will conquer them."

Just then, the temple's entryway coughed forth a great billow of black smoke. It covered them in a cloud of acrid ash. The stench clung to his lungs. Skippii convulsed and heaved–had there been anything in his stomach, he would have vomited. Blinking away tears, he squinted through the smoke.

Two figures shot from the entryway on greenish plumes of rancour. The flew like bolts out into the courtyard and pivoted into the sky. A third followed. Skippii lunged after it, but it was too fast, and his vision to blurred. But he caught a glimpse of it. The shape of a woman, decrepit beyond age. Soars bore holes in her flesh, and her face was a bloated, baleful mess. The heretic cackled as she veered up and soared after her cabal in the sky.

"Heretic," Skippii warned, but another billow of smoke drowned his voice. His companions spluttered and raised their shields. Tenoris squinted, but drew up to Skippii's side; his necklace protected him against the worst of the smoke wrought by Skippii's thaugia.

Another streak passed before his eyes. Smaller this time, only the size of a bat. Then came a flock.

"Enemy," he blurted and raised his fists. Striking out, he caught a cherub with a Blazing Strike. The fat creature burst into flames and splattered against a nearby pillar. But many more raged around his head. A flurry of wings and evil grinning faces. He lashed out, swinging his fists in wide arcs, and felt the satisfying impact and crunch as he caught cherubs in the air and dashed them against the ground.

His companions cried in alarm, but they were quick to react. Shields raised, they stabbed at the fat flying creatures which fell upon them. Spears sprung wildly. Skippii spotted even Arius stumbling in the smoke. The tall legionnaire tossed aside his spear and resorted to clubbing with his shield. The cherubs darted above their heads. One fell on the back of Kaesii's neck. In a moment of panic, Skippii sprang towards him, but Drusilla was already there.

With a backhand, he catapulted the fiend from Kaesii's nape. But there was another, falling upon his outstretched arm. Its teeth sank deep, and in one hand it held a rusted iron nail, and plunged it into Drusilla's flesh.

The mighty Summitan man cried in pain and threw his arm out, crushing the cherub against the wall. But as it fell away, the needle remained. And as the smoke cleared, and the last of their attackers were slain, Drusilla dropped his shield and knelt clutching his wound.

"Drusilla!" Kaesii cried, kneeling at his side. "What is it? What have they done?"

Drusilla hissed through his teeth and shivered with pain. Skippii had never seen him so stricken, not even when he had received an arrow through his shoulder on the road to Nerithon.

"It's a scratch," Kaesii dismissed. "You're good. You're fine. Get up."

Shakily, Drusilla splayed his fingers and revealed the wound on his spearhand forearm. A black dot corroded his flesh. Around it, the sickness spread–a swelling red that blistered and broke the skin, oozing with puss. Drusilla let out a throaty almost pleading groan.

"Make it stop."

"Where is Thales?" Skippii said frantically.

"Not here," Cliae said. "O-on the other island."

Skippii raised his hands behind his head and stared with shock as the infection spread. Suddenly, Drusilla cried and doubled over. He bashed his head against the floor over and over. His breath was one continuous heave and moan, tearing at his throat.

"You have to heal him." Arius' eyes were wide. His face pale as he grasped Skippii's arm. "He must burn it."

Skippii's lips moved but he only babbled.

"Burn the infection," Arius insisted. "Purge the arm."

"Before it kills him," Orsin urged, coming to Skippii's side. He felt as though he was in a dream as the two veterans led him over to Drusilla's side.

"Hold him," Orsin commanded Tenoris and Kaesii. The two pried beneath Drusilla's massive shoulders and pulled him upright. The legionnaire's face was white. Blood coated his lips. His eyes were clenched shut and sweat streamed his brow.

As Skippii watched numbly, Orsin jammed his fingers into Drusilla's jaw and pried open his mouth. Arius placed his emptied and folded waterskin inside. Drusilla's eyes were bloodshot as he opened them and stared at his companions.

"Bite down on that," Orsin said, then turned to Skippii. "Go. Do it. Burn it. Now."

"How?" he managed.

"Burn it," Orsin shouted.

As Skippii looked down, he saw with horror that the infection had spread all the way to Drusilla's hand. His fingers were clenched in a crooked rigamortis. And the red swelling crept onwards, seeking the joint of his elbow. Everywhere it touched, it shrivelled and withered his flesh like a worm-eaten corpse.

He grasped Drusilla's girthy elbow in two hands and looked him in the eye, but found no words to reassure his friend. He still do not know what he could do. His thaugia was capable only of burning–of destroying. Not of healing. Not like Thales. Not of life.

"Oyaltun," he stammered. "Help me."

"There's no time," Orsin hissed. "Skip, you have to do it now."

Trembling, Skippii lowered his head and poured fire into his hands. Drusilla gasped and arched his back. Then he wailed. Arius and Orsin grabbed his legs. Cur and Cliae watched on in horror. Skippii could feel his flesh in his hands like the body of the earth. He sensed its fire–Drusilla's own life's essence–and the heat of his blood, coursing through his veins. His heartbeat was rapid, uncontrolled. It staggered as it reached his wound and flickered out into darkness. Now, his whole forearm to the fingertips was necrotised. Dead. And it would only spread unless he stopped it.

With dread and defeat, Skippii set Drusilla's flesh ablaze. The big legionnaire kicked and screamed, and threw Kaesii off his arm. He lunged and smacked Skippii in the temple. There was a flash of light. When Skippii blinked awake, he found himself buckled over, headfirst in Drusilla's lap. Above him, the legionnaires fought desperately to contain Drusilla's rage.

"I'll kill you," he spat between the gag. "I'll fucking kill you. Pain! Pain!"

His eyes burst. His face was red as fire. "I'm not afraid! I'll kill you!"

Words were lost to rage. Fearfully, Skippii shook himself and grasped Drusilla's arm again. With a breath, he singed the flesh below the elbow. Suddenly, Drusilla's strength gave out. He went limp, muttering, drenched in sweat. Skippii quenched the fires, but kept his heat beneath the skin.

He dared not look.

But he had to.

The flesh of Drusilla's forearm was black and burned, and withered by pox. Gone was his proud strength–his immaculate muscle, forged by will alone. Hobbled, was his spear-arm. At an end was his career as a legionnaire.

"I will fetch an axe," Arius said, and sprinted from their party into Thylon's morning gloom.

Orsin held a hand to Drusilla's forehead, then put a finger to his neck. "His pulse is there. Not too weak. He's strong."

Skippii sat back, but as he let go of Drusilla's arm, a cold shiver ran through him. Quickly, he shot out and grabbed his friend's elbow. "I'll keep it going. I'll keep my thaugia under his skin. If there's any remaining infection…"

Kaesii stood above him, hand clasped over his mouth. His wide eyes strayed from the emaciated arm to Drusilla's face, and to Skippii.

"He's alive though?"

"He is," Orsin said.

"You're sure?" Kaesii said.

"He will live," Tenoris said, standing tall. "He is strong. But so is our foe's evil."

"Be wary," Skippii said. "Take up arms. All of you, form a defence. There may be more of those things."

"He's going to be alright?" Kaesii said. "He will heal?"

"Not from that," Cur said, lifting his shield and spear. "Look at it. It's ruined. Poor sod."

"No, don't say that," Kaesii protested. "You don't know him. None of you do. He was with me at the gatehouse of Nerithon. He and I, alone. He is more powerful… he is too strong to be defeated by…"

As tears swelled in his eyes, Kaesii growled and strode over to the cherub which had wounded Drusilla. Its wings were broken and singed by flames, and it bled a slick yellow puss. Its face was broken and bloated, but one eye remained open, and on its lips was a twisted grin.

Kaesii raised his shield and brought the bronze rim down on its skull, crushing it to pulp. There he knelt, not facing his companions, and cried. Above them, the temple ablaze lit up the sky. Dawn came early to Thylon as Hjingolia's magia was purged from its heart. The Kronaians soon came to admire the fire, and Arius returned with an axe borrowed from the Brenti.

Tenderly, Skippii lay Drusilla's arm out across the temple floor. He was still only half-conscious, murmuringly feverishly. His eyes would open and he would raise his head and look around like he was lost in the wilderness of night. Then, they would roll back into his skull. His head would lull and fall into Tenoris' lap, who held his friend tenderly.

Arius lowered the axe-head to Skippii. "Give it fire."

He did so, then while the edge still glowed white hot, Arius raised it to his ear, and let it fall.

Thunk.

The edge rang against the stone beneath. The final knell of a bitter victory.

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