Kylinissa raised her head atop her horse and took a deep breath. The air was clean once more. The bog receded. Rainfall scoured the land. Stormstress Kylin had answered her prayers. It had been her doing–her devotion. Though the clouds had been slow to come in, with their arrival, her spirits swelled.

She could not command the thunder like High Priestess Aetheria of the Coven of Kylin. She could not direct the winds on a whim, and soar like an owl above the earth. But what little she could do, when placed princely, could have a great effect.

"Not powerless," she said, and afforded herself a smile. "You're not the only one, Skippii Altay."

Smoke billowed from the domed temple roof. A crooked black limb wilted at its centre–Hjingolia's tower, reduced to ash and ruin. The smoke mingled with the clouds above and drifted on the wind; a bitter, earthly scent. But his fires were not wholly unpleasant. They were the taste of conquest and victory.

Kylinissa rode alone through the morning, picking a slow way through the debris towards a spot where Skippii Altay was staging his forces on the north-east side of town. She had not been summoned or given directions, but she could smell them on the wind–nearly a hundred men stinking of sweat and war. It was a scent she had not missed ever since leaving Legion IX behind.

Her stomach rumbled in complaint of a missed breakfast. For the first time since leaving the legion, she regretted having not taken a company of acolytes to serve her. She had acted rashly during her departure, packing only austere bags as a matter of some misguided protest. Whom she had been protesting was unclear–the fates perhaps, for taking her away from the Coven of Kylin. And how they might have been perturbed by the poverty of her provisions was beyond her reckoning now. Just another action of late that felt more motivated by her indignation than rationale.

She sighed, and turned a smile inward to mock herself. If she had known where their journey would take them–into the stinking mire of a dead land, bereft of fertile grounds, orchards and storehouses, she would have acted differently. How nice it would be to command a troop of acolytes, eager to please her, to clean her clothes, tend her horse and scour the land far and wide for some fresh fruit or game.

Her quiet solitude was punctuated by cries from Thylon throughout the early afternoon. The Kronaians were doing their dirty work in the streets, persecuting and claiming control. The people of Thylon had made their beds with the enemy, be it by cowardice or corruption. Now they must lie down.

A stony outcrop sprouted a beleaguered thicket. A campfire spluttered and spat at one end, and around it, the men of Skippii Altay's company gathered. Present were three of his legionnaires and his scribe–Cliae–who had seemed to be promoted to Vexillum-status–now their standard bearer. Skippii Altay's flag fluttered in the campfire's smoke. Its sigil bore an ancient symbol of a runic language of the city Clidus. At the rune's centre was the numeral 'IV'. It was plain and bold, ungarnished. Kylinissa hummed to herself. It suited him–it suited his company.

The Brenti men grouped together in their clans and shared whatever flavourless concoction the legionnaires had cooked up from the provisions. Millet and salt, she assumed. They were a rabble, laughing and cursing, and spitting millet husks high in the air in some form of competition. Their appearance had changed little since they entered the boglands, only that they now smelled worse, and from a far greater distance.

But… they were proven fighters. Even now, on the eve of victory, they wilted new shafts for their javelines, fitted bronze bronze tips, sharpened knives and stitched armour. And they were brave. They had followed Skippii's legionnaires into the heart of Thylon willingly, eagerly even, yipping like hounds at the scent of prey. Kylinissa wondered, however, how they would fare against a foe mightier than pox-ridden Urkun? Would they stand and toss their javelins at the Mantikhoras, should it return, or turn and flee as hounds before a bull?

She guided her horse over to where the Lacustrians gathered–short, lean men with long braided hair. In better lands, she knew them to be fair and clean people. However, here in the mire, they had let their beards grow through, and every wrinkle on their faces was a trench for grime.

"Helion," she greeted, and dismounted, handing her reins to one of their elders. "Kylin bless you, look after this horse."

Helion bowed his head and took her stallion to be pitched with the other horses. They were agreeable people–the Lacustrians–worshipers of Lacustris and Kylin both. A simple word from her towards Kylin's inclination and they would serve her willingly. But they were not acolytes, lowly and witless. They were warriors, with their own duties and demands, and she did not wish to burden them any more than was necessary.

"Brush him." The words escaped her lips before she could stop them. Well, now that it's out... "And see that he's fed. And check his hooves if you would, he's developed a slight limp on the right side. Might have been something lurking in the bog."

"Of course, priestess," Helion said with a slight bow.

"My blessings," Kylinissa said, and strode away before she pushed Helion's good will any further.

"Wine, priestess?" The legionnaire named Orsin held out a slim vase. He was among the elders in Skippii's retinue. A bronze tan coated the topside of his arms, painted by years of service under the harsh sun. Wrinkles creased his bright green eyes and strong jaw. A salt-and-pepper beard grizzled his chin, and were it not for the red cloak on his shoulders, she may have mistaken him for simply the tallest amongst the Brenti warriors.

"It's all we've got left, but it's still good to drink," he said.

"I will." She accepted a wooden mug and toasted. "To our victory, and the legionnaires who claimed it."

"And more to come," he said. "Please, stay here a while. Skip has something to say. That is, the heres has."

"Okay," she said plainly. She noted the way his eyes lingered on hers, then fell about her form. As brief as a wave, his attentions passed. Kylinissa watched him leave curiously. Not a bad looking legionnaire, if she held nose to his stench. But that was not his fault. Perhaps another time… He seemed respectable enough, and he was God fearing. Maybe even a little learned in Goddess Virelia's ways? A proud man with some wisdom, and firm looking hands.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Kylinissa tasted the wine. It was corked and tinged sour, but a relief from rainwater all the same. Ever since devoting herself to Kylin, her appetite for certain things had heightened. Good wine, clean air, the exhilaration of a quick canter down an empty road. And approvable company. That one desire remained unsatisfied, and would likely evade her until Skippii Altay's campaign in Thylon was over and they returned to Legion IX. Perhaps then she would seek an acolyte or legionnaire of worth, and indulge…

"Listen up." Skippii Altay stood upon a treestump and raised his arms. He was a tall, young man, taller still in recent weeks. He had lost his hair to the fire, and his legionnaires' garb. Now, he wore a simple silver tunic wrapped by a plain belt, a red bandanna, and no sandals. How he was not cold and shivery, so thinly clad and exposed to the dredges of her storm… well, she could guess.

"Our job here at Thylon is all but complete. You fought brilliantly, my men, in the face of such odd dangers. The enemy… they employ these beasts, constructs, monsters, and dark magia in the hopes that it will deter us. In the hopes that the good, honest strength and courage of man will fail. But today it has not. And the day of its failing will come long after our deaths."

His audience gave a hearty yawp and cheered. Those with wine raised their mugs in salute. A smile tugged at Kylinissa's lips. Their enthusiasm was earnest. It seemed that Skippii Altay had fallen into the role of leader quite snuggly. At least, he found it easy to rouse the spirits of the victorious.

"Now, men, we have a choice." Skippii lowered his voice, and paused. "To the south, throughout the valley, the legion is divided across townsteads much like this one, whose peoples have been murdered, their homes destroyed. Eastward, the Urkun horde migrates. Tens of thousands of men and women… families. A whole herd of them. They take the coastal path to avoid the mountains."

He turned and waved at the sky. Above and beyond the valley rose a wall of Summitor's making. Shadowy forests climbed the black rock, and gave way to snow at the foremost mountain's shoulders. Winter's chill clung defiantly to the mountains. During spring, the Goddess of snow, Glacivoxa, crooned and smothered Summitor with pleasures until he gave in, and let her bring her lover, Lacustris–who was otherwise confined to the plains below–up to his peaks, where the two copulated in the brightening sunlight, melting their love, bringing life to the land.

Were she not now devoted to Kylin, she could have prayed to their union and so washed her soul in their passions. But no longer could she sense the power of Chrysaetos in the sunlight, nor the grace or Viridoe in the forests, nor the sharp kiss of Glacivoxa on the frost. Only Kylin's irritation and anger and command were privy to her. And the sooner she returned to her Coven, the better; the sooner she could deepen her devotion.

Skippii had been talking about the northward mountain passes, and of the city Ikaros which lay beyond. She had not been listening acutely, and could tell that he had lost somewhat the attention of his men. But then, with a shock, a memory occurred to her of their meeting with the Imperator some weeks ago when he had sent them on this quest. Skippii had asked very specific questions about the city of Ikaros which the Imperator had not approved. But now, the Imperator was nowhere to disapprove, and he was in command. And his ideas run amok.

"Ikaros will be crushed." Skippii raised his voice once more. "Ruined, as we see here. A city, much like Nerithon, reduced to vileness and villainy. The Imperator did not think it possible to save. He set our sights to Thylon alone. And so quickly… so easily, we have conquered it. And now, we must decide what to do next. Shall we sit here, idle, in the filth, and grow hungry and bored? All the while, the Urkun horde dreams of its victory, won without a battle. Or shall we be men? Shall we make through the mountain passes and onto Ikaros before the horde arrives, and stage a defence of the city the likes that will be remembered in history forever?"

A harsh murmur rose amongst the Brenti. A few cheered, but many grew concerned.

"How are we gonna defend a whole city?" one man asked.

"It's got no walls now, does it?" an elder said. "I heard its walls are gone."

"The whole horde?" said another. "It's a death march."

"I won't order you," Skippii said, silencing the men. "I won't force you to join us. This path, which I and my companions shall take, is one which only the greatest amongst us may bear. Any who are weak of heart would not belong in our company. Only those who choose to come willingly, shall I march alongside. For, I shall arrive at Ikaros. I shall repair its walls and raise a militia. I shall stand at the foremost battlements, and before the gates, and set ablaze any bastard barbarian that thinks an easy victory shall be made of me. Of the legion!"

His anger seemed to shake them all. Kylinissa took a sharp breath as it struck a chord with something inside her. The wind picked up around her, and she stared keenly at his face. So young, he was, but so sincere. And about him, almost imperceptible, a golden halo shimmered.

"Who will defend Thylon, well-won today?" Kylinissa spoke firmly, and her voice was carried to all ears on the wind.

"The injured shall stay behind," Skippii said levelly. "And any who wish to wait. And a few of the Lacustrians." His gaze turned to the horse lords. "The guard will need scouts and messengers. I will only want eight of you. The finest eight, to bring one horse each so as to ration provisions."

"I will go," said Helion. "I will follow you, heres."

"So will I," one of the Brenti announced, to an echo of likewise sentiment.

"I will not be left behind in the dirt," an elder of the auxiliaries shouted, standing and pacing towards Skippii. He extended a hand to shake, and others came after. How soon after their masculinity was questioned that the legion's forces were willing to lay down their lives to prove their valour. And how universal was their decision, for as soon a few took up the call, the many were pressed to prove they were not cowards. Before long, the whole camp was on their feet, giving their oaths to Skippii Altay.

Through the fray, his eyes found hers. "Will you join us, Priestess of the Storm?"

A nice title, she considered, and averted her gaze to the skies. How badly, she wished to return to the legion. How cruel of Skippii to string them all along on his personal quest for renown. Likely, he would have his slave raise their banner atop the tallest tower and lay claim to the city, and assert himself as its dictator, before they all died to the Urkun horde. He was powerful, and so was she, but what hope did they have against a force of tens of thousands?

She was within her right to refuse him. Her orders involved nothing of the mountains or Ikaros. However, that would leave him and his men without a priest. Without even an acolyte to give prayers. It would leave them at the mercy of the Gods, pantheonic and heretic both. Could she do that? Could she watch them march to their doom for the sake of her own desires? Would that make her any more pious than Skippii Altay himself?

Many eyes watched her–many faces bright faces, now shadowed with doubt. Her word meant a lot to the men–her affinity with the pantheon held perhaps more weight than any of Skippii's posturing or battle prowess. A rejection from her would curse their journey, and portend injury and illness. So, too, might she change their minds; might she turn them away from this foolish errand of death and misplaced valour.

Abruptly, she broke the silence. "What hope have you of victory at Ikaros?"

"Hope enough," Skippii said. "Moreso with your aid."

Very clever, she thought. "I have my duty: to assist the heres and guide him in the pantheonic light. That duty has not ended here. Did I ever say it had? Did I ever stray?"

"You did not," he said cautiously.

"Then of course, where you stray, Kylin's wrath shall follow." And with that, she turned from their procession, hiding the anger in her face, and strode beyond the stench of the men, into the squalor of the bog, and seethed over her fate.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.