"It's important to keep the wound wet," Thales said. "Or else, with a burn, it will fester and rot."

Cliae watched the old man's hands at work. Some of his actions were plain–how he soaked the bandages in a shallow bowl and wrapped them gently around the amputated flesh. But the way his other hand hovered, trembling, over the water's surface, and the mantra that moved quietly upon his lips, was not ordinary.

"It won't spread?" Cliae asked. "It doesn't linger… the infection."

"No," Thales said. "If it were still there, I would feel it. Skippii's fires did their work, however blunt their application."

The old philosopher sighed deeply. Next, he crushed a pinch of herbs. They smelled as strong as an incensed candle as he sprinkled them into the bowl. And as the cloth reached Drusilla's brow, the legionnaire's chest rose to receive the scented steam, and fell deeply into a restful state.

"To answer your earlier question," Thales said, not looking up from his practice. "What I practice is a mix of common lore and thaugology. Anyone may apply these herbs, but what of their properties should be expressed the most? Their physicality? Their flavour? Their aesthetic? Each of these things is a part of the whole, and each may be accentuated by one who knows how to pry them."

As he talked, Cliae's gaze drifted to Drusilla's wound. His marble-textured tattoo now ended abruptly at the elbow. Near the amputation, his flesh was red and swollen. But his bicep and shoulder were still broad, like the stump of a marble column that had been shattered by a great force.

"I do follow," Cliae murmured. "It's like the human body. It has so many parts. It is a realm of its own."

"Exactly." Thales shot them a glance, then he closed his eyes and rested one hand on Drusilla's broad chest, the other connected to the ground by the blanket beneath them. "Everything has a body, so to speak. Such as a tree–that is easy to analogise, isn't it?"

Cliae's brow furrowed as they strained to comprehend him. "Yes.

"How?"

"Well…" A prickling nervousness crawled up their throat. This was a test, and Cliae hadn't realised until now just how badly they desired to pass it.

"On the outside, we can see many different facets," they said. "The bark, the branches and the leaves. And if you chop open the trunk, we see even more intricacy. Its rings, and beneath the ground are its roots."

As Cliae spoke, their nerves were dispelled like steam upon the breath. A long forgotten feeling rose within them–the union of tutor and master.

"What else?" Thales asked, eyes closed.

"There is the tree's scent," Cliae said. "It's sound, against the wind. The rustling of leaves, the creak of its branches. And its feeling to touch. Its roughness, or smoothness. Are those properties of the tree or the beholder?"

"Both," Thales said. "How the bark feels is the product of a subject and an observer. It is like the smoke of a fire–not the fire itself, but a product of the fuel and flame. And there is no smoke without fire. There is no roughness of bark without the union of a forthright finger and an un-calloused mind."

"And… what does this union bring?" Cliae asked. "Thaugia? A power to heal?"

"Perhaps," Thales said. "Though, my practice is not like the magia you know. I do not act out of domination like the Gods with their powers. I…" A smile spread across his face. "I paint. That's how my old master described it to me. I paint."

Drusilla stirred and meekly smacked his lips. His right arm spasmed and he winced, drawing it onto his chest. Thales carefully poured a few drops of their precious clean water into his mouth, and the legionnaire murmured agreeably.

It took Cliae a moment to muster the courage to ask their next question. "And, can anyone learn to paint?"

Thales' eyes opened, and in their amber depths were thoughts beyond their comprehension. He stared back into Cliae's mind, assessing them as an old owl from the branches of a formidable oak tree.

The tent around them darkened and faded as their imagining bloomed like a waking dream. An owl perched before them, mantled in brown with black flecked feathers, watching a wary traveler in the dark of the night. The owl was alone now, but it had not always been so. It did not morn, it merely observed the traveler's path, and knew the end.

Cliae shook their head and blinked away the illusion. "What…"

"Close your mind to it," Thales said. "Gently now, what did you see?"

"An owl," Cliae said. "Watching me from an oak tree. Was that you? Did you… Are you…?"

"No," Thales said. "You have heard the saying that one's eyes are windows to one's soul. Indeed, they may be mirrors too. But come, this is not a thing to discuss and cheapen with words. Keep that vision to your own. It is precious, and proof that you may have some talent."

"What talent?" Cliae breathed, eyes wide.

Thales laughed softly to himself. "Come, let us play a game. Answer for answer. There is more which you did not tell me about this tree. What other properties does it have?"

"No more." The sound had come from Drusilla. He groaned and flickered open his eyes. "Stop talking like that. You're giving me a headache. A tree's a sodding tree."

"Ah, but a tree also grew the ash staff of your spear," Thales said. "Is therefore a tree a weapon."

Drusilla's breathing deepened as he awoke and began to rise. "I'll show you how much a weapon it is if you don't-" Gritting his teeth, he cut off his remark and settled back down into his cot.

Thales smiled at Cliae softly, and whispered. "Another time."

***

Tenoris explored the outcrop for the high priestess Kylinissa. He tread heavily over the sodden ground, weighed down by the long drawn-out fatigue of fighting. His whole body ached, and he could taste the emptiness of his own stomach.

It reminded him of spring days on his family's farm, when labour and toil was at its height. But at least in those times, there had been a bucket of water to bathe at the day's end. Here, in Hjingolia's mire, there was only Kylin's sweet rains for cleansing, and they helped little when each misstep sunk into the bog and splashed him with stagnant detritus.

He had left his shield with his company, but carried his spear as a walking stick–probing the mossy ground before him. Its tip was burnished by fighting, and all the dirt, and he was not pleased by its bluntness. He urgently desired to sit somewhere dry and sharpen it and apply a cloth of oil, and to scrape out the mud which caked his greaves.

Upon Skippii's campaign, there would be no opportunity to replace their fine speartips and well tailored armour with likewise quality. Certainly, the vassal to the primordial heres' duties extended to maintaining the finest quality of equipment and apparel. When the bards wrote epics of their trials, he wanted to be spoken of in a regal like.

"Septimus Tenoris, the fine vassal," he said to himself. "The barbarian slayer… but no, that could be anyone. Thwarter of Hjingolia's evil. First upon Nerithon's walls. Conquerer."

"Hail, legionnaire."

Tenoris startled. In his daydreaming, he had walked right past Kylinissa. Her twilight-blue cloak draped her slender form, perching atop a boulder out of the mire's reach.

"Priestess," he blurted. "I- Er… Greetings. Skippii requests your presence at his counsel."

Her eyes narrowed like slits archer's slits in a tower's defences. Tenoris half raised his shield-arm to ward off her stinging gaze, then masked the gesture by adjusting the broach of his cloak.

"Right," she said. "Lead the way, legionnaire."

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Sheepishly, Tenoris rose from the newly formed riverbed and led her towards the camp. His mouth felt dry and his breathing felt oddly cluttered. He likened the feeling as to when he had been caught–quite frequently–by his mother, stealing oatcakes from the kitchen hamper as a child. There was something about the ire of women that frightened him far beyond the plain, blunted edge of a man's anger.

"I hope that you find this quest of ours righteous," he said. "I think… the Gods… They would be sorry to see Ikaros fall."

"There are better ways to conquer Nerithon than diving head-first," Kylinissa said quickly. "But, we are here now. I have agreed."

Tenoris caught the soft fall of rain in his palm, and delighted at its touch–each raindrop, a crystal teardrop from Goddess Kylin herself. "I am glad for your company," he said. "These are strange times. I know who the heres is, I am no fool. Some of the Gods may hate him. But I am bound to him now. And I am no Godless man, but nor am I witless and led by every command, not while there is contradiction. I am blessed to have your guidance at this time."

Kylinissa was silent for a while, and Tenoris began to worry that he had offended her. Before he could think of how to repair the rift, she spoke.

"Pray with me, tonight." It was almost a sigh. "Once this counsel is done. I too wish for their guidance."

"I would be honoured," he said.

They arrived at the shelter of tent hides stretched between the low branches of trees, which formed a roof to the rain. A further canvas had been laid down with stones, and upon it was a map of parchment which Cliae had drawn. About the map hovered the companeight and a few men of Brenti and Lacustrian descent. Drusilla, however, was absent, as was the wizened old Thales and poor, shaken Kaesii, who tended at their companion's bedside.

Like a shade, the memory of Drusilla's injury darkened before his eyes. The man, so powerful, so sculpted in Summitor's gyms, reduced to a decrepit form. His howls of pain still echoed in Tenoris' mind.

"Ease his pain, Hespera," he muttered a prayer to the Goddess of the Moon, then to the God of War. "Reward his valour, Rabies."

"All of the pack animals," Skippii was saying. "And everything we can spare. This is what grain we have left." He pointed with a stick at five sacks, each half-full, heaped beneath the canvas.

"There must be more," Cur said. "I bet some of the Brenti have hidden it for themselves."

"If they could hide it, it wouldn't be much," Orsin said. "A bit of dried meat here and there."

"Will you ask the men again?" Skippii said to one of the Brenti present–an elder with a thick beard and crooked scar over his right eye. "Anything they have should be shared. And any of the injured that are staying behind should give up what they've got."

"They already know," the man said, then paused. "But I will tell them again."

"And Drusilla," Tenoris said. "He should be left with some luxury to aid his recovery. It's only right for a legionnaire."

"I've spoken to Drusilla," Skippii said. "He's coming with us. He's awake, and stronger than any of us thought…" He trailed off, lips parted, eyes wandering. "I can't make him stay, not against his will. I would, but…"

"If that is his choice, and he is well to make it," Tenoris said, "then how will we bear him? Can he walk?"

"No," Skippii said. "Not for a few days I should think. We will bear him in a cart with the supplies. Then once we reach the mountains, if he is fit, he will trek with us."

"Your injured comrade?" Kylinissa said. "He is fit to fight?"

"He will be," Skippii claimed.

"What are his injuries?" she asked.

"He has…" Skippii hesitated. "Lost his right arm. His spear arm. It's completely gone. But he can still raise a shield."

"And with it, do a lot of hurt," Cur said. "I've seen that bull shield-bash a barbarian's brains out his skull. Half the time in a fight he'd run off and drop his spear anyway. Crazy kid."

"His strength, even diminished, is more than ten men," Tenoris said. "Summitor was kind in his creation."

"And the heretics that did it are still out there," Cur snarled. "They ran, didn't they Skip? Flew into the sky, you said."

Skippii nodded. "They fled on a cloud of locusts. But…they did not seem gamely in flight. I wonder how far they could have fled? Perhaps they are still nearby."

"I would like to put their bodies at the feet of our friend," Tenoris rumbled. "Show him what happens to those who hurt our company."

"A hunt." Arius grinned wickedly. "If you let me take a horse, Skippii, I shall guide the Lacustrians after their scent."

Skippii paused, and seemed to consider Arius. The veteran spoke like no other legionnaire that Tenoris had met. Nor Auctorian, for that matter. His eyes were dark and full of secrets, but never before had he led their company astray. His blade was sharp, as quick and deadly as a snakebite. Ever in battle, his spear would bolt past Tenoris' cheek and cut open an exposed throat, or pierce an eyeball, and the viper's fangs claimed their enemy's lives.

But he did not gamble with the others. He did not sing or speak around the fire. He did not talk of his past, nor his home. And when battle was mentioned, his eyes would glint, and his lips would curve like sickles of the harvest.

"Go," Skippii said. "Tonight, if you can. But don't engage. I want to be there. If you catch their trail, keep at a distance. Promise me that."

"Of course," Arius said, and made his leave.

The counsel turned to matters of the practical and planning, and Tenoris' mind wandered. Memories of their battle rose to his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, the emotions of the day boiled and overflowed in waves. He relived his moment of surprise as the bog lifted and formed a wave, and swallowed Skippii whole. His spear had felt miniscule in that very moment. He had felt miniscule. Outmatched.

Lucky that Skippii had been with them. In the shadow of all his blossoming power, they remained ordinary legionnaires. Only through bravery and loyalty could his chosen legionnaires emerge as substantial, and worthy of their station.

And so, when Skippii had been dragged down in the deluge's grasp, he had tossed his spear aside and leapt in after without a moment's hesitation. Such was the duty of the vassal to the heres.

"The hunting may be fair," Arius said. "It is spring."

Tenoris' stomach rumbled, bringing his mind back to the present.

"Let's hope so," Skippii said.

"What do we do once we arrive, then?" Cur said. "Throw up our banner and wait for the horde?"

"No," Skippii said. "Thales is part of a cabal that is spread across Philoxenia. He has told me that he will have allies in Ikaros, and he can overthrow the khanate there. We too shall destroy the heretics, and their temples, and free its people. We do not think there will be a large garrison. Ikaros has been spared the war. But, rumour is, its walls are broken in many places by old sieges. We should not have difficulty getting in, nor seizing control."

"And then?" Cur pressed.

"And then we raise a militia," Skippii said. "We rouse them into fighting for their lives. There'll be no shelter in Ikaros from the Urkun horde, they must know that. But we will give them a chance."

"You won't find many fighters among them," Cur said. "And, arm them with what? Hoes and daggers? Barreltops as shields? Rocks?"

"With whatever we can," Skippii said. "Listen, I know it isn't much of a plan right now, but I'm sure new tactics will reveal themselves to us when we get there."

"Pardon me for saying, heres." One of the Lacustrians spoke–a short, dark haired man in his late thirties, with a thin beard rusting his pointed chin. "The chimera… The beast that slew our Imperator… It has flown north-east, has it not?"

Skippii nodded. "To our knowledge."

"Then it accompanies this horde? It shall come upon Ikaros too."

"It may," Skippii said. "And this time, I shan't let it escape."

Tenoris breathed in the fragrance of Skippii's boldness and broadened his chest. "Nor shall I delay to be at your side, friend."

Cur groaned. "I may be delayed on that day, actually."

"It will happen eventually," Arius said. "Whether at Ikaros, or elsewhere. Why delay? I am ready as you are."

"Why do you think it travels with the horde?" Orsin addressed everyone present. "Because it flees. Because Skip here burned its ass and it didn't like it. So it's flown off with its tail between its legs. And if it sees us again, well, who's to say it'll even want a fight?"

"It was not Skippii alone who chased away the beast," Kylinissa said. "The Coven of Kylin played our part too. And where should our presence be upon the hour of your glorious defence of Ikaros?"

"The Coven have their own duties," Skippii said dryly.

Kylinissa laughed shortly. "Whatever duties supersede yours, Skippii? I thought none?"

Skippii's jaw tightened. "I only mean to say that they are far away, west of here. And I have no command over them."

"You have no command over me," Kylinissa said. "But I have chosen to join you. So too may my coven. Reach out to them. Send a scout. Inform them of our quest, if only to keep them informed. If she sees fit, Aetheria may come to our aid."

Skippii's eyes narrowed; his brow creased beneath his bandana. In his eyes was a mix of emotion, as plain to Tenoris as the clear waters of a lake. Skippii did not trust the Coven, nor the Gods they served for that matter, and his pride would be hurt for asking their assistance. But he was not a fool. The heres winced, and the waters rippled–distrurbed by the folly of pride. His eyes flickered to the men around him. He had more to consider now–more than his own desires.

Tenoris looked upon him with warmth and admiration, certain of his words before he ever uttered them.

"If she sees it fit," Skippii said. "Our powers combined… before at Nerithon… there's no heretic in the realm that could stand against us united."

"United is another question," Kylinissa said. "But we are all allies of Auctoritas, if not the pantheon."

"I have no quarry with the pantheon," Skippii said sternly. "If they have none with me."

"And so far they have not," Tenoris said. "All the Gods must now be aware of Skippii's awakening, and be singing his merits in the heavens. Truly, we have ushered in a new age. Old grudges must be pushed aside for a new alliance."

"A legionnaire's divination," Kylinissa said sourly. But as she turned to him, the sharpness of her scowl blunted. She closed her lips and turned aside, sparing her ire. "I will leave the rest of the preparations to you. I must pray. Any may join me as you see fit."

Her dark blue cloak swept about her as she strode off, sweeping more gracefully than the meagre wind merited.

"So." Skippii cleared his throat. "Brief your men. Thirty Brenti and eight Lacustrians. That's what I need. That's what we have the provisions for. The rest will stay behind."

He paused, looking at them each in turn. As his eyes fell on Tenoris, there was a spark, as a flint struck by iron, a bond only known to brothers who have shared battle, and would come to share it again.

"We depart tomorrow," Skippii said. "Now, I must see if the Kronaians will join us."

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