The day dragged on; the sun refused to rest. Skippii trekked back towards Thylon alone and in a fatigued daze. His companions had their own duties to attend to, and though Tenoris had offered to accompany him, he bade him rest and prepare his gear. There would be no time to pause upon the road to Ikaros, and besides, Skippii was confident he could face the Kronaian prince alone.

With each breath, he drew heat to the earth's surface, forming a radiance twenty metres around him that dried the bog beneath him. He began to perfect the evocation–applying just enough heat to solidify the muddy banks without completely drying them out causing them to crumble underfoot. Drawing upon his thaugia did not worsen his fatigue, but his lack of food did, and rest, and the recurring memory of Drusilla's agony as he wrapped his fingers around his friend's arm and-

Skippii shook himself, focussing on the world around him instead. Rivers of mud flowed down the derelict streets. As it receded, the bog regurgitated the town's carcass. It would all have to be demolished, by his estimations, the timber and stone and furniture was all ruined, rot bitten and rusted. He sighed and continued his trek. A palisade wall rose above him, and above all, the charred temple spire. Its black body glowed with deep orange veins as what was left of its core burned. Ribbons of smoke poured from its innards, forming a grey cloud that drifted far across the valley. A signal fire as good as any. A declaration of their victory.

Skippii gazed east and wondered if that creature–the Mantikhoras–had seen the flames. If, perhaps, it was watching them now and wondering what had become of its sister in darkness.

Passing through the palisade gate, he looked around for the Kronaian superior's banner. It took him some time to find the company stationed at what seemed to have once been a large winehouse. Slaves dressed in rags tended to the pack mules in a nearby stable, and lay their beds beside the animals. The door to the winehouse was flung open and a Kronaian warrior, stripped down to his tunic emerged. He fixed Skippii with a disdainful look and urinated into the street. It hardly worsened the quality of the boggy path, but still, Skippii avoided his stream.

Inside the winehouse, the mood was thick and grimy. Warriors lounged about the narrow common-rooms and alcoves. Spears and shields leaned against the walls, and their once-silver armour was piled in mucky heaps. Slaves–women all–tended to the warriors' ails. Few of the warriors were wounded, but many desired the slaves' obedient company. Skippii wondered how many of the women they had brought from Kronaia, and how many had been taken from the homes of Thylon in recent hours?

One woman knelt at her master's feet, massaging his calves. The warrior ignored her, murmuring to his companion. When Skippii paused, they each looked up at him. The woman turned. Her face was bruised, her eye was swollen. Her expression was mute. Submitted.

Skippii shivered and froze, looking into her face.

"Ya?" the warrior said bluntly. "Grieven asuper'tu."

Skippii swallowed and dragged his eyes from the slave. "I'm looking for your superior, Demakles."

"Vaster," he said. "Vaster son."

"Right," Skippii said and turned away.

After much searching, he found Demakles in a small courtyard that was surrounded by the winehouse's quarters. Without his attire to mark his stature, he looked just like any of the other Kronaians–shorter than an Auctorian legionnaire, but muscular, built like a gladiatorial brawler.

The Kronaian prince was sitting atop a stone basin with a scrawny looking woman at his side. She wrapped her arms around her scant nightdress and shivered in the cold. But Demakles paid her no heed. Rainfall had rebirthed the cisterns that filled the basin, but now a green sediment lurked in its waters, and reflected upon Demakles' disdainful expression.

"Greetings, heres Altay," he said, and extended a small jug of wine. Skippii accepted it, and drank slowly, taking in the courtyard.

Dotted about were six more of Demakles' men, and with them were more slaves. Women laid in their laps, covering their faces with their hands and hair. A few were young and gaunt. His grip tightened around the vase as he lowered it. Three bodies were tied to a post at the other end. Men, covered in blood, dead now, with many cuts and broken bones. Their thick black hair had been sliced from their scalps in chunks, and tossed at their feet. Their skin beneath the blood and bloat was pale. Urkun. Not slain in battle, but treated as sport.

Demakles followed his gaze lackadaisically and motioned to have the wine vase back. "You missed it. They are dead now.

"I came to speak to you about the campaign," Skippii said sternly. "My company has made plans to continue on to Ikaros to defend the city. Will you join us?"

Demakles' scowl deepened and his face drooped as a man whose faculties were numbed by wine. A thin, sinister smile crossed his lips. "Campaign?"

"To liberate Philoxenia," Skippii said. "That's why we're here–legionnaires, in your land. To free Philoxenia. Next, we will save Ikaros."

"Ikaros?" He laughed dryly, and as he glanced about his companions, the laughter grew as a hoarse chorus. "We are Kronian, not Ikarosian."

"And I am Auctarian," Skippii said. "And now, so is Thylon."

"Is that true?" he smirked. Then his expression plummeted, and grew cold like granite. "Then where are your men? Where is your banner? What is your right, magus of Auctaria?"

Skippii's heart quickened. All warmth of comradery had fled the courtyard. His senses sharpened as though he expected a fight. He held his tongue just long enough to draw the bowstring and let loose his intent.

"Thylon is in ruins," he said. "Hjingolia's servants made sure of that. We've driven them off, but we think their magi have fled north, seeking the safety of the mountains. We will pursue them and kill them, and then go on to Ikaros. The Urkun horde travels there now. Many thousands. A formidable foe…"

His eyes fell upon the executed men tied to a post, then back to Demakles. "All of my company has agreed to follow me. I gave each of them the option to leave, and none took it. Now, I charge you with the same quarry. Join us. March to Ikaros through the mountains ahead of the horde and defend Ikaros with me. Together, we can face the tide. What happened here… what destitution… It need not happen to Ikaros too."

Demakles listened with a muted expression. As Skippii finished, he pushed a slave woman aside and rose. He came close and squinted into his eyes, shifting from one to the other.

"I am not a fool, Skippii Altay," he growled. "You will not convince me to leave my post."

Skippii scowled back at Demakles. The prince's eyes were hard, yet brittle with distrust. It was reminiscent of a dog that had caught a hare, but while the flesh was still warm in his mouth, feared the approach of a bear.

"A few of my company will remain behind," Skippii said. "To heal, and convey with the legion, and eventually, to help rebuild the town. Priests will arrive. And legionnaires. Thylon is not yours." His mouth moved quicker than his thoughts, and suddenly, the truth seemed clear. Demakles was an ambitious prince. His company was not here to liberate their allies in Philoxenia, he desired to conquer whatever land was left in the Urkun's wake.

Skippii laughed derisively–he could not help himself. "Oh, I see. You want to pick at the scraps. You want this place for your own? This place, this filthy town."

Demakles half-snarled, and averted his gaze. "These lands… It needs order. Kronaia will bring order."

"The legions are not your private army," Skippii spat. "I am not your mercenary. I did not defeat Hjingolia's construct–its horrors–and burn its temple, so that you could claim these streets. And claim its citizens. This land is under Auctorian protection now. And so are its people."

Anger rose in Skippii's voice. "You are the mercenary. You are ancillary. Where were you when we breached the palisade? Late to arrive? We had burned the temple ever before I heard your horns. Well done in defeating the dregs. Well done indeed, mighty prince."

Demakles' face twisted in anger, and his nostrils flared. "This is our land now. We fought the Urkun for centuries. We claim it. We defend it. Form you. From them. From anyone. I, prince of King Petropha, claim it."

At the edges of the courtyard, Demakles' men edged towards their pikes, and their hands fell to the scabbards at their sides. Within a heartbeat, they were all facing him, eyes intent.

How foolish were they, he wondered? How given to rage that they would dare face him? Surely they knew that he could kill them all? They must have heard the rumours of his power? But they had not seen him fight upon the first ridge, or the second hill. The air had been thick with storms and smoke. They had heard rumours of his strength, but now wondered how it would match against their own.

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Fire came to Skippii's hands before he could quench the rising thrill in his blood. His heat-body shone, and power rushed to the surface of his flesh, ready to form a Blazing Armour. But he wore only his silver tunic, and bore no shield. The thaugic armour was effective at deflecting the force of a blunt strike, but poor against sharpened tools. And these were trained men, not ragged barbarians with blunted blades. One sure thrust could spear his throat, or puncture his leg, and at best, he would need time to heal. He had hours, not weeks, to come to the city's defence. Ikaros would fall.

Demakles kept his distance, but his men formed around him. If only Tenoris were by his side, the odds may be in their favour. But as it stood, if violence broke out, he would have to burn hot, and fast, and leave no room for chance. He could not overpower them without killing them, and killing their leader would bring the whole company down on his head, and on his men, and spell disaster for diplomacy between the legion and Kronaia to come.

His clenched fists glowed with a barely concealed firelight, and he spoke in as measured a tone as he could muster. "Thylon is conquered by me, and my company. We are the speartip of Legion IX. Oppose our will and sew your doom."

"There are many casualties in war," Demakles said, slurring his words. "Many die who should not. Perhaps I send a messenger now to tell your legion of your unfortunate fate. The Urkun were too strong for you, but not for us. Not for the Fifty-Three."

Shocked, Skippii stared at the prince, not knowing how to act. The wager was raised–a threat uttered could not be withdrawn. Suddenly, his anger vanished, replaced by a steady pulsating power. He lowered his tone and took a single step forward, and looked down at Demakles.

"War has shaped you into something cruel," he said. "What pride is there in cruelty? What manhood in torture and vice? These women… they are your sisters. Philoxenian. You should be ashamed."

More of Demakles' company had appeared in the courtyard and in the doorways, an audience of twenty or more. Skippii looked beyond their prince and addressed them. "For shame. This war has made dogs of you. Barbarians in silver caskets. What of your wives? What of your daughters? If they could see you now…"

Though few spoke Auctorian, those who did murmured in translation. And what words they picked out flew tall and echoed off the courtyard's walls, soaring to the heights of his emotion. His voice pitched high as disgust frayed his voice.

"What will the Gods think of you? They see you this day. They must have thought of you heroes until now. Do any among you have the heart of a man? Have any of you compassion?"

Demakles sneered and shook his head, but as he turned to his company, his expression sank. Many of his warriors now bowed their heads, or stared at Skippii wide eyed and enraptured. His words had reached their hearts. Not all were so cruel.

But their leader was the cruellest of all. Sensing that his men wavered, Demakles span around and barked at Skippii in fury. "Out! Out now. Go back to yours. You are no prince. You heretic. You foreign dog. Fly to Ikaros and there die, fool."

Skippii raised his chin to look over the prince and announced in a clear, level voice. "Any who are man enough to follow me to Ikaros, to save the city-"

Demakles spun around and flailed his arms, screaming in the Kronaian tongue. But Skippii kept his voice measured. Oddly, it cut through Demakles' hoarse commands and reached the ears of the gathered Kronaians. It was as though the air around the prince's lips was muted by snowfall. But Skippii's was as crisp as ice.

"I was told that Kronaians were proud and powerful men. You, who alone fought off the Urkun in Philoxenia all these generations. And now you would feed at the scraps of your enemy. What would your grandfathers think now, to see you as dogs at their table, too afraid to follow me, a foreigner, an Auctarian, into battle?"

Suddenly, Demakles lunged for him. Skippii stepped back and raised a Blazing Armour across his arm. Something struck him in a shower of sparks, and the bite of a blade sliced his flesh. The blade came again, but Skippii twisted and grabbed it as it plunged for his stomach. Demakles grunted and pulled back, but Skippii's grip remained firm. He clenched the bronze knife, evoking a Metalurgic Warp. The blade softened in his fingers, blunted to a mere rod.

The hilt set aflame and Demakles let go, but Skippii grabbed him by the collar and dragged him close, measuring the distance. Then, springing upon his front leg, he punched the prince square in the face.

With a snap, he broke Demakles' nose and split his front teeth. The prince fell to the floor gripping his face as blood poured between his fingers. Skippii rose above him, dagger in hand, pouring all his anger into the Metalurgic Warp. The bronze shone white hot and melted as droplets fell to the cobblestone and hissed in the rain. One such drop singed Demakles' leg and he yelped and scrambled backwards.

Two of his men were with him, helping him to his feet. But the majority remained where they were, in the doorways and windows and balcony above, watching in silence. Some nearby held weapons, but made no move to use them.

Skippii raised his hand and opened his palm. The bronze took to a greenish flame that crackled and smoked, and as he released his thaugia, crumbled to dust.

The corroded clump clattered to the cobblestone, and demanded silence.

"I will ask this only once more," he said levelly. "Who amongst you is man enough to join me at Ikaros? The enemy move there in no great haste because they do not think we shall follow. They think of Kronaians as cowards, content with this desolate prize. They do not think the Fifty-Three is worthy of legend."

A murmur of discontent swept through his audience. Few now translated his words. Somehow, they knew exactly what he said, as though his words were spoken into their very minds.

Demakles tried to speak through his broken nose, but he coughed and spat up blood.

"Well?" Skippii beseeched. "What say you? Does this fool speak for you all?"

"We are better than this," a young Kronaian spoke. Though his accent was so thick that Skippii could swear he had used a different language.

"I do not care for this. These women and these disgusting lands. I do not raise my spear for them."

"King Petropha does not need Thylon," said another–one of Demakles' men who had raised their weapon against Skippii. But now, the lance's tip fell low at Demakles' feet. "Where is your pride, prince? Who did I swear my life to? I thought it was a noble man. But you try to kill our ally."

"And worse," said a man who stood beside Demakles. "You failed."

"All witenssed his assault," a younger man decried. "We saw it. A swift duel. Unfair. And still, he lost."

"Defeated," another said, and more took up the chant. "Defeated. Defeatus. Featus. Featus. Featus."

The prince's eyes went wide with fear, then the hands which had helped him to his feet gripped him about the shoulders and he was dragged from the courtyard kicking and raving. Skippii watched, stunned at how his men now treated him, that he had dishonoured himself.

"What's going on?" he said. "What will you do to him?"

Those nearby looked at Skippii puzzled. One spoke in Kronaian, but he did not understand the words.

"Who now leads the Fifty-Three?" Skippii raised his voice.

Once again, a few translated the call.

"The king," came their response.

"And what does your king decree?" Skippii said.

The Kronaian warriors shared unsure glances and talked in dark tones. It seemed that their traditions had called for Demakles to be deposed of his command. But now, leaderless, they were wayward in a dark land. They needed guidance. They needed light.

"Join me," Skippii bellowed. "I leave tomorrow. Eight legionnaires, and our company. That is all. Show your colours, Kronaians. The choice is now yours, each and alone. Bring your banners and your shields and spears, and stand with me at Ikaros' gate, and claim a true and pure glory beneath the eyes of the Gods."

With that, he extended an arm to the captive who had shivered at Demakles' side. The woman shrank from him, wrapping her arms around her breast. But Skippii held her gaze. He softened his expression and kept his arm extended, and looked deep into her eyes.

"You're free," he whispered. "Do not stay here."

Slowly, the woman uncurled and took his hand to rise. Seeing that he was trusted by another, the other women of Thylon came to his side. He needed not venture far, for all in the winehouse had gathered around the courtyard. And out onto Thylon's streets he led them, and bade them return to their homes. All did, arm in arm, except for one: Demakles' choice. The frail lady hovered at his side, long auburn hair in tangles about her stained nightgown.

"Go," Skippii said. "You're free."

Mutely, she shook her head and glanced back towards the winehouse.

"They won't trouble you anymore," he said.

She merely shivered and stepped closer, bowing her head towards his chest. Skippii opened his arms and the two fell into an embrace. She was as cold and hard as stone, and trembled as she sobbed. Skippii wrapped his arms around her and drew a thin heat to his flesh to warm her. He had no cloak to offer, and so held her in the street.

Her scalp was red and scabby. Though her face and hands were clean, her nails were clogged with dirt, and her naked feet were fresh with splattered mud. It seemed the Kronaians had given her time to bathe, but little of it.

"What is your name?" Skippii asked.

She did not reply. The winehouse doors opened and a troupe of Kronaians ventured outside. They watched Skippii as they passed sluggishly into the town, and he returned their gaze. He challenged them to say something–to question his intentions with the lady of Thylon, but none did. It seemed that their morale had sunk into the bog.

"Come," he whispered. "Back to my camp. It is drier there, and we have a little food."

She nodded mutely and looked up at him through her matted fringe. Her skin was blistered and sore with disease. Her teeth were brown, and black trenches were dug beneath her eyes. Skippii's heart broke then to behold her. She was not a warrior. She was not a powerful priestess. She was a plain woman, whose beauty and strength bore little weight in this desolate land. No God came to her aid, no militia, no kin.

She would not survive this war alone, and she knew it. It was plain in her eyes.

"Come," Skippii said. As he turned, she pulled away from him, eyes averted, arms clutched to her chest. But she followed him out of Thylon. For that he was glad.

But what fate awaited them at Ikaros, and upon the journey there, may be worse than if they had all remained.

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