It had rained consistently during the three days since they had departed from the Temple of Cor, and Skippii was growing tired of the damp. Breathing rhythmically, he cycled the potent magia of the mountainside, heating himself and his companions with smouldering stones. But the water found a way in. It wrinkled his hands and curled his toes; if he didn't feel cold, he felt clammy from the mists created by his magia. Best were the nights, when they would huddle beneath an improvised shelter of sticks and ferns, sharing each other's warmth. But during the day, moving about the forest and its many boggy peats, it was impossible to keep clean and dry.

Cliae spotted a wagon's tracks on the first day. They followed the trail as best they could, heading downhill as close to Nerithon as they dare risk running into skirmishers of Legion IX. While they trekked, Skippii picked crampwolt from the underbrush, careful not to mix it with the sparse leaves he foraged for the three of them to eat. They lit only small fires during the day to boil vitalising tea which supplemented the last of the smoked wolf meat.

The clouds above were an angry grey. Brief glances through the canopy revealed the dark belly of a storm dragging itself over the sea, coalescing above the city. Evermore, it twisted like vines up a decrepit pillar, rising above the gloom extended towards the heavens. And evermore rain poured over the city, dampening fires and spirits, a thunderous storm brewing at its centre.

Finally, on the third day of drudgery, they encountered something. Sitting beneath a low-hanging willow when he felt the disturbance in the ground. Coming towards them were many feet, louder by the second. Dragging his companions into hiding, they waited while a group of waterlogged men and miserable mules dragged two carts up the hillside trail. Instinctively, Skippii groped for a weapon–his spear, or the kuri often at his waist–but each was absent.

He was unarmed, and armoured only in his bronze helmet and greaves. The leather vambraces would burn as soon as he evoked more than a minor fire, as for the thorax, it was cumbersome and unnecessary, now that his Burning Armour had been reinforced. But the bronze of his helmet should be able to withstand his fires, and might deflect a stray Ürkün stone thrown from a sling before he had time to summon his magia. However, the straps would burn away easily, and he had to admit, he wore it more out of comfort than necessity.

Besides his armour, he wore only the tunic which was Eirene's gift: a fine silver cloth imbued with Hespera's magia, already stained with mud and tangled with debris.

Cliae huddled nearby beneath the bank, They wore his old leather armour, but the thorax sat heavily on their slender shoulders.

"Better to be uncomfortable than receive an arrow to the chest or knick on the wrist that ended life," Tenoris had said. He crouched behind them, head raised above the verge, black cowl broadening his already mighty soldiers. He had taken the wolf's hide, since it would only burn upon Skippii's back.

Tenoris shifted, but Skippii held a hand out and whispered, "Wait."

The men on the trail were not those whom he had expected. There were few Ürkün amongst them, just two of the eight, leading the procession. The remainder had the tanned complexion of Philoxenians. All were old, beyond their prime fighting years, shoulders bent, leaning on staves. Two wagons were sheltered by hides, but he detected the scent of death on the strong wind.

He had prepared himself for a fight, but that seemed unnecessary now. Slapping the earth like a horses' rump, he leapt over the verge and into their path. The mule startled before any of the men saw him; if he had wanted to ambush them, the fight would already be over.

"Whoa there," he said, raising a halting hand. "Do not run, you are surrounded."

A few cried out, startled, and they all huddled together, staves wielded like spears pointed into the forest beyond them. The two Ürkün at the front raised their weapons–one an axe, which he balanced on his shoulder, eyes wide and scanning the trees; the other, a short curved sword, which even from a distance, Skippii could tell was notched and dulled. Neither made an effort to approach him. For a time, he commanded the forum.

"Do you speak Auctorian?" he said. "Neotun Auctorian?"

"Nai," said one, coming forward. He had a scruffy white beard of many winters, thin balding hair and dark pitted eyes. "Yes, who are you?"

"Legionnaires," he said, figuring it was a simpler explanation.

Behind him, Tenoris rose atop the verge, looking down upon the caravaners like a dark cloud. "What is your cargo?" he said.

The grey-haired man faltered, glancing at his Ürkün leaders for advice. The two men strode forward more confidently, sharing a few low words with one another.

Skippii held out his hand, as though to display that he was unarmed. The Ürkün crept a little closer, though their eyes were more fixed on Tenoris behind him. He could tell that they were weighing up their odds of a fight. Then he drew a fraction of his magia in and let it blaze within his palm. The one with the axe spotted it, his eyes bulging, and grabbed his companion's arm, dragging him back.

Skippii gave them a level stare. "Drop your weapons. Remove your clothes. Do it now."

The Ürkün gripped their weapons closer, retreating towards the huddle of Philoxenians.

"Translate it," he barked.

The greying man babbled frantically in a confused language, but the warriors seemed to get the message. Tossing their arms down, they undressed of their furs and dark undergarbs, wary eyes upon Skippii. But something was unusual about their appearance. Their skins was not the murky pale that he was accustomed to seeing amongst the barbarian ranks, but a smooth tan. Their faces were not purely wide and smooth, but shared an echo of the native angles, as though they had been set to a grinder and reshaped. Naked as they were–their nomadic garb placed at their feet–their lineage as unclear. Skippii scowled, but their weapons had made it a simple riddle. They were warriors: the enemy.

"Have you rope?" he said, striding forward. Tenoris strode to his aid as he pointed at the pale-skinned Ürkün. "Bind them."

Just then, three men from the rear broke for the trees. Cursing, Skippii lunged after them, magia bursting to life in his veins. The first, he caught and tripped before even he felt the effects of Boiling Blood. The others, he captured easily, like errant children, gripping them by the napes and throwing them to the ground.

"I'll kill you," he said through gritted teeth, raising a Blazing Strike. "Get back to the carts."

Scrambling up, they obeyed. All of them were beleaguered, dressed in torn loincloths with the physique of slaves. He felt pity for them, but knew he could not let them return to the city and spread the rumour of his presence. One element which he may still hold against the heretic magi was surprise. The battle was foretold to be between the Legion IX's Coven and the Ürkün's evil champion–but his presence and plan would swing the tide.

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"What's in the carts?" he said, directing his question at the grey old man, but another answered.

"Bodies." His face was pocked and wrinkled with malnutrition to the point where Skippii couldn't tell his age.

"Whose bodies?" he asked.

"The dead."

Tying the last bound, Tenoris rose with a huff, glaring at the speaker.

"Already dead," he amended. "Not murdered."

"Open it up," Skippii said, and they obeyed. Hidden beneath the canvas of each cart were five or more bodies, piled in pale grey heaps–stones with blue lips and white eyes. Long black hair scattered like ash. A woman's hands curled crookedly from beneath the press.

Skippii drew his gaze away, rounding the cart so that its cargo was out of his sight. "Supplies?"

The Philoxenians shook their heads. Some pleaded softly, but he focussed on the young man who spoke their language. "For the cyclops, I know. An offering, correct?"

"Nai," he nodded, then made an eating gesture with his hand. In doing so, he seemed to snap out of a haze and stare into Skippii's eyes. His hand dropped and his mouth shut. He averted his eyes, lips curled, seemingly overcast with an unearthed shame.

"Why are you doing this?" Skippii said, speaking from the heart. "You're Philoxenian. You're not barbarians. Your people are proud. You don't parle with monsters."

"We must," the elder said, coming forward. "You do not understand, young legionnaire. Generations, you have missed. Much has changed."

Tenoris snorted. "How much? So much that monsters are your neighbors, the enemy is your friend, and bodies are butchery, graced not with graves but the bellies of beasts?"

The Philoxenians who could comprehend Tenoris stammered; others cowered from the mere weight of his voice.

"You're men aren't you?" Skippii said. "Philoxenian men, from Nerithon?"

The caravaners gave a murmured response. "Ikaros," one said, and another, "Aretynos."

"But Philoxenian," he pressed. "And yet you do deeds for the enemy while the legions are at your gates. We have come to liberate you. We have traveled very far. We are your allies of old. Why not defect? Why don't you come to our palisades? Give information. Open the gates. End this siege?"

"Legion Five?" the younger man spoke. "Pontifex?"

"Nine," Skippii said. "Patronus."

He laughed cynically. "You did not see, then. You were not here."

"The siege?" he asked.

His head rose slowly to meet Skippii's eyes. "The domination. Your enemy is our master. Cosmipox. This is his domain. And you…" he sighed.

"We're here to free you. We've died to get here. And you cower and conspire, even while legionnaires bleed outside your walls."

"Too late!" he blurted. "Your aid comes late, and the fight is over. It was lost in years. Run, now. These lands are changed. Take your spears and run. Defend your lands. Do not let him in. The black pits."

"An enemy of the Pantheon is an enemy of Auctoritas," Skippii said, gripping his arm and shaking him. "We have defeated him before, we will do it again."

"No," he shook his head, avoiding his gaze. "You defeated the shadow which comes before the form. You have lost once. Hesperia perished… your magus, I saw it. The light, and the fade. What more have you brought for the slaughter?"

"Leave," the elder Philoxenian said. "We are better as slaves. We change and survive."

"What men are these who bow?" Tenoris rumbled. "What value has your life in the manacles of cowardice? The tribes–the Nodreos. The horsemen in the hills. They were like this too. They faced us at the river and fell. You too shall fail if you side with our enemy."

Suddenly, the younger man dropped to his knees, face pressed into the mud at Skippii's feet. The wind whooshed over them, rustling the canopy as rain tinkered off his and Tenoris' bronze helmets.

Clutching a clump of mud, the young man squelched it between his fingers and held a fist to his mouth. "You do not understand. Nerithon is gone," he quivered. "She is dead. A dream of our fathers'. This land is black. Philoxenia is dead."

"Not in the west," Skippii said. "I have seen it. The crops regrow, the walls are rebuilt. The legions have reclaimed it-"

"For one spring, or two," he lamented. "Woe, then shall the fires come again, and all the names of all cities will be erased. Ruination. Ruination."

Skippii shared a glance with Tenoris. The big man's face was stern, but his body was unmoving. Cliae had appeared behind them, listening intently from the verge, but neither of them knew what to say. They had prepared themselves for a fight, not for a grieving.

Taking a deep breath, Skippii cleared his mind. "If you are unwilling to help us, then at least do not hinder us. Turn yourselves in to the legion, do not return to Nerithon. If you have strength enough to march up this hill, then you can help build siege engines or dig trenches. You're slaves now anyway, what difference does it make? At least with the legions you'll be able to call yourselves Philoxenians."

"Your masters…" the man began, face muddied, hands caked in dirt. "They are less powerful than mine. The Gods have left us… left this place to crumble. Already, they leave the world, and let the new theokratos in."

"You know less than you think."

Skippii knelt before the man, catching his eye. "You don't know about my masters. You don't know who I am either, do you? Admit it."

He shook his head meekly.

"You will soon."

"Our offer is freedom," Tenoris said loudly, "And you would choose death instead? Death of the soul? Flee to the heretic whip and command. Do my eyes deceive me, or else are you men? Strong men, who have survived so much, and still stand, like a tree withstanding storm.

"Translate for me," he said, gripping the elder Philoxenian by the shoulder. The greying man spoke quietly between each phrase as Tenoris paced before their group, addressing each man like a legionnaire superior addressing his phalanx.

"I was told that Philoxenian men are brave and very wise, and kind. You, the blood which built these lands. Rightful heirs, nor pillagers and besmirchers."

Turning, he addressed the two Ürkün prisoners, shivering in their loincloths. "And to you, whose blood is mixed with my enemy, your decision is imperative, for your progenitors did not make it for you. With whom will you stand? Your mothers or your fathers? The invaders or the rightful descendents? Grovel in your heresy, or surrender yourself to the glorious Pantheon, for the light of Chrysaetos shines upon all of us. None except those who wallow in shadows may hide from it."

Stepping back, he planted his spear and surveyed the group.

"So, for what shall you fight? For whom shall you stand? Speak now, decry your allegiance, for I would like to know who amongst you is my enemy."

All were quiet, but no longer did they huddle like cornered dogs. The two who were bound raised their cheeks, sharing muted words with the others.

"Is this the sort of life that befits your manhood?" Tenoris said. "This sneaking, bartering with monsters. Soweth the seeds of grief for your children to reap. What pittiful lives you prepare for them."

"The battle has not yet been had," Skippii said, "And you have already decided on its outcome. Do you know nothing about war? The fates move like tides, and all forces must abate. And all men must decide their place. I must admit, I speak to you as a deserter. These choices which I speak of, I have made for myself. Not from fear, but from duty. Duty to myself, and what I've decided is true.

"Let me ask you a question, And please translate it well, those of you who can. I was told by an old friend that the temples of Nerithon were its glory, built of the finest marble, which its citizens cleaned to a glisten. Its forums were full of democratic chatter and philosophy. I was told its markets were full of spices and wares from foreign lands? Were its people not free? Its women happy, unclaimed? Its children strong? Or did my master Thales lie?"

One amongst them scowled upon Thales' mention, and shared a word with one who could translate. "It is true, only in memory."

"It is true," Skippii repeated. "And its walls, which now oppose us, once stood proudly in allegiance with Auctoritas. And they shall stand with us again."

Flames erupted over Skippii's form as he drew in a sharp breath. The fires glistened in the Philoxenian's eyes. Some cowered, but most held their nerve, glaring back.

"I have a task which you would do for me," he said. "Those of you who refuse, march south and turn yourselves in to the legions. Go now. Reveal yourselves as cowards and leave."

As his words were translated, a chatter spread throughout the group, but all remained. One of the Ürkün men rose, bowing his chin and pressing his back to the cart. He glanced submissively as Tenoris rose above him, hands bound behind his back, turning his cheek like a cornered hound.

"Your task then," Skippii continued. "Lead me into the monster's lair. This at least will repay some of your disgraceful deeds. But do not mistake my mercy for gentleness. I have given you a choice between ally and enemy."

The fires rose from Skippii, glowing in the rainfall, singing the branches above their heads. "And all my enemies shall burn. All the defenders atop the Nerithon's walls, and all the worshipers of Cosmipox." He spat. "And that heretic champion most of all."

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