The astringent smell of crampwolt stuck to Skippii's stained-green hands, no matter how much he scrubbed them–a warning of the plant's toxicity, spoken by his primitive senses. The last thing he needed now was bowl cramps. The stench wafted on the breeze, seeping from beneath the cart's canvas where lay bodies, soaking in the poisonous tonic. But reluctantly, the wind was strong, and it did not overpower the scent of another man on his clothes: the Ürkün disguise, a dark green tunic, loose leather armour and a fur mantle. It wouldn't fool the enemy, for his skin was far too sunbathed to resemble the peoples of the cold planar north, but cyclops weren't regarded as the smartest of creatures in lore. Skippii hoped those tales were true.

Before him marched the Philoxenians and their two half-Ürkün companions, leading the mules and their cargo up the gradual mountain pass. They had all agreed to help him, but that didn't mean he trusted them. They had likely not had a change of heart, but done so out of fear. What did it matter, so long as they didn't disrupt his plan? Better than executing them all by the roadside, unarmed as they were. He hoped they wouldn't make him do that.

The mule beside him flared its nostrils and tossed its head. Ahead, an uprooted tree leaned on the branches of its brethren. The underbrush beneath it had been trampled, and a deep puddle pitted the centre of the road. The rains had been heavy in recent days, and washed its shape into a vague oval, but by the way his company's eyes lingered on it spoke volumes. They were near.

"Ahead," the Philoxenian said. He was the youngest of the two who spoke Auctorian, with long dark hair down to his shoulders and a tidy beard–like a sheared sheep–typical of Philoxenians.

"Okay," Skippii said, rallying his witts. "You two," he called to the half-Ürkün, bare-chested and robbed in spare blankets. "Come here. Stay at the rear." He turned to the Philoxenian. "Translate for me. Tell them to stay at the rear. Don't say a word. If they betray us or try to run, I'll kill them before a word leaves their mouths. I could just do that here. Let them know that. I could just do it now, but I'm choosing not to. I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt."

Skippii left him to translate while he marched to the front of the procession.

"Are you ready?" Tenoris asked as he approached. Skippii had never seen him so nervous before. He gripped his spear and brushed his hand through his hair, seemingly regretting the absence of his helmet. Anything which would identify them as legionnaires–including his cloak–they had bundled up and given to Cliae to secure. The scribe carried their load atop Tenoris' shield, and would hide in the trees out of sight. Everything was prepared, all they need do was walk into the den of the beasts.

"I am, are you?" he said.

Tenoris nodded curtly, but his gaze snagged on something in the underbrush. "There, white leathers."

Following his gaze, Skippii approached and found a legionnaire's thorax, torn and bloodied, discarded in the undergrowth. Now that he was aware of it, more items made themselves apparent in the storm's gloom. Here, bronze greaves coated in mud, there, a snapped spear shaft and the rent crescent of a shield. Further beyond, caught in the branches of a thornbush was a red legionnaire's cloak, so dredged in mud that it more closely resembled the animal furs of the Ürkün.

"Are there any survivors?" Cliae asked. "Should we look?"

Skippii ran the fabric over his hand contemplatively. "It's a few days old."

"How do you know?"

"The ambush," he said. "It didn't happen here, we're too deep. So… they must have dragged these legionnaires to their den."

The words bubbled like vomit inside him. Before he knew what he was doing, he was untangling the cloak and tossing it in the rear wagon. Anger rose within him, but he kept it from his tone as he waved the young Philoxenian over.

"What do you normally say at these meetings?" he asked.

"Not much. We arrive. They take. We go."

"And you leave your dead behind," Skippii muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. "That's good. I trust you to say what needs to be said. No one else should speak. Pass that on. I understand some Philoxenian, I'll know if you're conspiring."

The man bobbed his head, expressing very little. Either he was hiding something, or had been so thoroughly ashamed by his and Tenoris' admonishment that he had little spirit left to speak.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Kypellon," he said, meeting his eyes for a moment. "Of Aretynos."

"Aretynos is liberated," Skippii said. "My legion was there, the Ninth. It's free. Did you know?"

Kypellon scowled as the revelation rippled across his face like a stone tossed over the water. "No."

"It's true," Skippii said. "You could return there once it's over."

"When?"

"The city? Eight years ago."

"Eight," he breathed. "Word from beyond stops at river Erithas. The sadistas keep the world in shadow. If I had known…"

"The sadistas?" Skippii asked.

"Priests of the mastix… the scourge, servants of Cosmipox. They are the word of law, and of worship, in Nerithon."

"Ürkün with dark markings?" Skippii said, drawing lines before his face. "Leaders?"

Kypellon nodded.

"Them?" Skippii asked, nodding at the half-Ürkün whose robes he wore.

"No," he said. "We are all lesser men, servants. The half-breeds too. No sadista would come here."

"Too risky?" Skippii said.

Kypellon shrugged. "You grow up, like I do, in Nerithon, you learn to avoid the temples."

"The temples," he muttered. Would the heretic magi be there too?

Shaking himself, Skippii returned his focus to the task at hand. Ahead, the trail slipped downwards as boulders emerged from the mud, barring the passage upwards. Many sticks were trampled into the mud, the spines of their trunks felled and rotting with spring's vibrant fungi. The donkeys were untethered and the carts lowered over the verge, then dragged atop a raft of trunks which were half-submerged in the bog.

Following the caravan, he kept an eye on the shade of the cliffside which rose above them as they descended. The cart beside him rattled over the muddy bridge, its wheels snagging on a stubbly branch. He let the Philoxenians work, listening for sounds in the forest beyond. The winds drowned out all meagre sounds of birds and insects; a disquieting howl that sent a shiver down his spine. It was the first time Skippii had felt truly cold since reaching the Sleeping Mountain and its foothills. Drawing in a trickle of his magia, he cast away his shivering nerves. This was the right path. It had to be done. It would work.

"The animals are nervous," Cliae said beside him. The small scribe held an Ürkün axe beneath, but Skippii doubted they had the strength to properly wield it as a weapon. "Perhaps I should wait here with our possessions."

"Just beyond this bit," Skippii said, pointing to where the bog narrowed, thinning into the trees. "But don't be a hero with that thing."

"This?" Cliae said, hefting the axe. "I more so wanted to look the part, but, if I need to…"

"Don't worry about that," he said. "That's not your job. Leave-"

A clattering broke through the wind. His head snapped up in search of the sound and trode to the front of their convoy. Staring into the gloomy forest, heart thumping, the rain blurred his eyes. No monsters appeared. Their carts made it across the bog and the men unbridled the donkeys, tying them to a young tree. Cliae remained with them, guarding their possessions. They moved forward, pulling the carts through the mud, nearing the cliff face rising out of the bog.

The path of destruction was wide, and ahead, opened on a clearing of felled trees. Boulders lay strewn about where slabs of the cliffside had collapsed in heaps. A tall fissure cut the mountain in twain like a spearhead, thick at the bottom. The dim sunlight did not reach its recesses, but something moved from within.

A rumble of thunder sailed on the wind, but it had not come from the sky. Inside the cave, a twinkle of light in a single eye beheld them and spoke. Its voice was like no other creature he had heard before–phrased like a man's, but with the bestial depth of a cow. There was power in merely its utterance, like the tremendous sails of a sea-faring ship beating in a storm.

"Dis ekeîs baínei."

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"Prosphorá," Kypellon responded, which Skippii knew to mean something like 'gift'.

With a huff, the cyclops emerged swiftly from its den like a badger, clawing at the edges and dragging itself into the open. Twelve or more metres tall, the huge beast was shaped like a man, muscular and well-rounded with a descended pot-belly. Its arms hung low at its waist–thighs as thick as five men combined. It was caked in mud the same colour of its flesh. It was naked except for a ragged loincloth of bear-hide and a similar adornment atop its head.

Skippii took a step backwards as, in three long strides, the cyclops cleared the distance between them. Hairs coated its torso and sprouted from its nostrils. Opening its mouth, saliva stretched between its jaws. Two stubbly tusks jutted out of its bottom jaw, each yellow-tipped with decay. Its hideous face resembled that of a human child, horribly disfigured, with one eye at its centre gleaming with a wicked intellect.

"Kron dos," it rumbled, stooping over the carts and lifting the canvas with a thick finger. Upon beholding its contents, a sickly grin crossed its lips, and it turned, beckoning into the cave. "Írthe eohra na fámeh."

With one hand, the cyclops lifted the cart and tipped its contents at the cave's entrance. Corpses fell in a heap.

"Euphageíte, ô ischyroí," Kypellon shouted. "Próselthe, Bovis."

"Pleíona, hótan," the cyclops said, emptying each cart. Behind it, more emerged from the fissure. Grotesque creatures, formed by the same Gods who made man, unnerving in their similarities of form and mannerism.

"Pleíona, hótan."

"Takei, takei," Kypellon stressed.

"Pleíona, hótan," the cyclops repeated, stooping over them, blotting out the wind and sheltering them from the rain. Skippii shrank backwards–as did all the caravan–but remained at the head beside Kypellon and Tenoris. The Philoxenian babbled in his tongue, too fast to interpret. Fear flooded his voice, wavering his words, tinged with deception.

A sense of trepidation crept over Skippii. What was Kypellon saying? Could he be giving them away, pleading with the cyclops for help? Was he a slave of their enemy after all?

"Boulomai pleíona." The cyclops' single eye regarded him. "Sy, arké seis." As large as a man's skull, the black pupil was stretched like dough over a milky iris, infested with dark veins. As he stared back, he burned with the desire to attack the beast–to hurl a Blazing Strike at its eye and bring it down. This thing was unnatural–an enemy of humankind. He had only to fight or run; to parleywas insanity.

And still, Kypellon babbled. Now he was animated, waving his arms. The cyclops extended a finger towards Skippii's chest. Its mouth hung agape; a warm stench of decay assaulted him. Its gums were black, tongue wet. Skippii braced himself, awakening his magia, but restrained himself from making the first move.

The monster prodded him in the chest. The weight of its single finger was like a ram, knocking him backwards. Skippii allowed himself to be moved, so as to appear weaker than was. "Sy, arké seis," it repeated.

"Oὐκ, Bovis," Kypellon pleaded. Skippii understood it to mean 'no'. The Philoxenian came between them, waving his arms. Tenoris had shifted around to the monster's flank, spear held in a reverse-grip, ready to be thrown. His lips curled in a grim snarl, matching even the cyclops' baleful visage for ferocity.

"What's going on?" Skippii said behind the Philoxenian.

"We're leaving," he replied, grabbing one cart and hauling it backwards. The others came to his aid, but two more of the carts remained where the cyclops had discarded them at the cave's entrance. Slowly, they dragged the cart from the mud as the lumbering cyclops rocked on its haunches above them, watching them as a child does ants going about their tasks in the dirt. Skippii's heart quickened with the desire to run, but he forced a steady march away from the beasts' lair, turning back frequently.

After fifty paces, they were obscured by sparse trees and underbrush, but he could still see their dark flesh bobbing above the treetops and between their trunks, and detected the tremors of their footsteps through the ground as they feasted on the dead.

"Was that usual?" he said, half expecting to hear their heavy footfalls approach from behind.

"No, they wanted more," Kypellon said. "They wanted you."

"To consume?" Tenoris asked shakily.

Kypellon nodded. "Hunger. They don't think you are…" The words fled him with a shiver. "They are hungry. That is all."

"Despoilers," Tenoris wretched, holding back his repulsion. "We shall move more swiftly without the cart. Abandon it now. The guise is up. Let us make haste."

"Did the plan work?" Cliae asked as they regrouped. Their eyes lingered on the fear in Tenoris' expression.

"We'll see tomorrow," Skippii said. "Let's get far away from here. We must have time to prepare."

***

Skippii lit a fire beneath a broad oak tree, sheltered from the worst of the falling rain. Their group sat by the warmth while Tenoris sharpened their weapons. He remained dressed in his wildman attire, but had thrown his legionnaire's cloak over his shoulders. The one which Skippii had found by the roadside hung from a branch above the fire to dry. Its muddy droplets singed as they splashed the embers; only that rhythmic hiss and scraping whetstone accented the everpresent rain.

The Philoxenians huddled in their rags and robes, stealing glances at him while they thought he wasn't watching. They were afraid–of the cyclops, of him, of returning to Nerithon–their lives were stooped in fear like a mire.

"Kypellon," Skippii summoned. "Translate for me. Soon, the battle will commence, and all your fears will come bubbling to the surface. But then there is relief. The wait is at an end. The wait, in fact, is the hardest part. We will know soon who the victor is. Play your part. Turn yourselves into the legions–give whatever information you can, and commit your bodies to whatever tasks are fit."

The shabby Philoxenian nodded while translating, then talked softly amongst his companions. The two half-Ürkün blended with their group, and in the gloom, Skippii could hardly tell them apart. His eyes were drawn to the red legionnaire's cloak hanging above their heads. Could he bring himself to wear it again, in spite of being a deserter? Did he deserve to?

"I'll go with them," Cliae said. "I have a task. I must inform the legions."

"Of what?" he said.

"Of this. Of your plan."

"They don't need to be warned. They will be able to react in time," Skippii said, though his conviction faltered. Swallowing, he tried another angle. "It's too dangerous. I mean to say… they'll kill you."

"More dangerous than parlaying with cyclops?" the scribe snorted. "I shouldn't think so."

"You're a deserter and a slave. They'd sooner string you up than listen to what you have to say."

"No," Cliae said. "I will find Custos Maritor. I'll go to him, he knows you. He understands your plight. He will believe me. He'll speak for me."

"Take Tenoris," Skippii said.

"I am unavailable." The big ex-legionnaire looked up from the axehead he was sharpening. The dirtiness of fear still marred his face. "I must meet the enemy with you."

"I could go alone," he said. "I don't want to, but I could."

"Not while the Vassal draws breath," Tenoris said, and returned to his task as though the conversation were over.

"And I, the Chronicler, must be the herald of your message."

Skippii scoffed. "Don't take the hermit's words too seriously. Certainly don't let them govern your life."

"Why not?" Cliae said. "It makes for a better fate than slave."

"Too many oaths I have sworn to protect you," Tenoris said quietly. "Both as a legionnaire, a Vassal, and a friend. I shan't leave your side."

"Then don't go," Skippii said. "Send a message with Kypellon."

"He's a vagabond in their eyes," Cliae said. "The message would not find its recipient, not in time."

Skippii gave pause. "What will you say?"

Cliae shifted forward eagerly. "That the attack comes in the morning. To rally the cohorts. To rouse the Fifth and prepare for battle."

"You won't make it in time."

"We will," Cliae insisted. "We're quite close now, and these men know the hills. It can't be more than the night's travels to the Ninth's northern encampments. We'll follow trails, find the legion's scouts. I'll find a way."

Vigor painted Cliae's voice with an unfamiliar resolution. "You always have. Why shouldn't I?"

Within minutes, they were saying their goodbyes. Skippii surrendered his protests and took earnestly to the moment, clasping Cliae around their back and squeezing them tight.

"If anyone tries to hurt you," he whispered. "They will become my enemy. Tell them that. I swear it."

As they broke away, Skippii thrust a knife secretly into Cliae's hands–one of the few weapons which they had confiscated from the Philoxenians. "Don't let them see this. Use it if you must. Don't trust them."

Cliae nodded and stowed the knife behind their belt, then set off at the rear of the group. He watched as they blended with the forest. Before long, their forms were hidden by the rain, their footfalls overcast by the winds. He sat back against the oak's trunk and sighed.

"Our companeight will be happy of our hearing," Tenoris said, setting aside the axe, sitting with him in the companionable quiet. "I should like to see them again… all except Cur."

Skippii laughed. "I wonder how Cliae will explain it. I can imagine the old curmudgeon's face when he learns about our plan to enrage the cyclops."

Tenoris chuckled. "Likely, Drusilla and Fulmin will consider it a fortuitous plan."

"And Kaesii will go along with them to save face."

"And Orsin? What will he think?"

Skippii took a deep breath. "He'll think we've gone mad."

"And be excited for it."

"Probably. Arius… I don't know, it's impossible to predict his thoughts." Thinking of their faces warmed his heart, but soon the quiet and cold rain set in. "I want to be done with this day."

"Wait, we must. How long until the poison takes effect?"

"A couple hours," Skippii said. "We'll give them the night to recover. They should be mobile in the morning, but it's difficult to judge a dose for their size. I hope we haven't undershot it."

"Or over," Tenoris said. "And killed our cattle."

"That, I don't worry about." Skippii smiled. "Cattle? That's a good way of putting it. You have a strange way for words, Tenoris."

"They are quite bovine, aren't they?" he said. "But, I must admit… terrifying."

"I know," Skippii said. "But we don't need to fight them. Just herd them."

"If my pa saw me a shepherd, he'd be more ashamed than ever to hear of my desertion."

Skippii laughed. "Why? I thought shepherds and farmers worked together?"

"Only as much as is necessary," Tenoris grimaced, and his eyes took on the glaze of memory. The two sat in silence for a while, allowing their minds to wander, resting for the fight to come.

"It needed doing," Tenoris murmured, clearing their throat. "The legions must be ready. Our attack must coordinate with theirs, and Claie was brave to voice such themself, knowing what it would cost. I did not see the slave's merits until you had already attested to them. It is a good job that we rescued them from the Ürkün's hands. I believe you have a way with judging one's character."

"Thanks. Let's hope the legion sees it the same way too, and listens to them. "

"And if they don't?"

It was a question that had stalked his mind for a while, but one which he had never given voice to the answer. "Then we'll go our own way. I won't be executed there, not even at the Imperator's command. We're not deserters, not while we were guided by Oyaltun. Surely the superiors will understand, but I've trusted to their better judgement before, and been cast aside by its bureaucracy. Some decisions, which are best for the legion, aren't best for us… or for Auctoritas as a whole."

"You are starting to sound like a politician," Tenoris jested. "But I trust your word. I will follow you, whatever you decide."

"You don't have to," Skippii said. "Vassal or not, you're still your own man."

"First, I was my parent's boy, next, the legion's man. I do not desire the weight of choice and tactics, I only wish to complete my task correctly, and with dedication." Tenoris smiled, and slapped him on the back. "That is my choice, in a way. And already, I am tired of thinking of it. I wish to act."

"We have many hours before then," Skippii said. Drawing his magia from the earth, he heated the ground beneath the tree, causing steam to rise from the dirt, providing them both with warmth against the storm. "Rest, if you can. We shan't have the chance again for some time."

"I look forward to it." And with that, Tenoris wrapped his cloak around himself and shut his eyes.

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