Ducking into the dark tower, Tenoris beheld his foe: a dozen or more men, dressed as dogs, dishevelled and ill-fed. Upon catching sight of him, the smartest of their pack fled through the opposite door, leaving behind only the fools of the litter, stupefied.

"Auctoria!" he announced, plunging his spear into the chest of the foremost. The man slipped from his blade obediently and bled onto the cobblestones. But Tenoris did not give pause, nor proffer mercy, and slew them whilst yet their weapons had to reach their hands. Still more fled, and then the walls shook about him.

Glancing backwards through the entryway, he sighted a cloud of dereliction, and before it, kneeling atop the cobblestone, was his brethren, Skippii. The tower beyond collapsed as though struck by the Quakelord Siesmorix himself. Its corner concave, exposing its innards to the storm. Men grappled for futile purchase amongst the crumbling stones, but soon they were out of sight, crashing amongst the rubble to the city streets below.

As he marvelled at his fellow's might, a flurry of footsteps sounded from the rafters. The enemy came charging down the steps from the chambers above, and Tenoris turned to meet them. Warriors–Ürkün and Philoxenian–drew their weapons to meet him. But they were singular upon the steps, and his reach was long. Dashing forward behind his shield, he thrust his spear into the face of a man, cutting him badly. Cries of fear and thrill accosted him as weapons swung for his head. But his defence was unmoving, his shield steady as his spear snapped out–the horn of a bull–to end his opponent's life.

Blood flowed like Lacustris' rivers down the steps as his enemies died, and more delayed to traverse their corpses. Tossing their weapons upon him in desperation, they forced him to retreat as sword blade and axe-head clashed against his helmet and thorax. Pacing carefully, he bent low like one of Arctheros' predators, adorned as he was in the Beastmaster's chief of kin–the wolf–and bore his teeth at his prey.

The enemy fanned before him, but few dared attack. Tenoris lunged with short, snapping bites, warding them away, but there were too many to face now alone. Whence one charged, he too would respond, and let valour take the rest.

Suddenly, flames burst through the doorway. Skippii emerged, fists full of flame. His enemy shrank in terror, but Skippii pursued them, and Tenoris sped around their flank, cutting off their escape, and cutting down their hopes.

"Erymeres send you," he cried. "Writhe in flames."

"Come," Skippii shouted, running for the opposite door. "We're still two towers away."

Tenoris chased after his brother into the early morning light. But this was like no other morn; the sky was a deluge of Kylin's anguish. Rains battered the cobblestone and winds battered his face. The Stormstress' thunder rumbled overhead. In the turmoil, most of the defenders were fixated on the fields below, or else on the cyclops who had entered the city far to the north.

Stealing a glance towards the carnage wrought by monsters, Tenoris beheld a strange sight. A dark cloud, shaped like a perfect orb, suspended above the rooftops. Roofing tiles and loose bricks were torn from their holding like a flock of birds giving flight, wrenched into the orb's mass. The darkness swelled before a cyclops–a single black pupil, soulless and cold. Then it descended. Black bolts shot from its depths, piercing the monster, falling upon it as a mortician's blanket, snuffing its tormented wails.

"Tenoris!" Skippii yelled, regaining his attention, grabbing his arm. "This way."

He tore himself from the scene with a shiver, denying what he had just witnessed, determined not to let fear falter him. The air around Skippii shimmered and misted as the two of them charged down the wall. His heat seared the rain, but did not perturb Tenoris. Oyaltun's necklace pressed cooly against his chest, warding away the flame's indiscriminate bite.

Wide were the walls of Nerithon, wide enough for the two of them to barge a way through the defenders unopposed. But thereupon the south-western side, they had gathered in greater numbers, expecting to receive an attack from the legions encamped beyond. Those few who accosted their advance were swiftly pushed aside. Chaos ruled the day. Aequentia giggled mischievously in the heavens, charmed by his and Skippii's uncanny passage. But in the air was a sinister tone–the smell of dirt unearthed, as Diamortis revealed his graves ready to receive bounteous souls.

Horns bleated, but their commands were swept away in the wind. Respondents came from the legion's camp. Familiar horns–homeward birds greeting the sun. But none of Chrysatoes' rays pierced the clouds. Today was a day of rain and ruin; the wrath of Kylin, and her brethren in kind.

"The Pantheon scours you from these walls." Tenoris shoved an Ürkün warrior aside and advanced towards the next tower. The enemy's ranks were thickening. It seemed that the message of the horns had penetrated the winds. Shouts of alarm rose ahead, and the disparate defenders formed a blockade before the proceeding tower. Weapons were drawn about them.

Tenoris lashed out with spear and shield, knocking two men over the city-side parapet. More, he ploughed through, tossing them aside like one of Frumentar's enraged bulls. Those who brought their weapons to bear received his spear. Their pitiful blows dashed against his thorax and greaves, or else were turned aside by his shield and responded by his blade.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

His foes cleared like gnats in the wind, fearful of his sudden ferocity. They scurried atop the walls, baying like cattle, throwing down their bows and drawing crude blades. Their weapons were unbefitting a legionnaire–rusted and knicked–their armour the simple pelts of beasts. Were he stood amongst the full company of his brethren, their battle would already have been won.

Skippii took the fore–a blazing star that burned fear in the whites of his enemy's eyes. Tenoris turned and guarded the rear. Skippii's heat oppressed the air around him, but once again, would not wound him. Tenoris' breath was searing hot in his mouth, but cool in his throat and lungs. Gritting his teeth, nostrils flared, he beset his enemy with a flurry of blows.

The Ürkün hid behind crooked shields, swinging axes at his haft. They sought to disarm him, rather than pierce him. But his grip was firm. Each burning breath renewed his vigor. It was as though the fires of Skippii were bolstering his strength. Rising tall above his enemy, he swung and stabbed, forcing them back, felling any who venture too near. The weakest amongst their ranks receded; many were tanned as Philoxenians–some, old beyond the years of combat, others too young to face death as a man.

Forward, from the preceding tower which they had passed, came enemies worthy of his blade. Ürkün men, strong and tall, adorned in scant furs and leather. The weapons they wielded were meant for felling trees or breaking stone–brutish hammers and axes, and heavy pikes held in both hands. Their faces were grim and pale, given a ghoulish visage by black tar beneath the eyes and in sharp lines down the cheeks. Their beards were broad and bestial, and in their eyes was a loathsome stare.

Tenoris approved, raising his shield and drawing his spear close to his chest. Behind him, the screams of his enemy's blockade caught alight, and a fire rose atop the battlement. Skippii's magia swelled, turning rain to mist before it ever touched cobblestone. The light of the fires lit the faces of the Ürkün before him, casting a red terror upon them. Tenoris seized their fright and lunged forth to depose the newcomers. One man fell to his blade, clutching his neck. Of another, he dislodged their knee. But these men were veterans of their cause, and they did not abate so easily.

A flurry of blows returned. Many, he caught on his shield, but a pick struck his thorax, piercing the leather at its seam. A sword caught his spear-arm, turned by his leather vambrace, but cut him across the side. An axe swung before his nose, and only by leaning back did he avoid the beheading blow.

Suddenly, the fire was beside him, flying before him. Skippii raged into the Ürkün's ranks, swinging a blazing axe like a berserker of legend. The weapon burned as it sailed through the air, a brand which cast fire upon all those nearby–far reaching, like Diamortis' scythe. Even the most fearsome of the enemy gave ground, pressed by flames. But Skippii did not make chase. He abated and grabbed Tenoris, turning them about towards the nearby tower. Together, they ran.

Its walls were blackened with soot, and many charred corpses lay at its entrance, some still aflame and hissing in the rain. Smoke filled its interior, but they did not dwell, nor were they beset. Passing through the tower's chamber, they emerged onto the far side and ran. All about them, men retreated from a foe they could not comprehend. Those amongst the enemy who stood their ground, or else waded towards the burning tower, searched for a legion's siege ladders, and banners of their enemy. They did not suspect him and Skippii, who fled amongst fearful Philoxenians across the battlement. The red of their legionnaire's cloaks was overshadowed in the fray. All that amounted of suspicions were tepid gazes, tailing their inevitable advance.

The southern gatehouse rose before them: two towers, and beneath, a thick gate and iron portcullis. Yet, it was not guarded by the meagre militia of Nerithon. Strong Ürkün men stood in rank atop the battlements, their attention upon the fields below. Skippii stopped and ushered him to the side. All around them were Nerithon's defenders, but none were alarmed. Rather, they stood as though frozen, gripping their weapons and the stone parapet, watching as the fields became awash with a red tide. The legion assembled.

Their formation was immaculate. Each tonnage formed a loose phalanx of eighty legionnaires, separated by narrow avenues down which slaves attended and messengers carried commands. Six tonnages combined to form a rectangular cohort, between which, the wagons of ballistas were drawn into range. At their rear, pressed against the palisade walls, were the legion's cavalry and command. And advancing before the red-cloaks were clusters of auxiliaries–javeliners and archers–knocking arrows to string and raising barbs for the walls.

Three tall towers rose at the behest of three cohorts, adorned in banners as a superior wears his medals, proud and approaching. A sea of red, with bronze swell, armour glimmering in Kylin's rains. Trumpets blazed and Tenoris beamed, slapping Skippii on the back.

"It seems that Cliae's message found its mark."

Skippii smiled, eyeing their neighbors warily. "Do not sound so pleased. Quickly, to the tower, while they're distracted."

But as they turned and approached, the floodgates opened. Ürkün defenders swarmed from the tower like wasps from a disturbed hive. Their masters barked commands as the ranks swelled. Soon, the beleaguered Philoxenians, who had been stationed as mere lookouts, were strengthened by warriors true, two to a man. Many passed him and Skippii with no more than sidelong glances and flickering suspicion. They ventured to defend the wall's length from legion ladders and towers. It must be that the cyclops were no longer a primary concern. He raised his head above the press, but could gain no sight of the monsters within the sprawling city beyond.

"Come," Skippii said. They pressed forward against the sallying Ürkün, unassuming and unopposed, and got within ten metres of the gatehouse tower when one gave a cry.

"On me!" Skippii roared, and came alight, charging into the breach. Tenoris raced after in the smoking trail of his glory. The fires parted all who did not shrink and wither aside. In their shock, they must have witnessed a comet thrown by Aequentia themselves, come crashing through their ranks. Smoke obscured his vision until wooden floorboards were beneath him, and the firelight reflected off the grey stone walls.

"The door," Skippii commanded, blazing upon their foe.

Tenoris quickly beheld in the room. It was more spacious than the previous towers. Two stairs rose to the aft. The wind howled through the slits of many thin windows, which peered upon the approaching legion below. A stone staircase set into the rear wall admitted the enemy from the city below. A further door opposite them led onto the gatehouse parapet, and the second tower beyond. All the room was full of the enemy, but their eyes were focussed on Skippii's flame, not him.

Shutting the door, he barred the latch and rose to his brother's aid.

"For the Pantheon! Die heretic. Die."

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.