Those who could fight rallied inside the tower while Cohort II entered the city through the ruined gates. Some twenty legionnaires attended to one another's injuries. A further thirty legionnaires drank their waterskins and said their prayers as the storm softened outside. But the quiet brought no comfort to Skippii. It meant the Coven were losing.

Tenoris had recovered himself and was pacing, breathing heavily, shaking out his limbs. He seemed lost in thought. The two of them had come very close to death and failure, and Skippii was worried that it had shaken him.

But the worst injured amongst their companeight were Kaesii and Drusilla. Their arms and legs were covered in bleeding cuts and bruises. Regardless, the two of them refused to sit it out.

"I'm seeing it to the end," said Drusilla, exchanging his cleaved helmet for a discarded one.

"Yeah," Kaesii said, as Arius bandaged his bloody shield-arm. "This is nothing."

"Tonnage, on me." Custos Maritor returned. "I've just spoken to the Senior Primus. This is it. It's us. It's Cohort Two. The rest didn't make it through the gates. There's an incursion outside. The rest of the legion is dealing with it, as are the Fifth."

"Incursion" Fulmin said, shocked

"Just us?" Orsin said.

"Just the best," Maritor nodded. "I informed Preagusta of your plan, Skippii. Happens to be the same as his. We're heading to the temple, that's where the heretic is. That's where the Ürkün will stage their final defence."

"How fares the Coven?" Tenoris asked.

Maritor's jaw remained open for two breaths while he did not answer. His pause spoke volumes.

"They've got their job, we've got ours." Then, Maritor raised his voice. "Tonnage Six, on me. To victory. To glory."

"For Auctorita," many said, but their voices were grave.

Their Primus strode forward and pounded Tenoris in the chest. "That's fucking right, for Auctoritas."

The impact seemed to shake something loose inside Tenoris. His big chest heaved as he drew in a breath and raised his spear. "Glory Imperium Auctoritas!"

"Dominitus et Pantheonos!" Orsin echoed.

"Kill the heretic!" Skippii joined, a sudden passion rising within him.

Cheering and jostling, the legionnaires bustled outside and joined the rear of Cohort II's advance on Nerithon's streets. Around them, smooth-faced buildings rose atop a slight incline. The smooth cobblestone was slick with streams of blood. The colour diluted in the dwindling rains, forming a brownish river which flowed towards the gate's ruin. Many bodies lay in the stream, or crawled into the gutters, left behind by their kinsmen. But with the passage of Cohort II, all were slain.

Behind them, through the gate, came auxiliary troops–Brenti javelineers–who spread out into the city in a disorganised fashion, like dogs loosed on a hunt. Many gravitated towards Cohort II, and soon, they had a contingent of some one-hundred or so men at their rear.

"Ho!" Orsin yelled in greeting. "Violent tidings."

"Crooked shores," one of the javelineers responded.

Orsin grinned. "We're safe now boys. The best of Brentia have our backs."

"Brentia?" Kaesii scoffed. "Would that they were Vestians-"

"Oh, be quiet," Arius snapped. Thereafter, Kaesii kept his jaw firmly shut.

At a crossroads, the cohort divided into three groups. The standard bearers of Tonnages I and II lead their one-hundred and sixty-strong legionnaires leftwards, while Tonnages III and IV branched right. Skippii glanced around himself, wary of the lay of battle. It was not like upon a field, where the enemy's position was obvious, or in a forest, where scouts had forayed ahead. An attack could come from anywhere, it seemed. Any alleyway or rooftop. The enemy could be manoeuvring in number right now to outflank them. There could be hundreds of Ürkün waiting behind these very walls, and they would not know until they were upon them.

But by dividing the cohort, Praegesta was mitigating that threat: better than stretching a large force down narrow passageways, thin and weakly. Though he understood the tactics behind it, with each legionnaire that left their unit, his heart raced a little faster. It was not a fight he was accustomed to.

But his companions did not seem to care, and his superiors clearly had a plan and procedure. In truth, it had been years since he had last been inside a city, and the peculiarity of tall walls and shadowy doorways unnerved him. But it was no more than that.

After waiting a minute to allow the others to reposition, the cohort trumpeter blew a blast and, though divided, Cohort II advanced as one down three separate paths.

Their reduced Tonnage VI kept to the rear of V, forming a phalanx and venturing down a wide central road. Praegesta Summitus strode in the centre of the formation, his cohort's standard and staff at his side. Their banners fluttered in the wind–proud sigils heralding the legion's coming; the trinkets and chimes hanging from their frames played a haunting tune.

Skippii scanned the doorways and windows, and shadows of alleyways, wary of an enemy in hiding. There were indeed many faces in the shadows, some pale and frightened, others dark and worn. The citizens of the city–retreated like rats into hiding; spectators to brutality. The helpless women and children.

He turned away and steeled his heart. There would come time for rebuilding and regrowth, but not today. Not while a victor had yet to be decided. With the Coven under pressure, and the legion fighting many battles, the balance of victory hung by a thread. If they did not reach the temple… If he could not kill the heretic magus… Thousands would die. The legions, crushed. Perhaps the whole campaign of reclamation would come grinding to a halt at Nerithon on this day. Perhaps, one day soon thereafter, the heretics would reach out and grip the shores of Auctoria herself.

But not while fires burned in his flesh. Skippii gripped his spear and cleared his heart of doubts, then set his sight on the way ahead.

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The trumpeter sounded again, and the cohort picked up the pace. There came cries from inside buildings. Women's voices, shrill and afraid. A young girl screamed, then a man roared and flung himself from a balcony upon the phalanx with an axe in hand. Futile, were his efforts, as legionnaires raised spear and shield to receive his suicide.

Few others opposed them. When they reached a junction at the hill's crest, they heard shouts from adjacent streets–cries of battle. Tonnage III and IV were under attack. Praegesta Summitus strode atop the balcony of a residency, as confident and presumptuous as if it were his own, and gazed out over the city.

"Four divides," he ordered, holding out four fingers. "Tonnage Five: Companeight One and Two, assist our flank. Brentions, follow them. What plunder is yours once the day is done. But go, now. Seek the enemy. Kill them all."

With a cheer, the auxiliaries scattered, javelins in hand and knives loose at their belts while sixteen of the finest Auctorian fighters followed them.

"Companeight Three and Four, take the north east road." Praegesta pointed with his gladius at a narrow passageway which would admit four men abreast; it snaked between tall buildings, descending into the thick of the city. "Stay tight, and come to us if you hear the trumpets call."

Striding down the steps, Praegesta beheld the remainder of the men. "Everyone else, on me. We take the main path towards the temple."

Ahead, the road which dipped towards a marketplace around which many coloured canvases were hung, and beyond, Skippii sighted the first glint of tarnished marble since taking to the streets–the temple of Chrysaetos. Angry grey clouds gathered over the temple, possessing a dark-blue sheen and thunderous glow.

"You, the legion's finest. You, vanguard of heroes. Let us spill blood, and come death, drink wine in the Pantheonic halls."

Skippii cheered, and his ears rang with his fellow's impassioned calls.

Just fifty legionnaires accompanied Cohort II's Senior Primus as they ventured down the path, shields held aloft, spears to the front and flanks. Strong men, the best of men. Custos Maritor was among them, forever leading from the front. Skippii let out a pensive breath. He still did not feel at full strength since exerting himself upon Nerithon's walls, but what power he could summon would have to do. If necessary, he would burn his lifeforce once again, and achieve victory, no matter the consequences.

As their depleted unit entered the open marketplace, they beheld the marble temple's gleam in the distance beyond rooftops. A black disk suspended above it–the magia of the heretic–blotting out the storm.

Suddenly, lightning struck it in a hail, brightening the world in flashes. Tremendous thunder pierced the disk, smashing the roof's tiles and pounding the courtyard surrounding. It was impossible to tell what damage was being wrought by the Coven's blast, but the heretic's disk did not shrink, and Skippii had a feeling it would not end so quickly.

"Kylin's wrath," Tenoris marvelled. "Let us join her in war. It is such an honour."

Around them were abandoned carts and empty stalls–muddy pens and thin animals. A pack of scrawny dogs barked at them behind a fence. Colourful canvases sheltered awnings, where in peaceful days, traders would have sold their wares. Now, the market was empty, stripped bare during months of blockade.

Between each strike of thunder was an eerie quiet. The quickest path was through the centre, but they were exposed. Praegesta led them at a jog, but when they reached the market's centre, shapes appeared on the road beyond. Jeering faces–pale upon dark furs, barring the way. Dull bronze blades held the shadow of the dark sky within them. And out of side-streets emerged more of the enemy. Briefly, by the storm's thunder, they were lit. A host skulked towards them through the clutter, swarming upon their flank like dark flies.

"Testudo phalanx!" shouted Praegesta. At once, they surrounded their superiors, shields and spears pointed outwards. Skippii spun, kneeling at their rear, while behind him, his companeight raised their shields above his shoulder, forming a tight, impenetrable dome. The trumpeter blew a blast from their centre, and he could hear Vexillum chanting a prayer over the storm.

"Veni ad nos. Come upon us. Frangere. Break! Super hastas nostras, frangere."

Like the first raindrops before a downpour, arrows skipped over their shields, deflecting harmlessly. A javelin thudded into Kaesii's shield, and the rim drooped, pressing into Skippii's shoulder.

"Cut it off," Kaesii winced. "My arm! I'll drop it."

Tenoris broke from formation and stomped on the javelin's haft, splitting it against the cobblestone. The rest of them pressed forward, shields raised as a volley of stones and arrows pelted them, and Tenoris made it quickly back within the phalanx. Ürkün voices rose bitterly all around them, but Skippii's mind was suddenly elsewhere. The action had reminded him of how they had trained briefly to combine his magia with legion tactics.

"Hey, everyone," he said, raising his voice over the cries of war filling the courtyard. "Do you remember our training?"

"How could you forget?" Cur said. "It was only a few weeks ago for you boys."

"Not disciplina," he said. "Our training. The drills, with my magia."

"I have not forgotten," said Arius.

"On my word, push forward. Beat a path, I'll come through the centre. Don't get caught in front of me."

"Got it," Orsin said.

"Oh, but you are all in for a treat." Tenoris' tuneful voice was at odds with the mayhem all around.

With a roar, the enemy surged and threw themselves upon their shields. Many were pierced by spears, but more passed through their guard, aiming blades through the gaps in their armour. Heaving as one, the legionnaires took the charge, straining like slaves in heavy toil, holding back the tide.

"Wall," Skippii shouted over the enemy's bellows and curses. "Wall…"

An axe smashed his shield, splitting the wood, but Skippii's focus was unwavering. He drew power from the earth and filled his body with magia, setting it into flux. His lungs burned with the strain, but he cared not for the pain.

"Break!" he screamed. His companions rose around him like the wings of an eagle, pushing and stabbing the enemy back, stunning them, creating space for him to move.

He leapt forward, smashing his shield into the nearest man, sending him backwards, then raised his fist to the sky. Bringing it down like a mallet, he split the earth with a Seismic Quake. The cobblestone cracked like pottery. Chasms split the earth at their feet. Their attackers fell to the ground, weapons scattering, shock on their faces.

Tossing his shield aside, Skippii raised both fists and shattered the earth once more, then tore chunks of Rockfangs from below. With an ear-splitting creak, pillars of stone tore through the cobblestone. Fifteen or more rose–thin and jagged, piercing men with their tips. Wooden carts shattered. A pen of goats bleated and scattered, their confines destroyed. The enemy cried in dismay, fear bright on their faces.

"Forward!" Custos Maritor commanded, punctuated by a trumpet's bellow. "Strike them down."

Emboldened, the phalanx expanded outwards, racing to catch the enemy on their spears. But Skippii hesitated. Staggering backwards, he knelt and waited while his companions returned to reform the wall.

"What was that?" Kaesii shouted with amazement.

"Summitor's shoulders," Drusilla said. "You can command the rock like that?"

"Yes," Tenoris boomed. "And much more."

Skippii laughed lightly, but remained kneeling, connected to the ground. He felt sick with warrieness, but forced himself to draw in more. Dizzily, he breathed, and raised his head, trying not to let his weakness show. He did not want them to doubt his strength so close to the crux of the battle. Thankfully, none seemed to notice, and their attention returned to the enemy, all except Airus, who stared at him stoically. After a moment, the tall legionnaire nodded a firm respect in his eyes, and extended a hand for him to rise.

The enemy were scattered, but not defeated. Desperation had the Ürkün trapped. If they lost the day, they would be rounded up and executed, if were lucky. The same went for the legions. For all involved, it was death now, or later.

Arrows flew from afar, and the enemy gathered in groups, avoiding their phalanx's rear where Skippii's Rockfangs split the ground. But suddenly, familiar cries rang out over the marketplace. Auctorian voices. Legionnaires swept in from adjoining streets–red hawks swooping on the wind. Javelines filled the air like wasps. The enemy died in droves.

"Split," ordered Praegesta, and the phalanx broke outwards, chasing their foes. Tonnages I and II had flown to the trumpet's call, aided by others–auxiliaries climbing through buildings and over rooftops. Skippii ran beside his companeight, catching his breath while the enemy routed, assailed on all sides.

The enemy scattered, and Cohort II's banners united.

"On me!" called Praegesta Summitor. "Regroup. Do not chase them down. Our spears are for the temple. To the temple. Return glory to Chrysaetos. Glory Imperium!"

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