The sun had set by the time they were dismissed. The First Cohort remained on guard outside. Their faces were new; the legionnaires had rotated their duty. The hour was late for a ceremonial display. But then what purpose did they serve standing about the inner palisade wall? Perhaps it was purely disciplinary, but something did not sit right with him.

"Do they expect an attack?" Skippii said as they made their way through the Ninth Legion camp. "An insurrection? Perhaps they don't fully trust those Kronaians?"

"No fool would attack us now," Tenoris said. "But if it eases you, I shall wear my armour tonight too."

Skippii smiled, feeling foolish. "No. If there was a serious reason to remain on guard, he would have informed us."

"Let's focus on our task," Cliae said. "I copied the map onto a tablet. I'll have it inked to parchment tonight so that we have it for our journey."

"Won't we be given one?" Skippii asked.

"Yes, I'm sure. But two is best. Or three, to be sure."

Climbing the city's walls, Skippii peered out over the land. It was dark, and quiet. No masses of firelight lit the faces of an approaching horde, only the disparate lights of watchtowers and farmsteads. Then, upon entering his companeight's tower of residence, all anxieties were washed from his mind. There, sat at their barrel-top table alongside his companeight was Thales.

"Thales," he exclaimed. "I have looked for you, but… How are you, old friend?"

"I am well," he said with a tired smile. "I came here seeking refuge, but your companions have insisted on wine and games." He held up a mug. "Of course, I obliged."

"How did it go?" Orsin asked.

"We have our directive," Skippii said. "A town, one week's ride north of here. We are to take it swiftly. It's defended, but nothing we can't handle. Some of the Brenti will be coming with us, and light horsemen." A grin widened on his lips as he spoke, until he could no longer contain it. "Our own directive. Our own task, and chance to make the Imperator proud."

"To make a difference," Arius added.

"To show them who we are," Kaesii said. "To show them our strength. To have our names in songs."

"Did you mention pay this time?" Cur asked.

"Ah," Skippii creased. "I forgot again."

The old veteran shook his head. "You there, Cliae. You didn't think to remind him? You're his scribe, aren't you?"

"I will have it arranged," Cliae stammered. "Appologies, legio."

Skippii inspected his companions proudly, then turned to Thales. "Will you accompany us?"

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," Skippii said.

"There is still work to be done here."

"But there is more abroad," Skippii said quickly. "I will have need of your thaugia. And there are already magi in the city, healing and rebuilding. Besides, your knowledge of the land, its peoples and politics… I could do with that."

"You make a strong argument," he said. "And I already gave you my word. It is sooner than I had hoped, but I shan't abandon your need. I will prepare my things."

Thales rose from his chair, but Kaesii stretched out a halting hand.

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"We have yet to try the trumpet, old man, and I shan't wait another night for your attendance."

"What's that?" Skippii said.

"Your trumpet, from Eirene," Orsin explained. "He's been dying to give it a go."

"Fancies himself a musician now," Drusilla said. "He's mistaken loudness for quality."

"Not a musician," Kaesii said. "The evocator. Skippii's inner-circle. You'll see. Fetch it, I shall play a note where no others can."

Cliae uncovered the brass trumpet from its store and handed it to Kaesii. He held it aloft and delicately blew on the mouthpiece. A dry hiss was emitted from the horn. Again he tried, straining, until he was red in the face.

"What sound should it make?" the proud Vestian-born said. "Perhpas there is something clogged in its pipes. Slave- Scribe, I mean… Did you clean it already?"

"I did not," Cliae said. "I believe it was crafted with magia, and requires no cleaning nor maintenance."

"Well, be sure," Kaesii said. "Find out."

"It's not the trumpet," Drusilla said. "You're not the evocator."

For a time, Kaesii twisted and bent himself over the instrument to play a note. So long did he labour that the others picked up their game of cards and played a few rounds before he finally conceded.

"I will practice and master this thing," Kaesii said, striding over to the spot where it was stored beside their provisions.

"Whoa-whoa," Drusilla said. "It's my turn next. Bring it here."

"No. You Summitans do not possess the finesse required-"

"Finesse?" Drusilla jeered. "Have you seen yourself? Slobbering over the mouthpiece like a pig. It's a surprise you didn't swallow it."

Kaesii raised his chin and pinched his lips. "I will let you try, only to revel in your failure."

Drusilla took the horn and dipped its end in his mug of wine, cleaning it with a rag. Then he held it to his lips and made a single, concentrated attempt. The horn groaned, but performed no melody.

"Not me," he said, passing it to the next. Each of them made an effort to fulfill Eirene's prophecy; even Cur possessed a twinkle of wonder as he raised the ornate trumpet to his lips. But none among them could hold a tune, not even Arius, who possessed a small flute and knew some skill with music.

The candles waxed low by the time it was passed to Thales. Skippii held his breath. The room grew quiet. Suddenly, it all made sense. Thales–his oldest friend–had been imprisoned when Skippii had been led to the Sleeping Mountain's temple. Eirene had spoken of some foul intervention that must have kept the evocator from arriving at her temple. And it was true that the enemy had kept Thales at bay. Surely, it made sense that he was the evocator. Skippii felt a fool for not realising it sooner, and all the more excited for its sudden coming.

Thales held the trumpet to his lips and blew.

The brass pipes wheezed in disapproval. He tried again, but they did not sound even a squeak. He raised an eyebrow skeptically at Skippii.

"It isn't me."

"Try again," Skippii said. "Think… Think about my mother. Remember her. Connect with me."

Touching his shoulder, Skippii closed his eyes. Somewhere beyond the veil was a mist of ice. He had gone to that realm before–Oyaltun's omniscience. She had threaded his mind with his companions during the battle of Nerithon, and with the Coven of Kylin. And now, he searched for her hand. But it was not like reaching for his power, which lay willingly beneath the earth. Oyaltun possessed her own mind–her own whim–her own wandering.

I'm here, Skippii thought. Come into my mind. I have opened the door.

And then, a trumpet blew. It shimmered against the stone walls. With a jolt, Skippii opened his eyes. But the instrument was not at Thales' lips. The old man's eyes were on the door. His companions had frozen. Then Arius rose and crossed the room in long strides and wrenched the door open.

Without thinking, Skippii followed him outside. All their companeight came to stand atop the battlements, looking southward towards Legion IX's camp.

A trumpet blew again–one long, resounding call. The summons to battle. The disturbance of five thousand legionnaires caused a clamor to rise from the city of tents. Arms were lifted, banners raised, commands called. But no firelight was in the fields. No armies approached.

"There!" Arius lanced his finger at the sky.

In the dark of night, there grew a shadow. At first, Skippii took it for an eagle, close and slow moving. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was far away above the centre of Legion IX's camp. It plummeted like a stone. Then its form emerged from the black into the camp's aura of firelight.

Wings unfurled like a ship's sails, broad and black. A form, massive and muscular, opened four clawed limbs. A mane of dark hair coated a monstrous face. A thick snout and jaws. A predator of death. An aberration of the gods.

Skippii leapt from the walls without thought for caution. Landing, he struck the ground at a roll and tumbled into a ditch. Winded, he pressed his hands into the earth and drew his thaugia. Fires burst in his veins. His blood boiled and he rose, sprinting up the verge and towards the legion's camp.

Men raised their voices to the swooping beast. Cries of panic, and of challenge. But the bellow that returned deafened them all. A thunderous rumble, and roar. The beast crashed into the centre of the legion's camp and was hidden from his sight. But the screams that followed filled his mind.

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