Eventually, Cur caught up with them, and they quietly continued their trail.

"What?" the old legionnaire said. "No reception. No waving of arms or slaps on the back? Where is my herald?"

"Good to have you," Tenoris said plainly.

"I'm risking my life here for a slave, just so that you fools can sleep easy. Can't have your tunics in a tangle when we next see a fight."

"Thank you," Kaesii said exaggeratedly. "Ever the philanthropist."

"What did you say?" Cur hissed, but Orsin's laughter took the sting out of the veteran's bite.

"Cur, you're not normally this noisy," Orsin said.

"I can be noisier," he grumbled.

Their group marched in silence until dusk, nearer to the sight of ambush. Carried on a cool wind was the sickly sweet smell of tainted meat, like the storehouse of a cheap and senile butcher. Gradually, the bodies of Ürkün scattered on the roadside, soon piling up, forming banks on the inclining verge to their right. Small creatures scurried amongst the bodies, rustling through their armour, nibbling at their flesh. A flock of crows cried menacingly and broke into the branches above, waiting for them to pass. Once they were some ways down the road, Skippii looked back to see them fall from the trees one by one, cawing and competing for the best of the battle's scraps.

Ahead, the agonised groans of a dying Ürkün came rhythmically. Trapped beneath the bodies of his brethren, the Ürkün's bearded face was matted with blood and filth. Reaching up at them with a pale hand, he seemed like a demon from the depths, clawing out of the darkness.

Arius did not falter in striding past the Ürkün, who babbled and begged in his brutish tongue. Though the words were unclear, his plea was obvious: mercy. Following suit, Skippii kept pace, refusing to look the dying man in his eye, though strangely, it pained him to do so.

Just as it seemed their companeight would pass, Tenoris stepped out of line, lowered his spear and struck the man in his neck. The blade dug beneath his beard, snuffing his life, and pain.

"Should have let him suffer," Drusilla said scornfully.

"What use has his suffering now that he is defeated?" Tenoris said. "You do not torture a bull for meat, you knick its throat, and kill it painlessly."

"A bull doesn't try and kill you back," Drusilla said.

Tenoris laughed. "Oh, but it does. However, I understand the point you're making, Drusilla. You may leave the mercy to me."

Skippii scanned the trees above from where the enemy had come. A flash of the enemy appeared in his memory, ferocious and hateful, but all was empty now. The verge below was scattered with corpses, some were wrapped in bright red capes–the unfortunate dead who had not been recovered by the legion's auxiliaries.

Nearby, dashed against a cluster of pines was a wagon, its cargo spilling out onto the earth like the guts of so many an Ürkün on the trail. Everywhere was carnage. The earth was wet with blood, forming black puddles in the dying light.

"Ahead," Arius warned, setting off into a crouched run. Skippii and the others ran after him as quiet as their legs and gear could carry them, but the dark-skinned Clidusian sailed ahead. He stopped atop the verge, looking down, but did not seem alarmed.

As Skippii neared, he saw movement within the forest below. People moved amongst the trees. They were dressed in dyed linen togas–pale greens and oranges–the colours of common berries native to the land. They bore weapons, but did not wield them. Rather, they gathered Ürkün axes and legionnaire spears alike into bundles, wrapping them in cloth to dull the blades. Filling their packs, they picked through the dead, scavenging like crows and mice.

"Hey," Drusilla shouted, raising their heads. Skippii recognised from their orange tan and white goat-like beards that they were Philoxenian. A dozen men and women, young and old, shrank at the sight of legionnaires. A few fled clumsily down the forest verge, but many remained where they stood, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Those are legion's arms," Drusilla said, but anger was reluctant to reach his voice.

"He's holding our reds," Kaesii said, pointing at a man who was using a legionnaire's cloak as sack for other scavenge.

"Put that down." Drusilla gripped his own cloak and pointed. "That belongs to the dead."

The scavengers looked at them confused and tentatively retreated, but did not abandon their haul.

"Leave it," Orsin said. "You can't stop them. They'll only come back."

"Theives," Kaesii said.

Though reluctant to argue, Skippii couldn't help but state the obvious. "This is their land. They have a right to be here."

Kaesii growled low. "They should show some respect."

"They're only trying to get by," Skippii said.

"We're here for them, aren't we?" Drusilla said. "Fighting to liberate them?"

"I'm fighting for pay," Cur said. "Couldn't care less."

"Where was their help earlier today?" Drusilla persisted. "Why don't they fight with us?"

"Look at them," Skippii said. "Look how thin they are. Their fight's over, they lost when the Ürkün conquered them. Besides, a few do fight, right? The Noedros–the horsemen."

Drusilla shook his head. "That's not much."

"Not much is left of their fighting spirit, it seems," said Tenoris. "How many hundreds of years have they suffered while Auctoria was helpless to come to their aid?"

"Four hundred," Skippii said bluntly.

"They're doing their bit, anyway," Orsin added. "What they scavenge, they'll resell to the legion. That's how Skip replaced his thorax here. You're wearing a dead man's armour, but don't worry, I'm sure it served him well."

"Not well enough," Skippii joked. Flexing his shoulders beneath the layered, leather armour, he stood a little taller. He rubbed the haft of his spear–the same haft which once served another, faceless man. The duties of the deceased were at an end, it was now his privilege to carry forth the imperative of the Imperium Auctoritas.

Orsin winked. "Come. No point lingering."

It took them some time to reach where the rear of the column was attacked. Wolves prowled the forest, gorging on the dead, but they retreated at the coming of legionnaires. Finally, a shape emerged as large as a boulder. Its snout perched on the pathway, six large tusks jutting above it like trees stripped of their bark, displaced by storm. The remainder of its bulk spilled over the verge, tangled in trees, whose trunks bowed before its weight. Skippii shuddered, expecting it to move, its eyelids to open, and its bestial gaze to fall upon him.

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"The Aperatrox," Drusilla said dramatically. "That's what Maritor called it."

"Have you seen one before?" Kaesii said, turning to the veterans of their group.

Arius grunted. "No one has, and already, it has a name."

"Of course it has a name," Kaesii said.

"No, you do not understand." Arius eyed its corpse with a puzzled disdain. The Aperatrox possessed scars and blemishes not caused by spears or fires–tumorous flesh and patches of diseased hide. It didn't seem like anything natural Skippii had ever seen or heard of.

Arius kicked a stone down the verge. The rock bounced softly off its flank. "Does it seem less horrendous knowing it has a name?"

"Aperatrox," Kaesii repeated, seeming to miss his point.

"Yes. Let us hope they do not birth a second of its kind." Pinching a stem of holly from under his thorax's leather, Arius said a quiet prayer to Viridoe.

"You think they made it?" Orsin asked his fellow.

"Spawned from a dark womb," Arius said.

"I wonder how we will counter it," Skippii said. Tenoris looked at him puzzled. "The superiors will be thinking about new strategies to fight this thing, so we're ready next time."

"New drills?" Kaesii moaned. "But Arius said there's only one. If that's so, we don't have any need to worry."

"We'll worry as long as we're uncertain," Orsin said. "It's good to be prepared."

"And good to have a name," Drusilla mused. "Makes it seem a bit less… unusual."

Arius jogged ahead, then knelt to inspect tracks in the path. His cloak folded into the mud as he squatted and rummaged about the corpses, then climbed up the hillside.

"The slaves were further down," Skippii said. "About three hundred paces, I think."

The trail suddenly became belated with corpses and wreckage. Here, the legion had been forced to abandon their wagons when the gigantic boar attacked. A few legionnaires dotted the path, tangled with the corpses of the enemy, but many of the dead wore the grey and white togas of slaves and scribes. A fat rat waddled lethargically from beneath the helmet of a dead legionnaire, fresh crimson in its whiskers. Skippii kicked it and with a squeak, it scurried away.

"Shouldn't we recover the dead?" he said.

"We can't leave them like this," Tenoris added solemnly.

"I agree," Kaesii said, a sharpness to his voice. "They died valiantly. Where is the legion? Where is Maritor? Why isn't he here to dig their graves?"

"Hush," Cur chided. "Or else retrieve your trowel and do it yourself.

"Many a man die like this," Orsin said. "

"So when you die, you come back as a cabbage," Cur added unhelpfully. Stopping beside the corpse of a young legionnaire, Cur pointed his spear at the corpse's neck. Skippii scowled, unsure of what the old man was doing, but expecting the worst. With the blade of his spear, he pricked the legionnaire's red cloak and dragged it over his face respectably.

"You see, velvets. The cloak you wear on your backs keeps you warm, distinguishes you as a legionnaire, and will one day become your funeral cloth."

"Here," Arius called ahead. "These were all slaves."

Amongst the wreckage of battle were mules, and warpigs, and men–many as young as boys–dressed in the grey togas of servitude.

"We climb the hill from here then?" Orsin said.

Arius nodded.

Slinging his shield over his back, Skippii climbed on all-fours, scrambling up through the trees without a path to guide them. As the sun set, the sight of their handholds fled them, until they were climbing blind. Suddenly, Skippii's handhold dragged beneath him and he slipped, catching himself on his spear's shaft. Inspecting what he thought was a tree root revealed itself to be the forearm of a dead man, pierced by an arrow.

After what felt like hours of darkness, the verge flattened out and began to fall steadily back down the other side. Arius led them across its zenith at a brisk, confident pace. Though they were travelling at night through a strange and foreign land, with Arius' pathfinding, Skippii never felt truly lost. The trees before them parted whichever route the Clidusian man took, as though he had commanded them to reveal a path. Men from the city Clidus made for excellent hunters and scouts; their city had withstood many larger armies during ancient times when the city-states of Auctoritas were at war. Many passageways were said to burrow through its surrounding mountains. Skippii had also heard of the extreme methods which Clidusians were able to travel, some climbing sheer rocks with picks and spiked boots, others sailing down snowy peaks upon long wooden shoes, like flat canoes.

He wondered what hidden skills Arius possessed, but one thing was for certain was the keenness of his eyes. Often, they came across the bodies of their enemy who had died of their wounds during their retreat, assuring him that they were on the right path.

Suddenly, Tenoris' shield was in Skippii's face. He had zoned out and not heard Arius' command to halt.

"We are close now," the olive-skinned veteran said. "I will sniff them out."

Arius removed his gear and disappeared into the trees. Skippii and his companions removed their shields and sat atop them in a circle. Wrapping his cloak around him, he drew up the heat of the earth to ward off the chill. The magia flowed into him like the trickle of a brook. But his companions could not do the same. They each huddled, rubbing their hands, drawing their knees about their chests.

Picking a stone out of the dirt, Skippii cleaned it on his cloak and directed his magia into it. He was surprised by how quickly it heated. After just three breaths, the stone was as hot as if it had spent an hour encircling a campfire.

"Here," he said, handing it to Tenoris. "Pass me some more."

Tenoris received it, sighing with comfort. His companions dug in the dim moonlight, tossing him the rocks they found. Skippii heated each and handed them back. Each time he did so, the strange magia came to him quicker and more precisely, forming a shallow pool at his core. Just as he had trained for hours to perform tricks with his knife, Skippii sensed that, with as much commitment to this nascent power, he could master it.

The trick seemed to be with containing the energy. As he drew power from the earth, it amassed, shining within him a faint halo. Opening his eyes, he could not see its glow beneath his tunic, but felt it in his mind, as one feels the beating of their heart.

If he were to draw too much power, that vessel would overflow, and his power would flee him as vapours. It had happened each time he had exerted himself, first against the heretic and second against the Apertorix. If only he could somehow condense that halo–trap the energy inside him and prevent it from dissipating.

The time for finding out was soon upon him. When they came upon the Ürkün camp that night, he would push his powers to their limit. He would not hold back–not fear the scorn of others. He would burn as brightly as his strength would allow, and discover without doubt what his powers entailed.

"What are you all doing?" Cur grumbled. "Why are you tossing stones?"

"It's a game," Kaesii said quickly. "Want to play?"

Even in the dark, Skippii could sense the old man's furrowed scowl.

"Do I want to dig in the dirt?" he said sarcastically. "What's the wager?"

"Trust me, it's not your game," Orsin said, a note of comedy betraying his nonchalant tone.

"You're as bad as the velvets," Cur grumbled.

"Skip, I'll have another."

Skippii obliged, grinning as he heated the rock as subtly as possible without revealing his powers to the old curmudgeon. Once battle came, and Skippii revealed his powers, the poor sod was likely to suffer a heart attack.

"Here," Arius' sudden voice made him jump and he dropped the stone. "The enemy is close. Their camp is nearby. Ready yourselves and come."

Together, they followed Arius through the dark forest. Before long, an orange flicker doused the trees in pale shadows. Then another. Soon, they were kneeling before a clearing full of tents and fires. At its rear, the face of a hillock rose sheer, atop which perched a single campfire overlooking the others.

"Fifty," Arius whispered. "Ten to a fire."

"That's seven each," Cur hissed. "Fool's odds."

"And horses," Drusilla pointed. The silhouette of a dozen or more steeds were pitched at the edge of their camp. "The enemy's elite."

Silence befell them. As brave as they were to make this venture, the enemy outnumbered them beyond hope, even with the element of surprise. Yet it was too late now for them to turn around. Each legionnaire said their prayers, or condemned themselves for what they were about to do.

"Wait," Skippii said. "Wait for my signal."

Arius gave him a curt nod, but before he could leave, Orsin grabbed his arm.

"What is your plan?"

"I'm not certain," he admitted. "Get into position. Be ready to charge. I'll go around and climb that rise, get to the top, attack them from behind. Then you fall upon them. They will think they are surrounded."

"Don't go alone."

Gently, Skippii released his arm and patted the veteran's shoulder. "I can manage it."

"No, take Tenoris. He'll watch your back."

"I'll be quieter alone."

"And more likely blindsided," Tenoris said as quietly as he was capable. "I will keep my distance, and join you when the time is ready."

Sighing, an unusual smile crept onto Skippii's lips. Was it nerves, excitement, or fondness for his legionnaires? Composing himself, he looked once over his companeight, then raised his fist in salute. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the forest.

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