Their escort, Antonius, motioned to an array of logs which had been cut into stoops, laid with animal pelts–a fraction taller and more comfortable than sitting on one's shield. Wine was passed around and bread was broken. Questions were raised by V's legionnaires: of home and politics in the mainland Auctoritas, wherefrom most of Legion IX's recruits had been until their departure for the army in early spring. Questions of the road, of the Nodreos' betrayal, of the battle at Erithas bridge. But Skippii felt something was being unsaid–a question behind their tongues that was too dirty to speak aloud.

Tenoris gave a tuneful account of Legion IX's valour during battle. Before long, their anonymity was lost to curiosity. Spirits rose as they clashed cups and toasted Auctoritas' victory at the Erithas river. And then, as quickly as a shadow had come, it lifted, and in the dim firelight, it felt to Skippii as though old friends were becoming reacquainted. Countrymen listed the names of mountains which they had climbed in their youth, and Drusilla boasted unabashedly, moving closer to an elder of his tribe–a large Summitus man with a thick moustache and meaty hands. Everyone relaxed, and joked as the wine warmed their bellies and minds.

The night was late when Skippii spotted eyes watching them from the shadows. At first, he thought they would be the arcanus', but the figure was male. Squinting, he made out their tonnage's Octio, stern at the edge of their firelight.

Skippii hissed through his teeth. "He followed us."

Tenoris followed his gaze towards their superior, but still, the Octio did not move. "Ahh, must our merriment perish so soon? Why does he not join us?"

"What, and eat with a lowly legionnaire?" But as he spoke, the snide man turned and walked away.

"I was sure that he would break our communion," Tenoris said.

"Perhaps he does not dare," Skippii whispered, not wanting to sully the mood by drawing other's attention to the Octio's presence. "The Fifth invited us here. And who out-ranks who? A junior Octio from the Ninth, or a veteran of the Fifth?"

"Surely, the Octio." Tenoris said.

"Do you think these men would listen to his orders?" Skippii said. "Any one of them has seen more fighting than him… won more medals."

"To cover their scars and gild their woes," Tenoris said thoughtfully.

"Excuse me?" Skippii laughed, despite himself.

"An old poem." Tenoris blushed. "Something my mother used to say about my brothers. Nevermind it."

Skippii smiled. Despite his hulking appearance, Tenoris certainly had a soft side, and an observant one too. The legionnaires of V were grim, yet defiant. The colour of their cloaks was faded and their bronze armour scuffed and dented, decorated in medals and draped in stolen furs. Each was distinct–a hero in his own right. Skippii glanced around his companeight, at the fresh cloaks and faces of the recruits, and the well-rested appearance of their elders: Cur, Orsin and Arius. How long before their troop took on the appearance of Legion V? Perhaps, with the siege, it would be sooner than they could expect.

Skippii accepted a refill of his winecup and turned his attention back on the group's conversation.

"If you've got it bad," Orsin was saying. "Then they must be starving in there. Can't be much fight left in them, surely?"

"You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?" Antonius said. Leaning forward, his shaggy beard caught the rising embers, though he was unperturbed by the fire's smoke and heat. "Ain't that simple. We can't just wait them out."

"They cut a supply chain through the hills," another said. His cheeks were gaunt, knuckles pale, and all the muscles on his arms stood out with no fat to conceal their strength. "We couldn't surround them properly. They get out through secret ways. Holes in the ground, like rats. And raid us from outside." His eyes glazed over as his mind wandered elsewhere. "Thirty-two days of fighting last autumn, without break. Each day, at the outermost palisade walls with our backs to Nerithon, hoping they don't sally out and break our rear guard."

Antonius' gaze remained fixed on Orsin. "First spring, we dug into the mountains, but they chased us out. There's more Ürkün outside the walls than in."

"Not anymore," Drusilla said proudly.

The thin veteran nodded. "Not anymore. But there's still beasts. Monsters. Not from telling, but from seeing." The firelight danced in his faded green eyes. "Huge creatures, like pigs, and brutish giants of men."

"Aperatrox," Tenoris said. "We have fought one such beast and slain it."

More than one legionnaire raised their eyebrows, and Antonius raised his chin in respect. "We heard of that. Thought it wasn't true. Didn't think a legion of velvets could do it."

"Not all velvets," Cur said.

"You're looking upon the men who slew the beast," Tenoris said grandiosely. But the veterans of the Fifth just laughed. Clearly, they took it as jest or untruthful boast.

"Well, we should send you into the Sleeping Mountains then, and have you clear out the forests. But beware, cyclops."

Kaesii laughed, but when no one joined in, he scowled, a smirk on his face. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

Kaesii scowled playfully. "You think, because we're recruits, that we'll believe fairytales."

"I don't tell fairytales, kid, not even to velvets."

All were silent.

"They drove us from the mountain," Antionus said. "Must have formed a pact with the Ürkün, because they don't disturb their supply lines. The wagons get through, feeding Nerithon, and there's nothing we can do but watch from here. We don't have the strength to battle cyclops, not with our Coven half-dead." He shrugged. "So, we've been waiting for you."

"Half-dead?" Orsin asked, but he was suppressed by a deep-voiced veteran who sat beside Drusilla.

"The Ninth will take the hills," said a man who had introduced himself as Ballemorus. His hair fell in rivulets about his face, much in the same style as Drusilla's, but where his companion's curls were like black vines, the veteran's matt was like an old wizened willow. "It'll be a few weeks. You only just got here. But that's why you're here, just so you know. Good luck to ya'."

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A cold fear crawled under Skippii's skin at the thought of encountering more beasts like the aperatrox, but he at least amongst his fellows was somewhat equipped to survive such a fight. His magia had defended him against the killing tusks of the mammoth boar. If he should be made to face a cyclops, perhaps he would stand a chance, though every story he had ever heard about the brutes cautioned otherwise.

"Is that…" Fulmin stammered. "Are you being…"

"Hyperbolic?" Kaesii finished for him.

"We're not going to fight monsters," the blacksmith's son half-laughed, but fear overcast his mirth. "We're not trained for that. We're supposed to do that. We're legionnaires."

"Legionnaires in foreign lands," Antonius said, his mouth hidden inside a bird's nest of a beard.

"What of the myths are true?" Tenoris asked.

"What do you know?" Antonius asked. Their company had all gone quiet.

Tenoris cleared his throat. "They are cunning creatures of incomparable strength, able to wield weapons that would crush a man, with an anger untempered by pain, or even dismemberment. An angered cyclops is like a storm, it does not abate until it is utterly drained of rage, and all that stands in its path are dead."

"A bit of an embellishment," Antoninus winked, and the veterans of the Fifth snickered to themselves. None amongst Skippii's company cracked a smile. "But you're about right."

What followed was a lull, as their companeight's task sank heavily on their shoulders.

Orsin drained his wine and spoke. "You tried to take the walls?"

"Four months into the siege, we had everything prepared," Ballemorus rumbled. "The towers, the catapults. We stormed it. We took 'em."

"We won," Antonius said. "Nine towers to their six, and more were falling. The gates were opening. We were already inside."

"It was carnage," the most gaunt of their company added–who had yet to give his name. "They were throwing themselves at us, daggers in hand. Anything. Pitchforks and hammers. Anything."

"We threw them from the walls," Antonius said. "The Ürkün fought fiercely. One moment, you're killing a boy with wide, terrified eyes." He leaned forward, murky green eyes glistening in the firelight. "Then, you see the barbarian at his back, spear pressed against his spine, forcing him onwards into the killing."

"Slaughter."

"We were winning."

"And then all went dark."

Ballemorus threw on more firewood as another filled each legionnaire's mug with the last of the wine. Antonius spoke next, though the excitement in his voice had gone, leaving behind a thin memory of dread.

"The magi did battle, ours and theirs. They had a single heretic–just one man versus our Coven of ten… two had already perished on the way here, but they were still strong. The light of Hespera shone on us–it heals our wounds and lifts our spirits. Her lights burns the impure, like spears thrust from the heavens, and she has a way of binding the enemy and shielding us from harm. But the heretic was something else. Something sharper. Everyone on the walls stopped fighting and just watched, friend and foe. We all knew what was going on. We had won the battle of men, but the battle of Gods had just started. We raised our shields, regrouped and just stared as the sky tore open.

"Black serpents fell with the speed of arrows, pummelling our Coven, and atop a black chariot sat their filthy heretic. Moonbeams pierced his dark shields as Hespera's angels descended from the heavens to cut him down. Any mortal man would have perished. Even cyclops would have paled at our Coven's strength. But the heretic's power was…" he shook his head. "Rubble and ruin. We lost. Our Coven perished, all but one… Rubble and ruin."

"We had to climb back down the ladders," Ballemorus said with a grimace. "Imagine that. After all we'd done. How far we'd come. We had victory in our grasp. The walls, the city. Just not the skies, not the Gods."

"But you had the walls," Kaesii blurted. "Couldn't you have taken the city? The temple? The estates?"

"You didn't see it, kid," Antonius said. "There's no defence against that sort of power. There was nothing we could do."

"Their magi was injured too," another added. "Our Coven did a lot, Hespera almost won."

"No she didn't," said Bellemorus. "It wasn't a fair fight."

"It was over," Antonius said. "And ever since we've been sat in the mud, licking our wounds, while they do the same up there."

"Have you seen him again?" Skippii asked. "The enemy magi?"

Antonius shook his head. "Our arcanus reckons he's mortally wounded, healing or gathering his strength. Who knows. I think they'll say anything to stop us abandoning our posts."

"One magi?" Fulmin asked. "Is that possible?"

"It is," Arius answered. "The heretic gods corrupt their servants. They warp their minds. They turn them into animals not capable of companionship."

An uneasy quiet rest upon their group, until Antonius spoke up.

"I'm glad you boys brought a Coven. We need it."

"Plus, there's a rumour," the wiry veteran, absently sharpening his knife. "There's a rogue amongst you, a magi who works alone?"

Skippii held his breath. None of his companions spoke.

"Is it true?" Antonius asked. The veterans stared keenly, though Skippii couldn't read their intent.

"Yeah, we do," Cur said suddenly, and Skippii feared he would give him away.

"Oh yeah?" Antonius raised an eyebrow.

"But his heart's in the right place, you know?" Cur said. "A proper legionnaire."

"As long as he's strong," Antonius muttered.

"Yeah, well I'm done relying on them," the wiry veteran said. "I don't care what any apostle or arcanus or scholar says. When I see that black chariot next, I'm going to hurl my spear into its rotten core."

Another dug his blade into the wooden stoop atop which he was sitting, chipping the bark and blunting the blade. Again and again, he stabbed the stump. "We'll kill him. We'll murder 'em all. We'll make 'em pay for all this filth."

Thereafter, the company was bleak. Orsin said his thanks on behalf of their group, and each of them shook hands before departing. Skippii was surprised by how cold their hands were. The sensation of their rough, muscular fingers clung to Skippii as he ventured back to their camp. To possess such renown, yet be overshadowed by such dread. How awful could this heretic magi be that he cast fear into the hearts of such powerful men?

Skippii stared long at Nerithon's walls and its hilltop temple. Before the siege was over, he was sure to find out.

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