Ahead, the forest path widened beneath the branches of a great oak tree. Several smaller trees were bent and cracked, trampled like so much bracken. Three carts stood just beyond the oak's reach at the edge of the small clearing. Skippii crouched and watched for a while, listening for activity, smelling the air. Each cart bore a beam at its fore for tethering one or two pack mules, but no animal was present. He could detect nothing. Birds avoided the branches above.

Creeping closer, his heart quickened, and senses sharpened. But no watchman sounded the alarm, nor did any trap in the undergrowth spring. His first assumption was that the carts had been ambushed, the occupants killed. Judging by the dereliction of small trees and shrubs, it appeared as though a contingent of cavalry had charged through the clearing, or else, a pack of beasts. Or a single cyclops? His grip tightened on his spear as he surveyed the clearing. The carts were parked in a formal line, not overturned nor damaged, which gave the impression of a purposeful stop–a parley with an ally or a place of rest. However, the layout brought back a memory from his childhood of a time when Legion II's impedimenta was ambushed: the citizens arrayed their carts in a similar manner to form a rugged wall of defence.

He inspected beneath the carts for bodies or discarded weapons, but there were none, and he had heard no shouts on approach. The rear two of the carts appeared empty. Only the frontmost cart possessed a canvass, and it was drawn back, revealing little more than a few empty baskets and large corked vases. Glancing around once more, Skippii climbed into the cart and uncorked the vases. The perfume of liquor spouted out, stinging his eyes. Bending over, he took a cautious sniff. Honey infused wine, it seemed. He could drink a little, and it would lend him some strength. Too much, and he would be sapped.

Stooping, he tilted the cumbersome vase carefully into his mouth. The mead sloshed over the wide rim, splashing his cheeks. After a few gulps, he let the heavy vase fall upright. Smacking his lips, he scowled to himself. If the Ürkün had abandoned this caravan in a haste, what had they taken with them that was more essential than the precious and expensive wine? Weapons perhaps? But why at all was wine being ferried? They were at war–Nerithon besieged. He would assume that they would prioritise more essential produce. But perhaps their supply networks in the mountains were so extensive that they were able to import luxuries as well as necessities.

His ears were keen, drawing his attention to the surrounding forest. Something felt peculiar. Quietude seemed to emanate from the clearing, spreading into the forest beyond. No critters scampered through the trees, no birds sang in their branches. It was then that his eyes drifted over an oddity beneath the oak tree: a scrap of linen, muddied and trampled into the undergrowth. Hopping down from the cart, he lifted it with his speartip. As the linen came loose it revealed the object it had sheltered.

His gut recoiled even before his mind had processed what it was. A human arm, severed at the elbow; slender and small. A woman's or child's.

He lowered the linen once more, covering the dismemberment, scowling deeply. He remained deadly still, shocked and prickled by a sense of danger. A sound rattled him, felt not in his ears, but through his feet. The earth trembled, but not all at once, nor with the ferocity which he had felt in the Sleeping Mountain the previous night. It shook as with footsteps, two, then four, then too many to parse. A tree crashed–not too far away–and a freezing fear swept through him. The cyclops were upon him, monsters of his nightmares; enmity of his portent. He had but to run or fight.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had sprung to the ground and was crawling beneath one of the carts. The shield on his back scraped the cart's underside as he dragged himself through the mud, bringing his spear in after. Suddenly, he felt as frightened as a child when he had hid from one such brutish drunk legionnaire named Brondus, who, after a hard battle, often sought children of the impedimenta to take his woes out on.

Shutting his eyes, Skippii steeled himself. He was no child anymore. He possessed a power many magnitudes greater than Brondus' punitive heel. However, these were no men descending upon his hiding spot, but monsters of folklore, heavy in the flesh. The very same monsters who had decimated Cohort VII, whence they had strove to secure these hills from the enemy. Then, they had slaughtered half a century of men and forced the others to route. They were beasts powerful enough to defy Archtheron's patronage, horrors of uncivilised lands, unyielding to even the Gods.

The earth shook as they approached, rattling in his rib cage. His wound rubbed against his thorax armour with each tremor, and he sweated nervously. It was too late to change his approach. He could not easily crawl free of the cart if he chose to fight or flee. He was stuck with the consequences of his cowardice.

He peered beneath the cart as two huge feet, each the size of a man, came thumping into the clearing. Their toes were muscular, nails stained yellow and cracked like stone tablets, and each knuckle sprouted a thicket of wiry brown hairs. Skippii couldn't help but draw himself inwards into the undercart's shadow as the cyclops stopped before him. Its scent drifted over him; unlike any beast, it reminded him of his companeight's tent after a night's rest: the smell of man, at odds with its monstrous appearance–at least that which he could see of it. Two more pairs of feet entered after, each distinct. One cyclops seemed smaller than the rest, the hairs around its ankles a finer blonde. Whereas the third had trunks for legs, ankles swallowed in the rotundness of fat. Skippii could tell that the worst tremors were caused by that bloated beast.

"Drunker dast'ar." Its voice was a low rumbling, like a hound growling into the mouthpiece of a trumpet of war. "Karan'dar dun good strunt'lar."

"Dron'kodon," a voice like brooding thunder spoke. "Klad'tar, klad'tar."

The cyclops guffawed like cows stricken by madness. With the creak of wood, one lifted the cart before him off its wheels, raising it into the air before dropping it again with a crash. He and the others came together beneath the oak tree, grumbling in their strange language. Skippii shut his eyes and pressed his forehead into the ground, terror gripping his heart. No matter his magia, if they discovered him, they would crush him.

He had to act. Had they taken the vases of mead from the cart? Therefore, were they drinking together now? So much wine would take a companeight of legionnaires all night to consume, but he reckoned it would amount to just one gulp for the cyclops. If he was to escape, he would have to do so now.

Shuffling as slow as he could, he dragged himself from underneath the cart. The back of his shield scraped against its bottom, but thankfully, the wolf hide he had tied over it softened the sound. With one arm free, he pressed his cheek to the ground and peered out the opposite side towards the oak tree, counting six cyclops feet. Right then, the smallest of the bunch departed their group, rounding the oak and moving south, past his hiding. Suddenly, he had the fearful vision of the others separating, and walking aimlessly upon his spot. He had to act now.

As swiftly as he could, he pulled himself free and hid behind the cart's wheel. Poking his head out, he caught sight of the departing cyclops's back. As tall as seven or more men, its long strawy hair fell to its hips in unruly knots. By the protrusion of its hips and slenderness of shoulders, he took this to be a female of its species. With a long, clawed hand, it reached up and bent one of the oak's massive branches out of its way. The wood splintered and snapped, then sagged as she let go, so easily sundered by her casual strength. Then she rounded the oak and disappeared out of sight, the sound of her footfalls trailing off into the mountain beyond.

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Suddenly, the other two were moving. The largest of them shook the ground with each step. Skippii huddled behind the cart, aware that, with their surmounting height, they would spot him as easily as a hawk spots a mouse in the grass. A shadow passed over him as they blotted out the sun. Drawing his magia into him, he quickly revised his ordinatio of evocations. But none seemed so useful against two gigantic forces. He had then, only to run; usher unto him Boiling Blood–bolster his athleticism, as he had done to sprint through Aetheria's storm in the arena, and flee into the trees. Though the cyclops' gait was wide, he could spring quickly and dart, as a hare avoids the hound, and live to see another day. What other option did he have? Fight and die here, when he felt so close to the answers which he sought?

Swallowing his pride, he bent his will to survive. He had sworn himself to honour his companions in Tonnage IV, he would not squander their sacrifice on such a foolish fight. However, just as he was about to dart from cover, the shadow above fled. The tremors diminished as the cyclops' lumbered away, snapping branches and flattening young trees in their wake. Skippii remained hidden even after their footsteps passed beyond feeling. Probing the earth with his mind, he sensed them nearby, but passing.

Panting, suddenly short of breath, his heart raced in his throat and ears. He rose on shaky legs and pointedly headed in the opposite direction, rising into the mountainside, avoiding the ease of any trail he came across, be it made by man, beast or monster, forever scanning the trees for a single, watchful eye.

Once he was at a distance from the site, and some time had passed, his better judgement returned to him. The cyclops had killed and dismembered a person, but there was not much evidence of battle. Perhaps then, the occupants of the carts had fled, and the cyclops had just been returning from chasing them down? But why then were the carts already so empty, all except the wine vases? And hadn't it been rumoured that the Ürkün had a pact with the monsters to grant them safe passage?

Perhaps then, it was an offering, or a trade? A banquet of wine and human life.

***

By the late evening, Skippii reached the top of one of the large foothills surrounding the Sleeping Mountain, like watchtowers around the perimeter of a castle. Peering over the canopy, he watched as a shadow climbed up the mountain's fertile chest, drawing a dark blanket up to its zenith where a ring of grey rocks buttressed the heavens. He was only a day's journey from the peak, however, he was wary to travel at night with monsters prowling the hills. Considering his spot a strategic and sound place to rest, he curled up beneath his cloak in the nook of a tree and focussed on his breath.

A nervous energy frothed beneath his skin, reluctant to be put to rest. As he drew energy from the earth, the heat soothed his limbs and eased his heart. He listened intently to the quiet of the forest; the hooting of owls and chirping of bats, and rustling of nighttime critters awaking with the sunset. Sleep washed over the surface of his mind like a shallow tide, flowing and ebbing; suddenly he would wake and glance around at a sound in the undergrowth, or a strange scent in the air. Gradually though, the waves lengthened. His rest deepened, and he waded through shallow dreams.

Strange faces passed before him. They spoke unintelligently in a haze of light and veil of dark. Skippii was striding, though it required no effort. He spared only the briefest of glances for the faces, his mind sharpened on a single task: to keep going. Distractions flitted over him like insects–the sight of a beautiful woman in the arms of a legion superior; the smell of fresh stew and baked bread; the Gris, eyeing him keenly for a reaction to his rations; the arcanus, Clarivoxa Kyliniss, as she gave a sermon at morning parade; the fierceness in an enemy's eyes; many Ürkün faces painted black with war-paint, wicked and hateful… And more, the legionnaires in his tonnage. The friends in his companeight. Cliae. Tenoris. He pressed through them all, leaving them behind, shedding them like so many layers of clothing, until finally, during the late hours of night, he reached his destination.

Ancient steps rose from a rocky gorge. The wind was at his back. He had climbed high into the Sleeping Mountain, and ahead, a firelight glowed clearly against the black sky.

Somebody awaited him there, curled beneath a blanket by the fireside. He could sense their lifeforce as easily as he detected the heat of the earth. Their hours were waning, their sands of hourglass nearly at an end. Above the figure hung an opulent light, suspended like a star, soft to look upon. The star brightened, and the elderly woman shifted, drawing a weak breath.

"Come, quickly."

Slowly, Skippii opened his eyes on the dark forest, but felt the woman's presence for a fraction longer. Rising, he gazed out over the mountainside, and spotted a wisp of silver light glowing beneath its rocky crown. The light dimmed like a cloud passing over the moon, and then it was gone. Without hesitation, he took up his shield and spear and darted down the hillside towards the beacon.

"I'm coming," he said, half-falling through the undergrowth, slamming into the trunks of trees to slow his brash descent. Exhilaration and magia mingled, boiling his blood as he darted through the trees, alight with energy, fists blazing orange with a guiding light. Leaping over a creek, he scampered up the mountainside, unimpeded by fallen trees or boulders, vaulting or else wrenching himself up with one hand, until suddenly, he came to a stop.

Steam rose from a nearby rockpool, glistening in the dark rockface above it. No stream fed it, but bubbles rose from its belly, bursting in the cool night air. Somehow, he knew to follow the rockwall right, like a pigeon flying home, trusting his feet to lead him true. Pacing slowly, he traced the rock with his fingertips. At first, it felt cold. But a familiar heat rose swiftly to its surface, more potent than he had ever felt before. The earth glowed a deep red where his fingers had traced it, evaporating the cool droplets which shimmered over its surface in wispy streaks. He marveled at the sight and sensation, as though in a dream. Perfectly alone, he had no fear of the night, nor the growing storm above. Then the wall ended at a dramatic fissure, and the mountain fell steeply beyond it.

Squinting in the dark, he raised his palm, emanating a faint firelight into the fissure. Climbing inside, it rose and narrowed. Soon, he was forced to unsling his shield and carry it sidelong into the deepening crack. But then it opened–like the doors of a monastery–on a flat, carved ledge. Two stalwart giants emerged from the rock, squatting with fists pressed against the ground, their massive heads glaring directly at him. He paused by the entrance, half expecting them to move, but statues remained lifeless. Each was an impressive size, but diminutive compared the cyclops he had encountered that day.

Reaching out cautiously, he touched the boulderous bicep of one giant. Its face was impressively sculpted, each tooth of their menacing snarls detailed beneath curled lips. Each statue's features were exaggerated beyond human appearance: wide eyes and thick nostrils, with curling beards of frozen, grey flames. Atop their heads were strange spiked helmets, and each bore a warlike armour which he did not recognise. The layers of shell more closely resembled a lizard's carapace than anything wrought in a smith's furnace.

Beyond the statues, the fissure rose steeply. Steps were etched into the cliff, rising towards the sky. The staircase of his visions: the end of his journey.

Skippii took an exhilarating breath, but hesitated for just a moment. Once he embarked on the steps, a part of him–which had diminished in recent days–would die forever. The child within him. The boy who had aspired to be nothing more than a legionnaire; the plain, simple astray of the impedimenta. He did not know what awaited him, but for once in his life, he was certain that it was greatness. But how much of himself would survive the transformation? Once he returned home to his mother, would she still recognise him? Had there ever been a hope of that?

Just come home alive. His mother had made him promise, but he had already almost broken that promise three times.

"The stronger I become, the more chance of that."

The stars shone above, and all the heavens witnessed his ascent.

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