Cliae gripped their knife nervously at the rear of their procession. The two half-Ürkün men had been talking heatedly for almost an hour, and it was reaching boiling point. One spoke animatedly, swinging his arms about, looking back at Cliae with disdain in his eyes. The other spoke in a hushed monotone, sometimes rising to a hiss. Cliae caught snippets of their conversation and knew just enough Philoxenian to translate. The angry one wanted to return to Nerithon, whereas the other had resigned himself to surrender with the legion.

Something scurried in the dark underbrush as the half-Ürkün raised his voice again, then turned and gave Cliae a prolonged glare. There was hatred in his eyes, though Cliae knew not what ae had done to deserve the man's ire. It was his free will to decide where he went, Cliae would not try and stop him.

The knife's leather grip was warm with sweat as Cliae held it under their cloak. If they had to, they could use it. Right? They could draw the weapon and make a show of being armed. No one else amongst their unit of nine was armed. That would be enough to see the half-Ürkün off, surely? But what if it wasn't? What if Cliae was required to fight? Would the Philoxenians who were cutting a path through the forest help aem? Or would they stand by and watch? None of their business, as it so often was with the beating of slaves.

Suddenly, the irate half-Ürkün departed, striding beyond the beaten path into the treeline. His comrade watched after him, but said not a word. Cliae sighed with relief as the rogue disappeared from sight.

"Blessed Aequentia. Strange is tonight. Show me the way within this tricky maze. I shall walk it blindly, through pitfall and snare."

The birds above detected the sunlight before all others. Their song tinkled in the cold air as the colours of the forest awoke about them; spring greenery, beige juveniles sprouting amongst proud brown towers, and tiny flowers sprinkled about the moss and wide leaves like paint flickered haphazardly from a brush onto a canvas. This forest was not so different from the one ae had strayed in Clidus, ruminating on their studies, taking a wax tablet to a seated spot above the Iter valley.

Cliae caught the smell of morning smoke on the clean forest air. It seemed that the others detected it too as their pace slowed and they glanced about the trees warily. Shivering in the early morning chill, Cliae wrapped their cloak and strode to the head of the pack.

"Near?" ae asked in the Philoxenian tongue, then in Auctorian: "Are we close by?"

Kypellon–the seeming leader of their group–nodded. "Near the northern camps."

Again, the scent of smoke wafted over them. Cliae's stomach turned with nerves; here, in the wild forest, ae was a free person again–a rare choice presented itself out of a lifetime of studies and servitude: return to the legion, suffer a deserter's punishment, and do aes duty to Auctoria… to Skippii. Or run. Put the world behind them. Put this war behind them. Be alone again, no longer a slave. Free.

But we are all slaves, ae reminded themself. Slaves to hunger, to cold, to despair and desire. Be it now, or starving in the mountains alone, Cliae's reckoning would come. Better to make it swift–better to meet the ends now, in the service of one truly worth his pledge. No matter the torture the legion might muster. No matter the shame, the beatings, the ropes around the wrists, the snarling superiors, the lashes which would fall on ae's back…

Cliae's stomach tightened with knots–one final struggling gripe. But aes mind was set, their duty clear. With a shiver and a sigh, aes body unclenched as the knots came loose. There was no point fearing a future that had yet come to pass. Focus on your task.

Something moved in the forest ahead–a man amongst the trees. He was dressed in furs and a red sash around their waist: the auxiliary's attire. He spotted their procession and paused, more curious than alarmed, then disappeared. By the time they reached the spot where he had been standing, four men with javelins were watching them, and more were approaching from every angle.

"Who are you lot then?" one asked–an old, gruff, full-bearded Brentian man with a ginger hue to his hair, similar to Orsin's.

"Refugees from Nerithon," answered Cliae. "I have an important message for one of our superiors."

"Our?"

"I'm from Clidus. I was a slave in the legion. I have information which my Primus must hear. Do you have a horse?"

The auxiliaries lowered their spears and turned their attention to the way Cliae's group had come. "How many of you?"

"Just us," ae said. "Time is very short. I need a horse. Are there any? Messengers or cavalry?"

"Stream down the way," the old Brentian motioned. "A few pitched there. Try your look, Clidusian. But these lot are coming with us, especially that Ürkün fellow."

"He's a runaway," Cliae said quickly. "Nerithon-born. He doesn't wish to fight for the Ürkün. That's why he surrenders."

The auxiliary chief hummed to himself as his men apprehended their guests. "That's what he's told you. Could be a spy."

"Please be kind," Cliae said, departing down the road. "He has my master's word."

"And who's your master then?" the old fellow shouted after him.

"Skippii Altay, Son of Cor. But if that name means nothing to you, it soon shall, and you should hope not to have besmirched his word."

Setting off at a run, Cliae followed the beaten trail downwards as it fell steeply over a boulder ridge towards a wide stream. There were picketed five horses, but their riders had not yet risen for the day. Lean-to shelters stooped quietly in the trampled underbrush nearby.

"Hello? Bona-morn," Cliae said, approaching one, but stopped beside the first horse. How much longer would it take to explain their mission to the horsemen, and how likely was it that one would believe ae's story? The sun was already rising, dim and blue in the sky. Time was running out.

Cliae's hand drifted up the picket rope to the horse's neck. Ae stroked the gentle creature as it eyed him back, nostrils flaring. Extending a hand for him to sniff, Cliae cooed the creature, stroking his flank, patting his muscular hind. The horse began to chew–in the language of horses–recognising aem as a friend.

Ae glanced once more at the cavalrymen's shelters. They were already a deserter, how much worse was the charge of theft?

"We need to go for a ride," Cliae whispered into the horse's ear. "Is that alright with you? Will you bear me?"

The horse raised his head and stomped impatiently. Cliae had only ever ridden a mare before, but here was a powerful stallion. Untying him, ae led the horse away from the pack. He strode proudly, flicking his mane as his fellows watched him leave. One whinnied after him, and he jeered in response. There was the sound of movement in the trees. Someone awoke.

Jaw clenched, Cliae hauled themself onto the stallion's back and kicked him into a trot. The way was too narrow to ride any faster, and for a few sickening minutes, Cliae worried that the horsemen would discover their stead missing and catch up to him. But the only sound of hooves remained beneath him. Before long, the organic scent of the forest surrendered to a sea-born salt, driven by the Coven's high winds.

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The landscape dipped slowly and rose again over a wide hill, atop which pitched Legion IX's tents and palisades. In the fields surrounding were smaller stations–brown-hide tents in clumps like mole hills, where the auxiliaries camped. All was overcast and dampened by the swelling storm. Beneath the clouds, Nerithon's walls stretched from the foothills to the cliff's edge, and its harbour below. Its grey towers and battlements, draped in the dirty-red cloaks of legionnaires who had fallen victim to the siege. Upon one tower, dozens of cloaks had been sewn together into a tapestry, and a black vortex painted in its centre, like the hunger-crazed eye of a cyclops, forever watching over the besiegers.

"Terrible is the world of man," Cliae whispered to themself. "And treacherous. Soon, the screams of battle. How I wish this day would not come."

The sting of grief welled behind their eyes, and they clutched the stallion's mane for comfort. "Must the sun rise?"

Sighing, ae realised how silly that was to think. There was no stopping the war now. Bloodshed and killing were inevitable, and ae must be their herald.

"Ride!" they urged the stallion forward, and clung to his back as he soared.

***

Just as the first of Chrysaetos's golden rays brightened the storm clouds with a metallic sheen, a tremendous roar swept over the land. The cyclops had arisen, and their fury was sonorous. Cliae was near the palisade's entrance when all heard it. The watchmen were so distracted that aw rode quickly inside, unaccosted.

Within moments, all the camp was in uproar. Trumpets blurted like geese upon sighting a bear. Legionnaires rushed from their tents, adorning armour in a symphonic clatter. Cliae trotted down the pathway, searching for their old cohort's standard, but quickly, they were swallowed by the camp's commotion. Nearby, a group of scribes flung themselves into a tent's wall to avoid being trampled by a storm of cavalry, riding towards the edge of camp. An officer strapped his red-plumed helmet outside his tent while a woman dressed in scant silks attempted to usher him back to bed. Elsewhere, a group of legionnaires raided a wagon, grabbing handfuls of oats from an open sack. They filled their pouches and stuffed their mouths, then trickled towards the parade ground at the north side of camp. Cliae suspected it was the only meal they would receive before battle.

After some time, they found the second cohort, but had entered the camp at the wrong end. Ae had to pass between rows of tents to reach the Primus' quarters. The way was crowded, and ae's stallion unruly, turning its attention this way and that at the commotion. Cliae had no reins nor stirrup to direct him, nor believed ae could oppose the horse's will if ae'd wanted to. Suddenly, the way was blocked by carts and mules carrying siege weapons, and slaves dashing between tents.

Climbing down from the horse, Cliae slipped in the mud and fell. The stallion looked back upon aem with judgemental eyes. Scampering up, ae ran between the carts, quicker on foot through the turmoil, and arrived at Custos Maritor's tent, panting and muddy. Composing themself, Cliae's mind raced with where to start explaining things. Behind aem, ranks of legionnaires thickened on the pathway. But how would they respond to the monster's calls? What might they make of it? Ae had to inform them of the truth, and of Skippii's plan before it was too late.

But all his carefully stacked confidence came clattering down when, before him, his Primus' tent was flung back and out strode Spurius Altivus, Tonnage VI's Octio.

The snide man's eyes widened, sharp eyebrows flying high as his lips curled into a snarl. Shoving aem, Spurius grabbed aem by the brooch of their grey cloak and shook aem like a ragdoll.

"You," he sneered. "Snivelling slave of the traitor, get in here."

The Octio shoved Cliae inside his wide tent. The flap fell behind him, muting the world outside, excluding any witness.

"I must see the Primus," Cliae stammered as fear shook aes heart.

The strike came without warning. A flash of white. Cliae dashed against a desk, turning aes back, holding aes stinging face.

"You do not make demands here," the Octio shouted, grabbing aes shoulder and turning aem. "Where is he?"

"Skippii?"

The Octio raised an open hand, like a club. "Where?"

"The mountains," Cliae shivered.

"Why?" The Octio's rage stumbled over puzzlement. "What have you to do with that sound?"

"I…" they stammered. "It's… I must… The cyclops."

The second strike was worse than the first. The Octio hit aem in same spot below the left eye, without remorse. His finger stabbed Cliae in the nose.

"You are in league with them."

"No!"

This time, the Octio withdrew his fist slowly, mechanically, letting Cliae watch as he savoured the coming blow. Hot fear rushed through Cliae's body. Horrible, helpless fear.

The tent's flap opened, and the Octio's fist hovered in the morning light. In poked an old wisened face with many scars and a white goat's beard. He carried a staff with Tonnage VI's insignia, and charms hanging from its frame.

"Primus," said Vexillum, the standard bearer. "The men are summoned."

"Give me a minute," Spurius said tersely. "And fetch a custodes."

Vexillum glanced tiredly from Spurius to Cliae, then his eyes widened a fraction. Words rose to Claie's lips like bubbles, popping feeble and soundlessly in the air.

"I… Skippii… The attack will-"

Ae winced as Spurius jostled aem and raised his fist to strike, but the reprisal did not come.

"Go," Spurius said laboriously. "Perform your duties, Vexillum."

With a final lingering glance, the ancient veteran left, letting the tent's flap fall behind him.

"Please, you have to listen to me," Cliae babbled, pressed over the table, shrinking from his superior. "I know what's happening. I know what made that sound."

"So you've said."

"The attack will come today. The walls will fall. Today is the day." Each sentence was a breath of panic that sent the blood dizzyingly to aes head. "Where is Custos Maritor? I must speak with him."

"What would you want with a lowly legionnaire?"

"The Primus-"

"I am the Primus now," Spurius said through gritted teeth. "What, you thought they would let him keep his position after what happened? After Skippii fled his post, and you with him. And all that disarray in the ranks, and the whole tonnage coming to oppose the Coven."

He laughed cynically. "Insanity. What legion breeds such insanity and disorder? Never before have I known a man to so frightfully fail his position as the Primus Maritor."

Spurius sighed woefully, releasing Cliae from his grasp and striding to a corner of his tent. Swallowing, Cliae straightened, but still clung to the table's edge, leaning away from his cruelty.

"Be brief," Spurius said, selecting a cane from a basket of sticks. "Where is he?"

"The foothills of the Sleeping Mountain," Cliae croaked. All the breath seemed to leave aes lungs. Fear muddied aes nerves, making it hard to breathe.

"And why has he sent you?"

"To warn the legions so that we're ready for the attack."

"What attack," Spurius said slowly.

"Upon the walls. Cyclops shall strike. They will break the stone and distract the defenders. Then, Skippii and Tenoris will climb the walls and…"

Spurius' harsh laughter quietened them. "Oh, slave. Oh, how foolish you must think we are. That the word of a deserter would sway the legion's way. What naivete, this trick of yours. It's so plain to see. Are you not a Clidusian? I thought that even slaves from Clidus were not wittless."

"I'm telling the truth."

"Oh, I am sure an attack will come," Spurius said, pacing before aem, swishing his cane. "And you would advise us to position ourselves outside of our defences, arrayed upon the field before the walls. The cyclops–which you are in league with… They will strike the walls, you say."

He chuckled. "Of course. Clearly, you have witnessed a different oracle than I, for today is a day when our enemies become our friends. You, the deserter, now a trusted advisor. And the monsters who prowl the forests, and slay our legionnaires, now our faithful allies."

Cliae flinched as Spurius swung his cane and cracked the table beside him. "What joyous, fortuitous news. I shall inform the Imperator right away. And then thousands of legionnaires shall march right into your trap."

Cliae's breath shook as ae forced the words to form on aes lips. "It's not a trap. You'll see."

The cane lashed aes temple. Claie bent beneath it, raising their arms against a flurry of blows. Now, aes words came freely like waterfall, begging for aes superior to stop. The cane lashed aes arms, cutting aes brow, beating the bones of aes slim wrists and fingers. Cliae cried out in pain, but Spurius was silent, a burning expression in his eyes.

The cane came again, and again. Cliae grovelled beneath the table, crawling to get away, but Spurius grabbed aes ankle and dragged aem out of the tent into the mud of the path. There, he pressed the stick into Cliae's chest, pinning em the dirt, and stepped on his ankle painfully.

"I shall see to your execution myself, once the custodes is done with you."

"Please," Cliae whimpered, dirt on his lips. The rain mocked him from dark clouds above. "I… just… trying to help."

"Hey!" came a yell from down the path. Spurius' head shot around to the call, shock on his face.

Wiping the mud from aes face, Cliae sighted a group of legionnaires wading against the current of stragglers making their way to the parade ground. At their head was Orsin, flanked by Arius and Cur. Behind them were the recruits, Drusilla and Kaesii. Only Fulmin was absent, and strangely, within their ranks, attired as a regular legionnaire was Custos Maritor, Tonnage VI's rightful Primus.

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