Storm clouds gathered in the skies above the highlands. Thunder brooded in their grey depths. The atmosphere seemed tinged with a razor's edge–an electricity which prickled his skin. Skippii watched as the clouds above his head were torn and dragged far northward, to where the Coven of Kylin accompanied three other cohorts of the legion through the rocky highlands. Even though they were far on a different path, and much terrain separated them, he felt their hatred in their air, probing with whatever magia they possessed for heretics in the hills.

"What majesty," Tenoris said, sitting beside him. "I am glad that they are our champions–the Coven of Kylin. All heresy must cower at such a sight."

"Kylin is a strong Goddess," Orsin agreed. He spat onto his brass bracelet–a medal of valour–and polished it with his cloak in the light of the campfire. "Best coven I've campaigned with, that's for sure. But, it's necessary in these times."

"What times are those?" Tenoris asked.

Orsin's eyes fell on Skippii. "When legionnaires must face heresy."

"You have not encountered such before?" Tenoris said.

"Not in twenty years of service." Orsin shivered and leaned closer to the fire. "The enemy's strength amasses around Nerithon. Their best warriors gather here. They won't give the city up without a fight."

"And the heretic who lurks within," Arius said. "He who defeated the Fifth Legion's warmagi."

"More powerful than the fiend we faced?" Tenoris said.

"Many times." Arius' lip curled, then his face resumed its usual stoney expression. "He defeated twelve of our high priests alone."

"I heard the rumours," Skippii said, gazing into the flames. "I didn't believe them. He must have had aid."

"No. Not rumours," Arius said certainly. His gaze drifted to the stormclouds in distant skies. "Let us hope our champions of Kylin do not share their fate."

"Cow's tits!" Drusilla blurted, and shook a handful of dice into a pot.

He, Kaesii and Fulmin all leaned over to inspect the results. The clink of coin exchanged hands over the crackling campfire. Thunder rumbled above, but no rains came. The air was dense and warm for such a late hour.

"I should have brought a tablet for idle scratchings," Tenoris said, sipping his wine beside him. "Long hours are these that we wander without resistance. The mind grows slack, like a coil of rope unbound for purpose."

"You can read?" Skippii said.

"Of course I can read. Every boy in Vestia that isn't a beggar learns his words."

"Or a blacksmith," Fulmin said, his eyes not straying from their dice game.

"My apologies," Tenoris said.

"I learned my numbers instead." Fulmin sighed as the dice clattered against his favour, and Kaesii whooped in triumph. "Doesn't mean I can change them."

Rocking on his shield, Kaesii grinned and looked around their group. "It pleases me to know that so many of us are proud Vestians. Too much Summitus blood would only dull a good fighting group."

"Pompous prick," Drusilla said, tossing the dice again.

"I'm curious, what do you think of Brentions?" Orsin asked, raising his voice across the campfire.

Kaesii thought hard for a moment, pruning his words like ripe fruits from a tree. "They make for good men, I think. Certainly, when it comes to the throwing of javelins, and also seamanship. Perhaps a right ratio would be one Brention to four Vestians, and twice that to one Summitus man."

"Illuminating," Orsin said, and returned to his hushed conversation with Arius.

Tired of their squabbling, Skippii turned away and nudged Tenoris companionably. "I thought… How does a farmer afford tutelage in the city? Was it that nearby?" He smiled. "Was your harvest that successful?"

"We made frequent trips," Tenoris said, eyes wandering towards the stars. "My father bought home codexes from time to time. He encouraged me to read, and often left me to wander the streets. He wanted me to stray from home, unlike my brothers, who, for all their scars received in war, remained farmers."

"He didn't want you to be a legionnaire then?"

"No." Tenoris shook his head. "Anything but."

Skippii snorted. "My mother was the same. She tried to keep me from it, but…" he shook his head fondly, glancing at the multitude of tents and campfires surrounding them. "Who can deny the call to glory?"

"And retribution," Tenoris said. "Three of my brothers died at the Battle of Aryte Delta, two more were crippled."

"That was the Ninth legion, right? The Ninth, the Second, and the…"

"Seventh," Tenoris said. "The estuaries ran red, or so my brothers recalled. But they won the day and reclaimed Artyenos. The first Philoxenian city to be reclaimed."

"First of many," Skippii whispered. "Nerithon will be next."

Tenoris shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "Not without a grave cost. My mother cursed the name of the legion, while my father and sisters toiled to provide. Dear Merenia married so young, just so that her spouse and his brothers would come work the farm. My parents envisioned a scholarly life for me, one which could provide a future for the family once my fallen brother's mortis stipendium ran dry. But not for a lack of coin or grain did our household come to poverty… Indeed, such hardships brought us closer together. No. The poverty which oftentimes infested our home was fear, and it was regret."

Tenoris' huge shoulders rose like hilltops as he sighed and bent over the fire, dangling his mug of wine.

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Skippii paused as his words sunk in, not willing to spoil his confession with haste. "That must have taken some bravery," he said, then remembered Tenoris' fondness for the pantheon. "The Gods smile on such bravery, you know."

Tenoris glanced at him, then into the crackling flames.

"I'm lucky to have you in my companeight," Skippii continued earnestly. "You'll even-out my bad luck. I don't think the Gods particularly like me."

Tenoris fixed him with steady blue eyes. "Now why would that be?"

Skippii's secret sat firmly on his tongue. He wanted to confess to Tenoris his latent magia, but now was not the time. Still, his silence felt like a lie.

"For one, you are astral," Skippii said, forcing a smile.

"Perhaps the Gods could not choose between themselves which of them would anoint you," Tenoris said, rousing himself. "Skippii, the baggage-train warrior. Bastion of the rear guard. Slayer of heretics." Though he jested, there was affection in Tenoris' words.

"Hey, heretic slayer," Kaesii said. "Bet your luck on a game of dice?"

"No thanks," Skippii said.

"What are you scared of?" Drusilla said. "We're only wagering fractions."

"We earned, what, an ounce for the march?" Kaesii encouraged. "You can't wager two?"

"No thanks," Skippii repeated, grinning warily.

Leaning back on his shield, Fulmin grinned. "He's not as stupid as you two."

"Pardon you?" Kaesii said, turning his bulk on the blacksmith's son. Though shorter, Fulmin possessed the tight muscular physique of one who had spent their life in hard labour.

"I said," Fulmin uttered, leaning closer. "Bet your own damn coin if you have any left to do so."

Snatching the dice, Kaesii threw them into the pot, then placed his hands over the lid so that no one could see the result. "Three ounces of copper on the result, who will take me."

"Not interested," Fulmin said, patting his already bloated coin pouch.

"Do you even have the money?" Drusilla asked.

"I'm good for it," Kaesii said. "On my word."

Drusilla licked his lips, black curly hair falling over his eyes as he stilled, deep in consideration. His thin black moustache twitched as slowly, his lips curled into a grimace. "I cannot."

"Cowards," Kaesii said, then turned on Skippii and Tenoris. "You two? Three ounces on the dice?"

"If I lose, I will have walked three days for nothing," Tenoris said.

"Yeah, but if you win…"

"If I win, then you will have marched for naught," Tenoris said. "What is there to gain?"

"I'd rather keep it," Skippii said.

"Go on then." Orsin's voice rose above them. "Three ounces. Clidensis, fetch some scales."

"Yes, legio," Cliae answered, rising from the fireside and drifting away into the surrounding tents.

Kaesii suddenly gave pause, his hands perched atop the container, concealing the dice's numbers.

"Don't go shaking it again," Orsin said, "Or the bet will be forfeited."

"Okay then," Kaesii said, as though rallying his spirits for a fight. The usual Vestian sophistication of his voice had receded in way of brashness. "Alright. Let's go. Come on… three ones!"

Lifting his hands, he froze in freight.

Drusilla snorted. "Seventeen."

"The missing moon," Kaesii shouted.

"Missing moon?" Orsin contended. "What mud is that?"

"The missing moon," Kaesii repeated, adrenaline sharpening in his voice. "You played before?"

"He re-rolls two dice," Drusilla explained. "Doubles the score of one and minuses the other."

Orsin raised an eyebrow. "Never played like that before."

"Velvet rules," Arius murmured from the shadows of his cloak, observing their game like a night owl.

"But you can say dullard's luck, if he does" Drusilla explained. "And double the odds."

"Just roll the dice," Orsin sighed.

"Come on… Give me Hespera's tits. Two ones!" Kaesii slung his dice into the pot. As soon as they rattled to a halt, Drusilla let out a howl.

"That's the worst dice I've ever seen," he mocked. "Hespera must hate you."

"You'll never see tits again," Fulmin grinned.

"Probably can't afford to now," Orsin said smugly, extending his hand.

Kaesii's face was white with shock. He stared at the dice in dismay, then up at Orsin with a silent plea.

Cliae had since returned with the scales and perched them atop a shield beside the campfire.

"Weigh it out," Orsin said, mercilessly pointing at the scales. "Tomorrow, you march for free."

***

The weather finally broke overnight, and by morning, they ate their breakfast by sodden ashes in the rain. After forming up on a rough parade–broken by the limitations of the valley–the consortium set out, their cohort taking up the rear. Before long, they were wading through the muddy turmoil of legionnaires, carts, mules and oxen. Each step was a slog, each downward climb, a trepidation. Twice, the top-heavy Drusilla slipped in the mud, catching himself by the haft of his spear, or with the sturdy assistance of Fulmin.

"Watch your step," Orsin advised.

"As though his very words could dry the earth," Tenoris muttered.

Rainfall followed them beneath a dense canopy, dripping upon their bronze helmets. Once within the thick forest, with roots to soak up the soil, the ground was drier and more stable. Ahead, their tonnage's standard grazed the low evergreen branches. The large flag was stretched taut over its frame, displaying Cohort II's insignia: a lightning bolt flanked by tidal waves, green weave on a white canvas with a red velvet trim. But it was no mere decoration. Within the thick of battle, when the trumpet was blown, legionnaires could reform their phalanx around the standard.

Hanging from the standard's frame were various charms and trinkets. Each bore a story of victory and valour performed by Legion IX as a whole, or a one particular legionnaire from Cohort II. Skippii's heart fluttered joyously to behold the sight. As one of the brass trinkets brushed a branch, it peeled like small bells. He wondered what feat of heroism he might have to perform in order to get his name and deeds inscribed on such a trinket?

Voices of alarm cut through the trees. The march slowed to a stop. The voices glanced around the forest, disorientated and raw with fear. Skippii gripped his spear as he searched the hill's incline to his left, and down the verge to his right. The path here was narrower than most, and presently, they were marching three-abrest.

More voices joined the cries, loud and panicked. A horn blew and his companeight shifted at once, forming shieldwall towards the hill's incline. With one pull of a string, they each untied their travel packs from their spears and tossed them to the rear of the file. Breathing heavily, Skippii glared over the reinforced rim of his shield into the dim, overcast forest. A multitude of dark shapes moved above them–too obscured to make out.

"The archers?" Tenoris said beside him.

"Yes," Kaesii said behind them. "I recognize the words."

"Your ears are keen," Cur said beside him. "But your eyes are dim. Look again, and listen. Few amongst them are our allies."

On either side of him, legionnaires shifted as each companeight pressed against one another to form a thin phalanx. Skippii and Tenoris stood beside one another, with the brawny Drusilla and Kaesii on their flanks. However thin their formation, each man made for a formidable force. Far right, at a bend in the path, their tonnage's Primus rose atop the rearmost siege cart and scoured the hill. Beside him, the tonnage's trumpeter raised his horn to his lips and blew. Once long, and three times sharply: the call to battle.

In response, the hill erupted with an avalanche of cries and barbaric horns, baying as they fell upon them. The sound rumbled in Skippii's gut. Without meaning to, he took in a breath of heat–siphoning magia from the ground. Wincing, he expelled the energy. This was not the time for chaotic magia. He must rely on his legionnaire's training, and trust in his companions' might, to see the day out.

"What horns are those?" Tenoris shouted over the din, raising his spear as they formed a phalanx.

"The horde," Kaesii said, fear trickling into his voice.

"Not all," Orsin echoed, then his voice pitched in both fear and fury as he pointed. "Beasts! They have beasts. Mountain pigs."

During eight months of training, they had learned much of the basics of warfare, but little of exotic beasts. Skippii caught sight of one of the war pigs charging downhill through the trees. Its murderous eyes glinted with rage, huge tusks reinforced with barbed spikes. This was no farm animal bred for the eating, it was horrid, like a wolf or a bear, wild and viscous.

"Their tusks are deadly," Orsin's voice shook. "Steady yourselves. Brace for impact. Stab their eyes."

Skippii only had time to turn his spear towards the pig before he received its charge.

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