"Get them inside," Orsin ordered, carrying Skip to the stairs. About him were the legionnaires of Tonnage VI. Young men, brave, but unconditioned for battle. Their assault on the gatehouse had been bloody and brief, but it wasn't over yet. Reinforcements wouldn't come until the gates were opened. The worst of the fighting was yet to come.

"Go," Arius said sharply, shoving the youngsters towards the steps. Kaesii and Drusilla were quick to respond, throwing themselves down the stairs, eager to be the first into the fray. Beside Orsin, Fulmin helped Tenor to his feet, and between them, they carried their brethren out of the downpour and into the tower's confines.

From atop the steps, he could see through the breach in the wall. The stone had been struck by a catapult or enormous thunderbolt, revealing the adjacent wall and walkway. Not far, the best of the legion's siege towers fixed its jaws against the parapet. Legionnaires crossed the drawbridge, making slow gains on the battlements. There, only moments ago, the Gods had waged their contest. He had not seen it in full–he had been climbing a ladder with the rest of the tonnage, and the tower's walls had obscured his view. But he had felt the tug of dark energy, and witnessed the calamitous response from the skies.

"Maricorus, spare us," he muttered a prayer. "Don't take me yet. Just a little more time."

Placing Skip beside the mighty Tenor, he inspected the men who had made it to the tower. The Imperator had sent Cohort II ahead of the legion to storm the gatehouse with ladders. Ballistas and bolts had struck them–boulders thrown Philoxenians themselves had smashed against their shields, risen above their heads. The climb had been slow and treacherous. Tonnage VI had volunteered for it; now a little more than half of them remained in the fight.

Among them was his companeight, reunited.

"Fill the door!" Cur shouted, pushing legionnaires ahead of him. Shields interlocked and spears barbed the tower's entrance from the north. The enemy were now pressed between their force in the gatehouse and the legion's siege tower upon the walls. Orsin grinned, but there was no mirth in it; he knew that it was a very unpleasant thing to be surrounded on top of a wall.

As a squall of rain showered them through the wall's breach, Orsin inspected the men with him. In all, twenty of them gathered in the chamber. Many were velvet–the replacements who had joined up in recent weeks–strong in their youth but untempered. All that would change after today. Four of them sat against the brick wall, laid low by injuries. Among them was Drasius–a veteran like him–blood staining his white-leather thorax at the armpit. Drasius caught his look of concern and nodded astutely. Orsin nodded and looked away–the man would be alright, that was all he needed to know.

Thunder crackled over the city and the wind howled like a banshee. Kylin herself overclouded the heavens and screamed murder upon the land. The youngests took to the corners of the room, eyes wide and weary, glancing towards the sky. It was little comfort for them to know that the storm was on their side.

"Is he okay?" Fulmin said. The strong legionnaire knelt beside Tenor, hand resting limply on his shoulder. Tenoris himself seemed in a daze. His strength was utterly spent, and he stared dimly about the room like a child at adult proceedings.

"Exhaustion," Orsin said. "He'll snap out of it. Best he rests for a while."

"Are you sure? He's been cut a few times. It's not bloodloss?"

"Yeah," Orsin said, already looking away. It seemed that the stairway leading down had been destroyed. Possibly, it had been done by Skip's magia. They could not access the gate's ground crank from here, nor fulfil his request. First, they would have to take the opposite tower then cross back before the gates to get below. But so few of their tonnage remained against so many.

"This way," Orsin said, pressing into his knees to rise on old, worn joints. "We have to take the other tower. Open the gates and get Skip to the ground."

"You want to go down?" Cur said. "We just got up here."

"That was his last request."

"It is his magia," Arius said. "Do as he says."

Cur scoffed, unpleased to be taking directions from a minor, even if that minor possessed a God-like strength of magia.

"For the firebreather," one legionnaire hailed. Orsin recognised the youngster from their tonnage, but did not know his name; he only remembered the names of veterans beyond his companeight.

"For Skippii the Fireball," Drusilla announced.

"That's Skippii the Scorcher," Kaesii amended, shouldering past him towards the tower's exit, where it led upon the gatehouse parapet.

"Tight formation," Orsin yelled, grabbing the big youngster by his cloak and pulling him in line. "Shields to the city. They'll send arrows up from the rooftops. Be wary of your left, and above. Go now. Go!"

Their unit–twelve strong–filed out of the narrow doorway onto the wide walkway. Ahead, their fellows pressed against the opposite tower. Stones fell from the battlement above, bouncing off their raised shields, ringing against their helmets. Bowmen sought the gaps in their armour, leaning down over the parapet. But those who bent too far received a volley of legion arrows.

Glancing right, beyond Nerithon's walls, Orsin saw the Clidus archers poised behind their portable barricades, firing volleys at any enemy who exposed themselves. Kylin's winds did not oppose them, rather, she helped sail their arrows true. Combined, their accuracy was baffling; they could pick a man out from fifty metres and put an arrow through his neck.

Beyond the archers, their siege weapons had finally been deployed and were firing upon the enemy's towers. Their powerful bolts ripped through stone, shattering the defenders weaponry and resolve. Orsin peered below the gatehouse to where, arrayed in a tight defencive formation, were the remainder of Cohort II who had not taken to the ladders.

Oxen drew a long cart down Cohort II's centre. Atop it was braced a ram, suspended by chains. Brenti javelineers–adorned in the blue and white sashes of their city–shielded the legionnaires who attended the ram. Now that Tonnage VI had taken the walkway, they didn't have to worry about boiling tar or boulders falling from above, but still, the enemy harried them from the remaining tower. Balistas were aimed downwards, shattering legion shields and slaying an oxen. Until he and Tonnage VI could secure the gate's towers and raise the portcullis reinforcing the wide gate, their ram would have little success.

Behind the advanced Cohort II, many legionnaires remained in reserve–Cohort's IV to VI–awaiting an opening in the enemy's defence and their superior's command to charge. In their midst was an oval formation of brown and white cloaked acolytes, and at their centre, twelve midnight-blue dots: The Coven of Kylin. The source of the storm. And further afield still, Legion V–or what remained of them–watched the battle unfold. The final reserve.

The siege was in full swing, and somehow, through ghastly luck, he had found himself in the thick of it.

A volley of arrows peppered them from the city below. Two clanged against his shield, deflected by the curve of the wood. His companeight joined the rear of some forty legionnaires who were pressed against the opposing tower's door. Orsin positioned himself at the rear–he had a keener eye than the minors, and could offer command or assistance from reserve. Also, he had to admit, he did not possess their gusto. His elbow was playing up again–if he moved his shield too far from his chest, it twisted his arm painfully. One of many old wounds he would just have to ignore until the day was over.

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Beside him, at the rear of the processions, was Tonnage VI's standard bearer, Vexillum. The old man ranted to himself and anyone who would listen. "Oh Kylin, stay no wrath from the enemy. Hold no peace with their evilness. Spare no mercy, for the blades of our spears shan't. Kill and cast blood into the wind, the cleansing rains wash over Nerithon, purging its streets. So too shall we rage. Open the gates and the tides come in."

"Vexillum," Orsin greeted with a nudge.

The ancient veteran glanced at him, expression enraptured and for a moment, very distant. Then a grin crossed his lips, like a snarl. "Orsin, you old puppy. What are you doing at the rear."

"Taking stock," he said. A man upon the battlements above screamed and toppled over the edge into legion spears. To their left, enemy arrows sprung from the city and thudded against the stone, or else flew high above their heads, spinning harmlessly, cast astray by the Coven's winds.

"Glad to know someone is," Vexillum said, then a cloud passed over his expression and fell back into his ranting.

Something in the fray caught Orsin's eye, suspended above the battlement. It had seemed like a crow of some sort–sailing on the raging winds. But as he stared, it grew in size. A black orb, like a glob of tar, unaffected by Kylin's might. Flickering silver scythes sliced the air at its edges, carving a path between realms, cutting a hole in the air as easy as tearing through a tent's leather. Fear trickled into him–instinct ever before he knew what would come next.

"Watch above," he screamed over the winds, pointing. "Raise your shields."

"To the sky!" Vexillum cawed like an old crow, stabbing his standard towards the black orb. Somehow, his voice cut clean through the storm, and many legionnaires turned their heads. Among them was Fulmin, whose face was blanched with barely contained fear. As he turned to follow Vexillum's direction, he froze, lowering his shield, aghast.

"Raise your shield," Orsin yelled, moving to his ally's aid. "To the sky, legionnaires. Evil comes!"

***

Some things, Fulmin thought were impossible. You could not combine bronze with iron. You could not stop two cocks from fighting in a pen. And you could not challenge the Pantheon or insult their design; neither you shouldn't try, his oracle had lectured him. The Pantheon were supreme, and those who performed the will of the Gods were the finest in Auctoria.

But in the air above the gatehouse, something impossible took shape. It consumed the storm, expanding like a dense smokecloud, swirling at its centre. The legionnaires around him staggered and stared. Shrinking behind his shield, Fulmin glared at the vortex. Their reflections swirled faintly upon its surface, like a midnight lake, torn by the current, malformed and grotesque. And lurking deep within its waters uncurled something sinister. Its eyes fell upon him. Eighteen gems of black.

Fear clawed up his spine. His stomach tied knots. The sensation crawled up to his nape and bore into his brain, infecting him with cowardice. Clenching his teeth, Fulmin moaned, tempted to shut his eyes as he raised his spear at the enemy.

"Erymenes' hammer!"

Throwing the weapon, it flew into the sky and plunged into the vortex's depths. Not a shudder was caused, and the spear disappeared from the world.

"What are you doing?" Cur berated him. "Keep your eyes down, shield up."

"What is that thing?" he shouted as the wind roared around them. Suddenly, the air was less clean–less wind-swept. Mud and rain poured over them, tipping upwards and sailing into the vortex. He squinted, lost for a moment in the confusion. Legionnaires bustled about him and cries of confusion filled the air.

He could swear he felt lighter, and the helmet on his head lifted free. Clasping it down, he witnessed the cloaks of those about him rising above their shoulders. The world slipped out beneath him as though he was sliding on ice, and he felt lighter than ever before.

Something descended from the blackness–worms wriggling in the light. Their tendrils slithered atop them, poking and prying. One curled under Fulmin's chin and he wrenched away, a stinging cold to its touch.

"Get me!" Cur's voice was panicked. "It's dragging me."

Reaching out through the fray, Fulmin snatched the collar of the old veteran's thorax and pulled him down. The black worms had snaked into the grooves of his padded armour like leeches. The colour bled from Cur's face, and all the light of the world dimmed.

"No, no," Cur blurted, batting at the black snakes. "Fuck that. I'm not going in that thing."

"Hold tight!" Custos Maritor's voice swam in the chaos, shouting over and over. Fulmin locked arms with the legionnaires around him and they all huddled close to the cobblestone walkway. Cold fingers slithered over his body. He couldn't tell what was real, what was the storm and what was the evil magia; it all mingled into one nightmare.

"It nearly took me," Cur fretted, close to his ear. "It wants me."

"Why would it want you?" Fulmin said, a creak of fear betraying the levity of his words.

"It wants to eat me."

"Let it have a taste," Orsin shouted. "It will spit you out."

"Let it drag you with a knife in your hand," Arius said boldly, though he huddled and clung on as much as anyone else. "Then stab at its throat."

"Excellent plan," Orsin said. "Ready to throw him?"

"Fuck that," Cur screamed. "Throw yourself."

Thunderstrikes cut through the malaise. Wind swept over them, in spurts at first, then growing to a gale. The air was wiped clean and the force above them weakened. Fulmin checked overhead to see the black vortex receding, then glanced out over the city. A storm was striking the hilltop temple. A volley of thunder–like golden ballista bolts–smashed the tiled roof and marble steps.

"Now!" Custos Maritor roared. "Upon the door, now."

The urgency in his command spurred Fulmin like a stallion. He scrambled to the door of the second gate tower and tossed his shield aside, taking up the axe. As useless as he had been in his father's forge, he had been set to the labour of chopping wood for his older brothers to smelt. It had made his hands rough like bark, his shoulders compact and back muscles tight like the knots of a trunk.

Raising the axe, he lodged it expertly into the seam of two planks which made up the door's body. Wrenching it with a twist, he parted the planks a fraction. Again he swung, raising the heavy axe high, allowing its weight to do the work. Within a five chops, he had made more of a dint than the legionnaire who had toiled before him.

"That's it," Custos Maritor said. His Primus stood beside him, shield held aloft over Fulmin's head. "Do not let the enemy hide from us. They fear us. No door can stop us. No walls shall shelter them from the Ninth Legion."

"Tonnage Six!" Vexillum cried behind them, and the call was taken up by more legionnaires. Their voices filled Fulmin with excitement. He raised the axe harder, faster, felling the wood. He would do them proud. He, the failure for a blacksmith's son. All about, his fellows chanted, "Six," with each strike.

"Come on, strong man," Maritor goaded. "Quintus Fulminis. Strongest of five brothers. Show yourself to me. Reveal your strength. Break it down! Break them. Yes, that's it, Fulminis. Your father should be proud to see you. A legionnaire. A mighty legionnaire with the heart of a furnace. Destroy their rabbit's hole. For the legion. For the Pantheon!"

"For Skippii Altay." Orsin shouted over the fray.

The wood split with a crack and a chunk gave way. Fulmin was pushed aside as two veteran legionnaires raced to plunge their spears through the gap. Reaching through, one of them undid the latch and wrenched the door open. A wall of shields was raised to the tower's entrance a moment before a hail of arrows sprung into the doorway. They pelted off the legionnaire's shields and grieves, then a tide of bodies swept up around him, dragging him into the entrance.

But he had abandoned his own shield, and let go of the axe in the fray. A hand grasped him by the collar of his thorax and pulled him aside. Cur pushed him against the tower's outer wall and pressed his body against his so that he wouldn't get swept away. Despite the winds, Fulmin could smell the old man's rotten teeth.

He winked, revealing the black kernel beneath his grin. "Careful velvet, don't trip on your cloak."

Before Fulmin could respond, Cur ran back towards the previous tower, where inside, Skippii and Tenoris rested. He bent and retrieved his shield from the cobblestone, and the axe. It wasn't a legionnaire's weapon, but it would have to do.

As he ducked through the doorway with his surging brethren, suddenly, the world outside grew quiet. The walls buttressed the storm, dark like a cave, and it stank like an animal's den. Fear had was taking its toll on the enemy. Shield raised, he fanned out as their assault spread, pushing back the defenders. Their cries of pain and panic echoed as a din. Weapons clashed. Spears bit flesh. Desperate assaults fell upon legion shields, and were repelled.

Before Fulmin had a chance to face the enemy, they had been swept from the tower's chamber. Custos Maritor strode into the centre of the room, blood splattered over his face and soaking his superior's short-sword.

"Monticulos, take your companeight up the tower," he ordered, pointing with his sword at the stairs. "Pratensis, on this door. Anyone injured, assist their efforts. The rest, you lucky few, with me."

Bounding like a man half his age, their Primus charged into the stairwell leading downwards towards the gates themselves, first into the fray.

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