For a short time, Custos Maritor was once again proud to be Tonnage VI's Primus. However, such a privilege would only last as long as the battle. Therefore, he intended to make such an end as to be remembered for it.

Charging down the steps, eyes wide in the dark, he came upon the enemy at the turn. Kicking them, he sent the Ürkün backwards into his brethren and charged in after. Sword held close to his head, he stabbed down over his shield–a butcher's sword, a thing of death. The enemy fell before him, tumbling over the steps. He did not trip as he clambered over their fallen, shield forever at his front, sword poised to strike. He did not grasp for a handhold. Half-falling through the narrow stairwell, he collided with the wall at the bottom and faced the doorway.

In an arc before the doorway were his enemy. Men, young and old. Some northerners, others, tanned Philoxenians. All of them, dead already.

Stepping forward, eyes fixed on their centre, he took it all in: the few Philoxenians in the gatehouse gripped spears and hand-axes limply; as big as some were, they were no warriors–there was no fury on their faces–no willingness to draw blood. They would run when a chance presented itself.

Among the defenders, the Ürkün were strongest and most numberable; they held their weapons with competence–balanced and reserved–but not with expertise; they did not stand united as a phalanx, but stalked him like wolves. Ferocious warriors–but all manner of beasts succumbed to the hunter.

Snarling, Maritor darted forward, sword raised high.

"Auctorita!" He bounded nimbly, awaiting their reaction. One young Ürkün–overkeen and overconfident–stepped forward and swung at his legs. Whipping his right foot backwards, he avoided the blow, following the enemy's sword with his own, sending it soaring out wide, exposing the boy's guard. With a leap, he plunged his gladius between their ribs, and wrenched it free, pushing him back with his shield.

Blood stained the air–flickered across his cheek. The boy died painfully. The enemy raged around him. Maritor beat a retreat back towards the doorway, his back to the wall, battering the enemy's blows with his shield. One man–a Philoxenian–rushed forward to grab his sword-arm by the wrist. Twisting free, Maritor cut him across the throat while his eyes were trained on another enemy–an axe bit the hem of his shield, and a club struck the thorax of his shoulder. Ducking, he swung his gladius wardingly. Then his back hit the wall. The enemy pressed upon him. His death had arrived.

A roar rang in his helmet as a lone legionnaire emerged from the stairwell. His spear and shield dashed over the enemy like a dragonfly in spring. Drusilla Agrippa, and after him, Kaesii Taurus. The two legionnaires fought with fury and reckless disregard. But Maritor had seen their likes before; young and vigorous–legionnaires who raged like boars, soon to be put down by patient blades.

"Formation," he commanded, rushing to their side. But all too quickly, the two had cut an avenue through the defenders, and were not so easy to relieve. Ürkün shields pressed him backwards as blades flashed in the dim light of sconces. Then, red cloaks were about him. More legionnaires came to his aid: Septimus Fulminis, with axe in hand, and the veteran Arius Fortivallus, his spear flashing like a snake's jaws. Behind him, Orsinus Brentius raised his shield, defending Maritor's flank.

"Onwards," Maritor commanded. "To your fellow's aid!"

Combined, they raised shields and fought a path towards the overeager legionnaires. But a horrible scream tore his attention from the enemy. An icy chill swept over the chamber, giving pause to all.

Maritor hardened his heart to the two legionnaires' defeat, but as swiftly as that cold slate had been laid, it was lifted. About Kaesii and Drusilla were a ring of bodies, over which the enemy feared to pass. Eleven of the enemy, felled without a response, a twelfth snared by Kaesii's spear, protruding through his gut. The man fell to his knees, blood drenched hands clutching the shaft.

The light of Chrysaetos shone from within them–an illumination in the hearts of all who saw, lifting his dread, shining hope within their allies and burning terror into their foes. The Philoxenian defenders threw their weapons down and fled. The Ürkün hesitated. Kaesii abandoned his spear, taking up an Ürkün sword, swinging it wildly above his head with a cry.

"Face me and perish! Chrysaetos!"

"Chrysaetos." Drusilla took up his call, and the two of them alone sent the enemy fleeing from the gatehouse. Maritor had meant for this assault to be his glorious end, but it seemed the fates had another idea, for it was no end at all. It was the beginning of something which he had never seen before, but frequently heard in tales. A battle of heroes.

"Man the doors," he ordered, as more legionnaires poured through the stairwell into the ground chamber. "Lock them. Do not let the enemy in. Criatus, here."

The strong veteran approached, breathing heavily from the fight.

"Watch the chains," he pointed with his gladius at the gate's mechanism: a large crank affixed to chains which dangled in metal rings, leading to the roof, through which it was attached to the portcullis. "When you see them tighten, turn the crank."

"Superior," Criatus nodded.

"Companeight Four on me," he said, summoning the legion's finest. "Criatus, hand the blacksmith's son your spear."

As he did so, Orsinus stepped forward. "Cur is fetching Skip and Tenor to bring them down here."

"Okay," Maritor said shortly. "You who can fight, on me. We make to the opposite tower now. We must open the gates from there. Criatus will turn the wheel here. They must be turned together. Only we can do it. Do you accept?"

They roared with vigor, raising their spears on high.

"Follow me, into the jaws."

Maritor ran for the door and into the murky light of day. There to greet him were dozens of the enemy, arrayed with spears and crude blades, and bows atop carts, and from rooftops. It was less than he had feared–better than he could have hoped for. The attack elsewhere on the city had drawn the defenders away. This was their best shot at victory.

"To the gates!" he yelled. Legionnaire's shields locked about him and their small phalanx formed.

"Into the fray. Diamortis, lick our blades. Rabies, take us. Death. We are death."

***

The air pulsated with magia. The very winds were alive, and within them sailed the spirit of the Stormstress herself.

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Kylinissa Clarivoxa raised her arms, cloak billowing in the wind. Around her, a host of arcanus and acolytes chanted a feverous prayer. Some one-hundred servants of the Pantheon amassed, with those who were devoted solely to Kylin at their core: twelve supreme zealots–The Coven of Kylin. Voices raised, entwined with the winds, they wrought calamity upon Nerithon.

"Ventī caelestēs, auscultāte nōs. Percutite hostem exsecrātum!"

Kylinissa inhaled irreverently, absorbing the spirit of Kylin into herself. Shutting her eyes, she savoured the sensation sweeping through her veins. The winds of breath and life themselves soaked her being. Never before had she felt so close to the Stormstress, for whom her mother named her. The howling storm sent away all sounds and smells of battle, dwarfing them by many magnitudes.

Kylinissa exhaled. Her breath combined with the wind, and minutely, it moved to her will. As one, the procession's prayers carried high on the winds to the heavenly gates. Their devotion roused Kylin from her duties–pinning the Goddess' focus to the battlefield before them. Kylinissa breathed a hypnotic adulation. Her mind receded, swallowed by the sky. She had become a part of something much bigger than herself, and revelled in its ecstasy.

"Sume mē, Kylin. Use me, o' Stormstress. I am yours."

Kylinissa's words swept in the winds. Torrential rains pelted the city's walls, painting the grey rock a glossy sheen. The defenders, who clumped atop their towers, were drenched and dismayed, but still they sent rocks and arrows down upon the attacking legionnaires. But Kylin's winds cast their barbs astray and hastened the Clidusians' arrows to find their mark.

The Coven wielded many brush-strokes upon the tapestry, directing their magia in cyclones and squalls. Kylinissa merely leant her devotion to the prayer. In earnest, she opened her heart and beseeched the Stormstress for her magia–her wrath–to be bent upon her accursed foe. It was all she could do, in the face of so much war, to surrender herself–her awe, and fears, and pride, and expose her neck to the sky and wail.

"Receive my soul, Kylin. I shall serve you in the afterlife. Serva aeterna. Aeterna grace. Flow through me. Murder the heretic!"

Before them, Cohort II were arrayed, shields raised high, ready to storm the city once the gates were opened. She was grateful that so many legionnaires stood between her and the battle within the city; it had never been her job to draw arms against the enemy, nor did she suppose she'd stand a chance against even their weakest warriors. She possessed no ordinatio, unlike the mages of the Coven. Though Kylin was her acheron, unlike the Coven, she was not solely devoted to the Stormstress. Her craft was in daily prayers, divinating magia and oracling the fates.

Her job was not to defeat the enemy, but to assist her allies–and she was grateful for it. So much rested on the shoulders of the Twelve. They wielded a power far greater than all the legions and barbarian hordes combined. It would be by their victory or defeat that the battle was decided today.

A cold ripple spread through the air, like a disturbance on a lake's surface. Pausing, Kylinissa searched for the source. The south-western wall was crowned with the red cloaks and gleaming bronze helms of Cohort III. Two siege towers had made their landing, and the attackers were cutting a path towards the north-western towers. One of those battlements had crumbled as though struck by catapults, long before the legion's siege weapons had gotten into place. Another billowed with black smoke. That could only be the doing of a powerful magi. Skippii Altay had returned.

They had all witnessed it as they arranged on the staging grounds before the walls: a flame atop the walls, and cyclops raging in the north. The defenders divided, their weaknesses in the north exploited. Skippii had blazed his way to the south-westerly gatehouse just as Cohort II's ladders reached the walls. Many of the legion's acolytes still purported that he was a heretic–a knave. But that heretic alone had cracked the siege. For a time, he was their unavoidable ally.

Kylinissa smiled to herself. She had managed to keep her fondness for the young man hidden from the Coven. None of her peers knew that it was her who had led Cohort II's Tonnage VI to his rescue when the Coven had sought to execute him by trial of combat. But now, she did not hide her fondness and pride in him. She didn't care what the acolytes thought. She had been right. The Gods had steered her well. Oyaltun must be smiling alongside her.

A ripple came again like the shadow in a wave, and a shiver. The smile died on Kylinissa's lips. Above the gatehouse, a black orb expanded like ink, soaking up the sky. Its edges fluctuated with unnatural design, like insect limbs flicking out, wings unfurling, growing; the air burned silver at its edges, as bright as a star, then its halo succumbed to the blackness. The storm bent towards it as many currents buckled and were hauled by its strength.

The poison of fear trickled into her gut, but she clenched her fists and held fast. The enemy was here. The heretic–and whatever dark forces he worshiped. What outcast gods or unconscionable demons. What corruption–a stain upon the Pantheon's creation–that would seek to expand and conquer, if not for them. If not for the Coven's opposition. If not for her aid.

"Te furor aeternus devoret!" Aetheria wailed, and the Coven took up her cries. The magus combined their magia and the wind howled in their faces. Kylinissa's cloak dragged her backwards like a sail. She planted her feet and leant into the winds as the gale drew itself away from the black spot, withdrawing, sailing high into the air where it met brooding storm clouds.

From within the black sphere extended many writhing limbs, like groping vines, they sought the brave legionnaires crowded beneath them. That was Tonnage VI–the brave men who had volunteered to climb the ladders up to the gatehouse and relieve their companion, Skippii Altay. Now, a clawing darkness descended upon them, crawling from evil pits into their earthly realm, staining the air with its very presence.

A repugnant pox. Its scent travelled from the walls and over fields on the receding winds to her senses. A numbing scent, like opiate smoke. The quieting of consciousness. And with it, something swept through her being which she had never sensed before: a presence altogether unkinly to humankind. A cold disdain, and immutable desire for silence.

"The temple!" Aetheria commanded. "Strike him down."

Electricity thronged in the air, prickling her skin like the viscous glare of a killer composed to strike. Then the clouds split. The heavens rained wrath upon the city. Godsent javelins struck the city, concentrated upon a spot beyond the walls. The lightning shower lit the sky a brilliant gold, stinging the eyes to behold.

Atop the wall, the black pox receded and vanished. A cheer rose from Cohort II, who were positioned before the gate, helpless to watch their companions face evil atop the walls. As the storm held a brief respite, like the intake of a breath, Kylinissa heard the remnants of Legion V muttering with intrepid relief.

The veteran legionnaires were arrayed in their beleaguered cohorts at the rear of the Auctorian force, held in reserve. They had seen their Coven do battle with the heretic magus once before to a disastrous fate. Now, only one man amongst their Coven of warmagi remained. A halo of Hespera's light shone around his slender form as he stood within the Twelve's inner-circle, making them Thirteen, lending his prayer for Hespera to the Coven of Kylin's.

Then came another ripple, like many stones thrown into a pond. Kylinissa braced herself as the Coven withdrew their storm, prepared, this time, for the heretic's vortex. Black dots appeared above them, expanding to swallow the sky. Kylinissa shrank with fear as about her, the acolytes giving prayer to the storm faltered. Voices broke as cries of panic trickled from their lips, withheld only by courage. Kylinissa forced herself to stand tall, reflecting the unwavering poise of her Coven. Those warmagi lowered their arms but raised their breasts, eyes fixing a challenge upon their enemy.

Five orbs, in total, cast an icy shadow upon them. If the rays of Chysaetos' sunlight gave warmth to life, then this shadow gave cold in equal measure. The ground frosted over as evil eyes beheld them from within. The rains froze to snow as the cold bit Kylinissa's flesh. Wrapping her cloak tightly, she braced herself as weight pressed upon her shoulders. The pressure surmounted, like grasping hands, pulling her to the ground. All around her, the acolytes knelt. Some collapsed, faces pale and lips blue. A scream rose in her throat, but was crushed by her chest. It would not come out, and no breath would be admitted. They were in the grasp of the heretic, swallowed by its jaws.

Only the twelve of the Coven remained on their feet, tallest of all: Aetheria. The winds rushed about them, a tornado forming with them at its centre. The updraft repelled the black magia's push as two forces contended. Angry clouds gathered at the tornado's mouth, crackling with thunder.

In the storm, Kylinissa supposed she could see an enormous face; her eyes were black pits, twinkling with a raging golden light. Her lips curled as angry clouds roiled, forming a visage of rage that grew and twisted in on itself, mouthing words whose sound was the thunder and howl.

The Goddess herself was born upon the battlefield, rage incarnate, and the battle for the heavens commenced.

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