All of war was a game, confused by anger and fear. The carpenter did not hate the timber; the cook did not loath his pot. Arius had no compassion nor disdain for his enemy. He felt no attachment to pain, nor fear to avoid it. Does a wooden piece feel pain when it is removed from the board? Does the player lament, or play on?

Before him were the lesser pieces of play–the enemy, stolen by their passions. They were crowded by the dozens, men upon men, layers of a wave. Rain-slicked blades swung in the shadows of Nerithon's gates, and arrows loosed into the melee. Yet here, their flight was sheltered from the winds of Kylin's storm, and they flew true.

Arius raised his shield, catching an arrow in its wood. His eyes were focussed, but not upon one man–as a player upon one piece. No, he beheld the entire board. No dart nor blade evaded his perception, and nor did any weakness of the enemy's play. He struck between the gaps, a hawk's talons upon the hare.

He and his companions numbered twenty–the remains of Tonnage VI who were not injured or occupied elsewhere. The enemy numbered in the hundreds, spread out before the gate, banking upon the early streets of Nerithon. Their goal was not to destroy the enemy, but to reach the tower opposite. Within was the second crank required to raise the portcullis over the gate. Once opened, Cohort II's battering rams could do their work effectively.

With their backs to the gate, his companeight edged forward in formation, shields interlocked, spears raised. Four Ukrun men rushed forward, baying like dogs, wielding flail and axe and spear. Kaesii and Drusilla met their charge, shields thrust forth, spears held low. Calmly, Arius adjusted his spear's grip overhand, and struck between the heads of his allies, stabbing the enemy in his eye.

The man screamed as pain overwhelmed his mind. But the enemy pressed on in great numbers. Still, Arius struck at each that was presented, punishing every one of his enemy's mistakes. Numbers were meaningless in a game of precision, they merely muddied the waters.

Arrayed in a phalanx, he and his allies slew three men for each enemy blade that found its mark. Arius was nicked on his arms and legs, wet with blood and rain. Yet no pain could deter his step or misguide his aim. He killed in the manner that he had been taught within the catacombs of Clidus: The Way of the Cold Blade.

Suddenly, a cry ripped the air before him. For a flash, his composition balked. Arius raised his shield in defence, expecting the worst–that one of his allies had been felled. He witnessed Kaesii charge forth, shield against his shoulder, battering the enemy back. Weighty as he was, he could move three men with each thrust, toppling the weaker of them to the floor. Arius pounced upon his prey, slicing quickly at their throats and legs, killing or else disabling them for later.

But the strong legionnaire did not stop. He bore a hole through the enemy, wailing all the way.

"For Vestia. The greatest city. I submit thee!"

Blades closed on Kaesii's flank. Arius thrust out, but could not defend the legionnaire so exposed. A lament came to him, but he smothered its flames. Later, he would grieve Kaesii's death. For now, he would witness it, and behold his bravery.

"Summitas!" Drusilla roared, and rushed to Kaesii's aid, barrelling through the attackers. Many weapons were brought upon the two–axes swung for their necks and spears thrown at their legs. Arius held his breath, expecting their death, but a miracle prevailed. Chrysaetos' light flashed upon the slick metal of blades, deterring them a fraction from killing.

One sword caught Drusilla's shield, another grazed the leather of his thorax as the enemy groped to snare him and drag him down. But none could oppose his strength, and he threw them aside like children. A spear snagged on Kaesii's whipping cloak as arrows sped past his head, and knives glanced off his helmet. Using his spear as a stave, he pressed the enemy backwards, bashing and headbutting. The two legionnaires pushed forth like men wading through waves, incredulously, not at one another's aid, but seemingly in competition.

"Vestia!"

"Summitas!"

"Auctoria!" Arius shouted, unable to contain his passions any longer. With his old friend, Orsin, at his side, and the valiant Custos Maritor at their rear, and many fine young legionnaires on their flanks, they thrust against the Ürkün tide. All the while ahead surged the bull and the boar.

***

Kaesii bent over and put his shoulder into it. Wading with his shield, he ploughed like an oxen through tall grass. None could match his strength, not even three combined. Sweat slicked his brow. His black curly hair was a mess before his eyes, but he did not need to see clearly to feel his way. The enemy pressed against him like a tide. He allowed their advance, keeping his chin tight to his chest, sheltering from their blades behind his thorax and shield. Then once they were overstretched, he spun them, or battered their flanks, and trampled a route past them.

All his life, he had wrestled bigger men than him; stronger men, more experienced men. He had won third place wrestling at Vestia's summer fair in 316 A.A. He had met no harder fight since. A tall Ürkün warrior grasped his shield and aimed a knife at his neck. But by attacking so viciously, he had left himself wide open. Kaesii stepped close and elbowed him in the chin. Then, in one smooth motion, he dropped his spear, grabbing his opponent's shoulder, kneed him in the groin and tossed him over his hip.

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Each movement flowed into the next, just as he had practiced all his life in the gym, and this was no different to that. Upon seeing his strength–and likely marvelling at it–the smartest of the enemy fell away from him, backing away with their weapons outstretched. But their braver, stupider fellows sprang at him. Kaesii relished their challenge with a snarl, but his training did not wave. Quickly, he checked that his back was still against the gate, and that he was still ahead of Drusilla. His rear was secured, and first place was seeming likely. Don't forget the basics.

"Havast thee," he shouted. It was something his old instructor had said before a bout, and he'd been itching to use it in battle. There was something noble–something uniquely Vestian–about speaking in a poetic manner in the face of death. "Move aside, or harker to your demise, fools."

"Summitas!" With a flash of red, a spear struck out and caught one of the enemy in the jaw. Drusilla had followed in his wake–marching the path he had carved–and was now beside him. The Summitas brute glanced at him sidelong, a glint in his eye. Suddenly, he shoved Kaesii with his shield, stronger than any Ürkün he had faced, and shuffled towards the gatehouse.

"Drusilla you dog!" Kaesii charged headlong past his ally into the Ürkün mass. Blades rang off his helmet and sliced his arms as he forced his way through the crowd, but he bore the pain, and could bear much more while victory was so close within his grasp. He would not be overshadowed by a Summitan brute. The day's glory was for Vestia–jewel of Auctoria–and he was its bezel.

The bout's vigor burned in his chest, billowing smoke into his mind. His vision sharpened as his thoughts submitted, and instinct took over.

"Come on then, chalkies," he grunted, burrowing a path. "Come on then," he repeated, rising in tempers as he battered his opponents aside, never faltering, never backstepping, only sidestepping. "I'll have you all."

***

Drusilla saw a demon awake on the man's face. The grip of anger. A visage of his earliest memory. His stalking nightmare. His birthright. His blood.

The man swung a heavy axe. A clenched fist. A defilement of innocent flesh. Drusilla winced. Shut his eyes, braced his shield. The world slowed. Each heartbeat lasted an eternity. Each heralded the next blow that shattered his jaw. That crushed his eye socket. That made him whimper and cry, which only hastened the blows. He wished that his heart would stop. He hoped the next beat would not come for forever.

The axehead glanced off the cheek of his helmet, ringing in his ears, slicing his jaw. Drusilla blinked, stunned.

But that was it.

And nothing more.

Elation. Pure agonising relief. Euphoria flooded his veins, flushing out fear. It was nothing. He could take it, and more. Much more. He had been shaped by his father, as clay is pounded to form bricks. None were as terrible as his father. None as merciless. He could be cut and battered, his limbs dismembered and his bowls displayed, but it wouldn't shatter him as he had once been shattered in entirety.

An animal horn blew inside his gut. It echoed in his lungs and bayed out his throat. A cruel laugh. Not his. Someone else's. Not his, but he was pleased to be a part of it, and the seething hatred that followed.

"Idiot boy," he growled, and plunged his spear at the man's stomach. There were many limbs and staffs in his way–like legs of a spider–but Drusilla only saw his target. He would give as much as he had taken, and more. Much more. Striving forwards, he stabbed his target once, twice, three times, four. The man screamed as white pain overtook rage, but Drusilla did not slow. The man had not slowed for him. The man had beat him helpless, senseless. Reasonless. Agony, the soul repulsed. Drusilla killed.

Pain flashed like lightning in a storm. Ürkün pressed him from his flank. One had cut his thigh, and was arching their sword for his throat. Drusilla ducked and spun, knocking the haft aside with his spear. With one arm, he could contest his enemy's whole force. That was just how strong the Summitas gyms had made him, where he'd taken the brick wall of his father's design and carved it into a statue. His body. His visage. But still, as the wound burned in his thigh, the face of his statue faded. Blank. Unfinished. Never fully formed.

Another blow came. A heavy hammer, which struck his hip, but did not break it.

Fear rose and fell within him, a laughing, taunting charm. A stinging pleasure. And then cruelty was in his hands, and he used it, as was so natural to him, and he killed the man, and many others. Never ending. Never quieting. Always there at the back of his mind. The substance of his flesh. His father. Inescapable. Inescapable.

Suddenly, Drusilla was dragged backwards into a shadow. Roaring, he spun on his enemy, but was turned at the last second and pressed into a wall. What strength was this to match his own? The sharpness of his vision faded with each breath and the world slowed to almost its usual pace.

"I beat you," Kaesii gloated before him. His face was red, his helmet lopsided on his head, dintend and rent. Blood streaked over his eye, matting black curly hair to his brow. His thorax armour rose like a bellows as he panted, rocking on his spear's shaft, and jabbed a finger at Drusilla. "Admit it."

Movement flickered in the shadows behind Kaesii. They were in the gatehouse, in the corner of the room just beyond the entryway. Dashing forward, Drusilla raised his shield to his fellow's side and barked like a dog. Their attackers suddenly weren't so sure of their advantage.

Eight or so men faced them, mostly Philoxenians. Scrawny men, with makeshift weapons. Beside them, Ürkün warriors crept through the doorway. Still, many of the enemy remained by the gate outside, where the remainder of Tonnage VI fought a slow advance towards the tower. He and the Vestian hadn't killed most of their foes. Instead, they'd just run right through them. And now they were isolated in the hornet's nest.

"You won, madman," Drusilla admitted, grinning. "Now for round two. Caught your breath yet?"

"Have you caught yours?" Kaesii bellowed, charging past him, raging like a bull upon the Philoxenians. The enemy spread out, seeking to flank him, but Drusilla strode casually after his ally and called to their attention.

"Hey, he's the least of your worries. Get lost, boys, before you get hurt. The legions are here, and we're gonna let them in."

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