Flexillus' back ached as he lowered Skippii to the floor of the gatehouse. How could he be so heavy? Had he grown? He looked sunburned. The wilderness must have been rough on him. Poor kid. The big legionnaire Tenoris was no help either, bouncing off the staircase walls after him, half killed himself with exhaustion.

"Sodding velvets," Flexillus grumbled, kneeling beside the young Skippii. His helmet had been carved above the eye and his brow bled. He slung it off to find the recruit bald.

"Shaving your head in the mountains?" he said, checking for wounds. Satisfied, he rasped his knuckle on the young man's skull. "Anyone in there."

Skippii groaned, stirring. Around them, the scant remains of Tonnage VI held a phalanx to the easterly doorway. Just four men holding off a tide. Three recruits, and a good veteran among them: Heraldus Centurious. Flexillus had gambled with the grey moustached Summitan back in the day, when the Ninth was first formed; now, he bet his life that Centurious could keep the rear.

To the west, a sally of legionnaires struck out towards the second gatehouse. It all rested on their assault. Custos Maritor, Orsin, Arius, and a bunch of velvets. He could hear their fighting–their shouts–loud of all, the din the two younguns were making: Kaesii and Drusilla. Vestia this and Summitus that. Ridiculous. What did they think this was? They were on the battlefield, not at the gladiatorial arena.

"Quit showing off," Flexillus grumbled to himself.

"What?" Tenoris asked. He collapsed to the ground beside Skippii, slowly regaining his breath. "What's happening? The gates?"

"Aren't open yet," he said, but then a rattle of chains caught his attention. The hoists attached to the operating crank tightened. Pollus Criatus manned the wheel. Flexillus felt obliged to help him shift the heavy mechanism, but was already quite tired from all the climbing ladders and fighting and carrying unconscious legionnaires; too tired to jump to Criatus' aid. Besides, the poor fatigued recruits needed his attention.

"Wounds?" Flexillus asked.

Tenoris stared at him dully.

"What are your wounds?" he pressed.

Tenoris inspected himself, seemingly for the first time. Was he that naive to have not considered that he was injured, or had he already done so, and bloodloss had made him forget? Flexillus had seen it a thousand times before. He could tell that Tenoris was in a sorry state, but he could also tell that the man was young, and strong, and would recover soon enough.

"You ain't bleeding too bad," he said. "Take your thorax off, quickly. Check your arteries. There's nothing on your thighs, is there?"

While the big bovine-of-a-legionnaire did the absolute basics of what he was taught in training, he checked Skippii. His hands searched underneath his tunic for those deadly little knicks that severed a man's life. The ones you don't feel when they happen, cause they're so small. But they catch up to you. Flexillus's neck throbbed–his scar there humming a reminder to keep his chin down, and preferably, behind another legionnaire.

Skippii stirred and opened his eyes. He looked right through him like a child without a thought in his brain, then gazed around the brick chamber dumbly. "Where am I?"

"Base of the gatehouse."

With a deep breath, Skippii straightened, then surprised him by rising to his knees. A moment ago, he had been completely unconscious, seemingly dead. Though he swayed, his strength seemed to be returning.

Grabbing a nearby bench, Flexillus pulled himself to his feet. "Thanks for all this, Skip."

"Where is… Are the gates open?"

"Never mind the gates," he snapped. "Why the fuck am I here, twenty of us verses a whole city of them? Whose idea was that?"

Skippii blinked. "Custos Mari-"

"Bollocks," Flexillus spat, anger boiling like a broth. "Yours. Your idea. Cyclops and storms, and we're trying to open a bloody portcullis. We're all gonna die, you know that, right? We're fucked. Dead. Blaze of glory? Is that what you wanted? Is all you velvets ever want. Bloody Drusilla and Kaesii running off…" Flexillus lost his train of thought, but knew he was justified in having it. "Are you listening to me?"

"The portcullis?"

"Yes, it's opening," Flexillus said, motioning towards Criatus, straining against the crank like rowing a warship's oar. "Happy now? Now go die over there, by that door, over there." Fetching his gear, Flexillus relished the touch of his bespoke spear for what would likely be the last time. The smooth ash of its shaft, with all its familiar grooves and light varnished finish, the precision sharpness of its tip–but not too sharp that it would chip against armour. Mary, she was called. None other than Vexillum knew that she had a name. It was one of the few personal things about his life he'd managed to keep to himself in long years of service.

Shouts of alarm rang off the stone walls as the four legionnaires at the eastern door were suddenly pushed back by an enemy assault. A stray blade struck one of the velvets, and suddenly his shield was removed from the phalanx. The enemy rushed through the narrow gap, stabbing and swinging for the legionnaire's legs. Centurious did a good job of keeping them back, thrusting over the heads of the velvets, pressing his shield into their backs to keep them from crumbling.

"Chrysat," he cursed. "Guess this is the place."

Turning, he made his way towards the western door, ready to call his companeight back inside to make a last stand. But an odd sensation made him pause. Heat, like that of a fire, tickled his calves. Flexillus turned and beheld that wondrous quality of Skippii's come to life.

***

The reflections of a vivid dream shimmered in Skippii's mind. Fleeting, just out his reach, was a sense of haste and great purpose. For a moment, he was Cur, climbing atop the battlements, cursing as arrows shattered against the stones beside his head. Then, he was Orsin, veteran of the Ninth, and was looking down upon Skippii… upon himself. Then the vision rippled, and changed, and he was atop the battlements again, looking south. All of the legion was arrayed in the fields to his right, and to his left, Nerithon, and a host of ragged defenders.

Above him, an accursed magia flickered into being. It was terrible, and terrifying, but Fulmin persisted, steeling his wits and doing his duty. The door gave to the chop of his axe…

Now he was charging down a stairwell at the head of his tonnage. He was Custos Maritor, and he would make such an end…

The vision grew calm. Ripples slowed to a rhythmic slosh. Arius bided his time, precision and purpose in his movements. They must reach the opposite tower and raise the portcullis. Though the enemy were stacked against them, so long as they maintained composure and discipline they could…

Kaesii charged ahead like a battering ram, glory in his step, championship in his hands. Drusilla raced after, his heart wrenching as emotions soared, and the exhilaration of battle took control. They reached the gatehouse. They turned the crank. Skippii blinked.

"Where am I?" he said, glancing around in a daze. Cur was above him, looking… not concerned. More annoyed. His lips moved, but a pressure in Skippii's ears dulled all sound except the low rumble of the storm outside.

"Are the gates open?" he said, feeling for the ground. There, beneath wooden floorboards, he felt the blessed whisper of earth. Reaching outwards, he embraced the source and drew magia into himself. At once, his core alighted–a nervous candle in the gloom. His heart beat steadily, each breath burning brighter, and slowly his vision returned. But the advent of consciousness brought fresh pains. His body had been beaten and torn, and he was sick with exhaustion. His thigh throbbed where a gash rubbed painfully against the top of his greaves, and his elbow felt like it was in a vice at the wrong angle. But he had come this far before, and knew, with a little perseverance, he could withstand it.

"Custos Maritor?"

Cur opened his mouth and a drivel came out, too erratic to comprehend. Skippii sought out Tenoris. His friend was slouched beside him drearily. Reaching out, he took his hand and shared what warmth he could draw from the earth. It had done Eirene some good while she died in the cold chambers of the mountaintop. Perhaps it would help him too. Perhaps it merely provided warmth, and nothing else.

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"Are you listening to me?" Cur said.

"The portcullis?"

"Yes, it's opening."

"Good," Skippii whispered, and shut his eyes to concentrate. Energy flowed into his mind like summer rains over an arid land, reawakening thought. Then, the heat scalded his lungs. Wincing, Skippii withdrew a little and drew it in slower. The magia trickled into him, prickling his limbs with pins and needles as though they were reawakening from sleep. It had never felt so abrasive before. Why was that?

Upon the gatehouse, he had used up all of the magia he could maintain in flux, but after that had depleted, he had thrown his own lifeforce into the pyre. He hadn't known he could do that. The memory of it set a cold fear in his gut and set his feet tingling with panic. Compared to that which he could draw from the earth, the fuel within his body was meagre. After a matter of moments, it would have been spent–a single powerful ability–and his lifeforce would be snuffed out.

A thudding sound roused him. Dust fell from the ceiling like snow, twisting on moats of wind as the storm howled intermittently through each open doorway. The thud came again, followed by the cries of men.

"Where's the companeight?" Skippii said.

"Outside, getting killed. Want to meet them?"

Rising shakily to his feet, he took up Tenoris' shield–the man needed a little longer to rest. "Just get me to the gate. I'll open it up."

"What?" Cur said incredulously. "It is locked, you know. Not that simple. Let the ram work while we defend for our lives."

"Get me to the gate, Cur." Skippii drew in a cautious breath, and let the magia burn a naked flame in his hands. "We don't need a ram. Trust me."

He didn't wait for Cur to make his mind up. He strode into the western doorway, where two legionnaire's guarded the flank. Outside, red cloaks whipped in the wind beneath the spikes of a raised portcullis; a bulwark of white shields and thoraxes, buffeting a muddy tide of leather and furs. The dead lay all about the cobblestone entrance and open crossroads beyond. Three legionnaire's cloaks were among them–separated from the phalanx. Skippii's heart dropped, but he could not see the faces of the dead, and it was not the right time to mourn.

"Legionnaires," he announced to the guards. "Let me pass."

"Time to relieve them?" one asked nervously, a young man like himself.

"Yes," Skippii said, tired of explaining. "Hold the rear."

Wind battered his face as he strode into the open. Below the gate, a small phalanx pressed tightly together, withstanding the horde like a hedgehog splaying its spikes to the wolf's jaws. Spears and arrows rained upon them, sent from the roofs of nearby buildings. But atop the walls, legion arrows returned. The Clidusian archers had climbed the ladders and manned the tower tops, firing into the city from their vantage. It was perhaps the only thing stopping the phalanx from becoming overrun.

Summoning his magia, he let the fires coat his skin as a Burning Armour. The flames were thin, but the more he exercised his will, the more he could feel the source open up to him.

"Now," Skippii urged, wariness in his voice. Together, he and Cur pressed forward, shields raised. The defenders were unorganised, undisciplined. They huddled in groups of threes and fours, as much shouting threats at the phalanx as they were attacking. They were steppe people–simple people–and citizens. The bravest amongst them had already died atop the walls. Despite outnumbering his companeight, they were outmatched.

"Here," he hailed, slamming his shield into a group of men with their backs to him. They scattered like logs and he leapt over them into the phalanx's embrace.

"Skip," Orsin shouted, dragging him behind his shield. "Kaesii and Drusilla are both in the other gatehouse. Alone. We must make our way-"

"Hold them off," he commanded, kneeling behind their shieldwall and pressing his palms into the heavy wooden gate. He felt its sturdiness, like the bows of an old oak, reinforced by iron braces and three heavy beams. With the portcullis lifted, the gate could swing open, so long as the beams were lifted. But they were as heavy as tree trunks. His Boiling Blood evocation did little to bolster his strength, and they would take several legionnaires to lift. While they worked, they would be exposed. Meanwhile, a ram battered it rhythmically from the other side, but it would be a long time before the gate was sundered, perhaps hours.

But Skippii's had another plan.

Breathing steadily, he fanned a frail ember, tantalising it to life. Smoke streamed through his fingers, thin at first, then in plumes. The wind crashed about them, thrown haphazardly from the sky, kicking the smoke and dust in their faces. Skippii bent more of his magia to the gate, forming it into an Enkindle Flames. But he did not wish to erupt the wood and risk harming his allies. Instead, he let the fires smoulder beneath the surface, weakening its core. White smoke fizzled in the cracks between beams as its moisture boiled and was brought to flames.

The heavy wood shuddered and creaked as the ram battered it. And the more he challenged his magia, the stronger he felt. More alert. More eager.

"Get back," he shouted up at his companions, slinging Tenoris' shield over his back. "Get to the gatehouse."

Orsin reached down to drag him along, but recoiled at the touch of his burning flesh.

"Leave me," Skippii said. "The fires will burn you. I need only a moment."

"Go," Custos Maritor commanded without hesitation. The shelter of legionnaires fled him, but Skippii turned his back to the enemy, focussing on his spell. At first, they ignored him. Perhaps they mistook him. The dirty legionnaire's cloak which he had scavenged had long since singed to tatters, but his mother's brooch tied its remains like a scarf over his shoulders. Then arrows pelted him, and something struck the shield on his back.

Skippii shut his eyes and grounded his heart. The earth opened up to him–a lake of power at his behest. Greedily, he lowered one palm to the lake and drew up as much of its mana that he could possess. The power raged through him, torturing his aches and pains, but he held his breath–withstood the burn–and poured it into the gate.

A golden glow shone through the wood's seams, forming a visage of heavenly gates. The storm held its breath as, all about him, men dropped their arms and gazed in amazement. The ram had stopped striking the wood–but Skippii wouldn't risk hurting the legionnaires manning it. He brought his heat to a breaking point. Then, rather than push the magia away from him, he gripped all that he had summoned–all that sweltered in the gate's wood–and bore it towards him.

A great gust of smoke and ash billowed. Glowing fragments ripped through the air, exploding inwards towards the city streets. Iron rivets fell to the ground with a clatter like the heavy armour of a giant whose body had given out. Brands struck him, but bounced off his Burning Armour. A smouldering pile of charcoal formed where the gate had stood, and as the smoke cleared, Skippii could see the dim light of day behind it.

A great hole had torn through its centre, the edges of which glowed orange with fire. And beyond, the red cloaks of the legion in their thousands.

Skippii made to get to his feet, but his legs buckled. His exertions were getting the better of him. Though the Enkindled Burst was not his most taxing of abilities, it seemed that his limit had drastically diminished. Whatever damage he had done himself atop the gatetower was having a lasting effect. Wind and smoke filled the air, confusing his senses. Dizzily, he slung his shield around and searched for the enemy, but they had scattered before the blaze, and few stragglers remained.

"Skip, here." Drusilla's face appeared in the haze and dragged him aside.

"We did it," Kaesii said after them. "The battle is won. The day is ours."

"Not yet," Skippii said, as they re-entered the gatehouse, and regrouped with their fellows. In all, fifteen legionnaires remained on the ground floor. More should be above, he hoped, or else Tonnage VI's losses were dismal. But amongst the survivors were all of his friends–his companeight–and Custos Maritor, their Primus. Professional as ever, the legionnaires kept to their phalanxes at either doorway. Maritor strode between them, organising the defence.

Tenoris was on his feet and standing at the rear of the phalanx with Fulmin, who bled badly from his arm.

"They flee," Fulmin celebrated. "We've won."

"The gates are open," Kaesii announced proudly to the chamber. "The way is free. The legion is here."

"They run to the streets," said Arius.

"What should we do?" Fulmin asked.

"Collect yourselves," Custos Maritor announced. "If you are injured, bleeding, exhausted, then remain here. There is no shame in it. But if you can continue on with the cohort, then join me. The siege is broken, men. Now come the spoils."

"Wait," Skippii said. "Where… How is the Coven?"

A pause told him all he needed to know. In the immediacy of battle, legionnaires hadn't given much thought to anything outside of their plight. But his implication set in. They could seize the walls and take the streets of Nerithon, but it wouldn't mean anything if the Coven failed. If the heretics won the day, it would be slaughter. The ballance of battle rested in the hands of Gods now.

And in his.

"Wait for me."

Sprinting up the stairs, he ran to a window-slit and peered out over the battle between magus. Just a glimpse of the cataclysm told him all he needed to know. A cyclone was swallowed by black pits, like leeches, and something rained from the sky, taking monstrous form, wreaking havoc on the legionnaires who defended the Coven.

Fulmin, Kaesii and Drusilla arrived at his side, but each grew quiet as they witnessed it.

"Where is the heretic?" Skippii said.

"In the sky?" Kaesii said.

"No, the temple," said Fulmin. "They were striking it earlier with thunder. That's when the evil magia was above our heads, trying to suck us in." He shivered. "But… The lighting, when it struck the temple, the heresy disappeared."

"That's right," Drusilla grumbled, jaw tight with anger.

"The temple on the hill? Chrysateos' temple?" Skippii ran from the tower to the walls where he could look upon Nerithon. Many shallow hills shaped the city's streets with the crest and fall of districts. The same orange-slated roofs donned a shoal of grey and white brick buildings, skirted with wooden awnings, escorted by spring trees. It would be a beautiful sight, if not for the gloom and peril. In the north, a path of destruction stretched from the wall to the city's centre; the heavy corpse of a cyclops lay to rest atop a crumbled marble hall. But Skippii's eyes were drawn to the centre, where atop the tallest of the slight hills was the marble temple: once Chrysaetos', now blighted by baneful magia.

A black disk, unlike a cloud–too perfect in design–shielded the temple and its courtyard. Its upward face stretched to a point, forming a cone. Its pitch black surface undulated with energy, and beneath it, a host of heretics raised their arms in some dark invocation. And there upon the temple's steps, at the disk's centre, Skippii reckoned he could make out a figure amongst the crowd. Though there was little reason to it, he knew that figure was his mortal enemy. The hated incursor.

"That's where we're going," he said.

"To cut the head off the snake," Drusilla said.

Skippii curled his lips and pounded each of their chests with his fist. "To finish this."

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