Titus Virellix, Imperator of the Ninth Legion, turned his stern expression upon them as they entered, but Skippii dared to believe he saw a softness come about as they met eyes.

"Welcome, legionnaires," he greeted. "And be at ease. I will be but a moment longer."

Skippii waited at the pavilion's entrance, adorned in his finest attire. A slave quietly offered them wine while they waited. Tenoris shuffled from foot to foot, taking loud, deep breaths of the scented woodsmoke air. Cliae shrank behind him, but did not wander away into the reach of the Imperator's guard: four men standing by each of the pavilion's pillars. Their breastplates shimmered like polished silver, vibrant with lightning-blue veins of magia, and their spears were long and sharp–beautiful and deadly.

Skippii sipped his wine and waited. His fatigue faded with each incense-infused breath. At first, the thin smoke stung his nose, but later it cleared his mind. He leaned less heavily on his spear's shaft and waited without impatience.

The Imperator stood before a mural of maps, flanked by superiors and staff. They faced the illustrations like a phalanx, clad in arms and armour. Their scrutinising eyes were as sharp as spears, pressing Auctoria's inexorable advance. A patchwork of parchment, glued to form a single sheet as wide as man's arm-span, served as the centermost map. Painted upon it was Philoxania–its fields and mountains, streams and lakes, its roads and cities. Rossetts decorated the map affixed by wax, each bearing a number: the nine legions here in these lands.

One man raised his voice above the rest. Short for a legionnaire, he was clean shaven with soft features, but hard brown eyes. His tunic was a fine red, but no thorax or breastplate was laid atop it. His gladius hung limply in its slackened belt. With a thin, clean finger, he pointed to a spot on the map and spoke.

"Yes, the Gryphonians will come to trade. Yes we can import ships. But unless we establish a safe way through these hills first, it would be unsound to march the legions any further. Let us not overreach in pursuit of glory. In vanity. You have won a fine victory here, Virellius. Be wary to wager it on the next, and so squander our advantage."

"Wise words," the Imperator said. "If a little uninformed. My legion may operate in many a manner, as you well know, versed in tactics."

Skippii thought he detected a sting to the Imperator's tone, and caught the glimpse of a grin upon his advisor's lips.

"I should like to wait for the roads before pressing to Artyenos," he went on. "But there are more pressing matters which beset our advantage, and I would speak now with the champion of the Ninth, and chief liberator of Nerithon, Skippii Altay."

The Imperator extended an arm. Such a weight of years and wisdom shone upon him as his staff and superiors turned to regard. In their glare, Skippii was stunned, but made an effort to meet them all with a firm gaze. A few amongst them shook his hand as they departed, and before long, their council was five. They, the Imperator, and the Vestian-born man in a red tunic.

"Come," the Imperator said. "Sit, we have much to discuss. This is Luscious Cinitus. He is…" His eyes flickered to the other man in a moment of hesitation. "Well learned. His tutors acclaimed. He comes on behalf of the Vestian senate."

Lucious Cinitus remained by the maps, hands clasped behind his back, and did not speak nor approach Skippii as they sat, and food was brought to the table.

"Last we met proper," the Imperator said, "Your magia had just awoken, and I was deciding what to do with you. I remember, I told you that I would call upon your power, er the battle of Nerithon. I did not presume to rely upon it. Can you tell me any more about its nature? Which God grants you this gift, if any? What did you discover when you departed from the legion, for you must have found something in the wild to return in the manner you did. A retinue of cyclops at your bidding, and the whole walls aflame."

At his desertion's mention, shame clouded Skippii's heart. But the Imperator's praise shone through in golden rays–a confused weather of emotions.

"Not a retinue, my Imperator," he started. "I tricked them… the cyclops." With a breath, he composed himself. "I did discover its nature. Atop the Sleeping Mountain, there was a temple of my acheron's design. There, a hermit named Eirene awaited my arrival. She taught me about the Primordials–beings older than the Gods–who fought the pantheon in the War of Heavens. She knew all about ancient history, but more than that, she knew of what was to come."

He hesitated, reciting what he had rehearsed.

"My Imperator, I have learned things which you might not believe… or that you or your peers might not want to believe. Truths about the Gods, and the beginning of this world, and the nature of our war. If you would permit it, I would like to tell you all that I have learnt, and been shown, so that you can make sense of it yourself, in your wisdom. But, to be brief, Auctoria right now does not only fight for itself and the Philoxanians whom we liberate, nor even the remote khanates of the Urkunlands. I fear this war will soon be reflected in the heavens, and all our struggle shall be for the sheer survival of humankind."

Skippii described all that he had learned of the incursor gods–celestial beings come to lay dominion over the earth. Of the Primordials, whose power the Gods stole and formed magia. Of Oyaltun, and her copulation with Cor–the seed whose fruit was borne within him. He withheld nothing–nothing of the secrets of his blood, nor history of the realm, not even where it broached heresy.

When he was finished, his mouth was dry. His heart beat as though on the verge of battle. The Imperator was quiet, pensive. Behind him, Lucious narrowed his austere eyes, but said nothing

Lured by the quiet, Skippii went a step further. "It's my opinion that the Gods have grown complacent. They do not fight these incursors as they once did the Primordials. They do not necessarily see them as their enemy. Each are from the stars, our pantheon and the Ukrun's. They may share kinship for all we know."

Lucious sneered, and finally his lips parted. "You go too far, legionnaire. It is as like to say that an imperator shares the same kinship as a beggar. The quality is incomparable."

"Each may be men," the Imperator spoke. "In their own fashion." But there was doubt in his voice. He turned his eyes back upon Skippii, but his visage had changed entirely–gone was the paternal warmth, or the imposing sternness; a new face emerged, shrewd and calculating.

"These incursor gods," he said. "You claim that these are accountable for heresy."

"I do," Skippii said. "At least that which the Urkun possess. As I was told it, they invaded the Urkunlands, and what world remains undiscovered beyond, and dominated them."

"When?"

"I do not know."

"Does this Eirene know?"

"If she does, she did not reveal it. But her library might." Skippii turned towards Cliae. "My chronicler intends to decipher the secrets of those tomes."

Cliae's head shrank into their shoulders. "Though it may take a while."

"Where is this library?" the Imperator asked.

"In the temple. I had intended to retrieve it tomorrow, assuming my Imperator gives me leave."

Titus Virellix leaned back in his chair, but his eyes never left Skippii's face. "That brings us to my other reason for summoning you. It must be established what function you shall serve here in the legion, now that, clearly, the parameters of your effectiveness have changed." He huffed a short laugh. "To speak plainly, once again I am broached with the question: what to do with you? Though, my mind is already made on this matter, and I require only your reply."

A short silence ruffled the pavilion's walls, but Skippii was not so hasty to fill it as before.

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"You know how the Coven of Kylin operate, don't you?" the Imperator said.

He nodded. "They are separate from the legion. They answer to you, of course."

"On all matters tactical," he said. "But not political. Certainly not theocratical."

"They answer to a higher power. The Gods themselves, whom they speak to."

The Imperator raised an eyebrow. "And do you?"

"I answer to a calling," he responded quickly. "To serve the legion, and to displace the incursor gods. To fight them, to defend the soil. My power comes from the earth, and we are under attack."

"What do you desire?" the Imperator asked directly.

"Power. I have found that this magia strengthens the more that it is tested, as a blade that is tempered by the forge and beaten with hammers. I will find these places of power–if more should exist like the Sleeping Mountain–and so forge new weapons, new depths. I will seek out the enemy and use them as a tool of my own training."

Skippii's voice grew heavy. "I must get stronger, for my sworn foe is terrible. I saw him, the incursor god, on the temple steps. Cosmipox. I came to glimpse his soul, and I tell you, it was…" He faltered. The words failed him. His heart thudded with a sudden urgency to act. To fight. To stand his ground.

"Our enemy indeed is not to be misreckoned," the Imperator said calmly. "It takes much strength and bravery to face them, be it their lowly emissaries or masters of their design. I do not think many could say they faced a god of heresy and prevailed with their courage in-tact."

Skippii bowed his head, grateful to be spared the shame of his blatant fear.

"But face them you shall," he continued. "And should you defeat these incursors, where would you turn your power next?"

Skippii faltered. He had not considered so far in advance, and to such a degree of magnitude. All he was focussed upon was his next task, and that for the while was to rid his fatigue and restore his strength. But the question unearthed a prevalent anxiety. Eirene had warned him that once his strength had awakened in truth, the Gods would come to learn of him; how they might treat him–as friend or foe–had yet to be seen.

The Imperator laughed heartily and raised a mug of wine. "Come now, I jest. But you took such a query in earnest. To think of such things… to possess such a destiny."

A twinkle had returned to the old veteran's eyes–a flash of merriment and of love. Skippii's heart sprang open like a wildflower to the sun.

"Tell me, Skippii Altay, son of Cor, what do you think of our campaign?" The Imperator rose to his maps, and invited Skippii to join him. Tenoris and Cliae remained behind, as quiet as pupils in session.

Skippii observed the map of Philoxenai and its satellite drawings of towns and cities, fortifications and passes. Far to the west lay Artyenos, the first of Philoxania' cities to be liberated some forty years ago. Beyond, spread in each direction, were three legions encamped at towns. Beneath each was a date; he assumed it marked when last a message was received as to their whereabouts. Those furthest west were dated as far as one month ago, or more in the case of Legion III, who were stationed at the northernmost point of a peninsula, beyond which lay a mystery.

Looking at the insignia, he remembered the banners of the Third. Faces flashed to his memory–the legionnaires he had grown up with, his friends within the impedimenta, his boyhood rivals and fancies, all shrunken to that one rosette.

Southward, the land was divided by rivers, one of which snaked through the centre of Philoxania main. At a fork was marked a major city: Kronaia. However, the lands around it were empty of legion rosettes. Brown patches were waxed to the canvas, connected by a web of strings: the Urkun's armies and networks. The centre and north of Philoxania was still occupied by the barbarians, but the legions were moving in.

"Your thoughts?" the Imperator prompted.

"If it's anything like a regular battle," he began. "If we can take each of these rosettes to be a cohort, and the enemies to be their packs, then it seems like we have them pressed, now that Nerithon secures the south-eastern border."

"Correct," he said. "Our advantage may even be better than we hope. I have scouts returning soon from far afield; they will tell us where the enemy has gone, but we make our predictions in the meantime."

Raising a cane, Titus Virellix swiped at the perimeter of the Urkun's force. "We expect they have retreated, and we intend to hasten their desire."

"Where will they go?" Skippii asked.

"To the hills, and towns. But if they are in flight, the main force may move to the straits. There are two, one far north which we cannot reach any time soon. And another…" His cane hovered over Nerithon. There, two rosettes were pinned, numbering V and IX. Then, his cane ventured north along the coast towards the easternmost point of the map–the same way Skippii had gazed out at sea earlier that day–and came to rest upon the city of Ikaros. There, a peninsula stretched like two outstretched hands uniting Philoxania with the Urkunlands beyond.

"Will you give chase?" Skippii asked, and held his breath for the answer he hoped.

"Would that we could," the Imperator sighed, and turned to Luscious. "But there is much to consider."

"The terrain is unfavourable," Luscious Cinitus said plainly.

"Can you see why?" the Imperator asked.

Skippii studied the map. Beside Nerithon was depicted the Sleeping Mountain and its surrounding highlands, dyed green as the forest. Beyond was a fertile plain full of rivers. A crescent mountain range enclosed the flatlands and stretched to the sea, and a little beyond. The mountains formed a natural barricade, separating the two great cities–Nerithon and Ikaros–from one another.

"Why not go by sea?" Skippii asked.

"We do not have the ships," Luscious responded quickly.

"We have some."

"Enough, only, for Nerithon."

Skippii licked his lips, mind at work surveying the map. "Why not take them around the mountainside to a beachhead. Move the legion in pieces, quickly, before the enemy discovers it."

"Bold," the Imperator said. "But misguided, I fear. Divided, the legion is vulnerable, and were we so bold, it would still take weeks with what ships we can spare."

"Then, we march after the Urkun, and meet them where we shall. Or, we allow them to arrive at Ikaros and run. Doesn't that serve your plan?"

"Maybe it does," the Imperator mused. "But would mean an unfortunate end for Ikaros."

"An end?" Skippii said. "But, they are right now ruled by the Urkun khanate, are they not?"

The Imperator was silent for a time, then at length he spoke. "The war in Philoxania is over. We have dealt too decisive a blow. Forty years of war, and now it crumbles in forty days. Our enemy is vicious, but they are not fools. They understand as much as we do that their war is lost, and they must return to their homelands. The threat, of course, is not over. And before the next campaign, there is much work to do to restore these lands. Rebuild the roads. Barricade its borders.

"Ikaros, to my knowledge, is not a well defended city. Its walls are short, and ancient, and have suffered many a siege unrepaired. I do not think the Urkun will make a stand there. I think they will make a killing."

"Fell butchers." Tenoris' voice shook. "Do they not know when to lie down and be defeated?"

"Would you?" the Imperator asked. "Victory is, at times, a fragile thing. We must allow our enemy to flee and make their stand where they will. We are overstretched as it is. The Fifth legion is…"

"In disrepair," Luscious offered tactfully.

"Unfit for campaign," the Imperator finished. "The Ninth has its task here, in the surrounding lands. The fate of Ikaros may not be ours to determine. But in war, there is much grief, and we have done all we can for the peoples of this land. I would not risk my legion of a desperate errand."

Skippii's eyes lingered on the stamp which marked Ikaros. He imagined a city like Nerithon, viewed from up high, sprawling with life. What would become of it? What would the Urkun leave behind in their retreat for the legions to claim?

Averting his eyes, he withdrew his heart. His duties lay with the Ninth.

"What would you have me do?" Skippii asked.

"It seems to me that you will function best as an independent," the Imperator said. "Much like the Coven, you will answer to me, but be free to form your own design. You shall be accompanied, of course, by your companions–whomever you choose. I would suggest your companeight." A sly smile crossed his lips. "They have proven loyal, more so to you than some of their superiors."

Skippii lowered his brow and thought about asking after the Octio, who had been absent ever since Orsin has struck him unconscious. But he thought better of souring the atmosphere with reminders of his accusation of heresy, or his battle with the Coven of Kylin and eventual desertion.

"That dastard Octio," Tenoris said bashfully, and Skippii winced. "Where art he now? He ought to answer for his vile manner of treating Skippii, our heres, our hero of Nerithon."

The smile widened on the Imperator's lips for a moment, before it was cut off. "He has returned to Auctoria on administrative duties."

Skippii shot Tenoris a glance which said, bite your lip. Thankfully, he received the message.

"How are your lodgings?" the Imperator asked.

"Excellent," Skippii responded.

"For now, you shall remain there. I have many duties to attend… much to organise and arrange. Too little of campaigning is strategy and battle. Too much…" the Imperator waved a hand over his maps, and the adjacent tables decked high with tablets and scrolls.

"But I will summon you again soon," he said. "Tomorrow, return to this library that you mentioned. Inform my staff of any provisions you may need for the trip. Bring back these tomes and tablets, and anything else you see fit. I will make sure that there is a place within Nerithon for them to stay upon your return. And I shall have a staff ready to care for Eirene. Clearly, she is an ally of ours, and requires repaying."

"Yes, my Imperator." Skippii's eyes returned to the map of Philoxania, committing it to memory as best he could. "What is to come of the campaign?"

"We will unite these lands. You will help me. And then, in some distant peaceful future, we will return to Auctoria, heroes that we are. And I will see my son and daughters again. And you shall have land, if that is what you desire. Or solitude."

The Imperator smiled, but there was a resigned sorrow in his eyes. "If the Gods will it. If we do not fall before our time."

Skippii left the Imperator's pavilion wondering what his last words had meant, and what had been left unsaid.

"Tomorrow cannot come sooner," Tenoris hummed. "I am full of energy, and a will to strive."

"It should be good to return to the mountain," Skippii said.

"And bring our companions news of this new arrangement," Tenoris said. "We the Coven of Skippii. The Champions of Cor."

"Let's not call it that," he said. "I prefer… Companeight Four. It works."

"But it is so plain," Tenoris said.

"I know," Skippii snorted. "About the only thing left in my life that is."

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