Skippii dug his heels into Hypeston's flank and the stallion jolted forwards. Reeds parted with a whoosh and spray of water. The horse waded and jumped, and soon found sure-footing on what remained of a pathway beneath the deluge. He leaned forward in his saddle, spear in hand, stirrups gripped tightly to his chest. Hypeston picked up speed. Clouds of flies scattered against his face. Bringing thaugia into his head and arms, he lit the spear like a brand–a blazing banner, and rose out of the mire onto Thylon's southern verge.

Crumbling stone and rotting timber rose out of the reeds either side of him. Deep shadows concealed their shadowy innards. And movement. Flickers of panic–bodies twisting towards shelter. Someone fell face-first into the bog nearby, their cloak bunched and spread out over the water's surface like a repugnant lilly. Others tried to assist them–Urkun, by their pale complexion and long ragged hair. They quailed as Skippii charged past, but he paid them no heed.

Deeper into Thylon he rode, and his cavalry came after him. The bog diminished, but the ground remained sodden. All around was coated in filth. It coated the walls. It clung to the air. At his passing, a woman screamed and fled; a terrified mother dragged her son into the cover of their den; an old man remained stupefied on the path, stave in hand as Skippii flew by. But none resisted him, not until he reached a villa house at the hill's flat-top.

There, a decrepit orchard had been felled and laid over the road to serve as a barricade. It was reinforced with upturned furniture, rotting doors torn off their hinges and timber beams. A spear sailed his way, woefully thrown, and splattered into the dirt a dozen metres from his position. But arrows followed, and voices rose in defiance from behind the barricade.

Reining his horse, Skippii leapt down and raised his shield. "Catch him," he shouted back at his Lacustrian accompaniment. "And hold."

Striding forward, he dug his toes into the squelching mud and drew on his thaugia. It came thick and chokingly, like a fire laden with sordid wood. Hot flushes came in waves. Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady the power, but his stomach convulsed and he began to cough. The air was thick and foetid. It soaked into his lungs with each breath, infecting his blood, diluting his power.

Grimacing, Skippii breathed through his nose. His eyes stung in the putrid air, but it was enough to empower the evocations he needed.

Arrows splashed about his feet and stones thudded off his shield. The air misted about him as he filled his body with a Blazing Armour. Gripping his spear, he filled its length with flame and hurled it at the barricade. The Firetail Lance exploded on impact, showering the barricade with burning fragments. Screams rose from the impact, shrill with fear. The patter of incoming projectiles ceased as steam filled the air around the barricade. But the wood was too sodden to burn. He had suspected as much, and besides, his intent was to clear a way for the cavalry; their horses would be spooked by too much fire.

Delving deep underground, he summoned the essence of his Seismic Core and wrought it to the surface. He felt an ecstatic surge underfoot as his thaugia rushed to the surface. Two Rockfangs ripped through the barricade, splitting wood, scattering fragments. The stone spears were shorter than he anticipated, and crumbled too easily. The earth's quality was much diminished by Hjingolia's magia. But she could not stop him from evoking a storm.

Again and again, he raised the earth. A copse of monuments, like jagged-tipped tombstones. They burst from the earth with a spray of mud. The air grew clogged with dirt, but he wasted no time. He whistled loudly, and a loud hoorah rose from behind. At his signal, hoofbeats came upon him as the Lacustrians charged towards the breach. But he made it first.

Skippii's heart pounded with Boiling Blood and the thrill of combat. In his right hand, he held a spitting flame. In his left, he bore his legionnaire's shield, for the earth was too sodden to form a Basalt Shield. He scanned around for an enemy, and saw the faces of men, wild with fear and blemished with warts and pox, and dirt.

He snarled, and his breath misted the air. But none of his foes stepped forward. They huddled in groups, weapons in hand–farmer's weapons: hoes and staves and scythes. None were armoured. None flew banners. It seemed that only terror itself kept them rooted at their post.

"Hjingolia," he cried. "My enemy. Where do you hide?"

The townsfolk cowered before him. More than a hundred had gathered to man a defence, but their spirit was on the edge of breaking. The flame inside Skippii grew chill. There was no enemy here worthy of his ire. Nothing but fearful slaves and the Urkun–too foolish to have fled these lands when they had the chance.

The flame in his hand dampened. He strode forward and the defenders shrank back.

"Flee then, if you have no heart," he cried.

But rather than run, a glint took to their eyes. He had seen it before many times in the glare of a gambler whose luck teetered on a dice's edge. A gamble, and a sense of changing fortunes. They shared that look, and it spread. A murmur rose and swelled to a defiant cry.

"Flee," Skippii insisted, but their confidence only grew. Suddenly, Skippii understood why. They had mistaken his reluctance for fear; his hesitation for doubt.

The defenders surged forward. Skippii raised his shield and planted his feet, coating himself in a Blazing Armour. He felt their blows–like parting reeds–but he had not the heart to strike back. So many faces flashed before his eyes–human faces–not like the true enemy whom he sought. Men and boys, caught in the flash-flood of fury.

"Back!" Skippii screamed and struck the earth. A Seismic Quake shot outwards as a wave and upturned the earth. Spray filled the air as the ground shook and splintered beneath the defender's feet. They toppled, sloshing in the dirt, falling over themselves. Then the cavalry arrived.

Spears found flesh in a horrifying malaise. Bright crimson stained the dark mud. Horror rang in his ears so loud he felt it rake at his skin and press on his bones. Terrible death. The cavalry put a slaughter on the townsfolk–the defenders–and carved a dreadful lifeless silence into the hilltop.

Skippii strode forward, stunned. Many lay fallen and trampled at his feet. Many were still alive, crawling and huddling, begging for their lives. The Lacustrians worked quickly and professionally, splitting into groups of four and running the enemy into alleyways and through doorways. They slew any man so much as carrying a stave, but diverted their blades for the women and the defenceless. One part of his mind marvelled at the Lacustrian's efficiency, and was proud of how they accomplished his orders. Another part–a much more primal part–was disgusted at the violence, and disgusted at his own pragmatism.

Hardening his heart, Skippii focussed on his task. The quicker he could kill his true enemy, the sooner the bloodshed would be over. He came upon a large villa–a compact three story building made from brick with a slate roof, and entered. The doorway was bare, and furniture inside had been displaced. The bare floor was caked in mud, and no fires were lit inside. People scurried away from him like rats, which only served to quench his fires further. This was not noble combat. He felt only pity for them.

"Auctoritas arrives." His voice echoed in the empty entrance chamber. "Auctoritas. Hjingolia is usurped. Thylon shall be liberated. Freedom Philoxenia."

Somewhere off in the distance a bell knelled. The sound sent a shiver through his skin. Again it sounded–a dreadful carrion call–and put a pit in his stomach. Exiting, he jogged over to the far side of the hill in search of the sound. There, he gazed out over the valley which split Thylon in two. Bowed low in the deluge beneath him were the skeletons of buildings claimed by Hjingolia's bog. Wooden beams jutted like decaying fish bones, covered in creeping lichen and foaming diseases. Into those waters now plunged dozens of Urkun men, likening their chances of the bog over the blades of the Lacustrians.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

They waded and swam towards a much larger hill beyond. Ruinous buildings crawled out of the bog, stretching their wooden beam-limbs to its zenith. There was a palisade wall, and in pockets, half hidden in the reeds, were planted staves to deter cavalry. Rickety towers rose from within, speckled with brazier fires for the watchmen. And at the heart of the hilltop was a large brick temple, a steeple and belltower.

As he sighted it, the bell tolled again. Cries of alarm were raised from Thylon's sister hilltop, and torches sparkled dimly in the boggy morning mists. Indeed, as he watched, the mists thickened at an unnatural speed. Thylon's defences became obscured until only the steeple rose out of its malaise.

The bell knelled a third time. Below in the valley, the fleeing Urkun disappeared and drowned in the thick mud, or else drifted out of sight into the fog. Such needless death. Was there no better way of conquering what remained of Philoxenia?

"Rats."

Kylinissa rose atop her horse behind him. A stiff wind rippled through her cloak and tousled her stallion's mane, clearing the stagnant air. Her eyes were intent on the Urkun fleeing before them.

"They gave little resistance," Skippii said dimly.

"About time they discovered who their new masters are," Kylinissa said. Thunder flickered around her dark pupils as she raised her head to the temple's steeple. "The old Gods have returned."

"And order. And the legion," Skippii said. But he was not so sure.

***

The liberators arrived to neither fanfare nor applause. Skippii's legionnaires lead the procession up the verge, followed by his auxiliaries. They were in high spirits. Word was that many of the Urkun had tried to flee the hilltop through southern passes, and had come upon the Brenti's encampments unsuspectingly. Many had been slaughtered and subject to the spoils of war. The killing bolstered his men's spirits. It made them feel powerful, confident. And so Skippii did not object as they joined him, gloating and flaunting their stolen jewelry, and in the case of one bearded old zealot, a necklace of string threaded through the lobes of five ears.

"Good work," he said dryly. "Now reserve your strength for the battle ahead. This hilltop is won. But worse will be the siege on the other."

They cleared the villa house and took up inside its spacious halls. Thales disappeared as soon as he entered town. Skippii spotted him hours later leaving the house of a resident further down the street. Catching up to him, he extended a waterskin.

"We must ration it," he said. "But drink your fill now."

"I am fine without," Thales said. "My thaugia nourishes me."

"It does?" Skippii said. "Mine doesn't. I still need rest and sleep, and time to heal, and food and water."

"As do I," he said stiffly. "But I may acquire those things from the air, from the soil and sunlight. My powers are not so ruinous as yours, but they are broad." As he spoke, his gaze passed over the barricade's remains and the bodies buried in the red mud about.

Skippii sighed. "I wish it had not been necessary too."

Thales slowed to a stop in the middle of the street, and was silent for a while, unable to divert his eyes from their shallow graves. "I have resisted the Urkun for a long time, and the heretic… but always with a word, and conspiracy, and with healing thaugia. My compatriots sometimes apply the precise poison or a razor's edge, but war… War is unfamiliar to me. The brutality…"

"They stood in our way," Skippii said. "They would have killed me if they could. But they can't. It is not a fair contest. The sooner we kill Hjingolia's servants, the sooner they will throw down their arms and submit."

"Submit," Thales said. "A cruel word for liberation."

"Have you a better way?" Skippii said.

"I do not. But my part is not with the killing." He took the waterskin from Skippii and set off into the bog, just as he had wandered through Nerithon's streets in search of the needy.

Skippii retired to the villa, where his companeight had prepared a space for their quarters on the third floor overlooking the valley. Thereupon a table which had been too heavy for the defenders to add to the roadway barricade, lay Cliae's maps. His chronicler had procured some of their precious blank parchment and ink, ready to transcribe his strategy.

"No," he said. "Save the materials."

He threw open the doors of a balcony and opened its shutters. Then, on the opposite interior wall, he pressed his hand into the smooth wood. Once it must have been polished and unblemished, but now it was eaten with woodworm and swelling with dampness. Shutting his eyes, he envisioned the lay of the land from above, their position and the enemy's assets. With an exhale, he breathed his conception into the wall. Just as he had done once before within the Temple of Cor, his thaugia seeped into it and burned a transcription on its surface. Black marks emerged from the ashen wood, forming the map of his mind.

Turning, he caught his companeight staring in amazement, all except Cliae and Tenoris, who had seen the evocation once before at the Temple of Cor.

"What?" he said. "You've seen me do more impressive things than this."

"But this is a first," Orsin said. "It's quite… elaborate."

"You have finesse," Arius praised.

"What's this?" Drusilla said, stepping forward. He pointed to a spot on the map which represented their position within the manner: a geometric rune with IV inscribed in the centre. Lifting his spear-hand to the inscription, he presented a copy of the rune–that which they had each gotten tattooed some weeks ago.

Skippii smiled. "That's us. I thought it would make for a fitting emblem for our company."

"It is perfect," Tenoris said. "Now tell us, master strategist, what battle preparations have you made?"

"Wait a second," Cur said. "We're making them now, ain't we? It's a forum. I'm not just going to follow his orders blindly. I know… I get it… Primordial Heres and all that. But that doesn't make him a tactical mastermind. He's barely had five weeks in the legion. I've served more time than-"

"-all of you combined," Orsin finished the sentence in tandem with Cur.

"I would rather a discussion too," Skippii said. "Gaze out on the balcony now. Look upon our destination, and let me explain what I have planned thus far." He took a breath. "We will not be able to cross that bog with the cavalry as we have done today. It's too thick, and I suspect there will be things lurking below the waters. The poor footing alone might kill the beasts, if they sprain themselves in the thick of it. The assault will have to be done by the infantry."

"Excellent," Kaesii said, raising his chin proudly.

"I would have liked the time to build a causeway," Skippii said. "But already, the Coven of Kylin will have arrived at their quarry, and I doubt they will take many weeks to liberate their town."

"So it's a competition?" Kaesii said as a smile flickered across his lips. "Companeight Four verses the Coven?"

"I just don't want to be outdone," Skippii said. "Certainly not by weeks, and that's how long I suspect it would take to build a bridge."

"Yes," Orsin raised his voice. "We're near the horde now. The migration horde. They could turn back around to assist Thylon. They can't be more than fifty miles away now."

"Forty," Arius said. "I saw the glow of their firelight last night shine upon the clouds. A great host, it must be, for that much light at night."

"A great host," Orsin agreed. "Though it might not just be torches and campfires creating all that light. Bonfires. Pyres. Farmsteads ablaze. If what we're seeing here is an example of how the Urkun are conducting this retreat, they're probably burning everything between here and Ikaros."

"Then I'd rather take Thylon quickly," Skippii said. He looked around the room for any objection of insight, but his companions nodded mutely. Pointedly, he looked at Cur. "Do you agree, sire?"

"Yeah," Cur said. "Get on with it."

"So," he went on. "It'll be rafts. We will tie together timber and furniture, and use poles to pull ourselves across. It will be slow, and we will be vulnerable. But I have some tricks prepared. Firstly, mists. Cliae and I have been working on a new evocation to form a shrouding mist, which should keep us concealed to arrow fire. Secondly, Kylin's winds, if Kylinissa's power stretches that far… The Coven, at the siege of Nerithon, blew gusts to deter arrows."

"But she's alone," Orsin said. "Can she still manage it?"

"I'm not sure," Skippii admitted.

"Then you better find out," Cur said. "Just don't go picking her any flowers from around here when you do."

Ignoring that comment, Skippii went on. "The Kronaians should be able to assist us with preparations, and make the assault with is."

"Where are those silverfish anyway?" Cur said. "Slacking off."

"They were afraid to get their armour wet," Drusilla mocked.

"They'll be here soon," Skippii said. "Today, I'll let it pass. But they will help with the assault. There's no exception."

"How long must we wait beneath these pungent clouds?" Tenoris said. "How long to build rafts? A week? Two?"

"Three days," Skippii said. "We must strip the whole town for supplies. Rope, timber, canvas… Anything to get us across that bog."

Skippii strode onto the balcony and looked out at Hjingolia's plague lands, and the shrouded steeple at the hill's far peak.

"Three days," he repeated. "Let them see us preparing. They will not expect an attack so quickly."

"I suppose you want us doing the labour too?" Cur said.

"Us, and the auxiliaries. Everyone," he said.

"I didn't plan on sleeping in this stink anyway," Drusilla said, and rasped on the table with his knuckle. "Hand me an axe, I'll get started on this driftwood first."

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