The Kronaian Fifty-Three arrived at nightfall. A messenger rode ahead of the procession to alert him and make sure he awaited their arrival cordially. Their silver-blue armour had lost much of its polished sheen to the bog waters. The tails of their white cloaks had been dipped in a stagnant yellow. Grim faced, their leader–Demakles–approached Skippii, but did not extend a hand. Instead, he scanned the town's square, nose wrinkled, before his eyes rested on the large villa nearby.

"So this is what becomes those who harbour the Urkun heretic."

"Harbour, and suffer," Skippii said. "They were conquered. Most of your countrymen were."

Demakles scowled. "The weak allow themselves to be conquered. The strong die free."

Skippii bit his tongue. Theirs had been a war spanning many generations. He was a foreigner here, and didn't know their history or beliefs. But still, something about Demakles' pitiless attitude unsettled him.

"We are held up in the villa house," Skippii explained. "There's space for your company inside too."

Demakles took another glance at the villa house then turned to his chosen warriors. He spoke authoritatively in Philoxenian. They saluted, then dispersed, heading towards roadside residences.

"I would like to hear your thoughts to strategy," Demakles said. Beside him remained his consults, standard bearer and two slaves, filthily dressed, awaiting command.

"We're building rafts," he said. "With timber and furniture, and any rope we can find. We have already made significant progress. Tell your men only to burn scraps for fires–not good timber. We will need it. I have my men working all hours so that we're prepared to attack on the third night." He paused, considering how to phrase his next sentence. "You could tell your men to do the same, and we would be ready to attack together on the third night."

Demakles scowled, and paused, revealing little of his thought. "Rafts? Not a ship?"

"A ship could take a long time to build. Weeks, maybe. Here, we're just as vulnerable as the enemy. This isn't a good position to defend, not with a force as small as ours. The Urkun horde is not more than fifty miles from us now, to the east. The tail of that force might turn back to these lands, and what will we do if we find ourselves faced with a thousand warriors, surrounded in this bog, without a means of food or water?

The old warrior considered this as his eyes drifted over the rooftops eastward. He tugged on the grey pointed beard that spanned his jaw and nodded slightly.

"And if we attack quickly, they will not expect it," Skippii added.

"Then be quick," he said.

"And you will help?"

Demakles tilted his head, lips creased. "I do not know about these tasks of labour. They are beneath my men. Our slaves will assist you. It is slave's work. We shall rest, and see that order is brought to this town."

Meanwhile, as they spoke, the Kronaian spearmen ventured into homesteads and filtered through the streets of Thylon. Skippii heard a brief cry of alarm, then something crashed behind closed doors. Fires went dark. A baby wailed. Skippii wondered what business the warriors were conducting in those homes. Theft, most likely. Demakles had given them leave to indulge in cruelty. Thales appeared distantly down the road and began marching uphill towards Demakles.

"We need all hands on this task," Skippii said. "If you are content to sit out the assault, then glory be to you. But Auctoritas will see this job done. And it will be swift."

Demakles' thick brow deepened. Anger flickered in his eyes. For a breath, Skippii wondered if he had goaded the proud Kronaian too far. Demakles almost snarled, then ground the expression between his teeth, and spoke. "We shall not be outshone."

"Then you will be ready on the third night?"

"We will be ready."

"Fylakas," Thales yelled, catching their attention. "Prince, you must recall your men."

Demakles turned to Thales with a lofty dismissiveness. "Whom do I speak to?"

Thales replied in Philoxenian. His voice was pitched high with a plea. Skippii heard the word Hjingolia mentioned. The old philosopher spoke emphatically with gestures, repeating a stabbing motion with his finger to his wrist. He raked his fingers over his face and pinched the wrinkled skin of his cheeks. His eyes were wide and alarmed, his voice firm.

Demakles listened without giving a reaction, but faintly, his eyes wandered to the nearby buildings. Their filthy walls and clogged drains. The fly-ridden corpse of a dog in the shade. The dead bushes and barren trees. His nose twitched as a stench crawled on the stagnant air to their senses. Finally, he shifted and muttered something to his counsel. A trumpet was blown to rally the men, and Demakles departed, striding down the central road, careful not to venture from the path.

"What did you say to him?" Skippii asked

"I just explained the dangers of coming close to the residents of a town infested by Hjingolia's magia," Thales said. Mischief flickered in his eye. "I may have embellished a bit. Not to say that we are not in danger by being here."

"What's the truth?" Skippii said. "What have we to fear?"

"Don't drink the water. Don't touch any artefacts of the heretic. Don't cut your finger on a rusted nail. And if you face Hjingolia's banshees in battle, kill them from a distance. Do not let them get close."

As night set in, Thales' warning took form.

Biting flies filled the air. His companeight closed all the shutters and doors to their villa-house chamber, but it didn't stop them. They crawled through cracks in the floorboards and afters with a single-minded intent to nip and sting legionnaire flesh. Skippii lit small fires beneath the windows, but even the smoke seemed not to deter them.

Wrapping themselves in their blankets, they tried to sleep. But the constant buzzing made them restless. Only Tenoris fell into a deep snoring slumber.

Shutting his eyes, Skippii drew his cloak over his face and thought about tomorrow's tasks. He drifted into a half-sleep state when Kaesii's voice awoke him.

"Stop that. I swear, Drusilla, I will get up and flog you."

Drusilla's groggy voice was late to respond. "What?"

"Quit touching my leg."

"I'm not."

Then, Kaesii gave a cry and jumped to his feet. Skippii threw his cloak off and reached for his thaugia. A flame came into his palm. Something fluttered in the air. It looked like a bat, but as his light fell upon it, he saw a vaguely human form: a small skinny child-like creature with locust wings. With a callous giggle, it zipped up into the afters and disappeared.

"What in heresy was that?" Kaesii blurted.

"Did it touch you?" Skippii said, getting to his feet.

"Something did," Kaesii said. "Yeah, look. A bite mark." He revealed a jaw's outline on his shin.

"Did it break the skin?" Thales asked.

Kaesii checked thoroughly. "No."

Drusilla retrieved his spear and started jabbing aimlessly at the rafters. "Is it still up there?"

"How did it get in?" Kaesii said.

"What's going on?" Orsin yawned.

"There's something in here with us," Skippii said. "A small… bat-like creature. It looked like a child to me."

"And I," Drusilla agreed, still intent on the rafters. "Shall we post a watch then?"

"I guess we'll have to," Skippii said. "I wasn't able to sleep anyway."

"And I don't think I'll relax now," Kaesii agreed.

"Me neither," Drusilla said.

Tenoris' snoring broke the ensuring silence.

"We could keep working," Skippii said. "If we're not going to sleep anyway."

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"A bit of midnight labour?" Drusilla said. "I'll fetch the axe."

"Might as well," Kaesii agreed.

"I'll keep here and watch," Arius said, nodding at Tenoris. "At least this one will have the strength for a fight."

Passing the auxiliaries who camped on the lower floors, Skippii warned them of the creatures, and told them to post a watch. Outside, there was an empty stable which their company had taken up as a workshop. Skippii lit a brazier there and they all kept close to it, working through the night to dismantle various furniture. They then tied the pieces together, and had the foundations for five rafts. However, by the first light of morning, they had almost run out of materials.

"Shall we get some more," Kaesii said, nodding at the nearby houses.

"At night?" Skippii said. "We'll frighten anyone there."

"It's only our men now," Drusilla said. "The townsfolk have all fled to the edge of the bog."

"I think the white-cloaks scared the last of them off," Kaesii said. "Go on, Skip. I still don't feel like sleeping."

"Give it a couple of hours," he said. "Let's try and get some rest. The flies have cleared. I don't think those things will be out in the morning light."

"I hope you're right," he grumbled, and the three of them retired to their villa residence.

Skippii had just drifted off when he was awoken again by a cry. This time, the alarm came from elsewhere in the villa. Jumping up, he swept down the staircase and into a high-ceilinged room where ten of his auxiliaries had laid their bedrolls. They now all stood with their backs to him, fixed on the wall. There, jutting from the wooden beams, was a javelin. And pinned to its tip was a grotesque creature.

About the size of his hand, it indeed bore the features of a human child–pudgey cheeks and distended belly. But its flesh was festering with boils and mould. Four large locust-like wings sprouted from its back, now lifeless. The javelin had pierced it through the hip and shattered it into a bloody mess.

"Stand back," Skippii said, coming closer. "Don't touch it."

"It bit me," one of the Brenti said. A man in his prime, lean muscled with a low, gruff voice. He displayed his hand, whereupon was a crimson dot of blood.

Before Skippii could make the request, Thales was at the man's side, inspecting the wound. "Come with me," he said, and took him aside.

"Everyone leave," Skippii said. He drew a breath and put the flame into his hand, then held his palm over the creature's corpse and burned it away. Smoke rose to the ceiling, and the wooden wall blackened.

By now, his companeight was behind him in the doorway, watching with curiosity.

"Orsin," he said. "Get the word out. We all camp in the top floor tonight. Even if it's cramped. We shouldn't have…" he paused to consider his words. "I shouldn't have allowed the men to split up. I underestimated our enemy's reach."

"It's only a little bite isn't it?" Kaesii said.

"Let's hope so," Skippii said. "But I'm not taking any risks."

"We've got to share with fifty stinking Brenti now?" Cur said. "I thought we were legionnaires."

"You stink worse than them, Cur," Orsin said. "I can smell your rotten teeth from across the room."

"Curious," Cur said. "Your mother doesn't mind my mouth when I bed her."

"His mother's Brenti too," Kaesii said.

"Oh, then never mind," said Cur.

"Delightful," Orsin said dryly.

"Come now fellows," Tenoris said with the gravitas of one well-rested. "The day's labour awaits. And what more noble thing than the labour of man?"

By afternoon's approach, they had made significant progress on the rafts. His companeight shed their cloaks and armour, and committed whole-heartedly to the task alongside their Brenti and Lacustrian compatriots. They seemed like bulls amongst calves, each taller than the javeliners and horsemen; each of a more muscular bulk, the sort of physique required for front-line fighting. Kaesii made a show of hauling a large beam on his shoulders and carrying it to a workstation alone, forcing several Brenti to duck as he swung it around. But they laughed and cheered for his strength.

As the afternoon went on, it seemed to Skippii that their differences blurred. The Lacustrians tied their long, dark hair in knots above their heads and set their sleek hands to tying hardy knots. The Brenti chopped and sawed and heaved, as the dirt and dust found purchase in their ragged beards. Their hands–grimy and rough–were suited for the work, and they could work on a piece of timber with tenacity which matched the legionnaires.

The Kronaians set to work elsewhere on the hilltop, one street over from the villa. Skippii spotted them strolling through the town in twos-and-threes with their slaves in tow. The servants carried sacks, but infrequently did they carry timber. It seemed that their scavenging dug up more silverware and trinkets than it did useful materials for the rafts. At midday, a trumpet was blown from the top balcony of the villa house. All eyes turned to watch a banner be erected at its highest point: a white flag with blue trim, and the skull of a mountain goat with fearsome horns.

"They've no business flying that," Cur grumbled. "They haven't even done anything to help."

Skippii wandered into their work area and discovered them woefully behind on preparations. As he watched, he caught their sidelong stares, and sensed with unease that they were talking about him. Their superior–Demakles–caught his eye, but made no approach. The old warrior was seated in the shade over a campfire which was cooking stew of some description.

Not wanting to appear dismayed, Skippii kept on watching them, arms folded across his chest. He wondered what had caused the Kronaians to become so dissuaded with their quest. Was it the unpleasant conditions of Hjingolia's bog, or something else entirely? Indeed, were they disillusioned at all, or was this level of discipline normal amongst their armies? Skippii had only ever known the legion's way–Auctoritas order; he could not hope to hold the forces of their allies to the same standard.

Nearby, the houses of Thylon were deserted. Skippii strolled through the town. There was much on his mind. The upcoming assault was foremost, but also were his worries about the distant Urkun horde, the fate of Philoxenians left in its wake, and the monster at its prow. The Mantikhoras. As a cloud passed over the sun, he imagined its great wings looming above his head. Its hot, rancid breath on the back of his neck. If it discovered him here, would it come for him? Would it seek him out? Could he fight it? Could he defend his companions?

"Skip." Thales' voice reached him in the mallaise. The old philosopher stood alone upon the street, draped in his black, sheepkin cloak, his donkey besides. "Do you look for me?"

"No," he said. "I was wandering… Maybe I was looking for you."

Thales opened his arm in gesture for him to join. "There is much healing to be done here. Very much. Perhaps your fire thaugia could help some."

Skippii waded with his old friend down the mud-clogged streets. The slap and squelch of their footfalls sounded too loud in the deafly silent town. Guided by some instinct, Thales delved into a dank alleyway and rasped on a door with his stave. A man opened it. Wrapped in a blanket, his cheeks were pinched with starvation. His boney hands shook on the door knob. But as Thales spoke, he seemed to relax, and invited them inside.

"Is it safe?" Skippii said. "If they are carrying disease…"

"No less safe than standing outside in the filth," Thales said.

The house was barren of life. Its furnishings did not look so old and tattered, but the rug was moth-eaten and the tables were pocked with woodworm. The living room fireplace was cold, and the remains of a chair leg protruded from the ashes.

"They must take a raft over the deluge to gather firewood," Thales explained. "And they can take little. It's a meagre blessing that the spring has been warm this year."

"My fires won't burn long without fuel," Skippii said. He pressed his palm into the brick fireplace and drew thaugia into the stone. It heated to his touch, so he imparted more, until the whole column was a warm glow. "The stone will keep the heat for a few hours," he said. "It might heat the whole house."

The Philoxanian townsman watched him warily, wrapped in his cloak. In the kitchen beyond sat his wife. The skin sagged from her face and arms, and below her dark eyes.

"After we liberate Thylon, what then?" Skippii said. "How can we help these people."

"If Hjingolia's servants die, the bog will drain," Thales explained. "That, at least, is my theory. It is an unnatural mark on the land. If Hjsingolia is displaced, the old forces shall return and drain it away."

"But how fast?" Skippii said.

Thales considered it. "Months, perhaps. It is the work of the seasons."

"What if it were the work of the Gods," Skippii said. "Kylinissa may be able to help."

Thales took a terse breath. "This is the work of the gods. Their meddling."

"I know," Skippii said. "But I trust Kylinissa. We share an enemy, and a master–the legion."

"Do as you see fit," Thales said. "You no longer need my permission, young man."

Strangely, that comment filled Skippii with a warming pride. He looked around the townsfolk's domicile, at the furniture and decorations, and the long rope which held a chandelier above their heads. "Translate for me," he said. "I need their help. I am here to liberate Thylon for the Imperium Auctoritas. For the Pantheon. I will destroy the incursor god that did this. And swiftly, all the swifter with their help."

As Thales translated, the beleaguered man's eyes drifted to him. They held his stare as a man who had seen so much death and felt such fear that neither could startle him, for they were an everpresent haze. But something else glittered. A pain that was transformed, for the briefest moment, into rage.

Then it was gone. The man lowered his head. But his wife rose and laid her hands around his shoulders and whispered something in his ear.

"They will help," Thales said finally. "The lady says you can take what you'd like."

"I would like you," Skippii said. "If you have the strength. I would like your arms. Join me and my brothers. Take your revenge, even if it is in such a small way."

And so, he and Thales travelled to every house that would admit them, and spoke to all the residents. Despite its barren appearance, word spread over the streets. Children ran like rats from hiding, carrying messages of their coming. Their mission preceded them, and by early evening, Skippii had gathered a crew of almost twenty men and women healthy enough to raise a saw. And they brought bundles of rope and hammers and nails, and the poles which they used to steer their rafts. Those rafts themselves, Skippii inspected, but as he suspected, found them too narrow and unstable for his legionnaires' use.

"Leave them," he instructed. "I won't rid you of your own vessels. We will have plenty of timber amongst the furniture."

Their arrival back at the construction area was met with weariness. His company kept their distance from the pox-ridden residents of Thylon, who tossed their supplies into a heap and looked to Skippii for direction.

"They wish to help," he announced. "This is their town after all. Their redemption. Can you give them a task? Something light?"

"Could gather more rope," Drusilla said. "We're low."

"Have 'em make wicker shields," a Brenti lad said. "Big 'uns. Full-body. Just for the crossing, then we'll toss 'em and use ours."

"Good thinking," Skippii said. "Think you can handle being a foreman, Thales?"

"I can do it," Cliae said. "I've been stuck for something to do. Labour isn't exactly my forte."

"Then get to it," he said fondly.

"I meant to ask," Cliae stammered, then composed themselves. "We are running low on the clean water we brought to this island. Should we… I mean, should you send the horsemen to get some more?"

"I could spare them," Skippii contemplated, eyeing the progress they'd made thus far. "Yeah. I'll do that. And I'll speak to Kylinissa about getting some rain. Where is she?"

"The priestess has made an alter on the rooftop," Tenoris said.

"The rooftop?" Skippii said.

"Yes. I wished to pray with her later. But should we go together, now?"

"Okay." Skippii looked up at a dark cloud gathered above the villa. And was it his imagination, or had the air cleared somewhat, and a thin breeze wafted through town?

"If things get bitter about… you know, the Pantheon not exactly liking me," Skippii said. "You can butter her up with your worship babble, aye Tenoris?"

"I shall babble at your command."

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