On the sloping slate roof sat Kylinissa. She faced northward towards the desecrated temple, and its tower of worship. The grey stone of the temple had been dyed vibrant orange in the depiction of a snake coiling around its domed roof into its epicentre. Once, it had been a temple to Chrysaetos–the snake symbolised all life on earth, coiling and reaching up towards his brilliant light.

But now, the stonework was stained with grime and creeping lichen. And at the dome's centre, a grotesque tower pierced the roof like the trunk of a diseased tree. Its form knotted and sprouted upwards, listing on its own weight. At its peak was a crooked hand, and clasped within was a shadowy belltower.

Bird-like shapes perched atop the belltower. On occasion, it would knel–a dreadful sound like scraping bone on bone–and the creatures would give flight with a squark and shriek. A pungent cloud sank heavily to the temple's base, obscuring its foundations, and within the mists, more shapes moved, cloaked in misery.

Though she watched her enemy vigilantly, Kylinissa did not indulge in her bitter contempt. Instead, her mind was given to another–to the Goddess of the Storm, Kylin. It felt like a lifetime since her soul had brushed her acheron's upon the battle of Nerithon. No joy could compare, nor any comfort of mortal existence, than to be beheld by a God and made their instrument. She had not known such depths of rapture until her mind had been opened and, linked with the Coven, she had opened her doors and shutters and let the wind in. Kylin's breath was a cold, cleansing purity that expelled all fear, all uncertainty. And in its place was power.

Kylinissa let out a shaking breath. No such power came to her now. Only a mere sliver of what had once been. Separated from the Coven, her devotion was not enough to call upon the Stormstress, to whom she had been devoted for mere weeks. But she was devoted now, and all of the other Gods of the pantheon shunned her. She could no longer read their signs in the stars, nor beseech them for guidance. All that remained was a breath of Kylin's essence as the wind brushed her hair, and made her shiver.

Rainclouds gathered above. Kylinissa's spirit darkened as the air grew colder. Deep in prayer, she beseeched Kylin to come to these lands–to impart her rains and winds and cleanse the air. But where the Coven combined may invoke a storm in merely an hour, it had taken her more than a day, and the rain had still yet to fall.

The clouds churned above, and so too did Kylinissa's anger rumble. Someone must be to blame for her expulsion. The Imperator had ordered it–had wanted her to accompany the primordial heres. She saw the wisdom in that. They were close, in a way. Skippii Altay was an easy man to read. Simple. Driven, and military of mind. Blunt to a fault. But honest, and true to his word. And, she had to admit, brave. He had faced the incursor Cosmipox alone ever before calling upon her and the Coven's help. It was not his fault that she was now so distant from her acheron.

"Priestess."

Slowly, Kylinissa opened her eyes. By the dim light, it was early evening. She had been praying for hours, and suddenly realised her hunger and thirst. Skippii Altay poked his head out of the covey which led onto the rooftop. Behind him was his champion, Tenoris.

"Hello," she said. "Have you need?"

"Just your time, and counsel," he said. "If you don't mind?"

Kylinissa thought he spoke well for a legionnaire, and had noticed that he considered his words and manner of speech carefully. When he spoke with his legionnaire companions, his tone was more coarse and he spoke quicker. When giving commands to his troops, he was loud and clear. And with her… To her, he spoke with a brief hesitation, then sudden enthusiasm, like a horse jerking in its reins.

"I don't mind," she said. He climbed onto the roof, but his big friend couldn't fit through the covey, so he leaned his big arms on the ledge so as not to be left out.

"Legionnaire," she greeted.

"Your heavenlieness." Tenoris bowed his head. Another peculiarity among Skippii's company, this legionnaire appeared like a bear, but spoke like a poet. What's more, he was devout to the pantheon.

Kylinissa smiled. "Your kind words merit Kylin's breath."

He blushed and bowed his head again. Such a gentle giant. But she knew what such giants could do upon the battlefield; there must certainly be a reason why he was the heres' chosen champion.

"Do you have water?" she asked.

Skippii handed her a waterskin, and waited for her to finish before speak. "You're bringing a storm?"

"That is my intent," she said. "Though it belated, and late."

Skippii was silent for a moment–as usual, considering his words. "We attack in two nights' time. We're taking rafts across the bog."

"I am not death to the row and racket of labour," she said, and regretted the bite in her tone. "It is a good plan."

"I intend to use mists to obscure our advance," he said. "It is something I have been working on… A new evocation."

"Okay." A feeling of resentment flickered inside her gut, but she couldn't quite place its origin.

"Is that something you could help with?"

"No," she said. "I intend to bring a storm to wash these streets clean, and winds to clear the air. But it is taking all of my concentration and all of my hours, and I have not had time to eat or drink. Legionnaire," she said to Tenoris. "Bring me food and more water. And wine, if we have any."

"Yes priestess," he said, and quickly departed.

This time, Skippii's silence was long. "How are you?" he asked finally. "We have encountered some strange things in the night. Winged creatures. And they bite."

"They do not come near me," she said. "But they watch me, and they fear me. One came close early, but I invoked a wind to repel it. They are not very flighty creatures–easily unsaddled from the sky, so to speak."

"Even so," he said, "would you spend the night inside? In our quarters?"

Her head whipped around. What resentment she had fostered now turned to a flash of anger. Quarter with legionnaires? Sleep with brutish men? She was a high priestess, not a lowly arcanus. Not anymore.

But alas, this was the field of war, and such luxuries as privacy were already sacrificed. "If you may find me a separate chamber, so that my prayers are not disturbed."

"I will," he nodded slowly.

"And as for your assault," she said. "The storm I intend to bring will rage like a gale. However, I will keep it at bay as best I can while your mists shroud your advance. I will await your signal, then unleash the wind and rains. That should disturb any flying creatures, and maybe send arrows wayward. However, as I have said before, my power alone is much diminished."

"I appreciate your help," he said. She expected it to be over then–for him to depart on more duties. But Skippii sat beside her for a moment longer. Her attuned senses detected his breath in the air–its warmth, and the life of him. It smelled earthly–a sort of acrid underfed smell of a stomach that had seen nothing but oats for a few days.

"And I seek your advice," he said. "Oyaltun has not spoken to me in days. Before the battle of Nerithon, her guidance was frequent. Before I found the Temple of Cor. She guided me through hardship, but right now, when I need her wisdom the most, she isn't there."

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"Kylin does not speak to me either," Kylinissa said. "Not directly. That is normal. It is the way of Gods. They speak to us in messages we must listen very carefully to hear. Listen to your feelings, Skippii. Trust your instincts. Recall your dreams."

He laughed shortly. "I haven't slept in days. It's difficult when…" But he did not finish the sentence.

Kylinissa had seen that expression in men before–those distant eyes, suddenly turned to slate, and the still lips. He was afraid of something; of leadership, the flying beast which killed the Imperator, or the battle to come. But he couldn't admit it. Not to her, not at length.

"Sleep is for the peaceful," she said. "And we have not come here for peace."

"No," he shook his head, rousing from dark thoughts. "I'll take your advice. Thanks."

Tenoris returned and handed her a bowl of gruel. She ate, and bid they leave her, but promised to come inside at nightfall.

And as she prayed and meditated, her mind wandered in the winds, and found itself frequently returning to the spot beside her on the rooftop where Skippii had sat, and looked so tight with worry, and wondered what power of hers might untie such knots. And what she might find beneath his stern, ever composed exterior?

***

That night, foreboding was rife. Nearly one hundred men crammed into the villa's upper rooms and halls. Skippii walked amongst them, talking quietly with those who could not sleep. And they were many, for beyond the shutters came a rattling laughter. The cherubs–as the men had taken to calling them–rasped on the shutters and skittered through the rafters. With the setting sun, the flies returned in force, biting at their wrists and ankles. Skippii lit small fires, wary not to set the villa ablaze. But there was one man that no one could comfort, not even Thales.

The man who had been bitten by a cherub lay in a cot of blankets. He was pale and sweaty–feverish–and would not stop moaning. He spoke to people who weren't there, and names whom his comrades did not recognise. At times, he would kick and wail, and outside the cherubs would explode into a cruel chorus of laughter. Few found rest that night, and the morning was slow to come.

But in the morning, they were blessed with the sound of rainfall. Skippii rose early and took a seat beside the window overlooking the balcony. There, in the distance, advanced the glow of the Urkun horde. The clouds were bruised red with its glow, as many thousands made their way inexorably towards Ikaros. And there, the city's doom.

"Bona-morn." Cur joined him and threw open the window wide, and took a deep breath. "Smells of rain," he sniffed. "Foul rain."

As dawn rose, he set to scrubbing buckets, and singing them with a light touch of his thaugia–killing any mould that festered in the wood's cracks. His company placed these beneath gutters to collect the rainfall. However, for the time, it only drizzled. Skippii let his company drink first, and oversaw the morning's work. However, his presence was hardly needed. By now, his company knew their tasks, and were working as efficiently as a legion's tonnage.

And so, before the morning was up, he and Cliae ventured down the long highway verge which rose out of the bog to its far end, where they would be out of sight from any prying eyes coming from the opposite hill's steeple.

"I'm glad I took your advice now," Skippii said. "About this evocation, Ashen Shroud. We'll be slow moving on the rafts, so some obscurity will go a long way."

"You're welcome," Cliae said smugly.

"It's got me thinking… if by heating the earth, I can create these mists. Perhaps, with more power, I could turn a stream to mist?"

"Or a bog?" Cliae nodded. "Dry it out."

"Precisely."

"And then we would have no need for the rafts?"

Skippii hesitated. "Let's have two plans in place for the assault, so we have something to fall back on. If I can dry the mud out completely, well… What would that look like? Would it create stable footing, or just a thicker, more dangerous ground? It's a bit risky, seeing as though it's untested."

"We have the time to test it."

"That we do," he agreed.

And so he tested the evocation, but reluctantly, he held back. Often, straining his abilities caused him to sweat profusely–a factor which could not be satiated by thaugia alone. With their water rationed, he couldn't afford to dehydrate himself. So instead, he practiced on a small patch of muddy ground. It worked much in the same way as Ashen Shroud, which brought the power of his Magmatic Core to the earth's surface, burning all roots and bracken, and evaporating all moisture. Except, with the bog, he felt his Magmatic Core only thinly. The dirty waters were not a substance of Cor. They were cold to him.

"I'll try another aura," he said, focussing instead on his Eruption Halo. Filling his feet with flames, he pushed the heat underfoot. A puff of steam rose about him, but it took a great deal more thaugia to fully drain it of moisture.

"How does that feel?" Cliae asked. "Any different?"

"Very," he said. "I'm not in the bog with it. As with Magmatic Core, where I'm entwined with the earth. This is more like… I'm acting upon it. It's like I'm trying to heat up a nail by holding it over a candle instead of tossing it into a furnace."

"Will it work during the assault?"

"With a lot more power, maybe."

He tried again, and spread the eruptive power underfoot as he was familiar with Flashfire Trap. However, it was even less effective, only burning the surface. Finally, he stooped and shut his eyes, envisioning the earth beneath him. A whisper of the earth's energy was still in the boggy waters, but it was dampened by Hjingolia's essence. However, as he filled the swamp with flames, he felt them come alive–a whisper of Cor's essence. Drawing upon that power, he bellowed the coals. Like the cold embers of a morning fire, they came alight. His Eruption Aura and Magmatic Core joined together. He was their conduit. His Lava Essence shone, and empowered his breath. Each of three finely balanced weights finally clicked in place, and the evocation was made.

The earth shook, and a cloud of rancid moisture rose. Spluttering, he waded clear of the cloud and bent over, eyes stinging.

"I thought I was a safe distance away." Cliae came over coughing and wafted their hand before their face. "Here."

Skippii accepted the water and poured some over his eyes. The cloud cleared, and he tested the sturdiness of the ground which he had evaporated. Gone was the bog, replaced by crumbling mud. As he stepped on it, it gave way like charcoal. And at the edges of his evocation still remained a thicker, sticky substance, like tar, which clung to his ankles with a sucking strength.

"Well, if I need it, I can use it now. Sparingly." Skippii crouched in the dim afternoon sunlight and drained what was left of his waterskin for the day.

On the way back to the villa, he visited the district which the Kronaians had taken up. Few were present to construct their rafts, and amongst them were only two warriors, the rest were slaves.

"Demakles," Skippii said. "Where is he?"

Skippii found their prince inside a townhouse nearby. The windows were draped with canvas and rugs to stop the flies, and a hearty fire burned around a stewpot. Eighteen-or-so men were present, fully armoured. They each wore a breastplate, vambraces and greaves of iron, polished so bright as to appear as steel. But now, much of their gear was blemished with grime. Atop one table, three warriors worked tirelessly to scrub and polish their armour pieces, and another attended to their iron-tipped pikes.

"Will you be ready in the morning, Demakles?" Skippii asked.

The prince looked puzzled, then rose and approached him. "The morning? No. Not on tomorrow. The next, and four."

"And four?" Skippii said. "We go tomorrow. My men are ready. Are you not?"

Demakles scowled disdainfully. "It is foolish to make haste of war."

"It is foolish to miss an advantage," Skippii said, before he could stop himself. Annoyance fizzled inside his veins, rising to his head, but he restrained his tongue. "We have spares," he said through tight lips. "Two, to be exact. Would you like them?"

"Spares?" Demakles scowled.

"We have two rafts spare. Take them, and join us before sunrise."

The glare Demakles returned was difficult to read. His expression was as impassable as if it was painted on a shield's emblem. But finally, he nodded slightly. Then, he spoke to his men in a sharp tone. They exited the townstead, all except those who were polishing their armour.

"Remember, Skippii of Auctoria. You do not lead the Fifty-Three. I do."

"Then lead them into battle alongside me," he said. "And together, we shall purge this land of Hjingolia's curse."

A smile crept up the corner of Demakles' mouth. It broadened into a grin as his nostrils flared and his eyes drew wide. "Tomorrow is the day, young prince."

"At sunrise," Skippii said, and left.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.