Skippii wandered around Legion IX's camp in a daze. His companeight came with him, but all were silent. Cliae spoke for him when they entered the logistics tents, and many times after that they were made to chase up a primus, or scribe, or messenger, about the whereabouts of the men who were to accompany them, and their provisions for the trip. The camp was in disarray, yet it was the dawn of the Imperator's warpath. Diligently, the men and women of Legion IX endeavoured on their tasks, set by Titus Virellix. However, it was not until early evening that Skippii's company was assembled and provisioned for their journey ahead.

Custos Maritor accompanied them to the edge of camp. They shared idle conversation, and though his voice was weighty with grief, his chin never fell, nor did his eyes seem to darken.

"Fare well, Skippii Altay," Maritor said at the camp's exit. "I know the Gods shall not make this our final goodbye. But all the same, farewell."

"Look after the toonage while we're gone." Skippii smiled meekly and shook his hand.

His old primus held firm, but no smile broke his demeanour. "Look after yourself, Skippii. Come back to the legion. You're important to us."

A lump formed in Skippii's throat, and his voice wavered as he spoke. "I will return once my work is done."

Maritor squinted slightly as he peered into his eyes. "See that you do. That's an order."

"Yes Primus," Skippii said with a salute. And then sharpish, before their goodbye could be spoiled by melodramatics, he turned and left.

At the head of the company was his companeight, clad in their legionnaire's arms. A contingent of auxiliaries and horsemen followed, and behind them, five pack mules and their handlers. They had food to last the journey to Thylon, and a week longer, but would rely on hunting and foraging thereafter, and sequestering from the locals. Skippii had decided not to take a wagon, for it would only slow them down, and strapped their supplies to their mules' harnesses.

As they set out, a young, red-faced Brenti scampered to the front of the column and hailed Skippii.

"Shouldn't we wait for the morning light, superior?"

"No," Skippii said plainly. "We have need of haste."

The young man stammered and looked embarrassed. "But, the road in the dark-"

"You heard him," Cur snapped, and lunged for him. The auxiliary dashed aside, wide eyed, and retreated back in line.

"You have to be harsh with these Brentis," Cur said. "Thick skulled.

"Watch it," Orsin growled.

At sunset, he stopped suddenly and started a fire. They were following a path around the base of the Sleeping Mountain. To the north lay low hills–the spreading limbs of the mountain's volcanic spew. And beyond, a land unknown to him.

"Rest," he said tersely. "Strech. We depart before long."

The auxiliaries squatted by the side of the path. There were fifty in total–javeliners all from the city Brenti. Orsin's kinsmen. Bearded, hardened folk. Wiry like foxes. Keen and sharp toothed. They wore pale blue sash around their waist, which could be transformed into a hammock at the end of the day. Each man's equipment was different–the knife at his belt unique–and they were adorned with necklaces of beads and bronze trinkets. Many walked with staves, and carried their javelins in a long leather sheath. Accompanying them were hunting dogs and hawks, but no mules; they carried their packs themselves.

The cavalry was a much more disciplined sight. Lean were their stallions, and light was their armour. Twenty in total, all from the expansive plains of Lacustria–breaders of the best bulls and horses and bison in Auctaria. Their long black manes matched their horses dark hair, and were braided in similar fashion. Each was equipped with a bow and sling, and knife and spear. They were versatile; deadly in numbers, but resourceful at twenty heads.

He had witnessed them perform their killing craft on the battlefield ever since he was a child, watching from the steps of his mother's wagon. Now, they looked to him for orders.

"Keep to the path. Ride at our fore," he said. "We shall walk through the night. Arius will go ahead. He is keen eyed. Who amongst you has the best sight?"

"Liatus, superior."

"Heres will do," Skippii raised his hand. "I don't have a legion rank, but heres is my title. Who is Liatus?"

"Heres," a young man said, riding forth.

"Ride with Arius. Make sure the way is clear."

A horse had been given to Skippii, but he had not ridden it. He favoured the touch of the ground beneath his bare feet. Now, he gave the steed to Arius, and he and Liatus trotted off down the darkening forest path.

Another horse joined them. Its rider was silent, but the wind swept about her departure. Kylinissa, robbed in deep blue. A stranger to him, all of a sudden.

"Prepare torches and light them," he commanded the auxiliaries.

Skippii's thoughts darkened with each moment they lingered, like a pool whose waters stagnated. His company seldom spoke. Each had their woes, and none knew the right words to drive them away. Not even Thales, who remained ever watchful of him, his eyes full of a silent compassion. But Skippii was not yet ready to open his heart and speak of its pain. Not in front of these men–these new soldiers of his. He could not show weakness. He could not show pain.

"Come." With a breath, he siphoned the fire's flames. They vanished to embers on the ground, but in his hand was held a bright torch. With it, he led the way, closely accompanied by his legionnaire brethren.

The trekked until sunrise, following paths between diminishing hills. Eyes watched them from the moorlands, but none opposed their passage. Shepherds ventured closer to Nerithon, seeking fresher soils. Roving huntsmen passed them on the trail, taking their meats and pelts to the city for trade. And travellers–old and curious–braved the rocky passes for a glimpse of the new city. The world was slowly awakening to Nerithon's liberation, but the cost had been grave.

Skippii marched his men until they met a stream. He felt no fatigue–drawing thaugia from the earth–but his company did not possess the same endurance. They relieved and watered themselves, and rested in the tall grass by the streamside. Skippii, however, paced ahead, eager to continue the trail. There, he stood in the centre of the road, wishing the hills to part so that and the way to clear so that he could observe the broad land ahead.

Thales approached and stood beside him in silence. The urge to speak came upon Skippii suddenly. An urge to throw down the baggage he carried on his mind. But what words could loosen the straps? What sentiment could ease the load?

"I know our enemy," Thales said. "I have studied them for long. The incursors, as you call them. There are three in these lands, and maybe more abroad. But here, they haunt Philoxenians. You have met one already. Cosmipox. Do you wish to know the names of the others?"

"Of course," he said, sealing his heart.

"Hjingolia, of ruin. And Grakor, of abomination. That creature which infiltrated the legion's camp… I believe I know its name as well."

Skippii's turned on him with intent. "Tell me everything you know."

"It nests not far from the city of Ikaros, in the northernmost reaches of Philoxenia. It has a name. Mantikhoras. Man-eater."

"One of the incursors?" he asked.

"One of their children," Thales said. "Not a mere champion, but one of their blood. Their creation. It has dwelled for a long time in its lair, goring on its slave's sacrifice."

He gave Skippii a sombre, knowing look. "I have even seen it once before, in the skies. And heard its hungry call. Once, I was in Ikaros, and I feared it. And I hid from it. But now… I suspect I cannot hide any more."

"I'm going to face it," Skippii said, but a shameful fear wavered his voice. "I will kill it," he said, resolute. "Who else can? Pikes and arrows didn't hurt its flesh. A balista, maybe. Or a coven of a powerful God."

"You have not seen the covens of the First or Second Legion, nor one of Chrysaetos' chosen. The Imperium has many powerful magi, and many secret tools. They have dealt with beasts like this before. Though, I will admit, not without great loss. And this Mantikhoras is… something else."

Skippii chewed his words like gristle. "I will have my revenge."

"But our journey is Thyraos," Thales said.

"After that. Some time in the future…" Skippii shook his head. "This war shall escalate. I must gather my strength. I must be prepared. I hurt it. I seared its flesh. But it was quick, and powerful. And it was distracted by pikes. And it…" He let the words die on his breath, and sought the warmth of the ground for comfort. Its power rose keenly into the soles of his feet, up into his hips and chest. A radiant strength.

"Next time," he continued. "If there are no pikes to distract it. If there are none of Kylin's winds to unsteady it, and send it routing, and if I should face it alone…"

"You're not alone," Thales rested a hand on his shoulder. "This is not your war alone, Skippii. Many have fought it for generations before you. Do not take the whole world upon your shoulders. Do not blame yourself for his death."

"I am not," he said quicky.

"Skippii." Thales' voice was gentle and sweet. He sighed and looked deep into his eyes. "Where is the boy I once knew? The inquisitive, mischievous child? I see a glimpse of him now, but a shell has formed around his heart. Skippii, this is not your war to win alone. We must all do our part, and some parts are greater, but do not forget who you are. Do not fall headfirst into revenge. And spite. And hate, even for a worthy foe. Those emotions will eat at your heart worse than wounds."

Skippii bowed his head, then looked aside. "I am afraid, Thales. I think I'm out of my depth."

"We all are." Thales patted his back. "I've spent my entire life drowning, but I've always come up for breath. But I won't let you drown, Skip. Neither will your friends."

Behind them, at the head of their company, seven legionnaires sat atop their shields, painted red and white and bronze. Each a hero in their own right for the parts they played in Nerithon's liberation. Men he could trust. Brothers.

"You're right," he admitted.

"Share your burden, when the time is right," Thales said. "You are not alone in fear. We all carry it. And it is quickest dispelled when spoken. But come, it is your command, and the journey ahead is long. Rouse the troops. We may go further yet, before sunset."

They marched into the twilight and made camp in a grove. The ground was mushy with fallen figs. The scent reminded Skippii of youth–paired with vinegar–and the making of chutneys in his mother's wagon. Briefly, he considered their situation. They had not spotted the enemy on the road; building a palisade defence may be redundant. Besides, Titus Virelix's instructions were to move with speed through the countryside. They couldn't do that if they were overly cautious. And it seemed, the worst threat to them–the Mantikhoras–would not be deterred by even a legion's encampment. What good could they do but keep their fires dim and their eyes on the night sky?

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He watched the faces of his auxiliaries setting up their camps numbly, providing firelight for them to work. Strangers, all of them. But he was infamous to them. He saw it in the way they paused to tie their tent's knots and glanced over their shoulders, squinting into the Guiding Light of his palm.

They kept out of his way. Perhaps they didn't quite trust him. Here he was, almost half their age, demanding they march into the night, away from the safety of the legion at large, towards an enemy unknown. The more he watched, the more he saw the uncertainty on their faces. He wondered, could he ease their fears? Was that even his job? He was not their equal anymore. In fact, he had not been since becoming a legionnaire. Now he was their leader. For some reason, that prospect daunted him worse than the thought of the battle to come.

Sitting by his companeight's fire, he spoke little, sharing their food and allowing his mind to settle into their conversation. The veterans of their group were quiet in their grief for the Imperator. Though the opposite could be said for Kaesii. He spoke often, and about little of substance, filling each silence.

Cliae leafed through a tome by the firelight. At any given opportunity, they were reading what texts they had taken from Eirene's library. Skippii watched their gentle hands brush the grooves of ink scrawled across parchment, clasped in a thick leather binder. He did not realise he had drifted off until Cliae awoke him.

"I've discovered something which I suspected before," they said. "About the Gods. About their nature."

"Go on," Skippii said groggily. Somehow, he felt more tired now for having dozed than before.

"Well, it is normally difficult to discern any meaningful knowledge from the accounts of acolytes, and zealots, and priests. Their worship clouds their judgement. They ascribe every act of nature–every birdsong and ember and wind-blow on the pantheon; and whoever their acheron is most of all. But… this tome is a collection of accounts–a compendium of major events: the Gods' actions on heaven and earth. Much is still unclear. Does it rain when Kylin is sad, or are her emotions impartial to the rains? Is Chrysaetos joyful during the summer months? Certainly, it seems that the Gods of the wilds are gay in spring, but melancholic in winter. However, one thing that is abundantly clear, without mistake, is when the Gods are angry."

Cliae carefully flicked to a page which they had bookmarked with a leather patch. "There are a few authors, but this one, Yvern Phermon, writes of the most intriguing set of events."

At the name's mention, Arius' head shot around, quick as a hawk. But he did not speak, and though he slowly averted his eyes back to the fire, Skippii sensed that he was devoting an ear to their conversation. He thought about asking Arius for his thoughts, but he had never known the man to be hesitant to speak his mind. Whatever kept his lips sealed, there must be a reason for it. Skippii made a mental note to approach the enigmatic Clidussian some time that they had privacy.

"Does it say anything about the pantheon opposing the incursor gods?" Skippii asked. "Anything at all?"

"Perhaps," Cliae said.

"So, no," he said bluntly.

"Well, that specifically is unclear. But many events point to a time in history when there was much strife amongst the pantheon. This author–Phermon–charts a period of ecological disasters to the whim of the Gods. Floods, earthquakes, droughts… one hundred years of strife she calls the Season of Schism. Many ancient cities were destroyed. This happened about three thousand years ago, if you can imagine such a thing. Before the Imperium Auctoritas, or the empire before it. Before even some of our city states like Lacustris were formed."

Cliae's eyes sparkled with wonderment. It brought a smile to Skippii's lips. Despite fell beasts stalking in the sky and the shadow of mourning over their heads, Cliae was still able to get lost in a world of their imagination.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"The Gods were angry. At war, perhaps."

Skippii suddenly sat upright. "With the incursors?"

"As best as I can tell, and Eirene has informed me, they arrived on earth a little before that. But, that doesn't mean it's not true. However… it seems more likely to me that the pantheon were at war with themselves. Or, perhaps war is an overestimation. At the very least, there was a schism."

"Have you told Thales?" Skippii said.

"Not yet."

"Fetch him. Tell him."

While Cliae repeated their hypothesis to Thales, Skippii pondered its meaning. "So they are not wholly united," he said.

"They are as political as a senate," Thales said. "And prone to disagreements."

"I wish they were more like a legion's command," Skippii said. "Doesn't Chrysaetos, God of the sun, rule over them all?"

"He does," Thales mused. "By merit of strength."

"But he is not elected," Cliae said. "And other Gods have clashed with him before. Look here. It's described that, long ago, Summitor jousted with the sun. He raised his peaks to overshadow an ancient temple of Chrysaetos. And though the sun's rays beat down upon him, melting the ice from his peaks causing a great flood to wash over the land, he did not abet. The sun burned the rock bare, making it barren of life, but still the mountaintop rose, blocking the sunlight from Chrysaetos' temple. Finally, whatever feud they were having was settled. The earth shook, and Summitor's peaks collapsed in a massive landslide which crushed the temple, and nearby towns. Thankfully, it is said that most people had fled after the floods, fearing more cataclysmic events from the Gods."

"So…" Skippii mused. "They may each have different opinions about the incursor gods, and about me."

"That is likely true," Thales said.

"Oyaltun treats you as her ally," Cliae said.

"That's because I'm her… how would you describe it? Offspring is the wrong word. What are humans to the Gods?"

"Their servants," said Thales.

"Their protege," Cliae said. "It's more appropriate in your case."

Skippii nodded slowly. "And I trust her now, too. But I still can't commune with her. I'm not bonded in the same sense as a magus."

"Good riddance," Thales said. "Then, you would truly be her servant."

"But I'm not," he said. "And it brings me hope. Maybe others of the pantheon can change. Kylin's winds were there with my fires on the temple steps. I wonder what she thinks of me now, now that it's clear that we have a common enemy."

Skippii glanced around their camp in search of Kylinissa, but if she was nearby, she was remaining hidden.

"How could we know?" Cliae whispered. "How soon? I know you don't fear the Gods, Skippii, but I can't stop looking at the skies."

He snorted. "When did I say I don't fear them?"

Cliae faltered. "You act like it."

"Well I do," he laughed shortly. "Of course I do. I'm not a fool. They're Gods. I just don't… I won't let them come between me and my quest. And I wish they didn't have to. I wish they'd all listen to sense."

"They might," Cliae said.

"Not without first coming down from their lofty heavens and halls," Thales said. "And if these accounts are to be true, Cliae, then I would predict a catastrophe with their coming."

"Not always," Cliae said. "The Gods may act subtly too, or with a gentle hand. Their essence is all around us, in nature and the elements."

"Much of that is the force of the Primordials, which was stolen," said Thales.

"I'm not denying that," Cliae said. "And, for all that pragmatic, Thales, I think prejudice clouds your judgement."

Skippii's eyes widened. It was the most assertive he had ever heard Cliae speak. The young scribe held Thales' eyes firmly, but not aggressively; two scholars with their sables locked at the hilt.

"If you had lived my life, you too would be prejudiced," Thales said.

"Certainly," Cliae said. "If I had lived your life."

"I have travelled throughout this ruined nation–sought refuge in its temples. But what Gods come to our aid, except that which the Coven beseech? Philoxenia was abandoned. I don't expect that to change. I and my people rely on our strength alone."

"Your people?" Cliae said.

"A web in every city," Thales explained. The old man leaned back, wrapping his cloak about his feet and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. "We prepare for the legion's liberation, and fight our own battles. Assassinations. Dark work, but necessary."

"What do you think of Ikaros?" Skippii asked. He had not yet spoken to Thales about the Imperator's plans, nor the Urkun's migration.

Thales fixed him with a grim look. "I gathered the details already from your companions. Ikaros is to fall. It is a shame. I have people there. Good people, and some warriors amongst them. We had planned to usurp the Khan, but it seems too late now. If only I could send a message to them to evacuate the city and meet me somewhere… But how? The roads ahead are choked with Urkun, and any message found by the enemy would surely lead to their swift execution. No… I will have to hope that their own wisdom sees them through."

"We'll do what we can," Skippii said. "The Imperator's last words to me were to follow my own will. I've been wondering how to interpret it. But for certain, I must get stronger. I've seen the enemy many times now. I've seen what power they can field. I must learn to match it. We must train."

His eyes turned on Cliae, and his chronicler nodded slightly.

"But not tonight," Skippii said. "I am tired–a fatigue that my thaugia cannot replenish. And we have an early morning, and a long march."

"May I accompany your next training?" Thales asked. "I would like to see for myself the power which everyone is talking about."

"Of course," Skippii smiled. "We shall resume tomorrow evening. I would like to do more with the companeight, but I don't want to stretch them thin."

"The formation tactics?" Cliae said. "Evocations in the phalanx?"

"That's right, though, it's not much of a phalanx anymore. We'll have to rethink our strategy depending on each situation. But, I'm sure, if the Imperator thought that we alone could take Thyraos, then it must be within our capacity. Fifty javeliners, twenty cavalry. Seven legionnaires, and me."

"And an old philosopher," Thales said with a wry grin. "I can sling a good stone."

"I can't even do that," Cliae admitted.

Before long, Skippii made an excuse to leave. He wandered for a short while until his feet brought him back to the roadside. Peering down each length of the path, he searched for something which he could not define. But there was only a soft silence. A cool breeze swept the treetops, and an owl hooted on the prowl. Somewhere beside the roadside, the trickle of water tinkered over stones.

However, his heart still beat loud and quickly. Was there a reason for him being nervous? Were his primal senses trying to tell him something? Though all evidence pointed to the contrary, he felt tight and alert.

Walking the camp's perimeter, he investigated the shadows. At any moment, he expected to hear a cry of alarm, or the growl of a beast. But none came, and when he returned to camp, the fires had died down and his companions had retired. All but Tenoris.

"Heres Skip," he said fondly. "Why do you wander the night? In search of love, or do your bowels disagree with you so much so?"

Skippii grinned. Suddenly, the shadows did not seem so foreboding as before. "Just making sure we were not followed."

"Let the auxiliaries attend to that," Tenoris said. "It is unsavoury work, chasing rats from hiding. Let us be men who eat and rest well, and face the enemy on the battlefield proud. Come now, rest with us, and on the morn, we shall see what has become of these shadows in the light of Chrysaetos' heavenly rays."

"Indeed," Skippii said, somewhat less enthusiastically, and crawled into his bedroll beside the brawny legionnaire. But sleep came shallowly, stalked by winged shapes in the rafters of his mind, and morning came all too quickly.

The auxiliaries moved like there was a fire beneath their feet, and all fifty had packed down their tents and were ready to move on before Skippii's legionnaires had had their morning meal.

"What's the rush," Cur grumbled, chewing on his dried jerky. "Here, Brenti-boy."

Cur snapped his fingers at a passing javeliner. Young, with a ragged beard, the man turned his head but did not approach.

"Pack ours down if you want," Cur said. "And rub my feet."

"Sod-off, red-cloak."

"Oh, go on," Cur pined. "They're really sore from carrying all this proper bronze."

"I'll lighten your load if you'd rather a whicker shield," the Brenti javeliner said with a grin. Though outranked by the old legionnaire, he clearly was not willing to back down.

"Yeah right," Cur said. "Give a aux a spare lace of your sandals, and next he'll tie a noose around your purse."

"Come off it," Orsin said. "There's no palisade stopping them from all walking up to our tents in the night and pissing on them."

"If they try it…" Cur grumbled.

"Oh, they'd try it," Orsin said. "Besides, quit making enemies. Most are my countrymen." He turned and flicked a signal the javeliner's way. "Seabirds white."

"Sailor's delight," the young Brenti responded, and returned to his group.

Once they were on the trail, they made good pace. They were no longer slowed by the legion's column in front, nor by an impedimenta trailing at their backs. They carried all they needed. Skippii and his companeight took the lead, with the auxiliaries branching out over the diminishing hills, seeking less-trodden paths, ever on the lookout for ambushes or prey. The horsemen rode ahead and returned periodically with information on the trail, seeking his direction.

By the early evening, they rounded a hillside to find a swathe of forest cleared for farmland. Beyond it, the land flattened out onto an expansive plains, and in the far distance, shrouded by clouds, grey mountaintops loomed like a city's battlements over the land.

"Karphoros Valley," said Cliae, map in hand.

"How far to Thayles, at this pace?" Skippii asked.

"About ten days."

It was towards those northern skies that the Mantikhoras had given flight. And so it was northward that they marched. Though their path was set, its end was unclear. But with each step they took closer to Ikaros, and that monster's nest, Skippii came closer to his revenge.

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