The deluge bore down on him. Skippii's knees buckled under the weight, but he braced and brought the full strength of his flames to the surface. A fireball became of his form, and an expulsion of force sent the deluge back. He gave little thought to evocations–only poured thaugia into his Eruption Halo. There was a shower of sparks as his Blazing Armour absorbed the impact of objects in the sludge. All was blinding fire and impenetrable dark.

Suddenly, his legs buckled, and he was falling. Direction lost all meaning. He was in a void. A mire. Burning and falling. Sinking. Thrashing out, he clawed for handholds, fighting against the sucking force pulling him downwards. The air came thin and hot. All that was keeping him alive now was his own thaugia, and it would run out.

A hand closed around his wrist. Skippii recoiled in panic, remembering the forms of men and beast trapped within the bog. But its grip was firm, and some deep instinct of the heart told him not to fight back.

The grip pulled him upwards, as the bog drained over him. He felt like he was moored to a galley ship, being dragged against the tide. Kicking and scrambling, he fought to rise above the surface, to breathe air again.

Voices shouted, distant and muffled. Then they came loud and shrill. He broke the surface and saw Tenoris' face above him. He was stretched out over the bog, half submerged himself. Kaesii and Drusilla gripped his legs, bracing backwards, with the others anchoring their waists.

Skippii spluttered and reached for the raft. Digging his fingers into a coil of rope, he helped to lift Tenoris from the bog, then climbed aboard himself. His friend's face and torso was entirely black with muck–only his blue eyes shone through, and in them was a rare fear.

"Are you hurt?" Tenoris said.

"No." Moving his tongue was a mistake. The taste in his mouth was suddenly sharp and overbearing. Skippii bent and vomited. Kneeling on their raft, he crawled to the edge and plunged his fist into the bog's waters. Gone was that quagmire of death, sunken deep underneath.

"Row!" he commanded, and brought his thaugia to bear. The waters boiled around them, sending up a sickeningly acrid mist. He choked and shut his stinging eyes, but still he filled the bog with fire. Nearby, his auxiliaries beat their oars to keep pace, and many sped ahead on crafts with lighter loads.

But their commotion had stirred the hive. Shouts returned over the mists and rainfall. Then came arrows. They fell with a wayward wantedness, but with gathering frequency. A few whistled overhead. One caught the shield of his companions'. Stones joined them in a hail, pelting the dark waters with a splash and ripple.

His company drifted on, but Skippii remained focussed on the bog beneath. Cliae came to his side, pouring a waterskin over his face and wiping his brow.

"Thank you," Skippii said, and spat with revulsion.

Something stirred beneath them. A cold mass bubbled towards the surface. His heat quailed. A flush of panic struck him. How could he kill something that didn't possess a body? Or that possessed hundreds of bodies?

"What do I do?" he blurted. "Evocations? What do I use?"

"The new one," Cliae said. "Decication."

"Decication? What?"

It was not a word he knew, but Cliae had no time to explain. About them rose a living mound–a maw, with great oozing lips that surrounded their vessel and closed over them. Within were the rot-eaten faces of sheep and dogs, and the withering suffering of women and men.

Hatred and revolution filled him. Snatching a pole from the deck, he thrust it into the quagmire and sprung upon it. The pole plunged beneath its surface, lifting him off the raft and into the air. There, it kept him suspended for a brief, sinking moment.

Bringing all his remaining thaugia to bear, Skippii sent his power below. A flame ran the length of the pole and burst upon the deluge's surface. Its heat drilled underground, alighting the fleshy construct with an orange glow. His feet dipped beneath the flaming muck as he sank, and he shut his eyes. A world of light revealed itself. He was at the tip of a fire whose scalding roots dug deep, probing for solid ground. There within the swamp were shimmers of light–a sliver of Cor's essence, encapsulated in mud, subjugated by Hjingolia's magia. When Skippii touched them, they set ablaze. Pockets of fire which spread over its form.

The bog dragged him down, consuming his knees, then hips, and up to his chest. Skippii took deep breaths, bellowing the forge, probing deeper within his mind and the world of light. Then, deep beneath the surface, he felt as though his feet touched the ground. His Magmatic Core burst to life. His Lava Essence, empowered by anger, boiled over. Heat spilled from him–a scalding tide which set all ablaze and turned liquid to mist. The deluge screamed and hissed like a living being as it evaporated. The earth around him shrank and solidified, and Skippii climbed free.

Smoke filled the air. Within the crumbling hill were unearthed horrifying shapes. Corpses, cruelly given life by Hjingolia's death-magia, crawled free and burned. They were all ablaze. Writhing, screeching, and finally dying. Finally being put to rest.

Over the verge behind him scrambled his companeight. They had abandoned the raft when the waters solidified. Now they came running, wafting the air with their shields. Only Tenoris seemed unaffected by the blaze–his teardrop necklace protecting him from Skippii's heat.

"That was unhinged," he shouted. "I could not have reached you if you'd fallen."

"But it worked," Skippii said, though he felt too raw with horror to revel in victory. What more tormented lives remained trapped underfoot, frozen now in the dirt? Had his fires killed them all, or were there more? Had he made them suffer? Would they forgive him.

"Come," Tenoris said, grabbing and turning him. "Are you stunned? Are you well?"

Skippii shook himself. "I'm fine. How far out are we?"

"Twenty metres to the bank," Arius said. He had waded atop a verge of muck and peered out towards the defended hilltop. "The ground seems solid between us."

"I have lost my shield," Drusilla said. "Cur, give me yours."

"No," Cur said, offended.

"Then stand in front of me," Drusilla said. "I know you love to be first in line."

"Fine, take it," the old veteran said, and took position behind the bigger man.

"Phalanx then," Orsin said, and the legionnaires formed up. "On your command, Skip."

"Follow me," he said, and clambered over the verge.

The earth crumbled beneath their feet, slowing them. But at least they no longer sank. Smoke and mist cleared from the air, revealing the hilltop beyond. Skippii sought for more moisture in the ground but found it bare. He could not evoke an Ashen Shroud, and his thaugia reserves were dwindling. Still, his connection with the source was thin, but it grew with each step. He waded ahead of the legionnaires–a beacon of Blazing Armour, seeking to draw their fire away from his companions.

Arrows and rocks fell about them. Sparks flashed as something struck him hard in the chest and knocked him back. Stones peppered him. His Blazing Armour could dull a blade's strike, but it could not deflect the strength of a bolt. However, his tunic of Hespera's making would not mar or tear for any force less than hers. Only, that left his head, legs and arms exposed.

Thrusting his arms beneath the bog, he drew upon his Magmatic Core, seeking to evoke a Basalt Shield. But the dried-out swamp was tainted and crumbling, and the clump which formed on his forearm would not take shape at his command.

Reluctantly, he fell back behind the phalanx, taking refuge behind Tenoris' shield. Their progress was painfully slow. Rocks pelted them as the defenders honed their aim. On his flanks came the Brenti, with their wicker shields raised to deflect the projectiles. They were lighter and more nimble than his legionnaires, and scrambled across the bog with speed.

A breath cleared the air about them. Then came the wind. It blew at their backs, bending them forward, and swept upon the defender's palisade.

"Kylin's winds!" Tenoris declared. "The priestess comes to our aid."

"How timely," Cur said, ducking behind Drusilla.

As the wind grew, howling in their ears, the enemy's missiles were sent astray. Finally, they reached the hillside. At the edges of his evocation, the hillside was wet underfoot–but solid beneath. The ribcage-remains of buildings rose from ruin, but beyond was a solid ring of wood. Ramshackle towers rose above the palisade, thick with archers. The sky above was dark with stormclouds, and rain poured down over the defenders.

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"Together now," Skippii shouted. "Straight for the palisade. I'll blow it open."

His companions gave a cheer, and together, they rose from the cesspit. With each breath, Skippii renewed his reserve of thaugia. He kept it in flux, cycling it throughout his aura, bringing more and more into his being. He kept slightly aback from the phalanx, weary not to burn his companions with his ever potent Blazing Armour that cast flames upon his skin.

"Take refuge here," he commanded. Near the palisade, in the ruined guts of a house, stood the remains of a brick fireplace. His companions stooped and raised their shields around the brick, forming a wall of wood and bronze. Filled with power now, and Boiling Blood, Skippii sprang forward and thrust his hand into the palisade wall.

At his touch was transferred an explosion of energy. The Enkindled Burst blew apart the wooden wall in a shower of flames. A billow of smoke rose as embers showered the skies. The flames took to a tower, and it went up like a tinderbox. There were no screams, as the air was claimed by fire. Bodies fell, or leapt from heights, and rolled in the wet earth, clung to by flames. Then as the smoke cleared, the way became clear. A wide hole was made of the defences. The way was open.

Skippii strode forward. His companeight came up behind, with Cliae at their rear. And through the smoke rose the banner of Companeight Four.

Skippii's silver tunic shone brilliantly like the heart of a candle. His flames pierced the dark. The light scattered across the faces of a hundred Urkun men, and sank into the shadows of their black beards and eyes–plastered with mud and grime; it sharpened their toothy chattering grins to harsh snarls and reflected the hatred in their eyes.

As the ash of his Enkindled Burst settled, there was a breath. Spears were lowered at him and his companeight. A hundred rusted tips, and a hundred more daggers and axes, and bowmen in towers and upon rooftops. Suddenly, Skippii was keenly aware that they were surrounded, at the breach of a beehive, about to be stung a thousand times.

"To me!" he yelled, and knelt to the earth. His companions raised a wall of shields about him just as the defenders recovered their wits and arrows sprang. Pressing his palm to the earth, he expanded his thaugia outwards before him, channelling it beneath the surface of the earth. Though the ground here was risen from the bog, still, the mud sank up to one's ankles. Evoking the same fires which he had wrought on the unnatural deluge, he boiled its moisture, hardening it like clay. An Ashen Shroud rose before them like a curtain, and he heard cries of alarm.

"Now. Go forth."

Breaking formation, shields raised high, they charged into the fray. What found within the mists were men whose legs were stuck fast in the clinging muck. Their legion spears make quick work of the helpless Urkun. Screams rose, shrill and animal. Skippii strode at the centre of his companeight, withholding his power, searching for a worthy opponent.

With a cry of war, Drusilla and Kaesii waded ahead. Their spears struck like hammer blows, piercing skulls and ribs, killing men where they stood. Some crumpled upright, their legs still lodged in the mud. Others broke free with a final effort and died belly down in the dirt. But others, in a last-ditch attempt, threw their weapons at the legionnaires and bore their teeth like dogs. However, his men were well trained, and their armour was strong, and none were wounded or cut.

Still, Thales' warning played on his mind. Do not let yourself be scratched by their needles or darts.

The Brenti came up behind with yips and cries, and routed the enemy's flanks with a brutal volley of javelins. About them, the mists cleared. But the rain created a fog of its own. It pelted around them, hissing as it made contact with Skippii's fires. And the wind above them howled. No arrows or darts would find them from afar. Beside him, Cliae clutched their banner in both hands, battling to keep up upright against the wind.

"To the temple!" Skippii yelled, helping them to brace the banner high. "To the temple, men."

Onwards, they drove through the streets of Thylon. The enemy fought them for every step. They did not lose heart to see their fellows die. Indeed, much of the carnage was obscured by rains. Each troop of Urkun came upon them with renewed vigor. For all they knew, one hundred legionnaires had arrived at their walls, and been slaughtered, for only ten to make it so far. They soon discovered their folly, and paid for it in blood.

The temple rose out of the gloom. Granite columns ran around its circumference, which was tipped with triangular monuments resembling a crown–a temple to the God of Gods, Chrysaetos the Sun. However, all gold emboss and finery had long been stripped by the heretic. Now, grime festered its walls. Lichen dug its roots into the seams, widening the cracks, and moss smothered its fine stonework. As his firelight struck its surface, it shone slick. Skippii saw that it was dripping… oozing with some viscous filth, like the stone itself was weeping from pustular sores. And the stench was even such that Kylin's winds could not carry away. The stench of a rotting wound–foetted and cheesy. Sickening.

Here about the temple, the Urkun gathered in force. They charged on his companeight's phalanx and hurled stones and arrows at the javeliners behind them. The road widened to a courtyard before the temple. No support came from the Kronaians from the rear.

Skippii drew upon his Magmatic Core and split the earth. Two rows of Rockfangs burst from the ground, spraying his face with sludge. The jaws rose two metres tall, flanking their formation like palisade walls. And though they dripped and crumbled, they stalled the Urkun's advance and buttressed their arrows. Then, as quickly as he could, he brought his Eruption Halo to the surface of the earth and set a broad Flashfire Trap at the mouth of the jaws.

"Form up!" he yelled, he said, backing away from the defences. His javeliners caught up to them and gathered behind the legionnaires, raising their wicker shields in imitation of the phalanx.

"We're surrounded," Cur shouted of the din of baying voices. "Where are those sodding silver-tits?"

"Late," Orsin said.

"More the glory for us," Kaesii beamed.

"Listen, here's plan," Skippii said. "Shock and awe. I'll burn bright down their centre-"

He broke off as there was a woosh of air followed by a flash of light and screams. A dozen or more brave Urkun had gone between his Rockfang jaws and triggered his Flashfire Trap. Now they flailed and rolled in the mud, flames singing their rags and burning their flesh. Their screams rose above the din of voices and cut a quiet in the air. Terror was given to the hearts of the defenders. But as Skippii feared, their souls had already surrendered to fear, and no amount could now deter them from battle.

Above, atop a spire at the centre of the temple, a bell knelled. Its peel reverberated in his gut, churning his stomach, bringing bile to his throat and lips. Skippii spat the taste from his mouth as the bell rang again and again, and the voices about them rose in fervent response.

"They're not giving in," Orsin said. "They fight without hope."

"They're beyond it," Skippii said.

A barbaric cry rose before them, and more than a dozen Urkun charged through the centre of his Rockfang defences. But his Flashfire Trap was spent. His companeight formed up, shields firm and spears raised. The enemy hurled their axes, aiming for the gaps between each shield where his companions' faces peaked out. Then, they threw themselves upon the legionnaires' spears.

There was much grunting and cursing as Drusilla, Kaesii and Tenoris took the impact of their charge. Then, with a concerted effort, they pushed the attackers back and slew them. The Urkun fell, axes in hand, spears tossed wayward, clutching their wounds.

"Reform!" Skippii shouted. "Tight phalanx."

The enemy crept around the edges of his Rockfang jaws and skirmished with the Brenti. Many of his javeliners had spent their weapons, and now wielded knives, or the rusted-bladed axes of the enemy.

"Be wary," Skippii shouted. "One cut can infect. Be swift. Now, on me."

He leapt up and between the jaws of his Rockfang, and brought with him all the fires of his birthright. The enemy quailed, but they were too compact to retreat quickly, and they must have known this, for in their terror they lowered their spears at his chest and held their axes high, ready to fall.

He did not give them the chance. With a thunderous step, he sent forward a Seismic Quake. It rattled their famine-sickened knees and toppled them to the ground and into the arms of their countrymen. But from many places he could not see, weapons found him. Darts and arrows and clubs. He was ablaze with a Burning Armour, and his foe was weak, but they were many. Like wading through a bramble thicket, he burned and tore them aside.

The air was slick with rain. His Burning Fists broke their bones and crushed their spirits, but the fires were reluctant to catch. And each moment he lingered, his companions were at risk of harm. Though he was protected by thaugia, they were not.

"Scalding mists." Cliae's voice drifted through the din. "Scalding Mists!"

In a flash of thought, Skippii remembered their training, and plunged his fists into the earth. A Seismic Quake rippled outwards, but it was not his sole intent. It merely stalled the attackers around him. Bringing forth his Eruption Halo, he held it beneath the earth at bay, barely contained, simmering to a boil. Sweat poured over him as he fought to restrain the power so eager for the air and naked flame. It was not like his Lava Essence–internal and controlable–it was wild and furious. His body shook to contain such energy. Heat streamed off him in a mist.

Through gritted teeth, he managed to say, "Get close."

But his companions were already at his side, shields raised.

"Send the Brenti back," he groaned. "Send them away."

"They're gone," Orsin said. "They couldn't push the assault."

"It is only we," Tenoris said above him. "Your chosen."

Digging his fingers into the dirt, Skippii strained to part his power. His muscles ached and his mind swelled with the effort. It felt like parting two boulders with outstretched arms, but slowly, he managed, and formed a rift of power beneath them. By now, his Eruption Halo was wavering with power–a tortured flame screaming for release. His vision went dizzy, and though his eyes were open, the world went black and all he saw was his thaugia and a lake of fire beneath.

Finally, with fearsome relief, he tore a rift in his thaugia–a space beneath that no fires would douse. But elsewhere, the evocation was unleashed. A Scalding Mist hissed into the air around them, boiling the waters of the storm in an instant. Screams followed it into the night air, and though the mists cleared quickly, their agony remained. Skippii rose shakily and drew a deep breath. Within moments, he replenished his thaugia. The power of Cor was slim here, but he was weak no longer. Anywhere he touched the earth, he was connected to the source.

Now his enemy's sanctuary lay bare before him.

He strode up the temple steps and laid his palm on the large oaken doors. And with the ease of command, he blew them inward. A shower of sparks and flame.

"The bell knells no longer," Tenoris said. "Fire shall claim its silence."

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