I - THE WINTER OF CNIDON

At the dawn of the world, there were the Gods, mortals, and war.

One hundred and fifteen decades ago, between the banks of the rivers Tolon and Marteniis, outcast tribes of Men, Fae, and Dvar broke bread together in peace. They founded a city called Concordia, on the principles that no tribe shall prevail above the rest, and that no mortal shall call himself King. The ten Gods of the World favored Concordia, and sent a sign down upon the city. The Concordians, under divine command, built a great brazier of bronze in the heart of the Civic Square. On every tenth year, the Gods would set alight this torch as invitation for all citizens to assemble before it. From the throng, each of the ten Gods would select one mortal to become their Champion for ten years, gifting them with divine powers. The ten champions together would rule Concordia, matching their heavenly gifts with their own mortal talents to serve their city with valor, honor, and probity.

The chosen ten of Concordia are called the Decemvirs.

Arrandocia - the tenth year of the one hundred fifteenth decade.

The candles flickered inside Cnidon’s tent, casting wicked shadows in the dim light. The Dvar, which Men called a Dwarf, stilled his hand, resting the quill it carried back into it’s inkwell. The ache persisted. Easy enough to swing a sword, yet tedium to scribble words. Had he aged so much? His beard was still black as coal, but perhaps the grey simply held itself skin deep. Held itself in waiting for these cold and dreary days that heralded winter in the north, so that it might savage his aching joints and pillage his restful sleep.

“A cup for wine, and a plate for bread.”

Timus disassociated himself from the shadows in the background, fetching what his master desired. Earthenware dishes appeared on the Decemvir’s desk, covering the dwarf’s fruitless attempts at attending to his diary. Cnidon could feel the slave’s eyes on him as he tended to his daily miracles. By a mere pass of his hands over cup and plate, bounty appeared. Wine to the brim, and crusty bread still warm to the touch. No matter how many times Cnidon performed the feat, Timus always looked so boyishly impressed by it, his eyes like that of an owl’s. It had not occurred to him in the slightest that he might miss that look of wonder.

The Decemvir took hold of the loaf with both hands, wrenching it apart with a twist. It did a slave’s discipline no favors for him to eat when his master ate, but the dwarf could feel his days in the sun at their dim twilight. Cnidon passed a handful of bread to Timus.

“How long have we been on campaign, boy?”

Timus cradled the offered bread in both of his hands, but didn’t dare eat before satisfying his master’s apparent need of conversation. “The moons count twenty two, master.”

“That long…” Cnidon sighed, pinching a parcel of bread off his portion between a finger and thumb. He tucked the morsel in his mouth, chewing on time as much as the food. “...that long.”

The bread proved stubborn. The Decemvir tipped his cup of wine to his lips to ease in swallowing.

“I had hoped to return home by now. To see the city in summer. Timus you should see such a sight! The verdant rushes and trees. The smell of pennyroyal and lavender amid the roses of the Arhyllian arboretum. The sun, on my face in triumph…”

He’d lost himself in the moment, with eyes miles away from this dreary land. Returning to his wits, Cnidon took more wine.

“We are nearly out of time, my boy. The war season is nearly ended. Winter can only be but a moon away. And yet so close, victory is. The ram has nearly touched the wall. I need only reach out my hand, to conquer Arrandocia. Take their wealth, their people as spoils. I will return with my army, back over the Hirracian Alps, and follow the Tolon to the Aimarrian Gate, to bequeath one last gift to the people before I lay down my office. And then…”

The dwarf drew a long, thoughtful breath, raking a hand through his wavy black beard.

“...what will become of Cnidon? No longer Cnidon the Decemvir. No longer Cnidon of the Feast. No longer Cnidon the General. When the Great Torch alights, Cnidon the blacksmith? Will the people remember him? Will Cnidon remember himself?”

Timus held his portion of bread with both hands, close against the breast of his tunic. It remained ignored. “Does the God’s favor change a man’s heart? You are a good man. Were you not, when you were not Decemvir?”

“Who is wise enough to judge himself, young Timus? We each must recuse ourselves, and lay our legacy at the mercy of peers and history.”

Cnidon raised an empty hand up for inspection in the candlelight.

“This hand, like the other, has given alms to the poor. It has lifted up my companions when they fell. It has penned laws with moral purpose.” The Decemvir paused, a mildly amused grin fleeting through his beard, “It has penned awful poetry of shoddy meter, middling rhyme, and good intent.”

Any amusement that remained fell from Cnidon’s expression, and his self-scrutiny turned a shade darker.

“Look on this hand again, Timus. See it has blood on it that does not come fully clean. It has condemned men with the point of a finger. It has brought the sword to nations - farther across this continent than a bird can fly. Is Timus’s memory so short to forget this hand has delivered the lash upon him?”

The slave’s expression changed to that of somber reflection, confirming to Cnidon that his memory was neither short nor fickle.

“I do not think wrong of you for it, master.”

“Yet you are a slave.” Cnidon placed a hand on Timus’s shoulder in dismissal. “What slave protests so loudly while in his bondage? When the great torch alights, have you forgotten that you will be a free man? You may see Cnidon differently, Demi-God or not.”

As master confided in slave, the tent flaps tore open, letting three men pass through the threshold. Timus had the good sensibility to return to the background as a species of statue, invisible in plain sight as a slave was trained to be. Cnidon turned to his visitors, concealing his vulnerability from sight.

“Mud. On your faces and hands. Wash yourselves.”

The Decemvir upbraided his officers with a stern glower as a Man, a Dvar, and a Fae took turns with the basin at the center of the room.

“You forget where you are. Tonight we are at the gates. In the morning, we will be victors. Conquerors should appear unblemished. Leave the dirt to the conquered.”

Cnidon focused his attention on the Dvar named Lejandros as he wrung the last traces of water from the tip of his beard. “The siege engines?”

“Stout and strong.” Lejandros boasted, clasping a hand over fist in emphasis. “There isn’t a tree left standing for three leagues in any direction.”

If the boast was intended to move Cnidon, it didn’t overtake the Decemvir’s skepticism.

“Good enough for a fortress of Fae or Men, but we besiege Dvar who know well-enough the art of a wall.”

Lejandros knew his enemy as well as Cnidon did, and didn’t back down from his confidence.

“Then they’ll know it’s only as strong as the weakest stone. Let them pray to the Gods. Mathematics require no goats be sacrificed in it’s name.”

Good enough. Cnidon’s attention turned to the Man in the middle of the trio.

“The Companarii?”

“Bored. Eager.” Lampolo, the Captain of the Concordian Companions replied curtly. “The men pass the time wagering which will be the first over the wall.”

That display of espirit de corps turned the corners of Cnidon’s mouth upward into his mustache.

“Tell them the first one over shall win a purse of…” The Decemvir glanced to the distant figure of Timus. “...five hundred drachma?”

Timus was a slave blessed with a sharp memory. “Five hundred drachma, yes master.”

“Spoils to the champion. They’ll throw themselves over the ramparts in their zeal.” The Decemvir laughed. “Orodeas?”

The Fae captain of archers still preened in the basin, passing a final handful of water over his porcelain face and long ears. “How shall we serve, Decemvir?”

“Keep the enemy off the wall until it comes down. Once we breach, the ramparts are yours. Slaughter anyone in the open. The Arrandocii are a proud tribe of Dvar. We will hide our mercy from them until they are hopeless. Ours is a theater of blood, gentlemen. A comedy in as few acts as possible.”

Cnidon’s attentions returned to Lampolo.

“When the Arrandocii are broken, there will be no vengeance or further slaughter inflicted against them. Rapine pillage will be permitted once the Companarii are given the liberty, and all captures are taken. Am I clear?”

Lampolo simply nodded in response.

“Good.” Cnidon replied succinctly. “Inform the army tribunes and sound assembly. At the blast of the ram’s horn, we attack. Gods with us.”

The officers pressed a fist to their breasts in unison, turned heel, and parted company from their General. Again, Cnidon was left in the company of Timus.

“Bring my armor.”

The camp which housed the Army of the Cisalpine Panther was a sprawling beast, teeming with life that glinted with the flash of steel and sounded with the steely din of armored men in motion. There was a great creature about to rise up and take the Arrandocii in its’ jaws. The creaking of massive wooden siege engines growled on the slight breeze, charging the night air with the power of a thunderhead. The sounds of countless blades being put to the whetstone, coarse laughter at the parade square, and pagan prayers at altars could be heard at the outskirts. The silence between the din gave way to the crackling sacrificial fires, as soldiers chose to give up small bits of their rations or wooden carvings they had fashioned. And atop those was the ever present slip of parchment that held their requests. Whether it be to Csunos, asking for survival of this campaign, or to Tibrio, asking for a swift blade-hand and many spoils. Each bit of paper was rolled up, then set to flame before being placed upon the offering.

But there was too much life within this camp to truly speak of, and as Longinus Castor slowly led his mount through the border paths of each group of tents, he paid little mind to those around him. A venator - a hunter, he was a lean man. In no way did he match the broad shoulders and thick arms of the soldiers surrounding him, but there was a quickness to him; in body and mind both. Ever-narrowed grey eyes gave a glimpse into a shrewd mind, though it was a view that did not extend deep. Hair that had begun to spin itself with strands of white was cut close along the sides, and age lines gave his features a severe countenance.

Behind, sat atop a spindly-legged mare, a young girl followed in silence. She held the same grey-eyed level gaze that matched those of Longinus Castor. Some of the soldiers gave the two a passing look, and she unabashedly stared back in thin lipped silence, blinking owlishly as she watched the camp roll its’ shoulders like a waking giant and ready itself for the coming battle.

Murmurs of a prize purse, five hundred drachma by the sound of it, flitted through the air, spurring men onward with boasts and claims, letting all around them know of their intentions to be the first over the wall when the time came. Swiveling in his saddle, Castor sent a look to the girl. She lifted her own eyes up to meet his, one hand clutching tight to the line that led their packmule. He nodded, reassured, and turned back to face forward.

The venator was acquainted with Cnidon’s army, and whenever attached, had served the Dvar in the past with distinction. His commission sent him among many of Concordia’s warring hands, but this evening was his first spent in Arrandocia. He had been away to the southlands, in the company of General Rexalus. It had been three years - by his count - that he had last laid eyes upon General Cnidon.

The pathway widened as the two approached the main thoroughfare, and as the girl drew level with him, Castor sent his eyes to her once more.

“Be seen, but not heard. Am I understood?”

This was a requirement that she was used to, and a silent nod was his only answer.

“Good.”

A moment of softness, as he reached across the small divide to pull her fur-lined cloak closer over her shoulders.

“We are not in the southlands anymore. Stay warm else you want to be buried here.”

Another nod, and she gripped the hem of her hood to draw it close. Then she did speak, but it was in a small, quiet voice.

“Will we be traveling back southward soon?”

“I do not know.” An honest appraisal of their situation yielded no satisfactory answer, and Castor stared ahead at their destination, coming into view ahead.

“Perhaps when all of this is ended, I will be sent back to General Rexalus.”

She gave a sniff at that, chewing on her lower lip.

“I hope you are.”

The armies of Concordia were the best trained fighting force in the known world. It was an earned reputation, gained over a thousand years of nearly-constant fighting. The union of Man, Fae, and Dvar brought together the strengths of each race, complementing the best and ameliorating the worst. It was a citizen army, levied with fresh troops every ten years with the lighting of the torch. When each citizen’s lot was drawn, farmers laid down their plowshares for swords, millers exchanged the grindstone for the spear, and potters turned from their clay to the bow and quiver. War was a civic virtue, as sacred as the voting ballot or the temple sacrifice. It was, however, a thing of beginnings and ends. As the end of each decade drew near, Concordian soldiers spent more and more time with thoughts of home, and an end to fighting.

Paullus Hirtius Lampolo was not immune to such wistful feelings. As he marshalled with the rest of the Companion Infantry - the Companarii - on the camp parade, he struggled to swallow away any affliction of homesickness. There was yet one more battle to fight.

“Say again?” Lampolo asked, to the man at his right.

“I did not speak.”

Marius Justinus fixed his eyes ahead at the well-beaten path that led out of the camp’s eastern gate toward Arrandocia. Known as Justin, he’d stood at the right of Lampolo for five years worth of war. In the Companarii phalanx, the man at your right protected you with their shield. That small token of trust ran immeasurably deep, even after war service ended. A Companion was closer to his shield brother than his own family, at times.

“I must have imagined it. Forgive me, I am somewhere else.”

Justin’s forward-facing eyes traced to his left, meeting Lampolo’s face. Lampolo sensed the shift, his eyes turning right a moment after.

“Home then?” Justin asked, not venturing far to guess.

Lampolo nodded.

“No shame in it. You won’t be the least of us for thinking ahead to a happy return.”

“I’ll be the least of us all if it dulls my steel and gets me killed.” Lampolo countered darkly, which only caused Justin to laugh.

“You?! That’ll be the day! One of Bellatora’s Immortals, you are. You’d put on a fine sulk if you came away from this business with less than King Torix’s bushy beard as a hat.”

The joke caused Lampolo’s craggy features to defy gravity, and the Captain surrendered a hearty laugh.

“That would make the return over the Alps easier. So too will the bounty.”

“The bounty?” Justin straightened his posture slightly, his interest piqued.

“Didn’t the tribunes say? Five hundred drachma to the first man across the wall.”

Justin gave a low whistle in appreciation. “Skarae! That’s a pretty penny! Wonder what I’ll spend that on?”

“You won’t spend it on a thing,” Lampolo smirked “because I’ll be the one to win the purse.”

“Oh you will, will you?” Justin prodded Lampolo playfully with the boss of his shield. “And what makes you say that?”

“Because I’m the most senior man on the front line,” The Captain rationalized, doing his best to swallow a boastful smile. “I have the experience.”

Justin wasn’t buying what his friend was selling. “We’re on the same line!”

Plus, there was a significant truth Lampolo seemed to be missing, which gave Justin’s grin a smug cheekiness. “And I have longer legs!”

Lampolo sized Justin up as if he hadn’t seen the man before, but he knew well enough that his shield brother stood almost half a head taller than he did. The Captain simply shook his head with a smile. “I’ll make sure to keep up the pace.”

Justin righted his eyes forward, counting drachma in his head. “Five hundred, eh? Wonder why the General settled on that? He’s got the power of Plenty, don’t he? What’s five hundred or five thousand when you can pull it out of your arse?”

“Sacrilege…” Lampolo warned, but only half-heartedly.

“Yeah well. Still a good purse, eh? Buy something pretty for little Lampola, will you? And your wife, uh…”

“Portia.”

“Right.” Justin’s smile wavered a little, and he stole another glance to his left. “Portia.”

The wistful look wasn’t lost on Lampolo, and it equally dampened his spirit. “Justin, I…”

He waved him off, “Leave it, Lampolo. The decades change, and the Decemvirs aren’t the only ones who ride to the sun. Come the new year, we’ll both be different people. Don’t pretend.”

It was a truth that had been staring Lampolo in the face for years, even as the bond between him and his shield brother had become tempered and adamantine. Confronting that truth did little to soothe the ache in his chest. Lampolo passed his spear from his right hand to prop it against the shield in his left. He reached across with a now-empty hand, finding the spot behind Justin’s shield where the Companion’s hand grasped the strapping. With deliberate tenderness, Lampolo spread his fingers around Justin’s closed fist, cradling his shield brother’s hand in his own. It was an embrace hidden from all but two.

“Stay with me.” Lampolo implored. It was an earnest request of multiple meanings. Justin pressed his thumb against that of his shield brother’s.

“I’ll be at your side, even in Hell.”

A rolling thunder of hooves pounded the earth, drawing the attention of the Companions to an approaching host moving to the head of the parade square from the prefecture. The vivid blue and white banners representing the Army of the Cisalpine Panther ruffled in the growing evening wind, carried high by a squadron of Fae cataphractoi. The plated armor that covered elf and horse alike gleamed as it reflected the camp’s torchlight. Behind the cataphracts came the tribunes, followed closely by General Cnidon himself. If the sight of a Dvar on a war horse was unusual, the Decemvir made certain that it was a magnificent species of the unusual. His muscled bronze cuirass was polished to a mirror finish, with silver embossings displaying the wheat bale and vine - sacred symbols of the Decemvir’s patron god, Copias. Equally resplendent was Cnidon’s helmet, with it’s high dome and proudly-jutting cheek guards. At the top, a fountainhead of horsehair crested in a heroic plume of blue and white stripes, spilling in a proud array down the middle of his back. Cnidon’s cavalry shield continued to evoke images associated with the God of Bounty, displaying a field of satyrs at play. All of the icons were carefully presented, as a Decemvir at war should look awe-inspiring as a God on Earth.

“Citizen Soldiers!” The Decemvir shouted, thrusting his sword in the air as his war horse reared in place.

“God Imperator!” Came the roared reply in unison of 17,000 Men, Fae, and Dvar, punctuated in steel as they rattled their weapons against their shields. The Cisalpine Panther’s growl could shake the gates of Arrandocia, even from a distance. Cnidon smiled at the throng. They were his band of brothers. For a decade, they had lived and died together. Now they had one last battle to fight, and a final march in glory ahead of them.

“It is nearly winter, in the final year of the decade. For ten years, each of you have done your civic duty. Concordia has called you, and you have crossed the world for her. You have conquered nations, broken insurrections, and you have upheld the Peace of Concord as the Gods command.”

Cnidon’s horse paced the line in a slow walk, and the Decemvir met the eyes of each man on the front line as he passed.

“Each of you have served your term with distinction and honor. You have earned the right to return to Concordia as heirs of the peace you bestowed to her. There is but one final task that I ask of you, before I lead you back home as heroes.”

The Decemvir pivoted his horse, turning just enough so that he could gesture to the fortress of Arrandocia looming in the near distance.

“It is in the name of sacred Copias Fortuo that you have made your prayers and burnt your offerings. The God of Bounty stands with you as Cnidon, and he is ready to pay your devotion in full!”

The Cisalpine Panther roared in unison, thrusting spears and swords in the air. The air seemed to be charged with thunder at the sound of an army excited and eager for their General’s promise of spoils.

“Take what is yours! Throw down the walls of Arrandocia! Seize the wealth of your enemy in the sacrament of righteous pillage!”

Cnidon’s war horse whinnied, and he moved along the line in a trot.

“I have offered five hundred drachma to the first man past the wall, but know that in victory, you shall all be rich!”

The Decemvir slowed to a stop, turning about once more to face Arrandocia.

“You have only so far left to travel to claim your prize. Fortune to the bold.”

The time for speaking was over. With a nod of Cnidon’s head to the tribunes, the signal was given. A moment later, the camp shook with the wail of a ram’s horn blast. The siege weaponry that had been at rest surged ahead with a groan of oak timbers and metal axles. Within the massive towers, teams of oxen pulled as one to guide the behemoths onward. The Companarii formed up behind their shadows, spurred on by the barking orders from each captain. At the wings of the line, the cavalry cataphracts shook the earth as they fanned out from the gate, protecting the army’s flank as they slowly advanced. The noise of looming war rumbled like thunder, leaving no doubt in the minds of all in Arrandocia of what lay in store for them.

As the first lines of the army began to form beyond the gate and advance, Cnidon turned his attention to more delicate matters. Looking to the reserves waiting their turn behind the tribunes, the General spotted a familiar face among his specialists. He singled one man out, summoning him with two fingers beckoning forward.

“Longinus Castor, you live. A harder man to kill than most.”

“Decemvir.” The Venator approached on his horse, bowing his head in deference to the Demi-God.

“I doubt Rexalus has many kind words for me, as I’ve borrowed his best hunter so inconveniently.”

It put Longinus in the uncomfortable position of speaking ill of one command in favor of another, and Cnidon waved off a reply before it could form on the Venator’s lips.

“No matter. I wouldn’t have sent for you if I didn’t require your service. Such long travel under duress isn’t undertaken lightly.”

Longinus glanced back to the girl in his charge. She waited a respectful distance back on her own mare, but her presence alone was more than conspicuous enough.

“Who is the girl?”

The Venator looked back to Cnidon, something inscrutable on his face betraying any chance of his reply being a casual one. “She’s no one.”

The Dvar frowned in mild annoyance. If Longinus was merely a man of the army, that sort of cryptic behavior wouldn’t have been suffered. To his fortune, the hunter was too gifted to be chained to decorum.

“Then make sure No One remains in the camp where it is safe. I intend to place you where it is most certainly not so.”

Cnidon snapped his fingers, spurring a tribune to ride alongside him. The officer passed a rolled length of parchment to the Decemvir, who untied the leather thong that held it fastened. Easing his horse to stand alongside Longinus’s steed, Cnidon unfurled a map between him.

“My spies and engineers have made several circuits around Arrandocia. Dwarven fortresses are notoriously stout, and this one is no exception. The enemy has given us painfully few avenues to pursue subterfuge. The ramparts are tall, the walls are sheer, and the besieged can supply their need for food and water within the walls for at least three months. We can’t even undermine a tunnel, the damned city practically sits directly on bedrock.”

It was a grave situation the Decemvir painted for his Venator, though he paused a breath before speaking of hope.

“There is one option, however.”

Cnidon tapped a stout finger on a portion of the map, away from the city by half a mile and in a seemingly insignificant spot, save for an X which marked it.

“Our reconnoiters found a grate, which washes into this gully. From the putrid runoff, it may be the terminus of the city sewer. Hardly a dignified means of infiltration, but Victory frequently hides her fruits with thorns.”

Longinus hadn’t turned green at the unhappy prospect yet, which was a good sign.

“It would be foolish to send a band of invaders down this path. If the Dvar within discovered the infiltration, they could drown our men by flushing the channel from their cistern. But a single man, accustomed to a shadow’s work? The task becomes possible.”

The Venator traced the distance from the gully to the city wall with a finger. After a moment to consider the distance, he nodded in agreement.

“To what end? Throw open the gates?”

“No, no.” Cnidon shook his head at the idea. “The gates are massive, and would require a dozen men to control. Nevermind them, I’ll find a way through to the city. You have a different task. There is a treasure in Arrandocia as great as their sum of gold, but far more fragile. I require that you secure it, so that it isn’t damaged in our assault.”

It all seemed a riddle to the Venator, until he considered the Decemvir’s words beyond their obvious nature.

“You want me to capture the King?”

The Dvar’s eyes seemed to brighten in confirmation.

“We are of one mind.”

“That’s impossible.” The Venator balked, “Infiltration is one thing, but surely King Torix has saved his best warriors to stand at his side. I’m still just one man.”

“One man who has returned again and again from the banks of the Eternal Ocean. Longinus the Immortal.”

It all made the hunter uneasy. “Longinus who knows better than to mock the Gods.”

“A leap of faith is no mockery. I am not Rexalus. You know who I am.”

The words came from Cnidon’s lips with unnatural gravity, and Longinus found the hairs at his neck stood at attention for them.

“Copias Fortuo, forgive me.”

The Decemvir rolled the map tight in his grasp once again, keeping severe eyes on his agent..

“My pardon lies on the other side of the wall, Longinus. Go and take it.”

At the final approach to Arrandocia, the siege engines lay down their ramps. The first phalanx of each band of Companarii moved in unison up the wooden gangplanks, creating a terrible din of thundering boards and clattering armor in the close confines of the tower. Climbing to a height of four stories, the titanic weapons shielded the occupants within from slings and arrows. However, the very armor which protected them from the missiles of the defenders also shielded their eyes to dangers real and imagined. Enemy catapults and ballistas, if fortune failed them, might still breach the heavy armor. Worse still was the threat of scalding oil or the terror of clay pots full of Pyris Fia’s ether, bursting against the wood and pouring their roasting horrors in through the gaps between the slats. But perhaps worst of all was the agony of waiting. Waiting in silence, save for the braying of the oxen below, the bellowing of the dwarven siege drivers, and the nerve-fraying sound of groaning wood. The waiting that was spent in an iron and wooden coffin, as it’s uppermost level pitched and swayed like a boat at sea.

“I can’t take this anymore!” Justin complained, snatching his helmet off his head to push the cold sweat out of his hair that had accumulated in the close surroundings. “Can’t we just get on with it?”

“Keep your wits,” Lampolo warned, having no talent for consoling, “We aren’t yet in position.”

“How would you even know?” His shield-brother retorted, shifting his feet restlessly. “We could be wheeling towards the edge of the world, and we’d never know we were going to fall off of it until we did! Tibrio Aimar, I’d kill a goat just to see where I’m going!”

“We are going towards the enemy!” Lampolo remained steadfast, though annoyed. “If you stick your head out for a look, you’re liable to get an arrow in it.”

As if on cue, a sharp sound cracked against the wood, causing half the phalanx to stand up a little straighter.

“Hear? Now we are in range.” Lampolo observed grimly.

A series of pops and pings filled the still air among the soldiers, like hailstones on a roof. Interspaced between those sounds came the nearly silent whistles of near-misses as arrows sailed just wide of the towers. Sharper-sounding whistles from above signaled return fire from Fae archers, posted on the siege engine ramparts. Every pair of ears in the dark strained at these little sounds, each with the promise of death hiding behind them. Justin seemed to regain his composure, or at least enough to return his helmet to his head, just in case. A few rows behind them, a Companion succumbed either to motion sickness or nerves as he doubled over and vomited on the deck.

“Hold your porridge!” Lampolo growled in annoyance, and a few of the Companions laughed at their brother’s misfortune.

“Mind your stomachs, you women!” came an angry dwarven voice shouting from below, causing more laughter. Even Lampolo cracked a smile, despite his grumpy reputation. He stole a glance over to Justin, who was by far the more mirthful of the two.

“Five hundred drachma, eh?” Justin flashed a boyish grin.

“You still have to make it through the wall.”

“That’s the easy part!”

“Tysiphe’s cunt!” Longinus growled in a whisper, spitting out a splash of fetid water that breached his lips’ defenses. As if the odor and sopping filth weren’t insult enough, the Venator now had to taste his misfortunes. He paused in the cramped and dark sewer, spitting repeatedly into the trickling muck at his belly. Once more composed, Longinus resumed his agonizingly-slow journey, marking the distance in feet as he crawled forward on his elbows. Of all the glories of battle to be told of the victors in poetry, the hunter hoped his stanza would leave out a half mile’s worth of shit.

Just when his spirits were starting to flag, Longinus paused. Was it his imagination, seeing a corona of dim light far ahead? Some kind of cloacal fever dream? He squinted, resisting the urge to wipe at his eyes with fouled hands. The distant light wasn’t his imagination. The end seemed temptingly within reach.

“Tibrio Ithar, keep me sharp. Keep my eyes on the target and nothing else. Bless me, for I am faithful.”

The foul air seemed less offensive in his state of grace, and Longinus perservered onward.

The first skirmishing volleys of the defenders were away. Perched on a knoll with the tribunes and a squadron of cataphracts, Cnidon stood vigil over the battlefield. At this distance, the arrows flew unseen, betrayed only by the pitter-patter of impacts against siege engines as they creaked into striking range. The Fae archers returned fire, harassing the defenders on the wall and encouraging them to keep their heads down. Behind the siege engines and the advancing phalanxes of reserve Companarii, Concordian ballistas trundled into place. Crews of Dvar engineers barked orders down the line as teams of dwarves turned the heavy gears, drawing ropes and tension arms into firing position. Others still prepared their payloads. There were no shortage of heavy stones in this northern country to use as missiles, and hundreds were stacked within easy reach of the artillery. More fearsome still were the hollow clay spheres bearing the two-headed likeness of Pyris Fia. The ether within wasn’t magic, but a recipe held secret by the priest of the forge god’s cult. It produced flame without spark, and undeterred by water’s mercy.

As the terrible payloads were fixed into the ballistas’ firing baskets, a commotion began to stir across the field. On a tower that rose higher than the surrounding castle ramparts above the gate, a half dozen dwarves assembled on it’s balcony. Even at a distance, the sight of King Torix could be mistaken for no other Dvar. The King of the Arrandoci’s braided grey beard hung down to his belly, woven around the finger bones of his enemies and other trophies. His crown, barbarian in nature as it was, was a terrific sight. The tanned head of a bull, with silver horns that yawned past the Dvar’s shoulders. The King, like many of his warriors, wore a war mask of streaked woad and ashes, creating a frightful image intended to strike fear into his enemies. Orodeas, captain of the Fae archers, turned to one of his officers with the intention of passing along an order to shoot. Cnidon stayed the order with a hand at the elf’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“Wait.”

“Euh hreck sur viik da gaarude!”

King Torix shouted his foreign words from on high, and it seemed as if the whole host of Arrandocia replied in a wail of “OOOOOHHHHH!!” that shivered the ground as far away as Cnidon’s knoll.

“Nuuv na siinde skar haarrag!”

The Arrandoci continued to wail as a single great beast roused from sleep. The cataphractoi at either side of the Decemvir stirred, their horses nervously wavering in their places.

“What do they say?” Orodeas asked his General, keeping his keen eyes fixed to the King on the chance of a killing order being given.

“It’s the Under Mountain Tongue.” Cnidon replied, recognizing the ancient Dvar language of the barbarians. He knew full well of the mortal curses being thrown at him, his homeland, and his children. Curses far more terrible than mere words.

“What does it mean?” The Elven archer pressed his curiosity. Cnidon turned to look at his officer, a grim expression on his face. They were at the precipice.

“History forgets the words of the conquered.”

It was the final word. The time for talk had ended. King Torix knew it as well, as he and his host retreated from the prominent tower to prepare the defenses.

“Lejandros.”

The Captain of the siege stepped forward, ready for the General’s command.

“Sound the ram’s horn.”

An eerie howl blasted the night sky, as loud in voice as the whole Arrandocian host. A moment later, three dozen Concordian ballistas released their payloads into the darkness.

“Listen. Listen!” Lampolo shouted over the nervous chatter, leaning forward to the edge of the assault ramp. Crack. Crack. Crack. Distant heavy noises percussing the air, followed with a whine of strained timber. Next followed unnatural silence, as even the rain of arrows went unheard. The peace was broken in an instant as unseen stones smashed into invisible battlements, releasing a shower of smaller rocks and debris that could be heard thumping against the tower below.

No one said a word. Every man in the phalanx remained quiet as the dead, as hell rained just out of sight. Another sound followed - the brittle clink of pottery against stone, followed immediately by the greedy sucking of a raging fire consuming air in a flash. The screams came next. Not the clean and clear screams of close combat that were punctuated by the thrust of a spear. A choir of discordant death wails rang over the sounds of battle as a dozen dwarven defenders became living torches, tearing off war helmets and armor as their cremating skin stuck to them. One by one, the poor souls plunged from the broken battlements like falling comets, striking the ground below in a spray of embers.

The Fae on the siege tower ramparts quickly shifted from covering fire to attacks of opportunity. Every inch surrendered by a Dvar flushed from his cover was punished with an arrow drilled into scale mail. An Arrandoci catapult hurled an open cauldron of hot oil in retaliation, casting a wide arc of scalding liquid at the besiegers. The front line of elves fell back in shrieking agony with faces and hands full of welting blisters, but a second row of archers moved quickly to their place.

“Shields!” Lampolo shouted without need. The cries above were more than enough warning. Each Companion angled his shield over the head of the man to his left, providing a buffer as the hot oil dripped through the boards above. It didn’t prevent trace scalding, but they were far more fortunate than their Elven brothers on the roof.

Another sound soon began to rattle the siege tower, as large metal gears and ratchets started to move slowly under tremendous tension. Each turn of the gear thumped in slow percussion, felt through the bottoms of feet up through each man’s spine. As the last of the Companions ceased their pained whimpering, every man in the phalanx waited for the siege weapon to prime. Below the deck, dwarves shouted over the din of their machinery.

“Adjust three degrees!”

“Another quarter turn!”

“Traverse left!”

One by one, each of the Companions reached up to grasp an iron triangle suspended by chains from the ceiling.

“Pyris Fia’s cock, I hate this part!” Justin shouted, then screwed his eyes shut and grit his teeth.

“Loose!” Shouted a dwarf from below.

A click.

The entire siege tower seemed to sway as gears under tension released in a trigger pull, propelling a solid iron ram through the works. Like a great terrible clock, the potential energy in the drawn ram released in an explosive punch against the city wall, shattering the outer stone edifice in a crater three meters wide. The violent release shook the whole length of the siege tower. Despite the bracing holds, many of the Companarii fell to the deck or against each other in a tumult. They grumbled curses, and scrambled to right themselves as the gears began to ratchet back again.

“What?” Justin shouted, slapping the side of his helmet as he looked to Lampolo.

“I didn’t say anything!” Lampolo pressed a finger through his helmet’s ear hole, massaging the cotton out of his overwhelmed ears.

“What?”

“I said I hate this too!”