Date: December 5, 1998
Place: Upon the Walls, Market, Courtyard of Temples - Duropolis
Cast: Ahmad, Aldus, Asrai (@emitted victims in market square), Baali, Darius, Daryd, Eridanus, Ifam, Iorian, Jafar, Jamas, Julien, Keahi, Kilmain, Lorica, Nikolas, Rajah, Sammael, Severin, Yemir
Clans: Jehad, Kedhav, Qazim, Suiliman, Temjin, Xerxes
Scene: The Empyreal city of Duropolis is invaded by Varati forces.
Note: This log was pieced together from two others, so the transition may seem abrupt at times. Also, a hearty thanks goes out to Michabo, Anubis, Lysander, Cepheus, and all the other players who made this scene memorable, not to mention possible.

Duropolis Walls - Upon the Walls - Duropolis:
      The winds blow with strong determination down on those who walk high upon the walls of the great Empyreal city. With the angry crowds below, the winds blow with a darkness of thick smoke originating from the huge Varati camps below on the bluff.
      The walls of the city show a marked progression of expansion, normal for most bordering Empyreal cities. The oldest parts of the city, those being the area containing the original Bastion, are by far the thickest and most impressive. These "Titan Gates" tower far over the lower, lesser walls of the growing city, giving a feeling of overseeing comfort.
      Just outside these walls lie the religious areas of the city, its heartland surrounded by slightly lower walls which stretch from the Bastion wall to a place near the cliffs. The Seraphim Gate guards the religious district.
      Beyond their position is the mercantile area, By far the lowest and weakest walls, these Mercury gates line the perimeter of the great city.

The walls of the Titan Gate are impressive, to say the least. Sheer, and at least fifty feet on the sides, they are made of a solid stone that can only come from the manufacture of those who are its masters--the Varati. Sitting on the gate are two full Cetervas of Empyreal Praetorians, the Tenth and the Sixth: Over twelve hundred men waiting to rain a steady stream of rocks, arrows, and other unsavory substances upon their foes. Yet, it is dark, and even amid the flickering torchlight, it is difficult to make out how many are below. "TO THE WALL!" Darius shouts, "ARM YOUR BOWS!" And with that, the archers in his Ceterva step forward and nock their arrows. "ARCHERS TO THE LINE!" The shouts come along the Empyrean walls as the Cohors of missile units prepare to pelt the defenders. From behind them, torches are lit--many torches....

The command from Eridanus comes without hesitation as the Empyrean raises a hand and steps back from the wall. Even a commander of his years has seen it bad, but this is far worse. He shoots a gaze down the line, shouting a command that leaves little room for doubt. It is the command to be ready, and to either side of the man, hundreds of Praetorians appear. Notching arrows in their heavy bows, the hundreds of Empyreans lay down a rain of arrows and spears onto those below.

Rajah's heart pounds as he leans forward, urging Nassur onward. Night-darkened ground flashes below him; at this pace and in this darkness there is no looking for obstacles, there is only prayer that Nassur does not run full tilt into something. A few squeals and shouts of pain in the dark announce other riders' failure at such prayers. Rajah's fingers tremble as he undoes the straps holding his crossbow to his mount's saddle. You've done this before, he tells himself steadily, and despite the pounding up-and-down ride, he manages to crank back the string and slip a bolt into its place. All around him, his clansmates do the same. Almost as one, they slip small bucklers over their left forearms, small enough so that their use of bows will not be impaired. They are much closer now.

A young man darts forward to retrieve a note from one of the severed heads rained into the city.

A light chuckle comes from the commander of the Varati. "Fools, how nice of them to light their own silhouettes." The curved blade rises once more. "Crossbows, prepare. Troops... ATTACK!" The cry comes with the blade's dropping, and launches of catapults herald the beginning of the Varati onslaught.

The notes with the heads all read the same thing. "Thank you for the gifts, but we are still coming for a visit. I look forward to eating dinner in Duropolis. Kilmain Kedhav."

Xerxes blood flows as their numbers take hit after hit. A few topple over as arrows or spears hit an eye or a throat--others are fortunate in getting mere flesh-wounds. Most are still unhurt, amongst them the giant form of Baali.

Julien creeps up to the walls over the Seraphim gate, ducking wildly through the carnage to try to get a decent view of the proceedings. He looks nervous, trying to keep out of the way of the various troops while still being able to observe the goings-on.

Nikolas is not so foolish. No torches burn atop his protected gate, but the dim flickerings and faint glow of fire can be seen by those below. The Centurion barks an order to his men and the glow grows brighter.

Hundreds of Praetorians on the Mercury wall prepare their bows, but there are many others who remain hidden by the wooden stockade. While a portion of Iorian's troops begin a silvery shower of arrows down upon their mortal enemies, the rest are working on other nasty surprises. They await the closer progression of the Varati who would dare challenge this wall.

Sammael hefts up his bronze lance and raises his shield some, prepared to raise it above him in preparation to block oncoming arrows...

The torches don't remain on the walls for long, "Lights!" The shouts come as the fires, dozens of them fly over the walls into the midst of the attackers below--heavy torches with burning heads that descend the high walls and clatter to the ground. The lights on the wall all seem to have gone out, even as the first volley of arrows strikes the defenses of the Titan Gate. A few men scream as they are hit by errant shafts. Below, the lights go up and for a split second, the sheer number of enemies can be seen. "FIRE!" The command echoes down the line as an innumerable archers come to the wall and rain down upon the now visible foes below. Like water, those bolts fall down onto the Varati with deadly accuracy. "FIRE!" The command comes again, while the torches are still lit. And more arrows fall upon them. Darius stands, watching from a position high above, and as he sees the seas of Varati there ...how many, he just stares--even he has never seen anything like this before.

The squat, powerful archers of Clan Temjin lift their short metal recurves and send out a stream of arrows, flying with almost the power of a crossbow and tipped with wicked, barbed heads. The outlines are quite convenient and they are excellent archers.

Tens upon thousands of voices upon the plains join in a single roar of defiance and bloodthirst. They overwhelm the cries of the shudra who are the first to receive into their bodies the arrows of the Empyreal defenders. They shudder under the silvery, hissing rain of wooden shafts and fall. Their heavily-armored handlers, ducking under shields, are slower to bow before the onslaught. Still the wave of slaves approaches, and when they realize there is no going back, a madness comes over them. They rush forward to claw at the gates, to be mowed down, to pile at the bases of the walls.

Severin looks to his group, ushering them to the wall. "You heard him, men! Fire your arrows at will!!" He pulls forth an arrow from his own quiver, taking only a second to aim it at one of the catapult operators and fires. His men all do the same, aiming for catapult operators and any enemy commanders within sight of the torches.

And it's begun. The energy of the battle translates even to the rear of the massive formation, where bloodlust grips those warriors who are not yet near enough to participate. In the darkness behind the massive army, the fire mages are not immune to the crackling energy of the excitement. Bodies tense, they study the walls, waiting impatiently for their cue to advance.

The cavalrymen of Clan Suiliman urge their mounts in a complicated pattern before the Seraphim gate, not attempting to leap the ditches before them. Getting so close is not necessary. A few more are lost to spikes driven into the ground, and swearing is cut off into a scream as a wounded wyvern latches onto the one nearest to it and the two tear each other, and their riders, to pieces. Light or no light, it's a good bet that the defenders of the gate are somewhere on the top of it, and there is enough glow to know where that is. A great singing note goes up as the crossbows of Suiliman fire and a mass of black bolts hisses towards the top of the Mercury gate.

As the shudra fall, Daryd slows his advance to the gates and glances side to side to spot those members of his clan that he can see in darkness. "Fan," he commands them. "If we attack as one spear, we are easily picked off. They cannot shoot all of us with one arrow. Spread out!" Ahmad begins to race away from Daryd side, following the command, and the elder Jehad grabs one of his straps. "You stay with me."

Baali grips his axe with both hands, a wave of fellow Clan brethren around him as they approach closer to the walls. White teeth are bared on almost every face now, except in the cases where there is nothing but cold death in clash to the vivid hunger shown on the rest.

The others cry out, but not those of Qazim. The banner flutters blackly in the night, its sigil indiscernible for the time being, and the mass of men follow the shudra to assail the Seraphim gate.

The burning fires in the near distance flicker faintly in the eyes of Eridanus as he watches the Varati grow nearer and some of the men around him fall from crossbow bolts. When the hordes of Varati are illuminated by the torches, he lets out a faint huff of air. As Daryd's men spread and converge on the walls, the decision has been made. A strange word rings out from the man, one that does not seemingly belong in battle, "Clear!" The word, however, is clearly expected by the hundreds and hundreds of archers, who all step forward simultaneously to let loose one last rain of death. Then within seconds, hundreds of them turn and take the air. All heading toward the Seraphim gates. Of the low numbers that are left, they overturn huge vats of oil, which is quick to catch fire and spread over the walls. It seems one doesn't need fire mages to spread fiery death onto the masses below. Within minutes, the abandonment of the Mercury gate is all but complete, and those from that position move to the Seraphim gate. It seems Eridanus is not without a plan or strategy.

Eridanus leaves the area of the Mercury Gate and lands upon the walls over the Seraphim Gate.

Julien peeks out from a decent hiding place that he'd secured at the self-same Seraphim gate, looking morosely forlorn when a contingent of bloodied Empyreans in obviously foul moods begin to head in his direction. He creeps out from where he was settled with his back to the wall, duck-walking in a crouch to keep his head below the battlement line. It just wouldn't do to fall from this height after being smacked upside the head with a Varati crossbow bolt. He basically gets out of the way fast, but soon finds another spot to hole up with his back to a wall, so he can still see and hear what's going on.

The first ranks of cavalrymen are caught in the splash of oil that quickly turns the ditches into pits of hot fire. Screams rise up, the cries of the animals louder and higher and more horrible than those of the men, and the stench of burning oil and flesh boils up into the air in clouds of greasy, black smoke. A few wyverns dart off, backs and riders ablaze, to light up the night before collapsing in heat-curled heaps. Rajah sees a friend, Achim, go up in a blaze and cries out in horror.

The flutter of pale wings in the moonlight and the high screams torn from dying throats sounds around Iorian. This is not going as planned. His archers make their final aims, not upon the poor slaves which are forced forward, but further out, upon those foul beings which hide behind the bodies of their lessers. The second line wheels forward the barrels of oil, rolling them to cascade down the outer wall. Bright torches are dropped down, and then the orderly retreat to the Seraphim gate commences. Iorian waits until the last of his men are moved, growling curses to the high winds before following with an irritable flap of wings. Many of his comrades in arms do not make it safely to that second wall, the wide spread of their wings in the moonlight making them easy targets from below.

Nikolas gives a word and the guardsmen stationed at Seraphim gate rise to ready themselves for firing. Their Centurion commander gives a nod as his eyes briefly leave the hordes below, and a tongue of flame flickers in a quick line down the battlements, giving faint illumination to the grim faces of the archers as they pass that small flame along. In another moment, the flaming arrows are darting below in a wave of light as their archers fire and then duck back behind the wall without waiting to see the effect of their attack. Once the archers are away, crossbowmen step up to the wall and drag heavy, mounted crossbows into place to fire at the wyverns.

The men of Qazim split themselves into two groups: one raises stout shields over their heads and the heads of others, and like a great, black beetle, they move forward toward the Seraphim gate. Beneath them, the ram is passed forward, hundreds of pairs of hands working in unison to bring forward the great beam. A shudder goes through the gate as the first questioning strike taps it.

The screams of Empyreans echo into the night as the harsh bolts of the Varati tear through every hole in the wall. Soldiers who have seen dozens of campaigns feel the painful sting of arrows in their sides, several even fall over the embattlements into the masses of attackers below. Darius watches as the enemy continues to advance. Turning to the others, he orders, "ROCKS!" There is a calm method to him, and even though there must be terror within the breasts of all these men, they continue to fight. "Rocks!" The call comes down the line and from the back, baskets and tubs of heavy rocks are carted forward by strong mongrel slaves. With effort, they are dumped over the side and sent crashing down onto the defenders. The flight of Eridanus from the Mercury Gate and the withdraw of those Cetervas is evident, and the Praefect Darius takes note, looking to his Centurions, "Hold the line till the time the others have arrived, then shift down from the wall and take up positions. When they storm the gates, they'll try to flank us." That same calm tone, but soon he looks back towards the masses below.

With another nod from Nikolas, those cauldrons of boiling oil that caused the earlier faint light atop his battlements are poured upon the attackers.

Rajah raises his crossbow to his shoulder and fires at the first hated figure framed by those white wings that he sees. All around him, his clansmates do the same, and song after song of bowstring sings out in the night as the men reload and fire as quickly as they can. Their mounts dash back and forth, carrying them in that same complicated pattern in order to confuse marksmen on the walls above.

Burning oil rolls along the stout shields held aloft by Qazim's men. Some of the warriors pay for the imprecision of their shields' placement: screaming, their silks go ablaze and they drop to roll and frantically try to put out flames which do not want to go out. They are replaced, quickly and without fear. The Seraphim gate shudders again with another, heavier blow.

Another rain of fiery arrows pours down upon those before Seraphim Gate, but fewer than before. A tell-tale sign of how many archers have been hit by fire from the Varati below.

Julien huddles against the wall, hurriedly rifling through an inner pocket of his tunic until he comes up with a sheet of parchment. Trembling hands unfold it and the contents are summarily read posthaste, before the boy wads the sheaf of parchment up and sticks it into the nearest available torch, which happens to be sitting at a patient Archer's feet. He waits to make sure the sheets of paper are burnt utterly, before starting a hesitant and very meticulous descent from the walls. He's seen enough. Time to get the Hell Outta Dodge.

Jamas and his clansmates move up to provide cover for the activities of Qazim: a hail of arrows answers the rain sent down from the defenders of the Seraphim gate.

Severin looks to Darius with a nod, then swings around in time to see two of his men get hit with crossbow fire. "Filthy curs, we'll show them whom is the superior species!" He then proceeds to empty his quiver, as do his men and theirs, into the Varati horde below.

There is chaos all around, yet a tight Empyreal formation begins to take form as it darts over the still quiet parts of the city toward the second wall. Eridanus and the hundreds of archers that managed to make it clear of the first wall seem to tighten up into several small groups, which split and land in spaced-out divisions along the Seraphim gates. They have lost a lot of men in the process, and Eridanus is no better for the wear. Thus, four hundred more Praetorians arrive on the wall and strengthen the numbers there.

At the Titan gates, there are cries of terror cut short by falling rock, several members of Clan Jehad in that number. Daryd stumbles backward, away from the wall, dragging Ahmad with him, and bellows to those within earshot, "We find another way in!"

Julien works his way carefully down the stairs to the marketplace, having to pause several times so that the injured can be borne down on litters and makeshift gurneys. He hits the ground shouting--screaming his head off, a single name, over and over, 'Aruknutz.' He might just be yelling to see if anyone turns their head in response.

Behind the retreating Empyreans, the wooden timbers of the Mercury gate blaze in a wall of pure fire--set by Iorian's troops. It may have been abandoned, but it will be at least some time before that entrance to the city is navigable. As they settle onto the walls of the Seraphim gate, the elite soldiers quickly meld in with those already defending, thickening the rain of arrows which shower down upon the Varati with the battering ram.

Eridanus walks with quick speed down Seraphim the wall, staying toward the back to avoid the barrage of arrows that rains up over the wall. He is clearly looking to see which of his commanders remain alive, if any. As he does so, a Praetor is struck in the skull with an arrow from a Varati crossbow, stumbling back onto the middle-aged Empyrean. Somehow, the man catches the young guardsman, and the man lays the soldier down with mild care before continuing on his search.

Julien vanishes down into one of the stairway towers.

Rajah and the men of the Clan of Suiliman whirl away from the burning Mercury gate, following the defenders as a hunter follows its migrating prey. They circle toward the Seraphim gate again and again, adding their arrows to those of Clan Temjin.

Yemir hisses in pain as an arrow finds its way into his shoulder. It is burning. He rips it out and tosses it aside before it can catch his clothes on fire. The next arrow finds the throat of the Warlord and he falls back, clutching his throat. A groan ripples down the line of his men and the beating upon the Seraphim gate stops. Then anger replaces dismay. Pour oil on us, dump rocks on us, shoot arrows into us; you will pay for that--this sentiment is conveyed quite clearly by the renewal of the ram's activity: strike after strike after strike, each one more insistent and enraged than the last.

The two heavy crossbows atop Seraphim gate thud heavily as they release their six foot shafts toward the crowd below. Normally, such weapons might be used by the ones -attacking- a city, but perhaps this is equipment that was being made for the war to be taken elsewhere and it now serves another purpose. The large bolts sail toward the masses below, trailing flame.

Still more arrows rain onto the defenders of the Titan Gate. The screams of winged men become more frequent. Even its massive walls seem as if they will strain beneath the force of so many's attack. "FIRE!" The command comes again from the top of the walls and more arrows descend upon the retreating Clan Jehad. Amazingly, this unit seems to be holding its ground, even in the face of this overwhelming force. However, as Darius surveys his line, it is obvious that first round of attack punished his unit and the Sixth Ceterva, hard. Soon, he sees the figure of Praefect Aldus of the Sixth approaching. The Empyreal commander holds his arm, from which blood runs freely.

"Darius." His voice is soft, "We held them off, but I don't think we can endure another assault."

"FIRE!" The line commanders continue to give their orders and hold the forces at bay as best they can. Some men are even running low on quarrels, so many have been loosed. "I know, Aldus. We'll do our best. Eridanus knows what he's doing. We'll be just fine." Still calm, but Darius' voice wavers just a touch.

One of the massive bolts cuts as easily through the shields below as a hot knife through butter, and the warrior beneath it finds himself nailed to the ground and bereft of life as well. The other drives into the head of the battering ram with such force that the men holding it are knocked down, falling.

The battering against Seraphim stops for the moment.

Leather-over-steel shields held up for protection, Xerxes has taken a battering ram of its own and is moving toward Gate Titan. Rocks or no rocks, fire or no fire, they are set on success.

Nikolas falters back as his left wing is stuck by an enemy arrow and he curses, reaching up to break the shaft in two. He leaves the arrow embedded in his wing, too busy to remove it as he turns to call more orders down his line of remaining men. The bodies of fallen archers are scattered haphazardly upon the wall, some of the wounded still breathing and groaning.

Though the majority of bodies flee fire, a sizeable force--well, forty or so--follow Daryd's lead toward the still-burning Mercury gate. "Dig, and shower the flames with dirt," the eldest Jehad calls out, and several men fall to it. "By Atar's will, we will find our way inside." Ahmad, his strap still in Daryd's grasp, wrenches himself away from his brother, saying, "Do we run now? There are no candala here!"

Jamas laughs joyously as he bends the stout steel recurve to his will. Arrow after arrow joins with the arrows of his Clansmates, hissing promises of keen death to those on the receiving end of their flight.

The inaction is maddening! Keahi snorts and grinds his jaw as he gazes at the flaming Mercury Gate. Let it burn. Knowing his time will come, he stifles the rage that is growing within him. He is, for now, content to visualize similar tongues of fire enveloping the other two gates and their defenders with them. He waits.

The bowmen who wield the 'siege' machines of the VII Justinius atop the Seraphim Gate begin to crank the massive bows once more, as quickly as they might. Sweat pours off the soldiers assigned to the task as they move with an urgency to ready the weapons in time. The left bow creaks loudly as it is pulled back, but it finally thunks into place and another long, metal-tipped shaft is loaded into it.

The battering ram at the Seraphim gate remains quiescent as the men of Qazim bolster their shield cover. They step together; now there are two or even three shields forming the thick shell over the men below. And they do nothing but hunker there as Temjin and the riders of Clan Suiliman send wave after wave of arrows towards the walls. The wyvernmen duck back in ordered groups towards the back of Temjin's lines for a fresh supply of bolts, so disciplined at this at this action that the rate of fire hardly lets up.

With the flames comes smoke. Great billowing waves of it that turn the whole battlefield into something out of a hazy dream. The stench of burning bodies from both sides is carried with those grey and black clouds, causing the gut of more than one soldier to clench defensively. Iorian curses quietly as he watches his men continue sending arrows down into those swarms of dark-faced men below. Although the arrow supply is great, it is bound to dwindle eventually, and then what? Shouldering his way behind the front row of archers, he makes his way toward Eridanus and the military advisors who accompany the Tribune.

Nikolas rushes forward to light the tar painted upon this shaft himself, before the large crossbow releases its bolt downward with a flickering of trailing flame. More of his men fall around him, crying out and clutching at the arrows that embed themselves into their bodies.

A man whose haik is embroidered with Clan Qazim's heavy and ornate black embroidery runs up to the group of mages and their guard, breathless. His face is smeared with greasy black ashes. "Imphadi. We have made your way."

The head of the Xerxes battering ram hits once against Gate Titan. Twice. Three times, and still the ones moving it are protected from attacks from above by their brethren's own shields. From the air, the sight of the Clan may not be unlike that of a giant turtle hitting its head against the gate.

Daryd grabs Ahmad by the arm and hurls him at the wall beside the gate. "Be silent," he insists, "and search the walls. If the stones are loose, we will pull them out. If there are handholds, we will climb, but use your eyes and not your mouth." He moves to the other side of the gate, avoiding burning oil as he searches the walls.

Severin glances to his shoulder as an arrow takes hold of his uniform on its way past. He looks back to the battering ram being prepared for the Titan Gate, then points it out to his men and anyone else listening. "Direct what arrows and rocks you have left at that ram! They must not take this gate!!" Rocks and arrows rain down in a concentrated stream upon the ram operators, even now as they replace their quivers with fresh ones from the servant mongrels. They hope there are more arrows coming soon, but fear the shortage that will come.

A hole opens up in the carapace below as Nikolas' arrow finds its way through an unwise gap. It is almost immediately covered. Still, the battering ram does not take up its call again; the beetle below is motionless.

A messenger somehow managed to find Eridanus amidst all this mess, handing a letter to the Empyrean. The poor boy has been through hell and back, and he all but collapses on the edge of the wall. The Empyreal commander of the district stands up straight and skims over the note. Blue eyes widening, he crumples the note and tosses it away from him, its crumpled form falling down inside the walls. He then begins to storm toward Nikolas, taking the heavy bow from his shoulder and notching an arrow as he approaches him.

Emir Suiliman calls out: "Vasha! Mah-halik to'mar!" And with that, the riders of the graceful and swift male wyverns peel off from the main group. They race towards the Mercury gate and form a line there in the dark, outside of the range of any bowshot. A sibilant rattle of wood is heard above the groans and growls of the animals.

Keahi nods curtly to the messenger. The time has come at last. The others heard the man as well, so speech is not necessary. As one, the group of crimson-clad Varati, surrounded and obscured by their heavily-armed escort, make their way forward through the narrow path cleared in the ranks. Now they will burn.

A path opens up in the ranks of Temjin archers as the archers themselves pour more fire gatewards, striving to send as many bolts forward as quickly as possible, with little regard to accuracy. The riders of the drone-female Wyverns race forward in a boiling cloud of swirling motion to fire as well, again and again and again.

Nikolas' chiseled features look almost demonic in the shadows cast by the spots of fire below as he looks over the gathered might of the Varati and barks another hoarse call of "Fire!" at his struggling archers. One bowman's arm trembles as he tries to notch his arrow, an enemy missile protruding from his shoulder.

The Tribune is moving away from Iorian in his storm toward Nikolas, but that doesn't deter the Centurion. His men continue their orderly defense of the wall as he follows in Eridanus' path.

Rajah, with the ranks of fast-riders arrayed in their line near the Mercury gate, shakes his arm to loosen his tense muscles. He trembles with fear and adrenaline, and the fire dances and skitters in his vision. He is entranced by it, and stares at the burning pits before the gate until a clansmate leans way over to thump him on the back of the head. "Don't go to sleep, Rajah!"

"Ouch!" Rajah laughs, a bit higher and more hysterically than he could have liked, and glares at his companion. "I wasn't sleeping!"

"Quiet in the ranks," growls the force leader and the two young men fall quiet. Nassur shifts from foot to foot, unhappy to be standing still in the face of so much fire and excitement and blood.

The men atop the Titan Gate take only a moment to stop the incessant fire upon the Varati below. From their midst, the groans and cries of wounded men can be heard, and perhaps a third or more of their number have been crippled or killed by arrow fire and flame. Even as the Seraphim Gate struggles to hold on, the Praefects atop the main gate are seeking to gather their remaining units together for what will certainly be a crushing assault. "Sir," a runner from the line approaches Aldus and Darius, "...our men are running low on quarrels and shafts." Aldus coughs and nods to him, "Use those from the dead and wounded." And he turns back to face Darius, "I will go to my men. Lares be with you, Darius Jove."

The man smiles a bit and turns back down the line. "Lares be with us, Aldus." And then Darius proceeds to stride down towards the wall, "Ready your bows! They'll come at us again. Remember, we do this for the glory of every Empyreal citizen: our wives, our children, our families! We are the Tenth of the Seventh Justinius. Never have we known defeat in battle. But if that day must be this one, let them know who it was they fought and have the wounds to remember us by." The men's hopes are lifted somewhat by the Praetor's strong words, and they ready once again.

It is Ahmad who cries out, sending a wave of summons through those of his clan at the Mercury gate that Daryd is needed. When the elder of the two brothers joins the first, Ahmad proudly points out, "Look! I have found a way in. I have found a way, Daryd."

Daryd smiles slowly, and claps his brother on the shoulder. "Good, good, good, Ahmad." He then turns back to the rest of those who watch and informs them, "We go through. Be at the ready!" He turns toward the darkened entrance.

Some of the Xerxes men shielding the ones that brings the battering ram so hard and quick against Gate Titan have left themselves open. Bad luck or bad thinking, in either case they go down by the dozens, just to be replaced by others. And again the attack, one thundering hit after another.

The Empyreal Tribune comes up behind Nikolas, letting an arrow of his own fly before turning to speak to the man. As he turns back, he see the approach of Iorian and shouts to them both. "Reinforcements are being delayed. We HAVE to hold out for as long as possible." He reaches over his shoulder to retrieve another arrow, "Hold this wall as long as possible before retreating to Titan, we must not lose this city!" The obvious words come out of the commander's mouth as he gazes below, notching another arrow, the Tribune takes aim on a group of attackers and fires. He turns back to Iorian, "It is only a matter of time before the break through, when they do, take the twelfth, thirteenth, and fifteenth down there and do some damage. We will not go down into the night easily." The man's determination is evident--there is an odd fire in his eyes.

A path opens up in the ranks of the Varati laying siege to the Seraphim Gate. Carefully positioned on either side of this trench are warriors hefting shields to provide cover. The fire mages move quickly, crouched down amid their guard which accompanies them toward the front.

Temjin and those Suiliman not waiting in their patient line by the Mercury gate, fire renewed streams of arrows at the defenders of the Seraphim gate. Fifty, sixty, seventy of them are cut down by the return fire like so many blades of grass, but they grimly continue the attack. It is meant to be suppressive fire, covering the mages' approach.

Nikolas thuds his fist against his chest and ducks his head in salute to Eridanus as his words. Lifting his head again, he turns to relay the message down the line to his remaining wingsoldiers and bowmen, "Hold this wall as long as possible! -We- are all that stands between our loved ones and the Varati dogs!" Before his words are even completed, an arrow from below zizzes past him, grazing his temple and his skull to leave a smear of red that will likely leave a hairless scar upon his shaved pate.

Severin looks to the Battering Ram at the Titan Gate, his eyes narrowing as he sees the opening. "Throw everything you have at them, men! If we are to die tonight, we will go down as honorable men! We will be remembered by Gods and Men alike! Now give it your all!!" His section musters a renewed fighting spirit, wanting to show to their Gods and to all the world what a true Empyrean Praetor is! Taking arrows and rocks from the dead and wounded, some even throwing whatever they can find around them, they continue their assault on the ram and its soldiers.

Daryd and Ahmad vanish down into one of the stairway towers.

The shields at the base of Seraphim gate contract slightly. Beneath that cover, the air is thick with the scent of sweat, blood, the filth of the dead, and the charred, pork smell of burned flesh. It is dark under there, and hundreds of pairs of eyes glitter in the darkness, watching the mages' progress. The battering ram lies on the ground, abandoned for the moment.

[Meanwhile, in the market within the walls of Duropolis]:
      Sobs and frantic shouting through the dark define this market as much as the dim winding streets and hulking shadows of fragile tents and stalls. Some people rush this way and that, frantically searching for who knows what, others are huddled in the backs of their tents, only frightened eyes visible in the meager light.
      The Central Way of this market marches north from the gate towards the higher stone wall where the priestly district begins.
      To the left are the avenues lined with the richer shops of the sellers of weapons and luxuries. To the east are streets where farmers and minor crafters struggle to make some profit. Straight ahead are the slavers. A deadly silence reigns over that ghetto.

Julien creeps through a broken door into stalls in the slavers ghetto.

Daryd and Ahmad step from one of the staircase storage towers and enter the market.

Muffled cries fill the air, and in the distance screams can be heard.

It is slow, this trickle of Varati that creep, blades drawn, through the smuggler's entrance into the walled city of Duropolis. Daryd motions behind him for silence, a motion that is passed along by those who follow. "Quietly," he insists, "and spread apart. Those we find, we kill. No candala will betray us this night."

There are forty or so of them, in all, all broad-chested and towering.

Someone runs through the street, calling out a name. The figure races towards the shadows taking form by the old smuggler's gate.

Daryd gestures sharply toward that running figure. "Silence it!"

Ahmad draws his falcare, and races forward toward that running figure, leaving Daryd to hiss, "Ahmad!" ineffectually at his back.

The figure races through the dark, illuminated only moments before she reaches Ahmad. A young woman calling for her child comes face to face with the Varati warrior.

Woman or no woman, Daryd said that it must be silenced, and silenced it must be. Ahmad hesitates only a second, then reaches out to grab at one of the woman's wrists. Provided that she does not back away, he hauls her close to him, curling her arm against his chest, and bares teeth as he rumbles at her, "Be silent, or I will slice your throat from ear to ear."

Clan Jehad begins to fan down the central way in groups of three and four.

The woman begins to shriek, still calling her child's name, "Aprail, Apprail! Aaaapreeeailllllll!!!!!!"

Ahmad did warn the woman. He shakes her once, roughly, then turns her around so that she faces away from him, girds her about the waist and with the blade of the falcare beneath her chin, draws it across her throat with a quick, vicious movement.

The woman's hysteria is only a pale reflection of the renewed terror that grips the survivors. People scream and dart away from Clan Jehad's men, almost tripping over themselves in their adrenaline-induced haste.

"Apriiiii--" Silence.

Julien peeks out the doorway of the Temple of Pasiphae, small and insignificant as it may be. Oh, this does not look good. He creeps out very gingerly, before looking for some good, dark shadows in which to conceal himself. And oddly enough, he heads toward the gates where all these Varati soldiers are pouring in from. He just gives them a very wide berth, not about to interfere in what they evidently consider their business here.

People rush here and there, one broad farmer leaps from a shadow and tries to brain Daryd with a rock.

Julien disappears up one of the staircases leading to the top of the city walls.

Ahmad lets the woman's body drop, and follows after his brother as the remainder of Clan Jehad does the same. For Daryd's part, he startles away from the man with the rock so that the blow comes down on the outside of his shoulder. Said bold farmer does not, alas, live much longer, as he is borne backward by two of the clan and dispatched, in payment for the attack.

Women, children, the old and the feeble-minded... They scatter like rats. The bodies of their loved ones, the broken bags of flesh and bones they mourned and wept over, lie in deserted heaps in the streets. Except for one... An old man kneels by the body of a young boy--his grandson, most likely--weeping and mumbling, "Why? Why? Divanus, why?"

[Back upon the walls of Duropolis]

Reinforcements are delayed... If loss of hope sweeps down upon Iorian, he is too much the soldier to let it be seen. With a stiff nod to his commander, the Empyrean makes a tight turn, keeping his wings in close. His steps take him back along the wall, slowly. Rather than shouting instructions, he speaks quietly to each group of men he passes, leaving grimly determined faces in his wake. Some continue with their coverage with arrows, while others take up hand weapons and shields, falling back to the rear edge of the wall. By the time he has reached the far end of the line, they are ready for a command from Eridanus.

And still, Xerxes doesn't die. Their number is big enough, their shields strong enough and their will by now even more hardened that the re-strengthened attack of Gate Titan's defenders doesn't give any more casualties than before. Hit after hit makes the gate tremble like a wooden toy at the assault of a child wielding a steel hammer.

One of the men atop Seraphim cries out, clutching at the arrow in his chest as he falls forward over the wall and flutters into those shielded below.

*Thump*. The shields barely move as the body hits it, although the warriors underneath grunt at the sudden addition of weight. White grins flash in the darkness.

One of the Qazim, though, shifts and pulls a long knife out from his belt. He inserts it into the crack formed by the shields, shifting his shield so the overlap is removed, and rams it up into the body lying atop his shield. Blood pours down on the shieldbearers and pools around their boots.

The ram's incessant pounding against the Titan Gate throbs through the bodies of all those who defend it. Mustering the last of their strength and arrows, the Sixth and the Tenth rain down upon those shield walls which guard the siege engine. "They won't take this gate!" Nerelluys, the commander of the Fourth Cohors shouts. Almost immediately, he is struck by a flaming arrow in his chest and stumbles back. One of his men catches him as he falls. "FIRE!" The arrows come again, but in much lesser numbers, primarily because they are running low and have so many wounded. Yet these are good soldiers, and even those who are stricken still manage to fire on the Varati. Darius watches with a careful eye, but as more men fall, he looks with determination and reaches to grab an arbalist, nocking an arrow and moving towards the wall.

Keahi and his group stops once they are near enough to Seraphim to do their work. Arrows streak downward, the raised shields deflecting or shattering the vast majority of this rain of death. A warrior gasps as a shaft finds a gap and plants itself in his shoulder. One of the mages cries out as an arrow sprouts from his calf. Now it is time. The wood of the gate begins to blacken and smoke in several places. One red-robed Varati makes a violent motion and hurls a ball of flame up in the direction of the gate's winged defenders.

A chorus of Varati swear-phrases rises up to the heavens as that part of the shield-carapace shivers aside to let the ball of flame through. It closes immediately and the warriors wince at the sudden warmth of their shields. It grows hot, very hot, under that dense cover of wood and metal.

The Xerxes turtle ramming its head against Gate Titan lessens slightly in size as a few more of its numbers are hit through what little openings remain in its shield. Yet, the beating continues, and now the hits are taken in a measured, forceful rhythm. *Thud. and they back to then rush against the gate. *Thud!* another retreat and yet another rush forward. *THUD!*

Rajah checks the straps holding his crossbow in place, having stowed it when the order was given to switch weapons. He takes a deep breath and tries not to shake.

Eridanus peers down into the city, shaking his head. He turns to Iorian, pointing at the man and shooting over the battle. "Hold the wall. Something isn't right in the--" He turns as a huge ball of light comes shooting from below, face becoming instantly more stern. Instead of stepping back, the man steps forward toward the ball of flames. His face contorts, and he seems to force all his might into some unknown effort. Suddenly, as if it were never there, the ball of flames vanishes with a *whoosh* of air. It is as if the magic that created it was suddenly strangled into nothingness. This done, the commander steps quickly back into the lower portions of the wall. He looks directly at Iorian and continues, "Get your men off of here, to Titan we have lost enough. He looks at Nikolas, "Come with me into the city. We'll hold them off down there as long as we can."

Nikolas shouts to his men after he hears the Tribune's order, and those who are not too wounded to make it down the ladders or to flap downward into the city begin to prepare to depart the battlements. His own face becomes grimmer as he detaches the arbalist from his belt and takes a moment to lock it into position. He tucks a bolt into place and watches the few men left in his command with a quiet gaze.

Julien reaches the soldiers' walk atop the walls.

Darius takes aim with his arbalist at the Varati below. The light has grown dim and getting arrow shots off is difficult. The torches are running low and there aren't even enough mongrels left to carry the wounded off below. "Keep firing!" The Praefect shouts to his men. An arrow wings by him, nearly missing his head. His swift reflexes draw him behind the wall again, where he proceeds to nock another arrow--only two left. Gritting his teeth, he leans back over and lets his bow twangs join the chorus of others. But, like a group who's been singing too long, their voices grow weak. The ram continues and though the gate is strong, it cannot hold out forever against the pounding of that mighty instrument. They cannot kill enough enemies, for every time they shoot three down, six replace them.

Severin shakes his head, looking to the ram as it hits the gate harder and harder. He looks at the body of a fallen comrade-in-arms at his feet. No more arrows in his quiver, nothing around him to toss, he hefts the body into his arms. Closing his eyes, he says a silent prayer for his friend. "You will be remembered, always. Now, we use you as a final attempt to save this gate and the refugees beyond it. May you have speed on your way to the Gods, my friend." He then throws the body with all his might out towards the battering ram below. He looks to Darius nearby, shaking his head. "What word do we have of the evacuation? We must fend them off at least long enough for the civilians to get free!"

As the ball of flame rises up and seems to hesitate before being snuffed out, the archers of Clan Temjin use that point as target. Their bows give tongue to a hail of arrows.

The dead Empyrean hits the Xerxes turtle beneath, one shield giving away... And then hands come up through the cracks between shields, dragging the carcass slowly off even as the battering ram beats against the gate. Over and over, and each single hit seems to give the next one even more strength--more aggression.

The wood of the Seraphim Gate continues to blacken in several scattered places, the scorched areas steadily widening. The wide metal bands that brace the door begin to glow red, and small tongues of flame flicker and die in places where the iron touches wood. The thick gates are weakening under the magical force of the combined efforts of the mages below. It is only a matter of time before they are consumed. Keahi's tense scowl becomes a smile as he watches his handiwork.

Intent on listening to Eridanus' orders, Iorian is nearly oblivious to the approach of the fireball until it is almost upon them. His eyes close and the heat can be felt. Then, suddenly.... *whoosh*. It is gone. It takes a moment for that to sink in, a moment of surprise. Then, he shakes it off. Those high in rank have always got a trick or two up their sleeves. A few shouted orders, and the bulk of his men begin to pull back, taking nearly all of the remaining arrows and weapons with them. The few who now line the battlements continue to fire on the attackers below, but it's a delaying motion at best, merely holding the Varati at bay while their comrades escape. Under cover of their fire, the majority of Iorian's men head to join those of Darius and Severin atop the Titan gate. Iorian remains with the bowmen, taking up a weapon of his own and contributing to the flow of downward flowing arrows.

A brace of Temjin archers toss aside their bows to scuttle under the shield cover provided by the men of Qazim. At least a tenth are cut down by the last volleys from the ramparts above, but the ones who make it take the ram into their hands, shifting around the mages. The wood is lifted and then applied to the gate once again. The ominous pounding takes on a muffled tone as the fire damage changes the character of the massive portal.

The orders dispatched, the Tribune waves to the remainder of his men and literally steps right off the side of the wall. Like a swam of huge birds, the hundred of his original six hundred men that remain and a fraction of Nikolas' men and Nikolas himself all dive into the religious district. It is an extremely lucky thing, since a rain of arrows descends on the platform upon which they were just standing. All in one sweep, seventy-five Empyreal archers lose their lives.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The Seraphim gate is not sounding good. The remaining Temjin and Suiliman archers, free now from having to fire at the wall above the gate, turn and let volleys fly at the Empyreans as they pull back, the Suiliman riders darting forward on their mounts to add range to their shots.

"Sir, I don't know how much longer we can hold this position." One of the younger Optios comes forward and speaks to Darius. "And Praefect Aldus has been killed."

Darius fires off his last arrow into the masses below and looks up at the other man, "Very well. Prepare the men to back off at my command."

The Optio nods, "Yes, sir." And goes to relay the message. Soon, however, the 'reinforcements' from the Seraphim Gate arrive and join in the defense of the Titan--now better than three thousand are gathered around that one spot at the foot of the bastion. Even their added strength cannot stop the unrelenting attack on the gate below. The commander of the Third Ceterva, Marcus Lorica comes towards Darius, preparing to address him, but is forced to take cover as a volley of flaming arrows courses through the air, cutting a hot swathe through the newly-arrived men.

The Seraphim gate is not sounding good, nor is it looking good. Shouted commands in either direction, from Iorian, bring the few remaining archers to converge just over the gate itself, the volley of arrows suddenly ceasing with their repositioning. Clear shots are afforded beyond them for the moment, and more than a few of the retreating soldiers are taken out of the air, but that cannot be helped. Soon, these dedicated men become visible again as they shoulder wooden barrels of pitch and naphtha and oil up and over the low embrasure of the wall they stand upon. Falling with great force, the barrels break open on the shields of the Varati below. More huge pots of oil are dumped to soak the already-smoking gates, the mixing of the oil with the hot embers starting up an immediate line of smoke. In an orderly fashion, dozens of fire- dipped arrows follow the path of the barrels and the oil, and a bonfire rapidly begins to blaze at the foot of the Seraphim gate. Perhaps unwisely, Iorian himself stands high upon the wall, leaning out to gauge the effect of his men's efforts. His buckler is held loosely in one hand to shield off any arrows which might rise from the chaos he's induced below.

That target proves too irresistible to the men of Clan Temjin. Ignoring the cries of the Qazim men--who rapidly find themselves in a wood-walled oven--they aim for the figures who pour oil down upon the shields, and in particular the foolish one who puts himself out in the open so clearly. Their clansmates, their hands rough and bleeding from working the ram, scream their pain as hot oil trickles onto them from rapidly-opening gaps in the shield cover. But they do not stop.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. For all the rhythmic hitting against Gate Titan, one would almost think the Xerxes warriors beating that battering ram against the portal to be as automatic as a loom.

Severin glances back to his men, some of them injured, some dead, then looks back to that battering ram below. No more arrows, no more stones, they've even taken what stone they could off of the gate itself to throw at the Varati horde. He has them stand back, shields at the ready as he looks to Darius. Wings held high and proud, looking as dark as a dark Empyrean with the smoke in the air, he speaks with narrowed eyes and a soldier's tongue. "Sir, we have nothing more to defend ourselves with but our hand weapons. What are your orders?"

With a mighty crash, the end of the battering ram forces its way through the Seraphim gate's timbers. The newly-cracked wood is quickly alight, and flames lick their way up the sides of the structure. Another strike, and the mass of timbers bursts into flame, leaving a burning gap to the inside of the city. Just then, the oil from the defenders comes splashing down, further igniting the ruined gate. Two of the mages are splashed and begin to burn. The rest pull back, awkwardly.

Sammael, standing tall, solemn, he speaks in a deep, sonorous tone. "Anything to put into the catapults? Say dismantled abandoned buildings? Broken weapons?

An order rapidly ripples through the ranks of those riders of Suiliman who are wheeling before the gates of Seraphim. They draw off beyond bowshot distance and form two lines, like their comrades before Mercury.

Temjin howls and pours forward and so does Qazim, the men of the latter hurling burning shields aside as they leap through the burning verge. The bodies left behind roast, curling into a fetal position as tendons and muscles cook and pull.

Darius looks towards Praefect Lorica as he arrives, the other commander's voice answering Severin, "We have some spare arrows from the other gate." With his hand, he gestures towards the others who have arrived with several bundles of quarrels.

"Good to see you, Lorica." Darius looks to Severin and barks, "Get those weapons and get on the wall, soldier." His eyes are hard.

"Seems as if we are in a bit of a bind here?" Lorica comments on the state of affairs. The way the two men talk, you'd think they were friends.

"Aye, I'll buy you an ale at the tavern when we are done." Darius chuckles it off as he grabs a few more bolts. Lorica loads his arbalist as well. Once again, the twang of bowstrings fills the air as the Clans below are pelted with more arrows from above. The Titan gate appears to be holding, but barely.

"Well, we've been in worse, Darius." Lorica grimaces.

"Have we?" The Tenth's command answers quizzically. Both men then fire a volley from their crossbows over the wall.

The ballista handers grab some torches and start to set one ballista on fire, the dry timbers burning quite well; others douse unlit parts with oil before lighting them to strengthen it. With all their might, in a brave gesture, they start to push it towards the Varati entering the gate, charging, some pushing it on ground, others in the air, right before it hits, they leap away, launching themselves with a mighty push of the wings and land upon the turrets, grabbing abandoned weapons, light crossbows, longbows, lances, or even broken poles of wood, ready to swoop down at those who get past the burning ballista

The turtle name for the Xerxes men shielding the wielders of the battering ram is more fitting than just for the way they look. Though slowed by their protective stance, they are stubborn and unyielding. Only one man falls this time, one single out of that whole massive group as they continue their onslaught against the trembling Titan Gate.

Steel sings as the warriors of Qazim's clan pull their swords. They fan out quickly, but even so, the first rank of them is mowed down by those defenders just inside the door. Then there is an answering roar of bowstrings as the archers of Temjin, racing behind their Qazim brothers, leap onto rubble and loose a mighty volley in the air.

Once again, billows of smoke rise from one of the gates of the doomed Duropolis. Grey and black chokes the sky, carrying upward the stench of burning bodies, mingled with the cleaner scent of wood and oil. Somewhere in that cloudy haze atop the Seraphim wall, Iorian is struck by several arrows. The sharp tips pierce his wings and bury themselves within his body. Of the more than fifty bowmen who'd remained on that wall, scarcely a score remain. Iorian manages to signal them to retreat to the Titan gate before succumbing to his wounds. Wings held stiffly out, his body falls in slow motion out onto those crowding to move through the broken and burning archway--a last avenging angel to cross the sight of more than a few of those villainous fiends from the bowels of the earth.

Severin looks to the arrows, then to one of his soldiers. "Start getting these arrows passed out on the double! I want this done yesterday!!" He has his men at the wall again, aiming at that turtle of a battering ram. "Watch her, careful! When you see an opening, fire! But not until. Make these last beauties count, men!!"

The falling, avenging form that is Iorian crunches down on the cast-aside shields, knocking one Varati soldier over and full onto one of the defensive stakes driven into the ground. Flames lick at the feathers of the fallen Praetor.

The ballista-men follow Iorian, wings spread the fall toward the Varati at an alarming speed, attempting to impale or crush that which they may hit with their bodies or what they hold.

Through the smoke and the darkness, any openings in the shield of the turtle are about as easily detected as the buskins of the men beneath. Again and again, the warriors of Xerxes assault the Titan gates, not planning on giving up as long as they have any life left within them.

Heart pounding, Jamas raises his bow to his ear and lets an arrow fly. The red-fletched shaft burrows hungrily into the heart of one of the hated winged enemy, and the creature flutters down to the ground. With an elegant grace, the man who seeks to become a master pulls another arrow from his rapidly-emptying quiver--no going back for more, now--and sends it on its way. He lets out a soft sigh as it misses. The next one is true, and its target collapses on the stones of the gateway, kicking and screaming at the pain that is barbed in its belly. Jamas smiles.

The fire-mages fell back after the fall of the gate, allowing the massed Varati troops to advance past and around them. They and their guard advance far more slowly toward and through the gate, as one of their number is hobbled and another badly burned. A third mage is unmoving on the ground, his burns too bad to survive. After regrouping, they alertly move with the force through the Seraphim Gate.

Already, this battle has taken its toll on the Justinius Legion. They are hard men, they are well trained, and experienced--but they are tired. Already, this battle has lasted a long time. The stench of fresh death and fire, singed wings and blood pooling from corpses makes the walkway appear like a menagerie of gore. Those bodies are pushed off the side to make room. The number of soldiers on the wall over the Titan Gate grows lower, their numbers dwindling steadily. Darius looks up from his position and grimaces, but does not give the order to pull back--yet.

None remain on the Seraphim gate but the dead. The flames from the fire set by Iorian's troops licks upward, slowly consuming both the winged bodies atop the ramparts, and the dark-skinned ones cast aside near that entrance. Within its cleansing flame, all are equal.

Severin looks to his men, their numbers dwindled to significantly less than half of what he started with. They fire their arrows at the ram, trying their hardest to knock out its operator. But as they are quickly replaced by new, the effort looks futile. Arrows low again, Severin speaks in a quiet voice, "Fire them until they're gone, gentlemen, then stand back and await further instruction."

Thud. Thud. Thud. Is there a slightly more muffled tone to the pounding against Gate Titan? Perhaps that is the reason Xerxes is building up her pace, yet also keeps that constant heightening of the force used, all but running towards the gates now before each consequent hit.

[Flashback to the market inside Duropolis]

Hopeless brown eyes look up into the face of the Varati, the face of Death. The old man begins to tremble violently in his terror, and he glances down to the body of his grandchild... His reply? He spits in the Varati's face.

It was to be expected. Daryd cuffs him, and wipes his face clean of saliva. "Kill him," he says quite clearly, and continues on down the central way.

One of the men holding the old man buries his falcare in the old man's side, wresting it free of ancient ribs as he slumps.

The old man bursts into tears, like a little child. "Why have you done this?" he cries, knowing his only answer will be death. And death, indeed, does come. With a groan, he slumps, falls, and goes still.

Farther on down the road, a middle-aged woman with grey in her dark hair, seems to have fallen and broken her leg. Still, she tries to drag herself away, mewling pitifully as Death approaches.

Daryd heads away from the central way and steps onto the avenues of the rich.

Some few of the Jehad have taken another road, and the call out in a tongue the Empyreans who scatter before them no doubt will not understand, "Sirdar! There is a gate here!"

'Tis likely that those Empyreans don't even -hear- those words. Their world is naught but pain and death, drenched with blood and forced down their gullet. The only thought is survival.

Daryd wanders along the fine avenues of the rich.

Ahmad jogs to catch up with Daryd, asking, "Do we go?"

Daryd nods once, curtly. "We go." He, and the rest of the clan, direct themselves toward those other voices, the garden, and the iron gate itself.

Daryd disappears up one of the staircases leading to the top of the city walls.

The garden had made what some thought to be a suitable hiding place. But seeing the Varati approach, they flee in terror. Younger women and children seem to compose most of that group, their shrill screams rising high into the dark, night skies.

The clan advances, unconcerned with women and children. Let them run; they will not stop the advance.

[Courtyard of Temples- Within the Walls - Duropolis]:
      The air is alive here with prayers and magics. High above, on the walls of Duropolis the mages of the city do battle against the forces massed outside.

Amid the Courtyard of Temples, there is quite large quantity of noise and chaos happening. It seems someone had the bright idea to fly several hundred armed Empyrean soldiers into the Courtyard. And there they stand, the large quantity turned toward the door which is the only visible entrance INTO the courtyard. At the head of them stands Eridanus and Nikolas, the former with sword in hand, and the second with at least a crossbow visible.

By now, all of Jehad's men have drawn their weapons; steel glints in moonlight almost as nicely as moonlight glints from bronzed skin, dark hair and very white teeth, bared in grimaces of challenge. Daryd lifts his falcare and, with a voice like rolling thunder bellows, "For the glory of Amir-al, ATTACK!"

The booming against the gates grows louder, a sickly cracking sound accompanying each crash of the ram.

Nikolas whirls at the source of the noise as he hears the yell, fingering the trigger of his crossbow and loosing its deadly bolt at the nearest Varati, a young man near to Daryd. Even as the bolt flies from the weapon, he's preparing to toss it away to grab for his gladius. A fierce grimace pulls at his stern features and there is a line of clotting blood upon his shaved pate.

Eridanus emits a low growl, pointing his sword toward the group of Varati. A brief scream lets out, and the Tribune yells, "Aaaattttaaaaaacccccckkkk!" With that, he and several hundred Praetorians lunge toward the Varati party.

Another crash, and the gate begins to splinter.

Ahmad surges forward at his brother's cry, falcare lifted high over his head. Though he is one of the smaller of this force of men, he is still able to twist his expression into frightening fury. He leads the attack, however, outracing his comrades ... and is stopped by the sicking thud of a crossbow bolt into the center of that steel ring over his chest. He stops his advance, stunned silence overtaking him. The remainder of Jehad charges forward, bellowing war cries as the two groups collide.

Daryd surges forward with the rest, but falters as his brother staggers and sinks to one knee before the onrushing candala. Brow furrowing, he lets several men pass him by and into the fray before he has enough vantage on his brother to see the bolt protruding from his chest. "Ahmad? Ahmad! No!" Rather than going to his brother's side, his dark gaze narrows and seeks out that one--Nikolas--the one who fired the shot. It's a snarl that prompts his charge toward that one.

The hinges on the great winged painted doors of the Seraphim gate splinter, and slowly, far too slowly for poor Ahmed, the doors crumble under the Varati force.

Nikolas' crossbow clatters against the flagstones as he releases it and his gladius is soon in hand as he watches the approach of Daryd with narrowed eyes. Behind him, his sixty-two remaining men prepare to engage both the enemy before them and the enemy waiting beyond the giving gate.

Wings flexing, Nikolas meets Daryd's gaze dead-on and his knees bend in preparation for meeting his charge.

Eridanus and the large quantity of his men surge into the group of Varati. The middle-aged Empyreal Tribune spots one of the subcommanders in the group, and heads right for him, sword outstretched in the attack position.

The majority of Eridanus' forces actually don't attack, most of them joining Nikolas' forces in waiting for those beyond the gate. But there are at least double the number of the Varati that do move in.

And Eridanus finds himself engaged in fierce combat. Said subcommander meets blade with blade in a ringing clash of metal, then dances backward again, backward further toward the direction the Varati have come, where his clan brothers might close around him at a call from this man.

The Seraphim gate crumbles at last and is open.

Under the cover of fire provided by the Temjin archers behind them, the men of Clan Qazim rush forward, swords drawn. From perhaps a thousand warriors, they are down to three hundred--two thirds gone to flame and accurate fire. Temjin, however, is still fresh: at least five hundred archers stream through the gates and fan out, sending flickering touches of steel towards every open target they see.

Eridanus is not foreign to battles such as this, and his rage isn't about to let this get away from him. As the sub-commander backs off, the Empyrean snorts loudly, "Coward!" Then, moving his blade to the side, he slices one of the younger less experienced Varati warriors that makes the bad decision to gives his shot at the older Empyrean. This one dispatched, the Empyrean looks back at the sub-commander, the look daring and angry.

Varati warriors begin to flood through the broken Seraphim gates.

Nikolas and Daryd are fighting, as are Eridanus and one of Daryd's sub-commanders. All steel to steel. Three hundred to four hundred Empyreans are rushing toward the gates to stop the influx as best as they can, mostly at Qazim's group but also those following. There are other small groups all fighting with swords.

Three hundred pair of glittering Varati eyes lock upon the Empyreans here; three hundred pairs of legs turn three hundred bodies but--"Yamaaaaaa--Golim, take your men that way!"--And a force of sixty men tears off down the Street of Fathers. "Uzar, you go that way!" Another force of sixty goes down the Street of Mothers. "Mayaq, through those houses!" It is Ifam Qazim, Yemir's eldest son, who commands the Varati now. Mayaq obeys without question, taking his sixty men into the priests' houses. Ifam and the rest of Qazim race forward to join Daryd and Ahmad and the thirty-five remaining Varati, bolstering their numbers in a sudden rushing wave of black and green. The Temjin archers take to the buildings, finding cover, and pour slow fire towards whatever mass of Empyreans is nearest. They are very careful with their shots, making each one count.

Jamas smiles again. It is a good wall of Empyreans that races forth to cut him and his clansmen down. "The thicker the wheat, the easier to cut," he murmurs as he raises his bow to his cheek and sights and sends another whisper of death into the breast of the enemy.

A good deal of Empyreans in the rushing mob find themselves hit by the strong bolts of the Varati's arrows, but then, this again is an Empyreal war. A few small teams of Empyreans skirt through the sky above and rain of arrows begins to fall on the Varati attackers below. Coming up over the buildings, these attacks are pretty much a surprise....

Ahmad has been shot; a bolt protrudes from the very center of his chest, the head neatly buried in bone and tissue beneath. It is a wonder he still lives; it will not likely last much longer.

The sub-commander that Eridanus fought grins widely, and beckons to him, inviting, "I am one, you are one. Are you so afraid, candala, that you will not fight, man to man?"

Eridanus snorts again, eyes on the Varati but not lost on those around him, "It is a shame, Imphada, that the armies of the Varati have turned as sour as wyvern's milk." The Empyrean turns quickly to ward off another attack by yet another of the swarming Varati, managing to dispatch the one about as quickly as the first. He is not the Tribune for nothing. Yet is attention never quite leaves the sub-commander.

Daryd drives Nikolas back into those behind him with the force of his attack. A rain of blows descend upon the Empyrean, force and strength of fury behind each one. He bellows curses and insults into the winged man's face, spittle borne by some of the words.

Jamas grits his teeth as arrows whiz about him, cutting down friends and clansmen on either side. An arrow buries itself in his thigh and keeps going, shooting clean through. He feels only heat and wetness as his breeches become sticky with blood. He aims again and shoots again and aims again and shoots again and calmly turns to send more arrows up towards the flanking group. A brace of archers rises up from behind the cover under which they'd hidden, and fires directly into the Empyreans who have circled to fire on them from behind.

The clank and clash and hiss and crash of metal against metal fills the courtyard as the remainder of Centurion Nikolas Gregorio Alexandros' men meet the Varati who entered with Daryd. A cry to the left as a wingsoldier is cut is quickly stifled as his throat is slit, and he falls to litter the road with a fallen comrade who has an arrow protruding from the back of his neck. While Daryd fights with loud intimidation, Nikolas meets him with silent determination, his less strong, quicker body reacting to block and parry in what seems to be a purely defensive attitude.

About half the flying patrols dive for the ground as the Varati archers begin their firing, but this doesn't stop them from coming around again. A second rain comes down on the attacking Varati, only half as many arrows as the first. This time, however, the tight formation veer away from archer's that took so many before. It seems like Empyreans can be taught....

And now the fighting is much more personal. No more attacks against a gate or obscure silhouettes above. This is real. Keahi grits his teeth and grins, sidestepping to find a line of sight past the warriors that surround him and his fellow mages. With a low bellow, he lets fly a burst of orange flame. A nearby Empyrean is enveloped as he advances, and falls to his knees, feathers alight. His fellows similarly begin call the fire. The soldiers around the fire-mages steady themselves to defend their charges against any onrushing enemies.

Varati are nothing if not quick-tempered, sometimes. "You are a waste of breath and flesh, winged one. You are nothing but meat," the sub-commander challenges, as he races back toward Eridanus, falcare flashing as it swings.

A small figure in white rushes from a door. Moments later she falls, her wings flutter faintly as she tries to right herself again. She collapses, an arrow through her heart near the small Caducean of a novice healer newly sewn there.

Nikolas catches sight of the fallen healer and he falters, voice lifting with outrage as he cries out, "Dear -gods-! Not the women, too, you -dogs-!"

A shame, thinks Jamas. But then again, if they learn they make more challenging targets. He ignores the leg which threatens to buckle beneath him. "Clansmates," comes his soft instruction to those nearest. "Take cover and hold your fire." They vanish under the cover of nearby arches and doorways.

The remainder of the Temjin archers ignore ground targets in favor of the flying ones. They array themselves in a circle with their backs to the center. Less arrows fly from them as well, as only portions of the circle find themselves offered a target. But their fire is accurate and powerful, punching through the Empyreans' light armor without difficulty.

Daryd snarls, "If your women fight," *clash*, "your women die!" *clang*

Sparks light up the night as sword scrapes against sword, a dance as old as steel. It is fought with grace and surety by the Empyreans and with solid, direct skill by the Varati. Many Empyreans learn the hard way that the Varati can shrug off lesser, faster attacks when they find themselves almost sliced in half by the kiss of swords which unerringly seek opportunities. And many Varati learn the death of a thousand cuts.

"She was a healer, you ...you..." Nikolas casts about for the word he seeks as his sword parries another strong blow from Daryd's sword. "Son of a ganika!" he finishes triumphantly as he remembers the foreign term.

There are times for victory, and there are times for sacrifice, and the charging Varati presents quite a quandary to the occupied Eridanus. The man grunts as he pulls his sword out of the last Varati soldier he found himself engaged to. Unfortunately, it makes his reaction to the man's attack come too late. All the man can do is duck under the Varati swing, and charge to keep out of it. Unfortunately, Empyreal wings are sometimes a problem; as the man's back arches in the duck, one of his wings comes up and catches the Varati's swing. It is just a nick, but the Empyrean hisses in pain. Unfortunately for the sub-commander, the Empyrean's sword remains horizontal as he half-ducks, half-charges the man, momentum taking over.

An argument erupts at the far end of the Street of Mothers, near the tiny temple to Sedna. A man's voice shouts, "Go, Iris, go now! Get ye to the Bastion!"

One of the red-robed mages takes an arrow in the chest. A member of their guard falls as well. But swords and crossbows are out, and a number of Empyreans take hits as well. The group moves in a position to support the main conflict between the main body of Varati and the Empyreal defenders.

Another of Nikolas' men falls and then another, bloodying the street as their wounds leak their life on to the flagstones.

Daryd's blows redouble, both in number and force. Fury fuels him; when he has gotten Nikolas off-guard and some measure toward off-balance, he reaches with his offhand, and catches the man by the shoulder. Leaning close enough that his breath can be felt, he growls, "And he was my brother." The falcare is thrust into Nikolas' ribs.

Screams are heard all along the Street of the Fathers as Varati find civilians who have decided to stay and fight it out. Those civilians quickly learn that their puffed-up bravery is no match for cold steel in the hands of hardened warriors, and they die. Confusion is added to the fight outside as women and children come streaming out, some cut down by the furious hail of fire raining down on the Clan of Temjin, some knocked to the side or chopped by the Varati outside who seek to fight with the enemy soldiers. The Street of the Mothers, though, is eerily silent.

Nikolas coughs out a bubble of blood that trickles down his chin and leaves his mouth red. His intake of breath is pained and then he coughs again, expelling more of the blood that fills his lung from Daryd's thrust. His blue eyes meet those of his foe as his wings flutter, and he tries his best to focus enough to use his gladius in an -offensive- manner instead of defensive, but the light in those eyes is dimming.

Frightened civilians begin a rush from the various temples towards the broken gate, blood and death greeting most of them, but the flight to freedom won by a few.

Unfortunate indeed, as Eridanus' blade pierces through the man's side. The blow catches him above the navel, on the left-hand side, is deflected off a rib, and exits lower on his back. The subcommander lingers on the blade a moment, a howl of pain erupting from his throat, and then? His eyes open, and he grins slowly as he looks Eridanus in the eye. He pushes himself backward, off the blade.

Streaks of flame race like falling stars from the gathering of mages. Occasionally, a flying Empyrean is caught by the fire in mid-flight and falls heavily to the ground. Another two of their guard fall to crossbow fire. Keahi takes a hit in the arm, and he scowls even more fiercely as he sends a fiery response.

Nikolas manages in another bloody breath that flakes red spittle at his opponent, "If your brothers fight, your brothers die.. but even -I- would not kill your children..." His voice fades as he speaks and his body convulses, wings spasming as his life bleeds from him.

Eridanus shoves back forcibly, trying to get further away from the Varati man, the deep cut on his left wing bleeding badly. Instead of lunging back at the Varati, he backs off even more, toward his remaining men all engrossed in battle, yelling in a strong voice, "Retreat, you fools, to the Bastion!" His deep voice booms over the battle, and about two hundred Empyreans begin to battle down the Street of Mothers. It is a last ditch effort. As some of them manage to reach the Temple to Sedna, they duck quickly inside.

Daryd yanks his blade free of the dying man, and lets him drop where he stands. "That," rumbles Daryd, "is why you die."

Jamas' warriors step out from the doorways and arches at this moment and send a solid volley of fire directly into the mass of Empyreans preparing to retreat.

Nikolas Gregorio Alexandros falls in the Courtyard of Temples, crumpling crookedly atop the torso of a fallen comrade and the legs of a fallen Varati. His sword remains clutched in his fingers and the two dozen men left of his unit continue to futilely battle around him.

There's a sudden shift in the attacks from above. Suddenly the archers and mages stop firing into the Courtyard of Temples.

There is no doubt that the horde of retreating Empyreans is determined to get to that temple, crossfire or not. In just about every way, they are determined, and the Empyreans on the ground expend the last of their arrows also in the attempt to get out, moving toward that temple and fighting on the other side to hold back the Varati troops.

This is good for Jamas and his men. They expend their last arrows into the hesitating troops in the sky above. The circle of the other Temjin men, having been whittled down ferociously, explodes as the men scatter into the houses with swords drawn.

Jamas sighs. No more arrows. His art must be set aside for the moment. With a steely hiss, he draws his sword.

The forces of Varati, still at least two hundred strong, follow like bloodhounds on the trail. Their leading edges strive to reach the retreating Empyreans and hack at them, not willing to let them close any retreating way that they may have. Jamas and the rest of the remains of clan Temjin remain where they are, roving through the buildings and under cover from the fire from above.

As what's left of Nikolas' men move toward that temple as well, another dozen of them are cut down, followed by a few stragglers.... leaving only a handful of them left.

Keahi burns away the shaft of the arrow that lodged itself in his arm. The mages follow alongside the mass of Varati troops in pursuit of the Empyreans. Not having clear sightlines to any, the flames are absent.

Daryd pauses by Ahmad's body to yank the pendant he wore from his neck, to close his eyes and to bow his head a moment over the fallen boy, before he and those of his clan who survive--some dozen or so--follow the rest after the Empyreans.

It is said these Empyreans are among the best of their breed, and they fight like dogs. Eridanus at their center, they battle their way into the temple and disappears.

Eridanus and about seventy-five other men come bursting through the small door that leads from the Temple area into the Bastion. They are tailed by about two hundred Varati warriors, and they quickly retreat to the far side to regroup.

The forces of Clan Kedhav stream in after Xerxes, still relatively fresh and numbering some thousand strong. Outside the gate, the double line of cavalry spreads itself out into a single one, covering the escape through the Titan gate as well as that of the Seraphim. They have their orders: refugee civilians, for the most part, will be allowed through but for the men, who will be killed. Soldiers or those bearing weapons will die.

Well, isn't this a surprise. Flying in from above are a large number of Praetorians--perhaps fifteen hundred or so. They almost immediately draw their weapons and prepare to engage the Varati who flood into the gate. These men, the fateful few are those who remain of the once proud Justinius Legion. Surrounded by uncountable Varati, they are certainly doomed. Darius stands with Praefect Lorica--his friend, their gladii drawn. "Draw your weapons men! We stand here! Take as many of them with us as you can. Let them not forget that we are Praetorians." Raising his sword, he shouts, "FOR THE EMPYRE!" And charges those forces of Clan Kedhav.

The Varati pour in through Titan gate. Many die in the flurry of arrows and rocks falling on them, but like a flood they keep pouring in, climbing over the bodies of their fallen comrades.

The two hundred remaining warriors of Clan Qazim raise their voices in a single banshee howl as they attain the courtyard. They fan out to join the others and once again the clans of Varati are united in this place where they stand shoulder to shoulder and cut down the hated foe.

Eridanus and his small battle group do their best to reform on the back wall of the Bastion area. They are all badly bloodied and beaten from their ordeal in the Temple areas. From six hundred to a mere seventy-five, these men have certainly seen better days. As for their leader, Eridanus has clearly lost quite a lot of blood from the deep cut in his left wing. He growls lightly at the scene, wondering where to start this "last stand" that seems to be upon him.

Kilmain Kedhav races up a stone stairway as if sensing Darius and Lorica' wish to meet him. He is flanked by three cousins and a brother and several more of their clansmen behind them. And even more pour up like a waterfall in reverse, spilling up the stairway and swirling to meet every available Empyrean soldier in a hail of powerful blows. Blood sprays on the walls, equally red from the bodies of either Empyreans or Varati.

Qazim's men fan out and advance rapidly on the seventy-five remaining Praetorians they have been chasing. They smell death and are eager to be its messenger.

Caught in the mass of Varati bodies, the group of mages can see little else. Until they look up, that is. Presented with airborne targets, they prepare to send angry flame up to meet their foes. Keahi is almost overcome with battle rage. The fire burning inside him translates easily to an expulsion of heat and flame. They all will burn.

Ifam Qazim points out one Empyrean in particular. "That one, my brothers," he says, pointing to Eridanus. And he himself leads the way.

Darius wades forward into the midst of battle, his gladius brandishing in an aggressive fashion. A Varati warrior charges him, and he locks blades with that one for a moment, his face grimaced in struggle. Breaking the lock, he just as swiftly draws his blade across his gut and sends the cur to the ground with a gaping hole in him. Lorica stands with his friend and swings his blade downward in a sharp angle at the foe before him, splitting the Varati's helm wide open and cracking his sword in two. "TRIBUNE!" Darius calls out as he sees Eridanus enter, besieged by warriors. As Lorica grabs another weapon, the two formidable warriors make their way toward their commanding officer.

Clan Jehad continue to throw themselves at those Empyreans who remain and those who have arrived to support their comrades. Three more fall in rapid succession, victim to wounds carried over from the first of this conflict.

Kilmain strides directly for Darius as if going forth to meet a dancing partner. Which, in an abstract way, he is. His brother, Jafar, draws a line towards Lorica.

All around, Empyreans are locked in battle with their hated enemies. The warriors are the finest the Empyre has to offer, for of the units, the VII Justinius is elite and well trained. But there is a lot to say for raw numbers, and even as the Varati fall beneath the gladii, pugios, and remaining bow weapons, two more replace them. They are brave though, and not one of the men ever tries to retreat, wielding his weapon even when wounded and dying. The screams of friend and foe alike echo into the ancient Bastion, and the stones run red with blood.

Eridanus stares defiantly at Qazim, although for an instant his attention skirts to Keahi. With a faint twitch of his nose, the fiery storm that is beginning to build over the mages seems to quiet. Some sweat begins to form on the man's brow, and it is not hard to see the concentration level it is taking to do this. But then again, there are fatter fish to fry. But for now, the fire- elementals seem to get squashed a little. He redraws his sword, stepping directly toward Qazim, his left wing bathed in blood.

Darius thrusts his blade into the throat of another Varati and scowls as the red arc of that man's blood stains him across his face and armor. "There are too many!" screams one of the Praetorians as falls beneath the spears of two Varati warriors.

"For the Empyre!" Another screams as he hacks off the arm of one of the foes. Lorica is halted in his advance by the brother of Kilmain--Jafar.

Drawing close, the Praefect twists his sword in his grasp and motions for the other to draw with him, "Come meet your death, Varati." Darius himself sees the approaching Kilmain and turns his blade upon that one, reaching down to grab a smaller pugio from his belt and wielding it in his offhand. No words are spoken.

Ifam and his brothers leap forward, all of them ignoring every other threat in their attack on that one sole figure: Eridanus.

Jafar only looks at Lorica with a solemn, quiet expression. If he were not girded in armor, he would look the very part of a gentle philosopher. But the steel is alive in his hands. He bends his knees and drops into the dance of the warrior, his sword swirling through the air to flicker towards the Empyrean like the tongue of a snake.

Lorica grimaces as he sees the Varati move towards him. It is hopeless and he will perish. But what greater death can one have than to perish with your sword in the gut of a hated foe? The Praefect spins towards Jafar, clanking against his as the two warriors test each other. These men are fine warriors and wield those blades as if they were nothing more than extensions of their arms. A moment passes, their swords locked, and then Lorica charges forward with a powerful stroke to the exposed side of the brother of Kilmain, a small shout escaping his lips as he wields the short gladius against the armored warrior.

The tongues of flame that Keahi were about to hurl skyward die with a fizzle. He turns a shocked look toward his fellows and sees similar reactions. Someone has negated their magic. He fumes with rage, completely incapable of anything more than staring at the Praetorians above him with a blind passion.

Eridanus is not and never was a coward, and he stares at the five Varati that approach him with contempt, sword raised high. He is just about to enter into the battle when literally the last few survivors of his contingent notice the trouble. Wielding their swords and pouncing downward on the Varati surrounding Ifam, they attack with as much blood thirst as the Varati themselves.

Jafar spins, his lips moving as he silently recites one of Atar's battle poems. "Walk along the mountains," his mouth forms the words. "The rock will be thy armor and the sun will rise at thy back, spreading thy shadow down into the valley and covering your foe. They will be blind and helpless before you, and you will carry the truth to them on the edge of your sword." His lips keep moving as Lorica's blade cuts along his side, slicing through silk and causing a shower of sparks to fly up from the chain mail there. Some of the chain parts and so does the jerkin and flesh below it and Jafar sprays blood in a fanning arc even as he continues his turn, his knees bending as if performing a courtier's curtsey and the force of both his strength and the torque of his spin causing the edge of his own weapon to blur away into a hissing edge of night, aimed directly at the gap between the Praetor's helm and the shoulders of his cuirass.

Slowly, the VII Justinius meets its death, man by man. It is a bitter battle, and were someone here to witness it, songs would be sung of the bravery of these ones. The thousand becomes eight hundred, and the eight hundred becomes six hundred. Hall by hall and room by room, the Empyreal soldiers refuse to allow anyone to have called them cowards in this moment. The Bastion becomes a crypt for these men, but never could any recall when so few held off so many.

Five Qazim Varati against at least double their number in Empyreans. The Qazim do not mind. Silver flashes form the core of spouts of blood. There are cries, there are grunts, there are whimpers. They wade into the fight with an eagerness written into their very bones.

Kilmain is far less graceful, and far less poetic, than his brother. He is all business but so much better at it than his brother that his motions take on a grace of their own. "For Atar," is all he will say, and then he tilts the blade of his weapon en garde against Darius' double blades while sending the tip in an upward cut, aimed along thigh and belly.

The bold stroke of the Varati, Jafar, catches the Praefect off guard. As his sword contacts the warrior's side, he catches the arcing blade coming too quickly towards his throat. A small gasp escape's Lorica's lips as he realizes there is no way he'll be able to avoid that. He turns his body a bit so that he takes the shot, but not to his exposed throat. Instead, the weapon cuts clean into his chest, on the side, with a dull thud. Blood is not evident, but the wound is deep. The Praefect looks aghast as he stumbles back, his sword clattering from his grasp. Dropping to his knees, he reaches his hand over and feels the warm blood pulsing from his heart as it runs over his fingers. Sitting there for a moment, the shock wears off and he looks at Jafar, "Blind?" He starts to chuckle, even as he does, "...I can see more clearly now than ever." The chuckle becomes a laugh, the laugh becomes a wince ...and then he slumps over--silent.

It is, in the end, Ifam himself and Ifam alone who meets Eridanus while his clansbrothers fetch up against the resistance formed by the Empyrean's own shield-brothers. "Well hello there, wingrat," says Ifam conversationally. "Perhaps you will be something of more worth in your next life--such as a worm." And with that final word, his blade is streaking in a quick and graceful strike, "The Mark of God" as it is known to his teachers, a blurred figure-eight.

"Go to God with honor," says Jafar to Lorica. He steps back out of the way of his brother's fight with Darius, ready to receive attack but not to give it. He would not interfere with such a battle and instead stands guard, one hand pressed to his side, over the fallen body of Lorica, preventing any who would seek a trophy of the man's wings from achieving their desire.

Darius doesn't see his friend die, but... he knew that this would be the last time they would stand side by side. He meets Kilmain with a powerful motion, the blades in his hands moving swiftly and with immense skill. Even among this unit, Darius was known as a fine swordsman. The gladius knocks aside the strike with a powerful clash and with a swift motion the pugio--the short blade--cuts outwards to Kilmain. A soft grunt escapes the Praetor's lips, and he says not a word.

The Varati have all but overrun the bastion by now. The few Empyreans who remain have taken flight from this room, or are fighting in small clusters, to the last man. Some die by fire, and others by the sword, but none die with disgrace. The last cries of this great unit echo off into the cool darkness.

Eridanus watches as his men deal with Ifam's associates, the Tribune staring at Ifam himself with a deep contempt. He raises his sword to the man, his blue eyes angry and cold. This thing destroyed his city. He snorts as the Varati makes a strike, his blade sweeping in a smooth, almost circular motion to counter the fancy strike by the men. The parry also brings him closer to Ifam, "Do not discount me Imphada," his voice comes like a thick rasp, "I am far from the ruthless Ganika you have proved yourself to be." He shoves forward, intent on pushing the huge Varati some and shifting to one side of him. "Now... are you going to fight, or run your mouth?" A faint smile comes over Eridanus, a smile of a man who has given up an attempt to live, and adopted the intent to harm in the process of dying. The strain seems to clear from his face, and oddly, the fire mages find themselves able again.

A distant sound breaks through the long night. Somewhere to the east, no doubt at a farmstead not yet set afire, the air rings out with the piercing crow of a rooster. Almost as if called by the bird, the sun's crescent breaks free of the horizon, sending a glimmer of day into this long, dark night.

Ifam's weaving strike speeds towards Eridanus' belly as the Empyrean replies to the Qazim man's words.

Ifam's blade clangs thrice against that of Eridanus as the Empyrean parries his blow. The men part and dance together again and the Qazim man executes another strike, surprisingly fast for a Varati. This one is much more straight and to the point than the previous one, a simple strike aimed towards the thigh that changes vector in mid-motion to strike for the chest.

The pugio slips into Kilmain's belly, rings of chainmail parting before it, like the sweet and silent kiss of a lover. A spattering of blood decorates the Kedhav man's lips but he turns the falcare in his hands and sweeps it up the front of Darius' body, turning and dropping into a deeper stance as he does so, so that all of his strength is put into burying the point into whatever cut the slice manages to open. He feels, distantly, the gritty feeling of flesh parting along the pugio's edges as the turn causes the blade to pull out of his body. Sunlight touches his face and Kilmain smiles. "God sees you."

Eridanus is getting a little slow, but he can still manage a direct block. His face is beginning to pale, and the blood that comes from the cut in his wing is starting to show more and more. Overall, it is beginning to look extremely bad. He unsheathes one of the daggers clipped to the belt of his quiver and send it straight downward toward the Varati's leg. For a half-dead Empyrean, the Tribune is doing somewhat well.

Jafar sways slightly as his body begins to react to the blood pouring out of his side. But he remains steadfast and his lips still move with that poetic prayer. "Rise, o sun, and see the night's doings in your light. Rise, o son, and show Your father Your deeds."

Ifam cries out as Eridanus' blade flashes into his leg and the limb buckles. His eyes fly open in surprise and he lashes out with the pommel of his sword.

There is no shout of triumph or moment of pause. The Praefect draws back and spins his blades around with a motion that seems flawless. Red stains the tip of his pugio where it entered the Varati. Darius' eyes are locked on the other one, intent and focused. Dropping lower into a stance, he readies himself for a second attack. This one comes more swiftly, the gladius swinging in a feint to the left side of the warrior, and the pugio reserved for defense. A soft exhale accompanies this gesture, as if a sigh, yet a thousand times more deadly.

Eridanus is definitely not fast enough to catch Ifam's maneuver as the end of his sword smacks the Tribune in the nose. Blood flies, and the middle-aged Empyrean staggers back, but manages to stay on his feet. He growls at the Varati, wiping the blood off his nose. The tip of his sword hits the ground as he glare at the man. It lifts off, and he begins to step toward his foe.

The falcare is longer than a pugio by far, and longer even than a gladius. Kilmain's body coils and uncoils, heedless of the wound it has received, steady as rock and supple as fire, and with the uncoiling a splash of sparks chimes off of the blade where is skates along the feint and rushes inward, downward, towards Darius' belly. Kilmain twists the sword as he strikes, intending that it should deflect the pugio's motion and corkscrew into the Praefect's body .

Qazim's men continue their deadly work of whittling down Eridanus' mates. Two of them--the Varati, that is--have been defeated and they lie as tangled piles of meat, obstacles to those who remain. But the Empyreans fare no better; it is a tribute to their skill that only three of them have fallen.

Ifam shakes his head as if clearing a haze from it. His leg trembles but it keeps him aloft for now. He takes one step and it buckles again, but he turns the dropping motion of his body into extra force for the slicing upward strike he sends towards Eridanus.

Here come the reinforcements. About two hundred Xerxes warriors enter through the Gates, and upon seeing the battle still raging, they head over. Their blood-thirst apparently not quenched yet, and there's that bet to win as well.

The pugio is small, yes, but even as the falcare cuts closer to his sensitive gut, the blade draws inwards and the Praefect spins out. However, Kilmain is a skilled warrior as well, and the motion is not enough to deflect the shot completely. He tastes the kiss of steel as it cuts along his side, parting the softer metal, and slices into his skin. A small cry escapes the Empyrean's lips, but that only seems to fuel Darius' anger, for he executes a brutal spinning motion--a complete 360 degree rotation with his gladius, cutting towards the Varati's overexposed flank. That thrust is going to cost him this fight, and spinning with a blade just isn't 'normal' for a warrior in the guard.

Baali, and his brethren clan members, join up with Qazim to get what Empyreans remain.

Jafar stands over the body of Lorica, dispassionately watching his brother battle with Darius.

The reinforcements don't have much to deal with. Those few Empyreans who remain are locked in 'honor' duels with the Varati warriors. Some are cut down by arrows, and the sound of clanking metal has all but died off. Lying around the floor, the stairs, in the windows, are bodies. So many bodies you can't even see the floor. And the blood, it puddles on the floor in spots and runs down the stairs. It was clear the that legion fell, but the cost for this battle alone in Varati lives was high. Perhaps two Varati to each Empyrean. A valiant stand.

The gladius thunks into Kilmain's side with the sound of a butcher's knife cutting into a side of beef. But it sticks on bone, and in that motion while the gladius is disabled with its edge held in the grip of his own ribs, Kilmain brings the sword back down in a diagonal cut. Grace is given wholly over to power, the strike such as he would give to slice a rock in twain.

Eridanus seems to be doing all right, save the deep cut in his wing, the blood running out of his nose, and the tons of small abrasions he received from being in battle all day. So maybe he isn't doing all right. In a split moment, he shakes the clouds out of his head, the Varati's upward strike catches him in the lower torso. There is just enough reaction left for the man to jerk back and avoid losing any limbs. His sword clatters to the floor, as the strike cuts upward into his corium. Hundreds of small metal disks get broken of as the blade travels across the heavy leather armor underneath. The bronze disks scattering through the air is quite a sight, and the effort of removing them literally throws the Empyrean off of his feet. He lands with a firm thud on the ground, not bleeding anymore, but flat on his back with his sword a half-meter away. Some bronze disk flutter down through the air and land on top of the Tribune who immediately lets out a growl.

And it's this time that Ifam's leg chooses to give way. The man loses his balance and falls onto Eridanus; he attempts to angle his sword so as to plunge into the man's belly, but the tip hits the cobblestones and with a bright and cheerful sound it dances out of his hand and spins across the ground. Not one to give up, Ifam wraps his hands around Eridanus' throat.

Darius moves swiftly when he spins, but that motion caused him some exposure. Kilmain is a powerful man and the blow did not lay him out. The arcing motion of that one's falcare catches the trailing edge of the Praetor's leg, but his motion was swift enough to allow him to escape most harm. He loses the grip on his weapon, but spinning yet again, he brings his fists around to knock the warrior off balance and send him sprawling. His wings pop wide open to allow him support to spin like that--a motion that only someone with wings could do. This guy has a few tricks up his sleeve. As his foe goes to the ground, he pulls a gladius out of a fallen foe and moves to finish the task he started. Silent.

Power is returned to him, but Keahi has found himself with no targets. With an angry growl, he starts forward, pushing his way through the mob of panting Varati soldiers. On seeing his striking form pass, many of the warriors involuntarily cringe. The sounds of battle have ceased for the most part, but there are still the sounds of ringing steel coming from an area just beyond this now idle mob of Varati muscle. If only he can reach it. The air is heated as he moves, causing many to step away.

A Varati's grip is not a thing to take lightly, and the Tribune is going to make sure his final breath is worth it. It is also clear to see that the Empyrean's life is slowly running out of him. Even in the short time that he's been on the floor, a small pool of blood has started to form near his wing. Still, he has one thing left in him, he reaches and grabs one the last dagger clipped into his belt, wielding it and planting it firmly into the Varati's back.

Baali pushes to the side at Keahi's passing, opening the crowd of Xerxes warriors to the mage with his movement.

Kilmain grunts as he slams onto his back. He can feel a hot burning where the wounds spill blood to soak into his fine silks. He manages to raise himself up on one elbow, bringing the falcare still gripped in a death's drip in his hand to ward off blows as he rises. But at that moment, the last Varati arrow is loosed from below, fletched with feathers the color of the heart of fire. It speeds its way towards Darius in an elegant arc, whispering its own poetry as it spirals through the air, its tip a barb of wickedness and catching the dawn's light in a glittering line.

The knife unerringly rams its way through one of Ifam's kidneys; the man of Qazim sees all red and bright colors and his fingers tighten even further. He can feel himself dying, parts of his body simply fading from awareness, but he keeps his consciousness focused on his fingers. Cartilage crunches.

Darius turns, the sword in his grasp and covered with the gore of a slain comrade. The look in his eye is one of steely content--not satisfaction like one would expect. He is a swordsman however, and even the greatest of those have their bane. Raising the weapon, he prepares to lay the deathblow on Kilmain's weakened body. So focused is he that he fails to hear the sound of the approaching arrow. Fails to hear it until that shaft sinks itself into his breast--through his chest and into his heart. He remains there, sword raised, eyes casting downwards to that wood sticking from him. Dropping the gladius to his side, as if in defeat, he stands where he is and mutters, "Foulest fortune." For a moment he looks up at Kilmain, raises his weapon in a salute, the stiff salute of a warrior that must have taken a great deal of concentration to pull off. Then, Praefect Darius Jove falls to the ground dead, next to the body of his friend and comrade, Lorica.

Kilmain regards the fallen Empyrean and then gets to his feet, his face twisted in a snarl. He paces down the stone stairway, leaving footprints and a spattered trail of his own blood. In perfect silence he walks, despite wound and weakness, to the archer who sent the last arrow into the heart of Darius. In perfect silence he cuts the archer down. "Cur. It was my battle." An order is given to his men. "Take this one and toss him somewhere where the flames will not touch him. Let him rot; he is not worthy to burn. And those two--" he gestures with his sword towards the soldiers' walk where his brother stands guard over the bodies. "Burn them in their own pyre. They fought well. The rest of you: go into the city. What you cannot eat, what you cannot use, kill and burn. Any man you find dies. Do not kill the women or children, but we will not be taking them with us. They may live to flee us when we leave this place." The word is passed and the remaining host of Varati enter the city to meet the screams of the survivors.

A faint wheeze still come from the Tribune even as his neck gets almost completely constricted. He isn't quite done yet, however. His hand tightens on the handle of the blade, giving it a firm twist, thus finalizing the death of his foe. Well, at least he took quite a few with him. One more wheeze comes from the man and he starts to slip off. Wings red with his own blood, blue eyes staring into the lightening sky, the last touch of the Tribune's magic disperses from the room as his soul finds a home in the heavens.

Ifam feels satisfaction as he sees the light fade from Eridanus' eyes even as the life fades from his own. A good opponent, and well for the Varati that this one has been sent along to his next life. Even...at the price...of...my li-- *

The room grows silent as the last of the Empyreans meet their deaths at the hands of the Varati. Looking across the room, one would see the cost of this struggle. Dead men, whom war has made brave with zealous righteousness, now paid the cost of their vigor in cold steel and pounds of flesh. The Seventh Justinius, founded for the defense of the Empyre by the great Emperor Justinius Jove, who has served on countless marches and never been defeated, now lies dead to the last man. In all of Empyreal history, none could recall a unit who fought so bravely, and who made the greatest sacrifice to save their comrades and the Empyre they loved. Now, their memories will be a testament to the bitter price of conflict, and the continuation of an ancient struggle.

FIN  

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