The screams of war penetrated the rolling thunder and driving rain as it splashed into the Phillip Sea. Stilicho stood strong and tall on the bow of the Cicero. The small ship had been captured and repurposed from Moorish pirates, as most of Calor's ships were. The Novissime had never felt the need to develop a strong naval force in the south. Stilicho felt he now paid the price for it. As the Cicero rocked and raised and fell through the storm's tumultuous churning, he stared at the misty gray horizon and refused to acknowledge his growing nausea. He forced himself to think of what lay ahead. Had he been too late? Have the barbarians overwhelmed the city? Has Aiden done something stupid?

He considered his options in silence before addressing the men huddled behind him.

His eyes did not leave the horizon while he called through the chaos of the storm. "To the Taggard Bay. Not the city." The words.were plain and forceful. They were all he needed.

The Taggart Bay was shielded from view of the city and its attackers. None of the men displayed even the slightest beginnings of doubt as they filed into the small landing boats and set off for the shore. He had chosen his best men; best by his own standards. He valued, above all else, discipline and the capacity to form a unit that could move as one.

They marched in formation as best they could through the thorn covered, twisted branches of the forest. Stilicho led the way toward the sounds of dying men. As they grew closer, the clang of blade crashing into steel and the terrible screams of horses and men began to lessen. I was too late.

Through the trees, Stilicho saw the horde moving slowly. He raised his hand and his men crouched with remarkable silence. It was too far to make out any detail, but by the mass of the crowd Stilicho knew it was them.

The rebels of Calor, once driven out of the city, were forced to operate in wilderness similar to the forest Stilicho found himself in. He had developed tactics for small bands of his legion when outnumbered. A primary point in the doctrine was to use the wilderness as a sort of mask for their numbers and formations. He had been strict with his men in drilling the procedures, too harsh, some accused, but he could now fully rely on their execution. Stilicho lifted his right hand in a fist, then extended his thumb and index finger. Two groups of ten men crawled from the main group, one going left and the other right. Stilicho then stood and the remaining fifty men moved into their new, wider formation. They drew their bows and approached the enemy.

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The ten men toward the rear of the horde reached their position first and loosed their arrows in sets of three men, two, two then the remaining three. The pattern was repeated with deadly accuracy, causing the Urzoth to turn back, expecting pursuers from Adrianople.

They rushed to reverse course, eager to take more Novissime lives. Then the other group of ten fired upon the Urzoth with arrows in the same pattern from the opposite direction. They struck several Urzoth and the confused, exhausted horde broke. As the barbarians were lost in chaos, searching for where the attacks were coming from, Stilicho and the bulk of his legion struck at their heart with four volleys of arrows before charging the baffled Urzoth people.

The men of this Calor legion were not the small statured Novissime. And the Urzoth after their unsuccessful, grueling morning battle were not as potent in individual fighting in this surprise attack. Stilicho’s men did have Novissime heritage, but Calor’s population had long been intertwined with southern Moors and while still shorter on average than the Urzoth men, they were much more of a physical match for these northerners, and just as fierce. They quickly sent many Urzoth into a scattered retreat.

Among the fighting, Stilicho came to a giant of a barbarian lifting one of his wounded Urzoth companions. “Run Otto! Take the wo-” Stilicho effortlessly sunk his sword into the fallen man’s back, killing him.

"My King!” Otto roared as the life left Brennus. Otto raised a steel armored forearm to block a powerful slice from Stilicho. The blow sent him to his side. He quickly regained his feet and pulled his ax. Otto and Stilicho circled each other for a moment, each confidently assessing the other. Stilicho took a half step forward to draw out the Urzoth giant, who indeed charged with ferocious speed. As if in a dance, Stilicho stepped to the side and in one motion swept Otto’s legs and shoved under his arms to send the giant crashing to the ground. Before Stilicho could move to attack, Otto was coming again.

Otto sprung from all fours and lifted Stilicho high into the air. He tossed him against the thorned branches. Stilicho lost grip of his sword as he crashed to the ground. Stilicho felt his helmeted head being bashed by the giant Urzoth’s boot, deeper and deeper into the thick frigid mud until suddenly, it stopped. He looked up to see Otto on the ground, unconscious from some blow neither had seen.

Stilicho eyed the giant. He considered finishing him, but some sense of honor or perhaps confusion stopped him. Stilicho left him alone.

His head pounded, dazed from the beating, but he had seen worse, and in a short time Stilicho was on his feet. His men regrouped around him to pursue the fleeing Urzoth. His small legion had lost less than ten in the fighting. He could not tell how many Urzoth began the battle, but the ground was littered with their bodies.

“They will be ours!” Stilicho called. His men fell into practiced formation and continued to hunt their prey.