Blood spurted along his arm as Marghaz slapped the mosquito that had taken rest there, bursting it in a shower of red. They had been in the jungle for two weeks now, marching along the paths, consistently harried by their enemies. At night, they had to contend with the brindled men, who attacked them in lightning raids that required constant watches. These raids drained the men, so that they were working on half stamina and energy the next day. By day they had to deal with the heat and all that came with it, beasts, insects and dehydration. Already his left leg was covered in bite marks from insects he didn't want to know the name of, and marked further by the hot knife he pressed to each bite every time the legion halted, one could never be too careful in this place.

The camp was nearly set up for the night, which was good, for the orange in the sky was rapidly fading to black. The camps that were set up were never ideal, they did not have even a palisade or ditch to hold back the brindleds, there wasn't ever time to fell the trees to create the space, but patrols around the perimeter were enough to keep the brindled from launching a full frontal attack, and these weeks of constant danger had made every legionnaire sleep lightly. Beyond that, Marghaz knew he was not alone for often sleeping in his armour, it may not be comfortable, but it made it easier to get ready for battle, and he was sure that, were he to take it off, he would be loathe to put it back on again in the heat. He walked between the sleeping men, no tents, not here, for the rain would be a relief were it to come. Many had simply flopped on the ground like a deboned fish when their serjeants said that they were to camp here for tonight. He could see grooves in the ground where spear buts had been dragged at the end of the march, the arms holding them too tired to hold them up properly. Heavy shields too, were lying haphazardly on the ground left to lie where they fell. Wearily, he saw serjeants and centurions counting their men, to see that they were all here.

His supply officer was looking at the baggage trains, mostly made up of mules in the middle of the camp, so as not to let them be captured. He needed to check in on him, learn how much they had left, and how long they could last before they needed to return to Ghaereen. "How are we doing?" Marghaz asked.

The supply officer, a slight man with red black hair looked over at him with tired eyes, circles clearly visible beneath them, the slight whiff of vomit emanated from his clothing. "In one week, I predict we will be down to half supplies." Marghaz remembered this man from the Meereen campaign, he was overly cautious, if he said one week, it was likely a week and a half at least. Still, better cautious than overly ambitious in his estimates, if he guessed to high, they could run out of supplies, which would kill them faster than anything.

"The food isn't spoiling?" Marghaz asked.

The officer shook his head. "No, and there is no sign that it is about to." He led Marghaz over to a mule pack, which he flipped open. It was packed with the typical dense biscuit of the legionnaire, baked hard, though not so hard to be inedible. Inside another pack was salt, which was used to store the meat that they would be eating, whilst huge amphorae carried sour wine and ale, easier to keep than water, which would, after a week, become a festering pit for insect life. That was on top of the ration that he knew would still be in the packs of the Legionnaires now. The officer opened yet another pack. Inside that were the ingredients to make the basic soup for the meat. Salted meat on its own was not the best, and the liquid and suet made sure that the salt didn't shrivel the tongues of the men. "It is all here, Legate," he said. "And it is all in good order."

Marghaz nodded, taking a biscuit from the first pack and biting into it. He worked his jaw hard to break it and chew through it and get the sustenance. "Keep good stock," Marghaz told the officer before returning to the place he had decided to sleep in that night, against a tree. He finished the biscuit on the way there, it was dry and tasteless, but better that than hunger. On his way back he heard a scream of pain coming from a nearby stream and rushed over to find a legionnaire lying on his back and writhing as a large fish, with teeth designed for savaging other fish, latched onto his thigh. He grabbed a shortsword from a legionnaire and rushed over, spearing the fish through the flopping body and, when it stopped moving, he grabbed the head and squeezed so the jaw opened and the legionnaire could scramble away. He through the fish back into the stream, it would not serve for eating, he would not risk it with anything coming from this jungle. Instead he passed the shortsword back to the legionnaire he had taken it from, one of a gathering crowd and approached the injured man.

The leg had been savaged deeply, the gashes long and thick and blood trickled out of them with ease. "Can you walk?" Marghaz asked and the man, biting back a moan of pain shook his head. Marghaz nodded, seized him by the arm and lifted him up, holding the man's arm over his shoulder as he directed them to a fire and set him down by it. "Someone get me bandages," he said as he took his knife, the same one he used on his mosquito bite, and placed the blade in the flames. "Bring me your pack," he said to the nearest man, who moved to obey. When he returned, Marghaz took the clay bottle of sour wine and gently poured some of it over the wounds, it would sting, badly, he knew, but better that than having to lose the leg later.

He used more of the sour wine to dampen a rag and wiped down the leg further, making sure to get all of the wounds in their entirety. "What will happen, Legate?" The legionnaire pleaded. "Will I lose the leg?"

"You," Marghaz replied, "will not wash your leg in the streams again, you should know better. That goes for all of you," he said loudly to the surrounding legionnaires. "But I don't think that the leg will be lost." He cut a strip of bandage and tied it tightly around the man's head, the thickest part holding his jaws open. "Nor will your tongue, but this will hurt." He took the knife back from the fire and examined it, the tip of the knife glowed faintly, it was hot enough. The man began to shake his head in fear. "Someone hold him down." Three of his fellows approached, one held his left arm, another his right and the third his uninjured leg. "One more for his chest," Marghaz said, and another man rested his weight atop the injured legionnaire. The Marghaz pressed the knife against each of the small bites on his leg, the flesh sizzling as the wound cauterised, it was not clean, but it was the safest way. The man's scream was muffled by the bandage and he tried to writhe against the pain, but Marghaz clapped his wounded leg between his left arm and torso, and the other limbs were secured by fellow legionnaires. When he had sealed the wounds with fire, Marghaz took a longer length of bandage and tied it gently around the wounded leg. "Release him," he said finally and the men got up. The injured man clutched at the bandaged leg, but Marghaz swatted his hand away. "What is your name?" He asked instead.

"G-Ghorgos," the man replied his fingers, unable to reach the wounds, clutching at thin air.

"Well, Ghorgos," he said, standing up and patting him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine." He took a swig of the sour wine, grimaced at the taste, and gave it back to the legionnaire it came from. "Take that as a lesson," he warned the men. "Stay away from the stream, and get some rest before tomorrow."

The shuffled off to their own chosen camping spots, and Marghaz , reaching his own chose spot, punched his pack into a more comfortable pillow shape, folded his arms across his chest, steel hand and all, and shut his eyes, trying to doze off in the sweltering heat of the Sothoryos evening.

When he awoke, there were sounds of a commotion coming from the other side of the camp. Marghaz, having long since learned that sleeping lightly saved lives, sprang to his feet and seized his sword. Men around him were waking groggily at the sounds of the commotion and getting to their own feet. Some began to follow him, one or two tripping over their tired feet. They rushed past the supplies in the middle all the way to the other end of the camp, where there were signs of a battle, dead legionnaires and brindleds lay about the place, thankfully many more of the latter. It appeared to have been a raid, for there were no more brindleds around.

Orrahz, one of his tribunes was close at hand, so Marghaz approached him. "Orrahz, what happened here?"

"I only just arrived legate," he said, looking away. "I do not know."

Marghaz cursed and was wondering what to do when a low moaning sound reached them. A serjeant still lived, having survived the raid. Marghaz rushed over, he had lost a lot of blood, and his innards were poking out of a hole in his side. "What happened?" Marghaz demanded. Trying to save this man wouldn't work, he was too far gone.

"Th-they came Legate, they came and took them."

"Who?" Marghaz demanded with haste. "Who was taken?"

"My… my centuries, both of them."

Marghaz cursed, each Serjeant had two centurions beneath him, two hundred legionnaires. "All of them?" Marghaz asked.

"Those not dead, commander," he said. "They came silently, and took them while they were sleeping, I tried to raise the alarm, but they were too quick. Lucky that a patrol came by when it did, or we would all be gone." The serjeant still had a little life in him. "Find them, Legate," he begged. "I told them I would bring them home. Find them."

The man had a strength to him, one he had not seen in a serjeant for a long time. "What is your name?" He asked the serjeant.

"Faezhar," he coughed, blood speckling his cuirass.

"I promise, Faezhar," he said. Then his head fell back, and he breathed no more.

Marghaz got to his feet and turned to his men, who were watching with trepidation. "Tribune's meeting, now."

They gathered by the supplies.

"We should turn back," one of them said. "If these brindleds can move like the ghosts that inhabit this place, then we shall be slaughtered if we don't leave."

"There are no ghosts," Marghaz insisted. "We should follow them," he said. "Rescue our men, they will lead us to their camps and villages."

But he seemed to be alone. Even ever faithful Yezzan seemed to have second thoughts. "Legate," he said, evenly and fairly. "They are lost, they will be devoured or worse, we should not risk more men by going after them."

"We should turn back," said Khazar, and this was met by murmurs of ascent from the other five tribunes of the legion. Marghaz was not short, but in that instant, he would seem to be confronted by giants.

"Give me time," he said, turning away. "Time to think over our next action, I will tell you tomorrow morning." He walked away, leaving Yezzan to keep control and organise things like patrol duty as his second in command. Instead, he returned once more to the scene of the attack. He looked over the area, thick roots coursing through the ground like swollen veins. The treeline was a phalanx of crippling thorns and brambles, except where the brindleds had dragged him legionnaires off through the trees, there the line was broken and damaged, they would not be hard to follow.

But without his tribunes, he would be walking the path alone.

He cursed and walked the camp. The word of the kidnapping had spread, and legionnaires came up to him all day asking when they were to set off in pursuit, Marghaz wanted to reassure them, to tell them that they would depart at once, but without the support of the tribunes it would not be possible.

When darkness began to descend, Marghaz still had no answer, not even as he lay his head down on his pack.

He awoke when it was still dark and made his way to the site of the kidnapping, staying in the shadows. He did not feel tired, only cold. Why could he not decide what to do? He was the chosen successor of Djoran zo Marok, the greatest soldier in the world. Had his mentor been wrong? Had he died too early? Too many questions. He knuckled his eyes to clear his head, and heard a twig snap behind him.

He spun to face the hooded figure. "Who are you?" Marghaz demanded, his had drifting for his sword.

The hooded man chuckled and then spoke. His voice was unknown to Marghaz, he had never heard it before, but the man, something alerted him as to the man, it was like he knew them, though he could not think were from. "Who am I? A question you should be asking yourself, Marghaz zo Marok."

"I am not from the house of Marok," he retorted, not taking his hand away from his sword hilt.

"But it is where you belong," the hooded man said. "It is where you have always felt you belonged, not with your father, the master of the city."

"Who are you?" Marghaz replied quietly. This man, whoever he was, knew too much about him, he had told no one of that desire, not even Djoran.

"Unimportant," he replied casually, standing still as a statue. "That is who I am. Irrelevant. The same cannot be said of my message."

Marghaz closed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. "What message?" He demanded.

Another chuckle came from the hood of shadow. "We shall get to that. First, we shall have a talk." Marghaz did not reply and the man did not get closer. "Do you know what the future has in store for you?"

Marghaz nodded. "Vengeance," he said simply.

The figure chuckled once more. "Oh, Marghaz, you are meant for far more than petty vengeance, far, far more. In time, your name will eclipse that of your mentor. But not as you are."

"What do you mean?"

"Why you cannot eclipse someone when you live in their shadow, and if you act as they do, then that is how you will stay," the hooded figure said.

"I could live in the shadow of a great man," Marghaz said. "It would still make me better than most."

"It would," the hooded man agreed. "But that is not who you are meant to be."

Marghaz did not like where this conversation was going, and he did not like the figure. He should just cut him down and be done with it. But something stayed his hand. "What do you mean?"

"Do you not see it, Legate," the figure said, using his rank for the first time. "You seek the allegiance of six men, when you have been given the opportunity to win the loyalty of six thousand."

Marghaz"s eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

The hooded figure stepped back. "The men who were captured yesterday, they remain captive, but alive. You are young, inexperienced, the tribunes think they can bully you into doing what they wish. The tribunes are not willing to pursue those who took your men. No man ever made his mark who did what men expected of him."

"I need the tribunes," Marghaz replied. This person didn't know what he was talking about, the tribunes had the men, the legate needed the tribunes.

"It is not the tribunes who fight for you, it is the legion," the hooded man said, retreating into the shadows. "Decide who you want on your side, then act."

Marghaz jolted awake with a start, the image of the hooded man seared into his vision. He blinked it out. His was unclear about who the hooded man was, but he knew what it was that he had to do.

"We have enough supplies to hold here for five days before we return to Ghaereen, yes?" He asked his tribunes.

They looked at each other, thinking that he was about to order them to look for the lost legionnaires for five days. Finally, Yezzan spoke. "Yes, Legate, but I don't-"

"Good," Marghaz cut across him. "Then, Yezzan, you shall have the command. Wait for five days, if I do not return by then, then you can take the legion back to the colony and hope the wall is up."

"Return from where," another tribune asked.

Marghaz smiled at him. "I am going to find my men, and bring them back."

They looked at him, mouths agape. "You aren't serious," he heard one say. "You'll die," said another.

"Then you won't need to worry about me or my mad orders," Marghaz told him calmly. "But my bodyguards and I shall be leaving shortly, keep things in order here for five days, surely you are capable of that."

He did not give them time to argue further, but turned and left the tent. His bodyguards, loyal men, all twenty of them that remained, silently followed him. Hundreds of Legionnaires marked their path, standing at attention. "Bring our brothers back Legate," one of them said. Other calls, identical or similar, came from the crowd as Marghaz led his bodyguard into the forest. They progressed in silence, swords out and eyes open. This was the home of the brindleds, where they could kill them as easily as they could kill the brindleds on the camp was out of sight in moments, in minutes they could hear nothing. One hour later, and Marghaz could only follow the obvious trail of a band of kidnappers further. "Argh!" Marghaz spun. A hard spike had shot out of the ground and through the foot of one of his bodyguards, who hoped in pain. Two others grabbed him to hold him still. One of them took an arrow through the throat and the rest spun to meet the brindleds.

But they did not come, instead they harassed them from the shadows. Marghaz caught one by the arm and hurled him into the centre, finishing him with a strike across his body.

Then a pit opened up and swallowed four of his bodyguards, another six lay fallen. The rest were fighting for their lives. Marghaz thrust into the shadows of the tree, and withdrew it, covered in warm blood. "Look out!" He screamed and took a step back.

Suddenly he found himself wrenched into the air by the left ankle as another pit opened, another two bodyguards falling in it. Another bodyguard found himself caught around the ankle. The last five fought and died against the shadows and the brindleds emerged from the shadows, grunting foreign laughter and binding their new prizes at hand and feet.

Marghaz continued to spit curses at them as he had a filthy rag that was covered in shit tied around his eyes, and another around his mouth. He felt himself get picked up and carried away, a new prize for the cannibalistic beasts.