When the rag was torn from Marghaz's mouth, he spat out the taste of shit and gasped for fresh air. His shoulders ached worse than they ever had, his feet were wet with what Marghaz could only assume was blood and his metal hand was but a weight hanging off his arm. Thick ropes dug into his skin as he was dragged along by the barbarians into a baying crowd. He felt his heart beat faster as he heard them. There must have been thousands of voices shrieking and howling for blood, tens of thousands. Suddenly, not being able to see where he was going, Marghaz's foot struck a rock and, unable to catch himself, he fell forward, slamming into the hard ground with a grunt of pain.

They set upon him then. He felt hard knuckles plunge deep into his body, feet knock the air from his lungs, wooden batons slamming into his armoured back. His bodyguards were crying out for him but he had no air to call back, all of it was taken up with cries of pain as blow after blow rained on top of him. He felt a sharp crack across his face as he clambered to his knees and he was sent into a sloppy sludge that felt like wet mud. Hands dragged him from the pool of filth and he was once more at the mercy of the crowd. A fist sunk into his cheek and Marghaz yelled out, dropping to the ground, spitting out a dislodged tooth or two. A kick to his stomach dropped him to the ground again. He felt the tears in his eyes and rolling down his face as the pain only grew as more and more monsters set themselves upon him.

Then, out of nowhere, a huge horn blast rent the air and, just like that, the beating stopped. Marghaz gasped and panted as huge footfalls approached him. Suddenly, huge hands seized him and brought him to his feet. He felt the cloth around his eyes loosen and fall to the ground.

He blinked, the light reaching his eyes for the first time in what had to be days made everything seem white. Gradually though, the darkness of deep Sothoryos returned and Marghaz could look at the one in front of him. His jaw dropped. The brindled man before him had to stand at least nine feet tall. He was covered in bones, worn like armour, with an ape skull turned into a helmet. Across his back was a tree trunk of a club, while at his waist, a sword of crude and rusted iron, longer than Marghaz"s arm, hung. Eventually, Marghaz was able to tear his eyes from the man to look around him. The horde of barbarians was spread over a vast clearing, several kilometres wide. They had no tents, instead open fires roared and carcasses were roasted over them. Marghaz felt his stomach turn when he saw that several of the carcasses were human torsos and legs, turning like spits. Then, with a grip that could have crushed his skull, Marghaz felt his head get turned by the giant warrior, who seemed to be some kind of leader to the rest. Not surprisingly, Marghaz thought. Barbarian scum would follow the biggest of the lot. Then, the warrior, having examined him, pointed to one corner of the camp and Marghaz, his bodyguards dragged behind him, was taken to the corner, were crude cages had been erected. Marghaz felt relief surge through his veins. Inside the cages were the captured legionnaires, looking haggard and worn, but very much alive.

He grunted in pain as he was tossed into the dirt. "Legate?" One of the men asked.

"Y-yes," he replied, biting through the pain.

"What are you doing here?" The legionnaire asked him.

"I came for you," Marghaz replied. "You are my men… my responsibility."

They looked to each other, seemingly stunned that their Legate would do such a thing. Then they helped him to his feet and out of his bonds. He winced in pain as they sat him against the edge of the cage. "Are you okay?" They asked him. "They didn't hurt you too much did they?"

Marghaz shook his head. "No," he replied, wincing as one of them pressed a fresh bruise. "But we will need to get out of here soon, or we are lost."

"Others have tried," one Legionnaire responded darkly. "The beasts fed well those nights."

"Shit." He looked around, at the camp outside and the men inside. "Give me some time," he said finally. "I will think of a way out of this place."

He thought. He thought until the sky darkened to orange, but still he could not think of anything. They wouldn't be able to tunnel their way out before they were spotted and devoured, they could cut their way out, they had no weapons and there were too many enemies. Was this to be his end? Dead between the teeth of some barbarian before he could get his vengeance?

He heard footsteps making their way to the cage and looked up at them. Two large warriors, though not as large as the leader by any stretch, were approaching the cages. Between them stood a cloaked figure, slight of build and with a soft manner. He pointed at Marghaz and the cage was opened to allow the barbarians to seize him. His men did not protest, after all, what could they do?

He was dragged past the sleeping and resting barbarians, who were now mercifully quiet, into the centre of the vast camp. There he was deposited at the feet of a throne of bones and skulls, held together by a mesh cage. Atop that throne sat the huge warrior chief he had seen earlier, the leader of this horde.

"You are the leader of the armour-men?" Marghaz was so shocked at the sound of a voice that he momentarily forgot his pain. He looked up. The giant had not spoken, simply looked at him. It had been the slight one.

"I… What?" He replied simply, stupidly.

The slight figure sighed and said something to the giant one, who gestured and made a noise. After a second Marghaz felt a blow on the back of his head. "Do not test him," the slight figure advised. "He has little patience." The voice of the slim man was strange. Flat and accentless.

"He can talk!" Marghaz exclaimed. "But he is but a beast!"

"I thought so as well," said the slight figure, pulling down his hood to reveal greying hair and deep set eyes. "But then I came to understand him and his ways, and now, I speak words that are beyond him to the ignorant like you who would destroy him. Now," he added. "I will ask again, are you the leader of the armour-men?"

Marghaz's head swam, how could a brindled man speak, they were simple beasts, who fought and ate and mated and died, that was all they were built for, they destroyed all manner of civilisation. And yet, here was a man talking with one of them! It was impossible. "I am," he replied. "And I assume that he is the leader of the barbarians." Marghaz jerked his head at the huge warrior.

"He is," the slight figure confirmed, "and you should be thankful he cannot understand your tongue, for he does not like disrespect."

Marghaz stared at the bone clad barbarian. "What does he want with me?" Marghaz asked.

"The first wave of men and war beasts that he sent against your city. They failed. He would know your defences, and you will tell him."

Marghaz spat. "I will not."

"I would advise you to reconsider," the slight figure warned him. "This man has near two hundred thousand warriors available to storm your city. It will not be saved."

"Just like a filthy barbarian piece of shit," Marghaz declared. The nerve of these barbarians, whilst they scrubbed the dirt and feasted on the flesh of fellow humans, the Ghiscari of old were building the greatest empire of man that the world had ever seen. They were only eclipsed by the dragons, and now the dragons were dead."We try and bring you civilisation, and you resent us."

"You pollute his shores with your cities and towns, force his people into bondage wherever you find them and cut down his forests," the slight figure retorted. "And you-" He was cut off by the huge leader, who had been watching with interest. The leader engaged in conversation in base, gurgling and rasping sounds. The slight figure replied, somehow Marghaz suspected that the slim man was recounting what he had said to the big warrior.

When they were done, the slight figure cleared his throat. "My master says that if you do not wish to say that is your choice, but he will make you watch as his men devour your people if you don't. He gives you three days to decide, after that, he will assemble his army and march. But before he attacks the city, he will destroy the armour-men you brought with you."

Marghaz's eyes widened. My Legion! He thought as the two warriors seized him by the arms and began dragging him back. "Make your choice quickly!" The slight man called, before turning back to his master and conversing in low voices.

He was dumped back in his cage unceremoniously and the door locked behind him. "Legate!" One of the men said as they picked him up. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"The enemy plans to attack again," Marghaz said. "First they will surround the legion and then they will swarm the colony, and the defenders won't be able to stop them."

His men were silent in shock. "But…" One of them said, "we defeated them."

"There are more," Marghaz replied, his eyes closed. "There will always be more."

"So what do we do?" Another legionnaire asked.

Marghaz glanced out at the horde that surrounded them. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know." He thought things over, but he had barely been in the camp, he did not know enough to begin formulating a plan to escape. He looked at his men, none of them looked particularly malnourished, which meant one of two things, either they were being very well fed by the brindled men, unlikely, or they had not been there long. Marghaz himself had lost track of time whilst being hooded and dragged through the trees to the brindled's camp. "How long have you been here?" He asked them.

"We came in yesterday, at dawn," one of them said.

Then they could not have come from far away. "Do you get fed?"

"Aye," said another legionnaire, "don't want us going too skinny before we get eaten."

Marghaz thought. It might work. "When do they feed you?"

"At dawn," said another, and only the once."

"Dawn," Marghaz repeated and closed his eyes to think. If it was at dawn then these brindleds would still be groggy, and this was a horde, not an organised army. "Who are the fastest men in this cage?"

The men seemed confused. "The fastest, Legate?"

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, who are the five fastest men in this cage?"

It took some time but eventually five men were pushed in front of him.

"How may we serve, Legate?"

Marghaz beckoned the legionnaires, all of them, nearer to him. "The only hope for the colony is to alert the legion," he said in a quiet voice, not that it should have mattered, there seemed to be only one being in the barbarian camp that could understand proper language. "Now," he continued. "Judging by how long we have been here, the camp cannot be far away. I instructed them not to move for five days from my departure. When they bring food at dawn, we overpower them and then you five," he indicated the runners, "will break out, find the camp, and alert them."

"We will also be tired, Legate," one of the runners pointed out.

Marghaz cursed, then, after a quick think, decided on how best to counter this. "Okay," he said. "Tonight, you will go to sleep now, strip off your armour so that you don't need to tomorrow, the rest of us will alternate watches, when it is clear that dawn will be fast approaching, you will be woken to stretch and warm yourselves up for the run."

"What about the rest of us?" Another legionnaire asked. "When we have overpowered the enemy, shall we leave with them? Free the other cages and break out?"

He shook his head. "No," he told them. "If there is a total breakout, the brindleds have no reason to stay, they will pursue and attack the legion before it is ready. If only a few escape, then they will send search parties, but the rest will remain here."

"Those who remain will be punished." Someone said.

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, we will. But I suspect they will know I am behind it."

"How so, Legate?"

Marghaz shook his head. "I do not know how, but they somehow identified me as the leader. If so, then it may be me that is punished, the rest of you not."

His men were silent, they knew they had a duty to New Ghis, to the colony of Ghaereen, but few had been presented with news of their impending mortality. He was proud that none of them wept, retched or otherwise showed disdain, facing their fate with an iron heart.

"Legate," it was one of the runners. "What do we tell the people in the camp, and who do we tell?"

Marghaz thought it over. Before the expedition had begun, he would have said to tell the Tribunes, now he was not so sure. Win the allegiance of six or the loyalty of six thousand, the hooded man from his dream had said. "Tell the serjeants the truth, and that we need their help."

"Not the Tribunes?"

He shook his head. "The Tribunes don't care, not about you, not about me, only the serjeants can save us now. Tell them," he continued. "Tell them to attack from multiple directions, that should scatter the enemy, but leave room for the enemy to flee."

The runners mouthed the words. "Repeat that to yourselves until you go to sleep, and then when you wake up, confirm with each other that you remember it as you ready yourselves."

The ache was beginning to set in to Marghaz's muscles from his binding and dragging on the way here, so he settled himself against the side of the cage to decide who would take which watch and alert the runners when they had to wake up.

He was shaken awake as Dawn began to crest the horizon. "It is time legate."

He shook himself awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and getting to his feet. The runners were already stretching out. Without their armour they looked very strange to Marghaz, thin hair shirts sticking to their bodies with sweat. He approached them. "You remember what to tell the serjeants?" He asked them. They looked to each other and nodded.

"Good luck," Marghaz told them, clutching each of them by the shoulders. "May the harpy's wings carry you with speed."

"Legate!" He turned. "The food is coming."

Marghaz nodded and cracked his stiff shoulders before approaching the door of the cage.

There was indeed one warrior approaching the cage, a bulging bag of some kind of food with him. It was dripping blood, and Marghaz hopped that they weren't about to be fed the bodies of their dead comrades. Past the coming warrior, he saw that most of the barbarian camp were still asleep, which boded well for the runners. He glanced at the legionnaires to either side of him, nodding to indicate that he was ready to strike. They nodded back.

When the warrior pulled open the cage and entered, Marghaz cried out, "now!" Four of his legionnaires seized the warrior and dragged him down, fists rising and falling in vengeance for their eaten comrades no doubt. Two more burst out to ensure none stopped the runners immediately. "Go, go now!" The runners rushed out of the tent and, as the brindled's camp was rousing, they sprinted off in the direction from which they had come, still recognisable by the bent branches and trunks of the trees they had been dragged past.

Marghaz and two more burst out to cover the runners. Three guards came rushing over clutching crude weapons. Marghaz charged and ducked low, slamming his shoulder into one of the barbarian's knees, tackling it to the ground. They grappled furiously on the baked ground before another legionnaire seized the warrior around the throat and choked the life from him. Marghaz struggled to his feet and seized the crude stone club, preparing to face the next opponent. The first to come up to him was holding a heavy club in both hands. Marghaz readied his smaller club and, when the barbarian raised his weapon, Marghaz smashed his own into it's mouth, knocking out it's teeth and then caving in it's skull. It was becoming a brawl between his men and the steadily increasing number of barbarians. It was good, the more they fought, the more time his runners had.

Then a horn sounded and the combat stopped suddenly. Marghaz saw that most of his men were dead or bound again. The men in the other cages had been watching intently, some praying, others cheering, but they had lost now.

He found himself seized and dragged out towards the camp, where the huge barbarian leader and his slim translator were both waiting for him. The barbarian leader grunted some commands in his brutal tongue and then Marghaz, and the survivors from his cage, were dragged forward and tied to wooden stakes, plunged far into the ground. At their feet, wooden logs and straw, grass and leaves were lain, bound around them up to their knees. Marghaz knew what was happening, they were being cooked. It seemed that he had failed. Then the warrior chieftain arrived. He grunted words at him. "The warchief asks what you hoped to achieve with this pitiful attempt at battle?" The translator asked him in the chieftain's stead.

Marghaz lowered his face to hide his smile, it seems the runners had gotten away. When he had straightened his face, he looked up. "I would rather have died in battle than any other way."

The translator told the chief who spoke in his horrid gluttural tone to his warriors. As one they raised their heads and issued baying laughter to the dawn. The chief spoke to the translator who smiled and spoke to Marghaz in turn. "Then you will be disappointed, you and your men."

He was about to question it when he was seized from behind and dragged across the rough ground. They took them to a corner of the camp where there were what seemed to be a hundred posts, with chains hanging from them. "No!" He roared and tried to fight back, not this, they would not do this to him. But it was futile, the chained him by the wrist to two of the stakes, doing the same to his men.

As warriors of the enemy laughed and began to turn, leaving them to their fate, Marghaz asked the translator. "Like this? You will just leave us here?!"

The translator turned to him and, without even asking the chieftain, he said. "Yes, your armour-men did this to his brother," he jerked a thumb back at the warrior chief who was drinking some deep red liquid through his skull helmet. "You strung him up and left him to die."

Marghaz growled. Crucifixion was for the uncivilised barbarians and escaped slaves to suffer, not him. Not Ghiscari! He growled but the translator simply walked away. "I am sorry," he said to the men around him. "We will all die here it seems."

"It was inevitable legate," a vaguely familiar voice said. "With luck, the runners will succeed, and Ghaereen can be saved."

"With luck,"

It was dawn when they were strung up. By midday the heat was unbearable, he was cooking in his armour, sweat dripping off his forehead and running into his eyes, stinging them like bees. His throat was parched, his mouth filling with saliva almost as quickly as he could swallow it. He heard moans from the other men as they began to suffer from the heat.

As the day wore on, Marghaz began hearing things, the buzzing of flies was like the beating of drums in his ears and the crackling of fire in the camp roared like a dragon. "I… never thought… I'd die… roasted like a pig… on a spit," he croaked.

"None die as they wish, Legate," the same voice as earlier said. "Few get to choose how they die, only who they die alongside."

A cascade of water splashed over him. He heard the hiss as the heat of his armour in the sun made the water turn to steam on the spot. He licked his lips as the water ran down his face, desperate for anything to quench his thirst. The barbarians were laughing at the sight of his men steaming, sweating and roasting in the sun. Marghaz had not eaten in what felt like days and what strength he had was leaving him. His legs failed him and he was soon hanging up by his arms only, waiting for death to claim him.