Low chanting filled the cavern, punctuated at intervals by the pounding of feet on stone and fists on bared chests. Fires crackled in lit braziers, casting the worshipper’s shadows upon the walls in stretched out parodies of humans and beasts. Acolytes cast sprigs of dreamsong and maidesmusk into the fires causing a haze of delusions and lust to descend upon the throng.

On and on they chanted.

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

In a depression beaten into the floor by mortal means, outlined with sacred text, a naked man wrestled a bull into submission. Large, calloused hands gripped the animal’s horns. The sinews of his arms flexed under his skin as if they were writhing snakes seeking to escape the confines of the body that contained them. The white bull snorted in furious agitation, its wild eyes tinged red as it struggled to rise. The red-haired man grunted, gritting his teeth on a bronze ritual blade as he set his knee onto the bull’s flank. He used the limb as a fulcrum to press the creature’s bulk against the earth. As he did this, the ritual blade's edge glinted in the firelight. It cast off rays of light that highlighted his sweat-soaked visage in a grimace of ominous make.

On and on they chanted.

‘Mithra”

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

The muscles of his back and arms rippled as the man reached around the bull’s head in a swift movement. Skin anointed in blessed oils slid against the animal’s throat as left hand came to rest beneath right. A choked off bellow echoed throughout the cavern. The bull thrashed against the man, legs kicking wildly. His face turned red, burning with exertion as man and bull embraced. Slowly the white bull’s struggles ceased, white foam gathered at its mouth, the rolling of its single visible eye and weakly lashing tail the only signs of its continued survival.

On and on the worshippers chanted, feet stamping, fists clenched tightly.

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

The red-haired man released his right hand’s grip upon the dazed bull’s horn. He took the athame from between his teeth and held it up above him. The air grew heavy at this act. It was as if a great formless weight pressed down upon them all. The worshippers’ actions stilled as the chanting gave way to a reverent silence. Reddened eyes gazed upon the scene of the man subduing the bull. Under the influence of the hazy fumes, the onlooking men and women grew aroused at the sight. The cavern filled with the sound of harsh panting as misty breath passed through the watchers' parted lips. With a deliberate motion, the man lowered the blade and slit the white bull’s throat.

And so, the chanting began again with an escalating sense of frenzy.

“Our Oath!”

“Our Bond!”

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

“Mithra”

Blood gushed onto the stone floor. The arterial spray painted the man’s face, arms and torso with steaming hot, red blood. Following the sacred rites, he turned his gaze to the altar set under an opening in the cavern’s ceiling. Sunlight spilled unto the stone plinth, illuminating a hand carved relief of the ritual he had just enacted.

“Our Oath!” He cried.

“Our Bond!” A hundred voices roared back.

“Mithra!”

“Mithra!”

“Mithra!”

Acolytes stepped forth to collect the white bull’s blood into chalices. They followed him as he strode toward the altar. The high priestess stood before him when he stepped into the light of the sun. Accepting a chalice, she dipped a finger into the blood bearing cup and began tracing the secret symbols of their faith across his body with the blood-soaked digit. He raised his face upward, the sunlight scattering through his hair. The muscles of his neck tensed as more hands joined the priestess with feather-light touches across his deltoids, down his back and across his buttocks. The rest of the chalices were passed among the crowd of worshippers.

The priestess chanted as her hands followed the lines of his pectorals then down his abdominals until she reached his manhood. A single finger dragged along it as she gazed at him with hooded eyes glazed in divine fervour.

“Hail Mithra!” She cried out.

The worshippers thundered in reply.

“Mithra!”

“Mithra!”

“Mithra!”

Men and women began to couple with each other while the acolytes sprinkled them in blood. He bore the unresisting priestess down onto the floor before the altar. As he pressed her, she whispered into his ear.

“Our oath, our bond.”

“Our oath be kept.” Dracones Uthyr affirmed. “Our bond be sealed.”

Dracones Uthyr Ambrosius sighed as he penned another order for dispatch.

Fifteen years of harsh fighting had seen his legion pressed back to their current holdings. Camulodum was a fortress built at the mouth of a valley between two mountains. Its high, enchanted walls and harsh terrain had thrown back enemy forces time and again be they man, beast or other, stranger things. The valley opened into the territory that held the people his legion fought for, tradesmen, farmers and the dependents of the brave men and women who followed him.

A sea wall and the fortifications along it guarded the coastal villages and the sole remaining port left to him in the castle town of Carthanum. There his brother’s former legion cast back Vertigan’s mercenary raiders under the nominal command of Praefectus Actus Dulcitius. Uthyr’s lips twisted as he corrected himself. The captives from the last raid had confirmed his expectations and the rumours his spies had brought him. The barbarian men and tamed monsters that attacked along the coast weren’t mercenaries under Vertigan but raiders under a different leader, one of their own.

This, Ingvar as they called him, had been drawn to the isle by Vertigan’s promises of land and riches. However, he cared not a whit for Vertigan’s words, reputedly calling the man an ill-born weakling. The barbarian sought instead to take by right of arms all that he could. In the past year warbands under him and those of his like-minded allies had been raiding without regard for their victim’s allegiances.

It was tempting to smile at the thought of what Vertigan’s expression must have been like when he heard the news. He almost wished he could have been in Vertigan's court when word got back but Uthyr was self-aware enough to realise that he would likely be too busy smashing the bastard’s face in if he ever got close enough to see him again. After all that the man had done…

The creaking of the stylus in his hands shook him from the murderous thoughts swirling in his heart. Uthyr dropped the writing implement and leaned back with a tired sigh. Not even the morning’s successful ritual celebration, reaffirming the covenant between him and the officers of his legion, succeeded in cooling his ire for long. His eyes, as always, trailed toward the dragon standard on the wall. It had been his brother's standard and was now his.

“You were always the calmer of us two, Auryelin.” He murmured. “Being a caged lion suits me none too well.”

The legions current territory may have been secured from mortal raiders but the disappearance of Icilia Nicasia, the Provost Sacerdos and his sworn brother’s paramour hobbled them even now. Most of the Legion Conclave were magicians of lesser talent, loose seeds from throughout the empire’s border territories and a few locals deemed worthy of initiation into the deeper mysteries. A legion sorceress of Icilia’s talents and power was hard to come by outside of the emperor’s life-guard. Most preferred living as the tame pets of various aristocratic families, showered with wealth and resources to aid their studies.

How Auryelin had won the loyalty of a woman capable of casting and maintaining the Magna Sanctuarii was a mystery the man took to his grave. As it was, the three sorcerers closest to Icilia in power needed to share the burden of a greatly diminished sanctuary spell among themselves. The full effects of the barrier only covered the valley and the land beyond was barely pacified. That they could even accomplish that at all was due to the fact that Icilia’s ward magic hadn’t faded entirely when his sorcerer’s took control of it.

Any punitive expedition beyond the boundary was certain to be attacked by magic beasts long before they encountered their more mortal enemies. To make matters worse, Vertigan’s mercenaries and the raiders that followed after them were gleefully summoning demons to aid them in battle at every opportunity, letting the creatures rampage as they willed. That the people blamed Vertigan for the many deaths this practice caused among the young and helpless was hardly a consolation if the legion was unable to take advantage of the fomenting unrest.

Standing up, Uthyr called for a scribe to carry out the stack of dispatches. He waited until the man left before taking out a map of the isles. The next few hours were spent looking at that map pensively. Yes, being a caged lion suited him poorly.

The question then was, “How to get out of the cage, without startling his prey?”