Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Viridoe tended her garden. No other God could boast such a treasure. Once, she had been the stewardess of all the forests in the realm. Though much had been taken and tainted, a bounty still remained. Her design had shaped every tree, budded every flower, and gave flight to every bee. She revelled in the radiant sun, drifting on a fragrant breeze. Her silken hair flowed for many leagues around. All it brushed was given the nectar of life–imparted with a sweet kiss.

But a vile taste returned to her lips. A spot of soil was slick with poison ichor. The creature which decayed upon it was not fae, like hers. It must be the beastmaster's.

"Why must you tarnish my garden with such foul fabrication?" she asked of Arctheros.

"This thing is not mine, I swear it," he growled. "It has come from the blightlands. The goliath sends his scouts."

"Or his diplomats," she accused.

"So slow to forgive." He bared his teeth. "Away and frolic now. I shall seek answers from the trespasser."

***

"Come on up." Orsin's firm voice intruded on his sleep, tearing away the black canvas. "Siege need their cart back."

Groggily, Skippii climbed out of the cart, hefting his spear and shield. They were in a narrow valley following a stream. A wide path had been tread into submission by the advancing consortium through the high grass and reeds. Skippii stretched his cramping legs and looked at the sky. It was late afternoon, and the vanguard were just getting started on digging ditches for the camp's defences. They were late, but the ambush had set everyone back.

"How bad was it?" he asked, as Orsin helped a beleaguered Fulmin down from the cart.

"We repelled them well. The rear suffered the brunt of it. It could have been worse though. A lot worse…"

The steady look Orsin gave made him feel nervous. It seemed as though there was a lot gone unsaid.

"Good," Skippii said. "We came together. Drilling paid off."

The older legionnaire patted his shoulder and winked. "Quick thinking, Skip."

"And good shot," he said, grasping Orsin's shoulder in return.

He smiled. "You should be less humble, kid. It'll do your career no good."

The three of them marched away into the bustle of camp. All around them, tents were being erected, and weeds were being cleared for fire pits. Legionnaires talked briefly to one another, superiors wandered between companeights giving instructions. Supplies were unloaded, the pack mules hitched and watered. There was no song from flutes, no laughter or bravado in the air. All was routine.

It felt to Skippii as though he was wading through mud. The long grass was cold and wet against his calves, his shield cumbersome and his helmet ill-fitting. Any lasting feelings of paranoia or excitement had fled him in his sleep. He couldn't help but be absorbed by the mood of the camp–he had grown up with it all his life. As a kid, the legion's defeat meant that legionnaires would be especially sour towards him, often for weeks on end. However a victory was met with so much laughter and celebration, drunkenness and good food. Skippii's mood was woven into the tapestry of the legion, inseparable, whether he was aware of it or not.

In the centre of camp beside the stream, a large circle of tents were erected for each of the three cohort's superiors and staff. Segmented in a loose honeycomb around the command tents were logistics, supplies and medical tents.

They cut across an empty lot which awaited the siege wagons, on towards Cohort II's standard, and Tonnage VI's sigil, where the legionnaires amassed. Skippii inspected the men within each small campsite, trying to count their number. It seemed that casualties were worse here–their tonnage having been at the rear of the march where the battle was the hardest. He recognised their faces from that afternoon, but knew none of their names. When before, they had been stretched into panic or twisted into rage, now their expressions appeared shattered. Deflated, numb. But not defeated.

One man looked up from cleaning his thorax of blood and spotted Skippii staring. He nodded resolutely and saluted–fist raised to his brow, like holding a spear in a short-grip overhead. Skippii returned the salute as they passed out of sight, and came upon their companeight's tent.

"Well if it isn't the matador himself," Tenoris greeted, raising his arms like a colosseum announcer. "Tamer of the wilds. Watch out Arctheros, our champion knows no fear in the face of beasts."

"Trust me," Skippii said, unable to help himself but smile. "I knew fear."

"Oh, but our champion diminishes himself so as not to discourage his fellow man." Tenoris' dropped the jester's act and clasped Skippii's arm. "I'm glad you are well. You too, Fulmin."

The blacksmith's son nodded and trudged over to their tent, dropping his shield and spear at the entryway. Oionos, their camp's cook and slave, lifted the flap for him–which had yet to be fully pegged down–and he admitted himself for rest. Anxiety crept into Skippiis' heart as he watched his companion retire, but he was too exhausted himself to pry at it. Throwing his shield down, he sat atop it amongst the flattened grass.

"Impressive," Arius said, unpacking a surgeon's kit of bandages, cutting and stitching tools. "Who taught you to fight like that?"

"Like what?" Skippii said, suddenly wary of what their most mysterious companion might have seen.

The deeply-tanned man grinned, sharpening his already hawkish features. "Like a cat. A big cat."

"Just instinct," he shrugged.

"Instinct to fight comes from the father," he said in his peculiar accent. "Yours must have been fearsome. Who was he? Did he serve?"

"He did serve… in the Third Legion."

Drusilla whistled. "Your pa's a Plat?"

Skippii nodded. "Platinum, yeah."

"What was his name?" Arius said, sharing a grin with Orsin. "We may know him."

"Battle of Artye," Orsin said. "Yeah, we were there with the Third and Ninth."

"You've served for that long?" Kaesii stammered. "What, almost ten years?"

"Couldn't you tell?" Orsin said. "Bit longer, actually. I'm not as young as I look."

"I was there too," Cur said.

"Yeah, I assumed that," Kaesii replied.

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"Weren't you there when the legion was founded?" Orsin said with a smirk.

"Shut up," Cur said.

Drusilla grinned. "He was there when the Empire became an Imperium. He is an ancient being, quick to anger."

"Very funny," Cur said dryly. "Your father's name, Skip?"

"Couldn't tell you," Skippii said. "Never knew him. All I know is that he was a legionnaire in the Third."

There was a lull as the wind sighed through their little camp, and all the sounds of the legion rose around them, filling the silence.

"He die?" Arius pressed, to Skippii's surprise.

"I don't know, eventually," he shrugged. "I think… Maybe he was there when I was young. There were some older men in the cohorts who were kind to me. There were others that weren't. But my mother never told me which one he was."

"Coulda' dodged a rock," Drusilla said. "A shit father's worse than none. Mine was a bastard. See this nose." He wriggled his squashed snout. "It's never been right."

"I'm ready," Arius said behind him.

The big Summitas man sat atop his shield and rolled up the short sleeve of his tunic. There, black and bruised, was a gash crusted with blood.

"What did that?" Skippii asked. "Has the physician seen you?"

"A spear," he said. "And no. This is nothing. Others are worse than me. Besides, Arius says he's good with a needle."

"The best." As Arius threaded the needle through Drusilla's skin, he didn't flinch, except mutely around the eyes. Kaesii watched keenly, enamoured, somehow, by his companion's fortitude.

"Wish you could meet him now?" Orsin asked.

"My pa?" Drusilla said.

"Yeah. You think about it?"

Drusilla laughed bitterly. "Every Ürkün looks like him. That's why I fucking love killing them."

"I should pay heed to trim my moustache short," Tenoris said. "For, I would not like to resemble your father in the midst of battle."

Drusilla smiled, and their gaze wandered over the ground. "Don't worry. I like you. I wouldn't make that mistake." He raised his head to Kaesii. "You, however, have the same fat cheeks as him."

"Good looking man, then?" Kaesii said without missing a beat. The two grinned at each other; their shoulders relaxed and they sat a little wider, as though the weight of the day had been pried from their backs.

"How is everyone else?" Skippii said, glancing around their group. Cliae was absent, likely fetching firewood.

"Fine," Cur said, approaching him. "This is yours now." He handed Skippii a plain legionnaire's spear. The one he had lent was already back in his possession.

"What's the difference?"

"This one's mine," the old veteran said, patting the shaft. "I bought it. I own it."

"Alright."

"It's a little shorter, a little lighter." Cur spun the spear in his hand fondly. "She's seen the whole of Auctoritas with me. Wouldn't leave her behind."

"And your pack," Orsin said, tossing him a satchel. "Left it by the roadside."

"Thanks," Skippii said. There wasn't much in the bag of any value–his journey had just started, and he hadn't accrued any wealth or trinkets, but the fact that Orsin had gone back for it counted for something. Most precious inside were his mother's teas, bundled in pouches, each meant for a different occasion of therapeutic effect. Opening one bag, he sniffed the contents: jasmine, liquorice and mint. For a moment, he was sitting not upon his shield, but in the rear of his mother's wagon with the bump of the road beneath him and the unknown horizon to explore.

"Right, we'll get a fire going then, yeah?" Orsin announced. "Who's off for wood?"

"Not me," Kaesii said, but all others were silent.

"Go on," Orsin said. "Don't make us old men go."

"What about-" Kaesii broke off, watching Arius stitch Drusilla's wound. "Ugh, okay."

"Don't be long," Cur said, getting to his feet with a groan. "I think it'll be a long march tomorrow."

As Kaesii left, and Cur unload their cooking equipment from their donkey, something began to bug Skippii. Oionos was still fiddling with the ropes of their tent. Why hadn't the slaves prioritised getting it set up and unloading provisions? Besides, where was Cliae, if not fetching firewood? There were still hours of sunlight left in the day, they were doing things out of order. Maybe their minds were frazzled by the ambush… Where exactly had they been on the column when the attack had occurred? If Skippii's memory of the morning's file served him correctly, the slaves and baggage of their tonnage had travelled behind them, where the attack had hit the worst.

Skippii glanced at Oionos. The boy's eyes wandered on his task and his hands moved slowly, as if bitten by ice.

"Where is Clidensis?" he said slowly.

Cur scowled up at him over the cookpot. "Who the fuck?"

"The slave," Skippii said impatiently. "Has he gone for firewood already?"

The legionnaires around their camp paused. Some lowered their heads. Only Oionos met Skippii's eyes.

"He's dead," Orsin said. "It's a shame. Clidensis was his name?"

Skippii's heart stopped. It felt as though he was floating on air as the blood rushed to his head, and he swayed. "Yeah."

"Viridor take him," Orsin said.

"And bury him true, beneath the pines," Tenoris finished the prayer.

"He's not…" A peculiar voice said. Oionos had stopped fixing the pegs and knelt, staring at his hands. "He wasn't…"

"Huh?" Cur crowed. "Speak up boy, or don't speak at all."

Oionos shook his head, chewing his lip. "He's not dead."

"Where is he then?" Cur said. "Resting somewhere letting you do all the work? Or has he deserted?"

Shutting his eyes, Oionos turned away in silence.

Sorrow swelled inside Skippii like an acrid smoke, filling his heart, bringing a lump to his throat. Swallowing, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "What did you see, Oionos?"

When the young slave turned around, his eyes were red and bleary. "We were surrounded. They were trying to steal our… your supplies, legio. We tried to run, tried to drag the mules away, but then the pigs, and…"

"Okay," Orsin said levelly. "What of Cli…" He glanced at Skippii unsure. "Clidensis? When did you last see him?"

"Dragged away," Oionos said. "The legion came to our aid, and… repelled, but…" His voice was shaking, and he gripped his fists to get his words out. "Maybe twelve of us… of slaves. No mules, they couldn't drag them up the hill. But a few of us, and a legionnaire too."

"They were captured?" Skippii said.

Oionos nodded.

"Like I said," Cur added, not looking up from his task. "Dead."

"They played their part, even in defeat," Tenoris said solemnly. "They were brave, I am sure."

"Wait, no," Skippii said. "They're not dead. They're captives."

"Give it a rest," Cur said.

"And a legionnaire amongst them," Skippii repeated.

"Such is war."

"No," Skippii wavered, as a morbid quietude settled on their camp.

The first ever loss Skippii had suffered was an older legionnaire by the name of Whillian. The man had treated Skippii with kindness, and was a friend of his mother's. Frequently, he would visit and purchase herbs from her, talking during the bright summer days about concoctions and medicine. Skippii had been too young to understand their conversation, but relished in it, and at night, Whillian would let Skippii accompany him to his companeight's fire and share in the broth and listen to tales of glory and valour.

His heart had bloomed like a spring flower for Whillian, but one day, it froze over. Whillian didn't return from the field, he had been caught by an Ürkün sling. One small stone, thrown with malice, had taken his life. A coarse lump rubbed at Skippii's heart upon remembering Whillian's death. That year, he had endured a dark, lonely winter devoid of play, sitting alone in the back of his mothers wagon, weeping and lamenting the cruelness of reality.

Finally, after many months, the spring rains came and washed his sorrows away, returning him his youth. Ever since then, each death he had witnessed had been easier to reconcile. He almost came to expect it of his elders, and so never truly relied upon them to stick around. Each day could be their last. Of course, they knew it too. He had always marveled at how they coped with such a fate, and continued marching on in the face of their own mortality.

However, the deaths of those legionnaires had been beyond his control. He had only been a child, and had sworn no duty or allegiance to those men. This was different.

"Arius," he said, catching the hawk's attention. "You are from Clidus too, right?"

Arius nodded. He had finished stitching Drusilla's wound, and was bandaging the arm with linen.

"He is your countryman then. Clidensis was raised in Clidus, if you hadn't already guessed. He spent time at the library there. He was a scholar before he was a slave."

Cur sighed loudly, but the others had stopped their tasks to look at him.

"He might be a slave, but he's one of ours… our companeight."

"Eight," Cur said. "Not nine, not ten. Compan-eight. It's not worth counting after the legionnaires, son."

Skippii clenched his fists, and not for the first time that week, restrained himself from striking Cur. "Did you forget how to count in your old age?"

"I remember just fine. I have learned where to place my energy."

"Cynical," Skippii hissed. "Spiteful old-"

"I've seen plenty die," he spat.

"So have I," Skippii raised his voice. "Dozens. So what?"

"Oh really?" Cur laughed cruelly. "Wisened, are you?"

"More than you think." Skippii rose to his feet, but Orsin and Tenoris appeared between them, and guided Skippii away before the argument got physical.

"He thinks he knows best," Skippii grumbled, marching through camp.

"He's a prick," Orsin said confidentially. "Look, you two head over to the scribes, see if you can't find records of the captives. Maybe Clidensis broke free, maybe he was rescued. Maybe he just got lost. See if they know anything."

Somehow, he felt he already knew the answer. But whether he would accept it and do nothing was another question entirely.