Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Striding through the camp, suddenly Skippii felt alive with renewed energy. Tenoris trailed behind, and only caught up when they made it to the command district.

"Skip, wait," he said. "A moment, please."

Skippii turned on him hot headedly, heart beating like a trotting horse.

"I admire you for speaking truthfully from your heart. The old curmudgeon is bitter, that is plain to see. His mind is practical, not of feeling." Tenoris nodded at the tent behind them. "The scribes in there will be the same. Please, let me advise, it will not benefit you to lose your temper, as you just did, though rightly so."

Skippii took a deep breath, then another, expelling the heat building in his body. "Do you think it's right that we leave Cliae behind?"

Tenoris closed his eyes, wrestling with the contentious thought. "No, I do not. But perhaps it is too late already to change the fates. Besides, it is the job of the Nodreos horsemen to run the Ürkün out of these hills. Right now, they are likely coming upon the enemy's camp with spears and bows. Have faith in our allies. If the Gods bid it so, he shall be returned to us safely."

"They shouldn't have let the ambush happen in the first place," Skippii said, chewing the thought like gristle.

"Do you speak of the Gods?" Tenoris scowled.

"The Gods, the Nodreos." Skippii took a breath. "Those tribesmen were our guides. It was their duty to secure the hills. They should have responded to the ambush. Did you see them today? Did they help out at all?"

"Perhaps they were helping elsewhere, and things would have been worse without them," Tenoris said. "Or, it could be that they were ambushed themselves."

"Horsemen, ambushed?"

"I know not of these things," Tenoris replied hastily. "I am merely a legionnaire. Let us work with what we know, and discover what we can."

Skippii hummed, unconvinced, but didn't press the issue any further. Heading into the scribe's tent, he spoke with a clerk and waited to be addressed. A lightweight desk stood in the centre of the room with four fat candles at each of its corners. Sitting at the desk, an old grey-haired man poured fresh wax into a tablet and smoothed the surface. Taking a stylist, he shaped some numbers and letters in the wax, muttering to himself as he worked. There were various other devices on the desk: at least a dozen abacus', protractors, parchment maps and measuring tools, and an open chest which, upon inspection, he could only assume was full of useless clutter.

"Yes?" the scribe said suddenly.

Scippii cleared his throat. "I need to see the muster scroll."

"Those accounts are already written," he said tiredly. "They're not accessible."

"What did they read?" Skippii pressed.

He scowled, raising his head. "It's not for your eyes and ears, legionnaire."

"I need to know about a member of our companeight."

The old scribe sighed. "Which team?"

"Sixth Tonnage, fourth tent."

"Ah, two notes of merit," the old scribe said. "Is that what you're here for? Brag all you want, but the accolades aren't handed out until the triumph parade. You'll have to wait until then."

"No, it's not."

"Don't even ask me about a stipendium now," he said. "That's not how it works."

"No," Skippii pressed. "I need to know about a casualty."

The scribe raised a thick, grey eyebrow.

"Our slave's missing."

"I'll have another sent," the scribe said exasperatedly. "Now leave me be. You're wasting my time. It's the least of my worries. Out now with you. Make do with one for now, or fetch one from another tent. Do what legionnaires do. Now out. I'm busy."

"That's not what I mean," Skippii said, but the old scribe had already turned his back, and his young assistant was guiding them to the exit. "I believe he was captured, along with at least one legionnaire."

"Then why are you here?" the scribe responded from the rear of his long tent.

"To discover his whereabouts," Skippii said.

"Has the slave returned?" Tenoris added.

"How should I know? Shout his name towards the hills and see if he comes running. Now be gone."

The scribe chastised his clerk as Skippii and Tenoris departed. "Bloody legionnaires, wasting my time…" His tirade was lost in the rustling of tent flaps and the murmur of legionnaires. Before long, the two of them had returned to their camp devoid of answers. Skippii stood at the perimeter, unwilling to sit and admit defeat.

There was one option. He could return to the site of the ambush and look for a trail. The light of day was dwindling, but if he was quick, perhaps he could arrive by dusk. Skippii was no tracker however, and even if he did find the trail, what was he to do? Go searching in the dark for an Ürkün camp in the mountains, alone. Even with the possession of his extraordinary gift of fire, he couldn't hope to stage a rescue mission alone. Perhaps Tenoris would follow him, but was Skippii willing to risk the man's life for his folly, simply because he couldn't admit defeat?

Could he have done something differently during the ambush? Should he have insisted on the slave's whereabouts in the aftermath? Skippii's heart sank. There was only so much weight he could carry. Tragedy trailed a legion like a shadow. He had grown fond of the bright young slave, his advice had already lightened his woes. It was painful to imagine his fate. Would the Ürkün execute him, or keep him for a while? Interrogate him, perhaps. Toy with him.

He shook his head. Tenoris was right, it wasn't worth thinking about. The Nodreos tribesmen would be in the hills all night, smoking out the Ürkün camps. Cliae may yet return to them safely.

Mutely, he sat on his shield while Oionos cooked their evening meal with Cur's help. They had three hogs' haunches and a head, scavenged from the roadside. The Gris must have learned of their cohort's haul, as he didn't even bother showing his face that night to bring them rations.

The cohort's surgeon–a Philoxenian woman named Leander Kyra–visited their companeight. Her long blonde hair was tied back with a bow, her soft round cheeks like fresh dough, with a fresh fragrance of lavender. Her demeanour was precise and business-like as she inspected him critically. Drusilla made a show of his wound, demanding her fleeting attention. But reassured of his injuries, she proffered him a sip of herbally-infused wine and left in a haste.

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The boisterous legionnaire crooned after her. "Did you see the way she looked at me? That girl likes a man from Summitus, you can tell."

"Don't be vulgar," Kaesii said. "What lovely golden hair. What a shame it would be if it were to diminish. No respectable Vestian woman would lay with black-haired brute like you."

"It happens more than you'd think," Drusilla grinned. "More than you'd like to know."

Fulmin emerged from his rest and sat with them as they ate. He walked with a limp, clutching his ribs, and one of his eyes was swollen up like a rotten apple. The legionnaire was quiet and pensive, sitting opposite him, glaring into the flames. More than once, Skippii felt his watchful eyes upon him, but when he looked up, Fulmin averted his gaze back to his food or the fire.

He suspected something, and it pained Skippii to keep the truth from him. He needed just one more day. One more rest, and long march, and then he would retire into the forests surrounding camp, find some privacy and draw upon his abilities.

A glitter of excitement shone inside him, like a gem in the silt of a murky pond. That day, he had almost died, magia or no, and would right now be gored against the hillside if not for Orsin's aim with the skorpio. The powers which he had summoned were raw and instinctive, unsharpened and untrained: burning fists and a surge of heat in his arms. But what if he could shape them? Drill them? What if he could wield them like his spear and shield?

Assuming, of course, that their origin was not tainted with heresy. But Skippii's trepidation lessened by the day. If only Cliae were here to confide in, he could tell them about his new use of powers, and seek their advice.

"Hail Primus," his companions said, rousing him. Custos Maritor came into their camp, making rounds.

"How are we all?" their Primus said , passing around a vase of wine. "That was something else today, men. Well done. I saw it all. The smiths are hammering your bracelets as we speak."

"Silver?" Orsin asked, smiling thinly to hide the sincerity in his voice.

"I don't know," Maritor said. "If it were up to me, they'd make a golden medallion for each of you. How do eight such brave men end up in the same companeight? I should spread you out across the tonnage, but I fear that would dispel the magia."

"It's all Cur," Drusilla joked. "He's our bedrock."

"Not Skippii Altay?" Maritor said. "Are you sure you're not Godsent? This is twice in one week you've done something frankly miraculous. Make a habit of it, and I should be getting a promotion very soon."

"Not Skip?" Tenoris said. "Ah, the plight of a legionnaire."

As the wine was passed to Skippii, their Primus smiled, and his voice took on a note of seriousness. "If it's medals you want, you've earned enough already, legio. I'd prefer it if you gave some thought to staying alive, and less to glory. I know… It's not in the doctrine, but noble Auctoritas could do with legionnaires like yourself on the long campaign, not burned out in the first season of it. Take Flexillus for instance. The Ninth Legion has been relying on his vallour for nigh on twenty years now."

"You're welcome," Cur said.

"Yeah." Orsin patted his shoulder. "Take it easy, Skip. This is the second time I've seen you put one foot in the grave."

"It's like he is dancing," Arius said ominously.

"Get a little close to the campfire?" Custos Maritor said, nodding at his tunic.

Skippii followed his gaze to the blackened patches across his white dress, most noticeable at the hem of his short sleeves, where earlier that day, fires had burned. Rubbing them, he stammered. "Just dirt. Just abrasions."

"I watched the two of you go under," Maritor continued without a hint of suspicion, addressing him and Fulmin. "I watched you disappear beneath its hide. But then you emerged, and the Aperatrox was shrieking. How was that?"

"We got lucky," Skippii said quickly. "I was halfway in its mouth and I stabbed it with my kuri. Another second and…"

"Well, it seems your Gods have better plans for you than death on this day. You truly are protected. We should put you two at the forefront of every phalanx, and no matter the odds, I suspect we'll be victorious."

Skippii bit his lip, not wanting to douse his commander's praise, but unwilling to let another lie slide. "I'm astray, sir."

"Ah," the officer said. An awkward silence fell over their companeight as everyone waited for Maritor's response. "Today, I'm certain, you did not walk alone. How is that even possible?" He laughed briskly. "Astray or not, one of the Gods is fond of you. Inspect the signs, legionnaire. If you wish it, I'd be happy to perform the initiation ritual as your patriarch."

Skippii's eyes widened a fraction. "But I am too old-"

"Nonsense," Maritor said. "I'll make the rules in my own tonnage. A man can be made astral in his ripe years, or on his deathbed, it's only the Pantheonos who say otherwise. Does this look like a forum to you?" He spread out his arms. "This is the wild land. Our land. Legion land. Think about it, but don't worry. Astray or not, I'm glad to have you in my tonnage, legionnaire."

"I too pierced the Aperatrox," Kaesii said. "A decisive blow."

"Oh yeah," Drusilla said sarcastically. "I'm sure. "

A warm chuckle rose about their campfire, but it was broken by Fulmin's words.

"The furnace…"

All eyes turned to the young legionnaire, who sat close to the fire rubbing his scarred hand, which he had burned at an early age.

"It felt like my father's furnace, like I was standing beside it, the heat on my face. I could not mistake that feeling."

"So close to death," Maritor mused, "Your soul may have travelled to your home."

Fulmin shook his head, eyes fixated on the campfire, but he would not rebuke his superior. Maritor offered him the wine vase once more, and Fulmin drank thirstily.

"Hey," Drusilla said, lightly punching his arm. "This makes up for you missing the heretic the other day, just so you know."

"Oh yeah," Orsin reassured. "And then some."

Fulmin bowed his head, but a slight smile crossed his lips in the shadow of his chest. His body froze, and he did not look up for a long time.

Their Primus moved along to speak with the next companeight. But their peace was not held for long; Tonnage VI's standard bearer–an ancient veteran named Vexillum–joined them, proffering another vase of wine. His right forearm was laden with bracelets of renown. His cloak was immaculately clean with a white trim, studded to his polished thorax with two medals which flanked a centrepiece golden chain. Vexillum had likely seen more battles than their companeight combined, but instead of retiring to a peaceful farmstead, he chose to carry Tonnage VI's standard into evermore perilous lands.

"Stole this from The Gris," he said, handing it to Cur. "Don't let him see."

"You old devil." Cur uncorked it and swigged it down, then passed it around.

Orsin offered his shield to their standard bearer, and the old man took a seat beside their fire.

"How's Mary?" he asked of Cur.

"Well. And Pella?"

The two veterans grinned at one another, some hidden meaning passing between them. Vexillum was perhaps the only man in their tonnage older than Cur. His peppery stubble hid the nasty scars on his face; swollen knuckles and bulging elbow spoke of hard battles, lost and won. As night loomed, they talked familiarly beside the fire. By the lean cut of their stories, Skippii judged that he and Cure were very familiar, speaking in references to people and places past.

However, there was a key difference between the veterans: Vexillum was well liked within the cohort. In just over two weeks of being with the legion, Skippii had spotted him drinking and gambling from one camp to the next. A living embodiment of vice. Yet each morning, without fail, he was first upon parade field, banner held aloft for the tonnage to fall in line. The rumours were that he never slept during the night, only mastered the art of drifting off while on the march.

The wine was passed to Skippii, and he took a tentative sip. The flavour was sharp and sweet… glutenous. Where was Cliae to accept the wine of victory? And who was he to sup while his companion suffered in the dark.

A thought occurred to him, and he spoke without hesitation. "Would you ever leave a man behind after battle?"

Vexillum grew quiet and inspected him. Meanwhile, Cur grumbled and shook his head.

"What was that, lad?" Vexillum said. "Speak again."

"If one of yours was captured, would you… do nothing?"

"It's not that simple, kid," Cur said.

"We did all we could," Drusilla said. "It would have been carnage, if we hadn't slain that hog."

"You should be proud," Kaesii added. "We all should. There's no shame in it."

"I don't like it either," Tenoris murmured. "It is a hard loss to bear."

Skippii glanced around companions as they spoke, but returned his eyes to Vexillum. The old weathered man returned his stare without contention, wrinkled brow furrowed in thought. Meanwhile, Orsin and Arius sat quietly, awaiting his response.

"Could you abandon them?" Skippii asked.

The old icon took a deep breath, gazing at the stars, then let it out tersely. "Some questions, in their asking, are answered."

At once, Skippii rose and lifted his shield, fetched his spear and strode from camp. The light of the sun diminished before him. Behind him, he heard his companeight rise, collecting their gear. Together, they strode from the legion's camp in silence, resolute. Only Cur and Fulmin remained behind by the fire. Skippii did not begrudge them it. In matters like this, it was up to each man to decide his own path.

In the cool night's air, a weight was lifted from his shoulders. The fear which had clouded his judgement cleared. Tonight, once they were far away from camp, he would reveal the truth. He would show them his magia, and so use to rescue their slave, or else die in the glory of battle.

The simple certainty of the matter leant speed to his step, and urged his heart onwards into the darkening hills.