Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

As Skippii rounded the hill's top, the world opened up beneath him. Vast flatlands like calm ocean waves swept towards the horizon. To the west, the highlands stretched out like a city's battlements, crumbling as they dipped over the flatlands before finally mounting a defence around a tower at their fore: a flat-topped mountain, lush with forest–dull auburn and emerald in the evening sun. Streams marched from the highlands and hills yonder, cupping a wide shadowy lake in their hands. A serpent stretched from the lake onto the plains, glistening silver as it sought the setting sun. The river Erithas cut the countryside in two. Beyond, farmlands of wheat and barley divided like the square patches of a ranger's old cloak, laying claim to the wild. Roads wove their grey threads between the disparate farms, forming a knot in the distance, where a highway finally met the city's gates.

Nerithon's dark grey walls seemed diminutive from such a distance, barely containing the metropolis within. Its walls stretched a thin line from the Eúploos Sea in the east to the foothills in the north-west. Skippii's eyes were once again drawn to that wide, flat-topped mountain, and a strange sensation came over him. Suddenly, he felt as though he could reach out over the expanse and lay his hand on its rocky peak. The warmth of the earth rose pleasantly through his feet, and a light flickered in his chest–dark red at its centre. But like the last splutter of a candle, it went out, and in its place, a cold wind swept over the highlands.

Skippii's gaze shifted over the city, trying to sight its harbour, but the promenade was obscured by seaside cliffs. In the waters beyond, scant warships anchored in the tide, their white sails trimmed red–legion ships, performing the blockade. Squinting, he reckoned he could spot the city's primarch temple situated at its centre, atop a hill. Its smooth marble columns caught the sunlight, glimmering like shards of seashells buried in the grey sandstone buildings.

Skippii's mentor, Thales, had spoken of that temple a few times during his youth. On one such day, as they fished companionably beside a quiet stream, the old travelling philosopher had filled his imagination with lore of the world which they and the legion were exploring. Skippii's vision glazed over as memory shone clearly in his mind.

"I was initiated at the Temple of Chryseon when I was your age," Thales explained. "The name us Philoxenians gave for Chrysaetos, Lord of Gods. The Golden Eagle, master of the sun."

"He's the most powerful?" Skippii asked.

"Yes. Chrysaetos was the leader of the Pantheon's phalanx during the War of Heavens over the world's ancient tyrants. In those times, man was merely a beast of instinct. But once the Gods conquered the world and claimed dominion over the heavens, they chose mankind's progenitor as their thrall, endowing us with gifts in exchange for our servitude."

"Magia?" Skippii asked eagerly.

Thales shook his head. "The seasons and the harvest. The kiss of sunlight and aromatic wind. Fermented grapes and music and pleasures…" he paused, glancing at young Skippii. "Which aren't for your ears yet."

"But the baddies… The barbarians… Don't they like those things? But they want to kill the Pantheon."

"They have their own gods," Thales said darkly. "After the War of Heavens, some broke their pacts and betrayed Chrysaetos, fleeing into the midnight sky. Those dim red stars which only come out on winter nights–that's them, on the edges of our vision… like a predator's cunning eyes."

Thales pulled a frightful face, and Skippii grinned, enjoying the theatrics; but secretly, his hand drifted to his kuri around his belt–he had been practicing tricks, and the blade was sharp, so no predator or enemy man could scare him.

"Others of the original order were said to have diminished," Thales continued. "They chose solitary dwellings and became, after millenia of quietude, merely spirits of the wilds. And there are more, unaccounted for, and more still, which may linger in the sky."

Thales raised his head, and Skippii followed his gaze. But above him, the clouds formed a dark ceiling over the world. Suddenly, his surroundings felt constrained–dank, like a prison cell.

"Boy?" Thales said, his voice steeped in disbelief. "You are here?"

Skippii looked around, half expecting Thales to be miraculously beside him, but he was alone. Gone were his memories, replaced by the dimming light of dusk. Removing his hand from his kuri's hilt, he scowled and let out an uneasy breath. The voice must have came from nearby, and he had mistaken it. Atop the hill were gathered now three-hundred or more legionnaires, grouped in their companeights gazing upon the distant city, where before its walls Legion V awaited in the clutches of peril for their arrival.

"Legio." The voice cut through the rest. Skippii turned to see Cliae approaching over the hillside. "My duties are done. The companeight gave me leave to join you, but I couldn't find you."

Skippii patted the ground beside him. "What a sight."

Cliae wrapped their toga beneath them and sat in the grass, gazing upon their fates. Their voice was intrepid when they spoke. "So that's where we're going?"

"That's it," Skippii said excitedly. "See that red line, that's the legion."

Red and white banners flew like the many feathers of an eagle whose wings spread to enclose the city. Several rings of palisade defences encircled the camp like the sticks of a nest, smudged black and brown across the green spring fields.

"They must be low on supplies," Skippii said.

"What makes you think that?" Cliae asked.

"Not many watch-fires. And in camp, do you see many campfires? We have one to a companeight. It looks like they've got one to a tonnage–just enough to cook off."

"They're low on firewood? But the boats…"

"Ships bring essentials," Skippii said, glancing at the blockaded harbour. "Food, mostly. And infrequently. But with all that forest, you'd think they wouldn't have an issue foraging firewood."

"Maybe it's dangerous."

Skippii scoffed. "For legionnaires?" But as he gazed upon the city's surroundings, it seemed like the hills themselves were alive and moving. Beneath the eagle's wingspan rose a storm–brown-speckled masses roamed across the fields slowly like an infestation of lice in a bird's feathers, swarming upon Legion V's camp.

"The Ürkün," he whispered. "The besiegers have become the besieged."

"There's so many," Cliae said.

"Not enough," Skippii said stubbornly. Looking north, he noticed where Legion V's defences broke against the foothills. The siege, though impressive in size, had not managed to encompass the city as a whole. It was patchy, entering its second spring, and waylaid by the enemy. Unless Legion IX arrived soon, it may be broken, and the campaign lost.

"I heard a rumour," Cliae said. "But you might not want to hear it."

"What of?" Skippii said, heart fluttering, fearful that his secret had spread beyond their companeight.

"A heretic, behind those walls." Cliae nodded at the city. "That's why they've had difficulty. That's why they lost the first battle last summer."

"Rumours," Skippii mused. "They're like pollen on the wind. You don't know what they'll fruit until they grow."

Cliae nodded intently. "Wise words, legio."

"They're not mine," he said. "My old tutor's. Rumours sweep the landscape–they make up a legionnaire's life. The amount of times I've heard a rumour and it hasn't come true…"

"But this one came from an arcanus," Cliae said. "I was cleaning your clothes–the ones you were all wearing the night you rescued me–and overheard them by the stream. Legion V's Coven was bested by the heretic of Nerithon. A champion of the enemy's dark gods."

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Skippii shivered, and slowly raised his eyes to Chrysaetos' temple with the city atop the hill. As the sun set, and clouds covered the sky, it had fallen into shadow; a mere shimmer of marble, like concealed eyes in the dark, only visible on the corner of your vision.

"Hey," somebody called, approaching them. The legionnaire's face was familiar to Skippii–of the same tonnage as he, camped one or two tents away; they had saluted one another on the night after the ambush.

"Companeight Four?" he asked, extending a hand.

"That's right," Skippii said, standing and shaking it.

"Six," he said, turning to address his fellows. "This is Companeight Four."

Three more legionnaires approached him, each young like him–a fresh recruit. But there was an odd reservedness to their stature, as though they were his superiors, appraising his merit.

"Well met," said Skippii, straightening his posture and shaking their hands.

"You're them who rescued Decima," one said. "From the Ürkün. From the savage."

"Decima was his name?" Skippii said, nodding. "How is he?"

"He's alive." The legionnaire clasped his hand fondly, squeezing his shoulder with a smile. "Well met. We were just fetching a scribe to write to his wife when he was returned to us."

"We were wondering which of the Gods had spared him," another added. "But here you are. No God at all." The man pulled him into an embrace and shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you," another said, "From all of Companeight Six. It's an honour."

"How did you do it then?" the fourth man asked, who had remained silent until then. A little taller than his fellows, with short hair cut like a horses' mane and narrow eyes–features of the Lacustrian plainsborne peoples.

"We were trying to rescue one of ours. This one here." Skippii rested a hand on Cliae's shoulder as the slave stood dutifully at his side. "And we stumbled upon their camp… About fifty Ürkün. But, we thought to ourselves, we'd gone too far already to turn back. So, we took them by surprise."

"Just seven of you?" the Lacustrian asked.

"That's right," Skippii said. "But, we killed a lot of them in their sleep. The remainder were fleeing and scrambling for their weapons when we cut them down."

"A bloodbath," the friendly legionnaire grinned, but as he glanced at his stubborn companion, his expression hardened.

"Ridiculous," the Lacustrian said. "You must have known they were there."

"We followed their tracks-"

"At night?" he interjected. The bluntness of his tone put Skippii on edge, and he faltered for a moment.

"There is a Clidusian amongst us," he explained awkwardly. "A tracker." Skippii frowned, squaring his shoulders and raising his gaze to meet the Lacustrian's. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you had information."

"Hey now," his companion said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "That's not right."

"But you didn't tell us," the Lacustrian accused, stabbing a finger at Skippii, spear held upright in his other hand. "You left us out of it. Why was that? Glory, greed?"

"We were taking a gamble," Skippii said slowly, excitement warbling his voice. "And disobeying orders, if you weren't aware. I can't exactly ask the whole tonnage to come with me into the hills on my own personal vendetta. I went, my companeight followed, it's none of your business."

"None of our business?" he snarled, red in the face. "Our man was out there. Our man. I'd have gone to death with him if I'd known rescue was a chance. But you robbed me of that. Robbed me of honour."

"Marcia," his companions pleaded. "You are being prideful. He saved Decima's life."

Skippii remained silent as the Lacustrian's comrades ushered him away. Even as he cursed, Skippii remained still, stoic like a statue, spear in hand. But the fires of the earth lit beneath his feet, and anger rose into his gut.

"Poor man," Cliae said.

"Poor?" Skippii said. "He's a prick."

The slave sighed. "I feel sorry for him."

"Why? Cause he's a prick?"

"No," Cliae laughed. "You wouldn't feel the same in his position?"

"Perhaps." Skippii chewed over the thought. "But then, I wouldn't abandon my comrades either."

"You might have to," Cliae said, "If ordered to. Besides, they don't have your gift. They wouldn't have had a hope against fifty Ürkün, would they?"

"You're sounding like the Primus," Skippii said.

"I'm glad that you came, of course," Cliae said quickly. "Very glad. Very grateful. Blessed."

"Yeah… but insubordination has its consequences."

"Even in good deeds."

Skippii smiled thinly. "Look at us. The spear-hand and the slave: two philosophers on a hilltop."

Cliae lowered their head, a sheepish smile outshining the purplish bruise swelling their eye. A bloody scab crusted their short black hair, and their wrists red from abrasive bounds, but they were alive. No matter what happened next on their campaign, and what came of Skippii's magia, he at least had the slave's life to be proud of.

Messengers hurried amongst the gathered legionnaires, relaying the order to return to camp. Most of the men ignored their lessers, taking in the sight of Nerithon for as long as they could. Eventually, a superior arrived ahead of a trumpeter to rally them.

"Last legionnaire to camp will pick all the mule's feet."

That got the legionnaires moving. Clambering downhill, he and Cliae came upon Tenoris and Fulmin, who had been late to join the procession.

"Did you see it?" Fulmin asked eagerly.

"Yeah," Skippii said. "And the Fifth encamped before it."

Their eyes fell wistfully on the hill's crest above them.

"I wouldn't bother," Skippii said. "The superiors seemed pretty serious about mule-grooming duties."

"Alas," Tenoris said, turning around. "Perhaps we will venture at night, Fulmin, and see the fires of the city lit like stars."

Fulmin sighed, following after them. "I don't think I have the strength. I need more sleep."

"Whereupon the land do you think the battle shall commence, Skip?" Tenoris asked.

"The battle?"

"That which our superiors spoke of. Rumor is that the enemy will try to prevent the cohorts from reuniting, and strike us in the foothills."

"I'm not so sure," Skippii said. "It depends how many of them there are, and whether the Nodreos tribesmen are united against us. The Ürkün are a disorganised force. They're good at coming forward, raiding and attacking, but bad with strategy. That said, it seems calculated what they've done with the Fifth Legion–surrounding them, drawing us out to their aid. Perhaps they have a plan after all."

"How many were there?" Fulmin asked.

"Hard to tell."

"If it were to occur," Tenoris pressed as they re-entered their camp, heading towards their pitch. "Then where would you imagine it so? Until I possess a lay of the land, you will have inform my eyes, Skip."

He considered the question as he sat by their fire where their companeight was gathered, tending to their equipment and relaxing.

"If I were the enemy," he said. "I would wait for us by the river's crossing."

"The Erithias?" Fulmin said.

"What of the river?" Arius interjected. Sheathing a dagger which he had been sharpening, he handed the whetstone to Orsin and shuffled a little closer. "Word of our enemy?"

"That's where the battle will occur," Fulmin said.

"Ah-" Skippii stuttered. "It's just a theory."

"Explain," Arius said, fixing him with a hawk-like stare.

"Well…" Skippii retrieved a stick from the fire and scrawled in ash upon a stone the landscape which he had perceived. "The Nodreos tribesmen are nomadic people, cavalry, they all own horses. They're quick, great scouts but a poor vanguard. They will need the open terrain to fight and space to manoeuvre."

Skippii circled two spots on his makeshift map, one before the river Erithas and a larger circle after it.

"The Ürkün themselves cannot face us in a pitched battle. They'd be crushed, and they know this by now."

"Too right," Drusilla cheered from across the fire. He, Kaesii and Cur had paused their game of dice to listen to Skippii's theory.

"So they'll ambush us again?" Kaesii asked.

"We don't think so," Fulmin said, glancing at Skippii to reinforce the statement.

"They might, but they would be foolish to do so." He drew three arrows, starting closest to him–where he had depicted the highlands–and ending at the first of the small circles on the plains. "For one, we expect it now. And two, our position is quite defencible. Even though we're divided into three consortiums, we have the high ground. They would have to divide their force equally to intercept us."

At the arrows' heads, he marked three solid lines. "The consortiums," he explained. "They might attack us on one flank with all their force. But in that case, the waylaid consortium would fortify or retreat. The other two consortiums would turn around and close in on their flank. It might be bloody, but we would win, and then the Ürkün would be trapped against the river without retreat."

Skippii drew a cross at the river Erithas. "Their graves."

Cur laughed derisively. "A convincing tale, if it weren't told by a velvet."

"It's just a theory," Skippii said.

"Have you clairvoyance too, alongside your other gifts?"

Scowling, Skippii let go of the stick and crossed his arms, refusing to answer the old legionnaire.

"So…" Tenoris began. "They will amass at the river's crossing?"

"Maybe," Skippii muttered. "That's what I'd do. That's where we'll be weakest."

"River crossings are tough," Orsin added. "The phalanx is weak, and our cavalry won't be able to aid us."

"It makes a simple thing," Arius said, retrieving the stick and marking the largest circle on his diagram. "Less tactics are needed."

Cur huffed. "So you're all strategists now? Don't try and predict the fates, you will only tempt them."

"We shall see," Arius said. "You are a betting man?"

The old legionnaire grinned. "What gave it away?"

"Three coins says Skip is correct. Three coins, the battle is here." Arius prodded the stone.

Cur leaned over to check the diagram for the first time, scrutinising the crude drawings. "At the river crossing?"

"Yes."

"And any other outcome, any at all, and the coin is mine?"

"Yes."

"I'll take those odds," Cur grinned. "Your wits have been dulled by these recruits, Arius old boy. You have no idea how to gamble properly. Their mouths are too full of campfire tales, and you've been listening. Anything could happen tomorrow. It may rain and the campaign stalled, and the enemy retreat, or disappear in the morning mists. Do not feel too prepared, my young brothers, for you will become caught off guard when the unexpected occurs."

Cur sat back self-satisfied with his rebuke, but Arius was motionless as he watched him.

"We'll see," Orsin spoke in his absence. "Gods, I hope you're wrong."

Cur cackled and shook his head. "Three coins… Tomorrow, you march for the two of us, Arius. But when you have paid me, forget not that I warned you of Skippii's juvenile foresight to blame. And learn your lesson well. You may be older than them, but you're still a recruit to me."

"We shall see," Arius said, as the feather of a smile sharpened his lips. "At Erithas."