Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

"Ah shit," Cur said as their companeight watched the Ürkün amass beyond the distant river.

Marching in step, Skippii and his companeight followed Vexillum's standard into the lowlands. Ahead, Tonnage I formed the head of a mighty anaconda that snaked over the lowlands towards its prey. The legion's siege wagons trundled in a long line beside them, Cohort III and IV brought up the rear. A brisk wind ruffled their banners and the plumes of their superiors' helmets.

Their tread kicked up a haze of spring pollen, sending it swirling across the land towards the Ürkün horde awaiting them. North beyond the river, thousands of barbarians swirled like black clouds over the flatlands. Skippii scanned their dark ranks for beasts of war like the Apertrox they faced, but saw none amongst the masses.

"Do you see their beasts?" Tenoris asked.

"Just looking," Skippii said. "I don't think so."

"There are none," Arius said.

"But it doesn't rule out a magus," Kaesii added from down the file. "Any one of them could be a heretic."

"Don't sound too optimistic," Cur said.

"That's okay, old man," Kaesii said. "If you see the legionnaire's bane, show him to me. I shall defeat the enemy for you."

"I'll be pointing him out to Skippii," Cur said. "And staying in phalanx. And so should you."

Kaesii shot a glance at Skippii–a challenge in his eyes, but he did not rise to it.

Gradually, Lexion IX amassed in force. Ahead, Cohorts V, VI and VII stood in a phalanx facing the river: one thousand and five hundred legionnaires and their superiors–a lake of red cloaks, glittering bronze armour and pearlescent white banners. Near to the west, the final consortium of Cohorts VIII, IX,X and I, filtered from the highlands onto the staging grounds. Watching from afar, the legion's logistics and impedimenta perched like carrion birds in the rafters: supply waggons, coffers, slaves and merchants, all pitching their seats upon the hill's banks, waiting for the battle to commence.

Skippii had watched dozens of battles unfold from such a vantage–stooped in the suspense, mesmerised by horrors from afar–cheering for Legion III's victory. But now, he was to be in the thick of it; his actions, his valour and strength was to be added to the scales of battle to determine the victor and the vanquished. His heart soared as flames tickled the soles of his feet, eager to burn in the open air.

Nearby, men carrying bundles of javelins stooped in the long grass, watching the cohorts march by. They were shorter than legionnaires, clad in leathers and the navy-blue shawls of the seafaring Brenti folk. Their hair was long and beards roughly trimmed, but their eyes were keen and their muscles lean. Though they all fought under the same Imperial banner, the lives of legionnaires rarely clashed with their auxiliary counterparts.

Archers amassed behind the legion's phalanxes, interspaced by contingents of cavalry. The horsemen were divided into two groups: the majority were horse lords from the fertile plains of Lacustris–garbed in leathers, whose horses were of the finest stock in all Auctoritas; isolated was a contingent of the equestrian-class cavalry whose armour was bronze, banners silken, and family members of the senate in Vestia.

But at the centre of the reserve force stood which influence and coin could not buy, which was earned in blood and prestige. The pride of the Ninth Legion: the First Cohort–a double-strength cohort of veterans armed with long pikes, armoured in iron breastplates. Their cloaks were purple, and they shone with Pantheonic gifts, wrought by magi craftsmen.

The sun rose to an early-afternoon gleam as they joined Cohort X, and extended the wing of the phalanx to five hundred men long and eight deep. Skippii's heart swelled to be counted amongst such mighty legionnaires and sage generals.

Just two rows of legionnaires separated Skippii from the empty lowlands beyond. Hills flattened for five miles before banking against the river Erithas. Beyond its waters, a swarm gathered.

Upon command, they untied their carrysacks and lay them at their feet for the slaves to collect. Custos Maritor addressed his tonnage, hand on the decorative ram's head pommel of his gladius.

"Remember, legionnaires. Each step we advance reclaims more of this land for the Imperium Auctoritas. The Ürkün will seek to push us back, but they cannot hope to break our advance. Great wealth awaits once our duty is done. These lands, which have been starved of life, may one day be yours, should you prove your valour and see the campaign to its very end. The Imperator swears this. He swears lands to all of his veterans, and boons enough to secure you a seat upon senate… or at the very least, within the coliseum games."

Skippii laughed heartily as the men around him gave a rallying cry.

"Remember this well: trust in the spear and shield of your company, for you are theirs. Brothers in arms, know no fear. Fight as one, you shall be shielded from harm, and death be in your wake."

Skippii gripped his shield tighter, the rim of which protected Tenoris' spear arm. To his right, Drusilla's shield protected his flank.

"Today men, you shall be tested like never before. I see many young, brave faces amongst you–many recruits, who only last summer suckled on their mothers teet, safe in Auctoria."

"That was Drusilla!" Kaesii yelled to a raucous response.

"The enemy is bitter about their defeat in the highlands. They seek revenge, but we shall repay them with death. Know that I shall be watching you closely, as a proud father watching his sons. Know that to impress me will not go unrewarded. The Gods are our witness. The Coven prays with us today. Kylin shall soon descend from the heavens. We bring the Pantheon's wrath to the enemy."

Unsheathing his blade, Custos Maritor saluted Tonnage VI. They roared. Skippii shuffled forward in the throng as legionnaires pawed like impatient stallions.

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"Back!" the Octio commanded, waving his lash. "Keep formation."

Custos Maritor grinned, seeming to savour the moment. "I served in the Fifth Legion at the battle of Kronaia coast, when Auctorian ships first landed in Philoxenia. I was at the Aryte Delta, and the conquering of Arteyons. Countless Ürkün have fallen upon my sword. But here begins your tale, which shall be sung in the taverns of your hometown. Who among you are heroes?"

Lowering his sword, he pointed it at the standard bearer. "And who will end up beat-up and tired like old Vexillum."

"I've got more bite than most of these velvets," Vexillum answered with scorn. "See if they can keep up with me."

"Prove him wrong," Custos Maritor urged, as trumpets blazed down the long line. "Show me what men you are."

Tensing his core, Skippii bellowed and raised his spear as all around, iron tips hailed the heavens. A wave of heat shot through him, burning ecstatically. Skippii breathed–the air like ice in his lungs–and pulled more magia into him, indulging in his power. His core came alight–a ring of gold in his mind, felt within his chest–but no steam emitted from his body. Only, a flame flickered inside his clenched fist.

Sighing, he let it go slowly, harbouring an ember at his heart. He would have to keep his temperament under control. He could not risk becoming a fireball while fighting within the tight phalanx.

A blaze of trumpets cascaded, billowing a blustering howl–the march to war. As one, legion's ranks moved forward. Skippii wanted to run–to charge into battle–but forced his legs to follow the pace of his comrades.

Beside him, Tenoris huffed like a bull, enraged by so many red cloaks around him. "What a tremendous speech. Surely the Gods must have heard our leader's words. I can feel it. They are watching us this day."

Ahead on the rolling grasslands, dark shapes shifted like ants crawling over the body of a green fruit, converging on them. The Nodreos horsemen came forth ahead of the Ürkün tide to face the legion before the river Erithas. Their steeds stretched down either flank of the legion's tight formation, circling the planar hills. Swiftly, they began to surround the legion. As their tonnage crested a shallow hill, Skippii saw over the heads of his companions and counted two thousand or more of the enemy cavalry. A substantial force compared to the legion's five hundred Lacustrian horselords and one hundred equestrians.

As they drew closer, he could hear the cries of the Nodreos tribesmen, like hooting owls flying low over the grasslands. His tonnage remained silent and resolute but for the thud of many hundreds of marching feet and rustle of armour. Skippii clenched his spear and tested the weight of his shield, readying himself for what was to come.

Then, a small unit of darkly robed cavalry emerged from their phalanx's centre, riding out over the lowlands ahead of the legion towards the Nodreos host.

"Messengers?" Tenoris said, as a murmur rose amongst the legionnaires. "We wish to parlay?"

"No, not robed like that," Skippii answered, mouth suddenly dry. "That's the Coven."

"The Coven of Kylin?" Tenoris said eagerly. "Truly, the odds are stacked against our foes."

The twelve warmagi sailed elegantly like crows of midnight-blue hue. Then swiftly, they reigned their steeds to a halt. Something in the air shifted–it was hard to discern, like the change in pressure before a storm. Clouds scattered above the Coven of Kylin, revealing the heaven's blue.

Nodreos howled and drove their horses forward, eager to intercept the lone warmagi. The legion's trumpeters blazed, and their cohort's pace quickened. Jogging now, Skippii felt his heart rise with eagerness, and he would have broken into a run had there not been legionnaires in front to stop him. Just as the Nodreos were drawing their bows to fire upon the Coven, the centre phalanx caught up and absorbed the cloaked horsemen into their ranks.

So close now were the Nodreos that Skippii could make out individuals atop their steeds. They wore layers of leather armour, stacked like the tiles of a roof. Their horses too were armoured and lean, their coats the colours of browns and creams. The Nodreos rode them deftly upon small saddles, twisting and surging over dips and mounds. The ground shook as a many thousand hooves surged upon them.

Yipping and yelling, the Nodreos fired their bows. The legion's trumpets sounded, and Skippii skidded to a stop. He raised his shield and pressed tightly into his companions. Arrows fell like a sudden shower. Peeking out from beneath his helmet, Skippii braced his legs and planted his spear to receive the cavalry's charge. But the forerunners of the enemy's ranks turned their horses and rode sidelong down the legion's phalanx. As they diverted, they loosed arrows, directing their steeds with heels and shouted commands.

Maintaining a steady pace, the legionnaires marched on, shields held high before a constant fall of arrows. All the while, the Nodreos' horse archers kept a distance, matching the legion's pace, retreating and firing. There was a din, like a hammer striking an anvil, and two places to his right, Drusilla cried out in alarm. Skippii glanced down their rank and spotted a crimson trail of blood run down his cheek from where his helmet had been struck.

"You good?" Orsin shouted.

"Which one shot that?" Drusilla growled.

"That one, there. Do you see him? Cur jested.

Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind picked up beneath their legs, rushing under their tunics and blowing in their faces. Skippii clutched his shield as the wind caught its basin like the sail of a ship, pushing it upwards. Above their heads, the rain of missiles was blown off-course, scattering harmlessly in the air.

"Kylin! Stormstress!" The legionnaires cheered, invoking the acheron of the Coven.

Another gale swept into the sky, and the trumpettes gave the signal to charge. Lowering his shield, assured that no arrow would strike him, Skippii let loose. He charged into the fray. Fires burned in his veins, propelling him forward, eager to bloody his spear.

But as they advanced, the Nodreos turned their steeds and fled twice as quickly. A few amongst them cockled and fell in their retreat, and a few others were caught by overzealous legionnaires who broke formation to capture their foe. But the majority escaped the spear-tipped tide.

Three more blasts from the trumpets signalled for the legionnaires to reform the line. Skippii slowed while the others in his companeight caught up; only Arius and Tenoris had kept to his pace. Skippii silently reprimanded himself for getting ahead, and Arius gave him a concerned look.

"Steady on, stallion," he said. "Reserve your strength."

Skippii ground his teeth, embarrassed. The eight months he had spent in disciplinia training hadn't prepared him for the rush and eagerness of battle–the surge of his blood, conquering his brain. Submerging back amongst his tonnage's third rank, Skippii raised his shield and steadied his nerves.

"Face us," Tenoris yelled towards the tribesmen. "Do not flee from your fate."

"Keep order!" Custos Maritor shouted, ever at the front right of their formation beside Vexillum.

As quickly as they routed, the enemy turned and rounded on them. Skippii had just raised his shield when a volley of arrows struck them. This time, the enemy's aim was more precise.

Somewhere behind him came a cry of pain, then several more of anguish. But the legion marched on. The Nodreos loosed arrows in unpredictable volleys, a constant hail without reprieve, so that the moment a legionnaire would let their guard down, an arrow would find its mark.

There was a rushing wind, as though the lowlands themselves were intaking a breath. Anticipating the Coven's invocation, Skippii held his shield close to his chest as the wind rose and cast the enemy's arrows astray. Skippii's mind slowed and he held his breath, counting each heart beat before the trumpets rang, but the order to charge was not given. There was a flurry of strings, like the unfurling of a great bird's feathers, and a thousand arrows filled the skies in one sweeping volley.

Like a storm of flies, they rained down on the Nodreos. Horses bayed and flung their riders from their saddles. Men, pierced by several shafts, fell beneath stampeding hooves. The tribesmen bolted, but a second volley followed them. The wind howled above their heads, blowing a gale upon the Nodreos, carrying the legion's arrows in flight. Many hundreds of bronze tips dug into the tribesmen's armour, killing and routing them.

Finally, the legionnaire's trumpets blazed, and the phalanx charged.