Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Bodies lay strewn among the trampled grass. Few of the unseated horsemen still drew breath. They reached for weapons as the legion's spears pierced them. Many were concussed, many more begged for their lives. But in the wake of the legion's phalanx, none moved. The grass was bloodied red.

Kaesii broke formation, dashing forward to slay the weakend foe, but Orsin jostled him back in line.

"Stick together," Orisin said. Forever, there was an air of control about him and the other veterans, even in the heat of battle. Maintaining the phalanx was their priority, and so Skippii made it his. When Fulmin pressed forward to earn his own kill, Skippii tapped the legionnaire on his rear with the butt of his spear.

"Fulmin. Leave it."

Wordlessly, Fulmin abated, and returned to his spot in line.

The legion's archers had claimed a bloody toll, but the Nodreos were many, and their losses barely dented their numbers. Turning their steeds about, they grouped together in clusters of some one-hundred horsemen. Whirling over the grassland, they moved with the single mindedness of a flock of birds. The legionnaires slowed their pace and raised their shields, but Skippii noticed that, in their pursuit, they had made it almost a third of the way towards the river now.

"They will be trapped soon," Skippii shouted down the rank. "Hard pressed against the river's bank."

"Fools," Cur celebrated.

"Save your energy, lads," Orsin cautioned. "The battle is young."

Skippii wondered what tactic the Nodreos had planned to prevent such entrapment? Suddenly, the words of the Noedros tribesman whom they had captured from the Ürkün camp came to his mind.

"Once you see black magia, your faith, questioned too."

Was indeed a heretic magus within their ranks? But if so, why had they not revealed themselves yet? Perhaps, there was no tactic at all. Perhaps they were not fighting for victory at all. for it was blatantly futile. Perhaps they sought death.

The Nodreos drew closer in their tight groups, until they were within range of the legionnaires, and suddenly gave into a gallop. Legionnaires raised their shields as one. Twice, Skippii's shield thudded as arrows struck it. A third shattered against it's bronze rim, snapping the shaft. However, to his surprise, the wind did not come, and neither did their archer's volley. The legionnaires weathered a constant hail of arrows. Skippii's arm grew sore from holding his shield aloft while keeping to the march, but he knew better than to lower it and reveal his face to the sky. Drawing magia from the earth, he empowered his core with a trickle of fire and felt his muscles bolstered. His heart beat faster and he breathed in bellows, but he maintained control over his power. It would not get the best of him again.

Two more screams came from nearby as the unluckiest of their rank were stricken, yet no counter came. He began to wonder whether their cohort's trumpeter had lost his voice, but all down the long ranks of legionnaires, they were silent.

Emboldened, the Nodreos drew closer, riding in circles like whirlpools. Still, the Clidus archers held their fire, but then there was a murmur from within the ranks. From the distant riverbank, a great wave of pressure rushed towards them. The wind swept the grass before it and staggered the Noedros. But as it reached the legion's ranks, it crashed upwards, as a wave against an invisible buttress, unseating dozens of horsemen at their foreranks.

Three solitary bugles howled near the centre of the legion's long phalanx. The earth quaked beneath him. Unable to help himself, Skippii turned his head, as did others, and beheld Auctoritas cavalry canter between the gaps in each Cohort, like blood between the rivets of armour, spilling onto the battlefield.

The legion's warhorses were much larger and longer legged than the Nodreos. Their steeds crossed the distance in a matter of breaths. The tribesmen fled before them, spiral formations breaking apart. Quickest were the Lacustrian horselords, who sought their backs with spears. Down the centre rode the equestrian class, clad in glistening bronze, banners unfurled in glory.

Trumpets blurred, sounding the all-out charge, and the phalanx exploded outwards. Every legionnaire with strength in his legs sprinted towards the fight. With a cry, Skippii dove into the melee, leaping over a fallen horse, running headlong like a hunting dog seeking his prey. All around were the riderless steeds of the Nodreos, eyes wide with bestial terror. The bodies of their riders were scattered the grasslands, but in places, they had gathered to make a defence, spears and bows in hand. There, the Lacustrian cavalry rounded them up like farm hounds penning in sheep. Sabres flashed, shearing heads from necks, and arms from shoulders, legs from hips. A butchery.

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Flying forwards, Skippii sunk his spear into a lingering horseman, whose steed was twisting and turning in panic. The tip sunk into his leather armour, but did not kill him. The horses' flank knocked Skippii off his feet as it turned about, but more legionnaires threw their spears into the fray, piercing the man three times before he was dragged from his saddle and overwhelmed.

Pressing on, Skippii assaulted the penned Nodreos with his companeight at his side. The fighting was bloody and brutal. In desperation, some attempted to break free, but their steeds caught themselves on the many ranks of legion spears. Those who huddled together were cut down one by one, or else threw their weapons down and dismounted, cowering and grovelling for their lives.

"Mercy," rose a chorus, thick in their accent, like the attempt of an animal to imitate human speech. Some were stabbed where they knelt, others were submitted and bound. The sight stunned Skippii. He had only ever seen such events from afar. But close as he was, he beheld the terror in their eyes, wet and red. The stench of fear soiled the air. The blood and muck on their faces, crawling in the dirt to beg at his feet. "Mercy!"

Skippii lowered his gaze as the bloody work was done. He had played his role in the battle, he did not have to be an executioner too. Beside him, Tenoris kept stride, a pale shock plain on his face.

In one fell swoop, the fight had been beaten from the Noedros' hearts. They rode as fast as their steeds cohld bear them from the battlefield, pursued by Auctoritan cavalry. As the lowlands cleared, the river Erithas shimmered before them in the afternoon sunlight. And beyond it, their accursed foe, many times the ferocity of the Nodreos tribesmen. The barbarian horde. The Ürkün.

Trumpets rang out, signalling the phalanxes' reformation. Skippii searched for his tonnage's banner and rallied around Vexillum.

"That was magnificent," Kaesii shouted, red faced and panting. His big chest heaved as he wiped removed his helmet to wipe his brow. "I killed eight, what about you, Drusilla."

The strone Summitus man nodded silently, lips curled, eyes resolutely fixed on the Ürkün horde before them. "Glorious."

At their rear, the legion's archers caught up and slung their bows, setting upon subduing prisoners and capturing the Nodreos' steeds. Physicians dressed in white togas rode over the hills accompanied by their staff, attending to the few legionnaires who had suffered the enemy's arrows. And nearby, dressed in a dark-blue cloak, her oak-brown hair flowing about her shoulders, was Kylinissa Clarivoxa–his cohort's arcanus. She raised her hands in prayer, but Skippii was too far to hear her voice. Then, her eyes flickered to his, but a moment later, the phalanx reformed behind him and she was obscured from sight.

"Rally now," Custos Maritor heralded. "Your strength shall be needed. Rally your witts. Sharpen your minds. Do not give to fatigue. The battle is young."

"Good work," Orsin shouted to his fellows.

"Aye," Cur conceded. "But the bridge won't be so easy."

***

Of the three bridges which had once forded the Erithas river, only one remained undestroyed by the Ürkün: an old stone bridge whose mortar sprouted moss, bearing the symbol of Oscallard–God of the old Auctoritas Empire–upon its cornerstone. A very old bridge, a monument of the past. Skippii could feel the roughness of the old road underfoot, and spotted signposts rising out of the trampled grass. It was as though they were treading in a dream of their ancestors–striding in the echoes of their age, when Auctoritas was the proud protectorate of this land.

"Our great-patronous came to this place and conquered it," Custos Maritor beckoned as their cohort closed on the bridge. "They subdued this land, and made Auctoritas great. But now, that glory falls to you. They watch from the heavens. They wonder, are their sons as strong as they?"

Two hundred metres away on the far bank, thousands of warriors clad thickly in animal furs jeered and shook their brutish weapons at the approaching legion. As they neared, the enemy seemed to grow in size. He could see faces amongst their masses–menacing, pale faces, like the visage of death. What had seemed like a tide now appeared far more human–thousands of strong warriors, each as formidable as the last. Their baying war-song sounded over the legionnaire's stoic march, growing louder as they approached; a primitive umph and aahhr, rumbling like far-off storm clouds fast approaching. And before their ranks were many slaves, enrobed in their bruises and scant loincloths. Tanned was their flesh–Philoxanians of this land. They hammered chunks out of the stone bridge to the rhythm of a whip crack.

"This bridge was laid by Auctorian hands," Custos Maritor shouted over the din of hammers and voices. "Will you let the Ürkün destroy your heritage?"

"No!"

"Fuck that," yelled Drusilla, a little later than everyone else.

"Shall we be halted here of our rightful passage? Will your life be governed by the Ürkün's whim? Told where to march, where to live, and where to falter?"

"No!"

"Never!" Tenoris bellowed.

Custos Maritor paused and looked aside, checking for his superior's signal. He scowled, composed before them, his back to the enemy. Behind him, the Ürkün ranks swelled, coming to the river's edge with a roaring challenge. But their Primus seemed unperturbed by the many thousands of murderous eyes on his back; a master before impetulance. He raised his sword. The legion shifted forward eagerly, awaiting his command like dogs pulling on a leash.

Finally, he swung his gladius down like an executioner's blow, and the trumpets sounded. Each blew a different tune, short and repetitive. With a rush, Skippii acknowledged their orders: Cohort II was to take the frontal advance–first upon the bridgehead. They waited while Tonnage I marched ahead, forming a compact phalanx, bringing their shields to the fore as they made their slow, resolute way towards the bridge. Behind them marched Tonnage II, and so on until it was Skippii's turn, and Tonnage VI took up the cohort's rear. Their column, eight-men abreast and seventy deep, stretched away from the legion's main force and plunged towards the enemy.