Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

His heart beat faster with each step they neared the enemy. It was difficult to judge the size of the horde, only that it outnumbered the legion at least two-to-one. Their brutish song escalated as the legionnaires neared the bridge. Suddenly as the foremost legionnaire of Tonnage I took their first step upon the bridge, the Ürkün erupted in an uproar of howls–wolves baying for blood. It sent a shiver down Skippii's spine, so loud that it rattled in his helmet. He ground his jaw and tensed his grip grip on his spear, hotly focussed on the enemy.

"Steady now," Orsin said, sensing their nervousness. "Remember your training. Keep a tight phalanx."

"Soon, it will be just you and your enemy," Arius said. "Fighting is all the same. Do not let their numbers unnerve you."

"Unnerved?" Drusilla breathed heavily. "I want the killing. Why don't they come forward? Cowards. Bring them to me."

"Calm, Drusilla," Arius said. "Nerves unseat even the bravest of warriors."

"Just keep your shield up," Cur snapped at his flank. "I don't wanna get stabbed in the arm."

Their pace slowed as Tonnage I marched across the bridge. Tonnage II and III went in tow. Eventually, they could go no further. Ahead of them, the phalanx's speartip met the enemy, but Skippii could not see the fighting over the heads of legionnaires in file. He could only hear it, and sense the violence in the air.

Glancing about their column, he saw other cohorts approaching the far-flung derelict bridges, where the river's crossing was narrowest. The legion's archers were slowly forming ranks along the riverbank, carrying quivers full of arrows taken from the defeated Nodreos tribesmen. Scattered about were clusters of Brenti countrymen, converging on the bridges' crossing, armed with their light wicker shields and javelins.

Slowly, their file shuffled forwards. On the opposite bank, the Ürkün did not hold a solid formation. They attacked in waves, swinging axes and hooks at the legionnaire's shields, aiming to sunder their defences. The phalanx moved forward inexorably, and soon, the bridge's brickwork was under Skippii's feet.

"With me, legionnaires!" Custos Maritor's voice cut through the chaos. The Erithas' fresh spring water rushed beneath them, shallow at its bank, but growing deeper and foaming in its centre.

Suddenly, their progress stopped altogether. The Ürkün cheered. They ran too and from the bridgehead in a disorganised rabble. Skippii thought he saw red cloaks amongst the , stripped and held aloft as trophies.

"What's going on?" Kaesii raised his voice as an anxious quiet crept over the legionnaires.

"There's fighting," Orsin said.

"The Ürkün have come forth," Arius relayed from his position on the flank, leaning over the bridge's edge for a better view. "They are throwing nets to weaken the file, and have long hooked spears to unset our shields."

"Hold your shields tight," Orsin advised.

The trumpets sounded, and Custos Maritor's voice rose. "Step backwards! Step backwards! Dig in."

The legionnaires shuffled as best they could to create space for those fighting in the front. As Skippii waited, he caught the stares of their enemy, eager and unafraid on the opposite riverbank. Stones pelted their flanks as the Ürkün waded into the shallow waters, or slung them haphazardly from the far shore. Those legionnaires along the edge of the bridge raised their shields to form a wall, blocking the enemy from sight.

For a time, in the centre of their phalanx, Skippii could see nothing of the battle. The heavy patter of stones fell like a cavalry's hooves upon their shields. The odour of apprehension festered among the tightly packed legionnaires, sweating in the hot sun. As they moved painstakingly over the bridge, Skippii began to feel cold. Occasionally, their phalanx parted in the centre, and injured men were escorted from the frontlines. He beheld their wounds with grim resolve. Many had lost their shields and spears, their armour was dented and blood flowed beneath their dark red tunics.

As the hour pressed on, the Ürkün's vigor only grew. In unison, they chanted. Then, the song would die down ominously, like the debris after a rockslide, only to rise up again, taking on a new discordant melody. Legion IX, however, remained composed, saving their energy for the task at hand, like craftsmen at work on a complex design.

As they shuffled forward, silent and resolute, Skippii turned around to get his bearings. To his surprise, he realised that they had far surpassed the river's centre, and were nearing the opposite bank. They were almost upon the enemy. Could that mean that the five tonnages ahead of them had already fallen? His vision was too limited–he could not see red cloaks nor legion banners upon the riverbank. He might be about to walk over the corpses of their brethren.

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He clenched his jaw tighter and forced himself to breath at a deep, steady pace. Before he knew it, his mind had gone to the stones beneath him probing for his magia. But no heat was there–no connection with the source. Breathing faster, he felt a mere flicker of heat fizzle in his toes, before going out.

Sickness struck Skippii as he realised his predicament. Atop the bridge, with flowing waters beneath him, he could not connect with the earth. He was alone, with only his strength and witts to guide him. But a power lingered inside his chest. Looking inward, he felt the halo at his core pulsate to life. There was an energy reserve held there from the last time he had summoned his magia. If only he had known, he would have filled it to the brink before embarking on the bridge. But what ember remained would have to do.

He would not burn an evocation, but he would call upon its power to bolster his endurance. However, if the situation became desperate, and death was certain, should he use it then and kill as much of the enemy as possible in a blaze of glory?

"It will not come to that," he said quietly. "The phalanx will hold."

Suddenly, a cheer rose from the legionnaires ahead. All of his companions craned their necks to see what was happening; what he beheld brought a grin to his face. The banner of Tonnage I stormed the opposite bank. It's legionnaires were alive. As he watched, they broke phalanx and charged headlong into the disparate Ürkün, gaining ground. Surprise was their blade. The enemy had fallen into an over-confident rhythm, and were now being punished for it.

Skippii and his companions surged forward, but he kept his eyes on the battle. Attacking bravely, the foremost legionnaires rushed the disorganised enemy. They shoved with their shields stabbed at the enrmy's legs, gaining ground in such a short time. Many Ürkün were grounded and quickly killed by the ranks of Tonnage II and III following after. Though the phalanx was for a moment spread thin, it soon began to reform as a crest around the bridgehead.

Skippii shifted forward as the space opened up before them. He and his companions broke into a jog, clearing the bridge's length, and almost reached the other bank before the compaction of legionnaires once again stopped them.

"No," Drusilla groaned. "Come on. So close."

"Ready yourselves!" Custos Maritor roared.

As the ranks thinned, he caught glances of Ürkün faces ahead, pale and fearsome. But still the formation stood ten-men deep before it was his turn to fight.

Enraged, the Ürkün screamed and crashed against the bridgehead phalanx. Skippii watched helplessly as the foremost tonnages were engulfed by the horde. The barbarians abandoned all sense of self-preservation and threw themselves upon the legion's spears. The phalanx was shoved back against the bridge and down the river's bank. The rearmost legionnaires dropped their spears and pushed with both hands against the crush of enemies above them. He watched in terror as men fell into the river's waters almost beneath his feet, floundering not to drown. He wanted desperately to leap over the edge and help them, but what could he do?

The enemy cheered, climbing down the riverbank to snap at the phalanx's ankles like dogs. But their formation remained. Two hundred legionnaires held the bridgehead as Skippii's companeight shuffled forward, seeking passage.

The air thickened, as before a storm, and a sudden gale swept over the river's waters bringing up a wave and battering the far bank. Skippii's cloak ruffled as he braced against the winds. By some unnatural force, the gale parted at the bridge's head, avoiding the legionnaires fighting there. It struck the Ürkün upon the riverbank, carrying waves, churning the shallow waters into a sudden surge.

A spray of muddy water shrouded the enemy as the winds grew stronger. Hundreds were now caught in the gale, staggering to right themselves in the swelling waters. Many abandoned their weapons to climb hand-over-head in the mud. But the legionnaires were spared it all. Indeed, they seemed to be fortified by the winds at their backs, and drove their spears into the enemy with renewed might.

Skippii could feel the whisper of a woman's voice in the ajd. He turned and saw the arcanus nearby between his cohort and Cohort III. Kylinissa's face was hidden beneath her hood, but he saw her lips move. And so the winds spoke, a powerful, yet hollow sound. A chill penetrated his armour. Cold hands swept through his veins. The power of the Goddess Kylin was upon the bridge–he took in her very presence with every breath

He knew it was not just him, as he saw upon the bank, the Ürkün writhe and scream as the winds penetrated their souls. The winds of Kylin burned the heresy from their lungs. Could Kylin see inside him? Would she bite him as she bit their enemy?

Each breath worsened his fears. But beside him, Tenoris gleamed. His nostrils flared, drinking up the Stormstress' touch. They looked at one another, expressions at odds. Then came the trumpet's uproar.

Hundreds of Brenti javelinmen rushed into the river's shallowing bank, hurling their spears over the wide waters. Darts sailed upon the wind like hawks and dove upon the stranded Ürkün. Arrows sprung into the air, empowered by Kylin's touch, speeding with devastating lethality.

Skippii was mesmerised by the utter perfection of the timing–how so perfectly each piece of the legion had been placed to render the enemy's death. In their eagerness, the Ürkün had overextended themselves, and now waded up the riverbank in retreat. As the darts fell, they died in droves, pushing and shoving in the mud. So squalid was their footing that they grasped for purchase at arrow shafts jutting from the backs of their brethren.

But those who escaped the squall received only merciless spears.

"To glory!" Custos Maritor screamed, fury in his voice. "For the Imperium. Glory to the Gods! Kill them all!"

Around him, legionnaires cheered. Their tonnage drove down the centre, emerging onto the opposite bank. As soon as his feet touched the soil, magia rose into him, burning away the icy touch of Kylin's winds.

They formed a quick phalanx. Skippii raised his spear above the man in front, then all thought fled him, consumed by the immediacy of the melee.