Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

The enemy's wide-eyed challenge flashed in a flurry of bronze and iron. Spikes, blades and axheads swung and fell. Skippii caught many on his shield, just as his companions protected his flank. They pushed back the Ürkün with maddening stabs, piercing all which their long spears could reach. His blade tore fur and leather, yet the melee was too hectic to comprehend its effect. A trance took him quickly. The huff and groan of exertion.

There were cries of pain as the enemy's crude weapons found their mark. The Ürkün warriors bore their wounds like charging bulls, unwavering, crashing into their lines. There was no predicting it–no rhythm to the battle. Just chaos. Carnage. Skippii was sweating profusely and panting. Magia coursed through him–a white hot fear and exhilaration, combined to cause frenzy. As he thrust his spear, the impact of its bite elated him. Each time he struck an Ürkün, it spurred him further, pressing forth, stabbing and ducking and stabbing. Each enemy he toppled was not enough, for there were more behind them, and the urge to destroy had conquered him.

The fever burned, and he would not slow. As he sliced a wedge in the Ürkün's mass, his comrades rushed to his flanks. Tenoris remained at his left, no matter the peril, shield raised. Voices shouted after him, dim in the storm, calling his name. But he could not relent.

Red cloaks rushed to his side, then ahead strove Kaesii, and beside him Drusilla, neither wanting to be outdone by Skippii's reckless advance. Blades flashed above their necks, flicking for their wrists, but the two bore their attacks, dauntless as boulders in an ocean.

Skippii came to their aid, grinning like a madman, fury in his heart. And so too did his companeight rally. Eight legionnaires enraptured in killing as about them, Kylin's winds swelled. He felt invincible, untouchable. What blades found their mark on his skin brought no pain, only the gleam of blood.

Multitudes of legion spears joined their side. He caught the red plume of Custos Maritor's helmet, erect beneath Tonnage VI's standard. Their primus swung his sword deftly, poised behind his shield, crying out with each blow.

"Rally! Form phalanx."

Arrows flew above their heads, striking the enemy with disarray. Above and before their enemy, death sprung with haste.

Skippii saw the change in expression of his enemy as many younger warriors amongst them hesitated. They took a step backwards, stumbling over the bodies of their kinsmen as arrows hailed from above. Like a receding wave, the Ürkün fled on Skippii's left, leaving behind boulders of men, who refused to be washed away by fear. Instead, they were struck down by hundreds of spears and cheering legionnaires. Within moments, the fight was won, and the enemy gave to the fields in route.

The trumpets called for killing, and so the legionnaires obeyed, rushing after their foe, stabbing their spines and the backs of their legs, or battering them to the ground for others to slit their throats. Skippii's panted and lowered his shield, watching it unfold. Sweat coated his body, and a thin mist rose from his flesh, but no one would notice in the turmoil. The red cloaks of legionnaires surrounded him in a blur. Banners marked the ranks of Cohort III and IV. The legion was crossing, and killing all.

Trumpets blazed, calling an end to his brief respite, summoning him and his tonnage to their banner. Finding it amongst the turmoil, Skippii ran to catch up with his comrades as Cohort II reformed and advanced up a slow hill. All of his companeight were quiet now–stunned and exerted–fixated on the task. It seemed that in the fighting, certain faculties of his mind had shut down. His legs moved without his command, unquestioningly obeying the direction of his superiors. His heart pounded, and the world around him seemed bright–too bright and too vivid, like he had spent his whole life in a dream, and was just now waking up.

"Eight," Kaesii said, breaking the silence. "Eight Ürkün, I defeated."

"I killed nine," responded Drusilla.

"It does not count if one of those was already grounded by my spear," Kaesii said.

"It does. Too slow."

"I would like to hear Arius' count," Fulmin said. "It probably beats both yours combined."

"Quit measuring dicks," Cur said bluntly. "Or at least wait until we are in camp, so I can whip mine out and whoop you both."

Skippii laughed tiredly. The hill dipped over rocks, where farmers had failed to subjugate the land, and a forest formed on the decline. The world quietened around them as scraggly trees rose above and behind them, and the sky gave way to canopy. The sounds of the legion behind them–the screams of the dying and call of trumpets softened as the light diminished.

As they descended slowly over uneven ground towards a brook, a familiar scent came to him on the air–like sharp spices and wood-smoked animal hides, soaked in stale beer. The brook widened, feeding into the wide river Erithas. Above and behind the river, a white cliff rose dimly in the shadows. Spindly trees clung to the crag, forming a forest at its crown which caught the last of the sunset's rays. As Cohort II emerged towards the riverbank, dark shapes retreated from the cliff, but some could not pass.

At the rivers edge amassed some three-hundred Ürkün warriors, all of whom had fled the battlefield. With their backs to the river, many now tried to swim like rats in a storm, but were dragged away by the current. A handful of their strongest had stripped naked and made it to the other side, and were presently scaling the rockface, some twenty metres tall. But most of them put their backs to the river as Cohort II advanced, weapons and arms raised, snarling like cornered dogs.

With their prey trapped and vulnerable as they were, an eagerness to kill swept through their ranks like a dizzying haze.

"Ease." Custos Maritor's voice echoed over their heads.

Yet Skippii shook his head and grounded his thoughts, pushing the bloodlust from his mind. Something within him rang a warning bell–a minute tinkle compared to the drums of war–but he focussed on that chime, for the wisdom he could sense it beheld.

He had witnessed this scenario before, when their companeight had cornered the Ürkün in their camp. Though many fled, many more had stood their ground.

"A cornered wolf is more fierce than one given room to roam, and a hope of life to come." The words of his teacher, Thales, sung to him on the calm winds. If attacked now, the Ürkün would surely stage a defence, fighting until every drop of their blood was drained. Though victory was all but assured for the cohort, there would be casualties. Some of those could be his companions.

Before he knew what he was doing, Skippii had broken the ranks and was running towards their tonnage's standard. The cohort was lining up three tonnage's abreast and two deep, still a fair distance from the jeering warriors, who planted their feet in the sandy bank. Though the legionnaire's footing was less precise; their sandals slipped through the gaps in large smooth rocks, crumpling their lines and spoiling their cohesion. Skippii cockled over the stones and met with Custos Maritor beneath their tonnage's standard.

"We should not attack," he blurted, interrupting a conversation between his superior and the Octio, the second in command.

Custos Maritor regarded him with confusion, but gave him a moment longer to speak.

"They're trapped," Skippii said. "They will fight like dogs. We should give them a chance, make them surrender. Guarantee their lives."

He hadn't noticed, but Tenoris had broken file too and rushed to his side, and stood over his shoulder with wordless support.

Custos Maritor regarded him, then glanced at the barbarian warriors pressed against the riverbank. Many were collecting rocks into slings, which they dangled at their sides, unwilling to strike out at the legionnaires and summon their ire. For a moment, there was a lull in the fighting, the unthinking. There was a chance for strategy.

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"Come with me," his Primus said, and ran to the rear of Cohort II, where the cohort's commanding superiors were gathered on a small embankment, surveying their legionnaires.

In the two weeks since Skippii joined Legion IX, he had come close to his cohort's superiors only twice; the first time was when he swore loyalty to the legion and the cohort, and the second was during a parade inspection. Each time, their Senior Primus, Praegesta Summitus, gave little away of his thoughts or feelings towards them, seeming rather disinterested, like a father regarding his least favourite sons. Praegesta Summitus was bald headed, with a thick moustache and bushy eyebrows. His polished breastplate fitted his chest perfectly, depicting the musculature of an athlete; by the broadness of his shoulders and the thickness of his arms, Skippii guessed that the sculpture wasn't far from the truth of his body.

Beside the Senior Primus were the cohort's auxiliary staff: the standard bearer, superior guard–equipped with the same impressive armour as their master–and the arcanus, Clarivoxa Kylinissa, as well as a dozen more officers, scribes, slaves and horses. Skippii's eyes lingered on Kylinissa's, but she paid him no regard, simply watching him cold and curiously.

"I have a legionnaire here with a tactical mind," Custos Maritor said. "Tell them, Skippii Altay, what you told me."

Praegesta Summitus' mouth remained shut to a stoney expression. Skippii realised only a moment too late that he had frozen, and that his tongue would not move. Breathing through his nostrils, he steeled himself and bowed, then saluted for good measure, and explained his plan.

"We should offer them surrender," he summarised. "Then there will be no more blood spilt amongst our legionnaires, and we could make of them slaves."

Many a scribe and superior offered their reflections to Praegesta's ear, but the stalwart man was immoveable, statuesque like the marble carvings of great generals before him, erected in their quiet slumber of the temples and palaces in far off peaceful cities, kept peaceful by the actions of legionnaires on red days like these.

"Who would relay such a message," Praegesta spoke at length. "For its failure is like, the gamble is great."

"I will," Skippii said before he had a chance to think. "Send me."

"And I," Tenoris said beside him.

Praegesta conversed with his staff. Behind them, the legionnaires waited impatiently for their orders to charge. The Ürkün, sensing their hesitation, gathered their witts and their arms, and were raising a small shieldwall at their centre, prepared to counter-charge and die in the glory of battle.

"Okay," the Senior Primus said. "Hear the words of our linguist, that the Ürkün might understand the merciful hand offered them."

"Udrus vernas il'isilic, ledianom." The translator repeated the words to Skippii as he mirrored them on his own tongue.

"Quickly now," Praegesta ordered. "The chance slips us by."

Turning, Skippii ran before his comrades with Tenoris in tow and ventured onto the rocks. His pace slowed as each step took him further from the safety of his legionnaires, and closer towards his hateful foe. The Ürkün, who had been hurling challenges at the amassed legionnaires, grew quiet as he approached. Many raised their weapons, but their expressions grew puzzled, though others remained impossible for him to read.

Their faces were so unknown to him they may as well have been the faces of animals, whose thick black hair fell in braids over their fur-clad shoulders. Yet in some, Skippii recognised the glimmer of thought–the touch of humanity. All of a sudden, determination welled up inside of him. He could reach these people–corrupted as they were–and submit them with the gentle hand, sparing the killing blade.

Still whispering the words to himself so that he would not forget, Skippii drew a breath and raised his voice to the Ürkün.

"Udrus vernas… il… il'isilic, ledianom."

"Ledianom," Tenoris repeated loudly, though neither of them were sure of what the word meant.

The Ürkün retorted in their guttural language, some spitting defiantly in the air, or pounding the shafts of their long axes into the stones. Skippii threw down his spear, keeping only his shield and kuri, and addressed them in earnest. Holding his hands out, revealing his vitals to them, he scoured them for a reaction. But if any were to raise a weapon against him, he was ready to draw his shield in and defend himself.

The air grew quiet, until it was still. Behind him, a new voice entered the dialogue. Standing on the border of legionnaires, the cohort scribe shouted his decree across the riverbank at the Ürkün, but would not step any further onto the shore. One by one, the Ürkün lowered their weapons with wary eyes, like strays who had been thrown scraps, but expected deceit. Amongst their ranks were loud voices, shrill and demanding, yet falling on deaf ears. Those of their superiors had their faces painted black–streaks and runes bearing the visage of wicked beasts; their bodies were thin and gamely, unlike the legion, whose superiors were amongst the hardiest. Skippii scowled. Who were they? How did they command when they appeared so weak? And what might undermine them.

"Come to the Pantheon," Tenoris announced. "In life or in death, you shall face judgement. Better to do so willingly."

One man broke from the pack, tossing his weapons at his feet. Holding his shield at his hip, Skippii locked eyes with him. They were about the same age, the Ürkün was a little shorter than he. His pale complexion loomed above a deep black beared–like thick smoke. Holding his palms up, he spoke something. There was a layer to the man's voice which Skippii had not heard in their tongue before–a sweetness, yet firm; it reminded him of the tang of pine sap–wild but complex.

Behind him, slaves from Cohort II came forward with ropes to bind the prisoners. But as he scanned their faces, something caught Skippii's eye on the ridge behind the Ürkün, above the river Erithas. Dark roved riders halted their horses at the cliff's edge, looking down upon the procession. Though they were separated, each of their arms were raised towards a single point in the sky. Kylin's voice whispered on the wind, like the drawing of a breath, sending a shiver rising through his spine. Fear stabbed at his heart.

Faltering a few paces before him, the young Ürkün warrior read Skippii's expression, then turned to follow his gaze. As he did so, the wind swirled beneath them, carrying dust and small sharp rocks. The debris stung him like a swarm of wasps. A warning cry rang out–a hateful, betrayed sound–then all the sky was full of stones.

Rocks were lifted into the air and flung about on a circling torrent. But as the strength of the winds increased, he fell to his knees, raising his shield against the turbulence. Tenoris fell upon him, shield raised, hugging his back, and the two bore the brunt of the storm together.

The wind howled in their ears. Rocks clattered off their armour or struck them in the elbows, hips, helmets. And still, the cyclone swelled. He could not see more than five paces before him; the Ürkün who had been there, ready to shake his hand, was gone from sight, either grounded by the stones or swept away in the winds. An amorphous mass crouched in the eye of the storm. Their screaming was buried by the howling winds, but the voices of some sailed upon the current, for a moment sounding as if they were delivered beside his ear, before wrenching away. It was as though the underworld had opened up and the spirits of the dead were unleashed upon the world.

He wanted to cover his ears, but could not move or else be struck by stones. Suddenly, the weight of Tenoris behind him was lifted as the big legionnaire was knocked aside. Skippii dove on him, flinging his shield onto his back, lying face down in the churning mud, pleading for the nightmare to end.

Finally, the spirits lamented. The howling winds subsided. Rocks clattered to the ground like hail as he struggled to rise to his feet on shaky legs. But the Ürkün had not been so sluggish. Before the last of the riverbank's debris had fallen to the ground, they were up on their feet and charging towards him. Gone was their hope of survival. Renewed was their bloodlust.

He and Tenoris were stranded. At a sprint, he might make it to the cohort's lines before the Ürkün pierced his back, but Tenoris would not move so quickly. His decision was made for him, and he did not pause to contemplate it, rather he embraced it with both hands, drawing his kuri and plunging it into the ribs of the nearest Ürkün.

Skippii stumbled on uneven footing as he took the weight of his attacker, who leaned on him, grasping at his cloak and helmet, fingers probing for his eyes. Their faces were close. It was the young man, but there was no hope in his eyes. Only wrath.

He planted his hips and threw the man aside, but his kuri went with him, lodged in his ribs. The man bent over and wrenched the knife out, but doing so killed him instantly. Collapsing on his back, right hand drenched in blood, his empty eyes saw not the sky above his head, nor would his flesh ever feel the warmth of the sun again.

A fresh rage possessed him. He roared, though he did not know why. As his enemy drew near, swinging their weapons wildly, he heaved a breath so deep it felt as though it would never end. His muscles lit up with fire, his heart galloped, but still he inhaled, draining the earth of its essence.

At his core, a halo shone white with power, but he plunged deeper, dragging up the heart of the earth into his possession. A red fruit swelled at the centre of his core, ripening with power. It formed a solid orb, no longer a mere ring, expanding evermore like a wildfire beyond control.

He watched as though in a dream as Tenoris tackled the enemy, knocking one man to the ground. Turning, his comrade caught the axe of another on his shield, then danced aside and parried a blade that sought to take Skippii's head. Their lives were almost at an end; the sands of a cosmic hourglass emptied until their final grains slid into oblivion. As an Ürkün warrior raised his spear to throw, and another lifted his axe above Tenoris' head, the hourglass' final grain poised before the edge, stuck, as though time itself had stood still.

Suddenly, as never before, Skippii felt the whole world stretch out beneath him. Veins of liquid formed streams and rivers beneath the earth's surface, rising from a mighty core at the centre of the earth. For a moment, there was no distinction between him and the source–that primordial power–power before time, power before humanity, power, beyond even the Gods; the very fabric of reality, so often ignored for its pervasiveness, had burst to life within him, and he was it, and it was him, enraptured in marriage, and unleashed.

With his last will, Skippii dragged Tenoris behind him, and slammed his fist into the shale. The earth cracked asunder.