Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

The ground shook violently. A hot, murky mist filled Skippii's nostrils as stones pelted his face, ringing off his helmet. He willed to draw his fist away, but his body had seized up–stiff for the energy pouring through it. He was welded to the ground, and his power was unabating. His heartbeat raced faster, each moment dragging as his vision blurred. Only the searing power remained, a white blanket before his eyes, and a cacophonous ringing inside his mind, like the wailing of a newborn child.

Steaming geysers erupted from the streambed, searing flesh from bone. Magia flowed into him, drawn from deep within the earth–too much to contain. Gritting his teeth, he felt his muscles tear as it bulged inside him. As he clenched his eyes shut and bent inwards, dragged into his own core, imploding towards the source. The pressure screeched in his ears. White sparks burst in black and he spun, coiling downwards, bleeding from every inch of his body. His life's energy was draining away, fuel for the fire.

With a surge of effort, he tore himself away from the source, dragging his mind from its pits, and unleashed the magia back into the earth. The connection was severed. The ground buckled and he fell into its arms…

The first thing he noticed as his consciousness returned was the cold air in his nostrils, filling his lungs and skull. It was all he focussed on, no sight nor sound played before his mind. His thoughts had been boiled down to a single knowing presence–a peace of mind, forever buried beneath carnal impulse and desire. As the air cooled his body and he opened his eyes, Skippii beheld the world without judgement or contemplation.

He was lying on his back. The blue sky was above him. He was moving, though his limbs were numb and still. Red cloaks were about him. Faces.

Next he smelled the wet earthiness of the forest. Crows cawed in the branches. Then came the moaning of men, soft on the wind like beats of the night prowling beyond the sanctity of one's walls. The stench of death. Then silence.

A woman's arm wrapped around his waist, her silver hair drifted over his cheek, tickling his lips.

Skippii saw himself being carried atop a makeshift stretcher of two shields placed atop two spears. Tenoris bore one end, Drusilla the other. All around him, his companions tread, making way for the litter. Skippii beheld them from above, like a bird hovering over their shoulders. At first, he did not question the perception, but as he stared at his face, something twisted in his gut. Something warned him of a wrongness, and as the feeling grew, his expression contorted into a frown, and Skippii beheld it from above impossibly, and the feeling grew once more, and his face clenched and grimaced. His body shook. His companions set him down as he convulsed, kneeling over his body. His vision of himself was blocked, and all went black.

***

Skippii rose above the world to the realm of the Gods, and beheld all that was below. The body of the earth was vast beyond his grasp. Though separated by mountains and seas, from his vantage, they seemed as mere features on her beautiful face. One face. One being, besieged.

Above him, the emptiness of space chilled his heart. A cloud dwarfed the earth, blotting out the starlight, submerging her magnitude. Great rocks crashed upon her, sundering mountains and boiling the seas. A vortex wrenched the world to pieces, tearing up great forests and plains as easily as tufts of grass, consuming them in a hungry black maw.

The world about him quivered with fear, and cried out to its sons and daughters to save her. As though drawn out on a rack, her limbs popped one by one. Cracks split her surface. Entire nations crumpled, rising into the air on waves of destruction, as though summoned by the darkness above.

Terror engulfed Skippii. It was not the death of himself which he witnessed, nor his family, nor even peoples, but all of history–all of life–all of humanity. Where were the Gods? Where was their defence? Had they fled before the battlefield? Who would rally them now?

The ground opened up beneath Skippii, and he fell into the bowels of the earth. Plummeting through the bottomless well, he beheld the sky diminish above him to a mere speck, like a lone star in the night's sky. Hiding from the devastation above, Skippii sank deeper, willing himself to be submerged.

Shaking with fear, he clenched his eyes shut. The distant rumblings of a dying earth hummed in his ears, saturating his mind. Panic shook him in waves, rising on a cold thrum that seized his bones and shook them like sticks. Icy fingers groped beneath his skin, stretching over his flesh, molesting every inch of his frayed body.

A face blinked in the darkness–a three-faced skull, bereft of flesh; the visage of Diamortis, God of Death. The central jaw twisted into a crooked grin, while the two others held expressions of despair. Cold fingers wriggled beneath his skin, burrowing like worms inside his veins. They wriggled over the backs of his hands and heels, up his neck into his temple, his mouth, his tongue.

"Stop!" Skippii shrieked. He pawed at the God like a newborn. A light flickered as his fingers brushed bone. The smile on Diamortis' lips faded. An orange light reflected upon his skull, as though shining from somewhere behind Skippii.

"Begone," he growled, and the firelight intensified.

Diamortis receded into the black. But always, his presence was there, awaiting the mortal uncoiling.

"Mother, help me," Skippii said. "Is this real? What has happened? Am I dead?"

For a time, he knelt at the bottom of the well. Above, the dying earth groaned its final breaths. These were his final moments, but he could cower no more. As he accepted the end, his resignation leant him strength. Even as all was extinguished in defeat, there remained glory in an honourable death. Thrust forth on a torrent of his will, he rose from the dungeon and into the dying light above.

"What's the matter?" a woman asked.

Skippii turned. He was in a quiet winter meadow. Snow coated the earth and fell softly in the air, a white haze that blotted out all sight and sound. A woman stood before him, her silver hair speckled with snowflakes, her white gown draped as thin as a wisp of wind over her slim figure. Awe struck Skippii to behold her beauty. Small as she was, she filled his mind with her smile, which glittered in her sapphire eyes.

As she drifted towards him, the falling snow parted gently like a silk curtain, never touching her skin. Stunned as he was, he could only stare into her eyes and gawp. In those pearls were the sight of stars. Drawn in, he felt his mind expand like the horizons of a brilliant blue sky; his spirit was pulled outwards as his thoughts were spread apart, and the gaps between them grew wherein there was nothing at all. Within moments, the nothing greatly eclipsed the thing.

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She closed her eyes. Skippii's mind snapped back together, and he came crashing to the earth. A splitting headache gripped his skull, but he rose, peering through one eye at the white lady, blinded by her magnificence.

"Softly," she spoke, extending a hand. "Easy."

The pain subsided, but Skippii was wary to linger on the stranger's gaze. "You are glorious," he said, not meaning to form the words. They had come from within–a place beyond apprehension.

She laughed merrily. "Thank you. And so are you."

Skippii took a step closer and was pricked by ice. The cold burned his flesh, but he welcomed it, for it was her touch. The winter emanated from her, just as fire emanated from him, except that his power was summoned from the earth, whereas hers was her own. Reaching out, he took her hand, and their minds brushed close to one another, revealing their secrets. Though her body was a mere machination–a perfect idea, rendered in snow–Skippii will was bent towards it, cascading upon it with a need to be held.

Her laugh twinkled in his ear as she read his mind. "Nothing changes. The bloodline is strong."

She vanished.

***

Bodily woes returned to him. Pain and fatigue, thirstiness and hunger. A single snowflake touched his cheek, kissing him awake.

Skippii opened his eyes. Wind ruffled the flaps of a spacious tent, spreading raw and intimate bodily smells about the air. Straining from the effort to turn his head, he groaned and gave up. There was no power within him. His core had gone cold. He had used it all up, and then more; his life's energy tossed upon the pyre. And he had almost died. He lay as a pile of sticks rendered from a once living tree. The mere act of breathing was a strain, but each inhale came a little easier.

A wet flannel was pressed against his forehead. Cliae was above him. The young slave wore a compassionate expression over their grey garments. Cliae's hands were gentle as they brushed his skin, though their eyes were calloused with concern.

"Easy," they said, with a softness that reminded Skippii of his mother.

"Am I alive?"

"You are," Cliae said, drawing the flannel over Skippii's eyes. "And you are being looked after. Rest easily, legio."

Skippii drifted into a restful sleep. When he awoke again, shadows skirmished across the tent's walls, illuminated by flickering candles atop high metal spikes driven into the earth. He shifted and tested his muscles, finding them blessedly sore and firmly attached to his body. His cot was made from a thin cloth stretched over a raised frame. Three red legionnaires cloaks blanketed him, and more formed a pillow. As he sat upright, the flame at his bedside raised its yellow crown, spreading light to the corners of the tent.

There were twenty or more cots like, each bearing a body of the injured. At the far end, a scribe raised his head at the candle's flicker and spotted Skippii sitting upright. Hurrying past, the scribe fled outside without a word, but the commotion awoke two figures sleeping by his bedside: Tenoris and Cliae.

"Oh, how the mighty have risen," Tenoris yawned, rising from the bare ground. "I had the utmost confidence in your recovery, did I not, Clidensis?"

"How are you feeling?" the slave fretted, wringing a cloth. "Are you hot?"

"No," Skippii said, though his tongue felt numb. "I'm well."

"Are you feverish still?"

He shook his head. "What…?" he scowled, unable to finish the thought. "Which parts did I dream, and which parts happened? Is…" Skippii lowered his voice so that only his companions could hear. "Okay, I'm not crazy, but has the world crumbled, and the sky fallen in, and are we all doomed?"

"No," Tenoris chuckled softly. "That was quite some fever of yours."

"Visions, or dreams?" Cliae asked seriously.

"Is there a difference?" Skippii said lightheartedly, but could hear the insincerity in his own voice.

The slave's eyes widened as he nodded slowly. "A world of difference."

"I saw…" He stopped himself before naming the God of Death, afraid to provoke them. "Just tell me what happened. I'll describe my visions later."

"Indeed. I recall it clearly," Tenoris said lowly, as he often did before embarking upon a campfire tale. "I was witness to your powers whence we struck the Ürkün camp, but that was nothing compared to what you invoked today."

"Evoked," Cliae corrected quietly.

"Diamortis himself was prepared to take our souls to the underworld," Tenoris said.

Skippii winced, but did not interrupt him.

"Yet, in that moment you defied him. You defied the very Gods! You shook the world Skip, I do not know how, but you brought the earth up like a storm. Rocks and steam bombarded our enemy. I was stricken, and hard pressed to shelter beneath my shield. The whole cohort was watching, admiring, but our companeight was quick to act. We rallied about you and slew the enemy. And the legionnaires whispered your name as we carried you away beneath the standard of Vexillum."

As Tenoris spoke, dread crept over Skippii. It was over. He had contained it as best he could, but failed. His hours in the legion were numbered.

"The whole cohort," Skippii murmured, comprehending it.

"Those who were not there to witness it will by now have heard it retold," Tenoris said warmly. "But take comfort. The companeight is waiting outside. We will guard you until this is over."

"Until what is over?"

Tenoris was quiet as the smile faded on his lips.

"The inquisition," Cliae said. "Here, let me fetch you some water, or wine, or food."

His stomach twisted with trepidation. "The arcanus… The Coven."

Cliae looked at him worriedly.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"On the fields aft the battle," Tenoris said. "I expect we will remain here for a few days, or at least, that is how Orsin predicts it. He described that the spoils of battle are savoured more fondly by those given time to wine themselves and bed the fornicaria. All welcome the respite."

"I think his exact words were a little different," Cliae chimed as they prepared to depart. "I need a drink and a shag."

"Yes," Tenoris said, "In his manner of speaking."

As Cliae left the tent in search of rations, two women entered. The first was Leander Kyra–his tonnage's physician–her wheat-blonde hair tied behind her head, white tunic and apron stained red with blood. As she approached, she rubbed the blood and grim from her hands, but streaks of it painted her forearms, and streaks splattered her scalp.

Behind her came Clarivoxa Kylinissa, draped in her midnight-blue gown, hood shadowing her face. The arcanus slowed, and would not come near his cot. Skippii's eyes lingered on her, and he held his breath. His judgement had come… but that wasn't so bad, was it? At least, finally, he would have answers. The dread and deceit of days vanished, and he found himself relieved of its absence. All that there was left to do was tell the truth and receive what judgement followed.

Leander Kyra approached swiftly. "How are you, Skip?"

Taking his head in her hand, she inspected his eyes and checked the pulse of his wrist. Though she moved quickly, her actions were expertly precise and unforceful. Dark bags shadowed her soft brown eyes, glittering with veins of bronze. But her attention was unhindered; she inspected his body mechanically, sparing not his modesty as she drew the cloaks off him, prodding and pinching his more sensitive parts. All the while, Kylinissa watched on in silence.

When Cliae returned with a hamper, Leander snatched the wineskin from his hands and drank heavily. Whipping her mouth that the red wine merged with a speck of blood on her cheek, she handed the container to Skippii.

"You will live," she said. "In fact, you don't seem hurt at all. No burns. Even your hair remains."

"The same could not be said for your tunic," Tenoris informed him.

"I recommend bed rest." Leander turned towards the arcanus. "He is unfit to rise. There's no blood or bruising, but I sense his fatigue, and we cannot see what damage has been done to his organs, his heart and mind."

"He may remain seated, or lay down, while I do what I must." Kylinissa approached the bedside like a shade hidden beneath her cloak, hands concealed within the robe. "I believe you have other legionnaires to attend to, physician?"

After a strenuous pause, Leander squeezed Skippii's ankle and retreated from the tent. Tenoris, however, remained by his side, as did Cliae. The slave shrunk somewhat before Kylinissa's presence, but Tenoris stood firm. Without his spear to grip, the big legionnaire held onto the bedframe.

Even with the bulk of Tenoris beside him, Skippii qualied as the arcanus approached. So, it was upon him. Tonight, his fates would be decided.